Journal articles: 'Markoe, Peter' – Grafiati (2024)

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Bernkastel-Kues. Die Weinkellerei Peter Mertes setzt auf die Marke Deinhard, um in höheren Preissegmenten Fuß zu fassen. Der Discount-Spezialist sieht sich durch aktuelle Verbrauchstrends ermutigt. Die Zukunft der Marke im Sektgeschäft ist noch offen.

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AbstractCognitive penetration of perception is the idea that what we see (hear, taste, etc.) is influenced by such “cognitive” states as beliefs, expectations, and so on. A perceptual belief that results from cognitive penetration may be less justified than a nonpenetrated one. Inferentialism is a kind of internalist view that tries to account for this by claiming that (a) some experiences are epistemically evaluable, on the basis of why the perceiver has that experience, and (b) the familiar canons of good inference provide the appropriate standards by which experiences are evaluated. I examine recent defenses of inferentialism by Susanna Siegel, Peter Markie, and Matthew McGrath and argue that the prospects for inferentialism are dim.

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A painting of the Virgin and Child, signed as “OPVUS P. PETRI”, from the former Fareham Collection (today at the Courtauld Institute of Art), has been known in the scholarly literature for a long time but has only been subject to tangential analyses. These studies attempted to attribute it to painters meeting relatively dubious criteria: that their name was Peter (Petar) and that they could be linked to the painting circle of Squarcione or, more specifically, to that of Carlo Crivelli with whose early works, especially the Virgin and Child (the Huldschinsky Madonna) at the Fine Arts Gallery in San Diego, the Courtauld painting shares obvious connections. Roberto Longhi ascribed it to the Paduan painter Pietro Calzetta in 1926, while Franz Drey, in 1929, considered it to be the work of Pietro Alemanno, Crivelli’s disciple, who worked in the Marche region during the last quarter of the fifteenth century. After the Second World War, the Courtauld painting was almost completely ignored by the experts. The only serious judgement was that expressed by Pietro Zampetti, who established that it was an almost exact copy of Crivelli’s Huldschinsky Madonna, meaning that if Calzetti had painted it, he would have done it while Carlo was still in the Veneto, before he went to Zadar.The search for information which can shed more light on the attribution of the Virgin and Child from the Courtauld is aided by the valuable records in the Fondazione Federico Zeri at the Università di Bologna. The holdings of the Fototeca Zeri include three different photographs of the Courtauld painting with brief but useful accompanying notes. Of particular importance is the intriguing inscription on the back of one of the photographs, which points to the painting’s Dalmatian origin. In a certain way, this opens the possibility that it might be linked to another painter who was close to the Crivelli brothers: the Zadar priest and painter Petar Jordanić. That he may have been the one who painted it is indicated by the signature itself, which could be read as “OPVUS P(RESBITERI) PETRI”.Archival records about Petar Jordanić provide almost no information about his work as a painter. Apart from his signature of 1493 on a no-longer extant polyptich from the Church of St Mary at Zadar, the only record of his artistic activities is one piece of information: that in 1500 he took part in a delegation which was sent from Zadar to its hinterland charged with the task of making drawings of the terrain which could be used to help defend the town against the Ottoman Turks. However, more than thirty documents which mention him do paint a picture of his life’s journey and his connection with Zadar. The most important basis for any consideration of a possible connection between Petar Jordanić and Carlo Crivelli can be found in the will of his father Marko Jordanov Nozdronja (in late 1468) where Petar was named as the executor, meaning that at this point he was of age. Therefore, it can be concluded that he was born between 1446 and 1448. This makes him old enough to have been taught by Carlo during his stay in Zadar from c. 1460 to 1466. Although relatively modest, the oeuvre of Petar Jordanić demonstrates striking connections with the paintings of Carlo and Vittore Crivelli, and Ivo Petricioli has already put forward a hypothesis that he may have been taught by one of the brothers.The comparison between the painting from the Courtauld Institute of Art in London and the known works of Petar Jordanić (the Virgin and Child from a private collection in Vienna; the Virgin and Child from the Parish Church at Tkon; fragments of a painted ceiling from Zadar Cathedral; the lost polyptich from the Church of St Mary at Zadar) reveals a multitude of similar features. Apart from the general resemblance in the physiognomies of the Virgin and Christ Child which represent the most conspicuous analogies, a number of very specific “Morellian” elements can also be noted in the manner in which the faces were painted. These similarities are particularly apparent when one compares the head of the Christ Child on the painting from London and his head on the one from Tkon, which are almost identically depicted. Further similarities between the London painting and the one at Vienna can be seen in the way in which landscapes were painted and in the similar decorations of the gold fabrics in the backgrounds with their undulating scrolls and sharp almond-shaped leaves.However, with regard to visual characteristics, it is apparent at first sight that the quality of the London painting is markedly higher and that it is stylistically more advanced than those works which are attributed with certainty to Jordanić. These differences can be explained by the possibility that this was a more or less direct copy of one of Carlo Crivelli’s painting, probably not the Huldschinsky Madonna but one that was very similar to it and subsequently lost.Naturally, if the London painting is attributed to Petar Jordanić, meaning that it was produced in Zadar, then the argument on the basis of which the Huldschinsky Madonna has been dated to the time before Crivelli’s arrival in Zadar becomes a counter-argument, and, in that way, corroborates the possibility that the Huldschinsky Madonna, which shares a large number of similar elements with the painting from the Courtauld Institute of Art, was created while Carlo was in Zadar.

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Saint Mark the Evangelist (Cyrene around 10 AD – Alexandria April 25th 68 AD) was a member of the Jewish tribe o Levi. He is nephew of Saint Barnabas, close associate of Saint Paul and Peter to whom he was secretary. In the New Testament he is mentioned eight times and Mary mother of John called Mark is mentioned for the ninth time. The first Christian community in Jerusalem gathered in his mother Mary’s home. According to some sources Jesus ate his last supper in Mark’s mother Mary’s house. He is worshipped by: The Roman Catholic Church, The Orthodox Church, The Coptic Church, the eastern Catholic churches, the Lutheran Church. He is multiple patron. Worship of Saint Mark the evangelist in Croats’ Christian traditional culture is reflected in legends; cathedrals and churches consecrated to that evangelist; toponyms; chrematonyms; processions and blessings of fields, crops, vineyards; folk celebrations (fairs); helping the poor; cult shrines; folk divinations and sayings; bonfires; oral lyrical poems; prayers. The paper cites the results of field research conducted from the year 1997 until the year 2016. About fifty legends, prayers, customs, rituals, processions, divinations have been originally recorded among Croatian Catholics in Croatia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Montenegro and Serbia. The paper (re)constructs the life of Saint Mark the Evangelist on the basis of the New Testament, tales and legends. Further, the aim of the paper is to save from the oblivion the old legends, customs, rituals, processions, oral lyrical poems, prayers, divinations and to point out their social and aesthetic function using the multidisciplinary interpretation. Inductive-deductive method and methods of description, comparison, analysis and synthesis are used alongside the filed research work.

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The paper refutes the assumption of Petar Miljkovic-Pepek that the oldest icons in the treasury of Monastery of King Marko were painted between 1395 and 1405, as a gift the Byzantine empress Helena Dragas made to the monastery so as to ensure a yearly memorial service for her tragically killed father Constantine. The part of the inscription on the icon of St Demetrios, on which the assumption was based, has been differently interpreted here: it is not actually related to empress Helena but to the military title of Thessalonian megalomartyr, like the rest of the inscription.

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Martin Krpan z Vrha, written by Fran Levstik as a conscious experiment in prose-writing, has been interpreted variously during the last century and a half. The duel between a Slovenian peasant and a giant who comes to terrorise Vienna was in turn read by scholars as a political satire, the realisation of a literary and linguistic programme, a literary parody etc. Its motif was mostly interpreted with reference to Slavic folklore characters (Pegam and Lambergar, Prince Marko,peter Klepec etc.). The analysis according to the model devised by Vladimir Propp, however, shows striking similarities with Biblical story of David and Goliath (1 Sm 17). The reception of this motif is marked by significant political overtones, already present in antiquity and then interest­ ingly developed in places as diverse as sixteenth-century Florence, Prague, and the Netherlands. As attested by the sources, Levstik used this motif several limes; to a certain extent he even identi­ fied with its hero.

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When Peter Hallama approached the Aspasia editorial board about publishing the proceedings of a conference he was organizing on Socialist Masculinities, we jumped at the opportunity. It seemed that Aspasia, as a journal of women’s and gender history, would be the perfect venue to showcase the innovative and important historical scholarship being conducted on masculinities in Central, Eastern, and Southeastern Europe. Although the COVID-19 pandemic delayed his plans and necessitated holding a virtual conference, the results that make up the contents of this volume do not disappoint. As Hallama mentions in his Introduction to the Special Forum articles, and as Marko Dumančić highlights in his concluding Comments, the works included here reflect a deep engagement with the lived experiences of men, assessed through memoirs, diaries, photographs, newspapers, and internal party documents. These articles explore some of the many and shifting masculinities constructed throughout the region during the socialist period, showing that individuals and the state constantly engaged in their negotiation and renegotiation.

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Los eslovenos tenemos varios héroes míticos marcados por la experiencia de la interculturalidad: el buen soberano Kralj Matjaž (el Rey Matías) que duerme bajo el monte de Peca, esperando a que le crezca lo suficientemente la barba para poder entrar en acción; Martin Krpan, hombre fuerte como un roble que liberó Viena del mal y a cambio consiguió un permiso especial para traficar con sal; Peter Klepec, un chico humilde que compartía con los demás su fuerza; y Lepa Vida (Hermosa Vida), la joven madre que por engaño abandona a su hijo y su hogar para viajar en barco al extranjero. Todos ellos tienen origen en el bagaje cultural popular y todos ellos posteriormente han sido objeto de nuevas y distintas adaptaciones artísticas. Entre las adaptaciones literarias por frecuencia sobresale Hermosa Vida, que a su vez ha tenido eco (aunque mucho menor) en la pintura: sobresale la obra de Maksim Gaspari, y la obra de Marko Kociper (2010) en cómic ‒recogida en una de las versiones literarias más recientes, Hermosa Vida en acción de Andrej Rozman Roza.

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Los eslovenos tenemos varios héroes míticos marcados por la experiencia de la interculturalidad: el buen soberano Kralj Matjaž (el Rey Matías) que duerme bajo el monte de Peca, esperando a que le crezca lo suficientemente la barba para poder entrar en acción; Martin Krpan, hombre fuerte como un roble que liberó Viena del mal y a cambio consiguió un permiso especial para traficar con sal; Peter Klepec, un chico humilde que compartía con los demás su fuerza; y Lepa Vida (Hermosa Vida), la joven madre que por engaño abandona a su hijo y su hogar para viajar en barco al extranjero. Todos ellos tienen origen en el bagaje cultural popular y todos ellos posteriormente han sido objeto de nuevas y distintas adaptaciones artísticas. Entre las adaptaciones literarias por frecuencia sobresale Hermosa Vida, que a su vez ha tenido eco (aunque mucho menor) en la pintura: sobresale la obra de Maksim Gaspari, y la obra de Marko Kociper (2010) en cómic ‒recogida en una de las versiones literarias más recientes, Hermosa Vida en acción de Andrej Rozman Roza.

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The Greek Revolution of 1821 was one of the most important issues in Europe of the early 19th century on a political and military level. The outbreak of the Greek Revolution was not supported by the Great Powers of the time, since as a liberation struggle it violated the terms of the Holy Alliance (1815), however it managed to prevail thanks to the support of the people of Europe as they regarded this an effort of a small nation to claim its freedom and oppose to slavery and authoritarianism. After all, we are in the time of Romanticism and this kind of struggle enjoyed the support of intellectuals, collectives, and different groups of citizens. Philhellenism was on the rise, and painters like Delacroix made a huge impact with works that made a strong impression on Europe. After the success of the Revolution, many foreign artists came to Greece, some on their own initiative as travelers and others carrying out their King’s orders. Some of them were painters (both amateur and professional) that painted live portraits of the leading figures of the Revolution, leaving behind a remarkable oeuvre when seen from a historical, factual, and artistic point of view. And since at that point in Greece there could be no room for domestic artistic creation, the work of these artists is considered particularly important in terms of portraiture, history, facts, and artistic value. The most important out of the painters that were in Greece at that critical time are the Bavarians Karl Krazeisen and Peter von Hess, who painted portraits of Greek fighters and these portraits have since become the blueprints that other artists, painters, and sculptors based their work on resulting in the perpetuation of the historical memory.It is worth mentioning that in the 200 years of independence these works remain of enduring value when paying tribute and respect to the first martyrs of the Greek Struggle.

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When we inquire into the nature of works of art we can see at a glance that there is a good deal of evidence against aesthetic idealism, the view that artworks are, in the final analysis, imaginary objects in the minds of their creators. We believe, for instance, that the National Gallery not only contingently but in some sense necessarily weighs more than merely the sum of the empty building, the people in it, and the assorted fixtures. This sum must also include the weight of canvases, the oils on them, carved stone and marble, and so on, all of which add up to substantially more than nothing, which is at least the approximate weight of imaginary things. We know that it takes considerably more than a verbal utterance or acoustical blast to transport an artwork, and we also know that a visit to the gallery is not going to amount to an afternoon spent with wax figures of unicorns, flying horses, present and bald kings of France or, for that matter, talking teapots. In short, intuition protests against the idealist theory that if works of art are imaginary objects, they cannot be the things we go to see in the gallery; and if they are imaginary objects then, like a waxen Peter Pan, they are surely not art. Mellon and Meinong simply have different kinds of collections.

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In order to consider this topic, it was first necessary to discuss certain problems of terminology and periodisation relating to musical modernism in general. It is already familiar the extent to which the terms "new music", "modernist", "contemporary" and "avant-garde" music have been used interchangeably, as synonyms. For this reason, it was first important to outline the period of musical modernism as almost generally accepted, which is regarded as an epoch comprising three different periods: (I) period of early modernism (1890?1918), announced by a break with later romanticism and a turn towards French Impressionism, Austro-German Expressionism and Russian "folkloric Expressionism"; (II) period of "classical modernism"(1919?1945) that witnessed a diffusion of neo-classicism and serialism; (III) period of "high modernism" (1946?1972) characterized by highly experimental compositional techniques such as integral serialism and aleatoricism. In relation to this, avant-garde movements are seen as radically innovative and subversive tendencies within this modernist epoch, and while certain postmodernist ideas can be recognized as early as the 1950s, postmodernism as a movement hadn?t gained its full potency until the 1970s. Since then, it has assumed different forms of existence as well as having assimilated a continued form of ?modernist project?. The second part of the article proposes a periodisation of Serbian musical modernism, which is divided into four stages. The first stage (1908?1945) was a period where elements of Impressionism and German expressionism were creatively introduced into the works of several leading composers (Petar Konjovic, Stevan Hristic, Miloje Milojevic, Josip Slavenski, Marko Tajcevic). The second stage (1929?1945) was marked by a group of composers who studied in Prague and assimilated certain progressive compositional techniques such as free tonality, atonality dodecaphony, microtonality and athematicism (Mihovil Logar, Predrag Milosevic, Dragutin Colic, Ljubica Maric, Vojislav Vuckovic, Milan Ristic). The third stage (1951?1970) followed immediately after the era of Socialist Realism, which involved the rediscovery of the pre- World War II Western modernism and prepared the ground for contemporary avant-garde developments almost non-existent before 1961 (Milan Ristic, Dusan Radic, Dejan Despic Vladan Radovanovic, Enriko Josif, Stanojlo Rajicic, Vasilije Mokranjac Aleksandar Obradovic, Ljubica Maric, Rajko Maksimovic). The fourth stage (1956?1980) was the period during which the post-World War II avant-garde developments found their home amongst Serbian composers, some of them conceived almost simultaneously with but independent of the current progressive development in the rest of the world (Vladan Radovanovic Aleksandar Obradovic, Petar Ozgijan, Petar Bergamo, Srdjan Hofman, the group Opus 4).

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AbstractOur ideas of what 17th century Dutch interiors looked like have been conditioned by the hundreds of paintings of interiors by Dutch genre painters. Even restorations and reconstructions in our own time (fig. 1) are influenced significantly by them. It is therefore of vital importance to our knowledge of the history of Dutch interior decoration to realise what we can or cannot believe, and to compare these genre interiors with other sources such as probate inventories, building specifications, plans, conditions of sale, contemporary descriptions such as travellers' reports, etc. It is the combination of these different types of information that enables them to supplement and correct each other. Since the fixed interior fittings are not usually mentioned in probate inventories, it is even more important to weigh all the available evidence by critical analysis. The scope of this article allows me to discuss only a few of the many features; I shall therefore restrict my comments to the fixed decorations and closely associated features. This discourse is therefore in part a comment on Peter Thornton's book Seventeenth Century Interior Decoration in England, France and Holland, who made extensive use of Dutch genre paintings but, unfortunately, could not compare them with inventories of Dutch burghers (other than with the published inventories of the princes of the House of Orange) or with other written Dutch sources. The main starting point is a well-known picture by Emanuel de Witte in the Museum Boijmans Van Beuningcn in Rotterdam, of which a second version is kept in Montreal (fig. 2-3); hardly any other genre interior has been so consistently used as a prototype for a Dutch 17th century interior. The room in the foreground shows a woman sitting at a virginal, a common feature in Dutch houses of the period, while on the left a man is sleeping in a bed; during this period, wealthier people were only just starting to differentiate between living-rooms and bedchambers, and a combination of the two functions was still quite common. The ceiling, however, shows that the tie-beams do not run parallel to the façade as they ought to, but perpendicular to it. This is clearly an instance of artistic licence, so that the horizontal lines of the beams can close off the composition at the top. Behind this room is the entrance hall, with two more rooms behind. An enfilade of this kind is out of the question in a Dutch house at that time, even in a country house. Here the artist has allowed the emphasis on the perspective view and spatial relationships within the painting to prevail over reality, a common feature in most other Dutch genre interiors (fig. 4). Floors with intricate patterns of contrasting marble slabs are a predominant element in these perspective paintings. They can be seen in most genre pictures from the middle and third quarter of the 17th century. However, very few such floors actually survive. There is a rare example, dating from 1661, in the museum 'Our Good Lord in the Attic' at Amsterdam (fig. 6). At that time Amsterdam was a port of transit for marble and stone from Italy and other countries. Travellers reported seeing patterned marble floors in Amsterdam, although most floors of this kind arc likely to have been in official or public buildings. Their prevalence in the residences of burghers is open to question. Only a few building specifications describe them, while explicit references to expensive wooden floors in rich houses have been found. For instance, in one of the most luxurious Amsterdam residences, the mansion of the Bartolotti family, only two such floors were added between 1649 and 1664, in which latter year the rooms in question were particularised in the inventory as 'stone' chambers. This specific indication is in itself proof of how rare marble floors were, for such designations occur only sporadically in inventories of the period (e.g. of the Trippenhuis). In the elaborate descriptions of his important commissions between 1637 and 1670 (fig. 7) the architect Philips Vingboons always mentions marble floors when there are any: altogether, he describes 'Italian' floors four times. They are however quite plain, consisting solely of white slabs; only in two instances was the white marble relieved by blue or red strips specially cut for this use. The fact that this prominent architect dwells so proudly on this feature demonstrates how exceptional it was; elsewhere he invariably speaks of Prussian deals. Several designs by the architect Pieter Post for interiors of burgher houses survive, some even with patterns for marble floors. Again, though, they are very simplc (fig. 8-9), the more elaborate ones being meant for an entrance hall (fig. 10). And we know from the records that wooden floors were preferred for a house which Post built in Dordrecht, even in the reception rooms. Similarly, a third well-known architect, Adriaen Dortsman, designed stone and marble floors only for the basem*nt and corridors of the house he built for Jan Six in 1666 (fig. 11) - not, however, for the main rooms. Examples like these, moreover, apply to the houses of the absolute upper class in Amsterdam, the richest city in Holland. Marble and stone floors were in fact largely confined to halls and corridors, as in the palace Huis ten Bosch built by Pieter Post (fig. 12-13). Of the other palaces belonging to the Prince of Orange, only Rijswijk was famous for its marble floors in most of the rooms (fig. 14). The rooms in the two earliest 17th-century dolls houses, dating from the 1670s, do not have marble floors either, except for the entrance hall (fig. 15); a slightly later one has a marble floor in the hall and the best kitchen, but also in the lying-in chamber (fig. 16). These Amsterdam dolls houses again clearly indicate a preference for wooden floors in reception and living rooms. The rarity of marble floors in living rooms is understandable, since they struck cold and were uncomfortable to dwell on. In the front halls, where marble or stone floors were much more common, there was usually a wooden platform (called a zoldertje) for people to sit on (fig. 19). All this is borne out by one quantitative source: a series of the conditions of sale pertain ing to houses in the city of Haarlem over a period of sixty years. Although they concern the second half of the 18th century, a considerable number of 17th-century interior features were still preserved. No fewer than approximately 5000 different houses are described in this source: by then nearly all larger houses had marble entrance halls and corridors, most of them dating from the 18th century; however, a total of no more than nine living rooms arc mentioned as having marble or stone floors! All these considerations lead to the conclusion that, although marble floors did exist in the houses of Dutch burghers, they were

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Intensive conversations with members of political parties, closely reading the press, talks with other foreign diplomats, analytical evaluations of many individual events and their contextualization in the wider picture of the situation in Greece allowed Yugoslav diplomats to accurately assess the situation in the country, identify the potential of the military junta and the centers of putschist support in Greece and abroad, follow their showdown with left-wing and democratic options, recognize the ambitions of the putschist regime and the nature of their dictatorship, have insight into the situation of the opposition, make out te contours of a possible state-political system, monitor relations with neighboring countries, closely follow the regime?s position to the Macedonian minority, follow the moves of the monarch, assess the permanence of compromises, observe the pressure of the international public and the controversial behavior of the Great Powers, and offer prognoses of the course of events in the near future. Yugoslav diplomats collected some of the relevant information on the situation in Greece in other capitals (London, Ankara, Nicosia, Paris?). This information contributed to a wider evaluation of the existing circ*mstances and a sharper picture of the developments in Greece. The general opinion was that the Yugoslav diplomats were much better informed and more agile than their counterparts from other Eastern European counties, who were seen as ?slow?, ?unsure?, ??onfused?, ?contradictory? and so on. In the days and months following the coup, the Yugoslav diplomatic mission in Athens was a center where many came to be informed, consult with their peers, verify their assessments and hear Belgrade?s views. Besides the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, collected information was sent to Josip Broz Tito, Edvard Kardelj, Koca Popovic, Mijalko Todorovic, Marko Nikezic, Ivan Gosnjak, Petar Stambolic and Ivan Miskovic.

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Late in March 1604, as his biographer John Strype records, Archbishop John Whitgift's “Corps was carried to Croydon … and there honourably interred in the Parish-Church … with a decent Solemnity.” Sir George Paule concurred, noting that the “Funerall was very honourably (as befitted his place) solemnized.” The funeral's honor, decency, and solemnity were somewhat marred, however, for among those laudatory elegies and epitaphs traditionally placed upon hearses, some audacious soul had contrived to pin a far from complimentary piece of doggerel. Entitled “The Lamentation of Dickie for the Death of his Brother Jockie”—Jockie being Whitgift and Dickie his successor as archbishop, Richard Bancroft—the poem was a vicious tirade against the late archbishop and his policies. The fullest extant copy survives in a collection of political papers once owned by the Kentishman Sir Peter Manwood:The prelats pope, the canonists hope,The Cortyers oracle, virginities spectacle,Reformers hinderer, trew pastors slanderer,The papists broker, the Atheists ClokerThe ceremonyes procter, the latyn docterThe dumb doggs patron, non resid[e]ns championA well a daye is dead & gone,and Jockey hath left dumb dickye alone.Prelats relent, Cortyers lamentPapiste bee sadd, Athiests runn maddGrone formalists, mone pluralistsfrowne ye docters, mourne yee ProctersBegge Registers, starve paratorsscowle ye summoners, howle yee songstersYour great Patron is dead & gone,& Jockey hath left dumb dickye alone.Popishe Ambition[,] vaine superstition,coulured conformity[,] canckared envye,Cunninge hipocrisie[,] faigned simplicity,masked ympiety, servile flatterye,Goe all daunce about his hearse,& for his dirge chant this verseOur great patron is dead and gone,& Jhockey hath left dumb dickey alone.Yf store of mourners yet there lackelett Croyden coull[i]ers bee more blackeAnd for a Cophin take a sackebearing the corpes upon their backedickye more blacke then any oneas chief mourner may marche aloneSinginge this requiem Jhocky is gone,& dickye hopes to play Jhocky aloneholla dickye bee not so bould,to woulve yt in Cheif Jhesis fouldas yf to hell thy Soule weare sould,lest as Jhocky was oft foretouldIf thou a persecutor stand,God likewise strike thee wth his hand:A-rankinge thee in the bloudy bandof ravening cleargie woolves in the land.

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In December 1996 and January 1997, powdery mildew was observed on potted poinsettia (Euphorbia pulcherrima Willd. ex Klotzsch) plants in Monterey County, CA. Mycelia were observed on stems, petioles, mature and immature leaves, and bracts. Severely diseased leaves became twisted and bent and senesced prematurely. The white mycelia were conspicuous, epiphytic, and amphigenous; hyphae measured 4.6 to 6.9 μm in diameter. Growth initially was in patches but eventually became effused. Appressoria were slightly lobed to lobed and sometimes opposite. Conidiophore foot cells were cylindrical, sometimes bent at the base, and slightly flexuous to flexuous. Foot cells measured 30.0 to 46.2 μm × 5.8 to 6.9 μm and were followed by one to two shorter cells. Conidia were cylindrical to slightly doliform and measured 25.4 to 32.3 μm × 11.6 to 18.5 μm. The length-to-width ratios of conidia generally were greater than 2.0. Conidia were produced singly, placing the fungus in the Pseudoidium-type powdery mildew group. Conidia germinated at the ends, and no fibrosin bodies were observed. Cleistothecia were not found. The fungus was identified as an Oidium species. Pathogenicity was demonstrated by gently pressing infected leaves having abundant sporulation onto leaves of potted poinsettia plants (cvs. Freedom Red, Peter Star Marble, and Nutcracker White), incubating the plants in a moist chamber for 48 h, and then maintaining plants in a greenhouse. After 12 to 14 days, powdery mildew colonies developed on the inoculated plants, and the pathogen was morphologically identical to the original isolates. Uninoculated control plants did not develop powdery mildew. This is the first report of powdery mildew on poinsettia in California. This fungus appears similar to Microsphaera euphorbiae but has longer, slightly flexuous foot cells that do not match the description for M. euphorbiae (1,2). An alternative identification would be Erysiphe euphorbiae; however, there are no available mitosporic descriptions for morphological comparisons (1,2). In the United States, powdery mildew of poinsettia previously has been reported in various states in the Pacific Northwest, Midwest, and Northeast. References: (1) U. Braun. Beih. Nova Hedwigia 89:1, 1987. (2) D. F. Farr et al. 1989. Fungi on Plants and Plant Products in the United States. American Phytopathological Society, St. Paul, MN.

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As the former capital of Dalmatia, Zadar abounded in monuments produced during the 17th and 18th century, especially altars, statues, and paintings. Most of this cultural heritage had been lost by the late 18th and the first decades of the 19th century, when the former Venetian Dalmatia was taken over by Austrian administration, followed by the French and then again by the Austrian one. Many churches were closed down, their furnishings were sold away or lost, and the buildings were either repurposed or demolished. One of them had been home to two hitherto unpublished angels-putti located on the top of the inner side of the arch in the sanctuary of Zadar’s church of Our Lady of Health (Kaštel) at the end of Kalelarga (Fig. 1). Both marble statues were obviously adjusted and then placed next to the marble cartouche with a subsequently added inscription from 1938, which tells of a reconstruction of the church during the time it was administered by the Capuchins. The drapery of the right angel-putto bears the initials I. G., which should be interpreted as the signature of the Venetian sculptor Giuseppe Groppelli (Venice, 1675-1735). This master signed his full name as IOSEPH GROPPELLI on the base of a statue of St Chrysogonus, now preserved in the Permanent Exhibition of Religious Art in Zadar (Fig. 2). Same as the signed statue of St Anastasia by master Antonio Corradini (Fig. 3), it used to form part of the main altar in Zadar’s monumental church of St Donatus, desacralized in 1798. Recently, two more angels have been discovered, inserted in the tympanum of the main altar in the church of Madonna of Loreto in Zadar’s district of Arbanasi, the one to the right likewise bearing the initials I. G. (Fig. 4). Undoubtedly, these two artworks were once part of a single composition: the abovementioned former altar in the church of St Donatus, transferred to the cathedral in 1822 and reconstructed to become the new altar in the chapel of St Anastasia. Giuseppe and his younger brother, Paolo Groppelli, led the family workshop from 1708, producing and signing sculptures together. Therefore, the newly discovered statues produced by Giuseppe are a significant contribution to his personal 174 Damir Tulić: Nepoznati anđeli Giuseppea Groppellija u Zadru... Ars Adriatica 6/2016. (155-174) oeuvre. It is difficult to distinguish between his statues and those by his brother, but it is generally believed that Paolo was a better artist. It is therefore important to compare the two sculptures, as they are believed to have been made independently. Paolo’s statue of Our Lady of the Rosary (1708) was originally located in the former Benedictine church of Santa Croce at Giudecca in Venice, and acquired early in the 19th century for the parish church of Veli Lošinj. If one compares the phisiognomy of the Christ Child by Paolo to that of Giuseppe’s signed sculpture of angel-putto in Zadar, one can observe considerable similarities (Figs. 5 and 6). However, Paolo’s sculptures are somewhat subtler and softer than Giuseppe’s. The workshop of Giuseppe and Paolo Gropelli has also been credited with two large marble angels on the main altar of the parish church in Concadirame near Treviso, as they show great similarity in style to the angels in Ljubljana’s cathedral, made around 1710 (Figs. 7, 8, 9, and 10). The oeuvre of Giuseppe and Paolo Gropelli can also be extended to two kneeling marble angels at the altar of the Holy Sacrament in the Venetian church of Santa Maria Formosa, with their marble surface somewhat damaged (Figs. 11 and 12). Coming back to the former main altar in Zadar’s church of St Donatus, it should be emphasized that it was erected following the last will of Archbishop Vettore Priuli (1688-1712), that contains a clearly expressed desire that the altar should be decorated as lavishly as possible. As the construction contract has been lost and the appearance of the altar remains unknown, it can only be supposed what it may have looked like (Fig. 13). It is known that the altar included an older, 13th-century icon of Madonna with the Child, which was later transferred to the Cathedral and is today preserved in the Permanent Exhibition of Religious Art. Scholars have presumed that the altar may had the form of a triumphal arch, with pillars enclosing the pala portante with an older icon and statues placed lateraly. However, it can also be presumed that the executors of the archbishop’s last will, canons Giovanni Grisogono and Giovanni Battista Nicoli, found a model for the lavish altar in Venice, in the former altar of the demolished oratory of Madonna della Pace. That altar had been erected in 1685 and included an older Byzantine icon of Madonna with the Child. It was later relocated to Trieste and its original appearance remains unknown, but can be reconstructed on the basis of its depiction on the medal of Doge Alvise IV Mocenigo (1764), preserved in the parish church of Plomin (Fig. 14). This popular solution undoubtedly served as a model for the main altar in the church of Madonna delle Grazie at Este (Fig. 15), constructed between 1692 and 1697. Today’s appearance of the chapel of St Anastasia does not reveal much about its previous altars (Fig. 16). A recently discovered document at the State Archive of Zadar sheds a new light on the hypothesis that the old main altar was transferred from St Donatus in 1822 and became, with minor revisions, the new altar of St Anastasia, demolished in 1905. According to a contract from 1821, the saint’s altar was designed by Zadar’s engineer and architect Petar Pekota, and built by parish priest Giovanni Degano by using segments from older altars, including that of St Donatus. The painting ordered for the new altar, Martyrdom of St Anastasia by Giuseppe Rambelli from Forli (Fig. 17), is the only surviving part of the 19thcentury altar. The overall reconstruction of the chapel of St Anastasia took place between 1903 and 1906, according to a project of architect Ćiril Metod Iveković, which intended to have the chapel covered in mosaics ordered from Venice. However, during the reconstruction works, remnants of 13th-century frescos were discovered in the apse and the project had to be altered. The altar from 1822 was nevertheless demolished and a new marble mensa was built, with a new urn for the saint’s relics, made in the Viennese workshop of Nicholas Mund, as attested by receipts from 1906 (Fig. 18). A hundred years after the intervention, another one took place, in which the marble altar was disassembled and replaced by a new one, made of glass and steel, yet bearing the old marble urn of Bishop Donatus.

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BackgroundBariatric surgery is known to be an effective treatment for extreme obesity but access to these procedures is currently limited.ObjectiveThis study aimed to evaluate the costs and outcomes of increasing access to bariatric surgery for severe and morbid obesity.Design and methodsPrimary care electronic health records from the UK Clinical Practice Research Datalink were analysed for 3045 participants who received bariatric surgery and 247,537 general population controls. The cost-effectiveness of bariatric surgery was evaluated in severe and morbid obesity through a probabilistic Markov model populated with empirical data from electronic health records.ResultsIn participants who did not undergo bariatric surgery, the probability of participants with morbid obesity attaining normal body weight was 1 in 1290 annually for men and 1 in 677 for women. Costs of health-care utilisation increased with body mass index category but obesity-related physical and psychological comorbidities were the main drivers of health-care costs. In a cohort of 3045 adult obese patients with first bariatric surgery procedures between 2002 and 2014, bariatric surgery procedure rates were greatest among those aged 35–54 years, with a peak of 37 procedures per 100,000 population per year in women and 10 per 100,000 per year in men. During 7 years of follow-up, the incidence of diabetes diagnosis was 28.2 [95% confidence interval (CI) 24.4 to 32.7] per 1000 person-years in controls and 5.7 (95% CI 4.2 to 7.8) per 1000 person-years in bariatric surgery patients (adjusted hazard ratio was 0.20, 95% CI 0.13 to 0.30;p < 0.0001). In 826 obese participants with type 2 diabetes mellitus who received bariatric surgery, the relative rate of diabetes remission, compared with controls, was 5.97 (95% CI 4.86 to 7.33;p < 0.001). There was a slight reduction in depression in the first 3 years following bariatric surgery that was not maintained. Incremental lifetime costs associated with bariatric surgery were £15,258 (95% CI £15,184 to £15,330), including costs associated with bariatric surgical procedures of £9164 per participant. Incremental quality-adjusted life-years (QALYs) were 2.142 (95% CI 2.031 to 2.256) per participant. The estimated cost per QALY gained was £7129 (95% CI £6775 to £7506). Estimates were similar across gender, age and deprivation subgroups.LimitationsIntervention effects were derived from a randomised trial with generally short follow-up and non-randomised studies of longer duration.ConclusionsBariatric surgery is associated with increased immediate and long-term health-care costs but these are exceeded by expected health benefits to obese individuals with reduced onset of new diabetes, remission of existing diabetes and lower mortality. Diverse obese individuals have clear capacity to benefit from bariatric surgery at acceptable cost.Future workFuture research should evaluate longer-term outcomes of currently used procedures, and ways of delivering these more efficiently and safely.FundingThe National Institute for Health Research (NIHR) Health Services and Delivery Research programme. Martin C Gulliford and A Toby Prevost were supported by the NIHR Biomedical Research Centre at Guy’s and St Thomas’ Hospitals. Peter Littlejohns was supported by the South London Collaboration for Leadership in Applied Health Research and Care. The funders did not engage in the design, conduct or reporting of the research.

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It is known that the Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary at Silba was demolished in 1828 so as to provide the necessary building material for the completion of the new parish church which inherited the dedication from the old one. As we learn from the archival records, the demolition was authorized by the Archbishop of Zadar Josip Nowak who stipulated that the Franciscan Church of Our Lady of Carmel would function as the local parish church while the new one was being built. All that remains from the old church today is the bell tower which continued to be used by the new parish church. It is obvious from the schematic ground plan and the dimensions of the demolished church, recorded in the now lost document from the parish church archive, that it was a single-nave longitudinal structure with a rectangular sacristy to the east, two shallow chapels extending from the lateral walls and a porch of the lopica type (resembling a loggia) at the front which abutted onto the corner of the bell tower with its own south corner. Apart from the high altar, placed against the back wall, the church had three pairs of side altars. The analysis of the canonical visitations carried out during the second quarter of the seventeenth century demonstrates that the church, recorded for the first time in 1579, was a modest building in which the oil for the anointment of the sick was being kept because the local parish church of that time, dedicated to St Mark, was too far from the village. The church was provided with five side altars put up by the more distinguished individuals and members of the lay fraternities the most prominent of which was that of Our Lady of the Rosary after which the church was called by eighteenth-century locals. Based on the analysis of the 1670 visitation of Archbishop Evangelisto Parzaghi who described the renovation during which certain altars changed their places, the article argues that the church was completed just before this visit. The bell tower was mentioned as a campanile for the first time in 1678.By means of comparative analysis, it can be established that the Church of the Nativity of the Virgin at Silba belonged to the same architectural type as a large group of simple yet spacious churches which were built in rural communities along the east Adriatic coast by local masters during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The activity of such masters on the island of Silba is corroborated by contemporary birth, marriage and death records as well as a number of monuments such as a tombstone in the Church of St Mark and the door lintel in the house of master builder Franić Lorencin (1660), both of which depict building and carving tools. The analysis of the land registry maps and topographical drawings of 1824 and 1833 shows that the church’s south wall, to the east of the chapel of Our Lady of the Rosary, was laid in a different direction compared to that of the rest of the wall, indicating that this portion belonged to an earlier layer of the building which, judging from everything, seems to have been medieval. Therefore, the wall was widened and extended towards the west during the rebuilding documented in the visitation of 1670. This possibility, which a future excavation of the site ought to be confirm, is strengthened by the frequency of such alterations as can be seen on the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century churches on the island of Ugljan and in particular on the Church of St Lawrence at Lukoran, built in 1632, which is the best example of that architectural type.Another feature of these churches is the lopica-type porch which stands out as an architectural element typical of Istria and the Quarnero gulf to which, geographically speaking, the island of Silba gravitates. The lopica porch of the Church of the Nativity at Silba had a particularly elongated plan and featured two symmetrical sets of three supports and an axial main entrance into the porch, that is, the church. It is unlikely that the porch was added prior to the late seventeenth century because during that time, Silba was exposed to the raids of the Turkish pirates who threatened it directly. It is certain that the bell tower was used for defensive purposes and the addition of a porch would have diminished its importance as a fortification structure and hampered the visual communication with the entrance to the church.The examination of the architecture of the bell tower revealed two different building phases: an earlier one which included the body of the bell tower and a later one which saw the addition of the pyramidal structure together with a shallow square drum. In its original form, the bell tower had a compact body featuring a round-headed opening at the centre of each side of the two topmost storeys. Their stylistically undefined morphology corresponds to modest bell towers which were built in this area from the late sixteenth to the eighteenth century. The original pyramidal top had to be dismantled in 1858 due to wear and tear and it was replaced by the present one which has oval openings at the bottom of each side of the drum. This structure is almost identical to the top of the bell tower of the Church of Our Lady of the Rosary at Preko on the island of Ugljan which was built in 1844.Based on the archival records, the article also establishes that the substantially repainted image of the Virgin and Child with SS Mark and Matthew, today at the high altar of the parish church, was originally larger. It was the object of ex-voto veneration and numerous offerings had been placed in its glass case. The painting was cropped so that it could be inserted into the niche of the marble altar piece designed by Ćiril M. Iveković (1898) which meant the loss of the two evangelists. According to the preserved contract and drawing, the lower part of the altar was set up in 1860 by Giovanni dalla Zonca, an altar maker from Vodnjan, and it featured the still preserved wooden statues of SS Peter and Paul which are dated to the mid-seventeenth century on the basis of their stylistic features. Therefore, it can be concluded that painting and the statues were taken from the high altar of the demolished church.

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Jednog davnog zimskog dana, siječnja god. 1566, pošto je sa svojom ribarskom družinom prenoćio na brodu, smještenom na mjestu Bok od Rata na ulazu u zaliv Nečujam, hrvatski je pjesnik Petar Hektorović započeo treći i posljednji dan svoga čuvenog putovanja. Naredio je da brod uplovi u luku. Kad je brod pristao, putnici su ga osigurali sidrima te su se zatim iskrcali na kopno otoka Suleta (danas Šolta), s namjerom da razgledaju eremitažu u kojoj je dio svog života proveo Marko Marulić. Iz participijalne konstrukcije plav strgavši opažamo da je glagol surgati »osigurati sidrom« prelazan jer ima uza se direktan objekt, tj. imenicu ženskog roda plav u akuzativu.

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In this work history of world landscape art development as well as texture usage in abstract landscape is researched. Latvian and world artist abstract landscape paintings are viewed, that had experiments with texture usage, techniques and materials, which helped to create these landscapes. Work of Latvian artists, such as Rūdolf Pinnis “Forest Image”, whose works generalized nature image, landscape art of Boris Bērziņš, paintings of Jānis Pauļuks are analyzed as well as art of foreign artists, such as Zao Wou Ki, Peter Doig etc. Attention was put to the modern texture creation, where different materials are used, such as sawdust, sand, marble, metal bits etc. Within works of abstract landscapes different painting styles can be found as an influential and in this work main styles, which influenced beginning of abstract landscape are found to be impressionism, expressionism, symbolism.Research methods: theoretical, literature sources as well as research and analysis of internet sources.

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“Language is inseparable from the world that provokes it”-- Don DeLillo, “In the Ruins of the Future”The attacks of 9/11 generated a public discourse of suspicion, with Osama bin Laden occupying the role of the quintessential “most wanted” for nearly a decade, before being captured and killed in May 2011. In the novel, Falling Man (DeLillo), set shortly after the attacks of September 11, Justin, the protagonist’s son, and his friends, the two Siblings, spend much of their time at the window of the Siblings’ New York apartment, “searching the skies for Bill Lawton” (74). Mishearing bin Laden’s name on the news, Robert, the younger of the Siblings, has “never adjusted his original sense of what he was hearing” (73), and so the “myth of Bill Lawton” (74) is created. In this paper, I draw on postclassical, cognitive narratology to “defamiliarise” processes undertaken by both narrator and reader (Palmer 28) in order to explore how narrative elements impact on readers’ and characters’ perceptions of the terrorist. My focus on select episodes within the novel “pursue[s] the author’s means of controlling his reader” (Booth i), and I refer to a generic reader to identify a certain intuitive reaction to the text. Assuming that “the written text imposes certain limits on its unwritten implications” (Iser 281), I trace a path from the uttered or printed word, through the reading act, to the process of meaning-making. I demonstrate how renaming the terrorist, and other language games, challenge the notion that terror can be synonymous with a locatable, destructible source by activating a suspicion towards the text in particular, and towards language in general.Falling Man tells the story of Keith who, after surviving the attacks on the World Trade Centre, shows up injured and disoriented at the apartment of his estranged wife, Lianne, and their son, Justin. The narrative, set at different periods between the day of the attacks and three years later, focuses on Keith’s and Lianne’s lives as they attempt to deal, in their own ways, with the trauma of the attacks and with the unexpected reunion of their small family. Keith disappears into games of poker and has a brief relationship with another survivor, while Lianne searches for answers in the writings of Alzheimer sufferers, in places of worship, and in conversations with her mother, Nina, and her mother’s partner, Martin, a German art-dealer with a questionable past. Each of the novel’s three parts also contains a short narrative from the perspective of Hammad, a fictional terrorist, starting with his early days in a European cell under the leadership of the real terrorist, Mohamed Atta, through the group’s activities in Florida, to his final moments aboard the plane that crashes into the World Trade Centre. DeLillo’s work is noted for treating language as central to society and culture (Weinstein). In this personalised narrative of post-9/11, DeLillo’s choices reflect his “refusal to reproduce the mass media’s representations of 9/11 the reader is used to” (Grossinger 85). This refusal is manifest not so much in an absence of well-known, mediated images or concepts, but in the reshaping and re-presenting of these images so that they appear unexpected, new, and personal (Apitzch). A notable example of such re-presentation is the Falling Man of the title, who is introduced, surprisingly, not as the man depicted in the famous photograph by Richard Drew (Leps), but a performance artist who uses the name Falling Man when staging his falls from various New York buildings. Not until the final two sentences of the novel does DeLillo fully admit the image into the narrative, and even then only as Keith’s private vision from the Tower: “Then he saw a shirt come down out of the sky. He walked and saw it fall, arms waving like nothing in this life” (246). The bin Laden/Bill Lawton substitution shows a similar rejection of recycled concepts and enables a renewed perspective towards the idea of bin Laden. Bill Lawton is first introduced as an anonymous “man” (17), later to be named Bill Lawton (73), and later still to be revealed as bin Laden mispronounced (73). The reader first learns of Bill Lawton in a conversation between Lianne and the Siblings’ mother, Isabel, who is worried about the children’s preoccupation at the window:“It has something to do with this man.”“What man?”“This name. You’ve heard it.”“This name,” Lianne said.“Isn’t this the name they sort of mumble back and forth? My kids totally don’t want to discuss the matter. Katie enforces the thing. She basically inspires fear in her brother. I thought maybe you would know something.”“I don’t think so.”“Like Justin says nothing about any of this?”“No. What man?”“What man? Exactly,” Isabel said. (17)If “the piling up of data [...] fulfils a function in the construction of an image” (Bal 85), a delayed unravelling of the bin Laden identity distorts this data-piling so that by the time the reader learns of the Bill Lawton/bin Laden link, an image of a man is already established as separate from, and potentially exclusive of, his historical identity. The segment beginning immediately after Isabel’s comment, “What man? Exactly” (17), refers to another, unidentified man with the pronoun “he” (18), as if to further sway the reader’s attention from the subject of that man’s identity. Fludernik notes that “language games” are a key feature of the postmodern text (Towards 221), adding that “techniques of linguistic emasculation serve implicitly to question a simple and naive view of the representational potential of language” (225). I propose that, in Falling Man, bin Laden is emasculated by the Bill Lawton misnomer, and is thereby conceptualised as two entities, one historical and one fictional. The name-switch activates what psychologists refer to as a “dual-process,” conscious and unconscious, that forms the reader’s experience of the narrative (Gerrig 37), creating a cognitive dissonance between the two. Much like Wittgenstein’s duck-rabbit drawing, bin Laden and Bill Lawton exist as two separate entities, occupying the same space of the idea of bin Laden, but demanding to be viewed singularly for the process of recognition to take place. Such distortion of a well-known figure conveys the sense that, in this novel, “all identities are either confused [...] or double [...] or merging [...] or failing” (Kauffman 371), or, occasionally, doing all these things simultaneously.A similar cognitive process is triggered by the introduction of aliases for all three characters that head each of the novel’s three parts. Ernst Hechinger is revealed as Martin Ridnour’s former, ‘terrorist’ identity (DeLillo, Falling 86), and performance artist David Janiak (180) as the Falling Man’s everyday name. But the bin Laden/Bill Lawton switch offers an overt juxtaposition of the historical with the fictional or, as Žižek would have it, “the Raw real” with the “virtual” (387), and allows the mutated bin Laden/Bill Lawton figure to shift, in the mind of the reader, between the two worlds, as well as form a new, blended entity.At this point, it is important to notice that two, interconnected, forms of suspicion exist in the novel. The first is invoked in the story-level towards various terrorist-characters such as Bill Lawton, Hammad, and Martin. The second form is activated when various elements within the narrative prompt the reader to treat the text itself as suspicious, triggering in the reader a cognitive reaction that mirrors that of the narrated character. One example is the “halting process” (Leps) that is forced on the reader when attempting to manoeuvre through the narrative’s anachronical arrangement that mirrors Keith’s mental perception of time and memory. Another such narrative device is the use of “unheralded pronouns” (Gerrig 50), when ‘he’ or ‘she’ is used ambiguously, often at the beginning of a chapter or segment. The use of pronouns in narrative must adhere to strict grammatical rules (Fludernik, Introduction) and when these rules are ignored, the reading pattern is affected. First, the reader of Falling Man is immersed within an element in the story, then becomes puzzled about the identity of a character, and finally re-reads the passage to gain clarity. The reader, after a while, distances somewhat from the text, scanning for alternative possibilities and approaching interpretation with a tentative sense of doubt.The conversation between the two mothers, the Bill Lawton/bin Laden split, and the use of unheralded pronouns also destabilises the relationship between person and name, and appears to create a world in which “personality has disintegrated into a mere semiotic mark” (Versluys 21). Keith’s obsession with correcting the spelling of his surname, Neudecker, “because it wasn’t him, with the name misspelled” (DeLillo, Falling 31), Lianne’s fondness of the philosopher Kierkegaard, “right down to the spelling of his name. The hard Scandian k’s and lovely doubled a” (118), her consideration of “Marko [...] with a k, whatever that might signify” (119), and Rumsey, who is told that “everything in his life would be different [...] if one letter in his name was different” (149), are a few examples of the text’s semiotic emphasis. But, while Versluys sees this tendency as emblematic of the novel’s portrayal of a decline in humanity, I suggest that the text’s preoccupation with the shape and constitution of words may work to “de-automatise” (Margolin 66) the relationship between sign and perception, rather than to denigrate the signified human. With the renamed terrorist, the reader comes to doubt not only the printed text, but also his or her automatic response to “bin Laden” as a “brand, a sort of logo which identifies and personalises the evil” (Chomsky, September 36). Bill Lawton, according to Justin, speaks in monosyllables (102), a language Justin chooses, for a time, for his own speech (66), and this also contributes to the de-automatisation of the text. The language game, in which a speaker must only use words with one syllable, began as a classroom activity “designed to teach the children something about the structure of words and the discipline required to frame clear thoughts” (66). The game also gives players, and readers, an embodied understanding of what Genette calls the gap between “being and saying” (93) that is inevitable in the production of language and narrative. Justin, who continues to play the game outside the classroom, because “it helps [him] go slow when [he] thinks” (66), finds comfort in the silent pauses that are afforded by widening the gap between thought and utterance. History in Falling Man is a collection of the private narratives of survivors, families, terrorists, artists, and the host of people that are affected by the attacks of 9/11. Justin’s character, with the linguistic and psychic code of a child, represents the way in which all participants, to some extent, choose their own antagonist, language, plot, and sequence to personalise this mega-public event. He insists that the towers did not collapse (72), but that they will, “this time coming” (102); Bill Lawton, for Justin, “has a long beard [...] speaks thirteen languages but not English except to his wives [and] has the power to poison what we eat” (74). Despite being confronted with the factual inaccuracies of his narrative, Justin resists editing his version precisely because these inaccuracies form his own, non-mediated, authentic account. They are, in a sense, a work of fiction and, paradoxically, more ‘real’ because of that. “We want to pass beyond the limits of safe understandings”, thinks Lianne, “and what better way to do it than through make-believe” (63). I have so far shown how narrative elements create a suspicion in the way characters operate within their surrounding universe, in the reader’s attitude towards the text, and, more implicitly, in the power of language to accurately represent a personal reality. Within the context of the novel’s historical setting—the period following the 9/11 attacks—the narration of the terrorist figure, as represented in Bill Lawton, Hammad, Martin, and others, may function as a response to the “binarism” of Bush’s proposal (Butler 2), epitomised in his “either you are with us, or you are with the terrorists” (Silberstein 14) approach. Within the novel’s universe, its narration of terrorist-characters works to free discourse from superficial categorisations and to provide “a counterdiscourse to the prevailing nationalistic interpretations” (Versluys 23) of the events of 9/11 by de-automatising a response to “us” and “them.” In his essay published shortly after the attacks, DeLillo notes that “the sense of disarticulation we hear in the term ‘Us and Them’ has never been so striking, at either end” (“Ruins”), and while he draws distinctions, in the same essay, with technology on ‘our’ side and religious fanaticism on ‘their’ side, I believe that the novel is less settled on the subject. The Anglicisation of bin Laden’s name, for example, suggests that Bush’s either-or-ism is, at least partially, an arbitrary linguistic construct. At a time when some social commentators have highlighted the similarity in the definitions of “terror” and “counter terror” (Chomsky, “Commentary” 610), the Bill Lawton ‘error’ works to illustrate how easily language can destabilise our perception of what is familiar/strange, us/them, terror/counter-terror, victim/perpetrator. In the renaming of the notorious terrorist, “the familiar name is transposed on the mass murderer, but in return the attributes of the mass murderer are transposed on one very like us” (Conte 570), and this reciprocal relationship forms an imagined evil that is no longer so easily locatable within the prevailing political discourse. As the novel contextualises 9/11 within a greater historical narrative (Leps), in which characters like Martin represent “our” form of militant activism (Duvall), we are invited to perceive a possibility that the terrorist could be, like Martin, “one of ours […] godless, Western, white” (DeLillo, Falling 195).Further, the idea that the suspect exists, almost literally, within ‘us’, the victims, is reflected in the structure of the narrative itself. This suggests a more fluid relationship between terrorist and victim than is offered by common categorisations that, for some, “mislead and confuse the mind, which is trying to make sense of a disorderly reality” (Said 12). Hammad is visited in three short separate sections; “on Marienstrasse” (77-83), “in Nokomis” (171-178), and “the Hudson corridor” (237-239), at the end of each of the novel’s three parts. Hammad’s narrative is segmented within Keith’s and Lianne’s tale like an invisible yet pervasive reminder that the terrorist is inseparable from the lives of the victims, habituating the same terrains, and crafted by the same omniscient powers that compose the victims’ narrative. The penetration of the terrorist into ‘our’ narrative is also perceptible in the physical osmosis between terrorist and victim, as the body of the injured victim hosts fragments of the dead terrorist’s flesh. The portrayal of the body, in some post 9/11 novels, as “a vulnerable site of trauma” (Bird, 561), is evident in the following passage, where a physician explains to Keith the post-bombing condition termed “organic shrapnel”:The bomber is blown to bits, literally bits and pieces, and fragments of flesh and bone come flying outwards with such force and velocity that they get wedged, they get trapped in the body of anyone who’s in striking range...A student is sitting in a cafe. She survives the attack. Then, months later, they find these little, like, pellets of flesh, human flesh that got driven into the skin. (16)For Keith, the dead terrorist’s flesh, lodged under living human skin, confirms the malignancy of his emotional and physical injury, and suggests a “consciousness occupied by terror” (Apitzch 95), not unlike Justin’s consciousness, occupied from within by the “secret” (DeLillo, Falling 101) of Bill Lawton.The macabre bond between terrorist and victim is fully realised in the novel’s final pages, when Hammad’s death intersects, temporally, with the beginning of Keith’s story, and the two bodies almost literally collide as Hammad’s jet crashes into Keith’s office building. Unlike Hammad’s earlier and clearly framed narratives, his final interruption dissolves into Keith’s story with such cinematic seamlessness as to make the two narratives almost indistinguishable from one another. Hammad’s perspective concludes on board the jet, as “something fell off the counter in the galley. He fastened his seatbelt” (239), followed immediately by “a bottle fell off the counter in the galley, on the other side of the aisle, and he watched it roll this way and that” (239). The ambiguous use of the pronoun “he,” once again, and the twin bottles in the galleys create a moment of confusion and force a re-reading to establish that, in fact, there are two different bottles, in two galleys; one on board the plane and the other inside the World Trade Centre. Victim and terrorist, then, share a common fate as acting agents in a single governing narrative that implicates both lives.Finally, Žižek warns that “whenever we encounter such a purely evil on the Outside, [...] we should recognise the distilled version of our own self” (387). DeLillo assimilates this proposition into the fabric of Falling Man by crafting a language that renegotiates the division between ‘out’ and ‘in,’ creating a fictional antagonist in Bill Lawton that continues to lurk outside the symbolic window long after the demise of his historical double. Some have read this novel as offering a more relative perspective on terrorism (Duvall). However, like Leps, I find that DeLillo here tries to “provoke thoughtful stillness rather than secure truths” (185), and this stillness is conveyed in a language that meditates, with the reader, on its own role in constructing precarious concepts such as ‘us’ and ‘them.’ When proposing that terror, in Falling Man, can be found within ‘us,’ linguistically, historically, and even physically, I must also add that DeLillo’s ‘us’ is an imagined sphere that stands in opposition to a ‘them’ world in which “things [are] clearly defined” (DeLillo, Falling 83). Within this sphere, where “total silence” is seen as a form of spiritual progress (101), one is reminded to approach narrative and, by implication, life, with a sense of mindful attention; “to hear”, like Keith, “what is always there” (225), and to look, as Nina does, for “something deeper than things or shapes of things” (111).ReferencesApitzch, Julia. "The Art of Terror – the Terror of Art: Delillo's Still Life of 9/11, Giorgio Morandi, Gerhard Richter, and Performance Art." Terrorism, Media, and the Ethics of Fiction: Transatlantic Perspectives on Don DeLillo. Eds. Peter Schneck and Philipp Schweighauser. London: Continuum [EBL access record], 2010. 93–110.Bal, Mieke. Narratology: Introduction to the Theory of Narratology. Toronto: U of Toronto P, 1985.Bird, Benjamin. "History, Emotion, and the Body: Mourning in Post-9/11 Fiction." Literature Compass 4.3 (2007): 561–75.Booth, Wayne C. The Rhetoric of Fiction. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1961.Butler, Judith. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. New York: Verso, 2004.Chomsky, Noam. "Commentary Moral Truisms, Empirical Evidence, and Foreign Policy." Review of International Studies 29.4 (2003): 605–20.---. September 11. Crows Nest, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 2002.Conte, Joseph Mark. "Don Delillo’s Falling Man and the Age of Terror." MFS Modern Fiction Studies 57.3 (2011): 557–83.DeLillo, Don. Falling Man. London: Picador, 2007.---. "In the Ruins of the Future." The Guardian (22 December, 2001). ‹http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/dec/22/fiction.dondelillo›.Duvall, John N. & Marzec, Robert P. "Narrating 9/11." MFS Modern Fiction Studies 57.3 (2011): 381–400.Fludernik, Monika. An Introduction to Narratology. Taylor & Francis [EBL access record], 2009.---. Towards a 'Natural' Narratology. Routledge, [EBL access record], 1996.Genette, Gerard. Figures of Literary Discourse. New York: Columbia U P, 1982.Gerrig, Richard J. "Conscious and Unconscious Processes in Reader's Narrative Experiences." Current Trends in Narratology. Ed. Greta Olson. Berlin: De Gruyter [EBL access record], 2011. 37–60.Grossinger, Leif. "Public Image and Self-Representation: Don Delillo's Artists and Terrorists in Postmodern Mass Society." Terrorism, Media, and the Ethics of Fiction: Transatlantic Perspectives on Don DeLillo. Eds. Peter Schneck and Philipp Schweighauser. London: Continuum [EBL access record], 2010. 81–92.Iser, Wolfgang. "The Reading Process: A Phenomenological Approach." New Literary History 3.2 (1972): 279–99.Kauffman, Linda S. "The Wake of Terror: Don Delillo's in the Ruins of the Future, Baadermeinhof, and Falling Man." Modern Fiction Studies 54.2 (2008): 353–77.Leps, Marie-Christine. "Falling Man: Performing Fiction." Terrorism, Media, and the Ethics of Fiction: Transatlantic Perspectives on Don DeLillo. Eds. Peter Schneck and Philipp Schweighauser. London: Continuum [EBL access record], 2010. 184–203.Margolin, Uri. "(Mis)Perceiving to Good Aesthetic and Cognitive Effect." Current Trends in Narratology. Ed. Greta Olson. Berlin: De Gruyter [EBL access record], 2011. 61–78.Palmer, Alan. "The Construction of Fictional Minds." Narrative 10.1 (2002): 28–46.Said, Edward W. "The Clash of Ignorance." The Nation 273.12 (2001): 11–13.Silberstein, Sandra. War of Words : Language Politics and 9/11. Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2004.Versluys, Kristiaan. Out of the Blue: September 11 and the Novel. New York: Columbia U P, 2009.Weinstein, Arnold. Nobody's Home: Speech, Self and Place in American Fiction from Hawthorne to DeLillo. Oxford U P [EBL Access Record], 1993.Žižek, Slavoj. "Welcome to the Desert of the Real!" The South Atlantic Quarterly 101.2 (2002): 385–89.

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The loop is one of the primary means of structuration for electronic music from mainstream to avant-garde styles. Indeed, during forums at the recent 2002 AD Analogue 2 Digital event, organised as part of the Adelaide Fringe Festival, many practitioners of electronic music gathered together and, often, quizzed each other about the loop: why does everybody seem to be using it and just how useful is it? With very few exceptions, the loop was considered to be an important if not essential tool for electronic music, and it is perhaps easy to understand why if one considers the "one-man band" nature of the majority of purely electronic music. Moreover, the loop is a trope common in many forms of contemporary music such as disco, minimalism, funk and hip-hop, all of which, as David Toop writes, "explor[e] entrancing elaborations and variations on repetition" (92). While Western musical forms have, for many centuries, been characterised by recurring elements (pedal notes, refrains, choruses, variations and so on are all musical tropes that rely on the recurrence of repetitive elements), there is perhaps a difference in the kind of repetition that is deployed in many of these musical forms and that deployed in consumer-driven and much avant-garde electronic music. When looping elements return in many pre-electronic (or non-electronic) compositions they present an elaborated form of the original iteration of that element, whereas it can be argued that the break in hip-hop or the loop employed by electronic music forms a stable basis on which other changing, shifting, modulating and developing elements are laid. (It should not of course be surmised from this that all hip-hop uses breaks nor that all electronic music uses loops.) Rather than presenting an active repetitive element creating difference in itself, the kind of looping employed in much electronic music proposes a banal, Platonic form of repetition in which, as Deleuze states, "the model is supposed to enjoy an originary superior identity [...] whereas the copy is judged in terms of a derived internal resemblance" (126-127). In the terms of our discussion, then, the sampled fragment of music or break (the "original" which some take endless pleasure in trying to identify) constitutes an originary identity which is repeated or looped in a form identical to itself to create an absolute internal resemblance across a contiguous whole. This reading of looping in electronic music finds extension in Jean-Charles François's criticism that electronic music produces only trigger timbre. François argues that in electronic music, the "performer is reduced to a triggering device, and does not participate in any real physical production of the sound" as opposed to the dynamic timbre of "traditional" acoustic instruments which can be varied by the performer in an interpretation of a work ("Fixed Timbre" 113). Trigger timbre, then, signals the exact reproduction (or, rather, a copy with internal resemblance, for an exact reproduction is an impossibility for a number of reasons, some philosophical, some temporal, some physical) of a prior moment, an originary identity, a movement analogous to that created by the looped element in electronic music. The problem with this in regards to musical production as artistic creation is that such modes of structuration are, according to François and Deleuze, eminently un-artistic or un-musical. For François, trigger timbre "strikes our ears like a symbol and threatens the essence of pure music" ("Fixed Timbre" 116), whilst for Deleuze a model employing banal repetition such as the repetition of a decorative motif "is not how artists proceed in reality. They do not juxtapose instances of the figure, but rather each time combine an element of one instance with another element of a following instance" (19). It might then be argued that electronic music is doubly prone to a Platonic mode of production removed from artistry, devoid of the desire with which, for Deleuze, all artistic creation is necessarily injected. To do so, however, is to propose a technologically determinist argument which maintains that electronic music is shaped by the very technology available to the artist, and emphasises the role of the engineer over the artist (even when the engineer and the artist are one and the same person, as is often the case in such music). That such a technologically determinist view might be levelled against electronic music is, nonetheless, perhaps not surprising since whilst most composers of any genre using acoustic instruments essentially have a set of instruments to draw on that has been relatively stable for a number of years (how many years will depend on the genre), it might be suggested that many electronic artists remain within the bounds of their tools' immediate and obvious possibilities because they do not have time fully to master them because the technology behind electronic music is still developing at an exponential rate. Whilst this is in many respects a gross overgeneralisation that neglects composers from both acoustic genres such as Luigi Russolo and Harry Partch who invented new instruments to broaden their sonic palette as well as electronic artists such as Kraftwerk or Aphex Twin who built or radically modified / deconstructed their own instruments, I do not think it entirely unfair given the technophile nature of many electronic artists, eager to keep abreast of the latest developments and software or hardware releases, and believe that it goes some way towards explaining the rate at which "movements" arise and disappear in contemporary electronic music. None of this would be of the least concern, of course, if this did not imply that the music made by many electronic artists is created as much by the hands of the engineer (and by engineer I refer not simply to a recording engineer but anyone involved in the development or programming of the hardware or software used for electronic) as in those of the artist. Even for those artists who serve as their own engineer, then, it is sometimes the case that their productions' bounds of possibility are determined not only by the artist's imagination but also by the very hardware and software used. Electronic music can, then, fall prey to technological determinism, can function in a Platonic manner, relying on a priori principles encoded in its tools and deploying banal repetition, and can be negatively critiqued in the terms of François's argument. This does not imply by any means, however, that it must be so. Indeed, in both her workshop and performance at the 2002AD conference, Kaffe Matthews proposed ways in which this quandary might be broached. Matthews takes her samples not from pre-existing recordings or intricately programmed "timbre objects" ("Fixed Timbre" 114), but from the "live" environmental sounds of the venue in which she is playing or the surrounding area. In this way, Matthews does not merely produce an exact repetition of an historical or prior moment (the sentimental potential of recorded media and electronic music which, according to François, explains their seductive power and thus popularity (François 1990, 114)), rather ensuring that every performance will indeed be an interpretation, a live performance which has no originary identity to refer back to or repeat. To build a complete musical text from fragments such as this, Matthews does rely on the loop, but one of the primary means that she uses to create her loops does not rely on the pattern of banal repetition observed above. Rather, Matthews places microphones around the venue in which she is playing and into which, therefore, her work is being amplified, so that the work itself is looped back into itself, each successive iteration of the loop being altered by the shifting acoustics of the environment into which it is emitted. In this manner, the entire venue is used as the "resonant cavity", the "giant membrane", the "environment", the "atmosphere" that render possible a discursive structure and that, for François, are the preserve of true timbre which cannot be produced by electronic technology ("Writing" 16). This is not, of course, the first time that such loops have been used in experimental music: the notion of the loop is very frequent in the work from the 1960s and 1970s of Steve Reich, who lets series of loops fall into and out of phase with each other, Terry Riley and Pauline Oliveros. Perhaps the most significant precursor to Kaffe Matthews's approach, however, is Alvin Lucier's I am Sitting in a Room (1969). For this piece, the performer chooses the room whose musical qualities are to be evoked, then reads a text in that room. The recording is played back through a loudspeaker in the room, the playback itself recorded and amplified again with the original recording, the process being repeated over a number of generations. Lucier's piece and, indeed, all of the pieces employing loops by the aforementioned composers, use analogue tape technology in order to create their loops, however, which is to say that a deliberate manipulation of the hardware that rips it from its normalised and intended use is required for that hardware to create loops. This is not to say that the misuse of technology at one's disposal is particularly revolutionary; indeed, one might claim that it is a very common feature among avant-garde or progressive artists of the past and present in all musical genres using both digital, analogue, electro-acoustic and acoustic instruments — should Oval do that to compact disks? isn't that the wrong direction for a record to spin? did anyone really intend Hendrix to play a guitar like that? did Cage actually know how a piano should be played? does Jim Denley actually know how to play the flute? What this does suggest, however, is that the use of loops in the work of these artists in the 60s and 70s was the result of a willed aesthetic decision and not a mode of construction dictated by the bounds of the immediately possible hardwired into the technology being used. If the loop used as one of the primary means of structuration in electronic music is to escape the technologically determinist arguments seen above, then, its coming into being must similarly be the result of a willed aesthetic decision and not merely a symptom of the technology used to produce it; it must, in other words, be infused with an artistic sensibility. Much electronic music being pumped out of bedrooms and studios at an alarming rate, however, is not infused with this kind of artistic sensibility, a situation which, although I oversimplify once more in saying so, would only appear to be aggravated the closer one moves to the mainstream (hence phenomena such as "the Balearic sound"). By its nature more prone to banal Platonic repetition (because of the primacy of the loop) and the a-dynamism (and, by inference, stultification) of trigger timbre, those sections of the electronic music scene who are content merely to remain within the obvious uses of the music-making technology, whether their démarche is born of a desire to pander to market forces or an inability or unwillingness fully to master the technology offered because of the speed at which it is moving, consequently produce songs which are themselves little more than banal copies of each other. Constructing music around loops within a technological domain that no longer requires hardware manipulation for the creation of loops since the loop is encoded within it, Matthews, however, by integrating into this realm the kind of compositional démarche noted in Lucier, liberates electronic music from these pitfalls. More than this, however, her approach also allows for an improvisational and dynamic aesthetic which is uncommon even in the avant-garde of electronic artists who do extend the possibilities of the technology they use. For the majority of artists who can be included in this group generally rely, when processing samples in real time, on a bank of pre-recorded samples, regardless of how these were created, through the use or misuse of technology. In using the very space in or around where she is performing as a live sample bank and processing those samples in real time as they are looped and transformed by the very setup she has defined, Matthews simultaneously surrenders and reclaims her creation, reinstating an authorial presence into the absence around which Cage's 4'33" is based (his "silent" piece in which the ambient sounds of the audience, venue and surrounding space constitute the only sound matter), seeming, like the performer of 4'33" who merely marks off time in three movements, not to be involved in the physical production of sound that François deems necessary for dynamic musical production ("Fixed Timbre" 113), only to reassert her presence in the text as a physical and dynamic entity. Acknowledgement With thanks to Kaffe Matthews and M/C's reviewers and editors. References Deleuze, Gilles. Difference and Repetition. Trans. Paul Patton. London: The Athlone Press, 1994. François, Jean-Charles. "Fixed Timbre, Dynamic Timbre." Perspectives of New Music 28.2 (1990): 112-118. François, Jean-Charles. "Writing without Representation." Perspectives of New Music 30.1 (1992): 6-20. Toop, David. "HIPHOP: Iron Needles of Death and a Piece of Wax." Modulations: A History of Electronic Music: Throbbing Words on Sound. Ed. Peter Shapiro. New York: Caipirinha Productions, 2000: 89-101. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Hainge, Greg. "Platonic Relations" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.4 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/mc/0208/platonic.php>. Chicago Style Hainge, Greg, "Platonic Relations" M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 4 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/mc/0208/platonic.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Hainge, Greg. (2002) Platonic Relations. M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(4). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/mc/0208/platonic.php> ([your date of access]).

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Introduction Mentors play a role in real life, just as they do in fiction. They also feature in reality television, which sits somewhere between the two. In fiction, mentors contribute to the narrative arc by providing guidance and assistance (Vogler 12) to a mentee in his or her life or professional pursuits. These exchanges are usually characterized by reciprocity, the need for mutual recognition (Gadamer 353) and involve some kind of moral question. They dramatise the possibilities of mentoring in reality, to provide us with a greater understanding of the world, and our human interaction within it. Reality television offers a different perspective. Like drama it uses the plot device of a mentor character to heighten the story arc, but instead of focusing on knowledge-based portrayals (Gadamer 112) of the mentor and mentee, the emphasis is instead on the mentee’s quest for ascension. In attempting to transcend their unknownness (Boorstin) contestants aim to penetrate an exclusive creative class (Florida). Populated by celebrity chefs, businessmen, entertainers, fashionistas, models, socialites and talent judges (to name a few), this class seemingly adds authenticity to ‘competitions’ and other formats. While the mentor’s role, on the surface, is to provide divine knowledge and facilitate the journey, a different agenda is evident in the ways carefully scripted (Booth) dialogue heightens the drama through effusive praise (New York Daily News) and “tactless” (Woodward), humiliating (Hirschorn; Winant 69; Woodward) and cruel sentiments. From a screen narrative point of view, this takes reality television as ‘storytelling’ (Aggarwal; Day; Hirschorn; “Reality Writer”; Rupel; Stradal) into very different territory. The contrived and later edited (Crouch; Papacharissi and Mendelson 367) communication between mentor and mentee not only renders the relationship disingenuous, it compounds the primary ethical concerns of associated Schadenfreude (Balasubramanian, Forstie and van den Scott 434; Cartwright), and the severe financial inequality (Andrejevic) underpinning a multi-billion dollar industry (Hamilton). As upward mobility and instability continue to be ubiquitously portrayed in 21st century reality entertainment under neoliberalism (Sender 4; Winant 67), it is with increasing frequency that we are seeing the systematic reinvention of the once significant cultural and historical role of the mentor. Mentor as Fictional Archetype and Communicator of ThemesDepictions of mentors can be found across the Western art canon. From the mythological characters of Telemachus’ Athena and Achilles’ Chiron, to King Arthur’s Merlin, Cinderella’s Fairy Godmother, Jim Hawkins’ Long John Silver, Frodo’s Gandalf, Batman’s Alfred and Marty McFly’s Doc Emmett Brown (among many more), the dramatic energy of the teacher, expert or supernatural aid (Vogler 39) has been timelessly powerful. Heroes, typically, engage with a mentor as part of their journey. Mentor types range extensively, from those who provide motivation, inspiration, training or gifts (Vogler), to those who may be dark or malevolent, or have fallen from grace (such as Michael Douglas’ Gordon Gekko in Wall Street 1987, or the ex-tribute Haymitch in The Hunger Games, 2012). A good drama usually complicates the relationship in some way, exploring initial reluctance from either party, or instances of tragedy (Vogler 11, 44) which may prevent the relationship achieving its potential. The intriguing twist of a fallen or malevolent mentor additionally invites the audience to morally analyze the ways the hero responds to what the mentor provides, and to question what our teachers or superiors tell us. In television particularly, long running series such as Mad Men have shown how a mentoring relationship can change over time, where “non-rational” characters (Buzzanell and D’Enbeau 707) do not necessarily maintain reciprocity or equality (703) but become subject to intimate, ambivalent and erotic aspects.As the mentor in fiction has deep cultural roots for audiences today, it is no wonder they are used, in a variety of archetypal capacities, in reality television. The dark Simon Cowell (of Pop Idol, American Idol, Britain’s Got Talent, America’s Got Talent and The X-Factor series) and the ‘villainous’ (Byrnes) Michelin-starred Marco Pierre White (Hell’s Kitchen, The Chopping Block, Marco Pierre White’s Kitchen Wars, MasterChef Australia, New Zealand, South Africa) provide reality writers with much needed antagonism (Rupel, Stradal). Those who have fallen from grace, or allowed their personal lives to play out in tabloid sagas such as Britney Spears (Marikar), or Caitlyn Jenner (Bissinger) provide different sources of conflict and intrigue. They are then counterbalanced with or repackaged as the good mentor. Examples of the nurturer who shows "compassion and empathy" include American Idol’s Paula Abdul (Marche), or the supportive Jennifer Hawkins in Next Top Model (Thompson). These distinctive characters help audiences to understand the ‘reality’ as a story (Crouch; Rupel; Stradal). But when we consider the great mentors of screen fiction, it becomes clear how reality television has changed the nature of story. The Karate Kid I (1984) and Good Will Hunting (1998) are two examples where mentoring is almost the exclusive focus, and where the experience of the characters differs greatly. In both films an initially reluctant mentor becomes deeply involved in the mentee’s project. They act as a special companion to the hero in the face of isolation, and, significantly, reveal a tragedy of their own, providing a nexus through which the mentee can access a deeper kind of truth. Not only are they flawed and ordinary people (they are not celebrities within the imagined worlds of the stories) who the mentee must challenge and learn to truly respect, they are “effecting and important” (Maslin) in reminding audiences of those hidden idiosyncrasies that open the barriers to friendship. Mentors in these stories, and many others, communicate themes of class, culture, talent, jealousy, love and loss which inform ideas about the ethical treatment of the ‘other’ (Gadamer). They ultimately prove pivotal to self worth, human confidence and growth. Very little of this thematic substance survives in reality television (see comparison of plots and contrasting modes of human engagement in the example of The Office and Dirty Jobs, Winant 70). Archetypally identifiable as they may be, mean judges and empathetic supermodels as characters are concerned mostly with the embodiment of perfection. They are flawless, untouchable and indeed most powerful when human welfare is at stake, and when the mentee before them faces isolation (see promise to a future ‘Rihanna’, X-Factor USA, Season 2, Episode 1 and Tyra Banks’ Next Top Model tirade at a contestant who had not lived up to her potential, West). If connecting with a mentor in fiction has long signified the importance of understanding of the past, of handing down tradition (Gadamer 354), and of our fascination with the elder, wiser other, then we can see a fundamental shift in narrative representation of mentors in reality television stories. In the past, as we have opened our hearts to such characters, as a facilitator to or companion of the hero, we have rehearsed a sacred respect for the knowledge and fulfillment mentors can provide. In reality television the ‘drama’ may evoke a fleeting rush of excitement at the hero’s success or failure, but the reality belies a pronounced distancing between mentor and mentee. The Creative Class: An Aspirational ParadigmThemes of ascension and potential fulfillment are also central to modern creativity discourse (Runco; Runco 672; United Nations). Seen as the driving force of the 21st century, creativity is now understood as much more than art, capable of bringing economic prosperity (United Nations) and social cohesion to its acme (United Nations xxiii). At the upper end of creative practice, is what Florida called “the creative class: a fast growing, highly educated, and well-paid segment of the workforce” (on whose expertise corporate profits depend), in industries ranging “from technology to entertainment, journalism to finance, high-end manufacturing to the arts” (Florida). Their common ethos is centered on individuality, diversity, and merit; eclipsing previous systems focused on ‘shopping’ and theme park consumerism and social conservatism (Eisinger). While doubts have since been raised about the size (Eisinger) and financial practices (Krätke 838) of the creative class (particularly in America), from an entertainment perspective at least, the class can be seen in full action. Extending to rich housewives, celebrity teen mothers and even eccentric duck hunters and swamp people, the creative class has caught up to the more traditional ‘star’ actor or music artist, and is increasingly marketable within world’s most sought after and expensive media spaces. Often reality celebrities make their mark for being the most outrageous, the cruelest (Peyser), or the weirdest (Gallagher; Peyser) personalities in the spotlight. Aspiring to the creative class thus, is a very public affair in television. Willing participants scamper for positions on shows, particularly those with long running, heavyweight titles such as Big Brother, The Bachelor, Survivor and the Idol series (Hill 35). The better known formats provide high visibility, with the opportunity to perform in front of millions around the globe (Frere-Jones, Day). Tapping into the deeply ingrained upward-mobility rhetoric of America, and of Western society, shows are aided in large part by 24-hour news, social media, the proliferation of celebrity gossip and the successful correlation between pop culture and an entertainment-style democratic ideal. As some have noted, dramatized reality is closely tied to the rise of individualization, and trans-national capitalism (Darling-Wolf 127). Its creative dynamism indeed delivers multi-lateral benefits: audiences believe the road to fame and fortune is always just within reach, consumerism thrives, and, politically, themes of liberty, egalitarianism and freedom ‘provide a cushioning comfort’ (Peyser; Pinter) from the domestic and international ills that would otherwise dispel such optimism. As the trials and tests within the reality genre heighten the seriousness of, and excitement about ascending toward the creative elite, show creators reproduce the same upward-mobility themed narrative across formats all over the world. The artifice is further supported by the festival-like (Grodin 46) symbology of the live audience, mass viewership and the online voting community, which in economic terms, speaks to the creative power of the material. Whether through careful manipulation of extra media space, ‘game strategy’, or other devices, those who break through are even more idolized for the achievement of metamorphosing into a creative hero. For the creative elite however, who wins ‘doesn’t matter much’. Vertical integration is the priority, where the process of making contestants famous is as lucrative as the profits they will earn thereafter; it’s a form of “one-stop shopping” as the makers of Idol put it according to Frere-Jones. Furthermore, as Florida’s measures and indicators suggested, the geographically mobile new creative class is driven by lifestyle values, recreation, participatory culture and diversity. Reality shows are the embodiment this idea of creativity, taking us beyond stale police procedural dramas (Hirschorn) and racially typecast family sitcoms, into a world of possibility. From a social equality perspective, while there has been a notable rise in gay and transgender visibility (Gamson) and stories about lower socio-economic groups – fast food workers and machinists for example – are told in a way they never were before, the extent to which shows actually unhinge traditional power structures is, as scholars have noted (Andrejevic and Colby 197; Schroeder) open to question. As boundaries are nonetheless crossed in the age of neoliberal creativity, the aspirational paradigm of joining a new elite in real life is as potent as ever. Reality Television’s Mentors: How to Understand Their ‘Role’Reality television narratives rely heavily on the juxtaposition between celebrity glamour and comfort, and financial instability. As mentees put it ‘all on the line’, storylines about personal suffering are hyped and molded for maximum emotional impact. In the best case scenarios mentors such as Caitlyn Jenner will help a trans mentee discover their true self by directing them in a celebrity-style photo shoot (see episode featuring Caitlyn and Zeam, Logo TV 2015). In more extreme cases the focus will be on an adopted contestant’s hopes that his birth mother will hear him sing (The X Factor USA, Season 2, Episode 11 Part 1), or on a postal clerk’s fear that elimination will mean she has to go back “to selling stamps” (The X Factor US - Season 2 Episode 11 Part 2). In the entrepreneurship format, as Woodward pointed out, it is not ‘help’ that mentees are given, but condescension. “I have to tell you, my friend, that this is the worst idea I’ve ever heard. You don’t have a clue about how to set up a business or market a product,” Woodward noted as the feedback given by one elite businessman on The Shark Tank (Woodward). “This is a five million dollar contract and I have to know that you can go the distance” (The X Factor US – Season 2 Episode 11, Part 1) Britney Spears warned to a thirteen-year-old contestant before accepting her as part of her team. In each instance the fictitious premise of being either an ‘enabler’ or destroyer of dreams is replayed and slightly adapted for ongoing consumer interest. This lack of shared experience and mutual recognition in reality television also highlights the overt, yet rarely analyzed focus on the wealth of mentors as contrasted with their unstable mentees. In the respective cases of The X Factor and I Am Cait, one of the wealthiest moguls in entertainment, Cowell, reportedly contracts mentors for up to $15 million per season (Nair); Jenner’s performance in I Am Cait was also set to significantly boost the Kardashian empire (reportedly already worth $300 million, Pavia). In both series, significant screen time has been dedicated to showing the mentors in luxurious beachside houses, where mentees may visit. Despite the important social messages embedded in Caitlyn’s story (which no doubt nourishes the Kardashian family’s generally more ersatz material), the question, from a moral point of view becomes: would these mentors still interact with that particular mentee without the money? Regardless, reality participants insist they are fulfilling their dreams when they appear. Despite the preplanning, possibility of distress (Australia Network News; Bleasby) and even suicide (Schuster), as well as the ferocity of opinion surrounding shows (Marche) the parade of a type of ‘road of trials’ (Vogler 189) is enough to keep a huge fan base interested, and hungry for their turn to experience the fortune of being touched by the creative elite; or in narrative terms, a supernatural aid. ConclusionThe key differences between reality television and artistic narrative portrayals of mentors can be found in the use of archetypes for narrative conflict and resolution, in the ways themes are explored and the ways dialogue is put to use, and in the focus on and visibility of material wealth (Frere-Jones; Peyser). These differences highlight the political, cultural and social implications of exchanging stories about potential fulfillment, for stories about ascension to the creative class. Rather than being based on genuine reciprocity, and understanding of human issues, reality shows create drama around the desperation to penetrate the inner sanctum of celebrity fame and fortune. In fiction we see themes based on becoming famous, on gender transformation, and wealth acquisition, such as in the films and series Almost Famous (2000), The Bill Silvers Show (1955-1959), Filthy Rich (1982-1983), and Tootsie (1982), but these stories at least attempt to address a moral question. Critically, in an artistic - rather than commercial context – the actors (who may play mentees) are not at risk of exploitation (Australia Network News; Bleasby; Crouch). Where actors are paid and recognized creatively for their contribution to an artistic work (Rupel), the mentee in reality television has no involvement in the ways action may be set up for maximum voyeuristic enjoyment, or manipulated to enhance scandalous and salacious content which will return show and media profits (“Reality Show Fights”; Skeggs and Wood 64). The emphasis, ironically, from a reality production point of view, is wholly on making the audience believe (Papacharissi and Mendelson 367) that the content is realistic. This perhaps gives some insight as to why themes of personal suffering and instability are increasingly evident across formats.On an ethical level, unlike the knowledge transferred through complex television plots, or in coming of age films (as cited above) about the ways tradition is handed down, and the ways true mentors provide altruistic help in human experience; in reality television we take away the knowledge that life, under neoliberalism, is most remarkable when one is handpicked to undertake a televised journey featuring their desire for upward mobility. The value of the mentoring in these cases is directly proportionate to the financial objectives of the creative elite.ReferencesAggarwal, Sirpa. “WWE, A&E Networks, and Simplynew Share Benefits of White-Label Social TV Solutions at the Social TV Summit.” Arktan 25 July 2012. 1 August 2014 <http://arktan.com/wwe-ae-networks-and-simplynew-share-benefits-of-white-label-social-tv-solutions-at-the-social-tv-summit/>. 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Caitlyn 'Could Be Worth over $500 Million' in Coming Years.” New York Daily News 3 June 2015. 6 Jan. 2016 <http://www.nydailynews.com/entertainment/gossip/caitlyn-jenner-richer-kardashians-experts-article-1.2244402>.Peyser, Marc. “AMERICAN IDOL.” Newsweek 13 Dec. 2008. 5 Jan. 2016 <http://europe.newsweek.com/american-idol-82867?rm=eu>.Pinter, Harold. “Art, Truth & Politics". Nobelprize.org. Nobel Lecture. Stockholm: Nobel Media AB, 2014. 13 Apr 2016 <http://www.nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/2005/pinter-lecture-e.html>. “Reality Show Fights.” American Broadcasting Corporation 30 Mar. 2011. 24 July 2014 <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X8bhnTfxWz8>.“Reality Writer.” WGAW Writer’s Guild of America West, n.d. 25 April 2014 <http://www.wga.org/organizesub.aspx?id=1092>. Runco, Mark A. “Everyone Has Creative Potential.” Creativity: From Potential to Realization. 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Kathy works entirely online. She is an indefatigable worker and is never too engrossed with her own pursuits to deny another’s request for assistance. Her expertise is focused, and her suggestions are generally valuable. She constantly reviews her communications to search for ways of increasing her effectiveness. An analysis of her interactions, however, raises concerns. Approximately 7% of the communications Kathy receives are insulting and nearly 20% are sexual in nature (Brahnam). She is frequently called a bitch and told her ideas are stupid. Although Kathy refuses to talk about sex, her comments are often twisted and given unintended sexual significance. Why is Kathy bombarded by so many verbal assaults? Could part of the reason be that her communications are electronically mediated and this encourages what Suler calls toxic disinhibition, i.e., behaviour that is characterised by an acting out of forbidden desires and an unrestrained expression of anger and hatred? Is her job performance to blame for some of the insults? An examination of her interactions reveals that Kathy occasionally has difficulty understanding requests and often uses incorrect and sub-standard grammar. Is the prevalence of foul language due to the fact that Kathy is young and female? If she were older and male—or androgynous—would her colleagues respect her more? Or is this barrage of electronic nastiness a natural consequence—simply the way people will behave when asked to work with human-like computing machines? Embodied Collaborative Agents Amer. Dr Poole, what’s it like living for the better part of a year in such close proximity with HAL?Poole. Well, it’s pretty close to what you said about him earlier, he is just like a sixth member of the crew—very quickly get adjusted to the idea that he talks, and you think of him—uh—really just as another person. Kubrick and Clarke, 2001: A Space Odyssey For over a century, science fiction has painted vivid pictures of what it would be like to work alongside computers. Although many a tale ends with computers taking over the world, depictions of collegial relationships between human beings and their artificial helpmates are equally familiar. This amiable vision of human-computer interaction is what motivates much current research into embodied collaborative agents. These are programs, like Kathy, that run independently of user control, that look and behave like people, and that are designed to assist users in solving complex problems and in performing complicated tasks. For these agents to succeed, they must be socially intelligent, capable of building and sustaining friendly working relationships, and competent in what they do. Researchers are aware that building long-term human-computer relationships is difficult (Bickmore and Picard) and that users are often hostile towards interactive agents (Angeli et al.). These problems are often blamed on technological limitations that irritate the user and disrupt the user’s suspension of disbelief. Users seem to demand a higher degree of fidelity when dealing with anthropomorphic interfaces. It is assumed that once these technological issues are resolved, the social cues exhibited by the agents will automatically call forth socially appropriate responses. The assumption that people will behave nicely when given a believable interface is largely based on the media equation, or the idea that people treat media the same way they treat people (Reeves and Nass). The media equation claims the same rules governing interpersonal relationships apply to human-computer relationships. If it is impolite to criticise a person too harshly face-to-face, for instance, then it follows people will soften their evaluations of a computer’s performance when in the presence of the computer. Research demonstrates, in fact, that people do apply this rule, as well as many other social rules, in their dealings with computers. There are situations, however, where the media equation fails. This is particularly evident in situations involving abusive behavior. Bartneck et al., in their repetition of the Milgram obedience experiment, for example, found that subjects had no qualms administering shock to a rather cute humanoid robot placed in an electric chair. No matter how loudly the robot yelped and pleaded for mercy when zapped, subjects remained uniformly marble-hearted in obeying the directive of the experimenter to administer yet more electricity. Clearly the subjects in this experiment were fully aware the robot was not a person. Rather than attempting to understand human-computer interaction through the filter of the media equation, or social theory, it might be more profitable to investigate theories, such as animism, anthropomorphism, personification, and semiotics, which explain how human beings relate to things. In the next section, I argue that an anthropomorphic tension is at odds with the suspension of disbelief, at least when dealing with animated agents, and that this tension provides a motivating ground for abusing agents. If this proves correct, it may be the case that users will deride and abuse collaborative agents no matter how veridical the interface. Anthropomorphic Tension People in the modern world are pulled in two directions when confronted with things. On the one hand, there is the tendency to anthropomorphize, i.e., to attribute humanlike qualities to non-human entities. Possibly because of its evolutionary value (failing to perceive a human being hidden in the trees could prove deadly), anthropomorphism is a constant perceptual bias, a sort of cognitive default (Guthrie; Caporael and Heyes). On the other hand, there is strong societal pressure, especially in the West, to banish the anthropomorphic for the sake of objectivity (Davis; Spada). Anthropomorphic thinking is considered archaic and primitive (Fisher; Caporael). Children are allowed to indulge in it, but, adults, in general, are expected to maintain a clear demarcation between self and the world. As Guthrie notes, “Once we decide a perception is anthropomorphic, reason dictates that we correct it” (76). It is interesting to note how children learn to discard anthropomorphic thinking. One way apparently involves torturing cherished playthings. A recent study conducted at the University of Bath discovered that young girls like mutilating and torturing Barbie. According to the researchers, “the girls we spoke to see Barbie torture as a legitimate play activity … The types of mutilation are varied and creative, and range from removing the hair to decapitation, burning, breaking, and even microwaving” (Radford). Why is Barbie tortured? The researchers observed that many of these girls see Barbie as a childish plaything. They go on to explain that “On a deeper level, Barbie has become inanimate. She has lost any individual warmth that she might possess if she were perceived as a singular person” (Radford). In other words, by dehumanizing the very things they once animated, the little girls were simply learning to become objective grownups. Although anthropomorphic thinking begins in early childhood, it is never completely outgrown but rather pervades adult thinking, with much of it remaining unconscious, even in scientific thinking (Searle). It is not clear what strategies people employ to keep the anthropomorphic tendency in check. Anthropomorphism generates little scholarly attention. As Guthrie notes, “that such an important and oft-noted tendency should bring so little close scrutiny is a curiosity with several apparent causes. One is simply that it appears as an embarrassment, an irrational aberration of thought of dubious parentage, that is better chastened and closeted than publicly scrutinized” (53-54). The tension produced between the tendency to anthropomorphise and the societal pressure to remain objective has implications for human-computer interaction. First, the anthropomorphic tension jeopardizes the credibility and trustworthiness of the interactive agent. If the user’s relationship to the collaborative agent is based on a dubious, even embarrassing, mode of cognition, as Guthrie puts it, then the relationship with the agent in many workplace contexts will remain suspect. Second, the anthropomorphic tension motivates abuse and exposes the agent. The agent, as illustrated in the diagram below, is situated between the tendency to anthropomorphise and the pressure to objectify. Anthropomorphism animates the agent, resulting in the desired suspension of disbelief. Developers of human-like interfaces rely on this impulse and work to strengthen it by making the technology transparent. Although improved technology will certainly improve believability, the pressure to objectify will most likely succeed in periodically disrupting the suspension of disbelief. Anthropomorphic tension and the collaborative agent What happens to the agent when believability is disrupted? Examination of user/agent interaction logs shows that the agent becomes transparent or displaced to some degree. What slips behind the agent (lowly machine, programmer/creator, organization/owner, the social stereotypes evoked by the agent’s embodiment and so on) is then often subjected to a barrage of verbal abuse. The agent provides users an opportunity to express opinions and indulge in behaviours normally prohibited in the workplace. This abuse occurs in a socially and psychologically safe space, since in truth the agent is an insensate object and the user is talking to no one real. Thus, when it comes to collaborating with Kathy, users may find it far more gratifying to treat her, not as a valuable co-worker or “just another member of the crew,” but rather as a fun thing to bash. And although the organisation may disapprove the waste of time, society at large will find it hard, without reverting to anthropomorphic thinking, to knock it. References Bartneck, Christoph, Chioke Rosalia, Rutger Menges, and Inèz Deckers. “Robot Abuse—A Limitation of the Media Equation.” Abuse: The Darker Side of Human-Computer Interaction, proceedings of an INTERACT 2005 workshop in Rome, Italy, 19 Sept. 2005. http://www.agentabuse.org/papers.htm>. Bickmore, T., and R. Picard. “Establishing and Maintaining Long-Term Human-Computer Relationships.” ACM Transactions on Computer Human Interaction (ToCHI) 12.2 (2005): 293-327. Brahnam, Sheryl. “Gendered Bods and Bot Abuse.” Misuse and Abuse of Interactive Technologies, proceedings of CHI workshop in Montréal, Québec, Canada, 22-28 Aug. 2005. http://www.agentabuse.org/papers.htm>. Caporael, L. R. “Anthropomorphism and Mechanomorphism: Two Faces of the Human Machine.” Computers in Human Behavior 2 (1986): 215-34. Caporael, Linnda R., and Cecilia M. Heyes. “Why Anthropomorphize? Folk Psychology and Other Stories.” Anthropomorphism, Anecdotes, and Animals. Eds. Robert W. Mitchell, Nicholas S. Thompson and H. Lyn Miles. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 1977. 59-73. Davis, Hank. “Amimal Cognition versus Animal Thinking: The Antropomorphic Error.” Anthropomorphism, Anecdotes, and Animals. Eds. Robert. W. Mitchell, Nicholas S. Thompson and H. Lyn Miles. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 1997. 335-47. De Angeli, Antonella, Sheryl Brahnam, Peter Wallis, and Alan Dix. “Misuse and Abuse of Interactive Technologies.” CHI 2006, proceedings of a conference on HCI in Montréal, Québec, Canada. 22-28 Aug. 2006: New York: ACM Press, 2006 (in press). Fisher, J. A. “The Myth of Anthropomorphism.” Interpretation and Explanation in the Study of Animal Behavior: Interpretation, Intentionality, and Communication. Eds. M. Bekoff and D. Jamieson. San Fransisco: Westview Press, 1990. Guthrie, Stewart Elliot. Faces in the Clouds: A New Theory of Religion. New York: Oxford UP, 1993. Milgram, Stanley, Leonard Bickman, and Lawrence Berkowitz. “Note on the Drawing Power of Crowds of Different Size.” Journal of Personality and Social Psychology, 13.2 (1969): 79-82. Radford, Benjamin. “Voice of Reason: Research Debunks ‘Barbie Ideal’.” Skeptical Inquirer: The Magazine for Science and Reason, 2005. http://www.livescience.com/othernews/051230_barbie.html>. Reeves, Byron, and Clifford I. Nass. The Media Equation: How People Treat Computers, Television, and New Media like Real People and Places. Stanford, CA: CSLI Publications and Cambridge University Press, 1996. Searle, J. R. The Rediscovery of the Mind. Cambridge, Massachusetts: MIT Press, 1992. Spada, Emanuela Cenami. “Amorphism. Mechanomorphism, and Anthropomorphism.” Anthropomorphism, Anecdotes, and Animals. Eds. Robert. W. Mitchell, Nicholas S. Thompson and H. Lyn Miles. Albany, NY: State U of New York P, 1997. 37-49. Suler, J. “The Online Disinhibition Effect.” CyberPsychology and Behaviour 7 (2004): 321-26. Web Links About agent abuse: http://agentabuse.org>. About gender and embodied conversational agents: http://www.informatics.manchester.ac.uk/~antonella/gender/>. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Brahnam, Sheryl. "The Impossibility of Collaborating with Kathy, ‘The Stupid Bitch’." M/C Journal 9.2 (2006). echo date('d M. Y'); ?> <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0605/05-brahnam.php>. APA Style Brahnam, S. (May 2006) "The Impossibility of Collaborating with Kathy, ‘The Stupid Bitch’," M/C Journal, 9(2). Retrieved echo date('d M. Y'); ?> from <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/0605/05-brahnam.php>.

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Abstract:

IntroductionCoffee, as a stimulant, and the spaces in which it is has been consumed, have long played a vital role in fostering communication, creativity, and sociality. This article explores the interrelationship of café space, communication, creativity, and materialism. In developing these themes, this article is structured in two parts. The first looks back to the coffee houses of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries to give a historical context to the contemporary role of the café as a key site of creativity through its facilitation of social interaction, communication and information exchange. The second explores the continuation of the link between cafés, communication and creativity, through an instance from the mid-twentieth century where this process becomes individualised and is tied more intrinsically to the material surroundings of the café itself. From this, we argue that in order to understand the connection between café space and creativity, it is valuable to consider the rich polymorphic material and aesthetic composition of cafés. The Social Life of Coffee: London’s Coffee Houses While the social consumption of coffee has a long history, here we restrict our focus to a discussion of the London coffee houses of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It was during the seventeenth century that the vogue of these coffee houses reached its zenith when they operated as a vibrant site of mercantile activity, as well as cultural and political exchange (Cowan; Lillywhite; Ellis). Many of these coffee houses were situated close to the places where politicians, merchants, and other significant people congregated and did business, near government buildings such as Parliament, as well as courts, ports and other travel route hubs (Lillywhite 17). A great deal of information was shared within these spaces and, as a result, the coffee house became a key venue for communication, especially the reading and distribution of print and scribal publications (Cowan 85). At this time, “no coffee house worth its name” would be without a ready selection of newspapers for its patrons (Cowan 173). By working to twenty-four hour diurnal cycles and heightening the sense of repetition and regularity, coffee houses also played a crucial role in routinising news as a form of daily consumption alongside other forms of habitual consumption (including that of coffee drinking). In Cowan’s words, “restoration coffee houses soon became known as places ‘dasht with diurnals and books of news’” (172). Among these was the short-lived but nonetheless infamous social gossip publication, The Tatler (1709-10), which was strongly associated with the London coffee houses and, despite its short publication life, offers great insight into the social life and scandals of the time. The coffee house became, in short, “the primary social space in which ‘news’ was both produced and consumed” (Cowan 172). The proprietors of coffee houses were quick to exploit this situation by dealing in “news mongering” and developing their own news publications to supplement their incomes (172). They sometimes printed news, commentary and gossip that other publishers were not willing to print. However, as their reputation as news providers grew, so did the pressure on coffee houses to meet the high cost of continually acquiring or producing journals (Cowan 173; Ellis 185-206). In addition to the provision of news, coffee houses were vital sites for other forms of communication. For example, coffee houses were key venues where “one might deposit and receive one’s mail” (Cowan 175), and the Penny Post used coffeehouses as vital pick-up and delivery centres (Lillywhite 17). As Cowan explains, “Many correspondents [including Jonathan Swift] used a coffeehouse as a convenient place to write their letters as well as to send them” (176). This service was apparently provided gratis for regular patrons, but coffee house owners were less happy to provide this for their more infrequent customers (Cowan 176). London’s coffee houses functioned, in short, as notable sites of sociality that bundled together drinking coffee with news provision and postal and other services to attract customers (Cowan; Ellis). Key to the success of the London coffee house of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries was the figure of the virtuoso habitué (Cowan 105)—an urbane individual of the middle or upper classes who was skilled in social intercourse, skills that were honed through participation in the highly ritualised and refined forms of interpersonal communication, such as visiting the stately homes of that time. In contrast to such private visits, the coffee house provided a less formalised and more spontaneous space of sociality, but where established social skills were distinctly advantageous. A striking example of the figure of the virtuoso habitué is the philosopher, architect and scientist Robert Hooke (1635-1703). Hooke, by all accounts, used the opportunities provided by his regular visits to coffee houses “to draw on the knowledge of a wide variety of individuals, from servants and skilled laborers to aristocrats, as well as to share and display novel scientific instruments” (Cowan 105) in order to explore and develop his virtuoso interests. The coffee house also served Hooke as a place to debate philosophy with cliques of “like-minded virtuosi” and thus formed the “premier locale” through which he could “fulfil his own view of himself as a virtuoso, as a man of business, [and] as a man at the centre of intellectual life in the city” (Cowan 105-06). For Hooke, the coffee house was a space for serious work, and he was known to complain when “little philosophical work” was accomplished (105-06). Sociality operates in this example as a form of creative performance, demonstrating individual skill, and is tied to other forms of creative output. Patronage of a coffee house involved hearing and passing on gossip as news, but also entailed skill in philosophical debate and other intellectual pursuits. It should also be noted that the complex role of the coffee house as a locus of communication, sociality, and creativity was repeated elsewhere. During the 1600s in Egypt (and elsewhere in the Middle East), for example, coffee houses served as sites of intensive literary activity as well as the locations for discussions of art, sciences and literature, not to mention also of gambling and drug use (Hattox 101). While the popularity of coffee houses had declined in London by the 1800s, café culture was flowering elsewhere in mainland Europe. In the late 1870s in Paris, Edgar Degas and Edward Manet documented the rich café life of the city in their drawings and paintings (Ellis 216). Meanwhile, in Vienna, “the kaffeehaus offered another evocative model of urban and artistic modernity” (Ellis 217; see also Bollerey 44-81). Serving wine and dinners as well as coffee and pastries, the kaffeehaus was, like cafés elsewhere in Europe, a mecca for writers, artists and intellectuals. The Café Royal in London survived into the twentieth century, mainly through the patronage of European expatriates and local intellectuals such as Wyndham Lewis, Ezra Pound, T. S. Elliot, and Henri Bergson (Ellis 220). This pattern of patronage within specific and more isolated cafés was repeated in famous gatherings of literary identities elsewhere in Europe throughout the twentieth century. From this historical perspective, a picture emerges of how the social functions of the coffee house and its successors, the espresso bar and modern café, have shifted over the course of their histories (Bollerey 44-81). In the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the coffee house was an important location for vibrant social interaction and the consumption and distribution of various forms of communication such as gossip, news, and letters. However, in the years of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the café was more commonly a site for more restricted social interaction between discrete groups. Studies of cafés and creativity during this era focus on cafés as “factories of literature, inciters to art, and breeding places for new ideas” (Fitch, The Grand 18). Central in these accounts are bohemian artists, their associated social circles, and their preferred cafés de bohème (for detailed discussion, see Wilson; Fitch, Paris Café; Brooker; Grafe and Bollerey 4-41). As much of this literature on café culture details, by the early twentieth century, cafés emerge as places that enable individuals to carve out a space for sociality and creativity which was not possible elsewhere in the modern metropolis. Writing on the modern metropolis, Simmel suggests that the concentration of people and things in cities “stimulate[s] the nervous system of the individual” to such an extent that it prompts a kind of self-preservation that he terms a “blasé attitude” (415). This is a form of “reserve”, he writes, which “grants to the individual a [certain] kind and an amount of personal freedom” that was hitherto unknown (416). Cafés arguably form a key site in feeding this dynamic insofar as they facilitate self-protectionism—Fitch’s “pool of privacy” (The Grand 22)—and, at the same time, produce a sense of individual freedom in Simmel’s sense of the term. That is to say, from the early-to-mid twentieth century, cafés have become complex settings in terms of the relationships they enable or constrain between living in public, privacy, intimacy, and cultural practice. (See Haine for a detailed discussion of how this plays out in relation to working class engagement with Paris cafés, and Wilson as well as White on other cultural contexts, such as Japan.) Threaded throughout this history is a clear celebration of the individual artist as a kind of virtuoso habitué of the contemporary café. Café Jama Michalika The following historical moment, drawn from a powerful point in the mid-twentieth century, illustrates this last stage in the evolution of the relationship between café space, communication, and creativity. This particular historical moment concerns the renowned Polish composer and conductor Krzysztof Penderecki, who is most well-known for his avant-garde piece Threnody to the Victims of Hiroshima (1960), his Polymorphia (1961), and St Luke Passion (1963-66), all of which entailed new compositional and notation techniques. Poland, along with other European countries devastated by the Second World War, underwent significant rebuilding after the war, also investing heavily in the arts, musical education, new concert halls, and conservatoria (Monastra). In the immediate post-war period, Poland and Polish culture was under the strong ideological influence exerted by the Soviet Union. However, as Thomas notes, within a year of Stalin’s death in 1953, “there were flickering signs of moderation in Polish culture” (83). With respect to musical creativity, a key turning point was the Warsaw Autumn Music Festival of 1956. “The driving force” behind the first festival (which was to become an annual event), was Polish “composers’ overwhelming sense of cultural isolation and their wish to break the provincial nature of Polish music” at that time (Thomas 85). Penderecki was one of a younger generation of composers who participated in, and benefited from, these early festivals, making his first appearance in 1959 with his composition Strophes, and successive appearances with Dimensions of Time and Silence in 1960, and Threnody in 1961 (Thomas 90). Penderecki married in the 1950s and had a child in 1955. This, in combination with the fact that his wife was a pianist and needed to practice daily, restricted Penderecki’s ability to work in their small Krakow apartment. Nor could he find space at the music school which was free from the intrusion of the sound of other instruments. Instead, he frequented the café Jama Michalika off the central square of Krakow, where he worked most days between nine in the morning and noon, when he would leave as a pianist began to play. Penderecki states that because of the small space of the café table, he had to “invent [a] special kind of notation which allowed me to write the piece which was for 52 instruments, like Threnody, on one small piece of paper” (Krzysztof Penderecki, 2000). In this, Penderecki created a completely new set of notation symbols, which assisted him in graphically representing tone clustering (Robinson 6) while, in his score for Polymorphia, he implemented “novel graphic notation, comparable with medical temperature charts, or oscillograms” (Schwinger 29) to represent in the most compact way possible the dense layering of sounds and vocal elements that is developed in this particular piece. This historical account is valuable because it contributes to discussions on individual creativity that both depends on, and occurs within, the material space of the café. This relationship is explored in Walter Benjamin’s essay “Polyclinic”, where he develops an extended analogy between the writer and the café and the surgeon and his instruments. As Cohen summarises, “Benjamin constructs the field of writerly operation both in medical terms and as a space dear to Parisian intellectuals, as an operating table that is also the marble-topped table of a café” (179). At this time, the space of the café itself thus becomes a vital site for individual cultural production, putting the artist in touch with the social life of the city, as many accounts of writers and artists in the cafés of Paris, Prague, Vienna, and elsewhere in Europe attest. “The attraction of the café for the writer”, Fitch argues, “is that seeming tension between the intimate circle of privacy in a comfortable room, on the one hand, and the flow of (perhaps usable) information all around on the other” (The Grand 11). Penderecki talks about searching for a sound while composing in café Jama Michalika and, hearing the noise of a passing tram, subsequently incorporated it into his famous composition, Threnody (Krzysztof Penderecki, 2000). There is an indirect connection here with the attractions of the seventeenth century coffee houses in London, where news writers drew much of their gossip and news from the talk within the coffee houses. However, the shift is to a more isolated, individualistic habitué. Nonetheless, the aesthetic composition of the café space remains essential to the creative productivity described by Penderecki. A concept that can be used to describe this method of composition is contained within one of Penderecki’s best-known pieces, Polymorphia (1961). The term “polymorphia” refers not to the form of the music itself (which is actually quite conventionally structured) but rather to the multiple blending of sounds. Schwinger defines polymorphia as “many formedness […] which applies not […] to the form of the piece, but to the broadly deployed scale of sound, [the] exchange and simultaneous penetration of sound and noise, the contrast and interflow of soft and hard sounds” (131). This description also reflects the rich material context of the café space as Penderecki describes its role in shaping (both enabling and constraining) his creative output. Creativity, Technology, Materialism The materiality of the café—including the table itself for Penderecki—is crucial in understanding the relationship between the forms of creative output and the material conditions of the spaces that enable them. In Penderecki’s case, to understand the origins of the score and even his innovative forms of musical notation as artefacts of communication, we need to understand the material conditions under which they were created. As a fixture of twentieth and twenty-first century urban environments, the café mediates the private within the public in a way that offers the contemporary virtuoso habitué a rich, polymorphic sensory experience. In a discussion of the indivisibility of sensation and its resistance to language, writer Anna Gibbs describes these rich experiential qualities: sitting by the window in a café watching the busy streetscape with the warmth of the morning sun on my back, I smell the delicious aroma of coffee and simultaneously feel its warmth in my mouth, taste it, and can tell the choice of bean as I listen idly to the chatter in the café around me and all these things blend into my experience of “being in the café” (201). Gibbs’s point is that the world of the café is highly synaesthetic and infused with sensual interconnections. The din of the café with its white noise of conversation and overlaying sounds of often carefully chosen music illustrates the extension of taste beyond the flavour of the coffee on the palate. In this way, the café space provides the infrastructure for a type of creative output that, in Gibbs’s case, facilitates her explanation of expression and affect. The individualised virtuoso habitué, as characterised by Penderecki’s work within café Jama Michalika, simply describes one (celebrated) form of the material conditions of communication and creativity. An essential factor in creative cultural output is contained in the ways in which material conditions such as these come to be organised. As Elizabeth Grosz expresses it: Art is the regulation and organisation of its materials—paint, canvas, concrete, steel, marble, words, sounds, bodily movements, indeed any materials—according to self-imposed constraints, the creation of forms through which these materials come to generate and intensify sensation and thus directly impact living bodies, organs, nervous systems (4). Materialist and medium-oriented theories of media and communication have emphasised the impact of physical constraints and enablers on the forms produced. McLuhan, for example, famously argued that the typewriter brought writing, speech, and publication into closer association, one effect of which was the tighter regulation of spelling and grammar, a pressure toward precision and uniformity that saw a jump in the sales of dictionaries (279). In the poetry of E. E. Cummings, McLuhan sees the typewriter as enabling a patterned layout of text that functions as “a musical score for choral speech” (278). In the same way, the café in Penderecki’s recollections both constrains his ability to compose freely (a creative activity that normally requires ample flat surface), but also facilitates the invention of a new language for composition, one able to accommodate the small space of the café table. Recent studies that have sought to materialise language and communication point to its physicality and the embodied forms through which communication occurs. As Packer and Crofts Wiley explain, “infrastructure, space, technology, and the body become the focus, a move that situates communication and culture within a physical, corporeal landscape” (3). The confined and often crowded space of the café and its individual tables shape the form of productive output in Penderecki’s case. Targeting these material constraints and enablers in her discussion of art, creativity and territoriality, Grosz describes the “architectural force of framing” as liberating “the qualities of objects or events that come to constitute the substance, the matter, of the art-work” (11). More broadly, the design features of the café, the form and layout of the tables and the space made available for individual habitation, the din of the social encounters, and even the stimulating influences on the body of the coffee served there, can be seen to act as enablers of communication and creativity. Conclusion The historical examples examined above indicate a material link between cafés and communication. They also suggest a relationship between materialism and creativity, as well as the roots of the romantic association—or mythos—of cafés as a key source of cultural life as they offer a “shared place of composition” and an “environment for creative work” (Fitch, The Grand 11). We have detailed one example pertaining to European coffee consumption, cafés and creativity. While we believe Penderecki’s case is valuable in terms of what it can tell us about forms of communication and creativity, clearly other cultural and historical contexts may reveal additional insights—as may be found in the cases of Middle Eastern cafés (Hattox) or the North American diner (Hurley), and in contemporary developments such as the café as a source of free WiFi and the commodification associated with global coffee chains. Penderecki’s example, we suggest, also sheds light on a longer history of creativity and cultural production that intersects with contemporary work practices in city spaces as well as conceptualisations of the individual’s place within complex urban spaces. References Benjamin, Walter. “Polyclinic” in “One-Way Street.” One-Way Street and Other Writings. Trans. Edmund Jephcott and Kingsley Shorter. London: Verso, 1998: 88-9. 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