Formations, Vol. 1, No. 1 by Sociology Students Association

Formations

The Graduate Center Journal of Social Research

Volume 1

Number 1

2010

FORMATIONS: The Graduate Center Journal of Social Research Volume 1, Number 1, 2010 Editorial Collective Natascia Boeri John D. Boy Kathleen Dunn Jacob Lederman Antonia Levy Andrew Wallace Note: The editorial collective is elected annually by members of the Sociology Students Assn.

Layout Antonia Levy & Ali Syed Advisory Board [in formation] ISSN (print): 2159-905X ISSN (online): 2159-9068 Website: http://formations.gc.cuny.edu Contact: formationsjournal@gmail.com Formations applies the Creative Commons Attribution License (CCAL) to all works we publish; see creativecommons.org for details. Under the CCAL, authors retain ownership of the copyright for their article, but authors allow anyone to download, reuse, reprint, modify, distribute, and/or copy articles from Formations, so long as the original authors and source are cited. No permission is required from the authors or the publishers.

Formations: The Graduate Center Journal of Social Research Volume 1, Number 1, 2010

Table of Contents Editorial

Guest Editorial

On Method, Technorealism and Aesthetic Capitalism Patricia Ticineto Clough

Articles

Theory, History, and Methodological Positivism in the Anderson– Thompson Debate 13 Abe Walker Conceptualizing Hybridity: Deconstructing Boundaries through the Hybrid 31 Haj Yazdiha The Critical Aesthetics of Disorder: A Porteña Crisis of Size Melissa Maldonado-Salcedo Blood/Lust: Freud and the Trauma of Killing in War Nolen Gertz

Becoming European? Constructing Identity in Urban Regeneration Discourse in Ireland 81 Alan Gerard Bourke

Commentary

Culture of Poverty: Don’t Call it a Comeback! Marnie Brady, Kathleen Dunn & Jamie McCallum

103

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*SVQEXMSRW :SP 2S

tĞ ŽǁĞ Ă ĚĞďƚ ŽĨ ŐƌĂƟƚƵĚĞ ƚŽ Ăůů ǁŚŽ ŚĞůƉĞĚ ƵƐ ŵĂŬĞ ƚŚŝƐ ŝƐƐƵĞ Ă ƌĞĂůŝƚǇ͘ tĞ ǁĂŶƚ ƚŽ ŵĞŶƟŽŶ WĂƚƌŝĐŝĂ ůŽƵŐŚ͕ ǁŚŽ ĐŽŶƚƌŝďƵƚĞĚ ƚŚĞ ŐƵĞƐƚ ĞĚŝƚŽƌŝĂů ƚŽ ƚŚŝƐ ŝƐƐƵĞ͕ ĂŶĚ ůŝ ^ǇĞĚ͕ Ă ƐƚƵĚĞŶƚ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĚŽĐƚŽƌĂů ƉƌŽŐƌĂŵ ŝŶ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͕ ǁŚŽ ĚŽŶĂƚĞĚ ŵĂŶǇ ŚŽƵƌƐ ŽĨ ůĂďŽƌ ĐƌĞĂƟŶŐ ƚŚĞ ďĞĂƵƟĨƵů ƉƌŽĚƵĐƚ ǇŽƵ ĂƌĞ ŶŽǁ ƐĞĞŝŶŐ ŽŶ ǇŽƵƌ ƐĐƌĞĞŶ Žƌ ŚŽůĚŝŶŐ ŝŶ ǇŽƵƌ ŚĂŶĚ͘ dŚĞ &ŽƌŵĂƟŽŶƐ ŽůůĞĐƟǀĞ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ ŝƚǇ EŽǀĞŵďĞƌ ϮϬϭϬ

*SVQEXMSRW :SP 2S

Guest Editorial On Method, Technorealism and Aesthetic Capitalism Patricia Ticineto Clough

/Ŷ ƚŚĞ ŝŶƚƌŽĚƵĐƟŽŶ ƚŽ Ă ĐŽůůĞĐƟŽŶ ŽĨ ĞƐƐĂǇƐ ĚŝƐĐƵƐƐŝŶŐ ďŽƚŚ 'ŝůůĞƐ ĞůĞƵǌĞ ĂŶĚ :ĂĐƋƵĞƐ ĞƌƌŝĚĂ͛Ɛ ǁƌŝƟŶŐƐ͕ ƚŚĞ ĞĚŝƚŽƌƐ͕ WĂƵů WĂƩŽŶ ĂŶĚ :ŽŚŶ WŽƚĞǀŝ ƌĞĨĞƌ ƚŽ DŝĐŚĞů &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ͛Ɛ ǁĞůůͲŬŶŽǁŶ ĐŽŵŵĞŶƚ ŝŶĚŝĐĂƟŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ϮϬƚŚ ĐĞŶƚƵƌǇ ƉĞƌŚĂƉƐ ŽŶĞ ĚĂǇ ǁŽƵůĚ ďĞ ƐĞĞŶ ĂƐ ĞůĞƵǌŝĂŶ͘ / Ăŵ ƉĂƌƟĐƵůĂƌůǇ ŝŶƚĞƌĞƐƚĞĚ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĐŽŵŵĞŶƚ ƚŚĂƚ WĂƩŽŶ ĂŶĚ WŽƚĞǀŝ ƌĞƉŽƌƚ ĞůĞƵǌĞ ŵĂĚĞ ǁŚĞŶ ĂƐŬĞĚ ƚŽ ƌĞƐƉŽŶĚ ƚŽ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ͛Ɛ ƌĞŵĂƌŬ͘ Ɛ ĞůĞƵǌĞ ƉƵƚ ŝƚ͗ ͞,Ğ ŵĂǇ ƉĞƌŚĂƉƐ ŚĂǀĞ ŵĞĂŶƚ ƚŚĂƚ / ǁĂƐ ƚŚĞ ŵŽƐƚ ŶĂŢǀĞ ƉŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚĞƌ ŽĨ ŽƵƌ ŐĞŶĞƌĂƟŽŶ͘ /Ŷ Ăůů ŽĨ ƵƐ ǇŽƵ ĮŶĚ ƚŚĞŵĞƐ ůŝŬĞ ŵƵůƟƉůŝĐŝƚǇ͕ ĚŝīĞƌĞŶĐĞ͕ ƌĞƉĞƟƟŽŶ͘ Ƶƚ / ƉƵƚ ĨŽƌǁĂƌĚ ĂůŵŽƐƚ ƌĂǁ ĐŽŶĐĞƉƚƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞƐĞ͕ ǁŚŝůĞ ŽƚŚĞƌƐ ǁŽƌŬ ǁŝƚŚ ŵŽƌĞ ŵĞĚŝĂƟŽŶ͙ DĂǇďĞ ƚŚĂƚ͛Ɛ ǁŚĂƚ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ ŵĞĂŶƚ͗ / ǁĂƐŶ͛ƚ ďĞƩĞƌ ƚŚĂŶ ƚŚĞ ŽƚŚĞƌƐ͕ ďƵƚ ŵŽƌĞ ŶĂŢǀĞ͕ ƉƌŽĚƵĐŝŶŐ Ă ŬŝŶĚ ŽĨ art brut͕ ƐŽ ƚŽ ƐƉĞĂŬ͕ ŶŽƚ ƚŚĞ ŵŽƐƚ ƉƌŽĨŽƵŶĚ ďƵƚ ƚŚĞ ŵŽƐƚ ŝŶŶŽĐĞŶƚ ƉŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚĞƌ ;ƚŚĞ ŽŶĞ ǁŚŽ ĨĞůƚ ƚŚĞ ůĞĂƐƚ ŐƵŝůƚ ĂďŽƵƚ ͚ĚŽŝŶŐ ƉŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚǇ͛͘Ϳ1 / ďĞŐŝŶ ǁŝƚŚ ƚŚŝƐ ƐƚŽƌǇ ĂďŽƵƚ ĞůĞƵǌĞ ŶŽƚ ŵĞƌĞůǇ ƚŽ ŵĂƌŬ ƚŚĞ ŝŶŇƵĞŶĐĞ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĂƚ ŐĞŶĞƌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƉŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚĞƌƐ͕ ĞůĞƵǌĞ͕ ĞƌƌŝĚĂ ĂŶĚ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ͛Ɛ ŐĞŶĞƌĂƟŽŶ͕ ŚĂƐ ŚĂĚ ŽŶ ŵǇ ǁŽƌŬ ĂƐ Ă ƐŽĐŝĂů ƚŚĞŽƌŝƐƚ ĂŶĚ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ĐƌŝƟĐ͘ EŽƚ ǇŽƵƌ ŐĞŶĞƌĂƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ŶŽƚ ƋƵŝƚĞ ŵŝŶĞ͕ ƚŚĂƚ ŐĞŶĞƌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƉŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚĞƌƐ ĂůƌĞĂĚǇ ǁĞƌĞ ďĞĐŽŵŝŶŐ ŬŶŽǁŶ ŝŶƚĞůůĞĐƚƵĂůƐ ďǇ ƚŚĞ ƉŽƐƚͲtŽƌůĚ tĂƌ // ǇĞĂƌƐ ĂŶĚ ƚŚƵƐ ƚŚĞǇ ƐŚĂƌĞĚ Ă ĐĞƌƚĂŝŶ ƌĞĂĚŝŶĞƐƐ ǁŚĞŶ ƚŚĞ ĚĂǇƐ ŽĨ ϭϵϲϴ ǁŽƵůĚ ƚƵƌŶ ŽƵƚ ƚŽ ďĞ ĞǀĞŶƞƵů ĨŽƌ ƚŚĞŝƌ ƵŶŝƋƵĞ ĞůĂďŽƌĂƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ƉŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚǇ͕ ŝŶĚĞĞĚ ŚĂƌĚůǇ ƌĞĐŽŐŶŝǌĞĚ ĂƐ ƐƵĐŚ͘ dŚĞŝƌ ǁƌŝƟŶŐƐ ŵŝŐŚƚ ŚĂǀĞ ďĞĞŶ ŵŽƌĞ ƌĞĂĚŝůǇ ƌĞĐŽŐŶŝǌĞĚ ĂƐ ƚŚĞ ǁŽƌŬ ŽĨ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƚŚĞŽƌŝƐƚƐ ĂŶĚ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ĐƌŝƟĐƐ͘ zĞƚ ŚĂǀŝŶŐ ďĞĞŶ ŝŶƚƌŽĚƵĐĞĚ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŶŐůŝƐŚ ƐƉĞĂŬŝŶŐ ĂĐĂĚĞŵǇ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ůŝƚĞƌĂƌǇ ƐƚƵĚŝĞƐ͕ Ăƌƚ ŚŝƐƚŽƌǇ͕ ĂƌĐŚŝƚĞĐƚƵƌĞ͕ Įůŵ͕ ƚĞůĞǀŝƐŝŽŶ͕ ĂŶĚ ŶĞǁ ŵĞĚŝĂ ĐƌŝƟĐŝƐŵ͕ ŝƚ ǁŽƵůĚ ďĞ Ă ĐŝƌĐƵŝƚŽƵƐ ƌŽƵƚĞ ƚŽ ƌĞĐŽŐŶŝƟŽŶ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƐĐŝĞŶĐĞƐ͘ /ŶĚĞĞĚ͕ ĞůĞƵǌĞ ǁŚŽ ǁĂƐ ƚƌĂŶƐůĂƚĞĚ ŝŶƚŽ ŶŐůŝƐŚ ŵŽƐƚůǇ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ϭϵϵϬ͛Ɛ ŝƐ ƐƟůů Žƌ ŽŶůǇ ŶŽǁ ƌĞĐĞŝǀŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ĂƩĞŶƟŽŶ ŽĨ ŶŐůŝƐŚ ƐƉĞĂŬŝŶŐ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƐĐŝĞŶƟƐƚƐ͘ Ƶƚ ŝĨ ŝƚ ǁĞƌĞ ŶŽƚ ŽŶůǇ ƚŽ ƉŽŝŶƚ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŝŶŇƵĞŶĐĞ ŽĨ ƚŚĞƐĞ ƉŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚĞƌƐ ŽŶ ŵǇ ƚŚŝŶŬŝŶŐ ĂƐ Ă ƐŽĐŝĂů ƚŚĞŽƌŝƐƚ ĂŶĚ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ĐƌŝƟĐ͕ ǁŚǇ ĞůƐĞ ĚŝĚ / ƐƚĂƌƚ ĂƐ / ĚŝĚ͘ /ƚ ǁĂƐ ƚŽ ĞǆƚĞŶĚ ĂŶ ŝŶǀŝƚĂƟŽŶ ƚŽ ǇŽƵ ƚŽ ďĞ ŶĂŢǀĞ͕ ƚŽ ďĞ ŽƉĞŶ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ĐƌĞĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ͚ĂůŵŽƐƚ ƌĂǁ ĐŽŶĐĞƉƚƐ͕͛ ƚŽ ďĞ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƚŚĞŽƌŝƐƚƐ ĂŶĚ ǁŝƚŚ ůĞƐƐ ŐƵŝůƚ ƚŽ ďĞ ƉŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚŝĐĂů͕ ƉŽůŝƟĐĂůůǇ ĞŶŐĂŐĞĚ͕ ĂƐ Ă ŶĞǁ ŐĞŶĞƌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝƐƚƐ ŶĞĞĚƐ ƚŽ ďĞ͕ ŶŽ ŵĂƩĞƌ ǁŚĂƚ

Formations Vol.1 No.1 2010

ǇŽƵƌ ĨŽĐƵƐ ŽĨ ƐƚƵĚǇ ĐŽŵĞƐ ƚŽ ďĞ͘ ^Ž ĮƌƐƚ ůĞƚ ŵĞ ĂĚĚƌĞƐƐ ǁŚĂƚ / ŵĞĂŶ ŝŶ ŝŶǀŝƟŶŐ ǇŽƵ ƚŽ ďĞ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƚŚĞŽƌŝƐƚƐ͕ ĞǀĞŶ ǁŚŝůĞ ŶŽƚ ŶĞĐĞƐƐĂƌŝůǇ ŝŶǀŝƟŶŐ ǇŽƵ ƚŽ ƐƉĞĐŝĂůŝǌĞ ŝŶ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ƚŚĞŽƌǇ͘ Ǉ ŝŶǀŝƟŶŐ ǇŽƵ ƚŽ ďĞĐŽŵĞ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƚŚĞŽƌŝƐƚƐ͕ / ŵĞĂŶ ƚŽ ĞŶĐŽƵƌĂŐĞ ǇŽƵ ƚŽ ĚĞǀĞůŽƉ Ă ĐƌŝƟĐĂů ĐĂƉĂĐŝƚǇ ƚŚĂƚ ĐĂŶ ĂĐĐŽŵƉĂŶǇ ǇŽƵ ŝŶ ǁŚĂƚĞǀĞƌ ǁŽƌŬ ǇŽƵ ĚŽ ĂƐ Ă ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝƐƚ͘ DŽƌĞ ƐƉĞĐŝĮĐĂůůǇ / ŵĞĂŶ ƚŽ ŝŶǀŝƚĞ ǇŽƵ ƚŽ ĞŶŐĂŐĞ ŝŶ ŽŶͲŽŶŐŽŝŶŐ ĞǆƉůŽƌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ŵĞƚŚŽĚ ǁŝƚŚ ǁŚŝĐŚ ǇŽƵ ĐŽŵĞ ƚŽ ƌĞĂĚŝŶŐ͕ ǁƌŝƟŶŐ͕ ƚŚŝŶŬŝŶŐ͕ ĨĞĞůŝŶŐ͕ ŬŶŽǁŝŶŐ͘ zŽƵ ŵŝŐŚƚ ƐƵƐƉĞĐƚ ƚŚĂƚ ǁŚĂƚ / Ăŵ ƉƌŽƉŽƐŝŶŐ ŝƐ ĂďŽƵƚ ƌĞŇĞǆŝǀŝƚǇ͕ ƐĞůĨͲƌĞŇĞǆŝǀŝƚǇ Žƌ ƚŚĞ ĞǆƉůŽƌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ Ă ƐĞůĨ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ Ă ƐĞůĨͲĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐŶĞƐƐ͕ ƚŽ ƚĂŬĞ Ă ƉĞƌƐŽŶĂů Žƌ ĂƵƚŽďŝŽŐƌĂƉŚŝĐĂů ƚƵƌŶ ŝŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶƐŚŝƉ ƚŽ ĚŽŝŶŐ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͕ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞƌĞ ŝƐ ƐŽŵĞƚŚŝŶŐ ƚŽ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŽ ǁŚŝĐŚ / ǁŝůů ƌĞƚƵƌŶ͘ Ƶƚ ĂĐƚƵĂůůǇ / ŵĞĂŶ ƚŽ ƉƌŽǀŽŬĞ ƚŚŽƵŐŚƚ ĂďŽƵƚ ĂƵƚŽďŝŽŐƌĂƉŚǇ ŝŶ ŽƌĚĞƌ ƚŽ ĂĚĚƌĞƐƐ ƐŽŵĞƚŚŝŶŐ ůŝŬĞ ƚŚĞ ĂƵƚŽďŝŽŐƌĂƉŚǇ ŽĨ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͕ ǁŚĂƚ ŵŝŐŚƚ ďĞƩĞƌ ďĞ ĐĂůůĞĚ Ă ŐĞŶĞĂůŽŐǇ ŽĨ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͛Ɛ ƌĞŇĞǆŝǀŝƚǇ͕ ŝƚƐ ĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐŶĞƐƐ ĂŶĚ ƐĞůĨͲĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐŶĞƐƐ͘ / ǁĂŶƚ ƚŽ ƉŽŝŶƚ ƚŽ ǁŚĂƚ 'ĞŽƌŐĞ ^ƚĞŝŶŵĞƚǌ ŚĂƐ ĐĂůůĞĚ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͛Ɛ ͞ĞƉŝƐƚĞŵŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ƵŶĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐ͕͟ Ă ƚĞƌŵ ŚĞ ƵƐĞĚ ŝŶ ĂƌŐƵŝŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ ĞǀĞŶ ƚŚŽƵŐŚ ǀŝŐŽƌŽƵƐůǇ ĚĞŶŝĞĚ͕ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ƐƟůů ŝƐ ŵĞƚŚŽĚŽůŽŐŝĐĂůůǇ ƉŽƐŝƟǀŝƐƟĐ ŵĞĂŶŝŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ƉůĂǇ ŽĨ ǀĂƌŝŽƵƐ ĐŽŵďŝŶĂƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ƉŽƐŝƟǀŝƐŵ͕ ĞŵƉŝƌŝĐŝƐŵ ĂŶĚ ƐĐŝĞŶƟƐŵ ƐĞƌǀĞƐ ĂƐ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ŵĞƚŚŽĚ͛Ɛ ͞ĐĞŶƚĞƌ ŽĨ ŐƌĂǀŝƚǇ͘͟Ϯ / Ăŵ ƌĞŵŝŶĚĞĚ ƚŽŽ ŽĨ DŝĐŚĞů &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ ǁŚŽ ƉŽŝŶƚĞĚ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ƉƌŽĚƵĐƟǀŝƚǇ ŽĨ ǁŚĂƚ ŚĞ ĐĂůůĞĚ Ă ͞ƉŽƐŝƟǀĞ ƵŶĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐ ŽĨ ŬŶŽǁůĞĚŐĞ͕͟ ĂƌŐƵŝŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ĚŽŝŶŐ ŽĨ Ă ƐĐŝĞŶĐĞ ŝƐ ŵĂĚĞ ƉŽƐƐŝďůĞ ďǇ ǁŚĂƚ ĐĂŶŶŽƚ ďĞ ƚŚŽƵŐŚƚ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ƚĞƌŵƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĂƚ ƐĐŝĞŶĐĞ͘3 ^Ž / ŚŽƉĞ ƚŽ ƉŽŝŶƚ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŝŵƉŽƌƚĂŶĐĞ ŽĨ ŵĞƚŚŽĚŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ĐŽŶƐŝĚĞƌĂƟŽŶƐ ŝŶ ƉƌŽĚƵĐŝŶŐ Ă ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƟŽŶ ĨŽƌ ŽƵƌ ƟŵĞƐ ͶĮƌƐƚ ďǇ ĚƌĂǁŝŶŐ ŽƵƚ ƚŚĞ ŝŵƉůŝĐĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĚŝƐĂǀŽǁĞĚ ŽƉĞƌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ Ă ŵĞƚŚŽĚŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ƉŽƐŝƟǀŝƐŵ ŝŶ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ǁŚŝůĞ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ ƐĂŵĞ ƟŵĞ ƐƚĞƉƉŝŶŐ ďĂĐŬ ĨƌŽŵ ůŽŶŐ ŚĞůĚ ĂƐƐƵŵƉƟŽŶƐ ĂďŽƵƚ ƚŚĞ ŽƉƉŽƐŝƟŽŶ ďĞƚǁĞĞŶ ƚŚĞ ƐƵďũĞĐƟǀĞ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ŽďũĞĐƟǀĞ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ŽŌĞŶ ďĂƩůĞĚͲŽǀĞƌ ĐůĂŝŵƐ ƚŚĂƚ ƐŽŵĞƚŚŝŶŐ ŝƐ ƵŶƐĐŝĞŶƟĮĐ ŝŶ ďĞŝŶŐ ŵĞƌĞůǇ ƐƵďũĞĐƟǀĞ͕ ŽŶ ŽŶĞ ŚĂŶĚ͕ ĂŶĚ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ ŽƚŚĞƌ͕ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ĐůĂŝŵ ƚŽ ŽďũĞĐƟǀŝƚǇ ŝƐ ŵĞƌĞůǇ Ă ďůŝŶĚ ƐƵďũĞĐƟǀŝƐŵ ǁŝƚŚŽƵƚ ĂŶǇ ĂĐĐŽƵŶƚĂďŝůŝƚǇ͕ ĞƐƉĞĐŝĂůůǇ ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ĂĐĐŽƵŶƚĂďŝůŝƚǇ͕ ƐƵĐŚ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ĐůĂŝŵ ƚŽ ďĞŝŶŐ ŶŽŶͲ ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ŝŶ ǁŽƌŬ ŝƐ ŽŌĞŶ ƚĂŬĞŶ ďǇ ŽƚŚĞƌƐ ŝŶ ĨĂĐƚ ƚŽ ďĞ ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ͘ / ŚŽƉĞ ǇŽƵ ǁŝůů ĐŽŶƐŝĚĞƌ ǁŝƚŚ ŵĞ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞƐĞ ďĂƩůĞƐ ĂŶĚ ƌĞǀĞƌƐĂůƐ ĂƌŽƵŶĚ ƐƵďũĞĐƟǀĞ ĂŶĚ ŽďũĞĐƟǀĞ ĂƌĞ Ă ǀŝƐŝďůĞ ƚƌĂĐĞ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ ƐƵƌĨĂĐĞ ŽĨ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͛Ɛ ĞƉŝƐƚĞŵŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ƵŶĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐ Žƌ ŝƚƐ ŵĞƚŚŽĚŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ƉŽƐŝƟǀŝƐŵͲͲĂ ƐƵƌĨĂĐĞ ǁĞ ŵŝŐŚƚ ƌĞĨĞƌ ƚŽ ĂƐ ƐƚǇůĞ Žƌ ǁƌŝƟŶŐ ƐƚǇůĞ͘ ĐƚƵĂůůǇ ĂůƚŚŽƵŐŚ ^ƚĞŝŶŵĞƚǌ ŶĞǀĞƌ ĨƵůůǇ ĚŝƐĐƵƐƐĞƐ ŝƚ͕ ŚĞ ĚŽĞƐ ƉƌŽƉŽƐĞ ƚŚĂƚ ƐĐŝĞŶƟƐŵ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ƚƌŝŽ͕ ƉŽƐŝƟǀŝƐŵ ĞŵƉŝƌŝĐŝƐŵ ĂŶĚ ƐĐŝĞŶƟƐŵ͕ ƌĞĨĞƌƐ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ƐƚǇůĞ ŽĨ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚĂƟŽŶ ŝŶ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͕ ǁƌŝƟŶŐ ƚŚĞ ƐƵƌĨĂĐĞ ŽĨ ŝƚƐ ĞƉŝƐƚĞŵŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ƵŶĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐ͘ ^Ž ŝĨ / Ăŵ ƐƵŐŐĞƐƟŶŐ͕ ĂƐ / ǁŽƵůĚ ůŝŬĞ ƚŽ ĚŽ͕ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŽ ƌĞƚŚŝŶŬ ƚŚĞ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƟŽŶ ŵĞĂŶƐ ĐƌĞĂƟŶŐ ŵĞƚŚŽĚŽůŽŐŝĞƐ ƚŚĂƚ ĂƌĞ ŶĞŝƚŚĞƌ ƐƵďũĞĐƟǀĞ ŶŽƌ ŽďũĞĐƟǀĞ͕ ŝƚ ŝƐ ďĞĐĂƵƐĞ / ǁŽƵůĚ ůŝŬĞ ƚŽ ƌĞŵŝŶĚ ǇŽƵ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĂƉƉĂƌĂƚƵƐĞƐ ŽĨ ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƟŽŶ͕ ƚŚĞ ĂƉƉĂƌĂƚƵƐĞƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ǁŽƌůĚ ƉƌŽĚƵĐƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ĚŝƐƚƌŝďƵƟŽŶ ŽĨ ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƌŝĞƐ͘ dŚĞ ƐĐƌĞĞŶƐ͕ ŵĂĐŚŝŶĞƐ ĂŶĚ ŵĂŬĞƌƐ ŽĨ ĚƌĞĂŵƐ ŶĞĞĚ ŝŶƚĞƌƌŽŐĂƟŽŶ ĂƐ ǁĞ ĂƌĞ ĐŽŶĨƌŽŶƚĞĚ ǁŝƚŚ Ă ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐǇ Žƌ Ă ŶĞǁ ŵĞĚŝĂ ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐǇ ƚŚĂƚ ŚĂƐ ƌĞĨŽƌŵƵůĂƚĞĚ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚĂƟŽŶĂů ƐƚǇůĞ Žƌ ƉĞƌĨŽƌŵĂƟǀŝƚǇ ĂŶĚ ŚĂƐ ĚŽŶĞ ƐŽ ĂƐ ŽƚŚĞƌ ŵĞĚŝĂ ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐŝĞƐ ŚĂǀĞ ĚŽŶĞ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ƉĂƐƚ͕ ĞĂĐŚ ŝŶ ŝƚƐ ŽǁŶ ǁĂǇ ďǇ ĚĞƉůŽǇŝŶŐ Ă ůŝƚĞƌĂƌǇ ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ͘ EŽǁ ŝĨ ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ŝƐ ƚŚĞ ƐƚǇůĞ ŽĨ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚĂƟŽŶ ƚŚĂƚ ƉƌŽĚƵĐĞƐ Ă ƐĞŶƐĞ ŽĨ ƌĞĂůŝƚǇ ĞǆŝƐƟŶŐ ŽƵƚƐŝĚĞ ŽƵƌ ƉĞƌĐĞƉƟŽŶ

Formations Vol.1 No.1 2010

ŽĨ ŝƚ Žƌ ƉƌŽƉŽƐĞƐ ƚŚĂƚ ŽƵƌ ƉĞƌĐĞƉƟŽŶ ŝƐ ŽŶůǇ Ă ƉĞƌƐƉĞĐƟǀĞ ŽŶ Ă ŐŝǀĞŶ ƌĞĂůŝƚǇ͕ ƚŚĞŶ ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ŝŶ ƚŚĞϭϴƚŚ ĐĞŶƚƵƌǇ͕ Ăƚ ůĞĂƐƚ ŝŶ ƵƌŽƉĞ͕ ŶŽƚ ŽŶůǇ ďĞĐŽŵĞƐ ƚŚĞ ƐƚǇůĞ ŽĨ ƉĂŝŶƟŶŐ ĂŶĚ ůŝƚĞƌĂƚƵƌĞͶƚŚĞ ƌĞĂůŝƐƚ ŶŽǀĞů ĨŽƌ ĞǆĂŵƉůĞ ĂƌŝƐĞƐ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ůĂƚĞ ĞŝŐŚƚĞĞŶƚŚ ĐĞŶƚƵƌǇͲ ͲďƵƚ ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ĂůƐŽ ďĞĐŽŵĞƐ ƚŚĞ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚĂƟŽŶĂů ƐƚǇůĞ ŽĨ Ă ƉŽƐŝƟǀŝƐƚ ĞŵƉŝƌŝĐŝƐŵ͘ /ƚ ďĞĐŽŵĞƐ ĂŶĚ ƐƟůů ŝƐ ƚŚĞ ƐƚǇůĞ ŽĨ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ĂŶĚ ďĞǇŽŶĚ ƚŚĞ ƉŽƐƚͲtŽƌůĚ tĂƌ // ǇĞĂƌƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ &ŽƌĚŝƐƚͬ<ĞǇŶĞƐŝĂŶ ĞƌĂ͕ ǁŚĞŶ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƐĐŝĞŶĐĞ͕ ƉƌŝǀŝůĞŐĞƐ ƌĞƐĞĂƌĐŚĞƌƐ͛ ĚŽŝŶŐ ŽƌŐĂŶŝǌĞĚ ĨƵůů ŇĞĚŐĞĚ ĞŵƉŝƌŝĐĂů ƐƚƵĚŝĞƐ͕ ƐƵƌǀĞǇŝŶŐ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ƚŽ ďƌŝŶŐ ƚŚĞŝƌ ƉƌĂĐƟĐĞƐ ŝŶ ůŝŶĞ ǁŝƚŚ ŵĂƐƐ ƉƌŽĚƵĐƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ŵĂƐƐ ĐŽŶƐƵŵƉƟŽŶ͘ /Ŷ ƚŚĞ ƉŽƐƚͲtŽƌůĚ tĂƌ // ǇĞĂƌƐ͕ ^ƚĞŝŶŵĞƚǌ ĐŽŶĐůƵĚĞƐ͗ ͞ƚŚĞ ŵƵƟŶŐ ŽĨ ĐĂƉŝƚĂůŝƐƚ ĐƌŝƐŝƐ ŵĂĚĞ ŝƚ ŝŶĐƌĞĂƐŝŶŐůǇ ƉůĂƵƐŝďůĞ ƚŚĂƚ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƉƌĂĐƟĐĞƐ ƌĞĂůůǇ ǁĞƌĞ ƌĞƉĞĂƚĂďůĞ ŝŶ ǁĂǇƐ ƚŚĂƚ ĐŽƵůĚ ďĞ ĐĂƉƚƵƌĞĚ ďǇ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů ŵŽĚĞůƐ ĂŶĚ ƌĞƉůŝĐĂďůĞ ĞǆƉĞƌŝŵĞŶƚƐ͘͟4 In ŝŶǀĞƐƟŶŐ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ƉƌŽĚƵĐƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů ƉĞƌƐŽŶĂŐĞ Žƌ ǁŚĂƚ ǁĂƐ ƚŚĞŶ ĐĂůůĞĚ ͚ƚŚĞ ŐĞŶĞƌŝĐ ŵĞƌŝĐĂŶ͕͛ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͕ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ƉŽƐƚͲtŽƌůĚ tĂƌ // ǇĞĂƌƐ͕ ƟŐŚƚůǇ ƟĞĚ ƐŽĐŝĂůŝƚǇ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŝŶĚŝǀŝĚƵĂů ƐƵďũĞĐƚ ĂƐ Ă ƌĞƉƌĞƐĞŶƚĂƟǀĞ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ǀĂƌŝŽƵƐ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ƚŚĂƚ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ĐƌĞĂƚĞĚ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĂƚ ŝƚ ĂůůŽǁĞĚ ƚŽ ƐƚĂŶĚ ŝŶ ĨŽƌ ǁŚĂƚ ǁĞ ƌĞĨĞƌ ƚŽ ƐƟůů ĂƐ ƚŚĞ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƐƚƌƵĐƚƵƌĂů ǀĞŶ ͘ tƌŝŐŚƚ DŝůůƐ ǁŚŽ ŐŝǀĞƐ ƵƐ Ă ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƟŽŶ ĨŽƌ ŚŝƐ ƟŵĞƐ ďǇ ĂŝŵŝŶŐ ĐƌŝƟĐŝƐŵ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ ǀĞƌǇ ŬŝŶĚ ŽĨ ƌĞƐĞĂƌĐŚ ^ƚĞŝŶŵĞƚǌ ŝƐ ĚĞƐĐƌŝďŝŶŐ͕ ǁŽƵůĚ ŶŽŶĞƚŚĞůĞƐƐ ƵƐĞ ƚŚĞ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů ŝŶ ƉŽŝŶƟŶŐ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƐƚƌƵĐƚƵƌĂů ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ŚŝƐƚŽƌŝĐĂů͗ ŚŝƐ ƵƐĞĚ ĞǆĂŵƉůĞƐ͕ ĂƐ ǇŽƵ ƌĞŵĞŵďĞƌ͕ such as if one man looses a job, if one couple gets divorced, you have a personal trouble but when the divorce rate is high or the unemployment rate is high, well then you have a social issue͕ Ă ƐŽĐŝĂů ƐƚƌƵĐƚƵƌĞ ŚŝƐƚŽƌŝĐĂů ŝƐƐƵĞ͕ ǁƌŝƩĞŶ ŚŽǁĞǀĞƌ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĚŝƐĐŽƵƌƐĞ ŽĨ ƌĂƚĞƐ ĂŶĚ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐƐ͘ Ɛ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ǁƌŝƚĞƐ ƚŚĞ ƐƚƌƵĐƚƵƌĂů ŝŶ ƚĞƌŵƐ ŽĨ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ŝƚ ĚŝƐƉůĂĐĞƐ ĨƌŽŵ ƚŚĞ ĐĞŶƚĞƌ ŽĨ ŵĞƚŚŽĚŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ĐŽŶƐŝĚĞƌĂƟŽŶƐ͕ ĐƌŝƟĐĂů ƚŚĞŽƌŝĞƐ ŽĨ ƉŽǁĞƌͬ ŬŶŽǁůĞĚŐĞ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ĂĞƐƚŚĞƟĐƐ ŽĨ ƌĞƉƌĞƐĞŶƚĂƟŽŶĂů ƉƌĂĐƟĐĞƐ͘ ŶĚ ĨƵƌƚŚĞƌ ďĞĐĂƵƐĞ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ĂƌĞ ŝƌƌĞĚƵĐŝďůĞ ƚŽ ŝŶĚŝǀŝĚƵĂůƐ Žƌ ĞǀĞŶ ĐŽŵŵƵŶŝƟĞƐ ĂŶĚ ĂƌĞ ƌĂƚŚĞƌ ǀŝƌƚƵĂů Žƌ ƉƌŽďĂďŝůŝƐƟĐ ĂƐƐĞŵďůĂŐĞƐ͕ ƚŚĞƌĞ ŝƐ ĂŶ ƵƌŐĞ ŝĨ ŶŽƚ Ă ĐŽŵƉƵůƐŝŽŶ ĨŽƌ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ƚŽ ŐŝǀĞ Ă ŚƵŵĂŶ ĨĂĐĞ Žƌ ĮŐƵƌĞ ƚŽ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ͕ ŽŌĞŶ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ĞƚŚŶŽŐƌĂƉŚŝĐ ƉŽƌƚƌĂŝƚƵƌĞ Žƌ ƚŚĞ ĐĂƐĞ ƐƚƵĚǇ ƐƵĐŚ ƚŚĂƚ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ďǇ ŝŶƚĞŶƟŽŶ Žƌ ďǇ ĂƉƉƌŽƉƌŝĂƟŽŶ ďĞĐŽŵĞƐ ŵŽƌĞ ĂŵĞŶĂďůĞ ƚŽ ŚƵŵĂŶŝƐƟĐ ůŝďĞƌĂů Žƌ ŶĞŽůŝďĞƌĂů ƉŽůŝĐǇ ĂŶĚ ƉƌŽŐƌĂŵŵŝŶŐ͘ /Ŷ ƚŚŝƐ ƐĂŵĞ ĐŽŶƚĞǆƚ ǁĞ ŵŝŐŚƚ ĐŽŶƐŝĚĞƌ ƚŚĞ ƌĞůĂƟǀĞůǇ ƌĞĐĞŶƚ ĨĂƚĞ ŽĨ ŝĚĞŶƟƚǇ ƉŽůŝƟĐƐͲͲ ŝƚƐ ŵŽƌƉŚ ŝŶƚŽ ůŝďĞƌĂů ĂŶĚ ŶĞŽůŝďĞƌĂů ŵƵůƟĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ƉŽůŝĐǇ ĂŶĚ ƉƌŽŐƌĂŵŵŝŶŐ͘ tĞ ŵŝŐŚƚ ƚŚŝŶŬ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ŝŶƐŝƐƚĞŶĐĞ ŽĨ ŝĚĞŶƟƚǇ ƉŽůŝƟĐƐ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ ƉĞƌƐŽŶĂů ĂƐ ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů͕ ƚŚĞƌĞďǇ ŵĂŬŝŶŐ ĚĞŵĂŶĚƐ ĨŽƌ ƉĞƌƐŽŶĂů ƌĞĐŽŐŶŝƟŽŶ ĞƐƉĞĐŝĂůůǇ ĨƌŽŵ ƚŚĞ ƐƚĂƚĞ͕ ǁŚŝĐŚ ŚŽǁĞǀĞƌ ŚĂĚ ƚŽ ďĞ ďĂƐĞĚ ŽŶ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů Žƌ ĐŽƵŶƚĞĚ Žƌ ĂĐĐŽƵŶƚĞĚ ĨŽƌ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ͘ ^Ž ƚŚĞ ĚĞŵĂŶĚ ĨŽƌ ŚƵŵĂŶ ƌŝŐŚƚƐ͕ ĨŽƌ ĞǆĂŵƉůĞ͕ ƵƐƵĂůůǇ ŝƐ ĂƌƟĐƵůĂƚĞĚ ĂŐĂŝŶƐƚ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ƐƵĐŚ ĂƐ ůĂĐŬƐ͕ tŽŵĞŶ͕ YƵĞĞƌƐ͕ ƚŚĞ ŝŶĐĂƌĐĞƌĂƚĞĚ͕ ƚŚĞ ĂĚĚŝĐƚĞĚ͕ ĞƚĐ͘ ďƵƚ ĂůƐŽ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ƉƌŽďůĞŵƐ͕ ƐƵĐŚ ĂƐ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ͕ ĚŝƐĞŶĨƌĂŶĐŚŝƐĞŵĞŶƚ ĐƌŝŵŝŶĂůŝƚǇ͕ ƉŚǇƐŝĐĂů ĂŶĚ ŵĞŶƚĂů ŝŶĐĂƉĂĐŝƚǇ͘ dŚĞƐĞ ƚǁŽ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶ ƐĞƌŝĞƐ͕ ďƌŽƵŐŚƚ ƚŽŐĞƚŚĞƌ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐƐ ĂŶĚ ƉĞƌƐŽŶĂůŝǌĞĚ ĞƚŚŶŽŐƌĂƉŚŝĐ ƉŽƌƚƌĂŝƚƵƌĞ ĂŶĚ ĐĂƐĞ ƐƚƵĚǇ͕ ĐĂŶ ŵĂŬĞ ŝƚ ĚŝĸĐƵůƚ ƚŽ ĞŶŐĂŐĞ ƚŚĞ ĐƌŝƟĐĂů ƚŚĞŽƌŝĞƐ / ŚĂǀĞ ĂůƌĞĂĚǇ ŵĞŶƟŽŶĞĚ͕ ĐŽŶĐĞƌŶŝŶŐ ƉŽǁĞƌͬŬŶŽǁůĞĚŐĞ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ĂĞƐƚŚĞƟĐƐ ŽĨ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚĂƟŽŶ͕ ĂƐ ŵĂƩĞƌƐ ŽĨ ŵĞƚŚŽĚŽůŽŐǇ Žƌ ĂƐ Ă ǁĂǇ ƚŽ ƚŚŝŶŬ ĐƌŝƟĐĂůůǇ ŽĨ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͛Ɛ ƉůĂĐĞ ŝŶ ǁŚĂƚ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ ĚĞƐĐƌŝďĞĚ ĂƐ

Formations Vol.1 No.1 2010

ďŝŽƉŽůŝƟĐƐ Žƌ ƚŚĞ ŐŽǀĞƌŶŵĞŶƚĂůŝƚǇ ŽĨ ůŝďĞƌĂůŝƐŵ ĂŶĚ ŶĞŽůŝďĞƌĂůŝƐŵ͘ /Ŷ ƚŚĞ ƌĞĐĞŶƚůǇ ƉƵďůŝƐŚĞĚ ŶŐůŝƐŚ ƚƌĂŶƐůĂƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ŚŝƐ ůĞĐƚƵƌĞƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ůĂƚĞ ϭϵϳϬ͛Ɛ͕ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ ďŽƚŚ ĚĞĮŶĞƐ ďŝŽƉŽůŝƟĐƐ ĂƐ ͞ƚŚŝƐ ǀĞƌǇ ƐƉĞĐŝĮĐ ĂůďĞŝƚ ǀĞƌǇ ĐŽŵƉůĞǆ͕ ƉŽǁĞƌ ƚŚĂƚ ŚĂƐ ƚŚĞ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶ ĂƐ ŝƚƐ ƚĂƌŐĞƚ͕ ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ĞĐŽŶŽŵǇ ĂƐ ŝƚ ŵĂũŽƌ ĨŽƌŵ ŽĨ ŬŶŽǁůĞĚŐĞ ĂŶĚ ĂƉƉĂƌĂƚƵƐĞƐ ŽĨ ƐĞĐƵƌŝƚǇ ;Žƌ ĚŝƐƉŽƐŝƟĨƐͿ ĂƐ ŝƚƐ ĞƐƐĞŶƟĂů ƚĞĐŚŶŝĐĂů ŝŶƐƚƌƵŵĞŶƚ͕͟ ĂŶĚ ŚĞ ůŝŶŬƐ ďŝŽƉŽůŝƟĐƐ ƚŽ ŶĞŽůŝďĞƌĂů ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ͘5 ZĞĨƵƐŝŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ ǀŝĞǁ ŽĨ ŶĞŽůŝďĞƌĂů ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ĂƐ Ă ŵĂƩĞƌ ŽĨ ƐƚƌŝƉƉŝŶŐ ĂǁĂǇ ƚŚĞ ƐƚĂƚĞ ƐŽ ĂƐ ƚŽ ĨƌĞĞ ƚŚĞ ĞĐŽŶŽŵǇ ƚŽ ƉƵƌƐƵĞ ŝƚƐ ƚƌƵĞ ĞǆƉƌĞƐƐŝŽŶ͕ Žƌ ǁŚĂƚ ŚĂƐ ďĞĞŶ ĐĂůůĞĚ ĚĞƌĞŐƵůĂƟŽŶ͕ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ ŝŶƐƚĞĂĚ ŚĂƐ ƉƌŽƉŽƐĞĚ ƚŚĂƚ ƌĞŐƵůĂƚŽƌǇ ĂĐƟǀŝƟĞƐ ŽĨ ŐŽǀĞƌŶŵĞŶƚ ŚĂǀĞ ďĞĞŶ ŚǇƉĞƌĂĐƟǀĞ ŝŶ ŶĞŽůŝďĞƌĂůŝƐŵ͘ Kƌ ĂƐ ŚĞ ƉƵƚƐ ŝƚ͗ EĞŽůŝďĞƌĂůŝƐŵ ƐŚŽƵůĚ ŶŽƚ ďĞ ŝĚĞŶƟĮĞĚ ǁŝƚŚ laissez faire͕ ďƵƚ ƌĂƚŚĞƌ ǁŝƚŚ ƉĞƌŵĂŶĞŶƚ ǀŝŐŝůĂŶĐĞ͕ ĂĐƟǀŝƚǇ ĂŶĚ ŝŶƚĞƌǀĞŶƟŽŶ͘ Ƶƚ ƚŚŝƐ ĚŽĞƐ ŶŽƚ ŵĞĂŶ ƚŚĂƚ ŶĞŽůŝďĞƌĂů ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ŝŶƚĞƌǀĞŶĞƐ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĞĐŽŶŽŵǇ ĚŝƌĞĐƚůǇ ƐŽ ŵƵĐŚ ĂƐ ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ƐĞĐƵƌĞƐ ƚŚĞ ĐŽŶĚŝƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ƉŽƐƐŝďŝůŝƚǇ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ŵĂƌŬĞƚ ďŽƚŚ ďǇ ĂƐƐŝƐƟŶŐ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĐĂůŝďƌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ŵĂƌŬĞƚ͛Ɛ ŝŶĚĞƚĞƌŵŝŶĂƚĞ ĂŶĚ ŶŽŶͲƚŽƚĂůŝǌĂďůĞ ĨĞĂƚƵƌĞƐ ƚŽ ƌŝƐŬ ŵĂŶĂŐĞŵĞŶƚ ĂŶĚ ďǇ ŝŶǀŝƟŶŐ Ă ĐƌŝƐŝƐ ŽƌŝĞŶƚĞĚ ƐŽĐŝĂůŝƚǇ͘ dŚĞƐĞ͕ Ă ƐƉĞĐƵůĂƟǀĞ ĞĐŽŶŽŵǇ ŽĨ ƌŝƐŬ ĂŶĚ Ă ĐƌŝƐŝƐͲŽƌŝĞŶƚĞĚ ƐŽĐŝĂůŝƚǇ͕ ŚĂǀĞ ďĞĞŶ ĞƐƉĞĐŝĂůůǇ ŵĂƌŬĞĚ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ƐƚĂƚĞ͛Ɛ ƉĂƌƟĐŝƉĂƟŽŶ ŝŶ Ă ƉƌŽĚƵĐƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƐƵƐƉŝĐŝŽŶ ĂŶĚ ĨĞĂƌ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ Ă ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶ ƌĂĐŝƐŵ ĂƉƉůŝĞĚ ĨŽƌ ĞǆĂŵƉůĞ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ǁĂƌ ƚĞƌƌŽƌŝƐŵ͕ ŝŵŵŝŐƌĂŶƚ ĚĞƉŽƌƚĂƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ĚĞƚĞŶƟŽŶ͕ ŶŽƚ ƚŽ ŵĞŶƟŽŶ ŵĂƐƐ ŝŶĐĂƌĐĞƌĂƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ƌĞĞŶƚƌǇ ƉƌŽŐƌĂŵŵŝŶŐ͘ ůů ŽĨ ǁŚŝĐŚ ŚĂǀĞ ůĞĚ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ĐŽŶƐŽůŝĚĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ĂƉƉĂƌĂƚƵƐĞƐ Žƌ ĚŝƐƉŽƐŝƟĨƐ ĨŽƌ ŽƌŐĂŶŝǌŝŶŐ͕ ĂƐƐĞƐƐŝŶŐ ĂŶĚ ŝŶǀĞƐƟŶŐ ůŝĨĞ ĂŶĚ ĚĞĂƚŚ͕ ƵŶĚĞƌƐƚŽŽĚ ďŝŽƉŽůŝƟĐĂůůǇ͘ ^Ž͕ ŝĨ ŶĞŽůŝďĞƌĂůŝƐŵ ŐŽǀĞƌŶƐ ůŝĨĞ ĂŶĚ ĚĞĂƚŚ ŝƚ ĚŽĞƐ ƐŽ ďŝŽƉŽůŝƟĐĂůůǇ͕ ƚŚĂƚ ŝƐ͕ ŝƚ ĂƌƟĮĐŝĂůůǇ ŽƉƟŵŝǌĞƐ ƚŚĞ ŐĞŶĞƌĂƟǀŝƚǇ ŽĨ ƐƉĞĐŝĞƐ ůŝĨĞ͕ Žƌ ŽĨ ŶĂƚƵƌĞ ŐĞŶĞƌĂůůǇ͕ ǁŚĞƌĞ ƐƉĞĐŝĞƐ ůŝĨĞ ŚŽǁĞǀĞƌ ŝƐ ƚĂŬĞŶ ƵƉ ŝŶ ƚĞƌŵƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ƉƌŽďĂďŝůŝƟĞƐ Žƌ ŝŵƉƌŽďĂďŝůŝƟĞƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ůŝĨĞ ĐŚĂŶĐĞƐ ŽĨ ƐƚĂƟƐƟĐĂů ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ͕ ǁŚĞƌĞ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ĂƌĞ ŶŽƚ ƐŽ ŵƵĐŚ ŽĨ ŚƵŵĂŶ ŐƌŽƵƉƐ ďƵƚ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ĐĂƉĂĐŝƟĞƐ͕ ŚƵŵĂŶ ĐĂƉŝƚĂů ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞƐ͕ ĞƐƟŵĂƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ŐĞŶĞƟĐ ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂůŝƚǇ͕ Žƌ ĞŶǀŝƌŽŶŵĞŶƚĂů ƐƵƐƚĂŝŶĂďŝůŝƚǇ ƉƌŽďĂďŝůŝƟĞƐ͘ Ɛ ƚŚĞƐĞ ĞǆĂŵƉůĞƐ ƐƵŐŐĞƐƚ ďŝŽƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ŽĨ ůŝĨĞ ĂŶĚ ĚĞĂƚŚ ŵĞĂŶƐ ƚŚĞ ƉƌŽĚƵĐƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ŵĂŶĂŐĞŵĞŶƚ ŽĨ ͞ƐƉĞĐŝĮĐ ĂŐŐƌĞŐĂƚĞ ĞīĞĐƚƐ ŽĨ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ŝƌƌĞĚƵĐŝďůĞ ƚŽ Ă ƐŵĂůůĞƌ ĨƌĂŵĞ͘͟ϲ ŶĚ ŝƚ ŝƐ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ƚŚĞƐĞ ĂŐŐƌĞŐĂƚĞ ĞīĞĐƚƐ ƚŚĂƚ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ŚĂǀĞ ĞĐŽŶŽŵŝĐ ĞīĞĐƚƐ ƚŚĂƚ ĨƵƌƚŚĞƌ ŝŶĚƵĐĞ ƚŚĞ ŵŽǀĞŵĞŶƚ͕ Žƌ ƚŚĞ ĂĐƟǀŝƟĞƐ ŽĨ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐͲͲƚŚĞ ĨƵƌƚŚĞƌ ĐŝƌĐƵůĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƚŚĞƐĞ ĂƐ ƉƌŽďĂďŝůŝƟĞƐ͘ ,ĞƌĞ͕ ǁŚĂƚ / ƌĞĨĞƌƌĞĚ ƚŽ ĞĂƌůŝĞƌ ĂƐ ƚŚĞ ŚƵŵĂŶ ĨĂĐĞ Žƌ ĮŐƵƌĞ ŽīĞƌĞĚ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ĞƚŚŶŽŐƌĂƉŚŝĐ ƉŽƌƚƌĂŝƚƵƌĞ Žƌ ĐĂƐĞ ƐƚƵĚǇ ƐĞƌǀĞ ŶŽƚ ŽŶůǇ ƚŽ ŚƵŵĂŶŝǌĞ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ǁŚĞŶ ŝŶ ĨĂĐƚ ƚŚĞǇ ĂƌĞ ŶŽƚ ŚƵŵĂŶ ďƵƚ ƚŚĞ ŚƵŵĂŶ ĨĂĐĞ ĂŶĚ ƉŽƌƚƌĂŝƚƵƌĞ ĂůƐŽ ŚĞůƉ ƚŽ ŝŶƚĞŐƌĂƚĞ ŝŶĚŝǀŝĚƵĂů ƉŚĞŶŽŵĞŶĂ ǁŝƚŚŝŶ Ă ĐŽůůĞĐƟǀĞ ĮĞůĚ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĨŽƌŵ ŽĨ ƋƵĂŶƟĮĐĂƟŽŶ͘ dŚŝƐ ŝŶĐƌĞĂƐŝŶŐůǇ ĂůůŽǁƐ ĨŽƌ Ă ĐŽŵƉĂƌŝƐŽŶ ŽĨ ŶŽƌŵĂůŝƟĞƐ ŝŶƐƚĞĂĚ ŽĨ ŵĞƌĞůǇ ĚŝƐƟŶŐƵŝƐŚŝŶŐ ďĞƚǁĞĞŶ ƚŚĞ ŶŽƌŵĂů ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ĂďŶŽƌŵĂů͘ tŝƚŚ ƚŚĞ ďŝŽƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ŽĨ ůŝĨĞ ĂŶĚ ĚĞĂƚŚ͕ ͞ƚŚĞ ŶŽƌŵĂƟǀĞ͕͟ ƌĂŝŶ DĂƐƐƵŵŝ ŚĂƐ ĂƌŐƵĞĚ ƵŶĚĞƌŐŽĞƐ ƌĂƉŝĚ ŝŶŇĂƟŽŶ͕ ĂƐ ĐůĂƐƐŝĮĐĂƚŽƌǇ ĂŶĚ ƌĞŐƵůĂƟǀĞ ŵĞĐŚĂŶŝƐŵƐ ĂƌĞ ĞůĂďŽƌĂƚĞĚ ĨŽƌ ĞǀĞƌǇ ƐŽĐŝĂůůǇ ƌĞĐŽŐŶŝǌĂďůĞ ƐƚĂƚĞ ŽĨ ďĞŝŶŐ͘͘͘͘ ƐƵĐŚ ƚŚĂƚ ͚ŶŽƌŵĂů͛ ŝƐ ŶŽǁ ĨƌĞĞͲƐƚĂŶĚŝŶŐ͕ ŶŽ ůŽŶŐĞƌ ƚŚĞ ŽƉƉŽƐŝƚĞ ĂŶĚ ŶĞĐĞƐƐĂƌǇ ĐŽŵƉůĞŵĞŶƚ ŽĨ ͚ĂďŶŽƌŵĂů͕͛ ͚ĚĞǀŝĂŶƚ͕͛ Žƌ ͚ĚǇƐĨƵŶĐƟŽŶĂů͕͛ ĂƐ ŝƚ ǁĂƐ ƵŶĚĞƌ ĚŝƐĐŝƉůŝŶĂƌǇ ƉŽǁĞƌ͙͟ϳ dŚĞ ďŝŽƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ŽĨ ůŝĨĞ ĂŶĚ ĚĞĂƚŚ ŝƐ ůĞƐƐ ĚŝƐĐŝƉůŝŶĂƌǇ͕ ůĞƐƐ ĐŽŶĐĞƌŶĞĚ ǁŝƚŚ ƉƌŽĚƵĐŝŶŐ ƐƵďũĞĐƚƐ ďǇ ŝŶĚƵĐŝŶŐ ŝŶ ƚŚĞŵ ĂŶ ĂĚŚĞƌĞŶĐĞ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŝĚĞŽůŽŐŝĞƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ

Formations Vol.1 No.1 2010

ŶĂƟŽŶͲƐƚĂƚĞ͘ Kƌ Ăƚ ůĞĂƐƚ ǁĞ ŵŝŐŚƚ ƐĂǇ͕ ĂƐ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ ĚŽĞƐ͕ ƚŚĂƚ ͞ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ĂƌĞ ŶŽƚ ƚŽ ďĞ ƐĞĞŶ ĨƌŽŵ ƚŚĞ ƐƚĂŶĚƉŽŝŶƚ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ũƵƌŝĚŝĐĂůͲƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ŶŽƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƐƵďũĞĐƚ͕ ďƵƚ ĂƐ Ă ƐŽƌƚ ŽĨ ƚĞĐŚŶŝĐĂů ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ŽďũĞĐƚ ŽĨ ŵĂŶĂŐĞŵĞŶƚ ĂŶĚ ŐŽǀĞƌŶŵĞŶƚ͙ ĚĞƉĞŶĚĞŶƚ ŽŶ Ă ƐĞƌŝĞƐ ŽĨ ǀĂƌŝĂďůĞƐ ŽƉĞŶ ƚŽ ŵĂŶŝƉƵůĂƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ŵŽĚƵůĂƟŽŶ͘͟ϴ WŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ ĂůƐŽ ĚŽ ĂƉƉĞĂƌ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ŐƵŝƐĞ ŽĨ ͞ƉƵďůŝĐƐ͕͟ ƚŚĂƚ ŝƐ͕ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ŐƵŝƐĞ ŽĨ ͞ŽƉŝŶŝŽŶƐ͟ ĐŝƌĐƵůĂƟŶŐ ŝŶ ďŽĚŝĞƐ ŽĨ ĚĂƚĂ͘ϵ dŽ ďĞ ƐƵƌĞ͕ ƉƵďůŝĐƐ ĂƌĞ ŶŽƚ the ƉƵďůŝĐ ŝŵĂŐŝŶĞĚ ƚŽ ďĞ ĞŶŐĂŐĞĚ ŝŶ ĚŝƐĐŽƵƌƐĞ ĂďŽƵƚ Žƌ ĂƌŐƵŵĞŶƚĂƟŽŶ ŽǀĞƌ ŶĂƌƌĂƟǀĞ ŬŶŽǁůĞĚŐĞ ǁŝƚŚ ƚƌƵƚŚ ĐůĂŝŵƐ ĂĚĚƌĞƐƐĞĚ ƚŽ ƐƵďũĞĐƚƐ ŽĨ ƌŝŐŚƚ͘ WƵďůŝĐƐ ƌĂƚŚĞƌ ƉŽŝŶƚ ƚŽ Ă ĐŝƌĐƵůĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ǁĂǇƐ ŽĨ ĚŽŝŶŐ ƚŚŝŶŐƐ͕ ǁĂǇƐ ŽĨ ďĞŝŶŐ͕ ŽƉŝŶŝŽŶ ĂĚĚƌĞƐƐĞĚ ƚŽ ĂŶ ĂƵĚŝĞŶĐĞ ĂŶĚ ŶŽƚ ĞǀĞŶ Ă ŵĂƐƐ ĂƵĚŝĞŶĐĞ͘ ŶĚ ŝĨ ŚĞƌĞ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ͛Ɛ ĚĞƐĐƌŝƉƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĐŝƌĐƵůĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƉƵďůŝĐƐ ĂŶĚ ŽƉŝŶŝŽŶ ĂůƌĞĂĚǇ ƐƵŐŐĞƐƚƐ ƐŽŵĞƚŚŝŶŐ ĂďŽƵƚ ƚŚĞ ŵŽƌĞ ĐŽŶƚĞŵƉŽƌĂƌǇ ƐŝƚƵĂƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ƚŽĚĂǇ͛Ɛ ŵĞĚŝĂ ĐŽŵŵƵŶŝĐĂƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ŝŶĨŽƌŵĂƟŽŶ ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐŝĞƐ͕ ŝƚ ĂůƐŽ ƐŚŽƵůĚ ďĞ ŶŽƚĞĚ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ƚĞŶƐŝŽŶ ďĞƚǁĞĞŶ ƉƵďůŝĐƐ ĂŶĚ the ƉƵďůŝĐ͕ ďĞƚǁĞĞŶ ĂĚĚƌĞƐƐŝŶŐ ƐƵďũĞĐƚƐ ĂŶĚ ĐŝƌĐƵůĂƟŶŐ ŽƉŝŶŝŽŶ ĂŵŽŶŐ ĂƵĚŝĞŶĐĞƐ ĂůƌĞĂĚǇ ŝŶĨŽƌŵĞĚ ƌĞĂĚŝŶŐ ďǇ ƚŚĞ ĞŝŐŚƚĞĞŶƚŚ ĐĞŶƚƵƌǇ ǁŚĞŶ ƚŚĞ ƌĞĂůŝƐƚ ŶŽǀĞů ĂƐ ǁĞůů ĂƐ ŶĞǁƐƉĂƉĞƌƐ ďĞĐŽŵĞƐ ƉŽƉƵůĂƌ͘ Ƶƚ ǁŚĂƚ ŝƐ ĚŝīĞƌĞŶƚ ĂďŽƵƚ ƚŚĞ ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐǇ ƚŚĂƚ ŝƐ ŽƵƌƐ ƚŽĚĂǇ ŝƐ͕ ĨŽƌ ŽŶĞ͕ ƚŚĞ ŚĂǀŽĐ ŝƚ ŚĂƐ ǁƌŽƵŐŚƚ ŽŶ ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ŝŶ ƚŚĂƚ ŝƚ ŝƐ Ă ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐǇ ŽĨ ƐŝŵƵůĂƟŽŶ͕ ƚŚĂƚ ŝƐ ƚŽ ƐĂǇ͕ ƚŚĞ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ƉƌŽĚƵĐƟŽŶ ŽĨ ŝŵĂŐĞƐ ĐĂŶ ďĞ ǁŝƚŚŽƵƚ ƌĞĨĞƌĞŶĐĞ ƚŽ ƌĞĂůŝƚǇ͘ Kƌ ƚŽ ƉƵƚ ŝƚ Ă ďĞƩĞƌ ǁĂǇ͕ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ŝŵĂŐŝŶŐ ĚŽĞƐ ŶŽƚ ŶĞĐĞƐƐĂƌŝůǇ ƌĞͲƉƌĞƐĞŶƚ͖ ŝƚ ĚŽĞƐ ŶŽƚ ĞǀĞŶ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚ ĐŽƉŝĞƐ͘ /Ĩ ůŝƚĞƌĂƌǇ ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ǁĂƐ ŵĞĂŶƚ ƚŽ ĐƌĞĂƚĞ Ă ƐĞŶƐĞ ŽĨ Ă ŐŝǀĞŶ ƌĞĂůŝƚǇ ŽƵƚƐŝĚĞ ŚƵŵĂŶ ƉĞƌĐĞƉƟŽŶ͕ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐǇ ĂůƐŽ ŝƐ ƌĞĂůŝƐƚ ďƵƚ ŝƚ ƉƌŽĚƵĐĞƐ ƌĞĂůŝƚǇ ĂƐ ƐŝŵƵůĂƟŽŶ͕ ĂƐ ŝŶĨŽƌŵĂƟŽŶ ŇŽǁ͕ ŶŽƚ ĂƐ ƌĞͲƉƌĞƐĞŶƚĂƟŽŶ Žƌ ĐŽƉǇ͘ Ɛ ƐƵĐŚ͕ ƚŚĞ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ŝŵĂŐĞ ŝƐ ŝŶͲĨŽƌŵŝŶŐ͗ ŝƚ ƚŽƵĐŚĞƐ ĂŶĚ ƐŽƵŶĚƐ͕ ĚƌĂǁŝŶŐ ĂƩĞŶƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ŝŶǀŝƟŶŐ ƉĂƌƟĐŝƉĂƟŽŶ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ĂīĞĐƟǀĞ ĂƩƵŶĞŵĞŶƚ͘ EŽǁ ĂīĞĐƚ ŝƐ ŶŽƚ ƚŽ ďĞ ƵŶĚĞƌƐƚŽŽĚ ĮƌƐƚ ĂŶĚ ĨŽƌĞŵŽƐƚ ĂƐ ĞŵŽƟŽŶ Žƌ ŶĂŵĞĚ ĨĞĞůŝŶŐƐ͘ ZĂƚŚĞƌ ŝƚ ŝƐ ƚŚĞ ǀĞƌǇ ĐĂƉĂĐŝƚǇ ƚŽ ďĞ ĂīĞĐƚĞĚ Žƌ ƚŽ ĂīĞĐƚ͕ ƚŚĞ ƉƌĞĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐ͕ ƉƌĞͲŝŶĚŝǀŝĚƵĂů ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂůŝƚǇ ƚŽ ĂĐƚ ĂŶĚ ďĞ ĂĐƚĞĚ ƵƉŽŶ͘ /ƚƐ ƚƌƵƚŚ ŝƐ ĨĞůƚ ŝŶ ƚĞƌŵƐ ŽĨ ƌĞƐŽŶĂŶĐĞ Žƌ ǀŝďƌĂƟŽŶ ĂĐƌŽƐƐ ƚŚĞ ĚǇŶĂŵŝĐ ŵĂƩĞƌ ŽĨ ďŽĚŝĞƐ ĂŶĚ ŶŽƚ ŽŶůǇ ŚƵŵĂŶ ďŽĚŝĞƐ͘ tŚĂƚ ŝƐ ĂƐŬĞĚ ŝŶ ƚĞƌŵƐ ŽĨ ƚƌƵƚŚ ŝƐ ůĞƐƐ ǁŚĂƚ Ă ďŽĚǇ ŝƐ ĂŶĚ ŵŽƌĞ ǁŚĂƚ Ă ďŽĚǇ ĚŽĞƐ Žƌ ĐĂŶ ĚŽ͕ ĐĂŶ ďĞĐŽŵĞ͕ ĐĂŶ ďĞĐŽŵĞ ǁŝƚŚ ŽƚŚĞƌ ďŽĚŝĞƐ͘ īĞĐƚ ƌĞĨĞƌƐ ƚŽ ŵĂƚĞƌŝĂů ƉƌŽĐĞƐƐĞƐ ŽĨ ďĞĐŽŵŝŶŐ ǁŝƚŚŽƵƚ Žƌ ŽƵƚƐŝĚĞ ŚƵŵĂŶ ƉĞƌĐĞƉƟŽŶ Žƌ ĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐŶĞƐƐ͕ ƐŝŶĐĞ ŝƚ ĞŵďŽĚŝĞƐ ŽƚŚĞƌ ƚŚĂŶ ŚƵŵĂŶ ďŽĚŝĞƐ ŽŶůǇ͘ Ƶƚ ĂƐ ĨŽƌ ŚƵŵĂŶ ďŽĚŝĞƐ Žƌ ŝŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶƐŚŝƉ ƚŽ ŚƵŵĂŶ ďŽĚŝĞƐ͕ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐǇ͛Ɛ ǀŽĐĂƟŽŶ / ǁŽƵůĚ ƐĂǇ ŝƐ ƚŽ ďĞ ƚŚĞ ďŽĚǇ͛Ɛ ĂīĞĐƟǀĞ ŵŝůŝĞƵ͕ ŝƚƐ ƐĞŶƐĂƟŽŶĂů ƐƵƌĨĂĐĞ Žƌ ƐŬŝŶ ĂŶĚ ĂƐ ƐƵĐŚ ƚŽ ĨƵŶĐƟŽŶ ĂīĞĐƟǀĞůǇ ďĞůŽǁ ŚƵŵĂŶ ƉĞƌĐĞƉƟŽŶ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ ŝŶĨƌĂ ĞŵƉŝƌŝĐĂů ůĞǀĞů ŽĨ ďŽĚŝůǇ ƉƌŽƉƌŝŽĐĞƉƟŽŶ͘ / Ăŵ ƚŚŝŶŬŝŶŐ ŽŶ ŽŶĞ ŚĂŶĚ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ƵďŝƋƵŝƚǇ ŽĨ ŝŶĨŽƌŵĂƟŽŶ ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐŝĞƐ Žƌ ŝŵĂŐŝŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ ĚŝŐŝƟǌĂƟŽŶ ŚĂƐ ŵĂĚĞ ƉŽƐƐŝďůĞ͕ ĂŶĚ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ ŽƚŚĞƌ͕ ƚŚĞ ŽŶŐŽŝŶŐ ĞīŽƌƚƐ ƚŽ ŵĂŬĞ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐŝĞƐ ƚŚĞŵƐĞůǀĞƐ ĂďůĞ ƚŽ ƐŝŵƵůĂƚĞ ůŝƐƚĞŶŝŶŐ͕ ƚŽƵĐŚŝŶŐ͕ ƐŽƵŶĚŝŶŐ͕ ƚŚĂƚ ŝƐ͕ ĨŽƌ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐŝĞƐ ƚŽ ĨƵŶĐƟŽŶ ĂƐ ĂīĞĐƟǀĞ ƐĞŶƐĂƚĞ ďŽĚŝĞƐ ŵƵĐŚ ŵŽƌĞ ƚŚĂŶ ĐŽŐŶŝƟǀĞ ƐƵďũĞĐƚƐ Žƌ ĂƌƟĮĐŝĂů ŝŶƚĞůůŝŐĞŶĐĞƐ͘ / Ăŵ ĂůƐŽ ƚŚŝŶŬŝŶŐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ŵŽƌĞ ŐĞŶĞƌĂů ĂīĞĐƚ ŽĨ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ƐŝŵƵůĂƟŽŶ ŽŶ ůŝĨĞ ƐĐŝĞŶĐĞƐ͕ ŽŶ ůŝĨĞ ŝƚƐĞůĨ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĐŽŶƟŶƵŝŶŐ ĚĞǀĞůŽƉŵĞŶƚ ŽĨ ďŝŽƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐŝĞƐ͘ ŶĚ ĂĚĚŝŶŐ ƚŽ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ƌĞƚŚŝŶŬŝŶŐ ŝŶ ƉŚǇƐŝĐƐ ŽĨ ĞŶĞƌŐǇ ŵĂƩĞƌ ĂƐ ŝŶͲĨŽƌŵĂƟŽŶĂů͕ ƚŚĞƌĞ ŝƐ Ă ĐŽŶĮŐƵƌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ŵĂƚŚĞŵĂƟĐƐ͕ ƉŚǇƐŝĐƐ͕ ďŝŽůŽŐǇ ĂŶĚ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ƐŝŵƵůĂƟŽŶ ŝŶ ƚĞƌŵƐ ŽĨ ǁŚŝĐŚ ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ĞŵƉŝƌŝĐĂů ĂƌĞ ďĞŝŶŐ ƌĞƚŚŽƵŐŚƚ ŝŶǀŝƟŶŐ

Formations Vol.1 No.1 2010

ƵƐ ĂůƐŽ ƚŽ ƌĞƚŚŝŶŬ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝĐĂů͕ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ĂŶĚ ŵĞƚŚŽĚ͘ dŽ ĚŽ ƐŽ ǁŝůů ƌĞƋƵŝƌĞ ĂŶ ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƟŽŶ ďŽƌŶ ŽĨ ŝŶƚĞŶƐĞ ĐƌĞĂƟǀŝƚǇ͘ dŚŝƐ ŵĂǇ ŵĞĂŶ ĂƐ / ŚĂǀĞ ďĞĞŶ ƐƵŐŐĞƐƟŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ ǁĞ ƌĞƚŚŝŶŬ ƚŚĞ ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƌǇ Žƌ ƚŚĞ ƉƐǇĐŚĞ ĂůƚŽŐĞƚŚĞƌ͘ Kƌ ƚŽ ƚŚŝŶŬ ƚŚĞ ƉƐǇĐŚŝĐ Žƌ ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƌǇ ŝŶ ƚĞƌŵƐ ŽĨ ĚŝīĞƌĞŶƚ ƚĞĐŚŶŽͲƌĞĂůŝƐŵƐ͘ ĂĐŚ ƚĞĐŚŶŽͲƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ĮǆĞƐ ƚŚĞ ƉƐǇĐŚĞ Žƌ ŝŵĂŐŝŶĂƌǇ ŝŶ Ă ǁĂǇ ƚŚĂƚ ĂůůŽǁƐ ƚŚĞŵ ƚŽ ƚĂŬĞ ƵƉ ǁŚĂƚ ŚĂĚ ƚŽ ďĞ ŚŝĚĚĞŶ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĐŽŶƐƚƌƵĐƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƌĞĂůŝƚǇ͕ Žƌ ǁŚĂƚ ŝƐ ƌĞĨĞƌƌĞĚ ƚŽ ĂƐ ŽĨ ůĂƚĞ ĂƐ ƚŚĞ ƐŽĐŝĂů ĐŽŶƐƚƌƵĐƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƌĞĂůŝƚǇ͕ ǁŚĞƌĞ ĞĂĐŚ ƚĞĐŚŶŽͲƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ďŽƚŚ ƌĞůŝĞƐ ŽŶ ĂŶĚ ĚŝƐĂǀŽǁƐ ƚŚĞ ǁŽƌŬŝŶŐ ŽĨ ƵŶĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐ ƉƌŽĐĞƐƐĞƐ ŝŶ Ă ǁĂǇ ƚŚĂƚ ŝƐ ďĞĮƫŶŐ ƚŽ ĞĂĐŚ͘ ^Ž ƚŚĞ ĐŝŶĞŵĂ ĂŶĚ ƚĞůĞǀŝƐŝŽŶ ĂƌĞ ĚŝīĞƌĞŶƚ͕ ĚŝīĞƌĞŶƚ ŝŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶƐŚŝƉ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ĞĂĐŚ ƉƌŽĚƵĐĞƐ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ƵŶĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐ ĞĂĐŚ ƉƌŽĚƵĐĞƐ͘ ŶĚ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ŝŵĂŐŝŶŐ ĂůƐŽ ŝƐ ĚŝīĞƌĞŶƚ ĂŶĚ ŝƚƐ ƉƐǇĐŚĞ ŝƐ ĚŝīĞƌĞŶƚ ďƵƚ ŝƚ ŝƐ ĚŝīĞƌĞŶƚ ŝŶ ƚŚĂƚ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ŝŵĂŐŝŶŝŶŐ ĚŽĞƐŶ͛ƚ ƐŽ ŵƵĐŚ ŚŝĚĞ ĂƐ ĨƵŶĐƟŽŶ ďĞůŽǁ ĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐŶĞƐƐ͕ ŶŽŶͲƉŚĞŶŽŵĞŶŽůŽŐŝĐĂůůǇ͕ ŝŶ ƉƌŽĚƵĐŝŶŐ Ă ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ŽĨ ƐŝŵƵůĂĐƌĂ͘ϭϬ WŽŝŶƟŶŐ ƚŽ Ă ŵĂƚĞƌŝĂů ƉƌŽĐĞƐƐ Žƌ ŵĂƩĞƌ ĂƐ ĚǇŶĂŵŝĐ ƉƌŽĐĞƐƐ ǁŝƚŚ ŽƵƚ ŚƵŵĂŶ ƉĞƌĐĞƉƟŽŶ͕ ƚŚĞ ƉƐǇĐŚĞ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ĮŶĚƐ ŝƚƐ ƉůĂĐĞ ŝŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶƐŚŝƉ ƚŽ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ĂŶĚ ǁŚĂƚ ŚĂƐ ďĞĞŶ ĚĞƐĐƌŝďĞĚ ĂƐ ƚŚĞ ŝŵƉŽƐƐŝďŝůŝƚǇ ŽĨ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ŝŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶƐŚŝƉ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ƟŵĞ ŽĨ ĂīĞĐƚ Žƌ ƚŚĞ ďĞĨŽƌĞ Žƌ ďĞǇŽŶĚ ŚƵŵĂŶ ƉĞƌĐĞƉƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƉƵƌĞ ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂůŝƚǇ͕ ĂŶ ŝŵƉŽƐƐŝďŝůŝƚǇ ŚŽǁĞǀĞƌ ƚŚĂƚ ĂƌŝƐĞƐ ũƵƐƚ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ ǀĞƌǇ ƐĂŵĞ ƟŵĞ ƚŚĂƚ ĚŝŐŝƚĂů ŝƐ ƚŚĞ ƚĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐǇ ƚŚĂƚ ŵĞĂŶƐ ƚŽ ĚŝƌĞĐƚůǇ ďĞ ĞīĞĐƟǀĞ ďĞůŽǁ ĂŶĚ ďĞǇŽŶĚ ĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐŶĞƐƐ͕ ƚŽ ŵŽĚƵůĂƚĞ Žƌ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂůŝƚǇ ŝƚƐĞůĨ͘ ^Ž ƚŚŝƐ ŝƐ ƚŚĞ ƉƌŽďůĞŵĂƟĐ ŽĨ ƉŽůŝƟĐƐ ŝŶ ŽƵƌ ƟŵĞ͘ ŶĚ ƚŽ ƉƵƚ ƚŚŝƐ ƉƌŽďůĞŵĂƟĐ ŝŶ ƉůĂǇ ǁŝƚŚ ĞĐŽŶŽŵǇ͕ ŵĂƌŬĞƚ͕ ĂŶĚ ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ͕ ůĞƚ ŵĞ ƐŚŝŌ ŽƵƌ ĨŽĐƵƐ Ă ďŝƚ͘ /Ŷ ŚĞƌ ƌĞĐĞŶƚ ĚŝƐĐƵƐƐŝŽŶ ŽĨ ďƌĂŶĚŝŶŐ͕ ŚƌŝƐƟŶĞ ,ĂƌŽůĚ ƐƵŐŐĞƐƚƐ ƚŚĂƚ ƌĂƚŚĞƌ ƚŚĂŶ ŽīĞƌŝŶŐ Ă ŵĂƌŬ ŽĨ ƐƵďũĞĐƚ ƐƚĂƚƵƐ ĂƩĂĐŚĞĚ ƚŽ ĐŽŵŵŽĚŝƟĞƐ͕ ďƌĂŶĚ ŶŽǁ ŵĂŬĞƐ ƚŚŝŶŐƐ ƐŝŐŶƐ ƚŚĂƚ ĞǆƵĚĞ ĂŶĚ ƚƌĂŶƐŵŝƚ ĂīĞĐƚ Žƌ ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂůŝƚǇ͕ ďĞĮƫŶŐ ǁŚĂƚ ƐŚĞ ŚĂƐ ĐĂůůĞĚ ͞ĂĞƐƚŚĞƟĐ ĐĂƉŝƚĂůŝƐŵ͘͟11 ƌĂŶĚ ƚŚĞŶ ŝƐ ŵĞĂŶƚ ƚŽ ĨƵŶĐƟŽŶ ĂīĞĐƟǀĞůǇ͕ ƚŽ ƐƟƌ ďŽĚŝůǇ ƉƌŽƉĞŶƐŝƟĞƐ͕ Žƌ ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂůŝƟĞƐ͕ ƚŽ ŝŶŝƟĂƚĞ ĂĐƟǀĂƟŽŶ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ŵŽŽĚƐ Žƌ ĨĞĞůŝŶŐƐ ŝŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶ ƚŽ Ă ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ĞĐŽŶŽŵǇ͘ dŚŝƐ ďƌĂŶĚŝŶŐ ƐĞĞŬƐ ƚŽ ƉƌŽĚƵĐĞ Ă ƐƵƌƉůƵƐ ǀĂůƵĞ ŽĨ ͞ĂƵĚŝĞŶĐĞ ĞīĞĐƚ͟ Žƌ ĂīĞĐƚ ŝŶ Ă ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ĞĐŽŶŽŵǇ ƚŚĂƚ ĞŵďĞĚƐ ǁŚĂƚ >ƵĐŝĂŶĂ WĂƌŝƐŝ ĂŶĚ ^ƚĞǀĞŶ 'ŽŽĚŵĂŶ ŚĂǀĞ ĐĂůůĞĚ ͞ƚŚĞ ŵŶĞŵŽŶŝĐ ĐŽŶƚƌŽů͟ ŽĨ Ă ƉƌĞĞŵƉƟǀĞ ůŽŐŝĐ͘ϭϮ &Žƌ WĂƌŝƐŝ ĂŶĚ 'ŽŽĚŵĂŶ͕ ƚŚĞ ŽƉĞƌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƉƌĞͲĞŵƉƟŽŶ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ďƌĂŶĚŝŶŐ ƐĞĞŬƐ ƚŽ ƌĞŵŽĚĞů ůŽŶŐ ƚĞƌŵ ŵĞŵŽƌǇ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ĂŶ ŽĐĐƵƉĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ Žƌ ƚŚĞ ƉĂƌĂƐŝƟŶŐ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ ĚǇŶĂŵŝĐƐ ŽĨ ƐŚŽƌƚͲƚĞƌŵ ŝŶƚƵŝƟŽŶ Žƌ ǁŚĞƌĞ ƉĂƐƚ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚ ĂŶĚ ĨƵƚƵƌĞ ĐŽĞǆŝƐƚ ĂƐ ĂīĞĐƚ Žƌ ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂůŝƚǇ͕ ǁŚŝĐŚ ƌĞƉĞĂƚĞĚůǇ ŝŶƐƟŐĂƚĞƐ ĂĐƟǀĂƟŽŶ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ŶĞƵƌŽƉŚǇƐŝŽůŽŐŝĐĂů ƉůĂƐƟĐŝƚǇ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ďŽĚǇͲďƌĂŝŶ͘ ƌĂŶĚŝŶŐ͛Ɛ ŽĐĐƵƉĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƐŚŽƌƚ ƚĞƌŵ ŝŶƚƵŝƟŽŶƐ ŝƐ ƐŽŵĞƚŚŝŶŐ ůŝŬĞ Ă ĚŝƐƚƌŝďƵƟŽŶ ŽĨ ŵĞŵŽƌǇ ŝŵƉůĂŶƚƐ͕ ǁŚŝĐŚ ƉƌŽǀŝĚĞƐ ǇŽƵ ǁŝƚŚ ƚŚĞ ďŽĚŝůǇ Žƌ ĂīĞĐƟǀĞ ƐĞŶƐĞ ŽĨ ĂŶ ĞǆƉĞƌŝĞŶĐĞ ǇŽƵ ŚĂǀĞŶ͛ƚ ŚĂĚ Žƌ Ă ŵĞŵŽƌǇ ǇŽƵ ŚĂǀĞŶ͛ƚ ŚĂĚ͕ ŐŝǀŝŶŐ Ă ďĂƐĞ ĨŽƌ ĨƵƚƵƌĞ ĂĐƟǀĂƟŽŶ Žƌ ƌĞƉĞƟƟŽŶ͘ /ƚ ŝƐ Ă ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂƟŽŶ Žƌ ĂŶ ĂĐƟǀĂƟŽŶ ŚŽǁĞǀĞƌ ƚŚĂƚ ŵĞĂŶƐ ƚŽ ĨŽƌĞĐůŽƐĞ ĂĐƚƵĂůŝǌĂƟŽŶ͕ ĐŽůůĂƉƐŝŶŐ ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂůŝƚǇ ďĂĐŬ ŽŶ ŝƚƐĞůĨ ƉƌŽĚƵĐŝŶŐ Ă ƐƵƌƉůƵƐ ŽĨ ĂīĞĐƚ͘ /ŶĚĞĞĚ͕ ƚŚĞ ƉŽǁĞƌ ŽĨ ƉƌĞĞŵƉƟǀĞ ůŽŐŝĐ ƚŚĞƌĞĨŽƌĞ ƉŽŝŶƚƐ ƚŽ ďŝŽƉŽǁĞƌ Žƌ ďĞƩĞƌ ďĞǇŽŶĚ ďŝŽƉŽǁĞƌ EŽƚ ũƵƐƚ ƚŚĞ ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ŽĨ ůŝĨĞ ĂŶĚ ĚĞĂƚŚ ďƵƚ Ă ŵŽǀĞ ƚŽ ƚŚĂƚ ǁŚŝĐŚ ŝƐ ŶŽŶůŝǀĞĚ Žƌ ƉƌŽĐĞĞĚƐ Žƌ ŐŽĞƐ ďĞǇŽŶĚ ůŝĨĞ ŝŶ ŽƌĚĞƌ ƚŽ ŵŽĚƵůĂƚĞ ƉŽƚĞŶƟĂůŝƚǇ Žƌ ĂīĞĐƚͲŝƚƐĞůĨ͘ /ƚ ŝƐ ŝŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶƐŚŝƉ ƚŽ ƚŚĞƐĞ ƉŽǁĞƌƐ͕ ŐĂŝŶŝŶŐ ĨŽƌĐĞ ŝŶ ŽƵƌ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚ ƚŚĂƚ͕ / ǁĂŶƚ ƚŽ

Formations Vol.1 No.1 2010

ĂƌŐƵĞ͕ ƚŚĂƚ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞƌĞĨŽƌĞ ŵĞƚŚŽĚ ĂƌĞ ďĞĐŽŵŝŶŐ ĂĞƐƚŚĞƟĐ͘ ŶĚ ǁŚĞŶ / ƐĂǇ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ĂŶĚ ŵĞƚŚŽĚƐ / ŵĞĂŶ ƚŚĞ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞƐ ĂŶĚ ŵĞƚŚŽĚƐ ƚŚĂƚ / ŚĂǀĞ ďĞĞŶ ƚĂůŬŝŶŐ ĂďŽƵƚ͕ ƚŚŽƐĞ ďĞůŽŶŐŝŶŐ ƚŽ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝƐƚƐ ĂŶĚ ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ĂůŝŬĞ ǁŚĞƌĞ ŐŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ƐĞĞŬƐ ŝƚƐ ǀĞƌŝĚŝĐƟŽŶ ŝŶ ŝƚƐ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶƐŚŝƉ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ĐŽŶĚŝƟŽŶƐ ŝƚ ƉƌŽǀŝĚĞƐ ĨŽƌ ƚŚĞ ŵĂƌŬĞƚ ŝŶ ŵĂŶĂŐŝŶŐ ůŝĨĞ ĂŶĚ ĂīĞĐƚ ʹ ƚŚĞ ŵĂƌŬĞƚ ŽĨ ĂĞƐƚŚĞƟĐ ĐĂƉŝƚĂůŝƐŵ͘ DĞĂƐƵƌĞ ĂŶĚ ŵĞƚŚŽĚ ǁŝůů ďĞĐŽŵĞ ŝŶĐƌĞĂƐŝŶŐůǇ ƉĂƌƟĐƵůĂƌ ƚŽ ŝƚƐ ƐŝŵƵůĂƟŽŶ ŶŽƚ ƚŽ Ă ŐŝǀĞŶ ƌĞĂůŝƚǇ͘ ŶĚ ƚŚĞƌĞĨŽƌĞ ŝƚ ǁŝůů ďĞ Ă ƉƌŽĚƵĐƟǀĞ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ĐŚĂŶŐŝŶŐ ǁŚĂƚ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ŝƐ ĞĂĐŚ ƟŵĞ ĂŶĚ ǁŚĂƚ ŝƐ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞĚ ĞĂĐŚ ƟŵĞ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ƵŶŝƚƐ ŽĨ ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ĞĂĐŚ ƟŵĞ͘ tŚĂƚ ŐŽĞƐ ďǇ ƉĞƌĨŽƌŵĂŶĐĞ ƚŚĞƐĞ ĚĂǇƐ ǁŝůů ďĞĐŽŵĞ ƚŚĞ ŶŽƌŵ ĂŶĚ ǁĞ ǁŝůů ŚĂǀĞ ƚŽ ƐƚĂƌƚ ƐŽŽŶ ŝŶǀĞŶƟŶŐ ƐŽŵĞƚŚŝŶŐ ďĞǇŽŶĚ ŝƚ Žƌ ŵĂŬŝŶŐ ŵŽƌĞ ŽĨ ŝƚ͘ Ǉ ƉĞƌĨŽƌŵĂŶĐĞ ƚŚĞŶ / ŵĞĂŶ Ă ƚƵƌŶŝŶŐ ŽĨ ŬŶŽǁůĞĚŐĞ ƉƌŽĚƵĐƟŽŶ ŝŶƚŽ ĂŶ ĂīĞĐƟǀĞ ŵŽĚƵůĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ĂŶ ĂƵĚŝĞŶĐĞ͕ ĂŶ ƵƉƉŝŶŐ Žƌ ĚŽǁŶŝŶŐ ŽĨ ĂīĞĐƚ͕ Ă ƐƉĞĞĚŝŶŐ Žƌ ƐůŽǁŝŶŐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĂīĞĐƟǀĞ ƌĞŐŝƐƚĞƌ͘ dŚŝƐ ĚŽĞƐ ŶŽƚ ŵĞĂŶ ŝŐŶŽƌŝŶŐ ƌĞƐĞĂƌĐŚ Žƌ ĂŶǇ ŵĞĂŶƐ ŽĨ ĐŽůůĞĐƟŶŐ ĚĂƚĂ͖ ŝƚ ŵĞĂŶƐ ƚŚĂƚ ƉƌĞƐĞŶƚĂƟŽŶ ďĞĐŽŵĞƐ ŵŽƌĞ ŝŵƉŽƌƚĂŶƚ͕ ŵŽƌĞ ĐĞŶƚƌĂů ƚŚĂŶ ŝƚ ĞǀĞƌ ŚĂƐ ďĞĞŶ ĂƐ Ă ŵĞĂƐƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƚƌƵƚŚ͘ _________________________________________________

WĂƩŽŶ͕ WĂƵů ĂŶĚ :ŽŚŶ WƌŽƚĞǀŝ ;ĞĚƐ͘Ϳ ϮϬϬϯ͘ Between Deleuze & Derrida. EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͗ ŽŶƟŶƵƵŵ͕ ϲ͘ Ϯ ^ƚĞŝŶŵĞƚǌ͕ 'ĞŽƌŐĞ͘ ϮϬϬϱ͘ ͞dŚĞ ƉŝƐƚĞŵŽůŽŐŝĐĂů hŶĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐ ŽĨ h͘^͘ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ dƌĂŶͲ ƐŝƟŽŶ ƚŽ WŽƐƚ &ŽƌĚŝƐŵ͗ dŚĞ ĂƐĞ ŽĨ ,ŝƐƚŽƌŝĐĂů ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͘͟ /Ŷ ZĞŵĂŬŝŶŐ DŽĚĞƌŶŝƚǇ WŽůŝƟĐƐ͕ ,ŝƐ-‐ tory and Sociology͕ ĞĚŝƚĞĚ ďǇ :ƵůŝĂ ĚĂŵƐ͕ ůŝƐĂďĞƚŚ ůĞŵĞŶƐ͕ ĂŶĚ ŶŶ KƌůŽī͘ ƵƌŚĂŵ͗ ƵŬĞ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚǇ WƌĞƐƐ͕ ϭϭϵ͘ 3 &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ͕ DŝĐŚĞů͘ ϭϵϳϬ͘ The Order of Things. EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͗ WĂŶƚŚĞŽŶ ŽŽŬƐ͕ ǆŝ͘ 4 ^ƚĞŝŶŵĞƚǌ͕ ϭϮϵ͘ 5 &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ͕ DŝĐŚĞů͘ ϮϬϬϳ͘ ^ĞĐƵƌŝƚǇ͕ dĞƌƌŝƚŽƌǇ͕ WŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶ͕ >ĞĐƚƵƌĞƐ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ ŽůůğŐĞ Ğ &ƌĂŶĐĞ 1977-‐1978͘ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͗ WĂůŐƌĂǀĞ DĂĐŵŝůůŝĂŶ͕ Ɖ͘ϭϬϴ͘ ϲ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ͕ ^ĞĐƵƌŝƚǇ͕ dĞƌƌŝƚŽƌǇ͕ WŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶ͕ ϭϬϰ ϳ DĂƐƐƵŵŝ͕ ƌŝĂŶ͘ ϭϵϵϴ͘ ͞ZĞƋƵŝĞŵ ĨŽƌ KƵƌ WƌŽƐƉĞĐƟǀĞ ĞĂĚ͗ dŽǁĂƌĚ Ă WĂƌƟĐŝƉĂƚŽƌǇ ƌŝƟƋƵĞ ŽĨ ĂƉŝƚĂůŝƐƚ WŽǁĞƌ͘͟ /Ŷ ĞůĞƵǌĞ ĂŶĚ 'ƵĂƩĂƌŝ͗ EĞǁ DĂƉƉŝŶŐƐ ŝŶ WŽůŝƟĐƐ͕ WŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚǇ͕ ĂŶĚ Ƶů-‐ ture͕ ĞĚŝƚĞĚ ďǇ ͘ <ĂƵĨŵĂŶ ĂŶĚ <͘ :ŽŶ ,ĞůůĞƌ͘ DŝŶŶĞĂƉŽůŝƐ͗ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚǇ ŽĨ DŝŶŶĞƐŽƚĂ WƌĞƐƐ͕ ϱϳ͘ ϴ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ͕ ^ĞĐƵƌŝƚǇ͕ dĞƌƌŝƚŽƌǇ͕ WŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶ͕ ϳϬ͘ ϵ &ŽƵĐĂƵůƚ͕ ^ĞĐƵƌŝƚǇ͕ dĞƌƌŝƚŽƌǇ͕ WŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶ͕ ϳϱ͘ ϭϬ /ƚ ƐŚŽƵůĚ ďĞ ŶŽƚĞĚ ƚŚĂƚ ǁŚĂƚ ŝƐ ĐĂůůĞĚ ƐŽĐŝĂů ĐŽŶƐƚƌƵĐƟŽŶŝƐŵ ƵƐƵĂůůǇ ĚŽĞƐ ŶŽƚ ƐĞĞ ƚŚĞ ǁŽƌŬͲ ŝŶŐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ƵŶĐŽŶƐĐŝŽƵƐ ŝŶ ŝƚ͘ &Žƌ ĨƵƌƚŚĞƌ ĚŝƐĐƵƐƐŝŽŶ ŽŶ ƚŚŝƐ ĚŝƐĂǀŽǁĂů ŝŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶƐŚŝƉ ƚŽ ƚĞĐŚŶŽͲ ƌĞĂůŝƐŵ ƐĞĞ ŵǇ ŶĚ;ƐͿ ŽĨ ƚŚŶŽŐƌĂƉŚǇ͗ &ƌŽŵ ZĞĂůŝƐŵ ƚŽ ^ŽĐŝĂů ƌŝƟĐŝƐŵ͘ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͗ >ĂŶŐ WƵďͲ ůŝƐŚŝŶŐ ;ϭϵϵϴͿ͘ 11 ,ĂƌŽůĚ͕ ŚƌŝƐƟŶĞ͘ ϮϬϬϵ͘ ͞KŶ dĂƌŐĞƚ͗ ƵƌĂ͕ īĞĐƚ͕ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ZŚĞƚŽƌŝĐ ŽĨ ͚ ĞƐŝŐŶ ĞŵŽĐƌĂĐǇ͛͘͟ In WƵďůŝĐ ƵůƚƵƌĞ ŶŽ͘ Ϯϭ͕ ϲϭϭ͘ ϭϮ WĂƌŝƐŝ͕ >ƵĐŝĂŶĂ ĂŶĚ ^ƚĞǀĞ 'ŽŽĚŵĂŶ͘ &ŽƌƚŚĐŽŵŝŶŐ ϮϬϭϭ͘ ͞DŶĞŵŽŶŝĐ ŽŶƚƌŽů͘͟ /Ŷ Beyond ŝŽƉŽůŝƟĐƐ͗ ƐƐĂǇƐ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ 'ŽǀĞƌŶĂŶĐĞ ŽĨ >ŝĨĞ ĂŶĚ ĞĂƚŚ͕ ĞĚŝƚĞĚ ďǇ WĂƚƌŝĐŝĂ dŝĐŝŶĞƚŽ ůŽƵŐŚ ĂŶĚ ƌĂŝŐ tŝůůƐĞ͘ ƵƌŚĂŵ͗ ƵŬĞ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚǇ WƌĞƐƐ͘ 1

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Theory, History, and Methodological Positivism in the Anderson–Thompson Debate Abe Walker

In the normally restrained world of academic discourse, the Anderson–Thompson debate stands out as a break with the dominant culture of selfabnegation and humility. Over the course of three years (1964–1966), noted Marxist historians Perry Thompson and Edward Thompson launched a series of spirited attacks on each other that reach a level of virulence rarely approached in scholarly publication.1 Yet the sheer violence of this debate masks the fact that something important was at stake, with implications for historians of both the Marxist and nonMarxist variety, as well as for historically-oriented sociologists. With the recent resurgence of interest in comparative–historical sociology, both Anderson and Thompson have been written out of the canon, for reasons that are somewhat unclear. For one, neither held a conventional academic position, but neither did Barrington Moore, who is widely regarded as one of the preeminent comparative–historical sociologists. Both are unabashedly Marxist, but comparative– historical sociology has long had many adherents who locate themselves within the Marxian tradition, even if they are not identifiably “Marxist.” Neither was trained as a sociologist, but comparative–historical sociologists generally eschew disciplinary distinctions, embracing history and political science as well as sociology. I will argue in this paper that the issues raised by Anderson and Thompson deserve to be repositioned at the center of the comparative–historical project. In the process, I will position Anderson and Thompson against four other luminaries of comparative historical sociology: Charles Tilly, Immanuel Wallerstein, Theda Skocpol, and Craig Calhoun, all of whom have weighed in on the debate (Tilly and Wallerstein lean towards Thompson, while Skocpol and Calhoun are more sympathetic to Anderson). I will argue that the Anderson–Thompson debate cuts to the core of existing disputes within comparative–historical sociology. Anderson and Thompson deserve to assume their proper place not at the margins but at the center of the comparative–historical project. Finally, I will demonstrate that while the substantive disagreements between Anderson and Thompson are important, their debate was – in the last instance – an argument about methodology. Edward Thompson was not, strictly speaking, a comparative historian. Thompson’s best known and most-cited work, The Making of the English

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Working Class, is not a comparative study at all. Instead, it is a lengthy exposition of working class development in a single nation, spanning a seven-hundred-year period. Thompson’s writing style usually approximates what a historian might term “thick description”—a painstakingly detailed narrative which attempts to recreate and give life to working-class movements and cultures that had been neglected by mainstream historians. When it was first published, MEWC was a truly groundbreaking work for several reasons. First, it pioneered the detailed study of groups long neglected by mainstream historians—the poor, the peasants, and the incipient working class. Along with fellow working-class historians George Rude and Fernand Braudel, Thompson was a pioneer within the field today known as social history. Second, since poor people leave rarely leave behind an official record, it relied on non-traditional “texts”—songs, poems, stories, and journalistic accounts— to a much greater extent than had been done previously. Third, and most important for the purpose of this essay, it came as a direct challenge to the dominant trend at the time in British history: to heap praise upon Continental working class movements (especially the French), while largely dismissing the British working class. It was this third innovation that later drew the ire of one Perry Anderson. The Debate Three fundamental theses sustain MEWC. The first is co-determination, or the notion that the working class “made itself as much as it was made.” Here, Thompson is clearly challenging the myth of a meek, submissive English working class. He observes that although British working-class movements never coalesced into a party, and although their revolutionary efforts were abortive at best, British history is checkered with working-class riots, revolts, uprisings, and rebellions. The apparent timidity of working-class movements is as much a consequences of extraneous historical conditions as endogenous inadequacies. Indeed, much of MEWC is devoted to chronicling the forgotten history of British working-class movements, as if to defend them in the tribunal of history. Thompson’s second thesis, consciousness, is the idea that “class happens where some men, as a result of common experiences, feel and articulate the identity of their interests as between themselves, and as against other men” (Thompson 1964: 9–10). In this sense, class is not a static object of study, but an event that happens under particular circumstances. By implication, workers who suffer from false consciousness or fail to understand their class position do not truly comprise a class.3 In the process, Thompson introduces two key variables that tend to be missing from traditional accounts of class formation: ideology and culture. Thompson’s fundamental intellectual project in MEWC is to uphold the creative activity and autonomy of English radicalism against those who would describe it as a passive object of industrialization. Lastly, Thompson, in asserting that the English working class was essentially completed by the early 1830s, puts forward the idea of closure. After the 1830s, the English working class is properly described as no longer “in the making” but “made.” However, the class was unmade in the period between the 1850s and the 1870s.

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Anderson would take issue which each of these theses in turn, although the bulk of his argument concerns a critique of the third and final thesis (closure), which is a historiographical matter, not a theoretical concern. The 20-mile channel separating Britain from continental Europe may as well be an ocean: Britain lags behind the rest of Western Europe on nearly every social measure, has a comparatively weak labor movement, and, of particular interest to Perry Anderson, has no viable anti-capitalist political parties.3 Anderson’s “Origins” reads as an extended lamentation on the current state of British politics. The titular “present crisis” refers to the Conservative Party’s 13-year winning streak in national politics, which would draw to a close with the election of a Labour government only months after Anderson’s article was published. Nevertheless, by the early 1960s, the Labour Party, wracked by internal crisis, was a shell of its former self and no longer an “authentic” working-class formation (if it ever had been). To be sure, Gaullist France was no workers’ paradise either, but the Socialist (SFIO) and Communist (PCF) Parties remained viable oppositional forces throughout the 1960s, and both were far to the left of Britain’s Labour. More to the point, the French labor movement in the 1960s was the envy of union militants worldwide, while British unions were relatively quiescent. In Anderson’s admiration for the militancy and (relative) successes of the French working class, his Francophilia is palpable. Anderson embodies the stereotypical self-hating Brit.4 In a review essay on Anderson, Theda Skopol and Mary Fulbrook write: “France represents the central line of evolutionary advance. From antiquity onward, the histories of the French core approximate most clearly the Marxist concepts of key modes of production and their progressive succession” (Skocpol 1984: 199). But a problem emerges when Anderson conflates his “model” (orthodox Marxist workingclass formation) with the closest actually-existing approximation (France). Clearly, France deviates in important ways from Marx’s preordained historical model. But in much of Anderson’s writing, France functions practically as a stand-in for Marxist teleology. In this view, Britain is deficient because it fails to follow the preordained “script.” Anderson conceives of French history as the shining example of revolutionary purity in three respects: (1) the French bourgeoisie at the time of the Revolution was fully developed and provided an appropriate target for proletarian rage; (2) the social democratic state that emerged after the Jacobins was an ideal model for an early proletarian movement; and (3) contemporary French communism is the proper embodiment of a mature proletarian movement. Even before the advent of capitalism, Northern France always conformed more closely to the archetypal feudal system than any other region of the continent. In this sense, French history achieves “holistic integrity, functional systematicity, and continuity” (Skocpol 1984: 32). In contrast, Britain proves itself inadequate in each of these respects. The English civil war occurred far too early, the political system that emerged in its wake was attenuated, and contemporary British Marxism was (and is) isolated and marginal. Anderson has a number of other serious complaints about Thompson. While he does not dispute the essential facts of Thompson’s exhaustive account, he

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is dismissive of movements that result in failure, whatever their potential. Put simply, Anderson is far more interested in outcomes than in process. Most fundamentally, Anderson disputes Thompson’s concept of class, which he considers insufficiently economic. Anderson writes: “The thrust of [Thompson’s] argument is still to detach class from its objective anchorage in determinate relations of production, and identify it with subjective consciousness or culture ... It is better to say, with Marx, that social classes may not become conscious of themselves, may fail to act or behave in common, but they still remain, materially, historically—classes” (Anderson 1980: 43). Instead, Anderson argues for a “concept of class as an objective relation to the means of production, independent of will or attitude” (Anderson 1980: 38). Here, Anderson quotes G. W. Cohen who argues that “a person’s class is established by nothing but his objective place in the network of ownership relations … His consciousness, culture and politics do not enter the definition of his class position” (Cohen 1978: 73). (As usual, Anderson is probably overstating his case in this passage for the sake of polemic.) Finally, Anderson criticizes Thompson’s notion that class struggle might exist without class per se. For Anderson, Thompson’s definition of class is far too “voluntarist and subjectivist,” for “classes have frequently existed whose members did not identify their antagonistic interests in any process of common struggle” (Anderson 1980: 40). Put differently, Anderson posits that classes exist objectively—even when people fail to behave in class ways. Anderson’s “Origins” is essentially a two-case comparison between the “British model” and the “French model.” Although Anderson frequently refers to the “continental” pattern, it is clear that “continental” is merely a proxy for “French,” since Germany and Italy are themselves merely inferior approximations of the French pattern. Moreover, Anderson positions the French model at the center of his analysis. Even though he spills more ink discussing the British pattern, this is mainly for the purpose of illuminating its inadequacies as against the French example of revolutionary perfection. In this sense, the French pattern is ideal-typical (in the normative sense of the term); it is the model against which all other possibilities must be evaluated. Anderson’s model of British exceptionalism clearly refers not only to difference, but to British inferiority. Scholars like Aristide Zolberg (2009) who study exceptionalism debate whether exceptionalism implies distinction or merely difference. In this case, there can be no question that Britain’s “exceptionalism” refers to its inferiority. Thompson’s rebuttal to “Origins” comes in Poverty. In general, Thompson does not dispute the facts of Anderson’s account, although he takes issue with some of Anderson’s historiographical assumptions—especially his periodization.5 But Thompson’s main line of (counter-)attack is methodological. He claims that crossnational comparisons are only meaningful insofar as pre-existing conditions are themselves comparable. In other words, the French model cannot be meaningfully applied to foreign turf. Given Britain’s unique class structure, agrarian population, geographical isolation, and a host of other factors, all of which pre-date industrialization, Britain could not have been reasonably expected to follow the French pattern. His observations here approximate Aristide Zolberg’s (2009) view

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of difference. As Ira Katznelson and Zolberg have written, there is a tendency within history to set up a single “model” of working-class formation against which all actual historical experiences are judged as “exceptional” or “deviant.” The remainder of Poverty consists of a commentary on the misappropriation of Althusser by Anderson (of which more later). Finally, Anderson gets in the last word with Socialism. On the first pages of Socialism, Thompson is charged with “paranoia and bad faith,” “virulent travesty and abuse,” “reckless falsification” (Anderson 1966: 1, 2). The brunt of Anderson’s critique is concerned with what he considers a mischaracterization of his ideas by Thompson. He writes, “far from evincing the class reductionism of which Thompson accuses us, we—once again—explicitly and categorically rejected it” (Anderson 1966: 10; emphasis in original). But Anderson then proceeds to take aim at Thompson’s understanding of class, which he considers too malleable. Anderson may not be a proper class reductionist in the pejorative sense, but he clearly has in mind a more essentialist, objective view of class than does Thompson (as evidenced by his reliance on the “analytic Marxism” of Cohen). Anderson’s attempt to dismiss Thompson by pointing to their commonalities therefore appears misguided. Anderson scores more points with his attack on Thompson’s crude populism, writing, “concrete analysis of class or social groups … is relinquished for a perpetual, sententious invocation of ‘the people’—that is, exactly the terminology of populism”; and continuing: “where ‘the people’ rather than concrete, determinate social groups are continually invoked as the victims of injustice and the agents of social change, it becomes natural to speak of the role of this people as a nation with a pre-eminent destiny among other peoples” (Anderson 1966: 34). But more to the point, “the people” is a vague grouping that functions much more readily as a rhetorical device than as an operationalizable category. Anderson’s stylistic criticism of Thompson is a veneer for his more important methodological criticism. Commentary If the Anderson thesis is reductionist, it is far less so than some of his contemporaries—for example James Hinton, who criticized Anderson “for assertion of primacy to the political and ideological factors”—practically the opposite of Thompson’s critique. Anderson is somewhere in the middle of the spectrum of class formation literature, distant from both the economic determinist and the interpretivist extremes. Even an extreme interpretivist like Aronowitz cautions against overemphasizing the cultural component of collective action. Speaking of the social historians who followed Thompson (though he might as well be commenting on Thompson himself), Aronowitz writes, “their own historiographic interventions emphasized the importance of cultural formation in the historical process perhaps more strongly than they actually meant, in opposition to the determinism of the economic historians, even the Marxists among them” (Aronowitz 1993: 96). Therefore, Thompson’s critique rings somewhat hollow. On this and other issues, Anderson and Thompson have much more in common that they deign to admit. Other commentators have noted that the differences between Anderson

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and Thompson are likely overblown. As Susan Magarey notes, “Edward Thompson repudiated the label ‘culturalism’ when it was applied to his work; Perry Anderson has never laid claim to the label ‘structuralist’” (1987: 630). Yet Thompson has come to embody the culturalist tradition within British Marxism, while Anderson’s polemic in Arguments emerged as the most visible representative of structuralism. It should be noted, however, that Thompson’s rejection of the “culturalist” label was in part a reaction against Raymond Williams, who had proudly accepted the “culturalist” label and from whom Thompson hoped to distance himself. To fully understand Thompson’s relationship to culturalism, a closer reading of his major theses is necessary. The most oft-quoted passage in MEWC is one of several definitions of class that Thompson offers in his introduction. Taken out of context, it seems to validate the structure/agency dichotomy that has become popular in recent years: Class is not a category but a process. Classes arise because men and women, in determinate productive relations, identify their antagonistic interests, and come to struggle, to think, and to value in class ways; thus the process of class formation is a process of self-making, although under conditions which are “given.” (Thompson 1964: 107) This excerpt merits some analysis since it is so central to Thompson’s argument. While the relations of production are determinate (as in, having been definitely settled), they are not determinative (as in, having the power to define the future). The men and women involved in the struggle must develop an understanding of class antagonism, but more important they must act in “class ways.” Therefore, class happens as a result of emergence of class-based activity. Thompson deftly combines the objective component (productive relations) and the subjective component (class consciousness and class action) of class formation, while clearly placing more stock in the latter. In a move that foreshadows Deleuze, Thompson refers to class as a “process” or a “becoming,” once again emphasizing its dynamic nature. In History and Class Consciousness, Georg Lukács famously distinguished between class-in-itself and class-for-itself. The former refers to the “objective” identity of the working class, as determined by productive relations. The latter connotes the emergence of a social body that self-identifies as the working class. Thompson allegedly eliminates this distinction. More precisely, he seems to dismiss the category of “class-in-itself” entirely, and reduce the category of “working class” to nothing more than “class-for-itself.” For Thompson the working class does not fully exist until it achieves class consciousness. Put differently, at least during his strongest moments, Thompson seems to completely reject the “objective” dimension of class, in favor of its “subjective” component. Criticisms of Thompson often attack a gross caricature of his actual argument. Thompson did not ignore the real, grounded, “objective” conditions of class formation—in fact, he remained keenly aware of their continued

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importance. Likewise, he did not present class as a mythical, free-floating concept. But in granting the primacy of cultural components of class formation, Thompson apparently challenged a sacred dogma of Marxist orthodoxy. Some critics even reduce the Anderson–Thompson debate to lingering grudges about a struggle for the control of the New Left Review (NLR). The NLR, cofounded by Thompson in 1960 and initially edited by cultural studies pioneer Stuart Hall, quickly became the leading English-language voice for dissident (anti-Stalinist) Marxists. Its early years were marked by a series of power struggles that were often played out on its pages. With regard to Anderson and Thompson, the facts are quite clear—Thompson hired Anderson to head up the NLR in 1963. Within one year, Anderson had fired Thompson, realigned the board of directors in his favor, and assumed directorship of the journal himself. Thompson remained a prominent figure in the British neo-Marxist milieu, but never reassumed control of the NLR, so there is no shortage of bad blood between the two men. At times, the debate leans toward comedy, as in Thompson Dickensian caricature of Anderson.6 But the real point of tension centers on another prominent intellectual in the European Marxist scene—one Louis Althusser. In the 1960s, Thompson succeeded in persuading a significant number of Marxist intellectuals to all but disown Althusser. In an obvious reference to Althusser’s base–superstructure dichotomy from “Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses,” Thompson writes, “historical change eventuates, not because a given ‘basis’ must give rise to a correspondent ‘superstructure,’ but because changes in productive relationships are experienced in social and cultural life, refracted in men’s ideas and their values, and argued through in their actions” (Thompson 1978: 22). Today, the Anderson–Thompson debate deserves being revisited in light of the recent return to Althusser, led by such prominent thinkers as Derrida, Butler, and, in his own way, Foucault. Like Althusser, these scholars displaced the subject as the crucial agent of history. If the intellectual tide is now swinging back towards Altussser, might that portend a left reading of Anderson’s defense of Althusser’s structuralism against Thompson’s (now somewhat less trendy) Marxist humanism? Or is Anderson’s Althusser significantly different from the Althusser that has recently been embraced by the academic left? These questions deserve further analysis. Althusser is often cast as a crude economic determinist. Imprudent statements like the following lend credence to that characterization: “The class struggle does not go on in the air … it is rooted in the mode of production and exploitation in a given class society. The emphasis reverts continually towards the economic base. To contend that social formations typically derive their unity from the diffusion of values, or the exercise of violence, across a plurality of individual or group wills is to reject the Marxist insistence on the ultimate primacy of economic determinations of history” (Althusser 1969: 34). At first glance, this rigidly deterministic view seems to align closely with some of Anderson’s writing: “The problem of social order is irresoluble so long as the answer to it is sought at the level of intention … It is, and must be, the dominant mode of production that confers fundamental unity on a social formation, allocating their objective positions

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to classes within it, and distributing the agents within each class” (Anderson 1978: 55). But Althusser’s intention was not to position the economy at the center of social life, even if some of his statements, when taken out of context, give that impression. Rather, he will best be remembered for his questioning the primacy of the Hegelian subject, and his contributions to the revival of anti-humanist philosophy. Althusser famously posited an “epistemological break” between the naively humanist “early Marx” (of the Economic and Philosophic Manuscripts of 1844) and the more sophisticated “late Marx” (of Capital). In his view, the authentic Marx emerged at or about 1852. In his reading of Marx, the development of entire societies could be determined, though only “in the last instance,” by the economy. In his famous phrase, which is often crudely taken out of context, history is a “process without a subject.” It is not difficult to understand why Thompson, whose theories leaned so heavily on the autonomous human subject, would wholeheartedly reject Althusser. Yet even Althusser was not the rigid economic determinist that Thompson and his humanist followers tried to depict. In Poverty, Thompson goes to lengths to depict Althusser as the consummate Stalinite, and Anderson as his lackey, but the men’s records tell a quite different story. Althusser was outspoken in his criticisms of the USSR before it was popular to do so, and he broke with the French Communist Party over their position on the events of May 1968, among other issues. (True to form, Althusser rejected the label “structuralist.”) Furthermore, Anderson himself was anything but an orthodox Althusserian. Under his tenure at the NLR, a number of articles formulating criticisms of Althusser were published, and Anderson does the same in his own books. Britain at the time was rife with orthodox Althusserians, but Anderson was not one of them. Indeed, if one desired to attack Althusser vicariously via one of his followers, one could hardly have picked a worse target than Anderson. Indeed, the cultural studies baton would be passed off in the late 1970s and early 1980s to Stuart Hall’s Centre for Cultural Studies, who attempted a synthesis of Thompsonian cultural history along with (their own version) of Althusserianism. There were important methodological differences between the Thompson and Hall camps, which exacerbated antagonisms on both sides. Rather than pouring over historical documents, as Thompson had done in preparing MEWC and his other major works, Hall’s followers tended to be theoretically oriented, shunning painstaking empiricism in favor of pure theory. There is a danger that the entire debate might be reduced to a question of free will versus determinism (or what sociologists often call “structure vs. agency”). The reality is both more sophisticated, and more petty, and not only because neither Anderson nor Thompson are adequate representatives of these respective “positions.” Although Thompson is clearly aligned with the “agency” pole, his “deep historicism” is considerably more complex. Thompson forcefully asserts the primacy of history over theory, and makes the admittedly tautological case that arguments about historiography can best be evaluated against the backdrop of historical fact. What begins as a defense of Marxist history quickly becomes a defense of the historical enterprise in general, as he insists on the determinate

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properties of (historical) facts. Thompson’s attack is not on theory per se, but on a proto-postmodern relativism. Thompson argues against both crude empiricism (he would unquestionably take issue with the “socio-economic status” variable that most quantitative sociologists use as a stand-in for class) and against unprincipled theoreticism (à la Althusser). Instead, he pushes for a cautious, historically-grounded empiricism. Thompson’s position on determinacy is complex to say the least. While in one passage he writes, “People were so hungry that they were willing to risk their lives upsetting a barrow of potatoes. In these conditions, it might appear more surprising if men had not plotted revolutionary uprisings than if they had” (Thompson 1964: 592), he seems to contradict himself elsewhere, as when he critiques the “abbreviated and ‘economistic’ picture of the food riot as a direct, spasmodic, irrational response to hunger” (Thompson 1964: 528). So as much as Thompson argues against the notion that rebellion is an instinctual preconscious response to hunger, he strives to maintain the causal connection between deprivation and revolt. So Anderson the neo-positivist uses Althusser in his economic determinist mode as a weapon against Thompson. But in a certain sense it is Althusser the antihumanist who delivers a more searing critique of Thompson—a side of Althusser that Anderson clearly chooses to ignore, for it slices both ways. Surely Anderson understands that, were he to invoke Althusser the anti-humanist, his own project would likewise be dead in the water. Thompson and Sociology MEWC could not be more different from the dominant strains of comparative-historical sociology. Thompson was attacked anew in the 1980s and 1990s by a new generation of scholars, most of them too young to have witnessed his debates with Anderson firsthand. Yet their critiques were very much in the tradition of Anderson—they were methodological in nature. Craig Calhoun argued that Thompson “does not much examine structural positions of workers within the economy as a whole” (Calhoun 1982: 21; my emphasis). The eminent British sociologist Anthony Giddens similarly criticized MEWC for “[collapsing] the spectrum of conditions which actually led to the formation of the English working class ... into an opposition between protest and resistance largely internal to the ideas and behavior of the members of the working class themselves” (Giddens 1987: 212; my emphasis). Robert Murphy accuses Thompson of defining class as “an act of will rather than by objective situation” (Murphy 1986: 256) and insinuates that Thompson’s working class “disappears” when it loses consciousness. (This is of course a gross exaggeration and an incredible oversimplifcation of Thompson’s quite nuanced argument.) By now, these critiques should be familiar. Calhoun, Giddens and Murphy argue for the primacy of “structural positions,” “conditions,” and the “objective situation.” They are simply rehearsing the arguments Anderson made twenty years earlier, with only the slightest variation. But historians like Thompson are under no obligation to generalize, and Thompson makes no claim to comprehensiveness. A detailed examination of the

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economic conditions of early industrial Britain might be a useful project—but it is not Thompson’s. To turn the tables, mainstream historical sociology might stand to benefit from the careful, “micro-level” analysis that Thompson does so well. One gets the sense that Calhoun, Giddens, Murphy and Thompson’s other critics are superimposing their own set of sociological standards over of a completely disanalagous study. If Thompson is to be judged by any standards, it is only fair that they be the standards required by his intellectual project. Similar problems emerge when authors attempt to merge Thompson with other comparative–historical luminaries. For example, Alvin So and Muhammad Hikam (1989) try to synthesize Thompson and Wallerstein to produce a third, composite method. Although exiled to the semi-periphery at SUNY Binghamton, Wallerstein’s influence on comparative–historical sociology is immeasurable. So and Hakim devote twenty pages to exploring connections and possible alliances between the two men. They depict the two as intellectual siblings, and even propose an analytical technique they call “class struggle analysis,” designed to fuse the two authors at the hip. Yet So and Hikam’s reasoning seems a bit forced—Wallerstein’s world-system analysis represents grand theory if there ever was one. Thompson’s obsession with working-class poetry could not be further removed from Wallerstein’s efforts to design an all-encompassing model of global capitalism. Eventually, So and Hakim’s true intentions are laid bare—to subordinate Thompson to a Wallersteinian approach, even as they purport to remain faithful to both. So and Hikam (1989) accuse Thompson of “a-structural analysis; subjectivism; and unclear class boundaries.” Drawing on Craig Calhoun’s The Question of Class Struggle—a book-length diatribe against Thompson—the authors argue: The spectrum of conditions which actually led to the formation of the English working class are collapsed into an opposition between protest and resistance largely internal to the ideas and behavior of the members of the working class themselves. (1989: 461) So and Hikam further criticize Thompson, arguing that “struggle to form (or before forming) a class should not be conceptualized as class struggle because the goal of class formation may not materialize” (1989: 455). So struggle by a putative “class” prior to the “moment” of class formation (as defined by Thompson) is not actually class struggle since it is uncertain at that point whether or not a class will emerge. Despite their best intentions, this modification probably creates more problems than it resolves. For one thing, Thompson never suggests that there is a “single, definable moment” of class formation. Rather, as he asserts numerous times, class formation is a process. Some classes might form more successfully than others, but nowhere does he suggest it is possible to isolate the turning point at which a pre-class formation becomes an actual class. Second, So and Hakim’s definition of class struggle only emerges after the fact, once it is finally clear that a class has, in fact, been formed. This seems to grant the historian special power to distinguish

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class struggle from not-yet-class-struggle. Finally, their definition assumes that unsuccessful or partially successful struggle is not actually class struggle. But there is another problem here. Despite MEWC’s title, Thompson acknowledges that British workers rarely self-identified as a “working class.” Instead, they used the much broader descriptor “productive class.” This term refers not only to the proletariat, but to an ad hoc class alliance that included petty-bourgeois elements and remnants of the pre-industrial era, including store owners, smalltime manufacturers and self-employed artisans. Indeed, the “productive class” comprised the vast majority of British society, excluding only large manufacturers, major landowners, nobility, and royalty. That British people failed to draw class boundaries more narrowly is a problem, in Aronowitz’s view. The point is not that the working class should forgo cross-class alliances (even Marx predicted that the petty-bourgeois would eventually view their interests as more closely aligned with the proletariat than with the capitalists), but that the workers must self-identify as a class before they can build coalitions. Proletarians have a fundamentally different relationship to capitalist production than do small-business owners or craftsmen, and understanding this relationship is a prerequisite for successful class formation. But to what extent does the idea of a “productive class” bleed into Thompson’s own definition of the working class? For Craig Calhoun, Thompson’s loose definition of class leads him to include some workers who ought to be considered petty bourgeois. Aronowitz is quite forgiving, but Calhoun is far more pointed: “so much of what Thompson calls ‘the making of the working class’ is the reactionary radicalism of the artisinate” (1982: 103). There is some truth to this critique, but in my view it stems from a fundamental misunderstanding of Thompson’s intellectual project. Thompson’s work begs the question: What might it mean to treat class not as a unit of analysis, or as an operationalizable category, but as a conceptual frame to be employed for the purpose of explaining and interpreting social relations? This project may be beyond the bounds of mainstream sociology, but it is a worthwhile one. Even when presented the opportunity to more precisely define and delimit his concept of class, Thompson refuses. Theda Skocpol’s mapping of the field offers some insight here. In the concluding chapter of her edited collection, Skocpol (1984) sketches out three major methodological strategies for comparative–historical sociology. These consist of (1) a deductive approach, (2) an interpretive approach, and (3) an analytical approach. To grossly oversimplify her complex argument, deductive scholars map individual case studies on general models, interpretive scholars explain case studies without reliance on model-making, while analytical scholars combine these two strategies. (Skocpol clearly favors strategy 3, and locates herself within this tradition.) According to Skocpol, Anderson favors strategy 1, while Thompson confines himself strictly to strategy 2. Thompson’s critics (Calhoun, So and Hikam, et al.) work within strategies 1 and 3, and seek to criticize Thompson on these bases, without recognizing that his work lies within strategy 2. Their critique, which is based on their standards, not Thompson’s own, therefore falls flat. Thompson ultimately has a complex and tenuous relationship to mainstream

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sociology. Thompson’s assertion that classes are “made” has reached the point of a certain orthodoxy among class theorists and sociologists. His short preface is probably among the most quoted texts in the field, and for a sociologist to write about class without mentioning Thompson would approach heresy. In terms of the respective impacts on sociology, Thompson clearly takes the prize, with Anderson reduced to a mere footnote, if he deserves mention at all. In a catch-all textbook the eminent British sociologist Anthony Giddens has written: E. P. Thompson could be described as the sociologists’ historian. There are few historians whom sociologists are more fond of quoting ... The affinity which sociologists feel for Thompson’s work can be explained ... by reference to Thompson’s concern with problems of class formation and class consciousness. (Giddens 1987: 203) But Giddens pointedly neglects to mention that the feeling was not mutual. Indeed, Thompson seemed to harbor a deep-seated resentment toward sociology. His introduction ranks among the more powerful and angry critiques of sociology written to date. After rereading MEWC, one begins to wonder how many of Thompson’s admirers have any sort of familiarity with the text at all. While sociologists constantly cite MEWC’s fifteen-page introduction, in which he lays out the theoretical underpinnings of his argument, few deign to wade into the body of the text, and fewer still emulate Thompson’s method. Of course, it doesn’t help that Thompson’s introduction includes a series of spirited jabs at sociology, like this one: “the finest-meshed sociological net cannot give us a pure specimen of class, any more than it can give us one of deference or of love” (Thompson 1963: 9). Statements like these leave Thompson vulnerable to the claim that he fails to define class boundaries. Taking his metaphor a bit too literally, Murphy counters, “it would be helpful to know whether Thompson is using a finely-meshed net which catches almost everyone in the ‘working people,’ or a wide-meshed net which catches virtually no one, or what in fact his ‘working people’ net does catch” (Murphy 1986: 255). Of course, this quip completely misses the point: Thompson deliberately refuses to define class in a neat, bounded, and “measurable” way. This is not an omission on his part, but rather is characteristic of his overall method. It seems Thompson has expanded the concept of class struggle by including in it not just the struggle after forming a class, but also the struggle to form a class (or even the struggle before forming a class). So class moves from an analytical category to a heuristic device—a move that foreshadows the anti-positivist critique of the human sciences. Within sociology, positivism has been and remains the dominant strain. The explosion of cultural studies, science studies, and post–second-wave feminism in the 1980s and early 1990s briefly seemed to challenge the positivist orthodoxy, only to be reabsorbed by the 2000s. Today, even the American Sociological Association’s unorthodox theory section is controlled by methodological positivists. Although methodological positivism is usually associated with quantitatively-

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oriented sociologists, George Steinmetz (among others) has argued that qualitative sociologists commit the same crimes with blunter weapons. Few sociologists openly stake a claim to the legacy of Auguste Comte, but his specter still haunts the discipline’s hallowed halls. Even the most qualitatively-oriented sociologists adhere to methodological positivism to an extent that is unmatched in the humanities. For Steinmetz, positivist social science has a number of key features, but the necessary condition for epistemological positvism, or its “common denominator … is the orientation to regularity determinism or covering laws” (2005: 285). That is, positivists assume for every event y there is an event x or set of events x1...xn which can be neatly predicted based on y. To be sure, not all positivsts adhere rigidly to this formulation, but according to Steinmetz, this logic constitutes an “epistemological unconscious,” which structures and delimits the possibilities for sociological thought even when it is not explicitly invoked. Secondarily, positivists adopt a hardline scientific naturalism, or the assumption that “the social world can be studies in the same general manner as a the natural world” (2005: 283). In the process, social scientists borrow many of the tools of natural science, with its requisite emphasis on prediction and willful ignorance of concept, time and space dependence. Critics of positivism claim that social scientists should reject the presuppositions of the natural sciences and create new methodologies appropriate to their unique objects of study. On the other hand, history, as a discipline, has long tread the fuzzy boundary between the humanities and the social sciences. Not quite systematic enough to be a social science, but too obsessed with “truth” and “facts” to join the humanities, history occupies a wasteland within the academy. Thompson, for his part, clearly seeks to move history away from its social scientific counterparts but does so from within the framework of Marxist history, where a somewhat different but no less doctrinaire positivism reigns supreme. During the 1970s and 1980s, Marxism was eclipsed by Erik Olin Wright and the self-described “analytical” Marxists, whose intellectual project centered on recuperating Marxist categories for quantitative sociology. Countless gallons of ink were spilled on such critical tasks as “proving” Marx’s labor theory of value, as though the successful completion of this task would vindicate Marxism once and for all. But Wright’s approach, which Aronowitz (2003) dismisses as “social cartography,” explicitly ignores the cultural dimensions of class formation. Likewise, Wright has no interest in history; rather than explain when and how classes form, his analysis is consumed with accounting for class relations at a given moment. In a similar vein, empirically-oriented sociologists typically operationalize class using the variable “socio-economic status” (SES)—itself an aggregate of income, net assets, occupational prestige, and education level. Following Thompson, a number of critical sociologists have argued that while SES might be an adequate measure of (Weberian) status, it does not accurately measure class, since it completely ignores ideology, consciousness, and history—the “subjective” components of social class. Of course, “class consciousness” never appears on the General Social Survey and would be difficult to input into SPSS. “Measuring”

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consciousness can only be achieved through the kind of deep historical narrative that Thompson attempts in MEWC—completely foreign to most sociologists, even those of a qualitative orientation. For these reasons, as impressive as MEWC is, it might not meet the standards of academic rigor that pervade contemporary sociology. As a discipline, sociology has a structuralist bias. Even “cultural sociologists” have drawn the ire of “cultural studies” scholars (often located in the humanities) for overemphasizing the structural dimension of social life. One even wonders if MEWC would even meet the minimum expectations of a typical dissertation committee. If there is a single defining characteristic of sociology, it is the impulse to build models, create categories and generalize across multiple cases. Only the postmodernists at the fringe of the discipline have completely rejected generalization as a worthwhile strategy. The sociologist who rejects the discipline’s holy triumvirate—modeling, generalization, and comparison—is by most accounts not a sociologist at all. The other problem with Thompson’s method from the perspective of mainstream social science is his understanding of time. While statisticians can compare fixed points along a timeline (using a time-series analysis or a cohort study), they cannot easily measure the dynamic nature of historical processes. But, of course, historical processes (like class formation) are constantly in transition. As the Heisenberg principle famously states, one cannot study sub-atomic particles themselves but only their effects. Modern sociology lacks the ability to deal with time-in-motion. Time-series and cohort-based analysis are still atemporal insofar as they are premised on observing social phenomena at a fixed moment in time. On the other hand, there is a sense of temporality in Thompson’s writing that few sociologists even approximate. Early in his career, Thompson penned an oftenoverlooked essay entitled “Time, Work-Discipline, and Industrial Capitalism” (1967) in which he explains the rise of the clock, and the modern concept of time itself, in the context of the capitalist revolution and working-class resistance. Thompson argues that bosses eliminated the pre-modern notion of time—which was basically task-oriented—and replaced it with regimented factory time—with an emphasis on subdivision and precision—for the purpose of extracting maximum labor from the new proletariat. The idea of time itself was radically transformed. In one of his more convincing moments, Thompson argues that class cannot be measured ahistorically: “If we stop history at a given point, then there are no classes but simply a multitude of individuals with a multitude of experiences but if we watch these men over an adequate period of social change, we observe patterns in their relationships, their ideas, and their institutions. Class is defined by men as they live” (Thompson 1964: 11). This rigid insistence on the dynamic nature of class is appealing rhetorically, but it presents an insurmountable challenge to the cottage industry that has organized around the notion that class exists as a static category, outside of time. One final question remains: what use do sociologists have for history? If Thompson’s MEWC is only tolerable when eviscerated and subsumed under the rubric of a demonstrably sociological frame, what is it actually worth on its own terms? The most prominent comparative–historical sociologists—Moore, Skocpol, Tilly, Wallerstein—wield grand theory like a sledgehammer. Similarly, Anderson’s

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essays, along with his masterworks Lineages and Passages are predicated upon the assumption that a particular model—one in which the working class achieves “full” development—is preferable. In contrast, Thompson offers nothing in the way of grand theory but instead offers a theory of pure historical contingency that is anathema to most historically-oriented sociologists. But it should be no surprise that, in the process of fusing two disciplines with asymmetrical properties, one will be forced to bend. As Sewell (1996) has keenly observed, making sociology historical cannot simply be a question of increasing the number of data points. It may even be the case that, against the wishes of mainstream comparative–historical sociologists, history and sociology are not entirely compatible. Taking history seriously will require abandoning old assumptions, adopting new methodological orientations, and in the process, overturning many of the foundations of sociology itself.

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What has become known as the Anderson–Thompson debate refers to a series of books and articles spanning five years. In chronological order, they are Thompson’s book Making of the English Working Class (1964, hereafter MEWC); Anderson’s review article “Origins of the Present Crisis” (1964) in the New Left Review (hereafter “Origins”); Thompson’s response “Peculiarities of the English” (1965) in the Socialist Register, later republished with minor edits in an essay collection entitled The Poverty of Theory 1978 (hereafter Poverty); Anderson’s rebuttal “Socialism and Pseudo-Empiricism” (1966) in the New Left Review (hereafter “Socialism”); and a reissue of Anderson’s previous essays with a new introduction, called Arguments Within English Marxism (1980, hereafter Arguments). The tone of these articles becomes gradually more antagonistic as time passes. For the sake of simplicity, I will ignore the contributions Tom Nairn made to the debate. 1

This notion of class closely parallel Georg Lukács’ (1971) distinction between “class in itself” and “class for itself,” although Thompson does not use this terminology, probably because Lukács’ book was not available in English translation at the time. 2

If Anderson were to update his piece today, he might note that Britain has led the pack of Western European democracies in the movement toward Americanization, dramatically scaling back its already diminutive welfare state. 3

On the other hand, while Thompson’s stated objective is to rescue the British working class from charges of immaturity, he sometimes goes too far, and finds himself making claims about British superiority. If Anderson is a Francophile, Thompson is an unrepentant Anglophile. His project is to reclaim a specifically British cultural history. Thompson is ultimately something of a British nationalist. In the final analysis, the Anderson–Thompson debate is clouded by the specter of nationalism. 4

They disagree over the nature and timing of the bourgeois revolution. For Thompson, this revolution dissolves into a series of events that stretches back to the twelfth century and continues, as an ongoing process, until the nineteenth century. For Anderson, the English 5

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aristocracy remained well into the nineteenth and twentieth centuries (in the sociological, not titular sense). Anderson, having a less refined sense of humor, seems to prefer crass insults to literary allusions. At one point, he accuses Thompson of a performance “laden with self-delighted pirouettes, and constant sacrifices of accuracy and sobriety…” (1966: 6) 6

References Althusser, Louis. 1969. For Marx. New York: Pantheon Books. Anderson, Perry. 1964. Origins of the Present Crisis. New Left Review, no. 23: 20–77. Anderson, Paul. 1966. Socialism and Pseudo-Empiricism. New Left Review, no. 35: 2–42. Aronowitz, Stanley. 1993. Roll over Beethoven: The Return of Cultural Strife. Middletown, Conn.: Wesleyan University Press. Aronowitz, Stanley. 2003. How Class Works: Power and Social Movement. New Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press. Cohen, Gerald A. 1978. Karl Marx’s Theory of History: A Defence. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Calhoun, Craig J. 1982. The Question of Class Struggle: Social Foundations of Popular Radicalism During the Industrial Revolution. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Giddens, Anthony. 1987. Social Theory and Modern Sociology. Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press. Magarey, Susan. 1987. That Hoary Old Chestnut, Free Will and Determinism: Culture vs. Structure, or History vs. Theory in Britain. A Review Article. Comparative Studies in Society and History 29(3): 626-639. Murphy, Raymond. 1986. The Concept of Class in Closure Theory: Learning From Rather Than Falling Into the Problems Encountered by Neo-Marxism. Sociology 20(2): 247-264. Sewell, William. 1996. Three Temporalities: Toward an Eventful Sociology. In The Historic Turn in the Human Sciences, edited by Terrence J. McDonald. Ann Arbor, Mich.: University of Michigan Press. So, Alvin Y., and Muhammad Hikam. 1989. “Class” in the Writings of Wallerstein and Thompson: Toward a Class Struggle Analysis. Sociological Perspectives 32(4): 453–467. Skocpol, Theda. 1984. Vision and Method in Historical Sociology. Cambridge:

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Cambridge University Press. Steinmetz, George. 2005. Scientific Authority and the Transition to Post-Fordism: The Plausibility of Positivism in the American Sociology Since 1945. In The Politics of Method in the Human Sciences: Positivism and its Epistemological Others, edited by George Steinmetz. Durham, N. C.: Duke University Press. Thompson, E. P. 1964. The Making of the English Working Class. New York: Pantheon Books. Thompson, E. P. 1967. Time, Work-Discipline, and Industrial Capitalism. Past and Present 38(1): 56â&#x20AC;&#x201C;97. Thompson, E. P. 1978. The Poverty of Theory & Other Essays. New York: Monthly Review Press. Zolberg, Aristide. 2009. How Many Exceptionalisms? Explorations in Comparative Macroanalysis. Philadelphia: Temple University Press.

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Conceptualizing Hybridity: Deconstructing Boundaries through the Hybrid Haj Yazdiha

The contemporary cultural landscape is an amalgam of crosscultural influences, blended, patch-worked, and layered upon one another. Unbound and fluid, culture is hybrid and interstitial, moving between spaces of meaning. The notion of cultural hybridity has existed far before it was popularized in postcolonial theory as culture arising out of interactions between “colonizers” and “the colonized”. However, in this time after imperialism, globalization has both expanded the reach of Western culture, as well as allowed a process by which the West constantly interacts with the East, appropriating cultures for its own means and continually shifting its own signifiers of dominant culture. This hybridity is woven into every corner of society, from trendy fusion cuisine to Caribbean rhythms in pop music to the hyphenated identities that signify ethnic Americans, illuminating the lived experience of ties to a dominant culture blending with the cultural codes of a Third World culture. Considerations of hybridity run the gamut from existential to material, political to economic, yet this discussion will not be able to tease out the extensive implications of each consideration. Rather, this discussion aims to explore the notion of hybridity theoretically, synthesizing the vast body of literature to critique essentialist notions of identity as fixed and constant. I will offer three ways in which hybridity might serve as a tool for deconstructing the rigid labels that maintain social inequities through exclusion in race, language, and nation. By exploring how the hybrid rejects claims of boundedness within race, language, and nation, I suggest that cultural studies like these are imperative in considering the politics of representation. For the purposes of this discussion, I will use a definition of hybridity referring to the integration of cultural bodies, signs, and practices from the colonizing and the colonized cultures. Framing Hybridity Among postcolonial theorists, there is a wide consensus that hybridity arose out of the culturally internalized interactions between “colonizers” and “the colonized” and the dichotomous formation of these identities. Considered by some the father of hybrid theory, Homi Bhabha argued that colonizers and the colonized are mutually dependent in constructing a shared culture. His text The Location of

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Culture (1994) suggested that there is a “Third Space of Enunciation” in which cultural systems are constructed. In this claim, he aimed to create a new language and mode of describing the identity of Selves and Others. Bhabha says:

It becomes crucial to distinguish between the semblance and similitude of the symbols across diverse cultural experiences -- literature, art, music, ritual, life, death -- and the social specificity of each of these productions of meaning as they circulate as signs within specific contextual locations and social systems of value. The transnational dimension of cultural transformation -- migration, diaspora, displacement, relocation -- makes the process of cultural translation a complex form of signification. The natural(ized), unifying discourse of nation, peoples, or authentic folk tradition, those embedded myths of cultures particularity, cannot be readily referenced. The great, though unsettling, advantage of this position is that it makes you increasingly aware of the construction of culture and the invention of tradition (1994: 247).

In using words like “diaspora, displacement, relocation,” Bhabha illustrates the dynamic nature of culture, and the flimsy consistency of the historical narratives that cultures rely upon to draw boundaries and define themselves. As a result, culture cannot be defined in and of itself, but rather must be seen within the context of its construction. More significantly, Bhabha draws attention to the reliance of cultural narratives upon the Other. In illuminating this mutual construction of culture, studies of hybridity can offer the opportunity for a counter-narrative, a means by which the dominated can reclaim shared ownership of a culture that relies upon them for meaning. This theoretical perspective will serve as the foundation for the considerations explored in this paper, employing hybridity as a powerful tool for liberation from the domination imposed by bounded definitions of race, language, and nation. Race Racial hybridity, or the integration of two races which are assumed to be distinct and separate entities, can be considered first in terms of the physical body. Historically, the corporeal hybrid was birthed from two symbolic poles, a bodily representation of colonizer and colonized. These mixed births, mestizo, mulatto, muwallad, were stigmatized as a physical representation of impure blood, and this racism long served as a tool of power that maintained that even in this blending of two bodies, just “one drop” of black blood would deem the body impure and alien, an abomination. Institutionalized racism created a perpetual state of ambiguity and placelessness for the hybrid body and prevented cultural inclusion via race (Memmi 1965). However, the expanse of immigration since colonialism and the spectrum of shades of visible difference point to an increasingly hybrid populace in which these classifications of black and white no longer carry the same power of representation, yet the old labels persist.

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It was not until the year 2000 that the US Census included options for multiracial identification, having symbolically denied the complexity of its population until that time. This represented a deeply significant shift in the accepted notion of race as fixed and bound and the coercion of the multiracial to choose one. Similarly, the election of Barack Obama, the product of Caucasian and African ancestry, in 2008 seemed to serve as collective acceptance of hybrid bodies, no longer demonized as an abomination. However, Obama was still widely labeled by one race rather than both races, deemed the first “African American President.” This labeling is significant as it elucidates the continuing power of racial labels in a society set on fixing bodies in racial space by binding them to labels, which are understood to contain fixed truths. I argue that utilizing the conceptual tool of hybridity to deconstruct these labels allows a means by which hybrid individuals can come together in powerful solidarity, rather than allowing their ambiguous place in racial space to render them invisible. Harnessing racial hybridity to project the simultaneously unique but common experience of hybridity can be a means by which the individual subject can join to a marginal community through stories and partial memories (Ahmed 1999). Furthermore, racial hybridity must harness the dualistic experience of passing, or being mistaken for a race other than one’s own. All identities involve passing to some extent, in that a subject’s self can never truly match its image, but racial passing implicitly deconstructs the boundaries of Black and White. In passing, hybridity might function not as a conflict or struggle between two racial identities, but instead as constant movement between spaces, passing through and between identity itself without origin or arrival (Ahmed 1999). The freedom to move between identities carries its own power in defying the claims of essentialized racial identity. Furthermore, the bounded labels of race do not account for the historical and geographic narratives that lie behind each body and inform their identity. In “Black Africans and Native Americans”, Jack Forbes explores the disconnect between racial labels and the consciousness of the bodies behind them using Native Americans and Africans as examples by which “groups are forced into arbitrary categories render their ethnic heritage simple rather than complex” (1988: 271). As a result, hybridity calls into question the boundaries of racial consciousness as a hybrid consciousness defies the imposed limits of race. The management of these identities becomes its own sort of performance, as the body negotiates each consciousness in different spaces. Again, the ability to play multiple roles, to “pass” in different arenas, carries significant power. In embodying the inability to bind identities to race, racial hybridity both in the physical body and in consciousness offers a means of deconstructing the boundaries of dichotomous racial identities. Language In addition to race, language has long been bound in definitions as a symbol of nation and a mode of exclusion. As a means to connect with other social beings, communicating with language is a meaningful performance in that speaking requires two parties, one to perform language and an audience to observe and absorb language. During colonialism, as the colonizer’s language dominated national institutions, the

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sense of being outside and “othered” was instilled in the colonized as their language and means of communication was stripped away (Memmi 1965). Now in a time after colonialism, can the colonized ever reclaim a language long lost, or has the colonizer’s language become their own? Has ownership of the colonizer’s language expanded over time? Fanon’s theorizing addresses the power of language in the formation of identity as he says, “To speak . . . means above all to assume a culture, to support the weight of a civilization,” (1967: 17-18). He suggests that speaking the language of the colonizer stands in as acceptance or coercion into accepting a role in culture. Yet in accepting a role, whether by choice or force, the meaning of the culture shifts and evolves. No longer does it “belong” to the colonizer, as it relies upon the colonized to give it shape. Similarly, with the introduction of a new set of users performing a language, the language no longer exists as it was; it has shifted in meaning. Beyond the thematic implications of language, hybridity has inspired an immense movement in literary discourse and understandings of the very way language is managed and owned. Herskovits developed the notion of syncretism, a theory attempting to explain why certain cultural forms are carried and others lost. Similarly, Claude Levi-Strauss developed the term bricolage to describe mixed forms within narratives. Creolization describes the linguistic blending of dominant and subdominant cultures. These examples illustrate the broad realm of studies that have developed simply around the use of hybridized language. In an analysis of the rise of the “hybrid genre” in postmodern literature, Kapchan and Strong say, “Hybridization has become one such analytic allegory, defining lines of interest and affiliation among scholars of popular and literary culture, perhaps quite unintentionally. The extent to which these authors use the metaphor of hybridity consciously and concisely differs. That they use it, however, qualifies hybridity as one of several tropes, or forms of metaphoric predication, that most epitomize the scholarship of the last decade,” (1999: 246). Not only does this observation imply that the body of hybridized literature is growing, harkening to the rising voices and representations of the hybrid, but that hybridity is becoming normalized as an accepted form of literature and the purist notion of genre is diminishing. Furthermore, the use of a colonizer’s language by the colonized to speak of the crimes of colonialism is its own transgression and act of resistance. In taking ownership of the language, changing the way that it is used, the boundaries of language as belonging to a specific place or race are dissolved. Jahan Ramazani’s Hybrid Muse is an analytical review of the poetry that has arisen from the hybridization of the English muse with the long-resident muses of Africa, India, the Caribbean, and other decolonizing territories of the British Empire (2001). A hybrid himself, Ramazani suggests that the use of indigenous metaphors, rhythms, creoles, and genres has allowed a new form of poetry that not only speaks of the violence and displacement of colonialism, but embodies it in its very form. These hybrid poetries can be viewed as a gateway to understanding those once deemed unfamiliar, and hybridity of language becomes a way by which to deconstruct borders and relate to collectives across cultural boundaries.

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National Culture Further, hybridity must interrogate the notion that nationality is essentialized in a distinct culture, that geographic borders somehow embody inherent knowledge or truth about the people they contain. Mamdani asks, “How do you tell who is indigenous to the country and who is not? Given a history of migration, what is the dividing line between the indigenous and the nonindigenous?” (2005: 10). He addresses the nationalist concern over entitlement to nation, and the indigenous wish to lay claim to culture. I suggest that theories of hybridity, in clarifying the shifting and indefinite nature of culture, can serve as a tool that complicate the nationalist exclusionary practice of determining who does and does not have claim to a nation. From health care to immigration, his arguments resonate loudly with current events. Similarly, we must consider the ways in which the “things” that give culture meaning are unfixed and variable, negating essentialist arguments about inherent meanings of culture. In The Predicament of Culture, James Clifford (1988) analyzes sites including anthropology, museums, and travel writing to take a critical ethnography of the West and its shifting relationships with other societies. He demonstrates how “other” national cultures are in fact fictions and mythical narratives, and we must ask the question of representation and who has the authority to speak for a group’s identity. In his article “Diasporas”, he suggests that “The old localizing strategies – by bounded community, by organic culture, by region, by center and periphery--may obscure as much as they reveal” (Clifford 1994). Diaspora is defined as a history of dispersal, myths/memories of the homeland, alienation in the host country, desire for eventual return, ongoing support of the homeland, and a collective identity importantly defined by this relationship. In this consideration of culture, we understand the vast connotations of displacement, from asking which history the diasporic should identify with to asking if it is even possible to return to a homeland one never knew or left long ago. Second, in the representation of culture, be it by petrifying culture in a museum or nailing it to an anthropological account, the risk lies in taking these subjective moments as truths or knowledge. Furthermore, the far-reaching diasporic symbols and narratives that snowball into this thing we call national culture suggest that culture is itself a traveler collecting artifacts from various locations along the way, and its walls are too insubstantial to be used as a means of exclusion. Third and perhaps most significant, hybridity in a postcolonial world muddles the very definitions of culture by which nations define themselves. Given that nationalism is founded upon a collective consciousness from shared loyalty to a culture, one would assume this culture is well-defined. Yet the “solid” roots of historical and cultural narratives that nations rely upon are diasporic, with mottled points of entry at various points in time. An investigation of the roots of cultural symbols like folk stories, religion, and music would reveal sources varied and wideranging. Furthermore, culture is defined in relationship to Other cultures. Edward Said’s Orientalism (1979) offers a strong description of the system by which nations appropriate from Others to define themselves. He suggests Orientalism “has helped to define Europe (or the West) as its contrasting image, idea, personality, experience”

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(Said 1979: 1-2). Using a theoretical framework influenced by Gramsci’s notion of hegemonic culture and Foucault’s notion of discourse, Said draws significant attention to the intricate and complex process by which the West must use the East to construct itself, its culture, its meaning. In an illuminating excerpt describing the process of Orientalism, he writes: To formulate the Orient, to give it shape, identity, definition with full recognition of its place in memory, its importance to imperial strategy, and its ‘natural’ role as an appendage to Europe; to dignify all the knowledge collected during colonial occupation with the title ‘contribution to modern learning; when the natives had neither been consulted nor treated as anything except as pretexts for a text whose usefulness was not to the natives; to feel oneself as a European in command, almost at will, of Oriental history, time, and geography…to make out of every observable detail a generalization and out of every generalization an immutable law about the Oriental nature, temperament, mentality, custom, or type; and, above all, to transmute living reality into the stuff of texts, to possess (or think one possesses) actuality mainly because nothing in the Orient seems to resist one’s powers.” (1979: 86) In a stream of fragments, Said shows the diverse processes by which dominant cultures are formed at the service of Others. Using words like “shape,” “definition,” and “transmute,” he describes the act of defining nation and the artificial nature of these boundaries. Said offers a theoretical means by which to reject nationalist divisions between an Us and Them, a West and Other. This conceptualization of the ways in which nations determine not only their own national identities, but the identities of Other is powerful in revealing the inherently hybrid roots of national culture. Studies of national identity are thus essential in deconstructing xenophobic nationalist claims to nation and the resulting miscegenation of immigrant Others. Conclusion This discussion draws from the body of postcolonial literature to suggest that studies of cultural hybridity are powerful in probing the bounded labels of race, language, and nation that maintain social inequalities. By examining how the hybrid can deconstruct boundaries within race, language, and nation, I suggest that hybridity has the ability to empower marginalized collectives and deconstruct bounded labels, which are used in the service of subordination. In essence, hybridity has the potential to allow once subjugated collectivities to reclaim a part of the cultural space in which they move. Hybridity can be seen not as a means of division or sorting out the various histories and diverse narratives to individualize identities, but rather a means of reimagining an interconnected collective. Like the skin on a living body, the collective body has a surface that also feels and “Borders materialize as an effect on intensifications of feeling…individual and collective bodies surface through the very orientations we take to objects and others,” (Ahmed 2004: 39). In the suggestion that

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our orientations can be shifted, our feelings towards Others transformed, there is a possibility of redefining our exclusionary systems of labeling. Furthermore, breaking down immaterial borders through explorations of hybridity offers the possibility of more effective public policy, one that refers to the broad expanse of its diverse population. Frenkel and Shenhav did an illuminating study on the ways in which studies of hybridity have allowed management and organization studies to manage their longstanding western hegemonic practices and to incorporate postcolonial insights into the organizational literature revolving around the relationships between Orientalism and organizations (2006). The willingness of institutions to reform their long held ideologies in light of a changing world, as well as to consider their work through alternative (non-Western) lenses, is an essential practice in deconstructing the bindings of narratives-as-knowledge. In the boundaryshifting process, there is power in the notion of deconstruction in the service of reconstruction, breaking down boundaries in order to form a more inclusive sense of the collectivity. Furthermore, hybridity asserts the notion that representations of collective identity must be analyzed contextually. When we examine a representation of culture, be it in a film, poem, or speech, we should ask: Who is doing the representing? What are the implications of the representation? Why are they engaging in the process of representation? What is the historical moment that informs the representation? How are they being represented? In addition to the questions explored in this paper, I would recommend applying theories of hybridity to a realm beyond race and nation, in order to consider alternative boundaries such as gender and sexuality. The work of hybrid theorists from Bhabha to Said suggests that there is a vast intellectual landscape for cultural inquiries like these. Our mission must be to continue this work and to delve deeper. Cultural studies have great potential to liberate us from the socially-given boundaries that so stubbornly limit our capacity for thought and discussion, but we must take time to join in a collective critique of the knowledge we ingest and disperse. After all, the greatest power lies in the heart of the collective.

References Ahmed, Sara. 1999. ‘She’ll Wake Up One of These Days and Find She’s Turned into a Nigger’: Passing through Hybridity. Theory Culture Society 16: 87-109. Ahmed, Sara. 2004. Collective Feelings. Or, the Impression Left by Others. Theory Culture Society 21: 25-42. Bhabha, Homi. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge. Clifford, James. 1994. Diasporas. Cultural Anthropology, Further Inflections: Toward Ethnographies of the Future 9: 302-338.

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Clifford, James. 1996. The Predicament of Culture. Boston: Harvard University. Fanon, Frantz. 1967. Black Skin, White Masks. New York: Grove. Reprint of Peau Noire, Masques Blancs. Paris, 1952. Forbes, Jack. 1988. Black Africans and Native Americans: Color, Race, and Caste in the Evolution of Red-Black Peoples. New York: Blackwell. Frenkel, Michal, and Yehouda Shenhav. 2006. From Binarism Back to Hybridity: A Postcolonial Reading of Management and Organization Studies. Organization Studies 27: 855-870. Kapchan, Deborah, and Pauline Turner Strong. 1999. Theorizing the Hybrid. The Journal of American Folklore 112: 239-253. Mamdami, Mahmood. 2005. Political Identity, Citizenship and Ethnicity in PostColonial Africa. Keynote address at the Arusha Conference. New Frontiers of Social Policy, December 12-15. Memmi, Albert. 1965. The Colonizer and the Colonized. New York: Orion. Pieterse, Jan. 2001. Hybridity, So What?: The Anti-Hybridity Backlash and the Riddles of Recognition. Theory Culture Society 18: 219-231. Ramazani, Jahan. 2001. The Hybrid Muse: Postcolonial Poetry in English. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Said, Edward. 1979. Orientalism. New York: Random House, Inc. Spivak, Gayatri. 1987. In Other Worlds. New York: Methuen. _____, Gayatri. 1988. Can the Subaltern Speak? In Marxism and the Interpretation of Culture, edited by Cary Nelson and Lawrence Grossberg. Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press. _____, Gayatri. 1998. Race before Racism: The Disappearance of the American. Boundary 25: 35-53. _____, Gayatri. 2006. Culture Alive. Theory Culture Society 23: 359-371. Werbner, Pnina. 2001. The Limits of Cultural Hybridity: On Ritual Monsters, Poetic License, and Contested Postcolonial Purifications. The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 7: 133-152.

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The Critical Aesthetics of Disorder: A Porteña Crisis of Size Melissa Maldonado-Salcedo

“Gordas” by Argentine Cartoonist and Performance artist, Diana Raznovich. This cartoon inspired this paper.

Argentina was invented as a nation in constant flux between “civilization and barbarism.” This mannequin vision of identity is extensively detailed within Domingo Sarmiento’s historical novel Facundo: Civilization and Barbarism. In it Sarmiento presents the dilemma of Argentine identity as one that wrestles with barbaric tendencies, to be or not to be savages. He explains that the natural despotism and ignorance of the natives is directly responsible for Argentina’s economically and culturally deprived state. He goes on to attribute these circumstances to the “mixing of the races”, Spanish miscegenation with indigenous peoples (Sarmiento 2009). Sarmiento’s legacy continues to shape Argentine culture in a way that equates “civilization” with European-ness and “barbarism” with its “other.” As Argentina matured, European-ness became tantamount with porteño1 identity, which looks white, thin, and urban. This aesthetic represents the epitome of civilization. To this day, barbarism is visually juxtaposed as rural, dark, and fat.

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My use of the word “invention” as opposed to “imagined” is to accentuate the Argentine nation building project as distinct from the rest of Latin America. Within Latin American scholarship, Benedict Anderson’s concept of “imagined communities” prevails in discussions on nationalism and modernity (1991). Yet, it is limited when applied to the Argentine case. Unlike Anderson’s notion of the nation, Argentina was invented through (not despite) inequality and exploitation (224).2 I build on Nicolas Shumway’s theorization on this process by exploring what he calls Argentina’s “mythology of exclusion” (Shumway 1993: xi). By examining the social dimensions of bodies within postmodern Argentina, I seek to reveal how they are loaded with ideals, anxieties, racial biases, social status, and national identity. In Buenos Aires, bodily style is not limited to “just fashion” (Turner 1994). On the contrary, it is especially context-dependent, indicating the layered and controversial “tastes” of la patria (the nation).3 In Argentina, contemporary notions of progress originate within the whitening projects of the nineteenth century. In this work I propose that the imprints of these colonial modernization projects are still visible on the porteña body. Fundamental to my theorization is anthropologist Terrence Turner’s understandings of the “semiotic representation of the natural human body.” He explains that: …cultural treatment of the body remains in contemporary societies an index of fundamental cultural notions of personal identity, agency, and subjectivity. These notions in turn proceed from the schemas of processes through which the cultural actor is formed to the social appropriation of the living and its interaction with the ambient object world. It is true of culture that its overt semiotics forms of bodiliness, from fashion in clothing to ideas of physical health and beauty, afford profound insights into its fundamental categories, as well its system of social values (Turner 1995: 148) For this reason I examine the Porteño fashion industry alongside a pervasive Barbie culture. Mary Frances Rogers argues that this culture takes “feminine appearances and demeanor to unsustainable extremes.” She identifies Barbie culture as one of “emphatic femininity,” which I argue, in national discourses, speaks directly to the social currency of the porteña aesthetic (Rogers 1998: 14). My aim is to describe the porteña body, in correlation to the Argentine social body and illuminate how both mirror a “language of symptoms” (Frank 2010: 33). I believe that Porteña’s embody the national crisis of identity. Francine Masiello, in her work Between Civilization and Barbarism: Women, Nation, and Literary Culture in Modern Argentina (1992) synthesizes the role of women in the formation of the nation through her examination of literary and journalistic texts written by and about women since Sarmiento. Such representations, which investigate the “symbolic insinuations of women into the national masculine imagination” provides the lens I use to read cultural symbols, such as the fashion industry (Masiello 1992). I seek to pose the possibility—instead of arguing the fact—that following the economic crisis of 2001, the fashion industry purposefully tightened its grip over

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porteñas (women who live in Buenos Aires Capital). Given the historical relationship between female bodies and crisis within Argentina, I address the semiotic prowess of “emphatic femininity” as a complicated version of “poner el cuerpo” (to put the body on the line as a form of resistance.) To poner el cuerpo, within the protest lexicon of Argentina implicates the gendered significance of “the material bodies in the transformation of social relations and history.” Barbara Sutton traces how during Argentina’s latest economic crisis, women’s bodies became embattled sites that were and continue to be actively engaged in the “construction of new society and new forms of embodied womanhood” (Sutton 2007: 129). This phenomenon originates in the foundational service of porteña bodies to the invention and preservation of Argentina’s simulacrum of modernity. I present the anorexia epidemic, as well as the recent production of an obesity epidemic, as symptoms of a volatile modernity. I reinterpret the European standard of beauty as a direct rejection of Latinization (a cultural identification with the rest of Latin America.) I do not pretend to give a comprehensive review on the vast work on racial formation in Buenos Aires, the Argentine crisis, or on the fashion industry. Rather, against the backdrop of the growing poverty, unemployment, and hunger within Argentina, I question how and why porteñas continue to be seen as Argentina’s best representation of “European modernity.” However, in order to analyze the relationship between Argentine crisis and size, which is crucial to my analysis, I will first histori-size porteñas. Herstori-SIZING Argentina “While Argentina’s recurrent crises obviously have many causes and explanations, I can’t help sensing that the competing myths of nationhood bequeathed by the men who first invented Argentina remain a factor in the country’s frustrated quest for national realization”-Nicholas Schumway, Inventing Argentina

European immigration was necessary to convert the city of Buenos Aires into the “Paris of South America” (Scobie 2002). Ironically, many of the immigrants that came to Argentina were actually peasants. Back in Europe, they were socially and economically disenfranchised. Sarmiento himself, noted father of the modern Argentine nation, said that these immigrants were considered “backwards.” For this reason, many were motivated to make a better life for themselves in Argentina. En route to the Southern Cone, they automatically entered a higher social status with legal benefits. For example, Article 25 of Argentina’s constitution privileges European immigrants by not “restricting, limiting, nor taxing” them. This amendment legally guaranteed, that Europeans (and by extension European-ness) had a higher probability of success within Argentina. At this time, fashion played a key role in masking European backwardness. Regina Root writes, “As the immigrant discarded those fashions that marked this predominantly rural background, like the boina and alpargata, he adopted the

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coat and tie” in Buenos Aires. The boina and alpargata would then migrate to rural Argentina, and become symbols of gaucho (peasant) fashion.4 This change in fashion signaled the beginnings of a transforming cityscape, a primitive gentrification if you will. Gentrification, in my overly simplified definition, occurs when the so-called “gentry class” and their interests (re)locate into an urban community and as a result, long-time residents (natives) are displaced. This is what exactly happened when Buenos Aires was transformed from a provincial village to a materialistic urban center, as noted in Lucio Lopez’s 1884 social novel, La Gran Aldea: Costumbres Bonarenses (Lopez 2007). Donna Guy writes, specifically about the booms of 1884 to 1889, that “Fashionable stores, cafes, restaurants, and banks soon dotted the elegant downtown, adding to the glamour and glitter of this apparently opulent capital,” thus earning Buenos Aires its reputation as the Paris of South America (Root 2004: 373). Consequently, as put forth by Scobie (2002), these displays of affluence were crucial in creating geographic and social boundaries between porteños and bonairenses (those who live in Buenos Aires province). The residuals of this early gentrification are still visible in the current city structure where European architecture, boutiques, cafes, and bodies continue to dominate the public sphere.5 In La Bolsa published in 1891, novelist Julian Martel captures the feel of nineteenth century Buenos Aires, writing that it turned into a place “where the employee could dress like his millionaire employer” (Root 2004: 375). The ability to pass as affluent, albeit fraudulently marked the epoch of “materialist wealth” that would later characterize porteño culture. For example, when Argentina adopted the U.S dollar as its national currency, this move fraudulently restyled the Argentine economy as first world. Prior to the economic collapse of 2001 and as a result of former president Carlos Menem’s 1991 convertibility plan, which pegged the peso to the dollar, Argentina passed as a “stable” and “successful” nation. In the 1990s, hyper-consumerism allowed even the poorest of porteños to buy popular brands such as Nike and Diesel (Rosatti 2006).6 The performative act of “passing” haunts and drives porteño identity, while simultaneously commodifying it. The raison d’être for ushering in millions of European bodies into the city of Buenos Aires was that eventually they would reproduce Argentine citizens. These bodies were both subjects and objects of action that “dressed up” Buenos Aires capital. In this way, porteñas became vessels of modernity (Vannin and McCright, cited in West 2002). The “fashionable” female body was more and more policed and shaped for distinction. An example of this is evident in the 1870 comeback of the corset. It stayed in vogue until the beginning of the twentieth century. This oppressive vestment had dramatic consequences that reshaped the bodily proportions of porteñas, shrinking the average waist from 63-70 centimeters to 43-50. Porteñas adopted the fashions of France, England, and Italy as a means of proclaiming national betterment (Root 2004: 376). Normative femininity was reinforced through these costumes of Western progress. In the same way as today, fashion enforced dominant beauty standards. The standards remain “thin, young, white, manicured, and sculpted” (Sutton Fall 2007: 136)

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Victor Turner notes that “the natural or artificial surfaces of the body,” such as clothes, can be construed as signs of the cultural boundary connecting the self or person with the social and natural object world (Turner 1974). Porteña fashion during this time enabled the establishment of social categories and the delineation of political loyalties (Barthes 1967: 249). For example, if you did not dress in European fashion, you were labeled as rejecting progress (as envisioned by Domingo Sarmiento). As such, you were a spectacle of barbarism, and an enemy of the nation (Moreira et al. 1992: 171). What you wore was indicative of how you saw yourself within the Argentine nation. Porteña fashionistas embraced the European flare, even if in doing so they had to endure pain, like with the corset. This was her social obligation (Root 2004: 364). This is the originating circumstance that would place porteñas at the “grip of very strict powers” that according to Foucault, impose “constraints” and “prohibitions” of and through their bodies (Foucault 1984). To reference another concrete example where fashion and crisis are inextricable from porteñas, I turn to Alejandra Oberi’s work on women in detention centers during the Dirty War. She notes that “the military expected these women to use makeup, to wear dresses and skirts instead of jeans, to exhibit a docile demeanor and to generally comply with normative femininity” (Sutton 2007: 137). This life or death makeover let “subversive” women “pass” as good citizens. Blackening History “When songstress Josephine Baker visited Argentina in the1950s she asked the biracial minister of public health Ramon Carillo, ‘Where are the negroes?’ to which Carillo responded laughing, ‘There are only two—you and I.’” (Hisham 2002).7

There is a tendency within the Latin American imaginary to accept Argentina’s origins as predominantly European. History books as well as family genealogies by and large commence with the disembarking of Europeans into the port city of Buenos Aires. Octavio Paz, offers a genealogy of Latin Americas origins in The Labarynth of Solitude (1961) stating “Mexicans descend from the Aztecs, Peruvians descend from the Incas, and Argentine’s descend from boats.” Responding to Paz, Argentine intellectual Marcos Arguinis in The Excruciating Appeal of Being Argentine (2002) states that “There wasn’t another Latin American country so determined to welcome people as ours.” The City of Buenos Aires literally welcomed “Europeans” into Argentina and gifted them with immediate (white) privilege. Public and private narratives of Argentina as a white nation mutually constitute each other. A 1973 article in Ebony magazine questioned the disappearance of blacks from Argentine history, “what happened to Argentina’s involuntary immigrants, those African slaves and their mulatto descendants who once outnumbered whites five to one, and who were for 250 years an important element in the total population, which is now 97 percent white?” (Aidi 2002). During the period of national consolidation, blacks were deemed a social problem by the dominant groups in power. Their visible

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presence challenged the European façade Argentina was attempting to construct.8 Therefore, multiple “un-blackening” projects were deployed throughout the city of Buenos Aires to physically and historically displace blacks from Argentina. Many scholars of Afro-Argentine historiography have attempted to account for the “disappearance” of this group through theories that allude to disease, displacement, and war. In my opinion, in order to access the “black genocide,” it is necessary to revisit the phenomenon of passing. During the wars of independence, afro-Argentine women did not fight in wars, while their male counterparts, as historian Ysabella Rennie notes, were readily put by the government on the frontlines. Argentine sociologist Gino Germani uncovers how racist immigration policies conveyed the newly formed nation’s chief mission, “to modify substantially the composition of the population” in order to “Europeanize the Argentine population” and “produce a regeneration of races.” This explains how inter-marriage is clearly related to the lack of black men. Afro-argentine women were forced by circumstance to intermarry, or in the least their bodies were used to reproduce mulatto (porteño) babies. Argentine historian Mariano Bosch wrote in 1941 that Italian men had “perhaps an atavistic preference for black women” (Aidi 2002). Eventually their mulatto babies were able to “pass” as white. These Lamarquian processes directly account for the dwindling number of blacks and the massive passing phenomena of mulattos for whites (Andrews 2004). In 1869, the proportion of the national population who were of African origin was registered at 26.1%, in 1894, it was 1.8%. After 1869, no longer did black populations appear on the Argentine census (Andrews 2004: 6, Casper and Moore 2010: 21). Fashion aided women of Afro-Argentine descent in passing. If they dressed in the latest fashions and contoured their bodies, their socioeconomic prospects greatly improved (Healy 2006: 115). This is another reason why European beauty became a national standard tied to Argentine modernity.9 Fashion provided a means to convey mobility, geographic, social, and race (Moreira 1992: 174). Back then, clothes and time could eventually camouflage black origins. Today, clothes accentuate European ideals of beauty. I recognize that historically, throughout Latin America, blacks experience a problematic citizenship that delimits rights and visibility (Andrews 2004). However, I suggest that in Argentina, the discontinuation of blacks as a recognizable social group is a unique phenomenon. It is so pervasive and internalized within Argentine culture that it has inflected onto scholarship, which reproduces and institutionalizes these views. Anthropologist Alejandro Frigerio at the Universidad Catolica de Buenos Aires suggests, “People of mixed ancestry are often not considered black in Argentina, historically, because having black ancestry was not considered proper. Today the term ‘negro’ is used loosely on anyone with slightly darker skin, but they can be descendents of indigenous Indians, middle Eastern immigrants” (Aidi 2002). Black in Argentina is a social condition, rather than a perceptual category. No greater example of this exists than in the vernacular term cabecita, which means “black head.” It is a racialized category that refers to a sector of Argentine society that is synonymous with “barbarism.” The term appears in the 1940s with the formation of a provincial

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working class that migrates to the city of Buenos Aires in search of economic opportunities and stability.10 While cabecitas are foil to porteños, I will not address this specific history in this paper. I feel it merits a separate one.11 Also, my point with regards to anxieties over afro-Argentines origins, especially as lived by porteñas, is a concerted effort to give a counter narrative to the dominant discourses of Argentine racial formations. The Booty Politics of the Fashion Industry “Whenever you idolize something, you magnify it…We [Argentines] don’t want to culturally identify with the rest of Latin America, so we fixate on some elements of European and U.S societies—like thinness and fashion—and take them very, very seriously”-Elizabeth Goode de Gama, leading Argentine Child Psychologist12

The residuals of the colonial un-blackening projects continue to shape the booty politics of the fashion industry. My use of the term “un-blackening” as opposed to “whitening” is a decentering strategy. The language used to describe what is deemed beautiful, important, reasonable, valuable, civilized, and modern are weighed down by significations of white supremacy. These ideas are then circulated through institutions and industries of culture, which reinforce and police them (Yancy 2000: 157). This understanding of whiteness as dominating begs for the introduction of blackness into nuanced discussions of Argentine national identity and crisis. This is of particular saliency when blackness within contemporary Argentina is overwhelmed by notions of Latinazation and barbarism. Paula Brufman, a “formerly white” Argentine in the United States brings this point home. “I was surprised when in the US, people, especially Latinos, told me that I was not white but Spanish” (Aidi 2002). In Argentina, racism is not evident in the same way as it is in the United States. I do not measure them on a scale of better or worse, instead I suggest that racism in the United States is visibly obvious, whereas in Argentina, racism is embedded in discourses of modernity and size. Omi and Winant argue that, “racial ideology and social structure… mutually shape the nature of racism in a complex, dialectal and over-determined manner” (Omi and Winant 1989: 137). The porteño fashion industry’s racism against fat bodies is one that is complicated by normative practices which manufactures feminity in a way that seeks to “emphasize, exaggerate, and create differences…” (Sutton Fall 2007: 136). With the advent of European expansion into the Americas, according to Sander Gilman in Making the Body Beautiful (1999), “describing the forms and size of the buttocks became a means of describing and classifying the races. The more prominent the more primitive…” (Mendible 2009). In contemporary Argentina, a big butt still has an ostensibly racialized connotation of “primitive” and “barbaric.” Psychiatrist Mabel Bello, head of the Association against Anorexia and Bulimia claims “makers of one-size fits all-use pre-adolescent models buttry to sell it to everyone, so

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many adolescent girls struggle to fit into the top fashion brands” (Miliken, 2009). It is safe to say that the absence of what can be perceptually identified as clothes that cater to a “big butt” articulate that the social body lacks racial diversity. This is the crux of the porteño fashion industry’s booty politics. To simplify, Jennifer Lopez, at the Bonds Street gallery, would find it impossible to buy a pair of skinny jeans that fit.13 The Argentine fashion industry reproduces the hegemonic (booty-less) Barbie ideal, which I will later unpack. Today, this ideal, is meant to differentiate porteñas from the popular Latina body. The significance of this distinction is rooted in history and has heightened since the 2001 economic crisis.14 Argentina no longer can pass as a first-world country. Prior to defaulting on its IMF loans and having a total of five presidents in two weeks, Argentina did not (publically) recognize a social or historical commonality with the rest of Latin America. Nor did Argentina openly subscribe to the “third world” category.15 Given the relationship of the porteña body with Argentine national identity, it is conceivable to view the slender (anorexic) porteña as a protesting body against Latinization (Sutton 2007). A big butt is synonymous with Latinidad (Mendible 2009). My porteña motherin-law made this clear to me in one of our family gatherings. Gossiping about an Argentine woman who had lived in Miami for a “really long time,” she described her in the following way, “She is practically Cuban… she even has the big ass.” In another conversation she explained to me, that after living in Miami for five years, she was adapting, even “getting a big ass.” The symbolic resonance of a “big butt,” within porteño culture conveys barbarism, and barbarism is entangled with Latinidad. The seriousness in my mother in-law’s expression while confessing her assimilation into Latino culture suggested that she never viewed herself as Latina, despite her socioeconomic background in Argentina (poor). Latino studies scholar, Myra Mendible offers her own experiences about growing up in Miami, Florida to discuss the derogatory stereotypes surrounding a big butt. In a place like Miami, which is populated by Latinos from all over the Americas, often Argentines make it a point to distinguish themselves through their bodies, especially women (Maldonado-Salcedo 2004). The popular Latina body is endowed with curves and a booty that celebrates and even romanticizes the mixing of races. Or at least, this is what the Latina body and all of her Dangerous Curves articulates through popular media to the rest of the world (Molina-Guzman and Valdivia 2004; Molina-Guzman 2010). Icons like Jennifer Lopez and in particular her derriere symbolizes the colonial encounters, which according to popular opinion did not occur in Argentina. The majority of Argentine history textbooks and mediascapes exalt the “alluvial society” born out of European immigration. This is done while simultaneously relegating native indigenous peoples to pre-history and making blacks invisible within official accounts of the nation. This move intends to delegitimize the visual presence of ethnic diversity within Porteño society.16 Myra Mendible comments that “Non-Western women were (are) associated with the ‘lower regions’ of the body and characterized in terms of their abundant backside,” because “the U.S-Mexico border marked a figurative divide between Northern Mind and Southern body, rationality, and sexuality, domestic and foreign” (Mendible 2009). This view explains the meaning of a big butt within Argentina. The

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relationship between “the exotic” and “butts” is discursively why Argentine fashion does not cater to curvy women.17 A big butt on an Argentine woman evokes a black past that problematizes the vision of Argentina as European and modern (especially when compared to the rest of the region.)18 A Genealogy of Barbie Jeans “Genealogy…its task is to expose a body totally imprinted by history and the process of history’s destruction of the body”Michel Foucault19

True to its history, porteño fashion remains the most cutting-edge in Latin America. It continues to be up to par with the latest European trends. Nonetheless, it is noticeably unaccommodating to porteñas size 8 and above. These size outlaws must shop at a store that carries “special sizes,” and are given only given matronly and dated options. Cultural institutions like the fashion industry are thus given the power to socially penalize size outlaws. In an article written by Kelly Hearn for Christian Science Monitor (2005), she asks in regards to fashion-savvy Argentina, “Which came first, thin women or tiny sizes?” Tiny dress sizes can be found in abundance within fashionable shops and boutiques. In a beauty-conscious Argentina, curves blatantly exclude women from wearing the latest fashions. Ivanna Villanucci, in Kelly’s article states that “When you go into a store and find an extra large, you know that it is really the equivalent of a medium or even a small based on European or American standards,” suggesting that Argentine sizes are like no other. Women who do not fit into the “tiny sizes” as a result of the fashion industry dominant standard of beauty feel marginalized, ugly and frustrated. Argentine fashion designers prefer to manufacture “one size fits all.” In this way, they ensure that their clothes can only be worn by the right bodies. In Buenos Aires, size is crucial to being in style. It is believed that if you have Barbie (European) genes, you can buy the latest jeans. In the city of Buenos Aires, physiologists and fashion designers agree that young girls aspire to look like Barbie. She is the feminine ideal. Barbie is of tremendous social import when viewed against the backdrop of a late capitalist Argentina (Motz 1983: 131-132). In 2008 The Independent Guardian ran a story about the world’s first Barbie store opening in Buenos Aires. The story stated that in Buenos Aires, like nowhere else in the world, Barbie was “not just a toy for sale.” In fact, she is a “life style...” The story recognizes that in Argentina women are notorious for obsessing and “demanding the unattainable from themselves in appearance.” Quoting Ramiro Mayol, producer of the highly successful Broadway-style musical revue, Barbie Live, he says “Every Argentine woman wants to be Barbie…” For this reason, it is only fitting that “The World’s first Barbie store” would come to “the land of the living dolls.” Fascinatingly, this store did not actually sell the Barbie dolls; it sold every accessory and costume necessary for mother and daughter to pass as real-life Barbies (Scheltus 2008). What capital does Barbie hold within the cultural milieu of porteño society?

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Barbie is perfectly proportioned. She has blonde hair and blue eyes. She is always presented as happy because she not only is surrounded by her male equal, Ken, but she enjoys many commodities, most notably an extensive wardrobe of the latest fashion trends. While little porteñas are learning to dress Barbie, they simultaneously aspire to be her. To live and look like Barbie in Buenos Aires increases your chances of socioeconomic stability by either offering more employment opportunities or by ensuring the snagging of a “good” husband who will provide (lavishly). Either option, by traditional porteño culture, equals success. “The tyranny of slenderness” as lived in Buenos Aires capital is one that can be connected to Barbie (syndrome). Karen Goldman writes that throughout the years the makers of Barbie, Mattel, have only diversified her superficially. Her body size has remained consistent in proportions, while occasionally her hair color or skin tone, for special (“other”) versions of herself, are darkened (Goldman 2009: 265).20 The parallels between Barbie and porteñas are countless.

Billboards. Buenos Aires, Argentina. Melissa Maldonado-Salcedo, 2010.

Size Outlaws and Anorexia: Fitting In The fashion industry is faulted by the media and the Buenos Aires City Council for breeding the anorexia epidemic. Buenos Aires has the second highest rate of anorexia in the world. However, to fault the fashion industry alone is to ignore, or rather, deviate attention from, the insidious Barbie culture of which the fashion industry is just one exemplar. Building on Foucault, cultural studies scholar Susan Bordo in

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Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture and the Body (1993) argues that the problem of slender femininity and anorexia, cannot be divorced from multi-media and familial discourses on body size, they produce “female bodies and subjectivities as battleground sites” that are “constantly in the grip of…cultural practices” (142). In a sense, anorexia is perpetuated through the relationships between multiple social spheres and institutions that reinforce and contradict each other. Maria Luisa Rijana, from the University of Buenos Aires Aesthetics’ Clinic explains that a significant number of women today are “neurotic” because of the contradictions inherent in the Barbie-culture. She states: They [Argentine women] want to imitate certain bodies or faces; they visit the surgeon with a photo of a celebrity but their expectations have nothing to do with their real lives. This group generates the most chaos because it ambitions a perfection non existent with surgery or any possible treatment… (Clarin/UTC 2009) Additionally, Rijana exposits that overweight women are “punished” for not being thin. Size outlaws are excluded from the latest fashions, denied certain jobs, and are unfit for romance. The Director of the Buenos Aires Clinic for the treatment of anorexia and Bulimia, Psychiatrist Mabel Bello says that the women, who are being treated for eating disorders, reply when asked what they want to be in life, “thin— this is their life’s project” (Valente 1995). Neomi Aumeves, head of the Women’s Directorate in the Buenos Aires Government states that the relationship between “thin” and “good presence” has provoked discriminatory practices. She explains that when a job ad says “good

“Seeking a waitress with good presence.” Melissa Maldonado-Salcedo, 2010.

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presence essential,” it means they want a “skinny girl.” Size outlaws by default have bad presence (Sutton 2007: 137). Aumeves grieves for young girls because competence is not essential for upward social mobility (Davidson 1997). Being thin is imperative for success. In 1995, it was estimated that “30 percent of Argentines were dieting and 60 percent of those are doing so to maintain a desired weight. Moreover, 43 percent of Argentines consume low-calorie foods” (Valente 1995). These numbers have increased disproportionately with women (especially porteñas.) In 2009, Clarin, released the findings of a poll that stated 90% of women felt overweight at some point in their lives, independently of how much they weighed (Clarin/UTC). While the media alone cannot be blamed for women feeling insecure about their body images, it does reinforce dominant attitudes towards size outlaws. This ethos contributes to “low self-esteem by promoting slenderness as the pathway to gaining love, acceptance, and respect while at the same time reflecting a trend in society to demonize fat “(Anonymous). Not even the prettiest and thinnest of women can escape this fate.

Solange Magnano, former Miss Argentina 1994, died after undergoing gluteoplasty. Image courtesy of “Te extrañamos Solange Magnano” Facebook page.

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Feeding Anorexia “When people are mentally scarred, they look for physical pleasure. It’s good for their self-esteem…”-Dr. Enrique Giliardi21

In 2010, I finally came across an all you can eat buffet (diente libre) in Buenos Aires.22 Located near the Pink House, on Avenida de Mayo, this buffet far exceeded my expectations. This place was like no other. A hole in the wall, equipped with a full barbeque grill (asador) for all types of red meats, poultry, and cheeses. It also had many cold and hot pasta stations with a plethora of salads to choose from. More importantly, no caloric notices in sight. After my third trip back from the buffet table, I had my head up long enough from my plate to notice that mostly everyone at this buffet was Peruvian, Bolivian, Asian, or obese. I asked the waiter if this buffet was popular, taking notice of the clientele and its tourist location, “Places like these are for people who want to go out to eat, but want to feel comfortable doing it.” The owner, Jose “El Chino” (the China Man) is a Korean immigrant who confessed that his restaurant is just a place for “everyone else who isn’t anorexic” (Jose 2010). Frequently the adjectives of “thin”, “good presence” and “beautiful” are interchangeably used in porteño culture because they mean the same thing and consequently evoke similar images of femininity. Being fat and ugly, in porteño culture, means you are handicapped (physically and socially.) In 2007, Gonzalo Otalora, author of the best selling novel Feo (Ugly), publically challenged these stereotypes and labels. Otalora proposed a series of laws to the City Council that would provide a “beauty tax” with grant subsidies to “ugly people.” The law also requires that in a given company, 30% of employees are ugly (Goldman 2007). These measures would in the least make the non-beautiful happier. Paradoxically, the government of Argentina says that 40% to 45% of anorexic patients suffer from depression (Argentina 2010). Psychologist Alfredo Moffat states that “since the (Eurocentric) ideal can’t be reached, women get depressed by thinking that they won’t be accepted” (Valente 1995). Are they accepted? In the city of Buenos Aires, as my partner explained to me, “it truly is easier to be poor than fat,” especially after the crisis (Alvarez 2010). The one industry that actually improved in the midst of endless economic and political crises was the beauty industry. Women got face lifts, liposuction, implants, and joined gyms in droves in order to make sure they fulfilled their national obligation to remain the prettiest. Also during this time the rates of anorexia increased. In a Guardian article that tries to untangle the relationship between the recent economic crisis and beauty, Sophie Arie writes that in Buenos Aires “while protest graffiti fights with the names of discredited presidential candidates, another message part of a supermarket campaign is plastered on car windows giving people something positive to think about ‘Argentine women are the prettiest in the world” (Arie 2002). Against this backdrop, it seems reasonable to suppose that these pressures feed anorexia.

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In 2004, the popular rock nacional group, Arbol released the song “Chica Anorexica” (Anorexic girl). The song marries anorexia with modernity. The lyrics situate the anorexic girl as both product and producer of Argentina’s backwards modernity. Her individual body is a “socially informed body,” to use Bourdieu’s (1977) expression. The lyrics note that she is the norm, and for this reason, no one notices her dangerously thin proportions. Her “self fashioning” and “self-narration” is lived through the ritual of not eating or binge eating. These pathologized indicators go undetected because she is “beautiful.” Abrol troubles this notion of beauty, by contrasting the beautiful anorexic girl against the surroundings of poverty and hunger. They dispute the porteño definition of modernity: Anorexic girl walks down the street She has not eaten in two, three, four days I laugh at you, I go and cry So many people who are hungry and you go vomit These modern young people… I fell in love with a small skeleton She looked so good that I could not tell She talked to me all night about love and did not eat a bit of rice (Arbol 2004)

This song addresses Argentina’s sense of barbaric modernity, and illuminates how it is lived through the female (porteña) body. Rather than quantifying anorexia as a “fashion-model syndrome,” which conjures up images of stardom and cheto-ness (cheto is a local term used to describe someone of the latest trends), the anorexic girl is everywhere and nowhere. The Argentine Governmental website affirms that anorexia predominantly affects the demographic of 12 to 30 years of age. Of this age group, 95% are women. However, while listing several possible causes for anorexia that range from a genetic predisposition to the preverbal “fashion-model syndrome” as it is so often called, the “official” position on anorexia is that it comes out of the individual’s “failure to adapt socially.” For this reason, the anorexic “attempts to compensate by way of a series of pathological behaviors that are linked to nutrition and an excessive obsession with one’s individual body, linked to the said socio-cultural pressures.” The government website also says that the onset of this disorder “always” commences with “dieting,” which most porteños already do (Argentina 2010). Most restaurants in Buenos Aires have menus that detail the caloric value of each item (including that of water). Also, fast food establishments offer a “light option.” This is all part of what is known as, “La onda light” (the light style). It basically ensures that consumers are reminded that “lighter” substitutions are available.23 This onda light has aggravated body anxieties in an image conscious Argentina. It has blurred the lines between “normal” and “extreme” food behaviors through “social isolation…the cutting of food into small portions….the wearing of loose clothing” (Argentina 2010). If you were to add up the calories of three light option meals, they would equal far less calories per day (healthy) women should

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consume. The onda light campaigns indicate a panoptic modality of power, emerging from a capitalist economy, where consumption is inextricable from status (Foucault 1984: 211). The phrase, “you are what you eat,” translates into porteño culture as “you are what you don’t eat.” To overeat, has grave consequences, therefore la onda light polices your consumption. In a conversation between Argentine designer Benito Fernandez and publicist Maria Juni, Benito recalls an instance in which a mother with two fraternal daughters goes shopping at one of his boutiques. One of the daughters was thin and the other was not. The mother continued to shop for the thin daughter, and did not allow the other daughter to try on clothes. He thought to himself, this girl (the fat one) is going to go crazy. He saw this moment between mother and daughter, as one between society and the non-thin porteña, in which her inability to fit into her family and clothes reminds her that “if you are fat you will not have a boyfriend, no sex, you will not go out, you will not be successful in life…basically, you’re a failure” (Romer 1996). According to Bourdieu, sociopolitical “distinction” can be seen within bodies because they manifest social capital. Body size therefore confers class “taste” and “taste” is an agentive force that can be described as “an embodied incorporated principle of classification.” Also, it “reveals the deepest dispositions of the habitus”. A slender (booty-less) body, using Bourdieu’s analysis, explicates how the Argentine fashion industry, gatekeepers of national material culture, “reproduce…the universe of the social structure” which is Eurocentric and alienating of diversity (Bourdieu 1977). Seeng Anorexia Susan Bordo (1991) argues throughout her work that “for anorexics, [the slender ideal] may have very different meanings.” She suggests that anorexia may not be as oppressive as perceived, “it may symbolize, not so much the constraint of female desire, as its liberation from a domestic, reproductive destiny” (Bordo 1991: 103). This theory is complicated when viewing the porteño case because of the Catholic relationship between womanhood and motherhood. Numerous testimonies from Anorexic women reveal that motherhood is a constant aspiration. It is part of the pre-packaged Argentine dream of happiness. Also, it is a woman’s patriotic duty to reproduce (Taylor 1997). Therefore anorexia does not necessarily conflict with becoming a mother. Take the case of the Diaz family. Rebecca Diaz carried her child to full term. Sadly, her daughter was born quadriplegic from complications stemming from her anorexia. Her doctors and family alike did not perceive Rebecca was anorexic. Rebecca laments, “I ate the way I always ate. I did not think I had a problem…” (Rosatti 2010). Neither did the institutions charged with surveilling her bodies; they saw no apparent grounds for concern. Foucault writes that a reality of the modern and postmodern world is that individuals no longer will need to depend on the physical manipulations by centralized authorities in order to create socially disciplined bodies. Instead, ideas of what would constitute sickness and health for example would create norms in which individuals would self-watch and self-correct (Foucault 1984: 155). In the case

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of anorexia, the line between sickness and health that generate certain norms are tenebrous. Subsequently, the signs essential to diagnose this eating disorder often pass as “normal behaviors,” within porteño culture. Many expecting mothers carry children to full term, and only when complications arise do the doctors detect that the mother was anorexic. Bello attributes the problem of blindness as a symptom of a “sick” culture. In Buenos Aires, “six out of ten commericals feature bodies and food” (Hoshaw 2008). The cosmetic companies, gyms, and all other beauty-enhacement industries profit from the loss of self-esteem of women. Porteñas are acculturated from a young age to see body-obsessions as natural. Many mothers pass this obsession to their daughters and shame them into the right size. Porteñas are constantly reminded (publically and privately) that they must remain thin at whatever cost. “Aren’t you ashamed of that body?” -Dieting commercial in Argentina24

Buying Real Copies: Laying Down the Law In Buenos Aires, the city legislature introduced Size six laws in response to the allegations that fashion designers discriminated against women who were not thin (enough). As a result (fashion) police officials walked around shops with measuring tape in hand, ensuring that the ubiquitous one size fits all was done away with. Designers had to now manufacture six sizes, Small through XL (numbered 0-5). The law explicitly states that the obligatory sizes all designers should make are 3850. They must be tagged accordingly. The law was adopted in 2001 but it took more than four years for it to be implemented. Presently designers and boutiques remain resistant to this decree. Many were fined for noncompliance. In fact, Clarin published that 70% of the commercial centers still did not carry big sizes. Moreover, 80% of the tags on the clothes did not abide by the law, as confirmed by the Buenos Aires Ministry of Production (Debesa 2010). Designers alleged that it cost less to pay the fines than to fabricate bigger sizes. Designer brands prefer manufacturing smaller sizes and making their plus size cut off to be 38-42. In this way they secure their designs cater to the ideal woman. Some other excuses for not making bigger sizes are that bigger sizes devalue designs. Also, some designers have gone as far to say that there are no available patterns for bigger body sizes. As a result, it is very difficult to consolidate sizes because there is no existing anthropomorphic analysis on the Argentine woman. Many companies claim it would be an economic burden to comply with this law. Plus size manufacturers ridicule this pretext, saying a few more centimeters of fabric have no real adverse (economic) impact (Soraci 2010). As someone who frequently shops for clothes in Argentina, I find that size 5 is seldom found in porteño boutiques. It is mysteriously sold out. This can mean one of three things: either, most women are buying size 5 in order to hide their anorexia

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with bigger clothes (a noted symptom according to the Buenos Aires government). There is a real need for bigger sizes because of bigger bodies, or many designers are not making bigger sizes in order to ensure that their designs continue to look good on the right bodies. It probably is a sordid combination of these three possibilities. The city of Buenos Aires‘s legislature published at the end of 2009, that it revamped the Size six law and it is now called the porteño size law. This new and improved version of the law now obligates manufacturers to make and commercial centers to carry, 8 sizes: 36 to 50. These measures are a contentious issue because it faulted the fashion industry for the anorexia epidemic. Carmen Ferrari, a popular designer stated, “these girls (the average shopper) are raised in families where the mother, the father, and the siblings live in anxiety about their bodies, about not getting fat, about looking young and attractive, and they communicate contempt for those who don’t follow this mandate” (Valente 1995). The fashion industry blamed the overall culture and its “mechanics of power.” In modern porteño culture, female bodies are subject to this disciplining power way before acquiring purchasing power (Foucault 1984: 173). For this reason the fashion industry argues that size laws are counterproductive. Carmen Ferrari further states that, “This won’t solve anything...people who want to be thin will find ways to do it.” She, like many other designers, believes that the fashion industry only represents the larger culture (Davison 1997). These size legislations, despite their best efforts, ignore the black-market for fashion. After 2001 most (working-class) people shop at ferias, which are massive (debatably legal) flea markets. They operate much like a mall, an illegal one if you will. These shops are located largely on the outskirts of the city and are managed by migrant non-porteños. These ferias are not necessarily subject to size laws, since they are not subject to the city of Buenos Aires’s legislature nor do they sell “really real originals” of anything. A retail seller from feria La Roque explained to me that most of the clothes sold at these ferias are cheaper “reproductions” of the latest fashion trends. The competing stalls offer “real copies” and “copies of real copies.” “Real copies” are an exact reproduction that can pass as an original. What happens is that many times, the workers who make the original clothes at these factories in the city of Buenos Aires stretch the fabric or take/steal the remaining fabric in order to reproduce extras. They then sell them at a cheaper price at ferias. The “copies of real copies” are duplicate designs, made with cheaper materials that can look “real” until you wash or wear it for a prolonged period of time. The “realness” fades fast on these clothes, and by default, conveys faster its counterfeit nature. Ferias have been instrumental in allowing girls to buy into the latest trends, at a reduced rate. They are interesting because they support the fashion industry’s contempt against size laws and prove that porteño culture is above the law. Daniel Rosatti is a clothes cutter for multiple fashion designers in Buenos Aires, Argentina. He has immediate access to all of the “in style” patterns that eventually worn by porteña fashionistas. He reproduces and assembles the same

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patterns, in bigger sizes, to sell on the weekends, at La Ferria. Daniel shares that, “All these gordas (fat girls) come to my stall…I guess they enjoy looking like they fit in.” These women, in his view, become “real copies” of porteñas. I visited Daniel’s stall at La Roque in 2007 and observed that the clothes he sold were basically sizes that in the United States would be tagged Medium and Large… at most. In 2010, when I returned to visit his stall, I noticed that not much had changed. I know first hand (sadly) that the largest plus size available was the equivalent to an American size 8. Daniel’s mother, Mercedes, also manages a clothing stall at La Roque. She distinguishes her clientele by saying, “I sell clothes for older women, because they have trouble finding clothes that fit well. My clothes are for ladies who are usually grandmothers” (Rosatti 2006). When I visited Mercedes’s stall in 2010, she told me that business was slow. Many of the women, who used to shop at her stall were now buying smaller sizes. In essence, La Feria, as a shopping space is welcoming but it too disciplines and regulates body size with its merchandize. Sales people in certain Buenos Aires boutiques will tell you, “Don’t come in, we don’t have your size.” If you do not fit into “one size fits all,” La Feria welcomes you. Deviations of Size The international media has criticized porteño culture for the rampant anorexia epidemic. Compelled to take action, Argentina deviated the world’s attention to a brewing obesity epidemic. Argentina has a history of diverting international attention from their national problems. For example, the 1978 World Cup, deviated attention from the military dictatorship that systematically disappeared youth and “subversives.” Menem’s “first world” economic policies, deviated attention from how implausible it was that Argentina could withstand dollarization. The 2001 default on IMF loans that lead to the economic crisis deviated attention from how the banks fled with “the people’s money.” And to add to this list, Argentina’s hailed 2008 Obesity Law, deviated attention from the anorexia and bulimia epidemic that eats away at porteñas. The Obesity Law recognized “obesity” as a disease. In the same legislation, it also recognizes anorexia and bulimia as disorders that should be covered by insurance. Unanimously passed in the Senate, this regulation allows equal coverage for the disorders of overeating and not eating (anorexia). In addition to the health insurance stipulation, it also seeks to treat the construction of unhealthy body images. The entire legislation ignores the role family plays in instilling harmful ideas about the body. Instead it focuses on school nutrition initiatives that institutionalize la onda light. The Obesity Law establishes that “nutritional education programs are taught in all school levels” and a warning that “overeating is bad for your health” should be included during advertisements of unhealthy food…” This provision is proof of a deviating tactic, whose objective is to “thin out” the entire population and control consumption. What is more, the law stipulates that “the publications of diets or weight-loss methods without medical consent are prohibited”. The media claimed that this legislation would benefit the provinces of Argentina in particular.

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Dark, male, and obese bodies were used to visualize the headlines that stressed the importance of this measure. It was the Argentine version of the “biggest loser” that inspired the obesity law. The discourse of slenderness framed this law in the media by stressing how it will have a modernization effect in the provinces. This crisis of size is inextricable from notions of modernity and is a residual of the colonial experience, breeding what Wolf calls “a dark vein of self-hatred, physical obsessions, terror of aging, and dread of lost control” (Wolf 1991: 10). While anorexia and obesity as medicalized disorders emerge from the same perverse system of control, their social implications within porteño culture are quite distinct (Frank 2010: 45). The story of obesity is one of male barbarism that lives in rural Argentina. Interestingly, obesity is also said to be a “first world phenomenon.” For this reason, Argentina now claims that this is their crisis of size. This is not to say that obesity is not a serious problem, but by no measure does it rival the anorexia and bulimia epidemic in Buenos Aires. There is a common misconception that overweight individuals are more widespread in modern industrialized nations. Nonetheless anorexia does not seem improbable in the context of the city Buenos Aires because, as argued by Bordo, the relationship between hyper-thin bodies and hyper consumption are much more linked within advanced capitalist economies that are reliant on bodies that desire to be all they can be. These particular bodies then communicate that they belong to a modern society (Bordo 1991, Swedland and Urla 2009: 140). Essentially, the obesity law is a masterful public relations campaign that takes away international attention from the ultra-thin porteña and spreads beyond Buenos Aires the “tyranny of slenderness.” Legally, the obesity epidemic outweighs anorexia, while also feeding it. Conclusion Porteño fashion has the value of opening up a space for us to think relationally about putatively separate spheres in order to critique the often buried, if formative, linkages between them that reveal the crisis of size. The crisis of size is historically rooted in distorted notions of what is deemed civilized and what is barbaric. Porteño culture is haunted by the anxiety of revealing black origins, of appearing less European, and of becoming Latin American. This anxiety has fashioned a neurotic panoptic culture within Buenos Aires capital that punishes all bodies that do not support Argentine narratives of modernity. The various legislations created to monitor the fashion industry are tragically limited and counterproductive. Porteñas must conform to the dominant European ideal or it will immediately affect their quality of life. My approach in this work is to blacken Argentine history, explore the social dimensions of the Barbie culture, and critique the recent legislation. I relate all this to the political economy of desirable bodies within Argentina. Additionally, I chronicle the conditions and circumstances that permit the anorexic porteña to become visible or invisible within porteño culture. In this paper, I advocate that in order to properly diagnose the crisis of

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size, it is critical to contextualize a distorted national identity. Also, it is important to identify the agents of distortion, which I search for in the media, the fashion industry, and within the general public sphere. Unable to establish a clear definition of what locally constitutes anorexia, I emphasize the interlacing of clinical symptoms and cultural norms. I argue that many of the women in the city of Buenos Aires live with the symptoms associated with anorexia, however their extreme behaviors are normalized by the culture. Lastly, I look at the changing discourse surrounding anorexia, which is now strategically besieged by discussions of obesity. By connecting anorexia to obesity, a supposed first-world problem, Argentina refuels the delusion of prosperity and modernity that differentiates it from the rest of Latin America. Also, I suggest that all of these discourses on the body are implicitly racialized because of Argentina’s historical engagement with blacks. As the country continues to feel the impacts of socioeconomic decline, the porteña will continue to embody the (racialized) aesthetics of disorder. She is compelled to “poner el cuerpo” in order to fulfill her social responsibility, to reproduce Argentine modernity, As a result, the watchful disciplining gaze was, is, and will always be on her (booty/body.)

I would like to thank Prof. Victoria Pitts-Taylor, Prof. Jeff Maskovsky, and Prof. Murphy Halliburton for their support in helping me think through these ideas. Also, I want to thanks Diana Raznovich for her cartoons which inspired this paper.

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Porteños are the inhabitants of Buenos Aires

Anderson argues that the nation is “always conceived as deeply, horizontal comradeship” (Anderson 1991). In his view, nationalism surpasses the lived experiences of inequality and exploitation. My point is that the invention of Argentina was possible through the creation of social differences bound to “civilization and barbism.” 2

In Spanish, nation as a word is gendered female. Performance theorist Diana Taylor gives an in-depth account of how ideas of la patria engender hypermasculine spectacles of power, such as dictatorships, during times of crisis (Taylor 1997). 3

Boinas are berets. Alpargatas are canvas and rope sole shoes. Both are typical of gauchos (Argentine cowboys) who live in the pampas region (Saulquin 2009: 51). 4

El Riachuelo or Rio Matanza is located in the South region of Buenos Aires. It is one the most polluted rivers in the entire world since 1811 with some of the poorest neighborhoods on its shores (Rocha 2005). This contaminated frontier demarcates provincial Buenos Aires from Buenos Aires capital which continues to be Argentina’s economic, industrialized, commercial, and cultural hub. 5

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(Shumway 1993: 1) According to Performance theorist Diana Taylor, who expands on Shumway’s work, Argentina’s perpetual state of crisis comes out of the (gendered) affect of “civilization and barbarism,” marked in the tendency to conflate the feminine with all the unwanted groups such as blacks, indigenous groups, “cabecitas”, etc. (Taylor 1997: 37). I contextualize the porteña crisis of size based on these understandings. 6

Baker’s performance was reviewed in the Argentine media as “monkey music.”

This story of “dark bodies” representing a social problem repeats itself with cabecitas.

Historian Paula Brufman adds that, “There is a silence about the participation of AfroArgentines in the history and building of Argentina, a silence about the enslavement and poverty.” She posits that this denial and disdain for Afro-Argentines reflects the racism of an elite that still sees Africans as underdeveloped and uncivilized. In 1999 Afro-Argentine, as a real-time social category, reappeared for the first time after thirty years . Prior to this, the afroargentine population was solely referred to as “black” (Aidi 2002). 9

Cabecitas living in the provinces of Buenos Aires self-identify as Bonairenses (which means from Buenos Aires province) and they often culturally distinguish themselves from porteños (who are from the City of Buenos Aires.) Porteños are stereotyped as arrogant, ostentatious, racist, and haughty, while people from the Provinces (within and outside of Buenos Aires) are known to be “good people” and humble, despite being deemed less modern. 10

Another paper topic I plan to pursue, that will focus on Peronism will production of Evita Peron as the Argentine Barbie. I do not wish to ignore nor downplay the significance of this era, especially when it pertains to dark, rural bodies (cabecitas). However, in this work I am concerned with exploring the social dimensions of porteña bodies, post the economic crisis. Which I believe this national spectacle is responsible for garnering scholarly interest in “racializing” the Colonial “whitening projects.” 11

(Faiola 1997).

Galería Bonds Street is located at 1670 Santa Fe in Buenos Aires. It is a trendy Shopping mall that caters to a young poteno fashionistas. It is a congregating space for young Porteños who exhibit the in-style signifiers of Argentine youth culture. 13

In the 2001 animation, Barbie can be sad, Argentine director Albertina Carri, cast a dark (Hispanic looking) Barbie to be the servant of the white (hegemonic) Barbie. She did this to underscore power relations throughout the region (Goldman 2009: 264). 14

Rejecting the “third world” category, and instead identifying as a “country en-route to development” (Un pais en vias de desarollo) was a distinguishing marker of former president Carlos Menem’s neoliberal policies. He sought to modernize Argentina in a way that made it competitive with the global markets. 15

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European bodies were spatially brought into sight, as crucial accoutrements to the French architecture and narrow streets. All other bodies were displaced from public view and interest. Sweeping modernization projects throughout Argentine history are haunted by “black” displacement and invisibility. 16

The music video for “La Argentinidad al Palo” by Argentine rock band Bersuit Vergarabat lists all of the idiosyncrasies that are indicative of Argentine identity. A main image in the video is of a white, presumably porteña woman who looks like Brigitte Bardot but whose big (white) butt is on an altar. 17

During the economic decline that lead to the crisis of 2001, a growing interest in AfroArgentine identity has reappeared within historical narratives and the media. This is also due to the mass migration of cabecitas outside of Argentina, which challenge the popular image of Argentines being monolithically “white.” Not to mention, Argentines in the United States are considered Latinos. 18

(Foucault 1984: 83)

“Latina Barbies” and the recently introduced curvy Barbie, “My Scene” Barbie are not carried by most, if any, Argentine toy stores. 20

(Arie 2002)

In Buenos Aires these buffets are called “tenedor libre.” In the spirit of my blackening endeavors, I choose to use “diente libre.” This is how it is called in Cordoba, Argentina (where part of my family is from.) 22

The onda light is said to adversely affect the national economy, because there is a decline in red meat consumption. 23

(Romer 1996)

References Aidi, Hisham. 2002. Blacks in Argentina: Disappearing Acts. http://www.africana. com/DailyArticle..x20020402.htm (accessed October 2, 2010). Alvarez, Pablo. 2010. Interview by author. Notes from the field, July 2010. Anderson, Benedict. 1991. Imagines Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London: Verso. Andrews, George Reid. 2004. Afro-Latin America: 1800-2000. New York: Oxford University Press. Arbol. 2004. Chica Anorexica (song).

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Argentina. 2010. The Official Website for the Government of Argentina. www. argentina.gov.ar (accessed May 5, 2010). Arie, Sophie. 2002. Depressed Argentines put their Faith in a Pretty Face. The Observer Guadian, October 6, 2002. Barthes, Roland. 1967. The Fashion System. New York : Hill and Wang. Bordo, Susan. 1991. Reading the Slender Body. In Body Politics: Women and the Discourses of Science, edited by L. Goldstein. Ann Arbor: The University of Michigan Press, 1991 Bordo, Susan. 1993. Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture and the Body. University of California Press. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1984. Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Brown, Peter J. 1991. Culture and the Evolution of Obesity. In Applying Cultural Anthropology, edited by Podolefsky. New York: McGraw Higher Education. Casper, Mary and Lisa Jean Moore. 2009. Missing Bodies: The Politics of Invisibility. New York: New York University Press. Crow, John. 2010. The Grouchy Gaucho. http://www.2010.222.chagala.com/ibla/ argentina/gracuchogaucho.htm [accessed May 21, 2010]. Davidson, Phil. 1997. Latin lovelies starve’em, then carve ‘em. The Independent, September 21, 1997 Debesa, Fabian. 2010. Ley de Talles: el 70% de los comercios no la cumple. Clarin, January 4, 2010. Faiola, Anthony. 1997. Epidemic of Teens Desperate to be Thin. The Washington Post, July 03, 1997. Foucault, Michel. 1984. The Foucault Reader. New York: Pantheon Books. Frank, Arthur. 2010. The Problems with Illness. In The Body Reader: Essential Socialcultural readings on the Body, edited by Mary Kosut and Lisa Jean Moore. New York: New York University. Ferigerio, Alejandro. 2006.”Negros” y “Blancos” : Repasando nuestras categorias raciales. Temas de Patrimonio Cultural: 16 77-98.

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Frigerio, Alejandro. 2008. De la “Desaparicion” de los negros a la “reaparicion” de los afrodescendientes: Comprendiendo la political de las identiddades negras, las classificaciones raciales y de su estudio de la Argentina. Estdios afroamericanos y africanos en America Latina: Herencia, Presencia y Visiones del Otro. Buenos Aires: CLASCO. Gilman, Sander. 1999. Making the Body Beautiful. Princeton University Press. Goldman, Joe. 2007. An Ugly Argentine Fights Back: A Best-Selling Book Challenges Stereotypes in Beauty-Obsessed Argentina. ABC News, November 13, 2007. Goldman, Karen. 2009. La Princesa Plastica: Representations of Latinidad in Hispanic Barbie. In From Bananas to Buttocks: The Latina Body in Popular Film and Culture, edited by Myra Mendible. San Antonio: University of Texas Press. Healy, Claire. 2006. Review Essay on Afro-Argentine Historiography. Atlantic Studies, Vol. 3, No.1, 111-230. Hearn, Kelly. 2005. Which came first, thin women or tiny sizes? Christian Science Monitor, February 24, 2005. Hoshaw, Lindsey. 2008. Starving for Perfection. The Argentimes. June 27, 2008. Jose “El Chino”. 2010. Interview by author. Ethnographic Notes 1, 2010. Latini, Cielo. 2006. Abzurdah. Buenos Aires: Planeta. Lopez, Lucio Vicente. 2007. The Grand Aldea/The Great Village (Clasicos Elegidos). Buenos Aires: Longseller. Maldonado-Salcedo, Melissa. 2004. Demarcating Miami and South Beach: Latinaje. Masters Thesis. New School University: Graduate Program for International Affairs. Masiello, Francine. 1992. Between Civilization and Barbarism: Women, Nation, and Literature Culture in Modern Argentina. Baltimore: The John Hopkins University Press. Mendible, Myra. 2009. Big Booty Beauty and the New Sexual Aesthetic. The National Sexuality Resource Center. January 5, 2009. Miliken, Mary. 2005. Argentina’s Fashion Police Target Rake-Thin trends. Red Orbit. July 01, 2005. Molina-Guzman, Isabel, and A.N Valdivia. 2004. Brain, Brow, and Booty: Latina Iconicity in U.S Popular Culture. The Communication Review 7: 205-221.

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Molina-Guzman, Isabel. 2010. Dangerous Curves: Latina Bodies in the Media. New York: New York University Press Moreira, Elena. 1992. High Fashion: The Search for a Style. The Journal of Decorative and Propadanda Arts, Vol. 18: 170-187. Motz, Marilyn. 1983. I want to be a Barbie Doll When I Grow Up: The Cultural Significance of Barbie Doll. In The Popular Culture Reader, 3rd edition, edited by E.C.D. Geist and J. Nachbar. Bowling Green: Bowling Green University Press. Omi, Howard and Michael Winant. 1989. Racial Formations in the United States: From the 1960s to the 1980s. New York: Routledge. Paz, Octavio. 1961. The Labyrinth of Solitude. New York: Grover Press. Rocha, Laura. 2005. El Riachuelo, sucio desde 1811. La Nacion, June 21, 2005. Rogers, Mary F. 1998. Barbie Culture. Thousand Oaks: Sage Publications. Romer, Gabriela. 1996. Mujeres cada vez mas flacas. La Nacion Revista, November 10, 1996. Root, Regina A. 2004. Searching for the Oasis of Life: Fashion and the Question of Female Emancipation in Late Nine-teenth Century Argentina. The Americas, Vol.60, No.3, Special Issue on Material Culture, 363-390. Rosatti, Mercedes. 2006. interview by author. Sarmiento, Domingo. 2009. Conflictos y Armonias de las Razas en America. Buenos Aires: BiblioBazaar. Saulquin, Susana. 2009. Historia de la Moda Argentina. Buenos Aires: Emece Editores. Scheltus, Paul. 2008. The Worldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s First Barbie Stores Comes to the Land of the Living Dolls. The Independent Guardian, November 14, 2008. Scobie, James. 2002. The Paris of South America. In The Argentina Reader: History, Culture, Politics, edited by Gabriela Nouzelles and Graciela Montalvo. Durham: Duke University Press. Shumway, Nicholas. 1993. The Invention of Argentina. Berkeley: University of California Press. Soraci, Monica. 2010. Un Debate Necesario. Clarin, September 10, 2010

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Sutton, Barbara. 2007. Poner el Cuerpo: Women’s Embodiment and Political Resistance. Latin American Politics and Society, Volume 49, Number 3, 129-162. Swedland, Jacqueline and Alan C. Urla. 2009. Measuring up to Barbie: Ideals of the Feminine Body in Popular Culture. In Applying Cultural Anthropology, edited by Podelfsky. New York: McGraw Hill. Taylor, Diana. 1997. Disappearing Acts: Spectacles of Gender and Nationalism in Argentina’s “Dirty War”. Durham: Duke University. Tor, Alberto Gonzalez. 2001. Un Analysis de sangre revela que era adoptada y su madre negra. Clarin, October 4, 2001. Turner, Terence. 1994. Bodies and anti-bodies: Flesh and Fetish in Contemporary Social Theory. In Embodiment and Experience: The Existential Ground of Culture and Self, edited by Thomas J. Csordas, 27-47. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994. Turner, Terence. 1995. Social Body and Embedded Subject: Bodiliness, Subjectivity, and Sociality among the Kayapo. Cultural Anthropology, Vol.10, No. 2, 143-170. Turner, Victor. 1974. Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society. Utica: Cornell University Press. UTC, Clarin. 2009. Majority of Argentine Women Dissatisfied with their Bodies and Looks. Merco Sur Press, July 28, 2009. Valente, Marcela. 1995. Argentina’s Dictatorship of the Perfect Body. Albion Monitor News, December 21, 1995. West, Cornel. 2002. Geneologies of Modern Racism. In Race Critical Theories: Text and Context, edited by Philomena Essed and David Theor Goldberg. New York: Blackwell Publishing. Wolf, Naomi. 1991. The Beauty Myth: How Images of Beauty are used against Women. New York: Marrow. Yancy, George. 2000. Feminism and the subtext of whiteness: black women’s experiences as a site of identity formation and contestation of whiteness. The Western Journal of Black Studies, 24(3): 156-166.

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Blood/Lust: Freud and the Trauma of Killing in War Nolen Gertz

While the First World War proved to be a time of unimaginable loss and tragedy that left humanity forever terrified of its capacity to annihilate, for Freud and his followers this same period was seen as a rather fertile one, as it led psychoanalysis to its greatest expansion and its most profound innovation. Though Freud’s productivity was mostly due to his having received an enforced sabbatical from his patients, for the younger generation it was their treatment of soldiers during the war that made their contributions to the theoretical development of the psychoanalytic corpus possible. Thus, in September of 1918, just as the central powers were fighting their last desperate battles against the Triple Entente, and the cessation of hostility was finally coming into sight, the Fifth International Psycho-Analytical Congress convened in Budapest so as to allow these disparate practitioners to come together again to share their recent findings with each other. And it was during this reunion that Sándor Ferenczi, Karl Abraham and Ernst Simmel held a symposium to announce—before an audience that included delegations of recent converts to psychoanalysis from the German, Austrian, and Hungarian Army Commands—what they had learned from their war-time investigations. Though these three doctors were each thrown into different areas of the conflict and had little communication with each other during the war, their reports of their individual analyses of the “war neuroses” were surprisingly similar to each other. These expositions were in fact so alike as to even share the same basic structure, with only slight modifications here and there. First they would point out the failures of neurologists whose attempts to provide a physicalist aetiology could never explain, let alone cure, the soldiers’ symptoms. Then they used case studies to show how psychoanalytic methods succeeded in treating soldiers where other methods could not. And finally they would go to great lengths to argue that the onset of trauma in supposedly non-sexual situations should not lead opponents of psychoanalysis to believe they had at last defeated Freud’s sexual aetiology of the neuroses. This last point was of decided importance—as sexuality could of course be said to be the glue that holds psychoanalysis together—and their arguments to defend it centered around the claims that either the predisposition to trauma or the traumatic event itself could be explained sexually. Such proof for this defense focused on their shared discoveries that the precipitating episodes were often related

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to sexual trauma in childhood, that the danger of combat conflicted with soldiers’ narcissistic ego-libidos, and that their symptoms could be understood, and treated, as hysterical symptoms, therefore eroding the supposed distinctions between the “war” and “peace” neuroses. Hence the unity that can be found in the presentations of each of these psychoanalysts1 might lead us to simply write off these contributions as either a piece of arcane fancy or just the attempts of the offspring to both protect their family and impress their progenitor. In fact, Freud’s own comments in his “Introduction” to the volume also appear to force us toward such an interpretation of this work. His prefatory remarks not only predominantly serve to continue the defense of psychoanalysis as we have outlined it, but state that “the hopeful result of this first meeting was the promise that psycho-analytical institutions should be established, where medical men qualified in analysis might find the means and time to study the nature of these puzzling illnesses and the therapeutic value of psycho-analysis in them” (Jones 1921: 1). It would certainly seem then that it would not be too farfetched to assume that this symposium was intended to show that psychoanalysis had provided an end to the debates surrounding the war neuroses, and thus their contributions would be of far greater interest for the history of the movement than for the history of ideas. And yet it is the very solidarity of their position, the programmatic strategy of their efforts, that make the rare divergences that can be found in their presentations all the more worthy of further consideration in the present-day. This is especially clear when we realize that these deviations tend to revolve around war neuroses that took place not when the soldier was in danger, but rather when the soldier was himself the cause of such danger. The primary question that thus arises within these otherwise uniform contributions is: How can killing create in a soldier the same traumatic symptoms as does the fear of death?2 Hence the problem of treating soldiers who developed the symptoms of war neurosis from having killed, or having been required to kill, enemy combatants, raises the issue of whether Freud’s diagnostic model for the peacetime neuroses can be applied to both these situations and those where the soldier is afraid of being killed. For if this model requires that the traumatic level of stimulation is produced when there is either, as Freud puts it, a threat to the ego of a “danger to life” or a “denial of love” (Jones 1921: 3-4), then we must delve deeper into both these problematic cases and the Freudian model itself to see if either criterion can be found with killing. Accordingly, this paper will examine the brief references to killing in this symposium3 and explore the Freudian underpinnings of their interpretations so as to try to find a way to understand how killing can traumatize a soldier as well as why this problem was seemingly ignored in the contributors’ investigations. As Freud himself said of the evolution of his attitude towards aggression, “I remember my own defensive attitude when the idea of an instinct of destruction first emerged in psychoanalytic literature, and how long it took before I became receptive to it. That others should have shown, and still show, the same attitude of rejection surprises me less” (Freud 1961: 79).

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Abraham—The Demand of Killing We first come across this alternative line of inquiry when Karl Abraham brings up the issue of killing in the middle of his discussion of why there was no correlation between the degree of shock a soldier experienced and the likelihood of his developing neurotic symptoms. After following the Freudian aetiological model and thus offering the soldier’s prior sexual disposition as an answer, he states, “It is not only demanded of these men in the field that they must tolerate dangerous situations—a purely passive performance—but there is a second demand which has been much too little considered,” namely, “the aggressive acts for which the soldier must be hourly prepared, for besides the readiness to die, the readiness to kill is demanded of him” (Jones 1921: 24; emphasis added). Yet, rather than further pursue this claim that something has been lost in the treatment of the war neurotics, Abraham instead only makes some remarks later about how to understand the “readiness to kill” by relating it back to the “readiness to die,” seemingly continuing thereby the very reductive trend he had served to illuminate. He writes, At this juncture we must again refer to the previously mentioned circumstance that in our patients the anxiety as regards killing is of a similar significance to that of dying. The symptoms in part are only comprehensible in this sense. The case of a man who in the field suffered from a relapse of a neurosis which he had had six years previously is especially instructive. At that time he was taken with a tremor of his arm which arose in connection with a dream in which he murdered someone; a hand-to-hand fight in the field caused the old symptom to reappear. Hysterical convulsive attacks are not only produced through dangerous situations, terror, etc., but not infrequently an act of aggression which he has failed to carry out is expressed in them. Such an attack is especially often associated with an exchange of words with his superiors; the suppressed impulse to forcible activity finds in the expression its motor discharge. (Jones 1921: 25). If Abraham wants to interpret the symptoms of this case as having a “similar significance” to cases in which symptoms are produced by the anxiety of death, then how can he at the same time ignore the significance of the differences between these situations by simply pointing out that “hysterical convulsive attacks” occur in both? This question is especially perplexing since, as he points out, there is found in killing-anxiety cases an inhibited aggressive act at their root, whereas he argues that death-anxiety cases often occur as “the effect of an explosion, a wound, or things of a like nature,” and thus the soldier’s “narcissistic security [through the belief in their immortality and invulnerability] gives way to a feeling of powerlessness” (Jones 1921: 26). Though it may appear then that a parallel can be drawn between being unable to carry out an aggressive act and feeling powerless, we must realize that whereas

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the tremors in the former case are seen as a hysterical conversion of the “suppressed impulse to forcible activity,” in the latter case, as Abraham writes, “in their symptoms they are experiencing anew the situation which had caused the neurosis to break out, and soliciting the sympathy of other people” (Jones 1921: 25). Moreover, while we can understand the feeling of powerlessness in the face of an explosion, a feeling that could generate a traumatic level of anxiety from the conflict between the urge to protect oneself and the demand to stay with one’s unit, it is difficult to see how this feeling could exist analogously in the case involving a superior officer. It would seem that in the conflict between the urge to act on one’s aggressive instincts and the demand to respect a ranking officer that a battlefield would offer the soldier many opportunities for releasing these “suppressed impulses” on the enemy. In fact, it would seem that it could be said that much of the purpose of military training is indeed to channel these urges in this very way. Simmel—The Release of Rage Unfortunately, as the remainder of his contribution is devoted to showing that psychoanalysis should take “therapeutic precedence” in that it “enables us to penetrate deeper than any other method into the structure of the war neuroses” (Jones 1921: 29), Abraham does not provide us with further material for continuing with these questions about how secure this structure might be, though he has at least helped to sketch for us the issues in this debate. As such, we are able to now move to Ernst Simmel’s contribution and find there some more pieces to this puzzle. Especially illuminating is his discussion of what he takes to be the relationship between military training and the war neuroses—through the medium of discipline— as well as his analyses of soldiers whose symptoms he found to be the manifestations of repressed or “undischarged” rage. Perhaps what will be most important for us however is that Simmel, like Abraham, finds that the trigger for these symptoms is often a confrontation with a superior officer, though, unlike Abraham, he will venture beyond the simple recognition of this fact and begin to ask why these confrontations can have such a traumatic impact on the soldier. For Simmel, the purpose of military discipline is to make the individual soldier into part of a fighting unit. Yet, rather than serving to insulate the soldier and provide him with security, as we may expect, he argues that “it is comprehensible that under the pressure of years of discipline, which limits the personality and thereby prevents every individual reaction to events, the disposition to repression is extraordinarily favored” (Jones 1921: 31). It is this thought that leads Simmel to locate military discipline within the constellation of factors that can lead to the onset of war neurosis. While this might make it seem therefore that he is presenting us with a more non-sexual picture of the neurosis than his Freudian compatriots, he actually finds a sexual source to the “pressure” of maintaining the required level of discipline. Simmel writes, “Also many soldiers who have broken down solely under the pressure of discipline show even in this abortive form of analysis an attitude of father defiance in consequence of an infantile mother fixation as the subconscious condition of their need for opposition” (Jones 1921: 31).

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This discovery of unresolved Oedipal issues existing behind the soldier’s problems with discipline allows Simmel to connect this “need for opposition” with the repressed rage he finds exhibited in the convulsive attacks of the war neurotics. Though the soldier’s convulsions can be found often to be the repeated expression of his defensive reactions at a time when he was overcome with fear for his life, Simmel argues that the violence of these attacks can also lead back to a time when the soldier was overcome with violent rage. He writes, A soldier who has once been paralyzed for a time through the emotion of terror in his conscious ego is in many ways no longer in the position to satisfy consciously the repression which the pressure of discipline demands. It is almost always anger towards his superiors which brings on further convulsive attacks. During hypnosis, which lifts the curtain of this originally hallucinated dream-action during the attack, we see again and again the patient struggling with his highest superiors. He strikes, bites, stabs and shoots them, treads them under foot with terrible oaths. He here lets free the fiercest instincts against persons who restrained his conscious ego. (Jones 1921: 39). As a result of the intensity of these repressed aggressive instincts, Simmel points out that in the treatment of these soldiers even their abreactions can take on violent forms. He tells us that “as regards the war neurotic an abreaction by means of words is mostly not sufficient … on account of this I have for a long time proceeded to construct an upholstered dummy against which the neurotic fighting in his primitive human instinct victoriously frees himself” (Jones 1921: 40). We should be careful to avoid interpreting all of the cases that Simmel provides of enraged soldiers as having had their convulsive attacks triggered by conflicts with Oedipal substitutes. Though Simmel does go to some extent further in this direction—particularly in his conclusion, where he details the case study of a soldier whose dreams revealed a connection between seeing his comrade blown up beside him and his troubled relationship with his father—we must not overlook the instances where the soldier’s attacks have been caused by what took place in battle. One such case in particular stands out, involving a soldier who suffered a relapse into “states of excitement and convulsive attacks” months after having been treated by Simmel. He writes, During hypnosis on his second admission the patient said that he still had the feeling as though “someone was behind him.” This feeling of anxiety often increased so terribly that he would have a convulsive attack. In this attack he constantly saw a dead Russian in a white shirt who threateningly demanded back a gold ring which the patient had taken from the Russian after killing him. This occurrence the patient had completely forgotten, but after I had talked it over

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with him when he was awake he became changed, alert and keen to work, and was now permanently cured of his convulsions. (Jones 1921: 41-42). Here again we see the killing-anxiety that we found with some of Abraham’s patients above. What is of course different though is that in this case the patient’s aggressive act was not suppressed, but carried out, with the memory of the act having been repressed and replaced with the feeling of being pursued or haunted. We can see in the vision of the dead Russian who demands the return of his gold ring the personification of the soldier’s guilt at having killed—especially if we take the ring to be a wedding ring and thus symbolic of the Russian’s lost life—and yet it would appear that any feelings of guilt were a later phenomenon. The fact that the soldier stole the ring in the first place, and arguably took it as a trophy, suggests that he was feeling something far from guilt at the time of the kill. Perhaps if the convulsive attacks were related to the anxiety over the pursuit of the ghostly Russian, then it could be the case that the “states of excitement” that the soldier was also suffering from were related to this “something else” the soldier was feeling after the kill. Simmel argues that “the condition of excitement” or “frenzy,” is the “positive side” of the neurotic attacks (“to the negative one of the convulsions”), and that it is produced by the “neurotic displacement” or “projection” of the rage felt towards a superior officer onto someone similar enough in appearance who the soldier can instead attack (Jones 1921: 40-41). And as we saw earlier, this rage practically explodes once it is finally unleashed, whether it be on a dummy or possibly on a Russian soldier, which could explain the constant appearance of agitation before being allowed the violent abreaction. But why did the soldier’s “state of excitement” persist after the kill? Jones—The Call to be Cruel In order to try to answer these questions, and to better understand how a soldier can go from the Oedipal “need for opposition” to “strikes, bites, stabs” and other “fierce” reactions towards superior officers, we must proceed to the contribution from Ernest Jones. For it is Jones who will make the final move from recognizing the suppressed rage found in soldiers and its connection to military discipline to looking at where these violent urges come from in the first place. As Jones points out, “The manhood of a nation is in war not only allowed, but encouraged and ordered to indulge in behavior of a kind that is throughout abhorrent to the civilized mind … All sorts of previously forbidden and buried impulses, cruel, sadistic, murderous and so on, are stirred to greater activity … In all directions he has to do things that previously were repugnant to his strongest ideals” (Jones 1921: 48). It is this conflict between the person’s “ideals” and what he is called to do as a soldier that we must now investigate, as it will become clear that an ideal develops only after what was once pleasurable has been turned into something “repugnant” through the process of moralization, thus making the call to reawaken one’s “forbidden and buried impulses” for the sake of duty a potentially traumatizing event.

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Jones begins his defense of Freud before the British Royal Society of Medicine by arguing that the previous conceptions of war neurosis as either “shell-shock” or “war strain” could not account for the fact that universal categories, such as shells or strain, were incompatible with the particularities found in the afflicted. Hence to understand the individual circumstances surrounding symptom-formation in specific cases Jones advocates investigating the possible factors that could predispose some soldiers to suffering in situations where others do not. Following Freud’s economic model of trauma, Jones writes, “The question whether a neurosis will result in a given case is essentially a quantitative one. The mind has the capacity of tolerating without harm a certain amount of stimulation from these internal impulses and desires that are not in unison with the ego, and when this limit is passed the energy derived from them flows over into neurotic manifestations” (Jones 1921: 49). Thus, as Jones explains, this model describes how the ego can protect itself from over-stimulation by sublimation—“deflection of the energy in question from its primitive and forbidden goal to another one in harmony with the more social standards of the ego”—or by repression, “guarding itself against its influence by erecting a dam or a barrier against it, known as a reaction-formation” (Jones 1921: 49). What is interesting here is that in introducing the Freudian model of the neuroses to the lay audience Jones provides non-sexual—i.e. violent—applications for this sexual schema. As such, though he explains that sublimation is a “process of deflection” that occurs when sexual energy is put toward a non-sexual goal, Jones suggests that “there are similar refining and modifying processes at work in connection with all anti-ego impulses—e.g., cruelty” (Jones 1921: 49). Similarly, to clarify what is meant by repression, Jones once again provides cruelty as an example. He states, “Thus in the case of primitive cruelty, a cruel child may develop into a person to whom the very idea of inflicting cruelty is alien and abhorrent, the original impulse having been quite split off from the ego into the unconscious, and its place taken in consciousness by the reaction-formation barrier of horror and sensitiveness to pain and suffering” (Jones 1921: 49). What is important for Jones, and why he is making this repeated connection, is that the person who has been forced to “refine and modify” his childhood desire to act cruelly has not only lost these urges but has so successfully barred their access to consciousness that he no longer remembers ever having had such impulses and is even repulsed at any sign of their existence in others. And yet, though such refinement is of course expected of all members of society, it also the source of conflict for the sadist-turned-upstanding citizen-turnedsoldier. This can be best understood if we look at Jones’ description of what occurs when such individuals who have had to repress their violent urges enlist in the military. He emphasizes that the individual’s capacity for learning how to be a soldier—what he refers to as a period of “readjustment”—will be based on how well the first adjustments in childhood were carried out. Jones writes, Such a man may well have unusual difficulty in adapting himself to the cruel aspects of war, which really means that his long-buried

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and quite unconscious impulses to cruelty, impulses the very possibility of whose existence he would repudiate with horror, are stimulated afresh by the unavoidable sights and deeds of war. In bayonet practice, for instance, the man is taught how best to inflict horrible injuries, and he is encouraged to indulge in activities of this order from the very thought of which he has all his life been trying to escape. He now has to deal afresh with the old internal conflict between the two sides of his nature, with the added complication that there has to take place an extensive revaluation of his previous standards, and in important respects an actual reversal of them. He has to formulate new rules of conduct, to adopt new attitudes of mind, and to accustom himself to the idea that tendencies of which he had previously disapproved with the whole strength of his egoideal are now permissible and laudatory under certain conditions. (Jones 1921: 50). According to this picture, in military training the recruit is taught not only how to carry out the duties incumbent upon a soldier, but is also given license to “indulge” in these activities, to partake in the violence of combat. Though he may have been socialized to consider stabbing or shooting a stranger to be a savage, vicious act, the soldier discovers that when on the field of battle—even if only on the practice version—such brutality can be seen as “permissible and laudatory,” and if carried out in the right circumstances has even been described as “heroic.” This is what is meant by “extensive revaluation” therefore, as, to paraphrase Nietzsche, the soldier is taught that cruelty is not in itself wrong, but only when done towards the wrong person at the wrong time.4 The disparity between the standards of peace-time and war-time is of course pushed to its logical extreme when it is realized that it is the Commander, the militaristic “father-figure,”5 who is both training the soldier how to rediscover “the two sides of his nature” and praising him for letting loose these “long-buried and quite unconscious impulses to cruelty.” Yet, as Jones does point out, commanding officers do not simply let their units run wild, but instead impose rigorous demands of discipline on soldiers. Thus he argues that “the process of re-adaptation in regard to war consists of two distinct sides: on the one hand, war effects an extensive release of previously tabooed tendencies … and on the other hand the acquiring of a strict discipline and self-control,” which is why Jones suggests that “perhaps the risks attaching to indiscipline are related to the release of imperfectly controlled impulses that war deliberately effects” (Jones 1921: 51). Here we see that what Jones refers to as the “extreme punctiliousness” of military discipline can be understood to be functioning as a conduit offered by the Commander for redirecting the soldier’s anxiety toward committing cruel acts, therefore providing the soldier with a way to release the tension produced by the “process of re-adaptation” occasioned by warfare. To try to explain how this process could still result in neurosis for the soldier, Jones likens this situation to that of the “more familiar problem” of a woman with

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repressed sexual urges entering into marriage. This woman’s repression of her desires will have resulted in the reaction-formation of disgust and hostility towards sexuality—just as we saw earlier with the child who repressed his cruel impulses and came to find violence revolting—thus allowing her to maintain a distance from any possible conflict through amorous temptation. However, as the once cruel child was forced into conflict in becoming a soldier, so too will the woman have to confront her prudish conversion if forced into becoming a wife. Jones writes, If now she gets married, it may happen that she will find it impossible to effect the necessary reconciliation, and that, being deprived of the modus vivendi—namely, the keeping sexuality at a distance—which previously made it possible to maintain a mental equilibrium, she develops a neurosis in which the repressed sexual desires achieve a symbolic and disguised expression. Similarly in a war neurosis when the old adjustment between the ego-ideal and the repressed impulses is taken away, it may prove impossible to establish a fresh one on the new conditions, and then the repressed impulses will find expression in some form of neurotic symptom. (Jones 1921: 51). If we were to push this parallel further, then we could suggest that just as the discipline found in the military is intended to allow the soldier to believe that he commits violent acts for the sake of the nation rather than for personal desire, so too can the wife believe that she participates in sexual acts out of matrimonial duty rather than out of lust. It is therefore when this offer of sublimation—which in both cases is the idealization of one’s action as the fulfillment of social obligation—cannot establish an “equilibrium” with one’s urges that neurosis takes place. Though Jones does not here identify the neurosis as traumatic, it would appear that it could be argued that the soldier is traumatized when carrying out his duties causes him to experience a level of “stimulation” that can no longer be accounted for by his patriotism, thus creating this inability to sublimate his violent urges. As we have seen in the cases provided by Abraham and Simmel, such a traumatic influx of excitation can be expressed in feelings of anxiety or hostility, which result in the hysterical symptoms of convulsive attacks or states of excitement. However, as it presents a possible departure from these cases, we should return to our investigation of Simmel’s patient who was found to be suffering from both convulsive attacks and states of excitement after having killed a Russian soldier. It was suggested earlier that the frenzied state of the patient was produced by an unexplained emotional response felt at the time of the kill, which persisted even after this supposed “projection” of rage (from the soldier’s superior officer on to the Russian) had been “discharged.” Though at the time we could not explain this situation, we can now put forth the claim that what was experienced at the time of the kill was akin to the “victorious” feelings of the soldiers that Simmel gave an “upholstered dummy” for them to “free” themselves upon. Yet, while attacking the dummy provided them with a curative, though violent, abreaction, for the soldier who killed, this victory—symbolized in the “trophy” of the stolen gold ring—brought

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about feelings that we can now argue were not of anxiety or hostility, but of pleasure. It was this pleasure from having killed, and thus not from having served his country, that led to trauma, since, as Jones has made clear, military training inculcates in the soldier the paradoxical injunction to “indulge” in barbarity only to the extent that this can be done in a “civilized” manner, in accordance with duty and discipline. Hence we can ask if the soldier was haunted not by the ghost of the Russian he killed, but by the guilt of having enjoyed it. While Jones has focused far more on the problem of killing than the other contributions we have looked at, he, much like Abraham, makes the move from killing to fear of killing without elaborating on whether the former actually fits the Freudian aetiological model as well as the latter. However, while making this transition, Jones does provide us with a way to conceptualize the division between these types of traumatic factors. He writes, So far as I can judge, the specific problems characteristic of the war neuroses are to be found in connection with two broad groups of mental processes. One of these relates to the question of war adaptation considered above, the other to that of fear. The latter is hardly to be regarded as a sub-group of the former, inasmuch as there is no readjustment or transvaluation of values concerned, as there typically is with the former … So that the problem of fear, which we all agree plays a central part in connection with the typical war neuroses, seems to be apart from that of war adaptation in general as expounded above. (Jones 1921: 51-52). It would appear that in the process of switching his focus from killing to fear, Jones has also converted to the perspective of his compatriots who, as we have seen, tended to relegate killing—as Jones does here by referring to it first as a characteristic “problem,” then as a “question,” and finally as something simply “apart” from the centrality of fear—to an inferior concern. This then raises the question of whether we are to consider killing, here understood as “war adaptation,” as on the periphery of the “typical war neuroses” or rather as perhaps central to what might be called the atypical war neuroses. Freud—The Trauma of Killing We have now reached the point where we must turn to Freud if we are to try to conclude our investigation. For it was Freud’s comment—that the war neuroses are caused by the trauma of a “danger to life” or a “denial of love”—in his “Introduction” to the symposium that helped lead us to pose at the outset the problem of the relation between killing and the war neuroses. Hence if we are going to find a solution to this problem we must try to locate evidence for the existence of either of these traumata in the case studies we’ve looked at so far. While it would appear safe to argue that we have not found any indication that fear of death plays a part in the traumatic aspects of killing, which would also be supported by Jones’ statement that fear cannot be

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seen as a “subgroup” of killing, the “denial of love” does appear to possibly play a factor in the cases here under consideration. To determine the possible relationship between love and killing we must first attempt to better understand Freud’s theory of the Oedipus complex since both Simmel and Jones argued that the superior officer’s role as Oedipal substitute is what triggers the soldier’s anxiety or hostility. In Lecture XXXII of his New Introductory Lectures, Freud provides us with an excellent overview of how he originally conceived (i.e., before World War I) of the Oedipus complex and how he later (i.e., after the war) came to alter this theory. Though the primary structure of the complex—“While he is a small child, a son will already begin to develop a special affection for his mother, whom he regards as belonging to him; he begins to feel his father as a rival who disputes his sole possession” (Freud 1966: 256)—has remained the same since its earliest elaborations; what has changed according to Freud is his understanding of how the son experiences the threat of punishment for these feelings, or what is known as “castration anxiety.” Whereas previously it was thought that “it was a libidinal cathexis of the boy’s mother as object, which, as a result of repression, had been changed into anxiety and which now emerged, expressed in symptomatic terms, attached to a substitute for his father,” Freud here tells us that his research has instead found the following to take place: It was not the repression that created the anxiety; the anxiety was there earlier; it was the anxiety that made the repression. … It is true that the boy felt anxiety in the face of a demand by his libido—in this instance, anxiety at being in love with his mother; so the case was in fact one of neurotic anxiety. But this being in love only appeared to him as an internal danger, which he must avoid by renouncing that object, because it conjured up an external situation of danger. … The danger is the punishment of being castrated, of losing his genital organ. (Freud 1989: 777). Hence it is not the case that once the child represses his urges that any subsequent libidinal excitation is converted into anxiety for fear of such an “internal danger,” but rather that anxiety in the face of an “external situation of danger,” such as being castrated, is what caused the child to have “made the repression” in order to protect himself. It is then this distinction between the earlier and later theory of anxiety that can perhaps both clarify the reductionist strategy employed by Freud’s followers in the symposium and why this has caused so much confusion for us here with regards to the status of killing. If we return to Jones’ exposition, we find that he argues that the anxiety that soldiers exhibit is caused by the repression of their “shameful” wish “for escaping from the horrors of warfare” (Jones 1921: 53). However, this “horror,” according to Jones, is not caused by the “real” danger of dying, but rather by the “ego’s fear of the unconscious” (Jones 1921: 57)—it’s fear of giving in to the narcissistic demands from the “ego-libido” or “self-love” (Jones 1921: 58)—which, in conflicting

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with the soldier’s “ego-ideal” become inhibited, with whatever “narcissistic sexual hunger” remaining being “discharge[d] in the form of morbid anxiety” (Jones 1921: 58). Thus, not only is killing no longer to be considered as itself a source of anxiety, but neither is death, for as Jones states in opposition to such superficial views, “I greatly doubt, on the contrary, whether the fundamental attitude is either a fear of death in the literal sense or a desire for death … and there is every reason to think that unconscious mind is totally incapable of such an idea” (Jones 1921: 59). And if there was still any doubt that this explanation was based on Freud’s earlier views on anxiety, we need only look to Jones’ helpful suggestion that, for further information, we should look at none other than “the latest discussion of the subject … found in Freud’s ‘Allgemeine Neurosenlehre,’ 1917, chapter xxv, ‘Die Angst’” (Jones 1921: 56n), which is the lecture Freud cites at the opening of Lecture XXXII. Fortunately for our considerations, Freud’s post-war revisions have provided us with a way to challenge these conclusions and restore killing to a more prominent position relative to the war neuroses. According to Freud’s model of the “twofold origin of anxiety,” while anxiety experienced by the child is a “direct consequence of the traumatic moment,” there is also to be found in adulthood anxiety that functions “as a signal threatening a repetition of such a moment” (Freud 1989: 783). Hence, though we might expect our infantile fears to dissipate as we grow up, which of course does happen for some, for others “a few of the old situations of danger…succeed in surviving into later periods by making contemporary modifications in their determinants of anxiety” (Freud 1989: 779). Though Freud here gives “syphilidophobia” as an example of such “contemporary modifications” with regards to castration anxiety, we shall instead propose an alternative that fits the militaristic context with which we are working. For while the parents “threaten [the child] often enough with cutting off his penis” (Freud 1989: 777) if he cannot follow their rules, the Commander-as-father threatens the soldier with being discharged from the military if he cannot carry out his duties, e.g. kill, in accordance with discipline. Thus what the soldier is afraid of losing is no longer the organ that provides him with sexual satisfaction but rather—as we saw with the case of the soldier who killed the Russian—that organon which provides him with the pleasure of cruelty, i.e. his gun.6 It would appear that we can now argue that the killing-anxiety discovered by Abraham is not produced by the soldier’s fear of killing, but rather by the soldier’s fear of enjoying killing too much, insofar as this reawakens in the soldier the childhood fears of punishment for not being able to behave appropriately in the face of such pleasure. This parallelism perhaps also explains the hostility found in Simmel’s patients, as the aggression the child felt toward the father has now become the suppressed rage of the soldier toward the superior officer. Thus, much as the child was told by the father to love his mother, but not in the “wrong way,” it could be argued that in the circumstances of war, so too has the soldier been told by his Commander to love his nation, but within the bounds set forth by military standards and regulations. This then points to the conclusion that the cause of the “atypical”

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war neurosis could be found in the motivation of the soldier. Though Simmel suggested that military discipline was a tool of repression, we have instead, following Jones, found it to be a means of sublimation. This view can now be supported through Freud’s revised model of anxiety, and the claim that the soldier’s anxiety is not produced by the repressive structure of the military, but rather by these measures not being strict enough. Thus so long as the soldier can believe his actions to solely be motivated by patriotism, and not by pleasure, he can evade the upsurge of anxiety that causes him to try to repress his urges himself. For, according to Freud’s “picture [of] the process of a repression under the influence of anxiety,” The ego notices that the satisfaction of an emerging instinctual demand would conjure up one of the well-remembered situations of danger. This instinctual cathexis must therefore be somehow suppressed, stopped, made powerless. We know that the ego succeeds in this task if it is strong and has drawn the instinctual impulse into its organization. But what happens in the case of repression is that the instinctual impulse still belongs to the id and that the ego feels weak. (Freud 1989: 779). Hence with the proper training and discipline that can help the ego to bring “the instinctual impulse into its organization,” in the form of patriotism, such traumatic situations where the “ego feels weak” and is overcome with anxiety could be avoided. As possible proof of this model, S. L. A. Marshall—veteran of World War I and military historian during World War II—discovered, after interviewing countless companies after battle, that “on an average not more than 15 per cent of the men had actually fired” their weapons. He continues, “The results appeared to indicate that the ceiling [on the ratio of active firers to non-firers] was fixed by some constant which was inherent in the nature of troops or perhaps in our failure to understand that nature sufficiently to apply the proper correctives” (Marshall 1947: 56-57). We can now argue then that Freud can indeed provide clues to better understand the “nature of troops.” Therefore, though Marshall’s findings led to changes in military training that have increased the rate of fire,7 it is hoped that further research into military applications of Freudian psychoanalysis, such as we have attempted here, can lead to better methods for helping to reduce the suffering of soldiers.

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Which includes Ernest Jones, whose “War Shock and Freud’s Theory of the Neuroses”, delivered before the Royal Society of Medicine in London on April 9, 1918, was reprinted in Jones 1921. 2 While it may appear that this is merely a matter of trying to understand how the passivity 1

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generally attributed to trauma can occur when the victim is the active agent of the trauma, we must keep in mind that Freud’s definition of trauma was “economic,” thus replacing the issue of victimization with that of stimulation. As Freud explained, after introducing the “traumatic neuroses” by referencing their “special frequency” in the war, “…the term ‘traumatic’ has no other sense than an economic one. We apply it to an experience which within a short period of time presents the mind with an increase of stimulus too powerful to be dealt with or worked off in the normal way, and this must result in permanent disturbances of the manner in which the energy operates” (Freud 1966: 340). 3 As Ferenczi’s paper was concerned with laying out the differences between neurologists and psychoanalysts with regards to the war neuroses, which is predominantly carried out through a study of the “materialistic” literature, it will not be considered in this investigation. 4 “For we must not underrate the extent to which the sight of the judicial and executive procedures prevents the criminal from considering his deed, the type of his action as such, reprehensible: for he sees exactly the same kind of actions practiced in the service of justice and approved of and practiced with a good conscience…” (Nietzsche 2000: 518). 5 “The Commander-in-Chief is a father who loves all soldiers equally, and for that reason they are comrades among themselves. […] Every captain is, as it were, the Commander-in-Chief and the father of his company, and so is every non-commissioned officer of his section” (Freud 1959: 33-34). 6 In response to the possible criticism about our drawing a connection between the penis and cruelty, we can find support for this linkage in what Melanie Klein refers to as “urethral sadism.” She writes, “In analyzing both grown-up patients and children I have constantly come across phantasies in which urine was imagined as a burning, dissolving and corrupting liquid and as a secret and insidious poison. These urethral-sadistic phantasies have no small share in giving the penis the unconscious significance of an instrument of cruelty and in bringing about disturbances of sexual potency in the male” (Klein 1932: 186). 7 For a discussion of how this has also led to an increase in PTSD, see Baum 2004.

References Baum, Dan. 2004. The Price of Valor. The New Yorker LXXX.19: 44-52. Freud, Siegmund. 1959. Group Psychology and the Analysis of the Ego, translated by James Strachey. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Freud, Siegmund. 1961. Civilization and Its Discontents, translated by James Strachey. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Freud, Siegmund. 1966. Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis, translated by James Strachey. New York: W. W. Norton & Company. Freud, Siegmund. 1989. Lecture XXXII: Anxiety and Instinctual Life. In The Freud Reader, edited and translated by Peter Gay. New York: W. W. Norton & Co.

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Jones, Ernest. ed. 1921. Psycho-Analysis and the War Neuroses. London: The International Psycho-Analytical Press. Klein, Melanie. 1932. The Psycho-Analysis of Children. London: The International Psycho-Analytical Library. Marshall, S. L. A. 1947. Men Against Fire: The Problem of Battle Command. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press. Nietzsche, Friedrich. 2000. On the Genealogy of Morals. In Basic Writings of Nietzsche, translated and edited by Walter Kaufmann. New York: The Modern Library.

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Becoming European? Constructing Identity in Urban Regeneration Discourse in Ireland Alan Gerard Bourke

Drawing upon policy documents and interview data, this article is concerned with how the conservation, interpretation and promotion of built heritage are used as categorical identity referents within urban regeneration discourse. The paper is critical of two inter-related dynamics. First, it addresses the relation between “culture-led” urban regeneration and the construction of a “sense of place”. Second, it problematizes parallel attempts to constitute a sanitized and marketable urbanism expressed via a rhetorical and contrived veneer of European identity. A fundamental premise of the discussion is that the challenge of articulating a coherent and “distinctive” sense of urban cultural identity has become problematic in the context of European regional cities – not only between various cities, but also within such cities themselves. To this end, the dilemma facing many regional cities is that which in advertising parlance is referred to as the problematic of “parity marketing”– that is, the task of marketing a product which is virtually indistinguishable from its competitors (Holcomb 1999: 56, Kearns and Philo 1993: 18). Although processes of “Europeanization” can be conceived of in a number of ways beyond the scope of the present discussion, recent accounts have conceptualized it as a societal transformation encompassing culture, identity, and forms of urban governance (Featherstone and Radaelli 2004, Milner 2007, Delanty and Rumford 2005, Healey 2005, Sassatelli 2008). Within this process, the “Europeanization of the cityscape” (Delanty and Jones 2002) is that which encapsulates a concerted attempt on behalf of urban planners and policy-makers to express a post-national cultural identity contained both within and beyond the confines of the nation-state. As such, the dilemma facing many contemporary European regional cities is not so much in axiomatically being European, but rather in becoming European, a problematic which contributes decisively to both the definition and process of the consolidating project of Europe (Sassatelli 2008: 236). Based empirically upon the example of Cork, Ireland, a guiding claim of this paper is that such supra-national processes are keenly felt at the local level. Indeed, just as the age of British imperialism is clearly discernable from the built heritage of the city, so too have contemporary processes of Europeanization become progressively inscribed upon the physical appearance of the city.

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The analysis traces the articulation of culture-led planning in urban regeneration, its usage and conceptualization in policy discourse, and the alignment of such initiatives with processes of Europeanization. The discussion is structured as follows: Part (I) offers a contextualizing discussion of contemporary research on “culture-led development” and its alliance with consumption-oriented urban branding initiatives in creating a marketable “sense of place”. Part (II) situates these initiatives in relation to concomitant attempts in constituting a marketable urban identity, one which embraces a sense of European commonality whilst seeking to preserve the difference through maintaining, and elevating, the signifiers of locality. Part (III) presents a general outline of methodological orientation and provides some brief contextual information on Cork City. Part (IV) details how the conservation, interpretation and promotion of built heritage in Cork are used as a contested identity referent within renewal discourse. Part (V) concludes by suggesting that regeneration discourse is operationalized with the imperative of sustaining economic viability, one in which the existent built heritage of the city acquires a newly ascribed functional commodification held amidst the marketplace of European cities. Capitalizing Culture As cities throughout Western Europe have undergone a restructuring of their economic base over the course of the past thirty years, urban policy-makers have increasingly turned to culture-led regeneration initiatives as holding the key to a city’s prospects of economic revival (Couch 2003, Garcia 2005, Mommass 2004, Pratt 2009, Richard and Wilson 2004, Taylor 2000, Young, Diep, and Drabble 2006). In the context of urban regeneration, “culture-led” development is characterized as an attempt to mobilize cultural resources in driving urban economic growth, with such strategies typically premised upon production or consumption oriented models (Bailey et al 2004, Bianchini and Parkinson 1993, Paddison and Miles 2006). Whilst remaining cognizant of Zukin’s (1995) contention that culture-led development actively undermines urban distinctiveness, in terms of producing a homogenized “symbolic economy” based on tourism, media and entertainment, such initiatives seek to exploit the cultural resources of a given urban milieu in foregrounding and promoting the cultural infrastructure and perceived “uniqueness” of a given context. As such, the often nebulously defined culture and built heritage of a city is accorded a key, if indeterminate, role in regard to the prospects of social and economic prosperity. Indeed, Evans (2003: 432) suggests that the marriage of convenience which has come to exist between culture and commerce entails that any form of urban planning policy is now, ipso facto, essentially a variant of cultural planning (see also Evans 2001: 6-7, Mommaas 2004). The discussion here focuses on the role of built heritage in urban regeneration discourse. In the context of an urban environment, built heritage can be read as the bequest of history, a problematic inheritance encompassing the traditions and mythologies of a given collective, and as that which has become “written” upon the built infrastructure of the city. This definition entails the fundamental assumption that

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built structures and urban spaces are invested with cultural and symbolic meanings which possess a particular representational and aesthetic purpose alongside their inherent functionality (Ashworth 1994, Graham 1994). The increase in the centrality of the culture concept in planning initiatives suggests that the economic and the symbolic have converged to dominate culture-led initiatives. In essence, the perceived marketability of the built environment is that which contains the potential to set it apart from rival cities in competing for the capturing of both “creative industries” (Hartley 2005) and tourism revenue (Urry 1990). This coalescence between the cultural and the economic spheres effectively serves to commoditize the built heritage of the city into a packaged series of marketable urban spaces (Garcia 2004: 314). However, whereas planners may emphasize a distinct “sense of place” in policy, there remains the tension that far from being either monolithically singular or highly differentiated entities, urban cultures arguably subsume more heterogeneous elements in their composition than they exclude. Accounting for this is a key dilemma facing the “cultural branding” of the city (Crilley 1993, Evans 2003, Greenberg 2008, Hannigan 2003, Holcomb 1999, Kavaratzis 2007, Kearns and Philo 1993, Mommass 2002, Paddison 2003). Germane to the present discussion is the recognition that the contemporary prevalence of urban branding strategies in regeneration discourse effectively serves to conceal the manifold ideological positioning contained within initiatives which seek to synthesize the material and symbolic economies of the built environment (Evans 2003: 417). If many cities situated on the Western European periphery now lack the economic and symbolic vitality once the preserve of their industrial past (Jones and Wilks-Heeg 2004, Young et al. 2006), their contemporary configurations have thus come to increasingly rely upon appeal to the touristic gaze (Urry 1990). As such, the perceived uniqueness and cultural resonance of a city’s sense of place becomes a means of mutual differentiation to be achieved between cities in order to increase the volume of tourist footfall. The inherent danger resides in how the alignment between branding strategies and culture-led planning initiatives has tended to become an increasingly uncontested issue within planning discourse, a state of affairs which serves to mask the often implicit neo-functionalist emphasis placed upon achieving social integration. By this is meant that the EU has long recognized that attempts at closer economic and political functional inter-dependence will not in themselves result in a united Europe, and have thus instigated a variety of culturally-oriented initiatives over the past three decades by which to achieve this aim. As Sassatelli (2008: 3) notes: in the first European communities, from the ESCE to the EEC, culture was intentionally excluded due to its potentially divisive effects. The implementation of cultural production initiatives which foreground such variables as heritage and identity are also typically consumption-orientated. European cultural policy initiatives enacted over the course of the past three decades have seen many cities espouse a rhetorical cosmopolitanism and parallel projection of cultural vibrancy, a process Young, Diep and Drabble have referred to as “domestication by cappuccino” (2006: 1690). A key focus of attention has been the promotion of “cultural tourism” as a means by which to re-position the economic

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base of the city (Evans 2003: 418). Indeed, Moloney (2006: 26) suggests that the “urban tourist” has become a figure of increasing importance for the urban economy. According to Bayliss (2004), the attraction of the cultural heritage industry accounts for approximately thirty percent of European tourism revenue, with attendance at cultural events and heritage sites doubling over the course of the last twenty years. Such cultural consumption strategies are not without their drawbacks, however, for the promotion of ephemeral cultural events, such as the European City of Culture programme, or investment in iconic infrastructure (the “Bilbao-Guggenheim effect”) may encourage patterns of short-term tourist footfall albeit with relatively little sustainable impact for the overall image of the city as a potential site of long-term investment (Bayliss 2004, Paddison 1993, Milner 2007, Richard and Wilson 2004). Urban Renewal and European Identity Perhaps nothing encapsulates the tensions between culture-led production models of economic growth and consumption-oriented branding initiatives more evidently than the European Capital of Culture Programme (ECOC). Established in 1983 (originally as the European City of Culture) as the brainchild of then Greek Minister for Culture, Melina Mercouri, the project proposed a celebration of culture of “European significance”. The program had been essentially conceived of at a time when many European cities were experiencing considerable economic and symbolic decline and, in accordance with Zukin’s (1995) contention regarding the shift from an industrial to an artistic mode of production, proposed the “anointing” of various cities as cities of culture. Cork hosted the annual event in 2005, and following the Glasgow model (Garcia 2005), Capital of Culture in 1990, in using the event as a catalyst for urban regeneration (Jones and Wilks-Heeg 2004, Bayliss 2004, Garcia 2004), instigated an ongoing series of urban infrastructural projects and aesthetic refurbishments which have significantly altered the physical appearance of the city. The program has not been without substantive criticism. Mooney (2004) depicts the impact of the ECOC designation on Glasgow as ultimately revealing the contestations surrounding the interpretation of local culture and heritage in which an officially promoted version marginalized the existence of neighbourhoods of severe socio-economic disadvantage (Gomez 1998, Garcia 2005). Similarly, Garcia has suggested that the project is surrounded by a plethora of unquestioned myths concerning the long-term sustainability of hosting the event (2004: 321). In the case of Cork, the emergence of the dissenting Where’s Me Culture? group sought to reveal this interpretative contestation by staging numerous “unofficial” events throughout the European City of Culture year. Indeed, notwithstanding gestures to social equity with the inclusion of several community-based projects in the Cork 2005 programme, O’Callaghan and Linehan suggest that corporate sponsorship privileged a claim to the city which promoted the ideals of prosperity and economic growth over those of social inclusion and citizenship (2007: 318). It is within such EU sanctioned policy initiatives as the ECOC programme that the perceived unity of the Union is encapsulated, not merely in such ascriptions of

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cultural commonality, but rather as being normatively guided via the development of a European singular subject embracing both shared ideals and a common destiny (2008: 236). As stated in the Maastricht Treaty signed in 1992, the European Union “… shall contribute to the flowering of the cultures of the member states, while respecting their national and regional diversity and at the same time bringing the common cultural heritage to the fore” (Treaty of the European Union, Art. 151.1). A side project titled “The City of Tomorrow and Cultural Heritage” identifies built heritage as a priority field of action regarding the preservation of heritage of “European significance”. Conceptually, this attempts to position the European Union’s mandate of “united in diversity” as an “intersubjective cultural and political construct” (Leontidou 2004: 611). In political terms, the elevation and valorisation of cultural particularity and concomitant acceptance of a pan-European cosmopolitan commonality thus becomes an inherently dialogic process in which the discursive embrace of multiple identities (the city conceived of as simultaneously local, regional and European actor) is seen as an attractive alternative to the historical legacy of a warring Europe. Indeed, underlying European urban policy debates has been the presupposition that the local remains vital in regard to the maintenance of a coherent cultural identity at the regional and European level (Forrest and Kenneth 2006: 714, Kockel 2007: 85, Sassatelli 2008: 235). To speak of the very significance of the local, however, often precipitates the accusation of assuming a conservative or parochial positionality, not to mention implicitly sanctioning an introverted obsession with an essentialized conceptualization of indigenous or nationalist heritage (Lee 1997: 130). In this view, the project of “becoming European” remains one haunted by normative comparisons with nationalism. According to Sassatelli (2002), a key variable in the communal history of the project of Europe has been the sustained dynamic of cultural “cross-fertilization”, the historically periodic, violent expression of which eventually culminated in the realization that economic and legal integration would not by themselves create a united Europe. Indeed, the inadequacy of such neo-functionalist attempts in achieving social integration helped substantiate the cultural turn in urban policy. The European entity is itself premised upon a fundamental ambivalence in regard to the normative horizons of collective identity, and certainly in its contemporary manifestation, for what is signified as “Europe” is a continuously negotiated entity (Shore 2000, Stråth 2002, Leontidou 2004, Delanty and Rumford 2005, Eder 2006). If a city such as Cork can thus be said to be undergoing a process of Europeanization, the problematic remains of what precisely the designation “European” represents (Stråth 2002). In accordance with Kantner’s suggestion (2006) that the project of articulating a collective sense of European identity is one which is losing its analytical force, the introduction of the ascension states to the European Union in 2004 has necessitated a broadening of the terms of inclusivity in regard to the very notion of Europe. Such definitional permeability has prompted many cities to adopt an often uncritically espoused and nebulously defined cosmopolitan identity. Young et al (2006: 17025) depict the construction of such cosmopolitanism to be an inherently paradoxical

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enterprise as it necessarily suggests the presence of a differentiated “Other” implicitly juxtaposed against the urban cosmopolite. In effect, this serves to constitute specific geographies of value by which certain forms of difference are pathologized in favour of the marketing of a narrow and contrived range of consumptive practices which strike accord with the prevailing cosmopolitan script. Furthermore, Evans (2003: 437) suggests that such delimitated practices of consumption ultimately prove conducive to an increasingly radical process of cultural commoditization which marginalizes those who do not have a firm stake in the gentrification process. This raises an issue of perennial concern; namely, that civic elites valorise rhetorical articulations of localized identity and heritage whilst simultaneously engendering a range of exclusionary consumptive practices in their attempts to position the city as European. Whilst the increasing amount of dialogue as to what precisely constitutes a European heritage is symptomatic of the definitional ambiguity concerning the extent of the perceived “European-ness” of recent additions to the EU (Stråth 2002), the discussion presented in Part IV is essentially concerned with how this ambiguity finds expression at the local level. Whereas narratives of a supra-national European identity have previously been institutionally derived (Shore 2000: 18, Evans 2001: 189), the challenge presenting itself to the contemporary city is the means by which this process finds expression at the localized level. The discourse of Europeas cultural, economic, symbolic, and geo-political entity suggests there to be an intrinsic correlation between the localization of the European and global economy, and a nascent recognition in which a provincially peripheral city such as Cork reconceptualizes its relation within this constellation. Following Atkinson (1999), I argue that such discourses have emerged from a lengthy period of conflict among a variety of actors which appears to have produced an acceptance on behalf of local government that municipal or localized forms of collectivism are no longer tenable (nor are they rendered obsolete) and that new, competitive, and globalized forms of development need to be pursued. Method The primary policy documents drawn upon are Cork Corporation’s Cork City Development Plan 2009-2015 (hereafter referred to as the CCDP) and Cork City Council’s Cork Area Strategic Plan 2001-2020 (hereafter referred as the CASP), with supplementary material drawn from Cork City Heritage Forum’s Cork City Heritage Plan 2007-2012, Cork City Development Board’s Cork 2002-2012: Imagine Our Future: Integrated Strategy for the Economic, Social, and Cultural, Development of Cork City, and Cork City Council’s Cork Docklands Development Strategy of 2001. Both the CCDP and CASP documents fall under the ambit of the National Spatial Strategy 2002-2020, an initiative conceived within the European Spatial Development Perspective (ESDP). These in turn foster an alliance with the National Development Plan (NDP), which itself functions within the European Social Infrastructural Operational Programme (ESIOP). Far from presenting themselves as conflictual representations of the various socio-economic imperatives guiding urban renewal initiatives, these documents

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are promoted as the communicative carriers of an intrinsically unified renewal discourse encapsulating local, regional, and supra-regional concerns. Given that these documents exist largely as the de-agentalized carriers of official policy, a total of fifteen semi-structured interviews were conducted with key personnel involved in the implementation of renewal strategies in Cork. Those interviewed consisted primarily of planners, policy-makers, and city architects. Interviews were also conducted with personnel decidedly more critically aligned with the renewal policies instigated in Cork: namely, a leading property developer, a historian, an archaeologist and a conservationist. While “discourse” has been used by linguists to denote single or groups of utterances or texts, social theorists have used the term “discourse analysis” to make explicit the connections between language use, interpretative processes, and power relations (Fairclough 1992, 2003). In terms of how discourse analysis embodies a social constructivist approach, it should be seen as both a method and methodology, that is, it both provides concrete directions for analysing discourse whilst also positioning such analysis within a specific epistemological trajectory. Such an approach views discourse analysis as inherently constitutive of the social word, not as a direct route to it (Philips and Hardy 2002). In recent years, discourse analysis has been constructively employed as a methodology for understanding the urban policy implementation process, and particularly the manner in which various actors exercise power (Jacobs 2006: 39). In effect, discourse analysis recognizes the role of language in urban planning and policy, and the essentially recursive relationship which exists between language and power. The analysis presented below aims to trace a specific discursive trajectory within renewal discourse, one in which the built heritage of the city is evoked as a categorical identity referent in urban regeneration. As explicated in Part IV below, the evocation of history and heritage in policy discourse provides a naturalizing framework within which to articulate current change. Fairclough’s utilization of critical discourse analysis explicates how power differentials are instantiated through discourse as a means of “structuring areas of knowledge and social practice” (1992: 3). In terms of urban planning and policy, this refers to the positioning effects of discursive structures and the ways in which particular cognitive frames (e.g. heritage conservation, urban renewal, development, and so on) are accepted or disqualified in contrast with “authorized” knowledge as codified in policy documentation. This has been particularly evident in traditional topdown urban planning in which policy has been designed and implemented without the consult of community actors. In particular, the use of critical discourse analysis has encouraged scholars and analysts to view policy language in its cultural and political complexity, and to question the language and imagery used in representing urban transformations. A challenge for urban-focused critical discourse analysis, therefore, is in discerning how community consultation and input may be partial, co-opted, or rendered passive in planning discourse (Jacobs 2004). For example, Skillington (1998) uses a textual analysis in examining the redevelopment of Dublin’s city centre, and argues that a variety of strategically employed symbolic and referential discourses constituted an insular hegemonic

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paradigm that reinforced a tight demarcation between public and private spaces, thereby making it difficult to envisage alternative strategies of development (see also McLaren, A. and McGuirk 2001, Whelan 2003). One way to consider this is to recognise how each party will have the discursive parameters defined for it in part by the other. This evokes a further key feature of discourse –that it tends to be organized around specific practices of exclusion. This enables actors to think in certain ways whilst also limiting the scope of such thought. In this view, exclusion -viewed as delimitating the parameters of discursive possibility-becomes a key component of the means by which discourse is produced. Of course, the use of discourse analysis is not employed without critique. A criticism which could be levied against the analysis presented here is that the data sources reflect a monolithic view of the relationship between economic stimulus initiatives, the built environment, and cultural ideas of place. Other scholars, by way of comparison, have relied upon a wide-ranging selection of sources, specifically by securing them from social groups with discordant views of the urban regeneration process (Zukin 1982, Brown-Saracino 2004). In confronting such criticism, researchers need to remain cognizant of how particular texts have been written for specific audiences and that this is a key factor influencing the issues and language usage contained therein (Jacobs 2006: 47). Nonetheless, many documents appear sanitized wherein conflictual elements are downplayed or erased and, in so doing, present the regeneration process as intrinsically linear in conceptualization and execution. The analysis of the various policy documents cited above, for instance, is intended to be illustrative of how policy provides a repertoire of concepts to be used strategically in planning discourse in order to influence the social construction of urban identity, in addition to supporting the institutionalization of practices by providing a legitimizing framework for resource distribution (Philips and Hardy 2002). Location and History of Cork City With a population of approximately 120,000, Cork City is the largest city in the South West region of Ireland and a major centre of post-secondary education, employment concentration, and cultural activities. The city’s appearance is derived from a combination of its medieval-era street plan, an undulating topography, and its location on the River Lee at a point where it forms a number of waterways surrounding the central “island” of the city centre. Cork’s pre-eminence as trading centre and maritime merchant port in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries created much of the tangible archaeological and historic remains which still survive in the historical centre, with notable examples being the Butter Market in the Shandon area, the brewing industries in Blackpool and North Main St. areas, and the Bonded Warehouse in the Docklands area. By the late 1800’s, Cork’s merchants had developed considerable trade networks with various European ports (Bielenberg 1991). Premised upon a low population and economic base, Ireland’s economic boom years of the 1990s were built on inward investment, tax incentives, and a post-Fordist urban economy –in addition to receiving over €1 billion in European Structural and Regional Development Funds (ESRD) (matched with private investment for cultural

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and tourism programmes). Such prosperity led to a dramatic upsurge in the amount of capital investment in the housing and public works sectors in urban areas, with Cork being the primary recipient of such investment in the Southwest region. Chosen as European Capital of Culture in 2005, Cork City Council have vigorously promoted the city as the repository of a wealth of cultural and built heritage. Instigated by the designation of the ECOC, flagship projects in the past five to ten years have included the refurbishment of the city’s primary thoroughfares of Patrick Street and the Grand Parade; the refurbishment of Cork Opera House; the development of the Wandesford Quay Arts Project; major extensions to both the Crawford Municipal Art Gallery and Cork Public Museum; the development of a pedestrianized retail area linking Academy Street /Emmet Place with Cornmarket Street in the city centre; and the upgrading of the boardwalk on Lapp’s Quay (private development). Significant investment has also targeted the National Sculpture Factory, the Triskel Arts Centre, and the Everyman Theatre Palace. Furthermore, the city also hosts a number of annual festivals, including the Cork Guinness Jazz Festival, Cork International Choral Festival, Cork Folk Festival, and Murphy’s International Film Festival, which attract substantial tourist revenue for the city. In Cork, tourism is worth €389 million annually and the equivalent of 2,456 jobs to the economy (Moloney 2006). Interpreting Heritage and Habitus There are all kinds of sensitivities that you have to embrace, that you encounter when you get into all this… peoples’ troubled relationship with the past. (Interview with city architect) Following the end of the Irish war of independence in 1921, the necessity of cultivating a renewed sense of indigenous identity and cultural autonomy in Irish cities was arguably performed through an ardent denial of the infrastructural legacy left behind by the departing colonial power (Moane 2002). Commenting upon the mid-20th century neglect of the architectural legacy of British sovereignty in Cork, one respondent suggested that “I think there was an element of... you know… the people on the hill can go fuck themselves. It was like shitting in your own backyard” (interview with city planner). Historically housed upon the hills of Montenotte overlooking the city, the “people on the hill” refers to the landed gentry classes of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. As such, there arose a deeply paradoxical and problematic relationship of both affection and disdain exhibited toward existing infrastructure and the built environment, as the legacy and signifiers of colonial form came to co-exist with the freshly inscribed wounds of a partitioned nation. British red mail boxes, for instance, were repainted green. As suggested by another respondent: I think you had a complete identity crisis following independence and the place became nothing like it was in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. And we were like the Italians living in the ruins of Rome when the Renaissance came... living among the ruins and monuments of something else. (Interview with architect)

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The mills, warehouses, distilleries, breweries and other industrial buildings which survive in many parts of Cork bear witness to the great economic expansion of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Whereas Cork was once a thriving port city exhibiting notable similarities with other cities situated on the Western European periphery, and notable appendage within the British imperial matrix, its subsequent industrial and economic demise left it devoid of such vital civic coordinates. Many of these buildings, apart from being an important part of the city’s industrial-era legacy, are also of significant architectural and social interest. Furthermore, the CCDP “… recognizes that our heritage is economically important particularly because of the role it plays in the tourist industry” (Cork Corporation 2009: 92). Discursively, such utterances evoking the history and heritage of the city can be seen to provide a naturalizing framework within which to articulate contemporary development and closer ties with Europe. The dilemma implicit in contemporary policy initiatives is in striking an equilibrium between competing imperatives of conservation and development, a balance which finds expression in the rhetoric of achieving an harmonious complimentarity between culturally discordant elements. As expressed in the CASP document: Historical areas and buildings of heritage importance can and will change. The City Council recognizes that such areas must grow and evolve if they are not to stagnate. The aim should not be solely to preserve areas of architectural, historical, archaeological, artistic, scientific, social, or technical interest or which contribute to the setting of important protected structures, but to guide their evolution in a way that protects what is special and distinctive. (Cork City Council 2001b: 76) Of interest here is the sharp transition from the probabilistic “can” change to the definitive “will” change, in addition to the recurring juxtaposition of growth and stagnation which resonates in both policy documents and interview data. Discursively, the transition illustrates how a policy suggestion is used to provide a legitimizing framework for resource distribution. In suggesting that the built heritage of the city serves to both restrain and enable present development, the document positions urban regeneration as implicitly representing a natural continuity with past practice, albeit one which promotes “growth” rather than “stagnation”. The document thus seeks to contextualize the privileging of City Council agency in a wider social and economic context. It is with this in mind that one of the key thematics begins to emerge from the policy documentation, that which will be referred to here as the “synergic reinterpretation” of the built environment – that is, a strategic intervention into the urban realm that seeks to interpret, as well as integrate, existing historical infrastructure in accordance with the dictates of contemporary objectives. The specific emphasis placed upon the renewal of the historical city centre is oriented to investing this area with a dynamic conducive to present day economic practice by means of a re-

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interpretation of the area’s traditional role. This dynamic clearly resonates with the CCDP, which presents one of its core objectives as being the necessity of ensuring that “elements of cultural significance are identified, retained and interpreted” (Cork Corporation 2009: 92). What intrigues regarding this objective, apart from the ambiguity of what constitutes an element of “cultural significance”, is the implication that the public need to be assisted to understand their environment by ensuring that there is an appropriate hierarchy of buildings that emphasises the relative importance of different public places. As stated in the CCDP “... With new pressure for development Cork needs to integrate new development into its existing structure and existing character areas. This will be a function of elements and hierarchy, with buildings, spaces, uses and their scale clearly communicating the importance of place within an overall structure” (Cork Corporation 2009: 235). This can be seen as being part of a concerted effort by Cork City Council to produce a marketable identity and brand resonance for the city. Concerning the “branding” of the city per se, the CASP document states that “a high emphasis should be placed upon leisure in urban renewal projects, an expanded programme of cultural events, and interpretation of the city’s heritage” (Cork City Council 2001b: 56). The Shandon area, located on the north-side of the city centre, is seen as having great potential in this regard, despite “lacking interpretation’” as of yet (Cork City Council 2001b: 99). A problematic replicated throughout such interpretative discourse is how such utterances neglect how the area in question is interpreted and given significance by local residents. If such areas are seen to lack the necessary qualities conducive to increasing the frequency of pedestrian footfall, they are, therefore, seen to require “re-interpretation” and “re-integration” with present day economic practice. Although perceptions of the city centre in planning discourse tend to see it as both historical resource and as site of unfulfilled economic potential, the overall strategy of the City Council is to channel these antagonistic elements into a symbiotic complimentarity by constructing a distinct cultural identity for the city. As such, the on-going refurbishment of visibly dilapidated areas of the city, such as the Coal Quay and the docklands region, have an inherently symbolic value insofar as their previous “failure” can become transformed into symbols of economic prosperity and serve as areas of European cultural significance. To this end, an explicit ambit of the CCDP is “to develop and establish the city centre as an international destination for tourism, business, culture, leisure and the arts” (Cork Corporation 2009: 179). Depicting strategic areas of the city as inherently deficient (e.g. as “lacking” integration and interpretation) instantiates both discursive closure and serves to normalize and rationalize regenerative initiatives. Becoming European? The policy architects of Cork’s regeneration have also sought to explicitly position the embrace of a European identity in terms of historical continuity. As stated by Cork City Council (2001a) “Long recognised as the natural capital of Ireland’s Southern coast, our city had always looked outward to the commercial and cultural

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traffic of the European seas”. From a development perspective, such appeal to an external catalyst has had to grapple with an immanent reluctance to embrace the imperative of change. As stated by a leading property developer in the city: I think Cork is trying to catch up. I think it’s trying to catch up badly. I think it’s trying to catch up late. We have restricted development plans in the city which do not allow for modern trends. They concern me greatly. We have to push push push every hour of every day. I do not understand for the life of me why whatever we come up with has to be queried and questioned. You have no idea of the difficulties we have getting our schemes for A to Z. It is just unbelievable. (Interview with property developer) For many regional cities, integration within the contemporary European spatial order necessitates the upgrading of developmental logic, with the contemporary manifestation of this post-national spatiality giving rise to a reformulated set of supra-national aesthetic reference points. As the cultural coordinates of localized particularity (a “sense of place”) becomes confronted by those of the wider European collective, the example of Cork resonates closely with the dilemma encountered by many contemporary regional cities. Indicative of the interpretive conflict at the heart of regeneration discourse, the imperative of achieving what one respondent referred to as a “better understanding” of the city’s role within the systemic logic of the contemporary European order was emphasized as follows: All Atlantic ports have lost their role. And so what we have is a Western fringe of Europe that has had to get used to the fact that it is no longer the link to colonial trading. I do not think that that is a bad thing, but there is a need for reintegration; economically, socially and physically. (Interview with city architect) What is neglected here is how the cultural dimension has come to be seen as central to this process of integration. In this view, the homologous relation which exists between localized particularity (e.g. the “character” of the city) and a more broadly conceived European sense of belonging becomes a unifying theme, within which the discursive construction of a Europeanized “sense of place” is rendered a valuable economic asset. The capturing of the designation of European Capital of Culture was clearly pivotal in this regard. The import of a discursive “Europeanization” is also clearly evident in policy documents explicating the trajectory of urban renewal. A particularly striking instance of this occurrence, and notable instantiation of what has become known as the “Barcelona effect” has been the revamping of Cork’s primary thoroughfare, Patrick Street, by Catalan architect Beth Gali, a development which prompted considered mixed feelings among the Cork public. Closely aligned to this logic is the realization that Cork must aspire towards closer European integration in both a symbolic and cultural sense, in addition to economically, socially and physically as suggested by the

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city architect quoted above. Whereas the CCDP contends that “… the creation of a new city quarter of vibrant mixed uses and sufficient scale is to bring about an urban transformation in Cork and develop a city of European significance” (Cork Corporation 2009: 194), the ambit of the CASP document is expressed as Realizing a shared vision of Cork, as an economic, social, cultural, political, and environmental capital of a prosperous and thriving European city region… to provide a framework to enable Cork to become a leading European city region – globally competitive, socially inclusive and culturally enriched. (Cork City Council 2001b: 25) It is here that the contradictory juxtaposition between the creation of an urban realm that seeks to achieve multiple objectives, in addition to an emphasis upon the consolidation of a “shared vision” for the city, begins to emerge. According to the CCDP (2009), for instance, the city’s primary thoroughfare, Patrick Street, has a potential that “satisfies multiple objectives”. The difficulty here is that this “shared vision” is enacted within strictly defined discursive parameters. Official documentation which suggests the “need to build a brand for Cork” (Cork City Council 2001b: 68, see also Barker 2006) entails that the promotion of a “sense of place” becomes incorporated into the retail experience as the built environment of the city is given a repackaged identity and promoted on the European and international stage. Such imperatives substantiate a delicate duality of both proximity and distance to the European normative ideal. Upon this reading, the European Union champions the celebration of locality, albeit if problematically conceptualized through such amplifications of “heritage” and “cultural identity”, whilst simultaneously providing a critical counter-balance to the fragmentary economic and political aspirations these articulations may give rise to. In regeneration discourse, there exists a conflictridden dialectic contained within the rhetorical espousal of being united in diversity -the official motto of the European Union- between the desire to re-evaluate, and elevate, the value of a city’s built heritage and sense of place, whilst simultaneously embracing a Europeanized aesthetic which exceeds that sense of place. In this view, a city such as Cork declares itself to be “European” in policy documentation, but only in a sense which compliments rather than dominates what is held to be the existent character of the city. As stated in the city’s docklands strategy; “Critical to this is maintaining a ‘spirit of Cork’ in rebranding the area as a place with the highest quality of architectural and public space design” (Cork City Council 2001c: 7). To this end, the fostering of closer ties with the European entity thus presents the urban habitus with a new set of cultural co-ordinates which themselves require accommodation within the existent cultural and historical narratives of the city. Although it is unsurprising that city planners, architects and developers should replicate the language of policy discourse by emphasizing the ultimate goals of global competition, social inclusion, and cultural enrichment, their comments must also be considered in light of the normatively guided, if often rhetorical, espousal of European inclusivity. Such concerns in turn resonate with the fundamental ambiguity

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that much sociological-informed discourse directs toward the conceptualization of what precisely constitutes a distinctly national or European identity (Anderson 1985, Shore 2000, StrĂĽth 2002, Sassatelli 2002, Leontidou 2004, Delanty and Rumford 2005, Eder 2006, Kantner 2006). On this note, the resurgence of regional nationalisms within the European polity is of perennial concern for the European Union, and one partially serving to legitimatize the prioritization of cultural policy initiatives within and between cities. The ECOC and town/ city twinning programs are two such initiatives (Cork is twinned with Coventry, Rennes, Cologne and Swansea). Run by the European Commission (the executive body of the EU), the town-twinning program serves to foster bonds of citizenship and a sense of shared identity between comparable towns and cities: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Twining promotes mutual understanding, and is a conduit for cultural exchanges across the social spectrum. EU support for town twinning injects a structuring effect and strengthens the strategic direction, as well as the European content, of such activitiesâ&#x20AC;? (European Commission 2010). If germane to much planning and policy discourse is the recognition that economic and cultural vitality is dependent upon becoming more closely affiliated with the European order, the dilemma facing renewal discourse is that of reconciling the tendency toward the essentialization of indigenous culture against the more explicitly constructivist orientation of the European Union. In Cork, as elsewhere, such a dilemma is heavily mediated by the dialectical interplay of the competing imperatives of conservation and development. Conflict, continuity and change A thematic running throughout the policy documents is the imperative of attracting necessary capital investment in both an economic and cultural sense, as to do otherwise is to encourage stagnancy and the concomitant redundancy of the city centre as a hub of economic and cultural vitality. The rhetoric of achieving a sustainable equilibrium between the old with the new, albeit with the implication that choosing the old as a value in itself is to encourage urban decay, is thus revealed as a choice increasingly circumscribed and informed by economic and political imperatives. The imperative of striking a balance between competing discourses of conservative and development can be seen in the following two sets of comments: It is possible to come up with a balanced approach between the needs for knowledge and the need for the preservation of built heritage. It is possible, but it takes negotiation. It takes will. I think in that in some parts of the country that will does not exist. There is a sort of crazy race to get things done. (Interview with conservationist) I view developments as critical, as being of critical importance. I do not view them as some might, as a threat. I think that unless you have developers prepared to invest in our city, you will have a city that will decay. (Interview with property developer)

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The comments of the conservationist actor suggests regeneration discourse to be an inherently conflictual system of dispositions incorporating antagonistic visions of what precisely the policy dictates of urban renewal should encapsulate. On the other hand, the comment emanating from the property developer is indicative of Evan’s (2003: 421) suggestion concerning the potential “brand decay” of the city. In terms of how the renewal of the city centre has been strategized within policy documents, the interpretation and branding of built heritage is orientated towards the synergic re-interpretation of cultural and economic capital through which the “consumer” (variably the tourist, business person, or resident) can achieve aesthetic satisfaction through what Moloney (2006) has deemed an “enhanced visitor experience”. As stated in the CCDP: Of particular priority in the next few years should be the development of projects that create quality strategic walkways through the city centre and those that bridge existing junctions that currently provide a poor quality pedestrian experience. (Emphasis added, Cork Corporation 2009: 184) As such, much emphasis has been placed upon the creation of “visual and formal relationships” and “pedestrian linkages” between the historical core and arterial retail streets. Although this re-imagining is packaged and presented as a shared vision, interview narratives suggest a vision of a city which has struggled with prolonged economic and cultural stagnation. A concern implicit within such renewal initiatives, however, is that this impulse will find expression via the search for an aestheticized and commoditised fiction of an “authentic” heritage (Urry 1990: 106, Bridge 2006: 724), a sentiment embodying the ensuing implication that contemporary developments are somehow lacking in such authenticity. Indeed, such ambiguity in regard to the interpretive malleability of “culturally significant” heritage is indicated by the Cork City Heritage Plan; “the heritage of Cork City is continually changing, evolving, and being created. We are generating the heritage of the future while trying to understand and enhance that what we have inherited from the past” (Cork City Heritage Forum 2007: 5). In this light, a key imperative regarding the marketing of the city centre has been to create a normalizing “design template” for heritage related “signage and interpretation” throughout the historical core. Discursively, it is interesting to consider how the pronoun “we” is constructed and employed in the above extract. “We” can be used in an inclusive sense to create a specific community of interest, albeit if hierarchically organized. However, “we” can also be simultaneously used in an exclusive sense as a means by which to maintain boundaries. In other words, the above “we” has been constituted in a hierarchical sense initially evoking planners and policy makers, and only later is the community admitted into the discursive relation through the consultative process. In practice, this may well perpetuate forms of regeneration which focus on economic growth as the solution to all societal concerns, with the key problem being that the interpretation accorded heritage will tend to derive from authoritative discourses and practices which are largely confluent with official policy. The prioritisation of infrastructural and aesthetic issues in policy initiatives

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is itself inherently divisory due to the plurality of social and cultural issues it potentially excludes, the articulation of which is often left to the “archipelago of local protest groups with the least formally empowered voices” (Crilley 1993: 250). The result is a lack of representation and amplification of issues regarding the means of implementing what Zukin has referred to as the “critical infrastructure of gentrification” (1995: 260), with the outcome being that a homogenised range of hotel developments, restaurants, cafes, boutiques, high-end retail outlets, art galleries, and so on, come to dominate the urban core. Epitomized by the critical voice of the Where’s Me Culture? collective, such concerns were continuously present throughout Cork’s tenure year as European Capital of Culture in 2005. This group advocated for a greater degree of cultural inclusivity and civic participation in what was perceived to be an exclusionary official programme (O’Callaghan and Linehan 2007). In likewise manner, urban planners and policy authors often fail to adequately account for the cultural plurality which constitutes the collective habitus of the city, notwithstanding the occasional rhetorical acknowledgment of such cultural vibrancy in policy discourse. Furthermore, policy initiatives risk codifying a commodifed model of urban growth, one in which a unified image and brand resonance for the city is supported and reinforced in planning discourse. The synchronization of commerce and consumer culture that this represents, leads to a vision of regeneration inherently circumscribed by the entrepreneurial strategies at work. Such urban regenerative reimaginings thus remain implicitly subjugated beneath the imperative of sustaining economic viability, one in which the existent built heritage of the city acquires the ascription of functional commodity amidst the marketplace of European cities (Garcia 2004). Conclusion The case study of Cork reveals a number of conceptual assumptions about the relationship between heritage, culture and identity discourse. The evident awareness of the historicity of the city centre permeating the policy documents and interview narratives carries the implication that contemporary development can only be carried out through a considered contextual appreciation which involves the retention of the city’s existing structure, character areas, and importance of place. It is within such terms that urban heritage can be interpreted as both an enabling and problematic constituent of urban form. Whilst it is deemed problematic from a development perspective, insofar as a concern with preservation serves to restrain the adoption of a purely instrumental approach towards infrastructural renewal, it is also enabling in that the dilapidated condition of particular areas and structures can be pressed into timely alliance with contemporary developments through an intensification of their use rather than through new construction. In accordance with Kearns and Philo’s (1993: 5) contention that the manipulation of culture involved in city branding also tends to be a manipulation of history, a claim presented in this paper is that regeneration initiatives in Cork have sought to re-position the identity and heritage of the city within the European normative constellation.

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The approach taken does not overlook the fact that traditional top-down approaches to planning and policy, including attempts to maximize the surplus value of historical and cultural resources, are often undermined by ground-up lived realities in which residents transform urban space in unexpected and unintended ways (e.g. Jane Jacobs). Indeed, the same could be said for how macro-processes of “Europeanization” are undermined by micro-level local interventions, including historical sensitivities and attempts at heritage conservation. Yet, detailed discussion of these interventions has been beyond the scope of the present discussion. Rather, the paper’s emphasis upon interrogating official discourse has had the effect of centring the analysis upon processes of municipal decision-making which seek to bridge the local, national and supra-national contexts. In particular, the discussion is intended to provide concrete evidence of how a regional municipality utilizes efforts to preserve the built environment and claims about local heritage in order to encourage tourism and economic regeneration. The contextualizing of local planning within European policy serves to legitimate the vision of renewal being proposed, and the use of discourse analysis assists in displaying how policy architects exert a normalizing view of urban redevelopment. In conclusion, this line of interrogation suggests two presuppositions: on the one hand, the marketing of an objectified cultural heritage would seemingly be premised upon the capacity of civic elites to extract surplus value from such material and symbolic regeneration initiatives. On the other hand, such marketing endeavours are themselves complicit in diverting attention away from the addressing of pervasive social inequities – effectively presenting what Harvey (2006) has deemed a “carnival mask” of municipal heritage. As such, this paper has argued that cultural and economic imperatives have oriented toward the synergic re-interpretation of the built environment, one in which the signifiers and semiotics of local culture and heritage have become reconfigured as potential resource and co-opted into the logic of contemporary development. References Anderson, Benedict. 1983. Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism. London and New York: Verso. Ashworth, Graham. 1994. From History to Heritage: In Search of Concepts and Models. In Building a New Heritage: Tourism, Culture and Identity in the New Europe, edited by Graham Ashworth and Peter J. Larkham. London and New York: Routledge. Ashworth, Gregory J., and Angela Phelps and Bengt O.H. Johannson. 2001. The Construction of Built heritage: A North European Perspective on Policies, Practices and Outcomes. London: Ashgate. Atkinson, Rob. 1999. Discourses of Partnership and Empowerment in Contemporary British Urban Regeneration, Urban Studies 36.1: 59-72.

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Formations Vol.1 No.1 2010

'SQQIRXEV] 'YPXYVI SJ 4SZIVX] (SR´X 'EPP MX E 'SQIFEGO 1EVRMI &VEH] /EXLPIIR (YRR .EQMI 1G'EPPYQ

ƌĞĐĞŶƚ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ dŝŵĞƐ ĂƌƟĐůĞ ĐŚƌŽŶŝĐůĞĚ Ă ͞ĐŽŵĞďĂĐŬ͟ ŽĨ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ĂŶĂůǇƐŝƐ ŝŶ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ƐƚƵĚŝĞƐ ĂŵŽŶŐ ĐŽŶƚĞŵƉŽƌĂƌǇ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝƐƚƐ͘ dŚĞ ĂƌƟĐůĞ ƐƚĂƚĞƐ͗ ͞ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ŽǀĞƌǁŚĞůŵŝŶŐůǇ ůŝďĞƌĂů ƌĂŶŬƐ ŽĨ ĂĐĂĚĞŵŝĐ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ĂŶĚ ĂŶƚŚƌŽƉŽůŽŐǇ͘ ͙EŽǁ͕ ĂŌĞƌ ĚĞĐĂĚĞƐ ŽĨ ƐŝůĞŶĐĞ͕ ƚŚĞƐĞ ƐĐŚŽůĂƌƐ ĂƌĞ͙ ĐŽŶĐĞĚŝŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ĂŶĚ ƉĞƌƐŝƐƚĞŶƚ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĂƌĞ ĞŶŵĞƐŚĞĚ͘ ͚tĞ͛ǀĞ ĮŶĂůůǇ ƌĞĂĐŚĞĚ ƚŚĞ ƐƚĂŐĞ ǁŚĞƌĞ ƉĞŽƉůĞ ĂƌĞŶ͛ƚ ĂĨƌĂŝĚ ŽĨ ďĞŝŶŐ ƉŽůŝƟĐĂůůǇ ŝŶĐŽƌƌĞĐƚ͕͛ ƐĂŝĚ ŽƵŐůĂƐ ^͘ DĂƐƐĞǇ͕ Ă ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝƐƚ Ăƚ WƌŝŶĐĞƚŽŶ ǁŚŽ ŚĂƐ ĂƌŐƵĞĚ ƚŚĂƚ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ ǁĂƐ ƵŶĨĂŝƌůǇ ŵĂůŝŐŶĞĚ͘͟ dŚĞ ĂƌƟĐůĞ ĂůƐŽ ƉŽŝŶƚĞĚ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ƌĞůƵĐƚĂŶĐĞ ƚŚĂƚ ŵĂŶǇ ǇŽƵŶŐĞƌ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐŝƐƚƐ ĞǆƉĞƌŝĞŶĐĞ ŝŶ ďĞŝŶŐ ĂƐƐŽĐŝĂƚĞĚ ǁŝƚŚ ƚŚĞ ůŽŶŐͲŝŶĨĂŵŽƵƐ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĨƌĂŵĞǁŽƌŬ͕ ƉŽƉƵůĂƌŝǌĞĚ ďǇ ĂŶŝĞů WĂƚƌŝĐŬ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ ŝŶ ϭϵϲϱ͘ dŚĞ dŝŵĞƐ ŐŽƚ ŝƚ ǁƌŽŶŐ ŽŶ ŽŶĞ ŝŵƉŽƌƚĂŶƚ ĐŽƵŶƚ͖ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĂƉƉƌŽĂĐŚ ŚĂƐ ŶĞǀĞƌ ƋƵŝƚĞ ůŽƐƚ ŝƚƐ ĨŽŽƟŶŐ ǁŝƚŚŝŶ ĂĐĂĚĞŵŝĂ Žƌ ďƌŽĂĚĞƌ ƉŽůŝĐǇ ĐŝƌĐůĞƐ͘ ,ŽǁĞǀĞƌ͕ ŐŝǀĞŶ ƚŚĞ ŵŽƵŶƚĂŝŶ ŽĨ ǁŽƌŬ ƌĞĨƵƟŶŐ ƚŚŝƐ ĚŝƐĐŽƵƌƐĞ ;ƐĞĞ ZǇĂŶ ϭϵϳϭ͖ <Ăƚǌ ϭϵϵϬ͖ ZĞĞĚ ϭϵϵϭ͖ K͛ ŽŶŶŽƌ ϮϬϬϭ͖ ZŽǇƐƚĞƌ ϮϬϬϯ͖ ŚŽŽŬƐ ϮϬϬϰͿ ǁĞ ƐŚŽƵůĚ ŐŝǀĞ ƐĞƌŝŽƵƐ ĐŽŶƐŝĚĞƌĂƟŽŶ ƚŽ ǁŚǇ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĂƌŐƵŵĞŶƚ ƉĞƌƐŝƐƚƐ͘ dŚŽƵŐŚ ƚŚĞƌĞ͛Ɛ ŶŽƚŚŝŶŐ ƉĂƌƟĐƵůĂƌůǇ ŽīͲďĂƐĞ ĂďŽƵƚ ĂŶĂůǇǌŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ĂƐƉĞĐƚƐ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ͕ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĨƌĂŵĞǁŽƌŬ ƐĐƌƵƟŶŝǌĞƐ ƚŚĞ ĚĂŝůǇ ĂĐƟǀŝƟĞƐ͕ ůŝĨĞƐƚǇůĞ ĐŚŽŝĐĞƐ͕ ďĞŚĂǀŝŽƌĂů ƉĂƩĞƌŶƐ͕ ŝŶ ƐŚŽƌƚ͕ ƚŚĞ ŚĂďŝƚƵƐ ŽĨ ƉŽŽƌ ĐŽŵŵƵŶŝƟĞƐ ĂƐ ĐĂƵƐĂů ĨĂĐƚŽƌƐ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ŝƚƐĞůĨ͘ /ƚ ŝƐ ǁŽƌƚŚ ŶŽƟŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ŽƌŝŐŝŶĂů ĂƵƚŚŽƌƐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĐŽŶĐĞƉƚ͕ KƐĐĂƌ >ĞǁŝƐ ;ϭϵϲϭ͕ ϭϵϲϲͿ ĂŶĚ͕ ƐĞƉĂƌĂƚĞůǇ͕ DŝĐŚĂĞů ,ĂƌƌŝŶŐƚŽŶ ;ϭϵϲϮͿ͕ ĚŝĚ ŶŽƚ ŝŶ ĨĂĐƚ ŵĂŬĞ Ă ĐĂƵƐĂů ĂƌŐƵŵĞŶƚ ĂďŽƵƚ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ƉĞƌƉĞƚƵĂƟŶŐ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ͘ ŽƚŚ ƵƐĞĚ ƚŚĞ ƚĞƌŵ ƚŽ ĚĞƐĐƌŝďĞ ƚŚĞ ĐŽƉŝŶŐ ŵĞĐŚĂŶŝƐŵƐ ŽĨ ƉŽŽƌ ƉĞŽƉůĞ ŝŶ ƌĞƐƉŽŶƐĞ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŝŶĞƋƵĂůŝƟĞƐ ĂƐƐŽĐŝĂƚĞĚ ǁŝƚŚ ĐĂƉŝƚĂůŝƐŵ͕ ŝŶĐůƵĚŝŶŐ ďŽƵƚƐ ŽĨ ƐƚƌƵŐŐůĞ ĂŶĚ ƌĞƐŝƐƚĂŶĐĞ͘ /ƚ ǁĂƐ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ŝŶƚĞƌƉƌĞƚĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ͛Ɛ ŝŶĨĂŵŽƵƐ ƌĞƉŽƌƚ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ ƐƚĂƚĞ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ďůĂĐŬ ĨĂŵŝůǇ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ h^ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ĐƵƌƌĞŶƚ ŵĞĂŶŝŶŐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ǁĂƐ ƌĞĐƵƉĞƌĂƚĞĚ ĨŽƌ ŽƚŚĞƌ ƉƵƌƉŽƐĞƐ͗ ƚŽ ĂƐƐŝŐŶ ĚĞĨĞĐƚƐ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ƉŽŽƌ͕ ĂŶĚ ƉŽŽƌ ďůĂĐŬƐ ƉƌŝŵĂƌŝůǇ͘ dŚŝƐ ĐŽŶĐĞƉƚƵĂů ƐŚŝŌ ŚĂƐ ŚĂĚ ĚĞǀĂƐƚĂƟŶŐ ĐŽŶƐĞƋƵĞŶĐĞƐ͘

*SVQEXMSRW :SP 2S

WĂƚŚŽůŽŐŝǌŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ƉŽŽƌ͕ ƌĂƚŚĞƌ ƚŚĂŶ ĐƌŝƟĐĂůůǇ ĞŶŐĂŐŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ƐƚƌƵĐƚƵƌĂů ĐĂƵƐĞƐ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ŝƚƐĞůĨ͕ ŚĂƐ ũƵƐƟĮĞĚ ŵǇƌŝĂĚ ƉŽůŝĐŝĞƐ ĞǆĂĐĞƌďĂƟŶŐ ŝŶĞƋƵĂůŝƚǇ͕ ŝŶĐůƵĚŝŶŐ ŶĞĂƌůǇ ĨŽƵƌ ĚĞĐĂĚĞƐ ŽĨ ƵƌďĂŶ ĚŝƐŝŶǀĞƐƚŵĞŶƚ ĂŶĚ ƐƵďƐĞƋƵĞŶƚ ŐĞŶƚƌŝĮĐĂƟŽŶ͕ ƚŚĞ ĞƌŽƐŝŽŶ ŽĨ ŚŽƵƐĞŚŽůĚ ŝŶĐŽŵĞ ƐƵƉƉŽƌƚƐ ĨŽƌ ƚŚĞ ŵŽƐƚ ŶĞĞĚǇ͕ ĂŶĚ ƐƉĞŶĚŝŶŐ ƉƌŝŽƌŝƟĞƐ ƚŚĂƚ ĨĂǀŽƌ ƉƌŝƐŽŶƐ ŽǀĞƌ ƐĐŚŽŽůƐ͘ Ŷ ŝŵƉƌĞƐƐŝǀĞ ƚƵƌŶ ŽĨ ĞǀĞŶƚƐ ĐŽŶƐŝĚĞƌŝŶŐ ƚŚĂƚ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ͛Ɛ ƌĞƉŽƌƚ ŽƌŝŐŝŶĂůůǇ ĐĂůůĞĚ ĨŽƌ Ă ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ĂŶƟĚŽƚĞ͕ ŝŶĐůƵĚŝŶŐ ũŽď ĐƌĞĂƟŽŶ͕ ƚŽ ƌŝƐŝŶŐ ŶƵŵďĞƌƐ ŽĨ ďůĂĐŬƐ ŽŶ ǁĞůĨĂƌĞ͘ /ƐƐƵĞĚ ũƵƐƚ ĂŌĞƌ ƚŚĞ ůĂƵŶĐŚ ŽĨ WƌĞƐŝĚĞŶƚ :ŽŚŶƐŽŶ͛Ɛ 'ƌĞĂƚ ^ŽĐŝĞƚǇ ƉƌŽŐƌĂŵƐ͕ ŝŶĐůƵĚŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ tĂƌ ŽŶ WŽǀĞƌƚǇ ;ǁŚŝĐŚ ŽǁĞĚ ĐŽŶƐŝĚĞƌĂďůĞ ĂĐŬŶŽǁůĞĚŐŵĞŶƚ ƚŽ ,ĂƌƌŝŶŐƚŽŶͿ͕ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ͛Ɛ ͞dŚĞ EĞŐƌŽ &ĂŵŝůǇ͟ ŐĂǀĞ ĐƌĞĚĞŶĐĞ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŶŽƟŽŶ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ƉŽŽƌ ĂƌĞ ƚŽ ďůĂŵĞ ĨŽƌ ďĞŝŶŐ ƉŽŽƌ͘ ĞƐƉŝƚĞ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ͛Ɛ ŝŶƚĞƌĞƐƚ ŝŶ ƐƚƌĞŶŐƚŚĞŶŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ 'ƌĞĂƚ ^ŽĐŝĞƚǇ ƉƌŽŐƌĂŵƐ͕ ƚŚĞ ǁŽƌŬ ǁĂƐ ƋƵŝĐŬůǇ ĂŶĚ ĞĂƐŝůǇ ĞŵƉůŽǇĞĚ ďǇ ĐŽŶƐĞƌǀĂƟǀĞƐ ƚŽ ĂƌŐƵĞ ƚŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ƉŽŽƌ ĂƌĞ ďĞǇŽŶĚ ůŝďĞƌĂů ƌĞƐĐƵĞ͘ dŚĞ ƌĞƐƵůƚ ŚĂƐ ďĞĞŶ ƚŚĞ ũƵƐƟĮĐĂƟŽŶ ĨŽƌ ĚŝƐŵĂŶƚůŝŶŐ ƐƚĂƚĞ ŝŶƚĞƌǀĞŶƟŽŶƐ͕ ĂŶĚ ƚŽ ĚŝƐƟŶŐƵŝƐŚ ƚŚĞ ƐƵƉƉŽƐĞĚ ͞ĚĞǀŝĂŶƚ͟ ƉŽŽƌ ĨƌŽŵ ƚŚĞ ͞ĚĞƐĞƌǀŝŶŐ͟ ƉŽŽƌ͘ DŽƌĞŽǀĞƌ͕ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ͛Ɛ ƌĞƉŽƌƚ͕ ǁŚŝĐŚ ƵƐĞĚ ƚŚĞ ƚĞƌŵ ͞ŵĂƚƌŝĂƌĐŚĂů͟ ƚŽ ĚŝƐƉĂƌĂŐĞ ĨĞŵĂůĞͲŚĞĂĚĞĚ ĨƌŝĐĂŶͲ ŵĞƌŝĐĂŶ ŚŽƵƐĞŚŽůĚƐ͕ ŚĞůƉĞĚ ŝŶƐƉŝƌĞ Ă ƌĞǀĞƌďĞƌĂƟŶŐ ǁĂǀĞ ŽĨ ĂŶƟͲƐŝŶŐůĞͲŵŽƚŚĞƌ͕ ͞ǁĞůĨĂƌĞ ƋƵĞĞŶ͕͟ ĂŶĚ ͞ĨĂŵŝůǇ ǀĂůƵĞƐ͟ ƌŚĞƚŽƌŝĐ͘ ^ĞĞŶ ŝŶ ƚŚŝƐ ůŝŐŚƚ͕ ƚŚĞ ƌĞǀŝƐĞĚ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĨƌĂŵĞǁŽƌŬ ŚĂƐ ĚŽŶĞ ŝƌƌĞƉĂƌĂďůĞ ǀŝŽůĞŶĐĞ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŵŽƐƚ ĚŝƐĞŶĨƌĂŶĐŚŝƐĞĚ ƉŽƉƵůĂƟŽŶƐ͘ tŚǇ ƚŚĞŶ ŵŝŐŚƚ ƚŚŝƐ ƚŚĞŽƌǇ͕ ǁŚŝĐŚ ǁŽĞĨƵůůǇ ĐŽŶĨƵƐĞƐ ĞīĞĐƚ ĨŽƌ ĐĂƵƐĞ͕ ĐŽŶƟŶƵĞ ƚŽ ďĞ ĞŵďƌĂĐĞĚ͍ WĂƌƚ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĂŶƐǁĞƌ ŵĂǇ ƌĞƐŝĚĞ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĂŶĂůǇƟĐ ŇĞǆŝďŝůŝƚǇ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĐŽŶĐĞƉƚ ŽĨ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŝƚƐĞůĨ͖ ŶŽƚŚŝŶŐ ƐŽĐŝĂů ŽĐĐƵƌƐ ŽƵƚƐŝĚĞ ŽĨ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ĐŽŶĚŝƟŽŶƐ͕ ĂŶĚ ǀŝĐĞ ǀĞƌƐĂ͘ zĞƚ ǁŚǇ ĨŽĐƵƐ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ͞ŝŶĂĚĞƋƵĂĐŝĞƐ͟ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ƉŽŽƌ ƚŽ ĞǆƉůĂŝŶ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ͍ ^ŽůĞůǇ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ĞǆƉůĂŶĂƟŽŶƐ ƚĞŶĚ ƚŽ ŽďĨƵƐĐĂƚĞ ƐǇƐƚĞŵƐ ŽĨ ĐůĂƐƐ͕ ƌĂĐĞ͕ ĂŶĚ ŐĞŶĚĞƌ ĂƐ ŚŝĞƌĂƌĐŚŝĐĂů ƐƚƌƵĐƚƵƌĞƐ͗ ƐƚƌƵĐƚƵƌĞƐ ƚŚĂƚ ĐŚĂŶŐĞ ƐůŽǁůǇ ŽǀĞƌ ƟŵĞ ǇĞƚ ĂƌĞ ĐŽŶƐƚĂŶƚůǇ ŝŶ ĨŽƌŵĂƟŽŶ͘ /Ŷ ƉƌŽĚƵĐŝŶŐ Ă ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ͞ŽƚŚĞƌ͕͟ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĂƉƉƌŽĂĐŚ ƉƌŽǀŝĚĞƐ Ă ƉƌĞƐƵŵĂďůǇ ǁŚŝƚĞ͕ ŵŝĚĚůĞͲĐůĂƐƐ ĂƵĚŝĞŶĐĞ ǁŝƚŚ ĂŶ ĞĂƐŝůǇ ĚŝŐĞƐƟďůĞ ŶĂƌƌĂƟǀĞ ĂďŽƵƚ ǁŚǇ ƚŚĞ ƉŽŽƌ͕ ĞƐƉĞĐŝĂůůǇ ƉŽŽƌ ďůĂĐŬƐ͕ ĂƌĞ ĚŝīĞƌĞŶƚ ƚŚĂŶ ǇŽƵ ĂŶĚ ŵĞ͕ ŝŶ Ă ƐĂĚ ƌĞǀĞƌƐĂů ŽĨ &͘ ^ĐŽƩ &ŝƚǌŐĞƌĂůĚ͛Ɛ ĨĂŵŽƵƐ ƉŚƌĂƐĞ͘ tŚŝĐŚ ůĞĂĚƐ ƵƐ ƚŽ ĂŶŽƚŚĞƌ ƉŽƐƐŝďůĞ ƌĞĂƐŽŶ ĨŽƌ ƚŚĞ ĂƌŐƵŵĞŶƚ͛Ɛ ƐƚĂǇŝŶŐ ƉŽǁĞƌ͗ ƚŚĞ ŵĂŝŶƚĞŶĂŶĐĞ ŽĨ ƌĂĐŝƐŵ ĂŶĚ ǁŚŝƚĞ ƐƵƉƌĞŵĂĐǇ͘ 'ŝǀĞŶ ƚŚĂƚ ĂďŽƵƚ ŚĂůĨ ŽĨ ŝŵƉŽǀĞƌŝƐŚĞĚ ŵĞƌŝĐĂŶƐ ĂƌĞ ǁŚŝƚĞ͕ ƚŚĞ ƌĂĐŝĂůŝǌĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ŶĞĞĚƐ ƚŽ ďĞ ĐŽŶƟŶƵĂůůǇ ƌĞͲƚŚĞŽƌŝǌĞĚ ŝŶ ŽƌĚĞƌ ƚŽ ƐƵƌǀŝǀĞ ŝŶ ŚŝŐŚ ƉůĂĐĞƐ͕ ůŝŬĞ ŐŽǀĞƌŶŵĞŶƚ ĂŶĚ ƉŽůŝĐǇ ƚŚŝŶŬ ƚĂŶŬƐ͘ tĞ ƵŶĚĞƌƐƚĂŶĚ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ͛Ɛ ƌĞƉŽƌƚ ĂƐ ŚĂǀŝŶŐ ŚĂƉƉŝůǇ ƉƌŽǀŝĚĞĚ ƐƵĐŚ Ă ĐŽŶĐĞƉƟŽŶ Ăƚ Ă ƟŵĞ ǁŚĞŶ ŝƚ ǁĂƐ ƐŽƌĞůǇ ŶĞĞĚĞĚͶƐŵĂĐŬ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ŵŝĚĚůĞ ŽĨ ĂŶ ĞƌĂ ŵĂƌŬĞĚ ďǇ ĂŶƟͲĐŽůŽŶŝĂů͕ Đŝǀŝů ƌŝŐŚƚƐ͕ ůĂĐŬ WŽǁĞƌ ĂŶĚ ĨĞŵŝŶŝƐƚ ƐƚƌƵŐŐůĞƐ͘ dŚĞ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ ƌĞƉŽƌƚ ŝŶƚƌŝŶƐŝĐĂůůǇ ŶŽƌŵĂůŝǌĞĚ ƚŚĞ ŶƵĐůĞĂƌ͕ ǁŚŝƚĞ͕ ŚĞƚĞƌŽƐĞǆƵĂů ĨĂŵŝůǇ ĂƐ ƚŚĞ ďĞůůǁĞƚŚĞƌ ŽĨ ƉĞƌƐŽŶĂů ƐƵĐĐĞƐƐ͕ ĐŚŝůĚƌĞŶ͛Ɛ ĨƵƚƵƌĞ ŽƉƉŽƌƚƵŶŝƚǇ͕ ĂŶĚ ŶĂƟŽŶĂů ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ƐƚĂďŝůŝƚǇ͘ dŚŝƐ ĐŽƌƌĞůĂƟŽŶ͕ ŝŶ ŽƚŚĞƌ ǁŽƌĚƐ͕ ǁĂƐ ŶŽƚ ĐŽŝŶĐŝĚĞŶƚĂů͘ dŚĞŽƌŝĞƐ ĂƌĞ͕ ŝŶ ĞīĞĐƚ͕ ƐƚŽƌŝĞƐ ĂďŽƵƚ ƚŚĞ ǁŽƌůĚ ĂŶĚ ŚŽǁ ŝƚ ǁŽƌŬƐ͘ dŚĞ ƐƚŽƌǇ ƚŽůĚ ďǇ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ŝƐ ŶŽƚ ŽŶĞ ŽĨ ĚŝƐĐƌŝŵŝŶĂƟŽŶ ĂŶĚ ŝŶĞƋƵĂůŝƚǇ͕ ďƵƚ ĂĐƚƵĂůůǇ ŽŶĞ ĂďŽƵƚ ƉƌŝǀŝůĞŐĞ ʹ ƐƉĞĐŝĮĐĂůůǇ ǁŚĂƚ ŝƚ ŝƐ ůŝŬĞ ƚŽ ůŝǀĞ ǁŝƚŚŽƵƚ ƚŚĞ ƉƌŝǀŝůĞŐĞƐ ƚŚĂƚ ͞ŶŽƌŵĂƟǀĞ͟ ĨĂŵŝůŝĞƐ ƚĂŬĞ ĨŽƌ ŐƌĂŶƚĞĚ͘ /ƚ ŝƐ Ă ŶĂƌƌĂƟǀĞ ƚŚĂƚ ĚŽĞƐ ŶŽƚ ĐŽŵƉĞů ŵŝĚĚůĞͲĐůĂƐƐ ǁŚŝƚĞƐ ƚŽ ƋƵĞƐƟŽŶ ƚŚĞŝƌ ŽǁŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶƐŚŝƉ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ŐĞŶĚĞƌ͕ ĐůĂƐƐ͕ Žƌ ƌĂĐŝĂů

*SVQEXMSRW :SP 2S

ƐƚƌƵĐƚƵƌĞ͕ ǁŚŝĐŚ ŝƐ ŽŶĞ ŽĨ ƉƌŝǀŝůĞŐĞ ĞĂƌŶĞĚ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ ĞǆƉĞŶƐĞ ŽĨ ͞ŽƚŚĞƌƐ͘͟ ZĞůĂƚĞĚůǇ͕ ŝƚ ŝƐ ĂůƐŽ Ă ƐƚŽƌǇ ĂďŽƵƚ ƉůĂĐŝŶŐ ŵŽƌĂů ƌĞƐƉŽŶƐŝďŝůŝƚǇ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ ƉŽŽƌ ƚŽ ĂĐƚ ŵŝĚĚůĞͲĐůĂƐƐ͕ ĚŝƐƌĞŐĂƌĚŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ŵĂƚĞƌŝĂů ŵĞĂŶƐ ďǇ ǁŚŝĐŚ ŵŝĚĚůĞͲĐůĂƐƐ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ƐƵƐƚĂŝŶƐ ŝƚƐĞůĨ͘ dŚĞ ƐĞĐƌĞƚ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ͛Ɛ ƉĞƌƐŝƐƚĞŶĐĞ͕ ƚŚĞŶ͕ ŵŝŐŚƚ ďĞƐƚ ďĞ ůŽĐĂƚĞĚ ŝŶ ŝƚƐ ďƌĞĂƚŚƚĂŬŝŶŐ ĂďŝůŝƚǇ ƚŽ ƐŝŵƉůŝĨǇ͕ ƐĞŐƌĞŐĂƚĞ͕ ĂŶĚ ƐŚĂŵĞ ʹ Ăůů ŝŶ ŽŶĞ ĨĞůů ƐǁŽŽƉ͘ ŶĚ ŚĞƌĞ͕ ƉŽƐƐŝďůǇ͕ ŝƐ ǁŚĞƌĞ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƐĐŝĞŶĐĞ ŵĂǇ ŚĂǀĞ ĂůƐŽ ƉůĂǇĞĚ Ă ĐƌŝƟĐĂů ƉĂƌƚ ŝŶ ĐŽŶƟŶƵŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĨƌĂŵĞǁŽƌŬ͘ ŝƐĐƵƐƐŝŽŶƐ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ʹ ĂŶĚ ŝƚƐ ƌĂĐŝĂůŝǌĂƟŽŶ ʹ ĐĂŶŶŽƚ ďĞ ĞǆƐĂŶŐƵŝŶĂƚĞĚ ŽĨ ĐůĂƐƐ ĂŶĂůǇƐŝƐ͕ ŝĨ ŽŶůǇ ďĞĐĂƵƐĞ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ƌĞƐƵůƚƐ ĮƌƐƚ ĂŶĚ ĨŽƌĞŵŽƐƚ ĨƌŽŵ ƚŚĞ ŵĂĐŚŝŶĂƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ĐĂƉŝƚĂůŝƐŵ͘ dŚĂƚ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĨƌĂŵĞǁŽƌŬͶǁŚŝĐŚ ĂƌŐƵĞƐ ĨŽƌ ƚŚĞ ŝŶĚĞƉĞŶĚĞŶĐĞ ŽĨ ĐůĂƐƐ ĂŶĚ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞͶ ĐŽŶƐƚƌĂŝŶƐ ŽƵƌ ĂďŝůŝƚǇ ƚŽ ƵŶĚĞƌƐƚĂŶĚ ŚŽǁ ƚŚĞ ƚǁŽ ĂƌĞ ŝŶ ĨĂĐƚ ĐŽŶũŽŝŶĞĚ ŝƐ ŽŶůǇ ŵŽƌĞ ƌĞĂƐŽŶ ƚŽ ĂďĂŶĚŽŶ ŝƚ͘ ůĂƐƐ͕ ĂƐ Ă ƐŽĐŝĂů ƉŚĞŶŽŵĞŶŽŶ ĂŶĚ ĂŶĂůǇƟĐ ĐĂƚĞŐŽƌǇ͕ ŚĂƐ ƐƵīĞƌĞĚ ĨƌŽŵ Ă ƉĞƌŝŽĚ ŽĨ ͞ďĞŶŝŐŶ ŶĞŐůĞĐƚ͟ ƚŚĂƚ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ ƉƌŽƉŽƐĞĚ ǁŽƵůĚ ďĞŶĞĮƚ ƚŚĞ ŵĞƌŝĐĂŶ ĚŝƐĐŽƵƌƐĞ ŽŶ ƌĂĐĞ͘ Ƶƚ ƚŚĞŶ ĐůĂƐƐ ƚŚĞŽƌŝƐƚƐ ŚĂǀĞ ďĞĞŶ ƚŽŽ ƋƵŝĐŬ ƚŽ ĂŶĂůǇǌĞ ƌĂĐĞ ĂŶĚ ƌĂĐŝƐŵ ĂƐ ŵĞƌĞůǇ ŽƵƚĐƌŽƉƉŝŶŐƐ ŽĨ ĐĂƉŝƚĂůŝƐŵ͘ :ƵƐƚ ĂƐ ƐĐŚŽůĂƌƐ ŽĨ ŝŵƉĞƌŝĂůŝƐŵ ĂƌĞ ŵŽƌĞ ůŝŬĞůǇ ƚŽ ƚŚĞŽƌŝǌĞ ƌĂĐĞ ŝŶ ƌĞůĂƟŽŶ ƚŽ ƉƌĞǀĂŝůŝŶŐ ƐǇƐƚĞŵƐ ŽĨ ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ƉŽǁĞƌ ĂŶĚ ŐůŽďĂů ĞĐŽŶŽŵŝĐ ƐƵƉƌĞŵĂĐǇ͕ ƚŚŽƐĞ ǁŚŽ ƐƚƵĚǇ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĂŶĚ ŝƚƐ ƌĂĐŝĂůŝǌĂƟŽŶ ǁŽƵůĚ ĚŽ ǁĞůů ƚŽ ĐŽŶƚĞǆƚƵĂůŝǌĞ ƚŚĞŝƌ ǁŽƌŬ ĨƌŽŵ Ă ƐŝŵŝůĂƌůǇ ĐƌŝƟĐĂů ǀĂŶƚĂŐĞ ƉŽŝŶƚ͘ tŚĂƚ ŝƐ ŶĞĞĚĞĚ ƚŚĞŶ ŝƐ ŶŽƚ ƚŚĞ ĐŽŶƟŶƵĂƟŽŶ ŽĨ ĂŶ ĂƌƌŽŐĂŶƚ ůŝďĞƌĂůŝƐŵ ƚŚĂƚ ƐĞĞŬƐ ƚŽ ƐĂǀĞ ƚŚĞ ƉŽŽƌ ĨƌŽŵ ƚŚĞŵƐĞůǀĞƐ͕ ďƵƚ ƌĂƚŚĞƌ Ă ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ƚŚĂƚ ĚŝƐƌƵƉƚƐ ŝƐŽůĂƚĞĚ ;ĂŶĚ ŝƐŽůĂƟŶŐͿ ƵŶĚĞƌƐƚĂŶĚŝŶŐƐ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĂƐ Ă ƐŽĐŝĂů ƉƌŽďůĞŵ ƚŚĂƚ ĐĂŶ ďĞ ĂŶĂůǇǌĞĚ ĂƉĂƌƚ ĨƌŽŵ ƚŚĞ ƉƌŽĐĞƐƐ ŽĨ ƐƚƌĂƟĮĐĂƟŽŶ ŝƚƐĞůĨ͘ dŚŝƐ ŝƐ ƉĂƌƟĐƵůĂƌůǇ ĐƌƵĐŝĂů ŶŽǁ͕ ĂƐ ŚŝŐŚ ƵŶĞŵƉůŽǇŵĞŶƚ ĂŶĚ ƌŝƐŝŶŐ ŝŶĐŽŵĞ ŝŶĞƋƵĂůŝƚǇ ƉƵƐŚ ŵŽƌĞ ĂŶĚ ŵŽƌĞ ƉĞŽƉůĞ ŝŶƚŽ ƚŚĞ ͞ĨĞĂƌ ŽĨ ĨĂůůŝŶŐ͟ ĨƌŽŵ ŝŶĐƌĞĂƐŝŶŐůǇ ŝŶƐĞĐƵƌĞ ĐůĂƐƐ ƉŽƐŝƟŽŶƐ͘ /ƚ ŝƐ ƵŶĨĂƚŚŽŵĂďůĞ ƚŚĂƚ ƐƵĐŚ ůĂƌŐĞͲƐĐĂůĞ ƉŽůŝƟĐĂů ĂŶĚ ĞĐŽŶŽŵŝĐ ƐŚŝŌƐ ŵŝŐŚƚ ŐŽ ƵŶĞǆĂŵŝŶĞĚ ďǇ ƐĐŚŽůĂƌƐ ŽĨ ƐƚƌĂƟĮĐĂƟŽŶ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĐƵƌƌĞŶƚ ĐůŝŵĂƚĞ͘ /Ĩ ĂŶǇƚŚŝŶŐ ŶĞĞĚƐ ƚŽ ďĞ ͞ƐĂǀĞĚ͟ ŚĞƌĞ͕ ŝƚ ŝƐ Ă ĨŽĐƵƐ ŽŶ ƚŚĞ ƉƌŽĐĞƐƐĞƐ ƚŚĂƚ ŐŝǀĞƐ ƌŝƐĞ ƚŽ ƐǇƐƚĞŵŝĐ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ͕ ƚŽ ƐĂǇ ŶŽƚŚŝŶŐ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ŽƌŐĂŶŝǌĂƟŽŶƐ ĂŶĚ ŵŽǀĞŵĞŶƚƐ ƚŚĂƚ ƐĞĞŬ ƚŽ ĐŽƵŶƚĞƌ ƐƵĐŚ ƉƌŽĐĞƐƐĞƐ͘ Ɛ ƚŚĞ dŝŵĞƐ ƉŝĞĐĞ ĂƩĞƐƚƐ͕ ŵĂŶǇ ǇŽƵŶŐ ƐĐŚŽůĂƌƐ ĚŽ ƌĞĐŽŐŶŝǌĞ ƚŚĞ ŶĞĞĚ ƚŽ ĞŶŐĂŐĞ ŝŶ ĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ĂŶĂůǇƐŝƐ ʹ ďƵƚ ŶŽƚ ƚŽ ƉĂƚŚŽůŽŐŝǌĞ ƉŽŽƌ ƉĞŽƉůĞ͘ /ŶƐƚĞĂĚ͕ Ă ŐƌŽǁŝŶŐ ŶƵŵďĞƌ ƐĞĞŬ ƚŽ ƵŶĚĞƌƐƚĂŶĚ ŚŽǁ ƉĞŽƉůĞ ĂƌĞ ĐŽŵŝŶŐ ƚŽŐĞƚŚĞƌ ƚŽ ƋƵĞƐƟŽŶ ƚŚĞŝƌ ĂďĂŶĚŽŶŵĞŶƚ͕ ĂŶĚ ƚŽ ƌĂŝƐĞ ĐŽůůĞĐƟǀĞ ƐŽůƵƟŽŶƐ ƚŽ ŝƚƐ ƐǇƐƚĞŵŝĐ ĐĂƵƐĞƐ͘ ^ƵĐŚ ĂŶĂůǇƐŝƐ ŝŶǀŽůǀĞƐ ŶŽƚ ũƵƐƚ ƋƵĞƐƟŽŶƐ ŽĨ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ͕ ďƵƚ ĂůƐŽ ƐƚƌƵĐƚƵƌĞ ĂŶĚ ĂŐĞŶĐǇ͕ ƉŽŝŶƟŶŐ ƵƐ ƚŽǁĂƌĚƐ Ă ŵŽƌĞ ĚǇŶĂŵŝĐ ƵŶĚĞƌƐƚĂŶĚŝŶŐ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ǁŝƚŚŝŶ ƚŚĞ ůĂƌŐĞƌ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƐǇƐƚĞŵ͘ tĞ ƐƚƌĞƐƐ ŚĞƌĞ ƚŚĞ ŝŵƉŽƌƚĂŶĐĞ ŽĨ ĚŽŝŶŐ ƐŽ ǁŝƚŚŝŶ ĂĐĂĚĞŵŝĐ ĚŝƐĐŽƵƌƐĞ ĂŶĚ ŝŶ ƉůĂŝŶ ǀŝĞǁ͖ ŝŶ ŽƚŚĞƌ ǁŽƌĚƐ͕ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ ĂŶ ĞŶŐĂŐĞĚ ƉƵďůŝĐ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͘ dŚĞ ƉŽǁĞƌ ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ĐƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ ƉŽǀĞƌƚǇ ĂƌŐƵŵĞŶƚ ŽǁĞƐ ŵƵĐŚ ƚŽ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ͛Ɛ ĐŽŶƐŝĚĞƌĂďůĞ ƐƚĂƚƵƐ ĂƐ Ă ƉƵďůŝĐ ŝŶƚĞůůĞĐƚƵĂů͘ ŶĚ ƐŽ ǁŚŝůĞ ƐŽĐŝĂů ƐĐŝĞŶƟƐƚƐ ŚĂǀĞ ĚŽŶĞ ŵƵĐŚ ƚŽ ĐŽƵŶƚĞƌ ƚŚĞ ůĞŐŝƟŵĂĐǇ ŽĨ ŚŝƐ ĨƌĂŵĞǁŽƌŬ͕ ŝƚƐ ƉĞƌƐŝƐƚĞŶĐĞ ;ĂŶĚ ĂƉƉĂƌĞŶƚ ƌĞĞŵĞƌŐĞŶĐĞ ƚŽ dŚĞ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ dŝŵĞƐͿ ƐƵŐŐĞƐƚƐ ǁĞ ŶĞĞĚ ƚŽ ďĞ Ăƚ ůĞĂƐƚ ĂƐ ĐŽŶĐĞƌŶĞĚ ǁŝƚŚ ǁŝŶŶŝŶŐ ĂƌŐƵŵĞŶƚƐ ĂƐ ǁĞ ĂƌĞ ǁŝƚŚ ŵĂŬŝŶŐ ƚŚĞŵ͘

*SVQEXMSRW :SP 2S

ZĞĨĞƌĞŶĐĞƐ ŽŚĞŶ͕ WĂƚƌŝĐŝĂ͘ ϮϬϭϬ͘ ͚͞ ƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ WŽǀĞƌƚǇ͛ dŚĞŽƌǇ DĂŬĞƐ Ă ŽŵĞďĂĐŬ͟ dŚĞ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ dŝŵĞƐ͕ KĐƚŽďĞƌ ϭϴ͕ Ɖ͘ ϭ͘ ,ĂƌƌŝŶŐƚŽŶ͕ DŝĐŚĂĞů͘ ϭϵϲϮ͘ dŚĞ KƚŚĞƌ ŵĞƌŝĐĂ͗ WŽǀĞƌƚǇ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ hŶŝƚĞĚ ^ƚĂƚĞƐ͘ ĂůƟŵŽƌĞ͗ WĞŶŐƵŝŶ ŽŽŬƐ͘ ŚŽŽŬƐ͕ ďĞůů͘ ϮϬϬϰ͘ tĞ ZĞĂů ŽŽů͗ ůĂĐŬ DĞŶ ĂŶĚ DĂƐĐƵůŝŶŝƚǇ͘ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͗ ZŽƵƚůĞĚŐĞ͘ <Ăƚǌ͕ DŝĐŚĂĞů ͘ ϭϵϵϬ͘ dŚĞ hŶĚĞƐĞƌǀŝŶŐ WŽŽƌ͗ &ƌŽŵ ƚŚĞ tĂƌ ŽŶ WŽǀĞƌƚǇ ƚŽ ƚŚĞ tĂƌ ŽŶ tĞůĨĂƌĞ͘ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͗ WĂŶƚŚĞŽŶ ŽŽŬƐ͘ >ĞǁŝƐ͕ KƐĐĂƌ͘ ϭϵϲϭ͘ dŚĞ ŚŝůĚƌĞŶ ŽĨ ^ĂŶĐŚĞǌ͗ ƵƚŽďŝŽŐƌĂƉŚǇ ŽĨ Ă DĞǆŝĐĂŶ &ĂŵŝůǇ͘ ZĂŶĚŽŵ ,ŽƵƐĞ͕ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͘ >ĞǁŝƐ͕ KƐĐĂƌ͘ ϭϵϲϲ͘ >Ă sŝĚĂ͗ WƵĞƌƚŽ ZŝĐĂŶ &ĂŵŝůǇ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ƵůƚƵƌĞ ŽĨ WŽǀĞƌƚǇͶ^ĂŶ :ƵĂŶ ĂŶĚ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͘ ZĂŶĚŽŵ ,ŽƵƐĞ͕ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͘ DŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ͕ ĂŶŝĞů WĂƚƌŝĐŬ͘ ϭϵϲϱ͘ dŚĞ EĞŐƌŽ &ĂŵŝůǇ͗ dŚĞ ĂƐĞ ĨŽƌ EĂƟŽŶĂů ĐƟŽŶ͘ dŚĞ ĞƉĂƌƚŵĞŶƚ ŽĨ >ĂďŽƌ͘ ZĞƚƌŝĞǀĞĚ EŽǀĞŵďĞƌ ϲ͕ ϮϬϭϬ ĨƌŽŵ ŚƩƉ͗ͬͬǁǁǁ͘ĚŽů͘ŐŽǀͬ ŽĂƐĂŵͬƉƌŽŐƌĂŵƐͬŚŝƐƚŽƌǇͬǁĞďŝĚŵŽǇŶŝŚĂŶ͘Śƚŵ K͛ ŽŶŶŽƌ͕ ůŝĐĞ͘ ϮϬϬϭ͘ WŽǀĞƌƚǇ <ŶŽǁůĞĚŐĞ͗ ^ŽĐŝĂů ^ĐŝĞŶĐĞ͕ ^ŽĐŝĂů WŽůŝĐǇ͕ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ WŽŽƌ ŝŶ dǁĞŶƟĞƚŚͲ ĞŶƚƵƌǇ h͘^͘ ,ŝƐƚŽƌǇ͘ WƌŝŶĐĞƚŽŶ͗ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚǇ ŽĨ WƌŝŶĐĞƚŽŶ WƌĞƐƐ͘ ZĞĞĚ͕ ĚŽůƉŚ͕ :ƌ͘ ϭϵϵϭ͘ ͞dŚĞ ͚hŶĚĞƌĐůĂƐƐ͛ ĂƐ DǇƚŚ ĂŶĚ ^ǇŵďŽů͗ dŚĞ WŽǀĞƌƚǇ ŽĨ ŝƐĐŽƵƌƐĞ ďŽƵƚ WŽǀĞƌƚǇ͕͟ ZĂĚŝĐĂů ŵĞƌŝĐĂ Ϯϰ ;tŝŶƚĞƌͿ͘ ZŽǇƐƚĞƌ͕ ĞŝƌĚƌĞ ůĞǆŝĂ͘ ϮϬϬϯ͘ ZĂĐĞ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ /ŶǀŝƐŝďůĞ ,ĂŶĚ͗ ,Žǁ tŚŝƚĞ EĞƚǁŽƌŬƐ ǆĐůƵĚĞ ůĂĐŬ DĞŶ ĨƌŽŵ ůƵĞͲ ŽůůĂƌ :ŽďƐ͘ ĞƌŬůĞǇ͗ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚǇ ŽĨ ĂůŝĨŽƌŶŝĂ WƌĞƐƐ͘ ZǇĂŶ͕ tŝůůŝĂŵ͘ ϭϵϳϭ͘ ůĂŵŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ sŝĐƟŵ͘ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͗ WĂŶƚŚĞŽŶ ŽŽŬƐ͘

*SVQEXMSRW :SP 2S

Authors

Alan Bourke is a PhD candidate in sociology at York University, Canada, ǁŝƚŚ ƌĞƐĞĂƌĐŚ ŝŶƚĞƌĞƐƚƐ ŝŶ ƵƌďĂŶ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ ĂŶĚ ƋƵĂůŝƚĂƟǀĞ ŵĞƚŚŽĚŽůŽŐǇ͘ ,ŝƐ ƌĞĐĞŶƚ work has appeared in the Sage Encyclopaedia of Urban Studies ;ϮϬϭϬͿ͘ ,Ğ ŚĂƐ ĂŶ ĂƌƟĐůĞ ĨŽƌƚŚĐŽŵŝŶŐ ŝŶ hƌďĂŶ ĚƵĐĂƟŽŶ ;ϮϬϭϭͿ͘ Marnie Brady is a PhD student in Sociology at the CUNY Graduate Center, ĂŶĚ Ă 'ƌĂĚƵĂƚĞ dĞĂĐŚŝŶŐ &ĞůůŽǁ Ăƚ ,ƵŶƚĞƌ ŽůůĞŐĞ͘ ,Ğƌ ǁŽƌŬ ƐŝƚƐ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ ŝŶƚĞƌƐĞĐƟŽŶ ŽĨ ƵƌďĂŶ͕ ƐŽĐŝĂů ŵŽǀĞŵĞŶƚ͕ ĂŶĚ ŝŵŵŝŐƌĂƟŽŶ ƐƚƵĚŝĞƐ͕ ĂŶĚ ĐŽŶƐŝĚĞƌƐ ĐŚĂŶŐĞƐ ŝŶ h͘^͘ ƵƌďĂŶ ĐŽŵŵƵŶŝƚǇ ŽƌŐĂŶŝǌŝŶŐ ĂƉƉƌŽĂĐŚĞƐ ǀŝƐ ă ǀŝƐ ƚŚĞ ƐƚĂƚĞ͘ ^ŚĞ ŚĂƐ ůĞĚ ŶƵŵĞƌŽƵƐ ĐŽŵŵƵŶŝƚǇͲďĂƐĞĚ ĂŶĚ ƉĂƌƟĐŝƉĂƚŽƌǇ ĂĐƟŽŶ ƌĞƐĞĂƌĐŚ ƉƌŽũĞĐƚƐ ĂŶĚ ŝƐ ĐƵƌƌĞŶƚůǇ ǁŽƌŬŝŶŐ ǁŝƚŚ EĞŝů ^ŵŝƚŚ ĂƐ Ă ĐŽŶƚƌŝďƵƚŽƌ ĂŶĚ ĞĚŝƚŽƌŝĂů ĐŽŵŵŝƩĞĞ ŵĞŵďĞƌ ŽŶ Ă ĨŽƌƚŚĐŽŵŝŶŐ ďŽŽŬ ĐŚƌŽŶŝĐůŝŶŐ ƚŚĞ ŚŝƐƚŽƌǇ ŽĨ ƌĞǀŽůƚƐ ŝŶ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ ŝƚǇ͘ Patricia Ticineto Clough ŝƐ WƌŽĨĞƐƐŽƌ ŽĨ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͕ tŽŵĞŶ͛Ɛ ^ƚƵĚŝĞƐ͕ ĂŶĚ /ŶƚĞƌĐƵůƚƵƌĂů ^ƚƵĚŝĞƐ Ăƚ YƵĞĞŶƐ ŽůůĞŐĞ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ 'ƌĂĚƵĂƚĞ ^ĐŚŽŽů ŽĨ ƚŚĞ ŝƚǇ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚǇ ŽĨ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ͘ ,Ğƌ ďŽŽŬƐ ŝŶĐůƵĚĞ ƵƚŽĂīĞĐƟŽŶ (2000), Feminist Thought (1995) and The End(s) of Ethnography ;ϭϵϵϮ͕ ƌĞǀŝƐĞĚ ϭϵϵϴͿ͘ Kathleen Dunn ŝƐ Ă ĚŽĐƚŽƌĂů ƐƚƵĚĞŶƚ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ WƌŽŐƌĂŵ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ hEz 'ƌĂĚƵĂƚĞ ĞŶƚĞƌ͘ ,Ğƌ ƌĞƐĞĂƌĐŚ ŝŶƚĞƌĞƐƚƐ ŝŶĐůƵĚĞ ƵƌďĂŶ ƚŚĞŽƌǇ͕ ƐƚƌĂƟĮĐĂƟŽŶ͕ ĂŶĚ ŐůŽďĂůŝǌĂƟŽŶ͘ ,Ğƌ ĚŝƐƐĞƌƚĂƟŽŶ ƌĞƐĞĂƌĐŚ ĨŽĐƵƐĞƐ ŽŶ ůĂďŽƌ͛Ɛ ƌŽůĞ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ƉŽůŝƟĐƐ ŽĨ ƉƵďůŝĐ ƐƉĂĐĞ ƚŚƌŽƵŐŚ Ă ĐĂƐĞ ƐƚƵĚǇ ŽĨ ƐƚƌĞĞƚ ǀĞŶĚŝŶŐ ŝŶ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ ŝƚǇ͘ Nolen Gertz ŝƐ Ă ĚŽĐƚŽƌĂů ĐĂŶĚŝĚĂƚĞ ŝŶ ƉŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚǇ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ EĞǁ ^ĐŚŽŽů ĨŽƌ ^ŽĐŝĂů ZĞƐĞĂƌĐŚ ĂŶĚ ĂĚũƵŶĐƚ ůĞĐƚƵƌĞƌ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ ŝƚǇ ŽůůĞŐĞ ŽĨ dĞĐŚŶŽůŽŐǇ͘ ,Ğ has edited the eBook War Fronts ;/ŶƚĞƌͲ ŝƐĐŝƉůŝŶĂƌǇ WƌĞƐƐ͕ ϮϬϭϬͿ͕ ĂŶĚ ŚŝƐ ĞƐƐĂǇ ŽŶ ͞EŝĞƚǌƐĐŚĞ ĂŶĚ ƚŚĞ ZĞĚ ^ŽǆͬzĂŶŬĞĞƐ ZŝǀĂůƌǇ͟ ĐĂŶ ďĞ ĨŽƵŶĚ ŝŶ Red Sox and Philosophy ;KƉĞŶ ŽƵƌƚ͕ ϮϬϭϬͿ͘ ,Ğ ŚĂƐ ĂůƐŽ ƉƵďůŝƐŚĞĚ ĂƌƟĐůĞƐ ŝŶ Res Publica, Journal of Military Ethics, PhaenEx and WŚŝůŽƐŽƉŚŝĐĂů &ƌŽŶƟĞƌƐ͘

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Melissa Maldonado-‐Salcedo is a doctoral student in Cultural Anthropology Ăƚ hEz 'ƌĂĚƵĂƚĞ ĞŶƚĞƌ͘ ^ŚĞ ĞĂƌŶĞĚ ĂŶ D͘ ͘/͘ ŝŶ /ŶƚĞƌŶĂƟŽŶĂů īĂŝƌƐ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ EĞǁ ^ĐŚŽŽů ŝŶ ϮϬϬϰ͕ ĂŶĚ ĂŶ D͘ ŝŶ >ĂƟŶ ŵĞƌŝĐĂŶ ĂŶĚ ĂƌŝďďĞĂŶ ^ƚƵĚŝĞƐ Ăƚ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚǇ ŝŶ ϮϬϬϲ͘ ^ŚĞ ŝƐ ĂŶ ĚũƵŶĐƚ WƌŽĨĞƐƐŽƌ Ăƚ ,ƵŶƚĞƌ ŽůůĞŐĞ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĞƉĂƌƚŵĞŶƚ ŽĨ ĨƌŝĐĂŶĂ ĂŶĚ WƵĞƌƚŽ ZŝĐĂŶͬ>ĂƟŶŽ ^ƚƵĚŝĞƐ ĂƐ ǁĞůů ĂƐ Ăƚ &ŽƌĚŚĂŵ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚǇ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ĞƉĂƌƚŵĞŶƚ ŽĨ ŶƚŚƌŽƉŽůŽŐǇ ĂŶĚ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ͘ Jamie McCallum is a PhD candidate in Sociology at the GC and a board ŵĞŵďĞƌ ŽĨ >ĞŌ &ŽƌƵŵ͘ ,ŝƐ ĚŝƐƐĞƌƚĂƟŽŶ ŝƐ ŽŶ ƚƌĂŶƐŶĂƟŽŶĂů ůĂďŽƌ ĂĐƟǀŝƐŵ ŝŶ ƚŚĞ ŐůŽďĂů ^ŽƵƚŚ͘ Abe Walker ŝƐ Ă WŚ ĐĂŶĚŝĚĂƚĞ ŝŶ ^ŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ Ăƚ ƚŚĞ ŝƚǇ hŶŝǀĞƌƐŝƚǇ ŽĨ EĞǁ zŽƌŬ 'ƌĂĚƵĂƚĞ ĞŶƚĞƌ ͕ ĂŶ ĂĚũƵŶĐƚ ŝŶƐƚƌƵĐƚŽƌ ŝŶ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ Ăƚ YƵĞĞŶƐ ŽůůĞŐĞ͕ ĂŶĚ Ă ƌĂŶŬͲĂŶĚͲĮůĞ ĂŐŝƚĂƚŽƌ ŝŶ &d >ŽĐĂů Ϯϯϯϰ͘

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Haj Yazdiha ŝƐ Ă ŐƌĂĚƵĂƚĞ ƐƚƵĚĞŶƚ ŽĨ ƐŽĐŝŽůŽŐǇ Ăƚ ƌŽŽŬůǇŶ ŽůůĞŐĞ͘

Formations Vol.1 No.1 2010