Journal articles on the topic 'Degree Discipline: Museum and Heritage Studies'

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

The article is devoted to the scientific and pedagogical activities of the candidate of pedagogical sciences, associate professor of the Department of Museology and Cultural Heritage of St. Petersburg State Institute of Culture, Honored Worker of the Higher School of the Russian Federation L. M. Shlyakhtina. Working at the department since its foundation in 1988, she actively participates in the formation and implementation of educational and scientific strategies of this department of the university. As the author of the training courses «Theoretical problems of museology» and «Museum pedagogy», as well as the developer of innovative disciplines of educational programs in the direction of «Museology and protection of cultural and natural heritage» for bachelor’s and master’s degrees, L. M. Shlyakhtina greatly contributed to the professionalization of museum work in Russia. Analyzing the manuals and scientific works created by her and actively used in the educational process, which have become pivotal studies in the field of theoretical museology, museum pedagogy, museological education, the authors state the great personal contribution of L. M. Shlyakhtina in the formation of the scientific school of museology at SPbGIK and in the scientific and methodological support of the training process for the museum industry.

This article explores the hypothesis that the concept of heritage is relevant for a university-based degree course in legal translators and interpreters’ training. The research rests on the legal and academic understanding of cultural heritage. The study explores its specifics regarding the English-taught discipline on Legal Translation and Interpreting Studies within the above-mentioned graduate program. The research integrates qualitative tools and statistical instruments, starts with the theoretical consideration of legislative and academic sources, proceeds to the empirical studies of heritage samples, and considers their relevance for the heritage module design within the specified discipline. The experimental design of such a module and its use for the training of students are also part of the present investigation that further explores students’ perceptions of the heritage module under study, with reference to their future career tracks. The study reveals the specifics and components of the heritage framework for the discipline under study and identifies those areas of professional activities for which students consider the heritage module as most useful and relevant. These issues have not been a subject for academic research so far, which contributes to the research relevance and novelty.

Abstract This article presents an analysis of the most recent statue of Bruce Lee displayed in the entrance to the Bruce Lee exhibition at the Hong Kong Heritage Museum. The analysis primarily utilizes O’Toole’s social semiotic framework as outlined in The language of displayed art (1994, 2011) in the tradition of systemic functional linguistics for analyzing the multimodality of sculpture, and provides insights into how the statue represents the kung fu legend Bruce Lee, who created the martial arts discipline of Jeet June Do. The article begins by first analyzing its sculptural features and then interprets these features against the sociocultural context of the city. The paper argues that the cultural background for the representation of Lee in the statue with its unique representational, modal, and compositional features testifies that meanings attributed to visual information in sculpture are to a large degree socially structured and culturally bound. It shows that the location of the statue and its features such as its gaze and torso can be better understood with reference to the political and cultural significance of Lee’s legacies, thereby enhancing our understanding of the social semiotic nature of statues as a means of commemoration- and a significant part of our cultural heritage.

The article will focus on the history of the formation of one of the fundamental branches of Kazakh literary science – Abay studies. An overview of the history of the formation and study of the history of Abay studies is made, scientific works that have shown the heritage of Abay in different years are analyzed. In the main part, a brief analysis of the history of Abai's knowledge, the study of the poet's heritage in general, a lot of scientifically valuable historical facts are analyzed. Through the work of scientists studying the history of Abay studies, the personality and civic identity of the poet are revealed. After studying the research of research scientists in research works and monographs, the importance and effectiveness of the modern discipline of Abay studies is shown. The history of the study and the stages of the formation of Abay studies are differentiated in modern times, when the degree of research of data on the heritage of Abay is increasing. Starting with M. Auezov, who brought Abay studies into the scientific system, based on the works of Y.Mustambayevich, K.Zhubanov, B.Kenzhebayev, K.Zhumaliyev, Z.Akhmetov, K.Mukhamedkhanov, M.Myrzakhmetuly, it is necessary to look at the history of the formation of Abay studies and analyze the works of the independence period from a new angle.

Improving heritage educommunication on the web 2.0 is key to reaching certain sustainable development goals focused on educational quality and citizen participation. Although numerous partial studies have already been conducted, to date neither assessment tools nor detailed studies are available regarding the quality of educommunicative initiatives. Spain and Italy’s archaeological heritage museums have a consolidated track record on Twitter, which has been bolstered by museum closures due to COVID-19 and has resulted in a significant change to their educommunicative policies. The present article aims to analyze educommunicative actions undertaken on Twitter at Italian archaeological museums, compare their strategies with a previous study on Spanish institutions, and analyze to what degree the sustainability of heritage, citizen participation, learning opportunities, and universal access are being promoted. This mixed method analysis was carried out through the implementation of a web 2.0 heritage educommunication analysis tool focused on three key factors: educational procedure, R-elational interactions, and the prevailing learning paradigm, as well as a content analysis of the variables that comprise them. The key findings suggest that neither country is close to achieving a quality educommunicative strategy. Italian archaeological heritage institutions use Twitter simply as an advertising platform. Despite being a social media platform, participative initiatives are scarcely promoted, although heritage sustainability is promoted through raising awareness of conservation and appreciation. Spanish institutions, however, demonstrated the opposite pattern of use.

Abstract According to Bruno Zevi, the Italian Memorial housed at Block 21 of the Auschwitz concentration camp is among the most significant works of contemporary architecture. Recently, it has become the focus of a political and cultural conflict that is itself worthy of study. The memorial was designed as a post-war symbol of the anti-Fascist movement. It is thus heavily influenced by the politics of the Resistance, which characterized the First Republic and influenced the Italian Constitution. However, this sort of politics is incompatible with the post-Berlin-Wall narrative that the Museum of Auschwitz on the international level, along with various Italian governments on the national level, have decided to promote in the twenty-first century. Yet the Italian Memorial is an integral part of the World Heritage UNESCO site at Auschwitz, and its removal or transfer elsewhere, besides constituting a loss for Italian cultural identity, would also vitiate and downgrade the history of Auschwitz. This study looks at the memorial in terms of the discipline of conservation, applying principles elaborated by the Vienna School (Alois Riegl and Max Dvořák) to show how new exhibitions for the pavilions threaten to transform Auschwitz from a monument and historical document into a museum-style fairground, and to reveal the political motivation behind claims of the Memorial’s contemporary irrelevance.

Introduction. The present review article is devoted to written Mongolian collections from repositories in different regions of Russia, which were formed thanks to the selfless work of brilliant Orientalists. At present, there is an urgent need in systematization, analysis, search for information, and distant access to archival records and written sources, which will give researchers more opportunities for distant work with sources. Accordingly, perspectives of using information technologies will fascilitate the coordination and wider cooperation, as well as greater openness in the academic environment, the urgency of which is quite obvious. It is the right moment, too, because, first of all, the data on written sources is still scattered in a variety of publications; secondly, 2018 saw the launch of a grandiose project ”World Heritage of Mongolians”, which is primarily designed to create a uniform inventory of historical-documentary heritage of Mongolian peoples. The project plans include the publication of twenty volumes to present collections of written monuments dispersed in various countries of the world: Russia, Japan, China, the USA, France, Denmark, Hungary, etc. Three volumes will be devoted to Mongolian sources from Russian repositories. The purpose of the present article is to give an overview of the repositories of the documentary heritage of the Mongolian peoples in different regions of Russia. Results. The largest collections of Mongolian written sources are stored in St Petersburg (Scientific Library of St Petersburg University, Institute of Oriental Manuscripts of the Russian Academy of Sciences, State Museum for the History of Religion, National Library of Russia), in Buryatia (Center for Oriental Manuscripts and Xylographs, Institute for Mongolian, Buddhist and Tibetan Studies of the Siberian Branch of the RAS; V. A. Obruchev Kyakhta Museum for Local Studies), in Tyva (Aldan-Maadyr National Museum of the Republic of Tyva, Scientific Archive of the Tyva Institute for Studies in the Humanities and Applied Socio-Economics), in the Republic of Tatarstan (National Archive of the Republic of Tatarstan), and in Kalmykia (Scientific Archive of the Kalmyk Scientific Center of the Russian Academy of Sciences, National Archive of the Republic of Kalmykia, N.N. Pal´mov Kalmyk Museum of Local Studies); these comprise representative collections, including rare and unique monuments of Mongolian written literature. Some of these collections have been studied to a degree, but there are still many to be introduced into scientific circulation. That is why it is of urgent importance to represent written Mongolian sources, their significant part kept in Russian repositories. Further work on identifying and describing the documentary heritage of the Mongolian peoples will contribute to our knowledge of the field that still needs to be investigated.

Museology is basically a field of study referring to museum institutions. From the historical aspect as well as their basic philosophy, their goals and policies and functions either from the point of view of education, politics or even social roles. Museology can be said to be a relatively new discipline whose prevalence is largely an intellectual product of the 20th century. However, it is certain that the concept of Museology has existed at least since the 17th century, where the development of the idea of museology appears to have developed along with the early development of the museum. During that period of time, museology has helped the development of museum institutions either in terms of concept or in terms of museum management. The change of museums from institutions that are only focused on the conservation and restoration of artefact collections, now they are community-oriented (community-oriented), becoming exhibition spaces and platforms for dialogue and communication in general with visitors. This study uses a qualitative method by analysing the data of studies on the development of museology in the field of museology. The focus of the study focuses on the definition, background and what is the significance and influence of museology in museum institutions in Malaysia. The results of the study show that the museum provides significant theoretical and practical museum aspects. Practical practice is a priority in the management of museum work to produce professionals in the field of museums while the existing theoretical will play a role as criticism needed to implement improvements and guidance to museum management because the museum's function as a treasure heritage institution can be implemented well. In addition, museology has also applied critical thinking to social and political issues. In the context of Malaysia, museology has called for the removal of all colonial influences in museum institutions through the implementation of decolonization after the country achieved independence. Then it changed the museum from colonialism, now it has been used as a tool for nation building in uniting a multi-ethnic and cultural society.

We’ll have trouble now!The Archaeological Society of Jutland was founded on Sunday, 11 March 1951. As with most projects with which P.V Glob was involved, this did not pass off without drama. Museum people and amateur archaeologists in large numbers appeared at the Museum of Natural History in Aarhus, which had placed rooms at our disposal. The notable dentist Holger Friis, the uncrowned king of Hjørring, was present, as was Dr Balslev from Aidt, Mr and Mrs Overgaard from Holstebro Museum, and the temperamental leader of Aalborg Historical Museum, Peter Riismøller, with a number of his disciples. The staff of the newly-founded Prehistoric Museum functioned as the hosts, except that one of them was missing: the instigator of the whole enterprise, Mr Glob. As the time for the meeting approached, a cold sweat broke out on the foreheads of the people present. Finally, just one minute before the meeting was to start, he arrived and mounted the platform. Everything then went as expected. An executive committee was elected after some discussion, laws were passed, and then suddenly Glob vanished again, only to materialise later in the museum, where he confided to us that his family, which included four children, had been enlarged by a daughter.That’s how the society was founded, and there is not much to add about this. However, a few words concerning the background of the society and its place in a larger context may be appropriate. A small piece of museum history is about to be unfolded.The story begins at the National Museum in the years immediately after World War II, at a time when the German occupation and its incidents were still terribly fresh in everyone’s memory. Therkel Mathiassen was managing what was then called the First Department, which covered the prehistoric periods.Although not sparkling with humour, he was a reliable and benevolent person. Number two in the order of precedence was Hans Christian Broholm, a more colourful personality – awesome as he walked down the corridors, with his massive proportions and a voice that sounded like thunder when nothing seemed to be going his way, as quite often seemed to be the case. Glob, a relatively new museum keeper, was also quite loud at times – his hot-blooded artist’s nature manifested itself in peculiar ways, but his straight forward appearance made him popular with both the older and the younger generations. His somewhat younger colleague C.J. Becker was a scholar to his fingertips, and he sometimes acted as a welcome counterbalance to Glob. At the bottom of the hierarchy was the student group, to which I belonged. The older students handled various tasks, including periodic excavations. This was paid work, and although the salary was by no means princely, it did keep us alive. Student grants were non-existent at the time. Four of us made up a team: Olfert Voss, Mogens Ørsnes, Georg Kunwald and myself. Like young people in general, we were highly discontented with the way our profession was being run by its ”ruling” members, and we were full of ideas for improvement, some of which have later been – or are being – introduced.At the top of our wish list was a central register, of which Voss was the strongest advocate. During the well over one hundred years that archaeology had existed as a professional discipline, the number of artefacts had grown to enormous amounts. The picture was even worse if the collections of the provincial museums were taken into consideration. We imagined how it all could be registered in a card index and categorised according to groups to facilitate access to references in any particular situation. Electronic data processing was still unheard of in those days, but since the introduction of computers, such a comprehensive record has become more feasible.We were also sceptical of the excavation techniques used at the time – they were basically adequate, but they badly needed tightening up. As I mentioned before, we were often working in the field, and not just doing minor jobs but also more important tasks, so we had every opportunity to try out our ideas. Kunwald was the driving force in this respect, working with details, using sections – then a novelty – and proceeding as he did with a thoroughness that even his fellow students found a bit exaggerated at times, although we agreed with his principles. Therkel Mathiassen moaned that we youngsters were too expensive, but he put up with our excesses and so must have found us somewhat valuable. Very valuable indeed to everyon e was Ejnar Dyggve’s excavation of the Jelling mounds in the early 1940s. From a Danish point of view, it was way ahead of its time.Therkel Mathiassen justly complained about the economic situation of the National Museum. Following the German occupation, the country was impoverished and very little money was available for archaeological research: the total sum available for the year 1949 was 20,000 DKK, which corresponded to the annual income of a wealthy man, and was of course absolutely inadequate. Of course our small debating society wanted this sum to be increased, and for once we didn’t leave it at the theoretical level.Voss was lucky enough to know a member of the Folketing (parliament), and a party leader at that. He was brought into the picture, and between us we came up with a plan. An article was written – ”Preserve your heritage” (a quotation from Johannes V. Jensen’s Denmark Song) – which was sent to the newspaper Information. It was published, and with a little help on our part the rest of the media, including radio, picked up the story.We informed our superiors only at the last minute, when everything was arranged. They were taken by surprise but played their parts well, as expected, and everything went according to plan. The result was a considerable increase in excavation funds the following year.It should be added that our reform plans included the conduct of exhibitions. We found the traditional way of presenting the artefacts lined up in rows and series dull and outdated. However, we were not able to experiment within this field.Our visions expressed the natural collision with the established ways that comes with every new generation – almost as a law of nature, but most strongly when the time is ripe. And this was just after the war, when communication with foreign colleagues, having been discontinued for some years, was slowly picking up again. The Archaeological Society of Jutland was also a part of all this, so let us turn to what Hans Christian Andersen somewhat provocatively calls the ”main country”.Until 1949, only the University of Copenhagen provided a degree in prehistoric archaeology. However, in this year, the University of Aarhus founded a chair of archaeology, mainly at the instigation of the Lord Mayor, Svend Unmack Larsen, who was very in terested in archaeology. Glob applied for the position and obtained it, which encompassed responsibility for the old Aarhus Museum or, as it was to be renamed, the Prehistoric Museum (now Moesgaard Museum).These were landmark events to Glob – and to me, as it turned out. We had been working together for a number of years on the excavation of Galgebakken (”Callows Hill”) near Slots Bjergby, Glob as the excavation leader, and I as his assistant. He now offered me the job of museum curator at his new institution. This was somewhat surprising as I had not yet finished my education. The idea was that I was to finish my studies in remote Jutland – a plan that had to be given up rather quickly, though, for reasons which I will describe in the following. At the same time, Gunner Lange-Kornbak – also hand-picked from the National Museum – took up his office as a conservation officer.The three of us made up the permanent museum staff, quickly supplemented by Geoffrey Bibby, who turned out to be an invaluable colleague. He was English and had been stationed in the Faeroe Islands during the war, where he learned to speak Danish. After 1945 he worked for some years for an oil company in the Gulf of Persia, but after marrying Vibeke, he settled in her home town of Aarhus. As his academic background had involved prehistoric cultures he wanted to collaborate with the museum, which Glob readily permitted.This small initial flock governed by Glob was not permitted to indulge inidleness. Glob was a dynamic character, full of good and not so good ideas, but also possessing a good grasp of what was actually practicable. The boring but necessary daily work on the home front was not very interesting to him, so he willingly handed it over to others. He hardly noticed the lack of administrative machinery, a prerequisite for any scholarly museum. It was not easy to follow him on his flights of fancy and still build up the necessary support base. However, the fact that he in no way spared himself had an appeasing effect.Provincial museums at that time were of a mixed nature. A few had trained management, and the rest were run by interested locals. This was often excellently done, as in Esbjerg, where the master joiner Niels Thomsen and a staff of volunteers carried out excavations that were as good as professional investigations, and published them in well-written articles. Regrettably, there were also examples of the opposite. A museum curator in Jutland informed me that his predecessor had been an eager excavator but very rarely left any written documentation of his actions. The excavated items were left without labels in the museum store, often wrapped in newspapers. However, these gave a clue as to the time of unearthing, and with a bit of luck a look in the newspaper archive would then reveal where the excavation had taken place. Although somewhat exceptional, this is not the only such case.The Museum of Aarhus definitely belonged among the better ones in this respect. Founded in 1861, it was at first located at the then town hall, together with the local art collection. The rooms here soon became too cramped, and both collections were moved to a new building in the ”Mølleparken” park. There were skilful people here working as managers and assistants, such as Vilhelm Boye, who had received his archaeological training at the National Museum, and later the partners A. Reeh, a barrister, and G.V. Smith, a captain, who shared the honour of a number of skilfully performed excavations. Glob’s predecessor as curator was the librarian Ejler Haugsted, also a competent man of fine achievements. We did not, thus, take over a museum on its last legs. On the other hand, it did not meet the requirements of a modern scholarly museum. We were given the task of turning it into such a museum, as implied by the name change.The goal was to create a museum similar to the National Museum, but without the faults and shortcomings that that museum had developed over a period of time. In this respect our nightly conversations during our years in Copenhagen turned out to be useful, as our talk had focused on these imperfections and how to eradicate them.We now had the opportunity to put our theories into practice. We may not have succeeded in doing so, but two areas were essentially improved:The numerous independent numbering systems, which were familiar to us from the National Museum, were permeating archaeological excavation s not only in the field but also during later work at the museum. As far as possible this was boiled down to a single system, and a new type of report was born. (In this context, a ”report” is the paper following a field investigation, comprising drawings, photos etc. and describing the progress of the work and the observations made.) The instructions then followed by the National Museum staff regarding the conduct of excavations and report writing went back to a 19th-century protocol by the employee G.V. Blom. Although clear and rational – and a vast improvement at the time – this had become outdated. For instance, the excavation of a burial mound now involved not only the middle of the mound, containing the central grave and its surrounding artefacts, but the complete structure. A large number of details that no one had previously paid attention to thus had to be included in the report. It had become a comprehensive and time-consuming work to sum up the desultory notebook records in a clear and understandable description.The instructions resulting from the new approach determined a special records system that made it possible to transcribe the notebook almost directly into a report following the excavation. The transcription thus contained all the relevant information concerning the in vestigation, and included both relics and soil layers, the excavation method and practical matters, although in a random order. The report proper could then bereduced to a short account containing references to the numbers in the transcribed notebook, which gave more detailed information.As can be imagined, the work of reform was not a continuous process. On the contrary, it had to be done in our spare hours, which were few and far between with an employer like Glob. The assignments crowded in, and the large Jutland map that we had purchased was as studded with pins as a hedge hog’s spines. Each pin represented an inuninent survey, and many of these grew into small or large excavations. Glob himself had his lecture duties to perform, and although he by no means exaggerated his concern for the students, he rarely made it further than to the surveys. Bibby and I had to deal with the hard fieldwork. And the society, once it was established, did not make our lives any easier. Kuml demanded articles written at lightning speed. A perusal of my then diary has given me a vivid recollection of this hectic period, in which I had to make use of the evening and night hours, when the museum was quiet and I had a chance to collect my thoughts. Sometimes our faithful supporter, the Lord Mayor, popped in after an evening meeting. He was extremely interested in our problems, which were then solved according to our abilities over a cup of instant coffee.A large archaeological association already existed in Denmark. How ever, Glob found it necessary to establish another one which would be less oppressed by tradition. Det kongelige nordiske Oldsskriftselskab had been funded in 1825 and was still influenced by different peculiarities from back then. Membership was not open to everyone, as applications were subject to recommendation from two existing members and approval by a vote at one of the monthly lecture meetings. Most candidates were of course accepted, but unpopular persons were sometimes rejected. In addition, only men were admitted – women were banned – but after the war a proposal was brought forward to change this absurdity. It was rejected at first, so there was a considerable excitement at the January meeting in 1951, when the proposal was once again placed on the agenda. The poor lecturer (myself) did his best, although he was aware of the fact that just this once it was the present and not the past which was the focus of attention. The result of the voting was not very courteous as there were still many opponents, but the ladies were allowed in, even if they didn’t get the warmest welcome.In Glob’s society there were no such restrictions – everyone was welcome regardless of sex or age. If there was a model for the society, it was the younger and more progressive Norwegian Archaeological Society rather than the Danish one. The main purpose of both societies was to produce an annual publication, and from the start Glob’s Kuml had a closer resemblance to the Norwegian Viking than to the Danish Aarbøger for nordisk Oldkyndighed og Historie. The name of the publication caused careful consideration. For a long time I kept a slip of paper with different proposals, one of which was Kuml, which won after having been approved by the linguist Peter Skautrup.The name alone, however, was not enough, so now the task became to find so mething to fill Kuml with. To this end the finds came in handy, and as for those, Glob must have allied him self with the higher powers, since fortune smiled at him to a considerable extent. Just after entering upon his duties in Aarhus, an archaeological sensation landed at his feet. This happened in May 1950 when I was still living in the capital. A few of us had planned a trip to Aarhus, partly to look at the relics of th e past, and partly to visit our friend, the professor. He greeted us warmly and told us the exciting news that ten iron swords had been found during drainage work in the valley of lllerup Aadal north of the nearby town of Skanderborg. We took the news calmly as Glob rarely understated his affairs, but our scepticism was misplaced. When we visited the meadow the following day and carefully examined the dug-up soil, another sword appeared, as well as several spear and lance heads, and other iron artefacts. What the drainage trench diggers had found was nothing less than a place of sacrifice for war booty, like the four large finds from the 1800s. When I took up my post in Aarhus in September of that year I was granted responsibility for the lllerup excavation, which I worked on during the autumn and the following six summers. Some of my best memories are associated with this job – an interesting and happy time, with cheerful comradeship with a mixed bunch of helpers, who were mainly archaeology students. When we finished in 1956, it was not because the site had been fully investigated, but because the new owner of the bog plot had an aversion to archaeologists and their activities. Nineteen years later, in 1975, the work was resumed, this time under the leadership of Jørgen Ilkjær, and a large amount of weaponry was uncovered. The report from the find is presently being published.At short intervals, the year 1952 brought two finds of great importance: in Februar y the huge vessel from Braa near Horsens, and in April the Grauballe Man. The large Celtic bronze bowl with the bulls’ heads was found disassembled, buried in a hill and covered by a couple of large stones. Thanks to the finder, the farmer Søren Paaske, work was stopped early enough to leave areas untouched for the subsequent examination.The saga of the Grauballe Man, or the part of it that we know, began as a rumour on the 26th of April: a skeleton had been found in a bog near Silkeborg. On the following day, which happened to be a Sunday, Glob went off to have a look at the find. I had other business, but I arrived at the museum in the evening with an acquaintance. In my diary I wrote: ”When we came in we had a slight shock. On the floor was a peat block with a corpse – a proper, well-preserved bog body. Glob brought it. ”We’ll be in trouble now.” And so we were, and Glob was in high spirits. The find created a sensation, which was also thanks to the quick presentation that we mounted. I had purchased a tape recorder, which cost me a packet – not a small handy one like the ones you get nowadays, but a large monstrosity with a steel tape (it was, after all, early days for this device) – and assisted by several experts, we taped a number of short lectures for the benefit of the visitors. People flocked in; the queue meandered from the exhibition room, through the museum halls, and a long way down the street. It took a long wait to get there, but the visitors seemed to enjoy the experience. The bog man lay in his hastily – procured exhibition case, which people circled around while the talking machine repeatedly expressed its words of wisdom – unfortunately with quite a few interruptions as the tape broke and had to be assembled by hand. Luckily, the tape recorders now often used for exhibitions are more dependable than mine.When the waves had died down and the exhibition ended, the experts examined the bog man. He was x-rayed at several points, cut open, given a tooth inspection, even had his fingerprints taken. During the autopsy there was a small mishap, which we kept to ourselves. However, after almost fifty years I must be able to reveal it: Among the organs removed for investigation was the liver, which was supposedly suitable for a C-14 dating – which at the time was a new dating method, introduced to Denmark after the war. The liver was sent to the laboratory in Copenhagen, and from here we received a telephone call a few days later. What had been sent in for examination was not the liver, but the stomach. The unfortunate (and in all other respects highly competent) Aarhus doctor who had performed the dissection was cal1ed in again. During another visit to the bogman’s inner parts he brought out what he believed to be the real liver. None of us were capable of deciding th is question. It was sent to Copenhagen at great speed, and a while later the dating arrived: Roman Iron Age. This result was later revised as the dating method was improved. The Grauballe Man is now thought to have lived before the birth of Christ.The preservation of the Grauballe Man was to be conservation officer Kornbak’s masterpiece. There were no earlier cases available for reference, so he invented a new method, which was very successful. In the first volumes of Kuml, society members read about the exiting history of the bog body and of the glimpses of prehistoric sacrificial customs that this find gave. They also read about the Bahrain expeditions, which Glob initiated and which became the apple of his eye. Bibby played a central role in this, as it was he who – at an evening gathering at Glob’s and Harriet’s home in Risskov – described his stay on the Persian Gulf island and the numerous burial mounds there. Glob made a quick decision (one of his special abilities was to see possibilities that noone else did, and to carry them out successfully to everyone’s surprise) and in December 1952 he and Bibby left for the Gulf, unaware of the fact that they were thereby beginning a series of expeditions which would continue for decades. Again it was Glob’s special genius that was the decisive factor. He very quickly got on friendly terms with the rulers of the small sheikhdoms and interested them in their past. As everyone knows, oil is flowing plentifully in those parts. The rulers were thus financially powerful and some of this wealth was quickly diverted to the expeditions, which probably would not have survived for so long without this assistance. To those of us who took part in them from time to time, the Gulf expeditions were an unforgettable experience, not just because of the interesting work, but even more because of the contact with the local population, which gave us an insight into local manners and customs that helped to explain parts of our own country’s past which might otherwise be difficult to understand. For Glob and the rest of us did not just get close to the elite: in spite of language problems, our Arab workers became our good friends. Things livened up when we occasionally turned up in their palm huts.Still, co-operating with Glob was not always an easy task – the sparks sometimes flew. His talent of initiating things is of course undisputed, as are the lasting results. He was, however, most attractive when he was in luck. Attention normally focused on this magnificent person whose anecdotes were not taken too seriously, but if something went wrong or failed to work out, he could be grossly unreasonable and a little too willing to abdicate responsibility, even when it was in fact his. This might lead to violent arguments, but peace was always restored. In 1954, another museum curator was attached to the museum: Poul Kjærum, who was immediately given the important task of investigating the dolmen settlement near Tustrup on Northern Djursland. This gave important results, such as the discovery of a cult house, which was a new and hitherto unknown Stone Age feature.A task which had long been on our mind s was finally carried out in 1955: constructing a new display of the museum collections. The old exhibitio n type consisted of numerous artefacts lined up in cases, accompaied ony by a brief note of the place where it was found and the type – which was the standard then. This type of exhibition did not give much idea of life in prehistoric times.We wanted to allow the finds to speak for themselves via the way that they were arranged, and with the aid of models, photos and drawings. We couldn’t do without texts, but these could be short, as people would understand more by just looking at the exhibits. Glob was in the Gulf at the time, so Kjærum and I performed the task with little money but with competent practical help from conservator Kornbak. We shared the work, but in fairness I must add that my part, which included the new lllerup find, was more suitable for an untraditional display. In order to illustrate the confusion of the sacrificial site, the numerous bent swords and other weapons were scattered a.long the back wall of the exhibition hall, above a bog land scape painted by Emil Gregersen. A peat column with inlaid slides illustrated the gradual change from prehistoric lake to bog, while a free-standing exhibition case held a horse’s skeleton with a broken skull, accompanied by sacrificial offerings. A model of the Nydam boat with all its oars sticking out hung from the ceiling, as did the fine copy of the Gundestrup vessel, as the Braa vessel had not yet been preserved. The rich pictorial decoration of the vessel’s inner plates was exhibited in its own case underneath. This was an exhibition form that differed considerably from all other Danish exhibitions of the time, and it quickly set a fashion. We awaited Glob’s homecoming with anticipation – if it wasn’t his exhibition it was still made in his spirit. We hoped that he would be surprised – and he was.The museum was thus taking shape. Its few employees included Jytte Ræbild, who held a key position as a secretary, and a growing number of archaeology students who took part in the work in various ways during these first years. Later, the number of employees grew to include the aforementioned excavation pioneer Georg Kunwald, and Hellmuth Andersen and Hans Jørgen Madsen, whose research into the past of Aarhus, and later into Danevirke is known to many, and also the ethnographer Klaus Ferdinand. And now Moesgaard appeared on the horizon. It was of course Glob’s idea to move everything to a manor near Aarhus – he had been fantasising about this from his first Aarhus days, and no one had raised any objections. Now there was a chance of fulfilling the dream, although the actual realisation was still a difficult task.During all this, the Jutland Archaeological Society thrived and attracted more members than expected. Local branches were founded in several towns, summer trips were arranged and a ”Worsaae Medal” was occasionally donated to persons who had deserved it from an archaeological perspective. Kuml came out regularly with contributions from museum people and the like-minded. The publication had a form that appealed to an inner circle of people interested in archaeology. This was the intention, and this is how it should be. But in my opinion this was not quite enough. We also needed a publication that would cater to a wider public and that followed the same basic ideas as the new exhibition.I imagined a booklet, which – without over-popularsing – would address not only the professional and amateur archaeologist but also anyone else interested in the past. The result was Skalk, which (being a branch of the society) published its fir t issue in the spring of 1957. It was a somewhat daring venture, as the financial base was weak and I had no knowledge of how to run a magazine. However, both finances and experience grew with the number of subscribers – and faster than expected, too. Skalk must have met an unsatisfied need, and this we exploited to the best of our ability with various cheap advertisements. The original idea was to deal only with prehistoric and medieval archaeology, but the historians also wanted to contribute, and not just the digging kind. They were given permission, and so the topic of the magazine ended up being Denmark’s past from the time of its first inhabitant s until the times remembered by the oldest of us – with the odd sideways leap to other subjects. It would be impossible to claim that Skalk was at the top of Glob’s wish list, but he liked it and supported the idea in every way. The keeper of national antiquities, Johannes Brøndsted, did the same, and no doubt his unreserved approval of the magazine contributed to its quick growth. Not all authors found it easy to give up technical language and express themselves in everyday Danish, but the new style was quickly accepted. Ofcourse the obligations of the magazine work were also sometimes annoying. One example from the diary: ”S. had promised to write an article, but it was overdue. We agreed to a final deadline and when that was overdue I phoned again and was told that the author had gone to Switzerland. My hair turned grey overnight.” These things happened, but in this particular case there was a happy ending. Another academic promised me three pages about an excavation, but delivered ten. As it happened, I only shortened his production by a third.The 1960s brought great changes. After careful consideration, Glob left us to become the keeper of national antiquities. One important reason for his hesitation was of course Moesgaard, which he missed out on – the transfer was almost settled. This was a great loss to the Aarhus museum and perhaps to Glob, too, as life granted him much greater opportunities for development.” I am not the type to regret things,” he later stated, and hopefully this was true. And I had to choose between the museum and Skalk – the work with the magazine had become too timeconsuming for the two jobs to be combined. Skalk won, and I can truthfully say that I have never looked back. The magazine grew quickly, and happy years followed. My resignation from the museum also meant that Skalk was disengaged from the Jutland Archaeological Society, but a close connection remained with both the museum and the society.What has been described here all happened when the museum world was at the parting of the ways. It was a time of innovation, and it is my opinion that we at the Prehistoric Museum contributed to that change in various ways.The new Museum Act of 1958 gave impetus to the study of the past. The number of archaeology students in creased tremendously, and new techniques brought new possibilities that the discussion club of the 1940s had not even dreamt of, but which have helped to make some of the visions from back then come true. Public in terest in archaeology and history is still avid, although to my regret, the ahistorical 1960s and 1970s did put a damper on it.Glob is greatly missed; not many of his kind are born nowadays. He had, so to say, great virtues and great fault s, but could we have done without either? It is due to him that we have the Jutland Archaeological Society, which has no w existed for half a century. Congr tulat ion s to the Society, from your offspring Skalk.Harald AndersenSkalk MagazineTranslated by Annette Lerche Trolle

There is a complete assessment of approaches regarding conservation in the modern heritage suburbs field. As we know that the modern heritage conservation as cultural heritage to a limited degree has been accepted inside a known structure and discipline, and inside hypothesis, the preservation legislation inconsistency has been critically evaluated. The conservation scope is seen restricted to the old and historical, and hence it renders latest heritage not worth of any such conservation. In many countries like Egypt this is seen valid. Regardless of confined elucidations of current and advanced heritage which is able to foresee the mono typing, the cultural suggestions and “product of the past” state are denied especially of the 20th century. There is degradation in the expanding and transforming features of cultural heritage which is immovable. In Egypt, as such, the latest or modern heritage undergoes inadequate analysis and is generally featured inside the cultural heritage framework. The buildings and their conservation started from the 20th century inside the predilection of Ministry of Heritage and Culture. As no such criteria are determined for such preference, there is a gradual loss in the buildings which symbolize the modern heritage regardless of their unique style and structure in relation to other infrastructure which is considered for conservation. The conservation of modern heritage is rendered with the threat of being torn down or destroyed due to aging functionally and physically inside the cultural heritage framework. This also includes the legal context updating on the basis of recent and modern parameters, essential and vital. The buildings which are not only the modern heritage products, but also the important and vital sources of the city’s history, as well as architecture needed to be sustained and hence Egyptian history and the process of rapid modernization, is becoming more and more important. It is through an impact of Cairo (the capital city) on urban identity. In short, the aim of this paper is to focus on the Heliopolis heritage suburbs and the related studies on the current sustenance of suburbs of modern heritage. Moreover, the approach to conserve heritage suburbs is assessed in this paper, which was developed at first in Cairo in the nineteenth century and the beginning of 20th century. Heliopolis heritage suburbs are given particular importance here in this paper.

Historical textiles are fragile and more prone to damage. Regarding this inconvenience, heritage sample analyzes arequite difficult to achieve primarily due to fiber degradation, secondly due to the complex composition (the samples canalso contain metallic threads or some other components) and last, but not least, because of the microbiologicaldegradation. The samples evaluated in this paper were used as support for a wooden sarcophagus containing anEgyptian mummy which is estimated to be over 2000 years old.The purpose of this work was to carry out a preliminary characterization of the samples, using minimally invasivetechniques. Thus, two types of methods were used: SEM evaluation and microbiological assessment. SEM analysisrevealed that the constituent fibers for all the samples are natural fibers of animal origin: wool and alpaca fibers. SEMalso provided information about the surface of the fibers and more than that, by using this equipment it was possible tovisualize the degree of degradation most likely caused by the attack of insects and different types of fungi and bacteria.Bioburden isolation from the archaeological samples highlighted that the highest bioburden load was registered bysample B, followed by sample C and sample A. After the screening it was concluded that all samples present bothfilamentous fungi specific structures and bacteria specific structures. The future studies will be directed towardsobtaining more information by micro- or non-destructive methods

Distance education is a hotly debated subject in the scientific and pedagogical environment of the newest period; in the methodological literature, issues of practical and theoretical nature are actively discussed (from the effectiveness of remote servers to ethical issues that arise during classes). As a positive experience, the article presents the materials of practical classes of the course “History of civilizations”, which is read by the author at St Petersburg State University of Industrial Technologies and Design, in a distance format as well. The material is built according to the problem-chronological principle, that allows students to consolidate what they have learned in lectures, supplement their knowledge using various visualization and illustration methods, thus deepening their understanding of the topic as a whole. An indirect appeal to historical sources is possible when analyzing monographic studies on the cultures of ancient ethnic groups, the 18-volume encyclopedia “Disappeared Civilizations”, and the content of the official websites of world museums that store the heritage of ancient civilizations. M.Montaigne in “Experiments” used the term ‘civilization’ (1581). Descartes in “Discourse on Methods” contrasted the concepts of “wild” and “civilized”; Herder was one of the first to connect civilization with the development of culture, pointing to the civilization of the East as the most ancient. In the 19th century, the concepts of “civilization” and “culture” were synonymous. In the 20th century, anthropological understanding of culture as a result of acquired behavioral skills began to be replaced by the concept of civilization. The article is devoted to a thematic review of individual historical monuments of a number of ancient civilizations, stored in various museums around the world, which can serve as illustrations for the educational discipline “History of Civilizations” in a distance format. The choice fell on some ancient “disappeared civilizations” that arose in various historical and geographical conditions.

The article presents a study and publication of the correspondence of the poet Ivan Alekseevich Kostin (1931–2015) from Petrozavodsk with the archaeographer Vladimir Ivanovich Malyshev (1910–1976), who held a Doctor of Sciences degree in Philology, and the Old Believer writer and educator Ivan Nikiforovich Zavoloko (1897–1984). The correspondence includes letters and greeting cards (30 in total) from the 1970s to the early 1980s. They are currently stored in the Manuscript Division of the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkinskij Dom) of the Russian Academy of Sciences in St. Petersburg, the Archive of the Grebenshchikov Old Believer Congregation in Riga, the National Museum of the Republic of Karelia in Petrozavodsk, and the National Archive of the Republic of Karelia, also in Petrozavodsk. Kostin’s letters to Malyshev reveal how the Petrozavodsk poet aided Malyshev in collecting manuscripts for the Ancient Manuscripts Repository (Drevlekhranilishe) in the Institute of Russian Literature (Pushkinskij Dom). The correspondence between Kostin and Zavoloko concerns the history and culture of the Old Believers, the Vygoleksinsky monastery, and the Zaonezhye, and issues pertaining to literary activity and academic studies. The letters make a valuable addition to Kostin’s memoirs about Malyshev and Zavoloko. The article also covers the history of Kostin’s poem dedicated to Archpriest Avvakum. The letters, published in the appendix to the article, are accompanied by comments.

The study of popular music museums has expanded greatly in the past decade or so. The numerous studies produced so far have largely focused on issues to do with tourism, heritage, and curatorship. Most analysis has attempted to gauge the effectiveness and degree of success of the various methods of constructing and displaying collections of sounds, objects, and ideas. One area that can be of interest in moving beyond these analyses of museum practice is to examine how larger ideologies of artistry and artists that pervade the celebrity personas so assiduously built around famous musicians are an important foundation for these museums’ displays. There are two reasons for the value of this approach. First, it should be clear that most exhibits in popular music museums are built to enhance, not contest already-existing images, historical narratives, and genre-defining attributes that surround well-known musicians. Therefore, it is not possible to understand these institutions without some sense of how they work with musician personas that necessarily precede any presentation in museum exhibitions. Second, we can see this dynamic in extraordinarily concise forms when we examine some of the ‘famous objects’ these museums display. We can often see an entire complex of received ideas about an artist encapsulated in just a few well-known objects they once possessed. From this I will suggest that the personas of famous musicians that appear in most popular music museums do so through varied amalgams of symbolic and material forms meant to stabilise or enhance already-existing ideas about canonically-validated ‘great’ artists.

Abstract Background It is very forward-looking and urgent to clarify the academic status. The evolution and development trend in the field of international museum display design reveals the theme development and Path Evolution of museum display design academia in the face of the development trend of audience psychological experience under the trend of global academic research on museum display design from collection centered to audience centered. At the same time, the curatorial design of the museum will also affect the emotional changes of the audience. Research Objects and Methods The relevant academic documents from 1990 to 2020 in the science network database were selected as the data basis. Based on the scientific measurement method and with the help of information visualization CiteSpace software, this paper makes a quantitative map analysis of academic papers in the field of museum display design. Two dimensions of locus of control scale were used as measurement indicators. The so-called psychological locus of control refers to people's general view of the outcome of behavior or events. One pole of this continuous spectrum is internality and the other pole is externality. The internality of locus of control (internal control) refers to people's belief that they are responsible for the results of things, that is, personal behavior, personality and ability are the determinants of things. The externality of locus of control refers to people's belief that the outcome of an event is mainly affected by external factors, such as luck, social background and others. The preparation process of the scale can be seen in Rotter's special report. The version introduced here contains 23 items and 6 insertion questions. Each item is a group of internal control statements and external control statements. The subjects are required to choose one from them and score the external control selection, with the score ranging from 0 (extreme internal control) to 23 (extreme external control). The scale is a self-rated scale, which is completed within 15 minutes. It is most commonly used for college students and other groups. From several studies that have been done, we can see that the norm of I-E scale is different. Owens (1966) reported that male = 8 2 (SD = 4.0) female = 8.5 (SD = 3.9) Parkes (1985) reported male (n = 146) x = 11.5 6 (SD = 3.3) female (n = 260) x = 12.6 (SD = 3.7). Results (1) In the past 30 years, the number of papers published in this field has increased significantly compared with 2005 and 2015; (2) The United States, Britain, Italy and China are the main sources of contribution, which generally presents the characteristics of “large concentration and small dispersion”; (3) Formed a group of cooperative teams with a certain sense of cooperation; (4) The topics of papers published in the academic field of museum display design are becoming richer and richer, and the research perspectives are becoming more and more diverse, with a total of about 4000 keywords, showing a good development trend of interdisciplinary integration and “clustering”; (5) From the perspective of evolutionary path, the focus of academic research in this field has experienced the transformation of “theoretical method” → “interactive experience” → “participation service”, and the relevant research objects have also experienced the change of “exhibits” → (6) the research has initially formed two directions of knowledge flow, of which the more important is the influence of sociology represented by psychology on the academic research of exhibition design, which has important relevance and relevance. At the same time, our results show that although curatorial design is positively correlated with audience emotion, it is not statistically significant (P > 0.05). Among the audience's emotional changes, positive emotions dominated, and the results were statistically significant (P < 0.01). This means that positive emotion can be used as an indicator to measure the change of audience emotion. Our results show that the quality of exhibits is negatively correlated with positive emotions. The Pearson correlation of negative emotions was significantly greater than that of positive emotions. This shows that the audience with high appreciation level is more likely to cause emotional changes than the students with low appreciation level. Independent sample t-test confirmed that there was significant difference in positive emotion between the two groups (P < 0.01), but there was no significant difference in promoting emotion (P > 0.05). Conclusion The research focus is no longer the accessibility of the museum or the relevance of the exhibits, but the psychological needs of the audience, such as participation experience, culture and education and leisure and entertainment. Therefore, the research on audience orientation and psychological experience has become an important topic and core content of academic research on museum display design. However, CiteSpace application software has some limitations, which makes it unable to grasp the structure of a discipline or knowledge field more comprehensively and deeply. However, in general, this study has enlightenment significance for the subsequent academic research innovation of the development and Path Evolution of the discipline of exhibition design in international museums. In short, we should give full play to the important role of irrational factors in design elements, actively pay attention to their psychological, emotional and behavioral changes, their abilities and response measures, pay attention to the impact of exhibition design and emotional changes, and be good builders, managers, coordinators and collaborators of design methods. According to the psychological characteristics of this part of the audience, we should actively and flexibly organize rich activities, create high-quality and rich curatorial level, observe and study this part of the audience, adjust their emotional state to the best state, and promote the healthy development of their good cognition and life. Acknowledgements This paper is an outcome of the project “Digital archive, creative platform and global communication of the Chinese intangible cultural heritage” (No.19ZDA336) supported by the National Social Science Foundation of China, the project “Application research of interaction design in the field of cultural heritage display and communication” (No. 20BG127) supported by National Social Science Foundation of China art Project, the project “Knowledge organization and service for cultural heritage” (No. 20215080008) supported by Independent research project of Tsinghua University, and the project “Winter Olympics Olympic Digital Museum Presentation and Communication Technology Research and Application Demonstration” (No. 2021YFF0307700).

Coagulating around the powerful notion of the Anthropocene – the proposed geological epoch of the ‘Human Age’ where anthropogenic control of and impact on nature has taken on a magnitude comparable to geological forces – many traditional humanities disciplines are rediscovering the environment as worthy of study. Ranging from eco-criticism to anthropology and history, the environmental humanities are dismantling the founding divisions of academic practice that confine the study of ‘nature’ to the natural sciences and the study of human society, culture, politics and ethics to the social sciences and humanities. Indeed, one of the environmental humanities’ most central contributions has been in addressing the question of ethical involvement when it comes to environmental research that has relevance in contemporary climate change debates. With its long-standing multidisciplinary affiliations and its many outstanding case studies of how the climates of the deep past have affected contemporaneous communities and how these communities have shaped their environs at various scales, archaeology is well positioned to contributing here. Yet, the discipline has so far been marginal in these emerging debates. Drawing on selected examples from the deepest Stone Age to the most recent past, I attempt in this keynote paper to bring together thoughts about the national framing of archaeological practice, archaeological interpretation and heritage management in Europe with preoccupations about past societal collapse under the umbrella of environmental ethical concerns. I argue ultimately that archaeology and archaeologists should involve themselves in environmental debates and in the wider environmental humanities project, but caution that due diligence is needed when operating in such a politically charged debate where personal and political opinions can swiftly overshadow supposedly objective scientific attitudes – and where sceptics stand ready to exploit such bias as well as the uncertainties inherent in archaeological knowledge. Nonetheless, archaeologists can contribute to contemporary climate debates in numerous ways: by writing articles for journals that influence policy-making upstream, through museum practice, and by collaborating with practitioners implementing climate change adaptation measures. I provide brief examples for these avenues and suggest that by re-orientating environmental archaeological engagements in this way, the discipline can gain relevance and recognition, and make a genuine contribution to solving one of our times’ most wicked problems.

The essay explores the implementation of VR technologies in film production, a development due to which audio-visual content, which is in high demand both in television and on the Internet, has taken a new direction, and which is a topical issue in contemporary film studies. VR technologies allow the viewer who sits on a swivel chair and wears a VR-helmet incorporating 360-degree rotating LCD monitors to watch different areas of action. A characteristic feature of VR content is a multi-sensory experience including sight, hearing, smell and touch. VR creates a digital reality with maximum sensory immersion. VR is different from cinema, theatre and 3D technologies: here the deception takes place not only at eye level but also at cerebral level. The essay argues that the use of VR technology is particularly successful in the genre of docudrama. A vivid confirmation of this argument is The Hermitage VR. An Immersion Into History (Russia,18 minutes). In this film, the dual nature of docudrama, which combines various elements of documentary and fiction cinema, allows to recreate historical eras, with the viewer becoming a witness to unique historic events. The films director Mikhail Antykov tells the history of the Hermitage Museum in a spectacular form, making the viewer empathize with the events they see through their VR glasses. The powerful artistic image is enhanced by the excellent acting of Konstantin Khabensky in the role of a mystical museum guide. Via facial expressions, gestures and gait, the actor conveys the emotions of a person walking through museum halls. Thoughtful re-enactment scenes representing various historical epochs, augmented by unusual camera angles, inventive lighting and music score, create a metaphor for time and give the viewer an illusion of participation in the unfolding events. Identifying the latest trends in film production, the essay demonstrates that VR technologies continue the evolution of screen arts which possess the potential to transform into an independent and profitable industry similar to traditional cinema. The author concludes that an increased interest in a national culture, little-known facts of history and the general historical heritage of a nation is a fertile source of content for the producers of VR-docudramas.

Although the beginnings of Serbian dialectology are related to the work of Vuk Stefanovic Karadzic, this linguistic discipline was academically established in the early 20th century, when Milan Resetar and Aleksandar Belic appeared on the scene simultaneously. Owing to their exchange of opinions, the conceptions in classifying Serbian dialects evolved over the 1905-1910 period more noticeably than in the whole of earlier or later research. The 20th century is considered to be the golden age of Serbian dialectology, the primary academic preoccupation of the two greatest Serbian linguists of the last century: Aleksandar Belic and Pavle Ivic. Though certain milestones were hit in the mentioned period (many blank spots were removed from the dialectal maps; dozens of monographic descriptions were published on individual speech types; valuable initial results were achieved in the domain of urban dialectology; valuable studies were completed in the domain of dialectal lexicography and onomasticon, many questions were answered in Serbian historical dialectology, etc.), as things turned out, serious and comprehensive tasks were transferred into the third millennium. In order to pass the final judgement on the relevant matters of the discipline, it is necessary to define the areals of some phonological features on the territory of Serbia and eastern Bosnia, details that earlier researchers have missed. The results of the study of the Serbian dialectal complex were predominantly published in the Serbian Dialectological Review (Srpski dijalektoloski zbornik), a respectable journal established in 1905 in the Serbian Royal Academy after the publication of Aleksandar Belic?s seminal Dialects of Eastern and Southern Serbia. The paper emphasises the unequal degree of study of the Serbian dialectal mosaic, in which as a rule the area of the western republics of the former state ?takes precedence,? where the Serbian speeches did not have a priority status. During the latest war operations, the extensive zones were temporarily left without Serbs, which imposed the duty onto dialectologists to establish the language credentials of the vast areas in their study of the refugees? speech. The most important tasks of Serbian dialectology were thematically and geographically encompassed in a comprehensive long-term project ?Dialectological Research of the Serbian Language Area,? a joint enterprise of the Serbian Academy of Arts and Sciences and its Institute of the Serbian Language. A relevant position within the project is occupied by the compilation of the Serbian Dialectological Atlas, a task facing serious, often hardly solvable problems. The historical events from the close of the last century destroyed the perspective of compiling the Serbo-Croatian Dialectological Atlas, and imposed upon us the task of additional inclusion of Serbian speeches from Bosnia and Herzegovina and Croatia into the atlas of Serbian dialects. Particular problems arise from the impossibility of field work on the territory of Croatia, from where since the dissolution of the former state we have not inherited a single studied Serbian spot, and that considerable deficit is mostly relieved through the study of refugees? speech. Thirty-odd still unstudied spots from the mentioned area are an obstacle to the final editing and prepress of the First Lexical Volume of the Atlas. The paper stresses the unused student potential in the collection of oral linguistic heritage and appeals to the dialectologists that, in such tasks, they should assist the amateur enthusiasts in the collection and treatment of homeland oral linguistic tradition.

Robert Ousterhout, the author of a magnificent book “Eastern Medieval Architecture. The Building Traditions of Bizantium and Neighboring Lands”, published by Oxford University Press in 2019, the remarkable scholar and generous friend, was so kind to mention in his C. V. on the sight of Penn University (Philadelphia, USA) that he had been the Visiting professor of the Moscow architectural Institute (State Academy), as well as simulteniously of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem, but he did not say that he had been awarded the degree of professor honoris causa by the academic council of MARHI. Unfortunately, his life in muscovite hostel, nevertheless we tried to do our best to provide the best possible accommodation in a “suit” with two rooms with a bathroom, had been radically different from the wonderful dwelling chosen for the visiting teaching stuff from MARHI in the University of Illinois. And Robert called our hostel “Gulag”. He had been joking probably. It is impossible to overestimate the role of professor Robert Ousterhaut in the studies of the history of Byzantine art. At the present day he is the leader in the world studies of the architecture of Byzantium, the real heir of the great Rihard Krauthaimer and Slobodan Curcic, whom he had left behind in his works. His books are known very well in Russia. R. Ousterhaut graduated in the history of art and architecture at the University of Oregon, the Institute of European Studies in Vienna, Universities of Cincinati and Illinois. Не worked at the department of history of art at the University of Oregon, department of history of architecture at the University of Illinois, had the chair of the history of architecture and preservation at the University of Illinois, which is considered, as we know, one of the twenty best American universities. He always worked hard and with success. When I had finished reading my course of the history of Russian architecture at Illinois, he said: “Yes, next term the students are to be treated well…” Now he is professor emeritus of the history of art in the famous Penn University. He taught the courses of the “History of architecture from Prehistory to 1400” and “Eastern medieval architecture” as well as led remarkable seminars devoted to the different problem of the history of architecture of the Eastern Meditarenian, including the art of Constantinopole, Cappadoce, meaning and identity in medieval art. His remarkable 4-years field work at Cappadoce, which he described in several books, and his efforts of the preservation of the architectural monuments of Constantinopole are very valuable, Among his books one certainly must cite Holy Apostels: Lost Monument and Forgotten Project, (Washingtone, D. C., 2020); Visualizing Community: Art Material Culture, and Settlement in Byzantine Cappadocia, Dumbarton Oaks Studies 46 (Washington, D. C., 2017); Carie Camii (Istambul, 2011); Architecture of the Sacred: Space, Ritual, and Experience from Classical Greece to Byzantium (Cambridge University Press, 2012), ed. with Bonna D. Wescoat; Palmyra 1885: The Wolfe Expedition and the Photographs of John Henry Haynes, with B. Anderson (Istanbul: Cornucopia, 2016) John Henry Haynes: Archaeologist and Photographer in the Ottoman Empire 1881–1900 (2nd revised edition, Istanbul: Cornucopia, 2016). Several of his books were reprinted. He edited Approaches to Architecture and Its Decoration: Festschrift for Slobodan Ćurčić (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2012), with M. Johnson and A. Papalexandrou. His outstanding book Мaster Builders of Byzantium (2nd paperback edition, University of Pennsylvania Museum Publications, 2008) was translated into Russian and Turkish. In this work Robert Ousterhaut for the first time in English speaking tradition is regarding the architecture of Bazantium from the point of view of building art and technology. On the base of the analysis of primary written sources, contemporary archeology data, and careful study of existing monuments the author concludes that the Byzantine architecture was not only exploiting the traditions, but was trying to find new ways of the development of typology and construction techniques, which led to transformation of artistique features. Professor R. Ousterhaut discusses the choice of building materials, structure from foundations to vaults, theoretical problems which solved the master masons of Byzantium. In his recent book Eastern Medieval Architecture: The Building Traditions of Byzantium and Neighboring Lands, (Oxford University Press, 2019) Robert Ousterhaut is going further. He writes in the introduction: “I succeded my mentor at the University of Illinois… I had the privilege and challenge of teaching “Early Christian and Byzantine Architecture” to generations of the architecture students inspired my 1999 book, Master Builders of Byzantium. The work of Robert Ousterhaut, published 2019, is the new and full interpretation of the architectural heritage of Byzantine Commonwealth. The author devoted the first part of his book to Late Antiquity (3–7 centuries), beginning with the relations of Domus Ecclesiastae and Church Basilica, then speaking of Konstantinopole and Jerusalem of the times of St. Constantine the Great, liturgy, inspiration, commemoration and pilgrimage, adoration of relics as ritual factors which influenced the formation of sacred space, methods and materials, chosen by the Bizantine builders with their interaction of the mentality of the East and West. Special attention is given to dwelling, urban planning and fortification Naturally a chapter is devoted to Hagia Sophia and the building programs of Emperor Justinian. The second part speaks of the transition to what is called Middle Byzantine architecture both in the capital and at the edges of the Empire. The third part tells the story of the 9th, 10th and 11th centuries and includes the rise of the monasteries, once more secular and urban architecture, the craft of church builders. Churches of Greece and Macedonia, Anatolia, Armenia and Georgia, as well as of the West of Byzantium – Venice, Southern Italy and Sicily. The chapter is devoted to Slavonic Balkans – Bulgaria and Serbia and Kievan Rus. The last fourth part of the book describes the times of the Latin Empire, difficult for Byzantium, to the novelty of the architecture of Palewologos and the development of Byzantine ideas in the Balkans and especially in the building programs of the great powers of the epoch Ottoman Empire and Russia. There is a lot more to say about the book of professor Robert Ousterhaut, but we have to leave this to the next issue of this magazine, and better give the space to the words of the author – his text on the architecture of Kievan Rus.

The life path, scientific-pedagogical and public activity of Volodymyr Sokurenko – a prominent Ukrainian jurist, doctor of law, professor, talented teacher of the Lviv Law School of Franko University are analyzed. It is found out that after graduating from a seven-year school in Zaporizhia, V. Sokurenko entered the Zaporizhia Aviation Technical School, where he studied two courses until 1937. 1/10/1937 he was enrolled as a cadet of the 2nd school of aircraft technicians named after All-Union Lenin Komsomol. In 1938, this school was renamed the Volga Military Aviation School, which he graduated on September 4, 1939 with the military rank of military technician of the 2nd category. As a junior aircraft technician, V. Sokurenko was sent to the military unit no. 8690 in Baku, and later to Maradnyany for further military service in the USSR Air Force. From September 4, 1939 to March 16, 1940, he was a junior aircraft technician of the 50th Fighter Regiment, 60th Air Brigade of the ZAK VO in Baku. The certificate issued by the Railway District Commissariat of Lviv on January 4, 1954 no. 3132 states that V. Sokurenko actually served in the staff of the Soviet Army from October 1937 to May 1946. The same certificate states that from 10/12/1941 to 20/09/1942 and from 12/07/1943 to 08/03/1945, he took part in the Soviet-German war, in particular in the second fighter aviation corps of the Reserve of the Supreme Command of the Soviet Army. In 1943 he joined the CPSU. He was awarded the Order of the Patriotic War of the 1st degree and the Order of the Red Star (1943) as well as 9 medals «For Merit in Battle» during the Soviet-German war. With the start of the Soviet-German war, the Sokurenko family, like many other families, was evacuated to the town of Kamensk-Uralsky in the Sverdlovsk region, where their father worked at a metallurgical plant. After the war, the Sokurenko family moved to Lviv. In 1946, V. Sokurenko entered the Faculty of Law of the Ivan Franko Lviv State University, graduating with honors in 1950, and entered the graduate school of the Lviv State University at the Department of Theory and History of State and Law. V. Sokurenko successfully passed the candidate examinations and on December 25, 1953 in Moscow at the Institute of Law of the USSR he defended his thesis on the topic: «Socialist legal consciousness and its relationship with Soviet law». The supervisor of V. Sokurenko's candidate's thesis was N. Karieva. The Higher Attestation Commission of the Ministry of Culture of the USSR, by its decision of March 31, 1954, awarded V. Sokurenko the degree of Candidate of Law. In addition, it is necessary to explain the place of defense of the candidate's thesis by V. Sokurenko. As it is known, the Institute of State and Law of the USSR has its history since 1925, when, in accordance with the resolution of the Presidium of the Central Executive Committee of March 25, 1925, the Institute of Soviet Construction was established at the Communist Academy. In 1936, the Institute became part of the USSR Academy of Sciences, and in 1938 it was reorganized into the Institute of Law of the USSR Academy of Sciences. In 1941–1943 it was evacuated to Tashkent. In 1960-1991 it was called the Institute of State and Law of the USSR Academy of Sciences. In Ukraine, there is the Institute of State and Law named after V. Koretsky of the NAS of Ukraine – a leading research institution in Ukraine of legal profile, founded in 1949. It is noted that, as a graduate student, V. Sokurenko read a course on the history of political doctrines, conducted special seminars on the theory of state and law. After graduating from graduate school and defending his thesis, from October 1, 1953 he was enrolled as a senior lecturer and then associate professor at the Department of Theory and History of State and Law at the Faculty of Law of the Lviv State University named after Ivan Franko. By the decision of the Higher Attestation Commission of the Ministry of Higher Education of the USSR of December 18, 1957, V. Sokurenko was awarded the academic title of associate professor of the «Department of Theory and History of State and Law». V. Sokurenko took an active part in public life. During 1947-1951 he was a member of the party bureau of the party organization of LSU, worked as a chairman of the trade union committee of the university, from 1955 to 1957 he was a secretary of the party committee of the university. He delivered lectures for the population of Lviv region. Particularly, he lectured in Turka, Chervonohrad, and Yavoriv. He made reports to the party leaders, Soviet workers as well as business leaders. He led a philosophical seminar at the Faculty of Law. He was a deputy of the Lviv City Council of People's Deputies in 1955-1957 and 1975-1978. In December 1967, he defended his doctoral thesis on the topic: «Development of progressive political thought in Ukraine (until the early twentieth century)». The defense of the doctoral thesis was approved by the Higher Attestation Commission on June 14, 1968. During 1960-1990 he headed the Department of Theory and History of State and Law; in 1962-68 and 1972-77 he was the dean of the Law Faculty of the Ivan Franko Lviv State University. In connection with the criticism of the published literature, on September 10, 1977, V. Sokurenko wrote a statement requesting his dismissal from the post of Dean of the Faculty of Law due to deteriorating health. During 1955-1965 he was on research trips to Poland, Czechoslovakia, Romania, Austria, and Bulgaria. From August 1966 to March 1967, in particular, he spent seven months in the United States, England and Canada as a UN Fellow in the Department of Human Rights. From April to May 1968, he was a member of the government delegation to the International Conference on Human Rights in Iran for one month. He spoke, in addition to Ukrainian, English, Polish and Russian. V. Sokurenko played an important role in initiating the study of an important discipline at the Faculty of Law of the Lviv University – History of Political and Legal Studies, which has been studying the history of the emergence and development of theoretical knowledge about politics, state, law, ie the process of cognition by people of the phenomena of politics, state and law at different stages of history in different nations, from early statehood and modernity. Professor V. Sokurenko actively researched the problems of the theory of state and law, the history of Ukrainian legal and political thought. He was one of the first legal scholars in the USSR to begin research on the basics of legal deontology. V. Sokurenko conducted extensive research on the development of basic requirements for the professional and legal responsibilities of a lawyer, similar to the requirements for a doctor. In further research, the scholar analyzed the legal responsibilities, prospects for the development of the basics of professional deontology. In addition, he considered medical deontology from the standpoint of a lawyer, law and morality, focusing on internal (spiritual) processes, calling them «the spirit of law.» The main direction of V. Sokurenko's research was the problems of the theory of state and law, the history of legal and political studies. The main scientific works of professor V. Sokurenko include: «The main directions in the development of progressive state and legal thought in Ukraine: 16th – 19th centuries» (1958) (Russian), «Democratic doctrines about the state and law in Ukraine in the second half of the 19th century (M. Drahomanov, S. Podolynskyi, A. Terletskyi)» (1966), «Law. Freedom. Equality» (1981, co-authored) (in Russian), «State and legal views of Ivan Franko» (1966), «Socio-political views of Taras Shevchenko (to the 170th anniversary of his birth)» (1984); «Political and legal views of Ivan Franko (to the 130th anniversary of his birth)» (1986) (in Russian) and others. V. Sokurenko died on November 22, 1994 and was buried in Holoskivskyi Cemetery in Lviv. Volodymyr Sokurenko left a bright memory in the hearts of a wide range of scholars, colleagues and grateful students. The 100th anniversary of the Scholar is a splendid opportunity to once again draw attention to the rich scientific heritage of the lawyer, which is an integral part of the golden fund of Ukrainian legal science and education. It needs to be studied, taken into account and further developed.

In the new issue, our scientific journal offers you nine scientific articles. As always, we try to offer a wide variety of topics and areas and follow current trends in the history of science and technology. The issue of the journal opens with an article dedicated to the formation and development of natural history museology in Europe in the 15th–19th centuries. The development of scientific knowledge at that time affects the idea of the world order and the place of man in it, and the combination of knowledge with practical experience leads to the birth of true science. It is shown that one of the most important components of the development of natural sciences, in particular biological sciences, was the collection of naturalia (i.e. objects of natural origin), the rapid surge of interest in which contributed to the Great Geographical Discoveries. In chronological order, the further historical development of museum work from private collections in Italy to the formation of a prototype of a genuine museum, which performs the main museum functions such as amassment, storage and demonstration of collections, is considered. The article by Leonid Griffen and co-authors considers the object and subject of the history of science and technology, its place in the system of sciences. Today, more and more people are turning to the factors that determine the interaction of the society with the environment (productive forces of the society), to study which in the historical aspect and called a special scientific discipline the history of science and technology. The composition and development of the technosphere and noosphere are considered in the article. It is shown that the functioning of the technosphere is based on its interaction with the noosphere, which provides information about the environment and controls the effectiveness of interaction with it. It is formed by combining the mental structures of individuals through sign systems. The production process that ensures the functioning of the society begins with the noosphere, which through individual consciousness controls the actions of each individual, who through the means of production (technosphere) interacts with the natural environment. However, the gradual development of productive forces leads at some point to the fact that the information needed by the individual to perform all necessary actions for the benefit of the society, ceases to fit in his individual consciousness. As a result, there is a new social phenomenon the social division of labor. The cardinal solution to the problem is the prospect of humanity entering infinite space. The article by Jun-Young Oh and Hyesook Han is devoted to the study of what Understanding mathematical abstraction in the formularization of Galileo's law. Galileo's revolution in science introduced an analytical method to science that typifies the overall modern thinking of extracting, abstracting, and grasping only critical aspects of the target phenomena and focusing on “how”, which is a quantitative relationship between variables, instead of “why”. For example, to him, the question of 'why does an object fall' is of no significance; instead, only the quantitative relationship between distance from the falling object and time is important. Yet, the most fundamental aspect of his idea is that he introduced a quantified time t. Because, according to atomic theory, vacuum exists between an atom and an object composed of atoms or between objects – ignoring factors that interfere with motion, such as friction – the space for absolute time, which is a mathematical time, can be geometrically defined. In order to justify this mathematical abstraction strategy, thought experiments were conducted rather than laboratory experiments, which at that time were difficult to perform. The article by Vasyl Andriiashko and co-authors provides a thorough overview of the evolutionary process of the emergence, establishment, and development of the Kyiv school of artistic textiles. It reveals the influence of various factors (ideological, political, economic, and aesthetic) on this process. The historical and factual method allowed us to study socio-economic, as well as historical and cultural factors that contributed to the emergence, establishment, and development of the Kyiv textile school in a chronological sequence. It is established that the very fact of emergence of the Kyiv school of artistic textile, as a community of style, unity of forms, preservation, and continuity of traditions, had unbiased backgrounds since Ukrainian decorative weaving, a part of which is Kyiv weaving, inherited the abundant artistic traditions that were created over the centuries and most vividly manifested through the art of Kyivan Rus. In the next article, the authors Artemii Bernatskyi and Mykola Sokolovskyi is devoted to the study history of military laser technology development in military applications. For better understanding and systematization of knowledge about development of historical applications in the military field, an analysis of publicly known knowledge about their historical applications in the leading world countries was conducted. The study focuses on development that was carried out by the superpowers of the Cold War and the present era, namely the United States, the Soviet Union and the Peoples Republic of China, and were built in metal. Multiple avenues of various applications of laser technology in military applications were studied, namely: military laser rangefinders; ground and aviation target designators; precision ammunition guidance systems; non-lethal anti-personnel systems; systems, designed to disable optoelectronics of military vehicles; as well as strategic and tactical anti-air and missile defense systems. The issues of ethical use of laser weapons and the risks of their use in armed conflicts, which led to an international consensus in the form of conventions of the United Nations and the International Committee of the Red Cross, were also considered. As a result of the analysis, a systematic approach to the classification of applications of laser technology in military products by three main areas of development was proposed: ancillary applications, non-lethal direct action on the human body and optical devices of military equipment, and anti-aircraft and anti-missile defensive systems. The author of the following article considered the front line transporter as the embodiment of the USSR military doctrine in the middle of the 20th century. The paper based on a source analysis of the history of creation, design, and production of LuAZ-967, LuAZ-967M, against the background of the processes of implementing projects of small tactical high mobility wheeled vehicles for the armies of European countries, shows that the developing, testing, and commissioning a front line transporter became a deepening of the process of motorization of the Soviet army. The designs of similar vehicles have been analyzed. An attempt to assess the degree of uniqueness of the front line transporter design and its place in the history of technology, as well as its potential as a reminder of science and technology has been made. An analysis of the front line transporter design, its systems, compared with its foreign counterparts, suggests that it is a Soviet refinement of the concept of a small army vehicle, a more specific means directly for the battlefield. At the same time, it was developed taking into account foreign developments and similar designs, imitating individual designs, adapting to the capabilities of the USSR automotive industry. The next article is devoted to the study, generalization and systematization of scientific knowledge about the history of the establishment, development and operation of the regional railway system in Bukovyna in the second half of XIX – early XX centuries. The authors attempted to analyze the process of creation and operation of railways in Bukovyna during the reign of the Austro-Hungarian Empire based on a wide range of previously unpublished archival documents, periodicals, statistical literature and memoirs. The article studies the development of organizational bases for the construction of railways, the activity of the communication network management, lists a whole range of requirements and tasks set for railway transport in Bukovyna, the progress of their implementation, considers successes and difficulties in this work. The purpose of the article by authors Sana Simou, Khadija Baba and Abderrahman Nounah is to reveal, recreate as accurately as possible the characteristics of an archaeological site or part of it. The restoration and conservation of monuments and archaeological sites is a delicate operation. It requires fidelity, delicacy, precision and archaeological authenticity. Research during the last two decades has proved that 3D modeling, or the digital documentation and visualization of archaeological objects in 3D, is valuable for archaeological research. The study has opted for the technique of terrestrial and aerial photogrammetry by 3D surveys of architectural elements, to develop an archetype of the deteriorated Islamic Marinid site (a dynasty between the 13th and 15th centuries), and the Roman site (25 BC), located at the Chellah archaeological site in Rabat and Salé cities. The data acquired build an architectural database to archive and retrieve the entire existing architecture of monuments. This study has been completed by photogrammetrists, architects, and restorers. The issue of the journal ends with an article devoted to the analyzing the prerequisites and conditions for the foundation of an aircraft engine enterprise in Ukraine. Based on the retrospective analysis, the prerequisites and conditions of the foundation of the aircraft engine enterprise in Aleksandrovsk, Ukraine, were considered. There was a severe gap between the Russian Empire and European countries in the development pace of the aviation industry during World War I. This prompted the Russian Empire to raise foreign capital, as well as attract technologies and specialists to develop aircraft engineering and other industries. By 1917, the plant had gained the status of Russia’s largest engine-building enterprise in terms of building area and one of the best in equipment. It is evident that the beginning of aircraft engine production in Aleksandrovsk relates to the establishment of a branch of Petrograd Joint Stock Company of Electromechanical Structures and the plant’s purchase from the Moznaim brothers. We hope that everyone will find interesting useful information in the new issue. And, of course, we welcome your new submissions.

Background. The problem of self-determination of an artist who apprehends oneself as a representative of a certain nation, but is forced to selfactualize in the cultural space of a multinational empire, remained relevant for a long period for the majority of representatives of the Polish creative intelligentsia. Among them, it is appropriate to recall, in first, Karol Szymanowski, whose creative development took place in a multicultural environment. The outstanding musician was feeling his involvement not only in the European tradition in general, but also in the Antique, Eastern, Polish, Russian, and, especially, Ukrainian culture, because his life for 36 years was related with Ukraine. The temporal distance that has formed between the eras, the changes in cultural paradigms that have now taken place, encourage us to rethink the approaches to the various cultural-creating activities of artists in past eras, to evaluate them from modern positions. If we consider multiculturalism in a positive sense – as a phenomenon of social life characterized by coexistence and active interaction within one society of many cultures, then the analysis of Szymanowski’s creative evolution in this context looks relevant for modern cultural figures. At the same time, in Ukraine, there has not yet been a steady interest of scientists in the work by K. Szymanowski, although certain steps are being taken in this direction: PhD theses by Anatolii Kalynychenko, Hanna Seredenko, Oleksandr Serdiuk, Dmitriy Poliachok have appeared that explore some aspects of the Polish artist’s creativity, taking into account modern methodological tools. An important function of stimulating interest in the creative figure of Szymanowski is performed, in particular, by the “Kropyvnytskyi Museum of Musical Culture named after K. Szymanowski” (headed by Olexandr Polyachok) that initiates various projects related to the popularization of Shimanovsky’s creative heritage, including holding scientific conferences and publishing. A significant contribution to the study of various aspects of the K. Szymanowski’s creative activity was made by Polish scientists, in particular, Malgorzata Komorowska, Zofia Helman, Teresa Chilińska, but their works are in a greater degree focused on the analysis of the musician’s creativity in the Polish cultural context. Objectives of the study. This article is destined to examine the creative personality of the Polish artist in a new problematic field. The purpose of the study is to identify the features of the creative formation and growth of K. Szymanowski in the context of multiculturalism. The object of analysis is the creative activity of K. Szymanowski; the subject, on which the attention is focused, is the peculiarities of cultural and creative attitudes formation, the principles of artistic activity, the means of cultural communication of K. Szymanowski in the conditions of multiculturalism. Research results. The scientific novelty of the research consists in the identification of little-known facts of the creative biography of K. Szymanowski and their new interpretation, the formation of new ideas about the specifics of his creative approaches both in composing and literary work. The important role of self-education in his creative development, the ability for self-development, conscious cultural pluralism formed in the context of multicultural conditions, a tendency to innovate (for example, intense interest in new artistic and stylistic trends) are emphasized. Attention is drawn to the originality of Szymanowski’s relationships with various cultural environments, with which he was closely linked by fate. After all, his formation as a personality took place under the influence of several cultures, the features of which were intertwined, coexisting in the everyday life of his family estate in the Ukrainian village Timoshivka and Elisavetgrad, the city of his childhood and youth. The significant influence of regular visits to European cultural centers and travels to the countries of the Arab East on the formation of the cultural identity of the artist is also noted. The analysis of archival materials, in particular, comments in the margins of the pages of books from the family library, showed the enormous influence of literary texts on the composer’s cultural identity. Szymanowski carefully read, thought over and discussed with his close ones literary works, various works of philosophers and art historians. Szymanowski’s archives contain notes on the history of art of Ancient Greece in French, the history of the culture of Ancient Rome in German and Russian, extracts from the history of the origins of Christianity, the culture of Sicily and the life of King Roger II, notes from the letters by Seneca, Leonardo da Vinci, Machiavelli, works of Novalis, studies on oriental culture, etc. The composer was fascinated by the ideas of the synthesis of cultures (Ancient Greek, Ancient Roman, Byzantine, Arabic, Proto-Slavic), of religious syncretism in various forms (Christian modernism, paneroticism, etc.). Embodying his creative intentions, Szymanowski went through a fascination with a wide variety of aesthetic ideas. In the process of realizing artistic synthesis, along with the idea of cultural syncretism, signs of aesthetics of romanticism and impressionism, symbolism and modernism, expressionism and neo-folkloric trend often coexisted and intersected in his works. As a conclusion, we note: the creative formation and evolution of K. Szymanowski took place in multicultural conditions. Realizing himself a descendant of the Polish gentry family, he was at the same time a citizen of the Russian Empire and was formed as a person under the influence of many cultures, which were intricately intertwined in the space where the formation of his individuality took place, which, eventually, determined the multicultural profile of his artistic work. Szymanowski’s cultural positioning we propose to consider, to a certain extent, according to the formula: “one of our own among strangers, a stranger among our own”, because his creative searches, in which the polylogue of cultures acquired signs of multiculturalism, were not always perceived adequately by his contemporaries, especially in those cultural centers, where the traditional values of the national culture were considered priority. The artistic, aesthetic and cultural paradigms of the 21st century turn out to be largely consonant with those that determined the creative preferences of the Polish artist, which leads to the actualization of the creativity of the latter in the conditions of the dominance of the postmodern situation in the contemporary cultural space.

The aspiration for truth that was a feature of the Age of Enlightenment was also a driving force for studying Baltic history, and for describing and drawing old buildings and ruins. This activity became more systematic in the next century, when the Baltic educated literati established learned societies. However, when the University of Tartu was reopened in 1802, the professor of aesthetics and related subjects focused on classical antiquity and neglected local art history. It was only in 1919, when the University was reorganised as a national institution of the independent Republic of Estonia, that a separate chair was established for art history. The competition for the first professor of art history resulted in the invitation of a Swedish art historian Tor Helge Kjellin (1885–1984), who launched the systematic study of local mediaeval heritage, especially churches. His arrival in Tartu in 1922 can be considered the starting point of the professionalisation of the research of Estonian art history. Estonian art historiography has been studied sporadically since the 1960s, with only a few articles published before the 2010s on the beginnings of professional art history education at the University of Tartu. The Soviet occupation of Estonia made it impossible to travel abroad to study Helge Kjellin’s written legacy in Swedish archives. After the restoration of Estonia’s independence, a new interest in Estonian art historiography emerged. The leading researchers of Estonian art historiography have been Juta Keevallik and Professor Krista Kodres, who have inspired me to study the 1920s. In 1919, following the example of the Nordic countries, a ‘chair of aesthetics and general history of art’ was also established at the University of Tartu. Yet it was not until the Estonian state had acquired part of the art collection of the Liphart Baltic German noble family that the competition for the chair of art history was launched in June of 1920. A year later, the Viennese professor Josef Strzygowsky was elected as the first professor of art history, but since he declined, the next candidate in the competition, the art history docent from Lund University, Helge Kjellin, was invited. He arrived in Tartu the next year, on 17 January 1922. On 23 January, he already appealed to the university rector to allocate rooms for his art history seminar: After all, art history is a new discipline at this university and so the university library is not stocked well enough with special literature on art history. Therefore, I have brought with me my own library […], and picture collection (photographs, slides, etc). Professor Kjellin pointed out that the art history seminar should also be provided with drawings and graphic art collections for the students to study different artistic techniques. He mentioned 15 chairs for students as part of the furniture needed for the seminar. However, a week later it turned out that about 40 students had registered for his seminars and about 100 wished to attend his lectures, most of them girls who thirsted for knowledge. In Estonia, art history was still regarded as a subject of general knowledge for the educated elite, rather than the scientific study of art, Kunstwissenschaft, which German scholars envisioned and had aspired to since the end of the 19th century, with the most important centres at the universities of Berlin and Vienna. However, it was precisely this new Scientific (or academic) art history that Kjellin wanted to establish in Tartu. Kjellin directly linked Tartu to Berlin. He had studied at Uppsala University with the Swedish art historian, then a docent, Johnny Roosval, and later at Lund University with Professor Ewert Wrangel. In turn, Heinrich Wölfflin and Adolph Goldschmidt were Roosval’s professors in Berlin. Roosval wanted to shape Swedish art history according to the German model. He inspired his students to choose Swedish mediaeval art as their subject, and Kjellin was one of the students who followed his advice. After graduating from Uppsala University in 1913, Kjellin worked at museums in Stockholm and Malmö, but was then invited by Wrangel to continue his studies in Lund where he also defended his doctoral thesis in 1917. Kjellin concentrated on the study of mediaeval Swedish churches. In Estonia as well, he wanted to discover the mediaeval influences from the island of Gotland on the churches in the Old Livonian island of Ösel and the county of Wiek (the western part of Estonia). Kjellin managed to engage at least some of his Estonian students to help him with his scholarly pursuits. In fact, the University of Tartu’s study system at that time encouraged students to already practice research methods in their first years. Seminars had a significant role in the teaching of art history at the beginning of the 20th century. Kjellin gave students practical exercises in the art history seminars at Tartu, e.g. they had to describe neoclassical buildings in the city of Tartu. Later they would catalogue the university library’s graphic collections. In seminars, they would present a paper on a chosen or given subject, but they would also discuss papers presented by their fellow students. During summer vacation, some students had the opportunity to put their knowledge into practice by helping Kjellin to describe churches in Saaremaa. Some more able students, who chose art history as their main subject, would even conduct independent research at archives in Tartu, Tallinn, and Riga, where they would also collect (photo)graphic and descriptive material on historic buildings and art. Kjellin already left the chair in Tartu in September of 1924 for financial reasons. The University of Tartu could not pay Kjellin the salary he requested because it was more than the Ministry of Education allowed. Foreign professors received larger salaries than Estonian professors anyway. Kjellin agreed to examine his students in 1925 as well and reviewed a few of his students’ master’s theses in 1926 and 1928. He also continued his research on Estonian medieval architecture and published a few studies in 1928 and 1932, but later dropped Estonian subjects from his fields of interest. As mentioned before, Kjellin had ca 100 art history students. A third of them took the final exam in art history. Only seven of them sat the exam at the most difficult level, which allowed them to defend a master’s degree in art history. Of these seven, only two defended their degree and only one of them – Voldemar Vaga – went to work as an art historian and later became Professor of Art History at the University of Tartu. Many of the female students who studied art history with Kjellin became history teachers in schools. However, Kjellin’s contribution to the study and teaching of art history, but also heritage conservation in Estonia, is fundamental. Together with the archaeology professor Aarne Michael Tallgren, he prepared the draft of the first heritage conservation law in Estonia, which was passed in the Estonian parliament in 1925. The study collections – photographs, slides, measurement drawings, and descriptions of the art history seminar (later cabinet) have retained their scholarly value even today. Although the chair of art history was left vacant starting from 1925, Sweden was once again the place from where the second professor of art history – Sten Ingvar Karling – was invited to Tartu in 1932. Kjellin had created excellent teaching conditions for the new professor and for future students to study art history at the University of Tartu.

AbstractMany studies have investigated light-induced damage to colourants in heritage collections using prepared samples of materials such as artist paints and dyed textiles. The body of research focuses primarily on the response of virgin materials, where colour change is assessed with respect to the original colour as light dose increases. From a practical perspective, most objects in museum collections have accumulated a significant light dose from illumination before acquisition, and subsequent years of exhibit lighting. When considering the risk of further degradation, it is often stated by heritage professionals that fugitive colourants with past light exposure are no longer as sensitive due to the slowing rate of visual damage. This is evident by studying ‘fading curves’, where the rate of colour change typically diminishes with increasing light dose. It remains unclear, however, to what degree the lightfastness of remaining colour changes with ongoing exposure. To address the issue, the light sensitivity of residual colour was investigated as a function of prior dose using a published dataset of colour measurements from textiles dyed with early synthetic colourants in the period of 1874–1905. The CIELAB colour values (D65/2°) for each material and dose increment were used to determine the future dose that causes a just-noticeable difference (JND), ΔE00 = 1.7, starting at different amounts of past exposure. This involved resetting the reference CIELAB values to that of the residual colour after each prior dose. The analysis provides an extension of our earlier work, where only the initial lightfastness was reported. A summary of the findings illustrates the shifting distribution of lightfastness, toward higher Blue Wool (BW) ratings with increasing exposure. As the dose progresses, dyes that start at BW1 sensitivity progress to BW2, then BW3 and so on. The findings from this work may assist with boundary approximations of object sensitivity when prior light exposure is known, or a reasonable estimate is available. An analysis of experimental data is summarised as a tool for this type of decision-making process.

In 2008, Nicolas Eastaugh, founder and chief researcher at Art Discovery, a renowned London company for the analysis and research of artwork, discovered the presence of the white titanium (titanium dioxide) pigment in a painting attributed to the Dutch naturalized expressionist artist Heinrich Capendonk. The work had reached a record value of EUR 2.4 million at an auction in 2006. However, in 1915, the year in which the work was supposed to have been created, white titanium was not even available for use as a pigment, which would happen about 20 to 30 years later. The analytical result achieved by Eastaught revealed one of the biggest schemes of artwork forgeries ever discovered. The forger, Wolfgang Beltracchi, made a fortune, (under)estimated at EUR 30 million, built over 25 years acting in the art market. There are several cases of counterfeiting schemes involving artwork, large fortunes, renowned galleries, museums, collectors, specialists, and masterpieces. Cases like the one revealed by Eastaugh's analyses or the millionaire counterfeit scheme involving the century-old North American Knoedler Gallery are illustrative examples of how the art market is vulnerable to this kind of crime. The International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) estimated the total annual trade in art and antiques in 2018 at around USD 70 billion, of which about USD 6 billion may have been due to illegal transactions related to theft, counterfeiting, smuggling, and organized crime. Still according to those institutions, half of that amount involved financial crimes and money laundering. In Brazil, within the scope of the Lava Jato Operation, the Federal Police seized 842 pieces of art and historical and cultural heritage, including paintings from different historical periods, sculptures, and other pieces, which add up to an estimated value of over BRL 33 million. All the pieces were related to investigations involving money laundering in cases of active and passive corruption. As other forms of money laundering resulting from various crimes have been curtailed by world authorities through specific legislation, the art market world has become increasingly attractive to crime. This scenario, combined with the great financial relevance of the legitimate art market, caused a very considerable increase in the demand for works by renowned authors and, as a direct consequence, a proportional increase in the number of forgeries and adulterations. As a result, the quality of counterfeits has also experienced a great improvement, requiring a proportional gain in technology and expertise in forensic analysis and authentication fields. Similarly, the high speculation in prices of artworks also increased the interest in new and advanced analytical techniques for determining authenticity, authorship, origin, and materials used by the authors. The refinement of counterfeiting and adulteration techniques has demanded a multidisciplinary and technological approach to the authentication process, and, at this point, we are faced with a considerable degree of complexity in the already difficult process of authenticating works of art. The authorship or authenticity determination of a painting is unavoidably based on a triangle formed by three disciplines: art history, preservation sciences, and materials sciences. The voices of our benches and equipment are unlikely to be able, on their own, to unequivocally conclude the authenticity of a work of art. Likewise, the most trained eyes of a professional connoisseur are no longer able to face the most astute counterfeiters. The best results of authenticity studies will always be achieved when these three distinct disciplines come together and complement each other in the search for comprehensive, technical, and artistic knowledge about the work. In addition to the historical study of the piece, the physical–chemical characterization of materials and components or elementary and multispectral imaging become powerful tools for fraud detection and even characterization and individualization of the authentic piece. The simplest techniques, generally used for initial documentation, to the more complex, analytical resources are used to extract the greatest amount of information from the different parts that make up a painting. In its diverse and complex layers, from the support to the final coating, paintings are composed of multilayers of heterogeneous mixtures of varied organic and inorganic compounds. A thorough investigation of this scenario always requires the use of advanced and combined techniques to better understand each case, depending on their nature. The analysis of the painting surface by a stereo-microscope will reveal genuine—or artificially produced—craquelure or brushwork patterns compatible with the artistic style proposed by the author of the work. Likewise, the UV fluorescence properties of the painting may differentiate between old and new additions of paint to the piece. However, it is in the deepest layers of an artwork that the most sophisticated analytical techniques contribute most incisively. X-ray radiography and infrared reflectography, coupled with ultra-sensitive charge-coupled devices (CCD), began to detect underdrawings that were invisible to the previously available methods. Several works have demonstrated the usefulness of tools such as synchrotron radiation, microimaging by X-ray fluorescence (XRF), and Raman or Fourier-transform infrared (FTIR) spectroscopies, combined with the versatility of portable spectrometric identification techniques, where pigment particles less than 1 micrometer in diameter can be analyzed. Even the power of pyrolysis-gas chromatography-mass spectrometry (Py-GC-MS) to identify novel synthetic organic polymers, which greatly assists in the analyses of pigments, coatings, binders, and other painting components, can, in many cases, reveal anachronisms present in the counterfeits. Other techniques such as laser ablation-inductively coupled plasma-mass spectrometry (LA-ICP-MS), isotope-ratio mass spectrometry (IRMS), and accelerator mass spectrometry (AMS) allow for the determination of isotopic ratios of heavy and light elements, which are decisive to determining the geographical origin of some pigments and the age of a painting canvas or its wooden frame. Such techniques used in association with multivariate analysis tools, artificial intelligence, and machine learning help achieve increasingly conclusive results, requiring less time and effort from the entire team of researchers. Each of the analytical techniques, evaluated for their versatility, resolution power, type of information generated, portability, and employment, have the potential for greater use in combined and multimodal work. This approach makes the description of the artwork much more precise and richer in details since it individualizes not only its components, support, and coating materials, but also the context in which they were used. The wisdom in better bringing together the analytical resources available and performing the analyses required by each case determines the success of a forensic examination of a forgery or the authenticity of a work of art. It is not hard to see that it is unlikely that a single company or laboratory, whether public, private, academic, or not, will own all the technological resources to exhaust such an analysis. Furthermore, it is not uncommon for crimes involving works of art to be transnational. All this leads us to the last step of our range of complexity: laboratories, museums, forensic, and research institutes involved in examining the authenticity of artworks should operate on secure and integrated networks, generating data that is widely shared between partner institutions. Several institutes in the world already work in this way, such as INTERPOL, the INTERNATIONAL COUNCIL OF MUSEUMS (ICOM), the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI), UNODC, and the Integrated Platform for the European Research Infrastructure on Cultural Heritage (Iperion CH). This has proven to be one of the most effective ways to curb this type of crime, which, sneakily, erodes our history and cultural heritage.

Introduction The exhibition of an artist’s work is traditionally accepted as representing the final stage of the creative process (Staniszewski). This article asks, however, whether this traditional view can be reassessed so that the curatorial practice of mounting an exhibition becomes, itself, a creative outcome feeding into work that may still be in progress, and that simultaneously operates as a learning and teaching tool. To provide a preliminary examination of the issue, we use a single case study approach, taking an example of practice currently used at an Australian university. In this program, internal and external students work together to develop and deliver an exhibition of their own work in progress. The exhibition space has a professional website (‘CQUniversity Noosa Exhibition Space’), many community members and the local media attend exhibition openings, and the exhibition (which runs for three to four weeks) becomes an outcome students can include in their curriculum vitae. This article reflects on the experiences, challenges, and outcomes that have been gained through this process over the past twelve months. Due to this time frame, the case study is exploratory and its findings are provisional. The case study is an appropriate method to explore a small sample of events (in this case exhibitions) as, following Merriam, it allows the construction of a richer picture of an under-examined phenomenon to be constructed. Although it is clear that this approach will not offer results which can be generalised, it can, nevertheless, assist in opening up a field for investigation and constructing a holistic account of a phenomenon (in this case, the exhibition space as authentic learning experience and productive teaching tool), for, as Merriam states, “much can be learned from a particular case” (51). Jennings adds that even the smallest case study is useful as it includes an “in-depth examination of the subject with which to confirm or contest received generalizations” (14). Donmoyer extends thoughts on this, suggesting that the single case study is extremely useful as the “restricted conception of generalizability … solely in terms of sampling and statistical significance is no longer defensible or functional” (45). Using the available student course feedback, anonymous end-of-term course evaluations, and other available information, this case study account offers an example of what Merriam terms a “narrative description” (51), which seeks to offer readers the opportunity to engage and “learn vicariously from an encounter with the case” (Merriam 51) in question. This may, we propose, be particularly productive for other educators since what is “learn[ed] in a particular case can be transferred to similar situations” (Merriam 51). Breaking Ground exhibition, CQUniversity Noosa Exhibition Space, 2014. Photo by Ulrike Sturm. Background The Graduate Certificate of Creative Industries (Creative Practice) (CQU ‘CB82’) was developed in 2011 to meet the national Australian Quality Framework agency’s Level 8 (Graduate Certificate) standards in terms of what is called in their policies, the “level” of learning. This states that, following the program, graduates from this level of program “will have advanced knowledge and skills for professional or highly skilled work and/or further learning … [and] will apply knowledge and skills to demonstrate autonomy, well-developed judgment, adaptability and responsibility as a practitioner or learner” (AQF). The program was first delivered in 2012 and, since then, has been offered both two and three terms a year, attracting small numbers of students each term, with an average of 8 to 12 students a term. To meet these requirements, such programs are sometimes developed to provide professional and work-integrated learning tasks and learning outcomes for students (Patrick et al., Smith et al.). In this case, professionally relevant and related tasks and outcomes formed the basis for the program, its learning tasks, and its assessment regime. To this end, each student enrolled in this program works on an individual, self-determined (but developed in association with the teaching team and with feedback from peers) creative/professional project that is planned, developed, and delivered across one term of study for full- time students and two terms for part- timers. In order to ensure the AQF-required professional-level outcomes, many projects are designed and/or developed in partnership with professional arts institutions and community bodies. Partnerships mobilised utilised in this way have included those with local, state, and national bodies, including the local arts community, festivals, and educational support programs, as well as private business and community organisations. Student interaction with curation occurs regularly at art schools, where graduate and other student shows are scheduled as a regular events on the calendar of most tertiary art schools (Al-Amri), and the curated exhibition as an outcome has a longstanding tradition in tertiary fine arts education (Webb, Brien, and Burr). Yet in these cases, it is ultimately the creative work on show that is the focus of the learning experience and assessment process, rather than any focus on engagement with the curatorial process itself (Dally et al.). When art schools do involve students in the curatorial process, the focus usually still remains on the students' creative work (Sullivan). Another interaction with curation is when students undertaking a tertiary-level course or program in museum, and/or curatorial practice are engaged in the process of developing, mounting, and/or critiquing curated activities. These programs are, however, very small in number in Australia, where they are only offered at postgraduate level, with the exception of an undergraduate program at the University of Canberra (‘215JA.2’). By adopting “the exhibition” as a component of the learning process rather than its end product, including documentation of students’ work in progress as exhibition pieces, and incorporating it into a more general creative industries focused program, we argue that the curatorial experience can become an interactive learning platform for students ranging from diverse creative disciplines. The Student Experience Students in the program under consideration in this case study come from a wide spectrum of the creative industries, including creative writing, film, multimedia, music, and visual arts. Each term, at least half of the enrolments are distance students. The decision to establish an on-campus exhibition space was an experimental strategy that sought to bring together students from different creative disciplines and diverse locations, and actively involve them in the exhibition development and curatorial process. As well as their individual project work, the students also bring differing levels of prior professional experience to the program, and exhibit a wide range of learning styles and approaches when developing and completing their creative works and exegetical reflections. To cater for the variations listed above, but still meet the program milestones and learning outcomes that must (under the program rules) remain consistent for each student, we employed a multi-disciplinary approach to teaching that included strategies informed by Gardner’s theory of multiple intelligences (Gardner, Frames of Mind), which proposed and defined seven intelligences, and repeatedly criticised what he identified as an over-reliance on linguistic and logical indices as identifiers of intelligence. He asserted that these were traditional indicators of high scores on most IQ measures or tests of achievement but were not representative of overall levels of intelligence. Gardner later reinforced that, “unless individuals take a very active role in what it is that they’re studying, unless they learn to ask questions, to do things hands on, to essentially re-create things in their own mind and transform them as is needed, the ideas just disappear” (Edutopia). In alignment with Gardner’s views, we have noted that students enrolled in the program demonstrate strengths in several key intelligence areas, particularly interpersonal, musical, body-kinaesthetic, and spacial/visual intelligences (see Gardner, ‘Multiple Intelligences’, 8–18). To cater for, and further develop, these strengths, and also for the external students who were unable to attend university-based workshop sessions, we developed a range of resources with various approaches to hands-on creative tasks that related to the projects students were completing that term. These resources included the usual scholarly articles, books, and textbooks but were also sourced from the print and online media, guest speaker presentations, and digital sites such as You Tube and TED Talks, and through student input into group discussions. The positive reception of these individual project-relevant resources is evidenced in the class online discussion forums, where consecutive groups of students have consistently reflected on the positive impact these resources have had on their individual creative projects: This has been a difficult week with many issues presenting. As part of our Free Writing exercise in class, we explored ‘brain dumping’ and wrote anything (no matter how ridiculous) down. The great thing I discovered after completing this task was that by allowing myself to not censor my thoughts by compiling a writing masterpiece, I was indeed “free” to express everything. …. … I understand that this may not have been the original intended goal of Free Writing – but it is something I would highly recommend external students to try and see if it works for you (Student 'A', week 5, term 1 2015, Moodle reflection point). I found our discussion about crowdfunding particularly interesting. ... I intend to look at this model for future exhibitions. I think it could be a great way for me to look into developing an exhibition of paintings alongside some more commercial collateral such as prints and cards (Student 'B', week 6, term 1 2015, Moodle reflection point). In class I specifically enjoyed the black out activity and found the online videos exceptional, inspiring and innovating. I really enjoyed this activity and it was something that I can take away and use within the classroom when educating (Student 'C', week 8, term 1 2015, Moodle reflection point). The application of Gardner’s principles and strategies dovetailed with our framework for assessing learning outcomes, where we were guided by Boud’s seven propositions for assessment reform in higher education, which aim to “set directions for change, designed to enhance learning achievements for all students and improve the quality of their experience” (26). Boud asserts that assessment has most effect when: it is used to engage students in productive learning; feedback is used to improve student learning; students and teachers become partners in learning and assessment; students are inducted into the assessment practices of higher education; assessment and learning are placed at the centre of subject and program design; assessment and learning is a focus for staff and institutional development; and, assessment provides inclusive and trustworthy representation of student achievement. These propositions were integral to the design of learning outcomes for the exhibition. Teachers worked with students, individually and as a group, to build their capacity to curate the exhibition, and this included such things as the design and administration of invitations, and also the physical placement of works within the exhibition space. In this way, teachers and students became partners in the process of assessment. The final exhibition, as a learning outcome, meant that students were engaged in productive learning that placed both assessment and knowledge at the centre of subject and project design. It is a collation of creative pieces that embodies the class, as a whole; however, each piece also represents the skills and creativity of individual students and, in this way, are is a trustworthy representations of student achievement. While we aimed to employ all seven recommendations, our main focus was on ensuring that the exhibition, as an authentic learning experience, was productive and that the students were engaged as responsible and accountable co-facilitators of it. These factors are particularly relevant as almost all the students were either currently working, or planning to work, in their chosen creative field, where the work would necessarily involve both publication, performance, and/or exhibition of their artwork plus collaborative practice across disciplinary boundaries to make this happen (Brien). For this reason, we provided exhibition-related coursework tasks that we hoped were engaging and that also represented an authentic learning outcome for the students. Student Curatorship In this context, the opportunity to exhibit their own works-in-progress provided an authentic reason, with a deadline, for students to both work, and reflect, on their creative projects. The documentation of each student’s creative process was showcased as a stand-alone exhibition piece within the display. These exhibits not only served not only to highlight the different learning styles of each student, but also proved to inspire creativity and skill development. They also provided a working model whereby students (and potential enrollees) could view other students’ work and creative processes from inception to fully-realised project outcomes. The sample online reflections quoted above not only highlight the effectiveness of the online content delivery, but this engagement with the online forum also allowed remote students to comment on each other’s projects as well as to and respond to issues they were encountering in their project planning and development and creative practice. It was essential that this level of peer engagement was fostered for the curatorial project to be viable, as both internal and external students are involved in designing the invitation, catalogue, labels, and design of the space, while on-campus students hang and label work according to the group’s directions. Distance students send in items. This is a key point of this experiment: the process of curating an exhibition of work from diverse creative fields, and from students located thousands of kilometres apart, as a way of bringing cohesion to a diverse cohort of students. That cohesiveness provided an opportunity for authentic learning to occur because it was in relation to a task that each student apparently understood as personally, academically, and professionally relevant. This was supported by the anonymous course evaluation comments, which were overwhelmingly positive about the exhibition process – there were no negative comments regarding this aspect of the program, and over 60 per cent of the class supplied these evaluations. This also met a considerable point of anxiety in the current university environment whereby actively engaging students in online learning interactions is a continuing issue (Dixon, Dixon, and Axmann). A key question is: what relevance does this curatorial process have for a student whose field is not visual art, but, for instance, music, film, or writing? By displaying documentation of work in progress, this process connects students of all disciplines with an audience. For example, one student in 2014 who was a singer/songwriter, had her song available to be played on a laptop, alongside photographs of the studio when she was recording her song with her band. In conjunction with this, the cover artwork for her CD, together with the actual CD and CD cover, were framed and exhibited. Another student, who was also a musician but who was completing a music history project, sent in pages of the music transcriptions he had been working on during the course. This manuscript was bound and exhibited in a way that prompted some audience members to commented that it was like an artist’s book as well as a collection of data. Both of these students lived over 1,000 kilometres from the campus where the exhibition was held, but they were able to share with us as teaching staff, as well as with other students who were involved in the physical setting up of the exhibition, exactly how they envisaged their work being displayed. The feedback from both of these students was that this experience gave them a strong connection to the program. They described how, despite the issue of distance, they had had the opportunity to participate in a professional event that they were very keen to include on their curricula vitae. Another aspect of students actively participating in the curation of an exhibition which features work from diverse disciplines is that these students get a true sense of the collaborative interconnectedness of the disciplines of the creative industries (Brien). By way of example, the exhibit of the singer/songwriter referred to above involved not only the student and her band, but also the photographer who took the photographs, and the artist who designed the CD cover. Students collaboratively decided how this material was handled in the exhibition catalogue – all these names were included and their roles described. Breaking Ground exhibition, CQUniversity Noosa Exhibition Space, 2014. Photo by Ulrike Sturm. Outcomes and Conclusion We believe that the curation of an exhibition and the delivery of its constituent components raises student awareness that they are, as creatives, part of a network of industries, developing in them a genuine understanding of the way the creating industries works as a profession outside the academic setting. It is in this sense that this curatorial task is an authentic learning experience. In fact, what was initially perceived as a significant challenge—, that is, exhibiting work in progress from diverse creative fields—, has become a strength of the curatorial project. In reflecting on the experiences and outcomes that have occurred through the implementation of this example of curatorial practice, both as a learning tool and as a creative outcome in its own right, a key positive indicator for this approach is the high level of student satisfaction with the course, as recorded in the formal, anonymous university student evaluations (with 60–100 per cent of these completed for each term, when the university benchmark is 50 per cent completion), and the high level of professional outcomes achieved post-completion. The university evaluation scores have been in the top (4.5–5/.5) range for satisfaction over the program’s eight terms of delivery since 2012. Particularly in relation to subsequent professional outcomes, anecdotal feedback has been that the curatorial process served as an authentic and engaged learning experience because it equipped the students, now graduates, of the program with not only knowledge about how exhibitions work, but also a genuine understanding of the web of connections between the diverse creative arts and industries. Indeed, a number of students have submitted proposals to exhibit professionally in the space after graduation, again providing anecdotal feedback that the experience they gained through our model has had a sustaining impact on their creative practice. While the focus of this activity has been on creative learning for the students, it has also provided an interesting and engaging teaching experience for us as the program’s staff. We will continue to gather evidence relating to our model, and, with the next iteration of the exhibition project, a more detailed comparative analysis will be attempted. At this stage, with ethics approval, we plan to run an anonymous survey with all students involved in this activity, to develop questions for a focus group discussion with graduates. We are also in the process of contacting alumni of the program regarding professional outcomes to map these one, two, and five years after graduation. We will also keep a record of what percentage of students apply to exhibit in the space after graduation, as this will also be an additional marker of how professional and useful they perceive the experience to be. In conclusion, it can be stated that the 100 per cent pass rate and 0 per cent attrition rate from the program since its inception, coupled with a high level (over 60 per cent) of student progression to further post-graduate study in the creative industries, has not been detrimentally affected by this curatorial experiment, and has encouraged staff to continue with this approach. References Al-Amri, Mohammed. “Assessment Techniques Practiced in Teaching Art at Sultan Qaboos University in Oman.” International Journal of Education through Art 7.3 (2011): 267–282. AQF Levels. Australian Qualifications Framework website. 18 June 2015 ‹http://www.aqf.edu.au/aqf/in-detail/aqf-levels/›. Boud, D. Student Assessment for Learning in and after Courses: Final Report for Senior Fellowship. Sydney: Australian Learning and Teaching Council, 2010. Brien, Donna Lee, “Higher Education in the Corporate Century: Choosing Collaborative rather than Entrepreneurial or Competitive Models.” New Writing: The International Journal for the Practice and Theory of Creative Writing 4.2 (2007): 157–170. Brien, Donna Lee, and Axel Bruns, eds. “Collaborate.” M/C Journal 9.2 (2006). 18 June 2015 ‹http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0605›. Burton, D. Exhibiting Student Art: The Essential Guide for Teachers. New York: Teachers College Press, Columbia University, New York, 2006. CQUniversity. CB82 Graduate Certificate in Creative Industries. 18 July 2015 ‹https://handbook.cqu.edu.au/programs/index?programCode=CB82›. CQUniversity Noosa Exhibition Space. 20 July 2015 ‹http://www.cqunes.org›. 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Flyvbjerg, Bent. “Five Misunderstandings about Case-Study Research.” Qualitative Inquiry 12.2 (2006): 219–245. Gardner, H. Frames of Mind: The Theory of Multiple Intelligences, New York: Basic Books, 1983. ———. Multiple Intelligences: New Horizons in Theory and Practice, New York: Basic Books, 2006. George Lucas Education Foundation. 2015 Edutopia – What Works in Education. 16 June 2015 ‹http://www.edutopia.org/multiple-intelligences-howard-gardner-video#graph3›. Gerring, John. “What Is a Case Study and What Is It Good For?” American Political Science Review 98.02 (2004): 341–354. Hooper-Greenhill, Eilean. “Museums and Communication: An Introductory Essay.” Museum, Media, Message 1 (1995): 1. Jennings, Paul. The Public House in Bradford, 1770-1970. Keele: Keele University Press, 1995. Levy, Jack S. “Case Studies: Types, Designs, and Logics of Inference.” Conflict Management and Peace Science 25.1 (2008): 1–18. Merriam, Sharan B. Qualitative Research: A Guide to Design and Implementation: Revised and Expanded from Qualitative Research and Case Study Applications in Education. Jossey-Bass, 2009. Miles, M., and S. Rainbird. From Critical Distance to Engaged Proximity: Rethinking Assessment Methods to Enhance Interdisciplinary Collaborative Learning in the Creative Arts and Humanities. Final Report to the Australian Government Office for Learning and Teaching, Sydney. 2013. Monash University. Rethinking Assessment to Enhance Interdisciplinary Collaborative Learning in the Creative Arts and Humanities. Sydney: Office of Learning and Teaching, 2013. Muller, L. Reflective Curatorial Practice. 17 June 2015 ‹http://research.it.uts.edu.au/creative/linda/CCSBook/Jan%2021%20web%20pdfs/Muller.pdf›. O’Neill, Paul. Curating Subjects. London: Open Editions, 2007. Patrick, Carol-Joy, Deborah Peach, Catherine Pocknee, Fleur Webb, Marty Fletcher, and Gabriella Pretto. The WIL (Work Integrated Learning) Report: A National Scoping Study [Final Report]. Brisbane: Queensland University of Technology, 2008. Rule, A.C. “Editorial: The Components of Authentic Learning.” Journal of Authentic Learning 3.1 (2006): 1–10. Seawright, Jason, and John Gerring. “Case Selection Techniques in Case Study Research: A Menu of Qualitative and Quantitative Options.” Political Research Quarterly 61.2 (2008): 294–308. Smith, Martin, Sally Brooks, Anna Lichtenberg, Peter McIlveen, Peter Torjul, and Joanne Tyler. Career Development Learning: Maximising the Contribution of Work-Integrated Learning to the Student Experience. Final project report, June 2009. Wollongong: University of Wollongong, 2009. Sousa, D.A. How the Brain Learns: A Teacher’s Guide. 2nd ed. Thousand Oaks, CA: Corwin Press, 2001. Stake, R. “Qualitative Case Studies”. The Sage Handbook of Qualitative Research. 3rd ed. Eds. N.K. Denzin and Y.S. Lincoln. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2005. 433-466. Staniszewski, Mary Anne. The Power of Display: A History of Exhibition Installations at the Museum of Modern Art. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1998. Sullivan, Graeme. Art Practice as Research: Inquiry in Visual Arts. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2010. University of Canberra. “Bachelor of Heritage, Museums and Conservation (215JA.2)”. Web. 27 July 2015. Ventzislavov, R. “Idle Arts: Reconsidering the Curator.” The Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 72.1 (2014): 83–93. Verschuren, P. “Case Study as a Research Strategy: Some Ambiguities and Opportunities.” International Journal of Social Research Methodology 6.2 (2003): 121–139. Webb, Jen, and Donna Lee Brien. “Preparing Graduates for Creative Futures: Australian Creative Arts Programs in a Globalising Society.” Partnerships for World Graduates, AIC (Academia, Industry and Community) 2007 Conference, RMIT, Melbourne, 28–30 Nov. 2007. Webb, Jen, Donna Lee Brien, and Sandra Burr. “Doctoral Examination in the Creative Arts: Process, Practices and Standards.” Final Report. Canberra: Office of Learning and Teaching, 2013. Yin, Robert K. Case Study Research: Design and Methods. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2013.

ABSTRACTIn this paper the possibility of applying a model of formative assessment through a project-based courses with high practical allocation of credits, new degree colleges established under the new European standard education learning arises top Bologna process (European higher Education). This model is based on the development of a research project supervised and continuous evaluation of students, which should develop both discipline-specific skills, such as generic skills aimed at their employability in school teaching studies in Children public schools. With the model of formative assessment through a project-based you take on this job learning, students of the subject didactics of artistic expression childhood education degree, throughout the project have developed very specific targets involve the development of various skills. The term "project" includes a series of coordinated and interconnected activities, both theoretical and practical, with specific objectives, which aim to enhance the learning of knowledge and skills in students, so that it is of great help in development, personal fulfillment, and in your future career.RESUMENEn el presente trabajo se plantea la posibilidad de aplicar un modelo de evaluación formativa a través de un aprendizaje basado en proyectos en asignaturas con una elevada asignación de créditos prácticos, de los nuevos grados de las universidades que se establecen según la nueva normativa europea de educación superior proceso de Bolonia (espacio Europeo de Educación superior). Este modelo se basa en el desarrollo de un proyecto de investigación tutelado y la evalua-ción continua de los estudiantes, los cuales deberían desarrollar tanto competencias específicas de la disciplina, como competencias genéricas orientadas a su inserción profesional en la docencia escolar de los estudios de Infantil en los cole-gios públicos. Con el modelo de evaluación formativa a través de un aprendizaje basado en proyectos que se realizar en este trabajo, los estudiantes de la asignatura de didáctica de la expresión plástica del grado de educación infantil, a lo largo del proyecto han desarrollado unos objetivos muy concretos que suponen el desarrollo de diversas competencias. Con el término "proyecto", se incluye una serie de actividades coordinadas e interconectadas, de carácter tanto teórico como práctico, con unos objetivos específicos, que pretenden potenciar el aprendizaje de conocimiento y habilidades en el estudiante, de forma que resulte de gran ayuda en su desarrollo, realización personal, y en su futuro profesional. Contacto principal: limillo@hotmail.com

Introduction: Technology EnthusiasmEnthusiasts are people who have a passion, keenness, dedication or zeal for a particular activity or hobby. Today, there are enthusiasts for almost everything, from genealogy, costume dramas, and country houses, to metal detectors, coin collecting, and archaeology. But to be described as an enthusiast is not necessarily a compliment. Historically, the term “enthusiasm” was first used in England in the early seventeenth century to describe “religious or prophetic frenzy among the ancient Greeks” (Hanks, n.p.). This frenzy was ascribed to being possessed by spirits sent not only by God but also the devil. During this period, those who disobeyed the powers that be or claimed to have a message from God were considered to be enthusiasts (McLoughlin).Enthusiasm retained its religious connotations throughout the eighteenth century and was also used at this time to describe “the tendency within the population to be swept by crazes” (Mee 31). However, as part of the “rehabilitation of enthusiasm,” the emerging middle-classes adopted the word to characterise the intensity of Romantic poetry. The language of enthusiasm was then used to describe the “literary ideas of affect” and “a private feeling of religious warmth” (Mee 2 and 34). While the notion of enthusiasm was embraced here in a more optimistic sense, attempts to disassociate enthusiasm from crowd-inciting fanaticism were largely unsuccessful. As such enthusiasm has never quite managed to shake off its pejorative connotations.The 'enthusiasm' discussed in this paper is essentially a personal passion for technology. It forms part of a longer tradition of historical preservation in the United Kingdom and elsewhere in the world. From preserved railways to Victorian pumping stations, people have long been fascinated by the history of technology and engineering; manifesting their enthusiasm through their nostalgic longings and emotional attachment to its enduring material culture. Moreover, enthusiasts have been central to the collection, conservation, and preservation of this particular material record. Technology enthusiasm in this instance is about having a passion for the history and material record of technological development, specifically here industrial archaeology. Despite being a pastime much participated in, technology enthusiasm is relatively under-explored within the academic literature. For the most part, scholarship has tended to focus on the intended users, formal spaces, and official narratives of science and technology (Adas, Latour, Mellström, Oldenziel). In recent years attempts have been made to remedy this imbalance, with researchers from across the social sciences examining the position of hobbyists, tinkerers and amateurs in scientific and technical culture (Ellis and Waterton, Haring, Saarikoski, Takahashi). Work from historians of technology has focussed on the computer enthusiast; for example, Saarikoski’s work on the Finnish personal computer hobby:The definition of the computer enthusiast varies historically. Personal interest, pleasure and entertainment are the most significant factors defining computing as a hobby. Despite this, the hobby may also lead to acquiring useful knowledge, skills or experience of information technology. Most often the activity takes place outside working hours but can still have links to the development of professional expertise or the pursuit of studies. In many cases it takes place in the home environment. On the other hand, it is characteristically social, and the importance of friends, clubs and other communities is greatly emphasised.In common with a number of other studies relating to technical hobbies, for example Takahashi who argues tinkerers were behind the advent of the radio and television receiver, Saarikoski’s work focuses on the role these users played in shaping the technology in question. The enthusiasts encountered in this paper are important here not for their role in shaping the technology, but keeping technological heritage alive. As historian of technology Haring reminds us, “there exist alternative ways of using and relating to technology” (18). Furthermore, the sociological literature on audiences (Abercrombie and Longhurst, Ang), fans (Hills, Jenkins, Lewis, Sandvoss) and subcultures (Hall, Hebdige, Schouten and McAlexander) has also been extended in order to account for the enthusiast. In Abercrombie and Longhurst’s Audiences, the authors locate ‘the enthusiast’ and ‘the fan’ at opposing ends of a continuum of consumption defined by questions of specialisation of interest, social organisation of interest and material productivity. Fans are described as:skilled or competent in different modes of production and consumption; active in their interactions with texts and in their production of new texts; and communal in that they construct different communities based on their links to the programmes they like. (127 emphasis in original) Based on this definition, Abercrombie and Longhurst argue that fans and enthusiasts differ in three ways: (1) enthusiasts’ activities are not based around media images and stars in the way that fans’ activities are; (2) enthusiasts can be hypothesized to be relatively light media users, particularly perhaps broadcast media, though they may be heavy users of the specialist publications which are directed towards the enthusiasm itself; (3) the enthusiasm would appear to be rather more organised than the fan activity. (132) What is striking about this attempt to differentiate between the fan and the enthusiast is that it is based on supposition rather than the actual experience and observation of enthusiasm. It is here that the ethnographic account of enthusiasm presented in this paper and elsewhere, for example works by Dannefer on vintage car culture, Moorhouse on American hot-rodding and Fuller on modified-car culture in Australia, can shed light on the subject. My own ethnographic study of groups with a passion for telecommunications heritage, early British computers and industrial archaeology takes the discussion of “technology enthusiasm” further still. Through in-depth interviews, observation and textual analysis, I have examined in detail the formation of enthusiast societies and their membership, the importance of the material record to enthusiasts (particularly at home) and the enthusiastic practices of collecting and hoarding, as well as the figure of the technology enthusiast in the public space of the museum, namely the Science Museum in London (Geoghegan). In this paper, I explore the culture of enthusiasm for the industrial past through the example of the Greater London Industrial Archaeology Society (GLIAS). Focusing on industrial sites around London, GLIAS meet five or six times a year for field visits, walks and a treasure hunt. The committee maintain a website and produce a quarterly newsletter. The title of my paper, “If you can walk down the street and recognise the difference between cast iron and wrought iron, the world is altogether a better place,” comes from an interview I conducted with the co-founder and present chairman of GLIAS. He was telling me about his fascination with the materials of industrialisation. In fact, he said even concrete is sexy. Some call it a hobby; others call it a disease. But enthusiasm for industrial archaeology is, as several respondents have themselves identified, “as insidious in its side effects as any debilitating germ. It dictates your lifestyle, organises your activity and decides who your friends are” (Frow and Frow 177, Gillespie et al.). Through the figure of the industrial archaeology enthusiast, I discuss in this paper what it means to be enthusiastic. I begin by reflecting on the development of this specialist subject area. I go on to detail the formation of the Society in the late 1960s, before exploring the Society’s fieldwork methods and some of the other activities they now engage in. I raise questions of enthusiast and professional knowledge and practice, as well as consider the future of this particular enthusiasm.Defining Industrial ArchaeologyThe practice of 'industrial archaeology' is much contested. For a long time, enthusiasts and professional archaeologists have debated the meaning and use of the term (Palmer). On the one hand, there are those interested in the history, preservation, and recording of industrial sites. For example the grandfather figures of the subject, namely Kenneth Hudson and Angus Buchanan, who both published widely in the 1960s and 1970s in order to encourage publics to get involved in recording. Many members of GLIAS refer to the books of Hudson Industrial Archaeology: an Introduction and Buchanan Industrial Archaeology in Britain with their fine descriptions and photographs as integral to their early interest in the subject. On the other hand, there are those within the academic discipline of archaeology who consider the study of remains produced by the Industrial Revolution as too modern. Moreover, they find the activities of those calling themselves industrial archaeologists as lacking sufficient attention to the understanding of past human activity to justify the name. As a result, the definition of 'industrial archaeology' is problematic for both enthusiasts and professionals. Even the early advocates of professional industrial archaeology felt uneasy about the subject’s methods and practices. In 1973, Philip Riden (described by one GLIAS member as the angry young man of industrial archaeology), the then president of the Oxford University Archaeology Society, wrote a damning article in Antiquity, calling for the subject to “shed the amateur train drivers and others who are not part of archaeology” (215-216). He decried the “appallingly low standard of some of the work done under the name of ‘industrial archaeology’” (211). He felt that if enthusiasts did not attempt to maintain high technical standards, publish their work in journals or back up their fieldwork with documentary investigation or join their county archaeological societies then there was no value in the efforts of these amateurs. During this period, enthusiasts, academics, and professionals were divided. What was wrong with doing something for the pleasure it provides the participant?Although relations today between the so-called amateur (enthusiast) and professional archaeologies are less potent, some prejudice remains. Describing them as “barrow boys”, some enthusiasts suggest that what was once their much-loved pastime has been “hijacked” by professional archaeologists who, according to one respondent,are desperate to find subjects to get degrees in. So the whole thing has been hijacked by academia as it were. Traditional professional archaeologists in London at least are running head on into things that we have been doing for decades and they still don’t appreciate that this is what we do. A lot of assessments are handed out to professional archaeology teams who don’t necessarily have any knowledge of industrial archaeology. (James, GLIAS committee member)James went on to reveal that GLIAS receives numerous enquiries from professional archaeologists, developers and town planners asking what they know about particular sites across the city. Although the Society has compiled a detailed database covering some areas of London, it is by no means comprehensive. In addition, many active members often record and monitor sites in London for their own personal enjoyment. This leaves many questioning the need to publish their results for the gain of third parties. Canadian sociologist Stebbins discusses this situation in his research on “serious leisure”. He has worked extensively with amateur archaeologists in order to understand their approach to their leisure activity. He argues that amateurs are “neither dabblers who approach the activity with little commitment or seriousness, nor professionals who make a living from that activity” (55). Rather they pursue their chosen leisure activity to professional standards. A point echoed by Fine in his study of the cultures of mushrooming. But this is to get ahead of myself. How did GLIAS begin?GLIAS: The GroupThe 1960s have been described by respondents as a frantic period of “running around like headless chickens.” Enthusiasts of London’s industrial archaeology were witnessing incredible changes to the city’s industrial landscape. Individuals and groups like the Thames Basin Archaeology Observers Group were recording what they could. Dashing around London taking photos to capture London’s industrial legacy before it was lost forever. However the final straw for many, in London at least, was the proposed and subsequent demolition of the “Euston Arch”. The Doric portico at Euston Station was completed in 1838 and stood as a symbol to the glory of railway travel. Despite strong protests from amenity societies, this Victorian symbol of progress was finally pulled down by British Railways in 1962 in order to make way for what enthusiasts have called a “monstrous concrete box”.In response to these changes, GLIAS was founded in 1968 by two engineers and a locomotive driver over afternoon tea in a suburban living room in Woodford, North-East London. They held their first meeting one Sunday afternoon in December at the Science Museum in London and attracted over 130 people. Firing the imagination of potential members with an exhibition of photographs of the industrial landscape taken by Eric de Maré, GLIAS’s first meeting was a success. Bringing together like-minded people who are motivated and enthusiastic about the subject, GLIAS currently has over 600 members in the London area and beyond. This makes it the largest industrial archaeology society in the UK and perhaps Europe. Drawing some of its membership from a series of evening classes hosted by various members of the Society’s committee, GLIAS initially had a quasi-academic approach. Although some preferred the hands-on practical element and were more, as has been described by one respondent, “your free-range enthusiast”. The society has an active committee, produces a newsletter and journal, as well as runs regular events for members. However the Society is not simply about the study of London’s industrial heritage, over time the interest in industrial archaeology has developed for some members into long-term friendships. Sociability is central to organised leisure activities. It underpins and supports the performance of enthusiasm in groups and societies. For Fine, sociability does not always equal friendship, but it is the state from which people might become friends. Some GLIAS members have taken this one step further: there have even been a couple of marriages. Although not the subject of my paper, technical culture is heavily gendered. Industrial archaeology is a rare exception attracting a mixture of male and female participants, usually retired husband and wife teams.Doing Industrial Archaeology: GLIAS’s Method and PracticeIn what has been described as GLIAS’s heyday, namely the 1970s to early 1980s, fieldwork was fundamental to the Society’s activities. The Society’s approach to fieldwork during this period was much the same as the one described by champion of industrial archaeology Arthur Raistrick in 1973:photographing, measuring, describing, and so far as possible documenting buildings, engines, machinery, lines of communication, still or recently in use, providing a satisfactory record for the future before the object may become obsolete or be demolished. (13)In the early years of GLIAS and thanks to the committed efforts of two active Society members, recording parties were organised for extended lunch hours and weekends. The majority of this early fieldwork took place at the St Katherine Docks. The Docks were constructed in the 1820s by Thomas Telford. They became home to the world’s greatest concentration of portable wealth. Here GLIAS members learnt and employed practical (also professional) skills, such as measuring, triangulations and use of a “dumpy level”. For many members this was an incredibly exciting time. It was a chance to gain hands-on experience of industrial archaeology. Having been left derelict for many years, the Docks have since been redeveloped as part of the Docklands regeneration project.At this time the Society was also compiling data for what has become known to members as “The GLIAS Book”. The book was to have separate chapters on the various industrial histories of London with contributions from Society members about specific sites. Sadly the book’s editor died and the project lost impetus. Several years ago, the committee managed to digitise the data collected for the book and began to compile a database. However, the GLIAS database has been beset by problems. Firstly, there are often questions of consistency and coherence. There is a standard datasheet for recording industrial buildings – the Index Record for Industrial Sites. However, the quality of each record is different because of the experience level of the different authors. Some authors are automatically identified as good or expert record keepers. Secondly, getting access to the database in order to upload the information has proved difficult. As one of the respondents put it: “like all computer babies [the creator of the database], is finding it hard to give birth” (Sally, GLIAS member). As we have learnt enthusiasm is integral to movements such as industrial archaeology – public historian Raphael Samuel described them as the “invisible hands” of historical enquiry. Yet, it is this very enthusiasm that has the potential to jeopardise projects such as the GLIAS book. Although active in their recording practices, the GLIAS book saga reflects one of the challenges encountered by enthusiast groups and societies. In common with other researchers studying amenity societies, such as Ellis and Waterton’s work with amateur naturalists, unlike the world of work where people are paid to complete a task and are therefore meant to have a singular sense of purpose, the activities of an enthusiast group like GLIAS rely on the goodwill of their members to volunteer their time, energy and expertise. When this is lost for whatever reason, there is no requirement for any other member to take up that position. As such, levels of commitment vary between enthusiasts and can lead to the aforementioned difficulties, such as disputes between group members, the occasional miscommunication of ideas and an over-enthusiasm for some parts of the task in hand. On top of this, GLIAS and societies like it are confronted with changing health and safety policies and tightened security surrounding industrial sites. This has made the practical side of industrial archaeology increasingly difficult. As GLIAS member Bob explains:For me to go on site now I have to wear site boots and borrow a hard hat and a high visibility jacket. Now we used to do incredibly dangerous things in the seventies and nobody batted an eyelid. You know we were exploring derelict buildings, which you are virtually not allowed in now because the floor might give way. Again the world has changed a lot there. GLIAS: TodayGLIAS members continue to record sites across London. Some members are currently surveying the site chosen as the location of the Olympic Games in London in 2012 – the Lower Lea Valley. They describe their activities at this site as “rescue archaeology”. GLIAS members are working against the clock and some important structures have already been demolished. They only have time to complete a quick flash survey. Armed with the information they collated in previous years, GLIAS is currently in discussions with the developer to orchestrate a detailed recording of the site. It is important to note here that GLIAS members are less interested in campaigning for the preservation of a site or building, they appreciate that sites must change. Instead they want to ensure that large swathes of industrial London are not lost without a trace. Some members regard this as their public duty.Restricted by health and safety mandates and access disputes, GLIAS has had to adapt. The majority of practical recording sessions have given way to guided walks in the summer and public lectures in the winter. Some respondents have identified a difference between those members who call themselves “industrial archaeologists” and those who are just “ordinary members” of GLIAS. The walks are for those with a general interest, not serious members, and the talks are public lectures. Some audience researchers have used Bourdieu’s metaphor of “capital” to describe the experience, knowledge and skill required to be a fan, clubber or enthusiast. For Hills, fan status is built up through the demonstration of cultural capital: “where fans share a common interest while also competing over fan knowledge, access to the object of fandom, and status” (46). A clear membership hierarchy can be seen within GLIAS based on levels of experience, knowledge and practical skill.With a membership of over 600 and rising annually, the Society’s future is secure at present. However some of the more serious members, although retaining their membership, are pursuing their enthusiasm elsewhere: through break-away recording groups in London; active membership of other groups and societies, for example the national Association for Industrial Archaeology; as well as heading off to North Wales in the summer for practical, hands-on industrial archaeology in Snowdonia’s slate quarries – described in the Ffestiniog Railway Journal as the “annual convention of slate nutters.” ConclusionsGLIAS has changed since its foundation in the late 1960s. Its operation has been complicated by questions of health and safety, site access, an ageing membership, and the constant changes to London’s industrial archaeology. Previously rejected by professional industrial archaeology as “limited in skill and resources” (Riden), enthusiasts are now approached by professional archaeologists, developers, planners and even museums that are interested in engaging in knowledge exchange programmes. As a recent report from the British think-tank Demos has argued, enthusiasts or pro-ams – “amateurs who work to professional standards” (Leadbeater and Miller 12) – are integral to future innovation and creativity; for example computer pro-ams developed an operating system to rival Microsoft Windows. As such the specialist knowledge, skill and practice of these communities is of increasing interest to policymakers, practitioners, and business. So, the subject once described as “the ugly offspring of two parents that shouldn’t have been allowed to breed” (Hudson), the so-called “amateur” industrial archaeology offers enthusiasts and professionals alike alternative ways of knowing, seeing and being in the recent and contemporary past.Through the case study of GLIAS, I have described what it means to be enthusiastic about industrial archaeology. I have introduced a culture of collective and individual participation and friendship based on a mutual interest in and emotional attachment to industrial sites. As we have learnt in this paper, enthusiasm is about fun, pleasure and joy. The enthusiastic culture presented here advances themes such as passion in relation to less obvious communities of knowing, skilled practices, material artefacts and spaces of knowledge. Moreover, this paper has been about the affective narratives that are sometimes missing from academic accounts; overlooked for fear of sniggers at the back of a conference hall. Laughter and humour are a large part of what enthusiasm is. Enthusiastic cultures then are about the pleasure and joy experienced in doing things. Enthusiasm is clearly a potent force for active participation. I will leave the last word to GLIAS member John:One meaning of enthusiasm is as a form of possession, madness. Obsession perhaps rather than possession, which I think is entirely true. It is a pejorative term probably. The railway enthusiast. But an awful lot of energy goes into what they do and achieve. Enthusiasm to my mind is an essential ingredient. If you are not a person who can muster enthusiasm, it is very difficult, I think, to get anything out of it. On the basis of the more you put in the more you get out. In terms of what has happened with industrial archaeology in this country, I think, enthusiasm is a very important aspect of it. The movement needs people who can transmit that enthusiasm. ReferencesAbercrombie, N., and B. Longhurst. Audiences: A Sociological Theory of Performance and Imagination. London: Sage Publications, 1998.Adas, M. Machines as the Measure of Men: Science, Technology and Ideologies of Western Dominance. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1989.Ang, I. Desperately Seeking the Audience. London: Routledge, 1991.Bourdieu, P. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste. London: Routledge, 1984.Buchanan, R.A. Industrial Archaeology in Britain. 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Industrial Archaeology London: John Baker, 1963.Jenkins, H. Textual Poachers: Television Fans and Participatory Culture. London: Routledge, 1992.Latour, B. Aramis, or the Love of Technology. London: Harvard UP, 1996.Leadbeater, C., and P. Miller. The Pro-Am Revolution: How Enthusiasts Are Changing Our Economy and Society. London: Demos, 2004.Lewis, L.A., ed. The Adoring Audience: Fan Culture and Popular Media. London: Routledge, 1992.McLoughlin, W.G. Revivals, Awakenings, and Reform: An Essay on Religion and Social Change in America, 1607-1977. London: U of Chicago P, 1977.Mee, J. Romanticism, Enthusiasm, and Regulation: Poetics and the Policing of Culture in the Romantic Period. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2003.Mellström, U. “Patriarchal Machines and Masculine Embodiment.” Science, Technology, & Human Values 27 (2002): 460–478.Moorhouse, H.F. Driving Ambitions: A Social Analysis of American Hot Rod Enthusiasm. Manchester: Manchester UP, 1991.Oldenziel, R. Making Technology Masculine: Men, Women and Modern Machines in America 1870-1945. Amsterdam: Amsterdam UP, 1999.Palmer, M. “‘We Have Not Factory Bell’: Domestic Textile Workers in the Nineteenth Century.” The Local Historian 34 (2004): 198–213.Raistrick, A. Industrial Archaeology. London: Granada, 1973.Riden, P. “Post-Post-Medieval Archaeology.” Antiquity XLVII (1973): 210-216.Rix, M. “Industrial Archaeology: Progress Report 1962.” The Amateur Historian 5 (1962): 56–60.Rix, M. Industrial Archaeology. London: The Historical Association, 1967.Saarikoski, P. The Lure of the Machine: The Personal Computer Interest in Finland from the 1970s to the Mid-1990s. Unpublished PhD Thesis, 2004. ‹http://users.utu.fi/petsaari/lure.pdf›.Samuel, R. Theatres of Memory London: Verso, 1994.Sandvoss, C. Fans: The Mirror of Consumption Cambridge: Polity, 2005.Schouten, J.W., and J. McAlexander. “Subcultures of Consumption: An Ethnography of the New Bikers.” Journal of Consumer Research 22 (1995) 43–61.Stebbins, R.A. Amateurs: On the Margin between Work and Leisure. Beverly Hills: Sage, 1979.Stebbins, R.A. Amateurs, Professionals, and Serious Leisure. London: McGill-Queen’s UP, 1992.Takahashi, Y. “A Network of Tinkerers: The Advent of the Radio and Television Receiver Industry in Japan.” Technology and Culture 41 (2000): 460–484.

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. 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The Directory on Popular Piety and the Liturgy (DPPL) upholds that Christian worship originates and is brought to completion in the Spirit of Christ, which dispenses truthful liturgical devotion and realistic manifestations of popular piety. A vigorous engagement of evangelization and culture is embodied in the Sabuaga Festival, an Easter Sunday celebration in Sto. Tomas, Pampanga. It is a collaboration of the Catholic Church (St. Thomas the Apostle Parish) and the Local Government Unit (Sto. Tomas). This paper argues how a true and fruitful harmony between liturgy and popular piety is achieved in the Sabuaga Festival. Hence, the researcher articulates the following, namely: First, the dimensions of the Sabuaga Festival that make it an expression of popular piety. Second, the principles offered by DPPL for the true and fruitful harmonization of liturgy and popular piety. Third, the pastoral action plan, entitled: “An Authentic Pastoral Action of the Liturgy: Towards Building upon the Riches of the Sabuaga as a Popular Piety,” which provides suitable catechesis for the harmonization of Liturgy and Popular Piety in the Sabuaga Festival. References Archdiocese of Saint Paul and Minneapolis, “What Is ‘Liturgy’? Why Is It Important?” Accessed last March 29, 2021 from https://www.archspm.org/faith-and-discipleship/catholic-faith/what-is-liturgy-why-is-it-important/. Benedict XVI, Jesus of Nazareth. Holy Week: From the Entrance into Jerusalem to the Resurrection. London: Catholic Truth Society. Catholic Church. Catechism of the Catholic Church: Revised in Accordance with the Official Latin Text Promulgated by Pope John Paul II. Vatican City: Libreria Editrice Vaticana, 1997. Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines. Acts and Decrees of the Second Plenary Council of the Philippines. Manila: CBCP, 1992. Catholic Bishops’ Conference of the Philippines. Catechism for Filipino Catholics. Manila: ECCCE Word and Life Publications, 2008. Robert E. Alvis. “The Tenacity of Popular Devotions in the Age of Vatican II: Learning from the Divine Mercy,” Religions 12, 1 (2021): 65. https://doi.org/10.3390/rel12010065 Catholic Culture. “Catholic Activity: Liturgy of Easter Sunday and the Octave of Easter,” Accessed March 16, 2021 from https://www.catholicculture.org/culture/liturgicalyear/activities/view.cfm?id=1044. Chupungco, Anscar J. “Liturgical Inculturation: The Future That Awaits Us.” Accessed last 3 April 2021 from https://www.valpo.edu/institute-of-liturgical-studies/files/2016/09/chupungco2.pdf. Cole, Father. “St. John Damascene: Holy Pictures to the Rescue!” National Catholic Register. Last modified December 1, 1996. Accessed last March 31, 2021 from https://www.ncregister.com/news/st-john-damascene-holy-pictures-to-the-rescue. Coffey, David. “The Common and the Ordained Priesthood,” Theological Studies 58 (1997). Congregation for Divine Worship and Discipline of the Sacraments. Directory on Popular Piety and the Liturgy, Principles, and Guidelines. Promulgated on December 2001. Accessed from http://www.vatican.va/roman_curia/congregations/ccdds/documents/rc_con_ccdds_doc_20020513_vers-direttorio_en.html Deguma, Jabin J. Melona S. Case, and Jemima N. Tandag. “Popular Religiosity: Experiencing Quiapo and Turumba.” American Research Journal of Humanities & Social Science Vol. 2, 6 (June 2019). https://www.researchgate.net/publication/337158384_Popular_Religiosity_Experiencing_Quiapo_and_Turumba Duggan, Robert D. “Good Liturgy: The Assembly,” America: The Jesuit Review. Last modified, 1 March 2004. Accessed last 4 April 2021 from https://www.americamagazine.org/issue/475/article/good-liturgy-assembly Ecclesia in Asia, Post Synodal Exhortation solemnly promulgated by His Holiness: John Paul II on November 6, 1999. Accessed last March 29, 2021 from http://www.vatican.va/content/john-paul-ii/en/apost_exhortations/documents/hf_jp- ii_exh_06111999_ecclesia-in-asia.html. Estevez, Jorge Arturo Medina. “Popular Piety And The Life Of Faith,” Catholic Culture. Accessed March 31, 2021 from https://www.catholicculture.org/culture/library/view.cfm?recnum=4614. Evangelii Gaudium. Apostolic Exhortation on the Proclamation of the Gospel in Today’s World of the His Holiness Pope Francis promulgated on 24 November 2013. Accessed last 4 April 2021 from http://www.vatican.va/content/francesco/en/apost_exhortations/documents/papa-francesco_esortazione-ap_20131124_evangelii-gaudium.html#The_evangelizing_power_of_popular_piety Evangelii Nuntiandi Apostolic Exhortation, solemnly promulgated by His Holiness Pope Paul VI on December 8, 1975. Accessed last 30 March 2021 from http://www.vatican.va/content/paul-vi/en/apost_exhortations/documents/hf_p-vi_exh_19751208_evangelii-nuntiandi.html. Fifth General Conference of the Bishops of Latin America and the Caribbean convened in Aparecida (Brazil), from May 13 to 31, 2007. 258-265. Gueguen, John. “Jesus of Nazareth from Baptism in the Jordan to the Transfiguration Joseph Ratzinger-Pope Benedict XVI." Accessed last 14 March 2021, from http://my.ilstu.edu/~jguegu/BenedictXVIPart2.pdf?fbclid=IwAR2Ehr2_33BasxvvDnOGBEqaEz0VajyxpzfO2FYCq5Vi-j0et09a_St2PiU Graduateway. “Popular Piety: Emotive Christianity in Medieval Society Example.” Accessed last 11 December 2020 from https://graduateway.com/popular-piety-emotive-christianity-in-medieval-society/. Guardini, Romano. “The Spirit of the Liturgy.” Accessed last March 31, 2021 from https://www.ewtn.com/catholicism/library/spirit-of-the-liturgy-11203. Ivan About Town. “Pampanga: Easter Sunday Salubong, Pusu-Puso, and Sagalas of Santo Tomas.” Last modified, 6 April 2010. Accessed last 5 April 2021, from https://www.ivanhenares.com/2010/04/pampanga-easter-sunday-salubong-pusu.html Keenan OP, Oliver James. New Series: Popular Piety,” The Dominican Friars – England and Scotland. Last modified 18 October 2013. Accessed last March 30, 2021 from https://www.english.op.org/godzdogz/new-series-popular-piety Krueger, Derek. “The Religion of Relics in Late Antiquity and Byzantium,” in Treasures of Heaven: Saints, Relics, and Devotion in Medieval Europe, eds. Martina Bagnoli, Holger A. Klein, C Griffith Mann, and James Robinson. London: The British Museum Press, 2011. Kroeger, James H. “Popular Piety: Some Missiological Insights,” Japan Mission Journal Vol. 70, 4 (Winter 2016). Lumen Gentium. Dogmatic Constitution on the Church, solemnly promulgated by His Holiness Pope Paul VI on November 21, 1964. Accessed last March 30, 2021 from http://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_const_19641121_lumen-gentium_en.html. McEvoy, Bernice. “Why Do Catholics Wear Medals, Scapulars & Venerate Relics?” St Martin Apostolate. Last modified July 8, 2019. Accessed last 4 April 2021 from https://www.stmartin.ie/why-do-catholics-wear-medals-scapulars-venerate-relics/. Mirus, Jeff. “Vatican II on the Liturgy: Particular Norms and the Eucharist,” Catholic Culture. Last modified 11 February 2010. Accessed last March 29, 2021 from https://www.catholicculture.org/commentary/vatican-ii-on-liturgy-particular-norms-eucharist/. Musicam Sacram, Second Vatican Ecumenical Council Instruction on Music in the Liturgy solemnly promulgated on 5 March 1967. Accessed last 4 April 2021 from http://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_instr_19670305_musicam-sacram_en.html Piotr, Roszak. and Sławomir Tykarski. “Popular Piety and Devotion to Parish Patrons in Poland and Spain, 1948–98” Religions 11, 658 (2020): doi:10.3390/rel11120658 Plese, Matthew. “A Catholic Guide to Relics: What Kinds Are There and Why Do We Honor Them?” The Fatima Center. Accessed last 1 March 2020 from https://fatima.org/news-views/catholic-apologetics-58/. __________. “The Importance of Kneeling and Prostrations,” The Fatima Center. last modified June 15, 2020. Accessed last 4 April 2021 from https://fatima.org/news-views/the-importance-of-kneeling-and-prostrations/. Pontifical Council for Culture, Towards a Pastoral Approach to Culture. Promulgated in 1999. Accessed last 4 April 2021 from https://www.vatican.va/roman_curia/pontifical_councils/cultr/documents/rc_pc_pc-cultr_doc_03061999_pastoral_en.html. Ratzinger, Joseph Cardinal. God and the world: believing and living in our time: A Conversation with Peter Seewald. Translated by Henry Taylor. San Francisco, CA: Ignatius Press, 2002. __________. “Sacred Places: The Altar and the Direction of Liturgical Prayer,” The Institute for Sacred Architecture. Accessed last March 31, 2021 from https://www.sacredarchitecture.org/articles/the_altar_and_the_direction_of_liturgical_prayer/. Rosales, Daniel Montoya. “The Influence of the Missionary Heritage on Liturgical Forms.” International Review of Missions, 74, 295 (July 1985): 373-376. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1758-6631.1985.tb02595.x Sacramentum Caritatis. Post-Synodal Apostolic Exhortation on the Eucharist as the Source and Summit of the Church's Life and Mission, solemnly promulgated by His Holiness Benedict XVI on 22 February 2007. Accessed March 29, 2021 from https://www.vatican.va/content/benedict-xvi/en/apost_exhortations/documents/hf_ben-xvi_exh_20070222_sacramentum-caritatis.html#Actuosa_participatio Sacrosanctum Concilium. Constitution on Sacred Liturgy, solemnly promulgated by His Holiness Pope Paul VI on December 4, 1963. Accessed last 1 April 2021 from https://www.vatican.va/archive/hist_councils/ii_vatican_council/documents/vat-ii_const_19631204_sacrosanctum-concilium_en.html Saunders, William. “Icons and Sacred Images,” Catholic Exchange. Last modified January 19, 2017. Accessed last 4 April 2021 from https://catholicexchange.com/icons-sacred-images-2. Salvador, Ryan. “Some Reflections on Theology and Popular Piety: A Fruitful or Fraught Relationship?” HeyJ 53 (2012): 961–971. Scheuman, Joseph. “Five Truths About the Incarnation,” Desiring God. Last Modified 25 December 2013. Accessed last March 31, 2021 from https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/five-truths-about-the-incarnation. Sheehan, Peter C. “Role of Music in Liturgy.” Academia.edu. Accessed March 31, 2021. https://www.academia.edu/12569062/Role_of_Music_in_Liturgy. Stroik, Duncan G., and Barbara J. Elliott, James Fitzmaurice, et al. “The Church Building as Sacred Place: Beauty, Transcendence & Eternal,” The Imaginative Conservative. Last modified August 13, 2019. Accessed last 4 April 2021 from https://theimaginativeconservative.org/2013/02/the-church-building-as-sacred-place.html. Synod of Bishops XIII Ordinary General Assembly The New Evangelization for the Transmission of the Christian Faith, Instrumentum Laboris" promulgated in 2012. Accessed last March 30, 2021 from http://www.vatican.va/roman_curia/synod/documents/rc_synod_doc_20120619_instrumentum-xiii_en.html. Szylak, Paweł. “Popular Piety: Processions,” The Dominican Friars – England and Scotland. Last modified 14 January 2014. Accessed March 31, 2021. https://www.english.op.org/godzdogz/popular-piety-processions. Theodula and Popular Religiosity. “Liturgy and Popular Religiosity: Historical Perspective,” accessed last 4 April 2020 from https://theologicaldramatics.wordpress.com/popular-religiosity/02-popular-religionreligiosity-and-official-liturgy/notes-mark-francis-csv/ Theodula and Popular Religiosity. “Debosyon.” Accessed last 4 April 2021 from https://theologicaldramatics.wordpress.com/liturgy-popular-piety-religiosity-in-the-magisterium/ Thompson, O.P Augustine. “The Dominican Venia and Kissing the Scapular.” New Liturgical Movement. Last modified 5 July 2008. Accessed March 31, 2021 from http://www.newliturgicalmovement.org/2008/07/dominican-venia-and-kissing-scapular.html#.YGQCrZMzbe0. Appendix: SC- Sacrosanctum Concilium CCC- Catechism of the Catholic Church DPPL- Directory on Popular Piety and the Liturgy YOUCAT- Youth Catechism EG- Evangelii Gaudium

Introduction“From every kind of man obedience I expect; I’m the Emperor of Japan.” (“Miyasama,” from Gilbert and Sullivan’s musical The Mikado, 1885)This commentary is facilitated by—surprisingly resilient—oriental stereotypes of an imagined Japan (think of Oscar Wilde’s assertion, in 1889, that Japan was a European invention). During the Victorian era, in Britain, there was a craze for all things oriental, particularly ceramics and “there was a craze for all things Japanese and no middle class drawing room was without its Japanese fan or teapot.“ (V&A Victorian). These pastoral depictions of the ‘oriental life’ included the figures of men and women in oriental garb, with fans, stilt shoes, kimono-like robes, and appropriate headdresses, engaging in garden-based activities, especially tea ceremony variations (Landow). In fact, tea itself, and the idea of a ceremony of serving it, had taken up a central role, even an obsession in middle- and upper-class Victorian life. Similarly, landscapes with wild seas, rugged rocks and stunted pines, wizened monks, pagodas and temples, and particular fauna and flora (cranes and other birds flying through clouds of peonies, cherry blossoms and chrysanthemums) were very popular motifs (see Martin and Koda). Rather than authenticity, these designs heightened the Western-based romantic stereotypes associated with a stylised form of Japanese life, conducted sedately under rule of the Japanese Imperial Court. In reality, prior to the Meiji period (1868–1912), the Emperor was largely removed from everyday concerns, residing as an isolated, holy figure in Kyoto, the traditional capital of Japan. Japan was instead ruled from Edo (modern day Tokyo) led by the Shogun and his generals, according to a strict Confucian influenced code (see Keene). In Japan, as elsewhere, the presence of feudal-style governance includes policies that determine much of everyday life, including restrictions on clothing (Rall 169). The Samurai code was no different, and included a series of protocols that restricted rank, movement, behaviour, and clothing. As Vincent has noted in the case of the ‘lace tax’ in Great Britain, these restrictions were designed to punish those who seek to penetrate the upper classes through their costume (28-30). In Japan, pre-Meiji sumptuary laws, for example, restricted the use of gold, and prohibited the use of a certain shade of red by merchant classes (V&A Kimono).Therefore, in the governance of pre-globalised societies, the importance of clothing and textile is evident; as Jones and Stallybrass comment: We need to understand the antimatedness of clothes, their ability to “pick up” subjects, to mould and shape them both physically and socially—to constitute subjects through their power as material memories […] Clothing is a worn world: a world of social relations put upon the wearer’s body. (2-3, emphasis added)The significant re-imagining of Japanese cultural and national identities are explored here through the cataclysmic impact of Western ideologies on Japanese cultural traditions. There are many ways to examine how indigenous cultures respond to European, British, or American (hereafter Western) influences, particularly in times of conflict (Wilk). Western ideology arrived in Japan after a long period of isolation (during which time Japan’s only contact was with Dutch traders) through the threat of military hostility and war. It is after this outside threat was realised that Japan’s adoption of military and industrial practices begins. The re-imagining of their national identity took many forms, and the inclusion of a Western-style military costuming as a schoolboy uniform became a highly visible indicator of Japan’s mission to protect its sovereign integrity. A brief history of Japan’s rise from a collection of isolated feudal states to a unified military power, in not only the Asian Pacific region but globally, demonstrates the speed at which they adopted the Western mode of warfare. Gunboats on Japan’s ShorelinesJapan was forcefully opened to the West in the 1850s by America under threat of First Name Perry’s ‘gunboat diplomacy’ (Hillsborough 7-8). Following this, Japan underwent a rapid period of modernisation, and an upsurge in nationalism and military expansion that was driven by a desire to catch up to the European powers present in the Pacific. Noted by Ian Ferguson in Civilization: The West and the Rest, Unsure, the Japanese decided […] to copy everything […] Japanese institutions were refashioned on Western models. The army drilled like Germans; the navy sailed like Britons. An American-style system of state elementary and middle schools was also introduced. (221, emphasis added)This was nothing short of a wide-scale reorganisation of Japan’s entire social structure and governance. Under the Emperor Meiji, who wrested power from the Shogunate and reclaimed it for the Imperial head, Japan steamed into an industrial revolution, achieving in a matter of years what had taken Europe over a century.Japan quickly became a major player-elect on the world stage. However, as an island nation, Japan lacked the essentials of both coal and iron with which to fashion not only industrial machinery but also military equipment, the machinery of war. In 1875 Japan forced Korea to open itself to foreign (read: Japanese) trade. In the same treaty, Korea was recognised as a sovereign nation, separate from Qing China (Tucker 1461). The necessity for raw materials then led to the Sino-Japanese War (1894–95), a conflict between Japan and China that marked the emergence of Japan as a major world power. The Korean Peninsula had long been China’s most important client state, but its strategic location adjacent to the Japanese archipelago, and its natural resources of coal and iron, attracted Japan’s interest. Later, the Russo-Japanese War (1904–05), allowed a victorious Japan to force Russia to abandon its expansionist policy in the Far East, becoming the first Asian power in modern times to defeat a European power. The Russo-Japanese War developed out of the rivalry between Russia and Japan for dominance in Korea and Manchuria, again in the struggle for natural resources (Tucker 1534-46).Japan’s victories, together with the county’s drive for resources, meant that Japan could now determine its role within the Asia-Pacific sphere of influence. As Japan’s military, and their adoption of Westernised combat, proved effective in maintaining national integrity, other social institutions also looked to the West (Ferguson 221). In an ironic twist—while Victorian and Continental fashion was busy adopting the exotic, oriental look (Martin and Koda)—the kimono, along with other essentials of Japanese fashions, were rapidly altered (both literally and figuratively) to suit new, warlike ideology. It should be noted that kimono literally means ‘things that you wear’ and which, prior to exposure to Western fashions, signified all worn clothing (Dalby 65-119). “Wearing Things” in Westernised JapanAs Japan modernised during the late 1800s the kimono was positioned as symbolising barbaric, pre-modern, ‘oriental’ Japan. Indeed, on 17 January 1887 the Meiji Empress issued a memorandum on the subject of women’s clothing in Japan: “She [the Empress] believed that western clothes were in fact closer to the dress of women in ancient Japan than the kimonos currently worn and urged that they be adopted as the standard clothes of the reign” (Keene 404). The resemblance between Western skirts and blouses and the simple skirt and separate top that had been worn in ancient times by a people descended from the sun goddess, Amaterasu wo mikami, was used to give authority and cultural authenticity to Japan’s modernisation projects. The Imperial Court, with its newly ennobled European style aristocrats, exchanged kimono silks for Victorian finery, and samurai armour for military pomp and splendour (Figure 1).Figure 1: The Meiji Emperor, Empress and Crown Prince resplendent in European fashions on an outing to Asukayama Park. Illustration: Toyohara Chikanobu, circa 1890.It is argued here that the function of a uniform is to prepare the body for service. Maids and butlers, nurses and courtesans, doctors, policemen, and soldiers are all distinguished by their garb. Prudence Black states: “as a technology, uniforms shape and code the body so they become a unit that belongs to a collective whole” (93). The requirement to discipline bodies through clothing, particularly through uniforms, is well documented (see Craik, Peoples, and Foucault). The need to distinguish enemies from allies on the battlefield requires adherence to a set of defined protocols, as referenced in military fashion compendiums (see Molloy). While the postcolonial adoption of Western-based clothing reflects a new form of subservience (Rall, Kuechler and Miller), in Japan, the indigenous garments were clearly designed in the interests of ideological allegiance. To understand the Japanese sartorial traditions, the kimono itself must be read as providing a strong disciplinary element. The traditional garment is designed to represent an upright and unbending column—where two meters of under bindings are used to discipline the body into shape are then topped with a further four meters of a stiffened silk obi wrapped around the waist and lower chest. To dress formally in such a garment requires helpers (see Dalby). The kimono both constructs and confines the women who wear it, and presses them into their roles as dutiful, upper-class daughters (see Craik). From the 1890s through to the 1930s, when Japan again enters a period of militarism, the myth of the kimono again changes as it is integrated into the build-up towards World War II.Decades later, when Japan re-established itself as a global economic power in the 1970s and 1980s, the kimono was re-authenticated as Japan’s ‘traditional’ garment. This time it was not the myth of a people descended from solar deities that was on display, but that of samurai strength and propriety for men, alongside an exaggerated femininity for women, invoking a powerful vision of Japanese sartorial tradition. This reworking of the kimono was only possible as the garment was already contained within the framework of Confucian family duty. However, in the lead up to World War II, Japanese military advancement demanded of its people soldiers that could win European-style wars. The quickest solution was to copy the military acumen and strategies of global warfare, and the costumes of the soldiery and seamen of Europe, including Great Britain (Ferguson). It was also acknowledged that soldiers were ‘made not born’ so the Japanese educational system was re-vamped to emulate those of its military rivals (McVeigh). It was in the uptake of schoolboy uniforms that this re-imagining of Japanese imperial strength took place.The Japanese Schoolboy UniformCentral to their rapid modernisation, Japan adopted a constitutional system of education that borrowed from American and French models (Tipton 68-69). The government viewed education as a “primary means of developing a sense of nation,” and at its core, was the imperial authorities’ obsession with defining “Japan and Japaneseness” (Tipton 68-69). Numerous reforms eventually saw, after an abolition of fees, nearly 100% attendance by both boys and girls, despite a lingering mind-set that educating women was “a waste of time” (Tipton 68-69). A boys’ uniform based on the French and Prussian military uniforms of the 1860s and 1870s respectively (Kinsella 217), was adopted in 1879 (McVeigh 47). This jacket, initially with Prussian cape and cap, consists of a square body, standing mandarin style collar and a buttoned front. It was through these education reforms, as visually symbolised by the adoption of military style school uniforms, that citizen making, education, and military training became interrelated aspects of Meiji modernisation (Kinsella 217). Known as the gakuran (gaku: to study; ran: meaning both orchid, and a pun on Horanda, meaning Holland, the only Western country with trading relations in pre-Meiji Japan), these jackets were a symbol of education, indicating European knowledge, power and influence and came to reflect all things European in Meiji Japan. By adopting these jackets two objectives were realised:through the magical power of imitation, Japan would, by adopting the clothing of the West, naturally rise in military power; and boys were uniformed to become not only educated as quasi-Europeans, but as fighting soldiers and sons (suns) of the nation.The gakuran jacket was first popularised by state-run schools, however, in the century and a half that the garment has been in use it has come to symbolise young Japanese masculinity as showcased in campus films, anime, manga, computer games, and as fashion is the preeminent garment for boybands and Japanese hipsters.While the gakuran is central to the rise of global militarism in Japan (McVeigh 51-53), the jacket would go on to form the basis of the Sun Yat Sen and Mao Suits as symbols of revolutionary China (see McVeigh). Supposedly, Sun Yat Sen saw the schoolboy jacket in Japan as a utilitarian garment and adopted it with a turn down collar (Cumming et al.). For Sun Yat Sen, the gakuran was the perfect mix of civilian (school boy) and military (the garment’s Prussian heritage) allowing him to walk a middle path between the demands of both. Furthermore, the garment allowed Sun to navigate between Western style suits and old-fashioned Qing dynasty styles (Gerth 116); one was associated with the imperialism of the National Products Movement, while the other represented the corruption of the old dynasty. In this way, the gakuran was further politicised from a national (Japanese) symbol to a global one. While military uniforms have always been political garments, in the late 1800s and early 1900s, as the world was rocked by revolutions and war, civilian clothing also became a means of expressing political ideals (McVeigh 48-49). Note that Mahatma Ghandi’s clothing choices also evolved from wholly Western styles to traditional and emphasised domestic products (Gerth 116).Mao adopted this style circa 1927, further defining the style when he came to power by adding elements from the trousers, tunics, and black cotton shoes worn by peasants. The suit was further codified during the 1960s, reaching its height in the Cultural Revolution. While the gakuran has always been a scholarly black (see Figure 2), subtle differences in the colour palette differentiated the Chinese population—peasants and workers donned indigo blue Mao jackets, while the People’s Liberation Army Soldiers donned khaki green. This limited colour scheme somewhat paradoxically ensured that subtle hierarchical differences were maintained even whilst advocating egalitarian ideals (Davis 522). Both the Sun Yat Sen suit and the Mao jacket represented the rejection of bourgeois (Western) norms that objectified the female form in favour of a uniform society. Neo-Maoism and Mao fever of the early 1990s saw the Mao suit emerge again as a desirable piece of iconic/ironic youth fashion. Figure 2: An example of Gakuran uniform next to the girl’s equivalent on display at Ichikawa Gakuen School (Japan). Photo: Emerald King, 2015.There is a clear and vital link between the influence of the Prussian style Japanese schoolboy uniform on the later creation of the Mao jacket—that of the uniform as an integral piece of worn propaganda (Atkins).For Japan, the rapid deployment of new military and industrial technologies, as well as a sartorial need to present her leaders as modern (read: Western) demanded the adoption of European-style uniforms. The Imperial family had always been removed from Samurai battlefields, so the adoption of Western military costume allowed Japan’s rulers to present a uniform face to other global powers. When Japan found itself in conflict in the Asia Pacific Region, without an organised military, the first requirement was to completely reorganise their system of warfare from a feudal base and to train up national servicemen. Within an American-style compulsory education system, the European-based curriculum included training in mathematics, engineering and military history, as young Britons had for generations begun their education in Greek and Latin, with the study of Ancient Greek and Roman wars (Bantock). It is only in the classroom that ideological change on a mass scale can take place (Reference Please), a lesson not missed by later leaders such as Mao Zedong.ConclusionIn the 1880s, the Japanese leaders established their position in global politics by adopting clothing and practices from the West (Europeans, Britons, and Americans) in order to quickly re-shape their country’s educational system and military establishment. The prevailing military costume from foreign cultures not only disciplined their adopted European bodies, they enforced a new regime through dress (Rall 157-174). For boys, the gakuran symbolised the unity of education and militarism as central to Japanese masculinity. Wearing a uniform, as many authors suggest, furthers compliance (Craik, Nagasawa Kaiser and Hutton, and McVeigh). As conscription became a part of Japanese reality in World War II, the schoolboys just swapped their military-inspired school uniforms for genuine military garments.Re-imagining a Japanese schoolboy uniform from a European military costume might suit ideological purposes (Atkins), but there is more. The gakuran, as a uniform based on a close, but not fitted jacket, was the product of a process of advanced industrialisation in the garment-making industry also taking place in the 1800s:Between 1810 and 1830, technical calibrations invented by tailors working at the very highest level of the craft [in Britain] eventually made it possible for hundreds of suits to be cut up and made in advance [...] and the ready-to-wear idea was put into practice for men’s clothes […] originally for uniforms for the War of 1812. (Hollander 31) In this way, industrialisation became a means to mass production, which furthered militarisation, “the uniform is thus the clothing of the modern disciplinary society” (Black 102). There is a perfect resonance between Japan’s appetite for a modern military and their rise to an industrialised society, and their conquests in Asia Pacific supplied the necessary material resources that made such a rapid deployment possible. The Japanese schoolboy uniform was an integral part of the process of both industrialisation and militarisation, which instilled in the wearer a social role required by modern Japanese society in its rise for global power. Garments are never just clothing, but offer a “world of social relations put upon the wearer’s body” (Jones and Stallybrass 3-4).Today, both the Japanese kimono and the Japanese schoolboy uniform continue to interact with, and interrogate, global fashions as contemporary designers continue to call on the tropes of ‘military chic’ (Tonchi) and Japanese-inspired clothing (Kawamura). References Atkins, Jaqueline. Wearing Propaganda: Textiles on the Home Front in Japan, Britain, and the United States. Princeton: Yale UP, 2005.Bantock, Geoffrey Herman. Culture, Industrialisation and Education. London: Routledge & K. Paul, 1968.Black, Prudence. “The Discipline of Appearance: Military Style and Australian Flight Hostess Uniforms 1930–1964.” Fashion & War in Popular Culture. Ed. Denise N. Rall. Bristol: Intellect/U Chicago P, 2014. 91-106.Craik, Jenifer. Uniforms Exposed: From Conformity to Transgression. Oxford: Berg, 2005.Cumming, Valerie, Cecil Williet Cunnington, and Phillis Emily Cunnington. “Mao Style.” The Dictionary of Fashion History. Eds. Valerie Cumming, Cecil Williet Cunnington, and Phillis Emily Cunnington. Oxford: Berg, 2010.Dalby, Liza, ed. Kimono: Fashioning Culture. London: Vintage, 2001.Davis, Edward L., ed. Encyclopaedia of Contemporary Chinese Culture. London: Routledge, 2005.Dees, Jan. Taisho Kimono: Speaking of Past and Present. Milan: Skira, 2009.Ferguson, N. Civilization: The West and the Rest. London: Penguin, 2011.Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. London: Penguin, 1997. Gerth, Karl. China Made: Consumer Culture and the Creation of the Nation, Cambridge: East Asian Harvard Monograph 224, 2003.Gilbert, W.S., and Arthur Sullivan. The Mikado or, The Town of Titipu. 1885. 16 Nov. 2015 ‹http://math.boisestate.edu/gas/mikado/mk_lib.pdf›. Hillsborough, Romulus. Samurai Revolution: The Dawn of Modern Japan Seen through the Eyes of the Shogun's Last Samurai. Vermont: Tuttle, 2014.Jones, Anne R., and Peter Stallybrass, Renaissance Clothing and the Materials of Memory. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 2000.Keene, Donald. Emperor of Japan: Meiji and His World, 1852-1912. New York: Columbia UP, 2002.King, Emerald L. “Schoolboys and Kimono Ladies.” Presentation to the Un-Thinking Asian Migrations Conference, University of Otago, Dunedin, New Zealand, 24-26 Aug. 2014. Kinsella, Sharon. “What’s Behind the Fetishism of Japanese School Uniforms?” Fashion Theory 6.2 (2002): 215-37. Kuechler, Susanne, and Daniel Miller, eds. Clothing as Material Culture. Oxford: Berg, 2005.Landow, George P. “Liberty and the Evolution of the Liberty Style.” 22 Aug. 2010. ‹http://www.victorianweb.org/art/design/liberty/lstyle.html›.Martin, Richard, and Harold Koda. Orientalism: Vision of the East in Western Dress. New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1994.McVeigh, Brian J. Wearing Ideology: State, Schooling, and Self-Presentation in Japan. Oxford: Berg, 2000.Molloy, John. Military Fashion: A Comparative History of the Uniforms of the Great Armies from the 17th Century to the First World War. New York: Putnam, 1972.Peoples, Sharon. “Embodying the Military: Uniforms.” Critical Studies in Men’s Fashion 1.1 (2014): 7-21.Rall, Denise N. “Costume & Conquest: A Proximity Framework for Post-War Impacts on Clothing and Textile Art.” Fashion & War in Popular Culture, ed. Denise N. Rall. Bristol: Intellect/U Chicago P, 2014. 157-74. Tipton, Elise K. Modern Japan: A Social and Political History. 3rd ed. London: Routledge, 2016.Tucker, Spencer C., ed. A Global Chronology of Conflict: From the Ancient World to the Modern Middle East. Santa Barbara, CA: ABC-CLIO, 2013.V&A Kimono. Victoria and Albert Museum. “A History of the Kimono.” 2004. 2 Oct. 2015 ‹http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/h/a-history-of-the-kimono/›.V&A Victorian. Victoria and Albert Museum. “The Victorian Vision of China and Japan.” 10 Nov. 2015 ‹http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/t/the-victorian-vision-of-china-and-japan/›.Vincent, Susan J. The Anatomy of Fashion: Dressing the Body from the Renaissance to Today. Berg: Oxford, 2009.Wilde, Oscar. “The Decay of Lying.” 1889. In Intentions New York: Berentano’s 1905. 16 Nov. 2015 ‹http://virgil.org/dswo/courses/novel/wilde-lying.pdf›. Wilk, Richard. “Consumer Goods as a Dialogue about Development.” Cultural History 7 (1990) 79-100.

“...children’s play seems to become more and more a product of the educational and cultural orientation of parents...” — Stephen Kline, The Making of Children’s Culture We live in a world saturated by design and through design artefacts, one can glean unique insights into a culture's values and norms. In fact, some academics, such as British media and film theorist Ben Highmore, see the two areas so inextricably intertwined as to suggest a wholesale “re-branding of the cultural sciences as design studies” (14). Too often, however, everyday objects are marginalised or overlooked as objects of scholarly attention. The field of material culture studies seeks to change that by focussing on the quotidian object and its ability to reveal much about the time, place, and culture in which it was designed and used. This article takes on one such object, a mid-century children's toy tea set, whose humble journey from 1968 Sears catalogue to 2014 thrift shop—and subsequently this author’s basement—reveals complex rhetorical messages communicated both visually and verbally. As material culture studies theorist Jules Prown notes, the field’s foundation is laid upon the understanding “that objects made ... by man reflect, consciously or unconsciously, directly or indirectly, the beliefs of individuals who made, commissioned, purchased or used them, and by extension the beliefs of the larger society to which they belonged” (1-2). In this case, the objects’ material and aesthetic characteristics can be shown to reflect some of the pervasive stereotypes and gender roles of the mid-century and trace some of the prevailing tastes of the American middle class of that era, or perhaps more accurately the type of design that came to represent good taste and a modern aesthetic for that audience. A wealth of research exists on the function of toys and play in learning about the world and even the role of toy selection in early sex-typing, socialisation, and personal identity of children (Teglasi). This particular research area isn’t the focus of this article; however, one aspect that is directly relevant and will be addressed is the notion of adult role-playing among children and the role of toys in communicating certain adult practices or values to the child—what sociologist David Oswell calls “the dedifferentiation of childhood and adulthood” (200). Neither is the focus of this article the practice nor indeed the ethicality of marketing to children. Relevant to this particular example I suggest, is as a product utilising messaging aimed not at children but at adults, appealing to certain parents’ interest in nurturing within their child a perceived era and class-appropriate sense of taste. This was fuelled in large part by the curatorial pursuits of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York, coupled with an interest and investment in raising their children in a design-forward household and a desire for toys that reflected that priority; in essence, parents wishing to raise modern children. Following Prown’s model of material culture analysis, the tea set is examined in three stages, through description, deduction and speculation with each stage building on the previous one. Figure 1: Porcelain Toy Tea Set. Description The tea set consists of twenty-six pieces that allows service for six. Six cups, saucers, and plates; a tall carafe with spout, handle and lid; a smaller vessel with a spout and handle; a small round bowl with a lid; a larger oval bowl with a lid, and a coordinated oval platter. The cups are just under two inches tall and two inches in diameter. The largest piece, the platter is roughly six inches by four inches. The pieces are made of a ceramic material white in colour and glossy in texture and are very lightweight. The rim or edge of each piece is decorated with a motif of three straight lines in two different shades of blue and in different thicknesses, interspersed with a set of three black wiggly lines. Figure 2: Porcelain Toy Tea Set Box. The set is packaged for retail purposes and the original box appears to be fully intact. The packaging of an object carries artefactual evidence just as important as what it contains that falls into the category of a “‘para-artefact’ … paraphernalia that accompanies the product (labels, packaging, instructions etc.), all of which contribute to a product’s discourse” (Folkmann and Jensen 83). The graphics on the box are colourful, featuring similar shades of teal blue as found on the objects, with the addition of orange and a silver sticker featuring the logo of the American retailer Sears. The cover features an illustration of the objects on an orange tabletop. The most prominent text that confirms that the toy is a “Porcelain Toy Tea Set” is in an organic, almost psychedelic style that mimics both popular graphics of this era—especially album art and concert posters—as well as the organic curves of steam that emanate from the illustrated teapot’s spout. Additional messages appear on the box, in particular “Contemporary DESIGN” and “handsome, clean-line styling for modern little hostesses”. Along the edges of the box lid, a detail of the decorative motif is reproduced somewhat abstracted from what actually appears on the ceramic objects. Figure 3: Sears’s Christmas Wishbook Catalogue, page 574 (1968). Sears, Roebuck and Co. (Sears) is well-known for its over one-hundred-year history of producing printed merchandise catalogues. The catalogue is another important para-artefact to consider in analysing the objects. The tea set first appeared in the 1968 Sears Christmas Wishbook. There is no date or copyright on the box, so only its inclusion in the catalogue allows the set to be accurately dated. It also allows us to understand how the set was originally marketed. Deduction In the deduction phase, we focus on the sensory aesthetic and functional interactive qualities of the various components of the set. In terms of its function, it is critical that we situate the objects in their original use context, play. The light weight of the objects and thinness of the ceramic material lends the objects a delicate, if not fragile, feeling which indicates that this set is not for rough use. Toy historian Lorraine May Punchard differentiates between toy tea sets “meant to be used by little girls, having parties for their friends and practising the social graces of the times” and smaller sets or doll dishes “made for little girls to have parties with their dolls, or for their dolls to have parties among themselves” (7). Similar sets sold by Sears feature images of girls using the sets with both human playmates and dolls. The quantity allowing service for six invites multiple users to join the party. The packaging makes clear that these toy tea sets were intended for imaginary play only, rendering them non-functional through an all-capitals caution declaiming “IMPORTANT: Do not use near heat”. The walls and handles of the cups are so thin one can imagine that they would quickly become dangerous if filled with a hot liquid. Nevertheless, the lid of the oval bowl has a tan stain or watermark which suggests actual use. The box is broken up by pink cardboard partitions dividing it into segments sized for each item in the set. Interestingly even the small squares of unfinished corrugated cardboard used as cushioning between each stacked plate have survived. The evidence of careful re-packing indicates that great care was taken in keeping the objects safe. It may suggest that even though the set was used, the children or perhaps the parents, considered the set as something to care for and conserve for the future. Flaws in the glaze and applique of the design motif can be found on several pieces in the set and offer some insight as to the technique used in producing these items. Errors such as the design being perfectly evenly spaced but crooked in its alignment to the rim, or pieces of the design becoming detached or accidentally folded over and overlapping itself could only be the result of a print transfer technique popularised with decorative china of the Victorian era, a technique which lends itself to mass production and lower cost when compared to hand decoration. Speculation In the speculation stage, we can consider the external evidence and begin a more rigorous investigation of the messaging, iconography, and possible meanings of the material artefact. Aspects of the set allow a number of useful observations about the role of such an object in its own time and context. Sociologists observe the role of toys as embodiments of particular types of parental messages and values (Cross 292) and note how particularly in the twentieth century “children’s play seems to become more and more a product of the educational and cultural orientation of parents” (Kline 96). Throughout history children’s toys often reflected a miniaturised version of the adult world allowing children to role-play as imagined adult-selves. Kristina Ranalli explored parallels between the practice of drinking tea and the play-acting of the child’s tea party, particularly in the nineteenth century, as a gendered ritual of gentility; a method of socialisation and education, and an opportunity for exploratory and even transgressive play by “spontaneously creating mini-societies with rules of their own” (20). Such toys and objects were available through the Sears mail-order catalogue from the very beginning at the end of the nineteenth century (McGuire). Propelled by the post-war boom of suburban development and homeownership—that generation’s manifestation of the American Dream—concern with home décor and design was elevated among the American mainstream to a degree never before seen. There was a hunger for new, streamlined, efficient, modernist living. In his essay titled “Domesticating Modernity”, historian Jeffrey L. Meikle notes that many early modernist designers found that perhaps the most potent way to “‘domesticate’ modernism and make it more familiar was to miniaturise it; for example, to shrink the skyscraper and put it into the home as furniture or tableware” (143). Dr Timothy Blade, curator of the 1985 exhibition of girls’ toys at the University of Minnesota’s Goldstein Gallery—now the Goldstein Museum of Design—described in his introduction “a miniaturised world with little props which duplicate, however rudely, the larger world of adults” (5). Noting the power of such toys to reflect adult values of their time, Blade continues: “the microcosm of the child’s world, remarkably furnished by the miniaturised props of their parents’ world, holds many direct and implied messages about the society which brought it into being” (9). In large part, the mid-century Sears catalogues capture the spirit of an era when, as collector Thomas Holland observes, “little girls were still primarily being offered only the options of glamour, beauty and parenthood as the stuff of their fantasies” (175). Holland notes that “the Wishbooks of the fifties [and, I would add, the sixties] assumed most girls would follow in their mother’s footsteps to become full-time housewives and mommies” (1). Blade grouped toys into three categories: cooking, cleaning, and sewing. A tea set could arguably be considered part of the cooking category, but closer examination of the language used in marketing this object—“little hostesses”, et cetera—suggests an emphasis not on cooking but on serving or entertaining. This particular category was not prevalent in the era examined by Blade, but the cultural shifts of the mid-twentieth century, particularly the rapid popularisation of a suburban lifestyle, may have led to the use of entertaining as an additional distinct category of role play in the process of learning to become a “proper” homemaker. Sears and other retailers offered a wide variety of styles of toy tea sets during this era. Blade and numerous other sources observe that children’s toy furniture and appliances tended to reflect the style and aesthetic qualities of their contemporary parallels in the adult world, the better to associate the child’s objects to its adult equivalent. The toy tea set’s packaging trumpets messages intended to appeal to modernist values and identity including “Contemporary Design” and “handsome, clean-line styling for modern little hostesses”. The use of this coded marketing language, aimed particularly at parents, can be traced back several decades. In 1928 a group of American industrial and textile designers established the American Designers' Gallery in New York, in part to encourage American designers to innovate and adopt new styles such as those seen in the L’ Exposition Internationale des Arts Decoratifs et Industriels Modernes (1925) in Paris, the exposition that sparked international interest in the Art Deco or Art Moderne aesthetic. One of the gallery founders, Ilonka Karasz, a Hungarian-American industrial and textile designer who had studied in Austria and was influenced by the Wiener Werkstätte in Vienna, publicised her new style of nursery furnishings as “designed for the very modern American child” (Brown 80). Sears itself was no stranger to the appeal of such language. The term “contemporary design” was ubiquitous in catalogue copy of the nineteen-fifties and sixties, used to describe everything from draperies (1959) and bedspreads (1961) to spice racks (1964) and the Lady Kenmore portable dishwasher (1961). An emphasis on the role of design in one’s life and surroundings can be traced back to efforts by MoMA. The museum’s interest in modern design hearkens back almost to the institution’s inception, particularly in relation to industrial design and the aestheticisation of everyday objects (Marshall). Through exhibitions and in partnership with mass-market magazines, department stores and manufacturer showrooms, MoMA curators evangelised the importance of “good design” a term that can be found in use as early as 1942. What Is Good Design? followed the pattern of prior exhibitions such as What Is Modern Painting? and situated modern design at the centre of exhibitions that toured the United States in the first half of the nineteen-fifties. To MoMA and its partners, “good design” signified the narrow identification of proper taste in furniture, home decor and accessories; effectively, the establishment of a design canon. The viewpoints enshrined in these exhibitions and partnerships were highly influential on the nation’s perception of taste for decades to come, as the trickle-down effect reached a much broader segment of consumers than those that directly experienced the museum or its exhibitions (Lawrence.) This was evident not only at high-end shops such as Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s. Even mass-market retailers sought out well-known figures of modernist design to contribute to their offerings. Sears, for example, commissioned noted modernist designer and ceramicist Russel Wright to produce a variety of serving ware and decor items exclusively for the company. Notably for this study, he was also commissioned to create a toy tea set for children. The 1957 Wishbook touts the set as “especially created to delight modern little misses”. Within its Good Design series, MoMA exhibitions celebrated numerous prominent Nordic designers who were exploring simplified forms and new material technologies. In the 1968 Wishbook, the retailer describes the Porcelain Toy Tea Set as “Danish-inspired china for young moderns”. The reference to Danish design is certainly compatible with the modernist appeal; after the explosion in popularity of Danish furniture design, the term “Danish Modern” was commonly used in the nineteen-fifties and sixties as shorthand for pan-Scandinavian or Nordic design, or more broadly for any modern furniture design regardless of origin that exhibited similar characteristics. In subsequent decades the notion of a monolithic Scandinavian-Nordic design aesthetic or movement has been debunked as primarily an economically motivated marketing ploy (Olivarez et al.; Fallan). In the United States, the term “Danish Modern” became so commonly misused that the Danish Society for Arts and Crafts called upon the American Federal Trade Commission (FTC) to legally restrict the use of the labels “Danish” and “Danish Modern” to companies genuinely originating in Denmark. Coincidentally the FTC ruled on this in 1968, noting “that ‘Danish Modern’ carries certain meanings, and... that consumers might prefer goods that are identified with a foreign culture” (Hansen 451). In the case of the Porcelain Toy Tea Set examined here, Sears was not claiming that the design was “Danish” but rather “Danish-inspired”. One must wonder, was this another coded marketing ploy to communicate a sense of “Good Design” to potential customers? An examination of the formal qualities of the set’s components, particularly the simplified geometric forms and the handle style of the cups, confirms that it is unlike a traditional—say, Victorian-style—tea set. Punchard observes that during this era some American tea sets were actually being modelled on coffee services rather than traditional tea services (148). A visual comparison of other sets sold by Sears in the same year reveals a variety of cup and pot shapes—with some similar to the set in question—while others exhibit more traditional teapot and cup shapes. Coffee culture was historically prominent in Nordic cultures so there is at least a passing reference to that aspect of Nordic—if not specifically Danish—influence in the design. But what of the decorative motif? Simple curved lines were certainly prominent in Danish furniture and architecture of this era, and occasionally found in combination with straight lines, but no connection back to any specific Danish motif could be found even after consultation with experts in the field from the Museum of Danish America and the Vesterheim National Norwegian-American Museum (personal correspondence). However, knowing that the average American consumer of this era—even the design-savvy among them—consumed Scandinavian design without distinguishing between the various nations, a possible explanation could be contained in the promotion of Finnish textiles at the time. In the decade prior to the manufacture of the tea set a major design tendency began to emerge in the United States, triggered by the geometric design motifs of the Finnish textile and apparel company Marimekko. Marimekko products were introduced to the American market in 1959 via the Cambridge, Massachusetts-based retailer Design Research (DR) and quickly exploded in popularity particularly after would-be First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy appeared in national media wearing Marimekko dresses during the 1960 presidential campaign and on the cover of Sports Illustrated magazine. (Thompson and Lange). The company’s styling soon came to epitomise a new youth aesthetic of the early nineteen sixties in the United States, a softer and more casual predecessor to the London “mod” influence. During this time multiple patterns were released that brought a sense of whimsy and a more human touch to classic mechanical patterns and stripes. The patterns Piccolo (1953), Helmipitsi (1959), and Varvunraita (1959), all designed by Vuokko Eskolin-Nurmesniemi offered varying motifs of parallel straight lines. Maija Isola's Silkkikuikka (1961) pattern—said to be inspired by the plumage of the Great Crested Grebe—combined parallel serpentine lines with straight and angled lines, available in a variety of colours. These and other geometrically inspired patterns quickly inundated apparel and decor markets. DR built a vastly expanded Cambridge flagship store and opened new locations in New York in 1961 and 1964, and in San Francisco in 1965 fuelled in no small part by the fact that they remained the exclusive outlet for Marimekko in the United States. It is clear that Marimekko’s approach to pattern influenced designers and manufacturers across industries. Design historian Lesley Jackson demonstrates that Marimekko designs influenced or were emulated by numerous other companies across Scandinavia and beyond (72-78). The company’s influence grew to such an extent that some described it as a “conquest of the international market” (Hedqvist and Tarschys 150). Subsequent design-forward retailers such as IKEA and Crate and Barrel continue to look to Marimekko even today for modern design inspiration. In 2016 the mass-market retailer Target formed a design partnership with Marimekko to offer an expansive limited-edition line in their stores, numbering over two hundred items. So, despite the “Danish” misnomer, it is quite conceivable that designers working for or commissioned by Sears in 1968 may have taken their aesthetic cues from Marimekko’s booming work, demonstrating a clear understanding of the contemporary high design aesthetic of the time and coding the marketing rhetoric accordingly even if incorrectly. Conclusion The Sears catalogue plays a unique role in capturing cross-sections of American culture not only as a sales tool but also in Holland’s words as “a beautifully illustrated diary of America, it’s [sic] people and the way we thought about things” (1). Applying a rhetorical and material culture analysis to the catalogue and the objects within it provides a unique glimpse into the roles these objects played in mediating relationships, transmitting values and embodying social practices, tastes and beliefs of mid-century American consumers. Adult consumers familiar with the characteristics of the culture of “Good Design” potentially could have made a connection between the simplified geometric forms of the components of the toy tea set and say the work of modernist tableware designers such as Kaj Franck, or between the set’s graphic pattern and the modernist motifs of Marimekko and its imitators. But for a much broader segment of the population with a less direct understanding of modernist aesthetics, those connections may not have been immediately apparent. The rhetorical messaging behind the objects’ packaging and marketing used class and taste signifiers such as modern, contemporary and “Danish” to reinforce this connection to effect an emotional and aspirational appeal. These messages were coded to position the set as an effective transmitter of modernist values and to target parents with the ambition to create “appropriately modern” environments for their children. 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Unlike some current discourse on automediality, this essay eschews most of the analysis concerning the adoption or modification of avatars to deliberately enhance, extend or distort the self. Rather than the automedial enabling of alternative, virtual selves modified by playful, confronting or disarming avatars we concentrate instead on emerging efforts to present the self in hyper-realist, interactive modes. In doing so we ask, what is the relationship between traumatic forms of automediation and the affective impact on and response of the audience? We argue that, while on the one hand there are promising avenues for valuable individual and social engagements with traumatic forms of automediation, there is an overwhelming predominance of suffering as a theme in such virtual depictions, comingled with uncritically asserted promises of empathy, which are problematic as the technology assumes greater mainstream uptake.As Smith and Watson note, embodiment is always a “translation” where the body is “dematerialized” in virtual representation (“Virtually” 78). Past scholarship has analysed the capacity of immersive realms, such as Second Life or online games, to highlight how users can modify their avatars in often spectacular, non-human forms. Critics of this mode of automediality note that users can adopt virtually any persona they like (racial, religious, gendered and sexual, human, animal or hybrid, and of any age), behaving as “identity tourists” while occupying virtual space or inhabiting online communities (Nakamura). Furthermore, recent work by Jaron Lanier, a key figure from the 1980s period of early Virtual Reality (VR) technology, has also explored so-called “homuncular flexibility” which describes the capacity for humans to seemingly adapt automatically to the control mechanisms of an avatar with multiple legs, other non-human appendages, or for two users to work in tandem to control a single avatar (Won et. al.). But this article is concerned less with these single or multi-player online environments and the associated concerns over modifying interactive identities. We are principally interested in other automedial modes where the “auto” of autobiography is automated via Artificial Intelligences (AIs) to convincingly mimic human discourse as narrated life-histories.We draw from case studies promoted by the 2017 season of ABC television’s flagship science program, Catalyst, which opened with semi-regular host and biological engineer Dr Jordan Nguyen, proclaiming in earnest, almost religious fervour: “I want to do something that has long been a dream. I want to create a copy of a human. An avatar. And it will have a life of its own in virtual reality.” As the camera followed Nguyen’s rapid pacing across real space he extolled: “Virtual reality, virtual human, they push the limits of the imagination and help us explore the impossible […] I want to create a virtual copy of a person. A digital addition to the family, using technology we have now.”The troubling implications of such rhetoric were stark and the next third of the program did little to allay such techno-scientific misgivings. Directed and produced by David Symonds, with Nguyen credited as co-developer and presenter, the episode “Meet the Avatars” immediately introduced scenarios where “volunteers” entered a pop-up inner city virtual lab, to experience VR for the first time. The volunteers were shown on screen subjected to a range of experimental VR environments designed to elicit fear and/or adverse and disorienting responses such as vertigo, while the presenter and researchers from Sydney University constantly smirked and laughed at their participants’ discomfort. We can only wonder what the ethics process was for both the ABC and university researchers involved in these broadcast experiments. There is little doubt that the participant/s experienced discomfort, if not distress, and that was televised to a national audience. Presenter Nguyen was also shown misleading volunteers on their way to the VR lab, when one asked “You’re not going to chuck us out of a virtual plane are you?” to which Nguyen replied “I don't know what we’re going to do yet,” when it was next shown that they immediately underwent pre-programmed VR exposure scenarios, including a fear of falling exercise from atop a city skyscraper.The sweat-inducing and heart rate-racing exposures to virtual plank walks high above a cityscape, or seeing subjects haptically viewing spiders crawl across their outstretched virtual hands, all elicited predictable responses, showcased as carnivalesque entertainment for the viewing audience. As we will see, this kind of trivialising of a virtual environment’s capacity for immersion belies the serious use of the technology in a range of treatments for posttraumatic stress disorder (see Rizzo and Koenig; Rothbaum, Rizzo and Difede).Figure 1: Nguyen and researchers enjoying themselves as their volunteers undergo VR exposure Defining AutomedialityIn their pioneering 2008 work, Automedialität: Subjektkonstitution in Schrift, Bild und neuen Medien, Jörg Dünne and Christian Moser coined the term “automediality” to problematise the production, application and distribution of autobiographic modes across various media and genres—from literary texts to audiovisual media and from traditional expression to inter/transmedia and remediated formats. The concept of automediality was deployed to counter the conventional critical exclusion of analysis of the materiality/technology used for an autobiographical purpose (Gernalzick). Dünne and Moser proffered a concept of automediality that rejects the binary division of (a) self-expression determining the mediated form or (b) (self)subjectivity being solely produced through the mediating technology. Hence, automediality has been traditionally applied to literary constructs such as autobiography and life-writing, but is now expanding into the digital domain and other “paratextual sites” (Maguire).As Nadja Gernalzick suggests, automediality should “encourage and demand not only a systematics and taxonomy of the constitution of the self in respectively genre-specific ways, but particularly also in medium-specific ways” (227). Emma Maguire has offered a succinct working definition that builds on this requirement to signal the automedial universally, noting it operates asa way of studying auto/biographical texts (of a variety of forms) that take into account how the effects of media shape the kinds of selves that can be represented, and which understands the self not as a preexisting subject that might be distilled into story form but as an entity that is brought into being through the processes of mediation.Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson point to automediality as a methodology, and in doing so emphasize how the telling or mediation of a life actually shapes the kind of story that can be told autobiographically. They state “media cannot simply be conceptualized as ‘tools’ for presenting a preexisting, essential self […] Media technologies do not just transparently present the self. They constitute and expand it” (Smith and Watson “Virtually Me” 77).This distinction is vital for understanding how automediality might be applied to self-expression in virtual domains, including the holographic avatar dreams of Nguyen throughout Catalyst. Although addressing this distinction in relation to online websites, following P. David Marshall’s description of “the proliferation of the public self”, Maguire notes:The same integration of digital spaces and platforms into daily life that is prompting the development of new tools in autobiography studies […] has also given rise to the field of persona studies, which addresses the ways in which individuals engage in practices of self-presentation in order to form commoditised identities that circulate in affective communities.For Maguire, these automedial works operate textually “to construct the authorial self or persona”.An extension to this digital, authorial construction is apparent in the exponential uptake of screen mediated prosumer generated content, whether online or theatrical (Miller). According to Gernalzick, unlike fictional drama films, screen autobiographies more directly enable “experiential temporalities”. Based on Mary Anne Doane’s promotion of the “indexicality” of film/screen representations to connote the real, Gernalzick suggests that despite semiotic theories of the index problematising realism as an index as representation, the film medium is still commonly comprehended as the “imprint of time itself”:Film and the spectator of film are said to be in a continuous present. Because the viewer is aware, however, that the images experienced in or even as presence have been made in the past, the temporality of the so-called filmic present is always ambiguous” (230).When expressed as indexical, automedial works, the intrinsic audio-visual capacities of film and video (as media) far surpass the temporal limitations of print and writing (Gernalzick, 228). One extreme example can be found in an emergent trend of “performance crime” murder and torture videos live-streamed or broadcast after the fact using mobile phone cameras and FaceBook (Bender). In essence, the political economy of the automedial ecology is important to understand in the overall context of self expression and the governance of content exhibition, access, distribution and—where relevant—interaction.So what are the implications for automedial works that employ virtual interfaces and how does this evolving medium inform both the expressive autobiographical mode and audiences subjectivities?Case StudyThe Catalyst program described above strove to shed new light on the potential for emerging technology to capture and create virtual avatars from living participants who (self-)generate autobiographical narratives interactively. Once past the initial gee-wiz journalistic evangelism of VR, the episode turned towards host Nguyen’s stated goal—using contemporary technology to create an autonomous virtual human clone. Nguyen laments that if he could create only one such avatar, his primary choice would be that of his grandfather who died when Nguyen was two years old—a desire rendered impossible. The awkward humour of the plank walk scenario sequence soon gives way as the enthusiastic Nguyen is surprised by his family’s discomfort with the idea of digitally recreating his grandfather.Nguyen next visits a Southern California digital media lab to experience the process by which 3D virtual human avatars are created. Inside a domed array of lights and cameras, in less than one second a life-size 3D avatar is recorded via 6,000 LEDs illuminating his face in 20 different combinations, with eight cameras capturing the exposures from multiple angles, all in ultra high definition. Called the Light Stage (Debevec), it is the same technology used to create a life size, virtual holocaust survivor, Pinchas Gutter (Ziv).We see Nguyen encountering a life-size, high-resolution 2D screen version of Gutter’s avatar. Standing before a microphone, Nguyen asks a series of questions about Gutter’s wartime experiences and life in the concentration camps. The responses are naturalistic and authentic, as are the pauses between questions. The high definition 4K screen is photo-realist but much more convincing in-situ (as an artifact of the Catalyst video camera recording, in some close-ups horizontal lines of transmission appear). According to the project’s curator, David Traum, the real Pinchas Gutter was recorded in 3D as a virtual holograph. He spent 25 hours providing 1,600 responses to a broad range of questions that the curator maintained covered “a lot of what people want to say” (Catalyst).Figure 2: The Museum of Jewish Heritage in Manhattan presented an installation of New Dimensions in Testimony, featuring Pinchas Gutter and Eva SchlossIt is here that the intersection between VR and auto/biography hybridise in complex and potentially difficult ways. It is where the concept of automediality may offer insight into this rapidly emerging phenomenon of creating interactive, hyperreal versions of our selves using VR. These hyperreal VR personae can be questioned and respond in real-time, where interrogators interact either as casual conversers or determined interrogators.The impact on visitors is sobering and palpable. As Nguyen relates at the end of his session, “I just want to give him a hug”. The demonstrable capacity for this avatar to engender a high degree of empathy from its automedial testimony is clear, although as we indicate below, it could simply indicate increased levels of emotion.Regardless, an ongoing concern amongst witnesses, scholars and cultural curators of memorials and museums dedicated to preserving the history of mass violence, and its associated trauma, is that once the lived experience and testimony of survivors passes with that generation the impact of the testimony diminishes (Broderick). New media modes of preserving and promulgating such knowledge in perpetuity are certainly worthy of embracing. As Stephen Smith, the executive director of the USC Shoah Foundation suggests, the technology could extendto people who have survived cancer or catastrophic hurricanes […] from the experiences of soldiers with post-traumatic stress disorder or survivors of sexual abuse, to those of presidents or great teachers. Imagine if a slave could have told her story to her grandchildren? (Ziv)Yet questions remain as to the veracity of these recorded personae. The avatars are created according to a specific agenda and the autobiographical content controlled for explicit editorial purposes. It is unclear what and why material has been excluded. If, for example, during the recorded questioning, the virtual holocaust survivor became mute at recollecting a traumatic memory, cried or sobbed uncontrollably—all natural, understandable and authentic responses given the nature of the testimony—should these genuine and spontaneous emotions be included along with various behavioural ticks such as scratching, shifting about in the seat and other naturalistic movements, to engender a more profound realism?The generation of the photorealist, mimetic avatar—remaining as an interactive persona long after the corporeal, authorial being is gone—reinforces Baudrillard’s concept of simulacra, where a clone exists devoid of its original entity and unable to challenge its automedial discourse. And what if some unscrupulous hacker managed to corrupt and subvert Gutter’s AI so that it responded antithetically to its purpose, by denying the holocaust ever happened? The ethical dilemmas of such a paradigm were explored in the dystopian 2013 film, The Congress, where Robyn Wright plays herself (and her avatar), as an out of work actor who sells off the rights to her digital self. A movie studio exploits her screen persona in perpetuity, enabling audiences to “become” and inhabit her avatar in virtual space while she is limited in the real world from undertaking certain actions due to copyright infringement. The inability of Wright to control her mimetic avatar’s discourse or action means the assumed automedial agency of her virtual self as an immortal, interactive being remains ontologically perplexing.Figure 3: Robyn Wright undergoing a full body photogrammetry to create her VR avatar in The Congress (2013)The various virtual exposures/experiences paraded throughout Catalyst’s “Meet the Avatars” paradoxically recorded and broadcast a range of troubling emotional responses to such immersion. Many participant responses suggest great caution and sensitivity be undertaken before plunging headlong into the new gold rush mentality of virtual reality, augmented reality, and AI affordances. Catalyst depicted their program subjects often responding in discomfort and distress, with some visibly overwhelmed by their encounters and left crying. There is some irony that presenter Ngyuen was himself relying on the conventions of 2D linear television journalism throughout, adopting face-to-camera address in (unconscious) automedial style to excitedly promote the assumed socio-cultural boon such automedial VR avatars will generate.Challenging AuthenticityThere are numerous ethical considerations surrounding the potential for AIs to expand beyond automedial (self-)expression towards photorealist avatars interacting outside of their pre-recorded content. When such systems evolve it may be neigh impossible to discern on screen whether the person you are conversing with is authentic or an indistinguishable, virtual doppelganger. In the future, a variant on the Turning Test may be needed to challenge and identify such hyperreal simulacra. We may be witnessing the precursor to such a dilemma playing out in the arena of audio-only podcasts, with some public intellectuals such as Sam Harris already discussing the legal and ethical problems from technology that can create audio from typed text that convincingly replicate the actual voice of a person by sampling approximately 30 minutes of their original speech (Harris). Such audio manipulation technology will soon be available to anybody with the motivation and relatively minor level of technological ability in order to assume an identity and masquerade as automediated dialogue. However, for the moment, the ability to convincingly alter a real-time computer generated video image of a person remains at the level of scientific innovation.Also of significance is the extent to which the audience reactions to such automediated expressions are indeed empathetic or simply part of the broader range of affective responses that also include direct sympathy as well as emotions such as admiration, surprise, pity, disgust and contempt (see Plantinga). There remains much rhetorical hype surrounding VR as the “ultimate empathy machine” (Milk). Yet the current use of the term “empathy” in VR, AI and automedial forms of communication seems to be principally focused on the capacity for the user-viewer to ameliorate negatively perceived emotions and experiences, whether traumatic or phobic.When considering comments about authenticity here, it is important to be aware of the occasional slippage of technological terminology into the mainstream. For example, the psychological literature does emphasise that patients respond strongly to virtual scenarios, events, and details that appear to be “authentic” (Pertaub, Slater, and Barker). Authentic in this instance implies a resemblance to a corresponding scenario/activity in the real world. This is not simply another word for photorealism, but rather it describes for instance the experimental design of one study in which virtual (AI) audience members in a virtual seminar room designed to treat public speaking anxiety were designed to exhibit “random autonomous behaviours in real-time, such as twitches, blinks, and nods, designed to encourage the illusion of life” (Kwon, Powell and Chalmers 980). The virtual humans in this study are regarded as having greater authenticity than an earlier project on social anxiety (North, North, and Coble) which did not have much visual complexity but did incorporate researcher-triggered audio clips of audience members “laughing, making comments, encouraging the speaker to speak louder or more clearly” (Kwon, Powell, and Chalmers 980). The small movements, randomly cued rather than according to a recognisable pattern, are described by the researchers as creating a sense of authenticity in the VR environment as they seem to correspond to the sorts of random minor movements that actual human audiences in a seminar can be expected to make.Nonetheless, nobody should regard an interaction with these AIs, or the avatar of Gutter, as in any way an encounter with a real person. Rather, the characteristics above function to create a disarming effect and enable the real person-viewer to willingly suspend their disbelief and enter into a pseudo-relationship with the AI; not as if it is an actual relationship, but as if it is a simulation of an actual relationship (USC). Lucy Suchman and colleagues invoke these ideas in an analysis of a YouTube video of some apparently humiliating human interactions with the MIT created AI-robot Mertz. Their analysis contends that, while it may appear on first glance that the humans’ mocking exchange with Mertz are mean-spirited, there is clearly a playfulness and willingness to engage with a form of AI that is essentially continuous with “long-standing assumptions about communication as information processing, and in the robot’s performance evidence for the limits to the mechanical reproduction of interaction as we know it through computational processes” (Suchman, Roberts, and Hird).Thus, it will be important for future work in the area of automediated testimony to consider the extent to which audiences are willing to suspend disbelief and treat the recounted traumatic experience with appropriate gravitas. These questions deserve attention, and not the kind of hype displayed by the current iteration of techno-evangelism. Indeed, some of this resurgent hype has come under scrutiny. From the perspective of VR-based tourism, Janna Thompson has recently argued that “it will never be a substitute for encounters with the real thing” (Thompson). Alyssa K. Loh, for instance, also argues that many of the negatively themed virtual experiences—such as those that drop the viewer into a scene of domestic violence or the location of a terrorist bomb attack—function not to put you in the position of the actual victim but in the position of the general category of domestic violence victim, or bomb attack victim, thus “deindividuating trauma” (Loh).Future work in this area should consider actual audience responses and rely upon mixed-methods research approaches to audience analysis. In an era of alt.truth and Cambridge Analytics personality profiling from social media interaction, automediated communication in the virtual guise of AIs demands further study.ReferencesAnon. “New Dimensions in Testimony.” Museum of Jewish Heritage. 15 Dec. 2017. 19 Apr. 2018 <http://mjhnyc.org/exhibitions/new-dimensions-in-testimony/>.Australian Broadcasting Corporation. “Meet The Avatars.” Catalyst, 15 Aug. 2017.Baudrillard, Jean. “Simulacra and Simulations.” Jean Baudrillard: Selected Writings. Ed. Mark Poster. Stanford: Stanford UP, 1988. 166-184.Bender, Stuart Marshall. Legacies of the Degraded Image in Violent Digital Media. 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"Effectiveness of Virtual Environment Desensitization in the Treatment of Agoraphobia." International Journal of Virtual Reality 1.2 (1995): 25-34.Pertaub, David-Paul, Mel Slater, and Chris Barker. “An Experiment on Public Speaking Anxiety in Response to Three Different Types of Virtual Audience.” Presence: Teleoperators and Virtual Environments 11.1 (2002): 68-78.Plantinga, Carl. "Emotion and Affect." The Routledge Companion to Philosophy and Film. Eds. Paisley Livingstone and Carl Plantinga. New York: Routledge, 2009. 86-96.Rizzo, A.A., and Sebastian Koenig. “Is Clinical Virtual Reality Ready for Primetime?” Neuropsychology 31.8 (2017): 877-99.Rothbaum, Barbara O., Albert “Skip” Rizzo, and JoAnne Difede. "Virtual Reality Exposure Therapy for Combat-Related Posttraumatic Stress Disorder." Annals of the New York Academy of Sciences 1208.1 (2010): 126-32.Smith, Sidonie, and Julia Watson. Reading Autobiography: A Guide to Interpreting Life Narratives. 2nd ed. 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“Oh, look at the size of that abalone!”“The beef looks really tasty!”“I really want to eat some!” I am standing in front of a glass case framing the entrance of a food court at Incheon International Airport, South Korea (henceforth Korea). I overhear these exclamations as I watch three teenage girls swarm around me to press their faces against the glass. The case is filled with Korean dishes served in the adjacent food court with brief descriptions and prices. My mouth waters as I lay my eyes on dishes such as bibimbap (rice mixed with meat, vegetables, and a spicy pepper paste called gochujang) and bulgogi (thinly sliced marinated beef) over the teenagers’ shoulders. But alas, we are all deceived. The dishes we have been salivating over are not edible. They are in fact fake, made from plastic. Why have inedible replicas become normalized to stand in for real food? What are the consequences of the proliferation of fake food models in the culinary landscape? And more importantly, why do plastic foods that fall outside the food cycle of production, preparation, consumption, and waste have authority over the way we produce, prepare, and consume food? This paper examines Korean plastic food models as tastemakers that standardize food production and consumption practices. Plastic food both literally and figuratively orders gustatory and aesthetic taste and serves as a tool for social distinction within Korean culinary culture. Firstly, I will explore theoretical approaches to conceptualizing plastic food models as tastemakers. Then, I will examine plastic food models within the political economy of taste in Korea since the 1980s. Finally, I will take a close look into three manufacturers’ techniques and approaches to understand how plastic foods are made. This analysis of the Korean plastic food model industry is based on a total of eight months of fieldwork research and semi-structured interviews conducted from December 2011 to January 2012 with three of the twelve manufacturers in Seoul, South Korea. To protect the identity of my informants, I refer to them as the Pioneer (37 years of experience), Exporter (20 years of experience), and Franchisor (10 years of experience). The Pioneer, a leading food model specialist, was one of the first Korean manufactures who produced Korean models for domestic consumption. His models can be found in major museums and airports across the country. The Exporter is famous for inventing techniques and also producing for a global market. Many of her Korean models are displayed in restaurants in North America and Europe. The Franchisor is one of the largest producers for mid-range chain restaurants and cafes around the nation. His models are up-to-date with current food trends and are showcased at popular franchises. These three professionals not only have gained public recognition as plastic food experts through public competitions, mass media coverage, and government commissioned work but also are known to produce high-quality replicas by hand. Therefore, these three were not randomly selected but chosen to consider various production approaches, capture generational difference, and trace the development of the industry since the late 1970s. Plastic Food Models as Objects of Inquiry Plastic foods are created explicitly for the purpose of not being eaten, however, they impart “taste” in two major ways. Firstly, food models regulate the perception of gustatory and aesthetic taste by communicating flavors, mouth-feel, and visual properties of food through precise replicas. Secondly, models influence social behavior by defining what is culturally and politically appropriate. Food models are made with a variety of materials found in nature (wood, metal, precious stones, and cloth), edible matter (sugar, marzipan, chocolate, and butter), and inedible substances (plastic and wax). Among these materials, plastic is ideal because it creates the most durable and vivid three-dimensional models. Plastic can be manipulated freely with the application of heat and requires very little maintenance over time. Plastic allows for more precise molding and coloring, producing replicas that look more real than the original. Some may argue that fake models are mere hyper-real objects since the real and the simulation are seamlessly melded together and reproductions hold more power over the way reality is experienced (Baudrillard). Post-modern scholars such as Jean Baudrillard and Umberto Eco argue that the production of an absolute fake to satisfy the need for the real results in the rise of simulacra, which are representations that never existed or no longer have an original. I, however, argue that plastic foods within the Korean context rely heavily on originals and reinforce the authority of the original. The analysis of plastic food models can be conceptualized within the broader theoretical framework of uneaten food. This category encompasses food that is elaborately prepared for ritual but discarded, and foods that are considered inedible in different cultural contexts due to religion, customs, politics, and social norms (Douglas; Gewertz and Errington; Harris et al.; Messer; Rath). Analyzing plastic food models as a part of the uneaten food economy opens up analysis of the interrelationship between the physical and conceptual realms of food production and consumption. Although plastic models fall outside the bounds of the conventional food cycle, they influence each stage of this cycle. Food models can act as tools to inform the appropriate aesthetic characteristics of food that guide production. The color and shape can indicate ripeness to inform farming and harvesting methods. Models also act as reference points that ultimately standardize recipes and cooking techniques during food preparation. In restaurants displaying plastic food, kitchen staff use the models to ensure consistency and uniform presentation of dishes. Models often facilitate food choice by offering information on portion size and ingredients. Finally, as food models become the gold standard in the production, preparation, and consumption of food, they also dictate when to discard the “incorrect” looking food. The primary power of plastic food models as tastemakers lies in their ability to seamlessly stand in for the original. Only fake models that are spitting images of the real have the ability to completely deceive the viewer. In “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction,” Walter Benjamin asserts that for reproduction to invoke the authentic, the presence of the original is necessary. However, an exact replication is impossible since the original is transformed in the process of reproduction. Benjamin argues, “The technique of reproduction detaches the reproduced object from the domain of tradition. By making many reproductions it substitutes a plurality of copies for a unique existence and, in permitting the reproduction to meet the beholder or listener in his own particular situation, it reactivates the object reproduced” (221). Similarly, plastic models of Korean food are removed from the realm of culinary tradition because they deviate from the conventional food cycle but reinforce culinary culture by regulating aesthetic values and food related practices. The notion of authenticity becomes central in determining the strength of plastic food models to order culinary culture by setting visual and social standards. Plastic food models step in to meet the beholder on various occasions, which in turn solidifies and even expands the power of the original. Despite their inability to impart taste and smell, plastic models remain persuasive in their ability to reinforce the materiality of the original food or dish. Plastic Food Models and the Political Economy of Taste in South Korea While plastic models are prevalent all around the world, the degree to which they hold authority in influencing production and consumption practices varies. For example, in many parts of the world, toys are made to resemble food for children to play with or even as joke objects to trick others. In America and Europe, plastic food models are mainly used as decorative elements in historical sites, to recreate ambiance in dining rooms, or as props at deli counters to convey freshness. Plastic food models in Korea go beyond these informative, decorative, and playful functions by visually ordering culinary properties and standardizing food choice. Food models were first made out of wax in Japan in the early 20th century. In 1932, Takizo Iwasaki founded Iwasaki Bei-I, arguably the first plastic food model company in the world. As the plastic food model industry flourished in Japan, some of the production was outsourced to Korea to decrease costs. In the late 1970s, a handful of Japanese-trained Korean manufacturers opened companies in Korea and began producing for the domestic market (Pioneer). Their businesses did not flourish until their products became identified as a tool to promote Korean cuisine to a global audience. Two major international sporting events triggered the growth of the plastic food model industry in Korea. The first was the 1988 Seoul Olympics and the second was the 2002 World Cup. Leading up to these two high-profile international events, the Korean government made major efforts to spruce up the country’s image for tourists and familiarize them with all aspects of Korean culture (Walraven). For example, the designation of kimchi (fermented pickled vegetable) as the national dish for the 1988 Olympics explicitly opened up an opportunity for plastic food models to represent the aesthetic values of Korean cuisine. In 1983, in preparation for showcasing approximately 200 varieties of kimchi to the international community, the government commissioned food experts and plastic model manufacturers to produce plastic replicas of each type. After these models were showcased in public they were used as displays for the Kimchi Field Museum and remain as part of the exhibit today. The government also designated approximately 100 tourist-friendly restaurants across the country, requiring them to display food models during the games. This marked the first large-scale production of Korean plastic food. The second wave of food models occurred in the early 2000s in response to the government’s renewed interest to facilitate international tourists’ navigation of Korean culinary culture during the 2002 World Cup. According to plastic food manufacturers, the government was less involved in regulating the use of plastic models this time, but offered subsidies to businesses to encourage their display for tourists (Exporter; Franchisor). After the World Cup, the plastic food industry continued to grow with demand from businesses, as models become staple objects in public places. Plastic models are now fully incorporated into, and even expected at, mid-range restaurants, fast food chains, and major transportation terminals. Businesses actively display plastic models to increase competition and communicate what they are selling at one glance for tourists and non-tourists alike (Exporter). These increased efforts to reassert Korean culinary culture in public spaces have normalized plastic models in everyday life. The persuasive and authoritative qualities of plastic foods regulate consumption practices in Korea. There are four major ways that plastic food models influence food choice and consumption behavior. First, plastic food models mediate between consumer expectation and reality by facilitating decision-making processes of what and how much to eat. Just by looking at the model, the consumer can experience the sensory qualities of eating the dish, allowing decisions to be made within 30 seconds (Franchisor). Second, plastic models guide what types of foods are suitable for social and cultural occasions. These include during Chuseok (the harvest festival) and Seollal (New Year), when high-end department stores display holiday gift sets containing plastic models of beef, abalone, and pine mushrooms. These sets align consumer expectation and experience by showing consumers the exact dimension and content of the gift. They also define the propriety of holiday gifts. These types of models therefore direct how food is bought, exchanged, and consumed during holidays and reassert a social code. Third, food models become educational tools to communicate health recommendations by solidifying types of dishes and portions appropriate for individuals based on health status, age, and gender. This helps disseminate a definition of a healthful diet and adequate nutrition to guide food choice and consumption. Fourth, plastic food models act as a boundary marker of what constitutes Korean food. Applying Mary Douglas’s notion of food as a boundary marker of ethnicity and identity, plastic food models effectively mark Koreanness to reinforce a certain set of ingredients and presentation as authentic. Plastic models create the ideal visual representation of Korean cuisine that becomes the golden standard, by which dishes are compared, judged, and reproduced as Korean. Plastic models are essentially objects that socially construct the perception of gustatory, aesthetic, and social taste. Plastic foods discipline and define taste by directing the gaze of the beholder, conjuring up social protocol or associations. Sociologist John Urry’s notion of the tourist gaze lends insight to considering the implication of the intentional placement and use of plastic models in the Korean urban landscape. Urry argues that people do not gaze by chance but are taught when, where, and how to gaze by clear markers, objects, events, and experiences. Therefore, plastic models construct the gaze on Korean food to teach consumers when, where, and how to experience and practice Korean culinary culture. The Production Process of Plastic Food Models Analysis of plastic models must also consider who gets to define and reproduce the aesthetic and social taste of food. This approach follows the call to examine the knowledge and power of technical and aesthetic experts responsible for producing and authorizing certain discourses as legitimate and representative of the nation (Boyer and Lomnitz; Krishenblatt-Gimblett; Smith). Since plastic model manufacturers are the main technical and aesthetic experts responsible for disseminating standards of taste through the production of fake food, it is necessary to examine their approaches and methods. High-quality food models begin with original food to be reproduced. For single food items such as an apple or a shrimp, liquid plastic is poured into pre-formed molds. In the case of food with multiple components such as a noodle soup, the actual food is first covered with liquid plastic to replicate its exact shape and then elements are added on top. Next, the mold goes through various heat and chemical treatments before the application of color. The factors that determine the preciseness of the model are the quality of the paint, the skill of the painter, and the producer’s interpretation of the original. In the case of duplicating a dish with multiple ingredients, individual elements are made separately according to the process described above and assembled and presented in the same dishware as that of the original. The producers’ studios look more like test kitchens than industrial factories. Making food models require techniques resembling conventional cooking procedures. The Pioneer, for instance, enrolled in Korean cooking classes when he realized that to produce convincing replicas he needed to understand how certain dishes are made. The main mission for plastic food producers is to visually whet the appetite by creating replicas that look tastier than the original. Since the notion of taste is highly subjective, the objective for plastic food producers is to translate the essence of the food using imagination and artistic expression to appeal to universal taste. A fake model is more than just the sum of its parts because some ingredients are highlighted to increase its approximation of the real. For example, the Pioneer highlights certain characteristics of the food that he believes to be central to the dish while minimizing or even neglecting other aspects. When making models of cabbage kimchi, he focuses on prominently depicting the outer layers of neatly stacked kimchi without emphasizing the radish, peppers, fermented shrimp paste, ginger, and garlic that are tucked between each layer of the cabbage. Although the models are three-dimensional, they only show the top or exterior of the dishes from the viewer’s perspective. Translating dishes that have complex flavor profile and ingredients are challenging and require painstaking editing. The Exporter notes that assembling a dish and putting the final touches on a plate are similar to what a food stylist does because her aim, too, is to make the viewer’s mouth water. To communicate crispy breaded shrimp, she dunks pre-molded plastic shrimp into a thin plastic paste and uses an air gun to make the “batter” swirl into crunchy flakes before coloring it to a perfect golden brown. Manufacturers need to realistically capture the natural properties of food to help consumers imagine the taste of a dish. For instance, the Franchisor confesses that one of the hardest dishes to make is honey bread (a popular dessert at Korean cafes), a thick cut of buttered white toast served piping hot with a scoop of ice cream on top. Convincingly portraying a scoop of ice cream slowly melting over the steaming bread is challenging because it requires the ice cream pooling on the top and running down the sides to look natural. Making artificial material look natural is impossible without meticulous skill and artistic expression. These manufacturers bring plastic models to life by injecting them with their interpretations of the food’s essence, which facilitates food practices by allowing the viewer to imagine and indulge in the taste of the real. Conclusion Deception runs deep in the Korean urban landscape, as plastic models are omnipresent but their fakeness is difficult to discern without conscious effort. While the government’s desire to introduce Korean cuisine to an international audience fueled the increase in displays of plastic food, the enthusiastic adoption of fake food as a tool to regulate and communicate food practices has enabled integration of fake models into everyday life. The plastic models’ authority over daily food practices is rooted in its ability to seamlessly stand in for the real to influence the production and consumption of food. Rather than taking plastic food models at face value, I argued that deeper analysis of the power and agency of manufacturers is necessary. It is through the manufacturers’ expertise and artistic vision that plastic models become tools to articulate notions of taste. As models produced by these manufacturers proliferate both locally and globally, their authority solidifies in defining and reinforcing social norms and taste of Korean culture. Therefore, the Pioneer, Exporter, and Franchisor, are the true tastemakers who translate the essence of food to guide food preference and practices. References Baudrillard, Jean. Simulacra and Simulation. Anne Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 1995. Benjamin, Walter. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. New York: Penguin, 1968. Boyer, Dominic, and Claudio Lomnitz. “Intellectuals and Nationalism: Anthropological Engagements.” Annual Review of Anthropology 34 (2005): 105–20. Douglas, Mary. Purity and Danger. London: Routledge, 1966. Eco, Umberto. Travels in Hyperreality. Orlando, FL: Harcourt Bruce & Company, 1983. Exporter, The. Personal Communication. Seoul, South Korea, 11 Jan. 2012. Franchisor, The. Personal Communication. Seoul, South Korea, 9 Jan. 2012. Gewertz, Deborah, and Frederick Errington. Cheap Meat: Flap Food Nations in the Pacific Islands. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010. Han, Kyung-Koo. “Some Foods Are Good to Think: Kimchi and the Epitomization of National Character.” Korean Social Science Journal 27.1 (2000): 221–35. Harris, Marvin, Nirmal K. Bose, Morton Klass, Joan P. Mencher, Kalervo Oberg, Marvin K. Opler, Wayne Suttles, and Andrew P. Vayda. “The Cultural Ecology of India’s Sacred Cattle [and Comments and Replies].” Current Anthropology (1966): 51–66. Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, Barbara. “Theorizing Heritage.” Ethnomusicology 39.3 (1995): 367–80. Messer, Ellen. “Food Definitions and Boundaries.” Consuming the Inedible: Neglected Dimensions of Food Choice. Eds. Jeremy MacClancy, C. Jeya Henry and Helen Macbeth. New York: Berghahn Books, 2007. 53–65. Pioneer, The. Personal Communication. Incheon, South Korea. 19 Dec. 2011. Rath, Eric. Food and Fantasy in Early Modern Japan. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2010. Smith, Laura Jane. Uses of Heritage. London: Routledge, 2006. Urry, John. The Tourist Gaze: Leisure and Travel in Contemporary Societies. London: Sage Publications, 2002.Walraven, Boudewijn. “Bardot Soup and Confucians’ Meat: Food and Korean Identity in Global Context”. Asian Food: The Global and Local. Eds. Katarzyna Cwiertka, and Boudewijn Walraven. Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2001. 95–115.

Introduction Most developed countries, including Australia, have a strong focus on national, state and local strategies for emergency management and response in the face of disasters and crises. This framework can include coping with catastrophic dislocation, service disruption, injury or loss of life in the face of natural disasters such as major fires, floods, earthquakes or other large-impact natural events, as well as dealing with similar catastrophes resulting from human actions such as bombs, biological agents, cyber-attacks targeting essential services such as communications networks, or other crises affecting large populations. Emergency management frameworks for crisis and disaster response are distinguished by their focus on the domestic context for such events; that is, how to manage and assist the ways in which civilian populations, who are for the most part inexperienced and untrained in dealing with crises and disasters, are able to respond and behave in such situations so as to minimise the impacts of a catastrophic event. Even in countries like Australia that demonstrate a strong public commitment to cultural pluralism and social cohesion, ethno-cultural diversity can be seen as a risk or threat to national security and values at times of political, natural, economic and/or social tensions and crises. Australian government policymakers have recently focused, with increasing intensity, on “community resilience” as a key element in countering extremism and enhancing emergency preparedness and response. In some sense, this is the result of a tacit acknowledgement by government agencies that there are limits to what they can do for domestic communities should such a catastrophic event occur, and accordingly, the focus in recent times has shifted to how governments can best help people to help themselves in such situations, a key element of the contemporary “resilience” approach. Yet despite the robustly multicultural nature of Australian society, explicit engagement with Australia’s cultural diversity flickers only fleetingly on this agenda, which continues to pursue approaches to community resilience in the absence of understandings about how these terms and formations may themselves need to be diversified to maximise engagement by all citizens in a multicultural polity. There have been some recent efforts in Australia to move in this direction, for example the Australian Emergency Management Institute (AEMI)’s recent suite of projects with culturally and linguistically diverse (CALD) communities (2006-2010) and the current Australia-New Zealand Counter-Terrorism Committee-supported project on “Harnessing Resilience Capital in Culturally Diverse Communities to Counter Violent Extremism” (Grossman and Tahiri), which I discuss in a longer forthcoming version of this essay (Grossman). Yet the understanding of ethno-cultural identity and difference that underlies much policy thinking on resilience remains problematic for the way in which it invests in a view of the cultural dimensions of community resilience as relic rather than resource – valorising the preservation of and respect for cultural norms and traditions, but silent on what different ethno-cultural communities might contribute toward expanded definitions of both “community” and “resilience” by virtue of the transformative potential and existing cultural capital they bring with them into new national and also translocal settings. For example, a primary conclusion of the joint program between AEMI and the Australian Multicultural Commission is that CALD communities are largely “vulnerable” in the context of disasters and emergency management and need to be better integrated into majority-culture models of theorising and embedding community resilience. This focus on stronger national integration and the “vulnerability” of culturally diverse ethno-cultural communities in the Australian context echoes the work of scholars beyond Australia such as McGhee, Mouritsen (Reflections, Citizenship) and Joppke. They argue that the “civic turn” in debates around resurgent contemporary nationalism and multicultural immigration policies privileges civic integration over genuine two-way multiculturalism. This approach sidesteps the transculturational (Ortiz; Welsch; Mignolo; Bennesaieh; Robins; Stein) aspects of contemporary social identities and exchange by paying lip-service to cultural diversity while affirming a neo-liberal construct of civic values and principles as a universalising goal of Western democratic states within a global market economy. It also suggests a superficial tribute to cultural diversity that does not embed diversity comprehensively at the levels of either conceptualising or resourcing different elements of Australian transcultural communities within the generalised framework of “community resilience.” And by emphasising cultural difference as vulnerability rather than as resource or asset, it fails to acknowledge the varieties of resilience capital that many culturally diverse individuals and communities may bring with them when they resettle in new environments, by ignoring the question of what “resilience” actually means to those from culturally diverse communities. In so doing, it also avoids the critical task of incorporating intercultural definitional diversity around the concepts of both “community” and “resilience” used to promote social cohesion and the capacity to recover from disasters and crises. How we might do differently in thinking about the broader challenges for multiculturalism itself as a resilient transnational concept and practice? The Concept of Resilience The meanings of resilience vary by disciplinary perspective. While there is no universally accepted definition of the concept, it is widely acknowledged that resilience refers to the capacity of an individual to do well in spite of exposure to acute trauma or sustained adversity (Liebenberg 219). Originating in the Latin word resilio, meaning ‘to jump back’, there is general consensus that resilience pertains to an individual’s, community’s or system’s ability to adapt to and ‘bounce back’ from a disruptive event (Mohaupt 63, Longstaff et al. 3). Over the past decade there has been a dramatic rise in interest in the clinical, community and family sciences concerning resilience to a broad range of adversities (Weine 62). While debate continues over which discipline can be credited with first employing resilience as a concept, Mohaupt argues that most of the literature on resilience cites social psychology and psychiatry as the origin for the concept beginning in the mid-20th century. The pioneer researchers of what became known as resilience research studied the impact on children living in dysfunctional families. For example, the findings of work by Garmezy, Werner and Smith and Rutter showed that about one third of children in these studies were coping very well despite considerable adversities and traumas. In asking what it was that prevented the children in their research from being negatively influenced by their home environments, such research provided the basis for future research on resilience. Such work was also ground-breaking for identifying the so-called ‘protective factors’ or resources that individuals can operationalise when dealing with adversity. In essence, protective factors are those conditions in the individual that protect them from the risk of dysfunction and enable recovery from trauma. They mitigate the effects of stressors or risk factors, that is, those conditions that predispose one to harm (Hajek 15). Protective factors include the inborn traits or qualities within an individual, those defining an individual’s environment, and also the interaction between the two. Together, these factors give people the strength, skills and motivation to cope in difficult situations and re-establish (a version of) ‘normal’ life (Gunnestad). Identifying protective factors is important in terms of understanding the particular resources a given sociocultural group has at its disposal, but it is also vital to consider the interconnections between various protective mechanisms, how they might influence each other, and to what degree. An individual, for instance, might display resilience or adaptive functioning in a particular domain (e.g. emotional functioning) but experience significant deficits in another (e.g. academic achievement) (Hunter 2). It is also essential to scrutinise how the interaction between protective factors and risk factors creates patterns of resilience. Finally, a comprehensive understanding of the interrelated nature of protective mechanisms and risk factors is imperative for designing effective interventions and tailored preventive strategies (Weine 65). In short, contemporary thinking about resilience suggests it is neither entirely personal nor strictly social, but an interactive and iterative combination of the two. It is a quality of the environment as much as the individual. For Ungar, resilience is the complex entanglements between “individuals and their social ecologies [that] will determine the degree of positive outcomes experienced” (3). Thinking about resilience as context-dependent is important because research that is too trait-based or actor-centred risks ignoring any structural or institutional forces. A more ecological interpretation of resilience, one that takes into a person’s context and environment into account, is vital in order to avoid blaming the victim for any hardships they face, or relieving state and institutional structures from their responsibilities in addressing social adversity, which can “emphasise self-help in line with a neo-conservative agenda instead of stimulating state responsibility” (Mohaupt 67). Nevertheless, Ungar posits that a coherent definition of resilience has yet to be developed that adequately ‘captures the dual focus of the individual and the individual’s social ecology and how the two must both be accounted for when determining the criteria for judging outcomes and discerning processes associated with resilience’ (7). Recent resilience research has consequently prompted a shift away from vulnerability towards protective processes — a shift that highlights the sustained capabilities of individuals and communities under threat or at risk. Locating ‘Culture’ in the Literature on Resilience However, an understanding of the role of culture has remained elusive or marginalised within this trend; there has been comparatively little sustained investigation into the applicability of resilience constructs to non-western cultures, or how the resources available for survival might differ from those accessible to western populations (Ungar 4). As such, a growing body of researchers is calling for more rigorous inquiry into culturally determined outcomes that might be associated with resilience in non-western or multicultural cultures and contexts, for example where Indigenous and minority immigrant communities live side by side with their ‘mainstream’ neighbours in western settings (Ungar 2). ‘Cultural resilience’ considers the role that cultural background plays in determining the ability of individuals and communities to be resilient in the face of adversity. For Clauss-Ehlers, the term describes the degree to which the strengths of one’s culture promote the development of coping (198). Culturally-focused resilience suggests that people can manage and overcome stress and trauma based not on individual characteristics alone, but also from the support of broader sociocultural factors (culture, cultural values, language, customs, norms) (Clauss-Ehlers 324). The innate cultural strengths of a culture may or may not differ from the strengths of other cultures; the emphasis here is not so much comparatively inter-cultural as intensively intra-cultural (VanBreda 215). A culturally focused resilience model thus involves “a dynamic, interactive process in which the individual negotiates stress through a combination of character traits, cultural background, cultural values, and facilitating factors in the sociocultural environment” (Clauss-Ehlers 199). In understanding ways of ‘coping and hoping, surviving and thriving’, it is thus crucial to consider how culturally and linguistically diverse minorities navigate the cultural understandings and assumptions of both their countries of origin and those of their current domicile (Ungar 12). Gunnestad claims that people who master the rules and norms of their new culture without abandoning their own language, values and social support are more resilient than those who tenaciously maintain their own culture at the expense of adjusting to their new environment. They are also more resilient than those who forego their own culture and assimilate with the host society (14). Accordingly, if the combination of both valuing one’s culture as well as learning about the culture of the new system produces greater resilience and adaptive capacities, serious problems can arise when a majority tries to acculturate a minority to the mainstream by taking away or not recognising important parts of the minority culture. In terms of resilience, if cultural factors are denied or diminished in accounting for and strengthening resilience – in other words, if people are stripped of what they possess by way of resilience built through cultural knowledge, disposition and networks – they do in fact become vulnerable, because ‘they do not automatically gain those cultural strengths that the majority has acquired over generations’ (Gunnestad 14). Mobilising ‘Culture’ in Australian Approaches to Community Resilience The realpolitik of how concepts of resilience and culture are mobilised is highly relevant here. As noted above, when ethnocultural difference is positioned as a risk or a threat to national identity, security and values, this is precisely the moment when vigorously, even aggressively, nationalised definitions of ‘community’ and ‘identity’ that minoritise or disavow cultural diversities come to the fore in public discourse. The Australian evocation of nationalism and national identity, particularly in the way it has framed policy discussion on managing national responses to disasters and threats, has arguably been more muted than some of the European hysteria witnessed recently around cultural diversity and national life. Yet we still struggle with the idea that newcomers to Australia might fall on the surplus rather than the deficit side of the ledger when it comes to identifying and harnessing resilience capital. A brief example of this trend is explored here. From 2006 to 2010, the Australian Emergency Management Institute embarked on an ambitious government-funded four-year program devoted to strengthening community resilience in relation to disasters with specific reference to engaging CALD communities across Australia. The program, Inclusive Emergency Management with CALD Communities, was part of a wider Australian National Action Plan to Build Social Cohesion, Harmony and Security in the wake of the London terrorist bombings in July 2005. Involving CALD community organisations as well as various emergency and disaster management agencies, the program ran various workshops and agency-community partnership pilots, developed national school education resources, and commissioned an evaluation of the program’s effectiveness (Farrow et al.). While my critique here is certainly not aimed at emergency management or disaster response agencies and personnel themselves – dedicated professionals who often achieve remarkable results in emergency and disaster response under extraordinarily difficult circumstances – it is nevertheless important to highlight how the assumptions underlying elements of AEMI’s experience and outcomes reflect the persistent ways in which ethnocultural diversity is rendered as a problem to be surmounted or a liability to be redressed, rather than as an asset to be built upon or a resource to be valued and mobilised. AEMI’s explicit effort to engage with CALD communities in building overall community resilience was important in its tacit acknowledgement that emergency and disaster services were (and often remain) under-resourced and under-prepared in dealing with the complexities of cultural diversity in emergency situations. Despite these good intentions, however, while the program produced some positive outcomes and contributed to crucial relationship building between CALD communities and emergency services within various jurisdictions, it also continued to frame the challenge of working with cultural diversity as a problem of increased vulnerability during disasters for recently arrived and refugee background CALD individuals and communities. This highlights a common feature in community resilience-building initiatives, which is to focus on those who are already ‘robust’ versus those who are ‘vulnerable’ in relation to resilience indicators, and whose needs may require different or additional resources in order to be met. At one level, this is a pragmatic resourcing issue: national agencies understandably want to put their people, energy and dollars where they are most needed in pursuit of a steady-state unified national response at times of crisis. Nor should it be argued that at least some CALD groups, particularly those from new arrival and refugee communities, are not vulnerable in at least some of the ways and for some of the reasons suggested in the program evaluation. However, the consistent focus on CALD communities as ‘vulnerable’ and ‘in need’ is problematic, as well as partial. It casts members of these communities as structurally and inherently less able and less resilient in the context of disasters and emergencies: in some sense, as those who, already ‘victims’ of chronic social deficits such as low English proficiency, social isolation and a mysterious unidentified set of ‘cultural factors’, can become doubly victimised in acute crisis and disaster scenarios. In what is by now a familiar trope, the description of CALD communities as ‘vulnerable’ precludes asking questions about what they do have, what they do know, and what they do or can contribute to how we respond to disaster and emergency events in our communities. A more profound problem in this sphere revolves around working out how best to engage CALD communities and individuals within existing approaches to disaster and emergency preparedness and response. This reflects a fundamental but unavoidable limitation of disaster preparedness models: they are innately spatially and geographically bounded, and consequently understand ‘communities’ in these terms, rather than expanding definitions of ‘community’ to include the dimensions of community-as-social-relations. While some good engagement outcomes were achieved locally around cross-cultural knowledge for emergency services workers, the AEMI program fell short of asking some of the harder questions about how emergency and disaster service scaffolding and resilience-building approaches might themselves need to change or transform, using a cross-cutting model of ‘communities’ as both geographic places and multicultural spaces (Bartowiak-Théron and Crehan) in order to be more effective in national scenarios in which cultural diversity should be taken for granted. Toward Acknowledgement of Resilience Capital Most significantly, the AEMI program did not produce any recognition of the ways in which CALD communities already possess resilience capital, or consider how this might be drawn on in formulating stronger community initiatives around disaster and threats preparedness for the future. Of course, not all individuals within such communities, nor all communities across varying circumstances, will demonstrate resilience, and we need to be careful of either overgeneralising or romanticising the kinds and degrees of ‘resilience capital’ that may exist within them. Nevertheless, at least some have developed ways of withstanding crises and adapting to new conditions of living. This is particularly so in connection with individual and group behaviours around resource sharing, care-giving and social responsibility under adverse circumstances (Grossman and Tahiri) – all of which are directly relevant to emergency and disaster response. While some of these resilient behaviours may have been nurtured or enhanced by particular experiences and environments, they can, as the discussion of recent literature above suggests, also be rooted more deeply in cultural norms, habits and beliefs. Whatever their origins, for culturally diverse societies to achieve genuine resilience in the face of both natural and human-made disasters, it is critical to call on the ‘social memory’ (Folke et al.) of communities faced with responding to emergencies and crises. Such wellsprings of social memory ‘come from the diversity of individuals and institutions that draw on reservoirs of practices, knowledge, values, and worldviews and is crucial for preparing the system for change, building resilience, and for coping with surprise’ (Adger et al.). Consequently, if we accept the challenge of mapping an approach to cultural diversity as resource rather than relic into our thinking around strengthening community resilience, there are significant gains to be made. For a whole range of reasons, no diversity-sensitive model or measure of resilience should invest in static understandings of ethnicities and cultures; all around the world, ethnocultural identities and communities are in a constant and sometimes accelerated state of dynamism, reconfiguration and flux. But to ignore the resilience capital and potential protective factors that ethnocultural diversity can offer to the strengthening of community resilience more broadly is to miss important opportunities that can help suture the existing disconnects between proactive approaches to intercultural connectedness and social inclusion on the one hand, and reactive approaches to threats, national security and disaster response on the other, undermining the effort to advance effectively on either front. 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NotesThe concept of ‘resilience capital’ I offer here is in line with one strand of contemporary theorising around resilience – that of resilience as social or socio-ecological capital – but moves beyond the idea of enhancing general social connectedness and community cohesion by emphasising the ways in which culturally diverse communities may already be robustly networked and resourceful within micro-communal settings, with new resources and knowledge both to draw on and to offer other communities or the ‘national community’ at large. In effect, ‘resilience capital’ speaks to the importance of finding ‘the communities within the community’ (Bartowiak-Théron and Crehan 11) and recognising their capacity to contribute to broad-scale resilience and recovery.I am indebted for the discussion of the literature on resilience here to Dr Peta Stephenson, Centre for Cultural Diversity and Wellbeing, Victoria University, who is working on a related project (M. Grossman and H. Tahiri, Harnessing Resilience Capital in Culturally Diverse Communities to Counter Violent Extremism, forthcoming 2014).

I have decided to launch a campaign against the skyscraper, that hideous, mediocre form of architecture…. Today we only have an empty version of it, only competing in height.— Rem Koolhaas, “Kool Enough for Beijing?”Figure 1: The CCTV Headquarters—A Courtyard in the Air. Cher Coad, 2020.Introduction: An Anomaly within an Anomaly Construction of Beijing’s China Central Television Headquarters (henceforth CCTV Headquarters) began in 2004 and the building was officially completed in 2012. It is a project by the Office for Metropolitan Architecture (OMA) headed by Rem Koolhaas (1944-), who has been called “the coolest, hippest, and most cutting-edge architect on the planet”(“Rem Koolhaas Biography”). The CCTV Headquarters is a distinctive feature of downtown Beijing and is heavily associated in the Western world with 21st-century China. It is often used as the backdrop for reports from the China correspondent for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), Bill Birtles. The construction of the CCTV Headquarters, however, was very much an international enterprise. Koolhaas himself is Dutch, and the building was one of the first projects the OMA did outside of America after 9/11. As Koolhaas describes it: we had incredible emphasis on New York for five years, and America for five years, and what we decided to do after September 11 when we realized that, you know, things were going to be different in America: [was] to also orient ourselves eastwards [Koolhaas goes on to describe two projects: the Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia and the CCTV Headquarters]. (Rem Koolhaas Interview) Problematically, Koolhaas claims that the building we created for CCTV could never have been conceived by the Chinese and could never have been built by Europeans. It is a hybrid by definition. It was also a partnership, not a foreign imposition…. There was a huge Chinese component from the very beginning. We tried to do a building that conveys that it has emerged from the local situation. (Fraioli 117) Our article reinterprets this reading. We suggest that the OMA’s “incredible emphasis” on America—home of the world’s first skyscraper: the Home Insurance Building built in 1885 in Chicago, Illinois—pivotally spills over into its engagement with China. The emergence of the CCTV Headquarters “from the local situation”, such as it is, is more in spite of Koolhaas’s stated “hybrid” approach than because of it, for what’s missing from his analysis of the CCTV Headquarters’ provenance is the siheyuan or classical Chinese courtyard house. We will argue that the CCTV Headquarters is an anomaly within an anomaly in contemporary Beijing’s urban landscape, to the extent that it turns the typologies of both the (vertical, American) skyscraper and the (horizontal, Chinese) siheyuan on a 90 degree angle. The important point to make here, however, is that these two anomalous elements of the building are not of the same order. While the anomalous re-configuration of the skyscraper typology is clearly part of Koolhaas’s architectural manifesto, it is against his architectural intentionality that the CCTV Headquarters sustains the typology of the siheyuan. This bespeaks the persistent and perhaps functional presence of traditional Chinese architecture and urbanism in the building. Koolhaas’s building contains both starkly evident and more secretive anomalies. Ironically then, there is a certain truth in Koolhaas’s words, beneath the critique we made of it above as an example of American-dominated, homogenising globalisation. And the significance of the CCTV Headquarters’ hybridity as both skyscraper and siheyuan can be elaborated through Daniel M. Abramson’s thesis that a consideration of unbuilt architecture has the potential to re-open architecture to its historical conditions. Roberto Schwarz argues that “forms are the abstract of specific social relationships” (53). Drawing on Schwarz’s work and Abramson’s, we conclude that the historical presence—as secretive anomaly—of the siheyuan in the CCTV Headquarters suggests that the building’s formal debt to the siheyuan (more so than to the American skyscraper) may continue to unsettle the “specific social relationship” of Chinese to Western society (Schwarz 53). The site of this unsettlement, we suggest, is data. The CCTV Headquarters might well be the most data-rich site in all of China—it is, after all, a monumental television station. Suggestively, this wealth of airborne data is literally enclosed within the aerial “courtyard”, with its classical Chinese form, of the CCTV Headquarters. This could hardly be irrelevant in the context of the geo-politics of globalised data. The “form of data”, to coin a phrase, radiates through all the social consequences of data flow and usage, and here the form of data is entwined with a form always already saturated with social consequence. The secretive architectural anomaly of Koolhaas’s building is thus a heterotopic space within the broader Western engagement with China, so much of which relates to flows and captures of data. The Ubiquitous Siheyuan or Classical Chinese Courtyard House According to Ying Liu and Adenrele Awotona, “the courtyard house, a residential compound with buildings surrounding a courtyard on four (or sometimes three) sides, has been representative of housing patterns for over one thousand years in China” (248). Liu and Awotona state that “courtyard house patterns could be found in many parts of China, but the most typical forms are those located in the Old City in Beijing, the capital of China for over eight hundred years” (252). In their reading, the siheyuan is a peculiarly elastic architectural typology, whose influence is present as much in the Forbidden City as in the humble family home (252). Prima facie then, it is not surprising that it has also secreted itself within the architectural form of Koolhaas’s creation. It is important to note, however, that while the “most typical forms” of the siheyuan are indeed still to be found in Beijing, the courtyard house is an increasingly uncommon sight in the Chinese capital. An article in the China Daily from 2004 refers to the “few remaining siheyuan” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). That said, all is not lost for the siheyuan. Liu and Awotona discuss how the classical form of the courtyard house has been modified to more effectively house current residents in the older parts of Beijing while protecting “the horizontal planning feature of traditional Beijing” (254). “Basic design principles” (255) of the siheyuan have supported “a transition from the traditional single-household courtyard housing form to a contemporary multi-household courtyard housing form” (254). In this process, approaches of “urban renewal [involving] demolition” and “preservation, renovation and rebuilding” have been taken (255). Donia Zhang extends the work of Liu and Awotona in the elaboration of her thesis that “Chinese-Americans interested in building Chinese-style courtyard houses in America are keen to learn about their architectural heritage” (47). Zhang’s article concludes with an illustration that shows how the siheyuan may be merged with the typical American suburban dwelling (66). The final thing to emphasise about the siheyuan is what Liu and Awotona describe as its “special introverted quality” (249). The form is saturated with social consequence by virtue of its philosophical undergirding. The coincidence of philosophies of Daoism (including feng-shui) and Confucianism in the architecture and spatiality of the classical Chinese courtyard house makes it an exceedingly odd anomaly of passivity and power (250-51). The courtyard itself has a highly charged role in the management of family, social and cultural life, which, we suggest, survives its transposition into novel architectural environments. Figure 2: The CCTV Headquarters—Looking Up at “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020. The CCTV Headquarters: A New Type of Skyscraper? Rem Koolhaas is not the only architect to interrogate the standard skyscraper typology. In his essay from 1999, “The Architecture of the Future”, Norman Foster argues that “the world’s increasing ecological crisis” (278) is in part a function of “unchecked urban sprawl” (279). A new type of skyscraper, he suggests, might at least ameliorate the sprawl of our cities: the Millennium Tower that we have proposed in Tokyo takes a traditional horizontal city quarter—housing, shops, restaurants, cinemas, museums, sporting facilities, green spaces and public transport networks—and turns it on its side to create a super-tall building with a multiplicity of uses … . It would create a virtually self-sufficient, fully self-sustaining community in the sky. (279) Koolhaas follows suit, arguing that “the actual point of the skyscraper—to increase worker density—has been lost. Skyscrapers are now only momentary points of high density spaced so far apart that they don’t actually increase density at all” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). Foster’s solution to urban sprawl is to make the horizontal (an urban segment) vertical; Koolhaas’s is to make the vertical horizontal: “we’ve [OMA] come up with two types: a very low-rise series of buildings, or a single, condensed hyperbuilding. What we’re doing with CCTV is a prototype of the hyperbuilding” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). Interestingly, the “low-rise” type mentioned here brings to mind the siheyuan—textual evidence, perhaps, that the siheyuan is always already a silent fellow traveller of the CCTV Headquarters project. The CCTV Headquarters is, even at over 200 metres tall itself, an anomaly of horizontalism amidst Beijing’s pervasive skyscraper verticality. As Paul Goldberger reports, “some Beijingers have taken to calling it Big Shorts”, which again evokes horizontality. This is its most obvious anomaly, and a somewhat melancholy reminder of “the horizontal planning feature of traditional Beijing” now mutilated by skyscrapers (Liu and Awotona 254). In the same gesture, however, with which it lays the skyscraper on its side, Koolhaas’s creation raises into the air the shape of the courtyard of a classical Chinese house. To our knowledge, no one has noticed this before, let alone written about it. It is, to be sure, a genuine courtyard shape—not merely an archway or a bridge with unoccupied space between. Pure building entirely surrounds the vertical courtyard shape formed in the air. Most images of the building provide an orientation that maximises the size of its vertical courtyard. To this extent, the (secret) courtyard shape of the building is hidden in plain sight. It is possible, however, to make the courtyard narrow to a mere slit of space, and finally to nothing, by circumnavigating the building. Certain perspectives on the building can even make it look like a more-or-less ordinary skyscraper. But, as a quick google-image search reveals, such views are rare. What seems to make the building special to people is precisely that part of it that is not building. Furthermore, anyone approaching the CCTV Headquarters with the intention of locating a courtyard typology within its form will be disappointed unless they look to its vertical plane. There is no hint of a courtyard at the base of the building. Figure 3: The CCTV Headquarters—View from “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020.Figure 4: The CCTV Headquarters—Looking through the Floor of “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020.Visiting the CCTV Headquarters: A “Special Introverted Quality?” In January 2020, we visited the CCTV Headquarters, ostensibly as audience members for a recording of a science spectacular show. Towards the end of the recording, we were granted a quick tour of the building. It is rare for foreigners to gain access to the sections of the building we visited. Taking the lift about 40 floors up, we arrived at the cantilever level—known informally as “the overhang”. Glass discs in the floor allow one to walk out over nothingness, looking down on ant-like pedestrians. Looking down like this was also to peer into the vacant “courtyard” of the building—into a structure “turned or pushed inward on itself”, which is the anatomical definition of “introverted” (Oxford Languages Dictionary). Workers in the building evinced no great affection for it, and certainly nothing of our wide-eyed wonder. Somebody said, “it’s just a place to work”. One of this article’s authors, Patrick West, seemed to feel the overhang almost imperceptibly vibrating beneath him. (Still, he has also experienced this sensation in conventional skyscrapers.) We were told the rumour that the building has started to tilt over dangerously. Being high in the air, but also high on the air, with nothing but air beneath us, felt edgy—somehow special—our own little world. Koolhaas promotes the CCTV Headquarters as (in paraphrase) “its own city, its own community” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). This resonated with us on our visit. Conventional skyscrapers fracture any sense of community through their segregated floor-upon-floor verticality; there is never enough room for a little patch of horizontal urbanism to unroll. Within “the overhang”, the CCTV Headquarters felt unlike a standard skyscraper, as if we were in an urban space magically levitated from the streets below. Sure, we had been told by one of the building’s inhabitants that it was “just a place to work”—but compared to the bleak sterility of most skyscraper work places, it wasn’t that sterile. The phrase Liu and Awotona use of the siheyuan comes to mind here, as we recall our experience; somehow, we had been inside a different type of building, one with its own “special introverted quality” (249). Special, that is, in the sense of containing just so much of horizontal urbanism as allows the building to retain its introverted quality as “its own city” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). Figure 5: The CCTV Headquarters—View from “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020.Figure 6: The CCTV Headquarters—Inside “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020. Unbuilt Architecture: The Visionary and the Contingent Within the present that it constitutes, built architecture is surrounded by unbuilt architecture at two interfaces: where the past ends; where the future begins. The soupy mix of urbanism continually spawns myriad architectural possibilities, and any given skyscraper is haunted by all the skyscrapers it might have been. History and the past hang heavily from them. Meanwhile, architectural programme or ambition—such as it is—pulls in the other direction: towards an idealised (if not impossible to practically realise) future. Along these lines, Koolhaas and the OMA are plainly a future-directed, as well as self-aware, architectural unit: at OMA we try to build in the greatest possible tolerance and the least amount of rigidity in terms of embodying one particular moment. We want our buildings to evolve. A building has at least two lives—the one imagined by its maker and the life it lives afterward—and they are never the same. (Fraioli 115) Koolhaas makes the same point even more starkly with regard to the CCTV Headquarters project through his use of the word “prototype”: “what we’re doing with CCTV is a prototype of the hyperbuilding” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). At the same time, however, as the presence of the siheyuan within the architecture of the CCTV Headquarters shows, the work of the OMA cannot escape from the superabundance of history, within which, as Roberto Schwarz claims, “forms are the abstract of specific social relationships” (53). Supporting our contentions here, Daniel M. Abramson notes that unbuilt architecture implies two sub-categories … the visionary unbuilt, and the contingent … . Visionary schemes invite a forward glance, down one true, vanguard path to a reformed society and discipline. The contingent unbuilts, conversely, invite a backward glance, along multiple routes history might have gone, each with its own likelihood and validity; no privileged truths. (Abramson)Introducing Abramson’s theory to the example of the CCTV Headquarters, the “visionary unbuilt” lines up with Koolhaas’ thesis that the building is a future-directed “prototype”. while the clearest candidate for the “contingent unbuilt”, we suggest, is the siheyuan. Why? Firstly, the siheyuan is hidden in plain sight, within the framing architecture of the CCTV Headquarters; secondly, it is ubiquitous in Beijing urbanism—little wonder then that it turns up, unannounced, in this Beijing building; thirdly, and related to the second point, the two buildings share a “special introverted quality” (Liu and Awotona 249). “The contingent”, in this case, is the anomaly nestled within the much more blatant “visionary” (or futuristic) anomaly—the hyperbuilding to come—of the Beijing-embedded CCTV Headquarters. Koolhaas’s building’s most fascinating anomaly relates, not to any forecast of the future, but to the subtle persistence of the past—its muted quotation of the ancient siheyuan form. Our article is, in part, a response to Abramson’s invitation to “pursue … the consequences of the unbuilt … [and thus] to open architectural history more fully to history”. We have supplemented Abramson’s idea with Schwarz’s suggestion that “forms are the abstract of specific social relationships” (53). The anomaly of the siheyuan—alongside that of the hyperbuilding—within the CCTV headquarters, opens the building up (paraphrasing Abramson) to a fuller analysis of its historical positioning within Western and Eastern flows of globalisation (or better, as we are about to suggest, of glocalisation). In parallel, its form (paraphrasing Schwarz) abstracts and re-presents this history’s specific social relationships. Figure 7: The CCTV Headquarters—A Courtyard of Data. Cher Coad, 2020.Conclusion: A Courtyard of Data and Tensions of Glocalisation Koolhaas proposes that the CCTV Headquarters was “a partnership, not a foreign imposition” and that the building “emerged from the local situation” (Fraioli 117). To us, this smacks of Pollyanna globalisation. The CCTV Headquarters is, we suggest, more accurately read as an imposition of the American skyscraper typology, albeit in anomalous form. (One might even argue that the building’s horizontal deviation from the vertical norm reinforces that norm.) Still, amidst a thicket of conventionally vertical skyscrapers, the building’s horizontalism does have the anomalous effect of recalling “the horizontal planning feature of traditional Beijing” (Liu and Awotona 254). Buried within its horizontalism, however, lies a more secretive anomaly in the form of a vertical siheyuan. This anomaly, we contend, motivates a terminological shift from “globalisation” to “glocalisation”, for the latter term better captures the notion of a lack of reconciliation between the “global” and the “local” in the building. Koolhaas’s visionary architectural programme explicitly advances anomaly. The CCTV Headquarters radically reworks the skyscraper typology as the prototype of a hyperbuilding defined by horizontalism. Certainly, such horizontalism recalls the horizontal plane of pre-skyscraper Beijing and, if faintly, that plane’s ubiquitous feature: the classical courtyard house. Simultaneously, however, the siheyuan has a direct if secretive presence within the morphology of the CCTV Headquarters, even as any suggestion of a vertical courtyard is strikingly absent from Koolhaas’s vanguard manifesto. To this extent, the hyperbuilding fits within Abramson’s category of “the visionary unbuilt”, while the siheyuan aligns with Abramson’s “contingent unbuilt” descriptor. The latter is the “might have been” that, largely under the pressure of its ubiquity as Beijing vernacular architecture, “very nearly is”. Drawing on Schwarz’s idea that “forms are the abstract of specific social relationships”, we propose that the siheyuan, as anomalous form of the CCTV Headquarters, is a heterotopic space within the hybrid global harmony (to paraphrase Koolhaas) purportedly represented by the building (53). In this space thus formed collides the built-up historical and philosophical social intensity of the classical Chinese courtyard house and the intensities of data flows and captures that help constitute the predominantly capitalist and neo-liberalist “social relationship” of China and the Western world—the world of the skyscraper (Schwarz). Within the siheyuan of the CCTV Headquarters, globalised data is literally enveloped by Daoism and Confucianism; it is saturated with the social consequence of local place. The term “glocalisation” is, we suggest, to be preferred here to “globalisation”, because of how it better reflects such vernacular interruptions to the hegemony of globalised space. Forms delineate social relationships, and data, which both forms and is formed by social relationships, may be formed by architecture as much as anything else within social space. Attention to the unbuilt architectural forms (vanguard and contingent) contained within the CCTV Headquarters reveals layers of anomaly that might, ultimately, point to another form of architecture entirely, in which glocal tensions are not only recognised, but resolved. Here, Abramson’s historical project intersects, in the final analysis, with a worldwide politics. Figure 8: The CCTV Headquarters—A Sound Stage in Action. Cher Coad, 2020. References Abramson, Daniel M. “Stakes of the Unbuilt.” Aggregate Architectural History Collaborative. 20 July 2020. <http://we-aggregate.org/piece/stakes-of-the-unbuilt>.Foster, N. “The Architecture of the Future.” The Architecture Reader: Essential Writings from Vitruvius to the Present. Ed. A. Krista Sykes. New York: George Braziller, 2007: 276-79. Fraioli, Paul. “The Invention and Reinvention of the City: An Interview with Rem Koolhaas.” Journal of International Affairs 65.2 (Spring/Summer 2012): 113-19. Goldberger, Paul. “Forbidden Cities: Beijing’s Great New Architecture Is a Mixed Blessing for the City.” The New Yorker—The Sky Line. 23 June 2008. <https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2008/06/30/forbidden-cities>.“Kool Enough for Beijing?” China Daily. 2 March 2004. <https://www.chinadaily.com.cn/english/doc/2004-03/02/content_310800.htm>. Liu, Ying, and Adenrele Awotona. “The Traditional Courtyard House in China: Its Formation and Transition.” Evolving Environmental Ideals—Changing Way of Life, Values and Design Practices: IAPS 14 Conference Proceedings. IAPS. Stockholm, Sweden: Royal Institute of Technology, 1996: 248-60. <https://iaps.architexturez.net/system/files/pdf/1202bm1029.content.pdf>.Oxford Languages Dictionary. “Rem Koolhaas Biography.” Encyclopedia of World Biography. 20 July 2020. <https://www.notablebiographies.com/news/Ge-La/Koolhaas-Rem.html>. “Rem Koolhaas Interview.” Manufacturing Intellect. Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. 2003. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oW187PwSjY0>.Schwarz, Roberto. Misplaced Ideas: Essays on Brazilian Culture. New York: Verso, 1992. Zhang, Donia. “Classical Courtyard Houses of Beijing: Architecture as Cultural Artifact.” Space and Communication 1.1 (Dec. 2015): 47-68.