Issue 6, Spring 2011

mobile fantasies how Japanese women are seizing sexual liberation

berlin wall 2.0 graffiti on the West Bank barrier

gated communities reinterpreting ‘the other’

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FROM THE EDITOR A

rt can be a slippery thing. So often, we are blinded by our own preconceptions to the nuances of the message beneath.

In our photo essay, Jane Olin-Ammentorp shows how a close examination of graffiti on the West Bank barrier creates a surprising, subtle and even uplifting image of attitudes to conflict on either side (Writing on the Wall, page 27). In a similar vein, Chloe Evans investigates the myths behind a more concrete form of ‘othering’ in her work on gated communities. Contrary to common perceptions of such communities, in many countries outside North America the gates serve not to exclude undesirables, but speak a very different message (Two Cities, page 6).

Of course, graffiti is significant not only in its message but as a medium of expression in itself: one of reaction, aggression, but also of beautification and enablement. Not dissimilar, perhaps, from Japanese cell-phone novels. Tomomi Matsuhashi documents the rise of this controversial phenomenon, and in particular the divergent claims to female empowerment these novels present (A Novel Twist, page 20).

Cell-phone novels are but one telling example of the extraordinary staying power of digital media today. Christopher Fletcher offers an intriguing glance into the challenges our libraries face, in a world where digital materials are revolutionising archives (iBod, page 17).

Malek al-Chalabi takes a very different look at future transitions in The Power and the Glory (page 10): specifically, the problems confronting the West as it looks to a low-energy future. In the years to come, the integration of nuclear power into France’s energy culture and politics may well have important implications for future statesmen.

Daniel Edwards is an artist for whom the word subtlety surely cannot apply – or can it? In our new feature, A Picture in A Thousand Words (page 15), Andy Murray explores the surprising delicacy behind the controversial artistic bust of Hillary Clinton.

One thing is clear. In a rapidly changing world, we would do well to ditch our presumptions and focus on the small print. To this end, who better to thank than our sponsors Blackwell, whose support continues to be instrumental to Oxford’s ongoing bid to become UNESCO World Book Capital in 2014.

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ANTHROPOLOGY The product of paranoia? We show how gated communities are not always an attempt to gate out the ‘other’

POLITICS As we look to a low-energy future, the politics of France’s nuclear transition may hold important lessons for us all

HISTORY OF ART Crude? Or compelling? A titillating look at one artist’s bust of Hillary Clinton in our newest regular feature

MODERN MEDIA Digital media is revolutionising the way we read, catalogue and collect – but libraries may yet prove their staying power

LITERATURE Cell-phone novels have become a creative outlet for Japanese women, reconstucting popular gender perceptions

PHOTO ESSAY “He best can paint them who shall feel them most”: art and politics fuse in graffiti along the Israeli-Palestinian wall

CONTENTS

T WO CITIES

ANTHROPOLOGY | Gated communities are fairly common sights in Europe and the US, but with the advent of globalisation, are gated communities in South America, East Asia, and Africa simply being transplanted as a method of dealing with xenophobic fears of the ‘other’?

“

The proof that you have economically ‘made it in the world’ is an important one.

Possessing a house in a gated community such as Indang Village thus acts as symbolic capital.

The British theme conveys an affiliation with the United Kingdom, and consequently of luxury and wealth

”

I

n an age where intrusive surveillance is a normal occurrence - where CCTV cameras are on every road crossing, shop and public space, internet and television sensors - the idea of control has become a central issue in peoples’ lives. Living in gated communities can be interpreted as an act of control: the asserted withdrawal from the rest of society. Those who choose to live in gated communities have actively affirmed their right to control how they live.

Most literature on the subject has looked at western models of gated communities. These have emphasised separation from the rest of society due to the fear of the ‘other’ - usually people of lower socio-economic status, or of a different ethnic or national identity. However, how does one account for the rise in gated communities globally? Is this a homogenous globalised process from the West to the rest, where urban models from America and the United Kingdom have been replicated around the world?

The answer may not be so simple. Gated communities are not a solely bounded phenomenon that just gets implanted into each society. Comparison of the North American model to examples from South East Asia, suggests the usual globalisation cliché thesis – one which proposes there is a homogenous force that wipes out another culture’s way of life –is far from universal.

In fact, there is significant mediation between the model of gated communities and the local cultural milieu.

What exactly are gated communities? Setha Low, one of the first theorists on the subject states that they are “residential developments surrounded by walls, [and] fences” with a “structured entrance.” Most are accompanied by surveillance technologies, from CCTV to security guards. These are part of a conscious process of privatisation, as the residents control and restrict access to what was formerly public space. Within this restricted space, particular social groups, usually the middle class can appropriate a shared identity or community that is defined in opposition to the ‘outside’.

Traceable in their earliest form to 300 BC England, when Roman soldiers built walls around their settlements to protect them from local villagers, gated communities are now a sustained feature of life in certain parts of North America, and have influenced urban planning, from retirement homes to resorts. From the nineteenth century, gated communities such as Tuxedo Park separated wealthy inhabitants from the rest of the city. Presently, millions of North Americans live in gated communities that have subsequently become one of the signifiers of suburban life.

Numerous forces have served to bring about the preponderance of gated communities in North America. For a start, houses or more specifically ‘homes’ have a certain romanticised idea in the Euro-American psyche: whitewashed fences, manicured gardens, well behaved and friendly neighbours that conjure up the ‘niceness’ of family life. Within the American imagination this re-creation of the past serves as a model for the perfect home life. Gated communities create a contrived world designed to the specifications of the residents and bounded by walls restricting access to the public.

This idealised community and haven of security contrasts heavily with the fear of crime in these families’ perceived realities. Research shows families who live in gated communities emphasise how it restricts access from the outside world. The discourse of fear plays into the psyches of these residents and their ‘fear of the other’ - whether that ‘other’ is a possible criminal, the urban poor or those from ethnic minorities. Walls, guards and security technologies serve to keep these perceived dangers from their exclusive social world.

Clearly, gated communities in the United States represent a desirable model for housing: one which conveys ideas of homeliness and community, whilst protecting inhabitants from the ‘outside.’ However, how should one account for its popularity in the rest of the world? The gated community model has been found in Africa, South America, and East Asia and so on. Is this another example of westernisation as globalisation?

One should not assume the western model is merely replicated and implanted into each new cultural setting. This is to misunderstand the complex process of mediation which takes place when a one model meets another culture. Each gated community in a non-Euro-American environment has been changed and manipulated in culturally specific ways, to suit the needs of that particular culture. In China, for example, gated communities are a statement of conspicuous consumption, rather than a withdrawal from the urban sprawl. More significantly, in certain gated communities in the Philippines, ‘gating out’ is not merely to do with fears of ‘the other’: the gates themselves symbolically represent the wealth and the prestige of the residents.

Indang Village is a gated community in the Philippines. It is unique in the sense that it is a British- Filipino gated community, primarily designed for Filipino expatriates who have lived and worked in the United Kingdom. Its ‘Britishness’ is inherent in certain aspects of its design.

According to its website, the community aims to

IMAGES | The Indang village gated communtiy taken by Chloe Evans

meet “the dreams and needs of British Filipinos and British Expatriates who have become accustomed to the comforts of British style living”. The gated community is based on a British theme that includes British architecture in the form of the club house that is a replica of the Lido, in Hyde Park as well as landscaped gardens, post boxes, British road signs and bus stops. These British symbols are supposed to help to conjure a British identity in the imaginations of the people residing there. This romanticised idea of Britain is not so different from the America model of the idealised home.

However, unlike the US model of gated housing, residents in Indang Village are not as preoccupied with safety as their American counterparts. Safety is not the focal point of this particular gated community. Residents choose Indang village because it is “peaceful and quiet”. When interviewed about the relationship between those who lived inside and those who lived outside the gates, residents claimed there “were no problems”. One old woman claimed with regards to security: “So far so good - it has been seven years and nothing has happened.”

Evidently, the North American idea of gating oneself away from the undesired is not the primary aim of inhabitants within Indang Village. In part, the difference is demographic.

There is very little ethnic diversity in the Philippines, and so the fear of the ethnic other threatening residents’ way of life does not exist. Those living beyond the gates feel little animosity towards the residents of Indang Village. According to one security guard, who has worked at the gates of Indang Village for years, but who lives outside the gated community itself, people outside of the gates have “no bad feelings” against the residents. Security is just not an issue.

Moreover, in the highly stratified society of the Philippines, where there is a large disparity between the rich and

the poor, the proof that you have economically ‘made it in the world is an important one; thus, possessing a house in a gated community such as Indang Village acts as symbolic capital. The British theme conveys an affiliation with the United Kingdom, and consequently of luxury and wealth.

The importance of the British theme is clear from the website: it boasts “tastefully furnished... elegant British country homes” which are “equipped for modern lifestyles.” One resident emphasises the connection with Britain as she states that the “passport is important” and that her time in England has taught her “to be smart.” Living as an expatriate means that “for £1000 for a year you can have a gardener, driver and cleaner”. Although this may be cheap in British terms, in a local context it conveys immense wealth on residents and suggests a life of upper-class luxury.

Interviews with the residents of Indang Village show how people of different countries have attached their own values and ideas to the phenomenon of gated communities. In the Philippines, as elsewhere, people have adapted the EuroAmerican model of gated communities to their own cultural milieu. In the case of Indang Village, ‘gating out’ has more of an emphasis of prestige and wealth, than of fear and ‘othering’; elsewhere, it might be different still. The contrast with the American model shows that, at least with regards to gated communities, globalisation is not a homogenous model.

Chloe Evans is reading M.Sc Visual Anthropology at the Institute of Social and Cultural Anthropology. She is currently part of a project that aims to make Anthropology more accessible to the general public: www.theparticipantobservatory.com

LITERATURE | Cell-phone novels are taking Japanese literary culture by storm.

Dark, disturbing and often sexual, they have become safe havens for women to express themselves. This new literary genre may have important implications for perceptions of gender in Japan

a novel

twist

ids?

Well Twice I got knocked up By mistake...

Like who asked them to get made I Don’t like rubbers Yeah For beer and cocks Raw is best You know

In this paragraph from a Japanese cell-phone novel written by a twenty-three-year-old named Kiki, the voice of Atashi Kanojo (I Girlfriend) is unabashedly frank. Cell-phone novels, known as keitai shĹ?setsu in Japanese, are an emerging and transformative literary genre in Japan that took that nation by storm during the first decade of the twentieth century. Written by young women for young women, no one imagined how popular cell-phone novels would become.

Deep Love, Japan’s first cell-phone novel, presented stories about a teenage prostitute from Tokyo that were posted online by Yoshi, a high school tutor. The stories became so popular, that Deep Love was published in print in 2002 and later formed the inspiration for a movie, television dramas and manga comic books. Soon after, the number of cell-phone novels in print began skyrocketing. In 2006, twenty-two books hit the shelves; the following year there were ninetyeight. According to a report by Tohan Corporation, five of the top ten best-selling printed novels in 2007 were cell-phone novels, each >>

previous page | Thumbelina,

Aya Kato, 2005 this page | Mobile Connection,

© Konstantin Volke, 2010

selling around four hundred thousand copies. One cell-phone novel publisher, Starts, has released forty titles that have sold ten million copies.

With today’s advanced technology, reading media have broadened from printed materials to electronic devices. In Japan, the mobile phone has been replacing books as not only a way to read novels, but to write them as well.

As a cultural space for young Japanese women, cell-phone novels provide insight into female identities in contemporary Japan. Some cell-phone novels attempt to reevaluate the lives of prostitutes, showing that pure love is possible even in the dark, dirty world of prostitution. Others portray school girls’ struggles in love and friendships due to rapid sexual maturation and the psychological transition between childhood and adulthood. That the >>

identities created by these stories are often contradictory serves to highlight the challenges that young women face in Japan.

Mobile space becomes women’s space

In her essay Mobile Space is Women’s Space: Reframing Mobile Phones and Gender in an Urban Context, Molly Wright Steenson discusses how the cell-phone has particular importance for women in an urban context. According to Steenson, in the nineteenth and early twentieth century, the presence of a woman on the street without a man indicated that she was a public good, or a prostitute. With a cell-phone in her hand, however, a woman can feel safer in an urban context; the cell-phone shows that she is unapproachable and provides a ready network of contacts. Women can use

This new style of writing is rich in usage of emoji, or emoticons, which often replace words to express a writer’s mood or situation

these technologies as enabling mechanisms for their social networks.

The female mobile experience is not just an individual one, but a networked, social one.

This is especially true for Japanese women.

Culturally speaking, women are often discouraged from revealing their emotions and opinions publicly in Japan. As a result, cellphone novels, usually posted anonymously or under pseudonyms, have become safe havens of self-expression and personal fulfilment for young Japanese women. Along with this new technology for reading and writing novels, a new style of writing has also emerged.

Cell-phone novels tend to use simpler language than traditional novels because many writers and readers do not have a large Japanese vocabulary. Some writers are high school dropouts, while the majority of

readers are females between the ages of ten and twenty. Simpler language also facilitates the process of both writing and reading on a cell-phone. For the same reasons, this new style of writing is rich in usage of emoji, or emoticons, which often replace words to express a writer’s mood or situation. Some emoji are very specific to Japanese culture, representing things like bowing gestures and traditional food. Lastly, blank spaces within and between sentences have made cell-phone novels colloquial and conversational. Unlike “real” novels which are filled with words, cell-phone novels are often called suka suka (empty). Such emptiness shows the vivid rhythm of modern Japanese girls’ everyday language, free from the formal restrictions of conventional Japanese literature. In short, this new style of writing is very >>

images | Both by Aya Kato, 2005

effective not only in describing the young females’ worlds, but also in providing a social community for them to express their emotions freely without adults’ interference. According to some scholars, the writing style of cell-phone novels heralds a national language reform comparable to the genbum’itchi, the unification of spoken and written Japanese at the turn of the twentieth century. Significantly, rather than being led by the government, this second gembun’itchi is being formed at the fingertips of young Japanese women.

This revolutionary style is possible because cell-phone novel writers and readers are close in age. >>

The cell-phone novel reinvents the writer

As a new genre driven by youth, cell-

phone novels are viewed as inappropriate or incomprehensible by previous generations. For the January 2008 issue of Bungakukai, a renowned Japanese monthly literary journal, the editor assembled a panel to answer the question “Will the cell-phone novel kill the writer?” Some conservatives feared that cell-phone novels augured the end of Japanese literature. Other, more liberal scholars accepted them as formal literature, believing that they represented the beginning of a new era in the Japanese novel.

Some critics disregard cell-phone novels as literature due to their simple language and lack of diverse vocabulary, much like comic books. However, history points to a different reality.

Indeed, The Tale of Genji and The Pillow Book, widely regarded as masterpiec-

es of Japanese literature, were both viewed as comic books when they were published during the eleventh century and further disregarded because they had been written by women. It wasn’t until the Meiji period at the turn of the twentieth century, when these works were reevaluated and became part of the core Japanese canon. Criticism toward cell-phone novels, due to their content, amateur female writers and format, is inevitable. If history is anything to go by, it is only a matter of time until cell-phone novels are considered ‘real’ literature.

Indeed, many believe cell phone novels promise the beginning of a new era in Japanese literature. The content, writing style, and rawness of keitai shōsetsu, not to mention their huge consumption, qualifies them as a new

genre for many academics. In particular, the unedited and often profoundly ungrammatical nature of cell-phone novels adds to their appeal. After all, only through the non-interference of adults has it become possible for young Japanese girls to confess the dark, sexual secrets and fantasies of their personal lives. Because cell-phone novels are an auto-biographical genre, we can call this new genre onna no ko no watakushi shōsetsu (girls’ “I Novel”), in the same vein as Yonemitsu’s idea of a girls’ gembun’itchi.

Cell-phone novels as acts of violence and empowerment

Only through the non-interference of adults has it become possible for young Japanese girls to confess the dark sexual secrets and fantasies of their personal lives

Cell-phone novels, largely written under pseudonyms, provide a unique platform for young females to construct fantasies and new identities that blur with their own experiences and make sense of the challenges they face. Written in the first-person, these novels can also relate directly to their readership. However, the very directness of the medium has led to rising concerns amongst Japanese parents and school teachers, who worry the sexual values and deeds presented in many novels expose youths to glamourised ideas of rape and violence. Koizora, a novel published in 2005 and later made into a movie, presents the turbulent relationship between a young girl and a juvenile delinquent: a story so shocking one grade school teacher called it a “crime of the media.” Certainly in popular culture, the appeal of the smart and kind male appears to be waning in favour of the more violent type, often called choi-waru (a little bad guy).

This, according to Judith Butler, is only one of the ways in which modern Japanese culture is restructuring notions of gender. If women are not “born” but “invented” through various “acts of gender”, then the idealisation of violence in relationships may be having an adverse impact on the way women perceive themselves. This change is mirrored in the economic sphere. With the Japanese economy in slump and more women financially dependent on traditional male breadwinners, feminist movements have shrunk.

Worries about their economic position

in a recessive economy and the fear of being stigmatised as a make-inu (loser dog) for remaining single into their thirties and beyond prompts women to fantasize about getting married to their ideal husbands. Such ideas, in turn, contribute to a retreat of feminism in Japanese society. Cell-phone novels prop up and advance a growing perception of gender relations which is far from empowering.

However, the case against cell-phone novels is not as simple as that. Keitai shōsetsu can also be seen as a reaction to traditional literature, in particular shōjo (girls’) comics, with their emphasis on female chastity and fairy-tale endings.

According to Ishida Kimi, a researcher of shōjo cultural theory, young women working in the prostitution industry were amongst the earliest readers and writers of cell-phone novels. Many of these women had grown up experiencing the dark side of reality, with its cheating lovers, abuse and drug use, and were disillusioned with the traditional, pure love stories of shōjo comics. Cell-phone novels promised what shōjo could not: a story that reflected the experience of these ‘impure’ girls and touched previously taboo topics.

The yogoreta – sexually corrupted, impure girls – found solace in stories that countered negative stereotypes about their lifestyles.

Perhaps cell-phone novels have caused so much controversy, as well as attained popularity, because of the very challenge they present to the status quo. Not only in terms of the characters they present, but also in their novel format and ‘empty’ style, they question the terms of reality and enable young women to escape into a realm of alternate possibilities. The cell-phone, as a twist on the printing press, creates a network for the spread of information and a fresh perspective that is shaping the gender norms of Japanese society.

Tomomi Matsuhashi is an MSt student in Modern Japanese Studies. She has previously studied at Columbia University.

Her work on cell-phone novels has appeared in the New Yorker

This 2006 sculpture by Daniel Edwards is entitled The Presidential Bust of Hillary Rodham Clinton: The First Woman President of the United States and is housed in The Museum of Sex in New York City

in a

a picture

thousand words

Daniel Edwards, ‘The Presidential Bust of Hillary Rodham Clinton: The First Woman President of the United States’

S

he has no nipples. It is the most striking aspect of this sculpture. They seem to have been edited out, as if Hillary was model in an advertisement for high-end semi-transparent lingerie.

However, considering this sculpture was unveiled in August 2006 at New York’s Museum of Sex, the nippleless breasts are unlikely to be a result of shame and sexual restraint. Their absence is thus an enigma, suggestive of those androgynous bumps and shallow hollows that characterise a child’s Barbie or Action Man. The comparison with dolls is apt. The artist, Daniel Edwards, is known for taking celebrity equivalents of Barbie and Ken – such as Paris Hilton, Britney Spears, Prince Harry, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie – and depicting them in sexually and politically provocative scenarios. Despite the substantial media attention given to his work it has received almost no recognition in academic literature. This is perhaps indicative of the nature of his art; it is of the ‘now’, as fleeting in its reputation and historic impact as the celebrities he depicts.

However, there may be more to Clinton’s portrait than meets the eye. Edwards produced this work in 2006 as a prospective presidential portrait of Hillary Clinton, in the event of her winning the 2008 presidential campaign. It is unfortunate for Edwards that she didn’t achieve this – if she had, the artist could have claimed to belong to a tradition that spans over a century and a half. As far back as 1841, the sculptor Horatio Greenough scandalised the American public by unveiling his larger-than-life, neoclassical statue of George Washington. Widely ridiculed at the time for displaying the President’s naked upper torso, Greenough’s work suggests a disparity between the respect given to high political status and the embarrassment of a nude body. This same disparity in Hillary’s portrait appears bold and striking. The difference is that, whereas Greenough preferred to adorn his figures with classical drapery, rather than what he perceived to be as the less heroic clothes of his own time, Edwards does not classically idealise Hillary’s physique. Apart from her well-shaped breasts and what Edwards refers to as her “delicate nape”, Hillary’s face is severe and moulded with wrinkles. Rather than aim at depicting a classical ideal of female beauty and power, Edwards’ heroic claim for Hillary is the physicality and sexuality of her middle-aged, female body.

So why no nipples? It is not as if Daniel Edwards is shy of adult content. Quite the contrary, in fact. In his notorious portrait of Britney Spears, completed two months before the Hillary portrait in >>

Britney Spears depicted in Daniel Edwards’ Monument to Pro-Life: The Birth of Sean Preston, 2006

2006, Edwards depicts a naked Britney giving birth on a bearskin rug. Furthermore, his more recent depiction of Angelina Jolie suckling her twins suggests, that functioning mammary glands are present and accounted for. Looking back at the Clinton bust, it is as if Edwards intended to display, in his outrageous style, Hillary’s middle-aged sexuality, but restrained himself at the last minute, veiling the nipples in a thin, lacy gown. Why does he do this when his repertoire of sculpture seems intended to shock?

The answer may lie in the character of the woman Edwards is attempting to portray. Rather than just providing shock factor, his sculptures are a powerful social commentary, and unlike the Jolie and the Spears portraits, the Clinton portrait is a portrait of a woman whose sexuality is directed into political power, rather than in motherhood. Far from putting a restraint on her sexuality, Clinton’s job as a politician actually seems to amplify it. In this portrait, Edwards draws on an iconographic history where political and sexual power merge, and leaders become objects of their subjects’ desire.

The posture of the portrait is a familiar one, with echoes of famous political busts such as that of Louis XIV by Bernini and the iconic image of revolutionary leader Che Guevara. Like these two images Hillary’s political ambitions for herself and her country are coded in the dynamic potential of the body. As with Louis and Guevara, Hillary’s head is turned away from the body, gazing to some distant point, her thoughts firmly fixed on the future, in contrast to her body which remains in the present. Her side-parted hair follows this movement, standing to one side to allow her eyes to see, and her full brow to judge. In Edwards’ portrait of Hillary, we admire the politician for the beauty of her body, and we admire the body for the visionary inspiration that is the politician.

If the nipples are occluded in this iconographic form, it is because they interfere with it. The nipples compete with the eyes on the direction and role of the figure. Whereas the eyes are directed towards the future, the nipples point to the mouth and hands of a child or lover. They invoke a small and safe world, a domestic or romantic world – certainly not a political world. In making the >>

Clinton portrait Edwards claims he was influenced by a quote from Sharon Stone: “The United States is not ready to elect a woman with so much sexual power. If Hillary Clinton still has sexual power she’s a threat, therefore it’s probably too soon for her to be elected.”

Perhaps what Stone intended to say here is not that Hillary must become asexual, but that her female sexuality must become neutralised. In this vein, the lack of nipples is potentially a comment on how the political office neutralises women in the eyes of the public. Her ‘manly’ sexuality, on the other hand, must be amplified with grizzled age. For Clinton to become president, Stone suggests, she must do something similar to what Margaret Thatcher did to herself, and become the most masculine figure in her cabinet. But the problem with such a reading is that the Clinton portrait seems so sexually loaded. Whereas few would have ever desired sexual relations with Thatcher, Edwards, at least, displays Hillary’s sexual allure.

As an alternative interpretation, we might postulate that Edwards is instead trying to celebrate female sexuality in politics.

Hillary’s breasts thus lose their nipples, but retain their full and powerful presence. The nipples are covered because her breasts are past the sexual function of their youth and their maternal function of motherhood. However, the breasts as a whole are prominently displayed because they are now entering their politico-sexual function of old age. These breasts are not for lovers and children, but for press-conferences. Edwards is not just claiming high political position for women in this portrait, but old age as well.

He is claiming it as a time when women should have the equal opportunities of men for high political office and admiration as dignified, wise and experienced members of society. Indelicate, though it may be, Edwards’ portrait ‘bust’ is an artwork that brushes asides the phalluses and Father-figures of political imagery, and claims the sexuality of political power for women.

Andy Murray is studying Gothic Art at Oxford’s History of Art Department. He previously studied at UCL

iBod.

the next chapter.

MEDIA |The twenty-first century is set to turn over a new leaf in the history of the book - one which will change the way we read, store and think about texts

A

mong the Bodleian’s ten thousand or so manuscripts from the medieval and earlier period may be found a volume that can lay reasonable claim to being the earliest book written entirely in the English language. King Alfred’s translation of Gregory’s Pastoral Care dates from around 890 and includes a preface, often attributed to Alfred himself, which laments the state of learning in the land and explains the King’s intention to send to his benighted bishops copies of edifying texts written not in tricky Latin, but the vernacular. He meant what he said. ‘This Book’, as the preface in our manuscript commands, ‘shall be sent to Worcester.’

These days such a politically expedient text would doubtless be distributed far and wide as a word-file, a pdf appended to an email or a link in a tweet. The question for today’s librarians is whether the jiggling atoms that constitute such ‘born digital’ material will prove to have the durability of the parchment written upon

by Alfred’s scribes. The Bodleian, British Library and others have been addressing the issue, by developing a system designed to capture, preserve and ultimately to make accessible materials of intellectual and cultural importance that never make it onto the relative security of paper (or parchment, even, on which modern Acts of Parliament continue to be printed). To date, around forty ‘hybrid collections’ – collections comprising both paper and electronic components - have come within the compass of the project: from the archives of Anthony Sampson, journalist and ‘anatomist of Britain’, to the politician Barbara Castle.

In many ways, the approach to digital material replicates the way in which physical collections in traditional formats are handled. Both types of material have

to be removed into secure holdings to ensure longevity; weeded and arranged according to established archival practice; catalogued; presented to the reader in a carefully managed environment; secured against alteration or damage; and administered within established legal parameters. Ironically, what this means in practice is that all the possibilities associated with the digital – duplication, forward transmission, manipulation of format or appearance, economies of space, remote access, and so on – are necessarily circumscribed.

Readers still need to turn up and consult the material on site, in a reading room, on a computer isolated from any external connection.

Even so, the possibilities for new forms of interrogation of archival material are huge. Readers now have the ability to search across vast amounts of text and to explore complex relations between material through analysis of metadata in a way never previously possible. The prospect is an exciting one. Why then will no one let the genie out of the bottle, exploit the technology and give access to these traditionally privileged collections to all?

The legal implications are fairly easy to understand.

Many a writer, or writer’s estate, for example, would be dismayed if an important unpublished novel with the potential to raise revenue through the provisions of copyright law ended up posted free for all to see on the web. An equivalent set of challenges can be found in the case of large-scale digitisation and electronic publishing projects – most famously the Kindle –involving modern material, whether printed or manuscript. Similarly, libraries, being ‘data controllers’ under the provisions of the Data Protection Act, are obliged to administer access to potentially sensitive >>

private material with considerable care. But there are more sub>> tle reasons, too. In an age where the same digital resources, such as online journals, are increasingly offered by numerous institutions, the potential for unique material to offer the scholar something impossible to find elsewhere gives a competitive advantage. Indeed, the trade in manuscripts has never been so vigorous.

It is no coincidence that the most active and acquisitive of special collections libraries, such as the Harry Ransom Center in Texas, or the Library at Emory, Atlanta, are busy developing their own solutions to the digital challenge. Both institutions share expertise about technology, allowing emails, word files and spreadsheets – all the paraphernalia of the digital desktop – to be captured, preserved and made accessible to scholars. So far, work at Emory has included saving eighteen gigabytes of data found on Salman Rushdie’s four Apple Macs - one compromised by spilled Coke - and getting to grips with Michael Joyce’s archive of hypertext works at Texas. Perhaps one day archival collections which in traditional format are fought over by peer institutions in a spirited manner might, in their born-digital equivalent, be jointly owned, administered and made accessible. But not yet.

In some respects, then, digital material is being processed and treated in much the same way as its physical forerunners. Yet the rapid emergence of digital media of various sorts is changing cultures of collecting more broadly. The market in literary manuscripts and archives has been well-established for many years.

Modernists like Joyce, Eliot and Conrad depended, at least to some extent during their careers, on the patronage of wealthy bibliophiles looking to enhance their libraries. Here digital media becomes more problematic. No one really knows the commercial value of a purely born digital collection. This is not material that can be handled, displayed, or, more likely, locked away to accrue value.

Dealers are reticent to tangle with the intangible technology, effectively omitting digital components from valuations of hybrid collections, while libraries are unwilling to spend dwindling resources on material, which may be duplicated elsewhere or which they are ill-equipped to deal with. As a result, donations are currently the means by which the born-digital is accepted. The Bodleian, for example, hopes shortly to receive the archive of William Gibson’s ‘Agrippa’, a poetic text that was programmed to self-destruct as it was read on screen, but which in an instance of gorgeously ironic digital Darwinism, was illicitly recorded at a screening and now proliferates on the internet.

William Gibson’s ‘Agrippa’ is a poetic text that was programmed to self-destruct as it was read on screen, but which in an instance of gorgeously ironic digital Darwinism, was illictly recorded at a screening and now proliferates on the internet

This emphasis on donation provides another interesting shift of emphasis. Traditionally, curators would wait until the dust had settled on a reputation, before exploring opportunities to bring it into the stacks. These days, the changing pace of technology and the frailty of the material in question means they have to intervene earlier, establish relationships, set up guidelines, even tutor those generating electronic material in the use of technologies.

As a result of this increased intervention, the curator becomes a key figure in determining the nature of the material he or she is collecting. Rather than endorsing what is important or canonic after the fact by passively receiving discrete, librarians are shaping such judgments on the fly on the fly. The neutrality, such as it ever was, has gone. Does this matter? There are plenty who would argue that no text is neutral; its construction and endless interpretation are the work of many agencies, not just the author. Nonetheless, it is clear that collecting will never be the same as before.

Furthermore, other agents are becoming increasingly implicated in our textual world. As the automatically generated adverts that follow us around the web reveal, internet providers and associated companies are no strangers to the commercial potential of personal archival data. Most must surely be starting to realise that they are effectively keepers of the world’s most important contemporary manuscript content: the misunderstood masterpiece sent to a publisher; political memoirs; scientific exchanges between eminent researchers; the deliberations of committees and panels.

An enduring concern for born-digital material stored ‘in the cloud’ is durability. In an article in the New Yorker some years back, Zadie Smith bewailed the fact that her entire creative life was locked up in a proprietary account whose survival she could not guarantee. How many important archives have disappeared already, through technical glitches or the failure of someone to cough up an annual subscription? So worrying is the idea that some authors have reportedly paid to have their emails transcribed from screen onto paper. But with increasing numbers of providers guaranteeing vast

amounts of space for free and making it difficult to erase content, even if that is what is desired, such distrust will surely end up seeming eccentric. Even among the big commercial players, preservation is increasingly the name of the game.

Because of which, I would argue, libraries matter in particular. Through the evolutions of technology, the comings and goings of corporate bodies, and even the vicissitudes of political and economic change, libraries have a habit or surviving. Driven by motivations that reach beyond the commercial, they do this through the imposition of order upon disorder, through careful arrangement, selection and interpretation of materials, and the development of robust physical and administrative structures that allow this to happen. The great burgeoning of the born digital will not turn libraries inside out; rather, libraries will bring the outside in.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, whose manuscript poems and doodles are currently featured in a Bodleian exhibition, famously described poets as the unacknowledged legislators of the world. When I hear that my colleagues are about to haul the email archive of a significant national figure from the nebulous, twittering cloud and preserve it for the edification of future generations, I wonder whether librarians might come a close second.

Christopher Fletcher is Head of Western Manuscripts at the Bodleian Libraries and a member of the Faculty of English Bodleian Electronic Manuscripts and Archives: www.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/beam

THE POWER AND THE GLORY

POLITICS | With national and international low carbon energy targets in sight, France’s historical energy transition may have gripping implications for the future

“France’s nuclear reactors are contemporary chateaux, symbols of national glory equivalent in scale and style to the grandest historic monuments” Gabrielle Hecht

Nuclear energy is a controversial issue. With fossil fuel resources depleting and carbon emissions increasing, it is likely that an energy transition is upon us in the near future. While proponents of the technology note that nuclear provides a steady, relatively safe supply of energy, which can easily be integrated into the current electric infrastructure, critics point to its long-lasting environmental damage and note that reliance on nuclear power will delay an eventual transition towards non-fossil fuel based energy sources.

France is unique in having made the leap from a model based on conventional sources of energy to one that is heavily reliant on nuclear energy. Nowadays, more than seventy five percent of France’s electricity comes from nuclear sources, and the French are the largest exporter of electricity in the world. Indeed, the country is widely regarded as a global leader in nuclear energy technology.

The uniqueness of France’s situation poses some questions worth exploring. How was this transition possible?

And, more importantly, what socio-political lessons can be learned from the French nuclear transition that may be relevant to future energy transitions? The purpose of this article is not to discuss whether selecting nuclear energy was the right decision, but rather, how it came to be.

The epoch of technology France’s history is an integral part of its transition to nuclear energy. France emerged from the Second World War with an infrastructure in tatters and almost one and a half million dead. Many believed that an inability to recover morally and politically would be even more catastrophic than the physical devastation incurred by the war.

With their national identity at stake, the French looked to rebuild their nation.

Technological advancement was widely perceived as the key to progress. Renowned war veteran and statesman De Gaulle spoke for many in the 1950s when he claimed: “We are in the epoch of technology… A state does not count if it does not bring something that contributes to the technological progress of the world.” Many believed that development through technology would restore the nation’s grandeur. When Felix Gaillard, one of the first proponents of nuclear energy, went to Parliament in July 1952, he argued that France needed nuclear power “because it conferred power and glory” on the nation. If France did not take up nuclear technology, its global position would be that of a regressing nation. Members from both sides of the political spectrum were attracted to his argument and Parliament accepted his proposal.

Once the plan was approved, a variety of decisions had to be made. What would nuclear plants look like? Where would they be placed? The leaders at the time used these questions as an opportunity to integrate national identity with technology even further.

The role of culture in technological transitions France was determined to develop technologically, while ensuring that their technology was French. According to Gabrielle Hecht in The Radiance of France: Nuclear Power and National Identity after World War Two (1998), “Nuclear reactors [are] contemporary chateaux, symbols of national glory equivalent in scale and style to the grandest historic monuments.”

This viewpoint is reinforced by other figures, like Claude Mandill, the ex General Director for Energy and Raw Materials at the Ministry of Industry. Mandill noted the importance of cultural factors in the uptake of

nuclear technology. Like high speed trains and supersonic jets – all national projects – nuclear technology found acceptance, fuelled not just by national pride but by a desire for energy independence. While nuclear energy is still far from universally accepted – as the strident protests staged by groups like ‘Sortir du nucleaire’, Green Peace and INFORSE show the cultural attributes did play a role in the eventual uptake.

The significance of the technocratic regime should not be understated. The first sign of a government that encompassed both technology and policy was the appointment of Pierre Guillaumat as CEA’s [Commissariat a l’Energie Atomique, the French atomic energy commission] Administrator General in November 1951, where he managed a program that encompassed both science, technology, and policy. One telling episode was when Hecht interviewed an engineer about the decisions that had to be made during the time period, and he “slapped his hand on the desk, leaned toward [her], glared, and roared: ‘But Mademoiselle! These were not scientific or technical decisions! They were economic decisions! Political decisions!’ ” A few points can be drawn from France’s case study. First, the French were able to take the post- World War Two identity crisis and use it as an opportunity for growth towards nuclear development. Secondly, this growth was possible because the government was able to convince the public that the advancement of nuclear technology would simultaneously strengthen their national identity and pride. Finally, a key strategy was the integration of science with policy making. Today, France is a leading exporter of not only electricity, but also nuclear energy technology. Recognizing these socio-political lessons, how can they be relevant in today’s political climate?

Future transitions As the global community looks towards a low carbon future, the French case provides a useful precedent. The French case study has demonsrated the value of culture in technological transitions. Currently, some nations are trying to fuse national identity with alternative forms of energy. Such at least appears to be the gist of President Obama’s speech on energy: “The world is now engaged in a peaceful competition to

“Nuclear development was possible because the government was able to convince the public that it was correlated to their national identity and pride”

determine the technologies that will power the twenty first century. From China to India, from Japan to Germany, nations everywhere are racing to develop new ways to produce and use energy. The nation that wins this competition will be the nation that leads the global economy. I am convinced of that.

And I want America to be that nation.”

In a time when national governments are looking to transition towards alternative energy sources, it may be worthwhile to retrace the steps of a nation that was able to restructure and redevelop by using a crisis as an opportunity. A technocratic government that understood the subtleties of its cultural identity succeeded in garnering support by tapping into cultural factors. Likewise, today’s stagnant pace of transition may be put into motion by evoking a sense of shared interests. The idea of a common identity across nations or regions, in this increasingly interconnected world, may not be too far out of reach.

above | Demonstration to commemorate the twenty-second

anniversary of the Chernobyl disaster, Paris. Imagines by Phillippe Leroyer left | French anti-nuclear posters title image | Aerial photograph of nuclear power station,

Malek al-Chalabi is a doctoral student at the Environmental Change Institute and Transport Studies Unit within the School of Geography

PHOTO ESSAY

Writing

on the wall

The West Bank barrier, Jerusalem

HISTORY OF ART | The West Bank barrier has become a second Berlin Wall, and a focus for the frustrations of oppressed nations the world over. Their artistic messages of solidarity mix with local expressions of anger and stoicism

Just as urban gangs frequently use tags to mark their assumed territory, pieces and tags on the barrier act as a subtle way to reclaim Palestinian ownership of the land

left | Artwork by Banksy right | Artwork by Swoon; photograph

by Jane Olin-Ammentorp

G

raffiti is as old as the cave paintings at Lascaux.

It is an art form that has developed from simple drawings and scribblings to neon-sprayed tags in the metropolises of the world. As an often illegal, haphazard, and generally - but not exclusively - populist system of writing and recording, graffiti is inherently linked with political meaning.

Graffiti and public art have become intrinsic facets of the barrier in the West Bank, and yet their presence is not often explored in depth. A tangible manifestation of the ongoing Israeli-Palestinian conflict, it is regarded as illegal by the International Court of Justice and the international legal community. The dire human rights situation in the region and political strife continue to dominate much of the topical conversation, and rightly so. Still, it is essential to consider the importance of artistic statements in the midst of conflict, and the political changes that they can effect.

The words and phrases scrawled across the cement wall often express anger at the barrier’s presence; yet an almost surprisingly high proportion of them also present messages of peace. Regardless of the message or its particular form,

graffiti and public art on the barrier are becoming ubiquitous. Many commentators, including David Hare of The New York Review of Books, have noted similarities between the barrier and another infamous structure: ‘Oh yes, there’s a parallel here and it’s being made with aerosols and poster paints, so that every visitor will be forced to think “Ah! Berlin!”’

And while the parallel between graffiti on the barrier and the paint-covered walls of the past certainly exists, there are a number of distinctly new forces in the field of graffiti and public art that have evolved along with the barrier’s construction. Over the past few years, the barrier has become an international destination for jet-setting graffiti artists. Well-known British artist Banksy calls the barrier ‘the ultimate activity holiday destination for graffiti writers.’

Banksy was one of the first major artists to put pieces on the barrier, travelling to the West Bank in August 2005.

The nine large-scale pieces along different sections of the barrier in Bethlehem, Abu Dis, and Ramallah have become icons that not only represent Banksy and his art, but also

demonstrate the prominent role that international public art has come to play in the political debate surrounding the barrier.

Banksy clarifies his motivation for visiting the barrier as excitement at the opportunity to ‘turn the world’s most invasive and degrading structure into the world’s longest gallery of free speech and bad art.’ The majority of the nine pieces Banksy completed in 2005 contain images that refer to the fantasy of escape, a comment on the barrier’s function as a means to hermetically seal off Israel from the Palestinian population. The pieces also frequently depict children, accentuating the barrier’s indiscriminate effects on all segments of the population.

Still, there is an ongoing debate over whether attempts to make the barrier more aesthetically pleasing actually mean accepting the barrier’s existence as legitimate. In his book Wall and Piece (a play on Tolstoy’s War and Peace), Banksy recounts an encounter in 2005 with a Palestinian man while he was working on one of his pieces: ‘Old man: You paint the wall, you make it look beautiful.

Banksy: Thanks. Old man: We don’t want it to be beautiful, we hate this wall, go home.’

However, the presence of public art and graffiti on the barrier is the opposite of a formal beautification or design programme for the barrier: installing art and writing words on the barrier is a small step in coopting the barrier’s existence as an oppressive force. Just as urban gangs frequently use tags to mark their assumed territory, pieces and tags on the barrier act as a subtle way to reclaim Palestinian ownership of the land. Of course, these acts do nothing in formal political or legal terms to actually challenge the existence of the barrier. Yet, by demonstrating both resistance and hope, these markings are an essential coping mechanism and a strong message of opposition to the barrier.

It is essential to question what perspectives these messages and works actually promote. After repeatedly viewing large sections >>

above | Artwork by Swoon on

the West Bank barrier right | The same image in New York City

far right | Artwork by Banksy

of graffiti and public art on the barrier, it is possible to gain a sense of the ‘average’ message displayed. While there are some filled with hatred and dotted with expletives, the vast majority of writings and pieces on the barrier evoke messages of peace and pleas for reconciliation. In a short article for the Middle East Journal, Andy Watkins notes: “There are instances where someone scratched an anti-Semitic remark or an anti-American epitaph. But far more numerous are the pictures and evidence of peaceful resistance to a condition of living that seems exceptionally difficult.”

Considering the constantly changing nature of the pieces and writings on the barrier, it is difficult to precisely classify each instance of graffiti or public art. However, it is possible to glean some general conclusions regarding their overall nature. Due to a second-hand perspective of the conflict, political yet mainly peaceful messages might seem more typical of large works by international artists, such as those by: Banksy; the French artist JR, recipient of the 2011 $100,000 TED prize; and the American artist Swoon. Yet the simpler, more haphazard writings in aerosol, mainly done by local Palestinians and some international visitors, generally convey a similar message. >>

There are certainly examples of violent or hateful insults toward Israel and the United States, but these make up a small percentage of the messages on the increasingly crowded sections of concrete. The vast majority of writing is dedicated to support for Palestine, resistance to the barrier system, and promotion of peace and reconciliation.

Red, black and green colours are common, and the Palestinian flag is one of the most frequently occurring images on the barrier.

The international nature of many of the pieces supporting Palestine is particularly striking. Messages from countries that have historically experienced violent political conflicts over autonomous rights and territory are common, including Ireland, Scotland, and Catalonia. Religion is mentioned from time to time, but not overwhelmingly so, and usually to evoke peace rather than violence. Of course, there are also pieces that are not related to the topic of the barrier at all: from images of characters from children’s television shows (including a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle) and Lego, to scribbles of ‘Punk Rock’ and enormous pieces that simply read ‘HIP HOP!’ and ‘ROMANTIK/POETIK’ outside the Qalandiya checkpoint. Whether to simply entertain or amuse,

banalise the barrier, or provide artistic inspiration, these messages illustrate the diversity of pieces on the barrier which do not only comprise strictly political statements.

Although this summary provides a general overview of the pieces and writings on the barrier, it is important to note that the examples in this article are primarily from the Palestinian side of the barrier. This is simply because the vast majority of works are located on the Palestinian side. The Palestinian opposition to the barrier’s presence appears to be one of the main motivations for writing or installing art on the structure; on the Israeli side of the barrier, where there is more support for its presence, there is hardly any graffiti or public art. Passing through border patrol from East Jerusalem to Bethlehem, the only notable feature one sees on the Israeli side of the barrier is a massive banner from the Israeli Ministry of Tourism, depicting an ironically idyllic view of the countryside.

Pinning down correlations between graffiti and public opinion is difficult to firmly establish in any case, and the barrier’s complicated politics certainly do not make it an easy situation to evaluate. Demographics also present possible biases, as graffiti is disproportionately an activity of younger members of the population. However, it is possible to hypothesise that despite the instances of negative messages on the barrier, the fact that the majority of graffiti and public art relate to non-violent, peaceful means to resist the barrier demonstrates evidence of a younger Palestinian population which is more open to peaceful negotiations than in decades past. Though a hefty claim, it is not completely unfounded, and inspires hope for future reconciliation.

Messages from countries that have historically experienced violent political conflicts over autonomous rights and territory are common, including Ireland, Scotland, and Catalonia The writings and pieces on the barrier represent an ethos that is difficult to convey through other means. If both Israeli and Palestinian leaders considered the prevalence of peaceful messages, a new conversation could potentially begin that would result in a much better solution to security concerns than towering concrete walls, endless roads, and rolls upon rolls of barbed wire. A naĂŻve thought, perhaps, given the more tangible public demonstrations against the barrier in the West Bank that occasionally turn violent. But if the viable possibility of peace is kept in mind, sometime in the not too distant future the barrier may be removed and all the graffiti and public art chipped off, leaving it just as harmless as the colourful pieces of the Berlin Wall are today.

Jane Olin-Ammentorp is an MSc student in Global Governance & Diplomacy. Her main areas of research are international human rights law and visual politics