Artykuły w czasopismach na temat „Names, geographical – england – leicestershire”

A cursory glance at a map of Rutland shows a surprising lack of place-names containing Scandinavian themes. When Rutland's place-names are studied in historical detail, this dearth becomes truly startling, especially when we consider the geographical position of the county, lying as it does between the Danish boroughs of Leicester, Lincoln, Nottingham and Stamford and surrounded by heavy Norse settlement in Leicestershire and Lincolnshire and a not inconsiderable spread in Northamptonshire to its south.

Evidence is provided by place names and personal names of Nordic origin for Danish settlement in England and Scotland in the Viking period and later. The names show that Danish settlement was densest in Yorkshire, Lincolnshire and Leicestershire but can also be traced outside the Danelaw. In the North, Danish settlers or their descendants moved across the Pennines to the Carlisle Plain, and from there along the coast of Cumberland and on across the sea to the Isle of Man, and perhaps back again to southern Lancashire and Cheshire before the middle of the tenth century. There,was also a spread of Danes around south-western England in the early eleventh century, reflecting the activities of Cnut the Great and his followers. After the Norman Conquest, Nordic influence spread into Dumfriesshire and the Central Lowlands of Scotland. It was in the more isolated, northern communities that Nordic linguistic influence continued to thrive.

Words are testimonies to the kinds of historical interactions that took place between the speakers of English and many other languages spoken far beyond Britain’s continental neighbours. This article considers the process of lexical conversion from proper names (more specifically, place-names) to common names, as well as the use of descriptive adjectives or nouns denoting the geographical area from which commodities were exported present in the Durham Account Rolls (DAR). All these lexical items give important insights into the trade relations (direct or otherwise) between regions within and beyond Europe, including the Low Countries, France, the former Ottoman Empire, and the Baltic countries. The aim of this article is to offer a lexical analysis and a historical overview of the main commodities that were imported into the monastic community under the auspices of Durham Cathedral, by discussing the implications in the choice of vernacular lexical items over Medieval Latin equivalents in the multilingual environment that characterises the DAR in the broader context of late medieval England.

AbstractBobkingite, ideally is a new mineral from the New Cliffe Hill Quarry, Stantonunder-Bardon, Leicestershire, England. It occurs as very thin (⩽5 µm) transparent plates up to 0.2 mm across, perched on a compact fibrous crust of malachite and crystalline azurite attached to massive cuprite. Crystals are tabular on {001} with dominant {001} and minor {100} and {110}. Bobkingite is a soft pale blue colour with a pale-blue streak, vitreous lustre and no observable fluorescence under ultraviolet light. It has perfect {001} and fair {100} cleavages, no observable parting, conchoidal fracture, and is brittle. Its Mohs' hardness is 3 and the calculated density is 3.254 g/cm3. Bobkingite is biaxial negative with α = 1.724(2), β = 1.745(2), γ = 1.750(2), 2Vγmeas = 33(6)°, 2Vcalc = 52°, pleochroism distinct, X = very pale blue, Z = pale greenish blue, X^a = 22° (in β obtuse), Y = c, Z = b. Bobkingite is monoclinic, space group C2/m, unit-cell parameters (refined from powder data): a = 10.301(8), b = 6.758(3), c = 8.835(7)Å, β = 111.53(6)°, V = 572.1(7)Å3, Z = 2. The seven strongest lines in the X-ray powder-diffraction pattern are [d (Å), I, (hkl)]: 8.199, 100, (001); 5.502, 100, (110); 5.029, 40, (2̄01); 2.883, 80, (310); 2.693, 40, (1̄13); 2.263, 40, (113), (4̄03); 2.188, 50, (2̄23). Chemical analysis by electron microprobe and crystal-structure solution and refinement gave CuO 70.46, Cl 12.71, H2O 19.19, O≡Cl –2.87, sum 99.49 wt.%, where the amount of H2O was determined by crystal-structure analysis. The resulting empirical formula on the basis of 12 anions (including 8 (OH) and 2H2O) is Cu4.99Cl2.02O10H12. The crystal structure was solved by direct methods and refined to an R index of 2.6% for 638 observed reflections measured with X-rays on a single crystal. Three distinct (Cuϕ6) (ϕ = unspecified anion) octahedra share edges to form a framework that is related to the structures of paratacamite and the Cu2(OH)3Cl polymorphs, atacamite and clinoatacamite. The mineral is named for Robert King, formerly of the Department of Geology, Leicester University, prominent mineral collector and founding member of the Russell Society. The mineral and its name have been approved by the Commission on New Minerals and Mineral Names of the International Mineralogical Association.

SUMMARYWoodchip pads can be a sustainable alternative to the overwintering of stock on grassland or in conventional housing and can offer benefits in improved animal performance, improved health and environmentally sustainable options for the management of animal excreta (dung, urine and the resulting effluent). Novel flow measuring equipment was developed to monitor effluent drainage from two woodchip pads sited on commercial farms in the UK, one in Powys (Wales, UK) and the other in Leicestershire (England, UK). Observations were made over 8 months in 2009/10. The aim was to assess both hydrological characteristics and nutrient fluxes. Flow monitoring, based on the use of tipping bucket or the principles of an overshot water wheel, was required to be capable of diverting a sample into a storage tank for sub-sampling and subsequent analysis. Estimates of pad outputs through evaporation and sub-surface drainage accounted for 0·98–1·01 of total inputs from precipitation and animal excreta, with evaporation and pad drainage representing 0·47–0·63 and 0·34–0·51 of total inputs, respectively. The resulting scientific information is of value in the synthesis of guidelines for design, construction and management of woodchip pads. Detailed analysis of flow and precipitation data, coupled with column absorption studies to evaluate moisture retention in the woodchip matrix, were used to consider the development of modelling approaches, with the potential to predict drainage outputs across a range of geographical, weather and pad management situations.

The article describes the ethnic and individual impact factors on the formation of conceptually linguistic picture of the world which works as a connecting primary phenomenon of every separate nationality, a marker of a national language, traditions, culture and literature. The subject of the research includes English idioms with an onomastic component, which ethnic identity is genetically determined by different strands: geographic and climate environment (natural landscape, pidsonnia (climate), natural disasters, flora, fauna), historical and social factors (economic activity (farming), occupation, relationship with the neighbours, social and political forms), mentally unique features of a national character. Phraseological units have become the ground for developing a phraseological picture of the world of the English ethnicity as an owner of an original outlook. The structure and semantics of these idioms comprise both the names connected with the England lands, and those that go far beyond its boundaries; it depends on the spreading area of a separate variant of the English language and its world significance. The key phraseological units of the English language contain toponyms (place names, proper names of geographical objects), anthroponyms (proper names of people). Thus, this study presents the other idiom groups as well. Toponyms of mythological, biblical and historical origin are the most spread among them. Sometimes English phraseological units comprise ethnonyms-componets to indicate the names of the nationalities, which representatives have contancted with an English cultural community one way or another. A specific typeof idioms is presented by the phraseological units of literary origin of the works of outstanding creative individuals. Shakespearisms make the largest group. Most of the studied idioms reflect ethnic and psychological peculiarities of a community, its national and cultural specififcs, demonstrate the sample of high artistic aesthetics.

The article considers the verbal ways of realization of the concept of EUROPE in Hryhorii Skovoroda’s language model of the world. Various lexical samples of the examined concept were discovered in the works of the outstanding Ukrainian philosopher: e.g. Europe, European, European; numerous names of European countries, cities, their inhabitants; names to denote other geographical phenomena of Europe. Most of these lexical units are found in the author’s philosophical dialogues. During the discussion, their participants show the awareness of realities of Europe at that time, peculiarities of its state system, local customs; history, geography, natural sciences. These fragments of knowledge constitute Hryhorii Skovoroda’s conceptual view of the world and more broadly – educated Ukrainians of the XVIII century. Such marked words instantiate the structural components of the concept of EUROPE: its notional, imaginary, valuative, symbolic, national-cultural and ideal components. Often these lexical units form integral part of comparisons – such as the large group of nouns in the locative case: e.g. in Europe, in England, in Hungary, in Norway, in France, in Rome, in Venice, in Paris, in Florence. Using mentioned words, on the one hand, Ukrainians demonstrate their knowledge about Europe, and on the other hand, compare life “here” and “there” (the paradigm is still relevant nowadays).

This paper presents an analysis of the manuscript map ‘Novvelle France’ now located at the Ministry of Defence, Taunton, England. It is one of the few maps of New France that depicts the growth of geographical knowledge between the publication of Champlain’s last map (1632) and those of Nicolas Sanson (1650-57), and it is the earliest surviving map on which an attempt was made to give the locations of native groups. As such, the map is an important historical document that can be used to approximate the human geography of native Canada prior to the dispersal of these groups by 1650. The evidence suggests that the map was drafted late in 1641 using Champlain’s 1632 map, a ‘Huron map’ acquired or compiled by the Jesuit Father Paul Ragueneau in 1639 or 1640, and information supplied by two Frenchmen who had been in the Mohawk country from 1640 to 1641 as captives of the Iroquois. The native locations and names on the map were incorporated on Nicolas Sanson’s maps of 1656 and 1657. Although the author of the map ‘Novvelle France’ is not known, circumstantial evidence points to the surveyor Jean Bourdon who was active in New France from 1634 on.

The dried plant specimens painstakingly acquired by the London apothecary James Petiver ( ca 1663–1718) from around the world constitute a substantial, but underappreciated, component of the vast herbarium of Sir Hans Sloane, now housed at London's Natural History Museum. Petiver was an observant field biologist whose own collecting was focused in south-east England. However, he also obtained specimens from an astoundingly wide geographical area via numerous collectors, more than 160 of whose names are known. While many were wild-collected, gardens in Great Britain and abroad also played a role in facilitating the study of the many new and strange exotics that were arriving in Europe. A new estimate of the number of specimens present in Petiver's herbarium suggests a figure of ca 21 000 gatherings. In this article, the appearance of the bound volumes, and the arrangement of the specimens within them, is assessed and contrasted with those volumes assembled by Leonard Plukenet and Hans Sloane. Petiver's published species descriptions and illustrations are shown to be frequently associated with extant specimens, letters and other manuscripts, making the whole a rich archive for the study of early modern collecting of natural curiosities at a time of increasing ‘scientific’ purpose.

Purpose – Sale-and-leaseback has become an increasingly common approach during the last two decades in the investment of high street banks (banking-halls) in the UK. One measure commonly used in making property investment decisions is the all risks yield (ARY) which is associated with the level of rental income. Investors and their advisors need to know which factors are likely to result in the highest ARY when assembling investment portfolios of such properties. The purpose of this paper is to identify those yield influences. Design/methodology/approach – A qualitative multiple-case study was adopted. A literature review generated a hypothesis which was tested by a qualitative study, based upon semi-structured interviews and a questionnaire, to establish the influencing factors. Expert interviews were held with the heads of those three major auction-houses dealing with auctions of all retail bank premises in the Great Britain market, whilst the questionnaire survey involved investment professionals from within the auction-houses. Findings – The study confirmed that the four factors influencing yields and investors’ decision-making when purchasing retail banking premises were tenant banking company (brand names), regional location (north and south super-regions), lot size (hammer price), and tenure (freehold or leasehold). Research limitations/implications – This investigation focuses on Great Britain’s geographical and political area which includes England, Scotland and Wales, but excludes Northern Ireland. This research focuses on banking-halls as a sub-class of retail property investment. The findings form a baseline upon which further research can be conducted on other sub-types of retail property such as high street shops and retail parks. The results will also underpin the development of a quantitative yield predictive model based on regression analysis. Practical implications – To maximize the returns on property investments, investors and their professional advisors can use those factors having the greatest influence on yields to make informed investment decisions for the building of property portfolios. Originality/value – As a sub-sector, bank premises do not necessarily correlate to the generic retail sector. This research consolidates the broad systematic drivers of retail yields into specific factors influencing the ARY of banking-halls. The findings provide better understanding of an active but sparsely analysed sub-market of banking hall investments, and by so-doing help investors to maximize their investment returns.

This paper gives the results of a successful search to uncover new biographical details about Margaret Bryan, the English author of several textbooks intended to educate young women: A compendious system of astronomy (editions in 1797, 1799 and 1805), Lectures on natural philosophy (1806) and Astronomical and geographical class book for schools (1815). Among the hitherto unknown information collected from contemporary wills, parish records, civil records and newspapers in England are the names of her parents and other family members, the year and place of her baptism, the year and place of her marriage, the names of her husband and two daughters and a possible year and place of her death.

AbstractEmpirical analysis of social mobility is typically framed by outcomes recorded for only a single, recent generation, ignoring intergenerational preconditions and historical conferment of opportunity. We use the detailed geography of relative deprivation (hardship) to demonstrate that different family groups today experience different intergenerational outcomes and that there is a distinct Great Britain-wide geography to these inequalities. We trace the evolution of these inequalities back in time by coupling family group level data for the entire Victorian population with a present day population-wide consumer register. Further geographical linkage to neighbourhood deprivation data allows us to chart the different social mobility outcomes experienced by every one of the 13,378 long-established family groups. We identify clear and enduring regional divides in England and Scotland. In substantive terms, use of family names and new historical digital census resources are central to recognising that geography is pivotal to understanding intergenerational inequalities.

ObjectivesThis research links, for the first time, individual level entire GB population census data for 1851-1911 to present day individual level population registers. Precise georeferencing of individual records using AddressBase Premium and further linkage to Indices of Multiple Deprivation (IMDs) enables family group analysis of inter-generational social mobility outcomes. ApproachPresent-day individual names and addresses taken from Electoral Registers and consumer data are georeferenced and linked to IMD data using AddressBase. This enables calculation of average IMD scores for every family group (surname). Individual level names and addresses from 1851-1911 censuses are assigned to harmonised historical parishes. The present day surname IMD scores are attributed to every resident in the historical censuses. Parish average ‘future IMD’ scores are calculated to show which areas have bequeathed the highest and lowest IMD scores on their residents’ descendants. This is a measure of how ‘north – south divides’ shape inter-generational social mobility. ResultsA linked data website, apps.cdrc.ac.uk/gbnames, profiles social mobility outcomes for 13,000+ family names, according to average neighbourhood quality experienced by family name bearers. There are clear and enduring regional divides in “future deprivation” inherited from ancestors by the present-day GB population. The research traces the origins of a north-south divide in England. Family roots in northern industrial cities are associated with unfavourable outcomes today. In Scotland, an east-west divide identifies eastern areas sharing similarly high levels of hardship to nineteenth-century industrial cities such as Liverpool and Manchester. Migration partially mitigates these inequalities, but most family groups remain concentrated in their ancestral heartlands, and continue to experience the long-term disadvantages bestowed by geographical location. ConclusionSurnames provide an under-exploited way of linking precisely georeferenced geographies of entire historical populations to their descendants today. Additional linkage to areal deprivation measures makes it possible to evaluate how social and spatial inequalities both endure and are promulgated through the generations. Geography is destiny for much of the population.

The keyword for this issue, "Sick," has produced a broad range of critical conceptualisations. The articles that appear in this Sick issue present a variety of different interpretations of sickness and the sick, and address a number of different "sick" elements of both past and contemporary society, of social issues in the United States, in Australia and in England, or those that cross cultural and geographical boundaries. Everyone gets sick, but for our purposes the universality of the term is less interesting than its specific expressions; the way it attaches itself to certain contexts, certain bodies, certain modes and effects of discourse. If and when we get sick (sick in body, sick in mind, sick in behaviour or speech) our own and others reaction to this is governed by powerful representations and ideas that abound in culture. To some, this is a banal point, but the idea of sickness has a particular condition of privilege in culture. What is actually constituted by the term "sick" is subject to tremendous change historically and socially, but this slippery signifier is stable in its effectivity. In this issue, we present articles that engage with and critique "sick" as it erupts into numerous biological, social, and historical discourses. The interventions range from pop culture, to medical science, to the intensely personal. Our feature article, Tara Brabazon's "Welcome to the Robbiedome," begins this intervention into a discussion of sickness by addressing the application of the term "sick", with its simultaneously positive and negative connotations, to Robbie Williams and gender performativity. Beginning with the horrified reactions of talk-show hosts to the inherent "sickness" of Williams' "Rock DJ" film-clip, Brabazon follows the singer's example, stripping back the layers of performance threading through film-clips, interviews and recorded statements in an exploration of what is meant when the term "sick" is applied in this case, and what this appellation means to both performer and viewer. In "Sick Puppies and Other Unbecoming Things," Laurie Johnson considers the complex effects generated by John Carpenter's breathtakingly gruesome remake of The Thing. Johnson traces some of the critical responses to the film, that connect its representations of bodily contagion to the then-new terror of the AIDS virus. He then develops a reading of the film as depiction of Deleuze and Guattari's notion of becoming. Several articles in this issue indicate that a literary and critical focus on sickness is not an exclusively modern interest. Ilana Simons', for example, traces Virginia Woolf's commentary on the absence of illness as a literary device in the article "The Sick and the Unexpected." Through an analysis of Woolf's essay "On Being Ill," Simons emphasises the thematic potential for illness, with its "childish outspokenness" and obsession with the immediate moment. This article not only focuses on a critical study of a text explicitly concerned with physiological illness, but also engages in a debate between physical, literary and critical manifestations of sickness. Sickness as a focus for critical thought creates a rich and often radical mix of theoretical approaches. Heath Diehl's article, "Performing (In) The Grave: Schizophrenic Subjectivities and the NAMES Project AIDS Quilt," perhaps belongs to the more creatively radical end of the spectrum. Diehl's analysis of the means by which the quilt, as a physical and cultural object, constructs those people who view it as fractured subjects, is an intriguing and original intervention into one of the more elaborate records of human illness and frailty produced in the United States. Sickness as an idea is not one that is culturally or temporally stable. Susan Mckay in "Beyond Biomedicine: Renegotiating the Sick Role for Postmodern Conditions" describes and discusses transformations in relationships between culture, individuals, and the discourses that construct and mediate their experiences of illness and sickness. She shows how the ascendancy of scientific discourses about illness has pacified the suffers of sickness, subordinating their experiences to that of the scientific, knowing physician. But this relationship is changing. New avenues of expression are opening up, allowing patients to explore their own agency. McKay sees this as a postmodernist reaction to the modernist gaze of biomedical discourse. "'There's Not Much Thrill About a Physiological Sin': Neurasthenia in Willa Cather's 'The Professor's House,'" continues the questioning of the role and presentation of sickness in literary texts which began with Ilana Simons's article. Todd Robinson assesses Cather's attempt to engage with and critique the nervous disorder neurasthenia. This paper not only concentrates on the discussion of this "lack of nerve force" in Cather's protagonist, Godfrey St Peter, but simultaneously highlights a dialogue between the presentation of illness within the text, and the language of the contemporary medical discourse. The mobile phone is one of the most contentious cultural artefacts of our times. Its capacity to cause sickness, whether physical or social, is thoroughly embedded in the cultural narratives that surround it. Judith Nicholson, in "Sick Cell: Representations of Cellular Telephone Use in North America," considers these narratives to be examples of what Haraway terms "boundary breakdowns," disruptions in the culturally-negotiated barriers between human and machine, nature and artifice. Adam Dodd, in "Paranoid Visions": Germ Theory, Ernst Haeckel, and the Biopolitics of Warfare, reveals a fascinating moment in the history of biological science, in his description of the peculiar ideas that abounded following the widespread adoption of microscopic imaging devices in the nineteenth century. In particular, he focuses on the hybridised scientific mysticism of Ernst Haeckel, whose pseudo-Darwinian claims about the status of the microbiological was one of the many threads that contributed to national socialism. The focus of Leila Green's article, "Is it sick to want to live to 100? The popular culture of health and longevity," is one of the most popular of popular obsessions, alternative health practices. Taking as her target group the now-aging baby boomers, Green considers the ways in which movements epitomised by texts such as the aptly named RealAge: Are You as Young as You Can Be? encourage a "sick" obsession with healthy, vibrant, chronologically defiant old age. Sickness is a state explicitly connected with the body of the suffering individual, with issues of invasion and intrusion, loss of privacy and loss of dignity. Janna Nadler discusses these issues in her article "Two Voices are Stronger Than One? Reconfiguring Breast Cancer Narratives as Collaborative and Communal in Sandra Butler & Barbara Rosenblum's Cancer in Two Voices." This article takes as its focus a text written by a breast cancer sufferer and her partner. From this perspective, Nadler opens up the traditionally incommunicable experience of personal illness to critical scrutiny, addressing matters from the subjective and objective status of the sick body to the broader societal reverberations caused by personal illness. The relationships between worker, business, and the state have undergone massive change throughout the last century. In "Who owns your sickness in the new corporate wellness" notions of workers' health and the structures created to maintain and contain it are interrogated by David Leith. Leith shows how transformations in public policy and workplace practice are leading to a confusion as to who exactly is responsible for personal health. Finally, the discussions of agency, of the importance of the individual voices of patients and sufferers, culminates in the poetry of Ric Masten, and its revelation of his own experience of sickness. Masten's work blends personal, chatty journal-style entries with poetic passages to create a year-long account of a struggle with prostate cancer. Ric's piece was first published on his website, at http://www.ricmasten.com/

Literary critics have mainly read Herman Melville’s short story “I and My Chimney” (1856) as allegory. This article elaborates on the tradition of interpreting Melville’s text allegorically by relating it to Fredric Jameson’s post-structural reinterpretation of allegory. In doing so, it argues that the story is not a simple example of allegory but rather an auto-reflexive engagement with allegory that reflects the cultural and historical ambivalences of the time in which Melville was writing. The suggestion is that Melville deliberately used signifiers (or the lack thereof) of directionality and place to reframe the overt context of his allegory (Civil War divisions of North and South) through teasing reference to the contemporaneous emergence of Manifest Destiny as an East-West historical spatialization. To this extent, from a literary-historical perspective, Melville’s text presents as an enquiry into the relationship between the obvious allegorical elements of a text and the literal or material elements that may either support or, as in this case, problematize traditional allegorical modes. In some ways, Melville’s story faintly anticipates Jameson’s post-structural theory of allegory as produced over a century later. “I and My Chimney” may also be linked to later texts, such as Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, which shift the directionality of American Literary History, in a definite way, from a North-South to an East-West axis. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books may also be mentioned here. While, in recent years, some literary critics have produced readings of Melville’s story that depart from the traditional emphasis on its allegorical nature, this article claims to be the first to engage with “I and My Chimney” from within an allegorical perspective also informed by post-structural thinking. To do this, it focuses on the setting or directionality of the story, and on the orientating details of the titular chimney.Written and published shortly before the outbreak of the American Civil War (1861-1865), which pitted North against South, Melville’s story is told in the first person by a narrator with overweening affection for the chimney he sees as an image of himself: “I and my chimney, two gray-headed old smokers, reside in the country. We are, I may say, old settlers here; particularly my old chimney, which settles more and more every day” (327). Within the merged identity of narrator and chimney, however, the latter takes precedence, almost completely, over the former: “though I always say, I and my chimney, as Cardinal Wolsey used to say, I and my King, yet this egotistic way of speaking, wherein I take precedence of my chimney, is hardly borne out by the facts; in everything, except the above phrase, my chimney taking precedence of me” (327). Immediately, this sentence underscores a disjunction between words (“the above phrase”) and material circumstances (“the facts”) that will become crucial in my later consideration of Melville’s story as post-structural allegory.Detailed architectural and architectonic descriptions manifesting the chimney as “the one great domineering object” of the narrator’s house characterize the opening pages of the story (328). Intermingled with these descriptions, the narrator recounts the various interpersonal and business-related stratagems he has been forced to adopt in order to protect his chimney from the “Northern influences” that would threaten it. Numbered in this company are his mortgagee, the narrator’s own wife and daughters, and Mr. Hiram Scribe—“a rough sort of architect” (341). The key subplot implicated with the narrator’s fears for his chimney concerns its provenance. The narrator’s “late kinsman, Captain Julian Dacres” built the house, along with its stupendous chimney, and upon his death a rumour developed concerning supposed “concealed treasure” in the chimney (346). Once the architect Scribe insinuates, in correspondence to the chimney’s alter ego (the narrator), “that there is architectural cause to conjecture that somewhere concealed in your chimney is a reserved space, hermetically closed, in short, a secret chamber, or rather closet” the narrator’s wife and daughter use Scribe’s suggestion of a possible connection to Dacres’s alleged hidden treasure to reiterate their calls for the chimney’s destruction (345):Although they had never before dreamed of such a revelation as Mr. Scribe’s, yet upon the first suggestion they instinctively saw the extreme likelihood of it. In corroboration, they cited first my kinsman, and second, my chimney; alleging that the profound mystery involving the former, and the equally profound masonry involving the latter, though both acknowledged facts, were alike preposterous on any other supposition than the secret closet. (347)To protect his chimney, the narrator bribes Mr. Scribe, inviting him to produce a “‘little certificate—something, say, like a steam-boat certificate, certifying that you, a competent surveyor, have surveyed my chimney, and found no reason to believe any unsoundness; in short, any—any secret closet in it’” (351). Having enticed Scribe to scribe words against himself, the narrator concludes his tale triumphantly: “I am simply standing guard over my mossy old chimney; for it is resolved between me and my chimney, that I and my chimney will never surrender” (354).Despite its inherent interest, literary critics have largely overlooked “I and My Chimney”. Katja Kanzler observes that “together with much of [Melville’s] other short fiction, and his uncollected magazine pieces in particular, it has never really come out of the shadow of the more epic texts long considered his masterpieces” (583). To the extent that critics have engaged the story, they have mainly read it as traditional allegory (Chatfield; Emery; Sealts; Sowder). Further, the allegorical trend in the reception of Melville’s text clusters within the period from the early 1940s to the early 1980s. More recently, other critics have explored new ways of reading Melville’s story, but none, to my knowledge, have re-investigated its dominant allegorical mode of reception in the light of the post-structural engagements with allegory captured succinctly in Fredric Jameson’s work (Allison; Kanzler; Wilson). This article acknowledges the perspicacity of the mid-twentieth-century tradition of the allegorical interpretation of Melville’s story, while nuancing its insights through greater attention to the spatialized materiality of the text, its “geomorphic” nature, and its broader historical contexts.E. Hale Chatfield argues that “I and My Chimney” evidences one broad allegorical polarity of “Aristocratic Tradition vs. Innovation and Destruction” (164). This umbrella category is parsed by Sealts as an individualized allegory of besieged patriarchal identity and by Sowder as a national-level allegory of anxieties linked to the antebellum North-South relationship. Chatfield’s opposition works equally well for an individual or for communities of individuals. Thus, in this view, even as it structures our reception of Melville’s story, allegory remains unproblematized in itself through its internal interlocking. In turn, “I and My Chimney” provides fertile soil for critics to harvest an allegorical crop. Its very title inveigles the reader towards an allegorical attitude: the upstanding “I” of the title is associated with the architecture of the chimney, itself also upstanding. What is of the chimney is also, allegorically, of the “I”, and the vertical chimney, like the letter “I”, argues, as it were, a north-south axis, being “swung vertical to hit the meridian moon,” as Melville writes on his story’s first page (327). The narrator, or “I”, is as north-south as is his narrated allegory.Herman Melville was a Northern resident with Southern predilections, at least to the extent that he co-opted “Southern-ness” to, in Katja Kanzler’s words, “articulate the anxiety of mid-nineteenth-century cultural elites about what they perceive as a cultural decline” (583). As Chatfield notes, the South stood for “Aristocratic Tradition”; the North, for “Innovation and Destruction” (164). Reflecting the conventional mid-twentieth-century view that “I and My Chimney” is a guileless allegory of North-South relations, William J. Sowder argues that itreveals allegorically an accurate history of Southern slavery from the latter part of the eighteenth century to the middle of the nineteenth—that critical period when the South spent most of its time and energy apologizing for the existence of slavery. It discloses the split which Northern liberals so ably effected between liberal and conservative forces in the South, and it lays bare the intransigence of the traditional South on the Negro question. Above everything, the story reveals that the South had little in common with the rest of the Union: the War between the States was inevitable. (129-30)Sowder goes into painstaking detail prosecuting his North-South allegorical reading of Melville’s text, to the extent of finding multiple correspondences between what is allegorizing and what is being allegorized within a single sentence. One example, with Sowder’s allegorical interpolations in square brackets, comes from a passage where Melville is writing about his narrator’s replaced “gable roof” (Melville 331): “‘it was replaced with a modern roof [the cotton gin], more fit for a railway woodhouse [an industrial society] than an old country gentleman’s abode’” (Sowder 137).Sowder’s argument is historically erudite, and utterly convincing overall, except in one crucial detail. That is, for a text supposedly so much about the South, and written so much from its perspective—Sowder labels the narrator a “bitter Old Southerner”—it is remarkable how the story is only very ambiguously set in the South (145). Sowder distances himself from an earlier generation of commentators who “generally assumed that the old man is Melville and that the country is the foothills of the Massachusetts Berkshires, where Melville lived from 1850 to 1863,” concluding, “in fact, I find it hard to picture the narrator as a Northerner at all: the country which he describes sounds too much like the Land of Cotton” (130).Quite obviously, the narrator of any literary text does not necessarily represent its author, and in the case of “I and My Chimney”, if the narrator is not inevitably coincident with the author, then it follows that the setting of the story is not necessarily coincident with “the foothills of the Massachusetts Berkshires.” That said, the position of critics prior to Sowder that the setting is Massachusetts, and by extension that the narrator is Melville (a Southern sympathizer displaced to the North), hints at an oversight in the traditional allegorical reading of Melville’s text—related to its spatializations—the implications of which Sowder misses.Think about it: “too much like the Land of Cotton” is an exceedingly odd phrase; “too much like” the South, but not conclusively like the South (Sowder 130)! A key characteristic of Melville’s story is the ambiguity of its setting and, by extension, of its directionality. For the text to operate (following Chatfield, Emery, Sealts and Sowder) as a straightforward allegory of the American North-South relationship, the terms “north” and “south” cannot afford to be problematized. Even so, whereas so much in the story reads as related to either the South or the North, as cultural locations, the notions of “south-ness” and “north-ness” themselves are made friable (in this article, the lower case broadly indicates the material domain, the upper case, the cultural). At its most fundamental allegorical level, the story undoes its own allegorical expressions; as I will be arguing, the materiality of its directionality deconstructs what everything else in the text strives (allegorically) to maintain.Remarkably, for a text purporting to allegorize the North as the South’s polar opposite, nowhere does the story definitively indicate where it is set. The absence of place names or other textual features which might place “I and My Chimney” in the South, is over-compensated for by an abundance of geographically distracting signifiers of “place-ness” that negatively emphasize the circumstance that the story is not set definitively where it is set suggestively. The narrator muses at one point that “in fact, I’ve often thought that the proper place for my old chimney is ivied old England” (332). Elsewhere, further destabilizing the geographical coordinates of the text, reference is made to “the garden of Versailles” (329). Again, the architect Hiram Scribe’s house is named New Petra. Rich as it is with cultural resonances, at base, Petra denominates a city in Jordan; New Petra, by contrast, is place-less.It would appear that something strange is going on with allegory in this deceptively straightforward allegory, and that this strangeness is linked to equally strange goings on with the geographical and directional relations of north and south, as sites of the historical and cultural American North and South that the story allegorizes so assiduously. As tensions between North and South would shortly lead to the Civil War, Melville writes an allegorical text clearly about these tensions, while simultaneously deconstructing the allegorical index of geographical north to cultural North and of geographical south to cultural South.Fredric Jameson’s work on allegory scaffolds the historically and materially nuanced reading I am proposing of “I and My Chimney”. Jameson writes:Our traditional conception of allegory—based, for instance, on stereotypes of Bunyan—is that of an elaborate set of figures and personifications to be read against some one-to-one table of equivalences: this is, so to speak, a one-dimensional view of this signifying process, which might only be set in motion and complexified were we willing to entertain the more alarming notion that such equivalences are themselves in constant change and transformation at each perpetual present of the text. (73)As American history undergoes transformation, Melville foreshadows Jameson’s transformation of allegory through his (Melville’s) own transformations of directionality and place. In a story about North and South, are we in the south or the north? Allegorical “equivalences are themselves in constant change and transformation at each perpetual present of the text” (Jameson 73). North-north equivalences falter; South-south equivalences falter.As noted above, the chimney of Melville’s story—“swung vertical to hit the meridian moon”—insists upon a north-south axis, much as, in an allegorical mode, the vertical “I” of the narrator structures a polarity of north and south (327). However, a closer reading shows that the chimney is no less complicit in the confusion of north and south than the environs of the house it occupies:In those houses which are strictly double houses—that is, where the hall is in the middle—the fire-places usually are on opposite sides; so that while one member of the household is warming himself at a fire built into a recess of the north wall, say another member, the former’s own brother, perhaps, may be holding his feet to the blaze before a hearth in the south wall—the two thus fairly sitting back to back. Is this well? (328)Here, Melville is directly allegorizing the “sulky” state of the American nation; the brothers are, as it were, North and South (328). However, just as the text’s signifiers of place problematize the notions of north and south (and thus the associated cultural resonances of capitalized North and South), this passage, in queering the axes of the chimneys, further upsets the primary allegory. The same chimney that structures Melville’s text along a north-south or up-down orientation, now defers to an east-west axis, for the back-to-back and (in cultural and allegorical terms) North-South brothers, sit at a 90-degree angle to their house’s chimneys, which thus logically manifest a cross-wise orientation of east-west (in cultural and allegorical terms, East-West). To this extent, there is something of an exquisite crossover and confusion of cultural North and South, as represented by the two brothers, and geographical/architectural/architectonic north and south (now vacillating between an east-west and a north-south orientation). The North-South cultural relationship of the brothers distorts the allegorical force of the narrator’s spine-like chimney (not to mention of the brother’s respective chimneys), thus enflaming Jameson’s allegorical equivalences. The promiscuous literality of the smokestack—Katja Kanzler notes the “astonishing materiality” of the chimney—subverts its main allegorical function; directionality both supports and disrupts allegory (591). Simply put, there is a disjunction between words and material circumstances; the “way of speaking… is hardly borne out by the facts” (Melville 327).The not unjustified critical focus on “I and My Chimney” as an allegory of North-South cultural (and shortly wartime) tensions, has not kept up with post-structural developments in allegorical theory as represented in Fredric Jameson’s work. In part, I suggest, this is because critics to date have missed the importance to Melville’s allegory of its extra-textual context. According to William J. Sowder, “Melville showed a lively interest in such contemporary social events as the gold rush, the French Revolution of 1848, and the activities of the English Chartists” (129). The pity is that readings of “I and My Chimney” have limited this “lively interest” to the Civil War. Melville’s attentiveness to “contemporary social events” should also encompass, I suggest, the East-West (east-west) dynamic of mid-nineteenth century American history, as much as the North-South (north-south) dynamic.The redialing of Melville’s allegory along another directional axis is thus accounted for. When “I and My Chimney” was published in 1856, there was, of course, at least one other major historical development in play besides the prospect of the Civil War, and the doctrine of Manifest Destiny ran, not to put it too finely, along an East-West (east-west) axis. Indeed, Manifest Destiny is at least as replete with a directional emphasis as the discourse of Civil War North-South opposition. As quoted in Frederick Merk’s Manifest Destiny and Mission in American History, Senator Daniel S. Dickinson states to the Senate, in 1848, “but the tide of emigration and the course of empire have since been westward” (Merk 29). Allied to this tradition, of course, is the well-known contemporaneous saying, “go West, young man, go West” (“Go West, Young Man”).To the extent that Melville’s text appears to anticipate Jameson’s post-structural theory of allegory, it may be linked, I suggest, to Melville’s sense of being at an intersection of American history. The meta-narrative of national history when “I and My Chimney” was produced had a spatial dimension to it: north-south directionality (culturally, North-South) was giving way to east-west directionality (culturally, East-West). Civil War would soon give way to Manifest Destiny; just as Melville’s texts themselves would, much later admittedly, give way to texts of Manifest Destiny in all its forms, including Jack Kerouac’s On the Road and Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series. Equivalently, as much as the narrator’s wife represents Northern “progress” she might also be taken to signify Western “ambition”.However, it is not only that “I and My Chimney” is a switching-point text of geo-history (mediating relations, most obviously, between the tendencies of Southern Exceptionalism and of Western National Ambition) but that it operates as a potentially generalizable test case of the limits of allegory by setting up an all-too-simple allegory of North-South/north-south relations which is subsequently subtly problematized along the lines of East-West/east-west directionality. As I have argued, Melville’s “experimental allegory” continually diverts words (that is, the symbols allegory relies upon) through the turbulence of material circumstances.North, or north, is simultaneously a cultural and a geographical or directional coordinate of Melville’s text, and the chimney of “I and My Chimney” is both a signifier of the difference between N/north and S/south and also a portal to a 360-degrees all-encompassing engagement of (allegorical) writing with history in all its (spatialized) manifestations.ReferencesAllison, J. “Conservative Architecture: Hawthorne in Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” South Central Review 13.1 (1996): 17-25.Chatfield, E.H. “Levels of Meaning in Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” American Imago 19.2 (1962): 163-69.Emery, A.M. “The Political Significance of Melville’s Chimney.” The New England Quarterly 55.2 (1982): 201-28.“Go West, Young Man.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia 29 Sep. 2017. <https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Go_West,_young_man>.Jameson, F. “Third-World Literature in the Era of Multinational Capitalism.” Social Text 15 (1986): 65-88.Kanzler, K. “Architecture, Writing, and Vulnerable Signification in Herman Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” American Studies 54.4 (2009): 583-601.Kerouac, J. On the Road. London: Penguin Books, 1972.Melville, H. “I and My Chimney.” Great Short Works of Herman Melville. New York: Perennial-HarperCollins, 2004: 327-54.Merk, F. Manifest Destiny and Mission in American History: A Reinterpretation. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1963.Sealts, M.M. “Herman Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney.’” American Literature 13 (May 1941): 142-54.Sowder, W.J. “Melville’s ‘I and My Chimney:’ A Southern Exposure.” Mississippi Quarterly 16.3 (1963): 128-45.Wilder, L.I. Little House on the Prairie Series.Wilson, S. “Melville and the Architecture of Antebellum Masculinity.” American Literature 76.1 (2004): 59-87.

If iconophobia is defined as the suspicion and anxiety towards the power exerted by images, its history is an ancient one in all of its Platonic, Christian, and Judaic forms. At its most radical, iconophobia results in an act of iconoclasm, or the total destruction of the image. At the other end of the spectrum, contemporary iconophobia may be more subtle. Images are simply withdrawn from circulation with the aim of eliminating their visibility. In his book Images in Spite of All, French art historian Georges Didi-Huberman questions the tradition of suspicion and denigration governing visual representations of the Holocaust, arguing we have abdicated our ethical obligation to try to imagine. This essay will argue that disruptions to traditional modes of spectatorship shift the terms of viewing from suspicion to ethical participation. By building on Didi-Huberman’s discussion of images and the spectatorial gaze, this essay will consider Laura Waddington’s 2002 documentary film Border. Waddington spent six months hiding with asylum seekers in the area surrounding the Red Cross refugee camp at Sangatte in northern France. I will argue that Waddington proposes a model of spectatorship that implicates the viewer into the ethical content of the film. By seeking to restore the dignity and humanity of the asylum seekers rather than viewing them with suspicion, Border is an acute reminder of our moral responsibility to bear witness to that which lies beyond the boundaries of conventional representations of asylum seekers.The economy managing the circulation of mainstream media images is a highly suspicious mechanism. After the initial process of image selection and distribution, what we are left with is an already homogenised collection of predictable and recyclable media images. The result is an increasingly iconophobic media gaze as the actual content of the image is depleted. In her essay “Precarious Life,” Judith Butler describes this economy in terms of the “normative processes” of control exercised by the mainstream media, arguing that the structurally unbalanced media representations of the ‘other’ result in creating a progressively dehumanised effect (Butler 146). This process of disidentification completes the iconophobic circle as the spectator, unable to develop empathy, views the dehumanised subject with increasing suspicion. Written in the aftermath of 9/11 and the ensuing War on Terror, Butler’s insights are important as they alert us to the possibility of a breach or rupture in the image economy. It is against Butler’s normative processes that Didi-Huberman’s critique of Holocaust iconoclasm and Waddington’s Border propose a slippage in representation and spectatorship capable of disrupting the homogeneity of the mass circulation of images.Most images that have come to represent the Holocaust in our collective memory were either recorded by the Nazis for propaganda or by the Allies on liberation in 1945. Virtually no photographs exist from inside the concentration camps. This is distinct from the endlessly recycled images of gaunt, emaciated survivors and bulldozers pushing aside corpses which have become critical in defining Holocaust iconography (Saxton 14). Familiar and recognisable, this visual record constitutes a “visual memory bank” that we readily draw upon when conjuring up images of the Holocaust. What occurs, however, when an image falls outside the familiar corpus of Holocaust representation? This was the question raised in a now infamous exhibition held in Paris in 2001 (Chéroux). The exhibition included four small photographs secretly taken by members of the Sonderkommando inside the Nazi extermination camp Auschwitz-Birkenau in August 1944. The Sonderkommando were the group of prisoners who were delegated the task of the day-to-day running of the crematoria. The photographs were smuggled out of the camps in a tube of toothpaste, and eventually reached the Polish Resistance.By evading the surveillance of the SS the photographs present a breach in the economy of Holocaust iconography. They exist as an exception to the rule, mere fragments stolen from beneath the all-seeing eye of the SS Guards and their watch towers. Despite operating in an impossible situation, the inmate maintained the belief that these images could provide visual proof of the existence of the gas chambers. The images are testimony produced inside the camp itself, a direct challenge to the discourse emphasising the prohibition of representation of the Holocaust and in particular the gas chambers. Figure 1 The Auschwitz crematorium in operation, photograph by Sonderkommando prisoners August 1944 © www.auschwitz.org.plDidi-Huberman’s essay marks a point of departure from the iconophobia which has stressed the unimaginable (Lanzmann), unknowable (Lyotard), and ultimately unrepresentable (Levinas) nature of the Holocaust since the 1980s. Denigrated and derided, images have been treated suspiciously by this philosophical line of thought, emphasising the irretrievable gap between representation and the Holocaust. In a direct assault on the tradition of framing the Holocaust as unrepresentable, Didi-Huberman’s essay becomes a plea to the moral and ethical responsibility to bear witness. He writes of the obligation to these images, arguing that “it is a response we must offer, as a debt to the words and images that certain prisoners snatched, for us, from the harrowing Real of their experience” (3). The photographs are not simply archival documents, but a testament to the humanity of the members of the Sonderkommando the Nazis sought to erase.Suspicion towards the potential power exerted by images has been neutralised by models of spectatorship privileging the viewer’s mastery and control. In traditional theories of film spectatorship, the spectator is rendered in terms of a general omnipotence described by Christian Metz as “an all-powerful position which is of God himself...” (49). It is a model of spectatorship that promotes mastery over the image by privileging the unilateral gaze of the spectator. Alternatively, Didi-Huberman evokes a long counter tradition within French literature and philosophy of the “seer seen,” where the object of the spectator’s gaze is endowed with the ability to return the gaze resulting in various degrees of anxiety and paranoia. The image of the “seer seen” recurs throughout the writing of Baudelaire, Sartre, Merleau-Ponty, Lacan, and Barthes, negating the unilateral gaze of an omnipotent spectator (Didi-Huberman, Ce que nous voyons).Didi-Huberman explicitly draws upon Jacques Lacan’s thinking about the gaze in light of this tradition of the image looking back. In his 1964 seminars on vision in the Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, Lacan dedicates several chapters to demonstrate how the visual field is structured by the symbolic order, the real, symbolic and the imaginary. Following Lacan, Didi-Huberman introduces two terms, the veil-image and the tear-image, which are analogous with Lacan’s imaginary and the real. The imaginary, with its connotations of illusion and fantasy, provides the sense of wholeness in both ourselves and what we perceive. For Didi-Huberman, the imaginary corresponds with the veil-image. Within the canon of Holocaust photography, the veil-image is the image “where nobody really looks,” the screen or veil maintaining the spectator’s illusion of mastery (81). We might say that in the circulation of Holocaust atrocity images, the veil serves to anaesthetise and normalise the content of the image.Lacan’s writing on the gaze, however, undermines the spectator’s mastery over the image by placing the spectator not at the all-seeing apex of the visual field, but located firmly within the visual field of the image. Lacan writes, “in the scopic field, the gaze is outside, I am looked at, that is to say, I am the picture...I am photo-graphed” (Lacan 106). The spectator is ensnared in the gaze of the image as the gaze is reciprocated. For Didi-Huberman, the veil-image seeks to disarm the threat to the spectator being caught in the image-gaze. Lacan describes this neutralisation in terms of “the pacifying, Apollonian effect of painting. Something is given not so much to the gaze as to the eye, something that involves the abandonment, the laying down, of the gaze” (101). Further on, Lacan expresses this in terms of the dompte-regarde, or a taming of the gaze (109). The veil-image maintains the fiction of the spectator’s ascendency by subduing the threat of the image-gaze. In opposition to the veil-image is the tear-image, in which for Didi-Huberman “a fragment of the real escapes” (81). This represents a rupture in the visual field. The real is presented here in terms of the tuché, or missed encounter, resulting in the spectator’s anxiety and trauma. As the real cannot be represented, it is the point where representation collapses, rupturing the illusion of coherency maintained by the veil-image. Operating as an exception or disruption to the rule, the tear-image disrupts the image economy. No longer neutralised, the image returns the gaze, shattering the illusion of the all-seeing mastery of the spectator. Didi-Huberman describes this tearing exception to the rule, “where everyone suddenly feels looked at” (81).To treat the Sonderkommando photographs as tear-images, not veil-images, we are offered a departure from classic models of spectatorship. We are forced to align ourselves and identify with the “inhuman” gaze of the Sonderkommando. The obvious response is to recoil. The gaze here is not the paranoid Sartrean gaze, evoking shame in the spectator-as-voyeur. Nor are these photographs reassuring narcissistic veil-images, but will always remain the inimical gaze of the Other—tearing, ripping images, which nonetheless demand that we do not turn away. It is an ethical response we must offer. If the power of the tear-image resides in its ability to disrupt traditional modes of representation and spectatorship, I would like to discuss this in relation to Laura Waddington’s 2004 film Border. Waddington is a Brussels based filmmaker with a particular interest in documenting the movement of displaced peoples. Just as the Sonderkommando photographs were taken clandestinely from beneath the gaze of the SS, Waddington evaded the surveillance of the French police and helicopter patrols as she bore witness to the plight of asylum seekers trying to reach England. Border presents her stolen testimony, operating outside the familiar iconography of mainstream media’s representation of asylum seekers. If we were to consider the portrayal of asylum seekers by the Australian media in terms of the veil-image, we are left with a predictable body of homogenised and neutralised stock media images. The myth of Australia being overrun by boat people is reinforced by the visual iconography of the news media. Much like the iconography of the Holocaust, these types of images have come to define the representations of asylum seekers. Traceable back to the 2001 Tampa affair images tend to be highly militarised, frequently with Australian Navy patrol boats in the background. The images reinforce the ‘stop the boats’ rhetoric exhibited on both sides of politics, paradoxically often working against the grain of the article’s editorial content. Figure 2 Thursday 16 Apr 2009 there was an explosion on board a suspected illegal entry vessel (SIEV) 36 in the vicinity of Ashmore Reef. © Commonwealth of Australia 2011Figure 3 The crew of HMAS Albany, Attack One, board suspected illegal entry vessel (SIEV) 38 © Commonwealth of Australia 2011 The media gaze is structurally unbalanced against the suffering of asylum seekers. In Australia asylum seekers are detained in mandatory detention, in remote sites such as Christmas Island and Woomera. Worryingly, the Department of Immigration maintains strict control over media representations of the conditions inside the camps, resulting in a further abstraction of representation. Geographical isolation coupled with a lack of transparent media access contributes to the ongoing process of dehumanisation of the asylum seekers. Judith Butler describes this as “The erasure of that suffering through the prohibition of images and representations” (146). In the endless recycling of images of leaky fishing boats and the perimeters of detention centres, our critical capacity to engage becomes progressively eroded. These images fulfil the function of the veil-image, where nobody really looks as there is nothing left to see. Figure 4 Asylum seekers arrive by boat on Christmas Island, Friday, July 8, 2011. AAP Image/JOSH JERGA Figure 5 Woomera Detention Centre. AAP Image/ROB HUTCHISON By reading Laura Waddington’s Border against an iconophobic media gaze, we are afforded the opportunity to reconsider this image economy and the suspicious gaze of the spectator it seeks to solicit. Border reminds us of the paradoxical function of the news image—it shows us everything, but nothing at all. In a subtle interrogation of our indifference to the existence of asylum seekers and their suffering, Border is a record of the six months Waddington spent hidden in the fields surrounding the French Red Cross camp at Sangatte in 2002. Sangatte is a small town in northern France, just south of Calais and only one and a half hours’ drive from Paris. The asylum seekers are predominantly Afghan and Iraqi. Border is a record of the last stop in their long desperate journey to reach England, which then had comparatively humane asylum seeking policies. The men are attempting to cross the channel tunnel, hidden in trucks and on freight trains. Many are killed or violently injured in their attempts to evade capture by the French police. Nevertheless they are sustained by the hope that England will offer them “a better life.” Figure 6 Still from Border showing asylum seekers in the fields of Sangatte ©Laura Waddington 2002Waddington dedicates the film, “for those I met.” It is an attempt to restore the humanity and dignity of the people who are denied individual identities. Waddington refuses to let “those who I met” remain nameless. She names them—Omar, Muhammad, Abdulla—and narrates their individual stories. Border is Waddington’s attempt to return a voice to those who have been systematically dehumanised, by-products of wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. In his classic account of documentary, Bill Nichols describes six modes of documentary representation (99–138). In Border, Waddington is working in the participatory mode, going into the field and participating in the lives of others (115). It is via this mode of representation that Waddington is able to heighten the ethical encounter with the asylum seekers. Waddington was afforded no special status as a filmmaker, but lived as a refugee among the asylum seekers during the six months of filming. At no point are we granted visible access to Waddington, yet we are acutely aware of her presence. She is physically participating in the drama unfolding before her. At times, we become alert to her immediate physical danger, as she too runs through the fields away from the police and their dogs.The suspicious gaze is predicated on maintaining a controlled distance between the spectator and the subject. Michele Aaron (82–123) has recently argued for a model of spectatorship as an intrinsically ethical encounter. Aaron demonstrates that spectatorship is not neutral but always complicit—it is a contract between the spectator and the film. Particularly relevant to the purposes of this essay is her argument concerning the “merging gaze,” where the gaze of the filmmaker and spectator are collapsed. This has the effect of folding the spectator into the film’s narrative (93). Waddington exploits the documentary medium to implicate the spectator into the structure of the film. It is in Waddington’s full participatory immersion into the documentary itself that undermines the conventional distance maintained by the spectator. The spectator can no longer remain neutral as the lines of demarcation between filmmaker and spectator collapse.Waddington was shooting alone with a small video camera at night in extremely low-light conditions. The opening scene is dark and grainy, refusing immediate entry into the film. As our eyes gradually adjust to the light, we realise we are looking at a young man, concealed in the bushes from the menacing glare of the lights of oncoming traffic. Waddington does not afford us the all-perceiving spectatorial mastery over the image. Rather, we are crouching with her as she records the furtive movements of the man. The background sound, a subtle and persistent hum, adds to a growing disquiet, a looming sense of apprehension concerning the fate of these asylum seekers. Figure 7 Grainy still showing the Red Cross camp in Border ©Laura Waddington 2002Waddington’s commentary has been deliberately pared back and her voice over is minimal with extended periods of silence. The camera alternates from meditative, lingering shots taken from the safety offered by the Red Cross camp, to the fields where the shots are truncated and chaotically framed. The actions of the asylum seekers jerk and shudder, producing an image akin to the flicker effect of early silent cinema because the film is not running at the full rate of 24 frames per second. Here the images become blurred to the point of unintelligibility. Like the Sonderkommando photographs, the asylum seekers exist as image-fragments, shards stolen by Waddington’s camera as she too works hard to evade capture. Tension gradually increases throughout the film, cumulating in a riot scene after a decision to close the camp down. The sweeping search lights of the police helicopter remind us of the increased surveillance undertaken by the border patrols. Without the safety of the Red Cross camp, the asylum seekers are offered no protection from the increasing police brutality. With nowhere else to go, the asylum seekers are forced into the town of Sangatte itself, to sleep in the streets. They are huddled together, and there is a faintly discernible chant repeating in the background, calling to the UN for help. At points during the riot scene, Waddington completely cuts the sound, enveloping the film in a haunting silence. We are left with a mute montage of distressing still images recording the clash between the asylum seekers and police. Again, we are reminded of Waddington’s lack of immunity to the violence, as the camera is deliberately knocked from her hand by a police officer. Figure 8 Clash between asylum seekers and police in Border ©Laura Waddington 2002It is via the merged gaze of the camera and the asylum seekers that Waddington exposes the fictional mastery of the spectator’s gaze. The fury of the tear-image is unleashed as the image-gaze absorbs the spectator into its visual field. No longer pacified by the veil, the spectator is unable to retreat to familiar modes of spectatorship to neutralise and disarm the image. With no possible recourse to desire and fantasy, the encounter becomes intrinsically ethical. Refusing to be neutralised by the Lacanian veil, the tear-image resists the anaesthetising effects of recycled and predictable images of asylum seekers.This essay has argued that a suspicious spectator is the product of an iconophobic media gaze. In the endless process of recycling, the critical capacity of the image to engage the viewer becomes progressively disarmed. Didi-Huberman’s reworking of the Lacanian gaze proposes a model of spectatorship designed to disrupt this iconophobic image economy. The veil-image asks little from us as spectators beyond our complicity. Protected by the gaze of the image, the fiction of the all—perceiving spectator is maintained. By abandoning this model of spectatorship as Didi-Huberman and Waddington are asking us to do, the unidirectional relationship between the viewer and the image is undermined. The terms of spectatorship may be relocated from suspicion to an ethical, participatory mode of engagement. We are laying down our weapons to receive the gaze of the Other. ReferencesAaron, Michele. Spectatorship: The Power of Looking On. London: Wallflower, 2007.Border. Waddington, Laura. Love Stream Productions, 2004.Butler, Judith. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence.London: Verso, 2004.Chéroux, Clément, ed. Mémoires des Camps. Photographies des Camps de Concentration et d'Extermination Nazis, 1933-1999. Paris: Marval, 2001.Didi-Huberman, Georges. Images in Spite of All: Four Photographs from Auschwitz. Trans. Lillis, Shane B. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2008.Didi-Huberman, Georges. Ce Que Nous Voyons, Ce Qui Nous regarde.Critique. Paris: Editions de Minuit, 1992.Lacan, Jacques. The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psycho-Analysis.Trans. Sheridan, Alan. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1986.Levinas, Emmanuel. "Reality and its Shadow." The Levinas Reader. Ed. Hand, Seán. Oxford: Blackwell, 1989. 130–43.Lyotard, Jean-François. The Differend: Phrases in Dispute. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1988.Metz, Christian. The Imaginary Signifier: Psychoanalysis and the Cinema. Bloomington: Indiana U P, 1982.Nichols, Bill. Introduction to Documentary. Bloomington: Indiana U P, 2001.Saxton, Libby. Haunted Images: Film, Ethics, Testimony and the Holocaust. London: Wallflower, 2008.