Gotowa bibliografia na temat „Sobey Art Foundation”

Like many ideas forged in the Enlightenment, ‘authenticity’ has lost much of its lustre. The product of an eighteenth-century culture fascinated with the past, with notions of origins, essences, and depths, it was endowed by twentieth-century existentialism with a numinous quality that many theorists saw as ripe for deconstruction. Indeed, the traditional rhetoric of authenticity is emphatically un-postmodern in its auratic essentialism and its concern, in the absence of rational foundations, to locate some kind of centre for what is genuine and real. Such metaphysical earnestness is apt to cause embarrassment today, which is perhaps why commentators not bent on dismantling the notion of the authentic have approached it with circumspection. Among these, Lionel Trilling, whose 1971 study Sincerity and Authenticity remains essential reading, worries that ‘authenticity,’ like ‘irony’ and ‘love,’ is ‘one of those words [...] which are best not talked about if they are to retain any force of meaning [...]’ (120). More recently, Geoffrey Hartman has conceded that ‘“Spirit” and “authenticity” are word concepts that cannot be saved from their own pathos. Perhaps we should not even try to sober them up’ (1). The temperate critic, it would seem, is well advised to handle authenticity with care.

AbstractIn his slightly fictionalized autobiographical essay A Drunken November Night 1918 (written in 1942, first published in 1952), Miroslav Krleža attempts to reconstruct a scandal to whose creation he himself contributed to a large extent. In November 1918, in the interregnum from the collapse of the Habsburg monarchy to the foundation of the South Slav kingdom, the then young author felt compelled at a reception held in Zagreb in honor of the Serbian officers to protest loudly against the speech of the former high Habsburg officer Slavko Kvaternik. The scandal retrospectively reinforced Krleža's conviction of the misery of the contemporary Croatian elite, a circumstance whose reasons, in his opinion, lay not only in political opportunism and moral corruption, but also in unreflected utopianism and the underlying political naivety. His hope that after the dissolution of the compromised Habsburg rule the South Slav peoples could advance towards national and social emancipation was soon replaced by the sober insight that imperial Austro-Hungary was followed by a small-sized, Serb dominated post-imperial structure. By describing the period when the text was written, the Second World War and the Ustashe reign of terror in contemporary Croatia, and in doing so particularly referring to the conversion of many former Habsburg officers to the side of fascist movements, Krleža also emphatically reveals his own conception of history, according to which historical events appear to be an eternal recurrence in which human stupidity is coupled with an excessive use of power and violence.

What we wear signals our membership within groups, be theyorganised by gender, class, ethnicity or religion. Simultaneously our clothing signifies hierarchies and power relations that sustain dominant power structures. How we dress is an expression of our identity. For Veblen, how we dress expresses wealth and social stratification. In imitating the fashion of the wealthy, claims Simmel, we seek social equality. For Barthes, clothing is embedded with systems of meaning. For Hebdige, clothing has modalities of meaning depending on the wearer, as do clothes for gender (Davis) and for the body (Entwistle). For Maynard, “dress is a significant material practice we use to signal our cultural boundaries, social separations, continuities and, for the present purposes, political dissidences” (103). Clothing has played a central role in historical and contemporary forms of political dissent. During the French Revolution dress signified political allegiance. The “mandated costumes, the gold-braided coat, white silk stockings, lace stock, plumed hat and sword of the nobility and the sober black suit and stockings” were rejected as part of the revolutionary struggle (Fairchilds 423). After the storming of the Bastille the government of Paris introduced the wearing of the tricolour cockade, a round emblem made of red, blue and white ribbons, which was a potent icon of the revolution, and a central motif in building France’s “revolutionary community”. But in the aftermath of the revolution divided loyalties sparked power struggles in the new Republic (Heuer 29). In 1793 for example anyone not wearing the cockade was arrested. Specific laws were introduced for women not wearing the cockade or for wearing it in a profane manner, resulting in six years in jail. This triggered a major struggle over women’s abilities to exercise their political rights (Heuer 31).Clothing was also central to women’s political struggles in America. In the mid-nineteenth century, women began wearing the “reform dress”—pants with shortened, lightweight skirts in place of burdensome and restrictive dresses (Mas 35). The wearing of pants, or bloomers, challenged gender norms and demonstrated women’s agency. Women’s clothes of the period were an "identity kit" (Ladd Nelson 22), which reinforced “society's distinctions between men and women by symbolizing their natures, roles, and responsibilities” (Ladd Nelson 22, Roberts 555). Men were positioned in society as “serious, active, strong and aggressive”. They wore dark clothing that “allowed movement, emphasized broad chests and shoulders and presented sharp, definite lines” (Ladd Nelson 22). Conversely, women, regarded as “frivolous, inactive, delicate and submissive, dressed in decorative, light pastel coloured clothing which inhibited movement, accentuated tiny waists and sloping shoulders and presented an indefinite silhouette” (Ladd Nelson 22, Roberts 555). Women who challenged these dress codes by wearing pants were “unnatural, and a perversion of the “true” woman” (Ladd Nelson 22). For Crane, the adoption of men’s clothing by women challenged dominant values and norms, changing how women were seen in public and how they saw themselves. The wearing of pants came to “symbolize the movement for women's rights” (Ladd Nelson 24) and as with women in France, Victorian society was forced to consider “women's rights, including their right to choose their own style of dress” (Ladd Nelson 23). As Yangzom (623) puts it, clothing allows groups to negotiate boundaries. How the “embodiment of dress itself alters political space and civic discourse is imperative to understanding how resistance is performed in creating social change” (Yangzom 623). Fig. 1: 1850s fashion bloomersIn a different turn is presented in Mahatma Gandhi’s Khadi movement. Khadi is a term used for fabrics made on a spinning wheel (or charkha) or hand-spun and handwoven, usually from cotton fibre. Khadi is considered the “fabric of Indian independence” (Jain). Gandhi recognised the potential of the fabric to a self-reliant, independent India. Gandhi made the struggle for independence synonymous with khadi. He promoted the materials “simplicity as a social equalizer and made it the nation’s fabric” (Sinha). As Jain notes, clothing and in this case fabric, is a “potent sign of resistance and change”. The material also reflects consciousness and agency. Khadi was Gandhi’s “own sartorial choices of transformation from that of an Englishman to that of one representing India” (Jain). For Jain the “key to Khadi becoming a successful tool for the freedom struggle” was that it was a “material embodiment of an ideal” that “represented freedom from colonialism on the one hand and a feeling of self-reliance and economic self-sufficiency on the other”. Fig. 2: Gandhi on charkha The reappropriating of Khadi as a fabric of political dissent echoes the wearing of blue denim by the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee (SNCC) at the 1963 National Mall Washington march where 250,000 people gather to hear Martin Luther King speak. The SNCC formed in 1960 and from then until the 1963 March on Washington they developed a “style aesthetic that celebrated the clothing of African American sharecroppers” (Ford 626). A critical aspect civil rights activism by African America women who were members of the SNCC was the “performance of respectability”. With the moral character of African American women under attack (as a way of delegitimising their political activities), the female activists “emphasized the outward display of their respectability in order to withstand attacks against their characters”. Their modest, neat “as if you were going to church” (Chappell 96) clothing choices helped them perform respectability and this “played an important performative role in the black freedom struggle” (Ford 626). By 1963 however African American female civil rights activists “abandoned their respectable clothes and processed hairstyles in order to adopt jeans, denim skirts, bib-and-brace overalls”. The adoption of bib-and-brace overalls reflected the sharecropper's blue denim overalls of America’s slave past.For Komar the blue denim overalls “dramatize[d] how little had been accomplished since Reconstruction” and the overalls were practical to fix from attack dog tears and high-pressure police hoses. The blue denim overalls, according to Komar, were also considered to be ‘Negro clothes’ purchased by “slave owners bought denim for their enslaved workers, partly because the material was sturdy, and partly because it helped contrast them against the linen suits and lace parasols of plantation families”. The clothing choice was both practical and symbolic. While the ‘sharecropper’ narrative is problematic as ‘traditional’ clothing (something not evident in the case of Ghandi’s Khandi Movement, there is an emotion associated with the clothing. As Barthes (6-7) has shown, what makes ‘traditional clothing,’ traditional is that it is part of a normative system where not only does clothing have its historical place, but it is governed by its rules and regimentation. Therefore, there is a dialectical exchange between the normative system and the act of dressing where as a link between the two, clothing becomes the conveyer of its meanings (7). Barthes calls this system, langue and the act of dressing parole (8). As Ford does, a reading of African American women wearing what she calls a “SNCC Skin” “the uniform [acts] consciously to transgress a black middle-class worldview that marginalised certain types of women and particular displays of blackness and black culture”. Hence, the SNCC women’s clothing represented an “ideological metamorphosis articulated through the embrace and projection of real and imagined southern, working-class, and African American cultures. Central to this was the wearing of the blue denim overalls. The clothing did more than protect, cover or adorn the body it was a conscious “cultural and political tool” deployed to maintain a movement and build solidarity with the aim of “inversing the hegemonic norms” via “collective representations of sartorial embodiment” (Yangzom 622).Fig. 3: Mississippi SNCC March Coordinator Joyce Ladner during the March on Washington for Jobs and Freedom political rally in Washington, DC, on 28 Aug. 1963Clothing in each of these historical examples performs an ideological function that can bridge, that is bring diverse members of society together for a cause, or community cohesion or clothing can act as a fence to keep identities separate (Barnard). This use of clothing is evident in two indigenous examples. For Maynard (110) the clothes worn at the 1988 Aboriginal ‘Long March of Freedom, Justice and Hope’ held in Australia signalled a “visible strength denoted by coherence in dress” (Maynard 112). Most noted was the wearing of colours – black, red and yellow, first thought to be adopted during protest marches organised by the Black Protest Committee during the 1982 Commonwealth Games in Brisbane (Watson 40). Maynard (110) describes the colour and clothing as follows:the daytime protest march was dominated by the colours of the Aboriginal people—red, yellow and black on flags, huge banners and clothing. There were logo-inscribed T-shirts, red, yellow and black hatband around black Akubra’s, as well as red headbands. Some T-shirts were yellow, with images of the Australian continent in red, others had inscriptions like 'White Australia has a Black History' and 'Our Land Our Life'. Still others were inscribed 'Mourn 88'. Participants were also in customary dress with body paint. Older Indigenous people wore head bands inscribed with the words 'Our Land', and tribal elders from the Northern Territory, in loin cloths, carried spears and clapping sticks, their bodies marked with feathers, white clay and red ochres. Without question, at this most significant event for Aboriginal peoples, their dress was a highly visible and cohesive aspect.Similar is the Tibetan Freedom Movement, a nonviolent grassroots movement in Tibet and among Tibet diaspora that emerged in 2008 to protest colonisation of Tibet. It is also known as the ‘White Wednesday Movement’. Every Wednesday, Tibetans wear traditional clothes. They pledge: “I am Tibetan, from today I will wear only Tibetan traditional dress, chuba, every Wednesday”. A chuba is a colourful warm ankle-length robe that is bound around the waist by a long sash. For the Tibetan Freedom Movement clothing “symbolically functions as a nonverbal mechanism of communication” to “materialise consciousness of the movement” and functions to shape its political aims (Yangzom 622). Yet, in both cases – Aboriginal and Tibet protests – the dress may “not speak to single cultural audience”. This is because the clothing is “decoded by those of different political persuasions, and [is] certainly further reinterpreted or reframed by the media” (Maynard 103). Nevertheless, there is “cultural work in creating a coherent narrative” (Yangzom 623). The narratives and discourse embedded in the wearing of a red, blue and white cockade, dark reform dress pants, cotton coloured Khadi fabric or blue denim overalls is likely a key feature of significant periods of political upheaval and dissent with the clothing “indispensable” even if the meaning of the clothing is “implied rather than something to be explicated” (Yangzom 623). On 21 January 2017, 250,000 women marched in Washington and more than two million protesters around the world wearing pink knitted pussy hats in response to the remarks made by President Donald Trump who bragged of grabbing women ‘by the pussy’. The knitted pink hats became the “embodiment of solidarity” (Wrenn 1). For Wrenn (2), protests such as this one in 2017 complete with “protest visuals” which build solidarity while “masking or excluding difference in the process” indicates “a tactical sophistication in the social movement space with its strategic negotiation of politics of difference. In formulating a flexible solidarity, the movement has been able to accommodate a variety of races, classes, genders, sexualities, abilities, and cultural backgrounds” (Wrenn 4). In doing so they presented a “collective bodily presence made publicly visible” to protest racist, sexist, homophobic, Islamophobic, and xenophobic white masculine power (Gokariksel & Smith 631). The 2017 Washington Pussy Hat March was more than an “embodiment tactic” it was an “image event” with its “swarms of women donning adroit posters and pink pussy hats filling the public sphere and impacting visual culture”. It both constructs social issues and forms public opinion hence it is an “argumentative practice” (Wrenn 6). Drawing on wider cultural contexts, as other acts of dissent note here do, in this protest with its social media coverage, the “master frame” of the sea of pink hats and bodies posited to audiences the enormity of the anger felt in the community over attacks on the female body – real or verbal. This reflects Goffman’s theory of framing to describe the ways in which “protestors actively seek to shape meanings such that they spark the public’s support and encourage political openings” (Wrenn 6). The hats served as “visual tropes” (Goodnow 166) to raise social consciousness and demonstrate opposition. Protest “signage” – as the pussy hats can be considered – are a visual representation and validation of shared “invisible thoughts and emotions” (Buck-Coleman 66) affirming Georg Simmel’s ideas about conflict; “it helps individuals define their differences, establish to which group(s) they belong, and determine the degrees to which groups are different from each other” (Buck-Coleman 66). The pink pussy hat helped define and determine membership and solidarity. Further embedding this was the hand-made nature of the hat. The pattern for the hat was available free online at https://www.pussyhatproject.com/knit/. The idea began as one of practicality, as it did for the reform dress movement. This is from the Pussy Hat Project website:Krista was planning to attend the Women’s March in Washington DC that January of 2017 and needed a cap to keep her head warm in the chill winter air. Jayna, due to her injury, would not be able to attend any of the marches, but wanted to find a way to have her voice heard in absentia and somehow physically “be” there. Together, a marcher and a non-marcher, they conceived the idea of creating a sea of pink hats at Women’s Marches everywhere that would make both a bold and powerful visual statement of solidarity, and also allow people who could not participate themselves – whether for medical, financial, or scheduling reasons — a visible way to demonstrate their support for women’s rights. (Pussy Hat Project)In the tradition of “craftivism” – the use of traditional handcrafts such as knitting, assisted by technology (in this case a website with the pattern and how to knit instructions), as a means of community building, skill-sharing and action directed towards “political and social causes” (Buszek & Robertson 197) –, the hand-knitted pink pussy hats avoided the need to purchase clothing to show solidarity resisting the corporatisation of protest clothing as cautioned by Naomi Klein (428). More so by wearing something that could be re-used sustained solidarity. The pink pussy hats provided a counter to the “incoherent montage of mass-produced clothing” often seen at other protests (Maynard 107). Everyday clothing however does have a place in political dissent. In late 2018, French working class and middle-class protestors donned yellow jackets to protest against the government of French President Emmanuel Macron. It began with a Facebook appeal launched by two fed-up truck drivers calling for a “national blockade” of France’s road network in protest against rising fuel prices was followed two weeks later with a post urging motorist to display their hi-vis yellow vests behind their windscreens in solidarity. Four million viewed the post (Henley). Weekly protests continued into 2019. The yellow his-vis vests are compulsorily carried in all motor cars in France. They are “cheap, readily available, easily identifiable and above all representing an obligation imposed by the state”. The yellow high-vis vest has “proved an inspired choice of symbol and has plainly played a big part in the movement’s rapid spread” (Henley). More so, the wearers of the yellow vests in France, with the movement spreading globally, are winning in “the war of cultural representation. Working-class and lower middle-class people are visible again” (Henley). Subcultural clothing has always played a role as heroic resistance (Evans), but the coloured dissent dressing associated with the red, blue and white ribboned cockades, the dark bloomers of early American feminists, the cotton coloured natural fabrics of Ghandi’s embodiment of resistance and independence, the blue denim sharecropper overalls worn by African American women in their struggles for civil rights, the black, red and orange of Aboriginal protestors in Australia and the White Wednesday performances of resistance undertaken by Tibetans against Chinese colonisation, the Washington Pink Pussy Hat marches for gender respect and equality and the donning of every yellow hi-vis vests by French protestors all posit the important role of fabric and colour in protest meaning making and solidarity building. It is in our rage we consciously wear the colours and fabrics of dissent dress. ReferencesBarnard, Malcolm. Fashion as Communication. New York: Routledge, 1996. Barthes, Roland. “History and Sociology of Clothing: Some Methodological Observations.” The Language of Fashion. Eds. Michael Carter and Alan Stafford. UK: Berg, 2006. 3-19. Buck-Coleman, Audra. “Anger, Profanity, and Hatred.” Contexts 17.1 (2018): 66-73.Buszek, Maria Elena, and Kirsty Robertson. “Introduction.” Utopian Studies 22.1 (2011): 197-202. Chappell, Marisa, Jenny Hutchinson, and Brian Ward. “‘Dress Modestly, Neatly ... As If You Were Going to Church’: Respectability, Class and Gender in the Montgomery Bus Boycott and the Early Civil Rights Movement.” Gender and the Civil Rights Movement. Eds. Peter J. Ling and Sharon Monteith. New Brunswick, N.J., 2004. 69-100.Crane, Diana. Fashion and Its Social Agendas. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Davis, Fred. Fashion, Culture, and Identity. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992.Entwistle, Joanne. The Fashioned Body: Fashion, Dress, and Modern Social Theory. Cambridge: Polity Press, 2000.Evans, Caroline. “Dreams That Only Money Can Buy ... Or the Shy Tribe in Flight from Discourse.” Fashion Theory 1.2 (1997): 169-88.Fairchilds, Cissie. “Fashion and Freedom in the French Revolution.” Continuity and Change 15.3 (2000): 419-33.Ford, Tanisha C. “SNCC Women, Denim, and the Politics of Dress.” The Journal of Southern History 79.3 (2013): 625-58.Gökarıksel, Banu, and Sara Smith. “Intersectional Feminism beyond U.S. Flag, Hijab and Pussy Hats in Trump’s America.” Gender, Place & Culture 24.5 (2017): 628-44.Goodnow, Trischa. “On Black Panthers, Blue Ribbons, & Peace Signs: The Function of Symbols in Social Campaigns.” Visual Communication Quarterly 13 (2006): 166-79.Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Routledge, 2002. Henley, Jon. “How Hi-Vis Yellow Vest Became Symbol of Protest beyond France: From Brussels to Basra, Gilets Jaunes Have Brought Visibility to People and Their Grievances.” The Guardian 21 Dec. 2018. <https://www.theguardian.com/world/2018/dec/21/how-hi-vis-yellow-vest-became-symbol-of-protest-beyond-france-gilets-jaunes>.Heuer, Jennifer. “Hats On for the Nation! Women, Servants, Soldiers and the ‘Sign of the French’.” French History 16.1 (2002): 28-52.Jain, Ektaa. “Khadi: A Cloth and Beyond.” Bombay Sarvodaya Mandal & Gandhi Research Foundation. ND. 19 Dec. 2018 <https://www.mkgandhi.org/articles/khadi-a-cloth-and-beyond.html>. Klein, Naomi. No Logo. London: Flamingo, London, 2000. Komar, Marlen. “What the Civil Rights Movement Has to Do with Denim: The History of Blue Jeans Has Been Whitewashed.” 30 Oct. 2017. 19 Dec. 2018 <https://www.racked.com/2017/10/30/16496866/denim-civil-rights-movement-blue-jeans-history>.Ladd Nelson, Jennifer. “Dress Reform and the Bloomer.” Journal of American and Comparative Cultures 23.1 (2002): 21-25.Maynard, Margaret. “Dress for Dissent: Reading the Almost Unreadable.” Journal of Australian Studies 30.89 (2006): 103-12. Pussy Hat Project. “Design Interventions for Social Change.” 20 Dec. 2018. <https://www.pussyhatproject.com/knit/>.Roberts, Helene E. “The Exquisite Slave: The Role of Clothes in the Making of the Victorian Woman.” Signs (1977): 554-69.Simmel, Georg. “Fashion.” American Journal of Sociology 62 (1957): 541–58.Sinha, Sangita. “The Story of Khadi, India's Signature Fabric.” Culture Trip 2018. 18 Jan. 2019 <https://theculturetrip.com/asia/india/articles/the-story-of-khadi-indias-fabric/>.Yangzom, Dicky. “Clothing and Social Movements: Tibet and the Politics of Dress.” Social Movement Studies 15.6 (2016): 622-33. Veblen, Thorstein. The Theory of the Leisure Class: An Economic Study of Institutions. New York: Dover Thrift, 1899. Watson, Lilla. “The Commonwealth Games in Brisbane 1982: Analysis of Aboriginal Protests.” Social Alternatives 7.1 (1988): 1-19.Wrenn, Corey. “Pussy Grabs Back: Bestialized Sexual Politics and Intersectional Failure in Protest Posters for the 2017 Women’s March.” Feminist Media Studies (2018): 1-19.

Introduction In a 2019 report for the International Journal of Communication, Baym et al. positioned distributed blockchain ledger technology, and what would subsequently be referred to as Web3, as a convening technology. Riffing off Barnett, a convening technology “initiates and serves as the focus of a conversation that can address issues far beyond what it may ultimately be able to address itself” (403). The case studies for the Baym et al. research—early, aspirant projects applying the blockchain concept to music publishing and distribution—are described in the piece as speculations or provocations concerning music’s commercial and social future. What is convened in this era (pre-2017 blockchain music discourse and practice) is the potential for change: a type of widespread, broadly discussed, reimagination of the 21st-century music industries, productive precisely because near-future applications suggest the realisation of what Baym et al. call dreams. In this article, we aim to examine the Web3 music field as it lies some years later. Taking the latter half of 2021 as our subject, we present a survey of where music then resided within Web3, focussing on how the dreams of Baym et al. have morphed and evolved, and materialised and declined, in the intervening years. By investigating the discourse and functionality of 2021’s current crop of music NFTs—just one thread of music Web3’s far-reaching aspiration, but a potent and accessible manifestation nonetheless—we can make a detailed analysis of concept-led application. Volatility remains throughout the broader sector, and all of the projects listed here could be read as conditionally short-term and untested, but what they represent is a series of clearly evolved case studies of the dream, rich precisely because of what is assumed and disregarded. WTF Is an NFT? Non-fungible tokens inscribe indelible, unique ledger entries on a blockchain, detailing ownership of, or rights associated with, assets that exist off-chain. Many NFTs take the form of an ERC-721 smart-contract that functions as an indivisible token on the Ethereum blockchain. Although all ERC-721 tokens are NFTs, the inverse is not true. Similar standards exist on other blockchains, and bridges allow these tokens to be created on alternative networks such as Polygon, Solana, WAX, Cardano and Tezos. The creation (minting) and transfer of ownership on the Ethereum network—by far the dominant chain—comes with a significant and volatile transaction cost, by way of gas fees. Thus, even a “free” transaction on the main NFT network requires a currency and time investment that far outweighs the everyday routines of fiat exchange. On a technical level, the original proposal for the ERC-721 standard refers to NFTs as deeds intended to represent ownership of digital and physical assets like houses, virtual collectibles, and negative value assets such as loans (Entriken et al.). The details of these assets can be encoded as metadata, such as the name and description of the asset including a URI that typically points to either a file somewhere on the Internet or a file hosted via IPFS, a decentralised peer-to-peer hosting network. As noted in the standard, while the data inscribed on-chain are immutable, the asset being referred to is not. Similarly, while each NFT is unique, multiple NFTs could, in theory, point to a single asset. In this respect ERC-721 tokens are different from cryptocurrencies and other tokens like stable-coins in that their value is often contingent on their accurate and ongoing association with assets outside of the blockchain on which they are traded. Further complicating matters, it is often unclear if and how NFTs confer ownership of digital assets with respect to legislative or common law. NFTs rarely include any information relating to licencing or rights transfer, and high-profile NFTs such as Bored Ape Yacht Club appear to be governed by licencing terms held off-chain (Bored Ape Yacht Club). Finally, while it is possible to inscribe any kind of data, including audio, into an NFT, the ERC-721 standard and the underpinning blockchains were not designed to host multimedia content. At the time of writing, storing even a low-bandwidth stereo audio file on the ethereum network appears cost-prohibitive. This presents a challenge for how music NFTs distinguish themselves in a marketplace dominated by visual works. The following sections of this article are divided into what we consider to be the general use cases for NFTs within music in 2021. We’ve designated three overlapping cases: audience investment, music ownership, and audience and business services. Audience Investment Significant discourse around NFTs focusses on digital collectibles and artwork that are conceptually, but not functionally, unique. Huge amounts of money have changed hands for specific—often celebrity brand-led—creations, resulting in media cycles of hype and derision. The high value of these NFTs has been variously ascribed to their high novelty value, scarcity, the adoption of NFTs as speculative assets by investors, and the lack of regulatory oversight allowing for price inflation via practices such as wash-trading (Madeline; Das et al.; Cong et al.; Le Pennec, Fielder, and Ante; Fazil, Owfi, and Taesiri). We see here the initial traditional split of discourse around cultural activity within a new medium: dual narratives of utopianism and dystopianism. Regardless of the discursive frame, activity has grown steadily since stories reporting the failure of Blockchain to deliver on its hype began appearing in 2017 (Ellul). Early coverage around blockchain, music, and NFTs echoes this capacity to leverage artificial scarcity via the creation of unique digital assets (cf Heap; Tomaino). As NFTs have developed, this discourse has become more nuanced, arguing that creators are now able to exploit both ownership and abundance. However, for the most part, music NFTs have essentially adopted the form of digital artworks and collectibles in editions ranging from 1:1 or 1:1000+. Grimes’s February 2021 Mars NFT pointed to a 32-second rotating animation of a sword-wielding cherubim above the planet Mars, accompanied by a musical cue (Grimes). Mars sold 388 NFTs for a reported fixed price of $7.5k each, grossing $2,910,000 at time of minting. By contrast, electronic artists Steve Aoki and Don Diablo have both released 1:1 NFT editions that have been auctioned via Sotheby’s, Superrare, and Nifty Gateway. Interestingly, these works have been bundled with physical goods; Diablo’s Destination Hexagonia, which sold for 600 Eth or approximately US$1.2 million at the time of sale, proffered ownership of a bespoke one-hour film hosted online, along with “a unique hand-crafted box, which includes a hard drive that contains the only copy of the high-quality file of the film” (Diablo). Aoki’s Hairy was much less elaborate but still promised to provide the winner of the $888,888 auction with a copy of the 35-second video of a fur-covered face shaking in time to downbeat electronica as an Infinite Objects video print (Aoki). In the first half of 2021, similar projects from high-profile artists including Deadmau5, The Weekend, Snoop Dogg, Eminem, Blondie, and 3Lau have generated an extraordinary amount of money leading to a significant, and understandable, appetite from musicians wanting to engage in this marketplace. Many of these artists and the platforms that have enabled their sales have lauded the potential for NFTs to address an alleged poor remuneration of artists from streaming and/or bypassing “industry middlemen” (cf. Sounds.xyz); the millions of dollars generated by sales of these NFTs presents a compelling case for exploring these new markets irrespective of risk and volatility. However, other artists have expressed reservations and/or received pushback on entry into the NFT marketplace due to concerns over the environmental impact of NFTs; volatility; and a perception of NFT markets as Ponzi schemes (Poleg), insecure (Goodin), exploitative (Purtill), or scammy (Dash). As of late 2021, increased reportage began to highlight unauthorised or fraudulent NFT minting (cf. TFL; Stephen), including in music (Newstead). However, the number of contested NFTs remains marginal in comparison to the volume of exchange that occurs in the space daily. OpenSea alone oversaw over US$2.5 billion worth of transactions per month. For the most part, online NFT marketplaces like OpenSea and Solanart oversee the exchange of products on terms not dissimilar to other large online retailers; the space is still resolutely emergent and there is much debate about what products, including recently delisted pro-Nazi and Alt-Right-related NFTs, are socially and commercially acceptable (cf. Pearson; Redman). Further, there are signs this trend may impact on both the willingness and capacity of rightsholders to engage with NFTs, particularly where official offerings are competing with extant fraudulent or illegitimate ones. Despite this, at the time of writing the NFT market as a whole does not appear prone to this type of obstruction. What remains complicated is the contested relationship between NFTs, copyrights, and ownership of the assets they represent. This is further complicated by tension between the claims of blockchain’s independence from existing regulatory structures, and the actual legal recourse available to music rights holders. Music Rights and Ownership Baym et al. note that addressing the problems of rights management and metadata is one of the important discussions around music convened by early blockchain projects. While they posit that “our point is not whether blockchain can or can’t fix the problems the music industries face” (403), for some professionals, the blockchain’s promise of eliminating the need for trust seemed to provide an ideal solution to a widely acknowledged business-to-business problem: one of poor metadata leading to unclaimed royalties accumulating in “black boxes”, particularly in the case of misattributed mechanical royalties in the USA (Rethink Music Initiative). As outlined in their influential institutional research paper (partnered with music rights disruptor Kobalt), the Rethink Music Initiative implied that incumbent intermediaries were benefiting from this opacity, incentivising them to avoid transparency and a centralised rights management database. This frame provides a key example of one politicised version of “fairness”, directly challenging the interest of entrenched powers and status quo systems. Also present in the space is a more pragmatic approach which sees problems of metadata and rights flows as the result of human error which can be remedied with the proper technological intervention. O’Dair and Beaven argue that blockchain presents an opportunity to eliminate the need for trust which has hampered efforts to create a global standard database of rights ownership, while music business researcher Opal Gough offers a more sober overview of how decentralised ledgers can streamline processes, remove inefficiencies, and improve cash flow, without relying on the moral angle of powerful incumbents holding on to control accounts and hindering progress. In the intervening two years, this discourse has shifted from transparency (cf. Taghdiri) to a practical narrative of reducing system friction and solving problems on the one hand—embodied by Paperchain, see Carnevali —and ethical claims reliant on the concept of fairness on the other—exemplified by Resonate—but with, so far, limited widespread impact. The notion that the need for b2b collaboration on royalty flows can be successfully bypassed through a “trustless” blockchain is currently being tested. While these earlier projects were attempts to either circumvent or fix problems facing the traditional rights holders, with the advent of the NFT in particular, novel ownership structures have reconfigured the concept of a rights holder. NFTs promise fans an opportunity to not just own a personal copy of a recording or even a digitally unique version, but to share in the ownership of the actual property rights, a role previously reserved for record labels and music publishers. New NFT models have only recently launched which offer fans a share of IP revenue. “Collectors can buy royalty ownership in songs directly from their favorite artists in the form of tokens” through the service Royal. Services such as Royal and Vezt represent potentially massive cultural shifts in the traditional separation between consumers and investors; they also present possible new headaches and adventures for accountants and legal teams. The issues noted by Baym et al. are still present, and the range of new entrants into this space risks the proliferation, rather than consolidation, of metadata standards and a need to put money into multiple blockchain ecosystems. As noted in RMIT’s blockchain report, missing royalty payments … would suggest the answer to “does it need a blockchain?” is yes (although further research is needed). However, it is not clear that the blockchain economy will progress beyond the margins through natural market forces. Some level of industry coordination may still be required. (18) Beyond the initial questions of whether system friction can be eased and standards generated without industry cooperation lie deeper philosophical issues of what will happen when fans are directly incentivised to promote recordings and artist brands as financial investors. With regard to royalty distribution, the exact role that NFTs would play in the ownership and exploitation of song IP remains conceptual rather than concrete. Even the emergent use cases are suggestive and experimental, often leaning heavily on off-chain terms, goodwill and the unknown role of existing legal infrastructure. Audience and Business Services Aside from the more high-profile NFT cases which focus on the digital object as an artwork providing a source of value, other systemic uses of NFTs are emerging. Both audience and business services are—to varying degrees—explorations of the utility of NFTs as a community token: i.e. digital commodities that have a market value, but also unlock ancillary community interaction. The music industries have a longstanding relationship with the sale of exclusivity and access tailored to experiential products. Historically, one of music’s most profitable commodities—the concert ticket—contains very little intrinsic value, but unlocks a hugely desirable extrinsic experience. As such, NFTs have already found adoption as tools of music exclusivity; as gateways into fan experiences, digital communities, live events ticketing and closed distribution. One case study incorporating almost all of these threads is the Deathbats club by American heavy metal band Avenged Sevenfold. Conceived of as the “ultimate fan club”, Deathbats is, according to the band’s singer M. Shadows, “every single thing that [fans] want from us, which is our time, our energy” (Chan). At the time of writing, the Deathbats NFT had experienced expected volatility, but maintained a 30-day average sale price well above launch price. A second affordance provided by music NFTs’ ability to tokenise community is the application of this to music businesses in the form of music DAOs: decentralised autonomous organisations. DAOs and NFTs have so far intersected in a number of ways. DAOs function as digital entities that are owned by their members. They utilise smart contracts to record protocols, votes, and transactions on the blockchain. Bitcoin and Ethereum are often considered the first DAOs of note, serving as board-less venture capital funds, also known as treasuries, that cannot be accessed without the consensus of their members. More recently, DAOs have been co-opted by online communities of shared interests, who work towards an agreed goal, and operate without the need for leadership. Often, access to DAO membership is tokenised, and the more tokens a member has, the more voting rights they possess. All proposals must pass before members, and have been voted for by the majority in order to be enacted, though voting systems differ between DAOs. Proposals must also comply with the DAO’s regulations and protocols. DAOs typically gather in online spaces such as Discord and Zoom, and utilise messaging services such as Telegram. Decentralised apps (dapps) have been developed to facilitate DAO activities such as voting systems and treasury management. Collective ownership of digital assets (in the form of NFTs) has become commonplace within DAOs. Flamingo DAO and PleasrDAO are two well-established and influential examples. The “crypto-backed social club” Friends with Benefits (membership costs between $5,000 and $10,000) serves as a “music discovery platform, an online publication, a startup incubator and a kind of Bloomberg terminal for crypto investors” (Gottsegen), and is now hosting its own curated NFT art platform with work by the likes of Pussy Riot. Musical and cross-disciplinary artists and communities are also exploring the potential of DAOs to empower, activate, and incentivise their communities as an extension of, or in addition to, their adoption and exploration of NFTs. In collaboration with Never Before Heard Sounds, electronic artist and musical pioneer Holly Herndon is exploring ideological questions raised by the growing intelligence of AI to create digital likeness and cloning through voice models. Holly+ is a custom voice instrument that allows users to process pre-existing polyphonic audio through a deep neural network trained by recordings of Holly Herndon’s voice. The output is audio-processed through Holly Herndon’s distinct vocal sound. Users can submit their resulting audio to the Holly+ DAO, to whom she has distributed ownership of her digital likeness. DAO token-holders steward which audio is minted and certified as an NFT, ensuring quality control and only good use of her digital likeness. DAO token-holders are entitled to a percentage of profit from resales in perpetuity, thereby incentivising informed and active stewardship of her digital likeness (Herndon). Another example is LA-based label Leaving Records, which has created GENRE DAO to explore and experiment with new levels of ownership and empowerment for their pre-existing community of artists, friends, and supporters. They have created a community token—$GENRE—for which they intend a number of uses, such as “a symbol of equitable growth, a badge of solidarity, a governance token, currency to buy NFTs, or as a utility to unlock token-gated communities” (Leaving Records). Taken as a whole, the spectrum of affordances and use cases presented by music NFTs can be viewed as a build-up of interest and capital around the technology. Conclusion The last half of 2021 was a moment of intense experimentation in the realms of music business administration and cultural expression, and at the time of writing, each week seemed to bring a new high-profile music Web3 project and/or disaster. Narratives of emancipation and domination under capitalism continue to drive our discussions around music and technology, and the direct link to debates on ecology and financialisation make these conversations particularly polarising. High-profile cases of music projects that overstep norms of existing IP rights, such as Hitpiece’s attempt to generate NFTs of songs without right-holders’ consent, point to the ways in which this technology is portrayed as threatening and subversive to commercial musicians (Blistein). Meanwhile, the Water and Music research DAO promises to incentivise a research community to “empower music-industry professionals with the knowledge, network and skills to do more collaborative and progressive work with technology” through NFT tokens and a DAO organisational structure (Hu et al.). The assumption in many early narratives of the ability of blockchain to provide systems of remuneration that musicians would embrace as inherently fairer is far from the reality of a popular discourse marked by increasing disdain and distrust, currently centred on NFTs as lacking in artistic merit, or even as harmful. We have seen all this talk before, of course, when jukeboxes and player pianos, film synchronisation, radio, recording, and other new communication technologies steered new paths for commercial musicians and promised magical futures. All of these innovations were met with intense scrutiny, cries of inauthentic practice, and resistance by incumbent musicians, but all were eventually sustained by the emergence of new forms of musical expression that captured the interest of the public. On the other hand, the road towards musical nirvana passes by not only the more prominent corpses of the Digital Audio Tape, SuperAudio, and countless recording formats, but if you squint and remember that technology is not always about devices or media, you can see the Secure Download Music Initiative, PressPlay, the International Music Registry, and Global Repertoire Databases in the distance, wondering if blockchain might correct some of the problems they dreamed of solving in their day. The NFT presents the artistic and cultural face of this dream of a musical future, and of course we are first seeing the emergence of old models within its contours. 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This study is based on the fact that all people have a basic need for protection from other people (and animals) as well as from the elements (the exterior climate). People need a space in which they can withdraw from the rest of the world. The two states, inside and outside, public and private, contact with, or isolation from, the outside world, are relevant in fulfilling this basic need. People also want their home to have a certain appearance or status which they can identify with and which they can present to the outside world. This can also often be derived from the façade. The façade which is on a side which can be seen by the general public can be seen by the most people. Protection and appearance/status are two important characteristics of the façade. The term social filtering is used in this study to mean protection and face or mask to mean appearance/status. The means which can be used for protection embrace a broad spectrum, of which a fence, the doorstep (threshold), the door and shutters are just some initial examples. The means which can be used to lend status to a house are just as diverse. It is impossible to make a strict distinction between the means of social filtering and those of the face or mask and they often fulfil both functions. The façade as social filter and as face or mask of the residential building is the starting point of this study. Both the roles, as social filter and face of the home, have undergone great change as a consequence of the accommodation of several homes in the one building. The history of homes in the Netherlands shows that the individual house has only been one of many dwelling possibilities since the nineteenth century ; the ‘stacking’ of homes on top of each other in larger buildings, described as residential building, became a necessity in the cities. This is why this study is focussed on the residential building and its façade in the city in the Netherlands. Two questions formed the starting point for this study: 1. How can information about the need for contact or isolation, and the need for status, be read from the exterior of a house? 2. What happens to the face and the social filter of a building when we no longer look at it as a house for just one social unit but as a residential building which accommodates several homes? The two questions resulted in an investigation into the aspects by which the social filter and the face of a façade can be read. Residential buildings designed as such to meet the demand in cities began to appear more often in the second half of the nineteenth century. Initially, they were cheap and hardly innovative. By the start of the twentieth century, the entrance to homes in the residential building, an important element of the social filter, had become a subject of study for architects and various solutions were developed. The appearance of the residential building showed, on the one hand, pragmatic approaches, but on the other, architects tried to develop a face or mask for this relatively new type of building. Throughout the twentieth century, the period covered by this study, the residential building and its façade have undergone great change. This change reflects the cultural, social, technical and economic factors which have had an effect on the design of the residential building and the significance of the façade with its social filter and its face or mask. Today, the façade of the residential building has reached a freedom which reflects the possibilities, the architect’s creative expression and the client’s commercial needs. The façade hardly contributes to the communication between life outside and the resident and his or her home inside. Social filtering, which often takes place in a dynamic way between the exterior and the interior, is still important, but now takes place to a large degree behind the façade. The face shown is neutral, if not anonymous, and hides the number of homes behind the screen. In order to follow the changes in the residential building and its façade through the twentieth century and to understand with what means architects have developed the façade in particular, the research question has been formulated as: What factors and architectonic means have been decisive in the Netherlands in the twentieth century for the façade of the residential building as an intermediary element (as face/mask and social filter) between the exterior and the interior? The aim of this study is to learn more about the factors which lead to the decisions about the design of a façade and to understand the architectonic means which are applied to make a façade readable. This study also has the aim of providing an analytical approach to looking at a façade and making a contribution to the design of buildings and a broader study of the relationship between buildings and their façades. The study is organised in a theoretical framework and the analysis of ten projects. The theoretical framework in respect of façade, face and mask (chapter 4), a historical context of residential construction (chapter 5), a context of the development of public, exterior living (chapter 6), and private, interior living (chapter 7) are included in the theoretical framework. The analysis of the ten projects is presented in chapter 8. The framework and the analysis form one whole. The analysis of the case studies demanded a method which would illustrate the façade as social filter and face or mask. In order to make the role of social filter more comprehensible, the transition from the public space in front of the main entrance to the entrance to the home has been illustrated by means of two isometric drawings. The public space of the steps from the doorstep or pavement to the private home is also documented in a diagram, and the architectonic resources which make up this transition are recorded with photos. For the analysis of the façade as a face, the parts of the human face which are easily included visually are used metaphorically. The eyes are openings, the mouth is an entrance or door, the nose is a vertical feature, the head shape of the face is the most easily read form of the building and the profile supports the information because it shows depth. Visually striking aspects of the face which protrude, recede, frame or divide can be translated in the façade as, for example, bay windows, balconies, beams, framing lintels or windowsills. Visually distinguishing lines of profiles can be seen in the form of balconies or, for instance, a switch in material. In order to use the metaphor of the human face as the foundation for an analysis in architecture, an analytical framework has been assembled. The Gestalt laws, applied to buildings by Niels Prak, demonstrate how we visually perceive the built environment. The head shape and horizontal and vertical parts and sections are perceived faster than free forms or a complex picture with a lot of different information. These laws justify the choice of the subjects for analysis which have been drawn in a reduced form. The subjects for analysis for the façade as face are: the head shape, the profile, the openings for light and for the entrance (door), visible constructional elements in the façade (horizontal and vertical), decorative parts, protruding and receding parts, material and colour. In the analysis, the sociocultural background of the project will be described, summarised as building assignment, and all the architectonic aspects will be shown which make up the social filter and appearance, summarised as building form. Façade definitions (chapter 4) The term façade means the vertical exterior of the building, just as the face practically vertical is. The roof is governed by its own principles and is not always a part of the façade unless it can be seen. The horizontal roof, like the crown of a head, cannot easily be seen. The term façade carries several meanings. The façade is something that is presented to its surroundings and that is why it is often associated with the face. The term façade (Latin facies = face) makes the connection with the metaphor of the face clear: the façade of the building is meant to be the presentable side which is shown to the public. The human face communicates non-verbally by means of expression. The façade does not have this movement and can only be called a face metaphorically. The façade can still show what happens behind it to a degree, however, what the building is for, for example. The façade can also exhibit an idea or represent an illusion; the façade is then a mask. The term garment is used for both the protective and aesthetic role of the façade. A garment keeps you warm and protects, but it can also be decorative and the status of the person wearing it can be clear if the code included in the decoration is understood. The façade therefore also fulfils this role as the conveyor of information. The degree to which the façade has a filter role is determined by the degree to which it allows things to pass though it: light, air and temperature but also people and animals. This ability to allow things to pass through it is dynamically regulated depending on the means used. Depending on the building’s spatial configuration, there may also be a front façade, rear façade or side façade. The historic context of the residential building (chapter 5) The urban house changed almost imperceptibly until the nineteenth century into a building which accommodated several homes. The construction of the residential building designed as such intensified in the second half of the century, however, when the increasing demand for housing meant that it was necessary to provide more options. The ‘stacking’ of homes in such a building meant another means of entering the building. The immediate entrance to the home increasingly withdrew from the street and communal entrances and stairwells appeared. The most important change from the individual house to the shared building was the entrance. Architects often lent expression the communal entrance, perhaps to help the resident and visitor become more familiar with its new communal aspect. Various changes to the residential building and its façade can be seen throughout the twentieth century. While architects like Hendrik P. Berlage and his followers in the first two decades enriched the façade with details and news ideas for communal entrances arose, functionalists like Willem van Tijen designed residential buildings in the thirties and during the post-war reconstruction which showed what their function was without any embellishment. Architects reacted to social, economic and technical factors. Where the first residential buildings consisted of six to eight homes per staircase per floor, the introduction of galleries and then, in the fifties, the lift, meant that many more homes could be accommodated. This was particularly the case in the sixties after the first wave of post-war reconstruction. The residential buildings were so big that it was barely possible to see the whole form. They were also a product of mass production. The seventies, with the focus on individuality and consultation, saw the production of homes shift towards small-scale neighbourhoods with façades which made small groups of homes readable. The last two decades of the twentieth century were characterised by more sober façades and larger residential buildings. The façades project neutrality and the anonymity of living in the town or city. The diversity of the façades and the choice of material have increased dramatically and are also used to express the luxury of living in the city. The façade and the public (chapter 6) The gradual transition from street to house in the town or city in the Netherlands has been present for centuries. The border between the two was vague, people worked both in front of, and in the house. An important change for living in the town or city was the disappearance of city walls and gates after 1874 as a consequence of the vestigingswet [‘Settlement Act’], which allowed non-residents into the city or town without checks, and when the front door was established as the border between the public and the private. The façade became a necessary border between the public and the private. The street lost its importance as public space for those living on it as traffic increased. The introduction of the residential building only increased the distance to the street. The anonymization of the street also played a large role throughout the whole of the twentieth century. The functionalists rejected the street and wanted to connect homes with recreation and green spaces. Urban blocks of buildings were opened up as was the layout of residential buildings. This resulted in residential buildings which had several façades which were visible to the public. In the seventies, some architects, like Herman Hertzberger, returned the street to the resident and a pedestrian friendly zone in front of homes (the woonerf) was created. The house façades on the residential areas allowed openness and space to be seen, fusing the public and the private. This approach was quickly followed by a reintroduction of a distance to the street. The last two decades of the twentieth century were characterised by a withdrawal of the social filter role to behind the façade. The street’s role as part of the home can only be found in very protected environments. The façade and private living (chapter 7) Private living was initially led by an increasing embarrassment and hygiene. The need to retreat further into the house gave rise to a more differentiated layout even in the traditional house and this can be read from the façade. In the second half of the nineteenth century, the privacy of the home was lost when it was housed with several others in the one building and by the internal entrance in a relatively open landing on the upper floors. The first two decades of the twentieth century saw various entrances which made privacy possible such as the entrance stairwell and the gallery. The homes received their own front doors with a hall behind them. At subsistence level, privacy was reduced to a very small space and this would only change after the Second World War; regulations for minimum surface areas in the fifties contributed to this. Economic growth in the sixties and seventies allowed a need for individual development and private space within the family. Increasing preferences for homes resulted in a greater diversity but also in neutral houses which could be adapted. The façade reflects this. Privacy at the end of the twentieth century meant freedom of choice. The residential building showed the consideration for this freedom in a neutral façade. The case studies (chapter 8) The case studies reflect the various phases of the changes in the residential building and its façade. The ten projects chosen can be found in the Dutch town or city and have all been designed as homes. The projects chosen are: 1914 – The Hague portico Copernicuslaan, Den Haag, architect unknown 1911-15 – Dwellings in the Indische Buurt, Amsterdam, architect H.P. Berlage 1918-22 – Justus van Effen Complex, Rotterdam, architect M. Brinkman 1925–26 – Residential building Oldenhoeck, Amsterdam, architect P.A. Warners 1932–34 – Bergpolder Flat, Rotterdam, architect W. van Tijen 1955-58 – Dwellings Pendrecht IV, Rotterdam, architects J. en L. de Jonge 1962-68 – Dwellings Het Breed, Amsterdam, architect F. van Gool 1969–76 – Dwellings Molenvliet, Papendrecht, architect F. van der Werff 1978–82 – Dwellings Haarlemmer Houttuinen, Amsterdam, architect H. Hertzberger 1994–98 – City block De Landtong, Rotterdam, architect CIE, F. van Dongen The first two cases just have six to eight homes per staircase per floor and their entrances are richly decorated while the Justus van Effencomplex and, in the sixties, Het Breed project with a gallery bring many more homes together and their entrances are less expressively designed. At the end of the twentieth century, the Landtong connects the homes visually with each other by means of an internal corridor with a void allowing the other floors to be seen. The expression of the collective and the individual through the century is very different; the home cannot always be read from the façade. Conclusion The most important conclusion from this research is that the social filter between the public and the private today often lies behind the screens, so that the transition between the public space and the façade is less gradual and the expressiveness of the façade is different and achieved by other means. The façade is more of a mask to protect the anonymous home than a face that exhibits it. The line between a façade as a face or a mask is not always clear, however, because the perspective of the person looking at it can change. A façade can create an illusion in the distance, but show the home from close by.This study demonstrates the development of the residential building and its façade in the Netherlands with the focus on their development in the twentieth century. The relationship of the façade with the immediate public space surrounding the home and the relationship of the façade with the private home have been important starting points for this study. It places the façade as an important element in protecting the home and as well as an expression of it. The study demonstrates a way of looking at the façade which is very important for design decisions for new construction but also for maintenance and conservation.

This study is based on the fact that all people have a basic need for protection from other people (and animals) as well as from the elements (the exterior climate). People need a space in which they can withdraw from the rest of the world. The two states, inside and outside, public and private, contact with, or isolation from, the outside world, are relevant in fulfilling this basic need. People also want their home to have a certain appearance or status which they can identify with and which they can present to the outside world. This can also often be derived from the façade. The façade which is on a side which can be seen by the general public can be seen by the most people. Protection and appearance/status are two important characteristics of the façade. The term social filtering is used in this study to mean protection and face or mask to mean appearance/status. The means which can be used for protection embrace a broad spectrum, of which a fence, the doorstep (threshold), the door and shutters are just some initial examples. The means which can be used to lend status to a house are just as diverse. It is impossible to make a strict distinction between the means of social filtering and those of the face or mask and they often fulfil both functions. The façade as social filter and as face or mask of the residential building is the starting point of this study. Both the roles, as social filter and face of the home, have undergone great change as a consequence of the accommodation of several homes in the one building. The history of homes in the Netherlands shows that the individual house has only been one of many dwelling possibilities since the nineteenth century ; the ‘stacking’ of homes on top of each other in larger buildings, described as residential building, became a necessity in the cities. This is why this study is focussed on the residential building and its façade in the city in the Netherlands. Two questions formed the starting point for this study: 1. How can information about the need for contact or isolation, and the need for status, be read from the exterior of a house? 2. What happens to the face and the social filter of a building when we no longer look at it as a house for just one social unit but as a residential building which accommodates several homes? The two questions resulted in an investigation into the aspects by which the social filter and the face of a façade can be read. Residential buildings designed as such to meet the demand in cities began to appear more often in the second half of the nineteenth century. Initially, they were cheap and hardly innovative. By the start of the twentieth century, the entrance to homes in the residential building, an important element of the social filter, had become a subject of study for architects and various solutions were developed. The appearance of the residential building showed, on the one hand, pragmatic approaches, but on the other, architects tried to develop a face or mask for this relatively new type of building. Throughout the twentieth century, the period covered by this study, the residential building and its façade have undergone great change. This change reflects the cultural, social, technical and economic factors which have had an effect on the design of the residential building and the significance of the façade with its social filter and its face or mask. Today, the façade of the residential building has reached a freedom which reflects the possibilities, the architect’s creative expression and the client’s commercial needs. The façade hardly contributes to the communication between life outside and the resident and his or her home inside. Social filtering, which often takes place in a dynamic way between the exterior and the interior, is still important, but now takes place to a large degree behind the façade. The face shown is neutral, if not anonymous, and hides the number of homes behind the screen. In order to follow the changes in the residential building and its façade through the twentieth century and to understand with what means architects have developed the façade in particular, the research question has been formulated as: What factors and architectonic means have been decisive in the Netherlands in the twentieth century for the façade of the residential building as an intermediary element (as face/mask and social filter) between the exterior and the interior? The aim of this study is to learn more about the factors which lead to the decisions about the design of a façade and to understand the architectonic means which are applied to make a façade readable. This study also has the aim of providing an analytical approach to looking at a façade and making a contribution to the design of buildings and a broader study of the relationship between buildings and their façades. The study is organised in a theoretical framework and the analysis of ten projects. The theoretical framework in respect of façade, face and mask (chapter 4), a historical context of residential construction (chapter 5), a context of the development of public, exterior living (chapter 6), and private, interior living (chapter 7) are included in the theoretical framework. The analysis of the ten projects is presented in chapter 8. The framework and the analysis form one whole. The analysis of the case studies demanded a method which would illustrate the façade as social filter and face or mask. In order to make the role of social filter more comprehensible, the transition from the public space in front of the main entrance to the entrance to the home has been illustrated by means of two isometric drawings. The public space of the steps from the doorstep or pavement to the private home is also documented in a diagram, and the architectonic resources which make up this transition are recorded with photos. For the analysis of the façade as a face, the parts of the human face which are easily included visually are used metaphorically. The eyes are openings, the mouth is an entrance or door, the nose is a vertical feature, the head shape of the face is the most easily read form of the building and the profile supports the information because it shows depth. Visually striking aspects of the face which protrude, recede, frame or divide can be translated in the façade as, for example, bay windows, balconies, beams, framing lintels or windowsills. Visually distinguishing lines of profiles can be seen in the form of balconies or, for instance, a switch in material. In order to use the metaphor of the human face as the foundation for an analysis in architecture, an analytical framework has been assembled. The Gestalt laws, applied to buildings by Niels Prak, demonstrate how we visually perceive the built environment. The head shape and horizontal and vertical parts and sections are perceived faster than free forms or a complex picture with a lot of different information. These laws justify the choice of the subjects for analysis which have been drawn in a reduced form. The subjects for analysis for the façade as face are: the head shape, the profile, the openings for light and for the entrance (door), visible constructional elements in the façade (horizontal and vertical), decorative parts, protruding and receding parts, material and colour. In the analysis, the sociocultural background of the project will be described, summarised as building assignment, and all the architectonic aspects will be shown which make up the social filter and appearance, summarised as building form. Façade definitions (chapter 4) The term façade means the vertical exterior of the building, just as the face practically vertical is. The roof is governed by its own principles and is not always a part of the façade unless it can be seen. The horizontal roof, like the crown of a head, cannot easily be seen. The term façade carries several meanings. The façade is something that is presented to its surroundings and that is why it is often associated with the face. The term façade (Latin facies = face) makes the connection with the metaphor of the face clear: the façade of the building is meant to be the presentable side which is shown to the public. The human face communicates non-verbally by means of expression. The façade does not have this movement and can only be called a face metaphorically. The façade can still show what happens behind it to a degree, however, what the building is for, for example. The façade can also exhibit an idea or represent an illusion; the façade is then a mask. The term garment is used for both the protective and aesthetic role of the façade. A garment keeps you warm and protects, but it can also be decorative and the status of the person wearing it can be clear if the code included in the decoration is understood. The façade therefore also fulfils this role as the conveyor of information. The degree to which the façade has a filter role is determined by the degree to which it allows things to pass though it: light, air and temperature but also people and animals. This ability to allow things to pass through it is dynamically regulated depending on the means used. Depending on the building’s spatial configuration, there may also be a front façade, rear façade or side façade. The historic context of the residential building (chapter 5) The urban house changed almost imperceptibly until the nineteenth century into a building which accommodated several homes. The construction of the residential building designed as such intensified in the second half of the century, however, when the increasing demand for housing meant that it was necessary to provide more options. The ‘stacking’ of homes in such a building meant another means of entering the building. The immediate entrance to the home increasingly withdrew from the street and communal entrances and stairwells appeared. The most important change from the individual house to the shared building was the entrance. Architects often lent expression the communal entrance, perhaps to help the resident and visitor become more familiar with its new communal aspect. Various changes to the residential building and its façade can be seen throughout the twentieth century. While architects like Hendrik P. Berlage and his followers in the first two decades enriched the façade with details and news ideas for communal entrances arose, functionalists like Willem van Tijen designed residential buildings in the thirties and during the post-war reconstruction which showed what their function was without any embellishment. Architects reacted to social, economic and technical factors. Where the first residential buildings consisted of six to eight homes per staircase per floor, the introduction of galleries and then, in the fifties, the lift, meant that many more homes could be accommodated. This was particularly the case in the sixties after the first wave of post-war reconstruction. The residential buildings were so big that it was barely possible to see the whole form. They were also a product of mass production. The seventies, with the focus on individuality and consultation, saw the production of homes shift towards small-scale neighbourhoods with façades which made small groups of homes readable. The last two decades of the twentieth century were characterised by more sober façades and larger residential buildings. The façades project neutrality and the anonymity of living in the town or city. The diversity of the façades and the choice of material have increased dramatically and are also used to express the luxury of living in the city. The façade and the public (chapter 6) The gradual transition from street to house in the town or city in the Netherlands has been present for centuries. The border between the two was vague, people worked both in front of, and in the house. An important change for living in the town or city was the disappearance of city walls and gates after 1874 as a consequence of the vestigingswet [‘Settlement Act’], which allowed non-residents into the city or town without checks, and when the front door was established as the border between the public and the private. The façade became a necessary border between the public and the private. The street lost its importance as public space for those living on it as traffic increased. The introduction of the residential building only increased the distance to the street. The anonymization of the street also played a large role throughout the whole of the twentieth century. The functionalists rejected the street and wanted to connect homes with recreation and green spaces. Urban blocks of buildings were opened up as was the layout of residential buildings. This resulted in residential buildings which had several façades which were visible to the public. In the seventies, some architects, like Herman Hertzberger, returned the street to the resident and a pedestrian friendly zone in front of homes (the woonerf) was created. The house façades on the residential areas allowed openness and space to be seen, fusing the public and the private. This approach was quickly followed by a reintroduction of a distance to the street. The last two decades of the twentieth century were characterised by a withdrawal of the social filter role to behind the façade. The street’s role as part of the home can only be found in very protected environments. The façade and private living (chapter 7) Private living was initially led by an increasing embarrassment and hygiene. The need to retreat further into the house gave rise to a more differentiated layout even in the traditional house and this can be read from the façade. In the second half of the nineteenth century, the privacy of the home was lost when it was housed with several others in the one building and by the internal entrance in a relatively open landing on the upper floors. The first two decades of the twentieth century saw various entrances which made privacy possible such as the entrance stairwell and the gallery. The homes received their own front doors with a hall behind them. At subsistence level, privacy was reduced to a very small space and this would only change after the Second World War; regulations for minimum surface areas in the fifties contributed to this. Economic growth in the sixties and seventies allowed a need for individual development and private space within the family. Increasing preferences for homes resulted in a greater diversity but also in neutral houses which could be adapted. The façade reflects this. Privacy at the end of the twentieth century meant freedom of choice. The residential building showed the consideration for this freedom in a neutral façade. The case studies (chapter 8) The case studies reflect the various phases of the changes in the residential building and its façade. The ten projects chosen can be found in the Dutch town or city and have all been designed as homes. The projects chosen are: • 1914 – The Hague portico Copernicuslaan, Den Haag, architect unknown • 1911-15 – Dwellings in the Indische Buurt, Amsterdam, architect H.P. Berlage • 1918-22 – Justus van Effen Complex, Rotterdam, architect M. Brinkman • 1925–26 – Residential building Oldenhoeck, Amsterdam, architect P.A. Warners • 1932–34 – Bergpolder Flat, Rotterdam, architect W. van Tijen • 1955-58 – Dwellings Pendrecht IV, Rotterdam, architects J. en L. de Jonge • 1962-68 – Dwellings Het Breed, Amsterdam, architect F. van Gool • 1969–76 – Dwellings Molenvliet, Papendrecht, architect F. van der Werff • 1978–82 – Dwellings Haarlemmer Houttuinen, Amsterdam, architect H. Hertzberger • 1994–98 – City block De Landtong, Rotterdam, architect CIE, F. van Dongen The first two cases just have six to eight homes per staircase per floor and their entrances are richly decorated while the Justus van Effencomplex and, in the sixties, Het Breed project with a gallery bring many more homes together and their entrances are less expressively designed. At the end of the twentieth century, the Landtong connects the homes visually with each other by means of an internal corridor with a void allowing the other floors to be seen. The expression of the collective and the individual through the century is very different; the home cannot always be read from the façade. Conclusion The most important conclusion from this research is that the social filter between the public and the private today often lies behind the screens, so that the transition between the public space and the façade is less gradual and the expressiveness of the façade is different and achieved by other means. The façade is more of a mask to protect the anonymous home than a face that exhibits it. The line between a façade as a face or a mask is not always clear, however, because the perspective of the person looking at it can change. A façade can create an illusion in the distance, but show the home from close by. This study demonstrates the development of the residential building and its façade in the Netherlands with the focus on their development in the twentieth century. The relationship of the façade with the immediate public space surrounding the home and the relationship of the façade with the private home have been important starting points for this study. It places the façade as an important element in protecting the home and as well as an expression of it. The study demonstrates a way of looking at the façade which is very important for design decisions for new construction but also for maintenance and conservation.

An examination of children's causal reasoning capacities and how those capacities serve as the foundation of their scientific thinking. Young children have remarkable capacities for causal reasoning, which are part of the foundation of their scientific thinking abilities. In Constructing Science, Deena Weisberg and David Sobel trace the ways that young children's sophisticated causal reasoning abilities combine with other cognitive, metacognitive, and social factors to develop into a more mature set of scientific thinking abilities. Conceptualizing scientific thinking as the suite of skills that allows people to generate hypotheses, solve problems, and explain aspects of the world, Weisberg and Sobel argue that understanding how this capacity develops can offer insights into how we can become a more scientifically literate society. Investigating the development of causal reasoning and how it sets the stage for scientific thinking in the elementary school years and beyond, Weisberg and Sobel outline a framework for understanding how children represent and learn causal knowledge and identify key variables that differ between causal reasoning and scientific thinking. They present empirical studies suggesting ways to bridge the gap between causal reasoning and scientific thinking, focusing on two factors: contextualization and metacognitive thinking abilities. Finally, they examine children's explicit understanding of such concepts as science, learning, play, and teaching.

AbstractAfter more than two (= industrial capitalism) to four (= mercantile and industrial capitalism combined) centuries of capitalism, the balance sheet is far from rosy, at least for those who, averse to ideology, are willing to take a sober and honest look at what capitalism has brought about.

This chapter provides an overview of the life of Bruce White. White was born into an all-white, postwar suburb of lawyers, doctors, and businessmen. White's rosy memories of a somewhat idyllic childhood are brief, ending abruptly when he was six or seven years old and sexually abused by older boys in the neighborhood. His traumatic experience became the foundational trauma of his addiction. The Bruce White story details the brutal intractability of addiction while showcasing that even the most depraved junkie can recover from the progressive, fatal disease. The chapter acknowledges how addiction saturated American society. It quotes White's statement of believing that anyone can get clean and sober if he can.