Статті в журналах з теми "Language (Universal): Esperantido"

The Bologna process aims to create a European Higher Education Area by 2010, in which university studies are comparable and compatible and degrees more transparent. Its priority is the introduction of the three-cycle system Bachelor — Master — Doctorate. At the University of Leipzig a project was launched to connect the implementation of the new structures with the establishment of a programme in interlinguistics and Esperanto studies. In the winter semester 2007/2008 a compulsory-optional module with the title Universal Languages was taught, consisting of a weekly lecture, seminar and a language course Esperanto. It was an initiative of the Gesellschaft für Interlinguistik e.V. and financially supported by the Esperantic Studies Foundation. The paper reports on the structure, contents and results of the module and draws conclusions for similar initiatives at other European universities.

En 1927 la lingvisto kaj esperantisto William E. Collinson (1889-1969), profesoro pri germana lingvo kaj kompara lingvistiko en la Universitato de Liverpolo, publikigis esperantlingvan libron kun titolo La homa lingvo. Temas pri 'la unua enkonduko en lingvosciencon ĝis nun aperinta en Esperanto' (p.28). Tiu libro estis reeldonita en 2019 fare de Angela Tellier kaj Wim Jansen, kun anglalingva traduko, dulingva (angla kaj esperanto) prezentado, dulingva personindekso kaj dulingva notaro. La anglalingvan tradukon faris Simon Davies. Kees Hengeveld, profesoro pri teoria lingvistiko en Amsterdamo, skribis la Foreword / Antaŭparolo[n].

Abstract The subject of the article is the concept of a universal language and a reflection on its importance for law. The starting point is a presentation of the history of the concept of a common language for all mankind, a concept that has always accompanied man – it is present in the Bible, in the ancient writings of Near Eastern peoples, it was alive in the Middle Ages and during the Renaissance, and it experienced its particular heyday – among other reasons because of the gradual abandonment of Latin as the language of science – in the seventeenth century, an age that was reformist by definition. Since its inception, the concept of a universal language has been inextricably linked with the idea of world peace and universal happiness for all people. It is significant that in most universal language designs, regardless of the era, there were, to a greater or lesser extent, references to the utility of such languages for law. The author, tracing the development of the concept of a universal language, focuses on its fullest contemporary development: Esperanto. Esperanto, like previous universal language designs, places particular emphasis on ideas linked to the concept of a universal language, especially the idea of peaceful coexistence and understanding between peoples. In this context, it is reasonable to ask what role Esperanto can play in the development of certain branches of law, especially international law. Given the position of English as the language of legal acts of international importance, the answer to this question is currently not clear.

The question about a universal language and particularly about Esperanto is treated in a subchapter in the book Bahá’u’lláh and the New Era, which is an officially sanctioned presentation about Bahá’í religion. In the original edition of 1923 the support for Esperanto was clearly expressed, because the leader of the religion, ’Abdu’l-Bahá, supported the idea about Esperanto as a Universal Language, and several times urged Bahá’ís to learn it. The author of the book, J. E. Esslemont, learned it and even practiced Esperanto on his deathbed. Quotations, however, show that there was a discussion also about other planned languages among Bahá’ís. In the editions of 1937, 1950 and 1970, the final part of the presentation about Esperanto was modified. The author shows that the reason of the change is that Esperanto in Bahá’í is associated with millenarian expectations of the “Most High Peace” and the “Coming of the Kingdom of God” in 1957. After this year Bahá’í religion rapidly grew in Latin America, Subsaharan Africa, and Nonislamic Asia, where Esperanto was not well-known, and stagnated in Europe and North America, where Esperanto was better known. The millenniarism in the religion weakened and the work for the “Lesser Peace” was strengthened. This is supposed to be the result, not of a divine intervention, but of cooperation between states.

Abstract Esperanto is an unusual language in many ways. First, it was originally created artificially, in a highly multilingual environment. Secondly, it was designed with the express purpose of becoming a language of interlingual communication, a language easy to learn for people from the widest range of linguistic backgrounds. Although it never became a universal lingua franca, Esperanto now has up to 2 million users and a sizeable number of native speakers. Yet even for such native speakers, Esperanto is never their only language. Its use is limited to certain domains, and for the overwhelming majority of its speakers, including native ones, Esperanto is not their dominant language. These facts may make Esperanto and Esperanto speakers useful in tests of the robustness of generalizations about linguistic typology, Universal Grammar, first and second language acquisition, language contact and creolization, variation and change. This article provides an overview of work that has been done to date on these topics.

This research investigated the phonological directions by which new roots are incorporated into Esperanto. Words were selected from the following magazines: Kontakto, the official magazine of the Tutmonda Esperantista Junulara Organizo (TEJO – World Esperanto Youth Organization), which was first published in 1963 and has subscribers in over 90 countries, and Esperanto, the official magazine of the Universala Esperanto-Asocio (UEA – Esperanto Universal Association), which was first released in 1905 and has readers in 115 countries, in addition to a technological terminology list (Nevelsteen, 2012) and to words not quoted in dictionaries but published in a list on the blog <http://vortaroblogo.blogspot.com.br/2009/09/nepivajvortoj-i.html>. Words were collected from 13 different languages: Arabic, Chinese, French, English, Japanese, Komi, Korean, Portuguese, Russian, Spanish, Turkish, Sanskrit and Swahili. The theoretical basis that guided this analysis was Loanword Phonology, mainly the works of Calabrese & Wetzels (2009), Vendelin & Peperkamp (2006), Paradis (1988), Kang (2011), Friesner (2009), Menezes (2013), Chang (2008), Kenstowicz & Suchato (2006) and Roth (1980). An analysis of the corpus showed that words can be adapted by their phonetic form as well as by their root’s orthographic form from the original language. Furthermore, we observed that long vowels were, for the most part, adapted as simple vowels; and some words are present in two synchronic variations.

The article explores the concept of a ‘universal language’, which was prevalent in both linguistics and the poetic Avant-garde in Russia during the 1910s-1920s. This period was marked by socio-political reforms that led to new realities and concepts. As a result, societies studying international languages, such as Esperanto, Ido, Interlingua, and Novial, were formed, and many scholars including Jakob Linzbach, Nikolay Yushmanov, and Evgeny Shmurlo attempted to create new international languages while systematizing and building a typology of universal languages. Of particular interest among the Avant-garde concepts is the ‘cosmic language of AO’ by the Gordin brothers, which builds on Khlebnikov’s ‘star lan­gua­ge tradition but aims for cognitive and linguo-social changes. The article compares the scien­tific and poetic universal languages and concludes that there is a pervasive tendency to­wards linguistic experimentation.

ZUSAMMENFASSUNG Esperanto und die Sprachwissenschaft: Ideen und Überlegungen Der Autor untersucht Ideen aus den Diskussionen des Nitobe-Symposiums zur Sprachenpolitik, das 1996 in Verbindung mit dem 81. Esperanto-Weltkongreß stattfand. Initiativen beim Völker-bund, den Vereinten Nationen und der Unesco haben wenig mehr erbracht als die Anerkennung der Tatsache, daB es Esperanto gibt. Die Möglichkeit, Esperanto für diese Organisationen selbst in Erwägung zu ziehen, wird vor allem wohl durch einflußreiche nationalistische und internationalistische Vorstellungen verhindert, was in instrumentalistischen Argumentationen oft übersehen wird. Im Bereich der Bildung scheint die mangelnde Bereitschaft, Esperanto einzu-beziehen, eher eine grundlegendere Zersplitterung der Konzeptionsbildung beim Thema Sprache widerzuspiegeln. In beiden Fallen bietet ein zur Zeit entstehendes ökologisches Paradigma in Sprachenpolitik und Sprachplanung Lösungsmöglichkeiten. RESUMO Esperanto kaj lingvopolitiko: Esplorado de kelkaj ideoj La aŭtoro priesploras kelkajn ideojn el la diskutoj ce la Nitobe-Simpozio pri lingvopolitiko, organizita lige kun la 8l-a Universala Kongreso de Esperanto en 1996. Esperanto-premkampanjoj ĉe Ligo de Nacioj, Unuigintaj Nacioj kaj Unesko alportis pli-malpli nur la agnoskon, ke la lingvo ekzistas. En la organizajoj mem, la konsideradon de Esperanto eble malhelpas fortaj naciismaj aŭ internaciismaj diskursoj, kies ekziston ignoras instrumentismaj argumentoj. Sur la kampo de edukado, la neglekto de Esperanto sajne spegulas pli generalan malkoheron en la prilingva konceptado. Ambaŭ mankojn povos eventuale kuraci evoluanta ekologia paradigmo en la lingvoplanado.

How can people live together peacefully, especially in a multicultural, multi-religious society? We should find a minimum level of consensus which is needed to live peacefully together in an open (world) society and a moral language to communicate with each other. Dutch philosopher Paul Cliteur published his book Moral Esperanto (this book is in Dutch and has not yet been translated) in 2007 in which he argues that it is important that people can communicate with each other in a moral and political language which is in principle understandable to everybody; in contrast with religious discourse which only makes sense to believers. Cliteur makes the analogy of Esperanto, the artificial language proposed to be the lingua franca, and emphasizes the need for a universal moral language.

The linguistic discipline of phonology is underrepresented within the field of Esperanto studies. Most grammatical work concentrates on syntax and morphology, but the sound structure is ignored in many works on the grammatical structure of the language. A serious monograph discussing the most relevant aspects is yet to be written. One of the reasons for the relative lack of interest may be the fact that at first sight Esperanto does not have the type of phonological system that would excite phonologists. One of the official sixteen rules of Esperanto phonology (rule number 9, Kalocsay & Waringhien 1985:19) is: 'Every word is read aloud as it is written'. This statement is of course rather informal. If we translate it into the terminology of modern phonology, we could say that phonological elements do not alternate or get deleted: the orthographic representation gives us underlying structure and surface structure at the same time.

Abstract In the period from about 1890 to 1960, there was a widespread belief that a universal language would make an important contribution to both material progress and international understanding. Alongside artificial languages such as Esperanto and national languages such as English and French, for a long time Latin also received serious attention as a potential world language of the future. This article provides an analysis of the discussion held in the Netherlands about the pros and cons of Latin as a modern world language. On the one hand, this analysis shows that due to a unique combination of properties, strong arguments could be made in favour of Latin. On the other hand, both its notorious difficulty and the problems raised by attempts at modernising its archaic vocabulary complicated the candidacy of Latin as a future lingua franca. The article concludes that underlying the ultimate failure of Latin as a modern world language was a misguided attempt to reinvent Latin as a ‘living’ language. The paradoxical lesson this failure teaches is that it is not the ‘life’, but precisely the ‘death’ of the Latin language that is able to maintain it for contemporary use.

The article presents the legal activities of the city of Bialystok related to building its image using the brand Esperanto over the past years. The text deals with the complicated side of building the image of the city which is legal actions using the asset of the city which the case of Bialystok is the brand Esperanto. These actions were taken both by the executive body of the municipality – the Mayor – and the legislative body – the City Council. The following activities were discussed: the activity of the Bialystok City Council, the activity connected with the celebration of the 100th anniversary of Ludwik Zamenhof’s death, the organisation of the Esperanto Congress in 2009 and the significance of the so-called participatory budget for the discussed issue. In the analysis of the topic, only those activities undertaken in Bialystok and related to Ludwik Zamenhof, his successors and the Esperanto language were chosen, which are not only based on but have their source in legal acts and are of direct or indirect legal character. The article also briefly discusses the aspect of life history of Ludwik Krzysztof Zaleski Zamenhof in connection with granting him the Honorary Citizenship of the City of Bialystok. The article discusses the legal activities of the city of Bialystok connected with building its image with the use of the Esperanto brand in the perspective of the last years, touching upon an interesting matter which is the promotion of the Municipality on the basis of the only universal language in the world. The legal actions described in the article reflect the perspective of young Ludwik Zamenhoff, which led to the creation of Esperanto language. The text combines two matters, the creation of a supranational language, with legal actions that are used to promote the small homeland of its creator.

For the first time in history, a world religion has promised that a day will come when there will be a universal auxiliary language taught to children in schools around the world. This article discusses the advantages of such a phenomenon and explores the reasons why this promise of an international auxiliary language is so vital for peace and harmony in the world. The author also considers two likely candidates - Esperanto and English - for the eventual choice as international auxiliary language and the linguistic as well as non-linguistic problems associated with each particular choice. The Bahá’í principle of justice with regard to the choice of a world auxiliary language is also taken into consideration.

Humankind has perennially attempted to recover - or construct - a utopian language, shared by all, which would unify us into a single family, thereby diminishing political and religious strife. Long before the time of Jesus, the prophet Zephaniah anticipated a messenger who would bring us a pure language so that we could better serve God (3: 9). Various religious groups, such as the Bahai Faith, the Omoto-kyo religion in Japan and Won Buddhism in Korea, believe in the need for a universal language, or support the adoption of an international auxiliary language. In this study I explore the beliefs of a group in Brazil, the Spiritists (Kardecists), who with great faith have embraced Esperanto as the solution to this language problem. Although it is not the central tenet of their religion, the connection between Brazilian Spiritism and Esperanto provides a textbook case of symbiosis, in which the language serves as more than a proselytization tool. I intend to present the most important texts on this topic from the vast corpus of Spiritist literature, and will propose some interpretations as to how this relationship might have developed.

RESUMO La termino "planlingvo" En la fako lingvistiko kaj ĝia subfako interlingvistiko, regas multa nekonsekvenceco en la esprimoj utiligataj por priskribi lingvon kiel ekzemple Esperanton. Fakuloj kaj laikoj parolas pri "monda lingvo," "universala lingvo," "helpa lingvo," "artefarita lingvo" kaj "internacia lingvo," kvazaǔ temas pri plena interŝanĝeblo. Pluraj tiuj esprimoj indikas la originon au genezon de lingvo, dum aliaj indikas ĝian komunikan funkcion. Kelkaj miksas la du kategoriojn. Inter la terminoj priskribantaj originon aǔ genezon, "artefarita" ofte havas pejorativan implicon. Ĝi ankaǔ havas seson da malsamaj signifoj. La terminon "konstruita lingvo" kreis Jespersen, sed ankaǔ al ĝi mankas koloro. Wüster kreis la terminon germane Plansprache (planlingvo). Inter tiuj terminoj, kiuj priskribas komunikan funkcion, "universala" havas longan historian sed normale priskribas la unusolan lingvon por la estonta homaro. Sekve ĝi ne taǔgas kiel priskribilo de plej multaj modernaj lingvoprojektoj. "Monda lingvo" estas ofte uzata por priskribi etnajn lingvojn pli vaste uzatajn. "Helpa" supozigas nekompletecon, kvazaǔ temas nur pri faciligilo. Aliaj terminoj estas, interalie, "komuna lingvo," "lingua franca," "trafika lingvo," kaj "interlingvo." La aǔtoro preferas la terminon "planlingvo," difinitan jene: "de homo aǔ hom grupo laǔ difinitaj kriterioj konscie kreita lingvo por la celo de plifaciligo de internacia lingva komunikado." Esperanto estas planlingvo laǔ genezo kaj internacia lingvo laǔ funkcio. En sia eseo la aǔtoro donas abundajn ekzemplojn de la utiligo de la diversaj terminoj če fakuloj verkantaj en kelkaj lingvoj.

The beginnings of today’s Hector Hodler Library in Rotterdam go back to the year 1903, when the newly-founded Swiss Esperanto Society started receiving books because of its journal. Officially founded in December 1908, it was sold as early as 1912 to Hector Hodler, director of the Universal Esperanto Association (UEA) in Geneva. After Hodler’s untimely death in 1920, UEA became the owner of the collection. For the duration of a dispute about the headquarters of the Association, the UEA Library was successfully stored at the Palais Wilson, in Geneva, where it survived World War II. For personal reasons, the longtime functionary of UEA Hans Jakob held off on transferring the library to Rotterdam, where the Association established its headquarters in 1955. It was not until the period 1960–67 that the bulk of the books arrived. During that time many items of various kinds and various sources had been added. Now the Hector Hodler Library — its exact name as of 1980–serves as a working library for the Association and for many researchers interested in interlinguistics.

Summary Apart from his numerous works in comparative linguistics, Rasmus Kristian Rask (1787–1832) is also the author of a manuscript in which he sets forth in detail his conception of a universal auxiliary language. Written during 1819–1820, this 72-page treatise, entitled Optegnelser til en Pasigraphie, has been neglected by linguistic research up to the present, in part because it remained in manuscript form. Rask’s draft of a planned language is divided into three sections: (1) The grammatical system and basic vocabulary; (2) numerous examples of word-formation, morphology etc. and (3) samples of texts. Rask deplores the waste of energy resulting from the multiplicity of languages in international communication. In his opinion, many intellectual achievements are lost or cannot be further developed owing to lack of exchange facilities. Instead of having to learn words and structures, people should be placed in a position to tackle the subject matter. The practical aim of linguistic studies should therefore be the creation of an international means of communication to be used in the field of science as well as in every-day life. Important postulates of such a conception would be: improved learnability by means of simplification of grammatical structures, consistency in word-formation and easy articulation for people of different language communities. To conform to these aims, Rask decided to create a system mainly on the basis of romance languages, i.e., Latin, Spanish, French and Portugese, complemented by Greek and English. Rask’s essay presents a hitherto unknown type of planned language, commonly described as ‘naturalistic’. Whereas other aposterioric systems like Esperanto give priority to regularity and logic and are therefore called ‘autonomous’, Rask tries to remain faithful to the results of historical evolution. In that respect, Rask’s project resembles Otto Jespersen’s ‘Novial’, which was to be conceived a century later.

Desde una perspectiva glotopolítica, el trabajo analiza la construcción del rasgo “neutralidad” atribuido al esperanto en dos comunidades discursivas de principios del siglo xx, como parte de sus ideologías lingüísticas. A partir de la identificación de distintas tópicas, se estudia, por un lado, el Compte rendu des traveaux du Comité, de 1907, redactado por L. Couturat y L. Leau como informe para la primera Asociación Internacional de las Academias Científicas, creada en 1900, para orientar su elección de lengua de ciencia. Por otro lado, se analizan discursos del Congreso Internacional Anarquista (Ámsterdam, 1907), en el que una moción propone la adopción de esta lengua para el movimiento, y artículos sobre el tema del diario anarquista de la Argentina La Protesta, en un momento posterior (1917), en que la ideología libertaria esperantista ya se ha consolidado. El análisis revela argumentaciones y finalidades muy diferentes en ambos grupos, aunque también puntos de contacto, entre los cuales el más significativo es el desplazamiento, en ambos, hacia la tópica de lo universal, que coloca a la lengua en una atemporalidad fuera del espacio, que garantiza signos unívocos.

In the half-century before the Great War, collaborative international ventures in science became increasingly common. The trend, manifested in scientific congresses and attempts to establish agreement on physical units and systems of nomenclature, had important consequences. One was the fear of information overload. How were scientists to keep abreast of the growing volume of books, journals, and reports? How were they to do so in an era without a common language? Responses to these challenges helped to foster new departures in cataloguing, bibliography, and an interest in Esperanto and other constructed languages. By 1914, the responses had also become involved in wider movements that promoted communication as a force for peace. The Great War dealt a severe blow to these cosmopolitan ideals, and the post-war reordering of international science did little to resurrect them. A “national turn” during the 1920s assumed a darker form in the 1930s, as totalitarian regimes in the Soviet Union, Italy, Germany, and Spain associated science ever more closely with national interests. Although the Second World War further undermined the ideal of internationalism in science, the vision of science as part of a world culture open to all soon resurfaced, notably in UNESCO. As an aspiration, it remains with us today, in ventures for universal access to information made possible by digitization and the World Wide Web). The challenge in the twenty-first century is how best to turn aspiration into reality.

In the half-century before the Great War, collaborative international ventures in science became increasingly common. The trend, manifested in scientific congresses and attempts to establish agreement on physical units and systems of nomenclature, had important consequences. One was the fear of information overload. How were scientists to keep abreast of the growing volume of books, journals, and reports? How were they to do so in an era without a common language? Responses to these challenges helped to foster new departures in cataloguing, bibliography, and an interest in Esperanto and other constructed languages. By 1914, the responses had also become involved in wider movements that promoted communication as a force for peace. The Great War dealt a severe blow to these cosmopolitan ideals, and the post-war reordering of international science did little to resurrect them. A “national turn” during the 1920s assumed a darker form in the 1930s, as totalitarian regimes in the Soviet Union, Italy, Germany, and Spain associated science ever more closely with national interests. Although the Second World War further undermined the ideal of internationalism in science, the vision of science as part of a world culture open to all soon resurfaced, notably in UNESCO. As an aspiration, it remains with us today, in ventures for universal access to information made possible by digitization and the World Wide Web). The challenge in the twenty-first century is how best to turn aspiration into reality.

AbstractWorking from a dataset of 118 billion messages running from the start of 2009 to the end of 2019, we identify and explore the relative daily use of over 150 languages on Twitter. We find that eight languages comprise 80% of all tweets, with English, Japanese, Spanish, Arabic, and Portuguese being the most dominant. To quantify social spreading in each language over time, we compute the ‘contagion ratio’: The balance of retweets to organic messages. We find that for the most common languages on Twitter there is a growing tendency, though not universal, to retweet rather than share new content. By the end of 2019, the contagion ratios for half of the top 30 languages, including English and Spanish, had reached above 1—the naive contagion threshold. In 2019, the top 5 languages with the highest average daily ratios were, in order, Thai (7.3), Hindi, Tamil, Urdu, and Catalan, while the bottom 5 were Russian, Swedish, Esperanto, Cebuano, and Finnish (0.26). Further, we show that over time, the contagion ratios for most common languages are growing more strongly than those of rare languages.

Could we also imagine a language in which a person could write down or give vocal expression to his inner experiences -- his feelings, moods, and the rest -- for his private use? Well, can't we do so in our ordinary language? -- But that is not what I mean. The individual words of this language are to refer to what can only be known to the person speaking; to his immediate private sensations. So another person cannot understand the language. -- Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations par. 243 I will be using 'audience' in two ways in the following essay: as a phenomenon that produces and is produced by media technologies (readers, hearers, viewers, Internet-users), and as something, audiens, that is essential to language itself, something without which language cannot be. I shall do so in specific references to invented languages. Who, then, are the 'consumers' of invented languages? In referring to invented languages, I am not talking about speakers of Esperanto or Occidental; I am not concerned with the invention of international auxiliary languages. These projects, already well-debated, have roots that go back at least as far as the 17th-century language philosophers who were at pains to undo the damage of Babel and restore a common language to the world. While Esperanto never became what it intended to be, it at least has readers and speakers. I am also not even talking about speakers of Klingon or Quenya. These privately invented languages have had the good fortune to be attached to popular invented cultures, and to media with enough money and publicity to generate a multitude of fans. Rather, I am talking about a phenomenon on the Internet and in a well- populated listserv whereby a number of people from all over the globe have discovered each other on-line. They all have a passion for what Jeffrey Schnapp calls uglossia ('no-language', after utopia, 'no-place'). Umberto Eco calls it 'technical insanity' or glottomania. Linguist Marina Yaguello calls language inventors fous du langage ('language lunatics') in her book of the same title. Jeffrey Henning prefers the term 'model language' in his on-line newsletter: 'miniaturized versions that provide the essence of something'. On CONLANG, people call themselves conlangers (from 'constructed language') and what they do conlanging. By forming this list, they have created a media audience for themselves, in the first sense of the term, and also literally in the second sense, as a number of them are setting up soundbytes on their elaborately illustrated and explicated Webpages. Originally devoted to advocates for international auxiliary languages, CONLANG started out about eight years ago, and as members joined who were less interested in the politics than in the hobby of language invention, the list has become almost solely the domain of the latter, whereas the 'auxlangers', as they are called, have moved to another list. An important distinguishing feature of 'conlangers' is that, unlike the 'auxlangers', there is no sustained hope that their languages will have a wide-body of hearers or users. They may wish it, but they do not advocate for it, and as a consequence their languages are free to be a lot weirder, whereas the auxlangs tend to strive for regularity and useability. CONLANG is populated by highschool, college, and graduate students; linguists; computer programmers; housewives; librarians; professors; and other users worldwide. The old debate about whether the Internet has become the 'global village' that Marshall McLuhan predicted, or whether it threatens to atomise communication 'into ever smaller worlds where enthusiasms mutate into obsessions', as Jeff Salamon warns, seems especially relevant to a study of CONLANG whose members indulge in an invention that by its very nature excludes the casual listener-in. And yet the audio-visual capacities of the Internet, along with its speed and efficiency of communication, have made it the ideal forum for conlangers. Prior to the Web, how were fellow inventors to know that others were doing -- in secret? J.R.R. Tolkien has been lauded as a rare exception in the world of invention, but would his elaborate linguistic creations have become so famous had he not published The Lord of the Rings and its Appendix? Poignantly, he tells in "A Secret Vice" about accidentally overhearing another army recruit say aloud: 'Yes! I think I shall express the accusative by a prefix!'. Obviously, silent others besides Tolkien were inventing languages, but they did not have the means provided by the Internet to discover one another except by chance. Tolkien speaks of the 'shyness' and 'shame' attached to this pursuit, where 'higher developments are locked in secret places'. It can win no prizes, he says, nor make birthday presents for aunts. His choice of title ("A Secret Vice") echoes a Victorian phrase for the closet, and conlangers have frequently compared conlanging to homosexuality, both being what conservative opinion expects one to grow out of after puberty. The number of gay men on the list has been wondered at as more than coincidental. In a survey I conducted in October 1998, many of the contributors to CONLANG felt that the list put them in touch with an audience that provided them with intellectual and emotional feedback. Their interests were misunderstood by parents, spouses, lovers, and employers alike, and had to be kept under wraps. Most of those I surveyed said that they had been inventing a language well before they had heard of the list; that they had conceived of what they were doing as unique or peculiar, until discovery of CONLANG; and that other people's Websites astounded them with the pervasive fascination of this pursuit. There are two ways to look at it: conlanging, as Henning writes, may be as common and as humanly creative as any kind of model-making, i.e., dollhouses, model trains, role-playing, or even the constructed cultures with city plans and maps in fantasy novels such as Terry Pratchett's Discworld. The Web is merely a means to bring enthusiasts together. Or it may provide a site that, with the impetus of competition and showmanship, encourages inutile and obsessive activity. Take your pick. From Hildegard von Bingen's Lingua Ignota to Dante's Inferno and the babbling Nimrod to John Dee's Enochian and on, invented languages have smacked of religious ecstacy, necromancy, pathology, and the demonic. Twin speech, or 'pathological idioglossia', was dramatised by Jodie Foster in Nell. Hannah Green's 'Language of Yr' was the invention of her schizophrenic protagonist in I Never Promised You a Rose Garden. Language itself is the centre of furious theoretical debate. Despite the inventive 'deformities' it is put to in poetry, punning, jest, singing, and lying, human language, our most 'natural' of technologies, is a social machine, used by multitudes and expected to get things done. It is expected of language that it be understood and that it have not only hearers but also answerers. All human production is founded on this assumption. A language without an audience of other speakers is no language. 'Why aren't you concentrating on real languages?' continues to be the most stinging criticism. Audience is essential to Wittgenstein's remark quoted at the beginning of this essay. Wittgenstein posits his 'private languages theory' as a kind of impossibility: all natural languages, because they exist by consensus, can only refer to private experience externally. Hence, a truly private language, devoted to naming 'feelings and moods' which the subject has never heard about or shared with others, is impossible among socialised speakers who are called upon to define subjective experience in public terms. His is a critique of solipsism, a charge often directed at language inventors. But very few conlangers that I have encountered are making private languages in Wittgenstein's sense, because most of them are interested in investing their private words with public meaning, even when they are doing it privately. For them, it is audience, deeply desireable, that has been impossible until now. Writing well before the development of CONLANG, Yaguello takes the stance that inventing a language is an act of madness. 'Just look at the lunatic in love with language', she writes: sitting in his book-lined study, he collects great piles of information, he collates and classifies it, he makes lists and fills card indexes. He is in the clutches of a denominatory delirium, of a taxonomic madness. He has to name everything, but before being able to name, he has to recognize and classify concepts, to enclose the whole Universe in a system of notation: produce enumerations, hierarchies, and paradigms. She is of course describing John Wilkins, whose Real Character and Universal Language in 1668 was an attempt to make each syllable of his every invented word denote its placement in a logical scheme of classification. 'A lunatic ambition', Yaguello pronounces, because it missed the essential quality of language: that its signs are arbitrary, practical, and changeable, so as to admit neologism and cultural difference. But Yaguello denounces auxiliary language makers in general as amateurs 'in love with language and with languages, and ignorant of the science of language'. Her example of 'feminine' invention comes from Helene Smith, the medium who claimed to be channeling Martian (badly disguised French). One conlanger noted that Yaguello's chapter entitled 'In Defence of Natural Languages' reminded him of the US Federal 'Defense of Marriage Act', whereby the institution of heterosexual marriage is 'defended' from homosexual marriage. Let homosexuals marry or lunatics invent language, and both marriage and English (or French) will come crashing to the ground. Schnapp praises Yaguello's work for being the most comprehensive examination of the phenomenon to date, but neither he nor she addresses linguist Suzette Haden Elgin's creative work on Láadan, a language designed for women, or even Quenya or Klingon -- languages that have acquired at least an audience of readers. Schnapp is less condemnatory than Yaguello, and interested in seeing language inventors as the 'philologists of imaginary worlds', 'nos semblables, nos frères, nos soeurs' -- after all. Like Yaguello, he is given to some generalities: imaginary languages are 'infantile': 'the result is always [my emphasis] an "impoverishment" of the natural languages in question: reduced to a limited set of open vowels [he means "open syllables"], prone to syllabic reduplication and to excessive syntactical parallelisms and symmetries'. To be sure, conlangs will never replicate the detail and history of a real language, but to call them 'impoverishments of the natural languages' seems as strange as calling dollhouses 'impoverishments of actual houses'. Why this perception of threat or diminishment? The critical, academic "audience" for language invention has come largely from non-language inventors and it is woefully uninformed. It is this audience that conlangers dislike the most: the outsiders who cannot understand what they are doing and who belittle it. The field, then, is open to re-examination, and the recent phenomenon of conlanging is evidence that the art of inventing languages is neither lunatic nor infantile. But if one is not Tolkien or a linguist supported by the fans of Star Trek, how does one justify the worthwhile nature of one's art? Is it even art if it has an audience of one ... its artist? Conlanging remains a highly specialised and technical pursuit that is, in the end, deeply subjective. Model builders and map-makers can expect their consumers to enjoy their products without having to participate in the minutia of their building. Not so the conlanger, whose consumer must internalise it, and who must understand and absorb complex linguistic concepts. It is different in the world of music. The Cocteau Twins, Bobby McFerrin in his Circle Songs, Lisa Gerrard in Duality, and the new group Ekova in Heaven's Dust all use 'nonsense' words set to music -- either to make songs that sound like exotic languages or to convey a kind of melodic glossolalia. Knowing the words is not important to their hearers, but few conlangers yet have that outlet, and must rely on text and graphs to give a sense of their language's structure. To this end, then, these are unheard, unaudienced languages, existing mostly on screen. A few conlangers have set their languages to music and recorded them. What they are doing, however, is decidedly different from the extempore of McFerrin. Their words mean something, and are carefully worked out lexically and grammatically. So What Are These Conlangs Like? On CONLANG and their links to Websites you will find information on almost every kind of no-language imaginable. Some sites are text only; some are lavishly illustrated, like the pages for Denden, or they feature a huge inventory of RealAudio and MP3 files, like The Kolagian Languages, or the songs of Teonaht. Some have elaborate scripts that the newest developments in fontography have been able to showcase. Some, like Tokana and Amman-Iar, are the result of decades of work and are immensely sophisticated. Valdyan has a Website with almost as much information about the 'conculture' as the conlang. Many are a posteriori languages, that is, variations on natural languages, like Brithenig (a mixture of the features of Brythonic and Romance languages); others are a priori -- starting from scratch -- like Elet Anta. Many conlangers strive to make their languages as different from European paradigms as possible. If imaginary languages are bricolages, as Schnapp writes, then conlangers are now looking to Tagalog, Basque, Georgian, Malagasay, and Aztec for ideas, instead of to Welsh, Finnish, and Hebrew, languages Tolkien drew upon for his Elvish. "Ergative" and "trigger" languages are often preferred to the "nominative" languages of Europe. Some people invent for sheer intellectual challenge; others for the beauty and sensuality of combining new and privately meaningful sounds. There are many calls for translation exercises, one of the most popular being 'The Tower of Babel' (Genesis 10: 1-9). The most recent innovation, and one that not only showcases these languages in all their variety but provides an incentive to learn another conlanger's conlang, is the Translation Relay Game: someone writes a short poem or composition in his or her language and sends it with linguistic information to someone else, who sends a translation with directions to the next in line all the way around again, like playing 'telephone'. The permutations that the Valdyan Starling Song went through give good evidence that these languages are not just relexes, or codes, of natural languages, but have their own linguistic, cultural, and poetic parameters of expression. They differ from real languages in one important respect that has bearing on my remarks about audience: very few conlangers have mastered their languages in the way one masters a native tongue. These creations are more like artefacts (several have compared it to poetry) than they are like languages. One does not live in a dollhouse. One does not normally think or speak in one's conlang, much less speak to another, except through a laborious process of translation. It remains to a longer cultural and sociolinguistic study (underway) to tease out the possibilities and problems of conlanging: why it is done, what does it satisfy, why so few women do it, what are its demographics, or whether it can be turned to pedagogical use in a 'hands-on', high- participation study of language. In this respect, CONLANG is one of the 'coolest' of on-line media. Only time will show what direction conlanging and attitudes towards it will take as the Internet becomes more powerful and widely used. Will the Internet democratise, and eventually make banal, a pursuit that has until now been painted with the romantic brush of lunacy and secrecy? (You can currently download LangMaker, invented by Jeff Henning, to help you construct your own language.) Or will it do the opposite and make language and linguistics -- so often avoided by students or reduced in university programs -- inventive and cutting edge? (The inventor of Tokana has used in-class language invention as a means to study language typology.) Now that we have it, the Internet at least provides conlangers with a place to hang their logodaedalic tapestries, and the technology for some of them to be heard. References Von Bingen, Hildegard. Lingua Ignota, or Wörterbuch der unbekannten Sprache. Eds. Marie-Louise Portmann and Alois Odermatt. Basel: Verlag Basler Hildegard-Gesellschaft, 1986. Eco, Umberto. The Search for the Perfect Language. Trans. James Fentress. Oxford, England, and Cambridge, Mass.: Blackwell, 1995, 1997. Elgin, Suzette Haden. A First Dictionary and Grammar of Láadan. Madison, WI: Society for the Furtherance and Study of Fantasy and Science- Fiction, 1985. Henning, Jeffrey. Model Languages: The Newsletter Discussing Newly Imagined Words for Newly Imagined Worlds. <http://www.Langmaker.com/ml00.htm>. Kennaway, Richard. Some Internet Resources Relating to Constructed Languages. <http://www.sys.uea.ac.uk/jrk/conlang.php>. (The most comprehensive list (with links) of invented languages on the Internet.) Laycock, Donald C. The Complete Enochian Dictionary: A Dictionary of the Angelic Language as Revealed to Dr. John Dee and Edward Kelley. York Beach, Maine: Samuel Weiser, 1994. McLuhan, Marshall. Understanding Media. Reprinted. Cambridge, MA: MIT P, 1994. Salamon, Jeff. "Revenge of the Fanboys." Village Voice 13 Sep., 1994. Schnapp, Jeffrey. "Virgin Words: Hildegard of Bingen's Lingua Ignota and the Development of Imaginary Languages Ancient and Modern." Exemplaria 3.2 (1991): 267-98. Tolkien, J.R.R. "A Secret Vice." The Monsters and the Critics and Other Essays. Ed. Christopher Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1984. 198-223. Wilkins, John. An Essay Towards a Real Character and a Philosophical Language. Presented to the Royal Society of England in 1668. Wittgenstein, Ludwig. Philosophical Investigations. 3rd ed. Trans. G.E.M. Anscombe. Englewood Cliffs, NJ: Prentice Hall, 1958. Yaguello, Marina. Lunatic Lovers of Language: Imaginary Languages and Their Inventors. Trans. Catherine Slater. (Les fous du langage. 1985.) London: The Athlone Press, 1991. Citation reference for this article MLA style: Sarah L. Higley. "Audience, Uglossia, and CONLANG: Inventing Languages on the Internet." M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3.1 (2000). [your date of access] <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/0003/languages.php>. Chicago style: Sarah L. Higley, "Audience, Uglossia, and CONLANG: Inventing Languages on the Internet," M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3, no. 1 (2000), <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/0003/languages.php> ([your date of access]). APA style: Sarah L. Higley. (2000) Audience, Uglossia, and CONLANG: Inventing Languages on the Internet. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 3(1). <http://www.uq.edu.au/mc/0003/languages.php> ([your date of access]).

While the term “visual literacy” has grown in popularity in the last 50 years, its meaning remains nebulous. It is described variously as: a vehicle for aesthetic appreciation, a means of defence against visual manipulation, a sorting mechanism for an increasingly data-saturated age, and a prerequisite to civic inclusion (Fransecky 23; Messaris 181; McTigue and Flowers 580). Scholars have written extensively about the first three subjects but there has been less research on how visual literacy frames civic life and how it might help the public as a tool to address disadvantage and assist in removing social and cultural barriers. This article examines a forerunner to visual literacy in the push to create an international symbol language born out of popular education movements, a project that fell short of its goals but still left a considerable impression on graphic media. This article, then, presents an analysis of visual literacy campaigns in the early postwar era. These campaigns did not attempt to invent a symbolic language but posited that images themselves served as a universal language in which students could receive training. Of particular interest is how the concept of visual literacy has been mobilised as a pedagogical tool in design, digital humanities and in broader civic education initiatives promoted by Third Space institutions. Behind the creation of new visual literacy curricula is the idea that images can help anchor a world community, supplementing textual communication. Figure 1: Visual Literacy Yearbook. Montebello Unified School District, USA, 1973. Shedding Light: Origins of the Visual Literacy Frame The term “visual literacy” came to the fore in the early 1970s on the heels of mass literacy campaigns. The educators, creatives and media theorists who first advocated for visual learning linked this aim to literacy, an unassailable goal, to promote a more radical curricular overhaul. They challenged a system that had hitherto only acknowledged a very limited pathway towards academic success; pushing “language and mathematics”, courses “referred to as solids (something substantial) as contrasted with liquids or gases (courses with little or no substance)” (Eisner 92). This was deemed “a parochial view of both human ability and the possibilities of education” that did not acknowledge multiple forms of intelligence (Gardner). This change not only integrated elements of mass culture that had been rejected in education, notably film and graphic arts, but also encouraged the critique of images as a form of good citizenship, assuming that visually literate arbiters could call out media misrepresentations and manipulative political advertising (Messaris, “Visual Test”). This movement was, in many ways, reactive to new forms of mass media that began to replace newspapers as key forms of civic participation. Unlike simple literacy (being able to decipher letters as a mnemonic system), visual literacy involves imputing meanings to images where meanings are less fixed, yet still with embedded cultural signifiers. Visual literacy promised to extend enlightenment metaphors of sight (as in the German Aufklärung) and illumination (as in the French Lumières) to help citizens understand an increasingly complex marketplace of images. The move towards visual literacy was not so much a shift towards images (and away from books and oration) but an affirmation of the need to critically investigate the visual sphere. It introduced doubt to previously upheld hierarchies of perception. Sight, to Kant the “noblest of the senses” (158), was no longer the sense “least affected” by the surrounding world but an input centre that was equally manipulable. In Kant’s view of societal development, the “cosmopolitan” held the key to pacifying bellicose states and ensuring global prosperity and tranquillity. The process of developing a cosmopolitan ideology rests, according to Kant, on the gradual elimination of war and “the education of young people in intellectual and moral culture” (188-89). Transforming disparate societies into “a universal cosmopolitan existence” that would “at last be realised as the matrix within which all the original capacities of the human race may develop” and would take well-funded educational institutions and, potentially, a new framework for imparting knowledge (Kant 51). To some, the world of the visual presented a baseline for shared experience. Figure 2: Exhibition by the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum in Vienna, photograph c. 1927. An International Picture Language The quest to find a mutually intelligible language that could “bridge worlds” and solder together all of humankind goes back to the late nineteenth century and the Esperanto movement of Ludwig Zamenhof (Schor 59). The expression of this ideal in the world of the visual picked up steam in the interwar years with designers and editors like Fritz Kahn, Gerd Arntz, and Otto and Marie Neurath. Their work transposing complex ideas into graphic form has been rediscovered as an antecedent to modern infographics, but the symbols they deployed were not to merely explain, but also help education and build international fellowship unbounded by spoken language. The Neuraths in particular are celebrated for their international picture language or Isotypes. These pictograms (sometimes viewed as proto-emojis) can be used to represent data without text. Taken together they are an “intemporal, hieroglyphic language” that Neutrath hoped would unite working-class people the world over (Lee 159). The Neuraths’ work was done in the explicit service of visual education with a popular socialist agenda and incubated in the social sphere of Red Vienna at the Gesellschafts- und Wirtschaftsmuseum (Social and Economic Museum) where Otto served as Director. The Wirtschaftsmuseum was an experiment in popular education, with multiple branches and late opening hours to accommodate the “the working man [who] has time to see a museum only at night” (Neurath 72-73). The Isotype contained universalist aspirations for the “making of a world language, or a helping picture language—[that] will give support to international developments generally” and “educate by the eye” (Neurath 13). Figure 3: Gerd Arntz Isotype Images. (Source: University of Reading.) The Isotype was widely adopted in the postwar era in pre-packaged sets of symbols used in graphic design and wayfinding systems for buildings and transportation networks, but with the socialism of the Neuraths’ peeled away, leaving only the system of logos that we are familiar with from airport washrooms, charts, and public transport maps. Much of the uptake in this symbol language could be traced to increased mobility and tourism, particularly in countries that did not make use of a Roman alphabet. The 1964 Olympics in Tokyo helped pave the way when organisers, fearful of jumbling too many scripts together, opted instead for black and white icons to represent the program of sports that summer. The new focus on the visual was both technologically mediated—cheaper printing and broadcast technologies made the diffusion of image increasingly possible—but also ideologically supported by a growing emphasis on projects that transcended linguistic, ethnic, and national borders. The Olympic symbols gradually morphed into Letraset icons, and, later, symbols in the Unicode Standard, which are the basis for today’s emojis. Wordless signs helped facilitate interconnectedness, but only in the most literal sense; their application was limited primarily to sports mega-events, highway maps, and “brand building”, and they never fulfilled their role as an educational language “to give the different nations a common outlook” (Neurath 18). Universally understood icons, particularly in the form of emojis, point to a rise in visual communication but they have fallen short as a cosmopolitan project, supporting neither the globalisation of Kantian ethics nor the transnational socialism of the Neuraths. Figure 4: Symbols in use. Women's bathroom. 1964 Tokyo Olympics. (Source: The official report of the Organizing Committee.) Counter Education By mid-century, the optimism of a universal symbol language seemed dated, and focus shifted from distillation to discernment. New educational programs presented ways to study images, increasingly reproducible with new technologies, as a language in and of themselves. These methods had their roots in the fin-de-siècle educational reforms of John Dewey, Helen Parkhurst, and Maria Montessori. As early as the 1920s, progressive educators were using highly visual magazines, like National Geographic, as the basis for lesson planning, with the hopes that they would “expose students to edifying and culturally enriching reading” and “develop a more catholic taste or sensibility, representing an important cosmopolitan value” (Hawkins 45). The rise in imagery from previously inaccessible regions helped pupils to see themselves in relation to the larger world (although this connection always came with the presumed superiority of the reader). “Pictorial education in public schools” taught readers—through images—to accept a broader world but, too often, they saw photographs as a “straightforward transcription of the real world” (Hawkins 57). The images of cultures and events presented in Life and National Geographic for the purposes of education and enrichment were now the subject of greater analysis in the classroom, not just as “windows into new worlds” but as cultural products in and of themselves. The emerging visual curriculum aimed to do more than just teach with previously excluded modes (photography, film and comics); it would investigate how images presented and mediated the world. This gained wider appeal with new analytical writing on film, like Raymond Spottiswoode's Grammar of the Film (1950) which sought to formulate the grammatical rules of visual communication (Messaris 181), influenced by semiotics and structural linguistics; the emphasis on grammar can also be seen in far earlier writings on design systems such as Owen Jones’s 1856 The Grammar of Ornament, which also advocated for new, universalising methods in design education (Sloboda 228). The inventorying impulse is on display in books like Donis A. Dondis’s A Primer of Visual Literacy (1973), a text that meditates on visual perception but also functions as an introduction to line and form in the applied arts, picking up where the Bauhaus left off. Dondis enumerates the “syntactical guidelines” of the applied arts with illustrations that are in keeping with 1920s books by Kandinsky and Klee and analyse pictorial elements. However, at the end of the book she shifts focus with two chapters that examine “messaging” and visual literacy explicitly. Dondis predicts that “an intellectual, trained ability to make and understand visual messages is becoming a vital necessity to involvement with communication. It is quite likely that visual literacy will be one of the fundamental measures of education in the last third of our century” (33) and she presses for more programs that incorporate the exploration and analysis of images in tertiary education. Figure 5: Ideal spatial environment for the Blueprint charts, 1970. (Image: Inventory Press.) Visual literacy in education arrived in earnest with a wave of publications in the mid-1970s. They offered ways for students to understand media processes and for teachers to use visual culture as an entry point into complex social and scientific subject matter, tapping into the “visual consciousness of the ‘television generation’” (Fransecky 5). Visual culture was often seen as inherently democratising, a break from stuffiness, the “artificialities of civilisation”, and the “archaic structures” that set sensorial perception apart from scholarship (Dworkin 131-132). Many radical university projects and community education initiatives of the 1960s made use of new media in novel ways: from Maurice Stein and Larry Miller’s fold-out posters accompanying Blueprint for Counter Education (1970) to Emory Douglas’s graphics for The Black Panther newspaper. Blueprint’s text- and image-dense wall charts were made via assemblage and they were imagined less as charts and more as a “matrix of resources” that could be used—and added to—by youth to undertake their own counter education (Cronin 53). These experiments in visual learning helped to break down old hierarchies in education, but their aim was influenced more by countercultural notions of disruption than the universal ideals of cosmopolitanism. From Image as Text to City as Text For a brief period in the 1970s, thinkers like Marshall McLuhan (McLuhan et al., Massage) and artists like Bruno Munari (Tanchis and Munari) collaborated fruitfully with graphic designers to create books that mixed text and image in novel ways. Using new compositional methods, they broke apart traditional printing lock-ups to superimpose photographs, twist text, and bend narrative frames. The most famous work from this era is, undoubtedly, The Medium Is the Massage (1967), McLuhan’s team-up with graphic designer Quentin Fiore, but it was followed by dozens of other books intended to communicate theory and scientific ideas with popularising graphics. Following in the footsteps of McLuhan, many of these texts sought not just to explain an issue but to self-consciously reference their own method of information delivery. These works set the precedent for visual aids (and, to a lesser extent, audio) that launched a diverse, non-hierarchical discourse that was nonetheless bound to tactile artefacts. In 1977, McLuhan helped develop a media textbook for secondary school students called City as Classroom: Understanding Language and Media. It is notable for its direct address style and its focus on investigating spaces outside of the classroom (provocatively, a section on the third page begins with “Should all schools be closed?”). The book follows with a fine-grained analysis of advertising forms in which students are asked to first bring advertisements into class for analysis and later to go out into the city to explore “a man-made environment, a huge warehouse of information, a vast resource to be mined free of charge” (McLuhan et al., City 149). As a document City as Classroom is critical of existing teaching methods, in line with the radical “in the streets” pedagogy of its day. McLuhan’s theories proved particularly salient for the counter education movement, in part because they tapped into a healthy scepticism of advertisers and other image-makers. They also dovetailed with growing discontent with the ad-strew visual environment of cities in the 1970s. Budgets for advertising had mushroomed in the1960s and outdoor advertising “cluttered” cities with billboards and neon, generating “fierce intensities and new hybrid energies” that threatened to throw off the visual equilibrium (McLuhan 74). Visual literacy curricula brought in experiential learning focussed on the legibility of the cities, mapping, and the visualisation of urban issues with social justice implications. The Detroit Geographical Expedition and Institute (DGEI), a “collective endeavour of community research and education” that arose in the aftermath of the 1967 uprisings, is the most storied of the groups that suffused the collection of spatial data with community engagement and organising (Warren et al. 61). The following decades would see a tamed approach to visual literacy that, while still pressing for critical reading, did not upend traditional methods of educational delivery. Figure 6: Beginning a College Program-Assisting Teachers to Develop Visual Literacy Approaches in Public School Classrooms. 1977. ERIC. Searching for Civic Education The visual literacy initiatives formed in the early 1970s both affirmed existing civil society institutions while also asserting the need to better inform the public. Most of the campaigns were sponsored by universities, major libraries, and international groups such as UNESCO, which published its “Declaration on Media Education” in 1982. They noted that “participation” was “essential to the working of a pluralistic and representative democracy” and the “public—users, citizens, individuals, groups ... were too systematically overlooked”. Here, the public is conceived as both “targets of the information and communication process” and users who “should have the last word”. To that end their “continuing education” should be ensured (Study 18). Programs consisted primarily of cognitive “see-scan-analyse” techniques (Little et al.) for younger students but some also sought to bring visual analysis to adult learners via continuing education (often through museums eager to engage more diverse audiences) and more radical popular education programs sponsored by community groups. By the mid-80s, scores of modules had been built around the comprehension of visual media and had become standard educational fare across North America, Australasia, and to a lesser extent, Europe. There was an increasing awareness of the role of data and image presentation in decision-making, as evidenced by the surprising commercial success of Edward Tufte’s 1982 book, The Visual Display of Quantitative Information. Visual literacy—or at least image analysis—was now enmeshed in teaching practice and needed little active advocacy. Scholarly interest in the subject went into a brief period of hibernation in the 1980s and early 1990s, only to be reborn with the arrival of new media distribution technologies (CD-ROMs and then the internet) in classrooms and the widespread availability of digital imaging technology starting in the late 1990s; companies like Adobe distributed free and reduced-fee licences to schools and launched extensive teacher training programs. Visual literacy was reanimated but primarily within a circumscribed academic field of education and data visualisation. Figure 7: Visual Literacy; What Research Says to the Teacher, 1975. National Education Association. USA. Part of the shifting frame of visual literacy has to do with institutional imperatives, particularly in places where austerity measures forced strange alliances between disciplines. What had been a project in alternative education morphed into an uncontested part of the curriculum and a dependable budget line. This shift was already forecasted in 1972 by Harun Farocki who, writing in Filmkritik, noted that funding for new film schools would be difficult to obtain but money might be found for “training in media education … a discipline that could persuade ministers of education, that would at the same time turn the budget restrictions into an advantage, and that would match the functions of art schools” (98). Nearly 50 years later educators are still using media education (rebranded as visual or media literacy) to make the case for fine arts and humanities education. While earlier iterations of visual literacy education were often too reliant on the idea of cracking the “code” of images, they did promote ways of learning that were a deep departure from the rote methods of previous generations. Next-gen curricula frame visual literacy as largely supplemental—a resource, but not a program. By the end of the 20th century, visual literacy had changed from a scholarly interest to a standard resource in the “teacher’s toolkit”, entering into school programs and influencing museum education, corporate training, and the development of public-oriented media (Literacy). An appreciation of image culture was seen as key to creating empathetic global citizens, but its scope was increasingly limited. With rising austerity in the education sector (a shift that preceded the 2008 recession by decades in some countries), art educators, museum enrichment staff, and design researchers need to make a case for why their disciplines were relevant in pedagogical models that are increasingly aimed at “skills-based” and “job ready” teaching. Arts educators worked hard to insert their fields into learning goals for secondary students as visual literacy, with the hope that “literacy” would carry the weight of an educational imperative and not a supplementary field of study. Conclusion For nearly a century, educational initiatives have sought to inculcate a cosmopolitan perspective with a variety of teaching materials and pedagogical reference points. Symbolic languages, like the Isotype, looked to unite disparate people with shared visual forms; while educational initiatives aimed to train the eyes of students to make them more discerning citizens. The term ‘visual literacy’ emerged in the 1960s and has since been deployed in programs with a wide variety of goals. Countercultural initiatives saw it as a prerequisite for popular education from the ground up, but, in the years since, it has been formalised and brought into more staid curricula, often as a sort of shorthand for learning from media and pictures. The grand cosmopolitan vision of a complete ‘visual language’ has been scaled back considerably, but still exists in trace amounts. Processes of globalisation require images to universalise experiences, commodities, and more for people without shared languages. Emoji alphabets and globalese (brands and consumer messaging that are “visual-linguistic” amalgams “increasingly detached from any specific ethnolinguistic group or locality”) are a testament to a mediatised banal cosmopolitanism (Jaworski 231). In this sense, becoming “fluent” in global design vernacular means familiarity with firms and products, an understanding that is aesthetic, not critical. It is very much the beneficiaries of globalisation—both state and commercial actors—who have been able to harness increasingly image-based technologies for their benefit. To take a humorous but nonetheless consequential example, Spanish culinary boosters were able to successfully lobby for a paella emoji (Miller) rather than having a food symbol from a less wealthy country such as a Senegalese jollof or a Morrocan tagine. This trend has gone even further as new forms of visual communication are increasingly streamlined and managed by for-profit media platforms. The ubiquity of these forms of communication and their global reach has made visual literacy more important than ever but it has also fundamentally shifted the endeavour from a graphic sorting practice to a critical piece of social infrastructure that has tremendous political ramifications. Visual literacy campaigns hold out the promise of educating students in an image-based system with the potential to transcend linguistic and cultural boundaries. This cosmopolitan political project has not yet been realised, as the visual literacy frame has drifted into specialised silos of art, design, and digital humanities education. It can help bridge the “incomplete connections” of an increasingly globalised world (Calhoun 112), but it does not have a program in and of itself. Rather, an evolving visual literacy curriculum might be seen as a litmus test for how we imagine the role of images in the world. 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