Artykuły w czasopismach na temat „Botany – australia – history”

John Carne Bidwill was born in 1815 in England and died in Queensland in 1853. His short life is relevant to Australia's garden history, botany, the horticultural use of Australian plants in European gardens and the colonial history of Sydney, New Zealand, Wide Bay and Maryborough. He may have been the first to introduce plant breeding into Australia. In a short life, and working in his spare time, he contributed more than many full-time and longer-lived horticulturists. This included discovering new species, crossing new hybrids (specific and inter-generic), and propagating and promulgating plants for the nursery trade and gardeners. His efforts are marked by his name gracing many Australian and New Zealand plants, exotic plant hybrids and modern suburbs of Sydney and Maryborough. This brief biography outlines Bidwill's time in Australasia and Queensland.

Although best known as a descriptive botanist, Ferdinand Mueller published an early account of the South Australian Mallee in the style of his scientific hero, Alexander von Humboldt. This vegetation type is found across southern arid Australia and includes several distinctive botanical features that Mueller sought to highlight. While his article was republished twice, each issue was in German and consequently this work has tended to be overlooked in scholarship on the history of Australian botany. Mueller's article is introduced here along with a translation into English for the first time.

John White was appointed chief surgeon to the First Fleet on 24 October 1786 and sailed with that fleet, aboard theCharlotte, on 13 May 1787 for Botany Bay on the eastern seaboard of New Holland (Australia) where a penal colony was to be established. Between 18 and 20 January 1788 the entire fleet arrived at its destination and thus began the settlement of Australia by Europeans. White served as surgeon-general of the new colony, New South Wales, for almost six years until 17 December 1794 when he sailed on theDaedalusfor Europe, never to return to Australia.

Queen's Park in Maryborough is one of many public gardens established in the nineteenth century in Queensland: in Brisbane, Ipswich, Toowoomba, Warwick, Rockhampton, Mackay, Townsville, Cairns and Cooktown. They were created primarily as places of horticultural experimentation, as well as for recreational purposes. They formed a local area network, with the Brisbane Botanic Garden and the Government Botanist, Walter Hill, at the centre – at least in the 1870s. From here, the links extended to other botanic gardens in Australia, and beyond Australia to the British colonial network managed through the Royal Botanic Gardens (RBG), Kew. It was an informal network, supplying a knowledge of basic economic botany that founded many tropical agricultural industries and also provided much-needed recreational, educational and inspirational opportunities for colonial newcomers and residents. The story of these parks, from the time when they were first set aside as public reserves by the government surveyors to the present day, is central to the history of urban planning in regional centres. This article provides a statewide overview together with a more in-depth examination of Maryborough's own historic Queen's Park.

F.O. Bower, F.R.S., Regius Professor of Botany in the University of Glasgow, attended the 1914 meeting of the British Association for the Advancement of Science in Australia as President of Section K (Botany). Items from the daily diary that he kept include a running commentary on shipboard life on the outward voyage, sharp observations on some of his scientific colleagues and on meetings, the impacts of news and rumours of the distant war, and describe the hazards of the return voyage at peril from German commerce raiders.

In 1743, Georg Rumphius described a tree from the island of Seram in Herbarium Amboinense as Arbor Versicolor (now known as Eucalyptus deglupta Blume). Thus, the first European name for a species in the iconic Australian genus of Eucalyptus was coined decades before the British collected specimens in Australia, and before it was given its current name by a French botanist in 1789. The English translation of Rumphius’ description (see Supplementary Material) also includes vernacular names for Eucalyptus deglupta—some of many names applied to this species as it occurs from New Britain to Mindanao in the Philippines. While neither Rumphius’ name nor vernacular names for E. deglupta are recognised in current Western botanical nomenclature, the naming of Eucalyptus and other genera now recognised as Acacia, Casuarina and Melaleuca confirm the role of the eminent naturalist Rumphius in the history of Australian botany.

The article considers the role that history and botanical politics played during the nomenclatural debates surrounding the decision taken at the XVII International Botanical Congress (IBC) in Vienna in 2005 to conserve the genus Acacia with the type A. penninervis, an acacia from the Australian group, and the confirmation of this decision at the XVIII IBC in Melbourne in 2011. What was unusual about this issue was that it was contested in the public media as well as in professional botanical circles. It also resulted in fierce critiques about how the processes of international botany should operate. Many natural scientists strongly believe that their disciplines are objective and untainted by influences outside ?science', yet this recent example from international botany shows how politics in science, and scientific politics, may cast a long shadow over scientific decisions. In terms of external influences on science, we provide an overview of the competitive claims to Acacia as a national symbol in Australia and Africa that fuelled some of the discussion. We present some of the ?compromise proposals' that were circulated in advance of the Melbourne meeting and describe that meeting, focusing on the implications of the Acacia decision for the International Code of Botanical Nomenclature. We reflect on the complex role played by national identity and emotional passion for plants that has been revealed, while also highlighting how this experience has encouraged many botanists around the world to scrutinize more carefully how their international bodies function and to suggest changes and improvements.

The troubled taxonomic history of Stylidium graminifolium Sw. ex Willd. (syn. Candollea serrulata Labill.) is reviewed. The entity formerly known as S. graminifolium forms a complex consisting of three species. Stylidium graminifolium sens. str. is lectotypified on the basis of plants collected by Banks and Solander from Botany Bay NSW in 1770. This narrow-linear-leaved species is diploid (2n = 30) and is distributed widely on infertile soils in south-eastern continental Australia and Tasmania. Stylidium armeria Labill., on the basis of plants collected from southern Tasmania in the late 1790s, is a tetraploid (2n = 60), with leaves about two to three or four times wider than in S. graminifolium and more spathulate in shape. It has a strictly littoral habitat along the rough water coasts of Tasmania from Macquarie Heads to Tasman Peninsula, probably extending to the coasts of south-eastern Australia. Stylidium melastachys R.Br., on the basis of plants collected from the Kent Group in Bass Strait in 1803, is synonymous with S. armeria. A third species, S. dilatatum W.D.Jackson and R.J.E.Wiltshire, is described as new. It is morphologically similar to S. graminifolium but has linear leaves about two to three times as wide as S. graminifolium and is a tetraploid (2n = 60). It is widely distributed in Tasmania and in the cooler subalpine areas of south-eastern Australia but is confined to more fertile soils than the soils in which S. graminifolium is found.

Alkaloids derived from solanaceous plants were the subject of intense investigations by European chemists, pharmacologists and clinicians in the second half of the nineteenth century. Some surprise was expressed when it was discovered in the 1870s that an Australian bush, Duboisia myoporoides, contained an atropine-like alkaloid, 'duboisine'. A complicated and colourful history followed. Duboisine was adopted in Australia, Europe and the United States as an alternative to atropine as an ophthalmologic agent; shortly afterwards, it was also esteemed as a potent sedative in the management of psychiatric patients, and as an alternative to other solanaceous alkaloids in the treatment of parkinsonism. The Second World War led to renewed interest in Duboisia species as sources of scopolamine, required for surgical anaesthesia and to manage sea-sickness, a major problem in the naval part of the war. As a consequence of the efforts of the CSIR and of Wilfrid Russell Grimwade (1879-1955), this led to the establishment of plantations in Queensland that today still supply the bulk of the world's raw scopolamine. Following the War, however, government support for commercial alkaloid extraction waned, and it was the interest of the German firm Boehringer Ingelheim and its investment in the industry that rescued the Duboisia industry in the mid-1950s, and that continues to maintain it at a relatively low but stable level today. 'It is to be regretted that scientific men in this colony have paid so little attention to the subject of Medicinal Botany. Surrounded, as we are, by shrubs and plants possessing medicinal properties, there is a wide field for investigation; and, no doubt, it will be found in time to come, that we have been sending to distant countries for expensive medicines, whilst remedies equally efficacious might be provided close at hand in all their native freshness.' William Woolls, A Contribution to the Flora of Australia (1867), p. 94.

The oldest remedies identified to mankind are herbal medicines. India is recognized worldwide for its Ayurvedic treatment. India has rich history of using many plants for medicinal purposes. Remedial plants are cooperating extremely dynamic position in customary drugs for the action of a variety of illness. However a key obstacle, which has hindered the promotion in use of alternative medicines in the developed countries, is no evidence of documentation and absence of stringent quality control measures. There is a demand for the evidence of every investigate effort execute on conventional remedies in the appearance of certification. The purpose of current review is to make accessible up-to-date information on, botany, morphology, ecological biodiversity, therapeutic uses, phytochemistry and pharmacological activities on diverse parts of Silybum marianum (L.) Gaertn (S. marianum). This review was assembled using technical literature from electronic search engine such as Springer link, Bio Med Central, Pub Med, Scopus, Science Direct, Scielo, Medline and Science domain. Supplementary texts were obtained from books, book chapters, dissertations, websites and other scientific publications. S. marianum a member of the Asteraceae family, is a tall herb with large prickly white veined green leaves and a reddish-purple flower that ends in sharp spines. It is native of the Mediterranean region and which has also spread in East Asia, Europe, Australia and America. Confident chemical constituents were exposed cognate as silybin A, silybin B, isosilybin A, isosilybin B, silychristin, silydianin, apigenin 7-O-β-(2″- O-α-rhamnosyl)galacturonide, kaempferol 3-O-α-rhamnoside-7-O-β-galacturonide, apigenin 7-O-β-glucuronide, apigenin 7-O-β-glucoside, apigenin 7-O-β-galactoside, kaempferol-3-O-α-rhamnoside, kaempferol, taxifolin and quercetin. The plant is exclusively used as anti-diabetic, hepatoprotective, hypocholesterolaemic, anti-hypertensive, anti-inflammatory, anti-cancer, and as an anti-oxidant. Seeds of the plant are also used as an anti-spasmodic, neuroprotective, anti-viral, immunomodulant, cardioprotective, demulcent and anti-haemorrhagic. The plant is also serves as a galactagogue, agent that induces milk secretion and used in the treatment of uterine disorders. The plant is employed in dissimilar conventional schemes of remedy in the cure of different illness.

In dieser Untersuchung werden beispielhaft die Lebenswege und Karrieren von Berliner Geowissenschaftlerinnen im Zeitraum von 1906 bis 1945 nachgezeichnet und analysiert. Ähnlich wie an anderen deutschen bzw. westlichen Universitäten, aber im Gegensatz zu Russland, begann die Tätigkeit von Frauen in den Geowissenschaften spät, und das Fach wurde auch relativ selten gewählt, hauptsächlich wegen der zu geringen Berufschancen. Aber die besondere Situation in Berlin mit mehreren sich ergänzenden Institutionen und dem daraus resultierenden breiten Spektrum an geowissenschaftlichen Disziplinen, sowie ausgezeichneten Professoren, ließ dennoch Raum für eine Ausbildung in diesem Bereich und erlaubte, wenn auch in bescheidenem Maße, eine gewisse Karrieremöglichkeit. <br><br> Während der hier untersuchten 40 Jahre haben weniger als 20 Frauen in den Geowissenschaften und benachbarten Gebieten promoviert. Mehrere dieser Frauen blieben in dem von ihnen gewählten Fach weiterhin aktiv und wurden erfolgreich. Zwei Frauen gelang eine akademische Karriere — eine als Universitätsprofessorin, die auch Schülerinnen hatte. Andere arbeiteten an staatlichen Institutionen, wie z. B. dem Geologischen Landesamt. Wenige Frauen blieben nach ihrer Verheiratung beruflich aktiv, wenn auch nicht offiziell angestellt, sondern als Ehefrauen. Andere arbeiteten als "Ersatz" für die im Kriege stehenden Männer. Einige waren aus persönlichen und politischen Gründen, insbesondere während der NS-Zeit, gezwungen, die Geowissenschaften zu verlassen, konnten aber teilweise auf anderen Gebieten erfolgreich arbeiten. <br><br> This paper documents the lives and careers of women geoscientists at the Berlin Friedrich-Wilhelms-University from 1906 through 1945. Traditionally, in Germany, women had difficulties to be accepted in geosciences (except for geography/geology teachers), because of strong links between geology and mining, a field dominated clearly by men. In western European countries, as well as in the U.S.A. and Australia, the situation was similar in that women started late and in small numbers to study geology. This was, however, in contrast to Russia and later the Soviet Union where women were relatively early accepted even as university teachers. <br><br> The data for this paper were gathered from Berlin University institutions, such as the historical archive and the library of the Palaeontological Institute, and in addition personal contacts were used. Women who had studied either geography, geology/palaeontology, geophysics, mineralogy or botany/palaeobotany are subject of this study. Only those are considered who had strong affiliations to geosciences proper, in all 17 women. <br><br> During the first half of the 20th century the Berlin Friedrich-Wilhelms-University, founded in 1810, was one of the most important institutions concerning higher education in Germany, especially for women. The official opening of this university for women students was in 1908, somewhat later than at other German universities. Once admitted, however, the number of dissertations completed by women was relatively high, and, 30% of all habilitations (advanced degree which allows teaching at universities) in Germany and 50% of all habilitations in the natural sciences were accomplished at Berlin between 1918/19 to 1932. <br><br> The geosciences were, together with medicine, chemistry, physics, botany and zoology, very strong scientifical and in teaching. Geoscientists of international reputation worked at large institutions, affiliated or being part of the University, such as the Prussian (later German) Geological Survey, the Institute of Geology and Palaeontology at the Museum of Natural History or the Institute and Museum of Oceanography, and were the advisers and reviewers of women Diploma and PhD students. <br><br> doi:<a href="http://dx.doi.org/10.1002/mmng.20030060103" target="_blank">10.1002/mmng.20030060103</a>

AbstractThis research bibliography gives a brief ecological account of lies Crozet (Terres Australes et Antarctiques Francaises) and lists over 370 studies in terrestrial and freshwater ecology (including laboratory studies) under five headings — history and general aspects, earth sciences, botany, invertebrate fauna, vertebrate fauna.

The Australian National Botanic Gardens plays an important role in the study and promotion of Australia's diverse range of unique plants through its living collection, scientific research activities and also through the art collection held in the institution's Library and Archives. Australia's history of formal botanical illustration began with the early voyages of discovery with its popularity then declining until the modern day revival in botanical art. The Australian National Botanic Gardens Library and Archives art collection holds works from the Endeavour voyage through to the more contemporary artists of Celia Rosser, Collin Woolcock, Gillian Scott and Aboriginal artists including Teresa Purla McKeeman as well as photographs and outdoor installations.

George Bentham's seven volume Flora australiensis (1863–1879) was the first continental Flora, and for over a century was the only flora treating the whole of Australia. The work was produced with the “assistance” of Ferdinand Mueller, later von Mueller, the Government Botanist of Victoria from 1853, who loaned his collection, group by group, to Kew, enabling Bentham to compare the specimens with those in British and European herbaria. Mueller, who himself had wished to write the Flora, was stimulated to produce descriptions of the species as they were prepared for shipment, and Bentham's timetable strongly structured his publication programme. The limits of taxa recognized by each were similar, although there were often differences in the rank accorded the taxon. The return of Mueller's now authenticated specimens also temporarily transferred the power over Australian plant systematics to Melbourne, a power Mueller later used. Despite his initial disappointment that Bentham was assigned the Australian Flora by William Hooker in the series of colonial Floras, Mueller's association with the project later became a lifeline, helping him keep his self esteem after he was dismissed from his concurrent post as Director of the Melbourne Botanic Gardens in 1873.

This bibliography, in geographic terms, covers principally Australia, but also New Zealand, New Guinea and other islands of the Pacific Ocean near Australia, and Antarctica. It includes material on the history of the natural sciences (mathematics, physical sciences, earth sciences and biological sciences), some of the applied sciences (including medical and health sciences, agriculture, manufacturing and engineering), and human sciences (psychology, anthropology and sociology). Biographical material on practitioners in these sciences is also of interest. The sources used in compiling this bibliography include those that have proved useful in the past in finding relevant citations. The library catalogues of the Royal Botanic Gardens Melbourne, the National Library of Australia and the National Library of New Zealand Te Puna Matauranga O Aotearoa were particularly useful sources of information. Journals that have yielded articles for previous bibliographies were checked, as were some titles that have not previously been scanned. Hence a number of citations are included that were published earlier than 2008. Assistance has been received from a number of people who sent items or information about items published in 2008 for inclusion in the bibliography. In particular, Professor Rod Home has been most helpful in forwarding relevant citations. Staff of the eScholarship Research Centre at the University of Melbourne, especially Helen Morgan, were of great assistance in the preparation of this bibliography. Readers may have access to information about relevant books, journal articles, conference papers, reports, Master's and PhD theses and reviews published in 2009. They are encouraged to send such information to the compiler at the above email address for inclusion in future bibliographies.

Warning Readers of this article are warned that it may contain terms, descriptions and opinions that are culturally sensitive and/or offensive to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders. Lothar Becker (1825–1901?), an unpretentious Silesian naturalist, twice visited the colony of Victoria and published rich and original observations on its natural history and Indigenous people on his return to Germany. On his first visit, 1849 to 1852, Becker recorded his encounter with Black Thursday, a devastating bushfire, its aftermath, and the, by then, still relatively uncleared landscape. He also related his experiences living for a time with an Indigenous family in the Omeo district. After adding to his store of natural history observations on a second visit, 1855 to 1865, Becker tried to make money from writing articles on diverse Australian topics such as ant nests, the sequence and timing of flowering, the distribution of weeds, the natural history of fungi and the world history of tobacco, in all but the latter characterised by a remarkable proto-ecological approach. Becker’s publications have been overlooked by subsequent scientific researchers, in part because he wrote for the popular press, and because his language was German. The life and work of Lothar Becker is introduced here for the first time, and translations provided of six of his articles on Victorian natural history, botany, mycology, horticulture, and anthropology. Reflections on Becker’s contribution to anthropology and to mycology are published in two associated articles by Howes, and May and Darragh.

Rockhampton is the principal city of Central Queensland. In the nineteenth century the city and the colony of Queensland were pursuing the policies of settlement, development and growth followed by the other colonies of Australia and in the British Empire.

Decolonization influenced the rise of environmental activism and thought in Australia and South Africa in ways that have been overlooked by national histories of environmentalism and imperial histories of decolonization. Australia and South Africa’s political and cultural movement away from Britain and the Commonwealth during the 1960s is one important factor explaining why people in both countries created more, and more important, public indigenous botanic gardens than anywhere else in the world during that decade. Effective decolonization from Britain also influenced the rise of indigenous gardening and the growing popularity of native gardens at a critical period in gardening and environmental history. Most facets of contemporary gardening—using plants indigenous to the site or region, planting drought-tolerant species, and seeing gardens as sites to help conserve regional and national flora—can be dated to the 1960s and 1970s. The interpretation advanced here adds to historical research tracing how the former Commonwealth settler colonies experienced effective decolonization in the same era. This article expands the focus of research on decolonization to include environmentalism. The interpretation of the article also augments national environmental histories that have hitherto downplayed the influence of decolonization on the rise of environmentalism. Putting decolonization into the history of the rise of environmental thought and action sheds light on why people in contemporary Australia and South Africa are so passionate about protecting indigenous flora and fauna, and so worried about threats posed by non-native invasive species.

STACEY and Hay have previously collaborated on the volume Herbarium (Stacey and Hay 2004) regarding collections held in the herbarium of the Royal Botanic Gardens, Sydney. Ashley Hay has published two books of narrative non-fiction. Her essays, short stories and journalism have appeared in various periodicals including The Bulletin where she was a literary editor. Robyn Stacey is a Senior Lecturer in the School of Communication and Arts at the University of Western Sydney. She is an acclaimed photographer, in Australia, with her photography shown in Australia and internationally. This book is about the history, collectors and collections of The Macleay Museum at The University of Sydney. Its aim is to bring the reader closer to the collectors and collections by breathing life into the characters and selected specimens in the collection; according to the dust-jacket’s hyperbole, to throw open the doors of the museum and its rich collections. The authors develop the book with their individual skills, one of writing and one of photography. The second is facilitated through its aesthetic appeal, its folio size and large photographic reproductions of strikingly coloured specimens. The whole is a coffee-table-style-book with a text that digs deeper developing the background to the personalities and collections, intertwining them with the history of early systematists/collectors, which provides the backbone of the text.

The study of ancient Greek and Latin in Australia and New Zealand, especially at Sydney Church of England Grammar School in New South Wales, produced this century a number of leading scholars who made a major contribution to the study of Old World archaeology in Europe and Australia this century. Among them were V. G. Childe, T. J. Dunbabin, J. R. Stewart and A. D. Trendall. In developing their respective fields of expertise, all spent some time in Greece, as students, excavators, research workers and soldiers, and had formative links with the British School at Athens. Australia's debt to the Classics is reflected not only in the life-long attachment to their legacy, and to Greece, by the former Prime Minister, the Hon. E. G. Whitlam, but in the perpetuation of their influence in such Colonial and modern structures as the monument of Lysicrates in Sydney's Botanic Gardens and the National Library and new Parliament House in Canberra, and in an official poster illustrating multiculturalism in Australia. Despite their role in shaping Australia's European history, the teaching of Classics is under threat as never before, and the late Enoch Powell, at one time Professor of Ancient Greek at the University of Sydney, has stigmatised the obscurantism which threatens to impoverish if not undermine Western civilisation by closing access to knowledge of our Classical past.

Shortly before he died, John Lindley decided to dispose of his herbarium and botanical library. He sold his orchid herbarium to the United Kingdom government for deposit at the Royal Botanic Gardens, Kew, and then offered his library and the remainder of his herbarium to Ferdinand Mueller in Melbourne. On his behalf, Joseph Hooker had earlier unsuccessfully offered the library and remnant herbarium to the University of Sydney, using the good offices of Sir Charles Nicholson. Although neither the University of Sydney nor Mueller was able to raise the necessary funds to purchase either collection, the correspondence allows a reconstruction of a catalogue of Lindley's library, and poses some questions about Joseph Hooker's motives in attempting to dispose of Lindley's material outside the United Kingdom. The final disposal of the herbarium to Cambridge and previous analyses of the purchase of his Library for the Royal Horticultural Society are discussed. A list of the works from Lindley's library offered for sale to Australia is appended.

Sabulopteryxbotanica Hoare &amp; Patrick, sp. nov. (Lepidoptera, Gracillariidae, Gracillariinae) is described as a new species from New Zealand. It is regarded as endemic, and represents the first record of its genus from the southern hemisphere. Though diverging in some morphological features from previously described species, it is placed in genus Sabulopteryx Triberti, based on wing venation, abdominal characters, male and female genitalia and hostplant choice; this placement is supported by phylogenetic analysis based on the COI mitochondrial gene. The life history is described: the larva is an underside leaf-miner on the endemic divaricating shrub Teucriumparvifolium (Lamiaceae), and exits the mine to pupate in a cocoon in a folded leaf of the host plant. The remarkable history of the discovery and rediscovery of this moth is discussed: for many years it was only known from a single sap-feeding larva found in a leaf-mine in a pressed herbarium specimen of the host. The adult was discovered by BHP in Christchurch Botanic Gardens in 2013. Most distribution records of the moth come from a recent search for mines and cocoons on herbarium specimens of T.parvifolium. Sabulopteryxbotanica has high conservation status, and is regarded as ‘Nationally Vulnerable’ according to the New Zealand Department of Conservation threat classification system, based on the rarity and declining status of its host plant. However, the presence of apparently thriving populations of S.botanica on cultivated plants of T.parvifolium, especially at the type locality, Christchurch Botanic Gardens, suggests that encouraging cultivation of the plant could greatly improve the conservation status of the moth. A revised checklist of New Zealand Gracillariidae is presented, assigning all species to the currently recognised subfamilies. The Australian Macarostolaida (Meyrick, 1880) is newly recorded from New Zealand (Auckland), where it is established on Eucalyptus.

Изучение сезонной динамики и объемов суммарного испарения лесных водосборов (главным образом транспирации древостоев) является актуальнейшей задачей как в фундаментальном, так и прикладном аспектах. Ее решение связано с рядом сложностей: трудоемкость прямого наблюдения, наличие большого количества влияющих друг на друга факторов, необходимость распространения данных точечных измерений на площадь и многие другие. Это приводит к тому, что при моделировании водного баланса речных бассейнов испарение определяется по упрощенным схемам, остаточному принципу, что ведет к неправильному отражению структуры водного баланса. Настоящая статья представляет первые результаты усилий инициативного коллектива исследователей, направленных на постановку экспериментальных измерений ксилемного потока с использованием современных датчиков стволового сокодвижения, а также развития методов оценки транспирации как отдельных деревьев, так и бассейновой транспирации на основе этих данных. Исследование проведено на территории смешанных хвойно-широколиственных лесов Центрального Сихотэ-Алиня в пределах экспериментального водосбора, входящего в состав Верхнеуссурийского биогеоценотического стационара ФНЦ Биоразнообразия ДВО РАН, на котором рабочей группой возобновлены воднобалансовые работы в 2011 г. и в настоящее время являются уже постоянными. Регистрация стволового сокодвижения выполнялась в период с июня по начало октября 2019 года на одном из доминантных видов местного растительного сообщества. В Дальневосточном регионе России работы такого плана, по-видимому, проведены впервые. Предполагается, что отработка методов оценки прямых измерений транспирации на уровне отдельных деревьев, попытка пространственной генерализации на территорию топологического масштаба и вовлечение полученной информации в комплекс гидрометеорологических наблюдений позволят выполнить исчерпывающий анализ водного баланса в пределах малого речного бассейна и интегрировать поток измеряемых данных по испарению в гидрологические модели. Литература Бенькова А.В., Рубцов А.В., Бенькова В.Е., Шашкин А.В. Сезонная динамика сокодвижения у деревьев Larix sibirica в Красноярской лесостепи // Журнал Сибирского федерального унвиверситета. Биология. 2019. Том 12. № 1. С. 32-47. DOI: 10.17516/1997-1389-0071 Болдескул А.Г., Шамов В.В., Гарцман Б.И., Кожевникова Н.К. Ионный состав генетических типов вод малого речного бассейна: стационарные исследования в Центральном Сихотэ-Алине // Тихоокеанская геология. 2014. Т. 33. № 2. С. 90-101. Гарцман Б.И., Шамов В.В. Натурные исследования стокоформирования в Дальневосточном регионе на основе современных средств наблюдений // Водные ресурсы. 2015. Т. 42. № 6. С. 589 599. DOI: 10.7868/S0321059615060048 Жильцов А.С. Гидрологическая роль горных хвойно-широколиственных лесов Южного Приморья. Владивосток: Дальнаука, 2008. 331 с. Клиге Р.К., Данилов И.Д., Конищев В.Н. История гидросферы. М.: Научный мир, 1998. 368 с. Тихова Г.П., Павлов А.Г., Придача В.Б., Сазонова Т.А. Новый гибридный метод для измерения транспирационных потоков влаги у деревьев // Сибирский лесной журнал. 2017. № 4. С. 78-90. DOI: 10.15372/SJFS20170407 Čermák J. Solar equivalent leaf area: an efficient biometric parameter of individual leaves, trees and stands // Tree Physiology. 1989. Vol. 5. No. 3. P. 269-289. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/5.3.269 Čermák J., Deml M., Penka M. A new method of sap flow rate determination in trees // Biologia Plantarum (Praha). 1973. Vol. 15. No. 3. P. 171-178. Čermák J., Kučera J. Scaling up transpiration data between trees, stands and watersheds // Silva Carelica, 1990. Vol. 15. P. 101-120 Čermák J., Kučera J., Nadezhdina N. Sap flow measurements with some thermodynamic methods, flow integration within trees and scaling up from sample trees to entire forest stands // Trees. 2004. Vol. 18. No. 5. P. 529-546. DOI 10.1007/s00468-004-0339-6 Chiesi M., Maselli F., Bindi M., Fibbi L., Bonora L., Raschi A., Tognetti R., Čermák J., Nadezhdina N. Calibration and application of FOREST-BCG in a Mediterraen area by the use of conventional and remote sensing data // Ecological Modelling. 2002. Vol. 154. Iss. 3. P. 251-262. DOI: 10.1016/S0304-3800(02)00057-1 Clearwater M.J., Meinzer F.C., Andrade J.L., Goldstein G., Holbrook N.M. Potential errors in measurement of nonuniform sap flow using heat dissipation probes // Tree Physiology. 1999. Vol. 19. Iss. 10. P. 681-687. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/19.10.681 De Schepper V., van Dusschoten D., Copini P., Jahnke S., Steppe K. MRI links stem water content to stem diameter variations in transpiring trees // Journal of Experimental Botany. 2012. Vol. 63. Iss. 7. P. 2645-2653. DOI:10.1093/jxb/err445 Dye P.J., Olbrich B.W., Poulter A.G. The influence of growth rings in Pinus patula on heat pulse velocity and sap flow measurement // Journal of Experimental Botany. 1991. Vol. 42. Iss. 7. P. 867-870. DOI:10.1093/jxb/42.7.867 Edwards W.R.N., Booker R.E. Radial variation in the axial conductivity of Populus and its significance in heat pulse velocity measurement // Journal of Experimental Botany. 1984. Vol. 35. Iss. 4. P. 551-561. DOI: 10.1093/jxb/35.4.551 Forster M.A. How significant is nocturnal sap flow? // Tree Physiology. 2014. Vol. 34. Iss. 7. P. 757-765. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/tpu051 Granier A. Une nouvelle méthode pour la mesure du flux de sève brute dans le tronc des arbres // Annales des sciences forestières, INRA/EDP Sciences. 1985. 42 (2). P. 193-200. Hatton T.J., Catchpole E.A., Vertessy R.A. Integration of sapflow velocity to estimate plant water use // Tree Physiology. 1990. Vol. 6. Iss. 2. P. 201-209. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/6.2.201 Huber B. Beobachtung und Messung pflanzlicher Saftströme // Berichte der Deutschen Botanischen Gesellschaft. 1932. Vol. 50. P. 89-109. Jarvis P.G., McNaughton K.G. Stomatal control of transpiration: scaling up from leaf to region // Advances in Ecological Research. 1986. Vol. 15. P. 1-49. DOI: 10.1016/S0065-2504(08)60119-1 Jasechko S., Sharp Z.D., Gibson J.J., Birks S.J., Yi Y., Fawcett P.J. Terrestrial water fluxes dominated by transpiration // Nature. 2013. Vol. 496. P. 347-350. DOI: 10.1038/nature11983 Kučera J., Čermák J., Penka M. Improved thermal method of continual recording the transpiration flow rate dynamics // Biologia Plantarum (Praha). 1977. Vol. 19. No. 6. P. 413-420 Lundblad M., Lagergren F., Lindroth A. Evaluation of heat balance and heat dissipation methods for sapflow measurements in pine and spruce // Annals of Forest Science. 2001. Vol. 58. No. 6. P. 625-638. DOI: 10.1051/forest:2001150 Marshall D.C. Measurement of sap flow in conifers by heat transport // Plant Physiology. 1958. Vol. 33. Iss. 6. P. 385-396. DOI: 10.1104/pp.33.6.385 Meiresonne L., Nadezhdina N., Čermák J., Slycken J. Van, Ceulemans R. Measured sap flow and simulated transpiration from a poplar stand in Flanders (Belgium) // Agricultural and Forest Meteorology. 1999. Vol. 96. Iss. 4. P. 165-179. DOI: 10.1016/S0168-1923(99)00066-0 Meiresonne L., Sampson D.A., Kowalski A.S., Janssens I.A., Nadezhdina N., Čermák J., Slycken J. Van, Ceulemans R. Water flux estimates from a Belgian Scots pine stand: a comparison of different approaches // Journal of Hydrology. 2002. Vol. 270. Iss. 3-4. P. 230-252. DOI: 10.1016/S0022-1694(02)00284-6 Miralles D.G., Jeu R.A.M. De, Gash J.H., Holmes T.R.H., Dolman A.J. Magnitude and variability of land evaporation and its components at the global scale // Hydrology and Earth System Sciences. 2011. Vol. 15. Iss. 3. P. 967-981. DOI: 10.5194/hess-15-967-2011 Monteith J.L. Evaporation and environment // Symposia of the Society for Experimental Biology. 1965. Vol. 19. P. 205-234. Nadezhdina N., Čermák J., Ceulemans R. Radial patterns of sap flow in woody stems of dominant and understory species: scaling errors associated with positioning of sensors // Tree Physiology. 2002. Vol. 22. Iss. 13. P. 907-918. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/22.13.907 O'Grady A.P., Eamus D., Hutley L.B. Transpiration increases during the dry season: patterns of tree water use in eucalypt open-forests of northern Australia // Tree Physiology. 1999. Vol. 19. Iss. 9. P. 591-597. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/19.9.591 Oltchev A., Čermák J., Gurtz J., Tischenko A., Kiely G., Nadezhdina N., Zappa M., Lebedeva N., Vitvar T., Albertson J.D., Tatarinov F., Tischenko D., Nadezhdin V., Kozlov B., Ibrom A., Vygodskaya N., Gravenhorst G. The response of the water fluxes of the boreal forest region at the Volga’s source area to climatic and land-use changes // Physics and Chemistry of the Earth. 2002a. Vol. 27. Iss. 9-10. P. 675-690. DOI: 10.1016/S1474-7065(02)00052-9 Oltchev A., Čermák J., Nadezhdina N., Tatarinov F., Tischenko A., Ibrom A., Gravenhorst G. Transpiration of a mixed forest stand: field measurements and simulation using SVAT models // Boreal Environment Research. 2002b. Vol. 7. No. 3. P. 389-397. Phillips N., Oren R., Zimmermann R. Radial patterns of xylem sap flow in non-, diffuse- and ring-porous tree species // Plant, Cell and Environment. 1996. Vol. 19. Iss. 8. P. 983-990. DOI: 10.1111/j.1365-3040.1996.tb00463.x Phillips N.G., Ryan M.G., Bond B.J., McDowell N.G., Hinckley T.M., Čermák J. Reliance on stored water increases with tree size in three species in the Pacific Northwest // Tree Physiology. 2003. Vol. 23. Iss. 4. P. 237-245. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/23.4.237 Shackel K.A., Johnson R.S., Medawar C.K., Phene C.J. Substantial errors in estimates of sap flow using the heat balance technique on woody stems under field conditions // Journal of the American Society for Horticultural Science. 1992. Vol. 117. Iss. 2. P. 351-356. DOI: 10.21273/JASHS.117.2.351 Tatarinov F., Kučera J., Cienciala E. The analysis of physical background of tree sap flow measurement based on thermal methods // Measurement Science and Technology. 2005. Vol. 16. No. 5. P. 1157-1169. DOI: 10.1088/0957-0233/16/5/016 Tuzet A., Perrier A., Leuning R. A coupled model of stomatal conductance, photosynthesis and transpiration // Plant, Cell and Environment. 2003. Vol. 26. Iss. 7. P. 1097-1116. DOI: 10.1046/j.1365-3040.2003.01035.x Urban J., Rubtsov A.V., Urban A.V., Shashkin A.V., Benkova V.F. Canopy transpiration of a Larix sibirica and Pinus sylvestris forest in Central Siberia // Agricultural and Forest Meteorology. 2019. Vol. 271. P. 64-72. DOI: 10.1016/j.agrformet.2019.02.038 Verbeeck H., Steppe K., Nadezhdina N., Beeck M Op de., Deckmyn G., Meiresonne L., Lemeur R., Čermák J., Ceulemans R., Janssens I.A. Stored water use and transpiration in Scots pine: a modeling analysis with ANAFORE // Tree Physiology. 2007. Vol. 27. Iss. 12. P. 1671-1685. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/27.12.1671 Wang H., Tetzlaff D., Soulsby C. Hysteretic response of sap flow in Scots pine (Pinus sylvestris) to meteorological forcing in a humid low-energy headwater catchment // Ecohydrology. 2019. Vol. 12. Iss. 6. E2125. DOI: 10.1002/eco.2125 Zang D., Beadle C.L., White D.A. Variation of sap flow velocity in Eucalyptus globulus with position in sapwood and use a correction coefficient // Tree Physiology. 1996. Vol. 16. Iss. 8. P. 697-703. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/16.8.697 Zeppel M.J.B., Murray B.R., Barton B., Eamus D. Seasonal responses of xylem sap velocity to VPD and solar radiation during drought in a stand of native trees in temperate Australia // Functional Plant Biology. 2004. Vol. 31. Iss. 5. P. 461-470. DOI: 10.1071/FP03220 Study of seasonal dynamics and evapotranspiration volume of forested catchments (mainly forest stand transpiration) is the relevant objective for fundamental knowledge and practical applications. However, there are many difficulties: labor efforts of direct observations, many factors affecting against each other, observational data scaling and so on. As a result, evapotranspiration during hydrological modeling is determined by the leftover principle and simplified techniques, leading to wrong representation of water balance structure. The presented article deals with the first results of our research group focused on setting up field measurements of xylem sap flow using trunk sap flow measuring sensors as well as development of sap flow assessment methods for individual trees and whole catchment. The investigations were performed for mixed coniferous-broad leaved forests at the territory of the Central Sikhote-Alin within Verkhneussuriyskiy biogeocenotical station of FSC of the East Asia Terrestrial Biodiversity FEB RAS. This site is used for water balance measuring surveys from 2011. Sap flow was measured continuously during June-October of 2019 on one of the local dominant tree species. Apparently, such investigations are novel for the Russian Far East region. It is expected that direct sap flow measurements for individual trees refinement methods, data scaling and its integration to the hydrometeorological observations will help to make a comprehensive analysis of catchments water balance and to integrate measured data into hydrological models. References Benkova A.V., Rubtsov A.V., Benkova V.E., Shashkin A.V. Sezonnaya dinamika sokodvizheniya u derevev Larix sibirica v Krasnoyarskoi lesostepi Seasonal sap flow dynamics in Larix sibirica trees growing in the Krasnoyarsk forest-steppe. Zhurnal Sibirskogo federalnogo unviversiteta. Biologiya. Journal of Siberian Federal University. Biology, 2019, vol. 12, iss. 1, pp. 32-47. (In Russian abstract in English). DOI: 10.17516/1997-1389-0071. Boldeskul A.G., Shamov V.V., Gartsman B.I., Kozhevnikova N.K. Ionnyi sostav geneticheskikh tipov vod malogo rechnogo basseina: statsionarnye issledovaniya v Tsentralnom Sikhote-Aline Main ions in water of different genetic types in a small river basin: case experimental studies in Central Sikhote-Alin. Tikhookeanskaya geologiya Tikhookeanskaya geologiya, 2014, vol. 33, no. 2, pp. 90-101. (In Russian abstract in English). ermk J. Solar equivalent leaf area as the efficient biometric parameter of individual leaves, trees and stands. Tree Physiology, 1989, vol. 5, no. 3. P. 269-289. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/5.3.269 ermk J., Deml M., Penka M. A new method of sap flow rate determination in trees. Biologia Plantarum (Praha), 1973, vol. 15, no. 3, pp. 171-178. ermk J., Kuera J. Scaling up transpiration data between trees, stands and watersheds. Silva Carelica, 1990, vol. 15, pp. 101-120. ermk J., Kuera J., Nadezhdina N. Sap flow measurements with some thermodynamic methods, flow integration within trees and scaling up from sample trees to entire forest stands. Trees, 2004, vol. 18, no. 5, pp. 529-546. DOI: 10.1007/s00468-004-0339-6 Chiesi M., Maselli F., Bindi M., Fibbi L., Bonora L., Raschi A., Tognetti R., ermk J., Nadezhdina N. Calibration and application of FOREST-BCG in a Mediterraen area by the use of conventional and remote sensing data. Ecological Modelling, 2002, vol. 154, iss. 3, pp. 251-262. DOI: 10.1016/S0304-3800(02)00057-1 Clearwater M.J., Meinzer F.C., Andrade J.L., Goldstein G., Holbrook N.M. Potential errors in measurement of nonuniform sap flow using heat dissipation probes. Tree Physiology, 1999, vol. 19, iss. 10, pp. 681-687. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/19.10.681 De Schepper V., van Dusschoten D., Copini P., Jahnke S., Steppe K. MRI links stem water content to stem diameter variations in transpiring trees. Journal of Experimental Botany, 2012, vol. 63, iss. 7, pp. 2645-2653. DOI:10.1093/jxb/err445 Dye P.J., Olbrich B.W., Poulter A.G. The influence of growth rings in Pinus patula on heat pulse velocity and sap flow measurement. Journal of Experimental Botany, 1991, vol. 42, iss. 7, pp. 867-870. DOI:10.1093/jxb/42.7.867 Edwards W.R.N., Booker R.E. Radial variation in the axial conductivity of Populus and its significance in heat pulse velocity measurement. Journal of Experimental Botany, 1984, vol. 35, iss. 4, pp. 551-561. DOI: 10.1093/jxb/35.4.551 Forster M.A. How significant is nocturnal sap flow Tree Physiology, 2014, vol. 34, iss. 7, pp. 757-765. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/tpu051 Gartsman B.I., Shamov V.V. Field studies of runoff formation in the far east region based on modern observational instruments. Water Resources, 2015, vol. 42, no. 6, pp. 766-775. DOI: 10.1134/S0097807815060044 (In Russ. ed.: Gartsman B.I., Shamov V.V. Naturnye issledovaniya stokoformirovaniya v Dalnevostochnom regione na osnove sovremennykh sredstv nablyudenii. Vodnye resursy, 2015, vol. 42, no. 6, pp. 589 599. DOI: 10.7868/S0321059615060048) Granier A. Une nouvelle mthode pour la mesure du flux de sve brute dans le tronc des arbres. Annales des sciences forestires, INRA/EDP Sciences, 1985, 42 (2), pp. 193-200. Hatton T.J., Catchpole E.A., Vertessy R.A. Integration of sapflow velocity to estimate plant water use. Tree Physiology, 1990, vol. 6, iss. 2, pp. 201-209. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/6.2.201 Huber B. Beobachtung und Messung pflanzlicher Saftstrme. Berichte der Deutschen Botanischen Gesellschaft, 1932, vol. 50, pp. 89-109. Jarvis P.G., McNaughton K.G. Stomatal control of transpiration: scaling up from leaf to region. Advances in Ecological Research, 1986, vol. 15, pp. 1-49. DOI: 10.1016/S0065-2504(08)60119-1 Jasechko S., Sharp Z.D., Gibson J.J., Birks S.J., Yi Y., Fawcett P.J. Terrestrial water fluxes dominated by transpiration. Nature, 2013, vol. 496, pp. 347-350. DOI: 10.1038/nature11983 Klige R.K., Danilov I.D., Konishchev V.N. Istoriya gidrosfery The history of hydrosphere. Moscow, Publ. Scientific world, 1998. 368 p. (In Russian abstract in English). Kuera J., ermk J., Penka M. Improved thermal method of continual recording the transpiration flow rate dynamics. Biologia Plantarum (Praha), 1977, vol. 19, no. 6, pp. 413-420. Lundblad M., Lagergren F., Lindroth A. Evaluation of heat balance and heat dissipation methods for sapflow measurements in pine and spruce. Annals of Forest Science, 2001, vol. 58, no. 6, pp. 625-638. DOI: 10.1051/forest:2001150 Marshall D.C. Measurement of sap flow in conifers by heat transport. Plant Physiology, 1958, vol. 33, iss. 6, pp. 385-396. DOI: 10.1104/pp.33.6.385 Meiresonne L., Nadezhdina N., ermk J., Slycken J. Van, Ceulemans R. Measured sap flow and simulated transpiration from a poplar stand in Flanders (Belgium). Agricultural and Forest Meteorology. 1999. Vol. 96. Iss. 4. P. 165-179. DOI: 10.1016/S0168-1923(99)00066-0 Meiresonne L., Sampson D.A., Kowalski A.S., Janssens I.A., Nadezhdina N., ermk J., Slycken J. Van, Ceulemans R. Water flux estimates from a Belgian Scots pine stand: a comparison of different approaches. Journal of Hydrology, 2002, vol. 270, iss. 3-4, pp. 230-252. DOI: 10.1016/S0022-1694(02)00284-6 Miralles D.G., Jeu R.A.M. De, Gash J.H., Holmes T.R.H., Dolman A.J. Magnitude and variability of land evaporation and its components at the global scale. Hydrology and Earth System Sciences, 2011, vol. 15, iss. 3, pp. 967-981. DOI: 10.5194/hess-15-967-2011 Monteith J.L. Evaporation and environment. Symposia of the Society for Experimental Biology, 1965, vol. 19, pp. 205-234. Nadezhdina N., ermk J., Ceulemans R. Radial patterns of sap flow in woody stems of dominant and understory species: scaling errors associated with positioning of sensors. Tree Physiology, 2002, vol. 22, iss. 13, pp. 907-918. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/22.13.907 OGrady A.P., Eamus D., Hutley L.B. Transpiration increases during the dry season: patterns of tree water use in eucalypt open-forests of northern Australia. Tree Physiology, 1999, vol. 19, iss. 9, pp. 591-597. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/19.9.591 Oltchev A., ermk J., Gurtz J., Tischenko A., Kiely G., Nadezhdina N., Zappa M., Lebedeva N., Vitvar T., Albertson J.D., Tatarinov F., Tischenko D., Nadezhdin V., Kozlov B., Ibrom A., Vygodskaya N., Gravenhorst G. The response of the water fluxes of the boreal forest region at the Volgas source area to climatic and land-use changes. Physics and Chemistry of the Earth, 2002a, vol. 27, iss. 9-10, pp. 675-690. DOI: 10.1016/S1474-7065(02)00052-9 Oltchev A., ermk J., Nadezhdina N., Tatarinov F., Tischenko A., Ibrom A., Gravenhorst G. Transpiration of a mixed forest stand: eld measurements and simulation using SVAT models. Boreal Environment Research, 2002b, vol. 7, no. 3, pp. 389-397. Phillips N., Oren R., Zimmermann R. Radial patterns of xylem sap flow in non-, diffuse- and ring-porous tree species. Plant, Cell and Environment, 1996, vol. 19, iss. 8, pp. 983-990. DOI: 10.1111/j.1365-3040.1996.tb00463.x Phillips N.G., Ryan M.G., Bond B.J., McDowell N.G., Hinckley T.M., ermk J. Reliance on stored water increases with tree size in three species in the Pacific Northwest. Tree Physiology, 2003, vol. 23, iss. 4, pp. 237-245. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/23.4.237 Shackel K.A., Johnson R.S., Medawar C.K., Phene C.J. Substantial errors in estimates of sap flow using the heat balance technique on woody stems under field conditions. Journal of the American Society for Horticultural Science, 1992, vol. 117, iss. 2, pp. 351-356. DOI: 10.21273/JASHS.117.2.351 Tatarinov F., Kuera J., Cienciala E. The analysis of physical background of tree sap flow measurement based on thermal methods. Measurement Science and Technology, 2005, vol. 16, no. 5, pp. 1157-1169. DOI: 10.1088/0957-0233/16/5/016 Tikhova G.P., Pavlov A.G., Pridacha V.B., Sazonova T.A. The new hybrid method for measuring transpiration sap flows in trees. Sibirskij Lesnoj Zurnal Siberian Journal of Forest Science, 2017, no. 4, pp. 78-90. (In Russian abstract in English). DOI: 10.15372/SJFS20170407 Tuzet A., Perrier A., Leuning R. A coupled model of stomatal conductance, photosynthesis and transpiration. Plant, Cell and Environment, 2003, vol. 26, iss. 7, pp. 1097-1116. DOI: 10.1046/j.1365-3040.2003.01035.x Urban J., Rubtsov A.V., Urban A.V., Shashkin A.V., Benkova V.F. Canopy transpiration of a Larix sibirica and Pinus sylvestris forest in Central Siberia. Agricultural and Forest Meteorology, 2019, vol. 271, pp. 64-72. DOI: 10.1016/j.agrformet.2019.02.038 Verbeeck H., Steppe K., Nadezhdina N., Beeck M Op de., Deckmyn G., Meiresonne L., Lemeur R., ermk J., Ceulemans R., Janssens I.A. Stored water use and transpiration in Scots pine: a modeling analysis with ANAFORE. Tree Physiology, 2007, vol. 27, iss. 12, pp 1671-1685. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/27.12.1671 Wang H., Tetzlaff D., Soulsby C. Hysteretic response of sap flow in Scots pine (Pinus sylvestris) to meteorological forcing in a humid low-energy headwater catchment. Ecohydrology, 2019, vol. 12, iss. 6, e2125. DOI: 10.1002/eco.2125 Zang D., Beadle C.L., White D.A. Variation of sap flow velocity in Eucalyptus globulus with position in sapwood and use a correction coefficient. Tree Physiology, 1996, vol. 16, iss.8, pp. 697-703. DOI: 10.1093/treephys/16.8.697 Zeppel M.J.B., Murray B.R., Barton B., Eamus D. Seasonal responses of xylem sap velocity to VPD and solar radiation during drought in a stand of native trees in temperate Australia. Functional Plant Biology, 2004, vol. 31, iss. 5, pp. 461-470. DOI: 10.1071/FP03220 Zhiltsov A.S. Gidrologicheskaya rol gornykh khvoino-shirokolistvennykh lesov Yuzhnogo Primorya The hydrological role of mountain coniferous-deciduous forests of Southern Primorye. Vladivostok: Publ. Dalnauka, 2008. 331 p. (In Russian)

In this article I draw upon a definition of ‘dialogical memorial’ offered by Brad West to offer an experimental artist's brief that outlines the various ways that a contemporary monument to the colonial artist, Adelaide Eliza Scott Ironside (1831-1867), could ‘talk back’ to the nineteenth-century statues of her contemporaries, and ‘converse’ with more recent acts of history making. In contrast to the familiar figure of the individual hero, which we associate with the statuary of her age, I suggest a group monument that acknowledges the intimate intergenerational female network which shaped Aesi's life and also ‘re-presents’ – a term coined by the historian Greg Dening – several native born and convict women from the Georgian, Regency and Victorian eras who influenced her life. Instead of elevating Aesi upon a plinth, I recommend grounding this group monument on Gadigal country and planting around it many of the Australian Wildflowers she painted in ways that draw attention to the millennia-old Indigenous uses of the same plants. And finally, by situating Aesi’s monument in the Outer Domain (behind the New South Wales Art Gallery in Sydney’s Botanic Gardens and to the east of the Yurong Pennisula, near Woolloomooloo Bay), in an area where she once boldly assumed centre stage before a large male audience in a flamboyant moment of her own theatrical history-making, I argue that this memorial will have the capcity to speak for itself in ways that challenge the underepresentation of colonial women in Sydney's statuary, abd, as West suggests, do much to ‘alter the stage on which Sydney's colonial history 'is narrated and performed’. [i] Greg Dening, Performances, Melbourne University Press, Melbourne, 1992, p37.

Rapid urbanization rates impact significantly on the nature of Land Cover patterns of the environment, which has been evident in the depletion of vegetal reserves and in general modifying the human climatic systems (Henderson, et al., 2017; Kumar, Masago, Mishra, & Fukushi, 2018; Luo and Lau, 2017). This study explores remote sensing classification technique and other auxiliary data to determine LULCC for a period of 50 years (1967-2016). The LULCC types identified were quantitatively evaluated using the change detection approach from results of maximum likelihood classification algorithm in GIS. Accuracy assessment results were evaluated and found to be between 56 to 98 percent of the LULC classification. The change detection analysis revealed change in the LULC types in Minna from 1976 to 2016. Built-up area increases from 74.82ha in 1976 to 116.58ha in 2016. Farmlands increased from 2.23 ha to 46.45ha and bared surface increases from 120.00ha to 161.31ha between 1976 to 2016 resulting to decline in vegetation, water body, and wetlands. The Decade of rapid urbanization was found to coincide with the period of increased Public Private Partnership Agreement (PPPA). Increase in farmlands was due to the adoption of urban agriculture which has influence on food security and the environmental sustainability. The observed increase in built up areas, farmlands and bare surfaces has substantially led to reduction in vegetation and water bodies. The oscillatory nature of water bodies LULCC which was not particularly consistent with the rates of urbanization also suggests that beyond the urbanization process, other factors may influence the LULCC of water bodies in urban settlements. Keywords: Minna, Niger State, Remote Sensing, Land Surface Characteristics References Akinrinmade, A., Ibrahim, K., & Abdurrahman, A. (2012). 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In her book Through Other Continents: American Literature through Deep Time (Princeton UP, 2006), Wai Chee Dimock argues for a new approach to envisaging nations and their literary productions. Rather than perceiving a nation’s literary output as coterminous with its history, one could conceive of it as ‘a criss-crossing set of pathways, open-ended and ever-multiplying, weaving in and out of other geographies, other languages and cultures’. Dimock refers to this ‘tangle of relations’ as ‘deep time’—not bound by definitive dates such 1788, when Arthur Phillip jammed a pole in the sand of Port Jackson—but stretching across several temporalities and geographies.If time is conceptualised not as a linear progression, but as ‘a structure of evolving relations’, then new interpretative frameworks such as capitalism, world religions, or the morphology of langauge are needed to understand developments in earth’s history. This essay proposes one more means of understanding time: botany and the naming of plants. Specifically, it focuses upon the networks formed by Georgiana Molloy, who emigrated from Carlisle, England, to south west Western Australia in 1829.Molloy began collecting specimens and seeds for amateur botanist Captain James Mangles of London in 1837. As she was often weighed down by domestic labour, she requisitioned Noongars, soldiers, her children, and her husband in her collecting efforts. When her seeds were sent to England, Mangles distributed them among his botanical networks. Meanwhile, Molloy solicited the names for the plants she found from Mangles and Noongars alike.The web of relations created by exchanging seeds and words within the south west, between England and Australia, and between white and Aboriginal people, disrupts the notion that Australia’s history and literature is coterminous with English settlement. It also defies the concept that Australia is a nation defined by its coastline. Rather, it is a country brought into our consciousness through networks which stretch beyond these coasts through the dispersal of, among other things, plants and their names.

Fisheries enhancement initiatives including marine stocking and artificial reef deployments are becoming increasingly common in many parts of the world. Combining the two by releasing hatchery reared fish onto artificial reefs is used in sea-ranching operations but is an approach rarely adopted for recreational fisheries. Yellowtail kingfish (Seriola lalandi) form a valuable recreational fishery in Australia and in 2018 a pilot stocking program was initiated to enhance this fishery. Fish were released onto estuarine artificial reefs in Botany Bay to evaluate if estuarine artificial reefs are suitable release habitat for juvenile yellowtail kingfish and to monitor their dispersal patterns using acoustic telemetry and a tag-recapture program. Both approaches showed similar patterns, indicating juvenile yellowtail kingfish rapidly dispersed from the release location and can travel at least 60 km during their first weeks in the wild. Twenty percent of the acoustically tagged fish entered nearby estuaries to the north and south and tagged fish were also recaptured in these estuaries, indicating that the estuaries provide habitat for juveniles. There was little interaction between stocked fish and two large coastal artificial reefs positioned near Botany Bay. Stocked yellowtail kingfish will likely disperse rapidly from release locations which is consistent with their pelagic life history. While this may present challenges to fisheries managers, increasing release numbers to maintain stocking densities over a broader area may provide a solution. Future releases of fish on coastal natural and artificial reefs are an important next step in refining stocking practices for this species and will help further identify key juvenile habitats.

In the context of her bicentenary in 2021, Amalie Dietrich will again be celebrated as a feminist paragon or condemned as a racist culprit. Her stay in Australia will be central to these contrasting approaches to her biography. There, she gathered a remarkable amount of native plants, animals, ethnological everyday objects – and human remains. In this context, she was subjected to suspicions of incitement in murder early on and to allegedly critical investigations concerning her role in the anthropological desecration of corpses in recent times. In this paper, we contribute some arguments to the clarification of this controversial subject. It focuses on the treatment of image of Amalie Dietrich in the German discourse from the Kaiserreich via the Weimar Republic, the fascist ‘Reich’, the Federal Republic as well as the Democratic Republic to reunited Germany. As a result, we argue that a critical biography of Amalie Dietrich must integrate the appreciation of her contribution to botany and zoology with a critique of her role in the racist history of anthropological grave robbery and desecration of human remains.

AbstractThe Botany Wetlands are the contemporary remnant of a formerly extensive coastal freshwater wetland in the inner-urban suburbs of Sydney (Australia). This site supports a range of ecosystem services, including human physical and mental health benefits, filtration of stormwater runoff from a highly urban and industrial catchment, and accommodation space for floodwater. The wetlands also provide habitat to migratory water birds and act as a connective habitat corridor and refuge for native flora and fauna including endangered ecological communities recognised in state and national legislation. Current management strategies and ‘on the ground’ practices are informed by a hierarchy of laws and management plans that act to create and reinforce a specific narrative in the material landscape. Here we consider the ecological history of the wetlands, derived from paleoecological data, in the context of this complex network of governance entanglements. We argue that the system bears little resemblance to its long-term character and has been made and continually re-made by a portmanteau of inflexible regulatory structures. We suggest that maintaining ecosystem services in such a complex, hybridized sociolegal-biophysical system requires a critical view of both the power relations and physical processes that shape it.

Historians have often been compared with detectives; searching for clues as evidence of a mystery they are seeking to solve. I would prefer an association with food, making history like a trained cook who blends particular ingredients, some fresh, some traditional, using specific methods to create an object that is consumed. There are primary sources, fresh and raw ingredients that you often have to go to great lengths to procure, and secondary sources, prepared initially by someone else. The same recipe may yield different meals, the same meal may provoke different responses. On a continuum of approaches to history and food, there are those who approach both as a scientific endeavour and, at the other end of the spectrum, those who make history and food as art. Brought together, it is possible to see cookbooks as history in at least two important ways; they give meaning to the past by representing culinary heritage and they are in themselves sources of history as documents and blueprints for experiences that can be interpreted to represent the past. Many people read cookbooks and histories with no intention of preparing the meal or becoming a historian. I do a little of both. I enjoy reading history and cookbooks for pleasure but, as a historian, I also read them interchangeably; histories to understand cookbooks and cookbooks to find out more about the past. History and the past are different of course, despite their use in the English language. It is not possible to relive the past, we can only interpret it through the traces that remain. Even if a reader had an exact recipe and an antique stove, vegetables grown from heritage seeds in similar conditions, eggs and grains from the same region and employed the techniques his or her grandparents used, they could not replicate their experience of a meal. Undertaking those activities though would give a reader a sense of that experience. Active examination of the past is possible through the processes of research and writing, but it will always be an interpretation and not a reproduction of the past itself. Nevertheless, like other histories, cookbooks can convey a sense of what was important in a culture, and what contemporaries might draw on that can resonate a cultural past and make the food palatable. The way people eat relates to how they apply ideas and influences to the material resources and knowledge they have. Used in this way, cookbooks provide a rich and valuable way to look at the past. Histories, like cookbooks, are written in the present, inspired and conditioned by contemporary issues and attitudes and values. Major shifts in interpretation or new directions in historical studies have more often arisen from changes in political or theoretical preoccupations, generated by contemporary social events, rather than the recovery of new information. Likewise, the introduction of new ingredients or methods rely on contemporary acceptance, as well as familiarity. How particular versions of history and new recipes promote both the past and present is the concern of this paper. My focus below will be on the nineteenth century, although a much larger study would reveal the circumstances that separated that period from the changes that followed. Until the late nineteenth century Australians largely relied on cookbooks that were brought with them from England and on their own private recipe collection, and that influenced to a large extent the sort of food that they ate, although of course they had to improvise by supplementing with local ingredients. In the first book of recipes that was published in Australia, The English and Australian Cookery Book that appeared in 1864, Edward Abbott evoked the ‘roast beef of old England Oh’ (Bannerman, Dictionary). The use of such a potent symbol of English identity in the nineteenth century may seem inevitable, and colonists who could afford them tended to use their English cookbooks and the ingredients for many years, even after Abbott’s publication. New ingredients, however, were often adapted to fit in with familiar culinary expectations in the new setting. Abbott often drew on native and exotic ingredients to produce very familiar dishes that used English methods and principles: things like kangaroo stuffed with beef suet, breadcrumbs, parsley, shallots, marjoram, thyme, nutmeg, pepper, salt, cayenne, and egg. It was not until the 1890s that a much larger body of Australian cookbooks became available, but by this time the food supply was widely held to be secure and abundant and the cultivation of exotic foods in Australia like wheat and sheep and cattle had established a long and familiar food supply for English colonists. Abbott’s cookbook provides a record of the culinary heritage settlers brought with them to Australia and the contemporary circumstances they had to adapt to. Mrs Beeton’s Cookery Book and Household Guide is an example of the popularity of British cookbooks in Australia. Beeton’s Kangaroo Tail Curry was included in the Australian cooking section of her household management (2860). In terms of structure it is important for historians as one of the first times, because Beeton started writing in the 1860s, that ingredients were clearly distinguished from the method. This actually still presents considerable problems for publishers. There is debate about whether that should necessarily be the case, because it takes up so much space on the page. Kangaroo Tail CurryIngredients:1 tail2 oz. Butter1 tablespoon of flour1 tablespoon of curry2 onions sliced1 sour apple cut into dice1 desert spoon of lemon juice3/4 pint of stocksaltMethod:Wash, blanch and dry the tail thoroughly and divide it at the joints. Fry the tail in hot butter, take it up, put it in the sliced onions, and fry them for 3 or 4 minutes without browning. Sprinkle in the flour and curry powder, and cook gently for at least 20 minutes, stirring frequently. Add the stock, apple, salt to taste, bring to the boil, stirring meanwhile, and replace the tail in the stew pan. Cover closely, and cook gently until tender, then add the lemon juice and more seasoning if necessary. Arrange the pieces of tail on a hot dish, strain the sauce over, and serve with boiled rice.Time: 2-3 hoursSufficient for 1 large dish. Although the steps are not clearly distinguished from each other the method is more systematic than earlier recipes. Within the one sentence, however, there are still two or three different sorts of tasks. The recipe also requires to some extent a degree of discretion, knowledge and experience of cooking. Beeton suggests adding things to taste, cooking something until it is tender, so experience or knowledge is necessary to fulfil the recipe. The meal also takes between two and three hours, which would be quite prohibitive for a lot of contemporary cooks. New recipes, like those produced in Delicious have recipes that you can do in ten minutes or half an hour. Historically, that is a new development that reveals a lot about contemporary conditions. By 1900, Australian interest in native food had pretty much dissolved from the record of cookbooks, although this would remain a feature of books for the English public who did not need to distinguish themselves from Indigenous people. Mrs Beeton’s Cookery Book and Household Guide gave a selection of Australian recipes but they were primarily for the British public rather than the assumption that they were being cooked in Australia: kangaroo tail soup was cooked in the same way as ox tail soup; roast wallaby was compared to hare. The ingredients were wallaby, veal, milk and butter; and parrot pie was said to be not unlike one made of pigeons. The novelty value of such ingredients may have been of interest, rather than their practical use. However, they are all prepared in ways that would make them fairly familiar to European tastes. Introducing something new with the same sorts of ingredients could therefore proliferate the spread of other foods. The means by which ingredients were introduced to different regions reflects cultural exchanges, historical processes and the local environment. The adaptation of recipes to incorporate local ingredients likewise provides information about local traditions and contemporary conditions. Starting to see those ingredients as a two-way movement between looking at what might have been familiar to people and what might have been something that they had to do make do with because of what was necessarily available to them at that time tells us about their past as well as the times they are living in. Differences in the level of practical cooking knowledge also have a vital role to play in cookbook literature. Colin Bannerman has suggested that the shortage of domestic labour in Australia an important factor in supporting the growth of the cookbook industry in the late nineteenth century. The poor quality of Australian cooking was also an occasional theme in the press during the same time. The message was generally the same: bad food affected Australians’ physical, domestic, social and moral well-being and impeded progress towards civilisation and higher culture. The idea was really that Australians had to learn how to cook. Colin Bannerman (Acquired Tastes 19) explains the rise of domestic science in Australia as a product of growing interest in Australian cultural development and the curse of bad cookery, which encouraged support for teaching girls and women how to cook. Domestic Economy was integrated into the Victorian and New South Wales curriculum by the end of the nineteenth century. Australian women have faced constant criticism of their cooking skills but the decision to teach cooking shouldn’t necessarily be used to support that judgement. Placed in a broader framework is possible to see the support for a modern, scientific approach to food preparation as part of both the elevation of science and systematic knowledge in society more generally, and a transnational movement to raise the status of women’s role in society. It would also be misleading not to consider the transnational context. Australia’s first cookery teachers were from Britain. The domestic-science movement there can be traced to the congress on domestic economy held in Manchester in 1878, at roughly the same time as the movement was gaining strength in Australia. By the 1890s domestic economy was widely taught in both British and Australian schools, without British women facing the same denigration of their cooking skills. Other comparisons with Britain also resulted from Australia’s colonial heritage. People often commented on the quality of the ingredients in Australia and said they were more widely available than they were in England but much poorer in quality. Cookbooks emerged as a way of teaching people. Among the first to teach cookery skills was Mina Rawson, author of The Antipodean Cookery Book and the Kitchen Companion first published in 1885. The book was a compilation of her own recipes and remedies, and it organised and simplified food preparation for the ordinary housewife. But the book also included directions and guidance on things like household tasks and how to cure diseases. Cookbooks therefore were not completely distinct from other aspects of everyday life. They offered much more than culinary advice on how to cook a particular meal and can similarly be used by historians to comment on more than food. Mrs Rawson also knew that people had to make do. She included a lot of bush foods that you still do not get in a lot of Australian meals, ingredients that people could substitute for the English ones they were used to like pig weed. By the end of the nineteenth century cooking had become a recognised classroom subject, providing early training in domestic service, and textbooks teaching Australians how to cook also flourished. Measurements became much more uniform, the layout of cookbooks became more standardised and the procedure was clearly spelled out. This allowed companies to be able to sell their foods because it also meant that you could duplicate the recipes and they could potentially taste the same. It made cookbooks easier to use. The audience for these cookbooks were mostly young women directed to cooking as a way of encouraging social harmony. Cooking was elevated in lots of ways at this stage as a social responsibility. Cookbooks can also be seen as a representation of domestic life, and historically this prescribed the activities of men and women as being distinct The dominance of women in cookbooks in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries attested to the strength of that idea of separate spheres. The consequences of this though has been debated by historians: whether having that particular kind of market and the identification that women were making with each other also provided a forum for women’s voices and so became quite significant in women’s politics at a later date. Cookbooks have been a strategic marketing device for products and appliances. By the beginning of the twentieth century food companies began to print recipes on their packets and to release their own cookbooks to promote their products. Davis Gelatine produced its first free booklet in 1904 and other companies followed suit (1937). The largest gelatine factory was in New South Wales and according to Davis: ‘It bathed in sunshine and freshened with the light breezes of Botany all year round.’ These were the first lavishly illustrated Australian cookbooks. Such books were an attempt to promote new foods and also to sell local foods, many of which were overproduced – such as milk, and dried fruits – which provides insights into the supply chain. Cookbooks in some ways reflected the changing tastes of the public, their ideas, what they were doing and their own lifestyle. But they also helped to promote some of those sorts of changes too. Explaining the reason for cooking, Isabella Beeton put forward an historical account of the shift towards increasing enjoyment of it. She wrote: "In the past, only to live has been the greatest object of mankind, but by and by comforts are multiplied and accumulating riches create new wants. The object then is to not only live but to live economically, agreeably, tastefully and well. Accordingly the art of cookery commences and although the fruits of the earth, the fowls of the air, the beasts of the field and the fish of the sea are still the only food of mankind, yet these are so prepared, improved and dressed by skill and ingenuity that they are the means of immeasurably extending the boundaries of human enjoyment. Everything that is edible and passes under the hands of cooks is more or less changed and assumes new forms, hence the influence of that functionary is immense upon the happiness of the household" (1249). Beeton anticipates a growing trend not just towards cooking and eating but an interest in what sustains cooking as a form of recreation. The history of cookbook publishing provides a glimpse into some of those things. The points that I have raised provide a means for historians to use cookbooks. Cookbooks can be considered in terms of what was eaten, by whom and how: who prepared the food, so to whom the books were actually directed? Clever books like Isabella Beeton’s were directed at both domestic servants and at wives, which gave them quite a big market. There are also changes in the inclusion of themes. Economy and frugality becomes quite significant, as do organisation and management at different times. Changes in the extent of detail, changes in authorship, whether it is women, men, doctors, health professionals, home economists and so on all reflect contemporary concerns. Many books had particular purposes as well, used to fund raise or promote a particular perspective, relate food reform and civic life which gives them a political agenda. Promotional literature produced by food and kitchen equipment companies were a form of advertising and quite significant to the history of cookbook publishing in Australia. Other themes include the influence of cookery school and home economics movements; advice on etiquette and entertaining; the influence of immigration and travel; the creation of culinary stars and authors of which we are all fairly familiar. Further themes include changes in ingredients, changes in advice about health and domestic medicine, and the impact of changes in social consciousness. It is necessary to place those changes in a more general historical context, but for a long time cookbooks have been ignored as a source of information in their own right about the period in which they were published and the kinds of social and political changes that we can see coming through. More than this active process of cooking with the books as well becomes a way of imagining the past in quite different ways than historians are often used to. Cookbooks are not just sources for historians, they are histories in themselves. The privileging of written and visual texts in postcolonial studies has meant other senses, taste and smell, are frequently neglected; and yet the cooking from historical cookbooks can provide an embodied, sensorial image of the past. From nineteenth century cookbooks it is possible to see that British foods were central to the colonial identity project in Australia, but the fact that “British” culinary culture was locally produced, challenges the idea of an “authentic” British cuisine which the colonies tried to replicate. By the time Abbot was advocating rabbit curry as an Australian family meal, back “at home” in England, it was not authentic Indian food but the British invention of curry power that was being incorporated into English cuisine culture. More than cooks, cookbook authors told a narrative that forged connections and disconnections with the past. They reflected the contemporary period and resonated with the culinary heritage of their readers. Cookbooks make history in multiple ways; by producing change, as the raw materials for making history and as historical narratives. References Abbott, Edward. The English and Australian Cookery Book: Cookery for the Many, as well as the Upper Ten Thousand. London: Sampson Low, Son & Marston, 1864. Bannerman, Colin. Acquired Tastes: Celebrating Australia’s Culinary History. Canberra: National Library of Australia, 1998. Bannerman, Colin. "Abbott, Edward (1801–1869)." Australian Dictionary of Biography. National Centre of Biography, Australian National University. 21 May 2013. . Beeton, Isabella. Mrs Beeton’s Book of Household Management. New Ed. London and Melbourne: Ward, Lock and Co. Ltd., n.d. (c. 1909). Davis Gelatine. Davis Dainty Dishes. Rev ed. Sydney: Davis Gelatine Organization, 1937. Rawson, Lance Mrs. The Antipodean Cookery Book and Kitchen Companion. Melbourne: George Robertson & Co., 1897.

Over the past 20 years, the Luxembourg National Museum for Natural History (LMNH) has built a bio- and geodiversity information system to collate, manage and publish natural heritage observation and specimen data on a national and international level. To date the system counts over 2 million taxon occurrence and over 100,000 specimen records. The Museum has chosen, whenever available, public or open source software tools complying to international biodiversity data standards for recording, managing and publishing data to increase resilience, stay connected with community initiatives and mutualise development costs. A central component of the Museum’s national data hub is Recorder 6, a client-server database software for wildlife recording developed by the National Biodiversity Network in the UK. Today, the Recorder-Lux database contains a large portion of natural heritage information in Luxembourg and is synchronised daily into a publication database connected via the Integrated Publishing Toolkit (IPT) to the Global Biodiversity Information Facility (GBIF). Moreover, Recorder-Lux data is accessible via the national species mapping portal mdata.mnhn.lu which has been developed in-house and is aimed at scientists, professionals and decision makers. The Museum has also developed a set of data entry and upload functionalities on its website data.mnhn.lu using the open source software Indicia, a toolkit that provides a ready-made set of services and tools for online wildlife recording. In 2019, we implement the Atlas of Living Luxembourg (ALL) website all.mnhn.lu, based on the open source Atlas of Living Australia software. ALL is the most comprehensive data portal about natural heritage in Luxembourg, showing specimen data from the museum’s botany, zoology, paleontology, petrology and mineralogy collections as well as fungi, animal and plant observations collected from national and international organisations (via GBIF). Data providers vary from individual scientific collaborators to professional regional record centers or private consultancies working for public administrations. They use different tools offered by the museum to enter, manage and transfer their data to the system. Thus several regional record centers chose the client-server Recorder 6 software to manage and exchange their data, whereas individual scientific collaborators of the Museum enter or upload their data via the online data entry forms available on data.mnhn.lu. For large-scale, long-term, professional biodiversity monitoring and inventories at the national level, specific data entry forms and functionalities have been configured on the Indicia website. Finally, citizens can record species observations via the iNaturalist smartphone app. Due to the museum’s long history of conducting field inventories alongside collating and managing natural history collections, the data hub holds observation and collection data in one database. In 2003, the Museum has developed the Collection Management and Thesaurus extensions for the Recorder 6 software to catalogue, describe and manage specimens in the Museum collections. It allows handling of field-gathered data alongside specimen-specific data such as storage location, specimen type and conservation status. In recent years this has become an essential tool for the increasing effort directed at the digitisation of the diverse natural history collections at the Museum. Our small database team faces the challenge of integrating an ever increasing number of records from a variety of datasets, tools and initiatives. To keep the technical and administrative work as simple as possible we have implemented an open data policy and aim to increase the use of IPT to connect databases instead of physically importing all data into one central database. To improve data quality we focus on training experts to work with our Indicia verification tool.

It is January 1930 and the restless Southern Ocean is heaving itself up against the frozen coast of Eastern Antarctica. For hundreds of kilometres, this coastline consists entirely of ice: although Antarctica is a continent, only 2% of its surface consists of exposed rock; the rest is buried under a vast frozen mantle. But there is rock in this coastal scene: silhouetted against the glaring white of the glacial shelf, a barren island humps up out of the water. Slowly and cautiously, the Discovery approaches the island through uncharted waters; the crew’s eyes strain in the frigid air as they scour the ocean’s surface for ship-puncturing bergs. The approach to the island is difficult, but Captain Davis maintains the Discovery on its course as the wind howls in the rigging. Finally, the ship can go no further; the men lower a boat into the tossing sea. They pull hard at the oars until the boat is abreast of the island, and then they ram the bow against its icy littoral. Now one of the key moments of this exploratory expedition—officially titled the British, Australian, and New Zealand Antarctic Research Expedition (BANZARE)—is about to occur: the expedition is about to succeed in its primary spatial mission. Douglas Mawson, the Australian leader of the expedition, puts his feet onto the island and ascends to its bleak summit. There, he and his crew assemble a mound of loose stones and insert into it the flagpole they’ve carried with them across the ocean. Mawson reads an official proclamation of territorial annexation (see Bush 118-19), the photographer Frank Hurley shoots the moment on film, and one of the men hauls the Union Jack up the pole. Until the Australian Flags Act of 1953, the Union Jack retained seniority over the Australian flag. BANZARE took place before the 1931 Statute of Westminster, which gave full political and foreign policy independence to Commonwealth countries, thus Mawson claimed Antarctic space on behalf of Britain. He did so with the understanding that Britain would subsequently grant Australia title to its own Antarctican space. Britain did so in 1933. In the freezing wind, the men take off their hats, give three cheers for the King, and sing “God Save the King.” They deposit a copy of the proclamation into a metal canister and affix this to the flagpole; for a moment they admire the view. But there is little time to savour the moment, or the feeling of solid ground under their cold feet: the ship is waiting and the wind is growing in force. The men row back to the Discovery; Mawson returns to his cabin and writes up the event. A crucial moment in Antarctica’s spatial history has occurred: on what Mawson has aptly named Proclamation Island, Antarctica has been produced as Australian space. But how, exactly, does this production of Antarctica as a spatial possession work? How does this moment initiate the transformation of six million square kilometres of Antarctica—42% of the continent—into Australian space? The answer to this question lies in three separate, but articulated cultural technologies: representation, the body of the explorer, and international territorial law. When it comes to thinking about ‘turf’, Antarctica may at first seem an odd subject of analysis. Physically, Antarctica is a turfless space, an entire continent devoid of grass, plants, land-based animals, or trees. Geopolitically, Antarctica remains the only continent on which no turf wars have been fought: British and Argentinian soldiers clashed over the occupation of a Peninsular base in the Hope Bay incident of 1952 (Dodds 56), but beyond this somewhat bathetic skirmish, Antarctican space has never been the object of physical conflict. Further, as Antarctica has no indigenous human population, its space remains free of the colonial turfs of dispossession, invasion, and loss. The Antarctic Treaty of 1961 formalised Antarctica’s geopolitically turfless status, stipulating that the continent was to be used for peaceful purposes only, and stating that Antarctica was an internationally shared space of harmony and scientific goodwill. So why address Antarctican spatiality here? Two motivations underpin this article’s anatomising of Australia’s Antarctican space. First, too often Antarctica is imagined as an entirely homogeneous space: a vast white plain dotted here and there along its shifting coast by identical scientific research stations inhabited by identical bearded men. Similarly, the complexities of Antarctica’s geopolitical and legal spaces are often overlooked in favour of a vision of the continent as a site of harmonious uniformity. While it is true that the bulk of Antarctican space is ice, the assumption that its cultural spatialities are identical is far from the case: this article is part of a larger endeavour to provide a ‘thick’ description of Antarctican spatialities, one which points to the heterogeneity of cultural geographies of the polar south. The Australian polar spatiality installed by Mawson differs radically from that of, for example, Chile; in a continent governed by international consensus, it is crucial that the specific cultural geographies and spatial histories of Treaty participants be clearly understood. Second, attending to complexities of Antarctican spatiality points up the intersecting cultural technologies involved in spatial production, cultural technologies so powerful that, in the case of Antarctica, they transformed nearly half of a distant continent into Australian sovereign space. This article focuses its critical attention on three core spatialising technologies, a trinary that echoes Henri Lefebvre’s influential tripartite model of spatiality: this article attends to Australian Antarctic representation, practise, and the law. At the turn of the twentieth century, Scott, Shackleton, and Amundsen trooped over the polar plateau, and Antarctic space became a setting for symbolic Edwardian performances of heroic imperial masculinity and ‘frontier’ hardiness. At the same time, a second, less symbolic, type of Antarctican spatiality began to evolve: for the first time, Antarctica became a potential territorial possession; it became the object of expansionist geopolitics. Based in part on Scott’s expeditions, Britain declared sovereignty over an undefined area of the continent in 1908, and France declared Antarctic space its own in 1924; by the late 1920s, what John Agnew and Stuart Corbridge refer to as the nation-state ontology—that is, the belief that land should and must be divided into state-owned units—had arrived in Antarctica. What the Adelaide Advertiser’s 8 April 1929 headline referred to as “A Scramble for Antarctica” had begun. The British Imperial Conference of 1926 concluded that the entire continent should become a possession of Britain and its dominions, New Zealand and Australia (Imperial). Thus, in 1929, BANZARE set sail into the brutal Southern Ocean. Although the expedition included various scientists, its primary mission was not to observe Antarctican space, but to take possession of it: as the expedition’s instructions from Australian Prime Minister Bruce stated, BANZARE’s mission was to produce Antarctica as Empire’s—and by extension, Australia’s—sovereign space (Jacka and Jacka 251). With the moment described in the first paragraph of this article, along with four other such moments, BANZARE succeeded; just how it did so is the focus of this work. It is by now axiomatic in spatial studies that the job of imperial explorers is not to locate landforms, but to produce a discursive space. “The early travellers,” as Paul Carter notes of Australian explorers, “invented places rather than found them” (51). Numerous analytical investigations attend to the discursive power of exploration: in Australia, Carter’s Road to Botany Bay, Simon Ryan’s Cartographic Eye, Ross Gibson’s Diminishing Paradise, and Brigid Hains’s The Ice and the Inland, to name a few, lay bare the textual strategies through which the imperial annexation of “new” spaces was legitimated and enabled. Discursive territoriality was certainly a core product of BANZARE: as this article’s opening paragraph demonstrates, one of the key missions of BANZARE was not simply to perform rituals of spatial possession, but to textualise them for popular and governmental consumption. Within ten months of the expedition’s return, Hurley’s film Southward Ho! With Mawson was touring Australia. BANZARE consisted of two separate trips to Antarctica; Southward Ho! documents the first of these, while Siege of the South documents the both the first and the second, 1930-1, mission. While there is not space here to provide a detailed textual analysis of the entire film, a focus on the “Proclamation Island moment” usefully points up some of the film’s central spatialising work. Hurley situated the Proclamation Island scene at the heart of the film; the scene was so important that Hurley wished he had been able to shoot two hours of footage of Mawson’s island performance (Ayres 194). This scene in the film opens with a long shot of the land and sea around the island; a soundtrack of howling wind not only documents the brutal conditions in which the expedition worked, but also emphasises the emptiness of Antarctican space prior to its “discovery” by Mawson: in this shot, the film visually confirms Antarctica’s status as an available terra nullius awaiting cooption into Australian understanding, and into Australian national space. The film then cuts to a close-up of Mawson raising the flag; the sound of the wind disappears as Mawson begins to read the proclamation of possession. It is as if Mawson’s proclamation of possession stills the protean chaos of unclaimed Antarctic space by inviting it into the spatial order of national territory: at this moment, Antarctica’s agency is symbolically subsumed by Mawson’s acquisitive words. As the scene ends, the camera once again pans over the surrounding sea and ice scape, visually confirming the impact of Mawson’s—and the film’s—performance: all this, the shot implies, is now made meaningful; all this is now understood, recorded, and, most importantly, all this is now ours. A textual analysis of this filmic moment might identify numerous other spatialising strategies at work: its conflation of Mawson’s and the viewer’s proprietary gazes (Ryan), its invocation of the sublime, or its legitimising conflation of the ‘purity’ of the whiteness of the landscape with the whiteness of its claimants (Dyer 21). However, the spatial productivity of this moment far exceeds the discursive. What is at times frustrating about discourse analyses of spatiality is that they too often fail to articulate representation to other, equally potent, cultural technologies of spatial production. John Wylie notes that “on the whole, accounts of early twentieth-century Antarctic exploration exhibit a particular tendency to position and interpret exploratory experience in terms of self-contained discursive ensembles” (170). Despite the undisputed power of textuality, discourse alone does not, and cannot, produce a spatial possession. “Discursive and representational practices,” as Jane Jacobs observes, “are in a mutually constitutive relationship with political and economic forces” (9); spatiality, in other words, is not simply a matter of texts. In order to understand fully the process of Antarctican spatial acquisition, it is necessary to depart from tales of exploration and ships and flags, and to focus on the less visceral spatiality of international territorial law. Or, more accurately, it is necessary to address the mutual imbrication of these two articulated spatialising “domains of practice” (Dixon). The emerging field of critical legal geography is founded on the premise that legal analyses of territoriality neglect the spatial dimension of their investigations; rather than seeing the law as a means of spatial production, they position space as a neutral, universally-legible entity which is neatly governed by the “external variable” of territorial law (Blomley 28). “In the hegemonic conception of the law,” Wesley Pue argues, “the entire world is transmuted into one vast isotropic surface” (568) upon which law acts. Nicholas Blomley asserts, however, that law is not a neutral organiser of space, but rather a cultural technology of spatial production. Territorial laws, in other words, make spaces, and don’t simply govern them. When Mawson planted the flag and read the proclamation, he was producing Antarctica as a legal space as well as a discursive one. Today’s international territorial laws derive directly from European imperialism: as European empires expanded, they required a spatial system that would protect their newly-annexed lands, and thus they developed a set of laws of territorial acquisition and possession. Undergirding these laws is the ontological premise that space is divisible into state-owned sovereign units. At international law, space can be acquired by its imperial claimants in one of three main ways: through conquest, cession (treaty), or through “the discovery of terra nullius” (see Triggs 2). Antarctica and Australia remain the globe’s only significant spaces to be transformed into possessions through the last of these methods. In the spatiality of the international law of discovery, explorers are not just government employees or symbolic representatives, but vessels of enormous legal force. According to international territorial law, sovereign title to “new” territory—land defined (by Europeans) as terra nullius, or land belonging to no one—can be established through the eyes, feet, codified ritual performances, and documents of explorers. That is, once an authorised explorer—Mawson carried documents from both the Australian Prime Minister and the British King that invested his body and his texts with the power to transform land into a possession—saw land, put his foot on it, planted a flag, read a proclamation, then documented these acts in words and maps, that land became a possession. These performative rituals and their documentation activate the legal spatiality of territorial acquisition; law here is revealed as a “bundle of practices” that produce space as a possession (Ford 202). What we witness when we attend to Mawson’s island performance, then, is not merely a discursive performance, but also the transformation of Antarctica into a legal space of possession. Similarly, the films and documents generated by the expedition are more than just a “sign system of human ambition” (Tang 190), they are evidence, valid at law, of territorial possession. They are key components of Australia’s legal currency of Antarctican spatial purchase. What is of central importance here is that Mawson’s BANZARE performance on Proclamation Island is a moment in which the dryly legal, the bluntly physical, and the densely textual clearly intersect in the creation of space as a possession. Australia did not take possession of forty-two percent of Antarctica after BANZARE by law, by exploration, or by representation alone. The Australian government built its Antarctic space with letters patent and legal documents. BANZARE produced Australia’s Antarctic possession through the physical and legal rituals of flag-planting, proclamation-reading, and exploration. BANZARE further contributed to Australia’s polar empire with maps, journals, photos and films, and cadastral lists of the region’s animals, minerals, magnetic fields, and winds. The law of “discovery of terra nullius” coalesced these spaces into a territory officially designated as Australian. It is crucial to recognise that the production of nearly half of Antarctica as Australian space was, and is not a matter of discourse, of physical performance, or of law alone. Rather, these three cultural technologies of spatial production are mutually imbricated; none can function without the others, nor is one reducible to an epiphenomenon of another. To focus on the discursive products of BANZARE without attending to the expedition’s legal work not only downplays the significance of Mawson’s spatialising achievement, but also blinds us to the role that law plays in the production of space. Attending to Mawson’s Proclamation Island moment points to the unique nature of Australia’s Antarctic spatiality: unlike the US, which constructs Antarctic spatiality as entirely non-sovereign; and unlike Chile, which bases its Antarctic sovereignty claim on Papal Bulls and acts of domestic colonisation, Australian Antarctic space is a spatiality of possession, founded on a bedrock of imperial exploration, representation, and law. Seventy-four years ago, the camera whirred as a man stuck a flagpole into the bleak summit rocks of a small Antarctic island: six million square kilometres of Antarctica became, and remain, Australian space. Works Cited Agnew, John, and Stuart Corbridge. Mastering Space: Hegemony, Territory and International Political Economy. London: Routledge, 1995. Ayres, Philip. Mawson: A Life. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 1999. Blomley, Nicholas. Law, Space, and the Geographies of Power. New York: Guilford, 1994. Bush, W. M. Antarctica and International Law: A Collection of Inter-State and National Documents. Vol. 2. London: Oceana, 1982. Carter, Paul. The Road to Botany Bay: An Essay in Spatial History. London: Faber, 1987. Dixon, Rob. Prosthetic Gods: Travel, Representation and Colonial Governance. Brisbane: UQP, 2001. Dodds, Klaus. Geopolitics in Antarctica: Views from the Southern Oceanic Rim. Chichester: Wiley, 1997. Dyer, Richard. White. London: Routledge, 1997. Ford, Richard. “Law’s Territory (A History of Jurisdiction).” The Legal Geographies Reader. Ed. Nicholas Blomley and Richard Ford. Oxford: Blackwell, 2001. 200-17. Gibson, Ross. The Diminishing Paradise: Changing Literary Perceptions of Australia. Sydney: Sirius, 1984. Hains, Brigid. The Ice and the Inland: Mawson, Flynn, and the Myth of the Frontier. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2002. Imperial Conference, 1926. Summary of Proceedings. London: His Majesty’s Stationary Office, 1926. Jacka, Fred, and Eleanor Jacka, eds. Mawson’s Antarctic Diaries. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1988. Jacobs, Jane. Edge of Empire: Postcolonialism and the City. London: Routledge, 1996. Pue, Wesley. “Wrestling with Law: (Geographical) Specificity versus (Legal) Abstraction.” Urban Geography 11.6 (1990): 566-85. Ryan, Simon. The Cartographic Eye: How the Explorers Saw Australia. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1996. Tang, David. “Writing on Antarctica.” Room 5 1 (2000): 185-95. Triggs, Gillian. International Law and Australian Sovereignty in Antarctica. Sydney: Legal, 1986. Wylie, John. “Earthly Poles: The Antarctic Voyages of Scott and Amundsen.” Postcolonial Geographies. Ed Alison Blunt and Cheryl McEwan. London: Continuum, 2002. 169-83. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Collis, Christy. "Australia’s Antarctic Turf" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture <http://www.media-culture.org.au/0403/02-feature-australia.php>. APA Style Collis, C. (2004, Mar17). Australia’s Antarctic Turf. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture,7,<http://www.media-culture.org.au/0403/02-feature australia.php>

The most famous Englishman in Australian history, Captain James Cook, missed the entrance to Sydney Harbour during the night. He and fellow Englishman, Sir Joseph Banks, committed future explorers to the less promising site of Botany Bay.Nearly 20 years later, Sydney was founded by the British government as a penal colony. Although there was an established Aboriginal population, they remained on the periphery and were gradually reduced by disease and displacement, a fate suffered by others further out as exploration and settlement proceeded. In contrast to New York, which was established by the Dutch, or Boston, which became predominantly Irish, Sydney was seen from the beginning as an ‘English’ town. This was despite its growing connections with the Pacific and the presence among its soldiers and convicts of some Scots and many Irishmen. The majority of transported convicts were English, the Church of England was the established religious faith and Catholicism was strictly limited by official control.

The world's natural history collections represent a vast repository of information on the natural and cultural world, collected over 250 years of human exploration, and distributed across institutions on six continents. These collections provide a unique tool for answering fundamental questions about biological, geological and cultural diversity and how they interact to shape our changing planet. Recent advances in digital and genomic technologies promise to transform how natural history collections are used, especially with respect to addressing scientific and socio-economic challenges ranging from biodiversity loss, invasive species and food security, to climate change, scarce minerals, and emerging tropical diseases. It is not clear, however, how ready these collections are to meet this challenge because relatively little is known about their size, composition or geographical distribution. Similarly, relatively little is known about the extent, expertise or demography of their curatorial workforce. To address these questions, a large collaborative team of directors and scientists have collated a global database on natural history collections that comprises more than 70 of the world's largest institutions, including museums, botanic gardens, research institutes and universities. The institutions represented in the database span Africa, Asia, Australasia, Europe, and North and South America, with approximately one third of institutions from each of the Global South, Europe and North America. The database includes information on the number of specimens and experts with respect to both geographic regions and collection categories and geographic regions. Geographic regions include both the terrestrial and marine realms, and collection categories span anthropology, botany, entomology, geology, paleobiology, and vertebrate and invertebrate zoology. Analyses of this new database reveal that the global natural history collection represents one of the most extensive distributed scientific infrastructures in the world, comprising more than 1 billion specimens that are curated by a workforce of more than 7,000 individuals. The analyses also indicate, however, that a major change in approach is required for these collections to realize their potential to inform future decision making and stimulate the basic research that underpins future questions and knowledge. For instance, at a global scale the collection and expertise does indeed exist to map change in key groups and regions - but this requires large-scale coordination across institutions and countries. Similarly, cross-institution collaboration is required to fill strategic gaps in the collection, particularly for tropical, marine and polar regions. And finally, there is an urgent need for coordinated investment in digital and genomic technologies to make collections available to the global research community and link them with other sources of information. The vast majority of collection information currently exists as 'dark data'. We conclude that the global natueral history collection comprises one of the most extensive distributed scientific infrastructures in the world, but a major change in approach is required for them to realize their potential to inform future decision making. In particular, natural history collections need to work more effectively together to develop a global strategy, create a common data platform, accelerate the availability and use of specimen data and pursue major new collecting programs.

This article focuses on the early scientific career of George William Francis (1800–1865), a London-born botanist who later emigrated to Australia and founded the Adelaide Botanic Garden. Most scholarly works about Francis emphasize his botanical contributions or life in Australia, yet overlook his career before middle age in England as a versatile popular writer, editor and lecturer. His involvement in the venture of ‘commercial science’, or the display and exploitation of knowledge, reflects a career route for a non-elite practitioner to earn a living and build scientific reputation in early Victorian gentlemanly science. The venture included his establishment of the popular journal The Magazine of Science and School of Arts (1839–1852). He also associated himself with the network of the scientific elites by communicating to the learned, such as the pre-eminent botanist William Hooker. By examining the distinctive trajectory of Francis's career, this essay explores the potential and limits of such strategies to gain institutional recognition from the scientific community in the pre-professionalized period.

The term “coffee palace” was primarily used in Australia to describe the temperance hotels that were built in the last decades of the 19th century, although there are references to the term also being used to a lesser extent in the United Kingdom (Denby 174). Built in response to the worldwide temperance movement, which reached its pinnacle in the 1880s in Australia, coffee palaces were hotels that did not serve alcohol. This was a unique time in Australia’s architectural development as the economic boom fuelled by the gold rush in the 1850s, and the demand for ostentatious display that gathered momentum during the following years, afforded the use of richly ornamental High Victorian architecture and resulted in very majestic structures; hence the term “palace” (Freeland 121). The often multi-storied coffee palaces were found in every capital city as well as regional areas such as Geelong and Broken Hill, and locales as remote as Maria Island on the east coast of Tasmania. Presented as upholding family values and discouraging drunkenness, the coffee palaces were most popular in seaside resorts such as Barwon Heads in Victoria, where they catered to families. Coffee palaces were also constructed on a grand scale to provide accommodation for international and interstate visitors attending the international exhibitions held in Sydney (1879) and Melbourne (1880 and 1888). While the temperance movement lasted well over 100 years, the life of coffee palaces was relatively short-lived. Nevertheless, coffee palaces were very much part of Australia’s cultural landscape. In this article, I examine the rise and demise of coffee palaces associated with the temperance movement and argue that coffee palaces established in the name of abstinence were modelled on the coffee houses that spread throughout Europe and North America in the 17th and 18th centuries during the Enlightenment—a time when the human mind could be said to have been liberated from inebriation and the dogmatic state of ignorance. The Temperance Movement At a time when newspapers are full of lurid stories about binge-drinking and the alleged ill-effects of the liberalisation of licensing laws, as well as concerns over the growing trend of marketing easy-to-drink products (such as the so-called “alcopops”) to teenagers, it is difficult to think of a period when the total suppression of the alcohol trade was seriously debated in Australia. The cause of temperance has almost completely vanished from view, yet for well over a century—from 1830 to the outbreak of the Second World War—the control or even total abolition of the liquor trade was a major political issue—one that split the country, brought thousands onto the streets in demonstrations, and influenced the outcome of elections. Between 1911 and 1925 referenda to either limit or prohibit the sale of alcohol were held in most States. While moves to bring about abolition failed, Fitzgerald notes that almost one in three Australian voters expressed their support for prohibition of alcohol in their State (145). Today, the temperance movement’s platform has largely been forgotten, killed off by the practical example of the United States, where prohibition of the legal sale of alcohol served only to hand control of the liquor traffic to organised crime. Coffee Houses and the Enlightenment Although tea has long been considered the beverage of sobriety, it was coffee that came to be regarded as the very antithesis of alcohol. When the first coffee house opened in London in the early 1650s, customers were bewildered by this strange new drink from the Middle East—hot, bitter, and black as soot. But those who tried coffee were, reports Ellis, soon won over, and coffee houses were opened across London, Oxford, and Cambridge and, in the following decades, Europe and North America. Tea, equally exotic, entered the English market slightly later than coffee (in 1664), but was more expensive and remained a rarity long after coffee had become ubiquitous in London (Ellis 123-24). The impact of the introduction of coffee into Europe during the seventeenth century was particularly noticeable since the most common beverages of the time, even at breakfast, were weak “small beer” and wine. Both were safer to drink than water, which was liable to be contaminated. Coffee, like beer, was made using boiled water and, therefore, provided a new and safe alternative to alcoholic drinks. There was also the added benefit that those who drank coffee instead of alcohol began the day alert rather than mildly inebriated (Standage 135). It was also thought that coffee had a stimulating effect upon the “nervous system,” so much so that the French called coffee une boisson intellectuelle (an intellectual beverage), because of its stimulating effect on the brain (Muskett 71). In Oxford, the British called their coffee houses “penny universities,” a penny then being the price of a cup of coffee (Standage 158). Coffee houses were, moreover, more than places that sold coffee. Unlike other institutions of the period, rank and birth had no place (Ellis 59). The coffee house became the centre of urban life, creating a distinctive social culture by treating all customers as equals. Egalitarianism, however, did not extend to women—at least not in London. Around its egalitarian (but male) tables, merchants discussed and conducted business, writers and poets held discussions, scientists demonstrated experiments, and philosophers deliberated ideas and reforms. For the price of a cup (or “dish” as it was then known) of coffee, a man could read the latest pamphlets and newsletters, chat with other patrons, strike business deals, keep up with the latest political gossip, find out what other people thought of a new book, or take part in literary or philosophical discussions. Like today’s Internet, Twitter, and Facebook, Europe’s coffee houses functioned as an information network where ideas circulated and spread from coffee house to coffee house. In this way, drinking coffee in the coffee house became a metaphor for people getting together to share ideas in a sober environment, a concept that remains today. According to Standage, this information network fuelled the Enlightenment (133), prompting an explosion of creativity. Coffee houses provided an entirely new environment for political, financial, scientific, and literary change, as people gathered, discussed, and debated issues within their walls. Entrepreneurs and scientists teamed up to form companies to exploit new inventions and discoveries in manufacturing and mining, paving the way for the Industrial Revolution (Standage 163). The stock market and insurance companies also had their birth in the coffee house. As a result, coffee was seen to be the epitome of modernity and progress and, as such, was the ideal beverage for the Age of Reason. By the 19th century, however, the era of coffee houses had passed. Most of them had evolved into exclusive men’s clubs, each geared towards a certain segment of society. Tea was now more affordable and fashionable, and teahouses, which drew clientele from both sexes, began to grow in popularity. Tea, however, had always been Australia’s most popular non-alcoholic drink. Tea (and coffee) along with other alien plants had been part of the cargo unloaded onto Australian shores with the First Fleet in 1788. Coffee, mainly from Brazil and Jamaica, remained a constant import but was taxed more heavily than tea and was, therefore, more expensive. Furthermore, tea was much easier to make than coffee. To brew tea, all that is needed is to add boiling water, coffee, in contrast, required roasting, grinding and brewing. According to Symons, until the 1930s, Australians were the largest consumers of tea in the world (19). In spite of this, and as coffee, since its introduction into Europe, was regarded as the antidote to alcohol, the temperance movement established coffee palaces. In the early 1870s in Britain, the temperance movement had revived the coffee house to provide an alternative to the gin taverns that were so attractive to the working classes of the Industrial Age (Clarke 5). Unlike the earlier coffee house, this revived incarnation provided accommodation and was open to men, women and children. “Cheap and wholesome food,” was available as well as reading rooms supplied with newspapers and periodicals, and games and smoking rooms (Clarke 20). In Australia, coffee palaces did not seek the working classes, as clientele: at least in the cities they were largely for the nouveau riche. Coffee Palaces The discovery of gold in 1851 changed the direction of the Australian economy. An investment boom followed, with an influx of foreign funds and English banks lending freely to colonial speculators. By the 1880s, the manufacturing and construction sectors of the economy boomed and land prices were highly inflated. Governments shared in the wealth and ploughed money into urban infrastructure, particularly railways. Spurred on by these positive economic conditions and the newly extended inter-colonial rail network, international exhibitions were held in both Sydney and Melbourne. To celebrate modern technology and design in an industrial age, international exhibitions were phenomena that had spread throughout Europe and much of the world from the mid-19th century. According to Davison, exhibitions were “integral to the culture of nineteenth century industrialising societies” (158). In particular, these exhibitions provided the colonies with an opportunity to demonstrate to the world their economic power and achievements in the sciences, the arts and education, as well as to promote their commerce and industry. Massive purpose-built buildings were constructed to house the exhibition halls. In Sydney, the Garden Palace was erected in the Botanic Gardens for the 1879 Exhibition (it burnt down in 1882). In Melbourne, the Royal Exhibition Building, now a World Heritage site, was built in the Carlton Gardens for the 1880 Exhibition and extended for the 1888 Centennial Exhibition. Accommodation was required for the some one million interstate and international visitors who were to pass through the gates of the Garden Palace in Sydney. To meet this need, the temperance movement, keen to provide alternative accommodation to licensed hotels, backed the establishment of Sydney’s coffee palaces. The Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company was formed in 1878 to operate and manage a number of coffee palaces constructed during the 1870s. These were designed to compete with hotels by “offering all the ordinary advantages of those establishments without the allurements of the drink” (Murdoch). Coffee palaces were much more than ordinary hotels—they were often multi-purpose or mixed-use buildings that included a large number of rooms for accommodation as well as ballrooms and other leisure facilities to attract people away from pubs. As the Australian Town and Country Journal reveals, their services included the supply of affordable, wholesome food, either in the form of regular meals or occasional refreshments, cooked in kitchens fitted with the latest in culinary accoutrements. These “culinary temples” also provided smoking rooms, chess and billiard rooms, and rooms where people could read books, periodicals and all the local and national papers for free (121). Similar to the coffee houses of the Enlightenment, the coffee palaces brought businessmen, artists, writers, engineers, and scientists attending the exhibitions together to eat and drink (non-alcoholic), socialise and conduct business. The Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace located in York Street in Sydney produced a practical guide for potential investors and businessmen titled International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney. It included information on the location of government departments, educational institutions, hospitals, charitable organisations, and embassies, as well as a list of the tariffs on goods from food to opium (1–17). Women, particularly the Woman’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) were a formidable force in the temperance movement (intemperance was generally regarded as a male problem and, more specifically, a husband problem). Murdoch argues, however, that much of the success of the push to establish coffee palaces was due to male politicians with business interests, such as the one-time Victorian premiere James Munro. Considered a stern, moral church-going leader, Munro expanded the temperance movement into a fanatical force with extraordinary power, which is perhaps why the temperance movement had its greatest following in Victoria (Murdoch). Several prestigious hotels were constructed to provide accommodation for visitors to the international exhibitions in Melbourne. Munro was responsible for building many of the city’s coffee palaces, including the Victoria (1880) and the Federal Coffee Palace (1888) in Collins Street. After establishing the Grand Coffee Palace Company, Munro took over the Grand Hotel (now the Windsor) in 1886. Munro expanded the hotel to accommodate some of the two million visitors who were to attend the Centenary Exhibition, renamed it the Grand Coffee Palace, and ceremoniously burnt its liquor licence at the official opening (Murdoch). By 1888 there were more than 50 coffee palaces in the city of Melbourne alone and Munro held thousands of shares in coffee palaces, including those in Geelong and Broken Hill. With its opening planned to commemorate the centenary of the founding of Australia and the 1888 International Exhibition, the construction of the Federal Coffee Palace, one of the largest hotels in Australia, was perhaps the greatest monument to the temperance movement. Designed in the French Renaissance style, the façade was embellished with statues, griffins and Venus in a chariot drawn by four seahorses. The building was crowned with an iron-framed domed tower. New passenger elevators—first demonstrated at the Sydney Exhibition—allowed the building to soar to seven storeys. According to the Federal Coffee Palace Visitor’s Guide, which was presented to every visitor, there were three lifts for passengers and others for luggage. Bedrooms were located on the top five floors, while the stately ground and first floors contained majestic dining, lounge, sitting, smoking, writing, and billiard rooms. There were electric service bells, gaslights, and kitchens “fitted with the most approved inventions for aiding proficients [sic] in the culinary arts,” while the luxury brand Pears soap was used in the lavatories and bathrooms (16–17). In 1891, a spectacular financial crash brought the economic boom to an abrupt end. The British economy was in crisis and to meet the predicament, English banks withdrew their funds in Australia. There was a wholesale collapse of building companies, mortgage banks and other financial institutions during 1891 and 1892 and much of the banking system was halted during 1893 (Attard). Meanwhile, however, while the eastern States were in the economic doldrums, gold was discovered in 1892 at Coolgardie and Kalgoorlie in Western Australia and, within two years, the west of the continent was transformed. As gold poured back to the capital city of Perth, the long dormant settlement hurriedly caught up and began to emulate the rest of Australia, including the construction of ornately detailed coffee palaces (Freeman 130). By 1904, Perth had 20 coffee palaces. When the No. 2 Coffee Palace opened in Pitt Street, Sydney, in 1880, the Australian Town and Country Journal reported that coffee palaces were “not only fashionable, but appear to have acquired a permanent footing in Sydney” (121). The coffee palace era, however, was relatively short-lived. Driven more by reformist and economic zeal than by good business sense, many were in financial trouble when the 1890’s Depression hit. Leading figures in the temperance movement were also involved in land speculation and building societies and when these schemes collapsed, many, including Munro, were financially ruined. Many of the palaces closed or were forced to apply for liquor licences in order to stay afloat. Others developed another life after the temperance movement’s influence waned and the coffee palace fad faded, and many were later demolished to make way for more modern buildings. The Federal was licensed in 1923 and traded as the Federal Hotel until its demolition in 1973. The Victoria, however, did not succumb to a liquor licence until 1967. The Sydney Coffee Palace in Woolloomooloo became the Sydney Eye Hospital and, more recently, smart apartments. Some fine examples still survive as reminders of Australia’s social and cultural heritage. The Windsor in Melbourne’s Spring Street and the Broken Hill Hotel, a massive three-story iconic pub in the outback now called simply “The Palace,” are some examples. Tea remained the beverage of choice in Australia until the 1950s when the lifting of government controls on the importation of coffee and the influence of American foodways coincided with the arrival of espresso-loving immigrants. As Australians were introduced to the espresso machine, the short black, the cappuccino, and the café latte and (reminiscent of the Enlightenment), the post-war malaise was shed in favour of the energy and vigour of modernist thought and creativity, fuelled in at least a small part by caffeine and the emergent café culture (Teffer). Although the temperance movement’s attempt to provide an alternative to the ubiquitous pubs failed, coffee has now outstripped the consumption of tea and today’s café culture ensures that wherever coffee is consumed, there is the possibility of a continuation of the Enlightenment’s lively discussions, exchange of news, and dissemination of ideas and information in a sober environment. References Attard, Bernard. “The Economic History of Australia from 1788: An Introduction.” EH.net Encyclopedia. 5 Feb. (2012) ‹http://eh.net/encyclopedia/article/attard.australia›. Blainey, Anna. “The Prohibition and Total Abstinence Movement in Australia 1880–1910.” Food, Power and Community: Essays in the History of Food and Drink. Ed. Robert Dare. Adelaide: Wakefield Press, 1999. 142–52. Boyce, Francis Bertie. “Shall I Vote for No License?” An address delivered at the Convention of the Parramatta Branch of New South Wales Alliance, 3 September 1906. 3rd ed. Parramatta: New South Wales Alliance, 1907. Clarke, James Freeman. Coffee Houses and Coffee Palaces in England. Boston: George H. Ellis, 1882. “Coffee Palace, No. 2.” Australian Town and Country Journal. 17 Jul. 1880: 121. Davison, Graeme. “Festivals of Nationhood: The International Exhibitions.” Australian Cultural History. Eds. S. L. Goldberg and F. B. Smith. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1989. 158–77. Denby, Elaine. Grand Hotels: Reality and Illusion. London: Reaktion Books, 2002. Ellis, Markman. The Coffee House: A Cultural History. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2004. Federal Coffee Palace. The Federal Coffee Palace Visitors’ Guide to Melbourne, Its Suburbs, and Other Parts of the Colony of Victoria: Views of the Principal Public and Commercial Buildings in Melbourne, With a Bird’s Eye View of the City; and History of the Melbourne International Exhibition of 1880, etc. Melbourne: Federal Coffee House Company, 1888. Fitzgerald, Ross, and Trevor Jordan. Under the Influence: A History of Alcohol in Australia. Sydney: Harper Collins, 2009. Freeland, John. The Australian Pub. Melbourne: Sun Books, 1977. Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace. International Exhibition Visitors Pocket Guide to Sydney, Restaurant and Temperance Hotel. Sydney: Johnson’s Temperance Coffee Palace, 1879. Mitchell, Ann M. “Munro, James (1832–1908).” Australian Dictionary of Biography. Canberra: National Centre of Biography, Australian National U, 2006-12. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://adb.anu.edu.au/biography/munro-james-4271/text6905›. Murdoch, Sally. “Coffee Palaces.” Encyclopaedia of Melbourne. Eds. Andrew Brown-May and Shurlee Swain. 5 Feb. 2012 ‹http://www.emelbourne.net.au/biogs/EM00371b.htm›. Muskett, Philip E. The Art of Living in Australia. New South Wales: Kangaroo Press, 1987. Standage, Tom. A History of the World in 6 Glasses. New York: Walker & Company, 2005. Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company Limited. Memorandum of Association of the Sydney Coffee Palace Hotel Company, Ltd. Sydney: Samuel Edward Lees, 1879. Symons, Michael. One Continuous Picnic: A Gastronomic History of Australia. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 2007. Teffer, Nicola. Coffee Customs. Exhibition Catalogue. Sydney: Customs House, 2005.

There is, in our sense of place, little cognisance of what lies underground. Yet our sense of place, instinctive, unconscious, primeval, has its own underground: the secret spaces which mirror our insides; the world beneath the skin. Our roots lie beneath the ground, with the minerals and the dead. (Hughes 83) The-Home-and-Away-Game Imagine the earth-grounded, “diagrammatological” trajectory of a footballer who as one member of a team is psyching himself up before the start of a game. The siren blasts its trumpet call. The footballer bursts out of the pavilion (where this psyching up has taken place) to engage in the opening bounce or kick of the game. And then: running, leaping, limping after injury, marking, sliding, kicking, and possibly even passing out from concussion. Finally, the elation accompanying the final siren, after which hugs, handshakes and raised fists conclude the actual match on the football oval. This exit from the pavilion, the course the player takes during the game itself, and return to the pavilion, forms a combination of stasis and movement, and a return to exhausted stasis again, that every player engages with regardless of the game code. Examined from a “diagrammatological” perspective, a perspective Rowan Wilken (following in the path of Gilles Deleuze and W. J. T. Mitchell) understands as “a generative process: a ‘metaphor’ or way of thinking — diagrammatic, diagrammatological thinking — which in turn, is linked to poetic thinking” (48), this footballer’s scenario arises out of an aerial perspective that depicts the actual spatial trajectory the player takes during the course of a game. It is a diagram that is digitally encoded via a sensor on the footballer’s body, and being an electronically encoded diagram it can also make available multiple sets of data such as speed, heartbeat, blood pressure, maybe even brain-wave patterns. From this limited point of view there is only one footballer’s playing trajectory to consider; various groupings within the team, the whole team itself, and the diagrammatological depiction of its games with various other teams might also be possible. This singular imagining though is itself an actuality: as a diagram it is encoded as a graphic image by a satellite hovering around the earth with a Global Positioning System (GPS) reading the sensor attached to the footballer which then digitally encodes this diagrammatological trajectory for appraisal later by the player, coach, team and management. In one respect, this practice is another example of a willing self-surveillance critical to explaining the reflexive subject and its attribute of continuous self-improvement. According to Docker, Official Magazine of the Fremantle Football Club, this is a technique the club uses as a part of game/play assessment, a system that can provide a “running map” for each player equipped with such a tracking device during a game. As the Fremantle Club’s Strength and Conditioning Coach Ben Tarbox says of this tactic, “We’re getting a physiological profile that has started to build a really good picture of how individual players react during a game” (21). With a little extra effort (and some sizeable computer processing grunt) this two dimensional linear graphic diagram of a footballer working the football ground could also form the raw material for a three-dimensional animation, maybe a virtual reality game, even a hologram. It could also be used to sideline a non-performing player. Now try another related but different imagining: what if this diagrammatological trajectory could be enlarged a little to include the possibility that this same player’s movements could be mapped out by the idea of home-and-away games; say over the course of a season, maybe even a whole career, for instance? No doubt, a wide range of differing diagrammatological perspectives might suggest themselves. My own particular refinement of this movement/stasis on the footballer’s part suggests my own distinctive comings and goings to and from my own specific piece of home country. And in this incessantly domestic/real world reciprocity, in this diurnally repetitive leaving and coming back to home country, might it be plausible to think of “Home as Capital of the Region”? If, as Walter Benjamin suggests in the prelude to his monumental Arcades Project, “Paris — the Capital of the Nineteenth Century,” could it be that both in and through my comings and goings to and from this selfsame home country, my own burgeoning sense of regionality is constituted in every minute-by-minutiae of lived experience? Could it be that this feeling about home is manifested in my every day-to-night manoeuvre of home-and-away-and-away-and-home-making, of every singular instance of exit, play/engage, and the return home? “Home, Capital of the Region” then examines the idea that my home is that part of the country which is the still-point of eternal return, the bedrock to which I retreat after the daily grind, and the point from which I start out and do it all again the next day. It employs, firstly, this ‘diagrammatological’ perspective to illustrate the point that this stasis/movement across country can make an electronic record of my own psychic self-surveillance and actualisation in-situ. And secondly, the architectural plan of the domestic home (examined through the perspective of critical regionalism) is used as a conduit to illustrate how I am physically embedded in country. Lastly, intermingling these digressive threads is chora, Plato’s notion of embodied place and itself an ancient regional rendering of this eternal return to the beginning, the place where the essential diversity of country decisively enters the soul. Chora: Core of Regionality Kevin Lynch writes that, “Our senses are local, while our experience is regional” (10), a combination that suggests this regional emphasis on home-and-away-making might be a useful frame of reference (simultaneously spatiotemporal, both a visceral and encoded communication) for me to include as a crucial vector in my own life-long learning package. Regionality (as, variously, a sub-generic categorisation and an extension/concentration of nationality, as well as a recently re-emerged friend/antagonist to a global understanding) infuses my world of home with a grounded footing in country, one that is a site of an Eternal Return to the Beginning in the micro-world of the everyday. This is a point John Sallis discusses at length in his analysis of Plato’s Timaeus and its founding notion of regionality: chora. More extended absences away from home-base are of course possible but one’s return to home on most days and for most nights is a given of post/modern, maybe even of ancient everyday experience. Even for the continually shifting nomad, nightfall in some part of the country brings the rest and recreation necessary for the next day’s wanderings. This fundamental question of an Eternal Return to the Beginning arises as a crucial element of the method in Plato’s Timaeus, a seemingly “unstructured” mythic/scientific dialogue about the origins and structure of both the psychically and the physically implaced world. In the Timaeus, “incoherence is especially obvious in the way the natural sequence in which a narrative would usually unfold is interrupted by regressions, corrections, repetitions, and abrupt new beginnings” (Gadamer 160). Right in the middle of the Timaeus, in between its sections on the “Work of Reason” and the “Work of Necessity”, sits chora, both an actual spatial and bodily site where my being intersects with my becoming, and where my lived life criss-crosses the various arts necessary to articulating a recorded version of that life. Every home is a grounded chora-logical timespace harness guiding its occupant’s thoughts, feelings and actions. My own regionally implaced chora (an example of which is the diagrammatological trajectory already outlined above as my various everyday comings and goings, of me acting in and projecting myself into context) could in part be understood as a graphical realisation of the extent of my movements and stationary rests in my own particular timespace trajectory. The shorthand for this process is ‘embedded’. Gregory Ulmer writes of chora that, “While chorography as a term is close to choreography, it duplicates a term that already exists in the discipline of geography, thus establishing a valuable resonance for a rhetoric of invention concerned with the history of ‘place’ in relation to memory” (Heuretics 39, original italics). Chorography is the geographic discipline for the systematic study and analysis of regions. Chora, home, country and regionality thus form an important multi-dimensional zone of interplay in memorialising the game of everyday life. In light of these observations I might even go so far as to suggest that this diagrammatological trajectory (being both digital and GPS originated) is part of the increasingly electrate condition that guides the production of knowledge in any global/regional context. This last point is a contextual connection usefully examined in Alan J. Scott’s Regions and the World Economy: The Coming Shape of Global Production, Competition, and Political Order and Michael Storper’s The Regional World: Territorial Development in a Global Economy. Their analyses explicitly suggest that the symbiosis between globalisation and regionalisation has been gathering pace since at least the end of World War Two and the Bretton Woods agreement. Our emerging understanding of electracy also happens to be Gregory Ulmer’s part-remedy for shifting the ground under the intense debates surrounding il/literacy in the current era (see, in particular, Internet Invention). And, for Tony Bennett, Michael Emmison and John Frow’s analysis of “Australian Everyday Cultures” (“Media Culture and the Home” 57–86), it is within the home that our un.conscious understanding of electronic media is at its most intense, a pattern that emerges in the longer term through receiving telegrams, compiling photo albums, listening to the radio, home- and video-movies, watching the evening news on television, and logging onto the computer in the home-office, media-room or home-studio. These various generalisations (along with this diagrammatological view of my comings and goings to and from the built space of home), all point indiscriminately to a productive confusion surrounding the sedentary and nomadic opposition/conjunction. If natural spaces are constituted in nouns like oceans, forests, plains, grasslands, steppes, deserts, rivers, tidal interstices, farmland etc. (and each categorisation here relies on the others for its existence and demarcation) then built space is often seen as constituting its human sedentary equivalent. For Deleuze and Guatteri (in A Thousand Plateaus, “1227: Treatise on Nomadology — The War Machine”) these natural spaces help instigate a nomadic movement across localities and regions. From a nomadology perspective, these smooth spaces unsettle a scientific, numerical calculation, sometimes even aesthetic demarcation and order. If they are marked at all, it is by heterogenous and differential forces, energised through constantly oscillating intensities. A Thousand Plateaus is careful though not to elevate these smooth nomadic spaces over the more sedentary spaces of culture and power (372–373). Nonetheless, as Edward S. Casey warns, “In their insistence on becoming and movement, however, the authors of A Thousand Plateaus overlook the placial potential of settled dwelling — of […] ‘built places’” (309, original italics). Sedentary, settled dwelling centred on home country may have a crust of easy legibility and order about it but it also formats a locally/regionally specific nomadic quality, a point underscored above in the diagrammatological perspective. The sedentary tendency also emerges once again in relation to home in the architectural drafting of the domestic domicile. The Real Estate Revolution When Captain Cook planted the British flag in the sand at Botany Bay in 1770 and declared the country it spiked as Crown Land and henceforth will come under the ownership of an English sovereign, it was also the moment when white Australia’s current fascination with real estate was conceived. In the wake of this spiking came the intense anxiety over Native Title that surfaced in late twentieth century Australia when claims of Indigenous land grabs would repossess suburban homes. While easily dismissed as hyperbole, a rhetorical gesture intended to arouse this very anxiety, its emergence is nonetheless an indication of the potential for political and psychic unsettling at the heart of the ownership and control of built place, or ‘settled dwelling’ in the Australian context. And here it would be wise to include not just the gridded, architectural quality of home-building and home-making, but also the home as the site of the family romance, another source of unsettling as much as a peaceful calming. Spreading out from the boundaries of the home are the built spaces of fences, bridges, roads, railways, airport terminals (along with their interconnecting pathways), which of course brings us back to the communications infrastructure which have so often followed alongside the development of transport infrastructure. These and other elements represent this conglomerate of built space, possibly the most significant transformation of natural space that humanity has brought about. For the purposes of this meditation though it is the more personal aspect of built space — my home and regional embeddedness, along with their connections into the global electrosphere — that constitutes the primary concern here. For a sedentary, striated space to settle into an unchallenged existence though requires a repression of the highest order, primarily because of the home’s proximity to everyday life, of the latter’s now fading ability to sometimes leave its presuppositions well enough alone. In settled, regionally experienced space, repressions are more difficult to abstract away, they are lived with on a daily basis, which also helps to explain the extra intensity brought to their sometimes-unsettling quality. Inversely, and encased in this globalised electro-spherical ambience, home cannot merely be a place where one dwells within avoiding those presuppositions, I take them with me when I travel and they come back with me from afar. This is a point obliquely reflected in Pico Iyer’s comment that “Australians have so flexible a sense of home, perhaps, that they can make themselves at home anywhere” (185). While our sense of home may well be, according to J. Douglas Porteous, “the territorial core” of our being, when other arrangements of space and knowledge shift it must inevitably do so as well. In these shifts of spatial affiliation (aided and abetted by regionalisation, globalisation and electronic knowledge), the built place of home can no longer be considered exclusively under the illusion of an autonomous sanctuary wholly guaranteed by capitalist property relations, one of the key factors in its attraction. These shifts in the cultural, economic and psychic relation of home to country are important to a sense of local and regional implacement. The “feeling” of autonomy and security involved in home occupation and/or ownership designates a component of this implacement, a point leading to Eric Leed’s comment that, “By the sixteenth century, literacy had become one of the definitive signs — along with the possession of property and a permanent residence — of an independent social status” (53). Globalising and regionalising forces make this feeling of autonomy and security dynamic, shifting the ground of home, work-place practices and citizenship allegiances in the process. Gathering these wide-ranging forces impacting on psychic and built space together is the emergence of critical regionalism as a branch of architectonics, considered here as a theory of domestic architecture. Critical Regionality Critical regionalism emerged out of the collective thinking of Liane Lefaivre and Alexander Tzonis (Tropical Architecture; Critical Regionalism), and as these authors themselves acknowledge, was itself deeply influenced by the work of Lewis Mumford during the first part of the twentieth century when he was arguing against the authority of the international style in architecture, a style epitomised by the Bauhaus movement. It is Kenneth Frampton’s essay, “Towards a Critical Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture of Resistance” that deliberately takes this question of critical regionalism and makes it a part of a domestic architectonic project. In many ways the ideas critical regionalism espouses can themselves be a microcosm of this concomitantly emerging global/regional polis. With public examples of built-form the power of the centre is on display by virtue of a building’s enormous size and frequently high-cultural aesthetic power. This is a fact restated again and again from the ancient world’s agora to Australia’s own political bunker — its Houses of Parliament in Canberra. While Frampton discusses a range of aspects dealing with the universal/implaced axis across his discussion, it is points five and six that deserve attention from a domestically implaced perspective. Under the sub-heading, “Culture Versus Nature: Topography, Context, Climate, Light and Tectonic Form” is where he writes that, Here again, one touches in concrete terms this fundamental opposition between universal civilization and autochthonous culture. The bulldozing of an irregular topography into a flat site is clearly a technocratic gesture which aspires to a condition of absolute placelessness, whereas the terracing of the same site to receive the stepped form of a building is an engagement in the act of “cultivating” the site. (26, original italics) The “totally flat datum” that the universalising tendency sometimes presupposes is, within the critical regionalist perspective, an erroneous assumption. The “cultivation” of a site for the design of a building illustrates the point that built space emerges out of an interaction between parallel phenomena as they contrast and/or converge in a particular set of timespace co-ordinates. These are phenomena that could include (but are not limited to) geomorphic data like soil and rock formations, seismic activity, inclination and declension; climatic considerations in the form of wind patterns, temperature variations, rainfall patterns, available light and dark, humidity and the like; the building context in relation to the cardinal points of north, south, east, and west, along with their intermediary positions. There are also architectural considerations in the form of available building materials and personnel to consider. The social, psychological and cultural requirements of the building’s prospective in-dwellers are intermingled with all these phenomena. This is not so much a question of where to place the air conditioning system but the actuality of the way the building itself is placed on its site, or indeed if that site should be built on at all. A critical regionalist building practice, then, is autochthonous to the degree that a full consideration of this wide range of in-situ interactions is taken into consideration in the development of its design plan. And given this autochthonous quality of the critical regionalist project, it also suggests that the architectural design plan itself (especially when it utilised in conjunction with CAD and virtual reality simulations), might be the better model for designing electrate-centred projects rather than writing or even the script. The proliferation of ‘McMansions’ across many Australian suburbs during the 1990s (generally, oversized domestic buildings designed in the abstract with little or no thought to the above mentioned elements, on bulldozed sites, with powerful air-conditioning systems, and no verandas or roof eves to speak of) demonstrates the continuing influence of a universal, centralising dogma in the realm of built place. As summer temperatures start to climb into the 40°C range all these air-conditioners start to hum in unison, which in turn raises the susceptibility of the supporting infrastructure to collapse under the weight of an overbearing electrical load. The McMansion is a clear example of a built form that is envisioned more so in a drafting room, a space where the architect is remote-sensing the locational specificities. In this envisioning (driven more by a direct line-of-sight idiom dominant in “flat datum” and economic considerations rather than architectural or experiential ones), the tactile is subordinated, which is the subject of Frampton’s sixth point: It is symptomatic of the priority given to sight that we find it necessary to remind ourselves that the tactile is an important dimension in the perception of built form. One has in mind a whole range of complementary sensory perceptions which are registered by the labile body: the intensity of light, darkness, heat and cold; the feeling of humidity; the aroma of material; the almost palpable presence of masonry as the body senses it own confinement; the momentum of an induced gait and the relative inertia of the body as it traverses the floor; the echoing resonance of our own footfall. (28) The point here is clear: in its wider recognition of, and the foregrounding of my body’s full range of sensate capacities in relation to both natural and built space, the critical regionalist approach to built form spreads its meaning-making capacities across a broader range of knowledge modalities. This tactility is further elaborated in more thoroughly personal ways by Margaret Morse in her illuminating essay, “Home: Smell, Taste, Posture, Gleam”. Paradoxically, this synaesthetic, syncretic approach to bodily meaning-making in a built place, regional milieu intensely concentrates the site-centred locus of everyday life, while simultaneously, the electronic knowledge that increasingly underpins it expands both my body’s and its region’s knowledge-making possibilities into a global gestalt, sometimes even a cosmological one. It is a paradoxical transformation that makes us look anew at social, cultural and political givens, even objective and empirical understandings, especially as they are articulated through national frames of reference. Domestic built space then is a kind of micro-version of the multi-function polis where work, pleasure, family, rest, public display and privacy intermingle. So in both this reduction and expansion in the constitution of domestic home life, one that increasingly represents the location of the production of knowledge, built place represents a concentration of energy that forces us to re-imagine border-making, order, and the dynamic interplay of nomadic movement and sedentary return, a point that echoes Nicolas Rothwell’s comment that “every exile has in it a homecoming” (80). Albeit, this is a knowledge-making milieu with an expanded range of modalities incorporated and expressed through a wide range of bodily intensities not simply cognitive ones. Much of the ambiguous discontent manifested in McMansion style domiciles across many Western countries might be traced to the fact that their occupants have had little or no say in the way those domiciles have been designed and/or constructed. In Heidegger’s terms, they have not thought deeply enough about “dwelling” in that building, although with the advent of the media room the question of whether a “building” securely borders both “dwelling” and “thinking” is now open to question. As anxieties over border-making at all scales intensifies, the complexities and un/sureties of natural and built space take ever greater hold of the psyche, sometimes through the advance of a “high level of critical self-consciousness”, a process Frampton describes as a “double mediation” of world culture and local conditions (21). Nearly all commentators warn of a nostalgic, romantic or a sentimental regionalism, the sum total of which is aimed at privileging the local/regional and is sometimes utilised as a means of excluding the global or universal, sometimes even the national (Berry 67). Critical regionalism is itself a mediating factor between these dispositions, working its methods and practices through my own psyche into the local, the regional, the national and the global, rejecting and/or accepting elements of these domains, as my own specific context, in its multiplicity, demands it. If the politico-economic and cultural dimensions of this global/regional world have tended to undermine the process of border-making across a range of scales, we can see in domestic forms of built place the intense residue of both their continuing importance and an increased dependency on this electro-mediated world. This is especially apparent in those domiciles whose media rooms (with their satellite dishes, telephone lines, computers, television sets, games consuls, and music stereos) are connecting them to it in virtuality if not in reality. Indeed, the thought emerges (once again keeping in mind Eric Leed’s remark on the literate-configured sense of autonomy that is further enhanced by a separate physical address and residence) that the intense importance attached to domestically orientated built place by globally/regionally orientated peoples will figure as possibly the most viable means via which this sense of autonomy will transfer to electronic forms of knowledge. If, however, this here domestic habitué turns his gaze away from the screen that transports me into this global/regional milieu and I focus my attention on the physicality of the building in which I dwell, I once again stand in the presence of another beginning. This other beginning is framed diagrammatologically by the building’s architectural plans (usually conceived in either an in-situ, autochthonous, or a universal manner), and is a graphical conception that anchors my body in country long after the architects and builders have packed up their tools and left. This is so regardless of whether a home is built, bought, rented or squatted in. Ihab Hassan writes that, “Home is not where one is pushed into the light, but where one gathers it into oneself to become light” (417), an aphorism that might be rephrased as follows: “Home is not where one is pushed into the country, but where one gathers it into oneself to become country.” For the in-and-out-and-around-and-about domestic dweller of the twenty-first century, then, home is where both regional and global forms of country decisively enter the soul via the conduits of the virtuality of digital flows and the reality of architectural footings. Acknowledgements I’m indebted to both David Fosdick and Phil Roe for alerting me to the importance to the Fremantle Dockers Football Club. The research and an original draft of this essay were carried out under the auspices of a PhD scholarship from Central Queensland University, and from whom I would also like to thank Denis Cryle and Geoff Danaher for their advice. References Benjamin, Walter. “Paris — the Capital of the Nineteenth Century.” Charles Baudelaire: A Lyric Poet in the Era of High Capitalism. Trans. Quintin Hoare. London: New Left Books, 1973. 155–176. Bennett, Tony, Michael Emmison and John Frow. Accounting for Tastes: Australian Everyday Cultures. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1999. Berry, Wendell. “The Regional Motive.” A Continuous Harmony: Essays Cultural and Agricultural. San Diego: Harcourt Brace. 63–70. Casey, Edward S. The Fate of Place: A Philosophical History. Berkeley: U of California P, 1997. Deleuze, Gilles and Félix Guattari. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Trans. Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: U of Minneapolis P, 1987. Deleuze, Gilles. “The Diagram.” The Deleuze Reader. Ed. Constantin Boundas. Trans. Constantin Boundas and Jacqueline Code. New York: Columbia UP, 1993. 193–200. Frampton, Kenneth. “Towards a Critical Regionalism: Six Points for an Architecture of Resistance.” The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Post-Modern Culture. Ed. Hal Foster. Port Townsend: Bay Press, 1983. 16–30. Gadamer, Hans-Georg. “Idea and Reality in Plato’s Timaeus.” Dialogue and Dialectic: Eight Hermeneutical Studies on Plato. Trans. P. Christopher Smith. New Haven: Yale UP, 1980. 156–193. Hassan, Ihab. “How Australian Is It?” The Best Australian Essays. Ed. Peter Craven. Melbourne: Black Inc., 2000. 405–417. Heidegger, Martin. “Building Dwelling Thinking.” Poetry, Language, Thought. Trans. Albert Hofstadter. New York: Harper and Row, 1971. 145–161. Hughes, John. The Idea of Home: Autobiographical Essays. Sydney: Giramondo, 2004. Iyer, Pico. “Australia 1988: Five Thousand Miles from Anywhere.” Falling Off the Map: Some Lonely Places of the World. London: Jonathon Cape, 1993. 173–190. “Keeping Track.” Docker, Official Magazine of the Fremantle Football Club. Edition 3, September (2005): 21. Leed, Eric. “‘Voice’ and ‘Print’: Master Symbols in the History of Communication.” The Myths of Information: Technology and Postindustrial Culture. Ed. Kathleen Woodward. Madison, Wisconsin: Coda Press, 1980. 41–61. Lefaivre, Liane and Alexander Tzonis. “The Suppression and Rethinking of Regionalism and Tropicalism After 1945.” Tropical Architecture: Critical Regionalism in the Age of Globalization. Eds. Alexander Tzonis, Liane Lefaivre and Bruno Stagno. Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley-Academy, 2001. 14–58. Lefaivre, Liane and Alexander Tzonis. Critical Regionalism: Architecture and Identity in a Globalized World. New York: Prestel, 2003. Lynch, Kevin. Managing the Sense of a Region. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT P, 1976. Mitchell, W. J. T. “Diagrammatology.” Critical Inquiry 7.3 (1981): 622–633. Morse, Margaret. “Home: Smell, Taste, Posture, Gleam.” Home, Exile, Homeland: Film, Media, and the Politics of Place. Ed. Hamid Naficy. New York and London: Routledge, 1999. 63–74. Plato. Timaeus and Critias. Trans. Desmond Lee. Harmondsworth: Penguin Classics, 1973. Porteous, J. Douglas. “Home: The Territorial Core.” Geographical Review LXVI (1976): 383-390. Rothwell, Nicolas. Wings of the Kite-Hawk: A Journey into the Heart of Australia. Sydney: Pidador, 2003. Sallis, John. Chorology: On Beginning in Plato’s Timaeus. Bloomington: Indianapolis UP, 1999. Scott, Allen J. Regions and the World Economy: The Coming Shape of Global Production, Competition, and Political Order. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998. Storper, Michael. The Regional World: Territorial Development in a Global Economy. New York: The Guildford Press, 1997. Ulmer, Gregory L. Heuretics: The Logic of Invention. New York: John Hopkins UP, 1994. Ulmer, Gregory. Internet Invention: Literacy into Electracy. Longman: Boston, 2003. Wilken, Rowan. “Diagrammatology.” Illogic of Sense: The Gregory Ulmer Remix. Eds. Darren Tofts and Lisa Gye. Alt-X Press, 2007. 48–60. Available at http://www.altx.com/ebooks/ulmer.html. (Retrieved 12 June 2007)

Background “The sense of taste,” write Nelson and colleagues in a 2002 issue of Nature, “provides animals with valuable information about the nature and quality of food. Mammals can recognize and respond to a diverse repertoire of chemical entities, including sugars, salts, acids and a wide range of toxic substances” (199). The authors go on to argue that several amino acids—the building blocks of proteins—taste delicious to humans and that “having a taste pathway dedicated to their detection probably had significant evolutionary implications”. They imply, but do not specify, that the evolutionary implications are positive. This may be the case with some amino acids, but contemporary tastes, and changes in them, are far from universally beneficial. Indeed, this article argues that modern food production shapes and distorts human taste with significant implications for health and wellbeing. Take the western taste for fried chipped potatoes, for example. According to Schlosser in Fast Food Nation, “In 1960, the typical American ate eighty-one pounds of fresh potatoes and about four pounds of frozen french fries. Today [2002] the typical American eats about forty-nine pounds of fresh potatoes every year—and more than thirty pounds of frozen french fries” (115). Nine-tenths of these chips are consumed in fast food restaurants which use mass-manufactured potato-based frozen products to provide this major “foodservice item” more quickly and cheaply than the equivalent dish prepared from raw ingredients. These choices, informed by human taste buds, have negative evolutionary implications, as does the apparently long-lasting consumer preference for fried goods cooked in trans-fats. “Numerous foods acquire their elastic properties (i.e., snap, mouth-feel, and hardness) from the colloidal fat crystal network comprised primarily of trans- and saturated fats. These hardstock fats contribute, along with numerous other factors, to the global epidemics related to metabolic syndrome and cardiovascular disease,” argues Michael A. Rogers (747). Policy makers and public health organisations continue to compare notes internationally about the best ways in which to persuade manufacturers and fast food purveyors to reduce the use of these trans-fats in their products (L’Abbé et al.), however, most manufacturers resist. Hank Cardello, a former fast food executive, argues that “many products are designed for ‘high hedonic value’, with carefully balanced combinations of salt, sugar and fat that, experience has shown, induce people to eat more” (quoted, Trivedi 41). Fortunately for the manufactured food industry, salt and sugar also help to preserve food, effectively prolonging the shelf life of pre-prepared and packaged goods. Physiological Factors As Glanz et al. discovered when surveying 2,967 adult Americans, “taste is the most important influence on their food choices, followed by cost” (1118). A person’s taste is to some extent an individual response to food stimuli, but the tongue’s taste buds respond to five basic categories of food: salty, sweet, sour, bitter, and umami. ‘Umami’ is a Japanese word indicating “delicious savoury taste” (Coughlan 11) and it is triggered by the amino acid glutamate. Japanese professor Kikunae Ikeda identified glutamate while investigating the taste of a particular seaweed which he believed was neither sweet, sour, bitter, or salty. When Ikeda combined the glutamate taste essence with sodium he formed the food additive sodium glutamate, which was patented in 1908 and subsequently went into commercial production (Japan Patent Office). Although individual, a person’s taste preferences are by no means fixed. There is ample evidence that people’s tastes are being distorted by modern food marketing practices that process foods to make them increasingly appealing to the average palate. In particular, this industrialisation of food promotes the growth of a snack market driven by salty and sugary foods, popularly constructed as posing a threat to health and wellbeing. “[E]xpanding waistlines [are] fuelled by a boom in fast food and a decline in physical activity” writes Stark, who reports upon the 2008 launch of a study into Australia’s future ‘fat bomb’. As Deborah Lupton notes, such reports were a particular feature of the mid 2000s when: intense concern about the ‘obesity epidemic’ intensified and peaked. Time magazine named 2004 ‘The Year of Obesity’. That year the World Health Organization’s Global Strategy on Diet, Physical Activity and Health was released and the [US] Centers for Disease Control predicted that a poor diet and lack of exercise would soon claim more lives than tobacco-related disease in the United States. (4) The American Heart Association recommends eating no more than 1500mg of salt per day (Hamzelou 11) but salt consumption in the USA averages more than twice this quantity, at 3500mg per day (Bernstein and Willett 1178). In the UK, a sustained campaign and public health-driven engagement with food manufacturers by CASH—Consensus Action on Salt and Health—resulted in a reduction of between 30 and 40 percent of added salt in processed foods between 2001 and 2011, with a knock-on 15 percent decline in the UK population’s salt intake overall. This is the largest reduction achieved by any developed nation (Brinsden et al.). “According to the [UK’s] National Institute for Health and Care Excellence (NICE), this will have reduced [UK] stroke and heart attack deaths by a minimum of 9,000 per year, with a saving in health care costs of at least £1.5bn a year” (MacGregor and Pombo). Whereas there has been some success over the past decade in reducing the amount of salt consumed, in the Western world the consumption of sugar continues to rise, as a graph cited in the New Scientist indicates (O’Callaghan). Regular warnings that sugar is associated with a range of health threats and delivers empty calories devoid of nutrition have failed to halt the increase in sugar consumption. Further, although some sugar is a natural product, processed foods tend to use a form invented in 1957: high-fructose corn syrup (HFCS). “HFCS is a gloopy solution of glucose and fructose” writes O’Callaghan, adding that it is “as sweet as table sugar but has typically been about 30% cheaper”. She cites Serge Ahmed, a French neuroscientist, as arguing that in a world of food sufficiency people do not need to consume more, so they need to be enticed to overeat by making food more pleasurable. Ahmed was part of a team that ran an experiment with cocaine-addicted rats, offering them a mutually exclusive choice between highly-sweetened water and cocaine: Our findings clearly indicate that intense sweetness can surpass cocaine reward, even in drug-sensitized and -addicted individuals. We speculate that the addictive potential of intense sweetness results from an inborn hypersensitivity to sweet tastants. In most mammals, including rats and humans, sweet receptors evolved in ancestral environments poor in sugars and are thus not adapted to high concentrations of sweet tastants. The supranormal stimulation of these receptors by sugar-rich diets, such as those now widely available in modern societies, would generate a supranormal reward signal in the brain, with the potential to override self-control mechanisms and thus lead to addiction. (Lenoir et al.) The Tongue and the Brain One of the implications of this research about the mammalian desire for sugar is that our taste for food is about more than how these foods actually taste in the mouth on our tongues. It is also about the neural response to the food we eat. The taste of French fries thus also includes that “snap, mouth-feel, and hardness” and the “colloidal fat crystal network” (Rogers, “Novel Structuring” 747). While there is no taste receptor for fats, these nutrients have important effects upon the brain. Wang et al. offered rats a highly fatty, but palatable, diet and allowed them to eat freely. 33 percent of the calories in the food were delivered via fat, compared with 21 percent in a normal diet. The animals almost doubled their usual calorific intake, both because the food had a 37 percent increased calorific content and also because the rats ate 47 percent more than was standard (2786). The research team discovered that in as little as three days the rats “had already lost almost all of their ability to respond to leptin” (Martindale 27). Leptin is a hormone that acts on the brain to communicate feelings of fullness, and is thus important in assisting animals to maintain a healthy body weight. The rats had also become insulin resistant. “Severe resistance to the metabolic effects of both leptin and insulin ensued after just 3 days of overfeeding” (Wang et al. 2786). Fast food restaurants typically offer highly palatable, high fat, high sugar, high salt, calorific foods which can deliver 130 percent of a day’s recommended fat intake, and almost a day’s worth of an adult man’s calories, in one meal. The impacts of maintaining such a diet over a comparatively short time-frame have been recorded in documentaries such as Super Size Me (Spurlock). The after effects of what we widely call “junk food” are also evident in rat studies. Neuroscientist Paul Kenny, who like Ahmed was investigating possible similarities between food- and cocaine-addicted rats, allowed his animals unlimited access to both rat ‘junk food’ and healthy food for rats. He then changed their diets. “The rats with unlimited access to junk food essentially went on a hunger strike. ‘It was as if they had become averse to healthy food’, says Kenny. It took two weeks before the animals began eating as much [healthy food] as those in the control group” (quoted, Trivedi 40). Developing a taste for certain food is consequently about much more than how they taste in the mouth; it constitutes an individual’s response to a mixture of taste, hormonal reactions and physiological changes. Choosing Health Glanz et al. conclude their study by commenting that “campaigns attempting to change people’s perception of the importance of nutrition will be interpreted in terms of existing values and beliefs. A more promising strategy might be to stress the good taste of healthful foods” (1126). Interestingly, this is the strategy already adopted by some health-focused cookbooks. I have 66 cookery books in my kitchen. None of ten books sampled from the five spaces in which these books are kept had ‘taste’ as an index entry, but three books had ‘taste’ in their titles: The Higher Taste, Taste of Life, and The Taste of Health. All three books seek to promote healthy eating, and they all date from the mid-1980s. It might be that taste is not mentioned in cookbook indexes because it is a sine qua non: a focus upon taste is so necessary and fundamental to a cookbook that it goes without saying. Yet, as the physiological evidence makes clear, what we find palatable is highly mutable, varying between people, and capable of changing significantly in comparatively short periods of time. The good news from the research studies is that the changes wrought by high salt, high sugar, high fat diets need not be permanent. Luciano Rossetti, one of the authors on Wang et al’s paper, told Martindale that the physiological changes are reversible, but added a note of caution: “the fatter a person becomes the more resistant they will be to the effects of leptin and the harder it is to reverse those effects” (27). Morgan Spurlock’s experience also indicates this. In his case it took the actor/director 14 months to lose the 11.1 kg (13 percent of his body mass) that he gained in the 30 days of his fast-food-only experiment. Trivedi was more fortunate, stating that, “After two weeks of going cold turkey, I can report I have successfully kicked my ice cream habit” (41). A reader’s letter in response to Trivedi’s article echoes this observation. She writes that “the best way to stop the craving was to switch to a diet of vegetables, seeds, nuts and fruits with a small amount of fish”, adding that “cravings stopped in just a week or two, and the diet was so effective that I no longer crave junk food even when it is in front of me” (Mackeown). Popular culture indicates a range of alternative ways to resist food manufacturers. In the West, there is a growing emphasis on organic farming methods and produce (Guthman), on sl called Urban Agriculture in the inner cities (Mason and Knowd), on farmers’ markets, where consumers can meet the producers of the food they eat (Guthrie et al.), and on the work of advocates of ‘real’ food, such as Jamie Oliver (Warrin). Food and wine festivals promote gourmet tourism along with an emphasis upon the quality of the food consumed, and consumption as a peak experience (Hall and Sharples), while environmental perspectives prompt awareness of ‘food miles’ (Weber and Matthews), fair trade (Getz and Shreck) and of land degradation, animal suffering, and the inequitable use of resources in the creation of the everyday Western diet (Dare, Costello and Green). The burgeoning of these different approaches has helped to stimulate a commensurate growth in relevant disciplinary fields such as Food Studies (Wessell and Brien). One thing that all these new ways of looking at food and taste have in common is that they are options for people who feel they have the right to choose what and when to eat; and to consume the tastes they prefer. This is not true of all groups of people in all countries. Hiding behind the public health campaigns that encourage people to exercise and eat fresh fruit and vegetables are the hidden “social determinants of health: The conditions in which people are born, grow, live, work and age, including the health system” (WHO 45). As the definitions explain, it is the “social determinants of health [that] are mostly responsible for health iniquities” with evidence from all countries around the world demonstrating that “in general, the lower an individual’s socioeconomic position, the worse his or her health” (WHO 45). For the comparatively disadvantaged, it may not be the taste of fast food that attracts them but the combination of price and convenience. If there is no ready access to cooking facilities, or safe food storage, or if a caregiver is simply too time-poor to plan and prepare meals for a family, junk food becomes a sensible choice and its palatability an added bonus. For those with the education, desire, and opportunity to break free of the taste for salty and sugary fats, however, there are a range of strategies to achieve this. There is a persuasive array of evidence that embracing a plant-based diet confers a multitude of health benefits for the individual, for the planet and for the animals whose lives and welfare would otherwise be sacrificed to feed us (Green, Costello and Dare). Such a choice does involve losing the taste for foods which make up the lion’s share of the Western diet, but any sense of deprivation only lasts for a short time. The fact is that our sense of taste responds to the stimuli offered. It may be that, notwithstanding the desires of Jamie Oliver and the like, a particular child never will never get to like broccoli, but it is also the case that broccoli tastes differently to me, seven years after becoming a vegan, than it ever did in the years in which I was omnivorous. When people tell me that they would love to adopt a plant-based diet but could not possibly give up cheese, it is difficult to reassure them that the pleasure they get now from that specific cocktail of salty fats will be more than compensated for by the sheer exhilaration of eating crisp, fresh fruits and vegetables in the future. Conclusion For decades, the mass market food industry has tweaked their products to make them hyper-palatable and difficult to resist. They do this through marketing experiments and consumer behaviour research, schooling taste buds and brains to anticipate and relish specific cocktails of sweet fats (cakes, biscuits, chocolate, ice cream) and salty fats (chips, hamburgers, cheese, salted nuts). They add ingredients to make these products stimulate taste buds more effectively, while also producing cheaper items with longer life on the shelves, reducing spoilage and the complexity of storage for retailers. Consumers are trained to like the tastes of these foods. Bitter, sour, and umami receptors are comparatively under-stimulated, with sweet, salty, and fat-based tastes favoured in their place. Western societies pay the price for this learned preference in high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diabetes, and obesity. Public health advocate Bruce Neal and colleagues, working to reduce added salt in processed foods, note that the food and manufacturing industries can now provide most of the calories that the world needs to survive. “The challenge now”, they argue, “is to have these same industries provide foods that support long and healthy adult lives. And in this regard there remains a very considerable way to go”. If the public were to believe that their sense of taste is mutable and has been distorted for corporate and industrial gain, and if they were to demand greater access to natural foods in their unprocessed state, then that journey towards a healthier future might be far less protracted than these and many other researchers seem to believe. References Bernstein, Adam, and Walter Willett. “Trends in 24-Hr Sodium Excretion in the United States, 1957–2003: A Systematic Review.” American Journal of Clinical Nutrition 92 (2010): 1172–1180. Bhaktivedanta Book Trust. 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Introduction Many destinations promote culinary encounters. Foods and beverages, and especially how these will taste in situ, are being marketed as niche travel motivators and used in destination brand building across the globe. While initial usage of the term culinary tourism focused on experiencing exotic cultures of foreign destinations by sampling unfamiliar food and drinks, the term has expanded to embrace a range of leisure travel experiences where the aim is to locate and taste local specialities as part of a pleasurable, and hopefully notable, culinary encounter (Wolf). Long’s foundational work was central in developing the idea of culinary tourism as an active endeavor, suggesting that via consumption, individuals construct unique experiences. Ignatov and Smith’s literature review-inspired definition confirms the nature of activity as participatory, and adds consuming food production skills—from observing agriculture and local processors to visiting food markets and attending cooking schools—to culinary purchases. Despite importing almost all of its foodstuffs and beverages, including some of its water, Singapore is an acknowledged global leader in culinary tourism. Horng and Tsai note that culinary tourism conceptually implies that a transferal of “local or special knowledge and information that represent local culture and identities” (41) occurs via these experiences. This article adds the act of reading to these participatory activities and suggests that, because food writing forms an important component of Singapore’s suite of culinary tourism offerings, taste contributes to the cultural experience offered to both visitors and locals. While Singapore foodways have attracted significant scholarship (see, for instance, work by Bishop; Duruz; Huat & Rajah; Tarulevicz, Eating), Singapore food writing, like many artefacts of popular culture, has attracted less notice. Yet, this writing is an increasingly visible component of cultural production of, and about, Singapore, and performs a range of functions for locals, tourists and visitors before they arrive. Although many languages are spoken in Singapore, English is the national language (Alsagoff) and this study focuses on food writing in English. Background Tourism comprises a major part of Singapore’s economy, with recent figures detailing that food and beverage sales contribute over 10 per cent of this revenue, with spend on culinary tours and cookery classes, home wares such as tea-sets and cookbooks, food magazines and food memoirs additional to this (Singapore Government). This may be related to the fact that Singapore not only promotes food as a tourist attraction, but also actively promotes itself as an exceptional culinary destination. The Singapore Tourism Board (STB) includes food in its general information brochures and websites, and its print, television and cinema commercials (Huat and Rajah). It also mounts information-rich campaigns both abroad and inside Singapore. The 2007 ‘Singapore Seasons’ campaign, for instance, promoted Singaporean cuisine alongside films, design, books and other cultural products in London, New York and Beijing. Touring cities identified as key tourist markets in 2011, the ‘Singapore Takeout’ pop-up restaurant brought the taste of Singaporean foods into closer focus. Singaporean chefs worked with high profile locals in its kitchen in a custom-fabricated shipping container to create and demonstrate Singaporean dishes, attracting public and media interest. In country, the STB similarly actively promotes the tastes of Singaporean foods, hosting the annual World Gourmet Summit (Chaney and Ryan) and Pacific Food Expo, both attracting international culinary professionals to work alongside local leaders. The Singapore Food Festival each July is marketed to both locals and visitors. In these ways, the STB, as well as providing events for visitors, is actively urging Singaporeans to proud of their food culture and heritage, so that each Singaporean becomes a proactive ambassador of their cuisine. Singapore Food Writing Popular print guidebooks and online guides to Singapore pay significantly more attention to Singaporean food than they do for many other destinations. Sections on food in such publications discuss at relative length the taste of Singaporean food (always delicious) as well as how varied, authentic, hygienic and suited-to-all-budgets it is. These texts also recommend hawker stalls and food courts alongside cafés and restaurants (Henderson et al.), and a range of other culinary experiences such as city and farm food tours and cookery classes. This writing describes not only what can be seen or learned during these experiences, but also what foods can be sampled, and how these might taste. This focus on taste is reflected in the printed materials that greet the in-bound tourist at the airport. On a visit in October 2013, arrival banners featuring mouth-watering images of local specialities such as chicken rice and chilli crab marked the route from arrival to immigration and baggage collection. Even advertising for a bank was illustrated with photographs of luscious-looking fruits. The free maps and guidebooks available featured food-focused tours and restaurant locations, and there were also substantial free booklets dedicated solely to discussing local delicacies and their flavours, plus recommended locations to sample them. A website and free mobile app were available that contain practical information about dishes, ingredients, cookery methods, and places to eat, as well as historical and cultural information. These resources are also freely distributed to many hotels and popular tourist destinations. Alongside organising food walks, bus tours and cookery classes, the STB also recommends the work of a number of Singaporean food writers—principally prominent Singapore food bloggers, reviewers and a number of memoirists—as authentic guides to what are described as unique Singaporean flavours. The strategies at the heart of this promotion are linking advertising to useful information. At a number of food centres, for instance, STB information panels provide details about both specific dishes and Singapore’s food culture more generally (Henderson et al.). This focus is apparent at many tourist destinations, many of which are also popular local attractions. In historic Fort Canning Park, for instance, there is a recreation of Raffles’ experimental garden, established in 1822, where he grew the nutmeg, clove and other plants that were intended to form the foundation for spice plantations but were largely unsuccessful (Reisz). Today, information panels not only indicate the food plants’ names and how to grow them, but also their culinary and medicinal uses, recipes featuring them and the related food memories of famous Singaporeans. The Singapore Botanic Gardens similarly houses the Ginger Garden displaying several hundred species of ginger and information, and an Eco(-nomic/logical) Garden featuring many food plants and their stories. In Chinatown, panels mounted outside prominent heritage brands (often still quite small shops) add content to the shopping experience. A number of museums profile Singapore’s food culture in more depth. The National Museum of Singapore has a permanent Living History gallery that focuses on Singapore’s street food from the 1950s to 1970s. This display includes food-related artefacts, interactive aromatic displays of spices, films of dishes being made and eaten, and oral histories about food vendors, all supported by text panels and booklets. Here food is used to convey messages about the value of Singapore’s ethnic diversity and cross-cultural exchanges. Versions of some of these dishes can then be sampled in the museum café (Time Out Singapore). The Peranakan Museum—which profiles the unique hybrid culture of the descendants of the Chinese and South Indian traders who married local Malay women—shares this focus, with reconstructed kitchens and dining rooms, exhibits of cooking and eating utensils and displays on food’s ceremonial role in weddings and funerals all supported with significant textual information. The Chinatown Heritage Centre not only recreates food preparation areas as a vivid indicator of poor Chinese immigrants’ living conditions, but also houses The National Restaurant of Singapore, which translates this research directly into meals that recreate the heritage kopi tiam (traditional coffee shop) cuisine of Singapore in the 1930s, purposefully bringing taste into the service of education, as its descriptive menu states, “educationally delighting the palate” (Chinatown Heritage Centre). These museums recognise that shopping is a core tourist activity in Singapore (Chang; Yeung et al.). Their gift- and bookshops cater to the culinary tourist by featuring quality culinary products for sale (including, for instance, teapots and cups, teas, spices and traditional sweets, and other foods) many of which are accompanied by informative tags or brochures. At the centre of these curated, purchasable collections are a range written materials: culinary magazines, cookbooks, food histories and memoirs, as well as postcards and stationery printed with recipes. Food Magazines Locally produced food magazines cater to a range of readerships and serve to extend the culinary experience both in, and outside, Singapore. These include high-end gourmet, luxury lifestyle publications like venerable monthly Wine & Dine: The Art of Good Living, which, in in print for almost thirty years, targets an affluent readership (Wine & Dine). The magazine runs features on local dining, gourmet products and trends, as well as international epicurean locations and products. Beautifully illustrated recipes also feature, as the magazine declares, “we’ve recognised that sharing more recipes should be in the DNA of Wine & Dine’s editorial” (Wine & Dine). Appetite magazine, launched in 2006, targets the “new and emerging generation of gourmets—foodies with a discerning and cosmopolitan outlook, broad horizons and a insatiable appetite” (Edipresse Asia) and is reminiscent in much of its styling of New Zealand’s award-winning Cuisine magazine. Its focus is to present a fresh approach to both cooking at home and dining out, as readers are invited to “Whip up the perfect soufflé or feast with us at the finest restaurants in Singapore and around the region” (Edipresse Asia). Chefs from leading local restaurants are interviewed, and the voices of “fellow foodies and industry watchers” offer an “insider track” on food-related news: “what’s good and what’s new” (Edipresse Asia). In between these publications sits Epicure: Life’s Refinements, which features local dishes, chefs, and restaurants as well as an overseas travel section and a food memories column by a featured author. Locally available ingredients are also highlighted, such as abalone (Cheng) and an interesting range of mushrooms (Epicure). While there is a focus on an epicurean experience, this is presented slightly more casually than in Wine & Dine. Food & Travel focuses more on home cookery, but each issue also includes reviews of Singapore restaurants. The bimonthly bilingual (Chinese and English) Gourmet Living features recipes alongside a notable focus on food culture—with food history columns, restaurant reviews and profiles of celebrated chefs. An extensive range of imported international food magazines are also available, with those from nearby Malaysia and Indonesia regularly including articles on Singapore. Cookbooks These magazines all include reviews of cookery books including Singaporean examples – and some feature other food writing such as food histories, memoirs and blogs. These reviews draw attention to how many Singaporean cookbooks include a focus on food history alongside recipes. Cookery teacher Yee Soo Leong’s 1976 Singaporean Cooking was an early example of cookbook as heritage preservation. This 1976 book takes an unusual view of ‘Singaporean’ flavours. Beginning with sweet foods—Nonya/Singaporean and western cakes, biscuits, pies, pastries, bread, desserts and icings—it also focuses on both Singaporean and Western dishes. This text is also unusual as there are only 6 lines of direct authorial address in the author’s acknowledgements section. Expatriate food writer Wendy Hutton’s Singapore Food, first published in 1979, reprinted many times after and revised in 2007, has long been recognised as one of the most authoritative titles on Singapore’s food heritage. Providing an socio-historical map of Singapore’s culinary traditions, some one third of the first edition was devoted to information about Singaporean multi-cultural food history, including detailed profiles of a number of home cooks alongside its recipes. Published in 1980, Kenneth Mitchell’s A Taste of Singapore is clearly aimed at a foreign readership, noting the variety of foods available due to the racial origins of its inhabitants. The more modest, but equally educational in intent, Hawkers Flavour: A Guide to Hawkers Gourmet in Malaysia and Singapore (in its fourth printing in 1998) contains a detailed introductory essay outlining local food culture, favourite foods and drinks and times these might be served, festivals and festive foods, Indian, Indian Muslim, Chinese, Nyonya (Chinese-Malay), Malay and Halal foods and customs, followed with a selection of recipes from each. More contemporary examples of such information-rich cookbooks, such as those published in the frequently reprinted Periplus Mini Cookbook series, are sold at tourist attractions. Each of these modestly priced, 64-page, mouthwateringly illustrated booklets offer framing information, such as about a specific food culture as in the Nonya kitchen in Nonya Favourites (Boi), and explanatory glossaries of ingredients, as in Homestyle Malay Cooking (Jelani). Most recipes include a boxed paragraph detailing cookery or ingredient information that adds cultural nuance, as well as trying to describe tastes that the (obviously foreign) intended reader may not have encountered. Malaysian-born Violet Oon, who has been called the Julia Child of Singapore (Bergman), writes for both local and visiting readers. The FOOD Paper, published monthly for a decade from January 1987 was, she has stated, then “Singapore’s only monthly publication dedicated to the CSF—Certified Singapore Foodie” (Oon, Violet Oon Cooks 7). Under its auspices, Oon promoted her version of Singaporean cuisine to both locals and visitors, as well as running cookery classes and culinary events, hosting her own television cooking series on the Singapore Broadcasting Corporation, and touring internationally for the STB as a ‘Singapore Food Ambassador’ (Ahmad; Kraal). Taking this representation of flavor further, Oon has also produced a branded range of curry powders, spices, and biscuits, and set up a number of food outlets. Her first cookbook, World Peranakan Cookbook, was published in 1978. Her Singapore: 101 Meals of 1986 was commissioned by the STB, then known as the Singapore Tourist Promotion Board. Violet Oon Cooks, a compilation of recipes from The FOOD Paper, published in 1992, attracted a range of major international as well as Singaporean food sponsors, and her Timeless Recipes, published in 1997, similarly aimed to show how manufactured products could be incorporated into classic Singaporean dishes cooked at home. In 1998, Oon produced A Singapore Family Cookbook featuring 100 dishes. Many were from Nonya cuisine and her following books continued to focus on preserving heritage Singaporean recipes, as do a number of other nationally-cuisine focused collections such as Joyceline Tully and Christopher Tan’s Heritage Feasts: A Collection of Singapore Family Recipes. Sylvia Tan’s Singapore Heritage Food: Yesterday’s Recipes for Today’s Cooks, published in 2004, provides “a tentative account of Singapore’s food history” (5). It does this by mapping the various taste profiles of six thematically-arranged chronologically-overlapping sections, from the heritage of British colonialism, to the uptake of American and Russia foods in the Snackbar era of the 1960s and the use of convenience flavoring ingredients such as curry pastes, sauces, dried and frozen supermarket products from the 1970s. Other Volumes Other food-themed volumes focus on specific historical periods. Cecilia Leong-Salobir’s Food Culture in Colonial Asia: A Taste of Empire discusses the “unique hybrid” (1) cuisine of British expatriates in Singapore from 1858 to 1963. In 2009, the National Museum of Singapore produced the moving Wong Hong Suen’s Wartime Kitchen: Food and Eating in Singapore 1942–1950. This details the resilience and adaptability of both diners and cooks during the Japanese Occupation and in post-war Singapore, when shortages stimulated creativity. There is a centenary history of the Cold Storage company which shipped frozen foods all over south east Asia (Boon) and location-based studies such as Annette Tan’s Savour Chinatown: Stories Memories & Recipes. Tan interviewed hawkers, chefs and restaurant owners, working from this information to write both the book’s recipes and reflect on Chinatown’s culinary history. Food culture also features in (although it is not the main focus) more general book-length studies such as educational texts such as Chew Yen Fook’s The Magic of Singapore and Melanie Guile’s Culture in Singapore (2000). Works that navigate both spaces (of Singaporean culture more generally and its foodways) such Lily Kong’s Singapore Hawker Centres: People, Places, Food, provide an consistent narrative of food in Singapore, stressing its multicultural flavours that can be enjoyed from eateries ranging from hawker stalls to high-end restaurants that, interestingly, that agrees with that promulgated in the food writing discussed above. Food Memoirs and Blogs Many of these narratives include personal material, drawing on the author’s own food experiences and taste memories. This approach is fully developed in the food memoir, a growing sub-genre of Singapore food writing. While memoirs by expatriate Singaporeans such as Cheryl Lu-Lien Tan’s A Tiger in the Kitchen: A Memoir of Food and Family, produced by major publisher Hyperion in New York, has attracted considerable international attention, it presents a story of Singapore cuisine that agrees with such locally produced texts as television chef and food writer Terry Tan’s Stir-fried and Not Shaken: A Nostalgic Trip Down Singapore’s Memory Lane and the food memoir of the Singaporean chef credited with introducing fine Malay dining to Singapore, Aziza Ali’s Sambal Days, Kampong Cuisine, published in Singapore in 2013 with the support of the National Heritage Board. All these memoirs are currently available in Singapore in both bookshops and a number of museums and other attractions. While underscoring the historical and cultural value of these foods, all describe the unique flavours of Singaporean cuisine and its deliciousness. A number of prominent Singapore food bloggers are featured in general guidebooks and promoted by the STB as useful resources to dining out in Singapore. One of the most prominent of these is Leslie Tay, a medical doctor and “passionate foodie” (Knipp) whose awardwinning ieatŸishootŸipost is currently attracting some 90,000 unique visitors every month and has had over 20,000 million hits since its launch in 2006. An online diary of Tay’s visits to hundreds of Singaporean hawker stalls, it includes descriptions and photographs of meals consumed, creating accumulative oral culinary histories of these dishes and those who prepared them. These narratives have been reorganised and reshaped in Tay’s first book The End of Char Kway Teow and Other Hawker Mysteries, where each chapter tells the story of one particular dish, including recommended hawker stalls where it can be enjoyed. Ladyironchef.com is a popular food and travel site that began as a blog in 2007. An edited collection of reviews of eateries and travel information, many by the editor himself, the site features lists of, for example, the best cafes (LadyIronChef “Best Cafes”), eateries at the airport (LadyIronChef “Guide to Dining”), and hawker stalls (Lim). While attesting to the cultural value of these foods, many articles also discuss flavour, as in Lim’s musings on: ‘how good can chicken on rice taste? … The glistening grains of rice perfumed by fresh chicken stock and a whiff of ginger is so good you can even eat it on its own’. Conclusion Recent Singapore food publishing reflects this focus on taste. Tay’s publisher, Epigram, growing Singaporean food list includes the recently released Heritage Cookbooks Series. This highlights specialist Singaporean recipes and cookery techniques, with the stated aim of preserving tastes and foodways that continue to influence Singaporean food culture today. Volumes published to date on Peranakan, South Indian, Cantonese, Eurasian, and Teochew (from the Chaoshan region in the east of China’s Guangdong province) cuisines offer both cultural and practical guides to the quintessential dishes and flavours of each cuisine, featuring simple family dishes alongside more elaborate special occasion meals. In common with the food writing discussed above, the books in this series, although dealing with very different styles of cookery, contribute to an overall impression of the taste of Singapore food that is highly consistent and extremely persuasive. This food writing narrates that Singapore has a delicious as well as distinctive and interesting food culture that plays a significant role in Singaporean life both currently and historically. It also posits that this food culture is, at the same time, easily accessible and also worthy of detailed consideration and discussion. 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Acknowledgements Research to complete this article was supported by Central Queensland University, Australia, under its Outside Studies Program (OSPRO) and Learning and Teaching Education Research Centre (LTERC). An earlier version of part of this article was presented at the 2nd Australasian Regional Food Networks and Cultures Conference, in the Barossa Valley in South Australia, Australia, 11–14 November 2012. The delegates of that conference and expert reviewers of this article offered some excellent suggestions regarding strengthening this article and their advice was much appreciated. All errors are, of course, my own.