Popular and Visual Culture
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption
Edited by
Clara Sarmento and Ricardo Campos with Rúben Rodrigues de Pinho and Nuno Duarte Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption, Edited by Clara Sarmento, Ricardo Campos, Rúben Rodrigues de Pinho and Nuno Duarte
This book first published 2014
Cambridge Scholars Publishing
12 Back Chapman Street, Newcastle upon Tyne, NE6 2XX, UK
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Copyright © 2014 by Clara Sarmento, Ricardo Campos, Rúben Rodrigues de Pinho, Nuno Duarte and contributors
All rights for this book reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
ISBN (10): 1-4438-6214-2, ISBN (13): 978-1-4438-6214-1
TABLE OF CONTENTS
List of Illustrations ...... vii
Introduction ...... xi Theories and Methodologies on Popular and Visual Culture Clara Sarmento & Ricardo Campos
Part I. Urban Contexts of Popular and Visual Culture
Chapter One ...... 3 Towards a Dualistic Approach to Urban Visual Culture: Between the Sacred and the Profane Ricardo Campos
Chapter Two ...... 21 Latin Americans in London: Claims over the Identity of Place as Destination Patria Román-Velázquez
Chapter Three ...... 39 The Writings on the Wall: An Abc of Historical and Contemporary Graffiti James Dickinson
Chapter Four ...... 59 Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity Ana Gonçalves
Part II. Reinventing and Representing Popular and Visual Culture
Chapter Five ...... 81 New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture Clara Sarmento
vi Table of Contents
Chapter Six ...... 113 Goddesses and Women: Divine Images in Bengali Urban Culture Sandra C. S. Marques
Chapter Seven ...... 131 The Heritage of Urban Visual Culture in American Painting of the 1980’s: Graffiti and Museum Art Vanessa Besand
Chapter Eight ...... 145 Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’: Re-Viewing Bengali High-Culture (1930s-1940s) from a Low Angle Madhuja Mukherjee
Chapter Nine ...... 167 Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia Francesca Cozzolino
Part III. In the Field: Projects on Popular and Visual Culture
Chapter Ten ...... 191 Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces: The Case of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier Alain Chenevez
Chapter Eleven ...... 215 An Inventory Methodology in Urban Art: Concepts, Criteria and Norms Silvia Câmara
Chapter Twelve ...... 229 Popular ID: Portuguese Folk Visual Identity in Hypermedia Remediation Cristina Novo
Bibliography ...... 247
Contributors ...... 273
Index ...... 279
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Fig. 1-1. Languages of the official ideology—Power institutions (Portuguese parliament, Lisbon, 2008) ...... 9 Fig. 1-2. Languages of the official ideology—Monuments to national heroes (Lisbon, 2008)...... 9 Fig. 1-3. Languages of regulation, surveillance and discipline—Traffic lights (Lisbon, 2008)...... 10 Fig. 1-4. Languages of regulation, surveillance and discipline—Traffic signals (Lisbon, 2008)...... 10 Fig. 1-5. Languages of desire, seduction and spectacle—Billboard advertising (Lisbon, 2008)...... 11 Fig. 1-6. Languages of desire, seduction and spectacle—Outdoor advertising (Lisbon, 2008)...... 11 Fig. 1-7. Political satire—Portuguese former prime-minister, José Sócrates (Lisbon, 2009)...... 16 Fig. 1-8. Religious satire—Clergyman (Lisbon, 2010)...... 16 Fig. 1-9. Criticizing mass-consumerism—McDonalds’ Logo (Lisbon, 2010)...... 17 Fig. 1-10. Political murals—Portuguese prime-minister, Passos Coelho (Lisbon, 2012)...... 18 Fig. 1-11. Political murals—German chancellor Angela Merkel and the Portuguese prime-minister and minister of foreign affairs (Lisbon, 2012) ...... 18 Fig. 2-1. La Bodeguita and El Costurerito ...... 29 Fig. 2-2. La Bodeguita ...... 30 Fig. 2-3. Nicole’s Fashion (previously El Costurerito)...... 30 Fig. 2-4. La Tienda ...... 32 Fig. 2-5. La Tienda ...... 32 Fig. 2-6. La Chatica ...... 34 Fig. 2-7. La Chatica ...... 35 Fig. 3-1. Ancient Greek language graffiti on the main gate of the temple at Deir el-Haggar, Egypt (New York: Institute for the Study of the Ancient World, 2009). Creative Commons Attribution license ...... 42 Fig. 3-2. Cy Twombly, “Apollo and the Artist” (1975). Photo by Martin Pulaski. Creative Commons Attribution license...... 45 Fig. 3-3. Gang graffiti in Trenton, New Jersey. Photo by James Dickinson ...... 49 Fig. 3-4. Wildstyle “burner” nearing completion at TerraCycle, Trenton, NJ. Photo by James Dickinson...... 55 Fig. 4-1. General View of Cardiff Docks, c. 1894 by Edward T. Bush. Courtesy of Cardiff Central Library, Local Studies ...... 62
viii List of Illustrations
Fig. 4-2. Migrant Groups in Cardiff 1801-2001 in OPENCities Project Team Strategy and Partnerships (2009). Copywright Permission granted by the Cardiff Council...... 63 Fig. 4-3. Family Life in Butetown, 1954 by Bert Hardy. ©Getty Images ...... 64 Fig. 4-4. Bay Boys, Bute Street, 1975. ©John Briggs ...... 65 Fig. 4-5. Old and New stand side by side, 1969. Courtesy of The History Press ....66 Fig. 4-6. Cardiff Bay Inner Harbour pre-Barrage. © PLACE 1996 www.p-l-a-c-e.org ...... 70 Fig. 4-7. Bird’s Eye view on Cardiff Bay, 2011. © Andrew Hazard and www.visitcardiff.com ...... 70 Fig. 4-8. 2011 St. David’s Day Parade ...... 75 Figs. 4-9, 10 & 11. Said Ismail Ali, in Somali Elders: Portraits from Wales, Dr Sufia Lal with daughter Nargis, and Jacqueline Magrill. © Glenn Jordan...... 76 Fig. 5-1. Moliceiro boat in Ria de Aveiro (2002)...... 84 Fig. 5-2. Panels of Moliceiros (late 1990s)...... 85 Fig. 5-3. The three winners of the first Moliceiro Panel Competition, March 1954 (source: Portuguese Centre of Photography)...... 91 Fig. 5-4. Four competing moliceiros, April 1962 (source: Portuguese Centre of Photography)...... 91 Fig. 5-5, 6 & 7. First year textbook (1950s); Third year textbook (1950s); Fourth year textbook (1960s)...... 92 Fig. 5-8 & 9. Panel representing the poet Camões (1980s); Text “Camões”, in the fourth year textbook (1960s)...... 94 Fig. 5-10 & 11. Virgin Mary (1990s); The Virgin (image and prayer), in the first year textbook (1950s)...... 96 Fig. 5-12 & 13. Saint Joana of Aveiro (1990s); Death and miracle of Saint Joana of Aveiro, in the third year textbook (1950s)...... 96 Fig. 5-14 & 15. “Different in colour, but we share the same country” (early 1970s); “Two Portuguese”, fourth year textbook (1960s)...... 97 Fig. 5-16 & 17. Panel celebrating a local ship-builder (2001); Peasant worker on a white horse, 1955 (source: Portuguese Centre of Photography)...... 99 Fig. 5-18 & 19. “The varina from Murtosa” (1980s); “The queen of varinas” (1960s)...... 101 Fig. 5-20 & 21. Fisherman and varina with caption “Have you sold anything, Rosa?” (1950s); Image of couple and satirical caption with sexual allusion (early 1970s)...... 101 Fig. 5-22 & 23. “We’re feeding our sorrows” (early 1980s); “No barrel can resist me” (1970s)...... 102 Fig. 5-24 & 25. “May God be your guide, fishermen” (2002); “Old times in Newfoundland” (1999)...... 103 Fig. 5-26 & 27. Comic erotic panels (2003-4)...... 106 Fig. 5-28 & 29. “Which one has sinned the most?” (1998) ; Satirical representation of former Prime-Minister António Guterres (circa 2000) ...... 107
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption ix
Fig. 5-30 & 31. “I’m the boss of Porto!”. Satirical allusion to the feud between the mayor and the president of Porto’s football team (2006); “Hooray for our team!”. The football star Figo wearing the colours of the national squad and Portuguese flag (2004)...... 109 Fig. 5-32 & 33. “We want Ecu!!!”. Pun with the first designation of the single European currency (early 1990s); “The smell of real life”. Satirical representation of the reality show Big Brother, with a contestant in the WC, observed by a grotesque portrait of the show hostess (2002)...... 109 Fig. 5-34 & 35. Humorous allusion to the Brazilian nudist community of Colina do Sol (circa 2000); Humorous allusion to the illegal bullfights of Barrancos, with world-upside-down images (circa 2003)...... 110 Fig. 6-1. A small thakur bari in a residential house (Fernando Sousa, Kolkata, 2010)...... 114 Fig. 6-2. Durga on her lion mount defeating the demon Mahisashura. Both deities and humans are displayed at their best to gaze at each other (Fernando Sousa, Kolkata, 2010)...... 121 Fig. 6-3. Durga Puja pantheon. From left to right: son Ganesha, daughter Lakshmi, mother Durga (overcoming Mahishasura), daughter Saraswati, and son Kartik (Fernando Sousa, Kolkata, 2010)...... 122 Fig. 6-4. Kali stepping upon her spouse Shiva (Fernando Sousa, Kolkata, 2008)...... 126 Fig. 8-1. “Csystophone”, the Indian talkie Set juxtaposed with the advertisement of a film...... 153 Fig. 8-2. Advertisement showing soaps, syrups, sweets, innerwear, homeopathy and contraceptive devices...... 156 Fig. 8-3. “The face of Garbo”, in a magazine published in Calcutta...... 158 Fig. 8-4. The slum-girl transformed into Bhadramohila...... 160 Fig. 8-5. Kananbala in Mukti (P.C. Barua, 1937), the iconic image of Bhadramohila)...... 162 Fig. 9-1 & 2. Orgosolo, Corso Repubblica. Painted by Francesco del Casino in 1976; San Sperate, Via Arabei. Painted by Pinuccio Sciola in 1997...... 170 Fig. 9-3 & 4. Orgoloso, Via Primo Maggio; Orgosolo, Via D’Azeglio...... 174 Fig. 9-5 & 6. Orgosolo, Via Primo Maggio; Orgosolo, Via Alagon...... 175 Fig. 9-7 & 8. Postcards and gadgets in a shop in Orgosolo...... 178 Fig. 9-9. Tourist in Orgosolo, summer 2007...... 179 Fig. 9-10 & 11. Copies of two AOC forms...... 181 Fig. 10-1 & 2. Cité Tony Garnier (Lyon 8ème)íUrban Museum. ©Alain Chenevez, janvier 2013...... 205 Fig. 10-3 & 4. Cité Tony Garnier (Lyon 8ème)íUrban Museum. ©Alain Chenevez, janvier 2013...... 205 Fig. 11-1 & 2. Bairro Alto, Dirty Cop and Ram, © GAU; Panels, Calçada da Glória, © Friday’s Project...... 216 Fig. 11-3 & 4. Post-recycled glass repository, Miguel Ayako, ©GAU; Technical cabinet, UAT, © GAU...... 218 Fig. 11-5. Project Crono, Os Gémeos, Blu, Sam3, Av. Fontes Pereira de Melo, © Leonor Viegas...... 219
x List of Illustrations
Fig. 12-1. Popular_ID prototype: interactive visual database. Available at: www.disturbnot.com/lab/popular_id/...... 230 Fig. 12-2...... 232 Fig. 12-3...... 234 Fig. 12-4...... 235 Fig. 12-5...... 236 Fig. 12-6...... 237 Fig. 12-7 & 8. Matching different graphics; Repeating a single graphic...... 238 Fig. 12-9...... 241
INTRODUCTION
THEORIES AND METHODOLOGIES ON POPULAR AND VISUAL CULTURE
CLARA SARMENTO AND RICARDO CAMPOS
Popular & Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption is a transnational project by authors from Portugal, the United States of America, United Kingdom, France, India and Italy, a project that fosters a multicultural dialogue with multiple origins, both in geographical and academic terms, and covers an unexpected collection of areas, often ignored by mainstream academia. From the onset, this book questions the concepts of visual and popular culture, terms which are currently applied both to describe scientific fields, as operative concepts in theoretical discourse, and to characterize specific civilizational conditions. In the pages of Popular & Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption, authors are guided by the principles of Umberto Eco, for whom all cultural processes are communication processes, crossed by a multitude of subcodes, decodable through extra- and inter-semiotic conditions and occasions (1976; 1978). Behind facts and objects seemingly unintentional, that common sense tends to consider insignificant, there is a socially determined production of meaning, although often with no identifiable author. In the rituals of everyday judgment, there are many symptoms of Pierre Bourdieu’s ‘cultural arbitrary’, which run the effects of production and reception of meaning that contribute to the images constructed by participants in the social dialogue. When it comes to images, Eco states, we are in the presence of macroscopic blocks of texts analyzable through a set of conventional relations between the relevant units of a graphic system. Iconic signs are actually texts, as evidenced by the fact that their verbal equivalent is not a simple word but a description, an entire speech, or even a book, like this one. The process through which objects acquire their meaning is related to values and socio-cultural constraints that transform them into vehicles of assertion of an identity, or of representation of a space, a context, an experience, with their inherent
xii Introduction aesthetic phenomena and morpho-symbolic characteristics. As any culture can be considered a set of symbolic systems, in this book we explore the status, designation, characteristics, and history of visual and popular art forms from around the world, from Portugal to India, from England to France, from Sardinia to the United States. For many, visual culture is taken to be a relatively recent area of study derived from a range of disciplinary contributions and academic curricula. Therefore, rather than a well-established discipline, it has become a broad area of research with a tendency for trans-disciplinarity. As such, it encompasses scholars from diverse scientific, artistic and humanistic fields, who seek to understand image, vision and visuality as socially and historically determined human constructions (Walker and Chaplin, 1997). The notion of visual culture also refers to a specific terrain of human cultural production, namely to the universe of visual languages and objects, like graffiti, photography, cinema, advertising, boat-decoration or mural painting. Within this framework, a given community or population’s visual culture is understood as a system of pictorial and graphic creation, of visual grammars and their forms of communication. It also includes the social, cultural and symbolic relations established under the construction and sharing of visual goods. Likewise, visual culture is recurrently used as an epithet to describe our contemporary condition, viewed by many as being deeply immersed in the world of images. The central role of audiovisual technologies and media are a possible explanation for this state of affairs, along with the growing stylization and aestheticization of everyday life. All these elements find in images and visual communication the ideal means to construct narratives and confer symbolic meanings to the world. Visual figurations of popular culture should be studied as the support of a deeply motivated symbolic discourse on the values shared by a community. Its reflective and symbolic dimension is based on the syntagmatic organization of visual motifs and on their paradigmatic relation with the underlying value system. According to Erwin Panofsky, within a culture, visual motifs and their composition become carriers of a secondary, conventional meaning, conveying both abstract and concrete, personal and collective messages (1997 [1939]). Therefore, the pragmatic dimension of the object is closely related to its significant inclusion in the sensitivity of a shared culture. In Popular & Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption, artistic practices of popular culture are seen as paradigmatic acts, as archetypes that enable the analysis of an entire cultural territory. They are related to their status within the community’s performative context and patterns of inter-individual communication. The
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption xiii ultimate goal of a background study on visual and popular culture—like this one—will always be the construction of a text based upon the multiple texts that sustain life in society.
Towards a Definition of Visual Culture
But, after all, what is visual culture? It is far from being an irrelevant question, insofar as we do not seem to find a consensus regarding the term’s meaning or content. The term is applied equally to describe an academic theme or discipline, as an operational concept in theoretical discourse, or to characterize a certain cultural context. This vagueness actually leads to some confusion, given that various uses are juxtaposed. Walker and Chaplin define visual culture as a set of “[…] material artefacts, buildings and images, plus time-based media and performances, produced by human labour and imagination, which serve aesthetic, symbolic, ritualistic or ideological-political ends, and/or practical functions, and which address the sense of sight to a significant extent” (1994: 1-2). It is thus often argued that we live in an ocularcentric era, where vision holds a privileged status over other sensory organs1. Classen (1997), Jenks (1995) or Synnot (1992), all defend that vision is currently the most powerful sensory organ, and the one symbolically most celebrated in recent history, given the complex technological apparatus which has been developed to assure the expansion of the regime of the visible. Likewise, it is a fact that, especially since the 19th century, different technological inventions have greatly enhanced our ability to visualize the world and communicate through images (Macphee, 2002)2. Mirzoeff speaks even of a visualization of existence, claiming that “Modern life takes place onscreen […] Human experience is now more visual and visualized than ever before from the satellite picture to medical images of the interior of the human body […] In this swirl of imagery, seeing is much more than believing. It is not just a part of everyday life, it is everyday life” (1999: 1). We are, therefore, more inclined to use the term visualist when referring to a cultural model that is strongly inoculated by images and the visual dimension. We would now like to review the distinctions made so far, in order to clarify concepts and make our following arguments easier to grasp. Thus, we may consider: Visual Studies (or the academic subject ‘Visual Culture’) construed as a field of study; visual culture as subject matter or a theme that can be explored; visualist culture as qualitative. We will be particularly interested here in the second meaning, visual culture, as it refers to something which is built and shared by a group of people—a
xiv Introduction given society, community or sector—to constitute a specific sphere of culture. We consider that such a theme includes both the ways of seeing and visually representing the world around, and the ways in which this is historically and culturally shaped. Consequently, visual culture does not limit itself to the processes involved in the production of visual communication devices, as it also considers the specific ways in which relations established within the realm of the visual occur. Therefore, this subject matter is derived from the intersection of the spheres of visibility and visuality. Visibility may be understood simply as that which emerges within the domain of the visible, and as such, is perceived by the eye. Visuality has a broader and more complex scope. It refers to how the gaze (as instrument of perception) and the visible (or perceivable) are historically and socially constructed. Thus, it emphasizes the structural and circumstantial conditions that determine diverse forms of observing and representing reality visually. Visuality is present in ideology, economy, religion, in the individual and collective conscience. It gives shape to ideas, thoughts, desires and needs, and in turn is nurtured by them. When we speak of visual culture, we are referring to a system made up from a combination of universes and sub-universes, with their agents, objects and specific processes of production, dissemination, and reception of visual goods. It is not a static system, but one whose constant renewal results from the rate at which its agents and technological processes change, as well as from the acting powers that determine cooperative and conflicting relations. It is also a worldview, a particular way of perceiving and portraying reality that is not only connected to forms of seeing, but also to modes of representation which appeal to different languages, cognitive levels and sensory models3. We may even speak of a dominant visual culture and admit, for instance, the existence of diverse visual micro- or sub-cultures that correspond to different social groups, aesthetic and ideological proposals, or interests and intentions, which present alternative, though not necessarily antagonistic, ways of seeing and representing the world. To make these distinctions more operative, one should consider three signaling spheres of visual culture (Campos, 2013). Firstly, as a visual repository associated to specific collective contexts, where certain visual languages and signs are constructed and circulated. Secondly, as a mode of visually learning and deciphering reality, considering the cultural and psycho-social nature of perception and cognition. Thirdly, as a system consisting of a technological, political, symbolic and economic apparatus, framed by a broader socio-cultural and historical horizon in which it operates, including the number of social agents with different interests and
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption xv degrees of power, acting within the field of visuality and visibility. These are spheres which obviously cross and overlap each other. However, in terms of operativeness, they can be considered as coherent fields in which to develop serious, stimulating research on visual culture.
The Many Shades of Popular Culture
The debate around popular culture, mass culture and folklore pervaded the whole 20th century. In the 1950’s, Dwight MacDonald stated peremptorily that “folk art grew from below. It was a spontaneous, autochthonous expression of the people, shaped by themselves, whereas Mass Culture is imposed from above. It is fabricated by technicians hired by businessmen; its audience are passive consumers” (MacDonald, 1957). Theories such as MacDonald’s, based upon rigid hierarchies and subjective evaluations of the intellectual elite, are not operative any longer. Obviously, members of the same culture share sets of concepts, images and ideas which enable them to think and feel about the world, and thus to interpret the world, in roughly—and we must emphasize roughly—similar ways, as they share, broadly speaking, the same ‘cultural codes’ (Hall, 1997). This means that culture depends on the approximate but not necessarily identical way its participants interpret the world and events around. Regardless of the importance of communication and of sharing common meanings, in every culture there is always a great diversity in the way social actors interpret or represent any topic. Popular culture is no exception. In the course of the 20th century, Portuguese popular culture and traditions, either genuine, ideologically directed or even invented, were imposed and manipulated by the ruling (political and ideological) powers, in order to instil values and norms of behaviour through repetition, example and instruction, as a means of facing the threat of a world in evolution. These practices exploited an artificial, albeit very effective, ideological basis, by selecting a convenient historical past or ethnographic present. Traditional popular culture, in its ideal ‘folkloric’ form, was a perfect medium for reorganizing Portuguese society. The idea of a ‘pure popular culture’ that portrayed everyday life from the naive, non-critical viewpoint of 19th century ethnographers, matched the regime’s ideal of a nation rich in folklore and picturesque customs; a self-celebrating popular culture, created by ‘good people’, mostly deeply religious peasants or fishermen who led austere, humble lives. Actually, the exaltation of handicraft, traditional costume, archaic subsistence agriculture, and
xvi Introduction rudimentary means of transport reflected the endemic poverty that characterized the majority of the country, until late in the 1970’s. Therefore, it is worth undertaking an overview of the forms of cultural organization that kept the ideological world moving within certain countries, like Portugal, as it is worth examining how those forms functioned in reality. Texts and practices of popular culture often move within that which Gramsci calls a balance of compromise between power and consent, that is to say, within hegemony. Hegemonic relations occur within all the groups that constitute society. They also occur within the complex of practices and theoretical activities which the dominant classes use not only to justify and keep their power, but also to gain the consent of and exercise hegemony over subaltern classes (Gramsci, 1934). Nowadays, the notion of popular culture must always take into account two possible meanings. Firstly, popular culture as folklore, as a regional and traditional cultural expression, whose manifestations are produced by the community and for the community, without primordial profit, related to the subsistence economy in the rural and maritime world, and to the primary sectors of economy. And secondly, popular culture as mass culture, a global culture whose manifestations are produced by corporations and industries, with the use of technologies and the sole purpose of making a profit, regardless of the participation of the community or the individual (consumer) that is targeted. Mass culture is linked to consumption, leisure, the superfluous, and to the secondary and tertiary sectors of economy. Popular culture is indeed the subject of various interpretations and controversies, having lost much of the sociological and cultural categorizations that served to define a background of cultural productions in opposition to elite and erudite cultures. This opposition has dwindled, due to the wide circulation of cultural objects and behaviours through different social areas and their appropriation by different groups and social media. In the present, political and ideological hegemonies have been surpassed by the economic hegemony of global capitalism, which also exercises its power over popular culture, both as folklore and mass culture. Indeed, even regional and traditional popular culture and its productions have become increasingly attentive to the market and the rules of demand and competitiveness, and this applies to both utilitarian and non-utilitarian productions. This process of refunctionalisation is controlled remotely by the demands of a heterogeneous mass that, in general, seeks products that are vaguely symbolic of an idealized past. Without advocating here the quest for the fundamental elements of national cultures in the ‘soul’ of objects designed by the people, traditional handmade products are in fact
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption xvii likely to become objects of consumption, often no longer expressing a community’s cultural identity. The anonymity of the market and the need to ‘make a living’ can shape and transform craftsmen/women as they shape and transform their own creations. We will now focus specifically on the ‘regional and traditional’ approach to popular culture, and discuss its theoretical implications. The concept of ‘traditional’ is often associated with the concept of ‘authentic’, which is not always correct, because the maintenance of authenticity is a phenomenon directly linked to continuity and change, as it happens with any cultural process. However, the demand for genuine objects may result in a staged authenticity where cultural objects are produced industrially but accepted as authentic, or at least as fairly similar to their pre- massification status. Though re/invented, such traditions are a clear attempt to create a link of continuity with the past and the identity of a community (Hobsbawn, 1983). But cases of staged authenticity can occasionally lead to the revival of cultural traditions, the renewal of local identities, and even to the invention of new traditions and identities. Popular iconic and written productions are the outcome of a network of political, economic, ideological and social circumstances, far too often hardly detectable and taken for granted to be critically recognized, even by those who draw, paint or write (and live) under their influence. However, the starting point for any critical elaboration must be the consciousness of what one really is, as a product of all those historical processes which have deposited a multitude of individual traces, without leaving an inventory (Gramsci, 1934). Therefore, Gramci’s invisible inventory may well function as a source of inspiration for popular artists and allow the categorization of their productions, with a set of tacit predefined rules. Nowadays, there are new issues that are added every day to products of popular culture, as a result of the volatile power of the media, although popular artists (who function as spokespersons for the community) have the power to choose what subjects should be ignored and what issues should be portrayed and thus perpetuated. In his introduction to Marcel Mauss’s Essai sur le Don, Lévi-Strauss argues that any culture can be considered as a set of symbolic systems that express aspects of the physical and social reality and, even more, the relationship that these two types of reality have with each other, and that symbolic systems themselves maintain among themselves (1989). Originating from the social, capturing public and private, local and regional episodes, the iconic-verbal—and therefore symbolic—systems of popular art also create new semiotic universes, when they are narrated orally by their authors, agents, public and researchers. The originality of
xviii Introduction popular artists lies not in their careful reproduction of the world, but in a personal, inventive and sometimes unusual mode of seeing objects, through images and discourses equivalent and parallel to reality, that describe a specific socio-cultural universe in a comprehensive and expressive way. In this book the analysis and categorization of popular culture emphasizes an epistemological paradigm close to Michel Foucault’s archaeology of knowledge and to his pursuit of discoursive formations and practices or epistemes, which mark different historical eras and shape social orders (1999 [1969]). This book also shares certain characteristics of an inventory and typological organization. An inventory, still according to Antonio Gramsci, has a prospective dimension, because it is never built during the production of the object or event. Indeed, in popular culture, those are not produced according to a pre-existing categorization. Our inventories are admittedly an attempt to create cultural categories, according to what is reflected by the social dimension of textual and iconographic discourse. In his Mythologies, Roland Barthes also seeks the subliminal discourse, the ideological substrate that hides in texts not of a single author but of history, a concept close to the historical imagination, to the hidden inventory of Gramsci (1997 [1957]). Gramsci argues that we are the product of a historical process that leaves no inventory, just a plethora of traces. Barthes would agree, but maintaining that the inventory can be found in the way we read texts, contexts and metatexts around us, which reproduce a tradition and assume an audience. Even when ignoring the authors of such texts, as in so many manifestations of popular culture, it is possible to recognize their intentions and designs to create certain effects that reflect and dictate how (and what) members of a cultural context (should) think. Aware of this need for contextualization, Bakhtin and Medvedev argue that it is necessary to isolate the object of study and establish its borders, but so that these are not disconnected from the objects essential for its intelligibility (1991). In any study, the establishment of boundaries must be dialectical and flexible and cannot be based on data external to the object itself. Visual texts of popular culture are also signs with principles of organization and processes of particular significance that require a contextual interpretation, whether they are figurative icons or symbols based on conventional relations. Images are heterogeneous by nature and may coordinate within their limits categories such as: ‘images’, in the theoretical sense of the term (iconic, analogical signs), plastic signs (colors, shapes, composition, texture), and even linguistic signs. Their interrelation produces the meaning that one learns to decipher, but the
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption xix interplay with the context can be a way to disappoint the expectations of the reader, by surprising, shocking or amusing him/her. The composition or internal geography of the visual message is a fundamental plastic instrument, because it directs the hierarchy of sight and the reading of the image. Visual representations stage characters, objects, places and manners, and part of the interpretation of the message is determined by culturally encoded attitudes. Even the interpretation of shapes, colors and light is cultural despite seeming natural. The positioning of characters can be interpreted in relation to social customs or to the viewer him/herself. This interpretation depends on the viewer’s cultural awareness and may thus vary, distinguishing itself from the pure and simple recognition of themes and motifs, thus understanding better the message that is constructed beyond the image, and not only with the image. There is here a clear function of complementarity—the function of relais of Roland Barthes—between images and words, because the object is always polysemic, susceptible to various readings, that differ not only from reader to reader, but also inside the mind of a same reader over time. It is thus possible to speak of productive reception, which implies an entire work of symbolic interpretation. Interpretation, symbolic activity and creativity are all part of the process of cultural consumption. Therefore, it is possible to adapt to texts of visual and popular culture Michel Vovelle’s thoughts on the literary text: “Certes, à mesure que l’on s’avance dans le temps il devient de plus en plus difficile de distinguer cette lecture élémentaire, qui fait du texte littéraire le simple reflet de la pratique sociale du temps, à charge pour nous d’en décrypter les significations latentes, d’un discours beaucoup plus complexe, car chargé d’arrière-pensées multiples” (1985 : 44). The personality of the artist—either an instituted/conservative or an instituting/innovative character—has the power to interpret, recreate and interrogate social-cultural structures, with a remarkable effect over the understanding, criticism or reproduction of global relations, in a metacultural phenomenon. Systems of representation are the symbols by which individuals and groups interpret themselves and their environment and through which they transmit their knowledge and know-how. The key elements of any cultural territory—including individual people, community, environment, technology, perception of time, and cosmological vision—interact in a constant and universal dynamics, to give life and continuity to culture in all its formal systems and symbolic practices. Artistic practices of popular culture can be seen as paradigmatic acts, archetypes that propitiate the analysis of a whole cultural territory. Their study should relate the nature and status of the object with the
xx Introduction performative and communicational context within the community. Therefore, the ultimate goal of this book is to build new descriptive meta- languages on popular and visual culture, and write cohesive texts from the multiple texts that surround us, because we ‘read’ as texts those objects that are anchored in a complex notion of culture. More than testimonies of ‘resistance’ or of the eternal antithesis between ‘tradition’ and ‘modernity’, objects of popular culture are regarded here as representatives of the identity, values, practices, mental structures, and cultural heritage of a local community. But nowadays, objects of popular culture are also part of a profitable organized network, where they have lost most of their previous social and economic functions, and are reinvented as cultural symbols of new territories, dominated by tourism and global economy, often situated in urban spaces, very distant from their traditional places of origin. Such symbols may contribute to distinguish a certain region in the national and international map. However, here we find a metamorphosis instead of a resurrection of the cultural object, with new functions within new contexts, clearly guided by the rules of capitalism and the tertiary sector. Therefore, present day social scientists, as well as agents of global market economy, cannot dissociate themselves from the above mentioned historical imaginary, or inventory, which has contextualized and supported popular art forms for centuries. Otherwise, they may end up imprisoning such objects in one of the ethnographic theaters and museums of lost practices into which so many cultures have been transformed.
This Book…
The several contributions gathered in Popular & Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption deal, in a way or another, with how popular and visual artefacts and sceneries are socially built, preserved and/or contested. Our main concern as editors was to bring together, not only different disciplinary perspectives, but also diverse empirical phenomena, while approaching the wide subject of visuality and popular culture. The first section of this book is dedicated to empirical research and theoretical reflections on “Popular and Visual Culture in Urban Contexts”. Undeniably, cities are cultural territories crisscrossed by a profusion of groups and people with different cultural affiliations; they are places of exchange, negotiation and inventiveness, giving rise to multiple forms of communication and symbolic expression relying heavily on visuality. The section opens with a chapter by Ricardo Campos, entitled “Towards a dualistic approach of the urban visual culture: between the
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption xxi sacred and the profane”, which discusses the notion of visual culture in the context of urban studies. The concept of visual culture, originally developed within the framework of art history, is still scarcely operationalized in social sciences, a fact possibly explained by its complex and transdisciplinary focus. This concept focus on subjects that, in one way or another, revolve around vision and visuality, and deal particularly with the social production, communication and consumption of visual and material artifacts. If the contemporary city is as communicational ecosystem strongly influenced by visual stimuli and languages (graffiti, street-art, street signs, advertising, political propaganda), as Campos argues, then it makes sense to debate the pertinence of the concept of visual culture in the urban landscape. This is precisely the intent of Campos’s contribution, focusing specifically on the subject of graffiti and street art in the city of Lisbon, Portugal. The work carried-out by Patria Román-Velázquez with the Latin- American immigrants living in London is a fascinating depiction of how the visual landscape is collectively appropriated and transformed, acquiring specific cultural traits. “Elephant & Castle”, a deprived area in the centre of London that is currently undergoing an ambitious program of urban redevelopment, is the home of many Latin-American businesses set up in the beginning of the 1990s. Over twenty years, Latin Americans have transformed the area and, in the process, contributed to a distinctive ‘Latin Quarter’ atmosphere, as acknowledge in local policy documents. According to the author, this urban regeneration has been received with skepticism by Latin American local retailers who fear for their future presence in the area. By analyzing this particular urban case, “Latin Americans in London: Claims over the identity of place as destination” engages with debates about the movement of people across different geographical locations and their contribution to the changing character of places. Furthermore, it explores how diasporic communities negotiate and claim their territory in the global city. This is done by relying on visual records and documentary evidence based on ethnographic research conducted at various times throughout the last twenty years. The timing of the research is important because it captures a moment of transition and raises questions about the sustainability of the largest and oldest Latin areas in London. Revisiting the area under the current context of regeneration allowed the author to examine another significant moment for Latin American shops, one that will define whether this distinctive Latin neighbourhood will survive or not. James Dickinson’s chapter focus on one of the most striking features of contemporary cityscapes: graffiti. However, far from being focused
xxii Introduction exclusively on contemporary graffiti, Dickinson proposes a wide geo- historical exploration of the phenomenon, demonstrating the long-lasting importance of this form of vernacular communication. “The Writings on the Wall: An ABC of historical and contemporary graffiti” begins by outlining a history of graffiti, noting its origins with the democratization of writing in the ancient Greek polis, extensive presence in Roman cities such as Pompeii and Herculaneum, and revival in 19th century Europe. Taking into account the diversity of contemporary graphic and pictorial expressions popularly defined as graffiti, Dickinson proposes a systematic analysis, identifying and comparing three main types of urban graffiti: popular, political, and community-based. The author goes on to compare and contrast gang and hip hop graffiti as important genres of contemporary community-based graffiti. Noting their shared origin in conditions of extreme economic and cultural deprivation, the author describes the different sociological characteristics and aesthetic practices of gang wall writers and hip hop graffiti taggers and crews. These differences help explain the global popularity as well as visibility of the hip hop style. Finally, using Philadelphia as a model, the author addresses the responses to the explosion of urban graffiti—ranging from criminalization to domestication through urban redevelopment schemes—which promote mural art as a tool of neighborhood rebuilding, thus remaking cities as landscapes of visual consumption. Ana Gonçalves’s chapter, “Cardiff, A Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity”, deals with the renovation of Cardiff’s cityscape. The capital city of Wales was dubbed as the world’s most prominent ‘coaltropolis’ in the late nineteenth century. Cardiff was an attractive site for immigrants from different parts of the world, contributing to the multiethnic nature of some districts like Butetown, also known as Tiger Bay, usually under a sensational and pejorative tone. By 1950 this district, which extended for no more than a mile, was believed to be the home to a particularly multiethnic community which shared the everyday life practices of the docklands’ working-class, housing around 6,000 people from more than 57 different nationalities. However, as the demand for the ‘black gold’ progressively dwindled throughout the twentieth century, Cardiff endured an acute process of deindustrialisation in tandem with high levels of unemployment, an exasperating condition that eventually led to the revitalisation of the whole waterfront area, both in urban and economic terms, and to the splintering of the community, whose members were rehoused in other parts of the city or in the city’s suburbs. Cardiff has, nevertheless, continued to host different waves of immigrants throughout the second half of the twentieth and early twenty-first centuries
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption xxiii who, persuaded by manifold reasons, have elected the Welsh capital as their new place of residence. Taking some amateur and professional photographic projects as points of departure, this chapter examines the multiethnicity that underpins present Cardiff and question how the individual and collective memories and identities of these immigrants are (trans)formed and articulated with their sense of belonging to the Welsh capital, and how they concur to mould the city’s cultural identity, especially one that has, in recent years, been shaping under the umbrella of a mainstream re-imag(in)ing rationale, epitomised in the buzzword triad of civic boosterism, cultural regeneration and consumption upheaval. The second section of the book concentrates on the contemporary reality of “Reinventing and Representing Popular and Visual Culture”. The first contribution comes from Clara Sarmento, with the chapter “New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture”, which analyses how individuals, community, environment, traditional techniques and cosmological vision interact, in order to give life and continuity to culture, in its formal systems and symbolic practices. Specifically, Sarmento studies the painted wooden panels of the Portuguese moliceiro boat, which belong to a cultural area that has filtered and adapted in a very peculiar way the various influences received over time. Far from the fatalism of neighbouring fishing communities, the rural lakeside of Ria de Aveiro developed an enlightened and humorous critical vision, in a lasting dialogue between tradition and modernity. However, during the dictatorial regime of Estado Novo, Portuguese popular culture was supervised and manipulated by hegemonic political powers in order to create an ideal identity that would match the official paradigm of the ‘good mild people’. The moliceiro boat, with its colourful images and expressive sentences of popular inspiration, also echoed national mythologies and suffered the influence of institutional channels of instruction and propaganda. Likewise, the chapter discusses how the moliceiro boat and the discourse it has motivated (re)create and represent Portuguese popular culture, its values and social conditions, how they echoe conflicts of acceptance and resistance, and express the inventory of a community’s identity, imaginary and practices. Sandra Marques, an anthropologist who has developed a long-term ethnographic research in West Bengal (India), is the author of the chapter “Goddesses and women: divine images in Bengali urban culture”, about the social significance of the sculpted and pictorial images of deities, expressions of popular art that are an important part of Indian urban visual culture. These deities are incorporated within the existing social organization and submitted to regular rituals of worship and care, demanding sensualized
xxiv Introduction and humanized relationships. In her essay, Marques focuses particularly on the relationship established between human subjects and the images of female Hindu deities that are popular in Kolkata. Ascribed attributes of appearance and personality, expected desires and behavior, as well as the ritualized care to which these images are submitted, are explored as tools that reproduce normative references for Bengali women’s identity and appearance. The interaction between the urban environment and street artists who look at the city as a giant canvas increasingly captivates imagination. The primary appeal of the street survives, even if urban art has been introduced in the platforms of contemporary visual culture. This fascination is explained by the anonymity of the street artist, at a time when everything seems to be accessible, when everything is exposed by the media, and freedoms are lost in the name of public security. The work of street artists in general is crossed by conflicts, tensions and cultural borders. Nowadays, cities integrate endless tendencies, from the most basic to the most demanding in terms of artistic sophistication. If, on the one hand, the more erratic graffiti maintains an unquestionable presence, on the other, a growing number of artists with roots in the urban space is moving into galleries. The cases of Basquiat, Haring and Banksy are paradigmatic. They have conquered galleries and museums, with some critical voices questioning their integrity, because they seem to criticize capitalism, while being part of the speculative system of commercial art. But it is not only the space where art should figure that is questioned. Mechanisms of legitimation—who dictates what should or should not be accepted and displayed—and the market itself are also at stake. The action of street artists questions the art market, the economic value of visual art forms in relation to its aesthetic or historical value, based on the point that, from the outset, what is illegal and ephemeral in the public space should be a pure act, indifferent to capitalization. The public space has been increasingly privatized, with cities full of visual signs over which there is little control and whose only criteria seem to be economic: those who have the money to pay can put whatever they want on the city walls. The issue of private property is delicate because it underpins one of the structures of contemporary society, where ‘to be’ is mistaken for ‘to have’. This is precisely the focus of Vanessa Besand’s chapter “The Heritage of Urban Visual Culture in American Painting of the 1980’s: Graffiti and museum art”. In the 1980’s, in the United States, a connection was created between street art and museum art. Through galleries in Soho, graffiti artists from the streets of New York had their works exhibited in unexpected places. While many judged this passage from the street to the
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption xxv museum, and from the subway train to the canvas, as inadequate and devitalizing for graffiti, some artists born in the streets managed nevertheless to stand out and become painters in their own right. Without denying their roots in graffiti, Jean-Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring, to mention only the most famous, gave painting a new direction, by playing beautifully, in a postmodern way, with the mixture of styles and influences. Besand’s chapter studies this specific visual practice (its aesthetic manifestations, artistic heritage from culture both scholarly and popular, its social and ideological issues), by focusing on how popular culture and scholarly culture, street culture and museum culture, have managed to merge. But beyond the appropriation of a form of street art by artists rapidly recognized by scholarly culture and nowadays enshrined in the pantheon of 20th century American painting, the chapter also examines how social, cultural and political conditions in the United States have hindered the recognition of pure graffiti artists in the art market, and instead allowed the recognition by the general public, as well as by aesthetes and art specialists, of Basquiat and Haring. Madhuja Mukherjee’s work focuses on the co-relation between cinema and (literary) high culture between the 1930s and 1940s. “Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’: Re-viewing Bengali high-culture (1930-1940) from a low angle” studies the liaison of cinema with literature, along with its specific function in the process of institutionalization of the so-called Bhadralok ideology, in the linguistically, politically and economically marginalized areas of Bengal, India. Bhadralok is best understood as the ‘English educated urbanized gentlemen’, whose class, caste and communal identities were often displaced on to the realm of education and culture. Technologies and aesthetics may be studied through a wide spectrum of effects, ranging from what Lev Manovich describes as special-effect interactive cinemas, to the ways in which Samira Makhmalbaf argues for digital revolution and the possibility of a plethora of self-images being produced by ‘other’ nations. While questions of politics, language and industry are crucial for this chapter, it also examines the ‘otherness’ of film and video aesthetics, which confronts Bhadralok cinemas and its industrial networks. Francesca Cozzolino’s “Observing the Artification Process: The case of Murales in Sardinia” proposes to incorporate the evolution of a phenomenon of contemporary mural painting created in Sardegna and of its recent ‘reevaluation’ and ‘reclassification’ in artistic terms. The first murals were created at the end of the 1960s in the town of San Sperate. In the following decade, the practice of mural painting underwent an important development in the town of Orgosolo, that at present has about
xxvi Introduction
300 murals. The majority of the murals reflect current political events, attracting numerous groups of national and international tourists. The evolution and diffusion of murals throughout the island and the debates that have arisen from their varied uses have provoked intellectual interest, bringing with it a sense of legitimization within the art world. The chapter presented here is the result of a study conducted between 2005 and 2009, and relies on the concept of artification in order to understand how murals reached their most advanced stage in the town of Orgosolo, where they were not initially deemed artistic works. Cozzolino also discusses the dynamics of cultural heritage applied to the recognition of murals as ‘cultural assets’, which demonstrates the advantages and limitations of the concept of artification. The final section of the book, “In the Field: Projects on Popular and Visual Culture”, is primarily focused on recent or ongoing non-academic projects, carried-out by public entities or associations, which by some means address the topic of visual and popular culture. All the projects described herein show how images, sceneries and visual artifacts may be strategically appropriated and reinvented by particular social actors, sustaining specific symbolic or ideological programs. In “Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces”, Alain Chenevez studies the case of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier, in Lyon, France. For long closely related to historical monuments, heritage serves to reconstruct a-posteriori the history of state nations, legitimized in a mythical and monumental dimension, thus reinforcing the myth of the great works of mankind that should be kept for posterity. Nowadays, there is an increasing demand for heritage, by social groups who have seized and used the concept according to their own political and economic interests. This phenomenon has caused a material and semantic change in heritage, and also much criticism and discussion by art historians. Relying on contemporary examples, the chapter highlights the dynamics and multiple movements that are expressed in the world of heritage. Public or pragmatic, heritage is a political act, a rating system and a symbolic construction of values where the state, local authorities and social groups work and struggle to build and impose their definitions of the world, always in line with their particular interests. Heritage is a space of reward, of profit or sanction, a key issue of our societies, partially arbitrated by the state, which plays a key role in the hierarchy of groups and social territories. The chapter by Silvia Câmara has the particularity of addressing the specific case of a programme designed by public entities to promote urban art. “An Inventory Methodology in Urban Art: Concepts, Criteria and
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption xxvii
Norms” introduces the Galeria de Arte Urbana [Urban Art Gallery] (GAU) project in the city of Lisbon, and evaluates the entire process, from the point of view of public authorities and officials. This pioneer project, inaugurated in 2008, undertook the inventory of surviving and lost graffiti and street art in Lisbon, thus preserving the memory of a visual manifestation that is, in essence, ephemeral. Although it was based upon manuals of good practices for cataloguing canonic disciplines such as painting and sculpture, the registration of Lisbon’s graffiti and street art was more of an empirical procedure than a theoretical one. The works in question share characteristics typical of the conventional fine arts milieu, but their transitory and anonymous condition required the development of new procedures of cataloguing and inventorying, bearing in mind specific aesthetic, technical, temporal and spatial criteria. Cristina Novo’s project, described in “Popular ID: Portuguese visual identity in hypermedia remediation”, is an application that resulted from the original survey of graphic elements from different forms of Portuguese popular culture. According to Erwin Panofsky, in his Essays on Iconology, visual motifs of popular culture, once related to topics and concepts conveyed by literary sources or by oral tradition, become carriers of both secondary or conventional meanings and of abstract as well as collective notions. Likewise, visual motifs of popular culture are seen here as a creative practice instead of a static reality, to use the stereotype related to the universe of ethnography and the immutability of tradition. In order to preserve the artistic potential of popular culture, Popular ID produced a visual and interactive database, where traditional forms of artistic expression are adjusted to the communicational and aesthetic trends of the present. Popular ID is available both in the virtual space of the internet and in personal computers, with a strong educational component of awareness and promotion of Portuguese popular culture. Through digital experimentation and interactive play, users access graphic demonstrations that establish an interdisciplinary connection between the Humanities and Information Technologies, in pursuit of a common vocabulary. Popular ID offers a visual language with an historical dimension, so that the public in general may ‘consume’ selected aesthetic objects of Portuguese popular culture. At a time when identity is used as a political and economic asset, Popular ID comprises an independent aesthetic message that adds a new dimension to the recreational graphics of popular culture.
Popular & Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption is part of the research program of the Centre for Intercultural Studies (CEI) of the School of Accounting and Administration of the Polytechnic
xxviii Introduction
Institute of Porto (ISCAP/IPP). Detailed information regarding this research centre is available at: www.iscap.ipp.pt/cei. This book celebrates a new stage in the long-standing collaboration between the Centre for Intercultural Studies and the Laboratory of Visual Anthropology of the Centre for the Study of Migrations and Intercultural Relations (CEMRI) of the Portuguese Open University. The idea of writing this book was born during the International Conference “Urban Visual Culture and Expressions of Popular Art” and the Workshop “Theoretical and Methodological Approaches to Urban and Popular Visual Culture”, which took place at ISCAP/IPP, in November 2011, in a joint initiative of CEI and CEMRI. This book enjoyed the support of the Presidency of the School of Accounting and Administration and of the Presidency and Vice- Presidency of the Polytechnic Institute of Porto, and to them the editors are sincerely grateful. Throughout the intercultural transits that have generated this book, the authors counted with the brilliant collaboration of the students, then trainees, later junior editors & researchers and finally graduates in Translation from ISCAP/IPP, Rúben Rodrigues de Pinho and Nuno Duarte. The journey continues…
Clara Sarmento and Ricardo Campos Porto and Lisbon, May 2004
Notes
1 However, as Rose (2001) points out, the idea of the hegemony of vision is contested by authors who, amongst other examples, point out the importance that the image has assumed in some medieval and pre-modern models of spirituality. Likewise, Mitchell (2002) indicates a series of fallacies in the common discourse that are responsible for some exaggeration when it comes to establishing the hegemony of vision and the image in contemporary times. 2 The aspiration to the visual domination of the world is present in numberless tools, such as the telescope, the microscope, the chronophotography, x-rays, the photographic and filming camera, television, digital devices or the computer, all of which play an important role in our story. 3 Our experience of the world is always multi-sensorial. Despite being generally perceived as innate, natural, universal and transparent tools, we must bear in mind that they are culturally and historically shaped. Classen (1997) therefore speaks of different sensory models according to the varying relevance, hierarchies and uses attributed to the senses.
PART I.
URBAN CONTEXTS OF POPULAR AND VISUAL CULTURE
CHAPTER ONE
TOWARDS A DUALISTIC APPROACH TO URBAN VISUAL CULTURE: BETWEEN THE SACRED AND THE PROFANE
RICARDO CAMPOS
Introduction
The relationship between visuality and the city can be approached from many different perspectives, all of which are part of a debate that, in any case, is not exactly recent. The Urban environment has been recurrently interpreted as a distinctly visual space, as the site for the circulation, production and consumption of images. The city’s surface is ripe with information, and as several authors have noted, it requires a trained eye to decipher not just the function attributed to the space, but also the symbology there inscribed. At the beginning of the 20th century George Simmel, ([1903]1971), followed a few decades later by Louis Wirth ([1938] 1996), alludes to the fact that the city promotes visual recognition within a context characterized by anonymity and by distanced and heterogeneous social interaction. Similarly, Benjamin ([1935]1997) also addressed the urban ocular experience and the visually mediated relationships that occur in such environments. Thus, it is fair to say that the notion of contemporary ocularcentrism gains particular relevance when we are dealing with metropolitan habitats. City life seems to assemble a set of attributes that favor the existence of a specific visual culture. And what kind of visual culture is that? This is the question that I intend to raise in this paper. I argue that the visual culture we are faced with is marked by the material features of a complex and prolific territory. It is a landscape characterized by multifaceted visual media (graffiti, signs, posters, billboards, public art, etc.), by the constantly mutating construction, and by the endless stylistic rotation connected with phenomena of mass consumption and self-representation. It is thus a visual culture that goes beyond the strict urban materiality, also 4 Chapter One feeding on the symbolic distinctions that arise out of the various urban life styles, out of the ethnic, social and cultural diversity which emerges on the city’s visual surface. We must not forget that the city is a communication environment par excellence, a site of exhibition and visibility. Metropolitan areas are strategically used by the political power to gain visibility, but also to carry out surveillance; expertly used by economic power to advertise goods and services; strategically exploited by counter-powers to disseminate subversive slogans.
The city as discourse
In the introductory chapter, we have taken a broad look at different possible approaches to the notion of visual culture. I propose that we now move on to the main topic of this paper: urban visual culture. The first thing worth noting is the complexity of this subject. The city is the sum total of variegated historical and social layers. It is also the result of numberless spheres of social relations and construction of meanings that are in some cases contiguous and other times overlapping. Given that it is a product of human action, urban visual culture is inevitably the outcome of all these different workings. However, for reasons of operativeness and simplification, I admit that we may identify two major fields of study of urban visuality. The first one is connected with urban materiality, involving everything that has to do with the production of the territory, of the constructed site and material objects. The second is concerned with the production of individual and collective forms of visual representation and performance, including all the stylistic and aesthetic dimensions used to establish symbolic distinctions among individuals and groups. It is obviously a dubious division. These fields are naturally intersecting, in some instances being hard to determine which of these spheres we are dealing with. Nevertheless, for the time being we shall consider this as our starting point. So how does visual culture come about? Humankind has always been considered as a force acting upon matter, shaping its surrounding environment according to its needs and interests, leaving its signature on the world’s surface. The different inhabited territories inform us about how resident communities live, about the type of social relations they establish, how they use and transform the land, how they occupy space, etc. Studying any type of inhabited territory implies conceiving of a collective manifestation materializing itself on the world’s surface. That is why it is possible to interpret the city as a discourse, as the French Towards a Dualistic Approach to Urban Visual Culture 5 semiologist Roland Barthes so shrewdly observed in a text of 1967, opening the path for a semiological approach to the urban landscape:
The city is a discourse, and this discourse is actually a language: the city speaks to its inhabitants, we speak our city, the city where we are, simply by inhabiting it, by traversing it, by looking at it. (Barthes, 1988:195)
This, I believe, is the basic premise behind the recognition of an urban visual culture: interpreting the city as a cultural artifact, and at the same time, as a communicative entity, founded primarily on the realm of the visible. When we speak of urban visual culture we presuppose the prevalence of visuality in terms of how the city is built and represented by its inhabitants. Without minimizing the multisensory nature of the links that bind us with the environment, there are several reasons that lead us to single out urban visuality as a unique and powerful element. To begin with, because we live in urban landscapes filled with buildings and objects in constant mutation that demand redoubled attention to novelty. Such constant transformation of scenery is no doubt related to an increasing complexity of the urban semiological field. A digression around the contemporary city will confirm the explosion of visual communication circuits that are constantly attracting our attention, in huge advertising billboards, political posters, traffic signs, alluring shop windows or vibrant murals. The vertical urbanism (Tripodi, 2009) of a city increasingly crowded with screens and signboards turning goods into objects of desire and visual consumption. This constitutes the domain of urban materiality that we have alluded to. However, it is not the only dominion in which we find the relevance of visuality. Few will question that the significance socially attributed to formats of social distinction connected with stylistic and aesthetic choices are more deeply rooted within metropolitan contexts. The offer of material and symbolic goods is far greater, anonymity more manifest, cultural references and social relations more varied. In this context, the aestheticization of everyday life and the visual impulse are frequently associated with a space that has been conceived according to a capitalist logic of mass consumption. The roots of this contemporary condition date back to the major urban mutations of the nineteenth-century that fascinated authors such as Baudelaire, Benjamin or Simmel (Featherstone, 1991; Highmore, 2005). The plastic and artificial nature of urban landscape, the proliferation of images, the presence of distinct life-styles, the increasing relevance of cultural industries and mass consumption, the creation of dream-worlds linked to the consumption of goods and imaginaries, have all contributed to a highly aestheticized experience. Image and visuality 6 Chapter One have become crucial to the exchange of meaning in a context where the established distinctions between art and ordinary life, as well as high and popular culture, are destabilized. But the city is not merely a commoditized territory, appealing to the imagination, to desire, and to the gaze. It has forever been a space particularly linked with the production of erudite culture, of learning and knowledge. The city has been the place of literary, philosophical, artistic and scientific expression par excellence. And for that reason it is a territory that accommodates vast human and material resources, and is an object of investment and culturally oriented policies. Places specifically meant for visual and aesthetic fruition have gradually occupied a central position within the city. Theatre rooms, cinemas, museums and art galleries, amongst other activities related with the expansion of the culture and leisure industries, function as the nodules in a circuit of symbolic consumption through which images are disseminated and their use and enjoyment socially structured. Cities are also nodal points for the development of cultures in the anthropological sense. They represent a place for diversity, confrontation and negotiation between different communities and social classes. Alterity is therefore made more present and also more obvious. The public space is an arena where many kinds of people with different cultural and social references circulate. In this context, the task of deciphering significant signs in the midst of urban anonymity falls mainly of vision. It is in cities that we find higher rates of cultural creativity and heterodoxy as a result of this condition, since the heightened cultural heterogeneity and complexity always open the way for the emergence of unpredictable dialectics and syntheses. These are the metropolitan features responsible for sustaining the construction of the urban visual culture as a communicational ecosystem, as a text that can be interpreted semiologically. However, urban visual culture must address not only who and how the visual text of a city is produced, but just as importantly, how a reading of the landscape itself is processed. There are different ways to understand the city, to decode the messages therein contained. As Short argues (1996:406) “between the production of the urban form and its consumption falls the intervention of multiple, contested, changing readings”. The possibility of differentiated readings of such spaces and their landscape is what so often leads to non-coincident actions and appropriations on the part of social actors. The important thing for the scholar of urban visual culture to retain is that the terrain’s semantic content is not stagnant and immutable, but built upon differentiated readings. Moreover, the Towards a Dualistic Approach to Urban Visual Culture 7 divergent readings of the terrain and its emblems have a definite influence on the production and transformation of the space itself. In other words, urban discourse is constantly being rewritten, and has a multiple authorship. It is ultimately an inter-subjective text.
Power and transgression in the urban landscape
We have seen that urban visual culture is singular and complex, and that it results from the confluence of a variety of dynamics that occur within the visual field. Buildings, people, urban equipment, transports, etc., are elements belonging to this communicational ecosystem. At the same time, we must bear in mind that these dynamics are produced within the sphere of social relations which are historically and contextually determined. As such, they are politically impregnated. Ideologies and relations of power are clearly present in the construction of the visible. This is the issue that I now wish to address. While we may speak of a given city, we must also consider the inhabited city. This statement seeks to emphasize the relationship between the material dimension of a city transmitted to us, and the role played by its citizens, individually or as a group, as acting and shaping their own surroundings. Spaces are always a result of acts of appropriation and transaction amongst different agents. In large measure, a city’s construction reflects the interests and ideologies of its historically most powerful actors, in other words, those with greater capacity to make their mark on the space’s morphology and development. We can therefore speak of an urban landscape historically imposed on us, just as social labels or language symbols are. However, the main feature of the city and its text is its mutant profile, affording us manifold glimpses of how power relations are established between urban actors. On the one hand, public authorities proclaim their superintendency of the territory, regulating its layout and functionality, designing its future according to a given ideology. To this politically planned city, we must add the will of private agents with the sufficient economic means to act upon the architecture of the space. Even so, contrasting with a regulated city disciplined by its dominant agents, there is a territory inhabited by people who strive, within their possibilities, to impress their individuality and collective affinities upon the space around them. The city, therefore, is never absolutely predetermined. A negotiation of the space, a compromise between wills that are sometimes non-coincident, is always implied. Running the risk of presenting an oversimplified line of interpretation, I take an approach to the symbology of urban space that is essentially 8 Chapter One dichotomist. Despite its weaknesses, this perspective holds some virtues, insofar as it allows us to create denser typologies based on an initial reading of the semantic antagonisms present in the landscape. This approach takes the relationship between the political and aesthetic dimensions that are present in urban artifacts, and which to some extent are at the root of the meanings attached to them. The political and aesthetic spheres are unavoidable elements when it comes to the realm of visibility (Brighenti, 2007, 2010), especially in a field where, as we have shown, relations of power play a decisive role in the form assumed by the territory and its landscape. Therefore, to begin with I find that regarding the fabrication of the urban phenomenon, we can identify a whole dimension linking it to issues of power, its institution and consecration. In the urban landscape we encounter various indications that act as constant reminders of which are the dominant institutions and how they exert their authority over the territory and its inhabitants. The field of visibility provides an essential medium towards the glorification of power and its institutions. The anthropologist Georges Balandier (1999), maintains that power has always relied on strategies of display as essential means to support ideological and ontological order. We might also allude to an aesthetic of authority (Ferrell, 1996) or to the visual vocabulary of the moral order (Austin, 2010)1, as the result of the action of these institutions of power in the modeling of the urban landscape. In short, power is thus visible. And it is this visible presence in everyday life that ultimately gives it sustenance and ensures its perpetuation. We must not forget that we are dealing with a relationship that is established on the premise of reciprocity. Just as we can see power, it can also see us. Panoptical devices (video-surveillance, radars, etc.) are not only visible, thus guaranteeing that the common citizen is aware of being monitored, but also provide effective means of control over citizens (Fróis, 2011). I would define this as the realm of the sacred, which in my view might be approached as a three-parted dimension. Firstly, there are what I call the languages of the official ideology (political, economic and religious) consecration and celebration (figures 1-1 & 1-2). Secondly, there are the languages of regulation, surveillance and discipline which are quite ubiquitous in the cityscape (figures 1-3 & 1-4). Finally, there are the ever more present languages of desire, seduction and spectacle, mainly the long-term process of capitalist sacralization of commerce and consumption (figures 1-5 & 1-6).
Towards a Dualistic Approach to Urban Visual Culture 9
Fig. 1-1. Languages of the official ideology—Power institutions (Portuguese parliament, Lisbon, 2008).
Fig. 1-2. Languages of the official ideology—Monuments to national heroes (Lisbon, 2008).
10 Chapter One
Fig. 1-3. Languages of regulation, surveillance and discipline—Traffic lights (Lisbon, 2008).
Fig. 1-4. Languages of regulation, surveillance and discipline—Traffic signals (Lisbon, 2008).
Towards a Dualistic Approach to Urban Visual Culture 11
Fig. 1-5. Languages of desire, seduction and spectacle—Billboard advertising (Lisbon, 2008).
Fig. 1-6. Languages of desire, seduction and spectacle—Outdoor advertising (Lisbon, 2008). 12 Chapter One
However, while power manifests itself visually in the magnanimity of urban materiality (monuments to heroes, official buildings, etc.), and in the organization and monitoring of everyday life (video-surveillance, traffic signs, etc.), it is also true that there are gaps, uncontrolled spaces and moments, which allow for actions of an interstitial nature. We are, in this particular case, referring to acts of a subversive, offensive or merely unpredictable nature, which tend to reconfigure the organization of everyday life and the symbolic hierarchies. Movements such as those of the “indignados” or the Occupy Wall Street that emerged during 2011 as a reaction of citizens to the financial crisis are excellent examples of this claim to urban public space as a territory for protest. We are here under the domain of the profane. This is the realm of the ordinary mans’ agency, where one might defy, subvert or evade not only the hegemonic social norms but also the dominant ideology that impregnates city life. It is also the territory of alterity and liminality, where the creative energies that disrupt consensus and conventions often hatch/incubate. I sustain that we may conceive the sacred and the profane as two metaphorical categories, as symbolic polarities. This ontological antagonism that sustains the symbolic division between these opposite poles should be regarded as an operative framework to classify and localize the position of the different visual languages and artifacts. We may find, of course, grey areas, blurred territories that constantly remind us that the meaning of things is permanently being contested and negotiated. The sacred and the profane sometimes overlap. One characteristic whose presence is fairly constant in the profane vernacular languages is the satirical or obscene nature of their content, the obvious desire to disparage order and its representatives, to shake dominant convictions and symbols of power. It is an age-old predisposition. The popular graffiti found in Pompeii, for example, suggest to us that the walls were used by common folk to write messages with erotic or political content, making use of satire, derision and humor. This seems to be a propensity that is not limited to popular graffiti. According to Balandier (1999: 45) “collective satirists (within the anonymity of popular literatures) or individual ones (more dangerously) resort to satire in the attempt to mark the limits of power”. This author argues that order and conformity are permanently under the threat of antagonist forces, in a balance that can be more or less stable. As I see it, these aesthetics of transgression are a distinguishing feature of urban culture. Why? On one hand, because as Canevacci (1997) correctly observed, most conflicts that arise in the contemporary metropolis are fought in the terrain of visual communication. In a Towards a Dualistic Approach to Urban Visual Culture 13 semiotically excessive society, sign rivalries are more evident. They employ strategies of display, spectacularization and seduction, which have been made common by the entertainment industry, by advertising and propaganda. On the other hand, the surgical action on the city is based on the premise that the latter is mobile, that it is continually being reconfigured and regenerated by multiple actors. It conceives the possibility of change and intervention as the legitimate expectation of someone living in a democratic society. Thus, acting in the city can reveal renewed forms of citizenship and participation in the public sphere, triggered by new social and cultural configurations, and by the relative exhaustion of the formal conceptualization of citizenship (Holston and Appadurai, 1999).
The particular case of graffiti and street art
Let us turn to the paradigmatic case of graffiti, a topic I have been studying over the last few years (Campos, 2009, 2010, 2013a). I have sustained that different actors and institutions apply the resources of visuality to the making of the city. This is explicit in manifold spheres of urban ordinary life that acquire an expression in the visible surface of our world. In architecture, urban furniture and normative signs, in political propaganda and advertising, but also in the more elementary mundane expressions - in bodily styles and style fashions, in graffiti and other displays of public and private space adornment, one may find the visible evidence of divergent wills and asymmetrical powers. Carving the city, leaving an individual or collective mark on the surfaces, is part of a larger process of appropriation of the inhabited territory. Space is and will always be filled with markers. These may be created to insult, to cause panic, surprise, doubt or suspicion, or, on the contrary, to generate empathy, trust and familiarity. Public space has always been reclaimed by citizens as a vehicle for communication. As a democratic arena it often becomes a privileged medium of expression for the powerless. As Jean Baudrillard said, inspired by the events of the French May of ‘68:
[...] (the street) is the alternative and subversive form of all mass media, because it is not, as they are, an objective support for messages without reply, being a long distance traffic network, it is the open space of the symbolic exchange of words […] (Baudrillard 1981: 225-226)
If the city is a discourse, as suggested by Barthes (1987), if it presents itself as a polyphonic territory in the opinion of Canevacci (1997), youngsters definitely want to leave a distinguishing trace on the landscape. 14 Chapter One
The vast literature on young people’s cultural practices demonstrates that there are numerous rhetorical ploys and symbolic grammars that are optimized by them through everyday practices in the city. Graffiti and street art are undeniably part of these dynamics. These particular forms of expression are deeply tied to young people (Campos, 2007, 2009, Mc Donald, 1999; MacDonald, 2002). What are the reasons and circumstances that seem to explain the success of graffiti among young people? In my view we must take into account, on the one hand, the role structurally attributed to youth and, on the other, its recognized capacity of resistance, of challenging socially given boundaries. Several authors have emphasized not only the incorporation of social roles and expectations, but also a strong movement towards agency and innovation. Dynamics of symbolic resistance, such as those studied by the subcultural paradigm (Hall and Jefferson, 1976, Hebdige, 1976, 1989), of symbolic creativity, (Willis, 1990), of neo-tribalism (Maffesoli, 1987) or dissent (Pais, 2004; Ferreira, 2008) present responses of certain youth groups to the subordinate and disabling position which is imposed by the dominant adult culture. Given their subsidiary and dependent position, youth inventive skills are usually used in contexts of evasion, in spaces that circumvent adult supervision and scrutiny. The obscurity of certain practices, the camouflaged and codified nature of many gestures, comes from this need to operate outside any moral sanctions. Innovation and defiance are envisioned in the interstices of order and regulation. Transgression often occurs as the most obvious getaway from a world of rules and dull routines. Obtaining autonomy involves a turbulent process of questioning, and eventually of refusing a set of social conventions and inherited habits. By extensively tattooing and piercing their body, by painting subway cars, by engaging in risky and deviant behaviors or by enrolling in some urban subculture, youngsters claim a territory of emancipation and uniqueness. By inventing unexpected codes and languages, practices and techniques—what in some underground contexts can be identified as a subcultural capital (Thornton, 1995)—sovereignty spaces are erected. Within this framework, the city has been highlighted as a vital stage for the affirmation of youth cultures, subcultures and tribes (Campos, 2010; Skelton and Valentine, 1998). On the one hand, because these groups and communities seem to inhabit within somewhat diffuse metropolitan boundaries; on the other hand, since the city offers a wide- range of resources that contribute to group creativity and differentiation. There is, finally, another dimension which I find significant to the understanding of contemporary youth and that may justify the relevance Towards a Dualistic Approach to Urban Visual Culture 15 attributed to graffiti. I am referring here to the realm of visuality. Image production and visual representation appear to be key areas in youth communication (Feixa and Porzio, 2008; Ferreira, 2008; Campos, 2010). Imagery is used repeatedly on a daily basis as a strategic resource. There is, hence, a strong performative impulse in juvenile practices. The sophistication of everyday life dramaturgical devices, clearly connected with the visual representation of the self, are basic components of group differentiation. To see and be seen becomes essential to maintain the symbolic order. Therefore, I argue that graffiti2 is, in many ways, the outcome of these youthful particularities: it combines both the centrality of visuality and performance as communicative arenas, and the strong tendency to be inventive and to question social norms and institutions. It has been since the origins a subversive and persecuted practice, having built all its ideological references around its transgressive nature. If the spatial order provides an ensemble of interdictions, it is also true that it represents a universe full of opportunities (Certeau, 1984). Graffiti and street art may easily be interpreted as an expression of the ordinary peoples’tactical uses of space, in the sense proposed by Michel de Certeau:
Many everyday practices […] are tactical in character. And so are, more generally, many “ways of operating”: victories of the “weak” over the “strong” (whether the strength be that of powerful people or the violence of things or of an imposed order, etc.), clever tricks, knowing how to get away with things, “hunters cunning”, maneuvers, polymorphic simulations, joyful discoveries, poetic as well as warlike. (de Certeau 1984: xix)
We can place this practice within a lineage of vernacular discourses, of aesthetic creations and forms of communication that are not sanctioned by official regimes in power. These discourses originate in popular cultures, and in some cases may be included in what I have described as aesthetics of transgression (Campos, 2013b). Aesthetics of transgression are found in cultural bastions where certain groups use ordinary means to create frameworks of meaning that tend to confront, subvert or mock the apparatus of power. Regarding this case, we could for instance point out the examples of semiotic guerilla identified by Hebdige in reference to juvenile subcultural styles, or what Jeff Ferrell, in connection with graffiti, termed the crimes of style. Many of these cultural productions can be viewed as forms of pollution in a symbolical meaning, as suggested by Mary Douglas (1969) when she refers to impurity as an inversion of the social norm, of the dominant order. Douglas’ argument, which has already inspired many authors who 16 Chapter One
Fig. 1-7. Political satire—Portuguese former prime-minister, José Sócrates (Lisbon, 2009).
Fig. 1-8. Religious satire—Clergyman (Lisbon, 2010).
Towards a Dualistic Approach to Urban Visual Culture 17
Fig. 1-9. Criticizing mass-consumerism—McDonalds’ Logo (Lisbon, 2010). have studied graffiti (Campos, 2009; Schacter, 2008) or subcultural styles (Hebdige, 1976), applies equally well to this reading of an urban visual culture oscillating between two ontologically distant poles. The following images clearly represent the critical stance aimed at dominant institutions, namely those of a political, economic and religious order. This attitude matches the traditional stand of the graffiti writer, as a social actor on the margins, questioning power and authority. To conclude this essay I would like to briefly mention a particularly interesting and recent phenomenon that has erupted in the city of Lisbon. The economic (and social) crisis, which has been exacerbated in Portugal since 2011, has brought with it a new awareness of the political role played by public space as a stage for communication and resistance. More recently the walls have been taken over by several street artists and activists who produce murals ironically depicting and criticizing our present situation. The political mural, which witnessed its heyday in the post-revolutionary years of the late 1970s, has been resurrected on the streets of Lisbon, with young activists and street artists being quite dynamic in the use of the walls as communicational devices. Some of the best examples of this phenomenon may be found in the following images (figures 1-8 and 1-9). 18 Chapter One
Fig. 1-10. Political murals—Portuguese prime-minister, Passos Coelho (Lisbon, 2012).
Fig. 1-11. Political murals—German chancellor Angela Merkel and the Portuguese prime-minister and minister of foreign affairs (Lisbon, 2012). Towards a Dualistic Approach to Urban Visual Culture 19
Conclusion
In the introductory section of this chapter, I argued that visual culture may be considered from three different perspectives. First, as a visual repository; second as a form of understanding and decoding reality visually; third, as a system made up from a number of agents and a technological, political, symbolic and economic apparatus. These dimensions cannot be considered as autonomous or self-sufficient. In the concrete case of the phenomena connected with visual culture, there is unquestionably an overlapping of the different spheres. Clearly, we can apply this viewpoint to the city considered as a field of research. The first sphere addresses the city as a material and cultural artifact that takes shape as discourse. It is the sum of all the material built and managed by man, including not only buildings, but everything that assumes a visual form made and manipulated by human hands. The second sphere is related to how individuals are socialized, not only in the sense of learning the symbolic meanings of everything around them, but also of acquiring the necessary tools to imbue their actions with meaning through the creation of visually expressive forms (using the body, the urban landscape, etc.). Lastly, the third sphere shows us the city as an organic system, composed of a series of elements in constant interaction (confluence, conflict, negotiation) that combine to create different regimes of visibility and visuality. Taken in this sense, it implies accounting for the different interests, wills, strategies and actions of the multiple social agents acting within the city. Urban visual culture is a complex theme, and one which we obviously do not presume to consider comprehensively in a paper such as this one. We sought essentially to establish a few theoretical points that may be useful to address visual culture, as well as sketch a potential line of interpretation that will certainly be enriched by further empirical studies. This reflection focused, more precisely, on the city as a visual repository that can be analyzed from the point of view of its materiality, but also of the individual and collective forms of representation. Delving on the relations between aesthetics and politics that are present in urban visuality, I identified what we might classify as mechanisms related to an aesthetic of authority, as opposed to those that operate within the scope of the aesthetic of transgression. On one side we have the demonstrations of magnificence provided by political, economic, religious or cultural powers (in monuments, grandiose architecture, the occupation and regulation of public space, etc.) as well as the devices at the service of the power apparatus (video-surveillance, traffic signs, etc.). At the extreme opposite 20 Chapter One we have multiple examples of interventions in the field of visuality that upset the norm and the status quo, such as sub-cultural styles, bombing, and urban graffiti or the visual singularities of the illegal neighborhoods and slums found in some large cities. Urban visual culture is not exhausted in this dialectical relationship, but it certainly plays an important role in its coming into being. Taking as my main subject of reflection the case of urban graffiti and, I argued that these manifestations may, and should, be read as a particular symptom of an urban visual culture strongly marked by the multiplication of visual grammars and the complexification of our visual semantic field. The concept of an aesthetics of transgression reveals the possibility of acting politically in the realm of the visual, resorting to several aesthetical devices. In this context, the city can be interpreted as a resource for bricolage and symbolic creativity. Through the appropriation of the urban public space and its surfaces, graffiti writers defy the rules and break hegemonic conventions. This confirms the idea that in a strongly visualist culture, much of the contemporary demonstrations of defiance and transgression often take place in the realm of the symbolic, taking advantage of the power of aesthetic discourses.
Notes
1 Both Ferrell and Austin use these concepts within the context of a study on graffiti and how it confronts and corrupts a certain kind of order expressed in the domain of the visible. 2 I am here referring basically to the American-inspired urban graffiti, originally connected to hip-hop culture, which emerged in the 70s and became a world-wide phenomenon in the decades that followed. Although the connection to hip-hop movement is presently feeble, aesthetic and pictorial conventions used by graffiti writers are still clearly connected to this universe.
CHAPTER TWO
LATIN AMERICANS IN LONDON: CLAIMS OVER THE IDENTITY OF PLACE AS DESTINATION
PATRIA ROMÁN-VELÁZQUEZ
Introduction
This chapter focuses on the presence of Latin American businesses in Elephant & Castle (E&C), a deprived area in the centre of London that is undergoing an ambitious programme of urban redevelopment. Latin American retailers started setting up businesses in the E&C at the beginning of the 1990s and over 20 years have transformed the area and in the process contributed to a distinctive “Latin Quarter” as acknowledge in local policy documents1. This presence however is now under threat. The redevelopment plan for E&C has been received with scepticism by Latin American local retailers who despite welcoming some of the changes, fear for their sustainability and future presence in the area. This chapter concentrates on how the presence of Latin American shops in E&C has contributed to the changing character of places and in the process developed a distinctive Latin neighbourhood in London. It is an attempt to document how Latin American retailers have contributed to the identity of E&C as a Latin place in London2. This will be done by relying on visual records and documentary evidence based on ethnographic research conducted at various times throughout the last twenty years3. The timing of the research is important because it captures a moment of transition and raises questions about the sustainability and future of the largest and oldest Latin areas in London. At the beginning of the 1990s I captured the origins of the Latin American business quarter in the E&C. Revisiting the area under the current context of regeneration allows me to examine another significant moment for Latin American 22 Chapter Two shops, one that will define whether this distinctive Latin neighbourhood will survive or not. The contribution that Latin Americans have made to London’s multicultural neighbourhoods has been conspicuously neglected in academic literature, despite its visible presence in different parts of London. This chapter will engage with debates about the movement of people across different geographical locations and their contributions to the changing character of places. It explores how diasporic communities are negotiating and claiming their place in the global city. This discussion is framed around the concepts of place and identity. I argue for the need to consider place-identity, not just in terms of its representation or symbolic value, but through a thorough understanding of the historical processes and material practices which contribute to the changing character of places.
Place-identity: Dialogues between communication and urban studies
My approach to Latin places in London is informed by urban studies, cultural geography and communication studies. Communication scholars have for long neglected cities as sites of production and consumption, and ignored the dynamic practices of their inhabitants (Graham, 1996; 1997). Latin American communication research has a long tradition of exploring the relationship between communication and the city. Research in this area (García Canclini, 1999; Martin-Barbero, 1987; Reguillo, 1991, 1996; Sarlo, 1988; Silva, 1992) has focused on the material conditions and everyday practices that make up cities. However, it is still the case that most of the research on cities from a communication studies perspective is based on its representative dimension. The urban is either represented in different media formats, particularly film, or in the symbolic value of its sculptures, monuments and plazas (e.g. Brunsdon, 2007; Mitchell, 2005; Sadin, 2007; Clarke, 1997; Shiel & Fitzmaurice, 2001, 2003; Foster, 2002; Massood, 2003; Osborne, 2001). Recently we have seen a renewed interest in the city from a communication studies perspective (Burd et al., 2007; Gibson, 2007; Graham, 1996, 1997, 2004). But most of this work, particularly in Britain, is about how new media technologies are transforming the character of urban spaces, how these are used for interpreting and managing urban spaces or in facilitating relationships and exchange across transnational spaces. Less attention has been given to how people invest, economically and emotionally, in places and how they contribute to the changing character of cities4. It is this last aspect which I explore in this article by Latin Americans in London 23 focusing on the constructions of place-identity by Latin Americans in London. The concepts of place and identity have been increasingly significant amongst sociologists, geographers, psychologists, architects, media studies, and policy makers (Keith & Pile, 1993; Massey, 1993; 2007; Hall, 1995; Morley, 2001a, 2001b; Appadurai, 1996; Orum & Chen, 2002) and are central to my research about Latin American spaces in London. The bulk of the research on place and identity can be divided in two main strands, one that mainly focuses on the identity of places; the other explores the links that different groups of people (defined either by their ethnic or geographical background) establish with places. Re-conceptualising place as unbounded, multi-layered and not exclusively territorial has been a central concern in these writings; whilst identity is taken to be unfixed and in a continual process of transformation. Both strands of research tend to regard places and identities as active, porous and open to transformation and contestation. Some of the work produced under the umbrella of place and identity (Zukin, 2010; Orum & Chen, 2002) has been pivotal in highlighting the particular ways in which people establish a link with places, and for understanding the practices through which places are transformed and given particular identities. However, my scepticism with some of the work on place and identity grows out of the argument that I present here. First, it is often the case that place-identity is vaguely explored and illustrated via a series of visible signifiers. Identity seems to be regarded as the physical characteristics of individuals, groups and places. In this sense, identity is treated as a matter of representation, and in the process of de-codification a series of assumptions are made about certain people, their practices and their place of origin. What was once regarded as a novel approach to identity and place has more than ever become a descriptive account of the series of visible characteristics about a place and the people that inhabit and live across those places. To rethink places and identities as unfixed, hybrid and open to transformation does not solve the problem of how these have been researched. It is not a matter of describing places and identities in terms of their conceptualisation—hybrid, unbounded and unfixed—but to consider the historical and material practices that contribute to our understanding of places and identities as such. To reduce identity to its representation will only result in a superficial exploration of the relationship between place and identity. Instead, I suggest an approach that considers the way in which identity and place are embedded in longer historical processes and material practices. 24 Chapter Two
Thus, the identity of places should be understood as that being claimed by different groups at particular moments and locations. The identity of any place is continuously being produced in its relation to other groups and according to the power structures in which such identities are negotiated. The identity of any place is, as Massey (1994) argues, “for ever open to contestation” in the sense that other identities of place are not static and are simultaneously produced by other groups. This way of understanding the identities of places rejects an essentialist identity of place by acknowledging the different identities being claimed and produced over the same place at particular moments in time. Both concepts have been central to my research on Latin spaces in London. My approach takes on board some of the arguments outlined above on place-identity but I also share similar concerns to those of media studies. Thus, in exploring the identity of places through the lens of Latin American owned shops in E&C, I am not making claims for the entire city. Such a task is impossible. Instead, I am looking at one particular instance and moment by documenting how Latin Americans have made a claim over the identity of E&C as Latin, one that is at risk given the current regeneration plans for the area. When thinking about the identity of places from this perspective, the city (in this instance parts of it) appears as a product that is designed, structured and promoted in particular ways by planners, architects, developers and government departments alike. Different discourses and visions of an area will emerge that will require a constant process of negotiation by its inhabitants. It also appears as a text—whereby a particular urban setting is analysed for its symbolic value. Finally, the city appears as lived experience by taking into account the practices that make and define the identity of places, in this instance into a Latin place in London.
Background to the making of Latin London
London’s Latin locations contribute to, and transcend conceptualizations of cultural diversity in the capital. A Latin presence can be detected in the numerous Latin themed bars, restaurants and shops across the capital and at long standing cultural events such as the Latin American carnival (Carnaval del Pueblo) in Burgess Park and various Latin American film festivals across various cinemas in London. This presence and increment in cultural events since the 1990s is related to the increasing migration of Latin Americans to Britain and in particular to London. Latin Americans in London 25
Before the 1970s there was no significant Latin American migration to London. It was during this decade that large numbers of Latin Americans arrived in Britain as political refugees, especially from Chile and Uruguay; joined shortly after by Peruvians and Colombians escaping from political and civil unrest in their countries. During this period a large number of Latin Americans, especially from Colombia, came as migrant workers for the growing hospitality sector in London. Although the work visa regime which allowed the latter migration flow ended in 1979, a precedent was set for future migration, with Brazilians joining to become the largest group along with Colombians (Román-Velázquez 1999). From the 1990s they were joined by increasing numbers of Ecuadorians and Bolivians seeking an alternative to economic and political turmoil. Freedom of movement across the European Union since 2006 has allowed secondary migration of Latin Americans naturalised in the European Union, notably Spain in the face of post-2008 recession (McIlwaine et al 2011). The Latin American population in London is estimated at 113,500, representing a 61% of the total Latin American population in the United Kingdom, which has been registered as 186,500 (McIlwaine, et al 2011). Latin Americans in London are mostly concentrated in South London in the areas of Southwark and Lambeth. Not surprisingly, it is in these areas where most of the Latin American shops are located, and to which I now turn. Latin Americans started setting up businesses in E&C at the beginning of the 1990s. During the 1990s most of the retail activity was at the E&C shopping centre with ten shops owned by Latin Americans. Another twelve shops could be found around the ring of roads surrounding shopping centre near to Brixton, Vauxhall and Clapham Common underground stations. It was in these areas that a visible Latin American economic and cultural activity was initiated in shops, bars, clubs and restaurants (Román-Velázquez, 1999). However, by the end of the 1990s, Latin Americans were also running shops, restaurants and music clubs in other areas of north and east London, such as Holloway, Stoke Newington, Manor House and Seven Sisters. The editions of Paginas Latinas5 or Directorio Iberoamericano6, two commercial guides catering to Latin Americans in London, provide an indication of the growth of Latin American businesses and services in the capital. Elephant and Castle, Old Kent Road, Brixton Market and surrounding areas in South London still have the greatest concentration of Latin American owned shops. However, other areas of London have witnessed the spread of Latin American shops. This is the case in Seven Sisters area with Pueblito Paisa and Tiendas del Norte and what is known as Brazil-water located between Bayswater and Queensway stations with most of the shops in Queensway market. 26 Chapter Two
Elephant & Castle, in the borough of Southwark, is home to one of the largest Latin American business clusters in London. In a manual survey of the area (June 2012) I accounted for 61 shops in the immediate area around the underground station and shopping centre, and if taking into account the shops in Old Kent Road (extending from the southern roundabout) the number increased to 70 shops . This represents a sharp increase from the number of shops registered at the beginning of the 1990s (approximately 22 shops). In a period of about 20 years (from 1992 to 2012) the distribution of Latin American owned shops in the city has become more widespread and dispersed, but also more visibly present in London. It is this visibility and transformation of places into distinctive Latin areas that I now consider.
Place-identity: Elephant & Castle as a latin place in London
In 2004 the council made public plans to demolish the shopping centre in order to redevelop the site. I visited the area many times during this period and took photos, conducted interviews with retailers and informally spoke with people who knew or frequented the area asking about their feelings and position regarding the demolition of the shopping centre. The story of the E&C shopping centre kept changing. Dates for its demolition kept being postponed and I was left with a similar feeling to that registered by the retailers: nothing seemed to have happened and nothing might ever happen. However, things were slowly moving on: the council was laying out the terrain for the revitalisation of E&C to progress, a partnership agreement was reached between the council and private developers, public land was leased to developers, the documentation and planning guidance needed was set in motion and approved. In short the terrain was being set for the regeneration of the area. The regeneration plans for E&C have heralded the area as the “new thriving quarter of central London” with a distinctive and vibrant “Latin Quarter”. This vision of E&C with a distinctive Latin quarter is recognition of the presence of Latin American owned shops and of their contribution to the identity of the area. However, the context of urban regeneration under which such recognition has been stated puts at risk the very existence of this business cluster. In the making of E&C as a Latin place in London we need to understand how and why Latin Americans started settling in this particular area of London and why retailers feel that the revitalisation of the area posed a risk to their businesses. Latin Americans in London 27
The current regeneration projects undertaken at E&C are yet another attempt to boost the area’s reputation and potential. This is a deprived inner city area of London with one of the highest indices of deprivation across the country (Southwark is in the top 25th most deprived areas of England, Department for Communities and Local Government, 2010). The public housing estates, traffic and road infrastructures that have been blamed for the area’s bad reputation were built in the 1960s. The scale of the development was such that it left the area with a heavily transited network of roundabouts and streets and a complicated link of pedestrian subways that is often used as an example of bad planning, and cited for its negative qualities (Althorpe, 2008)7 . The following quote published in a national newspaper provides an indication of the area’s reputation:
By the sixties, the Elephant appeared to be little more than a gigantic roundabout overlooked by brutalist architecture (…) and surrounded by some scary local authority estates. (Glancey, 1999, np)
It is this infrastructure that the current regeneration scheme is set to transform. Elephant & Castle was signalled as an opportunity area in the London Plan (2002), such a designation in the Major’s planning vision for London diverted attention and investors to the area. The shopping centre plays a central role in E&C and it is considered as the gateway to the area8. Amongst developers and the council the general perception of E&C shopping centre is one of a “no-place”, a “go-through” area, not a destination. These are some of the ways in which E&C has been described by developers:
The Elephant and Castle will again become a prestigious and attractive destination in central London. (First Base)9
We want to return the heart to E&C – to create a place where people travel to, not through. (Oakmayne)10
The E&C is a “go through area” - a “no place”. (Lend Lease)11
These comments acknowledge that E&C is a transport hub (the shopping centre is a station to one of Britain’s train operators, bus routes that link south and north London operate from the main roundabouts, and it has an underground station with two main lines that connect north, central, south and west London (Bakerloo and Northern Lines). But this perception as a “go through area” is also related to its reputation as a 28 Chapter Two violent place with high levels of crime and unemployment, a reputation it has had since at least the 19th Century. However, for many Latin Americans the E&C is the place where they have invested economically and emotionally. There is a sense of attachment, a sense of ownership in the transformation of E&C into a “thriving Latin Quarter”. Take for example the intervention of Carlos Burgos of the Pedro Achata Trust (an organisation promoting sustainable businesses) in one of the consultation meetings:
In reply to the question Is E&C a place? For a diversity of communities and for the Latin Americans in particular the E&C is a place. For Latin Americans it is a destination, not a passing through route. (Carlos Burgos, ELG2, 15 September 2011)
Thus, for Latin American retailers and their clients the E&C is a destination not a passing through area. It is here where Latin American retailers started settling in the early 1990s and where they have made their livelihoods. The economic situation was an important element stimulating the movement of Latin Americans into the shopping centre, and low rent was one of the most attractive features. Elephant and Castle showed the signs of a deprived inner-city shopping area that was frequented by low- income groups and that had been aesthetically neglected—and it was precisely this neglect that allowed Latin Americans to settle in the area. The E&C shopping centre was one of the first in Britain when it opened in 1965. However, given its location amongst the “… hurtling traffic on a life-threatening system of roundabouts in Southwark” (Hall, 1992: 18), and in one of the areas of highest unemployment, the Centre was also strongly affected by the economic recession at the end of the 1980s. By 1991, for example, the first floor of the shopping centre was nearly vacated with shops either closing down or ceasing operations (Hall, 1992). A year later Latin Americans started opening shops on the first level of the shopping centre. La Fogata opened in June 1992, followed by Inara Travels (now Inara Transfers) and by 1994 there were ten shops owned by Latin Americans including food shops, fritter stalls, a travel agency, a jeweller, an employment agency, a hairdresser and a tailor’s shop, with snack places filtering to the outside of the shopping centre. This trend extended to the surrounding area to such an extent that by 2012 there were four clearly identified clusters: the shopping centre, shops along the arches in Elephant Road and Eagle’s Yard, and those on Newington Butts next to the new Strata Tower (a new private residential development). Thus, Latin Americans have transformed the previously derelict spaces on the railway arches and inhabited empty shops in the area, creating in the process a Latin Americans in London 29 distinctive Latin business cluster in E&C. Yet, Latin American retailers are now at the centre of a multimillion pound regeeneration plan that will see the area transformed into what developers and the council described as a “vibrant quarter of Central London”. The Latin American presence in the shopping centre was clearly evident since the opening of the first shops. The colours, smells, products, shop names, décor, advertising, the sounds and music emanating from flat screens and speakers, and the language used and spoken in the premises were all paart of this new claim to identity. This identity however, has changed over time and retailers have adapted to their surroundings and to the demands placed on them by different regulatory bodies, management requirements, economic circumstances and general changes to the area. The initial colourful wooden structures in a row in the middle of the corridor that I once described as recreating the experience of an outdoor small street (Román-Velázquez, 1999) are no longer there. Towards the end of the 19990s the external appearance of the colourful row of shops was replaced with modular white metal structures, but the internal decoration and layout of the shops remained more or less unchhanged (see photos 2-1, 2-2 & 2-3). The change to a modular structure was imposed by the managers of the shopping centre on health and safety grounds.
Fig. 2-1. La Bodeguita and El Costurerito.
30 Chapter Two
.
Fig. 2-2. La Bodeguita.
Fig. 2-3. Nicole’s Fashion (previously El Costurerito).
As I write in 2012, the space in the middle of the corridor is still occupied by Latin American shops, but the owners and types of shops have changed over time. The structural changes had an impact upon the distinctively orange Bodeguita and the pink Costurerito; whilst the services offered by El Costurerito remained more or less the same. La Bodeguita concentrated on the café side, which was originally limited to weekends only, rather than on the retail side of businesses. The Bodeguita became “Café Bar La Bodeguita Delicatessen” and changed location Latin Americans in London 31
(from unit 252 to units 256-257) but still remained in the middle of the corridor. It later (2001) acquired bigger premises on the corner of the shopping centre for what is the Bodeguita Restaurant (units 222-223 in the first level of the shopping centre), also visible from the outside of the shopping centre (from Walworth Road). The menu and window advertising are in Spanish and English, catering to their main clientele but also seeking to attract those whose first language is not Spanish. This is also evident in the name change of El Costurerito to Nicole’s (reflecting not just a change of administration, but opening up to a different clientele and catering for the cultural context in which they are located). These two examples are evidence of economic growth, transformation in business practice and an indication of how Latin American retailers have set root in the area and taken into account the surroundings in which they are located. The selection of products and the way in which these are displayed also constitute an important part of the way in which the identity of the shops is communicated to passersby. A further way in which these shops are mediating representations of a particular Latin American identity is through decoration and display windows which become notice boards containing a diversity of messages including accommodation, courier dates, concerts and announcements of support or fund raising events for natural disasters such as hurricanes or earthquakes. Alongside the food, handcrafts, icons, the sounds of Latin music or Latin American television programmes could be heard or seen in the background. These shops have always offered a variety of services. For example, La Tienda (as it is commonly known, or Agencia los colorados su tienda Latina) is a café, retailer, and it also offers courier services to Ecuador. In the retail section food products are alongside national sports team t-shits, handicrafts, DVD’s, CD’s and medicines. Most of these shops sell products that are not otherwise available in the UK. For example, the banana leaves to wrap the “tamales”, the flour for the ‘arepas’ or “empanadas”, soft drinks, chocolates, and boxes or ready mix desserts from Latin America, along with Latin American newspapers, magazines and handicrafts. Most of these products were difficult to find in the UK in the 1990s. In 2012 it is the demand and familiarity of brands, though not necessarily Latin American labels, what customers look for. This is the case with the Mexsana powder used for medicinal purposes, which is produced by Dr. Scholl, but not ready available in national retailers in the UK, and the nail varnish products with different colour tones that are specific to the Latin American market (See photos 2-4 & 2-5).
32 Chapter Two
Fig. 2-4. La Tienda.
Fig. 2-5. La Tienda.
The variety of services within one shop takes a slightly different form in the shops below the railway arches alongside Eagle’s Yard and Elephant Road. The space under the railway bridge has been converted into restaurants and small commercial centres whereby one unit (arch) is divided up and sub-let (under licence agreement) to other small retailers. These commercial units such as La Vida Loca, El arco del centro and Distriandina in Elephant Road and San Andresito or Arko 146 and EcuaFood in Eagle’s Yard are divided up to provide space for independent businesses, but the space is managed by one lease holder. The main Latin Americans in London 33 leaseholders in the area are Corporación Naranjo, Distriandina and Tiendas del Sur. The sub-let agreement tends to offer cheap rent and flexible short term contracts (in 2010 the average rent was £100 per week on short term contracts); it also offered access to telephone, internet, water and electricity for example. This agreement provided the opportunity to start up small businesses without the associated risks or management responsibilities for the site which the leaseholder is accountable for. It was also a way of testing out a business venture and if successful moving into different premises. This was the case of Mr Piggy in Elephant Road which started as a take away café for a period of six months and later leased an entire arch and opened as a restaurant; and of Macondo which was located within La Vida Loca arch and in July 2012 moved to larger premises in Sheraton Court, Newington Butts (previously occupied by Colombian restaurants Donde Lucho and El Paisita). Signs of transformation are evident outside of the shopping centre; most investment is taking place around, rather than in the shopping centre. Equally, most of the changes to Latin American shops are evident outside of the shopping centre, particularly those located on the railway arches in Elephant Road (behind the shopping centre) and Eagle’s Yard (next to Strata—private residential building completed in 2010). The revitalisation plans for E&C have required adjustment from Latin American retailers, who have seen the need to improve the appearance of the shops and change their business practices to accommodate a more diverse clientele. The changes taking place in the Latin shops located below the railway arches next to the Strata Tower might reveal some of the negotiations that have taken place in the area. For example, when the Strata Building was under construction the shops in Eagle’s Yard were affected economically as access from the main entrance was limited, making it difficult to see what lay behind the scaffolds on the path leading to the shops. The shops were very much under a dusty building site, with the added noise pollution of construction. Latin American retailers were worried that their businesses were in economic decline and that the lack of access to the shops contributed to the perception of a squalid and dangerous area. The developers of Strata were also worried about their neighbours. Not about their economic difficulties, but about the appearance of the shops— literally these were now within a few steps of the new private development. A tour around the Latin shops organised by Community Action Southwark (CAS) with council workers, representatives from Strata and other public utilities personnel, ended in a compromise. The Council agreed to create a safer and cleaner neighbourhood by planting trees, placing and collecting trade bins and improving street lighting. 34 Chapter Two
Strata committed to pave the area and the retailers agreed to comply with regulations and refurbish their premises. La Chatica a café and food retailer in Elephant Road is a good example of the trajectory and the changing nature of Latin shops in London. La Chatica is also a distributor of Latin America products with further premises in Druid Street for food manufacturing and distribution. So far it is the only distributor that has created its own brand, whose logo is used in the packaging of some of its locally produced food for sale in the café. La Chatica, registered as La casa de Jack, as with most businesses, started as a small and informal enterprise. Initially it was set up in 1999 as a business to export baby clothes to Colombia. It formally registered as a food distributor in 2001 extending its operation to food production and a café soon after that. As with other shops it started with a small unit in “La Vida Loca” (one of the arches in Elephant Road) as a “panaderia” (bread shop) and cafe, and in 2010 acquired the arch next to La Vida Loca and in early 2011 opened La Chatica Café, where most of the food production takes place. When it first opened the café stood out from the other arches. It is a modern café, with a glass front that opens up to the Road, allowing easy access to the vibrant colours and decorations inside (see photos 2-6 & 2- 7).
Fig. 2-6. La Chatica.
Latin Americans in London 35
Fig. 2-7. La Chatica.
This is an important aspect, not only because La Chatica is new and modern, but because its ambience is evident from the outside. The structure and arrangement of most of the arches is so that the diversity of the units are not visible from the outside. The fact that there are multiple units offering a diversity of services and products from one arch, make these more hidden. As one of the new residents of Strata commented when referring to La Chatica, “this is the café we all come to”, adding “you know what you are getting into”. Whilst for example, in relation to Los Arrieros Rest (just behind the Strata) he commented that he never visited it because “it is not evident from the outside and even as you go in, of what exactly you are getting into”12. The Latin American shops relied heavily on a Latin American clientele for whom the language, products, services and food were familiar. However, retailers are aware that they need to attract a more diverse type of customer. For this they need to make adjustments to the appearance of the shops and to business practices such as asking their employees to speak English and providing translations and descriptions of the products and services on offer. The transformations of shops in the railway arches behind Strata Tower and in Elephant Road are not only physical. An entire business community is in transition: from informal to more formal ways of conducting everyday businesses, from a naïve approach to setting a business to a more legal and formalised approach. What we can see here is the transition from informal to formal transnational economic network. From a close business community in a deprived inner city area to a vibrant Latin Quarter in Central London—a world class city. Also evident here is 36 Chapter Two a transition in self-definition—from mono-Latin identity to a “British- Latino” identity, one that locates itself amongst the multiple layers that make up London. Yet, this is a Latin identity very much embedded in power structures that will demand constant re-negotiation.
Conclusion
The Elephant and Castle is a destination for many Latin Americans in London, a routine stop for many in search of goods and food, a place where many can feel at home13. It is an information centre, a place to socialise, to chat and to meet friends. Its location and transport connections make it easy to reach and unlike the many who pass through on their daily commutes to work or leisure, it is a destination not a “passing through place”. The idea of place as a destination is central to the strategies of developers. The image of the place under consideration is represented as a point on route to somewhere else, a passing through site where people do not want to remain or spend time, and more so as a “no place”. The continued demand from developers and government officials alike to re- invent a place as a destination ignores the fact that for many of its ordinary citizens this very same place is already a destination. It is a place where people not only spend time, but in which their livelihoods are realised; a place where the significance of roots and routes is very much alive. As Sharon Zukin (2010) observed “the continued urge to build a “destination culture” destroys “city dwellers” ability to put down roots…” (218). Latin Americans’ claims over the right to set roots in place are as important as the very routes that made possible their move to London and the possibilities of a continued redefinition of their roots. The idea of place as destination and claims over its identity highlight the tension arising between people’s experiences of places and their re- invention as destination. The re-invention of places as destination cultures invoked by developers (Zukin, 2010) relies on a misconceived perception of places as “no-places” (a term introduced by Augé, 1995). Such misconception ignores people’s claim to places and the material practices and historical processes that contribute to their identity. The study of Latin American retailers in E&C highlights the tensions that appear in the construction of places as destinations. The re-invention of E&C as a destination ignores the fact that for many Latin Americans and for the many inhabitants of the area it is a destination. The study highlights the tensions over claims asserting the identity of a place at a particular Latin Americans in London 37 moment and how these are inserted in wider discourses and power structures. Latin American businesses—once located in an economically marginal position within the city—are now at the centre of a regeneration scheme that will see the area incorporated into central London. The regeneration plans for E&C have caused a lot of anxiety amongst business owners who have settled in the area. Their contribution and visibility has been acknowledged in government planning documents to the extent that it has been signalled as a thriving Latin Quarter of central London. Despite this acknowledgement, retailers believe that the current regeneration programme might pose a risk to their sustainability and future presence in the E&C. The economic and emotional investment of Latin American retailers in the E&C further enhances the identity of the area into a Latin place in London. The different perceptions of E&C are part of the aspirations for the area; and even though a Latin American presence is highly visible, their emotional investment and involvement in transforming E&C has been less evident. Latin Americans have contributed to the diversity of the E&C by developing a distinctive Latin Quarter, and their aspirations are to continue improving the quality of businesses and for this they are aware that they need to raise their profile and participation in the regeneration process. They also have aspirations for E&C—aspirations for a better place, but one that they can afford and a place where they can remain—not be pushed out from; a place where the individuality and local identity of the area is not compromised. Investment in the area is welcomed by all parties, but the aspirations for the E&C are rooted in different agendas. For developers it as an economic development in partnership with the council and despite their commitment to community engagement this is a business venture, and one that should prove economically successful. For Latin American entrepreneurs who have successfully created a business cluster in E&C their aspirations are also about economic success, but less visible is the emotional investment undertaken by Latin Americans in the transformation of the E&C when there was little hope of becoming an “opportunity area” in London. Aspirations for a better place are high on everyone’s agenda, but whether Latin Americans will be able to afford a place in the redeveloped E&C remains uncertain.
38 Chapter Two
Notes
1 Southwark’s Supplementary Planning Document (SPD), 2012. 2 See Román-Velázquez (forthcoming) “Claiming a place in the global city: Urban regeneration and Latin American spaces in London” where I discuss in detail the impact of the regeneration of E&C for Latin American businesses. 3 Periods of research include: 1993-95, summer 2006, summer 2008, summer 2010 and 2011-12. 4 For a longer discussion on this topic refer to García Vargas & Román-Velázquez (2011). 5 http://www.paginaslatinas.co.uk/ Published by Express Media International Ltd. Unit 28 Skylines Village, Limeharbour, London, E14 9TS. 6 http://www.directorio1.com Arch 183 Manor Place, London, SE17 3BB 7 Some of these buildings are due for demolition under the current regeneration scheme and the pedestrian subway in the southern roundabout has been blocked to give way to a new street level crossing. 8 ELG Liaison Group meeting, 15 September 2011, London. 9 First Base website: 1 December 2011: http://www.firstbase.com/pj_elephantcastle.html 10 Oakmayne website: 1 December 2011: http://www.oakmayneproperties.com 11 Consultation meeting 2, 15 September 2011. 12 Notes from Guided walk around Latin American businesses, 26 May 2012 13 Though this is not the case for all Latin Americans as discussed in Cock, 2011.
CHAPTER THREE
THE WRITINGS ON THE WALL: AN ABC OF HISTORICAL AND CONTEMPORARY GRAFFITI
JAMES DICKINSON
Introduction
A striking feature of the contemporary city in Europe, the Americas and elsewhere is graffiti: unofficial, unsanctioned tags and artworks, usually made with spray-can paint or marker pen, which cover with varying degrees of stylistic sophistication and coded meanings the exposed walls and surfaces of the city. Graffiti became a recognized problem in the United States in the 1960s and 1970s as the collapse of inner-city neighbourhoods led to an increase the use of graffiti as territorial markings in an exploding world of drug violence. Later it evolved into an international underground “hip hop” culture attracting youth from a wide range of geographic and social backgrounds who deployed stylistic conventions that largely originated in the United States. Today, a wider variety of local and regional styles challenge earlier American graphic hegemony, and sticker, stencil and poster graffiti, not to mention public murals and other kinds of officially sponsored or commissioned street art, significantly contribute to the visual culture, if not clutter, of the street. Graffiti as a form of illicit public inscription has roots extending deep into the urban past. It maintained a steady, if sporadic, presence in Western culture over the centuries before blossoming into the youthful graphic endeavours of today. In this essay I chart the historical development of graffiti in Western culture as well as identify and describe the major categories of contemporary graffiti. I begin with an outline of the history of graffiti, noting its origins in the ancient Greek polis, extensive presence in Roman cities, and revival in 19th century Europe. I follow this with a brief discussion of the position graffiti occupies in modernist discourse, 40 Chapter Three notably the Surrealists’ fascination with it as both evidence of the original human impulse toward art and a window on hidden reality. In the central part of the essay I identify three main types of graffiti: popular, political, and community-based which helps distinguish contemporary graffiti from its pre-modern antecedents. I then compare and contrast gang and hip hop graffiti as important genres of contemporary community-based graffiti, noting their shared origin in conditions of extreme economic and cultural deprivation and describing their different sociological characteristics and aesthetic practices. While in recent years there has been a great deal of embellishment, both official and unofficial, of the streetscape, here I focus on what might be called “old school” forms of street graffiti.
A history of graffiti
Graffiti (from the Italian graffito, a scratching; from the Latin, graffio, a scratch; grapheim, Greek for to draw, write) are generally crude, illicit drawings and inscriptions made in secret on walls and other publicly visible surfaces. (As Andrea Brighenti puts it, “Walls are built by day and painted by night.”) Essentially graffiti transforms permissible, legitimate forms of writing and expression into impermissible ones. Made without societal blessing or approval, graffiti always manifests illegality and transgression. As the urban anthropologist Susan Phillips notes, graffiti is “vandalism, no matter how ordered and beautiful” (Phillips 1999: 20). As such, graffiti is to be distinguished from legally made or socially sanctioned public markings ranging from Paleolithic rock art, spray- painted store signage and advertising, and art that exploits graffiti’s characteristic forms and themes to officially sponsored murals, mosaics, and other forms of sanctioned wall art. It is no accident that graffiti and urbanity are closely linked, for the city wall is both an expression of public power and an invitation to transgress against that power. As Brighenti argues, walls on the one hand are “governmental objects par excellence;” they function as “useful separators” introducing boundaries into otherwise continuous space, and in so doing “reshape the distribution of inter-visibilities, define flows of circulation, set paths and trajectories for people, and consequently, determine the possibilities and impossibilities of encounters.” As such walls are “among the most widespread and effective devices for the government of populations, especially in urban environments.” On the other hand, walls not only structure direct interaction between people, they also create a variety of mediated publics, becoming “surfaces of inscription” The Writings on the Wall 41 and thus part of the “struggle for public attention and a key element in the configuration of an urban regime visibility.” While corporate and governmental agencies seek to inscribe economic and political power on the vertical surfaces of the city, graffiti through its own inscription projects seeks to “interrogate the public domain” and challenge other efforts to impose meaning on public space (Brighenti 2010). In this way the urban wall necessarily becomes contested terrain. Graffiti’s history reaches back to antiquity. However, it originates not with the invention of writing per se, but rather with the democratization of writing in the ancient Greek polis. Once literacy was extended to the common people, graffiti makes its appearance as the unedited, unsanctioned voice of the people. In this sense, graffiti not only suggests alienation, discontent, marginality, and possible rebellion, but also functions as a “faithful and reliable informant” on the thoughts, concerns, ambitions, and values of the common people not otherwise recorded (Phillips 1999: 25). For this reason, graffiti is of interest to historians, anthropologists, and cultural theorists. The subject matter of early graffiti is rich and varied. A study of informal inscriptions scratched or painted on everyday objects such as pots, jars and lamps discovered in and around the agora, Athens’ ancient marketplace, found these casual notations ranged from simple alphabetic writing exercises and the names of writers, friends and gods to marks of ownership, commercial transactions and shopping lists; indeed, these shards indicate that one of the first uses to which popular writing was put was “sexual insult and obscenity” (Lang 1998). Tourist sites in the ancient world such as the Valley of Kings in Egypt attracted graffitists and many tombs there have Greek and Latin graffiti, the earliest dating from 278 BC. A remarkably complete picture of first- century Roman life can be reconstructed from the thousands of wall inscriptions and graffiti uncovered during the excavation of Pompeii and Herculaneum. According to one commentator: “It was apparently common practice to keep accounts, advertise, leave messages and notices, make bets, list groceries and post personal comments and observations of all kinds on walls.” Lodgers complained they had wet their bed in the absence of a bedroom pot; prostitutes advertised their services; lovers competed for the affection of slave girls, or proclaimed their virility; doctors extolled the pleasure of a good defecation; and philosophers warned of the “stupidities of so many scribblers.” Walls were also enlisted to catch criminals, fight elections, advertise gladiatorial combat, and negotiate contracts (Kebric 1997: 167-170; Lindsay 1960).
42 Chapter Three
Fig. 3-1. Ancient Greek language graffiti on the main gate of the temple at Deir el-Haggaar, Egypt (New York: Institute for the Study of the Ancient World, 2009). Creative Commons Attribution license.
In medieval times the walls of prisons recorded “the last thoughts and confessions” of those awaiting death for political indiscretions or religious scruples, among them “kings, queens, saints and scholars” (Abel and Buckley 1977: 17). The increasing use of glass and glassware in the 17th and 18th centuries provided new opportunities foor graffitists who used diamonds to scratch insccriptions on toasting glassees as well as on tavern windows and toilet walls. In 1731, Hurlo Thrumbro published a series of pamphlets urging preservation of such cultural ephemera. “Would it not be a great pity,” he wrote, “that the profound learninng and wit of so many illustrious personages, who have favoured thhe public with their lucubrations in diamond characters upon drinking glasses, on windows, on walls, and in the bog houses, should be lost to the world? Consider only how many accidents rob us of these sparkling pieces, if the industrious care of the collector had not taken this way of preserving them, and handing them to posterity” (Thumbro 1982). Later millitary campaigns, middle-class tourism and population migration spread grafffiiti far and wide. Napoleon’s troops made iinscriptions on Egypt’s pyramids when they occupied that country in 1798. As travel became more common, well-to-do tourists defaced the monuments they visited with The Writings on the Wall 43 names, initials, and dates. Migrants traveling the Emigrant Trail across the United States in the mid-19th century carved their names and dates of passage into rocks at prominent scenic points along the way, many which are still visible today (MacGregor 1996). However, it was the seismic social and economic changes brought on by rapid industrialization and urbanization which decisively elevated graffiti’s position in the cultural firmament.
Graffiti in the modernist aesthetic
In the 19th century, romanticism anticipated what was to become modernism’s enduring interest in informal and popular art forms such as graffiti, the art of children, and primitive and folk art. As socio-economic change became faster and more ubiquitous, concern grew with respect to saving popular, ephemeral and vernacular forms of expression, evidently so different from the mannered styles of conventional taste, which were disappearing with the march of progress. Victor Hugo, for one, admired his son’s doodles in the margins of his school books; and Blazac described Parisian street graffiti in one of his novels, praising the directness of its childlike forms which he thought emanated from the heart, not the head. In The Painter of Modern Life, Charles Baudelaire attempted to convince his contemporaries of the aesthetic value of primitive art in which artists “have simplified and exaggerated in order to capture an overall effect.” He admired those artists whose mature work he felt revealed traces of first, childlike efforts at drafting rather than acquired technical prowess to convey the “intensity of artistic impressions” (Warehime 1996: 106). In the 1920s and 1930s, the Surrealist movement rekindled interest in illicit, informal, and spontaneous art forms. Heavily influenced by Freud’s theory of the unconscious, Surrealism claimed that beneath ordinary familiar “daylight” reality there existed another “surreal” realm which could only be grasped or accessed through a process of “defamiliarization of the ordinary.” Surrealists consequently set about devising ways to undermine those cultural, social and aesthetic conventions which prevented “communication” between these different realities, devising techniques for “short-circuiting the traditional habits of thought or perception that normalize a particular order of things.” For Andre Breton, this meant adopting an outlook or ethnography based on “perturbation” and “dépaysement” (deterritorialization). “The mad beast of convention,” he wrote, “must be hunted down;” dépaysement would allow exploration of the familiar “as if it were an unknown, foreign reality” (Warehime 1996: 89). 44 Chapter Three
The Surrealists’ desire to access and decode this hidden reality led directly to their fascination with primitive art forms such as graffiti. Following Breton’s lead, Surrealists tended to reject modern art such as Cubism as part of a mere sequence of styles produced by, and linked to, the machinations of “daylight” museum and commercial culture. On the other hand, “objets sauvages” were concrete embodiments of “an ‘other’ world view,” evidence of “a creative logic that implicitly challenged Western conventions” (Warehime 1996: 93, 101). As such, graffiti—along with primitive art, the art of children and the work of naive painters and mediums—“all suggested the treasures of the human unconscious” which “held clues to the nature and meaning of the artistic impulse.” According to this view, graffiti might be appreciated, as Baudelaire suggests, as “childhood recaptured at will” (Warehime 1996: 99; Brassai 2002: 9). The dissident Surrealist, Georges Bataille, took a more aggressive, materialistic stance. He argued that art originated in man’s desire to transgress, destroy, deform and mutilate, a desire initially satisfied by primitive scratching and marking of wall surfaces, which in turn suggested graffiti as a particularly potent “trace” or “stain” of the original human impulse toward art. What attracted Bataille to informal wall art was that the “dirtying of a clean wall,” most frequently in the “low” form of obscene graphic or a dirty word, functioned as a scatological device exposing what is unclean about the proper name it transposes (Bois and Krauss 1997: 115). In the 1930s, the photographer Brassai, influenced by the Surrealist theory of objets sauvages, became fascinated with Parisian graffiti. Brassai was attracted to these scratchings, many deeply etched into the stonework of the city, because they seemed to have greater expressive force than more formally conceived and perfectly executed works of art. For him the wall was a liminal space, a “shadowy zone with uncertain boundaries where the ‘propositions’ of nature and man’s ‘dispositions’ meet halfway.” Because graffiti divorces expressive value from issues of technical mastery, Brassai felt it embodied an aesthetic where “awkwardness can signify grandeur, clumsiness ingenuity... they can be marks of authentic creation” (Brassai 2002: 9). He appreciated graffiti (and the primitive) as a “mutation” which allowed modern art to serve as a reaction against the evils of modern technology. “Is it possible,” he wrote, “that modern art is the standard bearer of an underground revolt against the crimes of mechanized civilization?” (Warehime 1996: 167)1. Modernism’s relentless appropriation of the graffiti aesthetic continued in the post-World War II period. For example, the Spanish painter Antoni Tapies scratched and gouged letters, numbers and signs into the surfaces The Writings on the Wall 45 of his canvases which often had the physical texture of walls and doors, claiming that his work “had something of the graffiti of the streets... repressed, clandestine, but full of life” (Grimes 2012; Elger and Grosenick 2008: 70-71). In America the squiggles and drips of Jackson Pollock’s “action painting” were appreciated precisely because they appeared to be an expressway to primitive, primeval forces underlying all authentic artistic creation, hence formed a direct line to existential “freedom” in an increasingly artificial world dominated by bureaucracy, science, and technology.
Fig. 3-2. Cy Twombly, “Apollo and the Artist” (1975). Photo by Martin Pulaski. Creative Commons Attribution license.
Other modernists appropriated graffiti motifs directly. In early works such as “Panorama” (1955), Cy Twombly “recoded Jackson Pollock’s linear skein, to read as the gouged and scored surface of the graffiti-laden wall, thereby lowering its associations with the ‘purity’ of abstract art.” In this way, according to Bois and Krauss, graffiti became part of a struggle for the formless in art, an operation that works to displace conventional 46 Chapter Three categories such as form and content in the discussion, evaluation, and appreciation of art (Bois and Krauss 1997: 115, 15). In the 1980s, artists such as Keith Haring and Jean-Michel Basquiat drew on graffiti and the culture of the streets for inspiration. Basquiat with Al Dias created the tag SAMO (Same Old Shit), and Haring’s reputation was made by plastering the subway trains and stations of Manhattan’s Lower East side with his “radiant child” logo. But graffiti was quickly appropriated by the mainstream as just another potentially “in” style. Almost overnight, it moved up from the streets to the burgeoning SoHo gallery scene, where artists like Basquiat and Haring were befriended by, and later collaborated with, established artists such as Andy Warhol. Haring even opened his own Pop Shop which, like Warhol’s Factory, dispensed a steady stream of (cheap) artifacts (Stiles and Selz 1996: 293).
Three types of graffiti
As mass urban graffiti became more visible in American cities during the 1960s and 1970s, sociologists, anthropologists, and cultural analysts began to record and document this new urban phenomenon as well as undertake serious analysis of it. Early on Jon Naar assembled the first photographic record of the new street imagery and writers like Norman Mailer were engaged to write literary appreciations (Mailer and Naar 2009). However, to understand the anthropological, cultural and aesthetic characteristics of modern urban graffiti, we must first distinguish it from earlier types of illicit wall writing. Following Susan Phillips, Jeff Ferrell, and others, I identify three main types of graffiti: popular, political, and community-based. Each type varies in terms of subject matter; degree of openness with respect to participants, meaning, and audience; and the overall purpose or function. Within each graffiti type, several distinct sub- genres exist. For example, latrinalia, or bathroom graffiti, is a genre of popular graffiti which appears throughout history; however, gang and hip hop graffiti are modern variants of community graffiti which only emerge under specific socio-economic and cultural conditions. For the most part, historical graffiti is popular graffiti (“graffiti of the common man”). Popular graffiti comprises a wide variety of markings and inscriptions including phallic symbols, obscene jokes, and witty comments (the staples of “bathroom humor”) as well as initials and dates carved into school desks, trees, tourist attractions, and landmarks. As such, popular graffiti is what Susan Phillips calls a grab bag of “the eat me’s and fuck The Writings on the Wall 47 you’s, the love proclamations, and the so and so’s were here” (Phillips 1999: 47). Generally popular graffiti aims at openness and inclusively: the more people who are offended by or get the joke or message, or know you were there, the better. Consequently, popular graffiti is written in the “national language” and exploits widely recognized symbols and images to create a broad universe of meaning accessible to the widest audience. Popular graffiti thus comprises both public graffiti: inscriptions of initials, names and code names which form an “announcement of one’s identity, a kind of testimonial to one’s existence in a world of anonymity;” and private graffiti (bathroom graffiti) produced in connection with private acts of sex and bodily elimination. As a written version of things that usually exist and survive only in oral speech, private graffiti celebrates already marginalized or taboo words. Because production of private graffiti is motivated by “unconscious impulses and conflicts” rather than the more mundane “need to leave some trace of one’s own existence,” it “touches on themes inherently of greater interest than public graffiti.” For this reason, private graffiti is a favourite of Freudian and psycho-analytic interpretation and is the kind of graffiti to which the Surrealists were overwhelmingly attracted (Abel and Buckley 1977:17). On the other hand, political graffiti records the concerns of individuals and groups that are in some way orientated towards organized or state power (its criticism, reform, take-over, or abolition). Political graffiti ranges from slogans praising or denouncing candidates running for office (plenty of this on the walls of antiquity) to more contemporary declarations of the virtues of this or that movement or cause (anarchism, women’s liberation, animal rights, etc.). Like popular graffiti, political graffiti (however odious the cause) aims to be as open and inclusive as possible, using easy to read messages and well-known symbols (for example, the peace sign or the anarchists letter “A”) to get the message across. Here the illicit public mark appears as a message, slogan, or comment designed to broaden the appeal of a campaign or movement and attract new members to the cause. Often political graffiti functions as a highly visible and public appendage to organized social or political movements, reinforcing, extending, and supplementing the official paraphernalia of buttons, posters and pamphlets. Not surprisingly, the visibility of political graffiti increases during times of political instability when a variety of groups see change as both possible and desirable. Extensive graffiti of this sort accompanied the 1968 student uprising in Paris, the conflict in Northern Ireland, and the collapse of the Soviet Union. Indeed, political graffiti flourished in Britain 48 Chapter Three in the late 1970s and early 1980s as post-World War II consensus politics broke down under the Thatcher revolution. Many groups including feminists, anti-nuclear campaigners, animal rights groups and anarchists used graffiti to poke holes in the unspoken assumptions and values which underpinned capitalist culture and politics (Posener 1982). Compared to popular and political graffiti, community graffiti is less open. For the most part, community graffiti is produced by relatively closed groups (groups with restricted membership) who usually have specific, often limited, interests and goals. These interests might include economic survival, protection from other groups, or affirmation of identity and acquisition of status. Unlike popular or political graffiti, community- based graffiti is typically heavily coded so as to hide or obscure meaning from outsiders. For example, during the Depression hobos used special words and symbols to communicate useful information among them (Phillips 1999: 47).
Gang and hip hop graffiti as community graffiti
Gang and hip hop graffiti are today particularly prominent forms of community graffiti. Both genres originated during the 1960s and 1970s in America’s impoverished inner cities. As such, they are complementary expressions of minority youth alienation, self-invented institutions for establishing identity and acquiring status among the urban poor who face living in an exclusionary and discriminating mainstream culture. As the result of systematic urban disinvestment, middle-class flight to the suburbs, and race-based politics of discrimination, by the 1960s many inner city residents in the US found themselves living in an environment which effectively blocked entry into mainstream culture where ambitions for status and recognition may be won legitimately (principally through participation in the labor market). Unable to win recognition and status legitimately, inner city teenagers were compelled to “create institutions to satisfy this need.” With few socio-cultural resources at hand, many found that status and identity could only be achieved at the expense of “an aggressive act against one’s own community” (Ley 1974: 125). Gangs typically form under conditions of severe class divisions, ethnic or racial discrimination, and pervasive and intense inequality when young urban residents—usually minority males—perceive little chance for participation in the wider society and conclude that change is unlikely or impossible. Thus “the teenage gang is an invention of the inner city for ascribing status where status is in short supply.” For the most part, gangs are extremely local and operate on a block or neighbourhood basis. Gangs The Writings on the Wall 49 and gang members compete among each other to win reputation and status through violence as “each seeks to emulate the other in being bad, for badness is an extolled value” (Ley 1974: 127).
The four elements of gang graffiti
Over time, gang graffiti evolved as a distinct genre of wall writing. As such it has little in common with popular or political graffiti; it is not concerned with putting up jokes or witticisms or calls to action, nor is its primary motivation the production of style (as is more the case with hip hop wall writers). Gang graffiti is largely for internal consumption by members only. While names and identifications may be given, these are always nicknames or gang names, and the messages are coded to hide the meaning from outsiders. Indeed, as “initials, numbers, aesthetic and symbolic codes,” gang graffiti is directed towards people who “already understand what it means” (Phillips 1999: 47).
Fig. 3-3. Gang graffiti in Trenton, New Jersey. Photo by James Dickinson.
According to Susan Phillips’ definitive study of graffiti in Los Angeles, gang graffiti comprises four distinct, but interrelated, kinds of wall writing. First, “hitting up” or “striking” involves the common, repeated practice of covering virtually every prominent surface in the neighborhood with the name of the gang or clique, or with the signature of the writer. While these scribbles tend to lack charm or aesthetic value, hitting up is an 50 Chapter Three important activity that not only shows the support of a particular writer for the neighborhood but also serves to delineate the neighborhood in relation to other groups. In this way, hitting up symbolizes gang presence in the area while simultaneously sending a message or warning to others. Hitting up allows gang members to insert themselves into the local scenery. By writing gang names and personal nicknames for fellow homeboys to see around hangouts, on storefronts, or near the places where someone has died, gang members “create a landscape full of social and historical references that bind them to their neighborhoods and give them a sense of place” (Phillips 1999: 120). Hitting up is thus part of what Phillips calls “representing,” a range of activities by which people create their own culture2. Hitting up also has a strong territorial component. In an early study of graffiti in Philadelphia, Ley and Cybriwsky found neighborhood graffiti to be “an accurate indication of turf ownership.” Because a gang’s “sphere of movement is fixed rather than fluid, confined rather than expansive,” gang graffiti closely followed the actual patterns of movement of inner city graffiti writers. As a general rule, the researchers found “the incidence of gang graffiti became denser with increasing proximity to the core of the territory.” They reported that gang boundaries “found a ready acceptance by neighborhood youth as an accurate portrayal of each gang’s area of control.” Not surprisingly, for a gang member to live in alien turf was “both unusual and dangerous.” Indeed, neighborhood teenagers, whether gang members or not, had to take gang graffiti into account “in the paths they follow and the areas they use” (Ley and Cybriwsky 1974: 495-6). Like the law, ignorance of graffiti’s meaning is no excuse. “Roll calls,” another component of gang graffiti, are relatively formal gang membership lists which reveal the particular constituency of a gang at a given point in time. Carefully scripted and placed in a prominent location in the community, the roll call defines who does and does not belong to a gang or clique. To be included on a roll call, an individual must have a nickname and have been initiated into gang membership. If a member is deemed not to have done sufficient “hitting up” work, then he may be excluded from the list. Like hitting up, roll calls are pride- affirming, hence generally positive, statements about group belonging. However, “crossing out” involves a more aggressive form of writing. Gang members may enter a rival barrio, often at considerable risk, to deface or cross out a name. According to Phillips, the motivation here is more than simple territorial aggrandizement; crossing out is part of gang politics, a way for a gang to establish itself as the most powerful in the community. Repeated crossings out are therefore emblematic of the The Writings on the Wall 51
“symbolic battles for primacy within a wider political community.” By challenging other writers’ marks, gangs involve each other in “discontinuous dialogues that are ritual struggles for power and recognition” (Phillips 1999: 118). Crossing out a rival’s name can be an indicator of impending violence (Farrell 2011). Finally, “RIPs” are memorials to gang members lost in the course of inter-gang struggles and rivalries. With death commonplace and expected in a world that values “badness” above all else, memorial graffiti are part of an elaborate grieving process devised to honor lost members. Memorials may honor a recently fallen individual, or be modified to include the name of others who have died in the neighborhood. Generally, RIPs are more elaborate and aesthetically sophisticated than other forms of gang graffiti. In Philadelphia, for example, memorials may include a portrait of the deceased decked out or surrounded by objects important to them—gold jewelry, cars, and other symbols of conspicuous mainstream consumption. In Los Angeles, Chicano gangs use religious imagery to express loss: praying hands, skulls, the Virgin of Guadeloupe. Since RIPs take time to execute and usually exhibit some aesthetic value, store owners often give permission for such memorials to be painted on their walls, hoping that their presence will deter the less attractive forms of gang graffiti (Phillips 1999; Dickinson 2011; Vergara 1996).
Hip hop graffiti
Hip hop graffiti is another sub-cultural example of “the adroitness of the inner city in creating its own institutions in which status roles may be enacted” (Ley 1974: 126). Hip hop wall writing has its origins in the 1960s when legendary Philadelphia graffiti kings such as CORNBREAD (Darryl McCray) and KOOL KLEPTO KIDD (Bobby Kidd) established reputations by tagging widely in North and West Philadelphia respectively, and, as legend has it, by “getting up” on police cars, elephants at the zoo, and even the Jackson Five’s plane at the airport. However, as more people got involved with graffiti, CORNBREAD and others had to develop more creative lettering styles, adding embellishments such as crowns, hats and dollar sighs to their tags to stand out from the crowd. According to Kidd, the idea was “to get a little fancy, but you don’t want to go overboard” (Gaston and Neelon 2010: 50). After all, speed of execution was essential to avoid apprehension and arrest. From the beginning, a career in wall writing of this kind was seen as an alternative to involvement with gang culture. As CORNBREAD put it: “I wasn’t going to get involved with no gangs or shoot no dope, so I started 52 Chapter Three writin’ on buses. I just started with a magic marker an’ worked up” (quoted in Ley and Cybriwsky 1974: 495). Sharing community walls with gang members allowed writers to imitate the stylized forms of gang graffiti so their tags increasingly became “elongated and aggregated: a dip turned into a hook and then swirl; and whimsical letter shapes leaned to one side while standing on feet or platforms” (Gaston and Neelon 2010: 52). Philadelphia styles traveled quickly to New York where they were instrumental in shaping graffiti and wall writing conventions emerging there. As one New York writer acknowledged “the kind of writing that is on our walls—highlighting names and egos—began in Philadelphia” (Gastman and Neelon 2010: 52). By the early 1970s, incubating within a cultural hothouse of DJing, rap music and break dancing, wall writing blossomed into what became known as hip hop graffiti (“New York style” or “subway art”) characterized by balloon lettering, calligraphic extravaganzas, and ever more elaborate spray painted masterpieces, including the epitome of “all over” subway car decoration (Naar 2007; Cooper and Chalfont 1988). The style returned to Philadelphia and spread quickly to other US cities and major metropolitan areas. Over time hip hop’s transcendental aesthetic qualities, evident lack of overt politics, and commercial-friendly cartoon style helped it travel far from its origins. Spread through magazines, digital photography shared via the Internet, travel, and music, hip hop graffiti became a global phenomenon as well as international youth subculture and has been the dominant style for much illicit wall art in Europe, Latin America and elsewhere (Snyder 2010: 8). As Ferrell writes: “In Amsterdam, London, Frankfurt, and other major cities and towns throughout Great Britain, the Netherlands, and Germany—innumerable tags and murals decorated school buildings, apartment houses, bridge abutments, walkways, and especially the walls in and around train stations and subway platforms. While many tags and pieces certainly incorporated individual innovations, they also reproduced with remarkable precision the stylistic conventions of hip hop culture” (Ferrell 1996:11). Although they both draw recruits from the same pool of impoverished inner city residents, gang writers and hip hop crews are different entities and attract different people. Hip hop subcultures are generally far less territorial than gangs. Whereas gang graffitists are driven to defend neighborhood turf or establish the protective shell of a “bad” reputation, hip hop writers aim to achieve fame and recognition among a group of wall-writing peers. As Phillips writes: “Crew members may act like gang members in that they are sometimes violent towards one another. But they The Writings on the Wall 53 are not driven by the context of protecting neighborhood spaces or themselves through development of a reputation. Their goals always relate to their art, achieving fame and respect for themselves and their crew through graffiti production” (Phillips 1999: 312). Graffiti also constitutes an important site for construction of male identity. By engaging in an activity which continually confronts them with risk and danger, writers “achieve the defining elements of their masculine identities: resilience, bravery and fortitude” (Macdonald 2003: 101). With the erosion in contemporary society of family and community-based rituals to mark and give order to the life course, graffiti subcultures increasingly take the place of these more formally structured initiation rites into adult male identities. Indeed, as Macdonald’s study of graffiti culture in London and New York makes clear, the “hazardous environment” of graffiti production is overwhelmingly “designed to facilitate masculine competition and is no place for a woman.” Indeed, with respect to issues of gender and sexuality, the graffiti subculture is “paradoxically traditional.” Women are expected to embody feminine values and occupy traditional roles such as that of the writer’s girlfriend who stands on the sideline “anxiously awaiting her hero’s return.” Female writers generally faces hostility and opposition from their male counterparts, and often her status as a woman (looks, physical appearance) is “elevated above her status as a writer” (Macdonald 2003: 139, 145). Despite their contribution to visual blight, hip hop crews provide a real and important alternative to gang involvement, removing at-risk youth from the pool of potential gang members. While gang membership is usually individual and life long, taggers can belong to several crews or switch affiliation with ease. Thus, as youngsters become occupied “getting crew up,” and struggle to become known and famous by making visible art, the insular character and limited outlook of the neighborhood gang is broken down. As Phillips writes: “These goals propel kids outside their neighborhoods to locales where gang members rarely travel, finding themselves circumscribed by their own affiliation. Because crews go up all over the city, the people who join them break down the walls of imprisonment that gangs have so forcefully built up within localized neighborhood areas.” As a result, “dedication to hip hop art forms has enabled many to expand their horizons and overcome the constrictions of growing up among the urban poor”—a point often lost on authorities who, failing to distinguish between gang and hip hop graffiti, proceed to criminalize both kinds of wall writing (Phillips 1999: 314). Some go further, arguing for hip hop as a surrogate culture teaching science, history and literacy no longer transmitted effectively through 54 Chapter Three mainstream educational institutions. As hip hop advocates Antonio Lopez and Mike “360” Ipiotis write: “[Hip hop] substitutes many of the elements ineffectively provided by the dominant society. When displaced youth don’t have access to their traditions and culture, hip hop provides a school of life...Literacy and linguistic skills are taught through rapping, visual art and geometry skills are learned through graffiti art...” True hip hop, they argue, exhibits an extra “fifth” dimension “building consciousness which allows access to a deeper level of the self, to cultivate the universal truths within” (Lopez and Ipiotis 2007). Given their focus on violence and badness, it is unlikely gangs could be the basis for an equivalent awakening. As hip hop crews and individual taggers compete with each other to acquire power and fame, they establish reputations for rebellion and self- expression. Among hip hop wall writers, graffiti is ranked in terms of quantity of work produced (hence its ubiquity in the community); its exposure or visibility (especially to other graffiti artists); the quality of the work (style, originality and technique); and the degree of risk involved in getting it up (its location). Writers who “get up” more than others (i.e. make work in dangerous and inaccessible places), and who concentrate on producing difficult and time-consuming pieces, gain the most status and respect. Like gang graffiti, hip hop graffiti comprises several distinct forms of wall writing. Most common by far are “tags,” “Zen-like repetitions” according to Phillips of initials or nicknames with little aesthetic value which cover virtually every surface, fixed and movable, especially within the less privileged parts of the city including walls, windows, storefronts, doorways, telephones, lamp posts, street signs, mail boxes, concrete barriers, delivery vans, and so on. In his study of hip hop graffiti in Denver, Ferrell suggests tagging at this level is subject to a number of rules and conventions including: readability by others, accomplished unobtrusively at night, avoidance of stone or sculptural surfaces, tagging near other tags so as to “fit in,” and avoiding defacing “clean spots.” As one writer put it, “I go out where the winos are, where the bums are, and where its rotting and I beautify it.” Heavy, indiscriminate tagging, Ferrell suggests, is associated with the early stages of a writer’s career (Ferrell 1996:75, 68). Tagging productivity is also explained by the taggers’ philosophy: “It’s the doing of it that counts.” As the New York tagger CAY 161 tried to explain to Norman Mailer, “the name is the faith of graffiti” (Mailer and Naar 2009: 8).
The Writings on the Wall 55
Fig. 3-4. Wildstyle “burner” nearing completion at TerraCycle, Trenton, NJ. Photo by James Dickinson.
Since quantity and visibility of tags are important in establishing a reputation, taggers typically travel far beyond neighbourhood boundaries, taking considerable risks to put signatures in prominent positions on the main streets and buildings of downtown as well as in other exotic locales including Interstate highway and freeway abutments and bridges, and along rail corridors running through urban and industrial areas. In some cities, taggers have begun using hydrofluoric acid mixed with other chemicals to etch signatures on storefront and other windows, thus reinforcing the popular idea of graffiti as destructive and expensive vandalism (Hurvitz 2001). “Throwups” are larger, more carefully rendered balloon-style letterings, often done in two or three colours and placed in a prominent, hard-to-get-at spot that maximize visibility. Balloon letterings developed into three-dimensional, calligraphic pieces so complicated that they are hard to decipher without help from the artist are examples of what is called “wildstyle.” Finally, “pieces” (short for “masterpieces”) are mural-sized wonders of spray-can art; vibrant, energetic, and colourful, these often form elaborate graphics inspired by comic-book art, make a witty observation about inner-city life, or memorialize victims of street violence. In the early days, when New York writers were famous for “getting up” on the subway cars, “pieces” were defined in terms of how much of the 56 Chapter Three subway car was covered. “Top to bottoms” were writings that ran from the bottom to the top of the car, but not the full length; “end to ends” ran from one end of a subway car to the other; and “whole cars” were covered top to bottom and end to end, including windows. Once in a while, a “whole train” might be achieved, as in 1976 when an entire eleven-car train was painted in bicentennial colours (Castleman 1982). Hip hop writers also engage in aggressive forms of wall writing. “Going over” is when a new work partially or completely obscures an existing piece, and sends a message about the relation of the current writer to the previous one plus the broader subculture as a whole; as a rule, the work of “kings” is far less likely to be written over than that of “toys” (inexperienced or inept writers). “Dissin’”, however, is to rebut a tag by making a work which is an intentional insult or affront. Because of the size and complexity of pieces, wall writers may use sketchbooks (“piecebooks”) to plan compositions in advance. Sometimes taking days to complete, ambitious pieces depend on cooperation among a number of writers; because of the great investment of time and resources, hidden or protected walls are favourite spots for execution. Increasingly permission walls and club houses allow writers to experiment and perfect styles without fear of apprehension by authorities. Although the goal of a masterpiece is to build and cement a reputation, occasionally the graffiti aesthetic may approach the threshold of officially recognized art. On the strength of their masterpieces, wall writers may be recruited for art shows, earn private commissions, or design commercial signage for neighbourhood businesses. Bars, bodegas, and auto parts stores often exploit the graffiti look and style in the advertising they pay to have applied to exterior walls. Others may gravitate to formal art studies or participate in official mural painting programs (usually designed as a visual antidote to graffiti art) or, like Mike “360”, become active in youth education. Graffiti artists usually see themselves as improving the urban environment by “enlivening a drab and dismal city with bright and colourful designs.” Labeled by officials as vandals, delinquents and criminals, graffitists acknowledge they violate conventional norms with respect to property and public expression, yet often feel they derive energy from constant tension and conflict with city authorities. Such tensions are often the source of the “addictive rush” that accompanies wall writing, fueling the desire to repeat the activity. As Ferrell writes: “The adrenaline rush of graffiti writing—the moment of illicit pleasure that comes from the intersection of creativity and illegality—signifies a resistance to authority, a resistance experienced as much in the pit of the stomach as in the head” (Ferrell 1996: 110). The Writings on the Wall 57
The future of graffiti
Since antiquity civic authorities have waged war against graffiti. In ancient Rome city officials attempted to curb graffiti by painting pictures of deities on latrine walls, thus daring potential graffitists to profane what should be revered. Today municipal officials invariably claim graffiti decreases property values, drives away business, demoralizes and intimidates residents, and discourages tourism and economic redevelopment. Consequently, many cities pursue costly anti-graffiti campaigns. New York, for example, spent millions developing and installing graffiti-proof materials for subway trains. The city has also adopted “zero tolerance” policies for petty transgressions like graffiti, and recently tried to ban the sale of “graffiti instruments” such as glass-etching acid, broad-tipped markers and spray paint to those under twenty one. In 2005 more than two thousand “graffiti vandals” were arrested using digital cameras and by tracing photos posted by wall writers on social media sites (Snyder 2009: 6-7). Other cities such as Philadelphia combine graffiti abatement and removal with an ambitious program of officially sponsored public art, painting municipal murals on walls to compete with as well as discourage or veil less attractive forms of illicit street art (Dickinson 2013; Rice 1999). Since anti-graffiti policies generally fail to separate gang from hip hop graffiti and are typically insensitive to both the anthropological imperatives of vernacular markings and the culture and psychology of youth alienation, identity, and repression, their ability to eliminate graffiti or redirect the impulse towards more benign ends is likely limited. Competition from new forms of graffiti also challenges the visual dominance of established forms of wall writing. In many cities in the US, Europe and elsewhere a large supply of cheap live-work spaces in old industrial zones attract artists, printers and designers whose art-school credentials favour new forms of cut-out, poster, stencil and sticker graffiti which now cover the streetscape in a blizzard of novel graphic inscriptions. However, whether decoratively inclined, commercially orientated or politically motivated, these mechanically-produced graffiti represent a return to popular and political forms of earlier times and have little appeal for classic gang and hip hop wall writers whose urge to transgress emanate from a political economy status and a subculture of group cohesion, identity and meaning organized around the production of names and style. Since conditions favoring gang formation have not abated, rather have intensified in many urban areas in recent years, gang graffiti continues to multiply in the streetscape, marking drug turf and threatening rivals (Farrell 2011). Despite pressures against it, especially in cities with 58 Chapter Three established graffiti traditions like Philadelphia and New York, hip hop wall writing “continues to be part of the urban aesthetic” (Snyder 2009: 8). Often graffiti crews maintain club houses or permission walls where they experiment developing new styles, socialize aspiring writers into the norms of hip hop culture, hold graffiti workshops, and organize graffiti jams which attract wall writers and crews from other cities and neighborhoods. Indeed, as community-based graffiti, graffiti wall writing is part of a self-conscious lifestyle developed, sustained and reproduced in a transgressive subculture. As Will KASSO Condry, a prominent wall writer from Trenton, NJ, puts it, “Graffiti is an art-form…and also a lifestyle. If you want to learn the art, then study and put in the work. If you want to live the lifestyle…understand what you are getting into and the potential consequences that come with that. If you choose to do both, then be true and be you.” Today many are still attracted to such a philosophy.
Notes
1 But as Warehime (1996: 167) points out, by taking photographs of graffiti Brassai plucked them from the context where they operated as ethnographic windows to another reality; by elevating graffiti to the level of art, Brassai's photographs thus ironically “mediate and dissipate their impact as intentionally disruptive signs of presence.” 2 According to Phillips (1999: 7-8) in representing, different gang activities become analogous: “people and graffiti become neighborhood landmarks, tattooing adorns the body as do clothes, hand signing becomes spray paint on a wall.” As a result, “the gang is nothing more than the ways that gang members represent it through diverse practices.”
CHAPTER FOUR
CARDIFF, A MULTIETHNIC CITY: PHOTOGRAPHY, MEMORY AND IDENTITY
ANA GONÇALVES
Introduction
Cities are the hubs of political and economic systems and the loci of social and cultural transformation. As magnets of social interaction, these imagined geographies are “the crucibles of the new, places of mixing and the creation of new identities” (Massey et al., 1999: 1). Underpinned by a never-ending flow of people, goods and services, within structures of capital and power, both material and symbolic, the urban fabric offers itself as an exceptional terrain for the analysis of the ways in which urban cultures and societies are shaped, as well as for the problematisation of the complex character of individual and collective memories and identities, how these are forged and negotiated in relation to urban identity. As a post-industrial city that was once a renowned port town specialised in the export of coal to different parts of the world and that has hosted a multiethnic and multicultural community attracted by the docklands’ labour pool, this paper will focus on Cardiff, the capital of Wales. Cardiff has experienced overall cultural and social reinvention, in tandem with urban rejuvenation and economic restructuring processes since the late 1980s, and especially since Wales became a devolved nation in the late 1990s and its capital status was reinforced as the seat of national government. The buzzword triad of culture, entertainment and consumption now orients the everyday practices of those who live in and visit Cardiff and has been contributing to turning Cardiff into “a world-class European capital city”—the (over?) ambitious mantra endorsed by the city’s local authorities. Culture and the arts now assume a functional role as they serve to enhance the city’s newly created spaces and venues and to buttress Cardiff’s economic resurgence and competitiveness. New ways of consuming 60 Chapter Four the city and its spaces have thus emerged, which now rely on the spectacular glitz and glitter of the urban landscape and on the promotion of ephemeral hedonistic experiences. Stemming from photographic representations of Cardiff as a “multiethnic cauldron”, this paper aims at problematising and reflecting on questions of memory and identity, their complexity and mutability, on how different immigrant groups understand their relationship and belonging to the Welsh capital and on how their individual and collective narratives have simultaneously shaped and been shaped by Cardiff’s ever- changing urban identity.
Cities’ social and cultural mosaic through the camera’s lens
During the 19th and early 20th centuries cities embraced the advent and innovations of modernity, namely the soaring rationalization of political and economic life, the technological advances in transport and communication, and the exceptional agglomeration of people that turned these sites into socially and culturally dynamic arenas. Cities constitute the physical materialisations of human imagination, the loci of diversity in all its forms, and the privileged arena for social interaction. However, urbanisation endorsed by the present global order has created a paradoxical predicament. Although an increasing number of people now live together in great agglomerations, they have nonetheless become increasingly individualised and individualistic, contributing to accentuating the disengagement of contemporary societies and the progressive decline of communities. Cities now struggle to meet global demands and expectations, where economic-driven escalating competition among countries and cities (not to mention among individuals themselves) has held sway in everyday life priorities, in an unprecedented quest to secure global investment and international tourism. In addition, cultural replication seems to have become the norm, at the same time that cities are pressed by the need to preserve their historical legacies and individual and collective memories, essential to maintaining their unique cultural identities. Part of this ambiguity lies in the fact that the cultural diversity each city boasts is simultaneously important to the sameness people expect to find among destinations and contributes to the formation and reinvention of a city’s cultural identity—“a beacon that shines out to consumers” (Pride in Morgan et al., 2004: 161). As spatial constructs that can only be understood within their specific historical, cultural and economic frameworks, which are simultaneously Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity 61 local and international, transnational and/or global, cities are constructed and shaped by a patchwork of past and present residents and visitors that echo, but also oppose, the prevalent structures of hegemonic power, as the city also produces the existence of interstitial spaces of contestation and resistance that enable the expression of dissident voices and alternative discourses to the mainstream culture. Yet the ways in which historical narratives, memories and identities are consumed nowadays have been subjected to an “invention of tradition” (Hobsbawm and Ranger, 1983), which is oriented not by contemplation or “meditative silence”, but otherwise understood as an asset to “entertaining the masses” (Lipovetsky, 2005: 59); a continuous spectacle to delight the insatiable eye of contemporary societies while memories have turned into leisure devices and identities have become more fluid and malleable, a matter of individual or collective choice rather than just a byproduct of social and cultural construction. Memories and identities are then reinvented and remembered in the city’s “representational space” (Lefebvre, 1991) and mediated through representations, culturally produced and reproduced signifying practices (Hall, 1997) that have the power to make the world intelligible. Visual imagery is one of the means that supports the collective remembrance of the city’s (and the nation’s) past (Eber and Neal, 2001), shapes personal memories and provides individuals with “a coherent identity, a national narrative, a place in the world” (Said in Mitchell, 2002: 245). It is through images that individuals represent the world they live in and that they assign meaning to it (Sturken and Cartwright, 2001: 1), as they are the product of a “shared set of values and beliefs through which individuals live out their complex relations to a range of social structures” (Sturken and Cartwright, 2001: 21). Photography appeared in the 19th century under the aegis of Positivism, stemming from “the belief that empirical truths can be established through visual evidence” (Sturken and Cartwright, 2002: 16). Two centuries later, photography is still “ordinarily seen as [one of] the most perfectly faithful reproduction[s] of the real” (Bourdieu, 1990: 77) and “considered to be a perfectly realistic and objective recording of the visible world because (from its origin) it has been assigned social uses that are held to be “realistic” and “objective” (Bourdieu, 1990: 74), even though these uses reflect the outcome of a process of selection and interpretation on the part of the photographer, who is socially and culturally influenced and dependent upon the context in which the photograph is being produced. Photography is thus profusely employed when representing cities and their social and cultural milieux and diversity as “photographs come to stand partially as foci of memory themselves and partially, but never 62 Chapter Four wholly, for moments in which those people existed—mythically presented as ‘evermore’” (Edwards in Kwint et al., 1999: 226). Photography has become an everyday life democratized practice that allows the perpetuation of past events and their actors in pictorial form and, by doing so, it provides individuals in the present the possibility of witnessing events that they have never lived or experienced and of knowing people that they have never met, creating therefore an imagined memory of the past.
Cardiff: The making of a coaltropolis
From a small port in the 18th century, Cardiff turned into the world’s “coaltropolis” in mid-19th century, a condition that was grounded in the achievements instigated by the Industrial Revolution, the 25-mile Glamorganshire canal which opened in 1794 that linked Merthyr Tydfil in the Valleys with Cardiff’s docklands, the Taff Railway inaugurated in 1840, and by the different docks that were built throughout the 19th and early 20th centuries in Cardiff and that determined the city’s development as a coal exporter to different parts of the world. Given the increasing demand for labour force in the docklands, Cardiff presented itself as an attractive site for different immigration flows that proved pivotal to turn the city into a multicultural and multiethnic cauldron and that contributed to its exponential population growth. In Daunton’s words:
The sparsely populated hinterland of Cardiff had become one of the most densely settled areas in the country, having experienced a 30-fold increase in population between 1801 and 1914 (Daunton, 1977: 6).
Fig. 4-1. General View of Cardiff Docks, c. 1894 by Edward T. Bush, Courtesy of Cardiff Central Library, Local Studies.
Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity 63
Many of these immigrants settled down in Butetown—also known as Tiger Bay, its most sensationalist name—a docklands’ working-class neighbourhood that was organised in small national quarters where each nationality contributed to the formation of a multiethnic community that shared everyday life practices in the street, in pubs and bars and in community halls. The Irish were the first to arrive in the 1840s and 1850s, seeking refuge from the Great Irish Famine, followed by the English and the Scots. But as Glenn Jordan states, “they were soon joined by immigrants from—it seemed—all over the world” (Jordan, 2005: 59-60), as the following graphic also demonstrates.
Fig. 4-2. Migrant Groups in Cardiff 1801-2001 in OPENCities Project Team, Strategy and Partnerships (2009), Copyright Permission granted by the Cardiff Council.
As Gonçalves and Thomas (2012) contend: “The strongly rooted self- image of the area’s residents was that Butetown/Tiger Bay was a place “of tolerance, respect and harmony” (Jordan and Weedon, 1995, p. 136) a “safe haven in a racist city”, “where unity was forged in the face of a city’s hostility and fear” (Thomas, 2004, p. 276-277)” (Gonçalves and Thomas, 2012: 6). However, Butetown came to acquire highly pejorative connotations and was often represented as a “dirty, violent, diseased and immoral” area (Jordan, 2001: 10), “a slum, both by physical and moral standards” which “the rest of the city did their best to ignore” (Evans et al., 1984: 54). 64 Chapter Four
Poor housing, health and education conditions also characterised the district and contributed to the increasing discrimination and psychological isolation of the neighbourhood from the rest of the town; a social and cultural enclave bounded by canals, the railway and the sea. It is estimated that in 1950 there were around 6,000 people from fifty- seven different nationalities living in this area, which extended for no more than a mile (Lloyd, 1950). Different written and visual accounts support the fact that, despite the existing ethnic, cultural and religious differences, these people managed to find ways of living peacefully together in their everyday life social and cultural practices.
Fig. 4-3. Family Life in Butetown, 1954 by Bert Hardy, ©Getty Images.
Bert Hardy’s 1950s photographs of the area tried to depict the everyday life of its residents, by acknowledging that “most of its people are like most people anywhere—quiet sorts who keep their kitchen-brass bright, who pat a dog on the head, and who face with courage the job of making ends meet” (Lloyd, 1950). This is probably the reason why the reception of these photographs by the residents of this community was significantly positive. For them, these images faithfully portrayed the reality they lived, in opposition to what was foregrounded in other accounts, especially in the mainstream British media, where they were often the victims of prejudice, racism and xenophobia. Another photographer to depict the docklands’ area and the life of this community was John Briggs in the 1970s (Briggs, 2002). Briggs is an American amateur photographer from Minnesota who came to Cardiff in Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity 65
1974 as a student to do teacher training and got acquainted with the docklands’s area and the changes it was being subjected to.
Fig. 4-4. Bay Boys, Bute Street, 1975, © John Briggs.
Images such as those by Hardy and Briggs are evidence to the fact that this community was real and unique. It had all the problems that other sailor ports had, but it also boasted an unrivalled harmony among different ethnic, cultural and religious groups. However, the 1st World War was to bring a devastating impact on this community since many men began to mobilise to war and soon the war began to spare no one from its death toll. Those who remained in Cardiff (especially women and foreigners) had to bear not only the absence and/or loss of their relatives, but also had to provide for the requirements of the war, such as coal and munitions, at the same time that their living conditions got harsher. Yet the definite blow on this community was to come after the 2nd World War when plans to demolish some of the areas of Butetown were announced by the City Council and eventually carried out in the 1950s and 1960s. The first urban changes took place in Loudoun Square, the so-called “coloured heart” of the community, where two- storeyed family houses were bulldozed and replaced by Le Corbusier-style high-tower residential buildings. As horizontality was replaced by verticality, social interaction in the streets was superceded by isolation behind closed doors since many of the neighbourhood’s former residents were rehoused in the edge of the city or in the city suburbs Butetown’s architectural redevelopment polarised opinions. Despite the belief that these urban changes would improve the living conditions in 66 Chapter Four the area, many suggested that the redevelopment was simply part of an act of sanitised cleansing or a slum clearance campaign, with the only aim to make Butetown “safe for respectable Cardiff” (Cowell and Thomas, 2002: 1252), but it was not successful in eradicating poverty and unemployment.
Fig. 4-5. Old and New stand side by side, 1969. Courtesy of The History Press.
Many of the places where Butetown/Tiger Bay community interacted have vanished and have been replaced by more visually attractive and modern developments, and although this dockland working-class community does not exist anymore, its memory remains on in the minds of former residents and their descendants. For outsiders, for those who now visit, live and work in Cardiff, it lingers on only in the written and visual representations that have outlived this community. The Butetown History & Arts Centre (BHAC), created in 1987 by Glenn Jordan, is one of the few organisations determined not to let the (hi)story of this community fall into oblivion. The BHAC was, indeed, created with the main goal “to ensure that the social and cultural history of Cardiff Docklands” would be “carefully collected and preserved for posterity” (in BHAC [Online]). By adopting a cultural democratic approach, the Centre has played a decisive role in remembering and reminding people of the existence of this community, by hosting different exhibitions, publishing various books, and organising community education courses. Butetown is still nowadays a significantly ethnic, cultural and religiously diverse district. According to the 2001 Census, 8,4% of Cardiff’s population was of Black and Minority Ethnic (BME) origin (in Office for Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity 67
National Statistics [Online]), although “more recent statistics estimate the figure to be 10.7%” (Cardiff Council, 2008: 5) and in the 2009 Annual Population Survey, 13.8% of the population in Cardiff (corresponding to 44,600 people out of a total of 323,800) actually identified as being from a non-white background (Office for National Statistics, 2010). Butetown, in particular, hosted a population of 4,487 people in 2001, with more than 30% of its inhabitants belonging to BME groups (in Office for National Statistics [Online]). Yet Butetown is ranked as “the fourteenth most deprived electoral division in Wales in terms of income and the eighth most deprived in terms of child poverty”, with more than a half of its residents (54.5%) living “in receipt of means-tested benefits”, and “around a quarter of the adult population of working age (...) [being] deprived of paid employment” (Hooper and Punter, 2006: 63). Butetown, together with Riverside, Grangetown, Plasnewydd, Adamsdown and Cathays, other neighbourhoods where most of the BME population lives, are the most deprived wards in Cardiff. This means that ethnic diversity is still very much associated with deprived geographical areas. According to Huw Thomas, “as Cardiff has grown, its non-white residents have not shared equitably in its success, and those from the docks community have benefited least of all” (Thomas, 2004: 274). It is, therefore, one of Cardiff’s most important challenges to reverse this situation and to become a truly inclusive city, something that should be an essential pre-requisite for any “world-class city” to be genuinely proud of this title.
Post-industrial Cardiff: Urban regeneration, waterfront revitalisation and economic restructuring
Cardiff’s specialisation in coal was not only the cause of its prosperity during the 19th century, but also the cause of the city’s industrial decline in the course of the 20th century. The progressive abandonment of coal exportation, gradually replaced by oil as a form of fuel, and the growing prosperity of neighbouring docks in Penarth and Barry prompted Cardiff to turn its back on the docks. Vast tracts of land became vacant and turned into industrial wastelands, causing an enduring process of deindustrialisation that swept through the waterfront’s districts and led to the exponential rise of unemployment and pauperisation. According to Daunton, “the saving factor” was that Cardiff had retained its administrative role as a regional capital and could reckon on its leadership after the “black gold” zenith it had lived (Daunton, 1977: 17). 68 Chapter Four
Cardiff consolidated its leading position in Wales after being appointed the country’s capital in 1955, a role that has enabled the city to benefit from hosting the headquarters of different public sector institutions and many other private sector companies, not to mention the nation’s most important events. Therefore, a widespread consciousness that Cardiff had to address sound city centre spatial planning to give it the capital cosmetics it lacked as the representative of (and for) Wales came to dominate the city’s urban discourse. The urban regeneration in Cardiff’s city centre was set in motion in the 1970s with the adoption of gradual piecemeal undertakings that consisted essentially in the two-staged implementation of an inner ring road, in the three-staged pedestrianisation of Queen Street, which began in 1974 and was completed in the 1980s, and the improvement of the Hayes area, with the opening of St. David’s Shopping Centre in 1981 and St. David’s Hall, a music venue, the following year. Yet the city centre has continued to experience intensive makeover until the present, including the opening of the Wales Millennium Stadium in 1999, the construction of the St. David’s 2 Shopping Centre, inaugurated in 2009, or the revitalisation of the Castle Quarter concluded in 2011, despite the fact that city centre regeneration was many times slowed down and postponed due to an increasing redirection of the city authorities’ attention to Cardiff’s forsaken docklands. Cardiff has emulated the trend of many North American cities in the 1970s, and of European cities in the 1980s, in the revitalisation of its waterfront. In fact, many of those who have criticised the development of Cardiff’s docklands believe that the city’s waterfront was “a mongrel, cross-bred by Baltimore Inner Harbour out of London Docklands” (Morgan, 1994: 64). Although urban renewal in Cardiff started in Butetown in the late 1950s, the Cardiff docklands’ mixed-used redevelopment was only considered in 1982 and it was not until 1987 that the Cardiff Bay Development Corporation (CBDC) was created. It became responsible for urban policy and regeneration in Cardiff and had the main purpose of:
“establishing Cardiff internationally as a superlative maritime city”, which would “stand comparison with any similar city in the world, enhancing the image and economic well being of Cardiff and of Wales as a whole” (Cardiff Bay Development Corporation and Llewelyn-Davies, 1988: 2).
In 1999 the CBDC’s most controversial project was inaugurated. The 0.7-mile Bay Barrage between Penarth Head and Queen Alexandra dock and the 494-acre permanent freshwater lake it created replaced the Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity 69 previously unattractive mudflats that were left exposed in the Bay for half of the day due to the Bristol Channel’s extreme tidal regime. The Barrage endured strong opposition especially due its excessive amount of investment, to its alleged environmental impact on what was an important feeding ground for bird species, and to concerns over the quality of the water of the impounded lake. Moreover, the underlying problem in the whole waterfront endeavour was that the Corporation’s mission statement “was not set up to benefit local people, or directly address poverty in Cardiff”; its concern was, instead, “to create an exciting internationally significant waterfront development” (Thomas, 2000: 30). In fact, the Corporation was accused of disregarding “employment targeting, imaginative training initiatives and equitable housing provision” (Rowley, 1994: 279) for those who lived in the Bay’s districts. Despite these criticisms, it cannot be neglected that without the construction of the Barrage it would have been virtually impossible to boost the development of a visually appealing landscape of waterside leisure and entertainment as the one that can be presently found in the Bay and that attracts so many visitors. “Europe’s most ambitious and exciting waterfront development”, the Bay’s promotional mantra, has been invested with new meanings and uses and inscribed with new economic, social, cultural and symbolic values, central to the renewed image of the Welsh capital. The Bay now hosts new and revitalised state-of-the-art buildings, modern artworks, cultural and sports venues holding major events and activities, a dining and entertainment area, as well as CCTV gated communities and luxury apartments which have turned the waterfront into a vibrant locus of entertainment, visuality and consumption, making the image of the former mudflats easily forgettable. The Bay has thus created a new social, cultural and environmental imaginary in the city (Cowell and Thomas, 2002), with renewed aesthetic and symbolic values. Cardiff’s city centre urban regeneration and waterfront revitalisation, coupled with a strong effort to place the city at the forefront of European cities with similar characteristics, have contributed to bolstering Cardiff’s economy in the past decades. The city’s economic performance has especially benefitted from its “capital effect”, since it became the host of different national public sector institutions, such as the National Assembly for Wales or the National Museum of Wales, but also of other iconic entertainment venues such as the Wales Millennium Stadium in the city centre and the Wales Millennium Centre in the Bay. Cardiff “experienced the largest percentage increase in total employment out of any of UK Core Cities between 1998 and 2004” (Clark, 2007: 118), with an increase of 26.9% (Cardiff Council, 2007: 10). The city is ranked 70 Chapter Four tenth in the list of the leading British business cities, increasingly attracting inward and foreign investment and allowing the establishment of indigenous and multinational businesses and companies.
Fig. 4-6. Cardiff Bay Inner Harbour pre-Barrage. © PLACE 1996 www.p-l-a-c-e.org.
Fig. 4-7. Bird’s Eye view on Cardiff Bay, 2011. © Andrew Hazard and www.visitcardiff.com.
Cardiff’s economy is nowadays strongly service-based, with 90% of the city’s total employment in the tertiary sector. Cardiff provides employment not only for those who live and work in the city, but also for the 74,200 people who commute to Cardiff every day, about 40% of the Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity 71 city’s workforce (Cardiff Council, 2012: 50). Therefore, Cardiff dominates employment in the South East Wales region, with 32% of the total region employment (Cardiff Council, 2012: 50). Key employment areas include public administration, health and education, financial and business services, and leisure, tourism, restaurant and hotel sectors (Bristow and Morgan in Hooper and Punter, 2006: 51). Despite Cardiff’s economic growth, there is still a clear economic cleavage between the north of the city, which contains “nine of the ten most socially advantaged wards in Wales” (Punter, 2010: 284), and the south of the city, Cardiff’s so-called ‘southern arc’, which is characterised by large pools of unemployment. However, it is also in the southern part of the city that the Bay’s gated communities and luxury apartment blocks are located, thus contributing to the formation of “two communities existing in the same space-time continuum” that “pass through each other as they move” but “rarely interact” (Finch, 2004: 158). In a nutshell, and as Bristow and Morgan have stated, “no one who returns to Cardiff after living elsewhere for some years can fail to be struck with how dramatically its appearance has changed” (Bristow and Morgan in Hooper and Punter, 2006: 51). Cardiff has managed to survive the decline of the coal trade and through urban regeneration, waterfront revitalisation and economic restructuring, it has modernised itself as an attractive post-industrial destination, a competitive regional city, and as a capital city capable of locating Wales on the world map again.
Problematising memory(-ies) and identity(-ies)
Identities are never fixed; they are dynamic, relational, “changing and changeable cultural constructs” (Weedon, 2004: 154) and today “more contingent, fragile, and incomplete and thus more amenable to reconstitution than was previously thought possible” (du Gay et al., 2000: 2). When applied to the self, identity is seen as a complex and pluralistic concept because each individual boasts a multiplicity of identities that are “made visible and intelligible to others through cultural signs, symbols and practices” (Weedon, 2004: 7). But identity becomes ever more elusive when applied to the urban environment and to place-making, where the construction of identity is aimed at distinguishing a given city from its main competitors, and in an indelible way. Urban identity is subjected to different perspectives and interpretations. To begin with, one may question what a city’s identity actually means or encompasses and who and what contributes to its formation. A city’s 72 Chapter Four residents and visitors and the way they appropriate urban spaces in their everyday activities play a pivotal role in shaping a city’s identity, but the city’s own historical background and cultural development, to which its former residents and visitors have contributed, are equally relevant. Another challenge is the abstractness and plurality of understandings that characterise the concept of identity, especially when applied to a city such as Cardiff, in which a wide array of individual and collective identities coexist. It is the sum total of these identities that gives the city a particular existence, a special feeling, a sort of a pulse, as if it were a living being (indeed it is not uncommon to personify a city, especially when characterising its dynamism or one’s close relationship with it). Puzzling reflection and interrogation about a city’s identity(-ies) becomes increasingly complex when considering a capital city, which allegedly represents a country’s manifold individual and collective identities and simultaneously spearheads a shared, unifying national identity. Despite the fact that there is now “a unified modern and western model for the creation of place” (Adam in Evans et al., 2011: 36), urban identity is also shaped in its distinctiveness, and as such it should reflect a city’s unique cultural history and memories, its local topography (the layout of buildings, the network of streets), the individual and collective memories that are formed over time and incorporated in the city’s buildings, monuments, museums, and public art, as well as the city’s intangible character, a feature of difficult definition that is usually associated with the city’s zeitgeist (the spirit of the age) and genius loci (the spirit of the place). Culture, language, ethnicities, values and beliefs, place myths, and urban dwellers’ own individual and collective identities that permeate the city at a given moment, all contribute to this atmosphere of the place. Urban identity is socially and culturally constructed and it constitutes and is constituted by these other identities and by people’s appropriation of and relationship with the urban environment. Therefore, “city identity is a combination of the aspirations and experiences of the citizens and those who visit” and is composed by the cities’ “physical heritage, local culture, and geographical context, overlaid with perceived remembrances” (Worthington in Evans et al., 2011: 72; 77). As Cardiff’s example demonstrates, in recent decades there has been a growing aestheticisation and commodification of city’s everyday life that has prioritised the visual spectacularisation of the urban environment with the aim of attracting global investment and international tourism. The promotion of hedonistic prospects, of new forms of leisure and entertainment, including a plethora of possibilities of consumption and festivalised urban spaces has become the leading priority for contemporary Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity 73 cities to become magnets for increasingly mobile and eclectic audiences, whose meanderings interweave with urban dwellers’ daily routines. Each city strives to create a unifying and consensual discourse that depicts and legitimises its prevalent hegemonic power and portrays an image that ought to meet the desires and expectations of visitors. Yet, this corresponds to a “partial, piecemeal vision” of the city that pushes “interstitial spaces out if its view” (Boyer, 1996: 2); “the aestheticized matrix with which we cover the city becomes a screen that allows us to perfect only partial attachments—to this local community, to that particular history, to these traditions” (Boyer, 1996: 3). This process of cultural manipulation and reinvention thus poses great challenges to the way city’s cultural history, individual and collective memories and identities are constructed and perpetuated. Indeed, as Fredric Jameson has put it, the present postmodern condition is underpinned by “the disappearance of a sense of history” and “our entire contemporary social system has little by little begun to lose its capacity to retain its own past”, living, instead, “in a perpetual present and in a perpetual change that obliterates traditions of the kind which all earlier social formations have had in one way or another to preserve” (Jameson, 1998: 20). In this sense, historical narratives become a patchwork derived from a selection of past episodes that are dubbed to be the most representative of a city’s or of a nation’s cultural history. Individual and collective memories are forged within a functional understanding of history, in which “the art of memory for the modern world is both for historians as well as ordinary citizens and institutions very much something to be used, misused and exploited, rather than something that sits inertly there for each person to possess and contain” (Said in Mitchell, 2002: 245). Memories are signifying cultural practices that supply individual and collective understandings of the world, as it is largely through making sense of the past, in a social context and through lived experience, that the self is constituted. Collective memory becomes “a field of activity in which past events are selected, reconstructed, maintained, modified, and endowed with political meaning” (Said in Mitchell, 2002: 251) and individual identity becomes shaped by memories of situations, people and actions that inform individuals about the past, a past that is intersubjectively constituted. Under the pressing need to respond to the drives of capitalism and conspicuous consumption through the adoption of consumerist lifestyles, individual and collective identities are constructed and negotiated in the urban fabric and determined by people’s “spatial practices” (de Certeau, 1984) and “experience of consumption in the city” (Miles and Miles, 74 Chapter Four
2004: 3). They become disposable identities, identities that fulfill their purpose for a certain amount of time and that are promptly abandoned when they are no longer needed, like a coat individuals put on when feeling cold and take off as temperature rises; these are chosen-to-be identities, “elective identities” in the words of Hetherington (1998). The case of Cardiff’s urban identity and the individual and collective identities the city hosts is a complex story. Although it became the capital of Wales in 1955, Cardiff has only become really conscious of its role as the Welsh capital when Wales became a devolved nation in 1999. Cardiff’s capital awareness has been reinforced and the city has progressively acknowledged its duties as the capital of Wales—and increasingly so as a European capital—and as Wales’s representative to Europe and the world, at the same time that its residents began to realise the benefits that devolution could bring. Indeed, if Cardiff’s role as the capital of Wales has endured a complex identity formation process, the same is true when considering the city as the capital for Wales and when understanding its relationship with the rest of the country, since Cardiff has always been seen as “a center for permanent suspicion. It is regarded as too English, too distant, too flash, too fast, too large and far too anti-Welsh for many” (Finch, 1999: 19). This tension between Wales and Cardiff seems to find special resonance in the fact that Wales has never been used to the urban discourse, especially since that discourse is associated with a city that has become the capital of the country and that has reinvented its urban fabric and its economic base, as well as its social and cultural spheres. Cardiff has come to represent everything that the rest of Wales was not and has begun to profit from its capital status while other locations in Wales were kept at arm’s length. This is one of the reasons why Cardiff has been making an effort to connect with the rest of Wales and to become more “Welsh” and less of “some late accretion to Wales, a gold-plated barnacle stuck to Wales’s bottom” (Davies, 2008: 278). One of the strategies to achieve this has been the investment and celebration of the Welsh language in the city, which for many “is to be equated with the culture and is seen as the defining feature of Welshness” (Mackay, 2010: 15). Cardiff has thus become “the place that elected to be Welsh” (Finch, 2002: 72-73) and many of its residents have chosen to be Welsh, “no matter what their actual origins” are (Finch, 2002: 72-73) as nationality or cultural and ethnic background are not synonyms of national identity. Welsh elective identities are enthusiastically made visible every year on St. David’s Day. On 1st March people from different backgrounds dress themselves in the Welsh costume, wave the Welsh flag or St. David’s flag, Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity 75 wear daffodils or leeks on their lapels, paint their faces with red dragons, and participate in the different parades that take place in Wales.
Fig. 4-8. 2011 St. David’s Day Parade.
This celebration of Welshness coexists and in many cases converges with different first and second generation ethnic, cultural and religious minority identity groups, that have chosen Cardiff as their place of residence. Many have themselves chosen to be Welsh, in a complex identity formation process where a plurality of identities come together in the constitution of the self. In this context, the work of Glenn Jordan—an amateur photographer and the curator of the Butetown History & Arts Centre—is of particular relevance as he has tried to depict certain marginalised or underrepresented minority groups in Cardiff and throughout Wales, so that the wider public acknowledges their existence and that they get to know their motivations, everyday life practices, customs and beliefs. Therefore, a more comprehensive understanding and a more respectful relationship among these different groups who inhabit (some of) the city’s public spaces is brought to the fore. Somali Elders: Portraits from Wales (2004), Mothers and Daughters: Portraits from Multi-ethnic Wales (2008) or Hineni: Life Portraits from a Jewish Community (2012) include portraits combined with life stories and memories told in the first person of individuals who belong to groups that have been, in one way or another, victimised by stereotyping, discrimination or xenophobia. Glenn Jordan’s work aims at contesting the dominant images of these groups that usually represent them as the “Other”, and at ensuring that their memories and identities live 76 Chapter Four on and are acknowledged and remembered by others. As Glenn Jordan himself states:
My photographic work is directed against practices of marginalisation and exclusion—against those practices of inscription and representation that fail to include subjects who lack wealth, status and power. For me, photography is a mode of cultural politics—a cultural politics of contestation, memorialisation and reversal (Jordan, 2008: 9).
Figs. 4-9, 10 & 11. Said Ismail Ali in Somali Elders: Portraits from Wales, Dr. Sufia Lal with daughter Nargis, and Jacqueline Magrill. © Glenn Jordan.
Cardiff’s culture and society are therefore increasingly characterised by socially and culturally constructed individual and collective narratives and identities that are complex and malleable in their essence and shaped in a mutual and reciprocal relationship with the city’s own cultural identity(-ies) that feature(s) on tourism promotional campaigns to attract visitors.
Conclusion
Cities are privileged arenas for social diversity and interaction, “like a magnifying glass concentrating the rays of the sun onto a small patch of ground” (Massey et al., 1999: 17), where different individual and collective narratives, memories and identities coexist and determine the city’s own identity and genius loci. In spite of being a culturally, ethnically and religiously diverse city and the capital of a culturally and linguistically distinctive country, Cardiff still hosts some of the most deprived wards in Wales, which makes it a Cardiff, a Multiethnic City: Photography, Memory and Identity 77 strikingly polarised city. Social and economic inequalities ought to be addressed by integrating communities and minority groups into the city’s economic development so that they are given the necessary means to survive and the conditions to thrive. Moreover, “enabling environments” ought to be created “for enhanced participation both in the public sphere and at the institutional level” (Camponeschi, 2010: 7). This can be done by fostering the sociability of the public realm and by empowering communities in the transformation of the urban form so as to create, from a grassroots approach, “holistic, living spaces where people make their voices heard and shape the future of the city by collaborating and interacting with others” (Camponeschi, 2010: 11) and where they can also showcase their talent and cultural diversity. Indeed, only “[b]y participating in the public sphere” can civil society “build on the established identity of a place to reflect upon the role it wants the public (and its culture) to play in the daily life of a city” (Camponeschi, 2010: 11). This article concludes, therefore, that the more Cardiff is able to legitimise its cultural and social diversity and its manifold identities, which do not oppose but actually concur to its Welsh character, and reinforces its role as the representative city of and for Wales, the better it will be able to perform as a socially and culturally thriving city, which is worth of its national and European capital status. Photographic projects such as those of Bert Hardy, John Briggs and Glenn Jordan contribute to increasing ethnic, cultural and religious awareness and promote a more humanistic understanding of “others” who might be different from “us”, but with whom “we” share a common humanity. In Cardiff, as in other contemporary cities, cityscapes ought to reflect the past and history of former and present residents, their narratives and memories, and allow individual and collective identities to be legitimised and sustained over time. It is in cities that “the ultimate memory of humanity’s struggles and efforts” lives on (Reddy in Evans et al., 2011: 106) and only alternative discourses allow the existence of alternative futures and contribute to the maintenance of diversity and plurality in contemporary cities, cultures and societies.
PART II.
REINVENTING AND REPRESENTING POPULAR AND VISUAL CULTURE
CHAPTER FIVE
NEW IMAGES AND OLD TRADITIONS IN PORTUGUESE POPULAR CULTURE
CLARA SARMENTO
Introduction
This article analyses the painted panels of the moliceiro boat, a traditional working boat of the Ria de Aveiro region of Portugal. The article examines how the painted panels have been invented and reinvented over time. The boat and its panels are contextualized both within the changing socio-economic conditions of the Ria de Aveiro region, and the changing socio-political conditions of Portugal throughout the 20th century and until the present day. The boat’s complex decorations are seen as corresponding to the way groups and individuals represent themselves and their surrounding environment, these images conveying forms of common knowledge and related social practices. The boat has become an important symbol and expression of the region’s popular culture, despite the fact that today it no longer possesses the economic and social role that it once enjoyed, having become primarily an object of commodification by the tourist industries. The article historically analyses the social significance of “moliceiro culture”, examining in particular the power relations it expresses and its ambiguous past and present relationships with the political and the economic powers of the Portuguese state. In so doing, the article unpacks some of the complexity of the relations that have pertained between public and private, local and national, and popular and institutional in the Ria de Aveiro region in particular, and Portugal more generally. In seeking to analyse such matters, the article unpacks the complexities of one particular community’s transformative practices and creative processes. In doing so, it seeks to contribute to broader understanding of the uses, dynamics, and appropriations of so-called “folk culture” under changing social, political and economic conditions.
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The natural and social environment of moliceiro culture
The moliceiro boat is to be found within the region of the Ria de Aveiro, the large lagoon-estuary of the River Vouga on the west coast of Portugal1. The Ria de Aveiro is the most extensive shallow coastal lagoon in the country. It is located on the Western Atlantic coast of Portugal, between Espinho and Cape Mondego, in a geographical area situated south of Porto and north of Coimbra. The area covered by the lagoon corresponds approximately to a minimum of 66 square kilometres, at low spring tides, and a maximum of 83 square kilometres at high spring tides. There is an extensive and densely populated sand barrier along the coast, protecting and separating the enclosed lagoon from the Atlantic Ocean, where seasonal tourism, cattle breeding and agriculture coexist side by side. Built of pine, the moliceiro boat is flat-bottomed, wide across the beam, with very low sides, a shallow draught and an unmistakable, extremely curved bow that reminds one of a half-moon shape or a bird’s beak. The stern is also slightly curved. Traditionally propelled by a trapezium-shaped canvas sail, a pole or track rope, outboard engines are not uncommon additions in the present day. The first documented references to the moliceiro boat date back to the first half of the 18th century. This does not mean that moliceiros did not exist before this time. But it does indicate that this type of artefact and the social practices related to it did not gain the attention of political and religious authorities until this period. The moliceiro boat was traditionally designed for gathering and transporting the seaweed (moliço) that grows in the Ria de Aveiro, and is used to fertilize the surrounding sandy soils that are cultivated by the subsistence agricultural practices of very small family farms. Moliceiros were also occasionally used to carry people, goods and cattle across the water. They still operate in this regard today inside a geographic area that covers the entire surface of the Ria de Aveiro. But the boats were originally designed as an instrument for the sorts of agriculture practiced in a particular amphibious ecosystem, a lagoon that is constituted of both sea and river, and land and water. The term moliceiro is also traditionally applied to those people who worked aboard the boats: the boat-owner, and/or one or two paid employees (the “comrades”), and/or an apprentice (the “boy”), organized in a rather loose hierarchy. The boat owner could be a farmer collecting seaweed for his own land, or a professional wholesaler of moliço. Either way, those on the moliceiro boat were drawn from a community of poor peasants who had to complement their incomes New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 83 with occasional fishing in the Ria de Aveiro, with micro-scale agriculture, and with some cattle breeding, among other irregular occupations. Most proprietors owned just one moliceiro, which would be repeatedly sold and resold during the two decades of the boat’s average life-expectancy, although there were some rare exceptions to this rule on the part of some moderately wealthy landowners. For those who worked aboard the moliceiros, the levels of poverty were often very high. As a result of conditions of often crushing poverty, there was massive emigration from the region in the 1960s and 1970s, resulting in the loss of most of those men who hitherto had worked on the moliceiro boats, this situation in turn leading to the demise of the moliceiro industry. As a consequence of these economic and demographic changes, the purpose of the moliceiro has changed considerably in the past few decades. The former invaluable instrument of an entire region’s economy has been reconfigured as a tourist attraction, a symbol whose preservation depends on each individual owner’s goodwill and financial ability. Pollution, economic change and emigration have driven many people away from this particular way of life. Chemical fertilizers have replaced the seaweed as fertilizer for the sandy soils, the local salt industry has gone into decline, and new roads have usurped the moliceiro’s role as the main means of transportation for the riverside population. Although a thousand moliceiros were registered with the Aveiro Port Authority in 1935, nowadays there are less than forty vessels registered. The building of new moliceiros almost ceased altogether during the period of mass emigration in the late 1960s and 1970s, but since the mid-1980s, moliceiros have been revived to some degree as “local” cultural assets. With increasing frequency, local mayors and authorities are ordering new moliceiros to be built by the surviving artisans in the boatbuilding trade2, to be used for touristic purposes, such as for guided tours of the Ria, for display in local museums and international exhibitions, and for public display in a nearby canal which serves as a “cultural heritage” site. Private companies also now operate sightseeing tours aboard moliceiros. Thus the moliceiro remains very present in the region, both materially and symbolically, as it has been adapted to fit new social and economic circumstances. Without its reinvention as a part of the contemporary tourist industries, the moliceiro boat and the cultural and social practices which surround it would have inevitably gone into decline and eventually died out altogether.
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Fig. 5-1. Moliceiro boat in Ria de Aveiro (2002).
The most original characteristic of the moliceiro boat is the set of four different panels that adorn the bow and the stern, alll of which are covered with distinctive paintings in bright colours—blue, yellow, green, red, black and white—underlined with hand-written phrases. The bow panels follow the curve of the “beak”, while the stern panels are almost rectangular in shape. Both sets of panels have a bright border of several coloured strips of flowers and geometric figures. There is a multitude of subjects in the panels of a moliceiro boat, in styles that range from the crudest drawings to very visually sophisticated painted images. The artist, who might also be the builder or a reputed amateur hired for the task, chooses the subject sponntaneously or the theme is suggested by the boat owner. An examination of more than 500 panels, recorded during regular periods of fieldwork between 1988 and 2004, confifirmed the existence of five main groups of images and inscriptions, and several subcategories therein. These were: comic (satirizing sex and sexual attitudes, work, social instittuutions and famous characters); religious (celebrating Christ, the Virgin Mary and the saints); social (depictingg work—e.g. gathering seaweed, fisshing, farming and ship-building—ecoological issues, nature, popular culture and local festivals, or illustrating common sayings and words of wisdom); historical (images of kings and queens, knights and soldiers, writers and explorers); and entertainment (referring to folk tales, television, the cinema and football). Scattered and isolated communities, such as the ones that originally produced the moliceiro motifs, usually develop their own codes, myths, heroes and social patterns. In this case, the artists originated a distinctive New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 85
Fig. 5-2. Panels of Moliceiros (late 1990s). cultural object that uses pictorial and linguistic codes simultaneously, producing coexistent semiotic systems that create a phenomenon arguably without parallel in broader Portuguese culture. This phenomenon symbolizes both the confrontations and the compromises involved in the relations between the local community on the onee hand and the outside world on the other. Following the ideas of Gramssci (1976), De Certeau (1980) and Bakhtin (1984), one might say that objeects like the moliceiro boat can, under certain circumstances, operate as vehicles for the expression and affirmation of specific identities and for the representation of specific spaces, socio-cultural contexts, andd particular forms of existence. In the present case, “people who paint their boats and launch them into the waters of a lagoon, have created an album of images through which they express their vision of the world” (Rivals, 1988: 254). The present study adopts an epistemological paradigm close to Foucault’s premise of the “archaeological method”,, namely his search for discursive formations that mark different periods in history and which shape various social practices and orders (Foucault,, 1972). The study was also inspired by Gramsci’s idea of the “inventory” (Gramsci, 1971, 1976). According to Gramsci, cultural investigation must begin with an inventory of the complex yet invisible assortment of historical processes—the “historical imaginary”—that shapes present-day thouughts, experiences and practices. Thus the popular historical inventory is part of a society’s collective, but heterogeneous and frequently contradictory, notions as to the meaning of history. It is precisely the emphasis on the heterogeneity of 86 Chapter Five the historical imaginary that makes Gramsci’s understanding of the inventory such a potentially useful heuristic tool. The data collected for this research derived initially from participative fieldwork developed in the Ria de Aveiro region between 1988 and 2004, involving the collection of photos and videos and also interviews with the surviving local boat-builders and painters, and with former employees of the moliceiro industry (Sarmento, 2008). Images prior to the 1980s were collected from national and local collections and museums, both public and private. At a later stage of the research, I collected material from a range of sources, including local and national museums, archives and collections, newspapers, parish and municipal records, with a special focus on collecting materials related to iconography, as figured in, for example, tourism-related documentation, maps, local newspaper reports, school textbooks, and various forms of popular literature. A particularly important source came from the archives of the Aveiro Port Authority, namely the Register of Boats, a handwritten collection of books that cover the period between 1914 and 1998. From the Historical and Municipal Archives of Aveiro, I collected official correspondence exchanged between the 1940s and 1974 by the various institutions of local and central government. The research also involved the critical reading of more than one hundred monographs on the history of the moliceiro and of the Ria de Aveiro region, that have been published from the late 19th century, until the present (e.g.: Braga, 1885; Coelho, 1896; Magalhães, 1905; Madahil, 1934; Castro, 1943; Chaves, 1945; Lima, 1968; Filgueiras, 1981; Lopes, 1997).
Moliceiro culture and the Portuguese Estado Novo
In order to understand the nature of the complex of ideas and practices surrounding the moliceiro boat in the present day, one has to understand the recent history of such matters. To that end, I will now discuss moliceiro culture as it was practised and experienced in the major part of the 20th century. Between May 1933 and April 1974, Portugal was subjected to an authoritarian political regime, known as the Estado Novo (“New Order”), inspired by fascist ideologies and headed by António de Oliveira Salazar (1889–1970), which replaced the disordered sequence of governments of the first Republic (that originated in 1910) and a brief military dictatorship that existed between 1926 and 1933. Like the regimes of Mussolini in Italy and Franco in Spain, the fascist movement headed by Salazar was an authoritarian response to the crisis of liberal democracy in Europe in the interwar years. Salazar was not a New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 87 histrionic political character like Mussolini and did not face a similar violent end. Like in Spain, it was the dictator’s death from natural causes which opened the door for social and political change. While remaining officially neutral during World War II, despite his obvious fascist sympathies, Salazar’s main concerns in the years after 1945 involved the safeguarding of Portuguese colonies (which led to a tragic colonial war between 1961 and 1974) and the neutralization of any kind of opposition at home. Salazar’s efforts to organize “the nation” in spatial, ideological and social terms were particularly expressed in three different but related ways: first, laudatory descriptions of metropolitan and overseas provinces and their supposedly distinctive cultural characteristics; second, propagandistic promulgation of the (vague) notion of “people” and their alleged social and cultural characteristics; and third, a strict policing of highly conventional social roles. At the level of both discourse and practice, nothing was left to the individual’s choice, everything was dictated by the State; and according to the official line, this situation was eagerly accepted by the people, whose key attributes were a spirit of self-sacrifice and a noble sense of embracing the established social order. Authoritarian ideologies operate around radically simplified discourses, in order to offer clear, unquestionable principles that present both the elite’s right to command everyone else as something natural and legitimate, and also any thoughts of resistance as futile and useless. According to authoritarian principles, the duty to obey is as simple and inevitable as a natural phenomenon. Hence, the real value of an authoritarian political discourse lies in its disciplinary function, much more than in its specific precepts. Such is the case of Salazar’s paradigmatic speech made on 28 May 1936, during the celebrations held to mark the 10th anniversary of the so-called “National Revolution”, the military dictatorship established in 1926. In this speech, Salazar identifies the “unquestionable truths” of his new order:
“To the souls that have been shattered by the doubts and negativism of this century, we return the comfort of great truths. We do not question God and virtue; we do not question Country and History; we do not question authority and its prestige; we do not question Family and morals; we do not question the glory and duty of Work” (Mattoso, 1994, my translation).
“God”, “Country”, “Authority”, “Family”, “Work”—all these quintessential principles of general fascist discourse were the sacred principles of the Portuguese Estado Novo. According to Gramsci (1971), ideological principles like these should be understood as underpinning ideals and practices that, when they are 88 Chapter Five presented as universal truths, are in effect maps of meanings that uphold the power of certain social groups. In Gramsci’s conception, ideology does not stand apart from everyday routines; ideology is rather rooted in people’s commonplace activities. Ideologies supply, but in complex and mediated ways, the individual with the rules of daily behaviour and practical morality. A certain conception of how the world “is” emphasizes corresponding forms of conduct. But despite the fact that ideologies can, as it were, present themselves as sets of coherent ideas, they more frequently appear as disparate, heterogeneous collections of common— sense meanings, which are in turn embodied and expressed in a variety of forms and representations. Cultural texts and practices both represent and enact complex—and often perverse—relations between, on the one hand, ideas that promote the interests of economically and politically powerful groups and, on the other hand, ideas that express the interests of less powerful groups. The State, as the (again, complex and mediated) embodiment of ruling class power, demands consent from the subordinate classes; but it also has to educate them in ways such that this consent is cultivated and reconfirmed over time. The State is, in fact, the entire complex of practices and theoretical activities which the dominant classes use not only to justify and keep their power, but also to gain the consent of and exercise hegemony over subaltern classes Therefore dominated groups have, particularly through forms of education both explicit and implicit, to be persuaded that their social conditions are unchangeable and inevitable. As Pierre Bourdieu, following a Gramscian line of argument puts it, “every established order tends to produce (to very different degrees and with very different means) the naturalization of its own arbitrariness” (1977: 164). During the years of the Salazar dictatorship, Portuguese culture and traditions (either those that actually existed or those which were invented by the regime) were taught in schools in such a way that they were used as means to instill certain orthodox values and norms of behaviour through repetition, example and instruction. These pedagogic practices focused both on certain periods of history and on certain kinds of ethnographic depiction of the present day, using historical narratives and folklore as prime ideological weapons. History and folklore were put to the service of combating the supposed dangers of liberal, working class and urban mores and worldviews with a model of “traditional” rural life that equated the “people” with “peasantry”, that is, farmers, fishermen or craftsmen. This was a conceptual strategy much assisted by ethnographers close to the regime who, in the 1930s and 1940s, promoted a conception of the people New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 89 characterized by an emphasis on their supposed primitivism, illiteracy, humility and animal-like docility (Silva, 1994: 112). Related to this, the idea of a “pure popular art” that portrayed everyday life from the naive, non-critical viewpoint of 19th century ethnographers, matched the Salazar regime’s ideal of a nation rich in folklore and picturesque customs, involving a self-celebrating popular art, created by “good people”, mostly deeply religious peasants and fishermen who led austere and humble lives. The exaltation of handicraft, traditional costume, and rudimentary means of transport in these ideas did in fact represent a way of life that was to some extent, similar to the subsistence lifestyle that characterized village life at this time. During the Estado Novo period, popular art forms such as the moliceiro panels also echoed official mythology, as a more or less direct consequence of institutional channels of education and propaganda. Ideologically oriented stereotypes were both reproduced in popular collective memory, and appropriated and reworked in various ways within it. In the specific case of moliceiro culture, control by the State was implemented both directly and indirectly: directly through supervision, regulation, censorship, manipulation, and propaganda, especially by the local representatives of central State power; and indirectly through the influence of State-controlled primary education and the inculcation of children into official ideologies. As regards direct State control, in order to avoid subversive messages or “shocking” images appearing on the moliceiro panels, during the most repressive years of the Estado Novo regime (between 1957 and 1964), all boats and the panels themselves had to be registered at the local Port Authority, registration involving a description of both the words and images on each panel. Particularly at this period, therefore, moliceiro culture was subjected to very high levels of official supervision and censorship. Moliceiro panels have at other times also inspired a series of politically oriented events whereby they have become “cultural entertainment” that is consumed by outside publics. Since their inception, moliceiros have always taken part in local religious and secular popular festivals (romarias). At first, they were simply a means of transport, but in the 1950s their role began to change. From my extensive research, I was able to conclude that local press reports of popular festivals underwent an evolution throughout the 20th century, as an expression of broader social changes. During the first years of the century, and still under the influence of the Romantics, there was much public fascination with the supposed “beauty and purity” of popular culture. With the onset of the 1910 90 Chapter Five
Republic and the period of political instability that followed it, rival political factions attempted to take possession of popular festivals and to use them as political weapons, accusing each other of bad planning, management and propaganda, in bitter, often sensationalist articles. Later, when the forces of Estado Novo began to reorganize (or to “normalize”) the nation, their local representatives also endeavoured to manipulate local festivals, which became celebrations of the “folklore” propagated by the State. After a moralizing clean-up that extinguished all vestiges of ancient pagan practices3, the Catholic authorities took strict control over the religious aspects of these events. Consequently, press articles criticized the so-called “immoral pagan practices” that had hitherto been expressed at the festivals, and emphasized instead what they saw as the virtues of the new, allegedly highly “civilized” and “orderly” festivities that attracted tourists and middle-class visitors from all over the country. Increasingly throughout the Estado Novo period, local people became secondary characters in the festivities, regulated and controlled by authorities who wished them to act out “traditional” roles for the pleasure of visitors, both domestic and foreign. Against this background, in March 1954, the city of Aveiro hosted the first Moliceiro Panel Competition—created, supervised and judged exclusively by local representatives of Estado Novo—in which the three most “typically” decorated boats (that is, painted with colourful scenes of supposed rural bliss and ideologically harmless misspelled sentences) received a great deal of official attention and press coverage but only a modest monetary reward. In Gramscian terms, this strategy of rewarding individual or group activities considered by higher authorities as worthy of praise and distinction has to be seen as a means of integrating grass-roots activities into the “civilizing” structures of the State, thus emasculating them and rendering them politically harmless. As far as more indirect State control of moliceiro culture is concerned, the explication of strategies of rendering it controllable by broader educational means requires some contextualization. The 1910 Republic tried, with limited success, to dignify primary education and its agents, whereas the Estado Novo successfully managed to reduce the social significance of primary education (Mattoso, 1994). In the period up until the early 1960s, compulsory education was even decreased from four to three years. Primary school teachers (who were mostly underpaid young women) were used as vehicles for political and religious indoctrination. Instead of emphasizing the primary school’s educational role, the Estado Novo regime instead valued its ideological and disciplinary functions. School had become a tool in the hands of the State, to be used to teach the New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 91
Fig. 5-3. The three winners of the first Moliceiro Panel Competition, March 1954 (source: Portuguese Centre of Photography).
Fig. 5-4. Four competinng moliceiros, April 1962 (source: Portuguese Centre of Photography). moral virtues prized by Estado Novo, rather than professional or practical knowledge. Hanging a crucifix on the wall above the teacher’s chair was compulsory in public primary schools, and private sschools that refused to do so were closed down. In the school choir, students raised their voices to praise the glory of Portugal, the dignity of work, and their love for the Fatherland. Particular importance was given to teaching the students about the Portugueese overseas “provinces”, as the State felt that by impressing 92 Chapter Five on everyone the exact notion of the value of the overseas empire, the entire nation would adopt an outlook favourable to the maintenance of Portugal’s colonial pretensions. Schools were compelled to use the official national textbooks. These were single volumes, one for each year of schooll, containing texts for reading, a section on mathematics, and a long section on Catholic doctrine, including prayers and devotional texts. These textbooks, inspired by Italian school manuals from the Mussolini period, vvery much focused on creating a collective nationalistic and Catholic mentality. Published under close government supervision by the Ministry of Education, they remained unchanged for decades, with minor formal changes made only as late as the mid-1960s.
Fig. 5-5, 6 & 7. First year textbook (1950s); Third year textbook (1950s); Fourth year textbook (1960s).
For people in the lower social classes especially, a person would read (perhaps even merely touch) relatively very few books during his or her lifetime. As these books tended to be the textbooks the government had designed and approved for use in primary schools, their importance and influence was potentially enormous. Through these texts, acceptance of a simplistic, unitary, good-versus-evil worldview was instilled into generations of children, learning by rote the dogmas preferred by the status quo. The teachings found in these textbooks were reinforcedd by clear, detailed and brightly coloured illustrations. Primary school textbooks placed their narratives almost always within rural Portugal. Even when the text itself had nothing to do with the rural world, the accompanying image would establish a connection with it. Any positive reference to the transition from a rural to an urban lifestyle, or from an agricultural to an industrial New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 93 economy, was strategically and carefully avoided. Text and image were complemented with proverbs and traditional stories representing oral knowledge and the collective memory of a peasant society, and by patriotic and religious symbols (Ministério da Educação Nacional, 1958a, 1958b, 1968). Eric Hobsbawm (in Hobsbawm and Ranger, 1983) classifies the traditions “invented” after the Industrial Revolution into three categories:
1) those which establish or symbolize social cohesion; 2) those which establish or legitimate social and political institutions, authorities and status systems; and 3) those the main purpose of which is the inculcation of ideas, systems of values and patterns of behavior. (1983: 17)
These three categories are all clearly present in the representations to be found in the Estado Novo textbooks. As children learnt to read, they were also learning the official world order. The latter offered a fetishized History of the Nation, which functioned as a foundation myth for the current regime (Lévi-Strauss, 1989: 167). As Paulo (1994: 91) puts it, “Estado Novo offered the Nation a new version of its past glory, (re)creating moments and characters according to the official interpretation of History, forging a new era, restoring a mythical golden age that set the model for every celebration” (my translation). Such a state of affairs had diffuse, indirect but nonetheless palpable effects on moliceiro culture in the period. In poor fishing and peasant communities like those of the Ria de Aveiro, levels of illiteracy were very high. For most fishermen, attending school was merely a necessary chore, as the minimum level of compulsory education was essential for obtaining a professional fishing licence. As far as the moliceiro-making community was concerned, boat-crews, builders and painters were either wholly illiterate or barely able to spell their names correctly when they applied for their licences or registered their boats with the Port Authority. Because of this rural community’s low levels of literacy, the sentences that appeared under the painted panels tended to be written by the few “literate” artists in the region. These artisans acquired their (very limited) literary knowledge in primary school, especially through the visual and verbal messages of the Estado Novo textbooks. Thus the textbooks could exercise quite profound and generally sub- conscious influences on the symbols and images the moliceiro painters chose to put on the panels. This can be seen especially in those panels dealing in historical and religious themes, particularly those depicting historical characters such as King Dinis, the saintly knight Nuno Álvares Pereira, the explorers Henry the Navigator, Vasco da Gama, and Pedro 94 Chapter Five
Álvares Cabral, as well as the great national poet Camões, all of whom appeared in the primary school textbooks. On the moliceiro panels, all of these characters were portrayed over and over again in solemn, visually static ways, regardless of who actually painted them. As can be seen in Illustrations 5-8 and 5-9, it is obvious how much the image that illustrated the text about Camões in the fourth year school textbook influenced the depiction of the poet—set up by the regime as the symbol of a glorious national cultural tradition—in the moliceiro panels.
Fig. 5-8 & 9. Panel representing the poet Caamões (1980s); Text “Camões”, in the fourth year textbook (1960s).
The suppposed glory, faith, ingenuity and wisdom of such historical characters is conveyed, in both moliceiro panels and the schoolbooks, through symbolic motifs such as the sword, the flag, the ship, the castle, the map, the astrolabe, the compass and the book,, in this case Camões’ epic poem Lusíadas, the story of Portuguese maritime saga in the 1500s. The ever-present moliceiro symbol of the Maltese Cross, which represents the sails of the ships from the so-called “Age of the Discoveries”, was also the image that illustrated the cover of the fourth year school textbook. Omnipresent in all Estado Novo iconography, and so consequently also in the textbooks and on classroom walls, the Christian Cross was depicted as the hero’s constant companion and source of inspiration. Testament to their ubiquity in State-promulgated culture, both the Cross and the Portuguese flag appear in every category of moliceiro panel except, as a sign of religious and patriotic respect, in comic panels. New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 95
Religiously themed panels very much represented the protective maternal figures of the Virgin Mary, Queen Saint Isabel and the local saint Joana of Aveiro. This was also in large part due to the influence on the artisans’ modes of consciousness of the school textbooks. Selections of readings in these texts presented female characters not as active heroines in their own right, but rather as companions of male heroes, the women personifying the Catholic virtues of resignation, faith and charity. For the most part, were primarily associated with religion and Catholic virtues. Queen Saint Isabel and Saint Joana were the subject of several readings in the textbooks in which their sanctity and miracles were reported as true and unquestionable historical facts (Ministério da Educação Nacional, 1958a, 1958b). The cult of the Virgin Mary was reinforced not only in the reading section of the textbooks, but also throughout the long section entitled “Christian Doctrine”. These teachings were—and still are— reproduced and illustrated in many of the most skilfully decorated panels. Some moralistic texts were even directly transferred from schoolbooks to the panels of the moliceiro, such was their ideological impact, even as late as the 1980s (Ministério da Educação Nacional, 1968: 5). For instance, the panel entitled “A Good Deed”, where a young man carries an old woman’s bundle of wood, copies both the title of the text “A Good Deed”, and the image accompanying it, from the fourth year textbook, as well as inspiring other panels. Similarly, the text entitled “Two Portuguese” indicates the notion of “one great united Nation”, which involved a situation whereby children were taught that “Portugal extends from the Minho province [in the north west of the country] to the province of Timor [in Southeast Asia]”. Such sentiments were the inspiration for panels with titles such as “Our Blood Is the Same Colour”, “We’re Both Children of God” and “Different in Colour, But We Share the Same Country”, where different ethnic groups are portrayed as worshipping the Cross and the Portuguese flag as equals. Although these ideological messages were conveyed in books aimed at children aged seven to ten years, this does not mean that we should consider moliceiro art as itself in any way childish. In actual fact, moliceiro painters retained, reproduced and, in some cases, adapted in significant ways the teachings they had learnt in primary school. It is to creative adaptations of official culture within the moliceiro panels that we now turn.
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Fig. 5-10 & 11. Virgin Mary (1990s); The Virgin (image and prayer), in the first year textbook (1950s).
Fig. 5-12 & 13. Saint Joana of Aveiro (1990s); Death and miracle of Saint Joana of Aveiro, in the third yeear textbook (1950s).
New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 97
Fig. 5-14 & 15. “Different in colour, but we share the same country” (early 1970ss); “Two Portuguese”, fourth year textbook (1960s).
Elements of cultural resistance: eluding control
Despite what has been said about the effects of officially sanctioned ideas and images on moliceiro culture, the reproduction of these was never wholly uniform or without challenge. Sometimes messages with double meanings—both official and unofficial—could be present. Although local Estado Novo authorities were keen to try to control mmoliceiro painting, the threat of subversion was always potentially present. In the poor communities of the Ria de Aveiro, moliceiro paintings were the main unauthorized and anonymous method by which the local people could seek to express themselves. As identified by Bakhtin (1984), such a state of affairs may well lead to the encouragement in popular art-forms of images expressing parody, grotesquery and subversion of official values and ideas, and this was indeed the case in certain ways in moliceiro culture during the Estado Novo period. Under the cover of anonymity, moliceiro artists came to develop their own visual codes, myths, heroes, and, more broadly, sets of social standards and norms. Geographical isolation, homogeneity of socio- economic conditions, and mutual inter-dependence aamong the subbordinate classes of the Ria de Aveiro, fostered the development of a distinctive localized culture, often expressed through a strong “us versus them” imagery, aimed against the powerful classes. Bakhtin (1984) evocatively described this kind of culture, made up of discourses and images oriented 98 Chapter Five towards the symbolic defiance of power, and its characteristics of anonymity and festivity indicating popular rejection of the claims made by elites. For a long time, moliceiro paintings were regarded by urban elites as the products of a crude, simple and naive rural culture. For almost a century, essays and ethnographies written by intellectuals focused in on their apparently homespun characteristics, such as the apparent simplicity of the images and the spelling mistakes in the titles beneath them, allegedly evidence of the simpleminded peasant culture, which had spawned them. However, sometimes, social actors can stage for outsiders their own supposed ignorance, creatively exploiting those stereotypes designed to depreciate and dominate them. Considered as ignorant by political and scientific authorities, and very much aware that any kind of direct complaint would be severely punished, moliceiro painters could hide the social criticism implicit in the panels behind the mask of peasant ignorance in order to divert the authorities’ attention away from the coded messages in the paintings. As Hobsbawm (1973: 13) has stated, “the refusal to understand [the claims of elites] is a form of class struggle”; so too, we might add, is the sly performance of stupidity sometimes taken on by the subordinate. In the case of moliceiro panels, the kinds of epic symbols favoured by Estado Novo propaganda, for instance, were not just mindlessly and uncritically reproduced, but were also actively adapted to represent more local types of “heroes”. Thus the ship-builders and sailors who worked within the world of the moliceiro boats were often pictured on horseback, in a warrior-like attitude, armed with sword and shield, and with a flag and castle pictured in the background. These sorts of images represent original and subversive adaptations of the heroic national historical saga favoured by State propaganda, towards the depicting of more local sagas to do with everyday life under harsh conditions of subsistence, making quotidian struggles of peasants and fishermen seem equally, if not more, heroic than the stories of aristocrats and colonialists eulogized in school textbooks. Also in this regard, it is notable that explicitly pro-regime political texts such as “Estado Novo”, “The Head of State” and “The Government of the Nation”, predictable presences in each year’s school textbooks, had little or no discernible influence on moliceiro images and inscriptions, although some ethnographies of the period tried to deny this fact (see e.g. Lage et al., 1940: 72)4. Moliceiro culture was quite content to celebrate ancient history, a remote past with semi-legendary heroes, as a wealthy and peaceful golden age; but it did not tend to accept contemporary history New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 99 in the mystified fashion through which it appeared in school textbooks, a very eloquent absence in this context. Moliceiro panels generally ignored explicitly “political” issues, even major issues, such as the colonial war of 1961-1974. While they did not openly criticize the authorities, they did not praise them either. As Scott: (1990: 157) argues, “the distinctiveness of subordinate group cultural expression is created in large part by the fact that ... the process of cultural selection is relatively democratic”. Subordinate groups tend to select for representation and verbalization images and ideas that they themselves want to emphasize. They adopt and adapt these for their own uses, and thus they create new cultural practices and artefaccts to meet their own practical needs and feelings. What is expressed within popular cultural forms is largely dependent on what people in subordinate groups collectively feel is worth accepting and transmitting (Fiske, 1989). This does not imply that popular cultural practices are wholly unaffected by more dominant cultures, only that the former are less effectively controlled by the latter than some kinds of dominant ideologgy thesis are willing to admit (Abercrombie et al., 1980).
Fig. 5-16 & 17. Panel celebrating a local ship-builder (2001); Peasant worker on a white horse, 1955 (source: Portuguese Centre of Photographhy).
We can see these general points exemplified in the case of gender norms. Estado Novo textbooks exposed children to stereotypes of women as being only suited to be mothers and housewives, a “noble mission” girls had to acceept from early childhood. According to the Estado Novo ideology, women happily sacrificed their lives, working diligently in the home for their family, with children as their reward and major blessing. A passage in the second year textbook typifies thiis way of thinking: a thankful brother exclaims in the last sentence “How lovely are the girls 100 Chapter Five who know needlework!” Agriculture was the sole non-domestic activity the textbooks allowed and celebrated for women. But beyond the idealized world of Estado Novo mythologies, in the often harsh, poverty-stricken world of the Ria de Aveiro, these stereotypes about women could not work in the ways the official representations and discourses intended. In order to guarantee the family’s subsistence, women had to work a great deal outdoors, and housework and childcare were just one aspect of a long list of everyday duties. Such a situation was commonly depicted in the moliceiro panels. There, women are shown as agricultural labourers, as fishmongers, as fisherwomen (working on the beach and hauling the nets, an essential and very hard task in the traditional fishing process), and generally always as workers in their respective working environments, depicted without any reference to childcare, housework or even maternity (except for the comic panels that satirize the foibles of pregnant brides). Similarly, the reading selections in the textbooks portrayed family scenes in a rural context, with clear social and gender hierarchies symbolized through the height of the characters, men depicted as being always taller than women. On the contrary, in the moliceiro panels, women and men are shown as being of similar height, and they are seen to share the same sorts of work activities, indicating that both genders are equally active, important and relevant in the everyday life of the Ria de Aveiro communities. Both school textbooks and moliceiro panels traditionally shared a limited referential universe in time and space, one that was confined to small villages, rural environments, peasant communities, and everyday family and work activities. The notion that hard work in the open air was healthy and an advantage prevailed in both realms, although panels sometimes expressed complaints about the misery, difficulties and dangers of work in the countryside and at sea. The official image of the hard- working, self-sacrificing peasant was celebrated in some panels that eulogized the nature of work; but this set of notions could be satirized in comic panels as well, again pointing to the moral-political ambiguity of moliceiro culture as a whole. In addition, while Estado Novo imagery tended to set up the peasant as the locus of virtue, in a region so close to the sea, it was fishermen who were more celebrated in moliceiro panels, often depicted in almost epic manners. High-sea fishermen were never satirized in the panels. Here again we can unpack some ambiguities. While the eulogization of this group runs close to official attitudes—which represented them as the legitimate heirs of the heroes of the Age of Discoveries—moliceiro culture valorized them for other reasons, namely their hardiness in the face of natural adversity. Thus what looks from the New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 101 outside like a direct reproduction of officially-sanctioned values, turns out on closer inspection to involve subaltern attitudes being expressed in symbolic forms that are only apparently congruent with official attitudes.
Fig. 5-18 & 19. “The varina from Murtosa” (1980s); “The queen of varinas” (1960s).
Fig. 5-20 & 21. Fisherman and varina with caption “Have you sold anything, Rosa?” (1950s); Image of couple and ssatirical caption with sexual allusion (early 1970s).
Generally speaking, ideological supervision by both central and local authorities was never totally effective, with satire almost always breaking through officially approved visual rhetoric. Thus moliceiro painters often satirized the behaviour of what it saw as the typical drunkards to be found in any local taberna, deploying a sense of humour that went against the grain of institutionalized moralistic discourse. The taberna, the space that was in some ways most potentially symbolically disruptive of the regime’s moral code, was indeed a locale that was in some ways beyond the reach of official rhetoric. While the taberna under the conditions of Estado Novo 102 Chapter Five was generally not a space of organized resistance to the regime, nonetheless it had great symbolic efficacy, being—in some ways like Bakhtin’s (1984) conception of the demotic marketplace—a symbolically charged point of unauthorized assembly for lower class people, and a site relatively insulated from official surveillance (Scott,, 1990: 122). Moliceiro culture, unlike its official counterpart, looked upon the drunkards of the taberna benevolently. Unlike Estado Novo ideology, which uniformly condemned the iniquities of all drinking dens, we find that moliceiro depictions only criticized the taberna and its habitués, in cases where a man was seen to spend all his working hours and waking energies there, thus making him useless for work and thus a parasite upon the common good. This practical and flexible attitude towards the powers and temptations of drink contrasts starkly with harsh offificial condemnations of such matters.
Fig. 5-22 & 23. “We’re feeding our sorrows” (early 1980s); “No barrel can resist me” (1970s).
Moliceiro culture in the present: staging tradition
In the present day, at the same time as traditional agricultural practices slowly disappear in the Ria de Aveiro, the mental geography of the peasant communities of the region is changing too. As tourism has become an ever more important factor in the economy of the area, there has been a very powerful diffusion of tourism-oriented iconography into moliceiro culture, leading, in quite a marked degree, to the homogenization of the sorts of images to be found on the panels. Moliceiroo culture has undergone New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 103 a profound metamorphosis, not least because of the decline of the seaweed industry, which was the original context of the moliceiro booats. The moliceiro paanels reappeared in the 1980s, in a fully democratic Portugal, as a cultural object of interest to tourists, regardless of their original functions, which could have been anything, as far ass the tourist market was concerned. Tourism has replaced political ideology and control as the main “exterrnnal” force shaping moliceiro art in the present day. However, fragments of individual creativity and idiosyncrasy survive alongside the more standardized offerings oriented towards the tourist industry, even though permanent residents of the area have in large part become members of the tertiary sector in tourism and related economic activities. In general today, moliceiro cultural production has become increasingly attentive to the tourism-driven market for cultural symbols. This refunctionalization of moliceiro painting is driven by the demand of tourists for products that are vaguely symbolic of what they regard as “traditional Portugal”. Without succumbing to the romantic view that products such as moliceiro panels of the past somehow express “the fundamental elements of Portuguese culture” (Dias, 1961:97), untainted by commercial concerns, it remains the case today that moliceiro artr is open to the possibility of becoming a commodity wholly detached from the life of the community it purports to represent. The anonymity of the market and the need to earn a living can shape and transform the artisan producers just as profoundly as these latter shape and transform the objects of their handiwork.
Fig. 5-24 & 25. “May God be your guide, fisheermen” (2002); “Old times in Newwfoundland” (1999).
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Generally speaking, in the ongoing recovery of the moliceiro panels for the tourist market, modern painters often tend to imitate, even directly reproduce, “traditional” images. They try to re-stage the past in the present. They exaggerate their traditionalism as they reinvent tradition. The historical examples of great kings, warriors and navigators, along with the neo-epic celebration of high-sea fishermen, have survived from pre- tourism times. In fact, today these subject-matters are represented more than they were in the 1950s and 1960s. Indeed Camões, the national poet eulogized by Estado Novo, is represented more often now than during the totalitarian period. In democratic Portugal, the iconography of Estado Novo not only remains within moliceiro culture, but has actually in certain ways been accentuated by the tourist market in moliceiro production. During my fieldwork, among many other examples, I found the following instances of panels echoing the ideology of Estado Novo: “May God Be Your Guide, Fishermen”; “God and Country!” (text accompanying a picture of a soldier-knight); “The Whole Sea Is Ours!” (text accompanying a representation of Henry The Navigator); “The Pen and the Sword in His Hands” (accompanying an illustration of Camões); and “Old Times in Newfoundland” (accompanying a scene of rudimentary cod-fishing). Present-day painters depict such symbols as if they were the remnants of a lost rural paradise, as they attempt to represent what they consider to be “picturesque”, “genuine”, “popular”, and elementally part of the national heritage. In doing so, they unintentionally reproduce, under the guise of peasant cultural authenticity, the sorts of symbolisms fostered quite self-consciously as a reaction against modernity, by a totalitarian elite bent on presenting to the peasantry an idealized portrait of itself. A key point of interest in understanding the new mode of moliceiro production is that some of the present-day painters, far from being the simple peasants of yore, not only have a secondary school education (a very unlikely accomplishment for previous generations of moliceiro artisans), but may even have graduated from art school5. But these sometimes quite highly trained individuals set aside the modern artistic techniques that they have at their disposal, seeking to create what seems to be genuinely “popular” art, and attempting to obtain what is now regarded as the prestigious (and economically lucrative) social status of true “popular artist”. In this way, a seemingly lowly, mundane object—the panels of a wooden boat meant to collect seaweed—is transformed into a delicate work of art, in part by the power of the label of “artist” attaching to those whose skill involves, paradoxically, a simultaneous hiding of skill and public presentation of earthy, peasant-like “natural talent”. Indeed, the pressures both to build new boats to display to tourists, and to renew the New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 105 panels on time for presentation at the numerous summer festivals, as well as the tourists’ preferences for standardized paintings, has lead to a growing demand for new and relatively highly skilled painters. Such producers sometimes find it difficult to resist a manifest display of their artistic skills, leading to the possibility that their supposed peasant credentials may be exposed. At a less elevated level, some boat-owners continue to engage in panel-painting. Under touristic conditions, there are considerable pecuniary rewards available for widely recognized “amateur” talent, with such amateurism now being very much enmeshed with the professionalizing practices of the tourist industry. Despite the apparent emphasis on tradition and authenticity, moliceiro production today has actually altered—sometimes subtly, sometimes less so—the nature of the representations to be found on the panels. For example, during the last two decades, there has been a clear rise in the number of comic/erotic panels, the humour of which seems greatly to appeal to tourists, although these subjects were traditionally in the minority and less explicit in terms of the messages they expressed. Before the influx of tourism, the comic effect was usually the product of verbal innuendo. Resorting to more and more unequivocal and elaborated imagery, present-day comic/erotic panels attract professional and amateur photographers who, in turn, disseminate their images to other potential visitors and to the media, all of these functioning as potent sources of profit for the tourism industry of the region. Representations of women combine elements of older and newer dispositions. Women are depicted in two ways. The differences between the “local woman” (always a fishmonger or a countrywoman) and the “other” woman (the woman from the cinema and television, from the city, the modern urban woman) are denoted by their clothing and functions— work and working garments (headscarf, blouse, round skirt, apron, bare feet) in the first case; leisure and leisure clothing (suggestive dresses, high heels, long hair, swimsuit or underwear) in the second. Needless to say, the latter figure was absent from moliceiro culture during the Estado Novo period. The female fishmongers continue, as in the past, to be presented as strong, full of spirit and able to engage in quick comebacks to troublesome customers, subservient to men in theory but actually powerful in practice. The “other” women are never included in laudatory panels such as those that praise fisherwomen. On the contrary, the “other” woman is the object of extremely satirical paintings, where she is mocked because of her sophistication and laziness. These women are represented in their beds and boudoirs, lying on couches watching television, sunbathing on the beach, or strolling around the spaces where the locals work.
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Fig. 5-26 & 27. Comic erotic panels (2003-4).
Here we see, in what is in some ways a radically changed social context, a strong echo of anti-urban, anti-modern Estado Novo sentiments. Modern (an Estado Novo synonym for “immoral”) young women are often represented in erotic situations, where they are the objects of sexual desires and involved in sexual encounters. But not all panels are simply patriarchal in nature—more often than not women are presented as men’s equals when it comes to expressing sexual intentions. Thus in panels satirizing the use of condoms, women are seen to instruct ignorant men on how to usee them. When women are represented as fishmongers, rural workers or mothers, the visual and verbal discourse surrounding them may be poetical and laudatory, but parody still prevails, with witty remarks and comments full of sexual innuendo, where women lead the way. But those “modern” young women do not necessarily have to be city-dwellers or foreigners. They are sometimes portraits of local young women who have refused tradition in their appearance and practices, aand who are presented as tending to favour leisure rather too much over hard work. However, it is also notable that the panels never satirize those women who have refused tradition in order to proceed with their education, as this is considered, within the world of contemporary moliceiro production, the most respectable way of obtaining a better and rewarding status for themselves and their families. Having a university graduate dauughter/son—if possible, a medical doctor, a lawyer or a judge who does not forget her/his origins— is actually a rural family’s highest pride and aspiration. Overall, then, representations of women in present-day moliceiro panels exhibit both conservative traits inherited from the Estado NoNovo, and some more politically and socially progressive attitudes.
New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 107
We saw above that moliceiro culture was neverr completely controlled by the Estado Novo authorities. Mocking and degrading carnivalesque imagery, of the kind identified by Bakhtin (1984), exists more explicitly under present-day conditions. Donkeys, for example, are frf equently depicted with human characteristics, as bad students, wise-guys and, especially, as politicians. There is often a reversal of human-animal roles, such as a man carrying a donkey on his back or pullling a cart whose reins are held by a donkey, comments on the seemingly iinescapable poverty of Portugal. This sort of satire is particularly aimed at the authorities and politicians hheld to be responsible for local and national ills. Police authority, for example, is always satirized. And so aare priests and monks, because of their hypocrisy—one popular panel, where a girl in a red mini- dress attends confession, reads “Which One Has Sinned the Most?”—but the Christian religion itself is under no circumstancces satirized, indicating the strongly enforced symbolic limits of moliceiro sociaal critique. Nonetheless, it remains the case that under the conditions of touurist-led production, a space has been created for more explicit social critique than was ever thinkable under Estado Novo conditions, with the previously officially revered agents of Church and State now subject to quite open mockery, albeit in a highly commodified commercial environment.
Fig. 5-28 & 29. “Which one has sinned the most?” (1998); Satirical representation of former Prime-Minister António Guterres (circa 2000).
There are certain aspects of life that moliceiroo representations never venture towards: the most striking example is middle class urban life, which never appears, only the peasantry and nobility really ever figuring prominently. However, television imagery has begun to emerge as a ripe 108 Chapter Five source of representation, and its influence appears not only in some images directly, where TV sets are actually represented, but also in new characters and events portrayed that appear in the panels. These include: famous football players like Figo and Jardel; the diva of the fado, Amália; “menino Tonecas”, a childish character from a popular sitcom; democratic politicians like Mário Soares and António Guterres, and the crises and scandals they had to face; the feud between a mayor and the president of a local football team; the Portuguese entry into the European Union in 1986; the (illusory) prosperity of the 1990s driven by injections of European funding; the single European currency; Expo98, Lisbon’s universal exposition; the notorious reality TV show Big Brother; renowned socialites who become overnight TV commentators and hosts of chat and quiz shows; the national crazes surrounding the 2004 European Football Championships and the 2006 World Football Cup; the rivalry between local football teams, among many other examples. TV and tabloid news events, such as illegal bullfights in Alentejo, or the “controversy” surrounding the Brazilian nudist community of Colina do Sol, may rapidly generate new panels for rapid consumption, and are subsequently soon replaced by other topics gleaned from the popular media. Except for the football-related examples, all the other kinds of cases noted above are represented in quite grotesque traces and subjected to satirical observations. Television itself merges images and words, in some ways just like a moliceiro panel, and so becomes a hugely productive source of inspiration for painters, especially when everyday local reality has run out of subject matters for scorn. But just as Christianity is off- limits for moliceiro satirists, so too is a more secular version of the sacred. The Portuguese national football squad, as well as local football teams, are revered symbols and regarded as proud representatives of the nation, city, village or region, and are therefore untouchable subjects for satire, portrayed accordingly. The national saga of the Age of Discoveries, systematically celebrated by Estado Novo and found in moliceiro panels both in that period and today, has encountered in football a suitable though unexpected successor, for both create a sense of national pride, at the same time as they help divert attention away from the many serious problems Portugal faces at the present time. We see again how both social critique and conservative ideologies are to be found within the apparently innocuous guide of wooden boat panels.
New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 109
Fig. 5-30 & 31. “I’m the boss of Porto!”. Satirical allusion to the feud between the mayor and the president of Porto’s football team (2006); “Hooray for our team!”. The football star Figo wearing the colours of the nationaal squad and Portuguese flag (2004).
Fig. 5-32 & 33. “We want Ecu!!!”. Pun with the first designnation of the single European currency (early 1990s); “The smell of real life”. Satirical representation of the reality show Big Brother, with a contestant iin the WC, observed by a grotesque portrait of the show hostess (2002).
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Fig. 5-34 & 35. Humorous allusion to the Braziliaan nudist community of Colina do Sol (circa 2000); Humorous alllusion to the illegal bullfights of Barrancos, with world-upside-down images (circa 2003).
Conclusion
In this article, I have traced out the history of the moliceiro booat and its painted panels. In the early 20th century, it was a purely local phenomenon, tied to the traditions of a regional folk culture. Nowadays, it is used as a potent symbol for a particular region of Portugal in international tourist circuits. As I hope to have shown, the meaning and significance of moliceiro culture have changed in complex and often ambiguous ways over the couurse of the last century. From the anti-urban rhetoric of the Estado Novo regime, to the tourist-oriented market of today, from the eulogization of Church and State, to the satirizing of contemporary television programmes, the moliceiro panels have proven to be remarkably flexible means of expressing radically varied sets of concerns and ideas at different points in time. What might seem at first glance to be an inflexible repertoire of crude, standardized symbols and painting techniques, actually turns out to be something much more interesting, namely a supple means of expressing popular feelings as well as official ideologies, contemporary concerns as well as tourisst-oriented picturesque. Whether under conditions of political repression or the tyrannies of tourist markets, moliceiro culture has proven resilient, in that it has never just been a mouthpiece of official ideology or just a vehicle for tourist kitsch. This is so despite the fact that first repressive political power, then later processes of tourist-driven New Images and Old Traditions in Portuguese Popular Culture 111 commodification, have sought to present and regulate moliceiro panel production as unequivocally “folk culture”, as genuinely “of the people”. The key lesson to be drawn from the consideration of its history is that moliceiro culture has indeed expressed more genuinely “popular”, grass- roots concerns, precisely because it has never fully conformed to the definitions of “folk culture” interested parties wanted it to conform to. The remarkable thing is that molicero culture has never been exactly what those who control it would want it to be; it has always retained elements of the excessive, the uncontrolled, and the unregulatable.
Notes
1 47 km long, the Ria de Aveiro has a maximum width of 7 km, in spite of increasing silting-up. The depth varies between 1 and 2 metres and may rise to 4 to 6 metres in the central canals. The Ria covers a liquid surface of more than 6000 hectares that divides into four main branches: Ovar (north), Mira (south), Murtosa (northeast) and Vagos (southeast). There is also a myriad of minor branches that create a large labyrinth of islands, channels, drains and creeks across the entire area. 2 However, the current financial crisis has forced local authorities not only to cancel or slow down orders, but also to delay the payment of many of them. During the optimistic year of 1998 (the year of Lisbon’s Expo98 international exhibition), the municipality of Aveiro ordered circa 25 new moliceiros, but that project is currently suspended. 3 Such as bathing the wooden image of a local patron saint (Saint Paio of Torreira) in red wine, in order to obtain protection against some common illnesses. That “holy” wine was consumed in great quantities afterwards, with predictable consequences. 4 See the 1940 text by Luís de Pina, “Popular Art”, in Francisco Lage et al.’s Vida e Arte do Povo Português (“Life and Art of Portuguese People”), published and supervised by the Secretary of National Propaganda, about the panels of the moliceiros: “the artist updates his creations and, therefore, one can now find social and political allusions: busts of Salazar, legionnaires, members of the Portuguese Youth [the “Mocidade Portuguesa”, a fascist youth organization that every student had to belong to]. He updates and modernizes his characters, group figures, and suffers the influence of international politics”. However, the research undertaken for this study did not find one single representation of Salazar, of legionnaires, or of members of the Portuguese “Mocidade” (except for a sole and curious image that combines a boy dressed in the Portuguese Youth uniform with the portrait of King D. Manuel II, deposed in 1910), that would have certainly been the first images to be reproduced and publicized by the Secretary of National Propaganda, if they had actually existed.
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5 At the present time, there is even a reputed female moliceiro painter, who is also a secondary school teacher of Visual Arts.
CHAPTER SIX
GODDESSES AND WOMEN: DIVINE IMAGES IN BENGALI URBAN CULTURE
SANDRA C. S. MARQUES
“The worlds in which different societies live are distinct worlds, not merely the same world with different labels attached” (Sapir, 1949)
In India, pictorial and sculptured images of divine figures are part of the urban visual culture. They are consumer goods for a great majority as they cut across the entire society. Apart from their presence in the innumerable large and small, permanent and temporary temples, the same image of a deity may be found in the thakur bari (house of gods) of a residential house, inside a bedroom, in a calendar of a seller of bidis (handcrafted cigarettes), in an advertisement of saris or jewellery, in a dentist’s waiting room, in a fruit-stall, on the dashboard of a public transport, in a hotel lounge or as part of a mural on the street (see Fig.6-1). Most of these images are not produced with specific religious purposes, adding to the vastness of consumer objects created for decorating and beautifying spaces, marketing and communication. Yet, they are generically understood as the expression of divine presence among human beings and their material existence. They are integrated in the social organization and submitted to more or less complex rituals of caring as well as sensualised and humanised relations. This essay particularly focuses on the anthropomorphic images of some of the feminine Hindu deities omnipresent in Kolkata (capital of West Bengal, India) and on the examination of the relations that are established with them. Predicates of appearance and personality, the needs and behaviour that are attributed to them, as well as the ritualised care to which they are submitted, will be here analysed as instruments of reproduction of normative references for the identity and appearance of Bengali women1.
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Fig. 6-1. A small thakur bari in a residential house (Fernando Sousa, Kolkata, 2010).
Divine images, representations and perceptions
Apart from the erudite artistic production, there naturally exist various genres of popular representations of deities, with numerous artists/artisans specialised in their production in the “traditional” mode, frequently concentrated in (and identified with) regional spaces and communities. The images serving as references here are, however, those of massified consumption. They are expressions of popular commercial art (or hybrid, as described by Kapur, 1989 or Uberoi, 1990), known as the genre of “bazar art” or “calendar art”, also designated by some as “Indian kitsch”. It should be underlined that the terms “art” and “artist” are used in this text in accordance with their material expression in the current discourse. Not disregarding the long history of the divergence of opinions about the existence of the concept of art in India (Organ, 1975; Jain, 1997, 2002; Mitter, 2002), in what concerns the images examined in this text, I express my principle of agreement with the statement of Ananda K. Coomarswamy in the Introduction to Indian Art, of 1966, in which he says that in India, it serves the purposes of life, like daily bread. Indian art has always been produced in response to a demand. And with regard to its production, duplication, circulation and consumption, as argued by Kajri Jain:
[…] participation in this system meant keeping these networks well-oiled maintaining a profile within the community, fulfilling your obligations, Goddesses and Women: Divine Images in Bengali Urban Culture 115
and generally maintaining the appearance (for here appearances are key) of being an honorable, morally upright, god-fearing—or rather god-loving and society-fearing—soul (Jain, 2002: 46).
Indeed, when we look at the historicity of alterations and consolidation of representational canons, we can observe that these images, though not responding to consensually precise chronologies and ideologies, seem to have been serving the regulatory demand of the structures of power for a long time, inscribing themselves as reflecting models of prevalent symbolic systems (see Alter, 1992; Jain, 2001; Kapur, 1993; Pinney, 1997). There are many Sanskrit texts which deal with iconography and iconometry. The Shilpa Shastras treat image-making along with architecture and building. For each particular form of deity, there are specifications of proportions of the body and its parts, postures, mudras (signs / hand gestures), symbols and weapons to be held and the appropriate vahana (animal mount). The conception of the image is not left to the creative imagination of the individual artist. The Shastras also outline: “Only an image made in accordance with the canon can be called beautiful; some may think that beautiful which corresponds to their own fancy, but that not in accordance with the canon is unlovely to the discerning eye” (Sukracaria quoted in Coomaraswamy, 1956: 167)2. Under the long drawn project of conservation of the ancient Indian architectural art which started around the 1870s, ancient paintings such as the ones of Ajanta caves had been copied out by art students trained in the academic realist style. The ancient style, valued above all for its perspective, shading details and foreshortening, was recreated within the influence of the 19th century realism while promising the representation of de-historicized primordial gods. And these gods, around this time and for the most, were firmly established as “Aryan” (Guha Thakurta 1991, 2004). In practice, the duplication or recreation of these representations of the “bazar art” genre by numerous successive artists is, as Pinney describes:
[…] facilitated by the archives of early images maintained by most commercial artists. These ensure the circulation of these images and prevent their sedimentation. Forming part of a relatively closed repertoire, they migrate endlessly, cutting back and forth across new times and contexts (1997: 835).
Among the formal imperatives that guide the contemporary production of these representations, some elements of configuration and iconometry, which are of interest for this analysis, stand out3. These deities reproduced 116 Chapter Six with their respective postures, mudras, objects and iconic adornments for their recognition, are conceived with (disproportionately) large faces and eyes (often with a third vertical eye), must look directly at the viewer, and cannot be shown to have muscles. These formal requirements are subordinated to the idea that the power emanated from deities transcends bodily instrumentality; its visible manifestation is the benevolence, gentleness, kindness via the glow of the skin, the radiance of the face, eyes, and gesture. The muscular power is associated with the animal, the natural power, and the deities transcend this universe, this power. As their producers argue, these images should transmit, transfer (not express) bhava (emotion), they should be aakarshak (attractive), causing them to become mughd (the viewer should become rapt) or mohit (seduced, enchanted) (Jain 2001). And in the case of Vedic feminine figures such as goddesses, semi-goddesses and heroines, the rule of an overwhelming beauty (in accordance with the canon) is a signifier of their femininity per se.
Rasa, bhava and darshan
The wording used above by the image makers to justify the canon lead to some concepts that are fundamental for the understanding of the production and consumption of artistic forms in India. The “theory of emotion or aesthetics”, referred in the writings Natya Shastra (treatise of dance, music and drama), dated between 3rd century BC and 3rd century AD, describes rasa (juice, flavour, essence) as the emotional state of mutual fusion between the subject who observes/who perceives and the object/subject observed, having its maximum exponent in the transcendental joy. This state is called rasanubhuti. According to this conceptualization, rasa is evoked through sthayibhava (emotions), of which eight are identified in this treatise: sringara (love), hasya (humour), vira (courage), bibhatsa (disgust), raudra (anger), adbhuta (wonder), bhayanaka (terror), and karuna (pity), as well as more 33 vyabhicharibhava, or transitory emotions. Since each bhava induces a corresponding rasa, they proliferate geometrically into further subcategories, in elaborate systematisation (Chakravorty, 2004; Lutgendorf, 2006; Masson & Patwardhan, 1970, Rangacharya 1996). In this sense, the rasa that is primarily associated with the perception of dramatic and artistic performance, of writing, of poetry, but also of food and of religious performance, is, for this reason, fundamentally different from the “Western” idea of distancing/separation between the observer and the observed. Here, to look at, to observe, to contemplate means Goddesses and Women: Divine Images in Bengali Urban Culture 117 perceiving, feeling, tasting, smelling; it is a sensual act, that implies intimacy, that implies proximity at the level of transference, of fusion. As a result, the rasa cannot be experienced by a beginner. It has to be cultivated, implying a journey of learning, of continuous practice (riaz), constant, repetitive and prolonged. This conception is not only reflected in the logic applied to the teaching-learning process of the various forms of art in India, but also to the learning of looking at, of seeing, particularly the images designated as murti—in which a divine essence is manifested. Not all images of deities are murti (the murti images in India have juridical existence). In order to be able to be designated as such, the image has to be submitted to a ritual of consecration called pran-pratishtha— “establishing the breathlife”—and, from that moment on, the divine referent is understood to be residing in the image (the images swayambhu, “self-born”, are exceptions). On the other hand, it should also be taken into account that this condition can be permanent or temporary and that the person founding a deity becomes morally responsible for the worship of that deity. So that in the popular perception there has to be, in general, a careful relation with all these representations. On being admitted as forms of consubstantiation or potential consubstantiation of divine referents, they are images invested with value and power requiring a wise commitment to the relationship4. For those who inscribe their representations of the world and of things in this system of meanings, the image cannot then be only looked at. It implies the search for the evocation of rasa. The (implicated) gaze at these representations is darshan, that is, it involves a physical incorporation of their substance, of the divine substance that, in this case, it is their attribute (Babb, 1981; Eck, 2007; Prasad, 1998). This is the reason why these figures should look directly at the viewer. Its representation should facilitate the benevolent and auspicious reciprocal look:
In the Hindu world “seeing” is clearly not conceived as a passive product of sensory data originating in the outer world, but rather seems to be imaged as an extrusive and acquisitive “seeing flow” that emanates from the inner person, outward through the eyes, to engage directly with objects seen, and to bring something of those objects back to the seer. One comes into contact with, and in a sense becomes, what one sees. To see a deity is therefore beneficial, but to see a deity as one is seen by that deity is especially beneficial, because it allows the devotee to take in, in a manner of speaking to drink with the eyes, the deity’s own current of seeing (Babb, 1981: 396-7).
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In popular terminology, the deity (as well as the sacred place, the sadhu—holy person, the sannyasin—renouncer, etc.) “gives darshan” and the common people “takes darshan”. One may say that the divine vision is given to the viewer. A visual transaction of the power in the eye of the beholder to the viewers’ eyes occurs. As Diana Eck makes clear, darshan seeing is a form of touching and a form of knowing. As a mode of perception, darshan acts as a critique of perception in that the liberation of the learned viewer is the correcting of their vision (Eck, 2007). It should be understood that we are literally speaking of a divine- human transaction of substances and, in this way, as a two-way transaction, it not only authorises the humanisation of deities but also the divinisation of humans. When Mahatma Gandhi travelled through India, thousands of people would gather wherever he stopped to “take his darshan”. This is common to many other well-known sages, sadhus, swamis (ascetic initiated into a monastic order), etc. On the other hand, this conception of sight as a means of “contagion” also implies the physiological aversion to seeing dangerous things. At the opposite level of this desirable benign eye, there is the kudrishti or buri najar, the “evil eye”. Thus, eye power (divine as well as human) must be contained and carefully regulated. Women, for example, are often addressed on these concerns. It is unbecoming for a woman to boldly challenge the male gaze. The eye power in male-female interaction is dangerous and disruptive in its sensual and sexual aspects. This poses an apparent contradiction. If there is a need to control potentially harmful glances between deities and humans (and a divine “evil eye” is fearfully powerful), one would think that both should be discreet while gazing, striving not to be seen. However, in these images settings, the display of both the deity and the human is strongly emphasized along with the boldness of the gaze. What happens is that the greatness of the potential rewards from darshan overawes this risk. They both depend upon each other, thus both humans and gods should be displayed at their best, beautiful and gentle in their appearance to gaze at each other and humans should be submissive and diligent in taking care of the needs of the gods who are willingly dependent upon humans. Since the divine essence can be incorporated not only by darshan but also by the mediation of substances like water, fire, smoke, or through food, the acts associated with this commitment to the relationship multiply. For example, one can incorporate the divine substance through sparsa (touching the image with the hands), and touching the limbs of one’s own body to establish the presence of various deities (nyasa); through sravana (hearing the sacred sound of the mantras) as well as Goddesses and Women: Divine Images in Bengali Urban Culture 119 through prasada (the ingestion of consecrated food)5. Thus, simple rituals such as joining the palms of the hands in the act of namaskar greetings (“I bow to you”) by the subject that passes inadvertently in front of the image, the application of tilak on the deities’ forehead6 the offering of flower garlands, or the burning of incense, are extended, in certain moments and circumstances, to sophisticated ritualised acts of caring. According to the Shastras, the daily worship of a murti includes the sweeping of the temple, the process of smearing, removal of the previous day’s offerings of flowers, the presentation of fresh flowers, the respectful oblation of rice with sweets and water, among others. The daily routine of life is gone through, with minute accuracy and the vivified image is regaled with necessaries and luxuries of life in due succession. The image is awakened in the morning, honoured with incense and songs, bathed, dressed, adorned, and fed. Throughout the day, other rites appropriate to the time of day are performed until the retirement of the deity to rest in the evening. The deity is conceived of as a living being and should be treated in the same way as the master or guest of the house would be treated by his humble servant or host7.
Images of goddesses and women in Bengali India
In this region of India, the importance of the humanist movements, which dates back at least to the times of Buddha (Siddhartha Gautama, 6th century to 5th century BC), and namely the relevance of Vaishnavism, of tantric Hinduism and Buddhism, of Vedanta philosophy, of Sankhya and of the Shakta theology, appears to be the determining factor for the exacerbation of this tendency to humanise the divine and divinise the human, occurring both at popular and elite levels. This emphasis on the divine-human mutuality is the essence of bhakti (the relational love, shared by god and devotee), which, in Bengal, has also been accompanied by a focus on the feminine (prakriti—the complementary quality of the masculine purusha), on the feminine power (shakti) and, on the devotion to female deities, fertility and maternity. Here, the great goddess Durga was elevated to a dominant position in the pantheon and Kali, who is perceived as another form of the same entity, is the most significant divine representation of the feminine that challenges in some way the dominant societal norms. Lakshmi, who is called Lokkhi in Bengali and perceived as one of the daughters of Durga and Shiva, is next in importance. She is the goddess of wealth, fortune and beauty, commonly perceived as the personification of the ideal Bengali bride. I will now explore the figuration of the feminine in contemporary 120 Chapter Six
Bengali popular culture, developing the idealized notion of Bengali women, as realised in these female divine images, at their intersection with social performance and normativization. Both the images and the discourses that invest them with their values seek to merge “tradition” and “modernity” while conveying selected scriptural and liturgical traditions along with present models for the regulation of gender roles. The body of religious texts understood to be fundamental to the inscription of the cosmogonic and historical knowledge of India is called Vedic literature or the Vedas (“knowledge”), passed from oral to written narrative over centuries. One of the most common modes of organising them is the distinction between Shruti Vedas (“knowledge that was heard”) and Smriti Vedas (“knowledge that was remembered”). The former are older (written down between 1300 BC and 200 BC) and composed of four parts or Vedas that deal with distinct knowledges: Samhitas, Bhramanas, Aranyakas and the most well-known Upanishads, written later and dedicated to theological discussion. The second group of texts called Smriti Vedas is made up by the famous epics Ramayana and Mahabharata and by the Puranas. The various Puranas date from the era of the Gupta Empire (between 3rd century and 6th century AD) and went on emerging over the entire medieval period. They belong to the class of texts known as Itihasas (“history”) or historical narratives, which include a body of information about history, cosmology, geography, philosophy and the genealogy of kings, heroes, gods and demigods. Some theologians defend that the Puranas may have been written as complement to the Shruti Vedas with the purpose of making this knowledge accessible for common men and women, given that the understanding of the former requires many years of study (accessible only to a few enlightened dvija, or “twice-born” males) dedicated to learn the science of Vedanga (phonetics, grammar, metrics of rhyme, etc.) and the vaidika sanskrit language, in which they are written. The Devi Bhagvata Purana (dating back to around 400-500 AD) is devoted to the idea of the Mother Goddess, of the supreme divine who is feminine, mighty and prior to all-creating and all things. It tells the story of the Great Goddess (Mahadevi), describing her as the divine creatix, possessor of the supreme power (shakti) and above all gods. After the creation, she is identified in herself as Durga, auspicious, majestic, protector from great dangers and calamities, revealing herself in many forms, such as: Kali (consort of Shiva), the destroyer; Lakshmi (consort of Vishnu), goddess of prosperity and wealth; and Saraswati (consort of Brahma), goddess of knowledge and wisdom (Devi Bhagvata Purana; trans. Swami Vijñanananda, 1921-22; Gier, 1997). At present, however, Goddesses and Women: Divine Images in Bengali Urban Culture 121 the idea that dominates the Bengali popular perception about the divine pantheon is quite different. Despite the mitigating influence of the Shakta theology (of the creating power that is feminine), the predominant perception is that of the primacy of the masculine divinity that is complemented by a feminine consort. Seen in that way, she incorporates the shakti power of her male spouse and translate it into the material reality (maya) as benevolent power (Ganesh, 1990). Thus, as Durga, this deity is above all associated with the representation that is devoted to her in a part of the important Markandeya Purana (dating back to the same period) called Devi Mahatmya (“glory of the goddess”) and which is even today essential in Shakta rituals and in the autumnal festival Durga Puja (in the month of Ashwin), the largest and most important festival of Kolkata and West Bengal. The text describes her victory in battles against various demons, including the powerful demon Mahishasura. According to this narrative, it is the male gods that by recognising their incapacity to overcome Mahishasura confer their own powers together to the goddess making her the invincible Mahishasuramardini who, mounted on a lion, with ten limbs armed with their formidable arsenal, manages finally to behead him (see Fig.6-2).
Fig. 6-2. Durga on her lion mount defeating the demon Mahisashura. Both deities and humans are displayed at their best to gaze at each other (Fernando Sousa, Kolkata, 2010).
The narrative of combats against evil follows and in her last battle the goddess is in difficulty against another enemy, the demon Raktabija. At that point she creates, through her third eye, her most fearful form, Kali, 122 Chapter Six the terrible black warrior, to be able to defeat him. At the end, Durga absorbs Kali and ends the battle alone. Although images of the solitary warrior in the field of battle are very popular (in West Bengal and all over India), they are not the ones used in the great Bengali festival Durga Puja that celebrates these victories. Here, several narratives commingle and this historical narrative is recreated and submitted to a unique imagetic representation. As Rabindranath Tagore (Nobel literature laureate and icon of Bengali culture) describes, her representation that is preferred here is that of the powerful Shakti who, at the same time personifies the benevolent, affectionate mother: with a sword in her right hand; both eyes smile tenderly while the third eye on the forehead glows with fire (Rabindranath Tagore in Gitabitan). Just as India is identified with a mother goddess (Bharat Ma—mother India), Durga is identified with the motherland-territory Bengal, a representation that was exacerbated by the pro-independence reformist movements of the 19th and 20th centuries (Kumar, 2006). Ma Durga is at the same time the motherland-territory, a “daughter of Bengal” and a “mother of Bengal” (because the ideal daughter is also a mother). Within that framework, in addition to the mimetic figures associated with her victory over the evil personified in Mahisashura, the goddess is, for this festival, flanked by her four children. The underlying popular idea is that at the end of the battle, Durga returns victorious to her original parental home (territory of West Bengal) with her offspring (see Fig.6-3).
Fig. 6-3. Durga Puja pantheon. From left to right: son Ganesha, daughter Lakshmi, mother Durga (overcoming Mahishasura), daughter Saraswati, and son Kartik (Fernando Sousa, Kolkata, 2010). Goddesses and Women: Divine Images in Bengali Urban Culture 123
On a temporary visit to the house of her parents (Himalaya or Himavat and Menaka), after terrible ordeals in the battlefield, she is welcomed with the indulgence she deserves as a daughter who is already a mother - which, as popular perception sees it, she is denied in her husband's home (Durga is supposed to live with her husband Shiva in his abode, the legendary mountain Kailash). I remind that the dominating rule here is that the woman goes on to live in the house of her in-laws and belongs to the family and lineage of her husband after her marriage. Hence, it seems that there is a need to convey a double meaning for Bengali marriage in this representation. Marriage is, at the same time, a challenging environment in which Bengali females are subjected to terrible ordeals (and may become stronger like Durga) and a humane and kindly institution, which allows them to maintain close contact with their paternal homes where they are lovingly cherished, blunting to some extent the violent alienation implicit in patrilocal residence. At the same time, to the detriment of the solitary warrior, Durga is represented as a personification of the majestic and beautiful divine feminine, while docile and benevolent, domesticated to the norms of her social and family position. Here I call attention to the fact that the Bengali mothers support the patriarchal hierarchy of control, but their power comes from a male line of descent (never from the female progeny). Durga is perceived in West Bengal as being the mother of Lakshmi and Saraswati, but also that of the male gods Kartik and Ganesha, ensuring, in this way, her position of power in the family cell and in the feminine pantheon. The ideal of the feminine is, thus, represented by a domestic goddess after her token autonomy has been established in a token way. Bengali females may become Durga (sharing the powerful essence of Durga and be treated with the same deference and indulgence) only after becoming honourable mothers of males. Most of these goddesses are quite similar regarding the overall appearance of their anthropomorphic representation (Kali is an exception). As previously mentioned, they share the same large round face and eyes, the same glow of the skin (mostly pale or white in colour) and black wavy long hair (never in other colour, never tightly curled, shaved, short nor in jata [dreadlocks]), as well as the same tenderness and curvy body shape. They are all adorned and dressed according to their status of Hindu high lineage married females, in sari and heavy jewellery, smiling with closed lips (see Fig. 6-2)8. The model of the ideal female figure is however specifically embodied by the goddess Lakshmi, better known as Lokkhi in Bengal. 124 Chapter Six
Indeed, these deities are distinguishable from one another by the composition of their figures with scriptural ascribed particular signs, but first and foremost by the narratives that invest them with their particular values. And as for the ideal female figure, the Bengali proverb says “chhotokhato, lokkhimonto”, “small like goddess Lakshmi”:
The goddess lokkhi is considered the ideal woman: she is very quiet, calm, she knows how to handle everything, she is the one who brings in prosperity, so… the ideal women should be like her: short and should have short steps… fair, small feet, well kept, well made it …married … lokkhi likes everything cool and calm, everything silent. And if she goes away from the house, if she leaves the household, all prosperity goes with her (young Bengali female, Kolkata, February 15, 2011).
As mentioned earlier, Lakshmi, who is described in the Vedas as the goddess of wealth, fortune and beauty (commonly associated with the lotus flower), and consort of Vishnu, is also, in West Bengal, the daughter of the divine powerful couple in the form of Durga and Shiva and sister of Saraswati (female), Ganesha and Kartik (males). That is to say, she is a powerful goddess because she is a competent daughter, sister and spouse of powerful figures. She is the most beautiful, because she is the most docile and submissive: small, quiet, calm, with delicate feet and steps nearly soundless. She ensures the prosperity and fortune of the family by her omnipresence “inside the house” as the best caregiver: taking care of everything and everyone in the most discreet manner. In short, Lokkhi is the model of the ideal bride because she personifies the perfectly domesticated young female of high lineage ancestry who adds value into a household without calling attention to herself9. Through several forms of expression (writing, theatre, satire, music, painting), a large number of 19th and 20th centuries Bengali thinkers (both men and women) have played a fundamental role in the debate and ideological construction of the reformist movement of the post-colonial “Indian identity” that distinctly marks the references used for “good taste” (Bourdieu, 1984) in the present “Bengali identity” (Nag, 1991; Ray, 1991; Bandhyopadhyay, 1994). This project for the nationalist construction of India has found the conciliation between the preservation of the singularity of its identity and the immersion into modernity through an ideological principle of selection reified on the difference of the female and the male body. The former came to be conceptualized as the repository of the “essential Indian spirituality” and the latter as the repository of “the materiality appropriated from the West” (Chatterjee, 1989). Goddesses and Women: Divine Images in Bengali Urban Culture 125
This meant that the females were from then on to be submitted to a new patriarchal order, understood as superiorly refined, emancipating and more in line with the modern world, yet unequivocally distanced from the materialist evils of “Western” models. Women should be educated for participating in the public sphere, but preserving (what modern Bengalis like to think as) the “immemorial spiritual” virtues of care-givers, of chastity, modesty, submission, self-sacrifice, compassion, kindness and patience; and that should be reflected in their virtuous external appearance, devotion to family, motherhood, religiosity, etc. No matter what the changes in the external conditions of life for women, they must persevere on their “essential Indian spiritual” marks of conduct and appearance, i.e. their “essential Indian beauty” that will lead them to become powerful domestic goddesses worthy of the deference devoted to these divine figures. As said earlier, Kali is an exception. The last of the deities analysed in this text represents the unconventional, the transgression of the dominant ideology on beauty, submission, docility and domesticity imposed on the feminine ideal. Significantly, she is understood to be another form of goddess Durga, another “persona” of the supreme power of the divine feminine and extraordinarily popular in this region, deserving the status of patron of the capital Kolkata. Kali emerges as a threatening merciless warrior, solitary, dark, dishevelled, with frizzy hair and almost denuded. She is Shiva’s consort, but as Kali she does not have children and is commonly represented stepping on her spouse. This preferential image captures the moment of the end of the hard battle of which I have already spoken, in which the victorious Kali dances, defiant and frenetic, over the bodies of the vanquished demons. Her consort, the powerful god Shiva, lies down over these bodies to placate Kali and when she, on stepping upon him, perceives that all the enemies have already been overpowered, finally calms down. In this Vedic narrative, the demon Raktabija, on bleeding, multiplied into demons, this being the reason why Durga was not able to overpower him. Kali emerging ferocious with her huge tongue has made his destruction possible by rapidly swallowing all the drops of blood spilled (see Fig. 6-4). Contemporary popular Bengali versions about the meaning of the large exposed tongue of the goddess impose, however, an attenuation of this representation. In spite of the importance of this sanctioning of the feminine insurgency and her immense popularity, apparently the apologia for this feminine transgressor would be excessive in modernity, and thus, in the popular discourse, the tongue hanging out rather represents the shameful expression of Kali when she realises that she has committed the 126 Chapter Six intolerable act of stepping on her husband. As a result from this attempt to somewhat domesticate this goddess to the normative ideals of feminine behaviour in modern times, this popular narrative also attains the representation of the dangerous, destructive nature of the power held by an independent woman, without descendants, who is not submissive to a male authority figure or to the family hierarchy. Her power is not positive, auspicious and beautiful as that of the docile female, married, mother of a male progeny and who expresses these qualities in her appearance and conduct.
Fig. 6-4. Kali stepping upon her spouse Shiva (Fernando Sousa, Kolkata, 2008).
The ambivalence of the Great Goddess in these representations seems to be linked to the cultural evaluation of female sexuality as dangerous and disruptive if not harnessed appropriately. The two faces of the goddess are both faces of power, but as properly married spouse, she is the embodiment of grace and benevolence; as the independent goddess, she threatens to destroy the very basis of the social order. In the course of the construction of modern India, the earlier, fiery, independent goddess seems to have lost to the domesticated one. Goddesses and Women: Divine Images in Bengali Urban Culture 127
It is interesting to note that, in modern West Bengal, the high value attributed to education, political and cultural interventionism is reflected in a high F/M ratio of literacy, positioning this Indian state as the 3rd best at the national rank since the 1970’s, both genders achieving high levels of qualification (Bagchi, 2005). There are many Bengali educated women working outside in “respectable” professions (e.g professors, researchers, engineers, journalists, lawyers, etc.) and yet, they are all expected to become mothers (inside marriage) and to immediately abandon the public sphere to pursue the ideal role of the perfect domestic care-giver in the domain of the home (Donner, 2008).
Conclusion
Divine images exist as objects for consumption not only of aesthetic and religious associated functions, but of the specific messages their producers promote. People in West Bengal (as well as in the rest of India) consume them in visual media, goods, in their houses, job places, and mainly in regular live ceremonials and festival contexts. They are inherently intended for consumption and through these experiences people consume not only the aesthetic and the scriptural and liturgical traditions but also the messages which support compliance to the modern social order. By acknowledging their place in the historical continuum of anthropomorphized divine models, one can see that they are neither rematerialized figures from the past, nor are they isolated from it. These representations are sustained by a “selective tradition” established by a dominant ruling class in so far as the past is intended to connect with and ratify the present. The glorious Hindu past of independent powerful feminine figures seeks to address anxieties about women’s sexuality and independence in a modern secular democracy. The problem is posed in terms of the increasing difficulty of imagining females as role models at a time when Hindu patriarchy, organized around stable jati (birth) lineage hierarchies and extended family households, is exposed to serious threats. The narratives and practices around these figures reverberate with these anxieties and operate like veiled threats towards the defiance of patriarchal structures and male dominance on the public sphere. Only under the condition of entering the full logic of Bengali bourgeois models— becoming educated, refined females yet domesticated and conformed to the daughter, spouse and mother ideal—can the female elevation be considered.
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Notes
1 This article is part of a larger study on “Practices and Representations of the Body in Bengali India” funded by the Portuguese Foundation for Science and Technology (FCT), [SFRH/BPD/63308/2009]. 2 Shastra is the term accepted in Indian tradition for treatises dedicated to a particular field of knowledge. The Shastras are numerous (on sculpture, architecture, politics, biology, elephants, food, etc.), difficult to date (probably starting from 200 BC) and also considered holy texts. I note that the Natya Shastra (treatise on the art of drama) is also believed to be the fifth Veda, its constituents being adopted from the four Vedas. 3 For a more exhaustive description of these representations in the present see Jain, 1998, 2001, 2002; Kapur, 1993; Uberoi, 1990. 4 Murti images, according to Hindu authorities, are of two kinds: the first is known as swayambhu or self-existent or self-revealed, while the other is pratisthita or established. A swyamhu or self-revealed image is of nature; it is Anadi or without any beginning and worshippers simply discover its existence. Such image does not require consecration. All artificial or man-made images require consecration. An image, according to Matsya Purana, may properly be made of gold, silver, copper, iron, brass or bell metal or any kind of gem, stone or wood, conch shell, crystal or even earth. Some persons worship images painted on wall or canvas, says the Brihata Purana and some worship the spheroidal stones known as salgram. Generally speaking, the Puranic writers classify artificial images under two heads: lepya and lekhya. Lepya images are molded figures of metal or clay, while lekhyas denote all kinds of pictorial images not made by molds. The person founding a deity becomes morally responsible for the worship of the deity even if no property is dedicated to it. “This responsibility is always carried out by a pious Hindu either by personal performance of the religious rites or, in the case of Sudras, by the employment of a Brahmin priest” (Allahabad High Court, 2010: 41-43). 5 The meal prepared with appropriate food for the deity (naivedya) is transformed into bhoga when (symbolically) ingested by the deity and the leftovers (that thus acquire the sacred quality) are then called prasada and distributed among the devotees and everyone present. 6 Tilak – auspicious mark made on the fronthead with sandal paste, ash or kumkum (dry turmeric added to limewater to make it red). 7 The number of upacharas (honor offerings to the deity) may vary, but sixteen is considered a proper number for a complete puja (ritual of worship). The upacharas “include food, water, fresh leaves, sandalwood perfume, incense, betel nuts, and cloth. They are the type of hospitality offerings with which one would honor a guest, or a revered elder, or a king” (Eck, 2007: 47). They also include offerings such as the waving of the fan and light. The ritual circling of a prodip (oil or camphor lamp) is called arati and it is also central to the worship. 8 Married Hindu Bengali women may wear as distinctive marks of their status: shinthir sindur (parting of the hair covered with kumkum) or another red coloured
Goddesses and Women: Divine Images in Bengali Urban Culture 129
product covering the shinthi; sindurer tip (a circle made with kumkum on the forehead) or as its replacement, a prêt-à-porter tip of any colour; the shankha- paula and loha (red-white bangles and iron bangle covered with gold); and both soles of the feet painted in red alta (alta pora pa). For ostensive demonstrations of their high status and wealth (on special occasions), they may add gold necklaces, the noth (gold ring worn on the left nostril joined to the left ear by a chain), the tikli (gold adornment worn on the shinthi), the hat poddo (the gold lotus adornment worn on the hands), the nupur (anklets), and the komor beni (gold waist chain). The goddesses on the Durga Puja pantheon wear all these ornaments, displaying their status of married Hindu Bengali females of powerful, high lineages. As one can see in Fig. 6-2, the resemblance between these goddesses and the Bengali female is notorious. 9 I add here that Lokkhi is usually painted in light pink (in this art genre, except for Saraswati that is painted in white to represent the purity of her wisdom, all the beautiful goddesses are painted in light pink). Dhud-e alta (dhud – milk, alta – red) body colour is the desired one for Bengali women; it is clearly associated with the supreme beauty (lotus flower) and the guarantee of a high lineage (“aryanized” godly ancestry).
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE HERITAGE OF URBAN VISUAL CULTURE IN AMERICAN PAINTING OF THE 1980’S: GRAFFITI AND MUSEUM ART
VANESSA BESAND
The graffiti movement, a street art par excellence, was widely developed in the United States during the 1980’s, more particularly in New York, where all kinds of tags covered the walls and subway trains of the city. Numerous—now famous—graffiti artists (Zephyr, Fab 5 Freddy, Lady Pink, Noc 167, Futura 2000, Lady Heart, Lee, Dondi, Seen, Daze, Quik, just to mention a few of them) made the movement extremely popular. Still, from the moment gallery owners really started to get interested in it, this art spread far beyond the streets themselves. In their will to attract the best New York graffiti artists into galleries, art professionals forced the graffiti movement to re-orient—and consequently redefine—itself. Indeed, what about a street art once it is taken out of the natural environment by which it was fully characterised, in order to be integrated into the places dedicated to institutional art? This re-definition could not take place without questioning the loss of the very essence of graffiti. Far from being accepted as such, the fact of transferring graffiti art into galleries was often even detrimental to talented artists, who were denied access to the establishment by the critics themselves. Still, some who had started in the streets as graffiti artists managed to leave behind their primary status in order to compel recognition in the artistic world, as painters in their own right. Jean-Michel Basquiat and Keith Haring, doubtlessly the two most famous graffiti artists and painters, have remained in art history. Therefore, it is interesting to study the way in which Basquiat and Haring kept an intermediate position, by being related to graffiti culture while standing apart from it. But in order to be achieved, this study of their ambiguous social and aesthetic status should highlight the relationships and tensions between street art and institutional art, 132 Chapter Seven between the street world and the gallery world, between subculture and elite culture in New York during the 1980’s.
The world of graffiti: from streets to museums
Main characteristics of the American graffiti movement
According to Jon Reiss, a documentary maker having worked on graffiti art, it was in 1971 that, following Philadelphia, New York became the American capital of the graffiti movement. For Reiss, the main characteristic of graffiti art is its relationship with letters, particularly with names. Through his tags, the graffiti artist asserts his identity by leaving his mark on a wall, building or subway train, and by developing a personal style which soon becomes recognizable, thus allowing him both to delimit his territory and make his presence felt among other graffiti taggers. His will to express his identity always goes along with the pursuit of total authenticity. To those notions of identity and authenticity, Martha Cooper—a photographer who worked on subway graffiti in 1970 and 1980—adds the importance of urban space as a place of creation and exhibition, both a studio and a gallery. Indeed, she explains that graffiti taggers have developed their own “microcosms of galleries” on the subway trains, since the trains were the galleries and the graffiti artists, their own critics (Miller 131). In this sense, art has indeed been transferred out onto the streets, as was confirmed by art critic Richard Goldstein who, in an article published in Village Voice in December 1980, declared that graffiti art challenged the context in which art is usually enjoyed, by providing the notion of creation as a democratic process and by proving that graffiti art might even be likely to alter our conception of urban space (Goldstein 55). Graffiti taggers have tried so much to fight against the capitalist system present everywhere in the streets that one might even say, following Goldstein, that graffiti art challenges a certain vision of urban space. By offering citizens other pictures than those of advertisements encouraging overconsumption, the taggers showed their opposition to the society in which they lived, and even their revolt. Therefore, graffiti art also presented itself as a subversive movement constantly struggling to take over a public space which seemed to be strictly that of the prevailing economic system. In the same way, adding colour and brightness to an urban environment that was often grey or dull (most often in the underprivileged urban districts graffiti artists themselves came from) was another way of fighting the system which not only tried to force The Heritage of Urban Visual Culture in American Painting of the 1980’s 133 consumption, but also defaced the urban landscapes with blocks and concrete buildings. In such conditions, as graffiti art seems so ontologically related to the street world, the assimilation of this sub-cultural mode of expression by the world of institutional art and its market has often proved surprising, sometimes even disconcerting. Graffiti artists, who had started in the streets, were indeed welcomed to various New York galleries for a few years, especially in Soho, thus unwittingly inciting art critics to question their so-called authenticity, since graffiti art did not seem to find its raison d’être, its meaning and legitimacy anywhere except in the streets.
The assimilation of the graffiti movement by the art market
The cohesion of graffiti artists and the illegal character of their art soon made the graffiti movement attractive to other artistic circles, as such qualities pointed towards the possible development of a new avant-garde. That was why various galleries strove to transfer graffiti art into their premises. Among them, we may mention the Fashion Moda Gallery, which opened its doors in the South Bronx in November 1978 and organised one of the first exhibitions dedicated to graffiti art in October 1980, “Graffiti Art: Success for America”, in the presence of reputed artists such as Lee, Crash, Zephyr, Fab 5 Freddy or Futura 2000; or the Fun Gallery, entirely dedicated to graffiti art and inaugurated in the heart of East Village during the summer of 1981. Numerous exhibitions directly related to the movement took place in various New York galleries or museums at the beginning of the 1980’s: the “Times Square Show” in June 1980, “Events: Fashion Moda” in the New Museum of Contemporary Art in December 1980 or “New York/New Wave” in P. S. 1, a former primary School in Queens, in the spring of 1981. In her book about American graffiti, Margo Thompson points out that “the promotion of graffiti artists to the rank of stars [was now] part of the system” (Thompson 26). Graffiti made its way into art galleries, but the places where it was exhibited were still marginal ones willing to stay apart from the traditional, elitist art market. The Fashion Moda gallery, for instance, presented itself as an art gallery that was not strictly reserved to the elites. On the other hand, the fact that graffiti art had come to the attention of art lovers and major collectors implied another perception of the movement, as they went so far as to make it part of art history. Such was the case of Dolores and Hubert Neumann, a rich couple of art collectors who, in June 1983, organised a symposium dedicated to graffiti art at the Ethical Culture 134 Chapter Seven
Society, near the Lincoln Center, to which critics, academics and Manhattan artists were invited. This symposium was followed by an exhibition at the elegant Sydney Janis gallery, on 57th Street, six months later—which revealed the Neumann couple’s will to consider that the graffiti movement no longer belonged to subculture, but to art history. Indeed, this is confirmed by Janis’s introduction to the exhibition catalogue: he insists on the idea that the works of graffiti artists are no longer transient or ephemeral, but that they are part of the greater tradition of contemporary art, graffiti being recognised as an artistic movement in its own right (Janis, no page number). By calling his exhibition “Post- Graffiti”, Sydney Janis also wanted to emphasise the fact that graffiti artists could still work on subway trains, but that they had both widened and deepened their aesthetic ambitions by painting on canvas, thus reaching a new dimension: that of the fine arts. How can we explain such enthusiasm for the graffiti movement on the part of the elite art circles? Was it just snobbery? We know that the boundaries between high and low culture had already been widely challenged by pop art, but another criterion certainly allows to account for this assimilation of graffiti by the world of institutional art: the evolution of the federal cultural policy in the 1970’s and 1980’s. From the end of the 1970’s onwards, under the presidency of Jimmy Carter, this policy became less elitist, when the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA), a federal cultural agency created in 1965 and basically related to high culture, was oriented away from its elitist tendencies towards popular culture. Joan Mondale, the vice-president’s wife, but a true first lady in terms of artistic and cultural policy, was the first to try to break the boundaries between elite culture and popular culture by taking folk art into consideration. The Carter administration also called into question what had been prevailing since the Kennedy presidency at the level of government: the promotion of some excellence in arts. For the first time, mural art, hip-hop, rap music and graffiti were taken seriously by the American government, and they officially found their way into federal culture. According to Frédéric Martel, a specialist of American cultural policy, what appeared really new from the 1970’s was the essential part played by communities and minorities in re-defining American art at the national level:
[…] la question des communautés a profondément modifié la manière d’envisager la culture aux États-Unis. La hiérarchie entre les arts “elitists” et la culture populaire a été bousculée, les critères ont évolué et la définition de ce qui constitue, ou non, l’ “art” a changé. L’élite qui s’appuyait sur les “arts” pour défendre son statut social a été mise en minorité. […] Un pluralisme s’est instauré. […] La fin de la “high The Heritage of Urban Visual Culture in American Painting of the 1980’s 135
culture”? N’exagérons rien: les arts et l’élitisme survivront à la montée en puissance […] des minorités. Mais la fin d’une époque, certainement. (Martel 475-76)
[…] the question of communities deeply altered the conception of culture in the United States. The hierarchy between ‘elite’ arts and popular culture was shattered; the criteria evolved and the definition of what makes up ‘art’ or not has changed. The elite who relied on ‘arts’ in order to defend its social status became a minority. […] Pluralism was established. […] The end of ‘high culture’? Let us not exaggerate: arts and elitism will survive the increasing power […] of minorities. But the end of an era, certainly. [our translation]
In such a context, it is no wonder that the graffiti movement—the means of expression of sub-cultural art most often adopted by ethnic minorities or young people from an underprivileged background—was welcomed by gallery owners, including by those usually interested in high culture only. But if the world of art appropriated the universe of graffiti on account of its authenticity and originality, a serious problem arose: the loss of (or at least the threat to) its authenticity and originality, as graffiti art was transferred from the street onto canvas. Far from sharing the enthusiasm of some collectors and gallery owners, the critics stood up against two precise aspects of such graffiti art as displaced from the streets into galleries: its treatment both as museum art and marketable goods. As a painter and critic, Addison Parks tackles this issue of graffiti art considered as museum art in an article published in September 1982, “One Graffito, Two Graffito”. He underlines the unseemly aspect of graffiti art in galleries where, by definition, it does not belong, and stresses the fact that in such places, graffiti loses its very essence (Parks 73). Parks and many other critics after him accused the art world of corrupting graffiti art—whose representatives defended themselves by trying to make a distinction between their paintings on canvas and what they had done before as graffiti artists in the streets and subways. Thus, Fab 5 Freddy declared:
[…] lorsque l’on expose dans une galerie, on n’est pas un artiste du graffiti […] J’ai compris ça dès le début en 1979, avec Lee; on a immédiatement su que ce n’était pas spécifiquement du graffiti, on faisait simplement des peintures. (Thompson 164)
[…] when you have exhibitions in galleries, you aren’t a graffiti artist. […] I understood that from the beginning in 1979, with Lee; we knew right 136 Chapter Seven
away that it wasn’t specifically graffiti, we were just doing paintings. [our translation]
But the critics nevertheless went on, as an unsolvable problem remained: the end of the illicit origins of graffiti art. In such conditions, the questions of social and political order often prevailed over the formal appraisal of the taggers’ works. The exhibition organised at the Janis gallery even brought about stronger criticism of the museum evolution of graffiti art—thus having a contrary effect to that which had been expected. For those who reviewed the works shown at the “Post-Graffiti” exhibition, not only had graffiti artists lost their spontaneity and the expression of their identity—replaced by a studied nonchalance—but their production totally failed to reach the level of fine arts, contrary to what Janis and the Neumanns had expected. The transfer from the street world to the gallery world was thus contested, graffiti art being deemed inappropriate to institutional places, in so far as it was bound to lose its soul there and it was not part of art history and elite culture. Still, it is true that except for the spray-painted works of Futura 2000, whose obviously abstract aesthetics makes them different from tags and urban painting1, the kind of graffiti art which imposed itself in galleries corresponded more to a displacement of street art than to a transformation or re-creation of it. Such is the case for this picture—spray-painted on canvas by graffiti artist Seen—which just displaces street art into a gallery and onto another support, by keeping the tag right in the middle of the painting2. The second problem about graffiti art in galleries was that of the growing importance of the movement on the market. Former graffiti artists were now talking business instead of avant-garde in an artistic universe now invaded by consumerism. According to the critics, this was bad language, as the aim of contemporary art was to shock the middle-class, bourgeois society and challenge the existing social, political and economic relationships—including those prevailing in the art world. Yet, after contesting society in the streets, by painting on canvas and having exhibitions in galleries, graffiti artists wanted to belong to this middle- class world instead of dismantling it. Such criticism was reinforced by the fact that with the loss of its subversive and rebellious aspects, graffiti art had lost what made it meaningful. East Village, the symbolic place of the graffiti world, soon became middle-class, so that in 1982, the Fun Gallery, a cult place for urban art and subculture, moved to new premises—where the rent was eleven times as expensive as in the former ones—on the 10th Street. Still, one should underline that the economic data were then no longer distinguished from the artistic data in the Unites States: a painting was appraised as much aesthetically as financially. In this sense, graffiti The Heritage of Urban Visual Culture in American Painting of the 1980’s 137 artists completely followed the logic of the art market such as developed in the 1980’s. But their acceptance of the market rules by the street artists was interpreted as a way of giving up any kind of ethics and was thus deemed inacceptable by critics. It was in this context of enthusiasm and tensions that graffiti artists joined the world of institutional art, leaving the streets and subway trains for galleries and canvas. But in this universe where criticism was harsh, some artists who had started in the streets still managed to find their place in art history and to be accepted by the critics themselves. What were the characteristics that allowed taggers like Jean-Michel Basquiat or Keith Haring to distinguish themselves from graffiti artists of the same generation such as Lee, Dondi, Zephyr or even Futura 2000—who was still relatively successful as a painter—and to be celebrated today in museums all over the world3?
Basquiat and Haring: between graffiti spontaneity and artistic sophistication
Their relationship to the graffiti universe
At the beginning of their careers, Basquiat and Haring tagged the streets. Coming from Pittsburgh, Haring was fascinated by the graffiti in the streets of New York and admired the brilliant way the taggers handled their spray cans. He said that he was immediately very attracted by graffiti because that was how he wanted to paint and draw lines. Even if people said graffiti just meant tagging names, they were the most beautiful drawings he had ever seen according to him (Blinderman 165). He himself started to paint tags on the walls and in the subway, which was a way for him to avoid the mainstream artistic tendencies and to break up with the conventions of his time, by refusing to follow the rules of the art market. Moreover, in the autumn of 1980, he left the School of Visual Arts where he was a student. In the same way, instead of working under the patronage of gallery owners, he preferred to seize the opportunities being offered to him in the street—even before the graffiti movement had been acknowledged by the art world. One of his first works aimed at taking over the public space was the series “Clones Go Home”, which he stencilled on the walls and pavements between West Village and East Village. This was an attack—typical of the subversive aspect of graffiti art—against the stereotyped nouveaux riches who had then made West Village their own. Haring so much believed in the communication function of graffiti that he later developed a language consisting of numerous non-verbal signs for a 138 Chapter Seven concrete visual communication. One may mention two icons that he created during those early years in the streets: the baby crawling on all fours, encircled by rays and called the “radiant baby”, as well as the barking dog with a square muzzle, which gradually became his signature tag to the eyes of the other graffiti artists. The structure of his street work was meant for those walking or driving by, who could understand it at a single glance. Haring always used the same symbols, though differently combined, in order to offer the spectators various messages and, through an apparent naïveté, to convey simple but essential truths. While doing his “subway drawings”, he also gave them the transient aspect he was looking for. Drawn on advertising posters, his figures were soon to be covered by new posters—a way for him to practise an art totally opposed to museum art, which is stable and meant to last. As to Basquiat, he started his artistic career in 1977, when he and his friend, the graffiti artist Al Diaz, invented the pseudonym SAMO, which was to be his signature tag on the walls of New York for a long time. SAMO stood for “SAMe Old shit”. From the late 1970’s onwards, phrases by SAMO were to be found on the walls of Soho and Tribeca, or could even be seen on the Brooklyn Bridge: “SAMO save idiots” or “SAMO as an end to playing art”. The SAMO project was very interesting, as it illustrated the subversive dimension of the graffiti art movement by attacking the hypocrisy of a purely material society. Those tags, which soon became as famous as Haring’s “radiant baby”, were most of the time accompanied by the “copyright” symbol—an obvious parody of consumer society. These two street artists met in 1979 and took part in many events together, along with other graffiti taggers. Their works were displayed during the above mentioned exhibitions: the “Times Square Show” in June 1980, during which Basquiat was offered a whole section of wall and Haring met other graffiti artists, Fab 5 Freddy, Lee and Futura 2000, with whom he was to participate in more exhibitions such as “Events: Fashion Moda” in December 1980 in the New Museum of Contemporary Art, or “New York/New Wave” in 1981 at P. S. 1. At the same time, Haring organised exhibitions in two New York clubs: the Mudd Club4 and Club 57, where, true to his principle of ephemeral art, he had exhibitions that would hardly ever last more than one night.
Towards a both spontaneous and sophisticated art
Still, contrary to the other artists who had exhibitions in galleries, Basquiat and Haring found favour with art critics and were admitted into The Heritage of Urban Visual Culture in American Painting of the 1980’s 139 the very select circle of genuine painters. Thus, they managed to pass from subculture to high culture. But in order to do so, they tried to break away from graffiti culture. This statement is especially true concerning Basquiat, who soon broke up with his friend Al Diaz. The latter blamed him for betraying the graffiti art movement, especially by strategically placing his tags around the Soho galleries or the School of Visual Arts and this, from the very beginning. Basquiat managed to differentiate himself and to catch the eyes of gallery owners as well as the media—which shows his irresistible attraction to the artistic world he wanted to be part of. After breaking up with Al Diaz, he decided to kill SAMO—the graffiti tagger he had been—by writing “SAMO is dead” all over the streets in Soho. In 1983, at the time of the “Post-Graffiti” exhibition at the Sydney Janis gallery, in which both Haring and Basquiat took part, the latter even refused to talk further about SAMO and the days of his street graffiti. Following this exhibition, he joined the gallery of Mary Boone, who dealt with renowned artists like Julian Schnabel or David Salle, thus showing his will to break away from the world of graffiti taggers from which he might have never escaped, had he stayed with Sydney Janis. As to Haring, his intermediary position was more obvious than that of Basquiat. His attachment to the street world remained more visible in his paintings on canvas and, beyond that, his desire to be recognised by institutional art was going against his refusal to play the game of the art world. One of his statements about this point is quite ambiguous:
Je ne comprends pas pourquoi l’establishment artistique américain—les musées—continue à se dresser contre mon travail. D’un certain point de vue cette résistance me réjouit car elle me donne quelque chose contre laquelle je peux lutter (Kolossa 86)
What I can’t understand is that [...] there is still resistance to my work from the American art establishment—from the American museum world. In a way, I’m glad there’s resistance, because it gives me something to fight against. [our translation]
Actually, Haring suffered a lot with his failure to achieve sufficient recognition from American museums. At the same time, and in a contradictory way, he always put forward his will to fight against this artistic establishment, especially by refusing as long as possible to let any gallery represent him and by always trying to market his works by himself5 in order to stay away from the established art market and to keep his independence from it. 140 Chapter Seven
But whatever he might say, Haring did meet with success and recognition, just like Basquiat. During their lifetime, both sold their paintings for very high prices, and many solo exhibitions were dedicated to them, like that of Basquiat at the Annina Nosei gallery6, then at the Mary Boone gallery7, or those of Haring at the Tony Shafrazy gallery in October 19828, where he presented large-format paintings, or at the Leo Castelli gallery in 1985. But it was especially the Whitney Biennial—a Mecca of contemporary art for American painters—that consecrated these two artists in the universe of elite art in the spring of 1983: they took part in it, whereas no other graffiti artists had been invited. Their common success went along with general acknowledgement by the critics, which allowed their names to be remembered in art history. In their paintings, marked by very strong, different personal styles, they managed to use and perfectly re-orient the heritage of graffiti culture in order to give it a new, peculiar pictorial meaning. In this way, not only did they avoid being criticised for the loss of graffiti meaning on canvas— since they were able to transpose it to their own pictorial universes—but they also succeeded in giving new impetus and strength to institutional art. When Basquiat joined her gallery, Annina Nosei launched him as a new neo-expressionist artist9. This status was confirmed a few years later at the Mary Boone gallery, where Basquiat was categorised in the same way as the other painters that were—or had been—represented by the gallery owner (Julian Schnabel, David Salle, Eric Fischl). Such integration into the world of contemporary art was corroborated by the critics themselves. In all the graffiti exhibitions, Basquiat and Haring were the only ones to be praised by the critics, who drew a distinction between their deliberately naïve paintings and the involuntary naïveté of graffiti taggers. Basquiat was also praised for his judicious way of using references to art history in a voluntarily raw style. He was said to have managed to render the spontaneity of graffiti in his works on canvas, while adding to it a sophistication that was not perceptible in the works of other graffiti artists. Therefore, the critics considered that he had transferred street credibility to art galleries, whereas they accused the other graffiti artists of renouncing their subversive status by working on canvas. In a very important article published in December 1981, René Ricard, taking up one of Haring’s best- known motifs, called Basquiat “The Radiant Child”. The critic placed Basquiat’s works in the tradition of art history, while particularly referring to those of Edwin Parker (Cy) Twombly and Jean Dubuffet. But the works of Basquiat and Haring were also put in a post- modernist perspective. Besides, Basquiat claimed that he did not care about any of the doctrines of modern art and that he was “threatening the The Heritage of Urban Visual Culture in American Painting of the 1980’s 141 very notion of art, in a way, by doing things in the field of painting that [had] never been done before” [“menacer en quelque sorte la notion même de l’art en faisant des choses dans le domaine de la peinture qui n’[avaient] jamais été faites auparavant”] (Thompson: our translation). These two artists especially developed an art marked by mass-media culture and by the subversion or parody of historical, mythological or artistic references. At the core of this typically post-modernist taking-up, the heritage of graffiti art could perfectly find its own place by being mingled with so many other references belonging both to popular or mass- media culture, and to learned culture. In numerous paintings by Basquiat, some remains of his graffiti period can be found: the three-toothed crown, which had always been one of his tags, the copyright symbol or the “SAMO” tag, sometimes reduced to a simple “S”. But more than anything, his paintings are marked by numberless tags and visual motifs which should all be taken into account and interpreted individually, so that the whole work itself may be totally deciphered. In Notary (1983)10, for instance, the complex pictorial layout, including elements taken from anatomy (the skull, the windpipe, the writing “Study of the Male Torso”) or Greek mythology (the allusion to the god Pluto) are mixed in such a way that nothing may give the picture a global meaning at first sight: the elements are too numerous and the aesthetics, too fragmented for that. Graffiti art is thus used to create a dense, complex aesthetics. One of the possible interpretations is linked to money and death—two meaningful themes here. It is Pluto, the god of wealth and the underworld, who provides a link between them. The theme of money is to be found in the tag “This note for all debts public + private ©” and that of death, in the skeleton figure, but also in the allusion to dehydration (“dehydrated”). What allows to bring these two themes together (apart from Pluto himself) is the allusion to fleas and especially to leeches (repeated twice), as though dehydration and the death that follows resulted from the blood being sucked by parasites. In this sense, the work can be read as a cryptic self- portrait: just like Pluto, who was blind and had squandered all his wealth without proper judgement, Basquiat had spent a lot of money. Once ruined by those who had taken advantage of him, he made this picture a way of paying back his debts since, in spite of all the ideal values that could not be converted into cash and which he intended to convey in and through his works, those around him saw nothing in his paintings except marketable goods. Other pictures recreate certain famous ones, for instance when Basquiat meets with the western tradition of women portraits. He admired Leonardo and painted quite a few Mona Lisas, including Boone in 198311—in 142 Chapter Seven ambiguous tribute to Mary Boone, the gallery owner who represented him from 1983 to 1985—which appears both as a cynical rejection of the ideal of beauty that could be represented by the Mona Lisa and a bitter allusion to Boone’s vanity; or Crown Hotel (Mona Lisa Black Background)12, in 1982, a caricature of the Mona Lisa, far from any ideal of feminine beauty, here combined with characters from cartoons as well as multiple tags, but also with another major feminine reference: Manet’s Olympia. What remains common to all these works is the artist’s efforts to combine tags and drawings within the boundaries of the canvas, and to add written or painted motifs directly inherited from his former experience as a graffiti artist. As to Haring, all his works retained the definite, spontaneous character of graffiti, since he never made sketches or preparatory studies. Besides, he chose to keep painting on walls, whether in galleries13 or outside14. And when he was supposed to paint on more traditional supports, he would prefer vinyl tarpaulin, feeling reluctant to use canvas as he found it too elitist. The value to be found in his works throughout his life also refers to that of the graffiti movement: authenticity. From a thematic point of view, his attachment to street art remains obvious in his dancer paintings, like Untitled Nr. 2 (1988)15, which reveals his particular taste for hip-hop or break dancing. Stylistically, Haring always kept his initial tags in all his paintings (especially the baby and the dog) and articulated them with others, in order to confer meaning to his works. For instance, in Untitled (1982)16—the reference to the death of John Lennon and the traumatic event it was for him—the motif of the dog with a square muzzle is widely taken up, but to be integrated into a larger structure including a character with a hole in his stomach, black as death and surrounded in blood-red colour. Later, the early subway drawings, which were black and white and made in chalk, were re-created in paint and integrated into very colourful, larger works. In Untitled (1983)17, a less colourful picture meant to illustrate the throes of the atomic era, the “radiant baby” is placed right in the middle of nuclear hell. Symbolically, it is life itself which is exposed to annihilation. Quite ironically, the angels can do nothing against this nightmare, characterised by the presence of numerous threatening, deadly red crosses, and guarded by the famous dogs with square muzzles. The reduction of the methods used here underlines the urgency of the message conveyed. Haring kept using his favourite icons or drawing lines on tarpaulin exactly as he used to draw them while on the street. This represented some continuity with street art. But he would now use these icons in a very different context, which could also include elements from television programmes18, cartoons or comic books. In Untitled (1984)19, The Heritage of Urban Visual Culture in American Painting of the 1980’s 143 the character of Pinocchio, recognizable by his long nose and articulated joints, is anything but child-like. In this very colourful painting, Haring slightly alters the motif of the square-muzzled dog20 and places it in a fantastical picture, in which Pinocchio, the notorious liar, has become a phallic figure obviously meant for adults. The study of the graffiti art movement in the United States in the 1980’s reveals the relationships and tensions which could settle between street art and the institutional art world, sociologically as well as aesthetically. Besides, it shows us that although the history of American graffiti cannot be separated from the street world and urban culture, it should also be related to a mainstream cultural trend. In this context of an intermediate form of art, only a few artists managed to become part of art history beyond the walls or subways of New York. Taken over and integrated into a wider artistic design—which was metaphorised by Basquiat’s use of canvas, covered with isolated, but nevertheless combined elements, and by Haring’s insertion of his dear icons into a more complex pictorial universe—, the graffiti that was at the origin of the careers of both artists was never forgotten or abandoned. It was just overtaken for the benefit of richer, more stylised pictorial worlds. Whether they are called “post-modernist” or “neo-expressionist”, the works of both Basquiat and Haring thus integrated the sphere of the elite, where their sub-cultural aspect was nonetheless neither missing, nor denied.
Notes
1 For instance, see One Evening on Pluto, a painting from Futura 2000 (aerosol painted on canvas, 1982). 2 See Graffiti Explosion, a painting from Seen (aerosol painted on canvas, 1983). 3 For instance, see the recent exhibition dedicated to Basquiat at the Musée d’Art Moderne in Paris (October 15th, 2010 – January 30th, 2011), which was very successful. 4 He organised a giant exhibition about graffiti in the spring 1981. 5 He opened his Pop Shop in 1986. 6 The first one took place in March 1982. 7 The first one took place in May 1984. 8 The preview of this exhibition was attended by such renowned artists as Roy Lichtenstein and Robert Rauschenberg. 9 A movement which emerged in the United States and in Europe in the late 1970’s, and which responded to the intellectual frigidity of conceptual art and minimalism by a come-back to emotion and figurative art.
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10 Jean-Michel Basquiat, Notary, acrylic on canvas, the Schorr Family Collection, on loan to The Princeton University Art Museum, New Jersey, 1983. 11 Jean-Michel Basquiat, Boone, canvas, the José Mugrabi Collection, New York, 1983. 12 Jean-Michel Basquiat, Crown Hotel (Mona Lisa Black Background), acrylic on canvas, Pully-Lausanne, Fédération des associations d'étudiants (FAE), Musée d’Art Contemporain, 1982. 13 For the exhibition at the Schafrazy gallery, he had covered the walls of the gallery with his own motifs. 14 Throughout his career, he painted on numerous public buildings in various towns all over the world; his last work, in 1989, was a painting entitled Tuttomondo on the façade of the Church of Sant’Antonio in Pisa. 15 Keith Haring, Untitled Nr 2, acrylic on canvas, 1988. 16 Keith Haring, Untitled, vinyl ink on vinyl, 1982. 17 Keith Haring, Untitled, vinyl ink on vinyl tarpaulin, 1983. 18 Just like the famous “smiley”, another symbol by Haring and a direct product of counterculture. 19 Keith Haring, Untitled, acrylic on canvas, 1984. 20 The dog’s outlines are more precisely drawn (paws, eyes) and its square muzzle is less angular here.
CHAPTER EIGHT
OF BHADRAMOHILA, BLOUSES, AND ‘BUSTOFINE’: RE-VIEWING BENGALI HIGH-CULTURE (1930S-1940S) FROM A LOW ANGLE
MADHUJA MUKHERJEE
This essay seeks to examine the knotty co-relation between cinema and (literary) high culture, as well as the role of Bhadralok, in the production of Bengali cinema1 between 1930s and 1940s. By presenting an over view of the political-cultural histories, this paper studies cinema’s liaison with literature, along with its specific function in the process of institutionalization of Bhadralok ideology. While Sumit Sarkar (1984) had noted the multiple political “trends” of the 1920s and later, I argue that this problematic scenario produced a field for multiple cultural transactions. For instance, Sumanta Bannerjee (1998) and others have shown the ways in which through the nineteenth century the Babu culture was dominated by a range of popular practices including theatre, song and dances, parodies etc. Moreover, by the early twentieth century, the cultural domain was teeming with Kalighat pat paintings (which narrated the debauchery of the Babus), along with Gaganendranath Tagore’s caricatures etc2. Briefly, as shown in the narratives created by Kaliprasanna Sinha in Hootum Penchar Naksha (“Designs by the Old Owl”, 1861) the loutish everyday culture was clearly an integral part of the Babus’ lives3. Therefore, one may propose that it is with the rise of the educated middle classes, particularly during the interim period between the two World Wars, that this gritty domain was effectively “sanitized” and somewhat homogenized (and also politicized to an extent)4. Moreover, the appropriation of cinema within Bhadralok cultural practices was a significant aspect of the politics of culture in Bengal. Nevertheless, through a close textual analysis of the popular journals and the visual field, this paper demonstrates the network of 146 Chapter Eight consumer objects within which a widely accepted cultural practice like cinema was located. Cinema clearly was competing with a host of other consumer things (like soaps for instance), and the elitist journals traded with such disparate images with equal zeal. In relation to this, this paper studies the question of gender through an in-depth reading of texts and illustrates the manner in which issues of Bhadralok culture, political history, economy of cinema and the role of Bhadramohila were intensely inter-connected. Briefly, this paper argues for the “persistence of the popular”, and shows the processes in which the prevalent forms of the said period were deeply linked to high cultural endeavours.
The dark eco-political scenario
Film cultures of the period were locked in a historical time-frame, which included Mahatma Gandhi’s Non-cooperation Movement during the 1920s, followed the Civil Disobedience Movements in the 1930s, trailed by the multiple phases of the Quit India Movement in the 1940s5. During this time, in the Bengal context, both extremist thoughts as well as Communist ideology became popular. Within the larger framework, the “Wall Street Crash”, the after-effects of the First World War, the setting up of the Socialist regime in Soviet Russia, as well as the rise of fascism in Germany and Italy, had their own resonances in India. It was a new phase for the Indian economy, which was at the threshold of a new beginning, after surviving the aftershocks of War. In addition to this, the emergence of the workers movements and youth organisations, along with the recognition of the Congress figurehead (eventually the first Prime Minister of Independent India) Jawaharlal Nehru, and the nationalist leader Subhash Chandra Bose as pan-Indian leaders, became important aspects of the nationalist politics. Sumit Sarkar (1984) observed the multiple “trends” of the 1920s Bengal politics, since the extremists (particularly during 1928-34), the revivalists (Hindu Mahasabha Group and others), along with the Communist (established in 1920) emerged as powerful groups. The liberal Congress “trend” also became influential as Gandhi’s Non-cooperation Movement of 1921 gathered impetus. Briefly, these moments of political upheaval emerged as the historical “magic hour” when diverse and conflicting tendencies converged to produce a situation that had multiple and opposing possibilities. The post First World War situation was in fact, instrumental in producing various contradictions within “Indian” political thoughts and everyday. Sarkar (1984: 169) described this as “a potentially revolutionary situation.” War had caused extensive damage to human and Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 147 material resources. Yet, while War signified suffering for most (as prices of industrial and imported goods, as well as food grains rose, just as export prices of Indian agricultural goods went down), it also added to the extraordinary profits of the businessmen who learnt to utilize the mottled and unprecedented wartime demands, along with the fall in labour wages. Thus, there was a forceful post war growth between 1919 and 1922 amongst the Indian “capitalists”. Nevertheless, the growth of the factories (for instance jute and cotton mills in and around Calcutta, Bombay and elsewhere) also meant the beginning of Indian Trade Union movements, as workers from different milieu came together on this unexplored urban landscape6. Bipan Chandra (1979: 3) in his discussion on “Colonialism and Modernization” has argued that, “colonial Indian economy was as much a part of world capitalism which needs to be viewed as a single world wide system of which colonial economies were an integral part.” While it is arguable whether India became a part of the “single” worldwide system, due to its regional and cultural variations as well as historical specificities, it is important to recognize that, albeit through a violent encounter, India was placed within the labyrinth of world capitalism, war and exploitation, and it would be a “historical fallacy to assume that India under the British rule …remained basically traditional.” (Bipan Chandra, 1979: 2). Therefore, this is to propose that at the time when there was a mood for nationalism, internationalism, and idealism, the nation became the “locus of production” and the aim was to intervene into the economic sphere as well7. For instance, in the 1920s, India witnessed the progress of a moneyed class that wanted to invest the fast-earned money into profitable enterprises. Satish Deshpande (1993:7) has examined the economic- political circumstances and has commented that, “the economy is an important perhaps even primary, source of raw material for the nationalist imagination in India”. In the beginning of the twentieth century, the Swadeshi (nationalist) fervour encouraged the production of domestically made products, which seemed like a projection of the “imagined” economic independence. Harminder Kaur (2010) in her work on “soaps and scents” shows that, while uses of soaps by the urban elite was a part of its acceptance of European notions of cleanliness, nonetheless, the production of these items, “was also part of the nationalist struggle in the wake of the colonial decision to partition of Bengal in 1905. In 1906, the Indian National Congress included the manufacture of soap in their call for swadeshi.” By citing the example of the scientist Prafulla Chandra Ray, Kaur (2010: 256) demonstrates how:
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[B]y the 1930s, India should compete with industrial nations as a means to prove Indian capability desire which can be traced back to the Bengal Renaissance [of the 19th Century]. In 1916, the Madras and Mysore governments opened their own soap factories8.
It is within this context of nation, political movements, economic shifts, industrial growth, the local bazaar, and burgeoning cities that this paper studies cinema as a popular practice and considers the circulation and consumption of contemporary images. The Wall Street Crash (1929) had brought down the prices of agricultural products and created disorder of sorts in the export-oriented colonial economy. By 1935-36 the British tried to improve the textile industry, and non-traditional products like electrical goods, telecommunication and wireless apparatus, as well as sugar machinery. In 1936 the Journal of Motion Picture Society of India claimed that, cinema together with its associate industries (like the printing press etc.,) had a turnover and a labour force, which was much bigger than the other large-scale industries (like the cement industry etc.). From the viewpoint of the emergent Indian “capitalists”, depression also meant the decrease of economic control and the opening up of news routes, resulting in an apparent transfer of capital from land to industry. More important, during this time the Indian bourgeoisie became a key factor in national politics. The mass participation in the symbolic act of salt satyagraha during the Civil Disobedience Movement (1930)9, was entrenched in the hope of Purna Swaraj (complete self-rule) that aspired to attain control over the economy through indigenous methods. In Bengal, the Left became powerful within such circumstances, especially through trade unions, as well through peasants and radical student movements. The institutionalization of AISF (All India Students Federation) and PWA (Progressive Writer’s Association) in 1936 added a new meaning to the Left political and cultural movements. However, it was also a time for intense and popular terrorist activities and the deterioration of the Hindu-Muslim “harmony”10. Since there were multiple political “trends”, the War situation produced paradoxical economic conditions, and enabled businessmen to reap unprecedented profits. Moreover, since during this period of (so-called) growth, a nation was also being “imagined” and “produced”, thus, diverse political and economic trajectories effectively led to variegated consequences. This paper seeks to connect the subjects of politics and economy with that of culture, in an attempt to address the specific function of cinema in the larger history, and the ways in which Bhadralok aspired to control the economics of cinema along with the economy of culture, by picturing and manufacturing a certain kind of (literary) cinema. Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 149
The Intense Literary Scene
It is imperative to look at the Bengali literary scene to reflect upon the political scenario discussed so far. For instance, while the novels of Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay, to an extent, made an effort to fulfil the imaginings of a Hindu nation11; his idiom eventually played a crucial role in re-casting the Bengali language. However, it is the Nobel laureate Rabindranath Tagore’s Chokher Bali (1889), which has been studied as one of the early instances that produced a new style of speech, and dealt with character development rather than narrative. Therefore, the mind (or “psychology” of the character), its complexities and apprehensions, became imperative with Tagore. New spaces and classes (middle-class characters for instance), as well as the identity of the Bhadralok and the city of Calcutta came forward through these stories. In Chokher Bali the setting moves from the rural to Calcutta and shows the growing cityscape, where each character is ruined by his or her inner anxiety and conflicts. Chokher Bali was perhaps the first urban Bengali novel, not because it was situated in Calcutta, but because it re-presented the alienation of the city-inhabitant. It was unmistakably the first narrative of the angst ridden Bengali Bhadralok.12 At the beginning of the twentieth Century, literary majlis / forums were formed where poets and writers gathered for adda (discussions). Ironically, most of the groups formulated their identities either as pro or as anti “Rabindranath”. For instance, while poets like Satyendranath Datta and others were “Rabindriks”; and during this time, the first anti- Rabindrik group was formed by Suresh Chandra Samajpati et al. Moreover, one of the important events of this period was the publication of Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Bardidi (1907). Initially the readers assumed that it was Tagore who was writing anonymously, and it was only in the last episode that the author’s name became evident. The comparisons between Tagore and Chattopadhyay became (and remain) an overriding aspect of Bengali literary discourses. These authors and their readers disapproved of each other not only on literary issues (for instance Chattopadhyay often created popular and stereotypical characters, situations, and spaces), but in terms of their ideologies and objectives as well. Tagore and Chattopadhyay drifted further apart as Chattopadhyay supported the Non-cooperation movement and joined the close circles of C.R. Das’ Congress, which effectively culminated into Chattopadhyay’s seminal novel Pather Dabi (1926), where he encouraged the Bhadralok to take up arms. In must be noted that, eventually one of most influential cinema studios of the period, namely New Theatres Ltd. (established 150 Chapter Eight
1931), would adapt most of the Chattopadhyay’s novels into films. Moreover, P.C. Barua, one of its prominent directors, was actively associated with C.R. Das and became a member of the legislative Assembly (representing Assam, North-East India). Such instances where authors and filmmakers directly took sides, made the cinematic context intensely political and meaningful. Moreover, while Tagore himself was a painter, his nephew Abanindranath Tagore was instrumental in forming the “Bengal School”, which had certain revivalist inclinations.13 Additionally, other painters like Jamini Ray mixed folk forms with modernist tendencies and reflected the discernable shift in the cultural environment of Calcutta during the 1930s. As far as the political situation is concerned, while the 1905 protest movements that resisted the division of Bengal created a new hope, the economic slump brought in despair. Similarly, though (English) education brought in a new sense of political understanding, knowledge and created a larger “topos” for discursive practices; the educated youth remained mostly jobless. Indeed, people fathomed that British education policies were geared at producing clerks who did not have any skills. This was followed by extensive difficulties associated with the First World War. There was a deep sense of “nihilism” and pessimism, and therefore, a rebellious tendency dominated the literature of this period. Individual needs, aspirations, and contemporary issues became crucial points for deliberation. The radical writings by the maverick writer and composer Kazi Nazrul Islam became important signifiers of the times. The devastating war situation was addressed by the artists and painters and one of the most notable events of the period was the institution of the “Calcutta Group”. Likewise, Ramkinkar Baij, who was one of the most important members of the group, successfully produced a modernist form in the Indian context.14 The trauma after the First World War produced exceptional writings. Freud’s theories were explored in the short stories of Naresh Chandra Sengupta, Jagadish Gupta, Shailajananda Mukhopadhyay; while Manish Ghatak introduced harsh, unemotional realism, in his narratives about the tribal coal workers, and portrayed Calcutta’s slums with a remarkable openness. Furthermore, Gokulchandra and Dineshchandra launched the Kollol journal in 1930. In the thirties the Kollol Gosti (group) was extremely influential and was popular for their anti-Rabindrik writings. The “Poetry of Protest” introduced new forms, unique structural devices and ideas, which were self–consciously a forceful deviation from the romanticism and idealism of the previous generation. Subjects of mutilated bodies, souls, and values represented the aggression and apprehensions of Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 151 the period. However, as critics suggest, the Bhadrolok literary traditions had produced a romanticism and idealism, which were seemingly shattered by the prevalent circumstances. In short, they needed to subvert themselves, which indeed was a distinctive quality of the Bhadralok cultural practices. This somewhat arguably culminated into Tagore’s novel Shesher Kabita (1929), in which he negotiated the conflicts between Rabindrik and A-rabindrik. Education produced dichotomies and images of self-destruction. First World War, non-violent as well as terrorist movements in Bengal, coupled with the economic depression of the 1930s and the eventuality of the Second World War produced a wounded generation. Jibananda Das particularly, was troubled by his very existence and in “Suchetana” (1942) he wrote about middle class “alienation”, and strived to produce a sensibility—a bodh—that would connect emotions with intellect.15 In March 1942, there were anti-fascist protests in Calcutta. Politics became an important feature of life, and it was a social responsibility to stand up against the fascist. Several anthologies of anti-fascist poetry were published, while Anti-fascist Writers’ and Artists’ Associations were created. Within a year after the association was formed, Calcutta experienced the devastating famine of 1943. A year later, the Left cultural platform, Indian People’s Theatre Association, was formed. In prose writing, authors questioned the existing value systems. Often referred to as the “neo-romantics” (for being influenced by both Marx and Freud), the authors of the period re-interpreted social conditions and sexuality in diverse and contradictory ways.16 In short, the “psyche” of the period— disquiet, uncertainties, anguishes, and hopes—was presented in varying ways. In addition to this, one may argue that, during this interim period, cheaply produced literature (Bottola- especially popular through the 19th Century and later) was to an extent pushed under the cover, following the supposed rise of English educated middle-classes.17 Furthermore, while it is important to comprehend the distinction between “left-minded middle classes”, and the “elite babus”, it is also crucial to note the manner in which “English education” bridged some of the differences, and the ways in which Calcutta provided an urban landscape where questions of nation, culture and economy could be debated. Moreover, a range of popular prints and images (for instance the “Bazaar Art”, the art of Bottola, the Calcutta Chore Bagaan Art Studio prints etc.,), theatre (like that of Sisir Kumar Bhaduri, who would eventually join films and make parodies like the A Talkie of Talkies (1937)) etc., persisted within the public domain, even when the circumstances of protest and the Bhadralok value-system dominated the Bengali literary scene, just as New Theatre productions like 152 Chapter Eight
Mukti (P.C. Barua, 1937) included Rabindra-sangeet (Tagore’s songs) as a mark of contemporary Bhadro culture. In addition, a film like Udayer Pathe (Bimal Roy, 1944) clearly proposed a socialist ending. With this as a backdrop, the following section of the paper demonstrates the fashion in which multiple political concerns functioned simultaneously to produce a visual culture that was fragmentary and distinctive.
Cinematic (con)texts: highs and lows of Bengali cinema
Francesca Orsini (2002: 4, 5) has studied the processes through which the Hindu middle class of the United Provinces attempted to produce “institutional spaces for Hindi in the form of periodicals, literary and public associations...” She further suggests that, “[i]n nationalist terms, language and literature were the means to define and communicate the agenda for progress, and were themselves metaphors for the jati/nation...” The elite, she argues simultaneously, “claimed to belong” and “aspired to create” a public sphere which is “layered”. She builds her argument on Jurgen Habermas’ (1989) famous interpretation of the bourgeois society and the public sphere. On the basis of Orsini’s re-reading and consequently, re-framing the same through cinematic contexts18, one may re-visit the processes through which Bengal’s politics of culture (which was a significant model for the Hindi cultural politics) took Europe as a model and aspired to create among other things a public sphere through films and through the production of spaces (for such cultural transactions). For instance, the painter-author Abanindranath Tagore wrote in Nachghar (1932, April /New Year):
Cinema is here in our country. And, now that its here, why not be educated about it? We should read journals and learn to see films… this is not only a space for experts … it ought to become the space for filmmakers, films lovers… a meeting place for all.
The articles published in the journals of the period, namely Batayan (Bengali), Bioscope (Bengali), Chitralekha (Bengali), Chitrapanji (Bengali), Chitra pat (Hindi), Cinema sansar (Hindi), Deepali (Bengali) , Film India, Film Land, Film World, Kheyali (Bengali), Nachghar (Bengali), New Cinema sansar (Hindi), Rangbhoomi (Hindi), Talk-A- Tone, Varieties Weekly etc., argued for what may be interpreted as an “Indian” film form.19 A range of articles suggest that there was the intent to create a film language that would work towards an international framework, however, and more importantly, would be “Indian” in thought and content. Some of the authors aimed at manufacturing a “theory” of Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 153 film language (thus, references to Sergei Eisenstein were not uncommon), while issues of “good” and “ideal” cinema became pertinent. Cinema was perceived as a “scientific” means that required skill and an understanding of technology, as well as a thorough knowledge of the processes of production. There was an enthusiastic acknowledgment of the details of the technique; therefore, a number of articles listed the elaborate production procedures and prescribed a list of reading materials for technicians. Technical expertise was considered to be the standard of “praiseworthy” films. Clearly, larger political and cultural concerns regarding modernity, as well as the co-relation between technology and cultures, determined the ways in which the questions of filmmaking were addressed.
Fig. 8-1. “Csystophone”, the Indian talkie Set juxtaposed with the advertisement of a film.
With the advent of sound in India in 1931, much of the debate moved towards problems of technology of sound films, the basic technical know- how, as well as more critical subjects of language, culture, uses of song, dance, and music, etc. What emerged from such articles were deliberations on language and nationalism, and the objective was to use technology to become “modern”. Many of the articles described cinema as a project towards “modernity”, defining “modernity” in terms of technology and technique. In some of the articles, there were comparative analyses of 154 Chapter Eight
Indian films with American and European films (essays on Soviet cinema, German technology are testimony to it). In effect, cinema was seen as a cultural product, which had to be located in a larger context, specifically in times of war and nationalism. Indian film critics and filmmakers perceived cinema as an international technique and an Indian art form. Thus, to be an archetypal Indian film, it had to be both: technically at par with American or European films and represent Indian values, narratives, and cultures. Therefore, this is to propose that, not only was a nation being “imagined”, but other than that a certain kind of cinema was also being imagined. Furthermore, one may suggest that it was through a certain kind of cinema that a nation was being realised. Consequently, in this attempt to connect the notion of “whose imagined nation” with the concept of “whose imagined cinema” it is imperative to understand the role of Bengali Bhadralok in it. Indeed, it may be engaging to re-consider Partha Chatterjee’s (1993) seminal propositions (regarding the dichotomies between “ghar/inner self /spiritualness/tradition/woman” as opposed to “bahir/outer world/materiality/modernity/ man” through such cinematic perspectives.20 In effect, themes of “aspired” material supremacy along with spiritual sovereignty seemed to be integrated into cinema, since cinema was perceived as a technology driven art form. Cinema could at the same time have technical panache and project Indian “culture”. A number of film reviews show how these two factors were repeatedly connected and the manner in which subjects of modernity, technology, art, cultures, languages, gender and “imagined nation” merged to create a value-laden aesthetics as well as an informed audience.21 There was also an overarching concern for the industry, though quite a few articles predominantly deliberated about the economy of culture. What becomes significant in the context of Bengali cinema is the term “shilpo”, which means both art and industry. Indeed it is engaging to consider how these two terms occasionally become interchangeable for Bengali cinema debates. While ironically in Bangla language shiplo always meant both art and industry, nevertheless, the distinction between art and industry was crucial in Bengali cultural discourses. This irony of words needs to be noted, since (as explained earlier) the Bengali language (bhasa) and culture (samskriti) are the basis of its identity (and community/jati) politics. However, in the case of cinema, this distinction between art- industry often collapsed and in fact, was often posited as a single expression instead of a binary. Therefore, the economic success of “good”/“cultured”/“literary” Bengali films was presented as an example of Bengali provincial pride (at the time when the Marwari businessmen mostly controlled the business). Cinema could signify both high culture Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 155 and big capital investments; and thus emerged as an important topic in early cultural discourses. In many instances, especially in the articles published in Bengali journals, films were regularly compared to literature, and theatre. The respectability of literature (especially after Rabindranath Tagore received the Nobel Prize in 1913) and the popularity of theatre (attributes which were often interchangeable) were by and large applied as a criterion to appraise cinema. Nevertheless, some of the authors (especially Naren Deb) wrote about the “discursive” inclination of literature as opposed to cinema’s drive towards action and images.22 Several articles provided insightful readings of the emergent film language, and examined the cinematic form as an independent art tied to its own complexities. It is through these discussions that issues of film language evolved. Furthermore, by this time, some of the authors, like the Left-minded critic K.A. Abbas, were already writing the history of Indian cinema in the context of “World” cinema, thereby creating a space for self-reflexivity and, at the same time, proposing what can be loosely termed as the “classical” Indian cinema. Abbas often published historical analysis of the narrative strategies of disparate films and makers. Moreover, a substantial number of writings (including those by literary authors and directors) narrated the urban experiences of going to the cinema. Clearly, such writings enable us to re- read the ways in which cinema was re-inventing urban cultures and re- framing the scope of the cultural field.23 Notwithstanding the above argument, it must be noted that not all articles were “righteous” in practice. Indeed, there were a great number of gossip columns, write-ups on scandals, articles on the sex-appeal of the heroines, and how they kissed in films etc. Therefore, in effect, cinema had to be rescued from a certain degree of “wantonness” and elevated into a respectable thing in order to become a part of Bhadralok’s (literary) practices. As elaborated by scholars like Kaushik Bhaumik (2005), as well as Priti Ramamurthy (2006) et al, Indian cinema in the twenties seems to have a cosmopolitan environment, however, with the rise of big studios in the thirties, this scene became more and more homogenized. The mechanism through which elitist studios like New Theatres Ltd., became the vanguard of Bhadralok project is a point that I have dealt with elsewhere.24 However, a close textual reading of certain Bengali journals like the Deepali and Chitrapanji, demonstrate an extremely dense context, and hold up a mirror that reflects a ruptured image of the Bhadralok. Therefore, in this context, this paper argues for the persistence of the popular through the thirties, albeit in a somewhat precarious fashion. For instance, the Puja issue of Deepali (15th October, 1936, No.42) includes 156 Chapter Eight advertisements of day and night (“Otin”) cream and perfumed oil for “contemporary women”, along with advertisements for skin ointments, Ghee (purified butter), Darjeeling tea, child care products, radio sets, Megaphone records (and recorded plays), cooking ware, soaps, syrups, sweets, innerwear, homeopathy medicines, shops for sex talk, contraceptive devices, manuals on how to kiss, birth control pills, Swiss Viagra, breast enhancement creams (namely “Bustofine”), shoes (like Bata as well as nationalist “Charkha” chappals/slippers), ammunitions, life insurance, camera, lens etc. Cinema was clearly competing with a host other consumer objects, and women evidently were emerging as the site/sight of consumption. This “Modern Girl”, as shown by Priti Ramamurthy (2006: 197) was, “a social identity and a wildly popular icon in multiple media.” Additionally, this modern woman’s ‘consumer desires’ seemingly included “commodities such as soaps, and “snows” (face- whitening creams), lipsticks, and see-through saris”. However, this particular issue of Deepali also included translations of Haiku’s by activists and respectable women like Radharani Debi (wife of Nareb Deb), as well as translations of Urdu poems done from well-known writings by Ghalib, Aatish et al.25
Fig. 8-2. Advertisement showing soaps, syrups, sweets, innerwear, homeopathy and contraceptive devices.
Furthermore, the growing popularity of cinema as a form of entertainment, and the popularity of stars had its own resonances. While Neepa Majumdar (2010) in her significant work has shown the function of stars within the texts, an in-depth study of these (vernacular) journals brings to light other nuances. For instance, Chitrapanji (one of the popular Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 157 journals of the period), which mostly published thorough articles on the above discussed issues, as well as on the lives of the directors, actors, and news on productions, additionally published poems (written mostly by the viewers/fans) addressed to the much admired female stars. For example, Nabakumar Mukhopadhyay wrote about “Greta Garbo” (Chitrapanji, September, 1937) and how Garbo kisses him in his dreams and the manner in which he “experiences heavenly bliss on earth”. Similarly, Raghunath Kundu in “Our Trio” (Chitrapanji, September, 1938) describes the ethereal beauty of the actresses and mentions the ways on which Kananbala “gleans the nectar of spring (flowers)”. Indeed, Kananbala’s sweet voice was a significant aspect of her soaring popularity and was highlighted through specific sequences in the film Shesh Uttar (P.C. Barua, 1942). A number of these poems written by male fans repeatedly used expressions like “maya” (illusion), “chhaya” meaning image or literally shadow, another word for cinema) and “kaya” (the body or face of the star). While it is not uncommon to imagine the film star as the beloved, Sri Ramnarayan Das’s poem (in Chitrapanji, March, 1935) also ridicules such fanfare and elaborates on how the image of the beloved is a queer mix of Kananbala’s smile, Joan Crawford’s eyes, Sabita Debi’s nose, Zubeida’s long hair, Mary Pickford’s lips and so on. In a similar vein, Sri Ramesh Chandra Das (specified as Master of Arts) wrote “On the Coloured Lips” (Lipstick?), published in Chitrapanji, July 1937, 459-460:
The call of lips Through his soul Love storms (in) He trembles; Blood moves/flows The fire of lips What pleasure it gives To his heart Vermillion is smeared On the coloured lips On the coloured lips!
Certainly, while on the one hand the technology of Indian cinema was competing with American (Latin America included) and European films;26 on the other, local actors were continuously pitted against famous Hollywood stars, and the journals of the period were virtually plastered with striking black and white photo plates of the big Hollywood actors. This contradictory situation, the urgency to produce something like an Indian cinema along with the popularity of Hollywood films, as well as the condition where cinema was perceived as a would-be art of gentlemen, 158 Chapter Eight encouraged articles on whether the Bhadramohila should join films or not. A heated debated on this has been re-published by Samik Bandyopadhyay (1993).27 Likewise, an article published in Chitrapanji (August 1937) discusses how, as an “educated person”, the (male) author feels obliged to comment on the problem, and insists that the Bhadramohila should not join films, since she is vulnerable as yet, just as the situation remains unfavourable for her. One of the key issues appears to be the role of the “actress” who belongs to the outside world, as opposed to the wife, who belongs to home. A number of films following up the Nabina (new woman)-Prachina (old woman) debate (for example, Sree Bharat Lakshmi Pictures’ GrihaLakhsmi (Gunamay Bannerjee, 1944)) dealt with such themes. Nonetheless, as suggested by author Sri Tarakali Basu, they could join films as supporting wives or partners, as in the case of eminent director Dhiren Ganguli’s wife Premlatika Devi aka Ramola Devi, or Madhu Bose’s illustrious wife Sadhana Bose et al. This particular issue of Chitrapanji also included articles like “Vulgarity in Films”, “The Film- Trap”, “Comic-mode in Indian films”, an ironic self-criticism written by an “actress” (under false initials?), who describes the state of the affairs in the studios and mentions the manner in which she travels from one studio to the other (and perhaps from one man to another). However, this issue, which also published an obituary for Jean Harlow, that brings to light the paradoxes within which Bengali cinema was confined, and the processes through which it would supposedly become emancipated.
Fig. 8-3. “The face of Garbo”, in a magazine published in Calcutta.
The role of Bhadramohila becomes further problematic as we examine the film Alibaba (1937). Directed by Madhu Bose, and featuring the society lady Sadhana Bose (grand-daughter of the 19th century reformer Shri Keshab Chandra Sen and the founder of Bhamho Samaj), the film Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 159 adapted a well known Arabian Nights story. The plot involved curious intersections between a series of sinful acts (like greed) on the part of different characters, namely Ali, Kasem and the leader of the bandits. The slaves Marjina and Abdullah, as well, have their own respective drives. Marjina, the young beautiful slave of Kasem, who eventually becomes a dancer in Ali’s court and is later married off to his son, is a crucial character in the plot, and has a specific function in the resolution. Commenting on the decadent Nawabi system, one of the most memorable sequences of the film is perhaps the one in which Marjina seduces the very elderly cobbler, Baba Mustafa. Indeed, Baba Mustafa’s excitement (and the famous lines “Aha, what are you doing, Bibi saheb?”), juxtaposed with stylish Marjina’s stylist gestures in the manner in which she lies on his bed, make this scene one of the most iconic within Indian cinematic history. Clearly, (Bhadramohila) Sadhana Bose’s performance in the film is a curious critique of the Bhadralok predicaments. The stylized acting, choreographed dances (by Sadhana Bose), tableau sequences, and comic interjections by Abdullah (played by Madhu Bose) produced certain value- loaded moments for Bengali cinema. Especially, while the last sequence of the film deploys ambient sound, it also uses engaging inter-cuts between dancers performing before the bandit, and Marjina executing a mass killing (in order to rescue her master). Her murderous smile as shown through the big close-up stands out like a conspicuous instance of the range of Bhadralok aspirations. Undoubtedly, the climatic moment of the film becomes forceful at the point when Marjina dashes in with an Oriental headgear and performs with a knife. The booklet of Daku ka Ladka of SBLP (as quoted by Smarani Mukherjee, 2005: 153)28 advertised the film as, “Coming shortly/ Alibaba/see/Sadhana Bose and All Society Cast/Direction Modhu Bose”. Moreover, Deepali (February 1937) described Sadhana Bose as the “new star”, while the film was substantially praised by the respectable press. Clearly, Alibaba’s success and its plot demonstrate the complicated ways in which cinema reflected the cultural struggles of the time. Adhikar (P.C Barua, 1938), described as a film for the “intellectuals” and best film of the year (Film India, 1939), portrays the journey of Radha from the slum to riches. Radha is Indira’s (the sophisticated Bhadramohila) half-sister who aspires to reclaim her own respectability by claiming the wealth that Indira enjoys. The question of illegitimacy becomes crucial in this context, as Radha seeks respectability, wealth, and love through unfair means. Eventually, Radha obtains Indira’s status and acquires the rights to her property and, in effect, to her/their past and her parentage. Furthermore, she demands Indira’s future as it were, by 160 Chapter Eight attempting to seduce her fiancé. Consequently, Radha questions Indira and her value system (bhadrota or gentility) and enquires, “That he never loves you, or hugs you or kisses … don’t you want all that?” Certainly, while for Radha desire is central to her existence, for the bhadramohila this appears vulgar. Moreover, when Radha is questioned about her foul- mouth, intense longing, and selfishness, she replies “we poor people don’t care for the classy ways of life.” Later, at the point when Radha tries to seduce Nikhilesh (Indira’s fiancé) she insists that, “I want you, and I shall get you…we are poor we do not care about classy coyness.”
Fig. 8-4. The slum-girl transformed into Bhadramohila.
In this context, “dress” (and blouses especially) is persistently used as a sign of elitism and urban culture. Ramamurthy (2006: 207-8) explains the ways in which:
The Indian Modern Girl was particularly innovative, and transgressive, in the creativity she brought to sari and sari blouse wear... Sari blouses were sleeveless, ‘cut-outs’ or, on occasion, had frills and flounces - sometimes… they even had shirt collars! The material of the saris was also trendy and imported...29
In effect, Radha’s transformation from slum-girl into Bhadramohila is quick, as shots of Radha wearing new clothes and expensive jewellery are juxtaposed with the shots of Radha recasting her new space. The correlation between class and the patriarchal order appears to be complex and manifold. Not only does patriarchy give fixity to gender roles, it also differentiates on the basis of class, which is ceaselessly being subjected to Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 161 transformation. Gender and class become significant aspects for the re- structuring of dominant ideologies. In short, the ordinary woman has to negotiate class and gender inequalities endlessly. Therefore, Radha is fighting her marginalisation based both on “gender” and on questions of class. While women’s reform movements were part of the nineteenth Century socio-cultural changes, the value system of the new patriarchy reinvented ideologies of the “Hindu” and “Indian” womanhood in opposition to the older patriarchal customs as well as to the westernized woman.30 Along with imperative subjects of modernity, technology, art and culture, the “women’s question” was truly one of the fundamental subjects of the nationalist discourse. Women’s issues were fraught with complexities and anxieties at a moment when women were also receiving western education and learning to assert themselves in disparate ways. Since the (imagined) woman—the basis of home and culture—had to be “protected”, numerous articles and essays produced during the nineteenth and early twentieth Century (including those published in Deepali) reflected concerns regarding the new education systems. Women’s issues became an important aspect within the structure of “cultural homogenization” of the Bhadralok. The objective of a homogenised middle-class culture was part of the new class and cultural consciousness; and there were attempts to give fixity to it, particularly because class, caste, regional and vernacular differences were in reality sharply divided. The ambiguities demanded more defined descriptions, and these were inevitably played out by imposing a new kind of norms on women, whose identity was to be worked in opposition to women from “uncultured” lower classes (chotolok) as well as to westernised women (memsahib). Effectively, the middle class reform movements for women became associated with the self-definition of class. Women of different classes and “traditional” women were rolled into one single concept of emancipated women. Formal education was thought to be a requirement for the Bhadramohila and became acceptable only when it demonstrated that it was possible for a woman to acquire the cultural refinements offered by modern education without jeopardizing her place at home, that is, without becoming a memsahib. The social reform movements were related to the larger processes of defining class, differentiating public and private spheres and connecting those to ideas of nationalism.31 Thus, Indira, in Adhikar, is the archetypal Bhadramohila, though, through the character of Radha, the Bhadralok question is shown to be fractured.
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Fig. 8-5. Kananbala in Mukti (P.C. Barua, 1937), the iconic image of Bhadramohila.
Indeed, the question of culture changed substantially, and resurged more forcefully after the Quit-India movement, as well as after the institutionalisation of the Indian People’s Theatre Association in 1944. To a certain extent, the Sisir Bhaduri-Bijon Bhattacharya binary, which dominated the stage, seemed to be transported into cinema through the conflicts between mainstream “social” melodramas and “socialist-realist” forms, which struggled to produce a cinema of “reform”.32 For instance, in Udayer Pathe (Bimal Roy, 1944), the mise-en-scene, sharp dialogues and the writing on the wall seem to summarise the purpose of the film. In addition, dress becomes a principal aspect, and comes to represent the ideology of the characters. Sumita S. Chakravarty (1996: 90, 91) suggests that:
The code of clothing partakes of realism (the poor cannot afford fancy clothes) as well as metaphor. But is also suggests simplistically that class positioning is a matter of the externals of dress and jewellery which Gopa (female protagonist) can abandon to signify her empathy with the poor.
While the film opens with a lecture on dress and its value, it is followed by an informal discussion on fashion and contemporary styles. And the scene in which Gopa takes off her finery is the highest point of the film. Prior to this, Anup (the male protagonist) had disliked Gopa, her class affiliations, and her tastes. It is only after she reads his unpublished novel (Purbachal) that she is metamorphosed into a liberal being. The Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 163 external marks of this process of emancipation are manifested through her rejection of expensive clothes and jewellery. Sitting before the “dressing table”, Gopa sees her mirror image and identifies her “true self”. It is only after this that Anup mistakes her as his own sister, or rather recognises her as someone from his own class. Eventually Gopa imbibes socialist values, just as Anup becomes the leader of the workers’ movement. In point of fact, “dress” would come to represent a certain value and thus the socialists, in the Indian context, would repeatedly use it as a signifier of a woman’s moral growth.33 One may conclude with Mukti (P.C. Barua, 1937) within this framework, since in the film Chitra (the female protagonist) depicted as the Modern urban woman (memsahib?) is mostly in see-through saris, and is eventually punished for her behaviour. Clearly, the project of the production of Bhadramohila is problematic, and the part played by her delicate blouses in the course of emancipation34 shows the link between the economy of culture and the political-economy. From this perspective, the supportive role performed by popular consumer products like the soaps, perfumes, creams, “Bustofine” etc., becomes vital, since it illustrates the complicated co-relation between social history, cinema, and other cultures.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT: Image courtesy by The Media Lab, Department of Film Studies, Jadavpur University.
Notes
1 The general category Bhadralok is best understood as the “English Educated Urbanized Gentlemen” whose class, caste, and communal identities were often displaced on to the realm of education and culture. While they were basically “educated” to serve the colonial power (in Macaulay’s famous words (1835) “English in taste” and “Indian in blood”), in the course of time, the Bhadralok emerged as a forceful and influential group that resisted colonial exploitations. Encounters with liberal-democratic movements, which came to them through western education, gave the Bhadralok an ideological thrust that encouraged them to imagine themselves as the vanguard of political change. However, the “Babu culture” is different from this. It was largely shaped through negotiations with the West that combined somewhat haphazardly with the residual nawabi (princely) culture. The Hindus who were based in Calcutta/Kolkata predominantly produced the “Babu Culture”. In everyday parlance, the term meant the excessive debauchery and decadent ways of life of nouveaux riches, which were poles apart from the radical discourses and the Leftist leaning of the Bhadralok. Thus, the term Babu had many meanings and was added to a name like the pre-fix “Mister”.
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Bhadramohila (Lady) is the feminine of Bhadralok, and was also referred as Bibi in the caricatures. The learned and sophisticated elite women, especially from Rabindranath Tagore family and the liberal Brahmo samaj women were the iconic Bhadramohila or Navina (New Woman). Satyajit Ray’s landmark film Charulata (1964) addresses this debate. This notion in fact, was initiated by Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay in his seminal writing ‘Prachina ebam Nabina’ (Old and New Woman). See Bankim Rachana Sangraha (Bengali) (1973 reprint) Vol.1, Part 1, Calcutta: Sakharata Prakashan, Pashchim Bongo Nirokhorata Durikaran Samiti, 315-321. 2 See Paul, Ashit (ed.) (1993) Woodcut Prints of Nineteenth Century Calcutta, Calcutta: Seagull Books. 3 See Banerjee, Sarnath (2007) The Barn Owl’s Wondrous Capers, New Delhi: Penguin Books, which is a creative adaptation of the nineteenth century narrative. 4 See Sarkar, Sumit (1997) Writing Social History, Delhi: OUP, and his description of the ‘urban life’ in Calcutta. 5 See Sarkar, Sumit (1984) Modern India, 1885-1947, Delhi: Macmillan India Ltd. 6 Bombay and Mumbai and Calcutta and Kolkata are same. Also note that, a number of films would narrativize such industrial growth. 7 The time, when India was in the reeling under mass movement and anti-colonial struggle, in Egypt anti-imperialist revolts broke out in 1919; Syria and Lebanon experienced armed uprising against the French dominance; Iraq was alarmed by anti-British movements; in China the anti-imperialist “May 4 Movement” generated revolutionary fervour in which the Chinese proletariat played an active role; in Korea, Indonesia and Afghanistan people’s struggle produced a new chapter in the history of mass actions. In Turkey, the mass rising against the colonial rule and feudal authorities, made its impact felt all over the world. Source: History of Communist Movement in India, The Formative Years, 1920-33, Vol .I, (2005) New Delhi: CPI (M) in association with Left Word Books. 8 Furthermore, Kajri Jain (2003: 46) states that, such “bazaar (art) can be seen as a realm of both subordinate and semi-autonomy vis-à-vis the colonial state...” 9 During the 1930s, women participated in the political movements in huge numbers, and this moment is seen as the beginning of women’s rights movement in India. 10 See Chatterji, Joya (1994) Bengal Divided, Hindu communalism and partition, 1932-1947, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 11 As exemplified in his novel Ananda Math (1882). 12 See Chaudhuri, Sukanta (ed.) (2005) Calcutta, The Living City, Vol. II, New Delhi: OUP. (First published in 1990) 13 See Tapati Guha-Thakurata (1992) The Making of a New “Indian” Art, Artists, Aesthetics and Nationalism in Bengal, c. 1850-1920, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. 14 Also see Dasgupta, Amlan (ed.) (2007) Music and Modernity, North Indian classical music in an age of mechanical reproduction, Kolkata: Thema.
Of Bhadramohila, Blouses, and ‘Bustofine’ 165
15 The other important poets of the Kollol Gosti were Budhadev Basu, Sudhin Dutt, Vishnu Dey et al. 16 See Bandopadhyay, Manabendra (1976) “The Theme of the Artist in Bengali Fiction Between the Two Wars” in West Bengal and Bangladesh, Perspectives from 1972, Michigan State University: Asian Studies Center. 17 See Bhadra, Gautam (2011) Nera Battolai Jai Kaw’bar? (Bengali), Kolkata: Chatim, as well as http://www.telegraphindia.com/1070325/asp/calcutta/story_7562038.asp (last accessed on 30th September, 2012). 18 Also see Orsini, Fancesca (2009), Print and Popular Pleasure, Popular Literature and Entertaining Fictions in Colonial North India, Ranikhet: Permanent Black. 19 One of the earliest discussions on cinema and its socio-cultural function was published through the Indian Cinematograph Committee Report (1927-28). 20 See Chatterjee (1993) “The Nation and its Women” in The Nation and its Fragments, Colonial and Post Colonial Histories, republished in The Partha Chatterjee Omnibus (2002) New Delhi: OUP. 21 I discuss this in further detail in my Ph.D dissertation (2008) The New Theatres Ltd.: “The Cathedral of Culture” and the House of the Popular, submitted to Jadavpur University, Kolkata. 22 I anthologize these articles in my 2012 edited volume Aural Films Oral Cultures, Essays on Cinema from the Early Sound Era published by the Jadavpur University Press: Kolkata. 23 See Dutta, Madhusree (2012) dates. cites, Bombay/Mumbai: Project Cinema City (A Majlis project). 24 See my book (2009), New Theatres Ltd., The Emblem of Art, The Picture of Success, Pune: NFAI. 25 I deal with the question of women’s writing in my forthcoming collection Voices and Verses of the Talking Stars to be published by School of Women’s Studies, Jadavpur University and Stree: Kolkata. 26 See W. Deming’s (Jr.) articles on the processes of making sound cinema, published in Varieties Weekly, Kolkata. 27 Also see Neepa Majumdar’s (2010) arguments. 28 In Moments of Modernity: Cinema and Social Response in Bengal between the Two World Wars, thesis submitted for the completion of a Ph.D at Jadavpur University in 2005. 29 Note that, following the movement against the proposed Partition of Bengal (1905), there was a call to boycot foreign goods. Likewise in 1921, foreign clothes were burnt with much zeal. Songs that celebrated the “thick cloth” produced in the “Mother Land” became part of the (urban) folklore. Yet, current research shows that women (elite especially) invested considerably in fashionable blouses. 30 See Sangari, KumKum and Vaid, Sudesh (ed.) (1989) Recasting Women: Essays in Colonial History, Delhi: Kali for Women.
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31 Chatterjee (1993) bring up issues of “The Nation and its Women” and “Women and the Nation” in The Nation and its Fragments, Colonial and Post Colonial Histories. 32 See Bhattacharya, Malini (1983) “The IPTA in Bengal” in Journal of Art and Ideas (No. 2, Jan-March) 5-22. 33 Among other films, this theme is also a strong thread in Ritwik Ghatak’s landmark film Meghe Dhaka Tara (1960). 34 Satyajit Ray’s Ghare-Baire (1985) has an elaborate scene in which the female protagonist tries out different blouses.
CHAPTER NINE
OBSERVING THE ARTIFICATION PROCESS: THE CASE OF MURALES IN SARDINIA1
FRANCESCA COZZOLINO
The emergence of a new concept: Artification
In the art world, historians, critics and other professionals often find themselves in conflict over the legitimacy of a given work, of its status, and more generally over what should be characterized as art and what should not. The same questions have also interested anthropologists and sociologists since the eruption of debate over primitive arts2, minor arts and the emergence of new art forms3. The concept of artification came out of a new formulation of these issues; furthermore, it makes room for scientific proposals that would go beyond the simple problem of aesthetics and form. The change in perspective regarding artistic production ushered in by Nelson Goodman’s4 famous article “When is art?”, which replaced the more traditional question “What is art?”, finds a pragmatic renewal in artification. In fact, artification takes into consideration all the factors and dynamics that are involved in the passage from non-art to art, but it is specifically concerned with the emergence and construction of this transformation. Roberta Shapiro, who established the foundations for defining such concepts, thereby developing a new research area within the domain of the sociology of art, explains how such a transformation takes place:
Artification designates the transformation of non-art into art. It emerges from a complex effort that produces change in the definition and status of people, of objects and activities. Far from corresponding to merely symbolic changes (…), artification rests on very concrete foundations (…). Thus artification is the resultant force of a combination of processes— practical and symbolic, organizational and discursive—by which people agree to identify an object or an activity as art5. 168 Chapter Nine
The notion of artification doesn’t only relate to legitimization, but first and foremost this process looks at what people are doing, at their practices and at the resulting material changes. In order to get to such transformations, one first needs to observe a change in the status of the object in question (this may pertain to an artistic activity, but it may also pertain to an object or an individual) which brings concrete and material changes that modify the way in which one identifies the object or practice. Such changes lead to a legitimacy that is ultimately attributed to the object. This legitimacy allows us to start conceptualizing it in terms of work of art, of artistic practice, or even of artist. A second phase of the process then brings changes of a symbolic nature. This “second phase”, though often difficult to isolate chronologically, leads to the definition of aesthetic terms, and is often motivated by the institutionalization and the transformation of an object into heritage. The Sardinian murals show us a particular case of artification, considering that we are speaking of mural painting, a practice already quite “artified”. In fact, murals had already made their appearance in art history texts well before the emergence of the Sardinian phenomenon. Moreover the affirmation of this practice within the field of art history is associated with the appearance of a new genre: muralism. Muralism has assumed the scope of an “artistic movement” thanks to the masterworks of Mexican muralists such as Diego Rivera, Clemente Orozco and Alfred Alvaro Siqueiros. These works constitute a point of reference for later forms of muralism6. Some of the protagonists of the Sardinian phenomenon claim this inheritance in order to increase the value of their own work. In so doing, they express their desire to be associated with such genres. This attitude brings up a variety of questions in the case we are examining: Why have the Sardinian murals undergone an artistic “recategorization”, even if only to a certain extent? What is the underlying intention of such a change? Who are the promoters of this artification? Did such a process take place according to the same modalities in all the areas of Sardinia touched by the murales phenomenon? In this article, starting from historic events, current events and testimonies gathered from informants, we will analyze the manner in which the process of artification has taken form. This has reached a more advanced stage in the area of Orgosolo, where murals were not at first considered to be works of art. The particular case of Orgosolo allows us to highlight both the limits and advantages of the concept of artification, and it leads us to speak of an artification “in contention”.
Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 169
Contextualization: the murales of Sardinia from their origins until today
The term “murale”, adjective and masculine noun in Italian vocabulary, is hardly ever used in the plural form: in its place Italian speakers often use the Spanish word. A linguistic preference that is maintained not only by the Sardinians themselves but, as we can see by simply flipping through book titles and catalogues7 dedicated to such paintings, the Spanish term “murales” is widely used to refer to nearly all mural paintings created after the birth of the mural painting movement in Mexico and that is commonly known as “Mexican muralism”. For my work in the case of Sardinia, I have decided to use the word murales on the one hand because it seems to me more appropriate to speak of murales and not of wall paintings nor of frescoes since these two terms do not refer to an object but to a technique—and that are hardly used in the case of the Sardinian murales8—and on the other hand by affinity for the other forms of mural paintings commonly called murales (or murals in English-speaking countries9). What exactly are the murales of Sardinia? They are hand-made paintings, (sometimes with the help of a video projector) on an external wall of a building. The external placement of such paintings differentiates them from other expressions of mural painting (such as the Mexican works where the murals are generally painted inside public buildings or in semi- outside walls) and renders their exhibition inherently public. Regarding the support, one is primarily dealing with walls on private property, into which paint is applied directly without any surface preparation. In order to understand the extent and the dimensions of the phenomenon being analyzed here, we must review some figures concerning the murales in Sardinia: throughout the island mural paintings are found in more than seventy villages, reaching a total of nearly one thousand murals within the island’s boundaries. The origins of the murales of Sardinia go back to the end of the 1960’s in the region of San Sperate (Cagliari), thanks to the work of artist Pinuccio Sciola. The artist’s purpose was to create murals in the public space so that they would become a means of expression for the people as well as a strategy for getting art out of the museum10. By the middle of the following decade, the practice of murals had found fertile ground for its own development in the area of Orgosolo, situated at the center of the island, in the region called Barbagia. That is where the murals became the heirs and representatives of a strong activism of dissent that electrified the country between 1968 and 1970, a period 170 Chapter Nine when the activism of some of the local residents gave rise to the association known as “Orgosolo’s Youth Club” (Circolo Giovanile d’Orgosolo). It was in the meeting rooms of this association that activists formulated the manifestos of dissent and affirmation that would decorate the walls of the region for several years and that would be reproduced in the form of murals. The memory and echo of the Orgosolo’s Youth Club’s activity during three years have nourished the sensibility and spirit that were at the roots of the creation of most of the murales in the late 1970’s and for twenty years afterwards. At first the murales reproduced scenes of everyday life, but rather quickly the themes presented went beyond local events: criticism of the capitalist society was accompanied by a third worldist sensibility and by a feeling of disillusion regarding the Italian government’s centralization policy. Today the area is home to nearly three hundred murals, most of which were inspired by political events and have become important attractions for national and international tourism11. Most of these wall paintings were produced by Francesco del Casino, a drawing teacher at Orgosolo’s secondary schools in the 1970’s and 80’s, with the help of his students.
Fig. 9-1 & 2. Orgosolo, Corso Repubblica. Painted by Francesco del Casino in 1976; San Sperate, Via Arabei. Painted by Pinuccio Sciola in 1997.
In the wake of the experience of Orgosolo, muralism has spread to the various areas of Sardinia, artistic festivals, gatherings and contests, promoting the production of new murals took place at various locations on Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 171 the island. Today the murales of Orgosolo are a national and international tourist attraction.
Sardinian murales gain intellectual recognition and admission into the art world
The spread of muralism in Sardinia was accompanied by a much publicized debate in the press. And local papers started to comment about the phenomenon from its very beginnings. Between 1968 and 1975 articles appearing in the daily press were primarily concerned with the region of San Sperate and with the association called “the village-museum” (Paese- museo) which was founded by Pinuccio Sciola. In fact, during these years San Sperate was a place of cultural attraction: a constant presence of several personalities from the Italian cultural landscape could then be observed, such as the Sardinian Aligi Sassu and Costantino Nivola but also the actors Eugenio Barba and Dario Fo. In those years several articles were published in the international press, and particularly in the Mexican12, French13 and German14 press, with comments about the origins of the murales. But it is almost always in daily newspapers. Only on rare occasions would articles covering the murales of Sardinia be found in the specialized press and art reviews. In fact, the latter began to devote a few pages to Sardinian murales, only after the participation of a group of artists led by sculptor Pinucccio Sciola, who had been invited to participate in the 1976 edition of the Biennale d’Arte of Venice in 197615 where they presented a video showing the artistic activity of the San Sperate area and the creation of the first mural painting. This first act of “recognition” of the Sardinian murales by the world of “official” art started a series of controversies and a lively debate on the status of murales. One of the consequences of this debate was the creation of the review Sa Sardigna, by the association “the village-museum” (Paese-museo) of the San Sperate area. This was one of the first attempts of analysis of the birth of muralism on the island. A year later two German intellectuals began to give attention to the murales and to the social and anthropological characteristics of Sardinia. Those were the writer Hellmut Haasis16, persecuted in Germany for his Marxist ideas and who moved to Sardinia in 1977, and the anthropologist Ditrich Haensch, who focused his research on the area of Orgosolo and specifically on the battle of Pratobello17. He edited a book which gathered all the documents produced by the Orgosolo’s Youth Club during those 172 Chapter Nine years and highlighted the influence of events of that period on the production of the first murales in Orgosolo18. In 1978, the recognition process19 started being taken seriously and a revival of intellectual interest in the murales took place. In fact, at that time it was no longer just journalists who were speaking of the murales, but another type of approach appeared alongside news articles: this critique embodied the voices of various architects, art historians and of the muralists themselves. In 1979, a special edition of the review La Grotta della Vipera20, created in 1974 by the association “village-museum”, was entirely dedicated to the San Sperate area murals. In 1981, eighty photographs of Sardinia’s murales were presented within the travelling exhibition on public art that took place in France at the Castle of Caen / Chateau de Caen. The exhibition’s catalogue, entitled The Public Art (L’Art Public), contained a chapter entirely dedicated to the murales of Sardinia, the text and photos of which were produced by Pablo Volta21. The same year, Gilles De Bure published Walls in the Town (Des murs dans la ville)22, a book about wall painting in which Sardinia is represented by six photographs of murales from the areas of Orgosolo and Bitti, presented within the sections entitled “activist walls”. In the same years the artists Sciola, Del Casino, Asproni and others were invited to take part in the photos of the murales they had created, at an exhibition at the Maison Stendhal in Grenoble, France, dedicated to Sardinian art and popular culture23. In the wake of such events, the early 1990’s saw the formulation of a genuine object of scientific research. And it was in this period that one sees the appearance of the first publications entirely dedicated to the phenomenon of muralismo in Sardinia. In 1994, the architect Mannironi published Mural Art in Sardinia (Arte murale in Sardegna)24. And the same year in Bosa (Alghero) one of the first conferences on the theme of muralism was held, at which the art historian Salvatore Naitza and the artist Ernest Pignon Ernest made presentations; the conference proceedings were published in 199625. In February 1998, Pietrina Rabanu and Gianfranco Fistrale published Political Murals of Sardinia (Murales Politici della Sardegna)26 a book in which the authors reconstructed the history of political murales with an itinerary that showed the various areas in which they are visible. More recently, Yves Barnoux’s27 catalogue was published. Since the early 1970’s Barnoux had been photographing murales of Sardinia, bringing together more than a thousand images of the wall paintings produced over the last thirty years. Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 173
The publication of articles in specialized reviews, in catalogues and in scientific literature28 seems to have awakened a certain intellectual interest in the murales and a genuine debate has begun regarding their artistic value. Therefore an evaluation of the murales in aesthetic terms seems to be taking place. This is used by “promoters” of the murales as the basis of an argument in favor of legitimizing them within the field of “cultural heritage”.
Symptoms of change: The appearance of systems of artification
From that time on, a series of factors accentuated the process of artification to the point of bringing about a “heritagization” of the murales. Here we are witnesses, above all, of the emergence of an aesthetic reflexion upon the form and style of these murals. We begin to speak of figurative painting in the case of most of the murals of San Sperate and of all those wall paintings that depict scenes of life in the countryside, seeking points of reference in art history. In the case of the murals of Francesco Del Casino, the reference to cubism and the influence of Picasso’s style were obvious from the start. But beginning in the 1990’s such references are boldly highlighted and we can find their echoes even in the words of area residents who provide testimonies29:
You see, this one is the post-Del Casino, a Del Casino differing in respect to when he would refer back to Picasso. That is to say that this one is another period of Del Casino, he changed forms, here it seems to me that you are dealing with something more of a sculpture. Because, in fact, now he is also a sculptor and he has made several murales in this new style. (…) That is to say that the genre still remains a bit Picasso but seems to be a different Picasso, you know how Picasso had different periods, blue, pink, this is Del Casino’s pink period.
Francesco Del Casino, author of three quarters of the murals in the area distances himself from aesthetic evaluation whatsoever of these paintings and he specifies that his actions were without any artistic intent30. For this reason the artist explains why he never signs his murals:
At the beginning there was absolutely no artistic intention, it was the political fervor of the 1970’s that lead us to make these murals, based on the events that were taking place: we were listening to the story and responding. Only afterwards did we begin to associate this activity with an artistic will, as had been the case, from the beginning, in San Sperate… We 174 Chapter Nine
never thought to make murals for an audience, our audience was the area residents, you would never have thought that years later so many tourists would be brought to Orgosolo, to see the murals.
Fig. 9-3 & 4. Orgoloso, Via Primo Maggio; Orgosolo, Via D’Azeglio.
The absence of any signature, or rather anonymity is a recurring practice in the murals labeled as “community”, as Laetitia Espagnol31 explains in her analysis of the murals produced by the Chicago Murals Group. In such contexts the artists claim themselves to be “social workers” and seek to distance themselves from the role of the artist as creator by refusing to sign their creations. In the process of artification, the appearance of a signature, an indication of the individualization of production, is one of the signs of successful ratification32. The absence of signatures in the case of the murales of Orgosolo is to be carefully analyzed, since the absence of this sign does not mean an absence of authorship33. Furthermore, in the 1990’s things began to change. Today if one goes through the streets in and around Orgosolo, he/she can see a variety of murals accompanied by indications of their production, date and name of artist, as in the case of the murals produced on the occasion of a painting contest organized by the municipality in summer 1993 and 1994. In this case, we are dealing with another type of mural: a painting that aims to take on the appearance of a work of art, since they are not only signed and dated but often also take on the classic format of a painting. We are dealing here with murals in which there has been a change of form, but also a transformation of meaning, of intention and of action. A local resident speaks about this34: “…you see these other murales, they are no longer characterized by political claims, these were the product of a Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 175 contest, to see who could make the prettiest one, but you see they are not concerned with us, they are no longer concerned with the area and our situation”.
Fig. 9-5 & 6. Orgosolo, Via Primo Maggio; Orgosolo, Via Alagon.
At this point in the transformation we are confronted with “anesthetization” of a political medium—the painting-manifesto—because if the first of such murals were considered to be “life stories”, we now speak of them as works of art. But such re-categorization in artistic terms brings about a variety of tensions that manifest themselves in differing and often contrasting opinions from the plurality of actors involved in the phenomenon.
Artification in contention
From the moment when an aesthetic legitimacy was attributed to the murales, organized exhibitions and promotional contests for mural painting appeared in various areas of Sardinia. Some of the latter became an annual part of cultural programming, as it has been the case in Irgoli35 where for the last fifteen years the whole month of September has been devoted to a demonstration in which various artists are invited to make new murals. In San Sperate, every year, the association “village-museum” organizes the “No Art” festival that, after the first edition entirely dedicated to the production of murals, has widened its programming to allow space for other types of artistic interventions, thereby becoming the most important cultural event of the year in that area. The murales of Sardinia have been classified as a form of popular art for a long time. The label “folk art” is in fact used to legitimize the murals before the art world by which they have been discredited. The debate over 176 Chapter Nine the value and status of the mural paintings in Sardinia has been expressed from the very beginning and various doubts have been brought up regarding their artistic value. Primo Pantoli, an active member and founder of Gruppo d’iniziativa36, wrote in an article published in the daily paper L’Unione Sarda37 in February 1970:
Disregarding the fraud of the naïve, where is the folk component in art? What’s most annoying is the continuous effort to misrepresent an important educational initiative in order to transform it into a sort of Sardinian folk art cartel. In reality there is a bit of everything on the walls, but very little folk and nothing Sardinian... Specific to San Sperate is the testimony regarding the limits of a large part of the art that is produced in Sardinia, that is to say regarding the scarcity of information and the absence of serious research, but above all it is a revealing testimony regarding the myth of a Sardinian art.
The journalist Vincenzo Mossa38, just like Pantoli, also showed his disapproval regarding the artistic value of the Sardinian murals when he expressed his opinion that the murals represented more a demonstration of “counterculture” than an artistic experience:
These homely murales take on the wretched appearance of writing spray painted onto the walls of houses, either in the countryside or in the city […] to the sloppiness of their construction and to their architectural banality is added the foolishness of their color, if only it were a mere question of foolishness, when even the slightest art is absent and criteria that we read in San Sperate […] And therefore we request that they be made to respect the articles contained within the building code, by the town authorities[…] In not making them respect this they make themselves accomplices to this civic issue that is spreading further day after day: and the murales will even end up expressing the opposite of what they are supposed to, that is to say the “counterculture”.
In response to such critics and in hopes of clarifying the various positions taken within the debate on the artistic value of Sardinian wall paintings, it seems to me useful to bring up a paper from the artist Diego Asproni39, published in the Unione Sarda, one week after the critique made by Vincenzo Mossa:
There are obviously various points of view and different ways to view murales, one in particular is full of professional hypocrisy and I am speaking about those famous artists—who want to distance themselves, at all costs from this way of making culture and, why not, art! […] Some say that this is about a provincial pseudo culture, full of internal contradictions, Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 177
that openly plagiarizes the work of artists from other countries and is therefore harmful and lacking in artistic content. Others, especially local artists well-known in the imperial metropolis, when they come back, loaded with dollars, to Sardinia for the holidays, they say loud and clear: this is not art! […] For me, to make art means to express (in this case through mural paintings), contents that would help the people comprehend the facts of their current history and those of their past […] We muralists use a tool that until a few centuries ago was used by those in power (the State and the Church) to tell and to celebrate, in ways that were at times suggestive, striking, emotional, authoritarian, the exploits of the powerful and the lives of Saints. […] Wall painting then fell into disuse in the technologically advanced societies, we have pick it up again following the example of the Mexican muralists […] I believe the discussion to have would be, not so much between art and not art, but between two ways of making art in Sardinia.
Notwithstanding the contrasting opinions, we find ourselves confronted with a change in status of these paintings, that are still not considered to be works of art, but that are beginning to be looked at from new points of view and that are being examined for their artistic and aesthetic value. This is a change that also brings up the problem of recognition by public cultural institutions.
An accelerator of artification: Tourism
The “accelerating” element of an institutional intervention, one of the principal mediators in the change of aesthetic, and no longer political and civic, interest in such murals, is the interest that it generates among tourists. Let’s take for example the case of Orgosolo, an area that, considering the large number of murals that it hosts and the large number of visitors it attracts each year40, presents itself as one of the areas where the process of artification is the most visible and at the most advanced stage. From the late 1990’s, Orgosolo’s murales appeared in most of the tourist guidebooks about Sardinia. They are mentioned in Italian guidebooks like the Touring Club’s Guide Verdi or the Michelin Guide, as well as in foreign guidebooks such as the French Guide du Routard. The presence of tourists in Orgosolo is not something new. Since the 1970’s, the area has always attracted a certain “political tourism” and a variety of curious visitors:
Tourism in Orgosolo did not happen by chance: it is the result of a history whose protagonists are the local residents, with their tragic lives and their 178 Chapter Nine
overvalued ethnicity, and the various agents that have contributed to making it a place symbolizing the Sardinian identity.41
The presence of the murals has become, little by little, another element that has continued to fuel curiosity concerning this area, as Del Casino states: “Trainloads of tourists first arrived in Orgosolo to see if they could find any roving bandits. This was misinformation, and the same thing has been repeated with the murales”42. Orgosolo became a popular destination on the tourist circuit. National and international operators43 organized various guided visits to the area; these allowed tourists from all over the world to see the murals between tasting and enjoying other typical products. Partnerships and collaboration developed between local merchants and tour operators from the northern part of the island. In 2000, a map: Orgosolo’s Murals Guide, showing the main murals along with the author’s name and the year of production, was published by the municipal office on the occasion of the traditional “Celebration of the Assumption” on August 15th. Two years later, for the same festival, a new map was published. This one included a brief description of the area’s territory, a festival calendar and the history of the murals. The document, illustrated with images of Del Casino’s murals, is entitled: Orgosolo. Walls that speak in an open-air museum. (Dei muri che parlano in un museo a cielo aperto).
Fig. 9-7 & 8. Postcards and gadgets in a shop in Orgosolo.
Should we risk speaking of an “open-air museum”? For the moment, we have not reached that point yet, even if it might seem so when during the peak season one can walk down the streets alongside numerous tour groups. Nearly forty years after the creation of the first wall painting, signs of the transformation are becoming palpable. In Orgosolo, the large numbers of tourists and the growth in the potential attraction that the wall paintings represent for tourists have quite Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 179 clearly influenced the very lifestyle which made tourism a real economic resource for the area. In 2005, on the initiative of individuals, merchants, restaurants and commercial operators, a newly created tourist consortium opened a tourist office in the area’s center, which works towards improving tourist services. One of the residents of Orgosolo launched the trenino dei murales, a small train that has allowed tourists to visit the streets in order to discover the murals since October 2000. At the same time there is an increasing number of gadgets that make reference to the murals, and that can be found in local stores: images of murals have become the logo on the label of a wine shop or have been put on business cards, to name just a few reproductions of murals on diverse supports.
Fig. 9-9. Tourist in Orgosolo, summer 2007.
Cultural policies, a promoter of artification
Such changes have also pressured the cultural board of the municipality of Orgosolo to assume the position of guardian against the growing fame of the murales and of the area itself, in order to avoid any kind of exploitation of these paintings. It is in light of this intention to protect and preserve that we must consider the various restoration projects that the municipality has financed since 2000. In fact, if on the one hand the cultural policies promote a cultural appreciation of the murales, on the other hand we are faced with the demands of the tourist market and the consequences that derive from an appreciation that is no longer expressed in political or civil terms—nor even aesthetic terms—because the cultural services of such a small area do 180 Chapter Nine not have the political strength to sustain an appreciation of this type, but that risks becoming economic in nature. It is in this way that we must read the attempt to initiate a procedure that defines norms and regulations for the production of wall paintings. This initiative on the part of the municipality, which is still today in the stage of “deliberation proceedings”44, requires the production of a document from the artist that wishes to paint a mural in the area. Such a document must include a sketch of the mural and must be presented to the town council which will then, upon consultation with a committee of specialists, evaluate the possibility of allowing the mural to be painted or not. At this point, in order to continue understanding the stages of progress in an ongoing transformation, it becomes indispensible for us to direct our analyses towards the other actors in this change, who are able to activate a “heritagization” and therefore a kind of institutionalization of these paintings; it is also necessary for us to take into consideration the discourses of art world professionals and their way of classifying wall paintings. What status do cultural institutions give to such paintings? The answer currently presents itself as something of a thorny issue for the local cultural institutions and others. Since 2006 the Department of Cultural Heritage for the Region of Sardinia has launched various initiatives in order to promote the conservation of some of the murales. Among these, we must remember an early effort to catalogue 25 murales that was sponsored by the Sassari home office of the Department of Cultural Heritage for the Region of Sardinia. The mission was entrusted to a young art historian who inventoried these murals according to the criteria of Contemporary Art Works (AOC) forms. The AOC forms present a certain amount of the information requested by the Italian Ministry of Culture’s criteria related to the inventory of works considered to be “contemporary art heritage”. Such efforts sparked quite a bit of controversy from the representatives of the Sardinian contemporary art world who saw this action as belonging to the category of “contemporary art work”. In other countries, the murals seem to have instead acquired the status of cultural heritage. Such is the case for the murals of Quebec, where, in 2004, the Commission for Cultural Heritage established a list of criteria to be met by murals produced in heritage areas45.
Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 181
Fig. 9-10 & 11. Copies of two AOC forms.
As the director46 of this cataloging initiative explained, the idea was not to recognize the murales as works of contemporary art, but to act in order to promote their conservation as early as possible, because in order to classify the murales under the category “anthropological heritage” it would be necessary to wait until they had existed for 50 years. Such a long time to wait would probably have lead to the deterioration of the 25 murales that the Department of Cultural Heritage for the Region of Sardinia considered to be “historic” and had therefore chosen to preserve. Recently a project to catalogue all of the area’s murals was revived47. This initiative has given rise to the production of scientific data for a museum center that was inaugurated on May 15, 2010 and named Service Center for the Protection, Enjoyment, and Demo-Anthropologic and Landscape Enhancement of the Cultural and Natural Heritage of Orgosolo’s Supramonte48 (Centro servizi per la salvaguardia, la fruizione e la valorizzazione demo-antropologica e paesaggistica del patrimonio culturale e naturalistico del Supramonte di Orgosolo). The Center for Documentation of the Supramonte includes three areas: Radichinas, composed of two sections, one dedicated to flora and fauna and one to murales; Sonos, dedicated to musical heritage; and Miradas, in which the archives of the films produced about and in Orgosolo can be found. But, despite these recent events, there are still factors of resistance to the process of artification, which reveals the necesity of such an initiative in the case of the murals of Sardinia. Various operators from the world of 182 Chapter Nine contemporary art have expressed their distrust towards an “admission” of the murals into the world of contemporary art. According to the artist Maria Lai49 it is necessary to take into consideration the importance of the murales phenomenon, but this should not be an issue that concerns the world of contemporary art. The ex- director of the Museum of Contemporary Art of Nuoro City (MAN), also shares this opinion. In an interview released in 2007, she holds that the murales no longer have meaning today because they are no longer set in their original context. According to her the phenomenon has crystallized into a democratization of wall paintings that has led amateurs to try out this technique, and she expresses her concern for the potential transformation of murales into museum pieces, to which the doors of MAN are not open:
There is absolutely no intention to open the doors of the museum to the murales, the doors of MAN were opened for an exhibition by graffiti artists, but that was only done to document one of the languages of contemporary art, the murales are not one of them50.
Conclusion
The case of the murales of Sardinia therefore raises various problems on several fronts. We are dealing with a case that blocks artification, the various factors of resistance make the artification of these murals impossible; their status seems to remain tied to issues that are still those of legitimacy. If the present case appears to be a “failure” in the passage of non-art to art, it nevertheless deserves our full critical attention, since, although it is a local phenomenon that has attracted an international concern and the attention of artists and intellectuals, it leads us to reflect on more global issues such as the borders of the art world, or the very classification of an object as a work of art. A significant example of how, in the process of artification, the borders between art and non-art are continually called into contention.
Notes
1 This is a translation of an article previously published in Italian (Cozzolino F., 2012, “La nozione di artificazione nel caso dei murales della Sardegna”, in M. Giammaitoini (a cura di), La sociologie delle arti tra storia e storie di vita, CLEUP, Roma, pp. 243-259. Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 183
2 Cfr. Boas, F. (1927), Primitive Art, Oslo, Aschehoug. J. Clifford (1988). The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth Century Ethnography, Literature and Art, Harvard, Harvard University Press; Errington, S. (1998). The Death of Authentic Primitive Art Others Tales of Progress, Berkeley, University of California Press. S. PRICE (1989), Primitive Art in Civilized Places, Chicago-London, University of Chicago Press. 3 Cfr Heinich, N. (1998). Le triple jeu de l’art contemporain, Paris, éd. Minuit ; Zolberg, V, & Cherbo, J. M. (1997). Outsider Art. Contesting Boundaries in Contemporary Culture, New York, Cambridge University Press. 4 Goodman, N. (1977). “When is art?”, in The Arts and Cognition, David Perkins and Barbara Leonard eds. (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins UP), pp. 11-19. 5 Shapiro, R. (2012). “Avant-Propos”, in R. Shapiro et N. Heinich, De l’artification. Enquêtes sur le passage à l’art, Paris, EHESS, cit. p. 20-21. My translation, original text: «L’artification désigne le processus de transformation du non-art en art, résultat d’un travail complexe de définition et de statut des personnes, des objets et des activités. Loin de recouvrir seulement des changements symboliques (…) l’artification repose avant tout sur des fondements concrets (…). On dira donc que l’artification, c’est la résultante de l’ensemble des opérations, pratiques et symboliques, organisationnelles et discursives, par lesquelles les acteurs s’accordent pour considerer un objet ou une activité comme de l’art». 6 Hoefer, J. (2003). A More Abundant Life. New Deal Artists and Public Art in New Mexico, Santa Fe, N.M. Sunstone Press; Latorre, G. (2008), Walls of Empowerment. Chicana/o Indigest Murals of California, Austin, University of Texas Press; Lee, A. W. (1999), Painting on the Left. Diego Rivera, Radical Politics and San Francisco’s Public Murals, Berkley, University of California Press; Rochfor, D. (1993). Mexican Muralists. Orozco, Rivera, Siqueiros, San Francisco, Chronicle Books; Rodriguez, A. (1969). A history of Mexican Mural Painting, London, Ed. Thames and Hudson. 7 Barnoux, Y (2001). Murales de la Sardaigne, Cagliari-Paris, Ettore Gasperini Editore - Le Collectif des éditeurs indépendants ; Barnett, A. (1984). Community Murals: the People’s Art, Philadephia, Cornawall Books; Buscaroli, S., Grossi, C. (1977). Murales, Bologna, Grafis; De Bure, G. (1981). Murales, cultura delle strade, Milano, Silvana editore; Mannironi, R. (1994). Arte murale in Sardegna, Cagliari, Incaspisano; Pignataro, F. (1993). L’utopia sui muri, I murales del gridas: come e perché fare murales, Napoli, LAN; Roston, B. (1995). Murals in the North of Ireland, Belfast, Beyond the Pale; Golden, J., Rice, R., and Yant Kinney, M., with photography by Graham, David and Ramsdale, Jack (2002). Philadelphia Murals and the Stories They Tell, Philadelphia, Temple University Press; Rubanu, P., Fistrale, G. (1998). Murales politici della Sardegna, Bolsena, Massari – Dattena; Olita, O. & Pes, N. (2006). San Sperate, all’origine dei murales, Cagliari, AM&D edizioni.
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8 The only artist to constantly produce murals using the fresco technique has been, with few rare exceptions, Diego Asproni. 9 I’m not dissociating murals from murales, since this is a question of translating a word that refers to the same object. However, this is not the case with the other denominations used in reference to the graphic art painted on walls such as wall painting, peinture murale, frescos, graffitis. My linguistic choice is indicative of an affiliation (but not an assimilation) with a genre, that of the great narrative frescos painted in public spaces. In this article, I would use the world murales, as these artefacts are called in Sardinia, when I talk about the phenomenon in Sardinia, and murals when I generally talk about the mural painting produced by this phenomenon. This choice would help an English reader, but at the same time wants to underline the linguistic preferences of the people of Sardinia to call the murals painting murales in order to affiliate them to a genre, and to a specific case: Mexican murals. 10 Olita, O. & Pes, N. (2006). San Sperate, all’origine dei murales, Cagliari, AM&D eds. 11 Cfr: Satta, G. (2001), Turisti a Orgosolo, Napoli, Liguori. 12 SaldaĖa, M. Los murales, forma tradicional de comunicaciòn del mexicano, Excelsior, 2 – B, 6/03/1973; Taracena, B. Pueblo museo, Tiempo Mexico, 9/04/1973; Taracena, B. Homenaje a Siqueiros, Excelsior, 19/01/1975; Rodriguez, A. La expansion del arte mural en el mundo, Excelsior, 20/08/1982. 13 Saconnet, P. Le village des paysans peintres, Le quotidien du peuple, 27/08/1976. 14 s.f., Murales alla TV tedesca, l’Unione Sarda, 21/05/1977, p. 8. 15 As a result of the Sardinian participation at the Biennale di Venezia, the reviews Domus and Qui touring also began to pay attention to the phenomenon, dedicating to it two articles in the same year: Carboni, M. Fatti e volti dei murales, Qui Touring, febbraio 1976; D’Urso, T. Un paese diverso, Domus, ottobre 1976. 16 Haasis, H. Der Kampf gegen Rom, Stern, n° 46, 1976; Haasis, H. Das Dorf als Bilderbuch, en Jahr Buch für Lehrer, ed. Rowholt, Stuggard, 1978; Haasis, H. Melerische Sardinien, Fernweh, n° 5, 1982. 17 The expression “Battle of Pratobello” refers to the conflict that brought the residents of Orgosolo to the occupation and liberation from military control of Pratobello’s territorial pastures, an area sighted for the creation of a military base (following an agreement between the American and Italian governments in 1969 for the creation of NATO range); Cfr: Sa lotta de Pratobello, Cirolo Giovanile di Orgosolo, libro prodotto in serigrafia, Orgosolo (Nuoro), 1969. 18 Haensch, D. (1983). Von a wie abgefahren bis z wie Süditalien. Erfahrungen der resenden hochschule Hannover in Niedersachen, Süditalien und Sardinien, Hannover; Haensch, D. (1986). La lotta di Pratobello. Documenti autentici, Hannover – Orgosolo. 19 In reference to the the work of art historian Alan Bownness (The Condition of Success, How The Modern Artist Rises to Fame, Thames and Hudson, London,
Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 185
1989), Shapiro and Heinich outine four categories of actor whose recognition of a work of art provokes artification: the producer himself; the dealers, galleries and editors; the critics and the intellectuals, the general public. Cf. R. Shapiro et N. Heinich, 2012, pp. 288-290. 20 Masia, M., Poracchini, R. Dedicato a San Sperate, La Grotta della Vipera, n° 14, Cagliari, primavera1979. 21 Cfr: Chatel, F., and Popper, F. (1981). L’art Public, Paris, Jacques Damase, p. 46. 22 De Bure, G. (1981). Des murs dans la ville, Paris, L’Enquerre ; Itanial edition: G. De Bure, Murales, cultura delle strade, Silvana Editoriale, Milano, 1981. 23 Brigaglia, M. La Sardegna va à Grenoble, L’unione Sarda, 2/02/1987, p.7. 24 Mannironi, R. 1994. 25 (A cura di) Centro di Cultura popolare – U.N.L.A. – Murales in Sardegna, Artigianarte, Bosa, 1996. 26 Rubanu, P., Fistrale G. 1998. 27 Barnoux, Y. 2001. 28 Caria, M. (2001). Il colore della comunicazione, Arte e società nei murales di Sardegna, a cura di Antonio Fadda, Università di Sassari; Fancello, A., Fiori M., Greco, S., Nobile, S., Secci, A. (1989). I murales di Orgosolo, a cura di Bio Baldelli, Università di Firenze; Farci, F., Lolli, L. (1979). Dieci anni di muralismo a San Sperate, a cura di Jole Desanna, Accademia delle Belle Arti di Firenze; Lescaroux, S. (1998). Le muralisme en Sardaigne, sous la direction de M. Ajmerucci, Université de Toulouse Le Mirail; SATTA, P. (2003). I murales di Orgosolo, a cura di Marco Schirru, Università di Cagliari; Trincas, C. (1998). Muri ai Pittori. Indagine sul muralismo, a cura di G. Pellegrini, Università di Cagliari; Viola, M. (2001). Il muralismo sardo fra arte, politica e turismo, a cura di Valerio Romitelli, Università di Bologna; Zedda, S. (1989). Aspetti della pittura murale in Sardegna: 1968/1988, vent’anni di esperienza. Due personalità: Diego Asproni e Pinuccio Sciola, sotto la direzione di Salvatore Naitza, Universita di Cagliari. 29 An excerpt from the recording of an expert guided visit done under the auspices of the ANR project “Politique et réglementation de l’écrit dans l’espace urbain”, a research program (2006-2008) developped in collaboration with the laboratory Traitement et Communication de l’Information - CNRS/ENST and the research group Anthropologie de l’écriture du IIAC - CNRS/EHESS. The recording was made on September 28, 2007 in Orgosolo. 30 An excerpt from the interview done with Francesco del Casino on April 18, 2005 in Siena. 31 Cfr. Espagnol, L. (2005). Le Chicago Murals Group, Art et Société, Paris, L’Harmattan. See the chapter; “L’art de créer des liens”, pp. 105-142. 32 Heinich, N., 2008. 33 Fraenkel, B. (1992), La signature. Genèse d’un signe, Paris, Gallimard (coll. Bibliothèque des histoires).
186 Chapter Nine
34 An excerpt from the recording of an expert guided visit done under the auspices of the ANR project “Politique et réglementation de l’écrit dans l ‘espace urbain” on September 28, 2007. 35 Cf. Congiu, N. (2003). Muralismo in Baronia, Olbia, Centro didattico Editoriale Pontes. 36 The “Gruppo d’iniziativa” was a collective created in 1964 by artists and intellectual among whom were the Sardinians: Pantoli, Mazzarelli, Brundu et Staccioli. That same year, these four would edit a “Manifesto” in which they would illustrate their way of doing art in accordance with a strong involvement in activism. 37 Pantoli, P. Serve il filtro della cultura, L’Unione Sarda, Cagliari, 15 febbraio 1970. 38 Mossa, V. I murales caserecci, La Nuova Sardegna, Cagliari, 19 novembre 1978. 39 Asproni, D. Due modi di fare arte, L’Unione Sarda, Cagliari, 28 novembre 1978. 40 Cfr: Indagine sul turismo a Orgosolo, proceedings from the round table organized at the initiative of the local and regional services for the entrepreneurs of the domestic zones, with the support of the province of Nuoro, obtained thanks to the subventions from the project n°261 “Lavori di pubblica utilità (works of public interest)”. The round table took place on January 23, 1999 at the municipal library of Orgosolo. According to the survey, conducted in1998, just in the months between June and October, 39929 were registered present. Similarly, one may also consult the more recent and detailed study done by the sociologist Gino Satta,: G. SATTA, 2001. 41 Ibidem, cit. p. 2. 42 Excerpt from the interview with Francesco Del Casino, Siena, April 18, 2005. 43 For about a decade the French agency FRAM has inserted, into the pages of its catalogue dedicated to the region of Sardinia, the option called “Sardegna insolita” (“Sardinia Off the Beaten Path”), that offers an itinerary of a visit to the various areas of Barbagia among which Orgosolo and its murales. 44 Resolution No. 111 of 27 November 2006: "Adoption of an act of commitment to the protection and valorisation of mural." 45 S., Brunel, L., Brunelle-Lavoie (2004). La murale urbaine: pratique et fonctions, Une publication de la Commission des Biens Culturels du Québec. 46 Interview done with the director of cataloging operations at the central office of the Department of Cultural Heritage for the Region of Sardinia, in Cagliari, on September 24th, 2007. 47 The operation was entrusted to some students at the School of Architecture at the Università di Cagliari and was directed by Doctors Donatella Rita Fiorino and Caterina Giannatasio. Cf. Fiorino e Giannatasio, 2009. 48 P., Merlini. Un progetto di tutela per i dipinti, in La Nuova Sardegna 12 ottobre 2006, p. 7; M. G., Fossati. Orgosolo decide di cambiare look, in La Nuova Sardegna, 10 gennaio 2007, p. 10; M. G., Fossati. Primo, conservare la memoria, in La Nuova Sardegna, 18 settembre 2008, p. 19; G., Gelsomino. Il museo del
Observing the Artification Process: The Case of Murales in Sardinia 187
banditismo “centro della legalità”, in La Nuova Sardegna, 9 settembre 2008, p. 5; M. G., Fossati. Museo del banditismo sì, ma sino all’ 80, in La Nuova Sardegna 18 novembre 2004, p. 6; M. G., Fossati. Ma è solo un centro studi, in La Nuova Sardegna, 1 dicembre 2004, p. 7; P., Merlini. Al museo Mesina ingresso libero, in La Nuova Sardegna, 11 novembre 2004, p. 11; S., Zedda. Un museo del banditismo? Sbagliato, in La Nuova Sardegna, 10 aprile 2006, p. 1. 49 Interview with Maria Lai, Orgosolo, September 27, 2007. 50 Interview with Cristiana Collu, Nuoro, September 25, 2007.
PART III.
IN THE FIELD: PROJECTS ON POPULAR AND VISUAL CULTURE
CHAPTER TEN
HERITAGE AND CULTURE AS INSTRUMENTS OF QUALIFICATION OF URBAN SPACES: THE CASE OF THE MUSÉE URBAIN TONY GARNIER
ALAIN CHENEVEZ
In this essay we will bring up the question of designing atypical objects, in this case, social housing, as cultural heritage. The continuing process of development of Western cities raises new questions concerning heritage. Urban concentration, the phenomenon of periurbanisation and the division of living-areas produces districts of mixed populations, together with phenomena of social differentiation. Heritage and culture are henceforward tools for distinguishing social spaces and the groups associated with them, each one producing its own heritage. The development of the associations’ movement unceasingly produces new heritage- artefacts, sometimes in contradiction with the administrative services of historic monuments. New, more prosaic objects become included in the universe of heritage, and the concept of public good is in a certain way made use of in growing phenomena of urban and social distinction, producing new imaginary constructs and representations. But this process is unequal, as heritage maintains a certain distance from popular neighbourhoods. Over the last few years, in France, these latter have been, more often than not, destroyed or swept along in the process of urban renewal, where the collection of memory stands as heritage. In this regard, we will present the singular project of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier, located in France, in the 8th arrondissement of Lyon, to underline the new dynamisms which are underway. Projects of enhancement and classification as heritage are appearing in the sector of social housing, whether in the region of Paris or in the urban area of Lyon. We propose to take a closer look at these ongoing processes, in order to show how the process of reclaiming popular districts as heritage neglects, to a large extent, their intangible elements and, above all, their inhabitants. 192 Chapter Ten
The phenomenon of urbanisation
We are witnessing a process of unprecedented urban development on a universal scale: nowadays, one man in two across the planet is a city- dweller. During the 20th century, the urban phenomenon grew widespread, we became “Homo urbanus”1 and the process has intensified world-wide over the last thirty years. We witness a phenomenon of concentration of individuals, powers and wealth of those within ever-vaster and engulfing agglomerations. In Western Europe, ambitious public policies make every possible effort to reinforce the international influence of urban centres and their competitivity, urging European regions to shape strategies of metropolisation2. The goal is to reinforce the competitivity of territories through the reinforcement of urban density, but also by encouraging the development of symbolic, economic and cultural exchanges. The idea is to ensure more effectiveness for territories in the global competition, and above all, to generate capital and financial profit. This phenomenon induces to some extent the sprawl effect in the development of urban areas. The city with clearly defined perimeters is giving way to a limitless and spreading urban area, more and more difficult to qualify. The expansion of periurban and residential areas, re-inhabited villages, tertiary centres and commercial centres are the most visible avatars, as cities stretch and scatter3.
Heritage and culture at the centre of contemporary urbanisation
Policies for town and country planning try to foster the concentration of superior economic functions, research, innovation, and financial aspects, the consequence of which is, notably, an unprecedented development of festive and cultural events in the heart of cities. The presence of symbolic and cultural communication and marketing reinforces the attraction of urban centres for social groups which sign the process of metropolisation with their presence. They are the famous creative classes, which, in the West are the big winners in the globalisation of financial capital. The objective is no longer to attract manual and salaried workers to the cities, as in the first grand phase of mechanical industrialisation after the First World War, with, for example, the construction of low-cost lodgings (Habitations Bon Marché) and the providing of functional and hygienic installations. It is now a question of promoting the arrival or the return to the heart of the metropolis of the social groups who are the emblems of the new spirit of capitalism4, that is, production executives, research and Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 193 teaching agents, entrepreneurs of the tertiary sector and culture, jurists and business lawyers, all avid for eclectic cultural events but bearing the mark of social distinction. As Jacques Florida pointed out in 20025, it is not the sole purpose of the new Western city to set up a pole to attract production, exchange, consumption, as well as high-level universities able to compete at world level in the domain of research. It is also to offer an exceptional dimension in terms of culture and heritage, henceforward indispensable tools in the competition between territories for economic development. With this in view, culture and cultural heritage become essential communication tools for the qualification of urban spaces and their appropriation, for giving them meaning and constructing representations. The mayors of big cities have become managers working to reinforce the attractiveness of their cities. It is the era of the “staging” of urban projects and of the creative city6. The city-councillors imagine this to be the way to counter industrial decline and/or to regain attractiveness by relying on the social groups who bring with them hopes of economic growth, combining trendy stores, innovative architecture, urban heritage-creation and renewal, festive events and a new creative economy. The urban space must thus offer the conditions of a cultural environment which fosters the development of a dynamic local economy and attracts qualified and creative migrants. Even ethnic minorities and those excluded from the labour-market are, in a sense, put to work at the great urban festivals where the dream of living all together is played out once again, with an emphasis on social diversity, and where the values of solidarity and mutual aid are made use of to construct representations of an urban life which is at once reassuring and attractive, cosmopolitan and serene7. Popular festivals and street art, happenings, quality urban architecture and design function together for the effectiveness of territorial marketing and the development of the contemporary urban public space. Urban centres must once again be inviting and are becoming more and more comfortable. They must be seen as cool and favourable to creativity which in turn renders the property and housing of the most sought-after areas increasingly expensive. Henceforward, capital makes the world impossible to live in for many8, bringing about new processes of segregation in a city living at several speeds9. We have thus a centre which is growing ever more expensive and gentrified, side by side with islands of social housing falling into decay, for the notion of creative class benefits them but little. There is also a strong development of the suburbs, which concentrate the dangerous classes and the ethnic minorities, and then periurbanisation, seeming to stretch and expand endlessly, led by the middle classes who for over forty years have fled the high density urban areas, prudently seeking 194 Chapter Ten shelter, anxious to retrieve for themselves a sociological entre soi (being with one’s kind) and to observe urban problems from a distance. The farthest reaches of urban sprawl are carried by the lower income bracket, manual workers, employees, pensioners who fled from the large agglomerations and came in search of tranquillity and still-affordable prices. Depending heavily on urban centres, the inhabitants of the periurban centres also distinguish themselves in their production of new centralities and centres of sociability around the commercial centres and the re-inhabited and enhanced villages. An article by Raphaêlle Rerolle estimated recently that about 30 to 40% of the French population lives in these zones located outside cities, sometimes at a great distance10. In other words, the process of periurbanisation borne along by metropolisation and urbanisation is not a marginal trend but affects a large section of the middle classes and a part of the lower classes, as well.
Cultural heritage: an expanding concept
That being the case, in this process where festivals and the creative tertiary sector occupy an essential place, the dimension of cultural heritage is at the heart of the urban project that has now become the dominant model. Cultural heritage no longer concerns old centres and monumental works only, but extends across the whole territory, even to periurban zones. Elements which are for example listed as historic monuments are no longer related only to ancient monuments and historic sites. Over a number of years they have spread to new outlying and rural areas. Henceforward, there are several ways to produce heritage. On the one hand there is the state and its services which designate, construct, and preserve. On the other hand there is a social demand, developing notably through the sector of associations, upholding and reinforcing actions of revaluation in every direction11. Obviously, there is a considerable interconnection and interaction between these various actors who produce numerous and diversified heritage-artefacts. Associations use the notion of heritage in order to re-qualify urban spaces and sites. The experts in historical monuments are now faced with the competition from associations who are much more pragmatic in their approach to administrative and scientific aspects. The development of the notion of intangible heritage, conducted notably by UNESCO, must be included here, underscoring this tendency of boundless extension. Historical monuments and sites registered as world heritage now stand side by side with zones of enhancement of architecture and heritage, cities and regions of art and history, and also with periurbanisation, cities and Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 195 villages of charm, finest villages in France, floral cities, the 20th century heritage label, etc. The notion of protection and enhancement of cultural heritage seems to expand endlessly, provoking criticism as to the dangers of remaining too attached to the past, of fossilisation and stifling contemporary creativity. We witness a patrimonialisation of urban space which seems to know no limits, as we more and more protect, showcase, preserve and distinguish the urban area and its architecture, statues, squares, and private residences, as well as industrial sites, wash-houses, and private mansions12. The extension of the designation as heritage was chronological (from antique monuments to 20th century heritage), topographical (from protected sites to sectors), but also in terms of category (from the monumental to what is more commonplace, from the cathedral to everyday life testimonies, such as farms, wash-houses, urban agglomerates, the industrial heritage, etc.), going from a classical and monumental vision to a more ethnological and sensitive approach. If heritage is a complex and heterogeneous concept, whose meaning appears consensual on the surface, actually it does not express the same system of values, in time and in space. Heritage is clearly a social construction for manufacturing value and imaginary constructs. Its meaning has become a conceptual Janus opening up for us multiple domains of research, for it has become a powerful system of communication which imposes images, leaves its mark on imagination, and constructs the value of spaces and their representation, a kind of heritage more attached to emotion. However, this process of extension of heritage is neither objective nor neutral. The classical heritage of ancient centres remains over-represented and the popular areas remain under-represented. The intention is not so much to enhance the popular or lower class areas as to transform them, principally for security reasons. Suburbs and inner cities are not included in the process of patrimonialisation. All parts of the territory are not affected equally by the phenomenon.
Heritage: an unequal process
In effect, analysis shows that the notion of cultural heritage is not an objective one. It is a work of classification, of shaping, undertaken mainly by public action, but whose result is still very elitist. Clearly, heritage- policy seems now to take its stand alongside education and social affairs. However, despite the wider scope of the notion in categorical and chronological terms, the conservation of the past is indeed highly selective and ideological, it is an instrument of distinction and power. 196 Chapter Ten
The works of Michel Pinçon and Monique Pinçon-Charlot on the upper classes seem to validate this interpretation. For example they emphasise to which degree the power of the “ruling classes”, of the “great families” is also a power over space, a capacity to qualify or to increase the value of their living spaces in the eyes of all, through the use of networks of acquaintances, and to succeed in having these values recognized as universal, as superior to others, as distinctive. In France more than 50% of classified monuments are private and belong to old and wealthy families. This is a process in which heritage institutions are approached and made use of in order to enhance the value of certain areas, thereby reinforcing the symbolic value of those inhabiting them, and increasing the value of the land-capital, alongside space-segregation. For a period of about thirty years, heritage has also become a major stake in the public policy of the urban and periurban space, a territorial marketing-tool, a system of signs, of imaginary constructs and meanings. But it is also a tool of gentrification used by middle classes, seized upon by associations to mark territory and appropriate it symbolically and materially, in the process of metropolisation and periurbanisation. In re-inhabited rural areas, we witness the same phenomenon of usage of notions of heritage by pressure groups, who manufacture and enhance new objects, sites, and territories. For example, the development of heritage associations, which often mobilise teachers, researchers, and health professionals, is borne along by the search for a “network of social integration”. Their associative commitment is part of a pedagogical militantism which takes the form of publication of specialised journals, organisation of courses, etc. More globally, these new middle classes impose a vision of the social space marked by the enhancement of cultural-mix, of the authentic and real relations of a village-style residential area, but which is simultaneously characterised by an increasing segregation of social spaces and a collective control over memory processes. Within this framework, heritage associations take on meaning as a means of integration and search for local identity, more or less linked to the reproduction of certain groups and the appropriation of territory, thus giving themselves an air of respectability and a sense of belonging to history. But not all social groups are capable of constructing a patrimony, which always needs a collective action, a political act of designation and social construction. Nothing is naturally beautiful or worthy of perpetuation, it is always an act of social construction, of territorial marking13, and certain groups are more effective than others in defending their interests and spaces. At the very time that the demolition of large housing developments and Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 197 low-cost housing (Habitat à Loyer Modéré) is increasing, the building and development of social housing is entering the sphere of heritage, thanks to systems of signage and protection (20th century heritage label; zones for the protection of architecture and heritage), to listings of historical monuments or, again, thanks to projects of promotion of the memories of inhabitants, by interpretation centres (such as the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier). Over the last decade, the question of the constitution of a “contemporary heritage” in social housing has been raised. This new phenomenon is developing through the conflicts opposing defenders of heritage and those in charge of the management of low-cost housing. Some of these received much media attention, as in Villetaneuse (Cité Renaudie) or Pantin (Serpentin d’Emile Allaud). But it can also be perceived through the action of enterprises of valuation, alongside systems of protection of emblematic sites (e.g. Utopias Network or Réseau des Utopies, in the urban region of Lyon), initiatives by inhabitants (e.g. Musée Urbain Tony Garnier), or local actions by artists who highlight a singular story (e.g. Lyon 8th arrondissement). The originality of such processes of patrimonialisation is of high importance, for they concern contemporary items of heritage which are a priori or “traditionally” without any stake in conservation. Such an angle suggests a study of the way in which the many actors, both amateur and professional, decide, in each case, the diversity of the heritage of a given society. At the same time, it brings forth the importance of not pre-judging patrimonial quality, leaving up to individuals the capacity to define and attribute it, both to objects which are from the outset socially prestigious and to common items and, in this way, to study how patrimonial values are manufactured. We put forward the idea that heritage is concerned with struggle and the notion of distinction. Studying heritage sheds light over the production of what is worthy and unworthy, legitimate and not legitimate in our societies, in other words, over the social and spatial designing of urban spaces. This angle renders relative the hierarchical distinction established between the professionals of culture and others. The competence to make judgements on heritage does not belong solely to the experts on public heritage; it also results from multiple interactions and diverse social strategies.
The example of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier in Lyon
The Musée Urbain Tony Garnier is an original structure, located in the 8th arrondissement of Lyon, and results from the cultural and patrimonial 198 Chapter Ten revaluation of a district of social housing. In order to situate the birth of this original structure, let us go back in history. The founding of the buildings dates back to the beginning of the 20th century. The purpose was to house lower-income populations inexpensively. In 1917, the mayor of Lyon announced the creation of a district of inexpensive lodgings between the districts of la Guillotière14 and Venissieux, in order to accompany the industrial development of the sector and the major construction works of Lyon. This project was part of a new resolution by public authorities to reduce the unsanitary conditions of working-class housing through voluntarism in the domain of real-estate, which prefigured the development of the welfare-state. With this in view, a delegation from Lyon visited similar actions in Europe, and in particular travelled to England, to observe the experiment of the garden-cities, urban projects inspired by Ebenezer Howard15, whose idea was to find an answer for the social question and to pacify capitalism by taking the urban structure into account. Industrialisation had indeed amassed workers within cities, without providing healthy and functional living-conditions. It was then necessary to consider expanding the city, to invent 20th century urbanism16. The architect Tony Garnier, a close acquaintance of the mayor of Lyon, Edouard Herriott, and recipient of the Grand Prix de Rome in 1899, was chosen to head the program. As of the beginning of the 20th century, this latter worked on the creation of a sort of architectural utopia, published in 1917 and then, in 1932, under the title An Industrial City (Une Cité Industrielle). As he himself described:
The architectural studies that we present here concern the establishment of a new city, the Industrial City: for the majority of new cities which will be founded henceforward will be founded according to the demands of industry, we have therefore considered the most general case.17
Ideas of functionalism and hygienism permeated this urban program, largely inspired by Emile Zola and his book Work (Travail), whose text Garnier used for the decoration of the pediment of the central building of his city. The industrial city is structured around the idea of work seen as a factor of emancipation and cohesion; its design is oriented towards the well-being of the inhabitants, manual workers in the majority. Remaining more or less faithful to this visionary program, Tony Garnier conceived and presented a plan of 49 buildings, housing 1526 lodgings in the district of the États-Unis18. Built as of 1920, the project underwent numerous adaptations and modifications linked to the imperatives of urban density, notably in the height of buildings and the surface-area of apartments and balconies, while abandoning numerous Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 199 accessory installations (schools, workshops, etc)19. Nevertheless, and as an unpublished report written by Catherine Forêt shows, the foundation of the place seems to have played a decisive role in the contemporary process of patrimonialization that the district experienced about fifty years later. Indeed, at the inauguration in 1934, the elite of Lyon seemed proud of having created an emblematic site on the edge of the city, “a democratic work” imposing in its architectural modernity. The author showed that, on the occasion of this inauguration, the new city was seen almost as a monument destined to continue the work of progress and to bring morality to the working classes, by taking them out of their slums and shanties20. But from the years 1950-60 onwards, the exemplary district with its pioneering image, where many tenants were chosen based on an enquiry into their morals, began to downgrade slowly in the vision held by local officials. What had made its quality, unity and modernity before the Second World War had grown ordinary. Growing urban development, massive construction of new HLMs in the vicinity, and the opening of the city with the construction of the boulevard des États-Unis towards Lyon, appeared to reabsorb the site back into the city, contributing to its “depersonalisation”, and effacing its originality. By the end of the 1970s, the district was already linked to the image of the dangerous and stigmatised French suburbs, the exiled districts of the downtrodden21. The monument-district slowly lost its symbolic value, its distinction, to become an inner city like any other. What had appeared as the symbol of an ideal of republican progress had become common and stigmatised. The district had likewise suffered other traumas: ageing of the population, upheaval and fragmentation of the working class, and loss of interest and hostility for this working class neighbourhood falling into decay. This overall process of valuation/devaluation seems to have been one of the essential motors in the collective mobilisation of inhabitants, which took shape during the 1980s and would give way to the project of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier22. This project was born of the need to retrieve a distinction, a singularity, by marking an opposition with other even more stigmatised districts. Briefly, the image of a lost golden era, the feeling of symbolic devaluation and the political and associative structure of the district appeared to incubate the germs of a process of pragmatic patrimonialization, off the beaten track of the services of historical register and monuments. Nonetheless, even if a site is structurally identifiable, it does not impose itself by virtue of its intrinsic worth as heritage. This is something to be constructed. 200 Chapter Ten
The collective manufacture of patrimony: a work of mobilisation
Faced with the descent of their specificity into ordinariness, and in the face of what some considered as a veritable symbolic denial of memory, in the 1980’s volunteers belonging to the communist party, local interest committees, tenants’ committees, and different associative movements set themselves the task of having the value of the low-cost housing of Tony Garnier recognized by public authorities. They tried to accelerate the technical rehabilitation of the district, now owned by OPAC (the Public Office for the development of the City Council of Lyon). But the project went beyond that: as of 1985 a meeting between the inhabitants and the artists of the City of Creation (Lyon) gave rise to the creation of a new idea—to revaluate the site in symbolic terms, over and beyond technical rehabilitation. Together they presented an original project to local officials and to the press: an open-air reconstruction of the museum to be integrated into the already accepted idea of renovation. The idea then was to carry out large mural paintings measuring 230 square meters on all the blind end walls of Tony Garnier buildings. The first objective was therefore to construct a collective memory around a theme which could add something to the symbolic value of this inner city, set the district within a founding myth, rediscover its exemplarity and escape general stigma. The principle was therefore to reproduce the architect’s sketches on the walls of his visionary city, in an innovative open-air museography, thus using the reputation of Tony Garnier, then held by certain exegetes as being one of the fathers of urban design and of the Modern movement of architecture23. This being said, the success of this first phase was not due purely to the activism of certain inhabitants of the district nor to their capacity to convince authorities. The project stood at the intersection of a process of collaboration and interaction, in which numerous actors played their part while finding their own advantage, each one contributing to something. This process did not come about without many struggles and conflicts24. Led initially by groups of tenants, it then extended to include other social groups with overlapping interests. The concept found resonance within the process of decentralisation. The Mayor and the elected officials became actors and managers who, through the development of heritage, urban art and urban marketing, reinforced their electoral position25. The project also found a fundamental echo with the invention of a cultural dimension of the city policy. During the 1980s, in response to the riots in large housing-development areas26, new specific State credit-facilities were employed in an attempt to “change Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 201 the city”. The purpose was to tackle problems in the underprivileged neighbourhoods of large French cities through the social and cultural development of districts. The Musée Urbain project became a site for the experiment of city-policies and provided a potential terrain for numerous technicians. The goal was to create a new situation wherein heritage and culture were used as tools to foster fraternity and reduce social inequalities27. In other words, the designers of this concept imagined that they would enable people who usually remained excluded from the spheres of institutional promotion of art and culture to participate in a form of social mobilisation. The owner of the buildings, the OPAC of greater Lyon, and the artists of the City of Creation (Lyon) also found their advantage here. For social landlords, it was the opportunity to bring an original dimension to the process of renovation of buildings, at little cost, thus increasing the wealth of built heritage. Registering the district of the États-Unis in the 1986 social development project made it possible to obtain funding for rehabilitation from the state, the region, the department, and the city of Lyon: 43 M€ over 13 years, of which 2M€ for the public space and 1.2M€ for the creation of mural paintings (materials and design included)28. As for the artists of the City of Creation, they were deeply involved in the project: they conceived a way to create and sell the murals, by using an innovative method involving the militant participation of inhabitants. Each protagonist directly involved in the project had a different goal but together they created a common good. One must keep in mind all the activities which made the development of this innovative project possible: the mobilisation of inhabitants around rehabilitation, the association with the mural-painters of the City of Creation, the exceptional credit linked to city-policy, the acceptance and supervision by the OPAC of greater Lyon, and the validation by public authorities of Lyon as well as by numerous private investors. Not to mention auxiliary activities such as: the creation of a development-project, the organisation of press-campaigns, the promotion of an “identity”, the creation of a team of paid professionals, as well as the distinction awarded by UNESCO in 1991. In short, the construction of the Musée Urbain involved the combined activities of a number of people. Their collaboration as well as their struggles, controversies and dissensions, were fundamental to the accomplishment of the project, one of whose characteristics was to remain outside of any framework of heritage administration29. The Ministry of Culture at that time accorded neither credits nor recognition to the project. This being the case, the Musée Urbain is an example of social heritage, resulting from a structured collective action, bringing into play 202 Chapter Ten different actors often with divergent interests but who constructed a process of symbolic and cultural rehabilitation of an urban space that had been slowly disqualified. The quality of being “exemplary” does not exist by itself: it is before anything a work of militantism, of mobilisation, where one must designate, group together, fight, push aside and justify something. It is an artefact always produced by a work of memory, for heritage is a usage of the past. However, this is not a case of calling up shared memories, but rather of co-constructing in the present a project which utilises the past while transforming it, calling on imaginary constructs and oblivion, and choosing the items suitable for singling out. In other words, the process of valuation of the site is not without reference to the past and memory, but it is principally the figure of Tony Garnier and the image of the exemplary founding of the quarter which are used as tools to create its singularity. Patrimony here is not a reiteration of the past, but truly the invention of a resource-memory for new developments. It is not a process of transmission of pre-existing contents; on the contrary, it is a producer of meaning, of sensible forms according to the materiality of the medium, the space and the interactions which create it a posteriori, in a permanent yet reconstructed contact between past and present. Finally, the result of this process of valorisation was ambitious. It included the rehabilitation of 1.568 lodgings on-site, housing more than 3.000 people; the development of 30.000 sq. m. of public spaces including the design of garden-courtyards and garden-streets; the creation of a museum-apartment; the conception and presentation of a number of murals in an outside space and the setting-up of the “association of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier” in 1992, run by the tenants. This latter fixed as its mission, in article 1 of the statutes, to:
1 – Manage and promote the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier, dedicated to the architect of Lyon, and of the social housing (HLM) of the district of the États-Unis (Lyon 8th arrdt).
2 – Develop studies on Tony Garnier and his work and ensure their circulation and promotion.
3 – Develop research on the renovation and enhancing of remarkable districts or architecture, and on ways of implicating inhabitants in these processes.
In 1990 the project of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier was struggling with difficulties, subjected to even more severe criticisms by the new municipality of the town council of Lyon and the Ministry of Culture. Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 203
They denounced the demagogic and outlandish character of the mural paintings30. But an unexpected “coup de théâtre”, as symbolic as it was political, was going to re-establish the legitimacy of this controversial project. For several months, the artists of the City of Creation had been in contact with officials and technicians of ICOMOS and Unesco. They applied for and received the label of the World Decade for development, which rewarded the exemplarity of the program of mural paintings. The strategic arrival of this recognition by international bodies made it possible to conclude the program, to a large extent. The emblematic legitimacy thus acquired was not totally unconnected to the fact that the final frescoes were financed by private bodies, despite the unfavourable attitude of the Ministry of Culture and a number of authorities of Lyon. The last and 26th wall was inaugurated in 2001.
An ongoing process, still evolving
Up until the inauguration of the last mural painting in 2001, the process was linked to the production of mural paintings. The project of covering all the blind end walls of the Tony Garnier buildings with painted compositions lasted nearly fifteen years. This undertaking interspersed with organised meetings and multiple encounters continued to feed, as in a ritual, the program of participation of inhabitants in the revaluation of their living environment. The first objective was to constitute a patrimonial matrix for the district of the États-Unis. It needed to retrieve its singularity within the metropolitan area, with a program legitimised by the city policy, intended to enable inhabitants to reconstruct a positive image of the place they lived in. But with the project of the mural paintings completed in 2001, it was necessary to imagine another project to link those involved. The goal was to find a way to palliate the inevitable withdrawal of subsidies by the city policy. The technicians and officials, as well as the administrative board of the Musée Urbain, sought for new recognition by the Ministry of Culture and bigger and more long-term subsidies. How to keep the association alive after all the events created around mural paintings? How were they to obtain recognition by networks of cultural policy, such as the Direction of Cultural Affairs, which up to that time had never wished for, nor supported, this sort of patrimonial “UFO”? The project was at that time viewed as, at best, a project of social support; and, at worst, as an inappropriate, demagogic and commercial enterprise, that cultural authorities, founding its action on the primacy of artistic excellence, could not support. 204 Chapter Ten
After a financial audit carried out by the city of Lyon, the Direction of Cultural Affairs, in collaboration with the political pole of the Rhone-Alps region, granted, in spite of all, an annual subsidy which made it possible to create two youth employment posts, hire a part-time head of development and a guide. The idea was now to construct new axes for the development of this pragmatic project, to leave militantism behind and find original ideas in order to obtain the desired recognition. The professionalization of the structure led to the organisation of guided visits to mural paintings and the district, and to the management of a boutique. The museum was now equipped with communication tools, which were the beginning of a more formalised promotion/communication policy, with graphic charts, promotional brochures and an internet site (www.museeurbaintonygarnier.com). With the creation, expansion and improvement of the premises of the museum, this work also took the form of an exhibition space of about 300 square meters, financed by the city policy and private sponsorship. A development-project provided the framework for the phases to be accomplished in order to make the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier an emblem of Lyon. The museum’s activities revolve around the following objectives31:
1 – Valorisation of the totality of the heritage of the city of Lyon, notably through its inscription on the UNESCO World Heritage List and the setting up of a general register of the most remarkable architectural items.
2 – Setting-up of guided visits and computerised documentary resources on Tony Garnier, emblematic architect of the city.
3 – Organization of exhibitions, related to the cultural sites of the region.
4 – Introduction of a common project with other sites, in order to link the networks of “Achieved Utopias” (Utopies realisées).
Thus, cultural and heritage projects vary according to the epoch and the type of financial partnership sought. The emphasis was initially placed on solidarity, the active involvement of inhabitants, and city policy. Now it was vital to show the asset that the Musée Urbain could represent for the city of Lyon and its conglomeration. The goals sought after by the association were the reinforcement of its autonomy and financial power. Further resources would have to be found to compensate for the withdrawal of the last financial credits accorded by the city policy and the end of the youth-employment job-program planned to begin in the year 200332. The development-project therefore took the form of a type of heritage and cultural marketing. The main objective was Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 205 the search for a legitimacy that would make it possible to obtain further subsidies, by using the classic tools of cultural action, with exhibitions, films, conferences, a live-show festival, etc. It was above all necessary for public authorities to establish the legitimacy of this project, so that it would be recognized by the world of culture, in order to be able to develop financially.
Fig. 10-1 & 2. Cité Tony Garnier (Lyon 8ème)—Urban Museum. ©Alain Chenevez, janvier 2013.
Fig. 10-3 & 4. Cité Tony Garnier (Lyon 8ème)—Urban Museum. ©Alain Chenevez, janvier 2013.
With this in mind, contacts were established at the same time with new institutions, such as the urban region of Lyon (RUL, an association under the law of 1901), the tourism authority, and the Mission d’Ingénerie touristique de la Région Rhône-Alpes. The registering of the Musée Urbain within the network of urban regions of Lyon was inspired by the idea that, in the polycentric and sprawling urban space, new 20th century 206 Chapter Ten heritage sites could participate, in the long term, in the process of metropolisation. The idea is based on the establishment of new tourist products (group-visits, promotional elements, etc), under the theme of “achieved utopias” (utopies réalisées), and on putting 20th century emblematic urban sites of architectural heritage on-line. Involved in this project were the sector of sky-scrapers in the city of Villeurbaine, the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier in Lyon, the district of Etoiles in Givors, and the Corbusier site in Firminy-Vert. Each of these creations is a remarkable site, either in terms of modern architecture and urban planning, both at the national and international level. But the interest presented by these sites is much greater than the sum of their respective qualities. Together they seek to tell a story, that of the Modern movement of architecture and urban planning in the 20th century, from its pioneer-stage to that of the avant- garde in Villeurbanne and Lyon, its apogée in Firminy, and the period of contestation and renewal in Givors:
Their story inspired the urban utopias of the 20th century, fruit of the avant- garde creators and of mayors full of audacity, who shared an almost messianic conviction in the powers of this modern architecture and urban planning to build a better world.33
Here it was less the habitat which was accorded recognition than the quality of those behind its conception (architects and mayors full of audacity), which was emblematic of the architectural and urban planning creations of the Modern movement. And indeed it was the necessity to connect the urban area of Lyon to that of Saint Etienne which was responsible for establishing the legitimacy and utility of this development. One of the consequences was the increasing marginalisation of the volunteers in the enterprise, though they were the inheritors of a symbolic universe, central to the initial cultural content of the project. At the same time as the city policy credits accorded to the Musée Urbain dwindled and those of culture, more long-term, took their place, a new professionnalisation of the structure was taking place, to the detriment of the relation with the local population34. In the quest for heritage-designation and beyond financial independence, it was no longer possible to use as a driving force the symbolic position that the site represented for the inhabitants: it was now necessary to obtain recognition from institutions.
Obstacles to the patrimonialisation of social housing
Despite significant advances, the project of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier and its need for recognition by cultural authorities remains Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 207 unfinished and in a position which is doubtless fragile and precarious. Already in difficulties in 2006, in 2008, the association was obliged to lay off some of its employees, and to reposition and re-think itself35. The fact of abandoning its main social function and of taking on a cultural, artistic and heritage-based dimension met with much resistance and marginalised the Musée Urbain financially36, which prompted a local journalist, Nathalie Garrido, to write that a political will was probably lacking there somewhere37. It is an ongoing process, complex and difficult, the outcome of which is still uncertain, tending to oppose the political authorities of the arrondissement and long-term militants of the district. The current difficulties are probably linked to indecision by political authorities and technicians in the face of this project, whose origins appear to be complex. The credibility and long-term viability of the project are often considered as premature or too ambitious for this popular territory, along with the fear of being overwhelmed by the personalities involved or by other demands of local associative structures. Perhaps the difficulties in singling out social housing are also linked to the structure of cultural administration. In fact its basis remains that of a monumental vision, as public heritage services are inclined to favour traces of the powerful of former times, such as fortresses, churches, and private mansions. This is very much part of the conception of protected cultural heritage. It is “traditionally” destined to guarantee the prestige of the nation by presenting great and legitimate works, often completely divorced from any reference to social utility or expression. The process of public heritage designation tends to de-socialise spaces classified or listed as heritage, with very strict conventions, rules concerning its social usages and protected by law, with a strong emphasis on the conservation of material elements to the detriment of intangible elements. This form of patrimonialisation produces symbols of eternity, stability and social distinction, validated by the history of art and incorporated into the history of the nation. It mostly favours great ancient institutions of social domination such as palaces, spaces belonging to former elites, sociologically valorised ancient centres, whose distinction is reinforced by institutional recognition in a sort of public sacralization, doing away with all critical dimension. Heritage is removed from its original usage and a new quasi-mythical dimension is imposed, where representations of “universal beauty”, of “monumental” and “exceptional” perpetuate the symbolic and social order of the present. Pragmatic heritage, such as that of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier, does not undergo the same process of consolidation through institutions, nor the same separation from its original usage. Its location remains that of 208 Chapter Ten a social housing space, the role it holds in systems of representation has to do with territorial attractiveness and access to culture for territories and populations largely excluded from the world of art. For the services of the State, this type of heritage-product has no claim to singularity, at best it must serve to patch up the torn fabric of society. This type of social heritage could only take on meaning through social interaction, within an action of prosaic appropriation which often remains transitional, fleeting and contingent, in other words, fragile and open to outside influences. In this way, institutional culture remains an important element of distinction between social groups, through a policy of equipment and support of leading establishments of heritage and culture which promotes the political influence of elites. Many criticise this policy, seemingly unrelated to any social function38, which in any case does not enhance the emergent associative structures in French city policies. What is aimed at is less the function of social utility for the population than political prestige. As Fabrice Raffin observes, in a European-wide comparative study, in France, when trying to obtain cultural grants, “projects of as yet unproved artistic quality or in other registers than those recognized are almost systematically passed over; among them are the associative or amateur projects”39. In other words, culture in France provides little support for a true cultural democracy, and overlooks aesthetic forms produced by ordinary actors, such as volunteers. These difficulties are reinforced by the fact that heritage possesses public functions, expressive values, and distinctive capacities. Emblems and monuments offer a means to qualify places and inhabitants40. Heritage is a space of differentiation and singulation which enables urban territories to position themselves in relation to partner spaces or competitors. But scientific analyses shows that territories are not equal, that the valorisation of heritage is profoundly unequal, excluding most popular territories, or inserting them in wider processes of urban transformation. As numerous studies have observed41, the concept of heritage is often exploited by wealthy classes to take possession of old popular districts, but in a process of gentrification, between symbolic valorisation and sociological mobility42.The economic and social profile of the inhabitants of a popular district is transformed for the benefit of a more dominant social group. In other words, heritage has also a dimension of struggle and competition between groups unevenly scattered across the territory. It is a space of political rivalries, around symbolic and material stakes, for the value and ranking of social groups living in a given territory. The capacity to play down the arbitrary aspect of these symbolic productions, and thus to establish their legitimacy, is of major importance in the effective Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 209 construction of exemplarity. Public action, by qualifying a space and/or a building as heritage, reinforces a process of valuation which was initially backed by inhabitants. It can serve private socio-economic interests, as the symbolic contribution might raise housing-prices considerably, and in the long run marginalize the most financially fragile groups. Inversely, social housing cannot undergo such a process of eviction (in other words, the sociological transformation of its space), because public offices who manage it continue to rent apartments to lower income families. However, this does not seem to be an important goal in the development strategies of contemporary urban living, and are often lumped together with other social problems. In a society which plays down material inequalities and has denied the tension between classes for several decades43, the heritage- valuation of low-income social housing does not seem to be one of the priority targets. Let us put forward the hypothesis that this process evokes the passing from a material economy based on industrial work, to a much more abstract economy, in which those who count henceforward are what Richard Florida calls the creative classes44. These classes are connected to the development of sciences, engineering, research and development, technological industries, health and the legal field. Without anticipating too far ahead—even though cultural heritage can be defined in pragmatic terms as we have seen—its continuing development remains for the most part dictated by political or administrative elites, who enable some institutions or territories to be singled out, to be qualified symbolically and lastingly, thus modelling the organisation of space, urban monuments and emblems. As part of global strategies of recognition, competition and international influence, they favour projects located in the oldest districts or in those benefiting from symbolic valuation. In a city like Lyon, in France, it is difficult to recognise in the same way the sociologically and materially valorised central districts, alongside those more popular like “États-Unis”, on the city’s outskirts. This might be possible in the realm of imagination and militant action, but certainly opposes the materiality of the symbolic and social order on which our society and urban spaces stand.
Conclusion
Heritage has become an essential part of a multiplicity of expectations concerning the symbolic development of territories and spaces in our society. It is not only public in inspiration, but as we have shown in this article, it can also be pragmatic and led by ordinary actors. In this way, it is used to transform and valorise symbolically neglected urban spaces. 210 Chapter Ten
Revealing, as it does, social and spatial hierarchies, it opens up perspectives for a better understanding of the way our urban spaces are set out. Heritage is always a political process resulting from collective action, it is a work of memory and evocation. In other words, it is a practice made of the past, which chooses and stabilises certain traces, either material or immaterial, for usage in the present. Heritage is a process wrought also by oblivion, which selects those elements suitable to be show-cased; it is a practical choice and an ordering which anchors and mythifies. Patrimonialisation fixes collective memories45, in constant movement and transformation, linked to the affects and representations of the present. Therefore it is never a reproduction, but truly an emblematic transformation; never a continuation of the past, but a rupture with the past, a metaphorical innovation. It is a sort of figurative program which discriminates and makes divisions between social groups, territories, and objects. In this regard, the project of the Musée Urbain was initially successful in the process of distinction between the space of the Tony Garnier inner city and other more stigmatised districts. For certain inhabitants, it was a question of self-valorization by dissociating themselves from the negative images attributed to other social housing areas and under-privileged populations. Singularity was highlighted by evoking the value of the creator-architect, typical of the Modern movement. The originality lies in the fact that the patrimonialisation of social housing is not achieved through a process of gentrification, that is to say, of transforming the sociological composition of urban spaces. The professionalization of the Musée Urbain gradually became part of a cultural program which tore it away from daily existence, towards a much grander project, an achieved utopia. Even if the project of the Musée Urbain still has little visibility in terms of heritage, the project is ongoing, it is a diachronic process which requires time to complete itself. For, even though it has slowly excluded the social structure which brought it into being, it is an original territorial resource which raises questions, and induces a renewed reflection on urban spaces and the imaginary constructs related to them. Such initiatives are breaches in the political space of the urban territory, are arguments to transform representations of these territories, and to avoid tying them in with the social question. In this regard, it would be pertinent to understand, analyse and compare the different types of patrimonialisation of social housing, of the achieved utopias of the urban region of Lyon. In this way, the contemporary meaning of heritage, its social utility, its diversity, as much as its scientific and historical reputation, might become measuring instruments for the role of collective heritage in the urban space.
Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 211
Notes
1 Pacquot, Thierry. Homo Urbanus, Essai sur l'urbanisation du monde et de mœurs. St-Amand-Montrond: Editions du Félin, 1990. 2 Agnasco, A.; Courlet, C.; Novarina G. Sociétés urbaines et nouvelle économie. Paris, Grenoble: L'Harmattan et Université Pierre-Mendes-France, 2010. 3 Charmes, Eric. La ville émiettée, essai sur la clubbisation de la vie urbaine, La ville et débats. Paris: PUF, 2011. 4 Boltanski, Luc; Chiapello, Eve. The new spirit of capitalism. Paris: Edition Gallimard, 1999. 5 Florida, R. The Rise of the Creative Class and How it's Transforming Work, Leisure, Community and Everyday Life. New York: Basic Books, 2002. 6 Vivant, Elsa. Qu'est ce que la ville créative, La ville en débats. Paris: ed. PUF, 2009. 7 Arnaud, Lionel. Re-inventer la ville, Artistes, minorités ethniques et militants au service des politiques de développement urbain. Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2008. 8 Dollé, Jean-Paul. L'inhabitable capital, crise mondiale et expropriation. Paris: Nouvelles Editions Lignes, 2010. 9 Donzelot, Jacques. “La ville à trois vitesses: relégation, pérurbanisation, gentrification”, Revue Esprit, Mars 2004. 10 Rerolle, Raphaêlle. “Le Français, cet “Homo periurbanus”, Journal le Monde, 2 juin 2012. 11 Glevarec, Hervé; Saez, Guy. Le patrimoine saisi par les associations. Paris: Département des Etudes et des Statistiques, 2002. 12 Heinrich, Nathalie. La fabrique du patrimoine: de la cathédrale à la petite cuillère, Coll. Ethnologie de la France. Paris: Maison des Sciences de l'Homme, 2009. 13 Veschambre, Vincent. Traces et mémoires urbaines, enjeux sociaux de la patrimonialisation et de la démolition. Presses Universitaires de Rennes, 2009. 14 Article quoted in the Lyon Republicain, 26 juin, 1934. 15 Ebenezer, Howard. Les Cités jardins de demain. Paris: Sens et Tonka, 1998. 16 Christophe Pawlosvski. Tony Garnier et les débuts de l'urbanisme fonctionnel en France. Centres de recherche d'urbanisme, 1967. 17 Tony Garnier - Une cité industrielle - Edition de 1932, Coll. du Musée Urbain Tony Garnier. 18 Besides the district of the États-Unis, the main constructions by Tony Garnier in Lyon are the slaughter houses of La Mouche (1906 – 1932), a huge ensemble which included la halle Tony Garnier, L'Hopital Edouard Herriot (formerly known as “Grange-Blanche”) (1910 – 1933); and the Stade de Gerland (1914 – 1925). 19 Tony Garnier: monograph, Collective work. Edition du Centre Pompidou, 1992. 20 Further reading: Catherine Foret. Valorisation et dévalorisation dans la ville: le Musée Urbain Tony Garnier ou la ré-invention d'une cite. H.L.M. Photocopied example, rapport Ministère de l'Équipement et du Logement, BM Lyon, 1992.
212 Chapter Ten
21 Dubet, Fraçois. Les jeunes, la galère, jeunes en survie. Paris: Fayard, 1987; F. Dubet & D. Lapeyronnerie. Les quartiers d'exil. Paris: Seuil, 1992. 22 Catherine Foret, Op Cit. 23 Groups of architects and associations mobilised themselves to save the great “halle” built by Tony Garnier, which was to be destroyed. Arguments used pointed to the interest of architecture for the history of art and the modern movement. These collective actions are based on historical judgements and definitions which represent the architect as a historic value and reinforce the reputation of Tony Garnier. 24 Catherine Foret, Op. Cit. 25 Fijalkov, Yankel. Sociologie des villes – La découverte, Coll. Repères, 3ème édition, 2007. 26 Chevalier, Gérard. “Volontarisme et rationalité d'Etat. L'exemple de la politique de la ville”, Revue française de sociologie, XXXVII, 1986. 27 Donzelot, Jacques; Estebe, P. L'Etat animateur, Essai sur la politique de la ville. Paris: Ed. Esprit, 1994. 28 Chenevez, Alain. Projet d'établissement du Musée Urbain Tony Garnier, 2005. 29 Catherine Foret, Op. Cit. 30 Catherine Foret, Op. Cit. 31 See: Projet de développement Musée Urbain Tony Garnier, Archives MUTG. 32 Employment program, with up to 90% of employment costs subsidised by the State. 33 To find out more : www.regionurbaindelyon.fr 34 Conclusions drawn within the framework of my functions as the director of the Musée Urbain from 2003 to 2008. 35 “Le musée urbain Tony Garnier reste fragile sur le plan financier”, Le Progrès, Lyon, 10-04-2006. 36 “Musée Tony Garnier: la fragilité financière est structurelle”, Le Progrès, Lyon 20-05-2006. 37 “Un manque de volonté politique”, Le Progrès, Lyon 10-04-2006. 38 Caune, Jean. La démocratisation culturelle, une médiation à bout de souffle. Presses Universitaires de Grenoble, 2006. 39 Raffin, Fabrice. “Politiques culturelles: démocratie et democratization”, Revue Paris projet, Métropoles européennes, collective work, no.38, APUR 2008. 40 Grafmeyer, Yves. Quand le Tout Lyon se compte, Lignées, alliances, territoires. Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, coll. “Transversales”, 1992. 41 See: Veschambre, Vincent. “Effacement et réappropriation de l'habitat populaire dans les centres anciens patrimonialiseés: les exemples du Vieux Mans et de la Doutre à Angers”, collective work, Habiter le patrimoine, enjeux, approches, vécu. Presses Universitaire de Rennes, 2005. 42Authier, Jean Yves. “Mobilités et processus de gentrification dans un quartier réhabilité du centre historique de Lyon”. In Trajectoires familiales et espaces de
Heritage and Culture as Instruments of Qualification of Urban Spaces 213
vie en milieu urbain, edited by Yves Grafmeyer and F. Dansereau. Lyon: Presses Universitaires de Lyon, 1998. 43 Chauvel, Louis; Schuteis, Franz. “Le sens d'une dénégation: L'oubli des classes sociales en Allemagne et en France”, Mouvements 2003 – 2 (no. 26) et Le destin des générations, structure sociale et cohortes en France au 20th cent. Paris: PUF. 44 Florida, Richard. The Rise of the Creative Classes. New York: Basic Books, 2003. 45 Halbwaschs, Maurice. La mémoire collective. Paris: Albin Michel, 1997. New edition revised and expanded.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AN INVENTORY METHODOLOGY IN URBAN ART: CONCEPTS, CRITERIA AND NORMS
SILVIA CÂMARA
Introduction
The Câmara Municipal de Lisboa [Lisbon City Hall] (CML) created the Galeria de Arte Urbana [Urban Art Gallery] (GAU, inaugurated in October 2008) alongside the rehabilitation program of the popular neighborhood of Bairro Alto. The project featured measures of public safety and preservation as well as removal of inscriptions on the buildings of the main axes of the neighborhood. This historic area of the city “offers important potential in its relationship to the existence and the dynamism of various cultural activities for which it has developed a reputation as the “cultural neighborhood” of the city, characterized not only by the agglomeration of these activities, but above all for the development of an environment that rewards the circulation of information and propagation of innovation and creativity”1. The presence of the Faculdade de Belas Artes [Faculty of Fine Arts], the vibrant bohemian night life, and the presence of some relevant agents of certain urban subcultures would transform Bairro Alto into one the epicenters of production of urban art in the city of Lisbon, exhibiting works by both national and international artists, in various techniques and modes of expression, and in several layers produced over the course of years. Bairro Alto contained the largest collection of urban artistic expressions that notoriously contributed for a degraded and insecure environment, where the locals and merchants reclaimed measures of urban rehabilitation. Thus, part of this memory and artistic experience was lost with this cleansing campaign—a situation that created some difficulty and an 216 Chapter Eleven unfavorable legacy for GAU, as it faced the artistic community. Its opening would demonstrate the importance of offering new opportunities to the authors of graffiti and street art, and would represent the city council’s awareness of their work as a valid part of the construction of a contemporary city. Simultaneously, however, it would obliterate some of the artworks they had developed in Bairro Alto throughout previous years. Comprised of a group of panels installed at the street of Calçada da Glória, the Gallery is conceived in the context of a partnership between the CML and the corporate group Regojo, but only in the beginning of 2009 was the management of this space transferred to the Departamento de Património Cultural [Cultural Heritage Department] of the city. Subsequently the Gallery project came to be defined as a strategy, dedicated to manage graffiti and street art which claimed the whole city as its site of action. It began with the stigma of the removal of the artistic interventions in Bairro Alto, but also with sensitivity and an intent to overcome it through dialogue with members of the creative community. Dialogue would gradually strengthen trust in relationships, would increase the support for activities and the organization of initiatives involving new spaces dedicated to the practice of this visual-artistic discourse.
Fig. 11-1 & 2. Bairro Alto, Dirty Cop and Ram, © GAU; Panels, Calçada da Glória, © Friday’s Project.
Within this institutional framework, this essay attempts to indicate and establish synthetically the methodology adopted for making an inventory of urban art interventions, which is considered one of the functional priorities within the several lines of action adopted by GAU. It is the first attempt to systematize the methods applied, an essential impulse toward the organization of a future manual of best practices, similar to the work An Inventory Methodology in Urban Art: Concepts, Criteria and Norms 217 already executed in other areas. Here we seek to compile, legitimize and share procedures adopted and information gathered.
Institutional framing and functional priorities
The organic existence of the Gallery dictated some of its main priorities, including a preoccupation for safeguarding the patrimonial assets of Lisbon. They are part of the identity of the past, present and future city, as a cultural, historic and artistic legacy that should exist for coming generations, in such a way that the memory, the livelihood, the substance and the nature of this urban atmosphere will not be lost. Therefore the strategy of GAU obviously seeks to prevent vandalism, particularly in the form of interventions executed upon monuments of patrimonial relevance, for their architectonic, sculptural or pictorial condition, assuring that these conventional aesthetic languages are compatible in a harmonious and relational way with the more heterodoxical languages of graffiti and street art. The gallery initiated a dialogue with this creative community, seeking an awareness of the need to preserve and restore the artistic heritage belonging to the city of Lisbon, while at the same time opening appropriate spaces and times for the development and maturation of aesthetic and technical choices. On the other hand, given the responsibility for the production of public art of the Departamento de Património Cultural, this creative opening is also implied in an attempt to renovate the artistic interventions exhibited in the urban space. In other words, it represents an attempt to begin a public acceptance of marginalized visual languages, conceived at a distance from the canonical academic discipline of Fine Arts, frequently without knowledge of the established processes and relevant names of the contemporary art market. In some cases, however, these “alternative” idioms were invested nonetheless with the capacity to reach and touch the viewer, and to take full advantage of this more direct and immediate contact. Nevertheless, there is a muralist heritage, manifest on the walls themselves, which developed back in the twentieth century, in the golden age of the Mexican Muralists, in the 1920s and 30s. A national example exists in the many propagandistic murals conceived after the 25th of April of 1974, the date of the revolution that announced the end of the authoritarian regime which had governed the country throughout the previous four decades. Like then, GAU claimed that bringing the art to the people was one of the foundations of its field of action. 218 Chapter Eleven
Thus, it became essential to expand GAU’s area of operation, literally, by legalizing a series of walls in the city, available for free and recurrent painting. Today there are nine authorized spaces, dispersed throughout the city. It is not just a choice to support productions on a monumental scale, but also providing the support of urban furnishings, such as post-recycled glass repositories and technical repositories or cabinets, disseminated through the city, for the integration of the works of exiguous proportions in the context of the urban grid2. This significant extension of the work surface, together with the diversification of media, acted not only as a stimulation of creativity of the community related to urban art, but also as an incentive to what we call “Artistic Citizenship”, to a certain sense of participation in the experience and the aesthetic territories of and by the city.
Fig. 11-3 & 4. Post-recycled glass repository, Miguel Ayako, ©GAU; Technical cabinet, UAT, © GAU.
Areas of action
Given its institutional context and main goals, GAU’S strategy for graffiti and street art pointed out a number of policy areas that were key to its pursuits. Particularly, these include the production of its own events and the support events for third parties3. Prominent within this framework and among the initiatives realized, the project Crono synthesized a group of artistic interventions of large scale in the city of Lisbon, involving not only international urban artists such as Os Gémeos, Blu and Sam3, with works at the Avenida Fontes Pereira de Melo, but also Portuguese artists such as Vhils, one of the mentors of the event4.
An Inventory Methodology in Urban Art: Concepts, Criteria and Norms 219
Fig. 11-5. Project Crono, Os Gémeos, Blu, Sam3, Av. Fontes Pereira de Melo, © Leonor Viegas.
It is also important to point out the communication campaigns designed to disseminate awareness of the artistic expressions inserted into the universe of urban art, seeking to alert the public to the patrimonial aspect of the project and to deconstruct prejudices that take vandalism as a whole within the scope of artistic production in this field. Mainly, we try to do this involving more directly all the population in the manifestation of street creativity and by making known the works already executed in the context of GAU’s program. Also noteworthy is GAU’s effective participation in international networks associated with this creative domain. This collaboration involves helping to conceive and receiving best-practices guidelines. It involves sharing experiences, reflecting together about the tools and processes for many facets of the phenomenon including the artistic, patrimonial, urban, cultural, social, historical, political and commercial aspects, among others. In addition, reflection and debate, research and publishing have established themselves as prominent fields in GAU´s activity. The shortage of analytical research and national publications in the field of graffiti and street art generated a particular attention by the Gallery, given the need to more fully understand this artistic terrain for the development of better practices. Finally, we note the survey conducted by GAU´s team in relation to the pieces of urban art, a task that constitutes another of its objectives, with the aim to create an inventory of graffiti and street art in the city of Lisbon – and thus we arrive at the theme of the present paper. 220 Chapter Eleven
Urban art inventory
Some objectives
One of the mains goals of the Departamento de Património Cultural involves inventory procedures that imply the registration of all sorts of existent public art, as well as of that which has disappeared from the city. This includes works that comprise the collection of sculptures, azulejos [Portuguese tiles], place-names, the heritage classified as Interesse Municipal [public interest], among others. So the collecting of information, registration, systematization and promotion of urban artworks, both present and lost, proceeded with this prominent competence by the municipal service. Inventorying essentially fulfills the goal of preservation of memory by identifying, classifying and promoting5. In reality it is intended to lend longevity to registered works, by cataloguing in databases, thus enabling a more comprehensive, organized and effective means of public access to the repertory. If, on the one hand, it is a responsibility with internal utility in the sense of achieving a more complete, integrated and rigorous understanding of the patrimony and a more efficient processing of the documentation, on the other hand it can only be accomplished if it is published and disseminated to the population. The goods don´t belong exclusively to the city council, but to the urban community into which they are integrated, and at the limit to the whole group that constitutes all potential interested parties. Guaranteing both this internal register and external sharing is the aim of preserving—in a dynamic form, because it is interior to the users—the memory of the artistic and cultural identity of Lisbon. If, in each user, some data regarding the patrimonial bounty survive, then the safe- guarding of that information will be assured more than ever. Moreover, if we can certify that citizens can see and enjoy these creations, preservation may become more important as we consider future generations, bringing this heritage of an oft-obliterated past to a more informed and conscious future. We can say, a priori, that building and accessing an inventory demands a thought process by organizers and consultants. In other words, building an inventory implies an effort of legitimization of the criteria for the selection of works. It is necessary to classify objects with a standardized group of terms; in other words, it is necessary to create working taxonomies that are appropriate, clear, rigorous and consonant with the national and international principles and norms of the process of inventory. It is necessary to be An Inventory Methodology in Urban Art: Concepts, Criteria and Norms 221 precise in the gathering and systemization of information. Efficiency and simplicity are also of utmost importance in the availability of data6. The user is expected to expend some effort to adopt and follow the lexicon and principles of classification employed, which give a structure to the corpus of content. The user must understand the mechanisms and procedures of consultation in the search engines of public databases. And finally, the user can reach for a better understanding of registered works, while broadening his or her knowledge and possibly preconceived ideas. To conclude this point it is important to establish that this work by GAU in the field of inventories aims not only at the general public, but also toward the promotion of credible, extensive and accessible sources to specialist researchers interested in the theme, thus stimulating and supporting the research, which is one of the main priorities of GAU.
Media for dissemination
As mentioned above, we consider that the process of the inventory achieves its goal only if it involves dissemination and publication of the registered data, which has been done through the site www.galeria urbana.com.pt. This site contains a chronological structure based on a geo- positioning reference system in which the user can identify, in the period presented, all the registered graffiti and street art in a transversal form of the city’s grid. On the other hand, the gallery plans to inaugurate an iPhone and Android app, employing a timeline structure, in order to help more users at an expanded time to gain access to the inventory of urban art; and also to publish a corresponding retrospective monograph of Portuguese and foreign authors, within the Lisbon universe of graffiti and street art.
Database In Patrimonium
The digital platform that has received the register of urban art is a database called In Patrimonium, created by the company Sistemas de Futuro. Some of the services of the Direcção Municipal de Cultura (Cultural Municipal Office) of the Câmara Municipal de Lisboa, have catalogued therein the patrimonial assets they managed, not only immovable heritage but also objects. It was in this context that the previous experience of the inventory by the team of GAU materialized, particularly in the area of statues and public sculptures, with about one hundred works that we consider 222 Chapter Eleven representative of the group, promoted with the publication of a guide7 and the site www.lisboapatrimoniocultural.pt.
Methodology employed
Fundamental characteristics of the pieces
To begin gathering information for the register of existent or missing urban art in Lisbon, the Departamento de Património Cultural decided to activate, delineate and analyze (according to the scenario previously described—organic and institutional, strategic and functional, methodological and digital) a number of attributes that would characterize this new object of the inventory process. In many ways it would differ from the prior modus operandi of the staff of the service. It would also imply, assimilating the history of the evolution of these expressions in the city, from its beginning to the present. It would involve studying their proliferation in the city, seeking to recognize and understand the specific terminology, behavior, relations, rituals, hierarchies and deontology of the elements of the artistic community that conceive and practice urban art, either among themselves or engaged with the broader public. It was a new, idiosyncratic world of plasticity that emerged from this task of inventorying. First, given the transgressive8, character of some creative behavior within the realm of graffiti and street art, it would not make sense to inventory only the authorized works and thus ignore a large number of works that are important for a full understanding of the phenomenon. However, how can the authority that manages the city heritage—being also an agent of security that fosters the exercise of civic behaviour— inventory illegal expressions? Only upon the horizon of a consolidated democracy that acknowledges the public sphere as belonging to everyone and to no one—a space filled with the exercise of creative freedom, accepting not to control it completely, but at the same time trusting the advantages of dialogue with that community, and believing in the plastic consistency of its creative proposals—was this work possible. It is not necessary to mention that all inventoried public art was legal, until the beginning of this task by GAU. But there is also the principle of anonymity9 promoted by the authors of urban art, so closely connected with this transgressive facet. In intolerant and repressive societies such creative behaviors are almost a basic necessity, to keep an occult identity by adopting an alterego written in the tag, the personal and artistic signature. And here is another significant contrast with the remaining authors of public art, who frequently remain An Inventory Methodology in Urban Art: Concepts, Criteria and Norms 223 without signature as artisans, or who seek to reveal and affirm their identities, in this urban scenario and in the art market. If these latter do not try to obscure it, the writers and the street artists themselves may hide it, in some cases. However, in the city of Lisbon and by the experience of the staff of GAU this practice of obfuscation is slowly disappearing. The very ephemerality of works of urban art—impermanence related to their condition, restricted to the instant of action, or expanded by the community that can make them last for years—generates a series of methodological questions addressed below. However, this ephemerality makes even more relevant their registration in the inventory, as this will often be the only guarantee of a future legacy. Such a nature departs drastically from the majority of works of public art, which are usually conceived with durability in mind, designed to last, executed to survive longer than the human cycle itself—a determination that offers a longevity or temporal transversality that strategies of safekeeping seek to reinforce. Also it is worth noting the fact that fleeting manifestations in the public space can be inscribed in an immaterial dimension, in the light of which it would be interesting to analyze the expressions of graffiti and street art, despite its undeniable tangibility. Moreover, this temporal aspect is connected to another element, related to space, crucial in the methodological options of the inventory. The transience is associated with the dissemination, the sometimes-serial profusion of the manifestations of urban art in the territory of the city. The “all city”, or the total conquest of the city through the proliferation of the tag, can be understood as an aspect of the notoriety sought by authors and acclaimed by the community10, given that “the space is not chosen randomly, there is a clear intention in the selection of the environment that will receive the work by the writer”11. However, this frequent performance generates a mobility that may problematize its roots in the site, in other words, its location is not accidental, but the propagation of interventions makes the choice of the place seem banal. This spreading contains artistic, communicational and social intentions distinct from other artistic vocabularies, generating (in parallel with the ephemeral aspect of the works) circumstances that make an exhaustive inventory unfeasible.
Some methodological challenges
Accordingly, the differences between the object—graffiti and street art—and the remaining patrimonial assets, catalogued by the Departamento de Património Cultural, limited an existence so unique that it generated some difficulties in the conception, establishment and application of a 224 Chapter Eleven methodology. Hence, the GAU team asked for the academic support of the Anthropologist Ricardo Campos for the delineation of certain rules, principles and procedures for the registration process. This collaboration has become even more important, considering the paucity of research and the lack of literature dedicated to this phenomenon in Portugal, given the absence of best-practices manuals for the survey, systematization and dissemination of those contents, and the lack of information regarding similar initiatives by other national authorities. Additionally, we can refer to www.bristol-street-art-co.uk, a site dedicated exclusively to the works of urban art in the city of Bristol, as well as http://muralarts.org, a site that belongs to the Mural Arts Program of the city of Philadelphia, offering a survey of the interventions made under the program. Both position themselves as references for the creation of the timeline at the GAU´s site. The contemporary condition of the expressions of urban art reduces the time necessary for stepping back and determining concepts, terminologies, typologies and classifications, especially from the perspective of aesthetics and historiographical exegesis. Moreover, this contemporaneity is in permanent mutation and expansion, with new authors, agents, discourses, techniques, and projects that mark its evolution. This mutability is accompanied by strong attitudes and contradictory factions within the community of urban art, particularly when confronting potentially divisive questions, such as: options for legality or transgression; anonymity or revelation of authorship; calligraphic origin of graffiti or expressions of street art with figurative and abstract compositions; aerosol or other techniques that don´t involve it; self-taught or academic training; resistance or acceptance of requests by the art-market and brand marketeers, among other ambivalences. In summary, we could state that the anonymity, transgression, ephemerality and spatial proliferation that guide these discourses— combined with the scarcity of research, lack of publications of best practices, contemporaneity, heterogeneity, paradoxicality, and the involvement of technicians with distinct inventorying experiences—have complicated the processes of classification and of establishing a methodology.
Temporal and spatial limits
In an attempt to start circumscribing the works involved in this project, and thinking about the predicates and difficulties facing the task, it became clear that two coordinates—temporal and spatial—must be set immediately. An Inventory Methodology in Urban Art: Concepts, Criteria and Norms 225
Graffiti emerged in the city after first appearing along the waterfront of the suburbs, particularly in Carcavelos and largely by the hands and cans of the PRM crew, between the years of 1992 and 1994. The places chosen in Lisbon were mainly Amoreiras, Campolide and Belém. Previously, during the 1980s and in the area of stencil, “there had been a small group, influenced by French aesthetics, which left its mark on the walls of the city center, in the area of Chiado and Bairro Alto. This group in particular was linked to students of the Fine Arts Faculty”12. However, the gallery team decided to limit their chronology to murals made after the 25th April 1974. The collection of propagandistic works— made by some ideological movements as an expression of a conquered freedom in the transition to democracy, in which the walls expressed their desires, vindications and positions—seemed to be the aesthetic, technical, social, and political origin which should be under consideration. This temporal goal had two consequences. On the one hand, the gallery decided to dedicate its attention not only to existing works, but also to the wide scope of lost interventions that would reflect all the history of urban art, from graffiti to the wider universe of street art in Lisbon. On the other hand, the project entailed a dependence not only upon the survey made by the team of GAU in situ, but also upon the need to seek other sources, namely for images and data, particularly regarding older works of urban art. In spatial terms, GAU set as an immediate goal registering the remaining works in Bairro Alto. Then this process shifted to the area of Bica, another old part of the city, which was subsequently involved in a cleansing campaign. In spite of the entire city grid being the subject of the inventory, beyond these two areas, the western waterfront was also a priority, because it housed vestiges of some of the most emblematic revolutionary murals of the past. Also significant was the wall of Amoreiras, close to Campolide, mentioned above as one of the first laboratories of artistic exercises with aerosol in Lisbon.
Other criteria for inclusion/exclusion and taxonomic references
Despite the vast number and diversity of the works to survey, and the awareness that in this case a selection always leaves room for subjectivity, some criteria were identified as being fundamental:
x Record both authorized and illegal artistic interventions; 226 Chapter Eleven
x Register large, more complex and extensive, hall-of-fame works, along with small works – so that, in other words, record works at all scales; x Consider all the techniques employed; x Include all types of media; x Consider situations of intense proliferation or total singularity; x Account for the notoriety of the author, both inside and outside the immediate community; x Consider the historic relevance in the evolution of urban art, within a specific territory, especially if the work is in a bad condition.
For the definition of taxonomy, and in the absence of a specialized thesaurus, some credible glossaries—linked to international and national bibliographies—were consulted. Particularly, we would like to indicate the work by Magda Danyz, in collaboration with Mary-Noelle Dana, in the publication From Style to Writing Art—a Street Art Anthology (2010) and the work by Ricardo Campos, Porque Pintamos a Cidade? Uma Abordagem Etnográfica do Graffiti Urbano (2010).
The spaces to fill in the database
Regarding the structure of In Patrimonium, as soon as the work of inventorying begun, a set of ontological decisions was taken. One of the most complicated was the option to introduce the data in the category of objects and not in the category of immovable heritage, which were both available in the database. This decision was grounded in the balance among factors such as ephemerality, continuous serial dissemination, and the immobility of pieces. If, on the one hand, we have to consider the fixation to place, chosen not by chance, we have to observe the inertia or difficulty involved in moving any piece in particular. The pattern of proliferation that these works contain generates, in general, a movement in the city that seems to bridge that immobility. On the other hand, roots within the territory imply longevity, demanding a long stay, common to most other patrimonial elements inventoried, but not to most of urban art forms. Ultimately, this ephemeral aspect points towards the ontological aspect of the object, more than towards the immovable heritage itself. Concerning the file pertaining to each record, and for a basic classification, we consider the following fields of content to be fundamental (though In Patrimonium has many more available): Authors; Categories; Context of Field; Colors; Chronology; Description; Designation; An Inventory Methodology in Urban Art: Concepts, Criteria and Norms 227
Conservation; Localization; Materials; Measurement; Number of the inventory, where we adopted the abbreviation AU (arte urbana—urban art) followed by five numbers; Themes; Title; Files related such as the image references and whenever possible, there were also inserted a close up photo and a long shot image, revealing the spatial surrounding, as well as the scale. Among these fields, the system of dating is one of the most delicate in methodological terms. The topic of ephemerality raises many constraints, revealing itself in a small minority of authors who introduce in their pieces the year of execution. For this problem, GAU decided to introduce them chronologically, according to the date of the oldest-known image of the work: This process of dating is the most rigorous, because it ensures that the piece existed at that moment. The decision raises a few problems related not only to the images captured by some old analogical cameras, where the date of the images is not present, but also to the fact that there can be a time-lapse between the production of the artwork and its photographic register. If we don’t have any date for the photographies, we should then inquire the photographer or the author, so that we can get closer to a more reliable chronology.
Final considerations
From that which has been stated, we reiterate the peculiarity of the records of urban art when compared to other objects that belong to the inventory of the Departamento de Património Cultural of CML. This nature, translated into some of the methodological presuppositions of the collection of information, is very different from more traditional and orthodox creations, a singularity reinforced by the fact that the safeguarding of some patrimonial objects can deny the register of those urban art works characterised as vandalism. We do not imagine that we have found definite solutions for the doubts and questions raised by this plastic universe: We are aware that our decisions might reveal themselves insuficiently adequate, stable or uniform, as the phenomenon and its research evolve, following the work of cataloging and in comparison with other future inventories. However, confronting difficulties, we think it is all the more essential to take on this task for obtaining a larger and more embracing vision of creativity in the contemporary city. This is why GAU decided to share the knowledge and the experience thus acquired.
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Notes
1 In Costa, Pedro, Bairro Alto-Chiado, Efeitos de Meio e Desenvolvimento Sustentável de um Bairro Cultural, Câmara Municipal de Lisboa, Col. Lisboa: Estudos Sociais, 2009, p.13. 2 Cf. Revista GAU, Câmara Municipal de Lisboa, Vol.1, November 2012, Also available at http://issuu.com/galeriadearteurbana/docs/gau_vol01_2012_issuu 3 Cf. “Galeria de Arte Urbana – 3 Anos”, Câmara Municipal de Lisboa, 2012, also available at http://issuu.com/galeriadearteurbana/docs/livro_gau_3nos_web 4 Cf. http://issuu.com/galeriadearteurbana/docs/crono_lisboa_2010-2011 5 Regarding the importance of the process of inventorying the patrimony, and amongst other documents, we must refer the Recommendation Nº R(91)13 about the protection of the Architectural patrimony of the 20th century, European Council, Strasbourg, 9th September 1991 where it is stated that there should be “Established systematic inventories.” In Lopes, Flávio and Brito Correia, Miguel, Património Arquitectónico e Arqueológico – Cartas, Recomendações e Convenções Internacionais, Livros Horizonte, 2004, p. 230. 6 Cf. the several volumes of norms of inventory published by the extinct Instituto Português dos Museus [Portuguese Institutes of Museums], such as: Normas de Inventário - Escultura – Artes Plásticas e Artes Decorativas, Insituto Português dos Museus, Lisbon, February 2004, pp. 13-14. 7 Cf. AAVV, Estatuária e Escultura de Lisboa – Roteiro, Câmara Municipal de Lisboa, 2005. 8 Cf. Campos, Ricardo, Porque Pintamos a Cidade? Uma Abordagem Etnográfica do Graffiti Urbano, Fim de Século – Edições, 2010, pp. 81-82 9 Cf. Campos, Ricardo, idem, pp. 83-85. 10 Cf. Danysz, Magda and Dana, Mary-Noelle, From Style Writing to Art – a Street Art Anthology, Drago, p. 402. 11 In Campos, Ricardo, op. cit., p. 80. 12 In Moore, Miguel, “Sous les Pavés, la Plage...” in Underdogs, Vera Cortês (ed.), Agência de Arte, 2010, p. 9.
CHAPTER TWELVE
POPULAR ID: PORTUGUESE FOLK VISUAL IDENTITY IN HYPERMEDIA REMEDIATION1
CRISTINA NOVO
Popular ID is an original hypermedia application featuring material aspects of Portuguese folk art. It defies a series of stereotypes connecting ethnographic practice to unchangeable traditions with the intention of preserving, raising awareness and capturing people’s interest to this imagery, and in this way highlighting it as a creative practice instead of a closed reality. This project comes as the result of a listing of graphic elements present in different artistic and material manifestations of Portuguese folk art: decorative painting in boats, religious and ceramic objects, musical instruments and yokes, lace, embroidery, quilts, tablecloths and traditional folk costume, sculpture and wooden objects, painting, goldsmith, screen patterns, blankets and tapestry, toys, among others. The resulting graphic material is compiled in an interactive visual database where traditional shapes of artistic expression are available through a graphic readjustment that renders them available to current aesthetic and communicational trends. Popular ID emerges in a context where all information can be said to be taking on an essentially visual approach. Using experimentation and playfulness, the application presents itself as a cultural product, existing in the Internet virtual space and in personal computers, which aims at promoting, educating and raising awareness for this pictorial universe.
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Fig. 12-1. Popular_ID prototype: interactive visual database. Available at: www.disturbnot.com/lab/popular_id/
Tradition and modernity
Tradition and modernity do not stand for consecutive ages in history. Therefore, we should not mistake tradition for the old, or modernity for the present. Adriano Duarte Rodrigues says that “tradition is not necessarily an old reality, nor modernity a recent one; these are categories that apply to frames of mind, ways of life and lifestyles, behaviours and world representations to be observed in any time and any civilization” (1994: 49)2. In a similar way, Siegfried Kracauer is also against a historicism that is grounded in a time-based continuity. This author points out that memory pays no great attention to dates, has no use for years or just shortens the timelines (1993: 425-426). In the ongoing resurgence of the past into the present, memory nullifies the huge gap between these two realities, and plays a fundamental role in allowing for innovation and change to take place, for what is passed down does not remain the same. In this sense, in the process of reinventing tradition, tradition and folklore may well become the very essence of modernity. They both trigger and enable modernity (Bausinger 1961), by introducing new concepts and new ways of artistic expression. Thus, revival of the old may happen to be a functioning part of modernity itself. In his influential work Ways of Seeing, John Berger (1972: 135) reminds us that, in advertising, all references to any given product’s quality remain tied down to retrospective and tradition. This is how advertising manages to surpass its own premises of selling the past in the future, assuring its nostalgic essence, through which the past endures, actively and usefully, in the present. Berger (1972: 139) also states that products would lose credibility if advertising campaigns were only to focus on a contemporary approach. Popular ID: Portuguese Folk Visual Identity in Hypermedia Remediation 231
In advertising and design, retrospective and the reinvention of tradition are widely used strategies for assuring product excellence. Tensions emerging from the coexistence in time of these two realities, of traditional and modern elements, come to determine different ways of life, spawning a hybrid society. This conflict can be managed by reinventing tradition and introducing new art concepts. Revival is then an active part of modernity, at once motivating and enabling its existence. This latter aspect applies to Popular ID as a revival approach to some aesthetical and material aspects of the Portuguese folk culture, in their adaptation to hypermedia and cyberspace demands. Popular ID carries a history-based visual language that wishes to facilitate the promotion of Portuguese folk art and its reception by the viewers.
Remediation Theory applied to New Media
According to Lev Manovich (1999), some of the avant-garde techniques developed in the 1920s, whose goal would be to create different world representation models, have been adopted and recoded to become part of computer command-line interfaces and metaphors. The author mentions, as an example, the overlap of two images in Vertov’s film Man with a Movie Camera, and how it has allowed for the coexistence of several open windows overlapping in a modern computer screen. Manovich (2001: 24-25) concludes that this set of new visual displays, spatial languages and communication techniques—which he calls avant- garde visions—has materialized itself in computers, defining interaction with these devices as a routine in post-industrial societies. This materialization lays the ground for Manovich’s concept of metamedia (2001: 26) that intends to use older media in new ways, rather than wanting to create brand-new media. By recoding avant-garde concepts, he suggests using and working on notions, languages and styles that are already in existence. Therefore, new media are post-media, or metamedia, because they use old media as primary material. Borrowing from Marshall MacLuhan: “In the name of “progress”, our official culture is striving to force the new media to do the work of the old” (1967: 81). In their book Remédiation: Understanding New Media, Bolter and Grusin (2000: 15) point out that no current medium, or mediatised event, can perform its work properly by isolating itself from other media. These authors then propose a remediation theory very similar to that of Marshall MacLuhan’s Understanding New Media. This theory argues that a new medium must remediate at least one older medium, thus agreeing with Lev Manovitch’s concept of metamedia. The strategy underlying this 232 Chapter Twelve remediation process, however, is not a simple one: first, it is necessary to highlight the new medium and the fact that it provides a more lively experience than the older one. Therefore, it becomes relevant to analyse the way old media have been readapting and innovating to face the challenges brought forth by new media. A good example of this is the similarity that sometimes occurs between television screens and Internet websites.
The remediation process in Popular ID
In Popular ID, remediation is made by transposition, and visual readjustment, of graphic elements present in different artistic and material manifestations of Portuguese folk art, onto a digital platform to be made available via an interactive visual database. On the interpretation of high-culture models, made to meet the needs and values of a given community, and their later reuse on the panels of moliceiro boats, Clara Sarmento refers that “because of this appropriation process, even if grounded in fixed traditional elements, a work is always a recreation and never an imitation”3 (2008: 179). In this context, the readjustment of graphic units in Popular ID is also a re-creation, making them available to meet current communication and aesthetic trends, an essential factor to its Internet dissemination. In Popular ID, these re-creations are displayed as vector graphics, planning a series of combinations of old forms and technologies in remediation, and converging into a new medium. Popular ID proposes a new way of addressing Portuguese folk culture by combining the traditional and the contemporary.
Fig. 12-2.
Popular ID: Portuguese Folk Visual Identity in Hypermedia Remediation 233
Transferring content from one medium to another, creating new from the old, comes as a design strategy that aims to be both immediate and appealing. Bolter and Gromala (2003: 85) describe this as explicit design, one that offers a more authentic experience by drawing irresistible interest, attention and admiration. In Popular ID, the user is given the possibility to build a sound texture determined by the graphics he or she has put on the graphic composition. Each of the main graphics and respective family is determined by the same sound. Audio files are up to 3 seconds long and are reproduced automatically. According to Sérgio Bairon’s terminology (2006: 58), they are presented as shards, noise fragments. These sounds are original and are related with the origin, use, function or physical property of the objects from where the images were taken from. They can be considered as a kind of documental remediation linked to spoken film. This can be supported by the fact that film documentary is a genre characterized by a commitment to reality despite the partiality—or, according to Gonçalo Madaíl and Manuela Penafria (1999: 5), the “abstraction”—of the resulting representation, subjected to the contingencies of the equipment used and to the point of view of the people behind them.
Material collection and criteria for the selection of art objects
Throughout the process, after selecting the object, interest befell on the object shapes, and how these appear in several material manifestations of Portuguese folk art. The starting point of the selection process was the intention to provide users with an interactive database containing a wide variety of visual content. In order to meet that goal, focused key-aspects were visual appeal and unusual features of the shapes or objects. In an image, visual appeal is linked to the observation of the different aspects it comprises: display, shape, space and colour. The result of this analysis translates the aesthetic data of constituent graphic elements and determines its visual attractiveness, as well as the possibility of being graphically readjusted. On the uncommonness of the shapes, selection criteria echoed what Clara Sarmento (2008: 242) refers to as the analysis of the co-presence of common denominators present in an image—colour units, shape and composition—allowing us to recognize the significant- signified. Therefore, we have selected the graphic units that, in spite of not establishing a direct link to their referent, are tokens of the immense graphic richness present in the artefacts. According to Winfried Nöth (1995: 79), these are elements of enormous potential, partially shadowed 234 Chapter Twelve by the iconic relevance of other elements in the object character that are more directly liked to its referent. In Popular ID, the selection process shares methodological similarities with Bruno Munari’s passage from texture to structure. This approach may easily be described by imagining a texture that seems homogeneous at bare sight but, after closer look, shows visible phenomena of rarefaction and thickness (Munari 1968: 135). This means that we can identify and isolate the several different constituents of an object and the relationships between them, namely that of proximity. This author also refers that “each and every thing in the world we live in is, or seems to be, governed by structure”4 (1968: 34). To this structural nature of things we can add their modular or formally fragmented nature, once we observe them in detail. The methodology used is also in agreement with Umberto Eco’s statement: “a structure is a pattern built according to certain simplifying operations that allow to uniform different phenomena from a point of view”5 (1976: 36). The aspects already mentioned, namely variety, the unusual and visual appeal, thus became the guiding principle in this process of simplifying, identifying and isolating the different graphic units. In sum, the selection process in Popular ID intended to enhance graphic aspects that are present in Portuguese popular art and which are not so closely connected to the referent, and are hence lesser known by the general public. As a guideline, from the part to the whole, it searched for the structural and modular nature of objects and of object decoration. One of the methodologies underlying Popular ID remediation process is formal fragmentation. The outcome of fragmenting the objects’ outline of cut-off shapes and surfaces made by Popular ID’s visual interpretation was a set of formally and geometrically simple graphic images. Nonetheless, it is worth mentioning that cut-off and formal fragmentation has lead to the loss of relationship between shapes and support object, thus transformed into abstract graphics.
Fig. 12-3. Popular ID: Portuguese Folk Visual Identity in Hypermedia Remediation 235
Simultaneous contrasts and visual knowledge effect
As a method, Popular ID applies some theoretical concepts in order to stress the value of a theme that usually faces some resistance from the general audience. These concepts make it a message endowed with content, one that Enric Saperas considers to be “strategically oriented” (1987: 21). On this account, this project is equivalent to what Bruno Munari describes as an “aesthetic research that wishes to experiment on the possibilities of the instruments made available by its time, looking for ways to transmit contemporary thought in the most complete, clear and universal way possible”6 (1984: 15). The above mentioned universality is, in this application, favoured by the use of the rule of simultaneous contrasts that Bruno Munari describes as being “one of the oldest rules in visual communication the proximity of two shapes of opposed nature values and intensifies their visual communication”7 (1968: 361). Even though this rule is not limited to the contrast between material elements, and it can also be applied in semantics, in Popular ID it was adapted to the visual treatment of graphics. This way, material elements, here called plastic signs (colours, shapes, composition, texture), were treated in contrasts between black and white, positive and negative, and outline or total filling.
Fig. 12-4.
Rudolph Arnheim said that “primitive art, everywhere, represents objects by their outlines”8 (1992: 310). In the panel paintings of the moliceiro boats, Clara Sarmento refers, “people like the strong outlines, the well-defined shapes, and how the artist highlights figures and other elements in the composition, underlining in black the whole on part of the outlines”9 (2008: 180). In a context where strong resistance to the traditional shows preference for everything modern, it is essential to be pragmatic. Having this in consideration, visual readjustment in Popular ID was based on a very strong notion of authorship, implying a large degree of personal and individual subjectivity, but a pragmatic one nevertheless. The final result is cautious on the degree of experimentation. It was achieved by following 236 Chapter Twelve a simple and willingly pragmatic approach to the technicalities entailed by graphic vector drawing and aesthetic information that analyzes the coexistence of different colour, shape and composition units in a given image. In Popular ID, this analysis has determined the visual adaptation to be applied to the graphic elements during vector tracing. A family of graphics is associated to each of the main graphics from the interactive visual database. The units in each family express the countless possibilities of visual rearrangement and interpretation for a same unit. These families were designed with the goal of intensifying the application’s communication power, allowing the user to combine the different members of a family in his or her graphic composition, as shown in the image bellow:
Fig. 12-5.
The user will combine the units in order to create patterns or other kind of image display. The outcome of these combinations will be, drawing on Clara Sarmento (2008: 245), a set of images that are to be apprehended globally, making the extraction of constituting units very difficult. These compositions will also produce, at once, a visual recognizing effect without the aid of text or words. Bruno Munari points out that “we all receive ongoing visual communication, from which considerations can be extracted, and therefore knowledge, without the use of words”10 (1968: 82- 83). Visual recognizing is possible since the figurative elements chosen during the selection process are rich enough in content to be translated into Popular ID: Portuguese Folk Visual Identity in Hypermedia Remediation 237 symbolic language. They are, according to Clara Sarmento (2008: 246), images containing the essential elements to be straightforwardly acknowledged as illustrations of the theme under study.
Vector tracing to contradict miniaturization
The design concept in Portuguese folk culture tends to chose miniatures as representations of objects from rural life, in which a cult for detail and for miniature overlaps works of great craftsmanship. Exploring the tiny and the thorough evokes an intense emotional attachment. Claude Lévi-Strauss sheds some light on the matter by seeing miniatures as aesthetic enjoyment: “all reduced models have an aesthetical purpose” (1976: 44), suggesting that this pleasure derives from the fact that such objects allow for an immediate grasp of the whole. According to João Leal, “these miniaturization processes enable the folk art object to emerge as a symbol of a wholesomeness that can be apprehended in a single glimpse. Quantitative reduction stands for qualitative simplification”11 (2004: 269). Drawing on n’Diaye’s text, we come to understand how the cult of the accessory led to an emotional attachment and how a taste for miniatures is compared to the use of detail: “it is the detail, the accessory, what pleases and leads to passionate engagement”12 (1989: 108). In Popular ID, this miniaturization process is countered by the vector tracing of all selected graphic units, in a process similar to the one described by Bruno Munari: “from certain specimens (...) with bas-relief one can extract drawings, like those we do with pencil and paper over coins, in order to obtain data”13 (1968: 96).
Fig. 12-6.
238 Chapter Twelve
Vector drawing is an example of digital possibilities and of what Lev Manovich points out on new media data: “[t]he ‘new’ data is numerical data” (2001: 17). A vector drawing image can be reproduced onto large scale without losing its quality thanks to these numerical and digital features. The above example shows the vector drawing of an embroidery pattern from a sweetheart handkerchief. Vector tracing all graphic data at once endows the application with the indispensable features to overcome the miniaturization process and puts forth new criteria for the enjoyment of Portuguese folk art. This aspect meets Bolter and Gromala (2003: 88) when they say that new media are not necessarily better than older media since they rather create, near certain target-audiences, new ways of approaching a given theme.
Modularity
Lev Manovich (2000: 30) points out that modularity corresponds to the fractal structure of new media. He is referring to images, sounds, shapes or behaviours and mediatised elements represented by sets of discrete entities (pixels, polygons, characters or computer languages). According to the author, these elements come together to form large scale objects without ever losing their unit identity, as we can always isolate them or tell them apart from the others. Nevertheless, these new clusters, or modules, can be combined with other modules to create larger elements without loosing their independence. On an even larger scale, Lev Manovich (2000: 31) states that the whole Internet cyberspace is modular, composed of countless sites that can themselves contain different media to which one can access individually.
Fig. 12-7 & 8. Matching different graphics; Repeating a single graphic.
Popular ID: Portuguese Folk Visual Identity in Hypermedia Remediation 239
Each graphic in Popular ID interactive visual database is a starting point to a larger image, without the first one losing its independent value. The user can match, recombine, mix and vary each graphic with others or repeat it, meeting Manovich’s principle of modularity.
Popular ID as a new expressivity of knowledge
Several authors have mentioned the communicative value of images. On this self-evident aspect, Bolter and Gromala (2003: 5) say that still and moving images are essential to communicative experiences. Lev Manovich, on his part, points out that new technology makes elements in older media to be more standardized and performatized, while John Berger (1972: 31) states that data can never be as silent and still as works of art are in painting. Popular ID proposes a new way of perceiving the imagery of Portuguese folk art. It tries to counteract the inert and silent character of some of the artefacts that it comprises, allowing the user to interact and perform with the theme. By enabling a multiplication of meanings to spring from an artistic stimulus, it stands out as an information product promoting Portuguese folk art. As a new way for knowledge expressivity, the application intends, as said by Rui Torres, to stage “an interdisciplinary relationship between the humanities and computer sciences, looking for a shared lexicon to open up human knowledge in contexts of simulation and remediation”14 (2008: 16). Drawing on Sérgio Bairon (2006: 55), by transcoding graphic elements from older media onto a new medium, the application keeps all its reticular features in an interactive environment. The learning process is then made through a physical and non-linear interaction with the medium. It takes its place in a new stage of communication and language virtualization, promoted by information technologies and new media.
Writing as interface in user performativity
Writing has always worked as an interface between readers and ideas expressed in language, even thousands of years before computers (Bolter and Gromala 2003: 167). On our notion of writing, Maria Augusta Babo explains that “the book shapes a culturally familiar configuration of writing performing a function of world representation”15 (2006). This need to represent the world remains in the computer age, benefiting from all the advantages provided by hypermedia products. 240 Chapter Twelve
According to Bolter and Gromala (2003: 14), interacting with computers has become a multimedia experience. In the context of hypermedia, Sérgio Bairon (2006: 53) sees a great balance between sound, image and verbal signs that sustain links available in text, buttons or images, via which users can navigate between subjects and data in a non-sequential manner. Non linearity is part of the fascination of websites, endowing the web with performative possibilities that have never been experienced before. Brenda Laurel, on her turn, acknowledged the computer’s representational and performative power when she wrote, in 1991, Computers as Theatre. The author argues that we must design digital applications not only to be used, but also to be performed and experienced. On this account, the author (1991: 113) supports that interface design must be conceived in order to encourage the user to participate as a protagonist, as directly as possible, in an experience combining thoughts and emotions. To John Berger (1972: 7 and 9), it is visual perception that first establishes one’s place in the world, much before words, because the reciprocal nature of vision supersedes spoken dialogue. On the other hand, Bolter and Gromala argue that human beings, when visually expressing the context they are in, still use visible language, such as drawing, to communicate (2003: 169). Popular ID can be described according to Fred Inglis’s concept of discursive practice (1993: 144), where the user creates a profile of him or herself, reflecting a combination of symbol writing and representation in both two-dimensional and imaginary spaces. The user creates a self- representational speech, a formal or virtual representation, best known as personification. In Popular ID, notions of participation, action and reaction stand out. The user never stops being conscious of his or her body: rotate and move, properties that can be used for each graphic, are both physical characteristics and actions we continuously apply to our bodies and everyday objects. This possibility is then “a way of tackling the myth of virtual and physical disembodiment” (Bolter and Gromala 2003: 157). Graphic compositions are tokens of the user’s performance while creating a reasonable and abstract version of him or herself. This application is a construction space of messages to the exterior, where the user becomes author, or at least co-author, by actively selecting and transforming the graphics. Lev Manovich points out that the selection logic that is present in most computer operations reflects some cultural norms and rules. It is a new “soft but powerful” (2000: 129) way of control that meets the etymological definition of performance presented by Margarida Medeiros (2000: 113), Popular ID: Portuguese Folk Visual Identity in Hypermedia Remediation 241 in which she reminds us that the verb to perform comes from the latin per+formare, meaning “to give shape.” Analysing user experience according to Espen Aarseth typologies, Popular ID may be described as a dynamic application with controlled access. However, countless combination possibilities make it indeterminable. Therefore, it requires a large ergodic effort by the user to execute, from a personal point of view, specific actions in order to create his or her own graphic compositions. Consequently, it has an imminent exploratory function (Aarseth 1997: 64), which will let the user build his or her own compositions:
Fig. 12-9.
We want Popular ID to take user performance, always present in a digital environment, so as to meet a seldom visited theme on the account of lacking an appealing display window. It offers a new way of interacting with Portuguese folk culture, enabling it to re-create and express new modes of representing itself. This possibility agrees with Michel de Certeau (1994: 40) when he argues that presence and circulation of a given representation does not express what it means for its audience. It is also necessary to analyse how it is handled by those who did not create it, to be able to appreciate the “difference or similarity between image production and a secondary production hiding in the processes entailed by its use”16 (Certeau 1994: 40).
Bricolage in Popular ID
The visual exploration of folklore elements produces, according to Teresa Fradique (1997: 342), a sort of ambiguity that leads a more untrained eye, or a less informed one, to not distinguishing re-creation from reality. In this context Italo Calvino points out that “visual solutions 242 Chapter Twelve are still significant, and are sometimes unexpectedly capable of resolving situations that neither considerations of thought nor resources of language will ever be able to resolve”17 (1990: 110). Popular ID is innovative by making available a virtually limitless combinatory and creative potential in graphic compositions. Different matches, mixes and variations will create different mappings and graphic arrangements. Each user will have a specific approach to the theme of Portuguese folk art. In addition, different uses, from the same user, will correspond to different approaches. What was said is clearly close to Bolter and Gromala’s reference to bricolage, when they describe design practice in postmodern artists and designers: “bricolage is the art of putting things together with the materials that happen to be at hand”18 (2003: 104). Claude Lévi-Strauss sees the bricoleur as “someone who works with his hands, and uses devious means compared to those of a craftsman. He is characterized by the fact that he addresses himself to a collection of oddments left over from human endeavours”19 (1976: 37). The author, keeping a comparative dichotomy between bricoleur and scientist or engineer, goes on saying that “both the scientist and the bricoleur might therefore be said to be constantly on the look out for messages. Those which the bricoleur collects are, however, messages which have been transmitted, to some extent, in advance”20 (Lévi-Strauss 1976: 41). Likewise, in Popular ID, the user is a bricoleur having at his or her disposal a vast set of graphics, each with a small text description. This set of image and caption may be considered a message transmitted in advance that the user will reinterpret and in a way collect, along with other messages, in his or her compositions.
Polarity as an interpretative category for cultural phenomena
Aby Warburg (1866-1929) proposed the concept of polarity as an interpretative category for all cultural phenomena. Warburg explores it further in his Mnemosyne-Atlas, emphasizing that everything has a polar opposite: ancient versus modern civilization, Christian versus pagan, magical thought versus logical thought. This visual essay, honouring the Greek muse of Memory, was presented in 1929, at the Bibliotheca Hertziana in Rome. It approaches History as memory by disclosing a map of mnemic shifts, hence presenting history in a spatial dimension, rather than a chronological one. Instead, art history is displayed as a synchronic Popular ID: Portuguese Folk Visual Identity in Hypermedia Remediation 243 assemblage, where nothing comes before or after, but sideways, closer or farther apart. Polarity is therefore a key-concept to our understanding of how certain shapes from a distant past manage to find, in a given time and not another, a welcoming disposition or, when in contact with a new age, its meaning is completely turned upside-down. On this matter, Martin Kemp points out that “each particular age transforms mnesic material according to its own demands and its own time-and-space specificities”21 (Kemp 2009). We can then assume that there is a contextual and contemporary reinterpretation of past events. This takes us closer to Rudolf Arnheim’s argument (1992: 41) stating that what one sees now is the result of what one has seen in the past and how we see things is shaped by what we know and believe. This statement is already in itself an equivalent for polarity, one to which we may still add John Berger’s thoughts: “[w]e only see what we look at. To look is an act of choice” (1972: 8). An image is a sight that was recreated or reproduced. As a consequence, each image is the expression of a way of seeing and, on the other hand, our appreciation or perception of an image depends on the way we see it. Both processes are the result and the manifestation of a growing sense of self. On visibility, Italo Calvino (1990: 114) argues that the figurative world passed down by culture on so many levels competes to become the visual side of literary imagination. In Popular ID, visual symbols work as an archive of juxtaposed memories, thus creating, as described by Sigrid Weigel (1995: 136), some correspondence between the readability of a literary text and the readability of a cultural one. On the other hand, experience theory—according to which media are part of our physical and cultural world—as well as, as pointed out by Clara Sarmento (2008: 246), our ability to multiply meanings from artistic stimuli, are connected to what Roland Barthes called level of cultural knowledge, if we understand it as a “fully aware inclusion in the systems of symbolic meaning of the community”22 (Sarmento 2008: 246). In this context, it becomes relevant to explore two things in Popular ID: which graphic elements, visually reassembled, will gain greater acceptance in the here and now, and the way by which communicational needs will influence its use.
Conclusion
In Popular ID, the learning process, during which the user dialogues with the knowledge provided by sound and sight, is done interactively and non-linearly. In this way Popular ID is, above all, an expression of its 244 Chapter Twelve users. It is a hypermedia application that through playfulness and Michel Certeau’s “the art of doing”, allows the multiplication of meanings from an artistic stimulus and comes out as an autonomous product promoting Portuguese folk art. It wishes to fight back some entrenched notions of Portuguese folk art, as reflecting a crystallized and unchangeable reality, while at the same time tackling cultural barriers and prejudices usually related to this specific art.
Notes
1 This paper, translated from Portuguese by Cláudia Pinto, is part of a Masters Degree project in Media Studies, specialization in Media and Art, developed in 2010, by Cristina Novo, at the Universidade Nova de Lisboa under the scientific supervision of Professor Maria Augusta Babo and Professor Rui Torres. Most quotations used in this paper were translated into English for the sake of linguistic homogeneity and readability. Reference editions used in the writing of this paper are as listed in the Reference/Bibliography section. For confrontation purposes, we have chosen to keep these quotations in their original source as footnote reference. Cláudia Pinto, ([email protected]), graduated in Portuguese and English Language and Literature in 2001 and is currently finishing her PhD thesis in American Studies at the University of Coimbra. She has been working as a freelance translator since 2005, and specialized in Architecture, Visual Arts and Social Sciences. 2 “[a] tradição não é necessariamente uma realidade antiga nem a modernidade uma realidade recente; são categorias que se aplicam a maneiras de estar, modos e estilos de vida, comportamentos e representações do mundo, que podemos observar em qualquer época e em qualquer civilização” (Rodrigues 1994: 49). 3 “[em] virtude deste processo de apropriação, uma obra, mesmo que envolta em elementos fixados pela tradição, é sempre uma recriação, nunca uma imitação” (Sarmento 2008: 179). 4 “tudo, cada coisa, no mundo em que vivemos é, ou parece ser, regulado por estruturas” (Munari 1968: 34). 5 “[u]ma estrutura é um modelo construído segundo certas operações simplificadoras que me permitem uniformizar fenómenos diferentes com base num ponto de vista” (Eco 1976: 36). 6 “investigação estética que pretende experimentar as possibilidades dos instrumentos da sua época em busca dos meios para transmitir um pensamento actual do modo mais completo, mais claro e universal possível” (Munari 1984: 15). 7 “[u]ma das regras mais antigas da comunicação visual; a proximidade de duas formas de natureza oposta valoriza e intensifica a sua comunicação visual” (Munari 1968: 361). 8 “[a] arte primitiva, em toda a parte, representa objectos pelos seus contornos” (Arnheim 1992: 310).
Popular ID: Portuguese Folk Visual Identity in Hypermedia Remediation 245
9 “[o] povo gosta dos contornos bem marcados, das formas bem definidas, chegando o artista a destacar as figuras e outros elementos da composição, sublinhando-lhes a negro todos ou apenas alguns dos contornos” (Sarmento 2008: 180). 10 “todos recebem continuamente comunicações visuais, das quais podem extrair considerações e portanto, conhecimento, sem uso de palavras” (Munari 1968: 82- 83). 11 “[e]stes processos de miniaturização permitem que o objecto de arte popular se dê como símbolo de uma totalidade que pode ser apreendida de um só golpe de vista. A diminuição quantitativa é sinónima de simplificação qualitativa” (Leal 2004: 269). 12 “[o] que agrada e proporciona a adesão apaixonada é o pormenor, o acessório” (N’ Diaye 1989: 108). 13 “[a] partir de certos exemplares (...) com baixo relevo podem obter-se decalques como se faz com as moedas, no sentido de obter documentação” (Munari 1968: 96). 14 “uma relação interdisciplinar entre as humanidades e a informática, na busca de um vocabulário comum que abra o conhecimento do humano em contextos de simulação e remediação” (Torres 2008: 16). 15 “[o] livro dá forma a uma configuração de escrita bem conhecida da nossa cultura e que desempenha uma função de representação do mundo” (Babo 2006). 16 “a diferença ou a semelhança entre a produção da imagem e a produção secundária que se esconde nos processos de sua utilização” (Certeau 1994: 40). 17 “as soluções visuais continuam a ser determinantes, e por vezes chegam inesperadamente a decidir situações que nem as conjecturas do pensamento nem os recursos da linguagem conseguirão resolver” (Calvino 1990: 110). 18 “[b]ricolage é a arte de juntar coisas com materiais que estão à mão” (Bolter, Gromala 2003: 104). 19 “executa um trabalho usando meios e expedientes que denunciam a ausência de um plano preconcebido e se afastam dos processos e normas adoptados pela técnica. Caracteriza-o em especial o facto de operar com materiais fragmentários já elaborados” (Lévi-Strauss 1976: 37). 20 “o cientista e o bricoleur estão um e outro à espera de mensagens, mas que, para o bricoleur se trata de mensagens de qualquer forma pré-transmitidas e que ele colecciona” (Lévi-Strauss 1976: 41). 21 “cada época particular transforma o material mnésico de acordo com as suas exigências e com as especificidades de tempo e lugar” (Kemp 2009). 22 “a integração plenamente consciente nos sistemas de significação simbólica da comunidade” (Sarmento 2008: 246).
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CONTRIBUTORS
Vanessa Besand is a lecturer at the Faculty of Literature of Burgundy University in Dijon. Her dissertation in Comparative Literature (2009) deals with contemporary theoretical and cultural exchanges between France and the United States of America in the fields of narrative literature, cinema and painting.
Sílvia Câmara currently works in the Cultural Heritage Department of Lisbon’s City Hall, where she coordenates the Urban Art Gallery, and develops strategies for graffiti and street art, along with artistic interventions, research and publication. She holds a Masters in Contemporary Art History from the New University of Lisbon, after studying Political and International Sciences at the Law Faculty of Lisbon and the Portuguese Catholic University. She also holds a degree in Advertising and Public Relations, and worked in periodicals, such as Diário de Notícias.
Ricardo Campos is a social scientist and illustrator, born and living in Lisbon (Portugal). He holds a Graduation and Masters degree in Sociology and a PhD in Visual Anthropology. Currently, he is a Research-Fellow at the Centre of Migrations and Intercultural Relations Studies (CEMRI- UAb), Lisbon, Portugal. In the past fifteen years, he has been researching urban youth cultures and, particularly, the connections between youth and image. He has recently studied the graffiti community in the city of Lisbon for his PhD thesis. Besides urban cultures, he has been studying and writing several articles and books—mainly in Portuguese—on topics such as visual methodologies, visual culture, art or education. His publications include Porque pintamos a cidade? Uma abordagem etnográfica ao graffiti urbano [Why do we paint the city? An ethnographic approach to urban graffiti] (Fim de Século, 2010) and Introdução à Cultura Visual. Abordagens e metodologias [An Introduction to Visual Culture. Approaches and Methodologies] (Mundos Sociais, 2013). He has co- edited (with Andrea Mubi Brighenti and Luciano Spinelli) Uma cidade de Imagens [A city of images] (Mundos Sociais, 2011). He is also one of the editors of the Brazilian academic journal Cadernos de Arte e Antropologia [Journal of Art and Anthropology] (www.cadernosaa.ufba.br). 274 Contributors
Alain Chenevez holds a PhD in Sociology. His research focuses on the role of heritage in the qualification of urban spaces. He worked in the Institut Claude-Nicolas Ledoux from 1997 to 2002 as a Research Fellow, and then became director of the Musée Urbain Tony Garnier (2003 to 2008), where created an interpretation center, and helped develop the heritage of Lyon Urban Region, for the project Achieved Utopias. He produces documentaries since 2004 for the city of Lyon and the Gadagnes Museum, questioning the role of memory in urban projects. Nowadays, he is a lecturer at the University of Burgundy, where he is also in charge of the Master in Culture and Heritage Studies and of the team Culture, Heritage and Mediations, of the CIMEOS laboratory.
Francesca Cozzolino has a PhD in Social Anthropology, and is an associate researcher in Paris, at the EHESS Center for Writing Anthropology. She teaches Image and Writing Anthropology at the National Superior School of Decorative Arts of Paris, and she also teaches classes at several art and design schools (ENCSI-Les Ateliers, Paris; ESA des Pyrénées, Pau). She has published several articles and chapters of books describing and giving the results of her investigation in Sardinia (Cozzolino, F., “L'invention et le devenir d'une tradition. Les murales d'Orgosolo en Sardaigne”, Cultures & Société. Sciences de l'homme, n°25, janvier 2013, pp. 101-110 ; Cozzolino, F., “La nozione di arificazione nel caso dei murales della Sardegna”, in La sociologie delle arti tra storia e storie di vita, M. Giammaitoini (ed.), CLEUP, Roma, 2012, pp. 243-259). She has also conducted investigation in the field of Design Anthropology (Cozzolino F., “Penser un objet de design dans la ville. First element of an ongoing investigation on the project nAutrevielle”, Le philotope, n°9 (Gerphau-Lavue), 2012, pp. 85-91). She directed, together with Ariela Epstein (LISST-Toulouse), a special issue of the Nuevo Mundo magazine, dedicated to the murals in Europe and Latin America (published in the end of 2013).
James Dickinson teaches in the sociology department at Rider University in Lawrenceville, New Jersey, USA. He has written on urban ruins and monuments, exploring how the built environments of older industrial cities express change, conflict, and inequality. His current work explores the dynamics of urban visual culture and the role of photography in constructing narratives of the modern and postmodern landscape.
Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption 275
Ana Gonçalves is a Lecturer of English Language and Culture at the Estoril Higher Institute for Tourism and Hotel Studies (ESHTE), Portugal, since 2004, and a Senior Researcher in the research group Tourism, Culture and Space (TERRiTUR) at the Centre for Geographical Studies, Institute of Geography and Spatial Planning, University of Lisbon. She holds a European PhD in Literary and Cultural Studies awarded by the University of Lisbon. Her doctoral thesis, which focuses on the cultural and social transformation of Cardiff, the capital of Wales, in recent decades, is entitled Cardiff, A Worldly City: The Cultural and Social Reinvention of a European Capital. She has presented various papers at international conferences and published several articles on different aspects concerning her academic research and professional area.
Sandra C. S. Marques is a post-doctoral researcher at the Centre for Research in Anthropology—University Institute of Lisbon (CRIA-IUL), Portugal. She works on representations and identities in West Bengal, India, since 2004. Her recent publications include “Depicting ‘the Other’ in Award-winning Movies: A perspective on the motion pictures Slumdog Millionaire (Danny Boyle, 2008) and The Hurt Locker (Kathryn Bigelow, 2008)”, The Journal of Applied Journalism and Media Studies 1(2): 231- 239 (2012); “Babus, Lokkhis and the Others: Representations of the body in the daily press of Bengali India”, Análise Social XLVII (2º), 203: 424- 449 (2012); and her third documentary “You’re on the Air. Now What?” (2011).
Madhuja Mukherjee teaches in the Department of Film Studies, Jadavpur University, Kolkata. She has published several scholarly articles in national and international journals and is the author of the book New Theatres Ltd., The Emblem of Art, The Picture of Success, National Film Archive of India (Pune), 2009. Her edited anthology Voices and Verses of the Talking Stars, by the School of Women’s Studies, Jadavpur University and Stree (Kolkata), is under publication. She has edited the book Aural Films, Oral Cultures, Essays on Cinema from the Early Sound Era, Jadavpur University Press (Kolkata) 2012. She has recently received the Golden Jubilee Fellowship from the Film and Television Institute of India for writing the history of regional industries. Mukherjee is an inter- media author who writes, creates graphic stories, makes experimental films and executes media-installations with archival objects, historical material and junk, collected from various locations of the media industry. Carnival (No language, 2012), her first feature film as a director, 276 Contributors was selected for the 41st International Film Festival of Rotterdam, 2012. Her graphic-novel (in Bengali) was published in 2013.
Cristina Novo holds a is Masters, since 2010, in Communication Sciences, with specialization in Communication Arts, from the College of Social and Human Sciences of the New University of Lisbon, and a degree, since 1997, in New Technologies of Communication from the University of Aveiro. She was responsible for the Multimedia Laboratory of the Trindade Theatre/Foundation INATEL, where she currently holds the position of graphic designer. She is also a freelance graphic designer. In 2012/2013, she received a scholarship to attend Noschool Lisbon with the artist Leonel Moura and the Talent Universities, in collaboration with the IADE—Creative University. She is interested in visual and digital culture, and a constant presence at international festivals, such as OFFF— let’s fead the future.
Patria Román-Velázquez is a Research Associate at the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London. Before joining SOAS in 2013, Patria was a lecturer for 14 years at City University London. She was awarded a PhD from Leicester University in 1996 and completed her BA and MA at the University of Puerto Rico, where she taught for three years before joining City University in 1999. She has taught in the areas of communication and cultural studies, urban cultures, media analysis and ethnographic research. She has published articles in a number of journals and edited collections and is the author of The Making of Latin London: Salsa Music, Place and Identity (Ashgate, 1999) and Latin Americans Abroad: Constructing Transnational Cultural Spaces (forthcoming, 2015, Palgrave).
Clara Sarmento, PhD in Portuguese Culture, develops her research on intercultural representations of gender, as the coordinator of the Centre for Intercultural Studies (www.iscap.ipp.pt/cei) of the Polytechnic Institute of Porto, where she is a tenured professor. She is the recipient of the American Club of Lisbon Award for Academic Merit and of the Portuguese Centre for Social Studies Award for Young Social Scientists. She is a former visiting scholar at Brown University, USA, and a referee for several international journals and scientific projects. She is the author / editor of several books and essays on Anglo-American and Portuguese Literature and Culture, Cultural and Intercultural Studies, and Gender Studies, such as: The Word, The Page and the Book: Paul Auster’s Literary Construction (2001); Eastwards / Westwards: Which Direction for Gender Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption 277
Studies in the 21st Century (2007); Women in the Portuguese Colonial Empire: The Theatre of Shadows (2008); Portuguese Popular Culture: Practices, Discourses and Representations (2008); From Here to Diversity: Globalization and Intercultural Dialogues (2011); In Permanent Transit: Discourses and Maps of the Intercultural Experience (2012); Between Margins and Centres: Texts and Practices of the New Intercultures (2013).
INDEX
terms, 168, 173, 179 8 territories, 218 th trends, xxvii, 232 8 arrondissement, 191, 197, 209 value, 43, 49, 51, 54, 177 aesthetics of transgression, 12, 15, A 19, 20 agora, 41 A Talkie of Talkies, 151 Al Diaz, 138, 139 Abanindranath Tagore, 150, 152 Alibaba, 158 adbhuta, 116 American art, 134, 139 Adhikar, 159, 161 American graffiti, 132, 133, 143 advertise, 4, 41 Andrea Brighenti, 40 aesthetic, xii, xiii, xiv, xxii, xxiv, anthropology, 6, 57, 171, 181 xxv, xxvii, 8, 19, 20, 43, 44, 49, Aranyakas, 120 52, 56, 58, 69, 127, 177, 217, Arko 146, 32 225, 229 art, xii, xv, xvii, xx, xxi, xxii, xxiii, ambitions, 134 xxiv, xxv, xxvi, xxvii, xxviii, 6, characteristics, 46 40, 43, 44, 45, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, choices, 5 57, 58, 69, 73, 89, 95, 103, 104, conventions, 43 114, 115, 117, 128, 129, 131, creations, 15 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, data, 233 138, 139, 140, 142, 143, 151, dimensions, 4, 8 154, 155, 157, 161, 167, 168, discourses, 20 169, 171, 172, 173, 174, 175, education, 265 176, 177, 180, 181, 182, 183, enjoyment, 237 184, 185, 186, 194, 200, 207, evaluation, 173 208, 212, 215, 216, 217, 218, forms, 208 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, fruition, 6 225, 226, 227, 231, 233, 235, information, 236 239, 242, 244, 248, 251, 257, languages, 217 258, 259, 261, 268, 269, 273, legitimacy, 175 274 of authority, 8, 19 collectors, 133 practices, xxii, 40 galleries, 6, 133, 140, 164, 176, rapture, 263 244 reflexion, 173 history, xxi, 131, 133, 134, 136, research, 235 140, 143, 168, 273 spheres, 8 lovers, 133 status, 131 280 Index artification, xxv, xxvi, 167, 168, bhakti, 119 173, 174, 177, 179, 181, 182, Bhamho Samaj, 158 183, 185, 258, 268, 269 bhasa, 154 artworks, 39, 69, 216 bhava, 116 Ashwin, 121 bhayanaka, 116 azulejos, 220 Bhramanas, 120 bibhatsa, 116 B bidis, 113 billboards, 3, 5 Babu culture, 145, 163 Bioscope, 152 Bairro Alto, 215, 216, 225, 228, Bodeguita, 29, 30, 31 250, 252 bombing, 20 Bardidi, 149 Bottola, 151 Bata, 156 bricolage, 20, 242 Batayan, 152 British-Latino, 36 bazar art, 114, 115 Brixton Market, 25 Bengali, 155, 164, 165, 248 Bustofine, xxv, 145, 156, 163 Bhadralok, 149, 154 Butetown, xxii, 63, 64, 65, 66, 67, bride, 119 68, 75, 259, 260, 269 cinema, 145, 154, 158, 159 females, 123 C fiction, 165 films, 154 Calçada da Glória, 216 identity, 124 Câmara Municipal de Lisboa, 215 journals, 155 capitalism, xxiv, xx, xxiv, 73, 147, literary discourses, 149 192, 198, 211, 249 literary scene, 149, 152 Cardiff, xxii, xxiii, 59, 60, 62, 63, marriage, 123 64, 65, 66, 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, mothers, 123 74, 75, 76, 77, 250, 251, 252, popular culture, 120 253, 255, 257, 259, 260, 261, popular perception, 121 262, 264, 265, 267, 269, 270, proverb, 124 275 thinkers, 124 Charkha, 156 women, xxiv, 113, 120, 129 Chitra Pat, 152 Bhadralok, 148, 149, 161, 163, 164 Chitralekha, 152 aspirations, 159 Chitrapanji, 152, 155, 156, 158 cultural practices, 145, 151 Chokher Bali, 149 culture, 146 chotolok, 161 ideology, 145 Cinema Sansar, 152 literary traditions, 151 city, xxi, xxii, xxiii, xxiv, xxvii, 3, predicaments, 159 4, 5, 6, 7, 12, 13, 14, 17, 19, 20, project, 155 22, 24, 26, 27, 28, 35, 36, 37, 38, value-system, 151 39, 40, 44, 48, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, Bhadramohila, xxv, 145, 146, 158, 55, 56, 57, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63, 65, 159, 160, 161, 162, 163, 164 67, 68, 69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, Bhadro culture, 152 76, 77, 90, 105, 106, 108, 131, Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption 281
149, 176, 192, 193, 198, 199, 44, 46, 50, 51, 52, 53, 57, 58, 59, 200, 201,203, 204, 206, 208, 72, 74, 76, 77, 81, 82, 86, 89, 90, 209, 210, 215, 216, 217, 218, 93, 94, 95, 97, 98, 100, 102, 104, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 224, 105, 107, 110, 113, 122, 131, 225, 226, 227, 250, 252, 257, 134, 135, 136, 139, 140, 141, 258, 263, 264, 269, 273, 274 143, 145, 148, 151, 152, 153, communicative entity, 5 154, 160, 161, 162, 163, 176, Community Action Southwark, 33 191, 192, 193, 197, 201, 205, contemporary ocularcentrism, 3 206, 208, 231, 232, 243, 254, CORNBREAD, 51 259, 262, 263, 264, 266, 270, Corporación Naranjo, 33 273, 274, 276 Costurerito, 29, 30, 31 capitalist, 48 Crash, 133, 146, 148 high, xxv, 134, 135, 139, 145, crimes of style, 15 154 crossing out, 50 mainstream, 48, 61 Cubism, 44, 173 cultural, xi, xii, xiii, xiv, xv, xvi, D xvii, xviii, xix, xx, xxi, xxii, xxiii, xxiv, xxv, xxvi, 4, 5, 6, 13, darshan, 116, 117, 118 14, 15, 19, 22, 24, 25, 31, 40, 41, Deepali, 152, 155, 159, 161 42, 43, 46, 48, 51, 52, 59, 60, 61, Departamento de Património 64, 65, 66, 69, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, Cultural, 216, 217, 220, 222, 76, 77, 83, 85, 87, 89, 94, 97, 99, 223, 227 103, 104, 126, 127, 133, 134, Devi Bhagvata Purana, 120, 253 135, 143, 145, 147, 148, 150, Devi Mahatmya, 121 151, 152, 153, 154, 155, 159, Direcção Municipal de Cultura, 221 161, 165, 171, 173, 175, 177, discourse, xi, xii, xiii, xviii, xxiii, 4, 179, 180, 191, 192, 193, 194, 5, 7, 13, 19, 39, 68, 73, 74, 87, 195, 196, 197, 200, 202, 203, 101, 106, 114, 125, 161 204, 206, 208, 209, 210, 215, Distriandina, 32 217, 219, 220, 229, 240, 242, Donde Lucho, 33 243, 244, 269, 273, 275, 276 Durga, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, artifact, 5, 19 124, 125 discourses, 154, 155 Durga Puja, 121, 122, 129 diversity, 4, 24, 60, 77 field, 155 E heritage, xx, xxvi, 83, 173, 180, EcuaFood, 32 191, 193, 194, 195, 207, 209 El arco del centro, 32 heterogeneity, 6 El Paisita, 33 industries, 5 Elephant & Castle, xxi, 21, 25, 26, landscape, 171 27, 28, 36, 247, 252, 256 references, 5 Estado Novo, xxiii, 86, 87, 89, 90, culture, xi, xii, xiii, xiv, xv, xvi, 91, 93, 94, 97, 98, 99, 100, 101, xvii, xviii, xix, xx, xxi, xxiii, 104, 105, 106, 107, 108, 110, xxiv, xxv, xxvi, xxvii, xxviii, 3, 263, 265 4, 5, 6, 7, 14, 17, 19, 20, 36, 39, 282 Index
États-Unis, 134, 198, 199, 201, 202, artists, xxiv, xxv, 54, 56, 131, 203, 209, 211, 270 132, 133, 134, 135, 136, 137, ethnography, xxvii, 43, 268 138, 140, 142, 182 campaigns, 57 F community, 46, 48 crews, 58 Fab 5 Freddy, 131, 133, 135, 138 culture, 53, 131, 139, 140 film, xxv, 22, 150, 151, 152, 153, exhibitions, 140 154, 155, 157, 159, 164, 166, gang, 49, 50, 51, 52, 54, 57 181, 205 historical, 46 World, 152 inscription, 47 folk, xxv, 12, 43, 81, 84, 110, 134, jams, 58 150, 175, 176, 229, 231, 232, motifs, 45 233, 237, 238, 239, 241, 242, movement, 131, 132, 133, 134, 244 135, 137, 142 art, 43, 134, 175, 176, 233, 237, New York, 131 242, 244 Parisian, 44 culture, 81, 110, 232, 241 period, 141 folklore, xv, xvi, 88, 89, 90, 165, political, 47, 48, 49 230, 241 popular, 12, 46, 47 Francesco del Casino, 170, 185 subculture, 53, 262 Futura 2000, 131, 133, 136, 138, taggers, xxii, 132, 138, 139, 140 143 traditions, 58 wall writing, 58 G workshops, 58 writers, 20 Ganesha, 122, 123, 124 writing, 56 GAU, xxvii, 215, 216, 217, 218, Gramsci, xvi, xvii, xviii, 85, 87, 257 219, 221, 222, 223, 224, 225, graphic, 44, 63, 239, 240 227, 247 arrangements, 242 Ghee, 156 aspects, 234 goddesses, xxiii, 116, 119, 123, 125, charts, 204 129 compositions, 233, 236, 240, graffiti, xii, xxi, xxii, xxiv, xxv, 241, 242 xxvii, 3, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17, 20, data, 238 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, elements, xxvii, 229, 232, 233, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 236, 239, 243 57, 58, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, endeavours, 39 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 142, hegemony, 39 143, 216, 217, 218, 219, 221, images, 234 222, 223, 224, 225, 250, 255, inscriptions, 57 261, 273 material, 229 aesthetic, 44, 56 readjustment, 229 art, 54, 131, 132, 133, 135, 136, richness, 233 137, 138, 139, 141 units, 232, 233, 234, 237 vector, 236 Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption 283
GrihaLakhsmi, 158 inscription, 39, 40, 41, 42, 46, 47, Gupta Empire, 120 57, 76, 84, 98, 120, 204, 215 institutional art, 131, 133, 134, 137, H 139, 140, 143 intangible heritage, 194 hasya, 116 interface, 239, 240 heritage, xx, xxiv, xxv, xxvi, 72, inter-subjective text, 7 104, 140, 141, 168, 180, 181, Itihasas, 120 191, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, ISCAP, xxviii 199, 200, 201, 204, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 217, 220, 221, J 226 heroines, 95, 116, 155 jata, 123 Himalaya, 123 jati, 127, 152, 154 Himavat, 123 Jean-Michel Basquiat, xxv, 46, 131, Hindu, xxiv, 127, 128, 129, 164, 137, 144 251, 262 Journal of the Motion Picture middle class, 152 Society of India, 148 hip hop, xxii, 39, 40, 46, 48, 49, 52, journals, 145, 152, 155, 156, 157, 53, 54, 57, 58 196 art, 53 graffiti, xxii, 40, 46, 48, 51, 52, K 53, 54, 57 historical processes, xvii, 22, 23, 36, Kailash, 123 85 Kali, 119, 120, 121, 123, 125, 126, hitting up, 49, 50 165, 267 Kartik, 122, 123, 124 karuna, 116 I Keith Haring, xxv, 46, 131, 137, identity, xi, xvii, xx, xxi, xxii, xxiii, 144, 249 xxiv, xxvii, 21, 22, 23, 24, 26, Kheyali, 152 29, 31, 36, 37, 47, 48, 53, 57, 59, Kolkata, xxiv, 113, 121, 124, 125, 60, 61, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 158, 163, 164, 165, 249, 253, 113, 124, 132, 136, 149, 154, 264 156, 161, 178, 196, 201, 217, KOOL KLEPTO KIDD, 51 220, 222, 229, 238, 260, 264, kudrishti, 118 265, 267, 270 of places, 23 L imagination, xiii, xviii, xxiv, 6, 60, 115, 147, 195, 209, 243 La casa de Jack, 34 immigrant, xxi, xxii, xxiii, 60, 63 La Chatica, 34, 35 In Patrimonium, 221, 226 La Fogata, 28 Inara Travels, 28 La Tienda, 31, 32 Indian art, 114 La Vida Loca, 32, 34 indignados, 12 Lakshmi, 119, 120, 122, 123, 124 industrialization, 43 landscape, xxi, xxii, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 13, 19, 50, 60, 69, 147, 151, 274 284 Index language, xii, xiv, xx, xxi, xxv, Lyon, xxvi, 191, 197, 198, 199, 200, xxvii, 5, 7, 8, 12, 14, 29, 31, 35, 201, 202, 204, 205, 206, 209, 42, 47, 72, 74, 120, 136, 137, 210, 211, 212, 248, 256, 257, 149, 152, 153, 154, 155, 182, 274 217, 231, 237, 238, 239, 240, 242, 275 M of desire, seduction and spectacle, 8, 11 Ma Durga, 122 of regulation, surveillance and Macondo, 33 discipline, 8, 10 Mahabharata, 120 of the official ideology, 8, 9 Mahadevi, 120 symbols, 7 Mahishasura, 121, 122 Latin, xxi, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 28, Mahishasuramardini, 121 29, 30, 31, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, Markandeya Purana, 121 40, 41, 52, 157, 252, 256, 263, marker pen, 39 267, 274, 276 mass consumption, 3, 5 identity, 36 material practices, 23 place, 24 media formats, 22 presence, 24 memorial graffiti, 51 Quarter, 21, 26, 28, 35, 37 memory, xxii, xxvii, 60, 61, 66, 73, Latin American, xxi, 21, 22, 24, 25, 77, 89, 93, 170, 191, 196, 200, 26, 28, 31, 33, 35, 37, 38, 256, 202, 210, 215, 217, 220, 230, 263 242, 265 businesses, 21, 37 memsahib, 161, 163 carnival, 24 Menaka, 123 film festivals, 24 message, xii, xix, xxvii, 6, 12, 13, identity, 31 41, 47, 49, 50, 56, 89, 93, 95, 97, labels, 31 98, 105, 127, 138, 142, 235, 240, migration, 25 242 retailers, 21, 28, 29, 33 metamedia, 231 shops, 21, 25, 33 miniaturization, 237, 238 Lee, 131, 133, 135, 137, 138, 183, modernity, xx, xxiii, 60, 104, 120, 261 124, 125, 153, 154, 161, 199, Lev Manovich, xxv, 231, 238, 239, 230, 231 240 modularity, 238, 239 life-styles, 5 moliceiro, xxiii, 82, 83, 84, 86, 89, Lisbon, xxi, xxvii, xxviii, 9, 10, 11, 91, 93, 94, 95, 97, 98, 100, 101, 16, 17, 18, 108, 111, 215, 217, 103, 104, 107, 108, 111, 235 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, art, 95, 103 225, 228, 247, 249, 250, 252, artisans, 104 253, 254, 256, 257, 259, 260, boats, 81, 82, 83, 85, 86, 98, 103, 261, 262, 263, 264, 266, 268, 110, 232 273, 275, 276 culture, 81, 86, 89, 90, 93, 98, Lokkhi, 119, 123, 124, 129 102, 104, 105, 107, 110 London Plan, 27 depictions, 102 industry, 83, 86 Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption 285
motifs, 84 O painters, 93, 95, 112 paintings, 98 Occupy Wall Street, 12 panels, 85, 89, 94, 95, 98, 99, Old Kent Road, 25, 26 100, 103, 106, 108, 110 Orgosolo, xxv, xxvi, 168, 169, 170, production, 104, 105, 106 171, 172, 174, 175, 177, 178, social critique, 107 179, 181, 184, 185, 186, 187, monuments, xxvi, 22 253, 255, 256, 258, 264, 268, mudras, 115, 116 274 Mukti, 152, 162, 163 multicultural, xi, 22, 59, 62 P community, 59 panoptical devices, 8 neighbourhoods, 22 Pather Dabi, 149 multiethnic, xxii, xxiii, 59, 60, 62, patrimonialisation, 195, 197, 206, 63 207, 210, 211, 270 mural art, xxii, 134 performativity, 239 murales, xxv, 168, 169, 170, 171, periurbanisation, 191, 193, 194, 196 172, 173, 174, 175, 176, 177, photography, xii, xxii, 52, 59, 61, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183, 76, 183, 249, 257, 259, 260, 274 184, 185, 186, 251, 253, 255, pictorial, xii, xxii, xxiii, 20, 62, 85, 264, 265, 268 113, 128, 140, 141, 143, 217, murals, xxv, xxvi, 5, 17, 40, 52, 57, 229, 257 168, 169, 170, 172, 173, 174, place, xiii, xxi, xxiii, xxviii, 6, 15, 175, 176, 177, 178, 179, 180, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 26, 27, 28, 33, 181, 182, 184, 201, 202, 217, 34, 36, 37, 38, 50, 53, 61, 63, 65, 225, 265, 274 69, 71, 72, 74, 75, 77, 118, 127, political, 18 131, 132, 133, 136, 137, 141, murti, 117, 119 143, 152, 161, 167, 168, 169, Musée Urbain Tony Garnier, xxvi, 170, 171, 172, 173, 178, 186, 191, 197, 199, 202, 204, 206, 194, 199, 203, 206, 220, 223, 207, 211, 212, 255, 256 226, 230, 239, 240, 250, 258, 263, 264, 265, 267 N plazas, 22 Nach Ghar, 152 polarity, 242, 243 namaskar, 119 polis, xxii, 39, 41 narrative, xxii, 60, 61, 73, 76, 77, political mural, 17 88, 92, 120, 121, 122, 124, 125, pop art, 134 126, 127, 145, 149, 150, 154, popular, xi, xii, xvii, xviii, xx, xxii, 155, 164, 184, 273, 274 xxiii, xxiv, xxv, xxvi, xxvii, Natya Shastra, 116, 128 xxviii, 6, 12, 15, 40, 41, 43, 46, Nawabi system, 159 47, 48, 49, 55, 57, 81, 84, 85, 86, New Cinema Sansar, 152 89, 97, 98, 99, 104, 107, 108, new media, 22, 231, 232, 238, 239, 110, 114, 117, 118, 119, 120, 262 121, 122, 123, 125, 131, 134, nyasa, 118 135, 141, 145, 146, 148, 149, 150, 151, 155, 156, 163, 172, 286 Index
175, 178, 191, 195, 207, 208, R 209, 215, 230, 234, 245, 250, 266, 269 Rabindranath Tagore, 122, 149, art, xii, xvii, xx, xxiii, xxviii, 43, 155, 164 89, 97, 234 Rabindra-sangeet, 152 culture, xi, xii, xiii, xv, xvi, xvii, Raktabija, 121, 125 xviii, xx, xxiii, xxv, xxvi, Ramayana, 120 xxvii, 6, 15, 81, 84, 89, 120, Rangbhoomi, 152 134, 135, 172 rasa, 116, 117 Popular ID, xxvii, 229, 230, 231, rasanubhuti, 116 232, 233, 234, 235, 237, 239, raudra, 116 240, 241, 242, 243 regeneration, xxi, xxiii, 21, 24, 26, Portuguese, xv, xxiii, xxvii, xxviii, 27, 29, 37, 38, 67, 68, 69, 71 9, 16, 18, 81, 85, 86, 87, 88, 91, remediation process, 232, 234 94, 95, 97, 99, 103, 108, 109, remediation theory, 231 111, 128, 218, 220, 221, 228, representation, xi, xiv, xix, 3, 4, 15, 229, 231, 232, 233, 234, 237, 19, 22, 23, 76, 85, 99, 104, 107, 238, 239, 241, 242, 244, 273, 108, 109, 111, 115, 117, 119, 276 121, 122, 123, 125, 195, 208, culture, 85, 88, 103 231, 233, 239, 240, 241 folk art, 229, 231, 232, 238, 239 Ria de Aveiro, xxiii, 81, 82, 84, 86, folk culture, 231, 237 93, 97, 100, 102, 111, 262, 267, posters, 3, 5, 47, 138 268 Post-Graffiti, 134, 136, 139, 259 riaz, 117 prasada, 119, 128 RIPs, 51 profane, xxi, 12, 57 Roberta Shapiro, 167 public, xvii, xxiv, xxv, xxvi, xxvii, Roland Barthes, xviii, 5, 243 3, 6, 7, 12, 13, 17, 19, 20, 26, 27, 33, 39, 40, 42, 47, 56, 57, 68, 69, S 71, 72, 75, 77, 81, 83, 86, 89, 91, sacred, xxi, 3, 8, 12, 87, 108, 118, 104, 113, 125, 127, 132, 137, 128, 259 141, 144, 151, 152, 161, 169, Sadhana Bose, 158 172, 177, 184, 185, 186, 191, sadhus, 118 192, 193, 195, 196, 197, 198, Samhitas, 120 200, 201, 202, 205, 207, 208, SAMO, 46, 138, 141 209, 215, 217, 219, 220, 221, samskriti, 154 222, 223, 234, 251, 270 San Andresito, 32 art, 3, 57, 72, 172, 217, 220, 222, Sankhya, 119 223 Saraswati, 120, 122, 123, 124, 129 good, 191 Sardinia, xii, xxv, 167, 168, 169, murals, 39 170, 171, 172, 175, 176, 177, Puranas, 120 180, 181, 182, 184, 186, 274 Purna Swaraj, 148 satire, 12, 101, 107, 108, 124 purusha, 119 political, 16 religious, 16 satyagraha, 148 Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption 287
sculptures, 22 references, 6 semantic antagonisms, 8 reinvention, 59 semi-goddesses, 116 relations, 4, 5, 7 semiological, 5 roles, 14 semiotic, xvii, 15, 84, 85, 249 structures, 61 guerilla, 15 uses, 61 Shakta, 119, 121 social agents, 19 shakti, 119, 120 South London, 25 Shastras, 115, 119, 128 sparsa, 118 Shesh Uttar, 157 spray-can paint, 39 Shesher Kabita, 151 sravana, 118 Shilpa Shastras, 115 sringara, 116 shiplo, 154 sthayibhava, 116 Shiva, 119, 120, 123, 124, 125, 126 Strata Building, 33 Shruti Vedas, 120 Strata Tower, 28 signature, 4, 49, 138, 174, 185, 222, street art, xxi, xxiv, xxv, xxvii, 13, 256, 258 14, 15, 20, 39, 57, 131, 136, 142, signs, xi, xiv, xviii, xxi, xxiv, 3, 5, 143, 193, 216, 218, 219, 221, 6, 12, 13, 19, 28, 44, 54, 58, 71, 222, 223, 224, 225 115, 124, 137, 173, 174, 178, striking, 39, 49 196, 235, 240, 267 structural changes, 30 simultaneous contrasts, 235 subcultural capital, 14 Smriti Vedas, 120 subculture, 52, 56, 57, 58, 132, 134, social, xi, xii, xiv, xvi, xvii, xviii, 136, 139 xix, xx, xxi, xxiii, xxv, xxvi, 3, subversive slogans, 4 4, 5, 13, 15, 17, 43, 47, 50, 59, surface, 3, 4, 45, 49, 54, 82, 111, 60, 61, 64, 65, 66, 69, 73, 74, 76, 169, 195, 198, 218 77, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 87, 88, 89, Surrealism, 43 90, 92, 93, 97, 98, 100, 104, 106, surveillance, 4, 8, 10, 12, 19, 102 107, 108, 111, 113, 120, 123, Swadeshi, 147 126, 127, 131, 134, 135, 136, swamis, 118 151, 156, 161, 162, 163, 171, swayambhu, 117, 128 174, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, symbolic, xii, xiii, xiv, xvi, xix, xx, 196, 197, 198, 200, 201, 202, xxiii, xxvi, 12, 13, 14, 15, 19, 203, 206, 207, 208, 209, 210, 20, 49, 51, 59, 69, 98, 101, 102, 219, 223, 225, 250, 265, 269, 103, 107, 136, 167, 192, 196, 273, 275 199, 200, 202, 203, 206, 207, actors, xv, xxvi, 6 208, 209, 237, 243, 258 agents, xiv, 19 act, 148 backgrounds, 39 consumption, 6 classes, 6, 92 creativity, 14, 20 conventions, 14 distinctions, 4 interaction, 59, 60 goods, 5 labels, 7 hierarchies, 12 media sites, 57 motifs, 94 norm, 12, 15 nature, 168 288 Index
systems, xii, xvii, 115 changes, 65 value, 22, 24 communication, 256 community, 220 T concentration, 191 culture, xxiii, 12, 143, 155, 160 tags, 39, 51, 52, 54, 55, 131, 132, density, 192, 198 136, 137, 138, 139, 141, 142 design, 200, 266 Talk-A-Tone, 152 development, 192, 199 thakur bari, 113, 114 discourse, 7, 68, 74 Tiendas del Sur, 33 disinvestment, 48 tilak, 119, 128 districts, 132 tradition, xv, xvii, xviii, xx, xxiii, dwellers, 72, 73 xxvii, 22, 61, 94, 102, 104, 105, elite, 98, 147 106, 120, 127, 128, 134, 140, environment, xxiv, 3, 40, 56, 71, 141, 154, 230, 231, 274 72, 132, 259 equipment, 7 U experiences, 155 fabric, 59, 73, 74 Udayer Pathe, 152, 162 festivals, 193 Unione Sarda, 176, 184, 186, 247, form, 6, 77 265 furnishings, 218 Upanishads, 120 furniture, 13 urban, xx, xxi, xxii, xxiii, xxiv, graffiti, xxii, 20, 46, 250, 255, xxvi, xxvii, xxviii, 3, 4, 5, 7, 12, 273 20, 22, 40, 41, 46, 48, 55, 59, 65, grid, 218 88, 106, 110, 132, 164, 165, 191, heritage-creation, 193 192, 193, 195, 196, 198, 205, identity, 59, 60, 71, 72, 74, 255 206, 209, 217, 219, 221, 222, landscape, xxi, 5, 7, 8, 19, 60, 223, 224, 225, 226, 227, 257, 133, 147, 151 263, 269, 273, 274, 276 life, 4, 92, 107, 193, 257 actors, 7 living, 209 aesthetic, 58 marketing, 200 agglomerates, 195 materiality, 3, 4, 5, 12 anonimity, 6 monuments, 209 architecture, 193 mutations, 5 areas, 57, 191, 192, 193 ocular experience, 3 art, xxiv, xxvi, 136, 200, 215, ordinary life, 13 216, 218, 219, 221, 222, 223, painting, 136 224, 225, 227 past, 39 art forms, 226 phenomenon, 8, 46, 192 artifacts, 8 places, 271 artistic expressions, 215 planning, 206 artists, 218 policy, 68 artworks, 220 poor, 53 atmosphere, 217 problems, 194 Bengali novel, 149 program, 198 centres, 192, 193, 194 Popular and Visual Culture: Design, Circulation and Consumption 289
projects, 193, 194, 198 visibility, xiv, xv, xxii, 4, 8, 19, 26, public space, 12, 20, 193 37, 47, 54, 55, 210, 243 redevelopment, xxi, xxii, 21 visible, xiii, xiv, 5, 7, 8, 13, 20, 22, regeneration, xxi, 26, 67, 68, 69, 23, 25, 31, 35, 37, 40, 43, 46, 47, 71, 267 53, 61, 71, 74, 116, 139, 172, regime visibility, 41 177, 192, 234, 240, 262 region, 197, 205, 210 visible signifiers, 23 rehabilitation, 215 visual, xi, xii, xiii, xiv, xviii, xix, rejuvenation, 59 xx, xxi, xxv, xxvi, xxvii, 3, 4, 5, renaissance, 266 6, 7, 8, 17, 19, 20, 93, 106, 113, renewal, 68, 191 216, 229, 233, 235, 250, 253, scenario, 223 262, 263, 264, 267, 273, 274, setting, 24 276 sites, 206 accounts, 64 societies, 269 adaptation, 236 spaces, xx, xxi, xxvi, 7, 22, 72, analysis, 267 132, 193, 194, 197, 202, 209, anthropology, xxviii, 251 210, 267 antidote, 56 sprawl, 194 appeal, 233, 234 structure, 198 approach, 229 studies, xxi, 22 art, xxiv, 54 subcultures, 14, 215 attractiveness, 233 territories, 208 blight, 53 transformation, 208 codes, 97 underground, 269 communication, xii, xiv, 5, 12, utopias, 206 138, 235, 236 visual culture, xx, xxiii, xxiv, consumption, xxii, 5 xxviii, 4, 5, 6, 7, 17, 19, 20, content, 233 113, 131, 262 culture, xi, xii, xiii, xiv, xv, xx, visuality, 4, 5, 19 xxi, xxiii, xxiv, xxvi, xxvii, wall, 41 xxviii, 3, 19, 39, 152, 259, woman, 105, 163 260 urbanisation, 43, 60, 192, 194, 211, database, 229, 230, 232, 236, 265 239 urbanity, 40 displays, 231 dominance, 57 V essay, 242 evidence, 61 vahana, 115 exploration, 241 vaidika sanskrit, 120 field, 7, 145 Varieties Weekly, 152, 165 form, 19 vector tracing, 236, 237 grammars, xii, 20 Vedanta philosophy, 119 imagery, 61, 244, 247, 248, 259, Vedas, 120, 124, 128 264, 269, 270 vertical urbanism, 5, 270 impulse, 5 vira, 116 interpretation, 234 290 Index
knowledge, 235 W languages, xii, xiv, xxvii, 12, 217, 231 wall, xxii, 40, 41, 44, 45, 46, 49, 51, media, 3, 127 52, 53, 54, 56, 57, 58, 91, 128, motifs, xii, xxvii, 141 132, 138, 162, 169, 170, 172, perception, 240 173, 176, 178, 180, 182, 184, readjustment, 232, 235 203, 225 rearrangement, 236 art, 40, 44, 52 recognition, 3 painting, 172, 178, 184 recognizing effect, 236 writing, 46, 49, 51, 52, 53, 54, records, xxi, 21 56, 57, 58 repository, xiv, 19 waterfront revitalisation, 67, 69, 71 representation, xix, 4, 15, 66 writing, xxii, xxviii, 23, 39, 40, 41, rethoric, 101 50, 51, 52, 56, 58, 116, 124, 139, semantic field, 20 141, 149, 150, 151, 155, 156, side, 243 162, 164, 165, 176, 239, 240, singularities, 20 244, 259, 267, 273, 275 solutions, 241 space, 3 Y spectacularisation, 72 youth cultures, 14 surface, 4 symbols, 243 Z text, 6, 244 transaction, 118 Zephyr, 131, 133, 137 treatment, 235 visual-artistic discourse, 216 vyabhicharibhava, 116