Journal articles on the topic 'Edmund Morris'

This essay treats the misrepresentation of personal history, by both author and subject, in Edmund Morris's controversial biography, Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan (1999) as the expression of a distinctly postmodern form of nationalism. In this version, which also informs current scholarship on the subject, historical deracination serves not simply as an obstacle to national connection but also as a basis for it. The essay closes with a critique of this paradoxical view.

Sarojini Naidu is the most lyrical of the Indian English poet. Because of the sweetness and musicality of hor verse, she was fondly called by Mahatma Gandhi “the nightingale of India.” In the early phase of her poetic corear, she was anamored by British romantic poets and imitated them in her poetry. But on the advice of Edmund Morris, she tried to reveal the heart of India romantically, lyrically and sensuously. Consequently, she published three volumes of the poem: “The Golden Threshold” [1905]. ‘The Bird of Time’ [1912] and ‘The Broken Wing’ [1917]. These volumes were highly praised by the western literary magzines like ‘The Time’, ‘The Glasgow Horald’, ‘The New York Times’.

The Romantic vision of ancient architecture, together with the evaluation of the said architecture as historical legacy, have contributed to the extensive path followed by the discipline of architectural restoration towards its consolidation as a scientific method along the 19th and the 20th century. During the Renaissance, when attention was turned to Classic Architecture, the study of the construction methods became the first germ for recognising the value of ancient architecture, in its many styles, as historical heritage. The scientific analysis that then took place in the 19th century, framed in the philosophical trend of Positivism, was also be reflected in architectural restoration: an appropriate intervention had to begin with learning about of the history of the construction. This can easily be understood considering that the term restoration includes many medieval constructions being completed or reconstructed introducing large additions or extensions, which were done taking as reference the use of traditional construction materials with their corresponding traditional technology and the study of agreements and manuscripts. These documents were unveiled by research, in parallel to the development of the formulation of a theoretical structural model, bearing in mind that, initially, masonry, timber and cast iron were the main construction materials, and their properties dictated the nature of structural forms (Charlton 1982). The debate about architectural restoration begun in the 19th century has gone on to history mainly thanks to names like Viollet-le-Duc, Ruskin, Morris or Pugin. However, behind these names, a series of prominent figures can be recognized. The group was comprised of individuals of all filiations who were developing and bringing together the theory and the scientific practice originated in the twilights of the 18th century in the newly established French Republic. The innumerable positions, schools, trends and declarations that have developed since then, have today a point in common: the valuation and the respect for ancient architectural monuments, a living testimony for learning about the societies who constructed them. The present work focuses on the figure of the Englishman George Edmund Street (1824-81), whose work is not as well known as that of some of his contemporaries named above, but is not less important for that reason. Street contributed to the restoration of many architectural monuments; his experience allowed him to device certain approaches to this discipline that yielded numerous restoration interventions, both inside and outside England. His work has not received as much attention as that of Butterfield, and his name is certainly not as well known as Scott's. Yet he has hardly been altogether forgotten (Hitchcock 1960).

Como o próprio título indica, este ensaio pretende dialogar com a recepção do sublime kantiano pela filosofia francesa contemporânea, sobretudo com Jean-François Lyotard. Dessa forma, ao invés de ressaltar as consequências inevitável ou sistematicamente morais do sublime kantiano, como fez, de um modo geral, o comentário mais tradicional da filosofia crítica de Kant, este ensaio tenta interpretar o sublime como sendo essencialmente uma experiência da arte, seguindo assim de perto aquela tradição francesa. Mas, ao mesmo tempo, tomando alguma distância, este texto quer fazer uma objeção ao fundamento exclusivamente burkiano da concepção de sublime de Lyotard. Em suma, quero defender que é possível privilegiar o tempo (aspecto central do sublime de Edmund Burke, segundo Lyotard) também na experiência do sublime kantiano.

The lifting of the ban on the attendance of Catholics at the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge in 1895, although intended primarily for laymen, was soon extended and led to the establishment of St. Edmund's House, Cambridge, for the secular (diocesan) clergy and the opening of houses of study at Oxford for the Jesuits (1896) and Benedictines (1897). Many bishops, however, remained ambivalent in their attitude to these developments, fearing that secular universities were a danger to the faith and morals of Catholics, and insisted that laymen should be obliged to attend extra lectures or conferences in which ‘Philosophy, History, and Religion shall be treated with such amplitude and solidity as to furnish effectual protection against false and erroneous teaching’.

UNIVERSIDADE DO ESTADO DO RIO DE JANEIROReitor: Ruy Garcia Marques CENTRO DE CIÊNCIAS SOCIAISDiretor: Domenico Mandarino INSTITUTO DE FILOSOFIA E CIÊNCIAS HUMANASDiretora: Dirce Eleonora Nigro Solis PROGRAMA DE PÓS-GRADUAÇÃO EM HISTÓRIACoordenadora: Márcia de Almeida GonçalvesCoordenadora adjunta: Lúcia Maria Bastos Pereira das Neves LABORATÓRIO DE ESTUDOS DAS DIFERENÇAS E DESIGUALDADES SOCIAIS – LEDDESCoordenadora: Marilene Rosa Nogueira da Silva Revista TransversosISSN 2179-7528 Revista quadrimestral do Laboratório de Estudos das Diferenças e Desigualdades Sociais, vinculado ao Programa de Pós-Graduação em História da UERJ. DOSSIÊ: LGBTTQI: histórias, memórias e resistências. Responsáveis pelo número:Ana Cristina SantosFábio Henrique LopesMarina Vieira de Carvalho EDITORA-GERENTEMarilene Rosa Nogueira da Silva - Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas (IFCH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil.COMITÊ EDITORIALMarilene Rosa Nogueira da Silva – Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas (IFCH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Sonia Maria de Almeida Ignatiuk Wanderley – Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Instituto de Aplicação Fernando Rodrigues da Silveira (CAp/UERJ), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Gustavo Pinto de Sousa – Instituto Nacional de Educação de Surdos (INES), Brasil, Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Marina Vieira de Carvalho – Grupo de Estudos de Gênero da Associação Nacional de História - Seção Rio de Janeiro (ANPUH/RJ), Laboratório de Estudos das Diferenças e Desigualdades Sociais (LEDDES/UERJ), Brasil, Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Paulo Henrique Silva Pacheco – Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Programa de Pós-Graduação em História, Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas (IFCH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Rogério da Silva Guimarães - Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Programa de Pós- Graduação em História, Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas (IFCH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. CONSELHO EDITORIAL[MVDC1] Ana Lúcia Vieira– Universidade Federal do Amazonas (UFAM). Instituto de Ciências Humanas e Letras (IFCH), Departamento de História (DH), Amazonas (AM), Brasil. Augusto Manuel Saraiva do Nascimento Diniz - Universidade Nova de Lisboa, Faculdade de Letras, Centro de História, Lisboa, Portugal. Cecilia Maria Bouças Coimbra - Universidade Federal Fluminense (UFF) e do Programa de Pós-Graduação em Psicologia (PPGP). Eddy Chávez Huanca- Universidad Continental, Departamento de Derecho, Huancayo, Perú. Eliane Garcindo de Sá– Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas (IFCH), Departamento de História (DHIS), Programa de Pós-Graduação em História Política (PPGH/UERJ), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Estela Scheinvar – Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Programa de Pós-Graduação em Políticas Públicas e Formação Humanas - Faculdade de Formação de Professores (PPGPPFHFFP), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Fábio Henrique Lopes– Universidade Federal Rural do Rio de Janeiro (UFRRJ), Departamento de História (DH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Heliana de Barros Conde Rodrigues– Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Departamento de Psicologia Social e Institucional (DPSI), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. James Roberto Silva– Universidade Federal do Amazonas (UFAM). Instituto de Ciências Humanas e Letras (IFCH), Departamento de História (DH), Amazonas (AM), Brasil. Joana D`Arc Fernandes Ferraz - Professora da Universidade Federal Fluminense (UFF).Departamento de Sociologia e Metodologia das Ciências Sociais, Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Laura Moutinho Nery- Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas (IFCH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Luciano Rocha Pinto – Universidade Federal Fluminense (UFF), Programa de Pós-Graduação em História (PPGH), Niterói (RJ), Brasil. Ludmila Brandão – Universidade Federal do Mato Grosso (UFMT), Departamento de Artes (DA), Mato Grosso (MT), Brasil.Luiz Edmundo de Souza Moraes - Universidade Federal Rural do Rio de Janeiro (UFRRJ), Instituto de Ciências Humanas e Sociais, Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Magda Maria Jaolino Torres – Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ), Instituto de História (IH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Marcia Eliane Alves de Souza e Mello – Universidade Federal do Amazonas (UFAM). Instituto de Ciências Humanas e Letras (IFCH), Departamento de História (DH), Amazonas (AM), Brasil. Maria Elizabeth Carneiro – Universidade Federal de Uberlândia (UFU), Instituto de História (IH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Martha Campos de Abreu – Universidade Federal Fluminense (UFF), Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas (IFCH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Matthias Röhrig Assunção – University of Essex (EU), Departamenty of History (DH), Inglaterra (UK), Reino Unido. Michael H. Frisch - University at Buffalo (UB), Buffalo (NY), Estados Unidos. Oswaldo Machado Filho – Universidade Federal do Estado do Mato Grosso (UFMT), Departamento de História (DH). Mato Grosso (MT), Brasil. Patrícia Souza Lima – Centro Federal de Educação Tecnológica Celso Suckow da Fonseca (Cefet– UnED). Petrópolis (RJ), Brasil. Priscila de Oliveira Xavier Scudder - Universidade Federal do Mato Grosso (UFMT), Mato Grosso (MT), Brasil. Rachel Soihet – Universidade Federal Fluminense (UFF), Departamento de História(DH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Rafael Maul de Carvalho Costa - Professor da Universidade Federal Rural do Rio de Janeiro (UFRRJ), Departamento de Educação do Campo, Movimentos Sociais e Diversidade, Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Sílvio de Almeida Carvalho Filho – Universidade Federal do Rio de Janeiro (UFRJ), Instituto de História (IH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Tania Maria Bessone da Cruz Ferreira– Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas (IFCH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil.Tatyana de Amaral Maia – Pontifícia Universidade Católica (PUC), Programa de Pós-Graduação em História (PPGH), Rio Grande do Sul (RS), Brasil. Washington Santos Nascimento – Universidade do Estado do Rio de Janeiro (UERJ), Instituto de Filosofia e Ciências Humanas (IFCH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. EDITORES DE SEÇÃOMarina Vieira de Carvalho – Grupo de Estudos de Gênero da Associação Nacional de História - Seção Rio de Janeiro (ANPUH/RJ), Laboratório de Estudos das Diferenças e Desigualdades Sociais (LEDDES/UERJ), Brasil, Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. EDITORXS CONVIDADXSAna Cristina Santos - Centro de Estudos Sociais da Universidade de Coimbra (CES-UC), Coimbra, Portugal. Fábio Henrique Lopes – LabQueer - Laboratório de estudos das relações de gênero, masculinidade e transgêneros/UFRRJ. Universidade Federal Rural do Rio de Janeiro (UFRRJ), Departamento de História (DH), Rio de Janeiro (RJ), Brasil. Revisão Gramatical e Copidesque: Marina Vieira de Carvalho (ANPUH/RJ, LEDDES/UERJ). Revisão Técnica: Carol Gonzaga de Oliveira (Cetreina/UERJ) Editor de Layout e Capa: Paulo Henrique Silva Pacheco[MVDC2] . Imagem da Capa: Coraticum, 2018.Raphael EliasTinta à óleo, giz pastel e colagem sobre chapa de madeira.(40cm x 50cm) BOLSISTA CETREINA/UERJCaroline Gonzaga de Oliveira - Bolsista de Estágio Interno Complementar

The search for improvements in the quality of Physical Education teaching requires an increasing emphasis on teacher training. In this sense, this work presented the result of interventions with the theme of creative and recreational dance developed in a university extension course entitled: recreational games in early childhood and carried out by undergraduate students in Physical Education. For its development, study, research, planning and intervention activities were carried out with Early Childhood Education children aged between 4 and 5 years enrolled in a municipal public school in a city in the state of Tocantins, northern Brazil. The results of the action demonstrated that disciplines focused on the expression of body language are necessary in an attempt to deconstruct prejudices through factual opinions. It can be inferred that interventions with recreation and dance make it possible to stimulate the corporal and subjective development of children. For this reason, it is important that body language expressions are considered when developing public educational policies aimed at Brazilian municipalities.Resumo A busca por melhorias na qualidade do ensino de Educação Física exige cada vez mais ênfase na formação docente. Nesse sentido, este trabalho apresentou o resultado das intervenções com a temática dança criativa e recreativa desenvolvida em um curso de extensão universitária intitulado: jogos recreativos na primeira infância e realizado por acadêmicos do curso de licenciatura em Educação Física. Para o desenvolvimento do mesmo, foram realizadas atividades de estudo, pesquisa, planejamento e intervenção com crianças da Educação Infantil na faixa etária entre 4 e 5 anos matriculadas em escola pública municipal de uma cidade do estado do Tocantins, região norte do Brasil. Os resultados da ação demonstraram que são necessárias disciplinas focadas na expressão da linguagem corporal como tentativa de desconstruir preconceitos por meio de opiniões factuais e que intervenções com recreação e dança possibilitam o estímulo do desenvolvimento corporal e subjetivo das crianças. Por isso, é importante que expressões da linguagem corporal sejam pensadas no momento de elaboração de políticas públicas educacionais direcionadas aos municípios brasileiros.Resumen La búsqueda de una mejor calidad de educación física exige más y más estrés en la formación del maestro. Este estudio tuvo como objetivo comprender cómo los niños experimentan relaciones materiales y simbólicas que ocurren en momentos de manifestación del lenguaje corporal. Este es un informe de experiencia sobre intervenciones llevadas a cabo sobre el tema de la danza creativa y recreativa, insertadas en el proyecto de extensión universitaria: juegos recreativos para la primera infancia, celebrados en una ciudad en el estado de Tocantins, norte de Brasil. Es una investigación de campo descriptiva realizada con estudiantes de pre-educación en Educación Física en una Universidad Federal que formó parte del proyecto de extensión. Las actividades de estudio, investigación, planificación e intervención se llevaron a cabo con niños en edad preescolar en el rango de 4 a 5 años desde una escuela pública municipal que atiende a niños y adolescentes con un perfil de poder adquisitivo. Los datos fueron recolectados de informes preparados por académicos. El análisis descriptivo y los resultados se llevaron a cabo y mostraron que las disciplinas centradas en la expresión del lenguaje corporal son necesarias como un intento de reconstruir el daño a través de opiniones objetivas que pueden generar emancipación.Palavras-chave: Linguagem corporal, Recreação, Dança Infantil, Preconceito.Keywords: Body language, Recreation, Children's dance, Prejudice.Palabras claves: Lenguaje corporal, Recreación, Danza infantil, Prejuicio.ReferencesAWAD, Hani Zehdi Amine; SANTOS, Marcelo Grangeiro; BARBOSA, José Antonio Strumendo in PIMENTEL, Giuliano de Assis Gomes; AWAD, Hani Zehdi Amine Org(s) Recreação total. 1° ed. Várzea Paulista, SP: Fontoura, 2015.ATARA Sivan. Leisure education in schools: challenges, choices and consequences. World Leisure Journal. v 59, n°1, p.15-2, 2017.AUSUBEL, D. P.; NOVAK, J. D.; HANESIAN, H. Psicologia educacional. Rio de Janeiro: Interamericana, 1980.BARDIN, Laurence. Análise de conteúdo. 4. ed. Lisboa: Edições 70, 2010.BOBBIO, Norberto. Elogio da serenidade e outros escritos morais. São Paulo: Editora UNESP, 2002BOURDIEU, Pierre. A economia das trocas simbólicas. São Paulo: Perspectiva, 2013, p.424.BRITO, Angela do Céu Ubaiara; KISHIMOTO, Tizuko Morchida. A mediação na Educação Infantil: possibilidade de aprendizagem. Educação, v. 44, p. 1-19, 2019.BROUGÈRE, G. Brinquedo e cultura. 8º ed. São Paulo: Cortez, 2014.CHEN, Xiaobei; CHEN, Lan. Memories of the Revolution Childhood and the Modernization Childhood in China: 1950s–1980s. European Education, v.48, p.187–202, 2016.COUSINEAU, C. Increasing Outdoor Recreation Participation Through the Schools: A Critical Perspective. World Leisure & Recreation, v.31, n°2, p.38–43,1989.FERNÁNDEZ, Jose Fernando Tabares. El ocio y la recreación en América Latina: una lectura desde los modelos de desarrollo. In: FERNANDEZ, Jose Fernando Tabares; MONTOYA, Arley Fabio Ossa; BEDOYA, Victor Alonso Molina (coord.). El ocio, el tiempo libre y la recreación en América latina: problematizaciones y desafíos. Medellin: Editorial Civitas, 2005.GOMES, Christiane; OSORIO, Esperanza; PINTO, Leila; ELIZALDE, Rodrigo. Lazer na América Latina/ Tiempo libre, ócio y recreación em Latinoamérica. Belo Horizonte: Editora UFMG, 2009.GOMES, Silvia Cristina Costa; MARTINS, Cristina Amorim. A presença do pensamento de Froebel, Dewey e Montessori nas diretrizes curriculares nacionais para a educação infantil. Encontros Universitários da UFC, Fortaleza, v. 1, 2016.HUIZINGA, J. Homo ludens: o jogo como elemento da cultura. São Paulo: USP, 1971.LIMA, A. J. A. O lúdico em clássicos da filosofia: uma análise em Platão, Aristóteles e Rousseau. II CONEDU. Congresso Nacional de Educação, Anais..., 2015.MARQUES, Isabel A. Corpo, dança e educação contemporânea. Pro-Posições v.9, n° 2, p. 70-78, Junho de 1998.MONDEN, Masafumi. Boys at the Barre: Boys, Men and the Ballet in Japan. Journal Japanese Studies, v.39, n° 2, p.145-167, 2019.NASCIMENTO, Diego Ebling do; AFONSO, Mariângela da Rosa. A participação masculina na dança clássica: do preconceito aos palcos da vida. Reflexão e Ação, Santa Cruz do Sul, v. 21, n. 1, p. 219-236, jul. 2013.PIMENTEL, Giuliano de Assis Gomes. Lúdico o princípio de tudo. In: Teorias do Lazer, Maringá, Eduem, 2010.PIMENTEL, Giuliano de Assis Gomes; AWAD, Hani. Usos e significados da recreação na produção acadêmica. Revista de Educação Pública, v. 29, p. 1-18, 2020.SILVA, Débora Alice Machado; STOPPA, Edmur Antonio; ISAYAMA, Helder Ferreira; MARCELLINO, Nelson Carvalho; MELO, Victor Andrade. A importância da recreação e do lazer. Brasília: Gráfica e Editora Ideal, p. 52, 2011.SOARES, Marília Vieira. Ballet ou Dança Moderna? Uma questão de Gênero. São Paulo na década de 30. Juiz de Fora: Clio Edições Eletrônicas, 43 p. 2002.STORMANN, W. F. Cultural recreations and hierarchy: a historical interplay. Leisure/Loisir, v.34, n° 3, p. 223-241, 2010.STRAZZACAPPA, Márcia. A tal "Dança Criativa": Afinal que dança seria? In: TOMAZZONI, Airton; WOSNIAK, Cristiane; MARINHO, Nirvana (Org.). Algumas perguntas sobre dança e educação. Joinville: Nova Letra, p. 39-46. 2010.WINNICOTT, D. W. O brincar e a realidade. Rio de Janeiro, RJ: Imago, 1975, p.13-44, 1971.e3923109

When the National Trust was established in 1895 its founders, Canon Rawnsley, Sir Robert Hunter and Octavia Hill, were, as Cannadine notes, “primarily concerned with preserving open spaces of outstanding natural beauty which were threatened with development or spoliation.” This was because, like Ruskin, Morris and “many of their contemporaries, they believed that the essence of Englishness was to be found in the fields and hedgerows, not in the suburbs and slums” (Cannadine 227). It was important to protect these sites of beauty and historical interest from development not only for what they were but for what they purportedly represented—an irreplaceable repository of the nation’s “spiritual values”, and thus a vital antidote to the “base materialism” of the day. G.M. Trevelyan, who I am quoting here, noted in two pieces written on behalf of the Trust in the 1920s and 30s, that the “inexorable rise of bricks and mortar” and the “full development of motor traffic” were laying waste to the English countryside. In the face of this assault on England’s heartland, the National Trust provided “an ark of refuge” safeguarding the nation’s cherished physical heritage and preserving its human cargo from the rising waters of materialism and despair (qtd. in Cannadine 231-2).Despite the extension of the road network and increasing private ownership of cars (up from 200,000 registrations in 1918 to “well over one million” in 1930), physical distance and economic hardship denied the majority of the urban population access to the countryside (Taylor 217). For the urban working classes recently or distantly displaced from the land, the dream of a return to rural roots was never more than a fantasy. Ford Madox Ford observed that “the poor and working classes of the towns never really go back” (Ford 58).Through the later nineteenth century the rural nostalgia once most prevalent among the working classes was increasingly noted as a feature of middle class sensibility. Better educated, with more leisure time and money at their disposal, these sentimental ruralists furnished a ready market for a new consumer phenomenon—the commodification of the English countryside and the packaging of the values it notionally embodied. As Valentine Cunningham observes, this was not always an edifying spectacle. By the late 1920s, “the terrible sounds of ‘Ye Olde England’ can already be heard, just off-stage, knocking together its thatched wayside stall where plastic pixies, reproduction beer-mugs, relics of Shakespeare and corn-dollies would soon be on sale” (Cunningham 229). Alongside the standard tourist tat, and the fiction and poetry that romanticised the rural world, a new kind of travel writing emerged around the turn of the century. Through an analysis of early-twentieth century notions of Englishness, this paper considers how the north struggled to find a place in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927).In Haunts of Ancient Peace (1901), the Poet Laureate, Alfred Austin, described a journey through “Old England” as a cultural pilgrimage in quest of surviving vestiges of the nation’s essential identity, “or so much of it as is left” (Austin 18). Austin’s was an early example of what had, by the 1920s and 30s become a “boom market … in books about the national character, traditions and antiquities, usually to be found in the country” (Wiener 73). Longmans began its “English Heritage” series in 1929, introduced by the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, with volumes on “English humour, folk song and dance, the public school, the parish church, [and] wild life”. A year later Batsford launched its series of books on “English Life” with volumes featuring “the countryside, Old English household life, inns, villages, and cottages” (Wiener 73). There was an outpouring of books with an overtly conservationist agenda celebrating journeys through or periods of residence in the countryside, many of them written by “soldiers like Henry Williamson and Edmund Blunden, who returned from the First War determined to preserve the rural England they’d known” (Cunningham 229; Blunden, Face, England; Roberts, Pilgrim, Gone ; Williamson). In turn, these books engendered an efflorescence of critical analyses of the construction of England (Hamilton; Haddow; Keith; Cavaliero; Gervais; Giles and Middleton; Westall and Gardiner).By the 1920s it was clear that a great many people thought they knew what England was, where it might be found, and if threatened, which parts of it needed to be rescued in order to safeguard the survival of its essential identity. By the same point, there were large numbers who felt, in Patrick Wright’s words, that “Some areas of the nation had been lost forever and in these no one should expect to find the traditional nation at all” (Wright 87).A key guide to the nation’s sacred sites in this period, an inventory of their relics, and an illustration of how its lost regions might be rescued for or erased from its cultural map, was provided in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927). Initially published as a series of articles in the Daily Express in 1926, In Search of England went through nine editions in the two and a half years after its appearance in book form in 1927. With sales in excess of a million copies, as John Brannigan notes, the book went through a further twenty editions by 1943, and has remained continuously in print since (Brannigan).In his introduction Morton proposes In Search of England is simply “the record of a motor-car journey round England … written without deliberation by the roadside, on farmyard walls, in cathedrals, in little churchyards, on the washstands of country inns, and in many another inconvenient place” (Morton vii). As C.R. Perry notes, “This is a happy image, but also a misleading one” (Perry 434) for there was nothing arbitrary about Morton’s progress. Even a cursory glance at the map of his journey confirms, the England that Morton went in search of was overwhelmingly rural or coastal, and embodied in the historic villages and ancient towns of the Midlands or South.Morton’s biographer, Michael Bartholomew suggests that the “nodal points” of Morton’s journey are the “cathedral cities” (Bartholomew 105).Despite claims to the contrary, his book was written with deliberation and according to a specific cultural objective. Morton’s purpose was not to discover his homeland but to confirm a vision that he and millions of others cherished. He was not in search of England so much as reassuring himself and his readers that in spite of the depredations of the factory and the motor vehicle, it was still out there. These aims determined Morton’s journey; how long he spent in differing parts, what he recorded, and how he presented landscapes, buildings, people and material culture.Morton’s determination to celebrate England as rural and ancient needed to negotiate the journey north into an industrial landscape better known for its manufacturing cities, mining and mill towns, and the densely packed streets of the poor and working classes. Unable to either avoid or ignore this north, Morton needed to settle upon a strategy of passing through it without disturbing his vision of the rural idyll. Narratively, Morton’s touring through the south and west of the country is conducted at a gentle pace. In my 1930 edition of the text, it takes 185 of the book’s 280 pages to bring him from London via the South Coast, Cornwall, the Cotswolds and the Welsh marches, to Chester. The instant Morton crosses the Lancashire border, his bull-nosed Morris accelerates through the extensive northern counties in a mere thirty pages: Warrington to Carlisle (with a side trip to Gretna Green), Carlisle to Durham, and Durham to Lincoln. The final sixty-five pages return to the more leisurely pace of the south and west through Norfolk and the East Midlands, before the journey is completed in an unnamed village somewhere between Stratford upon Avon and Warwick. Morton spends 89 per cent of the text in the South and Midlands (66 per cent and 23 per cent respectively) with only 11 per cent given over to his time in the north.If, as Genette has pointed out, narrative deceleration results in the descriptive pause, it is no coincidence that this is the recurring set piece of Morton’s treatment of the south and west as opposed to the north. His explorations take dwelling moments on river banks and hill tops, in cathedral closes and castle ruins to honour the genius loci and imagine earlier times. On Plymouth Hoe he sees, in his mind’s eye, Sir Walter Raleigh’s fleet set sail to take on the Armada; at Tintagel it is Arthur, wild and Celtic, scaling the cliffs, spear in hand; at Buckler’s Hard amid the rotting slipways he imagines the “stout oak-built ships which helped to found the British Empire”, setting out on their journeys of conquest (Morton 39). At the other extreme, Genette observes, that narrative acceleration produces ellipsis, where details are omitted in order to render a more compact and striking expression. It is the principle of ellipsis, of selective omission, which compresses the geography of Morton’s journey through the north with the effect of shaping reader experiences. Morton hurries past the north’s industrial areas—shuddering at the sight of smoke or chimneys and averting his gaze from factory and slum.As he crosses the border from Cheshire into Lancashire, Morton reflects that “the traveller enters Industrial England”—not that you would know it from his account (Morton 185). Heading north towards the Lake District, he steers a determined path between “red smoke stacks” rising on one side and an “ominous grey haze” on the other, holding to a narrow corridor of rural land where, to his relief, he observes men “raking hay in a field within gunshot of factory chimneys” (Morton 185-6). These redolent, though isolated, farmhands are of greater cultural moment than the citadels of industry towering on either side of them. While the chimneys might symbolise the nation’s economic potency, the farmhands embody the survival of its essential cultural and moral qualities. In an allusion to the Israelites’ passage through the Red Sea from the Book of Exodus, the land that the workers tend holds back the polluted tide of industry, furnishing relief from the factory and the slum, granting Morton safe passage through the perils of modernity and into the Promised Land–or at least the Lake District. In Morton’s view this green belt is not only more essentially English than trade and industry, it is also expresses a nobler and more authentic Englishness.The “great industrial new-rich cities of northern England—vast and mighty as they are,” Morton observes, “fall into perspective as mere black specks against the mighty background of history and the great green expanse of fine country which is the real North of England” (Morton 208). Thus, the rural land between Manchester and Liverpool expands into a sea of green as the great cities shrink on the horizon, and the north is returned to its origins.What Morton cannot speed past or ignore, what he is compelled or chooses to confront, he transforms, through the agency of history, into something that he and England can bear to own. Tempted into Wigan by its reputation as a comic nowhere-land, a place whose name conjured a thousand music hall gags, Morton confesses that he had expected to find there another kind of cliché, “the apex of the world’s pyramid of gloom … dreary streets and stagnant canals and white-faced Wigonians dragging their weary steps along dull streets haunted by the horror of the place in which they are condemned to live” (Morton 187).In the process of naming what he dreads, Morton does not describe Wigan: he exorcises his deepest fears about what it might hold and offers an incantation intended to hold them at bay. He “discovers” Wigan is not the industrial slum but “a place which still bears all the signs of an old-fashioned country town” (Morton 188). Morton makes no effort to describe Wigan as it is, any more than he describes the north as a whole: he simply overlays them with a vision of them as they should be—he invents the Wigan and the north that he and England need.Having surveyed parks and gardens, historical monuments and the half-timbered mock-Tudor High Street, Morton returns to his car and the road where, with an audible sigh of relief, he finds: “Within five minutes of notorious Wigan we were in the depth of the country,” and that “on either side were fields in which men were making hay” (Morton 189).In little more than three pages he passes from one set of haymakers, south of town, to another on its north. The green world has all but smoothed over the industrial eyesore, and the reader, carefully chaperoned by Morton, can pass on to the Lake District having barely glimpsed the realities of industry and urbanism, reassured that if this is the worst that the north has to show then the rural heartland and the essential identity it sustains are safe. Paradoxically, instead of invalidating his account, Morton’s self-evident exclusions and omissions seem only to have fuelled its popularity.For readers of the Daily Express in the months leading up to and immediately after the General Strike of 1926, the myth of England that Morton proffered, of an unspoilt village where old values and traditional hierarchies still held true, was preferable to the violently polarised urban battlefields that the strike had revealed. As the century progressed and the nation suffered depression, war, and a steady decline in its international standing, as industry, suburban sprawl and the irresistible spread of motorways and traffic blighted the land, Morton’s England offered an imagined refuge, a real England that somehow, magically resisted the march of time.Yet if it was Morton’s triumph to provide England with a vision of its ideal spiritual home, it was his tragedy that this portrait of it hastened the devastation of the cultural survivals he celebrated and sought to preserve: “Even as the sense of idyll and peace was maintained, the forces pulling in another direction had to be acknowledged” (Taylor 74).In his introduction to the 1930 edition of In Search of England Morton approvingly acknowledged that a new enthusiasm for the nation’s history and heritage was abroad and that “never before have so many people been searching for England.” In the next sentence he goes on to laud the “remarkable system of motor-coach services which now penetrates every part of the country [and] has thrown open to ordinary people regions which even after the coming of the railways were remote and inaccessible” (Morton vii).Astonishingly, as the waiting charabancs roared their engines and the village greens of England enjoyed the last hours of their tranquillity, Morton somehow failed to make the obvious connection between these unique cultural and social phenomena or take any measure of their potential consequences. His “motoring pastoral” did more than alert the barbarians to the existence of the nation’s hidden treasures, as David Matless notes it provided them with a route map, itinerary and behavioural guide for their pillages (Matless 64; Peach; Batsford).Yet while cultural preservationists wrung their hands in horror at the advent of the day-tripper slouching towards Barnstaple, for Morton this was never a cause for concern. The nature of his journey and the form of its representation demonstrate that the England he worshipped was more an imaginary than a physical space, an ideal whose precise location no chart could fix and no touring party defile. ReferencesAustin, Alfred. Haunts of Ancient Peace. London: Macmillan, 1902.Bartholomew, Michael. In Search of H.V. Morton. London: Methuen, 2004.Batsford, Harry. How to See the Country. London: B.T. Batsford, 1940.Blunden, Edmund. The Face of England: In a Series of Occasional Sketches. London: Longmans, 1932.———. English Villages. London: Collins, 1942.Brannigan, John. “‘England Am I …’ Eugenics, Devolution and Virginia Woolf’s Between the Acts.” The Palgrave Macmillan Literature of an Independent England: Revisions of England, Englishness and English Literature. Eds. Claire Westall and Michael Gardiner. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013.Cannadine, David. In Churchill’s Shadow: Confronting the Past in Modern Britain. London: Penguin, 2002.Cavaliero, Glen. The Rural Tradition in the English Novel 1900-1939. Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1977.Cunningham, Valentine. British Writers of the Thirties. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988.Ford, Ford Madox. The Heart of the Country: A Survey of a Modern Land. London: Alston Rivers, 1906.Gervais, David. Literary Englands. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993.Giles, J., and T. Middleton, eds. Writing Englishness. London: Routledge, 1995.Haddow, Elizabeth. “The Novel of English Country Life, 1900-1930.” Dissertation. London: University of London, 1957.Hamilton, Robert. W.H. Hudson: The Vision of Earth. New York: Kennikat Press, 1946.Keith, W.J. Richard Jefferies: A Critical Study. Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1965.Lewis, Roy, and Angus Maude. The English Middle Classes. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1949.Matless, David. Landscape and Englishness. London: Reaktion Books, 1998.Morris, Margaret. The General Strike. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976.Morton, H.V. In Search of England. London: Methuen, 1927.Peach, H. Let Us Tidy Up. Leicester: The Dryad Press, 1930.Perry, C.R. “In Search of H.V. Morton: Travel Writing and Cultural Values in the First Age of British Democracy.” Twentieth Century British History 10.4 (1999): 431-56.Roberts, Cecil. Pilgrim Cottage. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1933.———. Gone Rustic. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1934.Taylor, A.J.P. England 1914-1945. The Oxford History of England XV. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975.Taylor, John. War Photography: Realism in the British Press. London: Routledge, 1991.Wiener, Martin. English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit, 1850-1980. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.Williamson, Henry. The Village Book. London: Jonathan Cape, 1930.Wright, Patrick. A Journey through Ruins: A Keyhole Portrait of British Postwar Life and Culture. London: Flamingo, 1992.

Special Care Notice This paper discusses trauma and violence inflicted upon the Indigenous peoples of Tasmania through the process of colonisation. Content within this paper may be distressing to some readers. Introduction The decimation of the First Peoples of Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania) was systematic and swift. First Contact was an emotionally, intellectually, physically, and spiritually confronting series of encounters for the Indigenous inhabitants. There were, according to some early records, a few examples of peaceful interactions (Morris 84). Yet, the inevitable competition over resources, and the intensity with which colonists pursued their “claims” for food, land, and water, quickly transformed amicable relationships into hostile rivalries. Jennifer Gall has written that, as “European settlement expanded in the late 1820s, violent exchanges between settlers and Aboriginal people were frequent, brutal and unchecked” (58). Indeed, the near-annihilation of the original custodians of the land was, if viewed through the lens of time, a process that could be described as one that was especially efficient. As John Morris notes: in 1803, when the first settlers arrived in Van Diemen’s Land, the Aborigines had already inhabited the island for some 25,000 years and the population has been estimated at 4,000. Seventy-three years later, Truganinni, [often cited as] the last Tasmanian of full Aboriginal descent, was dead. (84) Against a backdrop of extreme violence, often referred to as the Black War (Clements 1), there were some, admittedly dubious, efforts to contain the bloodshed. One such effort, in the late 1820s, was the production, and subsequent distribution, of a set of Proclamation Boards. Approximately 100 Proclamation Boards (the Board) were introduced by the Lieutenant Governor of the day, George Arthur (after whom Port Arthur on the Tasman Peninsula is named). The purpose of these Boards was to communicate, via a four-strip pictogram, to the Indigenous peoples of the island colony that all people—black and white—were considered equal under the law. “British Justice would protect” everyone (Morris 84). This is reflected in the narrative of the Boards. The first image presents Indigenous peoples and colonists living peacefully together. The second, and central, image shows “a conciliatory handshake between the British governor and an Aboriginal ‘chief’, highly reminiscent of images found in North America on treaty medals and anti-slavery tokens” (Darian-Smith and Edmonds 4). The third and fourth images depict the repercussions for committing murder, with an Indigenous man hanged for spearing a colonist and a European man also hanged for shooting an Aborigine. Both men executed under “gubernatorial supervision” (Turnbull 53). Image 1: Governor Davey's [sic - actually Governor Arthur's] Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816 [sic - actually c. 1828-30]. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW (Call Number: SAFE / R 247). The Board is an interesting re-imagining of one of the traditional methods of communication for Indigenous peoples; the leaving of images on the bark of trees. Such trees, often referred to as scarred trees, are rare in modern-day Tasmania as “the expansion of settlements, and the impact of bush fires and other environmental factors” resulted in many of these trees being destroyed (Aboriginal Heritage Tasmania online). Similarly, only a few of the Boards, inspired by these trees, survive today. The Proclamation Board was, in the 1860s, re-imagined as the output of a different Governor: Lieutenant Governor Davey (after whom Port Davey, on the south-west coast of Tasmania is named). This re-imagining of the Board’s creator was so effective that the Board, today, is popularly known as Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines. This paper outlines several other re-imaginings of this Board. In addition, this paper offers another, new, re-imagining of the Board, positing that this is an early “pamphlet” on crime, justice and punishment which actually presents as a pre-cursor to the modern Australian true crime tale. In doing so this work connects the Proclamation Board to the larger genre of crime fiction. One Proclamation Board: Two Governors Labelled Van Diemen’s Land and settled as a colony of New South Wales in 1803, this island state would secede from the administration of mainland Australia in 1825. Another change would follow in 1856 when Van Diemen’s Land was, in another process of re-imagining, officially re-named Tasmania. This change in nomenclature was an initiative to, symbolically at least, separate the contemporary state from a criminal and violent past (Newman online). Tasmania’s violent history was, perhaps, inevitable. The island was claimed by Philip Gidley King, the Governor of New South Wales, in the name of His Majesty, not for the purpose of building a community, but to “prevent the French from gaining a footing on the east side of that island” and also to procure “timber and other natural products, as well as to raise grain and to promote the seal industry” (Clark 36). Another rationale for this land claim was to “divide the convicts” (Clark 36) which re-fashioned the island into a gaol. It was this penal element of the British colonisation of Australia that saw the worst of the British Empire forced upon the Aboriginal peoples. As historian Clive Turnbull explains: the brutish state of England was reproduced in the English colonies, and that in many ways its brutishness was increased, for now there came to Australia not the humanitarians or the indifferent, but the men who had vested interests in the systems of restraint; among those who suffered restraint were not only a vast number who were merely unfortunate and poverty-stricken—the victims of a ‘depression’—but brutalised persons, child-slaughterers and even potential cannibals. (Turnbull 25) As noted above the Black War of Tasmania saw unprecedented aggression against the rightful occupants of the land. Yet, the Aboriginal peoples were “promised the white man’s justice, the people [were] exhorted to live in amity with them, the wrongs which they suffer [were] deplored” (Turnbull 23). The administrators purported an egalitarian society, one of integration and peace but Van Diemen’s Land was colonised as a prison and as a place of profit. So, “like many apologists whose material benefit is bound up with the systems which they defend” (Turnbull 23), assertions of care for the health and welfare of the Aboriginal peoples were made but were not supported by sufficient policies, or sufficient will, and the Black War continued. Colonel Thomas Davey (1758-1823) was the second person to serve as Lieutenant Governor of Van Diemen’s Land; a term of office that began in 1813 and concluded in 1817. The fourth Lieutenant Governor of the island was Colonel Sir George Arthur (1784-1854); his term of office, significantly longer than Davey’s, being from 1824 to 1836. The two men were very different but are connected through this intriguing artefact, the Proclamation Board. One of the efforts made to assert the principle of equality under the law in Van Diemen’s Land was an outcome of work undertaken by Surveyor General George Frankland (1800-1838). Frankland wrote to Arthur in early 1829 and suggested the Proclamation Board (Morris 84), sometimes referred to as a Picture Board or the Tasmanian Hieroglyphics, as a tool to support Arthur’s various Proclamations. The Proclamation, signed on 15 April 1828 and promulgated in the The Hobart Town Courier on 19 April 1828 (Arthur 1), was one of several notices attempting to reduce the increasing levels of violence between Indigenous peoples and colonists. The date on Frankland’s correspondence clearly situates the Proclamation Board within Arthur’s tenure as Lieutenant Governor. The Board was, however, in the 1860s, re-imagined as the output of Davey. The Clerk of the Tasmanian House of Assembly, Hugh M. Hull, asserted that the Board was the work of Davey and not Arthur. Hull’s rationale for this, despite archival evidence connecting the Board to Frankland and, by extension, to Arthur, is predominantly anecdotal. In a letter to the editor of The Hobart Mercury, published 26 November 1874, Hull wrote: this curiosity was shown by me to the late Mrs Bateman, neé Pitt, a lady who arrived here in 1804, and with whom I went to school in 1822. She at once recognised it as one of a number prepared in 1816, under Governor Davey’s orders; and said she had seen one hanging on a gum tree at Cottage Green—now Battery Point. (3) Hull went on to assert that “if any old gentleman will look at the picture and remember the style of military and civil dress of 1810-15, he will find that Mrs Bateman was right” (3). Interestingly, Hull relies upon the recollections of a deceased school friend and the dress codes depicted by the artist to date the Proclamation Board as a product of 1816, in lieu of documentary evidence dating the Board as a product of 1828-1830. Curiously, the citation of dress can serve to undermine Hull’s argument. An early 1840s watercolour by Thomas Bock, of Mathinna, an Aboriginal child of Flinders Island adopted by Lieutenant Governor John Franklin (Felton online), features the young girl wearing a brightly coloured, high-waisted dress. This dress is very similar to the dresses worn by the children on the Proclamation Board (the difference being that Mathinna wears a red dress with a contrasting waistband, the children on the Board wear plain yellow dresses) (Bock). Acknowledging the simplicity of children's clothing during the colonial era, it could still be argued that it would have been unlikely the Governor of the day would have placed a child, enjoying at that time a life of privilege, in a situation where she sat for a portrait wearing an old-fashioned garment. So effective was Hull’s re-imagining of the Board’s creator that the Board was, for many years, popularly known as Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines with even the date modified, to 1816, to fit Davey’s term of office. Further, it is worth noting that catalogue records acknowledge the error of attribution and list both Davey and Arthur as men connected to the creation of the Proclamation Board. A Surviving Board: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales One of the surviving Proclamation Boards is held by the Mitchell Library. The Boards, oil on Huon pine, were painted by “convict artists incarcerated in the island penal colony” (Carroll 73). The work was mass produced (by the standards of mass production of the day) by pouncing, “a technique [of the Italian Renaissance] of pricking the contours of a drawing with a pin. Charcoal was then dusted on to the drawing” (Carroll 75-76). The images, once outlined, were painted in oil. Of approximately 100 Boards made, several survive today. There are seven known Boards within public collections (Gall 58): five in Australia (Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, Sydney; Museum Victoria, Melbourne; National Library of Australia, Canberra; Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, Hobart; and Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, Launceston); and two overseas (The Peabody Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, Harvard University and the Museum of Archaeology and Ethnology, University of Cambridge). The catalogue record, for the Board held by the Mitchell Library, offers the following details:Paintings: 1 oil painting on Huon pine board, rectangular in shape with rounded corners and hole at top centre for suspension ; 35.7 x 22.6 x 1 cm. 4 scenes are depicted:Aborigines and white settlers in European dress mingling harmoniouslyAboriginal men and women, and an Aboriginal child approach Governor Arthur to shake hands while peaceful soldiers look onA hostile Aboriginal man spears a male white settler and is hanged by the military as Governor Arthur looks onA hostile white settler shoots an Aboriginal man and is hanged by the military as Governor Arthur looks on. (SAFE / R 247) The Mitchell Library Board was purchased from J.W. Beattie in May 1919 for £30 (Morris 86), which is approximately $2,200 today. Importantly, the title of the record notes both the popular attribution of the Board and the man who actually instigated the Board’s production: “Governor Davey’s [sic – actually Governor Arthur] Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816 [sic – actually c. 1828-30].” The date of the Board is still a cause of some speculation. The earlier date, 1828, marks the declaration of martial law (Turnbull 94) and 1830 marks the Black Line (Edmonds 215); the attempt to form a human line of white men to force many Tasmanian Aboriginals, four of the nine nations, onto the Tasman Peninsula (Ryan 3). Frankland’s suggestion for the Board was put forward on 4 February 1829, with Arthur’s official Conciliator to the Aborigines, G.A. Robinson, recording his first sighting of a Board on 24 December 1829 (Morris 84-85). Thus, the conception of the Board may have been in 1828 but the Proclamation project was not fully realised until 1830. Indeed, a news item on the Proclamation Board did appear in the popular press, but not until 5 March 1830: We are informed that the Government have given directions for the painting of a large number of pictures to be placed in the bush for the contemplation of the Aboriginal Inhabitants. […] However […] the causes of their hostility must be more deeply probed, or their taste as connoisseurs in paintings more clearly established, ere we can look for any beneficial result from this measure. (Colonial Times 2) The remark made in relation to becoming a connoisseur of painting, though intended to be derogatory, makes some sense. There was an assumption that the Indigenous peoples could easily translate a European-styled execution by hanging, as a visual metaphor for all forms of punishment. It has long been understood that Indigenous “social organisation and religious and ceremonial life were often as complex as those of the white invaders” (McCulloch 261). However, the Proclamation Board was, in every sense, Eurocentric and made no attempt to acknowledge the complexities of Aboriginal culture. It was, quite simply, never going to be an effective tool of communication, nor achieve its socio-legal aims. The Board Re-imagined: Popular Media The re-imagining of the Proclamation Board as a construct of Governor Davey, instead of Governor Arthur, is just one of many re-imaginings of this curious object. There are, of course, the various imaginings of the purpose of the Board. On the surface these images are a tool for reconciliation but as “the story of these paintings unfolds […] it becomes clear that the proclamations were in effect envoys sent back to Britain to exhibit the ingenious attempts being applied to civilise Australia” (Carroll 76). In this way the Board was re-imagined by the Administration that funded the exercise, even before the project was completed, from a mechanism to assist in the bringing about of peace into an object that would impress colonial superiors. Khadija von Zinnenburg Carroll has recently written about the Boards in the context of their “transnational circulation” and how “objects become subjects and speak of their past through the ventriloquism of contemporary art history” (75). Carroll argues the Board is an item that couples “military strategy with a fine arts propaganda campaign” (Carroll 78). Critically the Boards never achieved their advertised purpose for, as Carroll explains, there were “elaborate rituals Aboriginal Australians had for the dead” and, therefore, “the display of a dead, hanging body is unthinkable. […] being exposed to the sight of a hanged man must have been experienced as an unimaginable act of disrespect” (92). The Proclamation Board would, in sharp contrast to feelings of unimaginable disrespect, inspire feelings of pride across the colonial population. An example of this pride being revealed in the selection of the Board as an object worthy of reproduction, as a lithograph, for an Intercolonial Exhibition, held in Melbourne in 1866 (Morris 84). The lithograph, which identifies the Board as Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines and dated 1816, was listed as item 572, of 738 items submitted by Tasmania, for the event (The Commissioners 69-85). This type of reproduction, or re-imagining, of the Board would not be an isolated event. Penelope Edmonds has described the Board as producing a “visual vernacular” through a range of derivatives including lantern slides, lithographs, and postcards. These types of tourist ephemera are in addition to efforts to produce unique re-workings of the Board as seen in Violet Mace’s Proclamation glazed earthernware, which includes a jug (1928) and a pottery cup (1934) (Edmonds online). The Board Re-imagined: A True Crime Tale The Proclamation Board offers numerous narratives. There is the story that the Board was designed and deployed to communicate. There is the story behind the Board. There is also the story of the credit for the initiative which was transferred from Governor Arthur to Governor Davey and subsequently returned to Arthur. There are, too, the provenance stories of individual Boards. There is another story the Proclamation Board offers. The story of true crime in colonial Australia. The Board, as noted, presents through a four-strip pictogram an idea that all are equal under the rule of law (Arthur 1). Advocating for a society of equals was a duplicitous practice, for while Aborigines were hanged for allegedly murdering settlers, “there is no record of whites being charged, let alone punished, for murdering Aborigines” (Morris 84). It would not be until 1838 that white men would be punished for the murder of Aboriginal people (on the mainland) in the wake of the Myall Creek Massacre, in northern New South Wales. There were other examples of attempts to bring about a greater equity under the rule of law but, as Amanda Nettelbeck explains, there was wide-spread resistance to the investigation and charging of colonists for crimes against the Indigenous population with cases regularly not going to trial, or, if making a courtroom, resulting in an acquittal (355-59). That such cases rested on “legally inadmissible Aboriginal testimony” (Reece in Nettelbeck 358) propped up a justice system that was, inherently, unjust in the nineteenth century. It is important to note that commentators at the time did allude to the crime narrative of the Board: when in the most civilized country in the world it has been found ineffective as example to hang murderers in chains, it is not to be expected a savage race will be influenced by the milder exhibition of effigy and caricature. (Colonial Times 2) It is argued here that the Board was much more than an offering of effigy and caricature. The Proclamation Board presents, in striking detail, the formula for the modern true crime tale: a peace disturbed by the act of murder; and the ensuing search for, and delivery of, justice. Reinforcing this point, are the ideas of justice seen within crime fiction, a genre that focuses on the restoration of order out of chaos (James 174), are made visible here as aspirational. The true crime tale does not, consistently, offer the reassurances found within crime fiction. In the real world, particularly one as violent as colonial Australia, we are forced to acknowledge that, below the surface of the official rhetoric on justice and crime, the guilty often go free and the innocent are sometimes hanged. Another point of note is that, if the latter date offered here, of 1830, is taken as the official date of the production of these Boards, then the significance of the Proclamation Board as a true crime tale is even more pronounced through a connection to crime fiction (both genres sharing a common literary heritage). The year 1830 marks the release of Australia’s first novel, Quintus Servinton written by convicted forger Henry Savery, a crime novel (produced in three volumes) published by Henry Melville of Hobart Town. Thus, this paper suggests, 1830 can be posited as a year that witnessed the production of two significant cultural artefacts, the Proclamation Board and the nation’s first full-length literary work, as also being the year that established the, now indomitable, traditions of true crime and crime fiction in Australia. Conclusion During the late 1820s in Van Diemen’s Land (now Tasmania) a set of approximately 100 Proclamation Boards were produced by the Lieutenant Governor of the day, George Arthur. The official purpose of these items was to communicate, to the Indigenous peoples of the island colony, that all—black and white—were equal under the law. Murderers, be they Aboriginal or colonist, would be punished. The Board is a re-imagining of one of the traditional methods of communication for Indigenous peoples; the leaving of drawings on the bark of trees. The Board was, in the 1860s, in time for an Intercolonial Exhibition, re-imagined as the output of Lieutenant Governor Davey. This re-imagining of the Board was so effective that surviving artefacts, today, are popularly known as Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines with the date modified, to 1816, to fit the new narrative. The Proclamation Board was also reimagined, by its creators and consumers, in a variety of ways: as peace offering; military propaganda; exhibition object; tourism ephemera; and contemporary art. This paper has also, briefly, offered another re-imagining of the Board, positing that this early “pamphlet” on justice and punishment actually presents a pre-cursor to the modern Australian true crime tale. The Proclamation Board tells many stories but, at the core of this curious object, is a crime story: the story of mass murder. Acknowledgements The author acknowledges the Palawa peoples: the traditional custodians of the lands known today as Tasmania. The author acknowledges, too, the Gadigal people of the Eora nation upon whose lands this paper was researched and written. The author extends thanks to Richard Neville, Margot Riley, Kirsten Thorpe, and Justine Wilson of the State Library of New South Wales for sharing their knowledge and offering their support. The author is also grateful to the reviewers for their careful reading of the manuscript and for making valuable suggestions. ReferencesAboriginal Heritage Tasmania. “Scarred Trees.” Aboriginal Cultural Heritage, 2012. 12 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.aboriginalheritage.tas.gov.au/aboriginal-cultural-heritage/archaeological-site-types/scarred-trees›.Arthur, George. “Proclamation.” The Hobart Town Courier 19 Apr. 1828: 1.———. Governor Davey’s [sic – actually Governor Arthur’s] Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816 [sic – actually c. 1828-30]. Graphic Materials. Sydney: Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, c. 1828-30.Bock, Thomas. Mathinna. Watercolour and Gouache on Paper. 23 x 19 cm (oval), c. 1840.Carroll, Khadija von Zinnenburg. 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Edmonds, Penelope. “‘Failing in Every Endeavour to Conciliate’: Governor Arthur’s Proclamation Boards to the Aborigines, Australian Conciliation Narratives and Their Transnational Connections.” Journal of Australian Studies 35.2 (2011): 201–18.———. “The Proclamation Cup: Tasmanian Potter Violet Mace and Colonial Quotations.” reCollections 5.2 (2010). 20 May 2015 ‹http://recollections.nma.gov.au/issues/vol_5_no_2/papers/the_proclamation_cup_›.Felton, Heather. “Mathinna.” Companion to Tasmanian History. Hobart: Centre for Tasmanian Historical Studies, University of Tasmania, 2006. 29 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.utas.edu.au/library/companion_to_tasmanian_history/M/Mathinna.htm›.Gall, Jennifer. Library of Dreams: Treasures from the National Library of Australia. Canberra: National Library of Australia, 2011.Hull, Hugh M. “Tasmanian Hieroglyphics.” The Hobart Mercury 26 Nov. 1874: 3.James, P.D. Talking about Detective Fiction. New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2009.Mace, Violet. Violet Mace’s Proclamation Jug. Glazed Earthernware. Launceston: Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, 1928.———. Violet Mace’s Proclamation Cup. Glazed Earthernware. Canberra: National Museum of Australia, 1934.McCulloch, Samuel Clyde. “Sir George Gipps and Eastern Australia’s Policy toward the Aborigine, 1838-46.” The Journal of Modern History 33.3 (1961): 261–69.Morris, John. “Notes on a Message to the Tasmanian Aborigines in 1829, popularly called ‘Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816’.” Australiana 10.3 (1988): 84–7.Nettelbeck, Amanda. “‘Equals of the White Man’: Prosecution of Settlers for Violence against Aboriginal Subjects of the Crown, Colonial Western Australia.” Law and History Review 31.2 (2013): 355–90.Newman, Terry. “Tasmania, the Name.” Companion to Tasmanian History, 2006. 16 Sep. 2015 ‹http://www.utas.edu.au/library/companion_to_tasmanian_history/T/Tasmania%20name.htm›.Reece, Robert H.W., in Amanda Nettelbeck. “‘Equals of the White Man’: Prosecution of Settlers for Violence against Aboriginal Subjects of the Crown, Colonial Western Australia.” Law and History Review 31.2 (2013): 355–90.Ryan, Lyndall. “The Black Line in Van Diemen’s Land: Success or Failure?” Journal of Australian Studies 37.1 (2013): 3–18.Savery, Henry. Quintus Servinton: A Tale Founded upon Events of Real Occurrence. Hobart Town: Henry Melville, 1830.Turnbull, Clive. Black War: The Extermination of the Tasmanian Aborigines. Melbourne: Sun Books, 1974 [1948].

Introduction The proliferation of electronic images and audiovisual forms, together with the recent expansion of Internet communication makes me wonder about the adequacy of present theoretical apparatus within the humanities and communication disciplines to explain these new phenomena and their effects on human life. As someone working roughly within a cultural and media studies framework, I have long harboured suspicions about the ability of concepts such as text, discourse and representation to give an account of the new media which does not simply reduce them to another version of earlier media forms. Many of these concepts were established during the 1970s and 80s, in the development of poststructuralism and its linguistic bias towards the analysis of literary and print media text. The application of these concepts to an electronic medium based on the visual image rather than the printed word seems somewhat perverse, and needs to be replaced by the application of other concepts drawn from a paradigm more suited for the purpose. In this brief essay, I want to explore some of the issues involved in thinking about a new cultural paradigm based on the photovisual/electronic image, to describe and critique the transformation of culture currently taking place through the accelerated uptake of new televisual, audiovisual and computer technologies. I am reminded here of the existential philosopher Heidegger's words about technology: 'the essence of technology is by no means anything technological' (Heidegger 4). For Heidegger, technology is part of the 'enframing' of the beingness which humans inhabit in various ways (Dasein). But technology itself does not constitute this beingness. This is good news for those of us (like myself) who have only a general and non-technical knowledge of the new technologies currently sweeping the globe, but who sense their profound effects on the human condition. Indeed, it suggests that technical knowledge in itself is insufficient and even inadequate to formulate appropriate questions about the relationship between technology and human being, and to the capacities of humans to respond to, and transform their technologically mediated situations. We need a new way of understanding human being as mediated by technologies, which takes into account the specific technological form in which mediation occurs today. To do this, we need new ways of conceptualising culture, and the specific kind of human subjectivity made possible within a culture conditioned by electronic media. From Material to Virtual Culture The concept of culture, as it has been predominantly understood in the humanities and associated disciplines, is based on the idea of physical presence. That is to say, culture is understood in terms of the various representations and practices that people experience within social and historical contexts defined by the living presence of one human being to another. The paradigm case here is speech-based linguistics in which all forms of communication are understood in terms of an innate subjectivity, expressed in the act of communicating something to someone else. Although privileging the site and moment of co-presence, this model does not require the speakers to be immediately present to each other in face-to-face situations, but asks only that co-presence be the ideal upon which successful acts of communication take place. As French philosopher Jacques Derrida has consistently argued over the last thirty years, all forms of western discourse, in one way or another, have been based on this kind of understanding of the way meanings and expressions of subject identity take place (Derrida 27ff.). A good case in point is the introductory essay by John Frow and Meaghan Morris to their edited text book Australian Cultural Studies: A Reader, where culture is defined as "a contested and conflictual set of practices of representation bound up with the processes of formation and re-formation of social groups" (xx). If culture is defined in terms of the agonistic formation of social groups through practices of representation, then there can be no way of thinking about culture outside the social as the privileged domain of human interaction. Culture is reduced to the social as a kind of paradigm limit, which is, in turn, characterised by the formation of social groups fixed in time and space. Even when an effort is made to indicate that social groups are themselves culturally constituted, as Frow and Morris go on to say, the social is nevertheless invoked again as an underlying presumption: "the social processes by which the categories of the real and of group existence are formed" (xx). In this model, social groups are formed by social processes. The task of representation and signification (the task of culture) is to draw the group together, no matter how widespread or dispersed, to make it coherent and identifiably different from other groups. Under these terms, the task of cultural analysis is to describe how this process takes place. This 'material' approach to culture normalises the social at the expense of the cultural, underpinned by a 'metaphysics of presence' whereby meaning and identity are established within a system of differential values (difference) by fixing human subjectivity in space and time. I argue that the uptake of new communication technologies makes this concept of culture obsolete. Culture now has to be understood in terms of 'virtual presence' in which the physical context of human existence is simultaneously 'doubled' and indeed proliferated into a virtual reality, with effective force in the 'real' world. From this perspective, we need to rethink culture so that it is no longer understood in terms of differential meanings, identities, texts, discourses and representational forms, but rather as a new kind of ontology involving the 'being' of human subjects and their relations to each other in deterritorialised fields of mediated co-presence, where the real and the virtual enmesh and interact. In this case, the laws governing physical presence no longer apply since it is possible to be 'here' and 'there' at the same time. We need a new approach and a new set of analytical terms to account for this new phenomenon. Virtual Culture and the Time of Human Presence In his well known critique of modern culture, Walter Benjamin invents the concept of the 'dialectical image' to define the visual concreteness of the everyday world and its effect on human consciousness. Dialectical images operate through an instantaneous flash of vision which breaks through everyday reality, allowing an influx of otherness to flood present awareness in a transformation of the past into the present: "the past can be seized only as an image which flashes up at the instant when it can be recognized and is never seen again" (Benjamin, Theses 255). Bypassing discourse, language and meaning, dialectical images invoke the eternal return -- the affirmation of the present as an ever-constant repetition of temporality -- as the 'ground' of history, progress and the future. Modern technology and its infinite power of reproduction has created the condition under which the image separates from its object, thereby releasing materiality from its moribund state in the past (Benjamin, The Work of Art). The ground of temporality is thus rendered virtual and evanescent, involving a 'deterritorialisation' of human experience from its ego-attachment to the present; an experience which Benjamin understands in repressed mythical terms. For Benjamin, the exemplary modern technology is photography. A photograph 'destroys' the originariness of the object, by robbing it of aura, or "the unique phenomenon of a distance, however close it may be" (Benjamin, The Work of Art 222). The photographic image is thus dialectical because it collapses the distance between the object and its image, thereby undermining the ontological space between the past and the present which might otherwise grant to the object a unique being in the presence of the viewer. But all 'things' also have their images, which can be separated and dispersed through space and time. Benjamin's approach to culture, where time surpasses space, and where the reproduced image takes priority over the real, now appears strangely prophetic. By suggesting that images are somehow directly and concretely affective in the constitution of human temporality, Benjamin has anticipated the current 'postmodern' condition in which the electronic image has become enmeshed in everyday life. As Paul Virilio argues, new communication technologies accelerate the transmission of images to such a rate that the past is collapsed into the present, creating an overpowering sense of immediacy: the speed of new optoelectronic and electroacoustic milieu becomes a final void (the void of the quick), a vacuum that no longer depends on the interval between places or things and so on the world's very extension, but on the interface of an instantaneous transmission of remote appearances, on a geographic and geometric retention in which all volume, all relief vanish. (33) Distance is now experienced in terms of its virtual proximity to the perceiving subject, in which space is no longer understood in terms of Newtonian extension, but as collapsed or compressed temporality, defined by the speed of light. In this Einsteinian world, human interaction is no longer governed by the law of non-contradiction which demands that one thing cannot be something else or somewhere else at the same time, and instead becomes 'interfacial', where the image-double enmeshes with its originary being as a co-extensive ontology based on "trans-appearance", or the effective appearance on a single horizon of two things from different space and time zones: "the direct transparence of space that enables each of us to perceive our immediate neighbours is completed by the indirect transparence of the speed-time of the electromagnetic waves that transmit our images and our voices" (Virilio 37). Like the light from some distant star which reaches earth millions of years after its explosive death, we now live in a world of remote and immediately past events, whose effects are constantly felt in real time. In this case the present is haunted by its past, creating a doppelgänger effect in which human being is doubled with its image in a co-extensive existence across space and time. Body Doubles Here we can no longer speak of the image as a representation, or even a signification, since the image is no longer secondary to the thing from which it is separated, nor is it a sign of anything else. Rather, we need to think of the possibility of a kind of 'image-event', incorporating both the physical reality of the human body and its image, stretched through time and space. French theorists Gilles Deleuze and Félix Guattari have developed an entire theoretical scheme to define and describe this kind of phenomenon. At one point in their magnum opus, A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia, they introduce the concept of haecceity: a body is not defined by the form that determines it nor as a determinate substance or subject nor by the organs it possesses or the function it fulfils. On the plane of consistency, a body is defined by a longitude and a latitude: in other words the sum total of the material elements belonging to it under given relations of movement and rest, speed and slowness (longitude); the sum total of the intensive affects it is capable of at a given power or degree of potential (latitude). (260) This haecceity of the human body, as "trajectory", or "interassemblage" (262) denies the priority of an originating event or substance from which its constitutive elements could be derived. For instance photographs cease to be 'indexes' of things, and become instead part of an assemblage which includes living bodies and other forms of human presence (speech, writing, expressive signs), linked contingently into assemblages through space and time. A photographic image is just as much part of the 'beingness' of something as the thing itself; things and images are part of a perpetual process of becoming; a contingent linking of bricolage with different and diverging material expressions and effects. Thinking along these lines will get us around the problem of non-contradiction (that something cannot be both 'here' and 'there' at the same time), by extending the concept of 'thing' to include all the elements of its dispersal in time and space. Here we move from the idea of a thing as unique to itself (for instance the body as human presence) and hence subject to a logic of exchange based on scarcity and lack, to the idea of a thing as 'becoming', and subject to a logic of proliferation and excess. In this case, the unique phenomenon of human presence anchored in speech can no longer be used as a focal point to fix human subjectivity, its meanings and forms of expression, since there will be many different kinds of 'presencing' of human being, through the myriad trajectories traced out in all the practices and assemblages through time and space. A Practical Approach By thinking of culture in terms of virtual presence, we can no longer assume the existence of a bedrock foundation for human interaction based on the physical proximity of individuals to each other in time and space. Rather we need to think of culture in terms the emergence of new kinds of 'beingness', which deterritorialises human presence in different ways through the mediating power of photovisual and electronic imagery. These new kinds of beingness are not really new. Recent writers and cultural theorists have already described in detail the emergence of a virtual culture in the nineteenth century with the invention of photography and film, as well as various viewing devices such as the stereoscope and other staging apparatuses including the panorama and diorama (Friedberg, Batchen, Crary). Analysis of virtual culture needs to identify the various trajectories along which elements are assembled into an incessant and contingent 'becoming'. In terms of photovisual and electronic media, this can take place in different ways. By tracing the effective history of an image, it is possible to locate points at which transformations from one form to another occur, indicating different effects in different contexts through time. For instance by scanning through old magazines, you might be able to trace the 'destiny' of a particular type of image, and the kinds of meanings associated with it. Keeping in mind that an image is not a representation, but a form of affect, it might be possible to identify critical points where the image turns into its other (in fashion imagery we are now confronted with images of thin bodies suddenly becoming too thin, and hence dangerously subversive). Another approach concerns the phenomenon known as the media event, in which electronic images outstrip and overdetermine physical events in real time to which they are attached. In this case an analysis of a media event would involve the description of the interaction between events and their mediated presence, as mutually effective in real time. Recent examples here include the Gulf War and other international emergencies and conflicts in the Balkans and the 1986 coup in the Philippines, where media presence enabled images to have a direct effect on the decisions and deployment of troops and strategic activities. In certain circumstances, the conduct of warfare might now take place entirely in virtual reality (Kellner). But these 'peak events' don't really exhaust the ways in which the phenomenon of the media event inhabits and affects our everyday lives. Indeed, it might be better to characterise our entire lives as conditioned to various degrees by media eventness, as we become more and more attached and dependent on electronic imagery and communication to gain our sense of place in the world. An analysis of this kind of everyday interaction is long overdue. We can learn about the virtual through our own everyday experiences. Here I am not so much thinking of experiences to be had in futuristic apparatuses such as the virtual reality body suit and other computer generated digital environments, but the kinds of experiences of the virtual described by Benjamin in his wanderings through the streets of Berlin and Paris in the 1920s (Benjamin, One Way Street). A casual walk down the main street of any town, and a perfunctory gaze in the shop windows will trigger many interesting connections between specific elements and the assemblages through which their effects are made known. On a recent trip to Bundaberg, a country town in Queensland, I came across a mechanised doll in a jewellery store display, made up in the likeness of a watchmaker working at a miniature workbench. The constant motion of the doll's arm as it moved up and down on the bench in a simulation of work repeated the electromechanical movements of the dozens of clocks and watches displayed elsewhere in the store window, suggesting a link between the human and the machine. Here I was presented not only with a pleasant shop display, but also with the commodification of time itself, as an endless repetition of an interval between successive actions, acted out by the doll and its perpetual movement. My pleasure at the display was channelled through the doll and his work, as a fetishised enchantment or "fairy scene" of industrialised productivity, in which the idea of time is visualised in a specific image-material form. I can imagine many other such displays in other windows in other towns and cities, all working to reproduce this particular kind of assemblage, which constantly 'pushes' the idea-image of time as commodity into the future, so long as the displays and their associated apparatuses of marketing continue in this way rather than some other way. So my suggestion then, is to open our eyes to the virtual not as a futuristic technology, but as it already shapes and defines the world around us through time. By taking the visual appearance of things as immaterial forms with material affectivity, we allow ourselves to move beyond the limitations of physical presence, which demands that one thing cannot be something else, or somewhere else at the same time. The reduction of culture to the social should be replaced by an inquiry into the proliferation of the social through the cultural, as so many experiences of the virtual in time and space. References Bataille, Georges. Visions of Excess: Selected Writings, 1927-1939.Trans. Allan Stoekl. Minneapolis: Minnesota UP, 1985. Batchen, Geoffrey. "Spectres of Cyberspace." Afterimage 23.3. Benjamin, Walter. "Theses on the Philosophy of History." Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. Trans. Hannah Arendt. New York: Schocken, 1968. 253-64. ---. "The Work of Art in the Age of Electronic Reproduction." Illuminations: Essays and Reflections. Trans. Hannah Arendt. New York: Schocken, 1968. 217-51. ---. One Way Street and Other Writings. Trans. Edmund Jephcott and Kingsley Shorter. London: Verso, 1979. Buck-Morss, Susan. The Dialectics of Seeing: Walter Benjamin and the Arcades Project. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT P, 1997. Crary, Jonathan. Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century. Chicago: MIT P, 1992. Derrida, Jacques. Of Grammatology. Trans. Gayatri Spivak. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP, 1974. Friedberg, Anne. Window Shopping: Cinema and the Postmodern. Berkeley: U of California P, 1993. Frow, John. Time & Commodity Culture: Essays in Cultural Theory and Postmodernity. Oxford: Clarendon, 1997. Frow, John, and Meaghan Morris, eds. Australian Cultural Studies: A Reader. St. Leonards, NSW: Allen and Unwin, 1993. Heidegger, Martin. "The Question Concerning Technology." The Question Concerning Technology. Trans. William Lovitt. New York: Harper. 3-35. Kellner, Douglas. "Virilio, War and Technology." Theory, Culture & Society 16.5-6 (1999): 103-25. Sean Aylward Smith. "Where Does the Body End?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 2.3 (1999). 30 Apr. 2000 <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/9905/end.php>. Virilio, Paul. Open Sky. Trans. Julie Rose. London: Verso, 1997. Zimnik, Nina. "'Give Me a Body': Deleuze's Time Image and the Taxonomy of the Body in the Work of Gabriele Leidloff." Enculturation 2.1 (1998). <http://www.uta.edu/huma/enculturation/>. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Warwick Mules. "Virtual Culture, Time and Images: Beyond Representation." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3.2 (2000). [your date of access] <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0005/images.php>. Chicago style: Warwick Mules, "Virtual Culture, Time and Images: Beyond Representation," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3, no. 2 (2000), <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0005/images.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Warwick Mules. (2000) Virtual culture, time and images: beyond representation. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3(2). <http://www.api-network.com/mc/0005/images.php> ([your date of access]).

A harmonious state of things is often perceived idyllic. It is devoid of cacophony, hostility, and dissension. It denotes peace, accord, and a relationship characterized by a lack of conflict. True harmony goes much deeper than absence of conflict or condemnation for the lack of peace. This paper presents the challenges to harmony using the theory of care ethics. It will unveil the possibilities of care, even if it was initially lodged at home and family. Using an expansive view, this paper claims that harmony is not farfetched if nations bring to the table the ethics of care. Hinged on care ethics are the principles of collective praxis, peace, and solidarity which enrich human potentials and makes interconnections, and solidarity possible. Thus, the paper will employ philosophical and theological analysis that addresses the following: 1) Care ethics as an ethical concept with myriad variants, yet praxis-driven; 2) Pope Francis’ Laudato Si’ as an appeal to foster care for all; 3) A theological reinterpretation of “rada”, and 4) Care ethics as an injunction to revalue care as a social good. Incorporating Pope Francis’ message in Laudato Si’, this paper hopes to underscore promoting a culture of caring through collective dialogue. References Anderlik, Mary R. The Ethics of Managed Care: A Pragmatic Approach. Bloomingdale: Indiana University Press. 2001. Blair-Loy, Mary. Competing Devotions: Career and Family among Women Executives. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. 2003. Frank Parsons, Susan, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Feminist Theology. Cambridge: Margaret Beaufort Institute of Theology, 2002. Frank Parsons, Susan. Feminism and Christian Ethics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996. Gardner, E. Clinton. Justice and Christian Ethics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Gensler, Harry J., Earl W.Spurgin, and James C.Swindal, eds. Ethics: Contemporary Readings. New York: Routledge, 2004. Greene-Mccreight, Kathryn. Feminist Reconstructions of Christian Doctrine: Narrative Analysis and Appraisal. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000. Grimshaw, Jean. Philosophy and Feminist Thinking. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986. Groenhout, Ruth E. “I Can’t Say No: Self-Sacrifice and an Ethics of Care,” in Ruth E. Groenhout and Marya Bower, eds. Philosophy, Feminism, and Faith, pp. 152-174. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2003. Groenhout, Ruth E. and Marya Bower, eds. Philosophy, Feminism, and Faith. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2003. Hampton, Jean. “Feminist Contractarianism,” in in Louise Antony and Charlotte Witt, eds. A Mind of One’s Own, pp. 227–255. Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1993. Held, Virginia. ‘The Ethics of Care’ in David Copp, ed. The Oxford Handbook of Ethical Theory. New York: Oxford University Press, 2006. Held, Virginia. The Ethics of Care: Personal, Political, and Global. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006. Hilkert Andolsen, Barbara. “Agape in Feminist Ethics,” The Journal of Religious Ethics 9 (1981): 69–83. Hoagland, Sarah Lucia. “Some Thoughts on ‘Caring,’” in Claudia Card, ed. Feminist Ethics, pp. 246–63. Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 1991. Hoffman, Martin L. Empathy and Moral Development: Implications for Caring and Justice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000 Homiak, Marcia. “Feminism and Aristotle’s Rational Ideal,” in Louise Antony and Charlotte Witt, eds. A Mind of One’s Own, pp.1–18. Boulder, Colo.: Westview Press, 1993. Hoose, Bernard. Christian Ethics: An Introduction. London: Continuum, 1998. Isherwood, Lisa and Kathleen McPhillips, eds. Post-Christian Feminisms: A Critical Approach. Hampshire. England: Ashgate, 2008. Jardine, Alice and Paul Smith, eds. Men in Feminism. New York: Routledge, 1987. Kieran Cronin. Rights and Christian Ethics. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992. Macrae, Janet A. Nursing as a Spiritual Practice: A Contemporary Application of Florence Nightingale's Views. New York: Springer Publishing Company. 2001. Michael Slote, Morals from Motives. New York: Oxford University Press, 2001. Murphy, Peter F. Feminism and Masculinities: Oxford Readings in Feminism. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004. Murray, Mary. The Law of the Father? Patriarchy in the Transition from Feudalism to Capitalism London: Routledge, 1995. Outka, Gene. “Universal Love and Impartiality.” In Edmund Santurri and William Werpehowski, eds. The Love Commandments: Essays in Christian Ethics and Moral Philosophy. Washington, D.C.: Georgetown University Press, 1992. Parks, Jennifer A. No Place Like Home? Feminist Ethics and Home Health Care. Bloomingdale: Indiana University Press. 2003. Post, Stephen. A Theory of Agape: On the Meaning of Christian Love. Lewisburg, Pa.: Bucknell University Press, 1990. Ramsey, Paul. Basic Christian Ethics. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1993.

Special Care NoticeThis article discusses trauma and violence inflicted upon the Indigenous peoples of Tasmania through the processes of colonisation. Content within this article may be distressing to some readers. IntroductionThis article looks briefly at the collection, consultation, and digital sharing of stories essential to the histories of the First Nations peoples of Australia. Focusing on materials held in Sydney, New South Wales two case studies—the object known as the Proclamation Board and the George Augustus Robinson Papers—explore how materials can be shared with Aboriginal peoples of the region now known as Tasmania. Specifically, the authors of this article (a Palawa man and an Australian woman of European descent) ask how can the idea of the privileging of Indigenous voices, within Eurocentric cultural collections, be transformed from rhetoric to reality? Moreover, how can we navigate this complex work, that is made even more problematic by distance, through the utilisation of knowledge networks which are geographically isolated from the collections holding stories crucial to Indigenous communities? In seeking to answer these important questions, this article looks at how cultural, emotional, and intellectual ownership can be divested from the physical ownership of a collection in a way that repatriates—appropriately and sensitively—stories of Aboriginal Australia and of colonisation. Holding Stories, Not Always Our OwnCultural institutions, including libraries, have, in recent years, been drawn into discussions centred on the notion of digital disruption and “that transformative shift which has seen the ongoing realignment of business resources, relationships, knowledge, and value both facilitating the entry of previously impossible ideas and accelerating the competitive impact of those same impossible ideas” (Franks and Ensor n.p.). As Molly Brown has noted, librarians “are faced, on a daily basis, with rapidly changing technology and the ways in which our patrons access and use information. Thus, we need to look at disruptive technologies as opportunities” (n.p.). Some innovations, including the transition from card catalogues to online catalogues and the provision of a wide range of electronic resources, are now considered to be business as usual for most institutions. So, too, the digitisation of great swathes of materials to facilitate access to collections onsite and online, with digitising primary sources seen as an intermediary between the pillars of preserving these materials and facilitating access for those who cannot, for a variety of logistical and personal reasons, travel to a particular repository where a collection is held.The result has been the development of hybrid collections: that is, collections that can be accessed in both physical and digital formats. Yet, the digitisation processes conducted by memory institutions is often selective. Limited resources, even for large-scale digitisation projects usually only realise outcomes that focus on making visually rich, key, or canonical documents, or those documents that are considered high use and at risk, available online. Such materials are extracted from the larger full body of records while other lesser-known components are often omitted. Digitisation projects therefore tend to be devised for a broader audience where contextual questions are less central to the methodology in favour of presenting notable or famous documents online only. Documents can be profiled as an exhibition separate from their complete collection and, critically, their wider context. Libraries of course are not neutral spaces and this practice of (re)enforcing the canon through digitisation is a challenge that cultural institutions, in partnerships, need to address (Franks and Ensor n.p.). Indeed, our digital collections are as affected by power relationships and the ongoing impacts of colonisation as our physical collections. These power relationships can be seen through an organisation’s “processes that support acquisitions, as purchases and as the acceptance of artefacts offered as donations. Throughout such processes decisions are continually made (consciously and unconsciously) that affect what is presented and actively promoted as the official history” (Thorpe et al. 8). While it is important to acknowledge what we do collect, it is equally important to look, too, at what we do not collect and to consider how we continually privilege and exclude stories. Especially when these stories are not always our own, but are held, often as accidents of collecting. For example, an item comes in as part of a larger suite of materials while older, city-based institutions often pre-date regional repositories. An essential point here is that cultural institutions can often become comfortable in what they collect, building on existing holdings. This, in turn, can lead to comfortable digitisation. If we are to be truly disruptive, we need to embrace feeling uncomfortable in what we do, and we need to view digitisation as an intervention opportunity; a chance to challenge what we ‘know’ about our collections. This is especially relevant in any attempts to decolonise collections.Case Study One: The Proclamation BoardThe first case study looks at an example of re-digitisation. One of the seven Proclamation Boards known to survive in a public collection is held by the Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, having been purchased from Tasmanian collector and photographer John Watt Beattie (1859–1930) in May 1919 for £30 (Morris 86). Why, with so much material to digitise—working in a program of limited funds and time—would the Library return to an object that has already been privileged? Unanswered questions and advances in digitisation technologies, created a unique opportunity. For the First Peoples of Van Diemen’s Land (now known as Tasmania), colonisation by the British in 1803 was “an emotionally, intellectually, physically, and spiritually confronting series of encounters” (Franks n.p.). Violent incidents became routine and were followed by a full-scale conflict, often referred to as the Black War (Clements 1), or more recently as the Tasmanian War, fought from the 1820s until 1832. Image 1: Governor Arthur’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, ca. 1828–1830. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, Call No.: SAFE / R 247.Behind the British combatants were various support staff, including administrators and propagandists. One of the efforts by the belligerents, behind the front line, to win the war and bring about peace was the production of approximately 100 Proclamation Boards. These four-strip pictograms were the result of a scheme introduced by Lieutenant Governor George Arthur (1784–1854), on the advice of Surveyor General George Frankland (1800–38), to communicate that all are equal under the rule of law (Arthur 1). Frankland wrote to Arthur in early 1829 to suggest these Proclamation Boards could be produced and nailed to trees (Morris 84), as a Eurocentric adaptation of a traditional method of communication used by Indigenous peoples who left images on the trunks of trees. The overtly stated purpose of the Boards was, like the printed proclamations exhorting peace, to assert, all people—black and white—were equal. That “British Justice would protect” everyone (Morris 84). The first strip on each of these pictogram Boards presents Indigenous peoples and colonists living peacefully together. The second strip shows “a conciliatory handshake between the British governor and an Aboriginal ‘chief’, highly reminiscent of images found in North America on treaty medals and anti-slavery tokens” (Darian-Smith and Edmonds 4). The third and fourth strips depict the repercussions for committing murder (or, indeed, any significant crime), with an Indigenous man hanged for spearing a colonist and a European man hanged for shooting an Aboriginal man. Both men executed in the presence of the Lieutenant Governor. The Boards, oil on Huon pine, were painted by “convict artists incarcerated in the island penal colony” (Carroll 73).The Board at the State Library of New South Wales was digitised quite early on in the Library’s digitisation program, it has been routinely exhibited (including for the Library’s centenary in 2010) and is written about regularly. Yet, many questions about this small piece of timber remain unanswered. For example, some Boards were outlined with sketches and some were outlined with pouncing, “a technique [of the Italian Renaissance] of pricking the contours of a drawing with a pin. Charcoal was then dusted on to the drawing” (Carroll 75–76). Could such a sketch or example of pouncing be seen beneath the surface layers of paint on this particular Board? What might be revealed by examining the Board more closely and looking at this object in different ways?An important, but unexpected, discovery was that while most of the pigments in the painting correlate with those commonly available to artists in the early nineteenth century there is one outstanding anomaly. X-ray analysis revealed cadmium yellow present in several places across the painting, including the dresses of the little girls in strip one, uniform details in strip two, and the trousers worn by the settler men in strips three and four (Kahabka 2). This is an extraordinary discovery, as cadmium yellows were available “commercially as an artist pigment in England by 1846” and were shown by “Winsor & Newton at the 1851 Exhibition held at the Crystal Palace, London” (Fiedler and Bayard 68). The availability of this particular type of yellow in the early 1850s could set a new marker for the earliest possible date for the manufacture of this Board, long-assumed to be 1828–30. Further, the early manufacture of cadmium yellow saw the pigment in short supply and a very expensive option when compared with other pigments such as chrome yellow (the darker yellow, seen in the grid lines that separate the scenes in the painting). This presents a clearly uncomfortable truth in relation to an object so heavily researched and so significant to a well-regarded collection that aims to document much of Australia’s colonial history. Is it possible, for example, the Board has been subjected to overpainting at a later date? Or, was this premium paint used to produce a display Board that was sent, by the Tasmanian Government, to the 1866 Intercolonial Exhibition in Melbourne? In seeking to see the finer details of the painting through re-digitisation, the results were much richer than anticipated. The sketch outlines are clearly visible in the new high-resolution files. There are, too, details unable to be seen clearly with the naked eye, including this warrior’s headdress and ceremonial scarring on his stomach, scars that tell stories “of pain, endurance, identity, status, beauty, courage, sorrow or grief” (Australian Museum n.p.). The image of this man has been duplicated and distributed since the 1830s, an anonymous figure deployed to tell a settler-centric story of the Black, or Tasmanian, War. This man can now be seen, for the first time nine decades later, to wear his own story. We do not know his name, but he is no longer completely anonymous. This image is now, in some ways, a portrait. The State Library of New South Wales acknowledges this object is part of an important chapter in the Tasmanian story and, though two Boards are in collections in Tasmania (the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery, Hobart and the Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, Launceston), each Board is different. The Library holds an important piece of a large and complex puzzle and has a moral obligation to make this information available beyond its metropolitan location. Digitisation, in this case re-digitisation, is allowing for the disruption of this story in sparking new questions around provenance and for the relocating of a Palawa warrior to a more prominent, perhaps even equal role, within a colonial narrative. Image 2: Detail, Governor Arthur’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, ca. 1828–1830. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, Call No.: SAFE / R 247.Case Study Two: The George Augustus Robinson PapersThe second case study focuses on the work being led by the Indigenous Engagement Branch at the State Library of New South Wales on the George Augustus Robinson (1791–1866) Papers. In 1829, Robinson was granted a government post in Van Diemen’s Land to ‘conciliate’ with the Palawa peoples. More accurately, Robinson’s core task was dispossession and the systematic disconnection of the Palawa peoples from their Country, community, and culture. Robinson was a habitual diarist and notetaker documenting much of his own life as well as the lives of those around him, including First Nations peoples. His extensive suite of papers represents a familiar and peculiar kind of discomfort for Aboriginal Australians, one in which they are forced to learn about themselves through the eyes and words of their oppressors. For many First Nations peoples of Tasmania, Robinson remains a violent and terrible figure, but his observations of Palawa culture and language are as vital as they are problematic. Importantly, his papers include vibrant and utterly unique descriptions of people, place, flora and fauna, and language, as well as illustrations revealing insights into the routines of daily life (even as those routines were being systematically dismantled by colonial authorities). “Robinson’s records have informed much of the revitalisation of Tasmanian Aboriginal culture in the twentieth century and continue to provide the basis for investigations of identity and deep relationships to land by Aboriginal scholars” (Lehman n.p.). These observations and snippets of lived culture are of immense value to Palawa peoples today but the act of reading between Robinson’s assumptions and beyond his entrenched colonial views is difficult work.Image 3: George Augustus Robinson Papers, 1829–34. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, A 7023–A 7031.The canonical reference for Robinson’s archive is Friendly Mission: The Tasmanian Journals and Papers of George Augustus Robinson, 1829–1834, edited by N.J.B. Plomley. The volume of over 1,000 pages was first published in 1966. This large-scale project is recognised “as a monumental work of Tasmanian history” (Crane ix). Yet, this standard text (relied upon by Indigenous and non-Indigenous researchers) has clearly not reproduced a significant percentage of Robinson’s Tasmanian manuscripts. Through his presumptuous truncations Plomley has not simply edited Robinson’s work but has, quite literally, written many Palawa stories out of this colonial narrative. It is this lack of agency in determining what should be left out that is most troubling, and reflects an all-too-familiar approach which libraries, including the State Library of New South Wales, are now urgently trying to rectify. Plomley’s preface and introduction does not indicate large tranches of information are missing. Indeed, Plomley specifies “that in extenso [in full] reproduction was necessary” (4) and omissions “have been kept to a minimum” (8). A 32-page supplement was published in 1971. A new edition, including the supplement, some corrections made by Plomley, and some extra material was released in 2008. But much continues to be unknown outside of academic circles, and far too few Palawa Elders and language revival workers have had access to Robinson’s original unfiltered observations. Indeed, Plomley’s text is linear and neat when compared to the often-chaotic writings of Robinson. Digitisation cannot address matters of the materiality of the archive, but such projects do offer opportunities for access to information in its original form, unedited, and unmediated.Extensive consultation with communities in Tasmania is underpinning the digitisation and re-description of a collection which has long been assumed—through partial digitisation, microfilming, and Plomley’s text—to be readily available and wholly understood. Central to this project is not just challenging the canonical status of Plomley’s work but directly challenging the idea non-Aboriginal experts can truly understand the cultural or linguistic context of the information recorded in Robinson’s journals. One of the more exciting outcomes, so far, has been working with Palawa peoples to explore the possibility of Palawa-led transcriptions and translation, and not breaking up the tasks of this work and distributing them to consultants or to non-Indigenous student groups. In this way, people are being meaningfully reunited with their own histories and, crucially, given first right to contextualise and understand these histories. Again, digitisation and disruption can be seen here as allies with the facilitation of accessibility to an archive in ways that re-distribute the traditional power relations around interpreting and telling stories held within colonial-rich collections.Image 4: Detail, George Augustus Robinson Papers, 1829–34. Image Credit: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, A 7023–A 7031.As has been so brilliantly illustrated by Bruce Pascoe’s recent work Dark Emu (2014), when Aboriginal peoples are given the opportunity to interpret their own culture from the colonial records without interference, they are able to see strength and sophistication rather than victimhood. For, to “understand how the Europeans’ assumptions selectively filtered the information brought to them by the early explorers is to see how we came to have the history of the country we accept today” (4). Far from decrying these early colonial records Aboriginal peoples understand their vital importance in connecting to a culture which was dismantled and destroyed, but importantly it is known that far too much is lost in translation when Aboriginal Australians are not the ones undertaking the translating. ConclusionFor Aboriginal Australians, culture and knowledge is no longer always anchored to Country. These histories, once so firmly connected to communities through their ancestral lands and languages, have been dispersed across the continent and around the world. Many important stories—of family history, language, and ways of life—are held in cultural institutions and understanding the role of responsibly disseminating these collections through digitisation is paramount. In transitioning from physical collections to hybrid collections of the physical and digital, the digitisation processes conducted by memory institutions can be—and due to the size of some collections is inevitably—selective. Limited resources, even for large-scale and well-resourced digitisation projects usually realise outcomes that focus on making visually rich, key, or canonical documents, or those documents considered high use or at risk, available online. Such materials are extracted from a full body of records. Digitisation projects, as noted, tend to be devised for a broader audience where contextual questions are less central to the methodology in favour of presenting notable documents online, separate from their complete collection and, critically, their context. Our institutions carry the weight of past collecting strategies and, today, the pressure of digitisation strategies as well. Contemporary librarians should not be gatekeepers, but rather key holders. In collaborating across sectors and with communities we open doors for education, research, and the repatriation of culture and knowledge. We must, always, remember to open these doors wide: the call of Aboriginal Australians of ‘nothing about us without us’ is not an invitation to collaboration but an imperative. Libraries—as well as galleries, archives, and museums—cannot tell these stories alone. Also, these two case studies highlight what we believe to be one of the biggest mistakes that not just libraries but all cultural institutions are vulnerable to making, the assumption that just because a collection is open access it is also accessible. Digitisation projects are more valuable when communicated, contextualised and—essentially—the result of community consultation. Such work can, for some, be uncomfortable while for others it offers opportunities to embrace disruption and, by extension, opportunities to decolonise collections. For First Nations peoples this work can be more powerful than any simple measurement tool can record. Through examining our past collecting, deliberate efforts to consult, and through digital sharing projects across metropolitan and regional Australia, we can make meaningful differences to the ways in which Aboriginal Australians can, again, own their histories.Acknowledgements The authors acknowledge the Palawa peoples: the traditional custodians of the lands known today as Tasmania. The authors acknowledge, too, the Gadigal people upon whose lands this article was researched and written. We are indebted to Dana Kahabka (Conservator), Joy Lai (Imaging Specialist), Richard Neville (Mitchell Librarian), and Marika Duczynski (Project Officer) at the State Library of New South Wales. Sincere thanks are also given to Jason Ensor of Western Sydney University.ReferencesArthur, George. “Proclamation.” The Hobart Town Courier 19 Apr. 1828: 1.———. Proclamation to the Aborigines. Graphic Materials. Sydney: Mitchell Library, State Library of New South Wales, SAFE R / 247, ca. 1828–1830.Australian Museum. “Aboriginal Scarification.” 2018. 11 Jan. 2019 <https://australianmuseum.net.au/about/history/exhibitions/body-art/aboriginal-scarification/>.Brown, Molly. “Disruptive Technology: A Good Thing for Our Libraries?” International Librarians Network (2016). 26 Aug. 2018 <https://interlibnet.org/2016/11/25/disruptive-technology-a-good-thing-for-our-libraries/>.Carroll, Khadija von Zinnenburg. Art in the Time of Colony: Empires and the Making of the Modern World, 1650–2000. Farnham, UK: Ashgate Publishing, 2014.Clements, Nicholas. The Black War: Fear, Sex and Resistance in Tasmania. St Lucia, U of Queensland P, 2014.Crane, Ralph. “Introduction.” Friendly Mission: The Tasmanian Journals and Papers of George Augustus Robinson, 1829-1834. 2nd ed. Launceston and Hobart: Queen Victoria Museum and Art Gallery, and Quintus Publishing, 2008. ix.Darian-Smith, Kate, and Penelope Edmonds. “Conciliation on Colonial Frontiers.” Conciliation on Colonial Frontiers: Conflict, Performance and Commemoration in Australia and the Pacific Rim. Eds. Kate Darian-Smith and Penelope Edmonds. New York: Routledge, 2015. 1–14.Edmonds, Penelope. “‘Failing in Every Endeavour to Conciliate’: Governor Arthur’s Proclamation Boards to the Aborigines, Australian Conciliation Narratives and Their Transnational Connections.” Journal of Australian Studies 35.2 (2011): 201–18.Fiedler, Inge, and Michael A. Bayard. Artist Pigments, a Handbook of Their History and Characteristics. Ed. Robert L. Feller. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1986. 65–108. Franks, Rachel. “A True Crime Tale: Re-Imagining Governor Arthur’s Proclamation Board for the Tasmanian Aborigines.” M/C Journal 18.6 (2015). 1 Feb. 2019 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/1036>.Franks, Rachel, and Jason Ensor. “Challenging the Canon: Collaboration, Digitisation and Education.” ALIA Online: A Conference of the Australian Library and Information Association, 11–15 Feb. 2019, Sydney.Kahabka, Dana. Condition Assessment [Governor Arthur’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, ca. 1828–1830, SAFE / R247]. Sydney: State Library of New South Wales, 2017.Lehman, Greg. “Pleading Robinson: Reviews of Friendly Mission: The Tasmanian Journals and Papers of George Augustus Robinson (2008) and Reading Robinson: Companion Essays to Friendly Mission (2008).” Australian Humanities Review 49 (2010). 1 May 2019 <http://press-files.anu.edu.au/downloads/press/p41961/html/review-12.xhtml?referer=1294&page=15>. Morris, John. “Notes on A Message to the Tasmanian Aborigines in 1829, popularly called ‘Governor Davey’s Proclamation to the Aborigines, 1816’.” Australiana 10.3 (1988): 84–7.Pascoe, Bruce. Dark Emu. Broome: Magabala Books, 2014/2018.Plomley, N.J.B. Friendly Mission: The Tasmanian Journals and Papers of George Augustus Robinson, 1829–1834. Hobart: Tasmanian Historical Research Association, 1966.Robinson, George Augustus. Papers. Textual Records. Sydney: Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW, A 7023–A 7031, 1829–34. Thorpe, Kirsten, Monica Galassi, and Rachel Franks. “Discovering Indigenous Australian Culture: Building Trusted Engagement in Online Environments.” Journal of Web Librarianship 10.4 (2016): 343–63.

IntroductionIn 2008, researchers at New York University’s Computational Neuroimaging Laboratory challenged our contemporary understanding of audience with an alternative approach to engaging some of the most essential questions regarding film consumption. The study itself used a functional magnetic resonance imaging (fMRI) scanner during the “free viewing of films” allowing researchers the opportunity to see which sections of the brain are activated during certain parts of the viewing (Hasson et al. 2). In an effort to overcome limitations of fMRI imaging, the researchers further utilized an inter-subjective correlation (ISC) technique to validate their findings. Simply put, ISC looks at the similar effects in neuroimaging across a range of viewers for the same rhetorical artifact; the higher the similarity, the more confident the researchers are that the impact of the film is the same for most or all viewers. This impact is said to “control” the viewers mental and emotional state in that they can be a reliable way to predict a viewer’s “emotions, thoughts, [and] attitudes” (Hasson et al. 2). The researchers termed their work “neurocinematics” and concluded that this new approach could “contribute to the cognitive movement in film theory, analogous to contributions that neuroscience has made to cognitive and social psychology.” (Hasson et al. 21).Since the publication of this research, there have been over a dozen academic essays published, including additional work in the hard sciences, and contributions from psychology and literary and film studies (see Cohen, Shavalian and Rube; Loschky et al.; Erincin; Kauttonen, Hlushchuk and Tikka; Christoforou et al.). Many seem to be responding to the original authors’ calls for neurocinematics to be “a new interdisciplinary field” between “cognitive neuroscience and film studies” that is “part of a larger endeavor that looks for connections between neuroscience and art” (Hasson et al. 1, 21). Noticeably missing from their call for an inter-disciplinary approach, however, is one that includes rhetorical studies. In fact, to date, there has only been a single publication referring to neurocinematics in communication studies – an essay that was not specific to film nor audience, and that limited its discussion to the effectiveness of fMRI imaging (see Weber, Mangus and Huskey). It is the argument of this essay that rhetorical studies should be included in neurocinematics for two reasons: first, rhetorical studies can provide an alternative theoretical understanding of narrative that should prove to be enlightening for this emerging field; and second, rhetorical studies can provide the necessary ethical positioning for this emerging field.The Rhetorical Studies AlternativeThe first justification for the inclusion of rhetorical studies in neurocinematics is the alternative theoretical approach to narrative that rhetoricians can provide. The original neurocinematics research found that structured stories provided a much higher degree of ISC than open-ended, unstructured “real life” depictions. The researchers showed 10 minutes of Sergio Leone’s film, The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly and a 10-minute stable shot of a Saturday afternoon in Washington Square Park that represented an unstructured, real-life event. The researchers concluded that, “a mere mechanical reproduction of reality, with no directorial intention or intervention, is not sufficient by itself for controlling viewer’s brain activity” (Hasson et al. 8). That the “slice of real life” didn’t have the same predictive functions as the “intentional construction of the film’s sequence through aesthetic means” has important implications for rhetorical studies (Hasson et al. 9). It’s not cinematic imagery alone that corresponds to brain activations, but the construction of story and the aesthetic elements of narrative presentations (that is to say, the creation of rhetoric) that has predictive functions. In A Grammar of Motives, Kenneth Burke notes that dramatism “invites one to consider the matter of motives in a perspective that, being developed from the analysis of drama, treats language and thought primarily as modes of action” (xxii). For Burke, all of our stories are the product of thought, whether it be conscious or unconscious, and this thought belies how we view the world of symbols in which we live. Michael Overington contends that dramatismaddresses the empirical questions of how persons explain their actions to themselves and others, what the cultural and social structural influences on these interpretations might be, and what effect connotational links among the explanatory (motivational) terms might have on these explanations and hence, on action itself. (133)Language is the vehicle for human behaviour and represents how we describe the world to ourselves and to others so that “a rhetor’s language can be used to discover motive” (Foss, Foss and Trapp 200). Film is nothing short of a dramatistic explanation that allows us the opportunity to dissect it with more detail to determine the worldview not only of the auteur, but of the spectator as well. Although film studies has its own theories on story and structure, a “systematic application” of Burke’s dramatism “enables an observer to reconstruct various perspectives of ‘reality’” (Stewart, Smith, and Denton 168). When compared to film studies, as an academic discipline, rhetorical studies offers an alternative understanding of narrative. Film studies asks us to apply a structural model to a narrative, while rhetorical studies asks us to apply a systems model that unmasks a narrative. As an example, film studies might examine a film’s structure, looking at the rising action of subplot B as it corresponds in the third reel to the declining action of the subplot A before denouement. As an alternative example, rhetorical studies could offer a dramatistic reading to examine the motivations of scenic ratios between the two subplots as it defines cinematic reality for the audience. Although neurocinematics may help predict the affective impact of the subplots for an audience, it is currently rooted in a structural assumption of audience and narrative, which fails to provide a full account of the spectator’s experience as it relates to the filmmaker’s rhetorical motivation. The addition of rhetorical studies to the conversation can provide an alternative approach and give an additional richness to our understandings of audience.While film studies may engage the ideological function of films, rhetorical studies amplifies their findings. In “The Storyteller,” Walter Benjamin writes,the storytelling that thrives for a long time in the milieu of work … is itself an artisanal form of communication, as it were. It does not aim to convey the pure ‘in itself’ or gist of a thing, like information or a report. It submerges the thing into the life of the story-teller, in order to bring it out of him again. (149)For Benjamin, the storyteller is an artisan that exists external to the rhetorical artifact itself, which, of course, means that the structural focus of film studies falls inevitably short. Further, Benjamin argues that there is an ideological component to both narrative and its medium. He writes, “Just as the entire mode of existence of human collectives changes over long historical periods, so too does their mode of perception. The way in which human perception is organized – the medium in which it occurs – is conditioned not only by nature but by history” (Benjamin "Reproducibility" 255, emphasis in original). The oral tradition of storytelling is different, as is the storytelling of the novel, film, and so on. Indeed, it is the goal of neurocinematics to illustrate how the rhetoric of film is distinct from other forms of narrative discourse, which necessarily demands an inter-disciplinary focus that allows for an interrogation of the ideological functions that exist both within and without the text, which is what Burke’s dramatism provides.Further, Walter Fisher’s work with narrative extends the role of rhetorical theory into what should be discussed in neurocinematics. Fisher contends that the narrative form is something that is unique to humans, but something that all humans engage in; for him, “stories are fundamental to communication because they provide structure for our experience as humans and because they influence people to live in communities that share common explanations and understandings” (Burgchardt 239). As noted earlier, neurocinematics argues that there is a coherence in cinematic narratives that don’t exist in “slice of life” filmic images. Similarly, Walter Fisher contends that this “coherence” is inborn in the narrative being (his homo narran) “their inherent awareness of narrative probability, what constitutes a coherent story, and their constant habit of testing narrative fidelity, whether the stories they experience ring true with the stories they know to be true in their lives” (8). The neurocinematics researchers conclude that, “the ISC analysis of brain activity can also serve as a measurement of systematic differences in how various groups of individuals … respond to the same film” (Hasson et al. 20). Fisher notes that the philosophical foundation of the rational world paradigm (which he sets opposite his narrative paradigm) “is epistemology. Its linguistic materials are self-evident propositions, demonstrations, and proofs, the verbal expressions of certain and probably knowing” (4). The danger with neurocinematics rooted in pure rationality is that it co-opts the narrative function, makes the spectator as agent and film as object separate from one another (when ISC begs that they interact), and brackets off questions such as ethics. Fisher concludes, “With knowledge of agents, we can hope to find that which is reliable or trustworthy; with knowledge of objects, we can hope to discover that which has the quality of veracity. The world requires both kinds of knowledge” (18). Of course, this question demands a discussion of ethics, which the current approach to neurocinematics explicitly denies as a subject of inquiry. The authors write, different filmmakers differ in the level of control they choose to impose on viewers, and out methods are not designed to judge this, but rather to measure the effect of a given film on different target groups. Thus the critical evaluation of each film is outside the domain of this research. (Hasson et al. 21-2)This is the danger Fisher warns of. The assumption that neurocinematics can be a purely descriptive project is not only unfeasible, but also unconscionable. Unlike researchers who deny the place of ideology and ethics, “rhetorical critics, of course, have long recognized the centrality of ideology to persuasive discourse” (Burgchardt 451). To illustrate why this is a vital issue for neurocinematics, let’s take its existing descriptive project to its logical conclusion. Theoretically, researchers could reach a point where there was a 100% ISC, meaning that there existed a cinematic formula that would impact every audience member the same way and would “control” their emotional and mental states – for neurocinematics this would constitute the “perfect” film. This “perfect” film, however, wouldn’t exist in a research vacuum, but in a morass of culture, politics, and ideology. Cultural critic Slavoj Žižek notes the impact that Nine-Eleven had on film:the ultimate twist in this link between Hollywood and the ‘war on terrorism’ occurred when the Pentagon decided to solicit the help of Hollywood: … at the beginning of November 2001, there was a series of meetings between White House advisors and senior Hollywood executives with the aim of co-ordinating the war effort and establishing how Hollywood could help in the war effort and establishing how Hollywood could help in the ‘war against terrorism’ by getting the right ideological meaning across not only to Americans, but to the Hollywood public around the globe – the ultimate empirical proof that Hollywood does in fact function as an ‘ideological state apparatus’. (16)The ethical implications are overwhelming: propaganda films are nothing new, but neurocinematics has the potential to usher in a whole new type of propaganda cinema, under the guise of entertainment, that is 100% effective. The original neurocinematic research argued that “the ISC measurement should probably not be used to evaluate the aesthetic, artistic, social, or political value of movies” (Hasson et al. 21). Conversely, rhetorical studies demands that criticism and scholarship not only comment on texts, but ethical considerations “will not be averted either by ignoring it or placing it beyond our provence” (Wander 18).Further, the very goal of neurocinematics demands the critical reaction that current rhetorical theory is prepared to provide. The stated end-game for neurocinematics is to determine how films discursively interact with a viewer’s mental state and, therefore, their affective response to an aesthetic experience. Raymie McKerrow notes that critical rhetorical theory must examine “the manner in which discourse insinuates itself in the fabric of social power, and thereby ‘effects’ the status of knowledge among the members of the social group” (92). Michael Calvin McGee argues, “We do not ‘observe’ objects and human actions … we construct these phenomena through rational acts of ‘selecting,’ ‘coordinating,’ ‘interpreting,’ and ‘applying’ sensory data” (48). There is no potential for a non-normative descriptive project inside of these parameters; there is no neutral observation by the spectator, the filmic experience is one that is constructed internally. Neurocinematics notes that there are interactions between brain spheres (e.g. neocortex and the amygdala) that create an intersubjective experience (which is quantitatively described with the ISC), but to explain, even descriptively, what is occurring in these viewers requires determining what the audience “knows” and how the discursive impact of the film effects them neurologically. The field of neurocinematics is not morally neutral, though it insists on presenting itself that way. At its most basic level, the researchers are not separate from the ethical and ideological functions of their studies: they make normative claims about which films are “worthy” of study, they manufacture inter-subjective reality with their critical reactions to the artifacts, and their communicative reporting in the essay itself provides agency to the film while simultaneously denying agency to the viewers. Further, when neurocinematics is taken to its logical conclusion (the ability to manufacture the descriptively “perfect” film – one with a 100% ISC), the ethical concerns are overwhelming. With Hollywood films operating more and more as a part of the ideological state apparatus, the potential for highly effective propaganda films becomes more and more real, and more and more frightening. If the conclusions by these researchers is true, that these films “control” our mental states, then the power of such propaganda films could be devastating.ConclusionThis essay has argued that rhetorical scholars have not only a unique opportunity, but an ethical obligation, to insert ourselves into one of the most innovative inter-disciplinary fields to emerge in recent history. Neurocinematics has the potential to transform cognitive neuroscience and film studies both and it is imperative that rhetoricians insert themselves into this dialogue. First, the work that rhetorical studies has done on storytelling, narrative, and dramatism provides unique perspectives that have been overlooked by the structural models of film studies. Further, the scientists driving neurocinematics forward deny the need for political and value claims to be assessed to their work. Rhetorical studies has the opportunity to challenge these illusions of neutrality and help neuroscientists to understand that their work is, indeed, ideological, and that the dangers of ideology manifest themselves when these perspectives are pushed to the side under the guise of neutrality. ReferencesBenjamin, Walter. "The Storyteller." Trans. Edmund Jephcott, Howard Eiland, and others. Selected Writings Volume 3, 1935-1938. Eds. Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2002. ———. "Work of Art in the Age of Reproducibility." Trans. Edmund Jephcott and others. Selected Writings Volume 4, 1938-1940. Eds. Howard Eiland and Michael W. Jennings. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2003. Burgchardt, Carl, ed. Readings in Rhetorical Criticism. Third ed. State College: Strata Publishing, 2005. Burke, Kenneth. A Grammar of Motives. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1945. 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"Neurocinematics: The Neuroscience of Film." Projections 2.1 (2008): 1-26. Kauttonen, Janne, Yevhen Hlushchuk, and Pia Tikka. "Optimizing Methods for Linking Cinematic Features to fMRI Data." NeuroImage 110 (2015): 136-48. Loschky, Lester C., Adam M. Larson, Joseph P. Magliano, and Tim J. Smith. "What Would Jaws Do? The Tyranny of Film and the Relationship between Gaze and Higher-Level Narrative Film Comprehension." PLoS ONE 10.11 (2015): 1-23. McKerrow, Raymie E. "Critical Rhetoric: Theory and Praxis." Communication Monographs 56.2 (1989): 91. Overington, Michael A. "Kenneth Burke and the Method of Dramatism." Theory & Society 4.1 (1977): 131. Stewart, Charles J., Craig Allen Smith, and Robert E. Denton Jr. Persuasion and Social Movements. Prospect Heights: Waveland Press, 1994. Wander, Philip C. "The Ideological Turn in Modern Criticism." Central States Speech Journal 34 (1983): 1-18. Weber, René, J. Michael Mangus, and Richard Huskey. "Brain Imaging in Communication Research: A Practical Guide to Understanding and Evaluating fMRI Studies." Communication Methods & Measures 9.1/2 (2015): 5-29. Žižek, Slavoj. Welcome to the Desert of the Real! Five Essays on September 11 and Related Dates. New York: Verso, 2002.

Illegitimacy is a multifaceted concept, powerful because it has the ability to define both itself and its antithesis; what it is not. The first three definitions of the word “illegitimate” in the Oxford English Dictionary – to use an illegitimate academic source – begin with that negative: “illegitimate” is “not legitimate’, ‘not in accordance with or authorised by law”, “not born in lawful wedlock”. In fact, the OED offers eight different usages of the term “illegitimate”, all of which rely on the negation or absence of the legitimate counterpart to provide a definition. In other words, something can only be illegitimate in the sense of being outside the law, if a law exists. A child can only be considered illegitimate, “not born in lawful wedlock” if the concept of “lawful wedlock” exists.Not only individual but national identity can be constructed by defining what – or who – has a legitimate reason to be a part of that collective identity, and who does not. The extent to which the early years of Australian colonial history was defined by its punitive function can be mapped by an early usage of the term “illegitimate” as a means of defining the free settlers of Australia. In an odd reversal of conventional associations of “illegitimate”, the “illegitimates” of Australia were not convicts. They were people who had not been sent there for legitimate – (legal) reasons and who therefore did not fit into the depiction of Australia as a penal colony. The definition invites us to consider the relationship between Australia and Britain in those early years, when Australia provided Britain with a means of constructing itself as a “legitimate” society by functioning as a location where undesirable elements could be identified and excluded. The “illegitimates” of Australia challenged Australia’s function of rendering Britain a “legitimate” society. As a sense of what is “illegitimate” in a particular context is codified and disseminated, a corresponding sense of what is “legitimate” is also created, whether in the context of the family, the law, academia, or the nation. As individuals and groups label and marginalise what is considered unwanted, dangerous, superfluous or in other ways unsatisfactory in a society, the norms that are implicitly accepted become visible. Rather as the medical practice of diagnosis by exclusion enables a particular condition to be identified because other potential conditions have been ruled out, attempts to “rule out” forms of procreation, immigration, physical types, even forms of performance as illegitimate enable a legitimate counterpart to be formed and identified. Borrowing a thought from Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, legitimates are all alike and formed within the rules; the illegitimates are illegitimate in a variety of ways. The OED lists “illegitimate” as a noun or adjective; the word’s primary function is to define a status or to describe something. Less commonly, it can be used as a verb; to “illegitimate” someone is to bastardise them, to render them no longer legitimate, to confer and confirm their illegitimate status. Although this has most commonly been used in terms of a change in parents’ marital status (for example Queen Elizabeth I of England was bastardised by having her parents’ marriage declared invalid; as had been also the case with her older half-sister, Mary) illegitimisation as a means of marginalising and excluding continues. In October 2014, Australian Immigration Minister Scott Morrison introduced legislation designed to retrospectively declare that children born in Australia to parents that have been designated “unlawful maritime arrivals” should inherit that marginalised status (Mosendz, Brooke). The denial of “birthright citizenship”, as it is sometimes called, to these infants illegitimises them in terms of their nationality, cutting them away from the national “family”. Likewise the calls to remove Australian nationality from individuals engaging in prohibited terrorist activities uses a strategy of illegitimisation to exclude them from the Australian community. No longer Australian, such people become “national bastards”.The punitive elements associated with illegitimacy are not the only part of the story, however. Rather than being simply a one-way process of identification and exclusion, the illegitimate can also be a vital source of generating new forms of cultural production. The bastard has a way of pushing back, resisting efforts at marginalisation. The papers in this issue of M/C consider the multifarious ways in which the illegitimate refuses to conform to its normative role of defining and obeying boundaries, fighting back from where it has been placed as being beyond the law. As previously mentioned, the OED lists eight possible usages of “illegitimate”. Serendipitously, the contributions to this issue of M/C address each one of them, in different ways. The feature article for this issue, by Katie Ellis, addresses the illegitimisation inherent in how we perceive disability. With a profusion of bastards to choose from in the Game of Thrones narratives, Ellis has chosen to focus on the elements of physical abnormality that confer illegitimate status. From the other characters’ treatment of the dwarf Tyrion Lannister, and other disabled figures within the story, Ellis is able to explore the marginalisation of disability, both as depicted by George R. R. Martin and experienced within the contemporary Australian community. Several contributions address the concept of the illegitimate from its meaning of outside the law, unauthorised or unwarranted. Anne Aly’s paper “Illegitimate: When Moderate Muslims Speak Out” sensitively addresses the illegitimate position to which many Muslims in Australia feel themselves relegated. As she argues, attempting to avoid being regarded as “apologists for Islam” yet simultaneously expected to act as a unifying voice for what is in fact a highly fragmented cultural mix, places such individuals in an insupportable, “illegitimate” position. Anne Aly also joins Lelia Green in exploring the rhetorical strategies used by various Australian governments to illegitimate specific cohorts of would-be Australian migrants. “Bastard immigrants: asylum seekers who arrive by boat and the illegitimate fear of the other” discusses attempts to designate certain asylum seekers as illegitimate intruders into the national family of Australia in the context of the ending of the White Australia policy and the growth of multicultural Australia. Both papers highlight the punitive impact of illegitimisation on particular segments of society and invite recognition of the unlawfulness, or illegitimacy, of the processes themselves that have been used to create such illegitimacy.Illegitimate processes and incorrect inferences, and the illegitimisation of an organisation through media representation which ignores a range of legitimate perspectives are the subject of Ashley Donkin’s work on the National School Chaplaincy and Student Welfare Program (NSCSWP). As Donkin notes, this has been a highly controversial topic in Australia, and her research identifies the inadequacies and prejudices that, she argues, contributed to an illegitimate representation of the programme in the Australian media. Without arguing for or against the NSCSWP, Donkin’s research exposes the extent of prejudiced reporting in the Australian media and its capacity to illegitimise programmes (or, indeed, individuals). Interesting here, and not entirely irrelevant (although not directly addressed in Donkin’s paper), is the notion of prejudice as being an opinion formed or promulgated prior to considering the equitable, just or judicial/judged position. Analogous to the way in which the illegitimate is outside the law, the prejudiced only falls within the law through luck, rather than judgement, since ill-advised opinion has guided its formation. Helen Vella Bonavita explores why illegitimacy is perceived as evil or threatening, looking to anthropologists Mary Douglas and Edmund Leach. Using Shakespeare’s Henry V as a case study, Vella Bonavita argues that illegitimacy is one of the preeminent metaphors used in literature and in current political discourses to articulate fears of loss of national as well as personal identity. As Vella Bonavita notes, as well as being a pollutant that the centre attempts to cast to the margins, the illegitimate can also be a potent threat, a powerful figure occupying an undeniable position, threatening the overturning of the established order. The OED’s definition of illegitimate as “one whose position is viewed in some way as illegitimate” is the perspective taken by Crystal Abidin and Herawaty Abbas. In her work “I also Melayu OK”, Abidin explores the difficult world of the bi-racial person in multi-ethnic Singapore. Through a series of interviews, Abbas describes the strategies by which individuals, particularly Malay-Chinese individuals, emphasise or de-emphasise particular linguistic or cultural behaviours in order to overcome their ambivalent cultural position and construct their own desired socially legitimate identity. Abidin’s positive perspective nonetheless evokes its shadow side, the spectre of the anti-miscegenation laws of a range of racist times and societies (but particularly Apartheid South Africa), and those societies’ attempts to outlaw any legitimisation of relationships, and children, that the law-makers wished to prohibit. The paper also resonates with the experience of relationships across sectarian divides and the parlous circumstances of Protestant –Catholic marriages and families during the 1970s in the north of Ireland, or of previously-acceptable Serbo-Croatian unions during the disintegration of the former Socialist Federal Republic of Yugoslavia in the 1990s. Herawaty Abbas and Brooke Collins-Gearing reflect on the process of academic self-determination and self-construction in “Dancing with an illegitimate feminism: a female Buginese scholar's voice in Australian Academia”. Abbas and Collins-Gearing address the research journey from the point of view of a female Buginese PhD candidate and an Indigenous Australian supervisor. With both candidate and supervisor coming from traditionally marginalised backgrounds in the context of Western academia, Abbas and Collins-Gearing chart a story of empowerment, of finding a new legitimacy in dialogue with conventional academic norms rather than conforming to them. Three contributions address the illegitimate in the context of the illegitimate child, moving from traditional associations of shame and unmarried pregnancy, to two creative pieces which, like Abidin, Abbas and Collins-Gearing, chart the transformative process that re-constructs the illegitimate space into an opportunity to form a new identity and the acceptance, and even embrace, of the previously de-legitimising authorities. Gardiner’s work, “It is almost as if there were a written script: child murder, concealment of birth and the unmarried mother in Western Australia” references two women whose stories, although situated almost two hundred years apart in time, follow a similarly-structured tale of pregnancy, shame and infant death. Kim Coull and Sue Bond in “Secret Fatalities and Liminalities” and “Heavy Baggage and the Adoptee” respectively, provide their own stories of illuminative engagement with an illegitimate position and the process of self-fashioning, while also revisiting the argument of the illegitimate as the liminal, a perspective previously advanced by Vella Bonavita’s piece. The creative potential of the illegitimate condition is the focus of the final three pieces of this issue. Bruno Starrs’s “Hyperlinking History and the Illegitimate Imagination” discusses forms of creative writing only made possible by the new media. Historic metafiction, the phrase coined by Linda Hutcheon to reflect the practice of inserting fictional characters into historical situations, is hardly a new phenomenon, but Starrs notes how the possibilities offered by e-publishing enable the creation of a new level of metafiction. Hyperlinks to external sources enable the author to engage the reader in viewing the book both as a work of fiction and as self-conscious commentary on its own fictionality. Renata Morais’ work on different media terminologies in “I say nanomedia, You say nano-media: il/legitimacy, interdisciplinarity and the anthropocene” also considers the creative possibilities engendered by interdisciplinary connections between science and culture. Her choice of the word “anthropocene,” denoting the geological period when humanity began to have a significant impact on the world’s ecosystems, itself reflects the process whereby an idea that began in the margins gains force and legitimacy. From an informal and descriptive term, the International Commission on Stratigraphy have recently formed a working group to investigate whether the “Anthropocene” should be formally adopted as the name for the new epoch (Sample).The final piece in this issue, Katie Lavers’ “Illegitimate Circus”, again traces the evolution of a theatrical form, satisfyingly returning in spirit if not in the written word to some of the experiences imagined by George R. R. Martin for his character Tyrion Lannister. “Illegitimate drama” was originally theatre which relied more on spectacle than on literary quality, according to the OED. Looking at the evolution of modern circus from Astley’s Amphitheatre through to the Cirque du Soleil spectaculars, Lavers’ article demonstrates that the relationship between legitimate and illegitimate is not one whereby the illegitimate conforms to the norms of the legitimate and thereby becomes legitimate itself, but rather where the initial space created by the designation of illegitimate offers the opportunity for a new form of art. Like Starrs’ hyperlinked fiction, or the illegitimate narrators of Coull or Bond’s work, the illegitimate art form does not need to reject those elements that originally constituted it as “illegitimate” in order to win approval or establish itself. The “illegitimate”, then, is not a fixed condition. Rather, it is a status defined according to a particular time and place, and which is frequently transitional and transformative; a condition in which concepts (and indeed, people) can evolve independently of established norms and practices. Whereas the term “illegitimate” has traditionally carried with it shameful, dark and indeed punitive overtones, the papers collected in this issue demonstrate that this need not be so, and that the illegitimate, possibly more than the legitimate, enlightens and has much to offer.ReferencesMosendz, Polly. “When a Baby Born in Australia Isn’t Australian”. The Atlantic 16 Oct. 2014. 25 Oct. 2014 ‹http://www.theatlantic.com/international/archive/2014/10/when-a-baby-born-in-australia-isnt-australian/381549/›Baskin, Brooke. “Asylum Seeker Baby Ferouz Born in Australia Denied Refugee Status by Court”. The Courier Mail 15 Oct. 2014. 25 Oct. 2014 ‹http://www.couriermail.com.au/news/queensland/asylum-seeker-baby-ferouz-born-in-australia-denied-refugee-status-by-court/story-fnihsrf2-1227091626528›.Sample, Ian. “Anthropocene: Is This the New Epoch of Humans?” The Guardian 16 Oct. 2014. 25 Oct. 2014 ‹http://www.theguardian.com/science/2014/oct/16/-sp-scientists-gather-talks-rename-human-age-anthropocene-holocene›.

Photo by Cecilie Johnsen on Unsplash INTRODUCTION Across the country, states are enacting legislation that curtails LGBTQ+ rights and liberties.[1] In March 2021, Arkansas enacted Senate Bill 289, titled the Medical Ethics and Diversity Act (the “Act”).[2] The Act permits medical practitioners, healthcare institutions, and insurance companies to refuse to treat, or, in the case of insurance companies, to cover, a non-critically ill person if treating the individual violates their religious or personal beliefs. Though masked as protecting religious liberties, the Act discriminates against LGBTQ+ patients. While the Act purports to protect different types of healthcare workers, I frame my discussion of the Act to discuss the physician’s obligations given the changes to Arkansas law. Even if legally permissible, I believe virtuous physicians do not consider patients’ sexual orientation or gender identity when deciding whether to treat them. I will explain why a virtuous physician would never conscientiously object to treating a patient based on the patient’s sexual orientation or gender identity, even if allowed, like in Arkansas. Conscientious objection based on sexual orientation or gender identity, even if permitted under state law, is always unvirtuous. l. Senate Bill 289 and the LGBTQ+ Patient On March 29, 2021, Governor Hutchinson adopted the Act by signing Senate Bill 289 into Arkansas state law. To protect a “right of conscience” in health care, the Act invokes traditions of the United States and the Hippocratic Oath, stating: [t]he right of conscience was central to the founding of the United States, has been deeply rooted in the history and tradition of the United States for centuries, and has been central to the practice of medicine through the Hippocratic Oath for millennia. As used in the Act, conscience means “religious, moral, or ethical beliefs.” The Act protects medical practitioners, healthcare institutions, or healthcare payors when they act from their conscience and extends this protection to include the following: (1) the right not to participate in a healthcare service that violates his, her, or its conscience; (2) no requirement to participate in a healthcare service that violates his, her, or its conscience; and (3) no civil, criminal, or administrative liability for declining to participate in a healthcare service that violates his, her, or its conscience. The Act limits which services physicians can refuse to perform: it permits conscientious objection only if the patient requires non-emergency care. Under Arkansas state law, an emergency is defined as an “immediate threat to the life or health of a patient.”[3] Before the Act, conscientious objection was limited in medical practice in the United States. The American Medical Association’s (“AMA”) Code of Medical Ethics states physicians can act as moral agents. The AMA’s code supports conscientious objection if it is based on a moral objection to a treatment rather than discrimination against patients.[4] From the Church Amendments to the Affordable Care Act, federal law has protected practitioners’ rights to object to participating in treatments contrary to their religious or moral beliefs, such as abortions, sterilization, euthanasia, or physician-assisted suicide.[5] However, the language of these laws emphasizes treatment-based objection; the laws protect healthcare workers who are unwilling to participate in medical practices based on a moral objection to a treatment. In addition, the laws specifically name procedures like sterilization, euthanasia, or physician-assisted suicide as permissible grounds for objection. The Act extends physicians’ rights to conscientious objection by removing the treatment-specific language. In Arkansas, the broad language of the law could permit conscientious objection based on a patient’s LGBTQ+ identity because it does not limit objections based on type of treatments. The Act broadened conscientious objection in Arkansas to include treatment-based and patient-based objections. ll. Virtue Ethics Virtue ethics is an ethical framework that focuses on the character of the individual performing actions during the individual’s life and career. In Nicomachean Ethics, Aristotle writes that virtue is a state of being, such as a courageous or amiable person, rather than a system for ethical action selection.[6] Society understands these virtues as falling at the mean—or between— a deficiency and an excess. For example, the virtue of courage lies between the deficiency of cowardness and excess of rashness, never in abundance or excess. A virtuous person exemplifies the virtues required of the person’s role and performs the required functions well. Aristotle writes, “[w]e become just by doing just actions, temperate by doing temperate actions, brave by doing brave actions.” In this way, we must live our virtues to become virtuous. A. The Virtuous Physician The virtuous physician exemplifies virtue and practices medicine in congruence with medicine’s ethos. Since an individual can practice and learn virtue, it provides a unique ethical framework to distinguish between the virtuous or “good” physician and the unvirtuous or “bad” physician. Aristotle writes that life’s virtues are courage, temperance, generosity, magnificence, magnanimity, mildness, amiability, truthfulness, wit, and shame.[7] Individuals possessing these traits are virtuous, but virtuous physicians must also demonstrate traits integral to their professional duties. A virtuous physician’s qualities include empathetic listening, emotional sensitivity, and respect for patients. These additional qualities create trust and comfort patients.[8] Also, the virtuous physician exemplifies trustworthiness, integrity, discernment, compassion, patience, and conscientiousness.[9] Others even include theological virtues such as faith, hope, and charity as important characteristics in a physician’s practice.[10] While not an exhaustive list of the values that compose a virtuous physician, these standards are the basic requirements for physician to exemplify virtue and perform the job’s functions well. One may argue that theological virtues like faith, hope, and charity support the conscientious objection because physicians are virtuous when they are faithful, or loyal to their religious beliefs. However, this argument fails to consider the four principles of medical ethics. Using conscientious objection to withhold care from even non-critically ill patients can cause harm that is physical and emotional. A physician cannot act virtuously and simultaneously undermine non-malfeasance and beneficence. The virtuous physician must also practice medicine in congruence with medicine’s ethos, acting for the patient’s benefit and taking a patient-centered approach. The patient’s benefit has multiple elements, such as the medically defined good outcome, the patient’s definition of a good outcome, what is dignifying to the patient, and what is considered universally good.[11] If a physician acts against a patient’s good or the physician does not exemplify virtue in their own life, the physician would be considered unvirtuous. B. Unvirtuous Conscientious Objection Through the Act Conscientious objection is a debated topic. Some argue that physicians’ values should not influence the care they provide.[12] In addition, the legalization of conscientious objection is seen by some to violate medicine’s central ethos of caring for the patient.[13] Others do not view conscientious objection as wholly wrong. Despite the debate over the role of conscientious objection in the physician’s practice, conscientious objection based on a patient’s LGBTQ+ identity under the Act is unvirtuous. The Act extends the understood norm of treatment-based objections to objections based on any component of health care, including a patient’s LGBTQ+ identity. This patient-based objection is discriminatory and unrelated to the patient’s requested medical service which may conflict with the physician’s morals.[14] A virtuous physician would never refuse to treat a patient based on the patient’s race, color, religion, sex, sexual orientation, gender identity, or national origin. Refusing to treat a patient because of the patient’s LGBTQ+ identity is unvirtuous because it defies a physician’s duty, is discriminatory, and displays a lack of respect for patients, amiability, and compassion. Even if permitted under the Act, a virtuous physician must never object to treating a patient based on the patient’s sexual orientation or gender identity. One may argue a physician can be virtuous while conscientiously objecting if the physician clearly communicates all limitations and refers the patient to another medical provider. This is the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists’ view.[15] Under this view, physicians maintain respect for themselves as agents but ultimately provide proper care for the patient, even if their hands do not perform the service. However, to be virtuous, this objection must never be discriminatory. Even with prerequisites, objection based on gender identity and sexual orientation is discriminatory and indicates deficiencies in the physician’s virtue. The simple act of objection can cause psychological pain to a patient. LGBTQ+-based discrimination and rejection causes unnecessary physiological harm like anxiety, depression, and suicidal ideations, whereas social acceptance increases feelings of self-esteem.[16] The virtuous physician would never cause pain to the patient, as this violates the principle of non-maleficence. Regardless of actions taken before or after the objection, a physician is unvirtuous when the physician inflicts pain on a patient by conscientiously objecting to treating the patient based on LGBTQ+ status. CONCLUSION To avoid discrimination, a physician must have a valid reason for employing conscientious objection. The Medical Ethics and Diversity Act extends physicians’ rights from treatment-based objection to patient-based objection. Arkansas’s LGBTQ+ community is at risk of suffering from discriminatory healthcare practices. The physician who objects based on LGBTQ+ identity is unvirtuous because the physician’s action causes psychological harm to the patient, displays deficiencies in virtues, and opposes the central ethos of medicine. - [1] For examples of Senators and State Representatives passing laws affecting LGBTQ+ rights to protect religious liberties and fairness, see ACLU. (2021). Legislation Affecting LGBTQ Rights Across the Country 2021. https://www.aclu.org/legislation-affecting-lgbtq-rights-across-country-2021 [2] Medical Ethics and Diversity Act, Ark. Acts 462 §§17-80-501-06 (2021). https://www.arkleg.state.ar.us/Acts/FTPDocument?path=%2FACTS%2F2021R%2FPublic%2F&file=462.pdf&ddBienniumSession=2021%2F2021R [3] Emergency Medical Care Act, Ark. A.C.A. § 20-9-309 [4] AMA. (n.d.) Physician Exercise of Conscience. https://www.ama-assn.org/delivering-care/ethics/physician-exercise-conscience [5] U.S. Department of Health and Human Services (2021). Your Conscience Rights. https://www.hhs.gov/conscience/conscience-protections/index.html [6] Aristotle. (1999). Nicomachean Ethics. (Irwin, 2nd ed.). Hackett Publishing Company, Inc. [7]Aristotle. (1999). Nicomachean Ethics. (Irwin, 2nd ed.). Hackett Publishing Company, Inc. [8] Bain, L. E. (2018). Revisiting the need for virtue in medical practice: a reflection upon the teaching of Edmund Pellegrino. Philosophy, Ethics, and Humanities in Medicine, 13(1), 4. https://doi.org/10.1186/s13010-018-0057-0 [9] Gardiner, P. (2003). A virtue ethics approach to moral dilemmas in medicine. Journal of Medical Ethics, 29(5), 297-302. https://doi.org/10.1136/jme.29.5.297 [10] Toon, P. D. (1999). Towards a philosophy of general practice: a study of the virtuous practitioner. Occasional Paper Royal College of General Practitioners, (78), iii-vii, 1-69. [11] Shelp, E. E. E., & Pellegrino, D. (1985). The Virtuous Physician and the Ethics of Medicine Virtue and medicine explorations in the character of medicine, 17, 237-255. [12] Savulescu, J. (2006). Conscientious objection in medicine. BMJ, 332(7536), 294-297. https://doi.org/10.1136/bmj.332.7536.294 [13] Stahl, R. Y., & Emanuel, E. J. (2017). Physicians, Not Conscripts - Conscientious Objection in Health Care. New England Journal of Medicine, 376(14), 1380-1385. https://doi.org/10.1056/NEJMsb1612472 [14] Reis-Dennis, S., & Brummett, A. L. (2021). Are conscientious objectors morally obligated to refer? Journal of Medical Ethics, medethics-2020-107025. https://doi.org/10.1136/medethics-2020-107025 [15] ACOG. The limits of conscientious refusal in Reproductive Medicine. (n.d.). Retrieved September 12, 2022, from https://www.acog.org/clinical/clinical-guidance/committee-opinion/articles/2007/11/the-limits-of-conscientious-refusal-in-reproductive-medicine [16] Meanley, S., Flores, D. D., Listerud, L., Chang, C. J., Feinstein, B. A., & Watson, R. J. (2021). The interplay of familial warmth and LGBTQ+ specific family rejection on LGBTQ+ adolescents' self-esteem. Journal of Adolescent Health, 93, 40-52. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.adolescence.2021.10.002 ; Ruben, M. A., Livingston, N. A., Berke, D. S., Matza, A. R., & Shipherd, J. C. (2019). Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Veterans' Experiences of Discrimination in Health Care and Their Relation to Health Outcomes: A Pilot Study Examining the Moderating Role of Provider Communication. Health Equity, 3(1), 480-488. https://doi.org/10.1089/heq.2019.0069. ; Sutter, M., & Perrin, P. B. (2016). Discrimination, mental health, and suicidal ideation among LGBTQ people of color. Journal of Counseling Psychology, 63(1), 98-105. https://doi.org/10.1037/cou0000126