Статті в журналах з теми "Architecture minimale – New York (N.Y.)"

Книга Николаса Н. Патрикиоса («Сакральная архитектура Византии: искусство, литургия и символизм в раннехристианских церквях») представляет собой обобщающую работу о византийской архитектуре от эпохи Константина до падения Константинополя. Важность её заключается не только в том, что автор проработал огромный массив материала — 370 памятников, разделив их на семь типов (с. 48) и проследив эволюцию каждого из них и в целом и в деталях, но и в том, что автор учитывает взаимосвязь между архитектурной типологией и наполнением здания, демонстрируя, как особенности литургии в разные исторические периоды соотносятся с архитектурной эволюцией, а также с образным наполнением церковного пространства. Эта отличительная черта работы сообщает ей необходимую полноту. Для Патрикиоса архитектура, литургия и священное изобразительное искусство представляет собой единое целое. Чтобы учесть все компоненты целого, автор делит повествование на следующие главы: церковь и государство; сакральная архитектура; великолепные церкви; духовное искусство; литургия и Евхаристия; символизм в архитектуре и искусстве. The book by Nicholas N. Patrikios ("Sacred Architecture of Byzantium: Art, Liturgy and Symbolism in Early Christian Churches") is a generalizing work on Byzantine architecture from the era of Constantine to the fall of Constantinople. Its importance lies not only in the fact that the author has worked through a huge array of material - 370 monuments, dividing them into seven types (p. 48) and tracing the evolution of each of them in general and in detail, but also in the fact that the author takes into account the relationship between the architectural typology and the content of the building, demonstrating how the features of the liturgy in different historical periods correlate with the architectural evolution, as well as with the figurative content of the church space. This distinctive the feature of the work gives it the necessary completeness. For Patrikios architecture, liturgy and sacred art of constitutes a single whole. To take into account all the components of the whole, the author divides the narrative into the following chapters: church and state; sacred architecture; magnificent churches; spiritual art; liturgy and Eucharist; symbolism in architecture and art.

During Fall 2016 we had the unique opportunity to participate in the regular internship program of the Museum of Modern Art in New York and assist with ongoing exhibition projects in the Architecture and Design Department (A&D). This Department was established in 1932 as the first curatorial department dedicated to architecture and design and built on an ambitious collection covering major figures and movement of architectural culture from mid-19th century to the present. With looking back on a rich history of influential exhibitions such as Modern Architecture: International Exhibition (1932), Architecture Without Architects (1964/65) or Deconstructivist Architecture (1988) it has been one of the key institutions to push the format of the architecture exhibition and which it keeps doing up to today. Having this in mind we both came to New York with great respect and honored to gain insights in this institution for a period of three months. The department currently employs around 15 people which made it a really pleasant, intimate place to work with highly passionate and professional individuals full of remarkable expertise and respect for each other. This said and with the department going through some recent (at that moment) personnel changes, most notably the new directorship of Martino Stierli since 2015, as well MoMA reconfiguring and adding gallery spaces set to be open in 2019, we felt it was a very interesting moment for us to talk to our curator colleagues about their personal history and professional ambitions as curators at MoMA as well specific challenges of exhibiting architecture and design. Being both educated in architecture in different countries (Brazil and Germany) we could gain not only a lot of professional insights but also talk about personal aspects of the curators´ – not always linear – careers. In total we conducted six interviews with all (senior) curators and one curatorial assistant of the Architecture and Design Department, all of whom we asked the same, around ten questions in order to produce a complete “panorama” of the departments staff at that very moment. In the following we would like to share with you the second half with Juliet Kinchin, Martino Stierli and Sean Anderson. The first three interviews with Paola Antonelli, Barry Bergdoll and Michelle Millar Fisher, were published on RISCO v.16 n.1 2018. From the interviews, Juliet Kinchin had an approach since a student into intellectual debates and design history rather than architectural history, while Martino as a professor, was also engaged doing exhibitions. Sean Anderson struggled being a professor and practicing architect, and curation for him “means also being able to condense ideas and questions”. Since they had different backgrounds before arrive at MoMA, the teaching position and a special love for research is a shared common background for them. Juliet Kinchin argues that the curator’s activity apart from the responsabilities also means communicate and creating view points and arguments in a spatial and material form, while Martino talk about the work of curating a show as very much about a teamwork. For Sean Anderson also the very strong critical sensibility, is a must have skill for a curator. Sean Anderson’s advice to young curators is to ask questions and to have as many experiences in the world as possible. Juliet Kinchin talks about integrity, that makes the difference in your work, Martino in the same way, reinforce the ideia to love what you do and so you will be successful. Luis Michal, Amanda Saba Ruggiero

Dr Yilmaz teaches in the Department of Interior Architecture and Environmental Design of the University of Hacettepe, Ankara, Turkey,from which she has a Masters degree. She also has a Ph. D from the Department of Urban and Environmental Sciences, University of Ankara. She has presented papers on environmental problems and vernacular architecture at numerous national and international congresses, and published others in various scholarly journals. Professor Keleş taught at Ankara University, Faculty of Political Science for many years and served as Dean of the Faculty from 1971 to1975. He was also Head of both the Ernst Reuter Center for Urban Studies and the Center for Environmental Studies at the same university. He currently teaches at the Eastern Mediterranean University, North Cyprus. Dr Keleş has published extensively on Comparative Urbanization, Theories of Local Government, Environmental Policies, and Urban Politics. His major publications include The Politics of Urbanization: Government and Growth in Modern Turkey (with Michael N. Danielson, New York, Holmes and Meier, 1985)-, The Urban Poverty in the Third World, Institute of Developing Economies, Tokyo, 1988; and Housing in the Middle East (with Hiromaso Kano), Institute of Developing Economies, Tokyo, 1986. Dr Keles is a member of the World Society for Ekistics. The text that follows is an edited version of a paper presented at the international symposion on 'The Natural City, " Toronto, 23-25 June, 2004, sponsored by the University of Toronto's Division of the Environtmental Studies, and the World Society for Ekistics.

Few have examined the relationship between landscape color changes, landscape complexity, and laypersons’ visual preference ratings. We examined whether depictions of visual changes to plant and vegetative colors affect preference ratings, estimations of complexity, and computed color information entropy values. Photographs depicted four visual states of plant growth—winter dormancy, foliation, flowering, and senescence—in color at four locations on each of three landscape architecture project sites in New York and Pennsylvania. Participants viewed and evaluated the scenes depicted in the photographs for preference (n = 52) and estimated the presence of complexity (n = 47). A multiparadigm numerical computing environment performed algorithmic functions to calculate Shannon information entropy values of perceptual and categorical colors for each photograph. The visual changes depicted significantly affected perceptual color information entropy values, but significant effects were not found in three contrasts between values for the four stages of plant and vegetative growth. Preference ratings for foliated scenes were significantly higher than those for dormant and senescent scenes. Respondents’ complexity estimations for foliated scenes were lower than those of flowering and senescent, yet complexity and preference did not correlate. Preference correlated strongly and positively with perceptual color information entropy, which may help predict landscape preference. However, the presence of green foliage may affect preference more than perceptual color information entropy within scenes.

Early Gothic Revival architecture in Canada, particularly from the period prior to the 1840s, when the influence of A. W. N. Pugin and the Ecclesiologists began to be felt, has been little studied. This paper reconstructs a lost monument-St. Mary's, in Halifax, Nova Scotia, as erected 1820-1830-which may have been the first ambitious essay in the Gothic Revival style, especially as it apparently precedes by a few years the single and most famous monument of this time, the parish church of Notre-Dame in Montréal, itself often considered the starting point of the style in Canada. Although the exterior of St. Mary's was modest-essentially it was an exemplar of the rectangular box with "west" tower, definitively formulated by James Gibbs, and ubiquitous since the 1720s-with Gothic detailing replacing Baroque, the interior, known only from one watercolor and partly surviving today, is of greater interest. Divided into nave and aisles by piers of clustered shafts, the piers' form, plus plaster vaults and pointed arches, helped create an aura reminiscent of the Gothic period. The interior was dominated by the design of the sanctuary (now destroyed), where an unusual congregation of architectural forms suggests both the appearance of illusionistic architecture, with a possible connection to New York, and a further transformation of Baroque forms into their Gothic equivalents, with a possible connection to Québec City. Tenuous, circumstantial evidence will be provided to substantiate the plausibility of such sources. This paper also attempts to place St. Mary's in the context of the Gothic Revival in North America c. 1820-1830. As a result, it will be seen that its exterior, although without precedents in Canada, is typical of Gothic Revival churches of the period in the United States. By contrast, the interior design, especially of the sanctuary, suggests it was one of the more imaginative creations in either context. It therefore emerges as a more significant monument in the history of Canadian and North American architecture than heretofore suspected.

The rise of virtual reality and haptic technologies has created exciting new applications in medical training and education. In a dental simulation, haptic technology can create the illusion of substances (teeth, gingiva, bone, etc.) by providing interaction forces within a simulated virtual world of the mouth. In this article, a haptic periodontal training simulation system, named Haptodont, is developed and evaluated for simulating periodontal probing. Thirty-two faculty members from New York University College of Dentistry were recruited and divided into three groups to evaluate three fundamental functionalities: Group 1 evaluated bi-manual 3 Degrees of Freedome (DoF) haptic interaction, Group 2 evaluated bi-manual 3 DoF haptic interaction with a finger support mechanism, and Group 3 evaluated bi-manual 3 DoF haptic interaction with finger support mechanism and vibrotactile feedback. The probe and mirror interactions were simulated with the Geomagic Touch haptic device whereas the finger support was implemented using the Novint Falcon device. The three groups conducted two probing tasks: healthy gingiva scenario with no pockets (2- to 3-mm depth) and periodontitis scenario with deep pockets (4- to 8-mm depth). Results demonstrated that experts performed comparably to clinical settings in terms of probing depth error (within 0.3 to 0.6 mm) and probing forces (less than 0.5 N). Furthermore, the finger support mechanism significantly improved the probing accuracy for periodontitis condition in the lingual region. The argument that probing the lingual region is more difficult than the buccal region is supported by quantitative evidence (significantly higher probing depth error and probing force). Further research is planned to improve the usability of the finger support, integrate the Haptodont system into the pre-clinical curriculum, and evaluate the Haptodont system with dental students as a learning tool.

RESUMENEntre las muchas fuentes documentales que el historiador tiene a su disposición para abordar sus estudios, el diario personal se presenta, quizás, como una de las más interesantes. Este tipo de materiales no solo permiten conocer algo mejor los pensamientos y emociones de sus propios autores, sino también determinadas facetas del momento histórico en el que se concibieron, de ahí que su contenido resulte fundamental a la hora de comprender un fenómeno migratorio tan peculiar como el que tuvo lugar en el Oeste americano durante la segunda mitad del siglo xix.Partiendo de las propuestas de Ralph K. White y de John Mack Faragher, este artículo presenta una readaptación del Value analysis, proponiendo una selección de 65 valores y 7 grupos temáticos, que se han utilizado para determinar cuáles eran los principales intereses y preocupaciones de los pioneros estadounidenses, a partir del estudio de catorce diarios de la época. Palabras clave: historia cuantitativa, Oeste americano, migraciones, diarios de viaje, Overland TrailTopónimo: Estados UnidosPeríodo: siglo xix ABSTRACT Among the many documentary sources historians have at their disposal when dealing with studies, the personal diary is perhaps one of the most interesting ones. This type of material not only allows us to know a little better the thoughts and emotions of their own authors but also certain aspects of the historical moment in which they were conceived, therefore its content is fundamental when it comes to understand a migration phenomenon as unique as the one that took place in the American West during the second half of the nineteenth century.Based on the proposals of Ralph K. White and John Mack Faragher, this article presents a readaptation of ‘Value analysis’ proposing a selection of 65 values and 7 thematic groups which have been used to determine the main interests and concerns of the American pioneers revising for this purpose fourteen diaries of that time. Keywords: quantitative history, American West, migrations, overland diaries, Overland TrailPlace names: United StatesPeriod: 19th century REFERENCIASBillington, R. A. y Ridge, M. (2001): Westward Expansion: A History of the American Frontier, Albuquerque, University of New Mexico Press.Brown, D. (2004): The American West, Londres, Simon Schuster UK.Carter, R. W. (1995): “When I Hear the Winds Sigh”: Mortality on the Overland Trail, California History, vol. 74, nº. 2, pp. 146-161.Clark, D. H. (1953): “Remember the Winter of...? Weather and Pioneers”, Oregon Historical Quarterly, vol. 54, nº. 2, pp. 140-148.Cutlip, S. M. (1995): Public Relations History: From the 17th to the 20th Century. The Antecedents, Nueva York, Routledge. Dippie, B. W. (1991): “American Wests: Historiographical Perspectives” en Limerick, P. N., Millner II, C. A. y Rankin, C. E. (eds.), Trails toward a New Western History, Lawrence, University Press of Kansas, pp. 112-138. Etulain, R. W. (2002): “Introduction: The Rise of Western Historiography” en Etulain, R. W. (ed.), Writing Western History, Reno, University of Nevada Press, pp. 1-16.Faragher, J. M. (1979): Women and Men on the Overland Trail, New Haven, Yale University Press.Farber, B. (1957): “An Index of Marital Integration”, Sociometry, Núm. 20, pp. 117-139.Hine, R. V. y Faragher, J. M. (2000): The American West: A new interpretative history, Connecticut, Yale University Press.Hoagkand, A. K. (2004): Army Architecture in the West: Forts Laramie, Bridger, and D. A. Russell (1849-1912), Norman, University of Oklahoma Press.Holmes, K. L. (1995): Covered Wagon Women: Diaries Letters from the Western Trails Vol. 1, 1840-1849, Lincoln, University of Nebraska Press.— (1996): Covered Wagon Women: Diaries Letters from the Western Trails, vol. 2, 1850, Lincoln, University of Nebraska Press, 1996.Jiménez, A. (2001): “La Historia como fabricación del pasado: la frontera del Oeste o American West”, Anuario de estudios americanos, vol. 58, nº. 2, pp. 737-755.Lamar, H. R. (1978): “Rites of Passage: Young Men and Their Families in the Overland Trail Experience, 1843-69” en Alexander, G. T. (ed.), Soul-Butter and Hog Wash and Other Essays on the American West, Provo, Brigham Young University Press, pp. 33-67.Lavender, D. (1963): Westward Vision: The Story of the Oregon Trail, Lincoln, McGraw-Hill.Levinson, D. J. (1977): “The mid-life transition: a period in adult psychosocial development”, Psychiatry, nº. 40, pp. 99-112.Limerick, P. N. (1991): “What on Earth is the New Western History?” en Limerick, P. N., Millner II, C. A. y Rankin, C. E. (eds.), Trails toward a New Western History, Lawrence, University Press of Kansas, pp. 81-88.McCurdy, S. A. (1994): “Epidemiology of disaster: The Donner Party (1846-1847)”, Western Journal of Medicine, vol. 160, nº. 4, pp. 338-342.Ponsonby, A. (1923): English diaries; a review of English diaries from the sixteenth to the twentieth century with an introd. on diary writing, Londres, Methuen Co.Rokeach, M. (1973): The Nature of Human Values, Nueva York, Free Press.Schlissel, L. (1982): Women’s Diaries of the Westward Journey, Nueva York, Schocken Books.Smith, H. N. (1950): Virgin Land: The American West as Symbol and Myth, Cambridge (Massachusetts), Harvard University Press.Thompson, G. (1991): “Another look at Frontier / Western Historiography” en Limerick, P. N., Millner II, C. A. y Rankin, C. E. (eds.), Trails toward a New Western History, Lawrence, University Press of Kansas, pp. 89-96.Turner, F. J. (1920): The Frontier in American History, Nueva York, Henry Holt and Company.Unruh, J. D. (1982): The Plains Across: The Overland Emigrants and the Trans-Mississippi West (1840-60), Urbana, University of Illinois Press.Vandenbroucke, G. (2008): “The U.S. Westward Expansion”, International Economic Review, Vol. 49. Núm. 1, pp. 81-110.Webb, W. P. (1931): The Great Plains, Boston, Ginn and Company.White, R. K. (1944): “Value Analysis: A Quantitative Method for Describing Qualitative Data”, Journal of Social Psychology, Núm. 19, pp. 351-358.

Arsitektur vernakular adalah arsitektur yang memiliki respon yang baik terhadap iklim setempat. Hal ini juga berpengaruh terhadap kenyamanan termal dalam bangunan. Sebagai kota yang memiliki iklim tropis lembab, kenyamanan termal bangunan di Kota Pontianak banyak ditentukan oleh pergerakan angin yang terjadi di dalam bangunan. Adaptasi terhadap iklim pada rumah vernakular melayu Pontianak tidak hanya pada penggunaan elemen bangunan seperti bukaan dan bahan bangunan, juga pada tata ruang yang khas, di antaranya terdapat teras, ruang tengah serta pelataran belakang yang memisahkan rumah induk dengan rumah anak. Tujuan penelitian adalah melihat apakah tata ruang ini berpengaruh terhadap penghawaan alami di ruang dalam. Penelitian dilakukan dengan pengukuran di lapangan terhadap variabel kenyamanan termal, terutama temperatur dan kelajuan angin. Kemudian hasil pengukuran dianalisis secara deskriptif kuantitatif dan dilihat hubungan antara variabel dengan tata ruang, yaitu bagaimana temperatur dan kelajuan angin yang berbeda terjadi di setiap ruang, sehingga dapat ditarik kesimpulan. Hasil penelitian menunjukkan bahwa tata ruang di rumah vernakular melayu Pontianak, yaitu hadirnya teras dan pelataran belakang turut berperan dalam penghawaan alami yang terjadi di ruang dalam. Teras berperan dalam menurunkan temperatur luar yang masuk ke dalam bangunan (30,74 °C di ruang luar, lalu 29,84 °C di teras depan, dan 29,09 °C di ruang dalam). Pelataran belakang serta tata ruang dalam memberikan pergerakan angin yang lebih baik, ditunjukkan dengan selisih yang kecil antara kelajuan angin di ruang dalam dengan ruang luar pada rumah dengan pelataran belakang (0,51 m/s) dibandingkan dengan rumah tanpa pelataran belakang (0,77 m/s).Kata-kata Kunci: penghawaan alami, vernakular, tata ruangEFFECT OF SPACE LAYOUT TO NATURAL VENTILATION IN MELAYU PONTIANAK VERNACULAR HOUSEVernacular architecture is architecture that has good response to local climate. This also affects the thermal comfort in the building. As a city that has a humid tropical climate, the thermal comfort of buildings in Kota Pontianak is largely determined by the movement of the wind that occurs inside the building. Adaptation to climate in Pontianak's melayu vernacular house is not only on the use of building elements such as openings and building materials, but also on the typical spatial layout, including a terrace, a central room and a back veranda that separates the main house from the secondary house. The aim of the study was to see whether this spatial arrangement has an effect on natural ventilation in the indoor space. The study was conducted with measurements of thermal comfort variables, especially temperature and wind speed. Then the measurement results were analyzed descriptively quantitatively and viewed the relationship between variables and spatial arrangement – i.e. how the temperatures and wind speed differ in each rooms – so that conclusions could be drawn. The results showed that the layout in Pontianak's melayu vernacular house, namely the presence of terraces and back veranda, played a role in the natural ventilation that occurred in the indoor space. The terrace plays a role in reducing the outside temperature that enters the building (30.74 °C in the outdoor, then 29.84 °C on the front terrace, and 29.09 °C in the indoor). Back veranda and spatial layout provide better wind movement, indicated by small difference between the speed of wind in the indoor and the outdoor space of the house with back veranda (0.51 m/s) compared to the house without back veranda (0.77 m/s).Keywords: natural ventilation, vernacular, spatial layoutREFERENCESBoutet, Terry S. (1987) Controlling Air Movement: A Manual for Architects and Builders. New York: McGraw-Hill Book Company.Caesariadi, Tri Wibowo; Kalsum, Emilya (2011) Climatic Responsive Space in Melayu Pontianak House: A Preliminary Study. The CIB Inter-national Conference: Enhancing the Locality in Architecture, Housing and Urban Environment. January 22, 2011. Yogyakarta.Engin, N.; Vural, N.; Vural, S.; Sumerkan, M.R. (2005) “Climatic Effect in the Formation of Vernacular Houses in the Eastern Black Sea Region”. Building and Environment, Vol. 42. www. sciencedirect.comGutierrez, Jorge (2004) “Notes On the Seismic Adequacy of Vernacular Buildings”. Paper No. 5011. 13th World Conference on Earthquake Engineering. Vancouver.Koenigsberger, O.H.; Ingersoll, T.G.; Mayhew, Alan; Szokolay, S.V., (1973) Manual of Tropical Housing and Building, Part One: Climatic Design, London: Longman Group Limited.Lechner, Norbert (2001) Heating, Cooling, Lighting: Design Methods for Architects. New York: John Wiley & Sons, Inc.Lippsmeier, Georg (1997) Bangunan Tropis. Jakarta: Erlangga.Sozen, Mujgan S.; Gedik, Gulay Z. (2006) “Evaluation of Traditional Architecture in Terms of Building Physics : Old Diyarbakir Houses”. Build and Environment, Vol. 42. www.elsevier.com.Szokolay, Steven V. (2008) Introduction to Archi-tectural Science: The Basis of Sustainable Design, 2nd ed.. Oxford: Architectural Press Elsevier.

The city of Indramayu is in the province of West Java which was influenced by Dutch and Chinese culture which left historical buildings. Several previous studies that have been carried out in Indramayu City put more emphasis on historical buildings as the main objects and architectural objects that are considered important by researchers. This study aims to map buildings with Chinese cultural influences in the Chinatown of Indramayu City and identify current historical conditions to clarify which Chinese cultural influences are. This research method is a qualitative description with an analysis of the cultural studies approach. Observation, interviews and documentation are data collection techniques in this study. The results of this study found a typology of mapping of historic buildings in the Chinatown area of Indramayu which can be described and searched for common threads. From the results of the data collection, it can be seen that the elements of Chinese architecture that can be recognized from these buildings are very thick, so that they are clearly part of the historical evidence of the development of Indramayu City as an important city in sea trade. This research is expected to be the basis for producing a document that is used as a guide for further researchers. Keywords: analysis, historic buildings, indramayu, tionghoa. Abstrak Kota Indramayu berada di propinsi Jawa Barat yang terpengaruh oleh budaya Belanda dan Tionghoa yang meninggalkan bangunan-bangunan bersejarah. Beberapa penelitian terdahulu telah dilakukan di Kota Indramayu ini lebih menekankan pada bangunan bersejarah sebagai objek utama dan objek arsitektur yang dianggap penting oleh peneliti. Penelitian ini bertujuan melakukan pemetaan bangunan dengan pengaruh budaya Tionghoa di Pecinan Kota Indramayu dan mengidentifikasi kondisi bersejarah saat ini untuk mengklarifikasi pengaruh budaya Tionghoa mana saja. Metode penelitian ini adalah deskripsi kualitatif dengan analisa pendekatan kajian budaya. Observasi, wawancara dan pendokumentasian merupakan Teknik pengumpulan data pada penelitian ini. Hasil penelitian ini ditemukan tipologi pemetaan bangunan bersejarah di Kawasan pecinan Indramayu yang dapat diuraikan dan dicari benang merahnya. Dari hasil pendataan dapat dilihat bahwa elemen-elemen arsitektur Tionghoa yang dapat dikenali dari bangunan-bangunan tersebut sangat kental, sehingga secara jelas menjadi bagian dari bukti sejarah perkembangan Kota Indramayu adalah kota yang penting di dalam perdagangan laut. Penelitian ini diharapkan menjadi dasar untuk menghasilkan suatu dokumen yang dijadikan panduan untuk peneliti-peneliti selanjutnya. Kata Kunci: analisa, bangunan bersejarah, indramayu, tionghoa. Authors: Yudita Royandi : Universitas Kristen MaranathaIrena Vanessa Gunawan : Universitas Kristen MaranathaErwin Ardianto Halim : Universitas Kristen MaranathaReferences:Anonim. (2010). Undang-Undang Nomor 11 Tahun 2010 Tentang Cagar Budaya. Jakarta: Kemendikbud.Bennet, Tony. (1998). Culture: A Reformer’s Science. London: SAGE Publications.Chin, J. (1987). David G. Kohl, Chinese Architecture in the Straits Settlements and Western Malaya: Temples, Kongsis and Houses. Archipel, 33(1), 185-185.Cortesao, Armando (peny.). (2015). Suma Oriental Karya Tome Pires: Perjalanan dari Laut Merah Ke Cina Dan Buku Fransisco Rodrigues. Terjemahan Adrian Perkasa dan Anggita Pramesti. Yogyakarta: Ombak.Czarniawska, B. (2004). Narratives in Social Science Research. Thousand Oaks. CA: SAGE Publications.Dasuki, H. A. (1977). Sejarah Indramayu. Indramayu: Pemerintah Kabupaten Derah Tingkat II Indramayu.Giedion, S. (1967). 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Статья представляет собой аналитический обзор последних трех выпусков «Журнала ландшафтной архитектуры» (Journal of Lanscape Architecture), каждый из которых был посвящен определенной теме. Первый выпуск 2019 г. освещает тему так называемого компактного города, второй посвящен проблеме взаимодействия специалистов разного профиля в области ландшафтной архитектуры и садово-паркового дизайна, наконец, статьи третьего номера журнала рассматривают феномен современной ландшафтной архитектуры в свете актуальной социополитической проблематики. Автор останавливается на наиболее интересных, с его точки зрения, примерах интерпретации данных тем в статьях, освещающих опыт садовых мастеров и ландшафтных архитекторов, работающих в разных концах европейского континента, а также Америки и азиатского региона. Так, проблема компактного города нашла отражение в статье Р. Хаутамэки о Хельсинкском городском плане 2016 г. и исследовании Б. Маркес, Ж. Мак Интош, У. Хэттона и Д. Шэнона «Бикультурные ландшафты и экологическая реставрация в компактном городе: случай Зеландии как устойчивой экосистемы». Тему взаимодействия специалистов разных отраслей в области ландшафтного дизайна поднимают Б. Миллигэен в статье «Создание ландшафта: геодезия, дроны и медиаэкология» и Ж.-Ф. де Више в исследовании, посвященном террилям Шарлеруа. Роль социополитического аспекта в развитии ландшафтной архитектуры отмечена в статьях К. Даннеелс «Наступление природы: социобиологическая теория и практика Луи ван дер Свельмена» и Н. Гулсруд, посвятившего свое исследование открывшемуся в 2009 г. нью-йоркскому парку Хай Лайн. This analytical review concerns the last three issues of the “Journal of Landscape Architecture”. Each of them was dedicated to a specific topic. The 1st issue for 2019 covers the topic of the so-called compact city, the 2nd concerns the problem of interaction of different specialists in the field of landscape architecture and garden design, and finally, the articles of the 3rd issue consider the phenomenon of modern landscape architecture in the light of the socio-political issues of today. The author focuses on the most interesting, from his point of view, examples of interpretation of these topics in articles covering the experience of garden masters and landscape architects working in different parts of the European continent, as well as America and the Asian region. Thus, the problem of a “compact city” is reflected in the article by R. Hautameki on the Helsinki city plan 2016 and the study by B. Marquez, J. Mac Intosh, W. Hatton and D. Shannon “Bicultural landscapes and ecological restoration in a compact city: the case of Zealand as a sustainable ecosystem”. The topic of interaction between specialists from different industries in the field of landscape design is raised by B. Milligaen in the article “Creating a landscape: geodesy, drones and media ecology” and J.-F. de Viche in a study on the Charleroi terrilles. The role of the sociopolitical aspect in the development of landscape architecture is noted in the articles by K. Daneels “The Onset of nature: the sociobiological theory and practice of Louis van der Svelmen” and N. Gulsrud, who devoted his research to the New York High Line Park, which was opened in 2009.

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Ruang esensinya adalah tempat manusia hidup dan beraktivitas. Namun tidak semua aktivitas dapat terakomodir karena setiap ruang dibatasi dengan fungsinya masing-masing. Bagi ruang pribadi keterbatasan ruang tersebut merupakan karakteristik utama bagi ruang itu sendiri sedangkan pada ruang publik yang memiliki berbagai macam aktivitas harus dapat menampung berbagai aktivitas di dalamnya. Untuk itulah perlu dilakukan kajian mengenai ruang publik terhadap permasalahan keterbatasan ruang yang sering ditemui. Tulisan ini menggunakan metode kualitatif dengan melakukan pendekatan kajian literatur. Ada beberapa literatur yang diambil dari beberapa ahli serta beberapa hasil penelitian dalam artikel jurnal untuk mendukung teori dan melihat kenyataan di lapangan. Pada akhir tulisan diambil suatu kesimpulan bahwa keterbatasan ruang publik terhadap berbagai macam aktivitas yang berlangsung di dalamnya dengan terbentuknya ruang bersama baik secara permanen maupun bergantian (waktu tertentu).Kata-kata Kunci: arsitektur, ruang publik, aktivitas, ruang bersamaURBAN PUBLIC SPACE STUDIES BETWEEN ACTIVITIES AND LIMITATIONSThe essence of space is a place where humans live and doing their activities. But not all activities can be accommodated because space is limited by their functions. For private space, space limitations are the main characteristics for space itself, while in public spaces that have various kinds of activities must be able to accommodate multiple activities in it. For this reason, a study of public space needs to be done on the problems of space limitations that are often encountered. This paper uses qualitative methods by conducting a literature review approach. There is some literature taken from several experts and several research results in the journal for support the theory and see the reality in the field. At the end of the writing, it was concluded that the limitations of the public space for various kinds of activities take place in it with the formation of shared spaces both permanently and alternately (certain times).Keywords: architecture, public space, activity, share spaceREFERENCESAgustapraja, H. R. (2018). Studi Pemetaan Perilaku (Behavioral Mapping) Pejalan Kaki Pada Pedesterian Alun-Alun Kota Lamongan. Civilla, 3(1), 134–139. https://doi.org/https://doi.org/10.30736/cvl.v3i1.220Athanassiou, E. (2017). The Hybrid Landscape Of Public Space In Thessaloniki In The Context Of Crisis. Landscape Research, 42(7), 782–794. https://doi.org/10.1080/01426397.2017.1372399Carr, J., & Dionisio, M. R. (2017). Flexible Spaces as a Third Way Forward for Planning Urban Shared Spaces. In Cities (pp. 73–82). 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Tatanan spasial (ruang) memperlihatkan hubungan antara arsitektur dan budaya masyarakat setempat. Manusia sebagai makhluk yang berpikir dinamis, memiliki peran besar untuk merubah lingkungan fisik maupun kebudayaan. Tatanan ruang tradisional merupakan warisan leluhur yang harmonis, senantiasa mengalami perubahan untuk beradaptasi dengan modernitas budaya global. Penelitian ini bertujuan untuk (1) mengidentifikasi dan menganalisis unsur-unsur ruang yang berubah dan (2) menjelaskan faktor-faktor sosial-budaya yang mempengaruhinya, pada objek rumah tinggal tradisional di wilayah kebudayaan Jawa Panaragan. Objek penelitian berupa rumah-rumah berlanggam arsitektur Jawa, yang telah berdiri sejak sebelum era kemerdekaan RI, terletak di wilayah tertua dari permukiman Desa Kaponan. Metodologi penelitian menggunakan pendekatan kualitatif-rasionalistik dengan analisis deskriptif. Penggalian data melalui observasi langsung terhadap objek yang menjadi kasus penelitian dan wawancara silang dengan informan (narasumber dan keyperson) terkait. Variabel penelitian meliputi organisasi, fungsi, hirarki, orientasi serta teritori ruang sebagai panduan untuk mengamati perubahan ruang dalam 2 (dua) periode waktu. Objek/kasus penelitian dipilih secara sengaja berdasar kriteria meliputi rumah lurah, carik, pamong desa dan tokoh masyarakat yang menjabat pada masa lampau, dilengkapi dengan rumah petani serta buruh tani. Hasil penelitian menunjukkan bahwa unsur spasial (ruang) yang banyak berubah adalah organisasi dan teritori ruang sebagai konsekuensi dari penambahan jumlah, jenis dan fungsi ruang. Unsur spasial yang sedikit berubah adalah orientasi dan hirarki ruang karena kuatnya faktor kepercayaan leluhur. Faktor yang mempengaruhi terjadinya perubahan ruang terutama adalah struktur keluarga dan perubahan gaya hidup seiring meningkatnya pengetahuan dan pendidikan. Kata-kata kunci : perubahan ruang, rumah tradisional, Jawa Panaragan THE TRADITION BASED ROOM CHANGES IN JAWA PANARAGAN HOUSE OF KAPONAN VILLAGESpatial order (space) shows the relationship between the architecture and the culture of local community. As dynamic thinking creature, human has a major role in changing the physical environment or culture. Order of the traditional spaces which is a harmonious ancestral heritage is constantly changing to adapt to the global culture of modernity. This research aimed to (1) identify and analyze the elements of spatial change and (2) explain the socio-cultural factors that affected it, on the object of traditional house in the Panaragan Javanese cultural area. The object of research were traditional Javanese type of home, built before the era of Indonesia independence (1945), located in the oldest settlement of the Kaponan Village. The research methodology used a qualitative–rationalistic approaches with descriptive analysis. Data mining was conducted through direct observation of objects that became case studies and interviews with related informants and keyperson. Variables of research include organization, function, hierarchy, orientation and territory of spatial (space) as a guide for observing spatial change between two periods of time. Object/case studies were deliberately chosen based on criteria include the house of the village head and officials, teacher and community leaders who served in the past, also added with home of farmers and farmworkers. The results showed that elements of the spatial (space) which was much changed was the organization and territorial spaces as a consequence of the addition of the number, type and function space. The elements of spatial orientation and space hierarchy was less changed, because of the strong ancestral belief and religion. The main factors affecting the occurrence of a spatial change was family structure and lifestyle changes, along with the increasing knowledge and education. Keywords: change spaces, traditional house, Jawa Panaragan REFERENCESAltman, I. & Chemers M.M. (1989). Culture & Environment. New York: Cambridge University Press. Habraken, N. J. (1988(. Type as a Social Agreement. Makalah dalam Asian Congress of Architect. Seoul. Habraken, N.J. (1982). Transformation of The Site. Massachusetts: MITT. Kartono, J.L. (2005). Konsep Ruang Tradisional Jawa dalam Konteks Budaya. Jurnal Dimensi Interior. III (2): 124-136. Marti, M, Jr. (1993). Space Operasional Analisis. USA: PDA Publisher Corporation. Rapoport, A. (2005). Culture, Architecture, and Design. Chicago: Locke Scientific. Soegijono, Arkham, R, Zaenuri & Setiantoro. (2006). Sekilas Sejarah Desa Kaponan dan Silsilah Penduduknya. Tidak dipublikasikan. Ponorogo. Susilo, G.A. (2010). Peranan Arsitektur Tradisional Jawa dalam Pembangunan Berkelanjutan (Studi Kasus Arsitektur Joglo Ponorogo). Makalah dalam Seminar Nasional FTSP-ITN. Malang. Susilo, G.A. (2015). Model Tipe Bangunan Tradisional Ponorogo. Makalah dalam Prosiding Temu Ilmiah IPLBI. E 137-E 144. Sutarto A. & Sudikan, S.Y. (Eds. ). (2004). Pendekatan Kebudayaan dalam Pembangunan Provinsi Jawa Timur. Sutarto, A. (2004). "Studi Pemetaan Kebudayaan Jawa Timur" Jember: Kompyawisda

Green Street is a very important innovation in managing water run-off from paving or pavement. Green street is basically one that can clean and absorb the results of rainwater runoff or its own through a balanced combination of the same technique. Landscape design for Yasmin area aims to provide innovative K.H. Abdullah Bin Nuh street design as Green Street-based green path with existing problems on tread such as drainage channel obstruction and by applying green street system, including green infrastructure, complete street and placemaking tools. Complete street is a comfortable and safe road design with clear division of motor vehicle and bicycle circulation paths. The placemaking principle is the principle where by the resulting design should provide an identity to the area.The result of the research is the design of road landscape consisting of service space, identity, vehicle, pedestrian, buffer and conservation. The research site located at K.H. Abdullah Bin Nuh street is divided into five segments with various kinds of concepts and designs applied in accordance with green street concept. The main green street concept applied to this site is a rain garden that serves to absorb rainwater runoff. This research produces site plan, planting plan, detail construction and illustration design.Kata-kata Kunci: desain jalan, green street, green infrastructure, lanskap jalan LANDSCAPE DESIGN IN K.H. ABDULLAH BIN NUH STREET BASED ON GREEN STREETGreen Street is a critical innovation in managing water run-off from paving or pavement. Green street is one that can clean and absorb the results of rainwater runoff or its own through a balanced combination of the same technique. Landscape design for Yasmin area aims to provide innovative K.H. Abdullah Bin Nuh street design as Green Street-based green path with existing problems on tread such as drainage channel obstruction and by applying green street system, including green infrastructure, complete street, and placemaking tools. A complete street is a comfortable and safe road design with clear division of motor vehicle and bicycle circulation paths. The placemaking principle is the principle where the resulting design should provide an identity to the area. The result of the research is the design of the road landscape consisting of service space, character, vehicle, pedestrian, buffer, and conservation. The research site located at K.H. Abdullah Bin Nuh street is divided into five segments with various kinds of concepts and designs applied following green street concept. The main green street concept applied to this site is a rain garden that serves to absorb rainwater runoff. This research produces site plan, planting plan, detail construction, and illustration design.Keywords: design street, green street, green infrastructure, landscape street REFERENCES[BAPPEDA] Badan Perencanaan dan Pembangunan Daerah. 2014. Rencana Pembangunan Jangka Menengah Kota Bogor Tahun 2015-2019. Bogor (ID): Badan Perencanaan dan Pembangunan Daerah Kota Bogor.Austin G. 2014. Green Infrastructue for Landscape Planning. Glasgow: Bell and Bain Ltd.Booth N K. 1983. Basic Elements of Landscape Architectural Design. Illinois (US): Waveland Press.Carlson et al. 2014. Green Streets Guidebook for the City of Holyoke, Massachusetts. Winter: The Conway SchoolDepartemen Pekerjaan Umum Direktorat Jenderal Bina Marga. 2008. Manual Kapasitas Jalan Indonesia (MKJI). Jakarta (ID) : Departemen Pekerjaan Umum.Laurie. 1986. Pengantar kepada Arsitektur Pertamanan. Bandung: IntermatraSimonds JO and Starke BW. 2006. Landscape Architecture. New York (US): McGraw Hill-Book Co.

The present writing was elaborated from speculations about possible encounters between philosophy, education and music. On the margins of music, where philosophy seeks some penetration, the theme of a supposed refusal to assimilation is announced, demanding the resumption of questions such as the permanence of a zone of indetermination not reached by the representational effort. This unavoidable opacity of the musical phenomenon moves it to a nocturnal dimension, a common destiny to everything that escapes the totalizing interests of a language committed to the objectifcation and nomination of things and of those conventionally called other. The nocturnal in philosophy and in music is object of reflections of Derrida and other thinkers, from which it is possible to glimpse a widening of the world, just where it is evident the merely formal character of the limits between what is said and unsaid, between what is human and what’s not. The text presented here includes some of these philosophical reflections, compared to musical creations that insinuate this nocturnal character, like those of Debussy. Additionally, possible consequences of the weakening of representational politics to subjectivation processes and alterity relations are highlighted, opening space for a thought about an education not compromised with the centrality of the human.ResumoA presente escrita foi elaborada a partir de especulações sobre possíveis encontros entre flosofa, educação e música. Nas margens da música, onde a flosofa busca alguma penetração, o tema de uma suposta recusa à assimilação se anuncia, exigindo a retomada de questões como a permanência de uma zona de indeterminação não alcançada pelo esforço representacional. Essa opacidade incontornável do fenômeno musical desloca-o para uma dimensão noturna, destino comum a tudo que escapa aos interesses totalizantes de uma linguagem comprometida com a objetivação e nomeação das coisas e dos que, a partir dela própria, se convencionou chamar de outros. O noturno na flosofa e na música é objeto de reflexões de Derrida e de outros pensadores, a partir das quais é possível vislumbrar uma ampliação do mundo, justamente onde se evidencia o caráter meramente formal dos limites entre o que é dito e não dito, entre o que é humano ou não. O texto aqui apresentado inclui algumas dessas reflexões filosóficas, cotejadas com criações musicais que insinuam esse caráter noturno, como as de Debussy. Adicionalmente, são destacadas possíveis consequências do enfraquecimento da política representacional para processos de subjetivação e relações de alteridade, abrindo espaço para um pensamento sobre educação não comprometido com a centralidade do humano.Keywords: Nocturne, Music, Philosophy, Subjectivation.Palavras-chave: Noturno, Música, Filosofia, Subjetivação.ReferencesBACHELARD, Gaston. A água e os sonhos: ensaio sobre a imaginação da matéria. Trad. Antonio P. Danesi. São Paulo: Martins Fontes, 1997.BULANCEA, Gabriel. Conexiones y divergencia entre el pensamiento de Claude Debussy y la estética impresionista y simbolista. Revista Filomusica, n.83, pp.1-4, abr.-jun. 2007.CABRERA, Honatan F. Dar la mano. Sobre algunos trazos y trances del poema en el pensamiento de la alteridade: Levinas, Celan, Derrida. 2013, 173f. Dissertação (Mestrado em Filosofia). Faculdade de Filosofia PUC-RS: Programa de Pós-Graduação em Filosofia, 2013.DERRIDA, Jacques. O animal que logo sou. Trad. Fábio Landa. 2ed. São Paulo: Editora Unesp, 2011.DERRIDA, Jacques. Cette nuit dans la nuit de la nuit… Rue Descartes, n.42, Politiques de lacommunauté, pp.112-127, nov.2003, Disponível em http://www.jstor.org/stable/40978797, acessado em 09/11/2015.DERRIDA, Jacques. A voz e o fenômeno: introdução ao problema do signo na fenomenologia de Husserl. Trad. Lucy Magalhães. Rio de Janeiro: Jorge Zahar Ed., 1994(a).DERRIDA, Jacques. “The Spatial Arts: An Interview with Jacques Derrida”. In: Deconstruction and the Visual Arts: Art, Media, Architecture. Ed. Brunette, Peter y David Willis. New York: Cambridge University Press, 1994(b).DERRIDA, Jacques. Points de suspension. Entretiens. Elisabeth Weber (org). Paris: Galilée, 1992.DERRIDA, Jacques. “Cequi reste à force de musique”. In: Psyché. Inventions de l’autre. Paris: Galilée, 1987.DURÁN, Cristóban. Una voz temblorosa. Música y auto-afección en Jacques Derrida. Aisthesis, n.58, pp.45-58, 2015.GRAY, P.M.; KRAUSE, B.; ATEMA, J.; PAYNE, R.; KRUMHANSL, C.; BAPTISTA, L. The Music of Nature and the Nature of Music. Science, v.291, n.5501, p.52-54, jan. 2001.GUIGUE, Didier. Estética da sonoridade: a herança de Debussy na música para piano do século XX. São Paulo: Perspectiva; Brasília: CNPq; João Pessoa: UFPB, 2011.HANDKE, Peter. Numa noite escura saí da minha casa silenciosa. Cruz quebrada, Portugal: Casa das Letras, 2006.HARARI, Yuval N. Sapiens: uma breve história da humanidade. Trad. Janaína Marcoantonio. Editora J&PM, 2015.JANKÉLÉVITCH, Vladimir. La musique et l’ineffable. Paris: Seuil, 1983.JOÃO DA CRUZ, São. Obras completas. Tradução das Carmelitas descalças de Fátima (Portugal) e Carmelitas descalças do convento de Santa Tereza (Rio de Janeiro). Petrópolis: Vozes, 2002.LAMUR, Jorge P. Entre a vanguarda e a tradição: considerações sobre dois momentos na obra musical de Claude Debussy (1894-1915). 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The automotive design process and the materials in the automotive industry in recent years has caused great interest to the industrial and academic sector. In this study was to evaluate the effect of the amount of bentonite on the thermal and rheological properties of the compound bentonite / paraffin wax. Two bentonite ratios were used: paraffin wax (40:60 and 30:70). The paraffin was characterized by Fourier transform infrared spectroscopy (FTIR), the bentonite was characterized by means of x-ray diffraction (XRD), thermogravimetric analysis (TGA), X-ray fluorescence (XRF). The bentonite/paraffine wax composite was characterized by differential-scanning calorimetry (DSC) and rheology. The sample that contains a higher amount of bentonite shows a lower latent heat, and this could cause a greater heat transfer. Finally, the sample that has a lower amount of bentonite evidenced a lower viscosity, and it could be related to a lower interaction between the particles. The sample S1 due to its lower latent heat compared to S2 could represent an interesting alternative to develop prototypingclays. since these materials are characterized by their low working temperatures and easy malleability. Keywords: automotive, prototyping, latent heat, bentonite, paraffin. References [1]X. Ferràs-Hernández, E. Tarrats-Pons, and N. Arimany-Serrat, “Disruption in the automotive industry: A Cambrian moment,” Bus. Horiz., vol. 60, no. 6, pp.855–863, 2017, doi: 10.1016/j.bushor.2017.07.011. [2]O. Heneric, G. Licht, S. Lutz, and W. Urban, “The Europerean Automotive Industry in a Global Context,” Eur. Automot. Ind. Move, pp. 5–44, 2005, doi: 10.1007/3-7908-1644-2_2. [3]S. I.-N. Delhi, “Automotive Revolution & Perspective Towards 2030,” Auto Tech Rev., vol. 5, no. 4, pp. 20–25, Apr. 2016, doi: 10.1365/s40112-016-1117-8.[4]M. Tovey, J. Owen, and P. Street, “in Automotive Design,” vol. 21, pp. 569–588, 2000. 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El texto aborda la evolución del análisis historiográfico que se ha llevado a cabo sobre la Cataluña moderna entre finales del siglo XVI y principios del XVIII. Aunque la frontera moderna de Cataluña puede ser múltiple, nos centramos esencialmente en aquella que va desde el Valle de Arán hasta el Mediterráneo. El texto abre con una primera reflexión sobre el camino hacia el cambio de modelo, luego evoca los efectos de las guerras con Francia, con algunos ejemplos concretos, como el de Cerdaña, y, por último, expone la realidad percibida y llevada a cabo con la nueva “fortificación” de la frontera catalana a finales del siglo XVII, cuando el control de Francia se hace evidente. Palabras clave: Frontera, fronterización, fortificaciónTopónimos: Francia, España, Cataluña,Período: época moderna ABSTRACTThe text addresses the evolution of the historiographical analysis that of modern Catalonia between the end of the 16th and the beginning of the 18th century. Although the modern border of Catalonia may be multiple, the focus will essentially be upon the border that runs from the Arán Valley to the Mediterranean. The text opens with an initial reflection on the path towards a change of model, before evoking the effects of the wars with France, with some specific examples, such as that of Cerdanya, and finally presenting the reality perceived and manifested with the new “fortification” of the Catalan border at the end of the 17th century, when French control became evident. Keywords: Border, bordering, fortificationPlace names: France, Spain, CataloniaPeriod: modern era REFERENCIASAyats, A., Louis XIV et les Pyrénées catalanes de 1659 à 1681. Frontière politique et frontières militaires, Trabucaire, Canet, 2002.Bély, L., “La representación de la frontera en las diplomacias durante la Época Moderna”, Manuscrits, 26, (2008), pp. 35-51.— “Westphalie, Pyrénées, Utrecht: trois traités pour redessiner l'Europe”, en O. 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Alteraciones sociales y conflictos políticos, Universidad de Zaragoza, Zaragoza, 1982.Conesa, M., D’herbe, de terre et de sang: La Cerdagne du XIVe au XIXe siècle, Presses universitaires de Perpignan, Perpiñán, 2018.Cornette, J., Le roi de guerre. Essai sur la souveraineté dans la France du Grand Siècle, Editions Payot Rivages, París, 2000, p. 43Cortada, L., Estructures territorials, urbanisme i arquitectura poliorcètics a la Catalunya preindustrial, IEC, Barcelona, 1998, 2 vols.Díaz Capmany, C., “La construcció de la plaça forta de Sant Ferran a Figueres”, AIEE, 36, (2003), pp. 265-295.Dubost, J.-F., “Absolutisme et centralisation en Languedoc au XVIIe siècle (1620-1690)”, Revue d’histoire moderne et contemporaine, 37-3, (1990), pp. 369-397.Dubost, J.-F.y Sahlins, P., Et si on faisait payer les étrangers? Louis XIV. 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RESUMENEl culto a los muertos es una práctica documentada en el ser humano desde tiempos prehistóricos. Uno de los fenómenos funerarios que revisten mayor popularidad dentro de la Prehistoria Reciente es el megalitismo, desarrollado en amplios territorios de Europa desde mediados del v milenio cal BC, y caracterizado por la construcción de grandes tumbas colectivas cuyo imaginario permanece en el folclore popular hasta nuestros días. En este trabajo se ofrece una interpretación de las prácticas funerarias que engloban dicho fenómeno a partir del estudio regional del conjunto megalítico de la Lora burgalesa, en el noreste de la Submeseta Norte española. Tras décadas de estudio, que en los últimos años se ha focalizado en el análisis de las colecciones esqueléticas, ha sido posible profundizar en el conocimiento de las sociedades que enterraban a sus muertos en estas tumbas. Palabras clave: megalitismo, prácticas funerarias, enterramientos colectivosTopónimos: Lora burgalesa, Submeseta Norte españolaPeriodo: Neolítico Final, Calcolítico ABSTRACTThe cult of the death has been a well-documented human activity since prehistoric times. A popular funerary phenomenon of Neolithic period is megalithism, developed in large areas of Europe from the mid-5th millennium BC. It is characterised by the construction of large collective tombs that have remained in popular folklore to the present day. This paper offers an interpretative approach to the funerary practices involved in this phenomenon from the regional study of the megalithic complex of la Lora burgalesa, in the northeast of the Spanish North Plateau. Decades of study, which in recent years focus on the analysis of skeletal collections, have provided us with a better knowledge of the societies that buried their ancestors in these tombs. 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To date, discrete event stochastic simulations of large scale biological reaction systems are extremely compute-intensive and time-consuming. Besides, it has been widely accepted that spatial factor plays a critical role in the dynamics of most biological reaction systems. The NSM (the Next Sub-Volume Method), a spatial variation of the Gillespie’s stochastic simulation algorithm (SSA), has been proposed for spatially stochastic simulation of those systems. While being able to explore high degree of parallelism in systems, NSM is inherently sequential, which still suffers from the problem of low simulation speed. Fine-grained parallel execution is an elegant way to speed up sequential simulations. Thus, based on the discrete event simulation framework JAMES II, we design and implement a PDES (Parallel Discrete Event Simulation) TW (time warp) simulator to enable the fine-grained parallel execution of spatial stochastic simulations of biological reaction systems using the ANSM (the Abstract NSM), a parallel variation of the NSM. The simulation results of classical Lotka-Volterra biological reaction system show that our time warp simulator obtains remarkable parallel speed-up against sequential execution of the NSM.I.IntroductionThe goal of Systems biology is to obtain system-level investigations of the structure and behavior of biological reaction systems by integrating biology with system theory, mathematics and computer science [1][3], since the isolated knowledge of parts can not explain the dynamics of a whole system. As the complement of “wet-lab” experiments, stochastic simulation, being called the “dry-computational” experiment, plays a more and more important role in computing systems biology [2]. Among many methods explored in systems biology, discrete event stochastic simulation is of greatly importance [4][5][6], since a great number of researches have present that stochasticity or “noise” have a crucial effect on the dynamics of small population biological reaction systems [4][7]. Furthermore, recent research shows that the stochasticity is not only important in biological reaction systems with small population but also in some moderate/large population systems [7].To date, Gillespie’s SSA [8] is widely considered to be the most accurate way to capture the dynamics of biological reaction systems instead of traditional mathematical method [5][9]. However, SSA-based stochastic simulation is confronted with two main challenges: Firstly, this type of simulation is extremely time-consuming, since when the types of species and the number of reactions in the biological system are large, SSA requires a huge amount of steps to sample these reactions; Secondly, the assumption that the systems are spatially homogeneous or well-stirred is hardly met in most real biological systems and spatial factors play a key role in the behaviors of most real biological systems [19][20][21][22][23][24]. The next sub-volume method (NSM) [18], presents us an elegant way to access the special problem via domain partition. To our disappointment, sequential stochastic simulation with the NSM is still very time-consuming, and additionally introduced diffusion among neighbor sub-volumes makes things worse. Whereas, the NSM explores a very high degree of parallelism among sub-volumes, and parallelization has been widely accepted as the most meaningful way to tackle the performance bottleneck of sequential simulations [26][27]. Thus, adapting parallel discrete event simulation (PDES) techniques to discrete event stochastic simulation would be particularly promising. Although there are a few attempts have been conducted [29][30][31], research in this filed is still in its infancy and many issues are in need of further discussion. The next section of the paper presents the background and related work in this domain. In section III, we give the details of design and implementation of model interfaces of LP paradigm and the time warp simulator based on the discrete event simulation framework JAMES II; the benchmark model and experiment results are shown in Section IV; in the last section, we conclude the paper with some future work.II. Background and Related WorkA. Parallel Discrete Event Simulation (PDES)The notion Logical Process (LP) is introduced to PDES as the abstract of the physical process [26], where a system consisting of many physical processes is usually modeled by a set of LP. LP is regarded as the smallest unit that can be executed in PDES and each LP holds a sub-partition of the whole system’s state variables as its private ones. When a LP processes an event, it can only modify the state variables of its own. If one LP needs to modify one of its neighbors’ state variables, it has to schedule an event to the target neighbor. That is to say event message exchanging is the only way that LPs interact with each other. Because of the data dependences or interactions among LPs, synchronization protocols have to be introduced to PDES to guarantee the so-called local causality constraint (LCC) [26]. By now, there are a larger number of synchronization algorithms have been proposed, e.g. the null-message [26], the time warp (TW) [32], breath time warp (BTW) [33] and etc. According to whether can events of LPs be processed optimistically, they are generally divided into two types: conservative algorithms and optimistic algorithms. However, Dematté and Mazza have theoretically pointed out the disadvantages of pure conservative parallel simulation for biochemical reaction systems [31]. B. NSM and ANSM The NSM is a spatial variation of Gillespie’ SSA, which integrates the direct method (DM) [8] with the next reaction method (NRM) [25]. The NSM presents us a pretty good way to tackle the aspect of space in biological systems by partitioning a spatially inhomogeneous system into many much more smaller “homogeneous” ones, which can be simulated by SSA separately. However, the NSM is inherently combined with the sequential semantics, and all sub-volumes share one common data structure for events or messages. Thus, directly parallelization of the NSM may be confronted with the so-called boundary problem and high costs of synchronously accessing the common data structure [29]. In order to obtain higher efficiency of parallel simulation, parallelization of NSM has to firstly free the NSM from the sequential semantics and secondly partition the shared data structure into many “parallel” ones. One of these is the abstract next sub-volume method (ANSM) [30]. In the ANSM, each sub-volume is modeled by a logical process (LP) based on the LP paradigm of PDES, where each LP held its own event queue and state variables (see Fig. 1). In addition, the so-called retraction mechanism was introduced in the ANSM too (see algorithm 1). Besides, based on the ANSM, Wang etc. [30] have experimentally tested the performance of several PDES algorithms in the platform called YH-SUPE [27]. However, their platform is designed for general simulation applications, thus it would sacrifice some performance for being not able to take into account the characteristics of biological reaction systems. Using the similar ideas of the ANSM, Dematté and Mazza have designed and realized an optimistic simulator. However, they processed events in time-stepped manner, which would lose a specific degree of precisions compared with the discrete event manner, and it is very hard to transfer a time-stepped simulation to a discrete event one. In addition, Jeschke etc.[29] have designed and implemented a dynamic time-window simulator to execution the NSM in parallel on the grid computing environment, however, they paid main attention on the analysis of communication costs and determining a better size of the time-window.Fig. 1: the variations from SSA to NSM and from NSM to ANSMC. JAMES II JAMES II is an open source discrete event simulation experiment framework developed by the University of Rostock in Germany. It focuses on high flexibility and scalability [11][13]. Based on the plug-in scheme [12], each function of JAMES II is defined as a specific plug-in type, and all plug-in types and plug-ins are declared in XML-files [13]. Combined with the factory method pattern JAMES II innovatively split up the model and simulator, which makes JAMES II is very flexible to add and reuse both of models and simulators. In addition, JAMES II supports various types of modelling formalisms, e.g. cellular automata, discrete event system specification (DEVS), SpacePi, StochasticPi and etc.[14]. Besides, a well-defined simulator selection mechanism is designed and developed in JAMES II, which can not only automatically choose the proper simulators according to the modeling formalism but also pick out a specific simulator from a serious of simulators supporting the same modeling formalism according to the user settings [15].III. The Model Interface and SimulatorAs we have mentioned in section II (part C), model and simulator are split up into two separate parts. Thus, in this section, we introduce the designation and implementation of model interface of LP paradigm and more importantly the time warp simulator.A. The Mod Interface of LP ParadigmJAMES II provides abstract model interfaces for different modeling formalism, based on which Wang etc. have designed and implemented model interface of LP paradigm[16]. However, this interface is not scalable well for parallel and distributed simulation of larger scale systems. In our implementation, we accommodate the interface to the situation of parallel and distributed situations. Firstly, the neighbor LP’s reference is replaced by its name in LP’s neighbor queue, because it is improper even dangerous that a local LP hold the references of other LPs in remote memory space. In addition, (pseudo-)random number plays a crucial role to obtain valid and meaningful results in stochastic simulations. However, it is still a very challenge work to find a good random number generator (RNG) [34]. Thus, in order to focus on our problems, we introduce one of the uniform RNGs of JAMES II to this model interface, where each LP holds a private RNG so that random number streams of different LPs can be independent stochastically. B. The Time Warp SimulatorBased on the simulator interface provided by JAMES II, we design and implement the time warp simulator, which contains the (master-)simulator, (LP-)simulator. The simulator works strictly as master/worker(s) paradigm for fine-grained parallel and distributed stochastic simulations. Communication costs are crucial to the performance of a fine-grained parallel and distributed simulation. Based on the Java remote method invocation (RMI) mechanism, P2P (peer-to-peer) communication is implemented among all (master-and LP-)simulators, where a simulator holds all the proxies of targeted ones that work on remote workers. One of the advantages of this communication approach is that PDES codes can be transferred to various hardwire environment, such as Clusters, Grids and distributed computing environment, with only a little modification; The other is that RMI mechanism is easy to realized and independent to any other non-Java libraries. Since the straggler event problem, states have to be saved to rollback events that are pre-processed optimistically. Each time being modified, the state is cloned to a queue by Java clone mechanism. Problem of this copy state saving approach is that it would cause loads of memory space. However, the problem can be made up by a condign GVT calculating mechanism. GVT reduction scheme also has a significant impact on the performance of parallel simulators, since it marks the highest time boundary of events that can be committed so that memories of fossils (processed events and states) less than GVT can be reallocated. GVT calculating is a very knotty for the notorious simultaneous reporting problem and transient messages problem. According to our problem, another GVT algorithm, called Twice Notification (TN-GVT) (see algorithm 2), is contributed to this already rich repository instead of implementing one of GVT algorithms in reference [26] and [28].This algorithm looks like the synchronous algorithm described in reference [26] (pp. 114), however, they are essentially different from each other. This algorithm has never stopped the simulators from processing events when GVT reduction, while algorithm in reference [26] blocks all simulators for GVT calculating. As for the transient message problem, it can be neglect in our implementation, because RMI based remote communication approach is synchronized, that means a simulator will not go on its processing until the remote the massage get to its destination. And because of this, the high-costs message acknowledgement, prevalent over many classical asynchronous GVT algorithms, is not needed anymore too, which should be constructive to the whole performance of the time warp simulator.IV. Benchmark Model and Experiment ResultsA. The Lotka-Volterra Predator-prey SystemIn our experiment, the spatial version of Lotka-Volterra predator-prey system is introduced as the benchmark model (see Fig. 2). We choose the system for two considerations: 1) this system is a classical experimental model that has been used in many related researches [8][30][31], so it is credible and the simulation results are comparable; 2) it is simple but helpful enough to test the issues we are interested in. The space of predator-prey System is partitioned into a2D NXNgrid, whereNdenotes the edge size of the grid. Initially the population of the Grass, Preys and Predators are set to 1000 in each single sub-volume (LP). In Fig. 2,r1,r2,r3stand for the reaction constants of the reaction 1, 2 and 3 respectively. We usedGrass,dPreyanddPredatorto stand for the diffusion rate of Grass, Prey and Predator separately. Being similar to reference [8], we also take the assumption that the population of the grass remains stable, and thusdGrassis set to zero.R1:Grass + Prey ->2Prey(1)R2:Predator +Prey -> 2Predator(2)R3:Predator -> NULL(3)r1=0.01; r2=0.01; r3=10(4)dGrass=0.0;dPrey=2.5;dPredato=5.0(5)Fig. 2: predator-prey systemB. Experiment ResultsThe simulation runs have been executed on a Linux Cluster with 40 computing nodes. Each computing node is equipped with two 64bit 2.53 GHz Intel Xeon QuadCore Processors with 24GB RAM, and nodes are interconnected with Gigabit Ethernet connection. The operating system is Kylin Server 3.5, with kernel 2.6.18. Experiments have been conducted on the benchmark model of different size of mode to investigate the execution time and speedup of the time warp simulator. As shown in Fig. 3, the execution time of simulation on single processor with 8 cores is compared. The result shows that it will take more wall clock time to simulate much larger scale systems for the same simulation time. This testifies the fact that larger scale systems will leads to more events in the same time interval. More importantly, the blue line shows that the sequential simulation performance declines very fast when the mode scale becomes large. The bottleneck of sequential simulator is due to the costs of accessing a long event queue to choose the next events. Besides, from the comparison between group 1 and group 2 in this experiment, we could also conclude that high diffusion rate increased the simulation time greatly both in sequential and parallel simulations. This is because LP paradigm has to split diffusion into two processes (diffusion (in) and diffusion (out) event) for two interactive LPs involved in diffusion and high diffusion rate will lead to high proportional of diffusion to reaction. In the second step shown in Fig. 4, the relationship between the speedups from time warp of two different model sizes and the number of work cores involved are demonstrated. The speedup is calculated against the sequential execution of the spatial reaction-diffusion systems model with the same model size and parameters using NSM.Fig. 4 shows the comparison of speedup of time warp on a64X64grid and a100X100grid. In the case of a64X64grid, under the condition that only one node is used, the lowest speedup (a little bigger than 1) is achieved when two cores involved, and the highest speedup (about 6) is achieved when 8 cores involved. The influence of the number of cores used in parallel simulation is investigated. In most cases, large number of cores could bring in considerable improvements in the performance of parallel simulation. Also, compared with the two results in Fig. 4, the simulation of larger model achieves better speedup. Combined with time tests (Fig. 3), we find that sequential simulator’s performance declines sharply when the model scale becomes very large, which makes the time warp simulator get better speed-up correspondingly.Fig. 3: Execution time (wall clock time) of Seq. and time warp with respect to different model sizes (N=32, 64, 100, and 128) and model parameters based on single computing node with 8 cores. Results of the test are grouped by the diffusion rates (Group 1: Sequential 1 and Time Warp 1. dPrey=2.5, dPredator=5.0; Group 2: dPrey=0.25, dPredator=0.5, Sequential 2 and Time Warp 2).Fig. 4: Speedup of time warp with respect to the number of work cores and the model size (N=64 and 100). Work cores are chose from one computing node. Diffusion rates are dPrey=2.5, dPredator=5.0 and dGrass=0.0.V. Conclusion and Future WorkIn this paper, a time warp simulator based on the discrete event simulation framework JAMES II is designed and implemented for fine-grained parallel and distributed discrete event spatial stochastic simulation of biological reaction systems. Several challenges have been overcome, such as state saving, roll back and especially GVT reduction in parallel execution of simulations. The Lotka-Volterra Predator-Prey system is chosen as the benchmark model to test the performance of our time warp simulator and the best experiment results show that it can obtain about 6 times of speed-up against the sequential simulation. The domain this paper concerns with is in the infancy, many interesting issues are worthy of further investigated, e.g. there are many excellent PDES optimistic synchronization algorithms (e.g. the BTW) as well. Next step, we would like to fill some of them into JAMES II. In addition, Gillespie approximation methods (tau-leap[10] etc.) sacrifice some degree of precision for higher simulation speed, but still could not address the aspect of space of biological reaction systems. The combination of spatial element and approximation methods would be very interesting and promising; however, the parallel execution of tau-leap methods should have to overcome many obstacles on the road ahead.AcknowledgmentThis work is supported by the National Natural Science Foundation of China (NSF) Grant (No.60773019) and the Ph.D. Programs Foundation of Ministry of Education of China (No. 200899980004). The authors would like to show their great gratitude to Dr. Jan Himmelspach and Dr. Roland Ewald at the University of Rostock, Germany for their invaluable advice and kindly help with JAMES II.ReferencesH. Kitano, "Computational systems biology." Nature, vol. 420, no. 6912, pp. 206-210, November 2002.H. Kitano, "Systems biology: a brief overview." 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In the 1960s, especially in the West, art that was revelatory and art that was revealing operated at opposite ends of the aesthetic spectrum. On the side of the revelatory we can think of encounters synonymous with modernism, in which an expressionist painting was revelatory of the Freudian unconscious, or a Barnett Newman the revelatory intensity of the sublime. By contrast, the impulse to reveal in 1960s art was rooted in post-Duchampian practice, implicating artists as different as Lynda Benglis and Richard Hamilton, who mined the potential of an art that was without essence. If revelatory art underscored modernism’s transcendental conviction, critically revealing work tested its discursive rules and institutional conventions. Of course, nothing in history happens as neatly as this suggests, but what is clear is how polarized the language of artistic revelation was throughout the 1960s. With the international spread of minimalism, pop art, and fluxus, provisional reveals eventually dominated art-historical discourse. Aesthetic conviction, with its spiritual undertones, was haunted by its demystification. In the words of Donald Judd: “a work needs only to be interesting” (184).That art galleries could be sites of timely socio-political issues, rather than timeless intuitions undersigned by medium specificity, is one of the more familiar origin stories of postmodernism. Few artists symbolize this shift more than Hans Haacke, whose 2019 exhibition All Connected, at the New Museum, New York, examined the legacy of his outward-looking work. Born in Germany in 1936, and a New Yorker since 1965, Haacke has been linked to the term “institutional critique” since the mid 1980s, after Mel Ramsden’s coining in 1975, and the increased recognition of kindred spirits such as Mierle Laderman Ukeles, Michael Asher, Martha Rosler, Robert Smithson, Daniel Buren, and Marcel Broodthaers. These artists have featured in books and essays by the likes of Benjamin Buchloh, Hal Foster, and Yve-Alain Bois, but they are also known for their own contributions to art discourse, producing hybrid conceptions of the intellectual postmodern artist as historian, critic and curator.Haacke was initially fascinated by kinetic sculpture in the early 1960s, taking inspiration from op art, systems art, and machine-oriented research collectives such as Zero (Germany), Gruppo N (Italy) and GRAV (France, an acronym of Groupe de Recherche d’Art Visuel). Towards the end of the decade he started to produce more overtly socio-political work, creating what would become a classic piece from this period, Gallery-Goers’ Birthplace and Residence Profile, Part 1 (1969). Here, in a solo exhibition at New York’s Howard Wise Gallery, the artist invited viewers to mark their birthplaces and places of residence on a map. Questioning the statistical demography of the Gallery’s avant-garde attendees, the exhibition anticipated the meticulous sociological character of much of his practice to come, grounding New York art – the centre of the art world – in local, social, and economic fabrics.In the forward to the catalogue of All Connected, New Museum Director Lisa Philips claims that Haacke’s survey exhibition provided a chance to reflect on the artist’s prescience, especially given the flourishing of art activism over the last five or so years. Philips pressed the issue of why no other American art institution had mounted a retrospective of his work in three decades, since his previous survey, Unfinished Business, at the New Museum in 1986, at its former, and much smaller, Soho digs (8). It suggests that other institutions have deemed Haacke’s work too risky, generating too much political heat for them to handle. It’s a reputation the artist has cultivated since the Guggenheim Museum famously cancelled his 1971 exhibition after learning his intended work, Shapolsky et al. Manhattan Real Estate Holdings, A Real Time Social System as of May 1, 1971 (1971) involved research into dubious New York real estate dealings. Guggenheim director Thomas Messer defended the censorship at the time, going so far as to describe it as an “alien substance that had entered the art museum organism” (Haacke, Framing 138). Exposé was this substance Messer dare not name: art that was too revealing, too journalistic, too partisan, and too politically viscid. (Three years later, Haacke got his own back with Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum Board of Trustees, 1974, exposing then Guggenheim board members’ connections to the copper industry in Chile, where socialist president Salvador Allende had just been overthrown with US backing.) All Connected foregrounded these institutional reveals from time past, at a moment in 2019 when the moral accountability of the art institution was on the art world’s collective mind. The exhibition followed high-profile protests at New York’s Whitney Museum and Metropolitan Museum of Art, as well as at Sydney’s Museum of Contemporary Art, the Louvre, and the British Museum. These and other arts organisations have increasingly faced pressures, fostered by social media, to end ties with unethical donors, sponsors, and board members, with activist groups protesting institutional affiliations ranging from immigration detention centre management to opioid and teargas manufacturing. An awareness of the limits of individual agency and autonomy undoubtedly defines this era, with social media platforms intensifying the encumbrances of individual, group, and organisational identities. Hans Haacke, Gallery-Goers’ Birthplace and Residence Profile, Part 1, 1969 Hans Haacke, Gallery-Goers’ Birthplace and Residence Profile, Part 2, 1969-71Unfinished BusinessUnderscoring Haacke’s activist credentials, Philips describes him as “a model of how to live ethically and empathetically in the world today”, and as a beacon of light amidst the “extreme political and economic uncertainty” of the present, Trump-presidency-calamity moment (7). This was markedly different to how Haacke’s previous New York retrospective, Unfinished Business, was received, which bore the weight of being the artist’s first museum exhibition in New York following the Guggenheim controversy. In the catalogue to Haacke’s 1986 exhibition, then New Museum director Marcia Tucker introduced his work as a challenge, cautiously claiming that he poses “trenchant questions” and that the institution accepts “the difficulties and contradictions” inherent to any museum staging of his work (6).Philips’s and Tucker’s distinct perspectives on Haacke’s practice – one as heroically ethical, the other as a sobering critical challenge – exemplify broader shifts in the perception of institutional critique (the art of the socio-political reveal) over this thirty-year period. In the words of Pamela M. Lee, between 1986 and 2019 the art world has undergone a “seismic transformation”, becoming “a sphere of influence at once more rapacious, acquisitive, and overweening but arguably more democratizing and ecumenical with respect to new audiences and artists involved” (87). Haacke’s reputation over this period has taken a similar shift, from him being a controversial opponent of art’s autonomy (an erudite postmodern conceptualist) to a figurehead for moral integrity and cohesive artistic experimentation.As Rosalyn Deutsche pointed out in the catalogue to Haacke’s 1986 exhibition, a potential trap of such a retrospective is that, through biographical positioning, Haacke might be seen as an “exemplary political artist” (210). With this, the specific political issues motivating his work would be overshadowed by the perception of the “great artist” – someone who brings single-issue politics into the narrative of postmodern art, but at the expense of the issues themselves. This is exactly what Douglas Crimp discovered in Unfinished Business. In a 1987 reflection on the show, Crimp argued that, when compared with an AIDS-themed display, Homo Video, staged at the New Museum at the same time, reviewers of Haacke’s exhibition tended to analyse his politics “within the context of the individual artist’s body of work … . Political issues became secondary to the aesthetic strategies of the producer” (34). Crimp, whose activism would be at the forefront of his career in subsequent years, was surprised at how Homo Video and Unfinished Business spawned different readings. Whereas works in the former exhibition tended to be addressed in terms of the artists personal and partisan politics, Haacke’s prompted reflection on the aesthetics-politics juxtaposition itself. For Crimp, the fact that “there was no mediation between these two shows”, spoke volumes about the divisions between political and activist art at the time.New York Times critic Michael Brenson, reiterating a comment made by Fredric Jameson in the catalogue for Unfinished Business, describes the timeless appearance of Haacke’s work in 1986, which is “surprising for an artist whose work is in some way about ideology and history” (Brenson). The implication is that the artist gives a surprisingly long aesthetic afterlife to the politically specific – to ordinarily short shelf-life issues. In this mode of critical postmodernism in which we are unable to distinguish clearly between intervening in and merely reproducing the logic of the system, Haacke is seen as an astute director of an albeit ambiguous push and pull between political specificity and aesthetic irreducibility, political externality and the internalist mode of art about art. Jameson, while granting that Haacke’s work highlights the need to reinvent the role of the “ruling class” in the complex, globalised socio-economic situation of postmodernism, claims that it does so as representative of the “new intellectual problematic” of postmodernism. Haacke, according Jameson, stages postmodernism’s “crisis of ‘mapping’” whereby capitalism’s totalizing, systemic forms are “handled” (note that he avoids “critiqued” or “challenged”) by focusing on their manifestation through particular (“micro-public”) institutional means (49, 50).We can think of the above examples as constituting the postmodern version of Haacke, who frames very specific political issues on the one hand, and the limitless incorporative power of appropriative practice on the other. To say this another way, Haacke, circa 1986, points to specific sites of power struggle at the same time as revealing their generic absorption by an art-world system grown accustomed to its “duplicate anything” parameters. For all of his political intent, the artistic realm, totalised in accordance with the postmodern image, is ultimately where many thought his gestures remained. The philosopher turned art critic Arthur Danto, in a negative review of Haacke’s exhibition, portrayed institutional critique as part of an age-old business of purifying art, maintaining that Haacke’s “crude” and “heavy-handed” practice is blind to how art institutions have always relied on some form of critique in order for them to continue being respected “brokers of spirit”. This perception – of Haacke’s “external” critiques merely serving to “internally” strengthen existing art structures – was reiterated by Leo Steinberg. Supportively misconstruing the artist in the exhibition catalogue, Steinberg writes that Haacke’s “political message, by dint of dissonance, becomes grating and shrill – but shrill within the art context. And while its political effectiveness is probably minimal, its effect on Minimal art may well be profound” (15). Hans Haacke, MOMA Poll, 1970 All ConnectedSo, what do we make of the transformed reception of Haacke’s work since the late 1980s: from a postmodern ouroboros of “politicizing aesthetics and aestheticizing politics” to a revelatory exemplar of art’s moral power? At a period in the late 1980s when the culture wars were in full swing and yet activist groups remained on the margins of what would become a “mainstream” art world, Unfinished Business was, perhaps, blindingly relevant to its times. Unusually for a retrospective, it provided little historical distance for its subject, with Haacke becoming a victim of the era’s propensity to “compartmentalize the interpretive registers of inside and outside and the terms corresponding to such spatial­izing coordinates” (Lee 83).If commentary surrounding this 2019 retrospective is anything to go by, politics no longer performs such a parasitic, oppositional or even dialectical relation to art; no longer is the political regarded as a real-world intrusion into the formal, discerning, longue-durée field of aesthetics. The fact that protests inside the museum have become more visible and vociferous in recent years testifies to this shift. For Jason Farrago, in his review of All Connected for the New York Times, “the fact that no person and no artwork stands alone, that all of us are enmeshed in systems of economic and social power, is for anyone under 40 a statement of the obvious”. For Alyssa Battistoni, in Frieze magazine, “if institutional critique is a practice, it is hard to see where it is better embodied than in organizing a union, strike or boycott”.Some responders to All Connected, such as Ben Lewis, acknowledge how difficult it is to extract a single critical or political strategy from Haacke’s body of work; however, we can say that, in general, earlier postmodern questions concerning the aestheticisation of the socio-political reveal no longer dominates the reception of his practice. Today, rather than treating art and politics are two separate but related entities, like form is to content, better ideas circulate, such as those espoused by Bruno Latour and Jacques Rancière, for whom what counts as political is not determined by a specific program, medium or forum, but by the capacity of any actor-network to disrupt and change a normative social fabric. Compare Jameson’s claim that Haacke’s corporate and museological tropes are “dead forms” – through which “no subject-position speaks, not even in protest” (38) – with Battistoni’s, who, seeing Haacke’s activism as implicit, asks the reader: “how can we take the relationship between art and politics as seriously as Haacke has insisted we must?”Crimp’s concern that Unfinished Business perpetuated an image of the artist as distant from the “political stakes” of his work did not carry through to All Connected, whose respondents were less vexed about the relation between art and politics, with many noting its timeliness. The New Museum was, ironically, undergoing its own equity crisis in the months leading up to the exhibition, with newly unionised staff fighting with the Museum over workers’ salaries and healthcare even as it organised to build a new $89-million Rem Koolhaas-designed extension. Battistoni addressed these disputes at-length, claiming the protests “crystallize perfectly the changes that have shaped the world over the half-century of Haacke’s career, and especially over the 33 years since his last New Museum exhibition”. Of note is how little attention Battistoni pays to Haacke’s artistic methods when recounting his assumed solidarity with these disputes, suggesting that works such as Creating Consent (1981), Helmosboro Country (1990), and Standortkultur (Corporate Culture) (1997) – which pivot on art’s public image versus its corporate umbilical cord – do not convey some special aesthetico-political insight into a totalizing capitalist system. Instead, “he has simply been an astute and honest observer long enough to remind us that our current state of affairs has been in formation for decades”.Hans Haacke, News, 1969/2008 Hans Haacke, Wide White Flow, 1967/2008 Showing Systems Early on in the 1960s, Haacke was influenced by the American critic, artist, and curator Jack Burnham, who in a 1968 essay, “Systems Esthetics” for Artforum, inaugurated the loose conceptualist paradigm that would become known as “systems art”. Here, against Greenbergian formalism and what he saw as the “craft fetishism” of modernism, Burnham argues that “change emanates, not from things, but from the way things are done” (30). Burnham thought that emergent contemporary artists were intuitively aware of the importance of the systems approach: the significant artist in 1968 “strives to reduce the technical and psychical distance between his artistic output and the productive means of society”, and pays particular attention to relationships between organic and non-organic systems (31).As Michael Fried observed of minimalism in his now legendary 1967 essay Art and Objecthood, this shift in sixties art – signalled by the widespread interest in the systematic – entailed a turn towards the spatial, institutional, and societal contexts of receivership. For Burnham, art is not about “material entities” that beautify or modify the environment; rather, art exists “in relations between people and between people and the components of their environment” (31). At the forefront of his mind was land art, computer art, and research-driven conceptualist practice, which, against Fried, has “no contrived confines such as the theatre proscenium or picture frame” (32). In a 1969 lecture at the Guggenheim, Burnham confessed that his research concerned not just art as a distinct entity, but aesthetics in its broadest possible sense, declaring “as far as art is concerned, I’m not particularly interested in it. I believe that aesthetics exists in revelation” (Ragain).Working under the aegis of Burnham’s systems art, Haacke was shaken by the tumultuous and televised politics of late-1960s America – a time when, according to Joan Didion, a “demented and seductive vortical tension was building in the community” (41). Haacke cites Martin Luther King’s assassination as an “incident that made me understand that, in addition to what I had called physical and biological systems, there are also social systems and that art is an integral part of the universe of social systems” (Haacke, Conversation 222). Haacke created News (1969) in response to this awareness, comprising a (pre-Twitter) telex machine that endlessly spits out live news updates from wire services, piling up rolls and rolls of paper on the floor of the exhibition space over the course of its display. Echoing Burnham’s idea of the artist as a programmer whose job is to “prepare new codes and analyze data”, News nonetheless presents the museum as anything but immune from politics, and technological systems as anything but impersonal (32).This intensification of social responsibility in Haacke’s work sets him apart from other, arguably more reductive techno-scientific systems artists such as Sonia Sheridan and Les Levine. The gradual transformation of his ecological and quasi-scientific sculptural experiments from 1968 onwards could almost be seen as making a mockery of the anthropocentrism described in Fried’s 1967 critique. Here, Fried claims not only that the literalness of minimalist work amounts to an emphasis on shape and spatial presence over pictorial composition, but also, in this “theatricality of objecthood” literalness paradoxically mirrors (153). At times in Fried’s essay the minimalist art object reads as a mute form of sociality, the spatial presence filled by the conscious experience of looking – the theatrical relationship itself put on view. Fried thought that viewers of minimalism were presented with themselves in relation to the entire world as object, to which they were asked not to respond in an engaged formalist sense but (generically) to react. Pre-empting the rise of conceptual art and the sociological experiments of post-conceptualist practice, Fried, unapprovingly, argues that minimalist artists unleash an anthropomorphism that “must somehow confront the beholder” (154).Haacke, who admits he has “always been sympathetic to so-called Minimal art” (Haacke, A Conversation 26) embraced the human subject around the same time that Fried’s essay was published. While Fried would have viewed this move as further illustrating the minimalist tendency towards anthropomorphic confrontation, it would be more accurate to describe Haacke’s subsequent works as social-environmental barometers. Haacke began staging interactions which, however dry or administrative, framed the interplays of culture and nature, inside and outside, private and public spheres, expanding art’s definition by looking to the social circulation and economy that supported it.Haacke’s approach – which seems largely driven to show, to reveal – anticipates the viewer in a way that Fried would disapprove, for whom absorbed viewers, and the irreduction of gestalt to shape, are the by-products of assessments of aesthetic quality. For Donald Judd, the promotion of interest over conviction signalled scepticism about Clement Greenberg’s quality standards; it was a way of acknowledging the limitations of qualitative judgement, and, perhaps, of knowledge more generally. In this way, minimalism’s aesthetic relations are not framed so much as allowed to “go on and on” – the artists’ doubt about aesthetic value producing this ongoing temporal quality, which conviction supposedly lacks.In contrast to Unfinished Business, the placing of Haacke’s early sixties works adjacent to his later, more political works in All Connected revealed something other than the tensions between postmodern socio-political reveal and modernist-formalist revelation. The question of whether to intervene in an operating system – whether to let such a system go on and on – was raised throughout the exhibition, literally and metaphorically. To be faced with the interactions of physical, biological, and social systems (in Condensation Cube, 1963-67, and Wide White Flow, 1967/2008, but also in later works like MetroMobiltan, 1985) is to be faced with the question of change and one’s place in it. Framing systems in full swing, at their best, Haacke’s kinetic and environmental works suggest two things: 1. That the systems on display will be ongoing if their component parts aren’t altered; and 2. Any alteration will alter the system as a whole, in minor or significant ways. Applied to his practice more generally, what Haacke’s work hinges on is whether or not one perceives oneself as part of its systemic relations. To see oneself implicated is to see beyond the work’s literal forms and representations. Here, systemic imbrication equates to moral realisation: one’s capacity to alter the system as the question of what to do. Unlike the phenomenology-oriented minimalists, the viewer’s participation is not always assumed in Haacke’s work, who follows a more hermeneutic model. In fact, Haacke’s systems are often circular, highlighting participation as a conscious disruption of flow rather than an obligation that emanates from a particular work (148).This is a theatrical scenario as Fried describes it, but it is far from an abandonment of the issue of profound value. In fact, if we accept that Haacke’s work foregrounds intervention as a moral choice, it is closer to Fried’s own rallying cry for conviction in aesthetic judgement. As Rex Butler has argued, Fried’s advocacy of conviction over sceptical interest can be understood as dialectical in the Hegelian sense: conviction is the overcoming of scepticism, in a similar way that Geist, or spirit, for Hegel, is “the very split between subject and object, in which each makes the other possible” (Butler). What is advanced for Fried is the idea of “a scepticism that can be remarked only from the position of conviction and a conviction that can speak of itself only as this scepticism” (for instance, in his attempt to overcome his scepticism of literalist art on the basis of its scepticism). Strong and unequivocal feelings in Fried’s writing are informed by weak and indeterminate feeling, just as moral conviction in Haacke – the feeling that I, the viewer, should do something – emerges from an awareness that the system will continue to function fine without me. In other words, before being read as “a barometer of the changing and charged atmosphere of the public sphere” (Sutton 16), the impact of Haacke’s work depends upon an initial revelation. It is the realisation not just that one is embroiled in a series of “invisible but fundamental” relations greater than oneself, but that, in responding to seemingly sovereign social systems, the question of our involvement is a moral one, a claim for determination founded through an overcoming of the systemic (Fry 31).Haacke’s at once open and closed works suit the logic of our algorithmic age, where viewers have to shift constantly from a position of being targeted to one of finding for oneself. Peculiarly, when Haacke’s online digital polls in All Connected were hacked by activists (who randomized statistical responses in order to compel the Museum “to redress their continuing complacency in capitalism”) the culprits claimed they did it in sympathy with his work, not in spite of it: “we see our work as extending and conversing with Haacke’s, an artist and thinker who has been a source of inspiration to us both” (Hakim). This response – undermining done with veneration – is indicative of the complicated legacy of his work today. Haacke’s influence on artists such as Tania Bruguera, Sam Durant, Forensic Architecture, Laura Poitras, Carsten Höller, and Andrea Fraser has less to do with a particular political ideal than with his unique promotion of journalistic suspicion and moral revelation in forms of systems mapping. It suggests a coda be added to the sentiment of All Connected: all might not be revealed, but how we respond matters. Hans Haacke, Large Condensation Cube, 1963–67ReferencesBattistoni, Alyssa. “After a Contract Fight with Its Workers, the New Museum Opens Hans Haacke’s ‘All Connected’.” Frieze 208 (2019).Bishara, Hakim. “Hans Haacke Gets Hacked by Activists at the New Museum.” Hyperallergic 21 Jan. 2010. <https://hyperallergic.com/538413/hans-haacke-gets-hacked-by-activists-at-the-new-museum/>.Brenson, Michael. “Art: In Political Tone, Works by Hans Haacke.” New York Times 19 Dec. 1988. <https://www.nytimes.com/1986/12/19/arts/artin-political-tone-worksby-hans-haacke.html>.Buchloh, Benjamin. “Hans Haacke: Memory and Instrumental Reason.” Neo-Avantgarde and Culture Industry. Cambridge: MIT P, 2000.Burnham, Jack. “Systems Esthetics.” Artforum 7.1 (1968).Butler, Rex. “Art and Objecthood: Fried against Fried.” Nonsite 22 (2017). <https://nonsite.org/feature/art-and-objecthood>.Carrion-Murayari, Gary, and Massimiliano Gioni (eds.). Hans Haacke: All Connected. New York: Phaidon and New Museum, 2019.Crimp, Douglas. “Strategies of Public Address: Which Media, Which Publics?” In Hal Foster (ed.), Discussions in Contemporary Culture, no. 1. Washington: Bay P, 1987.Danto, Arthur C. “Hans Haacke and the Industry of Art.” In Gregg Horowitz and Tom Huhn (eds.), The Wake of Art: Criticism, Philosophy, and the Ends of Taste. London: Routledge, 1987/1998.Didion, Joan. The White Album. London: 4th Estate, 2019.Farago, Jason. “Hans Haacke, at the New Museum, Takes No Prisoners.” New York Times 31 Oct. 2019. <https://www.nytimes.com/2019/10/31/arts/design/hans-haacke-review-new-museum.html>.Fried, Michael. “Art and Objecthood.” Artforum 5 (June 1967).Fry, Edward. “Introduction to the Work of Hans Haacke.” In Hans Haacke 1967. Cambridge: MIT List Visual Arts Center, 2011.Glueck, Grace. “The Guggenheim Cancels Haacke’s Show.” New York Times 7 Apr. 1971.Gudel, Paul. “Michael Fried, Theatricality and the Threat of Skepticism.” Michael Fried and Philosophy. New York: Routledge, 2018.Haacke, Hans. Hans Haacke: Framing and Being Framed: 7 Works 1970-5. Halifax: P of the Nova Scotia College of Design and New York: New York UP, 1976.———. “Hans Haacke in Conversation with Gary Carrion-Murayari and Massimiliano Gioni.” Hans Haacke: All Connected. New York: Phaidon and New Museum, 2019.Haacke, Hans, et al. “A Conversation with Hans Haacke.” October 30 (1984).Haacke, Hans, and Brian Wallis (eds.). Hans Haacke: Unfinished Business. New York: New Museum of Contemporary Art; Cambridge, Mass: MIT P, 1986.“Haacke’s ‘All Connected.’” Frieze 25 Oct. 2019. <https://frieze.com/article/after-contract-fight-its-workers-new-museum-opens-hans-haackes-all-connected>.Judd, Donald. “Specific Objects.” Complete Writings 1959–1975. Halifax: P of the Nova Scotia College of Design and New York: New York UP, 1965/1975.Lee, Pamela M. “Unfinished ‘Unfinished Business.’” Hans Haacke: All Connected. New York: Phaidon P Limited and New Museum, 2019.Ragain, Melissa. “Jack Burnham (1931–2019).” Artforum 19 Mar. 2019. <https://www.artforum.com/passages/melissa-ragain-on-jack-burnham-78935>.Sutton, Gloria. “Hans Haacke: Works of Art, 1963–72.” Hans Haacke: All Connected. New York: Phaidon P Limited and New Museum, 2019.Tucker, Marcia. “Director’s Forward.” Hans Haacke: Unfinished Business. New York: New Museum of Contemporary Art; Cambridge, Mass: MIT P, 1986.

A Site for the Study of Ambience Deep in Melbourne’s subterranean belly lies a long, dark space dedicated to screen-based art. Built along disused train platforms, it’s even possible to hear the ghostly rumblings and clatter of trains passing alongside the length of the gallery on quiet days. Upon descending the single staircase leading into this dimly-lit space, visitors encounter a distinctive sensory immersion. A flicker of screens dapple the windowless vastness ahead, perhaps briefly highlighting entrances into smaller rooms or the faintly-outlined profiles of visitors. This space often houses time-based moving image artworks. The optical flicker and aural stirrings of adjacent works distract, luring visitors’ attention towards an elsewhere. Yet on other occasions, this gallery’s art is bounded by walls, private enclosures which absorb perceptions of time into the surrounding darkness. Some works lie dormant awaiting visitors’ intervention, while others rotate on endless loops, cycling by unheeded, at times creating an environment of visual and aural collision. A weak haze of daylight falls from above mid-way through the space, marking the gallery’s only exit – an escalator fitted with low glowing lights. This is a space of thematic and physical reinvention. Movable walls and a retractable mezzanine enable the 110 metre long, 15 metre wide and almost 10 metre high space to be reformed with each exhibition, as evidenced by the many exhibitions that this Screen Gallery has hosted since opening as a part of the Australian for the Moving Image (ACMI) in 2002. ACMI endured controversial beginnings over the public funds dedicated to its gallery, cinemas, public editing and games labs, TV production studio, and screen education programs. As media interrogation of ACMI’s role and purpose intensified, several pressing critical and public policy questions surfaced as to how visitors were engaging with and valuing this institution and its spaces. In this context, I undertook the first, in depth qualitative study of visitation to ACMI, so as to address these issues and also the dearth of supporting literature into museum visitation (beyond broad, quantitative analyses). Of particular interest was ACMI’s Screen Gallery, for it appeared to represent something experientially unique and historically distinctive as compared to museums and galleries of the past. I therefore undertook an ethnographic study of museum visitation to codify the expression of ACMI’s institutional remit in light of the modalities of its visitors’ experiences in the Gallery. This rich empirical material formed the basis of my study and also this article, an ethnography of the Screen Gallery’s ambience. My study was undertaken across two exhibitions, World without End and White Noise (2005). While WWE was thematically linear in its charting of the dawn of time, globalisation and apocalypse, visitor interaction was highly non-linear. The moving image was presented in a variety of forms and spaces, from the isolation of works in rooms, the cohabitation of the very large to very small in the gallery proper, to enclosures created by multiple screens, laser-triggered interactivity and even plastic bowls with which visitors could ‘capture’ projections of light. Where heterogeneity was embraced in WWE, WN offered a smoother and less rapturous environment. It presented works by artists regarded as leaders of recent practices in the abstraction of the moving image. Rather than recreating the free exploratory movement of WWE, the WN visitor was guided along one main corridor. Each work was situated in a room or space situated to the right-hand side of the passageway. This isolation created a deep sense of immersion and intimacy with each work. Low-level white noise was even played across the Gallery so as to absorb the aural ‘bleed’ from neighbouring works. For my study, I used qualitative ethnographic techniques to gather phenomenological material, namely longitudinal participant observation and interviews. The observations were conducted on a fortnightly basis for seven months. I typically spent two to three hours shadowing visitors as they moved through the Gallery, detailing patterns of interaction; from gross physical movement and speech, to the very subtle modalities of encounter: a faint smile, a hesitation, or lapsing into complete stillness. I specifically recruited visitors for interviews immediately after their visit so as to probe further into these phenomenological moments while their effects were still fresh. I also endeavoured to capture a wide cross-sample of responses by recruiting on the basis of age, gender and reason for visitation. Ten in-depth interviews (between 45 minutes and one hour) were undertaken, enquiring into the factors influencing impressions of the Gallery, such as previous museum and art experiences, and opinions about media art and technology. In this article, I particularly draw upon my interviews with Steven, Fleur, Heidi, Sean, Trevor and Mathew. These visitors’ commentaries were selected as they reflect upon the overall ambience of the Gallery–intimate recollections of moving through darkness and projections of light–rather than engagement with individual works. When referring to ambience, I borrow from Brian Eno’s 1978 manifesto of Ambient Music, as it offers a useful analogy for assessing the complexity within subtle aesthetic experiences, and more specifically, in a spatial environment generated by electronic means. An ambience is defined as an atmosphere, or a surrounding influence: a tint…Whereas the extant canned music companies proceed from the basis of regularizing environments by blanketing their acoustic and atmospheric idiosyncrasies, Ambient Music is intended to enhance these. Whereas conventional background music is produced by stripping away all sense of doubt and uncertainty (and thus all genuine interest) from the music, Ambient Music retains these qualities. And whereas their intention is to ‘brighten’ the environment by adding stimulus to it… Ambient Music is intended to induce calm and a space to think…Ambient Music must be able to accommodate many levels of listening attention without enforcing one in particular; it must be as ignorable as it is interesting. (Eno, "Ambient Music")While Eno’s definition specifically discusses a listening space, it is comparable to the predominantly digital and visual gallery environment as it elicits similar states of attention, such as calm reflection, or even a peaceful emptying of thoughts. I propose that ACMI’s darkened Screen Gallery creates an exploratory space for such intimate, bodily, subjective experiences. I firstly locate this study within the genealogical context of visitor interaction in museum exhibition environments. We then follow the visitors through the Gallery. As the nuances of their journey are presented, I assess the significance of an alternate model for presenting art which encourages ‘active’ aesthetic experience by privileging ambiguity and subtlety–yet heightened interactivity–and is similar to the systemic complexity Eno accords his Ambient Music. Navigating Museums in the Past The first public museums appeared in the context of the emerging liberal democratic state as both a product and articulation of the early stages of modernity in the nineteenth century. Museum practitioners enforced boundaries by prescribing visitors’ routes architecturally, by presenting museum objects within firm knowledge categories, and by separating visitors from objects with glass cabinets. By making their objects publicly accessible and tightly governing visitors’ parameters of spatial interaction, museums could enforce a pedagogical regulation of moral codes, an expression of ‘governmentality’ which constituted the individual as both a subject and object of knowledge (Bennett "Birth", Culture; Hooper-Greenhill). The advent of high modernism in the mid-twentieth century enforced positivist doctrines through a firm direction of visitor movement, exemplified by Le Corbusier’s Musée à Croissance Illimitée (1939) and Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum in New York (1959) (Davey 36). In more recent stages of modernity, architecture has attempted to reconcile the singular authority imposed by a building’s design. Robert Venturi, a key theorist of post-modern architecture, argued that the museum’s pedagogical failure to achieve social and political reforms was due to the purist and universalist values expressed within modern architecture. He proposed that post-modern architecture could challenge aesthetic modernism with a playful hybridity which emphasises symbolism and sculptural forms in architecture, and expresses a more diverse set of pluralist ideologies. Examples might include Hans Hollein’s Abteiberg Museum (1972-1982), or the National Museum of Australia in Canberra (2001). Contemporary attempts to design museum interactions reflect the aspirations of the ‘new museum.’ They similarly address a pluralist agenda, but mediate increasingly individualised forms of participation though highly interactive technological interfaces (Message). Commenting about art galleries, Lev Manovich greets this shift with some pessimism. He argues that the high art of the ‘white cube’ gallery is now confronting its ‘ideological enemy’, the ‘black box’, a historically ‘lower’ art form of cinema theatre (10). He claims that the history of spatial experimentation in art galleries is being reversed as much moving image art has been exhibited using a video projection in a darkened room, thereby limiting visitor participation to earlier, static forms of engagement. However, he proposes that new technologies could have an important presence and role in cultural institutions as an ‘augmented space’, in which layers of data overlay physical space. He queries whether this could create new possibilities for spatial interaction, such that cultural institutions might play a progressive role in exploring new futures (14). The Screen Gallery at ACMI embodies the characteristics of the ‘new museum’ as far as it demands multiple modalities of participation in a technological environment. It could perhaps also be regarded an experimental ‘black box’ in that it houses multiple screens, yet, as we shall see, elicits participation unbefitting of a cinema. We therefore turn now to examine visitors’ observations of the Gallery’s design, thereby garnering the experiential significance of passage through a moving image art space. Descending into Darkness Descending the staircase into the Gallery is a process of proceeding into shadows. The blackened cavity (fig. 1) therefore looms ahead as a clear visceral departure from the bustle of Federation Square above (fig. 2), and the clean brightness of ACMI’s foyer (fig. 3). Figure 1: Descent into ACMI's Screen Gallery Figure 2: ACMI at Federation Square, Melbourne Figure 3: ACMI’s foyer One visitor, Fleur, described this passage as a sense of going “deep underground,” where the affective power of darkness overwhelmed other sensory details: “I can’t picture it in my mind – sort of where the gallery finishes… And it’s perfect, it’s dark, and it’s… quiet-ish.” Many visitors found that an entrance softened by shadows added a trace of suspense to the beginnings of their journey. Heidi described how, “because it’s dark and you can’t actually see the people walking about… it’s a little bit more mysterious.” Fleur similarly remarked that “you’re not quite sure what you’re going to meet when you go around. And there’s a certain anticipation.” Steven found that the ambiguity surrounding the conventions of procedure through Gallery was “quite interesting, that experience of being a little bit unsure of where you’re going or not being able to see.” He attributed feelings of disorientation to the way the deep shadows of the Gallery routinely obscured measurement of time: “it’s that darkness that makes it a place where it’s like a time sync… You could spend hours in there… You sort of lose track of time… The darkness kind of contributes to that.” Multiple Pathways The ambiguity of the Gallery compelled visitors to actively engage with the space by developing their own rules for procedure. For example, Sean described how darkness and minimal use of signage generated multiple possibilities for passage: “you kind of need to wander through and guide yourself. It’s fairly dark as well and there aren’t any signs saying ‘Come this way,’ and it was only by sort of accident we found some of the spaces down the very back. Because, it’s very dark… We could very well have missed that.” Katrina similarly explained how she developed a participatory journey through movement: “when you first walk in, it just feels like empty space, and not exactly sure what’s going on and what to look at… and you think nothing is going on, so you have to kind of walk around and get a feel for it.” Steven used this participatory movement to navigate. He remarked that “there’s a kind of basic ‘what’s next?’… When you got down you could see maybe about four works immediately... There’s a kind of choice about ‘this is the one I’ll pay attention to first’, or ‘look, there’s this other one over there – that looks interesting, I might go and come back to this’. So, there’s a kind of charting of the trip through the exhibition.” Therefore while ambiguous rules for procedure undermine traditional forms of interaction in the museum, they prompted visitors to draw upon their sensory perception to construct a self-guided and exploratory path of engagement. However, mystery and ambiguity can also complicate visitors’ sense of self determination. Fleur noted how crossing the threshold into a space without clear conventions for procedure could challenge some visitors: “you have to commit yourself to go into a space like that, and I think the first time, when you’re not sure what’s down there… I think people going there for the first time would probably… find it difficult.” Trevor found this to be the case, objecting that “the part that doesn’t work, is that it doesn’t work as a space that’s easy to get around.” These comments suggest that an ‘unintended consequence’ (Beck) of relaxing contemporary museum conventions to encourage greater visitor autonomy, can be the contrary effect of making navigation more difficult. Visitors struggling to negotiate these conditions may find themselves subject to what Daniel Palmer terms the ‘paradox of user control’, in which contemporary forms of choice prove to be illusory, as they inhibit an individual’s freedom through ‘soft’ forms of domination. The ambiguity created by the Gallery’s darkness therefore brings two disparate – if not contradictory – tendencies together, as concluded by Fleur: “The darkness is – it’s both an advantage and a disadvantage… You can’t sort of see each other as well, but there’s also a bit of freedom in that. In that it sort of goes both ways.” A Journey of Subtle Cues Several strategies to ameliorate disorienting navigation experiences were employed in the Screen Gallery, attempting to create new possibilities for meaningful interaction. Some reflect typical curatorial conventions, such as mounting didactic panels along walls and strategically placing staff as guides. However, visitors frequently eschewed these markers and were instead drawn powerfully to affective conventions, including the shadings of light and sound. Sean noted how small beacons of light at foot level were prominent features, as they illuminated the entrances to rooms and corridors: “That’s your over-whelming impression, because it’s dark and there’s just these feature spotlights… and they’re an interesting device, because they sort of lead your eye through the space as well, and say ‘oh that’s where the next event is, there’s a spotlight over there’.” The luminescence of artworks served a similar purpose, for within “the darkness, the boundaries are less visible, and… you’re drawn to the light, you know, you’re drawn to those screens.” He found that directional sound above artworks also created a comparable effect: “I was aware of the fact that things were quiet until you approached the right spot and obviously it’s where the sound was focussed.” These conventions reflect what Trini Castelli calls ‘soft design’, by which space is made cohesively sensual (Glibb in Mitchell 87-88). The Gallery uses light and sound to fashions this visceral ‘feeling’ of spatial continuity, a seamless ambience. Paul described how this had a pleasurable effect, where the “atmosphere of the space” created “a very nice place to be… Lots of low lighting.” Fleur similarly recalled lasting somatic impressions: “It’s a bit like a cave, I suppose… The atmosphere is so different… it’s warm, I find it quite a relaxing place to be, I find it quite calm…Yeah, it has that feeling of private space to it.” Soft design therefore tempers the spatial severity of museums past through this sensuous ‘participatory environment.’ Interaction with art therefore becomes, as Steven enthused, “an exhibition experience” where “it’s as much (for me) the experience of moving between works as attending to the work itself… That seems really prominent in the experience, that it’s not these kind of isolated, individual works, they’re in relation to each other.” Disruptions to this experiential continuity – what Eno had described as a ‘stimulus’ – were subject to harsh judgement. When asked why he preferred to stand against the back wall of a room, rather than take a seat on the chairs provided, Matthew protested that “the spotlight was on those frigging couches, who wants to sit there? That would’ve been horrible.” Visitors clearly expressed a preference towards a form of spatial interaction in which curatorial conventions heighten, rather than detract from, the immersive dynamic of the museum environment. They showed how the feelings of ambiguity and suspense which absorbed them in the Gallery’s entrance gradually began to dissipate. In their place, a preference arose for conventions which maintained the Gallery’s immersive continuity, and where cues such as focused sound and footlights had a calming effect, and created a cohesive sensual journey through the dark. The Ambience of Art Space Visitors’ comments acquire an additional significance when examined in light of Eno’s earlier definition of what he called Ambient Music. He suggested that even in relative stillness, there exists a capacity for active forms of listening which create a “space to think” and generate a “quiet interest.” In addition, and perhaps most importantly, these active forms of listening are augmented by the “atmospheric idiosyncrasies” which are derived from conditions of uncertainty. As I have shown, the darkened Screen Gallery obscures the rules for visitor participation and consequently elicits doubt and hesitation. Visitors must self-navigate and be guided by sensory perception, responding to the kinaesthetic touch of light on skin and the subtle drifts of sound to constructing a journey through the enveloping darkness. This spatial ambience can therefore be understood as the specific condition which make the Gallery a fertile site for new exchanges between visitors, artworks and curation within the museum. Arjun Mulder defines this kind of dynamism in architectural space as a form of systemic interactivity, the “default state of any living system,” in the way that any system can be considered interactive if it links into, and affects change upon another (Mulder 332). Therefore while museums have historically been spaces for interaction, they have not always been interactive spaces in the sense described by Mulder, where visitor participation and processes of exchange are heightened by the conditions of ambience, and can compel self-determined journeys of visitor enquiry and feelings of relaxation and immersion. ACMI’s Screen Gallery has therefore come to define its practices by heightening these forms of encounter, and elevating the affective possibilities for interacting with art. Traditional museum conventions have been challenged by playing with experiential dynamics. These practices create an ambience which is particular to the gallery, and historically unlike the experiential ecologies of preceding forms of museum, gallery or moving space, be it the white cube or a simple ‘black box’ room for video projections. This perhaps signifies a distinctive moment in the genealogy of the museum, indicating how one instance of an art environment’s ambience can become a rubric for new forms of visitor interaction. References Beck, Ulrich. “The Reinvention of Politics: Towards a Theory of Reflexive Modernization.” Reflexive Modernization: Politics, Tradition and Aesthetics in the Modern Social Order. Eds. Ulrich Beck, Anthony Giddens, and Scott Lash. Cambridge: Politics, 1994. 1-55. Bennett, Tony. The Birth of the Museum: History, Theory, Politics. London; New York: Routledge. 1995. ———. “Culture and Governmentality.” Foucault, Cultural Studies and Governmentality. Eds. J.Z. Bratich, J. Packer, and C. McCarthy. Albany: State University of New York Press, 2003. 47-64. Davey, Peter. “Museums in an N-Dimensional World.” The Architectural Review 1242 (2000): 36-37. Eno, Brian. “Resonant Complexity.” Whole Earth Review (Summer 1994): 42-43. ———. “Ambient Music.” A Year with Swollen Appendices: The Diary of Brian Eno. London: Faber and Faber, 1996. 293-297. Hooper-Greenhill, Eileen. “Museums and Education for the 21st Century.” Museum and Gallery Education. London: Leicester University Press, 1991. 187-193. Manovich, Lev. “The Poetics of Augmented Space: Learning from Prada.” 27 April 2010 ‹http://creativetechnology.salford.ac.uk/fuchs/modules/creative_technology/architecture/manovich_augmented_space.pdf›. Message, Kylie. “The New Museum.” Theory, Culture and Society: Special Issue on Problematizing Global Knowledge. Eds. Mike Featherstone, Couze Venn, and Ryan Bishop, John Phillips. Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage, 2006. 603-606. Mitchell, T. C. Redefining Designing: From Form to Experience. New York: Van Nostrand Reinhold, 1993. Mulder, Arjun. “The Object of Interactivity.” NOX: Machining Architecture. London: Thames and Hudson, 2004. 332-340. Palmer, Daniel. “The Paradox of User Control.” Melbourne Digital Art and Culture 2003 Conference Proceedings. Melbourne: RMIT, 2003. 167-172. Venturi, Robert. Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. New York: Museum of Modern Art, 1966.

During this symposium, leading experts in paediatric allergy and immunology examined evidence for the immunomodulatory role of human milk oligosaccharides (HMO) in infants with cow’s milk protein allergy (CMPA), and considered the implications for clinical management. Mechanisms underpinning the positive modulatory effect of HMOs on the early microbiome and immune system responses in healthy infants and those with CMPA were explored by Liam O’Mahony, University College Cork, Republic of Ireland. Anna Nowak-Węgrzyn, Professor of Pediatrics at the New York University (NYU) Grossman School of Medicine, and Chief of the Division of Pediatric Allergy and Immunology at Hassenfeld Children’s Hospital, NYU Langone Health, New York City, USA, then reviewed findings from the CINNAMON and PLATYPUS clinical trials, highlighting the beneficial impact of HMO-supplemented formula on the clinical management of infants with CMPA. In these studies, hypoallergenic formulae containing the two key HMOs, 2′-Fucosyllactose (2’-FL) and Lacto-N-neotetraose (LNnT), showed a good safety profile, supported normal infant growth, and, importantly, helped to reduce the risk of respiratory infection in children with mild, moderate, or severe CMPA. In the final presentation of the symposium, Ralf Heine, Global Medical Director of Paediatric Care at Nestlé Health Science, Switzerland, showcased new data from the CINNAMON and PLATYPUS studies, shedding further light on the mechanisms by which HMOs can shape the early microbiome and influence the metabolome profile associated with important immune benefits in CMPA.

IntroductionIn this article, I discuss the potential of sound to construct fictional spaces and build relations between bodies using two performance installations as case studies. The first is Invisible Flock’s 105+dB, a site-specific sound work which transports crowd recordings of a soccer match to alternative geographical locations. The second is Atelier Bildraum’s Bildraum, an installation performance using live photography, architectural models, and ambient sound. By writing through these two works, I question how sound builds relations between bodies and across space as well as questioning the role of site within sound installation works. The potential for sound to create shared space and foster relationships between bodies, objects, and the surrounding environment is evident in recent contemporary art exhibitions. For MOMA’s Soundings: A Contemporary Score, curator Barbara London, sought to create a series of “tuned environments” rather than use headphones, emphasising the potential of sound works to envelop the gallery goer. Similarly, Sam Belinafante’s Listening, aimed to capture a sense of how sound can influence attention by choreographing the visitors’ experience towards the artworks. By using motorised technology to stagger each installation, gallery goers were led by their ears. Both London’s and Belinafante’s curatorial approaches highlight the current awareness and interest in aural space and its influence on bodies, an area I aim to contribute to with this article.Audio-based performance works consisting of narration or instructions received through headphones feature as a dominant trend within the field of theatre and performance studies. Well-known examples from the past decade include: Janet Cardiff’s The Missing Case Study B; Graeme Miller’s Linked; and Lavinia Greenlaw’s Audio Obscura. The use of sound in these works offers several possibilities: the layering of fiction onto site, the intensification, or contradiction of existing atmospheres and, in most cases, the direction of audience attention. Misha Myers uses the term ‘percipient’ to articulate this mode of engagement that relies on the active attendance of the participant to their surroundings. She states that it is the participant “whose active, embodied and sensorial engagement alters and determines [an artistic] process and its outcomes” (172-23). Indeed, audio-based works provide invaluable ways of considering how the body of the audience member might be engaged, raising important issues in relation to sound, embodiment and presence. Yet the question remains, outside of individual acoustic environments, how does sound build physical relations between bodies and across space? Within sound studies the World Soundscape Project, founded in the 1970s by R. Murray Schafer, documents the acoustic properties of cities, nature, technology and work. Collaborations between sound engineers and musicians indicated the musicality inherent in the world encouraging attunement to the acoustic characteristics of our environment. Gernot Böhme indicates the importance of personal and emotional impressions of space, experienced as atmosphere. Atmosphere, rather than being an accumulation of individual acoustic characteristics, is a total experience. In relation to sound, sensitivity to this mode of engagement is understood as a need to shift from hearing in “an instrumental sense—hearing something—into a way of taking part in the world” (221). Böhme highlights the importance of the less tangible, emotional consistency of our surrounding environment. Brandon Labelle further indicates the social potential of sound by foregrounding the emotional and psychological charges which support “event-architecture, participatory productions, and related performative aspects of space” (Acoustic Spatiality 2) these, Labelle claims enable sound to catalyse both the material world and our imaginations. Sound as felt experience and the emotional construction of space form the key focus here. Within architectural discourse, both Juhani Pallasmaa and Peter Zumthor point to atmospheric nuances and flows of energy which can cause events to furnish the more rigid physical constructs we exist between, influencing spatial quality. However, it is sensorial experience Jean-Paul Thibaud claims, including attention to light, sound, smell and texture that informs much of how we situate ourselves, contributing to the way we imaginatively construct the world we inhabit, even if only of temporary duration. To expand on this, Thibaud locates the sensorial appreciation of site between “the lived experience of people as well as the built environment of the place” (Three Dynamics 37) hinting at the presence of energetic flows. Such insights into how relations are built between bodies and objects inform the approach taken in this article, as I focus on sensorial modes of engagement to write through my own experience as listener-spectator. George Home-Cook uses the term listener-spectator to describe “an ongoing, intersensorial bodily engagement with the affordances of the theatrical environment” (147) and a mode of attending that privileges phenomenal engagement. Here, I occupy the position of the listener-spectator to attend to two installations, Invisible Flock’s 105+dB and Atelier Bildraum’s Bildraum. The first is a large-scale sound installation produced for Hull UK city of culture, 2017. The piece uses audio recordings from 16 shotgun microphones positioned at the periphery of Hull City’s soccer pitch during a match on 28 November 2016. The piece relocates the recordings in public space, replaying a twenty-minute edited version through 36 speakers. The second, Bildraum, is an installation performance consisting of photographer Charlotte Bouckaert, architect Steve Salembier with sound by Duncan Speakman. The piece, with a running time of 40-minutes uses architectural models, live photography, sound and lighting to explore narrative, memory, and space. In writing through these two case studies, I aim to emphasise sensorial engagement. To do so I recognise, as Salomé Voegelin does, the limits of critical discourse to account for relations built through sound. Voegelin indicates the rift critical discourse creates between what is described and its description. In her own writing, Voegelin attempts to counteract this by using the subjective “I” to foreground the experience of a sound work as a writer-listener. Similarly, here I foreground my position as a listener-spectator and aim to evidence the criticality within the work by writing through my experience of attending thereby bringing out mood, texture, atmosphere to foreground how relations are built across space and between bodies.105+dB Invisible Flock January 2017, I arrive in Hull for Invisible Flock’s 105+dB programmed as part of Made in Hull, a series of cultural activities happening across the city. The piece takes place in Zebedee’s Yard, a pedestrianised area located between Princes Dock Street and Whitefriargate in the grounds of the former Trinity House School. From several streets, I can already hear a crowd. Sound, porous in its very nature, flows through the city expanding beyond its immediate geography bringing the notion of a fictional event into being. I look in pub windows to see which teams are playing, yet the visual clues defy what my ears tell me. Listening, as Labelle suggests is relational, it brings us into proximity with nearby occurrences, bodies and objects. Sound and in turn listening, by both an intended and unsuspecting public, lures bodies into proximity aurally bound by the promise of an event. The use of sound, combined with the physical sensation implied by the surrounding architecture serves to construct us as a group of attendees to a soccer match. This is evident as I continue my approach, passing through an archway with cobbled stones underfoot. The narrow entrance rapidly fills up with bodies and objects; push chairs, wheelchairs, umbrellas, and thick winter coats bringing us into close physical contact with one another. Individuals are reduced to a sea of heads bobbing towards the bright stadium lights now visible in the distance. The title 105+dB, refers to the volume at which the sound of an individual voice is lost amongst a crowd, accordingly my experience of being at the site of the piece further echoes this theme. The physical structure of the archway combined with the volume of bodies contributes to what Pallasmaa describes as “atmospheric perception” (231), a mode of attending to experience that engages all the senses as well as time, memory and imagination. Sound here contributes to the atmosphere provoking a shift in my listening. The importance of the listener-spectator experience is underscored by the absence of architectural structures habitually found in stadiums. The piece is staged using the bare minimum: four metal scaffolding structures on each side of the Yard support stadium lights and a high-visibility clad figure patrols the periphery. These trappings serve to evoke an essence of the original site of the recordings, the rest is furnished by the audio track played through 36 speakers situated at intervals around the space as well as the movement of other bodies. As Böhme notes: “Space is genuinely experienced by being in it, through physical presence” (179) similarly, here, it is necessary to be in the space, aurally immersed in sound and in physical proximity to other bodies moving across the Yard. Image 1: The piece is staged using the bare minimum, the rest is furnished by the audio track and movement of bodies. Image courtesy of the artists.The absence of visual clues draws attention to the importance of presence and mood, as Böhme claims: “By feeling our own presence, we feel the space in which we are present” (179). Listening-spectators actively contribute to the event-architecture as physical sensations build and are tangibly felt amongst those present, influenced by the dramaturgical structure of the audio recording. Sounds of jeering, applause and the referees’ whistle combine with occasional chants such as “come on city, come on city” marking a shared rhythm. Specific moments, such as the sound of a leather ball hitting a foot creates a sense of expectation amongst the crowd, and disappointed “ohhs” make a near-miss audibly palpable. Yet, more important than a singular sound event is the sustained sensation of being in a situation, a distinction Pallasmaa makes, foregrounding the “ephemeral and dynamic experiential fields” (235) offered by music, an argument I wish to consider in relation to this sound installation.The detail of the recording makes it possible to imagine, and almost accurately chart, the movement of the ball around the pitch. A “yeah” erupts, making it acoustically evident that a goal is scored as the sound of elation erupts through the speakers. In turn, this sensation much like Thibaud’s concept of intercorporeality, spreads amongst the bodies of the listening-spectators who fist bump, smile, clap, jeer and jump about sharing and occupying Zebedee’s Yard with physical manifestations of triumph. Through sound comes an invitation to be both physically and emotionally in the space, indicating the potential to understand, as Pallasmaa suggests, how “spaces and true architectural experiences are verbs” (231). By physically engaging with the peaks and troughs of the game, a temporary community of sorts forms. After twenty minutes, the main lights dim creating an amber glow in the space, sound is reduced to shuffling noises as the stadium fills up, or empties out (it is impossible to tell). Accordingly, Zebedee’s Yard also begins to empty. It is unclear if I am listening to the sounds in the space around me, or those on the recording as they overlap. People turn to leave, or stand and shuffle evidencing an attitude of receptiveness towards their surrounding environment and underscoring what Thibaud describes as “tuned ambiance” where a resemblance emerges “between what is felt and what is produced” (Three Dynamics 44). The piece, by replaying the crowd sounds of a soccer match across the space of Zebedee’s Yard, stages atmospheric perception. In the absence of further architectural structures, it is the sound of the crowd in the stadium and in turn an attention to our hearing and physical presence that constitutes the event. Bildraum Atelier BildraumAugust 2016, I am in Edinburgh to see Bildraum. The German word “bildraum” roughly translates as image room, and specifically relates to the part of the camera where the image is constructed. Bouckaert takes high definition images live onstage that project immediately onto the screen at the back of the space. The audience see the architectural model, the taking of the photograph, the projected image and hear both pre-recorded ambient sounds by Speakman, and live music played by Salembier generating the sensation that they are inhabiting a bildraum. Here I explore how both sound and image projection can encourage the listener-spectator to construct multiple narratives of possible events and engage their spatial imagination. Image 2: The audience see the architectural model, the taking of the photograph, the projected image and hear both live and pre-recorded sounds. Image courtesy of the artists.In Bildraum, the combination of elements (photographic, acoustic, architectural) serve to create provocative scenes which (quite literally) build multiple spaces for potential narratives. As Bouckaert asserts, “when we speak with people after the performance, they all have a different story”. The piece always begins with a scale model of the actual space. It then evolves to show other spaces such as a ‘social’ scene located in a restaurant, a ‘relaxation’ scene featuring sun loungers, an oversize palm tree and a pool as well as a ‘domestic’ scene with a staircase to another room. The use of architectural models makes the spaces presented appear as homogenous, neutral containers yet layers of sound including footsteps, people chatting, doors opening and closing, objects dropping, and an eerie soundscape serve to expand and incite the construction of imaginative possibilities. In relation to spatial imagination, Pallasmaa discusses the novel and our ability, when reading, to build all the settings of the story, as though they already existed in pre-formed realities. These imagined scenes are not experienced in two dimensions, as pictures, but in three dimensions and include both atmosphere and a sense of spatiality (239). Here, the clean, slick lines of the rooms, devoid of colour and personal clutter become personalised, yet also troubled through the sounds and shadows which appear in the photographs, adding ambiance and serving to highlight the pluralisation of space. As the piece progresses, these neat lines suffer disruption giving insight into the relations between bodies and across space. As Martin Heidegger notes, space and our occupation of space are not mutually exclusive but intertwined. Pallasmaa further reminds us that when we enter a space, space enters us and the experience is a reciprocal exchange and fusion of both subject and object (232).One image shows a table with several chairs neatly arranged around the outside. The distance between the chairs and the table is sufficient to imagine the presence of several bodies. The first image, though visually devoid of any living presence is layered with chattering sounds suggesting the presence of bodies. In the following image, the chairs have shifted position and there is a light haze, I envisage familiar social scenes where conversations with friends last long into the night. In the next image, one chair appears on top of the table, another lies tilted on the floor with raucous noise to accompany the image. Despite the absence of bodies, the minimal audio-visual provocations activate my spatial imagination and serve to suggest a correlation between physical behaviour and ambiance in everyday settings. As discussed in the previous paragraph, this highlights how space is far from a disinterested, or separate container for physical relations, rather, it underscores how social energy, sound and mood can build a dynamic presence within the built environment, one that is not in isolation but indeed in dialogue with surrounding structures. In a further scene, the seemingly fixed, stable nature of the models undergoes a sudden influx of materials as a barrage of tiny polystyrene balls appears. The image, combined with the sound suggests a large-scale disaster, or freak weather incident. The ambiguity created by the combination of sound and image indicates a hidden mobility beneath what is seen. Sound here does not announce the presence of an object, or indicate the taking place of a specific event, instead it acts as an invitation, as Voegelin notes, “not to confirm and preserve actuality but to explore possibilities” (Sonic 13). The use of sound which accompanies the image helps to underscore an exchange between the material and immaterial elements occurring within everyday life, leaving a gap for the listener-spectator to build their own narrative whilst also indicating further on goings in the depth of the visual. Image 3: The minimal audio-visual provocations serve to activate my spatial imagination. Image courtesy of the artists.The piece advances at a slow pace as each model is adjusted while lighting and objects are arranged. The previous image lingers on the projector screen, animated by the sound track which uses simple but evocative chords. This lulls me into an attentive, almost meditative state as I tune into and construct my own memories prompted by the spaces shown. The pace and rhythm that this establishes in Summerhall’s Old Lab creates a productive imaginative space. Böhme argues that atmosphere is a combination of both subjective and objective perceptions of space (16). Here, stimulated by the shifting arrangements Bouckaert and Salembier propose, I create short-lived geographies charting my lived experience and memories across a plurality of possible environments. As listener-spectator I am individually implicated as the producer of a series of invisible maps. The invitation to engage with the process of the work over 40-minutes as the building and dismantling of models and objects takes place draws attention to the sensorial flows and what Voegelin denotes as a “semantic materiality” (Sonic 53), one that might penetrate our sensibility and accompany us beyond the immediate timeframe of the work itself. The timeframe and rhythm of the piece encourages me, as listener-spectator to focus on the ambient sound track, not just as sound, but to consider the material realities of the here and now, to attend to vibrational milieus which operate beyond the surface of the visible. In doing so, I become aware of constructed actualities and of sound as a medium to get me beyond what is merely presented. ConclusionThe dynamic experiential potential of sound installations discussed from the perspective of a listener-spectator indicate how emotion is a key composite of spatial construction. Beyond the closed acoustic environments of audio-based performance works, aural space, physical proximity, and the importance of ambiance are foregrounded. Such intangible, ephemeral experiences can benefit from a writing practice that attends to these aesthetic concerns. By writing through both case studies from the position of listener-spectator, my lived experience of each work, manifested through attention to sensorial experience, have indicated how relations are built between bodies and across space. In Invisible Flock´s 105+dB sound featured as a social material binding listener-spectators to each other and catalysing a fictional relation to space. Here, sound formed temporal communities bringing bodies into contact to share in constructing and further shaping the parameters of a fictional event.In Atelier Bildraum’s Bildraum the construction of architectural models combined with ambient and live sound indicated a depth of engagement to the visual, one not confined to how things might appear on the surface. The seemingly given, stable nature of familiar environments can be questioned hinting at the presence of further layers within the vibrational or atmospheric properties operating across space that might bring new or alternative realities to the forefront.In both, the correlation between the environment and emotional impressions of bodies that occupy it emerged as key in underscoring and engaging in a dialogue between ambiance and lived experience.ReferencesBildraum, Atelier. Bildraum. Old Lab, Summer Hall, Edinburgh. 18 Aug. 2016.Böhme, Gernot, and Jean-Paul Thibaud (eds.). The Aesthetics of Atmospheres. New York: Routledge, 2017.Cardiff, Janet. The Missing Case Study B. Art Angel, 1999.Home-Cook, George. Theatre and Aural Attention. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015.Greenlaw, Lavinia. Audio Obscura. 2011.Bouckaert, Charlotte, and Steve Salembier. Bildraum. Brussels. 8 Oct. 2014. 18 Jan. 2017 <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eueeAaIuMo0>.Daemen, Merel. “Steve Salembier & Charlotte Bouckaert.” 1 Jul. 2015. 18 Jan. 2017 <http://thissurroundingusall.com/post/122886489993/steve-salembier-charlotte-bouckaert-an-architect>. Haydon, Andrew. “Bildraum – Summerhall, Edinburgh.” Postcards from the Gods 20 Aug. 2016. 18 Jan. 2017 <http://postcardsgods.blogspot.co.uk/2016/08/bildraum-summerhall-edinburgh.html>. Heidegger, Martin. “Building, Dwelling, Thinking.” Basic Writings. Ed. David Farrell Krell. Oxford: Routledge, 1978. 239-57.Hutchins, Roy. 27 Aug. 2016. 18 Jan. 2017 <http://fringereview.co.uk/review/edinburgh-fringe/2016/bildraum/>.Invisible Flock. 105+dB. Zebedee’s Yard, Made in Hull. Hull. 7 Jan. 2017. Labelle, Brandon. “Acoustic Spatiality.” SIC – Journal of Literature, Culture and Literary Translation (2012). 18 Jan. 2017 <http://hrcak.srce.hr/file/127338>.———. “Other Acoustics” OASE: Immersed - Sound & Architecture 78 (2009): 14-24.———. “Sharing Architecture: Space, Time and the Aesthetics of Pressure.” Journal of Visual Culture 10.2 (2011): 177-89.Miller, Graeme. Linked. 2003.Myers, Misha. “Situations for Living: Performing Emplacement.” Research in Drama Education 13.2 (2008): 171-80.Pallasmaa, Juhani. “Space, Place and Atmosphere. Emotion and Peripheral Perception in Architectural Experience.” Lebenswelt 4.1 (2014): 230-45.Schafer, R. Murray. The Soundscape: Our Sonic Environment and the Tuning of the World. Vermont: Destiny Books, 1994.Schevers, Bas. Bildraum (trailer) by Charlotte Bouckaert and Steve Salembier. Dec. 2014. 18 Jan. 2017 <https://vimeo.com/126676951>.Taylor, N. “Made in Hull Artists: Invisible Flock.” 6 Jan. 2017. 9 Jan. 2017 <https://www.hull2017.co.uk/discover/article/made-hull-artists-invisible-flock/>. Thibaud, Jean-Paul. “The Three Dynamics of Urban Ambiances.” Sites of Sound: of Architecture and the Ear Vol. II. Eds. B. Labelle and C. Martinho. Berlin: Errant Bodies P, 2011. 45-53.———. “Urban Ambiances as Common Ground?” 4.1 (2014): 282-95.Voegelin, Salomé. Listening to Sound and Silence: Toward a Philosophy of Sound Art. New York: Continuum, 2010.———. Sonic Possible Worlds. London: Bloomsbury, 2014.Zumthor, Peter. Thinking Architecture. Basel: Birkhäuser, 1998.———. Atmosphere: Architectural Environments – Surrounding Objects. Basel: Birkhäuser, 2006.

Can behavioral science be used to help food pantries guide their clients to make healthier selections in the absence of explicit education? In a New York City food pantry, the location of a healthy whole grain cereal was altered to two conditions: located along with all other (less healthy) cereals or located ahead of (and separate from) alternative cereals. Inventory records of these cereals were tracked and pre‐post intervention surveys conducted in treatment and control pantries (n = 506). When healthy cereals were placed separately and ahead of competitive cereals, reported selection rose from 8.4% to 32% (p< .0001) compared to the control pantry. This preliminary field study underscores two important findings: (1) small, easy, no‐cost changes can improve food selections from pantry clients; (2) contrary to prior work, healthier food should be seen first and seen separately from less healthy competing foods in order to encourage selection. Leveraging principles of choice architecture and behavioral economics has implications for healthier food selection in pantry settings for the most at risk populations.

Este artículo valora el papel que desempeña el diseño de información en la visualización interactiva de prensa en la cobertura de la pandemia COVID-19, tomando como caso de estudio el periódico The New York Times, un referente mundial del periodismo científico que ha desempeñado un papel fundamental en informar acerca de esta crisis sanitaria. Se realizó un análisis de contenido para distintas visualizaciones periodísticas interactivas (N = 103), que el diario publicó a partir del mes de diciembre de 2019 (inicio de la pandemia) a diciembre de 2020 (inicio de las primeras adquisiciones de vacunas). Estas fueron codificadas para determinar, identificar y examinar patrones detallados en tres ejes de estudio: 1) el planteamiento informativo; 2) recursos visuales y multimedia; y 3) tipo de interacción. Los resultados indican que el diseño de información interactiva de prensa usado para la difusión de la pandemia COVID-19, se centra en un periodismo de datos que utiliza visualizaciones con interfaces gráficas no figurativas e híbridas, con acceso a bases de datos geolocalizadas que ofrecen la posibilidad de exploración de los datos de forma innovadora y en tiempo real sobre el total de muertes y casos de contagios por día (hospitalizados, porcentaje de ocupación de camas y número de camas disponibles en hospitales) y casos per cápita por coronavirus, pudiendo desagregarse por estado y condados en Estados Unidos, además de visibilizar a otros países. Estas prácticas se encuentran asociadas con actividades de interoperabilidad y datos que se hallan enlazados a nivel global y que brindan la oportunidad de generar un mayor conocimiento sobre el comportamiento de esta pandemia en el mundo, a la vez que permiten un manejo más efectivo de los riesgos para la salud humana.

The soft error rates per single-bit due to alpha particles in sub-micron technology is expectedly reducedas the feature size is shrinking. On the other hand, the complexity and density of integrated systems are accelerating which demand ecient soft error protection mechanisms, especially for on-chip communication. Using soft error protection method has to satisfy tight requirements for the area and energy consumption, therefore a low complexity and low redundancy coding method is necessary. In this work, we propose a method to enhance Parity Product Code (PPC) and provide adaptation methods for this code. First, PPC is improved as forward error correcting using transposable retransmissions. Then, to adapt with dierent error rates, an augmented algorithm for configuring PPC is introduced. The evaluation results show that the proposed mechanism has coding rates similar to Parity check’s and outperforms the original PPC.Keywords Error Correction Code, Fault-Tolerance, Network-on-Chip. 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Chen, Error-control coding for data networks, first ed., Springer Science and BusinessMedia, New York, 2012.[16] L. Peterson, B. Davie, Computer networks: a systems approach, fifth ed., Elsevier, New York, 2011.[17] K. Dang, et al., Soft-error resilient 3D Network-on-Chip router, in: 2015 IEEE 7thInternational Conference on Awareness Science and Technology (iCAST), China, 2015, pp. 84–90.[18] K. Dang, et al., A low-overhead soft–hard fault-tolerant architecture, design and managementscheme for reliable high-performance many-core 3D-NoC systems, The Journal of Supercomputing.73-6 (2017) 2705–2729. https://www.doi.org/10.1007/s11227-016-1951-0.[19] D. Ernst, et al., Razor: A low-power pipeline based on circuit-level timing speculation, in: The36th annual IEEE/ACM International Symposium on Microarchitecture, IEEE, CA, USA, 2003, pp. 10–20.[20] H. Mohammed, W. Flayyih, F. 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Historians of Modern Architecture have cultivated the image of the architect as a temperamental genius, unconcerned by issues of politeness or pragmatics—a reading reinforced in cultural representations of Modern Architects, such as Howard Roark, the protagonist in Ayn Rand’s 1943 novel The Fountainhead (a character widely believed to be based on the architect Frank Lloyd Wright). The perception of the Modern Architect as an artistic hero or genius has also influenced the reception of their work. Despite their indisputable place within the architectural canon, many important works of Modern Architecture were contested on pragmatic grounds, such as cost, brief and particularly concerning issues of suitability and effectiveness in relation to climate and weather. A number of famed cases resulted in legal action between clients and architects, and in many more examples historians have critically framed these accounts to highlight alternate issues and agendas. “Complaints about the weather,” in relation to architecture, inevitably raise issues regarding a work’s “success,” particularly in view of the tensions between artistry and functionality inherent in the discipline of architecture. While in more recent decades these ideas have been framed around ideas of sustainability—particularly in relation to contemporary buildings—more traditionally they have been engaged through discussions of an architect’s ethical responsibility to deliver a habitable building that meets the client’s needs. This paper suggests these complaints often raise a broader range of issues and are used to highlight tensions inherent in the discipline. In the history of Modern Architecture, these complaints are often framed through gender studies, ethics and, more recently, artistic asceticism. Accounts of complaints and disputes are often invoked in the social construction (or deconstruction) of artistic genius – whether in a positive or negative light. Through its discussion of a number of famed examples, this paper will discuss the framing of climate in relation to the figure of the Modern Architect and the reception of the architectural “masterpiece.” Dear Monsieur Le Corbusier … In June 1930 Mme Savoye, the patron of the famed Villa Savoye on the outskirts of Paris, wrote to her architect, Le Corbusier, stating: “it is still raining in our garage” (Sbriglio 144)—a persistent theme in their correspondence. This letter followed another sent in March after discovering leaks in the garage and several bedrooms following a visit during inclement weather. While sent prior to the building’s completion, she also noted that rainfall on the bathroom skylight “makes a terrible noise […] which prevents us from sleeping in bad weather” (Sbriglio 142). Claiming to have warned Le Corbusier about the concern, the contractor refused to accept responsibility, prompting some rather fiery correspondence between the two. This problem, compounded by issues with the heating system, resulted in the house feeling, as Sbriglio notes, “cold and damp” and subject to “substantial heat loss due to the large glazing”—a cause for particular concern given the health problems of the clients’ only child, Roger Savoye, that saw him spend time in a French Sanatorium (Sbriglio 145). While the cause of Roger’s illness is not clear, at least one writer (albeit with a noticeable lack of footnotes or supporting evidence) has linked this directly to the villa (de Botton 65). Mme Savoye’s complaints about dampness, humidity, condensation and leaking in her home persisted in subsequent years, prompting Benton to summarise in 1987, “every autumn […] there were cries of distress from the Savoye family with the first rains” (Villas 204). These also extended to discussion of the heating system, which while proving insufficient was also causing flooding (Benton, "Villa" 93). In 1935 Savoye again wrote to Le Corbusier, wearily stating: It is raining in the hall, it’s raining on the ramp and the wall of the garage is absolutely soaked [….] it’s still raining in my bathroom, which floods in bad weather, as the water comes in through the skylight. The gardener’s walls are also wet through. (Sbriglio 146-7) Savoye’s understandable vexation with waterproofing problems in her home continued to escalate. With a mixture of gratitude and frustration, a letter sent two years later stated: “After innumerable demands you have finally accepted that this house which you built in 1929 in uninhabitable…. Please render it inhabitable immediately. I sincerely hope that I will not have to take recourse to legal action” (Sbriglio 147). Paradoxically, Le Corbusier was interested in the potential of architecture and urban planning to facilitate health and well-being, as well as the effects that climate may play in this. Early twentieth century medical thought advocated heliotherary (therapeutic exposure to sunlight) for a diverse range of medical conditions, ranging from rickets to tuberculosis. Similarly the health benefits of climate, such as the dryness of mountain air, had been recognised for much longer, and had led to burgeoning industries associated with health, travel and climate. The dangers of damp environments had also long been medically recognised. Le Corbusier’s awareness of the health benefits of sunshine led to the inclusion of a solarium in the villa that afforded both framed and unframed views of the surrounding countryside, such as those that were advocated in the seventeenth century as an antidote to melancholy (Burton 65-66). Both Benton and Sbriglio present Mme Savoye’s complaints as part of their comprehensive histories of an important and influential work of Modern Architecture. Each reproduce excerpts from archival letters that are not widely translated or accessible, and Benton’s 1984 essay is the source other authors generally cite in discussing these matters. In contrast, for example, Murphy’s 2002 account of the villa’s conversion from “house” to “historical monument” cites the same letters (via Benton) as part of a broader argument that highlights the “undomestic” or “unhomely” nature of the work by cataloguing such accounts of the client’s experience of discomfort while residing in the space – thus revisiting a number of common criticisms of Modern Architecture. Le Corbusier’s reputation for designing buildings that responded poorly to climate is often referenced in popular accounts of his work. For example, a 1935 article published in Time states: Though the great expanses of glass that he favors may occasionally turn his rooms into hothouses, his flat roofs may leak and his plans may be wasteful of space, it was Architect Le Corbusier who in 1923 put the entire philosophy of modern architecture into a single sentence: “A house is a machine to live in.” Reference to these issues are usually made rather minimally in academic accounts of his work, and few would agree with this article’s assertion that Le Corbusier’s influence as a phrasemaker would rival the impact of his architecture. In contrast, such issues, in relation to other architects, are often invoked more rhetorically as part of a variety of historical agendas, particularly in constructing feminist histories of architecture. While Corbusier and his work have often been the source of intellectual contention from feminist scholars—for example in regard to authorial disputes and fractious relationships with the likes of Eileen Gray or Charlotte Perriand – discussion of the functional failures in the Villa Savoye are rarely addressed from this perspective. Rather, feminist scholars have focussed their attention on a number of other projects, most notably the case of the Farnsworth House, another canonical work of Modernism. Dear Herr Mies van der Rohe … Mies van der Rohe’s Farnsworth House, completed in 1951 in Plano Illinois, was commissioned as a country weekend residence by an unmarried female doctor, a brief credited with freeing the architect from many of the usual pragmatic requirements of a permanent city residence. In response Mies designed a rectilinear steel and glass pavilion, which hovered (to avoid the flood levels) above the landscape, sheltered by maple trees, in close proximity to the Fox River. The refined architectural detail, elegant formal properties, and poetic relationship with the surrounding landscape – whether in its autumnal splendour or covered in a thick blanket of snow – captivated architects seeing it become, like the Villa Savoye, one of the most revered architectural works of the twentieth century. Prior to construction a model was exhibited in the Museum of Modern Art in New York and, upon completion the building became a pilgrimage site for architects and admirers. The exhibition of the design later fuelled debate about whether Dr Farnsworth constituted a patron or a client (Friedman 134); a distinction generating very different expectations for the responsibilities of the architect, particularly regarding the production of a habitable home that met the client’s brief versus producing a design of architectural merit. The house was intended as a frame for viewing and contemplating nature, thus seeing nature and climate aligned with the transcendental qualities of the design. Following a visit during construction, Farnsworth described the building’s relationship to the elements, writing: “the two horizontal planes of the unfinished building, floating over the meadows, were unearthly beautiful under a sun which glowed like a wild rose” (5). Similarly, in 1951, Arthur Drexler described the building as “a quantity of air caught between a floor and a roof” (Vandenberg 6). Seven years later the architect himself asserted that nature “gained a more profound significance” when viewed from within the house (Friedman 139). While the transparency of the house was “forgiven” by its isolated location and the lack of visibility from neighbouring properties, the issues a glass and steel box might pose for the thermal comfort of its occupant are not difficult to imagine. Following the house’s completion, Farnsworth fitted windows with insect screens and blinds (although Mies intended for curtains to be installed) that clumsily undermined the refined and minimalistic architectural details. Controversy surrounding the house was, in part, the result of its bold new architectural language. However, it was also due to the architect-client relationship, which turned acrimonious in a very public manner. A dispute between Mies and Farnsworth regarding unpaid fees was fought both in the courtroom and the media, becoming a forum for broader debate as various journals (for example, House Beautiful), publicly took sides. The professional female client versus the male architect and the framing of their dispute by historians and the media has seen this project become a seminal case-study in feminist architectural histories, such as Friedman’s Women and the Making of the Modern House of 1998. Beyond the conflict and speculation about the individuals involved, at the core of these discussions were the inadequacies of the project in relation to comfort and climate. For example, Farnsworth describes in her journal finding the house awash with several inches of water, leading to a court session being convened on the rooftop in order to properly ascertain the defects (14). Written retrospectively, after their relationship soured, Farnsworth’s journal delights in recounting any errors or misjudgements made by Mies during construction. For example, she described testing the fireplace to find “the house was sealed so hermetically that the attempt of a flame to go up the chimney caused an interior negative pressure” (2). Further, her growing disenchantment was reflected in bleak descriptions aligning the building with the weather. Describing her first night camping in her home, she wrote: “the expanses of the glass walls and the sills were covered with ice. The silent meadows outside white with old and hardened snow reflected the bleak [light] bulb within, as if the glass house itself were an unshaded bulb of uncalculated watts lighting the winter plains” (9). In an April 1953 article in House Beautiful, Elizabeth Gordon publicly sided with Farnsworth as part of a broader campaign against the International Style. She condemned the home, and its ‘type’ as “unlivable”, writing: “You burn up in the summer and freeze in the winter, because nothing must interfere with the ‘pure’ form of their rectangles” (250). Gordon included the lack of “overhanging roofs to shade you from the sun” among a catalogue of “human qualities” she believed architects sacrificed for the expression of composition—a list that also included possessions, children, pets and adequate kitchen facilities (250). In 1998 excerpts from this article were reproduced by Friedman, in her seminal work of feminist architectural history, and were central in her discussion of the way that debates surrounding this house were framed through notions of gender. Responding to this conflict, and its media coverage, in 1960 Peter Blake wrote: All great houses by great architects tend to be somewhat impractical; many of Corbu’s and Wright’s house clients find that they are living in too expensive and too inefficient buildings. Yet many of these clients would never exchange their houses for the most workable piece of mediocrity. (88) Far from complaining about the weather, the writings of its second owner, Peter Palumbo, poetically meditate the building’s relationship to the seasons and the elements. In his foreword to a 2003 monograph, he wrote: life inside the house is very much a balance with nature, and an extension of nature. A change in the season or an alteration of the landscape creates a marked change in the mood inside the house. With an electric storm of Wagnerian proportions illuminating the night sky and shaking the foundations of the house to their very core, it is possible to remain quite dry! When, with the melting snows of spring, the Fox River becomes a roaring torrent that bursts its banks, the house assumes a character of a house-boat, the water level sometimes rising perilously close to the front door. On such occasions, the approach to the house is by canoe, which is tied to the steps of the upper terrace. (Vandenberg 5) Palumbo purchased the house from Farnsworth and commissioned Mies’s grandson to restore it to its original condition, removing the blinds and insect screens, and installing an air-conditioning system. The critical positioning of Palumbo has been quite different from that of Farnsworth. His restoration and writings on the project have in some ways seen him positioned as the “real” architectural patron. Furthermore, his willingness to tolerate some discomfort in his inhabitation has seen him in some ways prefigure the type of resident that will be next be discussed in reference to recent owners of Wright properties. Dear Mr Wright … Accounts of weatherproofing problems in buildings designed by Frank Lloyd Wright have become the basis of mythology in the architectural discipline. For example, in 1936 Herbert Johnson and J. Vernon Steinle visited Wright’s Richard Lloyd Jones house in Oklahoma. As Jonathan Lipman wrote, “Steinle’s most prominent recollection of the house was that there were scores of tubs and canning jars in the house catching water leaking through the roof” (45). While Lipman notes the irony that both the house and office Wright designed for Johnson would suffer the same problem, it is the anecdotal accounts of the former that have perhaps attracted the most interest. An oft-recounted story tells of Johnson telephoning Wright, during a dinner party, with regard to water dripping from the ceiling into his guest-of-honour’s soup; the complaint was reportedly rebuffed unsympathetically by Wright who suggested the lady should move her chair (Farr 272). Wright himself addressed his reputation for designing buildings that leaked in his Autobiography. In reference to La Miniatura in Pasadena, of 1923, he contextualised difficulties with the local climate, which he suggested was prone to causing leaks, writing: “The sun bakes the roof for eleven months, two weeks and five days, shrinking it to a shrivel. Then giving the roof no warning whatever to get back to normal if it could, the clouds burst. Unsuspecting roof surfaces are deluged by a three inch downpour.” He continued, stating: I knew all this. And I know there are more leaking roofs in Southern California than in all the rest of the world put together. I knew that the citizens come to look upon water thus in a singularly ungrateful mood. I knew that water is all that enables them to have their being there, but let any of it through on them from above, unexpectedly, in their houses and they go mad. It is a kind of phobia. I knew all this and I have taken seriously precautions in the details of this little house to avoid such scenes as a result of negligible roofs. This is the truth. (250) Wright was quick to attribute blame—directed squarely at the builder. Never one for quiet diplomacy, he complained that the “builder had lied to [him] about the flashing under and within the coping walls” (250) and he was ignorant of the incident because the client had not informed him of the leak. He suggested the client’s silence was undoubtedly due to her “not wishing to hurt [his] feelings”. Although given earlier statements it might be speculated that she did not wish to be accused of pandering to a phobia of leaks. Wright was dismissive of the client’s inconvenience, suggesting she would be able to continue as normal until the next rains the following year and claiming he “fixed the house” once he “found out about it” (250). Implicit in this justification was the idea that it was not unreasonable to expect the client to bear a few days of “discomfort” each year in tolerance of the local climate. In true Wright style, discussions of these problems in his autobiography were self-constructive concessions. While Wright refused to take responsibility for climate-related issues in La Minatura, he was more forthcoming in appreciating the triumphs of his Imperial Hotel in Japan—one of the only buildings in the vicinity to survive the 1923 earthquake. In a chapter of his autobiography titled “Building against Doomsday (Why the Great Earthquake did not destroy the Imperial Hotel),” Wright reproduced a telegram sent by Okura Impeho stating: “Hotel stands undamaged as monument of your genius hundreds of homeless provided perfectly maintained service. Congratulations” (222). Far from unconcerned by nature or climate, Wright’s works celebrated and often went to great effort to accommodate the poetic qualities of these. In reference to his own home, Taliesin, Wright wrote: I wanted a home where icicles by invitation might beautify the eaves. So there were no gutters. And when the snow piled deep on the roofs […] icicles came to hang staccato from the eaves. Prismatic crystal pendants sometimes six feet long, glittered between the landscape and the eyes inside. Taliesin in winter was a frosted palace roofed and walled with snow, hung with iridescent fringes. (173) This description was, in part, included as a demonstration of his “superior” understanding and appreciation of nature and its poetic possibilities; an understanding not always mirrored by his clients. Discussing the Lloyd Lewis House in Libertyville, Illinois of 1939, Wright described his endeavours to keep the house comfortable (and avoid flooding) in Spring, Autumn and Summer months which, he conceded, left the house more vulnerable to winter conditions. Utilising an underfloor heating system, which he argued created a more healthful natural climate rather than an “artificial condition,” he conceded this may feel inadequate upon first entering the space (495). Following the client’s complaints that this system and the fireplace were insufficient, particularly in comparison with the temperature levels he was accustomed to in his workplace (at The Daily News), Wright playfully wrote: I thought of various ways of keeping the writer warm, I thought of wiring him to an electric pad inside his vest, allowing lots of lead wire so he could get around. But he waved the idea aside with contempt. […] Then I suggested we appeal to Secretary Knox to turn down the heat at the daily news […] so he could become acclimated. (497) Due to the client’s disinclination to bear this discomfort or use any such alternate schemes, Wright reluctantly refit the house with double-glazing (at the clients expense). In such cases, discussion of leaks or thermal discomfort were not always negative, but were cited rhetorically implying that perfunctory building techniques were not yet advanced enough to meet the architect’s expectations, or that their creative abilities were suppressed by conservative or difficult clients. Thus discussions of building failures have often been invoked in the social construction of the “architect-genius.” Interestingly accounts of the permeability of Wright’s buildings are more often included in biographical rather that architectural writings. In recent years, these accounts of weatherproofing problems have transformed from accusing letters or statements implying failure to a “badge of honour” among occupants who endure discomfort for the sake of art. This changing perspective is usually more pronounced in second generation owners, like Peter Palumbo (who has also owned Corbusier and Wright designed homes), who are either more aware of the potential problems in owning such a house or are more tolerant given an understanding of the historical worth of these projects. This is nowhere more evident than in a profile published in the real estate section of the New York Times. Rather than concealing these issues to preserve the resale value of the property, weatherproofing problems are presented as an endearing quirk. The new owners of Wright’s Prefab No. 1 of 1959, on Staten Island declared they initially did not have enough pots to place under the fifty separate leaks in their home, but in December 2005 proudly boasted they were ‘down to only one leak’ (Bernstein, "Living"). Similarly, in 2003 the resident of a Long Island Wright-designed property, optimistically claimed that while his children often complained their bedrooms were uncomfortably cold, this encouraged the family to spend more time in the warmer communal spaces (Bernstein, "In a House"). This client, more than simply optimistic, (perhaps unwittingly) implies an awareness of the importance of “the hearth” in Wright’s architecture. In such cases complaints about the weather are re-framed. The leaking roof is no longer representative of gender or power relationships between the client and the uncompromising artistic genius. Rather, it actually empowers the inhabitant who rises above their circumstances for the sake of art, invoking a kind of artistic asceticism. While “enlightened” clients of famed architects may be willing to suffer the effects of climate in the interiors of their homes, their neighbours are less tolerant as suggested in a more recent example. Complaints about the alteration of the micro-climate surrounding Frank Gehry’s Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles prompted the sandblasting of part of the exterior cladding to reduce glare. In 2004, USA Today reported that reflections from the stainless steel cladding were responsible for raising the temperature in neighbouring buildings by more than 9° Celsius, forcing neighbours to close their blinds and operate their air-conditioners. There were also fears that the glare might inadvertently cause traffic problems. Further, one report found that average ground temperatures adjacent to the building peaked at approximately 58° Celsius (Schiler and Valmont). Unlike the Modernist examples, this more recent project has not yet been framed in aid of a critical agenda, and has seemingly been reported simply for being “newsworthy.” Benign Conversation Discussion of the suitability of Modern Architecture in relation to climate has proven a perennial topic of conversation, invoked in the course of recurring debates and criticisms. The fascination with accounts of climate-related problems—particularly in discussing the work of the great Modernist Architects like Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe and Frank Lloyd Wright—is in part due to a certain Schadenfreude in debunking the esteem and authority of a canonical figure. This is particularly the case with one, such as Wright, who was characterised by significant self-confidence and an acerbic wit often applied at the expense of others. Yet these accounts have been invoked as much in the construction of the figure of the architect as a creative genius as they have been in the deconstruction of this figure—as well as the historical construction of the client and the historians involved. In view of the growing awareness of the threats and realities of climate change, complaints about the weather are destined to adopt a new significance and be invoked in support of a different range of agendas. While it may be somewhat anachronistic to interpret the designs of Frank Lloyd Wright or Mies van der Rohe in terms of current discussions about sustainability in architecture, these topics are often broached when restoring, renovating or adapting the designs of such architects for new or contemporary usage. 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Abstract Background Mechanical dispersion has shown to predict ventricular (LV) arrhythmias and sudden cardiac death in populations with established cardiac diseases, such as cardiomyopathies and heart failure. Transthyretin amyloid (ATTR) cardiomyopathy arises from deposition of misfolded, insoluble transthyretin (TTR) in extracellular matrix. The disease impacts profoundly cardiac tissue architecture and its mechanical properties. Purpose The aim of this prospective study was assessment of LV speckle-tracking-derived mechanical dispersion in patients with ATTR cardiomyopathy and their first-degree relatives. Methods We present data based on evaluation of 85 patients, including 34 (group 1) index patients with ATTR and 51 (group 2) first-degree relatives who were studied between June 2020 and January 2023. Study protocol included clinical data, free light chain blood immunoglobulins and urine immunofixation, transthoracic echocardiography (TTE) with global longitudinal strain (GLS) analysis, hybrid technique single-photon emission computed tomography and computed tomography (SPECT/CT) with [99mTc] Tc 3,3-disphono-1,2-propanodicarboxylic acid (DPD), genetic testing by an amplicon-based next-generation TTR sequencing approach, and in selected cases cardiac or soft tissue biopsy. Mechanical dispersion was calculated manually from GLS measurements and defined as the standard deviation (SD) of contraction duration from R on the electrocardiogram (ECG) to peak negative longitudinal strain of all LV segments. Results In group 1 patients were older (66.6±11 vs. 50.7±14) and presented with higher New York Heart Association (NYHA) class (2.4± 1 vs. 1.1± 0.6) (p&lt;0.05). Overall, there were detected following types of TTR variants - Phe53Leu, Ala101Val, Glu112Lys, Glu109Lys, Glu122Lys, Glu82Lys. Compared to group 2, group 1 presented with higher N-terminal (NT)-pro hormone BNP (NT-proBNP) value (5859±7320 vs. 281±990 pg/ml), greater intraventricular septum thickness (19±4 vs. 12±3 mm) and LV mass index values (199±69 vs.111±42 g/m2), impaired LV ejection fraction (44±13 vs. 59±10 %) and GLS (-12.7±6 vs. -18.7±4 %) (p&lt;0.05). Moreover, patients with ATTR cardiomyopathy had significantly higher value of LV speckle-tracking-derived mechanical dispersion compared to their first-degree relatives (96.2±22.3 vs. 77.9±23.3 ms, p=0.0007). Conclusions Patients with ATTR cardiomyopathy present with significantly higher LV mass index value, impaired GLS and higher value of LV speckle-tracking-derived mechanical dispersion compared to their first-degree relatives (p&lt;0.05). Assessment of LV speckle-tracking-derived mechanical dispersion may in future translate into further enhancement of disease evaluation and improving prognosis in the group of patients.

I have decided to launch a campaign against the skyscraper, that hideous, mediocre form of architecture…. Today we only have an empty version of it, only competing in height.— Rem Koolhaas, “Kool Enough for Beijing?”Figure 1: The CCTV Headquarters—A Courtyard in the Air. Cher Coad, 2020.Introduction: An Anomaly within an Anomaly Construction of Beijing’s China Central Television Headquarters (henceforth CCTV Headquarters) began in 2004 and the building was officially completed in 2012. It is a project by the Office for Metropolitan Architecture (OMA) headed by Rem Koolhaas (1944-), who has been called “the coolest, hippest, and most cutting-edge architect on the planet”(“Rem Koolhaas Biography”). The CCTV Headquarters is a distinctive feature of downtown Beijing and is heavily associated in the Western world with 21st-century China. It is often used as the backdrop for reports from the China correspondent for the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC), Bill Birtles. The construction of the CCTV Headquarters, however, was very much an international enterprise. Koolhaas himself is Dutch, and the building was one of the first projects the OMA did outside of America after 9/11. As Koolhaas describes it: we had incredible emphasis on New York for five years, and America for five years, and what we decided to do after September 11 when we realized that, you know, things were going to be different in America: [was] to also orient ourselves eastwards [Koolhaas goes on to describe two projects: the Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia and the CCTV Headquarters]. (Rem Koolhaas Interview) Problematically, Koolhaas claims that the building we created for CCTV could never have been conceived by the Chinese and could never have been built by Europeans. It is a hybrid by definition. It was also a partnership, not a foreign imposition…. There was a huge Chinese component from the very beginning. We tried to do a building that conveys that it has emerged from the local situation. (Fraioli 117) Our article reinterprets this reading. We suggest that the OMA’s “incredible emphasis” on America—home of the world’s first skyscraper: the Home Insurance Building built in 1885 in Chicago, Illinois—pivotally spills over into its engagement with China. The emergence of the CCTV Headquarters “from the local situation”, such as it is, is more in spite of Koolhaas’s stated “hybrid” approach than because of it, for what’s missing from his analysis of the CCTV Headquarters’ provenance is the siheyuan or classical Chinese courtyard house. We will argue that the CCTV Headquarters is an anomaly within an anomaly in contemporary Beijing’s urban landscape, to the extent that it turns the typologies of both the (vertical, American) skyscraper and the (horizontal, Chinese) siheyuan on a 90 degree angle. The important point to make here, however, is that these two anomalous elements of the building are not of the same order. While the anomalous re-configuration of the skyscraper typology is clearly part of Koolhaas’s architectural manifesto, it is against his architectural intentionality that the CCTV Headquarters sustains the typology of the siheyuan. This bespeaks the persistent and perhaps functional presence of traditional Chinese architecture and urbanism in the building. Koolhaas’s building contains both starkly evident and more secretive anomalies. Ironically then, there is a certain truth in Koolhaas’s words, beneath the critique we made of it above as an example of American-dominated, homogenising globalisation. And the significance of the CCTV Headquarters’ hybridity as both skyscraper and siheyuan can be elaborated through Daniel M. Abramson’s thesis that a consideration of unbuilt architecture has the potential to re-open architecture to its historical conditions. Roberto Schwarz argues that “forms are the abstract of specific social relationships” (53). Drawing on Schwarz’s work and Abramson’s, we conclude that the historical presence—as secretive anomaly—of the siheyuan in the CCTV Headquarters suggests that the building’s formal debt to the siheyuan (more so than to the American skyscraper) may continue to unsettle the “specific social relationship” of Chinese to Western society (Schwarz 53). The site of this unsettlement, we suggest, is data. The CCTV Headquarters might well be the most data-rich site in all of China—it is, after all, a monumental television station. Suggestively, this wealth of airborne data is literally enclosed within the aerial “courtyard”, with its classical Chinese form, of the CCTV Headquarters. This could hardly be irrelevant in the context of the geo-politics of globalised data. The “form of data”, to coin a phrase, radiates through all the social consequences of data flow and usage, and here the form of data is entwined with a form always already saturated with social consequence. The secretive architectural anomaly of Koolhaas’s building is thus a heterotopic space within the broader Western engagement with China, so much of which relates to flows and captures of data. The Ubiquitous Siheyuan or Classical Chinese Courtyard House According to Ying Liu and Adenrele Awotona, “the courtyard house, a residential compound with buildings surrounding a courtyard on four (or sometimes three) sides, has been representative of housing patterns for over one thousand years in China” (248). Liu and Awotona state that “courtyard house patterns could be found in many parts of China, but the most typical forms are those located in the Old City in Beijing, the capital of China for over eight hundred years” (252). In their reading, the siheyuan is a peculiarly elastic architectural typology, whose influence is present as much in the Forbidden City as in the humble family home (252). Prima facie then, it is not surprising that it has also secreted itself within the architectural form of Koolhaas’s creation. It is important to note, however, that while the “most typical forms” of the siheyuan are indeed still to be found in Beijing, the courtyard house is an increasingly uncommon sight in the Chinese capital. An article in the China Daily from 2004 refers to the “few remaining siheyuan” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). That said, all is not lost for the siheyuan. Liu and Awotona discuss how the classical form of the courtyard house has been modified to more effectively house current residents in the older parts of Beijing while protecting “the horizontal planning feature of traditional Beijing” (254). “Basic design principles” (255) of the siheyuan have supported “a transition from the traditional single-household courtyard housing form to a contemporary multi-household courtyard housing form” (254). In this process, approaches of “urban renewal [involving] demolition” and “preservation, renovation and rebuilding” have been taken (255). Donia Zhang extends the work of Liu and Awotona in the elaboration of her thesis that “Chinese-Americans interested in building Chinese-style courtyard houses in America are keen to learn about their architectural heritage” (47). Zhang’s article concludes with an illustration that shows how the siheyuan may be merged with the typical American suburban dwelling (66). The final thing to emphasise about the siheyuan is what Liu and Awotona describe as its “special introverted quality” (249). The form is saturated with social consequence by virtue of its philosophical undergirding. The coincidence of philosophies of Daoism (including feng-shui) and Confucianism in the architecture and spatiality of the classical Chinese courtyard house makes it an exceedingly odd anomaly of passivity and power (250-51). The courtyard itself has a highly charged role in the management of family, social and cultural life, which, we suggest, survives its transposition into novel architectural environments. Figure 2: The CCTV Headquarters—Looking Up at “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020. The CCTV Headquarters: A New Type of Skyscraper? Rem Koolhaas is not the only architect to interrogate the standard skyscraper typology. In his essay from 1999, “The Architecture of the Future”, Norman Foster argues that “the world’s increasing ecological crisis” (278) is in part a function of “unchecked urban sprawl” (279). A new type of skyscraper, he suggests, might at least ameliorate the sprawl of our cities: the Millennium Tower that we have proposed in Tokyo takes a traditional horizontal city quarter—housing, shops, restaurants, cinemas, museums, sporting facilities, green spaces and public transport networks—and turns it on its side to create a super-tall building with a multiplicity of uses … . It would create a virtually self-sufficient, fully self-sustaining community in the sky. (279) Koolhaas follows suit, arguing that “the actual point of the skyscraper—to increase worker density—has been lost. Skyscrapers are now only momentary points of high density spaced so far apart that they don’t actually increase density at all” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). Foster’s solution to urban sprawl is to make the horizontal (an urban segment) vertical; Koolhaas’s is to make the vertical horizontal: “we’ve [OMA] come up with two types: a very low-rise series of buildings, or a single, condensed hyperbuilding. What we’re doing with CCTV is a prototype of the hyperbuilding” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). Interestingly, the “low-rise” type mentioned here brings to mind the siheyuan—textual evidence, perhaps, that the siheyuan is always already a silent fellow traveller of the CCTV Headquarters project. The CCTV Headquarters is, even at over 200 metres tall itself, an anomaly of horizontalism amidst Beijing’s pervasive skyscraper verticality. As Paul Goldberger reports, “some Beijingers have taken to calling it Big Shorts”, which again evokes horizontality. This is its most obvious anomaly, and a somewhat melancholy reminder of “the horizontal planning feature of traditional Beijing” now mutilated by skyscrapers (Liu and Awotona 254). In the same gesture, however, with which it lays the skyscraper on its side, Koolhaas’s creation raises into the air the shape of the courtyard of a classical Chinese house. To our knowledge, no one has noticed this before, let alone written about it. It is, to be sure, a genuine courtyard shape—not merely an archway or a bridge with unoccupied space between. Pure building entirely surrounds the vertical courtyard shape formed in the air. Most images of the building provide an orientation that maximises the size of its vertical courtyard. To this extent, the (secret) courtyard shape of the building is hidden in plain sight. It is possible, however, to make the courtyard narrow to a mere slit of space, and finally to nothing, by circumnavigating the building. Certain perspectives on the building can even make it look like a more-or-less ordinary skyscraper. But, as a quick google-image search reveals, such views are rare. What seems to make the building special to people is precisely that part of it that is not building. Furthermore, anyone approaching the CCTV Headquarters with the intention of locating a courtyard typology within its form will be disappointed unless they look to its vertical plane. There is no hint of a courtyard at the base of the building. Figure 3: The CCTV Headquarters—View from “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020.Figure 4: The CCTV Headquarters—Looking through the Floor of “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020.Visiting the CCTV Headquarters: A “Special Introverted Quality?” In January 2020, we visited the CCTV Headquarters, ostensibly as audience members for a recording of a science spectacular show. Towards the end of the recording, we were granted a quick tour of the building. It is rare for foreigners to gain access to the sections of the building we visited. Taking the lift about 40 floors up, we arrived at the cantilever level—known informally as “the overhang”. Glass discs in the floor allow one to walk out over nothingness, looking down on ant-like pedestrians. Looking down like this was also to peer into the vacant “courtyard” of the building—into a structure “turned or pushed inward on itself”, which is the anatomical definition of “introverted” (Oxford Languages Dictionary). Workers in the building evinced no great affection for it, and certainly nothing of our wide-eyed wonder. Somebody said, “it’s just a place to work”. One of this article’s authors, Patrick West, seemed to feel the overhang almost imperceptibly vibrating beneath him. (Still, he has also experienced this sensation in conventional skyscrapers.) We were told the rumour that the building has started to tilt over dangerously. Being high in the air, but also high on the air, with nothing but air beneath us, felt edgy—somehow special—our own little world. Koolhaas promotes the CCTV Headquarters as (in paraphrase) “its own city, its own community” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). This resonated with us on our visit. Conventional skyscrapers fracture any sense of community through their segregated floor-upon-floor verticality; there is never enough room for a little patch of horizontal urbanism to unroll. Within “the overhang”, the CCTV Headquarters felt unlike a standard skyscraper, as if we were in an urban space magically levitated from the streets below. Sure, we had been told by one of the building’s inhabitants that it was “just a place to work”—but compared to the bleak sterility of most skyscraper work places, it wasn’t that sterile. The phrase Liu and Awotona use of the siheyuan comes to mind here, as we recall our experience; somehow, we had been inside a different type of building, one with its own “special introverted quality” (249). Special, that is, in the sense of containing just so much of horizontal urbanism as allows the building to retain its introverted quality as “its own city” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). Figure 5: The CCTV Headquarters—View from “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020.Figure 6: The CCTV Headquarters—Inside “The Overhang”. Cher Coad, 2020. Unbuilt Architecture: The Visionary and the Contingent Within the present that it constitutes, built architecture is surrounded by unbuilt architecture at two interfaces: where the past ends; where the future begins. The soupy mix of urbanism continually spawns myriad architectural possibilities, and any given skyscraper is haunted by all the skyscrapers it might have been. History and the past hang heavily from them. Meanwhile, architectural programme or ambition—such as it is—pulls in the other direction: towards an idealised (if not impossible to practically realise) future. Along these lines, Koolhaas and the OMA are plainly a future-directed, as well as self-aware, architectural unit: at OMA we try to build in the greatest possible tolerance and the least amount of rigidity in terms of embodying one particular moment. We want our buildings to evolve. A building has at least two lives—the one imagined by its maker and the life it lives afterward—and they are never the same. (Fraioli 115) Koolhaas makes the same point even more starkly with regard to the CCTV Headquarters project through his use of the word “prototype”: “what we’re doing with CCTV is a prototype of the hyperbuilding” (“Kool Enough for Beijing?”). At the same time, however, as the presence of the siheyuan within the architecture of the CCTV Headquarters shows, the work of the OMA cannot escape from the superabundance of history, within which, as Roberto Schwarz claims, “forms are the abstract of specific social relationships” (53). Supporting our contentions here, Daniel M. Abramson notes that unbuilt architecture implies two sub-categories … the visionary unbuilt, and the contingent … . Visionary schemes invite a forward glance, down one true, vanguard path to a reformed society and discipline. The contingent unbuilts, conversely, invite a backward glance, along multiple routes history might have gone, each with its own likelihood and validity; no privileged truths. (Abramson)Introducing Abramson’s theory to the example of the CCTV Headquarters, the “visionary unbuilt” lines up with Koolhaas’ thesis that the building is a future-directed “prototype”. while the clearest candidate for the “contingent unbuilt”, we suggest, is the siheyuan. Why? Firstly, the siheyuan is hidden in plain sight, within the framing architecture of the CCTV Headquarters; secondly, it is ubiquitous in Beijing urbanism—little wonder then that it turns up, unannounced, in this Beijing building; thirdly, and related to the second point, the two buildings share a “special introverted quality” (Liu and Awotona 249). “The contingent”, in this case, is the anomaly nestled within the much more blatant “visionary” (or futuristic) anomaly—the hyperbuilding to come—of the Beijing-embedded CCTV Headquarters. Koolhaas’s building’s most fascinating anomaly relates, not to any forecast of the future, but to the subtle persistence of the past—its muted quotation of the ancient siheyuan form. Our article is, in part, a response to Abramson’s invitation to “pursue … the consequences of the unbuilt … [and thus] to open architectural history more fully to history”. We have supplemented Abramson’s idea with Schwarz’s suggestion that “forms are the abstract of specific social relationships” (53). The anomaly of the siheyuan—alongside that of the hyperbuilding—within the CCTV headquarters, opens the building up (paraphrasing Abramson) to a fuller analysis of its historical positioning within Western and Eastern flows of globalisation (or better, as we are about to suggest, of glocalisation). In parallel, its form (paraphrasing Schwarz) abstracts and re-presents this history’s specific social relationships. Figure 7: The CCTV Headquarters—A Courtyard of Data. Cher Coad, 2020.Conclusion: A Courtyard of Data and Tensions of Glocalisation Koolhaas proposes that the CCTV Headquarters was “a partnership, not a foreign imposition” and that the building “emerged from the local situation” (Fraioli 117). To us, this smacks of Pollyanna globalisation. The CCTV Headquarters is, we suggest, more accurately read as an imposition of the American skyscraper typology, albeit in anomalous form. (One might even argue that the building’s horizontal deviation from the vertical norm reinforces that norm.) Still, amidst a thicket of conventionally vertical skyscrapers, the building’s horizontalism does have the anomalous effect of recalling “the horizontal planning feature of traditional Beijing” (Liu and Awotona 254). Buried within its horizontalism, however, lies a more secretive anomaly in the form of a vertical siheyuan. This anomaly, we contend, motivates a terminological shift from “globalisation” to “glocalisation”, for the latter term better captures the notion of a lack of reconciliation between the “global” and the “local” in the building. Koolhaas’s visionary architectural programme explicitly advances anomaly. The CCTV Headquarters radically reworks the skyscraper typology as the prototype of a hyperbuilding defined by horizontalism. Certainly, such horizontalism recalls the horizontal plane of pre-skyscraper Beijing and, if faintly, that plane’s ubiquitous feature: the classical courtyard house. Simultaneously, however, the siheyuan has a direct if secretive presence within the morphology of the CCTV Headquarters, even as any suggestion of a vertical courtyard is strikingly absent from Koolhaas’s vanguard manifesto. To this extent, the hyperbuilding fits within Abramson’s category of “the visionary unbuilt”, while the siheyuan aligns with Abramson’s “contingent unbuilt” descriptor. The latter is the “might have been” that, largely under the pressure of its ubiquity as Beijing vernacular architecture, “very nearly is”. Drawing on Schwarz’s idea that “forms are the abstract of specific social relationships”, we propose that the siheyuan, as anomalous form of the CCTV Headquarters, is a heterotopic space within the hybrid global harmony (to paraphrase Koolhaas) purportedly represented by the building (53). In this space thus formed collides the built-up historical and philosophical social intensity of the classical Chinese courtyard house and the intensities of data flows and captures that help constitute the predominantly capitalist and neo-liberalist “social relationship” of China and the Western world—the world of the skyscraper (Schwarz). Within the siheyuan of the CCTV Headquarters, globalised data is literally enveloped by Daoism and Confucianism; it is saturated with the social consequence of local place. The term “glocalisation” is, we suggest, to be preferred here to “globalisation”, because of how it better reflects such vernacular interruptions to the hegemony of globalised space. Forms delineate social relationships, and data, which both forms and is formed by social relationships, may be formed by architecture as much as anything else within social space. Attention to the unbuilt architectural forms (vanguard and contingent) contained within the CCTV Headquarters reveals layers of anomaly that might, ultimately, point to another form of architecture entirely, in which glocal tensions are not only recognised, but resolved. Here, Abramson’s historical project intersects, in the final analysis, with a worldwide politics. Figure 8: The CCTV Headquarters—A Sound Stage in Action. Cher Coad, 2020. References Abramson, Daniel M. “Stakes of the Unbuilt.” Aggregate Architectural History Collaborative. 20 July 2020. <http://we-aggregate.org/piece/stakes-of-the-unbuilt>.Foster, N. “The Architecture of the Future.” The Architecture Reader: Essential Writings from Vitruvius to the Present. Ed. A. Krista Sykes. New York: George Braziller, 2007: 276-79. Fraioli, Paul. “The Invention and Reinvention of the City: An Interview with Rem Koolhaas.” Journal of International Affairs 65.2 (Spring/Summer 2012): 113-19. Goldberger, Paul. “Forbidden Cities: Beijing’s Great New Architecture Is a Mixed Blessing for the City.” The New Yorker—The Sky Line. 23 June 2008. <https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2008/06/30/forbidden-cities>.“Kool Enough for Beijing?” China Daily. 2 March 2004. <https://www.chinadaily.com.cn/english/doc/2004-03/02/content_310800.htm>. Liu, Ying, and Adenrele Awotona. “The Traditional Courtyard House in China: Its Formation and Transition.” Evolving Environmental Ideals—Changing Way of Life, Values and Design Practices: IAPS 14 Conference Proceedings. IAPS. Stockholm, Sweden: Royal Institute of Technology, 1996: 248-60. <https://iaps.architexturez.net/system/files/pdf/1202bm1029.content.pdf>.Oxford Languages Dictionary. “Rem Koolhaas Biography.” Encyclopedia of World Biography. 20 July 2020. <https://www.notablebiographies.com/news/Ge-La/Koolhaas-Rem.html>. “Rem Koolhaas Interview.” Manufacturing Intellect. Canadian Broadcasting Corporation. 2003. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oW187PwSjY0>.Schwarz, Roberto. Misplaced Ideas: Essays on Brazilian Culture. New York: Verso, 1992. Zhang, Donia. “Classical Courtyard Houses of Beijing: Architecture as Cultural Artifact.” Space and Communication 1.1 (Dec. 2015): 47-68.

With the emergence and expansion of post-manufacturing knowledge economies, formerly industrial inner cities in the West have become intensified staging grounds for a range of spatial claims. Among these are processes of residential gentrification, the cultural politics of heritage preservation, the struggles for community development, and the growth of creative industries, such as art, design, architecture, publishing and film, which I focus on here.1 Throughout the last two decades in the UK, inner cities and central city fringe districts have been subject to an assortment of strategies that have endeavored to revitalize them economically and socially. Prominent among these attempts has been the encouragement of new, and the incubation of existing, small-scale creative enterprises. Regeneration executives choose these enterprises for a range of reasons. Creative activities are associated with popular culture that disaffected, unemployed youth find appealing; they are able to occupy and rehabilitate underused existing building stock and to sensitively recycle historic buildings, thereby preserving urban scales; and, as a number of scholars have pointed out, they exhibit transaction-rich, network-intensive organization (Castells 1992; Lash and Urry 1994; Scott 2000). As a result, concerted efforts to design creative industry quarters have sprung up across the UK, including Sheffield, Manchester, Glasgow, and Birmingham. In London, a whole band of formerly industrial, inner-city districts from King's Cross, down through Clerkenwell, Hoxton, Shoreditch and Spitalfields, and along the wharves of the Thames's South Bank, are being or have been revitalized in part through the strategic deployment of creative industries. Certainly, how creative industries and economies develop varies. At King's Cross, nonprofit and commercial creative companies have emerged quietly in a context of protracted struggle over the future of the Railway Lands, which will be reshaped by the coming terminus of the Channel Tunnel Rail Link. At Spitalfields, high-profile conversions of Truman Brewery and the Spitalfields Market site into artisanal stalls, creative businesses, and leisure (café, restaurant, and sport) facilities are generating a new local creative economy, bringing in visitors and creating new customer bases for Spitalfields' Bangladeshi restaurant keepers and garment entrepreneurs.2 Whatever the conditions for growth, creative industries have been aided by the rhetoric of Cool Britannia and New Labour's cultural -- or more accurately --creative industrial policy. I would even put forth that, in the form of the creative quarter, the creative industries represent the urbanist logic of Cool Britannia, threatening to elaborate, following the other logics of BritArt and BritPop, a BritSpace. Now, according to some of Britain's foremost cultural critics, Cool Britannia was born sometime in 1996 in the Sunday Times, and died two years later, soon after a piece in the New Musical Express that showcased young musician discontent with New Labour creative industrial policy (Hewison 1996; McRobbie 1999, 4). Yet, before we close the casket, I want to suggest that Cool Britannia be understood as a symptom of a range of 'causes' that have been transforming the idioms of politics, governance, culture, citizenship, social organization; and, as the creative quarter evokes, the city. An itinerary of these causes would include: the expansion of a consumer-driven service/knowledge economy; the growth and globalization of communication and information technologies; the 'flexibilization' of regimes of production; the mutation of the function of the welfare state and corresponding meaning of citizenship; and, the dominance of intellectual property notions of culture. While these shifts are transforming societies around the world, in the UK, they became closely identified with New Labour and its attempts to institutionalize the rhetoric of the Third Way during the late 1990s (e.g., Blair 1998; Giddens 1998). In imagining itself as a force of change, New Labour capitalized on two events that gave birth to Cool Britannia: (1) the glamorization of British art and young British artists in the mid-1990s; and (2) the emergence of a discourse of 'rebranding' Britain, disseminating from reports from brand specialists Wolff Olins and think tank Demos (Bobby 1999).3 The first, producing the nBA (new British Art) and the yBAs (young British Artists) are media events with their own genealogies that have received copious critical attention (e.g., Ford 1996; McRobbie 1999; Roberts 1996, 1998; Stallabrass 1999; Suchin 1998). This glamorization involved the discovery of the artists by the mainstream media and a focus on artistic entrepreneurship in creating, shaping and responding to an enlarged market for cultural products. In the process, some of these artists effectively became brands, authoring, legitimating and licensing a certain kind of ironic, post-political art that was palatable to the international art market.4 The second cause stems from responses to anxiety over post-imperial Britain's future in a post-manufacturing, globalized, knowledge economy. For both the Demos thinkers and Wolff Olins consultants, these were centered on the need to re-imagine British national subjectivity as if it were a commercial brand. The discourse of branding is tangential to that of intellectual property, in which brands are value codings managed through networks of trademarks, patents, copyrights and royalties. Rosemary Coombe (1998) has written, albeit in a different political context, on the increasing dominance of notions of culture defined through intellectual property, and adjudicated by international trade experts. Indeed, New Labour creative industrial policies, as demonstrated in former Culture Secretary, Chris Smith's, essays that linked creativity, entrepreneurship and economic growth (Smith 1998) and initiatives under the Creative Industries Mapping Document (DCMS 2001) reveal how the relationship between the state and national culture is being renegotiated. Less meaningful is the state that served as sponsor or patron of cultural activities for its citizens. Rather, under New Labour, as Nikolas Rose argues (1999), and critics of New Labour cultural policy interrogate (Greenhalgh 1998; Littler 2000), the state is an enabler, partnering with entrepreneurs, small-scale firms, and multinational enterprises to promote the traffic in cultural property. How such a shift affects the production of urban space, and the future meanings attached to the British city remain to be explored. In the context of the American city, M. Christine Boyer (1995), elaborates how an iterative regime of architectural styles and planning ethics functions as a late capitalist cultural logic of urbanism that discards elements, often in decaying and abandoned sections, that cannot be easily incorporated. Borrowing on Kevin Lynch's (1960) notion of the imageable city, she writes: physically, these spaces are linked imaginatively to each other, to other cities, and to a common history of cultural interpretations (82). Within this scenario, the elements of the creative quarter copy, print, art supply and film developing stores, hip cafes and restaurants, galleries, studios, loft conversions and street furniture are gradually linked together to form a recognizable and potentially iterative matrix, overlaid on the disused former industrial district. Moreover, as a prominent, coordinated technique in the revitalization strategies of British cities, and given the aftermath of Cool Britannia, the creative quarter must be seen also as a symptom of a symptom. For, if Cool Britannia is itself produced through the application of branding discourse to the level of national subjectivity, and to the glamorization of the artist, then it is only a short step to contemplate the urbanist logic of the creative quarter as BritSpaceâ„¢. Notes 1. A creative industry is one that has its origin in individual creativity, skill and talent and which [has] a potential for wealth and job creation through the generation and exploitation of intellectual property. I am following the definition of creative industries used by the UK Department of Culture, Media and Sport. It was first used in the Creative Industries Mapping Document, released in November 1998 and was maintained in the second, more extensive mapping exercise in February 2001. The list of activities designated as creative are: advertising, architecture, art and antiques, crafts, design, designer fashion, film and video, interactive leisure software, music, the performing arts, publishing, software and computer services, television and radio. 2. I discuss the emergence of creative enterprises at King's Cross and Spitalfields at length in my doctoral dissertation (Deckha 2000). 3. As Bobby (1999) reports, the Wolff Olins consultants commented that looking at business attitudes towards national identity and UK industry found that 72% of the world's leading companies believe a national image is important when making purchase decisions. In light of this, and worryingly for British business, only 36% of our respondents felt that a 'made in the UK' label would influence their decision positively. 4. Lash and Urry describe this process of branding in the creative or cultural industries: What (all) the culture industries produce becomes increasingly, not like commodities but advertisements. As with advertising firms, the culture industries sell not themselves but something else and they achieve this through 'packaging'. Also like advertising firms, they sell 'brands' of something else. And they do this through the transfer of value through images (1994, 138). References Blair T. (1998) The Third Way: New Politics for a New Century. The Fabian Society, London. Bobby D. (1999) Original Britain' could succeed where 'Cool Britannia' failed Brand Strategy November 22: 6. Boyer M C. (1995) The Great Frame-Up: Fantastic appearances in contemporary spatial politics, Liggett H., Perry D. C., eds. Spatial Practices. Sage, New York. 81-109. Castells M. (1992) The Rise of the Network Society. Blackwell, Oxford. Coombe R. (1998) The Cultural Life of Intellectual Properties. Duke University Press, Durham, NC. Deckha N. (2000) Repackaging the Inner City: Historic Preservation, Community Development, and the Emergent Cultural Quarter in London. Unpublished MS, Rice University. Department of Culture, Media and Sport [DCMS]. (2001) Creative industries mapping document [http://www.culture.gov.uk/creative/pdf/p...] Ford S. (1996) Myth Making Art Monthly March: 194. Giddens A. (1998) The Third Way. Polity, Cambridge. Greenhalgh L. (1998) From Arts Policy to Creative Economy Media International Australia Incorporating Culture and Policy, 87, May: 84-94. Hewison R. (1996) Cool Britannia Sunday Times, 19 May. Lash S. and Urry J. (1994) Economies of Signs and Space. Sage, London. Littler J. (2000) Creative Accounting: Consumer Culture, The 'Creative Economy' and the Cultural Policies of New Labour in Bewes T. and Gilbert J. eds. Cultural Capitalism. Lawrence & Wishart, London. 203-222. Lynch K. (1960) The Image of the City. MIT Press, Cambridge, Mass. McRobbie A. (1999) In the Culture Society. Routledge, London. Roberts J. (1996) Mad for it!: Philistinism, the everyday and new British art Third Text, 35 (Summer): 29-42. Roberts J. (1998) Pop Art, the Popular and British Art of the 1990s in McCorquodale D. et al, eds. Occupational Hazard. Black Dog, London. 53-78. Rose N. (1999) Inventiveness in politics: review of Anthony Giddens, The Third Way Economy and Society, 28.3: 467-493. Scott A.J. (2000) The Cultural Economy of Cities. University of California Press, Berkeley, CA. Smith C. (1998) Creative Britain. Faber and Faber, London. Stallabrass J. (1999) High Art Lite. Verso, London. Suchin P. (1998) After a Fashion: Regress as Progress in Contemporary British Art in McCorquodale D. et al, eds. Occupational Hazard. Black Dog, London. 95-110. Links http://www.culture.gov.uk/creative/pdf/part1.pdf Citation reference for this article MLA Style Deckha, Nityanand. "Britspaceâ„¢?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/britspace.php>. Chicago Style Deckha, Nityanand, "Britspaceâ„¢?" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/britspace.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Deckha, Nityanand. (2002) Britspaceâ„¢?. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/britspace.php> ([your date of access]).

2G HTS wires are capable of transferring huge amounts of electrical energy without loss. An increase in the current-carrying capacity in these materials is possible due to an increase in the thickness of the superconducting layer; however, there is a problem with the appearance of impurity orientations and other defects with increasing thickness. We have proposed a solution of this problem by increasing the thickness of the superconducting layer by the MOCVD method using interlayers of yttrium oxide.The aim of this study was the production of thick composite films with yttrium oxide interlayers and high critical current density. In addition, we want to show the effectiveness of the approach of introducing yttrium oxide interlayers for the reduction of the number of parasitic orientations and defects with an increase in HTS film thickness.The deposition of YBа2Cu3O7–dand Y2O3 films was carried out layer by layer using reel-to-reel MOCVD equipment. A 12 mm wire of the following architecture was used as a substrate: 200 nm CeO2(Gd2O3)/30–50 nm LaMnO3/5–7 nm IBAD-MgO/50 nm LaMnO3/50 nm Al2O3/60 μ Hastelloy 276. The resulting films were annealed in oxygen for obtaining the orthorhombic YBCO phase. YBа2Cu3O7–d/Y2O3composites were obtained. In these composites, obtained using the MOCVD method, the amount of side (с║) orientation of the HTS layer was reduced and high values of the critical current density, exceeding 1 MA/cm at a thickness of > 2 μm remained. The efficiency of the approach of introducing yttrium oxide interlayers for the increase in the current characteristics with increasing film thickness was shown. It was found that further thickening of films with interlayers is prevented by the formation of nanopores, reducing the critical current density. REFERENCES 1. Fleshler S., Buczek D., Carter B., Ogata M. Scaleup of 2G wire manufacturing at American Superconductor Corporation. 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This paper argues that artist Dope Saint Jude is transforming South African hip-hop by queering a genre that has predominantly been male and heteronormative. Specifically, I analyse the opening skit of her music video “Keep in Touch” in order to unpack the ways which she revives Gayle, a gay language that adopted double-coded forms of speech during the apartheid era—a context in which homosexuals were criminalised. The use of Gayle and spaces close to the city centre of Cape Town (such as Salt River and Woodstock) speaks to the city as it was before it was transformed by the decline of industries due to the country’s adoption of neoliberal economics and, more recently, by the gentrification of these spaces. Dope Saint Jude therefore reclaims these city spaces through her use of gay modes of speech that have a long history in Cape Town and by positioning her work as hip-hop, which has been popular in the city for well over two decades. Her inclusion of transgender MC and DJ Angel Ho pushes the boundaries of hegemonic and binary conceptions of gender identity even further. In essence, Dope Saint Jude is transforming local hip-hop in a context that is shaped significantly by US cultural imperialism. The artist is also transforming our perspective of spaces that have been altered by neoliberal economics.Setting the SceneDope Saint Jude (DSJ) is a queer MC from Elsies River, a working class township located on Cape Town's Cape Flats in South Africa. Elsies River was defined as a “coloured” neighbourhood under the apartheid state's Group Areas Act, which segregated South Africans racially. With the aid of the Population Registration Act, citizens were classified, not merely along the lines of white, Asian, or black—black subjects were also divided into further categories. The apartheid state also distinguished between black and “coloured” subjects. Michael MacDonald contends that segregation “ordained blacks to be inferior to whites; apartheid cast them to be indelibly different” (11). Apartheid declared “African claims in South Africa to be inferior to white claims” and effectively claimed that black subjects “belonged elsewhere, in societies of their own, because their race was different” (ibid). The term “coloured” defined people as “mixed race” to separate communities that might otherwise have identified as black in the broad and inclusive sense (Erasmus 16). Racial categorisation was used to create a racial hierarchy with white subjects at the top of that hierarchy and those classified as black receiving the least resources and benefits. This frustrated attempts to establish broad alliances of black struggles against apartheid. It is in this sense that race is socially and politically constructed and continues to have currency, despite the fact that biologically essentialist understandings of race have been discredited (Yudell 13–14). Thanks to apartheid town planning and resource allocation, many townships on the Cape Flats were poverty-stricken and plagued by gang violence (Salo 363). This continues to be the case because post-apartheid South Africa's embrace of neoliberal economics failed to address racialised class inequalities significantly (Haupt, Static 6–8). This is the '90s context in which socially conscious hip-hop crews, such as Prophets of da City or Black Noise, came together. They drew inspiration from Black Consciousness philosophy via their exposure to US hip-hop crews such as Public Enemy in order to challenge apartheid policies, including their racial interpellation as “coloured” as distinct from the more inclusive category, black (Haupt, “Black Thing” 178). Prophets of da City—whose co-founding member, Shaheen Ariefdien, also lived in Elsies River—was the first South African hip-hop outfit to record an album. Whilst much of their work was performed in English, they quickly transformed the genre by rapping in non-standard varieties of Afrikaans and by including MCs who rap in African languages (ibid). They therefore succeeded in addressing key issues related to race, language, and class disparities in relation to South Africa's transition to democracy (Haupt, “Black Thing”; Haupt, Stealing Empire). However, as is the case with mainstream US hip-hop, specifically gangsta rap (Clay 149), South African hip-hop has been largely dominated by heterosexual men. This includes the more commercial hip-hop scene, which is largely perceived to be located in Johannesburg, where male MCs like AKA and Cassper Nyovest became celebrities. However, certain female MCs have claimed the genre, notably EJ von Lyrik and Burni Aman who are formerly of Godessa, the first female hip-hop crew to record and perform locally and internationally (Haupt, Stealing Empire 166; Haupt, “Can a Woman in Hip-Hop”). DSJ therefore presents the exception to a largely heteronormative and male-dominated South African music industry and hip-hop scene as she transforms it with her queer politics. While queer hip-hop is not new in the US (Pabón and Smalls), this is new territory for South Africa. Writing about the US MC Jean Grae in the context of a “male-dominated music industry and genre,” Shanté Paradigm Smalls contends,Heteronormativity blocks the materiality of the experiences of Black people. Yet, many Black people strive for a heteronormative effect if not “reality”. In hip hop, there is a particular emphasis on maintaining the rigidity of categories, even if those categories fail [sic]. (87) DSJ challenges these rigid categories. Keep in TouchDSJ's most visible entry onto the media landscape to date has been her appearance in an H&M recycling campaign with British Sri Lankan artist MIA (H&M), some fashion shoots, her new EP—Reimagine (Dope Saint Jude)—and recent Finnish, US and French tours as well as her YouTube channel, which features her music videos. As the characters’ theatrical costumes suggest, “Keep in Touch” is possibly the most camp and playful music video she has produced. It commences somewhat comically with Dope Saint Jude walking down Salt River main road to a public telephone, where she and a young woman in pig tails exchange dirty looks. Salt River is located at the foot of Devil's Peak not far from Cape Town's CBD. Many factories were located there, but the area is also surrounded by low-income housing, which was designated a “coloured” area under apartheid. After apartheid, neighbourhoods such as Salt River, Woodstock, and the Bo-Kaap became increasingly gentrified and, instead of becoming more inclusive, many parts of Cape Town continued to be influenced by policies that enable racialised inequalities. Dope Saint Jude calls Angel Ho: DSJ: Awêh, Angie! Yoh, you must check this kak sturvy girl here by the pay phone. [Turns to the girl, who walks away as she bursts a chewing gum bubble.] Ja, you better keep in touch. Anyway, listen here, what are you wys?Angel Ho: Ah, just at the salon getting my hair did. What's good? DSJ: Wanna catch on kak today?Angel Ho: Yes, honey. But, first, let me Gayle you this. By the jol by the art gallery, this Wendy, nuh. This Wendy tapped me on the shoulder and wys me, “This is a place of decorum.”DSJ: What did she wys?Angel Ho: De-corum. She basically told me this is not your house. DSJ: I know you told that girl to keep in touch!Angel Ho: Yes, Mama! I'm Paula, I told that bitch, “Keep in touch!” [Points index finger in the air.](Saint Jude, Dope, “Keep in Touch”)Angel Ho's name is a play on the male name Angelo and refers to the trope of the ho (whore) in gangsta rap lyrics and in music videos that present objectified women as secondary to male, heterosexual narratives (Sharpley-Whiting 23; Collins 27). The queering of Angelo, along with Angel Ho’s non-binary styling in terms of hair, make-up, and attire, appropriates a heterosexist, sexualised stereotype of women in order to create room for a gender identity that operates beyond heteronormative male-female binaries. Angel Ho’s location in a hair salon also speaks to stereotypical associations of salons with women and gay subjects. In a discussion of gender stereotypes about hair salons, Kristen Barber argues that beauty work has traditionally been “associated with women and with gay men” and that “the body beautiful has been tightly linked to the concept of femininity” (455–56). During the telephonic exchange, Angel Ho and Dope Saint Jude code-switch between standard and non-standard varieties of English and Afrikaans, as the opening appellation, “Awêh,” suggests. In this context, the term is a friendly greeting, which intimates solidarity. “Sturvy” means pretentious, whilst “kak” means shit, but here it is used to qualify “sturvy” and means that the girl at the pay phone is very pretentious or “full of airs.” To be “wys” means to be wise, but it can also mean that you are showing someone something or educating them. The meanings of these terms shift, depending on the context. The language practices in this skit are in line with the work of earlier hip-hop crews, such as Prophets of da City and Brasse vannie Kaap, to validate black, multilingual forms of speech and expression that challenge the linguistic imperialism of standard English and Afrikaans in South Africa, which has eleven official languages (Haupt, “Black Thing”; Haupt, Stealing Empire; Williams). Henry Louis Gates’s research on African American speech varieties and literary practices emerging from the repressive context of slavery is essential to understanding hip-hop’s language politics. Hip-hop artists' multilingual wordplay creates parallel discursive universes that operate both on the syntagmatic axis of meaning-making and the paradigmatic axis (Gates 49; Haupt, “Stealing Empire” 76–77). Historically, these discursive universes were those of the slave masters and the slaves, respectively. While white hegemonic meanings are produced on the syntagmatic axis (which is ordered and linear), black modes of speech as seen in hip-hop word play operate on the paradigmatic axis, which is connotative and non-linear (ibid). Distinguishing between Signifyin(g) / Signification (upper case, meaning black expression) and signification (lower case, meaning white dominant expression), he argues that “the signifier ‘Signification’ has remained identical in spelling to its white counterpart to demonstrate [. . .] that a simultaneous, but negated, parallel discursive (ontological, political) universe exists within the larger white discursive universe” (Gates 49). The meanings of terms and expressions can change, depending on the context and manner in which they are used. It is therefore the shared experiences of speech communities (such as slavery or racist/sexist oppression) that determine the negotiated meanings of certain forms of expression. Gayle as a Parallel Discursive UniverseDSJ and Angel Ho's performance of Gayle takes these linguistic practices further. Viewers are offered points of entry into Gayle via the music video’s subtitles. We learn that Wendy is code for a white person and that to keep in touch means exactly the opposite. Saint Jude explains that Gayle is a very fun queer language that was used to kind of mask what people were saying [. . .] It hides meanings and it makes use of women's names [. . . .] But the thing about Gayle is it's constantly changing [. . .] So everywhere you go, you kind of have to pick it up according to the context that you're in. (Ovens, Saint Jude and Haupt)According to Kathryn Luyt, “Gayle originated as Moffietaal [gay language] in the coloured gay drag culture of the Western Cape as a form of slang amongst Afrikaans-speakers which over time, grew into a stylect used by gay English and Afrikaans-speakers across South Africa” (Luyt 8; Cage 4). Given that the apartheid state criminalised homosexuals, Gayle was coded to evade detection and to seek out other members of this speech community (Luyt 8). Luyt qualifies the term “language” by arguing, “The term ‘language’ here, is used not as a constructed language with its own grammar, syntax, morphology and phonology, but in the same way as linguists would discuss women’s language, as a way of speaking, a kind of sociolect” (Luyt 8; Cage 1). However, the double-coded nature of Gayle allows one to think of it as creating a parallel discursive universe as Gates describes it (49). Whereas African American and Cape Flats discursive practices function parallel to white, hegemonic discourses, gay modes of speech run parallel to heteronormative communication. Exclusion and MicroaggressionsThe skit brings both discursive practices into play by creating room for one to consider that DSJ queers a male-dominated genre that is shaped by US cultural imperialism (Haupt, Stealing Empire 166) as a way of speaking back to intersectional forms of marginalisation (Crenshaw 1244), which are created by “white supremacist capitalist patriarchy” (hooks 116). This is significant in South Africa where “curative rape” of lesbians and other forms of homophobic violence are prominent (cf. Gqola; Hames; Msibi). Angel Ho's anecdote conveys a sense of the extent to which black individuals are subject to scrutiny. Ho's interpretation of the claim that the gallery “is a place of decorum” is correct: it is not Ho's house. Black queer subjects are not meant to feel at home or feel a sense of ownership. This functions as a racial microaggression: “subtle insults (verbal, nonverbal, and/or visual) directed toward people of color, often automatically or unconsciously” (Solorzano, Ceja, and Yosso 60). This speaks to DSJ's use of Salt River, Woodstock, and Bo-Kaap for the music video, which features black queer bodies in performance—all of these spaces are being gentrified, effectively pushing working class people of colour out of the city (cf. Didier, Morange, and Peyroux; Lemanski). Gustav Visser explains that gentrification has come to mean a unit-by-unit acquisition of housing which replaces low-income residents with high-income residents, and which occurs independent of the structural condition, architecture, tenure or original cost level of the housing (although it is usually renovated for or by the new occupiers). (81–82) In South Africa this inequity plays out along racial lines because its neoliberal economic policies created a small black elite without improving the lives of the black working class. Instead, the “new African bourgeoisie, because it shares racial identities with the bulk of the poor and class interests with white economic elites, is in position to mediate the reinforcing cleavages between rich whites and poor blacks without having to make more radical changes” (MacDonald 158). In a news article about a working class Salt River family of colour’s battle against an eviction, Christine Hogg explains, “Gentrification often means the poor are displaced as the rich move in or buildings are upgraded by new businesses. In Woodstock and Salt River both are happening at a pace.” Angel Ho’s anecdote, as told from a Woodstock hair salon, conveys a sense of what Woodstock’s transformation from a coloured, working class Group Area to an upmarket, trendy, and arty space would mean for people of colour, including black, queer subjects. One could argue that this reading of the video is undermined by DSJ’s work with global brand H&M. Was she was snared by neoliberal economics? Perhaps, but one response is that the seeds of any subculture’s commercial co-option lie in the fact it speaks through commodities (for example clothing, make-up, CDs, vinyl, or iTunes / mp3 downloads (Hebdige 95; Haupt, Stealing Empire 144–45). Subcultures have a window period in which to challenge hegemonic ideologies before they are delegitimated or commercially co-opted. Hardt and Negri contend that the means that extend the reach of corporate globalisation could be used to challenge it from within it (44–46; Haupt, Stealing Empire 26). DSJ utilises her H&M work, social media, the hip-hop genre, and international networks to exploit that window period to help mainstream black queer identity politics.ConclusionDSJ speaks back to processes of exclusion from the city, which was transformed by apartheid and, more recently, gentrification, by claiming it as a creative and playful space for queer subjects of colour. She uses Gayle to lay claim to the city as it has a long history in Cape Town. In fact, she says that she is not reviving Gayle, but is simply “putting it on a bigger platform” (Ovens, Saint Jude, and Haupt). The use of subtitles in the video suggests that she wants to mainstream queer identity politics. Saint Jude also transforms hip-hop heteronormativity by queering the genre and by locating her work within the history of Cape hip-hop’s multilingual wordplay. ReferencesBarber, Kristin. “The Well-Coiffed Man: Class, Race, and Heterosexual Masculinity in the Hair Salon.” Gender and Society 22.4 (2008): 455–76.Cage, Ken. “An Investigation into the Form and Function of Language Used by Gay Men in South Africa.” Rand Afrikaans University: MA thesis, 1999.Clay, Andreana. “‘I Used to Be Scared of the Dick’: Queer Women of Color and Hip-Hop Masculinity.” Home Girls Make Some Noise: Hip Hop Feminism Anthology. Ed. Gwendolyn D. Pough, Elain Richardson, Aisha Durham, and Rachel Raimist. California: Sojourns, 2007.Collins, Patricia Hill. Black Sexual Politics: African Americans, Gender, and the New Racism. New York: Routledge, 2005. Crenshaw, Kimberle. “Mapping the Margins: Intersectionality, Identity Politics, and Violence against Women of Color”. Stanford Law Review 43.6 (1991): 1241–299.Didier, Sophie, Marianne Morange, and Elisabeth Peyroux. “The Adaptative Nature of Neoliberalism at the Local Scale: Fifteen Years of City Improvement Districts in Cape Town and Johannesburg.” Antipode 45.1 (2012): 121–39.Erasmus, Zimitri. “Introduction.” Coloured by History, Shaped by Place. Ed. Zimitri Erasmus. Cape Town: Kwela Books & SA History Online, 2001. Gates, Henry Louis. The Signifying Monkey: A Theory of Afro-American Literary Criticism. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1988.Gqola, Pumla Dineo. Rape: A South African Nightmare. Johannesburg: Jacana, 2015.Hames, Mary. “Violence against Black Lesbians: Minding Our Language.” Agenda 25.4 (2011): 87–91.Hardt, Michael, and Antonio Negri. Empire. London: Harvard UP, 2000.Haupt, Adam. “Can a Woman in Hip Hop Speak on Her Own Terms?” Africa Is a Country. 23 Mar. 2015. <http://africasacountry.com/2015/03/the-double-consciousness-of-burni-aman-can-a-woman-in-hip-hop-speak-on-her-own-terms/>.Haupt, Adam. Static: Race & Representation in Post-Apartheid Music, Media & Film. Cape Town: HSRC Press, 2012. Haupt, Adam. Stealing Empire: P2P, Intellectual Property and Hip-Hop Subversion. Cape Town: HSRC Press, 2008. Haupt, Adam. “Black Thing: Hip-Hop Nationalism, ‘Race’ and Gender in Prophets of da City and Brasse vannie Kaap.” Coloured by History, Shaped by Place. Ed. Zimitri Erasmus. Cape Town: Kwela Books & SA History Online, 2001. Hebdige, Dick. Subculture: The Meaning of Style. London: Routledge, 1979.Hogg, Christine. “In Salt River Gentrification Often Means Eviction: Family Set to Lose Their Home of 11 Years.” Ground Up. 15 June 2016. <http://www.groundup.org.za/article/salt-river-gentrification-often-means-eviction/>.hooks, bell. Outlaw: Culture: Resisting Representations. New York: Routledge, 1994.Lemanski, Charlotte. “Hybrid Gentrification in South Africa: Theorising across Southern and Northern Cities.” Urban Studies 51.14 (2014): 2943–60.Luyt, Kathryn. “Gay Language in Cape Town: A Study of Gayle – Attitudes, History and Usage.” University of Cape Town: MA thesis, 2014.MacDonald, Michael. Why Race Matters in South Africa. University of Kwazulu-Natal Press: Scottsville, 2006.Msibi, Thabo. “Not Crossing the Line: Masculinities and Homophobic Violence in South Africa”. Agenda. 23.80 (2009): 50–54.Pabón, Jessica N., and Shanté Paradigm Smalls. “Critical Intimacies: Hip Hop as Queer Feminist Pedagogy.” Women & Performance: A Journal of Feminist Theory (2014): 1–7.Salo, Elaine. “Negotiating Gender and Personhood in the New South Africa: Adolescent Women and Gangsters in Manenberg Township on the Cape Flats.” Journal of European Cultural Studies 6.3 (2003): 345–65.Solórzano, Daniel, Miguel Ceja, and Tara Yosso. “Critical Race Theory, Racial Microaggressions, and Campus Racial Climate: The Experiences of African American College Students.” Journal of Negro Education 69.1/2 (2000): 60–73.Sharpley-Whiting, T. Denean. Pimps Up, Ho’s Down: Hip Hop’s Hold on Young Black Women. New York: New York UP, 2007.Smalls, Shanté Paradigm. “‘The Rain Comes Down’: Jean Grae and Hip Hop Heteronormativity.” American Behavioral Scientist 55.1 (2011): 86–95.Visser, Gustav. “Gentrification: Prospects for Urban South African Society?” Acta Academica Supplementum 1 (2003): 79–104.Williams, Quentin E. “Youth Multilingualism in South Africa’s Hip-Hop Culture: a Metapragmatic Analysis.” Sociolinguistic Studies 10.1 (2016): 109–33.Yudell, Michael. “A Short History of the Race Concept.” Race and the Genetic Revolution: Science, Myth, and Culture. Ed. Sheldon Krimsky and Kathleen Sloan. New York: Columbia UP, 2011.InterviewsOvens, Neil, Dope Saint Jude, and Adam Haupt. One FM Radio interview. Cape Town. 21 Apr. 2016.VideosSaint Jude, Dope. “Keep in Touch.” YouTube. 23 Feb. 2015. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2ux9R839lE>. H&M. “H&M World Recycle Week Featuring M.I.A.” YouTube. 11 Apr. 2016. <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f7MskKkn2Jg>. MusicSaint Jude, Dope. Reimagine. 15 June 2016. <https://dopesaintjude.bandcamp.com/album/reimagine>.

‘Every space has become ad space’. Steve Hayden, Wired Magazine, May 2003. Marshall McLuhan’s (1964) dictum that media technologies constitute a sensory extension of the body shares a conceptual affinity with Ernst Jünger’s notion of ‘“organic construction” [which] indicates [a] synergy between man and machine’ and Walter Benjamin’s exploration of the mimetic correspondence between the organic and the inorganic, between human and non-human forms (Bolz, 2002: 19). The logo or brand is co-extensive with various media of communication – billboards, TV advertisements, fashion labels, book spines, mobile phones, etc. Often the logo is interchangeable with the product itself or a way or life. Since all social relations are mediated, whether by communications technologies or architectonic forms ranging from corporate buildings to sporting grounds to family living rooms, it follows that there can be no outside for sociality. The social is and always has been in a mutually determining relationship with mediating forms. It is in this sense that there is no outside. Such an idea has become a refrain amongst various contemporary media theorists. Here’s a sample: There is no outside position anymore, nor is this perceived as something desirable. (Lovink, 2002a: 4) Both “us” and “them” (whoever we are, whoever they are) are all always situated in this same virtual geography. There’s no outside …. There is nothing outside the vector. (Wark, 2002: 316) There is no more outside. The critique of information is in the information itself. (Lash, 2002: 220) In declaring a universality for media culture and information flows, all of the above statements acknowledge the political and conceptual failure of assuming a critical position outside socio-technically constituted relations. Similarly, they recognise the problems inherent in the “ideology critique” of the Frankfurt School who, in their distinction between “truth” and “false-consciousness”, claimed a sort of absolute knowledge for the critic that transcended the field of ideology as it is produced by the culture industry. Althusser’s more complex conception of ideology, material practices and subject formation nevertheless also fell prey to the pretence of historical materialism as an autonomous “science” that is able to determine the totality, albeit fragmented, of lived social relations. One of the key failings of ideology critique, then, is its incapacity to account for the ways in which the critic, theorist or intellectual is implicated in the operations of ideology. That is, such approaches displace the reflexivity and power relationships between epistemology, ontology and their constitution as material practices within socio-political institutions and historical constellations, which in turn are the settings for the formation of ideology. Scott Lash abandons the term ideology altogether due to its conceptual legacies within German dialectics and French post-structuralist aporetics, both of which ‘are based in a fundamental dualism, a fundamental binary, of the two types of reason. One speaks of grounding and reconciliation, the other of unbridgeability …. Both presume a sphere of transcendence’ (Lash, 2002: 8). Such assertions can be made at a general level concerning these diverse and often conflicting approaches when they are reduced to categories for the purpose of a polemic. However, the work of “post-structuralists” such as Foucault, Deleuze and Guattari and the work of German systems theorist Niklas Luhmann is clearly amenable to the task of critique within information societies (see Rossiter, 2003). Indeed, Lash draws on such theorists in assembling his critical dispositif for the information age. More concretely, Lash (2002: 9) advances his case for a new mode of critique by noting the socio-technical and historical shift from ‘constitutive dualisms of the era of the national manufacturing society’ to global information cultures, whose constitutive form is immanent to informational networks and flows. Such a shift, according to Lash, needs to be met with a corresponding mode of critique: Ideologycritique [ideologiekritik] had to be somehow outside of ideology. With the disappearance of a constitutive outside, informationcritique must be inside of information. There is no outside any more. (2002: 10) Lash goes on to note, quite rightly, that ‘Informationcritique itself is branded, another object of intellectual property, machinically mediated’ (2002: 10). It is the political and conceptual tensions between information critique and its regulation via intellectual property regimes which condition critique as yet another brand or logo that I wish to explore in the rest of this essay. Further, I will question the supposed erasure of a “constitutive outside” to the field of socio-technical relations within network societies and informational economies. Lash is far too totalising in supposing a break between industrial modes of production and informational flows. Moreover, the assertion that there is no more outside to information too readily and simplistically assumes informational relations as universal and horizontally organised, and hence overlooks the significant structural, cultural and economic obstacles to participation within media vectors. That is, there certainly is an outside to information! Indeed, there are a plurality of outsides. These outsides are intertwined with the flows of capital and the imperial biopower of Empire, as Hardt and Negri (2000) have argued. As difficult as it may be to ascertain the boundaries of life in all its complexity, borders, however defined, nonetheless exist. Just ask the so-called “illegal immigrant”! This essay identifies three key modalities comprising a constitutive outside: material (uneven geographies of labour-power and the digital divide), symbolic (cultural capital), and strategic (figures of critique). My point of reference in developing this inquiry will pivot around an analysis of the importation in Australia of the British “Creative Industries” project and the problematic foundation such a project presents to the branding and commercialisation of intellectual labour. The creative industries movement – or Queensland Ideology, as I’ve discussed elsewhere with Danny Butt (2002) – holds further implications for the political and economic position of the university vis-à-vis the arts and humanities. Creative industries constructs itself as inside the culture of informationalism and its concomitant economies by the very fact that it is an exercise in branding. Such branding is evidenced in the discourses, rhetoric and policies of creative industries as adopted by university faculties, government departments and the cultural industries and service sectors seeking to reposition themselves in an institutional environment that is adjusting to ongoing structural reforms attributed to the demands by the “New Economy” for increased labour flexibility and specialisation, institutional and economic deregulation, product customisation and capital accumulation. Within the creative industries the content produced by labour-power is branded as copyrights and trademarks within the system of Intellectual Property Regimes (IPRs). However, as I will go on to show, a constitutive outside figures in material, symbolic and strategic ways that condition the possibility of creative industries. The creative industries project, as envisioned by the Blair government’s Department of Culture, Media and Sport (DCMS) responsible for the Creative Industry Task Force Mapping Documents of 1998 and 2001, is interested in enhancing the “creative” potential of cultural labour in order to extract a commercial value from cultural objects and services. Just as there is no outside for informationcritique, for proponents of the creative industries there is no culture that is worth its name if it is outside a market economy. That is, the commercialisation of “creativity” – or indeed commerce as a creative undertaking – acts as a legitimising function and hence plays a delimiting role for “culture” and, by association, sociality. And let us not forget, the institutional life of career academics is also at stake in this legitimating process. The DCMS cast its net wide when defining creative sectors and deploys a lexicon that is as vague and unquantifiable as the next mission statement by government and corporate bodies enmeshed within a neo-liberal paradigm. At least one of the key proponents of the creative industries in Australia is ready to acknowledge this (see Cunningham, 2003). The list of sectors identified as holding creative capacities in the CITF Mapping Document include: film, music, television and radio, publishing, software, interactive leisure software, design, designer fashion, architecture, performing arts, crafts, arts and antique markets, architecture and advertising. The Mapping Document seeks to demonstrate how these sectors consist of ‘... activities which have their origin in individual creativity, skill and talent and which have the potential for wealth and job creation through generation and exploitation of intellectual property’ (CITF: 1998/2001). The CITF’s identification of intellectual property as central to the creation of jobs and wealth firmly places the creative industries within informational and knowledge economies. Unlike material property, intellectual property such as artistic creations (films, music, books) and innovative technical processes (software, biotechnologies) are forms of knowledge that do not diminish when they are distributed. This is especially the case when information has been encoded in a digital form and distributed through technologies such as the internet. In such instances, information is often attributed an “immaterial” and nonrivalrous quality, although this can be highly misleading for both the conceptualisation of information and the politics of knowledge production. Intellectual property, as distinct from material property, operates as a scaling device in which the unit cost of labour is offset by the potential for substantial profit margins realised by distribution techniques availed by new information and communication technologies (ICTs) and their capacity to infinitely reproduce the digital commodity object as a property relation. Within the logic of intellectual property regimes, the use of content is based on the capacity of individuals and institutions to pay. The syndication of media content ensures that market saturation is optimal and competition is kept to a minimum. However, such a legal architecture and hegemonic media industry has run into conflict with other net cultures such as open source movements and peer-to-peer networks (Lovink, 2002b; Meikle, 2002), which is to say nothing of the digital piracy of software and digitally encoded cinematic forms. To this end, IPRs are an unstable architecture for extracting profit. The operation of Intellectual Property Regimes constitutes an outside within creative industries by alienating labour from its mode of information or form of expression. Lash is apposite on this point: ‘Intellectual property carries with it the right to exclude’ (Lash, 2002: 24). This principle of exclusion applies not only to those outside the informational economy and culture of networks as result of geographic, economic, infrastructural, and cultural constraints. The very practitioners within the creative industries are excluded from control over their creations. It is in this sense that a legal and material outside is established within an informational society. At the same time, this internal outside – to put it rather clumsily – operates in a constitutive manner in as much as the creative industries, by definition, depend upon the capacity to exploit the IP produced by its primary source of labour. For all the emphasis the Mapping Document places on exploiting intellectual property, it’s really quite remarkable how absent any elaboration or considered development of IP is from creative industries rhetoric. It’s even more astonishing that media and cultural studies academics have given at best passing attention to the issues of IPRs. Terry Flew (2002: 154-159) is one of the rare exceptions, though even here there is no attempt to identify the implications IPRs hold for those working in the creative industries sectors. Perhaps such oversights by academics associated with the creative industries can be accounted for by the fact that their own jobs rest within the modern, industrial institution of the university which continues to offer the security of a salary award system and continuing if not tenured employment despite the onslaught of neo-liberal reforms since the 1980s. Such an industrial system of traditional and organised labour, however, does not define the labour conditions for those working in the so-called creative industries. Within those sectors engaged more intensively in commercialising culture, labour practices closely resemble work characterised by the dotcom boom, which saw young people working excessively long hours without any of the sort of employment security and protection vis-à-vis salary, health benefits and pension schemes peculiar to traditional and organised labour (see McRobbie, 2002; Ross, 2003). During the dotcom mania of the mid to late 90s, stock options were frequently offered to people as an incentive for offsetting the often minimum or even deferred payment of wages (see Frank, 2000). It is understandable that the creative industries project holds an appeal for managerial intellectuals operating in arts and humanities disciplines in Australia, most particularly at Queensland University of Technology (QUT), which claims to have established the ‘world’s first’ Creative Industries faculty (http://www.creativeindustries.qut.com/). The creative industries provide a validating discourse for those suffering anxiety disorders over what Ruth Barcan (2003) has called the ‘usefulness’ of ‘idle’ intellectual pastimes. As a project that endeavours to articulate graduate skills with labour markets, the creative industries is a natural extension of the neo-liberal agenda within education as advocated by successive governments in Australia since the Dawkins reforms in the mid 1980s (see Marginson and Considine, 2000). Certainly there’s a constructive dimension to this: graduates, after all, need jobs and universities should display an awareness of market conditions; they also have a responsibility to do so. And on this count, I find it remarkable that so many university departments in my own field of communications and media studies are so bold and, let’s face it, stupid, as to make unwavering assertions about market demands and student needs on the basis of doing little more than sniffing the wind! Time for a bit of a reality check, I’d say. And this means becoming a little more serious about allocating funds and resources towards market research and analysis based on the combination of needs between students, staff, disciplinary values, university expectations, and the political economy of markets. However, the extent to which there should be a wholesale shift of the arts and humanities into a creative industries model is open to debate. The arts and humanities, after all, are a set of disciplinary practices and values that operate as a constitutive outside for creative industries. Indeed, in their creative industries manifesto, Stuart Cunningham and John Hartley (2002) loath the arts and humanities in such confused, paradoxical and hypocritical ways in order to establish the arts and humanities as a cultural and ideological outside. To this end, to subsume the arts and humanities into the creative industries, if not eradicate them altogether, is to spell the end of creative industries as it’s currently conceived at the institutional level within academe. Too much specialisation in one post-industrial sector, broad as it may be, ensures a situation of labour reserves that exceed market needs. One only needs to consider all those now unemployed web-designers that graduated from multi-media programs in the mid to late 90s. Further, it does not augur well for the inevitable shift from or collapse of a creative industries economy. Where is the standing reserve of labour shaped by university education and training in a post-creative industries economy? Diehard neo-liberals and true-believers in the capacity for perpetual institutional flexibility would say that this isn’t a problem. The university will just “organically” adapt to prevailing market conditions and shape their curriculum and staff composition accordingly. Perhaps. Arguably if the university is to maintain a modality of time that is distinct from the just-in-time mode of production characteristic of informational economies – and indeed, such a difference is a quality that defines the market value of the educational commodity – then limits have to be established between institutions of education and the corporate organisation or creative industry entity. The creative industries project is a reactionary model insofar as it reinforces the status quo of labour relations within a neo-liberal paradigm in which bids for industry contracts are based on a combination of rich technological infrastructures that have often been subsidised by the state (i.e. paid for by the public), high labour skills, a low currency exchange rate and the lowest possible labour costs. In this respect it is no wonder that literature on the creative industries omits discussion of the importance of unions within informational, networked economies. What is the place of unions in a labour force constituted as individualised units? The conditions of possibility for creative industries within Australia are at once its frailties. In many respects, the success of the creative industries sector depends upon the ongoing combination of cheap labour enabled by a low currency exchange rate and the capacity of students to access the skills and training offered by universities. Certainly in relation to matters such as these there is no outside for the creative industries. There’s a great need to explore alternative economic models to the content production one if wealth is to be successfully extracted and distributed from activities in the new media sectors. The suggestion that the creative industries project initiates a strategic response to the conditions of cultural production within network societies and informational economies is highly debateable. The now well documented history of digital piracy in the film and software industries and the difficulties associated with regulating violations to proprietors of IP in the form of copyright and trademarks is enough of a reason to look for alternative models of wealth extraction. And you can be sure this will occur irrespective of the endeavours of the creative industries. To conclude, I am suggesting that those working in the creative industries, be they content producers or educators, need to intervene in IPRs in such a way that: 1) ensures the alienation of their labour is minimised; 2) collectivising “creative” labour in the form of unions or what Wark (2001) has termed the “hacker class”, as distinct from the “vectoralist class”, may be one way of achieving this; and 3) the advocates of creative industries within the higher education sector in particular are made aware of the implications IPRs have for graduates entering the workforce and adjust their rhetoric, curriculum, and policy engagements accordingly. Works Cited Barcan, Ruth. ‘The Idleness of Academics: Reflections on the Usefulness of Cultural Studies’. Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies (forthcoming, 2003). Bolz, Norbert. ‘Rethinking Media Aesthetics’, in Geert Lovink, Uncanny Networks: Dialogues with the Virtual Intelligentsia. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2002, 18-27. 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Uncanny Networks: Dialogues with the Virtual Intelligentsia. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2002a. Lovink, Geert. Dark Fiber: Tracking Critical Internet Culture. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2002b. McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1964. McRobbie, Angela. ‘Clubs to Companies: Notes on the Decline of Political Culture in Speeded up Creative Worlds’, Cultural Studies 16.4 (2002): 516-31. Marginson, Simon and Considine, Mark. The Enterprise University: Power, Governance and Reinvention in Australia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Meikle, Graham. Future Active: Media Activism and the Internet. Sydney: Pluto Press, 2002. Ross, Andrew. No-Collar: The Humane Workplace and Its Hidden Costs. New York: Basic Books, 2003. Rossiter, Ned. ‘Processual Media Theory’, in Adrian Miles (ed.) Streaming Worlds: 5th International Digital Arts & Culture (DAC) Conference. 19-23 May. Melbourne: RMIT University, 2003, 173-184. http://hypertext.rmit.edu.au/dac/papers/Rossiter.pdf Sassen, Saskia. Losing Control? Sovereignty in an Age of Globalization. New York: Columbia University Press, 1996. Wark, McKenzie. ‘Abstraction’ and ‘Hack’, in Hugh Brown, Geert Lovink, Helen Merrick, Ned Rossiter, David Teh, Michele Willson (eds). Politics of a Digital Present: An Inventory of Australian Net Culture, Criticism and Theory. Melbourne: Fibreculture Publications, 2001, 3-7, 99-102. Wark, McKenzie. ‘The Power of Multiplicity and the Multiplicity of Power’, in Geert Lovink, Uncanny Networks: Dialogues with the Virtual Intelligentsia. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 2002, 314-325. Links http://hypertext.rmit.edu.au/dac/papers/Rossiter.pdf http://www.creativeindustries.qut.com/ http://www.creativeindustries.qut.com/research/cirac/documents/THE_EVOLVING_CREATIVE_INDUSTRIES.pdf http://www.creativeindustries.qut.com/research/cirac/documents/bccreportonly.pdf http://www.culture.gov.uk/creative/mapping.html http://www.fibreculture.org/archives/index.html http://www.wired.com/wired/archive/11.06/ad_spc.html Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Rossiter, Ned. "Creative Industries and the Limits of Critique from " M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/11-creativeindustries.php>. APA Style Rossiter, N. (2003, Jun 19). Creative Industries and the Limits of Critique from . M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 6,< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/11-creativeindustries.php>

At one point in Victor Hugo’s novel, The Hunchback of Notre Dame, the archdeacon, Claude Frollo, looked up from a book on his table to the edifice of the gothic cathedral, visible from his canon’s cell in the cloister of Notre Dame: “Alas!” he said, “this will kill that” (146). Frollo’s lament, that the book would destroy the edifice, captures the medieval cleric’s anxiety about the way in which Gutenberg’s print technology would become the new universal means for recording and communicating humanity’s ideas and artistic expression, replacing the grand monuments of architecture, human engineering, and craftsmanship. For Hugo, architecture was “the great handwriting of humankind” (149). The cathedral as the material outcome of human technology was being replaced by the first great machine—the printing press. At this point in the third millennium, some people undoubtedly have similar anxieties to Frollo: is it now the book’s turn to be destroyed by yet another great machine? The inclusion of “post print” in our title is not intended to sound the death knell of the book. Rather, we contend that despite the enduring value of print, digital publishing is “present and active” and is changing the way in which research, particularly in the humanities, is being undertaken. Our approach has three related parts. First, we consider how digital technologies are changing the way in which content is constructed, customised, modified, disseminated, and accessed within a global, distributed network. This section argues that the transition from print to electronic or digital publishing means both losses and gains, particularly with respect to shifts in our approaches to textuality, information, and innovative publishing. Second, we discuss the Children’s Literature Digital Resources (CLDR) project, with which we are involved. This case study of a digitising initiative opens out the transformative possibilities and challenges of digital publishing and e-scholarship for research communities. Third, we reflect on technology’s capacity to bring about major changes in the light of the theoretical and practical issues that have arisen from our discussion. I. Digitising in a “post-print age” We are living in an era that is commonly referred to as “the late age of print” (see Kho) or the “post-print age” (see Gunkel). According to Aarseth, we have reached a point whereby nearly all of our public and personal media have become more or less digital (37). As Kho notes, web newspapers are not only becoming increasingly more popular, but they are also making rather than losing money, and paper-based newspapers are finding it difficult to recruit new readers from the younger generations (37). Not only can such online-only publications update format, content, and structure more economically than print-based publications, but their wide distribution network, speed, and flexibility attract advertising revenue. Hype and hyperbole aside, publishers are not so much discarding their legacy of print, but recognising the folly of not embracing innovative technologies that can add value by presenting information in ways that satisfy users’ needs for content to-go or for edutainment. As Kho notes: “no longer able to satisfy customer demand by producing print-only products, or even by enabling online access to semi-static content, established publishers are embracing new models for publishing, web-style” (42). Advocates of online publishing contend that the major benefits of online publishing over print technology are that it is faster, more economical, and more interactive. However, as Hovav and Gray caution, “e-publishing also involves risks, hidden costs, and trade-offs” (79). The specific focus for these authors is e-journal publishing and they contend that while cost reduction is in editing, production and distribution, if the journal is not open access, then costs relating to storage and bandwith will be transferred to the user. If we put economics aside for the moment, the transition from print to electronic text (e-text), especially with electronic literary works, brings additional considerations, particularly in their ability to make available different reading strategies to print, such as “animation, rollovers, screen design, navigation strategies, and so on” (Hayles 38). Transition from print to e-text In his book, Writing Space, David Bolter follows Victor Hugo’s lead, but does not ask if print technology will be destroyed. Rather, he argues that “the idea and ideal of the book will change: print will no longer define the organization and presentation of knowledge, as it has for the past five centuries” (2). As Hayles noted above, one significant indicator of this change, which is a consequence of the shift from analogue to digital, is the addition of graphical, audio, visual, sonic, and kinetic elements to the written word. A significant consequence of this transition is the reinvention of the book in a networked environment. Unlike the printed book, the networked book is not bound by space and time. Rather, it is an evolving entity within an ecology of readers, authors, and texts. The Web 2.0 platform has enabled more experimentation with blending of digital technology and traditional writing, particularly in the use of blogs, which have spawned blogwriting and the wikinovel. Siva Vaidhyanathan’s The Googlization of Everything: How One Company is Disrupting Culture, Commerce and Community … and Why We Should Worry is a wikinovel or blog book that was produced over a series of weeks with contributions from other bloggers (see: http://www.sivacracy.net/). Penguin Books, in collaboration with a media company, “Six Stories to Start,” have developed six stories—“We Tell Stories,” which involve different forms of interactivity from users through blog entries, Twitter text messages, an interactive google map, and other features. For example, the story titled “Fairy Tales” allows users to customise the story using their own choice of names for characters and descriptions of character traits. Each story is loosely based on a classic story and links take users to synopses of these original stories and their authors and to online purchase of the texts through the Penguin Books sales website. These examples of digital stories are a small part of the digital environment, which exploits computer and online technologies’ capacity to be interactive and immersive. As Janet Murray notes, the interactive qualities of digital environments are characterised by their procedural and participatory abilities, while their immersive qualities are characterised by their spatial and encyclopedic dimensions (71–89). These immersive and interactive qualities highlight different ways of reading texts, which entail different embodied and cognitive functions from those that reading print texts requires. As Hayles argues: the advent of electronic textuality presents us with an unparalleled opportunity to reformulate fundamental ideas about texts and, in the process, to see print as well as electronic texts with fresh eyes (89–90). The transition to e-text also highlights how digitality is changing all aspects of everyday life both inside and outside the academy. Online teaching and e-research Another aspect of the commercial arm of publishing that is impacting on academe and other organisations is the digitising and indexing of print content for niche distribution. Kho offers the example of the Mark Logic Corporation, which uses its XML content platform to repurpose content, create new content, and distribute this content through multiple portals. As the promotional website video for Mark Logic explains, academics can use this service to customise their own textbooks for students by including only articles and book chapters that are relevant to their subject. These are then organised, bound, and distributed by Mark Logic for sale to students at a cost that is generally cheaper than most textbooks. A further example of how print and digital materials can form an integrated, customised source for teachers and students is eFictions (Trimmer, Jennings, & Patterson). eFictions was one of the first print and online short story anthologies that teachers of literature could customise to their own needs. Produced as both a print text collection and a website, eFictions offers popular short stories in English by well-known traditional and contemporary writers from the US, Australia, New Zealand, UK, and Europe, with summaries, notes on literary features, author biographies, and, in one instance, a YouTube movie of the story. In using the eFictions website, teachers can build a customised anthology of traditional and innovative stories to suit their teaching preferences. These examples provide useful indicators of how content is constructed, customised, modified, disseminated, and accessed within a distributed network. However, the question remains as to how to measure their impact and outcomes within teaching and learning communities. As Harley suggests in her study on the use and users of digital resources in the humanities and social sciences, several factors warrant attention, such as personal teaching style, philosophy, and specific disciplinary requirements. However, in terms of understanding the benefits of digital resources for teaching and learning, Harley notes that few providers in her sample had developed any plans to evaluate use and users in a systematic way. In addition to the problems raised in Harley’s study, another relates to how researchers can be supported to take full advantage of digital technologies for e-research. The transformation brought about by information and communication technologies extends and broadens the impact of research, by making its outputs more discoverable and usable by other researchers, and its benefits more available to industry, governments, and the wider community. Traditional repositories of knowledge and information, such as libraries, are juggling the space demands of books and computer hardware alongside increasing reader demand for anywhere, anytime, anyplace access to information. Researchers’ expectations about online access to journals, eprints, bibliographic data, and the views of others through wikis, blogs, and associated social and information networking sites such as YouTube compete with the traditional expectations of the institutions that fund libraries for paper-based archives and book repositories. While university libraries are finding it increasingly difficult to purchase all hardcover books relevant to numerous and varied disciplines, a significant proportion of their budgets goes towards digital repositories (e.g., STORS), indexes, and other resources, such as full-text electronic specialised and multidisciplinary journal databases (e.g., Project Muse and Proquest); electronic serials; e-books; and specialised information sources through fast (online) document delivery services. An area that is becoming increasingly significant for those working in the humanities is the digitising of historical and cultural texts. II. Bringing back the dead: The CLDR project The CLDR project is led by researchers and librarians at the Queensland University of Technology, in collaboration with Deakin University, University of Sydney, and members of the AustLit team at The University of Queensland. The CLDR project is a “Research Community” of the electronic bibliographic database AustLit: The Australian Literature Resource, which is working towards the goal of providing a complete bibliographic record of the nation’s literature. AustLit offers users with a single entry point to enhanced scholarly resources on Australian writers, their works, and other aspects of Australian literary culture and activities. AustLit and its Research Communities are supported by grants from the Australian Research Council and financial and in-kind contributions from a consortium of Australian universities, and by other external funding sources such as the National Collaborative Research Infrastructure Strategy. Like other more extensive digitisation projects, such as Project Gutenberg and the Rosetta Project, the CLDR project aims to provide a centralised access point for digital surrogates of early published works of Australian children’s literature, with access pathways to existing resources. The first stage of the CLDR project is to provide access to digitised, full-text, out-of-copyright Australian children’s literature from European settlement to 1945, with selected digitised critical works relevant to the field. Texts comprise a range of genres, including poetry, drama, and narrative for young readers and picture books, songs, and rhymes for infants. Currently, a selection of 75 e-texts and digital scans of original texts from Project Gutenberg and Internet Archive have been linked to the Children’s Literature Research Community. By the end of 2009, the CLDR will have digitised approximately 1000 literary texts and a significant number of critical works. Stage II and subsequent development will involve digitisation of selected texts from 1945 onwards. A precursor to the CLDR project has been undertaken by Deakin University in collaboration with the State Library of Victoria, whereby a digital bibliographic index comprising Victorian School Readers has been completed with plans for full-text digital surrogates of a selection of these texts. These texts provide valuable insights into citizenship, identity, and values formation from the 1930s onwards. At the time of writing, the CLDR is at an early stage of development. An extensive survey of out-of-copyright texts has been completed and the digitisation of these resources is about to commence. The project plans to make rich content searchable, allowing scholars from children’s literature studies and education to benefit from the many advantages of online scholarship. What digital publishing and associated digital archives, electronic texts, hypermedia, and so forth foreground is the fact that writers, readers, publishers, programmers, designers, critics, booksellers, teachers, and copyright laws operate within a context that is highly mediated by technology. In his article on large-scale digitisation projects carried out by Cornell and University of Michigan with the Making of America collection of 19th-century American serials and monographs, Hirtle notes that when special collections’ materials are available via the Web, with appropriate metadata and software, then they can “increase use of the material, contribute to new forms of research, and attract new users to the material” (44). Furthermore, Hirtle contends that despite the poor ergonomics associated with most electronic displays and e-book readers, “people will, when given the opportunity, consult an electronic text over the print original” (46). If this preference is universally accurate, especially for researchers and students, then it follows that not only will the preference for electronic surrogates of original material increase, but preference for other kinds of electronic texts will also increase. It is with this preference for electronic resources in mind that we approached the field of children’s literature in Australia and asked questions about how future generations of researchers would prefer to work. If electronic texts become the reference of choice for primary as well as secondary sources, then it seems sensible to assume that researchers would prefer to sit at the end of the keyboard than to travel considerable distances at considerable cost to access paper-based print texts in distant libraries and archives. We considered the best means for providing access to digitised primary and secondary, full text material, and digital pathways to existing online resources, particularly an extensive indexing and bibliographic database. Prior to the commencement of the CLDR project, AustLit had already indexed an extensive number of children’s literature. Challenges and dilemmas The CLDR project, even in its early stages of development, has encountered a number of challenges and dilemmas that centre on access, copyright, economic capital, and practical aspects of digitisation, and sustainability. These issues have relevance for digital publishing and e-research. A decision is yet to be made as to whether the digital texts in CLDR will be available on open or closed/tolled access. The preference is for open access. As Hayles argues, copyright is more than a legal basis for intellectual property, as it also entails ideas about authorship, creativity, and the work as an “immaterial mental construct” that goes “beyond the paper, binding, or ink” (144). Seeking copyright permission is therefore only part of the issue. Determining how the item will be accessed is a further matter, particularly as future technologies may impact upon how a digital item is used. In the case of e-journals, the issue of copyright payment structures are evolving towards a collective licensing system, pay-per-view, and other combinations of print and electronic subscription (see Hovav and Gray). For research purposes, digitisation of items for CLDR is not simply a scan and deliver process. Rather it is one that needs to ensure that the best quality is provided and that the item is both accessible and usable by researchers, and sustainable for future researchers. Sustainability is an important consideration and provides a challenge for institutions that host projects such as CLDR. Therefore, items need to be scanned to a high quality and this requires an expensive scanner and personnel costs. Files need to be in a variety of formats for preservation purposes and so that they may be manipulated to be useable in different technologies (for example, Archival Tiff, Tiff, Jpeg, PDF, HTML). Hovav and Gray warn that when technology becomes obsolete, then content becomes unreadable unless backward integration is maintained. The CLDR items will be annotatable given AustLit’s NeAt funded project: Aus-e-Lit. The Aus-e-Lit project will extend and enhance the existing AustLit web portal with data integration and search services, empirical reporting services, collaborative annotation services, and compound object authoring, editing, and publishing services. For users to be able to get the most out of a digital item, it needs to be searchable, either through double keying or OCR (optimal character recognition). The value of CLDR’s contribution The value of the CLDR project lies in its goal to provide a comprehensive, searchable body of texts (fictional and critical) to researchers across the humanities and social sciences. Other projects seem to be intent on putting up as many items as possible to be considered as a first resort for online texts. CLDR is more specific and is not interested in simply generating a presence on the Web. Rather, it is research driven both in its design and implementation, and in its focussed outcomes of assisting academics and students primarily in their e-research endeavours. To this end, we have concentrated on the following: an extensive survey of appropriate texts; best models for file location, distribution, and use; and high standards of digitising protocols. These issues that relate to data storage, digitisation, collections, management, and end-users of data are aligned with the “Development of an Australian Research Data Strategy” outlined in An Australian e-Research Strategy and Implementation Framework (2006). CLDR is not designed to simply replicate resources, as it has a distinct focus, audience, and research potential. In addition, it looks at resources that may be forgotten or are no longer available in reproduction by current publishing companies. Thus, the aim of CLDR is to preserve both the time and a period of Australian history and literary culture. It will also provide users with an accessible repository of rare and early texts written for children. III. Future directions It is now commonplace to recognize that the Web’s role as information provider has changed over the past decade. New forms of “collective intelligence” or “distributed cognition” (Oblinger and Lombardi) are emerging within and outside formal research communities. Technology’s capacity to initiate major cultural, social, educational, economic, political and commercial shifts has conditioned us to expect the “next big thing.” We have learnt to adapt swiftly to the many challenges that online technologies have presented, and we have reaped the benefits. As the examples in this discussion have highlighted, the changes in online publishing and digitisation have provided many material, network, pedagogical, and research possibilities: we teach online units providing students with access to e-journals, e-books, and customized archives of digitised materials; we communicate via various online technologies; we attend virtual conferences; and we participate in e-research through a global, digital network. In other words, technology is deeply engrained in our everyday lives. In returning to Frollo’s concern that the book would destroy architecture, Umberto Eco offers a placatory note: “in the history of culture it has never happened that something has simply killed something else. Something has profoundly changed something else” (n. pag.). Eco’s point has relevance to our discussion of digital publishing. The transition from print to digital necessitates a profound change that impacts on the ways we read, write, and research. As we have illustrated with our case study of the CLDR project, the move to creating digitised texts of print literature needs to be considered within a dynamic network of multiple causalities, emergent technological processes, and complex negotiations through which digital texts are created, stored, disseminated, and used. Technological changes in just the past five years have, in many ways, created an expectation in the minds of people that the future is no longer some distant time from the present. 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Critics are always trying to catch up with the phenomena they analyse, and critics of celebrity culture are no different. For most of its history, the celebrity apparatus has had a vested interest in staying invisible. So long as it remained illegible to cultural analysis, it could claim to be simply a transparent medium for exhibiting star quality. The celebrity’s public profile could appear to be the well-earned result of talent and determination, or the seemingly magical crystallization of his or her personality. But recently, some of the mechanics of celebrity culture have gained their own prominence. This hypertrophic state produces new cultural mutations and opens new possibilities for critique. Celebrity culture has a long history of structuring the production, distribution and reception of texts around the mystique of a particularly fascinating individual (Braudy). While apparently revealing the deep selfhood of a famous person to a mass audience, the cultural apparatus of celebrity concealed the industrial conditions in which its texts were produced. The hagiographic writings of journalists and biographers, meanwhile, focussed on the unique qualities of celebrated individuals and thus functioned as an adjunct to the apparatus. Recently, an academic critique of celebrity has emerged, which strategically brackets the experience of the individual in order to focus on the phenomenon’s cultural scaffolding. P. David Marshall theorised celebrity’s place in the circulation of power, Joshua Gamson used audience interviews to broaden our understanding of how it is consumed, and Tyler Cowen analysed its effect on the economy. Richard Dyer, Joe Moran and Charles L. Ponce de Leon considered celebrity’s place in film, literature and journalism respectively. And critics such as Carl Freedman, David Shumway and Sharon O’Dair observed its incursions into politics and the academy. These studies made it possible to think critically about the mechanisms that celebrity culture had traditionally kept hidden. But I contend that celebrity culture has changed the way it operates, reflexively revealing some of its mechanisms. The structure of the apparatus is becoming as much an object of fascination as the individuals it promotes. An organic structure becomes hypertrophic when it grows in such an exaggerated way that its function in the organism or ecosystem is affected. Hypertrophic celebrity now requires cultural critics to develop new kinds of insight and sophistication. Hypertrophic celebrity culture has seen the rise of several formats for interactive cross-platform content; they include Pop Idol, Pop Stars, Fame Academy and Big Brother. Generically related to “reality TV” – whose affinities with surveillance and social control have been remarked by Andrejevic, Grindstaff and Johnson, among others – these formats also have wider significance for celebrity culture. Whilst they remain primarily broadcast television programmes, their makers are keen to maximise the possibility of interacting with them via digital TV, the Internet, email, WAP, PDAs, SMS and the telephone. Moreover, they thrive on the free publicity provided by talk shows, magazines and so on. This platform-hopping exploits an important characteristic of celebrity culture that has not previously been so apparent. Although it appears to be centred on an individual, celebrity culture is in fact radically rhizomatic. It operates as an intertextual network in which texts from several media (film, TV, photography, print) collectively create a public profile that is not, finally, under anyone’s control. The first symptom of this hypertrophy is a shift in how celebrity culture holds our attention. Each new celebrity product has to be dynamically different from what the celebrity has done before, yet also reassuringly familiar. The new work must offer new satisfactions, without detaching itself completely from a winning formula. The “classic” response to this dilemma was to structure a celebrity career around a developmental narrative of subjective growth. This marketing strategy underwrote a key element of bourgeois subjectivity. At the limit, it could lead to the multiple reinventions practised by, for example, Madonna or David Bowie, where the celebrity’s different incarnations appear to be linked by nothing but their own will to self-creation. With nothing else to lend continuity to their protean careers, we fall back on the assumption that it must be the hidden depths of their subjectivity that fascinate us so much. But the new celebrities, like other consumables, come with built-in obsolescence. Rather than developing, they are discarded. Take David Sneddon, winner of the first UK Fame Academy. His first single went straight to the top of the charts in January 2003, but by 2004 he’d quit singing to write songs instead. Or take One True Voice, the boy band constructed by Pop Stars: The Rivals. They split after releasing only two singles. As these examples suggest, what endures now is not the celebrity but the format. Just as postmodern architecture displays the ducts and pipes that make a building function, so hypertrophic celebrity foregrounds the mechanisms that manufacture celebrities. The Idols format, developed in the UK by Fremantle Media, has now reached 100 million viewers around the world. Its marketing rhetoric reveals its inherent contradictions. On one hand, it presents itself as “the televised search for a new national solo pop idol”. On the other it “continues to create major recording artists in all territories in which it airs”. Are these people discovered or created? The producers try to pander to our supposed preference for “organic” artists (The Beatles) over “manufactured” ones (The Monkees), by maintaining that they are seeking out star quality, and exposing performers to a public that can recognise talent when it sees it. But they remain fascinated by the structures that support a celebrity profile, and the Frankenstein-like possibility of creating a celebrity from scratch. Fame Academy, developed by Initial (part of Endemol UK), is even more conflicted about the status of its contestants. On one hand it presents them as hard-working young hopefuls who undertake a “gruelling” schedule in an “Academy” which appears as a parody of an English boarding school. (The press release specifies that they have to sew name-tags into their underwear and go to bed at 11pm.) They compete for a record deal with Polydor, “the UK’s leading record company”. On the other hand the producers recognise that they are not nurturing talent but constructing celebrities. The prize also includes “a show business lifestyle for a year”. The producers are clearly aware that to nurture another modestly successful recording artist is not their aim. Musical success is only one element of a package that comprises a flat, a car, a holiday, a personal stylist and tickets to “VIP events”. Since these undertakings are more concerned with the mechanics of celebrity culture than with any particular individual, it seems fitting that the formats have been far more successful than any of the contestants. The Idols format has been broadcast in 22 territories, from the USA to Kazakhstan; 6.9 million votes were cast in the first season of Fame Academy; and a third season of Pop Stars is planned. Most successful of all, however, has been Big Brother, the format developed by Endemol in the Netherlands, and exported to twenty other countries. While the other formats discussed here remain caught between paradigms of discovery and construction, Big Brother makes no pretence of searching for exceptional or talented individuals. Instead, it explores the idea that anyone can be turned into a celebrity. Exhibit A: Jade Goody. A 21-year-old dental nurse, Jade was a contestant (not the winner) on Big Brother 2 in the UK. During the series, she appeared on the front page of tabloid newspapers eighty-seven times. She went on to appear on the cover of the highest-selling issue of Heat magazine (547,000 copies), to feature in her own documentary (What Jade Did Next), to release two diet and exercise videos and to return to reality TV in Celebrity Wife Swap. Since Jade’s selling point is her entertaining ignorance, the publicists had some difficulty describing her, relying on the vague tautology “irrepressible and unstoppable”. Daniel Boorstin’s classic definition of the celebrity as someone who is “famous for being famous” does not begin to describe Jade. She is famous for having been made famous. She is the product of our new fascination with the mechanisms that make celebrity function. But while some of the mechanisms that drive that apparatus now appear on the surface, they conceal a further layer of manipulation. Behind the pseudo-democracy of American Idol lies the watertight contract that the contestants were required to sign with 19 Group, founded by Simon Fuller. It owns the rights to the names, voices, likenesses and biographies of the contestants, everywhere and forever. It also has an option on the recording, merchandising and management of the ten finalists. Behind the disembodied voice of Big Brother lies the work of a production team driven to improve audience share, advertiser revenue and viewing figures. And behind them lie the four men who form the Executive Board of Endemol, whose companies turned over 914 million Euros last year. The hypertrophy of celebrity culture leaves us once again trying to catch up. No sooner had academic critics begun to theorise the apparatus of celebrity than it started to spawn new and self-conscious mutations in which the apparatus no longer relied on its own invisibility to do its work. We will need to be light on our feet to keep up with its ongoing metastases. References Andrejevic, Mark. “The Kindler, Gentler Gaze of Big Brother: Reality TV in the Era of Digital Capitalism.” New Media and Society 4.2 (2002): 251-70. Boorstin, Daniel J. The Image, or, What Happened to the American Dream. London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1961. Braudy, Leo. The Frenzy of Renown: Fame and Its History. New York: Vintage Books, 1997. Cowen, Tyler. What Price Fame? Cambridge MA: Harvard UP, 2000. Dovey, Jon. “Reality TV.” The Television Genre Book. Ed. Glen Creeber. London: British Film Institute, 2001. 134-5, 7. Dyer, Richard. Stars. London: British Film Institute, 1998. Freedman, Carl. “Polemical Afterword: Some Brief Reflections on Arnold Schwarzenegger and on Science Fiction in Contemporary American Culture.” PMLA 119.3 (2004): 539-46. Gamson, Joshua. Claims to Fame: Celebrity in Contemporary America. London: U of California P, 1994. Grindstaff, Laura. “Trashy or Transgressive? ‘Reality TV’ and the Politics of Social Control.” Thresholds: Viewing Culture 9 (1995): 46-55. Johnson, Katie N. “Televising the Panopticon: The Myth of ‘Reality-Based’ TV.” American Drama 8.2 (1999): 1-26. Marshall, P. David. Celebrity and Power: Fame in Contemporary Culture. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 1997. Moran, Joe. Star Authors: Literary Celebrity in America. London: Pluto Press, 2000. O’Dair, Sharon. “Stars, Tenure and the Death of Ambition.” Michigan Quarterly Review 36.4 (1997): 607-27. O’Dair, Sharon. “Academostars Are the Symptom: What’s the Disease?” Minnesota Review: A Journal of Committed Writing 52-54 (2001): 159-74. Ponce de Leon, Charles L. Self-Exposure: Human Interest Journalism and the Emergence of Celebrity in America, 1890-1940. Chapel Hill and London: U of North Carolina P, 2002. Shumway, David. “The Star System Revisited.” Minnesota Review: A Journal of Committed Writing 52-54 (2001): 175-84. Shumway, David R. “The Star System in Literary Studies.” PMLA 112.1 (1997): 85-100. Links http://www.popidols.tv/theshow.stm – Official Pop Idol site from the UK’s ITV Network. http://www.19.co.uk/site3s.html – 19 Group, who manage the finalists of American Idol. http://www.fremantlemedia.com/page.asp?partid=12 – Fremantle Media, producers of the Idols format. http://www.salon.com/ent/feature/2002/09/18/idol_contract/index.html – Salon.com article revealing details of the contracts Idols contestants were required to sign. http://www.bbc.co.uk/pressoffice/pressreleases/stories/2003/07_july/15/fame_academy2.pdf – Fame Academy Press Pack from the BBC. http://www.bbc.co.uk/pressoffice/pressreleases/stories/2003/07_july/15/fame_academy_series2.shtml – Fame Academy Press Release from the BBC. http://www.tvtome.com/PopstarsTheRivals/ – Unofficial guide to the second season of the Pop Stars format. http://www.endemol.com – Endemol, producers of the Big Brother format. http://www.endemoluk.com – the UK arm of Endemol, parent company to Initial, who produce the Fame Academy format. http://bigbrother.channel4.com/bigbrother/ – Big Brother website from the UK’s Channel Four network. http://backtoreality.gonna.co.uk/celebs/jadegoody.htm – Profile of Jade Goody. http://www.channel4.com/entertainment/tv/microsites/B/bigbrother/news/newsstory00015.html – Press release for What Jade Did Next. http://www.davidsneddon.tv/ – Official David Sneddon Website. http://www.endemoluk.com/initial/ – Initial, “the UK’s leading producer of music entertainment and live event television”, responsible for the Fame Academy format. Part of Endemol UK. http://idolonfox.com/ – Fox TV’s American Idol Website Citation reference for this article MLA Style Mole, Tom. "Hypertrophic Celebrity." M/C Journal 7.5 (2004). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/08-mole.php>. APA Style Mole, T. (Nov. 2004) "Hypertrophic Celebrity," M/C Journal, 7(5). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0411/08-mole.php>.

ExpositionPortland, Oregon (USA) has become known for an artisanal or ‘maker’ economy that relies on a resurgence of place specificity (Heying), primarily expressed and exported to a global audience in the notion of ‘Portland Made’ (Roy). Portland Made reveals a tension immanent in the notion of ‘place’: place is both here and not here, both real and imaginary. What emerges is a complicated picture of how place conceptually captures various intersections of materiality and mythology, aesthetics and economics. On the one hand, Portland Made represents the collective brand-identity used by Portland’s makers to signify a products’ material existence as handcrafted, place-embedded, and authentic. These characteristics lead to certain assumptions about the concept of ‘local’ (Marotta and Heying): what meaning does Portland Made convey, and how is such meaning distributed? On the other hand, the seemingly intentional embedding of place-specificity in objects meant for distribution far outside of Portland begs another type of question: how does Portland come to be discursively representative of these characteristics, and how are such representations distributed to global audiences? How does this global distribution and consumption of immaterial Portland feed back into the production of material Portland?To answer these questions we look to the realm of social media, specifically the popular image-based service Instagram. For the uninitiated, Instagram is a web-based social media service that allows pictures to be shared and seen by anyone that follows a person or business’ Instagram account. Actions include posting original photos (often taken and posted with a cell phone), ‘liking’ pictures, and ‘hash-tagging’ posts with trending terms that increase visibility. Instagram presents us with a complex view of place as both material and virtual, sometimes reifying and sometimes abstracting often-contradictory understandings of place specificity. Many makers use Instagram to promote their products to a broad audience and, in doing so, makers participate in the construction of Portland’s mythology. In this paper, we use empirical insights to theorise makers’ role in shaping and cultivating the virtual and material aspects of place. Additionally, we discuss how makers navigate the complex relationships tied to the importance of place in their specific cultural productions. In the first section, we develop the notion of a curated maker subjectivity. In the second section, we consider the relationship between subjectivity and place. Both sections emphasize how Instagram mediates the relationship between place and subjectivity. Through spotlighting particular literatures in each section, we attempt to fill a gap in the literature that addresses the relationship between subjectivity, place, and social media. Through this line of analysis, we attempt to better understand how and where Portland is made, along with the implications for Portland’s makers.ActionThe insights from this paper came to us inadvertently. While conducting fieldwork that interrogated ‘localism’ and how Portland makers conceptualise local, makers repeatedly discussed the importance of social media to their work. In our fieldwork, Instagram in particular has presented us with new opportunities to query the entanglements of real and virtual embedded in collective identifications with place. This paper draws from interviews conducted for two closely related research projects. The first examines maker ecosystems in three US cities, Portland, Chicago and New York (Doussard et. al.; Wolf-Powers and Levers). We drew from the Portland interviews (n=38) conducted for this project. The second research project is our multi-year examination of Portland’s maker community, where we have conducted interviews (n=48), two annual surveys of members of the Portland Made Collective (n=126 for 2014, n=338 for 2015) and numerous field observations. As will be evident below, our sample of makers includes small crafters and producers from a variety of ‘traditional’ sectors ranging from baking to carpentry to photography, all united by a common identification with the maker movement. Using insights from this trove of data as well as general observations of the changing artisan landscape of Portland, we address the question of how social media mediates the space between Portland as a material place and Portland as an imaginary place.Social Media, Subjectivity, and Authenticity In the post-Fordist era, creative self-enterprise and entrepreneurialism have been elevated to mythical status (Szeman), becoming especially important in the creative and digital industries. These industries have been characterized by contract based work (Neff, Wissinger, and Zukin; Storey, Salaman, and Platman), unstable employment (Hesmondhalgh and Baker), and the logic of flexible specialization (Duffy and Hund; Gill). In this context of hyper individualization and intense competition, creative workers and other entrepreneurs are increasingly pushed to strategically brand, curate, and project representational images of their subjectivity in order to secure new work (Gill), embody the values of the market (Banet-Weiser and Arzumanova), and take on commercial logics of authenticity (Duffy; Marwick and boyd). For example, Duffy and Hund explore how female fashion bloggers represent their branded persona, revealing three interrelated tropes typically used by bloggers: the destiny of passionate work; the presentation of a glam lifestyle; and carefully curated forms of social sharing. These curated tropes obscure the (unpaid) emotional and aesthetic labour (Hracs and Leslie), self-discipline, and capital required to run these blogs. Duffy and Hund also point out that this concealment is generative of particular mythologies about creative work, gender, race, and class. To this list we would add place; below, we will show the use of Instagram by Portland’s makers not only perpetuates particular mythologies about artisan labour and demands self-branding, but is also a spatial practice that is productive of place through the use of visual vernaculars that reflect a localized and globalized articulation of the social and physical milieu of Portland (Hjorth and Gu; Pike). Similar to many other artists and creative entrepreneurs (Pasquinelli and Sjöholm), Portland’s makers typically work long hours in order to produce high quality, unique goods at a volume that will afford them the ability to pay rent in Portland’s increasingly expensive central city neighbourhoods. Much of this work is done from the home: according to our survey of Portland Made Collective’s member firms, 40% consist of single entrepreneurs working from home. Despite being a part of a creative milieu that is constantly captured by the Portland ‘brand’, working long hours, alone, produces a sense of isolation, articulated well by this apparel maker:It’s very isolating working from home alone. [...] The other people I know are working from home, handmade people, I’ll post something, and it makes you realize we’re all sitting at home doing the exact same thing. We can’t all hang out because you gotta focus when you’re working, but when I’m like ugh, I just need a little break from the sewing machine for five minutes, I go on Instagram.This statement paints Instagram as a coping mechanism for the isolation of working alone from home, an important impetus for makers to use Instagram. This maker uses Instagram roughly two hours per workday to connect with other makers and to follow certain ‘trendsetters’ (many of whom also live in Portland). Following other makers allows the maker community to gauge where they are relative to other makers; one furniture maker told us that she was able to see where she should be going based on other makers that were slightly ahead of her, but she could also advise other makers that were slightly behind her. The effect is a sense of collaborative participation in the ‘scene’, which both alleviates the sense of isolation and helps makers gain legitimacy from others in their milieu. As we show below, this participation demands from makers a curative process of identity formation. Jacque Rancière’s intentional double meaning of the French term partage (the “distribution of the sensible”) creates space to frame curation in terms of the politics around “sharing in” and “sharing out” (Méchoulan). For Rancière, the curative aspect of communities (or scenes) reveals something inherently political about aesthetics: the politics of visibility on Instagram “revolve around what is seen and what can be said about it, who has the ability to see and the talent to speak, around the properties of space and the possibilities of time” (8-9). An integral part of the process of curating a particular identity to express over Instagram is reflected by who they follow or what they ‘like’ (a few makers mentioned the fact that they ‘like’ things strategically).Ultimately, makers need followers for their brand (product brand, self-brand, and place-brand), which requires makers to engage in a form of aesthetic labour through a curated articulation of who a maker is–their personal story, or what Duffy and Hund call “the destiny of passionate work”–and how that translates into what they make at the same time. These identities congeal over Instagram: one maker described this as a “circle of firms that are moving together.” Penetrating that circle by curating connections over Instagram is an important branding strategy.As a confections maker told us, strategically using hashtags and stylizing pictures to fit the trends is paramount. Doing these things effectively draws attention from other makers and trendsetters, and, as an apparel maker told us, getting even one influential trendsetter or blogger to follow them on Instagram can translate into huge influxes of attention (and sales) for their business. Furthermore, getting featured by an influential blogger or online magazine can yield instantaneous results. For instance, we spoke with an electronics accessories maker that had been featured in Gizmodo a few years prior, and the subsequent uptick in demand led him to hire over 20 new employees.The formulation of a ‘maker’ subjectivity reveals the underlying manner in which certain subjective characteristics are expressed while others remain hidden; expressing the wrong characteristics may subvert the ability for makers to establish themselves in the milieu. We asked a small Portland enterprise that documents the local maker scene about the process of curating an Instagram photo, especially curious about how they aesthetically frame ‘site visits’ at maker workspaces. We were somewhat surprised to hear that makers tend to “clean too much” ahead of a photo shoot; the photographer we spoke with told us that people want to see the space as it looks when it’s being worked in, when it’s a little messy. The photographer expressed an interest in accentuating the maker’s ‘individual understanding’ of the maker aesthetic; the framing and the lighting of each photo is meant to relay traces of the maker to potential consumers. The desire seems to be the expression and experience of ‘authenticity’, a desire that if captured correctly grants the maker a great deal of purchase in the field of Portland Made consumers. This is all to say that the curation of the workspaces is essential to the construction of the maker subjectivity and the Portland imaginary. Maker workshops are rendered as real places where real makers that belong to an authentic maker milieu produce authentic Portland goods that have a piece of Portland embedded within them (Molotch). Instagram is central in distributing that mythology to a global audience.At this point we can start to develop the relationship between maker subjectivity and place. Authenticity, in this context, appears to be tied to the product being both handmade and place-specific. As the curated imaginary of Portland matures, a growing dialogue emerges between makers and consumers of Portland Made (authentic) goods. This dialogue is a negotiated form of authority in which the maker claims authority while the consumer simultaneously confers authority. The aforementioned place-specificity signals a new layer of magic in regards to Portland’s distinctive position: would ‘making’ in any other place be generative of such authority? According to a number of our interviewees, being from Portland carries the assumption that Portland’s makers have a certain level of expertise that comes from being completely embedded in Portland’s creative scene. This complex interplay between real and virtual treats Portland’s imaginary as a concrete reality, preparing it for consumption by reinforcing the notion of an authoritative collective brand (Portland Made). One bicycle accessory maker claimed that the ability of Portland’s makers to access the Portland brand transmits credibility for makers of things associated with Portland, such as bikes, beer, and crafty goods. This perhaps explains why so many makers use Portland in the name of their company (e.g. Portland Razor Company) and why so many stamp their goods with ‘Made in Portland’.This, however, comes with an added set of expectations: the maker, again, is tasked with cultivating and performing a particular aesthetic in order to achieve legitimacy with their target audience, only this time it ends up being the dominant aesthetic associated with a specific place. For instance, the aforementioned bicycle accessory maker that we spoke with recalled an experience at a craft fair in which many of the consumers were less concerned with his prices than whether his goods were handmade in Portland. Without this legitimation, the good would not have the mysticism of Portland as a place locked within it. In this way, the authenticity of a place becomes metonymic (e.g. Portlandia), similar to how Detroit became known as ‘Motor City’. Portland’s particular authenticity is wrapped up in individuality, craftiness, creativity, and environmental conscientiousness, all things that makers in some way embed in their products (Molotch) and express in the photos on their Instagram feeds (Hjorth).(Social) Media, Place, and the Performance of Aesthetics In this section, we turn our attention to the relationship between subjectivity, place, and Instagram. Scholars have investigated how television production (Pramett), branding (Pike), and locative-based social media (Hjorth, Hjorth and Gu, Hjorth and Lim, Leszczynski) function as spatial practices. The practices affect and govern experiences and interactions with space, thereby generating spatial hybridity (de Souza e Silva). McQuire, for example, investigates the historical formation of the ‘media city’, demonstrating how various media technologies have become interconnected with the architectural structures of the city. Pramett expands on this analysis of media representations of cities by interrogating how media production acts as a spatial practice that produces and governs contested urban spaces, the people in those spaces, and the habitus of the place, forming what she dubs the “media neighbourhood.” The media neighbourhood becomes ordered by the constant opportunities for neighbourhood residents to be involved in media production; residents must navigate and interact with local space as though they may be captured on film or asked to work in the background production at any moment. These material (on site shooting and local hiring practices) and immaterial (textual, musical, and visual representations of a city) production practices become exploitative, extracting value from a place for media industries and developers that capitalize on a place’s popular imaginary.McQuire’s media city and Pramett’s media neighbourhood help us understand the embeddedness of (social) media in the material landscapes of Portland. Over the past few years, Portland has begun experiencing new flows of tourists and migrants–we should note that more than a few makers mentioned in interviews that they moved to Portland in order to become makers–expecting to find what they see on Instagram overlaid materially on the city itself. And indeed, they do: ‘vibrant’ neighbourhood districts such as Alberta Arts, Belmont, Mississippi, Hawthorne, Northwest 23rd, and downtown Portland’s rebranded ‘West End’ are all increasingly full of colourful boutiques that express maker aesthetics and sell local maker goods. Not only do the goods and boutiques need to exemplify these aesthetic qualities, but the makers and the workspaces from which these goods come from, need to fit that aesthetic.The maker subjectivity is developed through the navigation of both real and virtual experiences that contour the social performance of a ‘maker aesthetic’. This aesthetic has become increasingly socially consumed, a trend especially visible on Instagram: as a point of reference, there are at least four Portland-based ‘foodies’ that have over 80,000 followers on Instagram. One visible result of this curated and performed subjectivity and the place-brand it captures is the physical transformation of Portland: (material) space has become a surface onto which the (virtual) Instagram/maker aesthetic is being inscribed, a stage on which the maker aesthetic is performed. The material and immaterial are interwoven into a dramaturgy that gives space a certain set of meanings oriented toward creativity, quirkiness, and consumption. Meanings cultivated over Instagram, then, become productive of meaning in place. These meanings are consumed by thousands of tourists and newly minted Portlanders, as images of people posing in front of Portland’s hipster institutions (such as Salt & Straw or Voodoo Donuts) are captured on iPhones and redistributed back across Instagram for the world to experience. Perhaps this is why Tokyo now has an outpost of Portland’s Blue Star Donuts or why Red Hook (Brooklyn) has its own version of Portland’s Pok Pok. One designer/maker, who had recently relocated to Portland, captured the popular imaginary of Portland in this conversation:Maker: People in Brooklyn love the idea that it came from Portland. People in Seattle love it; people in the Midwest love that it came from Portland right now, because Portland’s like the thing.Interviewer: What does that mean, what does it embody?Maker: They know that it’s local, it like, they know that maker thing is there, it’s in Portland, that they know it’s organic to Portland, it’s local to Portland, there’s this crazy movement that you hear throughout the United States about–Interviewer: So people are getting a piece of that?Maker: Yeah.For us, the dialogical relationship between material and immaterial has never been more entangled. Instagram is one way that makers might control the gap between fragmentation and belonging (i.e. to a particular community or milieu), although in the process they are confronted with an aesthetic distribution that is productive of a mythological sense of place that social media seems to produce, distribute, and consume so effectively. In the era of social media, where sense of place is so quickly transmitted, cities can come to represent a sense of collective identity, and that identity might in turn be distributed across its material landscape.DenouementThrough every wrench turn, every stitching of fabric, every boutique opening, and every Instagram post, makers actively produce Portland as both a local and global place. Portland is constructed through the material and virtual interactions makers engage in, both cultivating and framing everyday interactions in space and ideas held about place. In the first section, we focused on the curation of a maker aesthetic and the development of the maker subjectivity mediated through Instagram. The second section attempted to better understand how those aesthetic performances on Instagram become imprinted on urban space and how these inscriptions feedback to global audiences. Taken together, these performances reveal the complex undertaking that makers adopt in branding their goods as Portland Made. In addition, we hope to have shown the complex entanglements between space and place, production and consumption, and ‘here’ and ‘not here’ that are enrolled in value production at the nexus of place-brand generation.Our investigation opens the door to another, perhaps more problematic set of interrogations which are beyond the scope of this paper. In particular, and especially in consideration of Portland’s gentrification crisis, we see two related sets of displacements as necessary of further interrogation. First, as we answer the question of where Portland is made, we acknowledge that the capturing of Portland Made as a brand perpetuates a process of displacement and “spatio-subjective” regulation that both reflects and reproduces spatial rationalizations (Williams and Dourish). This dis-place-ment renders particular neighbourhoods and populations within Portland, specifically ethnic minorities and the outer edges of the metropolitan area, invisible or superfluous to the city’s imaginary. Portland, as presented by makers through their Instagram accounts, conceals the city’s “power geometries” (Massey) and ignores the broader social context Portland exists in, while perpetuating the exclusion of ethnic minorities from the conversation about what else is made in Portland.Second, as Portland Made has become virtually representative of a deepening connection between makers and place, the performance of such aesthetic labour has left makers to navigate a process that increasingly leads to their own estrangement from the very place they have a hand in creating. This process reveals an absurdity: makers are making the very thing that displaces them. The cultivation of the maker milieu attracts companies, in-movers, and tourists to Portland, thus creating a tight real estate market and driving up property values. Living and working in Portland is increasingly difficult for makers, epitomized by the recent sale and eviction of approximately 500 makers from the Town Storage facility (Hammill). Additionally, industrial space in the city is increasingly coveted by tech firms, and competition over such space is being complicated by looming zoning changes in Portland’s new comprehensive plan.Our conclusions suggest additional research is needed to understand the relationship(s) between such aesthetic performance and various forms of displacement, but we also suggest attention to the global reach of such dynamics: how is Portland’s maker ecosystem connected to the global maker community over social media, and how is space shaped differentially in other places despite a seemingly homogenizing maker aesthetic? Additionally, we do not explore policy implications above, although there is significant space for such exploration with consideration to the attention that Portland and the maker movement in general are receiving from policymakers hungry for a post-Fordist magic bullet. ReferencesBanet-Weiser, Sarah, and Inna Arzumanova. “Creative Authorship, Self-Actualizing Women, and the Self-Brand.” Media Authorship. Eds. Cynthia Chris and David A. Gerstner. New York, NY: Routledge, 2012: 163-179. De Souza e Silva, Adriana. “From Cyber to Hybrid: Mobile Technologies as Interfaces of Hybrid Spaces.” Space and Culture 9.3 (2006): 261–278.Duffy, Brooke Erin, “The Romance of Work: Gender and Aspirational Labour in the Digital Culture Industries.” International Journal of Cultural Studies (2015): 1–17. Duffy, Brooke Erin, and Emily Hund. “‘Having It All’ on Social Media: Entrepreneurial Femininity and Self-Branding among Fashion Bloggers.” Social Media + Society 1.2 (2015): n. pag. Doussard, Marc, Charles Heying, Greg Schrock, and Laura Wolf-Powers. Metropolitan Maker Networks: The Role of Policy, Organization, and "Maker-Enabling Entrepreneurs" in Building the Maker Economy. Progress update to the Ewing Marion Kauffman Foundation. 2015. Gill, Rosalind. “‘Life Is a Pitch’: Managing the Self in New Media Work.” Managing Media Work (2010): n. pag. Hammill, Luke. "Sale of Towne Storage Building Sends Evicted Artists, Others Scrambling for Space." The Oregonian, 2016.Hesmondhalgh, David, and Sarah Baker. Creative Labour: Media Work in Three Cultural Industries. London, UK: Routledge, 2011. Heying, Charles. Brew to Bikes: Portland’s Artisan Economy. Portland, OR: Ooligan Press, 2010. Hjorth, Larissa. “The Place of the Emplaced Mobile: A Case Study into Gendered Locative Media Practices.” Mobile Media & Communication 1.1 (2013): 110–115. Hjorth, Larissa, and Kay Gu. “The Place of Emplaced Visualities: A Case Study of Smartphone Visuality and Location-Based Social Media in Shanghai, China.” Continuum: Journal of Media & Cultural Studies 26.5 (2012): 699–713. Hjorth, Larissa, and Sun Sun Lim. “Mobile Intimacy in an Age of Affective Mobile Media.” Feminist Media Studies 12.4 (2012): 477–484. Hracs, Brian J., and Deborah Leslie. “Aesthetic Labour in Creative Industries: The Case of Independent Musicians in Toronto, Canada.” Area 46.1 (2014): 66–73. Leszczynski, A. “Spatial Media/tion.” Progress in Human Geography 39.6 (2014): 729–751. Marotta, Stephen, and Charles Heying. “Interrogating Localism: What Does ‘Made in Portland’ Really Mean?” Craft Economies: Cultural Economies of the Handmade. Eds. Susan Luckman and Nicola Thomas. London, UK: Bloomsbury Academic: forthcoming. Marwick, Alice E., and danah boyd. “I Tweet Honestly, I Tweet Passionately: Twitter Users, Context Collapse, and the Imagined Audience.” New Media & Society 13.1 (2011): 114–133. Massey, Doreen. “A Global Sense of Place.” Space, Place, and Gender. Minneapolis, MN: University of Minnesota Press, 1994. McQuire, Scott. The Media City: Media, Architecture and Urban Space. Los Angeles, CA: Sage Publications Inc., 2008. Mechoulan, Eric. “Introduction: On the Edges of Jacques Ranciere.” SubStance 33.1 (2004): 3–9. Molotch, Harvey. “Place in Product.” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 26.4 (2003): 665–688. Neff, Gina, Elizabeth Wissinger, and Sharon Zukin. “Entrepreneurial Labor among Cultural Producers: ‘Cool’ Jobs in ‘Hot’ Industries.” Social Semiotics 15.3 (2005): 307–334. Pasquinelli, Cecilia, and Jenny Sjöholm. “Art and Resilience: The Spatial Practices of Making a Resilient Artistic Career in London.” City, Culture and Society 6.3 (2015): 75–81. Pike, Andy. “Placing Brands and Branding: A Socio-Spatial Biography of Newcastle Brown Ale.” Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 36.2 (2011): 206–222. ———. “Progress in Human Geography Geographies of Brands and Branding Geographies of Brands and Branding.” (2009): 1–27. Ranciere, Jacque. The Politics of Aesthetics. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2004. Roy, Kelley. Portland Made. Portland, OR: Self-Published, 2015.

Photo by Towfiqu barbhuiya on Unsplash INTRODUCTION Bioethics does not have an explicitly stated and agreed upon means of resolving conflicts between normative theories. As such, bioethics lacks an essential feature – action guidance ― an effective translation from theory to practice. While the normative approaches and historical precedents of bioethics may discourage overtly egregious acts, the bioethical discipline does not offer decisive guidance in situations with multiple competing normative approaches. For example, Utilitarians and Kantians offer diametrically opposed guidance in emblematic cases like the trolley problem in which saving a greater number of people conflicts with the imperative to treat persons as ends-in-themselves rather than a means to an end. The predominant framework in bioethics, principlism, also suffers from a lack of action guidance.[1] The consequences of a ‘toothless’ bioethics impeded by misaligned principles and conflicting normative theories are disastrous – not only in death count but also in moral injury and societal fracture. This paper argues that while there is no ‘one theory to rule them all,’ a virtue-based approach to bioethics can ameliorate the adjudication problem. Bioethics ought to embody moral strength but has often provided indecisive guidance due to its awkward theoretical architecture. In defence of bioethics, many actors control societal level decision making. Thus, the onus does not rest entirely on bioethicists but also leaders in government and healthcare. This paper critiques principlism as internally incongruous, as it is composed of elements from multiple ethical theories. Understanding this, it is seen that the entirety of theoretical bioethics, as composed of conflicting normative approaches, also suffers from this action-guidance problem.[2] l. The Birth of Bioethics Amid Tragedy Bioethics was born out of tragedy. During the Nuremberg Trials of 1946-47, a cohort of French, American, British, and Soviet judges forced the Nazi doctors and architects of the Holocaust to stand trial for their egregious actions and feel the firm hand of justice. In an example of ex post facto law, the global community identified unethical action and indicted Germans for breaking natural law.[3] As a result, the Nuremberg Code arose to prevent crimes against human research subjects. It outlines the parameters of ethical research and is a foundational document of modern bioethics.[4] Early bioethics pronounced immorality and offered decisive guidance, laying the groundwork for an internationally unified theory of negative morality – that which is never permissible. Tuskegee was another foundational tragedy in the history of bioethical discipline. In 1932, the US Public Health Service recruited six hundred African American men from Macon County, Alabama for a study on the effects of untreated syphilis.[5] The researchers failed to obtain informed consent and intentionally withheld information regarding the disease or the nature of the study. The researchers did not offer any men the cure, penicillin, which was discovered midway through the experiment. Many men died during the study. The perpetrators evaded justice until 1972. Tuskegee sparked a new paradigm of bioethics, including the US federal policies, the establishment of ethics review boards, and informed consent as a core tenet of biomedical practice.[6] The National Research Act of 1974 and the Belmont Report of 1978 laid new ground for research ethics and set the tone for the contemporary practice of bioethics. ll. The Rise of Principlism These two cases demonstrate the nature of the early days of bioethics. It largely lacked high-level theory and appealed more to generally agreed upon moral facts and common-sense morality. However, as medicine advanced, increasingly complex biomedical issues created problems that required greater appeals to theory.[7] The “heroic” phase of bioethics saw “theorists aspire to construct symmetrical cathedrals of normative thought.”[8] In the wake of the Tuskegee Syphilis Study, Tom Beauchamp and James Childress helped draft the Belmont Report, a bulwark intended to prevent future atrocities in human research trials. The document aimed to curtail the utilitarianism implicit in medical research and add essential considerations of the subjects themselves, including respect for persons, beneficence, and justice.[9] It also served as the bedrock of the theoretical architecture of principlism. In 1979, Beauchamp and Childress’ published Principles of Biomedical Ethics, which is arguably the most influential text in bioethics scholarship. It attempts to incorporate some main theoretical approaches to ethics in a unified moral theory: autonomy reflects the work of Kant; beneficence aligns with utilitarianism; non-maleficence is reminiscent of Hippocrates; and justice borrows heavily from Rawls.[10] These four principles have become canonical in academic bioethics. However, doubts remain as to their effectiveness in guiding action toward ethical aims given how scholars contend that “ethical expertise cannot be codified in principles.”[11] lll. A Critique of Principlism Clouser & Gert say: At best, ‘principles’ operate primarily as checklists naming issues worth remembering when considering a biomedical moral issue. At worst ‘principles’ obscure and confuse moral reasoning by their failure to be guidelines and by their eclectic and unsystematic use of moral theory.[12] To this point, principlism is no more than a flashlight – a tool to illuminate the ethical landscape. Viewing cases through the lens of moral principles can reveal the salient moral features, but it ultimately provides no guidance for adjudication, hereby referred to as the adjudication problem. Consequently, the doctor’s moral intuition has de facto weight, and the principles are merely a post hoc justification for any given action they choose. Using the four principles to decide the right course of moral action is “tantamount to using two, three, or four conflicting moral theories to decide a case.”[13] Principlism attempts to reap the benefit of multiple ethical theories, each with unambiguous goals. When blended, the result is discordant directives. These conflicting principles “provide no systematic guidance” for real world dilemmas.[14] Other ethical theories have faults too. Kantians leave no room for exceptions for exigency, and utilitarianism ‘crosses the line’ far too often. At least these theories decisively guide action and provide unambiguous justification for doing so. Utilitarianism is quite measurable: “Provide the greatest good for the greatest number” – sure! Done. Kant’s ethical imperative has a clear rule: “Never treat humans as a mere means to an end” – certainly, will do. Principlism merely provides “a check list of considerations” that doctors can cross off one by one before going about their originally intended course of action.[15] Worse, the internally disharmonious nature of principlism allows doctors to justify ethically dubious decisions. An important goal of bioethics is avoiding the following scenario: a doctor faces with a moral dilemma. He can choose Option A or Option B. Let’s say B is morally preferrable on a consensus view. However, his moral intuition guides him toward Option A. Having completed his required course on biomedical ethics in medical school, he recalls a few theories which are relevant to his case. He considers the four principles but autonomy conflicts with beneficence, which does not yield a straightforward, practical directive, so he disregards principlism for the case at hand. Kantian ethics disagrees with his intuition, but utilitarianism may support it. He goes ahead with Option A, claiming utilitarianism supported his actions. He, therefore, provides post hoc justification for Option A, using whichever theory agrees with his judgment. Reliance on intuition when the principles conflict is an intractable problem “unless one is willing to grant privileged epistemological status to the moral judgments (calling them "intuitions") or to the moral principles (calling them "self-evident" or otherwise a priori”).[16] Neither deserves a privileged epistemological status. Moral intuitions can possess prejudice or ignorance, and moral principles can demonstrably conflict, offering no guidance. Realistically, most people “pay little attention to theories when they make moral decisions,” and when they do, post hoc rationalization often follows. When discipline is used as an afterthought, it provides justifications for potentially unethical actions. lV. Virtue Ethics: A Provisional Solution Virtue ethics may provide a workaround. It emphasizes the disposition and character of the moral agent instead of abstract theories, making it a practical choice. As Jacobson writes, “ethical dictates cannot be codified in general rules applicable to particular situations by someone who lacks virtue.”[17] Ethical theories can still highlight moral lapses and dilemmas, but since they do not decisively guide action, bioethics must focus on moral agents’ decision-making abilities. Aristotelian virtue as a provisional solution to the adjudication problem also accounts for the “multiple and heterogeneous” particularities which other theories often neglect.[18] Aristotle said that "phronesis [practical wisdom] deals with the ultimate particular and this is done by perception (aisthesis) rather than science (episteme).”[19] Scientific knowledge in the case of bioethics may appropriately refer to medical facts. Perception refers to the moral intuition of an individual agent as applied to a given scenario. Jonsen goes further, however, interpreting this perception as “the appreciative sight of a constellation of ideas, arguments, and facts about the case, seen as a whole.”[20] Phronesis, or practical wisdom, is the cardinal virtue of Aristotelian virtue ethics. It enables the agent to consider the relevant facts and act in the most prudent, courageous, or tempered manner. This paper proposes that in the face of intractable theoretical disagreements, the only way forward for bioethics is to educate bioethics practitioners and students in this tradition. V. Counterargument So far, this paper has argued that bioethics is relatively toothless and needs to give clear guidance due to theoretical disagreements and the intractable differences between normative approaches. And yet, some may object to the notion that bioethics ought to have these proverbial teeth. In this view, bioethics merely acts as a sounding board for those in executive roles (doctors, lawyers, politicians) to better understand the moral landscape of the problem. To them, bioethics’ failure to decisively guide action is acceptable because it should not. If this is the case, then bioethics need not speak with one voice and should cherish the long-standing, obstinate disagreements between different theoretical camps. But this paper contends the opposite. If bioethics continues to offer conflicting imperatives and fails to demonstrably guide individuals, hospitals, and society toward clear ethical aims and outcomes, it has failed as a discipline. One might argue that virtue theory is not an ideal framework to replace principlism because individuals approach ethical problems in many ways based on features of their character and background. Injecting one’s character into moral decisions can lead to bias. As Carl Elliot writes, “how a moral problem is described will turn on an array of variables: the role and degree of involvement in the case of the person who is describing it, the person’s particular profession or discipline, her religious and cultural inheritance-indeed, with all of the intangibles that have contributed to her character.”[21] Self-awareness may counteract personal biases in moral decision making. Vl. Limitation Virtue ethics is only a provisional solution to the adjudication problem for two reasons. One, not everyone is inherently virtuous, and two, theoretical differences may be resolved. If deontology and consequentialism can be incorporated into a unified theory for bioethics, then virtue ethics may not be necessary. On a certain view, it would be ideal for ethics to be computational – plug in the relevant variables and receive the morally correct answer. Arguably, principlism was an attempt at such a matrix, but it ultimately failed as a unified theory. Rather than waiting for a perfect unified theory, we must count on the genuine virtue of the moral agents who make ethically important decisions from policy to bedside. If practical wisdom is not a characteristic of these agents, then their decisions will not be as ethical as they ought to be, and no theory is the panacea to such a problem. CONCLUSION Bioethics emerged out of unified responses to clear cases of moral depravity, like the Holocaust and Tuskegee, and perhaps bioethics is most appropriate for such cases which are conducive to moral certitude. At minimum, bioethics offers meaningful guidance in cases where the relevant duties align with beneficent consequences. For example, in both the Nuremberg and Tuskegee cases, abrogating fundamental duties to humanity led to grievous consequences. The principles developed in the wake of such problems led to a conflict between autonomy and beneficence, which perhaps mirror the conflict between Kantian deontology and utilitarianism. Bioethics excels when deontology and utilitarianism are aligned, but most of the time, they are not. In such instances, virtue is needed to adjudicate conflicting normative approaches and resolve theoretical tensions with practical wisdom and courage. - [1] Clouser, K. D., & Gert, B. (1990). A Critique of Principlism, The Journal of Medicine and Philosophy: A Forum for Bioethics and Philosophy of Medicine, Volume 15, Issue 2, April 1990, Pages 219–236, https://doi.org/10.1093/jmp/15.2.219 [2] Clouser, K. D., & Gert, B. (1990). [3] Annas, G. J. (2010). The legacy of the Nuremberg Doctors’ Trial to American bioethics and human rights. In Medicine After the Holocaust (pp. 93-105). Palgrave Macmillan, New York. https://scholarship.law.umn.edu/mjlst/vol10/iss1/4 [4] Annas, G. J. (2010). The legacy of the Nuremberg Doctors’ Trial to American bioethics and human rights. In Medicine After the Holocaust (pp. 93-105). Palgrave Macmillan, New York. https://scholarship.law.umn.edu/mjlst/vol10/iss1/4 [5] Barrett, L. A. (2019). Tuskegee Syphilis Study of 1932-1973 and the Rise of Bioethics as Shown through Government Documents and Actions. DttP, 47, 11. https://heinonline.org/HOL/LandingPage?handle=hein.journals/dttp47&div=36&id=&page= [6] Barrett, L. A. (2019). [7] Annas, G. J. (2010). [8] Annas, G. J. (2010). [9] Adashi, E. Y., Walters, L. B., & Menikoff, J. A. (2018). The Belmont Report at 40: reckoning with time. American Journal of Public Health, 108(10), 1345-1348. https://doi.org/10.2105/AJPH.2018.304580 [10] Beauchamp, T. L., & Childress, J. F. (2001). Principles of Biomedical Ethics. Oxford University Press, USA. [11] Jacobson, D. (2005). Seeing by feeling: virtues, skills, and moral perception. Ethical Theory and Moral Practice, 8(4), 387-409. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10677-005-8837-1 [12] Clouser, K. D., & Gert, B. (1990). [13] Clouser, K. D., & Gert, B. (1990). [14] Clouser, K. D., & Gert, B. (1990). [15] Clouser, K. D., & Gert, B. (1990). [16] Daniels, N. (1979). Wide Reflective Equilibrium and Theory Acceptance in Ethics. The Journal of Philosophy, 76(5), 256-282. https://doi.org/10.2307/2025881 [17] Jacobson, D. (2005). [18] Jonsen, A. R. (1991). Of balloons and bicycles—or—the relationship between ethical theory and practical judgment. Hastings Center Report, 21(5), 14-16. https://doi.org/10.2307/3562885 [19] Jonsen, A. R. (1991), p. 15. [20] Jonsen, A. R. (1991), p. 15. [21] Elliott, C. (1992). Where ethics comes from and what to do about it. Hastings Center Report, 22(4), 28-35. https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/pdf/10.2307/3563021

Conventional definitions of design rarely capture its reach into our everyday lives. The Design Council, for example, estimates that more than 2.5 million people use design-related skills, principles, and practices on a daily basis in UK workplaces (Design Council 5, 8). Further, they calculate that these workers contribute £209 billion to the economy annually (8). The terrain of design professions extends from the graphic design of online environments, the business models that make them economically viable, and the algorithms that enable them to function, through to the devices we use, the clothes we wear, the furniture we sit on and the spaces where we live and work. Yet paradoxically a search of online dictionaries reiterates the connection of design primarily to drawing and making plans for buildings. As we witness the adoption of practices of “design thinking” in non-traditional design disciplines, it is interesting to note that the Italian renaissance term disegno, referred to both drawing and aspects of thinking. Giorgio Vasari claimed that design was “the animating principle of all creative processes” (Sorabello). Buckminster Fuller was just as florid and even more expansive when he argued that “the opposite of design is chaos” (Papanek 2). The Oxford English Dictionary captures a broad sense of design as “a plan or scheme conceived in the mind and intended for subsequent execution” (OED Online). This issue of M/C Journal offered contributors the opportunity to consider “design” in its broadest sense. The articles in this issue cast a wide net over design in both practice and theory, and emerge from varied disciplinary bases including material culture, graphic design, media studies, and architecture. The authors critique diverse design practices and pedagogy as well as the social reach of design and its political potential. Design Canons and the Economy While design histories begin with the earliest accounts of toolmaking (Margolin), the Industrial Revolution reinforced the more abstract intellectual dimensions of the discipline. Changing methods of production distinguished making from thinking and led to the emergence of the design profession (Spark). During the twentieth century, New York’s Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) was instrumental in not only raising awareness of design, but its exhibitions and acquisitions endorsed and canonised the styles and figures associated with “good design”. From its promotion of modern architecture in 1932, to the Good Design exhibition in 1950, MoMA’s advocacy reinforced a selective (and exclusive) canon for modernist design, educating the design-conscious consumer and reaching out to public taste, even advising of local stockists. Design became a means to mediate the art of the past with contemporary furnishings, that they accurately predicted would become the art of the future (MoMA 1). Drawing from this context, in this issue, Curt Lund’s essay interrogates a porcelain toy tea set from 1968 through the lens of material culture analysis to confirm its role in mediating relationships, transmitting values, and embodying social practices, tastes, and beliefs. MoMA was not unique in recognising both the artistic merit and commercial potential of design. Few design activities are inseparable from the market economy and the language of design has infiltrated business more broadly. Design processes are used in seemingly novel ways across businesses and governments seeking to improve their digital and real-world services. A 2018 report by the UK’s Design Council recognised the expanding reach of design and the competitive advantage of design-based economies: the skills, principles and practices of design are now widely used from banking to retail. Designers, too, have always drawn on a range of different skills, tools and technologies to deliver new ideas, goods and services. This is what makes design unique, and is how it makes products, services and systems more useful, usable and desirable in advanced economies around the world. (Design Council 5) Underpinned by design, the global gaming market, for example, is an expanding multi-billion-dollar industry. In this issue, Heather Blakey explores connections made in the digital world. Her article asks, how the design of interactions between characters in the game world can align the player experience with the designer's objectives? The reality of working within the design economy is also addressed by Yaron Meron, whose article in this issue examines the frequent absence of the brief in the graphic design context. Meron highlights problems that arise due to a recurring failure to define the scope of the brief and its significance to a formal collaborative framework between designers and their clientele. Recognition of the design economy’s value has translated to the educational sector. With the expansion of design practice beyond its traditional twentieth century silos, higher education managers are seeking to harness design as a source of innovation, driven by the perceptions of value in disparate industries. This desire for interdisciplinarity raises significant questions about pedagogy and the future of the design studio, which has anchored design tuition since the late nineteenth century. Mark Sawyer’s and Philip Goldswain’s article proposes the employment of concepts from open design literature, “meta-design”, and design “frames” to inform a toolkit to enable shared meaning in an architectural studio setting. Design for a Better World The American industrial designer George Nelson described design as “an attempt to make a contribution through change” (Packard 69), echoing the perception that progress represents improvement in a teleological sense. Many designers have long pursued social agendas and explored solutions to inequities. What loosely unites the disparate design disciplines is a shared sense that design improves the world we live in. But even with the best intentions, design does not inevitably lead to a better world. Accounts of design frequently recognise its shortcomings. These might include narratives that document or delight in famous design failures, such as the complex circumstances that led to the famed demolition of the Pruitt Igoe housing complex in the 1970s (Bristol). We also regularly encounter design flaws in the digital environment—whether an encryption algorithm open to compromise or online forms that do not recognise apostrophes or umlauts. Although on one level this leads to frustration, it also leads to other types of exclusion. Lisa Hackett’s article on 1950s-style fashion shows how the failure of the fashion industry to accommodate varying body shapes has led some women to seek solutions with vintage-style fashion choices. Hackett’s article brings to mind the serious concerns that occur when the standards that define the normative fail to account for large parts of the population. Overlooking gender and race can have a cumulative and significant impact on the everyday lives of women and minorities (Criado-Perez). The global pandemic has emphasised the dangers arising from PPE ill-designed for racial and gender diversity (Porterfield). The idea that design was a means of progressive improvement began to be prominently debunked in the 1960s with the discussion of the design life of machines, objects, and buildings. Planned obsolescence—or designed obsolescence as it was also known—came to attention in the early 1960s when Vance Packard’s The Waste Makers called into question the ethics of post-war consumerism. Packard’s work drew attention to the ethical responsibilities of designers, by revealing their complicity in the phenomenon of planned obsolescence. Packard’s critique linked the problem of “growthmanship” with issues of saturation and disposal (Packard 5). Large digital libraries replace physical objects but introduce new types of clutter. The anxieties produced by alerts that one’s device is “out of memory” may be easily dismissed as “first world problems”, but the carbon footprint of digital communication and storage is a global concern (Tsukayama; Chan). Digital clutter is explored in Ananya’s article “Minimalist Design in the Age of Archive Fever” in this issue. Ananya contrasts minimalist aesthetics, and Marie Kondo-style decluttering, with our burgeoning prosthetic memory, and its attendant digital footprint. In the late 1960s, Victor Papanek considered the ethics of design choices, and in particular, the nexus between design and consumerism, acknowledging Thorstein Veblen’s coruscating critique of conspicuous consumption. But Papanek also drew attention to contemporary environmental crises. He railed against industrial designers, architects, and planners, attributing blame for the profligate consumerism and environmental degradation arguing that “in all pollution, designers are implicated, at least partially" (14). Inclusive Design Papanek’s influential advocacy acknowledged the political dimensions of design and the inherent biases of the time. In response to his teaching, Danish student Susanne Koefoed designed the now ubiquitous International Symbol of Access (ISA), which Guffey suggests is the most widely exported work of Scandinavian design (358). In this issue’s feature article, Sam Holleran explores the connection between visual literacy and civic life, and the design of an international symbol language, which aimed to ameliorate social disadvantage and cultural barriers. Discussions of inclusive design acknowledge that design history is most often Eurocentric, and frequently exclusionary of diversity. Articles in this issue examine more inclusive approaches to design. These efforts to make design more inclusive extend beyond the object or product, to examining techniques and processes that might improve society. Poiner and Drake, for example, explore the potential and challenges of participatory approaches in the design of buildings for a remote Indigenous community. Fredericks and Bradfield, in this issue, argue that Indigenous memes can provoke audiences and demand recognition of First Nations peoples. The meme offers a more inclusive critique of a national government’s intransigence to constitutional change that recognises Indigenous sovereignty and self-determination. Further, they advocate for co-design of policy that will enshrine an Indigenous Voice to the Australian Parliament. There are many reasons to be grateful for design and optimistic about its future: the swift design and production of efficacious vaccines come to mind. But as Papanek recognised 50 years ago, designers, most often handmaidens of capital, are still implicated in the problems of the Anthropocene. How can design be used to repair the legacies of a century of profligacy, pollution, and climate change? Design needs its advocates, but the preaching and practice of design are best tempered with continuous forms of critique, analysis, and evaluation. Acknowledgements The editors thank the scholars who submitted work for this issue and the blind referees for their thoughtful and generous responses to the articles. References Bristol, Katharine G. “The Pruitt-Igoe Myth.” Journal of Architectural Education 44.3 (1991): 163–171. Chan, Delle. “Your Website Is Killing the Planet.” Wired, 22 Mar. 21. <https://www.wired.co.uk/article/internet-carbon-footprint>. Criado-Perez, Caroline. Invisible Women: Exposing Data Bias in a World Designed for Men. Chatto & Windus, 2019. "design, n." OED Online. Oxford University Press, June 2021. <http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/50840. Accessed 8 August 2021>. Design Council UK. Designing a Future Economy: Developing Design Skills for Productivity and Innovation. Feb. 2018. <https://www.designcouncil.org.uk/sites/default/files/asset/document/Designing_a_future_economy18.pdf>. Guffey, Elizabeth. “The Scandinavian Roots of the International Symbol of Access.” Design and Culture 7.3 (2015): 357–76. DOI: 10.1080/17547075.2015.1105527. Margolin, Victor. World History of Design. Vol. 1. Bloomsbury, 2017. Museum of Modern Art. “First Showing of Good Design Exhibition in New York.” Press Release. 16 Nov. 1950. <https://assets.moma.org/documents/moma_press-release_325754.pdf?_ga=2.206889043.1160124053.1628409746-2001272077.1623303269>. Packard, Vance. The Waste Makers. David McKay, 1960. Papanek, Victor J. Design for the Real World: Human Ecology and Social Change. Bantam Books, 1973. Porterfield, Carlie. “A Lot of PPE Doesn’t Fit Women—and in the Coronavirus Pandemic, It Puts Them in Danger.” Forbes, 29 Apr. 2020. <https://www.forbes.com/sites/carlieporterfield/2020/04/29/a-lot-of-ppe-doesnt-fit-women-and-in-the-coronavirus-pandemic-it-puts-them-in-danger/?sh=5b5deaf9315a>. Sorabella, Jean. “Venetian Color and Florentine Design.” In Heilbrunn Timeline of Art History. The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2000–. Oct. 2002 <http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/hd/vefl/hd_vefl.htm>. Sparke, Penny. “Design.” Grove Art Online, 2003. <https://doi-org.ezproxy.library.uq.edu.au/10.1093/gao/9781884446054.article.T022395>. Tsukayama, Hayley. “How Bad Is Email for the Environment?” Washington Post, 25 Jan. 2017. <https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/the-switch/wp/2017/01/25/how-bad-is-email-for-the-environment/>.

A 22-year-old man presented with a 3-week history of increased thirst, polydipsia, and polyuria. He described consuming large volumes of water and waking up multiple times throughout the night to drink and urinate. He also endorsed symptoms of fatigue and frequent headaches. Prior to this, he had been well. There was no history of diuretic use, lithium use, or renal disease. There was no prior head trauma, cranial irradiation, or intracranial pathology. He denied consumption of nutritional or protein supplements. Clinical exam revealed a well appearing young man with normal heart rate and blood pressure. Visual fields and general neurologic exam were grossly normal.Baselines investigations revealed serum sodium ranging from 141–142 mmol/L (reference range 133–145 mmol/L), creatinine 92 umol/L (50–120 umol/L), random glucose 5.4 mmol/L (3.3–11.0 mmol/L), potassium 4.0 (3.3–5.1 mmol/L) and ionized calcium 1.25 mmol/L (1.15–1.35 mmol/L). A 24-hour urine collection was arranged, and returned a urine volume of 5.6L (normal less than 3 litres/24 hours). Further investigations revealed a serum sodium of 142 mmol/L, serum osmolality 306 mmol/kg (280–300 mmol/kg), and urine osmolality of 102 mmol/kg (50–1200 mmol/kg). AM cortisol was 372 nmol/L (200–690 nmol/L).These results demonstrated inability to concentrate the urine, despite the physiologic stimulus of hyperosmolarity. Based on this, a presumptive diagnosis of diabetes insipidus was made. The patient was instructed to drink as much as he needed to satiate his thirst, and to avoid fluid restriction. The patient was started on DDAVP intranasal spray, which provided immediate relief from his symptoms. Magnetic resonance imaging of the brain revealed an unremarkable pituitary gland with abnormal thickening of the pituitary stalk and loss of the posterior pituitary bright spot. This confirmed the diagnosis of central diabetes insipidus, presumed secondary to infiltrative disease affecting the pituitary stalk.IntroductionPolyuria is defined as inappropriately high urine output relative to effective arterial blood volume and serum sodium. In adults, polyuria can be objectively quantified as urine output in excess of 3–3.5 L per day with a low urine osmolality (<300 mmol/kg).2Daily urine output is dependent on 2 major factors. The first is the amount of daily solute excretion, and the second is the urine concentrating capability of the nephron.3 Disturbances in either of these factors can occur by many different mechanisms, and can lead to a diuresis. This diuresis can be driven either by solute (solute diuresis), water (water diuresis) or a combination of these processes.4 A diagnostic algorithm for polyuria is outlined in Figure 1.Figure 1. Diagnostic Approach to Polyuria Solute DiuresisDaily solute intake varies between individuals, but typically averages about 10 mmol/kg or 500–800 mmol/day.2,3 Solute diuresis is the result of a higher solute load that exceeds the usual solute excretion. 4 Higher solute loads can be a consequence of either increased solute intake or increased solute generation through metabolism. High solute intake can occur from intravenous fluids, enteral or parental nutrition, and any other sources of exogenous protein, glucose, bicarbonate, or sugar alcohols.2,4 Metabolic processes leading to increased solute generation include hyperglycemia and azotemia. 2,4 Increased solute excretion drives urine output in a linear fashion.3 Furthermore, solute diuresis impairs the ability of the kidney to concentrate urine. Typically, in a pure solute diuresis, urine concentration is between 300 and 500 mmol/kg.2,4 The specific cause of solute diuresis can be further delineated with estimation of the urine electrolyte solute over 24 hours: 2(urine [Na]+urine [K]) ×24 hours.4 Values greater than 600 mmol/day suggest electrolytes are the solutes driving the diuresis, while values less than 600 mmol/day imply that the diuresis is due to a non-electrolyte solute, typically glucose or urea.Water DiuresisWater diuresis can occur due to excessive amounts of free water consumption (primary polydipsia) or impaired secretion or response to ADH (diabetes insipidus). In both cases, urine osmolality should be less than 100 mmol/kg.2 Primary polydipsia is characterized by excessive water consumption. This can be a result of compulsive water drinking (often observed in psychiatric disorders) or a defect in the thirst centre of the hypothalamus due to an infiltrative disease process.5,6The osmotic threshold for ADH release occurs at 280–290 mmol/kg. Failure to maximally concentrate the urine (1000–1200 mmol/kg in healthy kidneys) when serum osmolality rises above the osmotic threshold suggest diabetes insipidus.3 Diabetes insipidus (DI) can result from either insufficient ADH secretion from the posterior pituitary (central DI) or ADH resistance (nephrogenic DI).1Central DI can be caused by both congenital and acquired conditions known to affect the hypothalamic-neurohypophyseal system7,8 (Table 1). Polyuria occurs when 80% or more of the ADH secreting neurons are damaged 7. Metastatic disease has a predilection for the posterior pituitary, as its blood supply is derived from the systemic circulation, in contrast to the anterior pituitary which is supplied by the hypophyseal portal system.9 Rapid onset of polydipsia and polyuria in a patient older than 50 years of age should therefore raise immediate suspicion for metastatic disease.9 Treatment of adrenal insufficiency may “unmask” or exacerbate central DI, as normalization of blood pressure following glucocorticoid replacement inhibits ADH release.10 In the pregnant state, ADH degradation is increased due to placental production of vasopressinase. Any mechanism of hepatic dysfunction that occurs in pregnancy (pre-eclampsia, HELLP, acute fatty liver) will augment this normal physiology by reducing vasopressinase clearance, and can subsequently lead to transient DI 11In nephrogenic DI, ADH is present but the kidneys are unable to respond appropriately.8 In normal physiology, ADH acts to concentrate the urine via activation of the vasopressin V2 receptor, which leads to insertion of aquaporin-2 water channels in the collecting duct. 3,12 Nephrogenic DI can be primary (genetic) or secondary (acquired). Primary nephrogenic DI occurs as a result of genetic mutations affecting either the vasopressin 2 receptor or aquaporin-2 water channels; typically, such conditions present in infancy.12 Secondary nephrogenic DI can occur by a variety of mechanisms; the most common is chronic lithium administration. Lithium enters the principal cell in the collecting duct via epithelial sodium channels, and is thought to impair urinary concentrating ability via reduction in the number of principal cells and interference in signalling pathways involved in aquaporin. 12,13 Hypercalcemia, hypokalemia, obstructive uropathy, and pregnancy can lead to transient nephrogenic DI. 12,13 Hypercalcemia can lead to nephrogenic DI by causing a renal concentrating defect when calcium levels are persistently above 2.75 mmol/ L.14 Increased hydrostatic pressure from obstructive uropathy may lead to suppression of aquaporin-2 expression, resulting in transient nephrogenic DI.12 Nephrogenic DI can be caused by various renal diseases due to impairment of renal concentrating mechanisms, even before glomerular filtration rate is impaired. Polycystic kidney disease causes anatomic disruption of the medullary architecture. Polyuria in sickle cell disease results from a similar mechanism, as sickling in the vasa recta interferes with the countercurrent exchange mechanisms 16. Infiltrative renal disease including amyloid and Sjogren’s syndrome impair renal tubular function due to amyloid deposition and lymphocytic infiltration.17,18Mixed Water-Solute DiuresisIn some cases, polyuria can be caused by a combination of both mechanisms. The linear relationship between solute excretion and urine output described above is strongly influenced by ADH. In the setting of a solute diuresis, absence or deficiency of ADH can augment the degree of polyuria quite dramatically.14,19 Clinical examples of mixed diuresis include concurrent loading of both water and solute, chronic renal failure or infiltrative renal disease, relief of prolonged urinary obstruction, and partial DI.2,4 Typically in such scenarios, urine osmolality ranges from 100–300 mmol/kg.2 Conclusion Polyuria has a broad range of causes and can be a diagnostic challenge for clinicians. Understanding the pathophysiology that underpins the different mechanisms of polyuria is essential to appropriate workup, diagnosis, and treatment of this condition. If this is a complaint, the first step is to quantitate the 24-hour urine volume. We recommend referral to endocrinology when there is evidence of hypothalamic or pituitary disease, when a water deprivation test is required, or in cases where the diagnosis is unclear. DisclosureFunding sources: None.Conflicts of interest: None. References 1. Leung AK, Robson WL, Halperin ML. Polyuria in childhood. Clin Pediatr (Phila) 1991;30(11):634–40.2. Bhasin B, Velez JC. Evaluation of polyuria: the roles of solute loading and water diuresis. Am J Kidney Dis 2016;67(3):507–11.3. Rennke HG, Denker BM. Renal pathophysiology: the essentials. 4th ed. Philadelphia: Wolters Kluwer/Lippincott Williams & Wilkins; 2014.4. Oster JR, Singer I, Thatte L, Grant-Taylor I, Diego JM. The polyuria of solute diuresis. Arch Intern Med 1997;157(7):721–9.5. Grois N, Fahrner B, Arceci RJ, Henter JI, McClain K, Lassmann H, et al. Central nervous system disease in Langerhans cell histiocytosis. J Pediatr 2010;156(6):873–81, 81.e1.6. Stuart CA, Neelon FA, Lebovitz HE. Disordered control of thirst in hypothalamic-pituitary sarcoidosis. N Engl J Med 1980;303(19):1078–82.7. Di Iorgi N, Napoli F, Allegri AE, Olivieri I, Bertelli E, Gallizia A, et al. Diabetes insipidus--diagnosis and management. Horm Res Paediatr 2012;77(2):69–84.8. Mahzari M, Liu D, Arnaout A, Lochnan H. Immune checkpoint inhibitor therapy associated hypophysitis. Clin Med Ins Endocrin Diabet 2015;8:21–8.9. Hermet M, Delévaux I, Trouillier S, André M, Chazal J, Aumaître O. Diabète insipide révélateur de métastases hypophysaires : quatre observations et revue de la littérature. La Revue de Médecine Interne 2009;30(5):425-9.10. Martin MM. Coexisting anterior pituitary and neurohypophyseal insufficiency: A syndrome with diagnostic implication. Arch Intern Med 1969;123(4):409–16.11. Aleksandrov N, Audibert F, Bedard MJ, Mahone M, Goffinet F, Kadoch IJ. Gestational diabetes insipidus: a review of an underdiagnosed condition. J Obstet Gynaecol Can 2010;32(3):225–31.12. Bockenhauer D, Bichet DG. Pathophysiology, diagnosis and management of nephrogenic diabetes insipidus. Nat Rev Nephrol 2015;11(10):576–88.13. Grünfeld JP, Rossier BC. Lithium nephrotoxicity revisited. Nat Rev Nephrol 2009;5(5):270.14. Rose BD, Post TW. Clinical physiology of acid-base and electrolyte disorders. 5th ed. New York: McGraw-Hill, Medical Pub. Division; 2001, 754.15. Gabow PA, Kaehny WD, Johnson AM, Duley IT, Manco-Johnson M, Lezotte DC, et al. The clinical utility of renal concentrating capacity in polycystic kidney disease. Kidney Internat 35(2):675–80.16. Hatch FE, Culbertson JW, Diggs LW. Nature of the renal concentrating defect in sickle cell disease. J Clin Invest 1967;46(3):336–4517. Carone FA, Epstein FH. Nephrogenic diabetes insipidus caused by amyloid disease: Evidence in man of the role of the collecting ducts in concentrating urine. Am J Med 1960;29(3):539–44.18. Shearn MA, Tu W-H. Nephrogenic diabetes insipidus and other defects of renal tubular function in Sjögren's syndrome. Am J Med 1965;39(2):312–8.19. Rennke HG, Denker BM. Renal pathophysiology: the essentials. 4th ed. Philadelphia: Wolters Kluwer/Lippincott Williams & Wilkins; 2014. Figure 3.7, effects of ADH and solute excretion on urine volume, 88.