Journal articles on the topic 'Australian smelt'

Freshwater fishes often exhibit high genetic population structure due to the prevalence of dispersal barriers (e.g., waterfalls) whereas population structure in diadromous fishes tends to be weaker and driven by natal homing behaviour and/or isolation by distance. The Australian smelt (Retropinnidae:Retropinna semoni) is a native fish with a broad distribution spanning inland and coastal drainages of south-eastern Australia. Previous studies have demonstrated variability in population genetic structure and movement behaviour (potamodromy, facultative diadromy, estuarine residence) across the southern part of its geographic range. Some of this variability may be explained by the existence of multiple cryptic species. Here, we examined genetic structure of populations towards the northern extent of the species’ distribution, using ten microsatellite loci and sequences of the mitochondrial cytbgene. We tested the hypothesis that genetic connectivity among rivers should be low due to a lack of dispersal via the marine environment, but high within rivers due to dispersal. We investigated populations corresponding with two putative cryptic species, SEQ-North (SEQ-N), and SEQ-South (SEQ-S) lineages occurring in south east Queensland drainages. These two groups formed monophyletic clades in the mtDNA gene tree and among river phylogeographic structure was also evident within each clade. In agreement with our hypothesis, highly significant overallFSTvalues suggested that both groups exhibit very low dispersal among rivers (SEQ-SFST= 0.13; SEQ-NFST= 0.27). Microsatellite data indicated that connectivity among sites within rivers was also limited, suggesting dispersal may not homogenise populations at the within-river scale. Northern groups in the Australian smelt cryptic species complex exhibit comparatively higher among-river population structure and smaller geographic ranges than southern groups. These properties make northern Australian smelt populations potentially susceptible to future conservation threats, and we define eight genetically distinct management units along south east Queensland to guide future conservation management. The present findings at least can assist managers to plan for effective conservation and management of different fish species along coastal drainages of south east Queensland, Australia.

Patterns of dispersal in riverine populations of Australian smelt ( Retropinna semoni ) were examined using otolith chemistry (Mg:Ca, Mn:Ca, Sr:Ca, Ba:Ca) and genetic markers (allozymes, mtDNA, microsatellite DNA). During a period of prolonged low flows, young-of-year smelt were collected from 13 streams within three catchments of the southern Murray–Darling Basin, Australia. Spatial differences in otolith core and edge chemical signatures and high levels of genetic assignment to sampling locations were observed, suggesting that most recruits were retained in natal areas after spawning. Following a subsequent period of hydrological connection, the same cohort was sampled as 1-year-olds. Maximum likelihood estimation using otolith core chemistry data from these fish suggested that retention in natal areas was highly variable between years and a similar, though less pronounced, pattern was evident in genetic assignments. Partitioning of genetic variation among catchments was not significant (FCT < 0.004) and probably reflects disequilibrium between migration and genetic drift due to an historical population expansion (~270 000 years ago). Taken together, otolith chemistry and genetic analyses suggest that contemporary dispersal of smelt within these catchments is relatively restricted and may be mediated by changes in hydrological connectivity.

The smelt genus Retropinna nominally includes three small (<150 mm) freshwater fish species endemic to south-eastern Australia and New Zealand. For the two Australian species, the broad range of R. semoni (Weber) on the mainland suggests some vulnerability to isolation and genetic divergence, whereas the apparent confinement of R. tasmanica McCulloch to Tasmania is curious if, as suspected, it is anadromous. Analyses of Australian material using allozyme electrophoresis show five genetically distinct species with contiguous ranges and no evidence of genetic exchange. Three occur along the eastern seaboard (including three instances of sympatry), another in coastal and inland south-eastern Australia and Tasmania, and a fifth species in the Lake Eyre Basin. There is no indication of a simple ‘tasmanica’ v. ‘semoni’ dichotomy, but instead a complex pattern involving discrete clusters for the Upper Murray plus Darling rivers, Lower Murray, Glenelg River and Tasmanian regions, with coastal western Victorian samples having varying affinity to these groups. The overall pattern is one of deep divergences among species and strong genetic sub-structuring within and provides a strong argument for extended studies to prepare for appropriate conservation measures.

AbstractThere is a paucity of information on the diversity and occurrence of freshwater fish parasites in Australia. This study investigates the distribution and occurrence of a parasitic nematode of the genusContracaecumin freshwater fish from south-eastern Australia. Fish (n= 508) belonging to nine species and eight families were collected from eight wetlands associated with the Murrumbidgee River floodplain in the southern Murray–Darling Basin and subjected to laboratory examination. Third-stage nematode larvae were found in eight of the nine fish species. The exception was the fly-specked hardeyhead (Craterocephalus stercusmuscarum), although only one specimen of this species was examined. Nematode larvae were identified asContracaecum bancroftiusing a combined morphological and molecular approach. The parasite was most prevalent in weather loach (Misgurnus anguillicaudatus; 34.8%) and Australian smelt (Retropinna semoni; 21.4%), followed by carp (Cyprinus carpio; 9.5%), of which the former and latter are non-native species.Contracaecumprevalence differed between locations, with Two Bridges having the highest number of infected fish. This may be due to the higher number of suitable host species collected at these localities.Contracaecumspp. are parasites with low host specificity that have also been reported in Australian marine fish, humans and piscivorous birds. The high parasite prevalence in the two abundant non-native fish species in the region suggests that they act as a suitable host for this endemic parasite, resulting in the increase in the parasite population. It would be interesting to study host–parasite interactions in this area, especially if introduced fish populations declined dramatically in the attempt to eradicate them or control their population.

The early life of fishes is marked by rapid development when individuals are thought to optimise their success through ontogeny by altering ecological niches and resources. Since most fish larvae are thought to require small prey items at first feeding, competition for potentially limiting food resources may occur between species creating a juvenile bottleneck, which may, in turn, influence future recruitment strength. The diets of the early life stages of most Australian freshwater fish are poorly known. The present study investigated the ontogenetic dietary patterns of six species of fish in an Australian floodplain river. A large proportion of first-feeding larvae of three species (Murray cod, Australian smelt and carp) were able to feed externally while still retaining their yolk sac. All species demonstrated major dietary shifts from newly hatched larvae through development into juvenile stages and adulthood. Only a few minor overlaps in diet were found, with greater overlaps commonly occurring between sequential stages of the same species, reflecting subtle ontogenetic changes. Despite two co-occurrences of an introduced and a native species using the same rearing habitat as larvae, dietary preferences did not significantly overlap, suggesting that a recruitment bottleneck caused by competition for food resources is unlikely for these species.

Fish living in highly variable and unpredictable environments need to possess life-history strategies that enable them to survive environmental extremes such as floods and drought. We used the length–frequency distributions of multiple fish species in multiple seasons and highly variable hydrological conditions to infer antecedent breeding behaviour in rivers of far-western Queensland, Australia. Hypotheses tested were as follows: (1) recruitment of some or all species of fish would occur within waterholes during no-flow periods; (2) there would be seasonal recruitment responses in some fish species; (3) recruitment of some species would be enhanced by channel flows and/or flooding. Hydrology and the incidence of flooding were highly variable across the study area during 2006–2008. Flood-influenced recruitment was evident for Hyrtl's tandan, Barcoo grunter and Welch's grunter. Silver tandan, golden goby, Cooper Creek catfish and Australian smelt showed evidence of seasonal recruitment unrelated to antecedent hydrology. However, most species demonstrated continual recruitment in isolated waterholes, irrespective of antecedent flow conditions and season. Continual and seasonal recruitment capabilities have obvious advantages over flood-pulse recruitment in rivers with highly unpredictable flood regimes and underpin the persistence of many fish species in arid and semiarid rivers.

The reproductive biology and growth of R. semoni and A. nigripinnis were studied in Brisbane, south- eastern Queensland, over a 20-month period (1981-1982). R. semoni began to breed in winter at water temperatures exceeding 15�C, reflecting its salmoniform affinities and temperate distribution. A. nigripinnis, a subtropical species of Indo-Pacific origin, required a period of rising temperature before breeding began in spring at 22�C. Both species concentrated their breeding activity into the months that precede summer storms and high, variable stream discharges, which can generate fluctuating water levels, destruction of weedbeds and instability of the stream substrate. Pre-flood spawning also occurs in three other small-bodied native species in the region, and appears to have adaptive value in the seasonally unstable environments of coastal streams. Dispersal of juvenile fish may be facilitated by rising water levels during summer months following spawning. R. semoni grew faster and to larger sizes than A. nigripinnis and growth of both species was adequately described by the von Bertalanffy equation. Male and female R. semoni and male A. nigripinnis live and breed for 2 years but female A. nigripinnis survive and may breed into their third year. These patterns of survivorship and reproduction are consistent with the contention that natural mortality is higher in open-water foragers such as R. semoni than in species like A. nigripinnis, which tends to forage amongst littoral vegetation and in mid-water. Differences in the sizes of eggs and larvae of the two species are also consistent with the probability that they experience different relative exposure to predation. These and other attributes, coupled with pre-flood spawning, enable both species to achieve large populations in suitable habitats within coastal streams, in spite of their relatively low fecundities.

Understanding the migratory behaviour of fishes is critical to the conservation and management of fish assemblages in coastal rivers. We analysed the otolith chemical signatures of smelt, Retropinna sp., from inland and coastal populations in mainland south-eastern Australia to determine whether individuals within coastal populations of the species were diadromous. Assessments of otolith chemical composition combined with water chemistry data were used to make inferences about the migration histories of individual fish. A proportion of the smelt collected from the freshwater reaches of a coastal river exhibited diadromous movements, with the majority of fish analysed showing evidence of estuarine or marine occupation as larvae/juveniles and a minority inhabiting freshwater throughout their life histories. A broad range in the daily ages of upstream migration into freshwater (15–106 days) and the timing of these migrations suggest that spawning and migration occur over several months during the summer/autumn period. The results of this study suggest that southern smelts are an ecologically variable taxonomic group and that conservation and management actions should take into account the range of migratory behaviours exhibited both within populations and across regions.

Markets for Australian beef throughout the 20th century have been moulded by world wars, economic depressions, droughts, transport technology, cattle breeding, trade barriers, global competition, livestock disease eradication, human health risks, food safety, Australian Government policy, consumerism and beef quality. Major ‘shocks’ to beef marketing include the development of successful shipments of chilled carcases to Britain in the 1930s, the widespread trade disruption caused by World War II, expansion (early 1950s) and then a reduction in beef exports to Britain (1956), the introduction and then proliferation of Bos indicus derived cattle in northern Australia (1960s), licensing and upgrading of Australian abattoirs to export to USA and the consequential brucellosis and tuberculosis eradication campaign leading to record export tonnages of Australian processing beef to USA (1960–70). In 1980, increased beef trade to Japan began, leading in the late 1980s to expansion of high-quality grain finished products into that market. By 1993, beef exports to Japan (280.5 kt) exceeded those to USA (274.4 kt), signalling the significant shift in beef exports to Asia. Commencing in about 1986, the USA recognised the value of beef exports to Asian markets pioneered by Australia. Australia’s share of the Japanese and South Korean markets has been under intense competition since that time. Another major influence on Australia’s beef market in the early 1990s was growth in live cattle exports to Asian markets in Indonesia, Malaysia and the Philippines. Live exports accounted for 152000 heads in 1992 and 858000 heads in 1996. Improved management systems (e.g. fences) and consequent regulation of cattle supply even in the wet season, a by-product of the brucellosis and tuberculosis eradication campaign, were indirect drivers of the growth in live exports. Throughout the period 1940–2000, domestic consumption of beef and veal declined from 68 to 33.3 kg/head.year, reflecting competition from other foods, perceptions of health risks, price of beef, periodic food safety scares, vegetarianism, changes in lifestyle and eating habits and lack of consistency of eating quality of beef. Despite this decline, the domestic Australian beef market still consumes a significant component (37%) of total Australian beef production. In 1984–85, the reform of the Australian Meat and Livestock Corporation set in train a major directional change (‘New Direction’) of the beef sector in response to beef market trends. Under Dick Austen’s leadership, the Australian Meat and Livestock Corporation changed the industry’s culture from being ‘production-driven’ to being ‘consumer-driven’. Market research began in Australia, Japan and Korea to establish consumer preferences and attitudes to price, beef appearance and eating quality. Definite consumer requirements were identified under headings of consistency and reliability. The AusMeat carcass descriptors were introduced and a decade later traits like tenderness, meat colour, fat colour, meat texture, taste, smell, and muscle size were addressed. These historical ‘shocks’ that shaped the Australian beef markets have all been accompanied by modification to production systems, breeding programs, herd structure, processing procedures, advertising and promotion, meat retailing and end-use. The increasing importance of the food service sector and the ‘Asian merge’ influence on beef cuts usage in restaurant meals and take-away products are the most recognisable changes in the Australian food landscape. The Cooperative Research Centre¿s research portfolio was built around the changing forces influencing beef markets in the early 1990s. Australia needed to better understand the genetic and non-genetic factors affecting beef quality. One example was the poor success rate of cattle being grain-fed for the Japanese premium markets. Another was the relative contribution of pre- and post-slaughter factors to ultimate eating quality of beef. The Meat Standards Australia scheme was launched in 1997 to address this problem in more detail. The Cooperative Research Centre contributed significantly to this initiative. In the year 2001, Australia, with only 2.5% of world cattle numbers retains the position of world number one beef trader. We trade to 110 countries worldwide. The Australian beef sector is worth A$6 billion annually. The diversity of Australian environments, cattle genotypes and production systems provides us with the ability to meet diverse specifications for beef products. A new set of market forces is now emerging. Strict accreditation rules apply to Australian producers seeking access to the lucrative European Union market. Transmissible spongiform encephalopathies like bovine spongiform encephalopathy and scrapie are a continuing food safety concern in Europe. This and the foot and mouth disease outbreak in Britain early in 2001 have potentially significant indirect effects on markets for Australian beef. And the sleeping giant, foot and mouth disease-free status of Latin American countries Brazil, Uruguay and Argentina continues to emerge as a major threat to Australian beef markets in Canada and Taiwan. As in the past, science and technology will play a significant role in Australia¿s response to these market forces.

Markets for Australian beef throughout the 20th century have been moulded by world wars, economic depressions, droughts, transport technology, cattle breeding, trade barriers, global competition, livestock disease eradication, human health risks, food safety, Australian Government policy, consumerism and beef quality. Major ‘shocks’ to beef marketing include the development of successful shipments of chilled carcases to Britain in the 1930s, the widespread trade disruption caused by World War II, expansion (early 1950s) and then a reduction in beef exports to Britain (1956), the introduction and then proliferation of Bos indicus derived cattle in northern Australia (1960s), licensing and upgrading of Australian abattoirs to export to USA and the consequential brucellosis and tuberculosis eradication campaign leading to record export tonnages of Australian processing beef to USA (1960–70). In 1980, increased beef trade to Japan began, leading in the late 1980s to expansion of high-quality grain finished products into that market. By 1993, beef exports to Japan (280.5 kt) exceeded those to USA (274.4 kt), signalling the significant shift in beef exports to Asia. Commencing in about 1986, the USA recognised the value of beef exports to Asian markets pioneered by Australia. Australia’s share of the Japanese and South Korean markets has been under intense competition since that time. Another major influence on Australia’s beef market in the early 1990s was growth in live cattle exports to Asian markets in Indonesia, Malaysia and the Philippines. Live exports accounted for 152000 heads in 1992 and 858000 heads in 1996. Improved management systems (e.g. fences) and consequent regulation of cattle supply even in the wet season, a by-product of the brucellosis and tuberculosis eradication campaign, were indirect drivers of the growth in live exports. Throughout the period 1940–2000, domestic consumption of beef and veal declined from 68 to 33.3 kg/head.year, reflecting competition from other foods, perceptions of health risks, price of beef, periodic food safety scares, vegetarianism, changes in lifestyle and eating habits and lack of consistency of eating quality of beef. Despite this decline, the domestic Australian beef market still consumes a significant component (37%) of total Australian beef production. In 1984–85, the reform of the Australian Meat and Livestock Corporation set in train a major directional change (‘New Direction’) of the beef sector in response to beef market trends. Under Dick Austen’s leadership, the Australian Meat and Livestock Corporation changed the industry’s culture from being ‘production-driven’ to being ‘consumer-driven’. Market research began in Australia, Japan and Korea to establish consumer preferences and attitudes to price, beef appearance and eating quality. Definite consumer requirements were identified under headings of consistency and reliability. The AusMeat carcass descriptors were introduced and a decade later traits like tenderness, meat colour, fat colour, meat texture, taste, smell, and muscle size were addressed. These historical ‘shocks’ that shaped the Australian beef markets have all been accompanied by modification to production systems, breeding programs, herd structure, processing procedures, advertising and promotion, meat retailing and end-use. The increasing importance of the food service sector and the ‘Asian merge’ influence on beef cuts usage in restaurant meals and take-away products are the most recognisable changes in the Australian food landscape. The Cooperative Research Centre¿s research portfolio was built around the changing forces influencing beef markets in the early 1990s. Australia needed to better understand the genetic and non-genetic factors affecting beef quality. One example was the poor success rate of cattle being grain-fed for the Japanese premium markets. Another was the relative contribution of pre- and post-slaughter factors to ultimate eating quality of beef. The Meat Standards Australia scheme was launched in 1997 to address this problem in more detail. The Cooperative Research Centre contributed significantly to this initiative. In the year 2001, Australia, with only 2.5% of world cattle numbers retains the position of world number one beef trader. We trade to 110 countries worldwide. The Australian beef sector is worth A$6 billion annually. The diversity of Australian environments, cattle genotypes and production systems provides us with the ability to meet diverse specifications for beef products. A new set of market forces is now emerging. Strict accreditation rules apply to Australian producers seeking access to the lucrative European Union market. Transmissible spongiform encephalopathies like bovine spongiform encephalopathy and scrapie are a continuing food safety concern in Europe. This and the foot and mouth disease outbreak in Britain early in 2001 have potentially significant indirect effects on markets for Australian beef. And the sleeping giant, foot and mouth disease-free status of Latin American countries Brazil, Uruguay and Argentina continues to emerge as a major threat to Australian beef markets in Canada and Taiwan. As in the past, science and technology will play a significant role in Australia¿s response to these market forces.

Background and aims: As many as 50–60% of patients with traumatic brain injury (TBI) admitted to rehabilitation facilities may have olfactory impairment (OI). These incidence estimates are derived from studies conducted internationally and there is no comparable data available in the Australian context. The primary aim of this study was to identify the incidence of OI following TBI in a consecutive sample of adults admitted to the Epworth Hospital Brain Injury Rehabilitation Program in Victoria, Australia. A secondary aim was to investigate whether age, duration of posttraumatic amnesia (PTA) and presence of facial fractures made a significant contribution to the prediction of severity of OI.Method: The sample comprised 134 adults (mean age 39.09 years, SD 18.36), the majority of whom had sustained moderate to severe injury (PTA mean 21.57 days, SD 18.78). OI was measured using the Pocket Smell Test (PST) and the University of Pennsylvania Smell Identification Test (UPSIT).Results: Seventy-three participants (54.48%) demonstrated OI on the PST whereas 89 (66.42%) demonstrated OI on the UPSIT. Age, PTA duration, and presence of facial fractures predicted 10.3% of the variance in severity of OI.Conclusion: A substantial proportion of adults admitted for rehabilitation following TBI has OI. Accurate assessment and appropriate management of post-traumatic OI must be incorporated into rehabilitation programs.

Honey’s composition and appearance is largely influenced by floral and geographic origins. Australian honeys are frequently sourced from supermarkets; however, properties associated with consumer preference and likeability remain relatively unknown. The aim of this study was to complete sensory and compositional analyses on a selection of commercially available Australian honeys. Samples (n = 32) were analysed for visual, olfactory and taste characteristics, with overall likeability assessed by the trained sensory panel (n = 24; M = 12). Compositional analysis included colour intensity (mAU); phenolic content; antioxidant characteristics (DPPH, CUPRAC); and physicochemical properties (pH, viscosity, total soluble solids). There were 23 honey samples that were significantly less liked when compared to the most liked honey (p < 0.05). The likeability of honey was positively associated with perceived sweetness (p < 0.01), and it was negatively associated with crystallisation; odour intensity; waxy, chemical, and fermented smell; mouthfeel; aftertaste; sourness; bitterness and pH (All p’s < 0.05). The price (AUD/100 g) was not associated with likeability (p = 0.143), suggesting price value potentially does not influence consumer preferences. Conclusively, differences in likeability between the honey samples demonstrate that consumer perception of sampled honeys is diverse. Honey preference is primarily driven by the organoleptic properties, particularly perceived negative tastes, rather than their antioxidant capacity or phenolic content.

Contemporary Tamil novels depict human life in different dimensions with aesthetic fineness, depending on some theories, in the background of countries such as Sri Lanka, Singapore, Malaysia, etc., and also the places of refuge and diaspora. Here, we mark Sri Lankan Tamil novels, that the writer should belong to Sri Lanka. He may live in some other diasporic country. Even when they write from any of the diasporic countries like France, Canada, Denmark, Australia, etc., one could observe the smell of flesh and blood of their motherland. We can point out Shobha Shakthi’s – Gorilla, m, box; Tamil Nadhi’s- Parthenium; Tamil Kavi’s –Uuzhi kaalam; Jeevakumar’s –kudhitrai vaahanam.

Tannins and essential oils are well recognised as antiherbivore compounds. We investigated the relative effectiveness of the polyphenol, tannin, and the essential oils, 1,8-cineole and pine oil, as feeding deterrents against western grey kangaroos. Both groups of secondary metabolites are naturally abundant in many Australian plants. These three metabolite groups were incorporated separately or together into standard pellets for presentation to kangaroos, and their behaviour (sequence of food choice and feeding time) and amounts consumed were observed. The control (with no secondary metabolites) was much preferred. There was a sharp reduction in the ingestion of pellets containing tannins, 1,8-cineole or pine oil. Combinations of the metabolites resulted in almost no consumption. In association with tannin, pellets containing either 1,8-cineole or pine oil were as effective deterrents as both combined. There was a strong correlation between time spent feeding on the different diets and the amount of food consumed, although the rate of intake was markedly slower when secondary metabolites were present. Behavioural observations showed that the amount of food ingested is initially guided by the presence/absence of essential oils, apparently detected by smell, and later by the presence/absence of tannins, by taste. Both groups of secondary metabolites work in concert by stimulating different senses that minimise herbivory by marsupials, such as the western grey kangaroo, and help to explain their abundance in the Australian flora.

Environmental contextQueensland fruit fly is a major pest of fruits and vegetables in eastern Australia, sometimes causing complete loss of unprotected crops. Odours that attract fruit flies can help control these pests and this study investigated how six fruit fly species smell these chemicals. The strength of fly responses to tested odours gives insight into the way flies smell and provides information for making better attractants, potentially reducing insecticide use. AbstractThe Queensland fruit fly (Bactrocera tryoni, Q-fly) is a major horticultural pest in eastern Australia. The deployment of male lures comprises an important component of several detection and control strategies for this pest. A novel fluorinated analogue of raspberry ketone (RK), raspberry ketone trifluoroacetate (RKTA), has been developed with the aim of further improving Q-fly control. RKTA elicited strong electroantennogram (EAG) responses from Q-flies whereas cuelure (CL) and melolure (ML) responses were not significantly greater than a negative control. Further experimentation showed that RKTA also elicited EAG response from five other fruit fly species, included flies known to be strongly attracted to CL (B. neohumeralis, B. kraussi and B. frauenfeldi), weakly attracted to CL (B. jarvisi), or non-responsive to CL (Zeugodacus cucumis), whereas seven other compounds, RK, CL, ML, raspberry ketone difluoroacetate, raspberry ketone monofluoroacetate, anisyl acetone and trimethylsilyl raspberry ketone, elicited only weak responses comparable with a negative control. However, fly EAG responses to RKTA are likely due at least in part to trifluoroethanoic acid, which is a hydrolysis product of RKTA and elicited strong EAG responses from all six species when tested alone. Furthermore, whereas ethanoic acid, methanoic acid and trifluoroethanoic acid all elicited strong EAG responses in Q-flies, the only corresponding RK ester to elicit an EAG response was RKTA, suggesting that RKTA hydrolyses quickly, whereas CL and ML do not. This is in contrast to the idea that CL readily hydrolyses on contact with atmospheric moisture, an assertion that has been made in the literature repeatedly.

COVID-19 symptoms range from severe respiratory failure to mild anorexia, cough and smell and taste alterations, adversely impacting nutritional intake. The aim of this paper was to establish malnutrition risk, Nutrition Impact Symptoms (NIS) and associations with reduced oral intake. A retrospective observational cohort of all people testing positive for COVID-19 was conducted. Malnutrition risk, nutritional status, weight, reduced oral intake and NIS on and during admission were collected. Dietetic consultation frequency and mode were captured. Some 80% (48/60) of participants reported at least one NIS, and 58% (25/60) reported two or more. Most frequent reported symptoms were cough (60%), sore throat (35%) and reduced appetite (28%). Significant associations existed between ≥2 NIS (p=0.006), reduced appetite (p=0.000) and reduced oral intake, with 20% requiring ongoing nutrition support and consultation. High NIS prevalence confirms systematised nutrition support pathways are indicated through incorporation into standard care across the healthcare continuum, including community care.

Since 2012, an orthomyxo-like virus has been consistently linked to epizootics in marine farmed Atlantic salmon in Tasmania, Australia. Here we describe the properties of the virus, designated the pilchard orthomyxovirus (POMV), in cell culture and present data verifying its direct role in a disease of Atlantic salmon. In infected cells, viral RNA was detectable in both the nucleus and cytoplasm, consistent with the replication cycle of an orthomyxovirus. Viral replication in vitro was temperature-dependent (within a range of 10-20°C), and yields of virus were typically in excess of 107 TCID50 ml-1. In controlled infection trials, cell culture-derived POMV produced significant morbidity in Atlantic salmon fry, pre-smolt and post-smolt. In all cases, the development of disease was rapid, with moribund fish detected within 5 d of direct exposure to POMV, and maximum cumulative morbidity occurring within 4 wk. The experimentally infected fish developed a characteristic suite of gross and microscopic pathological changes, which were consistent with those observed in Atlantic salmon overtly affected by POMV-associated disease on sea farms. These included necrotic lesions across multiple organs that were directly associated with the presence of the virus. Together, our observations indicate that POMV is an endemic virus likely transmitted from wild fish to farmed Atlantic salmon in Tasmania. The virus is pathogenic to Atlantic salmon in freshwater and marine environments and causes a disease that we have named salmon orthomyxoviral necrosis.

A 14-year-old adolescent was referred to a regional paediatric outpatient clinic with anosmia by her family doctor in Western Australia. The patient has no recollection of her previous ability to smell, suggesting the possibility of congenital anosmia. She was assessed in the paediatric outpatient clinic. A “noncontrast high-resolution MRI-brain scan with Anosmia-Protocol” was requested as the first-line investigation of choice by the treating paediatrician. The MRI was reported as “absence of olfactory tracts with preserved olfactory bulb volume.” We report an extremely rare case of “isolated agenesis of the olfactory tract with intact olfactory bulbs” and discuss the clinical approach in bedside assessment of isolated congenital anosmia (ICA). Congenital anosmia can be a presentation of olfactory bulb aplasia; however, little is known about isolated olfactory tract agenesis and its treatment options. The patient was counselled on the diagnosis and safety advice provided.

ABSTRACTThe English lexicon is quite impoverished in capturing the perceptual detail of odour qualities. To make up for the lack of smell vocabulary, speakers will often resort to source-based descriptions, a strategy that likens smells to real-world reference points, like ‘mint’. This study examines the instances when Australian English speakers use particular communicative strategies, to explore whether cultural or cognitive influences allow for the easier abstraction of odour qualities. This study combines (1) an odour description task, and (2) a similarity-based sorting task. The results of (1) show that the communicative preferences for describing smells are indeed reliant on source-based descriptions, and the results of (2) show that conceptualisation of odours is primarily based on hedonic valence, and secondarily on salient scents. By combining these results, I find that the communicative preferences vary depending on the conceptualisations of a scent. Scents judged as pleasant receive relatively more abstract descriptions, like ‘sweet’, and show a higher degree of agreement, and the source-based descriptions are particularly frequent among culturally salient scents.

AbstractI report my tests of the hypothesis that wine consumers cannot match critics' descriptions of wines with the wines themselves. My results suggest that testers' ability to match the descriptions with the wines is no better than random. I report on more than two hundred observations of wine drinkers who engaged in the following experiment. The drinker faces 3 glasses of wine, two of which contain identical wines and the third contains a different wine. I record whether the drinker can distinguish wines—whether he can tell the singleton from the doubleton and, if the drinker can distinguish, which wine he prefers. I present the testers with descriptions of the two wines written by the same wine critic/reviewer. I find that 51 percent of the testers who can distinguish the wines correctly match the description of the wine with the wine itself. The percentage matching does not significantly differ from the expected-if-random half. I have recorded the sex of the testers and I can find that men can distinguish the wines better than random, but women cannot. The differences are so small, even though significant, however, that the Exact F test detects no significant difference between the ability of men and women in these experiments. The results span tests of wines from Bordeaux, Burgundy, the Rhône, Spain, Germany, and Australia; the tests use only still wines, all less than ten years old. (JEL Classification: C93, D12)I dedicate this paper to Adrienne Lehrer, whose 1983 book, Wine and Conversation, with a different experimental design, anticipated these results.

Human body is a complex of organic substances (proteins, lipids, carbohydrates), which undergo chemical decomposition processes soon after death. The compounds released during decomposition characterize the development of different stages of this process: e.g. biogenic amines resulted from the proteins decomposition will confer the particular smell of a cadaver, gases resulted from carbohydrates fermentation will give the bloating aspect of the cadaver. The study of cadaver decomposition and the products resulted from this process is the subject of human taphonomy and is realized nowadays in special facilities in USA and Australia. Identification and analysis of the chemical compounds emerged after human decomposition (gases, liquids, salts) give valuable information to forensic pathologists for estimating the postmortem interval (PMI). More, volatile compounds � which give the odor signature�specific to human remains � may be utilized in identifying clandestine burials, human remains or victims entrapped under ruins in cases of natural disasters. In this paper the authors describe the chemical decomposition stages of human cadavers, the factors influencing these processes and utility for the forensic activity of the results of human taphonomic studies.

Verbal bullying is a common bullying and it can be a trigger for other bullying. Study aims of study to determine the description of verbal bullying behavior in elementary school students. Design of this study used a literature review. There are some tools used to find related articles such as google scholar, PubMed, Plos One, and science direct with the keywords verbal bullying and elementary school students in 2016-2020 period. The research was conducted in 6 different countries such as Australia, Philippines, Brazil, Indonesia, Turkey and Spain. Majority of respondents who took part in the study were female (51%), grade 3 (31.5%) with age range of 8-9 years (25%). The results of the description of the prevalence of verbal bullying showed that there were more victims of verbal bullying (95.1%) with female students as victims (55.9%). A common form of verbal bullying is insulting or humiliating (30.7%). The assumption they bully is because of the physical appearance/smell of their friends (49.9%). The impacts that occurs on students as victims of verbal bullying: decrease in learning achievement (40%); poor mental health (40%). Verbal bullying can impacts school-age children to experience decreased learning achievement and poor mental health.

The large number of wetlands treating mining wastewaters around the world have mostly been constructed in temperate environments. Wetlands have yet to be proven in low rainfall, high evaporation environments and such conditions are common in many parts of Australia. BHP Australia Coal is researching whether wetlands have potential in central Queensland to treat coal mining wastewaters. In this region, mean annual rainfall is &lt; 650 mm and evaporation &gt; 2 000 mm. A pilot-scale wetland system has been constructed at an open-cut coal mine. The system comprises six treatment cells, each 125 m long and 10 m wide. The system is described in the paper and some initial results presented. Results over the first fourteen months of operation have shown that although pH has not increased enough to enable reuse or release of the water, sulfate reduction has been observed in parts of the system, as shown by the characteristic black precipitate and smell of hydrogen sulfide emanating from the wetlands. These encouraging signs have led to experiments aimed at identifying the factors limiting sulfate reduction. The first experiment, described herein, included four treatments where straw was overlain by soil and the water level varied, being either at the top of the straw, at the top of the soil, or about 5 cm above the soil. The effect of inoculating with sulfate-reducing bacteria was investigated. Two controls were included, one covered and one open, to enable the effect of evaporation to be determined. The final treatment consisted of combined straw/cattle manure overlain with soil. Results showed that sulfate reduction did occur, as demonstrated by pH increases and lowering of sulfate levels. Mean pH of the water was significantly higher after 19 days; in the controls, pH was &lt; 3.3, whereas in the treatments, pH ranged from 5.4 to 6.7. The best improvement in sulfate levels occurred in the straw/cattle manure treatment.

Buchu (Barosma betulina) is a small flowering plant found in the family Rutaceae in Western Cape of South Africa, Namibia and Australia, capable of growing up to 2 meters with a simple rounded leaf that produced essential oil of strong peppermint and sweetish smell. The Buchu oil as an essential oil consist of many chemical constituents, the main components includes piperitone, pulegone, piperitone epoxide, iso-menthone, P-menthane-8-thiol3-one, 4-diosphenol. The piperitone epoxide and Pmenthane-8-thiol-3-one constituents in Buchu oil have high commercial values, which extensively used as fragrances in perform, flavor, food additives, tonic and medicinal stimulant in modern medicine in the manufacture of insecticides, antimicrobial, antiinflammatory and antioxidant in cosmetic products. The extinction threat of the plant and chemistry benefit of these chemical constituents initiate scientist with synthetic route for synthesizing the compounds from Eucalyptus dives oil and pennyroyal oil, which are also an essential oils and abundant in nature. In the synthesis, purified piperitone and pulegone from the Eucalyptus dives oil and pennyroyal oil produced two enatiotiomers of piperitone epoxide and P-menthane-8- thiol-3-one respectively. The analytical analysis such infrared and GC-Mc conducted for the starting materials, synthesis processes and synthesize products showed results of significant value in terms chemical reactions and structural re-arrangement.

Ageing is associated with a decrease in odour identification. Additionally, deficits in olfaction have been linked to age-related disease and mortality. Heritability studies suggest genetic variation contributes to olfactory identification. The olfactory receptor (OR) gene family is the largest in the human genome and responsible for overall odour identification. In this study, we sought to find olfactory gene family variants associated with individual and overall odour identification and to examine the relationships between polygenic risk scores (PRS) for olfactory-related phenotypes and olfaction. Participants were Caucasian older adults from the Sydney Memory and Ageing Study and the Older Australian Twins Study with genome-wide genotyping data (n = 1395, mean age = 75.52 ± 6.45). The Brief-Smell Identification Test (BSIT) was administered in both cohorts. PRS were calculated from independent GWAS summary statistics for Alzheimer’s disease (AD), white matter hyperintensities (WMH), Parkinson’s disease (PD), hippocampal volume and smoking. Associations with olfactory receptor genes (n = 967), previously identified candidate olfaction-related SNPs (n = 36) and different PRS with BSIT scores (total and individual smells) were examined. All of the relationships were analysed using generalised linear mixed models (GLMM), adjusted for age and sex. Genes with suggestive evidence for odour identification were found for 8 of the 12 BSIT items. Thirteen out of 36 candidate SNPs previously identified from the literature were suggestively associated with several individual BSIT items but not total score. PRS for smoking, WMH and PD were negatively associated with chocolate identification. This is the first study to conduct genetic analyses with individual odorant identification, which found suggestive olfactory-related genes and genetic variants for multiple individual BSIT odours. Replication in independent and larger cohorts is needed.

There is an important relationship between odours and primary headaches. Patients may present osmophobia during headaches and odours may trigger headache attacks. This review aimed to describe the studies on osmophobia, odour-triggered headache, the main researchers and their research centres. Publications on the relationship between odours and primary headaches were searched in 193 sovereign countries and 48 dependent territories in all continents. We consulted the PubMed database and used the descriptors: “osmophobia in [name of the country or territory]”; “odours and headache in [name of the country or territory]” and “smell and headache in [name of the country or territory]”. A total of 254 articles were found, but only 31 articles were considered relevant and composed this review. Of the 31 articles, 90.3% were cross-sectional studies, 6.5% case reports and 3.2% systematic reviews. All studies were performed on three continents: Europe (45.2%), America (32.2%) and Asia (22.6%). For the purpose of this study, North America and South America have been classed as one continent. No research was developed in Africa or Australia. More than 50.0% of the studies were conducted in Italy and Brazil. Only five authors published 38.7% of the studies. Osmophobia during headache attacks was investigated in 67.7% of studies, and odour-triggered headache in 19.3%. Studies on osmophobia and/or odour-triggered headache were carried out in several countries. They were useful in differentiating between migraine and tension-type headache. This could improve the accuracy of diagnosis of migraine compared to the current criteria.

Abstract Southeastern Indonesia is located at a convergent triple junction of 3 plates : the Pacific (including the Caro-line and Philippines plates), the Australian and the Southeast Asian plates (fig. 1). The age of the different basins : the North Banda Sea (Sula Basin), the South Banda Sea (Wetar and Damar Basins) and the Weber Trough has been debated for a long time. Their great depth was a reason to interpret them as remnants of oceanic domains either of Indian or Pacific ocean affinities. It has now been demonstrated from geochronological studies that these basins have formed during the Neogene [Réhault et al., 1994 ; Honthaas et al., 1998]. The crust has been sampled only in the Sula Basin, where basalts or trachyandesites with back-arc geochemical signatures have been dredged. Their ages range from 11.4 ± 1.15 to 7.33 ± 0.18 Ma [Réhault et al., 1994 ; Honthaas et al., 1998]. The study of the magnetic anomaly pattern of these basins confirms this interpretation and defines an age between 12.5 and 7.15 Ma for the North Banda Basin and between 6.5 to 3.5 Ma for the South Banda Basin [Hinschberger et al., 2000 ; Hinschberger et al., 2001]. Furthermore, the existence of volcanic arcs linked to subducted slabs suggests that these basins resulted from back-arc spreading and subduction slab roll-back. Lastly, the Weber Trough which exceeds 7 300 m in depth and is one of the deepest non subduction basins in the world, remains enigmatic. A compilation of existing bathymetric data allows us to present a new bathymetric map of the region (fig. 2 and 3). A comparison with the previous published maps [Mammerickx et al., 1976 ; Bowin et al., 1982] shows numerous differences at a local scale. This is especially true for the Banda Ridges or in the Sula Basin where new tectonic directions are expressed. In the North Banda Basin, the Tampomas Ridge, which was striking NE-SW in the previous maps, is actually NW-SE parallel to the West Buru Fracture Zone and to the Hamilton Fault scarp (fig. 6). This NW-SE direction represents the initial direction of rifting and oceanic spreading. In this basin, only the southeastern rifted margin morphology is preserved along the Sinta Ridges. The basin is presently involved in an overall compressional motion and its buckled and fractured crust is subducted westwards beneath East Sulawesi (fig. 4a, 5 and 6). The northern border of the North Banda Basin is reactivated into sinistral transcurrent motion in the South Sula Fracture Zone continued into the Matano fault in Sulawesi. The South Banda Sea Basin is divided in two parts, the Wetar and Damar Basins with an eastward increase in depth. The Wetar and Damar Basins are separated by the NNW-SSE Gunung Api Ridge, characterized by volcanoes, a deep pull apart basin and active tectonics on its eastern flank (fig. 4b and 7). This ridge is interpreted as a large sinistral strike-slip fracture zone which continues across the Banda Ridges and bends towards NW south of Sinta Ridge. The Banda Ridges region, separating the North Banda Basin from the southern Banda Sea (fig. 5 and 7), is another place where many new morphological features are now documented. The Sinta Ridge to the north is separated from Buru island by the South Buru Basin which may constitute together with the West Buru Fracture Zone a large transcurrent lineament striking NW-SE. The central Rama Ridge is made of 2 narrow ridges striking NE-SW with an « en-echelon » pattern indicating sinistral strike slip comparable to the ENE-WSW strike-slip faulting evidenced by focal mechanisms in the northern border of the Damar Basin [Hinschberger, 2000]. Dredging of Triassic platform rocks and metamorphic basement on the Sinta and Rama Ridges suggests that they are fragments of a continental block [Silver et al., 1985 ; Villeneuve et al., 1994 ; Cornée et al., 1998]. The Banda Ridges are fringed to the south by a volcanic arc well expressed in the morphology : the Nieuwerkerk-Emperor of China and the Lucipara volcanic chains whose andesites and arc basalts have been dated between 8 and 3.45 Ma [Honthaas et al., 1998]. Eastern Indonesia deep oceanic basins are linked to the existence of 2 different subduction zones expressed by 2 different downgoing slabs and 2 volcanic arcs : the Banda arc and the Seram arc [Cardwell et Isacks, 1978 ; Milsom, 2001]. They correspond respectively to the termination of the Australian subduction and to the Bird’s head (Irian Jaya) subduction under Seram (fig. 5). Our bathymetric study helps to define the Seram volcanic arc which follows a trend parallel to the Seram Trench from Ambelau island southeast of Buru to the Banda Island (fig. 2 and 5). A new volcanic seamount discovered in the southeast of Buru (location of dredge 401 in figure 7) and a large volcano in the Pisang Ridge (location of dredge 403 in figure 7 and figure 8) have been surveyed with swath bathymetry. Both show a sub-aerial volcanic morphology and a further subsidence evidenced by the dredging of reefal limestones sampled at about 3000 m depth on their flank. We compare the mean basement depths corrected for sediment loading for the different basins (fig. 9). These depths are about 5 000 m in the Sula Basin, 4 800 m in the Wetar basin and 5 100 m in the Damar basin. These values plot about 1 000 m below the age-depth curve for the back-arc basins [Park et al., 1990] and about 2000 m below the Parsons and Sclater’s curve for the oceanic crust [Parsons et Sclater, 1977]. More generally, eastern Indonesia is characterized by large vertical motions. Strong subsidence is observed in the deep basins and in the Banda Ridges. On the contrary, large uplifts characterize the islands with rates ranging between 20 to 250 cm/kyr [De Smet et al., 1989a]. Excess subsidence in the back-arc basins has been attributed to large lateral heat loss due to their small size [Boerner et Sclater, 1989] or to the presence of cold subducting slabs. In eastern Indonesia, these mechanisms can explain only a part of the observed subsidence. It is likely that we have to take into account the tectonic forces linked to plate convergence. This is supported by the fact that uplift motions are clearly located in the area of active collision. In conclusion, the bathymetry and morphology of eastern Indonesian basins reveal a tectonically very active region where basins opened successively in back-arc, intra-arc and fore-arc situation in a continuous convergent geodynamic setting.

For more than 10 years living as a Mexican migrant, between two countries (Mexico and Australia), two cities (Mexico City and Sydney), and two social worlds (Mexican and multicultural Australian ‘families-friends’), I have been immersed in a systematic process of self observation and self reflection on my life in my country of destination. During this time I have explored my memories of place and their relationship with my emotional experiences, looking for strategies to continue to be connected with my country of origin and my people. In this process I discovered films were especially significant in sustaining me emotionally. I benefited from the memory associations triggered by representations of Mexico in films produced by Mexicans or by filmmakers from other nationalities. By reflecting on my responses to those films, in this paper I explore how representations of their country of origin can impact on migrants’ emotional life. Using autoethnography, examining my own subjectivity as a way to arrive at a deeper grasp of these processes, I analyse the roles played by different senses in the process of recollection and in the emotional effects produced, which come to embody the experience. My particular focus in this article is the sense of smell triggered by complex interactions within the sensorium while watching films, producing associations and feelings through which I re-live my memories and maintain my emotional sustainability.

There are no published data on the age of retirement of anaesthetists in Australia and New Zealand. We surveyed 622 retired Fellows of the Australian and New Zealand College of Anaesthetists to determine their ages of complete retirement from clinical practice, demographics, and whether they had retired at the age they had intended to retire. We also aimed to explore factors affecting the decision to retire, the practice of ‘winding down’, common post-retirement activities, and the arrangement of personal and professional affairs. Responses were received from 371 specialists (response rate 60%). The mean (standard deviation) age of retirement was 65.2 (6.9) years. The mean (standard deviation) retirement ages ranged from 62.0 (7.1) years (those who retired earlier than planned) to 68.2 (4.3) years (those who retired later than they had intended). The mean (standard deviation) age of retirement of the male respondents was 66.0 (6.5) years, and for female respondents was 62.7 (7.7) years. Two hundred and thirty-three respondents (63%) reported winding down their practice prior to retirement, and 360 (97%) had made a will. Poor health and loss of confidence were the two most common factors in the retirement decisions of those who retired earlier than they had planned. Our results may assist current practitioners plan for retirement, and suggest strategies to help health services, departments and private groups accommodate individuals in winding down their practice.

Contemporary culinary discourse in Australia has been dominated by the notion that migration and the increased mobility of Australians is responsible for filling a culinary void, as though, because we have had no peasantry we have no affinity with either the land or its produce. This argument serves to alienate Australians of British descent and its validity is open to questioning. It's an argument in urgent need of debate because cuisine stands out as the signifier of a 'multicultural' nation. Despite all the political posturing, food has 'long been the acceptable face of multiculturalism' (Gunew 13). We argue that the rhetoric of multiculturalism serves to widen the chasm between Australians of British descent and other migrants by encouraging the 'us' and 'them' mentality. We have examined the common links in the food stories of three women from disparate backgrounds. The sample is small in quantitative terms but we felt that if the culinary histories of just three women ran counter to the dominant discourse, then they would provide a new point of departure. In doing this we hope to question the precept driving culinary discourse which gives more weight to what men have said and done, than what women have cooked and how; and propagates mythologies about the eating habits of 'ethnic' migrants. Multiculturalism The terminology surrounding policies that seek to manage difference and diversity is culturally loaded and tends to perpetuate binaries. "Multiculturalism, circulates in Australia as a series of discursive formations serving a variety of institutional interests" (Gunew 256). In Australia multicultural policy seeks to "manage our cultural diversity so that the social cohesion of our nation is preserved" (Advisory Council on Multicultural Affairs 4). The result is to allow diversity that is sanctioned and is to some extent homogenised, while difference is not understood and is contained (see Newman). Multicultural? Who does it include and exclude? Gunew points out that official formulations of multiculturalism exclude people of 'Anglo-Celtic' origin, as though they had no 'ethnicity'. Multiculturalism, while addressing some of the social problems of immigration, is propelled at government level by our need for national cultural policy (see Stratton and Ang). To have a national cultural policy you need, it would seem, a film industry, a music industry, and a cuisine. In his history of Australian cuisine, Symons has only briefly alluded to women's role in the development of Australia's 'industrial cuisine'. One Continuous Picnic presents an essentially masculinist history, a pessimistic derogatory view giving little value to domestic traditions passed from mother to daughter. Women are mentioned only as authors of cookbooks produced throughout the 19th century and as the housewives whose role in the 1950s changed due to the introduction of labour-saving devices. Scant reference is made to the pre-eminent icon of Australian rural culinary history, the Country Women's Association1 and their recipe books. These books have gone through numerous editions from the 1920s, but Symons refers to them dismissively as a 'plain text' arising from the 'store-shelf of processed ingredients' (Symons 201). What of the 'vegie' patch, the afternoon tea? These traditions are mentioned, but only in passing. The products of arduous and loving baking are belittled as 'pretty things'. Is this because they are too difficult to document or because they are women's business? Female writers Barbara Santich and Marion Halligan have both written on the importance of these traditions in the lives of Australian women. Symons's discourse concentrates on 'industrial cuisine', but who is to say that its imperatives were not transgressed. The available data derives from recipe books, sales figures and advertising, but we don't actually know how much food came from other sources. Did your grandmother keep chickens? Did your grandfather fish? Terra Australis Culinae Nullius2 Michael Symons's precept is: This is the only continent which has not supported an agrarian society ... . Our land missed that fertile period when agriculture and cooking were created. There has never been the creative interplay between society and the soil. Almost no food has ever been grown by the person who eats it, almost no food has been preserved in the home and indeed, very little preparation is now done by a family cook. This is the uncultivated continent. Our history is without peasants. (10, our emphasis) This notion of terra Australis culinae nullius is problematic on two levels. The use of the word indigenous implies both Aboriginal and British settler culinary tradition. This statement consequently denies both traditional Aboriginal knowledge and the British traditions. The importance of Aboriginal foodways, their modern exploitation and their impact on the future of Australian cuisine needs recognition, but the complexity of the issue places it beyond the bounds of this paper. Symons's view of peasantry is a romanticised one, and says less about food and more about nostalgia for a more permanent, less changing environment. Advertising of 'ethnic' food routinely exploits this nostalgia by appropriating the image of the cheerful peasant. These advertisements perpetuate the mythologies that link pastoral images with 'family values'. These myths, or what Barthes describes as 'cultural truths', hold that migrant families all have harmonious relationships, are benevolently patriarchal and they all sit down to eat together. 'Ethnic' families are at one with the land and use recipes made from fresher, more natural produce, that are handed down through the female line and have had the benefit of generations of culinary wisdom. (See Gallegos & Mansfield.) So are the culinary traditions of Australians of British descent so different from those of migrant families? Joan, born near her home in Cunderdin in the Western Australian wheatbelt, grew up on a farm in reasonably prosperous circumstances with her six siblings. After marrying, she remained in the Cunderdin area to continue farming. Giovanna was born in 1915 on a farm four kilometres outside Vasto, in the Italian region of Abruzzi. One of seven children, her father died when she was young and at the age of twenty, she came to Australia to marry a Vastese man 12 years her senior. Maria was born in Madeira in 1946, in a coastal village near the capital Funchal. Like Giovanna she is the fifth of seven children and arrived in Australia at the age of twenty to marry. We used the information elicited from these three women to scrutinise some of the mythology surrounding ethnic families. Myth 1: 'Ethnic' families all eat together. All three women said their families had eaten together in the past and it was Joan who commented that what was missing in Australia today was people sitting down together to share a meal. Joan's farming community all came in for an extended midday meal from necessity, as the horses needed to be rested. Both women described radio, television, increasing work hours and different shifts as responsible for the demise of the family meal. Commensality is one of the common boundary markers for all groups 'indicating a kind of equality, peership, and the promise of further kinship links stemming from the intimate acts of dining together' (Nash 11). It is not only migrant families who eat together, and the demise of the family meal is more widely felt. Myth 2: Recipes in 'ethnic' families are passed down from generation to generation. Handing recipes down from generation to generation is not limited to just 'ethnic' families. All three women describe learning to cook from their mothers. Giovanna and Maria had hands-on experiences at very young ages, cooking for the family out of necessity. Joan did not have to cook for her family but her mother still taught her basic cookery as well as the finer points. The fluidity of the mother-daughter identity is expressed and documented by the handing on of recipes. Joan's community thought the recipes important enough to document in a written form, and so the West Australian version of the CWA cookbook became a reality. Joan, when asked about why the CWA developed a cookbook, replied that they wanted to record the recipes that were all well tried by women who spent the bulk of their days in the kitchen, cooking. Being taught to cook, teaching your children to cook and passing on recipes crosses borders, and does not serve to create or maintain boundaries. Myth 3: 'Ethnic' food is never prepared from processed products but always from homegrown produce. During their childhoods the range of food items purchased by the families was remarkably similar for all three women. All described buying tinned fish, rice and sugar, while the range of items produced from what was grown reflected common practices for the use and preservation of fresh produce. The major difference was the items that were in abundance, so while Joan describes pickling meat in addition to preserving fruits, Maria talks about preserving fish and Giovanna vegetables. The traditions developed around what was available. Joan and her family grew the food that they ate, preserved the food in their own home, and the family cook did all the preparation. To suggest they did not have a creative interplay with the soil is suggesting that they were unskilled in making a harsh landscape profitable. Joan's family could afford to buy more food items than the other families. Given the choice both Giovanna's and Maria's families would have only been too eager to make their lives easier. For example, on special occasions when the choice was available Giovanna's family chose store-bought pasta. The perception of the freshness and tastiness of peasant cuisine and affinity with the land obscures the issue, which for much of the world is still quantity, not quality. It would seem that these women's stories have points of reference. All three women describe the sense of community food engendered. They all remember sharing and swapping recipes. This sense of community was expressed by the sharing of food -- regardless of how little there was or what it was. The legacy lives on, while no longer feeling obliged to provide an elaborate afternoon tea as she did in her married life, visitors to Joan's home arrive to the smell of freshly baked biscuits shared over a cup of tea or coffee. Giovanna is only too eager to share her Vastese cakes with a cup of espresso coffee, and as new acquaintances we are obliged to taste each of the five different varieties of cakes and take some home. Maria, on the other hand, offered instant coffee and store-bought biscuits; having worked outside the home all her life and being thirty years younger than the other women, is this perhaps the face of modernity? The widespread anticipation of the divisions between these women has more to do with power relationships and the politics of east, west, north, south than with the realities of everyday life. The development of a style of eating will depend on your knowledge both as an individual and as a collective, the ingredients that are available at any one time, the conditions under which food has to be grown, and your own history. For the newly-arrived Southern Europeans meat was consumed in higher quantities because its availability was restricted in their countries of origin, to eat meat regularly was to increase your status in society. Interest in 'ethnic' food and its hybridisation is a global phenomenon and the creolisation of eating has been described both in America (see Garbaccia) and in Britain (James 81). The current obsession with the 'ethnic' has more to do with nostalgia than tolerance. The interviews which were conducted highlight the similarities between three women from different backgrounds despite differences in age and socioeconomic status. Our cuisine is in the process of hybridisation, but let us not forget who is manipulating this process and the agendas under which it is encouraged. To lay claim that one tradition is wonderful, while the other either does not exist or has nothing to offer, perpetuates divisive binaries. By focussing on what these women have in common rather than their differences we begin to critically interrogate the "culinary binary". It is our intention to stimulate debate that we hope will eventually lead to the encouragement of difference rather than the futile pursuit of authenticity. Footnotes 1. The Country Women's Association is an organisation that began in Australia in the 1920s. It is still operational and has as one of its primary aims the improvement of the welfare and conditions of women and children, especially those living in the country. 2. The term terra australis nullius is used to describe Australia at the point of colonisation. The continent was regarded as "empty" because the native people had neither improved nor settled on the land. We have extended this concept to incorporate cuisine. This notion of emptiness has influenced readings of Australian history which overlook the indigenous population and their relationship with the land. References Advisory Council on Multicultural Affairs. Towards A National Agenda for a Multicultural Australia. Canberra, 1988. Barthes, Roland. Mythologies. Trans. A. Lavers. London: Vintage, 1993. Belasco, Warren. "Ethnic Fast Foods: The Corporate Melting Pot". Food and Foodways 2.1 (1987): 1-30. Gallegos, Danielle, and Alan Mansfield. "Eclectic Gastronomes or Conservative Eaters: What Does Advertising Say?" Nutrition Unplugged, Proceedings of the 16th Dietitians Association of Australia National Conference. Hobart: Dietitians Association of Australia, 1997. Gallegos, Danielle, and Alan Mansfield. "Screen Cuisine: The Pastes, Powders and Potions of the Mediterranean Diet". Celebrate Food, Proceedings of the 17th Dietitians Association of Australia National Conference. Sydney: Dietitians Association of Australia, 1998. Garbaccia, D.R. We Are What We Eat: Ethnic Food and the Making of Americans. Boston: Harvard UP, 1998. Gunew, Sneja. "Denaturalising Cultural Nationalisms; Multicultural Readings of 'Australia'." Nation and Narration. Ed. Homi Bhabha. London: Routledge, 1990. 245-66. Gunew, Sneja. Introduction. Feminism and the Politics of Difference. Eds. S. Gunew and A. Yeatman. Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1993. xiii-xxv. Halligan, Marion. Eat My Words. Melbourne: Angus & Robertson, 1990. Harvey, D. The Condition of Postmodernity. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989. James, Alison. "How British Is British Food". Food, Health and Identity. Ed. P. Caplan. London: Routledge, 1997. 71-86. Mennell, Stephen. All Manners of Food: Eating and Taste in England and France from the Middle Ages to the Present. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1996. Nash, Manning. The Cauldron of Ethnicity in the Modern World. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1989. Newman, Felicity. Didn't Your Mother Teach You Not to Talk with Your Mouth Full? Food, Families and Friction. Unpublished Masters Thesis, Murdoch University, Perth, Western Australia, 1997. Santich, Barbara. Looking for Flavour. Adelaide: Wakefield, 1996. Stratton, Jon, and Ien Ang. "Multicultural Imagined Communities: Cultural Difference and National Identity in Australia and the USA". Continuum 8.2 (1994): 124-58. Symons, Michael. One Continuous Picnic. Adelaide: Duck, 1992. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Danielle Gallegos, Felicity Newman. "What about the Women? Food, Migration and Mythology." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.7 (1999). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/women.php>. Chicago style: Danielle Gallegos, Felicity Newman, "What about the Women? Food, Migration and Mythology," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2, no. 7 (1999), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/women.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Danielle Gallegos, Felicity Newman. (1999) What about the women? Food, migration and mythology. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2(7). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9910/women.php> ([your date of access]).

Whilst urban growth is generally accepted as a global phenomenon, this has numerous and ambivalent implications for Australia and its identity-work. Suburbia the site where the majority of Australians live, located somewhere between the privileged spaces of the city and the bush comes into focus as the emblematic topos through which the representational work of nation is articulated. Here, space becomes imbued with much current Australian political import. This article puts the discursive representation of Australian suburbia into juncture with hegemonic formations of nationness, and posits potential critical refigurations of these formations by mobilising a spatialised politics of cultural difference. Suburbia has come to represent a site of egalitarianism, signifying a truly Australian way of life. The masculinist and colonialist Australian myth of egalitarianism is constituted through a practice of carving up the land into equal portions, such that each man could have his stake in the country (Chambers 87). In this schema, the ownership of a detached house on a plot of land ensures proper and viable national subjects, since what is known as the suburban good life is nestled in a conception of house as home, where home is that which is familiar and secure. Consider John Howard's nationalist rhetoric: I believe that the concept of home is a compelling notion in our psyche…The loss of security challenges traditional notions of home and people feel the need to react to alienation…he or she must embrace what is secure, what people see as 'home.' (qtd. in Burke 8) It comes as no surprise, then, that Howard has initiated a scheme that grants $7000 to young couples toward establishing their first home. Home is not only a metaphor for nation; home is constituted in a material way through the house. The secure, housed, nation is most effectively enacted through the house and its ideal subjects: the white model of the heterosexual nuclear family. If European nostalgia is under threat, Howard's response is to maintain attempts to recover a unified national home. Ghassan Hage writes that the homely nation is itself an aspiration that guides the national subject's practices (68-9, my emphasis). Howard's anxiety is displayed in his response to the recent Tampa crisis, and it has become overwhelmingly evident who or what is not figured in his homely imaginary. Textuality becomes an effective means by which to negotiate and contest these dominant discourses of nation-space, and their prescribed modes of subjectivity. Suneeta Peres da Costa's recent novel Homework provides one such exigent re-mapping of nation-informed discourses of suburbia. Peres da Costa's text enacts a strategic invocation of cultural difference. Here, difference is not meant to connote inclusion or assimilation; difference must be seen as a dynamic constitutive mode of oppositionality, a provisional but insurrectionary and necessarily strategic other to dominant formations of nationness. As the novel's title itself suggests, home is work the work of being between spaces. Working from within the interstices of locatedness and worldliness allows the text to challenge embedded hegemonic inscriptions of nation-space. Whilst the novel was written and set in Australia, its packaging and subsequent reception also evokes the current trend of diasporic cosmopolitanism, signaling a world supposedly exempt from national belonging (Brennan qtd. in Kaplan 123). The novel was published simultaneously in the UK, the US, and Australia by Bloomsbury in 1999. The construction of this worldliness is here constituted in the politics of publishing, but this (dis)juncture between national and international, or the local and global, continues in the narrative itself. The narrative traverses both Australian domestic spaces and (imagined) international spaces. The fictive autobiography details Mina Pereira's late-childhood years as she lives with her family in suburban Rain Hill, Sydney. Whilst Mina and her sisters have grown up in Australia, their parents originate from Portuguese Goa, and Bombay, India. The narrative produces a tension between a global dislocation, where both Mr and Mrs Pereira's different and contradictory forms of homesickness are articulated, and the situatedness of Australia, where colonialism continues to construct hegemonic narratives of nationness. It is at this (dis)juncture that the narrative re-writes suburban space. Integrated into the suburban landscape and, in particular, the house itself, is the psychic space of memory. In the Pereira's house involuntary memories of former spaces and incidents in both Australia and India are evoked. A prolonged melancholia infiltrates the psychic and actual suburban spaces of the text, and in particular, the Federation house that the family lives in. If the Federation house signifies national unification, then this text enacts a kind of dis-unification of nation. With, in Gaston Bachelard's words, the past com[ing] to dwell in the new house (5), the seamless coherence of the suburban house is ruptured. As Homi Bhabha writes, [t]he recesses of the domestic space become sites for history's most intricate invasions. In that displacement, borders between home and world become confused; and, uncannily, the private and the public become part of each other, forcing upon us a vision that is as divided as it is disorienting. (9) In Homework, memory stretches beyond the limits of the nation such that nostalgia, as a politicised construction of the present, productively challenges the nation's boundaries. As Ien Ang writes, diasporas have the potential to unsettle static, essentialist and totalitarian conceptions of 'national culture' or 'national identity' with origins firmly rooted in fixed geography and common history (7). In this sense, the text interrogates the representational work of nation that attempts to maintain integrity and unity through incessant policing and securing of its borders. In Homework, the suburban house becomes unhomely, or unheimlich, in the haunting of subjects' memories that inhabit it, such that the house becomes not a tool for inculcating Australian nationness, but a zone of intermediacy between home and world. From this border space, that Homi Bhabha calls international (38) for the space of translation, negotiation, and hybridity, Australian space is unbounded and defamiliarised. Homework effectively dislodges the nation's homely imaginary by pointing to the excesses of belonging. Here home, as a mode of security and belonging, becomes detached from house. Aamir Mufti and Ella Shohat write that belonging cannot be housed simply within the material space of walls and roofs, of fenced topographies and well-drawn maps (1). This re-writing of hegemonic spatiality is concomitant with the re-constitution of prescribed modes of subjectivity. A politics of difference becomes a tool of creativity to question multiple forms of repression and dominance (Trinh 73). Cultural difference must be seen as disordering, as opening up new spaces for critical exchange (Soja and Hooper 193), and as positing new ways of critically writing and occupying spaces. By spatialising this politics of difference, the supposedly coherent spatiality of suburbia is ruptured and shown to be vulnerable. Re-narrating suburban spaces according to a politics of difference has the potential to dislodge hegemonic narratives that have become naturalised as they are mapped onto, or materialised in, real spaces. At the conclusion of Homework, the Pereira's house is enflamed. In this spectacular climax, part oneiric and fantastical, the house on fire becomes, in its pyrotechnical wizardry (255), a final recalcitrant figure to Australian suburban space. Merging with, and working against, that other sanctioned element of official multiculturalism, food, the fire sends out a toxic vapour to the hegemonic suburb: The pungent perfume that hung in a thick vapour above us was that of a vast spice warehouse burning to the ground. I could smell vast vats of mango and lime pickle; the bittersweet of cardamom spores that, with the intensity of the heat must have burst from their pods; peppercorns and paprika; turmeric, tamarind, and bay leaf; all these now lingered and mingled in a masala of mixed messages with the certain scents of dried cloves and the singular aroma of coriander. (256-7) The Federation house, with its symbolic encodings of nationness, is not only under de(con)struction here, but this image of a monstrous other further insults the suburban landscape's very senses. At the very heart of Australian suburbia is a stirring of the unhomely that is bound to repeat its disturbance to the mappings of nation. References Ang, Ien. Migrations of Chineseness. SPAN 34 (1993) : 9 pp. <http://wwwmcc.murdoch.edu.au/ReadingRoom...> Bachelard, Gaston. The Poetics of Space. 1958. Boston: Beacon, 1994. Bhabha, Homi K. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994. Burke, Anthony. Australia's Asian Crisis. Australian Humanities Review June (2001) : 9 pp. 27 August 2001 <http://www.lib.latrobe.edu/AHR/archive/I...> Chambers, Deborah. A Stake in the Country: Women's Experiences of Suburban Development. Visions of Suburbia. Ed. Roger Silverstone. London: Routledge, 1997. 86-107. Hage, Ghassan. White Nation: Fantasies of White Supremacy in a Multicultural Society. Leichhardt: Pluto Press, 1998. Kaplan, Caren. Questions of Travel: Postmodern Discourses of Displacement. Durham: Duke UP, 1996. Peres da Costa, Suneeta. Homework. London: Bloomsbury, 1999. Soja, Edward, and Barbara Hooper. The Spaces that Difference Makes: Some Notes on the Geographical Margins of the New Cultural Politics. Place and the Politics of Identity. Ed. Michael Keith and Steve Pile. London: Routledge, 1993. 183-205. Trinh, T. Minh-ha. Not You/Like You: Post-Colonial Women and the Interlocking Questions of Identity and Difference. Inscriptions 3-4 (1988) : 71-7. Links http://wwwmcc.murdoch.edu.au/ReadingRoom/litserv/SPAN/34/Ang.html http://www.lib.latrobe.edu/AHR/archive/Issue-June-2001/burke.html Citation reference for this article MLA Style Bullock, Emily. "Re-Writing Suburbia" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/suburbia.php>. Chicago Style Bullock, Emily, "Re-Writing Suburbia" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/suburbia.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Bullock, Emily. (2002) Re-Writing Suburbia. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/suburbia.php> ([your date of access]).

Over the past century, many books for general readers have styled sharks as “monsters of the deep” (Steele). In recent decades, however, at least some writers have also turned to representing how sharks are seriously threatened by human activities. At a time when media coverage of shark sightings seems ever increasing in Australia, scholarship has begun to consider people’s attitudes to sharks and how these are formed, investigating the representation of sharks (Peschak; Ostrovski et al.) in films (Le Busque and Litchfield; Neff; Schwanebeck), newspaper reports (Muter et al.), and social media (Le Busque et al., “An Analysis”). My own research into representations of surfing and sharks in Australian writing (Brien) has, however, revealed that, although reporting of shark sightings and human-shark interactions are prominent in the news, and sharks function as vivid and commanding images and metaphors in art and writing (Ellis; Westbrook et al.), little scholarship has investigated their representation in Australian books published for a general readership. While recognising representations of sharks in other book-length narrative forms in Australia, including Australian fiction, poetry, and film (Ryan and Ellison), this enquiry is focussed on non-fiction books for general readers, to provide an initial review. Sampling holdings of non-fiction books in the National Library of Australia, crosschecked with Google Books, in early 2021, this investigation identified 50 Australian books for general readers that are principally about sharks, or that feature attitudes to them, published from 1911 to 2021. Although not seeking to capture all Australian non-fiction books for general readers that feature sharks, the sampling attempted to locate a wide range of representations and genres across the time frame from the earliest identified text until the time of the survey. The books located include works of natural and popular history, travel writing, memoir, biography, humour, and other long-form non-fiction for adult and younger readers, including hybrid works. A thematic analysis (Guest et al.) of the representation of sharks in these texts identified five themes that moved from understanding sharks as fishes to seeing them as monsters, then prey, and finally to endangered species needing conservation. Many books contained more than one theme, and not all examples identified have been quoted in the discussion of the themes below. Sharks as Part of the Natural Environment Drawing on oral histories passed through generations, two memoirs (Bradley et al.; Fossa) narrate Indigenous stories in which sharks play a central role. These reveal that sharks are part of both the world and a wider cosmology for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people (Clua and Guiart). In these representations, sharks are integrated with, and integral to, Indigenous life, with one writer suggesting they are “creator beings, ancestors, totems. Their lifecycles reflect the seasons, the landscape and sea country. They are seen in the movement of the stars” (Allam). A series of natural history narratives focus on zoological studies of Australian sharks, describing shark species and their anatomy and physiology, as well as discussing shark genetics, behaviour, habitats, and distribution. A foundational and relatively early Australian example is Gilbert P. Whitley’s The Fishes of Australia: The Sharks, Rays, Devil-fish, and Other Primitive Fishes of Australia and New Zealand, published in 1940. Ichthyologist at the Australian Museum in Sydney from the early 1920s to 1964, Whitley authored several books which furthered scientific thought on sharks. Four editions of his Australian Sharks were published between 1983 and 1991 in English, and the book is still held in many libraries and other collections worldwide. In this text, Whitley described a wide variety of sharks, noting shared as well as individual features. Beautiful drawings contribute information on shape, colouring, markings, and other recognisable features to assist with correct identification. Although a scientist and a Fellow and then President of the Royal Zoological Society of New South Wales, Whitley recognised it was important to communicate with general readers and his books are accessible, the prose crisp and clear. Books published after this text (Aiken; Ayling; Last and Stevens; Tricas and Carwardine) share Whitley’s regard for the diversity of sharks as well as his desire to educate a general readership. By 2002, the CSIRO’s Field Guide to Australian Sharks & Rays (Daley et al.) also featured numerous striking photographs of these creatures. Titles such as Australia’s Amazing Sharks (Australian Geographic) emphasise sharks’ unique qualities, including their agility and speed in the water, sensitive sight and smell, and ability to detect changes in water pressure around them, heal rapidly, and replace their teeth. These books also emphasise the central role that sharks play in the marine ecosystem. There are also such field guides to sharks in specific parts of Australia (Allen). This attention to disseminating accurate zoological information about sharks is also evident in books written for younger readers including very young children (Berkes; Kear; Parker and Parker). In these and other similar books, sharks are imaged as a central and vital component of the ocean environment, and the narratives focus on their features and qualities as wondrous rather than monstrous. Sharks as Predatory Monsters A number of books for general readers do, however, image sharks as monsters. In 1911, in his travel narrative Peeps at Many Lands: Australia, Frank Fox describes sharks as “the most dangerous foes of man in Australia” (23) and many books have reinforced this view over the following century. This can be seen in titles that refer to sharks as dangerous predatory killers (Fox and Ruhen; Goadby; Reid; Riley; Sharpe; Taylor and Taylor). The covers of a large proportion of such books feature sharks emerging from the water, jaws wide open in explicit homage to the imaging of the monster shark in the film Jaws (Spielberg). Shark!: Killer Tales from the Dangerous Depths (Reid) is characteristic of books that portray encounters with sharks as terrifying and dramatic, using emotive language and stories that describe sharks as “the world’s most feared sea creature” (47) because they are such “highly efficient killing machines” (iv, see also 127, 129). This representation of sharks is also common in several books for younger readers (Moriarty; Rohr). Although the risk of being injured by an unprovoked shark is extremely low (Chapman; Fletcher et al.), fear of sharks is prevalent and real (Le Busque et al., “People’s Fear”) and described in a number of these texts. Several of the memoirs located describe surfers’ fear of sharks (Muirhead; Orgias), as do those of swimmers, divers, and other frequent users of the sea (Denness; de Gelder; McAloon), even if the author has never encountered a shark in the wild. In these texts, this fear of sharks is often traced to viewing Jaws, and especially to how the film’s huge, bloodthirsty great white shark persistently and determinedly attacks its human hunters. Pioneer Australian shark expert Valerie Taylor describes such great white sharks as “very big, powerful … and amazingly beautiful” but accurately notes that “revenge is not part of their thought process” (Kindle version). Two books explicitly seek to map and explain Australians’ fear of sharks. In Sharks: A History of Fear in Australia, Callum Denness charts this fear across time, beginning with his own “shark story”: a panicked, terror-filled evacuation from the sea, following the sighting of a shadow which turned out not to be a shark. Blake Chapman’s Shark Attacks: Myths, Misunderstandings and Human Fears explains commonly held fearful perceptions of sharks. Acknowledging that sharks are a “highly emotive topic”, the author of this text does not deny “the terror [that] they invoke in our psyche” but makes a case that this is “only a minor characteristic of what makes them such intriguing animals” (ix). In Death by Coconut: 50 Things More Dangerous than a Shark and Why You Shouldn’t Be Afraid of the Ocean, Ruby Ashby Orr utilises humour to educate younger readers about the real risk humans face from sharks and, as per the book’s title, why they should not be feared, listing champagne corks and falling coconuts among the many everyday activities more likely to lead to injury and death in Australia than encountering a shark. Taylor goes further in her memoir – not only describing her wonder at swimming with these creatures, but also her calm acceptance of the possibility of being injured by a shark: "if we are to be bitten, then we are to be bitten … . One must choose a life of adventure, and of mystery and discovery, but with that choice, one must also choose the attendant risks" (2019: Kindle version). Such an attitude is very rare in the books located, with even some of the most positive about these sea creatures still quite sensibly fearful of potentially dangerous encounters with them. Sharks as Prey There is a long history of sharks being fished in Australia (Clark). The killing of sharks for sport is detailed in An American Angler in Australia, which describes popular adventure writer Zane Grey’s visit to Australia and New Zealand in the 1930s to fish ‘big game’. This text includes many bloody accounts of killing sharks, which are justified with explanations about how sharks are dangerous. It is also illustrated with gruesome pictures of dead sharks. Australian fisher Alf Dean’s biography describes him as the “World’s Greatest Shark Hunter” (Thiele), this text similarly illustrated with photographs of some of the gigantic sharks he caught and killed in the second half of the twentieth century. Apart from being killed during pleasure and sport fishing, sharks are also hunted by spearfishers. Valerie Taylor and her late husband, Ron Taylor, are well known in Australia and internationally as shark experts, but they began their careers as spearfishers and shark hunters (Taylor, Ron Taylor’s), with the documentary Shark Hunters gruesomely detailing their killing of many sharks. The couple have produced several books that recount their close encounters with sharks (Taylor; Taylor, Taylor and Goadby; Taylor and Taylor), charting their movement from killers to conservationists as they learned more about the ocean and its inhabitants. Now a passionate campaigner against the past butchery she participated in, Taylor’s memoir describes her shift to a more respectful relationship with sharks, driven by her desire to understand and protect them. In Australia, the culling of sharks is supposedly carried out to ensure human safety in the ocean, although this practice has long been questioned. In 1983, for instance, Whitley noted the “indiscriminate” killing of grey nurse sharks, despite this species largely being very docile and of little threat to people (Australian Sharks, 10). This is repeated by Tony Ayling twenty-five years later who adds the information that the generally harmless grey nurse sharks have been killed to the point of extinction, as it was wrongly believed they preyed on surfers and swimmers. Shark researcher and conservationist Riley Elliott, author of Shark Man: One Kiwi Man’s Mission to Save Our Most Feared and Misunderstood Predator (2014), includes an extremely critical chapter on Western Australian shark ‘management’ through culling, summing up the problems associated with this approach: it seems to me that this cull involved no science or logic, just waste and politics. It’s sickening that the people behind this cull were the Fisheries department, which prior to this was the very department responsible for setting up the world’s best acoustic tagging system for sharks. (Kindle version, Chapter 7) Describing sharks as “misunderstood creatures”, Orr is also clear in her opposition to killing sharks to ‘protect’ swimmers noting that “each year only around 10 people are killed in shark attacks worldwide, while around 73 million sharks are killed by humans”. She adds the question and answer, “sounds unfair? Of course it is, but when an attack is all over the news and the people are baying for shark blood, it’s easy to lose perspective. But culling them? Seriously?” (back cover). The condemnation of culling is also evident in David Brooks’s recent essay on the topic in his collection of essays about animal welfare, conservation and the relationship between humans and other species, Animal Dreams. This disapproval is also evident in narratives by those who have been injured by sharks. Navy diver Paul de Gelder and surfer Glen Orgias were both bitten by sharks in Sydney in 2009 and both their memoirs detail their fear of sharks and the pain they suffered from these interactions and their lengthy recoveries. However, despite their undoubted suffering – both men lost limbs due to these encounters – they also attest to their ongoing respect for these creatures and specify a shared desire not to see them culled. Orgias, instead, charts the life story of the shark who bit him alongside his own story in his memoir, musing at the end of the book, not about himself or his injury, but about the fate of the shark he had encountered: great whites are portrayed … as pathological creatures, and as malevolent. That’s rubbish … they are graceful, mighty beasts. I respect them, and fear them … [but] the thought of them fighting, dying, in a net upsets me. I hope this great white shark doesn’t end up like that. (271–271) Several of the more recent books identified in this study acknowledge that, despite growing understanding of sharks, the popular press and many policy makers continue to advocate for shark culls, these calls especially vocal after a shark-related human death or injury (Peppin-Neff). The damage to shark species involved caused by their killing – either directly by fishing, spearing, finning, or otherwise hunting them, or inadvertently as they become caught in nets or affected by human pollution of the ocean – is discussed in many of the more recent books identified in this study. Sharks as Endangered Alongside fishing, finning, and hunting, human actions and their effects such as beach netting, pollution and habitat change are killing many sharks, to the point where many shark species are threatened. Several recent books follow Orr in noting that an estimated 100 million sharks are now killed annually across the globe and that this, as well as changes to their habitats, are driving many shark species to the status of vulnerable, threatened or towards extinction (Dulvy et al.). This is detailed in texts about biodiversity and climate change in Australia (Steffen et al.) as well as in many of the zoologically focussed books discussed above under the theme of “Sharks as part of the natural environment”. The CSIRO’s Field Guide to Australian Sharks & Rays (Daley et al.), for example, emphasises not only that several shark species are under threat (and protected) (8–9) but also that sharks are, as individuals, themselves very fragile creatures. Their skeletons are made from flexible, soft cartilage rather than bone, meaning that although they are “often thought of as being incredibly tough; in reality, they need to be handled carefully to maximise their chance of survival following capture” (9). Material on this theme is included in books for younger readers on Australia’s endangered animals (Bourke; Roc and Hawke). Shark Conservation By 1991, shark conservation in Australia and overseas was a topic of serious discussion in Sydney, with an international workshop on the subject held at Taronga Zoo and the proceedings published (Pepperell et al.). Since then, the movement to protect sharks has grown, with marine scientists, high-profile figures and other writers promoting shark conservation, especially through attempts to educate the general public about sharks. De Gelder’s memoir, for instance, describes how he now champions sharks, promoting shark conservation in his work as a public speaker. Peter Benchley, who (with Carl Gottlieb) recast his novel Jaws for the film’s screenplay, later attested to regretting his portrayal of sharks as aggressive and became a prominent spokesperson for shark conservation. In explaining his change of heart, he stated that when he wrote the novel, he was reflecting the general belief that sharks would both seek out human prey and attack boats, but he later discovered this to be untrue (Benchley, “Without Malice”). Many recent books about sharks for younger readers convey a conservation message, underscoring how, instead of fearing or killing sharks, or doing nothing, humans need to actively assist these vulnerable creatures to survive. In the children’s book series featuring Bindi Irwin and her “wildlife adventures”, there is a volume where Bindi and a friend are on a diving holiday when they find a dead shark whose fin has been removed. The book not only describes how shark finning is illegal, but also how Bindi and friend are “determined to bring the culprits to justice” (Browne). This narrative, like the other books in this series, has a dual focus; highlighting the beauty of wildlife and its value, but also how the creatures described need protection and assistance. Concluding Discussion This study was prompted by the understanding that the Earth is currently in the epoch known as the Anthropocene, a time in which humans have significantly altered, and continue to alter, the Earth by our activities (Myers), resulting in numerous species becoming threatened, endangered, or extinct. It acknowledges the pressing need for not only natural science research on these actions and their effects, but also for such scientists to publish their findings in more accessible ways (see, Paulin and Green). It specifically responds to demands for scholarship outside the relevant areas of science and conservation to encourage widespread thinking and action (Mascia et al.; Bennett et al.). As understanding public perceptions and overcoming widely held fear of sharks can facilitate their conservation (Panoch and Pearson), the way sharks are imaged is integral to their survival. The five themes identified in this study reveal vastly different ways of viewing and writing about sharks. These range from seeing sharks as nothing more than large fishes to be killed for pleasure, to viewing them as terrifying monsters, to finally understanding that they are amazing creatures who play an important role in the world’s environment and are in urgent need of conservation. This range of representation is important, for if sharks are understood as demon monsters which hunt humans, then it is much more ‘reasonable’ to not care about their future than if they are understood to be fascinating and fragile creatures suffering from their interactions with humans and our effect on the environment. Further research could conduct a textual analysis of these books. In this context, it is interesting to note that, although in 1949 C. Bede Maxwell suggested describing human deaths and injuries from sharks as “accidents” (182) and in 2013 Christopher Neff and Robert Hueter proposed using “sightings, encounters, bites, and the rare cases of fatal bites” (70) to accurately represent “the true risk posed by sharks” to humans (70), the majority of the books in this study, like mass media reports, continue to use the ubiquitous and more dramatic terminology of “shark attack”. The books identified in this analysis could also be compared with international texts to reveal and investigate global similarities and differences. While the focus of this discussion has been on non-fiction texts, a companion analysis of representation of sharks in Australian fiction, poetry, films, and other narratives could also be undertaken, in the hope that such investigations contribute to more nuanced understandings of these majestic sea creatures. 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Historians have often been compared with detectives; searching for clues as evidence of a mystery they are seeking to solve. I would prefer an association with food, making history like a trained cook who blends particular ingredients, some fresh, some traditional, using specific methods to create an object that is consumed. There are primary sources, fresh and raw ingredients that you often have to go to great lengths to procure, and secondary sources, prepared initially by someone else. The same recipe may yield different meals, the same meal may provoke different responses. On a continuum of approaches to history and food, there are those who approach both as a scientific endeavour and, at the other end of the spectrum, those who make history and food as art. Brought together, it is possible to see cookbooks as history in at least two important ways; they give meaning to the past by representing culinary heritage and they are in themselves sources of history as documents and blueprints for experiences that can be interpreted to represent the past. Many people read cookbooks and histories with no intention of preparing the meal or becoming a historian. I do a little of both. I enjoy reading history and cookbooks for pleasure but, as a historian, I also read them interchangeably; histories to understand cookbooks and cookbooks to find out more about the past. History and the past are different of course, despite their use in the English language. It is not possible to relive the past, we can only interpret it through the traces that remain. Even if a reader had an exact recipe and an antique stove, vegetables grown from heritage seeds in similar conditions, eggs and grains from the same region and employed the techniques his or her grandparents used, they could not replicate their experience of a meal. Undertaking those activities though would give a reader a sense of that experience. Active examination of the past is possible through the processes of research and writing, but it will always be an interpretation and not a reproduction of the past itself. Nevertheless, like other histories, cookbooks can convey a sense of what was important in a culture, and what contemporaries might draw on that can resonate a cultural past and make the food palatable. The way people eat relates to how they apply ideas and influences to the material resources and knowledge they have. Used in this way, cookbooks provide a rich and valuable way to look at the past. Histories, like cookbooks, are written in the present, inspired and conditioned by contemporary issues and attitudes and values. Major shifts in interpretation or new directions in historical studies have more often arisen from changes in political or theoretical preoccupations, generated by contemporary social events, rather than the recovery of new information. Likewise, the introduction of new ingredients or methods rely on contemporary acceptance, as well as familiarity. How particular versions of history and new recipes promote both the past and present is the concern of this paper. My focus below will be on the nineteenth century, although a much larger study would reveal the circumstances that separated that period from the changes that followed. Until the late nineteenth century Australians largely relied on cookbooks that were brought with them from England and on their own private recipe collection, and that influenced to a large extent the sort of food that they ate, although of course they had to improvise by supplementing with local ingredients. In the first book of recipes that was published in Australia, The English and Australian Cookery Book that appeared in 1864, Edward Abbott evoked the ‘roast beef of old England Oh’ (Bannerman, Dictionary). The use of such a potent symbol of English identity in the nineteenth century may seem inevitable, and colonists who could afford them tended to use their English cookbooks and the ingredients for many years, even after Abbott’s publication. New ingredients, however, were often adapted to fit in with familiar culinary expectations in the new setting. Abbott often drew on native and exotic ingredients to produce very familiar dishes that used English methods and principles: things like kangaroo stuffed with beef suet, breadcrumbs, parsley, shallots, marjoram, thyme, nutmeg, pepper, salt, cayenne, and egg. It was not until the 1890s that a much larger body of Australian cookbooks became available, but by this time the food supply was widely held to be secure and abundant and the cultivation of exotic foods in Australia like wheat and sheep and cattle had established a long and familiar food supply for English colonists. Abbott’s cookbook provides a record of the culinary heritage settlers brought with them to Australia and the contemporary circumstances they had to adapt to. Mrs Beeton’s Cookery Book and Household Guide is an example of the popularity of British cookbooks in Australia. Beeton’s Kangaroo Tail Curry was included in the Australian cooking section of her household management (2860). In terms of structure it is important for historians as one of the first times, because Beeton started writing in the 1860s, that ingredients were clearly distinguished from the method. This actually still presents considerable problems for publishers. There is debate about whether that should necessarily be the case, because it takes up so much space on the page. Kangaroo Tail CurryIngredients:1 tail2 oz. Butter1 tablespoon of flour1 tablespoon of curry2 onions sliced1 sour apple cut into dice1 desert spoon of lemon juice3/4 pint of stocksaltMethod:Wash, blanch and dry the tail thoroughly and divide it at the joints. Fry the tail in hot butter, take it up, put it in the sliced onions, and fry them for 3 or 4 minutes without browning. Sprinkle in the flour and curry powder, and cook gently for at least 20 minutes, stirring frequently. Add the stock, apple, salt to taste, bring to the boil, stirring meanwhile, and replace the tail in the stew pan. Cover closely, and cook gently until tender, then add the lemon juice and more seasoning if necessary. Arrange the pieces of tail on a hot dish, strain the sauce over, and serve with boiled rice.Time: 2-3 hoursSufficient for 1 large dish. Although the steps are not clearly distinguished from each other the method is more systematic than earlier recipes. Within the one sentence, however, there are still two or three different sorts of tasks. The recipe also requires to some extent a degree of discretion, knowledge and experience of cooking. Beeton suggests adding things to taste, cooking something until it is tender, so experience or knowledge is necessary to fulfil the recipe. The meal also takes between two and three hours, which would be quite prohibitive for a lot of contemporary cooks. New recipes, like those produced in Delicious have recipes that you can do in ten minutes or half an hour. Historically, that is a new development that reveals a lot about contemporary conditions. By 1900, Australian interest in native food had pretty much dissolved from the record of cookbooks, although this would remain a feature of books for the English public who did not need to distinguish themselves from Indigenous people. Mrs Beeton’s Cookery Book and Household Guide gave a selection of Australian recipes but they were primarily for the British public rather than the assumption that they were being cooked in Australia: kangaroo tail soup was cooked in the same way as ox tail soup; roast wallaby was compared to hare. The ingredients were wallaby, veal, milk and butter; and parrot pie was said to be not unlike one made of pigeons. The novelty value of such ingredients may have been of interest, rather than their practical use. However, they are all prepared in ways that would make them fairly familiar to European tastes. Introducing something new with the same sorts of ingredients could therefore proliferate the spread of other foods. The means by which ingredients were introduced to different regions reflects cultural exchanges, historical processes and the local environment. The adaptation of recipes to incorporate local ingredients likewise provides information about local traditions and contemporary conditions. Starting to see those ingredients as a two-way movement between looking at what might have been familiar to people and what might have been something that they had to do make do with because of what was necessarily available to them at that time tells us about their past as well as the times they are living in. Differences in the level of practical cooking knowledge also have a vital role to play in cookbook literature. Colin Bannerman has suggested that the shortage of domestic labour in Australia an important factor in supporting the growth of the cookbook industry in the late nineteenth century. The poor quality of Australian cooking was also an occasional theme in the press during the same time. The message was generally the same: bad food affected Australians’ physical, domestic, social and moral well-being and impeded progress towards civilisation and higher culture. The idea was really that Australians had to learn how to cook. Colin Bannerman (Acquired Tastes 19) explains the rise of domestic science in Australia as a product of growing interest in Australian cultural development and the curse of bad cookery, which encouraged support for teaching girls and women how to cook. Domestic Economy was integrated into the Victorian and New South Wales curriculum by the end of the nineteenth century. Australian women have faced constant criticism of their cooking skills but the decision to teach cooking shouldn’t necessarily be used to support that judgement. Placed in a broader framework is possible to see the support for a modern, scientific approach to food preparation as part of both the elevation of science and systematic knowledge in society more generally, and a transnational movement to raise the status of women’s role in society. It would also be misleading not to consider the transnational context. Australia’s first cookery teachers were from Britain. The domestic-science movement there can be traced to the congress on domestic economy held in Manchester in 1878, at roughly the same time as the movement was gaining strength in Australia. By the 1890s domestic economy was widely taught in both British and Australian schools, without British women facing the same denigration of their cooking skills. Other comparisons with Britain also resulted from Australia’s colonial heritage. People often commented on the quality of the ingredients in Australia and said they were more widely available than they were in England but much poorer in quality. Cookbooks emerged as a way of teaching people. Among the first to teach cookery skills was Mina Rawson, author of The Antipodean Cookery Book and the Kitchen Companion first published in 1885. The book was a compilation of her own recipes and remedies, and it organised and simplified food preparation for the ordinary housewife. But the book also included directions and guidance on things like household tasks and how to cure diseases. Cookbooks therefore were not completely distinct from other aspects of everyday life. They offered much more than culinary advice on how to cook a particular meal and can similarly be used by historians to comment on more than food. Mrs Rawson also knew that people had to make do. She included a lot of bush foods that you still do not get in a lot of Australian meals, ingredients that people could substitute for the English ones they were used to like pig weed. By the end of the nineteenth century cooking had become a recognised classroom subject, providing early training in domestic service, and textbooks teaching Australians how to cook also flourished. Measurements became much more uniform, the layout of cookbooks became more standardised and the procedure was clearly spelled out. This allowed companies to be able to sell their foods because it also meant that you could duplicate the recipes and they could potentially taste the same. It made cookbooks easier to use. The audience for these cookbooks were mostly young women directed to cooking as a way of encouraging social harmony. Cooking was elevated in lots of ways at this stage as a social responsibility. Cookbooks can also be seen as a representation of domestic life, and historically this prescribed the activities of men and women as being distinct The dominance of women in cookbooks in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries attested to the strength of that idea of separate spheres. The consequences of this though has been debated by historians: whether having that particular kind of market and the identification that women were making with each other also provided a forum for women’s voices and so became quite significant in women’s politics at a later date. Cookbooks have been a strategic marketing device for products and appliances. By the beginning of the twentieth century food companies began to print recipes on their packets and to release their own cookbooks to promote their products. Davis Gelatine produced its first free booklet in 1904 and other companies followed suit (1937). The largest gelatine factory was in New South Wales and according to Davis: ‘It bathed in sunshine and freshened with the light breezes of Botany all year round.’ These were the first lavishly illustrated Australian cookbooks. Such books were an attempt to promote new foods and also to sell local foods, many of which were overproduced – such as milk, and dried fruits – which provides insights into the supply chain. Cookbooks in some ways reflected the changing tastes of the public, their ideas, what they were doing and their own lifestyle. But they also helped to promote some of those sorts of changes too. Explaining the reason for cooking, Isabella Beeton put forward an historical account of the shift towards increasing enjoyment of it. She wrote: "In the past, only to live has been the greatest object of mankind, but by and by comforts are multiplied and accumulating riches create new wants. The object then is to not only live but to live economically, agreeably, tastefully and well. Accordingly the art of cookery commences and although the fruits of the earth, the fowls of the air, the beasts of the field and the fish of the sea are still the only food of mankind, yet these are so prepared, improved and dressed by skill and ingenuity that they are the means of immeasurably extending the boundaries of human enjoyment. Everything that is edible and passes under the hands of cooks is more or less changed and assumes new forms, hence the influence of that functionary is immense upon the happiness of the household" (1249). Beeton anticipates a growing trend not just towards cooking and eating but an interest in what sustains cooking as a form of recreation. The history of cookbook publishing provides a glimpse into some of those things. The points that I have raised provide a means for historians to use cookbooks. Cookbooks can be considered in terms of what was eaten, by whom and how: who prepared the food, so to whom the books were actually directed? Clever books like Isabella Beeton’s were directed at both domestic servants and at wives, which gave them quite a big market. There are also changes in the inclusion of themes. Economy and frugality becomes quite significant, as do organisation and management at different times. Changes in the extent of detail, changes in authorship, whether it is women, men, doctors, health professionals, home economists and so on all reflect contemporary concerns. Many books had particular purposes as well, used to fund raise or promote a particular perspective, relate food reform and civic life which gives them a political agenda. Promotional literature produced by food and kitchen equipment companies were a form of advertising and quite significant to the history of cookbook publishing in Australia. Other themes include the influence of cookery school and home economics movements; advice on etiquette and entertaining; the influence of immigration and travel; the creation of culinary stars and authors of which we are all fairly familiar. Further themes include changes in ingredients, changes in advice about health and domestic medicine, and the impact of changes in social consciousness. It is necessary to place those changes in a more general historical context, but for a long time cookbooks have been ignored as a source of information in their own right about the period in which they were published and the kinds of social and political changes that we can see coming through. More than this active process of cooking with the books as well becomes a way of imagining the past in quite different ways than historians are often used to. Cookbooks are not just sources for historians, they are histories in themselves. The privileging of written and visual texts in postcolonial studies has meant other senses, taste and smell, are frequently neglected; and yet the cooking from historical cookbooks can provide an embodied, sensorial image of the past. From nineteenth century cookbooks it is possible to see that British foods were central to the colonial identity project in Australia, but the fact that “British” culinary culture was locally produced, challenges the idea of an “authentic” British cuisine which the colonies tried to replicate. By the time Abbot was advocating rabbit curry as an Australian family meal, back “at home” in England, it was not authentic Indian food but the British invention of curry power that was being incorporated into English cuisine culture. More than cooks, cookbook authors told a narrative that forged connections and disconnections with the past. They reflected the contemporary period and resonated with the culinary heritage of their readers. Cookbooks make history in multiple ways; by producing change, as the raw materials for making history and as historical narratives. References Abbott, Edward. The English and Australian Cookery Book: Cookery for the Many, as well as the Upper Ten Thousand. London: Sampson Low, Son & Marston, 1864. Bannerman, Colin. Acquired Tastes: Celebrating Australia’s Culinary History. Canberra: National Library of Australia, 1998. Bannerman, Colin. "Abbott, Edward (1801–1869)." Australian Dictionary of Biography. National Centre of Biography, Australian National University. 21 May 2013. . Beeton, Isabella. Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. New Ed. London and Melbourne: Ward, Lock and Co. Ltd., n.d. (c. 1909). Davis Gelatine. Davis Dainty Dishes. Rev ed. Sydney: Davis Gelatine Organization, 1937. Rawson, Lance Mrs. The Antipodean Cookery Book and Kitchen Companion. Melbourne: George Robertson & Co., 1897.

The debate on the social role of museums trundles along in an age where complex associations between community, collections, and cultural norms are highly contested (Silverman 3–4; Sandell, Inequality 3–23). This article questions whether, in the case of community groups whose aspirations often go unrecognised (in this case people with either blindness or low vision), there is a need to discuss and debate institutionalised approaches that often reinforce social exclusion and impede cultural access. If “access is [indeed] an entry point to experience” (Papalia), then the privileging of visual encounters in museums is clearly a barrier for people who experience sight loss or low vision (Levent and Pursley). In contrast, a multisensory aesthetic to exhibition display respects the gamut of human sensory experience (Dudley 161–63; Drobnick 268–69; Feld 184; James 136; McGlone 41–60) as do discursive gateways including “lectures, symposia, workshops, educational programs, audio guides, and websites” (Cachia). Independent access to information extends beyond Braille on toilet doors.Underpinning this article is an ongoing qualitative case study undertaken by the author involving participant observation, workshops, and interviews with eight adults who experience vision impairment. The primary research site has been the National Museum of Australia. Reflecting on the role of curators as storytellers and the historical development of museums and their practitioners as agents for social development, the article explores the opportunities latent in museum collections as they relate to community members with vision impairment. The outcomes of this investigation offer insights into emerging issues as they relate to the International Council of Museums (ICOM) definitions of the museum program. Curators as Storytellers“The ways in which objects are selected, put together, and written or spoken about have political effects” (Eilean Hooper-Greenhill qtd. in Sandell, Inequality 8). Curators can therefore open or close doors to discrete communities of people. The traditional role of curators has been to collect, care for, research, and interpret collections (Desvallées and Mairesse 68): they are characterised as information specialists with a penchant for research (Belcher 78). While commonly possessing an intimate knowledge of their institution’s collection, their mode of knowledge production results from a culturally mediated process which ensures that resulting products, such as cultural significance assessments and provenance determinations (Russell and Winkworth), privilege the knowing systems of dominant social groups (Fleming 213). Such ways of seeing can obstruct the access prospects of underserved audiences.When it comes to exhibition display—arguably the most public of work by museums—curators conventionally collaborate within a constellation of other practitioners (Belcher 78–79). Curators liaise with museum directors, converse with conservators, negotiate with exhibition designers, consult with graphics designers, confer with marketing boffins, seek advice from security, chat with editors, and engage with external contractors. I question the extent that curators engage with community groups who may harbour aspirations to participate in the exhibition experience—a sticking point soon to be addressed. Despite the team based ethos of exhibition design, it is nonetheless the content knowledge of curators on public display. The art of curatorial interpretation sets out not to instruct audiences but, in part, to provoke a response with narratives designed to reveal meanings and relationships (Freeman Tilden qtd. in Alexander and Alexander 258). Recognised within the institution as experts (Sandell, Inclusion 53), curators have agency—they decide upon the stories told. In a recent television campaign by the National Museum of Australia, a voiceover announces: a storyteller holds incredible power to connect and to heal, because stories bring us together (emphasis added). (National Museum of Australia 2015)Storytelling in the space of the museum often shares the histories, perspectives, and experiences of people past as well as living cultures—and these stories are situated in space and time. If that physical space is not fit-for-purpose—that is, it does not accommodate an individual’s physical, intellectual, psychiatric, sensory, or neurological needs (Disability Discrimination Act 1992, Cwlth)—then the story reaches only long-established patrons. The museum’s opportunity to contribute to social development, and thus the curator’s as the primary storyteller, will have been missed. A Latin-American PerspectiveICOM’s commitment to social development could be interpreted merely as a pledge to make use of collections to benefit the public through scholarship, learning, and pleasure (ICOM 15). If this interpretation is accepted, however, then any museum’s contribution to social development is somewhat paltry. To accept such a limited and limiting role for museums is to overlook the historical efforts by advocates to change the very nature of museums. The ascendancy of the social potential of museums first blossomed during the late 1960s at a time where, globally, overlapping social movements espoused civil rights and the recognition of minority groups (Silverman 12; de Varine 3). Simultaneously but independently, neighbourhood museums arose in the United States, ecomuseums in France and Quebec, and the integral museum in Latin America, notably in Mexico (Hauenschild; Silverman 12–13). The Latin-American commitment to the ideals of the integral museum developed out of the 1972 round table of Santiago, Chile, sponsored by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (Giménez-Cassina 25–26). The Latin-American signatories urged the local and regional museums of their respective countries to collaborate with their communities to resolve issues of social inequality (Round Table Santiago 13–21). The influence of Brazilian educator Paulo Freire should be acknowledged. In 1970, Freire ushered in the concept of conscientization, defined by Catherine Campbell and Sandra Jovchelovitch as:the process whereby critical thinking develops … [and results in a] … thinker [who] feels empowered to think and to act on the conditions that shape her living. (259–260)This model for empowerment lent inspiration to the ideals of the Santiago signatories in realising their sociopolitical goal of the integral museum (Assunção dos Santos 20). Reframing the museum as an institution in the service of society, the champions of the integral museum sought to redefine the thinking and practices of museums and their practitioners (United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization 37–39). The signatories successfully lobbied ICOM to introduce an explicitly social purpose to the work of museums (Assunção dos Santos 6). In 1974, in the wake of the Santiago round table, ICOM modified their definition of a museum to “a permanent non-profit institution, open to the public, in the service of society and its development” (emphasis added) (Hauenschild). Museums had been transformed into “problem solvers” (Judite Primo qtd. in Giménez-Cassina 26). With that spirit in mind, museum practitioners, including curators, can develop opportunities for reciprocity with the many faces of the public (Guarini). Response to Social Development InitiativesStarting in the 1970s, the “second museum revolution” (van Mensch 6–7) saw the transition away from: traditional roles of museums [of] collecting, conservation, curatorship, research and communication … [and toward the] … potential role of museums in society, in education and cultural action. (van Mensch 6–7)Arguably, this potential remains a work in progress some 50 years later. Writing in the tradition of museums as agents of social development, Mariana Lamas states:when we talk about “in the service of society and its development”, it’s quite different. It is like the drunk uncle at the Christmas party that the family pretends is not there, because if they pretend long enough, he might pass out on the couch. (Lamas 47–48)That is not to say that museums have neglected to initiate services and programs that acknowledge the aspirations of people with disabilities (refer to Cachia and Krantz as examples). Without discounting such efforts, but with the refreshing analogy of the drunken uncle still fresh in memory, Lamas answers her own rhetorical question:how can traditional museums promote community development? At first the word “development” may seem too much for the museum to do, but there are several ways a museum can promote community development. (Lamas 52) Legitimising CommunitiesThe first way that museums can foster community or social development is to:help the community to over come [sic] a problem, coming up with different solutions, putting things into a new perspective; providing confidence to the community and legitimizing it. (Lamas 52)As a response, my doctoral investigation legitimises the right of people with vision impairment to participate in the social and cultural aspects of publicly funded museums. The Australian Government upheld this right in 2008 by ratifying the United Nations Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities (and Optional Protocol), which enshrines the right of people with disability to participate in the cultural life of the nation (United Nations).At least 840,700 people in Australia (a minimum of four per cent of the population) experiences either blindness or low vision (Australian Bureau of Statistics 2009). For every one person in the Australian community who is blind, nearly five other people experience low vision. The medical model of disability identifies the impairment as the key feature of a person and seeks out a corrective intervention. In contrast, the social model of disability strives to remove the attitudinal, social, and physical barriers enacted by people or institutions (Landman, Fishburn, and Tonkin 14). Therein lies the opportunity and challenge for museums—modifying layouts and practices that privilege the visual. Consequently, there is scope for museums to partner with people with vision impairment to identify their aspirations rather than respond as a problem to be fixed. Common fixes in the museums for people with disabilities include physical alterations such as ramps and, less often, special tours (Cachia). I posit that curators, as co-creators and major contributors to exhibitions, can be part of a far wider discussion. In the course of doctoral research, I accompanied adults with a wide array of sight impairments into exhibitions at the Museum of Australian Democracy at Old Parliament House, the Australian War Memorial, and the National Museum of Australia. Within the space of the exhibition, the most commonly identified barrier has been the omission of access opportunities to interpreted materials: that is, information about objects on display as well as the wider narratives driving exhibitions. Often, the participant has had to work backwards, from the object itself, to understand the wider topic of the exhibition. If aesthetics is “the way we communicate through the senses” (Thrift 291), then the vast majority of exhibits have been inaccessible from a sensory perspective. For people with low vision (that is, they retain some degree of functioning sight), objects’ labels have often been too small to be read or, at times, poorly contrasted or positioned. Objects have often been set too deep into display cabinets or too far behind safety barriers. If individuals must use personal magnifiers to read text or look in vain at objects, then that is an indicator that there are issues with exhibition design. For people who experience blindness (that is, they cannot see), neither the vast majority of exhibits nor their interpretations have been made accessible. There has been minimal access across all museums to accessioned objects, handling collections, or replicas to tease out exhibits and their stories. Object labels must be read by family or friends—a tiring experience. Without motivated peers, the stories told by curators are silenced by a dearth of alternative options.Rather than presume to know what works for people with disabilities, my research ethos respects the “nothing about us without us” (Charlton 2000; Werner 1997) maxim of disability advocates. To paraphrase Lamas, we have collaborated to come up with different solutions by putting things into new perspectives. In turn, “person-centred” practices based on rapport, warmth, and respect (Arigho 206–07) provide confidence to a diverse community of people by legitimising their right to participate in the museum space. Incentivising Communities Museums can also nurture social or community development by providing incentives to “the community to take action to improve its quality of life” (Lamas 52). It typically falls to (enthusiastic) public education and community outreach teams to engage underserved communities through targeted programs. This approach continues the trend of curators as advocates for the collection, and educators as advocates for the public (Kaitavouri xi). If the exhibition briefs normally written by curators (Belcher 83) reinforced the importance of access, then exhibition designers would be compelled to offer fit-for-purpose solutions. Better still, if curators (and other exhibition team members) regularly met with community based organisations (perhaps in the form of a disability reference group), then museums would be better positioned to accommodate a wider spectrum of community members. The National Standards for Australian Museums and Galleries already encourages museums to collaborate with disability organisations (40). Such initiatives offer a way forward for improving a community’s sense of itself and its quality of life. The World Health Organization defines health as a “state of complete physical, mental and social well-being and not merely the absence of disease or infirmity”. While I am not using quality of life indicators for my doctoral study, the value of facilitating social and cultural opportunities for my target audience is evident in participant statements. At the conclusion of one sensory based workshop, Mara, a female participant who experiences low vision in one eye and blindness in the other, stated:I think it was interesting in that we could talk together about what we were experiencing and that really is the social aspect of it. I mean if I was left to go to a whole lot of museums on my own, I probably wouldn’t. You know, I like going with kids or a friend visiting from interstate—that sort of thing. And so this group, in a way, replicates that experience in that you’ve got someone else to talk about your impressions with—much better than going on your own or doing this alone.Mara’s statement was in response to one of two workshops I held with the support of the Learning Services team at the National Museum of Australia in May 2015. Selected objects from the museum’s accessioned collection and handling collection were explored, as well as replicas in the form of 3D printed objects. For example, participants gazed upon and handled a tuckerbox, smelt and tasted macadamia nuts in wattle seed syrup, and listened to a genesis story about the more-ish nut recorded by the Butchulla people—the traditional owners of Fraser Island. We sat around a table while I, as the workshop mediator, sought to facilitate free-flowing discussions about their experiences and, in turn, mused on the capacity of objects to spark social connection and opportunities for cultural access. While the workshop provided the opportunity for reciprocal exchanges amongst participants as well as between participants and me, what was highly valued by most participants was the direct contact with members of the museum’s Learning Services team. I observed that participants welcomed the opportunity to talk with real museum workers. Their experience of museum practitioners, to date, had been largely confined to the welcome desk of respective institutions or through special events or tours where they were talked at. The opportunity to communicate directly with the museum allowed some participants to share their thoughts and feelings about the services that museums provide. I suggest that curators open themselves up to such exchanges on a more frequent basis—it may result in reciprocal benefits for all stakeholders. Fortifying IdentityA third way museums can contribute to social or community development is by:fortify[ing] the bonds between the members of the community and reaffirm their identities making them feel more secure about who they are; and give them a chance to tell their own version of their history to “outsiders” which empowers them. (Lamas 52)Identity informs us and others of who we are and where we belong in the world (Silverman 54). However, the process of identity marking and making can be fraught: “some communities are ours by choice … [and] … some are ours because of the ways that others see us” (Watson 4). Communities are formed by identifying who is in and who is out (Francois Dubet qtd. in Bessant and Watts 260). In other words, the construction of collective identity is reinforced through means of social inclusion and social exclusion. The participants of my study, as members or clients of the Royal Society for the Blind | Canberra Blind Society, clearly value participating in events with empathetic peers. People with vision impairment are not a homogenous group, however. Reinforcing the cultural influences on the formation of identity, Fiona Candlin asserts that “to state the obvious but often ignored fact, blind people … [come] … from all social classes, all cultural, racial, religious and educational backgrounds” (101). Irrespective of whether blindness or low vision arises congenitally, adventitiously, or through unexpected illness, injury, or trauma, the end result is an assortment of individuals with differing perceptual characteristics who construct meaning in often divergent ways (De Coster and Loots 326–34). They also hold differing world views. Therefore, “participation [at the museum] is not an end in itself. It is a means for creating a better world” (Assunção dos Santos 9). According to the Australian Human Rights Commissioner, Professor Gillian Triggs, a better world is: a society for all, in which every individual has an active role to play. Such a society is based on fundamental values of equity, equality, social justice, and human rights and freedoms, as well as on the principles of tolerance and embracing diversity. (Triggs)Publicly funded museums can play a fundamental role in the cultural lives of societies. For example, the Powerhouse Museum (Museum of Applied Arts and Sciences) in Sydney partnered with Vision Australia to host an exhibition in 2010 titled Living in a Sensory World: it offered “visitors an understanding of the world of the blindness and low vision community and celebrates their achievements” (Powerhouse Museum). With similar intent, my doctoral research seeks to validate the world of my participants by inviting museums to appreciate their aspirations as a distinct but diverse community of people. ConclusionIn conclusion, the challenge for museum curators and other museum practitioners is balancing what Richard Sennett (qtd. in Bessant and Watts 265) identifies as opportunities for enhancing social cohesion and a sense of belonging while mitigating parochialism and community divisiveness. Therefore, curators, as the primary focus of this article, are indeed challenged when asked to contribute to serving the public through social development—a public which is anything but homogenous. Mindful of cultural and social differences in an ever-changing world, museums are called to respect the cultural and natural heritage of the communities they serve and collaborate with (ICOM 10). It is a position I wholeheartedly support. This is not to say that museums or indeed curators are capable of solving the ills of society. However, inviting people who are frequently excluded from social and cultural events to multisensory encounters with museum collections acknowledges their cultural rights. I suggest that this would be a seismic shift from the current experiences of adults with blindness or low vision at most museums.ReferencesAlexander, Edward, and Mary Alexander. Museums in Motion: An Introduction to the History and Functions of Museums. 2nd ed. Lanham, Maryland: AltaMira Press, 2008.Arigho, Bernie. “Getting a Handle on the Past: The Use of Objects in Reminiscence Work.” Touch in Museums: Policy and Practice in Object Handling. Ed. Helen Chatterjee. Oxford: Berg, 2008. 205–12.Assunção dos Santos, Paula. Introduction. Sociomuseology 4: To Think Sociomuseologically. Eds. Paula Assunção dos Santos and Judite Primo. Lisbon: Universidade Lusófona de Humanidades e Tecnologias, 2010. 5–12.Australian Bureau of Statistics. “National Health Survey: Summary of Results (2007- 2008) (Reissue), Cat. No. 4364.0. 2009.” Australian Bureau of Statistics. 12 Feb. 2015 ‹http://www.abs.gov.au/ausstats/abs@.nsf/mf/4364.0›.Belcher, Michael. Exhibitions in Museums. Leicester: Leicester UP, 1991.Bessant, Judith, and Rob Watts. Sociology Australia. 3rd ed. Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2007.Cachia, Amanda. “Talking Blind: Disability, Access, and the Discursive Turn.” Disability Studies Quarterly 33.3 (2013). 23 July 2015 ‹http://dsq-sds.org/article/view/3758›.Campbell, Catherine, and Sandra Jovchelovitch. "Health, Community and Development: Towards a Social Psychology of Participation." Journal of Community & Applied Social Psychology 10.4 (2000): 255–70.Candlin, Fiona. "Blindness, Art and Exclusion in Museums and Galleries." International Journal of Art & Design Education 22.1 (2003): 100–10.Charlton, James. Nothing about Us without Us: Disability Oppression and Empowerment. Berkeley: U of California P, 2000.De Coster, Karin, and Gerrit Loots. "Somewhere in between Touch and Vision: In Search of a Meaningful Art Education for Blind Individuals." International Journal of Art & Design Education 23.3 (2004): 32634.De Varine, Hugues. “Decolonising Museology.” ICOM News 58.3 (2005): 3.Desvallées, André, and François Mairesse. Key Concepts of Museology. Paris: Armand Colin, 2010. 16 Jun. 2015 ‹http://icom.museum/professional-standards/key-concepts-of-museology/›.Disability Discrimination Act 1992 (Cwlth). 14 June 2015 ‹https://www.comlaw.gov.au/Series/C2004A04426›.Drobnick, Jim. “Volatile Effects: Olfactory Dimensions of Art and Architecture.” Empire of the Senses: The Sensual Culture Reader. Ed. David Howes. New York: Berg, 2005. 265–80.Dudley, Sandra. “Sensory Exile in the Field.” Museums Objects: Experiencing the Properties of Things. Ed. Sandra H. Dudley. Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2012. 161–63.Feld, Steven. “Places Sensed, Senses Placed: Toward a Sensuous Epistemology of Environments.” Empire of the Senses: The Sensual Culture Reader. Ed. David Howes. New York: Berg, 2005. 179–91.Fleming, David. “Positioning the Museum for Social Inclusion.” Museums, Society, Inequality. Ed. Richard Sandell. London: Routledge, 2002. 213–24.Giménez-Cassina, Eduardo. “Who Am I? An Identity Crisis. Identity in the New Museologies and the Role of the Museum Professional.” Sociomuseology 3: To Understand New Museology in the XXI Century. Eds. Paula Assunção dos Santos and Judite Primo. Lisbon: Universidade Lusófona de Humanidades e Tecnologias, 2010. 25–42. Guarini, Beaux. Up Close and Personal: Engaging Collections alongside Adults with Vision Impairment. 2015. 17 June 2015 ‹http://nma.gov.au/blogs/education/2015/06/17/4802/›.Hauenschild, Andrea. Claims and Reality of New Museology: Case Studies in Canada, the United States and Mexico. 1988. 21 June 2015 ‹http://museumstudies.si.edu/claims2000.htm›.Hoyt, Bridget O’Brien. “Emphasizing Observation in a Gallery Program for Blind and Low-Vision Visitors: Art beyond Sight at the Museum of Fine Arts, Houston.” Disability Studies Quarterly 33.3 (2013). 23 July 2015 ‹http://dsq-sds.org/article/view/3737›.International Council of Museums. ICOM Code of Ethics for Museums. Paris: International Council of Museums, 2013. 6 June 2015 ‹http://icom.museum/the-vision/code-of-ethics/›.James, Liz. “Senses and Sensibility in Byzantium.” Museums Objects: Experiencing the Properties of Things. Ed. Sandra H. Dudley. Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2012. 134–149.Kaitavouri, Kaija. Introduction. It’s All Mediating: Outlining and Incorporating the Roles of Curating and Education in the Exhibit Context. Eds. Kaija Kaitavouri, Laura Kokkonen, and Nora Sternfeld. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2013. x–xxi.Lamas, Mariana. “Lost in the Supermarket – The Traditional Museums Challenges.” Sociomuseology 3: To Understand New Museology in the XXI Century. Eds. Paula Assunção dos Santos and Judite Primo. Lisbon: Universidade Lusófona de Humanidades e Tecnologias, 2010. 42–58. Landman, Peta, Kiersten Fishburn, Lynda Kelly, and Susan Tonkin. Many Voices Making Choices: Museum Audiences with Disabilities. Sydney: Australian Museum and National Museum of Australia, 2005. Levent, Nina, and Joan Muyskens Pursley. “Sustainable Museum Acess: A Two-Way Street.” Disability Studies Quarterly 33.3 (2013). 22 July 2015 ‹http://dsq-sds.org/article/view/3742›.McGlone, Francis. “The Two Sides of Touch: Sensing and Feeling.” Touch in Museums: Policy and Practice in Object Handling. Ed. Helen Chatterjee. Oxford: Berg, 2008. 41–60.National Museum of Australia. “Stories Can Unite Us as One.” YouTube 28 May 2015. 16 Jun. 2015 ‹https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qwxj_rC57zM›.National Standards Taskforce. National Standards for Australian Museums and Galleries (Version 1.4, October 2014). Melbourne: The National Standards Taskforce, 2014. 20 June 2015 ‹http://www.mavic.asn.au/assets/NSFAMG_v1_4_2014.pdf›.Papalia, Carmen. “A New Model for Access in the Museum.” Disability Studies Quarterly 33.3 (2013). 23 July 2015 ‹http://dsq-sds.org/article/view/3757›.Powerhouse Museum. Living in a Sensory World: Stories from People with Blindness and Low Vision. nd. 18 Feb. 2015 ‹http://www.powerhousemuseum.com/previous/living/›.“Round Table Santiago do Chile ICOM, 1972.” Sociomuseology 4: To Think Sociomuseologically. Eds. Paula Assunção dos Santos and Judite Primo. Lisbon: Universidade Lusófona de Humanidades e Tecnologias, 2010.Royal Society for the Blind | Canberra Blind Society. Canberra Blind Society. nd. 14 Mar. 2015 ‹http://www.canberrablindsociety.org.au/›.Russell, Rosyln, and Kylie Winkworth. Significance 2.0: A Guide to Assessing the Significance of Collections. Adelaide: Collections Council of Australia, 2009. 15 June 2015 ‹http://arts.gov.au/sites/default/files/resources-publications/significance-2.0/pdfs/significance-2.0.pdf›.Sandell, Richard. “Museums and the Combatting of Social Inequality: Roles, Responsibities, Resistance.” Museums, Society, Inequality. Ed. Richard Sandell. London: Routledge, 2002. 3–23.———. "Social Inclusion, the Museum and the Dynamics of Sectoral Change." Museum and Society 1.1 (2003): 45–62.Silverman, Lois. The Social Work of Museums. London: Routledge, 2010.Thrift, Nigel. “Understanding the Material Practices of Glamour.” The Affect Theory Reader. Eds. Melissa Gregg and Gregory Seigworth. Durham: Duke UP, 2010. 289–308.Triggs, Gillian. Social Inclusion and Human Rights in Australia. 2013. 6 June 2015 ‹https://www.humanrights.gov.au/news/speeches/social-inclusion-and-human-rights-australia›. United Nations. Convention on the Rights of Persons with Disabilities. 2006. 16 Mar. 2015 ‹http://www.un.org/disabilities/default.asp?id=150?›.United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organization. United Nations Educational Scientific and Cultural Organisation Round Table on the Development and the Role of Museums in the Contemporary World - Santiago de Chile, Chile 20-31 May 1972. 1973. 18 June 2015 ‹http://unesdoc.unesco.org/images/0002/000236/023679EB.pdf›.Van Mensch, Peter. Towards a Methodology of Museology. Diss. U of Zagreb, 1992. 16 June 2015 ‹http://www.muzeologie.net/downloads/mat_lit/mensch_phd.pdf›.Watson, Sheila. “Museum Communities in Theory and Practice.” Museums and Their Communities. Ed. Sheila Watson. Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2007. 1–24.Werner, David. Nothing about Us without Us: Developing Innovative Technologies for, vy, and with Disabled Persons. Palo Alto, CA: Healthwrights, 1997.World Health Organization. Mental Health: Strengthening Our Response, Fact Sheet No. 220, Updated April 2014. 2014. 2 June 2015 ‹http://www.who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/fs220/en/›.

Sticky, messy and nauseatingly saccharine, the sensory properties of jam may be a long way from the stylized corporate polish of Australia’s multi-billion dollar film exhibition industry, yet the history of Australian cinema space will be forever indebted to the Victoria Preserving Company; one-time producer of the humblest of sweet treats. Through an analysis of Melbourne’s Jam Factory cinema complex, this article explores the unusual intersection of jam, sensory gratification and contemporary Australian cinema-going at the dawn of the 21st century. Encompassing the historic architecture of the former Victoria Preserving Company, South Yarra’s Jam Factory complex provides a gentrified gloss to an inner suburban precinct historically renowned for the manufacturing of jam and preserves. Nestled in the heart of Chapel Street, less than two blocks down from Toorak road and a stone’s throw from the nightclub precinct of Commercial road, the Jam Factory occupies an important part of Melbourne’s cultural heritage; functioning as a quintessential signifier of the city’s traversal from wholesale manufacturing during the early 1900s into the service vectors of digital media technologies and mixed-use retail entertainment destinations at the start of the new millennium. Established in 1876, the Victoria Preserving Company, AKA the ‘Jam Factory’, hosts an array of diverse retail and leisure outlets. Included amongst its tenants are Borders Books, Villa & Hut, TGI Fridays, The Pancake Parlour, a Virgin Music Mega-store, an elaborate Village Cinema megaplex, and a range of ancillary restaurants, fashion stores and cafes. According to the venue’s promotional material, “The Jam Factory of today is, in short, ‘jam packed’ with entertainment” (Chapel St Precinct, n.pag.). With the original building’s façade and cooling store still intact, the architectural remnants of the Victoria Preserving Factory provide a culturally significant backdrop for what is ostensibly Australia’s most noteworthy cinema venture; Village Roadshow’s megaplex cinema flagship. Replete with fifteen large format screens, including two Gold Class cinemas, a Cinema Europa enclave and an interactive games alcove, The Village Jam Factory signifies Australia’s first foray into cinema-based retail entertainment destinations. In commenting on the opening of the Jam Factory megaplex in 1998, Village Roadshow’s general manager Mr. David Herman said, “The objective was to create Australia’s first non-gambling cinema and lifestyle complex” (Catalano 6). More than any other cinema venue, the Village Jam Factory played a key role in pushing Australian film exhibition standards into the new millennium. In an era marked by competing home theatre technologies and diversified sites of media consumption, the Jam Factory’s shift from suburban cinema to lifestyle complex dramatically altered both the business and social practice of movie-going in Australia. Central to this shift was a tripartite marketing strategy which sought to capitalize on: protracted movie-going experiences; sensory stimulation; and, venue promotion. Experiential Jam The promotion of a protracted movie-going experience has been essential to the continued success of the Village Jam Factory. As I have argued elsewhere, the Australian cinema industry of the mid 1990s faced a number of significant incentives for extending the movie going experience beyond the auditorium; not the least being the steady decline of box office takings that occurred during the late 1980s (Downing). In the face of new media technologies such as the internet, DVD and Pay TV, many cinema operators were forced to look beyond the box office as a primary source of profits. To this end Village Roadshow effectively used the Jam Factory as a testing ground for the generation of ancillary leisure and retail income streams. During the mid 1990s Village actively promoted the Jam Factory as a space in which audiences could not only see a film, but also engage in a series of expanded retail activities such as shopping, dining and video-game playing. Discussing the development of multi-use cinema venues during the 1990s, Charles Acland has commented that such spaces “…do not situate conditions of spectatorship alone; they also construct relations between public and cinematic practices” (Acland 119). Sensory Jam Far from being a traditional site of film consumption, the Jam Factory set an industry precedent by becoming the nation’s first cinema venue in which audiences were encouraged to engage in an entertainment experience that was, above all, aimed at stimulating the senses. In keeping with the ‘lifestyle destination’ mantra, the Village Jam Factory provided a new generation of Australians with a multi-sensory entertainment experience that could not be emulated by home theatre technologies. Wide sweeping foyers and elaborate ticket and merchandising counters greet the eye; ‘luxury’ stadium seating with wide aisles and broad armrests offer the ‘ultimate’ in tactile comfort; digital surround sound facilities pleasure the ears and a plethora of food and beverage novelties work to gratify the senses of taste and smell. More than any other Village cinema outlet, the Jam Factory venue smacks of sugar-coated commerce. With a revenue contribution of over 18%, the Village Roadshow candy bar is the undisputed cash-cow of the enterprise (Australian Film Commission 143). Colloquially known as ‘Lollywood’, the Village confectionary counter is an over-priced explosion of colour and candy that sustains industry revenue through a deliberate appeal to the audience’s sense of taste. This sugar dependency synchronistically mirrors the former success of Henry Jones, the entrepreneur behind Australia’s IXL jam brand, who operated his famous preserving company on the site between 1895 and 1926 (Chapel St Precinct, n.pag.). Venue Jam Village Roadshow’s promotion of the Jam Factory venue over the actual films being screened is indicative of Australia’s primary shift towards retail entertainment based cinema complexes. Unlike the homogenous multiplex venues of the 1970s and 1980s, the Village Jam Factory Complex has been aggressively marketed as a Melbourne icon, capable of offering a unique entertainment experience. This agenda is clearly documented in the 1999 Village Roadshow annual report which, pointing towards a perceived threat of home theatre technologies, proclaimed: [In] broadening the cinema going experience … [Village] aims to create an environment of quality entertainment theming and ancillary lifestyle retailing, thus providing a consistently high level of incentive for people to leave their homes for cinema anchored destinations. (Village Roadshow 19) To this end, the Jam Factory became the physical embodiment of Village Cinemas’ corporate tagline “Where Movies Live” (Village Cinemas, n.pag.). Throughout the late 1990s, a number of similar sites proliferated across Europe, the United States and Canada. Two noteworthy examples of this trend are the Manchester Times building in the UK (initially managed by a short lived Village-Warner synergy) and the Sony Centre at Potsdamer Platz, Berlin; previous home to the Third Reich and later, the Berlin Wall. In both of these examples a similar venue-promotion agenda is clearly at work. In reflecting the cultural specificities of their host cities, each of these venues pays a semiotic homage to the previous occupants of their space. The Manchester Times building, for example, retains much of its former architecture and reflects the nocturnal vibrancy of 19th century printing plant. Similarly, the Sony Centre offers an architectural reflection on the complexities of Berlin history and German cinema. In Melbourne, the Jam Factory’s history of jam and jam making are equally preserved. Drawing heavily on postmodern architectural styles, the Jam Factory’s interior uses South Yarra’s local history as a backdrop for a schizophrenic collage of seemingly incommensurate time/place references. From the distinctive red-brick cooling tower (located in the centre of the building) one encounters a hybrid fusion of Mediterranean pasta courts, European coffee lounges, Romanesque artwork and columns (complete with weathered-look paint and ‘crumbling’ tops), statues of Hollywood stars, as well as a dazzling gaming alcove and a series of subdued ‘luxury’ (Gold Class) cinemas. Such eclectic displays of visual hyperbole have been prefigured by Umberto Eco, whose discussion on hyperreality addresses an imagination which “… demands the real thing, and in order to attain it, must fabricate the absolute fake” (Eco 8). As a relatively recent contributor to Australian cinema history, the Village Jam Factory has achieved little sustained academic attention, yet its significance must not be undervalued. As Australia’s first cinema-oriented retail entertainment destination, the Village Jam Factory has been crucial in placing Australia into the global film exhibition arena. While the pungent aromas of ripened fruit, vinegar and boiling sugar have long since been replaced by the scent of popcorn and recycled air, the legacy and architecture of jam-making has played a key role in propelling Australian film exhibition into the new millennium. References Acland, Charles. Screen Traffic: Movies, Multiplexes and Global Culture. Durham: Duke UP, 2003. Australian Film Commission. Get the Picture. Sydney: Australian Film Commission, 2001. Catalano, Anthony. “Village to Extend Jam Factory to 14 Cinemas.” The Age 5 Aug. 1998. Chapel St Precinct. General History of Chapel Street & Surrounds. 2006. 30 Dec. 2006 http://www.chapelstreet.com.au/default.asp?mode=history>. Downing, Leanne. “More than Meets the Eye: The Suburban Cinema Megaplex as Sensory Heterotopia.” Refractory: Journal of Media and Culture 8 (2005). http://www.refractory.unimelb.edu.au/journalissues/vol8/downing.html>. Eco, Umberto. Travels in Hyper Reality. Orlando Florida: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1986. Village Cinemas. 2006. 30 Dec. 2006. http://www.villagecinemas.com.au/>. Village Roadshow. Annual Report. Melbourne: Village Roadshow, 1999. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Downing, Leanne. "Sensory Jam: How the Victoria Preserving Company Pushed Australian Cinema Space into the New Millennium." M/C Journal 9.6 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0612/05-downing.php>. APA Style Downing, L. (Dec. 2006) "Sensory Jam: How the Victoria Preserving Company Pushed Australian Cinema Space into the New Millennium," M/C Journal, 9(6). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0612/05-downing.php>.

Abstract Objective The Western Australia Olfactory Memory Test (WAOMT) is a newly developed test designed to meet a need for a comprehensive measure of olfactory episodic memory (OEM) for clinical and research applications. Method This study aimed to establish the psychometric properties of the WAOMT in a sample of 209 community-dwelling older adults. An independent sample of 27 test-naïve participants were recruited to assess test retest reliability (between 7 and 28 days). Scale psychometric properties were examined using item response theory methods, combined samples (final N = 241). Convergent validity was assessed by comparing performance on the WAOMT with a comprehensive neuropsychological battery of domains (verbal and visual episodic memory, and odor identification), as well as other neuropsychological skills. Based on previous literature, it was predicted that the WAOMT would be positively correlated with conceptually similar cognitive domains. Results The WAOMT is a psychometrically sound test with adequate reliability properties and demonstrated convergent validity with tests of verbal and episodic memory and smell identification. Patterns of performance highlight learning and memory characteristics unique to OEM (e.g., learning curves, cued and free recall). Conclusion Clinical and research implications include streamlining future versions of the WAOMT to ease patient and administrative burden, and the potential to reliably detect early neuropathological changes in healthy older adults with nonimpaired OEM abilities.

What does sorrow taste like? Or anger? In 2012, the people at Hoxton Street Monster Supplies of London launched The Taste of Emotion, a unique range of seasoning salts collected from human tears. There are five varieties of salt available in the collection, which the company explains have been harvested from humans experiencing all kinds of emotions in various situations (laughing, sneezing, anger, sorrow, and, of course, chopping onions). Each of the five salts have a distinctly different flavour. Sorrow tastes of delicate lavender. Beyond its association with food, but also incorporating that, taste is not only shaped by people’s different experiences according to their class and social position, geography and ethnicity, it also serves as a marker of identity and status. Pierre Bourdieu has famously argued that taste forms part of the cultural capital that confers respect, often linked to social class: "Taste classifies, and it classifies the classifier. Social subjects, classified by their classifications distinguish themselves by the distinctions they make, between the beautiful and the ugly, the distinguished and the vulgar, in which their position in the objective classifications is expressed or betrayed" (6). Although, following Bourdieu, taste’s use as a metaphor for aesthetic sensibility has been a significant interest for scholars, the literal sense of taste has not captured serious research interest until relatively recently. The privileging of written and visual texts in western research and scholarship has meant that our other senses are frequently neglected, and this is especially so for taste and smell. According to Carolyn Korsmeyer, the disparaging of taste is related to three particular assertions that are both popular and often found underpinning empirical studies: (a) there are only four tastes—sweet, salt, sour, and bitter—so it is a sense of limited scope (although the fifth taste, umani, is now often included); (b) taste is a “poor sense”, because most flavour is contributed by smell; and, (c) taste and smell are “primitive” senses, somehow unworthy of serious study (Making Sense, 75). (See, also, Korsmeyer, Taste Culture Reader.) In this way, as often identified as a “lower order” sense that drives appetite and sometimes indulgence (and additionally associated with the body), the subjective and often very personal nature of taste has also traditionally ruled it out as an object of study. That perception has, however, clearly recently changed, and is demonstrated in the range of studies undertaken on sensory experience and taste by historians, philosophers, sociologists, anthropologists, scientists, geographers, and cultural studies critics, complementing the growth in taste as a topic of enquiry in food studies and the extension of aesthetics to objects of popular culture. As David Howes from the Centre for Sensory Studies explains, the sensory turn in history and anthropology dates from the 1980s, and has expanded into other cognate areas, and beyond these disciplinary routes, the field is also itself conceptualised along sensory lines, as in visual culture, auditory culture (or sound studies), smell culture, taste culture, and the culture of touch. In proposing this issue of MC Journal, we considered taste as both a physical and cultural experience and phenomemon, and invited contributions which approached and interpreted the term “taste” widely, in order to explore a broad range of issues in media and culture. Contributors responded with an exciting range of articles, which investigate the concept of taste from innovative angles and introduce new primary materials into the orbit of consideration regarding “taste”. Our feature article by Rachel Franks considers the history of changing taste in relation to that most popular genre of fiction, crime fiction. The following articles can be read in any order, but we have presented this issue in a way that creates productive connections and contrasts between the content, approach, ideas, and style of each article. Leila Green discusses how our tastes are being manipulated so that we favour foods that are not conducive to our health and wellbeing. Kate Sarah Johnston provides a study of tradition and change in a southern Italian tuna fishing community. Bethany Turner looks at food gardens, gardeners, and gardening, while Steven Pace turns to how tastes can be acquired through online activity. Katherine Kirkwood uses the popular television show MasterChef Australia as a vehicle for considering vicarious consumption, then Chi-Hoon Kim turns our eyes from the screen to the plastic food models used in South Korea. Tracy Fahey challenges readers with a survey of transgressive body art, and Bronwyn Fredericks and Pamela CroftWarcon with their consideration of chocolate, art, and Indigenous Australians. Kathy Anne Bauer brings taste to her discussion of how parents make decisions about early childhood education centres. As contributing co-editor, Donna Lee Brien investigates Singaporean food writing. Jacqueline Louise Dutton discusses cult movie “La Grande bouffe” (1973) from a fresh angle. Nicholas Hookway investigates vegetarianism looking at ethics in an innovative fashion, while Craig Adams looks to France’s Submission to UNESCO’s Intangible Cultural Heritage list in relation to what it can reveal about taste. Julie Parsons explores family foodways, while Laura Lotti poses how do-it-yourself cheese making affects contemporary computer culture. Such significant scholarship involves a large number of people and considerable effort. We sincerely thank our universities for supporting our scholarly editorial endeavours, the many reviewers for this issue for their useful and generous feedback, the contributors for their insight and diligence, and Wes Hicks for his cover image. A special thank you, of course, to the editorial team of MC Journal for making this ongoing contribution to research possible. We hope you enjoy this degustation of media and culture taste-related scholarship. References Bourdieu, Pierre. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. Cambridge, MA: Harvard UP, 1984. Howe, David.Centre for Sensory Studies. 2013. 12 Mar. 2014 ‹http://www.sensorystudies.org/sensorial-investigations/the-expanding-field-of-sensory-studies›. Korsmeyer, Caroline. Making Sense of Taste: Taste, Food, and Philosophy. Ithaca, NY: Cornell UP, 1999. -----. The Taste Culture Reader: Experiencing Food and Drink. London: Berg, 2005.

ABSTRACT Melioidosis is a potentially fatal disease that is endemic to tropical northern Australia and Southeast Asia, with a mortality rate of 14 to 50%. The bacterium Burkholderia pseudomallei is the causative agent which infects numerous parts of the human body, including the brain, which results in the neurological manifestation of melioidosis. The olfactory nerve constitutes a direct conduit from the nasal cavity into the brain, and we have previously reported that B. pseudomallei can colonize this nerve in mice. We have now investigated in detail the mechanism by which the bacteria penetrate the olfactory and trigeminal nerves within the nasal cavity and infect the brain. We found that the olfactory epithelium responded to intranasal B. pseudomallei infection by widespread crenellation followed by disintegration of the neuronal layer to expose the underlying basal layer, which the bacteria then colonized. With the loss of the neuronal cell bodies, olfactory axons also degenerated, and the bacteria then migrated through the now-open conduit of the olfactory nerves. Using immunohistochemistry, we demonstrated that B. pseudomallei migrated through the cribriform plate via the olfactory nerves to enter the outer layer of the olfactory bulb in the brain within 24 h. We also found that the bacteria colonized the thin respiratory epithelium in the nasal cavity and then rapidly migrated along the underlying trigeminal nerve to penetrate the cranial cavity. These results demonstrate that B. pseudomallei invasion of the nerves of the nasal cavity leads to direct infection of the brain and bypasses the blood-brain barrier. IMPORTANCE Melioidosis is a potentially fatal tropical disease that is endemic to northern Australia and Southeast Asia. It is caused by the bacterium Burkholderia pseudomallei, which can infect many organs of the body, including the brain, and results in neurological symptoms. The pathway by which the bacteria can penetrate the brain is unknown, and we have investigated the ability of the bacteria to migrate along nerves that innervate the nasal cavity and enter the frontal region of the brain by using a mouse model of infection. By generating a mutant strain of B. pseudomallei which is unable to survive in the blood, we show that the bacteria rapidly penetrate the cranial cavity using the olfactory (smell) nerve and the trigeminal (sensory) nerve that line the nasal cavity.

Abstract Background Pain relief in the prehospital setting is often insufficient, as the administration of potent intravenous analgesic drugs is mostly reserved to physicians. In Australia, inhaled methoxyflurane has been in routine use by paramedics for decades, but experience in Central European countries is lacking. Thus, we aimed to assess whether user friendliness and effectiveness of inhaled methoxyflurane as sole analgesic match the specific capabilities of local ground and air-based EMS systems in Austria. Methods Observational study in adult trauma patients (e.g. dislocations, fracture or low back pain following minor trauma) with moderate to severe pain (numeric rating scale [NRS] ≥4). Included patients received a Penthrop® inhaler containing 3 mL of methoxyflurane (maximum use 30 min). When pain relief was considered insufficient (NRS reduction < 3 after 10 min), intravenous analgesics were administered by an emergency physician. The primary endpoint was effectiveness of methoxyflurane as sole analgesic for transport of patients. Secondary endpoints were user friendliness (EMS personell), time to pain relief, vital parameters, side effects, and satisfaction of patients. Results Median numeric pain rating was 8.0 (7.0–8.0) in 109 patients. Sufficient analgesia (reduction of NRS ≥3) was achieved by inhaled methoxyflurane alone in 67 patients (61%). The analgesic effect was progressively better with increasing age. Side effects were frequent (n = 58, 53%) but mild. User satisfaction was scored as very good when pain relief was sufficient, but fair in patients without benefit. Technical problems were observed in 16 cases (14.7%), mainly related to filling of the inhaler. In every fifth use, the fruity smell of methoxyflurane was experienced as unpleasant. No negative effects on vital signs were observed. Conclusion In prehospital use, inhaled methoxyflurane as sole analgesic is effective for transport of trauma patients (62%) with moderate to severe pain. Older patients benefit especially from inhaled methoxyflurane. Side effects are mild and vital parameters unaffected. Thus, inhaled methoxyflurane could be a valuable device for non-physician EMS personnel rescue services also in the central Europe region.

Rubbery rot of potato caused by Geotrichum candidum Link is characterized by symptoms of damp, flaccid tubers that feel rubbery when squeezed (Humpreys-Jones 1969), similar in consistency to potato diseases such as pink rot (caused by Phytophthora erythroseptica) and Pythium leak (caused by species of Pythium). In November 2019, several symptomatic tubers of potato variety ‘Ciklamen’ that had been held in storage since harvest and originated from an over-head irrigated, sandy-loam production field in Bingham county, Idaho were submitted to the University of Idaho for diagnosis. Shipping-point inspection records indicated 4-9% of tubers were affected. External symptoms included irregularly shaped, randomly located sunken black-colored lesions on more severely affected rubbery-textured tubers. When cut, internal affected tissue developed a greyish appearance after several minutes. Lens-shaped cavities were apparent in two of the tubers, indicating an advanced infection. A sour-milk smell accompanied the sample. To isolate the pathogen, pieces of tuber tissue approximately 5 mm in diameter were collected from the margins of symptomatic areas and surface-sanitized in sodium hypochlorite (2%) for two minutes, rinsed twice in sterile water and plated onto tap water agar amended with penicillin G (0.2 g/liter) and streptomycin sulfate (0.8 g/liter). After three days at 21°C, colonies having distinct creamy white mycelia, a sweet, juniper-like odor, and hyaline hyphae were consistently associated with diseased tissue. Cylindrical to oval-shaped arthroconidia ranged in size from 6.6-11.0 × 3.2-5.9 μm (mean = 8.4 × 4.7, n=21), within dimensions as reported by Carmichael (1957). No other pathogens including species of Pythium and Phytophthora were recovered from the sample. Pure cultures were obtained by transferring hyphal tips to potato dextrose agar plates. Species identity was confirmed via rDNA ITS sequencing using primers ITS5/4 (White et al., 1990). DNA extraction and PCR conditions were as previously described (Woodhall et al., 2013). Resulting sequences (NCBI accession numbers MT893312 and MT893315) shared 99.4% identity with G. candidum Accession KY103453.1 on GenBank. To confirm pathogenicity, ten tubers (cv. Ciklamen) were inoculated by placing a 10mm2 plug of fully colonized PDA of G. candidum on the tuber surface, and ten tubers were mock inoculated with sterile PDA plugs. After 27 days at 21C in a dew chamber, tubers were examined for symptoms. Eight of the 10 inoculated tubers exhibited a rubbery texture and fluid leaking from tubers when cut, with two tubers also exhibiting a grey internal discoloration and the distinctive smell. Control tubers did not exhibit any symptoms. Isolations were attempted from four symptomatic tubers and G. candidum was successfully recovered from three tubers. The disease has been reported sporadically in the United Kingdom (Humphreys-Jones 1969) and Korea (Kim et al., 2011) and the pathogen occurs worldwide (Carmichael 1957). Though the fungus causes a tomato rot in the United States (US) (Pritchard and Porte, 1923; Bourret et al., 2013), and potatoes with rubbery rot originating from Australia were intercepted at a US port (Farr et al., 2020), the disease has not to our knowledge been documented on potato grown in the US. Because symptoms may be confused with pink rot and Pythium leak, it is critical for producers to obtain a correct diagnosis to facilitate appropriate management strategies.

Abstract This year, CITIES seeks to explore the theme ‘BRIDGING THE PAST AND THE FUTURE OF URBAN LANDSCAPE IN ASIA PACIFIC. This theme highlighted the continuity in the city between the past and the future also between legacy and development. The best way to bridge the gap between the past and the future is to help the city to find its identity and what the values to move forward in the future. It is not easy to find one identity even for an individual being, and most of the time, to find their identity, they have to reflect on what happened in the past. Cities that don’t understand their identity and value, will have less ability to choose what kind of development suits them the best. Cities without identity, choose the development solely based on the trends and also the opportunity without considering to preserve their unique identities. If this keeps happening, one day we will walk in the Asia Pacific and all the city will feel the same, taste the same and even smell the same and we have lost our uniqueness that makes people come to our city. This is why, it is important to highlight the theme of BRIDGING THE PAST AND THE FUTURE OF URBAN LANDSCAPE IN ASIA PACIFIC. By bridging the past and the future, we protect our cultural heritage assets and the built expressions of culture, military, economic, and religious forces as well as creating sustainable cities to accelerate our economic and infrastructure growth in a way that will not harm our cultural legacies and societies. For over 50 years, the integral and holistic approach to heritage and urban development has been highlighted in every heritage-related cultural policy document, stressing the need to balance the benefits of socioeconomic and urban development and cultural heritage preservation, and hopefully, this seminar will be one of the key contributors of it. Therefore, the conference presented the keynote speakers from the Australian National University (ANU) and National University of Singapore (NUS) who shared the whole ideas of city’s values and reaching the sustainability in the future. We hope that this conference can stimulate communication, cooperation, information exchanges among participants across countries. List of Conference Photographs, Sponsor Funding Acknowledgements, List of Committees are available in this pdf.

Partaking of theatrical events is something that hearing and seeing members of the community can largely take for granted. In Australia, this is still not accessible to all. Crossbow Production’s 2009 staging of William Gibson’s The Miracle Worker offered the opportunity not only to explore the issues of the play, but this issue of accessibility for whom the protagonist can be considered the exemplary role-model. Crossbow’s aim was to introduce a mainstream audience to some of the world experience of those living with disabilities. This was achieved through the exploration of objects apart from their contexts, emphasising the senses of touch, taste and smell, and through the discourse of marginalisation as an integral part of the staging of this theatrical event. Sign language interpreters were given centre-stage and techniques were used to, at times, marginalise the largely non-signing audience. Post-performance discussions were held which privileged the comments of the deaf and the blind audience members. This paper argues, through the example and evidence of this theatrical event that a way needs to be found to increase access to theatrical events for the deaf.“Accessibility for all” is one of the marketing phrases employed by major events companies. In contemporary society where wheelchair access, audio description and assistance dogs are advertised as part of accessibility, it is surprising how many Australian state theatre companies provide very little if any real access for the deaf. In the United States, it would be atypical to attend a large public event, be it a theatre production, a church service or a public event that was not sign language interpreted or open captioned for the deaf, at least in large cities. One of the few theatre companies in Australia that offers interpretation for the deaf is Sydney Theatre Company. Yet only one performance of four plays in a season of 13 plays is interpreted. In a progressive incentive, Melbourne Theatre Company invest $40 000 a year towards accessibility for those living with disabilities. Similar to Sydney Theatre Company, one performance in each production is open captioned for the deaf. Queensland Theatre Company provides access to one performance only in a yearly season of 255 performances. Access for the deaf to attend mainstream theatre productions in Australia is relatively restricted if not totally denied.Crossbow Productions is an independent, not-for-profit professional theatre company which presented a production that engaged with these issues. William Gibson’s The Miracle Worker was staged at the Brisbane Powerhouse in June 2009. The play explores issues of marginalisation, communication and empowerment. Helen Keller (1880 – 1968) was a deaf-blind author, activist and outspoken speaker who become a world famous inspirational presenter and author. She grew up in an influential family in post-civil war Alabama and was struck deaf and blind after contracting (likely) scarlet fever at eighteen months. Determined to find help, her mother appealed to many high-profile doctors and educators, including Alexander G. Bell. Annie Sullivan then became Helen’s governess, teacher and life-long companion. The Miracle Worker explores Annie’s beleaguered attempts to communicate with Helen and concludes with an epiphany for Helen as she learns the significance of words, and eventually how to speak. It asks the audience to confront the issues faced by the deaf and the blind and questions the audience’s perceptions of the sensory world. Crossbow’s production at the Powerhouse included elements to construct a sensory world for the audience. As a concession to hearing and seeing audience members, saturated colours were chosen for each scene and live music was a feature. The senses of smell, taste and touch, however, were particularly emphasised. This gave audience members a sense of Helen’s world and how rich it can be without reliance on sight and sound for information and experience. To introduce fragrance, large arrangements of live scented flowers were placed on the stage. Two hot meals were served. Food emerged as a language in itself: as both a communicative tool to pacify Helen and as a reward to access her latent intelligence. Touch was an integral part of the production with fabric textures, a variety of materials and objects’ shapes explored by Helen and was emphasised from the commencement of the rehearsal process. The actor playing Helen, Louise Brehmer, was blindfolded and wore earplugs for much of the rehearsal period. Immersed in a dark and soundless world she discovered how to read situations, people and objects by touch. This translated into the performances. The audience vicariously experienced discoveries of explored objects with Helen. As Helen explored found objects such as the contents of a suitcase, the audience was confronted with the Heideggerian question: what is a thing? In Helen’s predicament things could be examined apart from their function, accepted meaning or name. This was emphasised by Helen exploring the form and material of each new object and thinking less about their function or context. Annie Sullivan’s glasses became “that hard thing”, her scarf “that soft, light thing”, her suitcase “that cube-like thing.” People may often miss out on the richness of objects’ attributes because they are placed in a functional context quickly. Helen’s discovery of found objects asked the audience to consider their unexamined assumptions about what a suitcase or a flower was (Heidegger 49-50). It is interesting to note that Brehmer’s acclaimed performance was so convincing that many audience members thought that she was indeed deaf and blind. The sensory discourses of the play forced hearing audiences to question their perceptions. The following excerpt from a post-performance discussion illustrates this: I thought I would be thinking more about sight and hearing. But it was actually touch and smell that intrigued me. But even more than that, I found myself trying to conceive of the timeframe. What time must have meant: a totally different dimension of time. I was dwelling on that quite a bit through the play: Helen was floating in her own individual time.And to add to that gentleman’s comment: what stimulates the mind, in those blank times when there is no tactile, no communication with reality: what keeps the mind alive?The most important addition to the production of The Miracle Worker was the inclusion of “shadow-signing” a process in which a signer closely follows actors playing certain characters. Sign interpretation was not a part of Gibson’s play. The added signing exemplified a central issue of this production: sign interpreters are usually “marginalised” by being placed at the sides of the events they are interpreting. This becomes a metaphor for the continued marginalisation of those living with disabilities. In The Miracle Worker they were placed onstage and were part of the production’s narrative. Furthermore, the signers interpreted the emotional states of the characters they were shadowing through facial and body expression. At times they stood beside the characters and other times they sat together on the edge of the stage in conversation. The addition of interpreter/actors added new layers of meaning for the audience. In theatrical performances, layers of meaning are carried to the audience through various texts or public discourses (Knowles 91): the written text, music, lighting, staging, actors’ movements and characterisation and so forth. By being placed on stage, the signing became a text in itself rather than merely a means of interpreting a text unavailable to deaf people. Signers use their body and facial expression as signifiers of meaning. This was used artistically on stage. Signing is an expressive drama in itself, emphasising movement and expression. At times, for example, the signers were sitting close together on the edge of the stage, at others they were far apart at the back, and at other times they would offer a commentary on the action of the play through their body language and positioning. This was extended to the non-signing characters: each character had their own kinesics. The actor playing Annie was directed to use her hands a lot to express herself. Conversely, the actor playing Helen’s mother was directed to use her hands less and be “held together” when it came to non-verbal expression. This carried various meanings to the audience over and beyond the meaning of the words themselves. As the Australian version of the language of signing, Auslan, grew out of the work of Annie Sullivan and her attempts to communicate with Helen, this language of signing was integral to the core issues of the play.In addition to bringing deaf issues centre-stage, the sign interpretation was used to give the mainstream audience, unused to experiencing marginalisation in the theatre, an understanding of exclusion. The play opened and closed with the interpreters signing to the audience. As this was not underscored by any spoken dialogue the non-signers did not understand what was communicated. This gave some audience members a sense of displacement. An audience member commented: I thought how you started and finished the play with sign language was very powerful. It really raised my awareness of people that feel marginalised. Because I, as a hearing person, couldn’t understand the signing and felt left out. It just opened my eyes, just a little bit to what it must be like. (Heim 2)At one matinee performance, episodes occurred in which the entire hearing audience experienced exclusion. The number of deaf people came close to equalising the hearing. In this performance a number of elements worked to marginalise the hearing audience. The actors playing Helen and Annie were scripted to sign words to each other. During these moments, the words were signed before they were spoken or they were not spoken at all. Deaf audience members understood the meaning of the lines before, or to the exclusion of, the hearing audience. Some of these communications were humourous. The deaf audience would break into laugher while the hearing audience sat bewildered. One of the most significant aspects of this particular performance was the relative abandonment of accepted theatre etiquette strictures. In contemporary theatre, audience behaviour is regulated to laughter and applause in appropriate moments (Kershaw 140, 151). During this performance many deaf audience members, having never attended a theatre performance before, laughed in “inappropriate” places, applauded during the performance, wept out loud and spoke back to the actors on stage or to each other. This was a theatrical event enjoyed as if in the nineteenth century when audience members laughed, cried, stamped, sang and spoke (Blackadder 120) through performances. Not only enjoyed by the audience, the actors found this particular performance one of their most heightened experiences in the theatre. In a significant inversion, the hearing mainstream audience was marginalised and the deaf audience privileged. Interestingly, in a post-performance discussion, one audience member suggested a complete inversion: “Did you think of just having the main actors act and sign at the same time?” (Heim 3). Post-performance discussions also raised hearing audience member’s awareness of those living with disabilities. Discussions were held where the audience was given an opportunity to discuss their stories. A large variety of issues were discussed by the hearing and deaf participants such as the genuine struggles faced in a household with a deaf person, sibling rivalry and communication issues. Comments ranged from “I could relate to Helen’s family. It was like that in my family with me growing up deaf. The frustration is enormous. There were tantrums and fights. Families need to learn signing, after all, it is our first language” (Heim 2) to “I think everyone is still drying their eyes. Very moving. Very, very moving” (Heim 1). In one discussion Penny Harland, a blind and deaf educator was introduced and spoke to the audience. A question was asked by a hearing member that worked to further marginalise the mainstream audience: “What did you think of in those moments when you couldn’t understand or communicate anything of the world?” (Heim 4). Harland refused to answer the question and instead described a moment from the play where Helen was discovering a suitcase and explained how inaccurate the actor was in her “discovery.” Heidegger’s concept of the difference in “experiencing” objects was painfully exposed (49, 50). Comments from post-performance discussions emphasised the great need for more accessibility. As one participant commented: “I’m deaf and we should be able to go to anything, and you’ve done that for us” (Heim 1). Others complained that not every word was interpreted. Because of budget restrictions, Crossbow hired actors that could sign and were willing to perform and interpret for a small fee. The actors were not confident enough as interpreters to sign the whole production. Comments such as “We appreciated the signing, but we wanted more” (Heim 1) and “we were disappointed the whole thing wasn’t signed. There were words going on we didn’t understand” (Heim 4) were frequent. As there were also tactile tours of the set before each performance for the blind, one blind audience member commented: As a blind person, I got a great deal from it. I found it extremely moving and it has motivated me to read more about miraculous stories. The opportunity to have the tactile tour before the show did help me to visualise better what was going on, so that was a very welcome innovation as well. So I found the night thoroughly moving and worthwhile and I’ll certainly agree with the comment that there should be a thousand or so in the audience rather than a hundred so that everyone can experience it. (Heim 3)These comments and many more from both the discussions and emails to the Powerhouse after the production emphasised not only the gratefulness of the deaf community but more importantly the need for more accessibility to theatre events. The response to The Miracle Worker from the deaf community was significant. Over 250 deaf people attended and 70 of these had never been to a theatrical production before. Deaf Services Queensland and Vision Australia were both supportive offering in-kind assistance, promotion and assistance with signing. For its future plays, Crossbow Productions will continue to give tactile tours and, due to cost factors, will sign one performance only using Auslan sign language interpreters. The fee is significant for an independent theatre company: over $1000 to sign a single performance. The response to the staging by Crossbow Productions of William Gibson’s The Miracle Worker strongly suggests that there is significant demand for increased access for deaf audiences at theatrical events. Rather than merely reducing marginalisations, their stories and journeys can be presented and explored in such a way as to enrich the theatrical experience of the mainstream and the marginalised. Exploring objects, emphasising the senses of touch, taste and smell and including signing added to the richness of the theatrical experience. Significantly, the experience of marginalisation of the mainstream in this production also added to the meaning of the theatrical experience. It was hoped that this fostered the appreciation in audience members that the need to increased access for all can be more than worth the cost.ReferencesBlackadder, Neil. Performing Opposition: Modern Theatre and the Scandalised Audience. Westport: Praeger, 2003. Heidegger, Martin. What Is a Thing? Trans. W.B. Barton, Jr., and Vera Deutsch. Chicago: H. Regnery, 1967.Heim, Caroline. Transcript of Post-Performance Discussions of “The Miracle Worker.” By William Gibson, dir. Christian Heim. Visy Theatre, Brisbane Powerhouse, Brisbane, 7-17 June 2009. Kershaw, Baz. “Oh for Unruly Audiences! Or, Patterns of Participation in Twentieth Century Theatre.” Modern Drama 42.2 (2001): 133-54. Knowles, Ric. Reading the Material Theatre. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2004.

Phillip Noyce is one of Australia’s most prominent film makers—a successful feature film director with both iconic Australian narratives and many a Hollywood blockbuster under his belt. Still, his beginnings were quite humble and far from his role today when he grew up in the midst of the counterculture of the late sixties. Millions of young people his age joined the various ‘movements’ of the day after experiences that changed their lives—mostly music but also drugs or fashion. The counterculture was a turbulent time in Sydney artistic circles as elsewhere. Everything looked possible, you simply had to “Do It!”—and Noyce did. He dived head-on into these times and with a voracious appetite for its many aspects—film, theatre, rallies, music, art and politics in general. In fact he often was the driving force behind such activities. Noyce described his personal epiphany occurring in 1968: A few months before I was due to graduate from high school, […] I saw a poster on a telegraph pole advertising American 'underground' movies. There was a mesmerising, beautiful blue-coloured drawing on the poster that I later discovered had been designed by an Australian filmmaker called David Perry. The word 'underground' conjured up all sorts of delights to an eighteen-year-old in the late Sixties: in an era of censorship it promised erotica, perhaps; in an era of drug-taking it promised some clandestine place where marijuana, or even something stronger, might be consumed; in an era of confrontation between conservative parents and their affluent post-war baby-boomer children, it promised a place where one could get together with other like-minded youth and plan to undermine the establishment, which at that time seemed to be the aim of just about everyone aged under 30. (Petzke 8) What the poster referred to was a new, highly different type of film. In the US these films were usually called “underground”. This term originates from film critic Manny Farber who used it in his 1957 essay Underground Films. Farber used the label for films whose directors today would be associated with independent and art house feature films. More directly, film historian Lewis Jacobs referred to experimental films when he used the words “film which for most of its life has led an underground existence” (8). The term is used interchangeably with New American Cinema. It was based on a New York group—the Film-Makers’ Co-operative—that started in 1960 with mostly low-budget filmmakers under the guidance of Jonas Mekas. When in 1962 the group was formally organised as a means for new, improved ways of distributing their works, experimental filmmakers were the dominant faction. They were filmmakers working in a more artistic vein, slightly influenced by the European Avant-garde of the 1920s and by attempts in the late 1940s and early 1950s. In film history, this era is also known as the Third Avant-garde. In their First Statement of the New American Cinema Group, the group drew connections to both the British Free Cinema and the French Nouvelle Vague. They also claimed that contemporary cinema was “morally corrupt, aesthetically obsolete, thematically superficial, temperamentally boring” (80). An all-encompassing definition of Underground Film never was available. Sheldon Renan lists some of the problems: There are underground films in which there is no movement and films in which there is nothing but movement. There are films about people and films about light. There are short, short underground films and long, long underground films. There are some that have been banned, and there is one that was nominated for an Academy Award. There are sexy films and sexless films, political films and poetical films, film epigrams and film epics … underground film is nothing less than an explosion of cinematic styles, forms and directions. (Renan 17) No wonder that propelled by frequent serious articles in the press—notably Jonas Mekas in the Village Voice—and regular screenings at other venues like the Film-makers’ Cinemathèque and the Gallery of Modern Art in New York, these films proved increasingly popular in the United States and almost immediately spread like bush fires around the world. So in early September 1968 Noyce joined a sold-out crowd at the Union Theatre in Sydney, watching 17 shorts assembled by Ubu Films, the premier experimental and underground film collective in 1960s Australia (Milesago). And on that night his whole attitude to art, his whole attitude to movies—in fact, his whole life—changed. He remembered: I left the cinema that night thinking, "I’m gonna make movies like that. I can do it." Here was a style of cinema that seemed to speak to me. It was immediate, it was direct, it was personal, and it wasn’t industrial. It was executed for personal expression, not for profit; it was individual as opposed to corporate, it was stylistically free; it seemed to require very little expenditure, innovation being the key note. It was a completely un-Hollywood-like aesthetic; it was operating on a visceral level that was often non-linear and was akin to the psychedelic images that were in vogue at the time—whether it was in music, in art or just in the patterns on your multi-coloured shirt. These movies spoke to me. (Petzke 9) Generally speaking, therefore, these films were the equivalent of counterculture in the area of film. Theodore Roszak railed against “technocracy” and underground films were just the opposite, often almost do-it-yourself in production and distribution. They were objecting to middle-class culture and values. And like counterculture they aimed at doing away with repression and to depict a utopian lifestyle feeling at ease with each imaginable form of liberality (Doggett 469). Underground films transgressed any Hollywood rule and convention in content, form and technique. Mobile hand-held cameras, narrow-gauge or outright home movies, shaky and wobbly, rapid cutting, out of focus, non-narrative, disparate continuity—you name it. This type of experimental film was used to express the individual consciousness of the “maker”—no longer calling themselves directors—a cinematic equivalent of the first person in literature. Just as in modern visual art, both the material and the process of making became part of these artworks. Music often was a dominant factor, particularly Eastern influences or the new Beat Music that was virtually non-existent in feature films. Drug experiences were reflected in imagery and structure. Some of the first comings-out of gay men can be found as well as films that were shown at the appropriately named “Wet Dreams Festival” in Amsterdam. Noyce commented: I worked out that the leading lights in this Ubu Films seemed to be three guys — Aggy Read, Albie Thoms and David Perry […They] all had beards and […] seemed to come from the basement of a terrace house in Redfern. Watching those movies that night, picking up all this information, I was immediately seized by three great ambitions. First of all, I wanted to grow a beard; secondly, I wanted to live in a terrace house in the inner city; and thirdly, I wanted to be a filmmaker. (Ubu Films) Noyce soon discovered there were a lot of people like him who wanted to make short films for personal expression, but also as a form of nationalism. They wanted to make Australian movies. Noyce remembered: “Aggy, Albie and David encouraged everyone to go and make a film for themselves” (Petzke 11). This was easy enough to do as these films—not only in Australia—were often made for next to nothing and did not require any prior education or training. And the target audience group existed in a subculture of people willing to pay money even for extreme entertainment as long as it was advertised in an appealing way—which meant: in the way of the rampaging Zeitgeist. Noyce—smitten by the virus—would from then on regularly attend the weekly meetings organised by the young filmmakers. And in line with Jerry Rubin’s contemporary adage “Do it!” he would immediately embark on a string of films with enthusiasm and determination—qualities soon to become his trademark. All his films were experimental in nature, shot on 16mm and were so well received that Albie Thoms was convinced that Noyce had a great career ahead of him as an experimental filmmaker. Truly alternative was Noyce’s way to finally finance Better to Reign in Hell, his first film, made at age 18 and with a total budget of $600. Noyce said on reflection: I had approached some friends and told them that if they invested in my film, they could have an acting role. Unfortunately, the guy whose dad had the most money — he was a doctor’s son — was also maybe the worst actor that was ever put in front of a camera. But he had invested four hundred dollars, so I had to give him the lead. (Petzke 13) The title was taken from Milton’s poem Paradise Lost (“better to reign in hell than serve in heaven”). It was a film very much inspired by the images, montage and narrative techniques of the underground movies watched at Ubu. Essentially the film is about a young man’s obsession with a woman he sees repeatedly in advertising and the hallucinogenic dreams he has about her. Despite its later reputation, the film was relatively mundane. Being shot in black and white, it lacks the typical psychedelic ingredients of the time and is more reminiscent of the surrealistic precursors to underground film. Some contempt for the prevailing consumer society is thrown in for good measure. In the film, “A youth is persecuted by the haunting reappearance of a girl’s image in various commercial outlets. He finds escape from this commercial brainwashing only in his own confused sexual hallucinations” (Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative). But despite this advertising, so convincingly capturing the “hint! hint!” mood of the time, Noyce’s first film isn’t really outstanding even in terms of experimental film. Noyce continued to make short experimental films. There was not even the pretence of a story in any of them. He was just experimenting with his gear and finding his own way to use the techniques of the underground cinema. Megan was made at Sydney University Law School to be projected as part of the law students’ revue. It was a three-minute silent film that featured a woman called Megan, who he had a crush on. Intersection was 2 minutes 44 seconds in length and shot in the middle of a five-way or four-way intersection in North Sydney. The camera was walked into the intersection and spun around in a continuous circle from the beginning of the roll of film to the end. It was an experiment with disorientation and possibly a comment about urban development. Memories was a seven-minute short in colour about childhood and the bush, accompanied by a smell-track created in the cinema by burning eucalyptus leaves. Sun lasted 90 seconds in colour and examined the pulsating winter sun by way of 100 single frame shots. And finally, Home was a one-and-a-half-minute single frame camera exploration of the filmmaker’s home, inside and out, including its inhabitants and pets. As a true experimental filmmaker, Noyce had a deep interest in technical aspects. It was recommended that Sun “be projected through a special five image lens”, Memories and Intersection with “an anamorphic lens” (Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative). The double projection for Better to Reign in Hell and the two screens required for Good Afternoon, as well as the addition of the smell of burning leaves in Memories, were inroads into the subgenre of so-called Expanded Cinema. As filmmaking in those days was not an isolated enterprise but an integral part of the all-encompassing Counterculture, Noyce followed suit and became more and more involved and politiced. He started becoming a driving force of the movement. Besides selling Ubu News, he organised film screenings. He also wrote film articles for both Honi Soit and National U, the Sydney University and Canberra University newspapers—articles more opinionated than sophisticated. He was also involved in Ubu’s Underground Festival held in August and in other activities of the time, particularly anti-war protests. When Ubu Films went out of business after the lack of audience interest in Thoms’s long Marinetti film in 1969, Aggy Read suggested that Ubu be reinvented as a co-operative for tax reasons and because they might benefit from their stock of 250 Australian and foreign films. On 28 May 1970 the reinvention began at the first general meeting of the Sydney Filmmakers Cooperative where Noyce volunteered and was elected their part-time manager. He transferred the 250 prints to his parents’ home in Wahroonga where he was still living he said he “used to sit there day after day just screening those movies for myself” (Petzke 18). The Sydney University Film Society screened feature films to students at lunchtime. Noyce soon discovered they had money nobody was spending and equipment no one was using, which seemed to be made especially for him. In the university cinema he would often screen his own and other shorts from the Co-op’s library. The entry fee was 50 cents. He remembered: “If I handed out the leaflets in the morning, particularly concentrating on the fact that these films were uncensored and a little risqué, then usually there would be 600 people in the cinema […] One or two screenings per semester would usually give me all the pocket money I needed to live” (Petzke 19). Libertine and risqué films were obviously popular as they were hard to come by. Noyce said: We suffered the worst censorship of almost any Western country in the world, even worse than South Africa. Books would be seized by customs officers at the airports and when ships docked. Customs would be looking for Lady Chatterley’s Lover. We were very censored in literature and films and plays, and my film [Better to Reign in Hell] was banned from export. I tried to send it to a film festival in Holland and it was denied an export permit, but because it had been shot in Australia, until someone in the audience complained it could still be screened locally. (Castaway's Choice) No wonder clashes with the law happened frequently and were worn like medals of honour in those days of fighting the system, proving that one was fighting in the front line against the conservative values of law and order. Noyce encountered three brushes with the law. The first occurred when selling Ubu Films’ alternative culture newspaper Ubu News, Australia’s first underground newspaper (Milesago). One of the issues contained an advertisement—a small drawing—for Levi’s jeans, showing a guy trying to put his Levis on his head, so that his penis was showing. That was judged by the police to be obscene. Noyce was found guilty and given a suspended sentence for publishing an indecent publication. There had been another incident including Phil’s Pill, his own publication of six or eight issues. After one day reprinting some erotic poems from The Penguin Collection of Erotic Poetry he was found guilty and released on a good behaviour bond without a conviction being recorded. For the sake of historical truth it should be remembered, though, that provocation was a genuine part of the game. How else could one seriously advertise Better to Reign in Hell as “a sex-fantasy film which includes a daring rape scene”—and be surprised when the police came in after screening this “pornographic film” (Stratton 202) at the Newcastle Law Students Ball? The Newcastle incident also throws light on the fact that Noyce organised screenings wherever possible, constantly driving prints and projectors around in his Mini Minor. Likewise, he is remembered as having been extremely helpful in trying to encourage other people with their own ideas—anyone could make films and could make them about anything they liked. He helped Jan Chapman, a fellow student who became his (first) wife in December 1971, to shoot and edit Just a Little Note, a documentary about a moratorium march and a guerrilla theatre group run by their friend George Shevtsov. Noyce also helped on I Happened to Be a Girl, a documentary about four women, friends of Chapman. There is no denying that being a filmmaker was a hobby, a full-time job and an obsessive religion for Noyce. He was on the organising committee of the First Australian Filmmakers’ Festival in August 1971. He performed in the agit-prop acting troupe run by George Shevtsov (later depicted in Renegades) that featured prominently at one of Sydney’s rock festival that year. In the latter part of 1971 and early 1972 he worked on Good Afternoon, a documentary about the Combined Universities’ Aquarius Arts Festival in Canberra, which arguably was the first major manifestation of counterculture in Australia. For this the Aquarius Foundation—the cultural arm of the Australian Union of Students—had contracted him. This became a two-screen movie à la Woodstock. Together with Thoms, Read and Ian Stocks, in 1972 he participated in cataloguing the complete set of films in distribution by the Co-op (see Sydney Filmmakers Cooperative). As can be seen, Noyce was at home in many manifestations of the Sydney counterculture. His own films had slowly become more politicised and bent towards documentary. He even started a newsreel that he used to screen at the Filmmakers’ Cooperative Cinema with a live commentary. One in 1971, Springboks Protest, was about the demonstrations at the Sydney Cricket Ground against the South African rugby tour. There were more but Noyce doesn’t remember them and no prints seem to have survived. Renegades was a diary film; a combination of poetic images and reportage on the street demonstrations. Noyce’s experimental films had been met with interest in the—limited—audience and among publications. His more political films and particularly Good Afternoon, however, reached out to a much wider audience, now including even the undogmatic left and hard-core documentarists of the times. In exchange, and for the first time, there were opposing reactions—but as always a great discussion at the Filmmakers’ Cinema, the main venue for independent productions. This cinema began with those initial screenings at Sydney University in the union room next to the Union Theatre. But once the Experimental Film Fund started operating in 1970, more and more films were submitted for the screenings and consequently a new venue was needed. Albie Thoms started a forum in the Yellow House in Kings Cross in May 1970. Next came—at least briefly—a restaurant in Glebe before the Co-op took over a space on the top floor of the socialist Third World Bookshop in Goulburn Street that was a firetrap. Bob Gould, the owner, was convinced that by first passing through his bookshop the audience would buy his books on the way upstairs. Sundays for him were otherwise dead from a commercial point of view. Noyce recollected that: The audience at this Filmmakers’ Cinema were mightily enthusiastic about seeing themselves up on the screen. And there was always a great discussion. So, generally the screenings were a huge success, with many full houses. The screenings grew from once a week, to three times on Sunday, to all weekend, and then seven days a week at several locations. One program could play in three different illegal cinemas around the city. (Petzke 26) A filmmakers’ cinema also started in Melbourne and the groups of filmmakers would visit each other and screen their respective films. But especially after the election of the Whitlam Labor government in December 1972 there was a shift in interest from risqué underground films to the concept of Australian Cinema. The audience started coming now for a dose of Australian culture. Funding of all kind was soon freely available and with such a fund the film co-op was able to set up a really good licensed cinema in St. Peters Lane in Darlinghurst, running seven days a week. But, Noyce said, “the move to St. Peters Lane was sort of the end of an era, because initially the cinema was self-funded, but once it became government sponsored everything changed” (Petzke 29). With money now readily available, egotism set in and the prevailing “we”-feeling rather quickly dissipated. But by the time of this move and the resulting developments, everything for Noyce had already changed again. He had been accepted into the first intake of the Interim Australian Film & TV School, another one of the nation-awareness-building projects of the Whitlam government. He was on his “long march through the institutions”—as this was frequently called throughout Europe—that would bring him to documentaries, TV and eventually even Hollywood (and return). Noyce didn’t linger once the alternative scene started fading away. Everything those few, wild years in the counterculture had taught him also put him right on track to become one of the major players in Hollywood. He never looked back—but he remembers fondly…References Castaway’s Choice. Radio broadcast by KCRW. 1990. Doggett, Peter. There’s a Riot Going On: Revolutionaries, Rock Stars and the Rise and Fall of ’60s Counter-Culture. Edinburgh: Canongate, 2007. Farber, Manny. “Underground Films.” Negative Space: Manny Farber on the Movies. Ed. Manny Farber. New York: Da Capo, 1998. 12–24. Jacobs, Lewis. “Morning for the Experimental Film”. Film Culture 19 (1959): 6–9. Milesago. “Ubu Films”. n.d. 26 Nov. 2014 ‹http://www.milesago.com/visual/ubu.htm›. New American Cinema Group. “First Statement of the New American Cinema Group.” Film Culture Reader. Ed. P. Adams Sitney. New York: Praeger, 1970. 73–75. Petzke, Ingo. Phillip Noyce: Backroads to Hollywood. Sydney: Pan McMillan, 2004. Renan, Sheldon. The Underground Film: An Introduction to Its Development in America. London: Studio Vista, 1968. Roszak, Theodore. The Making of Counter Culture. New York: Anchor, 1969. Stratton, David. The Last New Wave: The Australian Film Revival. Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1980. Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative. Film Catalogue. Sydney: Sydney Filmmakers Co-operative, 1972. Ubu Films. Unreleased five-minute video for the promotion of Mudie, Peter. Ubu Films: Sydney Underground Movies 1965-1970. Sydney: UNSW Press, 1997.