Artigos de revistas sobre o tema "Jewelry – Private collections"

The article deals with the question of exhibiting of jewelry art items of pre-Mongolian Russia in Russian museums. Public and private museums that were opening in the Russian Empire contributed to preservation of the cultural heritage of the country. When they were emerging, many private collectors donated part or all of their collections to state. This was especially promoted by opening of the Historical Museum in 1883 for the general public. Exhibits of public museum were replenished by the collections of Uvarovs, Kropotkins, Shcherbatovs, Golitsyns. The fate of collection of the outstanding collector M. Botkin is noteworthy. Masterpieces of jewelry art of ancient Russia may be exhibited in only a few museums in the country, including two sites in the Moscow Kremlin, which show such kind of items. Collection "Russian gold and silverware of beginning of XII-XVII centuries" is located in the exposition hall 1 of Armory Chamber. The glass case 2 presents gold and silver items, made by goldsmiths of Kiev, Chernigov, Ryazan, Suzdal, Novgorod. Museum affair after the October Revolution in the country was significantly reformed. Museums and collections of the palaces were declared as the national property. For registration, accounting and secure of all artistic and cultural treasures, the artistic and historical commissions and the State Museum Fund were created. Majority private collections were nationalized. Russian Museum, located in the Mikhailovsky Palace in Sankt Petersburg has one of the largest collections of pre-Mongolian Russian treasures and individual items of jewelry art of X-XIII centuries. Thousands of works of jewelry art of ancient Russia are collected in the expositions and funds of Russian museums. Today collections of not only central but also local museums are multiplied, facilities and exhibitions are quality improving.

Research objectives: To analyze the materials of the most famous hoards of the Golden Horde era found on the territory of the Bulgharian ulus on the basis of a comprehensive analysis. To identify the coincidence of jewelry that they contained. To determine the similarities and differences with other finds from this territory, as well as to identify the possible place of their manufacture and their connection with archaeological sites. Research materials: Preserved jewelry from the Karasham and Juketau hoards. The former was found in 1950 near the village of Karasham in the Zelenodolsk district of the Republic of Tatarstan. The latter was found in 1924 on the outskirts of the city of Chistopol in the Chistopol district of Tatarstan, next to the medieval settlement – the remnants of the Bulgharian city of Juketau which existed from the tenth to early fifteenth centuries. In addition to jewelry, both hoards contained silver and gold coins which made it possible to determine the time when these hoards were buried. The hoard near the village of Karasham was deposited at the beginning of the fifteenth century. The Juketau hoard was deposited in the 1350–70s. Both hoards are not fully preserved. The author carefully studied jewelry from the hoards that are now stored in the National Museum of the Republic of Tatarstan, as well as in the State Hermitage. Items from other hoards of this time found in the territory of Tatarstan, as well as published materials from private collections, are also involved in the study. Results and novelty of the research: The author investigated, for the first time ever, the surviving part of the Karasham hoard, including jewelry that was not considered in the studies of other scholars. A comparative analysis of the jewelry was carried out. To find out the distribution of such jewelry, a search was made for analogies and similar jewelry that was found in other hoards as well as among the archaeological materials from settlements of the Golden Horde era. It was found that the most significant part of the Karasham hoard’s jewelry was made in the jewelry workshops of the city of Bolghar, and partly by the jewelers from other craft centers in the Golden Horde. It should be noted that jewelry was made in both gold and silver in Bolghar. The most popular products were bracelets with images of the lion’s muzzle on the ends of objects, as well as bracelets with stylized images made using niello. Such bracelets were found both in the hoard from Karasham and from Juketau. The existence of jewelry workshops in Bolghar is also confirmed by archaeological excavations. In the second half of twentieth and at the beginning of the twenty-first centuries, archaeologists found several jewelry workshops in the central part of the city dated to the fourteenth century. Crucibles, jewelry tools, and more than hundred foundry molds were discovered here. The author assumes that a famous jeweler from Bolghar named Shagidulla worked here at the beginning of fourteenth century. It was also found that the hoard from Karasham was most likely collected by several generations of the same family. In contrast, the hoard from Juketau was a personal treasure.

Статья посвящена меднолитой пластике XVIII – начала XX века. Предметом исследования является художественная эмаль главных центров старообрядческого искусства. Источниковой базой выступила коллекция Государственного художественного музея Алтайского края. В качестве вспомогательного материала также привлечены произведения из частных коллекций. В исследовании использованы сравнительно-исторический и сравнительно-стилистический методы. Описаны отличия старообрядческой эмали от древнерусской. Установлено влияние некоторых тенденций ювелирного искусства второй половины XIX века на эмальерное дело московских старообрядческих меднолитейных мастерских. The article is devoted to copper-cast plastic of the 18th – early 20th centuries. The subject of the study is the artistic enamel of the main centers of Old Believer art. The source base was the collection of the State Art Museum of the Altai Krai. Works from private collections are also used as auxiliary material. Comparative-historical and comparative-stylistic methods were used. The differences between the Old Believers' enamel and the Old Russian are described. The influence of some trends in jewelry art of the second half of the 19th century on the enamel work of Moscow Old Believers copper foundries has been established.

Twenty six precious items from the Varvara and Bohdan Khanenko collection discovered in the Oguz kurgan (Lower Dnieper region) are analyzed in the paper. These items were found by peasants in the fall of 1901 in the destroyed part of the kurgan and ended up to the hands of antiquities traders. Now these items are kept in the Museum of Historical Treasures of Ukraine. The study of objects made us possible to conclude that only decorative items for horse equipment were of unconditional origin from Oguz kurgan (fig. 1—2). These items complement the finds that are kept in the State Hermitage (Sankt-Peterburg, Russia) and also come from the Oguz kurgan. Together they are four completes sets of decoration of horse bridle of so-called Chertomlyk type. Some round plaques (fig. 1: 4—5) were used for saddles decoration. The total number of such plaques indicates that 9 or 10 saddles were found. This determines the total number of horses buried in the Central tomb of the Oguz kurgan. The cone (fig. 2) served as a decoration for the horse’s neck. Five more such items are kept in the State Hermitage. They were found only in the Oguz kurgan. The significant part of other items (upholstery of a wooden bowl, jewelry, appliquйs (fig. 3) were probably found by peasants in other steppe kurgans which were robbed by diggers at the beginning of the 20th century. Two small appliquйs (fig. 3: 5—6) probably come from the necropolises of ancient Greek colonies, possibly Chersonesos. Unfortunately, almost all items from old or modern private collections lose the historical context in which they were found. Probably, some items (fig. 1: 6—9; 3: 3—4, 7—8) were «restored» by antiquities dealers and, as a result, lost their authentic appearance.

Abstract This article focuses on jewellery made by the Kuchi people, which is still one of the marginalized topics. It presents the best-known types of Kuchi jewellery, the way it is worn, the most commonly used materials for its production and the most utilized jewellery techniques. With respect to the date of origin, the focus is mainly on the second half of the 20th century, but also on the present, with regard to the growing trade in these types of jewellery. For a more comprehensive illustration of design, material and jewellery techniques, a collection of jewellery from the 20th century and the present from the collections of the Náprstek Museum in Prague and a private collection was examined. The X-ray fluorescence (XRF) spectroscopy was used to find out the elemental composition of the materials used in the making of the jewellery.

Women's necklace-filigree with patina, of unknown age, owned by a private collection was cleaned with a Nd:YAG laser. Laser parameters were varied during the experiment; wavelength, fluence and number of pulses, ie irradiation time. The influence of the mentioned factors on the efficiency of laser cleaning of the patina was investigated. The ablation results were examined by optical microscopy. The test results showed that the most efficient cleaning is with l = 1064 nm. The choice of fluence has the greatest influence on the efficiency of laser cleaning, for the mentioned subject, and the influence of the number of laser pulses has a smaller influence.

Jaroslav Kodejš senior (* September 9, 1938) belongs to the pioneers of Czech designer jewellery with the use of glass. For more than 50 years, he has been ranked among the world‘s recognized artists in this field, and his works are represented in the world‘s best public and private collections. He based his work on the traditional production of glass jewellery components from wound glass over atorch. He experienced his first successes at domestic and international exhibitions in the mid-1960s. From the position of designer for the Jablonec jewellery industry, he moved only to his own free creation since the end of the 1960s. Since then he has created for example dozens pieces of jewellery, drawings and also paintings. He was successful thanks to his own diligence and creativity, unceasing life optimism and enthusiasm. In the individual stages of his jewellery work, he almost always used coiled or fused glass in combination with silver and gold. He always respected glass in its unique properties, which he supported with the morphology of jewellery, which he still deals with despite his age.

The article is devoted to the only private museum of Florentine mosaics in Russia by B. and L. Oshkukovs. The basis of its funds was the personal collection of the founders. It represents all the main forms of mosaics using: from easel decorative panels to inserts in jewelry. The museum's exposition reflects the achievements of all the major art centers of Florentine mosaics in Russia — the works of stone-cutting masters from Khabarovsk, Ufa, St. Petersburg, Moscow, etc. The greatest artistic value is represented by mosaic paintings made both according to well-known pictorial originals, and according to the authors’ sketches. The principal materials for such mosaics are jaspers and other types of hard stones. A separate group in the museum collection consists of mosaic panels made according to the projects of B.L. Oshkukov, inspired by the works of masters of the Russian Avant-garde. On the basis of an interdisciplinary approach, including an art history, cultural and mineralogical analysis of the works of stone-cutting art, the author identifies the features of the main regional centers and kinds of Florentine mosaics. Статья посвящена единственному в России частному музею флорентийской мозаики Б. и Л. Ошкуковых. В основу данного собрания была положена личная коллекция основателей, в которой представлены все основные формы использования мозаик: от станкового декоративного панно до вставок в ювелирные украшения. В экспозиции музея отражены достижения всех основных художественных центров флорентийской мозаики в России — работы мастеров-камнерезов Хабаровска, Уфы, Санкт-Петербурга, Москвы и других городов. Наибольшую художественную ценность представляют мозаичные картины, выполненные как по общеизвестным живописным оригиналам, так и по авторским эскизам из яшм и других видов твердых камней. Отдельную группу в музейном собрании составляют мозаичные панно, выполненные по проектам Б.Л. Ошкукова, вдохновленного работами мастеров русского авангарда. На основе междисциплинарного подхода, включающего искусствоведческий, культурологический и минералогический анализ произведений камнерезного искусства, автор выделяет особенности основных региональных центров и форм флорентийской мозаики.

The current state and tendencies of development of hoarding investment by legal entities and the population of the country are considered in the article. It is especially important that these investments are available not only for legal entities, but also for the population, where there is a clear relationship between changes in the share of savings hoarded by private individuals and fluctuations in uncertainty, and growing investment and hoarding demand are the consequences of the financial crisis. inflation expectations, geopolitical instability and growing needs for diversification. On the basis of economic-theoretical analysis the essence, character of behavior, types and conditions of realization of hoarding investments (TI) in crisis economy are analyzed. The concept of "hoarding investments" has been clarified. The main subjects and objects of hoarding investments are identified. The objects of hoarding investments are bank metals (and coins from them) precious stones, jewelry, art objects and antiques. Available types, modern tendencies, methods and conditions of realization of hoarding investments are investigated. Coins issued by both Ukrainian and foreign banks were found to be numismatically valuable. However, foreign coins entering our market are usually issued in large numbers and, accordingly, have less numismatic value. In the United States, consumption of diamond jewelry is constantly growing due to the combination of domestic market unsaturation with well-established lending mechanisms, Europe is characterized by stagnation in the consumption of diamond jewelry, and for some countries, such as Germany, even a reduction. Hoarding investments in collectibles are specific in nature, due to their complexity, the relatively narrow market for each type of collection, the need for special knowledge and skills for proper investment. Keywords: hoarding investments, banking institutions, crisis economy, risk diversification, coins, precious stones, collectibles, profitability, interest.

В статье рассматриваются описи приданого второй половины XVII в., выявленные в коллекции документов столбцового делопроизводства Тверского государственного объединенного музея. Документы относятся к частным архивам семейств служилых людей, территориально связанных в Верхневолжьем и Подмосковьем: Теприцких, Скорятиных, Киреевских, Суворовых. Описи выявлены в составе сговорных и рядных грамот, и как самостоятельные документы. Перечни движимого имущества включают украшения и предметы одежды, характеризующие владельцев как сравнительно обеспеченных людей. Это обязательные элементы гардероба: меховые шубы и шапки. Более вариативным является набор остальных вещей: охабней, ферязей, кафтанов, однорядок, телогрей. В обязательный набор ювелирных изделий входили предметы личного благочестия: кресты с цепочками, а также серьги и перстни. Описи приданого отражают характерные явления моды последней четверти XVII в. Источники демонстрируют высокую ценность предметов одежды и украшений в материальном обиходе провинциального дворянства конца XVII в., вне зависимости от материальной стоимости изделий, так как в них наряду с престижными дорогими вещами включались и детально описывались и предметы менее ценные, изготовленные из недорогих материалов. The article is devoted to the records of the dowry of the second half of the 17th century, revealed in the collection of documents of the column office work ( stolbtsy ) of the Tver State Joint Museum (TSJM), No. 1431. The documents relate to private archives of families of service class, geographically connected with Upper Volga region (Tverskoi, Jarovskii, Uglichskii, Bezhetskii, Kashinskii uezds, etc.) and Moscow region (Dmitrovskii uezd): Tepritskiуe, Skoryatny, Kireevsky, Suvorov. The lists are revealed both as part of collusion and contract records, and as independent documents. Lists of movable property include decorations and garments characterizing owners as comparatively well-off people. These are the mandatory elements of the wardrobe: fur coats and caps. More variable is the set of other things: okhaben’, feras, kaftan, odnoryadka, telogreia . The mandatory set of jewelry included items of personal piety: crosses with chains, as well as earrings and finger rings. The descriptions of the dowry reflect the characteristics of fashion of the last quarter of the 17th century. The sources demonstrate the high value of clothing and jewelry in the material environment of the provincial nobility of the late 17th century, regardless of the cost of the things. Along with prestigious expensive things, items of less valuable, made from inexpensive materials were included and described in detail.

Gemology and jewelry training are at the core of what the Gems and Jewelry Training and ManufacturingCentre in Baluchistan’s mineral rich province in the southwest of Pakistan does and stands for. Widespread poverty,illiteracy and resistance against foreign influence set a stark contrast to what is happening within the circuit of artisanswhose surface this descriptive social analysis is an attempt to enter more deeply into this world hidden from the outsidegaze. For this study, mixed research methods were used like participant observations, focused group discussions andhousehold questionnaires for a tool for data collection. Contradicting, what one may expect the data revealed that thevast majority (95 percent) of this study participant were young and educated. In addition, 55 percent of their incomecomes from applying the acquired specialized knowledge and skills. On average, they saved Pakistani Rupees266,311/- a year, which is a commendable amount considering the local circumstances. Nearly all of the respondentshad received practice-oriented education from the Gems and Jewelry Training and Manufacturing Centre. Faceting is,besides knowing the qualities of precious and semi-precious stones, a core focus of the training program. Theprogram’s alumni had originally learnt of the Centre’s existence through sign boards, the Internet, and print media.Their savings, interestingly, are spent on education, with their children going to private schools. About two thirds of theinterviewed men and women confirmed that on completion of their training, they purchased raw materials/gems. Theyalso bought mobile phones and motorbikes, which they considered to be part of the ‘tool kit’ required to be successfulin their business. Importantly, about half of the respondents regretted not having been able to set up their own business,partly because they lacked the requisite business skills. Hence, based on this field-based survey, we a comprehensivestudy program is required at the college-level that combines gemology, gem cutting and faceting and fine and fashionjewelry, with business administration and marketing. Ideally, this would be carried out in collaboration withprofessional schools and colleges from China, The United Arab Emirates, and Thailand in order to give greaterimportance to this sector with its high development potential.

Gemology and jewelry training are at the core of what the Gems and Jewelry Training and ManufacturingCentre in Baluchistan’s mineral rich province in the southwest of Pakistan does and stands for. Widespread poverty,illiteracy and resistance against foreign influence set a stark contrast to what is happening within the circuit of artisanswhose surface this descriptive social analysis is an attempt to enter more deeply into this world hidden from the outsidegaze. For this study, mixed research methods were used like participant observations, focused group discussions andhousehold questionnaires for a tool for data collection. Contradicting, what one may expect the data revealed that thevast majority (95 percent) of this study participant were young and educated. In addition, 55 percent of their incomecomes from applying the acquired specialized knowledge and skills. On average, they saved Pakistani Rupees266,311/- a year, which is a commendable amount considering the local circumstances. Nearly all of the respondentshad received practice-oriented education from the Gems and Jewelry Training and Manufacturing Centre. Faceting is,besides knowing the qualities of precious and semi-precious stones, a core focus of the training program. Theprogram’s alumni had originally learnt of the Centre’s existence through sign boards, the Internet, and print media.Their savings, interestingly, are spent on education, with their children going to private schools. About two thirds of theinterviewed men and women confirmed that on completion of their training, they purchased raw materials/gems. Theyalso bought mobile phones and motorbikes, which they considered to be part of the ‘tool kit’ required to be successfulin their business. Importantly, about half of the respondents regretted not having been able to set up their own business,partly because they lacked the requisite business skills. Hence, based on this field-based survey, we a comprehensivestudy program is required at the college-level that combines gemology, gem cutting and faceting and fine and fashionjewelry, with business administration and marketing. Ideally, this would be carried out in collaboration withprofessional schools and colleges from China, The United Arab Emirates, and Thailand in order to give greaterimportance to this sector with its high development potential.

Abstract The private diaries written between 1898 and 1901 by the French jeweler, art collector, and bibliophile Henri Vever (1854-1942) provide fresh evidence about how important late-nineteenth century esthetic ‘languages’ (japonisme, Symbolism, Art Nouveau) were appropriated by artists committed to renewing the decorative arts; the diaries also address the meaning and status of books. For Vever, his extensive collection of Japanese pattern albums served, above all, a utilitarian function, as design primers and sources of information about printing and engraving techniques for craft modernizers. At the same time, included in the physical space of his ‘Japanese library’ and in line with Symbolist esthetics, Japanese books were, to Vever, suggestive bibelots, whose evocative powers were enhanced through inclusion in harmonious decors. Vever’s experiments in Art Nouveau book design, finally, reveal his additional conception of the book as both surface to be decorated and space of artistic collaboration underscoring the equality of all arts.

Digital radiography and computed tomography are two fundamental diagnostic techniques in different fields of research, including cultural heritage studies and gemmology. The application of these physical methods of investigation has gained considerable importance as they are non-invasive techniques. The presented work has been mainly focused on micro-tomographic analysis. The project is concerned with the study of natural and cultivated pearls in order to develop an investigation methodology for the analysis, distinction and characterization of different types of pearls, some of them belonging to different precious jewels from private collections. The investigations, carried out on a total of 22 heterogeneous types of pearls, allowed us to establish their origin (natural or cultivated) or to confirm/deny if a hypothesis was already expressed, and as well to highlight the cultivation methodology used case by case. Furthermore, it was possible to ascertain how large and varied the market for cultured pearls is nowadays and how difficult is, in some particular cases, to ascertain their attribution to a certain origin.

Known primarily as a jeweler in the vanguard of Art nouveau and an important collector of the Impressionists, Henri Vever (1854-1942), as his private diaries make clear, was also a foremost connoisseur of Japanese art in fin-de-siècle France, “the most passionate of all,” to Edmond de Goncourt. Well-connected to networks of dealers, museum officials, publications, and sites of sociability such as the dîners japonais, Vever figures among the most prominent members of a second wave of Parisian enthusiasts of Japanese art, active from approximately 1880 to 1900. Under the tutelage of the Japanese art dealers Hayashi Tadamasa and Siegfried Bing and the fine art printer Charles Gillot, Vever constituted a renowned collection of not only Japanese prints but also other art objects previously disregarded by collectors. Vever’s multiple and intersecting identities as luxury craft producer, leading member of professional associations, art historian and critic, collector, and Republican mayor placed him at the forefront of efforts to legitimate the collection and appreciation of Japanese art in France. His diaries also underscore the connections between the worlds of Japanese and Impressionist art collectors, and between proponents of japonisme and Art nouveau. Further, they highlight the importance of the 1900 Paris Exposition universelle as a triumphant moment for japonisme in France, just as they signal the shift on the part of some japonisants, at the same time, from Japanese art towards the decorative arts of the Islamic world.

The Qur'an has properly regulated the way women dress to cover their nakedness. In fact, the directives are specifically so that women are able to maintain their honor. Whether we realize it or not, as time goes by, covering the genitals becomes more varied and diverse. This causes the awareness of Muslim women to wear the hijab properly decreases. One example is by wearing the hijab to follow the trend to make it look contemporary. The purpose of this research is to provide Muslim women with an understanding of how to properly cover their genitals based on the Qur'an and its interpretations. This type of research is qualitative with data collection through library research. Then it is developed with descriptive analysis to further explain a meaning. The results of this study are that there are 3 verses of the Qur'an which explain the covering of the genitals, including lafadz khimar (QS. An-Nur verse 31), hijab (QS. Al-Ahzab verse 53) and lafadz jilbab (QS. Al-Ahzab -Ahzab verse 59). Khimar, as an order, guards his eyes and private parts, nor does he reveal his jewelery (beauty of the body). Lafadz Hijab is intended to cover the entire body so that it is not visible from the body except for the eyes. While lafadz hijab is that it must cover the entire body, including the face, palms, voice and body shape should not be seen.

AbstractWe describe a remarkable artifact discovered during our 2015 excavations at the Maya site of Nim li Punit, Belize. It is a T-shaped jade pectoral worn on the chest by ancient Maya kings during rites in which they scattered copal incense (Figure 1). These rituals are described or depicted on six carved stone monuments (stelae) at the site. What is more, two stelae at the site depict rulers wearing the pectoral. The reverse side of the jade contains a long historical hieroglyphic text. Had the piece been recovered by illegal means and ended up in a private collection, much of the text would make little sense and it could not possibly be ascribed to Nim li Punit. The priceless worth of the Nim li Punit pectoral, therefore, lies not only in its hieroglyphic inscription but also in its known archaeological context and contemporary images of its use. We briefly describe that context and present a translation of the important text on the jade pectoral, which we interpret as a “wind jewel.”

The Portuguese Diamond is the largest faceted diamond in the National Gem Collection of the National Museum of Natural History, Washington DC; with an emerald cut at 127.01 carats is almost a perfect octagonal gem. Its name was given by the last private owner, Harry Winston, on the basis that once it had belonged to the Portuguese crown jewels. Yet, the mystery follows in that several authors say, with greater emphasis nowadays, that the name “The Portuguese Diamond” came from a mistaken legend. The first goal of this paper is to show that there is strong iconic evidence that the diamond belonged to King José I of Portugal in the eighteenth century and, presumably, with a lesser degree of certainty, to other following sovereigns of the house of Bragança (Braganza). Subsidiary goals are the disambiguation with some other Brazilian precious stones mentioned in news or other sources. One will also look for establishing a plausible documented origin of the Portuguese Diamond, then giving some possible clues on the fate and oblivion of the diamond for about a century, until its resurgence in the USA. Last, it is sketched a framework of its semiotic convolution as an object of desire and an index of power, from the Portuguese royalty into the veil of secrecy, and then to the American capitalist democracy.

In the article the Book of Paroemias issued in al-Shuwayr in AD 1775, purchased in Beirut in December of 2005 and kept now in a private collection of St. Petersburg is examined in detail. The author gave a full description of that copy from the point of view of its design, state of preservation and also of its contents. He traced the foundation of a monastery of St. John the Baptist in al-Shuwayr on the turn of the 17th – 18th century AD, its turning into a stronghold of the Uniates separated from the Antiochian Orthodox Church, who adopted the Charter of St. Basil the Great, and the formation of a printing house in Arabic script upon it that published its first book in AD 1734 and existed till AD 1899. It is noted that one of the peculiarites of its book production consisted in the elegance of its script fabricated by Abdallâh b. Zhâhir, hereditary jeweler and its creater. It is established that the Book of Paroemias published in al-Shuwayr in AD 1775 was mentioned in the itineraries of C.-Fr. Volney and was thoroughly described in the Bibliotheca Arabica by Ch. Fr. de Schnurrer. The correspondence of that liturgical book to the Orthodox canon is demonstrated. Besides that, the attention is paid to the fact that the Uniated, who did not want to break with the East Christian tradition, spread among their flock the Roman Catholic theological doctrine through different ways, including books printed in al-Shuwayr.

The nineteenth and the early twentieth centuries in the history of European decorative art are marked by a new rise in interest in the art of the Far East. In contrast to the previous century, at the new stage, this interest is characterised by more interesting and deeper interpretations of exotic artistic traditions. The reasons for the emergence of a new wave of Chinese style and, later, Japanism were several factors, among which the authors single out the institute of world exhibitions and the formation of museum and private collections. This article considers several cases demonstrating the important role of publication activity in the dissemination of oriental motifs and plots in the decorative art of Western Europe, Russia, and the Urals. Referring to works of European jewelers, Russian stonecutters, and Ural iron foundry workers, the authors reveal the main opportunities provided by the study and analysis of publications of an artistic, reference, and academic nature from between the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. The article examines European print publications as direct and possible sources of oriental plots, which, in addition, make it possible to clarify the attribution of individual works and form an understanding of the mechanisms of integration of exotic motifs into traditional types of decorative art in the Urals. The analysis of publication activity, as well as of specific works of European and Russian masters, not only made it possible to demonstrate the role of publications of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries in disseminating information about exotic artistic traditions. The examples considered convincingly prove the need to comprehend the decorative and applied art of Russia in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries as part of the European art market, and once again confirm the involvement of the Ural art industry in the current stylistic agenda.

Abstract The current location and curatorial display at the British Museum of a Hellenistic bronze head of the goddess Anahita in the guise of Aphrodite, found at Satala (Asia Minor), reveal little of the importance ascribed to it at the time of its acquisition, or of the complex route by which the head came to form part of the museum’s collection. Detailed examination of archival documentation relating to this acquisition shows how, despite nineteenth-century Ottoman and Italian legislation in relation to antiquities, this head and its accompanying bronze hand were found in the province of Armenia, sold by an Ottoman diplomat to a private collector in Rome and used to secure the sale of a collection of jewellery to the British Museum. The journey of the head illustrates the importance of diplomatic channels, the workings of the nineteenth-century European trade in art and antiquities and how museums, diplomats and collectors were able to assemble collections.

If the home is traditionally considered to be a space of safety associated with the warm and cosy feeling of the familial hearth, it is also continuously portrayed as a space under threat from the outside from which we must secure ourselves and our families. Securing the home entails a series of material, discursive and performative strategies, a host of precautionary measures aimed at regulating and ultimately producing security. When I was eleven my family returned home from the local fruit markets to find our house had been ransacked. Clothes were strewn across the floor, electrical appliances were missing and my parents’ collection of jewellery – wedding rings and heirlooms – had been stolen. Few things remained untouched and the very thought of someone else’s hands going through our personal belongings made our home feel tainted. My parents were understandably distraught. As Filipino immigrants to Australia the heirlooms were not only expensive assets from both sides of my family, but also signifiers of our homeland. Added to their despair was the fact that this was our first house – we had rented prior to that. During the police interviews, we discovered that our area, Sydney’s Western suburbs, was considered ‘high-risk’ and we were advised to install security. In their panic my parents began securing their home. Grills were installed on every window. Each external wooden door was reinforced by a metal security door. Movement detectors were installed at the front of the house, which were set to blind intruders with floodlights. Even if an intruder could enter the back through a window a metal grill security door was waiting between the backroom and the kitchen to stop them from getting to our bedrooms. In short, through a series of transformations our house was made into a residential fortress. Yet home security had its own dangers. A series of rules and regulations were drilled into me ‘in case of an emergency’: know where your keys are in case of a fire so that you can get out; remember the phone numbers for an emergency and the work numbers of your parents; never let a stranger into the house; and if you need to speak to a stranger only open the inside door but leave the security screen locked. Thus, for my Filipino-migrant family in the 1990s, a whole series of defensive behaviours and preventative strategies were produced and disseminated inside and around the home to regulate security risks. Such “local knowledges” were used to reinforce the architectural manifestations of security at the same time that they were a response to the invasion of security systems into our house that created a new set of potential dangers. This article highlights “the interplay of material and symbolic geographies of home” (Blunt and Varley 4), focusing on the relation between urban fears circulating around and within the home and the spatial practices used to negotiate such fears. In exploring home security systems it extends the exemplary analysis of home technologies already begun in Lynn Spigel’s reading of the ‘smart home’ (381-408). In a similar vein, David Morley’s analysis of mediated domesticity shows how communications technology has reconfigured the inside and outside to the extent that television actually challenges the physical boundary that “protects the privacy and solidarity of the home from the flux and threat of the outside world” (87). Television here serves as a passage in which the threat of the outside is reframed as news or entertainment for family viewing. I take this as a point of departure to consider the ways that this mediated fear unfolds in the technology of our homes. Following Brian Massumi, I read the home as “a node in a circulatory network of many dimensions (each corresponding to a technology of transmission)” (85). For Massumi, the home is an event-space at the crossroads of media technologies and political technologies. “In spite of the locks on the door, the event-space of the home must be seen as one characterized by a very loose regime of passage” (85). The ‘locked door’ is not only a boundary marker that defines the inside from the outside but another technology that leads us outside the home into other domains of inquiry: the proliferation of security technologies and the mundane, fearful intimacies of the home. In this context, we should heed Iris Marion Young’s injunction to feminist critics that the home does provide some positives including a sense of privacy and the space to build relationships and identities. Yet, as Colomina argues, the traditional domestic ideal “can only be produced by engaging the home in combat” (20). If, as Colomina’s comment suggests, ontological security is at least partially dependent on physical security, then this article explores the ontological effects of our home security systems. Houses at War: Targeting the Family As Beatriz Colomina reminds us, in times of war we leave our homelands to do battle on the front line, but battle lines are also being drawn in our homes. Drawing inspiration from Virilio’s claim that contemporary war takes place without fighting, Colomina’s article ‘Domesticity at War’ contemplates the domestic interior as a “battlefield” (15). The house, she writes, is “a mechanism within a war where the differences between defense [sic] and attack have become blurred” (17). According to the Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999 report conducted by the Australian Bureau of Statistics, 47% of NSW dwellings were ‘secure’ (meaning that they either had a burglar alarm, or all entry points were secured or they were inside a security block) while only 9% of NSW households had no home security devices present (Smith 3). In a similar report for Western Australia conducted in October 2004, an estimated 71% of WA households had window security of some sort (screens, locks or shutters) while 67% had deadlocks on at least one external door (4). An estimated 27% had a security alarm installed while almost half (49%) had sensor lights (Hubbard 4-5). This growing sense of insecurity means big business for those selling security products and services. By the end of June 1999, there were 1,714 businesses in Australia’s security services industry generating $1,395 million of income during 1998-99 financial year (McLennan 3; see also Macken). This survey did not include locksmith services or the companies dealing with alarm manufacturing, wholesaling or installing. While Colomina’s article focuses on the “war with weather” and the attempts to control environmental conditions inside the home through what she calls “counterdomesticity” (20), her conceptualisation of the house as a “military weapon” (17) provides a useful tool for thinking the relation between the home, architecture and security. Conceiving of the house as a military weapon might seem like a stretch, but we should recall that the rhetoric of war has already leaked into the everyday. One hears of the ‘war on drugs’ and the ‘war on crime’ in the media. ‘War’ is the everyday condition of our urban jungles (see also Diken and Lausten) and in order to survive, let alone feel secure, one must be able to defend one’s family and home. Take, for example, Signal Security’s website. One finds a panel on the left-hand side of the screen to all webpages devoted to “Residential Products”. Two circular images are used in the panel with one photograph overlapping the other. In the top circle, a white nuclear family (stereotypical mum, dad and two kids), dressed in pristine white clothing bare their white teeth to the internet surfer. Underneath this photo is another photograph in which an arm clad in a black leather jacket emerges through a smashed window. In the foreground a black-gloved hand manipulates a lock, while a black balaclava masks an unrecognisable face through the broken glass. The effect of their proximity produces a violent juxtaposition in which the burglar visually intrudes on the family’s domestic bliss. The panel stages a struggle between white and black, good and bad, family and individual, security and insecurity, recognisability and unidentifiability. It thus codifies the loving, knowable family as the domestic space of security against the selfish, unidentifiable intruder (presumed not to have a family) as the primary reason for insecurity in the family home – and no doubt to inspire the consumption of security products. Advertisements of security products thus articulate the family home as a fragile innocence constantly vulnerable from the outside. From a feminist perspective, this image of the family goes against the findings of the National Homicide Monitoring Program, which shows that 57% of the women killed in Australia between 2004 and 2005 were killed by an intimate partner while 17% were killed by a family member (Mouzos and Houliaras 20). If, on the one hand, the family home is targeted by criminals, on the other, it has emerged as a primary site for security advertising eager to exploit the growing sense of insecurity – the family as a target market. The military concepts of ‘target’ and ‘targeting’ have shifted into the benign discourse of strategic advertising. As Dora Epstein writes, “We arm our buildings to arm ourselves from the intrusion of a public fluidity, and thus our buildings, our architectures of fortification, send a very clear message: ‘avoid this place or protect yourself’” (1997: 139). Epstein’s reference to ‘architectures of fortification’ reminds us that the desire to create security through the built environment has a long history. Nan Ellin has argued that fear’s physical manifestation can be found in the formation of towns from antiquity to the Renaissance. In this sense, towns and cities are always already a response to the fear of foreign invaders (Ellin 13; see also Diken and Lausten 291). This fear of the outsider is most obviously manifested in the creation of physical walls. Yet fortification is also an effect of spatial allusions produced by the configuration of space, as exemplified in Fiske, Hodge and Turner’s semiotic reading of a suburban Australian display home without a fence. While the lack of a fence might suggest openness, they suggest that the manicured lawn is flat so “that eyes can pass easily over it – and smooth – so that feet will not presume to” (30). Since the front garden is best viewed from the street it is clearly a message for the outside, but it also signifies “private property” (30). Space is both organised and lived, in such a way that it becomes a medium of communication to passers-by and would-be intruders. What emerges in this semiotic reading is a way of thinking about space as defensible, as organised in a way that space can begin to defend itself. The Problematic of Defensible Space The incorporation of military architecture into civil architecture is most evident in home security. By security I mean the material systems (from locks to electronic alarms) and precautionary practices (locking the door) used to protect spaces, both of which are enabled by a way of imagining space in terms of risk and vulnerability. I read Oscar Newman’s 1972 Defensible Space as outlining the problematic of spatial security. Indeed, it was around that period that the problematic of crime prevention through urban design received increasing attention in Western architectural discourse (see Jeffery). Newman’s book examines how spaces can be used to reinforce human control over residential environments, producing what he calls ‘defensible space.’ In Newman’s definition, defensible space is a model for residential environments which inhibits crime by creating the physical expression of a social fabric that defends itself. All the different elements which combine to make a defensible space have a common goal – an environment in which latent territoriality and sense of community in the inhabitants can be translated into responsibility for ensuring a safe, productive, and well-maintained living space (3). Through clever design space begins to defend itself. I read Newman’s book as presenting the contemporary problematic of spatialised security: how to structure space so as to increase control; how to organise architecture so as to foster territorialism; how to encourage territorial control through amplifying surveillance. The production of defensible space entails moving away from what he calls the ‘compositional approach’ to architecture, which sees buildings as separate from their environments, and the ‘organic approach’ to architecture, in which the building and its grounds are organically interrelated (Newman 60). In this approach Newman proposes a number of changes to space: firstly, spaces need to be multiplied (one no longer has a simple public/private binary, but also semi-private and semi-public spaces); secondly, these spaces must be hierarchised (moving from public to semi-public to semi-private to private); thirdly, within this hierarchy spaces can also be striated using symbolic or material boundaries between the different types of spaces. Furthermore, spaces must be designed to increase surveillance: use smaller corridors serving smaller sets of families (69-71); incorporate amenities in “defined zones of influence” (70); use L-shaped buildings as opposed to rectangles (84); use windows on the sides of buildings to reveal the fire escape from outside (90). As he puts it, the subdivision of housing projects into “small, recognisable and comprehensible-at-a-glance enclaves is a further contributor to improving the visual surveillance mechanism” (1000). Finally, Newman lays out the principle of spatial juxtaposition: consider the building/street interface (positioning of doors and windows to maximise surveillance); consider building/building interface (e.g. build residential apartments next to ‘safer’ commercial, industrial, institutional and entertainment facilities) (109-12). In short, Newman’s book effectively redefines residential space in terms of territorial zones of control. Such zones of influence are the products of the interaction between architectural forms and environment, which are not reducible to the intent of the architect (68). Thus, in attempting to respond to the exigencies of the moment – the problem of urban crime, the cost of housing – Newman maps out residential space in what Foucault might have called a ‘micro-physics of power’. During the mid-1970s through to the 1980s a number of publications aimed at the average householder are printed in the UK and Australia. Apart from trade publishing (Bunting), The UK Design Council released two small publications (Barty, White and Burall; Design Council) while in Australia the Department of Housing and Construction released a home safety publication, which contained a small section on security, and the Australian Institute of Criminology published a small volume entitled Designing out Crime: Crime prevention through environmental design (Geason and Wilson). While Newman emphasised the responsibility of architects and urban planners, in these publications the general concerns of defensible space are relocated in the ‘average homeowner’. Citing crime statistics on burglary and vandalism, these publications incite their readers to take action, turning the homeowner into a citizen-soldier. The householder, whether he likes it or not, is already in a struggle. The urban jungle must be understood in terms of “the principles of warfare” (Bunting 7), in which everyday homes become bodies needing protection through suitable architectural armour. Through a series of maps and drawings and statistics, the average residential home is transformed into a series of points of vulnerability. Home space is re-inscribed as a series of points of entry/access and lines of sight. Simultaneously, through lists of ‘dos and don’ts’ a set of precautionary behaviours is inculcated into the readers. Principles of security begin codifying the home space, disciplining the spatial practices of the intimate, regulating the access and mobility of the family and guests. The Architectural Nervous System Nowadays we see a wild, almost excessive, proliferation of security products available to the ‘security conscious homeowner’. We are no longer simply dealing with security devices designed to block – such as locks, bolts and fasteners. The electronic revolution has aided the production of security devices that are increasingly more specialised and more difficult to manipulate, which paradoxically makes it more difficult for the security consumer to understand. Detection systems now include continuous wiring, knock-out bars, vibration detectors, breaking glass detectors, pressure mats, underground pressure detectors and fibre optic signalling. Audible alarm systems have been upgraded to wire-free intruder alarms, visual alarms, telephone warning devices, access control and closed circuit television and are supported by uninterruptible power supplies and control panels (see Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers 19-39). The whole house is literally re-routed as a series of relays in an electronic grid. If the house as a security risk is defined in terms of points of vulnerability, alarm systems take these points as potential points of contact. Relays running through floors, doors and windows can be triggered by pressure, sound or dislocation. We see a proliferation of sensors: switching sensors, infra-red sensors, ultrasonic sensors, microwave radar sensors, microwave fence sensors and microphonic sensors (see Walker). The increasing diversification of security products attests to the sheer scale of these architectural/engineering changes to our everyday architecture. In our fear of crime we have produced increasingly more complex security products for the home, thus complexifying the spaces we somehow inherently feel should be ‘simple’. I suggest that whereas previous devices merely reinforced certain architectural or engineering aspects of the home, contemporary security products actually constitute the home as a feeling, architectural body capable of being affected. This recalls notions of a sensuous architecture and bodily metaphors within architectural discourse (see Thomsen; Puglini). It is not simply our fears that lead us to secure our homes through technology, but through our fears we come to invest our housing architecture with a nervous system capable of fearing for itself. Our eyes and ears become detection systems while our screams are echoed in building alarms. Body organs are deterritorialised from the human body and reterritorialised on contemporary residential architecture, while our senses are extended through modern security technologies. The vulnerable body of the family home has become a feeling body conscious of its own vulnerability. It is less about the physical expression of fear, as Nan Ellin has put it, than about how building materialities become capable of fearing for themselves. What we have now are residential houses that are capable of being more fully mobilised in this urban war. Family homes become bodies that scan the darkness for the slightest movements, bodies that scream at the slightest possibility of danger. They are bodies that whisper to each other: a house can recognise an intrusion and relay a warning to a security station, informing security personnel without the occupants of that house knowing. They are the newly produced victims of an urban war. Our homes are the event-spaces in which mediated fear unfolds into an architectural nervous system. If media plug our homes into one set of relations between ideologies, representations and fear, then the architectural nervous system plugs that back into a different set of relations between capital, fear and the electronic grid. The home is less an endpoint of broadcast media than a node in an electronic network, a larger nervous system that encompasses the globe. It is a network that plugs architectural nervous systems into city electronic grids into mediated subjectivities into military technologies and back again, allowing fear to be disseminated and extended, replayed and spliced into the most banal aspects of our domestic lives. References Barty, Euan, David White, and Paul Burall. Safety and Security in the Home. London: The Design Council, 1980. Blunt, Alison, and Ann Varley. “Introduction: Geographies of Home.” Cultural Geographies 11.1 (2004): 3-6. Bunting, James. The Protection of Property against Crime. Folkestone: Bailey Brothers & Sinfen, 1975. Chartered Institution of Building Service Engineers. Security Engineering. London: CIBSE, 1991. Colomina, Beatriz. “Domesticity at War.” Assemblage 16 (1991): 14-41. Department of Housing and Construction. Safety in and around the Home. Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service, 1981. Design Council. The Design Centre Guide to Domestic Safety and Security. London: Design Council, 1976. Diken, Bülent, and Carsten Bagge Lausten. “Zones of Indistinction: Security and Terror, and Bare Life.” Space and Culture 5.3 (2002): 290-307. Ellin, Nan. “Shelter from the Storm or Form Follows Fear and Vice Versa.” Architecture of Fear. Ed. Nan Ellin. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1997. Epstein, Dora. “Abject Terror: A Story of Fear, Sex, and Architecture.” Architecture of Fear. Ed. Nan Ellin. New York: Princeton Architectural Press, 1997. Fiske, John, Bob Hodge, and Graeme Turner. Myths of Oz: Reading Australian Popular Culture. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1987. Geason, Susan, and Paul Wilson. Designing Out Crime: Crime Prevention through Environmental Design. Canberra: Australian Institute of Criminology, 1989. Hubbard, Alan. Home Safety and Security, Western Australia. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2005. Jeffery, C. Ray. Crime Prevention through Environmental Design. Beverley Hills: Sage, 1971. Macken, Julie. “Why Aren’t We Happier?” Australian Financial Review 26 Nov. 1999: 26. Mallory, Keith, and Arvid Ottar. Architecture of Aggression: A History of Military Architecture in North West Europe, 1900-1945. Hampshire: Architectural Press, 1973. Massumi, Brian. Parables of the Virtual: Movement, Affect, Sensation. Durham: Duke University Press, 2002. McLennan, W. Security Services, Australia, 1998-99. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2000. Morley, David. Home Territories: Media, Mobility and Identity. London and New York: Routledge, 2000. Mouzos, Jenny, and Tina Houliaras. Homicide in Australia: 2004-05 National Homicide Monitoring Program (NHMP) Annual Report. Research and Public Policy Series 72. Canberra: Australian Institute of Criminology, 2006. Newman, Oscar. Defensible Space: Crime Prevention through Urban Design. New York: Collier, 1973. Puglini, Luigi. HyperArchitecture: Space in the Electronic Age. Basel: Bikhäuser, 1999. Signal Security. 13 January 2007 http://www.signalsecurity.com.au/securitysystems.htm>. Smith, Geoff. Home Security Precautions, New South Wales, October 1999. Canberra: Australian Bureau of Statistics, 2000. Spigel, Lynn. Welcome to the Dreamhouse: Popular Media and Postwar Suburbs. Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2001. Thomsen, Christian W. Sensuous Architecture: The Art of Erotic Building. Munich and New York: Prestel, 1998. Walker, Philip. Electronic Security Systems: Better Ways to Crime Prevention. London: Butterworths, 1983. Young, Iris Marion. “House and Home: Feminist Variations on a Theme.” Feminist Interpretations of Martin Heidegger. Eds. Nancy J. Holland and Patricia Huntington. University Park, Pennsylvania: Pennsylvania State UP, 2001. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Caluya, Gilbert. "The Architectural Nervous System: Home, Fear, Insecurity." M/C Journal 10.4 (2007). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/05-caluya.php>. APA Style Caluya, G. (Aug. 2007) "The Architectural Nervous System: Home, Fear, Insecurity," M/C Journal, 10(4). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0708/05-caluya.php>.

Introduction In March 2020, many societal functions came to a standstill due to the worldwide spread of Covid-19. Due to the rules set by public healthcare authorities that aimed at “social distancing” to prevent the spread of the virus, the emphasis on domesticity was heightened during the pandemic. As people were forced to spend more time in the home environment, more time was allowed for household pursuits and local activities, such as crafts and home repair (Morse, Fine, and Friedlander). While there has been a rising interest in craft-making as the medium of expression for the past few decades (e.g., Peach), crafts seem to have undergone a serious breakthrough during the global pandemic crisis. In recent studies, crafting has been noted for its usefulness in providing a dimension of comfort and security in a time of instability and isolation (Rixhon), eventually becoming a much-needed conceptual shelter from the threat of the virus (Martin). Sewing seems to have assumed a significant role early in the pandemic, when craft-makers began to mitigate the spread of the virus by using their own sewing machines and material stashes to make masks for their families and friends; some also donated masks to hospital workers and others in need (Martindale, Armstead, and McKinney). While other forms of crafts were also widely practiced (e.g., Jones; Stalp, Covid-19 Global Quilt; Wenzel), face-mask sewing has been at the core of pandemic craft research, highlighting the role of home-based hobby crafting as a means of social survival that contributed to people's agency and feelings of productivity and usefulness during the outbreak of coronavirus (Hahn and Bhaduri; Hustvedt and Liang; Martindale, Armstead, and McKinney; Richards and Perreault; Schnittka). This article analyses two craft hashtags on Instagram from March 2020 to December 2021, which offer a perspective on shifts in pandemic crafts in a linguistically localised crafting community. The hashtags crop up in the Finnish-speaking craft culture, defining pandemic crafts as “Covid craft”, #koronakäsityö, and “Covid crafts”, #koronakäsityöt. By definition, the Finnish word “käsityö” (which derives from the words “käsi”, hand, and “työ”, work) is a broad concept for all handiwork: it is not tied to any specific craft technique, but rather affirms work made by hand, or with tools that are held in hands. In addition, the concept of “käsityö” has no intended emphasis in regard of the phase of the project, or craft techniques or materials being used: it translates as an entity including both the idea of the product that is going to be made during the process of crafting, the embodied craft know-how of the making of the product, and the product itself (Kojonkoski-Rännäli 31; also Ihatsu). However, as is also disclosed in this study, the “käsityö” seems to have a connotation of craft work traditionally made by the persons assumed female by society or other people, and thus, findings may build on domesticity related to textile crafting (see Kouhia, Unraveling, 8, 17). The research questions driving this research are: (1) what kind of crafts were made, and how were these crafts contextualised during the pandemic; and (2) how was domesticity reflected in the pandemic crafting? The analysis explains how hobby crafts appeared as reactive pastimes, and how pandemic crafting set a debate on the implementation of alternative futures, interlinked with postfeminist forms of domesticity. As a result, it is shown that home-based hobby crafting was not only capable of upholding a sense of response and recovery for the makers during the pandemic, but also developing and bringing forth new trends within the maker culture. Domestic Crafting in the Digital Age In the Western narrative, crafts have been traditionally considered as generative quotidian activities positioned in the domestic space (Hardy; Thompson). In its history, domestic crafting has been practiced within a range of morals spanning from early conceptions of conspicuous leisure as an “unproductive expenditure of time” (Veblen 45) and 1950s feminine virtues like “thrift, practical creativity, and attention to appearance” (McLean 259) to today’s subversive, expressive Do-It-Yourself (DIY) along with the emergence of Third Wave Feminism that has powers to “resist capitalist materialism tendencies” (Stalp, Girls, 264). Often discussed in relation to femininity and unpaid labour—that include nuanced arguments of female subordination, sexuality, and housewifery (MacDonald 47; Parker 2–3; Turney 9)—contemporary crafting is seen not only to fall in the habitual expectations of domesticity, but also to have the capability to subvert and resist them. Indeed, while crafts such as knitting, sewing, and crocheting claimed their status as recreational leisure activities already in the late twentieth century with the changes related to construction of contemporary femininity (Groeneveld 264; Turney 2), there are still many issues and inequalities related to home-based hobby crafting. Predominantly, contemporary home crafts seem to be somewhat challenged by the lack of alternatives to the gendering of the domestic sphere (see Ceuterick). While home crafts are no longer social or economic domestic necessities and not practised by all or exclusively by women, home crafts still “continue to be perceived as a middle-class activity, a distraction and leisure pursuit for ‘ladies’ with time and means” (Hackney 170). While home-based hobby crafts cover many forms of making, ethical and social concerns that offer alternative and countercultural ways of living and consuming have become increasingly visible in contemporary crafting. Today’s hobby crafts operate within structures of everyday life and underpin plurality, complexity, and richness of amateur experience (Knott 124). Contemporary hobby crafting is also boosted by the revitalisation of old skills and the entrenchment of a home culture that utilises "retro cultures" (Hunt and Phillipov), and the increased interest of young adults in DIY culture (Kouhia, Unraveling; Stannard and Sanders). Almost a decade ago, Hunt and Phillipov put forward a discussion of the regained popularity of old-fashioned “Nanna Style” home practices. They noticed that young, activist makers praised these grandmotherly practices as “simultaneously nostalgic and politically progressive choices”, calling in countercultural politics of gender and consumption, and confusing the seemingly conservative lines “between imagined utopias of domesticity and the economic and environmental realities of contemporary consumer culture” (Hunt and Phillipov). Paired with ethical consumption, this promoted liberated postfeminist domesticity, a refusal of the capitalist structures of consumption, and a move away from binaries between the masculine and the feminine. Again, a return to domestic activities such as cooking, cleaning, and crafting was witnessed during the Covid-19 pandemic, with people inscribing the domestic chores as postfeminist choices rather than oppression (Ceuterick) and participating in the production of meaning as a “redomesticated woman” (Negra 16, cited in Palomeque Recio). Methodology Today, social media resources provide a fundamental theoretical lens used by the researchers with powers to function both as an enabler and a driver of innovation (Bhimani, Mention, and Barlatier). Social media channels allow people to derive value from self-generated content, promoting interpersonal connectedness with the sharing of details of the daily lives of the individuals (Nabity-Grover, Cheung, and Thatcher) with social support, referability, and potential correspondence enclosed from around cyberspace (Hajli). The article is based on qualitative social media research on Instagram, with aims to study the perpetual interest in hobby crafts during the pandemic. The study leans on the research paradigm known as ‘netnography’, which is a qualitative research methodology based on collecting, adapting, reflecting, and interacting with online traces with “a cultural focus on understanding the data derived from social media data” (Kozinets 6). Social media data consisting of 361 posts have been derived from Instagram’s #koronakäsityö and #koronakäsityöt hashtag feeds, and interpreted from the viewpoint of the content of the images and the context of their production (see Yang 17). The data collection took place from March 2020 to December 2021. I have followed the stream of posts using Instagram’s follow function from the position of a craft researcher and serious hobbyist (see Stebbins; Kouhia, Unraveling) from spring 2020, when the first Covid craft publications were published. Since then, the posts have been visible in the image stream of my own Instagram account, which has given me a preliminary view of the content of the publications. The data collection was ceased in December 2021 due to the decrease of posted content. All posts are connected to the Finnish craft culture through the hashtags used as descriptions of “käsityö”, and they are approached as forms of self-disclosure of Covid-era hobby crafting (see Nabity-Grover, Cheung, and Thatcher). The posts were collected at several points during the research period and were manually extracted to Excel tables with the post content data (date and week of publication, account name of the publisher, number of images, captions and hashtags). The data were analysed using qualitative approaches to Instagram data (Yang 19), with main emphasis on the posts’ visual material (Rose) analysed with a qualitative content analysis approach (see Hsieh and Shannon). The data were first charted and thematised by 1) the type and technique of craft presented (e.g., knitting, macramé, yarn balls, etc.), and 2) the display of the craft maker (age, gender, presentation in the post in relation or with the craft), and subsequently, evaluated by 3) looking at the production of domesticity in the posts (presentation and description of the domestic space). I have tried to ensure the validity of research with consistency and trust value (see Noble and Smith), making my research decisions clear and transparent, and viewing the experiences that may have resulted in methodological bias. However, given the multiple realities of qualitative research ontology, research validity needs to be framed within complex social and cultural rationales, and paired with the aim of “maintaining cohesion between the study’s aim, design and methods” (Noble and Smith 35). Considering the ethics of using social media data, all posts considered as the data of this study have been published on public Instagram accounts, and their reporting adheres to anonymous indirect quoting and image manipulation. Pandemic Domestic Crafting on Instagram Pandemic crafting consisted of many kinds of crafts. During the long review period, Covid crafts centred strikingly around textile-making: the most outstanding crafting techniques were knitting, crocheting, and sewing (table 1). Other kinds of textile crafts, like macramé, weaving, fabric printing and painting, embroidery, and clothing repair, were also displayed, yet with minor emphasis in comparison to yarn craft techniques and sewing. Some images presented textile handicraft tools, materials and machines, such as balls of yarn, beads, needles, and sewing machines. Only a few images contained artisanship with hard materials, with these few photos including multimaterial jewellery, boat carving, repairing a terrace, and building a wooden wall behind an outdoor mailbox. Table 1. The kinds of crafts posted on Instagram during the pandemic: a summary based on #koronakäsityö and #koronakäsityöt. Regarding the phase of the crafting project, most images concentrated on depicting completed, finished craft products. In addition to woollen socks, knitwear, macrame works, and clothes, everyday handicrafts endemic to the period, such as sewn masks and crocheted mask holders, were also portrayed as Corona crafts. Besides the kinds of crafts made, it is also important to look at the shifts in Covid-related craft content. Indeed, mask sewing posts and links to news on the positive role of crafting in times of crisis started to crop up in social media platforms already in the early phase of the pandemic (Kouhia, Online); in parallel, related social media hashtags emerged to identify the content. The first images of Covid crafts were posted on Instagram in late March 2020. These images were captioned with momentary descriptions of the disruption the habituated everyday routines, but also granted more time to crafts. As social-distancing weeks passed, Covid crafting quickly evolved in accordance with the first wave of the virus infection, eventually rising to its peak in April 2020. In parallel to the easing of the Covid outbreak in the summer of 2020, Covid crafting and posts diminished. As the situation became worse again in the autumn with the rise of the second wave of the virus, Covid crafting increased, and recurred until the spring of 2021. Towards the end of 2021, spontaneous Corona craft publications became irregular. Pandemic crafts seemed to be recurrently contextualised with the continual transformation of materiality within the domestic space. Craft-makers described having drawn inspiration from their old craft material stashes and returned to projects that had been left untouched and unfinished for one reason or another for months, years, and sometimes even decades. Makers—most of them likely falling, based on popularity of textile hobby crafts in Finland (see Pöllänen) and the interviews conducted among the publishers of the Covid craft-related posts, in the social categories of white, middle-aged, mostly urban able-bodied anticipated women—described having felt there was more time for crafting, and due to the restricted domestic space, an embodied and infinite push of being ecological and using the resources that they had at hand. In this sense, craft-makers not only showed abilities and resilience to react to the changing situation, but also unfolded crafting as an expression and a form of self-disclosure, with powers to make visible the value of care of the environment as a contribution to societal wellbeing. All in all, experiences of crafting as a self-chosen, self-maintained privilege seemed to afford a sense of flexibility. Further, this facilitated the reframing of the increased domestic activities as postfeminist choices and crafting as care for the home and family, as discussed in the following data excerpt: Thanks to Covid, I’ve had an excuse to take up the sewing machine and play with fabrics. I had completely forgotten how fun it is to design clothes, the process has really taken me out. Especially, if one wants more special children’s clothes, they will cost you like several bags of toilet paper = which is as much as hell, if you don’t make the clothes yourself. Also works as a pretty good motivator though 😂💪 (#koronakäsityöt Instagram post from April 2020) As the posts mainly cover textile crafting, feminine domesticity with the symbolised oppressive feminine social ideals of good mothering and housewifery are embedded in the narrative through at-home managerialism, like taking care of the household and maintaining children’s clothing. Indeed, the care of the family was repeatedly addressed in craft posts, with descriptions of mothers making clothes for their children—sometimes at the request of the kids, and but most often as daily chores of wearing and caring. For some craft-makers, textile crafting seemed to offer a passage to continue the mundane, domesticated policies that were already established at home; in other words, those who had been already keen on textile hobby crafting were suddenly offered more time for their beloved leisure practice. In addition, there were also new makers entering the field of crafting, who started practicing leisure crafts for the first time, or those who returned to their once-lost hobby. However, argumentation that framed Covid crafting tended to embrace craft-making as a conscious decision to live up to the images of femininity it may entail, and not particularly having the resources to transform the entrenched roles and figures it might provoke. Also, Covid crafting managed to also disclose a view of the intimate, framing the at-home private space and decorating it with the feminised imperatives of thriftiness, laboriousness, and austerity (see Bramall). Indeed, crafts seemed to be confined to the household space, which itself has been inherently political during the pandemic (e.g., Martin), and framed as distinctively individual choices to demonstrate the morale of staying at home and taking active ownership of the domestic space. Sometimes crafts were lined up in a space of their usage, like hanging macramé baskets and shawls placed on a sofa (fig. 1), though occupying the domestic space conveniently and adaptively, but without a deep questioning or consideration of the traditional binary oppositions between private and public spaces or home labour subscribing to anticipated masculinity or femininity. Rather, crafts seemed to be taken up as individual affirmative choices—not as household necessities, but as activities promoting the self-worth and personage of the makers and nurturing a sense of purpose and care in the lockdown homes. Fig. 1. Square crochet blanket occupying the domestic space. The image is manipulated by the author for the purposes of publication. Although crafts were purposefully placed on display in the posts, the main point was not in aesthetics based on strong image manipulation or the use of heavy filters, but rather showing off the permeability of the domestic space with the experiences of craft-makers living with a strong sense of satisfaction gained from crafting. Indeed, crafting itself can be interpreted as a resource contributing to the sense of perseverance and tenacity, giving a purpose for social survival in times of crisis: crafting was not cancelled, while almost everything else was paused. Discussion The pandemic had profound implications for the lives of millions of people, not only by compromising healthcare and economies, but also by reframing and revolutionising the meanings and values of moment-to-moment lifestyle choices and activities taking place at home. People were forced to re-engage in the practices of home and household during the pandemic, which changed their daily rhythm and transformed practices of the domestic space, further offering to revolutionise notions of domestic labour and care (Ceuterick). During the pandemic, domestic hobby crafting seemed to emerge as a phenomenon to influence social and cultural change, also providing makers with the experiences of usefulness to mitigate the changing circumstances. In line with the previous studies, this study implied that when contextualised within the frame of postmodern freedom, hobby crafts result in unique expressions that can sustain reflexivity, self-maintenance, and resilience (Kenning; Pöllänen), and reclaim a status as a public and social activity (Turney; Mayne). Within a study of 27 older adults practicing mask-sewing during the pandemic, Schnittka identified crafting to help other people to manage chaotic times, also contributing to makers' feelings of value, worthiness and purpose and their sense of control (225). Hahn and Bhaduri recognise similar habits in their study of mask-making behaviour, detailing that self-fulfilment and wellbeing as the most important reason for making masks, and financial motivation leaving behind other morals (307). Similar results can be also drawn based on this study; most importantly, the value of crafting as a flexible, self-sustained performance in the boundaries between the intimate and the shared. In this study, attention was drawn to hobby crafting intended for sharing online and situated in a linguistically localised cultural niche in a particular time frame. Thus, the study witnessed the rise and fall of “Covid-crafts” on Instagram through the analysis of two coronavirus-related craft hashtags that emerged in the Finnish-speaking crafting community. Although using linguistically and culturally situated data may limit the study, it also offers a view of crafting as a social and cultural phenomenon. In the future, more research needs to be undertaken on crafting regarding various geographic, political, cultural, and socio-economic venues, so that the nuanced and complex negotiations of domesticity could be examined and understood more thoroughly. Nevertheless, like the study by Martindale, Armstead, and McKinney, which reviewed publicly displayed face-mask sewing posts hashtagged with #sewingmasks and #sewingfacemask posted on Instagram in March 2020 (205), this study revealed that craft-makers were keen to share and exchange ideas and information online. 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Fig 1: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Introduction NOTE: Rangoon, Burma has been known as Yangon, Myanmar, since 2006. I use Rangoon and Burma for the period prior to 2006 and Yangon and Myanmar for the period thereafter. In addition, I have removed the name of any activist currently in Myanmar due to the recent policy of executing political prisoners. On 1 February 2021, Myanmar was again plunged into political turmoil when the military illegally overthrew the country’s democratically elected government. This is the third time Myanmar, formally known as Burma, has been subject to a coup d’état; violent seizures of power took place in 1962 and in 1988-90. While those two earlier military governments met with opposition spearheaded by students and student organisations, in 2021 the military faced organised resistance through a mass Civil Disobedience Movement (CDM) initiated by government healthcare workers who refused to come to work. They were joined by private sector “strikes” and, perhaps most visible of all to western viewers, mass street demonstrations “led” by “Gen Z” activists—young people who had come of age during Myanmar’s brief decade of democracy. There is little doubt that the success of the CDM and associated protests is due to the widespread coverage and reach of social media as well as the creative communications skills of the country’s first “generation of digital natives”, who are sufficiently familiar and comfortable with social platforms to “participate and shape their identities in communication and dialogue with global digital media content” (Jordt et al. 12 ). The leveraging of global culture, including the use of English in protest signs, was notable in garnering international media coverage and so keeping Myanmar’s political plight front-of-mind with governments around the world. Yet this is not the whole story behind the effectiveness of these campaigns. As Lisa Brooten argues, contemporary networks are built on “decades of behind-the-scenes activism to build a multi-ethnic civil society” (East Asia Forum). The leading democracy activist, Min Ko Naing, aligned “veteran activists from previous generations with novice Gen Z activists”, declaring “this revolution represents a combination of Generations X, Y and Z in fighting against the military dictatorship’” (Jordt et al. 18). Similarly, the creative strategies used by 2021’s digital campaigners also build on protests by earlier generations of young, creative people. This paper looks at two creative protest across the generations. The first is “secret” fashion photography of the late 1970s collected in Lukas Birk’s Yangon Fashion 1979 – Fashion=Resistance. The second is the contemporary #100projectors campaign, a “projection project for Myanmar democracy movement against the military dictatorship” (in the interest of full disclosure, I took part in the #100projectors project). Drawing from the contemporary advertising principle of “segmentation”, the communications practice where potential consumers are divided into “subgroups … based on specific characteristics and needs” (WARC 1), as well as contemporary thinking on the “aesthetics” of “cosmopolitanism”, (Papastergiadis, Featherstone, and Christensen), I argue that contemporary creative strategies can be traced back to the creative tactics of resistance employed by earlier generations of protesters and their re-imagining of “national space and its politics” (Christensen 556) in the interstices of cosmopolitan Rangoon, Burma, and Yangon, Myanmar. #100projectors Myanmar experienced two distinct periods of military rule, the Socialist era between 1962 and 1988 under General Ne Win and the era under the State Law and Order Restoration Council – State Peace and Development Council between 1988 and 2011. These were followed by a semi-civilian era from 2011 to 2021 (Carlson 117). The coup in 2021 marks a return to extreme forms of control, censorship, and surveillance. Ne Win’s era of military rule saw a push for Burmanisation enforced through “significant cultural restrictions”, ostensibly to protect national culture and unity, but more likely to “limit opportunities for internal dissent” (Carlson 117). Cultural restrictions applied to art, literature, film, television, as well as dress. Despite these prohibitions, in the 1970s Rangoon's young people smuggled in illegal western fashion magazines, such as Cosmopolitan and Vogue, and commissioned local tailors to make up the clothes they saw there. Bell-bottoms, mini-skirts, western-style suits were worn in “secret” fashion shoots, with the models posing for portraits at Rangoon photographic studios such as the Sino-Burmese owned Har Si Yone in Chinatown. Some of the wealthier fashionistas even came for weekly shoots. Demand was so high, a second branch devoted to these photographic sessions was opened with its own stock of costumes and accessories. Copies of these head to toe fashion portraits, printed on 12 x 4 cm paper, were shared with friends and family; keeping portrait albums was a popular practice in Burma and had been since the 1920s and 30s (Birk, Burmese Photographers 113). The photos that survive this era are collected in Lukas Birk’s Yangon Fashion 1979 – Fashion=Resistance. #100projectors was launched in February 2021 by a group of young visual and video artists with the aim of resisting the coup and demanding the return of democracy. Initially a small group of projectionists or “projector fighters”, as the title suggests they plan to amplify their voices by growing their national and international network to 100. #100projectors is one of many campaigns, movements, and fundraisers devised by artists and creatives to protest the coup and advocate for revolution in Myanmar. Other notable examples, all run by Gen Z activists, include the Easter Egg, Watermelon, Flash, and Marching Shoes strikes. The Marching Shoe Strike, which featured images of flowers in shoes, representing those who had died in protests, achieved a reach of 65.2 million in country with 1.4 million interactions across digital channels (VERO, 64) and all of these campaigns were covered by the international press, including The Guardian, Reuters, The Straits Times, and VOA East Asia Pacific Session, as well as arts magazines around the world (for example Hyperallergic, published in Brooklyn). #100projectors material has been projected in Finland, Scotland, and Australia. The campaign was written about in various art magazines and their Video #7 was screened at the Bangkok Art and Culture Centre in February 2022 as part of Defiant Art: A Year of Resistance to the Myanmar Coup. At first glance, these two examples seem distant in both their aims and achievements. Fashion photos, taken in secret and shared privately, could be more accurately described as a grassroots social practice rather than a political movement. While Birk describes the act of taking these images as “a rebellion” and “an escape” in a political climate when “a pair of flowers and a pair of sunglasses might just start a revolution”, the fashionistas’ photographs seem “ephemeral” at best, or what Mina Roces describes as the subtlest form of resistance or ‘weapons of the weak’ (Scott in Roces 7). By contrast, #100projectors has all the hallmarks of a polished communications campaign. They have a logo and slogans: “We fight for light” and “The revolution must win”. There is a media plan, which includes the use of digital channels, encrypted messaging, live broadcasts, as well as in-situ projections. Finally, there is a carefully “targeted” audience of potential projectionists. It is this process of defining a target audience, based on segmentation, that is particularly astute and sophisticated. Traditionally, segmentation defined audiences based on demographics, geodemographics, and self-identification. However, in the online era segments are more likely to be based on behaviour and activities revealed in search data as well as shares, depending on preferences for privacy and permission. Put another way, as a digital subject, “you are what you choose to share” (WARC 1). The audience for #100projectors includes artists and creative people around the world who choose to share political video art. They are connected through digital platforms including Facebook as well as encrypted messaging. Yet this contemporary description of digital subjectivity, “you are what you choose to share”, also neatly describes the Yangon fashionistas and the ways in which they resist the political status quo. Photographic portraits have always been popular in Burma and so this collection does not look especially radical. Initially, the portraits seem to speak only about status, taste, and modernity. Several subjects within the collection are shown in national or ethnic dress, in keeping with the governments edict that Burma consisted of 135 ethnicities and 8 official races. In addition, there is a portrait of a soldier in full uniform. But the majority of the images are of men and women in “modern” western gear typical of the 1970s. With their wide smiles and careful poses, these men and women look like they’re performing sophisticated worldliness as well as showing off their wealth. They are cosmopolitan adepts taking part in international culture. Status is implicit in the accessories, from sunglasses to jewellery. One portrait is shot at mid-range so that it clearly features a landline phone. In 1970s Burma, this was an object out of reach for most. Landlines were both prohibitively expensive and reserved for the true elites. To make a phone call, most people had to line up at special market stalls. To be photographed with a phone, in western clothes (to be photographed at all), seems more about aspiration than anarchy. In the context of Ne Win’s Burma, however, the portraits clearly capture a form of political agency. Burma had strict edicts for dress and comportment: kissing in public was banned and Burmese citizens were obliged to wear Burmese dress, with western styles considered degenerate. Long hair, despite being what Burmese men traditionally wore prior to colonisation, was also deemed too western and consequently “outlawed” (Edwards 133). Dress was not only proscribed but hierarchised and heavily gendered; only military men had “the right to wear trousers” (Edwards 133). Public disrespect of the all-powerful, paranoid, and vindictive military (known as “sit tat” for military or army versus “Tatmadaw” for the good Myanmar army) was dangerous bordering on the suicidal. Consequently, wearing shoulder-length hair, wide bell bottoms, western-style suits, and “risqué” mini-skirts could all be considered acts of at least daring and definitely defiance. Not only are these photographs a challenge to gender constructions in a country ruled by a hyper-masculine army, but these images also question the nature of what it meant to be Burmese at a time when Burmeseness itself was rigidly codified. Recording such acts on film and then sharing the images entailed further risk. Thus, these models are, as Mina Roces puts it, “express[ing] their agency through sartorial change” (Roces 5). Fig. 2: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot – illicit dress and hair. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Fig. 3: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Roces also notes the “challenge” of making protest visible in spaces “severely limited” under authoritarian regimes (Roces 10). Burma under the Socialist government was a particularly difficult place in which to mount any form of resistance. Consequences included imprisonment or even execution, as in the case of the student leader Tin Maung Oo. Ma Thida, a writer and human rights advocate herself jailed for her work, explains the use of creative tools such as metaphor in a famous story about a crab by the writer and journalist Hanthawaddy U Win Tin: The crab, being hard-shelled, was well protected and could not be harmed. However, the mosquito, despite being a far smaller animal, could bite the eyes of the crab, leading to the crab’s eventual death. ... Readers drew the conclusion that the socialist government of Ne Win was the crab that could be destabilized if a weakness could be found. (Thida 317) If the metaphor of a crab defeated by a mosquito held political meaning, then being photographed in prohibited fashions was a more overt way of making defiance and resistant “visible”. While that visibility seems ephemeral, the fashionistas also found a way not only to be seen by the camera in their rebellious clothing, but also by a “public” or audience of those with whom they shared their images. The act of exchanging portraits, what Birk describes as “old-school Instagram”, anticipates not only the shared selfie, but also the basis of successful contemporary social campaigns, which relied in part on networks sharing posts to amplify their message (Birk, Yangon Fashion 17). What the fashionistas also demonstrate is that an act of rebellion can also be a means of testing the limits of conformity, of the need for beauty, of the human desire to look beautiful. Acts of rebellion are also acts of celebration and so, solidarity. Fig. 4: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot – illicit dress length. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. Fig. 5: Image from a secret Rangoon fashion shoot – illicit trousers. Photograph: Myanmar Photo Archive / Lukas Birk. As the art critic and cultural theorist Nikos Papastergiadis writes, “the cosmopolitan imagination in contemporary art could be defined as an aesthetic of openness that engenders a global sense of inter-connectedness” (207). Inter-connectedness and its possibilities and limits shape the aesthetic imaginary of both the secret fashion shoots of 1970s Rangoon and the artists and videographers of 2021. In the videos of the #100projectors project and the fashion portraits of stylish Rangoonites, interconnection comes as a form of aesthetic blending, a conversation that transcends the border. The sitter posing in illicit western clothes in a photo studio in the heart of Rangoon, then Burma’s capital and seat of power, cannot help but point out that borders are permeable, and that national identity is temporally-based, transitory, and full of slippages. In this spot, 40-odd years earlier, Burmese nationalists used dress as a means of publicly supporting the nationalist cause (Edwards, Roces). Like the portraits, the #100projector videos blend global and local perspectives on Myanmar. Combining paintings, drawings, graphics, performance art recordings, as well as photography, the work shares the ‘instagrammable’ quality of the Easter Egg, Watermelon, and Marching Shoes strikes with their bright colours and focus on people—or the conspicuous lack of people and the example of the Silent Strike. Graphics are in Burmese as well as English. Video #6 was linked to International Women’s Day. Other graphics reference American artists such as Shepherd Fairey and his Hope poster, which was adapted to feature Aung San Suu Kyi’s face during then-President Obama’s visit in 2012. The videos also include direct messages related to political entities such as Video #3, which voiced support for the Committee Representing Pyidaungsu Hlutaw (CRPH), a group of 15 elected MPs who represented the ideals of Gen Z youth (Jordt et al., viii). This would not necessarily be understood by an international viewer. Also of note is the prevalence of the colour red, associated with Aung San Suu Kyi’s NLD. Red is one of the three “political” colours formerly banned from paintings under SLORC. The other two were white, associated with the flowers Aung Sang Suu Kyi wore in her hair, and black, symbolic of negative feelings towards the regime (Carlson, 145). The Burmese master Aung Myint chose to paint exclusively in the banned colours as an ongoing act of defiance, and these videos reflect that history. The videos and portraits may propose that culturally, the world is interconnected. But implicit in this position is also the failure of “interconnectedness”. The question that arises with every viewing of a video or Instagram post or Facebook plea or groovy portrait is: what can these protesters, despite the risks they are prepared to take, realistically expect from the rest of the world in terms of help to remove the unwanted military government? Interconnected or not, political misfortune is the most effective form of national border. Perhaps the most powerful imaginative association with both the #100projectors video projections and fashionistas portraits is the promise of transformation, in particular the transformations possible in a city like Rangoon / Yangon. In his discussion of the cosmopolitan space of the city, Christensen notes that although “digital transformations touch vast swathes of political, economic and everyday life”, it is the city that retains supreme significance as a space not easily reducible to an entity beneath the national, regional, or global (556). The city is dynamic, “governed by the structural forces of politics and economy as well as moralities and solidarities of both conservative and liberal sorts”, where “othered voices and imaginaries find presence” in a mix that leads to “contestations” (556). Both the fashionistas and the video artists of the #100projectors use their creative work to contest the ‘national’ space from the interstices of the city. In the studio these transformations of the bodies of Burmese subjects into international “citizens of the world” contest Ne Win’s Burma and reimagine the idea of nation. They take place in the Chinatown, a relic of the old, colonial Rangoon, a plural city and one of the world’s largest migrant ports, where "mobility, foreignness and cross-cultural hybridity" were essential to its make-up (Aung Thin 778). In their instructions on how to project their ideas as a form of public art to gain audience, the #100projectors artists suggest projectors get “full on creative with other ways: projecting on people, outdoor cinema, gallery projection” (#100projectors). It is this idea projection as an overlay, a doubling of the everyday that evokes the possibility of transformation. The #100projector videos screen on Rangoon bridges, reconfiguring the city, albeit temporarily. Meanwhile, Rangoon is doubled onto other cities, towns, villages, communities, projected onto screens but also walls, fences, the sides of buildings in Finland, Scotland, Australia, and elsewhere. Conclusion In this article I have compared the recent #100projectors creative campaign of resistance against the 2021 coup d’état in Myanmar with the “fashionistas” of 1970 and their “secret” photo shoots. While the #100projectors is a contemporary digital campaign, some of the creative tactics employed, such as dissemination and identifying audiences, can be traced back to the practices of Rangoon’s fashionistas of the 1970s. ­­Creative resistance begins with an act of imagination. The creative strategies of resistance examined here share certain imaginative qualities of connection, a privileging of the ‘cosmopolitan’ and ‘interconnectedness’ as well as the transformativity of actual space, with the streets of Rangoon, itself a cosmopolitan city. References @100projectors Instagram account. <https://www.instagram.com/100projectors/>. @Artphy_1 Instagram account. <https://www.instagram.com/artphy_1/>. 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Christensen, Miyase. “Postnormative Cosmopolitanism: Voice, Space and Politics.” The International Communication Gazette 79.6–7 (2017): 555–563. Edwards, Penny. “Dressed in a Little Brief Authority: Clothing the Body Politic in Burma.” In Mina Roces & Louise Edwards (eds), The Politics of Dress in Asia and the Americas. Brighton: Sussex Academic Press, 121–138. France24. “‘Longyi Revolution’: Why Myanmar Protesters Are Using Women’s Clothes as Protection.” 10 Mar. 2021. <https://youtu.be/ebh1A0xOkDw>. Ferguson, Jane. “Who’s Counting? Ethnicity, Belonging, and the National Census in Burma/Myanmar.” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde 171 (2015): 1–28. Htun Khaing. “Salai Tin Maung Oo, Defiant at the End.” Frontier, 24 July 2017. 1 Aug. 2022 <https://www.frontiermyanmar.net/en/salai-tin-maung-oo-defiant-to-the-end>. Htun, Pwin, and Paula Bock. “Op-Ed: How Women Are Defying Myanmar’s Junta with Sarongs and Cellphones.” Los Angeles Times, 16 Mar. 2021. <https://www.latimes.com/opinion/story/2021-03-16/myanmar-military-women-longyi-protests>. Jordt, Ingrid, Tharaphi Than, and Sue Ye Lin. How Generation Z Galvanized a Revolutionary Movement against Myanmar’s 2021 Military Coup. Singapore: Trends in Southeast Asia ISEAS – Yusof Ishak Institute, 2021. Ma Thida. “A ‘Fierce’ Fear: Literature and Loathing after the Junta.” In Myanmar Media in Transition: Legacies, Challenges and Change. Eds. Lisa Brooten, Jane Madlyn McElhone, and Gayathry Venkiteswaran. Singapore: ISEAS - Yusof Ishak Institute, 2019. 315-323. Myanmar Poster Campaign (@myanmarpostercampaign). “Silent Strike on Feb 1, 2022. We do not forget Feb 1, 2021. We do not forget about the coup. And we do not forgive.” Instagram. <https://www.instagram.com/p/CZJ5gg6vxZw/>. Papastergiadias, Nikos. “Aesthetic Cosmopolitanism.” In Routledge International Handbook of Cosmopolitanism Studies. Ed. Gerard Delanty. London: Routledge, 2018. 198-210. Roces, Mina. “Dress as Symbolic Resistance in Asia.” International Quarterly for Asian Studies 53.1 (2022): 5-14. Smith, Emiline. “In Myanmar, Protests Harness Creativity and Humor.” Hyperallergic, 12 Apr. 2021. 29 July 2022 <https://hyperallergic.com/637088/myanmar-protests-harness-creativity-and-humor/>. Thin Zar (@Thinzar_313). “Easter Egg Strike.” Instagram. <https://www.instagram.com/p/CNPfvtAMSom/>. VERO. “Myanmar Communication Landscape”. 10 Feb. 2021. <https://vero-asean.com/a-briefing-about-the-current-situation-in-myanmar-for-our-clients-partners-and-friends/>. World Advertising Research Centre (WARC). “What We Know about Segmentation.” WARC Best Practice, May 2021. <https://www-warc-com.ezproxy.lib.rmit.edu.au/content/article/bestprac/what-we-know-about-segmentation/110142>.

Introduction Australia has embraced Barbie since the doll was launched at the Toy Fair in Melbourne in 1964, with Mattel Australia established in Melbourne in 1969. Barbie was initially sold in Australia with two different hairstyles and 36 separately boxed outfits. As in the US, the initial launch range was soon followed by a constant stream of additional outfits as well as Barbie’s boyfriend Ken and little sister Skipper, pets, and accessories including her dreamhouse and vehicles. Also released were variously themed Barbies (including those representing different careers and nationalities) and a seemingly ever-expanding group of friends (Gerber; Lord, Forever). These product releases were accompanied by marketing, promotion, and prominent placement in toy, department, and other stores that kept the Barbie line in clear sight of Australian consumers (Hosany) and in the forefront of toy sales for many decades (Burnett). This article focusses on a thread of subversion operating alongside the purchase of these Barbie dolls in Australia, when the phenomenon of handmade ‘do-it-yourself’ intersected with the dolls in the second half of the 1960s. Do-It-Yourself ‘Do-it-yourself’ (often expressed as DIY) has been defined as “anything that people did for themselves” (Gelber 283). The history of DIY has been researched in academic disciplines including sociology, cultural studies, musicology, architecture, marketing, and popular culture. This literature charts DIY practice across such domestic production as making clothes, furniture, and toys, growing food, and home improvements including renovating and even building entire houses (Carter; Fletcher) to more externally facing cultural production including music, art, and publications (Spencer). While DIY behaviour can be motivated by such factors as economic necessity or financial benefit, a lack of product availability or its perceived poor quality, and/or a desire for customisation, it can also be linked to the development of personal identity (Wolf and McQuitty; Williams, “A Lifestyle”; Williams, “Re-thinking”). While some mid-century considerations of DIY as a phenomenon were male-focussed (“Do-It”), women and girls were certainly also active at this time in home renovation, house building, and other projects (‘Arona’), as well as more traditionally gendered handicraft activities such as sewing and knitting. Fig. 1: Australian Home Beautiful magazine cover, November 1958, showing a woman physically engaged in home renovation activities. Australia has a long tradition of women crafting (by sewing, knitting, and crocheting, for instance) items of clothing for themselves and their families, as well as homewares such as waggas (utilitarian quilts made of salvaged or other inexpensive materials such as old blankets and grain sacks) and other quilts (Burke; Gero; Kingston; Thomas). This making was also prompted by a range of reasons, including economic or other necessity and/or the pursuit of creative pleasure, personal wellbeing, or political activism (Fletcher; Green; Lord, Vintage). It is unsurprising, then, that many have also turned their hands to making dolls’ clothes from scraps of fabrics, yarns, ribbons, and other domestic materials, as well as creating entire dolls’ houses complete with furniture and other domestic items (Benson). In the late eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, many Australian dolls themselves were handmade, with settlers and migrants importing European traditions of doll-making and clothing with them (Cramer). In the early twentieth century, mass-produced dolls and clothing became more available and accessible, however handmade dolls’ clothes continued to be made and circulated within families (Elvin and Elvin, The Art; Elvin and Elvin, The Australian). An article in the Weekly in 1933 contained instructions for making both cloth dolls and clothes for them (“Home-Made”), with many such articles to follow. While the 1960s saw increased consumer spending in Australia, this research reveals that this handmade, DIY ethos (at least in relation to dolls) continued through this decade, and afterwards (Carter; Wilson). This making is documented in artefacts in museum and private collections and instructions in women’s magazines, newspapers, and other printed materials including commercially produced patterns and kits. The investigation scans bestselling women’s magazine The Australian Women’s Weekly (the Weekly) and other Australian print media from the 1960s that are digitised in the National Library of Australia’s Trove database for evidence of interest in this practice. Do-It-Yourself Barbie Doll Patterns for Barbie clothes appeared in Australian women’s magazines almost immediately after the doll was for sale in Australia, including in the Weekly from 1965. The first feature included patterns for a series of quite elaborate outfits: a casual knitted jumpsuit with hooded jacket, a knitted three-piece suit of skirt, roll-necked jumper and jacket, a crocheted afternoon dress, tied with a ribbon belt and accessorised with a knitted coat and beret, and a crocheted full length evening gown and opera coat (“Glamorous”). A sense of providing the Weekly’s trusted guidance but also a reliance on makers’ individuality was prominent in this article. Although detailed instructions were provided in the feature above, for example, readers were also encouraged to experiment with yarns and decorative elements. Fig. 2: Crocheted and knitted ‘afternoon ensemble’ in “Glamorous Clothes for Teenage Dolls” feature in the Weekly, 1965. Another richly illustrated article published in 1965 focussed on creating high fashion wigs for Barbie at home. The text and photographs guided readers through the process of crafting five differently styled wigs from one synthetic hair piece: a “romantic, dreamy” Jean Shrimpton-style coiffure, deep-fringed Sassoon hairdo, layered urchin cut, low set evening bun, and pair of pigtails (Irvine, “How”). Again, makers were encouraged to express their creativity and individuality in decorating these hairstyles, with suggestions (but not directions) to personalise these styles using ribbons, tiny bows and artificial flowers, coloured pins, seed pearls, and other objects that might be to hand. Fig. 3: Detailed instructions for creating one of the wigs. Three Barbie dolls (identified as ‘teen dolls’ rather than by the brand) were featured on the cover of the Weekly on 5 January 1966, for a story about making dolls’ outfits from handkerchiefs (Irvine, “New”). This was framed as a “novel” way to use the excess of fancy hankies often received at Christmas, promising that the three ensembles could thriftily and cleverly be made from three handkerchiefs in a few hours. The instructions detail how to make a casual two-piece summer outfit accessorised with a headscarf, a smart town ensemble highlighted with flower motifs cut from broderie anglaise, and a lavish evening gown. Readers were assured this would be an engaging, “marvellous fun” as well as creative activity, as each maker needed to individually design each garment in terms of working with the individual features of the handkerchiefs they had, incorporating such elements as floral or other borders, lace edging, and overall patterns such as spots or checks (Irvine, “New”). The long-sleeved evening gown was quite an ambitious project. The gown was not only fashioned from a fine Irish linen, lace-bordered hankie, meaning some of the cutting and sewing required considerable finesse, but the neckline and hemline were then hand-beaded, as were a circlet of tiny pearls to be worn around the doll’s hair. Such delicacy was required for all outfits, with armholes and necklines for Barbie dolls very small, requiring considerable dexterity in cutting, sewing, and finishing. Fig. 4: Cover of The Australian Women’s Weekly of 5 January 1966 featuring three Barbie dolls. Only two issues later, the magazine ran another Barbie-focussed feature, this time about using oddments found around the home to make accessories for Barbie dolls. Again, the activity is promoted as thrifty and creative: “make teen doll outfits and accessories economically—all you need is imagination and a variety of household oddments” (“Turn”). Included in the full coloured article is a ‘hula’ costume made from a short length of green silk fringe and little artificial flowers sewn together, hats fashioned from a bottle top and silk flower decorated with scraps of lace and ribbon, a cardboard surfboard, aluminium foil and ice cream stick skis, and miniature ribbon-wound coat hangers. This article ended with an announcement commonly associated with calls for readers’ recipes: “what clever ideas have you got? … we will award £5 for every idea used” (“Turn”). This was a considerable prize, representing one-third of the average minimum weekly wage for full-time female workers in Australia in 1966 (ABS 320). Fig. 5: Brightly coloured illustrations making the Weekly’s “Turn Oddments into Gay Accessories”, 1966, a joyful read. This story was reinforced with a short ‘behind the scenes’ piece, which revealed the care and energy that went into its production. This reported that, when posing the ‘hulagirl’ on a fountain in Sydney’s Hyde Park, the doll fell in. While her skirt was rescued by drying in front of a fan, the dye from her lei ran and had to be scrubbed off the doll with abrasive sandsoap and the resulting stain then covered up with make-up. After the photographer built the set (inside this time), the shoot was finally completed (“The Doll”). A week later, the Weekly advertised a needlework kit for three new outfits: a beach ensemble of yellow bikini and sundress, red suit with checked blouse, and blue strapless evening gown. The garment components, with indicated gathering, seam, stitching, and cutting lines, were stamped onto a piece of fine cotton. The kit also included directions “simple enough for the young beginner seamstress” (“Teenage Doll’s”). Priced at 8/6 (85¢ in the new decimal currency introduced that year) including postage, this was a considerable saving when compared to the individual Mattel-branded clothing sets which were sold for sums ranging from 13/6 to 33/6 in 1964 (Burnett). Reader demand for these kits was so high that the supplier was overwhelmed and the magazine had to print an apology regarding delays in dispatching orders (“The Weekly”). Fig. 6: Cotton printed with garments to cut out and sew together and resulting outfits from the Weekly’s “Teenage Doll’s Wardrobe” feature, 1966. This was followed by another kit offer later in the year, this time explicitly promoted to both adult and “little girl” needleworkers. Comprising “cut out, ready to sew [material pieces] … and easy-to-follow step-by-step instructions”, this kit made an embroidered white party dress with matching slip and briefs, checked shorts and top set, and long lace and net trimmed taffeta bridesmaid dress and underclothes (“Three”). Again, at $1.60 for the kit (including postage), this was much more economical (and creative) than purchasing such outfits ready-made. Fig. 7: Party dress from “Three Lovely Outfits for Teenage Dolls” article in the Weekly, 1966. Making dolls’ clothes was an educationally sanctioned activity for girls in Australia, with needlecraft and other home economics subjects commonly taught in schools as a means of learning domestic and professionally transferable skills until the curriculum reforms of the 1970s onwards (Campbell; Cramer; Issacs). In Australia in the 1960s, Barbie dolls (and their clothing and furniture) were recommended for girls aged nine-years-old and older (Dyson), while older girls obviously also continued to interact with the dolls. A 1968 article in the Weekly, for example, praised a 13-year-old girl’s efforts in reinterpreting an adult dress pattern that had appeared in the magazine and sewing this for her Barbie (Dunstan; Forde). It was also suggested that the dolls could be used by girls who designed their own clothes but did not have a full-sized dressmaker’s model, with the advice to use a Barbie model to test a miniature of the design before making up a full-sized garment (“Buy”). Making Things for Barbie Dolls By 9 February 1966, the ‘using oddments’ contest had closed and the Weekly filled two pages with readers’ “resourceful” ideas (“Prizewinning”). These used such domestic bits and pieces as string, wire, cord, cotton reels, egg cartons, old socks, toothpicks, dried leaves, and sticky tape to create a range of Barbie accessories including a mob cap from a doily, hair rollers from cut drinking straws and rubber bands, and a suitcase from a plastic soap container with gold foil locks. A party dress and coat were fashioned from an out-of-date man’s tie and a piece of elastic. There was even a pipe cleaner dog and cardboard guitar. A month later, fifty more winning entries were published in a glossy, eight-page colour insert booklet. This included a range of clothing, accessories, and furniture which celebrated that “imagination and ingenuity, rather than dollars and cents” could equip a teen doll “for any occasion” (“50 Things”, 1). Alongside day, casual, and evening outfits, rainwear, underwear, jewellery, hats, sunglasses, footwear, a beauty case, hat boxes, and a shopping trolley and bags, readers submitted a skilfully fashioned record player with records in a stand as well as a barbeque crafted from tiny concrete blocks, sun lounge, and deckchairs. Miniature accessories included a hairdryer and lace tissue holder with tiny tissues and a skindiving set comprising mask, snorkel, and flippers. The wide variety of negligible-cost materials utilised and how these were fashioned for high effect is as interesting as the results are charming. Fig. 8: Cover of insert booklet of the entries of the 50 winners of the Weekly’s making things for Barbie from oddments competition, 1966. That women were eager to learn to make these miniature fashions and other items is evidenced by some Country Women’s Association groups holding handicraft classes on making clothes and accessories for Barbie dolls (“CWA”). That they were also eager to share the results with others is revealed in how competitions to dress teenage dolls in handmade outfits rapidly also became prominent features of Australian fetes, fairs, agricultural shows, club events, and other community fundraising activities in the 1960s (“Best”; “Bourke”; “Convent”; “Fierce”; “Frolic”; “Gala”; “Guide”; “Measles”; “Parish”; “Personal”; “Pet”; “Present”, “Purim”; “Successful”; “School Fair”; “School Fair Outstanding”; “School Fete”; “Weather”; Yennora”). Dressing Barbie joined other traditional categories such as those to dress baby, bride, national, and bed dolls (the last those dolls dressed in elaborate costumes designed as furniture decorations rather than toys). The teenage doll category at one primary school fete in rural New South Wales in 1967 was so popular that it attracted 50 entries, with many entries in this and other such competitions submitted by children (“Primary”). As the dolls became more prominent, the categories using them became more imaginative, with prizes for Barbie doll tea parties (“From”), for example. The category of dressing Barbie also became segmented with separate prizes for Barbie bride dolls, both sewn and knitted outfits (“Hobby and Pet”) and day, evening, and sports clothes (“Church”). There is no evidence from the sources surveyed that any of this making concentrated on producing career-focussed outfits for Barbie. Do-It-Yourself Ethos A do-it-yourself ethos was evident across the making discussed above. This refers to the possession of attitudes or philosophies that encourage undertaking activities or projects that involve relying on one’s own skills and resources rather than consuming mass-produced goods or using hired professionals or their services. This draws on, and develops, a sense of self-reliance and independence, and uses and enhances problem-solving skills. Creativity is central in terms of experimentation with new ideas, repurposing materials, or finding unconventional solutions to challenges. While DIY projects are often pursued independently and customised to personal preferences, makers also often collaboratively draw on, and share, expertise and resources (Wilson). It is important to note that the Weekly articles discussed above were not disguised advertorials for Barbie dolls or other Mattel products with, throughout the 1960s, the Barbies illustrated in the magazine referred to as ‘teen dolls’ or ‘teenage dolls’. However, despite this and the clear DIY ethos at work, women in Australia could, and did, make such Barbie-related items as commercial ventures. This included local artisanal dressmaking businesses that swiftly added made-to-measure Barbie doll clothes to their ranges (“Arcade”). Some enterprising women sold outfits and accessories they had made through various non-store venues including at home-based parties (“Hobbies”), in the same way as Tupperware products had been sold in Australia since 1961 (Truu). Other women sought sewing, knitting, or crocheting work specifically for Barbie doll clothes in the ‘Work wanted’ classified advertisements at this time (‘Dolls’). Conclusion This investigation has shown that the introduction of the Barbie doll unleashed more than consumer spending in Australia. Alongside purchases of the branded doll, clothes, and associated merchandise, Australians (mostly, but not exclusively, women and girls) utilised (and developed) their skills in sewing, knitting, crochet, and other crafts to make clothes for Barbie. They also displayed significant creativity and ingenuity in using domestic oddments and scraps to craft fashion accessories ranging from hats and bags to sunglasses as well as furniture and many of the other accoutrements of daily life in the second half of the 1960s in Australia. This making appears to have been prompted by a range of motivations including thrift and the real pleasures gained in crafting these miniature garments and objects. While the reception of these outfits and other items is not recorded in the publications sourced during this research, this scan of the Weekly and other publications revealed that children did love these dolls and value their wardrobes. In a description of the effects of a sudden, severe flood which affected her home south of Cairns in North Queensland, for instance, one woman described how amid the drama and terror, one little girl she knew packed up only “her teenage doll and its clothes” to take with her (Johnstone 9). The emotional connection felt to these dolls and handcrafted clothes and other objects is a rich area for research which is outside the scope of this article. Whether adult production was all ultimately intended to be gifted (or purchased) for children, or whether some was the work of early adult Barbie collectors, is also outside the scope of the research conducted for this project. As most of the evidence for this article was sourced from The Australian Women’s Weekly, a similarly close study of other magazines during the 1960s, and of whether any DIY clothing for Barbie also included career-focussed outfits, would add more information and nuance to these findings. This investigation has also concentrated on what happened in Australia during the second half of the 1960s, rather than in following decades. It has also not examined the DIY phenomenon of salvaging and refurbishing damaged Barbie dolls or otherwise altering and customising their appearance in the Australian context. These topics, as well as a full exploration of how women used Barbie dolls in their own commercial ventures, are all rich fields for further research both in terms of practice in Australia and how they were represented in popular and other media. Alongside the global outpouring of admiration for Barbie as a global icon and the success of the recent live action Barbie movie (Aguirre; Derrick), significant scholarship and other commentary have long criticised what Barbie has presented, and continues to present, to the world in terms of her body shape, race, activities, and career choices (Tulinski), as well as the pollution generated by the production and disposal of these dolls (“Feminist”; Pears). An additional line of what can be identified as resistance to the consumer-focussed commercialism of Barbie, in terms of making her clothes and accessories, seems to be connected to do-it-yourself culture. The exploration of handmade Barbie doll clothes and accessories in this article reveals, however, that what may at first appear to reflect a simple anti-commercial, frugal, ‘make do’ approach is more complex in terms of how it intersects with real people and their activities. 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Boxing is a purely masculine activity and it inhabits a purely masculine world. […] Boxing is for men, and it is about men, and is men. (Joyce Carol Oates) IntroductionWriting about boxing is an intimate, private, and unusual activity. Although a decade has passed since I first “stepped into the ring” (sparring or fighting), I have not engaged with boxing in academic terms. I undertook a doctoral degree from 2012 to 2016, during which I competed and won amateur titles in three different countries. Boxing, in a sense, shadowed my research. My fieldwork, researching heritage foods networks, brought me to various locales, situating my body in reference to participants and academics as well as my textual analysis. My daily interactions and reflections in the boxing gym, though, were marginalised to give priority to my doctorate. In a mirrored journey to Wacquant’s “carnal ethnography of the skilled body” (Habitus 87), I boxed as a hobby. It was a means to escape my life as a doctoral student, my thesis, and the library. Research belonged to the realm of academia; boxing, to the realm of the physical. In this paper, I seek to implode this self-imposed distinction.Practising the “noble art,” as boxing is commonly called, profoundly altered not only my body but also my way of seeing the world, myself, and others. I explore these themes through an autoethnographic account of my experience in the ring. Focusing on sparring, rather than competing, I explore conceptualisations of my face as a material, as well as part of my body, and also as a surface for violence and apprenticeship. Reflecting upon a decade of sparring, the analysis presented in this paper is grounded in the phenomenological tradition whereby knowledge is not an abstract notion that exists over and above felt experience: it is sensed and embodied through practice.I delve into the narratives of my personal “social logic of a bodily craft” of boxing (Wacquant, Habitus 85). More specifically, I reflect upon my experiences of getting hit in the face by men in the ring, and the acclimatisation required, evolving from feelings of intrusion, betrayal, and physical pain to habit, and at times, excitement. As a surface for punching, my face became both material and immaterial. It was a tool that had to be tuned to varying degrees of pain to inform me of my performance as well as my opponent’s. Simultaneously, it was a surface that was abstracted and side-lined in order to put myself purposefully in harm’s way as one does when stepping into the ring. Through reflecting on my face, I consider how the sport offered new embodied experiences through which I became keenly aware of my body as a delineated target for—as well as the source of—violence. In particular, my body boundaries were profoundly reconfigured in the ring: sparring partners demonstrated their respect by hitting me, validating both my body and my skill as a boxer. In this manner, I discuss the spatiality of the ring as eliciting transitions of felt and abstracted pain as well as shaping my self-image as a re-gendered boxer in the ring and out. Throughout my account, I briefly engage with Wacquant’s discussion of “pugilistic habitus” (Body 99) and his claims that boxing is the epitome of masculine valour. In the final section, I conclude with deliberations upon the new bodily awareness(es) I gained through the sport, and the re-materiality I experienced as a strong woman.Methodological and Conceptual FrameworksThe analysis in this paper is based on the hybrid narrative of ethnography and autobiography: autoethnography. In the words of Tami Spry, autoethnography is “a self-narrative that critiques the situatedness of self and others in social context” (710). As such, I take stock in hindsight (Bruner; Denzin) of the evolution of my thoughts on boxing, my stance as a boxer, and the ways the ring has affected my sense of self and my body.Unlike Wacquant's “carnal ethnography” (Habitus 83) whose involvement with boxing was foregrounded in an academic context where he wrote detailed field-notes and conducted participant observation, my involvement was deliberately non-academic until I began to write this paper. Based on hindsight, the data collected through this autoethnography are value-inflected in ways that differ from other modes of data collection. But I have sought to recreate a dialectic between perceptual experience and cultural practices and patterns, in a manner aligned with Csordas’s paradigm of embodiment. My method is to “retrospectively and selectively write about epiphanies that stem from, or are made possible by, being part of a culture” (Ellis et al. 276) of boxing. These epiphanies, as sensed and embodied knowledge, were not solely conceptual moments but also physical realisations that my body performed, such as understanding—and executing—a well-timed slip to the side to avoid a punch.Focusing on my embodied experiences in the ring and out, I have sought to uncover “somatic modes of attention:” the “culturally elaborated ways of attending to and with one’s body in surroundings that include the embodied presence of others” (Csordas 138). The aim of this engagement is to convey my self-representation as a boxer in the ring, which emerged in part through the inter-subjectivity of interacting with other boxers whilst prioritising representations of my face. As such, my personal narrative is enmeshed with insights gleaned during embodied epiphanies I had in the ring, interweaving storytelling with theory.I have chosen to use the conventions of storytelling (Ellis and Ellingson) to explore the defining moments that shaped the image I hold of myself as a boxer. My personal narrative—where I view myself as the phenomenon—seeks “to produce aesthetic and evocative thick descriptions of personal and interpersonal experience” (Ellis et al. 287) whilst striving to remain accessible to a broader audience than within academia (Bochner). Personal narratives offer an understanding of the “self or aspect of a life as it intersects with a cultural context, connect to other participants as co-researchers, and invite readers to enter the author's world and to use what they learn there to reflect on, understand, and cope with their own lives” (Ellis 14; see also Ellis et al. 289).As the focus of my narrative is my face, I used my body, in Longhurst et al.’s words, as the “primary tool through which all interactions and emotions filter in accessing subjects and their geographies” (208). As “the foundation of the entire pugilistic regimen”, the body is the site of an intimate self-awareness, of the “body-sense” (Heiskanen 26). Taking my body as the starting point of my analysis, my conceptual framework is heavily informed by Thrift’s non-representational theory, enabling me to inquire into the “skills and knowledges [people] get from being embodied beings” (127), and specifically, embodied boxers. The analysis presented here is thus based on an “epistemic reflexivity” (Wacquant, Habitus 89) and responds to what Wacquant coins the “pugilistic habitus” (Body 99): a set of acquired dispositions of the boxer. Bourdieu believes that people are social agents who actively construct social reality through “categories of perception, appreciation and action” (30). The boxing habitus needs to be grasped with one’s body: it intermingles “cognitive categories, bodily skills and desires which together define the competence and appetence specific to the boxer” (Wacquant, Habitus 87). Through this habitus, I construct an image of myself not only as a boxer, but also as a re-gendered being, directly critiquing Wacquant’s arguments of the “pugilist” as fundamentally male.Resistance to Female BoxingMischa Merz’s manuscript on her boxing experience is the most accurate narrative I have yet read on female boxing, as a visceral as well as incorporeal experience, which led Merz to question and reconsider her own identity. When Merz published her manuscript in 2000, six years before I put the gloves on, the boxing world was still resisting the presence of women in the ring. In the UK, licenses for boxing were refused to women until 1998, and in New South Wales, Australia, it was illegal for women to compete until December 2008. It was not until 2012 that female boxing became internationally recognised as a sport in its own right. During the London Olympics, after a sulphurous debate on whether women should be made to box in skirts to “differentiate” them from men, women were finally allowed to compete in three weight categories, compared to ten for men.When I first started training in 2006 at the age of 21, I was unaware of the long list of determined and courageous women who had carved their way—and facilitated mine—into the ring, fighting for their right to practise a sport considered men’s exclusive domain. By the time I started learning the “sweet science” (another popular term used for boxing), my presence was accepted, albeit still unusual. My university had decreed boxing a violent sport that could not be allowed on campus. As a result, I only started boxing when I obtained a driving licence, and could attend training sessions off-campus. My desire to box had been sparked five years before, when I viewed Girlfight, a film depicting a young woman’s journey into the ring. Until then, I had never imagined a woman could box, let alone be inspirational in the use of her strength, aggression, and violence; to be strong was, for me, to be manly—which, as a woman, translated as monstrous or a perversion. I suddenly recognised in boxing a possibility to rid myself of the burden of what I saw as my bulk, and transform my body into a graceful pugilist—a fighter.First Sparring SessionTwo months after I had first thrown a punch in my coach’s pad—the gear coaches wear to protect their hands when a boxer is punching them to train—I was allowed into the ring to spar. Building up to this moment, I had anticipated and dreaded my first steps in the ring as the test of my skill and worthiness as a boxer. This moment would show my physical conditioning: whether I had trained and dieted correctly, if I was strong or resilient enough to fight. More crucially, it would lay bare my personality, the strength of my character, the extent of my willpower and belief in myself: it would reveal, in boxing terminology, if I had “heart.” Needless to say I had fantasised often about this moment. It was my initiation into the art of being punched and I hoped I would prove myself a hardened individual, capable of withstanding pain without flinching or retreating.The memory of the first punch to my face—my nose, to be exact—remains clear and vivid. My sparring partner was my coach, a retired boxer who hit me repeatedly in the head during the entirety of my first round. Getting hit in the face for the first time is a profound moment of rupture. Until then, my face had been a bodily surface reserved for affective gestures by individuals of trust: kisses of greeting on the cheeks or caresses from lovers. Only once had I been slapped, in an act of aggression that had left me paralysed with shock and feeling violated. Now in the ring, being punched in the face by a man I trusted, vastly more experienced and stronger than I, provoked a violent reaction of indignation and betrayal. Feelings of deceit, physical intrusion, and confusion overwhelmed me; pain was an entirely secondary concern. I had, without realising, assumed my coach would “go easy” on me, softening his punches and giving me time to react adequately to his attacks as we had practised on the pads. A couple of endless minutes later, I stepped out of the ring, breathless and staring at the floor to hide my tears of humiliation and overwhelming frustration.It is a common experience amongst novices, when first stepping into the ring, to forget everything they have been taught: footwork, defence, combinations, chin down, guard up … etc. They often freeze, as I did, with the first physical contact. Suddenly and concretely, with the immediacy of pain, they become aware of the extent of the danger they have purposely placed themselves in. The disturbance I felt was matched in part by my belief that I was essentially a coward. In an act condemned by the boxing community, I had turned my face away from punches: I tried to escape the ring instead of dominating it. Merz succinctly describes this experience in the boxing realm: “aspects of my character were frequently tossed in my face for assessment. I saw gaping holes in my tenacity, my resilience, my courage, my athleticism” (49). That night, I felt an unfamiliar sting as I took my jumper off, noticing a slight yet painful bruise on the bridge of my nose. It reminded me of my inadequacy and, I believed at the time, a fundamental failure of character: I lacked heart.My Face: A Tool for Sensing and Ignoring PainTo get as accustomed as a punching bag to repeated hits without flinching I had to mould my face into a mask of impassivity, revealing little to my opponent. My face also became a calibrated tool to measure my opponent’s skill, strength, and intent through the levels of pain it would experience. If an opponent repeatedly targeted my nose, I knew the sparring session was not a “friendly encounter.” Most often though, we would nod at each other in acknowledgement of the other’s successful “contact,” such as when their punches hurt my body. The ring is the only space I know and inhabit where the display of physical violence can be interpreted as a “friendly gesture” (Merz 12).Boxers, like most athletes, are carefully attuned to measuring the degrees of pain they undergo during a fight and training, whilst accomplishing the paradoxical feat—when they are hit—of setting aside that pain lest it be a distraction. In other words, boxers’ bodies are both material and immaterial: they are sites for accessing sensory information, notably pain levels, as well as tools that—at times detrimentally—have learned to abstract pain in the effort to ignore physical limitations, impediments or fatigue. Boxers with “heart,” I believe, are those who inhabit this duality of material and immaterial bodies.I have systematically been questioned whether I fear bruising or scarring my face. It would seem illogical to many that a woman would voluntarily engage in an activity that could blemish her appearance. Beyond this concern lies the issue, as Merz puts it, that “physical prowess and femininity seem to be so fundamentally incompatible” (476). My face used to be solely a source of concern as a medium of beautification and the platform from which I believed the world judged my degree of attractiveness. It also served as a marker of distinction: those I trusted intimately could touch my face, others could not. Throughout my training, my face evolved and also became an instrument that I conditioned and used strategically in the ring. The bruises I received attested to my readiness to exchange punches, a mark of valour I came to relish more than looking “nice.”Boxing has taught me how to feel my body in new ways. I no longer inhabit an “absent body” (Leder). I intimately know the border between my skin and the world, aware of exactly how far my body extends into that world and how much “punishment” (getting hit) it can withstand: boxing—which Oates (26) observed as a spectator rather than boxer—“is an act of consummate self-determination—the constant re-establishment of the parameters of one’s being.” A strong initial allure of boxing was the strict discipline it gave to my eating habits, an anchor—and at times, a torture—for someone who suffered from decade-long eating disorders. Although boxing plagued me with the need to “make weight”—to fight in a designated weight category—I no longer sought to be as petite as I could manage. As a female boxer, I was reminded of my gender, and my “unusual” body, as I am uncommonly big, strong, and heavy compared to most female fighters. I still find it difficult to find women to spar with, let alone fight. Unlike in the world outside the gym, though, my size is something I continuously learn to value as an advantage in the ring, a tool for affirmation, and significantly, a means of acceptance by, and equality with, men.The Ring: A Place of Re-GenderingAs sparring became routine, I had an epiphany: what I had taken as an act of betrayal from my coach was actually one of respect. Opponents who threw “honest” (painful) punches esteemed me as a boxer. I have, to this day, very rarely sparred with women. I often get told that I punch “like a guy,” an ability with which I have sought to impress coaches and boxers alike. As such, I am usually partnered with men who believe, as they have told me, that hitting a “girl”—and even worse, hitting a girl in the face—is simply unacceptable. Many have admitted that they fear hurting me, though some have quickly wanted to after a couple of exchanges. I have found that their views of “acceptable” violence seem unchanged after a session, as I believe they have come to view me as a boxer first and as a woman second.It would be disingenuous to omit that boxing attracted me as much for the novelty status I have gained within and outside of it. I have often walked a thin line between revelling in the sense of belonging that boxing provides me—anchored in a feeling that gender no longer matters—and the acute sense of feeling special because I am a woman performing as a man in what is still considered a man’s world. I have wavered between feeling as though I am shrugging off the very notion of gender in the ring, to deeply reconsidering what my gender means to me and the world, embracing a more fluid and performative understanding of gender than I had before (Messner; Young).In a way, my sense of self is shaped conflictingly by the ways in which boxers behave towards me in the ring, and how others see me outside of the boxing gym. As de Bruin and de Haan suggest, my body, in its active dimension, is open to the other and grounds inter-subjectivity. This inter-subjectivity of embodiment—how other bodies constitute my own sensory and perceptual experience of being-in-the-world—remains ambivalent. It has led me to feel at times genderless—or rather, beyond gender—in the ring and, because of this feeling, I simultaneously question and continuously re-explore more vividly what can be understood as “female masculinity” (Halberstam). As training progressed, I increasingly felt that:If women are going to fight, we have to be reminded, at every chance available, time and again, that they are still feminine or capable, at least, of wearing the costume of femininity, being hobbled by high heels and constrained by tight dresses. All female athletes in a way are burdened with having to re-iterate this same public narrative. (Merz)As I learned to box, I also learned to delineate myself alongside the ring: as I questioned notions of gender inside, I consequently sought to reaffirm a specific and static idea of gender through overt femininity outside the ring, as other female athletes have also been seen to do (Duncan). During my first years of training, I was the only woman at the gyms I trained in. I believed I had to erase any physical reminders of femininity: my sport clothes were loose fitting, my hair short, and I never wore jewellery or make-up. I wanted to be seen as a boxer, not a woman: my physical attractiveness was, for once, irrelevant. Ironically, I could not conceive of myself as a woman in the ring, and did not believe I could be seen as a woman in the ring. Outside the gym, I increasingly sought to reassert a stereotypical feminine appearance, taking pleasure in subverting another set of beliefs. People are usually hesitant to visualise a woman in a skirt, without a broken nose, as a competitive fighter with a mouth guard and headgear. As Wacquant succinctly put it, “I led a sort of Dr. Jekyll-and-Mr. Hyde existence” (Habitus 86), which crystallised when one of my coaches failed to recognise me on three occasions outside the gym, in my “normal” clothes.I have now come to resent profoundly the marginal, sensationalised status that being a boxer denotes for a woman. This is premised on particular social norms surrounding gender, which dictate that if a woman boxes, she is not “your usual” woman. I have striven to re-gender my experience, especially in light of the recent explosion of interest in female boxing, where new norms are being established. As I have trained around the world, including in Cuba, France, and the USA, and competed in the UK, Mexico, and Belgium, I have valued the tacit connection between those who practice the “noble art.” Boxing fashions a particular habitus (Bourdieu), the “pugilistic habitus” (Wacquant, Body 12). Stepping into the ring, and being able to handle getting hit in the face, constitutes a common language that boxers around the world, male and female, understand, value, and share; a language that transcends the tacit everyday embodiments of gender and class. Boxing is habitually said to give access to an upward mobility (Wacquant, Habitus; Heiskanen). In my case, as a white, educated, middle-class woman, boxing has given me access to cross-class associations: I have trained alongside men who had been shot in Coventry, were jobless in Cuba, or dealt with drug gangs in Mexico. The ring is an equalising space, where social, gender—and in my experience, ethnic—divides can be smoothed down to leave the pugilistic valour, the property of boxing excellence, as the main metric of appreciation.The freedom I have found in the ring is one that has allowed my gendered identity to be thought of in new and creative ways that invite continuous revision. I have discovered myself not solely through the prism of a gendered lens, but as an emotive athlete, and as a person desperate to be accepted despite—or because of—her physical strength. I find myself returning to Merz’s eloquence: “boxing cannot help but make you question who you really are. You cannot hide from yourself in a boxing ring. It might seem a crazy path to self-knowledge, but to me it has been the most rich, rewarding, and perhaps, the only true one” (111). Using Wacquant’s own words to disprove his theory that boxing is fundamentally a virile activity that reaffirms specific notions of masculinity, to become a boxer is to “efface the distinction between the physical and the spiritual [...] to defy the border between reason and passion” (Body 20). In my view, it is to implode the oppositional definitions that have kept males inside the ring and females, out. The ring, in ways unrivalled elsewhere, has shown me that I am not reducible, as the world has at times convinced me, to my strength or my gender. I can, and indeed do, coalesce and transcend both.ConclusionAfter having pondered the significance of the ring to my life, I now begin to understand Merz’s journey as “so much more than a mere dalliance on the dark side of masculine culture” (21). When I box, I am always boxing against myself. The ring is the ultimate space of revelation, where one is starkly confronted with one’s own weaknesses and fears. As a naked mirror, the ring is also a place for redemption, where one can overcome flaws, and uncover facets of who one is. Having spent almost as much time at university as I have boxing, it was in the ring that I learned that “thinking otherwise entails being otherwise, relating to oneself, one’s body, and ambient beings in a new way” (Sharp 749). Through the “boxing habitus,” I have simultaneously developed a boxer’s body and habits as well as integrated new notions of gender. As an exercise in re-gendering, sparring has led me to reflect more purposefully on the multiplicity of meanings that gender can espouse, and on the possibilities of negotiating the world as both strong and female. Practising the “noble art” has given me new tools with which to carve out, within the structures of the society I inhabit, liberating possibilities of being a pugilistic woman. However, I have yet to determine if women have fashioned a space within the ring for themselves, or if they still need to reaffirm a gendered identity in the eyes of others to earn the right to get hit in the face.References Bochner, Arthur P. “It’s about Time: Narrative and the Divided Self.” Qualitative Inquiry 3.4 (1997): 418–438.Bourdieu, Pierre. The Logic of Practice. Stanford, California: Stanford UP, 1990.Bruner, Jerome. “The Autobiographical Process.” The Culture of Autobiography: Constructions of Self-Representation. Ed. Robert Folkenflik. Vol. 6. Stanford UP, 1993. 38–56.Csordas, Thomas. “Somatic Modes of Attention.” Cultural Anthropology 8.2 (1993): 135–156.De Bruin, Leon, and Sanneke de Haan. “Enactivism and Social Cognition: In Search of the Whole Story.” Cognitive Semiotics 4.1 (2009): 225–50.Denzin, Norman K. Interpretive Biography. London: Sage, 1989.Duncan, Margaret C. “Gender Warriors in Sport: Women and the Media.” Handbook of Sports and Media. Eds. Arthur A. 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In Australia the “intimacy” of citizenship (Berlant 2), is often used to reinforce subscription to heteronormative romantic and familial structures. Because this framing promotes discourses of moral failure, recent political attention to sexuality and same-sex couples can be filtered through insights into coalitional affiliations. This paper uses contemporary shifts in Australian politics and culture to think through the concept of coalition, and in particular to analyse connections between sexuality and governmentality (or more specifically normative bias and same-sex relationships) in what I’m calling post-coalitional Australia. Against the unpredictability of changing parties and governments, allegiances and alliances, this paper suggests the continuing adherence to a heteronormatively arranged public sphere. After the current Australian Prime Minister Julia Gillard deposed the previous leader, Kevin Rudd, she clung to power with the help of independents and the Greens, and clichés of a “rainbow coalition” and a “new paradigm” were invoked to describe the confused electorate and governmental configuration. Yet in 2007, a less confused Australia decisively threw out the Howard–led Liberal and National Party coalition government after eleven years, in favour of Rudd’s own rainbow coalition: a seemingly invigorated party focussed on gender equity, Indigenous Australians, multi-cultural visibility, workplace relations, Austral-Asian relations, humane refugee processing, the environment, and the rights and obligations of same-sex couples. A post-coalitional Australia invokes something akin to “aftermath culture” (Lambert and Simpson), referring not just to Rudd’s fall or Howard’s election loss, but to the broader shifting contexts within which most Australian citizens live, and within which they make sense of the terms “Australia” and “Australian”. Contemporary Australia is marked everywhere by cracks in coalitions and shifts in allegiances and belief systems – the Coalition of the Willing falling apart, the coalition government crushed by defeat, deposed leaders, and unlikely political shifts and (re)alignments in the face of a hung parliament and renewed pushes toward moral and cultural change. These breakdowns in allegiances are followed by swift symbolically charged manoeuvres. Gillard moved quickly to repair relations with mining companies damaged by Rudd’s plans for a mining tax and to water down frustration with the lack of a sustainable Emissions Trading Scheme. And one of the first things Kevin Rudd did as Prime Minister was to change the fittings and furnishings in the Prime Ministerial office, of which Wright observed that “Mr Howard is gone and Prime Minister Kevin Rudd has moved in, the Parliament House bureaucracy has ensured all signs of the old-style gentlemen's club… have been banished” (The Age, 5 Dec. 2007). Some of these signs were soon replaced by Ms. Gillard herself, who filled the office in turn with memorabilia from her beloved Footscray, an Australian Rules football team. In post-coalitional Australia the exile of the old Menzies’ desk and a pair of Chesterfield sofas works alongside the withdrawal of troops from Iraq and renewed pledges for military presence in Afghanistan, apologising to stolen generations of Indigenous Australians, the first female Governor General, deputy Prime Minister and then Prime Minister (the last two both Gillard), the repealing of disadvantageous workplace reform, a focus on climate change and global warming (with limited success as stated), a public, mandatory paid maternity leave scheme, changes to the processing and visas of refugees, and the amendments to more than one hundred laws that discriminate against same sex couples by the pre-Gillard, Rudd-led Labor government. The context for these changes was encapsulated in an announcement from Rudd, made in March 2008: Our core organising principle as a Government is equality of opportunity. And advancing people and their opportunities in life, we are a Government which prides itself on being blind to gender, blind to economic background, blind to social background, blind to race, blind to sexuality. (Rudd, “International”) Noting the political possibilities and the political convenience of blindness, this paper navigates the confusing context of post-coalitional Australia, whilst proffering an understanding of some of the cultural forces at work in this age of shifting and unstable alliances. I begin by interrogating the coalitional impulse post 9/11. I do this by connecting public coalitional shifts to the steady withdrawal of support for John Howard’s coalition, and movement away from George Bush’s Coalition of the Willing and the War on Terror. I then draw out a relationship between the rise and fall of such affiliations and recent shifts within government policy affecting same-sex couples, from former Prime Minister Howard’s amendments to The Marriage Act 1961 to the Rudd-Gillard administration’s attention to the discrimination in many Australian laws. Sexual Citizenship and Coalitions Rights and entitlements have always been constructed and managed in ways that live out understandings of biopower and social death (Foucault History; Discipline). The disciplining of bodies, identities and pleasures is so deeply entrenched in government and law that any non-normative claim to rights requires the negotiation of existing structures. Sexual citizenship destabilises the post-coalitional paradigm of Australian politics (one of “equal opportunity” and consensus) by foregrounding the normative biases that similarly transcend partisan politics. Sexual citizenship has been well excavated in critical work from Evans, Berlant, Weeks, Richardson, and Bell and Binnie’s The Sexual Citizen which argues that “many of the current modes of the political articulation of sexual citizenship are marked by compromise; this is inherent in the very notion itself… the twinning of rights with responsibilities in the logic of citizenship is another way of expressing compromise… Every entitlement is freighted with a duty” (2-3). This logic extends to political and economic contexts, where “natural” coalition refers primarily to parties, and in particular those “who have powerful shared interests… make highly valuable trades, or who, as a unit, can extract significant value from others without much risk of being split” (Lax and Sebinius 158). Though the term is always in some way politicised, it need not refer only to partisan, multiparty or multilateral configurations. The subscription to the norms (or normativity) of a certain familial, social, religious, ethnic, or leisure groups is clearly coalitional (as in a home or a front, a club or a team, a committee or a congregation). Although coalition is interrogated in political and social sciences, it is examined frequently in mathematical game theory and behavioural psychology. In the former, as in Axelrod’s The Evolution of Cooperation, it refers to people (or players) who collaborate to successfully pursue their own self-interests, often in the absence of central authority. In behavioural psychology the focus is on group formations and their attendant strategies, biases and discriminations. Experimental psychologists have found “categorizing individuals into two social groups predisposes humans to discriminate… against the outgroup in both allocation of resources and evaluation of conduct” (Kurzban, Tooby and Cosmides 15387). The actions of social organisation (and not unseen individual, supposedly innate impulses) reflect the cultural norms in coalitional attachments – evidenced by the relationship between resources and conduct that unquestioningly grants and protects the rights and entitlements of the larger, heteronormatively aligned “ingroup”. Terror Management Particular attention has been paid to coalitional formations and discriminatory practices in America and the West since September 11, 2001. Terror Management Theory or TMT (Greenberg, Pyszczynski and Solomon) has been the main framework used to explain the post-9/11 reassertion of large group identities along ideological, religious, ethnic and violently nationalistic lines. Psychologists have used “death-related stimuli” to explain coalitional mentalities within the recent contexts of globalised terror. The fear of death that results in discriminatory excesses is referred to as “mortality salience”, with respect to the highly visible aspects of terror that expose people to the possibility of their own death or suffering. Naverette and Fessler find “participants… asked to contemplate their own deaths exhibit increases in positive evaluations of people whose attitudes and values are similar to their own, and derogation of those holding dissimilar views” (299). It was within the climate of post 9/11 “mortality salience” that then Prime Minister John Howard set out to change The Marriage Act 1961 and the Family Law Act 1975. In 2004, the Government modified the Marriage Act to eliminate flexibility with respect to the definition of marriage. Agitation for gay marriage was not as noticeable in Australia as it was in the U.S where Bush publicly rejected it, and the UK where the Civil Union Act 2004 had just been passed. Following Bush, Howard’s “queer moral panic” seemed the perfect decoy for the increased scrutiny of Australia’s involvement in the Iraq war. Howard’s changes included outlawing adoption for same-sex couples, and no recognition for legal same-sex marriages performed in other countries. The centrepiece was the wording of The Marriage Amendment Act 2004, with marriage now defined as a union “between a man and a woman to the exclusion of all others”. The legislation was referred to by the Australian Greens Senator Bob Brown as “hateful”, “the marriage discrimination act” and the “straight Australia policy” (Commonwealth 26556). The Labor Party, in opposition, allowed the changes to pass (in spite of vocal protests from one member) by concluding the legal status of same-sex relations was in no way affected, seemingly missing (in addition to the obvious symbolic and physical discrimination) the equation of same-sex recognition with terror, terrorism and death. Non-normative sexual citizenship was deployed as yet another form of “mortality salience”, made explicit in Howard’s description of the changes as necessary in protecting the sanctity of the “bedrock institution” of marriage and, wait for it, “providing for the survival of the species” (Knight, 5 Aug. 2003). So two things seem to be happening here: the first is that when confronted with the possibility of their own death (either through terrorism or gay marriage) people value those who are most like them, joining to devalue those who aren’t; the second is that the worldview (the larger religious, political, social perspectives to which people subscribe) becomes protection from the potential death that terror/queerness represents. Coalition of the (Un)willing Yet, if contemporary coalitions are formed through fear of death or species survival, how, for example, might these explain the various forms of risk-taking behaviours exhibited within Western democracies targeted by such terrors? Navarette and Fessler (309) argue that “affiliation defences are triggered by a wider variety of threats” than “existential anxiety” and that worldviews are “in turn are reliant on ‘normative conformity’” (308) or “normative bias” for social benefits and social inclusions, because “a normative orientation” demonstrates allegiance to the ingroup (308-9). Coalitions are founded in conformity to particular sets of norms, values, codes or belief systems. They are responses to adaptive challenges, particularly since September 11, not simply to death but more broadly to change. In troubled times, coalitions restore a shared sense of predictability. In Howard’s case, he seemed to say, “the War in Iraq is tricky but we have a bigger (same-sex) threat to deal with right now. So trust me on both fronts”. Coalitional change as reflective of adaptive responses thus serves the critical location of subsequent shifts in public support. Before and since September 11 Australians were beginning to distinguish between moderation and extremism, between Christian fundamentalism and productive forms of nationalism. Howard’s unwavering commitment to the American-led war in Iraq saw Australia become a member of another coalition: the Coalition of the Willing, a post 1990s term used to describe militaristic or humanitarian interventions in certain parts of the world by groups of countries. Howard (in Pauly and Lansford 70) committed Australia to America’s fight but also to “civilization's fight… of all who believe in progress and pluralism, tolerance and freedom”. Although Bush claimed an international balance of power and influence within the coalition (94), some countries refused to participate, many quickly withdrew, and many who signed did not even have troops. In Australia, the war was never particularly popular. In 2003, forty-two legal experts found the war contravened International Law as well as United Nations and Geneva conventions (Sydney Morning Herald 26 Feb. 2003). After the immeasurable loss of Iraqi life, and as the bodies of young American soldiers (and the occasional non-American) began to pile up, the official term “coalition of the willing” was quietly abandoned by the White House in January of 2005, replaced by a “smaller roster of 28 countries with troops in Iraq” (ABC News Online 22 Jan. 2005). The coalition and its larger war on terror placed John Howard within the context of coalitional confusion, that when combined with the domestic effects of economic and social policy, proved politically fatal. The problem was the unclear constitution of available coalitional configurations. Howard’s continued support of Bush and the war in Iraq compounded with rising interest rates, industrial relations reform and a seriously uncool approach to the environment and social inclusion, to shift perceptions of him from father of the nation to dangerous, dithery and disconnected old man. Post-Coalitional Change In contrast, before being elected Kevin Rudd sought to reframe Australian coalitional relationships. In 2006, he positions the Australian-United States alliance outside of the notion of military action and Western territorial integrity. In Rudd-speak the Howard-Bush-Blair “coalition of the willing” becomes F. Scott Fitzgerald’s “willingness of the heart”. The term coalition was replaced by terms such as dialogue and affiliation (Rudd, “Friends”). Since the 2007 election, Rudd moved quickly to distance himself from the agenda of the coalition government that preceded him, proposing changes in the spirit of “blindness” toward marginality and sexuality. “Fix-it-all” Rudd as he was christened (Sydney Morning Herald 29 Sep. 2008) and his Labor government began to confront the legacies of colonial history, industrial relations, refugee detention and climate change – by apologising to Aboriginal people, timetabling the withdrawal from Iraq, abolishing the employee bargaining system Workchoices, giving instant visas and lessening detention time for refugees, and signing the Kyoto Protocol agreeing (at least in principle) to reduce green house gas emissions. As stated earlier, post-coalitional Australia is not simply talking about sudden change but an extension and a confusion of what has gone on before (so that the term resembles postcolonial, poststructural and postmodern because it carries the practices and effects of the original term within it). The post-coalitional is still coalitional to the extent that we must ask: what remains the same in the midst of such visible changes? An American focus in international affairs, a Christian platform for social policy, an absence of financial compensation for the Aboriginal Australians who received such an eloquent apology, the lack of coherent and productive outcomes in the areas of asylum and climate change, and an impenetrable resistance to the idea of same-sex marriage are just some of the ways in which these new governments continue on from the previous one. The Rudd-Gillard government’s dealings with gay law reform and gay marriage exemplify the post-coalitional condition. Emulating Christ’s relationship to “the marginalised and the oppressed”, and with Gillard at his side, Rudd understandings of the Christian Gospel as a “social gospel” (Rudd, “Faith”; see also Randell-Moon) to table changes to laws discriminating against gay couples – guaranteeing hospital visits, social security benefits and access to superannuation, resembling de-facto hetero relationships but modelled on the administering and registration of relationships, or on tax laws that speak primarily to relations of financial dependence – with particular reference to children. The changes are based on the report, Same Sex, Same Entitlements (HREOC) that argues for the social competence of queer folk, with respect to money, property and reproduction. They speak the language of an equitable economics; one that still leaves healthy and childless couples with limited recognition and advantage but increased financial obligation. Unable to marry in Australia, same-sex couples are no longer single for taxation purposes, but are now simultaneously subject to forms of tax/income auditing and governmental revenue collection should either same-sex partner require assistance from social security as if they were married. Heteronormative Coalition Queer citizens can quietly stake their economic claims and in most states discreetly sign their names on a register before becoming invisible again. Mardi Gras happens but once a year after all. On the topic of gay marriage Rudd and Gillard have deferred to past policy and to the immoveable nature of the law (and to Howard’s particular changes to marriage law). That same respect is not extended to laws passed by Howard on industrial relations or border control. In spite of finding no gospel references to Jesus the Nazarene “expressly preaching against homosexuality” (Rudd, “Faith”), and pre-election promises that territories could govern themselves with respect to same sex partnerships, the Rudd-Gillard government in 2008 pressured the ACT to reduce its proposed partnership legislation to that of a relationship register like the ones in Tasmania and Victoria, and explicitly demanded that there be absolutely no ceremony – no mimicking of the real deal, of the larger, heterosexual citizens’ “ingroup”. Likewise, with respect to the reintroduction of same-sex marriage legislation by Greens senator Sarah Hanson Young in September 2010, Gillard has so far refused a conscience vote on the issue and restated the “marriage is between a man and a woman” rhetoric of her predecessors (Topsfield, 30 Sep. 2010). At the same time, she has agreed to conscience votes on euthanasia and openly declared bi-partisan (with the federal opposition) support for the war in Afghanistan. We see now, from Howard to Rudd and now Gillard, that there are some coalitions that override political differences. As psychologists have noted, “if the social benefits of norm adherence are the ultimate cause of the individual’s subscription to worldviews, then the focus and salience of a given individual’s ideology can be expected to vary as a function of their need to ally themselves with relevant others” (Navarette and Fessler 307). Where Howard invoked the “Judaeo-Christian tradition”, Rudd chose to cite a “Christian ethical framework” (Rudd, “Faith”), that saw him and Gillard end up in exactly the same place: same sex relationships should be reduced to that of medical care or financial dependence; that a public ceremony marking relationship recognition somehow equates to “mimicking” the already performative and symbolic heterosexual institution of marriage and the associated romantic and familial arrangements. Conclusion Post-coalitional Australia refers to the state of confusion borne of a new politics of equality and change. The shift in Australia from conservative to mildly socialist government(s) is not as sudden as Howard’s 2007 federal loss or as short-lived as Gillard’s hung parliament might respectively suggest. Whilst allegiance shifts, political parties find support is reliant on persistence as much as it is on change – they decide how to buffer and bolster the same coalitions (ones that continue to privilege white settlement, Christian belief systems, heteronormative familial and symbolic practices), but also how to practice policy and social responsibility in a different way. Rudd’s and Gillard’s arguments against the mimicry of heterosexual symbolism and the ceremonial validation of same-sex partnerships imply there is one originary form of conduct and an associated sacred set of symbols reserved for that larger ingroup. Like Howard before them, these post-coalitional leaders fail to recognise, as Butler eloquently argues, “gay is to straight not as copy is to original, but as copy is to copy” (31). To make claims to status and entitlements that invoke the messiness of non-normative sex acts and romantic attachments necessarily requires the negotiation of heteronormative coalitional bias (and in some ways a reinforcement of this social power). As Bell and Binnie have rightly observed, “that’s what the hard choices facing the sexual citizen are: the push towards rights claims that make dissident sexualities fit into heterosexual culture, by demanding equality and recognition, versus the demand to reject settling for heteronormativity” (141). The new Australian political “blindness” toward discrimination produces positive outcomes whilst it explicitly reanimates the histories of oppression it seeks to redress. The New South Wales parliament recently voted to allow same-sex adoption with the proviso that concerned parties could choose not to adopt to gay couples. The Tasmanian government voted to recognise same-sex marriages and unions from outside Australia, in the absence of same-sex marriage beyond the current registration arrangements in its own state. In post-coalitional Australia the issue of same-sex partnership recognition pits parties and allegiances against each other and against themselves from within (inside Gillard’s “rainbow coalition” the Rainbow ALP group now unites gay people within the government’s own party). Gillard has hinted any new proposed legislation regarding same-sex marriage may not even come before parliament for debate, as it deals with real business. Perhaps the answer lies over the rainbow (coalition). As the saying goes, “there are none so blind as those that will not see”. References ABC News Online. “Whitehouse Scraps Coalition of the Willing List.” 22 Jan. 2005. 1 July 2007 ‹http://www.abc.net.au/news/newsitems/200501/s1286872.htm›. Axelrod, Robert. The Evolution of Cooperation. New York: Basic Books, 1984. 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