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As a scholarly discourse, transmedia storytelling relies heavily on conservative constructions of authorship that laud corporate architects and patriarchs such as George Lucas and J.J. Abrams as exemplars of “the creator.” This piece argues that transmedia theory works to construct patriarchal ideals of individual authorship to the detriment of alternative conceptions of transmediality, storyworlds, and authorship. The genesis for this piece was our struggle to find a transmedia storyworld that we were both familiar with, that also qualifies as “legitimate” transmedia in the eyes of our prospective scholarly readers. After trying to wrangle our various interests, fandoms, and areas of expertise into harmony, we realized we were exerting more effort in this process of validating stories as transmedia than actually examining how stories spread across various platforms, how they make meanings, and what kinds of pleasures they offer audiences. Authorship is a definitive criterion of transmedia storytelling theory; it is also an academic red herring. We were initially interested in investigating the possible overdeterminations between the healthcare industry and Breaking Bad (2008-2013). The series revolves around a high school chemistry teacher who launches a successful meth empire as a way to pay for his cancer treatments that a dysfunctional US healthcare industry refuses to fund. We wondered if the success of the series and the timely debates on healthcare raised in its reception prompted any PR response from or discussion among US health insurers. However, our concern was that this dynamic among medical and media industries would not qualify as transmedia because these exchanges were not authored by Vince Gilligan or any of the credited creators of Breaking Bad. Yet, why shouldn’t such interfaces between the “real world” and media fiction count as part of the transmedia story that is Breaking Bad? Most stories are, in some shape or form, transmedia stories at this stage, and transmedia theory acknowledges there is a long history to this kind of practice (Freeman). Let’s dispense with restrictive definitions of transmediality and turn attention to how storytelling behaves in a digital era, that is, the processes of creating, disseminating and amending stories across many different media, the meanings and forms such media and communications produce, and the pleasures they offer audiences.Can we think about how health insurance companies responded to Breaking Bad in terms of transmedia storytelling? Defining Transmedia Storytelling via AuthorshipThe scholarly concern with defining transmedia storytelling via a strong focus on authorship has traced slight distinctions between seriality, franchising, adaptation and transmedia storytelling (Jenkins, “Transmedia Storytelling;” Johnson, “Media Franchising”). However, the theoretical discourse on authorship itself and these discussions of the tensions between forms are underwritten by a gendered bias. Indeed, the very concept of transmediality may be a gendered backlash against the rising prominence of seriality as a historically feminised mode of storytelling, associated with television and serial novels.Even with the move towards traditionally lowbrow, feminized forms of trans-serial narrative, the majority of academic and popular criticism of transmedia storytelling reproduces and reinstates narratives of male-centred, individual authorship that are historically descended from theorizations of the auteur. Auteur theory, which is still considered a legitimate analytical framework today, emerged in postwar theorizations of Hollywood film by French critics, most prominently in the journal Cahiers du Cinema, and at the nascence of film theory as a field (Cook). Auteur theory surfaced as a way to conceptualise aesthetic variation and value within the Fordist model of the Hollywood studio system (Cook). Directors were identified as the ultimate author or “creative source” if a film sufficiently fitted a paradigm of consistent “vision” across their oeuvre, and they were thus seen as artists challenging the commercialism of the studio system (Cook). In this way, classical auteur theory draws a dichotomy between art and authorship on one side and commerce and corporations on the other, strongly valorising the former for its existence within an industrial context dominated by the latter. In recent decades, auteurist notions have spread from film scholarship to pervade popular discourses of media authorship. Even though transmedia production inherently disrupts notions of authorship by diffusing the act of creation over many different media platforms and texts, much of the scholarship disproportionately chooses to vex over authorship in a manner reminiscent of classical auteur theory.In scholarly terms, a chief distinction between serial storytelling and transmedia storytelling lies in how authorship is constructed in relation to the text: serial storytelling has long been understood as relying on distributed authorship (Hilmes), but transmedia storytelling reveres the individual mastermind, or the master architect who plans and disseminates the storyworld across platforms. Henry Jenkins’ definition of transmedia storytelling is multifaceted and includes, “the systematic dispersal of multiple textual elements across many channels, which reflects the synergies of media conglomeration, based on complex story-worlds, and coordinated authorial design of integrated elements” (Jenkins, “Transmedia Storytelling”). Jenkins is perhaps the most pivotal figure in developing transmedia studies in the humanities to date and a key reference point for most scholars working in this subfield.A key limitation of Jenkins’ definition of transmedia storytelling is its emphasis on authorship, which persists in wider scholarship on transmedia storytelling. Jenkins focuses on the nature of authorship as a key characteristic of transmedia productions that distinguishes them from other kinds of intertextual and serial stories:Because transmedia storytelling requires a high degree of coordination across the different media sectors, it has so far worked best either in independent projects where the same artist shapes the story across all of the media involved or in projects where strong collaboration (or co-creation) is encouraged across the different divisions of the same company. (Jenkins, “Transmedia Storytelling”)Since the texts under discussion are commonly large in their scale, budget, and the number of people employed, it is reductive to credit particular individuals for this work and implicitly dismiss the authorial contributions of many others. Elaborating on the foundation set by Jenkins, Matthew Freeman uses Foucauldian concepts to describe two “author-functions” focused on the role of an author in defining the transmedia text itself and in marketing it (Freeman 36-38). Scott, Evans, Hills, and Hadas similarly view authorial branding as a symbolic industrial strategy significant to transmedia storytelling. Interestingly, M.J. Clarke identifies the ways transmedia television texts invite audiences to imagine a central mastermind, but also thwart and defer this impulse. Ultimately, Freeman argues that identifiable and consistent authorship is a defining characteristic of transmedia storytelling (Freeman 37), and Suzanne Scott argues that transmedia storytelling has “intensified the author’s function” from previous eras (47).Industry definitions of transmediality similarly position authorship as central to transmedia storytelling, and Jenkins’ definition has also been widely mobilised in industry discussions (Jenkins, “Transmedia” 202). This is unsurprising, because defining authorial roles has significant monetary value in terms of remuneration and copyright. In speaking to the Producers Guild of America, Jeff Gomez enumerated eight defining characteristics of transmedia production, the very first of which is, “Content is originated by one or a very few visionaries” (PGA Blog). Gomez’s talk was part of an industry-driven bid to have “Transmedia Producer” recognised by the trade associations as a legitimate and significant role; Gomez was successful and is now recognised as a transmedia producer. Nevertheless, his talk of “visionaries” not only situates authorship as central to transmedia production, but constructs authorship in very conservative, almost hagiographical terms. Indeed, Leora Hadas analyses the function of Joss Whedon’s authorship of Marvel's Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D (2013-) as a branding mechanism and argues that authors are becoming increasingly visible brands associated with transmedia stories.Such a discourse of authorship constructs individual figures as artists and masterminds, in an idealised manner that has been strongly critiqued in the wake of poststructuralism. It even recalls tired scholarly endeavours of divining authorial intention. Unsurprisingly, the figures valorised for their transmedia authorship are predominantly men; the scholarly emphasis on authorship thus reinforces the biases of media industries. Further, it idolises these figures at the expense of unacknowledged and under-celebrated female writers, directors and producers, as well as those creative workers labouring “below the line” in areas like production design, art direction, and special effects. Far from critiquing the biases of industry, academic discourse legitimises and lauds them.We hope that scholarship on transmedia storytelling might instead work to open up discourses of creation, production, authorship, and collaboration. For a story to qualify as transmedia is it even necessary to have an identifiable author? Transmedia texts and storyworlds can be genuinely collaborative or authorless creations, in which the harmony of various creators’ intentions may be unnecessary or even undesirable. Further, industry and academics alike often overlook examples of transmedia storytelling that might be considered “lowbrow.” For example, transmedia definitions should include Antonella the Uncensored Reviewer, a relatively small-scale, forty-something, plus size, YouTube channel producer whose persona is dispersed across multiple formats including beauty product reviews, letter writing, as well as interactive sex advice live casts. What happens when we blur the categories of author, celebrity, brand, and narrative in scholarship? We argue that these roles are substantially blurred in media industries in which authors like J.J. Abrams share the limelight with their stars as well as their corporate affiliations, and all “brands” are sutured to the storyworld text. These various actors all shape and are shaped by the narrative worlds they produce in an author-storyworld nexus, in which authorship includes all people working to produce the storyworld as well as the corporation funding it. Authorship never exists inside the limits of a single, male mind. Rather it is a field of relations among various players and stakeholders. While there is value in delineating between these roles for purposes of analysis and scholarly discussion, we should acknowledge that in the media industry, the roles of various stakeholders are increasingly porous.The current academic discourse of transmedia storytelling reconstructs old social biases and hierarchies in contexts where they might be most vulnerable to breakdown. Scott argues that,despite their potential to demystify and democratize authorship between producers and consumers, transmedia stories tend to reinforce boundaries between ‘official’ and ‘unauthorized’ forms of narrative expansion through the construction of a single author/textual authority figure. (44)Significantly, we suggest that it is the theorisation of transmedia storytelling that reinforces (or in fact constructs anew) an idealised author figure.The gendered dimension of the scholarly distinction between serialised (or trans-serial) and transmedial storytelling builds on a long history in the arts and the academy alike. In fact, an important precursor of transmedia narratives is the serialized novel of the Victorian era. The literature of Charlotte Brontë, George Eliot and Harriet Beecher Stowe was published in serial form and among the most widely read of the Victorian era in Western culture (Easley; Flint 21; Hilmes). Yet, these novels are rarely given proportional credit in what is popularly taught as the Western literary canon. The serial storytelling endemic to television as a medium has similarly been historically dismissed and marginalized as lowbrow and feminine (at least until the recent emergence of notions of the industrial role of the “showrunner” and the critical concept of “quality television”). Joanne Morreale outlines how trans-serial television examples, like The Dick Van Dyke Show, which spread their storyworlds across a number of different television programs, offer important precursors to today’s transmedia franchises (Morreale). In television’s nascent years, the anthology plays of the 1940s and 50s, which were discrete, unconnected hour-length stories, were heralded as cutting-edge, artistic and highbrow while serial narrative forms like the soap opera were denigrated (Boddy 80-92). Crucially, these anthology plays were largely created by and aimed at males, whereas soap operas were often created by and targeted to female audiences. The gendered terms in which various genres and modes of storytelling are discussed have implications for the value assigned to them in criticism, scholarship and culture more broadly (Hilmes; Kuhn; Johnson, “Devaluing”). Transmedia theory, as a scholarly discourse, betrays similarly gendered leanings as early television criticism, in valorising forms of transmedia narration that favour a single, male-bodied, and all-powerful author or corporation, such as George Lucas, Jim Henson or Marvel Comics.George Lucas is often depicted in scholarly and popular discourses as a headstrong transmedia auteur, as in the South Park episode ‘The China Problem’ (2008)A Circle of Men: Fans, Creators, Stories and TheoristsInterestingly, scholarly discourse on transmedia even betrays these gendered biases when exploring the engagement and activity of audiences in relation to transmedia texts. Despite the definitional emphasis on authorship, fan cultures have been a substantial topic of investigation in scholarly studies of transmedia storytelling, with many scholars elevating fans to the status of author, exploring the apparent blurring of these boundaries, and recasting the terms of these relationships (Scott; Dena; Pearson; Stein). Most notably, substantial scholarly attention has traced how transmedia texts cultivate a masculinized, “nerdy” fan culture that identifies with the male-bodied, all-powerful author or corporation (Brooker, Star Wars, Using; Jenkins, Convergence). Whether idealising the role of the creators or audiences, transmedia theory reinforces gendered hierarchies. Star Wars (1977-) is a pivotal corporate transmedia franchise that significantly shaped the convergent trajectory of media industries in the 20th century. As such it is also an anchor point for transmedia scholarship, much of which lauds and legitimates the creative work of fans. However, in focusing so heavily on the macho power struggle between George Lucas and Star Wars fans for authorial control over the storyworld, scholarship unwittingly reinstates Lucas’s status as sole creator rather than treating Star Wars’ authorship as inherently diffuse and porous.Recent fan activity surrounding animated adult science-fiction sitcom Rick and Morty (2013-) further demonstrates the macho culture of transmedia fandom in practice and its fascination with male authors. The animated series follows the intergalactic misadventures of a scientific genius and his grandson. Inspired by a seemingly inconsequential joke on the show, some of its fans began to fetishize a particular, limited-edition fast food sauce. When McDonalds, the actual owner of that sauce, cashed in by promoting the return of its Szechuan Sauce, a macho culture within the show’s fandom reached its zenith in the forms of hostile behaviour at McDonalds restaurants and online (Alexander and Kuchera). Rick and Morty fandom also built a misogynist reputation for its angry responses to the show’s efforts to hire a writer’s room that gave equal representation to women. Rick and Morty trolls doggedly harassed a few of the show’s female writers through 2017 and went so far as to post their private information online (Barsanti). Such gender politics of fan cultures have been the subject of much scholarly attention (Johnson, “Fan-tagonism”), not least in the many conversations hosted on Jenkins’ blog. Gendered performances and readings of fan activity are instrumental in defining and legitimating some texts as transmedia and some creators as masterminds, not only within fandoms but also in the scholarly discourse.When McDonalds promoted the return of their Szechuan Sauce, in response to its mention in the story world of animated sci-fi sitcom Rick and Morty, they contributed to transmedia storytelling.Both Rick and Morty and Star Wars are examples of how masculinist fan cultures, stubborn allegiances to male authorship, and definitions of transmedia converge both in academia and popular culture. While Rick and Morty is, in reality, partly female-authored, much of its media image is still anchored to its two male “creators,” Justin Roiland and Dan Harmon. Particularly in the context of #MeToo feminism, one wonders how much female authorship has been elided from existing storyworlds and, furthermore, what alternative examples of transmedia narration are exempt from current definitions of transmediality.The individual creator is a social construction of scholarship and popular discourse. This imaginary creator bears little relation to the conditions of creation and production of transmedia storyworlds, which are almost always team written and collectively authored. Further, the focus on writing itself elides the significant contributions of many creators such as those in production design (Bevan). Beyond that, what creative credit do focus groups deserve in shaping transmedia stories and their multi-layered, multi-platformed reaches? Is authorship, or even credit, really the concept we, as scholars, want to invest in when studying these forms of narration and mediation?At more symbolic levels, the seemingly exhaustless popular and scholarly appetite for male-bodied authorship persists within storyworlds themselves. The transmedia examples popularly and academically heralded as “seminal” centre on patrimony, patrilineage, and inheritance (i.e. Star Wars [1977-] and The Lord of the Rings [1937-]). Of course, Harry Potter (2001-2009) is an outlier as the celebrification of J.K. Rowling provides a strong example of credited female authorship. However, this example plays out many of the same issues, albeit the franchise is attached to a woman, in that it precludes many of the other creative minds who have helped shape Harry Potter’s world. How many more billions of dollars need we invest in men writing about the mysteries of how other men spread their genetic material across fictional universes? Moreover, transmedia studies remains dominated by academic men geeking out about how fan men geek out about how male creators write about mostly male characters in stories about … men. There are other stories waiting to be told and studied through the practices and theories of transmedia. These stories might be gender-inclusive and collective in ways that challenge traditional notions of authorship, control, rights, origin, and property.Obsession with male authorship, control, rights, origin, paternity and property is recognisible in scholarship on transmedia storytelling, and also symbolically in many of the most heralded examples of transmedia storytelling, such as the Star Wars saga.Prompting Broader DiscussionThis piece urges the development of broader understandings of transmedia storytelling. A range of media scholarship has already begun this work. Jonathan Gray’s book on paratexts offers an important pathway for such scholarship by legitimating ancillary texts, like posters and trailers, that uniquely straddle promotional and feature content platforms (Gray). A wave of scholars productively explores transmedia storytelling with a focus on storyworlds (Scolari; Harvey), often through the lens of narratology (Ryan; Ryan and Thon). Scolari, Bertetti, and Freeman have drawn together a media archaeological approach and a focus on transmedia characters in an innovative way. We hope to see greater proliferation of focuses and perspectives for the study of transmedia storytelling, including investigations that connect fictional and non-fictional worlds and stories, and a more inclusive variety of life experiences.Conversely, new scholarship on media authorship provides fresh directions, models, methods, and concepts for examining the complexity and messiness of this topic. A growing body of scholarship on the functions of media branding is also productive for reconceptualising notions of authorship in transmedia storytelling (Bourdaa; Dehry Kurtz and Bourdaa). Most notably, A Companion to Media Authorship edited by Gray and Derek Johnson productively interrogates relationships between creative processes, collaborative practices, production cultures, industrial structures, legal frameworks, and theoretical approaches around media authorship. Its case studies begin the work of reimagining of the role of authorship in transmedia, and pave the way for further developments (Burnett; Gordon; Hilmes; Stein). In particular, Matt Hills’s case study of how “counter-authorship” was negotiated on Torchwood (2006-2011) opens up new ways of thinking about multiple authorship and the variety of experiences, contributions, credits, and relationships this encompasses. Johnson’s Media Franchising addresses authorship in a complex way through a focus on social interactions, without making it a defining feature of the form; it would be significant to see a similar scholarly treatment of transmedia. At the very least, scholarly attention might turn its focus away from the very patriarchal activity of discussing definitions among a coterie and, instead, study the process of spreadability of male-centred transmedia storyworlds (Jenkins, Ford, and Green). Given that transmedia is not historically unique to the digital age, scholars might instead study how spreadability changes with the emergence of digitality and convergence, rather than pontificating on definitions of adaptation versus transmedia and cinema versus media.We urge transmedia scholars to distance their work from the malignant gender politics endemic to the media industries and particularly global Hollywood. The confluence of gendered agendas in both academia and media industries works to reinforce patriarchal hierarchies. The humanities should offer independent analysis and critique of how media industries and products function, and should highlight opportunities for conceiving of, creating, and treating such media practices and texts in new ways. As such, it is problematic that discourses on transmedia commonly neglect the distinction between what defines transmediality and what constitutes good examples of transmedia. This blurs the boundaries between description and prescription, taxonomy and hierarchy, analysis and evaluation, and definition and taste. Such discourses blinker us to what we might consider to be transmedia, but also to what examples of “good” transmedia storytelling might look like.Transmedia theory focuses disproportionately on authorship. This restricts a comprehensive understanding of transmedia storytelling, limits the lenses we bring to it, obstructs the ways we evaluate transmedia stories, and impedes how we imagine the possibilities for both media and storytelling. Stories have always been transmedial. What changes with the inception of transmedia theory is that men can claim credit for the stories and for all the work that many people do across various sectors and industries. It is questionable whether authorship is important to transmedia, in which creation is most often collective, loosely planned (at best) and diffused across many people, skill sets, and sectors. While Jenkins’s work has been pivotal in the development of transmedia theory, this is a ripe moment for the diversification of theoretical paradigms for understanding stories in the digital era.ReferencesAlexander, Julia, and Ben Kuchera. “How a Rick and Morty Joke Led to a McDonald’s Szechuan Sauce Controversy.” Polygon 4 Apr. 2017. <https://www.polygon.com/2017/10/12/16464374/rick-and-morty-mcdonalds-szechuan-sauce>.Aristotle. Aristotle's Poetics. New York: Hill and Wang, 1961. Barsanti, Sami. “Dan Harmon Is Pissed at Rick and Morty Fans Harassing Female Writers.” The AV Club 21 Sep. 2017. <https://www.avclub.com/dan-harmon-is-pissed-at-rick-and-morty-fans-for-harassi-1818628816>.Bevan, Alex. “Nostalgia for Pre-Digital Media in Mad Men.” Television & New Media 14.6 (2013): 546-559.Boddy, William. Fifties Television: The Industry and Its Critics. Chicago: U of Illinois P, 1993.Bourdaa, Mélanie. “This Is Not Marketing. 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The 2000s have been a lively decade for cities. The Worldwatch Institute estimated that 2007 was the first year in human history that more people worldwide lived in cities than the countryside. Globalisation and new digital media technologies have generated the seemingly paradoxical outcome that spatial location came to be more rather than less important, as combinations of firms, industries, cultural activities and creative talents have increasingly clustered around a select node of what have been termed “creative cities,” that are in turn highly networked into global circuits of economic capital, political power and entertainment media. Intellectually, the period has seen what the UCLA geographer Ed Soja refers to as the spatial turn in social theory, where “whatever your interests may be, they can be significantly advanced by adopting a critical spatial perspective” (2). This is related to the dynamic properties of socially constructed space itself, or what Soja terms “the powerful forces that arise from socially produced spaces such as urban agglomerations and cohesive regional economies,” with the result that “what can be called the stimulus of socio-spatial agglomeration is today being assertively described as the primary cause of economic development, technological innovation, and cultural creativity” (14). The demand for social justice in cities has, in recent years, taken the form of “Right to the City” movements. The “Right to the City” movement draws upon the long tradition of radical urbanism in which the Paris Commune of 1871 features prominently, and which has both its Marxist and anarchist variants, as well as the geographer Henri Lefebvre’s (1991) arguments that capitalism was fundamentally driven by the production of space, and that the citizens of a city possessed fundamental rights by virtue of being in a city, meaning that political struggle in capitalist societies would take an increasingly urban form. Manifestations of contemporary “Right to the City” movements have been seen in the development of a World Charter for the Right to the City, Right to the City alliances among progressive urban planners as well as urban activists, forums that bring together artists, architects, activists and urban geographers, and a variety of essays on the subject by radical geographers including David Harvey, whose work I wish to focus upon here. In his 2008 essay "The Right to the City," Harvey presents a manifesto for 21st century radical politics that asserts that the struggle for collective control over cities marks the nodal point of anti-capitalist movements today. It draws together a range of strands of arguments recognizable to those familiar with Harvey’s work, including Marxist political economy, the critique of neoliberalism, the growth of social inequality in the U.S. in particular, and concerns about the rise of speculative finance capital and its broader socio-economic consequences. My interest in Harvey’s manifesto here arises not so much from his prognosis for urban radicalism, but from how he understands the suburban in relation to this urban class struggle. It is an important point to consider because, in many parts of the world, growing urbanisation is in fact growing suburbanisation. This is the case for U.S. cities (Cox), and it is also apparent in Australian cities, with the rise in particular of outer suburban Master Planned Communities as a feature of the “New Prosperity” Australia has been experiencing since the mid 1990s (Flew; Infrastructure Australia). What we find in Harvey’s essay is that the suburban is clearly sub-urban, or an inferior form of city living. Suburbs are variously identified by Harvey as being:Sites for the expenditure of surplus capital, as a safety valve for overheated finance capitalism (Harvey 27);Places where working class militancy is pacified through the promotion of mortgage debt, which turns suburbanites into political conservatives primarily concerned with maintaining their property values;Places where “the neoliberal ethic of intense possessive individualism, and its cognate of political withdrawal from collective forms of action” are actively promoted through the proliferation of shopping malls, multiplexes, franchise stores and fast-food outlets, leading to “pacification by cappuccino” (32);Places where women are actively oppressed, so that “leading feminists … [would] proclaim the suburb as the locus of all their primary discontents” (28);A source of anti-capitalist struggle, as “the soulless qualities of suburban living … played a critical role in the dramatic events of 1968 in the US [as] discontented white middle-class students went into a phase of revolt, sought alliances with marginalized groups claiming civil rights and rallied against American imperialism” (28).Given these negative associations, one could hardly imagine citizens demanding the right to the suburb, in the same way as Harvey projects the right to the city as a rallying cry for a more democratic social order. Instead, from an Australian perspective, one is reminded of the critiques of suburbia that have been a staple of radical theory from the turn of the 20th century to the present day (Collis et. al.). Demanding the “right to the suburb” would appear here as an inherently contradictory demand, that could only be desired by those who the Australian radical psychoanalytic theorist Douglas Kirsner described as living an alienated existence where:Watching television, cleaning the car, unnecessary housework and spectator sports are instances of general life-patterns in our society: by adopting these patterns the individual submits to a uniform life fashioned from outside, a pseudo-life in which the question of individual self-realisation does not even figure. People live conditioned, unconscious lives, reproducing the values of the system as a whole (Kirsner 23). The problem with this tradition of radical critique, which is perhaps reflective of the estrangement of a section of the Australian critical intelligentsia more generally, is that most Australians live in suburbs, and indeed seem (not surprisingly!) to like living in them. Indeed, each successive wave of migration to Australia has been marked by families seeking a home in the suburbs, regardless of the housing conditions of the place they came from: the demand among Singaporeans for large houses in Perth, or what has been termed “Singaperth,” is one of many manifestations of this desire (Lee). Australian suburban development has therefore been characterized by a recurring tension between the desire of large sections of the population to own their own home (the fabled quarter-acre block) in the suburbs, and the condemnation of suburban life from an assortment of intellectuals, political radicals and cultural critics. This was the point succinctly made by the economist and urban planner Hugh Stretton in his 1970 book Ideas for Australian Cities, where he observed that “Most Australians choose to live in suburbs, in reach of city centres and also of beaches or countryside. Many writers condemn this choice, and with especial anger or gloom they condemn the suburbs” (Stretton 7). Sue Turnbull has observed that “suburbia has come to constitute a cultural fault-line in Australia over the last 100 years” (19), while Ian Craven has described suburbia as “a term of contention and a focus for fundamentally conflicting beliefs” in the Australian national imaginary “whose connotations continue to oscillate between dream and suburban nightmare” (48). The tensions between celebration and critique of suburban life play themselves out routinely in the Australian media, from the sun-lit suburbanism of Australia’s longest running television serial dramas, Neighbours and Home and Away, to the pointed observational critiques found in Australian comedy from Barry Humphries to Kath and Kim, to the dark visions of films such as The Boys and Animal Kingdom (Craven; Turnbull). Much as we may feel that the diagnosis of suburban life as a kind of neurotic condition had gone the way of the concept album or the tie-dye shirt, newspaper feature writers such as Catherine Deveny, writing in The Age, have offered the following as a description of the Chadstone shopping centre in Melbourne’s eastern suburbChadstone is a metastasised tumour of offensive proportions that's easy to find. You simply follow the line of dead-eyed wage slaves attracted to this cynical, hermetically sealed weatherless biosphere by the promise a new phone will fix their punctured soul and homewares and jumbo caramel mugachinos will fill their gaping cavern of disappointment … No one looks happy. Everyone looks anaesthetised. A day spent at Chadstone made me understand why they call these shopping centres complexes. Complex as in a psychological problem that's difficult to analyse, understand or solve. (Deveny) Suburbanism has been actively promoted throughout Australia’s history since European settlement. Graeme Davison has observed that “Australia’s founders anticipated a sprawl of homes and gardens rather than a clumping of terraces and alleys,” and quotes Governor Arthur Phillip’s instructions to the first urban developers of the Sydney Cove colony in 1790 that streets shall be “laid out in such a manner as to afford free circulation of air, and where the houses are built … the land will be granted with a clause that will prevent more than one house being built on the allotment” (Davison 43). Louise Johnson (2006) argued that the main features of 20th century Australian suburbanisation were very much in place by the 1920s, particularly land-based capitalism and the bucolic ideal of home as a retreat from the dirt, dangers and density of the city. At the same time, anti-suburbanism has been a significant influence in Australian public thought. Alan Gilbert (1988) drew attention to the argument that Australia’s suburbs combined the worst elements of the city and country, with the absence of both the grounded community associated with small towns, and the mental stimuli and personal freedom associated with the city. Australian suburbs have been associated with spiritual emptiness, the promotion of an ersatz, one-dimensional consumer culture, the embourgeoisment of the working-class, and more generally criticised for being “too pleasant, too trivial, too domestic and far too insulated from … ‘real’ life” (Gilbert 41). There is also an extensive feminist literature critiquing suburbanization, seeing it as promoting the alienation of women and the unequal sexual division of labour (Game and Pringle). More recently, critiques of suburbanization have focused on the large outer-suburban homes developed on new housing estates—colloquially known as McMansions—that are seen as being environmentally unsustainable and emblematic of middle-class over-consumption. Clive Hamilton and Richard Denniss’s Affluenza (2005) is a locus classicus of this type of argument, and organizations such as the Australia Institute—which Hamilton and Denniss have both headed—have regularly published papers making such arguments. Can the Suburbs Make You Creative?In such a context, championing the Australian suburb can feel somewhat like being an advocate for Dan Brown novels, David Williamson plays, Will Ferrell comedies, or TV shows such as Two and a Half Men. While it may put you on the side of majority opinion, you can certainly hear the critical axe grinding and possibly aimed at your head, not least because of the association of such cultural forms with mass popular culture, or the pseudo-life of an alienated existence. The art of a program such as Kath and Kim is that, as Sue Turnbull so astutely notes, it walks both sides of the street, both laughing with and laughing at Australian suburban culture, with its celebrity gossip magazines, gourmet butcher shops, McManisons and sales at Officeworks. Gina Riley and Jane Turner’s inspirations for the show can be seen with the presence of such suburban icons as Shane Warne, Kylie Minogue and Barry Humphries as guests on the program. Others are less nuanced in their satire. The website Things Bogans Like relentlessly pillories those who live in McMansions, wear Ed Hardy t-shirts and watch early evening current affairs television, making much of the lack of self-awareness of those who would simultaneously acquire Buddhist statues for their homes and take budget holidays in Bali and Phuket while denouncing immigration and multiculturalism. It also jokes about the propensity of “bogans” to loudly proclaim that those who question their views on such matters are demonstrating “political correctness gone mad,” appealing to the intellectual and moral authority of writers such as the Melbourne Herald-Sun columnist Andrew Bolt. There is also the “company you keep” question. Critics of over-consuming middle-class suburbia such as Clive Hamilton are strongly associated with the Greens, whose political stocks have been soaring in Australia’s inner cities, where the majority of Australia’s cultural and intellectual critics live and work. By contrast, the Liberal party under John Howard and now Tony Abbott has taken strongly to what could be termed suburban realism over the 1990s and 2000s. Examples of suburban realism during the Howard years included the former Member for Lindsay Jackie Kelly proclaiming that the voters of her electorate were not concerned with funding for their local university (University of Western Sydney) as the electorate was “pram city” and “no one in my electorate goes to uni” (Gibson and Brennan-Horley), and the former Minister for Immigration and Citizenship, Garry Hardgrave, holding citizenship ceremonies at Bunnings hardware stores, so that allegiance to the Australian nation could co-exist with a sausage sizzle (Gleeson). Academically, a focus on the suburbs is at odds with Richard Florida’s highly influential creative class thesis, which stresses inner urban cultural amenity and “buzz” as the drivers of a creative economy. Unfortunately, it is also at odds with many of Florida’s critics, who champion inner city activism as the antidote to the ersatz culture of “hipsterisation” that they associate with Florida (Peck; Slater). A championing of suburban life and culture is associated with writers such as Joel Kotkin and the New Geography group, who also tend to be suspicious of claims made about the creative industries and the creative economy. It is worth noting, however, that there has been a rich vein of work on Australian suburbs among cultural geographers, that has got past urban/suburban binaries and considered the extent to which critiques of suburban Australia are filtered through pre-existing discursive categories rather than empirical research findings (Dowling and Mee; McGuirk and Dowling; Davies (this volume). I have been part of a team engaged in a three-year study of creative industries workers in outer suburban areas, known as the Creative Suburbia project.[i] The project sought to understand how those working in creative industries who lived and worked in the outer suburbs maintained networks, interacted with clients and their peers, and made a success of their creative occupations: it focused on six suburbs in the cities of Brisbane (Redcliffe, Springfield, Forest Lake) and Melbourne (Frankston, Dandenong, Caroline Springs). It was premised upon what has been an inescapable empirical fact: however much talk there is about the “return to the city,” the fastest rates of population growth are in the outer suburbs of Australia’s major cities (Infrastructure Australia), and this is as true for those working in creative industries occupations as it is for those in virtually all other industry and occupational sectors (Flew; Gibson and Brennan-Horley; Davies). While there is a much rehearsed imagined geography of the creative industries that points to creative talents clustering in dense, highly agglomerated inner city precincts, incubating their unique networks of trust and sociality through random encounters in the city, it is actually at odds with the reality of where people in these sectors choose to live and work, which is as often as not in the suburbs, where the citizenry are as likely to meet in their cars at traffic intersections than walking in city boulevards.There is of course a “yes, but” response that one could have to such empirical findings, which is to accept that the creative workforce is more suburbanised than is commonly acknowledged, but to attribute this to people being driven out of the inner city by high house prices and rents, which may or may not be by-products of a Richard Florida-style strategy to attract the creative class. In other words, people live in the outer suburbs because they are driven out of the inner city. From our interviews with 130 people across these six suburban locations, the unequivocal finding was that this was not the case. While a fair number of our respondents had indeed moved from the inner city, just as many would—if given the choice—move even further away from the city towards a more rural setting as they would move closer to it. While there are clearly differences between suburbs, with creative people in Redcliffe being generally happier than those in Springfield, for example, it was quite clear that for many of these people a suburban location helped them in their creative practice, in ways that included: the aesthetic qualities of the location; the availability of “headspace” arising from having more time to devote to creative work rather than other activities such as travelling and meeting people; less pressure to conform to a stereotyped image of how one should look and act; financial savings from having access to lower-cost locations; and time saved by less commuting between locations.These creative workers generally did not see having access to the “buzz” associated with the inner city as being essential for pursuing work in their creative field, and they were just as likely to establish hardware stores and shopping centres as networking hubs as they were cafes and bars. While being located in the suburbs was disadvantageous in terms of access to markets and clients, but this was often seen in terms of a trade-off for better quality of life. Indeed, contrary to the presumptions of those such as Clive Hamilton and Catherine Deveny, they could draw creative inspiration from creative locations themselves, without feeling subjected to “pacification by cappuccino.” The bigger problem was that so many of the professional associations they dealt with would hold events in the inner city in the late afternoon or early evening, presuming people living close by and/or not having domestic or family responsibilities at such times. The role played by suburban locales such as hardware stores as sites for professional networking and as elements of creative industries value chains has also been documented in studies undertaken of Darwin as a creative city in Australia’s tropical north (Brennan-Horley and Gibson; Brennan-Horley et al.). Such a revised sequence in the cultural geography of the creative industries has potentially great implications for how urban cultural policy is being approached. The assumption that the creative industries are best developed in cities by investing heavily in inner urban cultural amenity runs the risk of simply bypassing those areas where the bulk of the nation’s artists, musicians, filmmakers and other cultural workers actually are, which is in the suburbs. Moreover, by further concentrating resources among already culturally rich sections of the urban population, such policies run the risk of further accentuating spatial inequalities in the cultural realm, and achieving the opposite of what is sought by those seeking spatial justice or the right to the city. An interest in broadband infrastructure or suburban university campuses is certainly far more prosaic than a battle for control of the nation’s cultural institutions or guerilla actions to reclaim the city’s streets. Indeed, it may suggest aspirations no higher than those displayed by Kath and Kim or by the characters of Barry Humphries’ satirical comedy. But however modest or utilitarian a focus on developing cultural resources in Australian suburbs may seem, it is in fact the most effective way of enabling the forms of spatial justice in the cultural sphere that many progressive people seek. ReferencesBrennan-Horley, Chris, and Chris Gibson. “Where Is Creativity in the City? Integrating Qualitative and GIS Methods.” Environment and Planning A 41.11 (2009): 2595–614. Brennan-Horley, Chris, Susan Luckman, Chris Gibson, and J. Willoughby-Smith. “GIS, Ethnography and Cultural Research: Putting Maps Back into Ethnographic Mapping.” The Information Society: An International Journal 26.2 (2010): 92–103.Collis, Christy, Emma Felton, and Phil Graham. “Beyond the Inner City: Real and Imagined Places in Creative Place Policy and Practice.” The Information Society: An International Journal 26.2 (2010): 104–12.Cox, Wendell. “The Still Elusive ‘Return to the City’.” New Geography 28 February 2011. < http://www.newgeography.com/content/002070-the-still-elusive-return-city >.Craven, Ian. “Cinema, Postcolonialism and Australian Suburbia.” Australian Studies 1995: 45-69. Davies, Alan. “Are the Suburbs Dormitories?” The Melbourne Urbanist 21 Sep. 2010. < http://melbourneurbanist.wordpress.com/2010/09/21/are-the-suburbs-dormitories/ >.Davison, Graeme. "Australia: The First Suburban Nation?” Journal of Urban History 22.1 (1995): 40-75. Deveny, Catherine. “No One Out Alive.” The Age 29 Oct. 2009. < http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/society-and-culture/no-one-gets-out-alive-20091020-h6yh.html >.Dowling, Robyn, and K. Mee. “Tales of the City: Western Sydney at the End of the Millennium.” Sydney: The Emergence of World City. Ed. John Connell. Melbourne: Oxford UP, 2000. 244–72.Flew, Terry. “Economic Prosperity, Suburbanization and the Creative Workforce: Findings from Australian Suburban Communities.” Spaces and Flows: Journal of Urban and Extra-Urban Studies 1.1 (2011, forthcoming).Game, Ann, and Rosemary Pringle. “Sexuality and the Suburban Dream.” Australian and New Zealand Journal of Sociology 15.2 (1979): 4–15.Gibson, Chris, and Chris Brennan-Horley. “Goodbye Pram City: Beyond Inner/Outer Zone Binaries in Creative City Research.” Urban Policy and Research 24.4 (2006): 455–71. Gilbert, A. “The Roots of Australian Anti-Suburbanism.” Australian Cultural History. Ed. S. I. Goldberg and F. B. Smith. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1988. 33–39. Gleeson, Brendan. Australian Heartlands: Making Space for Hope in the Suburbs. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2006.Hamilton, Clive, and Richard Denniss. Affluenza. Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2005.Harvey, David. “The Right to the City.” New Left Review 53 (2008): 23–40.Infrastructure Australia. State of Australian Cities 2010. Infrastructure Australia Major Cities Unit. Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia. 2010.Johnson, Lesley. “Style Wars: Revolution in the Suburbs?” Australian Geographer 37.2 (2006): 259–77. Kirsner, Douglas. “Domination and the Flight from Being.” Australian Capitalism: Towards a Socialist Critique. Eds. J. Playford and D. Kirsner. Melbourne: Penguin, 1972. 9–31.Kotkin, Joel. “Urban Legends.” Foreign Policy 181 (2010): 128–34. Lee, Terence. “The Singaporean Creative Suburb of Perth: Rethinking Cultural Globalization.” Globalization and Its Counter-Forces in South-East Asia. Ed. T. Chong. Singapore: Institute for Southeast Asian Studies, 2008. 359–78. Lefebvre, Henri. The Production of Space. Trans. Donald Nicholson-Smith. Oxford: Blackwell, 1991.McGuirk, P., and Robyn Dowling. “Understanding Master-Planned Estates in Australian Cities: A Framework for Research.” Urban Policy and Research 25.1 (2007): 21–38Peck, Jamie. “Struggling with the Creative Class.” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 29.4 (2005): 740–70. Slater, Tom. “The Eviction of Critical Perspectives from Gentrification Research.” International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 30.4 (2006): 737–57. Soja, Ed. Seeking Spatial Justice. Minneapolis: U of Minnesota P, 2010.Stretton, Hugh. Ideas for Australian Cities. Melbourne: Penguin, 1970.Turnbull, Sue. “Mapping the Vast Suburban Tundra: Australian Comedy from Dame Edna to Kath and Kim.” International Journal of Cultural Studies 11.1 (2008): 15–32.

Uppland is a 30-minute research film tracing the complex relationship between landscape, displacement and the global extractive industries within, and beyond, sub-Saharan Africa. The film documents a new-town called Yekepa, designed and built by and for a mining company prospecting for iron-ore in the late 1950s, that exploited and transformed the indigenous landscapes of Yeke’pa. The film represents an original collaboration between an architect and a filmmaker. This research took them to the remote highlands of Liberia, once a thriving mining community, now a concrete ruin in the West African bush. Exploring the town, the researchers discovered promises of prosperity, abandonment and forgotten injustices. They revealed insights about western architecture, the remnants of colonialism, and the spiritual costs of mining. The main outputs from this work are a number of international screenings at major film festivals, architectural biennales, as well as contributions to an international conference in Sweden. Educational rights to the film were acquired for the distributing to international research institutions and universities across Europe and North-America. ‘It is a galling portrait of the harvesting of African resources and the damage done to both land and people... Uppland avoids most of the pitfalls of the narrated, exploitation documentary genre, its disembodied voice- over never becoming too authoritative, outraged, or self-indulgent – a rare achievement in this ever-expanding field.’ Danny Hoffman, Africa’s a Country, May 2019.

AbstractAfter the explosion of writing on the Armenian Genocide in the centennial year, 2015, scholars have steadily produced new research and writing on the events of 1915–1916 in the late Ottoman Empire that have deepened our understanding of the trajectories and tragedies of those years. While a comprehensive review of everything published would require a small monograph, this chapter will review several important but diverse recent contributions: Hans-Lukacs Kieser, Talaat Pasha: Father of Modern Turkey, Architect of Genocide (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2018); Benny Morris and Dror Ze’evi, The Thirty-Year Genocide: Turkey’s Destruction of its Christian Minorities, 1894–1924 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2019); Ümit Kurt, The Armenians of Aintab: The Economics of Genocide in an Ottoman Province (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2021); and Harry Harootunian, The Unspoken Heritage: The Armenian Genocide and its Unaccounted Lives (Durham and London: Duke University Press, 2019).The chapter will begin with a review of the historiography on the Armenian Genocide as of 2015. Scholarship produced during the last twenty-five years has essentially routed the denialist interpretation and established a firm foundation for understanding the ethnic cleansing, forced assimilation, property confiscations, and mass killing of Armenians and Assyrians as a genocide. The work of Raymond Kévorkian, Taner Akçam, Fatma Müge Goçek, Hilmar Kaiser, Hans-Lukas Kieser, Richard Hovannisian and his students, among them Stephan Astourian, and many Turkish, Kurdish, and Armenian colleagues in Turkey has been essential. The Workshop for Armenian/Turkish Scholarship (WATS) has been an ongoing effort on the part of a number of scholars—Armenian, Turkish and other—to investigate the causes, circumstances and consequences of the Armenian Genocide of 1915, overcoming the politics of recognition and denial. The historical record has been made, although political and polemical campaigns against truth and accurate and evidenced historical knowledge continue both in Turkey and elsewhere.The chapter will explore what is new, and whether the paradigm established by 2015 has changed, been amplified, and significantly improved. It will address the significant contributions made since 2015, beyond the “WATS consensus,” which was basically in place by the centennial year and formed the basis for my book “They Can Live in the Desert but Nowhere Else:” A History of the Armenian Genocide (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2015).

Abstract One of the legacies of the social movement is the influence that non architects have on building, especially public building. One of the first major decisions made by public user groups is the selection of the architect, which will clearly have the biggest impact on the form of the building. The IBI Group, my firm, together with James Stirling Michael Wilford & Associates, were selected as architects for the Science Library at the University of California, Irvine. The program had not yet been completed by the university. It is very often the case with university facilities that the university will select different firms to do the program and ultimately design the building. We were fortunate in being selected as both programmers and architects; this allowed us to build on the rapport and the enthusiasm of the user committee, including the campus architect, David Neuman. The program was extremely important in the design of the facility, as it sets out a budget and square footage for the building.

The Architect, made in the USA in the 20th century, is an impressive work that has managed to tell the sad stories of two different families with an “architectural theme”. In the movie, the actors, each with a different character, present their different lives to the audience in the “social housing project”. The EdenCourt social housing project, which was built by the architect with great hope and an idealistic approach, lost its function over time, gained different meanings, and emerged as a problem years later. The difficulties of the people living in these residences are discussed in the life of one of the main characters. The idea that “architecture is not about making models” is tried to be explained with characters and events within the framework of the film. Attention was drawn to the necessity of keeping up with the change as a result of completing the requirements of architectural formation. In the film, it is emphasized that architects, who act depending on the changing demands of society, socio-politica-economic environments, and technological developments, can go beyond modeling by preserving the ecological balance, understanding the demands of the social structure, and providing it. The fact that the architectural elements shaped by the experiences of their users have lost their function over time has been the subject of the film. In this context, it is possible to think that the film is fictionalized over the settlements that are referred to as the 'failures' of modern architecture. The “failure” of the social housing project is portrayed in the film, which is designed to give a message in every frame. In the context of the relationship between the art of cinema and architecture, it can be considered as a common point that both disciplines use space and time in terms of “designing, producing and presenting techniques”. Just like an architect, the director's physical, cultural, social, etc. The fact that he tries to visualize and construct events by fictionalizing them can be considered an indication that architecture and cinema have similar aspects. The effort to capture and understand the architectural touches in both social and physical dimensions while watching a movie also reveals the visual impact of architecture and cinema.

This study aims to analyze the film, The Belly of an Architect, which was presented to the audience in 1987 by director Peter Greenaway, from an architectural point of view. British cinema director Greenaway has an interest in different branches of art such as stage design, painting, and exhibition curation. The Cook, the Thief, His Wife, and Her Lover; The Pillow Book, and The Baby of Macon are among the most popular films of the director. It is followed in the drama, written by the director, that the American architect Stourley Kracklite's process of questioning his wife, career, and life in Rome after being invited to organize an exhibition on behalf of the French neoclassical architect Étienne-Louis Boullée. Boullée lived between 1728-1799 and is famous for his circular forms and buildings where he uses geometry in its pure form. In the film, Rome plays a key role in the formation of the story, not only formally but also narratively. The historical buildings of the city, especially the Pantheon appear as important roles. The “belly”, dome, and circular forms, which are used intensely as the focal point and axis of symmetry, also constitute other roles. Cinematographic readings were made in order to be able to see the flow that the director created in his film, to obtain information, and to analyze the film. It is seen that most of the elements and principles used in art production are common, such as light, color, and composition. From this point of view, the analysis of the film was made on the basis of design elements and principles in general. While the movie is watched, line, form, size, color, light, harmony, contrast, dominance, hierarchy, and most dominantly, symmetry and balance can be observed. These architectural elements can be read both on the architecture, on the axis of vital images, and in the scenario, through the semantic fiction in the film. The film ranks high among the recommended films on social platforms with architectural content. When the instructiveness of reading design elements and principles in different branches of art are evaluated, it is being watched within the scope of undergraduate and graduate level courses in architecture faculty.<br>

In a metaphorical reading, the industrialized modern city of Modern Times is a gigantic factory designed to produce the modern man. It tries to regulate the movements of the body, actions, and mind through modernist spatial layouts of institutions such as factories, hospitals, and prisons. In this respect, the film can be seen as a criticism of modern architecture and feedback for architects about the consequences of the modernist approach. On the other hand, it would not be right to look for the spatial approaches of the modern age only in the cinematic space of the film. The film studio where the film was produced is also the product of modernism. In Chaplin's silent cinema; the film set is not only background for the actions of the actors, but also a part and catalyst of their creative and spontaneous performance. Therefore, ironically, the criticism of the mechanizing effect of modern architecture on the body was produced through the constructivist modern stages of the silent film studios. This study examines these two different aspects of modern architecture: the modernist disciplinary approach and the constructivist avant-garde approach, through the cinematic space and production space of the film Modern Times. By using Foucault's concepts of disciplinary society and heterotopia, and based on Chaplin's memoirs as a witness of the modern era, the study aims to analyze different layers of modern architecture.

This chapter discusses the opening scenes of David Cronenberg's Shivers (1975). The exteriors and interiors of Starliner Tower, where the film is located, are played by Tourelle-Sur-Rive on Nuns' Island, a late work of the Bauhaus architect Ludwig Mies van der Rohe. The structure of the building provides a physical framework for Cronenberg's choices in the film. The mise-en-scène and production design works with the shapes of the rooms made available to the production by their residents, and their existing décor, which the production had little budget to re-dress. This unity of location makes Shivers the last of three major Cronenberg films to begin, or double, as explorations of a built environment. The chapter then considers the film's plural identity as a Quebecois production made with English-Canadian state financing. It also introduces the characters of the story. In Shivers, as in most of Cronenberg's horror films, the source of the danger is private medicine, ‘private’ in both the ‘commercial’ and ‘personal’ senses.

A little girl in Raytown, Missouri, used to spend part of almost every day in a special place in the woods near her house. The place had a calming effect on her. “Sometimes I go there when I’m mad . . . and then, just with the peacefulness, I’m better. I can come back home happy, and my mom doesn’t even know why.” In his book Last Child in the Woods, Richard Louv recounts the end of this fifth grader’s story. “And then they just cut the woods down. It was like they cut down part of me.” I know this same feeling. When I was her age, I watched the prairiesavannah I loved to explore turned into a housing development, chasing away my friends, the meadowlarks. I watched my aging Irish poet friend, Ken Olsen, try to fight the city to save the little bit of woods next to his house from being turned into an apartment complex. The loss nearly gave him a heart attack … or it did give him one, just not one that could be seen. Another friend mourned for weeks after the city cut down the oak in front of her apartment complex that offered dappled green shade to her fourth-floor home. It’s grief, pure and simple. But with all grief, life goes on, sometimes even when we don’t want it to. And there’s hope in that. The land systems long to rejuvenate, just as we long to have them back. Leopold’s restoration work at the Shack and the Arboretum have expanded exponentially, into every ecosystem on land and even into ocean ecosystems, such as coral reefs, kelp beds, tidal communities, and oyster beds. Because so much damage has been done, this is one of the most vibrant, growing, and needed areas of the Leopold legacy. Steven Brower, a landscape architect and Leopold family historian from Burlington, often walks the woods, caves, and bottomlands where Aldo roamed as a child. Brower’s eyes penetrate the landscapes with a kind of x-ray vision, seeing what once was underneath what is today.

On August 1, 1919, Aldo was appointed to the second-highest position in District 3—Assistant Forester in Charge of Operations. Numerous foresters grumbled that Leopold didn’t deserve the job and was hardly suited to its enormous responsibilities. He hadn’t proven he was versed enough in all aspects of forestry management to handle the overarching tasks of inspecting every forest, reporting on what he found, and suggesting improvements. Leopold had a rigorous schedule to follow—three forests per summer, with a month at each. Since the Forest Service had no set inspection method, Leopold had to develop his own. His first reports were sketchy. He wrote more comments on rangers’ initiative and reading habits than on the details of their work or the conditions of their fire stations. During a late-summer tour of his old stomping ground, the Carson, Leopold roved further south into the Datil Forest. He fished away a Sunday at the headwaters of the Gila River and came away relaxed and refreshed. No telephone poles or roads cut across the landscape; there were just the pines; the trout; the tingle of fresh, pungent air; and a breeze alive with bird calls. Few areas like this remained in District 3. Was there, he wondered, a legal way to preserve the canyonlands around the Gila just as they were? That December, at a meeting of district foresters in Salt Lake City, Leopold heard about a young forest assistant named Arthur Carhart from District 2 in Colorado. Carhart, the Forest Service’s first landscape architect, had been dubbed the “Beauty Engineer” by his coworkers. Carhart had recommended that Trappers Lake, in the White River National Forest, be permanently preserved in a wilderness state—no so-called improvements. On his return trip, Leopold stopped by the D-2 offices to meet the man. Up to this point, attempts to set aside natural areas in the national forests led only to national parks or “primitive areas” that were open to later development. Leopold did not trust the park system to preserve any wilderness area intact.

There has been much scholarly interest in the relationship between Rome and Persia in the Sasanian era. Historians have devoted detailed studies to the intensified political and military contacts following Ardashir I’s accession to the throne of Iran. Most art historians and archaeologists, by contrast, have argued that cultural contacts between Rome and Sasanian Persia were only established under Shapur I. There is, however, architectural and artistic evidence to suggest that such contacts commenced, in fact, during the reign of Ardashir I. As far as architecture is concerned, Dietrich Huff has made a persuasive case, that architects and masons from the eastern provinces of the Roman Empire were involved in the construction of the fire temple in the city of Ardashir Khurrah (Firuzabad). This chapter argues that rock reliefs also imply similar cultural influence, even though the case is more difficult to prove. It examines the chronology of the five rock reliefs accomplished under Ardashir, as well as the workshops involved in producing them. The earliest relief, at Firuzabad I, shows traits characteristic of Elymaean craftsmen. Subsequently, new techniques and styles appear, and the relief at Naqsh-e Rostam I seems to imitate Persepolitan sculpture. Since numismatic evidence suggests that the reliefs were all carved within about ten years, only the involvement of experienced sculptors, perhaps from the Syro-Mesopotamian regions invaded by Ardashir, can explain such a major and rapid change of style.

The realization of three-dimensional (3D)-architected nanostructures, that is, the transformation from novel two-dimensional (2D) film-based devices to 3D complex nanodevices, is of crucial importance with the progress of scaling down devices to nanometer order. However, little attention has been devoted to controlling the atomic ordering and structures of side-surfaces on 3D structures, while techniques for controlling and investigating 2D surfaces, namely, surface science, have been established only for planar 2D surfaces. We have established an original methodology that enables atomic orderings and arrangements of surfaces with arbitrary directions to be observed on 3D figured structures by developing diffraction and microscopy techniques. An original technique, namely, directly and quantitatively viewing the side- and facet-surfaces at the atomic scale by reflection high-energy electron diffraction (RHEED) and low-energy electron diffraction (LEED), can be used to determine process parameters in etching. This chapter introduces methods of evaluation by RHEED and LEED based on a reciprocal space map and methods of creating various atomically flat 111 and {100} side-surfaces of 3D Si nano-architectures and tilted 111 facet-surfaces fabricated by lithography dry and wet etching processes, followed by annealing treatment in vacuum.

Successive house building booms from the late 19th century until the Second World War shaped London’s built environment decisively. In terms of the sheer size of area covered, the dispersed, suburban London of terraced, semi- and detached houses that we know today was to a large extent created then, and much of it was built speculatively - by private firms for an assumed demand. Despite this legacy, the questions of who those involved in the design were and how they did it is an under-researched topic surrounded by assumptions that are often difficult to substantiate. Speculative housing of the period has long been regarded as an example of vernacular architecture, made by craftsmen using standard templates, so-called pattern books, without architect’s or otherwise professional involvement. The idea – in its extreme, ‘ultra’ form - is that designers were hardly necessary, as builders could simply copy house designs found in popular books and build from these. This idea of house building without architects or designers is also reflected in some of the literature but has been questioned more recently in academic research. This paper will discuss the key occupations involved in the design and planning of speculative housing 1880s – 1939 through a survey of Building Applications for Richmond. These can only be understood in the context of its working world where boundaries between building and design roles were often less specialized than today. The evidence suggests that housing design was not as standardised as it appears, by simply reusing templates, but that much of it was in fact designed, usually for a number of dwellings at a time - by builders, architects and also by other professionals. These were the other ‘architects’ who made the London we know today.

Abstract The photovoltaic industry is experiencing rapid growth. Industry analysts project that photovoltaic sales will increase from their current $1.5 billion level to over $27 billion by 2020, representing an average growth rate of 25% [1]. To date, the vast majority of sales have been for navigational signals, call boxes, telecommunication centers, consumer products, off-grid electrification projects, and small grid-interactive residential rooftop applications. Building integrated photovoltaics, the integration of photovoltaic cells into one of more of the exterior surfaces of the building envelope, represents a small but growing photovoltaic application. In order for building owners, designers, and architects to make informed economic decisions regarding the use of building integrated photovoltaics, accurate predictive tools and performance data are needed. A building integrated photovoltaic test bed has been constructed at the National Institute of Standards and Technology to provide the performance data needed for model validation. The facility incorporates four identical pairs of building integrated photovoltaic panels constructed using single-crystalline, polycrystalline, silicon film, and amorphous silicon photovoltaic cells. One panel of each identical pair is installed with thermal insulation attached to its rear surface. The second paired panel is installed without thermal insulation. This experimental configuration yields results that quantify the effect of elevated cell temperature on the panels’ performance for different cell technologies. This paper presents the first set of experimental results from this facility. Comparisons are made between the electrical performance of the insulated and non-insulated panels for each of the four cell technologies. The monthly and overall conversion efficiencies for each cell technology are presented and the seasonal performance variations discussed. Daily efficiencies are presented for a selected month. Finally, hourly plots of the power output and panel temperatures are presented and discussed for the single-crystalline and amorphous silicon panels.

Architects, building designers, and building owners presently lack sufficient resources for thoroughly evaluating the economic impact of building integrated photovoltaics (BIPV). The National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) is addressing this deficiency by evaluating computer models used to predict the electrical performance of BIPV components. To facilitate this evaluation, NIST is collecting long-term BIPV performance data that can be compared against predicted values. The long-term data, in addition, provides insight into the relative merits of different building integrated applications, helps to identify performance differences between cell technologies, and reveals seasonal variations. This paper adds to the slowly growing database of longterm performance data on BIPV components. Results from monitoring eight different building-integrated panels over a twelve-month period are summarized. The panels are installed vertically, face true-south, and are an integral part of the building’s shell. The eight panels comprise the second set of panels evaluated at the NIST test facility. Cell technologies evaluated as part of this second round of testing include single crystalline silicon, polycrystalline silicon, and two thin film materials: tandem-junction amorphous silicon (2-a-Si) and copper-indium-diselenide (CIS). Two 2-a-Si panels and two CIS panels were monitored. For each pair of BIPV panels, one was insulated on its backside while the backside of the second panel was open to the indoor conditioned space. The panel with the backside thermal insulation experienced higher midday operating temperatures. The higher operating temperatures caused a greater dip in maximum power voltage. The maximum power current increased slightly for the 2-a-Si panel but remained virtually unchanged for the CIS panel. Three of the remaining four test specimens were custom-made panels having the same polycrystalline solar cells but different glazings. Two different polymer materials, Tefzel and Kynar, were tested along with 6 mm-thick, low-iron float glass. The two panels having the much thinner polymer front covers consistently outperformed the panel having the glass front. When compared on an annual basis, the energy production of each polymer-front panel was 8.5% higher than the glass-front panel. Comparison of panels of the same cell technology and comparisons between panels of different cell technologies are made on daily, monthly, and annual bases. Efficiency based on coverage area, which excludes the panel’s inactive border, is used for most “between” panel comparisons. Annual coverage-area conversion efficiencies for the vertically-installed BIPV panels range from a low of 4.6% for the 2-a-Si panels to a high of 12.2% for the two polycrystalline panels having the polymer front covers. The insulated single crystalline panel only slightly outperformed the insulated CIS panel, 10.1% versus 9.7%.

Resumen: Este artículo plantea la revisión de la relación entre el arquitecto Le Corbusier y el cineasta Sergei Eisenstein. Se lanza como hipótesis la posible influencia del cineasta en Le Corbusier. Le Corbusier versus Eisenstein en el sentido más profundo de ‘avanzar en dirección a’: Le Corbusier hacia la cinematografía, no como contraposición. Se esboza el papel de cada figura y su encuentro en el período de 1928-1936, tiempo en que Le Corbusier se aproximó a la Unión Soviética, un contexto que configura un marco complejo a partir del cual es posible entrever aquello que los vincula y que refuerza la hipótesis planteada. Por otro lado, se realiza un análisis de Poème électronique - filme de 480” que Le Corbusier hace en 1958 con motivo de la Exposición Universal en Bruselas - con la intención de visibilizar que Le Corbusier recurre a la técnica del montaje dialéctico de la que Eisenstein era maestro y por tanto la consustancial influencia. Le Corbusier reconoce el potencial de esta técnica de montaje y se sirve de ella como la estrategia clave en su aproximación al ámbito de la cinematografía. El mecanismo del montaje dialéctico forma parte de su propio pensamiento y lo materializa en su arquitectura y también en el caso de estudio que nos ocupa, en la disciplina de la imagen en movimiento, tan próxima a ésta. Pero hay más, en el Pabellón Philips la técnica del montaje oculto - sobre la que Eisenstein había teorizado en aquél periodo - está presente, pues mediante éste mecanismo construye la puesta en escena del espectáculo total. Como veremos, Poème électronique representa la construcción de un sueño. Abstract: This article reviews the relationship between the architect Le Corbusier and the filmmaker Sergei Eisenstein. When launched, it was seen to hypothesise the possible influence of the filmmaker in the work of Le Corbusier. Le Corbusier versus Eisenstein, in the deepest sense of the expression, is portrayed as "towards to": Le Corbusier towards the film, not in opposition to it. It outlines the role of each figure and their interactions during the period between 1928 and 1936, the time when Le Corbusier got closer to the Soviet Union. This context forms a complex framework from which it is possible to glimpse what it is that links them, reinforcing the hypothesis-raised. On the other hand, this work presents an analysis of the Poème électronique - 480" film Le Corbusier made in 1958 for the Universal Exhibition in Brussels - in order to exemplify that Le Corbusier uses the technique of dialectical montage, in which Eisenstein was the undisputed master, thereby highlighting an inherent influence. Le Corbusier recognises the potential of this montage technique and uses it as a key strategy in his approach to the field of cinema. The mechanism of dialectical montage is a part of Le Corbusier's own thought and this materialises both in his architecture as well as in the subsequent case study regarding the discipline of the moving image, which is closely aligned to it. There is, however, more to it. In the Philips Pavilion, the hidden montage technique - theorised by Eisenstein in that period - is present, the use of which was the mechanism to construct the stage for the spectacle as a whole. As we will see, Poème électronique represents the construction of a dream. Palabras clave: Eisenstein; Le Corbusier; Le Poème électronique; montaje dialéctico; montaje oculto; cinematografía. Keywords: Eisenstein; Le Corbusier; Le Poème électronique; dialectical montage; hidden montage; cinematography. DOI: http://dx.doi.org/10.4995/LC2015.2015.824