Journal articles: 'Sols lorrains' – Grafiati (2024)

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En el análisis del mito de Salomé elaborado por Jean Lorrain, veremos cómo el escritor decadente arremete contra la figuración de la imagen de la mujer fin de siglo. Frente a sus contemporáneos, Jean Lorrain no solo se distancia de ellos para ofrecer un espectáculo único en materia figurativa, sino también da rienda suelta a una proyección imaginaria que le permite alcanzar una estética propiamente personal que culmina con la aparición del Andrógino.

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Résumé La recherche participative (ou recherche citoyenne) permet d’établir un partenariat entre le milieu académique (laboratoire universitaire et ses chercheurs) et le milieu associatif ou scolaire pour réaliser des études à visée scientifique. Elles permettent à la fois de mieux faire apprécier la démarche scientifique au grand public (qu’il s’agisse d’enfants ou d’adultes) et d’obtenir des données, sur le long terme ou sur un grand secteur géographique, utiles au chercheur. C’est dans ce cadre que deux actions se sont déroulées entre 2012 et 2014 sur le bassin du Madon, l’un des affluents de la Moselle, dans le sud de la Lorraine. Une première action a été réalisée dans le cadre d’une manifestation socioculturelle (les Chemins de l’Eau) organisée par la Fédération Départementale des Foyers Ruraux en juin 2013 : afin de sensibiliser les visiteurs aux ressources en eau dans leur environnement immédiat, une hydrothèque a été créée. La seconde action s’est adressée à des classes de primaire (CE2-CM1-CM2 et CM2) de trois localités rurales le long du Madon (Lerrain, Mattaincourt et Haroué). Tous les échantillons ont ensuite fait l’objet d’analyses au laboratoire : pH, conductivité, carbone organique dissous, azote total dissous, azote ammoniacal, ions majeurs, propriétés optiques (spectroscopie UV-visible, fluorescence). Ces expériences ont permis d’avoir un suivi temporel de trois stations le long du Madon et de participer à une cartographie des ressources en eau des Vosges en fonction des caractéristiques du bassin versant et de l’usage des sols. Dans les deux cas, le public visé a montré un vif intérêt.

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Water and nitrogen movements in a small watershed (32ha) located in the Belgian Lorraine (south-eastern Belgium) were monitored intensively between 1988 and 1991 to investigate at a daily time step the possibility of predicting water discharge rates and nitrate concentrations in a spring if one knows the surface agricultural practices in the catchment area. The watershed was equipped with instruments to monitor the various meteorological, pedological, agronomic and geohydrological parameters assumed to explain most of the behaviour of water and nitrogen fluxes. They were recorded at various levels, i.e., the surface, vadose zone, saturated zone, and watershed outlet. Field observations were made to cross-check fluxes at each level. This information was then used in simulation models (SOIL and SOILN) to describe the movement of water and nitrogen solutes in the vadose zone and with original programming that describes their movements in the groundwater down to the outlet. These models present many parameters, the most sensitive of which were subjected to Monte Carlo Analysis which confirmed the robustness of the approach. The performance of the comprehensive model is quite satisfactory, with a 10% error in nitrogen fluxes over a three-year period. It shows the limits of such an approach despite the particularly intense degree of observation.

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Of the anomuran Eogastrodorus granulatus (Förster, 1985), the sole representative of the genus, only the holotype from Bajocian strata in Switzerland was known until now. The five additional specimens described here have enabled us to supplement the morphological characterisation of both the genus and species. Of these five individuals, four originate from the shallow-marine Sherborne Limestone Member (Inferior Oolite Formation, lower upper Bajocian) in southern England. The fifth is from the shallow-marine biodetritic Audun-le-Tiche Limestone in Lorraine (France), of late early Bajocian ( Humphriesianum Zone) age; this is the stratigraphically oldest record of a gastrodorid known to date. Two juvenile carapaces from England are preserved within a piece of driftwood. We offer three possible interpretations for this occurrence; the hollowed out inside of the wood could have provided a place for moulting, retreating or mating. Alternatively, the two carapaces represent the remains of a meal of a predator that lived inside the wood or took shelter there, or, thirdly, it could constitute a random influx of carapaces into the empty space of the piece of wood. Each of these scenarios presupposes that these anomurans lived in an onshore habitat, where driftwood of all sizes is frequently encountered. These taphonomic circ*mstances could represent the earliest instance of the relationship between paguroids and plants.

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AbstractBased on four letters dating from the period between December 1652 to January 1653, the article documents the vicissitudes of the portraits (and copies of them) of Joris Vezelaer and Margaretha Boghe. This couple, portrayed by Joos van Cleve in about 1518, were identified by Horst Gerson as the parents of Constantijn Huygens on his mother's side. Huygens, eager to obtain the original portraits or at least copies of them, makes enquiries from the art dealer Matthijs Musson in Antwerp and from the nephew (and niece) Buyex Alewyn, former guardians of the parental heritage in Deurne, but to his great surprise discovers copies which had been put on the market. Beatrix de Cusance, duch*ess of Lorraine, was so charmed by Huygens' enthusiasm for the ancestral portraits that she decided to buy them and present them to Constantijn. According to Buycx's letter of January 1653 the original portraits were sent to Vienna after the painter De Vos of Antwerp had made two sets of copies. Buycx, who owned one of these copies, consented to retrieve the original portraits from Vienna. This appeared to solve the problem of ancestral portraits, but no matter how grateful Huygens was to the duch*ess of Lorraine, he was apparently not satisfied with mere copies. In a letter written fifteen years later (December 1667) it appears that Jacob Buycx had obtained further information about the location of the portraits, but had been unable to track them down after the sister of his wife, Helena Alewyn of Vienna, had received them. Buycx presumed an heir in Vienna, perhaps a Salicouffer, had them in his possession. From the Huygens collection of letters it appeared that there was another letter with information of the portrait panels. This letter, written in Dutch from Vienna (dated December 1, 1667) from an unknown writer to an unknown recipient indicates that a member of the Zollickhoffer family who had come down in the world may have sold the portraits. The letter also mentions the merchant Golddast of Vienna, who had been approached by someone in Holland to trace the "gentleman from Zuylichem" for a considerable amount of money. Unfortunately for Constantijn, however, the original portraits failed to return. One set of copies of the ancestors on both sides of the family remained until well into the eighteenth century - until 1786 - in the Huygens collection of family portraits, but to this day the whereabouts of neither of Margaretha Boghe's two copies have been traced.

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HOWELL: Violin Sonata in F minor; Rosalind for violin & piano; Piano Sonata in E minor; Humoresque for piano; 5 Studies for piano. Lorraine McAslan (vln), Sophia Rahman (pno). Dutton Epoch CDLX 7144.BACEWICZ: Violin Sonatas Nos. 4–5; Oberek No. 1; Sonata No. 2 for violin solo; Partita; Capriccio; Polish Capriccio. Joanna Kurkowicz (v;n), Gloria Chien (pno). Chandos CHAN 10250.MARIC: Byzantine Concerto1; Cantata: Threshold of Dream2,3,6; Ostinato Super Thema Octoïcha4–6; Cantata: Song of Space7. 1Olga Jovanovic (pno), Belgrade PO c. Oskar Danon, 2Dragoslava Nikolic (sop, alto), 3Jovan Milicevic (narr), 4Ljubica Maric (pno), 5Josip Pikelj (hp), 6Radio-TV Belgrade CO c. Oskar Danon, 7Radio-TV Belgrade Mixed Choir & SO c. Mladen Jagušt. Chandos Historical 10267H.MUSGRAVE: For the Time Being: Advent1; Black Tambourine2–3; John Cook; On the Underground Sets1–3. 1Michael York (narr), 2Walter Hirse (pno), 3Richard Fitz, Rex Benincasa (perc),New York Virtuoso Singers c. Harold Rosenbaum. Bridge 9161.KUI DONG: Earth, Water, Wood, Metal, Fire1; Pangu's Song2; Blue Melody3; Crossing (electronic/computer tape music); Three Voices4. 1Sarah Cahill (pno), 2Tod Brody (fl), Daniel Kennedy (perc), 3San Francisco Contemporary Music Players c. Olly Wilson, 4Hong Wang (Chinese fiddle), Ann Yao (Chinese zither), Chen Tao (bamboo fl). New World 80620-2.FIRSOVA: The Mandelstam Cantatas: Forest Walks, op. 36; Earthly Life, op. 31; Before the Thunderstorm, op. 70. Ekaterina Kichigina (sop), Studio for New Music Moscow c. Igor Dronov. Megadisc MDC 7816.KATS-CHERNIN: Ragtime & Blues. Sarah Nicholls (pno). Nicola Sweeney (vln). Signum SIGCD058.CHAMBERS: A Mass for Mass Trombones. Thomas Hutchinson (trb), Ensemble of 76 trombones c. David Gilbert. Centaur CRC 2263.

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Purpose The purpose of this paper is to understand the enduring, fundamental contributions of accounting practices in the pursuit of decentralization by governments, with an examination of Peter Leopold’s reform of the municipalities in the late eighteenth century in Italy. Design/methodology/approach An extensive textual analysis of the very comprehensive collection of primary sources of the Grand Duchy of Tuscany during the de’ Medici and Hapsburg-Lorraine’s rule identified the reasons for Peter Leopold’s decision to decentralize his government’s authority and responsibilities. A systemic comparison of the 1765–1766 and 1775–1776 financial reports of the Municipality of Castrocaro and Terra del Sole disclosed the importance of the micro-practices of accounting and reporting for the reform. Findings In the context of the eighteenth century enlightenment, Peter Leopold legitimized his reform by the introduction of a modern style of government based on the rationalization of the municipal administrative system and decentralization of central authority and responsibility. The reform was made feasible by the substitution of a birth right principle with an economic discourse which linked tax payments to property ownership. This had the unintended consequence of increased taxes, higher municipal expenditures and possible inequalities between municipalities. Research limitations/implications The findings of the study are dependent on the resources which have survived and are now preserved in the official archives of Galeata and Florence. This work contributes to the extant literature on administrative reforms in a crucial period for the redefinition of sovereignty by the ruling classes, with the rise of the modern State. It extends historical understanding of the public sector with a focus on local government in the eighteenth century in a non-Anglo-Saxon context. Practical implications The examination of the reform of Peter Leopold contributes to an enhanced understanding of present-day decentralization by governments in the context of the new public management (NPM). It provides to NPM advocates a broader temporal and contextual understanding of the impact of current decentralization reforms. Originality/value Few accounting studies have considered the micro-aspects of decentralization reforms at the municipal level and tried to identify their impact on the wealth of the population. Moreover, Peter Leopold’s reform is considered one of the most innovative and enlightened of the eighteenth century, while the remainder of Europe was still overwhelmingly committed to the centralization of administrative apparatuses. Finally, this study relates to the multi-disciplinary debate about the recognition, qualification and accountization of the impact of decentralization of responsibility for the delivery of government services.

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CRESCIMENTO E PRODUÇÃO DA MAMONEIRA BRS GABRIELA EM FUNÇÃO DA ADUBAÇÃO ORGÂNICA E NÍVEIS DE ÁGUA EVANDRO FRANKLIN DE MESQUITA1; FRANCISCO VANIES DA SILVA SÁ2; PAULA LORRANE MELO DE JESUS3; CESENILDO FIGUEIREDO SUASSUNA3; ALBANISA PEREIRA DE LIMA SANTOS 3 E EMANOELA PEREIRA DE PAIVA4 1Engenheiro Agrônomo, Doutor em Engenharia Agrícola, Professor Adjunto, Centro de Ciências Humanas e Agrarias (CCHA), Universidade Estadual da Paraíba (UEPB), Catolé do Rocha, PB, e-mail: elmesquita4@uepb.edu.br.2 Engenheiro Agrônomo, Doutorando em Engenharia Agrícola, Universidade Federal de Campina Grande – UFCG, Centro Tecnologia e Recursos Naturais – CTRN, Campina Grande - PB, Brasil. E-mail: vanies_agronomia@hotmail.com.3 Licenciado em Ciências Agrárias, Centro de Ciências Humanas e Agrarias (CCHA), Universidade Estadual da Paraíba (UEPB), Catolé do Rocha, PB, e-mail: paulalorrane@hotmail.com; cesenildo@hotmail.com; albanisa.lima25@hotmail.com.4 Engenheira Agrônomo, Doutoranda em Fitotecnia, Departamento de Ciências Vegetais, Universidade Federal Rural do Semi-Árido (UFERSA), Mossoró, RN. E-mail: emanuelappaiva@hotmail.com. 1 RESUMO Objetivou-se estudar o crescimento e a produção da mamoneira (Ricinus communis L.) BRS Gabriela em função de doses de matéria orgânica e água disponível no solo. O experimento foi conduzido no período de agosto de 2013 a janeiro de 2014, em estufa agrícola nas dependências da Universidade Estadual da Paraíba, Campus IV, Catolé do Rocha-PB. O delineamento experimental adotado foram os blocos casualizados e os tratamentos foram distribuídos em esquema fatorial 5 x 4, sendo o primeiro fator constituído por 5 doses de húmus de minhoca a base de esterco bovino (0; 5; 10; 15 e 20 % do volume do vaso) e o segundo em 4 níveis de água disponível no solo (70; 80; 90 e 100%), resultando em 20 tratamentos, com três repetições e 1 planta por repetição, totalizando 60 unidades experimentais. Cada unidade experimental foi constituída de um vaso plástico com capacidade para 30 L e uma planta de mamoneira BRS Gabriela. Aos 120 dias após a semeadura as plantas foram avaliadas quanto ao crescimento e produção. De maneira geral o maior crescimento foi alcançado pelas plantas cultivadas nos maiores regimes hídricos e adubadas com 6 L de húmus. Respostas positivas da adubação orgânica sob a produção da mamoneira forma obtidas em condições de disponibilidade de água superiores a 90% da capacidade de campo. As plantas cultivadas com 100% da disponibilidade de água no solo, sob a dose de 6L de húmus de minhoca a base de esterco bovino obtiveram as maiores produções. Palavras-chave: Ricinus communis L., irrigação, húmus de minhoca. MESQUITA, E.F.; SÁ, F.V.S.; JESUS, P.L.M.; SUASSUNA, C.F.; SANTOS, A. P. L.; PAIVA, E.P.GROWTH AND PRODUCTION OF CASTOR BRS GABRIELA A FUNCTION OF ORGANIC FERTILIZER AND WATER LEVELS 2 ABSTRACT Aimed to study the growth and production of castor bean (Ricinus communis L.) BRS Gabriela as a result of the levels of organic matter and soil water availability. The experiment was conducted from August 2013 to January 2014, in a greenhouse on the premises of the State University of Paraíba, Campus IV, Catolé Rocha-PB, Brazil. The experimental design was a randomized block design and the treatments were arranged in a factorial 5 x 4, with the first factor consists of 5 doses of earthworm humus as a base of cattle manure (0, 5, 10, 15 and 20% of vessel volume) and the second in four levels of available soil water (70, 80, 90 and 100%), resulting in 20 treatments with three replications and 1 plant per repetitions, totalizing 60 experimental units. Each experimental unit consisted of a plastic container with a capacity of 30 L and a castor bean plant BRS Gabriela. At 120 days after planting we evaluated growth and production. In general the highest growth was achieved by plants grown in the largest water regimes, fertilized with 6 L of earthworm humus. Positive responses of organic fertilizer in the production of castor bean form obtained in water availability conditions above 90% of field capacity. Plants grown with 100% availability of water in the soil, in the dose of 6L earthworm humus the basis of manure obtained the highest yields. Keywords: Ricinus communis L., irrigation, earthworm humus

Abstract:

<p><strong>Abstract.</strong> The most difficult challenge is to provide the name of the cartographer, i.e. the author of graphic picture of topography with the use of watermedia on paper, for each important European topographic work. Even though we know the names of chiefs of survey and the most important engineers in field mapping teams, it is not possible to precisely describe their role in creating graphic style for fair copy. The aim of this study was to identify several types of design authorship of manuscript topographic maps in the Enlightenment.</p><p>Wrede’s map of Silesia was developed under King Frederick II’s supervision, who was himself theoretically and practically competent in map making. The mapping and the resulting protraction copy were made by Wrede and his team, but the draughtsmen were probably coordinated by Oelsnitz, head of the Potsdam drawing room. Such a hierarchical production structure, might also be recognized in the map of Norway developed by order of Huth &amp;ndash; the Staatsminister and mathematician &amp;ndash; who delegated the coordination of surveying and drawing activities to Staffeldt. In fact, the men responsible for the original map were cartographer Stabell and other engineers. A similar solution would explain the map of the Electorate of Hanover, produced by Hogrewe and his subordinate engineers, formally supervised by du Plat, but with the personal involvement of King George III in the decisions over segment division and cartographic content.</p><p>Institutional authorship, or maps produced by the head of a specific drawing room and his subordinate draughtsmen. The map of England, attributed to Gardner and the personnel of the Tower of London drawing room, was developed according to this system. Authorship in tandem: those engineers who performed field surveys and sketches, and later produced fair copies (e.g. Roy and Sandby’s map of Scotland) &amp;ndash; the former drew topographic objects and the latter was the sole author of landform painting; Avico and Carello (map of Susa Valley) &amp;ndash; both put their ink signatures on the map, independent of the cartouche content.</p><p>Collective authorship where the maps were produced by draughtsmen associated with particular drawing rooms or employed to draw maps according to the protracted copies supplied. The former included, for instance, the case of the map of NE France with Lorraine (from Naudin’s atelier) or the over 3,000 map segments (map of the Habsburg Dominion) developed by officers in Vienna. A further example would be the map of Austrian Netherlands, most probably involving draughtsmen educated in France.</p><p>The comparison of maps with the actual topographic situation in the countryside, also made us realize that the perception and cartographic work of various groups of map-making officers in similar cultural and surveying conditions, but in different topographic situations, might be interpreted as elements in a broader phenomenon of the understanding of space in the Enlightenment. The use of water-based media allowed for the representation of lands throughout Europe. No other technique offered map makers and artists an opportunity to reflect landscape so realistically. It is, no wonder, then, that it strongly affected the development of modern principles for cartographic design, even being translated through into the engraving and lithographic world of print. The map-making initiatives conducted in the Enlightenment were distinctive, helping define an age and a new emerging Europe. In these manuscript maps, we can see how eighteenth-century European contemporaries helped develop conventions &amp;ndash; in the use of line, color, perspective, tone and topographic form &amp;ndash; that shaped how their world was seen: on maps, in art, in the political imagination.</p>

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The role of Teachers has been transformed in recent years due to the increasingly complex educational demands and responsibilities that come from the students’ families. The aim of the present study was to investigate how Elementary School Teachers in Brazil and Uruguay perceive and evaluate the demands they receive from families, and how prepared they think they are to face this reality. A qualitative, exploratory and transcultural method was used, based on the technique of Focal Groups, with one group being conducted in Brazil (10 participants) and anther one in Uruguay (9 participants). In both groups, participants were women, with experience in public and private schools. Data were treated using the Content Analysis technique and results pointed out two main themes: Academic Formation and Family Demands. The analysis showed several similarities in the relationship between family and school in daily practice - both in Brazil and Uruguay - especially regarding the Teacher’s role. It was observed that Teachers still face some challenges in set out their roles for themselves and the families. Teachers have also shown they have insufficient resources to work with the diversity of family demands and it is possible to think that they would benefit from spaces of reflection and sensitivity development, in order to better discriminate these demands. Thus, it may be said that it is necessary to inaugurate a deep discussion about what it means to form Teachers to work with families.ResumoO papel dos professores tem se transformado nos últimos anos devido às demandas e responsabilidades educacionais, cada vez mais complexas, que derivam das famílias de seus alunos. O objetivo deste estudo foi investigar como os professores de ensino fundamental do Brasil e Uruguai percebem e avaliam as demandas que recebem das famílias e o quão preparados se sentem para enfrentar essa realidade. Foi utilizado método qualitativo, exploratório e transcultural, a partir da técnica do Grupo Focal, sendo conduzido um grupo no Brasil (10 participantes) e um no Uruguai (9 participantes). Em ambos os grupos, os participantes foram mulheres, com experiência nas redes pública e privada. Os dados foram tratados a partir da técnica de Análise de Conteúdo e os resultados apontaram dois temas principais: Formação Acadêmica e Demandas das Famílias. A análise evidenciou inúmeras semelhanças na relação que a família e a escola estabelecem na prática diária - tanto no Brasil quanto no Uruguai - especialmente no que diz respeito ao papel docente. Observou-se a dificuldade dos professores em delimitar seu papel para si e para as famílias. Os professores também se mostraram com poucos recursos para trabalhar com a diversidade de demandas familiares e é possível pensar que eles se beneficiariam de espaços de reflexão e desenvolvimento de sensibilidade para poder discriminar essas demandas. Assim, pode-se dizer que é necessário inaugurar uma discussão profunda sobre o que significa formar os professores para o trabalho com as famílias.ResumenEl papel de los docentes se ha transformado en los últimos años debido a las exigencias y responsabilidades educativas cada vez más complejas que derivan de las familias de sus alumnos. El objetivo de este estudio consistió en investigar cómo docentes de educación primaria de Brasil y Uruguay perciben y evalúan las demandas que reciben de las familias y cuán preparados se sienten para enfrentar esa realidad. El diseño fue cualitativo, exploratorio y transcultural, utilizando la técnica de Grupo Focal, siendo uno brasileño (10 participantes) y uno uruguayo (9 participantes). En ambos grupos los participantes fueron mujeres, con experiencia tanto en la red pública como privada. Los datos fueron tratados con Análisis de Contenido y los resultados apuntaron a dos grandes temas: Formación Académica y Demandas de las Familias. El análisis permite comprobar innumerables semejanzas en la relación que familia y escuela establecen en la práctica cotidiana tanto en Brasil como en el Uruguay, sobre todo en lo que se refiere al rol docente. Se observa la dificultad que las docentes expresaron en cuanto a delimitar su papel frente a si mismas y frente a las familias. También las docentes se mostraron con pocos recursos para trabajar con la diversidad de las demandas familiares y es posible pensar que se beneficiarían de espacios de reflexión y desarrollo de la sensibilidad para poder discriminar tales demandas. Así, se puede decir que se necesita abrir una discusión profunda sobre lo que significa formar a los docentes para el trabajo con las familias. Keywords: Family school relationship, Preservice teachers, Cross Cultural Studies.Palavras-chave: Relação família-escola, Formação docente, Demandas familiares, Estudo transcultural.Palabras clave: Relación escuela-familia, Formación docente, Demandas familiares, Estudio transcultural.ReferencesANDRES, Sergio; GIRO, Joaquín. El papel y la representación del profesorado en la participación de las familias en la escuela. Revista Electrónica Interuniversitaria de Formación del Profesorado, Zaragoza, v.19, n.1, 61-71, 2016. URL: http://revistas.um.es/reifop/article/view/245461/189131AZPILLAGA, Verónica; INTXAUSTI, Nahia; JOARISTI, Luis Maria. Implicacion de las familias en los centros escolares de alta eficacia en la Comunidad Autónoma Vasca. Bordón: Revista de Pedagogía, Bordón, v.66, n.3, 27-38, 2014. URL: https://dialnet.unirioja.es/servlet/articulo?codigo=4748791BAEZA, Silvia. El imprescindible puente Familia-Escuela. Estrategias e intervenciones psicopedagógicas. 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Barcelona: Editorial Grào, 2003, 155p. WAGNER, Adriana; TRONCO, Cristina; ARMANI, Ananda B. Introdução – Os Desafios da Família Contemporânea: Revisitando Conceitos. En.: Wagner, Adriana e cols. (Eds.) Desafios Psicossociais da Família Contemporânea: pesquisas e reflexões. Porto Alegre: Artmed, 2011, 208p.

Abstract:

LINDEMANN’S father was of French Alsacian origin and came to England around the time that Germany annexed Alsace-Lorraine in 1871. He married a widow whose first husband had bought ‘Sidholme’, the largest of the Regency villas in the part of Sidmouth (Devon) called Elysian Fields. The house was built in 1826 by the Earl of Buckingham and stands in 14 acres of grounds with 300 different varieties of tree. An addition had soon to be made to the house when the Earl fell out with the local rector and wanted to hold his own services; it became the music room in the Lindemanns’ time and was where Lindemann heard Paderewski play. Lindemann’s father had a laboratory and observatory in the grounds and some of Lindemann’s research was done there. When Mrs Lindemann died in 1927 the house passed to her son by her first marriage and the Lindemanns were distressed that he immediately sold it with the contents, forcing them to move. The observatory was given to the University College of the South West (which became Exeter University) and this was acknowledged in the 5th Annual Report and Prospectus of 1927. An Adam Hilger astronomical spectroscope dating from about 1885 is in a show case at the University and carries the statement ‘This spectroscope was probably used at Sidmouth, where A. F. Lindemann (father of the late Lord Cherwell) had an observatory at his home’. ‘Sidholme’ is now a Methodist Guild holiday home.

Abstract:

“...children’s play seems to become more and more a product of the educational and cultural orientation of parents...” — Stephen Kline, The Making of Children’s Culture We live in a world saturated by design and through design artefacts, one can glean unique insights into a culture's values and norms. In fact, some academics, such as British media and film theorist Ben Highmore, see the two areas so inextricably intertwined as to suggest a wholesale “re-branding of the cultural sciences as design studies” (14). Too often, however, everyday objects are marginalised or overlooked as objects of scholarly attention. The field of material culture studies seeks to change that by focussing on the quotidian object and its ability to reveal much about the time, place, and culture in which it was designed and used. This article takes on one such object, a mid-century children's toy tea set, whose humble journey from 1968 Sears catalogue to 2014 thrift shop—and subsequently this author’s basem*nt—reveals complex rhetorical messages communicated both visually and verbally. As material culture studies theorist Jules Prown notes, the field’s foundation is laid upon the understanding “that objects made ... by man reflect, consciously or unconsciously, directly or indirectly, the beliefs of individuals who made, commissioned, purchased or used them, and by extension the beliefs of the larger society to which they belonged” (1-2). In this case, the objects’ material and aesthetic characteristics can be shown to reflect some of the pervasive stereotypes and gender roles of the mid-century and trace some of the prevailing tastes of the American middle class of that era, or perhaps more accurately the type of design that came to represent good taste and a modern aesthetic for that audience. A wealth of research exists on the function of toys and play in learning about the world and even the role of toy selection in early sex-typing, socialisation, and personal identity of children (Teglasi). This particular research area isn’t the focus of this article; however, one aspect that is directly relevant and will be addressed is the notion of adult role-playing among children and the role of toys in communicating certain adult practices or values to the child—what sociologist David Oswell calls “the dedifferentiation of childhood and adulthood” (200). Neither is the focus of this article the practice nor indeed the ethicality of marketing to children. Relevant to this particular example I suggest, is as a product utilising messaging aimed not at children but at adults, appealing to certain parents’ interest in nurturing within their child a perceived era and class-appropriate sense of taste. This was fuelled in large part by the curatorial pursuits of the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) in New York, coupled with an interest and investment in raising their children in a design-forward household and a desire for toys that reflected that priority; in essence, parents wishing to raise modern children. Following Prown’s model of material culture analysis, the tea set is examined in three stages, through description, deduction and speculation with each stage building on the previous one. Figure 1: Porcelain Toy Tea Set. Description The tea set consists of twenty-six pieces that allows service for six. Six cups, saucers, and plates; a tall carafe with spout, handle and lid; a smaller vessel with a spout and handle; a small round bowl with a lid; a larger oval bowl with a lid, and a coordinated oval platter. The cups are just under two inches tall and two inches in diameter. The largest piece, the platter is roughly six inches by four inches. The pieces are made of a ceramic material white in colour and glossy in texture and are very lightweight. The rim or edge of each piece is decorated with a motif of three straight lines in two different shades of blue and in different thicknesses, interspersed with a set of three black wiggly lines. Figure 2: Porcelain Toy Tea Set Box. The set is packaged for retail purposes and the original box appears to be fully intact. The packaging of an object carries artefactual evidence just as important as what it contains that falls into the category of a “‘para-artefact’ … paraphernalia that accompanies the product (labels, packaging, instructions etc.), all of which contribute to a product’s discourse” (Folkmann and Jensen 83). The graphics on the box are colourful, featuring similar shades of teal blue as found on the objects, with the addition of orange and a silver sticker featuring the logo of the American retailer Sears. The cover features an illustration of the objects on an orange tabletop. The most prominent text that confirms that the toy is a “Porcelain Toy Tea Set” is in an organic, almost psychedelic style that mimics both popular graphics of this era—especially album art and concert posters—as well as the organic curves of steam that emanate from the illustrated teapot’s spout. Additional messages appear on the box, in particular “Contemporary DESIGN” and “handsome, clean-line styling for modern little hostesses”. Along the edges of the box lid, a detail of the decorative motif is reproduced somewhat abstracted from what actually appears on the ceramic objects. Figure 3: Sears’s Christmas Wishbook Catalogue, page 574 (1968). Sears, Roebuck and Co. (Sears) is well-known for its over one-hundred-year history of producing printed merchandise catalogues. The catalogue is another important para-artefact to consider in analysing the objects. The tea set first appeared in the 1968 Sears Christmas Wishbook. There is no date or copyright on the box, so only its inclusion in the catalogue allows the set to be accurately dated. It also allows us to understand how the set was originally marketed. Deduction In the deduction phase, we focus on the sensory aesthetic and functional interactive qualities of the various components of the set. In terms of its function, it is critical that we situate the objects in their original use context, play. The light weight of the objects and thinness of the ceramic material lends the objects a delicate, if not fragile, feeling which indicates that this set is not for rough use. Toy historian Lorraine May Punchard differentiates between toy tea sets “meant to be used by little girls, having parties for their friends and practising the social graces of the times” and smaller sets or doll dishes “made for little girls to have parties with their dolls, or for their dolls to have parties among themselves” (7). Similar sets sold by Sears feature images of girls using the sets with both human playmates and dolls. The quantity allowing service for six invites multiple users to join the party. The packaging makes clear that these toy tea sets were intended for imaginary play only, rendering them non-functional through an all-capitals caution declaiming “IMPORTANT: Do not use near heat”. The walls and handles of the cups are so thin one can imagine that they would quickly become dangerous if filled with a hot liquid. Nevertheless, the lid of the oval bowl has a tan stain or watermark which suggests actual use. The box is broken up by pink cardboard partitions dividing it into segments sized for each item in the set. Interestingly even the small squares of unfinished corrugated cardboard used as cushioning between each stacked plate have survived. The evidence of careful re-packing indicates that great care was taken in keeping the objects safe. It may suggest that even though the set was used, the children or perhaps the parents, considered the set as something to care for and conserve for the future. Flaws in the glaze and applique of the design motif can be found on several pieces in the set and offer some insight as to the technique used in producing these items. Errors such as the design being perfectly evenly spaced but crooked in its alignment to the rim, or pieces of the design becoming detached or accidentally folded over and overlapping itself could only be the result of a print transfer technique popularised with decorative china of the Victorian era, a technique which lends itself to mass production and lower cost when compared to hand decoration. Speculation In the speculation stage, we can consider the external evidence and begin a more rigorous investigation of the messaging, iconography, and possible meanings of the material artefact. Aspects of the set allow a number of useful observations about the role of such an object in its own time and context. Sociologists observe the role of toys as embodiments of particular types of parental messages and values (Cross 292) and note how particularly in the twentieth century “children’s play seems to become more and more a product of the educational and cultural orientation of parents” (Kline 96). Throughout history children’s toys often reflected a miniaturised version of the adult world allowing children to role-play as imagined adult-selves. Kristina Ranalli explored parallels between the practice of drinking tea and the play-acting of the child’s tea party, particularly in the nineteenth century, as a gendered ritual of gentility; a method of socialisation and education, and an opportunity for exploratory and even transgressive play by “spontaneously creating mini-societies with rules of their own” (20). Such toys and objects were available through the Sears mail-order catalogue from the very beginning at the end of the nineteenth century (McGuire). Propelled by the post-war boom of suburban development and homeownership—that generation’s manifestation of the American Dream—concern with home décor and design was elevated among the American mainstream to a degree never before seen. There was a hunger for new, streamlined, efficient, modernist living. In his essay titled “Domesticating Modernity”, historian Jeffrey L. Meikle notes that many early modernist designers found that perhaps the most potent way to “‘domesticate’ modernism and make it more familiar was to miniaturise it; for example, to shrink the skyscraper and put it into the home as furniture or tableware” (143). Dr Timothy Blade, curator of the 1985 exhibition of girls’ toys at the University of Minnesota’s Goldstein Gallery—now the Goldstein Museum of Design—described in his introduction “a miniaturised world with little props which duplicate, however rudely, the larger world of adults” (5). Noting the power of such toys to reflect adult values of their time, Blade continues: “the microcosm of the child’s world, remarkably furnished by the miniaturised props of their parents’ world, holds many direct and implied messages about the society which brought it into being” (9). In large part, the mid-century Sears catalogues capture the spirit of an era when, as collector Thomas Holland observes, “little girls were still primarily being offered only the options of glamour, beauty and parenthood as the stuff of their fantasies” (175). Holland notes that “the Wishbooks of the fifties [and, I would add, the sixties] assumed most girls would follow in their mother’s footsteps to become full-time housewives and mommies” (1). Blade grouped toys into three categories: cooking, cleaning, and sewing. A tea set could arguably be considered part of the cooking category, but closer examination of the language used in marketing this object—“little hostesses”, et cetera—suggests an emphasis not on cooking but on serving or entertaining. This particular category was not prevalent in the era examined by Blade, but the cultural shifts of the mid-twentieth century, particularly the rapid popularisation of a suburban lifestyle, may have led to the use of entertaining as an additional distinct category of role play in the process of learning to become a “proper” homemaker. Sears and other retailers offered a wide variety of styles of toy tea sets during this era. Blade and numerous other sources observe that children’s toy furniture and appliances tended to reflect the style and aesthetic qualities of their contemporary parallels in the adult world, the better to associate the child’s objects to its adult equivalent. The toy tea set’s packaging trumpets messages intended to appeal to modernist values and identity including “Contemporary Design” and “handsome, clean-line styling for modern little hostesses”. The use of this coded marketing language, aimed particularly at parents, can be traced back several decades. In 1928 a group of American industrial and textile designers established the American Designers' Gallery in New York, in part to encourage American designers to innovate and adopt new styles such as those seen in the L’ Exposition Internationale des Arts Decoratifs et Industriels Modernes (1925) in Paris, the exposition that sparked international interest in the Art Deco or Art Moderne aesthetic. One of the gallery founders, Ilonka Karasz, a Hungarian-American industrial and textile designer who had studied in Austria and was influenced by the Wiener Werkstätte in Vienna, publicised her new style of nursery furnishings as “designed for the very modern American child” (Brown 80). Sears itself was no stranger to the appeal of such language. The term “contemporary design” was ubiquitous in catalogue copy of the nineteen-fifties and sixties, used to describe everything from draperies (1959) and bedspreads (1961) to spice racks (1964) and the Lady Kenmore portable dishwasher (1961). An emphasis on the role of design in one’s life and surroundings can be traced back to efforts by MoMA. The museum’s interest in modern design hearkens back almost to the institution’s inception, particularly in relation to industrial design and the aestheticisation of everyday objects (Marshall). Through exhibitions and in partnership with mass-market magazines, department stores and manufacturer showrooms, MoMA curators evangelised the importance of “good design” a term that can be found in use as early as 1942. What Is Good Design? followed the pattern of prior exhibitions such as What Is Modern Painting? and situated modern design at the centre of exhibitions that toured the United States in the first half of the nineteen-fifties. To MoMA and its partners, “good design” signified the narrow identification of proper taste in furniture, home decor and accessories; effectively, the establishment of a design canon. The viewpoints enshrined in these exhibitions and partnerships were highly influential on the nation’s perception of taste for decades to come, as the trickle-down effect reached a much broader segment of consumers than those that directly experienced the museum or its exhibitions (Lawrence.) This was evident not only at high-end shops such as Bloomingdale’s and Macy’s. Even mass-market retailers sought out well-known figures of modernist design to contribute to their offerings. Sears, for example, commissioned noted modernist designer and ceramicist Russel Wright to produce a variety of serving ware and decor items exclusively for the company. Notably for this study, he was also commissioned to create a toy tea set for children. The 1957 Wishbook touts the set as “especially created to delight modern little misses”. Within its Good Design series, MoMA exhibitions celebrated numerous prominent Nordic designers who were exploring simplified forms and new material technologies. In the 1968 Wishbook, the retailer describes the Porcelain Toy Tea Set as “Danish-inspired china for young moderns”. The reference to Danish design is certainly compatible with the modernist appeal; after the explosion in popularity of Danish furniture design, the term “Danish Modern” was commonly used in the nineteen-fifties and sixties as shorthand for pan-Scandinavian or Nordic design, or more broadly for any modern furniture design regardless of origin that exhibited similar characteristics. In subsequent decades the notion of a monolithic Scandinavian-Nordic design aesthetic or movement has been debunked as primarily an economically motivated marketing ploy (Olivarez et al.; Fallan). In the United States, the term “Danish Modern” became so commonly misused that the Danish Society for Arts and Crafts called upon the American Federal Trade Commission (FTC) to legally restrict the use of the labels “Danish” and “Danish Modern” to companies genuinely originating in Denmark. Coincidentally the FTC ruled on this in 1968, noting “that ‘Danish Modern’ carries certain meanings, and... that consumers might prefer goods that are identified with a foreign culture” (Hansen 451). In the case of the Porcelain Toy Tea Set examined here, Sears was not claiming that the design was “Danish” but rather “Danish-inspired”. One must wonder, was this another coded marketing ploy to communicate a sense of “Good Design” to potential customers? An examination of the formal qualities of the set’s components, particularly the simplified geometric forms and the handle style of the cups, confirms that it is unlike a traditional—say, Victorian-style—tea set. Punchard observes that during this era some American tea sets were actually being modelled on coffee services rather than traditional tea services (148). A visual comparison of other sets sold by Sears in the same year reveals a variety of cup and pot shapes—with some similar to the set in question—while others exhibit more traditional teapot and cup shapes. Coffee culture was historically prominent in Nordic cultures so there is at least a passing reference to that aspect of Nordic—if not specifically Danish—influence in the design. But what of the decorative motif? Simple curved lines were certainly prominent in Danish furniture and architecture of this era, and occasionally found in combination with straight lines, but no connection back to any specific Danish motif could be found even after consultation with experts in the field from the Museum of Danish America and the Vesterheim National Norwegian-American Museum (personal correspondence). However, knowing that the average American consumer of this era—even the design-savvy among them—consumed Scandinavian design without distinguishing between the various nations, a possible explanation could be contained in the promotion of Finnish textiles at the time. In the decade prior to the manufacture of the tea set a major design tendency began to emerge in the United States, triggered by the geometric design motifs of the Finnish textile and apparel company Marimekko. Marimekko products were introduced to the American market in 1959 via the Cambridge, Massachusetts-based retailer Design Research (DR) and quickly exploded in popularity particularly after would-be First Lady Jacqueline Kennedy appeared in national media wearing Marimekko dresses during the 1960 presidential campaign and on the cover of Sports Illustrated magazine. (Thompson and Lange). The company’s styling soon came to epitomise a new youth aesthetic of the early nineteen sixties in the United States, a softer and more casual predecessor to the London “mod” influence. During this time multiple patterns were released that brought a sense of whimsy and a more human touch to classic mechanical patterns and stripes. The patterns Piccolo (1953), Helmipitsi (1959), and Varvunraita (1959), all designed by Vuokko Eskolin-Nurmesniemi offered varying motifs of parallel straight lines. Maija Isola's Silkkikuikka (1961) pattern—said to be inspired by the plumage of the Great Crested Grebe—combined parallel serpentine lines with straight and angled lines, available in a variety of colours. These and other geometrically inspired patterns quickly inundated apparel and decor markets. DR built a vastly expanded Cambridge flagship store and opened new locations in New York in 1961 and 1964, and in San Francisco in 1965 fuelled in no small part by the fact that they remained the exclusive outlet for Marimekko in the United States. It is clear that Marimekko’s approach to pattern influenced designers and manufacturers across industries. Design historian Lesley Jackson demonstrates that Marimekko designs influenced or were emulated by numerous other companies across Scandinavia and beyond (72-78). The company’s influence grew to such an extent that some described it as a “conquest of the international market” (Hedqvist and Tarschys 150). Subsequent design-forward retailers such as IKEA and Crate and Barrel continue to look to Marimekko even today for modern design inspiration. In 2016 the mass-market retailer Target formed a design partnership with Marimekko to offer an expansive limited-edition line in their stores, numbering over two hundred items. So, despite the “Danish” misnomer, it is quite conceivable that designers working for or commissioned by Sears in 1968 may have taken their aesthetic cues from Marimekko’s booming work, demonstrating a clear understanding of the contemporary high design aesthetic of the time and coding the marketing rhetoric accordingly even if incorrectly. Conclusion The Sears catalogue plays a unique role in capturing cross-sections of American culture not only as a sales tool but also in Holland’s words as “a beautifully illustrated diary of America, it’s [sic] people and the way we thought about things” (1). Applying a rhetorical and material culture analysis to the catalogue and the objects within it provides a unique glimpse into the roles these objects played in mediating relationships, transmitting values and embodying social practices, tastes and beliefs of mid-century American consumers. Adult consumers familiar with the characteristics of the culture of “Good Design” potentially could have made a connection between the simplified geometric forms of the components of the toy tea set and say the work of modernist tableware designers such as Kaj Franck, or between the set’s graphic pattern and the modernist motifs of Marimekko and its imitators. But for a much broader segment of the population with a less direct understanding of modernist aesthetics, those connections may not have been immediately apparent. The rhetorical messaging behind the objects’ packaging and marketing used class and taste signifiers such as modern, contemporary and “Danish” to reinforce this connection to effect an emotional and aspirational appeal. These messages were coded to position the set as an effective transmitter of modernist values and to target parents with the ambition to create “appropriately modern” environments for their children. References Ancestry.com. “Historic Catalogs of Sears, Roebuck and Co., 1896–1993.” <http://search.ancestry.com/search/db.aspx?dbid=1670>. Baker Furniture Inc. “Design Legacy: Our Story.” n.d. <http://www.bakerfurniture.com/design-story/ legacy-of-quality/design-legacy/>. Blade, Timothy Trent. “Introduction.” Child’s Play, Woman’s Work: An Exhibition of Miniature Toy Appliances: June 12, 1985–September 29, 1985. St. Paul: Goldstein Gallery, U Minnesota, 1985. Brown, Ashley. “Ilonka Karasz: Rediscovering a Modernist Pioneer.” Studies in the Decorative Arts 8.1 (2000-1): 69–91. Cross, Gary. “Gendered Futures/Gendered Fantasies: Toys as Representatives of Changing Childhood.” American Journal of Semiotics 12.1 (1995): 289–310. Dolansky, Fanny. “Playing with Gender: Girls, Dolls, and Adult Ideals in the Roman World.” Classical Antiquity 31.2 (2012): 256–92. Fallan, Kjetil. Scandinavian Design: Alternative Histories. Berg, 2012. Folkmann, Mads Nygaard, and Hans-Christian Jensen. “Subjectivity in Self-Historicization: Design and Mediation of a ‘New Danish Modern’ Living Room Set.” Design and Culture 7.1 (2015): 65–84. Hansen, Per H. “Networks, Narratives, and New Markets: The Rise and Decline of Danish Modern Furniture Design, 1930–1970.” The Business History Review 80.3 (2006): 449–83. Hedqvist, Hedvig, and Rebecka Tarschys. “Thoughts on the International Reception of Marimekko.” Marimekko: Fabrics, Fashions, Architecture. Ed. Marianne Aav. Bard. 2003. 149–71. Highmore, Ben. The Design Culture Reader. Routledge, 2008. Holland, Thomas W. Girls’ Toys of the Fifties and Sixties: Memorable Catalog Pages from the Legendary Sears Christmas Wishbooks, 1950-1969. Windmill, 1997. Hucal, Sarah. "Scandi Crush Saga: How Scandinavian Design Took over the World." Curbed, 23 Mar. 2016. <http://www.curbed.com/2016/3/23/11286010/scandinavian-design-arne-jacobsen-alvar-aalto-muuto-artek>. Jackson, Lesley. “Textile Patterns in an International Context: Precursors, Contemporaries, and Successors.” Marimekko: Fabrics, Fashions, Architecture. Ed. Marianne Aav. Bard. 2003. 44–83. Kline, Stephen. “The Making of Children’s Culture.” The Children’s Culture Reader. Ed. Henry Jenkins. New York: NYU P, 1998. 95–109. Lawrence, Sidney. “Declaration of Function: Documents from the Museum of Modern Art’s Design Crusade, 1933-1950.” Design Issues 2.1 (1985): 65–77. Marshall, Jennifer Jane. Machine Art 1934. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2012. McGuire, Sheila. “Playing House: Sex-Roles and the Child’s World.” Child’s Play, Woman’s Work: An Exhibition of Miniature Toy Appliances : June 12, 1985–September 29, 1985. St. Paul: Goldstein Gallery, U Minnesota, 1985. Meikel, Jeffrey L. “Domesticating Modernity: Ambivalence and Appropriation, 1920–1940.” Designing Modernity; the Arts of Reform and Persuasion. Ed. Wendy Kaplan. Thames & Hudson, 1995. 143–68. O’Brien, Marion, and Aletha C. Huston. “Development of Sex-Typed Play Behavior in Toddlers.” Developmental Psychology, 21.5 (1985): 866–71. Olivarez, Jennifer Komar, Jukka Savolainen, and Juulia Kauste. Finland: Designed Environments. Minneapolis Institute of Arts and Nordic Heritage Museum, 2014. Oswell, David. The Agency of Children: From Family to Global Human Rights. Cambridge UP, 2013. Prown, Jules David. “Mind in Matter: An Introduction to Material Culture Theory and Method.” Winterthur Portfolio 17.1 (1982): 1–19. Punchard, Lorraine May. Child’s Play: Play Dishes, Kitchen Items, Furniture, Accessories. Punchard, 1982. Ranalli, Kristina. An Act Apart: Tea-Drinking, Play and Ritual. Master's thesis. U Delaware, 2013. Sears Corporate Archives. “What Is a Sears Modern Home?” n.d. <http://www.searsarchives.com/homes/index.htm>. "Target Announces New Design Partnership with Marimekko: It’s Finnish, Target Style." Target, 2 Mar. 2016. <http://corporate.target.com/article/2016/03/marimekko-for-target>. Teglasi, Hedwig. “Children’s Choices of and Value Judgments about Sex-Typed Toys and Occupations.” Journal of Vocational Behavior 18.2 (1981): 184–95. Thompson, Jane, and Alexandra Lange. Design Research: The Store That Brought Modern Living to American Homes. Chronicle, 2010.

Abstract:

The brand began, quite literally, as a method for ranchers to identify their cattle. By burning a distinct symbol into the hide of a baby calf, the owner could insure that if it one day wandered off his property or was stolen by a competitor, he’d be able to point to that logo and claim the animal as his rightful property. When the manufacturers of products adopted the brand as a way of guaranteeing the quality of their goods, its function remained pretty much the same. Buying a package of oats with the Quaker label meant the customer could trace back these otherwise generic oats to their source. If there was a problem, he knew where he could turn. More important, if the oats were of satisfactory or superior quality, he knew where he could get them again. Trademarking a brand meant that no one else could call his oats Quaker. Advertising in this innocent age simply meant publicizing the existence of one’s brand. The sole objective was to increase consumers awareness of the product or company that made it. Those who even thought to employ specialists for the exclusive purpose of writing ad copy hired newspaper reporters and travelling salesmen, who knew how to explain the attributes of an item in words that people tended to remember. It wasn’t until 1922 that a preacher and travelling “medicine show” salesman-turned-copywriter named Claude Hopkins decided that advertising should be systematized into a science. His short but groundbreaking book Scientific Advertising proposed that the advertisem*nt is merely a printed extension of the salesman¹s pitch and should follow the same rules. Hopkins believed in using hard descriptions over hype, and text over image: “The more you tell, the more you sell” and “White space is wasted space” were his mantras. Hopkins believed that any illustrations used in an ad should be directly relevant to the product itself, not just a loose or emotional association. He insisted on avoiding “frivolity” at all costs, arguing that “no one ever bought from a clown.” Although some images did appear in advertisem*nts and on packaging as early as the 1800s - the Quaker Oats man showed up in 1877 - these weren¹t consciously crafted to induce psychological states in customers. They were meant just to help people remember one brand over another. How better to recall the brand Quaker than to see a picture of one? It wasn’t until the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s, as Americans turned toward movies and television and away from newspapers and radio, that advertisers’ focus shifted away from describing their brands and to creating images for them. During these decades, Midwestern adman Leo Burnett concocted what is often called the Chicago school of advertising, in which lovable characters are used to represent products. Green Giant, which was originally just the Minnesota Valley Canning Company’s code name for an experimental pea, became the Jolly Green Giant in young Burnett’s world of animated characters. He understood that the figure would make a perfect and enticing brand image for an otherwise boring product and could also serve as a mnemonic device for consumers. As he watched his character grow in popularity, Burnett discovered that the mythical figure of a green giant had resonance in many different cultures around the world. It became a kind of archetype and managed to penetrate the psyche in more ways than one. Burnett was responsible for dozens of character-based brand images, including Tony the Tiger, Charlie the Tuna, Morris the Cat, and the Marlboro Man. In each case, the character creates a sense of drama, which engages the audience in the pitch. This was Burnett’s great insight. He still wanted to sell a product based on its attributes, but he knew he had to draw in his audience using characters. Brand images were also based on places, like Hidden Valley Ranch salad dressing, or on recognizable situations, such as the significant childhood memories labelled “Kodak moments” or a mother nurturing her son on a cold day, a defining image for Campbell’s soup. In all these cases, however, the moment, location, or character went only so far as to draw the audience into the ad, after which they would be subjected to a standard pitch: ‘Soup is good food’, or ‘Sorry, Charlie, only the best tuna get to be Starkist’. Burnett saw himself as a homespun Midwesterner who was contributing to American folklore while speaking in the plain language of the people. He took pride in the fact that his ads used words like “ain’t”; not because they had some calculated psychological effect on the audience, but because they communicated in a natural, plainspoken style. As these methods found their way to Madison Avenue and came to be practiced much more self-consciously, Burnett¹s love for American values and his focus on brand attributes were left behind. Branding became much more ethereal and image-based, and ads only occasionally nodded to a product’s attributes. In the 1960s, advertising gurus like David Ogilvy came up with rules about television advertising that would have made Claude Hopkins shudder. “Food in motion” dictated that food should always be shot by a moving camera. “Open with fire” meant that ads should start in a very exciting and captivating way. Ogilvy told his creatives to use supers - text superimposed on the screen to emphasize important phrases and taglines. All these techniques were devised to promote brand image, not the product. Ogilvy didn’t believe consumers could distinguish between products were it not for their images. In Ogilvy on Advertising, he explains that most people cannot tell the difference between their own “favourite” whiskey and the closest two competitors’: ‘Have they tried all three and compared the taste? Don¹t make me laugh. The reality is that these three brands have different images which appeal to different kinds of people. It isn¹t the whiskey they choose, it’s the image. The brand image is ninety percent of what the distiller has to sell.’ (Ogilvy, 1993). Thus, we learned to “trust our car to the man who wears the star” not because Texaco had better gasoline than Shell, but because the company’s advertisers had created a better brand image. While Burnett and his disciples were building brand myths, another school of advertisers was busy learning about its audience. Back in the 1920s, Raymond Rubicam, who eventually founded the agency Young and Rubicam, thought it might be interesting to hire a pollster named Dr. Gallup from Northwestern University to see what could be gleaned about consumers from a little market research. The advertising industry’s version of cultural anthropology, or demographics, was born. Like the public-relations experts who study their target populations in order to manipulate them later, marketers began conducting polls, market surveys, and focus groups on the segments of the population they hoped to influence. And to draw clear, clean lines between demographic groups, researchers must almost always base distinctions on four factors: race, age, sex, and wages. Demographic research is reductionist by design. I once consulted to an FM radio station whose station manager wanted to know, “Who is our listener?” Asking such a question reduces an entire listenership down to one fictional person. It’s possible that no single individual will ever match the “customer profile” meant to apply to all customers, which is why so much targeted marketing often borders on classist, racist, and sexist pandering. Billboards for most menthol cigarettes, for example, picture African-Americans because, according to demographic research, black people prefer them to regular cigarettes. Microsoft chose Rolling Stones songs to launch Windows 95, a product targeted at wealthy baby boomers. “The Women’s Global Challenge” was an advertising-industry-created Olympics for women, with no purpose other than to market to active females. By the 1970s, the two strands of advertising theory - demographic research and brand image - were combined to develop campaigns that work on both levels. To this day, we know to associate Volvos with safety, Dr. Pepper with individuality, and Harley-Davidson with American heritage. Each of these brand images is crafted to appeal to the target consumer’s underlying psychological needs: Volvo ads are aimed at upper-middle-class white parents who fear for their children’s health and security, Dr. Pepper is directed to young nonconformists, and the Harley-Davidson image supports its riders’ self-perception as renegades. Today’s modern (or perhaps postmodern) brands don’t invent a corporate image on their own; they appropriate one from the media itself, such as MetLife did with Snoopy, Butterfinger did with Bart Simpson, or Kmart did by hiring Penny Marshall and Rosie O’Donnell. These mascots were selected because their perceived characteristics match the values of their target consumers - not the products themselves. In the language of today’s marketers, brand images do not reflect on products but on advertisers’ perceptions of their audiences’ psychology. This focus on audience composition and values has become the standard operating procedure in all of broadcasting. When Fox TV executives learned that their animated series “King of the Hill”, about a Texan propane distributor, was not faring well with certain demographics, for example, they took a targeted approach to their character’s rehabilitation. The Brandweek piece on Fox’s ethnic campaign uncomfortably dances around the issue. Hank Hill is the proverbial everyman, and Fox wants viewers to get comfortable with him; especially viewers in New York, where “King of the Hill”’s homespun humor hasn’t quite caught on with the young urbanites. So far this season, the show has pulled in a 10.1 rating/15 share in households nationally, while garnering a 7.9 rating/12 share in New York (Brandweek, 1997) As far as Fox was concerned, while regular people could identify with the network’s new “everyman” character, New Yorkers weren’t buying his middle-American patter. The television show’s ratings proved what TV executives had known all along: that New York City’s Jewish demographic doesn’t see itself as part of the rest of America. Fox’s strategy for “humanizing” the character to those irascible urbanites was to target the group’s ethnographic self-image. Fox put ads for the show on the panels of sidewalk coffee wagons throughout Manhattan, with the tagline “Have a bagel with Hank”. In an appeal to the target market’s well-developed (and well-researched) cynicism, Hank himself is shown saying, “May I suggest you have that with a schmear”. The disarmingly ethnic humor here is meant to underscore the absurdity of a Texas propane salesman using a Jewish insider’s word like “schmear.” In another Upper West Side billboard, Hank’s son appeals to the passing traffic: “Hey yo! Somebody toss me up a knish!” As far as the New York demographic is concerned, these jokes transform the characters from potentially threatening Southern rednecks into loveable hicks bending over backward to appeal to Jewish sensibilities, and doing so with a comic and, most important, nonthreatening inadequacy. Today, the most intensely targeted demographic is the baby - the future consumer. Before an average American child is twenty months old, he can recognize the McDonald’s logo and many other branded icons. Nearly everything a toddler encounters - from Band-Aids to underpants - features the trademarked characters of Disney or other marketing empires. Although this target market may not be in a position to exercise its preferences for many years, it pays for marketers to imprint their brands early. General Motors bought a two-page ad in Sports Illustrated for Kids for its Chevy Venture minivan. Their brand manager rationalized that the eight-to-fourteen-year-old demographic consists of “back-seat consumers” (Leonhardt, 1997). The real intention of target marketing to children and babies, however, goes deeper. The fresh neurons of young brains are valuable mental real estate to admen. By seeding their products and images early, the marketers can do more than just develop brand recognition; they can literally cultivate a demographic’s sensibilities as they are formed. A nine-year-old child who can recognize the Budweiser frogs and recite their slogan (Bud-weis-er) is more likely to start drinking beer than one who can remember only Tony the Tiger yelling, “They¹re great!” (Currently, more children recognize the frogs than Tony.) This indicates a long-term coercive strategy. The abstraction of brand images from the products they represent, combined with an increasing assault on our demographically targeted psychological profiles, led to some justifiable consumer paranoia by the 1970s. Advertising was working on us in ways we couldn’t fully understand, and people began to look for an explanation. In 1973, Wilson Bryan Key, a communications researcher, wrote the first of four books about “subliminal advertising,” in which he accused advertisers of hiding sexual imagery in ice cubes, and psychoactive words like “sex” onto the airbrushed surfaces of fashion photographs. Having worked on many advertising campaigns from start to finish, in close proximity to everyone from copywriters and art directors to printers, I can comfortably put to rest any rumours that major advertising agencies are engaging in subliminal campaigns. How do images that could be interpreted as “sexual” show up in ice cubes or elbows? The final photographs chosen for ads are selected by committee out of hundreds that are actually shot. After hours or days of consideration, the group eventually feels drawn to one or two photos out of the batch. Not surprising, these photos tend to have more evocative compositions and details, but no penises, breasts, or skulls are ever superimposed onto the images. In fact, the man who claims to have developed subliminal persuasion, James Vicary, admitted to Advertising Age in 1984 that he had fabricated his evidence that the technique worked in order to drum up business for his failing research company. But this confession has not assuaged Key and others who relentlessly, perhaps obsessively, continue to pursue those they feel are planting secret visual messages in advertisem*nts. To be fair to Key, advertisers have left themselves open to suspicion by relegating their work to the abstract world of the image and then targeting consumer psychology so deliberately. According to research by the Roper Organization in 1992, fifty-seven percent of American consumers still believe that subliminal advertising is practiced on a regular basis, and only one in twelve think it “almost never” happens. To protect themselves from the techniques they believe are being used against them, the advertising audience has adopted a stance of cynical suspicion. To combat our increasing awareness and suspicion of demographic targeting, marketers have developed a more camouflaged form of categorization based on psychological profiles instead of race and age. Jim Schroer, the executive director of new marketing strategy at Ford explains his abandonment of broad-demographic targeting: ‘It’s smarter to think about emotions and attitudes, which all go under the term: psychographics - those things that can transcend demographic groups.’ (Schroer, 1997) Instead, he now appeals to what he calls “consumers’ images of themselves.” Unlike broad demographics, the psychographic is developed using more narrowly structured qualitative-analysis techniques, like focus groups, in-depth interviews, and even home surveillance. Marketing analysts observe the behaviors of volunteer subjects, ask questions, and try to draw causal links between feelings, self-image, and purchases. A company called Strategic Directions Group provides just such analysis of the human psyche. In their study of the car-buying habits of the forty-plus baby boomers and their elders, they sought to define the main psychological predilections that human beings in this age group have regarding car purchases. Although they began with a demographic subset of the overall population, their analysis led them to segment the group into psychographic types. For example, members of one psychographic segment, called the ³Reliables,² think of driving as a way to get from point A to point B. The “Everyday People” campaign for Toyota is aimed at this group and features people depending on their reliable and efficient little Toyotas. A convertible Saab, on the other hand, appeals to the ³Stylish Fun² category, who like trendy and fun-to-drive imports. One of the company’s commercials shows a woman at a boring party fantasizing herself into an oil painting, where she drives along the canvas in a sporty yellow Saab. Psychographic targeting is more effective than demographic targeting because it reaches for an individual customer more directly - like a fly fisherman who sets bait and jiggles his rod in a prescribed pattern for a particular kind of fish. It’s as if a marketing campaign has singled you out and recognizes your core values and aspirations, without having lumped you into a racial or economic stereotype. It amounts to a game of cat-and-mouse between advertisers and their target psychographic groups. The more effort we expend to escape categorization, the more ruthlessly the marketers pursue us. In some cases, in fact, our psychographic profiles are based more on the extent to which we try to avoid marketers than on our fundamental goals or values. The so-called “Generation X” adopted the anti-chic aesthetic of thrift-store grunge in an effort to find a style that could not be so easily identified and exploited. Grunge was so self-consciously lowbrow and nonaspirational that it seemed, at first, impervious to the hype and glamour normally applied swiftly to any emerging trend. But sure enough, grunge anthems found their way onto the soundtracks of television commercials, and Dodge Neons were hawked by kids in flannel shirts saying “Whatever.” The members of Generation X are putting up a good fight. Having already developed an awareness of how marketers attempt to target their hearts and wallets, they use their insight into programming to resist these attacks. Unlike the adult marketers pursuing them, young people have grown up immersed in the language of advertising and public relations. They speak it like natives. As a result, they are more than aware when a commercial or billboard is targeting them. In conscious defiance of demographic-based pandering, they adopt a stance of self-protective irony‹distancing themselves from the emotional ploys of the advertisers. Lorraine Ketch, the director of planning in charge of Levi¹s trendy Silvertab line, explained, “This audience hates marketing that’s in your face. It eyeballs it a mile away, chews it up and spits it out” (On Advertising, 1998). Chiat/Day, one of the world’s best-known and experimental advertising agencies, found the answer to the crisis was simply to break up the Gen-X demographic into separate “tribes” or subdemographics - and include subtle visual references to each one of them in the ads they produce for the brand. According to Levi’s director of consumer marketing, the campaign meant to communicate, “We really understand them, but we are not trying too hard” (On Advertising, 1998). Probably unintentionally, Ms. Ketch has revealed the new, even more highly abstract plane on which advertising is now being communicated. Instead of creating and marketing a brand image, advertisers are creating marketing campaigns about the advertising itself. Silvertab’s target market is supposed to feel good about being understood, but even better about understanding the way they are being marketed to. The “drama” invented by Leo Burnett and refined by David Ogilvy and others has become a play within a play. The scene itself has shifted. The dramatic action no longer occurs between the audience and the product, the brand, or the brand image, but between the audience and the brand marketers. As audiences gain even more control over the media in which these interactive stories unfold, advertising evolves ever closer to a theatre of the absurd. excerpted from Coercion: Why We Listen to What "They" Say)? Works Cited Ogilvy, David. Ogilvy on Advertising. New York: Vintage, 1983. Brandweek Staff, "Number Crunching, Hollywood Style," Brandweek. October 6, 1997. Leonhardt, David, and Kathleen Kerwin, "Hey Kid, Buy This!" Business Week. June 30, 1997 Schroer, Jim. Quoted in "Why We Kick Tires," by Carol Morgan and Doron Levy. Brandweek. Sept 29, 1997. "On Advertising," The New York Times. August 14, 1998 Citation reference for this article Substitute your date of access for Dn Month Year etc... MLA Style Rushkoff, Douglas. "Coercion " M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/06-coercion.php>. APA Style Rushkoff, D. (2003, Jun 19). Coercion . M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture, 6,< http://www.media-culture.org.au/0306/06-coercion.php>

Abstract:

Apparently some people upon coming across [Down Syndrome dolls] were offended. […] Still, it’s curious, and telling, what gives offense. Was it the shock of seeing a doll not modeled on the normative form that caused such offense? Or the assumption that any representation of Down Syndrome must naturally intend ridicule? Either way, it would seem that we might benefit from an examination of such reactions—especially as they relate to instances of the idealisation of the human form that dolls […] represent. (Faulkner) IntroductionWhen Joanne Faulkner describes public criticism of dolls designed to look like they have Down Syndrome, she draws attention to the need for an examination of the way discourses of disability are communicated. She calls, in particular, for an interrogation of people’s reactions to the disruption of the idealised human form that most dolls adopt. The case of Down Syndrome dolls is fascinating, yet critical discussion of these dolls from a disability or cultural studies perspective is conspicuously lacking. To address this lack, this paper draws upon theories of the cultural construction of disability, beauty, and normalcy (Garland-Thompson, Kumari Campbell, Wendell), to explore the way ideas about disability are communicated and circulated. The dominant discourse of disability is medical, where people are diagnosed or identified as disabled if they meet certain criteria, or lists of physical impairments. These lists have a tendency to subsume the disparate qualities of disability (Garland-Thompson) and remove people considered disabled from the social and cultural world in which they live (Snyder and Mitchell 377). While Down Syndrome dolls, produced by Downi Creations and Helga’s European Speciality Toys (HEST) in the US and Europe respectively, are reflective of such lists, they also perform the cultural function of increasing the visibility of disability in society. In addition, the companies distributing these dolls state that they are striving for greater inclusion of people with Down Syndrome (Collins, Parks). However, the effect of the dominance of medicalised discourses of disability can be seen in the public reaction to these dolls. This paper seeks also to bring an interrogation of disability into dialogue with a critical analysis of the discursive function of lists.The paper begins with a consideration of lists as they have been used to define disability and organise knowledge within medicine, and the impact this has had on the position of disability within society. In order to differentiate itself from medical discourses, the emerging social model also relied on lists during the 1980s and 1990s. However, these lists also decontextualised disability by ignoring certain factors for political advantage. The social model, like medicine, tended to ignore the diversity of humanity it was apparently arguing for (Snyder and Mitchell 377). The focus then shifts to the image of Down Syndrome dolls and the ensuing negative interpretation of them focusing, in particular, on reader comments following a Mail Online (Fisher) article. Although the dolls were debated across the blogosphere on a number of disability, special needs parenting, and Down Syndrome specific blogs, people commenting on The Mail Online—a UK based conservative tabloid newspaper—offer useful insights into communication and meaning making around disability. People establish meanings about disability through communication (Hedlund 766). While cultural responses to disability are influenced by a number of paradigms of interpretation such as superstition, religion, and fear, this paper is concerned with the rejection of bodies that do not ascribe to cultural standards of beauty and seeks to explore this paradigm alongside and within the use of lists by the various models of disability. This paper interrogates the use of lists in the way meanings about disability are communicated through the medical diagnostic list, the Down Syndrome dolls, and reactions to them. Each list reduces the disparate qualities and experiences of disability, yet as a cultural artefact, these dolls go some way towards recognising the social and cultural world that medicalised discourses of disability ignore. Drawing on the use of lists within different frameworks of disability, this paper contrasts the individual, or medical, model of disability (that being disabled is a personal problem) with the social model (that exclusion due to disability is social oppression). Secondly, the paper compares the characteristics of Down Syndrome dolls with actual characteristics of Down Syndrome to conclude that these features aim to be a celebrated, not stigmatised, aspect of the doll. By reasserting alternative notions of the body, the dolls point towards a more diverse society where disability can be understood in relation to social oppression. However, these aims of celebration have not automatically translated to a more diverse understanding. This paper aims to complicate perceptions of disability beyond a rudimentary list of characteristics through a consideration of the negative public response to these dolls. These responses are an example of the cultural subjugation of disability.Lists and the Creation of Normative Cultural ValuesFor Robert Belknap, lists are the dominant way of “organizing data relevant to human functioning” (8). While lists are used in a number of ways and for a variety of purposes, Belknap divides lists into two categories—the practical and the literary. Practical lists store meanings, while literary lists create them (89). Belknap’s recognition of the importance of meaning making is particularly relevant to a cultural interrogation of disability. As Mitchell and Snyder comment:Disability’s representational “fate” is not so much dependant upon a tradition of negative portrayals as it is tethered to inciting the act of meaning-making itself. (6)Disability unites disparate groups of people whose only commonality is that they are considered “abnormal” (Garland-Thompson). Ableism—the beliefs, processes, and practices which produce the ideal body—is a cultural project in which normative values are created in an attempt to neutralise the fact that all bodies are out of control (Kumari Campbell). Medical models use diagnostic lists and criteria to remove bodies from their social and cultural context and enforce an unequal power dynamic (Snyder and Mitchell 377).By comparison, the social model of disability shifts the emphasis to situate disability in social and cultural practices (Goggin and Newell 36). Lists have also been integral to the formation of the social model of disability as theorists established binary oppositions between medical and social understandings of disability (Oliver 22). While these lists have no “essential meaning,” through discourse they shape human experience (Liggett). Lists bring disparate items together to structure meaning and organisation. According to Hedlund, insights into the experience of disability—which is neither wholly medical nor wholly social—can be found in the language we use to communicate ideas about disability (766). For example, while the recent production of children’s dolls designed to reflect a list of the physical features of Down Syndrome (Table 2) may have no inherent meaning, negative public reception reveals recognisable modes of understanding disability. Down Syndrome dolls are in stark contrast to dolls popularly available which assume a normative representation. For Blair and Shalmon (15), popular children’s toys communicate cultural standards of beauty. Naomi Wolf describes beauty as a socially constructed normative value used to disempower women in particular. The idealisation of the human form is an aspect of children’s toys that has been criticised for perpetuating a narrow conception of beauty (Levy 189). Disability is likewise subject to social construction and is part of a collective social reality beyond diagnostic lists (Hedlund 766).Organising Knowledge: The Social vs. Medical Model of DisabilityDisability has long been moored in medical cultures and institutions which emphasise a sterile ideal of the body based on a diagnosis of biological difference as deviance. For example, in 1866, John Langdon Down sought to provide a diagnostic classification system for people with, what would later come to be called (after him), Down Syndrome. He focused on physical features:The hair is […] of a brownish colour, straight and scanty. The face is flat and broad, and destitute of prominence. The cheeks are roundish, and extended laterally. The eyes are obliquely placed, and the internal canthi more than normally distant from one another. The palpebral fissure is very narrow. The forehead is wrinkled transversely from the constant assistance which the levatores palpebrarum derive from the occipito-frontalis muscle in the opening of the eyes. The lips are large and thick with transverse fissures. The tongue is long, thick, and is much roughened. The nose is small. The skin has a slight dirty yellowish tinge, and is deficient in elasticity, giving the appearance of being too large for the body. (Down)These features form what Belknap would describe as a “pragmatic” list (12). For Belknap, scientific classification, such as the description Langdon Down offers above, introduces precision and validation to the use of lists (167). The overt principle linking these disparate characteristics together is the normative body from which these features deviate. Medicalised discourses, such as Down’s list, have been linked with the institutionalisation of people with this condition and their exclusion from the broader community (Hickey-Moody 23). Such emphasis on criteria to proffer diagnosis removes and decontextualises bodies from the world in which they live (Snyder and Mitchell 370). This world may in fact be the disabling factor, rather than the person’s body. The social model emerged in direct opposition to medicalised definitions of disability as a number of activists with disabilities in the United Kingdom formed The Union of Physically Impaired Against Segregation (UPIAS) and concluded that people with disability are disabled not by their bodies but by a world structured to exclude their bodies (Finkelstein 13). By separating disability (socially created) from impairment (the body), disability is understood as society’s unwillingness to accommodate the needs of people with impairments. The British academic and disability activist Michael Oliver was central to the establishment of the social model of disability. Following the activities of the UPIAS, Oliver (re)defined disability as a “form of social oppression,” and created two lists (reproduced below) to distinguish between the social and individual (or medical) models of disability. By utilising the list form in this way, Oliver both provided a repository of information regarding the social model of disability and contextualised it in direct opposition to what he describes as the individual model. These lists present the social model as a coherent discipline, in an easy to understand format. As Belknap argues, the suggestion of order is a major tool of the list (98). Oliver’s list suggests a clear order to the emerging social model of disability—disability is a problem with society, not an individual. However, this list was problematic because it appeared to disregard impairment within the experience of disability. As the “impersonal became political” (Snyder and Mitchell 377), impairment became the unacknowledged ambiguity in the binary opposition the social model was attempting to create (Shakespeare 35). Nevertheless, Oliver’s lists successfully enforced a desired order to the social model of disability. The individual modelThe social modelPersonal tragedy theorySocial oppression theoryPersonal problemSocial problemIndividual treatmentSocial actionMedicalisationSelf helpProfessional dominanceIndividual and collective responsibilityExpertiseExperienceAdjustmentAffirmationIndividual identityCollective identityPrejudiceDiscriminationAttitudesBehaviourCareRightsControlChoicePolicyPoliticsIndividual adaptation Social changeTable 1 The Individual v Social Model of Disability (Oliver)The social model then went through a period of “lists,” especially when discussing media and culture. Positive versus negative portrayals of disability were identified and scholars listed strategies for the appropriate representation of disability (Barnes, Barnes Mercer and Shakespeare). The representations of impairment or the physical markers of disability were discouraged as the discipline concerned itself with establishing disability as a political struggle against a disabling social world. Oliver’s lists arrange certain “facts” about disability. Disability is framed as a social phenomenon where certain aspects are emphasised and others left out. While Oliver explains that these lists were intended to represent extreme ends of a continuum to illustrate the distinction between disability and impairment (33), these are not mutually exclusive categories (Shakespeare 35). Disability is not simply a list of physical features, nor is it a clear distinction between individual/medical and social models. By utilising lists, the social model reacts to and attempts to move beyond the particular ordering provided by the medical model, but remains tied to a system of classification that imposes order on human functioning. Critical analysis of the representation of disability must re-engage the body by moving beyond binaries and pragmatic lists. While lists organise data central to human functioning, systems of meaning shape the organisation of human experience. Down Syndrome dolls, explored in the next section, complicate the distinction between the medical and social models.Down Syndrome DollsThese dolls are based on composites of a number of children with Down Syndrome (Hareyan). Helga Parks, CEO of HEST, describes the dolls as a realistic representation of nine physical features of Down Syndrome. Likewise, Donna Moore of Downi Creations employed a designer to oversee the production of the dolls which boast 13 features of Down Syndrome (Velasquez). These features are listed in the table below. HEST Down Syndrome Dolls Downi CreationsSmall ears set low on head with a fold at the topSmall ears with a fold at the topEars set low on the headSmall mouthSmall mouthProtruding tongueSlightly protruding tongueShortened fingers Shortened fingersPinkie finger curves inwardAlmond shaped eyesAlmond-shaped eyesHorizontal crease in palm of handHorizontal crease in palm of handGap between first and second toeA gap between the first and second toesShortened toesFlattened back of headFlattened back of headFlattened bridge across nose Flattened bridge across noseOptional: An incision in the chest to indicate open-heart surgery Table 2: Down Syndrome Dolls (Parks, Velasquez) Achieving the physical features of Down Syndrome is significant because Parks and Moore wanted children with the condition to recognise themselves:When a child with Down’s syndrome [sic.] picks up a regular doll, he doesn’t see himself, he sees the world’s perception of “perfect.” Our society is so focused on bodily perfection. (Cresswell)Despite these motivations, studies show that children with Down Syndrome prefer to play with “typical dolls” that do not reflect the physical characteristics of Down Syndrome (Cafferty 49). According to Cafferty, it is possible that children prefer typical dolls because they are “more attractive” (49). Similar studies of diverse groups of children have shown that children prefer to play with dolls they perceive as fitting into social concepts of beauty (Abbasi). Deeply embedded cultural notions of beauty—which exclude disability (see Morris)—are communicated from childhood (Blair & Shalmon 15). Notions of bodily perfection dominate children’s toys and Western culture in general as Cresswell comments above. Many bodies, not just those deemed “disabled,” do not conform to these cultural standards. Cultural ideals of beauty and an idealisation of the human body according to increasingly narrow parameters are becoming conflated with conceptions of normality (Wendell 86). Recognition of disability as subject to cultural rejection allows us to see “beauty and normalcy [as] a series of practices and positions [taken] in order to avoid the stigmatization of ugliness and abnormality” (Garland-Thompson). The exaggerated features of the doll problematise the idea that people with disability should strive to appear as nondisabled as possible and in turn highlights that some people, such as those with Down Syndrome, cannot “pass” as nondisabled and must therefore navigate a life and community that is not welcoming. While lists of the features of Down Syndrome store associated medicalised meanings, the discussion of the dolls online (the medium through which they are sold) provides insight into the cultural interpretation of disability and the way meaning is made. The next section of the paper considers a selection of negative responses to the Down Syndrome dolls that followed an article published in Mail Online (Fisher). What Causes Offence? Prior to Down Syndrome dolls, the majority of “disability dolls” were constructed through their accessories rather than through the dolls’ physical form and features. Wheelchairs, white canes, guide dogs and harnesses, plastic walkers, leg braces, and hearing aids could be purchased for use with dolls. Down Syndrome dolls look different as the features of impairment are embedded in the dolls’ construction. While accessories have a more temporary feel about them, the permanence of the impairments attributed to the doll was problematic for some who felt it projected a negative image of disability. Listed below are several negative comments following an article published in Mail Online (Fisher):What a grim world we are living in. No longer are dollies for play, for make believe, or for fun. Now it all about self image and psychological “help.” We “disabled” know we are “disabled”—we don’t need a doll to remind us of that! Stop making everything PC; let children be children and play and laugh once again!I think it’s sick and patronising.Who on earth are those education “experts?” Has nobody told them that you don’t educate children by mirroring their defects/weaknesses/negative traits but by doing exactly the opposite, mirroring back the BEST in them?The Downs Syndrome doll looks like they took the physical traits and presented them in an exaggerated way to make them more noticeable. That doll does not look attractive to me at all. If someone has a child that WANTS such a doll, fine. I can’t really see how it would help many of them, it would be like a huge sign saying “You are different.”The terminology used (grim, sick, patronising, defect, weak, negative, unattractive, different) to describe disability in these posts is significant. These descriptions are ideological categories which disadvantage and devalue “bodies that do not conform to certain cultural standards” (Garland-Thompson). Implicit and explicit in all of these comments is the sense that disability and Downs Syndrome in particular is undesirable, unattractive even. When listed together, like Belknap’s literary lists, they are not random or isolated interpretations; they form part of a larger system of meaning making around disability.These responses are informed by the notion that in order to gain equality in society, people with disability must suppress their difference and focus instead on how they are really just like everybody else. However, this focus ignores barriers to inclusion, such as in the rejection of bodies that do not ascribe to cultural standards of beauty. An increasing visibility of impairment in popular culture such as children’s toys advances an understanding of disability as diversity through difference and not something inherently bad. ConclusionPeter Laudin of Pattycake Doll, a company which sells Black, Hispanic, Asian, and Disabled dolls, has found that children “love all dolls unconditionally whether it’s special needs or not” (Lee Adam). He suggests that the majority of the negative responses to the Down Syndrome dolls stem from prejudice (Lee Adam). Dolls popularly available idealise the human form and assume a normative representation. While this has been criticised for communicating damaging standards of beauty from childhood (Levy, Blair and Shalmon), critiques about disability are not as widely understood. The social and medical models of disability focus attention on certain aspects of disability through lists; however, the reduction of diagnostic criteria in the form of a list (whether medical or social) decontextualises disability from the social and cultural world. Thus, the list form, while useful, has elided the disparate qualities of disability. As Belknap argues, lists “ask us to make them meaningful” (xv). Although the dolls discussed in this paper have been criticised for stereotyping and emphasising the difference between children with disability and those without, an inclusion of the physical features of Down Syndrome is consistent with recent moves within critical disability studies to re-engage the body (Shakespeare 35). As Faulkner notes in the epigraph to this paper, an examination of negative reactions to these dolls reveals much about the cultural position of people with disability. References Abbasi, Jennifer. “Why 6-Year Old Girls Want to be Sexy.” Live Science 16 July (2012). 30 Aug. 2012 ‹http://www.livescience.com/21609-self-sexualization-young-girls.html›. Barnes, Colin. Disabling Imagery and the Media: An Exploration of the Principles for Media Representations of Disabled People. Krumlin Halifax: Ryburn Publishing, 1992. 5 Aug. 2012 http://www.leeds.ac.uk/disability-studies/archiveuk/Barnes/disabling%20imagery.pdf.Barnes, Colin, Geoff Mercer, and Tom Shakespeare. Exploring Disability: A Sociological Introduction. Malden: Polity Press, 1999.Belknap, Robert. The List: The Uses and Pleasures of Cataloguing. New Haven: Yale U P, 2004.Blair, Lorrie, and Maya Shalmon. “Cosmetic Surgery and the Cultural Construction of Beauty.” Art Education 58.3 (2005): 14-18.Cafferty, Diana De Rosa. A Doll Like Me: Do Children with Down Syndrome Prefer to Play with Dolls That Have the Physical Features Associated with Down Syndrome? MS thesis. U of California, 2012. Campbell, Fiona Kumari. Contours of Ableism: The Production of Disability and Abledness. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009.Collins, Allyson. “Dolls with Down Syndrome May Help Kids.” ABC News. 27 Jun. 2008. 4 Oct. 2012 ‹http://abcnews.go.com/Health/Parenting/story?id=5255393&page=1#.UGzQXK6T-XP›. Cresswell, Adam. “Dolls with Disability Divide Opinion.” The Australian 12 Jul. 2008. 26 Dec. 2008 ‹http://www.theaustralian.news.com.au/story/0,25197,24000338-23289,00.html›.Down, John Langdon. “Observations on an Ethnic Classification of Idiots.” Neonatology on the Web. 1866. 3 Aug. 2012 ‹http://www.neonatology.org/classics/down.html›.Faulkner, Joanne “Disability Dolls.” What Sorts of People? 26 Jun. 2008. 29 Aug. 2012 ‹http://whatsortsofpeople.wordpress.com/2008/06/26/disability-dolls/›.Finkelstein, Vic. “Representing Disability.” Disabling Barriers—Enabling Environments. Ed. John Swain, et al. Los Angeles: Sage, 2004. 13-20.Fisher, Lorraine. “Parents’ Fury at ‘Down's Syndrome Dolls’ Designed to Help Children Deal with Disability.” Mail Online 7 Jul. 2008. 26 Dec. 2008. ‹http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-1032600/Parents-fury-Downs-Syndrome-dolls-designed-help-children-deal-disability.html›. Garland-Thomson, Rosemarie. “Re-Shaping, Re-Thinking, Re-Defining: Feminist Disability Studies.” The Free Library 1 Jan. 2008. 3 Aug. 2012. ‹http://www.thefreelibrary.com/Re-shaping, Re-thinking, Re-defining: Feminist Disability Studies.-a084377500›.Goggin, Gerard and Christopher Newell. Disability in Australia: Exposing a Social Apartheid. Sydney: U of New South Wales, 2005.Hareyan, Armen. “Using Dolls to Reduce the Stigma of Down Syndrome.” EMax Health. 4 Dec. 2008. Jan 2009 ‹http://www.emaxhealth.com/7/22865.html›.Hedlund, Marianne. “Disability as a Phenomenon: A Discourse of Social and Biological Understanding.” Disability & Society. 15.5 (2000): 765-80.Hickey-Moody, Anna. Unimaginable Bodies. Netherlands: Sense Publishers, 2009.Lee Adams, William. “New Dolls on the Block.” Time Magazine 19 Mar. 2009. 13 Dec. 2009. ‹http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,1886457,00.html›.Levy, Ariel. Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture. Collingwood: Black Inc. 2010.Liggett, Helen. “Stars are not Born: An Interpretive Approach to the Politics of Disability” in Disability Studies: Past Present and Future. Ed. Len Barton and Mike Oliver. Leeds: The Disability Press, 1997. 178-194.Mitchell, David and Sharon Snyder. Narrative Prosthesis: Disability and the Dependencies of Discourse. Ann Arbor, The U of Michigan P, 2000.Morris, Jenny “A Feminist Perspective.” Framed. Ed. Ann Pointon & Chris Davies. London: British Film Institute, 1997. 21-30. Oliver, Michael. Understanding Disability: From Theory to Practice. New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 1996.Parks, Helga. “New Doll Is Child’s Best Friend.” HEST Press Release, 2005. Shakespeare, Tom. Disability Rights and Wrongs. London: Routledge, 2006.Snyder, Sharon, and David Mitchell. “Re-Engaging the Body: Disability Studes and the Resistance to Embodiment.” Public Culture 13.3 (2001): 367-89.Velasquez, Leticia. “Downi Creations.” 2007. 4 Dec. 2009. ‹http://cause-of-our-joy.blogspot.com/2007/08/downi-creations.html›.Wendell, Susan. The Rejected Body: Feminist Philosophical Reflections on Disability. New York: Routledge, 1996.Wolf, Naomi. The Beauty Myth: How Images of Beauty Are Used against Women. New York: Harper Perennial, 2002 [1991].

Abstract:

The Leichhardt Highway is a six hundred-kilometre stretch of sealed inland road that joins the Australian Queensland border town of Goondiwindi with the Capricorn Highway, just south of the Tropic of Capricorn. Named after the young Prussian naturalist Ludwig Leichhardt, part of this roadway follows the route his party took as they crossed northern Australia from Morton Bay (Brisbane) to Port Essington (near Darwin). Ignoring the usual colonial practice of honouring the powerful and aristocratic, Leichhardt named the noteworthy features along this route after his supporters and fellow expeditioners. Many of these names are still in use and a series of public monuments have also been erected in the intervening century and a half to commemorate this journey. Unlike Leichhardt, who survived his epic trip, some contemporary travellers who navigate the remote roadway named in his honour do not arrive at their final destinations. Memorials to these violently interrupted lives line the highway, many enigmatically located in places where there is no obvious explanation for the lethal violence that occurred there. This examination profiles the memorials along Leichhardt’s highway as Gothic practice, in order to illuminate some of the uncanny paradoxes around public memorials, as well as the loaded emotional terrain such commemorative practices may inhabit. All humans know that death awaits them (Morell). Yet, despite this, and the unprecedented torrent of images of death and dying saturating news, television, and social media (Duwe; Sumiala; Bisceglio), Gorer’s mid-century ideas about the denial of death and Becker’s 1973 Pulitzer prize-winning description of the purpose of human civilization as a defence against this knowledge remains current in the contemporary trope that individuals (at least in the West) deny their mortality. Contributing to this enigmatic situation is how many deny the realities of aging and bodily decay—the promise of the “life extension” industries (Hall)—and are shielded from death by hospitals, palliative care providers, and the multimillion dollar funeral industry (Kiernan). Drawing on Piatti-Farnell’s concept of popular culture artefacts as “haunted/haunting” texts, the below describes how memorials to the dead can powerfully reconnect those who experience them with death’s reality, by providing an “encrypted passageway through which the dead re-join the living in a responsive cycle of exchange and experience” (Piatti-Farnell). While certainly very different to the “sublime” iconic Gothic structure, the Gothic ruin that Summers argued could be seen as “a sacred relic, a memorial, a symbol of infinite sadness, of tenderest sensibility and regret” (407), these memorials do function in both this way as melancholy/regret-inducing relics as well as in Piatti-Farnell’s sense of bringing the dead into everyday consciousness. Such memorialising activity also evokes one of Spooner’s features of the Gothic, by acknowledging “the legacies of the past and its burdens on the present” (8).Ludwig Leichhardt and His HighwayWhen Leichhardt returned to Sydney in 1846 from his 18-month journey across northern Australia, he was greeted with surprise and then acclaim. Having mounted his expedition without any backing from influential figures in the colony, his party was presumed lost only weeks after its departure. Yet, once Leichhardt and almost all his expedition returned, he was hailed “Prince of Explorers” (Erdos). When awarding him a significant purse raised by public subscription, then Speaker of the Legislative Council voiced what he believed would be the explorer’s lasting memorial —the public memory of his achievement: “the undying glory of having your name enrolled amongst those of the great men whose genius and enterprise have impelled them to seek for fame in the prosecution of geographical science” (ctd. Leichhardt 539). Despite this acclaim, Leichhardt was a controversial figure in his day; his future prestige not enhanced by his Prussian/Germanic background or his disappearance two years later attempting to cross the continent. What troubled the colonial political class, however, was his transgressive act of naming features along his route after commoners rather than the colony’s aristocrats. Today, the Leichhardt Highway closely follows Leichhardt’s 1844-45 route for some 130 kilometres from Miles, north through Wandoan to Taroom. In the first weeks of his journey, Leichhardt named 16 features in this area: 6 of the more major of these after the men in his party—including the Aboriginal man ‘Charley’ and boy John Murphy—4 more after the tradesmen and other non-aristocratic sponsors of his venture, and the remainder either in memory of the journey’s quotidian events or natural features there found. What we now accept as traditional memorialising practice could in this case be termed as Gothic, in that it upset the rational, normal order of its day, and by honouring humble shopkeepers, blacksmiths and Indigenous individuals, revealed the “disturbance and ambivalence” (Botting 4) that underlay colonial class relations (Macintyre). On 1 December 1844, Leichhardt also memorialised his own past, referencing the Gothic in naming a watercourse The Creek of the Ruined Castles due to the “high sandstone rocks, fissured and broken like pillars and walls and the high gates of the ruined castles of Germany” (57). Leichhardt also disturbed and disfigured the nature he so admired, famously carving his initials deep into trees along his route—a number of which still exist, including the so-called Leichhardt Tree, a large coolibah in Taroom’s main street. Leichhardt also wrote his own memorial, keeping detailed records of his experiences—both good and more regretful—in the form of field books, notebooks and letters, with his major volume about this expedition published in London in 1847. Leichhardt’s journey has since been memorialised in various ways along the route. The Leichhardt Tree has been further defaced with numerous plaques nailed into its ancient bark, and the town’s federal government-funded Bicentennial project raised a formal memorial—a large sandstone slab laid with three bronze plaques—in the newly-named Ludwig Leichhardt Park. Leichhardt’s name also adorns many sites both along, and outside, the routes of his expeditions. While these fittingly include natural features such as the Leichhardt River in north-west Queensland (named in 1856 by Augustus Gregory who crossed it by searching for traces of the explorer’s ill-fated 1848 expedition), there are also many businesses across Queensland and the Northern Territory less appropriately carrying his name. More somber monuments to Leichhardt’s legacy also resulted from this journey. The first of these was the white settlement that followed his declaration that the countryside he moved through was well endowed with fertile soils. With squatters and settlers moving in and land taken up before Leichhardt had even arrived back in Sydney, the local Yeeman people were displaced, mistreated and completely eradicated within a decade (Elder). Mid-twentieth century, Patrick White’s literary reincarnation, Voss of the eponymous novel, and paintings by Sidney Nolan and Albert Tucker have enshrined in popular memory not only the difficult (and often described as Gothic) nature of the landscape through which Leichhardt travelled (Adams; Mollinson, and Bonham), but also the distinctive and contrary blend of intelligence, spiritual mysticism, recklessness, and stoicism Leichhardt brought to his task. Roadside Memorials Today, the Leichhardt Highway is also lined with a series of roadside shrines to those who have died much more recently. While, like centotaphs, tombstones, and cemeteries, these memorialise the dead, they differ in usually marking the exact location that death occurred. In 43 BC, Cicero articulated the idea of the dead living in memory, “The life of the dead consists in the recollection cherished of them by the living” (93), yet Nelson is one of very few contemporary writers to link roadside memorials to elements of Gothic sensibility. Such constructions can, however, be described as Gothic, in that they make the roadway unfamiliar by inscribing onto it the memory of corporeal trauma and, in the process, re-creating their locations as vivid sites of pain and suffering. These are also enigmatic sites. Traffic levels are generally low along the flat or gently undulating terrain and many of these memorials are located in locations where there is no obvious explanation for the violence that occurred there. They are loci of contradictions, in that they are both more private than other memorials, in being designed, and often made and erected, by family and friends of the deceased, and yet more public, visible to all who pass by (Campbell). Cemeteries are set apart from their surroundings; the roadside memorial is, in contrast, usually in open view along a thoroughfare. In further contrast to cemeteries, which contain many relatively standardised gravesites, individual roadside memorials encapsulate and express not only the vivid grief of family and friends but also—when they include vehicle wreckage or personal artefacts from the fatal incident—provide concrete evidence of the trauma that occurred. While the majority of individuals interned in cemeteries are long dead, roadside memorials mark relatively contemporary deaths, some so recent that there may still be tyre marks, debris and bloodstains marking the scene. In 2008, when I was regularly travelling this roadway, I documented, and researched, the six then extant memorial sites that marked the locations of ten fatalities from 1999 to 2006. (These were all still in place in mid-2014.) The fatal incidents are very diverse. While half involved trucks and/or road trains, at least three were single vehicle incidents, and the deceased ranged from 13 to 84 years of age. Excell argues that scholarship on roadside memorials should focus on “addressing the diversity of the material culture” (‘Contemporary Deathscapes’) and, in these terms, the Leichhardt Highway memorials vary from simple crosses to complex installations. All include crosses (mostly, but not exclusively, white), and almost all are inscribed with the name and birth/death dates of the deceased. Most include flowers or other plants (sometimes fresh but more often plastic), but sometimes also a range of relics from the crash and/or personal artefacts. These are, thus, unsettling sights, not least in the striking contrast they provide with the highway and surrounding road reserve. The specific location is a key component of their ability to re-sensitise viewers to the dangers of the route they are travelling. The first memorial travelling northwards, for instance, is situated at the very point at which the highway begins, some 18 kilometres from Goondiwindi. Two small white crosses decorated with plastic flowers are set poignantly close together. The inscriptions can also function as a means of mobilising connection with these dead strangers—a way of building Secomb’s “haunted community”, whereby community in the post-colonial age can only be built once past “murderous death” (131) is acknowledged. This memorial is inscribed with “Cec Hann 06 / A Good Bloke / A Good hoarseman [sic]” and “Pat Hann / A Good Woman” to tragically commemorate the deaths of an 84-year-old man and his 79-year-old wife from South Australia who died in the early afternoon of 5 June 2006 when their Ford Falcon, towing a caravan, pulled onto the highway and was hit by a prime mover pulling two trailers (Queensland Police, ‘Double Fatality’; Jones, and McColl). Further north along the highway are two memorials marking the most inexplicable of road deaths: the single vehicle fatality (Connolly, Cullen, and McTigue). Darren Ammenhauser, aged 29, is remembered with a single white cross with flowers and plaque attached to a post, inscribed hopefully, “Darren Ammenhauser 1971-2000 At Rest.” Further again, at Billa Billa Creek, a beautifully crafted metal cross attached to a fence is inscribed with the text, “Kenneth J. Forrester / RIP Jack / 21.10.25 – 27.4.05” marking the death of the 79-year-old driver whose vehicle veered off the highway to collide with a culvert on the creek. It was reported that the vehicle rolled over several times before coming to rest on its wheels and that Forrester was dead when the police arrived (Queensland Police, ‘Fatal Traffic Incident’). More complex memorials recollect both single and multiple deaths. One, set on both sides of the road, maps the physical trajectory of the fatal smash. This memorial comprises white crosses on both sides of road, attached to a tree on one side, and a number of ancillary sites including damaged tyres with crosses placed inside them on both sides of the road. Simple inscriptions relay the inability of such words to express real grief: “Gary (Gazza) Stevens / Sadly missed” and “Gary (Gazza) Stevens / Sadly missed / Forever in our hearts.” The oldest and most complex memorial on the route, commemorating the death of four individuals on 18 June 1999, is also situated on both sides of the road, marking the collision of two vehicles travelling in opposite directions. One memorial to a 62-year-old man comprises a cross with flowers, personal and automotive relics, and a plaque set inside a wooden fence and simply inscribed “John Henry Keenan / 23-11-1936–18-06-1999”. The second memorial contains three white crosses set side-by-side, together with flowers and relics, and reveals that members of three generations of the same family died at this location: “Raymond Campbell ‘Butch’ / 26-3-67–18-6-99” (32 years of age), “Lorraine Margaret Campbell ‘Lloydie’ / 29-11-46–18-6-99” (53 years), and “Raymond Jon Campbell RJ / 28-1-86–18-6-99” (13 years). The final memorial on this stretch of highway is dedicated to Jason John Zupp of Toowoomba who died two weeks before Christmas 2005. This consists of a white cross, decorated with flowers and inscribed: “Jason John Zupp / Loved & missed by all”—a phrase echoed in his newspaper obituary. The police media statement noted that, “at 11.24pm a prime mover carrying four empty trailers [stacked two high] has rolled on the Leichhardt Highway 17km north of Taroom” (Queensland Police, ‘Fatal Truck Accident’). The roadside memorial was placed alongside a ditch on a straight stretch of road where the body was found. The coroner’s report adds the following chilling information: “Mr Zupp was thrown out of the cabin and his body was found near the cabin. There is no evidence whatsoever that he had applied the brakes or in any way tried to prevent the crash … Jason was not wearing his seatbelt” (Cornack 5, 6). Cornack also remarked the truck was over length, the brakes had not been properly adjusted, and the trip that Zupp had undertaken could not been lawfully completed according to fatigue management regulations then in place (8). Although poignant and highly visible due to these memorials, these deaths form a small part of Australia’s road toll, and underscore our ambivalent relationship with the automobile, where road death is accepted as a necessary side-effect of the freedom of movement the technology offers (Ladd). These memorials thus animate highways as Gothic landscapes due to the “multifaceted” (Haider 56) nature of the fear, terror and horror their acknowledgement can bring. Since 1981, there have been, for instance, between some 1,600 and 3,300 road deaths each year in Australia and, while there is evidence of a long term downward trend, the number of deaths per annum has not changed markedly since 1991 (DITRDLG 1, 2), and has risen in some years since then. The U.S.A. marked its millionth road death in 1951 (Ladd) along the way to over 3,000,000 during the 20th century (Advocates). These deaths are far reaching, with U.K. research suggesting that each death there leaves an average of 6 people significantly affected, and that there are some 10 to 20 per cent of mourners who experience more complicated grief and longer term negative affects during this difficult time (‘Pathways Through Grief’). As the placing of roadside memorials has become a common occurrence the world over (Klaassens, Groote, and Vanclay; Grider; Cohen), these are now considered, in MacConville’s opinion, not only “an appropriate, but also an expected response to tragedy”. Hockey and Draper have explored the therapeutic value of the maintenance of “‘continuing bonds’ between the living and the dead” (3). This is, however, only one explanation for the reasons that individuals erect roadside memorials with research suggesting roadside memorials perform two main purposes in their linking of the past with the present—as not only sites of grieving and remembrance, but also of warning (Hartig, and Dunn; Everett; Excell, Roadside Memorials; MacConville). Clark adds that by “localis[ing] and personalis[ing] the road dead,” roadside memorials raise the profile of road trauma by connecting the emotionless statistics of road death directly to individual tragedy. They, thus, transform the highway into not only into a site of past horror, but one in which pain and terror could still happen, and happen at any moment. Despite their increasing commonality and their recognition as cultural artefacts, these memorials thus occupy “an uncomfortable place” both in terms of public policy and for some individuals (Lowe). While in some states of the U.S.A. and in Ireland the erection of such memorials is facilitated by local authorities as components of road safety campaigns, in the U.K. there appears to be “a growing official opposition to the erection of memorials” (MacConville). Criticism has focused on the dangers (of distraction and obstruction) these structures pose to passing traffic and pedestrians, while others protest their erection on aesthetic grounds and even claim memorials can lower property values (Everett). While many ascertain a sense of hope and purpose in the physical act of creating such shrines (see, for instance, Grider; Davies), they form an uncanny presence along the highway and can provide dangerous psychological territory for the viewer (Brien). Alongside the townships, tourist sites, motels, and petrol stations vying to attract customers, they stain the roadway with the unmistakable sign that a violent death has happened—bringing death, and the dead, to the fore as a component of these journeys, and destabilising prominent cultural narratives of technological progress and safety (Richter, Barach, Ben-Michael, and Berman).Conclusion This investigation has followed Goddu who proposes that a Gothic text “registers its culture’s contradictions” (3) and, in profiling these memorials as “intimately connected to the culture that produces them” (Goddu 3) has proposed memorials as Gothic artefacts that can both disturb and reveal. Roadside memorials are, indeed, so loaded with emotional content that their close contemplation can be traumatising (Brien), yet they are inescapable while navigating the roadway. Part of their power resides in their ability to re-animate those persons killed in these violent in the minds of those viewing these memorials. In this way, these individuals are reincarnated as ghostly presences along the highway, forming channels via which the traveller can not only make human contact with the dead, but also come to recognise and ponder their own sense of mortality. While roadside memorials are thus like civic war memorials in bringing untimely death to the forefront of public view, roadside memorials provide a much more raw expression of the chaotic, anarchic and traumatic moment that separates the world of the living from that of the dead. While traditional memorials—such as those dedicated by, and to, Leichhardt—moreover, pay homage to the vitality of the lives of those they commemorate, roadside memorials not only acknowledge the alarming circ*mstances of unexpected death but also stand testament to the power of the paradox of the incontrovertibility of sudden death versus our lack of ability to postpone it. In this way, further research into these and other examples of Gothic memorialising practice has much to offer various areas of cultural study in Australia.ReferencesAdams, Brian. Sidney Nolan: Such Is Life. Hawthorn, Vic.: Hutchinson, 1987. Advocates for Highway and Auto Safety. “Motor Vehicle Traffic Fatalities & Fatality Rate: 1899-2003.” 2004. Becker, Ernest. The Denial of Death. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1973. Bisceglio, Paul. “How Social Media Is Changing the Way We Approach Death.” The Atlantic 20 Aug. 2013. Botting, Fred. Gothic: The New Critical Idiom. 2nd edition. Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2014. Brien, Donna Lee. “Looking at Death with Writers’ Eyes: Developing Protocols for Utilising Roadside Memorials in Creative Writing Classes.” Roadside Memorials. Ed. Jennifer Clark. Armidale, NSW: EMU Press, 2006. 208–216. Campbell, Elaine. “Public Sphere as Assemblage: The Cultural Politics of Roadside Memorialization.” The British Journal of Sociology 64.3 (2013): 526–547. Cicero, Marcus Tullius. The Orations of Marcus Tullius Cicero. 43 BC. Trans. C. D. Yonge. London: George Bell & Sons, 1903. Clark, Jennifer. “But Statistics Don’t Ride Skateboards, They Don’t Have Nicknames Like ‘Champ’: Personalising the Road Dead with Roadside Memorials.” 7th International Conference on the Social Context of Death, Dying and Disposal. Bath, UK: University of Bath, 2005. Cohen, Erik. “Roadside Memorials in Northeastern Thailand.” OMEGA: Journal of Death and Dying 66.4 (2012–13): 343–363. Connolly, John F., Anne Cullen, and Orfhlaith McTigue. “Single Road Traffic Deaths: Accident or Suicide?” Crisis: The Journal of Crisis Intervention and Suicide Prevention 16.2 (1995): 85–89. Cornack [Coroner]. Transcript of Proceedings. In The Matter of an Inquest into the Cause and Circ*mstances Surrounding the Death of Jason John Zupp. Towoomba, Qld.: Coroners Court. 12 Oct. 2007. Davies, Douglas. “Locating Hope: The Dynamics of Memorial Sites.” 6th International Conference on the Social Context of Death, Dying and Disposal. York, UK: University of York, 2002. Department of Infrastructure, Transport, Regional Development and Local Government [DITRDLG]. Road Deaths Australia: 2007 Statistical Summary. Canberra: Commonwealth of Australia, 2008. Duwe, Grant. “Body-count Journalism: The Presentation of Mass Murder in the News Media.” Homicide Studies 4 (2000): 364–399. Elder, Bruce. Blood on the Wattle: Massacres and Maltreatment of Aboriginal Australians since 1788. Sydney: New Holland, 1998. Erdos, Renee. “Leichhardt, Friedrich Wilhelm Ludwig (1813-1848).” Australian Dictionary of Biography Online Edition. Melbourne: Melbourne UP, 1967. Everett, Holly. Roadside Crosses in Contemporary Memorial Culture. Austin: Texas UP, 2002. Excell, Gerri. “Roadside Memorials in the UK.” Unpublished MA thesis. Reading: University of Reading, 2004. ———. “Contemporary Deathscapes: A Comparative Analysis of the Material Culture of Roadside Memorials in the US, Australia and the UK.” 7th International Conference on the Social Context of Death, Dying and Disposal. Bath, UK: University of Bath, 2005. Goddu, Teresa A. Gothic America: Narrative, History, and Nation. New York: Columbia UP, 2007. Gorer, Geoffrey. “The p*rnography of Death.” Encounter V.4 (1955): 49–52. Grider, Sylvia. “Spontaneous Shrines: A Modern Response to Tragedy and Disaster.” New Directions in Folklore (5 Oct. 2001). Haider, Amna. “War Trauma and Gothic Landscapes of Dispossession and Dislocation in Pat Barker’s Regeneration Trilogy.” Gothic Studies 14.2 (2012): 55–73. Hall, Stephen S. Merchants of Immortality: Chasing the Dream of Human Life Extension. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, Harcourt, 2003. Hartig, Kate V., and Kevin M. Dunn. “Roadside Memorials: Interpreting New Deathscapes in Newcastle, New South Wales.” Australian Geographical Studies 36 (1998): 5–20. Hockey, Jenny, and Janet Draper. “Beyond the Womb and the Tomb: Identity, (Dis)embodiment and the Life Course.” Body & Society 11.2 (2005): 41–57. Online version: 1–25. Jones, Ian, and Kaye McColl. (2006) “Highway Tragedy.” Goondiwindi Argus 9 Jun. 2006. Kiernan, Stephen P. “The Transformation of Death in America.” Final Acts: Death, Dying, and the Choices We Make. Eds. Nan Bauer-Maglin, and Donna Perry. Rutgers University: Rutgers UP, 2010. 163–182. Klaassens, M., P.D. Groote, and F.M. Vanclay. “Expressions of Private Mourning in Public Space: The Evolving Structure of Spontaneous and Permanent Roadside Memorials in the Netherlands.” Death Studies 37.2 (2013): 145–171. Ladd, Brian. Autophobia: Love and Hate in the Automotive Age. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 2008. Leichhardt, Ludwig. Journal of an Overland Expedition of Australia from Moreton Bay to Port Essington, A Distance of Upwards of 3000 Miles during the Years 1844–1845. London, T & W Boone, 1847. Facsimile ed. Sydney: Macarthur Press, n.d. Lowe, Tim. “Roadside Memorials in South Eastern Australia.” 7th International Conference on the Social Context of Death, Dying and Disposal. Bath, UK: University of Bath, 2005. MacConville, Una. “Roadside Memorials.” Bath, UK: Centre for Death & Society, Department of Social and Policy Sciences, University of Bath, 2007. Macintyre, Stuart. “The Making of the Australian Working Class: An Historiographical Survey.” Historical Studies 18.71 (1978): 233–253. Mollinson, James, and Nicholas Bonham. Tucker. South Melbourne: Macmillan Company of Australia, and Australian National Gallery, 1982. Morell, Virginia. “Mournful Creatures.” Lapham’s Quarterly 6.4 (2013): 200–208. Nelson, Victoria. Gothicka: Vampire Heroes, Human Gods, and the New Supernatural. Harvard University: Harvard UP, 2012. “Pathways through Grief.” 1st National Conference on Bereavement in a Healthcare Setting. Dundee, 1–2 Sep. 2008. Piatti-Farnell, Lorna. “Words from the Culinary Crypt: Reading the Recipe as a Haunted/Haunting Text.” M/C Journal 16.3 (2013). Queensland Police. “Fatal Traffic Incident, Goondiwindi [Media Advisory].” 27 Apr. 2005. ———. “Fatal Truck Accident, Taroom.” Media release. 11 Dec. 2005. ———. “Double Fatality, Goondiwindi.” Media release. 5 Jun. 2006. Richter, E. D., P. Barach, E. Ben-Michael, and T. Berman. “Death and Injury from Motor Vehicle Crashes: A Public Health Failure, Not an Achievement.” Injury Prevention 7 (2001): 176–178. Secomb, Linnell. “Haunted Community.” The Politics of Community. Ed. Michael Strysick. Aurora, Co: Davies Group, 2002. 131–150. Spooner, Catherine. Contemporary Gothic. London: Reaktion, 2006.

Abstract:

Esta investigación tiene como objeto de estudio la indumentaria como elemento simbólico de la construcción de imágenes de poder político de la mujer en Argentina. La relación entre imagen y poder no es algo nuevo. Ya en 1513, Maquiavelo describe en ‘El Príncipe’ la importancia de la imagen para la legitimación del poder por el soberano. El uso de la indumentaria en la construcción de la imagen como elemento legitimador de poder puede ser observado también en innumerables personajes históricos y mucho se escribió al respecto. El rey francés Luis XIV1 , el famoso “Rey Sol”, se hizo conocido por su extremada atención al construir su imagen política. Haciendo uso de instrumentos como la vestimenta, el maquillaje y de accesorios como pelucas y tacones, Luis XIV disfrazó su pequeña estatura y logró formar una imagen altiva, coherente a su ambición de soberanía. (Burke, 2009). Otro ejemplo célebre históricamente del uso político de la indumentaria es el de la reina francesa María Antonieta2 . Conocida actualmente como la reina de la moda, María Antonieta, de origen austríaco, era pariente distante de Luis XIV y así como su ancestro, tuvo en sus vestes y sus excéntricos peinados la herramienta para legitimar su posición como monárquica francesa. Aunque la reina creó un estilo particular e hizo de su personal gusto estético una tendencia para el vestir de la época, irónicamente la indumentaria también le sirvió como objeto de persecución política. Según la escritora Caroline Weber (2008), su placard de ropa fue uno de los estopines que la llevó a tal fin trágico. Acusada de gastar fortunas de los fondos públicos para mantener su imagen, en 1793 como consecuencia de la violenta Revolución Francesa, fue llevada a la guillotina juntamente con su marido e hijos. Aún en la actualidad, su peculiar gusto indumentario sirve de objeto para estudios e investigaciones académicas. (Weber, 2008). En la sociedad argentina, los personajes Eva Duarte de Perón y Cristina Fernández de Kirchner son fuertes ejemplos de cómo está presente la indumentaria como elemento constructor de imágenes de poder político. Ambas, además de compartir una posición excepcional de poder político en la historia del país, son frecuentemente citadas por sus peculiares gustos por la moda. Sus elecciones estéticas son comúnmente usadas como delatoras de la legitimidad (o ilegitimidad) de esta posición de poder. Esta investigación analiza cómo esas imágenes de poder político se construyen a partir de la indumentaria, es decir, cómo los elementos estéticos de la apariencia, como las vestimentas, los peinados, el maquillaje, los calzados y los accesorios, constituyen el “cuerpo representación”3 del poder político de los personajes estudiados. Al considerar ese cuerpo representación no como algo natural, ofrecido biológicamente o como un don divino, sino como consecuencia de un “cuerpo” que se construye a partir de las relaciones sociales, del contexto histórico y cultural, articulado con los capitales simbólicos aprendidos durante la trayectoria de vida, es necesario entender el contexto histórico y cultural tanto de Eva Perón como de Cristina Kirchner y la posición de poder político de ambas. Eva Duarte de Perón y Cristina Fernández de Kirchner El 10 de diciembre del 2007, con más del 45% de los votos, Cristina Fernández de Kirchner fue la primera mujer que fue elegida presidenta del país mediante el voto popular4 . Los cargos femeninos en los organismos públicos del país se deben mucho a las luchas y conquistas de Eva Perón. Desde finales del siglo XIX, los movimientos feministas en Argentina lucharon por la conquista de los derechos políticos de las mujeres, pero el derecho al voto femenino sólo fue logrado en el primer período del peronismo, a fines de la década de 1940. El 9 de septiembre de 1947, Eva Perón, conocida como Evita, esposa del entonces presidente Juan Domingo Perón, con su empeñada campaña, logró el derecho civil para las mujeres argentinas; ahora podían votar y ser candidatas a cargos gubernamentales. La actuación de Eva en el poder fue un factor fundamental para el cambio de la sociedad argentina, no sólo político, sino también cultural, principalmente en lo relacionado con los derechos femeninos5. Hay que destacar que Eva Perón nunca fue feminista. Su actuación en el tema del sufragio tenía como meta el apoyo a Perón para llegar a las capas sociales hasta entonces olvidadas de la escena política. Así, la actuación de Evita en cuestiones políticas de Argentina, fue de gran importancia para asegurar no sólo los derechos civiles de las mujeres, sino también insertarlas en la escena social y política, esas capas sociales nunca antes habían tenido participación en acciones del Estado6. La participación activa de Eva Perón en cuestiones sociales, culturales y políticas la situó como uno de los personajes históricos más importantes del siglo XX. Su actuación era mucho más importante que la de “esposa del presidente”, de primera dama. Algo muy distinto del papel “usual” que la mujer asumía en la vida pública hasta ese momento; aunque algunas ya habían tenido una actuación en el mercado de trabajo, la imagen femenina ligada al poder que Eva construyó constituía un hecho inédito en la sociedad latinoamericana7. Sesenta años después de la muerte de Evita, Cristina Fernández de Kirchner es la presidenta de la Nación. De militante actuante en La Juventud Peronista en la década de 1970 a una carrera política notoria como diputada y senadora, Cristina Kirchner es elegida en 2007 presidenta del país con el más alto índice de votación desde la apertura democrática en 1983. Ambas, Cristina y Evita no sólo comparten una posición excepcional de la mujer en la historia política del país, sino que también las dos tuvieron un éxito extraordinario cuando construyeron su imagen política en una sociedad sin muchas referencias de iguales. En la actualidad, América Latina, con sus treinta y tres países, posee apenas tres mujeres al frente de gobiernos8 . Eva Perón, Cristina Kirchner y la indumentaria Los dos personajes estudiados, además de compartir un mismo movimiento político, el peronismo, son frecuentemente referidos con énfasis por sus gustos por la moda. Eva Perón, sesenta años después de su muerte, sigue presente en un sinfín de exposiciones acerca de su vida y de su “estilo”. Hay una cantidad innumerable de material periodístico tanto como de estudios académicos al respecto que buscan explicar cómo la primeradama argentina se comunicaba a través de su apariencia, de su peculiar y reconocido gusto por la moda, en el intento de (re)construir o (re)descubrir el mito a través del simbolismo de la indumentaria. Refiriéndose a Evita, no todo es elogio en lo relacionado con su imagen. Muchos de sus adversarios políticos resaltaban la discrepancia que existía entre sus discursos en defensa de los menos favorecidos sociales y su exagerado gusto por los artículos de lujo. (Sarlo, 2003). Medio siglo separa a Cristina Kirchner de Eva Perón. El contexto en el que Cristina Kirchner se convirtió en presidenta y construyó su imagen es muy distinto al de la primeradama del peronismo. Pero la atención dada por los medios sobre cómo ella articula su apariencia y su gusto por la moda no se diferencia de la dedicada en su tiempo, o incluso en la actualidad, a Eva Perón. Así, hay mucho material periodístico en el que el tema es la crítica a Cristina Fernández de Kirchner por la marca de sus vestidos, los excesivos y distintos modelos de zapatos con los que se presenta en público o el gasto que desprende en carteras o joyas. (Castañeda y Veiga ,2012; Vecino, 2011). Pero, lo que interesa a esta investigación es el peculiar interés de una gran parte de los medios y del ciudadano en general por su gusto, siendo muchas veces descrito como ostentoso y demasiado superfluo, por sus adversarios políticos, o de extremo “buen gusto” por aquellos que la admiran. Lo que se detecta en todas las críticas, elogiosas, exaltadoras o peyorativas sobre la apariencia de los personajes estudiados es el recurrente uso del “gusto” como instrumento denunciador de la legitimidad o ilegitimidad de la posición de poder. Así, como describe Lipovetsky (1989), es verdad que: “(…) desde la Antigüedad, existe una tradición de difamación de la futilidad, de los artificios y del maquillaje” (p. 37). La indumentaria como instrumento representativo de estéticas de una época, de contextos sociales e históricos pasa a recibir juicios de valor, puesto que los elementos estéticos de la apariencia se vuelven instrumentos de auto-expresión, de representación de individualidades9 . Ya en el final del siglo XIX Georg Simmel (2010) señala que “el adorno (…) es parte ‘artificial’ de la apariencia: se trata de una manipulación de las señales relativas a los vestuarios o a los cosméticos, que apuntan a causar una determinada impresión” (p. 35). Lo cierto es que esta “impresión” suscitada por los personajes estudiados a través de sus indumentarias está a merced de juicios que buscan aprobar o desaprobar la inserción de estas mujeres en su posición de poder. Así, los elementos estéticos de la apariencia, puestos en la “esfera de los gustos” son objetos simbólicos que pueden ser usados como artificios para la aprobación o reproche social, teniendo así un carácter de “juicio” que evidencia lo que verdaderamente está en juego, como las tensiones sociales relativas a los valores morales, religiosos, políticos, culturales y de posición de género. Para Frédéric Godart (2010) la indumentaria reafirma constantemente la inclusión o no de los individuos en los grupos sociales. En esa misma línea, Pierre Bourdieu (2010) clasifica las elecciones estéticas10, lo que él llama “gustos”, como un marcador privilegiado de “clase”11. Por lo tanto, se puede explicar el gusto peculiar de Eva Perón y Cristina Kirchner a través de su posición social, su capital cultural y simbólico que fueron construidos a partir de sus historias sociales y de sus trayectorias de vida. El gusto sirve como instrumento de lucha, usado para legitimar o deslegitimar sus posiciones de poder. Un claro ejemplo son las críticas, mucha veces ofensivas acerca de la apariencia de estas mujeres, frecuentemente acusatorias de “no pertenencia” (el consumo de ciertos productos de moda como piezas de alta costura o de grandes casas de diseño consideradas “legítimas” del “buen gusto”, por su exclusividad económica (no es para todos) o distintivas ( solamente para quién entiende y conoce), reservadas al consumo de ciertas clases sociales es usado como evidencia de “apropiación” ilegítima de mecanismos simbólicos de distinción). Así, sus indumentarias sirven, en la mayoría de los casos, como evidencia de expresión de lucha de clases, disputas políticas y acusaciones de no pertenencia12. La investigación sostiene que, además de la cuestión de clase (es decir, el capital cultural y simbólico que es el resultado de la trayectoria social), la indumentaria también evidencia las cuestiones de género. La posición social y de poder tanto de Eva Perón como de Cristina Kirchner son excepcionales, pues no se “encuadran” en los estereotipos sociales, históricos y culturales de posición de género. Ocupar una posición de poder político, que históricamente y culturalmente está asociado al universo masculino, hace que el excesivo gusto por los elementos estéticos de la apariencia, como la indumentaria, asociada a la moda que está socialmente y culturalmente encuadrada en el universo femenino, sea visto, en algunos contextos basados en juicios estereotipados de género, como una inadecuada representación de poder. “Ella era excepcional, tanto como lo era el escenario del peronismo”. Tomando el término de Beatriz Sarlo (2003, p. 70) acerca de la posición excepcional que Eva Perón ocupaba como primera dama. Como una mujer de pasado artístico poco expresivo, de raíces nada aristocráticas y en un contexto donde la posición de género era muy definida, la posición de poder político de Eva Perón, más allá de su ideología, fue, sin dudas, transgresora para la época. Así, la investigación define a Evita y a Cristina Kirchner de acuerdo con la posición de poder de ambas. Mujeres que, aparte de su condición social de género, supieron construir, de manera “excepcional”, sus peculiares trayectorias políticas. Por lo tanto, “el gusto” de los personajes estudiados debe ser tomado de acuerdo a su lugar excepcional, “el buen” o “el mal gusto” está clasificado y juzgado según la posición social de los individuos, y seguramente sus posiciones estén dentro de la excepción para la mujer en la historia política de América Latina. Beatriz Sarlo (2003) describe acerca de la posición excepcional de Eva Perón representada en su vestir: “Sus trajes de ceremonia pueden ser excesivos porque su lugar no tiene medida, ni se compara con ningún otro lugar institucional. El exceso queda adherido a un cuerpo donde se ha invertido el poder” (p. 100). Lo que se detecta es que “el cuerpo construido” de los personajes es objeto de representación material y estética donde “se ha invertido el poder” (Sarlo, 2003). El término “construir” está relacionado con el uso de la indumentaria como elemento simbólico material donde ese poder está representado. La investigación defiende que dicha representación no es algo ofrecido naturalmente como un don, sino como consecuencia de un “cuerpo” que se construye a partir de las relaciones sociales, de los contextos históricos y culturales articulados a los capitales simbólicos13 adquiridos en sus trayectorias de vida. A partir del cuestionamiento de estos “cuerpos” como representaciones de poder político, capital simbólico y cultural, sus trayectorias sociales y sus posiciones excepcionales, es que la investigación propone pensar la indumentaria como elemento simbólico de representación del poder político de Eva Perón y Cristina Fernández de Kirchner. Como ya fue dicho anteriormente, los elementos estéticos de la apariencia, como la indumentaria, cumplen un papel simbólico de representación de la disposición social, por eso la investigación cuestiona cuáles son los indicios materiales delatores de las trayectorias sociales y si esas trayectorias sociales condicionan sus “gustos” acerca del vestir, se indaga cuál sería el rol de la excepcionalidad de sus posiciones de poder en la construcción de sus imágenes políticas. Son muchas las preguntas acerca del papel de la indumentaria como tema simbólico de representación del poder político. Pero, a través del análisis no de su significado, sino de su construcción, el objetivo es iluminar las cuestiones que puedan esclarecer cómo esas mujeres articularon sus culturas, sus contextos y sus posiciones excepcionales para lograr una representación estética y concreta de sus trayectorias políticas. Hipótesis Como hipótesis se propone que Eva Perón y Cristina Fernández de Kirchner articularon su trayectoria social, su capital simbólico y cultural recurriendo a su posición excepcional como instrumento de transcendencia del lugar de los gustos para construir su imagen a través de la indumentaria, personificando, material y estéticamente, su poder político. Objetivo general La investigación tiene como objetivo, a través de la indumentaria tanto de Eva Perón como de Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, ampliar la comprensión de cómo ambos personajes articuló su cultura, su contexto social y su posición excepcional para una representación estética y concreta de su poder político. Objetivos específicos Como objetivos específicos se plantea investigar cómo la representación estética de poder político de la mujer es construida a través de la indumentaria de Eva Perón y Cristina Kirchner; analizar cómo los indicios materiales de la trayectoria social presente en las indumentarias de Eva Perón y Cristina Kirchner están relacionados con la posición excepcional de poder femenino en la construcción de la imagen de poder político; y ampliar la comprensión del papel de los elementos estéticos, es decir, de la indumentaria en la construcción de imágenes políticas de la mujer. Antecedentes y estado de la cuestión La indumentaria, como producto de la cultura, lleva inscripta a través de su materia prima, de su modo de producción, de sus colores, estilo, entre otros ítems, las formas de organización y jerarquización de la sociedad en la cual está inserta, funcionando como marcadora privilegiada de la posición social de quien la porta. (Nery, 2007; Saulquin, 2006; Godart, 2010, Bourdieu, 2010). Beatriz Sarlo en el libro La pasión y la excepción sigue justamente la trayectoria social de Eva Perón y la relación de ésta con la construcción de un “cuerpo excepcional”, en el aspecto simbólico de su apariencia, por lo tanto, también de su indumentaria, analiza histórica y filosóficamente cómo la actriz se convierte en la “incorporación” del régimen peronista. El mismo trayecto a través de la indumentaria se encuentra en El saco de Marx de Peter Stallybrass (2008). La vida de Karl Marx14 y su trayectoria social e intelectual a través de la historia de su saco es narrada a partir de los múltiples empeños de la pieza que no sólo ponían en evidencia los problemas financieros de Marx, sino también determinaban, limitando o posibilitando, su vida social; ya que era su único traje “elegante”, e incluso adecuado para el frío de Alemania. El autor también relaciona la formulación de la teoría marxista con “los dolores” y “las memorias” que resultaban de la relación de Marx con el saco. Como indica Stallybrass: “Pensar sobre la ropa, sobre ropas, significa pensar no sólo sobre la memoria, sino también sobre el poder y la posesión”. (p. 12). Muchos investigadores ya estudiaron la relación del poder con la imagen de grandes personajes históricos. Peter Burke (2009) en Fabricación del Rey enfoca, a partir de la historia, las elecciones estéticas del rey Luis XIV para la fabricación de su imagen pública, y Caroline Weber (2007) en Reina de la Moda analiza cómo la reina francesa María Antonieta hacía uso político de la indumentaria. Ambos estudios priorizan un análisis historiográfico del traje y su carácter de memoria. Volviendo a las mujeres estudiadas, Eva Perón por su distancia temporal posee diferentes enfoques de análisis que pone en primer plano su biografía, su relación con el peronismo y la cuestión de género. Esta última también en relación con la política, con el poder y las representaciones sobre los mitos de su imagen (Zanatta, 2011; Masson, 2004; Lagos, 2006; Carlson, 1988; Sarlo, 2010; Pron, 2007; Rosano, 2005). Debido a su figura “atemporal”, parafraseando a Sarlo (2010), su aspecto estético y su fuerte construcción de imagen ligada a la moda, existe un enfoque muy explorado de la indumentaria en materias del área de diseño, siendo la misma, en la mayoría de los casos, un objeto para un análisis semiológico (Sarlo, 2010) o histórico del vestir (Guedes y Teixeira, 2010; Saulquin, 2006). En el caso de Cristina Fernández de Kirchner, los materiales disponibles se focalizan en el estudio de sus estratégicas políticas (Levitsky y Murillo, 2008; Castañeda y Veiga, 2013; Araújo Ribeiro, 2010; Correa da Silva, 2012; Corigliano, 2013) y en libros biográficos (Russo, 2011). Cuando aparecen análisis dirigidos a su apariencia, están restringidos casi mayoritariamente a los registros periodísticos y a las llamadas “revistas femeninas” que priorizan los temas considerados amenos, por lo tanto, estereotipados por su condición de mujer, con lo cual sirven mucho más como instrumento de crítica o de apoyo a su gobierno que como material útil para pensar la materia. La investigación entiende la indumentaria no como un elemento que “expresa” los poderes políticos de las mujeres estudiadas, ni como un tratado que busca “develar” los mitos construidos en torno a sus imágenes, sino como elemento significante que conforma de manera material, esto es, concretamente, tales posiciones alcanzadas. Así, sus indumentarias cargan sus trayectorias sociales y sus contextos, funcionando como objetos materializados de sus posiciones sociales. Es en la materialidad de cada elección estética que sus “cuerpos” se conforman, de manera particular; en un mundo cultural, social y político específico. Orden del trabajo En el primer capítulo será tratada la cuestión del género, su construcción social y cultural, los estereotipos y su “corporificación” y la relación de la posición de la mujer en el contexto de la sociedad argentina con la política y la trayectoria de Eva Perón y Cristina Kirchner. El segundo capítulo trata de la indumentaria en el ámbito social, su aspecto cultural e histórico, delineando el contexto de las mujeres estudiadas y la importancia del elemento estético para la construcción de la imagen política. Como bien define Godart (2010) parafraseando al filósofo francés Jean Baudrillard: “La función de los objetos es apenas la de una “caución” para su dimensión principal, que es la de “valor de cambio de signo”, o sea, para simplificar, su significación sociocultural” (p. 31). Pierre Bourdieu (2010) pone al vestir, las elecciones, el gusto estético de la apariencia como definido por posiciones de clase. La educación institucionalizada, esto es, el grado de escolaridad, la herencia cultural, cuánto el sujeto está familiarizado con distintos tipos de cultura, obras de arte, estilos musicales y vivencias sociales, así como también su capital económico que son los responsables de su “formación”. La estilización de la vida, la elección de la comida, el estilo de decoración de la casa, cómo cuida el sujeto su cuerpo, sus preferencias deportivas, su elección estética de la apariencia, es decir, sus indumentarias, entre otros, reflejarían la posición social. El tercer capítulo trata, teóricamente, acerca del gusto como reflejo de la trayectoria social de las mujeres estudiadas, la cuestión del juicio como elemento “legitimador” de la posición de poder y la trascendencia del “buen y el mal gusto” a través de sus lugares excepcionales para la construcción de sus cuerpos representación. La materialidad de la indumentaria remite e interactúa con sus contextos sociales y culturales, con la posición de la mujer y su trayectoria, constituyendo de forma estética y concreta su cuerpo de poder político. Por lo tanto, la investigación discurre sobre la “personificación” estética de la posición de poder político de la mujer, esto es, cómo algunos aspectos de la construcción social y cultural del género en el contexto general latinoamericano, y en particular argentino, está presente en el cuerpo, en el accionar político, en las representaciones sociales y en las formas de constituir los gustos y cómo se corporifican estéticamente a través de la indumentaria. Notas 1. Louis XIV (1638 -1715), conocido como “Rey-Sol”, fue un monarca absolutista de Francia, reinó de 1643 a 1715. (Burke, 2009). 2. Marie Antoinette Josèphe Jeanne de Habsbourg-Lorraine (1755-1793) - fue una archiduquesa de Austria y reina consorte de Francia y Navarra. Murió decapitada en 16 de octubre de 1793 junto con su marido, el Rey Luís XVI e hijos, como resultado de la Revolución Francesa. (Weber, 2008). 3. A partir de la definición de Joanne Entwistle (2002) de que el cuerpo social es necesariamente un cuerpo vestido, constituido socialmente y siempre ubicado en la cultura, se desprende la idea de que la indumentaria de Eva Perón y Cristina Kirchner hace parte y es formado a partir de su contexto histórico y cultural, por lo tanto también de su posición social. Así, la investigación defiende que sus imágenes personifican, material y estéticamente sus posiciones de poder político 4. No obstante, es la segunda en ejercer ese cargo. La primera presidenta del país fue María Estela Martínez de Perón; como era vicepresidenta de su marido, Juan Domingo Perón, termina asumiendo la presidencia después de su muerte y gobierna el país entre 1974 y 1976. “Isabelita”, como le decían, fue la primera mujer que ocupó la presidencia en toda América Latina. 5. Cerca de dos años después, el 26 de julio de 1949, Evita fundó el Partido Peronista Femenino. En las elecciones de 1951, por primera vez, las mujeres pudieron votar y la sociedad eligió a seis senadoras y quince diputadas peronistas. (Zanatta, 2011). 6. Como lo explica Susana Rosano (2005): Por primera vez en la historia del país se otorgaba, y con estatuto legal, no sólo importantes reivindicaciones a los trabajadores, sino la “dignidad” como seres humanos de que habían sido privados por los anteriores gobiernos, para quienes no eran más que los “cabecitas negras” dejando en ellos la impronta de la conciliación de clases es posible. (p. 04). 7. Como expone Beatriz Sarlo (2003): “En 1946, Evita Duarte se convirtió en la primera dama Eva Duarte de Perón. A partir de ese momento, su cara, su cuerpo, sus ropas y sus poses no se compararon solo con las de las actrices fotografiadas en las revistas del espectáculo sino con las de las señoras, cuya imagen aparecía en otras revistas. El escándalo de Eva se medía respecto de esas mujeres de políticos y de militares, muchas de ellas pertenecientes a la buena sociedad, otras burguesas acomodadas. Esas mujeres ocuparon siempre un plano secundario a respecto del círculo de poder o de las prelaciones institucionales que rodeaban a sus maridos. Ninguna esposa de mandatario o representante se había convertido nunca en una pieza central en la construcción y la consolidación del poder” (p. 69). 8. Cristina Kirchner (Electa en el 2007 y 2010) en Argentina, Laura Chinchilla (2010) en Costa Rica y Dilma Rousseff (2011) en Brasil. (Observatório de Gênero - Secretaria Especial de Políticas para as Mulheres da Presidência da República do Brasil, octubre de 2011). 9. Según Lipovetsky (1989): “ (...) El vestuario permite al individuo desprenderse de las normas antiguas, apreciar más individualmente a las formas, afirmar un gusto más personal, sin embargo, se puede juzgar más libremente a los trajes de los otros, su buen o mal gusto, sus “faltas” o su desgracia.” (p. 38) 10. Que abarca no sólo la indumentaria, sino las elecciones cotidianas como por ejemplo un mobiliario o un menú. 11. María Claudia Bonadio (Almeida e Wajnman, 2012) resume algunas consideraciones de Bourdieu sobre el tema: “(...) O gosto como um consumo estético, pertencente a esfera do cotidiano e presente na escolha, pelo indivíduo, de uma música, uma decoração ou alimentação por exemplo. (...) Bourdieu vê uma ‘hom*ologia’ entre hierarquia de bens e a hierarquia de consumidores, de tal modo que, a seu ver, as preferências estéticas refletem, em sua organização, a estrutura do espaço social”. (p. 72). 12. Para Mezzia y Pozzi (2004) “el gusto legítimo se concreta en el consumo de unos objetos simbólicos (de la no-vulgaridad, es decir, de la distinción), consumo que otorga a las personas eso que Erving Goffman llamó “el sentido del lugar que uno ocupa” en el mundo (“sense of one´s place”), (…)se construye por oposición o aproximación al “sentido del lugar que los otros ocupan” en el mundo (“sense of other´s place”). 13. Para profundizar los conceptos de gusto y capitales simbólicos ver Bourdieu (2006). 14. Karl Heinrich Marx fue un pensador político alemán. Nacido el 5 de mayo de 1818 en Berlín. Estudió filosofía, derecho e historia. Seguidor de Hegel, crítico del capitalismo, desarrolla una doctrina llamada marxista la cual sirve para la idealización del socialismo. (Wheen, 2001).