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Anti-Vaccine Campaigns Then and Now: Lessons from 19th-Century England

13 Mar 202113 Mar 2021 Etienne RPLeave a comment

**A review of Bodily Matters: The Anti-Vaccination Movement in England, 1853–1907, Nadja Durbach, Duke University Press, 2004.**

Bodily Matters In 1980, smallpox, also known as variola, became the only human infectious disease ever to be completely eradicated. Smallpox had plagued humanity since times immemorial. It is believed to have appeared around 10,000 BC, at the time of the first agricultural settlements. Stains of smallpox were found in Egyptian mummies, in ancient Chinese tombs, and among the Roman legions. Long before germ theory was developed and bacteria or viruses could be observed, humanity was already familiar with ways to prevent the disease and to produce a remedy. The technique of variolation, or exposing patients to the disease so that they develop immunity, was already known to the Chinese in the fifteenth century and to India, the Ottoman Empire, and Europe in the eighteenth century. In 1796, Edward Jenner developed the first vaccine by noticing that milkmaids who had gotten cowpox never contracted smallpox. Calves or children produced the cowpox lymph that was then inoculated to patients to vaccinate them from smallpox. Vaccination became widely accepted and gradually replaced the practice of variolation. By the end of the nineteenth century, Europeans vaccinated most of their children and they brought the technique to the colonies, where it was nonetheless slow to take hold. In 1959, the World Health Organization initiated a plan to rid the world of smallpox. The concept of global health emerged from that enterprise and, as a result of these efforts, the World Health Assembly declared smallpox eradicated in 1980 and recommended that all countries cease routine smallpox vaccination.

Humanity’s greatest achievement

The eradication of smallpox should be celebrated as one of humanity’s greatest achievements. But it isn’t. In recent years vaccination has emerged as a controversial issue. Claiming various health concerns or belief motives, some parents are reluctant to let their children receive some or all of the recommended vaccines. The constituents who make up the so-called vaccine resistant community come from disparate groups, and include anti-government libertarians, apostles of the all-natural, and parents who believe that doctors should not dictate medical decisions about children. They circulate wild claims that autism is linked to vaccines, based on a fraudulent study that was long ago debunked. They affirm, without any scientific backing, that infant immune systems can’t handle so many vaccines, that natural immunity is better than vaccine-acquired immunity, and that vaccines aren’t worth the risk as they may create allergic reactions or even infect the child with the disease they are trying to prevent. Public health officials and physicians have been combating these misconceptions about vaccines for decades. But anti-vaccine memes seem deeply ingrained in segments of the public, and they feed on new pieces of information and communication channels as they circulate by word-of-mouth and on social media. Each country seems to have a special reluctance for a particular vaccine: in the United State, the MMR vaccine against measles, mumps, and rubella has been the target of anti-vax campaigns. in France, the innocuity of the hepatitis B vaccine has been put into question, and most people neglect to vaccinate against seasonal flu. In the Islamic world, some fatwas have targeted vaccination against polio.

Resistance to vaccines isn’t new. In Bodily Matters, Nadja Durbach investigates the history of the first outbreak of anti-vaccine fever: the anti-vaccination movement that spread over England from 1853, the year the first Compulsory Vaccination Act was established on the basis of the Poor Law system, until 1907, when the last legislation on smallpox was adopted to grant exemption certificates to reluctant parents. Like its modern equivalent, it is a history that pits the medical establishment and the scientific community against vast segments of the population. Vaccination against smallpox at that time was a painful affair: Victorian vaccinators used a lancet to cut lines into the flesh of infants’ arms, then applied the lymph that had developed on the suppurating blisters of other children who had received the same treatment. Infections often developed, diseases were passed with the arm-to-arm method, and some babies responded badly to the vaccine. Statistics showing the efficacy of vaccination were not fully reliable: doctors routinely classified those with no vaccination scars as “unvaccinated,” and the number of patients who caught smallpox after receiving vaccination was not properly counted. The vaccination process was perceived as invasive, painful, and of dubious effect: opponents to vaccination claimed that it caused many more deaths than the diffusion of smallpox itself. Serious infections such as gangrene could follow even a successful vaccination. But people not only resisted the invasion of the body and the risk to their health: resistance against compulsory vaccination was also predicated upon assumptions about the boundaries of state intervention in personal life. Concerns about the role of the state, the rights of the individual, and the authority of the medical profession combined with deeply-held beliefs about the health and safety of the body.

Anti-vaccination in 19th-century England

While historians have often seen anti-vaccination as resistance against progress and enlightenment, the picture that emerges from the historical narrative, as reconstructed by Nadja Durbach, is much more nuanced. Through detailed analysis of the way sanitary policies were implemented and the resistance they faced, she shows that anti-vaccination in nineteenth-century England was very often on the side of social progress, democratic accountability, and the promotion of working-class interest, while forced vaccination was synonymous with state control, medical hegemony, and the encroachment of private liberties. The growth of professional medicine run counter to the interests of practitioners such as unlicensed physicians, surgeons, midwives, and apothecaries, some of whom had practiced variolation with the smallpox virus for a long time. It abolished the long-held practice of negotiating what treatments were to be applied, and turned patients into passive receptacles of prescriptions backed by the authority of science and the state. Compulsory infant vaccination, as the first continuous public-health activity undertaken by the state, ushered in a new age in which the Victorian state became intimately involved in bodily matters. Administrators—the same officers who applied the infamous Poor Laws and ran the workhouses for indigents and vagabonds—saw the bodies of the working classes themselves as contagious and, like prisoners, beggars, and paupers, in need of surveillance and control. Sanitary technologies such as quarantines, compulsory medical checks, forced sanitization of houses, and destruction of contaminated property were first experimented in this context of state-enforced medicine and bureaucratization. Several Vaccination Acts were adopted—in 1853, 1867, and 1871—to ensure that all infants born from poor families were vaccinated against smallpox. The fact that the authorities had to repeat the same laws on the books shows that the “lower and uneducated classes” were not taking advantage of the free service, and were avoiding mandatory vaccination at all costs.

Born in the 1850s, the anti-vaccination movement took shape in the late 1860s and early ‘70s as resisters responded to what they considered an increasingly coercive vaccination policy. The first to protest were traditional healers and proponents of alternative medicine who felt threatened by the professionalization of health care and the development of medical science. For these alternative practitioners, medicine was more art than science, and the state had no role in regulating this sector of activity. They objected to the scientific experimentation on the human body: vaccination, they maintained, not only polluted the blood with animal material but also spread dangerous diseases such as scrofula and syphilis. These early medical dissenters were soon rejoined by a motley crew of social activists who added the anti-vaccination cause to their broader social and political agenda. Temperance associations, anti-vivisectionists, vegetarians and food reformers, women’s rights advocates, working men’s clubs, trade unionists, religious sects, followers of the Swedish mystic Swedenborg: all these movements formed a larger culture of dissent in which anti-vaccinators found a place. They created leagues to organize against the Vaccination Acts, organized debates and mass meetings, published tracts and bulletins, and held demonstrations that sometimes turned into small-scale riots. Women from all social classes were particularly active: they wrote pamphlets, contributed letters to newspapers, and expressed strong opposition at public meetings. They often took their roles as guardians of the home quite literally, and refused to open their door to intruding medical officials. Campaigners argued that parental rights were political rights, to which all respectable English citizens were entitled. The state, they contended, had no right to encroach on parental choice and individual freedom. “The Englishman’s home is his castle,” they maintained, and how best to raise a family was a domestic issue over which the state had no authority to interfere.

Middle-class campaigners and working-class opponents

While the populist language of rights and citizenship enabled a cross-class alliance to exist, the middle-class campaigners didn’t experience the bulk of repression that befell on working-class families that resisted compulsory vaccination. Working-class noncompliers were routinely sized from their houses and dragged to jail, or were charged with heavy fines. Middle-class activists clung to the old liberal tenets of individual rights and laissez-faire: “There should be free trade in vaccination; let those buy it who want it, and let those be free who don’t want it.” By contrast, working-class protests against vaccination was often formulated at the level of the collective, and they had important bodily implications. Some anti-vaccinators considered themselves socialists and belonged to the Independent Labour Party. They aligned their fight with the interest of the working class and expressed distrust of state welfare in general and of anti-pauperism in particular. The Poor Laws that forced recipient of government relief into the workhouse were a target of widespread detestation. Vaccination remained linked to poor relief in the minds of many parents, as workhouse surgeons were often in charge of inoculation and the health campaigns remained administered by the Poor Law Board. Public vaccination was performed at vaccination stations, regarded by many as sites of moral and physical pollution. The vaccination of children from arm to arm provoked enormous fears of contamination. Parents expressed a shared experience of the body as violated and coerced, and repeatedly voiced their grievances in the political language of class conflict. Their protests helped to shape the production of a working-class identity by locating class consciousness in shared bodily experience.

Anti-vaccination also drew from an imaginary of bodily invasion, blood contamination, and monstrous transformations. Many Victorians believed that health depended on preserving the body’s integrity, encouraging the circulation of pure blood, and preventing the introduction of any foreign material into the body. Gothic novels popularized the figures of the vampire, the body-snatcher, and the incubus. They offered lurid tales of rotten flesh and scabrous wounds that left a mark on readers’ imagination. Anti-vaccinators heavily exploited these gothic tropes to generate parental anxieties: they depicted vaccination as a kind of ritual murder or child sacrifice, a sacrilege that interfered with the God-given body of the pristine child. They quoted the Book of Revelations: “Fool and evil sores came upon the men who bore the mark of the beast.” Supporters of vaccination also participated in the production of this sensationalist imagery by depicting innocent victims of the smallpox disease turned into loathsome creatures. Fear of bodily violation was intimately bound up with concerns over the purity of the blood and the proper functioning of the circulatory system. The best guard against smallpox, maintained a medical dissenter, was to keep “the blood pure, the bowels regular, and the skin clean.” Temperance advocates or proselytizing vegetarians added anti-vaccine to their cause: “If there is anything that I detest more than others, they are vaccination, alcohol, and tobacco.” As the lymph applied to children’s sores was the product of disease-infected cows, some parents feared that vaccinated children might adopt cow-like tendencies, or that calf lymph might also transmit animal diseases. Human lymph was even more problematic: applied from arm to arm, it could expose untainted children to the poisonous fluids of contaminated patients and spread contagious or hereditary diseases such as scrofula, syphilis, leprosy, blindness, or tuberculosis.

Understanding the intellectual and social roots of anti-vax campaigns

This early wave of resistance to vaccination, as depicted in Bodily Matters, is crucial to understanding the intellectual and social roots of modern anti-vaccine campaigns. Then as now, anti-vax advocates use the same arguments: that vaccines are unsafe and inefficient, that the government is abusing its power, and that alternative health practices are preferable. Vaccination is no longer coercive and disciplinary, but the issue of compulsory treatment of certain professions such as healthcare workers regularly resurfaces. More fundamentally, the Victorian era in nineteenth-century England was, like our own age, a time of deepening democratization and rampant anti-elitism. Now, too, the democratization of knowledge and truth can produce an odd mixture of credulity and skepticism among many ordinary citizens. Moreover, we, too, are living in an era when state-enforced medicine and scientific expertise are being challenged. Science has become just another voice in the room, and people are carrying their reliance on individual judgment to ridiculous extremes. With everyone being told that their ideas about medicine, art, and government are as valid as those of the so-called “experts” and “those in power,” truth and knowledge become elusive and difficult to pin down. As we are discovering again, democracy and elite expertise do not always go well together. Where everything is believable, everything is doubtable. And when all claims to expert knowledge become suspect, people will tend to mistrust anything that they have not seen, felt, heard, tasted, or smelled. Proponents of alternative medicine uphold a more holistic approach to sickness and health and they claim, as did nineteenth century medical dissenters, that every man and woman could and should be his or her own doctor. Of course, campaigners from the late Victorian age could only have dreamed of the role that social media has enabled ordinary people to play. The pamphlets and periodicals of the 1870s couldn’t hold a candle to Twitter, Facebook, and other platforms that enable everyone to participate in the creation of popular opinion.

Which brings us to the present situation. As I write this review, governments all over the world are busy developing, acquiring, and administering new vaccines against an infectious disease that has left no country untouched. The Covid-19, as the new viral disease is known, has spread across borders like wildfire, demonstrating the interconnect nature of our present global age. Pending the diffusion of an effective treatment, herd immunity, which was touted by some experts as a possible endgame, can only be attained at a staggering cost in human lives and economic loss. “Flattening the curve” to allow the healthcare system to cope with the crisis before mass vaccination campaigns unroll quickly became the new mantra, and rankings were made among countries to determine which policies have proven the most efficient in containing the disease. Meanwhile, scientists have worked furiously to develop and test an effective vaccine. Vaccines usually take years to develop and they are submitted to a lengthy process of testing and approval until they reach the market. Covid-19 has changed all this: several proof-tested vaccines using three different technologies are currently being administered in the most time-condensed vaccination campaign of all times. This is when resistance to vaccines resurfaces: as vaccines become widely available, a significant proportion of the population in developing countries are refusing to get their shots. And many of those refusing are those who have the most reason to get vaccinated: high-risk themselves or susceptible of passing the virus to other vulnerable people. Disinformation, distrust and rumors that are downright delusional have turned what should have been a well-oiled operation into an organizational nightmare. In the end, we will get rid of Covid-19. But we can’t and we won’t get rid of our dependence on vaccines.

Art-and-Technology Projects

7 Mar 2021 Etienne RP1 Comment

**A review of Technocrats of the Imagination: Art, Technology, and the Military-Industrial Avant-Garde, John Beck and Ryan Bishop, Duke University Press, 2020.**

Technocrats of the Imagination There is a renewed interest in the United States for art-and-technology projects. Tech firms have money to spend on the arts to buttress their image of cool modernity; universities want to break the barriers between science and the humanities; and artists are looking for material opportunities to explore new modes of working. Recent initiatives mixing art, science, and technology include the Art+Technology Lab at LACMA (Los Angeles County Museum of Art), MIT’s Center for Art, Science, and Technology (CAST), and the E.A.T. Salon launched by Nokia Bell Labs. In their presentation documents, these institutions make reference to previous experiments in which artists worked with scientists and engineers in universities, private labs, and museums. LACMA’s A+T Lab is the heir to the Art&Technology Program (A&T) launched in 1967 by curator Maurice Tuchman with the involvement of the most famous artists of the period, such as Andy Warhol, Claes Oldenburg, Roy Lichtenstein, and Richard Serra. MIT was the host of the Center for Advanced Visual Studies (CAVS) founded in the same year by György Kepes, who had previously worked with László Moholy-Nagy at the New Bauhaus in Chicago. Bell Labs is where scientist Billy Klüver launched Experiments in Art and Technology (E.A.T.) with Robert Rauschenberg in late 1966. Technocrats of the Imagination tells the story of these early initiatives by replacing them in their intellectual and geopolitical context, exposing in particular the link with Cold War R&D and the rising influence of the military-industrial complex. The contradiction between an anti-establishment cultural milieu denouncing technocratic complicity with the Vietnam war and a corporate environment where these collusions were left unchallenged led these art-and-technology projects to their rapid demise. Modern initiatives operate in a different environment, but unquestioned assumptions may lead them to the same fate.

Creativity, collaboration, and experimentation

Why should artists collaborate with scientists and engineers? Then and now, the same arguments are put forward by a class of art curators, tech gurus, and project managers. The art world and the research lab are both characterized by a strategy of continuous innovation, collaborative experimentation, and disciplined creativity. They tend to abolish the boundaries between theory and practice, knowing and doing, individual inspiration and collective work. These tendencies were reinforced in the context of the 1950s and 1960s: in an age of big science and artistic avant-garde framed by integrative paradigms such as cybernetics and information theory, the artist and the engineer seemed to herald a new dawn of democratic organization and shared prosperity. The artist defined himself as a “factory manager” (Andy Warhol) and did not hesitate to don the white coat of the laboratory experimenter. The scientist was engaged in much more than the accumulation of scientific knowledge and science’s contribution was vital for the nation’s wealth and security. Both worked under the assumption that science could enlarge democracy and support the United States’ place in the world, and that American art should be considered on an equal footing with other professional fields of activity. But the shared virtues of creativity, collaboration, and experimentation covered profoundly different ideas of what those terms might mean and how they should be achieved. The conception of experimental collaboration in the arts was heir to a liberal tradition of educational reform emphasizing free expression and self-discovery. By contrast, innovation and experimentation as understood by institutions training and employing scientists followed a model of elite expertise and top-down management. They were also heavily compromised, as John Beck and Ryan Bishop emphasize, by their ties to the military-industrial complex.

Beck and Bishop place the genealogy of the three art-and-tech initiatives under the influence of two currents: John Dewey’s philosophy of democracy and education, and Bauhaus’ approach to artistic-industrial collaborations. The influence of John Dewey over the course of the twentieth century cannot be overemphasized. More than any other public intellectual, Dewey shaped and influenced debates on the relations between science, politics, and society in the United States. His principles of democratic education emphasizing holistic learning and the study of art were applied in Black Mountain College in North Carolina, a liberal arts education institution that left its imprint on a whole generation of future artists and creators (Robert Rauschenberg, Cy Twombly, John Cage, Merce Cunningham, Ray Johnson, Ruth Asawa, Robert Motherwell, Dorothea Rockburne, Susan Weil, Buckminster Fuller, Franz Kline, Aaron Siskind, Willem and Elaine de Kooning, etc.) The influence of Dewey’s pragmatism extended beyond the US, notably among German educational reformers, and his notion of “learning by doing” was picked up by the Bauhaus, a German art school operational from 1919 to 1933 that combined crafts and the fine arts. In return, Bauhaus furnished Black Mountain College with émigrés educators—Josef and Anni Albers, Xanti Schawinksy, Walter Gropius—and an utopian vision of a post-disciplinary, collectivist education that did not favor one medium or skill set over another. Bauhaus’ afterlife and legacy in the United States also manifests itself in the trajectories of Bauhaus veterans László Moholy-Nagy who created the short-lived Chicago School of Design in 1937, and György Kepes, who taught at MIT and ended up creating the Center for Advanced Visual Studies (CAVS) in 1967.

Bauhaus in America

It was Moholy-Nagy who originated the idea to stimulate interactions among artists, scientists, and technologists in order to spearhead creativity and innovation. His Hungarian compatriot and associate at the School of Design took the idea to the MIT, an institution whose motto mens et manus (“mind and hand”) echoed Dewey’s and Bauhaus’ devotion to “learning by doing” and “experience as experimentation.” MIT was a full research-based science university awash with money from government contracts and military R&D. Research teams working on ‘Big Science’ projects included not just scientists but engineers, administrators, and technicians collaborating together in a structured manner. Kepes’ tenure at MIT between 1946 and 1977 was characterized by a commitment to science and technology and a belief in the virtues of the unintended consequences of chance encounters leading to breakthrough innovations. His interdisciplinary teachings were structured around the principles of vision, visual technologies, and their social implications. Many disciplines were mobilized, including Gestalt psychology, systems theory, physiology, linguistics, architecture, art, design, music, and perception theory. Transdisciplinarity, holistic approaches, and the eclectic mix of science, technology, and artistic disciplines was in the air in the late sixties and influenced the counterculture as well as artistic creation. The same eclecticism presided over the creation of CAVS, a center dedicated to all aspects related to vision and visual technologies. Drawing in important artists and thinkers, including many Black Mountain alumni, CAVS laid the groundwork for subsequent MIT ventures such as the influential Media Lab, founded in 1985 by Nicholas Negroponte, and the Center for Art, Science, and Technology (CAST). It was in such environment that experimental filmmaker Stan Vanderbeek pondered the possibility of creating an “electronic paintbrush” to complement the electronic pen used in early man/machine interfaces.

The industrial corporation, the research university, and the private lab were the three nodes of the military-industrial complex. Hailed by Fortune magazine as “The World’s Greatest Industrial Laboratory,” the Bell Labs’ research center at Murray Hill in New Jersey was conceived along the lines of a miniature college or university. The laboratories themselves were physically flexible, with no fixed partitions and rooms so that they could be partitioned, assembled, and taken apart at short notice. Bell Laboratories cultivated creativity and innovation: researchers working at Bell Labs were credited with the development of the transistor, the laser, the photovoltaic cell, information theory, and the first computer programs to play electronic music. The proximity of New York City, which had become the capital of the art world, and the presence of an arts college at the neighboring Rutgers University, facilitated the rapprochement between the scientific avant-garde working at Murray Hill and the contemporary art world. Artists and musicians were offered organized tours of Bell Labs as a mean of opening dialogue and providing a sense of how technology could be harnessed for artistic creativity. Early realizations include Edgar Varèse’s Déserts (1950-54), an atonal piece that was described as “music in the time of the H-bomb”; Jean Tinguely’s Homage to New York (1960), a self-constructing and self-destructing sculpture mechanism that performed for 27 minutes during a public performance in the Sculpture Garden of the Museum of Modern Art in New York; and Robert Rauschenberg’s Oracle (1962-65), a five-part found-metal assemblage with five concealed radios and electronic components now displayed at the Pompidou Center in Paris. Also influential was the 9 Evenings: Theatre and Engineering, a series of performances that mixed avant-garde theatre, dance, music, and new technologies. In 1967, the engineer and project manager Billy Klüver set up the Experiments in Art and Technology (E.A.T.), a collaborative project matching avant-garde artists and Bell Lab researchers that attracted the application of more than 6000 artists, scientists and engineers. But the project soon foundered due to poor management and lack of funds.

From New York to Los Angeles and to the world

Place matters for artistic innovation, as it does for scientific discovery and technological breakthrough. During the twentieth century, the center of the advanced art world shifted from Paris to New York. Yet there was also a marked increase in the geographic origins of innovative artists. When he became the first curator of twentieth-century art at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art (LACMA), part of Maurice Tuchman’s mission was to put LA on the art map as “the center of a new civilization.” He did so by partnering with business organizations to sponsor an Art & Technology exhibition in 1971, with the participation of high-profile artists such as Roy Lichtenstein, Claes Oldenburg, Robert Rauschenberg, Richard Serra, and Andy Warhol. But at that time public opinion had already shifted away from the technocratic model of corporate liberalism, and the exhibition was a flop. Another Californian experiment sponsored by LACMA was the creation of artist-in-residence positions at RAND and the Hudson Institute, two think tanks working mostly for the government sector and tasked with: “thinking about the unthinkable.” But the New York-based sculptor John Chamberlain and the conceptual artist James Lee Byars had a difficult time adapting to their new environment. The first sent a memo to all RAND staff stating: “I’m searching for ANSWERS. Not questions! If you have any, will you please fill it below”: the incomprehension was total, and the memo fell flat. The second set up a “World Question Center” and invited the public to submit any kind of questions that would then be answered by a panel of intellectuals, artists, and scientists. But as the two authors of Technocrats of the Imagination comment: “If Byars could have included Stein, Einstein, and Wittgenstein in his teleconference, what might they have been permitted to say, given the serious limitations of the format? An expert is an expert is an expert.”

Twentieth century art was advanced by new institutions on the art scene: the Salons and group exhibitions of independent art collectives, the private art gallery, the art critique magazine, the contemporary art museum, and the international art biennale. World exhibitions also played a key role in the globalization of advanced art, and the American presence in these global events often displayed art-and-technology projects. Billy Klüver and the E.A.T. program at Bell Labs engineered the American pavilion for the Osaka World’s Fair, Expo ’70, in partnership with PepsiCo. The RAND Corporation was pivotal for displaying US advanced technology abroad in exhibitions of science, urbanism, postwar visions of the future, and consumer society. The Eames Office, a design studio based in Venice, California, was commissioned to contribute to the USIA-sponsored US pavilion at the 1959 Moscow World’s Fair and the Montreal Expo ’67, and designed the IBM pavilion at the 1964 New York World’s Fair. The aim of these exhibitions was geopolitical: they were to display America’s might at its most spectacular, and to offer a glimpse of the future in which technology played a key part. They were conceived as artist-led immersive environments in the tradition of the Gesamtkunstwerk or “total work of art” of the Bauhaus, and played a pioneering role in the development of multimedia installations and video art. Charles and Ray Eames were “cultural ambassadors” for the Cold War representation of the United States, and their design creations aligned with the political agenda the US government wished to communicate. The Eames Office made important cutting-edge documentaries such as Powers of Ten (1968), a short film dealing with the relative size of things in the universe and the effect of adding or subtracting one zero, or Think (1964), a multiscreen film in a large, egg-shaped structure called the Ovoid Theater that stood high above the canopy and central structure of the IBM pavilion at the New York World’s Fair.

Corporate neoliberalism

John Beck and Ryan Bishop focus their analysis on the ideological underpinnings and geopolitical ramifications of these art-and-technology projects. They argue that, contrary to their forward-looking ambitions and futuristic visions, MIT’s CAVS, Bell Lab’s E.A.T., and LACMA’s A&T’s program were behind their times. In the late 1960s, antiwar sentiment had hardened public opinion against corporations and technology more generally. The positions of the scientist and the engineer were compromised by their participation in the military-industrial complex: “science and technology had come to be seen by many as sinister, nihilistic, and death-driven.” The idea that US corporations could plausibly collaborate with artists to create new worlds of social progress was now evidence of complicity and corruption—technology was the problem and not the solution. The political climate made it impossible to justify what was now summarily dismissed as “industry-sponsored art.” In this politically charged context, art and technology projects had very little to say about politics, American foreign policy, or the Cold War in general. Technocrats of the Imagination concludes with a comparison between these late-1960s projects and recent reenactments such as MIT’s CAST, LACMA’s A+T Lab, and Nokia’s E.A.T. Salon. Contrary to their predecessors, these new projects operate in a neoliberal environment driven by private corporations in which the sense of dedication to the public good that animated scientists and artists from the previous generation has all but disappeared. As the authors argue, the recent art-and-tech reboot “cannot be separated from or understood outside the deregulated labor market under neoliberalism that has demanded increased worker flexibility, adaptability, and entrepreneurialism.” The avant-garde artist’s new partner is not the white-coated scientist or the lab engineer, but the tech entrepreneur who claims the heritage of counterculture to advance techno-utopianism and radical individualism. Their claim of “hippie modernism” and their appropriation of the 1960s’ avant-garde is based on historical amnesia, against which this book provides a useful remedy.

One Thousand and One Arab Springs

27 Feb 20217 Mar 2021 Etienne RPLeave a comment

**A review of Revolution and Disenchantment: Arab Marxism and the Binds of Emancipation, Fadi A. Bardawil, Duke University Press, 2020.**

Revolution and Disenchantment Ten years have passed since the wave of protests that swept across North Africa and the Middle East. Time has not been kind to the hopes, dreams, and aspirations for change that were invested in these Arab uprisings. A whole generation is now looking back at its youthful idealism with nostalgia, disillusion, and bitterness. Revolutionary hope is always followed by political disenchantment: this has been the case for all revolutions that succeeded and for all attempts that failed. Fadi Bardawil even sees here the expression of a more general law: “For as long as I can remember, I have witnessed intellectuals and critical theorists slide from critique to loss and melancholia after having witnessed a political defeat or experienced a regression in the state of affairs of the world.” These cycles of hope and disillusion are particularly acute in the Arab world, where each decade seems to bring its own political sequence of rising tide and lowering ebb. Revolution and Disenchantment tells the story of a fringe political movement, Socialist Lebanon (1964-70), through the figures of three Marxist intellectuals who went through a cycle of revolutionary fervor, disenchantment, despair, and adjustment. Waddah Charara (1942–), Fawwaz Traboulsi (1941–), and Ahmad Beydoun (1942–) are completely unknown for most publics outside Lebanon, and their reputation in their country may not even have crossed the limits of narrow intellectual circles. They have now retired from an academic career in the humanities and social sciences, and few people remember their youthful engagement at the vanguard of the revolutionary Left. But their political itinerary has a lot to tell about the role of intellectuals, the relationship between theory and practice, and the waves of enthusiasm and disillusion that turn emancipatory enterprises into disenchanted projects.

The ebbs and flows of revolution

Fadi Bardawil proposes to his readers a tidal model of intellectual history. There were four consecutive tides that affected the lives of the three intellectuals under consideration—as well as, less directly, his own: Arab nationalism, Leftist politics, the Palestinian question, and political Islam. Each tide followed its ebb and flow of enthusiasm and disenchantment, leaving behind empty shells and debris that have drifted onshore for the scholar to pick. The generation to which the three intellectuals belong was formed during the high tides of anticolonial Pan-Arabism, founded the New Left, and adhered to the Palestinian revolution before ending up as detached, disenchanted critics of sectarian violence and communal divisions. Collectively, they point to a different chronology and geography of the reception of revolutionary ideas in the Middle East. The conventional periodization and list of landmark events identified by historians do not fully apply: for instance, the June 1967 Arab-Israeli War is often overemphasized as a turning point, while the collapse of the union between Egypt and Syria in September 1961 is now largely forgotten. But the Palestinian question predates 1967, while the 1961 breakdown of Arab unity ushered in the first immanent critique of the regimes in power. Similarly, the traditional East/West and North/South binaries cannot account for the complexities and internal divisions of Middle East societies. Beirut was closer to Paris and to French intellectual life than to other regional metropoles, including Cairo where the Nasser regime silenced all oppositional voices. The site of the “main contradiction” was not always the West, as Marxist scholars assumed; very often the contradictions were integral to the fabric of Arab societies.

Like the rest of the Arab world, the Lebanon in which the three intellectuals grew up was tuned to the speeches of Gamal Abdel Nasser broadcast by Radio Cairo and by demonstrations of support to the Algerian national liberation struggle. Palestinian refugees who had fled Israel in the aftermath of 1948 were a familiar presence in Lebanon, and the Arab Catastrophe or Nakba—as the Palestinian exodus was designated—loomed large in the Arab nationalist agenda. As one of the interviewees recalls, “the ‘Arab Cause’ was more dominant in our lives than Lebanese concerns.” Lebanese intellectuals from Sunni, Shi’i and Druze backgrounds were attracted to Nasserist nationalism and Ba’thist ideology and politics, while a majority of the Christian population supported the pro-Western politics of President Camille Chamoun (1952—58). Chamoun’s decision not to severe diplomatic ties with France and Great Britain after the Suez crisis in 1956 resulted in a political crisis that drew heavier American involvement in the form of economic assistance and military presence. The summer of 1958 was an important milestone in the development of the generation that was now in high school: sectarian tensions and the political deadlock led to a short civil war in Beirut, while inter-Arab relations and Cold War politics provoked a shift in alliances. The union between Egypt and Syria came to an end in 1961, and authoritarian regimes settled under the guise of socialist and Ba’thist ideologies in Syria and Iraq. The tidal wave of Pan-Arabism and its promise of a united popular sovereignty on Arab lands after defeating colonialism was now at its low point. The budding young intellectuals became disillusioned with Arab nationalism and turned to Marxism to fuel their quest for social change and emancipation.

Translating Marx into Arabic

The intellectual generation that founded Socialist Lebanon in 1964, with Waddah Charara, Fawwaz Traboulsi, and Ahmad Beydoun at the forefront, was also the product of an education system. Lebanon was created as an independent country in 1943 under a pact of double negation: neither integration into Syria (the Muslims’ Pan-Arabic demand) nor French protection (the Christians’ demand). Ties were not severed with France, however, as the Maronite elite used predominantly French and sent its children to French schools and universities, while international education was also buttressed by the presence of English language schools and the American University of Beirut. Charara was a southern Lebanon Shi’a who went to a francophone Beirut school and left for undergraduate studies in Lyon, completed later by a doctorate in Paris. Traboulsi was the son of a Greek Catholic Christian from the Bekka Valley who attended a Quaker-founded boarding school near Mount Lebanon and studied in Manchester as well as the American University of Beirut. Ahmad Beydoun went to a Lebanese school that pitted pro-Phalangist Maronites and pro-Ba’th nationalists against each other. Learning French and English in addition to their native Arabic, and studying abroad, opened new intellectual venues for these promising students. As Bardawil notes, “Foreign languages is a crucial matter that provides insight into the readings, influences, and literary sensibilities and imaginaries out of which an intellectual’s habitus is fashioned.”

The habitus of the generation that came of age at the turn of the 1960s was decidedly radical. Socialist Lebanon, the New Left movement that they founded in 1964, was in its beginnings more a study circle than a political party. The readings of these young intellectuals were extensive and not circumscribed by disciplinary boundaries: Marxist theory, French philosophy, psychology, sociology, art critique, economics… They published a bulletin that was printed underground using Roneo machines and distributed clandestinely. In order to avoid being taken for wacky intellectuals, they rarely made quotes from the French intellectuals they were imbibing (Althusser, Foucault, Lacan, Castoriadis, Lefebvre…), and mostly referred to the cannon of the revolutionary tradition: Marx, Engels, Trotsky, Lenin, but also some Cuban references and, in the end, Mao. Through their translations and commentary, they also gave agency to other voices from the South: Fanon, Ben Barka, Giap, Cabral, Che Guevara, Eldrige Cleaver, Malcolm X and others. Books published by Editions Maspero in Paris, as well as articles from Le Monde Diplomatique, Les Temps Modernes, and the New Left Review, were pivotal in the readings discussed in Beirut at that time. So were the pamphlets of Leftist opponents of the Nasser regime in Egypt such as Anouar Abdel Malak, Mahmoud Hussein, and Hassan Riad (the pseudonym of Samir Amin): “What couldn’t be published in Cairo in Arabic was published in France and translated back into Arabic in Beirut with the hope that it would circulate in the Arab world.”

Left-wing groupuscules

In addition to reading, discussing, writing, and translating, the young revolutionaries engaged in clandestine political activities. Unlike their gauchistes equivalents in France, Germany or Italy, they ran the risk of arbitrary arrest, detainment, and execution: hence their practice of secrecy, with underground political cells and anonymity publishing. Their critiques targeted the Ba’th and Arab nationalist ideologies, the authoritarian regimes in power in the region, the national bourgeoisie, and last but not least the pro-Soviet communist parties. The Lebanese Communist Party was the target of their most ferocious attacks, but intra-leftist skirmishes also targeted other groupuscules. The Arab-Israeli war in June 1967, often considered as a watershed for the region and for the world, brought to the fore the Palestinian question. Bardawil argues that the date of 1967, referred to in Arabic as an-Naksah or “the setback”, was more a turning point for the intellectual diaspora than for local actors. Indeed, Edward Said recalls in his autobiography the shock and wake-up call that the defeat of the Arab armies caused in his personal identity: “I was no longer the same person after 1967,” he wrote. The 1967 setback was also used by nationalist military regimes to legitimize their own repressive politics in the name of anti-imperialism and the fight for the liberation of Palestine. But as we saw, the nationalist tide had already ebbed in 1961, and Socialist Lebanon had developed a radical critique of the gap separating the regimes’ progressive professions of faith and their authoritarian rule.

The Palestinian resistance post-1967 became a local player in Lebanese politics, putting on the table again the question of Lebanon’s national identity. It generated its own cycle of hope and disenchantment for the Left. For the cohort of intellectuals forming Socialist Lebanon, it was a time of fuite en avant. The group became increasingly cultist and sectarian, and turned to Maoism to articulate its militant fervor and revolutionary praxis. In 1970, Socialist Lebanon fused with the much larger Organization of Lebanese Socialists, establishing a united organization that became known as the Marxist-Leninist Organization of Communist Action in Lebanon (OCAL). In true gauchiste fashion, OCAL would be plagued by splits and expulsions from the beginning. Note however that the call for action directe and a “people’s war” that Charara articulated in his Blue Pamphlet did not turn into political assassinations and terrorism. The reason was that Lebanese society was already plagued by violence: violent strikes and demonstrations were repressed in blood; armed Palestinian resistance gained force until Israel invaded in 1978 and pushed PLO and leftist militants away from the borders; and terrorist actions were indeed taken up by Palestinian groupuscules such as the PFLP-EO that committed the Lod Airport massacre in May 1972, with the participation of three members of the Japanese Red Army. The low ebb of the Palestinian tide came with the defeat of the Palestinian revolution in Lebanon in 1982. By then, Lebanon had already plunged into a sequence of civil wars (1975—1990) splitting the country along sectarian lines; the Iranian revolution (1979) had ushered a new cycle of militant fervor centered on political Islam; and the Lebanese intellectuals had retired from political militancy to join secure positions in academia.

From Nakba to Naksa and to Nahda

This summary of the historical plot line of Revolution and Disenchantment doesn’t do justice to the theoretical depth and breadth of the book. Trained as an anthropologist and as a historian, Fadi Bardawil attempts to do “fieldwork in theory” as a method to locate “not only how theory helps us understand the world but also what kind of work it does in it: how it seduces intellectuals, contributes to the cultivation of their ethos and sensibilities, and authorizes political practices for militants.” He treats the written and oral archives of the Lebanese New Left as a material to ponder the possibility of a global emancipatory politics of the present that would not be predicated on the assumption that theory always comes from the West to be applied in empirical terrains in the South. He takes issue with the current focus on Islamist ideologues such as Sayyid Qutb and Ali Shariati that are used by Western scholars for “thinking past terror,” while the indigenous tradition of Marxism and left-wing thinking is deemed too compromised with the West to offer an immanent critique of Arab politics. As Bardawil notes, quite a few of the 1960s leftists rediscovered the heritage of the earlier generation of Nahda (Renaissance) liberal thinkers such as Taha Husayn (1889–1973) and ‘Ali ‘Abd-al-Raziq (1886–1966) or, like the aging and sobered Charara, turned to Ibn Khaldun (1332–1406) to understand the logics of communal violence that had engulfed Lebanon. Revolution and Disenchantment also reflects the coming-of-age story of the author who started his research project in the US in the wake of the September 11 attacks, still marked by the Left-wing melancholia of his school years in Lebanon, then matured into a more balanced approach that took its cues from the mass mobilizations known collectively as the Arab Spring.

Postscript: I read a book review of Revolution and Disenchantment written by a PhD student specializing in Middle East studies who regretted the fact that readership of this book will most likely be limited to a fringe audience of area specialists. If only this book could become a core text for an introduction to intellectual history or for a class on world Marxism!, she bemoaned. My answer to that is, you never know. Manuscripts have a strange and unpredictable afterlife once they get published, and neither the author nor the publisher can tell in advance which readership they will eventually reach. Remember the circuits of the French editions of revolutionary classics published by Editions Maspero in a historical conjuncture when theory itself was being generated not from Europe but from the Third World. Add to that the fact that Revolution and Disenchantment is available free of charge for downloads on the website of Duke University Press (with a trove of other scholarly books), and you may have in your hands the potential of an unlikely success. Besides, the political effects of a text, and the difference that it makes, cannot be measured by the number of clicks and readers but depend on the questions asked by the reading publics and the stakes animating their practical engagements. You never know in advance which texts will be included in future political archives and curricula, or who will read what and for what purposes. Reading today about the Lebanese New Left in Hanoi is not more uncanny than translating Mao and Giap into Arabic in Beirut during the sixties. New forms of critique and their transnational travels may produce unexpected political effects that go beyond the closed lecture circuit of jet-lagged academics. This is one reason why the Arab Springs were followed with passion in China, leading the Communist authorities to delete all references to the events on Chinese social media. Ten years after, a new cycle of democratic hope and enlightenment may begin.

The Old Mole

17 Feb 202117 Feb 2021 Etienne RPLeave a comment

**A review of The Sublime Perversion of Capital: Marxist Theory and the Politics of History in Modern Japan, Gavin Walker, Duke University Press, 2016.**

Gavin Walker Why read Marx today? More to the point, why devote a book to how Marx was read in Japan in the mid-twentieth century, and in particular to the writings of a Marxist scholar named Uno Kōzō (1897-1977), Japan’s foremost Marxian economist and founder of what is usually referred to as the Uno School (Uno gakuha), Uno economics (Uno keizaigaku), or Uno-ist theory (Uno riron)? Books about this branch of Marxist theory now collect dust on the shelves of second-hand bookstores in the Kanda-Jinbōchō district in Tokyo. They remind us of Marxism’s surprising longevity in Japan’s academic circles: a Japanese publishing house, Kaizōsha, was the first editor in the world to publish the complete collected works of Marx and Engels (in thirty-two volumes), and Marxist theory was taught and studied with passion in the tumultuous years of campus upheavals of the 1960s and 1970s. The generation that imbibed Marx’s shihonron in its formative years is now past retirement, and the few remaining bastions of Marxism are only to be found in philosophy or literature departments, not in faculties of economics. But Gavin Walker considers that something important was at stake in these economic debates, something that can still speak to our present. In his opinion, we need to understand the “sublime perversion of capital” in order to situate and possibly overcome our contemporary theoretical impasses and debates: the surprising persistence of the nation, the postcolonial situation, the enclosure of the new “digital commons,” the endless cycles of crisis and debt. Indeed, Walker argues, “this moment of globalization calls for a fundamental (re)examination of the central questions of Marxist theory itself.” For, like Marx wrote to his German readers in the 1867 preface of Das Kapital, “De te fabula narratur!”—it is of you that the story is told.

De te fabula narratur

First, we must clear the ground from what the book is not. It is not a political essay à la Fukuyama that would try to apply Marxian or Hegelian lenses to a rereading of the present—Walker has only contempt for such literature, which he calls “supreme political cretinism.” Nor is it a rephrasing of Lire le Capital, an attempt to expose Marx’s theory along logical lines: indeed, this is how historiography remembers the main contribution of Uno Kōzō, who reformulated Marx’s Capital in conformity with an adequate order of exposition, with a necessary beginning, development, and end. But what concerns Walker the most is to think about what is at stake in the Japanese debates on Marxist theory for theoretical inquiry today. As he explains, “What I am interested in is to enter into the theoretical work in Marxist theory, historiography, and philosophy of this moment as theory.” He doesn’t study Japanese Marxism historically or in isolation, but plugs it to the scholarship of “world Marxism” in which the concerns of Japanese intellectuals echo, sometimes decades in advance, theoretical issues that were also picked up in the United States or in Europe. Just like Lenin identified “three sources and three component parts of Marxism” (German philosophy, English political economy, and French socialism), Walter draws from three traditions of critical thinking: Japanese Marxism or “Uno Theory” which forms the main focus of the book, but also as minor voices or counterpoints French political philosophy (Althusser, Balibar, Deleuze, Foucault, Nancy, Badiou), and the Italian autonomia school of social critique (Paolo Virno, Sandro Mezzadra, Silvia Federici). His familiarity with texts written not only in English and Japanese, but also in French, Italian, Russian, and German is what commends Walker to the serious reader. And his rereading of Japanese Marxism provides an introduction to an important current of political thought that has seldom spilled over the national, linguistic and disciplinary boundaries of academic communities.

Uno Kōzō and Japanese Marxism are unfamiliar to most readers, and some elements of contextualization are in order. However, Walker warns us that “this book does not privilege or even accept the biographical mode of analysis,” and that “it is hostile to the concept of ‘context’.” He provides only one paragraph on the life and work of Uno Kōzō, mentioning his studies in Berlin from 1922 to 1924, his arrest in 1938 on suspicion of political activism, his work as a statistician outside of academia until the end of the war, and his reappointment after 1945 in Tokyo University’s Department of Economics, where he was to develop his famous theory of the three levels of analysis, or sandankairon, and his formulation of the “impossibility of the commodification of labor power” (rōdōryoku shōhinka no muri). Walker provides more perspective on the debate on Japanese capitalism (Nihon shihonshugi ronsō) and the opposition between the two factions of Japanese Marxism, the Rōnō-ha (Labor-farmer faction) and the Kōza-ha (Lectures faction). Based on positions or “theses on Japan” adopted by the Comintern, and raising the issue whether the Japanese Communist Party should ally with other progressive forces in a popular front, this debate, predominantly held from the late 1920s to the mid-1930s, deeply influenced political developments, not only in Japan, but also in the then-colonized Korean Peninsula, in China, in Southeast Asia, and elsewhere. The Rōnō faction argued that the land reforms instituted in the 1868 Meiji Restauration had successfully effectuated the transition from feudalism to capitalism, and that Japan was now ripe for a socialist revolution. The Kōza-ha, representing the mainstream of the JCP and of the Comintern, held the view that Japanese capitalism was permanently crippled by emerging from a feudal basis and that “remnants of feudalism” (hōkensei no zansonbutsu), especially in the countryside, made inevitable the turn to “military-feudal imperialism” (gunjiteki hōkenteki teikokushugi).

Difficult words and torturous grammar

The political debates of the times were loaded with difficult words and expressions that the Japanese language, with its kanji characters and grammatical structure, makes even more abstract and unfamiliar. Especially hard to fathom was the work of Marxist scholar Yamada Moritarō, whose Analysis of Japanese Capitalism, published in 1934, was “one of the most simultaneously celebrated, reviled, frustrating, controversial, and influential book in the history of Japanese Marxist theory and historiography.” Yamada wrote in a particularly recondite and idiosyncratic prose, filled with “riddles” and “codes,” as his writing style was modeled after the German language used in the most abstract philosophy with its inversion of typically Japanese grammar, sentence structure, and diction. But Gavin Walker’s own immersion in this literature testifies that getting fluency in this highly theoretical language is no more difficult for the true believer than mastering Buddhist scriptures: mantra-like formula such as “military semi-serf system of petty subsistence cultivation” are treated as blocks of characters that are stringed one after the other and recited like a psalmodic shibboleth. They create their own world of meaning that bears little resemblance with ordinary life, and convey to the insider the impression that he or she belongs to the select few. Besides, Japanese scholars were also fond of colloquialisms and didn’t hesitate to call each other names in a prosaic manner: rivals from the Rōnō faction called Yamada’s text a “farce,” and reacted to one of Uno Kōzō’s key lectures by saying that “Uno’s gone nuts” (Unokun wa kawatta.) The most intricate discussions often centered on simple words, such as the “semi-” (han) in semi-feudalism or the concept of “muri” used by Uno in his “impossibility of the commodification of labor power” theorem (rōdōryoku shōhinka no muri.)

Gavin Walker devotes a whole chapter to Uno’s notion of “muri,” which he alternatively translates as “logical (im)possibility,” “rational impasse,” or “the nihil of reason.” But, as any child or Japanese language beginner will tell you, muri can also mean, at a colloquial level, “don’t think about it,” “out of the question,” or “no.” Disentangling the colloquialism from the conceptual is no easy task. The most abstract discussions in Japanese philosophy often focus on everyday notions, such as mu (not, without), ma (empty space), ba (place), or iki (lively). These concepts have their roots in Japanese Buddhism and especially in the Zen tradition, and were often picked up by nationalist ideologues and twentieth century philosophers such as Nishida Kitarō to emphasize the distance between Japanese thought and the Western canon. To attempt to translate them in a foreign language, or to discuss their meaning for a Western audience, raises a difficult challenge. On the one hand, foreign commentators need to convey the radical otherness of these notions rooted in a culture that gives them meaning and depth, and they can only do so by making elaborate discussions on the intricate lifeworlds that these words summon. On the other hand, they risk to lose their simplicity and childlike quality that makes their meaning commonsensical and straightforward. This contradiction is apparent in Walker’s treatment of muri. In Uno’s logic, the commodification of labor is the foundational basis of capitalism, and yet this commodification is made impossible by the nature of labor power as defined by Marx. Another way to express it is that although the commodification of labor power should be impossible, in capitalist society “the impossibility is constantly passing through” (sono muri ga tōtte iru). Again, the expression “passing through,” that Walker submits to a long exegesis, cannot convey the simplicity of the Japanese verb tōru.

Childishly simple

Another way to complicate simple notions is to resort to vocabulary borrowed from the hard sciences or to mathematics. To convey the notion of the impossibility of labor power’s commodification, Walker alternatively refers to mathematical figures such as the Moebius’ strip, the Klein bottle, the Borromean knot, the torus, or topology notions of torsion, inversion, loop, and fold. These topological notions were all the rage in the theoretically loaded context of the sixties and seventies, when Marx was often discussed in conjunction with Freud and Lacan—the French psychoanalyst who became enamored with algebraic topology. Walker also suggests that Uno’s use of muri may be borrowed from the concept of “irrational number” (murisū), although the evidence he gives to back his claim is rather moot. The mathematical formulae he introduces in his text—variations on the M—C—M’ equation in Marx’s Capital—, are at the level of a elementary logic and only contribute to his prose’s dryness. On the other hand, Walker is also capable of flights into hyperbole and metaphoric statements. The title of his book illustrates his use of colorful rhetorics and literary excess. Why is capital perverse, and what is sublime about the perversion of capital? As I understand it, capital is perverse in the sense that it thrives on our most basic instincts in a capitalist society: commodity fetishism and the elision the social relations between people as relationships among things, the forgetting of labor’s true contribution to value and profit, alienation from one’s true self and other workers through the act of production. The sublime is the notion of absolute greatness not inhibited with ideas of limitations: this is the feeling that grips the true believer upon the revelation of absolute truth and true science that Marx’s doctrine was supposed to incarnate.

Gavin Walker’s text is even more obscure when he discusses Japanese Marxism in conjunction with contemporary authors: French philosophers, Italian social critics, or modern Japanese thinkers reclaiming Marx’s heritage. The result is a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. As if reading a commentary of Japanese scholars commenting on Marx wasn’t hard enough, Walker double-downs the challenge by bringing in other hard-to-read authors and by offering his own commentary of Marx’s original concepts such as primitive accumulation or the origin of labor power. Chapter 3 in the book moves from Carl Schmitt to Sandro Mezzadra and to Karatani Kōjin but loses sight of the author’s original intention to address “Marxist theory and the politics of history in modern Japan.” I understand his argument: he doesn’t want to be categorized in the “Japan slot” with other area study specialists, and he prefers to associate himself with high theory and Marxian scholarship. He sees a division of labor at work between his own production and the books of intellectual history that have mapped Marxism’s development in prewar Japan. I myself am not adverse to philosophical arguments and French Theory: I don’t mind introducing a few codes of Foucault, a dual use of quandary from Deleuze and Guattari, or a dash of devilish derring-do from Derrida. But I am also genuinely interested in Japan’s intellectual history and would have liked to read more about the Japanese context and less about Gavin Walker’s own thoughts on Marxist theory.

The Japanese management system

The transition from feudalism to capitalism was a debate that dominated scholarly discussions in Japan for decades. This debate, interesting in its own right for the logical arguments and rhetorical skills that it mobilized, has long passed its expiry date. It never affected Marxist theory—what the author labels “world Marxism”—in a significant way, and attempts to revive it in the twenty-first century are faced with the same conundrums that Derrida experienced when he confronted himself with the specters of Marx. Trying to rekindle the flame by rehashing the old theories of a Marxist scholar unknown beyond Japan’s borders seems to me like the epitome of a lost cause. Historically, the debate on Japanese capitalism was soon replaced by the discussion on Japanese management—some scholars, Japanese or Western, adapted to the changing times and made the transition between the two. I see some parallels between the two lines of enquiry. First, Japanese management scholars were also concerned with the nature of capitalism in Japan and the way it differed from the Western version. They insisted on labor relations and workplace arrangements: lifetime employment (shūshin koyō), the seniority-wage system (nenkō joretsu), and the enterprise union (kigyōbetsu kumiai) formed the “three sacred regalia” (sanshu no jingi) of the Japanese employment system—to be sure, the crown has now lost its jewels. Like the Marxist mantras of Yamada and Uno, strings of Japanese characters were attached in long formulations and found their ways in Western texts, or were lost in translation. Management specialists pondered endlessly about the everyday notions of genba (workplace), kanban (signboard) or kaizen (improvement) that sound commonsensical to anyone familiar with Japan. We even hear echoes of the disputes between the Rōnō and the Kōza factions in the opposition between proponents of Japan’s distinctiveness and those who favored neoliberal solutions—the latter won the day.

The Undercover Anthropologist

23 Jan 202128 Dec 2022 Etienne RPLeave a comment

**A review of Cold War Anthropology: The CIA, the Pentagon, and the Growth of Dual Use Anthropology, David H. Price, Duke University Press, 2016.**

Cold War Anthropology Agency is a key concept in anthropology and the social sciences, meaning the capacity of a person or a group to act on its own behalf. The agency that David Price has in mind in this book has a completely different meaning. It designates the Central Intelligence Agency, and it reveals the links during the Cold War between the anthropologist profession and the national intelligence and defense apparatus of the United States. Cold War Anthropology makes use of the concept of dual use: “dual use science” refers to the military applications of basic science research, while “dual use technologies” are normally used for civilian purposes but may help build weapons and military systems. Similarly, anthropology is a civilian pursuit that purports to increase our knowledge of foreign cultures and societies, but it can be used for defense and security purposes: Know thy enemy has been a basic recommendation since mankind engaged in warfare and diplomacy. Intelligence, the gathering of information on foreign powers, makes use of various academic disciplines; it is only natural that anthropology, which developed alongside colonialism and followed the ebbs and flows of imperial powers, also lent itself to militarist uses. And nowhere was the demand for such knowledge higher than in the United States during the Cold War, which saw the dominant world power engage in the gathering and analysis of information in all corners of the world.

The Agency’s agency

Dual use anthropology was an offspring of World War II. During the war, cultural anthropologists worked as spies, educators, cultural liaison officers, language and culture instructors, and strategic analysts. In a previous book, Anthropological Intelligence, David Price documented American anthropologists’ contribution to the conduct of the war and the consequences their collaboration in war projects had over the course of the discipline. Cold War Anthropology picks up the ball where the previous book left off. Former members of OSS service who returned to university positions after the war kept their connections with the intelligence apparatus and helped the CIA and other agencies recruit new hires and gather information. By the mid-1970s, it was estimated that as many as five thousand academics were cooperating with the CIA on at least a part-time basis. But anthropologists taking part in the counterinsurgency operations of the Cold War didn’t have the excuse of protecting freedom and democracy at home and abroad. Cold War insurgencies were America’s dirty wars and anthropologists, like the quiet American in Graham Greene’s novel, became complicit in illegal activities ranging from kidnapping, murder, covert arm dealing, and coup d’état to the widespread infiltration of domestic academic institutions. Most of them were “reluctant imperialists” who believed they engaged in apolitical or politically neutral work, while some, including Clyde Kluckhohn and Clifford Geertz, developed “dual personalities” that allowed them to work on projects with direct or indirect connections to the CIA or the Pentagon while omitting such links from the narratives of their research.

David Price draws a typology of the relationships between anthropologists and the intelligence apparatus as a two-by-two matrix: relations could be witting-direct, witting-indirect, unwitting-direct, and unwitting-indirect. The first case represents the anthropologist-as-spy or as operative working for the US government. In a few instances, cultural anthropologists and archaeologists used fieldwork as a cover for espionage. Through access to declassified archives, the author was able to document a few cases of undercover agents who used their participation in research missions in Afghanistan, in Iran or in other hot spots to gather intelligence, provide support for special operations, and recruit informants. Not all anthropologists worked undercover, however. During the period, advertisements for military, intelligence, or State Department positions routinely appeared in the News Bulletin of the AAA, the discipline association’s newsletter. Some anthropologists moved between the government and the academy: Edward T. Hall, the founder of cross-cultural studies, taught cultural sensitivity training courses at the State Department’s Foreign Service Institute, while John Embree, the author of the first monograph on a Japanese village, became the first cultural relations adviser at the US Embassy in Bangkok in 1947 (they both objected to the use of academic research by the CIA.) Other anthropologists held CIA desks or maintained close contacts with the agency for recruitment, contract work, and data gathering. More generally, many anthropologists accepted as a matter of routine to debrief at Langley or within the precinct of the US Embassy when returning from fieldwork in sensitive areas.

Witting-indirect or unwitting-direct collaborations

The second model of anthropology-intelligence collaboration, implemented in full knowledge of it but in an indirect manner, refers to the way research was funded in the Cold War era. Rockefeller, Carnegie, Ford, and other private foundations shaped the funding of anthropological research during the Cold War. These wealthy private institutions were often directed by elite men rotating in and out of federal agencies with national security interests. They channeled the funds and designed research projects in ways that coalesced with CIA’s needs and foreign policy imperatives. This increasing availability of foundation funding was welcomed by anthropologists, who seldom considered what obligations might accompany such gifts or how the gifts might shape avenues of inquiry or analysis. Anthropologists working on research projects funded by private foundations deliberately or sometimes half-wittingly ignored the political contexts in which the projects were embedded. Clifford Geertz, who participated in the Modjokuto Project in Indonesia, turned a blind eye to the political forces that framed his first fieldwork opportunity. In later analyses, the development of area studies in American and Western Europe universities was connected to the Cold War agendas of the CIA, the FBI, and other intelligence and military agencies. Critics alleged that participating in such programs was tantamount to serving as an agent of the state. While cases of collaboration between academia and the intelligence apparatus must be assessed carefully, it is true that some research questions were prioritized and other were neglected, while geographic priorities aligned with geopolitical interests.

The third form of linkage between academic research and foreign policy-making occurred unbeknownst to the anthropologists but with direct interventions from intelligence agencies. In addition to reputable private foundations, the CIA used “paper foundations” or “pass-through” conduits to channel funds toward research without leaving footprints. The recipient individual or academic institution that received CIA funding from either a front or a conduit was generally not aware of the origin of the research grant. The funding of particular projects shaped disciplinary research agendas. The CIA also used fronts to secretly finance the publication of books and articles propagating its views, or supported journals that took a critical stance on communism and left-wing politics, such as Jiyū in Japan, Encounters in Great Britain, or Preuves in France. Some of the books were donated by US Embassies abroad or, in some cases, sold through local retailers. When these CIA-funded foundations were exposed by investigative journalists in the late 1960s, the reaction was surprisingly moot. Art Buchwald jokingly remarked the reason why the National Student Association received a CIA grant was because the organization was confused with the NSA. The Asia Foundation acknowledged CIA funding while claiming that this didn’t in any way affect the content of its policies and programs. With much soul-searching and political bickering, the American Anthropological Association adopted a code of ethics stating that “constraint, deception, and secrecy have no place in science.” Radical young scholars dubbed it too little too late, and formed a new caucus named Anthropologists for Radical Political Action, or ARPA, to push for further reforms.

Dual use anthropology

The fourth cell in the quadrant refers to unwitting and indirect forms of collaboration between anthropologists and spy agencies. The CIA’s method of harnessing the field research of others was not always manipulative. Ethnographic knowledge was in high demand by military and intelligence agencies during the Cold War, and many operatives learned their cues by perusing through the works of anthropologists. Participant observation’s approach to cultural understanding gave anthropologists the sort of cultural knowledge that made the discipline attractive to government officials willing to probe the hearts and minds of those living in lands of geopolitical interest. Anthropological field research sometimes facilitated intelligence operations by nonanthropologists through knowledge of the human terrain, understanding of social dynamics, and manipulation of power struggles. In other cases, it was used in human resource training programs to prepare for a foreign posting or develop culturally sensitive lenses of analysis. While much of the research funded in the postwar 1940s and throughout the 1950s aligned well with the needs and ideologies of the American Cold War state, in the 1960s and 1970s radical voices used these same funds to generate their own critiques. But postmodern anthropology was less relevant for practical concerns and fell out of favor with literate diplomats, military officers, and spies. Militarized uses of anthropology continued through other channels, such as the rise of private consultancies or the deployment of social scientists in combat teams.

According to David Price, the deleterious effects of dual-use anthropology were manyfold. False accusations of spying could put the fieldwork anthropologist in danger, expose his or her informants to various threats, and lead to expulsion or denial of access to the field. It was common for American anthropologists during the Cold War to be falsely suspected of spying. As mentioned, it was also routine for anthropologists returning from fieldwork to receive requests for debriefing in US Embassies or back home. Through witting or unwitting collaboration, direct or indirect solicitations, and dual-use research, the CIA’s ethical misconduct hinged on lying to the scholars about the origin of the grant money they received, the end use of their research results, and the choice of research priorities. Particularly in the context of the Vietnam war, anthropological research sustained counterinsurgency operations, the mobilization of highland tribes in armed conflicts, population regroupment in strategic hamlets and, arguably, the design of interrogation methods. David Price documents several cases of military applications of ethnographic research in South-East Asia, as well as the strong reaction of the profession to ban any form of collaboration with the military-intelligence apparatus. But he believes that many of the fundamental issues raised during this period remains unresolved. On the contrary, the conjugation of limited employment possibilities, growing student loan debt, and campus austerity programs are opening new inroads for the extension of military and intelligence forays in anthropological circles.

No Such Agency

Cold War Anthropology claims to break new ground in exposing the links between the anthropology profession and the national security apparatus. Although the author had to rely on the Freedom of Information Act to obtain declassified documentation, he doesn’t reveal state secrets or expose skeletons in the profession’s closet: for the most part, these links were hidden in plain sight. The collaboration between anthropologists and the intelligence service was an open secret. It is not obvious that the gains obtained by the intelligence community were worth compromising the integrity of scholars: the information that the CIA obtained from the AAA or the Asia Foundation, such as the detailed roster of American anthropologists or the names of Asian area specialists, would today be gathered in a few seconds through an Internet search. Similarly, the patient gathering of photographs indexed and catalogued to yield intelligence information would pale in comparison with modern satellite imagery or the harvesting of social media content. David Price’s aversion toward the CIA and the FBI also extends to the military and to the diplomatic service: he includes the State Department and USAID in the circle of Cold War institutions, and doesn’t clearly discriminate between covert operations and legitimate governmental activities. Similarly, he conflates anthropology and archeology, and bundles all fieldwork-based social sciences in one fell swoop. Meanwhile, the NSA gets no mention at all, except when it gets confused with the National Student Association—confirming the legend that the NSA was so secret its acronym stood for “No Such Agency.”

TV-Glotzer

28 Nov 20202 Dec 2020 Etienne RPLeave a comment

**A review of TV Socialism, Anikó Imre, Duke University Press, 2016.**

TV Socialism In her 1978 hit song “TV-Glotzer,” Nina Hagen sings from the perspective of an East German unable to leave her country, who escapes by watching West German television. She switches channels from East to West and stares at the tube where “everything is so colorful.” As she puts it, TV is her drug while literature makes her puke and she keeps eating chocolate that makes her fatter and fatter. The song was written when Nina Hagen was still living in East Berlin but made a hit in Western Europe, where “white punks on dope” could identify with the lyrics and share the spirit of “no future” rebellion. Anikó Imre’s TV Socialism gives a different perspective on television in socialist Europe. For her, television isn’t a drug but a matter of scholarly enquiry, and her book is a dense academic text that comes fully equipped with historical references, textual analysis, and footnotes. The book is a seminal contribution to the field of “socialist television studies” and challenges many ideas by which we assess Eastern Europe’s socialist past. But first, what does she mean by TV socialism? What links TV to socialism, and what makes socialist TV different from the television programs that were produced at the same time in Western Europe, in the United States, or in the developing world? How did television in Hungary, Poland, Czechoslovakia or the GDR shape the imaginaries of viewers, and what remains from this socialization through small-screen images in a post-socialist world? Or to repeat Anikó Imre’s introduction title, “Why do we need to talk about socialism and TV?”

TV as a propaganda tool

According to conventional opinion, TV in socialist Europe was a propaganda tool. Its goal was to educate and enlighten all social classes, giving access to culture and information while also providing a light form of entertainment for the masses. Educational TV had to demonstrate social commitment to the cause of the State and the Party, show solidarity with the Soviet Union, acknowledge the superiority of European high culture, and contribute to the building of socialism. Teaching viewers how to be good socialist citizens was a central mission of national broadcasters. Lenin famously called on good socialists “to study, to study, and again to study,” and television was one of the mass media that could bring the study guide to the living room. Of course, socialist workers were not to be treated as students, for they embodied the knowledge and values that the sphere of culture only reflected. TV programs had to be relevant to the workers and understandable to them. TV was meant to be watched collectively in offices, factory clubs, and cultural centers. Instead of depicting life as it was, reality-based programs shifted the emphasis to teaching citizens how to behave in an ideal socialist society. But this consciousness-raising documentary realism was always articulated with the privates pleasures of television’s emotional realism. The doctrine of socialist realism also acknowledged the role of emotional expression to promote Soviet ideals. The same Lenin distinguished between propaganda, a way to convince through rational argumentation, and agitation, which mobilized emotion and affect. Like the theater according to Bertold Brecht, television was a tool of agit-prop and, as such, could lead to the creation of new forms of cultural expression, distinct from the dull productions of bourgeois culture.

This description above summarizes the standard view of socialist television, as held by critics and sycophants alike and as it was sometimes expressed by the rulers of socialist republics. But Anikó Imre shows that it was a far cry from reality. Really-existing socialist TV was not so much different from television as it existed at the time in Western Europe, and indeed there were many linkages and influences that crossed the iron curtain. To dismiss (or to hail) socialist TV as mere propaganda widely misses the mark. In her introduction, Anikó Imre articulates three surprising facts that help readers see TV and socialism from a different angle. The first surprise is that television in Eastern Europe was much more exciting and entertaining than its status as propaganda tool would make us believe. Authorities had to reckon with television’s power as a mass medium, and mostly left professionals in charge of its development. TV managers used this autonomy to operate under the radar screen of censorship, to play catch-up with Western broadcasting programs, and to formulate a light critique of the regime through irony and self-derision. The second surprise is that TV broadcasters cared about their audience, their viewer ratings and their domestic market share. They were commercially oriented, and operated in a competitive field where they had to fight for available human brain time. A large part of their revenue came from advertising. As a result, they provided the public with what people most enjoyed: quiz shows, pop music, comedy, and drama serials. It is these forms of popular entertainment, and not the live broadcast of classical music concerts or didactic science programs, that came to define what socialist TV was all about. As a third surprise, Anikó Imre shows that socialist TV was not bounded by state borders and national identities. It was transnational even before the word was invented, with border-crossing signals and program exchanges that allow the author to provide an integrated picture of Eastern European TV as opposed to a juxtaposition of country studies.

National leaders are watching TV

The way national leaders engaged with TV had a heavy influence on program content. János Kádár never watched TV as his taste drew him to high culture and concert halls. Leonid Brezhnev had his appointed head of Soviet television design programs especially for him and his wife, while his children and other relatives had the house equipped with another TV set and a Japanese VCR to watch shows and movies from the West. In the 1970s, Nicolae Ceaușescu opened his country screens to US series and German quiz shows in order to demonstrate his independence from the Soviet Union and to gain favor with the West, then in the 1980s he turned increasingly dictatorial and reduced television broadcasting to a few hours a week with programs lauding his every words and actions. Josip Broz Tito encouraged TV channels to draw on advertising income and even had a Slovenian station broadcast commercials in Italian to audiences across the border to get additional revenue. Erich Honecker redirected the course of East German TV when he famously diagnosed “a certain boredom” around television and urged its managers to create “good entertainment” at the Eighth Party Congress in 1971. What all these leaders had in common is that they tried to mold the new medium to their own purposes, but failed to dictate their taste and preferences to the public. Television’s lower cultural status allowed it to escape the strictures of official culture and to develop free forms of popular entertainment. Socialist TV shared with Western European broadcasters the same commitment to realism and the ethos of public service. Tight state control and censorship also characterized periods of Western European TV programming. De Gaulle famously gave orders and directives to TV channel managers that he himself appointed, and it was rumored that news anchors on French TV had an earplug that linked them directly to the ministry of information. As for the feeling of boredom that Erich Honecker perceived in the East German public, French téléspectateurs could feel it as well: “La France s’ennuie,” titled Le Monde in a famous editorial on the cusp of the May 1968 movement.

It may come as a surprise to a generation raised on Japanese anime and American TV series that TV programs from the East once had a not-so-insignificant market share in Western European markets. This was especially the case for children’s television. Growing up in the 1970s in the United Kingdom or in France meant watching a lot of imported East European children’s programmes. There was the Singing Ringing Tree with scary dwarves hailing from East German studio DEFA, Taupek the Mole which came from Czechoslovakia and used giggles or non-verbal exclamations instead of words to communicate, and something quite bizarre called Ludwig which was an animated series about a machine that played Beethoven to his animal chums. Some animation feature films were drawn from Continental Europe’s tales and legends, like The Snow Queen produced at the Soyuzmultfilm studio in Moscow or The Pied Piper by Czech studio Kratky Film; other animations developed Slavic themes like Gallant Robber Rumsaïs or Tchessilco the Magician, which were broadcast in France by ORTF. Not only did people in the Soviet satellites love their children too: they watched along with them what was recognized at the time as the best TV animation in the world. These animated pictures’ influence over Western animation, and over Western audiences, cannot be overstated. Anikó Imre doesn’t cover children TV in her book, but its development is quite similar to the other genres she reviews. The socialist reality-based, educational TV programs she describes were a kind of prehistory to the much more excoriated and inflamed reality-TV shows that took European channels by storm in the 1990s. Aside from proper language and decency, a lot was lost in the move from socialist realism to reality TV.

Did women have better sex under socialism?

Women are said to have had it better under socialism: better labor market participation, better jobs, better maternity leave and child care, and even better sex. Whether this is true remains controversial. Anikó Imre paints a mixed picture of women’s reflection in the mirror of socialist TV. On the one hand, television addressed many topics conventionally considered as women’s issues: child rearing and education, cooking and housekeeping, romance and family issues, and even birth control and sex life. But on the other hand, the default national viewer addressed by socialist television was most often the white, male, abled and working heterosexual citizen. Women as a homogenized social group were identified with special needs and tasks such as reproduction, family care, and emotional labor, and with inferior skills for political participation and mastering of technology. The blond female host was often associated with the pretty face and decorative position of the program announcer, while men anchors were clearly in control. This gendered hierarchy was also reflected in the two-tier production structure: television remained a male-dominated industry, and women typically worked below the line as technicians, make-up teams, or secretaries. The occasional powerful woman in television often did everything to efface herself and masquerade as one of the boys. Over the years, socialist television turned more feminine, if one identifies feminity with melodrama and consumerism. The thaw period beginning in the late 1960s brought political and economic changes that required socialist parties to readjust their gender policies. Women were presented as key agents of the “socialist lifestyle” and featured prominently in the genre that Anikó Imre labels the “late socialism soap opera.” Unlike historical dramas from the previous period, which removed the narrative into the past and revolved around heroic male figures, these domestic serials took place in the present and evolved around key female characters who acted as problem solvers and natural caretakers. This idealist image of the socialist woman who is independent, desirable and capable, is reflected the stunning photo portraits of Júlia Kudlik and Irena Dziedzic, with their fashionable hairstyle and modish dress, eliciting from the reader the male gaze that the author’s feminist agenda precludes.

Anikó Imre’s description of socialist TV defies Cold War stereotypes of a gray, repressive, joyless and isolated Eastern Europe. Men and women beyond the Iron Curtain knew how to have fun: only they did it differently, infused with the traditions of Mitteleuropa and the contradictions raised by socialism. The ruling communist parties and the strictures of state socialism couldn’t be criticized upfront. But citizens could vote with their eyeballs by switching channels, turning to programs broadcasted from neighboring countries, or turning off TV altogether. The more elitist, austere, realistic, and educational television attempted to be, the more it was mocked and abandoned by viewers, who wanted fiction, humor, and entertainment. The public could also distance itself from really existing socialism through mockery and satire. The systemic deficiencies of socialism were treated with light humor: living conditions in housing blocks, queuing for acquiring consumer products, facing the maze of bureaucracy, and other absurdities of the era were addressed in a light and relaxing manner. Reality shows at once celebrated and poked gentle fun at socialist institutions and rituals. Some 1980s serials took subversion to surprising levels: as the author notes, humor “thrives on oppression and censorship, rather than being silenced by it.” Rather than a government-controlled soapbox that repelled humor, much of socialist TV programming was actually perceived by audiences as comic because socialism itself was absurdly comical. Television was an theater of the absurd: the distance between the utopian horizon of socialism and the existing conditions of life was too great to swallow without a heavy dose of humor. The comic absurdity of late socialism could also draw from older traditions of cabaret, farce and carnivalesque entertainment that echoed the “agit-hall” operetta from Weimar Germany or the monologues, dance numbers and songs from Viennese Kabarett. This tradition of political satire survived and in some contexts flourished in the late shows and New Year extravaganzas offered to TV viewers. Here again, as for reality TV, the author sees in this wave of derision a harbinger if not a direct influencer of the politically-charged entertainment programs that were later developed in Western Europe and the Unites States, from the Guignols de l’Info to The Daily Show.

The afterlife of TV Socialism

What remains of socialist TV in today’s Europe united by political integration and market consumerism? TV Socialism addresses the afterlife of socialist TV in three different guises: as postsocialist TV programming, as an archive steeped in nostalgia, and as an academic discipline. First, socialist TV continues to have an active social life in the countries that have made the transition from state socialism to market capitalism. There is much more continuity between late socialism and postsocialism than the narratives centered on Cold War and transition to market would make us believe. Many idiosyncratic genres, distribution patterns, and reception practices have perpetuated into the present day. Some shows and serials have continued into postsocialism; other contemporary programs have deliberately attempted to reproduce the mood and values of late socialist TV, giving it a nationalist twist; and there has also been some reruns of older TV shows, with specialized channels catering to a nostalgic public. New circulating formats, from DVD to on-demand catalogues and YouTube uploads, have brought a new lease of life to vintage programs that have acquired a cult-like status. Anikó Imre adopts a critical perspective on postsocialist nostalgia, known in Germany as Ostalgie, claiming that it is a naive and postimperial gaze on a mythified past. But her own attitude shows that there is pleasure and knowledge to be gained from delving into TV archives, and that the repertoire of antiquated shows and series should not be left to oblivion. Taking socialist TV seriously grants access to an image of life under socialism that stands in stark contrast to the clichés of Cold War stereotypes. Rather than scarcity, homogeneity, and brainwashing, TV Socialism conveys a mixture of familiarity and strangeness, which helps to defamiliarize some of the basic assumptions about Eastern Europe and socialism. As Anikó Imre notes, television has long been relegated to the status of a minor and inferior object for scholarly studies, both in the Slavic and Eastern European Studies departments of American universities and in the cultural studies programs that have burgeoned in Europe. By moving it centerstage, she deconstructs the opposition between high and low culture as well as the Cold War division between East and West and between socialism and postsocialism.

The Stripe Guy and the Stick Man

3 Oct 20203 Oct 2020 Etienne RPLeave a comment

**A review of Disordering the Establishment: Participatory Art and Institutional Critique in France, 1958–1981, Lily Woodruff, Duke University Press, 2020.**

Lily Woodruff

The book cover shows a man walking in the street carrying a multicolored wooden pole on his shoulder. The place is Paris, the man is an artist named André Cadere and the pole he carries, “a round bar of wood” as he calls it, is his signature artwork. How to look at a round bar of wood? is how an art critic called the catalogue of a Cadere exhibition. Perhaps we should look first as the surrounding scene: for as the French intellectual Guy Debord put it, “That which changes our way of seeing the street is more important than that which changes our way of seeing a work of art.” The location can easily be identified as Parisian; with its Hausmann buildings and streets paved with cobblestones, it represents an ordinary urban scene featuring a fruit stall with empty wooden crates, a man standing at a bus stop with his leather bag resting on his side, and an elderly passerby carrying her shopping basket, minding her business. The main character walks a slow pace, head slightly inclined, with long hair and an intense look. His bar of wood draws a diagonal that cuts across the picture, forming a triangle with the vertical street light pole. André Cadere was, by all accounts, an original. He regularly turned up uninvited at art-world parties, or left one of his signature batons leaning against a wall in exhibitions in which his work was not meant to be included. As well as bringing his batons into the art world, Cadere also presented them in public spaces, including restaurants and subways, announcing ‘exhibitions’ where he would appear between specific hours every day over a certain period of time, engaging passers-by with discussions about his baton and art. “Establishing Disorder” was the title of such a public talk where the artist discussed his work without exhibiting any, inviting his public to leave the room and return to their homes as a way to contest the art establishment.

Reengineering society

Disordering the Establishment, by Lily Woodruff, focuses on French artists or groups of artists in the period preceding and following the social upheaval of May 1968. She provides a total description of their artistic careers by putting their works into historical context and providing the critical apparatus built by art critics and influential thinkers to apprehend their contribution to French contemporary art and ideological debates. The 1950s and 1960s heralded the age of the technocrat: the new elite of administrators and technical experts who applied tools of social science to reengineer and modernize society. Their collective power was anonymous, science-based, and diffuse: they sought to exert authority through control of information flows, design of incentives, and manipulation of the environment more than by direct order and administrative fiat. One key word of the times was participation: for de Gaulle, workers’ participation in management aimed at substituting cooperation to antagonism and offered a way out of the class struggle that was plaguing French society. More generally, the public was invited to participate in the decisions that affected them, including aesthetic choices and cultural policies. The notion of feedback, taken from the study of cybernetic systems, was used to advocate a loop between the public, policy makers, and cultural producers in order to bring art closer to the popular audience and make it more relevant to its concerns. Technocratic idealism drove the projects of many artists, critics, architects, and urban planners. The creation of the grands ensembles or HLM (habitations à loyer modéré) in the suburbs was a grand scale experiment that attracted considerable attention at the time. Critics pointed out the dehumanizing aspects of modern habitats and the alienation brought about by a conservative social order. Others attempted not only to describe bourgeois society, but to change it through a new praxis emphasizing autonomy, creativity, and political engagement.

The Groupe de Recherche d’Art Visuel (GRAV) was not a group of researchers, but a group of artists doing research. It was active in Paris from 1960 to 1968. Eleven artists signed the original manifesto, but only six of them formed the core of the group, among which François Morellet, Julio Le Parc, and Yvaral. Following the belief of Victor Vasarely (father of Yvaral) that the concept of the artist as a solitary genius was outdated, they cultivated anonymity and declared themselves to be “more a group of paintings than a group of painters.” In their “acte de fondation” manifesto, they spelled out nine stratagems that the group would use to unify their artistic activities and research discoveries so as to generate a constant movement of ideas and ensure that no one individual would claim authority on his own work or that of the group. Considering the objects that they produced not as finished artworks, but rather as research, they conceived of their creation process as a continual progression based on trial and error. The group guidelines closely resembled the technocratic language of the era. Using Op art and kinetic art as a medium, they defended abstraction against the prevailing popularity of figurative art among French left-wing artists and critics, and argued that abstract art was not opposed to the principles of dialectic materialism. Their plea for an abstract progressive art took inspiration from models of scientific research. They referred to “topology,” a branch of mathematics that served as a popular metaphor during the 1960s, and used Gestalt theory and cybernetics to create spaces of “visual therapy” in which viewers might discover more about their own process of reasoning than about the art itself. The cool, repetitive regularity emblematic of GRAV’s works embraced a rational geometric abstraction that stood in stark contrast to what the artists saw as the stagnating expressionisms and figurations of the French art scene. While the initial focus of the GRAV artists stemmed from experimenting with visual perception, the group’s works expanded to examine notions of spectator participation. In 1966, they brought their kinetic sculptures to the streets in a cargo van touring central Paris, distributing explanatory texts and questionnaires to the public. They installed walk-through labyrinths that they conceived of as social experiments, but that disgruntled critics compared to the devices one would expect to see at a Luna Park. They eschewed the art gallery circuit and imagined that ideally their art objects would be available for distribution at Monoprix discount stores. But the democratic ambition of their participatory displays was in tension with the rational and technocratic ethos of their approach. As the founder of the Situationist International Guy Debord put it, “What they call the avant-garde of absence is nothing more than the absence of an avant-garde.”

From enfant terrible to established artist

With the installation of his 260 truncated columns in the great courtyard of the Palais-Royal, Daniel Buren has become the symbol of the established artist. Commissioned by the Ministry of Culture, this work provoked an intense debate over the integration of contemporary art in historic buildings and about the imposition of aesthetic choices by an establishment of art administrators and policy-makers over a reluctant public. But in the 1960s and 1970s, Daniel Buren was the enfant terrible of contemporary art and the personification of anti-establishment. In 1969, he refused to have his work included in an exhibition of “Art in the street” because he did not want to be represented as one artist among others. He mocked the pretension of GRAV and kinetic artists to reach popular audiences in the cités HLM through imposed participation: “I am sure that it would be much more agreeable to be exploited.” Buren discovered the stripe motif that would become his signature while searching for inexpensive material on which to paint at the Marché Saint-Pierre in 1965. He was pursuing the “degree zero of painting,” an expression taken from Roland Barthes’ 1953 book Writing Degree Zero. In April 1968, Buren began pasting posters that he had commercially printed with his striped motif at various locations across Paris in what he called affichages sauvages, or wild posterings. The posters went up on palisades surrounding construction sites covered with advertisements, but also among other fly-posted tracts condemning the war in Vietnam and announcing meeting times for protests—Mai 1968 was to erupt the next month. Spurred by the student protests, he accompanied his works with a deluge of explanatory texts, written tracts, manifestos, and interviews in which he declared “the only thing that one maybe can do after having seen a canvas like one of ours is total revolution.” He saw French society as massively repressive and the contemporary art world as irretrievably compromised: he retrospectively described “a suffocating atmosphere, with the appearance of being tidy and policed, where avant-garde artists had an open table at prime minister Georges Pompidou’s place.” But his own work crucially depended on institutions for ideological support. While objecting to traditional ways of presenting art through the museum-gallery system, he cultivated his relations with galleries and biennales, creating pressing demand to show via the same system. As a sign that the times were changing, he began to produce decorative tape and wallpaper for private residences in the 1980s.

If Daniel Buren was the “stripe guy,” André Cadere is remembered as “the stick man,” the artist known for carrying a stick. He shared with the GRAV collective a taste for formalism and mathematics: his round bars of wood, of various size and length, were composed of colored segments repeating a combination sequence in which one deliberate error was inserted. He was less engaged than Buren in political talk; if anything, his status as a refugee exiled from his native Romania exposed him to the surveillance of the state police, and he has had enough of a taste of totalitarianism to appreciate democratic freedom as it was worth. The man with a stick was much less famous than the stripe-man, but he used his fellow artist’s fame to free-ride on his egoistic self-promotion. In 1973, he left a colored bar in an exhibition featuring Buren’s works and, when it was removed and hidden away in a closet, circulated an exhibition announcement instructing visitors to seek out the sequestered bar in the broom closet. Like Buren, Cadere produced a single type of iconic work based on a systematically repeated formula that negated the subjectivity of the artist and neutralized the significance of viewer interpretation. While Buren’s work from this period similarly played across the boundaries of institutional limitation, the highly visible and intentional attachment of the artwork to the body of the wandering artist was the feature by which Cadere argued his opposition to Buren. Whereas in situ works generally complemented the sites in which they were placed, Cadere’s juxtapositions based their critique on the cultural inappropriateness of the art object’s presence within and outside artistic contexts. Cadere’s guerrilla tactics was in line with his hobo lifestyle. He fashioned himself as a rogue art celebrity, building his identity on marginality and independence. Photographs (remember the book cover) represent him in various circumstances, with his trademark stick and intense look, but he was careful to distinguish between the artwork and its representation through documentary media. Cadere wanted his bars to be seen in their materiality, and insisted that his work was “exhibited where it is seen.” His round bars of wood are now displayed in museums and private collections, but they have lost their potential to disturb and to unsettle.

Sociological Art

Though relatively unknown today, Sociological Art is thoroughly emblematic of the historical upheavals of the late 1960s and 1970s in France. The Sociological Art Collective was formed by Hervé Fischer, Fred Forest, and Jean-Paul Thénot in 1974 but each artist came to its positions independently by developing their own art projects. In 1971, Hervé Fischer invited other artists to send him their artworks which he tore up and disposed in garbage bags put on display in an art gallery. He also disposed of his own body by putting his head in a plastic bag or wrapping himself in vinyl sheets. For Fischer, tearing and throwing away was as much creative as it was destructive, and documenting this process of destruction was conceived as a work of art. Fred Forest, who worked as a telephone operator in the 1960s, organized his earlier works around the mediated participation of his audience. In Portraits de famille, he asked the residents of a suburban housing project to send family pictures at the dinner table, which he presented in a community exhibition. In Space-Media, he placed a blank rectangle in the newspaper Le Monde and inviting readers to fill it in with whatever they liked and mail it to him. Taking part in a popular television program, he made the screen grow black for a few seconds and invited spectators to fill that free space with the thoughts and comments that he then collected. On the occasion of the São Paulo biennale in October 1973, he organized a series of performances, including a procession through the city center with participants holding white placards: he was arrested by the junta police, who took it as a real protest. Jean-Paul Thénot distributed questionnaires with open or nonsensical questions that he analyzed with the statistical techniques used by opinion pollsters. Most of his polls reflected on the art world, as when he asked respondents to name the most representative French artist that would correspond to the mean average choice. Together, the three proponents of Sociological Art published manifestos, organized interdisciplinary performances, and conducted field experiments as in their large-scale artistic survey of the city of Perpignan. Rejecting aesthetic motivations, they argued that “sociological art has no style,” and they developed an ethics of nonintervention by providing raw data and community-based documents.

I was completely unfamiliar with the episodes of contemporary art history that are described in this book. What I take from reading Disordering the Establishment is three things. First, Lily Woodruff succeeds in linking art to its historical context. Through her four case studies, she provides an alternative story of Les Trente Glorieuses, the three decades of robust economic growth, political dirigisme, and social upheavals that French citizens now remember with nostalgia and regret. Art is not estranged from its social and political environment: on the contrary, it reflects and contributes to the main debates of the day, projecting them on a different plane that makes the familiar look unfamiliar. By developing a critique of institutions, art brings disorder and dissonance into a well-ordered world. It reminds us that history always contains a part of randomness, of background noise and graphic disturbance that retrospective narratives tend to eliminate from the broad picture. When you switch the channel to this ambient noise, a different history appears, unfolding at street level and more attuned to the individual experience of passers-by. As a second contribution, the author brings contemporary art schools in close contact with intellectual history. I was in more familiar terms with the many intellectuals, social critics, and thinkers that Lily Woodruff quotes in abundance. The writings of Roland Barthes, Pierre Bourdieu, Guy Debord, Gilles Deleuze, Michel Foucault, Henri Lefebvre, Jean-François Lyotard, Edgar Morin, and others are very relevant for understanding artistic developments in France and putting them into their ideological context, not least because these thinkers were themselves close watchers of the art scene and commented upon contemporary artists in their work. Intellectual debates at the time were as much about aesthetics as they were political or philosophical. The anti-establishment mood was widely shared and gave way to various expressions: taken together, they form the most valuable inheritance that we received from this period. Artists and critics developed a form of specific courage: their attack on the establishment was not only intellectual posturing. They walked the talk and drew the consequences of their radical political stance in their specific field of activity, without fear of confrontation and marginality. That some of them rallied later on to existing institutions and centers of power only shows the precarious nature of the artistic field, where only institutions or the market can guarantee independence over the long term. As a third point, Disordering the Establishment seems to me a good model of how to write about art. Especially when it comes to contemporary creation, I am all in favor of pedagogy and even didacticism in the appreciation of the arts. I believe art and literature ought to convey information and instruction, along with pleasure and entertainment. Artworks cannot do this by themselves: they have to be accompanied by a critical apparatus or scholarly material that allows the public to shape its perception and understanding of art. In her masterful essay on participatory art and institutional critique in pre- and post-1968 France, Lily Woodruff provided me with such a companion to an intelligent understanding of some recent artistic creations.

Making the World Safe for Tourism in Asia-Pacific

23 Jun 201911 Apr 2023 Etienne RPLeave a comment

**A review of Securing Paradise: Tourism and Militarism in Hawai’i and the Philippines, Vernadette Vicuña Gonzalez, Duke University Press, 2013.**

Securing Paradise When she was a little girl growing up in the Philippines, Vernadette Vicuña Gonzalez considered American tourists and soldiers that she encountered or heard about as a benevolent presence. They were there to protect the land and to share their riches with a people in need of security and prosperity. This positive image was reinforced by the missionary schools founded by Americans, the remittances sent from abroad by relatives, the proceeds from commerce and military bases, and the endless stream of American movies and serials flowing from television. Later on, when her family emigrated to the United States, she would accompany her father to the Douglas MacArthur Memorial in Norfolk, Virginia, and share the gratitude held by many Filipinos for the general who liberated their country from Japanese occupation. For her, America was still the land of the free, a beacon of hope and opportunity for those seeking a better life beyond their own shores. But then she went to study at UC Berkeley and her worldview changed. She learned about the history of American imperialism, the gruesome stories of the Philippines-American war, the propaganda machine of Cold War politics, the complicity with authoritarian regimes, the destruction of the planet by the forces of neoliberalism, and the cynicism of exploitative raw power. Her homeland, the Philippines, became associated with the image of a puppet regime led by a dictator clinging to power with the backing of the US military. She applied the same critical lenses to the state of Hawaii and its populations after the was nominated as Associate Professor of American Studies at the University of Hawaii at Mānoa. For her, the Hawaiian archipelago was forced into the American fold at the end of the nineteenth century by a coalition of military imperialists, colonial planters, and migrant laborers who relegated the natives to subordinary status and even to cultural extinction. Being herself a nonnative in an adopted homeland, Vernadette Gonzalez purports to speak on behalf of the Native Hawaiians who should, however implausible it may sound, reclaim their sovereignty.

In the introduction, the author asks: “What alchemy transforms the terror of imperial violence and American postwar occupation to deeply felt understandings of American rescue, liberation, and benevolence?” One could raise the opposite question: how did a young girl raised in the spirit of America’s gentle embrace turn against a familiar presence and came to see it as a force of evil? How to explain this complete reversal, and what turned her from a believer of American kind-heartedness into a staunch critic of US malignity? Was it her studies in social sciences at UC Berkeley? And why did she choose to study at this university in the first place? Although she doesn’t give any biographical clues, I see three general reasons for this conversion: history, ideology, affect. These factors work both ways: the same historical, ideological and affective formations that explain Filipinos’ conversion to a myth of American compassionate guardianship also explain the anger, resentment, and challenge to the United States’ past and present imperial role. In a reversion of values, the soldier and the tourist can be seen alternatively as the Good American or the Ugly Yankee. Like a Janus-faced figure, the two characters are one and the same. He can be invited by his hosts to come home as a guest or, in the same movement, told to go home and depart. Thinking about tourism and militarism in Hawaii and the Philippines allows Vernadette Gonzalez to vent her anger against US imperialism past and present, and also to disavow the young girl who held hands with her father in American Pacific War memorials. In Securing Paradise, she applies critical lenses to analyze the history, ideology and affects sustaining the “military-tourism security complex” in the Philippines and in Hawaii.

Tourists and soldiers

In a way, the tourism industry is the opposite of militarization. Tourism is a peaceful activity, and tourists don’t go to war zones or to places exposed to the risk of insecurity. Unlike the soldier, the tourist doesn’t engage in violent or threatening behavior. He brings with him a camera, not a gun, and leaves behind dollars and trinkets, not bullets and explosives. The tourist is more often a ‘she’ than a ‘he’: a softer, warmer version of America’s presence in the tropics that stands in stark contrast to the masculine figure of oppression and threat. For Vernadette Gonzalez, the desires and economies of modern tourism are central to American military dominance in Asia and the Pacific. Tourism and militarism are mutually constitutive: both are part of am American project of domination and imperial outreach, and Hawaii and the Philippines form the first line of this concentric projection of power and sentiments. The roots and routes of the US military in these sites are foundational to tourist itineraries and imaginations. Tourism normalizes the presence of the military, prioritizes its needs, and disseminates a racialized and gendered idea of security. Both militarism and tourism rely on sedimented notions of colonized land and people (especially women) as waiting idly for their arrival, passively there for the taking. In many places, tourism has its roots in the militarized “rest and recreation” industry that thrived in the periphery of war theaters. The security that military bases provide is a fiction that starkly contrasts the reality of sexual exploitation and social insecurity that develops in the vicinity of army camps. The male tourist and the soldier both harbor voyeuristic and violent fantasies and usually turn their gaze against the bodies of women. For the author, many modern tourist sites are tainted by the illicit sexual economies and violence produced in rest and recreation sites of military occupation.

“Militourism” is designed as the activity fusing the two activities of militarism and tourism: making historic battlefields fit for tourism, creating memorials and museums to commemorate past military engagements, displaying military presence as a guarantee of security for foreign holidaymakers, or attracting active military personnel and retired soldiers to beach resorts and scenic sites. It also involves transforming former military bases into vacation sites and other sources of economic revenue, or building dual-use facilities and infrastructures such as scenic highways or helicopter landing platforms. In Asia and the Pacific, these “militourisms” take place on terrains that have long felt the impact of being objects of imperial desire. The first touristic explorations and adventures in the Pacific also doubled as military reconnaissance and imperial prospection. The image of the tropics as paradise was instrumental in justifying a policy of land grabbing and imperial expansion; it also served to lure young soldiers enrolling in overseas tours of duty. The world of the soldier and that of the tourist are often one and the same. The business of tourism benefits from the high drama of war: places like Pearl Harbor remain popular because war is at the core of America’s past and present identity. Likewise, the US military benefits from the glorification of American cultures of war that occurs in sites memorializing past military engagements. Gonzalez describes the activities of “remembering Pearl Harbor” at the USS Arizona Memorial or “playing soldier” on former US training grounds in Subic Bay as emotional labor: the labor that it takes to shape a national myth that is instrumental to Hawaiian dispossession and to the Philippines’s subordination.

History, ideology, affect

History is at the heart of people’s ambivalent attitudes towards the United States. The history of Hawaii and of the Philippines can be told in two very different ways: one eliciting sympathy and hope, the other criticism and grief. One reason for the adherence to the myth of American benevolence in the Pacific is that its believers are served with a rosy picture of history. And one reason for their conversion to the message of “Yankee Go Home” is that they come into contact with a very different story. It is this black book of misery and sorrow that Gonzalez presents to her readers. As she notes, Hawaii before the annexation by the United States was a sovereign kingdom that was undergoing struggles for internal unification and also fighting off external attempts on its autonomy. Massive population decline following the arrival of European explorers and sailors had produced conditions for exploitation, dispossession, and cultural ethnocide. A coalition formed by white plantation owners, missionary elites, and the US Navy collaborated to roll back native sovereignty with the Bayonet Constitution of 1887, the overthrow of the monarchy in 1893, and the annexation of the islands in 1898, creating America’s first foothold in the Pacific. This history is paralleled by America’s expansion westwards and its collusion with the Spanish empire in the Philippines. The Spanish-American War of 1898 was soon followed by the Philippine-American War, a nasty and brutish conflict in which torture was used against the native insurgents. This brought the Philippines into the American fold, and allowed the US Navy to strengthen its presence in the Pacific. Indeed, Hawaii and the Philippines would share linked fates as part of the American chain of garrison islands.

American tourists and soldiers are served a version of history that stands in stark contrast with the unofficial narrative told in Securing Paradise. They visit landmark sites and museums that present a sanitized version of the United States’ imperial expansion in the Pacific. America’s presence in the Philippines is retold as a story of rescue, liberation, and sharing of riches. The US administration of the Philippines, from 1898 to 1946, and the period following the annexation when Hawaii became a US Territory, from 1989 to 1959, are characterized as a progressive era during which the United States implemented a benign and modern form of stewardship. The authorities undertook a slate of reforms, hygiene, education, and economic projects that uplifted the population and created sympathy even among former insurgents. For example, in the Philippines, the military took on projects such as road building and land clearing to rehabilitate its public relations, substituting promises of constructive colonialism and economic development to its recent history of brutality and oppression. But it is the Pacific War that sealed the fate of these two territories and anchored them in the grand narrative of the United States’ national history. For the American public, Hawaii and the Philippines remain forever associated with Pearl Harbor, Corregidor, and the Bataan Death March. The enduring narratives of masculine sacrifice and heroism in World War II constitute the framing through which the two archipelagos are imagined and understood. This history is made visible and concrete through memorial sites and scenic circuits that have become a magnet for tourists. In these sites, visitors pay their respects to the dead, take part in rituals of remembering, and celebrate a bond of brotherhood with American soldiers, sealed with blood and anchored in Cold War rhetoric. Pilgrimage to historical military sites is not the preserve of American tourists or local visitors: even Japanese tourists are invited to “Remember Pearl Harbor” or to discover Corregidor as the “Island of Valor, Peace, and International Understanding.” For the author, the fetishization of December 7 overwrites January 17, 1893—the day the Kingdom of Hawaii was overthrown and its native population dispossessed.

Neoliberalism and neoliberation

The second factor that has the strength to induce positive or negative attitudes towards the United States is ideology. For Gonzalez, militarism and tourism in Asia-Pacific embody the ideologies of neoliberalism and what she calls neoliberation. Since the departure of the US military from the Philippines, Subic Bay and Clark Base have been transformed into special economic zones under public-private partnerships and now operate as commercial and tourist hubs integrated into global circuits of capital, labor, and commerce. The “post-base” era has not put an end to military cooperation between the US and the Philippines: on the contrary, US forces benefit from an advantageous Visiting Forces Agreement, they participate in joint training operation with their Filipino counterparts, and they are at the vanguard of the fight against Muslim extremist groups the southern region of Mindanao. The US Army left the Philippines through the door and came back through the window of opportunity provided by the fight against terror. Just as the war theaters of the Pacific War were transformed into symbols of liberation from Japanese occupation and fraternal collaboration between Filipino and American soldiers, the discourse of neoliberation transforms the exploitative economies of predatory capital and imperial outreach into narratives of security and shared prosperity. American military occupation and economic hegemony are cast in the same heroic light that fuses the twin ideologies of neoliberalism and neoliberation. The “return” of the base properties to the Philippines are presented as evidence of American generosity; meanwhile, the American military continues to occupy and tour the Philippines, and foreign capital, bolstered by the structural adjustment policies dictated by the Bretton Woods institutions, benefit from zero taxation and rampant violation of basic labor rights in the Special Economic Zones.

Or at least this is how Vernadette Gonzalez presents it, based on her own biased ideology and slanted perspective in which the United States is cast as the villain and its policies as conspirational schemes to maintain neocolonial influence over its dominion. This is, in a way, a missed opportunity: because beyond the Pavlovian denunciation of neoliberalism as evil, Securing Paradise raises many important economic issues. There is indeed an economic case to be made about the links between militarism and tourism. Both activities stem from certain comparative advantages and resource endowments, like having a long and accessible coastal line to build bases and resorts. Both generate rents and drive domestic prices up, giving rise to a particular version of the Dutch disease. Both military bases and tourism resorts may be the only viable economic sectors in territories that are otherwise too far away from centers of capitalistic concentration. There are complementarities between the two activities, as when the soldier goes on vacation as a tourist or when tourism is made safe by the presence of soldiers. But there are also contradictions, especially when the local population becomes more educated and more prosperous than the soldiers posted in their midst. Beyond a certain threshold, tourism development holds more promises than military build-up. When they are consulted about their own destiny, local populations will aspire to transform their territories into islands of peace, as opposed to hosting bases of discontent. But these issues of territorial specialization and economic reasoning are not raised in this book. Instead, the author adheres to a primitive notion of economics-as-witchcraft, with neoliberalism as dark magic and the Bretton Woods institutions as wicked witches. I don’t know where Vernadette Gonzalez got her economics, but it’s certainly not from UC Berkeley’s economic faculty. Even the variant known as international political economy, taught in political science departments and exerting some influence on literary scholars, has more consideration for basic facts and logical explanations than her casual treatment of economic factors.

Combat boots clamping and digital cameras clicking in Asia-Pacific

A conversion is always an affective turn: from love and attachment to abhorrence and alienation, from warm feelings of joy and happiness to dark motives of grievance and hate. Sometimes this reversal of sentiments can be triggered by a traumatic experience or a dreadful event: as when a story of rape and sexual aggression by soldiers or tourists turn the local population against any foreign presence. For Vernadette Gonzalez, the defining moment may have been provided by the image of President Ferdinand Marcos and his wife Imelda leaving the Malacañan Palace and fleeing the country in US army aircrafts after having been ousted by the people. She also describes a traumatic scene that happened to her shortly after September 11, when she was faced with the barrel of a gun for having committed a small breach of security protocol in a tourist resort. For her, tourism and violence are intimately intertwined. In the eyes of local authorities and American strategists, tourists’ safety and comfort take precedence over the needs and aspirations of the local population. The US military wants to make the world safe for tourism. It prioritizes certain forms of mobility and border-crossing at the detriment of others. As a result it makes the world more insecure, not less, and exposes local populations to new risks and insecurities. Although Vernadette Gonzalez doesn’t explicitly formulate policy recommendations, the solutions that can be inferred from the author’s presentation should be resolutely de-colonial: let the US forces go home for good this time, severe the ties of dependance and domination that bind local populations and indigenous peoples in exploitative conditions, reclaim the sovereignty of native right-holders and democratic representatives, protect the environment from the encroachment of army bases and tourist resorts, and bring an end to the tourism industry’s deleterious influence on the social fabric of host nations.

One may or may not agree with these solutions; but they appear to me as severely out of sync with the present geopolitical situation in Asia-Pacific. As the author herself acknowledges, the region is increasingly becoming more insecure; and the blame cannot be put solely on the presence of US forces, less even so on the continuous flow of American tourists. Any person who has travelled in the region can attest that the majority of tourists are no longer Americans or Europeans. These new tourists, who may be followed by soldiers as in the previous historical sequences described for Hawaii and for the Philippines, bring with them different dreams and aspirations, and interact with local populations and the environment in different forms and modalities. They too are looking for a paradise to cherish and to hold, but their version of heaven is based on different cultural and political assumptions. (For a local version of the mix between militarism, exoticism and affect, I recommend the 2016 Korean drama series Descendants of the Sun and its local adaptations by Vietnamese and by Chinese television.) One should lend an ear to the growing sounds of army boots and tourist crowds in Asia and the Pacific: are they harbingers of a new era when the digital camera will prevail over the machine gun, or will they repeat past experiences on a larger and more devastating scale? This is why I find books such as Securing Paradise useful: they allow readers who come to them with an unjaundiced eye to enter the fabrique of sentiments, and they enable us to envision a future that may not be determined solely by militarized tourism and the touring of armies on and off duty.

Less Than Human

9 Mar 201924 Jun 2019 Etienne RPLeave a comment

**A review of Infrahumanisms. Science, Culture, and the Making of Modern Non/personhood, Megan H. Glick, Duke University Press, 2018.**

Infrahumanisms directs a multidisciplinary gaze on what it means to be human or less-than-human in twentieth century America. The author, who teaches American Studies at Wesleyan University, combines the approaches of historiography, animal studies, science studies, gender studies, ethnic studies, and other strands of cultural studies, to build new analytical tools and to apply them to a range of issues that have marked the United States’ recent history: children and primates caught in a process of bioexpansionism from the 1900s to the 1930s; extraterrestriality or the pursuit of posthuman life in outer space from the 1940s to the 1970s; and the interiority of cross-species contagion and hybridity from the 1980s to the 2010s. Judged by historiography’s standards, the book lacks the recourse to previously unexploited archives and new textual documents that most historians consider as essential for original contributions to their field. The empirical base of Infrahumanisms is composed of published books and articles, secondary analyses drawn from various disciplines, and theories offered by various authors. There are no interviews or testimonies drawn from oral history or direct observations from ethnographic fieldwork, no unearthing of new documents or unexploited archives, and no attempt to quantify or to measure statistical correlations. This piece of scholarship is firmly grounded in the qualitative methodologies and humanistic viewpoints that define American Studies on US campuses. The only novel approach proposed by the book is to use a range of photographies and visual sources as primary material and to complement textual commentary with the tools of visual analysis borrowed from media studies. But what Infrahumanisms lacks in methodological originality is more than compensated by its theoretical deftness. Megan Glick innovates in the research questions that she applies to her sample of empirical data and in the theory that she builds out of her constant back-and-forth between facts and abstraction. She does conceptual work as other social scientists do fieldwork, and offers experience-near concepts or mid-range theorizing as a way to contribute to the expansion of her research field. In particular, her use of animal studies is very novel: just like minority studies gave birth to white studies within the framework of ethnic studies, or feminism led to masculinism in the field of gender analysis, Megan Glick complements animal studies with the cultural analysis of humans as a species. Exit the old humanities that once defined American studies or literary criticism; welcome to the post-humanities of human studies that patrol the liminalities and borderings of the human species.

The whitening of the chimpanzee

What is the infrahuman contained in Infrahumanisms? A straightforward answer is to start with the book cover representing the simian body of a young baboon (sculpted by artist Kendra Haste) seen from behind: monkeys, particularly great apes, are infrahuman. This, at least, was how the word was first introduced in the English language: the first use of the term “infrahuman” was made in 1916 by Robert Mearns Yerkes, a psychobiologist now remembered as the founding father of primatology. By modern criteria, Yerkes was a eugenicist and a racist: he saw his work as assisting in the process of natural selection by promoting the success and propagation of “superior” models of the human race. Through the Pasteur Institute in Paris, he was able to import primates from French Guinea and to apply to them various tests of mental and physical capacities that were first conceived for the measurement of the intelligence and characteristics of various “races”. Thus, writes Megan Glick, “while the terms of dehumanization and radicalization are often understood to be familiar bedfellows, (…) the process of humanization is equally as important in the construction of racial difference and inequality.” In particular, she shows that the chimpanzee appeared in these early primatology studies and in popular discourse as akin to the white race, while the gorilla was identified with black Africans. The “whitening of the chimpanzee” and “blackening of the gorilla” manifested itself in the early photographs of primates in human company or in the first episodes of the Tarzan series, where Cheeta is part of Tarzan and Jane’s composite family in the jungle, while gorillas are imagined as “the deadly enemies of Tarzan’s tribe.” The jungle trope is also applied to early twentieth-century children who were involved in animalistic rituals and identities: from “jungle gym” equipments in public playgrounds to the totems and wild outdoor activities of the Boy Scouts movement, the development of a childhood culture in close contact with the natural world marked a new moment in the lives of US children at the beginning of the century. The child was imagined as a distinct species, a proto-evolutionary figure providing the missing link between animals and humans. Neither primates nor children leave written archives or provide a “voice” available for historiographical record: like the subaltern, they literally “cannot speak.” Here again, the historian turns to pictures and illustrations to envision children as infrahuman, as in the photographs of infant and adult skeletons in pediatrics books that portrayed the child as “different from the adult in every fiber.”

The mid-twentieth century was a time of great anxieties about the human condition. Images and photographs tell the story better than words. The era of extraterrestriality was bordered by the mushroom clouds of Hiroshima and Nagasaki on one end and the picture of the blue planet as seen from outer space on the other. Extraterrestrial creatures were a matter of sighting and picturing more than storytelling or inventing. The pictures of aliens crashing at Roswell, New Mexico, with their “short gray” bodies and oversized heads, took to the public imagination and were described in similar terms by “alien abductees” who came up with similar visions although they had no way to coordinate their testimonies between themselves. While aliens on the big screen or in popular media tended to be large, monstrous, and even superhuman, aliens “sighted” by the American public were small, quasi-human, and frail. Here the author has a theory that stands at variance with standard interpretations of alien invasions as inspired by the red scare of communism. It wasn’t the Cold War and the mass panic over the infiltration of communist subjects that inspired the narratives and depictions of alien abductions and Mars attacks, but rather the traumatic after-effects of the Holocaust pictures that were disseminated at the end of the Second World War. As Megan Glick argues, “both tell a story about the nature of midcentury visual culture, both are concerned about the boundaries of human embodiment, and both question the futurity of humanity.” Meanwhile, the increasing precision of human genetics gave way to a post-Holocaust eugenic culture, in which the fight against social ills that undergirded the earlier eugenic movement was traded in for a more exacting battle against biological flaws. Key to these developments was the Nobel Prize winner Joshua Lederberg, a bacteriologist who made seminal contributions to the field of human genetics and who launched the speculative study of exobiology, of life on other planets. Like in the final screenshot of the cult movie 2001: A Space Odyssey, the picture of the earth as viewed from space paralleled the image of the fully developed fetus within a woman’s womb as reproduced on the cover of Life magazine. Lederberg and his colleague envisioned the impending elimination of genetically based disabilities through intra-uterine manipulation of the embryo. Considering the backdrop of sterilization campaigns for disabled persons or anxieties raised by overpopulation in the Third World, this raised concerns that African American populations could be targeted for “defective genetic traits” such as the prevalence of sickle cell disease.

Jumping the species barrier

The 1980s was marked by the AIDS crisis, which at first was associated with stigmatized populations such as gay men, intravenous drug users, and migrants from Haiti. The AIDS epidemic has already been studied from various perspectives, locating the disease within the history of sexuality, race, and medicine. Carol Glick adopts a new angle by taking an animal studies perspective by treating AIDS as a zoonotic or cross-species disease, placing it in a series that also includes SARS, mad cow disease, and avian flu. When the virus was found to have emerged from within chimpanzees in Africa, questions wee soon raised about how, why, and when AIDS had jumped the species barrier. Speculations extended to the “strangeness” of African sexual habits and dietary customs, and the denunciation of the consumption of bush meat operated both a dehumanization of African poachers and a humanization of monkey species. Tracts of tropical forest were cleared from their human presence to preserve the habitat of great apes. Dehumanization also worked at the level of AIDS patients, who were denied proper treatment and health insurance up to this day. An extreme form of dehumanization is animalization, especially the comparison of humans with certain devalorized species such as pigs. A cartoon published in the New Yorker shows the evolution of the human species from ape to mankind, and then its devolution into pigness due to sloth and obesity. In such representations, the obese body is usually represented as disabled and deformed; it is more often than not male, bald, and white. But statistically, obese people are more likely to be black, poor, and female. Public health campaigns put the blame of overweightness on individuals, obfuscating the role of food companies, advertisement campaigns, and policy neglect for our unhealthy diet. In more than one way, pigs are our posthuman future: genetic engineering is capable of creating porcine chimeras capable of developing human cells and organs for xenotransplantation benefitting needy patients. Using animal parts in human bodies results in the hybridization of both species, while the American dietary passion for pork creates the possibility of a species transgression akin to cannibalism that the taboo on pork consumption for Muslims and Jews seems to have anticipated. The main barriers to our porcine and infrahuman future may not be scientific and technological, but cultural and religious.

The concluding chapter is titled The Plurality is Near, a pun on Ray Kurzwell’s book announcing that “the singularity is near” and that humans will soon transcend biology. The plurality of species, which includes parasites and vectors of harmful diseases, raises the issue of speciesism: does mankind have the right to eradicate certain species, such as the mosquito Aedes aegypti targeted by a campaign of total elimination due to its role in the spread of malaria, dengue, and Zika? The elimination of mosquitoes in the name of human health is hard to contest; and yet we do not know what the long-term consequences of this tinkering of ecosystems will be. Scientists record an alarming rate of species decline and extinction, with spectacular drops in the population of bugs, butterflies, and insects. A future without insects would have catastrophic implications for birds, plants, soils, and humans; so much so that in order to slow down and someday reverse the loss of insects, we must change the way we manage the earth’s ecosystem and enhance their chances of survival. The plurality of species also forms the background of the new discipline of microbiomics, the study of the genetic material of all the microbes—bacteria, fungi, yeasts and viruses—that live on and inside the human body. Yoghurt commercials have popularized the notion of the intestinal flora as essential to the well-being of the organism. Digestive health sees the intestinal tract as not only a site of transit and evacuation, but also of flourishing and symbiosis. New models representing the body go beyond the mechanics of fluids and the circuitry of organs: they mobilize the ecology of populations and the co-evolution of ecosystems. Like the poet Walt Whitman, the human body can claim to contain multitudes: where the body ends and the environment begins is no longer clear. What happens at the infrahuman level unsettles the definition of the human: “the proposed manipulation of populations that exist in parasitic and symbiotic relation to the human species, often inside the body itself, suggests a deep unsettling of the animal/human binary and a restaging of human difference.” Seeing human beings are primate-microbe hybrids sets a new frontier for research and raises questions about the future of mankind. As microbiologist and NASA adviser Joshua Lederberg once declared, “We live in evolutionary competition with microbes, bacteria and viruses – there is no certainty that we will be the winners.”

Unmasking the ideology of infrahumanism

The infrahuman, then, takes up different figures throughout the twentieth century: the ape, the child, the creature from outer space, the embryo, the racial other, the posthuman hybrid, the microbiome within the human body. The infrahuman complicates notions of the other, of what counts as alien, outsider, non-human, friend or foe. It appears through twentieth-century scientific and cultural discourses that include pediatrics, primatology, eugenics, exobiology, microbiotics, and obesity research. The infrahuman confronts us with what the author calls “hyperalterity” or the radically other. By extension, infrahumanism, taken in the plural, designates an ideology, an episteme, or an -ism that inspires processes of infrahumanization. It rests on the belief that one’s ingroup is more human than an outgroup, which is less human. It results from a dual movement of dehumanization, which denies the humanity of certain individuals or collectives, and of rehumanization, which bestows non-human animals with certain human characteristics. It is closely related to the notions of speciation, the process by which differences are constituted into a distinct species, and of speciesism, the idea that being human is a good enough reason for human animals to have greater moral rights than non-human animals. What gets to count as human or as animal also affects our conceptions of human difference such as race, sexuality, disability, and disease status. Carol Glick argues that unmasking the ideology of infrahumanism is crucial to better understanding the persistence of human social inequality, “laying bare the rhetorics of being ‘beyond’ or ‘post’ race, gender, and other forms of social difference thought now to be on the precipice of mere social construction.” She notes the curious coincidence between the deconstruction of humanist thought and the emergence of an animal rights discourse at the precise moment when feminist and minority movements started to demand the recognition of their full rights as human beings, a category from which they had long been excluded. This is why “feminism should not end at the species divide”: feminist studies have a distinctive contribution to offer on the human/nonhuman distinction and how it affects the rights and claims of both groups.

Thinking about humanism, and its infrahumanist variants, as the ideology proper to the human species also transforms our vision of “the humanities”. Rather than simply reproducing established forms and methods of disciplinary knowledge, posthumanists should confront how changes in society and culture require that scholars rethink what they do—theoretically, methodologically, and ethically. Infrahumanisms bridges the scientific and cultural spheres by attending to the cultural imaginaries of scientists as well as to the changes brought by science in popular culture. It provides a welcome critique of the foundations of the field of animal studies, itself less than a couple of decades old. In her introduction, Carl Glick scratches in passing some of the great founders of the discipline—Cary Wolfe and his infatuation with systems theory, Jacques Derrida and his cat, Donna Haraway and her doggie—while giving kudos to more recent entries that mix the radical critique of feminist studies, critical race studies, queer studies, and disability studies—with authors such as Mel Chen, Neel Ahuja, Lauren Berlant, and Claire Jean Kim. She doesn’t support radicalism for radicalism’s sake: she has strong reservations with the biological essentialism of some animal rights activists who conflate racism with speciesism, and she reminds us that “we cannot ethically argue for the direct comparison of people and animals.” Her book is therefore a welcome contribution “to the vast and difficult conversation about the place of nonhuman animals in the humanist academy.” As mentioned, Carol Glick also extends what counts as historical archive and how to present it to the reader. Images, pictures, photographs, screenshots, and movies will remain as the twentieth century’s main archives. They require a mode of analysis and exposure that is distinct from textual interpretation, and for which tools and methodologies are only beginning to be designed. Illustrations used by the author form part of her demonstration. For many readers, the striking book cover of Infrahumanisms will remain an apt summary of her main argument.

Imperialism and its Afterlife in the Philippines

29 Mar 201829 Mar 2018 Etienne RPLeave a comment

A review of White Love and Other Events in Filipino History, Vicente L. Rafael, Duke University Press, 2000.

Vicente Rafael Is America an empire? The standard view among conservative historians is that the United States only embraced imperialism with the Spanish-American War, and that this represented an aberration from the otherwise democratic trajectory of the nation. These same historians further argue that the imperial interventions of the United States, especially in the Philippines, were far more benign and progressive than its European counterparts. Taking over the Philippines Islands in 1898 was described, in official accounts at the time and in subsequent hagiographies, as an altruistic act motivated by America’s concern for the natives’ welfare. Whereas European empires were concerned with carving the world for themselves and extending their sphere of influence, America occupied the Philippines to fill the void left by Spain and to steer the still immature nation towards a course of self-government and independence. US colonialism in the Philippines was rhetorically driven by what President McKinley had referred to as “benevolent assimilation,” whereby the “earnest and paramount aim” of the colonizer was that of “winning the confidence, respect and affection” of the colonized. Even the armed conflict between the First Republic of the Philippines and the United States that lasted from early 1899 to mid-1902 and that cost the life of more than 200,000 Filipino insurgents and civilians was “characterized by humanity and kindness to the prisoner and noncombatant.” War and occupation were manifestations of “white love,” an act of compassion and altruism that emanated from American exceptionalism. If Filipino insurgents were killed, sometimes tortured, it was for their own good, and because they somehow requested it.

America’s deadly embrace

For proof of the deadly nature of America’s imperial embrace, one needs to look no further than to the images of piled corpses lining roads and the close-up photographs of dead insurgents taken during the Philippines-American War. Photographs of war dead date back to the American Civil War and have come to signify the irreducible essence of war’s horrible truth. But these images of dead Filipino bodies piled upon another inaugurate another series, one which ends with Abu Ghraib and that signifies the obscene power of the United States over death itself. These are not noble dead that are meant to be remembered and honored: they are mere lives taken away by a biopolitical state that has the ability to make live and let die. Death pinned down and made visible Filipino fighters that were otherwise so elusive for American army troops in a guerrilla warfare based on sporadic engagements and ambushes. These old historical photos are painful to watch: dead bodies are lying in distorted fashion, with members at protruding angles, faces turned away, clothes soiled with mud. But perhaps the most painful scene for modern viewers is to see the American soldiers looking over the aligned corpses, taking poses like big-game hunters over their booty. These pictures, along with the news of atrocities committed by US forces—the torching of villages, the killing of prisoners—came as a shock for a part of American public opinion at the time they were published in local newspapers. In particular, many Americans were puzzled by the news, in 1902, that United States soldiers were torturing Filipinos with water. The “water cure”, of which gruesome pictures were also published, involved pouring water down the throat of a prisoner so that the man would swell like a toad and suffer excruciating pain. During public hearings, Governor-General William Howard Taft justified the practice by pointing to “some rather amusing instances” in which, he maintained, Filipinos had invited torture. Eager to share intelligence with the Americans, but needing a plausible cover, these Filipinos, in Taft’s recounting, had presented themselves and “said they would not say anything until they were tortured.” In many cases, it appeared, American forces had been only too happy to oblige them.

If further proof needs to be given of America’s imperial nature, it can also be found in the narratives of colonial domesticity sent home by the wives and daughters of US officials administering the islands, or in the photographs of tribesmen and racialized members of ethnic groups that illustrate the 1905 publication of the census. Women from the United States writing from the Philippines during the first decade of American rule exhibit the same racial prejudices and sense of moral superiority as the female representatives of European neighboring empires, concerned as they were with upholding middle-class respectability amid what they perceived as the barbarism of a colonized people. In tracing their remarks about the natural landscape, colonial house, and the behavior of native servants, the modern reader can see how they dealt with the imperatives of domesticity outside the domestic sphere they were used to. Colonial domesticity in the tropics heralded the conjugation of whiteness with feminity as a sign of public entitlement as well as a source of private ambivalence. As women, these writers invariably stood in an uneasy relationship to the masculinized sphere of empire, being both domineering over (male and female) locals and submitted to the masculine authority of their husbands and fathers. Helen Taft, the wife of the Governor-General, writes of going to places where “white women were still novelty, and I’m sure we looked much more peculiar to them as they did to us.” As for the census, it was, as students of empires have shown in other historical settings, a powerful technique of domination and surveillance that made visible the subjects of colonization within the borders of the occupied state. The language of benevolent assimilation was no different from the doctrines of other colonial powers at the time: rather than merely govern colonial territories, empires had a “civilizing mission” that would allegedly bring Western values to backward peoples and that justified armed action against any form of opposition.

The afterlife of empires

The afterlife of empires in the Philippines manifests itself in many ways. The term Filipino itself first designated the sons and daughters of Spanish parents born in Las Islas Filipinas, while the natives were designated as Indios and the persons of Chinese ancestry as Tsinoys or Sangleys. Spanish was the language in which the late nineteenth-century nationalist figures expressed their sense of the nation. It remained the language of choice among Filipino elites well into the twentieth century, and was used in colonial courts and the colonial legislature until the eve of the Pacific War. Hence, for the prewar Filipino elites, class identity and national consciousness continued to be expressed in Spanish, while English remained a relatively new and foreign language with which one “spoke up” to the source of imperial authority. The politics of language bears the imprint of different layers of rule, resistance, and collaboration. For Vicente Rafael, the relative foreignness of English among the national elite at the time of the Japanese occupation helps to explain the nature of the collaborationist rhetoric and the facility in which Filipino leaders were able to retrospectively separate their intentions from their words. Speaking in English to praise the Japanese emperor and the greater East Asia co-prosperity sphere meant they were using someone else’s words to express someone else’s ideas. The art of disguise and travesty extended beyond language: Vicente Rafael’s book carries a wonderful photo of Don Mariano Ponce, a Filipino nationalist sent to Japan to plead the cause of independence in 1898, dressed in a traditional kimono while the young Sun Yat-sen, sitting next to him, wears a Western suit. What is startling about this photograph is the manner in which it reproduces the uncanny permeability of emergent nationalist identities at this time. It was as if nation-building was a game of cross-dressing, for which both Japan and the West could provide the outside appearance.

Disguise and cross-dressing extended beyond the colonial era. White Love carries a reproduction of a painting figuring Ferdinand Marcos as the mythic figure of Malakas, showing his nude athletic body emerging from a forest of bamboo stalks. Imelda Marcos similarly had herself portrayed as Maganda, the feminine figure of the ancient Philippine creation myth. Politics in the Philippines was heavily sexualized. Imelda was Ferdinand’s “secret weapon”: she helped him convert politics into spectacle, and his rule into patronage. Acting together on the stage at political rallies, they turned their private lives into public spectacles, staging a stylized version of their intimacy. The eleven-day courtship in Bagiou was made into legend, and the passionate devotion to his wife of the erstwhile philanderer served his political career as much as his own physical charm and stentor voice. The term that came to designate her, the bomba star, also referred to a wave of soft-core pornography in print media and movies that swept the Philippines during this period. Bomba movies often featured the rape of a woman; but their commercial success was also a story of female ambition and boldness, and nobody exemplified this drive better than Imelda Marcos. Seeing her in her signature terno dress with butterfly sleeves as in the hyperrealist painting of Claudio Bravo summons a life removed from the world of politics and imbued with a dreamlike quality. But, as Vicente Rafael reminds us, these stagings took place over a backdrop of political assassinations, student protests, and the imposition of martial law. Consigned outside the structures of political institutions, youths took to the streets in a movement that offered an alternative to existing conceptions of authority and submission.

Discarding the epic in favor of the episodic

Vicente Rafael emerged from this generation of unruly students under authoritarian rule. He received his B.A. in history and philosophy from Ateneo de Manila University in 1977 and then moved to the US to get his Ph.D. in history at Cornell University in 1984. He writes from a position within US academia, a position halfway between the disciplinary tradition of area studies, which focuses on nation-states and remains tainted by its Cold War origins, and the more loosely defined discipline of cultural studies, which is more attuned to our present era of globalization and mixed identities. Vicente Rafael distances himself from nationalist historiography, which tells the grand narrative of the Philippines as a replay of the Passion of the Christ—the suffering, death, and resurrection of the Filipino nation. He doesn’t offer an epic story of imperialism, nationalism, and post-colonialism in which each event or character would find its place in an orderly fashion. Instead, he chooses to write in a minor mode that has antecedents in the work of cultural anthropologists probing colonial archives (such as Ann Stoler) or in the newspaper columns of cultural critics such as Ambeth Ocampo. The anthropologist working among historians, or the journalist among scholars, brings an attention to the mundane and to everyday details that are often omitted from more conventional narratives. To be sure, the author is well versed in the classic forms of history, and he refers to canonical works authored by Filipino and American scholars in the endnotes and the bibliography. But he doesn’t share their taste for chronologies, historical certitudes, and well-defined identities. He is more interested in minor episodes, literary rhetoric, and the shifting affiliations of transnational subjects. This is why, although Vicente Rafael’s departure from his homeland may have been linked to the political context of the dictator years that he chronicles in one chapter, he doesn’t write from a position of exile, as “exile brings to mind the epic possibilities of heroism and the longing for redemption for oneself and one’s people.”

According to Claude Levi-Strauss, “history organizes its data in relation to conscious expressions of social life, while anthropology proceeds by examining its unconscious foundations.” Vincent Rafael’s anthropological history is built upon unconscious material, and includes expressions such as rumors and desires that fall outside the purview of consciousness. The book draws from the archives bits and pieces of information that may have escaped the attention of the conventional historian but that, taken together, tell a story that complements in a minor mode the grand narratives of national history. It discards the epic in favor of the episodic. White Love and Other Events in Filipino History is composed of disparate elements that constitute an archive of the everyday: the punch cards of the national census; the letters sent home by the wives of US colonial officers; the dedications to loved ones written on the back of photographic portraits; the formulaic speeches delivered by collaborators during the Japanese occupation; the commissioned portraits of the presidential couple; the satirical cartoons of Nonoy Marcelo written in Taglish; the movie stars instantly recognizable by a mass public; the figure of the bakla, the petit bourgeois male homosexual; etc. These miscellanea are the foam of empires and nations, like the shells carried by the tide and left to rest on the seashore. They operate under the level of consciousness to reveal the most intimate thoughts of past figures and to alter our representations of history in subtle ways. Listening to these seashells, lending an ear to the echo they make, conveys an image of the ocean that is as valid as a photo picture or a text description.