Journal articles on the topic 'Temporalité et subjectivité'

RÉSUMÉ Cet article, rédigé sous la forme d’un fichier, présente quelques réflexions sur le thème de la créativité sous les rubriques suivantes : Art, Bouvard et Pécuchet, Concetto, Contingence, Creatio ex nihilo, Créativité, Démocratisation, Élites, Enfants, Fichier, Folie, Génie, Imagination, Innovation, Makramé, Originalité, Paradoxe, Pédagogie, Pénible, Postmoderne, Problème, Subjectivité, Tautologie, Temporalité, Vaches, Yuppies.

Le thème de la temporalité, si important en psychanalyse, représente un de ces carrefours où se croisent d’autres concepts extraordinairement importants tels que le setting, la subjectivité, les théories du travail clinique, l’interprétation et la conception des facteurs thérapeutiques, l’institution psychanalytique. Nous abordons ici le concept de l’espace-temps en relation avec la théorie du champ analytique de Bion. L’hypothèse que nous avançons est que le champ est l’instrument conceptuel qui permet de moduler de façon plus fine et plus sûre la distance qui s’établit entre le patient et l’analyste pour atteindre et étendre l’unisson émotionnel qui, selon nous, est le facteur thérapeutique central.

L’admiration comme principe phénoménologique de la subjectivité humaine Résumé: Le texte est une tentative d'analyse phénoménologique (principalement inspiré de Ricœur) du thème de l'admiration, que Descartes dans les Passions de l’âme décrit comme passion première et principale. Envisagé comme principe de la subjectivité, cette passion expliquerait l'accès non théorique au monde et à soi-même, et permet de comprendre la constitution du sujet passionnel. En analysant ce sujet, appelé par Descartes l'union de l'âme et du corps, les catégories traditionnelles d'attention, d'imagination et enfin de volonté et de temporalité se trouvent profondément reformulées. Dans le mode admiratif spécifique d’un tel sujet, qui se caractérise par interaction dynamique de l'âme et du corps, on peut parler des étapes successives de la vie passionnée, au sein de laquelle émergent les autres passions “principales” (l'amour, la haine, le désir, la joie et la tristesse), pour trouver enfin son accomplissement dans une expérience éthique de la générosité. Mots-clés: passion; admiration; union de l’âme et du corps; Descartes; Ricoeur. A admiração como princípio fenomenológico da subjetividade Resumo: O texto é uma tentativa de análise fenomenológica (principalmente inspirada por Ricoeur) do tema da admiração, que Descartes n’As paixões da alma descreve como paixão primeira e principal. Considerado como princípio da subjetividade, essa paixão explicaria o acesso não teórico ao mundo e a si mesmo, e permite compreender a constituição do sujeito passional. Analisando esse sujeito, chamado por Descartes a união da alma e do corpo, as categorias tradicionais de atenção, imaginação e, enfim, de vontade e temporalidade se encontram profundamente reformuladas. No modo admirativo específico de um tal sujeito, que se caracteriza pela interação dinâmica da alma e do corpo, podemos falar das etapas sucessivas da vida apaixonada, ao seio da qual emergem as outras paixões « principais » (o amor, o ódio, o desejo, a alegriae a tristeza), para encontrar, enfim, sua realização numa experiência ética da generosidadade. Palavras-chave : paixão; admiração ; união da alma e do corpo ; Descartes ; Ricoeur. Admiration as a phenomenological principle of human subjectivity Abstract: The text is a phenomenological analysis (mainly inspired by Ricœur) of the theme of admiration, which Descartes in the Passions of the Soul describes as a first and main passion. Considered as a principle of subjectivity, this passion would explain the non-theoretical access to the world and to oneself, and allows us to understand the constitution of such passionate subject. Analyzing this subject, called by Descartes the union of the soul and the body, the traditional categories of attention, imagination and finally, those of will and temporality are deeply reformulated. In the specific admiring mode of the subject, which is characterized by dynamic interaction of the soul and body, we can speak of the successive stages of passionate life, in which emerge the other “principal passions" (love, hatred, desire, joy and sadness), to finally find its culmination in an ethical experience of generosity. Key words: passion; admiration; union of the soul and body; Descartes; Ricoeur. Data de registro: 17/11/2020 Data de aceite: 30/12/2020

L'article explore la conception husserlienne de l'historicité dans le contexte de l'idéalisme transcendantal, en se basant sur les quinze premiers paragraphes de la Krisis. Husserl reconfigure la subjectivité transcendantale en intégrant l'historicité comme un élément essentiel de l'auto-conscience et de l'intersubjectivité. Le texte aborde les apories philosophiques qui surgissent en tentant de réconcilier la téléologie avec la factualité historique, et montre comment l'expérience du mal devient un catalyseur de la réflexion téléologique. On y examine également la distinction entre temporalité et historicité, tout en réfléchissant à la critique de l'ethnocentrisme husserlien et à sa perspective téléologique. Enfin, l'article analyse la responsabilité philosophique de faire face à la crise de la modernité, en proposant une vision de l'histoire comme une tâche collective et génératrice.

Résumé Cet article propose une réflexion sur la construction de soi des adolescents garçons. Après une mise en contexte sociopolitique et théorique de l’adolescence, il présente la démarche méthodologique d’une étude ayant pour objectif de comprendre l’adolescence des garçons de l’intérieur : une conjugaison de divers modes de collecte et d’analyse de données (création vidéos, interactions, entretiens de groupe et entrevues individuelles). Il rapporte que pour les garçons le processus de croissance qu’ils vivent entre 14 et 17 ans se représente en processus d’ouvertures : ouverture de soi, ouverture aux autres et ouverture au monde. L’adolescence se vit aussi dans une tension de double temporalité : un temps éminemment présent et un temps tourné vers l’avenir. Finalement, l’ethnographie présentée conduit à une discussion plus spécifique touchant l’identité masculine. Il est proposé d’ouvrir ce concept à l’idée de subjectivité plurielle, un processus individuel et collectif, toujours en mouvement et en interaction avec le contexte sociopolitique.

Dans la littérature luxembourgeoise, les centrales nucléaires font partie de l’imaginaire littéraire dès la fin des années 1970. Cet imaginaire est alimenté par l’opposition à deux projets de centrales sur la Moselle et porte la trace, au fil des décennies, des accidents nucléaires qui ont marqué la récente histoire de l’humanité. À partir de ce contexte, la présente contribution cherche dans un premier temps à mettre au jour les multiples liens entre l’écologie et le nucléaire, et corollairement entre les deux champs de recherche qui, dans le cadre des études littéraires et culturelles, en étudient les représentations : l’ecocriticism et le nuclear criticism. En se fondant sur les problématiques communes à ces dernières (temporalité, géographie et subjectivité), l’analyse de deux œuvres littéraires francophones publiées au Luxembourg explore deux manières paraissant diamétralement opposées de décrire la dimension interculturelle de la catastrophe nucléaire, l’une imaginant l’appropriation culturelle construite sur la relocalisation géographique, l’autre mettant en exergue l’écart entre l’événement et sa perception.

Il y avait 300 000 étudiants en France en 1968, 1,5 million en 2000, il y en a eu 2,6 millions en 2019. Il ne s’agit pas uniquement d’une croissance démographique quantitative car la population étudiante a connu une diversification importante sur le plan social et scolaire. Cette massification a largement contribué à la naissance et au développement d’une sociologie de l’étudiant en France qui ne cesse de se diversifier en ce qui concerne ses objets, ses terrains et ses paradigmes. Si le travail fondateur de Bourdieu et de Passeron sur la reproduction des inégalités sociales dans l’enseignement supérieur a longuement dominé la recherche académique en France, de nouveaux axes de recherche ont élargi les périmètres d’une sociologie qui a connu une évolution importante. Depuis cinq décennies, la sociologie de l’étudiant est devenue plurielle en s’intéressant notamment au rapport au savoir et la perspective d’apprentissage, à l’intégration académique et sociale, au métier d’étudiant, à la culture et à la temporalité étudiante, aux effets de l’environnement d’études sur le parcours étudiant. Un nœud critique dans les travaux sociologiques concerne la place accordée à l’étudiant, à son expérience et à sa subjectivité au regard de son origine sociale et scolaire. L’analyse des enjeux théoriques et méthodologiques soulevés par l’évolution de la sociologie de l’étudiant en France permet d’examiner les divergences et les convergences qui perdurent au sein des débats critiques entre les chercheurs.

La littérature ne constitue pas un programme mais envisage des possibles. La science-fiction (SF), en tant que genre exploratoire, insiste spécifiquement sur ces possibles. L’une des manières par lesquelles elle les produit consiste à potentialiser la pensée politique. Par des actes de fiction, elle renouvèle notre compréhension de la politique et, dans une certaine mesure, y participe. En différenciant la politique (instituée, « politicienne ») et le politique (qui pense et transforme le vivre-ensemble, suivant le principe de l’égalité essentielle à la démocratie), on s’attachera au second pour montrer son rôle dans l’enseignement, en particulier de la SF. Le genre trouve sa spécificité dans le fait que les composantes démocratiques aristotéliciennes – le nouage entre le lien à la communauté et le bien de la communauté – se rééquilibrent au profit de ce bien, comme projection hors de notre espace-temps. Enseigner ce genre revient à interroger ce nouage, mais aussi à l’expérimenter sur le terrain même de la classe. À l’aide de principes hérités des didactiques de la subjectivité littéraire, nous verrons com­ment envisager les multiples facettes de l’expression du politique dans l’enseignement de la SF, comment éviter les pièges de l’idéologie, comment enfin réinvestir l’espace symbolique de la classe : vide démocratique fécond, marge clandestine, lieu d’expérimentation, ouverture « prototopique ». On observera enfin l’outil narratolo­gique comme spécialement adéquat pour traiter ces questions, étant donné sa place privilégiée pour observer les questionnements que la SF apporte à la temporalité, dans ses thèmes mais aussi dans les rythmes de lecture qu’elle suggère.

À travers des situations cliniques, l’article traite d’une réflexion quant à l’accueil clinique des jeunes mineurs non accompagnés dans un contexte de crise de l’hospitalité. Si l’arrivée de ces jeunes migrants est sous-tendue par le non-accueil et la gestion de flux, comment faire une place à leur subjectivité, à leur symptomatologie, à leurs souffrances ? Ainsi l’article propose-t-il, dans un premier temps, de reprendre le contexte de l’arrivée et de la prise en charge des mineurs non accompagnés, puis une réflexion sur ce que peut être accueillir ces enfants dans ces différentes temporalités. Enfin, l’article traduit l’acte éminemment politique de cet accueil et interroge nos engagements cliniques et citoyens.

Qu’est-ce qu’un point d’orgue ? Le présent article part de cette question apparemment anodine. Il analyse à cette occasion la structure ontologique de l’oeuvre musicale, constituée à la fois d’idéalité (son signe écrit : la partition) et de présence (le moment de sa réalisation instrumentale). Il s’appuie ensuite sur un exemple précis, le premier point d’orgue de la Sonate D960 de Schubert, et sur l’écoute comparée de trois interprétations enregistrées de cette sonate. Il met en perspective l’analyse du point d’orgue en regard de la forme sonate ici déployée par Schubert. Cet exercice lui permet d’étayer la thèse suivante : l’avènement de l’oeuvre repose sur la temporalisation de son inscription, la projection du signe écrit en son temporalisé; le signe (ce point d’orgue par excellence) est donc nécessairement un signe-pour-un-geste, et en appelle à la subjectivité d’un interprète pour achever la réalité qu’il n’a pu circonscrire entièrement dans son injonction.

Melancholy and the Spatio-temporal Aspect of Identity in Le pion sur l’échiquier (The Pawn on the Chessboard) by Irène Némirovsky. After the age of doubt enshrouding human subjectivity during the postmodern period, the question of the subject is back on the table. However, the return of the subject is not unproblematic. The subject today carries the traces of its earlier problematisation. Much less disengaged and much more contextual, the subject needs a revalidation that would avoid modernist dogmatism and postmodernist nihilism. The narrative mode of understanding is seen as having the potential to open up a middle way between the totalising exclusions of modernity and the nihilism of postmodernity. However, some voices have pointed to the totalising tendencies of narrative theories, which place too much emphasis on integration and synthesis. These tendencies, it is believed, can be neutralised by theories that focus on the dialogical nature of the subject. This article offers a reading of the novel The Pawn on the Chessboard (Le pion sur l’échiquier) (1934), by Irène Némirovsky, as such, as the book offers a balanced model of the configuration of subjectivity by combining elements of the narrative configuration with dialogical ones. Némirovsky’s prose combines classical narrative with clear structure and linearity and an aesthetic marked by incompleteness, fragmentation and a tendency to avoid the strict limits of plot. Some of her stories are incomplete, uncertain, their endings false or non-endings, leaving the characters exactly where they have always been or leading to the dissolution of the characters’ identities. Paul Ricoeur’s theory of narrative identity, which focuses on unity and synthesis as the necessary prerequisite for the emergence of the sense of selfhood, and the concept of dialogical self developed by Mikhail Bakhtin, which favours incompleteness and openness, will be used to analyse the process of identity formation of the characters in The Pawn. The emphasis will be placed, in particular, on the spatio-temporal aspect of identity constitution of the characters, and on the effect of melancholy on this aspect. Melancholy, it will be argued, disrupts the characters’ normal flow of temporality, trapping them in the melancholic ‘absolute present’. However, this triggers new mechanisms for the formation of the characters’ identities and the composition of the novel. As these mechanisms are inscribed in the spatial dimension, space becomes an additional device, participating in the configuration of time in the novel and supporting composition where the structuring function of emplotment is weakened.

Resumo: O texto analisa o modo como a teleologia, na concepção de Husserl, opera na subjetividade conforme a forma originária da temporalidade. Apresentamos uma breve discussão dos textos em que o tempo é descrito como estrutura interna do ser da consciência, concentrando-nos nas Vorlensungen zur Phänomenologie des inneren Zeitbewusstseins. O objetivo é compreender a teoria transcendental desenvolvida por Husserl para resolver os problemas relacionados à possibilidade do conhecimento no tempo, e o modo como a temporalidade do mundo é constituída teleologicamente pela consciência a partir da temporalidade imanente. De la temporalité immanente au temps objectif du monde chez Husserl Resumé: Le texte analyse comment la téléologie, dans la conception de Husserl, opère sur la subjectivité selon la forme originelle de la temporalité. Nous présentons une brève discussion des textes dans lesquels le temps est décrit comme la structure interne de l’être de conscience, en nous concentrant sur le Vorlensungen zur Phänomenologie des inneren Zeitbewusstseins. L’objectif est de comprendre la théorie transcendantale développée par Husserl pour résoudre les problèmes liés à la possibilité de la connaissance dans le temps, et la manière dont la temporalité du monde se constitue téléologiquement par la conscience de la temporalité immanente. Mots-clés: Phénoménologie, Temporalité, Téléologie, Subjectivité.

Dans les milieux biomédicaux contemporains, la maladie existe à la suite d'un diagnostic. Certains la présentent comme l’envers de la santé (physique), d’autres diront qu’elle prend appui sur des mondes biologiques, certes, mais aussi juridiques, politiques, technologiques (Lock et Nguyen 2010; Fassin 2000). La « bonne santé » donne lieu à des connotations positives alors que la maladie renvoie davantage au désordre, voire même à l’irresponsabilité individuelle, à l’échec (Massé 2007). Sans diagnostic, le mal-être existe, mais est relégué à un espace trouble, reconnu par certains, ignoré par d’autres. Les maux qui ne trouvent pas d’ancrage (cellule, organe, système) sont dits « fonctionnels » et souvent délaissés. Maux, maladie ou malades? Pour Canguilhem (2011 [1966]), la maladie prend comme point de départ l’expérience individuelle. Le Conflit des médecines (LeBlanc 2002) ne surgit-il pas lorsque la maladie est détachée du malade et que la médecine s’éloigne des sujets souffrants pour investir les possibles de la maladie? Marc Augé (1986) insiste sur la dimension sociale de la maladie; l’expérience de la maladie est à la fois intime, individuelle et sociale. Elle est l’ « exemple concret de liaison entre perception individuelle et symbolique sociale » (p.82). La maladie est aussi ancrée dans un corps souffrant, par-delà la douleur (Marin et Zaccaï-Reyner 2013). C’est dire que, selon le système médical dans lequel s’inscrit le malade, les mises en scène de la maladie, son dévoilement, son expérience, sa guérison prendront un éventail de sens et de formes. Pour sa part, François Laplantine (1986) distingue deux types de médecines, celles centrées sur le malade (et qui embrassent des systèmes de représentation commandés par un modèle relationnel pensé à la fois en termes physiologiques, psychologiques, cosmologiques et sociaux) et celles sur la maladie (où la maladie est pensée en elle-même et où les dimensions physiques prédominent). Ce faisant, la maladie exprimera tantôt une rupture, un déséquilibre avec son environnement (modèle relationnel), tantôt une atteinte d’un système, d’un locus avant tout corporel, physique (modèle ontologique). Les anthropologues anglo-saxons, dont Arthur Kleinman (et al. 1978) et Byron Good (1994) proposent une déclinaison de la maladie qui fait place à une triple terminologie. En tant que « disease », elle devient un phénomène (dysfonction) biologique (organes et systèmes) observé et objectivé, emblématique du modèle biomédical. Quant aux dimensions relationnelles et sociales de la maladie, elles se déclinent selon les vocables « illness » et « sickness ». Le premier renvoie plus spécifiquement à l’expérience (subjective) humaine de la maladie, la maladie comme vécue, alors que le second inscrit la maladie comme phénomène social. Or, comme le rappelle Young (1982), l’expérience de la maladie (illness) peut exister sans qu’une dysfonction ait été identifiée (disease). Dans cette perspective, la notion de maladie évoque aussi celle d'un état socialement dévalué par-delà toute maladie (disease) reconnue. Quant à la notion de sickness, elle se veut englobante et comprend à la fois dysfonction et subjectivité. Cette sickness est un phénomène social où le rôle du malade et les attentes de la société à son égard, envers la maladie et le thérapeutique de manière générale, sont construits selon un ensemble de paramètres (Benoist 1983). Fassin (1996) insiste particulièrement sur les relations de pouvoir inscrites au cœur même de la maladie. La maladie exprime ces rapports de pouvoir dans le corps, à travers les différences entre les individus face aux risques de l’existence et aux possibilités de se soigner… qui sont autant de façons d’inscrire physiquement l’ordre social. Et, de fait, dans les sociétés contemporaines, les taux de morbidité et de mortalité sont les plus élevés dans les échelons les moins favorisés de la population. Dans le contexte d’une médecine du Nord, de l’Ouest, occidentale ou biomédecine (les appellations sont nombreuses), la maladie est un espace névralgique où se concentrent le soin, le curatif, le palliatif, l’aigu, la chronicité. Elle est aussi souffrance, relation d’aide, technique, savoirs, incertitudes, morale, éthique. Elle est contrôle, abandon, espoir, chute et rechute. La maladie traverse les âges, les contrées – certaines plus propices que d’autres à sa genèse et à son maintien. Puis, par-delà toute tentative de synthèse, Godelier (2011) rappelle que, quel que soit le milieu et le système d’interprétation interpelé, les représentations et interprétations de la maladie se déclinent selon quatre paramètres et sur les liens entre ces paramètres : identifier la nature de la maladie à partir de symptômes au moyen d’une taxinomie, repérer la cause de cette altération d’état, identifier « l’agent » ayant participé à ce changement, cerner pourquoi cette maladie survient (pourquoi moi?). Corin, Uchôa et Bibeau (1992) écriront pour leur part que, malgré la diversité des contextes, la maladie se laisse cerner par un ensemble de variables sémiologiques, interprétatives et d’ordre pragmatique. À partir d’un registre de signes, elle est créatrice de sens qui donne lieu à un éventail de pratiques, insécables de l’histoire personnelle et du contexte social. Il n’en reste pas moins que la maladie se transforme. La biomédecine nord-américaine foisonne, les recherches se multiplient, les possibles tout autant. Cette médecine culmine en urgence, la maladie dans sa forme aiguë est souvent matée. « On ne meurt plus », affirment de nombreux cliniciens (Fortin et Maynard 2012). La maladie chronique fleurie (truffée d’épisodes aigus), elle est très souvent multiple (Nichter 2016). La notion de maladie est en plein mouvement et pose de nouveaux défis pour sa prise en charge (l’organisation du travail) au sein des familles, au sein des milieux de soins, pour le malade. Ce travail est constitué d’actes de soins et de toutes autres tâches associées à l’accompagnement du malade et les relations sociales qui en découlent. Diagnostic et pronostic ne sont qu’un point de départ pour de nouvelles trajectoires (Strauss 1992) où la vie et la maladie s’entrelacent. La chronologie de la maladie s’est modifiée au fil des découvertes scientifiques et celles-ci foisonnent. Dans ses travaux sur cette phase liminale de soins, Isabelle Baszanger (2012 : 871) réitère la question « When is the battle over? ». Cette interrogation est devenue centrale alors que la maladie s’inscrit dans une temporalité mixte d’urgences et de quotidienneté, de « viscosité et d’intensité différentes » (Meyers 2017 : 75). Les possibles sont au premier plan et l’espoir s’en trouve nourri d’une chance, même infime, de vaincre la maladie. Espoir d’une vie à venir, quelle que soit cette vie (Mattingly 2010). La chronicité de maladies hier mortelles transforme le projet thérapeutique et la vie de celles et ceux qui la côtoient. Les mots de Canguilhem (2011 [1966] : 122) n’en résonnent que davantage : « La maladie n’est pas une variation sur la dimension de la santé; elle est une nouvelle dimension de la vie ».

Cet article vise, à partir d’un récit à la première personne de ma propre expérience de terrain − en tant que jeune femme et doctorante en géographie à l’époque – auprès des Wayúu, peuple autochtone matrilinéaire, au Venezuela (2011-2013), à interroger les conditions temporelles, épistémiques et méthodologiques qui orientent les chercheur·e·s et façonnent la recherche. Plus précisément, il défend l’idée que l’ensemble des temps susceptibles de composer une recherche − temps de définition de l’objet d’étude, d’accès au terrain, des Autres sur le terrain, temps « morts » et temps d’attentes, des « bricolages » méthodologiques, des allers-retours, de la réflexivité, des doutes, de la restitution − participent à produire des savoirs scientifiques. Ces temps, plus ou moins longs et contraignants pour les chercheur·e·s se mêlent sans conteste à leur trajectoire personnelle et à leur subjectivité qui influencent, en retour, la manière dont ils/elles vivent, pensent ou interprètent le terrain. De même, ils/elles peuvent être affecté·e·s par une pluralité de facteurs extérieurs relatifs aux contextes et aux conditions dans lesquels leur recherche se déploie (géopolitiques, socioculturels, linguistiques, sensibilité du sujet étudié), ainsi que par les attentes et les injonctions du système académique qui s’accommode parfois mal aux temps de l’enquête. Dès lors, comment raconter les coulisses et les expériences des temporalités du terrain – souvent passées sous silence – qui imprègnent inévitablement les résultats de recherche ?

In November 2015 the progressive rock band, Coheed and Cambria, released their latest album and art-book, both titled The Color before the Sun (Color) (2015). This album deviates from their previous six releases by explicitly using a biographical frame for the art-book, the album, and their paratexts. This is a divergence from the band’s concept album approach, a transmedia storyworld, The Amory Wars (TAW) (2002-17), which fictionalised the life experiences of Claudio Sanchez, the band’s lead singer. When scholars discuss transmedia they often refer to fantastic and speculative fictions, such as the Star Wars (1977-2018), Star Trek (1966-2018), Doctor Who (1963-2018) and Marvel Universe (1961-2018) franchises, and TAW fits this framework. However, there is increasing consideration of the impact transmedia reading and writing practices have on storytelling that straddles representations of the “real” world. By making collaborative life-writing explicit, Color encourages readers to resist colonising ontologies. Framing the life-writing within the band’s earlier auto-fiction(s) (TAW), Color destabilises genre divides between fiction and life-writing, and positions readers to critique Sanchez’s narration of his subjectivity. This enables readers to abstract their critique to ontological narratives that have a material impact on their own subjectivities: law, medicine, religion, and economics.The terms subject and identity are often used interchangeably in the study of life-writing. By “subjectivity” I mean the individual’s understanding of their status and role in relation to their community, culture, socio-political context, and the operations of power dynamics therein. In contrast “identity” speaks to the sense of self. While TAW and Color share differing literary conceits—one is a space opera, the other is more explicitly biographical—they both explore Sanchez’s subjectivity and can be imagined as a web of connections between recordings (both audio and video), social media, books (comics, art books, novels and scripts), and performances that contribute to a form of transmedia life-writing. Life-writing is generic term that covers “protean forms of contemporary personal narrative” (Eakin 1). These narratives can be articulated across expressive practices, including interviews, profiles, diaries, social media, prose, poetry and so on. Zachary Leader notes in his introduction to On Life-Writing that “theoreticians and historians of life-writing commonly fuse or meld sub-genres [… and this] blurring of distinctions may help to account for life-writing’s growing acceptance as a field of academic study” (1-2). The growing relationship between life-writing and transmedia is therefore unsurprising.This article ties my research considering the construction of subjectivity through transmedia life-writing, with Emma Hill and Máiréad Nic Craith’s consideration of transmedia storytelling’s political potential (87-109). My intention is to determine how readers might construct their own subjectivity to resist oppressive interpellations. Hill and Nic Craith argue that the “lack of closure” in transmedia storyworlds creates “a greater breadth and depth of interpretation … than a single telling could achieve” (104). They conclude that “this expansive quality has allowed the campaigners to continue their activism in a number of different arenas” (104). I contest their assertion that transmedia lacks closure, and instead contend that closure, or the recognition of meaning, inheres with the reader (McCloud 33) rather than in a universalised meaning attributed to the text: transmedia storytelling therefore arouses political potential in reading communities. It is precisely this feature that enables the “expansive quality” valued in political activism. I therefore focus my discussion on the readers of transmedia life-writing, rather than on its writer(s). I argue that in reading a life or lives across multiple media the reader is exposed to the texts’ self-referential citations, its extra-diegetic reiterations, and its contradictions. The reader is invited to make meaning from these citations, reiterations and contradictions; they are positioned to confront the ways in which space and time shape life-writing and subjectivity. Transmedia life-writing can therefore empower readers to invoke critical reading practices.The reader’s agency offers the potential for resistance and revolution. This agency is invited in Color where readers are asked to straddle the fictional world of TAW and the “real” world. The Unravelling Palette of Dawn (2015) is the literary narrative that parallels this album. The book is written by Chondra Echert, Sanchez’s collaborator and wife, and is an amalgam of personal essay and photo-book. It opens by invoking the space opera that informs The Amory Wars: “Sector.12, Paris, Earth. A man and a woman sit in a café debating their fate” (n.p.). This situates the reader in the fictional world of TAW, but also brings the reader into the mundanity and familiarity of a discussion between two people. The reader is witness to a discussion between intimates that focusses on the question of “where to from here.” The idea of “fate” is either misunderstood or misapplied: fate is predetermined, and undebatable. The reader is therefore positioned to remember the band’s previous “concept,” and juxtapose it against a new “realistic” trajectory: fictional characters might have a fate that is determined by their writer, but does that fate extend to the writer themselves? To what extent is Sanchez and Echert’s auto/biography crafted by writers other than themselves?The opening passage provides a skin for the protagonists of the essay, enabling a fantastical space within which Echert and Sanchez might cloak themselves, as they have done throughout TAW. However, this conceit is peeled away on the second page:This might have been the story you find yourself holding. A Sci-fi tale, shrouded in fiction. The real life details modified. All names changed. Threads neatly tied up at the end and altered for the sake of ego and feelings.But the truth is rarely so well planned. The story isn’t filled with epic action scenes or glossed-over romance. Reality is gritty and mucky and thrown together in the last seconds. It’s painful. It is not beautiful … and so it is. The events that inspired this record are acutely personal. (n.p.)In this passage Echert makes reference to the method of storytelling employed throughout the texts that make up TAW. She lays bare the shroud of fiction that covers the lived realities of her and her husband’s lives. She goes on to note that their lives have been interpreted “to fit the bounds of the concept” (n.p.), that is TAW as a space opera, and that the current album was an opportunity to “pull back the curtain” (n.p.) on this conceit. This narrative is echoed by Sanchez in the documentary component of the project, The Physics of Color (2015). Like Echert, Sanchez locates the narrative’s genesis in Paris, but in the Paris of our own world, where he and Echert finalised the literary component of the band’s previous project, The Afterman (2012). Color, like the previous works, is written as a collaboration, not just between Sanchez and Echert, but also by the other members of the band who contributed to the composition of each track. This collaborative writing is an example of relationality that facilitates a critical space for readers and invites them to consider the ways in which their own subjectivity is constructed.Ivor Goodson and Scherto Gill provide a means of critically engaging with relational reading practices. They position narrative as a tool that can be used to engage in critical self, and social, reflection. Their theory of critical narrative as a form of pedagogy enables readers to shift away from reading Color as auto-fiction and towards reading it as an act of collaborative auto/biography. This transition reflects a shifting imperative from the personal, particularly questions of identity, to the political, to engaging with the web of human relations, in order to explore subjectivity. Given transmedia is generally employed by writers of fantasy and speculative literatures, it can be difficult for readers to negotiate their expectations: transmedia is not just a tool for franchises, but can also be a tool for political resistance.Henry Jenkins initiated the conversation about transmedia reading practices and reality television in his chapters about early seasons of Survivor and American Idol in his book Convergence Culture. He identifies the relationship between viewers and these shows as one that shifts from “real-time interaction toward asynchronous participation” (59): viewers continue their engagement with the shows even when they are not watching a broadcast. Hill and Nic Craith provide a departure from literary and media studies approaches to transmedia by utilising an anthropological approach to understanding storyworlds. They maintain that both media studies and anthropological methodologies “recognize that storytelling is a continually contested act between different communities (whether media communities or social communities), and that the final result is indicative of the collective rather than the individual” (88–89). They argue that this collectivity results from “negotiated meaning” between the text and members of the reading community. This is a recognition of the significance held by readers of life-writing regarding the “biographical contract” (Lejeune 22) resulting from the “rationally motivated inter subjective recognition of norms” (Habermas n.p.). Collectivity is analogous to relationality: the way in which the readers’ subjectivity is impacted upon by their engagement with the storyworld, helixed with the writer(s) of transmedia life-writing having their subjectivity impacted upon by their engagement with reader responses to their developing texts. However, the term “relationality” is used to slightly different effect in both transmedia and life-writing studies. Colin Harvey’s definition of transmedia storytelling as relational emphasises the relationships between different media “with the wider storyworld in question, and by extension the wider culture” (2). This can be juxtaposed with Paul John Eakin’s assertion that life-writing as a genre that requires interaction between the author and their audience: “autobiography of the self but the biography and autobiography of the other” (58). It seems to me that the differing articulations of “relationality” arising from both life-writing and transmedia scholarship rely on, but elide, the relationship between the reader and the storyworld. In both instances it is left to the reader to make meaning from the text, both in terms of understanding the subject(s) represented in relation to their own, and also as the nexus between the transmedia text, the storyworld, and the broader culture. The readers’ own experiences, their memories, are central to this relationality.The song “Colors” (2015), which Echert notes in her essay was the first song to be written for the album, chronicles the anxieties that arose after Sanchez and Echert discovered that their home (which they had been leasing out) had been significantly damaged by their tenants. In the documentary The Physics of Color, both Echert and Sanchez speak about this song as a means for Sanchez to reassert his identity as a musician after an extended period where he struggled with the song-writing process. The song is pared back, the staccato guitar in the introduction echoing a similar theme in the introduction to the song “The Afterman” (2012) which was released on the band’s previous album. This tonal similarity, the plucked electric guitar and the shared rhythm, provides a sense of thoroughness between the songs, inviting the listener to remember the ways in which the music on Color is in conversation with the previous albums. This conversation is significant: it relies on the reader’s experience of their own memory. In his book Fantastic Transmedia, Colin Harvey argues that memories are “the mechanisms by which the ‘storyworld’ was effectively sewn together, helping create a common diegetic space for me—and countless others—to explore” (viii). Both readers’ and creators’ experiences of personal and political time and space in relation to the storyworld challenge traditional understandings of readers’ agency in relation to the storyworld, and this challenge can be abstracted to frame the reader’s agency in relation to other economic, political, and social manifestations of power.In “The Audience” Sanchez sings:This is my audience, forever oneTogether burning starsCut from the same diseaseEver longing what and who we areIn the documentary, Sanchez states that this song is an acknowledgement that he, the band and their audience are “one and the same in [their] oddity, and it’s like … family.” Echert echoes this, referring to the intimate relationships built with fans over the years at conventions, shows and through social media: “they’ve superseded fandom and become a part of this extended family.” Readers come to this song with the memory of TAW: the memory of “burning Star IV,” a line that is included in the titles of two of Coheed’s albums (Good Apollo, I’m Burning Star IV Vols. 1 (2005) and 2 (2007), and to the Monstar disease that is referenced throughout Second Stage Turbine Blade, both the album (2002) and the comic books (2010). As a depiction of his destabilised identity however, the lyrics can also be read as a poetic commentary on Sanchez’s experiences with renegotiating his subjectivity: his status as an identity that gains its truth through consensus with others, an audience who is “ever longing what and who we are.” In the documentary Sanchez states “I could do the concept thing again with this album, you know, take it and manipulate it and make it this other sort of dimension … but this one … it means so much more to be … I really wanted this to be exposed, I really want this to be my story.” Sanchez imagines that his story, its truth, its sacredness, is contingent on its exposure on being shared with an audience. For Sanchez his subjectivity arises from on his relationality with his audience. This puts the reader at the centre of the storyworld. The assertion of subjectivity arises as a result of community.However, there is an uncertainty that floats in the lacunae between the texts contributing to the Color storyworld. As noted, in the documentary, both Echert and Sanchez speak lovingly of their relationships with Coheed audiences, but Sanchez goes on to acknowledge that “there’s a little bit of darkness in there too, that I don’t know if I want to bring up… I’ll keep that a mystery,” and some of the “The Audience” lyrics hint at a more sinister relationship between the audience and the band:Thieves of our timeWatch as they rape your integrityMarch as the beat suggests.One reader, Hecatonchair, discusses these lyrics in a Reddit post responding to “The Audience”. They write:The lyrics are pretty aggressive, and could easily be read as an attack against either the music industry or the fans. Considering the title and chorus, I think the latter is who it was intended to reach, but both interpretations are valid.This acknowledgement by the poster that there the lyrics are polyvalent speaks to the decisions that readers are positioned to make in responding to the storyworld.This phrase makes explicit the inconsistency between what Sanchez says about the band’s fans, and what he feels. It is left to the reader to account for this inconsistency between the song lyrics and the writers’ assertions. Hecatonchair and the five readers who respond to their post all write that they enjoy the song, regardless of what they read as its aggressive position on the band’s relationship with them as audience members. In identifying as both audience members and readers with different interpretations, the Reddit commentators recognise their identities in intersecting communities, and demonstrate their agency as subjects. Goodson and Gill invoke Charles Taylor’s assertion that one of the defining elements of “identity” is a “defining community,” that is “identity is lived in social and historical particulars, such as the literature, philosophy, religious teaching and great conversations taking place along one’s life’s journeys” (Goodson and Gill 27).Harvey identified readers as central to transmedia practices. In reading a life across multiple media readers assert agency within the storyworld: they choose which texts to engage with, and how and when to engage with them. They must remember, or more specifically re-member, the life or lives with which they are engaging. This re-membering is an evocative metaphor: it could be described as Frankensteinian, the bringing together of texts and media through a reading that is stretched across the narrative, like the creature’s yellow skin. It also invokes older stories of death (the author’s) and resurrection (of the author, by the reader): the murder and dismemberment of Osiris by his brother Set, and Isis, Osiris's wife, who rejoins the fragmented pieces of Osiris, and briefly brings him back.Coheed and Cambria regularly cite musical themes or motifs across their albums, while song lyrics are quoted in the text of comic books and the novel. The readers recognise and weave together these citations with the more explicitly autobiographical writing in Color. Readers are positioned to critique the function of a canonical truth underpinning the storyworld: whose life is being told? Sanchez invokes memory throughout the album by incorporating soundscapes, such as the sounds of a train-line on the song “Island.” Sanchez notes he and his wife would hear these sounds as they took the train from their home in Brooklyn to the island of Manhattan. Sanchez brings his day-to-day experiences to his readers as overlapping but not identical accounts of perspectives. They enable a plurality of truths and destabilise the Western focus on a singular or universal truth of lived experience.When life-writing is constructed transmedially the author must—of necessity—relinquish control over their story’s temporality. This includes both the story’s internal and external temporalities. By internal temporality I am referring to the manner in which time plays out within the story: given that the reader can enter into and engage with the story through a number of media, the responsibility for constructing the story’s timeline lies with the reader; they may therefore choose, or only be able, to engage with the story’s timeline in a haphazard, rather than a chronological, manner. For example, in Sanchez’ previous work, TAW, comic book components of the storyworld were often released years after the albums with which they were paired. Readers can only engage with the timelines as they are published, as they loop back through and between the storyworld’s temporality.The different media—CD, comic, novel, or art-book—often represent different perspectives or experiences within the same or at least within overlapping internal temporalities: significant incidences are narrated between the media. This results in an unstable external temporality, over which the author, again, has no control. The reader may listen to the music before reading the book, or the other way around, but reading the book and listening to the music simultaneously may not be feasible, and may detract from the experience of engaging with each aspect of the storyworld. This brings us back to the importance of memory to readers of transmedia narratives: they must remember in order to, as Harvey says, stitch together a common “diegetic space.” Although the author often relinquishes control to the external temporality of the text, placing the reader in control of the internal temporality of their life-writing destabilises the authority that is often attributed to an auto/biographer. It also makes explicit that transmedia life-writing is an ongoing project. This allows the author(s) to account for “a reflexive process where individuals take the opportunity to evaluate their actions in connection with their intentions and thus ‘write a further part’ of their histories” (Goodson and Gill 33).Goodson and Gill note that “life’s events are never linear and any intention for life to be coherent and progressive in accordance with a ‘plan’ will constantly be interrupted” (30). This is why transmedia offers writers and readers a more authentic means of engaging with life-writing. Its weblike structure enables readers to view subjectivity through a number of lenses: transmedia life-writing narrates a relational subjectivity that resists attempts at delineation. There is still a “continuity” that arises when Sanchez invokes the storyworld’s self-referential citations, reiterations, and contradictions in order to “[define] narratives within a temporal, social and cultural framework” (Goodson and Gill 29), however transmedia life-writing refuses to limit itself, or its readers, to the narratives of space and time that regulate mono-medial life-writing. Instead it positions readers to “unmask the world and then change it” (43).ReferencesArendt, Hannah. The Human Condition. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1958.Coheed and Cambria. Second Stage Turbine Blade. New York: Equal Vision Records, 2002.———. In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth: 3. New York: Equal Vision Records, 2003.———. Good Apollo I’m Burning Star IV, Vol. 1: From Fear through the Eyes of Madness. New York: Columbia, 2005.———. Good Apollo I’m Burning Star IV, Vol. 2: No World for Tomorrow. New York: Columbia, 2007.———. The Year of the Black Rainbow. New York: Columbia, 2010.———. The Afterman: Ascension. Los Angeles: Hundred Handed/Everything Evil, 2012.———. The Afterman: Descension. Los Angeles: Hundred Handed/Everything Evil, 2013.———. The Colour before the Sun. Brooklyn: the bag.on-line.adventures and Everything Evil Records, 2015.———. “The Physics of Color” Documentary DVD. Brooklyn: Everything Evil Records, 2015. Eakin, Paul John. How Our Lives Become Stories: Making Selves. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 1999. ———. The Ethics of Life Writing. Ithaca: Cornell UP, 2004.Echert, Chondra. The Unravelling Palette of Dawn. Brooklyn: the bag.on-line.adventures and Everything Evil Records, 2015.Goodson, Ivor, and Scherto Gill. Critical Narrative as Pedagogy. London: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2014.Habermas, Jürgen. The Theory of Communicative Action, Vol. 1: Reason and the Rationalisation of Society. Trans. Thomas McCarthy. Cambridge: Polity Press, 1984.Harvey, Colin. Fantastic Transmedia: Narrative, Play and Memory Across Science-Fiction and Fantasy Storyworlds. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015.Hecatonchair. “r/TheFence's Song of the Day Database Update Day 9: The Audience”. 11 Feb. 2018 <https://www.reddit.com/r/TheFence/comments/4eno9o/rthefences_song_of_the_day_database_update_day_9/>.Hill, Emma, and Máiréad Nic Craith. “Medium and Narrative Change: The Effects of Multiple Media on the ‘Glasgow Girls’ Story and Their Real-Life Campaign.” Narrative Culture 3.1 (2016). 9 Dec. 2017 <http://www.jstor.org/stable/10.13110/narrcult.3.1.0087>.Jenkins, Henry. Convergence Culture: Where Old and New Media Collide. New York: New York UP, 2006.Leader, Zachary, ed. On Life-Writing. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2015.Lejeune, Philippe, and Paul John Eakin, eds. On Autobiography. Trans. Katherine Leary. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1989.McCloud, Scott. Understanding Comics: The Invisible Art, New York: Harper Perennial, 1994.Sanchez, Claudio, and Gus Vasquez. The Amory Wars Sketchbook. Los Angeles: Evil Ink Comics, 2006.———, Gus Vasquez, et al. The Amory Wars: The Second Stage Turbine Blade Ultimate Edition. Los Angeles: BOOM! Studios, 2010.———, Peter David, Chris Burnham, et al. In Keeping Secrets of Silent Earth: 3 Ultimate Edition. Los Angeles: BOOM! Studios, 2010.———, and Christopher Shy. Good Apollo I’m Burning Star IV, Vol. 1: From Fear through the Eyes of Madness. Los Angeles: Evil Ink Comics, 2005.———, and Peter David. Year of the Black Rainbow. Nashville: Evil Ink Books, 2010.———, and Nathan Spoor, The Afterman. Los Angeles: Evil Ink Comics/Hundred Handed Inc., 2012.

Story spreads out through time the behaviors or bodies – the shapes – a self has been or will be, each replacing the one before. Hence a story has before and after, gain and loss. It goes somewhere…Moreover, shape or body is crucial, not incidental, to story. It carries story; it makes story visible; in a sense it is story. Shape (or visible body) is in space what story is in time. (Bynum, quoted in Garland Thomson, 113-114) Drawing on Goffman’s classic work on stigma, research documenting the existence of discrimination and bias against individuals classified as obese goes back five decades. Since Cahnman published “The Stigma of Obesity” in 1968, other researchers have well documented systematic and growing discrimination against fat people (cf. Puhl and Brownell; Puhl and Heuer; Puhl and Heuer; Fikkan and Rothblum). While weight-based stereotyping has a long history (Chang and Christakis; McPhail; Schwartz), contemporary forms of anti-fat stigma and discrimination must be understood within a social and economic context of neoliberal healthism. By neoliberal healthism (see Crawford; Crawford; Metzel and Kirkland), I refer to the set of discourses that suggest that humans are rational, self-determining actors who independently make their own best choices and are thus responsible for their life chances and health outcomes. In such a context, good health becomes associated with proper selfhood, and there are material and social consequences for those who either unwell or perceived to be unwell. While the greatest impacts of size-based discrimination are structural in nature, the interpersonal impacts are also significant. Because obesity is commonly represented (at least partially) as a matter of behavioral choices in public health, medicine, and media, to “remain fat” is to invite commentary from others that one is lacking in personal responsibility. Guthman suggests that this lack of empathy “also stems from the growing perception that obesity presents a social cost, made all the more tenable when the perception of health responsibility has been reversed from a welfare model” (1126). Because weight loss is commonly held to be a reasonable and feasible goal and yet is nearly impossible to maintain in practice (Kassierer and Angell; Mann et al.; Puhl and Heuer), fat people are “in effect, asked to do the impossible and then socially punished for failing” (Greenhalgh, 474). In this article, I explore how weight-based stigma shaped the decisions of bariatric patients to undergo weight loss surgery. In doing so, I underline the work that emotion does in circulating anti-fat stigma and in creating categories of subjects along lines of health and responsibility. As well, I highlight how fat bodies are lived and negotiated in space and place. I then explore ways in which participants take up notions of time, specifically in regard to risk, in discussing what brought them to the decision to have bariatric surgery. I conclude by arguing that it is a dynamic interaction between the material, social, emotional, discursive, and the temporal that produces not only fat embodiment, but fat subjectivity “failed”, and serves as an impetus for seeking bariatric surgery. Methods This article is based on 30 semi-structured interviews with American bariatric patients. At the time of the interview, individuals were between six months and 12 years out from surgery. After obtaining Intuitional Review Board approval, recruitment occurred through a snowball sample. All interviews were audio-taped with permission and verbatim interview transcripts were analyzed by means of a thematic analysis using Dedoose (www.dedoose.com). All names given in this article are pseudonyms. This work is part of a larger project that includes two additional interviews with bariatric surgeons as well as participant-observation research. Findings Navigating Anti-Fat Stigma In discussing what it was like to be fat, all but one of the individuals I interviewed discussed experiencing substantive size-based stigma and discrimination. Whether through overt comments, indirect remarks, dirty looks, open gawking, or being ignored and unrecognized, participants felt hurt, angry, and shamed by friends, family, coworkers, medical providers, and strangers on the street because of the size of their bodies. Several recalled being bullied and even physically assaulted by peers as children. Many described the experience of being fat or very fat as one of simultaneous hypervisibility and invisibility. One young woman, Kaia, said: “I absolutely was not treated like a person … . I was just like this object to people. Just this big, you know, thing. That’s how people treated me.” Nearly all of my participants described being told repeatedly by others, including medical professionals, that their inability to lose weight was effectively a failure of the will. They found these comments to be particularly hurtful because, in fact, they had spent years, even decades, trying to lose weight only to gain the weight back plus more. Some providers and family members seemed to take up the idea that shame could be a motivating force in weight loss. However, as research by Lewis et al.; Puhl and Huerer; and Schafer and Ferraro has demonstrated, the effect this had was the opposite of what was intended. Specifically, a number of the individuals I spoke with delayed care and avoided health-facilitating behaviors, like exercising, because of the discrimination they had experienced. Instead, they turned to health-harming practices, like crash dieting. Moreover, the internalization of shame and blame served to lower a sense of self-worth for many participants. And despite having a strong sense that something outside of personal behavior explained their escalating body weights, they deeply internalized messages about responsibility and self-control. Danielle, for instance, remarked: “Why could the one thing I want the most be so impossible for me to maintain?” It is important to highlight the work that emotion does in circulating such experiences of anti-fat stigma and discrimination. As Fraser et al have argued in their discussion on fat and emotion, the social, the emotional, and the corporeal cannot be separated. Drawing on Ahmed, they argue that strong emotions are neither interior psychological states that work between individuals nor societal states that impact individuals. Rather, emotions are constitutive of subjects and collectivities, (Ahmed; Fraser et al.). Negative emotions in particular, such as hate and fear, produce categories of people, by defining them as a common threat and, in the process, they also create categories of people who are deemed legitimate and those who are not. Thus following Fraser et al, it is possible to see that anti-fat hatred did more than just negatively impact the individuals I spoke with. Rather, it worked to produce, differentiate, and drive home categories of people along lines of health, weight, risk, responsibility, and worth. In this next section, I examine the ways in which anti-fat discrimination works at the interface of not only the discursive and the emotive, but the material as well. Big Bodies, Small Spaces When they discussed their previous lives as very fat people, all of the participants made reference to a social and built environment mismatch, or in Garland Thomson’s terms, a “misfit”. A misfit occurs “when the environment does not sustain the shape and function of the body that enters it” (594). Whereas the built environment offers a fit for the majority of bodies, Garland Thomson continues, it also creates misfits for minority forms of embodiment. While Garland Thomson’s analysis is particular to disability, I argue that it extends to fat embodiment as well. In discussing what it was like to navigate the world as fat, participants described both the physical and emotional pain entailed in living in bodies that did not fit and frequently discussed the ways in which leaving the house was always a potential, anxiety-filled problem. Whereas all of the participants I interviewed discussed such misfitting, it was notable that participants in the Greater New York City area (70% of the sample) spoke about this topic at length. Specifically, they made frequent and explicit mentions of the particular interface between their fat bodies and the Metropolitan Transit Authority (MTA), and the tightly packed spaces of the city itself. Greater New York City area participants frequently spoke of the shame and physical discomfort in having to stand on public transportation for fear that they would be openly disparaged for “taking up too much room.” Some mentioned that transit seats were made of molded plastic, indicating by design the amount of space a body should occupy. Because they knew they would require more space than what was allotted, these participants only took seats after calculating how crowded the subway or train car was and how crowded it would likely become. Notably, the decision to not take a seat was one that was made at a cost for some of the larger individuals who experienced joint pain. Many participants stated that the densely populated nature of New York City made navigating daily life very challenging. In Talia’s words, “More people, more obstacles, less space.” Participants described always having to be on guard, looking for the next obstacle. As Candice put it: “I would walk in some place and say, ‘Will I be able to fit? Will I be able to manoeuvre around these people and not bump into them?’ I was always self-conscious.” Although participants often found creative solutions to navigating the hostile environment of both the MTA and the city at large, they also identified an increasing sense of isolation that resulted from the physical discomfort and embarrassment of not fitting in. For instance, Talia rarely joined her partner and their friends on outings to movies or the theater because the seats were too tight. Similarly, Decenia would make excuses to her husband in order to avoid social situations outside of the home: “I’d say to my husband, ‘I don’t feel well, you go.’ But you know what? It was because I was afraid not to fit, you know?” The anticipatory scrutinizing described by these participants, and the anxieties it produced, echoes Kirkland’s contention that fat individuals use the technique of ‘scanning’ in order to navigate and manage hostile social and built environments. Scanning, she states, involves both literally rapidly looking over situations and places to determine accessibility, as well as a learned assessment and observation technique that allows fat people to anticipate how they will be received in new situations and new places. For my participants, worries about not fitting were more than just internal calculation. Rather, others made all too clear that fat bodies are not welcome. Nina recalled nasty looks she received from other subway riders when she attempted to sit down. Decenia described an experience on a crowded commuter train in which the woman next to her openly expressed annoyance and disgust that their thighs were touching. Talia recalled being aggressively handed a weight loss brochure by a fellow passenger. When asked to contrast their experiences living in New York City with having travelled or lived elsewhere, participants almost universally described the New York as a more difficult place to live for fat people. However, the experiences of three of the Latinas that I interviewed troubled this narrative. Katrina felt that the harassment she received in her country of origin, the Dominican Republic, was far worse than what she now experienced in the New York Metropolitan Area. Although Decenia detailed painful experiences of anti-fat stigma in New York City, she nevertheless described her life as relatively “easy” compared to what it was like in her home country of Brazil. And Denisa contrasted her neighbourhood of East Harlem with other parts of Manhattan: “In Harlem it's different. Everybody is really fat or plump – so you feel a bit more comfortable. Not everybody, but there's a mix. Downtown – there's no mix.” Collectively, their stories serve as a reminder (see Franko et al.; Grabe and Hyde) to be suspicious of over determined accounts that “Latino culture” is (or people of colour communities in general are), more accepting of larger bodies and more resistant to weight-based stigma and discrimination. Their comments also reflect arguments made by Colls, Grosz, and Garland Thomson, who have all pointed to the contingent nature between space and bodies. Colls argue that sizing is both a material and an emotional process – what size we take ourselves to be shifts in different physical and emotional contexts. Grosz suggests that there is a “mutually constitutive relationship between bodies and cities” – one that, I would add, is raced, classed, and gendered. Garland Thomson has described the relationship between bodies and space/place as “a dynamic encounter between world and flesh.” These encounters, she states, are always contingent and situated: “When the spatial and temporal context shifts, so does the fit, and with it meanings and consequences” (592). In this sense, fat is materialized differently in different contexts and in different scales – nation, state, city, neighbourhood – and the materialization of fatness is always entangled with raced, classed, and gendered social and political-economic relations. Nevertheless, it is possible to draw some structural commonalities between divergent parts of the Greater New York City Metropolitan Area. Specifically, a dense population, cramped physical spaces, inaccessible transportation and transportation funding cuts, social norms of fast paced life, and elite, raced, classed, and gendered norms of status and beauty work to materialize fatness in such a way that a ‘misfit’ is often the result for fat people who live and/or work in this area. And importantly, misfitting, as Garland Thomson argues, has consequences: it literally “casts out” when the “shape and function of … bodies comes into conflict with the shape and stuff of the built world” (594). This casting out produces some bodies as irrelevant to social and economic life, resulting in segregation and isolation. To misfit, she argues, is to be denied full citizenship. Responsibilising the Present Garland Thomson, discussing Bynum’s statement that “shape carries story”, argues the following: “the idea that shape carries story suggests … that material bodies are not only in the spaces of the world but that they are entwined with temporality as well” (596). In this section, I discuss how participants described their decisions to get weight loss surgery by making references to the need take responsibility for health now, in the present, in order to avoid further and future morbidity and mortality. Following Adams et al., I look at how the fat body is lived in a state of constant anticipation – “thinking and living toward the future” (246). All of the participants I spoke with described long histories of weight cycling. While many managed to lose weight, none were able to maintain this weight loss in the long term – a reality consistent with the medical fact that dieting does not produce durable results (Kassirer and Angell; Mann et al.; Puhl and Heuer). They experienced this inability as not only distressing, but terrifying, as they repeatedly regained the lost weight plus more. When participants discussed their decisions to have surgery, they highlighted concerns about weight related comorbidities and mobility limitations in their explanations. Consistent then with Boero, Lopez, and Wadden et al., the participants I spoke with did not seek out surgery in hopes of finding a permanent way to become thin, but rather a permanent way to become healthy and normal. Concerns about what is considered to be normative health, more than simply concerns about what is held to be an appropriate appearance, motivated their decisions. Significantly, for these participants the decision to have bariatric surgery was based on concerns about future morbidity (and mortality) at least as much, if not more so, than on concerns about a current state of ill health and impairment. Some individuals I spoke with were unquestionably suffering from multiple chronic and even life threatening illnesses and feared they would prematurely die from these conditions. Other participants, however, made the decision to have bariatric surgery despite the fact that they had no comorbidities whatsoever. Motivating their decisions was the fear that they would eventually develop them. Importantly, medial providers explicitly and repeatedly told all of these participants that lest they take drastic and immediate action, they would die. For example: Faith’s reproductive endocrinologist said: “you’re going to have diabetes by the time you’re 30; you’re going to have a stroke by the time you’re 40. And I can only hope that you can recover enough from your stroke that you’ll be able to take care of your family.” Several female participants were warned that without losing weight, they would either never become pregnant or they would die in childbirth. By contrast, participants stated that their bariatric surgeons were the first providers they had encountered to both assert that obesity was a medical condition outside of their control and to offer them a solution. Within an atmosphere in which obesity is held to be largely or entirely the result of behavioural choices, the bariatric profession thus positions itself as unique by offering both understanding and what it claims to be a durable treatment. Importantly, it would be a mistake to conclude that some bariatric patients needed surgery while others choose it for the wrong reasons. Regardless of their states of health at the time they made the decision to have surgery, the concerns that drove these patients to seek out these procedures were experienced as very real. Whether or not these concerns would have materialized as actual health conditions is unknown. Furthermore, bariatric patients should not be seen as having been duped or suffering from ‘false consciousness.’ Rather, they operate within a particular set of social, cultural, and political-economic conditions that suggest that good citizenship requires risk avoidance and personal health management. As these individuals experienced, there are material and social consequences for ‘failing’ to obtain normative conceptualizations of health. This set of conditions helps to produce a bariatric patient population that includes both those who were contending with serious health concerns and those who feared they would develop them. All bariatric patients operate within this set of conditions (as do medical providers) and make decisions regarding health (current, future, or both) by using the resources available to them. In her work on the temporalities of dieting, Coleman argues that rather than seeing dieting as a linear and progressive event, we might think of it instead a process that brings the future into the present as potential. Adams et al suggest concerns about potential futures, particularly in regard to health, are a defining characteristic of our time. They state: “The present is governed, at almost every scale, as if the future is what matters most. Anticipatory modes enable the production of possible futures that are lived and felt as inevitable in the present, rendering hope and fear as important political vectors” (249). The ability to act in the present based on potential future risks, they argue, has become a moral imperative and a marker of proper of citizenship. Importantly, however, our work to secure the ‘best possible future’ is never fully assured, as risks are constantly changing. The future is thus always uncertain. Acting responsibly in the present therefore requires “alertness and vigilance as normative affective states” (254). Importantly, these anticipations are not diagnostic, but productive. As Adams et al state, “the future arrives already formed in the present, as if the emergency has already happened…a ‘sense’ of the simultaneous uncertainty and inevitability of the future, usually manifest in entanglements of fear and hope” (250). It is in this light, then, that we might see the decision to have bariatric surgery. For these participants, their future weight-related morbidity and mortality had already arrived in the present and thus they felt they needed to act responsibly now, by undergoing what they had been told was the only durable medical intervention for obesity. The emotions of hope, fear, anxiety and I would suggest, hatred, were key in making these decisions. Conclusion Medical, public health, and media discourses frame obesity as an epidemic that threatens to bring untold financial disaster and escalating rates of morbidity and mortality upon the nation state and the world at large. As Fraser et al argue, strong emotions (such hatred, fear, anxiety, and hope), are at the centre of these discourses; they construct, circulate, and proliferate them. Moreover, they create categories of people who are deemed legitimate and categories of others who are not. In this context, the participants I spoke with were caught between a desire to have fatness understood as a medical condition needing intervention; the anti-fat attitudes of others, including providers, which held that obesity was a failure of the will and nothing more; their own internalization of these messages of personal responsibility for proper behavioural choices, and, the biologically intractable nature of fatness wherein dieting not only fails to reduce weight in the vast majority of cases but results, in the long term, in increased weight gain (Kassirer and Angell; Mann et al.; Puhl and Heuer). Widespread anxiety and embarrassment over and fear and hatred of fatness was something that the individuals I interviewed experienced directly and which signalled to them that they were less than human. Their desire for weight loss, therefore was partially a desire to become ‘normal.’ In Butler’s term, it was the desire for a ‘liveable life. ’A liveable life, for these participants, included a desire for a seamless fit with the built environment. The individuals I spoke with were never more ashamed of their fatness than when they experienced a ‘misfit’, in Garland Thomson’s terms, between their bodies and the material world. Moreover, feelings of shame over this disjuncture worked in tandem with a deeply felt, pressing sense that something must be done in the present to secure a better health future. The belief that bariatric surgery might finally provide a durable answer to obesity served as a strong motivating factor in their decisions to undergo bariatric surgery. By taking drastic action to lose weight, participants hoped to contest stigmatizing beliefs that their fat bodies reflected pathological interiors. Moreover, they sought to demonstrate responsibility and thus secure proper subjectivities and citizenship. In this sense, concerns, anxieties, and fears about health cannot be disentangled from the experience of anti-fat stigma and discrimination. Again, anti-fat bias, for these participants, was more than discursive: it operated through the circulation of emotion and was experienced in a very material sense. The decision to have weight loss surgery can thus be seen as occurring at the interface of emotion, flesh, space, place, and time, and in ways that are fundamentally shaped by the broader social context of neoliberal healthism. AcknowledgmentI am grateful to the anonymous reviewers of this article for their helpful feedback on earlier version. References Adams, Vincanne, Michelle Murphy, and Adele E. Clarke. “Anticipation: Technoscience, Life, Affect, Temporality.” Subjectivity 28.1 (2009): 246-265. Ahmed, Sara. “Affective Economies.” Social Text 22.2 (2004): 117-139 Boero, Natalie. Killer Fat: Media, Medicine, and Morals in the American "Obesity Epidemic". New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2012. Butler, Judith. Undoing Gender. New York: Routledge, 2004. Bynum, Caroline Walker. 1999. Jefferson Lecture in the Humanities. National Endowment for the Humanities. Washington, DC, 1999. Cahnman, Werner J. “The Stigma of Obesity.” The Sociological Quarterly 9.3 (1968): 283-299. Chang, Virginia W., and Nicholas A. Christakis. “Medical Modeling of Obesity: A Transition from Action to Experience in a 20th Century American Medical Textbook.” Sociology of Health & Illness 24.2 (2002): 151-177. Coleman, Rebecca. “Dieting Temporalities: Interaction, Agency and the Measure of Online Weight Watching.” Time & Society 19.2 (2010): 265-285. Colls, Rachel. “‘Looking Alright, Feeling Alright:’ Emotions, Sizing, and the Geographies of Women’s Experience of Clothing Consumption.” Social & Cultural Geography 5.4 (2004): 583-596. Crawford, Robert. “You Are Dangerous to Your Health: The Ideology and Politics of Victim Blaming.” International Journal of Health Services 7.4 (1977): 663-680. ———. “Health as a Meaningful Social Practice.: Health 10.4 (2006): 401-20. Dedoose. Computer Software. n.d. Franko, Debra L., Emilie J. Coen, James P. Roehrig, Rachel Rodgers, Amy Jenkins, Meghan E. Lovering, Stephanie Dela Cruz. “Considering J. Lo and Ugly Betty: A Qualitative Examination of Risk Factors and Prevention Targets for Body Dissatisfaction, Eating Disorders, and Obesity in Young Latina Women.” Body Image 9.3 (2012), 381-387. Fikken, Janna J., and Esther D. Rothblum. “Is Fat a Feminist Issue? Exploring the Gendered Nature of Weight Bias.” Sex Roles 66.9-10 (2012): 575-592. Fraser, Suzanne, JaneMaree Maher, and Jan Wright. “Between Bodies and Collectivities: Articulating the Action of Emotion in Obesity Epidemic Discourse.” Social Theory & Health 8.2 (2010): 192-209. Garland Thomson, Rosemarie. “Misfits: A Feminist Materialist Disability Concept.” Hypatia 26.3 (2011): 591-609. Goffman, Erving. Stigma: Notes on the Management of Spoiled Identity. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1963. Grabe, Shelly, and Janet S. Hyde. “Ethnicity and Body Dissatisfaction among Women in the United States: A Meta-Analysis.” Psychological Bulletin 132.2 (2006): 622. Greenhalgh, Susan. “Weighty Subjects: The Biopolitics of the U.S. War on Fat.” American Ethnologist 39.3 (2012): 471-487. Grosz, Elizabeth A. “Bodies-Cities.” Feminist Theory and the Body: A Reader, eds. Janet Price and Margrit Shildrick. New York: Routledge, 1999. 381-387. Guthman, Julie. “Teaching the Politics of Obesity: Insights into Neoliberal Embodiment and Contemporary Biopolitics.” Antipode 41.5 (2009): 1110-1133. Kassirer, Jerome P., and M. Marcia Angell. “Losing Weight: An Ill-Fated New Year's Resolution.” The New England Journal of Medicine 338.1 (1998): 52. Kirkland, Anna. “Think of the Hippopotamus: Rights Consciousness in the Fat Acceptance Movement.” Law & Society Review 42.2 (2008): 397-432. Lewis, Sophie, Samantha L. Thomas, R. Warwick Blood, David Castle, Jim Hyde, and Paul A. Komesaroff. “How Do Obese Individuals Perceive and Respond to the Different Types of Obesity Stigma That They Encounter in Their Daily Lives? A Qualitative Study.” Social Science & Medicine 73.9 (2011): 1349-56. López, Julia Navas. “Socio-Anthropological Analysis of Bariatric Surgery Patients: A Preliminary Study.” Social Medicine 4.4 (2009): 209-217. McPhail, Deborah. “What to Do with the ‘Tubby Hubby?: ‘Obesity,’ the Crisis of Masculinity, and the Nuclear Family in Early Cold War Canada. Antipode 41.5 (2009): 1021-1050. Mann, Traci, A. Janet Tomiyama, Erika Westling, Ann-Marie Lew, Barbara Samuels, and Jason Chatman. “Medicare’s Search for Effective Obesity Treatments.” American Psychologist 62.3 (2007): 220-233. Metzl, Jonathan. “Introduction: Why ‘Against Health?’” Against Health: How Health Became the New Morality, eds. Jonathan Metzl and Anna Kirkland. New York: NYU Press, 2010. 1-14. Puhl, Rebecca M. “Obesity Stigma: Important Considerations for Public Health.” American Journal of Public Health 100.6 (2010): 1019-1028.———, and Kelly D. Brownell. “Psychosocial Origins of Obesity Stigma: Toward Changing a Powerful and Pervasive Bias.” Obesity Reviews 4.4 (2003): 213-227. ——— and Chelsea A. Heuer. “The Stigma of Obesity: A Review and Update.” Obesity 17.5 (2009): 941-964. Schafer, Markus H., and Kenneth F. Ferraro. “The Stigma of Obesity: Does Perceived Weight Discrimination Affect Identity and Physical Health?” Social Psychology Quarterly 74.1 (2011): 76-97. Schwartz, H. Never Satisfied: A Cultural History of Diets, Fantasies, and Fat. New York: Anchor Books, 1986. Wadden, Thomas A., David B. Sarwer, Anthony N. Fabricatore, LaShanda R. Jones, Rebecca Stack, and Noel Williams. “Psychosocial and Behavioral Status of Patients Undergoing Bariatric Surgery: What to Expect before and after Surgery.” The Medical Clinics of North America 91.3 (2007): 451-69. Wilson, Bianca. “Fat, the First Lady, and Fighting the Politics of Health Science.” Lecture. The Graduate Center of the City University of New York. 14 Feb. 2011.

The following essay constitutes a theoretical journey through the landscape of the NAMES Project AIDS Quilt, one narrated from the perspective of those who live on to mourn, to remember. To some critics, my approach might at once appear radical or unorthodox since I focus on how Quilt spectators engage with the artifact and are thereby implicated in the history of the epidemic, rather than on how the dead are made to speak from beyond the grave. My intent is not to invalidate the claims made or the conclusions reached by other critics who have written persuasively about how the Quilt facilitates a voice (both individual and collective) for those who have died of AIDS-related illnesses; indeed, such critics have contributed a wealth of significant knowledge to critical understandings of the pedagogical and political functions of the Quilt. My intent, rather, is to respond to a set of as yet unexplored questions about how the ever-evolving landscape of the AIDS epidemic has altered the nature and purpose of Quilt spectatorship. When the Quilt was created in 1985, “naming names” was an important strategy for political survival, especially given the institutional apathy that silenced and marginalized all who were infected and/or affected by the epidemic. However, over the past sixteen years, apathy has slowly given way to increased attention by medical and media institutions. No longer is memory and reverence enough. Now, we must ask ourselves how the Quilt can continue to be used to combat the emergent obstacles that have sprung up in the wake of apathy and silence. This is not to suggest that remembrance, mourning, and reverence are not still significant responses to the epidemic; we cannot forgot the past, lest we repeat it. But it is to suggest that as we look back, we also must move forward and continue to chart new horizons for how our minds and bodies engage with the Quilt as a social and political space. Throughout this essay, then, my conclusions are at best tentative, offered more as a gesture of hope than as a model for survival. It is my hope that critics can continue to press against social spaces both with caution and determination because those actions matter. We must act with caution because there can be devastating consequences of asserting claims to visibility and location. We must act with determination because there are equally perilous consequences of not doing so. Since its meager beginnings, the NAMES Project AIDS Quilt has undergone exponential changes in size, shape, and scope, but critical responses to the Quilt have remained stagnant with most critics attributing to the Quilt a single meaning and purpose: to revere the dead. Cultural critic Peter S. Hawkins, for instance, argues that "the Quilt . . . is most profoundly about the naming of names" (760), while journalist Jerry Gentry suggests that the Quilt bespeaks "a national and international constructive expression of grief" (550), a grief which most powerfully resonates in the loss of individual lives. While "naming names" is a politically important function of the Quilt, critics who read the artifact as only motivated by memory assume that exhibitions of the artifact facilitate a static model of performance. For such critics, the Quilt represents a mass graveyard--both as a place of interment and as a place in which ideological meanings are circumscribed by the fixity and stillness of reverence. (This reading is partly enabled by the fact that each panel measures the size of a human grave.) Not only does this reading universalize the meaning of the Quilt but also it establishes a monolithic viewing position from which to receive that meaning. Here, I outline an alternative model of reception which is implicit in the design and display of the Quilt. While this model acknowledges reverence as one potential response to the Quilt, it does not foreclose other ways of reading. Rather than facilitating a grave performance, then, the Quilt enables performances within the grave. These performances are constituted in/through a dynamic exchange between speaker and listener, text and context, and work to produce a range of ideological meanings and subject positions. To understand how the Quilt locates its viewers within a particular subject position, it is first necessary to specify the speaker-listener relationship established in displays of the Quilt. This relationship is played out through a series of confessional utterances which, as Michel Foucault explains in The History of Sexuality, Volume 1, imply a dialectic relationship between speaker and listener in which subjectivity is predicated on subjection (61-62). The speaker's desire to confess necessitates the presence of a listener, one not wholly passive since his/her presence incites and enables the will to confess. In this way, both speaker and listener are marked as active/passive agents in an exchange characterized by reciprocity and negotiation. Because speakers and listeners simultaneously serve as subject and object of the confession, the exchange cannot be represented as static (active/passive) or unidirectional (sender-message-receiver). Since many critics already have carefully delineated the processes through which the Quilt directs the address of the panels and constitutes the dead as subjects, here I want to focus on how spectators are constructed as subjects who bear witness. Critics typically posit viewers of the Quilt as unified, coherent, monolithic subjects; yet Foucault's discussion of the confessional exchange assumes a subject-in-process. For me, this process is most accurately characterized as schizophrenic. My use of schizophrenia is tropic rather than diagnostic, in that the term works figuratively to describe subject formation rather than to identify the nature of psychiatric disturbance. Two characteristics (which are derived from the symptomatology of the psychic disorder schizophrenia) define the schizophrenic spectator: one, the loss of "normal" associations; and two, the presence of "auditory hallucinations." The first characteristic of schizophrenic spectators is the loss of "normal" associations. Remi J. Cadoret notes that in schizophrenics, "[t]hought processes appear to lose their normal associations, or usual connecting links, so that the individual is often unable to focus his [sic] thinking upon a particular mental task" (481). For schizophrenics, conventional relational markers (such as chronology, causality, temporality, and spatiality) no longer order cognition; instead, these markers are distorted (if not entirely ineffectual), creating for the schizophrenic a fractured sense of self in/and world. Without these normal associations, the schizophrenic wanders aimlessly (and often in isolation) through a chaotic world in search of structure, meaning, and purpose. Temporal associations provide perhaps the most common means of ordering experience. Viewed as a linear progression characterized by movement, change, and renewal, time structures the historical and the everyday by sequencing, demarcating, and hierarchizing events. Within the Quilt, this sense of progression is supplanted by perpetual repetition of the present. Elsley has offered a similar observation, noting that the Quilt operates in a "transitory present" tense, it "exists in a continual state of becoming" (194). In one sense, this perpetual present tense derives from the fact that no two displays of the Quilt are identical. Panels are ordered differently, new names and panels are added, older panels begin to show signs of wear-and-tear. A perpetual present tense also derives from the fact that the Quilt charts the progression of an epidemic that is itself ongoing, incomplete. Thus, the landscape of the Quilt is re-mapped in light of advances in HIV-treatment, softening/tightening of social mores, and changes in AIDS demographics. Another common means of ordering experience is though spatial associations. Location orders the social through architecture, urban planning, and zoning, endowing spaces with a well-defined purpose and layout. Yet the Quilt provides few signals regarding how spectators are intended to navigate its surface. As Weinberg notes, the Quilt is a "great grid" with "no narrative, no start or finish" (37). By describing the Quilt as a "grid," Weinberg implicitly ascribes to the artifact a controlling logic, a unified design--what in quilting parlance is termed a patchwork sampler. This design pattern, however, does not direct the flow of spectators in a single stream of traffic. This is so because, unlike a Drunkard's Path or Double Wedding Band pattern in which the individual panel blocks work together to create a unified design across the surface of the quilt, a patchwork sampler is constituted by a series of single panel blocks, each with a unique design, history, and logic. As a result, patrons' movements are guided by associations and punctuated by pauses, interruptions, and abrupt changes in course. The randomness of engagement is further enabled by the muslin walkways which visually separate the panels, marking each as distinct and disallowing any sense of continuity (narrative, spatial) among them. The routes which visitors of the Quilt traverse thus are transitory and ephemeral, simultaneously charted and erased in the moment of passing by. The second characteristic of schizophrenic spectators is the presence of auditory hallucinations. Cadoret defines these hallucinations as "the perception of auditory stimuli, or sounds, where none are externally present . . . . The voices . . . may repeat his [sic] thoughts or actions, argue with him [sic], or threaten, scold, or cure him [sic]" (481). Auditory hallucinations can lead the schizophrenic to believe that s/he is under constant surveillance or can cause the schizophrenic to slip further into a self-contained, isolated world of delusion. That the Quilt is made up of "a myriad of individual voices" (Elsley 192) is immediately apparent in the number of individuals who have taken part in its construction and display. With each quilt panel, spectators are confronted with multiple voices--the person who has died, the person(s) who made the block, the person(s) who stitched the block to others for a specific display, and so on. Moreover, the Quilt places these "individual voices . . . in the context of community" (Elsley 191). For Quilt spectators, then, memories of a life lived coexist with grief over a life cut short, anger at institutional apathy and systemic homophobia, faith in the import of remembering those who have died, and so on. Each of these voices vie for the spectator's attention, facilitating a gaze that is dynamic, multidirectional, mobile. Because the gaze is not fixed, the Quilt cannot convey a solitary truth claim to its viewers; rather, spectators must immerse themselves within the delusion and confusion of voices, imposing some sense of order on their own viewing experiences. Given that persons with AIDS continue to be marginalized within American culture, my use of the schizophrenic spectator to trace the reception dynamic of Quilt exhibits might appear to perpetuate, rather than unsettle, dominant ideological formations. Of course, this is the critical conundrum at the center of all investigations into subject formation: that is, "how to take an oppositional relation to power that is, admittedly, implicated in the very power one opposes" (Butler 17). Despite the potential pitfalls, I nonetheless use the trope of schizophrenia precisely because it recognizes the ways in which Quilt spectators, persons with AIDS, and persons who have died of AIDS-related illnesses are divested of the power and authority to speak even before they begin speaking. Furthermore, because the schizophrenic subject is founded on ever-shifting affinities (in time, across space), the position enables spectators to chart alternative lines of relation among institutional practices, ideological formations, and individual experiences, thus potentially mobilizing and sustaining a shared political program. It is on these twin goals of pedagogy and polemics that the NAMES Project originally was founded, and it is to these goals that we now must return. References Butler, Judith. The Psychic Life of Power: Theories in Subjection. Stanford: Stanford UP, 1997. Cadoret, Remi J. "Schizophrenia." Collier's Encyclopedia. Vol. 20. Eds. Lauren S. Bahr, et. al. New York: Collier's, 1997. 480-482. Elsley, Judy. "The Rhetoric of the NAMES Project AIDS Quilt: Reading the Text(ile)." AIDS: The Literary Response. Ed. Emmanuel S. Nelson. New York: Twayne, 1992. 187-196. Foucault, Michel. The History of Sexuality, Volume 1: An Introduction. Trans. Robert Hurley. New York: Vintage, 1990. Gentry, Jerry. "The NAMES Project: A Catharsis of Grief." The Christian CENTURY 23 May 1989: 550-551. Hawkins, Peter S. "Naming Names: The Art of Memory and the NAMES Project AIDS Quilt." Critical Inquiry 19(Summer 1993): 752-779. Weinberg, Jonathan. "The Quilt: Activism and Remembrance." Art in America 80(Dec. 1992): 37, 39.

IntroductionThis article proposes that the practice of relaxation—a mode of bodily self-organisation within time—provides a way to diversify times as political and creative intervention. Relaxation, which could seem counter-intuitive, may function as intentional temporal intervention and means to slip some of the binds of neoliberal, surveillance capitalist logics. Noting the importance of decision-making (resonant with what Zuboff has called “promising”) as political, ethical capacity (and what dilutes it), I will argue here that relaxation precedes and invites a more active relation to the future. Relaxing and deciding are contrasted, in turn, with something dubbed ‘sub-habituality.’ This neologism would work as a critical poetics for the kind of (non)time in which we may be increasingly living. If, in Discipline and Punish, 1970s Foucault explored the various strategies of coupling time constraints/‘refining’ of time periods (150) with surveillance, I argue here that we might reconsider these same elements—time, constraint, intentionality—aslant and anew, as we approach the third decade of the 21st century (nearly 20 years after Google began opportunistically gathering the data exhaust of its searches). If in a disciplinary society, the organisation of bodies in time served various orders of domination, is it possible that in a control society (as Deleuze has named it), time and bodily composure may be harnessed otherwise to evade surreptitious logics of a neoliberal flavour?The elements noted by Foucault (i.e. structured time, bodily organisation) can—when rendered decisive, coupled with relaxation (to be defined), and with surveillance muddled or subtracted—become tools and modes for questioning, resisting and unsettling various mechanisms of domination and the dilutions of ethical capacity that accompany them in the current moment. We may, in other words, decide to structure our time when unobserved (for example with Flight Mode or connectivity off on laptops, etc.) for intentional, onto-political ends. A later Foucault, incidentally, went on to connect certain practices of care of the self to ethics, as ethical obligations (Foucault, “Ethics”). Time plays a role in such practices. With this as background, this article will read atmospherically some of Gilles Deleuze’s ontological offerings regarding time from his 1968 work Difference and Repetition. However, before this, I wish to clarify the article’s understanding of neoliberalisation in a digital moment.A neoliberalising moment, to use Springer’s preferred nomenclature (5), co-exists presently with a ubiquity of digital media engagement and co-opts it and exacerbates its reach for its manoeuvres. The former’s logics—which digital practices might at once support and/or contest—involve well-known imperatives of ‘efficiency’, aesthetics of striving, untrammelled growth, logics of scarcity and competition, privatisation of community assets, the so-called autonomy of the market, and so on. In his essay on control societies (which notably, after World War II, eclipse the disciplinary societies described by Foucault), Deleuze puts it like this:the corporation constantly presents the brashest rivalry as a healthy form of emulation, an excellent motivational force that opposes individuals against one another and runs through each, dividing each within. (5, my emphasis)Neoliberalism, where corporations have tended to replace factories, relies variously on competition between peers, dubious forms of (often ludicrous) motivation, fluctuating salaries and debt (in the place of explicit enclosures), so as to reduce the capacity and the lived expansiveness of the human (and non-human) beings who exist within its order.With this as background, I’m interested in the ways that personal electronic devices (PEDs) and the apps they house may—if used mostly compliantly and uncritically—impact what I would like to call our temporal diversity. This would involve a whittling-down of our access to atmospheres, thus to more impoverished constellations of living, and finally to profound disenablings in many spheres. PEDs provide a monetisable means of pervasive surveillance and increasingly-normalised "veillance" (Lupton 44). Certain modes of domination—if we read this term to mean a reduction of (ethical, creative, political) capacity—furthermore mobilise very specifically a co-opting of time (in the form of ‘engagement’, our eyes on a screen) and time’s strategic fragmentation. The latter is facilitated variously by monetised, gamified apps, and social media Skinner-box effects, entwined with the veillance made possible by the data exhaust of our searches and other trackable online behaviours, self-loggings, and so on. Recalling the way, in disciplinary societies, that power relations play out via the enclosure and regulation of bodies and their movement—the latter imposed externally and with the imperative of a ‘useful time’ or with the aim of self-optimising—I’m curious about how self-selected modes of resistant bodily organisation might operate to insulate or shelter humans living under and within various intensities of neoliberalisation, its discourse and its gaze. Sheltered, one might recover a creative or robust response. To use temporal strategies and understandings, we may subtract ourselves (even just sometimes) from stealthy modes of control or ‘nudging’, from ways of being which are increasingly marketed as ‘common sense’ approaches to activity and spendings of time.With regard to neoliberalisation (defined according to Springer, 37-38) and its coupling with digital life, I query if we may be finding ourselves too-often dipping below the threshold of what ought to be our most assumed temporality: namely, Deleuze’s ‘living’ or habitual present (from the second chapter of his Difference and Repetition). The moniker of ‘temporal diversity’ seeks to flag that—in a moment where we observe and resist the shutting down of diversity in numerous spheres, of species, eco-systems, cultures and languages, and their eclipse by modes produced for our consumption by globalisation—we could easily miss another register at which diversity is threatened. We might arguably be facing the loss of something which, after the fact, we may struggle to name—since it is not a ‘thing’—and whose trajectory of disappearance might wholly elude us. This diversity is that of times.Deleuze’s Three Syntheses in Difference and RepetitionIn Chapter 2 of his 1968 work, Deleuze explores three ways in which time can synthesise. Each synthesis involves a kind of weaving of the basic operations of difference and repetition. One way to read Deleuze in this work is that he (among other things) effectively sketches three kinds of atmospheres of time. Each of these, I argue, if seen as frame, contributes a richness and diversity to what a life—and what our shared life—can be and feel like.The first kind of time is called the habitual or ‘living’ present. It synthesises from a stitching together, drawing together, of the retaining of disappearing, disparate instances that otherwise bear no basic relation to one another (Deleuze, Difference 97). As a ‘present’, it has a stretch, a ‘reach’ which depends somewhat on our organism’s capacity to contract discontinuous instants. As Hughes beautifully puts it: “Our contractile range is the index of our finitude” (110). As we’ll see below, it would be a crumbling of this ‘range’ that sub-habituality designates. This living present of Deleuze also has a past inflection, marked by the just-gone and by a mode of memory, as well as by a future aspect, marked—not always constructively—by anticipation.One way to read the ‘living’ present is as being akin to our temporal ‘food and shelter’, a basic synthesis in which to dwell basically. Not thrilling or obviously creative, seductive or vast, it is the time—I’d suggest—in which we establish routine, in which we maintain a liveable life. Theorists such as Grosz have argued—in this tradition with Deleuze which positively evaluates habit—that habit, as mode of time, frees the organism up so that invention and innovation can then seed (see Grosz).The ‘living’ present turns out, however, not to be assumable in every case. For example, in cases of PTSD, I’d contend, it may be interrupted, lost, thus is not to be taken for granted under all conditions. Its status under a gamified neoliberalisation or surveillance capitalism is of interest to me and thus I offer this poetics of sub-habituality as a way to designate its vulnerability—that we might slip below its steadying threshold.Neither does the habitual present constitute much of a diversity; it would not cut it, let’s say, as enough for an abundant or varied temporal life. The habitual present contributes to the conditions that would enable me to form intentions (as a cohering ‘self’), to fashion basic schedules with my own initiative, to order an adult life. For a truly rich temporal life, however, we’d wish to include the poetics intimated by Deleuze’s two other syntheses, their more diverse atmospheres and the arguably political capacities they open to us.The second (passive) synthesis pertains to a vast and insisting past, in the lineage of Henri Bergson, and which, Deleuze notes, might be accessed or ‘saved for ourselves’ via that which we call reminiscence (Difference 107)—a dreamy, expansive and often-pleasurable state (except, for example, in cases of PTSD, or even perhaps versions of dementia, where the person may not be able to leave or surface from it). To dig, in thought, ‘down’ into the register of this vast past and to unearth a rigorous account of it, one goes via a series of paradoxes (see Deleuze, Difference 101-105). If the first passive synthesis is constituted by habit’s mechanisms, the second passive synthesis is constituted by memory’s: “memory is the fundamental synthesis of time which constitutes the being of the past (that which causes the present to pass)” (Deleuze, Difference 101). Hughes puts it thus: “the pure past in general [is] a horizon of having-been-ness, in which what was apprehended [in the first synthesis] finds the conditions of its reproducibility” (108). If such a pastness designates one moment in how selves and their being-as-time synthesise, one might want to know how to include this rich, languorous, sometimes lost and meandering, atmosphere in a life. This might assist an understanding of what distorts or precludes it, and thus our learning for how to invite it in, alongside our more habitual modes.No mode of time, therefore, is simplistically inflected as positive or negative. Without their multiplicity, I’m arguing, we are left temporally less endowed. I wish to articulate not the swapping of one kind of time for another—as if one would only favour productive ‘times’, or efficient ‘times’, or competitive ‘times’, or steady ‘times’, or dreamy, meandering ‘times’—but a diversity. When we feel wildly dissatisfied and imagine that a tangible thing, situation or acquisition—content in time, in other words—would serve as a salve for this uneasiness, we might also consider that what’s missing could be a temporal mode. Which one have we lost the capacity to access or drift into? I’ll now turn to the third synthesis which Deleuze explores, which pertains to the future and its opening up.For the purposes of my argument here, I want to use this third synthesis to gesture towards the future as a possible mode—empty, sheer—and which distinguishes itself entirely from the future ‘aspects’ of the first two syntheses. I both take a poetic cue from Deleuze, as well as note that this synthesis is the least obvious or accessible in a usual life, one in which habit’s organisation is established, and even in which perhaps there are pockets of the ‘erotic’ (Deleuze, Difference 107) and/or expansive driftings of the second synthesis of memory. The third synthesis, then—associated with Deleuze’s take on thought—marks the moment when something becomes active. Deleuze presents it to the reader of Difference and Repetition in relation to Nietzsche’s Eternal Return:that is why it is properly called a belief of the future, a belief in the future. Eternal Return affects only the new, what is produced under the condition of default and by the intermediary of metamorphosis. However it causes neither the condition nor the agent to return: on the contrary, it repudiates these and expels them with all its centrifugal force. (Difference 113, emphasis original)When habit dominates our temporal palette, the future appears to be possible only in habit’s guise of it—that is, in the mode of anticipation, which then morphs to prediction as this synthesis moves into its more active modes. Anticipation is a pragmatic but weak future. It is useful, without doubt, since habit’s future mode knows to say: at three o’clock I need to get my shoes on, grab keys and wallet, and drive to pick up X. I anticipate that they will be waiting on this corner, and so on. Habit’s internally available ‘future’ is crucial and steadying. Knowing how to manoeuvre within it is part of learning to live some kind of organised life. In sub-habituality I’d argue, we may not even have that. Zuboff intimates this when in Chapter 11 she speaks of a right to a future tense.Deleuze’s third synthesis opens the self precisely onto that which-cannot-be-anticipated. The Nietzschean mode of the future that Deleuze explores at length is not akin to habit’s ordering and stabilising; it is not to be compared to the reminiscent climes of pure memory, to the vast dilations and contractions of its insisting topographies. The third synthesis asks more of us. It asks us to forget the versions of ourselves we have been (in the very moment that we affirm the repetition of everything that has been, to the letter) and to stare unblinkingly into a roaring Nothingness, or better into the strange weathers of a Not-Determined-Yet.My own practice-based creative research into these matters confirms Deleuze’s architectures. I say: we need the two other temporal syntheses and rely on them in order to dramatise something new in the third synthesis. The is the ability, in other words, to decide and to forget enough to be able to dance forward into an unknown future.Sub-Habituality: Or Less than a ‘Living’ PresentKorean thinker Byung-Chul Han links our use of devices, and the necessity of engaging with them for our social/economic survival, to the kind of dispersed and fretful awareness needed by animals surviving predators in the wild. He sees ‘multitasking’ in no way as any kind of evolution, but names it provocatively a regression, which precludes the kind of contemplation upon which sophisticated cultural practices and fields, such as art and philosophy, arguably depend (Han 26-29). Habit involves the crucial notion of a ‘range’ of, or a capacity for, contracting disparate instants—so as to make possible their being stitched together, via contemplation’s passivity (Deleuze 100), and thereby to synthesise a (stable, even liveable) present. Recall that Hughes called it the index of our finitude. How do digital engagements—specifically with apps and their intentionally gamified designs, and which involve a certain velocity of uncadenced movement and gesture (eyes, hands, neck position)—impact an ability to synthesise a steady-enough present? Sub-habituality, as name, seeks a poetics to bring to articulation an un-ease that would be specifically temporal, not psychological, or even merely physiological.To know about the stability offered by habit’s time allows the cultivation of temporal atmospheres that are pleasant and stable, as well as having the potential to open onto creative/erotic modes of a vast past, as well as not be closed to the pure future. This would be a curation of the present, learning how to ‘play’ its mechanisms such that the most expansive and interesting aspects of this mode—which can condition and court other modes—can come forth.Sub-habituality is that time where the gathering of instants into any stretch is hindered, shattering the operations of coherence and narrowing aperture for certain experiences. No stretch in which to dwell. The vast and calming surfaces of our attention breaking into shards. Sub-habituality would be anti-contemplative, in an ontological sense. No instant could hold for long enough to relate to its temporal peers. Teetering there on the edge of a non-time, any ‘subject’ who might intend is undermined.Next, I turn to the notion of relaxation as bodily practice and strategy to insulate or shelter humans living under and within various intensities of digitalised neoliberalisation. Instead of offering oneself up for monetised organisation, one organises oneself via the nuanced effort that is a ‘dropping of excess effort’. The latter is relaxation and may thwart surreptitious modes of (imposed temporal) (dis)organisation, or what tends to appear increasingly as ‘common sense’ approaches to activity and spendings of time. We practise deciding to structure blocks of time, so that within their bounds we can risk experimenting with relaxation, its erotics and its vectors of transformation.RelaxationNeoliberalisation, after Springer, involves the becoming common-sensical of numerous logics: competitiveness in every sphere of life, ubiquity of free market logics, supposed scarcity (of time, opportunity), rationalisation and instrumentalisation of processes and attitudes to doing, and an emphasis on a discourse of efficiency (even when it is not, in actuality, what obtains). For Deleuze, in a control society, similarlymany young people strangely boast of being “motivated”; they re-request apprenticeships and permanent training. It’s up to them to discover what they are being made to serve, just as their elders discovered, not without difficulty, the telos of the disciplines. ("Postscript", 7)How can we serve less this current telos? What (counter or subtractive) practices might undermine the conditions for the entrenching of such logics? My contention in this article is that practices of the body that also involve the intentional organising of time, along with approaches to movement generally that forgo striving and forcing (that is: kinds of violent ‘work’), may counter some of the impacts (especially of a temporal nature, as discussed above) that align with and allow for neoliberal logics’ pervading of all spheres of life. Relaxation is a useful shorthand for such strategies.In my work elsewhere on practising, I’ve argued that relaxation is the third (of four) criteria that constitute the specific approach to ‘doing’ that can be designated practising (see Pont; Attiwill et al.). Relaxation is a very particular approach to any behaviour or movement, whereby the ‘doer’ pays close attention and seeks to use only the necessary amount of effort for the activity in question. This dropping of ‘natural’ (or knee-jerk) effort is itself a kind of unusual effort. The word ‘natural’ here comes from writings by Vachaspati Mishra (192) and makes the subtle point that relaxation intervenes on what is ‘natural’ or on what has acquired inertia, on that which enacts itself without decision or intention. In this strictly ontological/temporal intervention, relaxation refuses to collude with common-sense approval for striving-as-new-piety that dominate neoliberalised discourses and their motivational propagandas.Relaxation constitutes an enacted—repeatedly enacted—decision at the level of the body to organise movement/doing in ways subtracted from neoliberalised discourse, reawakening intention. It is a quiet intervention, precise and difficult, that works to counter a widespread fundamentalism of doing with excess (or Leistung with its inevitable flipside of collapse and exhaustion, as critiqued by Han 24-25). This dovetails with the ubiquity of digital engagements/behavioural training, which effectively constitute an unending labour for many. Counter-intuitively, relaxation (when understood strictly as practice, not in its lay inflection as compensatory ‘collapse’) can establish a minimum membrane hindering the penetration of this labour into all spheres of a life. Once PEDs are intentionally used—very difficult to do—and limited in terms of the proportion of time they are engaged with, they pose a reduced threat to times’ diversity. (To organise my time, curiously too, I make use of PED timer features, on flight mode, and so on. Others use apps specifically designed to help them use fewer apps.)We find ourselves here faced with various and emergent practices of saying ‘no’ to serve a process that experiments with affirming something else—perhaps this ‘else’ would be the conditions for that which does yet exist, that is: truly open futures, creativity, robustness in the face of change. Promising? Deciding? My argument is that a body immersed too much in sub-habituality is less capable overall of withstanding the atmospheres of the third synthesis (and, if we follow Han, too dispersed and fragmented to access certain atmospheres that we might associate with the second). It may not even have a sense of a living present. It becomes less and less intentional, more malleable, very tired.There is—in the work of the body that resists complying with the logics of neoliberalisation, that resists a certain corrosion of Deleuze’s first time (and of the subsequent two times that in Deleuze open from them)—a clear practice of dropping, letting fall, not picking up in the first place. We forgo then certain modes of, or approaches to, action when we work to subtract ourselves from an encroaching (a)temporality that is none at all. To foil reactivity we have two obvious options: we learn to activate our reactivity—to act it; or we pause just before enacting from within its logic. Relaxation is more about the latter.ConclusionThe sub-habitual discussed in this article is, most importantly, a grim affective/temporal register to inhabit. For many, its unpleasantness is met with queries about mental health, since it naturally impacts us in a register that feels like bad thinking, like bad feeling. By introducing an onto-temporal inflection into such queries, I suggest there might be a certain kind of ‘health’ or better still a ‘pleasure’ in a life that can obtain with the cultivation of a diversity of times. Deleuze’s model of three kinds of temporal synthesis tempts me as one way to track what might be going missing in a moment when certain technologies, serving particular economic and political agendas and ideologies, can coax our rhythms, behaviours and preoccupations down particular paths. The fleshy, energetic and thinking body, as a site of affirmation, as a vehicle for practices that subtract themselves from dominant logics, can—I’ve argued here—be a crucial factor in working with temporality in such a way that one is not left with an homogenised non-time in which we are not-quite-subjects or diluted selves vulnerable to being worked on by logics that drive neoliberalisation and its sufferings. Relaxation is among a suite of strategies that may keep our times (and ourselves as modes of time) diverse: stable, pleasure-capable, imaginative and fierce.ReferencesAttiwill, Suzie, Terri Bird, Andrea Eckersley, Antonia Pont, Jon Roffe, and Philipa Rothfield. Practising with Deleuze. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2017.Deleuze, Gilles. Difference and Repetition. Trans. Paul Patton. London: Continuum, 2004.———. “Postscript on the Societies of Control.” October 59 (1992): 3-7.Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: Vintage Books, 1995.———. “The Ethics of the Concern for Self as a Practice of Freedom.” The Essential Works of Michel Foucault, Vol. 1: Ethics: Subjectivity and Truth. Ed. Paul Rabinow. New York: New Press, 1997. 281-302.Grosz, Elizabeth. “Habit Today: Ravaisson, Bergson, Deleuze and Us.” Body and Society 19(2&3): 2013. 217-239.Han, Byung-Chul. Müdigkeitsgesellschaft Burnoutgesellschaft Hoch-Zeit. Berlin: Matthes & Seitz, 2016.Hughes, Joe. Deleuze’s Difference and Repetition: A Reader’s Guide. New York: Bloomsbury, 2009. Lupton, Deborah. The Quantified Self. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2016.Mishra, Vachaspati. The Yoga System of Patanjali. Trans. J. Haughton Woods. Delhi: Motilal Banarsidass, 1914 (by arrangement with Harvard University Press).Pont, Antonia. “An Exemplary Operation: Shikantaza and Articulating Practice via Deleuze.” Transcendence, Immanence and Intercultural Philosophy. Eds. Nahum Brown & William Franke. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. 207-236.Springer, Simon. The Discourse of Neoliberalism. London: Rowman & Littlefield, 2016.Zuboff, Shoshana. The Age of Surveillance Capitalism. New York: PublicAffairs, 2019. (Kindle Edition.)

This essay sheds lights on the framing process during the research on the crossing between natural and artificial systems. To approach this, we must outline the machine-natural system relation. From this notion, technology is not seen as an external thing, nor even in contrast to an imaginary of nature, but as an effect that emerges from our thinking and revealing being that, in many cases, may be reduced to an issue of knowledge and action. Here, we want to consider the concept of transduction from Gilbert Simondon as one possible framework for considering the socio-technological actions at stake. His thought offers a detailed conceptual vocabulary for the question of individuation as a “revelation process”, a concern with how things come into existence and proceed temporally as projective entities.Moreover, our approach to the work of philosopher Simondon marked the starting point of our interest and approach to the issue of technique and its politics. From this perspective, the reflection given by Simondon in his thesis on the Individuation and the Mode of Existence of Technical Objects, is to trace certain reasons that are necessary for the development of this project and helping to explain it. In first place, Simondon does not state a specific regime of “human individuation”. The possibility of a psychic and collective individuation is produced, as is manifested when addressing the structure of his main thesis, at the heart of biological individuation; Simondon strongly attacks the anthropocentric tendencies that attempt to establish a defining boundary between biological and psychic reality. We may presume, then, that the issue of language as a defining and differencing element of the human does not interest him; it is at this point that our project begins to focus on employing the transduction of the téchnē as a metaphor of life (Espinoza Lolas et al.); regarding the limits that language may imply for the conformation and expression of the psychic reality. In second place, this critique to the economy of attention present across our research and in Simondon’s thinking seeks to introduce a hypothesis raised in another direction: towards the issue of the technique. During the introduction of his Mode of Existence of Technical Objects, Simondon shows some urgency in the need to approach the reality of technical objects as an autonomous reality and as a configuring reality of the psychic and collective individualisation. Facing the general importance granted to language as a key element of the historical and hermeneutical, even ontological, aspects of the human being, Simondon considers that the technique is the reality that plays the fundamental role of mediating between the human being and the world.Following these observations, a possible question that will guide our research arises: How do the technologisation and informatisation of the cultural techniques alter the nature itself of the knowing of the affection of being with others (people, things, animals)? In the hypothesis of this investigation we claim that—insofar as we deliver an approach and perspective on the technologisation of the world as a process of individuation (considering Simondon’s concept in this becoming, in which an artificial agent and its medium may get out of phase to solve its tensions and give rise to physical or living individuals that constitute their system and go through a series of metastable equilibria)—it’s possible to prove this capacity of invention as a clear example of a form of transindividual individuation (referring to the human being), that thanks to the information that the artificial agent acquires and recovers by means of its “imagination”, which integrates in its perception and affectivity, enables the creation of new norms or artifacts installing in its becoming, as is the case of bioeconomy and cognitive capitalism (Fumagalli 219). It is imperious to observe and analyse the fact that the concept of nature must be integrated along with the concept of Cosmotecnia (Hui 3) to avoid the opposition between nature and technique in conceptual terms, and that is the reason why in the following section we will mention a third memory that is inscribed in this concept. There is no linear time development in human history from nature to technique, from nature to politics.The Extended MindThe idea of memory as something transmissible is important when thinking of the present, there is no humanity outside the technical, neither prior to the technical, and it is important to safeguard this idea to highlight the phýsis/téchnē dichotomy presented by Simondon and Stigler. It is erroneous to think that some entity may exceed the human, that it has any exteriority when it is the materialization of the human forms, or even more, that the human is crossed by it and is not separable. For French philosopher Bernard Stiegler there is no human nature without technique, and vice versa (Stigler 223). Here appears the issue of knowing which are the limits where “the body of the human me might stop” (Hutinel 44), a first glimpse of externalized memory was the flint axe, which is made by using other tools, even when its use is unknown. Its mere existence preserves a knowledge that goes beyond who made it, or its genetic or epigenetic transmission is preserved beyond the organic.We raise the question about a phýsis coming from the téchnē, it is a central topic that dominates the discussion nowadays, about technology and its ability to have a transforming effect over every area of contemporary life and human beings themselves. It is being “revealed” that the true qualitative novelty of the technological improves that happen in front of our eyes resides not only in the appearance of new practices that are related to any particular scientific research. We must point out the evident tension between bíos and zôê during the process of this adaptation, which is an ontological one, but we also witness how the recursivity becomes a modus operandi during this process, which is both social and technological. Just as the philosophy of nature, the philosophy of biology confronts its own limit under the light shed by the recursive algorithms implemented as a dominant way of adaptation, which is what Deleuze called societies of control (Deleuze 165). At the same time, there is an artificial selection (instead of a natural selection) imposed by the politics of transhumanism (for example, human improvement, genetic engineering).In this direction, a first aspect to consider resides in that life, held as an object of power and politics, does not constitute a “natural life”, but the result of a technical production from which its “nature” develops, as well as the possibilities of its deployment. Now then, it is precisely due to this gesture that Stiegler longs to distinguish between what is originary in mankind and its artefactual or artificial becoming: “the prosthesis is not a simple extension of the human body, it is the constitution of said body insofar as ‘human’ (the quotes belong to the constitution). It is not a ‘medium’ for mankind, but its end, and it is known the essential mistakenness of the expression, ‘the end of mankind’” (Stiegler 9). Before such phenomena, it is appropriate to lay out a reflexive methodology centered in observing and analysing the aforementioned idea by Stiegler that there is no mankind without techniques; and there is no technique without mankind (Stigler 223). This implies that this idea of téchnē comprises both the techniques needed to create things, as the technical products resulting from these techniques. The word “techniques” also becomes ambiguous among the modern technology of machines and the primitive “tools” and their techniques, whether they have become art of craft, things that we would not necessarily think as “technology”. What Stiegler is suggesting here is to describe the scope of the term téchnē within an ontogenetic and phylogenetic process of the human being; providing us a reflection about what do we “possess as a fundamental thing” for our being as humans is also fundamental to how “we experience time” since the externalization of our memory into our tools, which Stiegler understands as a “third kind” of memory which is separated from the internal memory that is individually acquired from our brain (epigenetic), and the biological evolutive memory that is inherited from our ancestors (phylogenetic); Stiegler calls this kind of evolutive process epiphylogenetic or epiphylogenesis. Therefore, we could argue that we are defined by this process of epiphylogenesis, and that we are constituted by a past that we ourselves, as individuals, have not lived; this past is delivered to us through culture, which is the fusion of the “technical objects that embody the knowledge of our ancestors, tools that we adopt to transform our surroundings” (Stiegler 177). These supports of external memory (this is, exteriorisations of the consciousness) provide a new collectivisation of the consciousness that exists beyond the individual.The current trend of investigation of ontogeny and phylogeny is driven by the growing consensus both in sciences and humanities in that the living world in every one of its aspects – biologic, semiotic, economic, affective, social, etc. – escapes the finite scheme of description and representation. It is for this reason that authors such as Matteo Pasquinelli refer, in a more modest way, to the idea of “augmented intelligence” (9), reminding us that there is a posthuman legacy between human and machine that still is problematic, “though the machines manifest different degrees of autonomous agency” (Pasquinelli 11).For Simondon, and this is his revolutionary contribution to philosophy, one should think individuation not from the perspective of the individual, but from the point of view of the process that originated it. In other words, individuation must be thought in terms of a process that not only takes for granted the individual but understands it as a result.In Simondon’s words:If, on the contrary, one supposes that individuation does not only produce the individual, one would not attempt to pass quickly through the stage of individuation in order arrive at the final reality that is the individual--one would attempt to grasp the ontogenesis in the entire progression of its reality, and to know the individual through the individuation, rather than the individuation through the individual. (5)Therefore, the epistemological problem does not fall in how the téchnē flees the human domain in its course to become technologies, but in how these “exteriorization” processes (Stiegler 213) alter the concepts themselves of number, image, comparison, space, time, or city, to give a few examples. However, the anthropological category of “exteriorization” does not bring entirely justice to these processes, as they work in a retroactive and recursive manner in the original techniques. Along with the concept of text and book, the practice of reading has also changed during the course of digitalisation and algorithmisation of the processing of knowledge; alongside with the concept of comparison, the practice of comparison has changed since the comparison (i.e. of images) has become an operation that is based in the extraction of data and automatic learning. On the other side, in reverse, we must consider, in an archeological and mediatic fashion, the technological state of life as a starting point from which we must ask what cultural techniques were employed in first place. Asking: How does the informatisation of the cultural techniques produce new forms of subjectivity? How does the concept of cultural techniques already imply the idea of “chains of operations” and, therefore, a permanent (retro)coupling between the living and the non-living agency?This reveals that classical cultural techniques such as indexation or labelling, for example, have acquired ontological powers in the Google era: only what is labelled exists; only what can be searched is absolute. At the same time, in the fantasies of the mediatic corporations, the variety of objects that can be labelled (including people) tends to be coextensive with the world of the phenomena itself (if not the real world), which will then always be only an augmented version of itself.Technology became important for contemporary knowledge only through mediation; therefore, the use of tools could not be the consequence of an extremely well-developed brain. On the contrary, the development of increasingly sophisticated tools took place at the same pace as the development of the brain, as Leroi-Gourhan attempts to probe when studying the history of tools together with the history of the human skeleton and brain. And what he managed to demonstrate is that the history of technique and the history of the human being run in parallel lines; they are, if not equal, at least inextricable. Even today, the progress of knowledge is still not completely subordinated to the technological inversion (Lyotard 37). In short, human evolution is inseparable from the evolution of the téchne, the evolution of technology. One may simply think the human being as a natural animal, isolated from the external material world. What he becomes and what he is, is essentially bonded to the techniques, from the very beginning. Leroi-Gourhan puts it this way in his text Gesture and Speech: “the apparition of tools as a species ... feature that marks the boundary between animals and humans” (90).To understand the behavior of the technological systems is essential for our ability to control their actions, to harvest their benefits and to minimize their damage. Here it is argued that this requires a wide agenda of scientific investigation to study the behavior of the machine that incorporates and broadens the biotechnological discipline, and includes knowledges coming from all sciences. In some way, Simondon sensed this encounter of knowledges, and proposed the concept of the Allagmatic, or theory of operations, “constituted by a systematized set of particular knowledges” (Simondon 469). We could attempt to begin by describing a set of questions that are fundamental for this emerging field, and then exploring the technical, legal, and institutional limitations in the study of technological agency.Information, Communication and SignificationTo establish the relation between information and communication, we will speak from the following two perspectives: first with Norbert Wiener, then with Simondon. We will see how the concept of information is essential to start understanding communication in an artificial agent.On one side, we have the notion from Wiener about information that is demarcated in his project about cybernetics. Cybernetics is the study of communication and control through the inquiry of messages in animals, human beings, and machines. This idea of information arises from the interrelation with the surrounding. Wiener defines it as the “content of what is an interchange object with the external world, while we adjust to it and make it adjust to us” (Wiener 17-18). In other words, we receive and use information since we interact with the world in which we live. It is in this sense that information is connected to the idea of feedback that is defined as the exchange and interaction of information in our systems or other systems. In Wiener’s own words, feedback is “the property of adjusting the future behavior to facts of the past” (31).Information, for Wiener, is influenced, at the same time, by the mathematic and probabilistic idea from the theory of information. Wiener refers to the amount of information that finds its starting point at the mechanics of statistics, along with the concept of entropy, inasmuch that the information is opposed to it. Therefore, information, by supplying a set of messages, indicates a measure of organisation. Argentinian philosopher Pablo Rodríguez adds that “information [for Wiener] is a new physical category of the universe. [It is] the measure of organization of any entity, an organization without which the material and energetic systems wouldn’t be able to survive” (2-3). This way, we have that information responds to the measure of organization and self-regulation of a given system.Moreover, and almost in complete contrast, we have the concept given by Simondon, where information is applicable to the whole possible range: animals, machines, human beings, molecules, crystals, etc. In this sense, it is more versatile, as it exceeds the domains of the technique. To understand well the scope of this concept we will approach it from two definitions. In first place, Simondon, in his conference Amplification in the Process of Information, in the book Communication and Information, claims that information “is not a thing, but the operation of a thing that arrives to a system and produces a transformation in there. The information can’t be defined beyond this act of transformative incidence, and the operation of receiving” (Simondon 139). From this definition it follows the idea of modulation, just when he refers to the “transformation” and “act of transformative incidence” modulation corresponds to the energy that flows amplified during that transformation that occurs within a system.There is a second definition of information that Simondon provides in his thesis Individuation in Light of Notions of Form and Information, in which he claims that: “the information signal is not just what is to be transmitted … it is also that what must be received, this is, what must adopt a signification” (Simondon 281). In this definition Simondon clearly distances himself from Wiener’s cybernetics, insofar as it deals with information as that which must be received, and not that that is to be transmitted. Although Simondon refers to a link between information and signification, this last aspect is not measured in linguistic terms. It rather expresses the decodification of a given code. This is, signification, and information as well, are the result of a disparity of energies, namely, between the overlaying of two possible states (0 and 1, or on and off).This is a central point of divergence with Wiener, as he refers to information in terms of transference of messages, while Simondon does it in terms of transformation of energies. This way, Simondon adds an energy element to the traditional definition of information, which now works as an operation, based in the transformation of energies as a result of a disparity or the overlaying of two possible elements within a system (recipient). It is according to this innovative element that modulation operates in a metastable system. And this is precisely the last concept we need to clarify: the idea of metastability and its relationship with the recipient-system.Metastability is an expression that finds its origins in thermodynamics. Philosophy traditionally operates around the idea of the stability of the being, while Simondon’s proposal states that the being is its becoming. This way, metastability is the condition of possibility of the individuation insofar as the metastable medium leaves behind a remainder of energy for future individuation processes. Thus, metastability refers to the temporal equilibrium of a system that remains in time, as it maintains within itself potential energy, useful for other future individuations.Returning to the conference Amplification in the Process of Information, Simondon points out that “the recipient metastability is the condition of efficiency of the incident information” (139). In such sense, we may claim that there is no information if the signal is not received. Therefore, the recipient is a necessary condition for said information to be given. Simondon understands the recipient as a mixed system (a quasi-system): on one hand, it must be isolated in terms of energy, and it must count with a membrane that allows it to not spend all the energy at the same time; on the other hand, it must be heteronomous, as it depends on an external input of information to activate the system (recipient).The metastable medium is the one indicated to understand the artificial agent, as it leaves the possibility open for the potential energy to manifest and not be spent all at once, but to leave a remainder useful for future modulations, and so, new transformations may occur. At the same time, Simondon’s concept of information is the most convenient when referring to communication and the relationship with the medium, primarily for its property of modulating potential energy. Nevertheless, it is also necessary to retrieve the idea of feedback from Wiener, as it is in the relationship of the artificial agent with its surrounding (and the world) that information is given, and it may flow amplified through its system. By this, significations manage to decode the internal code of the artificial agent, which represents the first gesture towards the opening of the communication.ConclusionThe hypotheses on extended cognition are subject to a huge amount of debate in the artistic, philosophical, and science of cognition circles nowadays, but their implications extend further beyond metaphysics and sciences of the mind. It is apparent that we have just began to scratch the surface of the social sphere in a broader way; realising that these start from cultural branches of the sight; as our minds are; if our minds are partially poured into our smartphones and even in our homes, then it is not a transformation in the human nature, but the latest manifestation of an ancient human ontology of the organic cognitive and informative systems dynamically assembled.It is to this condition that the critical digital humanities and every form of critique should answer. This is due to an attempt to dig out the delays and ruptures within the systems of mass media, by adding the relentless belief in real time as the future, to remind that systems always involve an encounter with a radical “strangeness” or “alienity”, an incommensurability between the future and the desire that turns into the radical potential of many of our contemporary social movements and politics. Our challenge in our critical job is to dismantle the practice of the representation and to reincorporate it to different forms of space and experience that are not reactionary but imaginary. What we attempt to bring into the light here is the need to get every spectator to notice the limits of the machinic vision and to acknowledge the role of image in the recruitment of liminal energies for the capital. The final objective of this essay will be to see that nature possesses the technique of an artist who renders contingency into necessity and inscribes the infinite within the finite, in arts it is not the figure of nature that corresponds to individuation but rather the artist whose task is not only to render contingency necessary as its operation, but also aim for an elevation of the audience as a form of revelation. The artist is he who opens up, through his or her work, a process of transindividuation, meaning a psychical and collective individuation.ReferencesDeleuze, Gilles. “Post-Script on Control Societies.” Polis 13 (2006): 1-7. 14 Feb. 2020 <http://journals.openedition.org/polis/5509>.Espinoza Lolas, Ricardo, et al. “On Technology and Life: Fundamental Concepts of Georges Caguilhem and Xavier Zubiri’s Thought.” Ideas y Valores 67.167 (2018): 127-47. 14 Feb. 2020 <http://dx.doi.org/10.15446/ideasyvalores.v67n167.59430>.Fumagalli, Andrea. Bioeconomía y Capitalismo Cognitivo: Hacia un Nuevo Paradigma de Acumulación. Madrid: Traficantes de Sueños, 2010.Hui, Yuk. “On Cosmotechnics: For a Renewed Relation between Technology and Nature in the Anthropocene.” Techné: Research in Philosophy and Technology 21.2/3 (2017): 319-41. 14 Feb. 2020 <https://www.pdcnet.org/techne/content/techne_2017_0021_42769_0319_0341>.Leroi-Gourhan, André. El Gesto y la Palabra. Venezuela: Universidad Central de Venezuela, 1971.———. El Hombre y la Materia: Evolución y Técnica I. Madrid: Taurus, 1989.———. El Medio y la Técnica: Evolución y Técnica II. Madrid: Taurus, 1989.Lyotard, Jean-François. La Condición Postmoderna: Informe sobre el Saber. Madrid: Cátedra, 2006.Pasquinelli, Matteo. “The Spike: On the Growth and Form of Pattern Police.” Nervous Systems 18.5 (2016): 213-20. 14 Feb. 2020 <http://matteopasquinelli.com/spike-pattern-police/>. Rivera Hutinel, Marcela.“Techno-Genesis and Anthropo-Genesis in the Work of Bernard Stiegler: Or How the Hand Invents the Human.” Liminales, Escritos Sobre Psicología y Sociedad 2.3 (2013): 43-58. 15 Dec. 2019 <http://revistafacso.ucentral.cl/index.php/liminales/article/view/228>.Rodríguez, Pablo. “El Signo de la ‘Sociedad de la Información’ de Cómo la Cibernética y el Estructuralismo Reinventaron la Comunicación.” Question 1.28 (2010): 1-17. 14 Feb. 2020 <https://perio.unlp.edu.ar/ojs/index.php/question/article/view/1064>.Simondon, Gilbert. Comunicación e Información. Buenos Aires: Editorial Cactus, 2015.———. La Individuación: a la luz de las nociones de forma y de información. Buenos Aires: La Cebra/Cactus, 2009 / 2015.———. El Modo de Existencia de los Objetos Técnicos. Buenos Aires: Prometeo, 2007.———. “The Position of the Problem of Ontogenesis.” Parrhesia 7 (2009): 4-16. 4 Nov. 2019 <http://parrhesiajournal.org/parrhesia07/parrhesia07_simondon1.pdf>.Stiegler, Bernard. La Técnica y el Tiempo I. Guipúzcoa: Argitaletxe Hiru, 2002.———. “Temporality and Technical, Psychic and Collective Individuation in the Work of Simondon.” Revista Trilogía Ciencia Tecnología Sociedad 4.6 (2012): 133-46.Wiener, Norbert. Cibernética y Sociedad. Buenos Aires: Editorial Sudamericana, 1958.

Right from the start of HBO’s surreal new sketch comedy Fantasmas (2024), we are confronted by the “ghosts” of the show’s title. The work of Salvadorean-American comedian, actor, and writer Julio Torres, Fantasmas constructs a highly artificial set of digital hauntings that, this article argues, speaks to and through a Latin experience that conjures unresolved tensions of displacement and exile, as well as raising probing questions about human agency and identity in an era of globalised neoliberalism. Torres has also given his own explanation for the use of the term in his show: all the people in the show are a little limited, and that’s where the idea of them being ghostly comes from, them being fantasmas [the Spanish word for ghosts]. I don’t lean into that title for its spookiness, I lean into it for the idea of being lonely and having things that people can and cannot do. I’ve always loved the rules around the mythology of ghosts: You can’t talk to that person; you can’t leave this house. That’s exciting to me, feeling a little invisible. (O’Falt 2024) Yet here, we find that objects and concepts can be ghosts as well, not only people, and ideas of artificiality are used deliberately in the show’s storytelling to emphasise a site of haunting. The constructed artifice of life is presented through different ghostly technologies in Fantasmas. There is Julio’s “very important talent agent” Vanesja, who is really a performance artist in the role for so long that now she finds herself doing “regular agent stuff”. There is Julio’s TikTok influencer friend Skyler, who becomes possessed by a demonic Algorithm (another type of artifice) and loses all humanness in his desire to remain relevant on social media. There is the New York City set itself, constructed on an open sound studio, its Brechtian forms emphasising transitory moments and temporariness. Meanwhile, Julio’s personal assistant robot Bibo is more human than some of the show’s main personalities, chastising Julio for “gaslighting”. The human and non-human characters of the show take on synthetic personas whilst refusing the divide of the self and other, rendering the characters as “ghosts” (which we explore in detail later). Julio, as the protagonist of the show, is the one character who strains to keep his identity—he actively tries to avoid getting a “proof of existence” card throughout the series—even as he finds his persona is highly coveted and at all points at risk of being commodified. In the opening scene of the show’s comedic odyssey through New York, Julio finds himself the creative lead in a consultation with Crayola, in which he presents the necessity of a new clear colour crayon that signifies “the in-between”. “But clear isn’t a colour!”, the Crayola execs rebuke. “If it isn’t a colour, then what do you call this?” Julio asks, gesturing to the air between the management side of the table and the consultant. “What do you call what?” they question. “The space between us. The emotional space, I mean”, Julio responds. When the Crayola team suggest that it can’t be done (“Why are you doing this? Why do you need this?”), Julio reminds them of the glass of water in front of them: it’s already done. Some things aren’t one of the normal colours or play by the rules of the rainbow. Think about air or smells or … or memory. Shouldn’t they be allowed to be colours? … To colour something clear is to re-imagine colouring as we know it. While not entirely convinced, as the Crayola executives usher Julio from the meeting, they ask what they might call this clear Crayola. “Oh, um, call it ‘Fantasmas’.” / “Fantasmas?” / “It means ‘ghosts’”. Julio leaves conceding the final plural “s” to the executive: ghost—not ghosts. Yet, from there the opening title FANTASMA appears, with a defiant “S” appearing shortly afterwards, which signals the plurality of the ghosts that will continue to haunt Torres for the remainder of the season, in this dream-like show that in the words of one reviewer “presents itself as a narrative series, but really, it is more of a sketch show, with a series of mini film-like interludes bound together by the loosest of threads” (Nicholson). As the surreal Crayola pitch makes clear, what takes place is also a blurring of the concept of “ghosts” between human subjects and objects, which speaks to the reification of human subjectivity under capitalism, but also of the magical potential of boundary-dissolving as new identities are produced or created. This Spanish word for “ghosts” evokes the word “fantasy” in English—and in the show, the idea of procrastinatory dreams and reverie as a way of escaping anxious reality remains a constant theme. The show innovates on the formal conventions of sketch comedy in interesting temporal ways to further this concept, with the move to a new sketch as Julio has a change of thought or wants to focus on a particular idea. And, to continue this fluidity of subjective viewpoint, Julio’s ideas and fantasies mix with the reflections of other characters—and so a sketch about why Julio thinks the letter Q is too early in the alphabet is followed quickly by a schoolteacher’s musings on graffiti of a backward-facing penis in the school’s toilets. The Crayola headquarters parodies the classic Sesame Street (1981) television segment “how crayons are made”, which shows a young girl using a crayon to conjure up the means of production in a folksy, small-scale Crayola factory (and against the grain, Crayola crayons are still produced in American factories, unlike many industries that have relocated to the global south). An ambivalence is constructed around this idea of collaboration with major industry, which seems to link to Julio’s concern in the series that he is selling out his uniquely creative vision to corporate America. The series leaves this concern as a permanent question, but the play with ideas about the culture industry—and Julio’s role as a kind of imagineer “thinking outside the box” for these high-level corporate executives—leads to a parody of American “dream factories”, which can certainly be extended to Hollywood and television networks such as HBO, with their search for distinctiveness. While the show is darkly humorous—Vinson Cunningham for The New Yorker suggests, the show “is strange and sorrowful, but it’s also deeply funny in a way that series with overt political messages rarely manage to be”—an eeriness is also produced as an affect by the show. As Mark Fisher notes in an analysis of eerie texts, capital contains a ghostliness and “is at every level an eerie entity: conjured out of nothing, capital nevertheless exerts more influence than any allegedly substantial entity” (5) and that ideas of the eerie are tied up with bigger questions about agency: ‘we’ ‘ourselves’ are caught up in the rhythms, pulsions and patternings of non-human forces. There is no inside except as a folding of the outside; the mirror cracks, I am an other, and I always was. (5) Fantasmas plays out these concerns using the figure of Julio as a guide through such disturbances: while Torres has the agency to name the crayon, he is still unable to escape the “non-human forces” of the system, which for him requires proof of identity (a clear metaphor for the legitimate immigration allowed by a US Visa, a recurring idea in Torres’s work, and a central focus of the A24 film Problemista, 2024). Julio’s recurring nightmare of being trapped in a collapsing room—where he is dressed like a cross between harlequin Pierrot and David Bowie in the Ashes to Ashes video—is just one of the many European avant-garde references that evokes twentieth-century aesthetics. This places the show within a high-brow comedic tradition characterised as “satirical, ironic, less exuberant and more avant-garde” and which “prioritises a cerebral and distanced perspective on beauty over the search for direct enjoyment and immediate entertainment” (Claessens and Dhoest 53). This highbrow modality and focus on Torres as an auteur showrunner and artist also fulfills the content requirements of HBO, known for its “prestige” comedy shows with the same cultural status given to indie cinema (Newman). In this highbrow mode, Adi Walker has argued that Torres’s humour is cerebrally produced “in the space ‘behind the joke’”, and actually is aimed at providing commentary on “the US itself and its structural conditions” (145). The space behind the joke can be potent. For Torres, who grew up in the final years of the Salvadorean Civil War, born to a Venezuelan mother and who spent formative time in Brazil, the “fantasmas” of the title have a peculiarly Latin quality that speaks more broadly to a “zone of experience” that would appear as the fictionalised country of Los Espookys (2019-2022), Torres’s first Spanish-language comedy series, also made for HBO. And, as has been argued before, the Latin experiences of the late twentieth century—Chile, Columbia, El Salvador, Argentina, Paraguay, Guatemala—, if not interchangeable with one another, speak of a shared “colonial aphasia” and “colonial agnosia” that Adriana Zavala has argued generated a condition that is “simultaneously known and unknown, resisting a method of apprehension and instead ruminating on the interstices between knowledge and ignorance, reflecting on the relationship between production, loss, and disassociation” (Zavala 8). These Latin exiles serve as a defence against uncomplicated “exileness” by continually substituting sites of memory—in Los Espookys, real-life production filming decisions meant that Columbia stood in for El Salvador’s site of exile, Chile stood in for Columbia, etc. (Marez). Similarly, in Fantasmas, the continued shifts of temporality and landscape and mix of Latin and Latinx cast speak to the complexities of that shared and unshareable experience of exile, substitutions, and conjuring. As mentioned, Torres also talks about the “exciting” aspect of being a ghost—of being able to hide and to be invisible—and perhaps a connection from this statement can be drawn to the large “undocumented” population of Hispanic-origin immigrants residing in the United States (Ruggles et al. suggest that 7.4 million people are currently undocumented in America). The multiplicity of Latin lives currently invisible to the government in the US arguably also constitute the imaginary “fantasmas” of the show, enlivening the politics of this Brechtian take on Manhattan. As Adi Walker has suggested about the comedian’s earlier work, “Torres plays a crucial role in using comedy to reorient the collectively engaged attention economy to underappreciated, rendered invisible labour that persists in the background” (148), and this is certainly also true of Fantasmas, for highlighting small details in immigrant labour in the United States. The study of ghosts—as a critical and historical term—dwells on what French-Algerian thinker Jacques Derrida has termed a “hauntology”. Working from and beyond Sigmund Freud’s work on mourning—taking typically Derridean detours through Martin Heidegger and South African politics of apartheid—hauntology is “the persistence of a present past or the return of the dead which the worldwide work of mourning cannot get rid of” (Derrida 101). Hauntology, as articulated within critical and cultural theory, has a focus on discursively unpicking seen absences and unseen presences. Or, perhaps more plainly, the unresolved question of presentness. It is then a position that insists that the “other side of life is not always death” and that there remain absences that present themselves to us in search of or demanding justice. For Derrida, his study in hauntology begins in the immediate post-Apartheid moment of South Africa in which “disappeared” peoples return to demand justice in the present. A spectral residue or ghostly presence of those who have disappeared, but nor are they—legally in many cases—fully dead. For Derrida then, the ghost’s failure to rest is characteristic of a deconstruction that “suggests that what we have is not sufficient and warns that we are not fully in control, that we have not taken everything to account. It speaks to a hesitation” (Zacharias 104). Within Fantasmas—and perhaps in the context of this examination of Latin American experience more broadly—these hesitations of voice (“um, err, … “), the show’s artificial landscapes (incomplete sound sets and scaffolded sets), and the existential journeys of the show’s main characters speak to the endless deferral of rest. Those that are absent but never fully dead, speak to many shared experiences of absent voices in the Latin experience. And, as considered by a broad range of scholars, the Latin experience is one haunted by multiple absences: thousands of los desaparecidos (disappeared youth), mass student disappearances, and countless political exiles. And if the critical high point of hauntology occurred at the end of the long twentieth century, within the Latin/a/x context, the diasporic and exiled communities of a broad range of peoples have sustained such resonances, continuing with work in visual art (Doris Salcedo, Cecilia Vicuna), music (Jorge Martin), and television comedy (Julio Torres, Fred Armisen). These spectral subjects speak to a different condition to that of other ghosts and instead speak to sets of political exiles and the returning of the disappeared. The ghosts of Fantasmas evoke the conjuring of the unresolvable tensions of exile that speak to a geo-political trauma of displaced peoples, juntas, mass gravesites, and murders that—entangled with colonial histories of traumas against its indigenous peoples and languages—continued well into the twenty-first century and, even post-Castro, mark out a shared and unshared experience of diaspora and unreturnings. In the show, the constructed and Brechtian Manhattan as a location of confluence for multiple Latin/a/x stories, and the show’s many otherworldly parodies of lost television—such as MELF, an alternative version of 1980s sitcom ALF—become potent sites for these unresolvable questions of exile and loss. For Juliff and Tierney, responding to the psychoanalytic signalling of Latin absence calls on the work of Torok that hauntings take place within a language of presentness rather than mourning: “the ghost refuses to occupy a position within the established binaries through which we are accustomed to constructing our identities and interpreting experience … . It is neither dead nor alive, past nor present. The ghost is always a revenant because it begins by coming back” (Juliff and Tierney 37). It signals, therefore, a perpetual process that has neither beginning nor end: “it has no point of departure and no moment of arrival. It is irreducible and undecidable” (Juliff and Tierney 37). For Hentyle Yapp—a leading voice in queer transnational studies of race and culture—the dizzying array of temporal shifts in cultural production marks “the dissipation of sense [that] pushes us to develop a minoritarian ethic around expiration and return, difference and repetition” (Yapp 7). The continuing failure of the ghost to rest upon a known time and place is one that speaks to the necessity of Torres to return (a large proportion of Julio’s exposition takes place in a ride-share travelling back to an apartment that he never seems to arrive back to), expiration (of dates relating to medical insurance cards), and endless returns. As Rossi has argued, Torres’s combination of “distinctly queer aesthetics and immigrant ethos” is deeply subversive for American television, especially “when political rhetoric and invisibility in Hollywood has led to the racialization of Central American migrants as dangerous gang members and unworthy of the U.S.’s sympathy” (368). Derrida’s ghost, and its haunting presence in absence, suggests that just as the meaning we seek to convey through language constantly escapes along an endless chain of signifiers, so collective and individual histories, and the art practices embedded in them, are less sealed off than we might imagine. The return of the ghost complicates, in other words, the opposition of presence versus absence, visibility versus invisibility, memory versus forgetting, the taken-for-granted linearity of the connections between past, present, and future, as well as the way in which art addresses us. Derrida’s ghost, unlike French psychanalyst Maria Torok’s “transgenerational phantom”, does not return to reveal a secret. However, by unfixing meaning, it re-opens the door to history’s unfinished business, making visible some of the costs of modernity in its various guises. From the first episode, Julio is faced with an uncertainty of status. Asked to provide proof of his existence—the document of proof required is never stated, so remains existential—he cannot provide anything other than a childhood exemption from sport provided by his absent mother. Across the series, Julio tries to locate workarounds, loopholes, and alternatives for the proof of existence (usually in the form of half-heartedly selling out to large corporations). He remains surreally unable to obtain proof that he does indeed exist, and instead can only hope for documents that prove another existence. Fantasmas’ Julio is no refugee, but he remains, as many in the Latin zone of experience, burdened by the necessity of proof of identity that exile demands. That proof, like the spectre, has an expiration date. Fantasmas speaks of a haunting of the Latin experience, one that is marked out by dislocations, exiles, and undeterminable landscapes. There is a deliberate hesitation to name places and to set out the interior scenes in any realistic manner, with most scenes taking place on a series of highly artificial sound studio sets, representing a mythic Manhattan. The show’s lead character, who is on an odyssey to locate a lost earring, moves across sets and scenes that appear unparticular and dislocated. The “real” earring of the quest, a synecdoche of identity perhaps, remains unfound, just as Julio never quite resolves his identity or his location, caught endlessly moving through an urban landscape that is neither one place or another. References Claessens, Nathalie, and Alexander Dhoest. “Comedy Taste: Highbrow/Lowbrow Comedy and Cultural Capital.” Participations: Journal of Audience & Reception Studies 7.1 (2010): 49-72. Cunningham, Vinson. “Julio Torres’s ‘Fantasmas’ Finds Truth in Fantasy.” The New Yorker, 9 July 2024. <https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2024/07/29/fantasmas-tv-review-hbo>. Derrida, Jacques. Specters of Marx: The State of Debt, the Work of Mourning and the New International. Trans. Peggy Kamuf. Routledge, 2006. Fantasmas. HBO, 2023. Fisher, Mark. The Weird and the Eerie. Repeater Books, 2016. Juliff, Toby, and Patricia Tierney. “‘They Are Always There’: Mendieta, Vicuna and the Coming Again of Ghosts.” Latin American and Latinx Visual Culture 4 (2001): 35-48. Marez, Curtis. “Precarious Locations: Streaming TV and Global Inequalities.” American Studies 60.1 (2021): 9-31. <https://muse.jhu.edu/article/791038/pdf>. Nicholson, Rebecca. “Fantasmas Review – This Wildly Creative Comedy Is a Beacon of Hope for TV’s Future.” The Guardian, 1 Aug. 2024. <https://www.theguardian.com/tv-and-radio/article/2024/aug/01/fantasmas-review-this-wildly-creative-comedy-is-a-beacon-of-hope-for-tvs-future>. Newman, Michael. “Prestige TV, Comedy, and the Indie Aesthetic.” Indie TV: Industry, Aesthetics and Medium Specificity, eds. James Lyons and Yannis Tzioumakis. Routledge, 2023. 1-17. O’Falt, Chris. “‘Fantasmas’ Wants You to See Its Scaffolding.” IndieWire, 12 July 2024. <https://www.indiewire.com/features/craft/fantasmas-set-design-julio-torres-nyc-1235024005/>. Rossi, Nathan. “Julio Torres and the Queer Potentialities of U.S. Central American Representation.” Critical Studies in Media Communication 39.5 (2022): 367-379. Ruggles, Steven, Sarah Flood, Sophia Foster, Ronald Goeken, Jose Pacas, Megan Schouweiler, and Matthew Sobek. IPUMS USA: Version 11.0. Dataset. Minneapolis, 2021. <https://doi.org/10.18128/D010.V11.0>. Torok, Maria. “Story of Fear: The Symptoms of Phobia—The Return of the Repressed or the Return of the Phantom.” The Shell and the Kernel: Renewals of Psychoanalysis, ed. and trans. Nicholas T. Rand. U of Chicago P, 1975. 177–86. Torres, Julio, dir. Problemista. A24, 2023. Walker, Adi. “Shaping Life, Shaping Work: Julio Torres’ Queer Comic Labor.” Theater Topics 34.2 (2024): 143-149. Yapp, Hentyle. “Feeling Down(town Julie Brown): The Sense of Up and Expiring Relationality.” Journal of Visual Culture 17.1 (2018): 3-21. Zacharias, Robert. “‘And Yet’: Derrida on Benjamin’s Divine Violence.” Mosaic: A Journal for the Interdisciplinary Study of Literature 40.2 (2007): 103-116. Zavala, Adriana. “Blackness Distilled, Sugar and Rum: María Magdalena Campos-Pons’s Alchemy of the Soul, Elixir for the Spirits.” Latin American and Latinx Visual Culture 1.2 (2019): 8-32.

Unlike some current discourse on automediality, this essay eschews most of the analysis concerning the adoption or modification of avatars to deliberately enhance, extend or distort the self. Rather than the automedial enabling of alternative, virtual selves modified by playful, confronting or disarming avatars we concentrate instead on emerging efforts to present the self in hyper-realist, interactive modes. In doing so we ask, what is the relationship between traumatic forms of automediation and the affective impact on and response of the audience? We argue that, while on the one hand there are promising avenues for valuable individual and social engagements with traumatic forms of automediation, there is an overwhelming predominance of suffering as a theme in such virtual depictions, comingled with uncritically asserted promises of empathy, which are problematic as the technology assumes greater mainstream uptake.As Smith and Watson note, embodiment is always a “translation” where the body is “dematerialized” in virtual representation (“Virtually” 78). Past scholarship has analysed the capacity of immersive realms, such as Second Life or online games, to highlight how users can modify their avatars in often spectacular, non-human forms. Critics of this mode of automediality note that users can adopt virtually any persona they like (racial, religious, gendered and sexual, human, animal or hybrid, and of any age), behaving as “identity tourists” while occupying virtual space or inhabiting online communities (Nakamura). Furthermore, recent work by Jaron Lanier, a key figure from the 1980s period of early Virtual Reality (VR) technology, has also explored so-called “homuncular flexibility” which describes the capacity for humans to seemingly adapt automatically to the control mechanisms of an avatar with multiple legs, other non-human appendages, or for two users to work in tandem to control a single avatar (Won et. al.). But this article is concerned less with these single or multi-player online environments and the associated concerns over modifying interactive identities. We are principally interested in other automedial modes where the “auto” of autobiography is automated via Artificial Intelligences (AIs) to convincingly mimic human discourse as narrated life-histories.We draw from case studies promoted by the 2017 season of ABC television’s flagship science program, Catalyst, which opened with semi-regular host and biological engineer Dr Jordan Nguyen, proclaiming in earnest, almost religious fervour: “I want to do something that has long been a dream. I want to create a copy of a human. An avatar. And it will have a life of its own in virtual reality.” As the camera followed Nguyen’s rapid pacing across real space he extolled: “Virtual reality, virtual human, they push the limits of the imagination and help us explore the impossible […] I want to create a virtual copy of a person. A digital addition to the family, using technology we have now.”The troubling implications of such rhetoric were stark and the next third of the program did little to allay such techno-scientific misgivings. Directed and produced by David Symonds, with Nguyen credited as co-developer and presenter, the episode “Meet the Avatars” immediately introduced scenarios where “volunteers” entered a pop-up inner city virtual lab, to experience VR for the first time. The volunteers were shown on screen subjected to a range of experimental VR environments designed to elicit fear and/or adverse and disorienting responses such as vertigo, while the presenter and researchers from Sydney University constantly smirked and laughed at their participants’ discomfort. We can only wonder what the ethics process was for both the ABC and university researchers involved in these broadcast experiments. There is little doubt that the participant/s experienced discomfort, if not distress, and that was televised to a national audience. Presenter Nguyen was also shown misleading volunteers on their way to the VR lab, when one asked “You’re not going to chuck us out of a virtual plane are you?” to which Nguyen replied “I don't know what we’re going to do yet,” when it was next shown that they immediately underwent pre-programmed VR exposure scenarios, including a fear of falling exercise from atop a city skyscraper.The sweat-inducing and heart rate-racing exposures to virtual plank walks high above a cityscape, or seeing subjects haptically viewing spiders crawl across their outstretched virtual hands, all elicited predictable responses, showcased as carnivalesque entertainment for the viewing audience. As we will see, this kind of trivialising of a virtual environment’s capacity for immersion belies the serious use of the technology in a range of treatments for posttraumatic stress disorder (see Rizzo and Koenig; Rothbaum, Rizzo and Difede).Figure 1: Nguyen and researchers enjoying themselves as their volunteers undergo VR exposure Defining AutomedialityIn their pioneering 2008 work, Automedialität: Subjektkonstitution in Schrift, Bild und neuen Medien, Jörg Dünne and Christian Moser coined the term “automediality” to problematise the production, application and distribution of autobiographic modes across various media and genres—from literary texts to audiovisual media and from traditional expression to inter/transmedia and remediated formats. The concept of automediality was deployed to counter the conventional critical exclusion of analysis of the materiality/technology used for an autobiographical purpose (Gernalzick). Dünne and Moser proffered a concept of automediality that rejects the binary division of (a) self-expression determining the mediated form or (b) (self)subjectivity being solely produced through the mediating technology. Hence, automediality has been traditionally applied to literary constructs such as autobiography and life-writing, but is now expanding into the digital domain and other “paratextual sites” (Maguire).As Nadja Gernalzick suggests, automediality should “encourage and demand not only a systematics and taxonomy of the constitution of the self in respectively genre-specific ways, but particularly also in medium-specific ways” (227). Emma Maguire has offered a succinct working definition that builds on this requirement to signal the automedial universally, noting it operates asa way of studying auto/biographical texts (of a variety of forms) that take into account how the effects of media shape the kinds of selves that can be represented, and which understands the self not as a preexisting subject that might be distilled into story form but as an entity that is brought into being through the processes of mediation.Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson point to automediality as a methodology, and in doing so emphasize how the telling or mediation of a life actually shapes the kind of story that can be told autobiographically. They state “media cannot simply be conceptualized as ‘tools’ for presenting a preexisting, essential self […] Media technologies do not just transparently present the self. They constitute and expand it” (Smith and Watson “Virtually Me” 77).This distinction is vital for understanding how automediality might be applied to self-expression in virtual domains, including the holographic avatar dreams of Nguyen throughout Catalyst. Although addressing this distinction in relation to online websites, following P. David Marshall’s description of “the proliferation of the public self”, Maguire notes:The same integration of digital spaces and platforms into daily life that is prompting the development of new tools in autobiography studies […] has also given rise to the field of persona studies, which addresses the ways in which individuals engage in practices of self-presentation in order to form commoditised identities that circulate in affective communities.For Maguire, these automedial works operate textually “to construct the authorial self or persona”.An extension to this digital, authorial construction is apparent in the exponential uptake of screen mediated prosumer generated content, whether online or theatrical (Miller). According to Gernalzick, unlike fictional drama films, screen autobiographies more directly enable “experiential temporalities”. Based on Mary Anne Doane’s promotion of the “indexicality” of film/screen representations to connote the real, Gernalzick suggests that despite semiotic theories of the index problematising realism as an index as representation, the film medium is still commonly comprehended as the “imprint of time itself”:Film and the spectator of film are said to be in a continuous present. Because the viewer is aware, however, that the images experienced in or even as presence have been made in the past, the temporality of the so-called filmic present is always ambiguous” (230).When expressed as indexical, automedial works, the intrinsic audio-visual capacities of film and video (as media) far surpass the temporal limitations of print and writing (Gernalzick, 228). One extreme example can be found in an emergent trend of “performance crime” murder and torture videos live-streamed or broadcast after the fact using mobile phone cameras and FaceBook (Bender). In essence, the political economy of the automedial ecology is important to understand in the overall context of self expression and the governance of content exhibition, access, distribution and—where relevant—interaction.So what are the implications for automedial works that employ virtual interfaces and how does this evolving medium inform both the expressive autobiographical mode and audiences subjectivities?Case StudyThe Catalyst program described above strove to shed new light on the potential for emerging technology to capture and create virtual avatars from living participants who (self-)generate autobiographical narratives interactively. Once past the initial gee-wiz journalistic evangelism of VR, the episode turned towards host Nguyen’s stated goal—using contemporary technology to create an autonomous virtual human clone. Nguyen laments that if he could create only one such avatar, his primary choice would be that of his grandfather who died when Nguyen was two years old—a desire rendered impossible. The awkward humour of the plank walk scenario sequence soon gives way as the enthusiastic Nguyen is surprised by his family’s discomfort with the idea of digitally recreating his grandfather.Nguyen next visits a Southern California digital media lab to experience the process by which 3D virtual human avatars are created. Inside a domed array of lights and cameras, in less than one second a life-size 3D avatar is recorded via 6,000 LEDs illuminating his face in 20 different combinations, with eight cameras capturing the exposures from multiple angles, all in ultra high definition. Called the Light Stage (Debevec), it is the same technology used to create a life size, virtual holocaust survivor, Pinchas Gutter (Ziv).We see Nguyen encountering a life-size, high-resolution 2D screen version of Gutter’s avatar. Standing before a microphone, Nguyen asks a series of questions about Gutter’s wartime experiences and life in the concentration camps. The responses are naturalistic and authentic, as are the pauses between questions. The high definition 4K screen is photo-realist but much more convincing in-situ (as an artifact of the Catalyst video camera recording, in some close-ups horizontal lines of transmission appear). According to the project’s curator, David Traum, the real Pinchas Gutter was recorded in 3D as a virtual holograph. He spent 25 hours providing 1,600 responses to a broad range of questions that the curator maintained covered “a lot of what people want to say” (Catalyst).Figure 2: The Museum of Jewish Heritage in Manhattan presented an installation of New Dimensions in Testimony, featuring Pinchas Gutter and Eva SchlossIt is here that the intersection between VR and auto/biography hybridise in complex and potentially difficult ways. It is where the concept of automediality may offer insight into this rapidly emerging phenomenon of creating interactive, hyperreal versions of our selves using VR. These hyperreal VR personae can be questioned and respond in real-time, where interrogators interact either as casual conversers or determined interrogators.The impact on visitors is sobering and palpable. As Nguyen relates at the end of his session, “I just want to give him a hug”. The demonstrable capacity for this avatar to engender a high degree of empathy from its automedial testimony is clear, although as we indicate below, it could simply indicate increased levels of emotion.Regardless, an ongoing concern amongst witnesses, scholars and cultural curators of memorials and museums dedicated to preserving the history of mass violence, and its associated trauma, is that once the lived experience and testimony of survivors passes with that generation the impact of the testimony diminishes (Broderick). New media modes of preserving and promulgating such knowledge in perpetuity are certainly worthy of embracing. As Stephen Smith, the executive director of the USC Shoah Foundation suggests, the technology could extendto people who have survived cancer or catastrophic hurricanes […] from the experiences of soldiers with post-traumatic stress disorder or survivors of sexual abuse, to those of presidents or great teachers. Imagine if a slave could have told her story to her grandchildren? (Ziv)Yet questions remain as to the veracity of these recorded personae. The avatars are created according to a specific agenda and the autobiographical content controlled for explicit editorial purposes. It is unclear what and why material has been excluded. If, for example, during the recorded questioning, the virtual holocaust survivor became mute at recollecting a traumatic memory, cried or sobbed uncontrollably—all natural, understandable and authentic responses given the nature of the testimony—should these genuine and spontaneous emotions be included along with various behavioural ticks such as scratching, shifting about in the seat and other naturalistic movements, to engender a more profound realism?The generation of the photorealist, mimetic avatar—remaining as an interactive persona long after the corporeal, authorial being is gone—reinforces Baudrillard’s concept of simulacra, where a clone exists devoid of its original entity and unable to challenge its automedial discourse. And what if some unscrupulous hacker managed to corrupt and subvert Gutter’s AI so that it responded antithetically to its purpose, by denying the holocaust ever happened? The ethical dilemmas of such a paradigm were explored in the dystopian 2013 film, The Congress, where Robyn Wright plays herself (and her avatar), as an out of work actor who sells off the rights to her digital self. A movie studio exploits her screen persona in perpetuity, enabling audiences to “become” and inhabit her avatar in virtual space while she is limited in the real world from undertaking certain actions due to copyright infringement. The inability of Wright to control her mimetic avatar’s discourse or action means the assumed automedial agency of her virtual self as an immortal, interactive being remains ontologically perplexing.Figure 3: Robyn Wright undergoing a full body photogrammetry to create her VR avatar in The Congress (2013)The various virtual exposures/experiences paraded throughout Catalyst’s “Meet the Avatars” paradoxically recorded and broadcast a range of troubling emotional responses to such immersion. Many participant responses suggest great caution and sensitivity be undertaken before plunging headlong into the new gold rush mentality of virtual reality, augmented reality, and AI affordances. Catalyst depicted their program subjects often responding in discomfort and distress, with some visibly overwhelmed by their encounters and left crying. There is some irony that presenter Ngyuen was himself relying on the conventions of 2D linear television journalism throughout, adopting face-to-camera address in (unconscious) automedial style to excitedly promote the assumed socio-cultural boon such automedial VR avatars will generate.Challenging AuthenticityThere are numerous ethical considerations surrounding the potential for AIs to expand beyond automedial (self-)expression towards photorealist avatars interacting outside of their pre-recorded content. When such systems evolve it may be neigh impossible to discern on screen whether the person you are conversing with is authentic or an indistinguishable, virtual doppelganger. In the future, a variant on the Turning Test may be needed to challenge and identify such hyperreal simulacra. We may be witnessing the precursor to such a dilemma playing out in the arena of audio-only podcasts, with some public intellectuals such as Sam Harris already discussing the legal and ethical problems from technology that can create audio from typed text that convincingly replicate the actual voice of a person by sampling approximately 30 minutes of their original speech (Harris). Such audio manipulation technology will soon be available to anybody with the motivation and relatively minor level of technological ability in order to assume an identity and masquerade as automediated dialogue. However, for the moment, the ability to convincingly alter a real-time computer generated video image of a person remains at the level of scientific innovation.Also of significance is the extent to which the audience reactions to such automediated expressions are indeed empathetic or simply part of the broader range of affective responses that also include direct sympathy as well as emotions such as admiration, surprise, pity, disgust and contempt (see Plantinga). There remains much rhetorical hype surrounding VR as the “ultimate empathy machine” (Milk). Yet the current use of the term “empathy” in VR, AI and automedial forms of communication seems to be principally focused on the capacity for the user-viewer to ameliorate negatively perceived emotions and experiences, whether traumatic or phobic.When considering comments about authenticity here, it is important to be aware of the occasional slippage of technological terminology into the mainstream. For example, the psychological literature does emphasise that patients respond strongly to virtual scenarios, events, and details that appear to be “authentic” (Pertaub, Slater, and Barker). Authentic in this instance implies a resemblance to a corresponding scenario/activity in the real world. This is not simply another word for photorealism, but rather it describes for instance the experimental design of one study in which virtual (AI) audience members in a virtual seminar room designed to treat public speaking anxiety were designed to exhibit “random autonomous behaviours in real-time, such as twitches, blinks, and nods, designed to encourage the illusion of life” (Kwon, Powell and Chalmers 980). The virtual humans in this study are regarded as having greater authenticity than an earlier project on social anxiety (North, North, and Coble) which did not have much visual complexity but did incorporate researcher-triggered audio clips of audience members “laughing, making comments, encouraging the speaker to speak louder or more clearly” (Kwon, Powell, and Chalmers 980). The small movements, randomly cued rather than according to a recognisable pattern, are described by the researchers as creating a sense of authenticity in the VR environment as they seem to correspond to the sorts of random minor movements that actual human audiences in a seminar can be expected to make.Nonetheless, nobody should regard an interaction with these AIs, or the avatar of Gutter, as in any way an encounter with a real person. Rather, the characteristics above function to create a disarming effect and enable the real person-viewer to willingly suspend their disbelief and enter into a pseudo-relationship with the AI; not as if it is an actual relationship, but as if it is a simulation of an actual relationship (USC). Lucy Suchman and colleagues invoke these ideas in an analysis of a YouTube video of some apparently humiliating human interactions with the MIT created AI-robot Mertz. Their analysis contends that, while it may appear on first glance that the humans’ mocking exchange with Mertz are mean-spirited, there is clearly a playfulness and willingness to engage with a form of AI that is essentially continuous with “long-standing assumptions about communication as information processing, and in the robot’s performance evidence for the limits to the mechanical reproduction of interaction as we know it through computational processes” (Suchman, Roberts, and Hird).Thus, it will be important for future work in the area of automediated testimony to consider the extent to which audiences are willing to suspend disbelief and treat the recounted traumatic experience with appropriate gravitas. These questions deserve attention, and not the kind of hype displayed by the current iteration of techno-evangelism. Indeed, some of this resurgent hype has come under scrutiny. From the perspective of VR-based tourism, Janna Thompson has recently argued that “it will never be a substitute for encounters with the real thing” (Thompson). Alyssa K. Loh, for instance, also argues that many of the negatively themed virtual experiences—such as those that drop the viewer into a scene of domestic violence or the location of a terrorist bomb attack—function not to put you in the position of the actual victim but in the position of the general category of domestic violence victim, or bomb attack victim, thus “deindividuating trauma” (Loh).Future work in this area should consider actual audience responses and rely upon mixed-methods research approaches to audience analysis. 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