Journal articles on the topic 'Couches Rouges'

We propose an intimate relationship between Silurian terrestrial red bed sedimentation (Old Red Sandstone), slab breakoff-related magmatism and deformation in the Newfoundland Appalachians. Red bed sedimentation started during the Early Silurian, and records the progressive rise of the Salinic mountains in the tectonic hinterland of the orogen. The red beds were mainly deposited in molasse-style foreland basins in front of an east-propagating terminal Salinic deformation front. New U–Pb zircon dating of volcanic rocks interlayered with the Silurian red beds in key structural locations yielded ages ranging between 425 and 418 Ma, which, combined with the existing geochronological database, suggests that the sedimentary rocks are progressively younger from west to east and overstep the accreted Gondwana-derived terranes. We propose that deposition of the red beds is a good proxy for the time of cratonization of the accreted terranes. Eastward migration of the Salinic deformation front was accompanied by eastward-widening of a slab-breakoff-related asthenospheric window. The latter is interpreted to have formed due to a combination of progressive steepening of the down-going plate following entrance of the leading edge of the Gander margin and its eduction. Gander margin eduction (reversed subduction) is proposed to have been instigated by the trench migration of the Acadian coastal arc built upon the trailing edge of the Gander margin, which developed contemporaneously with the Salinic collision. The resultant thinning of the lithosphere beneath the Salinic orogen, built upon the leading edge of the Gander margin immediately prior to the onset of the Early Devonian Acadian orogeny, set the stage for generation of the widespread bloom of Acadian magmatism.SOMMAIRENous proposons qu’il y a eu une relation intime entre la sédimentation des couches rouges continentales au Silurien (vieux-grès-rouges), un magmatisme lié à une rupture de segments de croûte, et la déformation appalachienne à Terre-Neuve. La sédimentation des couches rouges qui a débuté au début du Silurien témoigne du soulèvement progressif des monts saliniques de l’arrière-pays tectonique de l’orogène. Les couches rouges se sont déposées sous forme de molasses dans des bassins d’avant-pays, à l’avant du front de déformation salinique terminale qui se déployait vers l’est. De nouvelles datations U-Pb sur zircon de roches volcaniques interstratifiées avec des couches rouges siluriennes en des lieux structurels stratégiques montrent des âges qui varient entre 425 Ma et 418 Ma, ce qui, combiné aux bases de données géochronologiques existantes permet de penser que les roches sédimentaires sont progressivement plus jeunes d’ouest en est, et qu’elles surplombent les terranes accrétés du Gondwana. Nous suggérons que les couches rouges sont de bons indicateurs temporels de la cratonisation des terranes accrétés. La migration vers l’est du front de la déformation salinique a été accompagnée par un élargissement vers l’est d’une fenêtre asthénosphérique liée à une rupture de la croûte. Cette dernière aurait été provoquée par la combinaison de l’enfoncement progressif de la plaque qui a suivi l’entrée du bord d’attaque de la marge de Gander, et son éduction. Nous proposons que l’éduction (l’inverse de la subduction) de la marge de Gander a été provoquée par la migration de la fosse tectonique côtière acadienne, induite par la migration du bord d’attaque de la marge de Gander, contemporaine de la collision salinique. L’amincissement de la lithosphère sous l’orogène salinique qui en a résulté, et qui s’est déployé au bord d’attaque de la marge de Gander juste avant l’enclenchement de l’orogénie acadienne au début du Dévonien, a préparé le terrain du déploiement à grande échelle du magmatisme acadien.

Notre article, basé sur des sources de l’époque, traitera de la langue des soldats et des ouvriers, et ensuite de la langue de la noblesse et de celle de l’intelligentsia. Nous nous intéresserons à une étude d’Il’ja Rejtynbarg (1899-1988), psychologue de formation et spécialiste de psychologie du travail. Il publie en 1928, avec Isaak Špil’rejn (1891-1937), l’ouvrage intitulé Jazyk krasnoarmejca [’La langue du soldat de l’Armée rouge’]. On sait que ceux qui servaient dans l’Armée rouge étaient des représentants des différentes couches de la société. A partir des journaux intimes et de la correspondance, Rejtynbarg tire ses conclusions sur le lexique des soldats et des officiers. Il examine ensuite l’effet que le discours des militants communistes exerce sur les changements survenus dans le lexique passif des soldats. La hiérarchie dans l’Armée rouge ne reproduisait pas la hiérarchie sociale, comme c’était le cas auparavant, dans l’Armée blanche. Dans la seconde partie de notre article nous aborderons les traits essentiels qui différencient la langue de l’intelligentsia blanche de celle de l’intelligentsia rouge. Nous tâcherons de voir, à travers ces études linguistiques, ce qui a changé dans l’Armée rouge par rapport à l’Armée blanche. Nos interrogations reprendront celles de Rejtynbarg : lesmilitants révolutionnaires ont-ils réussi à dialoguer avec les soldats ? La langue «littéraire» et la «langue du peuple» pourront-elles se rapprocher ?

The composite Albian–Eocene orogenic wedge of the northern part of the Inner Western Carpathians (IWC) comprises the European Variscan basement with the Upper Carboniferous–Triassic cover and the Jurassic to Upper Cretaceous sedimentary successions of a large oceanic–continental Atlantic (Alpine) Tethys basin system. This paper presents an updated evolutionary model for principal structural units of the orogenic wedge (i.e., Fatricum, Tatricum and Infratatricum) based on new and published white mica 40Ar/39Ar geochronology and P–T estimates by Perple_X modeling and geothermobarometry. The north-directed Cretaceous collision led to closure of the Jurassic–Early Cretaceous basins, and incorporation of their sedimentary infill and a thinned basement into the Albian–Cenomanian/Turonian accretionary wedge. During this compressional D1 stage, the subautochthonous Fatric structural units, including the present-day higher Infratatric nappes, achieved the metamorphic conditions of ca. 250–400 °C and 400–700 MPa. The collapse of the Albian–Cenomanian/Turonian wedge and contemporary southward Penninic oceanic subduction enhanced the extensional exhumation of the low-grade metamorphosed structural complexes (D2 stage) and the opening of a fore-arc basin. This basin hemipelagic Coniacian–Campanian Couches-Rouges type marls (C.R.) spread from the northern Tatric edge, throughout the Infratatric Belice Basin, up to the peri-Pieniny Klippen Belt Kysuca Basin, thus tracing the south-Penninic subduction. The ceasing subduction switched to the compressional regime recorded in the trench-like Belice “flysch” trough formation and the lower anchi-metamorphism of the C.R. at ca. 75–65 Ma (D3 stage). The Belice trough closure was followed by the thrusting of the exhumed low-grade metamorphosed higher Infratatric complexes and the anchi-metamorphosed C.R. over the frontal unmetamorphosed to lowest anchi-metamorphosed Upper Campanian–Maastrichtian “flysch” sediments at ca. 65–50 Ma (D4 stage). Phengite from the Infratatric marble sample SRB-1 and meta-marl sample HC-12 produced apparent 40Ar/39Ar step ages clustered around 90 Ma. A mixture interpretation of this age is consistent with the presence of an older metamorphic Ph1 related to the burial (D1) within the Albian–Cenomanian/Turonian accretionary wedge. On the contrary, a younger Ph2 is closely related to the late- to post-Campanian (D3) thrust fault formation over the C.R. Celadonite-enriched muscovite from the subautochthonous Fatric Zobor Nappe meta-quartzite sample ZI-3 yielded a mini-plateau age of 62.21 ± 0.31 Ma which coincides with the closing of the Infratatric foreland Belice “flysch” trough, the accretion of the Infratatricum to the Tatricum, and the formation of the rear subautochthonous Fatricum bivergent structure in the Eocene orogenic wedge.

Les sols latéritiques actuellement rencontrés sur le territoire sénégalais répondent mal aux exigences de qualité fixées par les règles de 2015 de l’Agence des Travaux et de Gestion des Routes du Sénégal (AGEROUTE-Sénégal) pour leur emploi en couche de base routière. Pour les utiliser dans cette couche, un traitement est nécessaire dans la plupart des chantiers courants au Sénégal. Cet article étudie le comportement de ces matériaux latéritiques modifiés par traitement mécanique ou lithostabilisation par ajout de concassé de dolérite en provenance de Mansadala au sud-est du Sénégal. L’ajout de 20 % ou 25 % de ce matériau très peu utilisé en technique routière au Sénégal semble permettre l’utilisation du graveleux latéritique étudié en couche de base. The lateritic soils currently encountered on Senegalese territory meet very little the quality requirements set by the 2015 rules of the Senegalese Road Works and Management Agency (AGEROUTE-Senegal) for their use as a road base layer. To use them in this layer, a treatment is necessary in most of the current construction sites in Senegal. This article studies the behaviour of these lateritic materials, modified by mechanical treatment or lithostabilization by adding crushed dolerite from Mansadala in southern Senegal. The addition of 20% or 25% of this very little used material in road engineering in Senegal seems to make it possible to use the lateritic gravel studied as a base layer.

The studies on couch grass (<em>Agropyron repens</em> (L.) P. Beauv.) populations growing in stress conditions in close vicinity of a copper smelter concern the integrity of clonal structure. The connections of tillers within a clone and the interclonal integrity was investigated by means of assimilate translocation, using ¹⁴C. It was found that heavy metal stress affects the phenotypic plasticity of couch grass in regard to clonal growth of the phalanx type. The phalanx type growth is supported by a considerable integration, which allows the redistribution of resources, through internal routes, from places rich in resources to such clone parts, which cover a surface poor in nutritive compounds. In an unpolluted (control) couch grass population representing the guerilla type of growth, the translocation of assimilates concerns only the closest (sister) ramets. The phalanx type of growth in couch grass subjected to contamination favours also the accumulation of organic matter and macronutrients (N, Ca) in zones of occurrence of <em>Agropyron repens</em> clusters, which are in deficit in areas close to the smelter. The irregular accumulation of heavy metals and the deficit of macronutrients in soil, form near the smelter a patchy environment. In this patchy environment couch grass, as one of few plants, finds appropriate conditions for foraging. The whole of factors in the studied polluted area creates a unique dynamic system between couch grass clones and the local ecological conditions.

Résumé Le but de cet article est de développer une hypothèse macrohistorique au sujet de la représentation et de la réalité du loisir qui est la suivante : aussi longtemps que l'humanité n'a disposé que d'instruments de production pré-industriels ou prétechnologiques, une représentation ou conception relativement stable du loisir a perduré à travers de nombreux siècles : son existence a été justifiée en tant que mode de vie privilégié pour les classes sociales dominantes, en parfaite dichotomie avec le travail qui était l'apanage exclusif des classes dominées. À partir du moment où la révolution industrielle va transformer les modes et les rapports sociaux de production sous la direction de la bourgeoisie comme classe dominante, les formes du loisir contemporain vont apparaître comme lieu de la consommation de la richesse réalisée par le développement prodigieux des forces productives. Ce loisir contemporain, dans un premier temps, sera un privilège de la bourgeoisie comme classe dominante et une manifestation de sa domination. Dans un deuxième temps, il deviendra accessible à des couches sociales de plus en plus larges, au sein des sociétés libérales, dans le cadre de la société « dite » de consommation, pour autant que cette consommation devienne un instrument essentiel pour le développement des intérêts de la classe bourgeoise et un rouage nécessaire à la reproduction des rapports sociaux existants.

Le feu dans un hôpital ou une maison de retraite présente des caractéristiques de risque particulier. A propos de la combustion d'un mètre cube de couches culottes pour adulte au Centre hospitalier de Pfastatt dans le Sud de l'Alsace, ces risques particuliers seront montrés. Ce feu globalement insignifiant en terme de quantité de comburant a cependant entraîné quatre morts par inhalation des fumées et plusieurs intoxiqués ainsi que l'évacuation de tout une aile de l'hôpital avec hospitalisation d'une cinquantaine de patients dans d'autres structures de soins sans compter les pertes matérielles et financières liées à la réparation des dégats. Les opérations d'extinction, de triage et d'évacuation des patients se sont déroulées simultanément nécessitant la mise en oeuvre du plan rouge pour nombreuses victimes, une opération de mise en sécurité des patients hospitalisés et l'évacuation vers les structures adaptées avec une coopération et une coordination entre les diférentes structures de secours intervenantes. Les investigations médico-légales secondaires ont permis de montrer chez tous les patients décédés une forte intoxication aux cyanures liée à la nature du comburant et responsables du décès rapide. Ceci pose le problème du stockage de ce type de produit et surtout de la disponibilité d'Hydroxocobalamine, antidote spécifique, en quantité suffisante pour des établissements à risque possédant beaucoup de produits synthétiques. Enfin il convient de signaler que le personnel hospitlier doit être entraîné à avoir les bonnes réactions devant un développement de fumées car c'est en premier de leurs attitudes que dépend la vie des patient en particulier s'ils sont alités.

The old debate amongst historians as to whether the testimony of the sixteenth century really bears out Adam Smith's claim that the rounding of the Cape of Good Hope constitutes ‘one of the two and most important events in the recorded history of mankind’ was, it seems, put to sleep with Niels Steensgaard's thesis of 1973. Steensgaard argued that ‘a structural revolution’ and which truly sounded the death-knell of the old overland caravan trades competing with the sea borne routes, was not effected by the Portuguese from 1498 but awaited the Dutch. The debate, however, was couched very much on the theory of the operation run by the Portuguese, and which was typologised as reactionary in that it relied upon the threat of force rather than commercial competitivity. Whilst price movements between Portuguese and Red Sea pepper on the European market have been analysed by historians such as Herman Van Der Wee and Rene Gascon, nobody has really stopped to consider the complex of factors intervening on the demand side. Pepper, like ginger, was not a unitary good as misleadingly assumed by Douglas Irwin in his attempt to analyse the Anglo-Dutch rivalry for the East India trade with the Brander-Spence analysis of duopolistic export competition. Price lists suggest that pepper came in manifold shapes, sizes and qualities, let alone competing species, all of which rendered the market remarkably heterogeneous with up to seven-fold price divergences between, for example, the different products that would pass as ‘pepper’. This article discusses some of the factors that made for market variegation, and focuses on the market consequences of a Portuguese policy of transportation in the open ship's hold. It suggests that quality was one of the demand factors that shaped the competition between the Adantic and Mediterranean spice trade.

Abstract Background Currently, mammographic-based breast cancer screening (BCS) using age as the single criterion for population selection, apart from rare high-risk indications, is being questioned for its imperfect sensitivity (interval cancers) and specificity (false positive recalls), as well as the risk of over-diagnoses. BC risk scores incorporating personal and family history, breast mammographic density and genetic information based on a polygenic score (PRS) give a promisingly accurate likelihood of a woman developing invasive BC in the next 5 years. MyPeBS, a European Commission H2020-funded randomized clinical trial (NCT03672331) conducted in 6 countries (Belgium, France, Israel, Italy, Spain and UK) aims to demonstrate the usefulness of a risk-based screening approach to improve BCS in the general population. Methods MyPeBS’s primary objective is to show non-inferiority of the risk-stratified BCS arm in terms of incidence rate of breast cancer of stage 2 and higher, compared to the standard BCS arm. The key secondary objective, if non-inferiority is shown, is to demonstrate superiority of the risk-based screening arm. MyPeBS also assesses whether this strategy allows reduces morbidity (less false positives); is equally or more cost-effective, and impacts women’s understanding, awareness and emotional responses as compared to standard of care. Women aged 40 to 70 are eligible if they did not have prior BC or high risk-condition, and live in a participating country and area. Participants are randomized 1:1 between standard BCS according to country’s/region’s ongoing policy, or risk-stratified BCS, where screening frequency and method depend on their individual 5 year predicted risk of invasive BC (Table 1). Stratification factors include age, prior mammogram and country. Risk assessment uses a centralized genotyping on a saliva sample to assess PRS 313 (Mavaddat et al, Am J Hum Genet 2019), which is embedded in either a BCSC-derived score for women with at most one first-degree relative with BC; or Tyrer-Cuzick score for women with &gt; 1 family member with breast cancer. Women participate for 4 years. Planned accrual is 85000. On June 30th, 2021, 13882 women have been randomized. Table 1.BC Screening schedule in MyPeBS’ Risk-based armRisk levelLow riskAverage riskHigh riskVery high riskNumerical definition (invasive breast cancer risk at 5 years)&lt;1%1-1.66%≥ 1.66% and &lt; 6%≥ 6%Mammogram1 at end of study (4 years)Every 2 yearsYearlyYearlyAdditionalYearly breast cancer awareness reminderHigh density: US or ABUS every 2 yearsHigh density: US or ABUS every 2 yearsAnnual MRI until age 60 Citation Format: Suzette Delaloge, Paolo Giorgi Rossi, Michal Guindy, Fiona Gilbert, Jean-Benoit Burrion, Corinne Balleyguier, Marta Roman Exposito, Livia Giordano, Harry De Koning, Sandrine de Montgolfier, Stephane Ragusa, Damien Drubay, Marie-Eve Rouge-Bugat, Gareth D Evans, Debbie Keatley, Helene Blanche, Anne Boland, Emilien Gauthier, Aloys Dubois d'Aische, Cécile Vissac-Sabatier, Daniel Couch, Camille Baron, Jean-François Deleuze, Paul Pharoah, Stefan Michiels. Mypebs: An international randomized study comparing personalized, risk-stratified to standard breast cancer screening in women aged 40-70 [abstract]. In: Proceedings of the 2021 San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium; 2021 Dec 7-10; San Antonio, TX. Philadelphia (PA): AACR; Cancer Res 2022;82(4 Suppl):Abstract nr OT2-10-02.

Abstract Background. DCIS consists of a molecularly heterogeneous group of premalignant lesions, with variable risk of invasive progression. Understanding biomarkers for invasive progression could help individualize treatment recommendations based upon tumor biology. As part of the NCI Human Tumor Atlas Network (HTAN), we conducted comprehensive genomic analyses on two large DCIS case-control cohorts. Methods. We performed smart3-seq and low-pass whole genome sequencing on two independent, retrospective, longitudinally sampled DCIS case-control cohorts. TBCRC 038 was a multicenter cohort diagnosed with DCIS between 1998 and 2016 at one of the Translational Breast Cancer Research sites; the RAHBT (Resource of Archival Human Breast Tissue) cohort included women identified through the St. Louis Breast Tissue Repository, and the Women’s Health Repository diagnosed between 1997 and 2001. We studied the spectrum of molecular changes present and sought genomic predictors of subsequent ipsilateral breast events (iBEs: DCIS recurrence or invasive progression) in both DCIS epithelium and stroma in formalin fixed paraffin embedded tissue. We generated de novo tumor and stroma-centric subtypes for DCIS that represents fundamental transcriptomic organization. Copy number analysis was performed using low-pass DNA sequencing. Non-negative matrix factorization (NMF) was applied to the RNA expression of all coding genes to identify clusters. A negative-binomial regression model was used to identify differentially expressed genes. Results. We analyzed 677 DCIS samples from 481 patients with 7.1 years median follow-up. In TBCRC samples, we identified three clusters via NMF in TBCRC referred to as ER low, quiescent, and ER high. The ER-low cluster had significantly higher levels of ERBB2 and lower levels of ESR1 compared to quiescent and ER-high clusters. Quiescent cluster lesions were less proliferative and less metabolically active than ER high and ER low subtypes. These findings were replicated in the RAHBT cohort. Focusing on the stromal component of DCIS from laser capture microdissection in RAHBT samples, we identified four distinct DCIS-associated stromal clusters. A “normal-like” stromal cluster with ECM organization and PI3K-AKT signaling; a “collagen-rich” stromal cluster; a “desmoplastic” stromal cluster with high fibroblast and total myeloid abundance, mostly associated with macrophages and myeloid dendritic cells (mDC); and an “immune-dense” stromal cluster. Further, we compared differentially expressed genes in patients with or without subsequent iBEs within 5 years of diagnosis. Hypothesizing that the resulting 812 DE genes (DESeq2) represent multiple routes to subsequent iBEs, we leveraged NMF to identify paths to progression. In both TBCRC and RAHBT cohorts, poor outcome groups exhibited increased ER, MYC signaling, and oxidative phosphorylation, supporting that these pathways are important for DCIS recurrence and progression. Conclusion. Comprehensive genomic profiling in two independent DCIS cohorts with longitudinal outcomes shows distinct DCIS stromal expression patterns and immune cell composition. RNA expression profiles reveal underlying tumor biology that is associated with later iBEs in both cohorts. These studies provide new insight into DCIS biology and will guide the design of diagnostic strategies to prevent invasive progression. Citation Format: Siri H Strand, Belén Rivero-Gutiérrez, Kathleen E Houlahan, Jose A Seoane, Lorraine M King, Tyler Risom, Lunden Simpson, Sujay Vennam, Aziz Khan, Timothy Hardman, Bryan E Harmon, Fergus J Couch, Kristalyn Gallagher, Mark Kilgore, Shi Wei, Angela DeMichele, Tari King, Priscilla F McAuliffe, Julie Nangia, Joanna Lee, Jennifer Tseng, Anna Maria Storniolo, Alastair Thompson, Gaorav Gupta, Robyn Burns, Deborah J Veis, Katherine DeSchryver, Chunfang Zhu, Magdalena Matusiak, Jason Wang, Shirley X Zhu, Jen Tappenden, Daisy Yi Ding, Dadong Zhang, Jingqin Luo, Shu Jiang, Sushama Varma, Cody Straub, Sucheta Srivastava, Christina Curtis, Rob Tibshirani, Robert Michael Angelo, Allison Hall, Kouros Owzar, Kornelia Polyak, Carlo Maley, Jeffrey R Marks, Graham A Colditz, E Shelley Hwang, Robert B West. The Breast PreCancer Atlas DCIS genomic signatures define biology and correlate with clinical outcomes: An analysis of TBCRC 038 and RAHBT cohorts [abstract]. In: Proceedings of the 2021 San Antonio Breast Cancer Symposium; 2021 Dec 7-10; San Antonio, TX. Philadelphia (PA): AACR; Cancer Res 2022;82(4 Suppl):Abstract nr GS4-07.

Background: The Sungbo Eredo Monument is an ancient public work with a system of defensive walls and ditches located in Eredo Local Council Development Area of Epe, Lagos State, southwest Nigeria. A huge section of the monument cuts through the Augustine University campus, forming two-sided vertical walls with a deep ridge in-between. The objective of this investigative study is to determine the microbial profile of soil samples from the monument in the University campus. Methodology: Soil samples were collected from the topsoil at a depth of 7.5cm from four randomly selected points along the edge of the monument. The samples were transported to the microbiology laboratory of the Department of Biological Sciences of Augustine University for analysis. Samples were cultured on Nutrient agar (NA) and incubated aerobically for 24-48 hours for bacteria isolation and on Sabouraud’s Dextrose agar (SDA) for 72 hours for fungi isolation. Bacterial colonies on NA were preliminarily identified to genus level by Gram reaction and conventional biochemical test scheme for Gram-positive (catalase, coagulase, starch hydrolysis) and Gram-negative isolates (oxidase, urease test, indole, methyl red, Voges Proskauer and sugar fermentation tests). Fungi colonies on SDA were identified using conventional macroscopic and microscopic characteristics. Antibiotic susceptibility test of the bacterial isolates to selected antibiotics was done using the Kirby Bauer disc diffusion method. Results: A total of twenty-three bacterial isolates in four genera; Bacillus, Staphylococcus, Cellobiococcus and Micrococcus and nine fungal isolates in three genera; Saccharomyces, Aspergillus and Botrytis were identified from the cultures. The bacterial isolates were sensitive (>50% sensitivity) to only gentamicin and ofloxacin, with 65.2% and 78.3% sensitivity rates respectively, while they were largely resistant to all other antibiotics such as ceftriaxone, erythromycin, cefuroxime, cloxacillin, ceftazidime and augmentin, with resistance rates of 65.2%, 65.2%, 73.9%, 82.6%, 86.9%, 91.3% respectively. Conclusion: The results of this investigative study revealed the presence of antibiotic-resistant bacteria (mainly Gram-positive) and fungi on the archaeological monument of Augustine University, adding to the existing data on microbial spectrum of archaeological monuments that could be useful for unraveling human cultural habits and microbe-related human diseases. However, further studies on molecular identification of these microbial spectrum will be required to ascertain their genetic relatedness and ancestral phylogeny, which will be useful for archaeologists in their study of the Sungbo-Eredo ancestral monument. French title: Identification phénotypique des communautés bactériennes et fongiques du sol habitant un monument archéologique à l'Université Augustine, Ilara Epe, sud-ouest du Nigeria Contexte: Le monument Sungbo Eredo est un ancien ouvrage public doté d'un système de murs défensifs et de fossés situé dans la zone de développement du conseil local d'Eredo à Epe, dans l'État de Lagos, au sud-ouest du Nigéria. Une énorme section du monument traverse le campus de l'Université Augustine, formant des murs verticaux à deux côtés avec une crête profonde entre les deux. L'objectif de cette étude d'investigation est de déterminer le profil microbien d'échantillons de sol provenant du monument du campus universitaire. Méthodologie: Des échantillons de sol ont été prélevés dans la couche arable à une profondeur de 7,5 cm à partir de quatre points choisis au hasard le long du bord du monument. Les échantillons ont été transportés au laboratoire de microbiologie du Département des sciences biologiques de l'Université Augustine pour analyse. Les échantillons ont été cultivés sur gélose nutritive (NA) et incubés en aérobie pendant 24 à 48 heures pour l'isolement des bactéries et sur gélose au dextrose de Sabouraud's(SDA) pendant 72 heures pour l'isolement des champignons. Les colonies bactériennes sur NA ont été préalablement identifiées au niveau du genre par réaction de Gram et schéma de test biochimique conventionnel pour les isolats Gram-positif (catalase, coagulase, hydrolyse de l'amidon) et Gram-négatif (oxydase, test à l'uréase, indole, rouge de méthyle, Voges Proskauer et sucre essais de fermentation). Les colonies de champignons sur SDA ont été identifiées en utilisant des caractéristiques macroscopiques et microscopiques conventionnelles. Le test de sensibilité aux antibiotiques des isolats bactériens à des antibiotiques sélectionnés a été effectué en utilisant la méthode de diffusion sur disque de Kirby Bauer. Résultats: Un total de vingt-trois isolats bactériens dans quatre genres; Bacillus, Staphylococcus, Cellobiococcus et Micrococcus et neuf isolats fongiques de trois genres; Saccharomyces, Aspergillus et Botrytis ont été identifiés à partir des cultures. Les isolats bactériens étaient sensibles (sensibilité >50%) uniquement à la gentamicine et à l'ofloxacine, avec des taux de sensibilité de 65,2 % et 78,3 % respectivement, alors qu'ils étaient largement résistants à tous les autres antibiotiques comme la ceftriaxone, l'érythromycine, la céfuroxime, la cloxacilline, la ceftazidime et l'augmentine avec des taux de résistance de 65,2%, 65,2%, 73,9%, 82,6%, 86,9%, 91,3% respectivement. Conclusion: Les résultats de cette étude d'investigation ont révélé la présence de bactéries résistantes aux antibiotiques (principalement à Gram positif) et de champignons sur le monument archéologique de l'Université Augustine, ajoutant aux données existantes sur le spectre microbien des monuments archéologiques qui pourraient être utiles pour démêler l'homme. les habitudes culturelles et les maladies humaines liées aux microbes. Cependant, d'autres études sur l'identification moléculaire de ces spectres microbiens seront nécessaires pour déterminer leur parenté génétique et leur phylogénie ancestrale, ce qui sera utile aux archéologues dans leur étude du monument ancestral Sungbo-Eredo.

The Wabana iron mines were in operation from 1895 to 1966, during which time they produced over 80 million tonnes of iron ore. They are hosted by Early Ordovician rocks that contain Clinton-type stratiform ironstones. Mineralization is characterized by oölitic, dark red to purple-red to reddish brown beds of hematite-rich fossiliferous sandstone, siltstone, and shale. Three ironstone beds are of economic importance: the Lower (Dominion Formation), Middle (Scotia Formation) and Upper (Gull Island Formation) with the Lower bed extending over 3.8 km beneath Conception Bay. The iron content in all beds ranges from 45 to 61% with a silica concentration of 6 to 20%. Reports of iron on Bell Island go back to at least 1578, when a Bristol merchant reported retrieving ore samples for shipment to England. The deposits, however, remained undeveloped for over three centuries until their rediscovery by local fishermen in the late 1880s. In 1895, the Nova Scotia Steel & Coal Company acquired the mining lease for the claims and first ore was produced at surface from No. 1 mine in the Lower bed along the island’s northwest coast. By the turn of the twentieth century the Dominion Iron and Steel Company Limited acquired a share of the Bell Island claims, and with surface reserves exhausted, the decision was made by both companies to proceed underground and develop submarine mines. Over the next five decades mining operations were operated by several owners at a steady and at times an expanding rate, with periodic setbacks through two world wars and the Great Depression. The worldwide increase in demand for iron after World War II meant the mines were in full production and exporting over 1.5 million tonnes of ore per annum. In 1950, the unprofitable No. 2 mine was closed, and a series of major expansion projects were launched with the goal to double annual production to 3 million tonnes. By the 1960s, the Wabana mines faced increased competition from foreign producers, who flooded the world iron market with high-quality ore from low-cost open-pit deposits. The last mine at Wabana ceased operation in 1966 because the high-phosphorus content of the ore was incompatible with the newest steel-making technology and the market for Wabana ore all but disappeared. Over 35 million tonnes of ore was exported to Canada (Nova Scotia) while the remainder was shipped to the United Kingdom and Germany. At the time of closure, the Wabana mines were the oldest, continually producing mine in the country. Annual production peaked in 1960 when over 2.8 million tonnes of concentrated ore were shipped. Enormous potential reserves of several billion tonnes, grading 50% iron, remain in place beneath Conception Bay but the high cost of submarine mining and absence of a market for non-Bessemer ore present obstacles to any future re-development. RÉSUMÉLes mines de fer de Wabana ont été en activité de 1895 à 1966, période durant laquelle elles ont produit plus de 80 millions de tonnes de minerai de fer. Elles renferment des roches de l’Ordovicien inférieur contenant des roches ferrugineuses stratiformes de type Clinton. La minéralisation est caractérisée par des couches de grès oolitiques, de silts et d'argiles couleur rouge foncé à rouge violacé à brun rougeâtre, fossilifères et riches en hématite. Trois gisements de roches ferrugineuses ont une importance économique: la couche inférieure (Formation Dominion), la couche intermédiaire (Formation Scotia), et la couche supérieure (Formation Gull Island), la couche inférieure s’étendant sur 3,8 km sous la baie de la Conception. La teneur en fer de toutes les couches varie de 45 à 61% avec une concentration en silice de 6 à 20%. La présence de fer sur l’île Bell a été signalée depuis au moins 1578, lorsqu’un commerçant de Bristol a rapporté avoir récupéré des échantillons de minerai pour les expédier en Angleterre. Toutefois, les gisements sont restés inexploités pendant plus de trois siècles jusqu’à leur redécouverte par des pêcheurs locaux à la fin des années 1880. En 1895, la Nova Scotia Steel & Coal Company acquit le bail minier pour les droits et le premier minerai fut produit à la surface de la mine numéro 1 située dans la couche Inférieure sur la côte nordouest de l’île. Au tournant du XXe siècle, la Dominion Iron et la Steel Company Limited acquit une part des droits de l’île Bell. Les réserves de surface étant épuisées, les deux sociétés prirent la décision de procéder à des travaux souterrains et de développer des mines sous-marines. Au cours des cinq décennies qui ont suivies, plusieurs propriétaires ont exploité les mines à un rythme soutenu et parfois en expansion, avec des reculs périodiques à la suite des deux guerres mondiales et de la Grande Dépression. L’augmentation de la demande de fer dans le monde après la Seconde Guerre mondiale s’est traduite par une pleine production des mines et une exportation de plus de 1,5 million de tonnes de minerai par an. En 1950, la mine numéro 2, non rentable, a été fermée et une série d’importants projets d’expansion ont été lancés dans le but de doubler la production annuelle à 3 millions de tonnes. Dans les années 1960, les mines de Wabana ont dû faire face à une concurrence accrue des producteurs étrangers, qui ont inondé le marché mondial du fer avec du minerai de haute qualité provenant de gisements à ciel ouvert à faible coût. La dernière mine de Wabana a cessé ses activités en 1966 parce que la teneur élevée en phosphore du minerai était incompatible avec la technologie de fabrication de l’acier la plus récente et que le marché du minerai de Wabana avait pratiquement disparu. Plus de 35 millions de tonnes de minerai ont été exportées au Canada (Nouvelle-Écosse) alors que le reste était expédié au Royaume-Uni et en Allemagne. Au moment de leur fermeture, les mines de Wabana étaient les plus anciennes mines en production du pays. La production annuelle a atteint un sommet en 1960 lorsque plus de 2,8 millions de tonnes de minerai concentré ont été expédiées. D’énormes réserves potentielles de plusieurs milliards de tonnes, contenant 50% de fer, restent en place sous la baie de Conception, mais le coût élevé de l’exploitation minière sous-marine et l’absence de marché pour le minerai non Bessemer constituent des obstacles à tout futur redéveloppement.

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

Reviewing Melissa Lucashenko’s Mullumbimby (2013), Eve Vincent notes that it shares with Keri Hulme’s The Bone People (1984) one significant feature: “a glossary of Indigenous words.” Working with various forms of the term “abroad”, this article surveys the debate The Bone People ignited around the relative merits of such a glossary in texts written predominantly in English, the colonizing language. At stake here is the development of a post-colonial community that incorporates Indigenous identity and otherness (Maori or Aboriginal) with the historical legacy of the English/Indigenous-language multi-lingualism of multi-cultural Australia and New Zealand. I argue that the terms of this debate have remained static since 1984 and that this creates a problem for post-colonial theory. Specifically, the debate has favoured a binary either/or approach, whereby either the Indigenous language or English has been empowered with authority over the text’s linguistic, historical, cultural and political territory. Given that the significations of “abroad” include a travelling encounter with overseas places and the notion of being widely scattered or dispersed, the term has value for an investigation into how post-colonialism as a historical circumstance is mediated and transformed within literature. Post-colonial literature is a response to the “homeland” encounter with a foreign “abroad” that creates particular wide scatterings or dispersals of writing within literary texts.In 1989, Maryanne Dever wrote that “some critics have viewed [The Bone People’s] glossary as a direct denial of otherness. … It can be argued, however, that the glossary is in fact a further way of asserting that otherness” (24). Dever is responding to Simon During, who wrote in 1985 that “by translating the Maori words into English [the glossary allows] them no otherness within its Europeanising apparatus” (During 374). Dever continues: “[The glossary] is a considered statement of the very separateness of the Maori language. In this way, the text inverts the conventional sense of privileging, the glossary forming the key into a restricted or privileged form of knowledge” (24). Dever’s language is telling: “direct denial of otherness,” “asserting that otherness,” and “the very separateness of the Maori language,” reinforce a binary way of thinking that is reproduced by Vincent in 2013 (24).This binary hinders a considered engagement with post-colonial difference because it produces hierarchal outcomes. For Toril Moi, “binary oppositions are heavily imbricated in the patriarchal value system: each opposition can be analysed as a hierarchy where the ‘feminine’ side is always seen as the negative, powerless instance” (104). Inspired by Elizabeth M. DeLoughrey’s concept of “tidalectics”, my article argues that the neologism “glossary islands” provides a more productive way of thinking about the power relations of the relationship of glossaries of Indigenous words to Hulme’s and Lucashenko’s mainly English-language, post-colonial novels. Resisting a binary either/or approach, “glossary islands” engages with the inevitable intermingling of languages of post-colonial and multi-cultural nations and holds value for a new methodological approach to the glossary as an element of post-colonial (islandic) literature.Both The Bone People and Mullumbimby employ female protagonists (Kerewin Holmes and Jo Breen respectively) to explore how family issues resolve into an assertion of place-based community for people othered by enduring colonial forces. Difficult loves and difficult children provide opportunities for tension and uneasy resolution in each text. In Hulme’s novel, Kerewin resists the romantic advances of Joe Gillayley to the end, without ever entirely rejecting him. Similarly, in Mullumbimby, Jo and Twoboy Jackson conduct a vacillating relationship, though one that ultimately steadies. The Bone People tells of an autistic child, Simon P. Gillayley, while Mullumbimby thematises a difficult mother-daughter relationship in its narration of single-mother Jo’s struggles with Ellen. Furthermore, employing realist and magic realist techniques, both novels present family and love as allegories of post-colonial community, thereby exemplifying Stephen Slemon’s thesis that “the real social relations of post-colonial cultures appear, through the mediation of the text’s language of narration, in the thematic dimension of the post-colonial magic realist work” (12).Each text also shows how post-colonial literature always engages with the “abroad” by virtue of the post-colonial relationship of the indigenous “homeland” to the colonial “imported abroad”. DeLoughrey characterises this post-colonial relationship to the “abroad” by a “homeland” as a “tidalectics”, meaning “a dynamic and shifting relationship between land and sea that allows island literatures to be engaged in their spatial and historical complexity” (2-3). The Bone People and Mullumbimby are examples of island literatures for their geographic setting. But DeLoughrey does not compress “tidalectics” to such a reductionist definition. The term itself is as “dynamic and shifting” as what it signifies, and available for diverse post-colonial redeployments (DeLoughrey 2).The margin of land and sea that DeLoughrey foregrounds as constitutive of “tidalectics” is imaginatively re-expressed in both The Bone People and Mullumbimby. Lucashenko’s novel is set in the Byron Bay hinterland, and the text is replete with teasing references to “tidalectics”. For example, “Jo knew that the water she watched was endlessly cycling upriver and down, travelling constantly between the saltwater and the fresh” (Lucashenko 260-61). The writing, however, frequently exceeds a literal “tidalectics”: “Everything in the world was shapeshifting around her, every moment of every day. Nothing remained as it was” (Lucashenko 261).Significantly, Jo is no passive figure at the centre of such “shapeshifting”. She actively takes advantage of the “dynamic and shifting” interplay between elemental presences of her geographical circumstances (DeLoughrey 2). It is while “resting her back against the granite and bronze directional marker that was the last material evidence of humanity between Ocean Shores and New Zealand,” that Jo achieves her major epiphany as a character (Lucashenko 261). “Her eyelids sagged wearily. … Jo groaned aloud, exhausted by her ignorance and the unending demands being made on her to exceed it. The temptation to fall asleep in the sun, and leave these demands far behind, began to take her over. … No. We need answers” (Lucashenko 263). The “tidalectics” of her epiphany is telling: the “silence then splintered” (262) and “momentarily the wrens became, not birds, but mere dark movement” (263). The effect is dramatic: “The hairs on Jo’s arms goosepimpled. Her breathing grew fast” (263). “With an unspoken curse for her own obtuseness”, Jo becomes freshly decisive (264). Thus, a “tidalectics” is not a mere geographic backdrop. Rather, a “dynamic and shifting” landscape—a metamorphosis—energizes Jo’s identity in Mullumbimby. In the “homeland”/“abroad” flux of “tidalectics”, post-colonial community germinates.The geography of The Bone People is also a “tidalectics”, as demonstrated, for instance, by chapter five’s title: “Spring Tide, Neap Tide, Ebb Tide, Flood” (Hulme 202). Hulme’s novel contains literally hundreds of such passages that dramatise the margin of land and sea as “dynamic and shifting” (DeLoughrey 2). Again: “She’s standing on the orangegold shingle, arms akimbo, drinking the beach in, absorbing sea and spindrift, breathing it into her dusty memory. It’s all here, alive and salt and roaring and real. The vast cold ocean and the surf breaking five yards away and the warm knowledge of home just up the shore” (163). Like the protagonist of Mullumbimby, Kerewin Holmes is an energised subject at the margin of land and sea. Geography as “tidalectics” is activated in the construction of character identity. Kerewin involves her surroundings with her sense of self, as constituted through memory, in a fashion that enfolds the literal with the metaphorical: memory is “dusty” in the midst of “vast” waters (163).Thus, at least three senses of “abroad” filter through these novels. Firstly, the “abroad” exists in the sense of an abroad-colonizing power retaining influence even in post-colonial times, as elaborated in Simon During’s distinction between the “post-colonised” and the “post-colonisers” (Simon 460). Secondly, the “abroad” reveals itself in DeLoughrey’s related conceptualisation of “tidalectics” as a specific expression of the “abroad”/“homeland” relationship. Thirdly, the “abroad” is present by virtue of the more general definition it shares with “tidalectics”; for “abroad”, like “tidalectics”, also signifies being widely scattered, at large, ranging freely. There is both denotation and connotation in “tidalectics”, which Lucashenko expresses here: “the world was nothing but water in the air and water in the streams” (82). That is, beyond any “literal littoral” geography, “abroad” is linked to “tidalectics” in this more general sense of being widely scattered, dispersed, ranging freely.The “tidalectics” of Lucashenko’s and Hulme’s novels is also shared across their form because each novel is a complex interweaving of English and the Indigenous language. Here though, we encounter a clear difference between the two novels, which seems related to the predominant genres of the respective texts. In Lucashenko’s largely realist mode of writing, the use of Indigenous words is more transparent to a monolingual English speaker than is Hulme’s use of Maori in her novel, which tends more towards magic realism. A monolingual English speaker can often translate Lucashenko almost automatically, through context, or through an in-text translation of the words worked into the prose. With Hulme, context usually withholds adequate clues to the meaning of the Maori words, nor are any in-text translations of the Maori commonly offered.Leaving aside for now any consideration of their glossaries, each novel presents a different representation of the post-colonial/“abroad” relationship of an Indigenous language to English. Mullumbimby is the more conservative text in this respect. The note prefacing Mullumbimby’s Glossary reads: “In this novel, Jo speaks a mixture of Bundjalung and Yugambeh languages, interspersed with a variety of Aboriginal English terms” (283). However, the Indigenous words often shade quite seamlessly into their English translation, and the “Aboriginal English” Jo speaks is actually not that different from standard English dialogue as found in many contemporary Australian novels. If anything, there is only a slight, distinguishing American flavour to Jo’s dialogue. In Mullumbimby, the Indigenous tongue tends to disappear into the text’s dominant language: English.By contrast, The Bone People contains many instances where Maori presents in all its bold strangeness to a monolingual English speaker. My reading experience consisted in running my eyes over the words but not really taking them in, except insofar as they represented a portion of Maori of unknown meaning. I could look up the recondite English words (of which there were many) in my dictionary or online, but it was much harder to conveniently source definitions of the Maori words, especially when they formed larger syntactic units.The situation is reversed, however, when one considers the two glossaries. Mullumbimby’s glossary asserts the difference of the Indigenous language(s) by having no page numbers alongside its Indigenous words (contrast The Bone People’s glossary) and because, despite being titled Glossary as a self-sufficient part of the book, it is not mentioned in any Contents page. One comes across Lucashenko’s glossary, at the end of her novel, quite unexpectedly. Conversely, Hulme’s glossary is clearly referenced on its Contents page, where it is directly described as a “Translation of Maori Words and Phrases” commencing on page 446. Hulme’s glossary appears predictably, and contains page references to all its Maori words or phrases. This contrasts with Lucashenko’s glossary, which follows alphabetical order, rather than the novel’s order. Mullumbimby’s glossary is thus a more assertive textual element than The Bone People’s glossary, which from the Contents page on is more homogenised with the prevailing English text.Surely the various complexities of these two glossaries show the need for a better way of critically engaging with them that does not lead to the re-accentuation of the binary terms in which the scholarly discussion about their genre has been couched so far. Such a methodology needs to be sensitive to the different forms of these glossaries and of others like them in other texts. But some terminological minesweeping is required in order to develop this methodology, for a novel and a glossary are different textual forms and should not be compared like for like. A novel is a work of the imagination in fictional form whereas a glossary is a meta-text that, according to The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary, comprises “a list with explanations, often accompanying a text, of abstruse, obsolete, dialectal, or technical terms.” The failure to take this difference substantially into account explains why the debate around Hulme’s and Lucashenko’s glossaries as instruments of post-colonial language relationships has defaulted, thus far, to a binary approach insensitive to the complexities of linguistic relations in post-colonial and multi-cultural nations. Ignoring the formal difference between novel and glossary patronises a reading that proceeds by reference to binary opposition, and thus hierarchy.By contrast, my approach is to read these glossaries as texts that can be read and interpreted as one might read and interpret the novels they adjoin, and also with close attention to the architecture of their relationship to the novels they accompany. This close reading methodology enables attention to the differences amongst glossaries, as much as to the differences between them and the texts they gloss. One consequence of this is that, as I have shown above, a text might be conservative so far as its novel segment is concerned, yet radical so far as its glossary is concerned (Mullumbimby), or vice versa (The Bone People).To recap, “tidalectics” provides a way of engaging with the post-colonial/“abroad” (linguistic) complexities of island nations and literatures. It denotes “a dynamic and shifting relationship between land and sea that allows island literatures to be engaged in their spatial and historical complexity” (DeLoughrey 2-3). The methodological challenge for my article is to show how “tidalectics” is useful to a consideration of that sub-genre of post-colonial novels containing glossaries. Elizabeth M. DeLoughrey’s unpacking of “tidalectics” considers not just islands but also the colonial relationships of (archetypally mainland European) colonial forces to islands. Referring to the popularity of “desert-island stories” (12), DeLoughrey notes how “Since the colonial expansion of Europe, its literature has increasingly inscribed the island as a reflection of various political, sociological, and colonial practices” (13). Further, “European inscriptions of island topoi have often upheld imperial logic and must be recognized as ideological tools that helped make colonial expansion possible” (13). DeLoughrey also underscores the characteristics of such “desert-island stories” (12), including how accidental colonization of “a desert isle has been a powerful and repeated trope of empire building and of British literature of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries” (13). Shipwrecks are the most common narrative device of such “accidents”.Drawing on the broad continuum of the several significations of “abroad”, one can draw a parallel between the novel-glossary relationship and the mainland-island relationship DeLoughrey outlines. I recall here Stephen Slemon’s suggestion that “the real social relations of post-colonial cultures appear, through the mediation of the text’s language of narration, in the thematic dimension of the post-colonial magic realist work” (12). Adapting Slemon’s approach, one might read the formal (as opposed to thematic) dimension of the glossary in a post-colonial narrative like The Bone People or Mullumbimby as another literary appearance of “the real social relations of post-colonial cultures” (Slemon 12). What’s appearing is the figure of the island in the form of the glossary: hence, my neologism “glossary islands”. These novels are thus not only examples of island novels to be read via “tidalectics”, but of novels with their own islands appended to them, as glossaries, in the “abroad” of their textuality.Thus, rather than seeing a glossary in a binary either/or way as a sign of the (artificial) supremacy of either English or the Indigenous language, one could use the notion of “glossary islands” to more fully engage with the complexities of post-colonialism as expressed in literature. Seen in this light, a glossary (as to The Bone People or Mullumbimby) can be read as an “abroad” through which the novel circulates its own ideas or inventions of post-colonial community. In this view, islands and glossaries are linked through being intensified sites of knowledge, as described by DeLoughrey. Crucially, the entire, complex, novel-glossary relationship needs to be analysed, and it is possible (though space considerations mediate against pursuing this here) that a post-colonial novel’s glossary expresses the (Freudian) unconscious knowledge of the novel itself.Clearly then, there is a deep irony in how what Simon During calls the “Europeanising apparatus” of the glossary itself becomes, in Mullumbimby, an object of colonisation (During 374). (Recall how one comes across the glossary at the end of Lucashenko’s novel unexpectedly—accidentally—as a European might be cast up upon a desert island.) I hazard the suggestion that a post-colonial novel is more radical in its post-colonial politics the more “island-like” its glossary is, because this implies that the “glossary island” is being used to better work out the nature of post-colonial community as expressed and proposed in the novel itself. Here then, again, the seemingly more radical novel linguistically, The Bone People, seems in fact to be less radical than Mullumbimby, given the latter’s more “island-like” glossary. Certainly their prospects for post-colonial community are being worked out on different levels.Working with the various significations of “abroad” that span the macro level of historical circumstances and the micro levels of post-colonial literature, this article has introduced a new methodological approach to engaging with Indigenous language glossaries at the end of post-colonial texts written largely in English. This methodology responds to the need to go beyond the binary either/or approach that has characterised the debate in this patch of post-colonial studies so far. A binary view of language relations, I suggest, is debilitating to prospects for post-colonial community in post-colonial, multi-cultural and island nations like Australia and New Zealand, where language flows are multifarious and complex. My proposed methodology, as highlighted in the neologism “glossary islands”, seems to show promise for the (re-)interpretation of Mullumbimby and The Bone People as texts that deal, albeit in different ways, with similar issues of language relations and of community. An “abroad” methodology provides a powerful infrastructure for engagement with domains such as post-colonialism that, as Stephen Slemon indicates, involve the intensive intermingling of the largest geo-historical circumstances with the detail, even minutiae, of the textual expression of those circumstances, as in literature.ReferencesDeLoughrey, Elizabeth M. Routes and Roots: Navigating Caribbean and Pacific Island Literatures. Honolulu: U of Hawai’i P, 2007.Dever, Maryanne. “Violence as Lingua Franca: Keri Hulme’s The Bone People.” World Literature Written in English 29.2 (1989): 23-35.During, Simon. “Postmodernism or Postcolonialism?” Landfall 39.3 (1985): 366-80.———. “Postmodernism or Post-Colonialism Today.” Postmodernism: A Reader. Ed. Thomas Docherty. New York: Harvester Wheatsheaf, 1993. 448-62.Hulme, Keri. The Bone People. London: Pan-Picador, 1986.Lucashenko, Melissa. Mullumbimby. St Lucia, Queensland: U of Queensland P, 2013.Moi, Toril. Sexual/Textual Politics: Feminist Literary Theory. London: Routledge, 1985.Slemon, Stephen. “Magic Realism as Post-Colonial Discourse.” Canadian Literature 116 (Spring 1988): 9-24.The New Shorter Oxford English Dictionary. Ed. Lesley Brown. Oxford: Clarendon P, 1993.Vincent, Eve. “Country Matters.” Sydney Review of Books. Sydney: The Writing and Society Research Centre at the University of Western Sydney, 2013. 8 Aug. 2016 <http://sydneyreviewofbooks.com/country-matters/>.