Статті в журналах з теми "Coulé sous pression"

La France dispose actuellement avec le Nato Submarine Rescue System (NSRS) d’un des systèmes opérationnels les plus performants au monde pour le sauvetage collectif d’un équipage de sous-marin coulé. Néanmoins la mise en oeuvre du NSRS est une opération délicate qui nécessite une bonne connaissance, de la part du personnel santé, des principaux risques qui vont conditionner la survie à bord du submersible en situation de détresse. Lors du naufrage d’un sous-marin, un des dangers majeurs est représenté par la voie d’eau qui va comprimer l’air ambiant et mettre l’atmosphère interne sous pression. Deux risques sont alors à prendre en compte, la survenue d’une toxicité pulmonaire liée à l’oxygène et d’un accident de décompression lors du retour en surface. Afin d’optimiser le sauvetage, une nouvelle procédure a été élaborée et validée par la France pour limiter ces risques et ramener en surface les naufragés et le personnel accompagnant avec le maximum de sécurité.

La production d’aciers inoxydables à bas carbone a nécessité la mise au point de procédés d’affinage complexes, depuis (i) la décarburation (affinage oxydant) initialement dans le seul four à arc, jusqu’aux méthodes (ii) d’affinage sous vide (VOD) puis avec dilution à l’argon (AOD). Les tentatives d’affinage de la fonte au chrome ont nécessité d’adapter des convertisseurs d’affinage à l’oxygène en usage dans les aciers non alliés (Kaldo, convertisseurs à soufflage par le fond), mais c’est le procédé AOD qui a eu le dernier mot. Des exigences qualitatives particulièrement sévères ont nécessité la mise au point de procédés spécifiques : refusion ESR (propreté inclusionnaire), VOD poussé (très basses teneurs en C et N) ; refusion sous pression (PESR pour les nuances fortement renitrurées), métallurgie des poudres. Des filières modernes de production d’aciers inoxydables en produits plats dans des usines intégrées se sont aussi greffées sur la chaîne traditionnelle de traitement de la fonte (haut-fourneau, convertisseur, coulée continue, train à bandes).

A series of silica -based ceramic cores sintered at 1150°C, 1200°C for different times were prepared, and this study compared the three-point bending strength of room temperature and 900°C with commercially available colloidal silica sols systems. Three-point bend specimens 60 × 10 × 4 mm were cast by vacuum hot pressing and tested in a special mechanical testing machine with high temperature test system of ceramics. The effect of sintering systems and colloidal silica sols on the mechanical properties of ceramic core was discussed. It could be concluded that specimens sintered at 1150°C for 5h have an obtainable maximum bending strength and those immersed in colloidal silica sols contents showed doubled bending strength in the present research.

Actipol est un logiciel, accessible aux opérateurs Veolia via une plateforme Web dédiée, qui permet de faire le lien entre activités économiques et substances potentiellement émises par celles-ci. Depuis ses premiers développements, dans les années 1990, Actipol a toujours eu pour vocation d’assurer la protection du système d’assainissement vis-à-vis des effluents non domestiques et de préserver la qualité des sous-produits en vue de leur valorisation. L’outil s’inscrit dans une démarche globale de maîtrise de la qualité des effluents depuis les sources d’émission jusqu’au milieu naturel. Les récents développements améliorent notablement l’expérience de l’utilisateur lors des démarches d’identification des sources de pollution à l’échelle d’un territoire telles que celles requises réglementairement en assainissement (diagnostics vers l’amont – RSDE, recherche des sources de contamination des boues – arrêté du 21 juillet 2015), ou lors des démarches de protection des ressources en eau (diagnostic territorial des pressions). Les retours d’expérience montrent que, couplé à des campagnes de terrain, cet outil permet d’identifier les émetteurs et de proposer un plan d’action approprié.

L’écorce de résineux, cultivés dans un but commercial, est une source potentielle précieuse de métabolites secondaires tels que les polyphénols. Les tannins, qui font partie des polyphénols présents dans l’écorce, sont utilisés dans la fabrication d’adhésifs et de résines, mais également en tant qu’agent de tannage, antibactérien, antifongique, antitermite et antioxydant. Peu d’informations existent à propos du rendement et de la composition des extraits d’écorce en fonction de la hauteur de l’échantillon prélevé dans le tronc ainsi qu’en fonction de la présence ou l’absence de branches. Cette étude a pour but d’examiner la variabilité des métabolites secondaires présents dans l’écorce d’Abies alba à la fois en fonction de la hauteur de l’échantillon prélevé dans un arbre, mais également la variabilité présente à des hauteurs spécifiques entre plusieurs arbres. La finalité de cette étude est de déterminer quelle fraction d’écorce contient le plus d’extractibles chez cette essence. Pour cela, huit arbres ont été sélectionnés dans lesquels un maximum de treize disques a été coupé tout le long du tronc. Ces échantillons ont été prélevés en bas du tronc à une hauteur de 30 cm du sol puis à différentes hauteurs Ces différentes hauteurs ont été choisies pour des raisons industrielles (hauteur limite pour le bois d’œuvre ou pour l’utilisation industrielle) mais également pour des raisons physiologiques (hauteur à la base du houppier, hauteur de la première branche verte…). Les échantillons prélevés ont été broyés puis extraits avec un mélange eau/éthanol (1 :1, v/v) en réalisant une extraction accélérée à chaud et sous pression. Une première étude quantitative est réalisée pour connaître la quantité d’extractibles totale présente dans l’écorce. La seconde étude est qualitative, afin de connaître quels types d’extractibles sont présents dans ces écorces. Ces extraits ont donc été examinés par chromatographie liquide couplée à un spectromètre UV-visible et un spectromètre de masse .Les résultats ont montré que la composition de l’extrait total d’écorce augmente en même temps que la hauteur dans le tronc. La proportion la plus élevée en composés polyphénoliques se trouve dans la section inférieure sous la couronne.

Une coulée de slush (bouillie de neige fondante) est un écoulement rapide constitué d’un mélange de neige fondante, d’eau, de boue et de débris de toutes sortes. Les sept sites analysés démontrent que les coulées de slush peuvent survenir dans des contextes topographiques fort différents qui présentent toutefois des similitudes au niveau du mode d’enneigement et des conditions hydro-météorologiques. Les coulées de slush étudiées démarrent dans des ruisseaux d’ordre 1 ou 2, étroits et peu profonds, de pente très variable (de 1° à plus de 30°), qui sont comblés par des bouchons de neige dense soufflée par le vent ou transportée par les avalanches. Parce qu’ils s’opposent à la libre circulation des eaux de fusion lors des périodes de fonte accélérée, ces bouchons de neige favorisent la saturation du manteau neigeux jusqu’à la rupture sous l’effet combiné de la pression hydrostatique et de la gravité. Les onze coulées analysées, qui se sont produites entre 1936 et 2013, permettent de définir deux scénarios hydro-météorologiques propices à leur déclenchement : 1) des redoux de longue durée caractérisés par des températures qui restent positives pendant plusieurs jours consécutifs sans apport de précipitations liquides; 2) des redoux relativement courts (moins de 48 heures) couplés à des précipitations liquides abondantes. Largement méconnues au Québec, les coulées de slush pourraient être plus fréquentes à l’avenir en réponse au réchauffement climatique en cours.

La dégradation des écosystèmes dans les aires protégées de l’Afrique de l’Ouest est un phénomène réel et entrainant un déséquilibre écologique. Dans ce contexte, les aires protégées du Niger ne sont pas épargnées de cette dégradation, particulièrement la Réserve de Biosphère de Gadabédji. Cette dernière est sous la pression anthropique qui modifie la configuration des écosystèmes naturels. La présente étude a été conduite dans la Réserve de Biosphère de Gadabédji et a pour objectif principal de contribuer à la compréhension sur l’évolution des écosystèmes de la Réserve à l’aide des images satellitaires des années 1990, 2013 et 2022. La démarche méthodologique utilisée est basée sur le Système d’Information Géographique et de la Télédétection. L’algorithme de maximum de vraisemblance a été appliqué lors de la classification supervisée. Il ressort de cette étude, six classes d’occupation des sols qui ont été identifiées à savoir les classes de Steppe arborée, Steppe arbustive, Steppe herbeuse, Sol nu, Zone brulée et Mare. La détection des changements a révélé 26 transitions des classes entre 1990 et 2013 dont la transition de Steppe arbustive vers Steppe herbeuse est la plus représentée. De 2013 à 2022, 27 transitions ont été identifiées, la plus importante est celle de Steppe herbeuse vers Steppe herbeuse. Ces résultats pourraient servir aux décideurs pour une gestion durable des ressources naturelles. The degradation of ecosystems in West Africa's protected areas is a real phenomenon that leads to an ecological imbalance. In this context, Niger's protected areas are not spared from this degradation, particularly the Gadabédji Biosphere Reserve. The latter is under anthropogenic pressure that modifies the configuration of natural ecosystems. The present study was conducted in the Gadabédji Biosphere Reserve and has the main objective of contributing to the understanding of the evolution of the ecosystems of the Reserve using satellite images from the years 1990, 2013 and 2022. The methodological approach used is based on the Geographic Information System and Remote Sensing. The maximum likelihood algorithm was applied during the supervised classification. The study shows that six land cover classes have been identified, namely the classes of Tree Steppe, Shrub Steppe, Grassy Steppe, Bare Ground, Burned Area and Pond. The detection of changes revealed 26 class transitions between 1990 and 2013, of which the transition from Shrubby to Grassy Steppe is the most represented. From 2013 to 2022, 27 transitions were identified, the most important being from Grassy Steppe to Grassy Steppe. These results could be used by decision-makers for the sustainable management of natural resources.

Louis Néel was from Norman stock by his father and from Lyon by his mother. He could trace his ancestors to the middle of the eighteenth century. They were leading citizens of small boroughs, his great grandfather a secondary school teacher. His grandfather, a chemist, showed him how to make pills by pressing powders in moulds; he had many coloured jars in his shop windows, one with a colony of leeches! Two of the chemist's sons worked in the colonies, one as administrator and the other as an army physician. Louis's father, a civil servant in the Ministry of Finances, also applied after a while for a post abroad, south of Tunisia, where he met his future wife, a niece of the local French representative. They married in 1903.

ABSTRACT The response to the Exxon Valdez incident showed that the nation needs to be better prepared to respond to a spill of that magnitude. In research conducted on the Valdez response, several inadequacies were noted in the National Response System (NRS). A key deficiency identified was the critical need for a standardized management system to direct the response effort more effectively and efficiently. The most pressing question for preparedness planners in improving the NRS is “where do we go from here?” In answering this question, planners must address another question, “how long is it going to take?” There has been widespread failure to put existing knowledge into practice. To fill the management void identified in the NRS, it is imperative that a response management system be adopted as soon as possible. Once adopted, it can be modified and refined to provide a more effective response. The system proposed in this paper uses the sound management practices of an incident command system and modifies and/or expands these practices to fit onto the foundation built by the NRS. This response management system could be used for all spills from minor ones to large, catastrophic spills of national significance (SONS).

Les forêts tropicales en général et particulièrement celles du bassin du Congo subissent d’importants changements physionomiques sous l’effet des pressions anthropiques. L’objectif de ce travail était de contribuer à l’étude de la phytodiversité et la structure des peuplements des zones de contact forêt-savane dans l’arrondissement de Ntui. Les inventaires floristiques ont été réalisés sur 30 relevés de 40m x 40m. Au total 1264 individus à diamètre à hauteur de poitrine ≥ 10 cm ont été inventoriés, soit 135 espèces réparties dans 102 genres et 38 familles. Ces espèces recensées sont réparties dans trois différents biotopes à la raison de 103 espèces en forêt semi-caducifoliée, 60 en zone de contact forêt-savane ou lisière et 25 en savane. Les espèces les plus importantes en forêt avec des indices d’importance supérieurs à 75 sont par ordre décroissant : Ceiba pentandra, Albizia zygia, Trilepisium madagascariensis. Dans la zone de contact forêt-savane, Albizia zygia est l’espèce ayant la plus grande valeur d’importance, suivie de Mangifera indica, Caloncoba welwitschii et Terminalia glaucescens entre autres. En savane, les trois espèces les plus importantes sont: Terminalia glaucescens, suivie de Annona senegalensis et Bridelia micrantha. Le quotient spécifique au sein des différents peuplements est relativement faible (variant de 1,1 à 1,2) ainsi que les valeurs de l’indice de Shannon (1,44 à 3,11 bits). L’indice de Simpson varie de 0,70 à 0,94 et l’équitabilité de Piélou varie de 0,80 à 0,95. Les différents indices ont montré que ces sites possèdent une diversité floristique relativement faible. La distribution des individus en classes de diamètre dans le site d’étude présente une allure décroissante, caractéristique des espèces des forêts tropicales. Cette faible représentation des individus de classes supérieures pourrait s’expliquer par une pression anthropique sur les peuplements à travers la coupe artisanale non réglementée du bois d’œuvre. Abstract Tropical forests in general and particularly those of the Congo basin are undergoing significant physionomic changes under the effect of anthropogenic pressures. The objective of this work was to contribute to the study of the phytodiversity and the structure of the stands of the forest-savanna contact zones of the Ntui subdivision. The floristic inventories were carried out on 30 plots of 40m x 40m. A total of 1264 individuals of diameter at breast height ≥ 10 cm were counted, with 135 species distributed in 102 genera and 38 families. These species are distributed in three different biotopes due to 103 species in semi-caducifolious forest, 60 in the contact zone and 25 in savanna zone. The most important species in the forest with importance indices greater than 75 are in descending order: Ceiba pentandra, Albizia zygia, Trilepisium madagascariensis. In the contact zone Albizia zygia is the species with the highest importance, followed by Mangifera indica, Caloncoba welwitschii and Terminalia glaucescens among others. In the savanna, the most important species are Terminalia glaucescens followed by Annona senegalensis and Bridelia micrantha. The specific quotient remained relatively low (ranging from 1.1 to 1.2), and also the Shannon index values (1.44 to 3.11 bits). The Simpson index varies from 0.70 to 0.94 and the Pielou evenness varies from 0.80 to 0.95. The various indices showed that these sites have a relatively low floristic diversity. The distribution of individuals in diameter classes showed a decreasing trend, characteristic of tropical forest species. This low representation of upper-class individuals could be explained by anthropogenic pressure on the stands through the illegal artisanal cutting of timber.

Biotechnology applications in livestock nutrition has significance in view of shortage of natural resources with associated conflicts, growing demand of animal products, by-products versus human population pressure necessitate needs for feed additives in livestock diets for better utilization of feeds and food materials which evolved from conventional, unconventional to novel alternative feed sources. The probiotic microorganisms, applications, mechanisms of action; advantages and safety of probiotics were explored. Prebiotics, their leading types, applications, safety of prebiotics and salient features of prebiotics as well as synbiotics, their impacts on livestock products (milk, meat, wool and eggs) quality as well as by-products. These microbes are involved in genetic manipulation of microbes in ruminants and monogastrics gastro-intestinal tracts (GIT’s) which are monumentally beneficial in the form of protection of protein microbes/requirements, amino acids and fats digestion, especially those from fibre in ruminants, and the reestablishment of natural and genetically modified microbes in the rumen. Genetically modified grains for nutritional improvements and anti–nutritional factors could include low phytate corn, high oil corn, and low oligosaccharide soybean. Growth promoters of phytochemicals and/or phytobiotic herbs are health boosters, in-feed enzymes, organic acids, digestive boosters, antimicrobial peptides, antibacterial and useful alternatives to antibiotics and hormones. Feed additives that also promote growth in heat stress conditions are electrolytes, betaine, amino acids, leaf extracts and trace minerals. Other additives for growth and better carcass quality products are in form of antioxidants as ractopamine, L-carnitine, amino acids, nucleotides in broiler diet, corn oil or fish oil. Organic acids (formic and propionic acids) serve as feed preservatives and are particularly effective. Others are lactic, citric, fumaric and sorbic acids plus their salts (such as calcium formate and calcium propionate). Mycotoxins are reduced through absorption and bioavailability by using numerous mycotoxin binders. Pre-mixtures are vitamins, minerals, carotenoids, acids, preservatives, needed in small amounts. Modern biotechnology holds promising diverse beneficial applications and solutions in different ways like environment protection, gut microbes’ manipulations, production of food (feeds, feed additives) for normal growth, better health, metabolic activities in a balanced diet, better welfare and well-being of our livestock and other emerging enterprises. Les applications de la biotechnologie dans la nutrition du bétail ont une importance compte tenu de la pénurie de ressources naturelles avec les conflits associés, la demande croissante de produits animaux, les sous-produits par rapport à la pression de la population humaine nécessitent des besoins en additifs alimentaires dans les régimes alimentaires du bétail pour une meilleure utilisation des aliments et des matières alimentaires qui ont évolué à partir de conventionnelles, non conventionnelles à de nouvelles sources d’alimentation alternatives. Les micro-organismes probiotiques, applications, mécanismes d’action ; les avantages et la sécurité des probiotiques ont été explorés. Les prébiotiques, leurs principaux types, leurs applications, la sécurité des prébiotiques et les principales caractéristiques des prébiotiques ainsi que des synbiotiques, leurs impacts sur la qualité des produits d’élevage (lait, viande, laine et œufs) ainsi que sur les sous-produits. Ces microbes sont impliqués dans la manipulation génétique des microbes chez les ruminants et les tractus gastro-intestinaux monogastriques (GIT) qui sont extrêmement bénéfiques sous la forme de protection des microbes/exigences protéiques, de la digestion des acides aminés et des graisses, en particulier celles des fibres chez les ruminants, et du rétablissement des microbes naturels et génétiquement modifiés dans le rumen. Les céréales génétiquement modifiées pour des améliorations nutritionnelles et des facteurs anti-nutritionnels pourraient inclure le maïs à faible teneur en phytates, le maïs à haute teneur en huile et le soja à faible teneur en oligosaccharides. Les promoteurs de croissance des phytochimiques et/ou des herbes phytobiotiques sont des boosters de santé, des enzymes alimentaires, des acides organiques, des boosters digestifs, des peptides antimicrobiens, des alternatives antibactériennes et utiles aux antibiotiques et aux hormones. Les additifs alimentaires qui favorisent également la croissance dans des conditions de stress thermique sont les électrolytes, la bétaïne, les acides aminés, les extraits de feuilles et les oligo-éléments. D’autres additifs pour la croissance et une meilleure qualité de carcasse se présentent sous forme d’antioxydants comme la ractopamine, la L-carnitine, les acides aminés, les nucléotides dans l’alimentation des poulets de chair, l’huile de maïs ou l’huile de poisson. Les acides organiques (acides formique et propionique) servent de conservateurs alimentaires et sont particulièrement efficaces. D’autres sont les acides lactique, citrique, fumarique et sorbique ainsi que leurs sels (tels que le formiate de calcium et le propionate de calcium). Les mycotoxines sont réduites par absorption et biodisponibilité en utilisant de nombreux liants de mycotoxines. Les pré-mélanges sont des vitamines, des minéraux, des caroténoïdes, des acides, des conservateurs, nécessaires en petites quantités. La biotechnologie moderne recèle diverses applications et solutions bénéfiques prometteuses de différentes manières, telles que la protection de l’environnement, les manipulations des microbes intestinaux, la production d’aliments (aliments pour animaux, additifs alimentaires) pour une croissance normale, une meilleure santé, des activités métaboliques dans une alimentation équilibrée, un meilleur bien-être et un meilleur bien-être de notre bétail et d’autres entreprises émergentes.

Background The potential effects of classical music (CL) and heavy metal (HM) in comparison to silence (S [“controls CO]) or noise (N) on cardiovascular parameters (blood pressure [BP], heart rate [HR]) and cortisol levels (C) has not been studied before. Objective To analyse the effect of different music styles (intervention group) on BP, HR and C compared to S (control group). Methods 120 volunteers aged 25-75 years were studied. 60 volunteers were consecutively assigned in the intervention group (n=60). Sixty volunteers were matched according to age, sex, height and weight (control group). Interventional music styles were CL (Bach, Suite No. 3, BWV 1068); HM (Disturbed, Indestructible) or various daily sounds =“noise” [N]). Sound exposure of CL, HM, or N was 21 minutes. Results In the intervention group systolic, diastolic BP (mm Hg) and HR (beats per min) decreased mostly when CL was played compared to HM, N or CO (p<0.001). Conclusions Music will influence cardiovascular parameters. Classical music (“Bach”) leads to decreased values of BP and HR. In HM, N or S we could not observe similar findings. SpanishEl efecto potencial de la música clásica (CL) y el Heavy Metal (HM) en comparación con silencio (S) o ruído (N) en parámetros cardiovasculares (presión sanguínea - BP, frecuencia cardiaca- HR, y niveles de cortisol- C) no había sido estuduado hasta el presente. Objetivo: Analizar el efecto de diferentes estilos musicales (Grupo de tratamiento) en BP, HR y C, comparado con S (grupo control). Método: 120 voluntarios entre 25 y 75 años fueron estudiados. 60 voluntarios fueron asignados consecutivamente al grupo de intervencion (n:60). 60 voluntarios fueron asignados al grupo control, de acuerdo a género, peso y talla. Los estilos musicales utilizados en la intervención fueron los siguientes: Bach, Suite No. 3, BWV 1068 (CL),Disturbed, Indestructible (HM), sonidos cotidianos =“ruido” [N]). El tiempo de exposicion a CL, HM, or N fue de 21 minutos. Resultados: En el grupo de intervencion se encontró una disminución en sistólica y diatólica BP (mm Hg) y HR (latidos por minuto) durante CL, comparado con HM, N o CO (p<0.001). Conclusion: La música influyer parámetros cardiovsaculares. Música clásica (Bach), parece disminuir BP y HR. No encontramos resultados similares en HM, N o S. FrenchEffets de différents style de musique sur l’activité cardiovasculaire chez l’homme : étude prospective contôléeHans-Joachim Trappe1, Irini Maria Breker21 Departement de Cardiologie et Angiologie, Université de Bochum, Herne, Allemagnangiology. Résumé : les effets potentiels de la musique classique (MC) et heavy métal (HM) en comparaison au silence (S [“contrôles CO]) et du bruit (B) sur les paramètres cardiovasculaires (pression artérielle [PA], fréquence cardiaque [FC] et niveau de cortisol (C) n’ont pas été étudiés auparavant. Objectif : analyser les effets des différents types de musique(groupe d’intervention) sur PA, FC et C comparés à S (groupe contrôle).Méthode : 120 volontaires âgées de 25-75 ans ont participé à l’étude. 60 volontaires ont été successivement assignés au groupe d’intervention (n=60) d’après l’âge, le sexe, la taille et le poids (groupe contrôle. Les styles de musique ont été CL (Bach, Suite N° 3, BWV 1068); HM (Disturbed Indesctructible) ou des sons variés du quotidiens = “bruit” [N]). L’exposition au sonde CL, HM ou N a été de 21 mn. Resultats : dans le groupe d’intervention, la PA systolique et diastolique (mm Hg) et la FC (battement par minute) ont diminué surtout quand la CM était jouée en comparaison avec HM, B ou CO (p<0.001). Conclusions : La musique influence les paramètres cardiovaculaires. La musique classique (“Bach”) conduit à une diminution des valeurs de PA et FC. Dans HM, N ou S nous ne pouvons pas observer de résultats similaires. Trial registration 3898-11 University of Bochum, Germany Funding German Heart Foundation, Frankfurt am Main, Germany Trial Registration German Clinical Trials Register (DRKS00009835) Mots clés : musique classique, musique métal, pression artérielle, fréquence cardiaque, cortisol GermanDie Wirkung verschiedener musikalischer Stile auf cardiovasculäre Reaktionen beim Menschen: eine prospektive kontrollierte StudieAbstract: Hintergrund: Die potentialen Effekte von klassischer Musik (CL) und Heavy Metal (HM) im Vergleich zu Stille (S [Kontrollen CO]) oder Alltagsgeräuschen =“noise“ (N) auf cardiovaskuläre Parameter (Blutdruck [BP], Herzschlag [HR] und Cortisol [C]) wurde bisher noch nicht untersucht. Ziel: Analysierung der Effekte von verschiedenen musikalischen Stilen (Interventionsgruppe) auf BP, HR und C auf S (Kontrollgruppe). Methode: 120 Teilnehmer (25-75 J.) wurden untersucht, davon 60 Teilnehmer konsekutiv für die Interventionsgruppe ausgewählt (60). Diese 60 Teilnehmer wurden über Alter, Geschlecht, Größe und Gewicht gematcht. Die genutzten Musikstile waren CL (Bach, Suite Nr 3, BWV 1068); HM (Disturbed, Indestructible) und verschiedene Geräusche aus dem täglichen Leben (=“noise“) (N). Die Zeit für die Klangdarbietung von CL, HM oder N war 21 Minuten. Ergebnisse: In der Interventionsgruppe verringerte sich meistens der systolische und der diastolische BP (mmHG) und der HR (Schläge pro Minute) bei CL im Vergleich zu HM, N oder den CO (p<0.001). Ergebnisse: Musik beeinflusst die cardiovasculären Parameter. Klassische Musik (Bach) führt zu sinkenden Werten von BP und HR, bei N oder S konnten wir keine vergleichbaren Ergebnisse feststellen. Keywords: Klassische Musik, Heavy Metal, Blutdruck, Herzschlag, CortisolJapanese要旨 背景：クラシック音楽（ＣＬ）とヘヴィメタル音楽（ＨＭ）、静寂（Ｓまたはコントロール群としてのＣＯ）と騒音（Ｎ）の比較が、人間の循環器（血圧[ＢＰ]、脈拍[ＨＲ]）そしてコルチゾール値（Ｃ）に及ぼす効果に関する研究はまだなされていない。目的：異なる音楽スタイル（介入集団）が、コントロール群と比べて、血圧、脈拍、コルチゾール値にもたらす効果を分析する。方法：２５歳から７５歳までの１２０名の被験者を対象に行われた。６０名は介入集団へ、残りの６０名は年齢、性別、身長、体重などを考慮した上で、コントロール群に分けられた。介入に使われた音楽スタイルは、クラシック音楽CL (Bach, Suite No. 3, BWV 1068)、ヘヴィメタル音楽HM (Disturbed, Indestructible)、日常の生活音N（騒音noise）であった。これらの音・音楽刺激は、２１分間であった。結果：介入グループでは、心臓収縮期、拡張期において、ヘヴィメタル音楽や騒音を聴いたときより、クラシック音楽を聴いた時の方が、血圧(mm Hg)、脈拍(beats per min)、コルチゾール値が下がる(p<0.001)ことがわかった。音・音楽刺激の前後における値は下記の通りであった。 結果：音楽は循環器の値に影響することが分った。クラシック音楽（バッハ）は血圧と脈拍を降下させた。ヘヴィメタル音楽、騒音、静寂については、共通の結果を見出すことができなかった。キーワード: クラシック音楽、ヘヴィメタル音楽、血圧、脈拍、コルチゾール値Chinese背景摘要 過去未曾有研究針對古典音樂(CL)及重金屬音樂(HM)對比安靜(S[控制組CO])或噪音(N)對於心血管參數 (血壓[BP]、心跳[HR])及皮質醇水平(C) 的潛在影響。 目的 分析不同音樂類型(實驗組)與安靜(控制組)相較之下對血壓(BP)、心跳(HR)及皮質醇水平(C)的影響。方法 對120位年齡介於25-75歲的自願參與者進行研究。60位自願參與者連續分配到研究組(n=60)。60位自願參與者則被配對年齡、性別、身高、體重分配到控制組。實驗介入的音樂風格為古典音樂組CL(巴哈，第三號組曲，BWV 1068)；重金屬音樂組HM(騷動樂團的永不毀滅)或多樣化的日常聲音=噪音(N)，志願者分別被暴露在CL、HM和N聲音環境中21分鐘。結果 比較實驗組中測得的收縮壓與舒張壓(mm Hg)及心跳速率(每分鐘幾下)。相較於重金屬音樂組、噪音組及控制組，當古典音樂播放時所測得的數值大多會下降(p<0.001)。下列為實驗組暴露於聲音前後及控制組的結果： 結論 音樂會影響心血管參數，我們發現聆聽古典音樂(巴哈)有效降低血壓及心跳的同時，在重金屬音樂組、噪音組及控制組都未觀察到類似的結果。試驗註冊 3898-11德國波鴻大學。資金 德國心臟基金會，法蘭克福，德國。試驗註冊 德國臨床試驗註冊（DRKS00009835）

Objectif : L’étude a eu pour objectif de déterminer l’effet de la variation du déficit de pression de vapeur (DPV) du milieu d’étude sur les réponses morphophysiologiques basées principalement sur l’évaluation du taux de transpiration et de la surface foliaire des plantes des morphotypes « nyù » et « waogo » d’igname. Méthodologie et résultats : Le « nyù » et le « waogo » ont été évalués pour leurs réponses à différents régimes hydriques et à différents déficits de pression de vapeur (DPV) selon un dispositif en bloc complet randomisé. Sous Fort DPV le régime hydrique a eu un effet significatif sur le taux de transpiration (TT), la surface foliaire (SF), la biomasse racine (BR) et la teneur relative en chlorophylle du « nyù » et le TT, la SF, le nombre de feuilles (NF) et la biomasse feuille (BF) du « waogo ». Le NF et le BF du « nyù » ont été influencés par les différents DPV tandis que chez le « waogo » ce sont la SF, le NF et la BF qui ont été influencés. Le « nyù » avec une plus grande SF a eu un TT inférieur à celui du « waogo » sous les différents DPV. Le fort DPV a augmenté la BR et a réduit la BF des plantes, des deux morphotypes, soumises aux différents régimes hydriques. Conclusion et application des résultats : Cette étude a révélé une influence de l’environnement sur certains paramètres morphophysiologiques de l’igname soumis au déficit hydrique. Les résultats nous montrent que le « nyù » à une meilleure capacité de restreindre la transpiration sous forte demande évaporative et est mieux indiqué pour les environnements secs. Le « nyù » pourrait être utilisé dans un programme de sélection pour des morphotypes d’igname résistants à la sécheresse. Mots clé : Igname, taux de transpiration, surface foliaire, DPV, déficit hydrique, Burkina Faso. 16382 Dondasse et al., J. Appl. Biosci. 2021 Influence de la variation journalière du déficit de pression de vapeur (DPV) sur les réponses morphologiques et physiologiques de deux morphotypes d’igname cultives au Burkina Faso. Influence of the daily variation of the vapor pressure deficit (VPD) on the morphological and physiological responses of two yam morphotypes cultivated in Burkina Faso. ABSTRACT Objective : The aim was to determine the effect of the variation of the vapor pressure deficit (VPD) of the study medium on the morphophysiological responses based mainly on the evaluation of the transpiration rate and the leaf area of plants of the “nyù” and “waogo” yam morphotypes. Methodology and results : The “nyù” and the “waogo” were evaluated for their responses to different water regimes and to different vapor pressure deficits (VPD) according to a randomized full block device. Under high VPD the water regime has had a significant effect on the transpiration rate (TT), the leaf area (SF), the root biomass (BR) and the chlorophyll content of the “nyù” and the TT, the SF, the number of leaves (NF) and leaf biomass (BF) of the “waogo”. The NF and the BF of “nyù” were influenced by the different VPD, while in the “waogo” it was SF, NF and BF that were influenced. The “nyù” with a larger SF had a TT lower than that of the “waogo” under the different VPD. The high VPD increased the BR and reduced the BF of plants of the two morphotypes, subjected to the different water regime. Conclusion and application of the results : This work made it possible to highlight the influence of the environment on certain morphophysiological parameters of the yam subject to water deficit. The results show us that “nyù” has a better ability to restrict sweating under high evaporative demand and is better indicated for dry environments. The "nyù" could be used in a selection program for drought-resistant yam morphotypes. Keywords : Yam, transpiration rate, leaf area, VPD, water deficit, Burkina Faso.

Objectif : L’étude a eu pour objectif de déterminer l’effet de la variation du déficit de pression de vapeur (DPV) du milieu d’étude sur les réponses morphophysiologiques basées principalement sur l’évaluation du taux de transpiration et de la surface foliaire des plantes des morphotypes « nyù » et « waogo » d’igname. Méthodologie et résultats : Le « nyù » et le « waogo » ont été évalués pour leurs réponses à différents régimes hydriques et à différents déficits de pression de vapeur (DPV) selon un dispositif en bloc complet randomisé. Sous Fort DPV le régime hydrique a eu un effet significatif sur le taux de transpiration (TT), la surface foliaire (SF), la biomasse racine (BR) et la teneur relative en chlorophylle du « nyù » et le TT, la SF, le nombre de feuilles (NF) et la biomasse feuille (BF) du « waogo ». Le NF et le BF du « nyù » ont été influencés par les différents DPV tandis que chez le « waogo » ce sont la SF, le NF et la BF qui ont été influencés. Le « nyù » avec une plus grande SF a eu un TT inférieur à celui du « waogo » sous les différents DPV. Le fort DPV a augmenté la BR et a réduit la BF des plantes, des deux morphotypes, soumises aux différents régimes hydriques. Conclusion et application des résultats : Cette étude a révélé une influence de l’environnement sur certains paramètres morphophysiologiques de l’igname soumis au déficit hydrique. Les résultats nous montrent que le « nyù » à une meilleure capacité de restreindre la transpiration sous forte demande évaporative et est mieux indiqué pour les environnements secs. Le « nyù » pourrait être utilisé dans un programme de sélection pour des morphotypes d’igname résistants à la sécheresse. Mots clé : Igname, taux de transpiration, surface foliaire, DPV, déficit hydrique, Burkina Faso. 16382 Dondasse et al., J. Appl. Biosci. 2021 Influence de la variation journalière du déficit de pression de vapeur (DPV) sur les réponses morphologiques et physiologiques de deux morphotypes d’igname cultives au Burkina Faso. Influence of the daily variation of the vapor pressure deficit (VPD) on the morphological and physiological responses of two yam morphotypes cultivated in Burkina Faso. ABSTRACT Objective : The aim was to determine the effect of the variation of the vapor pressure deficit (VPD) of the study medium on the morphophysiological responses based mainly on the evaluation of the transpiration rate and the leaf area of plants of the “nyù” and “waogo” yam morphotypes. Methodology and results : The “nyù” and the “waogo” were evaluated for their responses to different water regimes and to different vapor pressure deficits (VPD) according to a randomized full block device. Under high VPD the water regime has had a significant effect on the transpiration rate (TT), the leaf area (SF), the root biomass (BR) and the chlorophyll content of the “nyù” and the TT, the SF, the number of leaves (NF) and leaf biomass (BF) of the “waogo”. The NF and the BF of “nyù” were influenced by the different VPD, while in the “waogo” it was SF, NF and BF that were influenced. The “nyù” with a larger SF had a TT lower than that of the “waogo” under the different VPD. The high VPD increased the BR and reduced the BF of plants of the two morphotypes, subjected to the different water regime. Conclusion and application of the results : This work made it possible to highlight the influence of the environment on certain morphophysiological parameters of the yam subject to water deficit. The results show us that “nyù” has a better ability to restrict sweating under high evaporative demand and is better indicated for dry environments. The "nyù" could be used in a selection program for drought-resistant yam morphotypes. Keywords : Yam, transpiration rate, leaf area, VPD, water deficit, Burkina Faso.

AbstractThe InSight lander carried an Instrument Deployment System (IDS) that included an Instrument Deployment Arm (IDA), scoop, five finger “claw” grapple, forearm-mounted Instrument Deployment Camera (IDC) requiring arm motion to image a target, and lander-mounted Instrument Context Camera (ICC), designed to image the workspace, and to place the instruments onto the surface. As originally proposed, the IDS included a previously built arm and flight spare black and white cameras and had no science objectives or requirements, or expectation to be used after instrument deployment (90 sols). During project development the detectors were upgraded to color, and it was recognized that the arm could be used to carry out a wide variety of activities that would enable both geology and physical properties investigations. During surface operations for two martian years, the IDA was used during major campaigns to image the surface around the lander, to deploy the instruments, to assist the mole in penetrating beneath the surface, to bury a portion of the seismometer tether, to clean dust from the solar arrays to increase power, and to conduct a surface geology investigation including soil mechanics and physical properties experiments. No other surface mission has engaged in such a sustained and varied campaign of arm and scoop activities directed at such a diverse suite of objectives. Images close to the surface and continuous meteorology measurements provided important constraints on the threshold friction wind speed needed to initiate aeolian saltation and surface creep. The IDA was used extensively for almost 22 months to assist the mole in penetrating into the subsurface. Soil was scraped into piles and dumped onto the seismometer tether six times in an attempt to bury the tether and $\sim30\%$ ∼ 30 % was entrained in the wind and dispersed downwind 1-2 m, darkening the surface. Seven solar array cleaning experiments were conducted by dumping scoops of soil from 35 cm above the lander deck during periods of high wind that dispersed the sand onto the panels that kicked dust off of the panels into suspension in the atmosphere, thereby increasing the power by ∼15% during this period. Final IDA activities included an indentation experiment that used the IDA scoop to push on the ground to measure the plastic deformation of the soil that complemented soil mechanics measurements from scoop interactions with the surface, and two experiments in which SEIS measured the tilt from the arm pressing on the ground to derive near surface elastic properties.

Le 17 mars 2023, Silicon Valley Bank (SVB), 16ème banque aux Etats-Unis par sa taille, déposait le bilan. Le jour même, l’action de Crédit Suisse, 17ème plus grande banque d’Europe, chutait de plus de 60% et sera rachetée deux jours plus tard par son principal concurrent, UBS, sous la pression du gouvernement helvète. Autour du 15 mars, les principales valeurs bancaires européennes perdaient plus de 10%, lâchant près de 20% en un mois. On peut donc légitimement se demander si nous ne sommes pas sur le point de revivre le scénario d’une crise bancaire mondiale avec les effets que l’on connait. La question se pose : faut-il avoir peur de nos banques ? La régulation est-elle assez stricte ? Les institutions qui dépendent du régulateur bancaire européen n’ont jamais été aussi solides, mais les réactions des investisseurs, y compris des épargnants, peuvent créer de grosses turbulences. En 2008, la crise financière trouvait son origine dans les subprimes. Via la titrisation, ces crédits hypothécaires toxiques se sont retrouvés sur le bilan d’un grand nombre de banques (voir le numéro 64 de Regards économiques). Ne connaissant pas précisément l’exposition des autres institutions financières à ces produits, la méfiance contamina l’ensemble du secteur et le robinet des liquidités interbancaires fut coupé. La crise de 2008 révéla au grand jour le risque de liquidité des banques (à savoir le risque de ne pas pouvoir se refinancer), y compris de celles présentant un risque systémique. Elle mena à des réformes importantes dans la régulation bancaire, notamment via l’introduction des ratios de liquidités de Bâle III (Leverage Coverage Ratio, LCR et Net Stable Funding Ratio, NSFR) destinés à mesurer les risques associés (voir le numéro 96 de Regards économiques). Les problèmes de SVB et de Crédit Suisse ont des origines différentes, mais engendrent le même climat de méfiance et de panique dans le secteur. Le cas de SVB La faillite de SVB est malheureusement un exemple tout à fait classique d’une gestion catastrophique : un bilan de 212 milliards de dollars composé notamment, côté passif, d’environ 173 milliards de dépôts (essentiellement d’entreprises) et, du côté actif, de 112 milliards de titres à revenu fixe, principalement des créances garanties par des institutions bénéficiant du support du gouvernement américain (MBS) ainsi que des bons du Trésor de maturité supérieure à 10 ans. Malgré l’excellente qualité de ces titres, le bilan de la banque californienne était fort déséquilibré, car très exposé au risque de taux d’intérêt : l’augmentation des taux à 10 ans de 1,5% à 4% au cours de l’année 2022 [1] aura entrainé une perte de valeur sur ces titres de près de 15 milliards de dollars, ce qui correspond à la quasi-totalité des 16 milliards de dollars que comptaient les fonds propres de haute qualité (Core Equity Tier 1, CET1) de la banque [2]. Le plus surprenant dans cette histoire est que SVB était tout à fait consciente de sa large exposition au risque de taux, comme l’attestent des rapports de risque datant de 2021. Il est probable qu’elle n’y ait pas suffisamment porté attention, ayant l’intention de détenir ces actifs jusqu’à leur maturité (l’autre explication proviendrait d’une absence de gestion de risque, le poste de directeur financier (CRO) étant resté vacant pendant la quasi-totalité de 2022 [3]). Le faible rendement des titres détenus (qu’on estime à environ 2%) ne permettait pas à SVB de répercuter sur ses dépôts l’augmentation brutale des taux décidée par la FED. Le doute quant à la solidité de la banque s’était immiscé, et la chute fut précipitée par le retrait massif des dépôts issus d’entreprises (très réactives aux taux offerts), et dont la plupart excédaient le seuil de protection garantie de 250.000 dollars. On estime qu’environ 97% des 173 milliards dépôts de SVB provenaient d’entreprises, une situation très inhabituelle dans la mesure où les dépôts dans les banques de détail proviennent en général majoritairement des particuliers (moins réactifs à une variation de taux et avec des montants se situant souvent sous la garantie de l’Etat). Le cas de Crédit Suisse S’agissant de la 45ème banque la plus importante du monde en 2022 et d’une des plus grandes d’Europe, Crédit Suisse est un mastodonte. Néanmoins, cette institution accumule les problèmes depuis de nombreuses années. Il y a quelques mois à peine, en octobre 2022, elle accepta de verser une compensation de plus d’un demi-milliard de dollars lors d’une transaction financière avec les autorités judiciaires américaines dans le cadre de la résolution d’un conflit lié à la crise de 2008. A cette époque, son cours était d’environ 80 francs suisses (CHF). Dix ans plus tard, en mars 2018, il n’était plus que de 15 CHF pour terminer à environ 2 CHF avant son rachat par UBS (au prix de 76 centimes par action). De manière assez paradoxale, c’est l’un des plus gros actionnaires de l’institution suisse, la Banque nationale saoudienne, qui a allumé la mèche en indiquant ne pas être en mesure d’injecter de nouveaux capitaux dans la banque helvète en raison d’une part actuelle de 9,9%, un niveau proche de la limite maximale autorisée dans leur mandat (10%) [4]. Apporter la précision qu’une augmentation de capital de Crédit Suisse n’était, selon elle, pas nécessaire n’y changera rien : à la mi-mars, les retraits s’enchainèrent à concurrence d’environ 10 milliards CHF par jour. Au suivant ? Comme souvent dans le secteur bancaire, les séismes se propagent très rapidement, la plupart des actions financières ayant lâché près de 20% depuis leur niveau enregistré au début du mois de mars. Dès lors, faut-il redouter une contagion à l’ensemble du secteur ? D’un côté, nous l’avons vu, les situations de ces deux institutions sont très particulières : SVB est une banque ayant un bilan très atypique, déséquilibré et essentiellement financé par des dépôts volatils d’entreprises très spécifiques (sociétés technologiques et investisseurs de capital à risque). De plus, son bilan étant inférieur à 250 milliards de dollars, elle n’était pas considérée comme une banque systémique par le régulateur américain, ce qui implique qu’elle n’était pas tenue de respecter des ratios de liquidités évoqués plus haut. Crédit Suisse, quant à elle, accumulait les problèmes depuis des années, et n’a pas pu bénéficier du soutien de son plus gros actionnaire pour des raisons de limite d’exposition atteinte. Il est donc très hasardeux de vouloir généraliser ces problèmes à l’ensemble du secteur. La situation des banques européennes reste très bonne. La régulation y est une des plus strictes au monde. La Belgique, en particulier, se situe parmi les meilleurs élèves de la classe en termes de capitalisation. Avec 19,7% de CET1 et beaucoup de cash, les banques belges sont très bien capitalisées (top 6 en Europe) [5,6]. Initialement fixé à 60% en 2015, le seuil minimum requis pour le ratio LCR a été poussé à 100% sous les normes de Bâle III, en 2018. L’autorité bancaire européenne (EBA) rapporte que la moyenne de ces ratios sur plus de 300 banques se situe actuellement bien au-delà, autour de 170% [7]1. Un point cependant nécessite une attention particulière : les ratios réglementaires de SVB et de Crédit Suisse étaient au vert. Ces banques étaient bien capitalisées (ratios CET1 et Tier One Leverage de 12,05% et de 8,11% pour SVB, et de 14,1% et 7,7% pour Crédit Suisse), plus du double des minimas requis. Bien que SVB n’était pas tenue de rapporter ses ratios de liquidité, plusieurs analystes s’accordent pour dire qu’ils auraient probablement été satisfaisants. C’était d’ailleurs le cas pour Crédit Suisse, dont les ratios de liquidité étaient de 144% (LCR) et 117% (NSFR), nettement supérieurs au seuil de 100% requis [8]. Du côté du régulateur, donc, ces banques étaient jugées suffisamment solides. Faut-il en conclure que la régulation doit être renforcée ? Indéniablement, la règlementation est déjà très stricte, et pèse lourdement sur la rentabilité des banques, particulièrement en Europe. De plus, il faut prendre conscience que la régulation est un jeu d’équilibriste avec des effets potentiellement pervers. En effet, des contraintes excessives limiteront les profits des institutions financières, et pousseront donc les banques dans des situations plus précaires encore. D’un autre côté, force est de constater qu’une banque, même saine (dans le sens où elle remplit toutes les conditions requises par le régulateur) reste très vulnérable à un bank run, c’est-à-dire un retrait massif des dépôts. De manière intéressante, la modélisation de la panique bancaire et les crises économiques qui en résultent sont au centre des recherches de D. Diamond et Ph. Dybvig, lauréats du prix de la Banque de Suède en sciences économiques (connu sous l’appellation de prix Nobel en économie) 2022 avec l’ancien président de la FED, Ben Bernanke [9]. La période actuelle démontre qu’au-delà des risques financiers réels mesurés par une pléthore d’indicateurs sophistiqués, le talon d’Achille du secteur bancaire réside essentiellement dans les réactions émotionnelles des investisseurs et épargnants [10]. Elles sont le symptôme d’une perte de confiance dans le secteur mais aussi, ce qui est plus inquiétant, dans la capacité des autorités régulatoires à pouvoir évaluer correctement la solidité des banques, et à garantir la stabilité de l’écosystème financier. Les banques restent fortement exposées au retrait massif de dépôts, source principale de leur financement. La résistance au bank run est difficile à évaluer, mais la régulation bancaire gagnerait probablement à renforcer ses analyses sur ce type de scénarios. 1 Lorsque l’on analyse la solvabilité ou la prise de risque d’une institution financière, les montants absolus (tel que, par exemple, le montant des fonds propres) ne donnent pas une image complète concernant sa solidité; il faut analyser ces chiffres au regard des risques encourus. C’est la raison pour laquelle la régulation bancaire s’appuie sur des ratios où, en général, le numérateur correspond à des «rentrées» et le dénominateur à un «risque». Ainsi, par exemple, le taux de capitalisation CET1 correspond au rapport entre le montant de fonds propres de haute qualité et l’ensemble des actifs pondérés par les risques associés (risk-weighted assets, RWA, qui augmentent avec la prise de risque). Les banques belges ont, en moyenne, 19,7% de leurs RWA sous la forme de fonds propres de haute qualité. Le seuil minimum pour ce ratio, tel que déterminé dans les normes de Bâle III, est de 4,5%. D’autres ratios s’appliquent. Par exemple, les ratios LCR et NSFR mesurent la capacité qu’a l’institution financière de pouvoir faire face à des flux financiers sortants, pour lesquels les minimas requis sont actuellement de 100%. En Europe, ces ratios s’appliquent à toutes les banques (qu’elles soient systémiques ou non) et sont destinés à compenser le risque associé à la tendance naturelle qu’ont les banques à «jouer sur la courbe de taux», c’est-à-dire, à financer des besoins long-terme via des financements à court-terme. Cette approche permet à la banque de capter le différentiel de taux résultant de la différence de maturités entre actif et passif mais, comme l’illustre parfaitement le cas de SVB, elle entraine un risque de taux sur le bilan.

Introduction: Brutal?The word “brutal” has associations with cruelty, inhumanity, and aggression. Within the field of architecture, however, the term “Brutalism” refers to a post-World War II Modernist style, deriving from the French phrase betón brut, which means raw concrete (Clement 18). Core traits of Brutalism include functionalist design, daring geometry, overbearing scale, and the blatant exposure of structural materials, chiefly concrete and steel (Meades 1).The emergence of Brutalism coincided with chronic housing shortages in European countries ravaged by World War II (Power 5) and government-sponsored slum clearance in the UK (Power 190; Baker). Brutalism’s promise to accommodate an astonishing number of civilians within a minimal area through high-rise configurations and elevated walkways was alluring to architects and city planners (High Rise Dreams). Concrete was the material of choice due to its affordability, durability, and versatility; it also allowed buildings to be erected quickly (Allen and Iano 622).The Brutalist style was used for cultural centres, such as the Perth Concert Hall in Western Australia, educational institutions such as the Yale School of Architecture, and government buildings such as the Secretariat Building in Chandigarh, India. However, as pioneering Brutalist architect Alison Smithson explained, the style achieved full expression by “thinking on a much bigger scale somehow than if you only got [sic] one house to do” (Smithson and Smithson, Conversation 40). Brutalism, therefore, lent itself to the design of large residential complexes. It was consequently used worldwide for public housing developments, that is, residences built by a government authority with the aim of providing affordable housing. Notable examples include the Western City Gate in Belgrade, Serbia, and Habitat 67 in Montreal, Canada.Brutalist architecture polarised opinion and continues to do so to this day. On the one hand, protected cultural heritage status has been awarded to some Brutalist buildings (Carter; Glancey) and the style remains extremely influential, for example in the recent award-winning work of architect Zaha Hadid (Niesewand). On the other hand, the public housing projects associated with Brutalism are widely perceived as failures (The Great British Housing Disaster). Many Brutalist objects currently at risk of demolition are social housing estates, such as the Smithsons’ Robin Hood Gardens in London, UK. Whether the blame for the demise of such housing developments lies with architects, inhabitants, or local government has been widely debated. In the UK and USA, local authorities had relocated families of predominantly lower socio-economic status into the newly completed developments, but were unable or unwilling to finance subsequent maintenance and security costs (Hanley 115; R. Carroll; The Pruitt-Igoe Myth). Consequently, the residents became fearful of criminal activity in staircases and corridors that lacked “defensible space” (Newman 9), which undermined a vision of “streets in the sky” (Moran 615).In spite of its later problems, Brutalism’s architects had intended to develop a style that expressed 1950s contemporary living in an authentic manner. To them, this meant exposing building materials in their “raw” state and creating an aesthetic for an age of science, machine mass production, and consumerism (Stadler 264; 267; Smithson and Smithson, But Today 44). Corporeal sensations did not feature in this “machine” aesthetic (Dalrymple). Exceptionally, acclaimed Brutalist architect Ernö Goldfinger discussed how “visual sensation,” “sound and touch with smell,” and “the physical touch of the walls of a narrow passage” contributed to “sensations of space” within architecture (Goldfinger 48). However, the effects of residing within Brutalist objects may not have quite conformed to predictions, since Goldfinger moved out of his Brutalist construction, Balfron Tower, after two months, to live in a terraced house (Hanley 112).An abstract perspective that favours theorisation over subjective experiences characterises discourse on Brutalist social housing developments to this day (Singh). There are limited data on the everyday lived experience of residents of Brutalist social housing estates, both then and now (for exceptions, see Hanley; The Pruitt-Igoe Myth; Cooper et al.).Yet, our bodily interaction with the objects around us shapes our lived experience. On a broader physical scale, this includes the structures within which we live and work. The importance of the interaction between architecture and embodied being is increasingly recognised. Today, architecture is described in corporeal terms—for example, as a “skin” that surrounds and protects its human inhabitants (Manan and Smith 37; Armstrong 77). Biological processes are also inspiring new architectural approaches, such as synthetic building materials with life-like biochemical properties (Armstrong 79), and structures that exhibit emergent behaviour in response to human presence, like a living system (Biloria 76).In this article, we employ an autoethnographic perspective to explore the corporeal effects of Brutalist buildings, thereby revealing a new dimension to the anthropological significance of these controversial structures. We trace how they shape the physicality of the bodies interacting within them. Our approach is one step towards considering the historically under-appreciated subjective, corporeal experience elicited in interaction with Brutalist objects.Method: An Autoethnographic ApproachAutoethnography is a form of self-narrative research that connects the researcher’s personal experience to wider cultural understandings (Ellis 31; Johnson). It can be analytical (Anderson 374) or emotionally evocative (Denzin 426).We investigated two Brutalist residential estates in London, UK:(i) The Barbican Estate: This was devised to redevelop London’s severely bombed post-WWII Cripplegate area, combining private residences for middle class professionals with an assortment of amenities including a concert hall, library, conservatory, and school. It was designed by architects Chamberlin, Powell, and Bon. Opened in 1982, the Estate polarised opinion on its aesthetic qualities but has enjoyed success with residents and visitors. The development now comprises extremely expensive housing (Brophy). It was Grade II-listed in 2001 (Glancey), indicating a status of architectural preservation that restricts alterations to significant buildings.(ii) Trellick Tower: This was built to replace dilapidated 19th-century housing in the North Kensington area. It was designed by Hungarian-born architect Ernő Goldfinger to be a social housing development and was completed in 1972. During the 1980s and 1990s, it became known as the “Tower of Terror” due to its high level of crime (Hanley 113). Nevertheless, Trellick Tower was granted Grade II listed status in 1998 (Carter), and subsequent improvements have increased its desirability as a residence (R. Carroll).We explored the grounds, communal spaces, and one dwelling within each structure, independently recording our corporeal impressions and sensations in detailed notes, which formed the basis of longhand journals written afterwards. Our analysis was developed through co-constructed autoethnographic reflection (emerald and Carpenter 748).For reasons of space, one full journal entry is presented for each Brutalist structure, with an excerpt from each remaining journal presented in the subsequent analysis. To identify quotations from our journals, we use the codes R- and N- to refer to RB’s and NC’s journals, respectively; we use -B and -T to refer to the Barbican Estate and Trellick Tower, respectively.The Barbican Estate: Autoethnographic JournalAn intricate concrete world emerges almost without warning from the throng of glass office blocks and commercial buildings that make up the City of London's Square Mile. The Barbican Estate comprises a multitude of low-rise buildings, a glass conservatory, and three enormous high-rise towers. Each modular building component is finished in the same coarse concrete with burnished brick underfoot, whilst the entire structure is elevated above ground level by enormous concrete stilts. Plants hang from residential balconies over glimmering pools in a manner evocative of concrete Hanging Gardens of Babylon.Figure 1. Barbican Estate Figure 2. Cromwell Tower from below, Barbican Estate. Figure 3: The stairwell, Cromwell Tower, Barbican Estate. Figure 4. Lift button pods, Cromwell Tower, Barbican Estate.R’s journalMy first footsteps upon the Barbican Estate are elevated two storeys above the street below, and already an eerie calm settles on me. The noise of traffic and the bustle of pedestrians have seemingly been left far behind, and a path of polished brown brick has replaced the paving slabs of the city's pavement. I am made more aware of the sound of my shoes upon the ground as I take each step through the serenity.Running my hands along the walkway's concrete sides as we proceed further into the estate I feel its coarseness, and look up to imagine the same sensation touching the uppermost balcony of the towers. As we travel, the cold nature and relentless employ of concrete takes over and quickly becomes the norm.Our route takes us through the Barbican's central Arts building and into the Conservatory, a space full of plant-life and water features. The noise of rushing water comes as a shock, and I'm reminded just how hauntingly peaceful the atmosphere of the outside estate has been. As we leave the conservatory, the hush returns and we follow another walkway, this time allowing a balcony-like view over the edge of the estate. I'm quickly absorbed by a sensation I can liken only to peering down at the ground from a concrete cloud as we observe the pedestrians and traffic below.Turning back, we follow the walkways and begin our approach to Cromwell Tower, a jagged structure scraping the sky ahead of us and growing menacingly larger with every step. The estate has up till now seemed devoid of wind, but even so a cold begins to prickle my neck and I increase my speed toward the door.A high-ceilinged foyer greets us as we enter and continue to the lifts. As we push the button and wait, I am suddenly aware that carpet has replaced bricks beneath my feet. A homely sensation spreads, my breathing slows, and for a brief moment I begin to relax.We travel at heart-racing speed upwards to the 32nd floor to observe the view from the Tower's fire escape stairwell. A brief glance over the stair's railing as we enter reveals over 30 storeys of stair casing in a hard-edged, triangular configuration. My mind reels, I take a second glance and fail once again to achieve focus on the speck of ground at the bottom far below. After appreciating the eastward view from the adjacent window that encompasses almost the entirety of Central London, we make our way to a 23rd floor apartment.Entering the dwelling, we explore from room to room before reaching the balcony of the apartment's main living space. Looking sheepishly from the ledge, nothing short of a genuine concrete fortress stretches out beneath us in all directions. The spirit and commotion of London as I know it seems yet more distant as we gaze at the now miniaturized buildings. An impression of self-satisfied confidence dawns on me. The fortress where we stand offers security, elevation, sanctuary and I'm furnished with the power to view London's chaos at such a distance that it's almost silent.As we leave the apartment, I am shadowed by the same inherent air of tranquillity, pressing yet another futuristic lift access button, plummeting silently back towards the ground, and padding across the foyer's soft carpet to pursue our exit route through the estate's sky-suspended walkways, back to the bustle of regular London civilization.Trellick Tower: Autoethnographic JournalThe concrete majesty of Trellick Tower is visible from Westbourne Park, the nearest Tube station. The Tower dominates the skyline, soaring above its neighbouring estate, cafes, and shops. As one nears the Tower, the south face becomes visible, revealing the suspended corridors that join the service tower to the main body of flats. Light of all shades and colours pours from its tightly stacked dwellings, which stretch up into the sky. Figure 5. Trellick Tower, South face. Figure 6. Balcony in a 27th-floor flat, Trellick Tower.N’s journalOutside the tower, I sense danger and experience a heightened sense of awareness. A thorny frame of metal poles holds up the tower’s facade, each pole poised as if to slip down and impale me as I enter the building.At first, the tower is too big for comprehension; the scale is unnatural, gigantic. I feel small and quite squashable in comparison. Swathes of unmarked concrete surround the tower, walls that are just too high to see over. Who or what are they hiding? I feel uncertain about what is around me.It takes some time to reach the 27th floor, even though the lift only stops on every 3rd floor. I feel the forces of acceleration exert their pressure on me as we rise. The lift is very quiet.Looking through the windows on the 27th-floor walkway that connects the lift tower to the main building, I realise how high up I am. I can see fog. The city moves and modulates beneath me. It is so far away, and I can’t reach it. I’m suspended, isolated, cut off in the air, as if floating in space.The buildings underneath appear tiny in comparison to me, but I know I’m tiny compared to this building. It’s a dichotomy, an internal tension, and feels quite unreal.The sound of the wind in the corridors is a constant whine.In the flat, the large kitchen window above the sink opens directly onto the narrow, low-ceilinged corridor, on the other side of which, through a second window, I again see London far beneath. People pass by here to reach their front doors, moving so close to the kitchen window that you could touch them while you’re washing up, if it weren’t for the glass. Eye contact is possible with a neighbour, or a stranger. I am close to that which I’m normally separated from, but at the same time I’m far from what I could normally access.On the balcony, I have a strong sensation of vertigo. We are so high up that we cannot be seen by the city and we cannot see others. I feel physically cut off from the world and realise that I’m dependent on the lift or endlessly spiralling stairs to reach it again.Materials: sharp edges, rough concrete, is abrasive to my skin, not warm or welcoming. Sharp little stones are embedded in some places. I mind not to brush close against them.Behind the tower is a mysterious dark maze of sharp turns that I can’t see around, and dark, narrow walkways that confine me to straight movements on sloping ramps.“Relentless Employ of Concrete:” Body versus Stone and HeightThe “relentless employ of concrete” (R-B) in the Barbican Estate and Trellick Tower determined our physical interactions with these Brutalist objects. Our attention was first directed towards texture: rough, abrasive, sharp, frictive. Raw concrete’s potential to damage skin, should one fall or brush too hard against it, made our bodies vulnerable. Simultaneously, the ubiquitous grey colour and the constant cold anaesthetised our senses.As we continued to explore, the constant presence of concrete, metal gratings, wire, and reinforced glass affected our real and imagined corporeal potentialities. Bodies are powerless against these materials, such that, in these buildings, you can only go where you are allowed to go by design, and there are no other options.Conversely, the strength of concrete also has a corporeal manifestation through a sense of increased physical security. To R, standing within the “concrete fortress” of the Barbican Estate, the object offered “security, elevation, sanctuary,” and even “power” (R-B).The heights of the Barbican’s towers (123 metres) and Trellick Tower (93 metres) were physically overwhelming when first encountered. We both felt that these menacing, jagged towers dominated our bodies.Excerpt from R’s journal (Trellick Tower)Gaining access to the apartment, we begin to explore from room to room. As we proceed through to the main living area we spot the balcony and I am suddenly aware that, in a short space of time, I had abandoned the knowledge that some 26 floors lay below me. My balance is again shaken and I dig my heels into the laminate flooring, as if to achieve some imaginary extra purchase.What are the consequences of extreme height on the body? Certainly, there is the possibility of a lethal fall and those with vertigo or who fear heights would feel uncomfortable. We discovered that height also affects physical instantiation in many other ways, both empowering and destabilising.Distance from ground-level bustle contributed to a profound silence and sense of calm. Areas of intermediate height, such as elevated communal walkways, enhanced our sensory abilities by granting the advantage of observation from above.Extreme heights, however, limited our ability to sense the outside world, placing objects beyond our range of visual focus, and setting up a “bizarre segregation” (R-T) between our physical presence and that of the rest of the world. Height also limited potentialities of movement: no longer self-sufficient, we depended on a working lift to regain access to the ground and the rest of the city. In the lift itself, our bodies passively endured a cycle of opposing forces as we plummeted up or down numerous storeys in mere seconds.At both locations, N noticed how extreme height altered her relative body size: for example, “London looks really small. I have become huge compared to the tiny city” (N-B). As such, the building’s lift could be likened to a cake or potion from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. This illustrates how the heuristics that we use to discern visual perspective and object size, which are determined by the environment in which we live (Segall et al.), can be undermined by the unusual scales and distances found in Brutalist structures.Excerpt from N’s journal (Barbican Estate)Warning: These buildings give you AFTER-EFFECTS. On the way home, the size of other buildings seems tiny, perspectives feel strange; all the scales seem to have been re-scaled. I had to become re-used to the sensation of travelling on public trains, after travelling in the tower lifts.We both experienced perceptual after-effects from the disproportional perspectives of Brutalist spaces. Brutalist structures thus have the power to affect physical sensations even when the body is no longer in direct interaction with them!“Challenge to Privacy:” Intersubjective Ideals in Brutalist DesignAs embodied beings, our corporeal manifestations are the primary transducers of our interactions with other people, who in turn contribute to our own body schema construction (Joas). Architects of Brutalist habitats aimed to create residential utopias, but we found that the impact of their designs on intersubjective corporeality were often incoherent and contradictory. Brutalist structures positioned us at two extremes in relation to the bodies of others, forcing either an uncomfortable intersection of personal space or, conversely, excessive separation.The confined spaces of the lifts, and ubiquitous narrow, low-ceilinged corridors produced uncomfortable overlaps in the personal space of the individuals present. We were fascinated by the design of the flat in Trellick Tower, where the large kitchen window opened out directly onto the narrow 27th-floor corridor, as described in N’s journal. This enforced a physical “challenge to privacy” (R-T), although the original aim may have been to promote a sense of community in the “streets in the sky” (Moran 615). The inter-slotting of hundreds of flats in Trellick Tower led to “a multitude of different cooking aromas from neighbouring flats” (R-T) and hence a direct sensing of the closeness of other people’s corporeal activities, such as eating.By contrast, enormous heights and scales constantly placed other people out of sight, out of hearing, and out of reach. Sharp-angled walkways and blind alleys rendered other bodies invisible even when they were near. In the Barbican Estate, huge concrete columns, behind which one could hide, instilled a sense of unease.We also considered the intersubjective interaction between the Brutalist architect-designer and the inhabitant. The elements of futuristic design—such as the “spaceship”-like pods for lift buttons in Cromwell Tower (N-B)—reconstruct the inhabitant’s physicality as alien relative to the Brutalist building, and by extension, to the city that commissioned it.ReflectionsThe strength of the autoethnographic approach is also its limitation (Chang 54); it is an individual’s subjective perspective, and as such we cannot experience or represent the full range of corporeal effects of Brutalist designs. Corporeal experience is informed by myriad factors, including age, body size, and ability or disability. Since we only visited these structures, rather than lived in them, we could have experienced heightened sensations that would become normalised through familiarity over time. Class dynamics, including previous residences and, importantly, the amount of choice that one has over where one lives, would also affect this experience. For a full perspective, further data on the everyday lived experiences of residents from a range of different backgrounds are necessary.R’s reflectionDespite researching Brutalist architecture for years, I was unprepared for the true corporeal experience of exploring these buildings. Reading back through my journals, I'm struck by an evident conflict between stylistic admiration and physical uneasiness. I feel I have gained a sympathetic perspective on the notion of residing in the structures day-to-day.Nevertheless, analysing Brutalist objects through a corporeal perspective helped to further our understanding of the experience of living within them in a way that abstract thought could never have done. Our reflections also emphasise the tension between the physical and the psychological, whereby corporeal struggle intertwines with an abstract, aesthetic admiration of the Brutalist objects.N’s reflectionIt was a wonderful experience to explore these extraordinary buildings with an inward focus on my own physical sensations and an outward focus on my body’s interaction with others. On re-reading my journals, I was surprised by the negativity that pervaded my descriptions. How does physical discomfort and alienation translate into cognitive pleasure, or delight?ConclusionBrutalist objects shape corporeality in fundamental and sometimes contradictory ways. The range of visual and somatosensory experiences is narrowed by the ubiquitous use of raw concrete and metal. Materials that damage skin combine with lethal heights to emphasise corporeal vulnerability. The body’s movements and sensations of the external world are alternately limited or extended by extreme heights and scales, which also dominate the human frame and undermine normal heuristics of perception. Simultaneously, the structures endow a sense of physical stability, security, and even power. By positioning multiple corporealities in extremes of overlap or segregation, Brutalist objects constitute a unique challenge to both physical privacy and intersubjective potentiality.Recognising these effects on embodied being enhances our current understanding of the impact of Brutalist residences on corporeal sensation. This can inform the future design of residential estates. Our autoethnographic findings are also in line with the suggestion that Brutalist structures can be “appreciated as challenging, enlivening environments” exactly because they demand “physical and perceptual exertion” (Sroat). Instead of being demolished, Brutalist objects that are no longer considered appropriate as residences could be repurposed for creative, cultural, or academic use, where their challenging corporeal effects could contribute to a stimulating or even thrilling environment.ReferencesAllen, Edward, and Joseph Iano. Fundamentals of Building Construction: Materials and Methods. 6th ed. 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She leant lazily across the picnic hamper and reached for my hearing aid in my open-palmed hand. I jerked away from her, batting her hand away from mine. The glare of the summer sun blinded me. I struck empty air. Her tendril-fingers seized the beige seashell curve of my hearing aid and she lifted the cargo of sound towards her eyes. She peered at the empty battery-cage before flicking it open and shut as if it was a cigarette lighter, as if she could spark hearing-life into this trick of plastic and metal that held no meaning outside of my ear. I stared at her. A band of horror tightened around my throat, strangling my shout: ‘Don’t do that!’ I clenched my fist around the new battery that I had been about to insert into my hearing aid and imagined it speeding like a bullet towards her heart. This dream arrived as I researched my anthology of memoir-style essays on deafness, The Art of Being. I had already been reflecting and writing for several years about my relationship with my deaf-self and the impact of my deafness on my life, but I remained uneasy about writing about my deaf-life. I’ve lived all my adult life entirely in the hearing world, and so recasting myself as a deaf woman with something pressing to say about deaf people’s lives felt disturbing. The urgency to tell my story and my anxiety to contest certain assumptions about deafness were real, but I was hampered by diffidence. The dream felt potent, as if my deaf-self was asserting itself, challenging my hearing persona. I was the sole deaf child in a family of five muddling along in a weatherboard war commission house at The Grange in Brisbane during the nineteen fifties and nineteen sixties. My father’s resume included being in the army during World War Two, an official for the boxing events at the 1956 Melbourne Olympic Games and a bookie with a gift for telling stories. My mother had spent her childhood on a cherry orchard in Young, worked as a nurse in war-time Sydney and married my father in Townsville after a whirlwind romance on Magnetic Island before setting up home in Brisbane. My older sister wore her dark hair in thick Annie-Oakley style plaits and my brother took me on a hike along the Kedron Brook one summer morning before lunchtime. My parents did not know of any deaf relatives in their families, and my sister and brother did not have any friends with deaf siblings. There was just me, the little deaf girl. Most children are curious about where they come from. Such curiosity marks their first foray into sexual development and sense of identity. I don’t remember expressing such curiosity. Instead, I was diverted by my mother’s story of her discovery that I was deaf. The way my mother tells the story, it is as if I had two births with the date of the diagnosis of my deafness marking my real arrival, over-riding the false start of my physical birth three years earlier. Once my mother realized that I was deaf, she was able to get on with it, the ‘it’ being to defy the inevitability of a constrained life for her deaf child. My mother came out swinging; by hook or by crook, her deaf daughter was going to learn to speak and to be educated and to take her place in the hearing world and to live a normal life and that was that. She found out about the Commonwealth Acoustics Laboratory (now known as Australian Hearing Services) where, after I completed a battery of auditory tests, I was fitted with a hearing aid. This was a small metal box, to be worn in a harness around my body, with a long looping plastic cord connected to a beige ear-mould. An instrument for piercing silence, it absorbed and conveyed sounds, with those sounds eventually separating themselves out into patterns of words and finally into strings of sentences. Without my hearing aid, if I am concentrating, and if the sounds are made loudly, I am aware of the sounds at the deeper end of the scale. Sometimes, it’s not so much that I can hear them; it’s more that I know that those sounds are happening. My aural memory of the deep-register sounds helps me to “hear” them, much like the recollection of any tune replays itself in your imagination. With and without my hearing aids, if I am not watching the source of those sounds – for example, if the sounds are taking place in another room or even just behind me – I am not immediately able to distinguish whether the sounds are conversational or musical or happy or angry. I can only discriminate once I’ve established the rhythm of the sounds; if the rhythm is at a tearing, jagged pace with an exaggerated rise and fall in the volume, I might reasonably assume that angry words are being had. I cannot hear high-pitched sounds at all, with and without my hearing aids: I cannot hear sibilants, the “cees” and “esses” and “zeds”. I cannot hear those sounds which bounce or puff off from your lips, such as the letters “b” and “p”; I cannot hear that sound which trampolines from the press of your tongue against the back of your front teeth, the letter “t”. With a hearing-aid I can hear and discriminate among the braying, hee-hawing, lilting, oohing and twanging sounds of the vowels ... but only if I am concentrating, and if I am watching the source of the sounds. Without my hearing aid, I might also hear sharp and sudden sounds like the clap of hands or crash of plates, depending on the volume of the noise. But I cannot hear the ring of the telephone, or the chime of the door bell, or the urgent siren of an ambulance speeding down the street. My hearing aid helps me to hear some of these sounds. I was a pupil in an oral-deaf education program for five years until the end of 1962. During those years, I was variously coaxed, dragooned and persuaded into the world of hearing. I was introduced to a world of bubbles, balloons and fingers placed on lips to learn the shape, taste and feel of sounds, their push and pull of air through tongue and lips. By these mechanics, I gained entry to the portal of spoken, rather than signed, speech. When I was eight years old, my parents moved me from the Gladstone Road School for the Deaf in Dutton Park to All Hallows, an inner-city girls’ school, for the start of Grade Three. I did not know, of course, that I was also leaving my world of deaf friends to begin a new life immersed in the hearing world. I had no way of understanding that this act of transferring me from one school to another was a profound statement of my parents’ hopes for me. They wanted me to have a life in which I would enjoy all the advantages and opportunities routinely available to hearing people. Like so many parents before them, ‘they had to find answers that might not, for all they knew, exist . . . How far would I be able to lead a ‘normal’ life? . . . How would I earn a living? You can imagine what forebodings weighed on them. They could not know that things might work out better than they feared’ (Wright, 22). Now, forty-four years later, I have been reflecting on the impact of that long-ago decision made on my behalf by my parents. They made the right decision for me. The quality of my life reflects the rightness of their decision. I have enjoyed a satisfying career in social work and public policy embedded in a life of love and friendships. This does not mean that I believe that my parents’ decision to remove me from one world to another would necessarily be the right decision for another deaf child. I am not a zealot for the cause of oralism despite its obvious benefits. I am, however, stirred by the Gemini-like duality within me, the deaf girl who is twin to the hearing persona I show to the world, to tell my story of deafness as precisely as I can. Before I can do this, I have to find that story because it is not as apparent to me as might be expected. In an early published memoir-essay about my deaf girlhood, I Hear with My Eyes (in Schulz), I wrote about my mother’s persistence in making sure that I learnt to speak rather than sign, the assumed communication strategy for most deaf people back in the 1950s. I crafted a selection of anecdotes, ranging in tone, I hoped, from sad to tender to laugh-out-loud funny. I speculated on the meaning of certain incidents in defining who I am and the successes I have enjoyed as a deaf woman in a hearing world. When I wrote this essay, I searched for what I wanted to say. I thought, by the end of it, that I’d said everything that I wanted to say. I was ready to move on, to write about other things. However, I was delayed by readers’ responses to that essay and to subsequent public speaking engagements. Some people who read my essay told me that they liked its fresh, direct approach. Others said that they were moved by it. Friends were curious and fascinated to get the inside story of my life as a deaf person as it has not been a topic of conversation or inquiry among us. They felt that they’d learnt something about what it means to be deaf. Many responses to my essay and public presentations had relief and surprise as their emotional core. Parents have cried on hearing me talk about the fullness of my life and seem to regard me as having given them permission to hope for their own deaf children. Educators have invited me to speak at parent education evenings because ‘to have an adult who has a hearing impairment and who has developed great spoken language and is able to communicate in the community at large – that would be a great encouragement and inspiration for our families’ (Email, April 2007). I became uncomfortable about these responses because I was not sure that I had been as honest or direct as I could have been. What lessons on being deaf have people absorbed by reading my essay and listening to my presentations? I did not set out to be duplicitous, but I may have embraced the writer’s aim for the neatly curved narrative arc at the cost of the flinty self-regarding eye and the uncertain conclusion. * * * Let me start again. I was born deaf at a time, in the mid 1950s, when people still spoke of the ‘deaf-mute’ or the ‘deaf and dumb.’ I belonged to a category of children who attracted the gaze of the curious, the kind, and the cruel with mixed results. We were bombarded with questions we could either not hear and so could not answer, or that made us feel we were objects for exploration. We were the patronized beneficiaries of charitable picnics organized for ‘the disadvantaged and the handicapped.’ Occasionally, we were the subject of taunts, with words such as ‘spastic’ being speared towards us as if to be called such a name was a bad thing. I glossed over this muddled social response to deafness in my published essay. I cannot claim innocence as my defence. I knew I was glossing over it but I thought this was right and proper: after all, why stir up jagged memories? Aren’t some things better left unexpressed? Besides, keep the conversation nice, I thought. The nature of readers’ responses to my essay provoked me into a deeper exploration of deafness. I was shocked by the intensity of so many parents’ grief and anxiety about their children’s deafness, and frustrated by the notion that I am an inspiration because I am deaf but oral. I wondered what this implied about my childhood deaf friends who may not speak orally as well as I do, but who nevertheless enjoy fulfilling lives. I was stunned by the admission of a mother of a five year old deaf son who, despite not being able to speak, has not been taught how to Sign. She said, ‘Now that I’ve met you, I’m not so frightened of deaf people anymore.’ My shock may strike the average hearing person as naïve, but I was unnerved that so many parents of children newly diagnosed with deafness were grasping my words with the relief of people who have long ago lost hope in the possibilities for their deaf sons and daughters. My shock is not directed at these parents but at some unnameable ‘thing out there.’ What is going on out there in the big world that, 52 years after my mother experienced her own grief, bewilderment, anxiety and quest to forge a good life for her little deaf daughter, contemporary parents are still experiencing those very same fears and asking the same questions? Why do parents still receive the news of their child’s deafness as a death sentence of sorts, the death of hope and prospects for their child, when the facts show – based on my own life experiences and observations of my deaf school friends’ lives – that far from being a death sentence, the diagnosis of deafness simply propels a child into a different life, not a lesser life? Evidently, a different sort of silence has been created over the years; not the silence of hearing loss but the silence of lost stories, invisible stories, unspoken stories. I have contributed to that silence. For as long as I can remember, and certainly for all of my adult life, I have been careful to avoid being identified as ‘a deaf person.’ Although much of my career was taken up with considering the equity dilemmas of people with a disability, I had never assumed the mantle of advocacy for deaf people or deaf rights. Some of my early silence about deaf identity politics was consistent with my desire not to shine the torch on myself in this way. I did not want to draw attention to myself by what I did not have, that is, less hearing than other people. I thought that if I lived my life as fully as possible in the hearing world and with as little fuss as possible, then my success in blending in would be eloquence enough. If I was going to attract attention, I wanted it to be on the basis of merit, on what I achieved. Others would draw the conclusions that needed to be drawn, that is, that deaf people can take their place fully in the hearing world. I also accepted that if I was to be fully ‘successful’ – and I didn’t investigate the meaning of that word for many years – in the hearing world, then I ought to isolate myself from my deaf friends and from the deaf culture. I continued to miss them, particularly one childhood friend, but I was resolute. I never seriously explored the possibility of straddling both worlds, despite the occasional invitation to do so. For example, one of my childhood deaf friends, Damien, visited me at my parents’ home once, when we were both still in our teens. He was keen for me to join him in the Deaf Theatre, but I couldn’t muster the emotional dexterity that I felt this required. Instead, I let myself to be content to hear news of my childhood deaf friends through the grape-vine. This was, inevitably, a patchy process that lent itself to caricature. Single snippets of information about this person or that person ballooned into portrait-size depictions of their lives as I sketched the remaining blanks of their history with my imagination as my only tool. My capacity to be content with my imagination faltered. * * * Despite the construction of public images of deafness around the highly visible performance of hand-signed communication, the ‘how-small-can-we-go?’ advertorials of hearing aids and the cochlear implant with its head-worn speech processor, deafness is often described as ‘the invisible disability.’ My own experience bore this out. I became increasingly self-conscious about the singularity of my particular success, moderate in the big scheme of things though that may be. I looked around me and wondered ‘Why don’t I bump into more deaf people during the course of my daily life?’ After all, I am not a recluse. I have broad interests. I have travelled a lot, and have enjoyed a policy career for some thirty years, spanning the three tiers of government and scaling the competitive ladder with a reasonable degree of nimbleness. Such a career has got me out and about quite a bit: up and down the Queensland coast and out west, down to Sydney, Melbourne, Canberra, Adelaide and Hobart, and to the United Kingdom. And yet, not once in those thirty years did I get to share an office or a chance meeting or a lunch break with another deaf person. The one exception took place in the United Kingdom when I attended a national conference in which the keynote speaker was the Chairman of the Audit Commission, a man whose charisma outshines his profound deafness. After my return to Australia from the United Kingdom, a newspaper article about an education centre for deaf children in a leafy suburb of Brisbane, prompted me into action. I decided to investigate what was going on in the world of education for deaf children and so, one warm morning in 2006, I found myself waiting in the foyer for the centre’s clinical director. I flicked through a bundle of brochures and newsletters. They were loaded with images of smiling children wearing cochlear implants. Their message was clear: a cochlear implant brought joy, communication and participation in all that the world has to offer. This seemed an easy miracle. I had arrived with an open mind but now found myself feeling unexpectedly tense, as if I was about to walk a high-wire without the benefit of a safety net. Not knowing the reason for my fear, I swallowed it and smiled at the director in greeting upon her arrival. She is physically a small person but her energy is large. Her passion is bracing. That morning, she was quick to assert the power of cochlear implants by simply asking me, ‘Have you ever considered having an implant?’ When I shook my head, she looked at me appraisingly, ‘I’m sure you’d benefit from it’ before ushering me into a room shining with sun-dappled colour and crowded with a mess of little boys and girls. The children were arrayed in a democracy of shorts, shirts, and sandals. Only the occasional hair-ribbon or newly pressed skirt separated this girl from that boy. Some young mothers and fathers, their faces stretched with tension, stood or sat around the room’s perimeter watching their infant children. The noise in the room was orchestral, rising and falling to a mash of shouts, cries and squeals. A table had been set with several plastic plates in which diced pieces of browning apple, orange slices and melon chunks swam in a pond of juice. Some small children clustered around it, waiting to be served. When they finished their morning fruit, they were rounded up to sit at the front of the room, before a teacher poised with finger-puppets of ducks. I tripped over a red plastic chair – its tiny size designed to accommodate an infant’s bottom and small-sausage legs – and lowered myself onto it to take in the events going on around me. The little boys and girls laughed merrily as they watched their teacher narrate the story of a mother duck and her five baby ducks. Her hands moved in a flurry of duck-billed mimicry. ‘“Quack! Quack! Quack!” said the mother duck!’ The parents trilled along in time with the teacher. As I watched the children at the education centre that sunny morning, I saw that my silence had acted as a brake of sorts. I had, for too long, buried the chance to understand better the complex lives of deaf people as we negotiate the claims and demands of the hearing world. While it is true that actions speak louder than words, the occasional spoken and written word must surely help things along a little. I also began to reflect on the apparent absence of the inter-generational transfer of wisdom and insights born of experience rather than academic studies. Why does each new generation of parents approach the diagnosis of their newborn child’s disability or deafness with such intensity of fear, helplessness and dread for their child’s fate? I am not querying the inevitability of parents experiencing disappointment and shock at receiving unexpected news. I accept that to be born deaf means to be born with less than perfect hearing. All the same, it ought not to be inevitable that parents endure sustained grief about their child’s prospects. They ought to be illuminated as quickly as possible about all that is possible for their child. In particular, they ought to be encouraged to enjoy great hopes for their child. I mused about the power of story-telling to influence attitudes. G. Thomas Couser claims that ‘life writing can play a significant role in changing public attitudes about deafness’ (221) but then proceeds to cast doubt on his own assertion by later asking, ‘to what degree and how do the extant narratives of deafness rewrite the discourse of disability? Indeed, to what degree and how do they manage to represent the experience of deafness at all?’ (225). Certainly, stories from the Deaf community do not speak for me as my life has not been shaped by the framing of deafness as a separate linguistic and cultural entity. Nor am I drawn to the militancy of identity politics that uses terms such as ‘oppression’ and ‘oppressors’ to deride the efforts of parents and educators to teach deaf children to speak (Lane; Padden and Humphries). This seems to be unhelpfully hostile and assumes that deafness is the sole arbitrating reason that deaf people struggle with understanding who they are. It is the nature of being human to struggle with who we are. Whether we are deaf, migrants, black, gay, mentally ill – or none of these things – we are all answerable to the questions: ‘who am I and what is my place in the world?’ As I cast around for stories of deafness and deaf people with which I could relate, I pondered on the relative infrequency of deaf characters in literature, and the scarcity of autobiographies by deaf writers or biographies of deaf people by either deaf or hearing people. I also wondered whether written stories of deafness, memoirs and fiction, shape public perceptions or do they simply respond to existing public perceptions of deafness? As Susan DeGaia, a deaf academic at California State University writes, ‘Analysing the way stories are told can show us a lot about who is most powerful, most heard, whose perspective matters most to society. I think if we polled deaf/Deaf people, we would find many things missing from the stories that are told about them’ (DeGaia). Fighting my diffidence in staking out my persona as a ‘deaf woman’ and mustering the ‘conviction as to the importance of what [I have] to say, [my] right to say it’ (Olsen 27), I decided to write The Art of Being Deaf, an anthology of personal essays in the manner of reflective memoirs on deafness drawing on my own life experiences and supported by additional research. This presented me with a narrative dilemma because my deafness is just one of several life-events by which I understand myself. I wanted to find fresh ways of telling stories of deaf experiences while fashioning my memoir essays to show the texture of my life in all its variousness. A.N.Wilson’s observation about the precarious insensitivity of biographical writing was my guiding pole-star: the sense of our own identity is fluid and tolerant, whereas our sense of the identity of others is always more fixed and quite often edges towards caricature. We know within ourselves that we can be twenty different persons in a single day and that the attempt to explain our personality is doomed to become a falsehood after only a few words ... . And yet ... works of literature, novels and biographies depend for their aesthetic success precisely on this insensitive ability to simplify, to describe, to draw lines around another person and say, ‘This is she’ or ‘This is he.’ I have chosen to explore my relationship with my deafness through the multiple-threads of writing several personal essays as my story-telling vehicle rather than as a single-thread autobiography. The multiple-thread approach to telling my stories also sought to avoid the pitfalls of identity narrative in which I might unwittingly set myself up as an exemplar of one sort or another, be it as a ‘successful deaf person’ or as an ‘angry militant deaf activist’ or as ‘a deaf individual in denial attempting to pass as hearing.’ But in seeking to avoid these sorts of stories, what autobiographical story am I trying to tell? Because, other than being deaf, my life is not otherwise especially unusual. It is pitted here with sadness and lifted there with joy, but it is mostly a plateau held stable by the grist of daily life. Christopher Jon Heuer recognises this dilemma when he writes, ‘neither autobiography nor biography nor fiction can survive without discord. Without it, we are left with boredom. Without it, what we have is the lack of a point, a theme and a plot’ (Heuer 196). By writing The Art of Being Deaf, I am learning more than I have to teach. In the absence of deaf friends or mentors, and in the climate of my own reluctance to discuss my concerns with hearing people who, when I do flag any anxieties about issues arising from my deafness tend to be hearty and upbeat in their responses, I have had to work things out for myself. In hindsight, I suspect that I have simply ignored most of my deafness-related difficulties, leaving the heavy lifting work to my parents, teachers, and friends – ‘for it is the non-deaf who absorb a large part of the disability’ (Wright, 5) – and just got on with things by complying with what was expected of me, usually to good practical effect but at the cost of enriching my understanding of myself and possibly at the cost of intimacy. Reading deaf fiction and memoirs during the course of this writing project is proving to be helpful for me. I enjoy the companionability of it, but not until I got over my fright at seeing so many documented versions of deaf experiences, and it was a fright. For a while there, it was like walking through the Hall of Mirrors in Luna Park. Did I really look like that? Or no, perhaps I was like that? But no, here’s another turn, another mirror, another face. Spinning, twisting, turning. It was only when I stopped searching for the right mirror, the single defining portrait, that I began to enjoy seeing my deaf-self/hearing-persona experiences reflected in, or challenged by, what I read. Other deaf writers’ recollections are stirring into fresh life my own buried memories, prompting me to re-imagine them so that I can examine my responses to those experiences more contemplatively and less reactively than I might have done originally. We can learn about the diversity of deaf experiences and the nuances of deaf identity that rise above the stock symbolic scripts by reading authentic, well-crafted stories by memoirists and novelists. Whether they are hearing or deaf writers, by providing different perspectives on deafness, they have something useful to say, demonstrate and illustrate about deafness and deaf people. I imagine the possibility of my book, The Art of Being Deaf, providing a similar mentoring role to other deaf people and families.References Couser, G. Thomas. Recovering Bodies: Illness, Disablity, and Life Writing. Wisconsin: University of Wisconsin Press, 1997. Heuer, Christopher Jon. ‘Deafness as Conflict and Conflict Component.’ Sign Language Studies 7.2 (Winter 2007): 195-199. Lane, Harlan. When the Mind Hears: A History of the Deaf. New York: Random House, 1984 Olsen, Tillie. Silences. New York: Delta/Seymour Lawrence. 1978. Padden, Carol, and Tom Humphries. Deaf in America: Voices from a Culture. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1998. Schulz, J. (ed). A Revealed Life. Sydney: ABC Books and Griffith Review. 2007 Wilson, A.N. Incline Our Hearts. London: Penguin Books. 1988. Wright, David. Deafness: An Autobiography. New York: Stein and Day, 1969.

IntroductionCan a person’s tastes in art, music, literature, cinema, sport, humour or other fields be changed through online activity? This article explores that question by comparing recent research findings in the areas of neuroplasticity and flow. Neuroplasticity, also known as brain plasticity, is the idea that the human brain can change its structure and function through thought and activity, even into old age (Doidge). The second concept—flow—comes from the field of psychology, and refers to a deeply satisfying state of focused attention that people sometimes experience while engaging in an enjoyable activity such as browsing the Web (Csikszentmihalyi, Flow). Research into the experiences of web users, conducted from these two different perspectives, reveal interesting connections to the acquisition of taste and opportunities for further investigation. Neuroplasticity The term neuroplasticity comes from the words neuron and plastic. Neurons are the nerve cells in our brains and nervous systems. Plastic, in this context, means flexibility or malleability. Neuroplasticity has replaced the formerly-held belief that the brain is a physiologically static organ, hard-wired like a machine (Kolb, Gibb and Robinson). For much of the last century, scientists believed that adult brains, unlike those of children, could not produce new neurons or build new pathways or connections between neurons. According to this view, any brain function that was lost through damage was irretrievable. Today, research into neuroplasticity has proven that this is not the case. In the late 1960s and 1970s pioneering scientists such as Paul Bach-y-Rita demonstrated that brains change their structure with different activities they perform (Kercel). When certain parts fail, other parts can sometimes take over. Subsequent research by many scientists has validated this once-controversial idea, leading to practical benefits such as the restoration of limb function in stroke victims, and improved cognition and perception in people with learning disabilities (Nowak et al.). Merzenich, for example, has demonstrated how a brain’s processing areas, called brain maps, change in response to what people do over the course of their lives. Different brain maps exist for different activities and functions, including sensory perception, motor skills and higher mental activities. Brain maps are governed by competition for mental resources and the principle of “use it or lose it.” If a person stops exercising particular mental skills, such as speaking Spanish or playing piano, then the brain map space for those skills is handed over to skills that they practise instead. Brain maps are also governed by a principle that is summarised by the expression, “neurons that fire together wire together” (Doidge 63). Neurons in brain maps develop stronger connections to each other when they are activated at the same moment in time. Consequently people are able to form new maps by developing new neural connections. Acquiring Tastes Doidge has illustrated the role that neuroplasticity plays in acquiring new tastes by explaining how habitual viewing of online pornography can shape sexual tastes (102). In the mid- to late-1990s, Doidge (a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst) treated several men who had lost interest in their sexual partners as a consequence of their addiction to online pornography. Doidge explains their change of sexual taste in terms of neuroplasticity, noting that “pornography, delivered by high-speed Internet connections, satisfies every one of the prerequisites for neuroplastic change” (102). The sexual excitement of viewing pornography releases a chemical neurotransmitter named dopamine that activates the brain’s pleasure centres. Since “neurons that fire together wire together”, the repeated viewing of pornography effectively wires the pornographic images into the pleasure centres of the brain with the focused attention required for neuroplastic change. In other words, habitual viewers of pornography develop new brain maps based on the photos and videos they see. And since the brain operates on a “use it or lose it” principle, they long to keep those new maps activated. Consequently, pornography has an addictive power. Like all addicts, the men who Doidge treated developed a tolerance to the photos and videos they observed and sought out progressively higher levels of stimulation for satisfaction. Doidge explains the result: The content of what they found exciting changed as the Web sites introduced themes and scripts that altered their brains without their awareness. Because plasticity is competitive, the brain maps for new, exciting images increased at the expense of what had previously attracted them—the reason, I believe, they began to find their girlfriends less of a turn-on. (109) If the habitual viewing of online pornography can change sexual tastes, what other tastes can be changed through online activity? Art? Music? Literature? Cinema? Sport? Humour? One avenue for investigating this question is to consider existing research into the flow experiences of web users. The term flow refers to a deeply satisfying state of focused attention that was first identified by psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (Beyond Boredom) in his studies of optimal experiences. According to Csikszentmihalyi, people in flow “are so involved in an activity that nothing else seems to matter; the experience itself is so enjoyable that people will do it even at great cost, for the sheer sake of doing it” (Flow 4). Flow experiences are characterised by some common elements, which include a balance between the challenges of an activity and the skills required to meet those challenges; clear goals and feedback; concentration on the task at hand; a sense of control; a merging of action and awareness; a loss of self-consciousness; a distorted sense of time; and the autotelic experience. The term autotelic refers to an activity that is done, not with the expectation of some future benefit, but simply because the doing itself is the reward. Whenever people reflect on their flow experiences, they mention some, and often all, of these characteristics. Support for Csikszentmihalyi’s characterisation of flow can be found in studies of many diverse activities, such as playing computer games (Chen) and participating in sport (Jackson), to mention just two examples. The activities that people engage in to experience flow vary enormously, but they describe how it feels in almost identical terms. Pace has developed a grounded theory of the flow experiences of web users engaged in content-seeking activities including directed searching and exploratory browsing. The term grounded in this instance refers to the fact that the theory was developed using the Grounded Theory research method, and its explanations are grounded in the study’s data rather than deduced from research literature (Charmaz). A review of that theory reveals many similarities between the flow experiences of web users engaged in content-seeking activities and the experiences of habitual viewers of online pornography described by Doidge. The following sections will consider several of those similarities. Focused Attention Focused attention is essential for long-term neuroplastic change. Goleman notes that “when practice occurs while we are focusing elsewhere, the brain does not rewire the relevant circuitry for that particular routine” (164). In a series of brain mapping experiments with monkeys, Merzenich discovered that “lasting changes occurred only when his monkeys paid close attention” (Doidge 68). When the animals performed tasks without paying close attention, their brain maps changed, but the changes did not last. Focused attention also plays a central role in the flow experiences of web users. The higher-than-average challenges associated with flow activities require a complete focusing of attention on the task at hand, or as Csikszentmihalyi puts it, “a centering of attention on a limited stimulus field” (Beyond Boredom 40). An important by-product of this fact is that flow leaves no room in one’s consciousness for irrelevant thoughts, worries or distractions (Csikszentmihalyi, Flow 58). People who experience flow frequently report that, while it lasts, they are able to forget about the unpleasant aspects of life. Consider the following comment from a 42-year-old male’s recollection of experiencing flow while using the Web: “It’s a total concentration experience. You’re so interested in doing what it is you’re doing that nothing’s interrupting you.” In everyday life, one’s concentration is rarely so intense that all preoccupations disappear from consciousness, but that is precisely what happens in a flow experience. All of the troubling thoughts that normally occupy the mind are temporarily suspended while the pressing demands of the flow activity consume one’s attention. Let’s now consider a second similarity between the flow experiences of web users and the taste-changing experiences of habitual viewers of online pornography. Enjoyment The pleasure experienced by the pornography addicts treated by Doidge played an important role in the alteration of their brain maps and sexual tastes. Since “neurons that fire together wire together”, the repeated viewing of pornographic photos and videos wired those images into the pleasure centres of their brains with the focused attention required for neuroplastic change. Web users in flow also experience enjoyment, but possibly a different kind of enjoyment to the pleasure described by Doidge. Seligman and Csikszentmihalyi make the following distinction between pleasure and enjoyment: Pleasure is the good feeling that comes from satisfying homeostatic needs such as hunger, sex, and bodily comfort. Enjoyment, on the other hand, refers to the good feelings people experience when they break through the limits of homeostasis—when they do something that stretches them beyond what they were—in an athletic event, an artistic performance, a good deed, a stimulating conversation. (12) The enjoyment experienced by people in flow is sometimes described as “the autotelic experience.” According to Csikszentmihalyi, an autotelic experience is “a self-contained activity, one that is done not with the expectation of some future benefit, but simply because the doing itself is the reward” (Flow 67). Because autotelic experiences are so satisfying, they create a strong desire to repeat the activity that produced the experience. Consider the following comment from a web user about the reasons he enjoys online content-seeking activities that have led to flow: It’s like going to somewhere new. You’re always learning something. You’re always finding something. And you don’t know what it is you’re going to find. There’s so much out there that you’ll go there one day and then you’ll come back, and you’ll actually end up on a different path and finding something different. So it’s investigation of the unknown really. This comment, like many web users’ recollections of their flow experiences, points to a relationship between enjoyment and discovery. This connection is also evident in flow experiences that occur during other kinds of activities. For example, Csikszentmihalyi suggests that “the reason we enjoy a particular activity is not because such pleasure has been previously programmed in our nervous system, but because of something discovered as a result of interaction” (The Evolving Self 189). He illustrates this point with the example of a person who is at first indifferent to or bored by a particular activity, such as listening to classical music. When opportunities for action in the context of the activity become clearer, or when the individual’s skills improve, the activity may start to be interesting and finally gratifying. For example, if a person begins to understand the design underlying a symphony he or she might begin to enjoy the act of listening. This example hints at how discovery, enjoyment and other rewards of flow may engender change in a person’s taste. Let’s now consider a third similarity between the two areas of research. Compulsive Behaviour One consequence of flow experiences being so enjoyable is that they create a strong desire to repeat whatever helped to make them happen. If a person experiences flow while browsing online for new music, for example, he or she will probably want to repeat that activity to enjoy the experience again. Consider the following comment from a 28-year-old female web user who recalled experiencing flow intermittently over a period of three days: “I did go to bed—really late. And then as soon as I got up in the morning I was zoom—straight back on there […] I guess it’s a bit like a gambling addiction.” This study informant’s use of the term addiction highlights another similarity between the flow experiences of web users and habitual viewing of online pornography. Flow experiences can, in a very small percentage of cases, encourage compulsive behaviour and possibly addiction. A study by Khang, Kim and Kim found that “experiences of the flow state significantly influenced media addiction” across three media forms: the Internet, mobile phones and video games (2423). Examples of problems associated with excessive Internet use include sleep deprivation, poor eating and exercise habits, conflict with family members, and neglect of academic, interpersonal, financial and, occupational responsibilities (Douglas et al). Some heavy Internet users report feelings of moodiness and anxiety while they are offline, along with an intense desire to log in. Doidge states that “the addictiveness of Internet pornography is not a metaphor” (106), but many researchers are reluctant to apply the term addiction to heavy Internet use. Internet addiction first came to the attention of the research community in the mid-1990s when Young conceptualised it as an impulse-control disorder and proposed a set of diagnostic criteria based on the diagnostic criteria for pathological gambling in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. However, after more than fifteen years of research on this subject, there is still no agreement on a definition or diagnostic criteria for Internet addiction. Some researchers argue that Internet addiction is not a true addiction and may be no more than a symptom of other existing disorders such as anxiety or depression (Weinstein and Lejoyeux). Regardless of this controversy, the potential for compulsive behaviour is another clear similarity between the flow experiences of web users and the neuroplastic change caused by habitual viewing of online pornography. One more similarity will be considered. Sidetracks In Pace’s study of the flow experiences of web users, informants reported engaging in two general types of content-seeking behaviour: (1) a directed searching mode in which one is motivated to find a particular piece of content such as the answer to a question or a specific music video; and (2) an exploratory browsing mode that is characterised by diffuse motives such as passing time or seeking stimulation. Directed searching and exploratory browsing are not dichotomous forms of navigation behaviour. On the contrary, they are closely interrelated. Web users move back and forth between the two modes, often many times within the same session. Just as web users can change from one navigation mode to another, they can also get sidetracked from one topic to another. For instance, it is reportedly quite common for a web user engaged in a content-seeking activity to decide to pursue a different goal because his or her curiosity is aroused by interesting content or links that are not directly relevant to the task at hand. Consider the following comment from a 21-year-old female web user whose desire to find contact details for a local Tai Chi group disappeared when a link to the Sportsgirl web site attracted her attention: I think I typed in “sports” […] I was actually looking for a place to do Tai Chi and that sort of thing. So I was looking for a sport. And it ended up coming up with the Sportsgirl web site. And I ended up looking at clothes all afternoon. So that was kind of cool. Sidetracks are a common feature of the flow experiences of web users. They are also a prominent feature of the description that Doidge provided of the pornography addicts’ neuroplastic change (109). The content of what the men found exciting changed as the web sites they viewed introduced “themes and scripts” or sidetracks that altered their brain maps. “Without being fully aware of what they were looking for, they scanned hundreds of images and scenarios until they hit upon an image or sexual script that touched some buried theme that really excited them”, Doidge notes (110). Conclusion Can a person’s tastes in art, music, literature, cinema, sport, humour or some other field be changed through online activity, just as sexual tastes can? This article alone cannot conclusively answer that question, but significant similarities between the flow experiences of web users and the neuroplastic change experienced by habitual viewers of online pornography suggest that flow theory could be a fruitful line of investigation. Can the flow experiences of web users lead to changes in taste, just as the neuroplastic change caused by habitual viewing of online pornography can lead to changes in sexual taste? What is the relationship between flow and neuroplastic change? Is the Internet the most appropriate environment for exploring these questions about taste, or do offline flow activities provide insights that have been neglected? These are some of the unanswered questions arising from this discussion that require further investigation. Advances in the field of neuroplasticity have been described as some of “the most extraordinary discoveries of the twentieth century” (Doidge xv). These advances provide an opportunity to revisit related theories and to enhance our understanding of phenomena such as flow and taste. References Charmaz, Kathy. Constructing Grounded Theory: A Practical Guide Through Qualitative Analysis. Thousand Oaks, California: Sage Publications, 2006. Chen, Jenova. “Flow in Games (and Everything Else).” Communications of the ACM 50.4 (2007): 31–34. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly. Beyond Boredom and Anxiety: The Experience of Play in Work and Games. San Francisco: Jossey-Bass Publishers, 1975. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly. The Evolving Self: A Psychology for the Third Millennium. New York: HarperPerennial, 1993. Csikszentmihalyi, Mihaly. Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience. New York: HarperPerennial, 1990. Doidge, Norman. The Brain That Changes Itself: Stories of Personal Triumph from the Frontiers of Brain Science. Melbourne: Scribe Publications, 2010. Douglas, Alecia C., Juline E. Mills, Mamadou Niang, Svetlana Stepchenkova, Sookeun Byun, Celestino Ruffini, Seul Ki Lee, Jihad Loutfi, Jung-Kook Lee, Mikhail Atallah, and Marina Blanton. “Internet Addiction: Meta-Synthesis of Qualitative Research for the Decade 1996-2006.” Computers in Human Behavior 24 (2008): 3027–3044. Goleman, Daniel. Focus: The Hidden Driver of Excellence. New York: HarperCollins, 2013. Jackson, Susan. “Toward a Conceptual Understanding of the Flow Experience in Elite Athletes.” Research Quarterly for Exercise and Sport 67.1 (1996): 76–90. Khang, Hyoungkoo, Jung Kyu Kim, and Yeojin Kim. “Self-Traits and Motivations as Antecedents of Digital Media Flow and Addiction: The Internet, Mobile Phones, and Video Games.” Computers in Human Behavior 29 (2013): 2416–2424. Kercel, Stephen W. “Editorial: The Wide-Ranging Impact of the Work of Paul Bach-y-Rita.” Journal of Integrative Neuroscience 4.4 (2005): 403–406. Kolb, Bryan, Robbin Gibb, and Terry E. Robinson. “Brain Plasticity and Behavior.” Current Directions in Psychological Science 12.1 (2003): 1–5. Merzenich, Michael. Soft-Wired: How the New Science of Brain Plasticity Can Change Your Life. San Francisco: Parnassus Publishing, 2013. Nowak, Dennis A., Kathrin Bösl, Jitka Podubeckà, and James R. Carey. “Noninvasive Brain Stimulation and Motor Recovery After Stroke.” Restorative Neurology and Neuroscience 28 (2010): 531–544. Pace, Steven. “A Grounded Theory of the Flow Experiences of Web Users.” International Journal of Human-Computer Studies 60.3 (2004): 327–363. Seligman, Martin E. P., and Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. “Positive Psychology: An Introduction.” American Psychologist 55.1 (2000): 5–14. Weinstein, Aviv, and Michel Lejoyeux. “Internet Addiction or Excessive Internet Use.” The American Journal of Drug and Alcohol Abuse 36 (2010): 277–283. Young, Kimberly S. Caught in the Net: How to Recognize the Signs of Internet Addiction—And a Winning Strategy for Recovery. New York: John Wiley & Sons, 1998.

The release of the film Fight Club (Dir. David Fincher, 1999) was met with an outpouring of contradictory reviews. From David Ansen’s [Newsweek] claim that “Fight Club is the most incendiary movie to come out of Hollywood in a long time” (Fight Club DVD insert) to LA Times’s Kenneth Turan who proclaimed Fight Club to be “…a witless mishmash of whiny, infantile philosophising and bone-crushing violence that actually thinks it’s saying something of significance” (Fight Club DVD insert), everyone, it seemed, needed to weigh in with their views. Whether you think the film is a piece of witless and excessive trash, or believe, as Fight Club novelist Chuck Palahniuk hopes “it would offer more people the idea that they could create their own lives outside the existing blueprint for happiness offered by society,” this is a film that people react strongly to (Fight Club DVD insert). Whether or not the film is successful in the new ‘blueprint’ area is debatable and one focus of this essay. It isn’t difficult to spot the focus of the film Fight Club. The title and the graphic, edgy trailers for the film leave no doubt in the viewer’s mind that this film is about fighting. But fighting what and why are the questions that unveil the deeper edge to the film, an edge that skirts the abyss of deep psychological schism: man’s alienation from man, society and self, and the position of the late twentieth century male whose gendered potentialities have become muted thanks to corporate cookie-cutter culture and the loss of a ‘hunter-gatherer’ role for men. In a nutshell, the film explores the psychic rift of the main character, unnamed for the film, but conventionally referred to as “Jack” (played by Ed Norton). Jack leads a life many late twentieth century males can identify with, a life without real grounding, focus or passion. It is the kind of life that has become a by-product of the “me” generation and corporate/consumer culture. Aside from Jack’s inability to find real satisfaction in his love life, friendships, job, or sense of self, he also suffers from an identity disorder. While there are few people who are unaware of the mind-numbing (and in some cases, audience-alienating) “twist” offered near the end of the film, it bears repeating that the compelling character of Tyler Durden (played by Brad Pitt) who shapes and influences the changes in Jack’s life is actually revealed near the end of the film as a manifestation of Jack’s alter ego. Jack and Tyler are the same person. The two conspire to start ‘Fight Club’, where men hit other men. Hard. The Club becomes an underground sensation, expanding to other communities and cities and eventually spawns the offshoot Project Mayhem whose goal it is to ultimately erase individual debt so everyone (all consumers) can start at zero. In order to manage this affair, several large buildings are slated for destruction by the Mayhem team. Of course no people will be in the buildings at the time, but all the records will be destroyed. This is the core of the film, but there are several other interesting sidelights that will become important to this discussion, including the lone female character Marla who becomes the love interest of Jack/Tyler, and the friend Bob, whom Jack meets during his insomniac foray into the seedy underworld of the self help meeting. The film itself seems to cry out for a psychoanalytic reading. Its thinly veiled references to Freudian concepts and subliminal tricks aside, it also makes the inner world of the protagonist its landscape and backdrop. In a film dominated by a psychological and psychical problem, psychoanalysis seems an excellent tool for delving more deeply into the symbols and attitudes of the piece. I have chosen both Kleinian object relations and Julia Kristeva’s understanding of abjection to help illuminate some issues in the film. Object relations helps to make clear both the divergence of personality and the emergence of a ‘repaired’ protagonist at the end of the film as Jack first creates and then destroys his alter ego. Kristeva initially explored abjection theory via literature in Powers of Horror (1982), but Barbara Creed’s Monstrous Feminine: Film, Feminism and Psychoanalysis (1993) opened wide the door for applications of the theory to film studies. Creed uses abjection to explore issues of gender in the horror film, focusing on the role and depiction of women as abject. Here, I have adapted some of her ideas and intend to explore the role of abjection in the male identification process. In this film fighting operates as both reality and metaphor, on both the physical and psychical levels, encompassing the internal and external fight within the mind and body of the protagonist. Jack’s main problem is a lack of concrete identity and self-realization. Numbed by his willing and eager participation in consumer culture and his tacit compliance with the gritty underworld of his job as an automotive ‘recall coordinator’, his life’s work is estimating the cost effectiveness of saving lives by calculating the cost of death. In Jack’s world, meaning is derived solely through the external—external products he consumes and collects. Jack’s consumer-based emasculation is expressed when he states, “Like so many others I had become a slave to the Ikea nesting instinct.” In this sentence he clarifies his disempowerment and feminisation in one swoop. Having few, if any, relationships with human beings, meaningful or otherwise, Jack never reaches a level of social maturity. His only solace comes from visiting anonymous help groups for the terminally ill. Although Jack is physically fine (aside from his insomnia) a part of him is clearly dying, as his sense of who he is in a postmodern culture is hopelessly mediated by advertisements that tell him what to be. In the absence of a father, Jack appears to have had no real role models. Made ‘soft’ by his mother, Jack exhibits a not so subtle misogyny that is illustrated through his relationship with fellow ‘tourist’ in the self-help circles, Marla Singer. Jack’s identity issues unfold via various conflicts, each of which is enmeshed in the club he starts that revolves around the physical pain of hand-to-hand, man-on-man combat. Jack’s conflicts with himself, others and society at large are all compressed within the theme and practice of fighting and the fight clubs he institutes. Fighting for Jack (and the others who join) seems the answer to life’s immediate problems. This essay looks deeply into Jack’s identity conflict, viewing it as a moment of psychic crisis in which Jack creates an alternate personality deeply steeped in and connected to the ‘abject’ in almost every way. Thus, Jack forces himself to confront the abject in himself and the world around him, dealing with abjection on several levels all with a view to expelling it to restore the ‘clean and proper’ boundaries necessary in the ‘whole’ self. Viewed though the lens of psychoanalysis, particularly Klein’s work on object relations and Kristeva’s work with abjection, allows a reading in which the film expresses the need for and accomplishment of a self-activated encounter with the abject in order to redraw ‘clean and proper’ boundaries of self. This film’s tag lines, ‘Mischief, Mayhem and Soap’—illustrate both the presence (Mischief, Mayhem) and function (Soap) of the abject—the interaction with the abject will lead to a ‘clean’ subject—a proper subject, a restored subject. Before continuing, a brief discussion of abjection and object relations and the ways in which they are utilized in this essay is essential here. One of Klein’s major propositions is that “the neonate brings into the world two main conflicting impulses: love and hate” (Mitchell 19). Each of these conflicting impulses must be dealt with, usually by either “bringing them together in order to modify the death drive along with the life drive or expelling the death drive into the outside world” (19). Along with this conflict arises the conflict of a primary relationship with the mother, which is seen as both satisfying and frustrating, and then later complicated with the addition of the father. The main conflicting love/hate binary is reflective of a number of ‘sets’ of dualities that surface when looking into the mother/child relationship. Besides love and hate, there is the ‘good’ and ‘bad’ mother, the mother as symbolic of both life and death, the symbolic (paternal) and semiotic (maternal), total oneness and total autonomy. The curious ‘split’ nature of the infant’s perception of the maternal figure recalls a kind of doppelganger, a doubling of the maternal (in positive and negative incarnations), that can be seen as abject. In the film, this informs the relationship between both Jack and Marla and Jack and Tyler, as I argue Tyler and Marla serve as parental substitutes at one part in the film. This is clarified in Jack’s statements about his relationship with the two of them: “My parents pulled this exact same act for years” and “I am six years old again, passing messages between parents.” This imaginary relationship allows Jack to re-experience some of his early identification processes, while effectively trading out the gender responsibilities to the point where Tyler symbolically takes the place of the ‘mother’ and Marla the place of the ‘father’. The result of this action is an excess of male gendered experiences in which Jack in crisis (emasculated) is surrounded by phalluses. Kristeva’s work with abjection is also important here. I am especially interested in her understanding of the mother/child relationship as connected with abjection, particularly the threat the mother represents to the child as wanting to return to a state of oneness. The abject functions in Fight Club as a means for the protagonist to re-configure his own autonomy. For Kristeva, the abject is that which is cast out in order that “I” may exist. It exists at the borders of the self and continually draws the subject into it. As the subject revolts and pulls away, its resistance cues the process of defining itself as separate, proper and autonomous. When the narrative of Jack’s life refuses to make sense to him, and his experiences seem like “a copy of a copy of a copy,” Jack turns inward for help. Kristeva says that the abject is “experienced at the peak of its strength when that subject, weary of fruitless attempts to identify with something on the outside, finds the impossible within” (5). Thus Jack ‘finds’ Tyler. The abject, [represented by Bob, Tyler and Marla in the film] is that which disturbs “identity, system, order. What does not respect borders, positions, rules” (Kristeva 4). As the abject is that which blurs boundaries borders and classification, the film itself is steeped in abject images and ideas. The discrete categories of inside/outside, asleep/awake, male/female, and self/other are continually troubled throughout the narrative. The two most confused binaries are male/female and self/other. As the film is about Jack’s own experience of emasculation it is not until the male/female gender issues are resolved that his self/other issues can be resolved. Through the re-ordering of gender he is able to take his place in society alongside Marla, finally viewed as not his mother or friend but lover. Jack Versus Himself: A Cult Of One Jack is able to re-vamp his personality through exposure to the abject and the replaying of certain key object relations moments in his childhood. He engages with this ‘inner child’ to reconnect with psychically difficult moments in which his ‘self’ emerged. Jack, however, twists the typical plot of maternal and paternal bonding in ways that speak to the underlying misogyny of the film and of late twentieth century society as well. While the story begins with both male and female characters in unnatural roles with unnatural and abject body parts, by the end of the film, these ‘abnormalities’ or abject objects are erased, ejected from the text so Jack is restored to the ‘safety’ of a compulsory heterosexuality. Bob, Tyler and Marla’s characters are three examples of gender twisting expressed in the film. In psychoanalytic literature, the child bonds first to the mother (via feeding from the breast and in-utero existence) and experiences a feeling of total oneness impossible to duplicate. Eventually the child seeks autonomy and breaks from the mother and her clinging ways with the help of the father and the phallus. So in basic terms, the female is abject, representing infantile regression and oneness, and the male represents taking the proper place in the symbolic order. When the female (mother) is denied, the male accepts his natural place in culture and society. However, in this film, Tyler (the male) is the abject presence in the text, that which threatens to consume and subsume the narrator’s personality. It is Marla, the phallic woman, who interposes herself in this dyad and becomes the correct choice for Jack, allowing him to proceed into ‘normal relations.’ Early in the film, Jack is unable to envision a female partner with whom he can open up and share, instead substituting Bob—and his doubly signified ‘bitch-tits’—as a locus of comfort. In Bob’s ample bosom, Jack finds the release he is looking for, though it is unnatural in more ways than one. The feminised Bob [testicular cancer patient] comforts and coddles Jack so much that he feels the same idyllic bliss experienced by the infant at the mother’s breast; Jack feels “lost in oblivion, dark and silent and complete.” That night he is able for the first time in months to sleep: “Babies don’t sleep this well.” This illustrates Jack’s longing for the safety and security of the mother, complicated by his inability to bond with a female, replaced with his deep need for identification with a male. Continuing the twist, it is Marla who foils Jack’s moment of infantile bliss: “She ruined everything” with her presence, Jack sneers. Jack’s regression to this infantile bliss with either man or woman would be perceived as abject, (disrupting system and order) but this particular regression is at least doubly abject because of Bob’s unnatural breasts and lack of testicles. Both Bob, and to some degree Tyler, offer abjection to Jack as a way of dealing with this complexities of autonomous living. While my argument is that Tyler takes the traditional ‘female’ role in the drama, as a figure (like Bob) who lures Jack into an unnatural oneness that must ultimately be rejected, it is true that even in his position as abject ‘female’ (mother), Tyler is overwhelmingly phallic. His ‘jobs’ consist of splicing shots of penises into films, urinating and masturbating into restaurant food and engaging in acrobatic sex with Marla. Since Marla, who occupies the position of father bringing Jack into society away from the influence of Tyler, is also coded phallic, Jack’s world is overwhelmingly symbolically male. This appears to be a response to the overwhelming physical presence of Jack’s mother of which Tyler comments, “We’re a generation of men raised by women. I am wondering if another woman is really the answer we need?” During this same scene, Jack clarifies his regressive dilemma: “I can’t get married, I am a thirty year old boy.” Thus while Tyler campaigns for a world without women, Jack must decide if this is the correct way to go. Immersion in the world of uber-maleness only seems to make his life worse. It is only after he ‘kills’ Tyler and accepts Marla as a partner that he can feel successful. In another help meeting, one of the guided meditations emphasizes his regression by asking him to go to his “cave” and locate his “power animal.” This early in the film, Jack can only envision his power animal as a rather silly penguin, which, although phallic to some extent, is undercut by the fact that it speaks with a child’s voice. In the next visualization of the ‘power animal’, the animal becomes Marla—clarifying her influence over Jack’s subconscious. The threat of Marla’s sexuality is on one level explored with Jack’s counterpart Tyler, the one who dares to go where Jack will not, but their encounters are not shown in a ‘natural’ or fully mature light. They are instead equated with childhood experimentation and regressive fantasies as Marla responds that she “hasn’t been fucked like that since grade school” and Tyler proclaims the relationship is mere “sportfucking.” It is Tyler who discovers Marla’s oversized dildo proudly displayed on a dresser, of which she states “Don’t worry its not a threat to you.” This phallicized Marla refers to herself as “infectious human waste,” clearly abject. Marla’s power must be muted before Jack can truly relate to her. This is illustrated in two separate ‘visions’ of sexual intercourse—one between Marla and Tyler early in the film in which Marla assumes the dominant position, and then later near the end of the film when the same encounter is replayed with Jack taking Tyler’s place, Marla now in the standard missionary position on her back: Proper. Jack’s struggle with self is played out via his relationship with Tyler (and Marla to some degree). Once Jack has been exposed to the various levels of abject behaviour offered by Tyler and Project Mayhem, he chooses to go it alone, no longer needing the double he himself created. After experiencing and rejecting the abject, Jack redraws his boundaries and cleanses his soul. Jack Versus Society—The Personal Is Political Jack’s personal struggle becomes political—and communal. Another attempt at forming identity, Fight Club is bound to fail because it offers not autonomy but a group identity substituted for an individual one. While Jack loathes his ‘single serving life’ before Fight Club, he must come to realize that a group identity brings more problems than solutions in an identity crisis. While the comfort of ‘oneness’ is alluring, it is also abject. As Jack is able to finally refuse the safely and oneness offered by Tyler’s existence, he must also deny the safety in numbers offered by Fight Club itself. The cult he creates swallows members whole, excreting them as the “all singing all dancing crap of the world.” They eat, drink and sleep Fight Club and eventually its ‘evolutionary’ offshoot, Project Mayhem. During his involvement with Fight Club and Project Mayhem, Jack is exposed to three levels of abjection including food loathing, bodily wastes, and the corpse, each of which threaten to draw him to the “place where meaning collapses” (Kristeva 2). Jack’s first experience involves Tyler’s (a)vocation as a waiter who urinates and probably masturbates into patrons’ food. This mingling of bodily wastes and nourishment represents the most elementary form of abjection: food loathing. While Jack appears amused at Tyler’s antics in the beginning, by the end of the film, he illustrates his movement closer to self-identification, by calling for “clean food, please” signalling his alliance with the clean and proper. Bodily wastes, the internal made visible, represent the most extended contact Jack has with the abject. These experiences, when what is properly outside ends up inside and vice versa, begin with bloody hand-to-hand combat, including Tyler’s vomiting of blood into the mouth of an unwilling Fight Club participant “Lou”, causing another witness to vomit as well. The physical aversion to abject images (blood, pus, excrement) is part of the redrawing of self—the abject is ejected –via nausea/vomiting. Kristeva explains: “I give birth to myself amid the violence of sobs, of vomit” (3). The images continue to pile up as Jack describes life in the Paper Street house: “What a shit hole.” The house slowly decomposes around them, leaking and mouldy, releasing its own special smell: the rot of a “warm stale refrigerator” mixed with the “fart smell of steam” from a nearby industrial plant. While at Paper Street, Tyler decides to make soap. Soap in itself is an agent of cleanliness, but in this context it is abject and defiled by being composed of human waste. In a deeply abject moment, Jack is accidentally covered in refuse that spills from a ripped bag full of human fat pilfered from a liposuction clinic. Even at this profoundly disturbing moment, Jack is unwilling to give up his associations with Tyler and Project Mayhem. It is only after his encounter with a corpse that he changes his tune. While Fight Club attempted to blur physical boundaries via hand-to-hand combat and exchange of blood and blows, Project Mayhem threatens the psychic boundaries of self, a deeper danger. While a loud speaker drones “we are all part of the same compost heap” and a fellow occupant reminds Jack “In project mayhem we have no names,” Jack realizes he is truly losing himself, not gaining strength. Mayhem’s goal of ‘oneness’, like the maternal and infant experience, is exposed via slogans like “you are not a beautiful and unique snowflake. You are the same decaying organic matter as everything else.” Tyler finally puts his cards on the table and asks Jack to “stop trying to control everything and just let go.” For Kristeva, “If dung signifies the other side of the border, the place where I am not and which permits me to be, the corpse, the most sickening of wastes, is a border that has encroached upon everything”(3). The corpse of Bob causes Jack to confront the boundaries of life and death, both spiritual and physical, as he opens his eyes to the damaging effects of the cult-like environment into which he has fallen. Jack’s momentary indecision morphs into action after Bob’s death becomes just one more mantra for the zombie-like Project Mayhemers to chant: “His name was Robert Paulson.” Jack’s internal and external struggles are compressed into one moment when he commits homo(sui)cide. Placing a gun in his mouth, he attempts to rid himself of Tyler forever, his final words to Tyler: “My eyes are open now”. At this point, Jack is psychically ready to take charge of his life and confidently eject the abject from the narrative of his life. He wants no more to do with Project Mayhem gang and is reunited with Marla with whom he finally appears ready to have a fully realized relationship. His masculinity and identity restoration are made blindingly apparent by the final splice in the film—the image of Marla and Jack hand in hand overlooking the new view out of the tower, spliced with the shot of a semi-erect penis—back to shot of Marla and Jack. The message is clear: Jack is a man, he has a woman, and he knows who he is because of it. While Fight Club novelist Palahniuk hopes the film offers options for life “outside the existing blueprint offered by society” (Fight Club DVD insert). On the other hand, it’s unclear how well the film pulls this off. On one hand, its lambasting of the numbing effects of blind and excessive consumerism seems well explored, it’s unclear what options really surface by the end of the film. Although many targeted buildings have been destroyed, through which the viewer can assume some or even most records of individual debt were erased, the building in which Marla and Jack stand (initially slated for destruction) remains. Perhaps this is meant to signify the impossibility of true financial equality in American society. But it seems to me that the more pressing issues are not the ones openly addressed in the film (that of money and consumerism) but rather the more internalised issues of self-actualisation, gender identity and contentment. In a postmodern space ripe for the redrawing and redefinition of gender stereotypes, this film carefully reinscribes not only compulsory heterosexuality but also the rigid boundaries of acceptable male and female behaviour. For this film, the safest route to repairing male identity and self-hood threatened by the emasculating practices of a consumer culture is a route back. Back to infantile and childhood fantasy. While it dances provocatively around the edges of accepting a man with ‘bitch tits’ and a woman with a dick, ultimately Bob is killed and Marla reclaimed by Jack in an ‘I’m ok you’re ok’ final scene: “Look at me Marla, I am really OK”. Jack’s immersion in an all male cult(ure) is eschewed for the comfort of real breasts. Works Cited Creed, Barbara. The Monstrous Feminine: Film, Feminism and Psychoanalysis. New York: Routledge, 1993. Fight Club. Dir. David Fincher. 1999. Fight Club DVD edition. Dir. David Fincher. 2000. Kristeva, Julia. Powers of Horror: An Essay On Abjection. New York: Columbia Press: 1982. Mitchell, Juliet. The Selected Melanie Klein. New York: The Free Press, 1986. Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Caldwell, Tracy M.. "Identity Making from Soap to Nuts" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 6.1 (2003). Dn Month Year < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0302/10-identitymaking.php>. APA Style Caldwell, T. M., (2003, Feb 26). Identity Making from Soap to Nuts. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 6,(1). Retrieved Month Dn, Year, from http://www.media-culture.org.au/0302/10-identitymaking.html