Articoli di riviste sul tema "SAID mnemonic"

Anatomy is considered the cornerstone of medical education; Anatomical knowledge is essential for doctors regardless of their specialty. Many articles have compared anatomy teaching methods.This study was designed to evaluate the usefulness of a simple mnemonic method for memorizing the carpal tunnel bones.Twenty-six physiotherapy students, 3rd year trainees in the rehabilitation and functional rehabilitation department, were included in this study,when A majority of students (63.7%) said they were satisfied with the mnemonic method .The influence of using mnemonic method for memorizing the anatomical region studied before or after the course positively influences the students' understanding of anatomy.Based on our experience and student feedback, we strongly advocate the use of the mnemonic method for memorization as a course adjacent in anatomy teaching

A well-formulated research question should incorporate the components of a ‘problem’, an ‘intervention’, a ‘control’, and an ‘outcome’—at least according to the PICO mnemonic. The utility of this format, however, has been said to be limited to clinical studies that pose ‘which’ questions demanding correlational study designs. In contrast, its suitability for descriptive approaches outside of clinical investigations has been doubted. This paper disagrees with the alleged limitations of PICO. Instead, it argues that the scheme can be used universally for every scientific endeavour in any discipline with all study designs. This argument draws from four abstract components common to every research, namely, a research object, a theory/method, a (null) hypothesis, and the goal of knowledge generation. Various examples of how highly heterogenous studies from different disciplines can be grounded in the single scheme of PICO are offered. The finding implies that PICO is indeed a universal technique that can be used for teaching academic writing in any discipline, beyond clinical settings, regardless of a preferred study design.

This research is a case study of the performance of the offering dance at the ISI Surakarta 51st Dies Natalis Ceremony (held on July 15th, 2015) by seven dancers. The seven dancers previously acted as leaders of the Senate procession, after the members of the senate sat in their seats, they danced to express the character of Bima so that it could be said that the dance was part of the ceremonial event. The sesaji dance is an expression of Bima's character, which in Javanese collective knowledge is a complex system of symbols. This phenomenon is approached through the constructivism paradigm, especially from the point of view of interpretivism where the methodological mission is to elaborate a reflective events. The research question posed is what constitutes a gift or alms in the Sapta Cipta Rasa Tunggal – title of that dance — as offering dance considering that offerings lexico-etymologically means giving alms or charity. Triangulative data as objects of observation are videos of dance performances via the YouTube platform, interviews with source persons, and library data. The conclusions drawn are: 1) this sesaji dance is a form of mnemonic (kinetic mnemonic) in the form of motion as a tool for reflective memory; 2) offering dance and imitation of the imaginary character in the kind of the Bima containing doxa – knowledge that does not need to be verified – that the ethical attitudes that humans should have are teteg, tatag, teguh, tanggon, and tanggap.

The problem of teaching the Kazakh language in our country is one of the most urgent. This direction currently requires optimization, systematization of this area, updating the methodology, increasing the number of experienced specialists and high-quality training content. Of course, it cannot be said that there is neither development nor change. There is development, and change, and result, but slower, with less result. The specialists who teach the Kazakh language also hone their experience and prepare educational content. It is known that this process is being carried out in the republic, starting from kindergartens and ending with schools, colleges, universities, language learning centers and private centers that teach the Kazakh language daily. Every citizen who teaches and studies the Kazakh language directly contributes to the expansion of the scope of the state language, improving the status of our language. Now it is very important that the methodology and training content that ensure the quality of these processes are constantly improved and updated in accordance with the rapid changes of time. To do this, every specialist of the Kazakh language should constantly look for scientific and methodological orientation, be able not only to master new technologies, but also to use them rationally in the classroom. In language teaching, it is very important that the teacher achieve a true result, i.e. be able to formulate the skills and abilities of the audience to speak Kazakh, write, read, listen and understand. The proposed article discusses various ways to achieve results in teaching the Kazakh language. The authors gave a scientific and theoretical description of mnemonic techniques that allow you to correctly memorize lexical and grammatical material, and suggested ways to use it effectively in language lessons. It is noted that the frequent use of these methods as an innovative technique in linguistics lessons makes it possible to improve the methodology and hone language experience.

Complex cognition relies on both on-line representations in working memory (WM), said to reside in the focus of attention, and passive off-line representations of related information. Here, we dissected the focus of attention by showing that distinct neural signals index the on-line storage of objects and sustained spatial attention. We recorded electroencephalogram (EEG) activity during two tasks that employed identical stimulus displays but varied the relative demands for object storage and spatial attention. We found distinct delay-period signatures for an attention task (which required only spatial attention) and a WM task (which invoked both spatial attention and object storage). Although both tasks required active maintenance of spatial information, only the WM task elicited robust contralateral delay activity that was sensitive to mnemonic load. Thus, we argue that the focus of attention is maintained via a collaboration between distinct processes for covert spatial orienting and object-based storage.

The password creation and management process presents a problem for users as secure passwords are not often very memorable, and memorable passwords are rarely secure (Adams & Sasse, 1999). Given that passwords are currently the dominant authentication method and that this situation is unlikely to change in the near future, it is imperative to continue to investigate the most effective password behaviors. Researchers have suggested that encouraging users to create passwords based on stories can be an effective method to improve password recall (Blocki, Komanduri, Cranor, & Datta, 2015). The Person-Action-Object (PAO) strategy has users create a password string based on a person they select from a predetermined list, which is later paired with an action and an object. Users are asked to imagine the person acting upon said object in a certain context. For instance, a user may imagine Darth Vader (person) bribing (action) a roach (object) among lily pads. The PAO method can help users circumvent much of the forgetting that happens soon after encoding a password. It has separately been suggested that processing pieces of information based on their relevance to one’s own fitness and survival can be the most advantageous type of processing for human memory (Nairne & Pandeirada, 2008; Nairne, Thompson, & Pandeirada, 2007). When paired against some of the most successful classic encoding techniques, processing information in regard to one’s survival has been demonstrated to be more effective (Nairne et al., 2007). The benefit provided by encoding items based on the survival-related context in comparison to similarly vivid contexts has come to be known as the survival processing advantage. Though the survival processing advantage has been found consistently across many memory studies, this advantage has not yet been studied in the context of improving memory for passwords. The present study is one of the first attempts aimed at applying what has been posed as a stone-age memory adaptation to modern-day cyber security issues. Participants were recruited from a university introductory psychology subject pool and participated in a two-part study in exchange for course credit. They were given instructions on how to use the PAO method and randomly assigned to one of two password generation conditions (i.e., vacation or survival). Depending on the context, participants were to imagine their selected person acting upon an item to ensure a successful vacation or their survival in a foreign land. The participants entered the passwords they generated into a simulated shopping website. Participants recalled their passwords after 2-min and 7-day delays. The present study found support for the PAO strategy, but did not find any systematic differences between the survival and vacation encoding conditions aimed at investigating a survival advantage beyond using the PAO strategy. In general, recall accuracy rates were very high across conditions. All participants either remembered their passwords without any mistakes or recalled almost the entirety of their passwords with relatively minor mistakes. The plausibility of implementing the PAO strategy in everyday life is further supported by subjective reports obtained on ease of recall and accuracy ratings. The manner in which participants misremembered their passwords was also systematic (e.g., mistaking the tense of the word “cook”), suggesting that additional training may be effective. Beyond the support obtained for the use of PAO strategies, there were no differences found between the control (vacation) and survival conditions. Given the robust nature of the survival processing advantage in the literature, however, it seems unlikely that it would not apply in the cybersecurity domain. Instead, the PAO strategy itself may have been sufficiently effective to produce ceiling effects that did not allow for the detection of any advantage for the survival processing condition.

The article examines the effectiveness of interdisciplinary integration in the training of future physical education teachers. The purpose of the article is to test the effectiveness of interdisciplinary integration in the training of future teachers of physical education. Research methodology includes: empirical methods: observations, questionnaires, pedagogical experiment is for checking the effectiveness of interdisciplinary integration in the training of future teachers of physical education; methods of mathematical statistics are for processing the results of experimental work. Analysis of the effectiveness of the implementation of interdisciplinary integration in the training of future teachers of physical education is based on a certain system of standards: pedagogical orientation, independence and professional maturity, which we used to diagnose their development by those activities that included students of the experimental group. After analyzing the data, it was found that students of the control and experimental groups have significant differences on such scales as: awareness, decision-making, planning and communication; as well as a positive trend on the scales: mnemonic, volitional and mental. According to the study, it can be said that future physical education teachers of the experimental group are more knowledgeable and confident in choosing their profession, they more rationally and adequately assess the situation and plan their future more thoughtfully than students in the control group.

Introduction: TMS is said to be an effective technique for motor and cognitive rehabilitation for acquired neurological lesions. This study aims to evaluate the effect of TMS in the cognition of patients after stroke. Methods: This prospective, longitudinal and interventional study was approved by the Ethics Committee (Protocol No. 54977216.3.0000.5078) and included 16 stroke victims aged from 24 to 74 years. The Montreal Cognitive Assessment (MoCA) test was used before and after the stimulation sessions and TMS was administered according to treatment protocols for a motor goal, with inhibitory (1 hz) TMS stimulation over the right and left primary motor cortex; and according to protocol for the prefrontal cortex involved in humor processing, with stimulation (10 hz) of the left dorsolateral prefrontal cortex, and inhibitory (1 hz) stimulation of the right dorsolateral prefrontal cortex. The patients underwent fifteen treatment sessions, on average. Results: Memory subtests showed improvement, and average and standard deviation values for the pre- and post-intervention periods were [2.06 (1.6) and 3.5 (1.5)], respectively. In terms of total performance, MoCA results were [18.7(3.4) and 21.1(4.03)]. Student’s t test indicated p=0.006 for performance differences in memory and p=0.003 for total performance. Conclusion: TMS was shown to be effective in achieving cognitive rehabilitation after strokes, most notably in terms of the recovery of mnemonic functions

When the last Inca emperor and the conquistador from Extremadura, Spain, met in Cajamarca, Peru, on Saturday, 16 November 1532, a world separated them, but they had one thing in common: neither knew how to read. In Andean popular culture and historical analysis, Atahualpa and Francisco Pizarro remain the protagonists of that formidable collision of worlds, in which the most powerful man of the Tawantinsuyo, the Inca empire, which stretched from Ecuador to northern Argentina, confronted a Spanish adventurer who was seeking an easy fortune, well aware that this encounter was his last and greatest opportunity. Beyond a mnemonic system of colored knots called quipus, which registered population numbers and other types of numerical accounting, the Incas did not know writing. Pizarro was an illegitimate child from a rich family and apparently had been a swineherd as a boy. It has been repeated that despite his illiteracy, he belonged to the “civilization of the sign” while Atahualpa, despite his power, was condemned for belonging to “the culture of orality.” However, according to legend, during his months of prison, out of curiosity the Inca learned some Spanish words and wrote on the fingernail of his thumb the word Dios (“God”). It is said that he showed it to Pizarro, asking him what it meant, and found that his rival could not read it. From the prison cell of a condemned man and the site of his punishment, Atahualpa engaged in what might have been the first critical reappropriation of the Castilian language (Garcilaso, Historia 98; bk. 1, ch. 33).

Introduction During labour, pain can affect the health of the mother and the foetus, and its relief is a right of the mother and a duty of the professionals. In the promotion of a positive experience of labour, it is crucial that nurses specialised in maternal and obstetric health give priority to pain assessment and the use of non-pharmacological methods for pain relief, providing the necessary resources and empowering parturients to use them. Among said methods, virtual reality stands out due to its ease of use and for allowing the reduction of pain levels by diverting attention from the real world, using computers and other devices. Since it is a new approach that is not yet implemented in delivery rooms in Portugal, it is important to map the facilitating factors and barriers associated with its use, so that the dissemination of existing knowledge and its transfer to skilled nursing care during the first stage of labour can be planned. Objective To map the research evidence on the facilitating factors and barriers in the use of VR as a non-pharmacological strategy for pain relief during labour in hospital settings. Methods This protocol follows the guidelines published by the Joanna Briggs Institute. The databases MEDLINE, CINAHL, Cochrane Database of Systematic Reviews and MedicLatina through the EBSCOhost platform, the Joanna Briggs Institute EBP Database, through the Ovid platform are considered for the search and, the grey literature is also included. As inclusion criteria, qualitative, quantitative and mixed studies that address virtual reality as a pain relief strategy during labour in hospital settings (based on the mnemonic PCC - Population, Concept and Context), published in Portuguese, French, Spanish or English language between 2017 and 2022 are considered. The titles and abstracts of identified references will be independently reviewed and assessed for eligibility by two reviewers. In the event of a tie, a third reviewer will be used. Full text studies and data will be extracted using a form. The data extraction table will show the mapped data in a descriptive way answering the research questions. Discussion The results will allow summarising the barriers and facilitating factors in the use of Virtual Reality for pain relief during labour and thus contribute to decision making in planning the dissemination of this strategy to pregnant women and health professionals and its implementation in delivery rooms. Systematic Review Record Open Science Framework : osf.io/4b2sj

Based on ethnographic studies carried out during commemorations in Vukovar‎ and Srebrenica, this paper analyses gendered representations of said mnemonic‎ events. Specific practices that incorporate both military and civilian ‎components, as well as discourse on heroism and victimhood, lay at the focus ‎of this research: the Column of Remembrance in Vukovar and the Nezuk to ‎Potočari Peace March.‎ Following the theoretical findings on the nexus between memory and gender,‎ the main actors and their agency are studied from the gender perspective.‎ The symbolic capital of the two sites of memory and transformations of memorial‎ practices impact the representation of gender on both state and grassroots‎ levels and give an insight into the questions this paper asks:‎ Why are women present in such large numbers in both Vukovar and in‎ Srebrenica? How is gender represented in the course of these commemorations?‎What are the political implications of such choices? What kind of strategies‎ are used in official and grassroots initiatives? Finally, how is it connected‎ to gender?‎

AbstractIt is said that our species use mnemonics – that “magic of memorization” – to engrave an enormous amount of information in the brain. Yet, it is unclear how mnemonics affect memory and what the neural underpinnings are. In this electroencephalography study, we examined the hypotheses whether mnemonic training improved processing-efficiency and/or altered encoding-pattern to support memory enhancement. By 22-day training of a digit-image mnemonic (a custom memory technique used by world-class mnemonists), a group of children showed increased short-term memory after training, but with limited gain generalization. This training resulted in regular odd-even neural patterns (i.e., enhanced P200 and theta power during the encoding of digits at even- versus odd- positions in a sequence). Critically, the P200 and theta power effects predicted the training-induced memory improvement. These findings provide evidence of how mnemonics alter encoding pattern, as reflected in functional brain organization, to support memory enhancement.

Indigenous oral traditions of the Líl̓wat Nation recount observations of Qw̓elqw̓elústen (Mount Meager), a Garibaldi Volcanic Belt volcano in southwestern British Columbia, Canada; and associated eruptive activity, mass-wasting, and outburst flooding. We present Líl̓wat observations relating to Qw̓elqw̓elústen’s ~2360 cal yr BP eruption and its aftermath, a devastating outburst flood down the Lillooet valley. The Copper Canoe story correlates with the event-sequence of pyroclastic damming of the Lillooet River and an outburst flood traveling far downstream, interrupting salmon runs and displacing people. Other stories suggest an eruptive plume and fumaroles. Recounted valley-floor changes, with proximal scouring and downstream filling of marshes allowing human resettlement, closely parallel and augment geological evidence, showing that oral traditions are equally important in holding landscape history. Oral traditions portray dramatic landscape changes, some by the Transformers, said to have traveled this land making imperfect things right. Geologically documented debris-flow delta progradation and infill of the upper 50 km of Lillooet Lake since ~12,000 cal BP underscore the land’s dynamism and the need for both sources to inform planning for future eruptive, mass-wasting, and flooding events. Traditional landscape knowledge, like Western science, is observational and evidence-based, though interpretations can differ given Indigenous belief in a sentient landscape, capable of acting with intention. Binding of stories to geographical locations has functioned as a mnemonic device to preserve orally transmitted information across many generations.

Societal Impact StatementAvoidance of poison ivy plants is currently the primary approach to prevent the estimated 30–50 million annual poison ivy skin rash cases. The “leaves of three let it be” mnemonic device lacks specificity to differentiate poison ivy from other three‐leaflet native plants. This report demonstrated that poison ivy leaves show marked total leaf shape variability that likely confounds accurate poison ivy plant identification, and significantly undermines a poison ivy avoidance strategy for mitigating poison ivy rash cases. Therefore, there is an ongoing need to develop prophylactic medical procedures to prevent poison ivy rash that do not depend on human poison ivy plant identification.Summary Urushiol is the natural product produced by poison ivy (Toxicodendron radicans) that is responsible for millions of cases of delayed contact allergenic dermatitis in North America each year. Avoidance of poison ivy plant material is the clinically recommended strategy for preventing urushiol‐induced dermatitis symptoms. However, poison ivy leaf shape is anecdotally notoriously variable, thereby confounding accurate poison ivy identification. This study focused on quantitative analyses of poison ivy and a common poison ivy look‐alike (American hog peanut) leaf shape variability in North America to empirically validate the high degree of poison ivy leaf shape plasticity. Poison ivy and American hog peanut iNaturalist.org records were scored for seven attributes of compound leaf shape that were combined to produce a total leaf complexity score. Both the mean and the distribution of poison ivy total leaf complexity scores were significantly greater than that of American hog peanut. Non‐metric multidimensional scaling analyses corroborated a high degree of poison ivy leaf shape variability relative to American hog peanut. A poison ivy accession producing frequent palmate penta‐leaflet compound leaves was evaluated using linear regression modeling. Poison ivy total leaf complexity was exceedingly variable across a given latitude or longitude. With that said, there was a small but significant trend of poison ivy total leaf complexity increasing from east to west. Palmate penta‐leaflet formation was significantly correlated with a stochastic leaflet deep‐lobing developmental process in one unusual poison ivy accession. The empirically‐validated poison ivy leaf shape hypervariability described in this report likely confounds accurate poison ivy identification, thereby likely resulting in many accidental urushiol‐induced clinical allergenic dermatitis cases each year.

“K29.” One day it will be me (oh please let it be so). When I’m K29, it will mean that my book is on the shelf of a library which has a collection large enough to employ the Cutter-Sanborn Three Figure Author Table so that it might translate “Kelly” to code. K29 grates a little, sure—I’d prefer the visually softer, assonantal, sonorous J88 for Joy, or the zippiness of Laâbi’s L111—but that’s just a personal preference. K29, J88, L111: divested of their link to authors’ surnames, it can be argued that Cutter-Sanborn numbers have a particular relationship to the practice of “scanning” as a mode of reading. These numbers are available to two types of scanning (in fact, they are perhaps available only to scanning and not “reading”). On a superficial level, they promote the scan which is purely pragmatic: the brief glimpse or glance, a looking which does not know or care what the number represents. Or they may be subject to the analytical scan which is an act of scrutiny, or interrogation. That is to say, while the Cutter-Sanborn number is open to decipherment, it is constitutionally affective (“sonorous”, “zippy”) and effective (as a library tool) for everyone, even those disinterested in its deeper codified meaning. This essay considers what a superficial scan of the Cutter-Sanborn number could signify for all who encounter it, and offers an idiosyncratic account of the possibilities of deeper, scrutinising signification, in particular its ramifications for the author it contracts. The author number is the heart of the book number, and the Cutter-Sanborn number is a particular type—indeed a paradigm—of the author number. It is used especially by libraries employing Dewey Decimal Classification (Lehnus 76). The book number is designed to sub-arrange books which share the same classification number, and is thus formed by those letters and figures which follow the classification number. Abdellatif Laâbi’s L’arbre de fer fleurit, for example, is represented by the call number 848.9964 L111 E 1 at the University of Sydney Library: 848.9964 is a subdivision within the Dewey class of 848 for French miscellaneous writings; L111 E 1 is the book number, broadly conceived. Accordingly, the overall call number structure is worldly, then parochial. Book numbers thus create and express the singularity of books within an institution which, through classification, create and range a community of books. Book numbers are assigned on the basis of the library’s extant collection: new acquisitions are inserted around those numbers already bestowed. Lisa Zhao writes “We have to accept the shelflist (sic.) we have” (116), and thus numbers may vary for the same books at different libraries. Book numbers, it may be seen, are designations of philosophical, textual, and bibliographic consequence. The Cutter-Sanborn number is derived from a table that numerates letter combinations in order to maintain an alphabetical arrangement on the shelves. Charles Cutter printed the first of several versions of his author number scheme in 1880; Kate Emery Sanborn later revised it to produce the Table’s most popular edition (Lehnus 18, 37-42). The Cutter-Sanborn number’s familiar contemporary form is a first initial followed by two, three, or more digits. No matter what a patron knows about the Cutter-Sanborn number, it will be impossible to miss the number’s recurring formal feature of lopsidedness. The mnemonic initial is consistently overpowered by a splatter of integers. Numbers appear as the furthered refinement. The single letter becomes almost incidental—a blunted, rudimentary, and superseded signifier—against a run of figures which seem more attenuating, demanding, or sophisticated. The Cutter-Sanborn number seems to suggest that the numbers enhance the letters, but it is an enhancement which denies the patron easy intelligibility. It substitutes a number for a name it still hints at with a first initial, and the precision of this former device creates a designation that looks like a measure of the book. This conception is facilitated by the everyday scanning eye undertaking a traversing kind of interpretation, not a probing one. Why should the critic probe any deeper than this: why disturb the Cutter-Sanborn number beyond remarking on its simple utility and its affective scientism? Because of the Cutter-Sanborn number’s own pretensions. Conceived by Charles Cutter, the Cutter number was instrumental in the book number’s task of ensuring that “every volume has its own mark, shared with no other volume, its proper name, by which it is absolutely identified” (quoted in Lehnus, 9). The discourse surrounding the genesis of Cutter numbers was thus one of radical individuality. In spite of not being easily legible, the Cutter number hoped to be a kind of translation: Melvil Dewey, for instance, claimed that author numbers “are significant like our class numbers, and translate themselves into the name” (quoted in Lehnus, 27). The Cutter number is historically implicated by its optimistic aspirations of absolute identification, translation, and comprehensibility. This optimism has served it well—a Library Journal editorial blithely suggested that a new innovation “may be the best idea since Cutter numbers” (Berry III, 96)—but it has also obscured investigation of the way in which the Cutter-Sanborn number functions by presupposing its own adequacy. ‘Cuttered’, the author mark holds that said author may be satisfactorily equated with their name, which may be satisfactorily equated with a number. The author has their proper name converted for and contributed to another “proper name” (Cutter’s exact words), that of the volume. This latter proper name is claimed to be superior: “more exact,” suggests Dewey, “than a full written title, as it specifies the identical copy” (Dewey, 296). It is a proper name, then, which is motivated by a blinkered allegiance to the limitable unit and presence of the book. Jacques Derrida, in explaining the replacement of the proper name of a particular author with the designation “Sarl”—an acronym of Société à responsabilité limitée (Society with Limited Responsibility), bestowed so as to acknowledge all the named and unnamed signatures bearing upon the article under question—declares “I hope that the bearers of proper names will not be wounded by this technical or scientific device” (36). I would like to suggest that this is a sentiment that may also be applicable for book authors whose names have been “translated” into Cutter numbers, albeit that the library is more insouciant in expressing any repentance for its actions. The Cutter number format accounts for the book in particular standardising ways, which authors’ names have connotative apparatus (biography, contingency, etymology) to prevent. Derrida recognises his renaming may affront the author, but does not try in any way to mitigate this indignity. He does no more than express the hope that if he did in fact wound the author, that this wasn’t the case. The corollary of this position is that any injury is worthwhile, or has been compensated for elsewhere. The author number’s result is nothing less than an expression of confidence in the viability of transacting a human proper name. A “transaction” concludes something: that something would be concluded was inevitable from the moment that Cutter’s words “by which [the volume] is absolutely identified” established the book number’s precept of satisfaction. The Cutter-Sanborn number concludes a care for human susceptibility: the wound Derrida excises is an ego celebrated in paragraph one and now (I wish to say fully) relinquished. In these very particular book number places—on the shelf-marker, on the spine, and on the sticker—a reduced human authority is proposed. The Cutter-Sanborn number is a text with the express purpose to create an author who has limited ability to claim, and limited ability to connote. In the Cutter-Sanborn number, the book’s author is only just present. They may be able to be traced, but I would like to suggest that in the Cutter number the author is presented without spoil (that is, presented without the rot or reward attendant upon the contingencies and connotations of a human proper name). Consider, furthermore, the genesis of individual Cutter-Sanborn numbers themselves. Any Cutter-Sanborn number has Cutter and Sanborn as ur-authors, but individual authors—working in libraries everywhere—have no means of claiming the number they allocate as their own. The Cutter-Sanborn number simultaneously proposes reduced individual authority and enacts reduced individual authority. The Cutter-Sanborn number is thus available for use by critical textual practices sincerely and self-reflexively, both as an alternative authorial designation (traceable, connotative but standardising, international but relative), and as a model in the task of re-imagining authorship. There is, however, a complicating factor. The Cutter-Sanborn number has proven bibliographically mobile. Its form of an initial followed by digits has been adapted to denote not only authors but titles, topics, subjects, place names, and even publication dates. For example, in the call number of a book entitled Power Sales Presentations: Complete Sales Dialogues for Each Critical Step of the Sales Cycle, a Cutter number P74 stands for the topic “Presentations” (O’Neill). The Cutter-Sanborn number format assimilates book features, it is slippery. In these assorted adaptations, the Cutter-Sanborn number manifests bibliographic features indiscriminately. However incomprehensible the number may appear at each individual occurrence, as a fabrication it does indeed always broadcast various measures of the book. The author’s proper name is thus potentially reduced to just one factor among many: other factors may be given equal leverage. (It is only now that the full consequence of the Cutter-Sanborn number’s sophistication is becoming evident: for devotees of these factors, in particular the author, its totalising representation veers towards sophistry.) A single initial followed by a splatter of integers, which could refer to any bibliographic thing? The Cutter-Sanborn number is an agitator: imprecise in its target, but utterly confident in the genius of its own designative force. The Cutter-Sanborn number does not encourage the scanning, probing eye to look closely, but upon investigation one can discern its paradoxical attempt to challenge author authority while trying to cement its own. Subject to two different types of scanning eye, the Cutter-Sanborn number and its wider contextual environment of the book number destabilise and reconfigure ideas of authorship, simultaneously reducing and promoting it. These doubly scannable codes—these eminent library figures—have implications for the reading of books themselves. In textualising and deprioritising the author, in varying according to location, and in mitigating the grand narratives of classification, the book number has a stake in postmodern expression. And so this essay has been cautionary: it is wary of claiming or promoting book number literacy because of these very evidences of decentralisation. But this relativity is not a problem, as the book number is a thing so saturated in code that a degree of unintelligibility is in fact integral to its message. Unintelligibility need not be white noise. The book number is available to be read impressionistically—that is, available to be read in a manner somewhere between the two paradigmatic scanning cases of those indifferent and those intrigued. A fiction book from a scholarly archive stamped and stickered 853.91 C168 J8 T 1—the example is Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveller—is a different text to the version marked F-CAL from a local library. The first example’s complex denotation and brute extent does not so well accommodate the accessible and leisured reading suggested by the second. Calvino from the local is on my time, and its direct address—F-CAL, Fiction: Calvino—is integral in facilitating this. This observation reveals that book number analysis cannot be trusted for any reason, other than that of the Cutter-Sanborn number’s refusal to coalesce adequately across libraries and submit to investigation. Book number analysis is suspect too because, in explaining parts of the book number’s code, analysis pollutes the same experience’s affective value. The loss is significant, as innocence or ignorance is not easily regained. It is ironic that this essay—itself a measured study—must in the final analysis refuse the polarity of the two modes of scan initially posited as exemplary for encountering book numbers (the unaffected glance; the probing need to intuit and ramify), in order to reinstitute and advocate a mode of experience that the book number, within its stipulated self, excludes: susceptibility, a mere responsiveness to presence. References Berry III, John N. “Certification: Is It Worth the Price?” Editorial. Library Journal 15 Feb. 2001: 96. Cutter-Sanborn Three-Figure Author Table: Swanson-Swift Revision, 1969. Chicopee, Ma: H. R. Huntting, 1969. Derrida, Jacques. “Limited Inc a b c…” Trans. Samuel Weber. Glyph 2 (1977). Rpt. in Limited Inc. By Derrida. Evanston, Il: Northwestern UP, 1988. Dewey, Melvil. “Eclectic Book-Numbers.” Library Journal 11 (1886): 296-301. Laâbi, Abdellatif. L’arbre de fer fleurit: Poémes (1972). Paris: Oswald, 1974. Lehnus, Donald J. Book Numbers: History, Principles, and Application. Chicago: ALA, 1980. O’Neill, Edward T. “Cuttering for the Library of Congress Classification.” Annual Review of OCLC Research 1994 1 Jul. 2005. http://digitalarchive.oclc.org/da/ViewObject.jsp? fileid=0000002650:000000058648&reqid=701>. Zhao, Lisa. “Save Space for ‘Newcomers’ – Analyzing Problems in Book Number Assignment under the LCC System.” Cataloging & Classification Quarterly 38.1 (2004): 105-19. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Kelly, Michelle. "Eminent Library Figures: A Reader." M/C Journal 8.4 (2005). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0508/07-kelly.php>. APA Style Kelly, M. (Aug. 2005) "Eminent Library Figures: A Reader," M/C Journal, 8(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0508/07-kelly.php>.

The first time I read Hélène Cixous’s The Laugh of the Medusa I swooned. I wanted to write the whole thing out, large, and black, and pin it across an entire wall. I was 32 and vulnerable around polemic texts (I was always copying out quotes and sticking them to my walls, trying to hold onto meaning, unable to let the writing I read slip out and away). You must "write your self, your body must be heard" (Cixous 880), I read, as if for the hundredth time, even though it was the first. Those decades old words had an echoing, a resonance to them, as if each person who had read them had left their own mnemonic mark there, so that by the time they reached me, they struck, immediately, at my core (not the heart or the spine, or even the gut, but somewhere stickier; some pulsing place in amongst my organs, somewhere not touched, a space forgotten). The body that read The Laugh was so big its knees had trouble lifting it from chairs (“more body, hence more writing”, Cixous 886), and was soon to have its gallbladder taken. Its polycystic ovaries dreamed, lumpily and without much hope, of zygotes. The body that read The Laugh was a wobbling thing, sheathed in fat (as if this could protect it), with a yearning for sveltness, for muscle, for strength. Cixous sang through its cells, and called it to itself. The body that read The Laugh wrote itself back. It spoke about dungeons, and walls that had collected teenaged fists, and needles that turned it somnambulant and concave and warm until it was not. It wrote trauma in short and staggering sentences (out, get it out) as if narrative could save it from a fat-laden and static decline. Text leaked from tissue and bone, out through fingers and onto the page, and in increments so small I did not notice them, the body took its place. I was, all-of-a-sudden, more than my head. And then the body that read The Laugh performed the ultimate coup, and conceived.The body wrote then about its own birth, and the birth of its mother, and when its own children were born, of course, of course, about them. “Oral drive, anal drive, vocal drive–all these drives are our strengths, and among them is the gestation drive–all just like the desire to write: a desire to live self from within, a desire for the swollen belly, for language, for blood” (Cixous 891). The fat was gone, and in its place this other tissue, that later would be he. What I know now is that the body gets what the body wants. What I know now is that the body will tell its story, because if you “censor the body [… then] you censor breath and speech at the same time” (Cixous 880).I am trying to find a beginning. Because where is the place where I start? I was never a twinkle in my mother’s eye. It was the seventies. She was 22 and then 23–there was nothing planned about me. Her eyes a flinty green, hair long and straight. When I think of her then I remember this photo: black and white on the thick photo paper that is hard to get now. No shiny oblong spat from a machine, this paper was pulled in and out of three chemical trays and hung, dripping, in a dark red room to show me a woman in a long white t-shirt and nothing else. She stares straight out at me. On the shirt is a women’s symbol with a fist in the middle of it. Do you know the one? It might have been purple (the symbol I mean). When I think of her then I see her David Bowie teeth, the ones she hated, and a packet of Drum tobacco with Tally-Hos tucked inside, and some of the scars on her forearms, but not all of them, not yet. I can imagine her pregnant with me, the slow gait, that fleshy weight dragging at her spine and pelvis. She told me the story of my birth every year on my birthday. She remembers what day of the week the contractions started. The story is told with a kind of glory in the detail, with a relishing of small facts. I do the same with my children now. I was delivered by forceps. The dent in my skull, up above my right ear, was a party trick when I was a teenager, and an annoyance when I wanted to shave my head down to the bone at 18. Just before Jem was born, I discovered a second dent behind my left ear. My skull holds the footprint of those silver clamps. My bones say here, and here, this is where I was pulled from you. I have seen babies being born this way. They don’t slide out all sealish and purple and slippy. They are pulled. The person holding the forcep handles uses their whole body weight to yank that baby out. It makes me squirm, all that pulling, those tiny neck bones concertinaing out, the silver scoops sinking into the skull and leaving prints, like a warm spoon in dough. The urgency of separation, of the need to make two things from one. After Jem was born he lay on my chest for hours. As the placenta was birthed he weed on me. I felt the warm trickle down my side and was glad. There was nothing so right as my naked body making a bed for his. I lay in a pool of wet (blood and lichor and Jem’s little wee) and the midwives pushed towels under me so I wouldn’t get cold. He sucked. White waffle weave blankets over both of us. That bloody nest. I lay in it and rested my free hand on his vernix covered back; the softest thing I had ever touched. We basked in the warm wet. We basked. How do I sew theory into this writing? Julia Kristeva especially, whose Stabat Mater describes those early moments of holding the one who was inside and then out so perfectly that I am left silent. The smell of milk, dew-drenched greenery, sour and clear, a memory of wind, of air, of seaweed (as if a body lived without waste): it glides under my skin, not stopping at the mouth or nose but caressing my veins, and stripping the skin from the bones fills me like a balloon full of ozone and I plant my feet firmly on the ground in order to carry him, safe, stable, unuprootable, while he dances in my neck, floats with my hair, looks right and left for a soft shoulder, “slips on the breast, swingles, silver vivid blossom of my belly” and finally flies up from my navel in his dream, borne by my hands. My son (Kristeva, Stabat Mater 141). Is theory more important than this? The smell of milk (dried, it is soursweet and will draw any baby to you, nuzzling and mewling), which resides alongside the Virgin Mother and the semiotics of milk and tears. The language of fluid. While the rest of this writing, the stories not of mothers and babies, but one mother and one baby, came out smooth and fast, as soon as I see or hear or write that word, theory, I slow. I am concerned with the placement of things. I do not have the sense of being free. But if there’s anything that should come from this vain attempt to answer Cixous, to “write your self. Your body must be heard” (880), it should be that freedom and theory, boundary-lessness, is where I reside. If anything should come from this, it is the knowing that theory is the most creative pursuit, and that creativity will always speak to theory. There are fewer divisions than any of us realise, and the leakiness of bodies, of this body, will get me there. The smell of this page is of lichor; a clean but heady smell, thick with old cells and a foetus’s breath. The smell of this page is of blood and saliva and milk mixed (the colour like rotten strawberries or the soaked pad at the bottom of your tray of supermarket mince). It is a smell that you will secretly savour, breathe deeply, and then long for lemon zest or the sharpness of coffee beans to send away that angelic fug. That milk and tears have a language of their own is undeniable. Kristeva says they are “metaphors of non-language, of a ‘semiotic’ that does not coincide with linguistic communication” (Stabat Mater 143) but what I know is that these fluids were the first language for my children. Were they the first language for me? Because “it must be true: babies drink language along with the breastmilk: Curling up over their tongues while they take siestas–Mots au lait, verbae cum lacta, palabros con leche” (Wasserman quoted in Giles 223). The enduring picture I have of myself as an infant is of a baby who didn’t cry, but my mother will tell you a different story, in the way that all of us do. She will tell you I didn’t smile until I was five months old (Soli and Jem were both beaming at three months). Born six weeks premature, my muscles took longer to find their place, to assemble themselves under my skin. She will tell you I screamed in the night, because all babies do. Is this non-language? Jem was unintelligible much of the time. I felt as if I was holding a puzzle. Three o’clock in the morning, having tried breastfeeds, a bath with Nick Drake’s Pink Moon, bouncing him in a baby sling on the fitball (wedged into a corner so that if I nodded off I would hopefully swoon backwards, and the wall would wake me), walking him around and around while rocking and singing, then breastfeeding again, and still he did not sleep, and still he cried and clawed at my cheeks and shoulders and wrists and writhed; I could not guess at what it was he needed. I had never been less concerned with the self that was me. I was all breasts and milk and a craving for barbecued chicken and watermelon at three in the morning because he was drinking every ounce of energy I had. I was arms and a voice. I was food. And then I learnt other things; about let downs and waking up in pools of the stuff. Wet. Everywhere. “Lactating bodies tend towards anarchy” (Bartlett 163). Any body will tend towards anarchy – there is so much to keep in – but there are only so many openings a person can keep track of, and breastfeeding meant a kind of levelling up, meant I was as far from clean and proper as I possibly could be (Kristeva, Powers of Horror 72).In the nights I was not alone. Caren could not breastfeed him, but could do everything else, and never said I have to work tomorrow, because she knew I was working too. During waking hours I watched him constantly for those mystical tired signs, which often were hungry signs, which quickly became overtired signs. There was no figuring it out. But Soli, with Soli, I knew. The language of babies had been sung into my bones. There is a grammar in crying, a calling out and telling, a way of knowing that is older than I’ll ever be. Those tiny bodies are brimming with semiotics. Knees pulled up is belly ache, arching is tired, a look to the side I-want-that-take-me-there-not-there. There. Curling in, the whole of him, is don’t-look-at-me-now-hands-away. Now he is one he uses his hands to tell me what he wants. Sign language because I sign and so, then, does he, but also an emphatic placing of my hands on his body or toys, utensils, swings, things. In the early hours of a Wednesday morning I tried to stroke his head, to close his wide-open eyes with my fingertips. He grabbed my hand and moved it to his chest before I could alight on the bridge of his nose. And yesterday he raised his arm into the air, then got my hand and placed it into his raised hand, then stood, and led me down to the laundry to play with the dustpan and broom. His body, literally, speaks.This is the language of mothers and babies. It is laid down in the darkest part of the night. Laid down like memory, like dreams, stitched into tiredness and circled with dread adrenalin and fear. It will never stop. That baby will cry and I will stare owl-eyed into the dark and bend my cracking knees (don’t shake the baby it will only make it worse don’t shake don’t). These babies will grow into children and then adults who will never remember those screaming nights, cots like cages, a stuffed toy pushed on them as if it could replace the warmth of skin and breath (please, please, little bear, replace the warmth of skin and breath). I will never remember it, but she will. They will never remember it, but we will. Kristeva says too that mothers are in a “catastrophe of identity which plunges the proper Name into that ‘unnameable’ that somehow involves our imaginary representations of femininity, non-language, or the body” (Stabat Mater 134). A catastrophe of identity. The me and the not-me. In the night, with a wrapped baby and aching biceps, the I-was batting quietly at the I-am. The I-am is all body. Arms to hold and bathe and change him, milk to feed him, a voice to sing and soothe him. The I-was is a different beast, made of words and books, uninterrupted conversation and the kind of self-obsession and autonomy I didn’t know existed until it was gone. Old friends stopped asking me about my day. They asked Caren, who had been at work, but not me. It did not matter that she was a woman; in this, for most people we spoke to, she was the public and I was the private, her work mattered and mine did not. Later she would commiserate and I would fume, but while it was happening, it was near impossible to contest. A catastrophe of identity. In a day I had fed and walked and cried and sung and fed and rocked and pointed and read books with no words and rolled inane balls across the lounge room floor and washed and sung and fed. I had circled in and around while the sun traced its arc. I had waited with impatience for adult company. I had loved harder than I ever had before. I had metamorphosed and nobody noticed. Nobody noticed. A catastrophe of identity it was, but the noise and visibility that the word catastrophe invokes was entirely absent. And where was the language to describe this peeling inside out? I was burnished bright by those sleepless nights, by the requirement of the I-am. And in those nights I learned what my mother already knew. That having children is a form of grief. That we lose. But that we gain. At 23, what’s lost is possibility. She must have seen her writer’s life drilling down to nothing. She knew that Sylvia Plath had placed her head, so carefully on its pillow, in that gas filled place. No pungent metaphor, just a poet, a mother, who could not continue. I had my babies at 34 and 36. I knew some of what I would lose, but had more than I needed. My mother had started out with not enough, and so was left concave and edged with desperation as she made her way through inner-city Sydney’s grime, her children singing from behind her wait for me, wait for me, Mama please wait for me, I’m going just as fast as I can.Nothing could be more ‘normal’ than that a maternal image should establish itself on the site of that tempered anguish known as love. No one is spared. Except perhaps the saint or the mystic, or the writer who, by force of language, can still manage nothing more than to demolish the fiction of the mother-as-love’s-mainstay and to identify with love as it really is: a fire of tongues, an escape from representation (Kristeva, Stabat Mater 145).We transformed, she and I. She hoped to make herself new with children. A writer born of writers, the growing and birthing of our tiny bodies forced her to place pen to paper, to fight to write. She carved a place for herself with words but it kept collapsing in on her. My father’s bi-polar rages, his scrubbing evil spirits from the soles of her shoes in the middle of the night, wore her down, and soon she inhabited that maternal image anyway, in spite of all her attempts to side step it. The mad mother, the single mother, the sad mother. And yes I remember those mothers. But I also remember her holding me so hard sometimes I couldn’t breathe properly, and that some nights when I couldn’t sleep she had warm eyes and made chamomile tea, and that she called me angel. A fire of tongues, but even she, with her words, couldn’t escape from representation. I am a writer born of writers born of writers (triply blessed or cursed with text). In my scramble to not be mad or bad or sad, I still could not escape the maternal image. More days than I can count I lay under my babies wishing I could be somewhere, anywhere else, but they needed to sleep or feed or be. With me. Held captive by the need to be a good mother, to be the best mother, no saint or mystic presenting itself, all I could do was write. Whole poems sprang unbidden and complete from my pen. My love for my children, that fire of tongues, was demolishing me, and the only way through was to inhabit this vessel of text, to imbibe the language of bodies and tears and night, and make from it my boat.Those children wrote my body in the night. They taught me about desire, that unbounded scribbling thing that will not be bound by subjectivity, by me. They taught me that “the body is literally written on, inscribed, by desire and signification” (Grosz 60), and every morning I woke with ashen bones and poetry aching out through my pores, with my body writing me.This Mother ThingI maintain that I do not have to leavethe house at nightall leathery and eyelinered,all booted up and raw.I maintain that I do not miss thosesmoky rooms (wait that’s not allowed any more)where we strut and, without looking,compare tattoos.Because two years ago I had you.You with your blonde hair shining, your eyes like a creek after rain, that veinthat’s so blue on the side of your small nosethat people think you’ve been bruised.Because two years ago you cameout of me and landed here and grew. There is no going out. We (she and me) washand cook and wash and clean and love.This mother thing is the making of me but I missthose pulsing rooms,the feel of all of you pressing in onall of me.This mother thing is the making of me. And in text, in poetry, I find my home. “You only have to look at the Medusa straight on to see her. And she’s not deadly. She’s beautiful and she’s laughing” (Cixous 885). The mother-body writes herself, and is made new. The mother-body writes her own mother, and knows she was always-already here. The mother-body births, and breastfeeds, and turns to me in the aching night and says this: the Medusa? The Medusa is me.ReferencesBartlett, Alison. Breastwork: Rethinking Breastfeeding. Sydney: UNSW Press, 2005.Cixous, Hélène, Keith Cohen, and Paula Cohen (Trans.). "The Laugh of the Medusa." Signs 1.4 (1976): 875-93. Giles, Fiona. Fresh Milk. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 2003. Grosz, Elizabeth. Volatile Bodies: Toward a Corporeal Feminism. St Leonards, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1994.Kristeva, Julia, and Leon S. Roudiez (Trans.) Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection. New York: Columbia University Press, 1982.Kristeva, Julia, and Arthur Goldhammer (Trans.). "Stabat Mater." Poetics Today 6.1-2 (1985): 133-52.

In this article I discuss a story told by the South Australian Ngarrindjeri Aboriginal elder, Aunty Hilda Wilson (nee Varcoe), about the time when, at not quite sixteen, she was sent from the Point Pearce Aboriginal Station to work in the Adelaide Hills, some 500 kilometres away, as a housekeeper for “one of Adelaide’s leading doctors”. Her secondment was part of a widespread practice in early and mid-twentieth century Australia of placing young Aboriginal women “of marriageable age” from missions and government reserves into domestic service. Consciously deploying Indigenous storytelling practices as pedagogy, Hilda Wilson recounted this episode in a number of distinct ways during the late 1990s and early 2000s. Across these iterations, each building on the other, she exhibited a personal resilience in her subjectivity, embedded in Indigenous knowledge systems of relationality, kin and work, which informed her agency and determination in a challenging situation in which she was both caring for a white socially-privileged family of five, while simultaneously grappling with the injustices of a state system of segregated indentured labour. Kirmayer and colleagues propose that “notions of resilience emerging from developmental psychology and psychiatry in recent years address the distinctive cultures, geographic and social settings, and histories of adversity of indigenous peoples”. Resilience is understood here as an ability to actively engage with traumatic change, involving the capacity to absorb stress and to transform in order to cope with it (Luthar et al.). Further to this, in an Indigenous context, Marion Kickett has found the capacity for resilience to be supported by three key factors: family connections, culture and belonging as well as notions of identity and history. In exploring the layers of this autobiographical story, I employ this extended psychological notion of resilience in both a domestic ambit as well as the broader social context for Indigenous people surviving a system of external domination. Additionally I consider the resilience Aunty Hilda demonstrates at a pivotal interlude between girlhood and womanhood within the trajectory of her overall long and productive life, and within an intergenerational history of resistance and accommodation. What is especially important about her storytelling is its refusal to be contained by the imaginary of the settler nation and its generic Aboriginal-female subject. She refuses victimhood while at the same time illuminating the mechanisms of injustice, hinting also at possibilities for alternative and more equitable relationships of family and work across cultural divides. Considered through this prism, resilience is, I suggest, also a quality firmly connected to ideas of Aboriginal cultural-sovereignty and standpoint and to, what Victoria Grieves has identified as, the Aboriginal knowledge value of sharing (25, 28, 45). Storytelling as Pedagogy The story I discuss was verbally recounted in a manner that Westphalen describes as “a continuation of Dreaming Stories”, functioning to educate and connect people and country (13-14). As MacGill et al. note, “the critical and transformative aspects of decolonising pedagogies emerge from storytelling and involve the gift of narrative and the enactment of reciprocity that occurs between the listener and the storyteller.” Hilda told me that as a child she was taught not to ask questions when listening to the stories of an Elder, and her own children were raised in this manner. Hilda's oldest daughter described this as a process involving patience, intrigue and surprise (Elva Wanganeen). Narratives unfold through nuance and repetition in a complexity of layers that can generate multiple levels of meaning over time. Circularity and recursivity underlie this pedagogy through which mnemonic devices are built so that stories become re-membered and inscribed on the body of the listener. When a perceived level of knowledge-transference has occurred, a narrator may elect to elaborate further, adding another detail that will often transform the story’s social, cultural, moral or political context. Such carefully chosen additional detail, however, might re-contextualise all that has gone before. As well as being embodied, stories are also emplaced, and thus most appropriately told in the Country where events occurred. (Here I use the Aboriginal English term “Country” which encompasses home, clan estate, and the powerful complex of spiritual, animate and inanimate forces that bind people and place.) Hilda Wilson’s following account of her first job as a housekeeper for “one of Adelaide’s leading doctors”, Dr Frank Swann, provides an illustration of how she expertly uses traditional narrative forms of incrementally structured knowledge transmission within a cross-cultural setting to tell a story that expresses practices of resilience as resistance and transformation at its core. A “White Doctor” Story: The First Layer Aunty Hilda first told me this story when we were winding along the South Eastern Freeway through the Adelaide hills between Murray Bridge and Mount Barker, in 1997, on our way home to Adelaide from a trip to Camp Coorong, the Ngarrindjeri cultural education centre co-founded by her granddaughter. She was then 86 years old. Ahead of us, the profile of Mt Lofty rose out of the plains and into view. The highest peak in the Mount Lofty ranges, Yurrebilla, as it is known to Kaurna Aboriginal people, or Mt Lofty, has been an affluent enclave of white settlement for Adelaide’s moneyed elite since early colonial times. Being in place, or in view of place, provided the appropriate opportunity for her to tell me the story. It belongs to a group of stories that during our initial period of working together changed little over time until one day two years later she an added contextual detail which turned it inside out. Hilda described the doctor’s spacious hill-top residence, and her responsibilities of caring for Dr Swann’s invalid wife (“an hysteric who couldn't do anything for herself”), their twin teenage boys (who attended private college in the city) along with another son and younger daughter living at home (pers. com. Hilda Wilson). Recalling the exhilaration of looking down over the sparkling lights of Adelaide at night from this position of apparent “privilege” on the summit, she related this undeniably as a success story, justifiably taking great pride in her achievements as a teenager, capable of stepping into the place of the non-Indigenous doctor's wife in running the large and demanding household. Successfully undertaking a wide range of duties employed in the care of a family, including the disabled mother, she is an active participant crucial to the lives of all in the household, including to the work of the doctor and the twin boys in private education. Hilda recalled that Mrs Swann was unable to eat without her assistance. As the oldest daughter of a large family Hilda had previously assisted in caring for her younger siblings. Told in this way, her account collapses social distinctions, delineating a shared social and physical space, drawing its analytic frame from an Indigenous ethos of subjectivity, relationality, reciprocity and care. Moreover Hilda’s narrative of domestic service demonstrates an assertion of agency that resists colonial and patriarchal hegemony and inverts the master/mistress-servant relationship, one she firmly eschews in favour of the self-affirming role of the lady of the house. (It stands in contrast to the abuse found in other accounts for example Read, Tucker, Kartinyeri. Often the key difference was a continuity of family connections and ongoing family support.) Indeed the home transformed into a largely feminised and cross-culturalised space in which she had considerable agency and responsibility when the doctor was absent. Hilda told me this story several times in much the same way during our frequent encounters over the next two years. Each telling revealed further details that fleshed a perspective gained from what Patricia Hill Collins terms an “epistemic privilege” via her “outsider-within status” of working within a white household, lending an understanding of its social mechanisms (12-15). She also stressed the extent of her duty of care in upholding the family’s well-being, despite the work at times being too burdensome. The Second Version: Coming to Terms with Intersecting Oppressions Later, as our relationship developed and deepened, when I began to record her life-narrative as part of my doctoral work, she added an unexpected detail that altered its context completely: It was all right except I slept outside in a tin shed and it was very cold at night. Mount Lofty, by far the coldest part of Adelaide, frequently experiences winter maximum temperatures of two or three degrees and often light snowfalls. This skilful reframing draws on Indigenous storytelling pedagogy and is expressly used to invite reflexivity, opening questions that move the listener from the personal to the public realm in which domestic service and the hegemony of the home are pivotal in coming to terms with the overlapping historical oppressions of class, gender, race and nation. Suddenly we witness her subjectivity starkly shift from one self-defined and allied with an equal power relationship – or even of dependency reversal cast as “de-facto doctor's wife” – to one diminished by inequity and power imbalance in the outsider-defined role of “mistreated servant”. The latter was signalled by the dramatic addition of a single signifying detail as a decoding device to a deeper layer of meaning. In this parallel stratum of the story, Hilda purposefully brings into relief the politics in which “the private domain of women's housework intersected with the public domain of governmental social engineering policies” (Haskins 4). As Aileen Moreton-Robinson points out, what for White Australia was cheap labour and a civilising mission, for Indigenous women constituted stolen children and slavery. Protection and then assimilation were government policies under which Indigenous women grew up. (96) Hilda was sent away from her family to work in 1927 by the universally-feared Sister Pearl McKenzie, a nurse who too-zealously (Katinyeri, Ngarrindjeri Calling, 23) oversaw the Chief Protector’s policies of “training” Aboriginal children from the South Australian missions in white homes once they reached fourteen (Haebich, 316—20). Indeed many prominent Adelaide hills’ families benefited from Aboriginal labour under this arrangement. Hilda explained her struggle with the immense cultural dislocation that removal into domestic service entailed, a removal her grandfather William Rankine had travelled from Raukkan to Government House to protest against less than a decade earlier (The Register December 21, 1923). This additional layer of story also illuminates Hilda’s capacity for resilience and persistence in finding a way forward through the challenge of her circumstances (Luthar et al.), drawing on her family networks and sense of personhood (Kickett). Hilda related that her father visited her at Mount Lofty twice, though briefly, on his way to shearing jobs in the south-east of the state. “He said it was no good me living like this,” she stated. Through his active intervention, reinforcement was requested and another teenager from Point Pearce, Hilda’s future husband’s cousin, Annie Sansbury, soon arrived to share the workload. But, Hilda explained, the onerous expectations coupled with the cultural segregation of retiring to the tin shed quickly became too much for Annie, who stayed only three months, leaving Hilda coping again alone, until her father applied additional pressure for a more suitable placement to be found for his daughter. In her next position, working for the family of a racehorse trainer, Hilda contentedly shared the bedroom with the small boy for whom she cared, and not long after returned to Point Pearce where she married Robert Wilson and began a family of her own. Gendered Resilience across Cultural Divides Hilda explicitly speaks into these spaces to educate me, because all but a few white women involved have remained silent about their complicity with state sanctioned practices which exploited Indigenous labour and removed children from their families through the policies of protection and assimilation. For Indigenous women, speaking out was often fraught with the danger of a deeper removal from family and Country, even of disappearance. Victoria Haskins writes extensively of two cases in New South Wales where young Aboriginal women whose protests concerning their brutal treatment at the hands of white employers, resulted in their wrongful and prolonged committal to mental health and other institutions (147-52, 228-39). In the indentured service of Indigenous women it is possible to see oppression operating through Eurocentric ideologies of race, class and gender, in which Indigenous women were assumed to take on, through displacement, the more oppressed role of white women in pre-second world war non-Aboriginal Australian society. The troubling silent shadow-figure of the “doctor’s wife” indeed provides a haunting symbol of - and also a forceful rebellion against – the docile upper middle-class white femininity of the inter-war era. Susan Bordo has argued that that “the hysteric” is archetypal of a discourse of ‘pathology as embodied protest’ in which the body may […] be viewed as a surface on which conventional constructions of femininity are exposed starkly to view in extreme or hyperliteral form. (20) Mrs Swann’s vulnerability contrasts markedly with the strength Hilda expresses in coping with a large family, emanating from a history of equitable gender relations characteristic of Ngarrindjeri society (Bell). The intersection of race and gender, as Marcia Langton contends “continues to require deconstruction to allow us to decolonise our consciousness” (54). From Hilda’s brief description one grasps a relationship resonant with that between the protagonists in Tracy Moffat's Night Cries, (a response to the overt maternalism in the film Jedda) in which the white mother finds herself utterly reliant on her “adopted” Aboriginal daughter at the end of her life (46-7). Resilience and Survival The different versions of story Hilda deploys, provide a pedagogical basis to understanding the broader socio-political framework of her overall life narrative in which an ability to draw on the cultural continuity of the past to transform the future forms an underlying dynamic. This demonstrated capacity to meet the challenging conditions thrown up by the settler-colonial state has its foundations in the connectivity and cultural strength sustained generationally in her family. Resilience moves from being individually to socially determined, as in Kickett’s model. During the onslaught of dispossession, following South Australia’s 1836 colonial invasion, Ngarrindjeri were left near-starving and decimated from introduced diseases. Pullume (c1808-1888), the rupuli (elected leader of the Ngarrindjeri Tendi, or parliament), Hilda’s third generation great-grandfather, decisively steered his people through the traumatic changes, eventually negotiating a middle-path after the Point McLeay Mission was established on Ngarrindjeri country in 1859 (Jenkin, 59). Pullume’s granddaughter, the accomplished, independent-thinking Ellen Sumner (1842—1925), played an influential educative role during Hilda’s youth. Like other Ngarrindjeri women in her lineage, Ellen Sumner was skilled in putari practice (female doctor) and midwifery culture that extended to a duty of care concerning women and children (teaching her “what to do and what not to do”), which I suggest is something Hilda herself drew from when working with the Swann family. Hilda’s mother and aunties continued aspects of the putari tradition, attending births and giving instruction to women in the community (Bell, 171, Hughes Grandmother, 52-4). As mentioned earlier, when the South Australian government moved to introduce The Training of Children Act (SA) Hilda’s maternal grandfather William Rankine campaigned vigorously against this, taking a petition to the SA Governor in December 1923 (Haebich, 315-19). As with Aunty Hilda, William Rankine used storytelling as a method to draw public attention to the inequities of his times in an interview with The Register which drew on his life-narrative (Hughes, My Grandmother, 61). Hilda’s father Wilfred Varcoe, a Barngarrla-Wirrungu man, almost a thousand kilometres away from his Poonindie birthplace, resisted assimilation by actively pursuing traditional knowledge networks using his mobility as a highly sought after shearer to link up with related Elders in the shearing camps, (and as we saw to inspect the conditions his daughter was working under at Mt Lofty). The period Hilda spent as a servant to white families to be trained in white ways was in fact only a brief interlude in a long life in which family connections, culture and belonging (Kickett) served as the backbone of her resilience and resistance. On returning to the Point Pearce Mission, Hilda successfully raised a large family and activated a range of community initiatives that fostered well-being. In the 1960s she moved to Adelaide, initially as the sole provider of her family (her husband later followed), to give her younger children better educational opportunities. Working with Aunty Gladys Elphick OBE through the Council of Aboriginal Women, she played a foundational role in assisting other Aboriginal women establish their families in the city (Mattingly et al., 154, Fisher). In Adelaide, Aunty Hilda became an influential, much loved Elder, living in good health to the age of ninety-six years. The ability to survive changing circumstances, to extend care over and over to her children and Elders along with qualities of leadership, determination, agency and resilience have passed down through her family, several of whom have become successful in public life. These include her great-grandson and former AFL football player, Michael O’Loughlin, her great-nephew Adam Goodes and her-grand-daughter, the cultural weaver Aunty Ellen Trevorrow. Arguably, resilience contributes to physical as well as cultural longevity, through caring for the self and others. Conclusion This story demonstrates how sociocultural dimensions of resilience are contextualised in practices of everyday lives. We see this in the way that Aunty Hilda Wilson’s self-narrated story resolutely defies attempts to know, subjugate and categorise, operating instead in accord with distinctively Aboriginal expressions of gender and kinship relations that constitute an Aboriginal sovereignty. Her storytelling activates a revision of collective history in ways that valorise Indigenous identity (Kirmayer et al.). Her narrative of agency and personal achievement, one that has sustained her through life, interacts with the larger narrative of state-endorsed exploitation, diffusing its power and exposing it to wider moral scrutiny. Resilience in this context is inextricably entwined with practices of cultural survival and resistance developed in response to the introduction of government policies and the encroachment of settlers and their world. We see resilience too operating across Hilda Wilson’s family history, and throughout her long life. The agency and strategies displayed suggest alternative realities and imagine other, usually more equitable, possible worlds. References Bell, Diane. Ngarrindjeri Wurruwarrin: A World That Is, Was and Will Be. Melbourne: Spinifex, 1998. Bordo, Susan. “The Body and the Reproduction of Femininity.” Writing on the Body: Female Embodiment and Feminist Theory. Eds. Katie Conboy, Nadia Medina, and Sarah Stanbury. New York: Columbia UP, 1997. 90-110. Collins, Patricia Hill. Black Feminist Thought. New York: Routledge, 2000. Fisher, Elizabeth M. "Elphick, Gladys (1904–1988)." Australian Dictionary of Biography. National Centre of Biography, Australian National University, 29 Sep. 2013. ‹http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/elphick-gladys-12460/text22411>. Grieves, Victoria. Aboriginal Spirituality: Aboriginal Philosophy, The Basis of Aboriginal Social and Emotional Wellbeing, Melbourne University: Cooperative Research Centre for Aboriginal Health, 2009. Haebich, Anna. Broken Circles: The Fragmenting of Indigenous Families. Fremantle: Fremantle Arts Press, 2000. Haskins, Victoria. My One Bright Spot. London: Palgrave, 2005. Hughes, Karen. "My Grandmother on the Other Side of the Lake." PhD thesis, Department of Australian Studies and Department of History, Flinders University. Adelaide, 2009. ———. “Microhistories and Things That Matter.” Australian Feminist Studies 27.73 (2012): 269-278. ———. “I’d Grown Up as a Child amongst Natives.” Outskirts: Feminisms along the Edge 28 (2013). 29 Sep. 2013 ‹http://www.outskirts.arts.uwa.edu.au/volumes/volume-28/karen-hughes>. Jenkin, Graham. Conquest of the Ngarrindjeri. Adelaide: Rigby, 1979. Kartinyeri, Doris. Kick the Tin. Melbourne: Spinifex, 2000. Kartinyeri, Doreen. My Ngarrindjeri Calling, Adelaide: Wakefield, 2007. Kickett, Marion. “Examination of How a Culturally Appropriate Definition of Resilience Affects the Physical and Mental Health of Aboriginal People.” PhD thesis, Curtin University, 2012. Kirmayer, L.J., S. Dandeneau, E. Marshall, M.K. Phillips, K. Jenssen Williamson. “Rethinking Resilience from Indigenous Perspectives.” Canadian Journal of Psychiatry 56.2 (2011): 84-91. Luthar, S., D. Cicchetti, and B. Becker. “The Construct of Resilience: A Critical Evaluation and Guidelines for Future Work.” Child Development 71.3 (2000): 543-62. MacGill, Bindi, Julie Mathews, Ellen Trevorrow, Alice Abdulla, and Deb Rankine. “Ecology, Ontology, and Pedagogy at Camp Coorong,” M/C Journal 15.3 (2012). Mattingly, Christobel, and Ken Hampton. Survival in Our Own Land, Adelaide: Wakefield, 1988. Moreton-Robinson, Aileen. Talkin’ Up to the White Woman. St Lucia: UQP, 2000. Night Cries, A Rural Tragedy. Dir. Tracy Moffatt. Chili Films, 1990. Read, Peter. A Rape of the Soul So Profound. Crows Nest: Allen & Unwin, 2002. Tucker, Margaret. If Everyone Cared. Sydney: Ure Smith, 1977. Wanganeen, Elva. Personal Communication, 2000. Westphalen, Linda. An Anthropological and Literary Study of Two Aboriginal Women's Life Histories: The Impacts of Enforced Child Removal and Policies of Assimilation. New York: Mellen Press, 2011.

Working drawings are produced, when a house is designed, to envisage an imagined building. They are a tangible representation of an object that has no tangible existence. These working drawings act as a manual for constructing the house; they represent that which is to be built. The house comes into being, therefore, via this set of drawings. This is known as documentation. However, these drawings record the house at an ideal moment in time; they capture the house in stasis. They do not represent the future life of the house, the changes and traces the inhabitants make upon a space, nor do they document the path of the person, the arc of their actions, within the space of the house. Other types of documentation of the house allow these elements to be included. Documentation that is produced after-the-event, that interprets ‘the existing’, is absent from discourses on documentation; the realm of post factum documentation is a less examined form of documentation. This paper investigates post factum documentation of the house, and the alternative ways of making, producing and, therefore, thinking about, the house that it offers. This acknowledges the body in the space of architecture, and the inhabitation of space, and as a dynamic process. This then leads to the potential of the‘model of an action’ representing the motion and temporality inherent within the house. Architecture may then be seen as that which encloses the inhabitant. The word ‘document’ refers to a record or evidence of events. It implies a chronological sequence: the document comes after-the-event, that is, it is post factum. Within architecture, however, the use of the word documentation, predominantly, refers to working drawings that are made to ‘get to’ a building, drawings being the dominant representation within architecture. Robin Evans calls this notion, of architecture being brought into existence through drawing, the principle of reversed directionality (Evans 1997, 1989). Although it may be said that these types of drawings document the idea, or document the imagined reality of the building, their main emphasis, and reading, is in getting to something. In this case, the term documentation is used, not due to the documents’ placement within a process, of coming after the subject-object, but in referring to the drawings’ role. Other architectural drawings do exist that are a record of what is seen, but these are not the dominant drawing practice within architecture. Documentation within architecture regards the act of drawing as that process upon which the object is wholly dependent for its coming into existence. Drawing is defined as the pre-eminent methodology for generation of the building; drawings are considered the necessary initial step towards the creation of the 1:1 scale object. During the designing phase, the drawings are primary, setting out an intention. Drawings, therefore, are regarded as having a prescriptive endpoint rather than being part of an open-ended improvisation. Drawings, in getting to a building, draw out something, the act of drawing searches for and uncovers the latent design, drawing it into existence. They are seen as getting to the core of the design. Drawings display a technique of making and are influenced by their medium. Models, in getting to a building, may be described in the same way. The act of modelling, of making manifest two-dimensional sketches into a three-dimensional object, operates similarly in possessing a certain power in assisting the design process to unfurl. Drawing, as recording, alters the object. This act of drawing is used to resolve, and to edit, by excluding and omitting, as much as by including, within its page. Models similarly made after-the-fact are interpretive and consciously aware of their intentions. In encapsulating the subject-object, the model as documentation is equally drawing out meaning. This type of documentation is not neutral, but rather involves interpretation and reflection through representational editing. Working drawings record the house at an ideal moment in time: at the moment the builders leave the site and the owners unlock the front door. These drawings capture the house in stasis. There is often the notion that until the owners of a new house move in, the house has been empty, unlived in. But the life of the house cannot be fixed to any one starting point; rather it has different phases of life from conception to ruin. With working drawings being the dominant representation of the house, they exclude much; both the life of the house before this act of inhabitation, and the life that occurs after it. The transformations that occur at each phase of construction are never shown in a set of working drawings. When a house is built, it separates itself from the space it resides within: the domain of the house is marked off from the rest of the site. The house has a skin of a periphery, that inherently creates an outside and an inside (Kreiser 88). As construction continues, there is a freedom in the structure which closes down; potential becomes prescriptive as choices are made and embodied in material. The undesignedness of the site, that exists before the house is planned, becomes lost once the surveyors’ pegs are in place (Wakely 92). Next, the skeletal frame of open volumes becomes roofed, and then becomes walled, and walking through the frame becomes walking through doorways. One day an interior is created. The interior and exterior of the house are now two different things, and the house has definite edges (Casey 290). At some point, the house becomes lockable, its security assured through this act of sealing. It is this moment that working drawings capture. Photographs comprise the usual documentation of houses once they are built, and yet they show no lived-in-ness, no palimpsest of occupancy. They do not observe the changes and traces the inhabitants make upon a space, nor do they document the path of the person, the arc of their actions, within the space of the house. American architects and artists Elizabeth Diller and Ricardo Scofidio have written of these traces of the everyday that punctuate floor and wall surfaces: the intersecting rings left by coffee glasses on a tabletop, the dust under a bed that becomes its plan analog when the bed is moved, the swing etched into the floor by a sagging door. (Diller & Scofidio 99) It is these marks, these traces, that are omitted from the conventional documentation of a built house. To examine an alternative way of documenting, and to redress these omissions, a redefinition of the house is needed. A space can be delineated by its form, its edges, or it can be defined by the actions that are performed, and the connections between people that occur, within it. To define the house by what it encapsulates, rather than being seen as an object in space, allows a different type of documentation to be employed. By defining a space as that which accommodates actions, rooms may be delineated by the reach of a person, carved out by the actions of a person, as though they are leaving a trace as they move, a windscreen wiper of living, through the repetition of an act. Reverse directional documentation does not directly show the actions that take place within a house; we must infer these from the rooms’ fittings and fixtures, and the names on the plan. In a similar way, Italo Calvino, in Invisible Cities, defines a city by the relationships between its inhabitants, rather than by its buildings: in Ersilia, to establish the relationships that sustain the city’s life, the inhabitants stretch strings from the corners of the houses, white or black or grey or black-and-white according to whether they mark a relationship of blood, of trade, authority, agency. When the strings become so numerous that you can no longer pass among them, the inhabitants leave: the houses are dismantled; only the strings and their supports remain … Thus, when travelling in the territory of Ersilia, you come upon the ruins of the abandoned cities without the walls which do not last, without the bones of the dead which the wind rolls away: spiderwebs of intricate relationships seeking a form. (Calvino 62) By defining architecture by that which it encapsulates, form or materiality may be given to the ‘spiderwebs of intricate relationships’. Modelling the actions that are performed in the space of architecture, therefore, models the architecture. This is referred to as a model of an action. In examining the model of an action, the possibilities of post factum documentation of the house may be seen. The Shinkenchiku competition The Plan-Less House (2006), explored these ideas of representing a house without using the conventional plan to do so. A suggested alternative was to map the use of the house by its inhabitants, similar to the idea of the model of an action. The house could be described by a technique of scanning: those areas that came into contact with the body would be mapped. Therefore, the representation of the house is not connected with spatial division, that is, by marking the location of walls, but rather with its use by its inhabitants. The work of Diller and Scofidio and Allan Wexler and others explores this realm. One inquiry they share is the modelling of the body in the space of architecture: to them, the body is inseparable from the conception of space. By looking at their work, and that of others, three different ways of representing this inhabitation of space are seen. These are: to represent the objects involved in a particular action, or patterns of movement, that occurs in the space, in a way that highlights the action; to document the action itself; or to document the result of the action. These can all be defined as the model of an action. The first way, the examination of the body in a space via an action’s objects, is explored by American artist Allan Wexler, who defines architecture as ‘choreography without a choreographer, structuring its inhabitant’s movements’ (Galfetti 22). In his project ‘Crate House’ (1981), Wexler examines the notion of the body in a space via an action’s objects. He divided the house into its basic activities: bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room. Each of these is then defined by their artefacts, contained in their own crate on wheels, which is rolled out when needed. At any point in time, the entire house becomes the activity due to its crate: when a room such as the kitchen is needed, that crate is rolled in through one of the door openings. When the occupant is tired, the entire house becomes a bedroom, and when the occupant is hungry, it becomes a kitchen … I view each crate as if it is a diorama in a natural history museum — the pillow, the spoon, the flashlight, the pot, the nail, the salt. We lose sight of everyday things. These things I isolate, making them sculpture: their use being theatre. (Galfetti 42–6) The work of Andrea Zittel explores similar ideas. ‘A–Z Comfort Unit’ (1994), is made up of five segments, the centrepiece being a couch/bed, which is surrounded by four ancillary units on castors. These offer a library, kitchen, home office and vanity unit. The structure allows the lodger never to need to leave the cocoon-like bed, as all desires are an arm’s reach away. The ritual of eating a meal is examined in Wexler’s ‘Scaffold Furniture’ (1988). This project isolates the components of the dining table without the structure of the table. Instead, the chair, plate, cup, glass, napkin, knife, fork, spoon and lamp are suspended by scaffolding. Their connection, rather than being that of objects sharing a tabletop, is seen to be the (absent) hand that uses them during a meal; the act of eating is highlighted. In these examples, the actions performed within a space are represented by the objects involved in the action. A second way of representing the patterns of movement within a space is to represent the action itself. The Japanese tea ceremony breaks the act of drinking into many parts, separating and dissecting the whole as a way of then reassembling it as though it is one continuous action. Wexler likens this to an Eadweard Muybridge film of a human in motion (Galfetti 31). This one action is then housed in a particular building, so that when devoid of people, the action itself still has a presence. Another way of documenting the inhabitation of architecture, by drawing the actions within the space, is time and motion studies, such as those of Rene W.P. Leanhardt (Diller & Scofidio 40–1). In one series of photographs, lights were attached to a housewife’s wrists, to demonstrate the difference in time and effort required in the preparation of a dinner prepared entirely from scratch in ninety minutes, and a pre-cooked, pre-packaged dinner of the same dish, which took only twelve minutes. These studies are lines of light, recorded as line drawings on a photograph of the kitchen. They record the movement of the person in the room of the action they perform, but they also draw the kitchen in a way conventional documentation does not. A recent example of the documentation of an action was undertaken by Asymptote and the students at Columbia University Graduate School of Architecture in their exhibition at the Venice Biennale of Architecture in 2000. A gymnast moving through the interior space of the pavilion was recorded using a process of digitisation and augmentation. Using modelling procedures, the spatial information was then reconstructed to become a full-scale architectural re-enactment of the gymnast’s trajectory through the room (Feireiss 40). This is similar to a recent performance by Australian contemporary dance company Chunky Move, called ‘Glow’. Infra-red video tracking took a picture of the dancer twenty-five times a second. This was used to generate shapes and images based on the movements of a solo dancer, which were projected onto the floor and the dancer herself. In the past, when the company has used DVDs or videos, the dancer has had to match what they were doing to the projection. This shifts the technology to following the dancer (Bibby 3). A third way of representing the inhabitation of architecture is to document the result of an action. Raoul Bunschoten writes of the marks of a knife being the manifestation of the act of cutting, as an analogy: incisions imply the use of a cutting tool. Together, cuts and cutting tool embrace a special condition. The actual movement of the incision is fleeting, the cut or mark stays behind, the knife moves on, creating an apparent discontinuity … The space of the cut is a reminder of the knife, its shape and its movements: the preparation, the swoop through the air, the cutting, withdrawal, the moving away. These movements remain implicitly connected with the cut as its imaginary cause, as a mnemonic programme about a hand holding a knife, incising a surface, severing skin. (Bunschoten 40) As a method of documenting actions, the paintings of Jackson Pollack can be seen as a manifestation of an act. In the late 1940s, Pollack began to drip paint onto a canvas laid flat on the floor; his tools were sticks and old caked brushes. This process clarified his work, allowing him to walk around it and work from all four sides. Robert Hughes describes it as ‘painting “from the hip” … swinging paintstick in flourishes and frisks that required an almost dancelike movement of the body’ (Hughes 154). These paintings made manifest Pollack’s gestures. As his arm swung in space, the dripping paint followed that arc, to be preserved on a flat plane as pictorial space (Hughes 262). Wexler, in another study, recorded the manifestation of an action. He placed a chair in a one-room building. It was attached to lengths of timber that extended outdoors through slots in the walls of the building. As the chair moved inside the building, its projections carved grooves in the ground outside. As the chair moved in a particular pattern, deeper grooves were created: ‘Eventually, the occupant of the chair has no choice in his movement; the architecture moves him.’ (Galfetti 14) The pattern of movement creates a result, which in turn influences the movement. By redefining architecture by what it encapsulates rather than by the enclosure itself, allows architecture to be documented by the post factum model of an action that occurs in that space. This leads to the exploration of architecture, formed by the body within it, since the documentation and representation of architecture starts to affect the reading of architecture. Architecture may then be seen as that which encloses the inhabitant. The documentation of the body and the space it makes concerns the work of the Hungarian architect Imre Makovecz. His exploration is of the body and the space it makes. Makovecz, and a circle of like-minded architects and artists, embarked on a series of experiments analysing the patterns of human motion and subsequently set up a competition based around the search for a minimum existential space. This consisted of mapping human motion in certain spatial conditions and situations. Small light bulbs were attached to points on the limbs and joints and photographed, creating a series of curves and forms. This led to a competition called ‘Minimal Space’ (1971–2), in which architects, artists and designers were invited to consider a minimal space for containing the human body, a new notion of personal containment. Makovecz’s own response took the form of a bell-like capsule composed of a double shell expressing its presence and location in both time and space (Heathcote 120). Vito Acconci, an artist turned architect by virtue of his installation work, explored this notion of enclosure in his work (Feireiss 38). In 1980 Acconci began his series of ‘self-erecting architectures’, vehicles or instruments involving one or more viewers whose operation erected simple buildings (Acconci & Linker 114). In his project ‘Instant House’ (1980), a set of walls lies flat on the floor, forming an open cruciform shape. By sitting in the swing in the centre of this configuration, the visitor activates an apparatus of cables and pulleys causing walls to rise and form a box-like house. It is a work that explores the idea of enclosing, of a space being something that has to be constructed, in the same way for example one builds up meaning (Reed 247–8). This documentation of architecture directly references the inhabitation of architecture. The post factum model of architecture is closely linked to the body in space and the actions it performs. Examining the actions and movement patterns within a space allows the inhabitation process to be seen as a dynamic process. David Owen describes the biological process of ‘ecopoiesis’: the process of a system making a home for itself. He describes the building and its occupants jointly as the new system, in a system of shaping and reshaping themselves until there is a tolerable fit (Brand 164). The definition of architecture as being that which encloses us, interests Edward S. Casey: in standing in my home, I stand here and yet feel surrounded (sheltered, challenged, drawn out, etc.) by the building’s boundaries over there. A person in this situation is not simply in time or simply in space but experiences an event in all its engaging and unpredictable power. In Derrida’s words, ‘this outside engages us in the very thing we are’, and we find ourselves subjected to architecture rather than being the controlling subject that plans or owns, uses or enjoys it; in short architecture ‘comprehends us’. (Casey 314) This shift in relationship between the inhabitant and architecture shifts the documentation and reading of the exhibition of architecture. Casey’s notion of architecture comprehending the inhabitant opens the possibility for an alternate exhibition of architecture, the documentation of that which is beyond the inhabitant’s direction. Conventional documentation shows a quiescence to the house. Rather than attempting to capture the flurry — the palimpsest of occupancy — within the house, it is presented as stilled, inert and dormant. In representing the house this way, a lull is provided, fostering a steadiness of gaze: a pause is created, within which to examine the house. However, the house is then seen as object, rather than that which encapsulates motion and temporality. Defining, and thus documenting, the space of architecture by its actions, extends the perimeter of architecture. No longer is the house bounded by its doors and walls, but rather by the extent of its patterns of movement. Post factum documentation allows this altering of the definition of architecture, as it includes the notion of the model of an action. By appropriating, clarifying and reshaping situations that are relevant to the investigation of post factum documentation, the notion of the inhabitation of the house as a definition of architecture may be examined. This further examines the relationship between architectural representation, the architectural image, and the image of architecture. References Acconci, V., and K. Linker. Vito Acconci. New York: Rizzoli, 1994. Bibby, P. “Dancer in the Dark Is Light Years Ahead.” Sydney Morning Herald 22 March 2007: 3. Brand, S. How Buildings Learn: What Happens after They’re Built. London: Phoenix Illustrated, 1997. Bunschoten, R. “Cutting the Horizon: Two Theses on Architecture.” Forum (Nov. 1992): 40–9. Calvino, I. Invisible Cities. London: Picador, 1979. Casey, E.S. The Fate of Place. California: U of California P, 1998. Diller, E., and R. Scofidio. Flesh: Architectural Probes. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1994. Evans, R. Translations from Drawing to Building and Other Essays. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1997. ———. “Architectural Projection.” Eds. E. Blau and E. Kaufman. Architecture and Its Image: Four Centuries of Architectural Representation: Works from the Collection of the Canadian Center for Architecture. Exhibition catalogue. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1989. 19–35. Feireiss, K., ed. The Art of Architecture Exhibitions. Rotterdam: Netherlands Architecture Institute, 2001. Galfetti, G.G., ed. Allan Wexler. Barcelona: GG Portfolio, 1998. Glanville, R. “An Irregular Dodekahedron and a Lemon Yellow Citroen.” In L. van Schaik, ed., The Practice of Practice: Research in the Medium of Design. Melbourne: RMIT University Press, 2003. 258–265. Heathcote, E. Imre Mackovecz: The Wings of the Soul. West Sussex: Academy Editions, 1997. Hughes, R. The Shock of the New: Art and the Century of Change. London: British Broadcasting Corporation, 1980. Kreiser, C. “On the Loss of (Dark) Inside Space.” Daidalos 36 (June 1990): 88–99. Reed, C. ed. Not at Home: The Suppression of Domesticity in Modern Art and Architecture. London: Thames & Hudson, 1996. “Shinkenchiku Competition 2006: The Plan-Less House.” The Japan Architect 64 (Winter 2007): 7–12. Small, D. Paper John. USA: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1987. Wakely, M. Dream Home. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin. 2003. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Macken, Marian. "And Then We Moved In: Post Factum Documentation of the House." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/04-macken.php>. APA Style Macken, M. (Aug. 2007) "And Then We Moved In: Post Factum Documentation of the House," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/04-macken.php>.