Artículos de revistas sobre el tema "Coastal gothic"

This article considers the question of whether the Roman state was thalassocratic during the period of the Gothic-Byzantine wars of 535–554. Based on the narrative sources from the fifth and sixth centuries, primarily, the information from the writings of Procopius of Caesarea, the author of the article studies data on the time of appearance, the size of the fleet, the types of ships that the Gothic tribes had in the mid-sixth century, as well as the methods of conducting naval battles the Goths used in the Mediterranean in the face of a lack of relevant experience and skills. The author concludes that even though before the start of the wars, the Goths had warships at their disposal, they were clearly not enough to compete with the Romans, therefore, during the reign of Vitiges, the war was predominantly waged on land. The maritime hegemony of the Romans was undeniable. According to Procopius of Caesarea, the fleet was most actively used in the conflict during the reign of the Gothic ruler Totila. For some time, he managed to compensate for the lack of experience in naval battles with thoughtful tactics. The Goths pursued a policy of establishing control over the most important ports and straits of the Mediterranean. Trying to avoid full-fledged clashes with the Romans, the barbarians successfully blocked the supply of food and additional contingents to Italy. However, the information provided by Procopius should be treated with caution, since his writings are full of elements of anti-Justinian propaganda and attempts to discredit the ruler. In fact, the Goths dominated the seas as much as the Romans allowed them to. In connection with the above, it is impossible to speak of the completion of the Roman thalassocracy in the Mediterranean in the mid-sixth century. The Romans retained control of the maritime and coastal regions of the Mediterranean.

The renovation of Adriatic towns under Venetian rule included all major urban settlements on the islands in the Quarnero Gulf. The size of Osor, the Roman centre of the Cres-Lošinj group of islands, radically decreased during this period. The scholarship holds that the town of Cres started to grow in the second half of the fifteenth century while Osor fell into disrepair. Apart from the new Renaissance Cathedral, other late Gothic and Renaissance buildings in Osor have never been thoroughly studied, partly because their state of preservation is modest and party because of the deep-seated opinionthat the fifteenth century was only an epilogue to Osor’s great past. As a consequence, no basic analysis of local architecture has ever been done and the urban layout of historic Osor is not very well known. The causes of Osor’s demise, on the other hand, are well known. The population was decimated by illness and the town itself was destroyed by wars in the fourteenth century. Furthermore, maritime navigation changed from coastal to that accustomed to the open sea and Osor lost the strategic importance it held when it came to sailing along the Adriatic. The relocation of the local Count to Cres, frequently underlined as one of the key moments in the history of Osor’s decline and dated to 1450, does not seem to be as fateful as the reduced numberof its inhabitants and the loss of naval and trading significance. The relocation created a dual government of sorts and a bimunicipal county was established. The historical importance of Osor as a traditional seat of power was paramount to Venice and the town maintained the prestige it had acquired during the Roman period as a town which controlled a large territory.In the mid-fifteenth century Osor was a building site: architectural structures were maintained, repaired and built anew. In the fourteenth century, a Gothic church of St Gaudentius was constructed on the main street and in the first half of the fifteenth century the Town Hall was built on the site of the ancient Roman curia. Until now, it was held that the reason for the construction of thenew cathedral was the bisection of Osor which occurred in the mid-fifteenth century when the new fortification walls – with a reduced catchment area –were erected and so excluded the old cathedral from the perimeter. However, the decision to reduce the circumference of the new walls was made only in the last quarter of the fifteenth century, that is, after the foundations for the new cathedral had been laid. This means that the plans drawn up in the second half of the fifteenth century covered a larger area than previouslt thought and that they were done during the pontificate of Bishop Antun Palčić who wasoriginally from Pag and who witnessed first-hand the building of the new town of Pag. A decree of 1581 records the construction of the town walls at Cres and Osor. The new fortification walls of Cres were being built throughout the sixteenth century and so it is likely that the transversal wall at Osor was constructed at the same time as the new walls at Cres, during thesixteenth century. The building of the new wall was not an ambitious feat of fortification construction but a simple encircling of the remodelled town centre. The new wall was just a consequence of urban reorganization and its directionwas determined by the pre-existing defence buildings which were utilised and incorporated in the new addition. In the late fifteenth century, the main town square was fully developed and surrounded by the most importantpublic and religious buildings. The Town Hall stood on the south-east corner and the new cathedral was built on the square’s south side. The Episcopal Palace extended along the entire west flank of the square. The Palace’s long andnarrow east wing, facing the square, connected the two main wings of the complex. Despite its modest role as nothing more than a link, the east front was the widest part of the Palace and closed the square’s west side, respecting the new, small-scale urban layout of Osor. The north-east corner of the complex is decorated with an engaged colonette topped by a leaf capital. Its counterpart can be found on a building at the opposite side of the square, which was subsequently heavily rebuilt. These corresponding engaged colonettes indicate that the architects wanted to create a meaningful urban space. The north side of the square no longer exists in its original shape. In the mid-fifteenth century, this area was occupied by religious buildings traces of which can be seen in the present-day modest houses. These traces are mostly elements of Gothic decoration and so it can be concluded that this side of the square featured Gothic structures. The analysis of the architecture on the main square demonstrates that it there were consecutive building phases and that the Cathedral was the last building to be built. There was no unifying stylistic concept; the buildings on the square were either Gothic or Renaissance. This does not reduce the importance of this feat of public building because the Episcopal Palace and Osor Cathedral were built at the same time, by the same master builders, for the same patron, the difference being that the former in the Gothic and the latter in the Renaissance style. This, in my opinion, means that the value of the main square at Osor should not be assessed throughstylistic unity but by considering the harmonious spatial relationships between its structures, the attention given to their design, their role as public buildings and the balance achieved by adapting the newly built structures tothe pre-existing ones. It is well known that the late fifteenth century was the time when traditional Gothic decoration was used alongside new Renaissance forms and so the stylistic inconsistency apparent in Osor’s main squarewas done in the spirit of time. The remodelling of the town centre lasted for the whole century and the town was also well maintained in the period that followed. Archival records tell us that a grain store was built inthe late fifteenth century but nothing is known about its location or appearance.Despite the efforts and large-scale building campaigns of public and religious architecture, the migration of able-bodied people looking for work continued and Osor was gradually transformed into an occasional dwelling place of the nobility and the clergy – a town of the Church and aristocracy. Today, Osor is a town with low-density architecture. The legacy of medieval town buildingcan be seen only in the row of houses that face the main street. They are huddled together and arranged around communal courtyards, which is a characteristic of local medieval town planning on the island of Cres. The mostprominent residential building is the palazzetto of the Draža family, an old noble family of Osor. The location of the Draža house and its spatial relationship with the surrounding, more modest houses, implies that it embodied the medieval concept of densely built town blocks dominated by a single aristocratic building. Other aristocratic houses at Osor are more isolated and surrounded by green spaces. These large green areas were once occupied by Roman and medieval houses and insulae. Following the late middle ages, the decaying architectural structures were not repaired butused to create gardens: their perimeter walls were neatly re-arranged and became the dividing walls between different gardens while the spaces they contained were filled with a layer of soil, as archaeological test pits have shown. Apart from large gardens and courtyards, the residential character of Osor as an aristocratic resort is attested by the Latin inscriptions on the building façades but also by the written records about noble familieswhich possessed estates in both Cres and Osor during the period that followed the formation of the bimunicipal county in the fifteenth century.All these events created a set of specific characteristics in Osor during the late fifteenth and the sixteenth century. Its importance as the seat of a commune and a bishop was reflected in the main town square which was planned in the spirit of the Renaissance and according to the redesign of towns under the Venetian rule. The medieval legacy is still evident in the buildings on the main street which are densely huddled around communal courtyards and which centre around dominant aristocratic houses. In contract to them, large gardens and the aforementioned historic circumstances indicate that Osor was a residential resort of the local nobility. From the fifteenth century onward, the most frequently recorded features of Osor were its decay and mala aria (bad air). Nevertheless, as late as 1771, Alberto Fortis described it as the only town on the island of Cres to have kept the legacy of its noble past. In addition to the aforementioned Gothic and Renaissance elements of architecturaldecoration, many more were rebuilt into later houses. They are as frequent as the Roman and early medieval spolia and were reused in the same manner. Their existence witnesses that Osor had had another important historic phase in its long life.

he renovation of Adriatic towns under Venetian rule included all major urban settlements on the islands in the Quarnero Gulf. The size of Osor, the Roman centre of the Cres-Lošinj group of islands, radically decreased during this period. The scholarship holds that the town of Cres started to grow in the second half of the fifteenth century while Osor fell into disrepair. Apart from the new Renaissance Cathedral, other late Gothic and Renaissance buildings in Osor have never been thoroughly studied, partly because their state of preservation is modest and party because of the deep-seated opinion that the fifteenth century was only an epilogue to Osor’s great past. As a consequence, no basic analysis of local architecture has ever been done and the urban layout of historic Osor is not very well known. The causes of Osor’s demise, on the other hand, are well known. The population was decimated by illness and the town itself was destroyed by wars in the fourteenth century. Furthermore, maritime navigation changed from coastal to that accustomed to the open sea and Osor lost the strategic importance it held when it came to sailing along the Adriatic. The relocation of the local Count to Cres, frequently underlined as one of the key moments in the history of Osor’s decline and dated to 1450, does not seem to be as fateful as the reduced number of its inhabitants and the loss of naval and trading significance. The relocation created a dual government of sorts and a bimunicipal county was established. The historical importance of Osor as a traditional seat of power was paramount to Venice and the town maintained the prestige it had acquired during the Roman period as a town which controlled a large territory. In the mid-fifteenth century Osor was a building site: architectural structures were maintained, repaired and built anew. In the fourteenth century, a Gothic church of St Gaudentius was constructed on the main street and in the first half of the fifteenth century the Town Hall was built on the site of the ancient Roman curia. Until now, it was held that the reason for the construction of the new cathedral was the bisection of Osor which occurred in the mid-fifteenth century when the new fortification walls – with a reduced catchment area –were erected and so excluded the old cathedral from the perimeter. However, the decision to reduce the circumference of the new walls was made only in the last quarter of the fifteenth century, that is, after the foundations for the new cathedral had been laid. This means that the plans drawn up in the second half of the fifteenth century covered a larger area than previouslt thought and that they were done during the pontificate of Bishop Antun Palčić who was originally from Pag and who witnessed first-hand the building of the new town of Pag. A decree of 1581 records the construction of the town walls at Cres and Osor. The new fortification walls of Cres were being built throughout the sixteenth century and so it is likely that the transversal wall at Osor was constructed at the same time as the new walls at Cres, during the sixteenth century. The building of the new wall was not an ambitious feat of fortification construction but a simple encircling of the remodelled town centre. The new wall was just a consequence of urban reorganization and its direction was determined by the pre-existing defence buildings which were utilised and incorporated in the new addition. In the late fifteenth century, the main town square was fully developed and surrounded by the most important public and religious buildings. The Town Hall stood on the south-east corner and the new cathedral was built on the square’s south side. The Episcopal Palace extended along the entire west flank of the square. The Palace’s long and narrow east wing, facing the square, connected the two main wings of the complex. Despite its modest role as nothing more than a link, the east front was the widest part of the Palace and closed the square’s west side, respecting the new, small-scale urban layout of Osor. The north-east corner of the complex is decorated with an engaged colonette topped by a leaf capital. Its counterpart can be found on a building at the opposite side of the square, which was subsequently heavily rebuilt. These corresponding engaged colonettes indicate that the architects wanted to create a meaningful urban space. The north side of the square no longer exists in its original shape. In the mid-fifteenth century, this area was occupied by religious buildings traces of which can be seen in the present-day modest houses. These traces are mostly elements of Gothic decoration and so it can be concluded that this side of the square featured Gothic structures. The analysis of the architecture on the main square demonstrates that it there were consecutive building phases and that the Cathedral was the last building to be built. There was no unifying stylistic concept; the buildings on the square were either Gothic or Renaissance. This does not reduce the importance of this feat of public building because the Episcopal Palace and Osor Cathedral were built at the same time, by the same master builders, for the same patron, the difference being that the former in the Gothic and the latter in the Renaissance style. This, in my opinion, means that the value of the main square at Osor should not be assessed through stylistic unity but by considering the harmonious spatial relationships between its structures, the attention given to their design, their role as public buildings and the balance achieved by adapting the newly built structures to the pre-existing ones. It is well known that the late fifteenth century was the time when traditional Gothic decoration was used alongside new Renaissance forms and so the stylistic inconsistency apparent in Osor’s main square was done in the spirit of time. The remodelling of the town centre lasted for the whole century and the town was also well maintained in the period that followed. Archival records tell us that a grain store was built in the late fifteenth century but nothing is known about its location or appearance. Despite the efforts and large-scale building campaigns of public and religious architecture, the migration of able-bodied people looking for work continued and Osor was gradually transformed into an occasional dwelling place of the nobility and the clergy – a town of the Church and aristocracy. Today, Osor is a town with low-density architecture. The legacy of medieval town building can be seen only in the row of houses that face the main street. They are huddled together and arranged around communal courtyards, which is a characteristic of local medieval town planning on the island of Cres. The most prominent residential building is the palazzetto of the Draža family, an old noble family of Osor. The location of the Draža house and its spatial relationship with the surrounding, more modest houses, implies that it embodied the medieval concept of densely built town blocks dominated by a single aristocratic building. Other aristocratic houses at Osor are more isolated and surrounded by green spaces. These large green areas were once occupied by Roman and medieval houses and insulae. Following the late middle ages, the decaying architectural structures were not repaired but used to create gardens: their perimeter walls were neatly re-arranged and became the dividing walls between different gardens while the spaces they contained were filled with a layer of soil, as archaeological test pits have shown. Apart from large gardens and courtyards, the residential character of Osor as an aristocratic resort is attested by the Latin inscriptions on the building façades but also by the written records about noble families which possessed estates in both Cres and Osor during the period that followed the formation of the bimunicipal county in the fifteenth century. All these events created a set of specific characteristics in Osor during the late fifteenth and the sixteenth century. Its importance as the seat of a commune and a bishop was reflected in the main town square which was planned in the spirit of the Renaissance and according to the redesign of towns under the Venetian rule. The medieval legacy is still evident in the buildings on the main street which are densely huddled around communal courtyards and which centre around dominant aristocratic houses. In contract to them, large gardens and the aforementioned historic circumstances indicate that Osor was a residential resort of the local nobility. From the fifteenth century onward, the most frequently recorded features of Osor were its decay and mala aria (bad air). Nevertheless, as late as 1771, Alberto Fortis described it as the only town on the island of Cres to have kept the legacy of its noble past. In addition to the aforementioned Gothic and Renaissance elements of architectural decoration, many more were rebuilt into later houses. They are as frequent as the Roman and early medieval spolia and were reused in the same manner. Their existence witnesses that Osor had had another important historic phase in its long life.

Abstract: The paper proposes to examine the tangled relationship between race and environment in the nineteenth-century American literary tradition by looking at the gothic representation of the three vagabond characters in relation to the Californian coastal landscape in Bret Harte’s “Three Vagabonds of Trinidad” (1900). Critically seen as a reworking of Mark Twain’s Adventures o f Huckleberry Finn (1884), Harte’s story continues the questioning of the civilization/wilderness dichotomy in Twain’s work, but the story complicates its racial-ecological dynamics by shifting the focus from a white boy and a black slave to a Chinese orphan, a Native American vagrant, and a dog, and relocating their tramping and foraging from the Mississippi river to the pine forest and marshland at the Pacific coast of a frontier town in California. Harte’s repositioning of racialized (as well as politicized) persecution at the western frontier articulates an ecogothic allegory on a transcontinental (as well as trans-global) scale, in which a seemingly ordinary western settlement is turned from what Leo Marx considers a pastoral-industrial “middle landscape” into a liminal haunting (as well as hunting) ground. The paper examines how Harte’s account of Trinidad topographies reveals a multi-layered ecological space and a haunted Romantic landscape that unsettles environmental as well as social order, reflecting racialized political exclusions during the course of the nineteenth century through legalized policies, such as the 1830 Indian Removal Act, the 1855 Vagrancy Act, and the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act restricting the spatial mobilities of Native Americans, Chinese immigrants, and other minority groups. The paper will focus on the intersection of orientalism, settler colonialism, and environmentalism, rethinking how the enmeshed race-environment relationship in Harte’s writing, informed by the social and political practices of westward expansionism and racial segregation of his time, might reveal a subtler process of ecological othering, unveiling the parasitical relationship between racial exploitation and environmental destruction.

AbstractThis article examines witchcraft, shape-shifting and other supernatural beliefs among the Talensi and neighbouring Gur-speaking peoples on the frontier of the Northern Territories Protectorate of the Gold Coast (Ghana) in the first half of the twentieth century. Its starting point is the succession of religious movements dedicated to the eradication of witchcraft that swept through the southern forest region of the Gold Coast in the inter-war period. Most of these movements were animated by exotic deities originating in the savanna zone, a cross-cultural passage in part propelled by the ambivalence with which the Akan peoples of the forests viewed the so-called Gurunsi of the remote north. While the ‘Gurunsi’ were generally regarded as primitive barbarians, they were also seen to have an intimate relationship with the spiritual realm and therefore to be free from the ravages of malevolent witchcraft. This intimacy with dangerous spiritual forces was most clearly manifested in the widely reported ability of ‘the grassland people’ to transmogrify into animals. Evidence suggests, however, that far from being free from witchcraft, stateless savanna societies had their own problems with malevolent occult powers. Moreover, their reputation for shape-shifting was not simply a lurid, fantastic stereotype of northern brutishness on the part of the Akan. Animal metamorphosis – and especially the ubiquity of were-hyenas – was widely reported in the northern savanna, where it was imbricated with ‘witchcraft’ and with notions of personhood and collective identities.

Senj’s heritage in general is historically and artistically extremely poorly researched and interpreted in the wider context of the heritage of the Eastern Adriatic coast. This is especially true of the monuments of the Middle Ages, hidden under completely different later architectural layers in the Early Modern Age of the militarised town. The examples analysed here are hypothetically interpreted in a new way, with suggestions for the dating and stylistic connections from the region of Kvarner, as well as from the wider Adriatic area. Along with the emphasis on the historical circumstances and the analysis of graphic and written sources, a proposal is presented for the dating and stylistic connection of the destroyed mediaeval tower (in the old Croatian Chakavian dialect - turan) in front of the façade of Senj’s cathedral. The possible closest twin and model to the Senj tower is probably located in Krk - insufficient data about the appearance of the Senj tower requires some speculation. All the circumstances that support such an interpretation, in the stylistic and chronological connection of the former Romanesque bell tower of the Krk cathedral from the end of the 12th century and the bell tower in front of Senj’s cathedral are explained exhaustively. It is assumed that, like the Krk bell tower, this one in Senj also had a communal status, so this may have been the reason for the construction of one more bell tower behind the rear of the cathedral, connected to the whole of the bishop of Senj’s historical residence. After this, two chronologically and epigraphically-palaeographically close inscriptions are compared with two churches from the first half of the 14th century, one which according to A. Glavičić was located on the site of the sacristy of Senj’s cathedral and the other which was located on the site of the sacristy of the Krk cathedral. The epigraphicallypalaeographically very close inscriptions, Senj’s "Imie od Raduča" and Krk’s which mentions the donors "Leonard" and "Bogdan", as well as the master craftsman "Mikel", are dated just four years apart. Finally, there is a comparative discussion about the process of urbanisation, architecture and the possible original name of Senj’s Mala Placa, the probable centre of the secular communal life of Senj in the late Middle Ages and the second focal point of the then already bicentrically organised town. Also discussed are the implications arising from the existence of such an urban focal point located next to the quay and completely separated from the most important public space in front of the cathedral. A proposal is presented for the dating of the town Loggia (the socalled "Kampuzija") to the 14th century. The term is interpreted as the name of the Loggia (Loža), but also as the name of the whole area regulated early as a square, in the sense of "campo" - like Krk’s Kamplin. The explicit Venetian method of the shaping of the brick-built Loggia, fitted with characteristic ground floor columns and Gothic monophores on the first floor part of the façade, stands out. One’s attention is drawn to its basement storage area which may have been a storeroom for salt. In this way, an early Venetian contribution (14th century) to the urbanisation of this part of the town located in the immediate vicinity of the quay stands out. For the Daničić house fitted with a luxurious late Gothic triforium, it is assumed that in the late Middle Ages it could have been a town hall and that it could, in fact, have been the town hall whose beauty was praised by J. W.Valvasor. A hypothesis is made about its original dimensions. With a little research luck, this could be confirmed by the conservation-restoration research of the inner face of the house’s masonry, especially the floors at the level of the skilfully carved Late Gothic triforium. The triforium is attributed to the work of Andrija Aleši from the 1550s.

The Church of St. Stephan, in this paper, belonged to a medieval residential complex above the confluence of the River Piva and the River Tara, in the extreme northeast of the present-day Republic of Montenegro. The central part of the complex consisted of Soko-grad, a castle with the court of the prominent, aristocratic, Kosaca family, which, at the end of the 14th century, right until the Turkish conquests in the sixties and seventies of the 15th century, ruled the regions later known as Hercegovina. At the foot of the castle, on Scepan polje, is the suburb with the Church of St. Stephan the endowment of the grand duke, Sandalj Hranic (+1345). At the foot of the northern slope, beneath the castle, in the area of Zagradja, is another church erected by the grand duke's successor, Herzeg Stefan Vukcic Kosaca (+1465). After the Turkish conquest, the complex of the Soko castle with its suburb was destroyed and the churches became deserted and were never renewed. The ruins of St. Stephan were discovered, investigated and then conserved from 1971-973, however, the results of this research have not been published until now. In reviewing the results obtained in the course of the archaeological excavations, it is possible, in a considerable measure, to comprehend the position and former appearance of the Church of St. Stephan and establish roughly, the time when it came into being. This was the largest church erected in the regions governed by the powerful, Kosaca noble family, during the 15th century. The total length of the church exceeded 25 metres and its width was approximately ten metres. In the preserved body of the construction, of which the remaining walls rise to a height of four metres one may see three basic stages of building. A narthex was later erected beside the church, and subsequently a small parakklesion was added, on the northern side. The original church had a single nave, a cruciform base and a gently, horseshoe-shaped apsis, facing east, flanked by rectangular choirs. The interior of the church, with two pairs of small pilasters, was articulated in three bays of almost equal dimensions. The altar, encompassing the apsis and the eastern bay, was separated from the naos by a constructed altar partition-wall, the essential appearance of which can be assumed on the basis of whatever was found. The entire surface of the constructed iconostasis was covered with frescoes. The floor of the naos was a step lower than the floor of the altar. Flooring made of mortar, like in the altar area also existed in the choirs. As opposed to these spaces, in the central and western bays, the floor was made of large, hewn stone slabs. The finds discovered in the debris, offered an abundance of data about the upper, now collapsed, structures of the church, and about the stonemasonry that decorated this building. The church did not have a dome but all three bays were topped by a single vault of carved calcareous stone, reinforced by two arches, resting on the pilasters. We may assume that the roof structure was of the Gothic type, and ribbed at the base. Above the choirs were lower semi-spherical vaults, perpendicular in relation to the longitudinal axis of the church. They were covered by gabled roofs that ended in triangular frontons on the northern and southern fa?ade, like the main vault on the eastern side above the altar apsis. The roof of the church was made of lead. A belfry, of unique construction, existed on the western side of the original church. It stood about one meter in front of the western wall and was linked by a vaulted passage to the main body of the building. All these parts were structurally inter-connected, indicating that they were built at the same time. The position and appearance of the original church windows can almost certainly be determined according to the preserved traces on the remaining sections of the walls, and the finds of the relevant stonemasonry. In the interior of the naos, along the southern wall of the western bay was the grave of the donor of the church of St. Stephan, Grand Duke Sandalj Hranic. This was the traditional position where the donor was buried, according to the custom or rather, the rule that had been practiced for centuries in the countries of the Byzantine Orthodox Christian world, and particularly in the Serbian lands. The duke's grave, marked by a stele in the form of a massive low coffin on a pedestal, was prepared while the church was being built given that it would have been impossible to install this large monolith that weighed approximately 2.5 tons in the church, later. Generally speaking, the donor's grave in the church of St. Stephan, is eloquent testimony of the donor's aspirations and beliefs. Besides the undoubtedly local feature of a funerary monument in the form of a stele, all its other characteristics emulate earlier models from the region of the Serbian lands. In front of the original church, at a later stage, which apparently followed soon after, a spacious narthex with a rectangular base was added on. Pylons of the belfry substructure were fitted into its eastern wall, which seems to have made that wall much thicker than the other walls of the narthex. This later erected narthex was not vaulted, which we concluded after analysing the preserved walls and the finds in the debris. Apparently, it had a flat ceiling construction, supported by massive beams that rested on consoles along the length of the northern and southern walls. The side entrances when the narthex was built were of the same dimensions as its western portal. However later, before installing the stone doorposts, both these entrances were narrowed down on their western, lateral sides, while the southern portal, in a later phase, was completely walled up. In the course of exploration, no reliable data was discovered regarding the position of the windows in the narthex. One can only assume that monophoric windows existed on the lateral walls, one or two on each side, similar to the monophores in the western bay. Apart from the narthex, another, later construction was observed next to the original church. On its northern side, along the western bay and the lateral side of the choir, a parakklesion, that is, a small funerary chapel was added on, in the middle of which a large stele once stood, of which now only fragments exist. The entire interior of the church of St. Stephan was deco-rated with frescoes. Rather small fragments of the wall painting were discovered in the debris, not only of the original church but also of the narthex, as well as of the northern funerary chapel. It was observed that they were all of the same quality, painted on mortar of a uniform texture which suggests that all the painting was done as soon as the additional buildings were finished. On the discovered fragments, one can recognise the dark blue back-ground of the former compositions, and the borders painted in cynober. On several fragments, there were preserved sections of or whole letters from Serbian Cyrillic texts. On several fragments that may have originated from the aureoles or parts of robes, traces of gold leaf were visible, which would indicate the splendour and representativeness of the frescoes that decorated the endowment of the grand duke, Sandalj Hranic. With the shape of the foundation of a single-nave church, divided into three bays and with rectangular choir spaces, the church of St. Stephan continued the tradition of the early Rascia school of Serbian architecture (13th beginning of 14th century), which represented a significant novelty at the time when it appeared. In Serbia, in the last decades of the 14th and the beginning of the 15th century, the predominant plan of the churches, the triconche, was based on the Holy Mount models. The decision by the donor, the grand duke Sandalj, to give his endowment the features of the earlier, Rascia heritage, in the times when the Serbian territories had been broken up and were exposed to pressure from external enemies, undoubtedly had a deeper significance. By relying on the earlier tradition, which is also reflected in the dedication of the church to St. Stephan, the patron saint of the state and of the Nemanjic dynasty, the donor expressed the aspiration to consolidate his authority more firmly in the regions that had previously formed part of the Serbian state. By erecting an endowment, and a funerary church that he wished to be his eternal resting-place, Sandalj was also demonstrating that he ranked among his predecessors, the Serbian rulers and nobility. One can see this from the choice of the traditional burial position, along the southern wall of the western bay, as well as from the tomb he had prepared for himself during his lifetime. Apart from the basic idea and plan of the church based on the Rascia tradition, the features of its architecture also exhibit other influences. Of crucial importance here was the choice of builders, who undoubtedly came from the coastal area, which is reflected both in the structural solutions, as well as in the decorative stonework. However, local master-craftsman undoubtedly took part in this achievement. One can see this particularly when observing the stonework which, besides some admittedly rather rare, better-carved pieces, consists of a great deal of carving by less experienced artisans. The assumptions about the origin of the architecture and the builders are substantiated by observing the preserved traces of the frescoes, which show that the decoration of St. Stephan's and the adjacent narthex was also entrusted to one of the coastal painters. Perhaps it was the well-known Dubrovnik painter Dzivan Ugrinovic, who is known to have been commissioned by the grand duke Sandalj in 1429. There is no direct or reliable record of the date when the endowment of the grand duke Sandalj Hranic or its later annexes were built. The stylistic analysis of the stonework makes it possible only roughly to attribute it to the first half of the 15th century. The year 1435 provides a slightly narrower span of time, which is the time of Sandalj's funeral, when it would appear that the church of St. Stephan was already finished. The data mentioned earlier regarding the engagement of builders from Dubrovnik and the possible later decoration, enables us to date it more exactly. Therefore, we may assume that the church itself was erected before the end of the second decade of the 15Lj century. The additional construction of the narthex may have followed soon after the completion of the church itself, as indicated by the stylistically uniform stonework. If we accept the possibility that the church was decorated at the end of the third decade of the 15S century, and that this was finished both in the church and the narthex at the same time the year 1429 would be the terminus ante quem for the completion of the additional construction. The Kosaca endowment, erected beside the Soko castle, offers new evidence about this prominent, noble or ruling family, and particularly about their religious affiliation. Historians, almost as a rule consider the Kosaca family to have been Bogumils, or people whose religious convictions were not particularly firm. Such views were based on the fact that Sandalj Hranic, the grand duke of Rusaga Bosanskog (of the Bosnian kingdom) and his successor, the duke and subsequently the herzeg, Stefan Vukcic, were tolerant towards the Bogumils and were often surrounded by people who upheld such religious beliefs, which was the political reality of the times in which they lived and functioned. On the other hand, the enemies of the Kosaca family made use of this to depict them to the Western and Eastern Christians as heretics, which was not without consequences. The distorted view of their religious conviction not only accompanied them during their lifetime but persists even today, not only in historiography but in present-day politics, as well, particularly after the recent wars in ex-Yugoslavia. The origin of the Kosaca family is connected with the region of the Upper Drina, that is to say, the region that had always been a part of the Nemanjic state, where there were no Bogumils, nor could there be. As owners of part of what had always been the Serbian lands, which went to Bosnia after the tragic division between Ban Tvrtko and Prince Lazar, the consequences of which are still felt today, the Kosaca very soon became independent rulers of this territory, forming a specific territory that later came to be known as Herzegovina. Another element that also bears weight in this respect is the fact that, in contrast to central Bosnia where the Bogumil heresy was influential, the population in the Kosaca lands was Orthodox Christian, with a certain number of Catholics in the western parts. The fact that the regions they ruled were nominally within the Bosnian kingdom, where the ruling class were predominantly Bogumils for a long time did not have any fundamental bearing on their religious affiliation. Significant records have been preserved of their unconcealed Orthodox Christian orientation. Without going into the details of this complex circle of problems, which requires a separate study, especially after the more recent discoveries and facts that have come to light, we shall dwell only on some facts. During the rule of Grand Duke Sandalj and his successor, Herzeg Stefan, which lasted almost seventy years, a whole series of Orthodox Christian churches were erected. During the first half of the 15th century, a kind of renaissance of the Rascia school of architecture came about in this area. In the words of V.J. Djuric, the endowments of the Kosaca family 'are different from the average buildings of their time by virtue of their size sometimes the unusual solutions, and the great beauty of form and proportions'. The wealth of the family and the continual relations with aitists from the southern Adriatic coastal cities imbued their architecture with buoyancy and significance. The western stylistic features of the churches of the Kosaca, and the Gothic language of the stonemasons, reveal the centres where these master craftsmen had learned their trade. With the erection of the endowment in the 'ruling seat' beneath Mt. Soko and the churches intended as their final resting-places, the Kosaca distinguished themselves as the last continuers of the Nemanjic tradition of earlier centuries, in the time that preceded the final Turkish conquest of the Serbian lands. The memory of their work is preserved in the church of St. Stephan and the nearby church at Zagradja, as well as in the rains of the Soko castle, which still lies waiting to be researched.

SUMMARY Gravity monitoring might require observation of temporal changes of gravity below the nanometre per second squared (nm s−2) level, which can be achieved by precise isolation of the signal of interest from all other disturbing effects. One method of signal isolation is elimination of disturbing effects by taking the difference between gravity changes measured simultaneously using two gravimeters installed close together. Herein, we describe differences in temporal gravity changes below the nm s−2 level in the tidal frequency bands as observed through simultaneous measurements taken with three superconducting gravimeters (SGs) located 80, 93 and 94 m from the coastline in Tomakomai, Hokkaido, northern Japan. Those changes are consistent with differences in ocean tide loading effects on gravity at the SG locations computed using the software package GOTIC2, which uses a highly accurate land–sea boundary and ocean tide model near our site. The observed ocean tide loading differences were found to result from Newtonian attraction of the ocean tide mass within an angular distance of 0.003° from the SG locations. This result suggests that coastal observations of differential tidal gravity variations at different distances from the coast help to validate ocean tide loading computation models in the immediate vicinity of the SG stations. This method enables observation of non-periodic gravity changes occurring below the nm s−2 level over a few hours. Its salient benefit is that rapid and simple observation can be achieved without long-term continuous measurements, which is necessary for observing that level of gravity change with only one SG.

The Art Nouveau style in architecture of the late XIX-the first third of the twentieth century was distinguished by the synthesis of all previous styles and the free variability of the composition of both the main architectural volumes and their decor. Depending on the predominance of a particular style in a particular building, it is classified as a sub-style, for example, Neo-Gothic, Neo-Baroque, Neo-Renaissance, Neo-Russe, etc. A characteristic feature of modernity is also the use of various ethnic elements by architects. The subject of the article is the cultural characteristics of villas and palaces on the Southern coast of Crimea and the individual character reflected in them by architects in accordance with the requirements of customers, their national and professional affiliation, interests and hobbies. A special contribution of the authors is the analysis of the examples of architecture and its decoration, not abstractly, but in close connection with the personality of their owners and customers. The article uses the methods of historicism and the comparative method in the analysis of the belonging of an architectural object to a particular style; methods of analysis and synthesis in the characteristics of styles of both individual parts of architectural monuments and the entire building as a whole. The scientific novelty of the study lies in the fact that for the first time the authors described the villas and palaces of the Southern coast of Crimea not only from a historical, architectural and historical-art historical point of view, but from the point of view of matching the styles of buildings to the individual characteristics of the personalities of their owners. Conclusions. 1. The Art Nouveau style spread in Western and Eastern Europe, including Crimea, from the end of the XIX century, and existed on the peninsula until the 1930s. The elegant character of country villas and palaces, mostly white, was especially relevant in Crimea, contrasting with the blue sky and sea and bright vegetation, creating a typical southern the color of the resort area. 2. The cultural landscape of Crimea is made up of a diverse variety of ethnic cultures, the heritage of state entities, as well as outstanding personalities who have contributed to it. In this sense, the unique buildings and their connection with the personalities of their owners represent one of the characteristic features of the historical and cultural landscape of Crimea.

The site with the remains of the Saxon church, that is, the former Catholic church of St Mary, lies on a mild slope that descends from the fort to the southeast, or the village of Bostane. Located at a distance of about 1,200 m from Novo Brdo?s Lower Town, it was outside this former urban area. It was intermittently investigated in the 1950s and ?60s, but the complete results of these works have not been published. With this in mind, after almost six decades, an attempt was made, based on the remaining fieldwork documentation, to examine in more detail the complex of this important Novo Brdo edifice. The investigated remains of the church itself reveal three stages, or more precisely, construction phases, which reflect the emergence, renovation and extension of this temple over an extended period of time, from the first decades of the 14th to the end of the 17th century. The first and most important stage comprises the construction of the church itself, as well as the successive adding of masonry tombs and graves in the interior of the original temple. The following stage includes an extensive renovation and expansion of the church, while the third and final stage is distinguished by the construction of a porch in front of the western fa?ade (Fig. 2). The Saxon church is a single-nave temple of a spacious rectangular base. On the eastern side, two massive pilasters separated the nave from a much narrower alter area that terminated in a semicircular apse. This space, that is, the presbytery, was divided by a pair of similar massive pilasters into two unequal parts - a shorter western one, which could be labelled as the choir, and a much larger eastern one, in the centre of which was a masonry altar mensa in the form of a massive column and two simultaneously built steps. In front of them, on the same western side, this construction also included the first, monolithic step, which on the sides had step-like profiled cubes, the upper surface of which contained regularly carved circular indentations for the placement of massive candles. Alongside all four corners of the masonry construction of the alter mensa, steplike profiled bases carved from breccia were discovered in situ, which most likely carried the construction of a wooden ciborium. On the southern side, in the corner between the altar area and the wider nave, a sacristy was located, which was connected by a door to the presbytery, that is, the choir. The interior of the Saxon church, which was completely explored, revealed the existence of several burial horizons, which can, chronologically and in terms of their general characteristics, be determined. The oldest burials, which were performed within the original church, somewhat differ from the later ones, from the time after the renovation of the temple, as well as the construction of the porch. Characteristic of the older period are masonry tombs, intended for a number of burials (Fig. 3). Generally observed, despite the noticeable construction technique typical of the local area, the Saxon church stylistically resembled a Gothic edifice. What particularly contributed to this are stylistically clearly recognisable tall and narrow windows with a broken arch. Such a stylistic preference, in all likelihood, was also influenced by a possible solution for the under- roof construction above the unvaulted nave. The Saxon church in Novo Brdo represents a peculiar phenomenon in the territory of Serbia. It is immediately apparent that the church?s spatial solution corresponded to the needs of Roman Catholic worship. However, by the form of its base it is distinguished from the usual types of Catholic temples in the coastal areas of medieval Serbia, from where the western cultural influences flowed. It was clearly noted that the base of the Novo Brdo church has no close parallels among churches of the Adriatic, which imposed the need for a more detailed consideration of its spatial solution. It?s base, with a rectangular nave, a narrower vaulted presbytery and a laterally positioned sacristy, is characteristic of sacral architecture in a wider area, from the Netherlands, Southern Germany and Saxony, all the way to Transylvania - Ardeal. The spread of this type of base from the areas of its origin, during the 12th and 13th centuries, can be associated with the Saxon diaspora, specifically the Sassi miners, progressing towards the east. This was particularly indicated by a considerable number of these temples in the mining areas of Ardeal, from where the Sassi migrations advanced further down to the south, namely, to the central regions of the Balkans. The thus perceived base of the Novo Brdo church, which, on the whole, follows the spatial solution of Saxon temples, represents the southernmost example of a sacral edifice of this type in Southeast Europe. The time of the construction of the Saxon church in Novo Brdo can be quite reliably determined despite the fragmentarily preserved documentation. The rapid development of the city was undoubtedly accompanied by religious organising, first of the Sassi miners, followed by numerous merchants from Adriatic towns, primarily those from the ?King?s City? of Kotor, and subsequently also from Dubrovnik. Based on all these findings it can be quite safely concluded that the first newly erected church in Novo Brdo was precisely the Saxon church, that is, Santa Maria in Novomonte. It was built, without any doubt, due to the efforts of the newly settled Sassi mining community. Such a conclusion can reliably be drawn on the basis of the spatial solution of the new temple rooted in traditions from the homeland, which were disseminated by this mining population in all areas of their diaspora. The very method of building and some construction solutions, which did not affect the basic concept, were left to local builders. This dating is further supported by coin finds, the oldest specimens of which originate from the last decade of the reign of King Stefan Uros II (1282-1321). The Saxon church, outside the fortified Lower Town, shared the fate of Novo Brdo. Since it was located on the access route to the city, which was not especially defended, it could have been exposed to occasional Turkish attacks during the last decades of the 14th century. With significant destruction, as evidenced by the results of archaeological excavations, the earlier period of life of the Saxon church came to an end. It can be assumed that this took place at the time of the almost two-year long Turkish siege of Novo Brdo between 1439 and 1441. After the Turkish occupation of Novo Brdo in 1455, and upon restoring stability in the conquered city, conditions were created for the renovation of the Saxon church ? Santa Maria in Novomonte. One letter from Rome, sent to the archbishop of the city of Bar in 1458, indicates that this was also advocated by Pope Pius II personally. Major works on that occasion, as shown by archaeological investigations, were conducted within the area of the nave, which was almost entirely in ruins. The undertaken renovation provided the opportunity to increase the size of the church, specifically to extend it westward by 2.70 m. New walls were built from the ground up on the northern and western side of the nave, while within the altar area, which was certainly much better preserved, no traces of any subsequent alterations were noted. Somewhat later, in front of the renovated church, a wooden porch was added. The Saxon church was also used for worship during the 16th and the first half of the 17th century. The archbishop of Bar, Marino Bizzi, during a canonical visitation in 1610, noted that the church at that time fulfilled all the requirements for worship. Three decades later, his successor, Archbishop Giorgio Bianchi, visited the Novo Brdo ?canonical church dedicated to St Mary?, which he says was in the hands of Christians and that inside ?are graves in which Catholics are buried??. This is also the last known data regarding this prominent Novo Brdo temple, which was, without a doubt, finally destroyed during the Austro-Turkish war at the end of the 17th century.

Ringkøbing in the Middle Ages The last 25 years have seen frequent archaeological excavations in the medieval market town of Ringkøbing. In this paper, the author presents the results and weighs them against the written and cartographic sources in order to gain an overall picture of the emergence and development of the town during the Middle Ages (Fig. 1). Over the years, several local historians have dealt with the history of Ringkøbing. They based their investigations exclusively on the few medieval sources referring to the town, however, and the main issues they concentrated on were the reason for the town being situated exactly there, the origin of its name, its age, and whether it had grown out of an earlier settlement or had been a planned construction. In the first known reference to Ringkøbing, the town is called “rennumkøpingh,” or “the town at Rindum” (Fig. 2). Rindum, or “rennum,” was the rural parish, which had transferred some of its land to the town. A town prospect from around 1677 depicts the small town as seen from the north, with ships anchored on the fjord (Fig. 3). It gives a good impression of the number of streets and their directions. Nevertheless, the first reliable survey of the market town is from the early 19th century (Fig. 4).Ringkøbing is situated on the northern coast of Ringkøbing Fjord, on the edge of a moraine hill, well protected against floods. From the early days, Ringkøbing’s existence was inextricably linked with the navigation conditions on the fjord. Geologists have pointed out that during the Middle Ages the present islands in the tidal area south of Blåvandshuk continued further north, to Bovbjerg. This row of islands is visible on a chart from the mid-16th century (Fig. 5). On the chart, one of the islands is called “Numit,” which is interpreted as “Nyminde,” or “the new mouth.” Huge floods during the 17th century started a major process of drifting of material from the north along the coast, and the channels between the islands sanded up. Just one channel remained navigable, but it moved southward and eventually closed up completely (Fig. 6), which was a disastrous development for Ringkøbing. Nevertheless, during the Middle Ages, ships could still pass unhindered from the sea into the fjord and to Ringkøbing, where they could trade and take in supplies and water.Ringkøbing is situated in an area which has been inhabited since the last Ice Age, and which was especially rich during the Iron Age. By the mid-13th century the area was divided into districts and parishes, and the market town sprouted up in the middle of a well functioning agricultural region. The first actual excavation took place in Ringkøbing in 1978, when the property of Vester Strandgade 14 was investigated by Ringkøbing Museum. An area measuring 44 square metres was examined, and the excavation revealed part of the medieval town (Fig. 7). At the bottom of the excavated area, several furrows observed in a 15 to 20-cm thick humus layer indicated that the area had been farmed right up until the beginning of the activities there in the medieval period. Of the two ditches registered in the area, the earlier one had been dug into the ploughed field, whereas the later ditch was situated approximately in the middle of the medieval culture layer (Fig. 8). Twenty-three post-holes were found, but unfortunately their relationships to each other could not be determined. An extensive layer with a 3.4-metre diameter turned out to be the remains of a well, the shaft of which had been built from granite boulders (Fig. 9). A small bronze buckle was found at the bottom of the well (Fig. 10), and several sherds of imported pottery from around 1300 were found in the filling around the well shaft.The layer sequence was visible in the walls, with the yellow-brown moraine gravel at the bottom, then the above-mentioned humus layer with furrows, and then the homogeneous, grey, medieval culture layer. Above this an earthen floor from the 17th century was visible in several places. The upper layer, with a thickness of c.60 cm, was modern.The medieval layer contained large amounts of pottery sherds, mainly from locally produced grey-brown globular vessels. The rim sherds were from two main pottery types, A and B. Type A, which constitutes the largest group, has the classical, almost S-shaped rim (Fig. 12), whereas type B is characterized by an outward-folded edge creating a flat inner rim (Fig. 13). Both types exist concurrently throughout the medieval culture layer.The glazed pottery sherds represent two types, locally produced earthenware (Fig. 14), and imported pottery. Both types were present in the Vester Strandgade excavation. Of the imported sherds, 39 are from green-glazed jugs with a “raspberry” decoration (Fig. 15). These jugs were produced in the Netherlands around 1300. Sherds from German stoneware found in the medieval layer date from the same time (Fig. 16).The Vester Strandgade excavation was followed by several large and small investigations in the town centre (Fig. 17). “Dyekjærs Have” contained several traces of medieval structures, for instance a large number of post-holes, some of which were from a small building. The pottery material was abundant and consisted mainly of sherds from greyish-brown globular vessels (Fig. 18), but there were also sherds from imported and locally manufactured jugs. Other important town excavations include that of Marens Maw’, where the numerous traces of medieval structure included a row of post-holes interpreted as the outer wall of a house, and the excavation of Øster Strandgade 4, which revealed a late medieval turf-built well (Fig. 19). The excavation of Bojsens Gård also gave interesting results. It was very close to the street, and in this area the medieval culture layer had a depth of up to 60 cm. A ditch dug into the ploughed medieval field represented the earliest activity on this spot. Several structural traces reflected a continuous settlement going back to the early days of the town. Here, too, sherds from globular vessels dominated, but glazed ceramics and stoneware were also represented. The written sources from the Middle Ages reveal nothing about the medieval appearance of the town. The archaeological excavations, on the other hand, have shown that the settlement consisted of houses made from posts dug into the ground, probably half-timbered constructions with wattle-and-daub outer walls, earthen floors, and thatched roofs. The archaeological excavations have also revealed that Ringkøbing sprang up on a ploughed field during the second half of the 13th century. There are no signs of any settlement prior to this, and it is most likely that the town was laid out all at once according to a fixed town plan. No building traces were found in the streets, on Torvet (the market square), on Kirkepladsen (the church square), or on Havnepladsen (the harbour square), and so these squares must have been planned as such from the beginning. The numerous grooves and ditches are interpreted as boundary markers made when the plots were first established. The earliest ones are dug into the ploughed field, and so they must indicate the very first land-registration of the town.In order to found the new market town, an oblong part of Rindum parish had to be confiscated, and the town was marked out in the western part of this as an area measuring approximately 550 by 250 metres (Fig. 20). The streets were laid out in the still existing regular network. There was no harbour, and the ships would anchor in the shallow water off the town. Goods were transported by barge or horse-drawn carriage.In the town centre the market square was laid out, and behind it the square by the church. Ringkøbing’s church is a small Gothic brick building from around 1400. The townsmen probably used the parish church in Rindum during the first 150 years.At the time when Ringkøbing was founded, the Crown was establishing several small coastal towns throughout the kingdom. There was a notable lack of towns along the west coast of Jutland, and the founding of Ringkøbing probably represents a wish to fill this vacuum. At the same time, it was a friendly gesture directed towards the merchants from Northwest Europe whose large merchant ships sailed along the west coast on their way to and from the major markets in the Baltic. It was in the king’s interest to control the trade in the country, as it enabled him to levy taxes and to oppose the Hanseatic League’s attempt to monopolise foreign trade.Life in medieval Ringkøbing was based on trade and crafts, and the king controlled both through his assignment of privileges. The first preserved trade licence concerning medieval Ringkøbing is from 1443, but that document is in fact a confirmation of a privilege previously granted.The archaeological excavations and the written sources have informed us that the town’s trade interests lay across the North Sea. The town’s own merchants travelled overseas, and foreign merchants passed through. Foreign goods such as glazed jugs, stoneware jugs, and woollen cloth were imported from the Netherlands, Flanders, and Germany. The sources also indicate that a hinterland reaching far into Jutland used Ringkøbing for disembarkation. After the Middle Ages, the sources describe Ringkøbing as a small town, at times rather poor, which often had to ask permission to postpone the tax payments for which it was liable. The earliest depictions and maps also give the impression of a small town taking up less space than it did during the Middle Ages (Fig. 21).It will be interesting to learn whether future excavations in Ringkøbing will radically change the picture of the town presented here.Helle HenningsenRingkøbing Museum Translated by Annette Lerche Trolle

The paper proposes to examine the tangled relationship between race and environment in the nineteenth-century American literary tradition by looking at the gothic representation of the three vagabond characters in relation to the Californian coastal landscape in Bret Harte’s “Three Vagabonds of Trinidad” (1900). Critically seen as a reworking of Mark Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884), Harte’s story continues the questioning of the civilization/wilderness dichotomy in Twain’s work, but the story complicates its racialecological dynamics by shifting the focus from a white boy and a black slave to a Chinese orphan, a Native American vagrant, and a dog, and relocating their tramping and foraging from the Mississippi river to the pine forest and marshland at the Pacific coast of a frontier town in California. Harte’s repositioning of racialized (as well as politicized) persecution at the western frontier articulates an ecogothic allegory on a transcontinental (as well as transglobal) scale, in which a seemingly ordinary western settlement is turned from what Leo Marx considers a pastoral-industrial “middle landscape” into a liminal haunting (as well as hunting) ground. 1 The paper examines how Harte’s account of Trinidad topographies reveals a multi-layered ecological space and a haunted Romantic landscape that unsettles environmental as well as social order, reflecting racialized political exclusions during the course of the nineteenth century through legalized policies, such as the 1830 Indian Removal Act, the 1855 Vagrancy Act, and the 1882 Chinese Exclusion Act restricting the spatial mobilities of Native Americans, Chinese immigrants, and other minority groups. The paper will focus on the intersection of orientalism, settler colonialism, and environmentalism, rethinking how the enmeshed race-environment relationship in Harte’s writing, informed by the social and political practices of westward expansionism and racial segregation of his time, might reveal a subtler process of ecological othering, unveiling the parasitical relationship between racial exploitation and environmental destruction.

The Oude Jeroenskerk in the South Holland coastal village of Noordwijk is the largest, and one of the most perfectly preserved, late medieval village churches in the provinces of South and North Holland. Compared with the village in which it stands and the village churches in the surrounding area, the Oude Jeroenskerk is not just beautifully proportioned, but above all remarkably large. This phenomenon – a large church in a small settlement – is clearly interesting, yet it has never been the subject of specific research. Following the miraculous discovery in 976 of the bones of Jeroen, a missionary murdered in 856 by the Norsemen, the ancient Nordcha settlement developed into a place of pilgrimage with urban tendencies. The subsequent ‘discovery’ of Jeroen’s skull in around 1316 furthered the growth of both the village and the church. On 1 April 1398 the village was granted a city charter, but this was subsequently withdrawn on 12 March 1399.The applicants’ right to make such an application was challenged and those involved had plainly underestimated the costs associated with city status. What remained was an under-construction large church, which was eventually completed in around 1500. The construction and appearance of the Oude Jeroenskerk would seem to have been heavily influenced by the count and the local nobility, beginning with Count Dirk II, who granted permission to erect a church in 976. The architects of the brick church are unknown, but it is conceivable that the first element, a tower (1260), was the work of the master craftsman Albrecht van Velsen. In the same period he was involved in the erection of the Leeuwenhorst Cistercian convent in nearby Noordwijkerhout. The phase in which the church acquired its three-aisle, pseudo-basilica layout was possibly initiated by Count Albrecht van Beieren (1336-1404). It was he who heeded the desire of a group of ambitious villagers to elevate their village to the status of a city. This assumption is based on remarkable similarities in floor plan and elevation with the Sint Jacobskerk in ’s-Gravenhage before its radical renovation between 1434 and 1492. It is assumed that the transept (1389) in that church was commissioned by Albrecht. It was during Albrecht’s period of office that the current choir of the Oude Jeroenskerk was built (1389-1405), followed by the transept and three-aisle nave (1415/1425-1444/1500). The Sint Jacobskerk became the main church, located in the administrative heart of the county. The Oude Jeroenskerk remained an important pilgrim church up until the Reformation. A church of substantial proportions that reflected contemporary urban aspirations and still looks like an urban parish church. In terms of materials and detailing it was simple and sober and as such comparable with village churches in the surrounding area and with the Sint Jacobskerk in ’s-Gravenhage until the latter’s reconstruction in 1434. Noordwijk had the potential to grow into a small city. It had the status of a place of pilgrimage, was a religious centre and boasted a relatively large population, including members of the nobility. A large church capable of accommodating local residents and pilgrims corresponded with the urban ambitions of a group of locals. Although those briefly realized ambitions were soon dashed, what remained was the Oude Jeroenskerk: a gothic, pseudo-basilica cruciform church with a square-based tower incorporated on three sides in a three-aisled nave.

Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash INTRODUCTION On the Louisiana coast, erosion and flooding threaten the survival of the indigenous villages of Pointe-au-Chien and Isle de Jean Charles. Oil companies have submerged the bayou by cutting canals through the land, causing erosion, saltwater intrusion, and sea level rise.[1] Additionally, the fuel these companies produce contributes to climate change, which causes an even greater rise in sea levels. The presence of the oil industry also hurts the shrimp and fish industries, which are critical to indigenous culture. Eventually, climate change will make the Louisiana coast uninhabitable.[2] Displacement has already begun on Isle de Jean Charles: there were 78 homes on the island in 2002 but only 25 in 2012.[3] Some call it migration, which implies an intentional decision. Displacement reflects the reality that these people are relocating as a last resort. Displacement can also be more than just physical. People living in an environment that is “drastically altered and degraded” can experience the same stress and risks as those who are physically relocated.[4] The coastal tribes (Pointe-au-Chien Indian Tribe and Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw Indians) face an uphill battle in the effort to keep community members safe from flooding without sacrificing the culture that is so tied to this land. However, moving to a place free from climate disasters is not necessarily safer for the community if it destroys the culture; therefore, we need to redefine safety. In this paper, I will address the plans currently underway to solve these problems and explain the steps we need to take to keep these communities safe from flooding while preventing cultural loss. I. Current Perspectives There are disagreements among scholars and journalists on how to best approach climate displacement, the forced migration caused by climate change, in Louisiana. Jake Bittle, author of The Great Displacement: Climate Change and the Next American Migration, thinks that displacement is inevitable and that we should not subsidize families living in risky places through affordable flood insurance. Instead, the United States should focus on helping people relocate by making it easier for people in dangerous locations to find and pay for housing in safer places.[5] While the cultural extinction of tribes on the Louisiana coast devastates Bittle, he accepts it. His proposed solutions focus more on protecting people from danger because he thinks cultural extinction will be hard to avoid. He sees a future in which coastal Louisiana is unlivable and such environmental circumstances will force community members to disperse. Others argue that affordable flood insurance near the coast is vital for families who decide to stay put and keep their community together as long as possible. High insurance prices would displace locals regardless of the success of restoration efforts.[6] Many residents agree. They take pride in being adaptable and overcoming challenges. Resilience, the ability to respond to stress and maintain system identity and function, is important to the people living on the Louisiana coast.[7] After Hurricane Katrina, many households have kept only what they need in their home and are ready to rebuild and stay in place after a storm.[8] However, environmental changes are becoming more rapid. Storms and floods will become more frequent and severe until the coast is no longer livable. II. Approaches As solutions attempt to balance safety from floods with holding a culture together, it is crucial that indigenous community members are involved in decision making. When governments use cost-benefit analysis to decide on solutions and where to prioritize protection, they often neglect culture and underestimate the downsides of moving inland.[9] Working with native groups to understand their priorities is important. The United States has a history of forced relocation of indigenous groups. The 1830 Indian Removal Act forced five Native American tribes in the Southeast to move to what is now Oklahoma. Isle de Jean Charles is the result of the Biloxi-Chitimacha-Choctaw Indians escaping that move. Forced removals are a violation of human rights. Indian removal in the 1800s involved death and cruelty, and it was difficult for communities to thrive in a new place after displacement. We need to ensure nothing resembling forced removal occurs again. Migration must happen only if the indigenous communities feel it is best for them. As long as indigenous communities are empowered to choose their path, the government must play a pivotal role in aiding adaptation and relocation. We need a government agency dedicated to the issue of climate displacement.[10] Currently, most funding comes after a specific disaster such as a hurricane. There is less funding to help communities facing more gradual forms of climate change like rising sea levels and coastal erosion. The Stafford Disaster Relief and Emergency Assistance Act should give the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) a greater ability to deal with “slow, ongoing climate-induced environmental changes.”[11] The legislation requires a presidential disaster declaration for federal funds to be used toward disaster recovery and hazard mitigation efforts.[12] Much more federal assistance is available for immediate threats than for communities suffering from slow changes. Federal support should put as much effort towards assisting relocation as is put towards rebuilding. Government-assisted relocation is not without precedent. Franklin D. Roosevelt created the Resettlement Administration, one of the public programs he enacted during the New Deal in the 1930s, which relocated struggling families to neighborhoods planned by the federal government. Agencies can apply the same principles to help families whose neighborhoods are being lost to rising sea levels. FEMA has started to include the possibility for community relocation in its plans, but the current process has flaws. In August of 2022, the federal government created a Community-Driven Relocation Subcommittee led by FEMA and the U.S. Department of the Interior. The goal of this subcommittee is to connect communities that want to relocate with the resources available to them. The program is voluntary and supports groups that want to move to a safer place or whose habitat has become unlivable. With that said, the government does not always meet the communities’ needs. The Isle de Jean Charles Resettlement Project, for example, chose a new site that “lacked direct access to the water that had sustained the island tribe for generations.”[13] When movement becomes necessary, preventing cultural extinction is difficult. Additionally, some fear that the local government will allow the newly uninhabited land to be used for tourism.[14] The government encouraging a native tribe to move out for the sake of increasing tourism on the coast would show a lack of integrity, but there is no problem if the move is voluntary and the government has no ulterior motives. The government needs to dedicate resources to helping tribal communities, either by helping them find a way to keep living in their current locations and adapt to the changing landscape or by helping them relocate to a new location. The state of Louisiana is expecting Isle de Jean Charles to be gone by 2050, and Pointe-au-Chien will be underwater not long after that.[15] Whatever these communities choose in the short term, they will eventually need to find a new place to live. The sooner they start planning for that transition, the smoother it will be. Continuously rebuilding after storms puts a strain on our public resources. The more people that live in places susceptible to dangerous hurricanes, the less aid will be available to each family. However, the strain on the system is worth it because of the value of keeping a culture together. Displacement is unavoidable in the long term. The end goal for these communities is to keep their culture alive as they transition to a new space, which is tough due to their connection to the land. Certain overarching guidelines for climate relocation will give these tribes a better chance of both upholding culture and staying safe from coastal erosion. The fundamental principle is self-determination, meaning that the community can freely develop their culture and make their own decisions about internal governance. It is important that community members lead the relocation process. When they move, indigenous communities need the “right to safe and sanitary housing, potable water, education, and other basic amenities.”[16] Managing movement in a way that listens to the needs of indigenous groups will help minimize cultural loss, but the connection to the specific place makes migration a threat to the culture. Many people living in native tribes on the Louisiana coast have a strong attachment to their village, so resettlement will hurt the community. The tribes have spent years developing skills and knowledge specifically tied to the place they live, such as tailored fishing and shrimping practices.[17] At some point, displacement will become obligatory, and they will lose some history and culture, but collaboration between the government and communities can lessen the downsides of relocation to safer land. As an alternative to community wide resettlement, the government could also help individual families looking to move to a safer place. For people to move to places less affected by climate change, affordable housing must be available. Tax credits for people starting mortgages in new cities are one way to provide post-disaster aid.[18] More funding for housing vouchers would help people find places to rent in safe locations in Louisiana or other states. Expanding affordable housing in major cities would create an attractive option for people that need to leave the coast. This solution has drawbacks, as a city is a stark difference from a coastal town and could be a culture shock. However, it is still beneficial for coastal residents to have an affordable option if they decide or if environmental conditions force them to move. CONCLUSION The government needs to assist households and indigenous communities with combating climate change in their chosen way. For now, the tribes of Pointe-au-Chien and Isles de Jean Charles should choose if they want to adapt to living on the Louisiana coast or move out. In the long term, displacement is inevitable. The government should support indigenous families in finding an affordable place to live somewhere with a temperate environment, protected from rising seas, and access to fresh water.[19] Any program, whether governmental or led by nonprofits, should help communities relocate in a way that allows them to continue traditional practices and keep their culture alive. Also, making plans to adjust to climate change cannot make us forget about serious efforts to reduce emissions and find ways to sequester carbon from the atmosphere to reverse climate change. In sum, coastal erosion and cultural loss in Louisiana is a “wicked problem,” a problem that is complex and has unclear solutions.[20] Families that stay on the coast are vulnerable to floods and destruction, but relocating without losing culture is a nearly insurmountable task. The best way forward is to let the indigenous communities be the guiding voice. - [1] Patty Ferguson-Bohnee, “The Impacts of Coastal Erosion on Tribal Cultural Heritage,” Forum Journal 29, no. 4 (Summer 2015): 60, muse.jhu.edu/article/587542. [2] Anya Groner, “When the Place You Live Becomes Unlivable,” The Atlantic, October 13, 2021, https://www.theatlantic.com/culture/archive/2021/10/when-place-you-live-becomes-unlivable/620374/. [3] Julie Koppel Maldonado et al., “The Impact of Climate Change on Tribal Communities in the US: Displacement, Relocation, and Human Rights,” in Climate Change and Indigenous Peoples in the United States, ed. Julie Koppel Maldonado, Benedict Colombi, and Rajul Pandya (Switzerland: Springer International Publishing, 2014), 98. [4] Julie Koppel Maldonado, “A Multiple Knowledge Approach for Adaptation to Environmental Change: Lessons Learned from Coastal Louisiana's Tribal Communities,” Journal of Political Ecology 21, no. 1 (2014): 70, https://doi.org/10.2458/v21i1.21125. [5] Jake Bittle, The Great Displacement: Climate Change and the Next American Migration (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2023), 282. [6] Kevin Fox Gotham, “Coastal Restoration as Contested Terrain: Climate Change and the Political Economy of Risk Reduction in Louisiana,” Sociological Forum 31, no. S1 (September 2016): 800, https://doi.org/10.1111/socf.1227. [7] Fikret Berkes, “Environmental Governance for the Anthropocene? Social-Ecological Systems, Resilience, and Collaborative Learning,” Sustainability 9, no.7 (2017): 5, https://doi.org/10.3390/su9071232. [8] Jessica R.Z. Simms, “‘Why Would I Live Anyplace Else?’: Resilience, Sense of Place, and Possibilities of Migration in Coastal Louisiana,” Journal of Coastal Research 33, no. 2 (March 2017): 413, http://www.jstor.org/stable/44161446. [9] Maldonado, “Multiple Knowledge Approach,” 73. [10] Maldonado et al., “Displacement, Relocation, and Human Rights,” 100. [11] Maldonado et al., “Displacement, Relocation, and Human Rights,” 101. [12] Robin Bronen, “Climate-induced Community Relocations: Creating an Adaptive Governance Framework Based in Human Rights Doctrine,” N.Y.U. Review of Law and Social Change 35 (2011): 366. [13] Bittle, Great Displacement, 133. [14] Bittle, Great Displacement, 133. [15] Maldonado et al., “Displacement, Relocation, and Human Rights,” 98. [16] Maldonado et al., “Displacement, Relocation, and Human Rights,” 103. [17] Simms, “‘Why Would I Live Anyplace Else?’” 413. [18] Bittle, Great Displacement, 280. [19] Bittle, Great Displacement, 274. [20] Horst W. J. Rittel et al., “Dilemmas in a General Theory of Planning,” Policy Sciences 4 (1973): 155-169, https://doi.org/10.1007/BF01405730.

Conurbation [f. CON- + L. urb- and urbs city + -ation] An aggregation of urban areas. (OED) Beyond the urban, further and lower even than the suburban, lies the con-urban. The conurban: with the urban, partaking of the urbane, lying against but also perhaps pushing against or being contra the urban. Conurbations stretch littorally from Australian cities, along coastlines to other cities, joining cities through the passage of previously outlying rural areas. Joining the dots between cities, towns, and villages. Providing corridors between the city and what lies outside. The conurban is an accretion, an aggregation, a piling up, or superfluity of the city: Greater London, for instance. It is the urban plus, filling the gaps between cities, as Los Angeles oozing urbanity does for the dry, desert areas abutting it (Davis 1990; Soja 1996). I wish to propose that the conurban imaginary is a different space from its suburban counterpart. The suburban has provided a binary opposition to what is not the city, what lies beneath its feet, outside its ken. Yet it is also what is greater than the urban, what exceeds it. In modernism, the city and its denizens define themselves outside what is arrayed around the centre, ringing it in concentric circles. In stark relief to the modernist lines of the skyscraper, contrasting with the central business district, central art galleries and museums, is to be found the masses in the suburbs. The suburban as a maligned yet enabling trope of modernism has been long revalued, in the art of Howard Arkeley, and in photography of suburban Gothic. It comes as no surprise to read a favourable newspaper article on the Liverpool Regional Art Gallery, in Sydney's Western Suburbs, with its exhibition on local chicken empires, Liverpool sheds, or gay and lesbians living on the city fringe. Nor to hear in the third way posturing of Australian Labor Party parliamentarian Mark Latham, the suburbs rhetorically wielded, like a Victa lawn mover, to cut down to size his chardonnay-set inner-city policy adversaries. The politics of suburbia subtends urban revisionism, reformism, revanchism, and recidivism. Yet there is another less exhausted, and perhaps exhaustible, way of playing the urban, of studying the metropolis, of punning on the city's proper name: the con-urban. World cities, as Saskia Sassen has taught us, have peculiar features: the juxtaposition of high finance and high technology alongside subaltern, feminized, informal economy (Sassen 1998). The Australian city proudly declared to be a world city is, of course, Sydney while a long way from the world's largest city by population, it is believed to be the largest in area. A recent newspaper article on Brisbane's real estate boom, drew comparisons with Sydney only to dismiss them, according to one quoted commentator, because as a world city, Sydney was sui generis in Australia, fairly requiring comparison with other world cities. One form of conurbanity, I would suggest, is the desire of other settled areas to be with the world city. Consider in this regard, the fate of Byron Bay a fate which lies very much in the balance. Byron Bay is sign that circulates in the field of the conurban. Craig MacGregor has claimed Byron as the first real urban culture outside an Australian city (MacGregor 1995). Local residents hope to keep the alternative cultural feel of Byron, but to provide it with a more buoyant economic outlook. The traditional pastoral, fishing, and whaling industries are well displaced by niche handicrafts, niche arts and craft, niche food and vegetables, a flourishing mind, body and spirit industry, and a booming film industry. Creative arts and cultural industries are blurring into creative industries. The Byron Bay area at the opening of the twenty-first century is attracting many people fugitive from the city who wish not to drop out exactly; rather to be contra wishes rather to be gently contrary marked as distinct from the city, enjoying a wonderful lifestyle, but able to persist with the civilizing values of an urban culture. The contemporary figure of Byron Bay, if such a hybrid chimera may be represented, wishes for a conurbanity. Citizens relocate from Melbourne, Canberra, and Sydney, seeking an alternative country and coastal lifestyle and, if at all possible, a city job (though without stress) (on internal migration in Australia see Kijas 2002): Hippies and hip rub shoulders as a sleepy town awakes (Still Wild About Byron, (Sydney Morning Herald, 1 January 2002). Forerunners of Byron's conurbanity leave, while others take their place: A sprawling $6.5 million Byron Bay mansion could be the ultimate piece of memorabilia for a wealthy fan of larrikin Australian actor Paul Hogan (Hoges to sell up at Byron Bay, Illawarra Mercury, 14 February 2002). The ABC series Seachange is one key text of conurbanity: Laura Gibson has something of a city job she can ply the tools of her trade as a magistrate while living in an idyllic rural location, a nice spot for a theme park of contemporary Australian manners and nostalgia for community (on Sea Change see Murphy 2002). Conurban designates a desire to have it both ways: cityscape and pastoral mode. Worth noting is that the Byron Shire has its own independent, vibrant media public sphere, as symbolized by the Byron Shire Echo founded in 1986, one of the great newspapers outside a capital city (Martin & Ellis 2002): <http://www.echo.net.au>. Yet the textual repository in city-based media of such exilic narratives is the supplement to the Saturday broadsheet papers. A case in point is journalist Ruth Ostrow, who lives in hills in the Byron Shire, and provides a weekly column in the Saturday Australian newspaper, its style gently evocative of just one degree of separation from a self-parody of New Age mores: Having permanently relocated to the hills behind Byron Bay from Sydney, it's interesting for me to watch friends who come up here on holiday over Christmas… (Ostrow 2002). The Sydney Morning Herald regards Byron Bay as another one of its Northern beaches, conceptually somewhere between Palm Beach and Pearl Beach, or should one say Pearl Bay. The Herald's fascination for Byron Bay real estate is coeval with its obsession with Sydney's rising prices: Byron Bay's hefty price tags haven't deterred beach-lovin' boomers (East Enders, Sydney Morning Herald 17 January 2002). The Australian is not immune from this either, evidence 'Boom Times in Byron', special advertising report, Weekend Australia, Saturday 2 March 2002. And plaudits from The Financial Review confirm it: Prices for seafront spots in the enclave on the NSW north coast are red hot (Smart Property, The Financial Review, 19 January 2002). Wacky North Coast customs are regularly covered by capital city press, the region functioning as a metonym for drugs. This is so with Nimbin especially, with regular coverage of the Nimbin Mardi Grass: Mardi Grass 2001, Nimbin's famous cannabis festival, began, as they say, in high spirits in perfect autumn weather on Saturday (Oh, how they danced a high old time was had by all at the Dope Pickers' Ball, Sydney Morning Herald, 7 May 2001). See too coverage of protests over sniffer dogs in Byron Bay in Easter 2001 showed (Peatling 2001). Byron's agony over its identity attracts wider audiences, as with its quest to differentiate itself from the ordinariness of Ballina as a typical Aussie seaside town (Buttrose 2000). There are national metropolitan audiences for Byron stories, readers who are familiar with the Shire's places and habits: Lismore-reared Emma Tom's 2002 piece on the politics of perving at King's beach north of Byron occasioned quite some debate from readers arguing the toss over whether wanking on the beach was perverse or par for the course: Public masturbation is a funny old thing. On one hand, it's ace that some blokes feel sexually liberated enough to slap the salami any old time… (Tom 2002). Brisbane, of course, has its own designs upon Byron, from across the state border. Brisbane has perhaps the best-known conurbation: its northern reaches bleed into the Sunshine Coast, while its southern ones salute the skyscrapers of Australia's fourth largest city, the Gold Coast (on Gold Coast and hinterland see Griffin 2002). And then the conburbating continues unabated, as settlement stretches across the state divide to the Tweed Coast, with its mimicking of Sanctuary Cove, down to the coastal towns of Ocean Shores, Brunswick Heads, Byron, and through to Ballina. Here another type of infrastructure is key: the road. Once the road has massively overcome the topography of rainforest and mountain, there will be freeway conditions from Byron to Brisbane, accelerating conurbanity. The caf is often the short-hand signifier of the urban, but in Byron Bay, it is film that gives the urban flavour. Byron Bay has its own International Film Festival (held in the near-by boutique town of Bangalow, itself conurban with Byron.), and a new triple screen complex in Byron: Up north, film buffs Geraldine Hilton and Pete Castaldi have been busy. Last month, the pair announced a joint venture with Dendy to build a three-screen cinema in the heart of Byron Bay, scheduled to open mid-2002. Meanwhile, Hilton and Castaldi have been busy organising the second Byron All Screen Celebration Film Festival (BASC), after last year's inaugural event drew 4000 visitors to more than 50 sessions, seminars and workshops. Set in Bangalow (10 minutes from Byron by car, less if you astral travel)… (Cape Crusaders, Sydney Morning Herald, 15 February 2002). The film industry is growing steadily, and claims to be the largest concentration of film-makers outside of an Australian capital city (Henkel 2000 & 2002). With its intimate relationship with the modern city, film in its Byron incarnation from high art to short video, from IMAX to multimedia may be seen as the harbinger of the conurban. If the case of Byron has something further to tell us about the transformation of the urban, we might consider the twenty-first century links between digital communications networks and conurbanity. It might be proposed that telecommunications networks make it very difficult to tell where the city starts and ends; as they interactively disperse information and entertainment formerly associated with the cultural institutions of the metropolis (though this digitization of urbanity is more complex than hyping the virtual suggest; see Graham & Marvin 1996). The bureau comes not just to the 'burbs, but to the backblocks as government offices are closed in country towns, to be replaced by online access. The cinema is distributed across computer networks, with video-on-demand soon to become a reality. Film as a cultural form in the process of being reconceived with broadband culture (Jacka 2001). Global movements of music flow as media through the North Coast, with dance music culture and the doof (Gibson 2002). Culture and identity becomes content for the information age (Castells 1996-1998; Cunningham & Hartley 2001; OECD 1998; Trotter 2001). On e-mail, no-one knows, as the conceit of internet theory goes, where you work or live; the proverbial refashioning of subjectivity by the internet affords a conurbanity all of its own, a city of bits wherever one resides (Mitchell 1995). To render the digital conurban possible, Byron dreams of broadband. In one of those bizarre yet recurring twists of Australian media policy, large Australian cities are replete with broadband infrastructure, even if by 2002 city-dwellers are not rushing to take up the services. Telstra's Foxtel and Optus's Optus Vision raced each other down streets of large Australian cities in the mid-1990s to lay fibre-coaxial cable to provide fast data (broadband) capacity. Cable modems and quick downloading of video, graphics, and large files have been a reality for some years. Now the Asymmetrical Digital Subscriber Line (ADSL) technology is allowing people in densely populated areas close to their telephone exchanges to also avail themselves of broadband Australia. In rural Australia, broadband has not been delivered to most areas, much to the frustration of the conurbanites. Byron Bay holds an important place in the history of the internet in Australia, because it was there that one of Australia's earliest and most important internet service providers, Pegasus Network, was established in the late 1980s. Yet Pegasus relocated to Brisbane in 1993, because of poor quality telecommunications networks (Peters 1998). As we rethink the urban in the shadow of modernity, we can no longer ignore or recuse ourselves from reflecting upon its para-urban modes. As we deconstruct the urban, showing how the formerly pejorative margins actually define the centre the suburban for instance being more citified than the grand arcades, plazas, piazzas, or malls; we may find that it is the conurban that provides the cultural imaginary for the urban of the present century. Work remains to be done on the specific modalities of the conurban. The conurban has distinct temporal and spatial coordinates: citizens of Sydney fled to Manly earlier in the twentieth century, as they do to Byron at the beginning of the twenty-first. With its resistance to the transnational commercialization and mass culture that Club Med, McDonalds, and tall buildings represent, and with its strict environment planning regulation which produce a litigious reaction (and an editorial rebuke from the Sydney Morning Herald [SMH 2002]), Byron recuperates the counter-cultural as counterpoint to the Gold Coast. Subtle differences may be discerned too between Byron and, say, Nimbin and Maleny (in Queensland), with the two latter communities promoting self-sufficient hippy community infused by new agricultural classes still connected to the city, but pushing the boundaries of conurbanity by more forceful rejection of the urban. Through such mapping we may discover the endless attenuation of the urban in front and beyond our very eyes; the virtual replication and invocation of the urban around the circuits of contemporary communications networks; the refiguring of the urban in popular and elite culture, along littoral lines of flight, further domesticating the country; the road movies of twenty-first century freeways; the perpetuation and worsening of inequality and democracy (Stilwell 1992) through the action of the conurban. Cities without bounds: is the conurban one of the faces of the postmetropolis (Soja 2000), the urban without end, with no possibility for or need of closure? My thinking on Byron Bay, and the Rainbow Region in which it is situated, has been shaped by a number of people with whom I had many conversations during my four years living there in 1998-2001. My friends in the School of Humanities, Media, and Cultural Studies, Southern Cross University, Lismore, provided focus for theorizing our ex-centric place, of whom I owe particular debts of gratitude to Baden Offord (Offord 2002), who commented upon this piece, and Helen Wilson (Wilson 2002). Thanks also to an anonymous referee for helpful comments. References Buttrose, L. (2000). Betray Byron at Your Peril. Sydney Morning Herald 7 September 2000. Castells, M. (1996-98). The Information Age. 3 vols. Blackwell, Oxford. Cunningham, S., & Hartley, J. (2001). Creative Industries from Blue Poles to Fat Pipes. Address to the National Humanities and Social Sciences Summit, National Museum of Canberra. July 2001. Davis, M. (1990). City of Quartz: Excavating the Future in Los Angeles. Verso, London. Gibson, C. (2002). Migration, Music and Social Relations on the NSW Far North Coast. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Graham, S., and Marvin, S. (1996). Telecommunications and the City: Electronic Spaces, Urban Places. Routledge, London & New York. Griffin, Graham. (2002). Where Green Turns to Gold: Strip Cultivation and the Gold Coast Hinterland. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...> Henkel, C. (2002). Development of Audiovisual Industries in the Northern Rivers Region of NSW. Master thesis. Queensland University of Technology. . (2000). Imagining the Future: Strategies for the Development of 'Creative Industries' in the Northern Rivers Region of NSW. Northern Rivers Regional Development Board in association with the Northern Rivers Area Consultative Committee, Lismore, NSW. Jacka, M. (2001). Broadband Media in Australia Tales from the Frontier, Australian Film Commission, Sydney. Kijas, J. (2002). A place at the coast: Internal migration and the shift to the coastal-countryside. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. MacGregor, Craig. (1995). The Feral Signifier and the North Coast. In The Abundant Culture: Meaning And Significance in Everyday Australia, ed. Donald Horne & Jill Hooten. Allen and Unwin, Sydney. Martin, F., & Ellis, R. (2002). Dropping in, not out: the evolution of the alternative press in Byron Shire 1970-2001. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Mitchell, W.J. (1995). City of Bits: Space, Place, and the Infobahn. MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass. Molnar, Helen. (1998). 'National Convergence or Localism?: Rural and Remote Communications.' Media International Australia 88: 5-9. Moyal, A. (1984). Clear Across Australia: A History of Telecommunications. Thomas Nelson, Melbourne. Murphy, P. (2002). Sea Change: Re-Inventing Rural and Regional Australia. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Offord, B. (2002). Mapping the Rainbow Region: Fields of belonging and sites of confluence. Transformations, no. 2. <http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD). (1998). Content as a New Growth Industry: Working Party for the Information Economy. OECD, Paris. Ostrow, R. (2002). Joyous Days, Childish Ways. The Australian, 9 February. Peatling, S. (2001). Keep Off Our Grass: Byron stirs the pot over sniffer dogs. Sydney Morning Herald. 16 April. <http://www.smh.com.au/news/0104/14/natio...> Peters, I. (1998). Ian Peter's History of the Internet. Lecture at Southern Cross University, Lismore. CD-ROM. Produced by Christina Spurgeon. Faculty of Creative Industries, Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane. Productivity Commission. (2000). Broadcasting Inquiry: Final Report, Melbourne, Productivity Commission. Sassen, S. (1998). Globalisation and its Contents: Essays on the New Mobility of People and Money. New Press, New York. Soja, E. (2000). Postmetropolis: critical studies of cities and regions. Blackwell, Oxford. . (1996). Thirdspace: journeys to Los Angeles and other real-and-imagined places. Blackwell, Cambridge, Mass. Stilwell, F. (1992). Understanding Cities and Regions: Spatial Political Economy. Pluto Press, Sydney. Sydney Morning Herald (SMH). (2002). Byron Should Fix its own Money Mess. Editorial. 5 April. Tom, E. (2002). Flashing a Problem at Hand. The Weekend Australian, Saturday 12 January. Trotter, R. (2001). Regions, Regionalism and Cultural Development. Culture in Australia: Policies, Publics and Programs. Ed. Tony Bennett and David Carter. Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. 334-355. Wilson, H., ed. (2002). Fleeing the City. Special Issue of Transformations journal, no. 2. < http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformation...>. Links http://www.echo.net.au http://www.smh.com.au/news/0104/14/national/national3.html http://www.ahs.cqu.edu.au/transformations/journal/issue2/issue.htm Citation reference for this article MLA Style Goggin, Gerard. "Conurban" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/conurban.php>. Chicago Style Goggin, Gerard, "Conurban" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/conurban.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Goggin, Gerard. (2002) Conurban. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/conurban.php> ([your date of access]).

In February 2021, during the third COVID-19 lockdown in the state of Victoria, Australia, artist Shaun Wilson used the teleconferencing platforms Teams and Skype to create a slow cinema feature length artwork titled Fading Light to demonstrate how innovative creative practice can overcome barriers of distance experienced by creative practitioners from the limitations sustained during the COVID-19 pandemic. While these production techniques offer free access to develop new methodologies through practice, the wider scope of pandemic lockdowns mediated artists with teleconferencing as a tool to interrogate the nature of life during our various global lockdowns. It thus afforded a pioneering ability for artists to manufacture artwork about lockdowns whilst in lockdown, made from the tools commonly used for virtual communication. The significance of such opportunities, as this article will argue, demonstrates a novel approach to making artwork about COVID-19 in ways that were limited prior to the start of 2020 in terms of commonality, that now are “turning us all into broadcasters, streamers and filmmakers” (Sullivan). However, as we are only just becoming familiar with the cultural innovation pioneered from the limitations brought about by the pandemic, new aesthetics are emerging that challenge normative traditions of manufacturing and thinking about creative artefacts. Teleconferencing platforms were used differently prior to 2020 when compared to the current pandemic era. Throughout the 2000s and 2010s, there were no global gigascale movement restrictions or medical dangers to warrant a global shutdown that would ultimately determine how a person interacts with public places. In a pre-pandemic context, the daily use of teleconferencing was a luxury. Its subsequent use in the COVID-19 era became a necessity in many parts of day-to-day life. As artists have historically been able to comment through their work on global health crises, how has contemporary art responded since 2020 in using teleconferencing within critical studio practice? To explore such an idea, this article will probe examples of practice from artists making artworks with teleconferencing about pandemics during the COVID-19 pandemic. Discussion will purposely not consider a wider historical scope of teleconferencing in art and scholarship as the context in this article explicitly addresses art made in and commenting on the COVID-19 pandemic using the tools of lockdown readily available through teleconferencing platforms. It will instead concentrate on three artists addressing the pandemic during 2020 and 2021. The first example will be There Is No Such Thing as Internet from Polish artists Maria Magdalena Kozlowska and Maria Tobola, “performers who identify as one artist, Maria Małpecki” (“Pogo”). The second example is New York artist Michael Mandiberg’s Uncle Bob 85th Birthday via Zoom 3:00-4:00PM, August 16, 2020 (#24), from the series Zoom Paintings. The third example is Australian artist Shaun Wilson’s Fading Light. These works will be discussed as a means of considering teleconferencing as a contemporary art medium used in response to COVID-19 and art made as pandemic commentary through the technology that has defined its global social integration. Figure 1: Maria Małpecki, There Is No Such Thing as Internet, used with permission. There Is No Such Thing as Internet was presented as a live stream on 7 May 2020 and as an online video between 7-31 May 2020 in the “Online Cocktail Party with Maria Małpecki” at Pogo Bar, KW Institute for Contemporary Art, Berlin by Maria Małpecki and curator Tomek Pawlowski Jarmolajew (“Pogo”). The work represents a twenty-minute livestream essay created in part by a teleconferencing video call performance and appropriated video streams. This includes video chat examples from Chomsky and Žižek, compiled together through intertextual video collages which The Calvert Journal described as a work “that explore[s] identity and different modes of communication in times of isolation” (De La Torre). One of the key strengths of this work in terms of teleconferencing is how it embraces the medium as an integral part of the performative methodology. To such an extent, one might argue that if it was removed and replaced by traditional video camera shots, which do feature in the video but are not the main aesthetic driver, the Metamodernist troupe of Małpecki’s videos would not perform the same critique of the pandemic. So, for Małpecki to comment on isolation through the Internet requires video calls to be central in the artwork in order for it to hold the cultural value it embeds through the subject. The conceptual framework relies on short segments to create episodic moments reliant on philosophical laments relating to each part of the work. For example, the first act unfolds with a montage of short video clip collages reminiscent of the quick-clip YouTube browsing habit culture from the pandemic to expedite an argument that indeed, there really is no singular internet. Rather, from this, what we are experiencing is arguably something else entirely. From here we move to the second act titled “We wake up in a different room every morning. We wander in a labyrinth where most doors are already open” (Małpecki); but as Małpecki comments, “sometimes our job is to shut them”. The sequence evolves into a disorientating dual screen sequence of the artists panicking to what they are viewing on screen. What this is exactly remains unclear. It may be us as the audience or something else as Malpecki holds their webcam devices upside down to provide an unnerving menage amidst the screams and exacerbations that invites spatial disorientation as a point of engagement for the viewer. As we recognise that video call protocols during the pandemic are visually static and that normative ‘rules’ of video calls require stabilised video and clean sound, Małpecki subverts these protocols to that of an uncomfortable, anarchic performance. It's at odds with the gentility of video call aesthetics which, in the case of this artwork, is more like watching a continuous point of view shot from a participant on a roller coaster or an extreme fairground ride. As the audience moves through each of the eclectic acts, this randomness laments a continuity that, sometimes satirical and at other times sublime, infuses the silliness and obliqueness of habitual lockdown video viewing. Even the most mundane of videos we watch to pass the time have become anthems of the COVID-19 era as a mixture of boredom, stupidity, and collective grief. Małpecki’s work in this regard becomes a complex observation for a society in crisis. It eloquently uses video calls as a way to comment on what this article argues to be an important cultural artefact in contemporary art’s response to COVID-19. Just as Goya subverted the Venetian pandemic in the grim Plague Hospital, Małpecki reflects our era in the same disruptive way by using frailty as a mirror to reveal an uneasy reflection masked in satirical obscurity, layered with fragments of the Internet and its subjective “other”. Figure 2: Michael Mandiberg, Uncle Bob 85th Birthday via Zoom 3:00-4:00PM, August 16, 2020 (#24), used with permission. Conversely, the work of New York artist Michael Mandiberg uses teleconferencing in a different way by painting the background of video calls onto stretched canvases mostly over the duration of the actual call time. Yet in doing so, the removal of people from inside the frame highlights aspects of isolation and absence in lockdown. At the Denny Dinin Gallery exhibition in New York, The Zoom Paintings “presented in the digital sphere where they were born” (Defoe). Zoom provided both the frame and the exhibition space for these works, with “one painting … on view each day [on Zoom], for a total of ten paintings” (“Zoom”). Describing the works, Mandiberg states that they are “about the interchangeability of people and places. It’s not memorializing a particular event; it’s memorializing how unmemorable it is” (Mandiberg; Defoe). This defines an innovative approach to teleconferencing that engages with place in times when the same kinds of absence experienced in the images of peopleless Zoom video calls mirror the external absence of people in public places during lockdown. Uncle Bob 85th Birthday via Zoom 3:00-4:00PM, August 16, 2020 (#24) is time stamped with the diaristic nature of the Zoom Paintings series. These works are not just a set of painting subjects interlinked through a common theme of paintings ‘about Zoom backgrounds’. They, rather, operate as a complex depiction of absence located in the pandemic, evidently capturing a powerful social commentary about what the artist experienced during these times. In doing so, it immediately prompts the viewer into tensions that conceptually frame COVID-19, whether that be the isolation of waiting out the pandemic in lockdown, the removal of characters through illness from the virus, or even a sudden death from the virus itself. The camera’s point of view illustrates an empty space where we know something is missing. At the very least the artist suggests that someone nearby once inhabited these empty spaces but they are, at present, removed from the scene or have vanished altogether. On 16 August 2020, the day that the painting was made, the New York Times estimated that 514 people in the United States died from COVID-19 (“Coronavirus”). When measured against a further death rate peaking at 5,463 people in the United States who died on 11 February 2021, the catastrophic mortality data in the United States alone statistically supports Mandiberg’s lament as to the severity of the pandemic, which serves as the context of his work. Based on this data alone, the absence in Mandiberg’s paintings intensifies a sense of isolation and loss insofar as the subjectivity embedded within the video call frame speaks to a powerful way that contemporary art is providing commentary during the pandemic (“Coronavirus”). Art in this context becomes a silent observer using teleconferencing to address both what is taken away from us and what visually remains behind. This article acknowledges the absence in Mandiberg’s paintings as a timely reminder of the socio-devastation experienced in the pandemic’s wake. Therein lies a three-folded image within an image within an image, not unlike what we see in Blade Runner when Deckard’s Esper Machine investigates the reflection in a mirror of someone else, and no more vivid than in Van Eyck’s Arnolfini Portrait. From a structural point of view, we witness Mandiberg’s images during its exhibition on Zoom in much the same conceptual way. In this case though, it is a mirrored online image of an image painted from a video call interpreted online from a recorded image transmitted online through teleconferencing. Through similar transactions, Shaun Wilson’s utilisation of video calls is represented in Fading Light as a way to comment on COVID-19 through the lens of Teams and Skype. The similarities of Fading Light to There Is No Such Thing as Internet stem obviously from the study of figuration used as the driver of the works but at the same time, it also draws comparison with Mandiberg’s stillness as represented in the frozen poses of each figure. At a more complex level, there is, though, a polar opposite in the mechanics that, for Mandiberg, uses video to translate into painted subjects. Fading Light does the opposite, with paintings recontextualised into video subjects. Such an analysis of both works brings about a sense of trepidation. For Mandiberg, it is the unsettling stillness through absence. In Fading Light it is the oppressive state of the motionlessness in frame that offers the same sense of awkwardness found in Mandiberg’s distorted painted laptop angles, and that makes the same kind of uncomfortableness bearable. It is only as much as an audience affords the time to allow before the loneliness of the subject renders the Zoom paintings a memorial to what is lost. Of note in Fading Light are the characteristically uncomfortable traits of what we detect should be in the frame of the subject but isn’t, which lends a tension to the viewer who has involuntarily been deprived of what is to be expected. For a modern Internet audience, a video without movement invites a combination of tension, boredom, and annoyance, drawing parallels to Hitchcock’s premise that something has just happened but we’re not entirely sure exactly what it was or is. Likewise, Małpecki’s same juxtaposition of tension with glimpses of Chomsky and Žižek videos talking over each other is joined by the artists’ breaking the fourth wall of cinema theory. Observing the artists lose concentration while watching the other videos in the video call scenario enact the mundane activities we encounter in the same kinds of situations of watching someone else on Zoom. However, in this context, we are watching them watching someone else whom we are also watching, while watching ourselves at the same time. Figure 3: Shaun Wilson, Fading Light, used with permission. The poses in Fading Light are reconfigured from characters in German medieval paintings and low relief religious iconography created during the Black Death era. Such works hang in the Gothic St. Michael’s Church in Schwäbisch Hall in Germany originally used by Martin Luther as his Southern Germany outpost during the Reformation. Wilson documented these paintings in October 2006, which then became the ongoing source images used in the 51 Paintings Suite films. The church itself has a strong connection to pandemics where a large glass floor plate behind the altar reveals an open ossuary of people who died of plague during the Black Death. This association brings an empirical linkage to the agency in Fading Light that mediates the second handed nature of the image, initially painted during a medieval pandemic, and now juxtaposed into the video frame captured in a current pandemic. From a conceptual standpoint, the critical analysis reflected in such a framework allows the artwork to reveal itself at a multi-level perspective, operating within a Metamodernist methodology. Two separate elements oscillate in tandem with one another, yet completely independent, or in this case, impervious to each other’s affect. Fading Light’s key affordance from this oscillation consolidate Wilson’s methodology in the artwork in as much detail as what Małpecki and Mandiberg construct in their respective works, yet obviously for very different motivations. If the basis of making video art in the pandemic using teleconferencing changes the way we might think about using these platforms, which otherwise may not have previously been taken serious by the academy as a valid medium in art, then the quiet meaningfulness throughout the film transcends a structured method to ascertain a pictorial presence of the image in its facsimile state. This pays respect to the source images but also embraces and overlays the narrative of the current pandemic intertwined within the subject. Given that Fading Light allows a ubiquitous dialogue to grow from the framed image, a subjective commonality in these mentioned works provide insight into how artists have engaged innovation strategies with teleconferencing to develop artwork made and commenting about the current pandemic. Whether it be Małpecki’s subversive pandemic variety show, the loneliness of Mandiberg’s Zoom call paintings or Wilson’s refilming of Black Death era paintings, all three artists use video call platforms as a contemporary art medium capable of social commentary during histo-trauma. These works also raise the possibility of interdisciplinary Metamodernist approaches to consider the implications of non-traditional mediums in offering socio-commentary during profoundly impactful times. It remains to be seen if contemporary video call platforms will become a frequented tool in contemporary art long after the COVID-19 pandemic is over. However, by these works and indeed, from the others to follow and not yet revealed, the current ossuary provides an opportunity for artists to respond to their own immediate surroundings to redefine existing boundaries in art and look to innovation in the methods they use. We are in a new era of art making, only now beginning to reveal itself. It may take years or even decades to better understand the magnitude of the significance that artists have contributed towards their own practices since the beginnings of the pandemic. This time of profound change only strengthens the need for contemporary art to preserve and enlighten humanity through the journey from crisis to hope. References Blade Runner. Dir. by Ridley Scott, Warner Brothers, 1982. “Coronavirus US Cases.” New York Times, 27 Mar. 2021. 28 Mar. 2021 <http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2020/us/coronavirus-us-cases.html>. Defoe, Taylor. “‘It's Memorializing How Unmemorable It Is’: Artist Michael Mandiberg on Painting Melancholy Portraits on Zoom.” Artnet News 10 Nov. 2020. 19 Mar. 2021 <http://news.artnet.com/exhibitions/mandiberg-zoom-paintings-1922159>. De La Torre, Lucia. “Art in the Age of Zoom: Explore the Video Art Collage Unraveling the Complexities of the Digital Age.” The Culvert Journal, 5 May 2020. 19 Mar. 2021 <https://www.calvertjournal.com/articles/show/11788/online-performance-art-polish-artist-maria-malpecki-digital-age>. Goya, Francisco. Plaga Hospital. Private Collection. 1800. Małpecki, Maria. There Is No Such Thing as Internet. Vimeo, 2020. <http://vimeo.com/415998383>. Mandiberg, Michael. Uncle Bob 85th Birthday via Zoom 3:00-4:00PM, August 16, 2020 (#24). New York: Denny Dinin Gallery, 2020. “Pogo Bar: Maria Małpecki & Tomek Pawłowski Jarmołajew.” KW Institute for Contemporary Art, 7 May 2020. 19 Mar. 2021 <http://www.kw-berlin.de/en/maria-malpecki-tomek-pawlowski-jarmolajew/>. Sullivan, Eve. “Video Art during and after the Pandemic: 2020 Limestone Coast Video Art Festival.” Artlink, 2020. 19 Mar. 2021 <http://www.artlink.com.au/articles/4885/video-art-during-and-after-the-pandemic-2020-limes/>. Van Eyck, Jan. Arnolfini Portrait. Canberra: National Gallery, 1434. Wilson, Shaun. Fading Light. Bakers Road Entertainment, 2021. “The Zoom Paintings.” Denny Dimin Gallery, 12 Nov. 2020. <http://dennydimingallery.com/news/virtual_exhibition/zoom-paintings/>.