Cell Phone Sociability

The problems of cell phones, social space, and intimacy came up in a couple of different contexts on Saturday.

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16182667 First,Weekend Edition Saturday broadcast a story on the illegal sale of cell phone jammers, devices that block cell phone reception within a limited area. The demand for this sort of device stems from the desire for what Tacchi would call "social silence" in public "interspaces," such as commuter trains, elevators, etc. It seems that some folks find the noise of overhearing intimate conversations in these spaces irritating enough to buy a jammer and enforce a regime of "silence." It seems apparent here that mobile phones as a communication medium heighten the contradictions in local understandings of public and private space. Thinking through this and my in-class critique of the Hulme and Truch piece on Thursday, it seems to me that in their discussion of the collapsing field of interspace, they have certainly put their finger on something important, a particular social irritant in which the issues of culture and habitus come bubbling up to the surface.

Indeed, I remember posted notices on the METRA trains a few years ago that encouraged people to be quieter when talking on the train, going so far as to point out a moment when a woman is talking with her therapist on the phone and many of her husband's coworkers learning that she was having an affair. In other words, it seems to me that the idea of interspace should be re-configured to describe the ways in which cell phone users psychologically create a zone of intimacy that straddles common conceptions of public and private space.

Another instantiation of this conception of interspace might emerge from the "shut up and drive" movement: the widespread belief that talking on a cell phone is a more heightened sense of distraction than trying to stop two kids fighting in the back seat, the need to eat a hamburger, or change a CD while driving--each of which also requiring one to take one's hands off the wheel to manage.

The second instance that brought this issue to mind on Saturday is the scene in Freaky Friday in which Jamie Lee Curtis is in a grocery store managing each of her portable communications devices (read: social identities a la Hulme and Truch) and changes her voice, speech register, and facial expression to address her husband-to-be, her kids, and a psychiatric patient. At one point while talking with her patient, she makes direct eye contact with a grocery clerk, affirms the humanity and beauty of this person, then gets off the phone and walks away, seemingly oblivious to the clerk's confusion.

TV Globalization: MacGyver in the field

While rereading Wilk's essay for today's class, I was reminded of what has become one of my favorite "scene setting" moments in an ethnography. The passage below comes from the preface of Rudi Colloredo-Mansfeld's 1999 ethnography The Native Leisure Class: Consumption and Cultural Creativity in the Andes (Chicago: University of Chicago Press):

“Mingachiway,” I called out.

It was early November 1994, and I was heralding my arrival at a weaver’s house in the upper part of Ariasucu. The household had participated in my time-allocation study since the project’s inception the previous February. Used to my unplanned visits, the weaver no longer rose from his loom to greet me and instead beckoned me into the interior where he worked. I stepped over the threshold and waited briefly, giving my eyes a chance to adjust to the dimness of this cluttered, windowless space. Holding his shuttle and resting his feet on the pedals of the loom, the weaver also paused. He then broke the silence with a question that the had evidently been waiting a long time to ask of me: “Whay Macgyverca na armasta mihishtin. Nachu?”

He wanted to know whether MacGyver, the lead character in the eponymous television drama from the United States, ever needs to use weapons to get out of the predicament she got into each afternoon. I told him I did not think so. I could not be sure, though, as the only time I had really watched the show was with him and other weavers whom I had visited while the show was on. In some houses, this U.S. production had become quite popular. In others, artisans tuned into Japanese cartoons. Still other weavers had no real interest in what was on, they just liked the dialogue and images as distractions from a long day at the loom. While the weavers may not have had the same tastes in programs, they did share the same routines. In 1994, the most commonly used object in an Ariasucu home was a loom, the second most common thing was a television.

The ubiquity of television sets that Colloredo-Mansfeld suggests here was one of the unifying threads of the Wilk and Schwoch readings today. First, there is the sense of media "lag" that Wilk describes--that is, gradually compressed as satellites simultaneously shows around a region (broadly defined). One might imagine that the media lag of 1994 has been compressed in 2007, that the discussion is more about American Idol or shows from Univision than it would be about early 2000s shows. Second, embedded in this statement is ubiquity: its the loom and the television that are the household objects of importance that mutually reinforce each other. The loom makes possible the purchase of the television; the television makes long hours at the loom possible (in the eyes of the people he worked with). Finally, the television structures the time of day: MacGyver and/or cartoons are broadcast at certain times, leading to certain activities (not) being performed at certain times.

This last point reminds me of descriptions of the television broadcast of the Ramayana and Mahabharata in India. The Lonely Planet guide, among others, has suggested that the streets were empty, markets closed during the broadcast, leading to a high number of shop burglaries. Here, the structuration of time isn't necessarily a good thing.

NASCAR Publics

I recently came across an amusing discussion in a liberal blog that resonated with Warner's conception of 'subpublics.' If you remember, Warner has this to say about subpublics:

There are as many shades of difference among publics as there are in modes of address, style, and spaces of circulation. Many might be thought of as subpublics, or specialized publics, focused on particular interests, professions, or locales. The public of Field and Stream, to take an example well within the familiar range of print genres, does not take itself to be the national people, nor humanity in general; the magazine addresses only those with an interest in hunting and fishing, who in varying degrees participate in a (male) subculture of hunters and fishermen. Yet nothing in the mode of address or in the projected horizon of this subculture requires its participants to cease for a moment to think of themselves as members of the general public as well; indeed, they might well consider themselves its most representative members. [2002:84]

Warner goes on to suggest at the end of the essay that we tend to attribute agency to these publics, fetishizing them (my interjection) in ways not so different from the Marxian commodity fetish. That is, we know we're fetishizing--attributing agency to objects as we elide relationships between humans--but we're helpless to avoid it.

If it wasn't obvious, we're currently in the middle of an election cycle, and all sorts of voting blocs are now given agency and various sorts of characteristics are covertly associated with them. In 1984 election, for example, we had "Reagan Democrats," a term that's still used to describe certain publics. In the 1996 elections, it was "Soccer Moms" who turned the tide toward Bill. So one might reasonably ask, which public is it today? How about "NASCAR voters?"

But as the blog excerpt below will illustrate, this subpublic is fraught for Democrats. After a (real) description of a memo that recommended Democratic staffers get Hepatitis, Tetanus, and Diphtheria immunizations before visiting this imagined public in the faraway "deep South," the blogger goes on to point out the covert assumptions in play here:

Once again, the erroneous stereotype of NASCAR fans is being perpetuated as a rowdy mob of unwashed, unshaven, uncouth, uneducated, inbred, toothless, drunken, shirtless, Confederate flag tattooed, Chevy pickup drivin’, gun-totin’, tabakky-spittin’, beer-belly scratchin’ redneck hillbillies all yelling ‘show us yer tits’ at every woman who walks through the stands. Oh, and they all vote Republican, of course.
http://nthemouse.blogspot.com/2007/10/nascar-seen-from-left.html

I was particularly amused by this because I currently own a NASCAR branded laptop, which sports the NASCAR trademark on the exterior, as well as when it boots up (as it did in class yesterday). Now, we discussed the conception of the boundaries of publics in class yesterday, as well as the conception that the formation of a public merely requires one to pay attention, however briefly. So apparently, by owning this laptop, I'm now part of the NASCAR subpublic, insofar as I use my computer everyday, notwithstanding the fact that I purchased the laptop on the basis of its excellent reviews and specs on Newegg.com, not on the basis of it being the cheapest laptop for sale at Walmart (another public that one might imagine to articulate with the NASCAR voter--certainly corporate executives thought so!).

But this raises a troubling question. According to Warner, my belonging to a public is irrespective of my own self-identification. Does this mean that every time I happen to pick Pepsi in a restaurant because they've signed an exclusive contract with PepsiCo that I'm now part of a Pepsi public? Where does this end?

Media Imperialism Begins at Home?

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=15067649 While at home this weekend, I happened to catch a story on NPR on the CW show "Aliens in America." Among other things, I was struck by the ways in which the representational fears of Muslim students in the classroom at Georgetown watching (analyzing) the show were reported. That is, in larger media context that focuses upon Muslim terrorism (e.g. 24), anxieties of representation were allayed by the portrayals of the Pakistani student in the sitcom. As I listened to the story, I thought about the discussion of "Media Imperialism" in Thursday's class and the power of multinational media corporations to represent the Other, even if the Other is Us. For example, the radio report uses a quote from one of the foreign students at Georgetown who points out that they learned about "American Culture" (whatever that may be) from television. I wonder, in what ways can we speak of Media Imperialism at home? Certainly the concerns about misrepresentation don't just apply to foreigners in the U.S., but to representations in and of the U.S. As I read a student blog this morning, this very issue came up: representation of the ranchers in This American Life as primitives of sorts, who view the genetic science as a kind of magic. I certainly hadn't thought of that, but its a compelling idea. As I've suggested before, I think that most people are very cognizant that media representations are largely out of their control: there is a tendency to reify "the media." And, who can blame them? I certainly wonder how the tourists in Cannibal Tours responded to their representation in film.

But I must add that the producers of the show discussed on NPR are more interested in keeping the show alive on the network, the rest (i.e. ideological arguments about representation and talk in classrooms) "is just gravy." Indeed the radio reportage points out the low ratings of the first show and ends with"So any broader cultural impact of Aliens in America will depend first upon whether viewers and advertisers actually tune in." Another complication of the Culture Industry argument, perhaps.

Teddie and Me

I've always had a troubled relationship with Mr. Adorno, beginning with my first exposure to his essay "On Jazz." I felt very defensive on the first reading: how could he be writing about a music that I have spent so much of my time practicing and performing in such dismissive terms? And his analysis was simply wrong, based upon a 1930s conception of race and popular music. I was willing to grant that he had a point with regard to his descriptions of the big band era, especially the bands that I found insipid like Benny Goodman, Glenn Miller, Bing Crosby, etc. Indeed, he does refer to these groups specifically in the essay, but not to some of the individuals and groups that have been retroactively trumpeted as "pioneers," such as Duke Ellington, Count Basie, etc. who did not produce formulaic 3'30" tracks. But that is not the point, Teddie told me later, the problem is rhythm that forces yourself to tap your foot to the time, the "tyranny of the beat" that eventually leads to fascist conceptions of the world and homogenizes you. Not so, I said, innovative jazz musicians have always played around with the groove. That's part of the excitement of performing and listening. Not to be mollified, he informed me that this is a false sense of individuality: you think you're resisting, but the fact of the matter is, no matter how much you have convinced yourself otherwise, you still tap to the same beat as everyone else in the room. This is the danger.

This back and forth between Teddie and I has continued for many years, and I've given him more credit than I ever imagined that I would. In re-reading the "Culture Industry" essay this time around, along with some biographical information, I have a lot more sympathy for his position. And I'm no longer absolutely convinced that he's just an art snob: deep down I think that he tries in this essay to find some sort of relief from the monotony of mass culture and that on a certain level, he does understand the plight of the worker (despite his relatively privileged background). Art should be available to the masses, we all should have the leisure to experience it. But I'm still not convinced by his argument that pleasure is necessarily bad despite--or perhaps because of--his neo-Kantian approach to aesthetics. In fact, I think that he's simply denying the pleasure he feels in the experience of art, trying to rationalize as a qualitatively higher experience. But I'm not so sure that's the case.

I'm curious to continue to explore the idea that the Culture Industry cannot be completely transcended, not unlike culture more generally. Althusser's conception of the inescapability of "ideology" comes to mind when thinking of this, and further back, Whorf's "Relation of Habitual Thought and Behavior to Language." And further back, Descartes' Discourse on Method, and on. There are all sorts of problems with the culture concept and its articulation with a liberal conception of freedom. But this too large of an issue to explore at the moment.

Representation, Mediation

A few thoughts on today's class. Overall, I think it was a good start to an ongoing--though often frustrating or confusing--debate.

One of the points that I was trying to get across through discussion is the way in which representation has a certain contingency to it, especially as one is ideologically predisposed to represent oneself differently in different contexts (noting of course that a representation is always one shading of an infinite array of possibilities). Return to the example of the "Islamic expert" being questioned by the CNN anchor, whose interview is edited in particular ways, who is then interpreted by individuals comprising an audience. Each of these "inter-media-ries" represent particular "stuff" in the moment of performance that are to a certain extent contingent upon what he or she imagines what the other(s) a) can understand, b) wants to hear, or c) needs to be represented, d) context within which the story is situated, etc. Hence, the Islamic expert imagines and represents herself to the American people (via the anchorperson) according to her expectations of what the anchor can parse, but what the American people can parse. This is, in turn, complicated by the editing done at CNN that is performing much the same process, but might or might not be highlighting certain aspects of discourse of the Islamic expert to provide a particular "angle" on the story. And as we have learned from British Cultural Studies, we don't really have a way to fully circumscribe the hermeneutic possibilities of any "message," though there will certainly be privileged interpretations (in Hall's terms). But the problem that using this example raises is that its not a linear process, and requires a tremendous understanding of the various context(s) in which these sorts of media texts are being produced, if one can even get a grasp of a context in its entirety. Certainly, its easy enough to imagine that a concept such as 'crusade' will resonate differently in different spheres. Its fascinating, but also a little intimidating to contemplate.

The final question of the class, what anthropology can contribute to media studies, is an important one and I was a little afraid that we would end at a point of nihilism. I think its important to remember that the discipline of anthropology can nicely complicate or problematize perspectives and draw attention to the underpinnings of an ideology (though this too is a very loaded term), even while making meaningful contributions. As it was pointed out in class (citing Ginsburg, Abu-Lughod, and Larkin), critical approaches to media have informed the discipline of media and cultural studies, even as they have informed the discipline of anthropology as a whole (despite the perceived inauthenticity by some 'mainstream' anthropologists). Nevertheless, the aftermath of the "crisis of representation" highlighted by Reading Culture doesn't quite dissipate through anthropological approaches to media, indeed it may even be exacerbated by them. Where does authenticity or authentic representation lie (if its even a useful category)?

I think the course will continue to explore the multifarious conceptions of "media" in very interesting ways, andI still want to explore the point of articulation between "mediation" and "representation." Does the latter necessarily emerge from the former?

Student Comment

A student who isn't able to take the class due to a scheduling conflict sends in this very interesting commentary on "Reality Check":

I thought it was very interesting the way the relationship between the subjects of the two stories and the documenter, respectively, were portrayed.  In the first one, it was a story of youthful mishap, a desperate act on the part of a child in a situation of quite understandable need, and lastly,and most importantly, a piece of schoolhouse cannon.  It's almost like an urban legend: the kid who peed on the schoolbus, wow, she got hell for it for years after that. Look, that's her locker where they used to write "peezilla", that's her desk where they left her yellow crayons.  By relating the story, the subject confided in the documenter, putting them on the same page, so to speak - aligned.  It's a moment of shared nostalgia.

On the other hand, the story of the rancher and his pet bull evokes what is perhaps now a dying piece of nostalgia: the Lone Ranger and his horse, Dudly Doright and HIS horse (we'll forget for now that he's Canadian; the cartoon was American, after all).  A cowboy, alone in the big, wide open prairie, nothing but him and his animals standing against the enormity of nature.  One absolutely essential piece of this image is the relationship between the animal and the man.  This is a staple of the American dream, the quintessential all-American man, a man's man, and other cliches as well.  Now, this may not just be the work of the documenter.  This man may really be a picture-perfect example of this iconic figure.  That's not really the issue.  What I find interesting is how the documenter (his name is Glass, right?) interacts with this living, breathing icon.  Firstly, he questions the relationship.  I don't remember the words exactly, but he asks the wife something about how this animal could show the same affection as a cat or dog, how could it be a pet in the same way?  Then, once the couple has asserted the relationship enough, it is not an issue of whether the relationship exists, but whether it can be brought back through Chance's clone: how could it be the same, doesn't it make you miss him more, etc.

Then - and I remember this phrase clearly - after the man is attacked by the bull, Glass comments that "it seems like Second Chance was doing everything in his power to tell him, in the only way he could, that he wasn't Chance".  This, I feel, is the strongest evocation of the Lone Ranger, romanticisation of the animal in the entire story.  Now, not only is there a distinct relationship between this man and his bull, but the bull actively communicates his own feelings. He's no longer part of the icon, but his own icon in himself.

Now, I know that many studies have been done on animal communication, and I know that it is all but proven that many animals communicate very clearly needs, wants, fear, etc.  But the attribution of such a complex emotional response to an animal attacking it's owner, especially by a documenter, is pretty exceptional in my book.  Second Chance was feeling violated that his owner still thought of him as Chance, that his owner wasn't loving Second Chance for himself - this, I feel, draws upon and expands the iconic legend of the Lone Stranger, drawing it into a far more complex and developed story than it is, and in my opinion, manipulating it terribly.

So, while the documenter is constantly questioning the man about his blind faith in Second Chance, he's also strongly playing into what he's portraying as this man's near-delusion that he can bring back his beloved bull.  It's sly, but honestly, I think it's a little cheap.