Littérature scientifique sur le sujet « Picture-books=2009-12-27 »

Numerical literacy is the ability needed to use number ideas and arithmetic skills in everyday situations as well as the ability to analyze quantitative data around children. This study aims to determine the effect of the intervention of singing favorite food songs on children's numerical literacy. Using a pretest-posttest experimental design with a control group, this study involved 20 children as research objects, consisting of 10 experimental class children and 10 control class children. The results of the study showed that singing activities with the theme of favorite food influenced the numerical literacy of kindergarten children. This singing activity attracts children's interest, thus showing a significant difference between the experimental class and the control class. Therefore, for further research, it is suggested that early childhood educators can always take advantage of artistic activities such as singing to attract children's interest in any learning. Keywords: early childhood, numerical literacy, singing activities References: Anvari, S. H., Trainor, L. J., Woodside, J., & Levy, B. A. (2002). Relations among musical skills, phonological processing, and early reading ability in preschool children. Journal of Experimental Child Psychology, 83(2), 111–130. https://doi.org/10.1016/S0022-0965(02)00124-8 Barrett, M. S. (2006). Inventing songs, inventing worlds: The ‘genesis’ of creative thought and activity in young children’s lives. International Journal of Early Years Education, 14(3), 201–220. https://doi.org/10.1080/09669760600879920 Batchelor, S., Keeble, S., & Gilmore, C. (2015). Magnitude Representations and Counting Skills in Preschool Children. Mathematical Thinking and Learning, 17(2–3), 116–135. https://doi.org/10.1080/10986065.2015.1016811 Dixon-Krauss, L., Januszka, C. M., & Chae, C.-H. (2010). Development of the Dialogic Reading Inventory of Parent-Child Book Reading. 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Consumer or home use (previously ‘amateur’) moving image formats are distinguished from professional (still known as ‘professional’) ones by relative affordability, ubiquity and simplicity of use. Since Pathé Frères released its Pathé Baby camera, projector and 9.5mm film gauge in 1922, a distinct line of viewing and making equipment has been successfully marketed at nonprofessional use, especially in the home. ‘Amateur film’ is a simple term for a complex, variegated and longstanding set of activities. Conceptually it is bounded only by the negative definition of nonprofessional (usually intended as sub-professional), and the positive definition of being for the love of the activity and motivated by personal passion alone. This defines a field broad enough that two major historians of US amateur film, Patricia R. Zimmermann and Alan D. Kattelle, write about different subjects. Zimmermann focuses chiefly on domestic use and ‘how-to’ literature, while Kattelle unearths the collective practices and institutional structure of the Amateur Ciné Clubs and the Amateur Ciné League (Zimmerman, Reel Families, Professional; Kattelle, Home Movies, Amateur Ciné). Marion Norris Gleason, a test subject in Eastman Kodak’s development of 16mm and advocate of amateur film, defined it as having three parts, the home movie, “the photoplay produced by organised groups”, and the experimental film (Swanson 132). This view was current at least until the 1960s, when domestic documentation, Amateur Ciné clubs and experimental filmmakers shared the same film gauges and space in the same amateur film magazines, but paths have diverged somewhat since then. Domestic documentation remains committed to the moving image technology du jour, the Amateur Ciné movement is much reduced, and experimental film has developed a separate identity, its own institutional structure, and won some legitimacy in the art world. The trajectory of Super 8, a late-coming gauge to amateur film, has been defined precisely by this disintegration. Obsolescence was manufactured far more slowly during the long reign of amateur film gauges, allowing 9.5mm (1922-66), 16mm (1923-), 8mm (1932-), and Super 8 (1965-) to engage in protracted format wars significantly longer than the life spans of their analogue and digital video successors. The range of options available to nonprofessional makers – the quality but relative expense of 16mm, the near 16mm frame size of 9.5mm, the superior stability of 8mm compared to 9.5mm and Super 8, the size of Super 8’s picture relative to 8mm’s – are not surprising in the context of general competition for a diverse popular market on the usual basis of price, quality, and novelty. However, since analogue video’s ascent the amateur film gauges have all comprehensibly lost the battle for the home use market. This was by far the largest section of amateur film and the manufacturers’ overt target segment, so the amateur film gauges’ contemporary survival and significance is as something else. Though all the gauges from 8mm to 16mm remain available today to the curious and enthusiastic, Super 8’s afterlife is distinguished by the peculiar combination of having been a tremendously popular substandard to the substandard (ie, to 16mm, the standardised film gauge directly below 35mm in both price and quality), and now being prized for its technological excellence. When the large scale consumption that had supported Super 8’s manufacture dropped away, it revealed the set of much smaller, apparently non-transferable uses that would determine whether and as what Super 8 survived. Consequently, though Super 8 has been superseded many times over as a home movie format, it is not obsolete today as an art medium, a professional format used in the commercial industry, or as an alternative to digital video and 16mm for low budget independent production. In other words, everything it was never intended to be. I lately witnessed an occasion of the kind of high-fetishism for film-versus-video and analogue-versus-digital that the experimental moving image world is justifiably famed for. Discussion around the screening of Peter Tscherkassky’s films at the Xperimenta ‘09 festival raised the specifics and availability of the technology he relies on, both because of the peculiarity of his production method – found-footage collaging onto black and white 35mm stock via handheld light pen – and the issue of projection. Has digital technology supplied an alternative workflow? Would 35mm stock to work on (and prints to pillage) continue to be available? Is the availability of 35mm projectors in major venues holding up? Although this insider view of 35mm’s waning market share was more a performance of technological cultural politics than an analysis of it, it raised a series of issues central to any such analysis. Each film format is a gestalt item, consisting of four parts (that an individual might own): film stock, camera, projector and editor. Along with the availability of processing services, these items comprise a gauge’s viability (not withstanding the existence of camera-less and unedited workflows, and numerous folk developing methods). All these are needed to conjure the geist of the machine at full strength. More importantly, the discussion highlights what happens when such a technology collides with idiosyncratic and unintended use, which happens only because it is manufactured on a much wider scale than eccentric use alone can support. Although nostalgia often plays a role in the advocacy of obsolete technology, its role here should be carefully qualified and not overstated. If it plays a role in the three main economies that support contemporary Super 8, it need not be the same role. Further, even though it is now chiefly the same specialist shops and technicians that supply and service 9.5mm, 8mm, Super 8, and 16mm, they are not sold on the same scale nor to the same purpose. There has been no reported Renaissances of 9.5mm or 8mm, though, as long term home movie formats, they must loom large in the memories of many, and their particular look evokes pastness as surely as any two-colour process. There are some specifics to the trajectory of Super 8 as a non-amateur format that cannot simply be subsumed to general nostalgia or dead technology fetishism. Super 8 as an Art Medium Super 8 has a longer history as an art medium than as a pro-tool or low budget substandard. One key aspect in the invention and supply of amateur film was that it not be an adequate substitute for the professional technology used to populate the media sphere proper. Thus the price of access to motion picture making through amateur gauges has been a marginalisation of the outcome for format reasons alone (Zimmermann, Professional 24; Reekie 110) Eastman Kodak established their 16mm as the acceptable substandard for many non-theatrical uses of film in the 1920s, Pathé’s earlier 28mm having already had some success in this area (Mebold and Tepperman 137, 148-9). But 16mm was still relatively expensive for the home market, and when Kiyooka Eiichi filmed his drive across the US in 1927, his 16mm camera alone cost more than his car (Ruoff 240, 243). Against this, 9.5mm, 8mm and eventually Super 8 were the increasingly affordable substandards to the substandard, marginalised twice over in the commercial world, but far more popular in the consumer market. The 1960s underground film, and the modern artists’ film that was partly recuperated from it, was overwhelmingly based on 16mm, as the collections of its chief distributors, the New York Film-Makers’ Co-op, Canyon Cinema and the Lux clearly show. In the context of experimental film’s longstanding commitment to 16mm, an artist filmmaker’s choice to work with Super 8 had important resonances. Experimental work on 8mm and Super 8 is not hard to come by, even from the 1960s, but consider the cultural stakes of Jonas Mekas’s description of 8mm films as “beautiful folk art, like song and lyric poetry, that was created by the people” (Mekas 83). The evocation of ‘folk art’ signals a yawning gap between 8mm, whose richness has been produced collectively by a large and anonymous group, and the work produced by individual artists such as those (like Mekas himself) who founded the New American Cinema Group. The resonance for artists of the 1960s and 1970s who worked with 8mm and Super 8 was from their status as the premier vulgar film gauge, compounding-through-repetition their choice to work with film at all. By the time Super 8 was declared ‘dead’ in 1980, numerous works by canonical artists had been made in the format (Stan Brakhage, Derek Jarman, Carolee Schneemann, Anthony McCall), and various practices had evolved around the specific possibilities of this emulsion and that camera. The camcorder not only displaced Super 8 as the simplest to use, most ubiquitous and cheapest moving image format, at the same time it changed the hierarchy of moving image formats because Super 8 was now incontestably better than something. Further, beyond the ubiquity, simplicity and size, camcorder video and Super 8 film had little in common. Camcorder replay took advantage of the ubiquity of television, but to this day video projection remains a relatively expensive business and for some time after 1980 the projectors were rare and of undistinguished quality. Until the more recent emergence of large format television (also relatively expensive), projection was necessary to screen to anything beyond very small audience. So, considering the gestalt aspect of these technologies and their functions, camcorders could replace Super 8 only for the capture of home movies and small-scale domestic replay. Super 8 maintained its position as the cheapest way into filmmaking for at least 20 years after its ‘death’, but lost its position as the premier ‘folk’ moving image format. It remained a key format for experimental film through the 1990s, but with constant competition from evolving analogue and digital video, and improved and more affordable video projection, its market share diminished. Kodak has continued to assert the viability of its film stocks and gauges, but across 2005-06 it deleted its Kodachrome Super 8, 16mm and slide range (Kodak, Kodachrome). This became a newsworthy Super 8 story (see Morgan; NYT; Hodgkinson; Radio 4) because Super 8 was the first deletion announced, this was very close to 8 May 2005, which was Global Super 8 Day, Kodachrome 40 (K40) was Super 8’s most famous and still used stock, and because 2005 was Super 8’s 40th birthday. Kodachome was then the most long-lived colour process still available, but there were only two labs left in the world which could supply processing- Kodak’s Lausanne Kodachrome lab in Switzerland, using the authentic company method, and Dwayne’s Photo in the US, using a tolerable but substandard process (Hodgkinson). Kodak launched a replacement stock simultaneously, and indeed the variety of Super 8 stocks is increasing year to year, partly because of new Kodak releases and partly because other companies split Kodak’s 16mm and 35mm stock for use as Super 8 (Allen; Muldowney; Pro8mm; Dager). Nonetheless, the cancelling of K40 convulsed the artists’ film community, and a spirited defence of its unique and excellent properties was lead by artist and activist Pip Chodorov. Chodorov met with a Kodak executive at the Cannes Film Festival, appealed to the French Government and started an online petition. His campaign circular read: EXPLAIN THE ADVANTAGES OF K40We have to show why we care specifically about Kodachrome and why Ektachrome is not a replacement. Kodachrome […] whose fine grain and warm colors […] are often used as a benchmark of quality for other stocks. The unique qualities of the Kodachrome image should be pointed out, and especially the differences between Kodachrome and Ektachrome […]. What great films were shot in Kodachrome, and why? […] What are the advantages to the K-14 process and the Lausanne laboratory? Is K40 a more stable stock, is it more preservable, do the colors fade resistant? Point out differences in the sensitometry curves, the grain structure... There was a rash of protest screenings, including a special all-day programme at Le Festival des Cinemas Différents de Paris, about which Raphaël Bassan wrote This initiative was justified, Kodak having announced in 2005 that it was going to stop the manufacturing of the ultra-sensitive film Kodachrome 40, which allowed such recognized artists as Gérard Courant, Joseph Morder, Stéphane Marti and a whole new generation of filmmakers to express themselves through this supple and inexpensive format with such a particular texture. (Bassan) The distance Super 8 has travelled culturally since analogue video can be seen in the distance between these statements of excellence and the attributes of Super 8 and 8mm that appealed to earlier artists: The great thing about Super 8 is that you can switch is onto automatic and get beyond all those technicalities” (Jarman)An 8mm camera is the ballpoint of the visual world. Soon […] people will use camera-pens as casually as they jot memos today […] and the narrow gauge can make finished works of art. (Durgnat 30) Far from the traits that defined it as an amateur gauge, Super 8 is now lionised in terms more resembling a chemistry historian’s eulogy to the pigments used in Dark Ages illuminated manuscripts. From bic to laspis lazuli. Indie and Pro Super 8 Historian of the US amateur film Patricia R. Zimmermann has charted the long collision between small gauge film, domesticity and the various ‘how-to’ publications designed to bridge the gap. In this she pays particular attention to the ‘how-to’ publications’ drive to assert the commercial feature film as the only model worthy of emulation (Professional 267; Reel xii). This drive continues today in numerous magazines and books addressing the consumer and pro-sumer levels. Alan D. Kattelle has charted a different history of the US amateur film, concentrating on the cine clubs and their national organisation, the Amateur Cine League (ACL), competitive events and distribution, a somewhat less domestic part of the movement which aimed less at family documentation more toward ‘photo-plays’, travelogues and instructionals. Just as interested in achieving professional results with amateur means, the ACL encouraged excellence and some of their filmmakers received commissions to make more widely seen films (Kattelle, Amateur 242). The ACL’s Ten Best competition still exists as The American International Film and Video Festival (Kattelle, Amateur 242), but its remit has changed from being “a showcase for amateur films” to being open “to all non-commercial films regardless of the status of the film makers” (AMPS). This points to both the relative marginalisation of the mid-century notion of the amateur, and that successful professionals and others working in the penumbra of independent production surrounding the industry proper are now important contributors to the festival. Both these groups are the economically important contemporary users of Super 8, but they use it in different ways. Low budget productions use it as cheap alternative to larger gauges or HD digital video and a better capture format than dv, while professional productions use it as a lo-fi format precisely for its degradation and archaic home movie look (Allen; Polisin). Pro8mm is a key innovator, service provider and advocate of Super 8 as an industry standard tool, and is an important and long serving agent in what should be seen as the normalisation of Super 8 – a process of redressing its pariah status as a cheap substandard to the substandard, while progressively erasing the special qualities of Super 8 that underlay this. The company started as Super8 Sound, innovating a sync-sound system in 1971, prior to the release of Kodak’s magnetic stripe sound Super 8 in 1973. Kodak’s Super 8 sound film was discontinued in 1997, and in 2005 Pro8mm produced the Max8 format by altering camera front ends to shoot onto the unused stripe space, producing a better quality image for widescreen. In between they started cutting professional 35mm stocks for Super 8 cameras and are currently investing in ever more high-quality HD film scanners (Allen; Pro8mm). Simultaneous to this, Kodak has brought out a series of stocks for Super 8, and more have been cut down for Super 8 by third parties, that offer a wider range of light responses or ever finer grain structure, thus progressively removing the limitations and visible artefacts associated with the format (Allen; Muldowney; Perkins; Kodak, Motion). These films stocks are designed to be captured to digital video as a normal part of their processing, and then entered into the contemporary digital work flow, leaving little or no indication of the their origins on a format designed to be the 1960s equivalent of the Box Brownie. However, while Super 8 has been used by financially robust companies to produce full-length programmes, its role at the top end of production is more usually as home movie footage and/or to evoke pastness. When service provider and advocate OnSuper8 interviewed professional cinematographer James Chressanthis, he asserted that “if there is a problem with Super 8 it is that it can look too good!” and spent much of the interview explaining how a particular combination of stocks, low shutter speeds and digital conversion could reproduce the traditional degraded look and avoid “looking like a completely transparent professional medium” (Perkins). In his history of the British amateur movement, Duncan Reekie deals with this distinction between the professional and amateur moving image, defining the professional as having a drive towards clarity [that] eventually produced [what] we could term ‘hyper-lucidity’, a form of cinematography which idealises the perception of the human eye: deep focus, increased colour saturation, digital effects and so on. (108) Against this the amateur as distinguished by a visible cinematic surface, where the screen image does not seem natural or fluent but is composed of photographic grain which in 8mm appears to vibrate and weave. Since the amateur often worked with only one reversal print the final film would also often become scratched and dirty. (108-9) As Super 8’s function has moved away from the home movie, so its look has adjusted to the new role. Kodak’s replacement for K40 was finer grained (Kodak, Kodak), designed for a life as good to high quality digital video rather than a film strip, and so for video replay rather than a small gauge projector. In the economy that supports Super 8’s survival, its cameras and film stock have become part of a different gestalt. Continued use is still justified by appeals to geist, but the geist of film in a general and abstract way, not specific to Super 8 and more closely resembling the industry-centric view of film propounded by decades of ‘how-to’ guides. Activity that originally supported Super 8 continues, and currently has embraced the ubiquitous and extremely substandard cameras embedded in mobile phones and still cameras for home movies and social documentation. As Super 8 has moved to a new cultural position it has shed its most recognisable trait, the visible surface of grain and scratches, and it is that which has become obsolete, discontinued and the focus of nostalgia, along with the sound of a film projector (which you can get to go with films transferred to dvd). So it will be left to artist filmmaker Peter Tscherkassky, talking in 1995 about what Super 8 was to him in the 1980s, to evoke what there is to miss about Super 8 today. Unlike any other format, Super-8 was a microscope, making visible the inner life of images by entering beneath the skin of reality. […] Most remarkable of all was the grain. While 'resolution' is the technical term for the sharpness of a film image, Super-8 was really never too concerned with this. Here, quite a different kind of resolution could be witnessed: the crystal-clear and bright light of a Xenon-projection gave us shapes dissolving into the grain; amorphous bodies and forms surreptitiously transformed into new shapes and disappeared again into a sea of colour. Super-8 was the pointillism, impressionism and the abstract expressionism of cinematography. (Howath) Bibliography Allen, Tom. “‘Making It’ in Super 8.” MovieMaker Magazine 8 Feb. 1994. 1 May 2009 ‹http://www.moviemaker.com/directing/article/making_it_in_super_8_3044/›. AMPS. “About the American Motion Picture Society.” American Motion Picture Society site. 2009. 25 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.ampsvideo.com›. Bassan, Raphaël. “Identity of Cinema: Experimental and Different (review of Festival des Cinémas Différents de Paris, 2005).” Senses of Cinema 44 (July-Sep. 2007). 25 Apr. 2009 ‹http://archive.sensesofcinema.com/contents/07/44/experimental-cinema-bassan.html›. Chodorov, Pip. “To Save Kodochrome.” Frameworks list, 14 May 2005. 28 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.hi-beam.net/fw/fw29/0216.html›. Dager, Nick. “Kodak Unveils Latest Film Stock in Vision3 Family.” Digital Cinema Report 5 Jan. 2009. 27 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.digitalcinemareport.com/Kodak-Vision3-film›. Durgnat, Raymond. “Flyweight Flicks.” GAZWRX: The Films of Jeff Keen booklet. Originally published in Films and Filming (Feb. 1965). London: BFI, 2009. 30-31. Frye, Brian L. “‘Me, I Just Film My Life’: An Interview with Jonas Mekas.” Senses of Cinema 44 (July-Sep. 2007). 15 Apr. 2009 ‹http://archive.sensesofcinema.com/contents/07/44/jonas-mekas-interview.html›. Hodgkinson, Will. “End of the Reel for Super 8.” Guardian 28 Sep. 2006. 20 Mar. 2009 ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/film/2006/sep/28/1›. Horwath, Alexander. “Singing in the Rain - Supercinematography by Peter Tscherkassky.” Senses of Cinema 28 (Sep.-Oct. 2003). 5 May 2009 ‹http://archive.sensesofcinema.com/contents/03/28/tscherkassky.html›. Jarman, Derek. In Institute of Contemporary Arts Video Library Guide. London: ICA, 1987. Kattelle, Alan D. Home Movies: A History of the American Industry, 1897-1979. Hudson, Mass.: self-published, 2000. ———. “The Amateur Cinema League and its films.” Film History 15.2 (2003): 238-51. Kodak. “Kodak Celebrates 40th Anniversary of Super 8 Film Announces New Color Reversal Product to Portfolio.“ Frameworks list, 9 May 2005. 23 Mar. 2009 ‹http://www.hi-beam.net/fw/fw29/0150.html›. ———. “Kodachrome Update.” 30 Jun. 2006. 24 Mar. 2009 ‹http://www.hi-beam.net/fw/fw32/0756.html›. ———. “Motion Picture Film, Digital Cinema, Digital Intermediate.” 2009. 2 Apr. 2009 ‹http://motion.kodak.com/US/en/motion/index.htm?CID=go&idhbx=motion›. Mekas, Jonas. “8mm as Folk Art.” Movie Journal: The Rise of the New American Cinema, 1959-1971. Ed. Jonas Mekas. Originally Published in Village Voice 1963. New York: Macmillan, 1972. Morgan, Spencer. “Kodak, Don't Take My Kodachrome.” New York Times 31 May 2005. 4 Apr. 2009 ‹http://query.nytimes.com/gst/fullpage.html?res=9F05E1DF1F39F932A05756C0A9639C8B63&sec=&spon=&pagewanted=2›. ———. “Fans Beg: Don't Take Kodachrome Away.” New York Times 1 Jun. 2005. 4 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.nytimes.com/2005/05/31/technology/31iht-kodak.html›. Muldowney, Lisa. “Kodak Ups the Ante with New Motion Picture Film.” MovieMaker Magazine 30 Nov. 2007. 6 Apr. 2009 ‹http://www.moviemaker.com/cinematography/article/kodak_ups_the_ante_with_new_motion_picture_film/›. New York Times. “Super 8 Blues.” 31 May 2005: E1. Perkins, Giles. “A Pro's Approach to Super 8.” OnSuper8 Blogspot 16 July 2007. 13 Apr. 2009 ‹http://onsuper8.blogspot.com/2007/07/pros-approach-to-super-8.html›. Polisin, Douglas. “Pro8mm Asks You to Think Big, Shoot Small.” MovieMaker Magazine 4 Feb. 2009. 1 May 2009 ‹http://www.moviemaker.com/cinematography/article/think_big_shoot_small_rhonda_vigeant_pro8mm_20090127/›. Pro8mm. “Pro8mm Company History.” Super 8 /16mm Cameras, Film, Processing & Scanning (Pro8mm blog) 12 Mar. 2008. 3 May 2009 ‹http://pro8mm-burbank.blogspot.com/2008/03/pro8mm-company-history.html›. Radio 4. No More Yellow Envelopes 24 Dec. 2006. 4 May 2009 ‹http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/factual/pip/m6yx0/›. Reekie, Duncan. 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At a time when almost every human transgression, illness, profession and other personal aspect of life has been chronicled in autobiographical writing (Rak)—in 1998 Zinsser called ours “the age of memoir” (3)—writing about fat is one of the most recent subjects to be addressed in this way. This article surveys a range of contemporary autobiographical texts that are titled with, or revolve around, that powerful and most evocative word, “fat”. Following a number of cultural studies of fat in society (Critser; Gilman, Fat Boys; Fat: A Cultural History; Stearns), this discussion views fat in socio-cultural terms, following Lupton in understanding fat as both “a cultural artefact: a bodily substance or body shape that is given meaning by complex and shifting systems of ideas, practices, emotions, material objects and interpersonal relationships” (i). Using a case study approach (Gerring; Verschuren), this examination focuses on a range of texts from autobiographical cookbooks and memoirs to novel-length graphic works in order to develop a preliminary taxonomy of these works. In this way, a small sample of work, each of which (described below) explores an aspect (or aspects) of the form is, following Merriam, useful as it allows a richer picture of an under-examined phenomenon to be constructed, and offers “a means of investigating complex social units consisting of multiple variables of potential importance in understanding the phenomenon” (Merriam 50). Although the sample size does not offer generalisable results, the case study method is especially suitable in this context, where the aim is to open up discussion of this form of writing for future research for, as Merriam states, “much can be learned from […] an encounter with the case through the researcher’s narrative description” and “what we learn in a particular case can be transferred to similar situations” (51). Pro-Fat Autobiographical WritingAlongside the many hundreds of reduced, low- and no-fat cookbooks and weight loss guides currently in print that offer recipes, meal plans, ingredient replacements and strategies to reduce fat in the diet, there are a handful that promote the consumption of fats, and these all have an autobiographical component. The publication of Jennifer McLagan’s Fat: An Appreciation of a Misunderstood Ingredient, with Recipes in 2008 by Ten Speed Press—publisher of Mollie Katzen’s groundbreaking and influential vegetarian Moosewood Cookbook in 1974 and an imprint now known for its quality cookbooks (Thelin)—unequivocably addressed that line in the sand often drawn between fat and all things healthy. The four chapter titles of this cookbook— “Butter,” subtitled “Worth It,” “Pork Fat: The King,” “Poultry Fat: Versatile and Good For You,” and, “Beef and Lamb Fats: Overlooked But Tasty”—neatly summarise McLagan’s organising argument: that animal fats not only add an unreplaceable and delicious flavour to foods but are fundamental to our health. Fat polarised readers and critics; it was positively reviewed in prominent publications (Morris; Bhide) and won influential food writing awards, including 2009 James Beard Awards for Single Subject Cookbook and Cookbook of the Year but, due to its rejection of low-fat diets and the research underpinning them, was soon also vehemently criticised, to the point where the book was often described in the media as “controversial” (see Smith). McLagan’s text, while including historical, scientific and gastronomic data and detail, is also an outspokenly personal treatise, chronicling her sensual and emotional responses to this ingredient. “I love fat,” she begins, continuing, “Whether it’s a slice of foie gras terrine, its layer of yellow fat melting at the edges […] hot bacon fat […] wilting a plate of pungent greens into submission […] or a piece of crunchy pork crackling […] I love the way it feels in my mouth, and I love its many tastes” (1). Her text is, indeed, memoir as gastronomy / gastronomy as memoir, and this cookbook, therefore, an example of the “memoir with recipes” subgenre (Brien et al.). It appears to be this aspect – her highly personal and, therein, persuasive (Weitin) plea for the value of fats – that galvanised critics and readers.Molly Chester and Sandy Schrecengost’s Back to Butter: A Traditional Foods Cookbook – Nourishing Recipes Inspired by Our Ancestors begins with its authors’ memoirs (illness, undertaking culinary school training, buying and running a farm) to lend weight to their argument to utilise fats widely in cookery. Its first chapter, “Fats and Oils,” features the familiar butter, which it describes as “the friendly fat” (22), then moves to the more reviled pork lard “Grandma’s superfood” (22) and, nowadays quite rarely described as an ingredient, beef tallow. Grit Magazine’s Lard: The Lost Art of Cooking with Your Grandmother’s Secret Ingredient utilises the rhetoric that fat, and in this case, lard, is a traditional and therefore foundational ingredient in good cookery. This text draws on its publisher’s, Grit Magazine (published since 1882 in various formats), long history of including auto/biographical “inspirational stories” (Teller) to lend persuasive power to its argument. One of the most polarising of fats in health and current media discourse is butter, as was seen recently in debate over what was seen as its excessive use in the MasterChef Australia television series (see, Heart Foundation; Phillipov). It is perhaps not surprising, then, that butter is the single fat inspiring the most autobiographical writing in this mode. Rosie Daykin’s Butter Baked Goods: Nostalgic Recipes from a Little Neighborhood Bakery is, for example, typical of a small number of cookbooks that extend the link between baking and nostalgia to argue that butter is the superlative ingredient for baking. There are also entire cookbooks dedicated to making flavoured butters (Vaserfirer) and a number that offer guides to making butter and other (fat-based) dairy products at home (Farrell-Kingsley; Hill; Linford).Gabrielle Hamilton’s Blood, Bones and Butter: The Inadvertent Education of a Reluctant Chef is typical among chef’s memoirs in using butter prominently although rare in mentioning fat in its title. In this text and other such memoirs, butter is often used as shorthand for describing a food that is rich but also wholesomely delicious. Hamilton relates childhood memories of “all butter shortcakes” (10), and her mother and sister “cutting butter into flour and sugar” for scones (15), radishes eaten with butter (21), sautéing sage in butter to dress homemade ravoli (253), and eggs fried in browned butter (245). Some of Hamilton’s most telling references to butter present it as an staple, natural food as, for instance, when she describes “sliced bread with butter and granulated sugar” (37) as one of her family’s favourite desserts, and lists butter among the everyday foodstuffs that taste superior when stored at room temperature instead of refrigerated—thereby moving butter from taboo (Gwynne describes a similar process of the normalisation of sexual “perversion” in erotic memoir).Like this text, memoirs that could be described as arguing “for” fat as a substance are largely by chefs or other food writers who extol, like McLagan and Hamilton, the value of fat as both food and flavouring, and propose that it has a key role in both ordinary/family and gourmet cookery. In this context, despite plant-based fats such as coconut oil being much lauded in nutritional and other health-related discourse, the fat written about in these texts is usually animal-based. An exception to this is olive oil, although this is never described in the book’s title as a “fat” (see, for instance, Drinkwater’s series of memoirs about life on an olive farm in France) and is, therefore, out of the scope of this discussion.Memoirs of Being FatThe majority of the other memoirs with the word “fat” in their titles are about being fat. Narratives on this topic, and their authors’ feelings about this, began to be published as a sub-set of autobiographical memoir in the 2000s. The first decade of the new millennium saw a number of such memoirs by female writers including Judith Moore’s Fat Girl (published in 2005), Jen Lancaster’s Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist’s Quest to Discover If Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, or Why Pie Is Not the Answer, and Stephanie Klein’s Moose: A Memoir (both published in 2008) and Jennifer Joyne’s Designated Fat Girl in 2010. These were followed into the new decade by texts such as Celia Rivenbark’s bestselling 2011 You Don’t Sweat Much for a Fat Girl, and all attracted significant mainstream readerships. Journalist Vicki Allan pulled no punches when she labelled these works the “fat memoir” and, although Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson’s influential categorisation of 60 genres of life writing does not include this description, they do recognise eating disorder and weight-loss narratives. Some scholarly interest followed (Linder; Halloran), with Mitchell linking this production to feminism’s promotion of the power of the micro-narrative and the recognition that the autobiographical narrative was “a way of situating the self politically” (65).aken together, these memoirs all identify “excess” weight, although the response to this differs. They can be grouped as: narratives of losing weight (see Kuffel; Alley; and many others), struggling to lose weight (most of these books), and/or deciding not to try to lose weight (the smallest number of works overall). Some of these texts display a deeply troubled relationship with food—Moore’s Fat Girl, for instance, could also be characterised as an eating disorder memoir (Brien), detailing her addiction to eating and her extremely poor body image as well as her mother’s unrelenting pressure to lose weight. Elena Levy-Navarro describes the tone of these narratives as “compelled confession” (340), mobilising both the conventional understanding of confession of the narrator “speaking directly and colloquially” to the reader of their sins, failures or foibles (Gill 7), and what she reads as an element of societal coercion in their production. Some of these texts do focus on confessing what can be read as disgusting and wretched behavior (gorging and vomiting, for instance)—Halloran’s “gustatory abject” (27)—which is a feature of the contemporary conceptualisation of confession after Rousseau (Brooks). This is certainly a prominent aspect of current memoir writing that is, simultaneously, condemned by critics (see, for example, Jordan) and popular with readers (O’Neill). Read in this way, the majority of memoirs about being fat are about being miserable until a slimming regime of some kind has been undertaken and successful. Some of these texts are, indeed, triumphal in tone. Lisa Delaney’s Secrets of a Former Fat Girl is, for instance, clear in the message of its subtitle, How to Lose Two, Four (or More!) Dress Sizes—And Find Yourself Along the Way, that she was “lost” until she became slim. Linden has argued that “female memoir writers frequently describe their fat bodies as diseased and contaminated” (219) and “powerless” (226). Many of these confessional memoirs are moving narratives of shame and self loathing where the memoirist’s sense of self, character, and identity remain somewhat confused and unresolved, whether they lose weight or not, and despite attestations to the contrary.A sub-set of these memoirs of weight loss are by male authors. While having aspects in common with those by female writers, these can be identified as a sub-set of these memoirs for two reasons. One is the tone of their narratives, which is largely humourous and often ribaldly comic. There is also a sense of the heroic in these works, with male memoirsts frequently mobilising images of battles and adversity. Texts that can be categorised in this way include Toshio Okada’s Sayonara Mr. Fatty: A Geek’s Diet Memoir, Gregg McBride and Joy Bauer’s bestselling Weightless: My Life as a Fat Man and How I Escaped, Fred Anderson’s From Chunk to Hunk: Diary of a Fat Man. As can be seen in their titles, these texts also promise to relate the stratgies, regimes, plans, and secrets that others can follow to, similarly, lose weight. Allen Zadoff’s title makes this explicit: Lessons Learned on the Journey from Fat to Thin. Many of these male memoirists are prompted by a health-related crisis, diagnosis, or realisation. Male body image—a relatively recent topic of enquiry in the eating disorder, psychology, and fashion literature (see, for instance, Bradley et al.)—is also often a surprising motif in these texts, and a theme in common with weight loss memoirs by female authors. Edward Ugel, for instance, opens his memoir, I’m with Fatty: Losing Fifty Pounds in Fifty Miserable Weeks, with “I’m haunted by mirrors … the last thing I want to do is see myself in a mirror or a photograph” (1).Ugel, as that prominent “miserable” in his subtitle suggests, provides a subtle but revealing variation on this theme of successful weight loss. Ugel (as are all these male memoirists) succeeds in the quest be sets out on but, apparently, despondent almost every moment. While the overall tone of his writing is light and humorous, he laments every missed meal, snack, and mouthful of food he foregoes, explaining that he loves eating, “Food makes me happy … I live to eat. I love to eat at restaurants. I love to cook. I love the social component of eating … I can’t be happy without being a social eater” (3). Like many of these books by male authors, Ugel’s descriptions of the food he loves are mouthwatering—and most especially when describing what he identifies as the fattening foods he loves: Reuben sandwiches dripping with juicy grease, crispy deep friend Chinese snacks, buttery Danish pastries and creamy, rich ice cream. This believable sense of regret is not, however, restricted to male authors. It is also apparent in how Jen Lancaster begins her memoir: “I’m standing in the kitchen folding a softened stick of butter, a cup of warmed sour cream, and a mound of fresh-shaved Parmesan into my world-famous mashed potatoes […] There’s a maple-glazed pot roast browning nicely in the oven and white-chocolate-chip macadamia cookies cooling on a rack farther down the counter. I’ve already sautéed the almonds and am waiting for the green beans to blanch so I can toss the whole lot with yet more butter before serving the meal” (5). In the above memoirs, both male and female writers recount similar (and expected) strategies: diets, fasts and other weight loss regimes and interventions (calorie counting, colonics, and gastric-banding and -bypass surgery for instance, recur); consulting dieting/health magazines for information and strategies; keeping a food journal; employing expert help in the form of nutritionists, dieticians, and personal trainers; and, joining health clubs/gyms, and taking up various sports.Alongside these works sit a small number of texts that can be characterised as “non-weight loss memoirs.” These can be read as part of the emerging, and burgeoning, academic field of Fat Studies, which gathers together an extensive literature critical of, and oppositional to, dominant discourses about obesity (Cooper; Rothblum and Solovay; Tomrley and Naylor), and which include works that focus on information backed up with memoir such as self-described “fat activist” (Wann, website) Marilyn Wann’s Fat! So?: Because You Don’t Have to Apologise, which—when published in 1998—followed a print ’zine and a website of the same title. Although certainly in the minority in terms of numbers, these narratives have been very popular with readers and are growing as a sub-genre, with well-known actress Camryn Manheim’s New York Times-bestselling memoir, Wake Up, I'm Fat! (published in 1999) a good example. This memoir chronicles Manheim’s journey from the overweight and teased teenager who finds it a struggle to find friends (a common trope in many weight loss memoirs) to an extremely successful actress.Like most other types of memoir, there are also niche sub-genres of the “fat memoir.” Cheryl Peck’s Fat Girls and Lawn Chairs recounts a series of stories about her life in the American Midwest as a lesbian “woman of size” (xiv) and could thus be described as a memoir on the subjects of – and is, indeed, catalogued in the Library of Congress as: “Overweight women,” “Lesbians,” and “Three Rivers (Mich[igan]) – Social life and customs”.Carol Lay’s graphic memoir, The Big Skinny: How I Changed My Fattitude, has a simple diet message – she lost weight by counting calories and exercising every day – and makes a dual claim for value of being based on both her own story and a range of data and tools including: “the latest research on obesity […] psychological tips, nutrition basics, and many useful tools like simplified calorie charts, sample recipes, and menu plans” (qtd. in Lorah). The Big Skinny could, therefore, be characterised with the weight loss memoirs above as a self-help book, but Lay herself describes choosing the graphic form in order to increase its narrative power: to “wrap much of the information in stories […] combining illustrations and story for a double dose of retention in the brain” (qtd. in Lorah). Like many of these books that can fit into multiple categories, she notes that “booksellers don’t know where to file the book – in graphic novels, memoirs, or in the diet section” (qtd. in O’Shea).Jude Milner’s Fat Free: The Amazing All-True Adventures of Supersize Woman! is another example of how a single memoir (graphic, in this case) can be a hybrid of the categories herein discussed, indicating how difficult it is to neatly categorise human experience. Recounting the author’s numerous struggles with her weight and journey to self-acceptance, Milner at first feels guilty and undertakes a series of diets and regimes, before becoming a “Fat Is Beautiful” activist and, finally, undergoing gastric bypass surgery. Here the narrative trajectory is of empowerment rather than physical transformation, as a thinner (although, importantly, not thin) Milner “exudes confidence and radiates strength” (Story). ConclusionWhile the above has identified a number of ways of attempting to classify autobiographical writing about fat/s, its ultimate aim is, after G. Thomas Couser’s work in relation to other sub-genres of memoir, an attempt to open up life writing for further discussion, rather than set in placed fixed and inflexible categories. Constructing such a preliminary taxonomy aspires to encourage more nuanced discussion of how writers, publishers, critics and readers understand “fat” conceptually as well as more practically and personally. 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Malignant hyperthermia (MH) is a clinical response happened to patient who is sensitive with inhaled anesthesia drug that could cause suddently death. Many previous studies showed that malignant hyperthermia strongly related to genetic background of patients including RYR1, CACNA1S or STAC3 gene polymorphisms. With the development of high technology such as next generation sequencing, scientists found that 37 to 86 percents of MH cases had RYR1 mutations and approximately 1 percent of those had CACNA1S mutations. Gene analysis testing was recommended to apply for patient with MH medical history or MH patient’s family relations. Keywords Malignant hyperthermia, inhaled anesthesia, RYR1, CACNA1S, STAC3. References [1] G. Torri, Inhalation anesthetics: a review, Minerva Anestesiologica 76 (2010) 215–228. [2] N. Kassiri, S. Ardehali, F. Rashidi, S. Hashemian, Inhalational anesthetics agents: The pharmacokinetic, pharmacodynamics, and their effects on human body, Biomed. Biotechnol. Res. J. BBRJ 2 (2018) 173. https://doi.org/10.4103/bbrj.bbrj_6618.[3] H. Rosenberg, N. Sambuughin, S. Riazi, R. Dirksen, Malignant Hyperthermia Susceptibility, in: M.P. Adam, H.H. Ardinger, R.A. Pagon, S.E. Wallace, L.J. Bean, K. Stephens, A. Amemiya (Eds.), GeneReviews, University of Washington, Seattle, Seattle (WA), 19932020. http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK1146/ (accessed February 2, 2020).[4] H. Rosenberg, N. Pollock, A. Schiemann, T. Bulger, K. Stowell, Malignant hyperthermia: a review, Orphanet J. Rare Dis 10 (2015) 93. https://doi.org/10.1186/s13023-015-0310-1.[5] D. Carpenter, C. Ringrose, V. Leo, A. Morris, R.L. Robinson, P.J. Halsall, P.M. Hopkins, M.-A. Shaw, The role of CACNA1S in predisposition to malignant hyperthermia, BMC Med. Genet 10 (2009) 104. https://doi.org/10.1186/1471-2350-10-104.[6] S. Riazi, N. Kraeva, P.M. Hopkins, Updated guide for the management of malignant hyperthermia, Can. J. Anaesth. J. Can. Anesth 65 (2018) 709–721. https://doi.org/10.1007/s12630-018-1108-0.[7] S. Riazi, N. Kraeva, P.M. Hopkins, Malignant Hyperthermia in the Post-Genomics Era: New Perspectives on an Old Concept, Anesthesiology 128 (2018) 168–180. https://doi.org/10.1097/ALN.0000000000001878.[8] [D.M. Miller, C. Daly, E.M. Aboelsaod, L. Gardner, S.J. Hobson, K. Riasat, S. Shepherd, R.L. Robinson, J.G. Bilmen, P.K. Gupta, M.-A. Shaw, P.M. Hopkins, Genetic epidemiology of malignant hyperthermia in the UK, BJA Br. J. Anaesth 121 (2018) 944–952. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.bja.2018.06.028.[9] T.A. Beam, E.F. Loudermilk, D.F. Kisor, Pharmacogenetics and pathophysiology of CACNA1S mutations in malignant hyperthermia, Physiol. Genomics 49 (2017) 81–87. https://doi.org/10.1152/physiolgenomics.00126.2016.[10] I.T. Zaharieva, A. Sarkozy, P. Munot, A. Manzur, G. O’Grady, J. Rendu, E. Malfatti, H. Amthor, L. Servais, J.A. Urtizberea, O.A. Neto, E. Zanoteli, S. Donkervoort, J. Taylor, J. Dixon, G. Poke, A.R. Foley, C. Holmes, G. Williams, M. Holder, S. Yum, L. Medne, S. Quijano-Roy, N.B. Romero, J. Fauré, L. Feng, L. Bastaki, M.R. Davis, R. Phadke, C.A. Sewry, C.G. Bönnemann, H. Jungbluth, C. Bachmann, S. Treves, F. Muntoni, STAC3 variants cause a congenital myopathy with distinctive dysmorphic features and malignant hyperthermia susceptibility, Hum. Mutat 39 (2018) 1980–1994. https://doi.org/10.1002/humu.23635.[11] A.F. Dulhunty, The voltage-activation of contraction in skeletal muscle, Prog. Biophys. Mol. Biol 57 (1992) 181–223. https://doi.org/10.1016/0079-6107(92)90024-Z.[12] C. Franzini-Armstrong, A.O. Jorgensen, Structure and Development of E-C Coupling Units in Skeletal Muscle, Annu. Rev. Physiol 56 (1994) 509–534. https://doi.org/10.1146/annurev.ph.56.030194.002453.[13] D.H. MacLennan, M. Abu-Abed, C. Kang, Structure-function relationships in Ca(2+) cycling proteins, J. Mol. Cell. Cardiol 34 (2002) 897–918. https://doi.org/10.1006/jmcc.2002.2031.[14] H. Rosenberg, M. Davis, D. James, N. Pollock, K. Stowell, Malignant hyperthermia, Orphanet J. Rare Dis 2 (2007) 21. https://doi.org/10.1186/1750-1172-2-21.[15] S.M. Karan, F. Crowl, S.M. Muldoon, Malignant hyperthermia masked by capnographic monitoring, Anesth. Analg 78 (1994) 590–592. https://doi.org/10.1213/00000539-199403000-00029.[16] M.G. Larach, G.A. Gronert, G.C. Allen, B.W. Brandom, E.B. Lehman, Clinical presentation, treatment, and complications of malignant hyperthermia in North America from 1987 to 2006, Anesth. Analg 110 (2010) 498–507. https://doi.org/10.1213/ANE.0b013e3181c6b9b2.[17] M.G. Larach, A.R. Localio, G.C. Allen, M.A. Denborough, F.R. Ellis, G.A. Gronert, R.F. Kaplan, S.M. Muldoon, T.E. Nelson, H. Ording, H. Rosenberg, B.E. Waud, D.J. Wedel, A Clinical Grading Scale to Predict Malignant Hyperthermia Susceptibility, Anesthesiology 80 (1994) 771–779. https://doi.org/10.1097/00000542-199404000-00008.[18] D. Schneiderbanger, S. Johannsen, N. Roewer, F. Schuster, Management of malignant hyperthermia: diagnosis and treatment, Ther. Clin. Risk Manag 10 (2014) 355–362. https://doi.org/10.2147/TCRM.S47632.[19] R. Robinson, D. Carpenter, M.-A. Shaw, J. Halsall, P. Hopkins, Mutations in RYR1 in malignant hyperthermia and central core disease, Hum. Mutat 27 (2006) 977–989. https://doi.org/10.1002/humu.20356.[20] M.L. Alvarellos, R.M. Krauss, R.A. Wilke, R.B. Altman, T.E. Klein, PharmGKB summary: very important pharmacogene information for RYR1, Pharmacogenet. Genomics 26 (2016) 138–144. https://doi.org/10.1097/FPC.0000000000000198.[21] A. Merritt, P. Booms, M.-A. Shaw, D.M. Miller, C. Daly, J.G. Bilmen, K.M. Stowell, P.D. Allen, D.S. Steele, P.M. Hopkins, Assessing the pathogenicity of RYR1 variants in malignant hyperthermia, BJA Br. J. Anaesth 118 (2017) 533–543. https://doi.org/10.1093/bja/aex042.[22] P.M. Hopkins, H. Rüffert, M.M. Snoeck, T. Girard, K.P.E. Glahn, F.R. Ellis, C.R. Müller, A. Urwyler, European Malignant Hyperthermia Group, European Malignant Hyperthermia Group guidelines for investigation of malignant hyperthermia susceptibility, Br. J. Anaesth 115 (2015) 531–539. https://doi.org/10.1093/bja/aev225.[23] N.T. Thuy, L.N. Thanh, N.T.T. Mau, N.H. Hoang, N.T.K. Lien, D.D. Long, N.T. Bình, D.A. Tien, N.C. Huu, N.T. Hieu, P.T.H. Nhung, V.T. Thom, Whole exome sequencing revealed a pathogenic variant in a gene related to malignant hyperthermia in a Vietnamese cardiac surgical patient: A case report, Ann. Med. Surg 48 (2019) 88–90. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.amsu.2019.10.030.[24] B. Neuhuber, U. Gerster, F. Döring, H. Glossmann, T. Tanabe, B.E. Flucher, Association of calcium channel α1S and β1a subunits is required for the targeting of β1a but not of α1S into skeletal muscle triads, Proc. Natl. Acad. Sci. U. S. A 95 (1998) 5015–5020. https://doi.org/10.1073/pnas.95.9.5015.[25] M. Whirl-Carrillo, E.M. McDonagh, J.M. Hebert, L. Gong, K. Sangkuhl, C.F. Thorn, R.B. Altman, T.E. Klein, Pharmacogenomics Knowledge for Personalized Medicine, Clin. Pharmacol. Ther 92 (2012) 414–417. https://doi.org/10.1038/clpt.2012.96.[26] N. Monnier, V. Procaccio, P. Stieglitz, J. Lunardi, Malignant-hyperthermia susceptibility is associated with a mutation of the alpha 1-subunit of the human dihydropyridine-sensitive L-type voltage-dependent calcium-channel receptor in skeletal muscle, Am. J. Hum. Genet 60 (1997) 1316–1325 . https://doi.org/10.1086/515454.[27] S.L. Stewart, K. Hogan, H. Rosenberg, J.E. Fletcher, Identification of the Arg1086His mutation in the alpha subunit of the voltage-dependent calcium channel (CACNA1S) in a North American family with malignant hyperthermia, Clin. Genet 59 (2001) 178–184. https://doi.org/10.1034/j.1399 0004.2001.590306.x.[28] P.J. Toppin, T.T. Chandy, A. Ghanekar, N. Kraeva, W.S. Beattie, S. Riazi, A report of fulminant malignant hyperthermia in a patient with a novel mutation of the CACNA1S gene, Can. J. Anaesth. J. Can. 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When George Orwell encountered ideas of a technological utopia sixty-five years ago, he acted the grumpy middle-aged man Reading recently a batch of rather shallowly optimistic “progressive” books, I was struck by the automatic way in which people go on repeating certain phrases which were fashionable before 1914. Two great favourites are “the abolition of distance” and “the disappearance of frontiers”. I do not know how often I have met with the statements that “the aeroplane and the radio have abolished distance” and “all parts of the world are now interdependent” (1944). It is worth revisiting the old boy’s grumpiness, because the rhetoric he so niftily skewers continues in our own time. Facebook features “Peace on Facebook” and even claims that it can “decrease world conflict” through inter-cultural communication. Twitter has announced itself as “a triumph of humanity” (“A Cyber-House” 61). Queue George. In between Orwell and latter-day hoody cybertarians, a whole host of excitable public intellectuals announced the impending end of materiality through emergent media forms. Marshall McLuhan, Neil Postman, Daniel Bell, Ithiel de Sola Pool, George Gilder, Alvin Toffler—the list of 1960s futurists goes on and on. And this wasn’t just a matter of punditry: the OECD decreed the coming of the “information society” in 1975 and the European Union (EU) followed suit in 1979, while IBM merrily declared an “information age” in 1977. Bell theorized this technological utopia as post-ideological, because class would cease to matter (Mattelart). Polluting industries seemingly no longer represented the dynamic core of industrial capitalism; instead, market dynamism radiated from a networked, intellectual core of creative and informational activities. The new information and knowledge-based economies would rescue First World hegemony from an “insurgent world” that lurked within as well as beyond itself (Schiller). Orwell’s others and the Cold-War futurists propagated one of the most destructive myths shaping both public debate and scholarly studies of the media, culture, and communication. They convinced generations of analysts, activists, and arrivistes that the promises and problems of the media could be understood via metaphors of the environment, and that the media were weightless and virtual. The famous medium they wished us to see as the message —a substance as vital to our wellbeing as air, water, and soil—turned out to be no such thing. Today’s cybertarians inherit their anti-Marxist, anti-materialist positions, as a casual glance at any new media journal, culture-industry magazine, or bourgeois press outlet discloses. The media are undoubtedly important instruments of social cohesion and fragmentation, political power and dissent, democracy and demagoguery, and other fraught extensions of human consciousness. But talk of media systems as equivalent to physical ecosystems—fashionable among marketers and media scholars alike—is predicated on the notion that they are environmentally benign technologies. This has never been true, from the beginnings of print to today’s cloud-covered computing. Our new book Greening the Media focuses on the environmental impact of the media—the myriad ways that media technology consumes, despoils, and wastes natural resources. We introduce ideas, stories, and facts that have been marginal or absent from popular, academic, and professional histories of media technology. Throughout, ecological issues have been at the core of our work and we immodestly think the same should apply to media communications, and cultural studies more generally. We recognize that those fields have contributed valuable research and teaching that address environmental questions. For instance, there is an abundant literature on representations of the environment in cinema, how to communicate environmental messages successfully, and press coverage of climate change. That’s not enough. You may already know that media technologies contain toxic substances. You may have signed an on-line petition protesting the hazardous and oppressive conditions under which workers assemble cell phones and computers. But you may be startled, as we were, by the scale and pervasiveness of these environmental risks. They are present in and around every site where electronic and electric devices are manufactured, used, and thrown away, poisoning humans, animals, vegetation, soil, air and water. We are using the term “media” as a portmanteau word to cover a multitude of cultural and communications machines and processes—print, film, radio, television, information and communications technologies (ICT), and consumer electronics (CE). This is not only for analytical convenience, but because there is increasing overlap between the sectors. CE connect to ICT and vice versa; televisions resemble computers; books are read on telephones; newspapers are written through clouds; and so on. Cultural forms and gadgets that were once separate are now linked. The currently fashionable notion of convergence doesn’t quite capture the vastness of this integration, which includes any object with a circuit board, scores of accessories that plug into it, and a global nexus of labor and environmental inputs and effects that produce and flow from it. In 2007, a combination of ICT/CE and media production accounted for between 2 and 3 percent of all greenhouse gases emitted around the world (“Gartner Estimates,”; International Telecommunication Union; Malmodin et al.). Between twenty and fifty million tonnes of electronic waste (e-waste) are generated annually, much of it via discarded cell phones and computers, which affluent populations throw out regularly in order to buy replacements. (Presumably this fits the narcissism of small differences that distinguishes them from their own past.) E-waste is historically produced in the Global North—Australasia, Western Europe, Japan, and the US—and dumped in the Global South—Latin America, Africa, Eastern Europe, Southern and Southeast Asia, and China. It takes the form of a thousand different, often deadly, materials for each electrical and electronic gadget. This trend is changing as India and China generate their own media detritus (Robinson; Herat). Enclosed hard drives, backlit screens, cathode ray tubes, wiring, capacitors, and heavy metals pose few risks while these materials remain encased. But once discarded and dismantled, ICT/CE have the potential to expose workers and ecosystems to a morass of toxic components. Theoretically, “outmoded” parts could be reused or swapped for newer parts to refurbish devices. But items that are defined as waste undergo further destruction in order to collect remaining parts and valuable metals, such as gold, silver, copper, and rare-earth elements. This process causes serious health risks to bones, brains, stomachs, lungs, and other vital organs, in addition to birth defects and disrupted biological development in children. Medical catastrophes can result from lead, cadmium, mercury, other heavy metals, poisonous fumes emitted in search of precious metals, and such carcinogenic compounds as polychlorinated biphenyls, dioxin, polyvinyl chloride, and flame retardants (Maxwell and Miller 13). The United States’ Environmental Protection Agency estimates that by 2007 US residents owned approximately three billion electronic devices, with an annual turnover rate of 400 million units, and well over half such purchases made by women. Overall CE ownership varied with age—adults under 45 typically boasted four gadgets; those over 65 made do with one. The Consumer Electronics Association (CEA) says US$145 billion was expended in the sector in 2006 in the US alone, up 13% on the previous year. The CEA refers joyously to a “consumer love affair with technology continuing at a healthy clip.” In the midst of a recession, 2009 saw $165 billion in sales, and households owned between fifteen and twenty-four gadgets on average. By 2010, US$233 billion was spent on electronic products, three-quarters of the population owned a computer, nearly half of all US adults owned an MP3 player, and 85% had a cell phone. By all measures, the amount of ICT/CE on the planet is staggering. As investigative science journalist, Elizabeth Grossman put it: “no industry pushes products into the global market on the scale that high-tech electronics does” (Maxwell and Miller 2). In 2007, “of the 2.25 million tons of TVs, cell phones and computer products ready for end-of-life management, 18% (414,000 tons) was collected for recycling and 82% (1.84 million tons) was disposed of, primarily in landfill” (Environmental Protection Agency 1). Twenty million computers fell obsolete across the US in 1998, and the rate was 130,000 a day by 2005. It has been estimated that the five hundred million personal computers discarded in the US between 1997 and 2007 contained 6.32 billion pounds of plastics, 1.58 billion pounds of lead, three million pounds of cadmium, 1.9 million pounds of chromium, and 632000 pounds of mercury (Environmental Protection Agency; Basel Action Network and Silicon Valley Toxics Coalition 6). The European Union is expected to generate upwards of twelve million tons annually by 2020 (Commission of the European Communities 17). While refrigerators and dangerous refrigerants account for the bulk of EU e-waste, about 44% of the most toxic e-waste measured in 2005 came from medium-to-small ICT/CE: computer monitors, TVs, printers, ink cartridges, telecommunications equipment, toys, tools, and anything with a circuit board (Commission of the European Communities 31-34). Understanding the enormity of the environmental problems caused by making, using, and disposing of media technologies should arrest our enthusiasm for them. But intellectual correctives to the “love affair” with technology, or technophilia, have come and gone without establishing much of a foothold against the breathtaking flood of gadgets and the propaganda that proclaims their awe-inspiring capabilities.[i] There is a peculiar enchantment with the seeming magic of wireless communication, touch-screen phones and tablets, flat-screen high-definition televisions, 3-D IMAX cinema, mobile computing, and so on—a totemic, quasi-sacred power that the historian of technology David Nye has named the technological sublime (Nye Technological Sublime 297).[ii] We demonstrate in our book why there is no place for the technological sublime in projects to green the media. But first we should explain why such symbolic power does not accrue to more mundane technologies; after all, for the time-strapped cook, a pressure cooker does truly magical things. Three important qualities endow ICT/CE with unique symbolic potency—virtuality, volume, and novelty. The technological sublime of media technology is reinforced by the “virtual nature of much of the industry’s content,” which “tends to obscure their responsibility for a vast proliferation of hardware, all with high levels of built-in obsolescence and decreasing levels of efficiency” (Boyce and Lewis 5). Planned obsolescence entered the lexicon as a new “ethics” for electrical engineering in the 1920s and ’30s, when marketers, eager to “habituate people to buying new products,” called for designs to become quickly obsolete “in efficiency, economy, style, or taste” (Grossman 7-8).[iii] This defines the short lifespan deliberately constructed for computer systems (drives, interfaces, operating systems, batteries, etc.) by making tiny improvements incompatible with existing hardware (Science and Technology Council of the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences 33-50; Boyce and Lewis). With planned obsolescence leading to “dizzying new heights” of product replacement (Rogers 202), there is an overstated sense of the novelty and preeminence of “new” media—a “cult of the present” is particularly dazzled by the spread of electronic gadgets through globalization (Mattelart and Constantinou 22). References to the symbolic power of media technology can be found in hymnals across the internet and the halls of academe: technologies change us, the media will solve social problems or create new ones, ICTs transform work, monopoly ownership no longer matters, journalism is dead, social networking enables social revolution, and the media deliver a cleaner, post-industrial, capitalism. Here is a typical example from the twilight zone of the technological sublime (actually, the OECD): A major feature of the knowledge-based economy is the impact that ICTs have had on industrial structure, with a rapid growth of services and a relative decline of manufacturing. Services are typically less energy intensive and less polluting, so among those countries with a high and increasing share of services, we often see a declining energy intensity of production … with the emergence of the Knowledge Economy ending the old linear relationship between output and energy use (i.e. partially de-coupling growth and energy use) (Houghton 1) This statement mixes half-truths and nonsense. In reality, old-time, toxic manufacturing has moved to the Global South, where it is ascendant; pollution levels are rising worldwide; and energy consumption is accelerating in residential and institutional sectors, due almost entirely to ICT/CE usage, despite advances in energy conservation technology (a neat instance of the age-old Jevons Paradox). In our book we show how these are all outcomes of growth in ICT/CE, the foundation of the so-called knowledge-based economy. ICT/CE are misleadingly presented as having little or no material ecological impact. In the realm of everyday life, the sublime experience of electronic machinery conceals the physical work and material resources that go into them, while the technological sublime makes the idea that more-is-better palatable, axiomatic; even sexy. In this sense, the technological sublime relates to what Marx called “the Fetishism which attaches itself to the products of labour” once they are in the hands of the consumer, who lusts after them as if they were “independent beings” (77). There is a direct but unseen relationship between technology’s symbolic power and the scale of its environmental impact, which the economist Juliet Schor refers to as a “materiality paradox” —the greater the frenzy to buy goods for their transcendent or nonmaterial cultural meaning, the greater the use of material resources (40-41). We wrote Greening the Media knowing that a study of the media’s effect on the environment must work especially hard to break the enchantment that inflames popular and elite passions for media technologies. We understand that the mere mention of the political-economic arrangements that make shiny gadgets possible, or the environmental consequences of their appearance and disappearance, is bad medicine. It’s an unwelcome buzz kill—not a cool way to converse about cool stuff. But we didn’t write the book expecting to win many allies among high-tech enthusiasts and ICT/CE industry leaders. We do not dispute the importance of information and communication media in our lives and modern social systems. We are media people by profession and personal choice, and deeply immersed in the study and use of emerging media technologies. But we think it’s time for a balanced assessment with less hype and more practical understanding of the relationship of media technologies to the biosphere they inhabit. Media consumers, designers, producers, activists, researchers, and policy makers must find new and effective ways to move ICT/CE production and consumption toward ecologically sound practices. In the course of this project, we found in casual conversation, lecture halls, classroom discussions, and correspondence, consistent and increasing concern with the environmental impact of media technology, especially the deleterious effects of e-waste toxins on workers, air, water, and soil. We have learned that the grip of the technological sublime is not ironclad. Its instability provides a point of departure for investigating and criticizing the relationship between the media and the environment. The media are, and have been for a long time, intimate environmental participants. Media technologies are yesterday’s, today’s, and tomorrow’s news, but rarely in the way they should be. The prevailing myth is that the printing press, telegraph, phonograph, photograph, cinema, telephone, wireless radio, television, and internet changed the world without changing the Earth. In reality, each technology has emerged by despoiling ecosystems and exposing workers to harmful environments, a truth obscured by symbolic power and the power of moguls to set the terms by which such technologies are designed and deployed. Those who benefit from ideas of growth, progress, and convergence, who profit from high-tech innovation, monopoly, and state collusion—the military-industrial-entertainment-academic complex and multinational commandants of labor—have for too long ripped off the Earth and workers. As the current celebration of media technology inevitably winds down, perhaps it will become easier to comprehend that digital wonders come at the expense of employees and ecosystems. This will return us to Max Weber’s insistence that we understand technology in a mundane way as a “mode of processing material goods” (27). Further to understanding that ordinariness, we can turn to the pioneering conversation analyst Harvey Sacks, who noted three decades ago “the failures of technocratic dreams [:] that if only we introduced some fantastic new communication machine the world will be transformed.” Such fantasies derived from the very banality of these introductions—that every time they took place, one more “technical apparatus” was simply “being made at home with the rest of our world’ (548). Media studies can join in this repetitive banality. Or it can withdraw the welcome mat for media technologies that despoil the Earth and wreck the lives of those who make them. In our view, it’s time to green the media by greening media studies. References “A Cyber-House Divided.” Economist 4 Sep. 2010: 61-62. “Gartner Estimates ICT Industry Accounts for 2 Percent of Global CO2 Emissions.” Gartner press release. 6 April 2007. ‹http://www.gartner.com/it/page.jsp?id=503867›. Basel Action Network and Silicon Valley Toxics Coalition. Exporting Harm: The High-Tech Trashing of Asia. Seattle: Basel Action Network, 25 Feb. 2002. Benjamin, Walter. “Central Park.” Trans. Lloyd Spencer with Mark Harrington. New German Critique 34 (1985): 32-58. Biagioli, Mario. “Postdisciplinary Liaisons: Science Studies and the Humanities.” Critical Inquiry 35.4 (2009): 816-33. Boyce, Tammy and Justin Lewis, eds. Climate Change and the Media. New York: Peter Lang, 2009. Commission of the European Communities. “Impact Assessment.” Commission Staff Working Paper accompanying the Proposal for a Directive of the European Parliament and of the Council on Waste Electrical and Electronic Equipment (WEEE) (recast). COM (2008) 810 Final. 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Geneva: ICT Applications and Cybersecurity Division Policies and Strategies Department ITU Telecommunication Development Sector, 2008. Malmodin, Jens, Åsa Moberg, Dag Lundén, Göran Finnveden, and Nina Lövehagen. “Greenhouse Gas Emissions and Operational Electricity Use in the ICT and Entertainment & Media Sectors.” Journal of Industrial Ecology 14.5 (2010): 770-90. Marx, Karl. Capital: Vol. 1: A Critical Analysis of Capitalist Production, 3rd ed. Trans. Samuel Moore and Edward Aveling, Ed. Frederick Engels. New York: International Publishers, 1987. Mattelart, Armand and Costas M. Constantinou. “Communications/Excommunications: An Interview with Armand Mattelart.” Trans. Amandine Bled, Jacques Guot, and Costas Constantinou. Review of International Studies 34.1 (2008): 21-42. Mattelart, Armand. “Cómo nació el mito de Internet.” Trans. Yanina Guthman. El mito internet. Ed. Victor Hugo de la Fuente. Santiago: Editorial aún creemos en los sueños, 2002. 25-32. Maxwell, Richard and Toby Miller. Greening the Media. New York: Oxford University Press, 2012. Nye, David E. American Technological Sublime. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1994. Nye, David E. Technology Matters: Questions to Live With. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. 2007. Orwell, George. “As I Please.” Tribune. 12 May 1944. Richtel, Matt. “Consumers Hold on to Products Longer.” New York Times: B1, 26 Feb. 2011. Robinson, Brett H. “E-Waste: An Assessment of Global Production and Environmental Impacts.” Science of the Total Environment 408.2 (2009): 183-91. Rogers, Heather. Gone Tomorrow: The Hidden Life of Garbage. New York: New Press, 2005. Sacks, Harvey. Lectures on Conversation. Vols. I and II. Ed. Gail Jefferson. Malden: Blackwell, 1995. Schiller, Herbert I. Information and the Crisis Economy. Norwood: Ablex Publishing, 1984. Schor, Juliet B. Plenitude: The New Economics of True Wealth. New York: Penguin, 2010. Science and Technology Council of the American Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. The Digital Dilemma: Strategic Issues in Archiving and Accessing Digital Motion Picture Materials. Los Angeles: Academy Imprints, 2007. Weber, Max. “Remarks on Technology and Culture.” Trans. Beatrix Zumsteg and Thomas M. Kemple. Ed. Thomas M. Kemple. Theory, Culture [i] The global recession that began in 2007 has been the main reason for some declines in Global North energy consumption, slower turnover in gadget upgrades, and longer periods of consumer maintenance of electronic goods (Richtel). [ii] The emergence of the technological sublime has been attributed to the Western triumphs in the post-Second World War period, when technological power supposedly supplanted the power of nature to inspire fear and astonishment (Nye Technology Matters 28). Historian Mario Biagioli explains how the sublime permeates everyday life through technoscience: "If around 1950 the popular imaginary placed science close to the military and away from the home, today’s technoscience frames our everyday life at all levels, down to our notion of the self" (818). [iii] This compulsory repetition is seemingly undertaken each time as a novelty, governed by what German cultural critic Walter Benjamin called, in his awkward but occasionally illuminating prose, "the ever-always-the-same" of "mass-production" cloaked in "a hitherto unheard-of significance" (48).

Introduction The exhibition of an artist’s work is traditionally accepted as representing the final stage of the creative process (Staniszewski). This article asks, however, whether this traditional view can be reassessed so that the curatorial practice of mounting an exhibition becomes, itself, a creative outcome feeding into work that may still be in progress, and that simultaneously operates as a learning and teaching tool. To provide a preliminary examination of the issue, we use a single case study approach, taking an example of practice currently used at an Australian university. In this program, internal and external students work together to develop and deliver an exhibition of their own work in progress. The exhibition space has a professional website (‘CQUniversity Noosa Exhibition Space’), many community members and the local media attend exhibition openings, and the exhibition (which runs for three to four weeks) becomes an outcome students can include in their curriculum vitae. This article reflects on the experiences, challenges, and outcomes that have been gained through this process over the past twelve months. Due to this time frame, the case study is exploratory and its findings are provisional. The case study is an appropriate method to explore a small sample of events (in this case exhibitions) as, following Merriam, it allows the construction of a richer picture of an under-examined phenomenon to be constructed. Although it is clear that this approach will not offer results which can be generalised, it can, nevertheless, assist in opening up a field for investigation and constructing a holistic account of a phenomenon (in this case, the exhibition space as authentic learning experience and productive teaching tool), for, as Merriam states, “much can be learned from a particular case” (51). Jennings adds that even the smallest case study is useful as it includes an “in-depth examination of the subject with which to confirm or contest received generalizations” (14). Donmoyer extends thoughts on this, suggesting that the single case study is extremely useful as the “restricted conception of generalizability … solely in terms of sampling and statistical significance is no longer defensible or functional” (45). Using the available student course feedback, anonymous end-of-term course evaluations, and other available information, this case study account offers an example of what Merriam terms a “narrative description” (51), which seeks to offer readers the opportunity to engage and “learn vicariously from an encounter with the case” (Merriam 51) in question. This may, we propose, be particularly productive for other educators since what is “learn[ed] in a particular case can be transferred to similar situations” (Merriam 51). Breaking Ground exhibition, CQUniversity Noosa Exhibition Space, 2014. Photo by Ulrike Sturm. Background The Graduate Certificate of Creative Industries (Creative Practice) (CQU ‘CB82’) was developed in 2011 to meet the national Australian Quality Framework agency’s Level 8 (Graduate Certificate) standards in terms of what is called in their policies, the “level” of learning. This states that, following the program, graduates from this level of program “will have advanced knowledge and skills for professional or highly skilled work and/or further learning … [and] will apply knowledge and skills to demonstrate autonomy, well-developed judgment, adaptability and responsibility as a practitioner or learner” (AQF). The program was first delivered in 2012 and, since then, has been offered both two and three terms a year, attracting small numbers of students each term, with an average of 8 to 12 students a term. To meet these requirements, such programs are sometimes developed to provide professional and work-integrated learning tasks and learning outcomes for students (Patrick et al., Smith et al.). In this case, professionally relevant and related tasks and outcomes formed the basis for the program, its learning tasks, and its assessment regime. To this end, each student enrolled in this program works on an individual, self-determined (but developed in association with the teaching team and with feedback from peers) creative/professional project that is planned, developed, and delivered across one term of study for full- time students and two terms for part- timers. In order to ensure the AQF-required professional-level outcomes, many projects are designed and/or developed in partnership with professional arts institutions and community bodies. Partnerships mobilised utilised in this way have included those with local, state, and national bodies, including the local arts community, festivals, and educational support programs, as well as private business and community organisations. Student interaction with curation occurs regularly at art schools, where graduate and other student shows are scheduled as a regular events on the calendar of most tertiary art schools (Al-Amri), and the curated exhibition as an outcome has a longstanding tradition in tertiary fine arts education (Webb, Brien, and Burr). Yet in these cases, it is ultimately the creative work on show that is the focus of the learning experience and assessment process, rather than any focus on engagement with the curatorial process itself (Dally et al.). When art schools do involve students in the curatorial process, the focus usually still remains on the students' creative work (Sullivan). Another interaction with curation is when students undertaking a tertiary-level course or program in museum, and/or curatorial practice are engaged in the process of developing, mounting, and/or critiquing curated activities. These programs are, however, very small in number in Australia, where they are only offered at postgraduate level, with the exception of an undergraduate program at the University of Canberra (‘215JA.2’). By adopting “the exhibition” as a component of the learning process rather than its end product, including documentation of students’ work in progress as exhibition pieces, and incorporating it into a more general creative industries focused program, we argue that the curatorial experience can become an interactive learning platform for students ranging from diverse creative disciplines. The Student Experience Students in the program under consideration in this case study come from a wide spectrum of the creative industries, including creative writing, film, multimedia, music, and visual arts. Each term, at least half of the enrolments are distance students. The decision to establish an on-campus exhibition space was an experimental strategy that sought to bring together students from different creative disciplines and diverse locations, and actively involve them in the exhibition development and curatorial process. As well as their individual project work, the students also bring differing levels of prior professional experience to the program, and exhibit a wide range of learning styles and approaches when developing and completing their creative works and exegetical reflections. To cater for the variations listed above, but still meet the program milestones and learning outcomes that must (under the program rules) remain consistent for each student, we employed a multi-disciplinary approach to teaching that included strategies informed by Gardner’s theory of multiple intelligences (Gardner, Frames of Mind), which proposed and defined seven intelligences, and repeatedly criticised what he identified as an over-reliance on linguistic and logical indices as identifiers of intelligence. He asserted that these were traditional indicators of high scores on most IQ measures or tests of achievement but were not representative of overall levels of intelligence. Gardner later reinforced that, “unless individuals take a very active role in what it is that they’re studying, unless they learn to ask questions, to do things hands on, to essentially re-create things in their own mind and transform them as is needed, the ideas just disappear” (Edutopia). In alignment with Gardner’s views, we have noted that students enrolled in the program demonstrate strengths in several key intelligence areas, particularly interpersonal, musical, body-kinaesthetic, and spacial/visual intelligences (see Gardner, ‘Multiple Intelligences’, 8–18). To cater for, and further develop, these strengths, and also for the external students who were unable to attend university-based workshop sessions, we developed a range of resources with various approaches to hands-on creative tasks that related to the projects students were completing that term. These resources included the usual scholarly articles, books, and textbooks but were also sourced from the print and online media, guest speaker presentations, and digital sites such as You Tube and TED Talks, and through student input into group discussions. The positive reception of these individual project-relevant resources is evidenced in the class online discussion forums, where consecutive groups of students have consistently reflected on the positive impact these resources have had on their individual creative projects: This has been a difficult week with many issues presenting. As part of our Free Writing exercise in class, we explored ‘brain dumping’ and wrote anything (no matter how ridiculous) down. The great thing I discovered after completing this task was that by allowing myself to not censor my thoughts by compiling a writing masterpiece, I was indeed “free” to express everything. …. … I understand that this may not have been the original intended goal of Free Writing – but it is something I would highly recommend external students to try and see if it works for you (Student 'A', week 5, term 1 2015, Moodle reflection point). I found our discussion about crowdfunding particularly interesting. ... I intend to look at this model for future exhibitions. I think it could be a great way for me to look into developing an exhibition of paintings alongside some more commercial collateral such as prints and cards (Student 'B', week 6, term 1 2015, Moodle reflection point). In class I specifically enjoyed the black out activity and found the online videos exceptional, inspiring and innovating. I really enjoyed this activity and it was something that I can take away and use within the classroom when educating (Student 'C', week 8, term 1 2015, Moodle reflection point). The application of Gardner’s principles and strategies dovetailed with our framework for assessing learning outcomes, where we were guided by Boud’s seven propositions for assessment reform in higher education, which aim to “set directions for change, designed to enhance learning achievements for all students and improve the quality of their experience” (26). Boud asserts that assessment has most effect when: it is used to engage students in productive learning; feedback is used to improve student learning; students and teachers become partners in learning and assessment; students are inducted into the assessment practices of higher education; assessment and learning are placed at the centre of subject and program design; assessment and learning is a focus for staff and institutional development; and, assessment provides inclusive and trustworthy representation of student achievement. These propositions were integral to the design of learning outcomes for the exhibition. Teachers worked with students, individually and as a group, to build their capacity to curate the exhibition, and this included such things as the design and administration of invitations, and also the physical placement of works within the exhibition space. In this way, teachers and students became partners in the process of assessment. The final exhibition, as a learning outcome, meant that students were engaged in productive learning that placed both assessment and knowledge at the centre of subject and project design. It is a collation of creative pieces that embodies the class, as a whole; however, each piece also represents the skills and creativity of individual students and, in this way, are is a trustworthy representations of student achievement. While we aimed to employ all seven recommendations, our main focus was on ensuring that the exhibition, as an authentic learning experience, was productive and that the students were engaged as responsible and accountable co-facilitators of it. These factors are particularly relevant as almost all the students were either currently working, or planning to work, in their chosen creative field, where the work would necessarily involve both publication, performance, and/or exhibition of their artwork plus collaborative practice across disciplinary boundaries to make this happen (Brien). For this reason, we provided exhibition-related coursework tasks that we hoped were engaging and that also represented an authentic learning outcome for the students. Student Curatorship In this context, the opportunity to exhibit their own works-in-progress provided an authentic reason, with a deadline, for students to both work, and reflect, on their creative projects. The documentation of each student’s creative process was showcased as a stand-alone exhibition piece within the display. These exhibits not only served not only to highlight the different learning styles of each student, but also proved to inspire creativity and skill development. They also provided a working model whereby students (and potential enrollees) could view other students’ work and creative processes from inception to fully-realised project outcomes. The sample online reflections quoted above not only highlight the effectiveness of the online content delivery, but this engagement with the online forum also allowed remote students to comment on each other’s projects as well as to and respond to issues they were encountering in their project planning and development and creative practice. It was essential that this level of peer engagement was fostered for the curatorial project to be viable, as both internal and external students are involved in designing the invitation, catalogue, labels, and design of the space, while on-campus students hang and label work according to the group’s directions. Distance students send in items. This is a key point of this experiment: the process of curating an exhibition of work from diverse creative fields, and from students located thousands of kilometres apart, as a way of bringing cohesion to a diverse cohort of students. That cohesiveness provided an opportunity for authentic learning to occur because it was in relation to a task that each student apparently understood as personally, academically, and professionally relevant. This was supported by the anonymous course evaluation comments, which were overwhelmingly positive about the exhibition process – there were no negative comments regarding this aspect of the program, and over 60 per cent of the class supplied these evaluations. This also met a considerable point of anxiety in the current university environment whereby actively engaging students in online learning interactions is a continuing issue (Dixon, Dixon, and Axmann). A key question is: what relevance does this curatorial process have for a student whose field is not visual art, but, for instance, music, film, or writing? By displaying documentation of work in progress, this process connects students of all disciplines with an audience. For example, one student in 2014 who was a singer/songwriter, had her song available to be played on a laptop, alongside photographs of the studio when she was recording her song with her band. In conjunction with this, the cover artwork for her CD, together with the actual CD and CD cover, were framed and exhibited. Another student, who was also a musician but who was completing a music history project, sent in pages of the music transcriptions he had been working on during the course. This manuscript was bound and exhibited in a way that prompted some audience members to commented that it was like an artist’s book as well as a collection of data. Both of these students lived over 1,000 kilometres from the campus where the exhibition was held, but they were able to share with us as teaching staff, as well as with other students who were involved in the physical setting up of the exhibition, exactly how they envisaged their work being displayed. The feedback from both of these students was that this experience gave them a strong connection to the program. They described how, despite the issue of distance, they had had the opportunity to participate in a professional event that they were very keen to include on their curricula vitae. Another aspect of students actively participating in the curation of an exhibition which features work from diverse disciplines is that these students get a true sense of the collaborative interconnectedness of the disciplines of the creative industries (Brien). By way of example, the exhibit of the singer/songwriter referred to above involved not only the student and her band, but also the photographer who took the photographs, and the artist who designed the CD cover. Students collaboratively decided how this material was handled in the exhibition catalogue – all these names were included and their roles described. Breaking Ground exhibition, CQUniversity Noosa Exhibition Space, 2014. Photo by Ulrike Sturm. Outcomes and Conclusion We believe that the curation of an exhibition and the delivery of its constituent components raises student awareness that they are, as creatives, part of a network of industries, developing in them a genuine understanding of the way the creating industries works as a profession outside the academic setting. It is in this sense that this curatorial task is an authentic learning experience. In fact, what was initially perceived as a significant challenge—, that is, exhibiting work in progress from diverse creative fields—, has become a strength of the curatorial project. In reflecting on the experiences and outcomes that have occurred through the implementation of this example of curatorial practice, both as a learning tool and as a creative outcome in its own right, a key positive indicator for this approach is the high level of student satisfaction with the course, as recorded in the formal, anonymous university student evaluations (with 60–100 per cent of these completed for each term, when the university benchmark is 50 per cent completion), and the high level of professional outcomes achieved post-completion. The university evaluation scores have been in the top (4.5–5/.5) range for satisfaction over the program’s eight terms of delivery since 2012. Particularly in relation to subsequent professional outcomes, anecdotal feedback has been that the curatorial process served as an authentic and engaged learning experience because it equipped the students, now graduates, of the program with not only knowledge about how exhibitions work, but also a genuine understanding of the web of connections between the diverse creative arts and industries. Indeed, a number of students have submitted proposals to exhibit professionally in the space after graduation, again providing anecdotal feedback that the experience they gained through our model has had a sustaining impact on their creative practice. While the focus of this activity has been on creative learning for the students, it has also provided an interesting and engaging teaching experience for us as the program’s staff. We will continue to gather evidence relating to our model, and, with the next iteration of the exhibition project, a more detailed comparative analysis will be attempted. At this stage, with ethics approval, we plan to run an anonymous survey with all students involved in this activity, to develop questions for a focus group discussion with graduates. We are also in the process of contacting alumni of the program regarding professional outcomes to map these one, two, and five years after graduation. We will also keep a record of what percentage of students apply to exhibit in the space after graduation, as this will also be an additional marker of how professional and useful they perceive the experience to be. In conclusion, it can be stated that the 100 per cent pass rate and 0 per cent attrition rate from the program since its inception, coupled with a high level (over 60 per cent) of student progression to further post-graduate study in the creative industries, has not been detrimentally affected by this curatorial experiment, and has encouraged staff to continue with this approach. References Al-Amri, Mohammed. “Assessment Techniques Practiced in Teaching Art at Sultan Qaboos University in Oman.” International Journal of Education through Art 7.3 (2011): 267–282. AQF Levels. Australian Qualifications Framework website. 18 June 2015 ‹http://www.aqf.edu.au/aqf/in-detail/aqf-levels/›. Boud, D. Student Assessment for Learning in and after Courses: Final Report for Senior Fellowship. Sydney: Australian Learning and Teaching Council, 2010. 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Dally, Kerry, Allyson Holbrook, Miranda Lawry and Anne Graham. “Assessing the Exhibition and the Exegesis in Visual Arts Higher Degrees: Perspectives of Examiners.” Working Papers in Art & Design 3 (2004). 27 June 2015 ‹http://sitem.herts.ac.uk/artdes_research/papers/wpades/vol3/kdabs.html›. Degree Shows, Sydney College of the Arts. 2014. 18 June 2015 ‹http://sydney.edu.au/sca/galleries-events/degree-shows/index.shtml› Dixon, Robert, Kathryn Dixon, and Mandi Axmann. “Online Student Centred Discussion: Creating a Collaborative Learning Environment.” Hello! Where Are You in the Landscape of Educational Technology? Proceedings ASCILITE, Melbourne 2008. 256–264. Donmoyer, Robert. “Generalizability and the Single-Case Study.” Case Study Method: Key Issues, Key Texts. Eds. Roger Gomm, Martyn Hammersley, and Peter Foster. 2000. 45–68. Falk, J.H. “Assessing the Impact of Exhibit Arrangement on Visitor Behavior and Learning.” Curator: The Museum Journal 36.2 (1993): 133–146. 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In 1981, Mattel introduced America’s first Asian Barbie as “Oriental Barbie”, described as “dainty and elegant … [in a] long, slender yellow dress”, with hair “pulled back to display her lovely face” (“Oriental Barbie”). Oriental Barbie is purportedly from Hong Kong, yet she is simultaneously marketed to represent the entire Orient in a homogenising, stigmatising manner that exemplifies Robert Park’s concept of the “racial uniform”. The back of Oriental Barbie’s box provides vague, generalising descriptions of “the Orient” that imply the purported superiority of the Occident: “in this part of the world, we eat rice with our meals rather than bread or potatoes. We use chopsticks for eating instead of knives and forks . … Chinese is a picture language … . Below are some examples for you to try” (“Dolls of the World Oriental”). Particularly with the invitation to “try” Chinese, Mattel invites consumers to participate in what Kevin Powell calls the “cultural safari”, a term that, broadly construed, suggests a “fascination with a facet of another’s culture” (Kasulis). Michael Kimmel notes that such fascination is safe precisely because “you can ‘take [the cultural experience] off’”. Although Mattel begins to produce ethnically specific Asian Barbies in 1982, Ann duCille remarks, “these quick-and-dirty ethnographies only enhance the extent to which these would-be multicultural dolls treat race and ethnic difference like collectibles, contributing more to commodity culture than to the intercultural awareness they claim to inspire” (“Dyes and dolls” 52-53). Because of this blatant cultural marginalisation of race and ethnicity that has been produced for years as a site of foreignness from within the predominantly cisgender, heterosexual, white United States and Barbie universe, I seek to explore how Mattel has perpetuated Orientalism through the production and marketing of Asian Barbies within their Dolls of the World series. The cultural marginalisation that Mattel creates through the marketing of Asian Barbies is accomplished under the pretense of increasing public knowledge and prompting intercultural awareness, which is stated on the back of Oriental Barbie’s box in a very literal interpretation of Powell’s cultural safari: “come visit the Orient. I know you will find it exotic and interesting”. The back of the box also contains a “miniature cultural history and language lessons” (duCille, “Black Barbie” 341) for the consumer to “try” with each doll from the Dolls of the World series. The particular “language lesson” featured with Oriental Barbie are Chinese characters that Mattel deems a fitting example of Chinese as a “picture language”. Interestingly enough, an exceedingly domestic overtone is at play with the selected characters: 媽 (mother), 爸 (father), 你 (“you”, but the masculine version of the pronoun), 房 (house), 玩 (play), 愛 (love), 喜 (joy), and 吃 (eat). The image of playing house and of a presumably heteronormative nuclear family seems to be strongly insinuated with this choice of characters. Furthermore, Mattel equates the Orient with “joy” by featuring the character 喜 (joy) alongside the word “Orient” on the front of the box. In observing the Oriental Barbie box, which states “Meet Barbie from Hong Kong” on the front and depicts the Hong Kong Dollar as “the Oriental currency” on the side, it is worth considering why Mattel chose Hong Kong as the home of Oriental Barbie. For one, Oriental Barbie is not entirely Asian in the sense that Hong Kong was occupied at the time of the doll’s release in 1981, which further complicates the issue of authenticity of racial and ethnic representation. Recalling the United States’ political relations with various Asian countries from the 1970s to the early 1980s may further contextualise Mattel’s decision to make Hong Kong the home of Oriental Barbie, as well as their choices behind which Asian countries to make an ethnic Barbie for. In the 1970s, Nixon’s ping-pong diplomacy had opened up previously fraught diplomatic relations between the U.S. and China. This change in diplomatic relations also facilitated increased cultural exchange between the two countries. In 1981—the year of Oriental Barbie’s debut and the year Reagan’s presidency began—Hong Kong was a popular U.S. tourist destination in Asia (Crouch 72-73). At the beginning of the 1980s, the Reagan administration’s decision to resist the Soviet Union also impacted on its diplomatic relations with Asian countries such as India, Japan, and China, each of which had varying opinions on how to deal with the U.S.S.R. (Greene 1). Despite differences in political stances, Mattel produced a Barbie for all three countries: India Barbie in 1982, Japanese Barbie in 1985, and Chinese Barbie over a decade later in 1994. Even 1994, the production year of Chinese Barbie, reflects the tensions between the U.S. and China in the early 1980s over the former’s arms sales to Taiwan and the two powers’ burgeoning partnership for “science and technology cooperation” in the 1990s (Minami 88). Contextualising Mattel’s potential reasoning for the particular production of these Asian Barbies allows us to understand why Mattel would want to offer educational content on these particular Asian “countries” (here a simulacrum with Oriental Barbie) to their primarily North-American based audience. Even then, Mattel’s intent to educate consumers through the reductiveness of their ethnographies contradicts itself, because the cultural marginalisation that results from the marketing and selling of Asian Barbies and the impact it has on the marginalised leads to a “self-contradiction inherent to the claims of civic functions (of furthering knowledge and enabling public enlightenment)—that accompany all imperialist establishments, even … apparently innocent ones” (Chow 95). Indeed, the “innocent” imperialist establishment of the child’s Barbie doll is not so innocent, as Jenny Wills reminds us: “sentimental, picturesque, and childhood playthings are not benign or devoid of serious racialized implications” (Wills 190). In fact, the name of “Oriental Barbie” or any other Asian Barbie “implies her difference, her not-quite-Barbieness”, which Wills first points out with the name of “Black Barbie”. Mattel demarcated a clear distinction between ethnic Barbies and white Barbies when it created and marketed the name of Oriental Barbie and other Asian Barbies. The positioning of Asian Barbies as an ethnic alternative thus creates what Wills calls a “scripted violence”, in which the relationship between white Barbie and ethnic Barbies “scripts racial inferiority upon those Other dolls and the subjects they are meant to celebrate and reflect” (Wills 189). The vitality of collecting ethnic Barbies as a business is deeply troubling, then, as it demonstrates both Mattel’s success in marketing Asian Barbies as an exoticised other and the many collectors who readily accept and contribute to this narrative. In fact, duCille reveals that “Mattel’s ethnic dolls — particularly those in its Dolls of the World series — are designed and marketed at least as much with adult collectors in mind as with little girls” (“Black Barbie” 339). Mattel media-relations director Donna Gibbs tells duCille that the ethnic dolls are actually marketed more towards adults, “‘although appropriate for children’” (“Black Barbie” 339). Gibbs lays out how Mattel strategically releases only “two or three different nations or cultures [for the Dolls of the World series] each year”, produces these “premium value” dolls in short supply in order to generate a competitive market for them, then retires them from the market after selling them for a mere one to two years (“Black Barbie” 339). Sure enough, Mattel’s marketing strategy proved successful: Westenhouser notes in The Story of Barbie that “the Oriental mold is a popular face mold to which collectors respond favorably” (Westenhouser 27). Because of Mattel’s strategic issuing of only two to three ethnic Barbies per year, “each year it becomes a collectors’ guessing game as to what countries will be this year’s additions” (Westenhouser 119). As a result, Mattel experienced a massive boost in sales through the marketing of the ethnic Barbie as a collectible. The treatment of race and ethnic difference as a commodified collectible rather than as genuine intercultural awareness is best evidenced by Mattel’s choice to produce Oriental Barbie—and all subsequent Asian Barbies, save for India Barbie—by using the same “Oriental Face Sculpt”. The “Oriental Face Sculpt” was introduced alongside the debut of Oriental Barbie in 1981, and although later productions of Asian Barbies in the Dolls of the World series expanded to specifically represent different Asian countries, such as Japan, China, and Korea, each Asian Barbie still used the same Oriental Face Sculpt. Augustyniak writes, “many new head molds have debuted since 1977, offering more variety and ethnic diversity” (8). When we observe the history of Barbie face sculpts, however, we find that many face sculpts have easily been produced of white Barbie over the years, with face sculpts even being made in honor of specific fashion designers or events, such as the 2013 Karl Lagerfeld, the 1991 Bob Mackie, and the 2008 Kentucky Derby. Meanwhile, the titular Barbie’s first two Asian friends both use the Oriental Sculpt: Miko (1986-1989), who is Pacific Islander (“Miko”) but was discontinued and replaced by Kira (1985-2001), who is allegedly of Japanese or Vietnamese heritage (“Kira”). These characters have only the Oriental Face Sculpt to represent their ethnic background, which itself remains ill-defined. With the plethora of face sculpts that have been produced over the years for white Barbies, one may be led to ponder why Mattel has not been willing to exert the same amount of effort to properly represent Asian Barbies. This is because for Mattel, profit always precedes any other motive, including racial and ethnic representation. As duCille explains, “the cost of mass-producing dolls to represent the heterogeneity of the world would be far greater than either corporation or consumer would be willing to pay” (“Black Barbie” 337). Hence, in order to generate profit, “racial and cultural diversity — global heterogeneity — must be reducible to … common, reproducible denominators” (“Black Barbie” 340). The Oriental Face Sculpt, then, is a result of all the “common, reproducible denominators” that Mattel deemed financially profitable enough to use as their attempt at racial and ethnic representation. The way that Mattel markets ethnic and cultural differences for Asian Barbies in addition to the use of the Oriental Face Sculpt, then, is through variations in skin colour and dress. For instance, Japanese Barbie, Korean Barbie, and Chinese Barbie all use the same Oriental Face Sculpt. The only notable differences between these dolls are the colour of their skin, the clothes that they wear, and their hairstyle. Indeed, duCille writes, while “today Barbie dolls come in a rainbow coalition of colors, races, ethnicities, and nationalities, all of those dolls look remarkably like the stereotypical white Barbie, modified only by a dash of color and a change of clothes” (Skin Trade 38). The uniformness of modularity with face sculpts, coupled with Mattel’s paltry efforts of merely altering the skin colour and clothing of each Asian Barbie, exemplifies Immanuel Wallerstein’s argument that “ethnicization must … be linked to the racism specific to the operations of modern capitalism with its twin objectives of maximizing profits and minimizing production costs” (qtd. in Chow 34). As a corporate giant, Mattel would not be enticed by the idea of adding “more complex, less easily commodified distinctions”, because these distinctions would require additional forms of manufacturing that complicate production and thus do not maximise profits for the corporate body (“Black Barbie” 340). Consequently, “ethnic reproductions [of Asian Barbies] ... simply [melt down and add on] a reconstituted other without transforming the established social order, without changing the mould” (“Black Barbie” 337-8). Mattel’s failure to provide racial and ethnic representation through Asian Barbies is best demonstrated, however, by a case study of India Barbie. India Barbie was released in 1982 as one of the first Asian Barbies, following the 1981 release of Oriental Barbie. Interestingly enough, India Barbie is the only Asian Barbie who was not created with the Oriental Face Sculpt. Instead, she has the Steffie face mold, which has been used with dolls such as: the titular Barbara Millicent Roberts, Midge, and Summer, who are all white; Teresa, who was introduced as Barbara’s first Latina friend in 1988; Christie, who became the first black Barbie in 1980 (“Steffie”); Hawaiian Barbie (1975) (Westenhouser 135); and Mexican Barbie (1989) (Westenhouser 121). Therefore, Mattel created India Barbie with a racially and ethnically ambiguous face sculpt that has also been used to depict white Barbies, which demonstrates the “relational proximity (or similarity) to [India Barbie’s] white doll counterparts” (Wills 189). The sari that India Barbie wears is additionally problematic in that it is worn inaccurately. Further, on the back side of the India Barbie (1982) box we see exoticising and othering language that insinuates the superiority of the Occident, as is the case for Oriental Barbie’s introduction. The way in which India Barbie is dressed with her sari is a far cry from how the sari is properly worn. What is also of interest is that India Barbie is wearing red and gold, which are colours typically only worn at Indian weddings. This sartorial choice may, at a first glance, be interpreted as yet another culturally insensitive blunder of Mattel’s, but when India Barbie’s outfit is considered alongside Japanese Barbie, who wears a red wedding kimono, and Malaysian Barbie, who also wears the semblance of a wedding garment, these choices of outfit begin to call into question why Mattel repeatedly decides to dress Asian Barbies in wedding attire. Mattel’s affinity for dressing Asian Barbies in bridal outfits can likely be explained by the corporation’s sales of wedding-affiliated Barbies, which have been some of the historically best-selling dolls in the Barbie universe. In the image caption for the Wedding Day Set (1959), which features the first Barbie wedding gown, Westenhouser notes, “always the top selling [Barbie] garment … is the wedding gown” (32). In Westenhouser’s view, Barbies wearing wedding gowns remain the best seller each year (32) because “every little girl dreams of the perfect romantic wedding and Barbie makes that fairytale come alive” (32). From a capitalist standpoint, then, Mattel is simply capitalising upon the supposedly widespread demand for Barbies in wedding dresses, and Mattel can only further ensure the financial success of Asian Barbies by choosing to dress Barbies such as India Barbie in semblances of wedding attire, even if these outfits are not culturally accurate or fully representative. Aside from the matter of dressing India Barbie in a red and gold sari, there is also the question of why Mattel chooses to focus on descriptions of Asian Barbies’ hair so heavily, including that of India Barbie. For instance, with the India Barbie and Japanese Barbie, Mattel uses nearly identical phrasing of the doll’s hair being pulled back to reveal the “delicate features” of her face. India Barbie’s description reads: “her long brown hair is pulled back, accenting her delicate features” (“India Barbie”), while Japanese Barbie’s description reads: “her black hair is pulled away from her face and tied with a red and white hairband” (“Japanese Barbie”). This diction first appears in Oriental Barbie’s product description, and it is especially interesting to consider why Mattel might emphasise the entirety of an Asian Barbie’s face being shown, almost as if to suggest that her face is so exotic that it needs to be fully on display for the consumer to get a proper look at the exotic “other’s” face. It seems that with Mattel’s emphasis on the entirety of the Asian Barbie’s face being revealed, ethnicity becomes “the site of a foreignness” that is a privileged society’s way of “projecting into some imaginary outside elements it seems foreign and inferior” (Chow 34-5). Throughout our case study of numerous Asian Barbies, Mattel’s portrayal of racial and ethnic difference has always been in a highly performative manner that has only been superficially signified through changes in skin colour and dress and the near-perpetual use of the exoticising Oriental Face Sculpt. These othering and fetishising attempts at multicultural representation create, as Wills argues, “exoticized difference, of deferred subjectivity; racial progressiveness [that] can be purchased and played with” (Wills 189) then cast off, as Powell’s notion of the cultural safari allows us to understand. Critically, Mattel markets these Orientalist depictions of racial, ethnic, and cultural identity as “marketable difference[s]” (Wills 189) that the white consumer can supposedly try on with ease and just as easily remove. Thus, with the production and marketing of Asian Barbies and other ethnic dolls, Mattel never truly accomplishes a healthy and helpful extension of the individual child as Ruth Handler envisioned all Barbies to be—instead, the corporate body only perpetuates a narrative of racial inferiority and the casting of Asian Barbie dolls (and, by extension, the Asian cultures, geographical locations, and populations that Mattel claims to represent) as the Other. References Augustyniak, J. Michael. Collector’s Encyclopedia of Barbie Doll Exclusives: Identification & Values, 1972-2004. Collector Books, 2005. 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Introduction From the annual ‘Pink Test’ cricket match in Australia to Mother’s Day fun runs, there has been a proliferation of ‘pink’ uniformed charity events. This article analyses the pink uniform of the 2020 Cancer Council Tasmania’s Women’s first virtual 5K walk/run (W5K). The Women’s 5K event took take place virtually in September 2020 due to COVID-19 restrictions. The annual event, which runs through the CBD of Launceston, a regional city in Tasmania, typically attracts around 2,000 participants and is Cancer Council Tasmania’s major annual fundraiser. Cancer Council received 798 registrations for the 2020 virtual event and raised over $120,000. Locating the W5K pink uniform within the emergence of “embodied philanthropy” (Robert), this article analyses how pink uniforms were used by virtual walkers and runners to recreate the mass affective and community spectacle of the usually in-person event. Drawing upon Vilnai-Yavert and Rafaeli’s artifacts framework, the article extends the concept of “embodied philanthropy” to outline the instrumental, symbolic and aesthetic dimensions of the pink sports charity uniform. While acknowledging the risks of “pinkwashing” in reproducing narrow gender ideals and bright-siding cancer, the article argues the pink uniform was vital in staging a meaningful and impactful virtual event. Sports Uniforms Uniforms are central to the formation and expression of collective and organisational identities (Craik; Timmons and East; Joseph and Alex). The classic sociological articulation of uniforms is that they function to define boundaries, ensure conformity, and suppress individuality. Sport provides a key space to analyse how uniforms discipline individuals and bodies but also challenge and reject rules and bodily regulations. Sport is a window to examine how uniforms involve a tension between both tradition and innovation and regulation and experimentation (Craik 139). While research has examined sport fans and team uniforms there is little research on the sport charity uniform. Much of the sociological literature on sporting uniforms focusses on male football fans. Back et al. point out that “the notion of “wearing the shirt” summons the “deepest level of symbolic identity and commitment” (82). For dedicated fans, wearing their team’s apparel is a potent and embodied “emblem of locality and identity” (82). More recent research has focussed on the ways in which sporting uniforms can be used in social movements and political protest. These include the inclusion of LGBTQI ‘rainbow’ tops in basketball (Bagley and Liao) and the ways in which Serena Williams’s clothing choices were used to challenge traditional race, class and gender assumptions in tennis (Allen). Redressing the skewed focus on uniforms among male sports fans, Sveinson, Hoeber, and Toffoletti argue that pink merchandise and clothing are cultural artifacts worn and conceptualised by female fans as representing different aspects of their identity. Their findings show that women who follow professional sports teams tend to reject “pink and pretty” offerings, as they reproduce a traditional view of femininity that delegitimatises their fan identity. This laden symbolism is critical to understanding the pink uniform of the W5K. Pinkification of Cancer One of the most well-known aspects of the pink uniform is the “pink ribbon” campaign. Ribbon wearers acknowledge that they are connected to cancer in some way; as a survivor, a friend or relative, or as advocates committed to the medical research needed to find a cure for breast (and other) cancers. Moore’s ‘ribbon culture’ identifies four main symbolic uses of the ribbon: show solidarity with a cause or group; tool for community campaigns; a token of mourning; or to display ‘self-awareness’ in the wearer. The emergence of the pink uniform in sports charity can be linked to the Susan G Komen foundation, one of the early pioneers of cause-related marketing and the founder of the Race for the Cure, the earliest of sports charity events (Palmer). King suggests the colour pink was chosen for race merchandise as it conveyed traditional notions of femininity and was part of the Foundation’s strategy of normalising discussion of breast cancer. The associations between pink, breast cancer, and identity categories of women (mother, sister, daughter, etc.) have been key to the fundraising success of Komen, largely because they were implicitly positioned in opposition to other health promotion campaigns (e.g., AIDS) also competing for market attention in the 1980s and 1990s. While AIDS was associated with “deviant” identities of gay men, drug users, and sex workers, breast cancer was made visible “through straight, White, married, young to middle aged women” (King 107). Since this time many men’s sporting leagues and events globally have partnered with breast cancer and other “pink” initiatives. In Australia, the annual ‘Pink Test’ cricket match raises money for breast cancer care nurses, while in the US NFL players wear pink socks and gloves. The proliferation of pink events and associated merchandise has led to criticisms of “pinkwashing” (Lyon and Montgomery 223), whereby corporations exploit pink branding to promote products which contribute very little – if anything at all – to cancer research, education, and advocacy efforts (Carter; Devlin and Sheehan). Sociologists like Ehrenreich and Moore have been critical of this “pinkification”, suggesting that it “bright-sides” breast cancer – by relentlessly emphasising a positive resolve – while simultaneously amplifying concerns about the illness. Rather than “awareness raising”, Moore suggests the close association of pink ribbon culture with consumer beauty and fitness products (e.g., Estee Lauder; LessBounce sports bras) reinforces narrow ideals of femininity, but also adds to the pervasive dread of breast cancer in relation to these same ideals (for example, via chemotherapy-induced hair loss and mastectomies). The following section introduces the theoretical framework. Embodied Philanthropy and Material Artifacts Julie Robert’s “embodied philanthropy” provides a useful theoretical starting point for analysing the pink uniform of sports charity. Robert (1) describes embodied philanthropy as part of a cultural movement where people "pledge their bodies to raise funds for and awareness of a variety of causes". Embodied philanthropy often relies on the body to publicly display altruism and one’s own ‘will to health’. Embodied philanthropy thus offers a highly visible means of modeling “good citizenship”, particularly in practicing both care of the self and civic minded entrepreneurialism (Wade et al.). While embodied philanthropy draws attention to the body and its emerging role in charitable endeavours, it overlooks how material “things” such as clothes, costumes, and uniforms are integral to the embodied performances characteristic of sports charity events. Vilnai-Yavetz and Rafaeli’s interdisciplinary organisational artifacts framework provides a useful way to extend Robert’s focus on the body in philanthropy to include embodied artifacts such as uniforms and clothing. For this article, artifacts are conceptualised as material objects such as pink t-shirts, ribbons, and hats purposely worn for W5K participation and fundraising. Vilnai-Yavetz and Rafaeli posit three dimensions through which organisational artifacts produce meaning: 1) instrumentality: the “impact of an artifact on the tasks or goals of people, groups, or organisations” (12); 2) aesthetics: the “sensory experience an artifact elicits” (12); and 3) symbolism: the “meanings and associations an artifact elicits” (14). Vilnai-Yavetz and Rafaeli’s model offers a way of conceptualising the embodied role of uniform for understanding more short-term or ephemeral types of sporting community, such as the “neo-tribes” (Maffesoli) that form around fitness philanthropy events (e.g. annual fun runs). How then do people understand the role of the pink uniform when participating in sports charity events? What role does the pink uniform play instrumentally, aesthetically, and symbolically? Do cancer charities need to rethink their use of pink considering concerns about pinkwashing, bright-siding cancer, and reproducing constrictive gender ideals? The following section uses the findings from a wider qualitative interview-based study on motivations and experiences of participating and fundraising in the 2020 virtual W5 to help answer these questions. The interview sample comprised 12 women and one man with an age range of 32 to 75. Transcribed interviews were thematically analysed, guided by the theoretical framework. Recreating the ‘Sea of Pink’: Instrumental, Symbolic, and Aesthetic Dimensions of the Pink Sports Charity Uniform Most participants framed their virtual participation in terms of missing the in-person spectacle of the “sea of pink running through the streets” (Emily). In the context of this mass “absence” of pink, wearing and displaying artifacts such as pink T-shirts, ribbons, bandanas, hats, face paint, and dyed hair were assembled as an “informal” sports charity uniform. The following participants capture this creative use of the pink uniform: I had the pink shirt and then we had pink hats and my neighbour who’s had cancer came and she had pink on. (Grace) I decked myself out in pink and all the number and whatever else and yeah, I had a great time by myself. I had music going and yeah … I think I might have even had pink hair at the time. (Leah) These descriptions evoke Robert’s claim that embodied philanthropy leans heavily on the “showiness of the body for philanthropic ends” (4). However, rather than moralised displays of suffering or neoliberal models of self-responsibility, the pink uniform plays out as part of a rejection of more ‘elite’ forms of embodied philanthropy with the emphasis on ‘fun’, ‘play’, and ‘enjoyment’. The pink uniform figures as a rejection of martyr-like displays and expectations commonly observed in other forms of embodied philanthropy, with participants not expected to suffer for the cause but rather to gather, play, remember, and celebrate. Building on uniform as a feature of embodied philanthropy, the following section uses Vilnai-Yavetz and Rafaeli’s framework to analyse the instrumental, symbolic, and aesthetic dimensions of the W5K pink uniform. Instrumental Dimensions Instrumentality relates to how artifacts serve to achieve individual and organisational goals (Vilnai-Yavetz and Rafeili). Three key instrumental functions of the pink uniform can be identified in the participants’ stories. First, wearing and displaying artifacts such as pink T-shirts and hair-dye enabled participants to become producers of their own sports charity events. As Elizabeth said: “I would happily wear my t-shirt and do my own fun run”. Displaying the pink uniform enabled participants to stage their own “micro” fitness philanthropy event in the absence of the “sea of pink”. The pink uniform was central to participants and organisers being able to produce and stage individualised embodied philanthropy events without the corporeal ‘mass’ of the mass-participation event. Second, the pink uniform helped participants simulate the affective spectacle, ritual, and “neo-tribal” warmth (Maffesoli) of the face-to-face event. The pink uniform was key to producing a sense of ritualised ‘atmosphere’ and generating feelings of connection and solidarity. The shift to a virtual format meant greater reliance on participants producing imagery of their participation to generate a sense of online community and affective spectacle. Social media affordances, including the use of the #doitforher hashtag, were vital to creating this collective affect. Without sharing and circulating imagery of the pink uniform through social media, organisers would have struggled to host a meaningful and viable event. Chloe commented how “I felt the presence with the online kind of sharing of other people’s experiences, quite motivating and really wonderful … just being out and seeing other people in a sea of pink and doing their version of the event was quite special”. Third, participants used their own creative labour to craft and display pink uniforms that expressed their connection to the cause (fighting cancer) and organisation (Cancer Council). In Robert’s terms, the pink uniform transformed the body into a charitable “billboard” and “income generator”. For example, Penelope discussed how their running club made their own t-shirts for their event – complete with individual nicknames –, while Elizabeth described how they designed a stamp that featured a picture of herself wearing a Cancer Council t-Shirt to publicise the event. This echoes aforementioned claims that ‘wearing the shirt’ establishes symbolic identity and commitment. However, rather than generating feelings of allegiance to a club, the pink shirt expressed connection with the cause or organisation while also serving advocacy purposes. As Chloe said: “just getting out there in the pink top is raising awareness”. The t-shirt also operated as a communicator of “good citizenship”, implicitly enjoining others to support the cause (Palmer). Elizabeth, for instance, described wearing her pink Cancer Council T-shirt to an aged care facility where she volunteers to solicit “a couple of extra donations”, while Katie and Sandra explained how they wore pink shirts during their walk/runs as a way of gaining recognition and showing others “you’re doing that good work”. Symbolic Dimensions The pink charity uniform had powerful symbolic functions for participants. Participants discussed how wearing pink was linked to honouring loved ones who had died from cancer. Leah discussed how she ran her event wearing the same pink ribbon she wore at the funeral of her friend’s mother, who died from breast cancer. This aligns with Moore’s research, where ribbon wearing to signify mourning proves one of the key symbolic uses of ribbon culture. Zoe similarly expressed the links between wearing pink and rituals of reminiscence: “we both made sure we had some pink on … as we walked, we talked about [their friend] and her battle and why we were doing it … we were thinking of who we were walking for”. Pink was also worn by survivors of breast cancer such as Sandra who walked with her mum (also a breast cancer survivor) and friends: “we all had pink stuff. We painted pink on our faces. Walked the main road when we knew there was going to be a lot of traffic … so people could see us dressed in pink”. Sandra described “walking the streets with pink love hearts on our faces” as her most memorable moment of the event. While “pink ribbon culture” and the wider “pinkification” of cancer has been critiqued as “brightsiding” cancer and reinforcing narrow ideals of femininity (Ehrenreich; Moore), it is hard to deny the symbolic power of pink for these participants as a means to mourn, remember, and celebrate survivorship. The meaning of pink clothing as a gendered marker was also important in this research. While Sveinson et al. highlight problems that female sports fans have with pink merchandising, this was not an issue for the charity participants. There was a congruence between wearing pink and participants’ charitable identities. Despite pink being a close signifier of breast cancer fundraising (King), participants reflected on the importance of the W5K in supporting all cancers, particularly as breast cancer attracts “more donations” (Sandra) and “gets a lot of attention in the media” (Maureen). However, W5K’s pink branding did lead some participants, like Greg, to mistakenly believe the event is a “breast cancer race”, despite the target audience being all Tasmanians impacted upon by cancer. The feminine associations of pink – coupled with the event name – also meant some participants were unclear whether men could participate. Katie said “I love that they have the pink colouring” but it “wasn’t obvious to me that both men and women could do the walk”. Katie showed how there can be an incongruence between masculine identities and the “pink run” uniform. She commented: “my Dad was a bit reticent about wearing pink ...but he was willing to take it for the team for the day”. While Greg said he was a “metrosexual man” and “didn’t mind wearing a bit of pink”, he agreed the pink uniform created a strong impression the W5K was a “women’s only race”. Both Katie and Greg suggested that organisers should look to include more men wearing pink as part of promotional materials. Unlike Sveinson et al., who showed a tension between pink clothing and women’s fan identities, in the W5K men and women were generally comfortable wearing pink due to its higher-order symbolism as part of “fighting” cancer and “doing something good”. More widely, these findings highlight the unstable gendered meanings of pink and that rather than the pinkification of cancer simply reinforcing narrow gender ideals, it may also open possibilities, particularly for men, to express inclusive and ‘caring’ masculinities (Elliott). Aesthetic Dimensions The Cancer Council actively encourages fun and creativity in costumes for the W5K event. Images of this irreverent costuming and effervescent spectacle are re-circulated via social media to promote future participation. This is illustrated in the image below from Cancer Council’s Instagram account: Fig. 1: Instagram post by the Cancer Council While pink clothing is encouraged by the Cancer Council, individual comfort and expression is emphasised in efforts to make the event as inclusive as possible. Hence, some participants – especially ‘serious’ runners – dress in purely utilitarian modes, opting for pink running singlets, shorts, tights etc., while others embrace comically non-utilitarian styles, such as wearing tutus, feather boas, fairy wings, colourful wigs, face paint, or dyed hair. Unlike comparable events – like Nike’s women’s-only ‘She Runs the Night’ event, where all participants were required to wear identical Nike-branded pink singlets or t-shirts – the Cancer Council’s W5K encourages individual expression and creativity in clothing and adornments. In short, a kind of non-uniformity of uniform is actively promoted, so long as these displays can still be captured and circulated as signifiers of support for the cause. While the aesthetics of the ‘sea of pink’ inevitability reproduce narrow gendered tropes, it also resists others, including the ‘tailored modesty, neatness, demureness’ (Craik 13) expected of women in uniform, along with burdensome cultural ideals around the ‘fit’ and ‘feminine’ body. The lighthearted, intentionally comical pinkification – while introducing ambiguities about whether the W5K is a women’s only event – does potentially make it easier for men to participate, enabling them to shake off any stereotypical assumptions related to wearing ‘unmasculine’ colours and clothing. Greg said that ‘while I don’t think I wore pink on the day … I would’ve been happy to put some pompons on, and really jazz it up!’ Conclusion Using Cancer Council Tasmania’s first virtual 5k walk-run as an empirical case-study, the article discusses creative pink adornments as a unique sports charity uniform. Locating the pink uniform within the rise of global “pink events” and initiatives, the article suggests that the pink uniform provides a new lens to examine the material role of uniforms beyond existing research in the sociology of sport and leisure. Theoretically the article positions the emergence of the pink charity uniform as part of Robert’s “embodied philanthropy”. A key theoretical argument is that while Robert’s framework helps grasp the push toward the body-as-signifier in mass participation fundraising events, it downplays the role material artifacts such as clothing play in embodied sporting performances. It is suggested that Vilnai-Yavetz and Rafaeli’s organisational artifacts model provides a useful way to attend to the extra-corporeal aspects of “embodied philanthropy”, underlining the instrumental, symbolic, and aesthetic dimensions of uniforms as artifacts. Empirically the article highlights three key instrumental uses of the pink uniform for W5K participants. First, the uniform enabled participants to produce their own charity event; second, it helped recreate the affective spectacle and “neo-tribal” (Maffesoli) warmth of the physical event; and third, the uniform expressed connection to the cause or organisation and turned the body into a “charitable billboard” (Robert). Symbolically, the uniform, via practices such as wearing pink ribbons, helped foster rituals of mourning and remembrance. Notwithstanding persuasive critiques of pinkwashing, participants celebrated the use of pink, though some felt it sent an ambiguous message about whether men were welcome. Nonetheless, there was little identity incongruence between wearing pink and expressing sports charity identities. These findings highlight how the gendered meaning of pink artefacts are fluid and thus challenge ideas that the pinkification of cancer simply reinforces narrow gender ideals. For example, the men interviewed show how pink artefacts may work to symbolically and materially challenge traditional gendered orthodoxies and even help men express more progressive gendered identities. Aesthetically a “non-uniformity of uniform” was promoted, with the pink uniform working as a loosely aggregated symbolic system accommodating both utilitarian and non-utilitarian styles. While many theorists have raised concerns about the pinkification of cancer – both in its insistent positivity discourses and reproducing narrow gendered ideals – the aesthetics of the pink uniform in the W5K were overwhelmingly celebrated and embraced as light-hearted and fun: as material artifacts key to a joyously inclusive and community-building spectacle. References Back, Les, Tim Crabbe, and John Solomos. The Changing Face of Football: Racism, Identity and Multiculture in the English Game. Berg, 2001. Bagley, Meredith M., and Judy Liao. "Blocked Out: Athletic Voices and WNBA Uniform Politics." Sportswomen’s Apparel in the United States. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2021. 57-74. Carter, Meg. "Backlash against 'Pinkwashing' of Breast Cancer Awareness Campaigns." BMJ: British Medical Journal 351 (2015). Craik, Jennifer. Uniforms Exposed: From Conformity to Transgression. Berg, 2005. Crawford, Garry. "The Career of the Sport Supporter: The Case of the Manchester Storm." Sociology 37.2 (2003): 219-237. Devlin, Michael, and Kim Sheehan. "A 'Crucial Catch': Examining Responses to NFL teams’ Corporate Social Responsibility Messaging on Facebook." Communication & Sport 6.4 (2018): 477-498. Ehrenreich, Barbara. Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America. Metropolitan Books, 2009. Fawbert, J. "Replica Football Shirts: A Case of Incorporation of Popular Dissent?" Social Science Teacher 27 (1997): 9-13. Joseph, Nathan, and Nicholas Alex. "The Uniform: A Sociological Perspective." American Journal of Sociology 77.4 (1972): 719-730. King, Samantha. "Pink Ribbons Inc.: The Emergence of Cause-Related Marketing and the Corporatization of the Breast Cancer Movement." Governing the Female Body: Gender, Health, and Networks of Power (2010): 85-111. Lyon, Thomas P., and A. Wren Montgomery. "The Means and End of Greenwash." Organization & Environment 28.2 (2015): 223-249. Moore, Sarah E.H. Ribbon Culture: Charity, Compassion and Public Awareness. Palgrave, 2008. Maffesoli, Michel. The Time of the Tribes. The Decline of Individualism in Mass Society. Sage, 1996. Palmer, C. Fitness Philanthropy: Sport, Charity and Everyday Giving. Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2020. Robert, J. "Practices and Rationales of Embodied Philanthropy. International Journal of Nonprofit and Voluntary Sector Marketing 23.3 (2018): e1595. Shaonta’E, Allen. "Braids, Beads, Catsuits and Tutus: Serena Williams' Intersectional Resistance through Fashion." Athlete Activism. Routledge, 2021. 132-143. Sveinson, Katherine, Larena Hoeber, and Kim Toffoletti. "'If People Are Wearing Pink Stuff They’re Probably Not Real Fans': Exploring Women’s Perceptions of Sport Fan Clothing." Sport Management Review 22.5 (2019): 736-747. Timmons, Stephen, and Linda East. "Uniforms, Status and Professional Boundaries in Hospital." Sociology of Health & Illness 33.7 (2011): 1035-1049. Wade, Matthew, Nicholas Hookway, Kevin Filo, and Catherine Palmer. “Embodied Philanthropy and Sir Captain Tom Moore's 'Walk for the NHS'.” Journal of Philanthropy and Marketing 27.3 (2022): e1747. Vilnai-Yavetz, Iris, and Anat Rafaeli. "Managing Artifacts to Avoid Artifact Myopia". Artifacts and Organizations: Beyond Mere Symbolism. Eds. Anat Rafaeli and Michael G Pratt. Lawrence Erlbaum, 2006. 9–21.

Photo by 187929822 © Victor Moussa | Dreamstime.com INTRODUCTION The nonconsensual taking of a human organ to use in transplantation medicine violates ethical principles, including autonomy, informed consent, and human rights, as well as criminal laws. When such an organ harvesting is not just nonconsensual, but performed in a way that causes a death or uses the pretense of brain death without meeting the criteria, it also violates the dead donor[1] rule.[2] The dead donor rule is both ethical and legal. It prevents organ retrieval that would predictably cause the death of the organ donor.[3] Retrieval of a vital organ is permissible only after a declaration of death.[4] Forced organ harvesting may breach the dead donor rule as it stands. A reimagined, broader dead donor rule could consider a larger timeframe in the forced organ harvesting context. In doing so, the broad dead donor rule could cover intent, premeditation, aiding and abetting, and due diligence failures. A broad definition of forced organ harvesting is ‘‘the removal of one or more organs from a person by means of coercion, abduction, deception, fraud, or abuse of power. . .’’[5] A more targeted definition is “[t]he killing of a person so that their organs may be removed without their free, voluntary and informed consent and transplanted into another person.”[6] In the global organ harvesting context, forced organ harvesting violates the World Health Organization (WHO) Guiding Principle 3, which says “live organ donors should be acting willingly, free of any undue influence or coercion.”[7] Furthermore, WHO states live donors should be “genetically, legally, or emotionally” attached to the recipient. Guiding Principle 1 applies to deceased donors, covers consent, and permits donation absent any known objections by the deceased.[8] Principle 7 says, “Physicians and other health professionals should not engage in transplantation procedures, and health insurers and other payers should not cover such procedures if the cells, tissues or organs concerned have been obtained through exploitation or coercion of, or payment to, the donor or the next of kin of a deceased donor.”[9] There are underground markets in which organ hunters prey on the local poor in countries with low wages and widespread poverty[10] and human trafficking that targets migrants for the purpose of organ harvesting.[11] This paper explores forced harvesting under the backdrop of the dead donor rule, arguing that a human rights violation so egregious requires holding even distant participants in the chain of events accountable. By interfering with resources necessary to carry out bad acts, legislation and corporate and institutional policies can act as powerful deterrents. A broader dead donor rule would highlight the premeditation and intent evidenced well before the act of organ retrieval. I. Background and Evidence In China, there is evidence that people incarcerated for religious beliefs and practices (Falun Gong) and ethnic minorities (Uyghurs) have been subjects of forced organ harvesting. A tribunal (the China Tribunal) found beyond a reasonable doubt that China engaged in forced organ harvesting.[12] Additionally, eight UN Special Rapporteurs found a system of subjecting political prisoners and prisoners of conscience to blood tests and radiological examinations to determine the fitness of their organs.[13] As early as 2006, investigators found evidence of forced organ harvesting from Falun Gong practitioners. [14] Over a million Uyghurs are in custody there, and there is ample evidence of biometric data collection.[15] An Uyghur tribunal found evidence of genocide.[16] “China is the only country in the world to have an industrial-scale organ trafficking practice that harvests organs from executed prisoners of conscience.”[17] Witnesses testified to the removal of organs from live people without ample anesthesia,[18] summonses to the execution grounds for organ removal,[19] methods of causing death for the purpose of organ procurement,[20] removing eyes from prisoners who were alive,[21] and forcing live prisoners into operating rooms.[22] The current extent of executions to harvest organs from prisoners of conscience in China is unknown. The Chinese press has suggested surgeons in China will perform 50,000 organ transplants this year.[23] Doctors Against Forced Organ Harvesting (DAFOR) concluded, “[f]orced organ harvesting from living people has occurred and continues to occur unabated in China.”[24] China continues to advertise in multiple languages to attract transplant tourists.[25] Wait times for organs seem to remain in the weeks.[26] In the United States, it is common to wait three to five years.[27] II. The Nascent System of Voluntary Organ Donation in China In China, throughout the 1990s and early 2000s, the supply of organs for transplant was low, and there was not a national system to register as a donor. A 1984 act permitted death row prisoners to donate organs.[28] In 2005, a Vice Minister acknowledged that 95 percent of all organ transplants used organs from death row prisoners.[29] In 2007 the planning of a voluntary system to harvest organs after cardiac death emerged. According to a Chinese publication, China adopted brain death criteria in 2013.[30] There had been public opposition due partly to cultural unfamiliarity with it.[31] Cultural values about death made it more difficult to adopt a universal brain death definition. Both Buddhist and Confucian beliefs contradicted brain death.[32] Circulatory death was traditionally culturally accepted.[33] The Ministry of Health announced that by 2015 organ harvesting would be purely voluntary and that prisoners would not be the source of organs.[34] There are cultural barriers to voluntary donation partly due to a Confucian belief that bodies return to ancestors intact and other cultural and religious beliefs about respect for the dead.[35] An emphasis on family and community over the individual posed another barrier to the Western approach to organ donation. Public awareness and insufficient healthcare professional knowledge about the process of organ donation are also barriers to voluntary donation.[36] Although the Chinese government claims its current system is voluntary and no longer exploits prisoners,[37] vast evidence contradicts the credibility of the voluntary transplant program in China.[38] III. Dead Donor Rule: A Source of Bioethical Debate It seems tedious to apply this ethical foundation to something as glaring as forced organ harvesting. But the dead donor rule is a widely held recognition that it is not right to kill one person to save another.[39] It acts as a prohibition on killing for the sake of organ retrieval and imposes a technical requirement which influences laws on how death is declared. The dead donor rule prevents organ harvesting that causes death by prohibiting harvesting any organ which the donor agreed to donate only after death prior to an official declaration of death. There is an ongoing ethical debate about the dead donor rule. Many in bioethics and transplant medicine would justify removing organs in specific situations prior to a declaration of death, abandoning the rule.[40] Some use utilitarian arguments to justify causing the death of someone who is unconscious and on life support irreversibly. Journal articles suggest that the discussion has moved to one of timing and organ retrieval.[41] Robert Truog and Franklin Miller are critics of the dead donor rule, arguing that, in practice, it is not strictly obeyed: removing organs while a brain-dead donor is still on mechanical ventilation and has a beating heart and removing organs right after life support is removed and cardio-pulmonary death is declared both might not truly meet the requirement of the dead donor rule, making following the rule “a dubious norm.”[42] Miller and Truog question the concept of brain death, citing evidence of whole body integrated functions that continue indefinitely. They challenge cardio-pulmonary death, asserting that the definition includes as dead, those who could be resuscitated. Their hearts could resume beating with medical intervention. Stopping life support causes death only in those whose lives are sustained by it. Some stipulate that the organ retrieval must not itself cause the death. Some would rejigger the cause of death: Daniel Callahan suggests that the underlying condition causes the death despite removal of life support.[43] But logically, a person could continue life support and be alive, so clearly, removing life support does cause death. Something else would have caused brain death or the circumstance that landed the person on mechanical ventilation. To be more accurate, one could say X caused the irreversible coma and removing life support caused the death itself. Miller and Truog take the position that because withdrawal of life support does cause death, the dead donor rule should be defunct as insincere. To them, retrieving vital organs from a technically alive donor should be permissible under limited conditions. They look to the autonomous choices of the donor or the surrogate (an autonomy-based argument). They appreciate the demand for organs and the ability to save lives, drawing attention to those in need of organs. Live donor organ retrieval arguably presents a slippery slope, especially if a potential donor is close to death, but not so close to label it imminent. They say physicians would not be obligated to follow the orders of a healthy person wishing to have vital organs removed, perhaps to save a close friend or relative. Similarly, Radcliffe-Richards, et al. argue that there is no reason to worry about the slippery slope of people choosing death so they can sell their vital organs, whether for money for their decedents or their creditors.[44] The movement toward permissibility and increased acceptance of medical aid in dying also influence the organ donation arena. The slippery slope toward the end of life has potential to become a realistic concern. Older adults or other people close to death may want to donate a vital organ, like their heart, to a young relative in need. That could greatly influence the timing of a decision to end one’s life. IV. Relating the Dead Donor Rule to Forced Organ Harvesting There is well documented evidence that in China organs have been removed before a declaration of death.[45] But one thing the dead donor rule does not explicitly cover is intent and the period prior to the events leading to death. It tends to apply to a near-death situation and is primarily studied in its relationship to organ donation. It is about death more than it is about life. Robertson and Lavee investigated data on transplantation of vital organs in China and they document cases where the declaration of death was a pretense, insincere, and incorrect. Their aim was to investigate whether the prisoners were in fact dead prior to organ harvesting.[46] (The China Tribunal found that organs have been removed from live prisoners and that organ harvesting has been the cause of death.) They are further concerned with the possible role of doctors as executioners, or at least as complicit in the execution as the organ harvesting so closely follows it. V. A Broader Dead Donor Rule A presumed ethical precursor to the dead donor rule may also be an important ethical extension of the rule: the dead donor rule must also prohibit killing a person who is not otherwise near death for the purpose of post-death organ harvesting. In China, extra-judicial killings of prisoners of conscience are premeditated ― there is ample evidence of blood tests and radiology to ensure organ compatibility and health.[47] To have effective ethical force, the dead donor rule should have an obvious application in preventing intentional killing for an organ retrieval, not just killing by way of organ retrieval. When we picture the dead donor rule, bioethicists tend to envision a person on life support who will either be taken off it and stop breathing or who will be declared brain dead. But the dead donor rule should apply to healthy people subject to persecution at the point when the perpetrator lays the ground for the later killing. At that point, many organizations and people may be complicit or unknowingly contributing to forced organ harvesting. In this iteration of the dead donor rule, complicity in its violations would be widespread. The dead donor rule could address the initial action of ordering a blood or radiology test or collecting any biometric data. Trained physicians and healthcare technicians perform such tests. Under my proposed stretch of the dead donor rule, they too would be complicit in the very early steps that eventually lead to killing a person for their organs. I argue these steps are part of forced organ harvesting and violate the dead donor rule. The donor is very much alive in the months and years preceding the killing. A conspiracy of indifference toward life, religious persecution, ethnic discrimination, a desire to expand organ transplant tourism, and intent to kill can violate this broader dead donor rule. The dead donor rule does not usually apply to the timing of the thought of organ removal, nor the beginning of the chain of events that leads to it. It is usually saved for the very detailed determination of what may count as death so that physicians may remove vital and other organs, with the consent of the donor.[48] But I argue that declaring death at the time of retrieval may not be enough. Contributing to the death, even by actions months or years in advance, matter too. Perhaps being on the deathbed awaiting a certain death must be distinguished from going about one’s business only to wind up a victim of forced organ harvesting. Both may well be declared dead before organ retrieval, but the likeness stops there. The person targeted for future organ retrieval to satisfy a growing transplant tourism business or local demand is unlike the altruistic person on his deathbed. While it may seem like the dead donor rule is merely a bioethics rule, it does inform the law. And it has ethical heft. It may be worth expanding it to the arena of human trafficking for the sake of organ removal and forced organ harvesting.[49] The dead donor rule is really meant to ensure that death was properly declared to protect life, something that must be protected from an earlier point. VI. Complicity: Meaning and Application Human rights due diligence refers to actions that people or institutions must take to ensure they are not contributing to a human rights violation. To advise on how to mitigate risk of involvement or contribution to human rights violations, Global Rights Compliance published an advisory that describes human rights due diligence as “[t]he proactive conduct of a medical institution and transplant-associated entity to identify and manage human rights risks and adverse human rights impacts along their entire value and supply chain.”[50] Many people and organizations enable forced organ harvesting. They may be unwittingly complicit or knowingly aiding and abetting criminal activity. For example, some suppliers of medical equipment and immunosuppressants may inadvertently contribute to human rights abuses in transplantation in China, or in other countries where organs were harvested without consent, under duress, or during human trafficking. According to Global Rights Compliance, “China in the first half of 2021 alone imported ‘a total value of about 24 billion U.S. dollars’ worth of medical technology equipment’, with the United States and Germany among the top import sources.”[51] The companies supplying the equipment may be able to slow or stop the harm by failing to supply necessary equipment and drugs. Internal due diligence policies would help companies analyze their suppliers and purchasers. Corporations, educational institutions, and other entities in the transplantation supply chain, medical education, insurance, or publishing must engage in human rights due diligence. The Global Rights Compliance advisory suggests that journals should not include any ill-gotten research. Laws should regulate corporations and target the supply chain also. All actors in the chain of supply, etc. are leading to the death of the nonconsenting victim. They are doing so while the victim is alive. The Stop Forced Organ Harvesting Act of 2023, pending in the United States, would hold any person or entity that “funds, sponsors, or otherwise facilitates forced organ harvesting or trafficking in persons for purposes of the removal of organs” responsible. The pending legislation states that: It shall be the policy of the United States—(1) to combat international trafficking in persons for purposes of the removal of organs;(2) to promote the establishment of voluntary organ donation systems with effective enforcement mechanisms in bilateral diplomatic meetings and in international health forums;(3) to promote the dignity and security of human life in accordance with the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, adopted on December 10, 1948; and(4) to hold accountable persons implicated, including members of the Chinese Communist Party, in forced organ harvesting and trafficking in persons for purposes of the removal of organs.[52] The Act calls on the President to provide Congress a list of such people or entities and to sanction them by property blocking, and, in the case of non-US citizens, passport and visa denial or revocation. The Act includes a reporting requirement under the Foreign Assistance Act of 1961 that includes an assessment of entities engaged in or supporting forced organ harvesting.[53] The law may have a meaningful impact on forced organ harvesting. Other countries have taken or are in the process of legal approaches as well.[54] Countries should consider legislation to prevent transplant tourism, criminalize complicity, and require human rights due diligence. An expanded dead donor rule supports legal and policy remedies to prevent enabling people to carry out forced organ harvesting. VII. Do Bioethicists Mention Human Rights Abuses and Forced Organ Harvesting Enough? As a field, bioethics literature often focuses on the need for more organs, the pain and suffering of those on organ transplant waitlists, and fairness in allocating organs or deciding who belongs on which waitlist and why. However, some bioethicists have drawn attention to forced organ harvesting in China. Notably, several articles noted the ethical breaches and called on academic journals to turn away articles on transplantation from China as they are based on the unethical practice of executing prisoners of conscience for their organs.[55] The call for such a boycott was originally published in a Lancet article in 2011.[56] There is some acknowledgement that China cares about how other countries perceive it,[57] which could lead to either improvements in human rights or cover-ups of violations. Ill-gotten research has long been in the bioethics purview with significant commentary on abuses in Tuskegee and the Holocaust.[58] Human research subjects are protected by the Declaration of Helsinki, which requires acting in the best interests of research subjects and informed consent among other protections.[59] The Declaration of Helsinki is directed at physicians and requires subjects enroll in medical research voluntarily. The Declaration does not explicitly cover other healthcare professionals, but its requirements are well accepted broadly in health care. CONCLUSION The dead donor rule in its current form really does not cover the life of a non-injured healthy person at an earlier point. If it could be reimagined, we could highlight the link between persecution for being a member of a group like Falun Gong practitioners or Uyghurs as the start of the process that leads to a nonconsensual organ retrieval whether after a proper declaration of death or not. It is obviously not ethically enough to ensure an execution is complete before the organs are harvested. It is abuse of the dead donor rule to have such a circumstance meet its ethical requirement. And obviously killing people for their beliefs or ethnicity (and extra-judicial killings generally) is not an ethically acceptable action for many reasons. The deaths are intentionally orchestrated, but people and companies who may have no knowledge of their role or the role of physicians they train or equipment they sell are enablers. An expanded dead donor rule helps highlight a longer timeframe and expanded scope of complicity. The organ perfusion equipment or pharmaceuticals manufactured in the United States today must not end up enabling forced organ harvesting. With an expanded ethical rule, the “donor is not dead” may become “the donor would not be dead if not for. . .” the host of illegal acts, arrests without cause, forced detention in labor camps, extra-judicial killings, lacking human rights due diligence, and inattention to this important topic. The expanded dead donor rule may also appeal to the bioethics community and justify more attention to laws and policies like the Stop Forced Organ Harvesting Act of 2023. - [1] The word “donor” in this paper describes any person from whom organs are retrieved regardless of compensation, force, or exploitation in keeping with the bioethics literature and the phrase “dead donor rule.” [2] Robertson, M.P., Lavee J. (2022). Execution by organ procurement: Breaching the dead donor rule in China. Am J Transplant, Vol.22,1804– 1812. doi:10.1111/ajt.16969. [3] Robertson, J. A. (1999). Delimiting the donor: the dead donor rule. Hastings Center Report, 29(6), 6-14. [4] Retrieval of non-vital organs which the donor consents to donate post-death (whether opt-in, opt-out, presumed, or explicit according to local law) also trigger the dead donor rule. [5] The Stop Forced Organ Harvesting Act of 2023, H.R. 1154, 118th Congress (2023), https://www.congress.gov/bill/118th-congress/house-bill/1154. [6] Do No Harm: Mitigating Human Rights Risks when Interacting with International Medical Institutions & Professionals in Transplantation Medicine, Global Rights Compliance, Legal Advisory Report, April 2022, https://globalrightscompliance.com/project/do-no-harm-policy-guidance-and-legal-advisory-report/. [7] WHO Guiding Principles on Human Cell, Tissue and Organ Transplantation, as endorsed by the sixty-third World Health Assembly in May 2010, in Resolution WHA63.22 https://apps.who.int/iris/bitstream/handle/10665/341814/WHO-HTP-EHT-CPR-2010.01-eng.pdf?sequence=1. [8] WHO Guiding Principles on Human Cell, Tissue and Organ Transplantation (2010). [9] WHO Guiding Principles on Human Cell, Tissue and Organ Transplantation (2010). [10] Promchertchoo, Pichayada (Oct. 19, 2019). Kidney for sale: Inside Philippines’ illegal organ trade. https://www.channelnewsasia.com/asia/kidney-for-sale-philippines-illegal-organ-trade-857551; Widodo, W. and Wiwik Utami (2021), The Causes of Indonesian People Selling Covered Kidneys from a Criminology and Economic Perspective: Analysis Based on Rational Choice Theory. European Journal of Political Science Studies, Vol 5, Issue 1. [11] Van Reisen, M., & Mawere, M. (Eds.). (2017). Human trafficking and trauma in the digital era: The ongoing tragedy of the trade in refugees from Eritrea. African Books Collective. [12] The Independent Tribunal into Forced Organ Harvesting from Prisoners of Conscience in China (China Tribunal) (2020). https://chinatribunal.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/ChinaTribunal_JUDGMENT_1stMarch_2020.pdf [13] UN Office of the High Commissioner, Press Release, China: UN human Rights experts alarmed by ‘organ harvesting’ allegations (UN OTHCHR, 14 June 2021), https://www.ohchr.org/en/press-releases/2021/06/china-un-human-rights-experts-alarmed-organ-harvesting-allegations. [14] David Matas and David Kilgour, Bloody Harvest. The killing of Falun Gong for their organs (Seraphim Editions 2009). [15] How China is crushing the Uyghurs, The Economist, video documentary, July 9, 2019, https://youtu.be/GRBcP5BrffI. [16] Uyghur Tribunal, Judgment (9 December 2021) (Uyghur Tribunal Judgment) para 1, https://uyghurtribunal.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/01/Uyghur-Tribunal-Judgment-9th-Dec-21.pdf. [17] Ali Iqbal and Aliya Khan, Killing prisoners for transplants: Forced organ harvesting in China, The Conversation Published: July 28, 2022. https://theconversation.com/killing-prisoners-for-transplants-forced-organ-harvesting-in-china-161999 [18] Testimony demonstrated surgeries to remove vital organs from live people, killing them, sometimes without ample anesthesia to prevent wakefulness and pain. China Tribunal (2020), p. 416-417. https://chinatribunal.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/ChinaTribunal_JUDGMENT_1stMarch_2020.pdf; Robertson MP, Lavee J. (2022), Execution by organ procurement: Breaching the dead donor rule in China. Am J Transplant, Vol.22,1804– 1812. doi:10.1111/ajt.16969. [19] Doctors reported being summoned to execution grounds and told to harvest organs amid uncertainty that the prisoner was in fact dead. China Tribunal (2020), p. 52-53. [20]In testimony to the China Tribunal, Dr. Huige Li noted four methods of organ harvesting from live prisoners: incomplete execution by shooting, after lethal injection prior to death, execution by removal of the heart, and after a determination of brain death prior to an intubation (pretense of brain death). China Tribunal (2020), pp. 54-55. https://chinatribunal.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/03/ChinaTribunal_JUDGMENT_1stMarch_2020.pdf [21] A former military medical student described removing organs from a live prisoner in the late 1990s. He further described his inability to remove the eyes of a live man and his witnessing another doctor forcefully remove the man’s eyes. China Tribunal (2020), p. 330. [22] In 2006, a nurse testified that her ex-husband, a surgeon, removed the eyes of 2,000 Falun Gong practitioners in one hospital between 2001 and 2003. She described the Falun Gong labor-camp prisoners as being forced into operating rooms where they were given a shot to stop their hearts. Other doctors removed other organs. DAFOH Special Report, 2022. https://epochpage.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/3/2022/12/DAFOH-Special-Report-2022.pdf [23] Robertson MP, Lavee J. (2022), Execution by organ procurement: Breaching the dead donor rule in China. Am J Transplant, Vol.22,1804– 1812. doi:10.1111/ajt.16969. [24] DAFOH Special Report, 2022. https://epochpage.com/wp-content/uploads/sites/3/2022/12/DAFOH-Special-Report-2022.pdf; DAFOH’s physicians were nominated for a Nobel Prize for their work to stop forced organ harvesting. Šućur, A., & Gajović, S. (2016). Nobel Peace Prize nomination for Doctors Against Forced Organ Harvesting (DAFOH) - a recognition of upholding ethical practices in medicine. Croatian medical journal, 57(3), 219–222. https://doi.org/10.3325/cmj.2016.57.219 [25] Robertson and Lavee (2022). [26] Stop Organ Harvesting in China, website (organization of the Falun Dafa). https://www.stoporganharvesting.org/short-waiting-times/ [27] National Kidney Foundation, The Kidney Transplant Waitlist – What You Need to Know, https://www.kidney.org/atoz/content/transplant-waitlist [28] Wu, Y., Elliott, R., Li, L., Yang, T., Bai, Y., & Ma, W. (2018). Cadaveric organ donation in China: a crossroads for ethics and sociocultural factors. Medicine, 97(10). [29] Wu, Elliott, et al., (2018). [30] Su, Y. Y., Chen, W. B., Liu, G., Fan, L. L., Zhang, Y., Ye, H., ... & Jiang, M. D. (2018). An investigation and suggestions for the improvement of brain death determination in China. Chinese Medical Journal, 131(24), 2910-2914. [31] Huang, J., Millis, J. M., Mao, Y., Millis, M. A., Sang, X., & Zhong, S. (2012). A pilot programme of organ donation after cardiac death in China. The Lancet, 379(9818), 862-865. [32] Yang, Q., & Miller, G. (2015). East–west differences in perception of brain death: Review of history, current understandings, and directions for future research. Journal of bioethical inquiry, 12, 211-225. [33] Huang, J., Millis, J. M., Mao, Y., Millis, M. A., Sang, X., & Zhong, S. (2015). Voluntary organ donation system adapted to Chinese cultural values and social reality. Liver Transplantation, 21(4), 419-422. [34] Huang, Millis, et al. (2015). [35] Wu, X., & Fang, Q. (2013). Financial compensation for deceased organ donation in China. Journal of Medical Ethics, 39(6), 378-379. [36] An, N., Shi, Y., Jiang, Y., & Zhao, L. (2016). Organ donation in China: the major progress and the continuing problem. Journal of biomedical research, 30(2), 81. [37] Shi, B. Y., Liu, Z. J., & Yu, T. (2020). Development of the organ donation and transplantation system in China. Chinese medical journal, 133(07), 760-765. [38] Robertson, M. P., Hinde, R. L., & Lavee, J. (2019). Analysis of official deceased organ donation data casts doubt on the credibility of China’s organ transplant reform. BMC Medical Ethics, 20(1), 1-20. [39] Miller, F.G. and Sade, R. M. (2014). Consequences of the Dead Donor Rule. The Annals of thoracic surgery, 97(4), 1131–1132. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.athoracsur.2014.01.003 [40] For example, Miller and Sade (2014) and Miller and Truog (2008). [41] Omelianchuk, A. How (not) to think of the ‘dead-donor’ rule. Theor Med Bioeth 39, 1–25 (2018). https://doi-org.ezproxy.cul.columbia.edu/10.1007/s11017-018-9432-5 [42] Miller, F.G. and Truog, R.D. (2008), Rethinking the Ethics of Vital Organ Donations. Hastings Center Report. 38: 38-46. [43] Miller and Truog, (2008), p. 40, citing Callahan, D., The Troubled Dream of Life, p. 77. [44] Radcliffe-Richards, J., Daar, A.S., Guttman, R.D., Hoffenberg, R., Kennedy, I., Lock, M., Sells, R.A., Tilney, N. (1998), The Case for Allowing Kidney Sales, The Lancet, Vol 351, p. 279. (Authored by members of the International Forum for Transplant Ethics.) [45] Robertson and Lavee, (2022). [46] Robertson and Lavee, (2022). [47] China Tribunal (2020). [48] Consent varies by local law and may be explicit or presumed and use an opt-in or opt-out system and may or may not require the signoff by a close family member. [49] Bain, Christina, Mari, Joseph. June 26, 2018, Organ Trafficking: The Unseen Form of Human Trafficking, ACAMS Today, https://www.acamstoday.org/organ-trafficking-the-unseen-form-of-human-trafficking/; Stammers, T. (2022), "2: Organ trafficking: a neglected aspect of modern slavery", Modern Slavery and Human Trafficking, Bristol, UK: Policy Press. https://bristoluniversitypressdigital.com/view/book/978144736. [50] Do No Harm: Mitigating Human Rights Risks when Interacting with International Medical Institutions & Professionals in Transplantation Medicine, Global Rights Compliance, Legal Advisory Report, April 2022, https://globalrightscompliance.com/project/do-no-harm-policy-guidance-and-legal-advisory-report/. [51] Global Rights Compliance, p. 22. [52] The Stop Forced Organ Harvesting Act of 2023, H.R. 1154, 118th Congress (2023). https://www.congress.gov/bill/118th-congress/house-bill/1154. [53] The Stop Forced Organ Harvesting Act of 2023, H.R. 1154, 118th Congress (2023), https://www.congress.gov/bill/118th-congress/house-bill/1154. [54] Global Rights Compliance notes that Belgium, France (passed law on human rights due diligence in the value supply chain), United Kingdom, United States, Canada, Australia, and New Zealand have legal approaches, resolutions, and pending laws. p. 45. [55] For example, Caplan, A.L. (2020), The ethics of the unmentionable Journal of Medical Ethics 2020;46:687-688. [56] Caplan, A.L. , Danovitch, G., Shapiro M., et al. (2011) Time for a boycott of Chinese science and medicine pertaining to organ transplantation. Lancet, 378(9798):1218. doi:10.1016/S0140-6736(11)61536-5 [57] Robertson and Lavee. [58] Smolin, D. M. (2011). The Tuskegee syphilis experiment, social change, and the future of bioethics. Faulkner L. Rev., 3, 229; Gallin, S., & Bedzow, I. (2020). Holocaust as an inflection point in the development of bioethics and research ethics. Handbook of research ethics and scientific integrity, 1071-1090. [59] World Medical Association Declaration of Helsinki: Ethical Principles for Medical Research Involving Human Subjects, adopted by the 18th WMA General Assembly, Helsinki, Finland, June 1964, and amended multiple times, most recently by the 64th WMA General Assembly, Fortaleza, Brazil, October 2013. https://www.wma.net/policies-post/wma-declaration-of-helsinki-ethical-principles-for-medical-research-involving-human-subjects/