Journal articles on the topic 'Greek painted pottery'

Fine painted pottery is the archaeological trade-mark of the Greek presence overseas. Since other materials of exchange in the Classical world — soft things like grain, oil and slaves — are less archaeologically visible, a fresh look at issues in the archaic Greek economy revolves once more around patterns in the ceramics.

The imagery of black and red figure pottery continues to be a valuable source of information for the social and ideological history of ancient Athens. These images have traditionally provided historians with insights into material culture, religion and daily life activities, and increasingly, in large part due to francophone archaeologists like François Lissarrague, they are also being employed as detailed evidence of the conceptual world of archaic and classical Athenians. It is striking though that in spite of the clear evidentiary value of finely painted Attic pottery, almost no sustained scholarly attention has been paid to the critical issue of whose lifestyle and ideological point of view were replicated in images by Athenian pottery painters. In light of this lacuna the recent research project of David Gill and Michael Vickers to isolate more exactly the status of red and black figure pots in Attic society would appear to be most promising. Their findings end up challenging two widely held but never fully substantiated articles of faith of classical archaeology, namely that this type of pottery was used extensively and valued highly by the Athenian elite, and that these ‘vases’ were an important and privileged medium for the development of Greek art. Gill and Vickers seek to demonstrate that the homes of upper class Athenians were crammed full of precious metal vessels and had no place for mere painted pots. They maintain instead that such fictile pieces were inexpensive, and slavishly imitated the shapes, colours and even imagery of the vastly more valuable vessels made of gold and silver. Consequently, Gill and Vickers argue that Attic finely painted pottery was entirely dependent on the artistry and inventiveness of the designers and smiths of precious metallic pieces.

To date, the pottery production of Rhodes, Kos and other ‘East Dorian’ islands and coastal areas remains little understood. This article presents and discusses new neutron activation analysis (NAA) of eighth–sixth-century bc vessels found on Rhodes and in related areas, placing them in the wider context of past and present archaeometric research. The results highlight the role of Kos as a leading regional centre of painted pottery production and export in the seventh–sixth centuries bc, notably of ‘East Dorian’ plates. This includes the famous ‘Euphorbos plate’, which can now be attributed to Koan production. Contemporary Archaic pottery workshops on Rhodes, in contrast, had a less ambitious, if diverse, output, ranging from vessels in a Sub-Geometric tradition, imitation Corinthian wares and modest local versions of Koan- and Ionian-style plates to finely potted and richly decorated ‘Vroulian’ cups and black-figured situlae. It was imported mainland and East Greek wares, however, that dominated the island's consumption of Archaic painted wares. This represents a departure from the preceding Geometric period, which was characterised by a local pottery production of considerable scale and quality, although receptivity to external influences remained a consistent feature throughout later periods. As patterns of demand were changing, the island's craft production appears to have concentrated on a different range of goods in which high-quality figured finewares played a lesser role.

Abstract This contribution explores the changing sensory priorities underpinning the display of Greek painted pottery in European collections. The focus is on the introduction of glass-fronted cabinets in the purpose-designed public museums of art and archaeology of the mid-nineteenth century. Contrary to expectations, the contemporaneous debates surrounding the use of gallery furniture show that the museum stakeholders were less worried about the safety of the objects than the prospect of middle- and working-class visitors being exposed to the sexualized imagery on Athenian pottery. A survey of the different traditions of display in Britain and continental Europe highlights the shift from the multisensory engagements in early modern elite collections with vases as evidence of ancient custom to the selective viewing of the objects’ painted decoration as works of art whose proper interpretation called for classical education.

Clay is a versatile material with remarkable properties and serves a multitude of purposes. The Greeks shaped and fired clay for statues and figurines, for architectural elements such as metopes and akroteria, for drain pipes, beehives, lamps, and so forth. The major output was pottery, produced in great numbers by different methods (wheelmade, handmade, moulded) and in various categories (coarse, plain, decorated). It was a basic commodity that had many functions – for cooking, drinking, libation, storage, transport, and as offerings to the gods and to the dead. Over the centuries, painted pottery played a large and practical, if unsung, part in the lives of Greeks; it has been estimated that the hundreds of thousands of pots and fragments that are now extant comprise less than one per cent of the pottery produced. Current research into Greek ceramics is strong, and conferences, both national and international, over the past generation, mostly centring on Attic pottery, show how essential the study of pottery is for all aspects of the classical world and how it furnishes wide avenues for investigation. The contents of the published proceedings of the conferences show the main trends. Work on the traditional elements such as techniques, shaping, and painting, and iconography – that is, the initial stages of production – still continues, but there is now much more interest in functions, markets, find-spots, customers, reception, and the like, with complex pie charts, histograms, maps, and statistics, – that is, enquiries into the pottery once it had left the workshop (see Figure 4). This chapter deals with the manufacture of the pots, the shapes fashioned, the painting, and the contexts of use, with a little about the business elements; it also looks at the subject of attribution. The final chapter is mainly concerned with the variety of images and scenes that the pots carry. The chapters cannot be exclusive nor all-encompassing; they can highlight only various aspects. The emphasis, as in the conference proceedings mentioned above, falls on Attic pottery of the Archaic and Classical centuries, because it afords the fullest evidence.

Samples of seventeen painted Geometric vases from Veii in southern Etruria were subjected to Mössbauer analysis, a technique that has recently achieved the notoriously elusive distinction between LG made at and imported to Pithekoussai. The two main groups (A, B) and three subgroups (B-i, B-ii, B-iii) established analytically at Veii are compared with the identifications proposed on stylistic grounds for the same pieces by J.-P. Descœudres and R. Kearsley in BSA 78 (1983) 9–53. Only the five non-calcareous samples in group A appear to qualify for imported Euboean status; of the calcareous subgroups, B-i (four samples) is tentatively equated with Veii itself and B-ii (four samples) with mainland Campania; no provenance can as yet be assigned to B-iii (two samples); there are two ‘rogues’. Agreement with Descœudres and Kearsley is possible on six samples, and partially so on three more; disagreement is total in the six cases where the origin is defined stylistically as Greek and analytically as Italian (or vice versa). In view of the current shortage of comparable Mössbauer analyses, the authors stress the need for caution in interpreting the present results, and refer briefly to the circumstances in which some ‘Euboean Geometric’ from western sites might have been made by immigrant potters.

This paper examines the importance of artist names and artistic identity, especially as expressed in artist signatures, to the interpretation of ancient Greek pottery. Attention is focused on a calyx krater signed ΣϒPIΣKOΣ EΓPΦΣEN [sic], and it is argued that the non-Greek ethnikon used as artist name encourages a non-Athenian reading of the iconography. The painted labels for all six figures on this vase, together with parallels from other Athenian red-figure vases—including others from the Syriskos workshop—all suggest the presentation of an alternative, un-Athenian world view. Okeanos, Dionysos, and Epaphos are read as representing faraway lands at the edges of the Ge Panteleia, or “entire earth,” while the central figure of Themis, Greek personification of divine right, is depicted pouring a libation to Balos, the Hellenized form of the Syrian supreme god Baal, thereby recognizing his status as a supreme deity. Other overtly political messages have been read elsewhere in the oeuvre of the Syriskos Workshop, where it seems that at least two distinct artistic identities were at play—the explicitly foreign “little Syrian,” and the more conventional Pistoxenos, or “trustworthy foreigner.” When explicitly signed on vessels, these artistic identities necessarily sway interpretation, whereas on the many unsigned pieces, the viewer is left to consider which identity is at play.

The study of Athenian black-figure and red-figure ceramics is haunted by nearly a thousand “hands” of the artisans thought to be responsible for their painted images. But what of the bodies attached to those hands? Who were they? Given the limited archaeological and epigraphic evidence for these ancient makers, this study attempts to recover their physical bodies through the ceramics production process—specifically the firing of vessels—as a communal activity potentially including a large cast of participants including craftsmen and craftswomen, metics, freed people and slaves. Using an experimental archaeology approach, I argue that we can begin to approach the sensory experiences of ancient potters and painters as they produced all the colored surfaces (and not only images) that endure on Greek vases. I propose a four-stage sensory firing in combination with the three-stage chemical firing process known for the production of Athenian ceramics, suggesting that each stage—and the colors produced at each stage—had their own “sensory signatures.” Examining extant vases with this awareness of the bodily experience of their ancient makers has the potential to bring back these ancient bodies, moving us beyond the limiting narrative of a single hand wielding a paint brush.

Contexts recently excavated by the BSA in the Roman stoa at Sparta contain pottery dating from the 12th to early 14th centuries. The bulk of the material dates to the first half of the 13th cent., and demonstrates that certain styles of pottery decoration, once considered to be mainly 12th-cent. in date, continue in currency much longer. These contexts show that Champlevé (Morgan's ‘Incised ware’) decorated with animal motives in the tondo are companion pieces of Glaze Painted (Morgan's ‘Green and Brown Painted group V’) and late Slip Painted wares. The descriptively (but confusingly) named ‘Protogeometric’ style of plainware decoration is also one that remains in currency. Cooking-vessels are almost exclusively handmade, in a very coarse fabric evocative of so-called ‘Slavic’ pottery of the 7th cent., with which it may well be confused. Table amphoras (stamnia) and small pithoi are often decorated with a distinctive incised decoration, making handles and body sherds of this usually nondescript and conservative shape particularly identifiable and diagnostic.

The attitudes of the ancient Greeks towards their material culture—so far as we can discover from their writings—was rather different from that of most modern students of the remains of classical antiquity. The Greeks esteemed gold and silver vessels, while many archaeologists still believe that they preferred painted pottery. This reversal of classical values came about through the entry of Utopian ideals into the mainstream of classical scholarship in the 18th century. Laudable in themselves, these ideals have led to a serious misunderstanding of the role of ceramic in antiquity. Prices for painted pottery were extremely low and it can hardly have been the vehicle for what the Ancients would have considered to be ‘Art’. It is ironic that the classical tradition has been subverted by many of those charged with the scholarly interpretation of the classical past.

ABSTRACTPolychrome slipped and decorated pottery from Corinth, Greece, developed over two centuries from monochrome, dark brown slips and washes on a calcareous yellow clay body to a wide range of decorative techniques. Once significant experimentation with color variability began, five colors, each with various levels of gloss, were produced. Some slip colors involve multiple-step processing to control glass content and degree of sintering; the control of particle size to produce variable roughness and a matte or semi-matt or glossy appearance. Considerable evidence supports nearly continuous development and engineering of the ceramic slips, although no data support the improvement in composition or processing of the ceramic bodies. For instance, significant macro-porosity consistently is present in the bodies. We present the results of study of 27 sherds with 59 examples of Corinthian polychrome paint layers, measuring 5 to 35 microns in thickness, that were collected by Marie Farnsworth in the late 1950s and 1960s from Greek archaeological sites. Black, red, white, wine red (or purple) and overlying, matte banded slips and paints were studied by optical microscopy, petrographic and scanning-electron microscopy with semi-quantative energy dispersive x-ray analysis, as well as wavelength-dispersive electron microprobe (EPMA) elemental mapping and analysis.

Glazed painted eggs were one of the most vivid manifestations of Ancient Rus’ ceramic art. Nevertheless, today there are still unsolved problems in study of this category of archaeological material. It concerns technological aspects. These articles were made of ordinary pottery loam in a band way. They were formed hollow and contained a small ceramic ball in the inner part. After the molding they were fired, then covered with transparent glaze, which served as a background. In most cases green and fulvous glaze was used. Then, by using a special tubular instrument the painting was made with glaze of another colour, usually yellow and green, and the item was heated up again in the kiln in order to smooth the surface. Paintings were not multifarious. There were three main types of designs: ordinary stripes, which surrounded the item several times; unsystematic stripes that were put lengthwise and athwart; and also braces, which were the most common ornament. The question of the Ancient Rus’ glaze, which covered the glazed painted eggs, was raised in the 1960-ies by T. Makarova. However, today, on the basis of our collection and in the context of significant changes in the field of science, we have succeeded in clarifying and extending the known facts. The Nanomedtech Electron Microscopy Laboratory with the help of a Tescan Mira 3 LMU scanning microscope and the Gatan Pecs 682 precision etching and coating system was kindly performed with spectral analysis. Spectral analysis confirmed that Ancient Rus’ glaze had a lead-silica composition with a high content of tin. Brown colour was obtained by iron oxide, yellow by lead, green by copper. A general glaze formula was developed, which should consist essentially of Pb and Si oxide. On the example of two samples that have the same yellow colour, the difference in the quantitative composition of the components and their percentage can be seen that, by-turn, confirms the view of the relative dimensions of component measurement. The analysis of a small amount of material allowed describing the technology of painted eggs manufacturing.

The article relates the results of archaeometric and archaeological investigations of the relationships between some well-known types of Byzantine table wares and pottery manufacture in Thebes and Chalcis, focusing on the period from the twelfth to the fourteenth centuries ad.We currently accept that several twelfth–thirteenth century types, such as ‘Green and Brown Painted Ware’, ‘Fine Sgraffito Ware’ and ‘Aegean Ware’, form part of a single, main, long-lasting production of Byzantine ceramics, called here main ‘Middle Byzantine Production’ (MBP), which was distributed and diffused in the whole Mediterranean area, and especially in its eastern part. The discovery of kiln furniture and pottery wasters in rescue excavations in Thebes and Chalcis gave the opportunity to define chemical reference groups for the two cities, and to test the hypothesis of a potential origin of the MBP in Central Greece. The results point to Chalcis, then the harbour of wealthy Thebes with a strategic location on maritime trade routes, as the place of manufacture of the MBP. Chalcis, which is now seen as a main pottery production site, is envisaged within its historic context. The persistence of the MBP after the Frankish conquest, without noticeable morphological changes, questions the impact of this conquest on both trade networks and dining habits.The political fragmentation of the thirteenth century gradually changed the conditions that facilitated the predominance of the MBP, and led to the establishment of a number of regional workshops whose ceramics were mainly destined to cover local markets. While continuing earlier techniques, they introduced new types, prominent among which was the ‘Sgraffito with Concentric Circles’ (previously related to ‘Zeuxippus Ware’). Thebes was one of these new workshops probably appearing from the mid-thirteenth century and continuing at least to the early fourteenth century. Chalcis eventually followed the same course, and its production may have carried on well into the Ottoman period.

Abstract This study focuses on an Attic red-figure kylix excavated in a North Etruscan ritual context at a major sanctuary site in the Mugello region at Poggio Colla. Attributed to the Painter of the Paris Gigantomachy (490–460 B. C. E.), the kylix depicts youths boxing. Careful excavation of the site over 20 years allows detailed presentation here of the votive context for the kylix and thus supports a plausible hypothesis for how it was integrated into rituals marking the transition from the first monumental stone temple to its successor at the site, sometime in the late fifth-early fourth century. Placing the kylix in the oeuvre of the painter, his workshop output, and its appearance in Etruria demonstrates that the shape and subject matter were well known to Etruscan audiences; discussion of the relationship of the Attic boxers to imagery in Etruscan tomb painting, black-figure silhouette style pottery, and funerary reliefs reveals links to and differences from Etruscan renderings of similar subject matter. Conclusions confirm the role of the Attic kylix in Etruscan ritual and establish the familiarity of the iconography of the kylix to Etruscan audiences. Although one of the tinas cliniiar, Etruscan Pultuce and Greek Pollux, is identified in fourth-century Etruscan art as an outstanding boxer, this study reveals no obvious link between the imagery on the kylix and the major deity honored at the site, very likely the goddess Uni.

Despite political and military upheaval in Byzantium in the 13th century, the most important of which were the conquest of Constantinople and the central territories of the empire by the Latins in 1204, and then the restoration of the state and the return of the capital by Michael VIII Palaeologus in 1261, the manufacture of marketable glazed tableware on its historical territory had not stopped. Moreover, delivery of this ceramic into the territory of the Crimea also continued. This was largely due to the new owners of the maritime market — Italian merchants, first Venetians, and then Genoese, who were active participants of the political and military conflicts in the Eastern Mediterranean and Byzantium. At the same time, the composition of the imported ceramic was not stable. Finds from well-dated archaeological deposits known from the excavations of archaeological sites in the Crimea, as well as the surrounding area, provide the information as for the volume of the Byzantine import and changes in the imported pottery assemblage during the 13th century. First of all, these are the cultural remains with the layers of fire and destruction on the territory of the medieval towns in southern and south-western Crimea with the coins of 1250—1260s; shipwreck near the Novy Svet village south-west to Sudak, which wrecked not earlier than 1260—1270s; two pits in the harbor part of Soldaia / Sudak with coins of the 1266 and 1270s, which, according to stratigraphy, were filled after the mentioned catastrophe; sites in south-eastern Crimea with coins of the last quarter of the 13th — early 14th century, so on. Correlation of data from these contexts leads to the following conclusions. 1. Quantity of Byzantine ceramics imported into Crimea during the 13th century was quite significant. It accounts for up to 70 % and more of the ceramics assemblages. 2. The range of glazed ware remained approximately the same from the beginning until the middle — third quarter of the 13th century. The MBP (mainly «Incised Sgraffito Ware», less often «Champlevй» and others); GWW with monochrome green glaze as well as green and brown painted variants; «Zeuxippus Ware» (class IА&II) prevailed. 3. Since the last third of the 13th century less elegant and cheaper vessels («Sgraffito with Concentric Circles», jugs with stripes of white engobe) from different workshops, which in large quantities arise on the Byzantine and surrounding lands, start to come to the Crimea and Northern Black Sea Region. Their activities were stimulated by the intensification of maritime trade and the growing demand for cheap glazed pottery. 4. Cessation of some groups of import, especially MBP from Chalcis, may be due to the ousting of the Venetians from the Crimean market and their temporary difficulties with novation in the Black Sea after 1261. At the same time, the sales crisis could lead to the decline of some large pottery centers and to the emergence of new focused on more promising trading intermediaries, which the Genoese became.

The Ure Museum of Greek Archaeology, in the Department of Classics at the University of Reading, has experienced something of a renaissance in the 3rd millennium. It acquired status as a registered museum in 2001 and accreditation in 2008. It has boasted a bespoke web-accessible database since 2002 and a professionally designed website since 2004 (www.reading.ac.uk/ure). Finally, in 2005 its physical display was completely redesigned. While the existence of the Museum and some of its collections have long been well known to scholars of Gr vases – thanks to the tireless efforts of Percy and Annie Ure in the first half of the 20th Ct, including their 1954 publication of Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum. Great Britain 12. University of Reading (London, Oxford University Press, 1954), AR 9 (1962–1963) and some listings in Beazley and Trendall's volumes (see J.D. Beazley, Attic Red-figure Vase-painters, 2nd ed. [Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1963], A.D. Trendall and A. Cambitoglou, The Red-figured Vases of Apulia [Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1978–1982], A.D. Trendall, The Red-figured Vases of Lucania, Campania and Sicily (Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1967) – much of the collection remains unknown. Even in the 1960s, after all, the publication of fragments, lamps and Cypriote ceramics remained unfashionable. And the Ures, experts in Gr pottery, were little interested in publishing the Egyptian artefacts (approximately a 5th of the displayed collection) and other non-ceramic artefacts. As part of the Ure Museum's renaissance, University of Reading staff and students are researching and gradually publishing its hidden treasures: A.C. Smith, Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum. Great Britain 23. Reading Museum Service (Reading Borough Council) (Oxford, Oxford University Press, 2007) documents more than 150 vases, most in the Ure Museum, from the Reading Museum Service (Reading Borough Council); a forthcoming fascicule of the Corpus of Cypriote Antiquities will catalogue the Cypriote holdings in the Ure Museum; and another volume of Corpus Vasorum Antiquorum will detail approximately 200 holdings of the Ure Museum that are hitherto unpublished. The items discussed below, however, are those that have been acquired by the Ure Museum since 2004, as well a sample of the 19 Coptic textile fragments, which have been brought out of storage, conserved by the Textile Conservation Centre in Winchester and are now displayed in the Ure Museum (since 2005).

Although a rare occurrence in late medieval cemeteries, vessels have been found on almost all major sites of the period, such as Novo Brdo, Trgoviste, Reljina Gradina and the churchyard of St Peter?s near Novi Pazar, the churchyard of St Nicholas? at Kursumlija, the churchyard of St Stephen?s at Milentija near Brus, Mali Zvecan, Mirijevo, Vinca. Vessels occur in different places, both on top of and in graves. Fragments of pottery and glass vessels are relatively abundant in layers of earth filling burial pits and chambers, and in those immediately overlaying burial pits or gravestones. The available data make it possible to recognize almost all functional types. The most frequently found pottery shapes are larger liquid containers - jugs and pitchers, and apparently there have also been many pots, both hearth cooking and glazed (figs. 1-3; 5-9). Recognizable among the glass vessels are bottles, usually those with long fluted necks and biconical, as well as infrequent icon lamps. The data about the vessels found buried with the deceased is much more detailed. Such finds are recorded at Macvanska Mitrovica (fig. 10/3), Brestovik (fig. 13/3), Mirijevo (fig. 4/1), Vinca (figs. 4/2; 10/4), Stragari near Kragujevac, Milentija near Brus, round the church of St Peter near Novi Pazar, at the monastery of Konculic (fig. 13/2) and the monastery of Gradac. The relatively plentiful and diverse vessels discovered at the cemeteries of medieval Trgoviste are especially illustrative (fig. 10/2, 7). The available descriptions of vessels and archaeological contexts provide a general impression about the types of vessels recorded in the cemeteries of a late medieval and early modern date in the central Balkans. Glass bottles as a rule were laid in graves, while earth-fill layers, apart from bottles, contained plentiful shards of drinking vessels. As for the bottles, two types were registered: biconical and those with long fluted necks (figs. 10; 12/1). Among the glass fragments there were parts of bottles with a ring around the neck and a ribbed body (Rippenflaschen), generally known in domestic scholarship under the term Panik type bottle (fig. 10/8). Also identifiable among the recovered glass fragments are drinking vessels of several types, beakers with small or large prunts (Nuppenbecher and Krautstrunk) and ribbed (Rippenbecher), common especially in the 15th and 16th centuries (figs. 12/1, 3, 5, 6). There are also pieces with a blue thread applied around the rim and body, similar to the examples from Stalac reproduced herein (fig. 12/3). Quite rarely found are drinking vessels of cobalt blue glass, which are mostly small, except for a few examples of up to 14 cm in height, which is also the height of the abovementioned bottles. Apart from Venice and Dubrovnik (Ragusa), glassware was imported from Hungary. The discovered pottery vessels show a greater diversity, mostly in terms of shape. In addition to liquid containers - jugs, pitchers and beakers, there occur bowls, pots and even apothecary vessels. A vast majority belong to the Serbian ware of the 14th and 15th centuries. Most are glazed, and frequently painted with spirals, bands and blotches in white, green and dark brown or decorated with simple sgrafitto patterns, such as the finds from Novo Brdo (fig. 1), St Peter?s (figs 9; 13/1, 4) and the monastery of Gradac. By far the most interesting of them is the beaker from Konculic with an openwork edge around the base (fig. 12/2), which is commonly found in glass beakers of the same period. Deserving of particular attention are three cylindrical ceramic bottles from Novo Brdo (fig. 2). The presented material allows us to recognize the central issues surrounding the occurrence of vessels in the cemeteries of the 14th to 17th century in Serbia. Given the small number of recorded cases, the presence of vessels in graves as grave goods appears to have been utterly sporadic. Being based on the processed and published results, and given the small number of systematically investigated and analyzed cemeteries, however, such a conclusion should be taken with caution. In most cases, the vessels were laid beside the head of the deceased, usually on its left, rarely on the right side, and only exceptionally next to the legs or the upper body area. On the other hand, the amount of fragments discovered in cemeteries is generally large, as shown, for example, by a cursory insight into the excavation records for the site of Novo Brdo. This discrepancy is surprising and makes us think over the character of the finds, but we shall not get closer to an answer until we have detailed context analyses done and the material systematized and statistically processed. When it comes to shapes, liquid containers obviously predominated - glass bottles and ceramic pitchers, followed by glass and ceramic drinking vessels, while ceramic pots and bowls occurred in graves only rarely. The vessels are mostly small. The glass bottles are between 14 and 15 cm in height on average, except the specimen from Mali Zvecan, which is more than twice as high (36 cm). The cups show similar heights, between 10 and 16 cm. The ceramic pitchers and pots are also small, with a height usually not exceeding 16 cm. Judging by the available data, it appears that shards of larger vessels were found on top of graves (bowls, pitchers, jugs, pots), apparently brought for the memorial ceremony held at the grave, while graves usually contained small vessels, usually bottles. Apart from Serbia, the occurrence of vessels in cemeteries has also been recorded in the surrounding areas. Given their very distinctive context and character, the finds from Bosnia draw particular attention, as well as those from Croatia, where they are concentrated in the broader area of Split. This overview makes it plain that the vessels laid in graves differ little from ordinary household utensils. Moreover, all can be classified as typical of the 14th to 17th century - Venetian, Dubrovnik and Hungarian glass, and the ceramic kitchen and tableware produced locally, in Serbia. For the sake of comparison, we draw attention to similar vessels discovered on fortress, settlement and monastery sites, such as Stalac, Belgrade (fig. 14), Studenica, Mileseva, Trgoviste, Trnava near Cacak. The presented examples, combined with all previously gained insights, clearly demonstrate and corroborate the assumption that the custom of laying vessels in graves in the central Balkans was an uncommon but long-standing phenomenon. Unlike earlier periods, when it was pottery vessels that were almost exclusively placed in graves, from the 14th century on the ratio of glass to ceramic vessels, mostly bottles, pitchers and beakers, becomes virtually equal. Judging by the find-spots and other known information, in the late medieval period the custom of laying vessels in graves was confined to a few areas along the Danube, Morava, Ibar, Drina and Neretva rivers. These areas, in the hinterland of Dubrovnik, in Herzegovina, Bosnia and Serbia, are associated with major caravan routes, which is relevant in our considerations of the glass finds. As it appears from the examples from all aforementioned areas, the only difference of some significance concerns the type of glass vessels used in funeral rituals - bottles in Serbia and Croatia, and drinking vessels in Bosnia and Herzegovina. Even though this seems to give grounds to assume certain regional variation in the custom of making offerings to the dead, at this point any conclusion would be highly conjectural, especially if based only on the available archaeological data. As shown by ethnological research, the custom, also sporadic, survived in Serbia and Bulgaria until the late 19th century. The analysis of the vessels from late medieval and early modern cemeteries has revealed a number of features common to the central-Balkan region, but also some regional variation. However, given the proportion of processed specimens in the entire recovered material, the assumptions and results presented here should only be taken as preliminary. The fact that some manifestations of the custom are still obscure reduces some of the previously proposed interpretations to little more than unfounded speculation, which is fertile ground for manipulation. Apart from analyzing the archaeological material, what is needed therefore is a thorough study of other aspects of the issue, above all the phenomenon of burials topped by slabs and stecci, and funerary practices at large.

Abstract The idea of covering pottery with polychrome ornaments adopted from the Greek art of the Late Geometric period spread to almost every corner of Early Iron Age Europe, including some areas in present-day Poland. Painted pottery was manufactured in Middle Silesia and southern Greater Poland. Finds of painted vessels are recorded also in Upper Silesia, and a smaller number still, in Lesser Poland. The presented paper addresses painted pottery identified with the Upper Silesian-Lesser Polish regional group of the Lusatian culture from settlement and funerary contexts (cremation and bi-ritual cemeteries). A closer look is taken at the previously unpublished finds of polychrome vessels from the cemetery at Dobrzeń Mały investigated during the 1970s. Their collection is now displayed and preserved in the Museum of Opole Silesia in Opole.

The author analyzes the historical background for collecting and trading in the ancient painted pottery (Corinthian, Boeotian, Euboean, Greek geometric, Italiote, Cypriot) which was considered as finds from the South Russia (Crimea, Odessa region and Taman peninsula) during 1890–1910s. At that time these specimens of ancient pottery played an important role as an element bringing more colors to the expected image of “the Classical Hellas in the South Russia”. The pieces are currently available for studies in various Russian museums.

In the summer of 1985 the centenary of the birth of Sir John Beazley was celebrated in London and Oxford. His influence on the study of Greek painted pottery, particularly Attic (Colour Plate 4A, etc.), has been second to none this century, and his death in 1970 left a gap that has been impossible to fill. Since his death, titles of lectures and conferences such as ‘Beazley and After’, ‘Vasenforschung nach Beazley’ and ‘In the Wake of Beazley’ show what a pivotal figure he was, and the 70s and 80s have proved interesting times for re-adjusting sights. As Martin Robertson remarked, we are living in ‘an age of uncertainty.

Greek pottery provides us with a fascinating, if bewildering, variety of painted scenes. It is therefore no cause for astonishment that study of imagery, iconography, narrative method, mythical and contemporary subject matter, etc. should be of major scholarly concern. Scholars work with the evidence they possess but have to keep in mind what is missing - both from literature and from art. The more closely investigated such matters are, the more obvious it becomes that we must be careful to make distinctions between the imagery of different centres of vase production, and also between the imagery in vase-painting and that in other media, especially sculpture. It is inevitable that Athens has been the area most intensively probed, and that myth has been the most attractive magnet.

Admiration for the quality and appearance of Greek pottery, and interest in the subject matter of the figured scenes, have until recently tended to draw attention away from other aspects of the study. In reaction to what is seen as an overemphasis on attribution, both of painters and of potters, one approach which has been adopted is to consider the organization of the shops which produced the pottery, to see the pottery in its sociological context. Talk of ‘pupils’, ‘masters’, ‘influence’ etc. presupposes that we know the arrangements under which the potters and painters worked, but hard facts are few.There is evidence from excavated kilns, but the workshops which lay nearby and their spatial organization are less well known. The Potters’ Quarter at Corinth gives a better idea than other sites of this aspect, but there are no kilns there, and we do not know how typical the Potters’ Quarter was - there were other areas of production at Corinth.

AbstractThe present contribution deals with the use of organic colourants in wall paintings, polychrome pottery and painted stone artworks, i.e. painted artworks on inorganic supports. The term organic colourants is referred to the chemical nature of these compounds but not to the way of application; therefore, organic colourants can be dyes, lakes or pigments. The use of organic colourants in wall paintings has been given little attention in the past, perhaps on the assumption that they were rarely used by ancient artists. Recent diagnostic studies, however, brought evidence that their use was not fragmentary; on the contrary, there seems to be continuity in the centuries, at least with regard to the most widely used such as madder, Tyrian purple and indigo. Sources, alteration phenomena, identification methods and analytical evidence is given for the main organic colourants with concern to red, yellow, green, purple and blue hues. Drawbacks and issues are discussed with concern to the identification techniques.

In the Late Archaic - Early Classic period, the Attic ceramic industry was characterized by a kind of duality. On the one hand, the red-figure technique was flourishing, when Euphronios’, Douris’ or the Berlin Painter’s works represented the height of Greek vase painting. On the other hand, the market was also covered by large quantities of low-quality black-figure pottery. Not only in Athens, but even in the whole Ancient Mediterranean these mass-produced vessels emerge constantly, even from modern excavations. Therefore, in contrast to most vases of more talented painters they can be attached to an archaeological feature or layer. Due to their inadequate style, relatively few characteristics can be determined while looking at the painting. Thus, the manufacturing criteria, such as the details of the shapes, are more important in the attribution. In this paper, I study the late black-figure lekythoi of the Museum of Fine Arts in Budapest with the help of geometric morphometrics using 3D reconstructions.

The characteristic woman of Archaic Greek sculpture, the kore (pl. korai) stands proud, rigid, frontal, and omnisciently smirking at her viewer with the famous Archaic smile. She has been interpreted as an attendant, goddess, or deceased maiden, wearing representations of draped diaphanous robes, jewelry, and bearing offerings. Yet where her now clean marble surface exists once was intricately illuminated with vibrant pigments, inlaid stones, metals, and often accompanied by accessories of various materials. Recent advancements in analytical techniques have enabled scholars to delve deeper into the study of these sculptures, uncovering traces of pigments which would otherwise be left undetected. However, the image that these colours paint has yet to be thoroughly analysed and a history of intentional removal and surface cleaning has postponed a complete evaluation of the sculptures. In Attica, from the sixth to the early 5th century BCE, korai reflect stylistic progression and variation within and between archaeological contexts. A palette of colours was used to display features now lost to the modern eye. This paper examines the korai, proposing meaning through colour, patterns, and representations. Using polychrome reconstructions, spectral data, pottery, archaeological evidence, and ancient literary sources, the author interpreted the polychromy and decorative elements of Attic korai from votive and funerary contexts. Asking questions on symbolism, utility, cultural connection, and identity of the sculptures; this paper explains the use of pigments in relation to the symbolism of the sculptures and to their role in the greater framework of the Archaic Greek world.

In a media saturated world, doodles have recently received the kind of attention usually reserved for coverage of racy extra marital affairs, corrupt governance, and product malfunction. Former British Prime Minister Blair’s private doodling at a World Economic Forum meeting in 2005 raised suspicions that he, according to one keen graphologist, struggled “to maintain control in a confusing world," which infers he was attempting to cohere a scattershot, fragmentary series of events (Spiegel). However, placid-faced Microsoft CEO Bill Gates, who sat nearby, actually scrawled the doodles. In this case, perhaps the scrawls mimicked the ambience in the room: Gates might have been ‘tuning’–registering the ‘white noise’ of the participants, letting his unconscious dictate doodles as a way to cope with the dissonance trekking in with the officialspeak. The doodles may have documented and registered the space between words, acting like deposits from his gestalt.Sometimes the most intriguing doodles co-exist with printed texts. This includes common vernacular graffiti that lines public and private books and magazines. Such graffiti exposes tensions in the role of readers as well as horror vacui: a fear of unused, empty space. Yet, school children fingering fresh pages and stiff book spines for the first few times often consider their book pages as sanctioned, discreet, and inviolable. The book is an object of financial and cultural investment, or imbued both with mystique and ideologies. Yet, in the e-book era, the old-fashioned, physical page is a relic of sorts, a holdover from coarse papyrus culled from wetland sage, linking us to the First Dynasty in Egypt. Some might consider the page as a vessel for typography, a mere framing device for text. The margins may reflect a perimeter of nothingness, an invisible borderland that doodles render visible by inhabiting them. Perhaps the margins are a bare landscape, like unmarred flat sand in a black and white panchromatic photo with unique tonal signature and distinct grain. Perhaps the margins are a mute locality, a space where words have evaporated, or a yet-to-be-explored environment, or an ambient field. Then comes the doodle, an icon of vernacular art.As a modern folklorist, I have studied and explored vernacular art at length, especially forms that may challenge and fissure aesthetic, cultural, and social mores, even within my own field. For instance, I contend that Grandma Prisbrey’s “Bottle Village,” featuring millions of artfully arranged pencils, bottles, and dolls culled from dumps in Southern California, is a syncretic culturescape with underlying feminist symbolism, not merely the product of trauma and hoarding (Ensminger). Recently, I flew to Oregon to deliver a paper on Mexican-American gravesite traditions. In a quest for increased multicultural tolerance, I argued that inexpensive dimestore objects left on Catholic immigrant graves do not represent a messy landscape of trinkets but unique spiritual environments with links to customs 3,000 years old. For me, doodles represent a variation on graffiti-style art with cultural antecedents stretching back throughout history, ranging from ancient scrawls on Greek ruins to contemporary park benches (with chiseled names, dates, and symbols), public bathroom latrinalia, and spray can aerosol art, including ‘bombing’ and ‘tagging’ hailed as “Spectacular Vernaculars” by Russell Potter (1995). Noted folklorist Alan Dundes mused on the meaning of latrinalia in Here I Sit – A Study of American Latrinalia (1966), which has inspired pop culture books and web pages for the preservation and discussion of such art (see for instance, www.itsallinthehead.com/gallery1.html). Older texts such as Classic American Graffiti by Allen Walker Read (1935), originally intended for “students of linguistics, folk-lore, abnormal psychology,” reveal the field’s longstanding interest in marginal, crude, and profane graffiti.Yet, to my knowledge, a monograph on doodles has yet to be published by a folklorist, perhaps because the art form is reconsidered too idiosyncratic, too private, the difference between jots and doodles too blurry for a taxonomy and not the domain of identifiable folk groups. In addition, the doodles in texts often remain hidden until single readers encounter them. No broad public interaction is likely, unless a library text circulates freely, which may not occur after doodles are discovered. In essence, the books become tainted, infected goods. Whereas latrinalia speaks openly and irreverently, doodles feature a different scale and audience.Doodles in texts may represent a kind of speaking from the ‘margin’s margins,’ revealing the reader-cum-writer’s idiosyncratic, self-meaningful, and stylised hieroglyphics from the ambient margins of one’s consciousness set forth in the ambient margins of the page. The original page itself is an ambient territory that allows the meaning of the text to take effect. When those liminal spaces (both between and betwixt, in which the rules of page format, design, style, and typography are abandoned) are altered by the presence of doodles, the formerly blank, surplus, and soft spaces of the page offer messages coterminous with the text, often allowing readers to speak, however haphazardly and unconsciously, with and against the triggering text. The bleached whiteness can become a crowded milieu in the hands of a reader re-scripting the ambient territory. If the book is borrowed, then the margins are also an intimate negotiation with shared or public space. The cryptic residue of the doodler now resides, waiting, for the city of eyes.Throughout history, both admired artists and Presidents regularly doodled. Famed Italian Renaissance painter Filippo Lippi avoided strenuous studying by doodling in his books (Van Cleave 44). Both sides of the American political spectrum have produced plentiful inky depictions as well: roughshod Democratic President Johnson drew flags and pagodas; former Hollywood fantasy fulfiller turned politician Republican President Reagan’s specialty was western themes, recalling tropes both from his actor period and his duration acting as President; meanwhile, former law student turned current President, Barack Obama, has sketched members of Congress and the Senate for charity auctions. These doodles are rich fodder for both psychologists and cross-discipline analysts that propose theories regarding the automatic writing and self-styled miniature pictures of civic leaders. Doodles allow graphologists to navigate and determine the internal, cognitive fabric of the maker. To critics, they exist as mere trifles and offer nothing more than an iota of insight; doodles are not uncanny offerings from the recesses of memory, like bite-sized Rorschach tests, but simply sloppy scrawls of the bored.Ambient music theory may shed some light. Timothy Morton argues that Brian Eno designed to make music that evoked “space whose quality had become minimally significant” and “deconstruct the opposition … between figure and ground.” In fact, doodles may yield the same attributes as well. After a doodle is inserted into texts, the typography loses its primacy. There is a merging of the horizons. The text of the author can conflate with the text of the reader in an uneasy dance of meaning: the page becomes an interface revealing a landscape of signs and symbols with multiple intelligences–one manufactured and condoned, the other vernacular and unsanctioned. A fixed end or beginning between the two no longer exists. The ambient space allows potential energies to hover at the edge, ready to illustrate a tension zone and occupy the page. The blank spaces keep inviting responses. An emergent discourse is always in waiting, always threatening to overspill the text’s intended meaning. In fact, the doodles may carry more weight than the intended text: the hierarchy between authorship and readership may topple.Resistant reading may take shape during these bouts. The doodle is an invasion and signals the geography of disruption, even when innocuous. It is a leveling tool. As doodlers place it alongside official discourse, they move away from positions of passivity, being mere consumers, and claim their own autonomy and agency. The space becomes co-determinant as boundaries are blurred. The destiny of the original text’s meaning is deferred. The habitus of the reader becomes embodied in the scrawl, and the next reader must negotiate and navigate the cultural capital of this new author. As such, the doodle constitutes an alternative authority and economy of meaning within the text.Recent studies indicate doodling, often regarded as behavior that announces a person’s boredom and withdrawal, is actually a very special tool to prevent memory loss. Jackie Andrade, an expert from the School of Psychology at the University of Plymouth, maintains that doodling actually “offsets the effects of selective memory blockade,” which yields a surprising result (quoted in “Doodling Gets”). Doodlers exhibit 29% more memory recall than those who passively listen, frozen in an unequal bond with the speaker/lecturer. Students that doodle actually retain more information and are likely more productive due to their active listening. They adeptly absorb information while students who stare patiently or daydream falter.Furthermore, in a 2006 paper, Andrew Kear argues that “doodling is a way in which students, consciously or not, stake a claim of personal agency and challenge some the values inherent in the education system” (2). As a teacher concerned with the engagement of students, he asked for three classes to submit their doodles. Letting them submit any two-dimensional graphic or text made during a class (even if made from body fluid), he soon discovered examples of “acts of resistance” in “student-initiated effort[s] to carve out a sense of place within the educational institution” (6). Not simply an ennui-prone teenager or a proto-surrealist trying to render some automatic writing from the fringes of cognition, a student doodling may represent contested space both in terms of the page itself and the ambience of the environment. The doodle indicates tension, and according to Kear, reflects students reclaiming “their own self-recognized voice” (6).In a widely referenced 1966 article (known as the “doodle” article) intended to describe the paragraph organisational styles of different cultures, Robert Kaplan used five doodles to investigate a writer’s thought patterns, which are rooted in cultural values. Now considered rather problematic by some critics after being adopted by educators for teacher-training materials, Kaplan’s doodles-as-models suggest, “English speakers develop their ideas in a linear, hierarchal fashion and ‘Orientals’ in a non-liner, spiral fashion…” (Severino 45). In turn, when used as pedagogical tools, these graphics, intentionally or not, may lead an “ethnocentric, assimilationist stance” (45). In this case, doodles likely shape the discourse of English as Second Language instruction. Doodles also represent a unique kind of “finger trace,” not unlike prints from the tips of a person’s fingers and snowflakes. Such symbol systems might be used for “a means of lightweight authentication,” according to Christopher Varenhorst of MIT (1). Doodles, he posits, can be used as “passdoodles"–a means by which a program can “quickly identify users.” They are singular expressions that are quirky and hard to duplicate; thus, doodles could serve as substitute methods of verifying people who desire devices that can safeguard their privacy without users having to rely on an ever-increasing number of passwords. Doodles may represent one such key. For many years, psychologists and psychiatrists have used doodles as therapeutic tools in their treatment of children that have endured hardship, ailments, and assault. They may indicate conditions, explain various symptoms and pathologies, and reveal patterns that otherwise may go unnoticed. For instance, doodles may “reflect a specific physical illness and point to family stress, accidents, difficult sibling relationships, and trauma” (Lowe 307). Lowe reports that children who create a doodle featuring their own caricature on the far side of the page, distant from an image of parent figures on the same page, may be experiencing detachment, while the portrayal of a father figure with “jagged teeth” may indicate a menace. What may be difficult to investigate in a doctor’s office conversation or clinical overview may, in fact, be gleaned from “the evaluation of a child’s spontaneous doodle” (307). So, if children are suffering physically or psychologically and unable to express themselves in a fully conscious and articulate way, doodles may reveal their “self-concept” and how they feel about their bodies; therefore, such creative and descriptive inroads are important diagnostic tools (307). Austrian born researcher Erich Guttman and his cohort Walter MacLay both pioneered art therapy in England during the mid-twentieth century. They posited doodles might offer some insight into the condition of schizophrenics. Guttman was intrigued by both the paintings associated with the Surrealist movement and the pioneering, much-debated work of Sigmund Freud too. Although Guttman mostly studied professionally trained artists who suffered from delusions and other conditions, he also collected a variety of art from patients, including those undergoing mescaline therapy, which alters a person’s consciousness. In a stroke of luck, they were able to convince a newspaper editor at the Evening Standard to provide them over 9,000 doodles that were provided by readers for a contest, each coded with the person’s name, age, and occupation. This invaluable data let the academicians compare the work of those hospitalised with the larger population. Their results, released in 1938, contain several key declarations and remain significant contributions to the field. Subsequently, Francis Reitman recounted them in his own book Psychotic Art: Doodles “release the censor of the conscious mind,” allowing a person to “relax, which to creative people was indispensable to production.”No appropriate descriptive terminology could be agreed upon.“Doodles are not communications,” for the meaning is only apparent when analysed individually.Doodles are “self-meaningful.” (37) Doodles, the authors also established, could be divided into this taxonomy: “stereotypy, ornamental details, movements, figures, faces and animals” or those “depicting scenes, medley, and mixtures” (37). The authors also noted that practitioners from the Jungian school of psychology often used “spontaneously produced drawings” that were quite “doodle-like in nature” in their own discussions (37). As a modern folklorist, I venture that doodles offer rich potential for our discipline as well. At this stage, I am offering a series of dictums, especially in regards to doodles that are commonly found adjacent to text in books and magazines, notebooks and journals, that may be expanded upon and investigated further. Doodles allow the reader to repopulate the text with ideogram-like expressions that are highly personalised, even inscrutable, like ambient sounds.Doodles re-purpose the text. The text no longer is unidirectional. The text becomes a point of convergence between writer and reader. The doodling allows for such a conversation, bilateral flow, or “talking back” to the text.Doodles reveal a secret language–informal codes that hearken back to the “lively, spontaneous, and charged with feeling” works of child art or naïve art that Victor Sanua discusses as being replaced in a child’s later years by art that is “stilted, formal, and conforming” (62).Doodling animates blank margins, the dead space of the text adjacent to the script, making such places ripe for spontaneous, fertile, and exploratory markings.Doodling reveals a democratic, participatory ethos. No text is too sacred, no narrative too inviolable. Anything can be reworked by the intimate graffiti of the reader. The authority of the book is not fixed; readers negotiate and form a second intelligence imprinted over the top of the original text, blurring modes of power.Doodles reveal liminal moments. Since the reader in unmonitored, he or she can express thoughts that may be considered marginal or taboo by the next reader. The original subject of the book itself does not restrict the reader. Thus, within the margins of the page, a brief suspension of boundaries and borders, authority and power, occurs. The reader hides in anonymity, free to reroute the meaning of the book. Doodling may convey a reader’s infantalism. Every book can become a picture book. This art can be the route returning a reader to the ambience of childhood.Doodling may constitute Illuminated/Painted Texts in reverse, commemorating the significance of the object in hitherto unexpected forms and revealing the reader’s codex. William Blake adorned his own poems by illuminating the skin/page that held his living verse; common readers may do so too, in naïve, nomadic, and primitive forms. Doodling demarcates tension zones, yielding social-historical insights into eras while offering psychological glimpses and displaying aesthetic values of readers-cum-writers.Doodling reveals margins as inter-zones, replete with psychogeography. While the typography is sanctioned, legitimate, normalised, and official discourse (“chartered” and “manacled,” to hijack lines from William Blake), the margins are a vernacular depository, a terminus, allowing readers a sense of agency and autonomy. The doodled page becomes a visible reminder and signifier: all pages are potentially “contested” spaces. Whereas graffiti often allows a writer to hide anonymously in the light in a city besieged by multiple conflicting texts, doodles allow a reader-cum-writer’s imprint to live in the cocoon of a formerly fossilised text, waiting for the light. Upon being opened, the book, now a chimera, truly breathes. Further exploration and analysis should likely consider several issues. What truly constitutes and shapes the role of agent and reader? Is the reader an agent all the time, or only when offering resistant readings through doodles? How is a doodler’s agency mediated by the author or the format of texts in forms that I have to map? Lastly, if, as I have argued, the ambient space allows potential energies to hover at the edge, ready to illustrate a tension zone and occupy the page, what occurs in the age of digital or e-books? Will these platforms signal an age of acquiescence to manufactured products or signal era of vernacular responses, somehow hitched to html code and PDF file infiltration? Will bytes totally replace type soon in the future, shaping unforeseen actions by doodlers? Attached Figures Figure One presents the intimate graffiti of my grandfather, found in the 1907 edition of his McGuffey’s Eclectic Spelling Book. The depiction is simple, even crude, revealing a figure found on the adjacent page to Lesson 248, “Of Characters Used in Punctuation,” which lists the perfunctory functions of commas, semicolons, periods, and so forth. This doodle may offset the routine, rote, and rather humdrum memorisation of such grammatical tools. The smiling figure may embody and signify joy on an otherwise machine-made bare page, a space where my grandfather illustrated his desires (to lighten a mood, to ease dissatisfaction?). Historians Joe Austin and Michael Willard examine how youth have been historically left without legitimate spaces in which to live out their autonomy outside of adult surveillance. For instance, graffiti often found on walls and trains may reflect a sad reality: young people are pushed to appropriate “nomadic, temporary, abandoned, illegal, or otherwise unwatched spaces within the landscape” (14). Indeed, book graffiti, like the graffiti found on surfaces throughout cities, may offer youth a sense of appropriation, authorship, agency, and autonomy: they take the page of the book, commit their writing or illustration to the page, discover some freedom, and feel temporarily independent even while they are young and disempowered. Figure Two depicts the doodles of experimental filmmaker Jim Fetterley (Animal Charm productions) during his tenure as a student at the Art Institute of Chicago in the early 1990s. His two doodles flank the text of “Lady Lazarus” by Sylvia Plath, regarded by most readers as an autobiographical poem that addresses her own suicide attempts. The story of Lazarus is grounded in the Biblical story of John Lazarus of Bethany, who was resurrected from the dead. The poem also alludes to the Holocaust (“Nazi Lampshades”), the folklore surrounding cats (“And like the cat I have nine times to die”), and impending omens of death (“eye pits “ … “sour breath”). The lower doodle seems to signify a motorised tank-like machine, replete with a furnace or engine compartment on top that bellows smoke. Such ominous images, saturated with potential cartoon-like violence, may link to the World War II references in the poem. Meanwhile, the upper doodle seems to be curiously insect-like, and Fetterley’s name can be found within the illustration, just like Plath’s poem is self-reflexive and addresses her own plight. Most viewers might find the image a bit more lighthearted than the poem, a caricature of something biomorphic and surreal, but not very lethal. Again, perhaps this is a counter-message to the weight of the poem, a way to balance the mood and tone, or it may well represent the larval-like apparition that haunts the very thoughts of Plath in the poem: the impending disease of her mind, as understood by the wary reader. References Austin, Joe, and Michael Willard. “Introduction: Angels of History, Demons of Culture.” Eds. Joe Austion and Michael Willard. Generations of Youth: Youth Cultures and History in Twentieth-Century America. New York: NYU Press, 1998. “Doodling Gets Its Due: Those Tiny Artworks May Aid Memory.” World Science 2 March 2009. 15 Jan. 2009 ‹http://www.world-science.net/othernews/090302_doodle›. Dundes, Alan. “Here I Sit – A Study of American Latrinalia.” Papers of the Kroeber Anthropological Society 34: 91-105. Ensminger, David. “All Bottle Up: Reinterpreting the Culturescape of Grandma Prisbey.” Adironack Review 9.3 (Fall 2008). ‹http://adirondackreview.homestead.com/ensminger2.html›. Kear, Andrew. “Drawings in the Margins: Doodling in Class an Act of Reclamation.” Graduate Student Conference. University of Toronto, 2006. ‹http://gradstudentconference.oise.utoronto.ca/documents/185/Drawing%20in%20the%20Margins.doc›. Lowe, Sheila R. The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Handwriting Analysis. New York: Alpha Books, 1999. Morton, Timothy. “‘Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star’ as an Ambient Poem; a Study of Dialectical Image; with Some Remarks on Coleridge and Wordsworth.” Romantic Circles Praxis Series (2001). 6 Jan. 2009 ‹http://www.rc.umd.edu/praxis/ecology/morton/morton.html›. Potter, Russell A. Spectacular Vernaculars: Hip Hop and the Politics of Postmodernism. Albany: State University of New York, 1995. Read, Allen Walker. Classic American Graffiti: Lexical Evidence from Folk Epigraphy in Western North America. Waukesha, Wisconsin: Maledicta Press, 1997. Reitman, Francis. Psychotic Art. London: Routledge, 1999. Sanua, Victor. “The World of Mystery and Wonder of the Schizophrenic Patient.” International Journal of Social Psychiatry 8 (1961): 62-65. Severino, Carol. “The ‘Doodles’ in Context: Qualifying Claims about Contrastive Rhetoric.” The Writing Center Journal 14.1 (Fall 1993): 44-62. Van Cleave, Claire. Master Drawings of the Italian Rennaissance. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 2007. Varenhost, Christopher. Passdoodles: A Lightweight Authentication Method. Research Science Institute. Cambridge, Mass.: Massachusetts Institute of Technology, 2004.

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. Art in the Time of Colony: Empires and the Making of the Modern World, 1650-2000. Farnham, UK: Ashgate Publishing, 2014.Clark, Manning. History of Australia. Abridged by Michael Cathcart. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 1997 [1993]. Clements, Nicholas. The Black War: Fear, Sex and Resistance in Tasmania. St Lucia, Qld.: U of Queensland P, 2014.Colonial Times. “Hobart Town.” Colonial Times 5 Mar. 1830: 2.The Commissioners. Intercolonial Exhibition Official Catalogue. 2nd ed. Melbourne: Blundell & Ford, 1866.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.———. “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].

There was a moment just after September 11, 2001, that many commentators heralded the end of our celebrity obsessions and the emergence of a new sobriety in politics and culture. We had the mediated version of atonement when the famous presented their most serious sides for television specials in support of the families of the victims of the September 11 attacks. But within a matter of weeks the celebrity industry was back on its old track – salacious rumors about J-Lo and her movement through the entertainment industry A-List, further debates about the propriety of Michael Jackson’s behaviour, Demi Moore’s new love interest Ashton Kutcher – who is and was young enough to be her son and so on. The machine and industry that had been in place tested whether it could continue its dance with public intimacy and private turmoils of the rich and famed. Fame is both fickle and incredibly enduring. It relies on a public individual’s connection to an audience and how that persona can embody some form of affective investment (Marshall, Celebrity and Power). Audience’s loyalty can migrate, but the machinery of fame can produce new variations for newly minted moments of affection or even its opposite, intense dislike. What is enduring is the process. There is the manufacture of celebrities and stars that were produced with regularity by the old movie studios in the first half of the twentieth century that are now produced with astonishing levels of success through the current array of reality/game shows via television. Beyond these public variations, there is the will-to-fame that is expressed by the various webcam sites and weblogs where a new era of public narcissism is mutating with new media forms. This issue deals with fame; but it is not alone. The academy has embraced the study of celebrity and fame over the last decade and it has accelerated in recent years. Sport stardom (Andrews and Jackson), film stardom (Austin and Barker), literary celebrity (Moran; Glass), journalism and celebrity (Ponce de Leon; Marshall, “Intimately Intertwined”), the psychology of fame (Giles), and media and the celebrity (Turner; Marshall, Celebrity and Power) have appeared as full-fledged books with the regularity that echoes the celebrity system’s own production process. This burgeoning interest in fame cuts across disciplinary study in surprising ways. Chris Rojek’s discussion of religion and celebrity is but one interesting recent variation in the study of fame (Rojek). The interest in this issue has been impressive and, for an editor, at times overwhelming. Nonetheless, we have collected an intriguing array of articles to advance the study of fame and to engage with the way it reflects and refracts the complex crystalline structure of popular culture. Understanding fame demands a form of perceptive interdisciplinarity that our group of 18 authors has worked to achieve. Gerard Goggin and Christopher Newell’s article on how Christopher Reeve’s fame has transformed and disciplined international debates on disability to narrowly focus on the agenda of the “cure” serves as our feature article. The article paints a fascinating picture on the reconstruction of this particular dimension of the public sphere via the agency of a persona. Goggin and Newell’s writing is particularly valuable to understand the legacy of Reeve since his recent death and how it will continue to shape the concepts of disability for years if not decades to come. Dealing with Ziggy Stardust, the contrived fictional star that Bowie incarnated in the early 1970s, allows Suzanne Rintoul to work through how celebrity and fame provide a discursive narrative that can be the source for performance of the public self. Bowie plays with ironic distance that is understood as a debate about authenticity in a way that is implicitly understood as a trope of contemporary popular culture and the audience’s understanding of popular figures. William Tregonning explains that authenticity remains a central feature of how the famed – in popular music at the very least – refer to their identities. Via Britney Spears, Jennifer Lopez and Christine Aguilera, the author weaves a reading of their moments of their publicly reported self-reflection that entreats their audiences to understand their desire to be seen as real and identical to their pre-famous identities despite/because of their heavily hyped and inauthentic pop presence. Jonathan Goldman’s reading of Charlie Chaplin provides one of the more fascinating intertextual readings of how the famed persona can be used and turned back towards the production of the film narrative and how it can be read by audiences. Goldman deftly reads the closing image of the film Modern Times as an epigraph that identifies how the extratextual of celebrity and persona flow back into informing the reading of an actor’s work. And all of this “work” is done quite consciously by Chaplin as his own persona – his “trademark” as tramp – can work as a powerful shorthand for his films. Gordon Fletcher provides an entry point to determine the extent and reach of fame through a study of the frequency with which different public figures’ names are used in Internet searches. Fletcher’s work presents “an index of fame” as these particular personalities intersect with the promotional culture’s intentions via releases and with specific events that have clear connections to public individuals. The Web serves as a way to map these cultural trends in a manner that was more difficult to undertake in the past. Reality television internationally has produced famous people with astounding regularity and three of our authors have tried to address the way in which television practices have articulated fame and celebritydom. Su Holmes’s inspection of reality television programmes explicates that the production of the celebrity is revealed as much as traditional notions of earning one’s acclaim through talent, hard work and understanding the industry. Tom Mole’s “hypertrophic celebrity” refers to the way that the entertainment industry via reality television has engaged in many more ways of promoting and cross-promoting individuals through a variety of technologies and “intertextual networks”. Ultimately, it is the formats that have been more successful and sustained than any individual star that is created and quickly disappears. Mole indicates that observing this element of celebrity culture reveals a great deal about the new machinations of sophistication of the entertainment industry. Douglas Fairchild’s study of Australian Idol dovetails into Mole’s insights. One of the lacunae of research in popular music, according to Fairchild, is the operation of public relations in musical cultural production. Fairchild draws on research that discusses how the “attention economy” wraps around contemporary cultural production through the techniques of publicity and public relations to deepen their significance and play in popular culture. The decline in recorded music – or its change to downloading – has demanded a refocusing of an industry to make particular individuals as entertainment stars that move between the media of television and music (and other cultural forms and venues if possible) and thereby produce a strong divertissement for the attention economy. Fame and infamy blur in David Schmid’s study of the collection of serial killer memorabilia online. Collectors are condemned for their fascination, but contemporary culture’s relationship to the fetish objects of infamy demands a more careful reading. Schmid relates the fascination with how central serial killers are to the celebrity system and “America” and become prominent idols for consumption – to paraphrase Leo Lowenthal. In three of our articles, artistic practices are investigated but from quite different perspectives. It seems almost de rigeur to have some mention of Andy Warhol in an issue devoted to fame. Michael Angelo Tata’s work moves laterally (which is always appropriate for Warhol…) along the surface of Warhol to debate his ruminations of the fabrication of the self through his fascination and play with the world of modeling. Davin Heckman explores the production of persona not through the extensions of fame provided by contemporary mass media, but rather through the intensive production of graffiti tags in Los Angeles by the irrepressible “Chaka”. Heckman’s study of fame makes us think how the enigmatic can be played out in a geographical space (contemporary Los Angeles) that is inundated with the production of other images of fame. Carrie LeBlanc’s analysis of the British celebrity-artist Damien Hirst attempts to tread the line between the value of the artist persona to the meaning of artistic practice and what we could now call – thanks to Fairchild’s article in this issue – the ‘attention economy’ that circulates around the meaning of the artist and art work. Celebrity is integral to the interpretation of Hirst and his working class persona is integral to his play in British media as much as the meaning of his shock-art. The Harry Potter phenomenon has produced a number of famed individuals, from its author to the actors associated with the three principal roles; but this fame presents an elaborate textual field that becomes the territory of fan fiction. Lelia Green and Carmen Guinery investigate the permutations of fame that envelope fan fiction and provide one of the motivations for fan fiction authors and the expansion of their influence among fan groups. Fame is a kind of moving signification system that draws on popular culture fragments and elements to buttress the centrality of its various personalities. Mohmin Rahman has posited that David Beckham’s fame in both photos in magazines and in descriptions of his body rely knowingly on queer iconography but only as a surface meaning system. Ultimately, Beckham after playing with the codes of queer must reassert the bedrock of his identity through heterosexuality; nonetheless, Rahman identifies the uses made of queer representations in displaying the male sporting hero in the most coded way. The last two articles deal with the politics of fame and its projections on to obvious personas. Paul Allatson writes a wonderful review of the existent but non-existent Elián Gonzalez and how the virtual Elián is deployed as a persona for all sorts of positions in the United States and Cuba for specific political ends. As much as Elián was converted and passed between countries, the virtual Elián becomes a vessel for the construction of a variety of political postures that can be framed in national desires and ethnic ambitions. Kevin Howley, drawing insights from the remarkable reincarnation of the legacy of Reagan through his death and funeral, provides an outline of how the myth of the famed president is maintained and actively fostered by a variety of groups. Embedded in the production of Reagan in death is his originary filmic persona, transplanted into the Teflon presidency and finally into a conservative politics of the future of the right. This collection on the concept of fame provides an intellectual gestalt of the some of the tropes that circulate around the production of public personalities. The ephemeral nature of fame means that it can be attached to and detached from individuals relatively easily. Fame is surface meaning that may correlate with deeper issues and more profound essences, but fundamentally fame is designed to be a play on the surface and to allow that surface pattern to circulate widely across a culture or, on occasion, transculturally. Fame moves readily and easily between the domains of the public and the private for public consumption. Reading the production of fame is a reading of popular culture itself as it is reproduced and expanded via its various forms of mediation. In this issue of M/C Journal, we can see the dispositifs of how public identities – the material instances of fame production – refract publics and popular desires. Dig into the various narratives of fame that these 16 articles present – they are both intellectually challenging and – in the wonderful tradition of M/C Journal – great reads as well. References Andrews, David, and Steven Jackson (eds.). Sport Stars: The Cultural Politics of the Sporting Celebrity. London: Routledge, 2001. Austin, Thomas and Martin Barker (eds.). Contemporary Hollywood Stardom. London: Edward Arnold, 2003. Glass, Loren. Authors Inc: Literary Celebrity in the Modern United States. New York: New York UP, 2004. Marshall, P. David. “Intimately Intertwined in the Most Public Way: Celebrity and Journalism.” Journalism: Critical Issues. Ed. Stuart Allen. Maidenhead, Berkshire, UK: McGraw-Hill/Open UP, 2005. 19-29 Marshall, P. David. Celebrity and Power: Fame in Contemporary Culture. U of Minnesota P, 1997. Moran, Joe. Star Authors: Literary Celebrity in America. Pluto Press, 2000. Ponce De Leon, Charles S. Self-Exposure: Human Interest Journalism and the Emergence of Celebrity in America, 1890-1940. Chapel Hill, N.C.: U of North Carolina P, 2002. Rojek, Chris. Celebrity. London: Reaktion, 2001. Turner, Graeme. Understanding Celebrity. London: Sage, 2004. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Marshall, P. David. "Fame's Perpetual Moment." M/C Journal 7.5 (2004). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/01-editorial.php>. APA Style Marshall, P. (Nov. 2004) "Fame's Perpetual Moment," M/C Journal, 7(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/01-editorial.php>.

In the 1980s, an extremely successful Nescafé Gold Blend coffee advertising campaign dared to posit, albeit subliminally, that a love relationship was inextricably linked to coffee. Over several years, an on-again off-again love affair appeared to unfold onscreen; its ups and downs narrated over shared cups of coffee. Although the association between the relationship and Gold Blend was loose at best, no direct link was required (O’Donohoe 62). The campaign’s success was its reprisal of the cultural myth prevalent in the West that coffee and love, coffee and relationships, indeed coffee and intimacy, are companionate items. And, the more stable lover, it would seem, is available on the supermarket shelf. Meeting for coffee, inviting a potential lover in for a late-night cup of coffee, or scheduling a business meeting in an espresso bar are clichés that refer to coffee consumption but have little to do with the actual product. After all, many a tea-drinker will invite friends or acquaintances “for coffee.” This is neatly acknowledged in a short romantic scene in the lauded feature film Good Will Hunting (1997) in which a potential lover’s suggestion of meeting for coffee is responded to smartly by the “genius” protagonist Will, “Maybe we could just get together and eat a bunch of caramels. [...] When you think about it, it’s just as arbitrary as drinking coffee.” It was a date, regardless. Many in the coffee industry will argue that coffee—rather than tea, or caramel—is legendary for its intrinsic capacity to foster and ignite new relationships and ideas. Coffee houses are repeatedly cited as the heady location for the beginnings of institutions from major insurance business Lloyd’s of London to the Boston Tea Party, J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series of novels, and even Western Australian indie band Eskimo Joe. This narrative images the coffee house and café as a setting that supports ingenuity, success, and passion. It is tempting to suggest that something intrinsic in coffee renders it a Western social lubricant, economic powerhouse, and, perhaps, spiritual prosthesis. This paper will, however, argue that the social and cultural production of “coffee” cannot be dissociated from feeling. Feelings of care, love, inspiration, and desire constellate around “coffee” in a discourse of warm, fuzzy affect. I suggest that this blooming of affect is not superfluous but, instead, central to the way in which coffee is produced, represented and consumed in Western mass culture. By exploring the currently fashionable practice of “direct trade” between roasters and coffee growers as represented on the Websites of select Western roasting companies, the repetition of this discourse is abundantly clear. Here, the good feelings associated with cross-cultural friendship are figured as the condition and reward for the production of high quality coffee beans. Money, it seems, does not buy happiness—but good quality coffee can. Good (Colonial) Feelings Before exploring the discursive representation of friendship and good feeling among the global coffee community with regard to direct trade, it is important to account for the importance of feeling as a narrative strategy with political affects and effects. In her discussion of “happy objects,” cultural theorist of emotion Sara Ahmed argues that specific objects are associated with feelings of happiness. She gives the telling example of coffee as an object intimately tied with happy feeling within the family. So you make coffee for the family, and you know “just“ how much sugar to put in this cup and that. Failure to know this “just“ is often felt as a failure of care. Even if we do not experience the same objects as being pleasurable, sharing the family means sharing happy objects, both in the sense of sharing knowledge (of what makes others happy) and also in the sense of distributing the objects in the right way (Ahmed, Promise 47). This idea is derived from Ahmed’s careful consideration of affective economies. She suggests emotions neither belong to, or are manufactured by, discrete individuals. Rather, emotions are formed through social exchange. Relieved of imagining the individual as the author of affect, we can consider the ways in which affect circulates as a product in a broad, vitalising economy of feeling (Ahmed, Affective 121). In the example above, feelings of care and intimacy attached to coffee-making produce the happy family, or more precisely, the fleeting instant of the family-as-happy. The condition of this good feeling is not attributable to the coffee as product nor the family as fundamentally happy but rather the rippling of happy feeling through sharing of the object deemed happy. A little too much sugar and happiness is thwarted, affect wanes; the coffee is now bad(-feeling). If we return briefly to the Nescafé Gold Blend campaign and, indeed, Good Will Hunting, we can postulate following Ahmed that the coffee functions as a love object. Proximity to coffee is identified by its apparent causation of love-effects. In this sense, “doing coffee” means making a fleeting cultural space for feeling love, or feeling good. But what happens when we turn from the good feeling of consumption to the complex question of coffee production and trade? How might good feeling attach to the process of procuring coffee beans? In this case, the way in which good feeling seems to “stick to” coffee in mass culture needs to be augmented with consideration of its status as a global commodity traded across sociopolitical, economic, cultural and national borders. Links between coffee and colonialism are long established. From the Dutch East India Company to the feverish enthusiasm to purchase mass plantations by multinational corporations, coffee, colonialism and practices of slavery and indentured labour are intertwined (Lyons 18-19). As a globally traded commodity across a range of political regimes and national borders, tracing the postcolonial and neocolonial relations between multinational companies, small upscale boutique roasters, plantation owners, coffee bean co-ops, regulatory bodies, and workers is complex at best. In what may appear a tangential approach, it is nonetheless instructive to consider that colonial relations are constituted through affective components that support and fuel economic and political exchange (Stoler, Haunted). Again, Ahmed offers a useful context for the relationship between the imperative toward happiness and colonial representation. The civilizing mission can be redescribed as a happiness mission. For happiness to become a mission, the colonized other must be first deemed unhappy. The imperial archive can be described as an archive of unhappiness. Colonial knowledges constitute the other as not only an object of knowledge, a truth to be discovered, but as being unhappy, as lacking the qualities or attributes required for a happier state of existence (Ahmed, Promise 125). The colonising aspect of the relations Ahmed describes includes the “mission” to construct Others as unhappy. Understood as happiness detractors, colonial Others become objects that threaten the radiant appeal of happiness as part of an imperial moral economy. Hence, it is the happiness of the colonisers that is secured through the disavowal of the feelings of Others. Moreover, by documenting colonial unhappiness, colonising forces justify the sanctity of happiness-making through violence. As Ann Stoler affirms, “Colonial states had a strong interest in affective knowledge and a sophisticated understanding of affective politics” (Carnal 142). Colonising discourses, then, are inextricably linked to regimes of sense and feeling. Stoler also writes that European-ness was established through cultivation of an inner sense of self-worth associated with ethics, individuality and autonomy (Haunted 157). The development of a sense of belonging to Europe was hence executed through feeling good in both moral and affective senses of the word. Although Stoler argues her case in terms of the affective politics of colonial sexualities and desire, her work is highly instructive for its argument that emotion is crucial to structures of power in colonial regimes. Bringing Stoler’s work into closer proximity with Ahmed’s postulation of State happiness and its objects, I am now going to suggest that coffee is a palimpsestic cultural site at which to explore the ways in which the politics of good feeling obscure discomforting and complex questions of power, exploitation, and disadvantage in global economies of coffee production and consumption. Direct Trade In the so-called “third wave” specialty coffee market that is enjoying robust growth in Australia, America, and Europe, “direct trade” across the globe between roasters and plantation owners is consistently represented as friendly and intimate despite vast distances and cultural difference. The “third wave” is a descriptor that, as John Manzo describes in his sociological exploration of coffee connoisseurship in privileged Western online and urban fora, refers to coffee enthusiasts interested in brewing devices beyond high-end espresso machines such as the cold drip, siphon, or pour-over. Jillian Adams writes further that third wavers: Appreciate the flavour nuances of single estate coffee; that is coffee that is sourced from single estates, farms, or villages in coffee growing regions. When processed carefully, it will have a distinctive flavour and taste profile that reflects the region and the culture of the coffee production (2). This focus on single estate or “single origin” coffee refers to beans procured from sections of estates and plantations called micro-lots, which are harvested and processed in a controlled manner.The third wave trend toward single origin coffees coincides with the advent of direct trade. Direct trade refers to the growing practice of bypassing “middlemen” to source coffee beans from plantations without appeal to or restriction by regulatory bodies. Rather, as I will show below, relationships and partnerships between growers and importers are imagined as sites of goodwill and good feeling. This focus on interpersonal relationships and friendships cannot be disarticulated from the broader cross-cultural context at stake. The relationships associated with direct trade invariably take place across borders that are also marked by economic, cultural and political differences in which privileged Western buyers engage with non-Western growers on low incomes. Drawing from Ahmed’s concern that the politics of good feeling is tied to colonial nostalgia, it is compelling to suggest that direct trade is haunted by discourses of colonisation. At this point of intersection, I suggest that Western mass cultural associations of coffee with ease, intimacy and pure intentions invite consumers to join a neocolonial saga through partaking in imagined communities of global coffee friends. Particularly popular in Australia and America, direct trade is espoused by key third wave coffee roasters in Melbourne, Portland and Seattle. Melbourne Coffee Merchants are perhaps the most well-known importers of directly traded green bean in Australia. On their Web page they describe the importance of sharing good feelings about high quality coffee: “We aim to share, educate, and inspire, and get people as excited about quality coffee as we are.” A further page describing the Merchants’s mission explains, “Growers are treated as partners in the mission to get the worlds [sic] finest beans into the hands of discerning customers.” The quality of excitement that circulates through the procuring of green beans is related to the deemed partnership between Merchants and the growers. That is, it is not the fact of the apparent partnership or its banality that is important, but the treating of growers as partners that signifies Merchants’s mission to generate good feeling. This is a slight but crucial distinction. Treating the growers as partners participates in an affective economy of excitement and inspiration—how the growers feel is, presumably, in want of such partnership.Not dissimilarly, Five Senses Coffee, boutique roasters in Melbourne and Perth, offer an emotional bonus with the purchase of directly traded coffees. “So go on, select one of our Direct Trade products and bask in the warm glow you get knowing that the farmer who grew the beans that you’re enjoying is reaping the rewards too!” The rewards that the growers are deemed to be receiving are briefly explained in blog posts on the Five Senses news Web page. I am not suggesting that these friendships and projects are not legitimate. Rather, the willingness of Five Senses to negotiate rates with growers and provide the community with an English teacher, for example, fuels an economy of Westerners’s good feelings and implies conventional trading produces unhappiness. This obscures grounds for concern that the provision of an English teacher might indeed serve the interests of colonising discourses. Perhaps a useful entry point into this narrative form is founded in the recently self-published book Coffee Trails by Toby Smith, founder of boutique Australian roaster Toby’s Estate. The book is described on the Toby’s Estate Web page as follows:Filled with personal anecdotes and illustrating his relationships developed over years of visiting the farmers to source his coffee beans, Smith’s commentary of his travels, including a brush with Jamaican customs officials and a trip to a notoriously dangerous Ethiopian market, paints an authentic picture of the colourful countries that produce the second most traded product in the world. [...] Coffee Trails has been Smith’s labour of love over the past two years and the end product is a wonderfully personal account of a man fulfilling his lifelong dream and following his passion across the world. Again, the language of “passion” and “love” registers direct trade coffee as a happy object. Furthermore, despite the fact that coffee is also grown in Australia, the countries that are most vivid in the epic imagination are those associated with “exotic” locations such as Ethiopia and Jamaica. This is arguably registered through the sense that these locations were where Smith encountered danger. Having embarked on a version of the quintessential hero’s journey, Smith can be seen as devoted to, and inspired by, his love-object. His brushes with uncivilised authorities and locations carry the undertones of a colonial imaginary, in which it can be argued Smith’s Western-ness is established and secured as goodwill-invoking. After all, he locates and develops relationships with farmers and buys their coffee which, following the logic of happy objects, disperses and shares good feelings.Gloria Jean’s Coffees, which occupies a similar market position in Australia to the multinational “specialty” coffee company Starbucks (Lyons), also participates in the dispersal of coffee as a happy object despite its mass scale of production and lack of direct trade capability (not unexpectedly, Starbucks hosts a Relationships campaign aimed at supporting humanitarian initiatives and communities). Gloria Jean’s campaign With Heart allocates resources to humanitarian activities in local Australian communities and worldwide in coffee-growing regions. Their Web page states: “With Heart is woven throughout Gloria Jeans Coffee houses and operations by the active participation of Franchise Partners, support office and team members and championed across Australia, by our With Heart Ambassadors.“ The associative message is clear: Gloria Jean’s Coffees is a company indissociable from “heart,” or perhaps loving care, for community.By purchasing coffee, Gloria Jean’s customers can be seen to be supporting heartening community projects, and are perhaps unwittingly working as ambassadors for the affective economy in which proximity to the happy object—the heart-centred coffee company—indicates the procurement of happiness for someone, somewhere. The sale of good feeling enables specialty coffee companies such as Gloria Jean’s to bypass market opportunities associated with Fair Trade regulatory provisions, which, as Carl Obermiller et al. find in their study of Fair Trade buying patterns, also profit from consumers’ purchase of good feeling associated with ethically-produced objects. Instead, assuring consumers of its heart-centredness, Gloria Jean’s Coffees is represented as an embodiment not of fairness but kindness, and perhaps love, for others. The iconography and history of direct trade coffee is most closely linked to Intelligentsia Coffee of Chicago in the USA. Intelligentsia describes its third wave roasting and training business as the first to engage in direct trade in 2003. Its Web page includes an image of an airplane to which the following pop-up is linked: “Our focus is not just identifying quality coffee, but developing and rewarding it. To do this means preserving and developing strong relationships despite the considerable distance. At any given time, there is at least one Intelligentsia buyer at origin.” This text raises the question of what constitutes quality coffee. It would appear that “quality coffee” is knowledge that Intelligentsia owns, and which is rewarded financially when replicated to the satisfaction of Intelligentsia. The strength of the relationships in this interaction is closely linked to the meeting of clear conditions and expectations. Indeed, we are reassured that “at any time” an Intelligentsia buyer is applying these conditions to the product. Quality, then, is at least in part achieved by Intelligentsia through its commitment to travelling long distances to oversee the activities and practices of growers. This paternalistic structure is figured in terms of “strong relationships” rather than, perhaps, a rigorous and shrewd business model (which is assumedly the province of mass-market Others).Amid numerous examples found in even a cursory search on the Web, the overwhelming message of direct trade is of good feeling through care. Long term relationships, imagined as virtuous despite the opacity of the negotiation procedure in most cases, narrates the conviction that relationship in and of itself is a good in what might be called the colonial redramatisation staked by an affective coffee economy. Conclusion: Mourning CoffeeIn a paper on happiness, it might appear out of place to reference grief. Yet Jacques Derrida’s explication of friendship in his rousing collection The Work of Mourning is instructive. He writes that death is accommodated and acknowledged “in the undeniable anticipation of mourning that constitutes friendship” (159). Derrida maintains close attention to the productivity and intensity of Otherness in mourning. Thus, friendship is structurally dependent on impending loss, and it follows that there can be no loss without recognising the Otherness of the other, as it were. Given indifference to difference and, hence, loss, it is possible to interpret the friendships affirmed within direct trade practices as supported by a kind of mania. The exuberant dispersal of good feeling through directly traded coffee is narrated by emotional journeys to the primordial beginnings of the happy-making object. That is, fixation upon the object’s brief survival in “primitive” circumstances before its perfect demise in the cup of discerning Western clientele suggests a process of purification through colonising Western knowledges and care. If I may risk a misappropriation of Sara Ahmed’s words; so you make the trip to origin, and you know “just” what to pay for this bean and that. 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