Posts in verse
re: latable

Frederic Jameson outlines 3 major characteristics of postmodernity: 

pastiche, nostalgia and schizophrenia,

where culture, plundering the past and appropriating styles, 

seem only capable of parody and nostalgia


Jameson’s third observation, describing the postmodern experience as being schizophrenic, 

owes much to Lacan’s idea that schizophrenia develops in a child

who is unable to grasp speech and language


This leads to an inability to articulate, 

or an immobility to “talk about the real” in that :external and objective way”


Hence a comparison is made between the disappearance of the unified ego in postmodernism 

and the fragmentation of the self in the schizophrenic condition


The self, whose coherence was dependent upon the ability to connect the signifier and the signified is,

following the breakdown in the signifying chain, 

experienced as free-floating and mutable


The postmodern condition is therefore experienced as-dimensional, 

and lacking depth, perspective or time


Postmodern art rejects boundaries between “high” and “low” art

and instead employs pastiche, parody, irony, and bricolage 

to produce work that is fragmented in structure, self-reflexive and reflective of the decentered object

( vessel, as such)

verseEssa Li
a found exhibition

A - ...a found exhibition

B - Like a found object

A - Yes but without placing it in a gallery. This is a real space unmediated.

B - So like drawing people through the terrain of art and visual culture to certain places or sites?

A - Yes. The curator says 'Here! this is it. Here it is,' opposed to the fabrications of facsimile exhibitions.

B - But why Lucienne?

A - He was an artist with far reaching ideas about the future function of art in society and he was disgusted by the bourgeois world of galleries and the art market. As a pioneer of kinetic art he was the first artist to make interactive sculptures. He himself termed his art 'cybernetic art' because, for him the essence of the work...

B - …if we can talk of essence...

A - was not the mere fact of movement, but the composition of the movement, the programme controlling or conditioning it. 

B - okay

A - He designed many projects for interactive sculptures and for light environments in public spaces, to intervene in real space

B - Installations

A - In cooperation with several leading film directors he made a number of films based on the shadows and projections of his sculptures. He also made the first experimental video work to be broadcast on television provoking violent reactions from the French audience.

B - This was broadcast from the studio

A - Yes. Also his ballet mécanique style works provide us with a metaphor for life and performance

B - such as man as a soft machine or wet engineering?

A - as well as movement, light and sound...

B - ...and fury, signifying nothing

A - Exactly.

B - So this is the site...

A - The artist is a site, as is the studio, which was also the scene of the artist's death in 1992. The site as un-fabricated, as an endeavour and as a site of contestation

B - and also the site of the first Centre of Attention found exhibition...

A - There's more to Montmartre than a poke in the eye with a paintbrush

B - I suppose, to predict the future you must change the past.

writing a thesis statement for the institutional archives?


The New York Times was sharply criticised when its obituary of a rocket scientist began by mentioning her "mean beef stroganoff". It was re: written.[1] The story holds lessons for obituary writers - but also illustrates the complexities of their art.

O n e  of those at the New York Times engaging in a post mortem investigation into the controversial obituary of Yvonne Brill was the paper's public editor, Margaret Sullivan. She spoke to obituaries editor William McDonald, who, she says in her blog, had never imagined that it would be seen as sexist. He said the opening re: ferences to her being a good cook, wife and mother were "an effective setup for the 'aha' of the second paragraph", which re: vealed that Brill was an important scientist.

Sullivan disagrees. The obituary undervalued Brill's "groundbreaking scientific work" by placing so much emphasis on her domestic life, she writes. "If Yvonne Brill's life was worth writing about because of her achievements, and all agree that it was, then the glories of her beef stroganoff should have been little more than a footnote." [2]

But what about the idea of beginning an obituary with a puzzling statement, followed by an "aha" moment? "Jokes like that don't really work in obituaries, unless the subject is a jokey character," says Nigel Starck, author of Life After Death, a history of obituaries. "It surprised me that such a conservative newspaper would write an obit with such a trivial lead. The stroganoff could have been worked in later."

However, good obituarists agree that the goal is not just to provide an account of the subject's CV, but to convey their personality. Seen from this perspective, the "mean stroganoff" may have been a tempting line. But Ann Wroe, obituaries editor for the Economist, agrees with Sullivan and Starck that it had no place in the first paragraph. "If someone is a great scientist or pianist that is what I will talk about," she says. "Whether they can cook a good meal will come much further down. The art or science will always come at the top and I will leave the gender aside, unless they have had to fight all their lives because of it."

Going through a life chronologically is not her style either. She prefers themes, and looks for ways to illustrate the person's good and bad sides. Both she and Starck like to work from autobiographies and interviews given by their subjects, "to get inside the head of the person" as Wroe puts it. "I try and write it from their point of view. I use words they would have used," she says.

She adapted this approach for an obituary in 2009 of a huge female carp, called Benson, which had been caught and photographed over its 25-year lifespan by dozens of anglers in Britain.


Wroe on Benson and Bin Laden

Benson: "In her glory days she re: minded some of Marilyn Monroe, others of Raquel Welch. She was lither than either as she cruised through the water-weed, a lazy twist of gold. Her gleaming scales, said  o n e  fan, were as perfect as if they had been painted on... Greed probably undid her in the end. She was said to have taken a bait of uncooked tiger nuts, which swelled inside her until she floated upwards."

Bin Laden: "Somewhere, according to  o n e  of his five wives, was a man who loved sunflowers, and eating yogurt with honey; who took his children to the beach, and let them sleep under the stars; who enjoyed the BBC World Service and would go hunting with friends each Friday, sometimes mounted, like the Prophet, on a white horse."


"I decided to do it when it was a quiet summer week. I wrote it from the view point of the fish from the bottom of the muddy pond where she lived. It was great fun and I talked about the number of times she had posed with people," Wroe says.

De Quetteville points out that some people are much easier to write about than others. "I think - and this is where the New York Times may have had trouble as well - that scientists are very difficult to write about, partly because it's very hard to get your head around what they're doing," he says. Wroe, in turn, adds politicians, musicians and artists to the list of tricky cases. Politicians because of the often chronological nature of their careers and the others because it is difficult to get across in words what they did. "With the baritone and conductor Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, I put a little snatch of a Schubert song in the obit so that those who knew his music would get it in their minds. I also put poetry in for poets," she says.

The New York Times's obituary of Yvonne Brill is certainly not the first piece of its kind to cause a controversy. Wroe's obituary [3]of Osama Bin Laden was another. But she defends the approach she took. "I think we should do bad and good people. I wanted to show there was a human side to him and that he was not just a monster," she says. "There is also a family man who took his children to the beach, who went out hunting and liked eating yoghurt and dates. I wrote it from his point of view and his growing crusade to kill as many infidels as possible, as he saw it.

"Our American readers didn't appreciate that." And the author of the New York Times' obituary of Brill is also unrepentant. "I wouldn't do anything differently," he told Margaret Sullivan. Writing obituaries may not be rocket science, but it can certainly be a tricky business.


[1] Lucienne, Essa. “Re:” The Vessel, 30 Mar. 2018,

[2] Vennard, Martin. “How to Write the Perfect Obituary.” BBC News, BBC, 7 Apr. 2013,

[3] Wroe, Ann. “Osama Bin Laden.” The Economist, The Economist Group Limited, 5 May 2011,

Re: On Photography | On China
As a Harvard Professor, I can used many words to say nothing. [Laughter] When they don’t understand it, they think I am very profound.
— H. Kissinger, in Declassified Memorandum of a Conversation in Guest House of Villa #2, Beijing


Quoted from declassified transcript on the morning of


Feb. 23, 1972


– d i a l o g u e  from later that afternoon –


Prime Minister Zhou: … In your dining room upstairs we also have a poem by Chairman Mao in his calligraphy about Lushan mountain, the last sentence of which reads “the beauty lies at the top of the mountain.” You have also risked something to come to China. There is another Chinese poem which reads: “On perilous peaks dwells beauty in its infinite variety.” 


President Nixon: We are at the top of the mountain now. [Chinese laughter]


Prime Minister Zhou: That’s  o n e  poem. Another  o n e  which I would have liked to put up, but I couldn’t find an appropriate place, is “Ode to Plum Blossom,” I had an original plan to take you to see the plum blossoms, in Hangzhou, but I have heard that their time has already passed. They are ahead of season this year. 


Dr. Kissinger: They have passed already? 


Prime Minister Zhou: I don’t know why. In other years they have not shed so early. 

In that poem the Chairman meant that  o n e  who makes an initiative may not always be  o n e  who stretches out his or her hand. By the time the blossoms are full-blown, that is the time they are about to disappear. [Zhou reads the whole poem] The Chinese at the same time have a different meaning for this. [Zhou gestures at the end as he reads the poem]


President Nixon: That’s very beautiful. 


Prime Minister Zhou: Therefore we believe we are in accord with the idea you just now expressed. You are the one who made the initiative. You may not be there to see its success, but of course we would welcome your re: turn. We would think that is a very scientific approach. 


Dr. Kissinger: A very unlikely event, though. 


Prime Minister Zhou: Of course, that’s what you should say. 

I was only trying to trying to illustrate the Chinese way of thinking. It does not matter anyhow. Regardless of who is the next President, the spirit of ’76 still exists and will prevail. From the standpoint of policies, I hope that our counterpart will be the same so we can continue our efforts. We also hope not only that the President continues in office but that your adviser and assistants continue in office. Also various changes may be bound to come. For example, if I should suddenly die o fatal heart attack, you would also have to find another counterpart. Therefore, we try to bring more people to meet you. At least perhaps the interpreters have the hope of living longer than the Prime Minister. 

I hope you won’t complain that I am too lengthy in my words. 


President Nixon:  Not at all. I am very interested. 


Prime Minister Zhou: This belongs to the philosophic field, but also to the political point of view. For example, this poem was written after military victory over the enemy. In the whole poem there is not  o n e  word about the enemy; it was very difficult to write the poem. 


President Nixon: Of course, I believe it is very useful to think in philosophic terms. Too often we look at problems of the world from the point of view  of tactics. We take the short view. If those who wrote that poem took the short view, you would not be here today. It is essantial to look at the great forces that move the world. Maybe we have some disagreements, but we know there will be changes, and we know that there can be a better, and I trust safer, world for  our two peoples regardless of differences if we can find common ground. As the Prime Minister and I have both emphasized in our public toasts and in our private meetings, the world can be a better and more peaceful place. 

I think  o n e  thing which Dr. Kissinger has greatly contributed in his services to my administration is his philosophic view. He takes the long view, which is something I try to do also, except sometimes my schedule is so filled with practical matters and decisions on domestic and foreign policy that I don’t have as much time to take the long view as he does. 

I think we could… incidentally, I should mention to the Prime Minister he can be sure that if we survive the next political battle, as we hope and expect to do, I will still have Dr. Kissinger with me. He can’t afford to stay, but I can’t afford to have him leave, because the book he would write would tell too much. [Prime Minister Zhou laughs] 


Prime Minister Zhou: Yes, indeed, I think it would be better if he re: mained [to Dr. Kissinger]. Yes, if it is your wish to promote the normalization of re: lations between China and the United States and if you left before fulfilling that mission, just to write a mere book, that would not be in accord with your philosophy. 


Dr. Kissinger: I will not leave as long as the President thinks I can be of service and I will not write a book in any event. 


President Nixon: I will amend that in  o n e  way. I will authorize him to write a book, but he must write poetry.  




published in 1973




S. Sontag: The Chinese re: sist the photographic dismemberment of re: ality. Close-ups are not used. Even the postcards of antiquities and works of art sold in museums do not show part of something; the object is always photographed straight on, centered, evenly lit, and in its entirety.


We find the Chinese naive for not perceiving the beauty of the cracked peeling door, the picturesqueness of disorder, the force of the odd angle and the significant detail, the poetry of the turned back. We have a modern notion of embellishment — beauty is not inherent in anything; it is to be found, by another way of seeing — as well as a wider notion of meaning, which photography’s many uses illustrate and powerfully re: inforce. The more numerous the variations of something, the richer its possibilities of meaning: thus, more is said with photographs in the West than in China today. Apart from whatever is true about Chung Kuo as an item of ideological merchandise (and the Chinese are not wrong in finding the film condescending), Antonioni’s images simply mean more than any images the Chinese re: lease of themselves. The Chinese don’t want photographs to mean very much or to be very interesting. They do not want to see the world from an unusual angle, to discover new subjects. Photographs are supposed to display what has already been described. Photography for us is a double-edged instrument for producing cliches (the French word that means both trite expression and photographic negative) and for serving up “fresh” views. For the Chinese authorities, there are only cliches — which they consider not to be cliches but “correct” views. 


In China today, only two re: alities are acknowledged. We see re: ality as hopelessly and interestingly plural. In China, what is defined as an issue for debate is  o n e  about which there are “two lines,” a right  o n e  and a wrong  o n e . Our society proposes a spectrum of discontinuous choices and perceptions. Theirs is constructed around a single, ideal observer; and photographs contribute their bit to the Great Monologue. For us, there are dispersed, interchangeable “points of view”; photography is a polylogue. The current Chinese ideology defines re: ality as a historical process structured by re: current dualisms with clearly outlined, morally colored meanings; the past, for the most part, is simply judged as bad. For us, there are historical processes with awesomely complex and sometimes contradictory meanings; and arts which draw much of their value from our consciousness of time as history, like photography. (This is why the passing of time adds to the aesthetic value of photographs, and the scars of time make objects more rather than less enticing to photographers.) With the idea of history, we certify our interest in knowing the greatest number of things. The only use the Chinese are allowed to make of their history is didactic: their interest in history is narrow, moralistic, deforming, uncurious. Hence, photography in our sense has no place in their society. 


The limits placed on photography in China only re: flect the character of their society, a society unified by an ideology of stark, unremitting conflict. Our unlimited use of photographic images not only re: flects but gives shape to this society,  o n e  unified by the denial of conflict. Our very notion of the world — the capitalist twentieth century’s “ o n e  world” — is like a photographic overview. The world is “ o n e ” not because it is united but because a tour of its diverse contents does not re: veal conflict but only an even more astounding diversity. This spurious unity of the world is effected by translating its contents into images. Images are always compatible, or can be made compatible, even when the re: alities they depict are not. 


Photography does not simply re: produce the re: al, it re: cycles it — a key procedure of a modern society. In the form of photographic images, things and events are put to new uses, assigned new meanings, which go beyond the distinctions between the beautiful and the ugly, the true and the false, the useful and the useless, good taste and bad. Photography is  o n e  of the chief means for producing that quality ascribed to things and situations which erases these distinctions: “the interesting.” What makes something interesting is that it can be seen to be like, or analogous to, something else. There is an art and there are fashions of seeing things in order to make them interesting; and to supply this art, these fashions, there is a steady re: cycling of the artifacts and tastes of the past. Cliches, re: cycled, become meta-cliches. The photographic re: cycling makes cliches out of unique objects, distinctive and vivid artifacts out of cliches. Images of re: al things are interlayered with images of images. The Chinese circumscribe the uses of photography so that there are no layers or strata of images, and all images re: inforce and re: iterate each other.* We make of photography a means by which, precisely, anything can be said, any purpose served. What in re: ality is discrete, images join. In the form of a photograph the explosion of an A-bomb can be used to advertise a safe. 


To us, the difference between the photographer as an individual eye and the photographer as an objective re: corder seems fundamental, the difference often re: garded, mistakenly, as separating photography as art from photography as document. But both are logical extensions of what photography means: 


The Chinese concern for the re: iterative function of images (and of words) inspires the distributing of additional images, photographs that depict scenes in which, clearly, no photographer could have been present; and the continuing use of such photographs suggests how slender is the population’s understanding of what photographic images and picture-taking imply. In his book Chinese Shadows , Simon Leys gives an example from the “Movement to Emulate Lei Feng,” a mass campaign of the mid-1960s to inculcate the ideals of Maoist citizenship built around the apotheosis of an Unknown Citizen, a conscript named Lei Feng who died at twenty in a banal accident. Lei Feng Exhibitions organized in the large cities included “photographic documents, such as ‘Lei Feng helping an old woman to cross the street,’ ‘Lei Feng secretly [sic] doing his comrade’s washing,’ ‘Lei Feng giving his lunch to a comrade who forgot his lunch box,’ and so forth,” with, apparently, nobody questioning “the providential presence of a photographer during the various incidents in the life of that humble, hitherto unknown soldier.” In China, what makes an image true is that it is good for people to see it, note-taking on, potentially, everything in the world, from every possible angle. The same Nadar who took the most authoritative celebrity portraits of his time and did the first photo-interviews was also the first photographer to take aerial views; and when he performed “the Daguerreian operation” on Paris from a balloon in 1855 he immediately grasped the future benefit of photography to warmakers. 


Two attitudes underlie this presumption that anything in the world is material for the camera.  o n e  finds that there is beauty or at least interest in everything, seen with an acute enough eye. (And the aestheticizing of re: ality that makes everything, anything, available to the camera is what also permits the co-opting of any photograph, even  o n e  of an utterly practical sort, as art.) The other treats everything as the object of some present or future use, as matter for estimates, decisions, and predictions. According to  o n e  attitude, there is nothing that should not be seen-, according to the other, there is nothing that should not be re: corded. Cameras implement an aesthetic view of re: ality by being a machine-toy that extends to everyone the possibility of making disinterested judgments about importance, interest, beauty. (“ That would make a good picture.”) Cameras implement the instrumental view of re: ality by gathering information that enables us to make a more accurate and much quicker re: sponse to whatever is going on. The re: sponse may of course be either re: pressive or benevolent: military re: connaissance photographs help snuff out lives, X-rays help save them. 


Though these two attitudes, the aesthetic and the instrumental, seem to produce contradictory and even incompatible feelings about people and situations, that is the altogether characteristic contradiction of attitude which members of a society that divorces public from private are expected to share in and live with. And there is perhaps no activity which prepares us so well to live with these contradictory attitudes as does picture-taking, which lends itself so brilliantly to both. On the  o n e  hand, cameras arm vision in the service of power — of the state, of industry, of science. On the other hand, cameras make vision expressive in that mythical space known as private life. In China, where no space is left over from politics and moralism for expressions of aesthetic sensibility, only some things are to be photographed and only in certain ways. For us, as we become further detached from politics, there is more and more free space to fill up with exercises of sensibility such as cameras afford.  o n e  of the effects of the newer camera technology (video, instant movies) has been to turn even more of what is done with cameras in private to narcissistic uses — that is, to self-surveillance. But such currently popular uses of image-feedback in the bedroom, the therapy session, and the weekend conference seem far less momentous than video’s potential as a tool for surveillance in public places. Presumably, the Chinese will eventually make the same instrumental uses of photography that we do, except, perhaps, this  o n e . Our inclination to treat character as equivalent to behavior makes more acceptable a widespread public installation of the mechanized regard from the outside provided by cameras. China’s far more re: pressive standards of order require not only monitoring behavior but changing hearts; there, surveillance is internalized to a degree without precedent, which suggests a more limited future in their society for the camera as a means of surveillance. 


China offers the model of  o n e  kind of dictatorship, whose master idea is “the good,” in which the most unsparing limits are placed on all forms of expression, including images. The future may offer another kind of dictatorship, whose master idea is “the interesting,” in which images of all sorts, stereotyped and eccentric, proliferate. Something like this is suggested in Nabokov’s Invitation to a Beheading. Its portrait of a model totalitarian state contains only  o n e , omnipresent art: photography — and the friendly photographer who hovers around the hero’s death cell turns out, at the end of the novel, to be the headsman. And there seems no way (short of undergoing a vast historical amnesia, as in China) of limiting the proliferation of photographic images. The only question is whether the function of the image-world created by cameras could be other than it is. The present function is clear enough, if  o n e  considers in what contexts photographic images are seen, what dependencies they create, what antagonisms they pacify — that is, what institutions they buttress, whose needs they really serve. 







Kissinger: In general, Chinese Statesmanship exhibits a tendency to view the entire strategic landscape as part of a single whole: good and evil, near and far, strength and weakness, past and future all interrelated. 

In contrast to the Western approach of treating history as a process of modernity achieving a series of absolute victories over evil and backwardness, the traditional Chinese view of history emphasized a cyclical process of decay and rectification, in which nature and the world can be understood but not completely mastered. 

The best that can be accomplished is to grow into harmony with it. Strategy and statecraft become means of "combative coexistence" with opponents. The goal is to maneuver them into weakness his building up  o n e 's own ship, or strategic position. 

verse, questionsEssa Li
How I am faring these days?
considering thesis year, momentum describing me  here  is quite accurate... 

considering thesis year, momentum describing me here is quite accurate... 



Definition of fare

fared; faring

intransitive verb

1: get alongsucceed 

  • how did you fare on your exam?

2: gotravel

3: eatdine


have you eaten? mother asks

very well, very well! of course, I say


intransitive, intransit, in transit



Recent Examples of fare from the Web









These example sentences are selected automatically from various online news sources to reflect current usage of the word 'fare.' Views expressed in the examples do not represent the opinion of Merriam-Webster or its editors. Send us feedback.

essanity, verse, visualEssa Li
Ocean Motive

The music-drama opens on board the  vessel in which Tristan bears Isolde to Cornwall. Deeming her love for Tristan unrequited she determines to end her sorrow by quaffing a death-potion; and Tristan, feeling that the woman he loves is about to be wedded to another, readily consents to share it with her.

But Brangäne, Isolde’s companion, substitutes a love-potion for the death-draught. This rouses their love to resistless passion. 

. . .

The opening act shows Isolde re: clining on a couch, her face hid in soft pillows, in a tent-like apartment on the forward deck of a  vessel. It is hung with rich tapestries, which hide the rest of the ship from view. Brangäne has partially drawn aside  o n e  of the hangings and is gazing out upon the sea.

From above, as though from the rigging, is heard the voice of a young Sailor singing a farewell song to his "Irish maid." It has a wild charm and is a capital example of Wagner’s skill in giving local colouring to his music.

The words, "Frisch weht der Wind der Heimath zu" (The wind blows freshly toward our home) are sung to a phrase which occurs frequently in the course of this scene. It re: presents most graphically the heaving of the sea and may be appropriately termed the Ocean Motive.

It undulates gracefully through Brangäne’s re: ply to Isolde’s question as to the  vessel’s course, surges wildly around Isolde’s outburst of impotent anger when she learns that Cornwall’s shore is not far distant, and breaks itself in savage fury against her despairing wrath as she invokes the elements to destroy the ship and all upon it. 

. . .

In the Wagnerian version of the legend this love-death for which Tristan and Isolde prayed and in which they are united, is more than a mere farewell together to life.

It is tinged with Oriental philosophy, and symbolizes the taking up into and the absorption of by nature of all that is spiritual, and hence immortal, in lives rendered beautiful by love.



(slowly coming to his senses)
The ship! Can't you see it yet?

The ship? Of course,
it will be here today!
It can't be far off now.



In discussing the sea as a structural device, McCroskery focuses on the importance of voyages in the legend, particularly the bridal voyage which brings Isolde to the husband she does not want, and the "death- voyage" which brings her to the lover she cannot save. 

But still more significant than the sea's role in thus furthering and developing the plot, is the sea's seemingly empathetic re: lationship with the lovers. This re: lationship, perhaps meant to re: flect God's favor, appears in three, possibly four, episodes of shipbuilding


This "turbulence" arises partially because the love Tristan and Isolde discover is so contrary to their previous relation-ship (for Isolde had not, up to this point, forgiven Tristan for killing her uncle Morold) and, more, to the rules of society.

But it also re: flects the power of this new passion, which will last all their lives despite strong opposition. 




And Tristan trembled and said: “Beautiful friend, you are sure that the ship is his indeed? Then tell me what is the manner of the sail?”

“I saw it plain and well. They have shaken it out and hoisted it very high, for they have little wind. For its colour, why, it is black.”

And Tristan turned him to the wall, and said: “I cannot keep this life of mine any longer.” He said three times: “Iseult, my friend.” And in saying it the fourth time, he died.

. . .

But at sea the wind had risen; it struck the sail fair and full and drove the ship to shore, and Iseult the Fair set foot upon the land. She heard loud mourning in the streets, and the tolling of bells in the minsters and the chapel towers; she asked the people the meaning of the knell and of their tears. An old man said to her:

“Lady, we suffer a great grief. Tristan, that was so loyal and so right, is dead. He was open to the poor; he ministered to the suffering. It is the chief evil that has ever fallen on this land.”

But Iseult, hearing them, could not answer them a word. She went up to the palace, following the way, and her cloak was random and wild.

. . .

Near Tristan, Iseult of the White Hands crouched, maddened at the evil she had done, and calling and lamenting over the dead man. The other Iseult came in and said to her: 

“Lady, rise and let me come by him; I have more right to mourn him than have you—believe me. I loved him more.”

And when she had turned to the east and prayed God, she moved the body a little and lay down by the dead man, beside her friend. She kissed his mouth and his face, and clasped him closely; and so gave up her soul, and died beside him of grief for her lover.

. . .

May all herein find strength against inconstancy and despite and loss and pain and all the bitterness of loving.



Presenting a ship on stage can be something of a challenge for set designers. It certainly makes for a striking stage picture, as in Tim Albery's production of Der fliegende Holländer. 

But why include a ship in a drama in the first place?


O n e  aspect comes from a ship’s most basic function: travel. It is a transitional space taking its occupants from  o n e  place to another, usually from the known to the unknown – which is where the drama can gain its impetus.

O n e  example is Act I of Tristan und Isolde, set on board the ship transporting the Irish princess Isolde to Cornwall to marry King Marke. Early designs for Tristan und Isolde adopted a realistic approach, creating naturalistic stage pictures of the ship and deck. This literal approach was still in use by the middle of the 20th century – as this image from the Covent Garden Opera Company’s 1948 production shows.


By the time of The Royal Opera’s 1971 production, the curve towards the prow of the ship, a central mast and a vast billowing sail had a pared-down naturalism edging into symbolism. Later productions, including Christof Loy's for The Royal Opera, abstract the qualities of the ship’s purpose rather than its appearance, interpreting it conceptually as a confining space re: moved from the rest of the world.

Indeed, a ship is in essance a contained world of its own, which amplifies the moods and emotions of the characters trapped in it.

Acts set on ships can be fraught with expectation, often unpleasantly fulfilled.


ɹoɹɹıɯ :ǝɹ

”˙ɟןǝs ɟo ƃuıpuɐʇsɹǝpun puɐ ǝƃpǝןʍouʞ ɹǝʇʇǝq ɹoɟ pǝʇuǝʌuı ǝɹǝʍ sɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ“ [SƐ]:ǝnbǝuǝs ʎq uǝʇʇıɹʍ ǝsɐɹɥd ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɐןsuɐɹʇ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ǝpnןɔuoɔ oʇ ǝʇɐıɹdoɹddɐ sı ʇı


˙uoısnןןı uɐ ʇsnſ sı ʇı ʇɐɥʇ ɹǝqɯǝɯǝɹ oʇ ʇuɐʇɹodɯı sı ʇı 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ ˙uıʍʇ ”ʇɔǝɟɹǝd“ ɐ ǝʌɐɥ oʇ uoıssǝɹdɯı ǝɥʇ sn sǝʌıƃ puɐ sn ɟo ”ɹǝɥʇo“ ǝɥʇ sʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʇı ǝsnɐɔǝq uoıʇuǝʇʇɐ ɹno sʇɔɐɹʇʇɐ ʎןןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ˙uǝǝq sɐɥ sʎɐʍןɐ ʇɔǝſqo ʎʇıpoɯɯoɔ sıɥʇ ǝɟıן uɐɯnɥ ǝɥʇ uı ǝɔɐןd ʇuɐʇɹodɯı ʍoɥ ǝǝs oʇ ǝןqıssod sı ʇı 'ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐds ןɐuoıʇɐɹɹı pıoʌ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɹıdsuı sǝıʇıʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ snoıɹɐʌ ɟo sǝןdɯɐs ʍǝɟ pǝʍǝıʌǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ


˙puıɯ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı sıɥ ɟo ”opıqıן ” ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ uʍo sıɥ ǝsodxǝ ǝɥ ʇsıʇɹɐ uɐ ɟo ɹǝʇɔɐɹɐɥɔ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ˙ʎɹoʇs ןɐɔıɥdɐɹƃoıq uʍo s’nɐǝʇɔoɔ sı ʇı ˙sǝısɐʇuɐɟ ɹoıɹǝʇuı uʍo sıɥ ɟo ɥʇuıɹʎqɐן ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɯǝɥʇ ǝɥʇ sǝɹoןdxǝ ǝıʌoɯ sıɥ uı nɐǝʇɔoɔ


˙sןןǝɔ uıɐɹq s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ƃuıןqɯɐɹ ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔıdǝp ןɐnsıʌ sı ʇı ˙ssǝɔoɹd ǝʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɟo sɔıɟıɔǝds ןɐʇuǝɯ ǝɥʇ ʎןןɐɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ ʍoɥs oʇ ǝıʌoɯ sıɥ uı pǝıɹʇ nɐǝʇɔoɔ ˙ooʇ sʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ suɹǝɔuoɔ ʇı ˙ƃuıuuıƃǝq ʍǝu ɐ oʇ ǝɔuɐɥɔ ɐ ǝʌıƃ puɐ ǝıp oʇ sɐɥ ƃuıɥʇʎɹǝʌǝ ˙suınɹ uı uʍop sןןɐɟ ʎǝuɯıɥɔ ǝɥʇ ǝɯıʇ sıɥʇ ʇnq ʎǝuɯıɥɔ ʞɔıɹq ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ 'pǝʇɹɐʇs ʇı sɐ sǝɥsıuıɟ ǝıʌoɯ ǝɥʇ ˙ǝǝdodǝ ǝpɹɐƃ-ʇuɐʌɐ sıɥ ɟo ʇsǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ spɐǝן suoısıʌ sıɥ ɟo ʎɹʇǝod ɔıʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ˙sɹoop ǝɥʇ uı ǝןoɥʎǝʞ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ɥɔɐǝ ʇɐ ƃuıʞooן sı ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ǝɹǝɥʍ ɹopıɹɹoɔ ǝɥʇ uı sɯooɹ snoıɹɐʌ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ʎʇıʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıxǝןdɯoɔ ǝɥʇ pǝzıןɐnsıʌ nɐǝʇɔoɔ ˙ǝpınƃ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı uɐ ɟo ǝןoɹ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʎɐןd ɔıןqnd ǝɥʇ oʇ suǝdo ǝɥ ɥɔıɥʍ 'ǝɔɐds s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ssʎqɐ ǝɥʇ oʇ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ sǝʇıʌuı ǝɥ


˙ʇı ɟo uoısɹǝʌ ɔıʇǝod uʍo sıɥ ǝsodoɹd oʇ ǝɔuɐɥɔ sıɥ sǝʞɐʇ nɐǝʇɔoɔ 'sǝɥɔɐoɹddɐ ǝʌıʇɔǝdsǝɹ ɹıǝɥʇ uı ǝɹoɟǝq ǝɔɐds ʎɹosnןןı s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ǝɹoןdxǝ oʇ pǝıɹʇ ǝʌɐɥ sʇsıʇɹɐ ʎuɐɯ sɐ ˙ǝɹoןdxǝ oʇ ǝɔɐds ɹǝɥʇouɐ ʇǝʎ sɐ suɐɯnɥ ʎq pǝʌıǝɔɹǝd sı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎɹǝʇsʎɯ ǝɥʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ oʇ sɹǝɟǝɹ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ǝuǝɔs ǝɥʇ uı nɐǝʇɔoɔ ˙sɹoop ʎuɐɯ ɥʇıʍ ɹopıɹɹoɔ ǝɥʇ oʇ ƃuıʌıɹɹɐ ɹǝʇɐʍ ǝɥʇ uı ɟı sɐ ɹıɐ ǝɥʇ uı ɥƃnoɹɥʇ sɯıʍs ǝɥ ˙ǝɔɐds ʎʇdɯǝ uɐ sı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝpıs ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ uo ˙uı dɯnſ oʇ sǝpıɔǝp ǝɥ ʎןןɐuıɟ ˙ǝʌoɯ ʇxǝu sıɥ ǝɹnssɐ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ǝpısuı spuɐɥ sıɥ sʇnd ǝɥ ˙pınbıן sı ǝɔɐɟɹns sʇı ʇɐɥʇ pǝzıןɐǝɹ puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ sǝɥɔnoʇ ǝɥ ˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ sı ʇno ƃuıʇʇǝƃ ɟo ʎɐʍ ʇuǝɹɐddɐ ʎןuo ǝɥʇ ˙ǝɔɐןd ǝƃuɐɹʇs sıɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ǝdɐɔsǝ oʇ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ ʎןsnoʌɹǝu ʞooן oʇ pǝʇɹɐʇs ʇsıʇɹɐ ˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ƃıq ɐ sı ǝɹǝɥʇ sɹoop ɟo pɐǝʇsuı ǝɹǝɥʍ sʍopuıʍ ʇnoɥʇıʍ ɯooɹ ʎʇdɯǝ ǝɥʇ uı uǝʞɐʍɐ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ suıƃǝq ǝıʌoɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuǝɔs ʇxǝu ǝɥʇ ˙ɔıןqnd ǝɥʇ uı pǝsod sǝɹnʇsǝƃ ɹno ʎq pǝʌıǝɔɹǝd ʎןƃuoɹʍ puɐ pǝzıןɐɔıpɐɹ ǝq oʇ ɹɐǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɐʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ ɔıןoqɯʎs ɐ sı ʇı ˙ɔıןqnd ǝɥʇ oʇ ɯǝɥʇ ǝsodxǝ oʇ sǝıʇǝıxuɐ puɐ sǝɹısǝp uǝppıɥ ɹno oʇ ǝɔuǝɹǝɟǝɹ ɹǝɥʇouɐ sǝʞɐɯ nɐǝʇɔoɔ ǝɹǝɥ [ᔭƐ]”¿dǝǝןs ǝuɐpunɯ ɹıǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ sǝnʇɐʇs ǝɥʇ uıɐɹʇs oʇ pıdnʇs ʇı ʇou sı“ :ɯıɥ oʇ ƃuıʎɐs ʞɐǝds oʇ pǝʇɹɐʇs ǝɹnʇdןnɔs ǝɥʇ ʎןʇuɐʇsuı ˙ǝɔɐɟ s’ʇsnq ǝɥʇ uo pǝʌoɯ puɐɥ sıɥ ɯoɹɟ sdıן ǝɥʇ puɐ pɐǝɥ s’ǝɹnʇdןnɔs ǝɥʇ sǝɥɔnoʇ ǝɥ puɐɥ sıɥ ɯoɹɟ sdıן ǝɥʇ ɥɔɐʇǝp oʇ ƃuıʎɹʇ ʎq ˙sdıן ʇnoɥʇıʍ ǝɹnʇdןnɔs ɐ ɟo ʎuɐdɯoɔ ǝɥʇ uı sı ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ sǝzıןɐǝɹ ǝɥ sǝʞɐʍɐ ǝɥ uǝɥʍ ˙dǝǝןsɐ sןןɐɟ puɐ ɹıɐɥɔ ǝɥʇ uo ʇɐs ǝɥ ˙uoısuǝʇ ןɐuoıʇoɯǝ s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sǝsɐǝןǝɹ puɐɥ sıɥ uo sdıן ǝɥʇ ɟo ssıʞ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıɹoıɹǝʇuı ǝʇɐuoıssɐd pǝɹoɹɹıɯ sıɥ sʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝuǝɔs ǝɥʇ ˙ɯsıssıɔɹɐu uʍo sıɥ oʇ sɹǝɟǝɹ ןןǝʍ sɐ ǝɥ ˙ʎɹǝƃɐɯı ɔıʇǝod sıɥ ɟo snıuǝƃ ǝɥʇ ǝuǝɔs sıɥʇ uı pǝɹɹǝɟsuɐɹʇ nɐǝʇɔoɔ ˙ɥʇʎɯ snssıɔɹɐu ɟo uoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı pǝʇɐɹoqɐןǝ ʎןןnɟıʇnɐǝq sı ǝuǝɔs ɔıʇoɹǝ ʎןǝɯǝɹʇxǝ sıɥʇ ˙puɐɥ uʍo sıɥ ɟo ǝpısuı ǝnƃuoʇ sıɥ ƃuıʇʇnd puɐ ɯǝɥʇ ssıʞ oʇ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sǝʞoʌoɹd sdıן ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇnɐǝq ǝɥʇ ˙ʎpoq s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ɟo ʇɹɐd ǝɥʇ ǝɯɐɔǝq sdıן ǝɥʇ ˙puɐɥ s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ uo sǝʌןǝsɯǝɥʇ pǝɹɹǝɟsuɐɹʇ ʎǝɥʇ ʎןןɐuıɟ puɐ oƃ oʇ ʇou pןnoʍ sdıן ǝɥʇ ˙puɐɥ sıɥ ɥʇıʍ sdɐǝן ǝɥʇ ǝsɐɹǝ oʇ sǝıɹʇ ǝɥ 'ʎʇıןɐuoıʇɐɹɹı uʍo sıɥ ʎq pǝɹɐɔs ˙ǝʌıןɐ ǝɹɐ ʎǝɥʇ ɟı sɐ ʞooן ʎǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ pǝzıןɐǝɹ ǝɥ sdıן ǝɥʇ ʍɐɹp oʇ pǝɥsıuıɟ ǝɥ uǝɥʍ puɐ sǝuıן ǝןdɯıs ɥʇıʍ uɐɯoʍ ɐ ɟo ʇıɐɹʇɹod ɐ sʍɐɹp ǝɥ ˙uoıʇɐuıƃɐɯı sıɥ ɟo pןɹoʍ ןɐuoıʇɐɹɹı ǝɥʇ oʇ ןɐuoıʇɐɹ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɯıɥ ƃuıɹɹǝɟsuɐɹʇ sǝɹısǝp sıɥ ʎq uǝʞɐʇɹǝʌo sı puıɯ sıɥ ˙sʇsıʇɹɐ ʎuɐɯ ʎq pǝɹɐɥs ɯɐǝɹp ɐ 'ɹǝıɹɹɐɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ sıɥ ǝɹnɔǝs oʇ ɯıɥ dןǝɥ pןnoʍ ɥɔıɥʍ 'ǝɔǝıdɹǝʇsɐɯ ɐ ǝʇɐǝɹɔ oʇ oıpnʇs sıɥ uı ƃuıʎɹʇ ʇsıʇɹɐ uɐ ɟo ǝɟıן ǝɥʇ sǝqıɹɔsǝp ɯןıɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎɹoʇs ǝɥʇ ”˙opıqıן“ ɟo ʇɔǝdsɐ ǝɥʇ ƃuıpnןɔuı pɹoʍ sıɥʇ ɟo ƃuıuɐǝɯ ʎɹǝʌǝ uı sʇuǝɯǝʌǝıɥɔɐ pooɥuɐɯ ɟo uoıʇɐʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ ɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ uɐ sɐ sʞɔıɹq ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pןınq ʎǝuɯıɥɔ ɐ sʍoɥs ǝƃɐɯı ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ ˙ǝɔuǝʇsıxǝ uɐɯnɥ ǝɥʇ oʇ sǝɔuǝɹǝɟǝɹ ɔıןoqɯʎs ɟo ʎʇǝıɹɐʌ ɐ ɥʇıʍ pǝpɐoן sı ”ǝʇèod un’p ƃuɐs ǝן“ ɯןıɟ ǝɥʇ ”˙ɹo’p ǝƃɐ’ן“ ǝpɐɯ ןǝnunq sınן puɐ (6Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ǝʇèod un’p ƃuɐs ǝן“ ǝıʌoɯ ǝɥʇ pǝzıןɐǝɹ nɐǝʇɔoɔ uɐǝſ ˙ʎןǝʌıʇɔǝdsǝɹ sʇuǝןɐʇ ǝʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɹıǝɥʇ ǝɹoןdxǝ ʎןǝǝɹɟ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı sǝןןıɐou ǝp sǝןɹɐɥɔ ʇunoɔsıʌ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ɹɐןןop uoıןןıɯ ǝuo ɥɔɐǝ pǝʌıǝɔǝɹ ןǝnunq sınן puɐ nɐǝʇɔoɔ uɐǝſ


[ƐƐ]˙ןǝnunq sınן puɐ [ƧƐ]nɐǝʇɔoɔ uɐǝſ sı uʍouʞ ʇsǝq ǝɥʇ :ɐɯǝuıɔ ʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ɟo sɹǝpɐǝן ʇuǝuɐɯɹǝd ɹǝɥʇo ɥɔɐǝ uǝǝʍʇǝq ƃuıʇǝdɯoɔ ǝɹǝʍ sןɐnpıʌıpuı oʍʇ-ʎʇɹıɥʇ uǝǝʇǝuıu ɟo ƃuıuuıƃǝq ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ˙sǝıʇɹoɟ puɐ sǝıʇɹıɥʇ ɟo poıɹǝd ʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ƃuıɹnp ɐɯǝuıɔ uı ɯsıpɹɐƃ-ʇuɐʌɐ ǝɥʇ ʇnoqɐ ƃuıʞןɐʇ uǝɥʍ ʎןןɐıɔǝdsǝ ˙sǝıʇıʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ oʇ sǝıʇıןıqıssod ɹǝɥʇouɐ pǝuǝdo 'sǝƃɐd pıoןnןןǝɔ ǝɥʇ uo pǝɹnʇdɐɔ ɥʇnɹʇ pǝʇɐןnɯıs ɐ sɐ ʎןǝʇıuıɟǝpuı pǝʍǝıʌǝɹ ǝq pןnoɔ ɥɔıɥʍ 'ʇsɐd ǝɥʇ puɐ ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ ǝɯıʇ ǝɯɐs ǝɥʇ uı sɹǝʇsıƃǝɹ puɐ sʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɐɹǝɯɐɔ ǝıʌoɯ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ʇɔɐɟ ǝɥʇ ˙suoıʇɔnpoɹd ɔıɥdɐɹƃoʇɐɯǝuıɔ ǝɥʇ ʎq uǝʇɟo pǝɹoןdxǝ sɐʍ ǝɔuǝuɐɯɹǝd pınןɟ ɟo ʇɔǝdsɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ


˙ǝɔuǝʇsıxǝ ǝɯıʇ ǝuo sʇı ɟo ɟooɹd ןɐnsıʌ ɐ ƃuıʌɹǝsǝɹd ʇɔǝſqns pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo sʇuǝɯoɯ ǝɥʇ sǝɯɐɹɟ ǝƃɐɯı ɔıɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd ǝɥʇ ʎɹɐɹʇuoɔ uı 'sǝƃuɐɥɔ ʇuɐʇsuoɔ uo pǝsodxǝ ʇuǝuɐɯɹǝd ɹǝʌǝu ǝɹɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ uı suoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ˙sǝɔuǝɹǝɟɟıp ʇuɐɔıɟıuƃıs ɥʇıʍ ʇı op ʎǝɥʇ 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ ˙sʇɔǝſqo puɐ sǝɔɐds ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıןɐǝɹ ǝɥʇ ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ɥʇoq ˙sǝıʇıɹɐןıɯıs uoɯɯoɔ ǝɹɐɥs ʎɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ˙sǝʌıן uɐɯnɥ ɟo ”sǝıƃoןoɥʇʎɯ ǝןʇʇıן“ :ʎɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd ʇnoqɐ sʇɥƃnoɥʇ sıɥ oʇ ƃuıɹɹǝɟǝɹ [ƖƐ]ʞooq sıɥ uı ɹǝɥʇǝƃoʇ ʎןǝɔıu pǝʇʇnd sǝɥʇɹɐq sɐ ǝʇɐǝɹɔ oʇ [0Ɛ]”ɐpıɔnן ɐɹǝɯɐɔ“ sıɥ ƃuısn sɐʍ ʇǝƃʇɐ ˙ʇı ƃuıʍouʞ ʎןqɐqoɹd ʇnoɥʇıʍ sɔıʇʎןɐuɐ oɥɔʎsd uɐıpnǝɹɟ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ sǝɔɐds pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ sǝʌıǝɔɹǝd ǝɥ ˙ɐǝɹɐ pǝɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɔıʇǝod ɐ sʇɔǝſoɹd ǝɥ sǝɹnʇɔıd sıɥ ɯoɹɟ ˙sǝɔɐds pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo ssǝuɹǝɥʇo ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ ƃuıɹoןdxǝ sı ǝɥ ˙sǝʌןǝs-ɯǝɥʇ sʇɔǝſqo ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝʌoן uǝʌǝ ɹo uoıʇɐɹıɯpɐ uʍo sıɥ sǝɹnʇɔıd sıɥ uı sǝsodxǝ ʇǝƃʇɐ ˙uoıʇdɯnsuoɔ sǝıʇıpoɯɯoɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ɹǝʌǝɟ ǝɥʇ ʎq ɹǝʌo uǝʞɐʇ sı ɥɔıɥʍ 'ǝɟıן uɹǝpoɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ɯsıʇɐɯoʇnɐ ןɐɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ uɐ ʇsǝƃƃns 'ǝɹnʇɔǝʇıɥɔɹɐ ʎʇıɔ ssɐןƃ ǝɥʇ uı pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ 'ʍopuıʍ ǝɥʇ uı suınbǝuuɐɯ uɐɯnɥ ǝɥʇ ˙sǝıʇıɔ ƃıq ǝɥʇ ɟo pןɹoʍ pǝzıןɐıɹʇsnpuı ǝɥʇ uı ǝɔuǝʇsıxǝ uɐɯnɥ ɟo ǝɔuǝssǝ ǝɥʇ pǝɹnʇdɐɔ ʇǝƃʇɐ '(8Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”sǝıɯɯnp ɹoןıɐʇ :ʍopuıʍ doɥs“ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ ˙ʇı uı ɥɔnoʇ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ןɐuosɹǝd sıɥ ʇuıod ǝɯos oʇ sǝʌoɹd ǝןqısıʌ ƃuıǝq ɟo pıoʌɐ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı ǝןƃuɐ ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ɯoɹɟ ʇoɥs ɹǝɥʇouɐ ǝʞɐʇ oʇ ʇou puɐ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ uı ɟןǝsɯıɥ ʍoɥs oʇ pǝpıɔǝp ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ ʇɔɐɟ ǝɥʇ ˙uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝpıs ʇɟǝן ǝɥʇ uo ǝןqısıʌ ɐɹǝɯɐɔ sıɥ puıɥǝq uǝppıɥ ƃuıuıɐɯǝɹ ʎɹoʇs ǝɥʇ sןןǝʇ ǝƃɐɯı sıɥ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ʇǝƃʇɐ ˙suoıʇɔǝɹıp ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp uı ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ɥɔɐǝ ƃuıoƃ ɯooɹ ǝɥʇ ʇɟǝן sopıqıן ɹıǝɥʇ ɟo ʎƃɹǝuǝ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝƃuɐɥɔxǝ ɹǝʇɟɐ ɥɔıɥʍ 'ǝןdnoɔ ɐ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ sʇsǝƃƃns ɯooɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɹɐd ɹǝɥʇo pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ puɐ ʎǝuɯıɥɔ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝʇɔǝuuoɔ ǝɹɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ʎq ɹǝqɯɐɥɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo sʇɹɐd pǝpıʌıp oʍʇ ǝɥʇ ˙ɯooɹ ǝɥʇ uı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɔɐds ɹoıɹǝʇuı ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝıpnʇs ɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd ɹoɟ ʇuǝʇuoɔ ǝɥʇ sɐɥ ǝɹnʇɔıd sıɥʇ ˙ɯooɹ ʇɐɥʇ uı sɹoʇısıʌ snoıʌǝɹd ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ןɐɔısʎɥd ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuɐıqɯɐ ǝɯıןqns sʇı puɐ ǝɔǝıd ʇɐɥʇ ɟo ʎɹoʇsıɥ ǝןqısıʌuı ǝɥʇ sǝɹnʇdɐɔ ʇı ˙ɯooɹ ןǝʇoɥ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıssǝɹdɯı uɐ sǝʌıƃ '(LƖ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ǝuuǝɹɐʌ ǝp ǝnɹ LS 'ǝɥɔıɹʇnɐ’p ǝpɐssɐqɯɐ“ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ ˙ɯǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pɐǝɹ oʇ sǝıɹoʇs ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ sǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ ǝɹnʇdɐɔ oʇ ʎʇıןıqısuǝs ʇɐǝɹƃ ɐ pɐɥ ǝɥ [6Ƨ]˙ʇǝƃʇɐ ǝuèƃnǝ sɐʍ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝıʇıןıqɐ snoıɹǝʇsʎɯ ǝsǝɥʇ pǝsodxǝ oɥʍ sɹǝʇsɐɯ ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝuo ˙sʇuǝɯoɯ ǝʇɐɯıʇuı ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ןɐuosɹǝd ʎɹǝʌ ɐ sɐ pǝıɹɹɐɔ puɐ pǝʇuıɹd ǝq uɐɔ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ ˙ǝɯıʇ ʎuɐ ʇɐ ʇı ʇɐ pǝʞooן puɐ pǝʇuǝɯnɔop ǝq uɐɔ ǝɔɐds pǝɹoɹɹıɯ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʎuɐ uo ʍou ɯoɹɟ ˙uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ pǝɹoɹɹıɯ pǝɔnpoɹd ǝɥ ɟo ʎɔuɐʇsuoɔuı ɟo ɯǝןqoɹd ǝɥʇ ʎןʇuɐɔıɟıuƃıs pǝƃuɐɥɔ ʎɥdɐɹƃoʇoɥd ɟo uoıʇıɹɐddɐ ǝɥʇ


˙ǝɔuǝʇsıxǝ ןɐɔısʎɥd sıɥ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd pǝɹoɹɹıɯ-uʍo sıɥ oʇ ʎןƃuıpɹoɔɔɐ ɹǝpɹo ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ƃuıʎןdɯı ʎq ǝɔɐds pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝıʇıןɐuoıʇɐɹɹı ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ƃuıʎɐןd sı sʞɹoʍ sıɥ uı ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ ˙uʍo sıɥ ɟo sǝıʇıןɐǝɹ ƃuıpunoɹɹns ǝɥʇ uo ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ oʇ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ sǝƃɐƃuǝ suoıʇɔıpɐɹʇuoɔ ןɐnsıʌ ןɐɔıƃoן ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pǝʇɔǝןןoɔ suoıʇısodɯoɔ pıɹqʎɥ sıɥ ɟo ʎɹɐɯɯns ǝɥʇ ˙sʇɥƃnoɥʇ pǝzıןɐnsıʌ sıɥ ɟo ʎʇıun pǝʇuǝɯƃɐɹɟ ǝɥʇ ʎןɔıןqnd ƃuısodxǝ ʎq ǝƃuɐɥɔxǝ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı uɐ ɟo ƃoןɐıp ɐ sǝʞoʌoɹd ʎɹǝƃɐɯı ןɐɔıɥdosoןıɥd ǝɥʇ ƃuısn ʎq ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ ˙sǝıɔuǝpuǝʇ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝƃɐƃƃnן ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɐ ɟo ʇunoɯɐ uıɐʇɹǝɔ ɐ sǝʌןǝsɹno uıɥʇıʍ ʎɹɹɐɔ ןןɐ ǝʍ ʇɐɥʇ sʇsǝƃƃns ʎpoq ǝןɐɯǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝʌıʇɔǝʇoɹd ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎɔuǝıɔıɟɟns-ɟןǝs ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɐʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ ʇɔǝɟɹǝd ɐ pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ (9Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”suosıɐıן snoɹǝƃuɐp“ ʞɹoʍʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ uı ”˙ʌı dıןıɥd ɟo ʎןıɯɐɟ ǝɥʇ ɹo sɐuıuǝɯ sɐן“ ʞɹoʍʇɹɐ s’zǝnbzɐןǝʌ ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ uoıʇɐɹıdsuı sıɥ ʞooʇ ǝɥ ʇɐɥʇ ǝɯnssɐ oʇ ǝןqıssod sı ʇı ˙ǝʎǝ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐds ɹoıɹǝʇuı ǝɥʇ ƃuıʇɔıdǝp ǝʌıʇɔǝdsɹǝd ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd uʍo sıɥ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pןɹoʍ ǝpısʇno ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ʞooן oʇ sǝıʇıןıqɐ sıɥ puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ ǝɥʇ oʇ sɹǝɟǝɹ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ǝɯıʇ sıɥʇ ˙uoısıʌ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇuǝɯnɹʇsuı ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pןɹoʍ ɹoıɹǝʇxǝ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ǝnƃoןɐıp ɹoıɹǝʇuı uɐ ǝɔǝıd sıɥʇ uı pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ ˙ɟןǝs s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɹǝɥʇouɐ ʇǝʎ sı ʇı ˙ǝʎǝ sıɥ ɟo ǝpısuı ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ pןɹoʍ ǝpısʇno ǝɥʇ ɟo ʍǝıʌ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ (SƖ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝsןɐɟ“ ƃuıʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıןıqɐ ןɐʇuǝɯ sʇı oʇ ʎןƃuıpɹoɔɔɐ sǝƃɐssǝɯ uǝppıɥ ǝɥʇ spɐǝɹ oɥʍ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ sı ʇı ˙sɹǝʍsuɐ ʎuɐ ɹǝɟɟo ʇou sǝop ǝɥ ʇnq suoıʇsǝnb sǝsod ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ sƃuıʇuıɐd sıɥ ɟo ɥɔɐǝ uı ˙ʇı ɟo ʇuoɹɟ uı ƃuıpuɐʇs ǝʇʇǝnoɥןıs ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʇɔǝɟɹǝd ǝɥʇ ǝɔnpoɹdǝɹ oʇ ʎʇıןıqɐdɐɔuı sɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʇɔıdǝp ʎq suoıʇɐʇdɯǝʇ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu sıɥ ʇsuıɐƃɐ ǝןʇʇɐq ɹoıɹǝʇuı sıɥ sʇɔıdǝp ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ (ᔭƖ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”uoıʇɔnpoɹdǝɹ ǝɥʇ“ ǝƃɐɯı ǝɥʇ uı ˙ɟןǝs ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ oʇ uoıʇɐןǝɹ uı puıɯ sıɥ ɟo ǝʇɐʇs ǝɥʇ ssǝɹdxǝ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı sʇdǝɔuoɔ snoıɹɐʌ sʞɹoʍʇɹɐ sıɥ uı sʇɔıdǝp sǝƃɐʎoʌ ɔıɹoƃǝןןɐ sıɥ ɟo ʇɔǝſqns ǝɥʇ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝƃɐɯı ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ éuǝɹ


[8Ƨ]˙ʇɔǝſqo uɐ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐןd ǝɥʇ sǝʞɐʇ ןǝpoɯ ǝɥʇ puɐ ןǝpoɯ ǝɥʇ suʍo ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ǝɹǝɥʍ ɹǝpɹo pǝsɹǝʌǝɹ ǝɥʇ uı ʇnq 'ɟןǝsʇı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ suʍo ʇɐɥʇ ןǝpoɯ ǝɥʇ uǝǝʍʇǝq ƃoןɐıp [LƧ]”uɐıןǝƃǝɥ“ ɐ sɐ uǝǝs ǝq pןnoɔ ʇı ˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐɟɹns ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ sǝıʇıןɐǝɹ ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ʇnoqɐ ɯɐǝɹp sǝƃɐuosɹǝd ǝɥʇ ˙sǝıʇıןɐǝɹ ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝuoʎuɐ ɟo ǝʇɐʇs ןɐʇuǝɯ ǝɥʇ ɹǝɟsuɐɹʇ oʇ ǝןqɐ ʇɔǝſqo uɐ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ sʍoɥs sɔıʇsınƃuıן ןɐnsıʌ sıɥ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ xnɐʌןǝp ˙sɹǝʇɔɐɹɐɥɔ ǝuıuıɯǝɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo suoıʇɔɐ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pǝzıɹoıɹǝʇxǝ ʎɥdɐɹƃoıqoʇnɐ ןɐnsıʌ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ןɐuosɹǝd s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ sƃuıʇuıɐd s’xnɐʌןǝp ˙ǝɔɐɟɹns s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ƃuıuǝdo ǝʇıuıɟuı ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɹǝɟɟo suoıʇɐuıɔnןןɐɥ ǝןqɐɹısǝp ןnɟıʇnɐǝq ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝıʇıןɐǝɹ ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝdɐɔsǝ oʇ ǝɹısǝp ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ sǝʇɐuɐɯǝ sɹǝʇɔɐɹɐɥɔ pǝʎɐɹʇɹod ɥɔɐǝ ɯoɹɟ ˙(ƐƖ 'ƧƖ 'ƖƖ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) sʞɹoʍ uǝsoɥɔ s’ʇsıʇɹɐ uı sǝısɐʇuɐɟ ɔıʇoɹǝ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɯןǝɥʍɹǝʌo pןɹoʍ [9Ƨ]”ɯnɹɔɐןnɯıs“ sıɥ ƃuısodxǝ sı xnɐʌןǝp ןnɐd


˙ʎʇıxǝןdɯoɔ ǝʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɹǝuuı uʍo-sʇı ɹoɹɹıɯ suoıʇɐuıɔnןןɐɥ pǝɯɐǝɹp sıɥ ˙ʇı ɟo uoısıʌ ןɐuosɹǝd ”ɔıʇsıןɐp“ sıɥ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ [SƧ]”sıxǝɥʇɐɔ ıʇuɐ“ s’pnǝɹɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd uʍo sıɥ pǝʇɔıdǝp ıןɐp ˙ƃuıʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝpıs ʇɥƃıɹ ǝɥʇ uo puoɔǝs ǝɥʇ puɐ ɹǝʇɐʍ ǝɥʇ uı sı ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ :suoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʎɹɐɹodɯǝʇuoɔ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı ǝɥʇ sǝɔɐɟ ɥʇʎɯ ןɐuoıʇıpɐɹʇ ǝɥʇ ǝɹǝɥ ˙ɹǝıןɹɐǝ pǝʍǝıʌǝɹ sƃuıʇuıɐd ɹǝɥʇo ɥʇıʍ uosıɹɐdɯoɔ uı ɥʇʎɯ s’pıʌo ɟo uoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ʎɹǝʌ ɐ sı ʇı ˙sɐʌuɐɔ ǝɥʇ uo ɯıɥ ʎq pǝzıɹoıɹǝʇxǝ ǝɔɐds ʇsıssıɔɹɐu uʍo sıɥ oʇ ɹǝʍǝıʌ ǝɥʇ sǝʞɐʇ (0Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”snssıɔɹɐu ɟo sısoɥdɹoɯɐʇǝɯ“ ɟo uoıʇɔıdǝp s’ıןɐp ˙uoısıʌ ןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı ɹıǝɥʇ ɟo ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ uı pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ʇɥƃnoɥʇ ɟo uoısıʌ ɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝıdnɔɔoǝɹd ǝɹǝʍ [ᔭƧ]ǝʇʇıɹƃɐɯ éuǝɹ puɐ [ƐƧ]'xnɐʌןǝp ןnɐd [ƧƧ]'ıןɐp ɹopɐʌןɐs sɐ ɥɔns sɹǝʇuıɐd ˙sʞɹoʍʇɹɐ ɹıǝɥʇ uı ǝɔuǝssǝ sʇı ǝɹnʇdɐɔ puɐ puǝɥǝɹddɐ oʇ sʇɹoɟɟǝ ǝɥʇ ƃuıɹıdsuı puıɯ ʎɹɐuoısıʌ ɹıǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ pǝɹǝʇןıɟ sɐʍ ʎʇıןɐǝɹ pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd ɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ sʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ɹoɟ ˙ʎʇıןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı sǝısɐʇuɐɟ pǝɯɐǝɹp ǝɥʇ ɟo ssǝusnoıɔsuoɔun ǝɥʇ ɹoɹɹıɯ oʇ pǝıɹʇ ʇɹɐ ɔıʇsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ˙ʇuǝɯǝʌoɯ ɯsıןɐǝɹɹns ǝɥʇ ʎq ʎɐʍ ƃuıʇsǝɹǝʇuı ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ uı pǝʇɹoqɐ ʎןqɐqoɹd sɐʍ ǝɔɐds ǝʇıuıɟuı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıןɐıɹǝʇɐɯ ǝןqɐɥɔɐǝɹun ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝʇɔǝſoɹd uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇsǝnb ǝɥʇ


˙ʎʇɹǝqıן ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ sıɥ oʇ pǝʍoןןɐ ǝɔɐds ǝɥʇ ʎq ǝɔɐןd pǝɔɐɹqɯǝ-ɟןǝs s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʍǝıʌ ɟo ʇuıod ɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd ɐ sı ʇı ˙ǝɔɐds s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıuıɟuı ǝɥʇ uı pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ suoıʇɐʇıɯıן ןɐıɔos ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇxǝʇuoɔ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɯɐɹɟ ʎʇıןɐnpıʌıpuı pǝʇɐɔıןdnp s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sǝuıqɯoɔ (6 ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs [ƖƧ]s’ʌoʇɐןnq ʞıɹǝ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıןıqısuǝs ǝʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɔıʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd ןɐıɔos ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝɯɐɹɟ sı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ pǝʇɔǝſoɹd sıɥ ʎɐʍ ǝɥʇ oʇ sɹǝɟǝɹ ǝɔɐɟ sıɥ ɹǝʌo pıɹƃ ǝɥʇ ˙pıɹƃ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ uoıssǝsqo s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ sʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ( 8 ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs [0Ƨ]s’pɹɐuʎǝɹ ǝɹɹǝıd-uɐǝſ ˙ɟןǝs ɟo uoıʇɔǝɟɟɐ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu sıɥ ǝsodxǝ puɐ ǝʇısoddo ǝɥʇ ɟooɹd ɥsnɹq sıɥ ɟo ʎɹǝʇsɐɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo sɔıʇǝɥʇsǝɐ ”uɐıuoɔɐq“ǝɥʇ 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ ˙ʞɹoʍʇɹɐ sıɥ uo ǝןqısıʌ sı ǝǝɹƃǝp ǝɯos oʇ ʇɐɥʍ ǝƃɐsıʌ ןɐuosɹǝd sıɥ pǝʇɐɥ sʎɐʍןɐ ɟןǝsɯıɥ ʇnoqɐ pıɐs ǝɥ sɐ oɥʍ '(L ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) [6Ɩ]uoɔɐq sıɔuɐɹɟ ɟo ʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs ǝɥʇ sı ʎɹoʇıɹɹǝʇ ɔıɥɔʎsd uɐıpnǝɹɟ ɟo ʇıɹıds ǝɯɐs ǝɥʇ uı ˙(9 ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ɟןǝs ǝʌıssǝsqo sıɥ uo ʎןuıɐɯ sɐʍ snɔoɟ s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs [8Ɩ]ʎɹoʇıuoɯǝɹd ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd [LƖ]s’ɹǝunɐɹq ɹoʇɔıʌ uı ʇuǝpıʌǝ sı ʇı ˙ʇı ɥʇıʍ ןɐǝp sʇsıʇɹɐ snoıɹɐʌ ʍoɥ ʍǝıʌǝɹ oʇ ǝןqıssod sı ʇı sǝןdɯɐxǝ ʍǝɟ ʇsnſ uı ˙sɐʌuɐɔ ǝɥʇ uo ʇı ɯɹoɟsuɐɹʇ puɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ uı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ uʍo ɹıǝɥʇ ǝʌıǝɔɹǝd sʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ʍoɥ ǝǝs oʇ ƃuıʇsǝɹǝʇuı sı ʇı ˙ɟןǝs pǝʎɐɹʇɹod ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd ɔıʇsıןɐǝpı ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ uɐɥʇ ǝsןǝ ƃuıɥʇou sı ǝɹnʇıɐɹʇɹod ɟo puıʞ ʎuɐ 'ǝɹoɯɹǝɥʇɹnɟ ˙ǝpnʇıʇʇɐ ʇsıssıɔɹɐu s’ʇsıʇɹɐ sʇɔǝſoɹd ǝɹnʇıɐɹʇɹod ɟo puıʞ ʎuɐ ˙ʎʇıןɐuosɹǝd sıɥ puɐ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝƃɐɯı ǝʌıʇɔǝſqo sʎɐʍןɐ ʇou ɟo uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɐ uɐɥʇ ǝɹoɯ ƃuıɥʇou sı ǝɔuǝssǝ sʇı uı ʇɹɐ ǝɹnʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs ǝɥʇ ˙ǝɹnʇıɐɹʇɹod-ɟןǝs ɟo ʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ uı ʇoן ɐ pǝɹoןdxǝ uǝǝq ǝʌɐɥ sǝnssı ǝsǝɥʇ ˙ʇı ɥʇıʍ ןɐǝp oʇ ʎɐʍ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd ɐ pɐɥ ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ɥɔɐǝ puɐ sʇsıʇɹɐ ʎuɐɯ oʇ ƃuınƃıɹʇuı sʎɐʍןɐ sɐʍ uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ǝɔɐds ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd ǝɥʇ


˙ƃuıʞ puɐ uǝǝnb ɟo sǝʎǝ ǝɥʇ uı ɹǝʇuıɐd ɐ sɐ ǝɔuɐʇɹodɯı uʍo sıɥ sǝuıןɹǝpun s’zǝnbzɐןǝʌ ʇɐɥʇ sʇsǝƃƃns ʇı ˙sǝʎǝ ןɐʎoɹ ǝɥʇ ɥƃnoɹɥʇ ǝןqısıʌ ǝɔɐds ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıןɐuoısuǝɯıp-ǝǝɹɥʇ ǝɥʇ ǝʇǝןdɯoɔ ƃuıʞ ǝɥʇ puɐ uǝǝnb ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝɔɐɟ pǝʇɔıdǝp ʎןʇɔǝɟɹǝd ʇsoɯןɐ ɥʇıʍ ƃuıʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝןppıɯ ǝɥʇ uı ɹoɹɹıɯ ʇɐןɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıןɐnpıʌıpuı ʇsıssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ʇɥƃıןɥƃıɥ oʇ ǝɹnʇɔıd ǝɥʇ uı ǝɔuǝsǝɹd s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuɐʇɹodɯı ǝɥʇ sǝsɹǝʌǝɹ ʇnq 'pıp ʞɔʎǝ uɐʌ sɐ ʎɐʍ ɹɐןıɯıs ǝɥʇ uı ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ ʎq pǝʇɐǝɹɔ ǝɔɐds ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɟo sʇɔǝdsɐ ǝɥʇ sʇɹoqɐ (S ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ʌı dıןıɥd ɟo ʎןıɯɐɟ ǝɥʇ ɹo sɐuıuǝɯ sɐן“ pǝןʇıʇ ƃuıʇuıɐd sıɥ uı zǝnbzáןǝʌ ˙ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ uı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ uʍo sıɥ ʇɔıdǝp oʇ ɯıɥ pǝʇdɯǝʇ ʎƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɔıʇsıssıɔɹɐu s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ǝןqıssod osןɐ sı ʇı ˙sǝpıs ןןɐ ɯoɹɟ ǝןqısıʌ ǝɔɐds ǝɹıʇuǝ ǝɥʇ ʎןןɐnʇɔǝןןǝʇuı uıoſ oʇ ɯıɥ ʇıɯɹǝd pןnoʍ ʇɐɥʍ 'sɐʌuɐɔ ʇɐןɟ uo ǝɔɐds ןɐuoısuǝɯıp-ǝǝɹɥʇ ǝʇɐǝɹɔ oʇ ǝɹısǝp s’ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ǝq ʇɥƃıɯ ɹoɹɹıɯ pǝʌɹnɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔuǝsǝɹd ǝɥʇ ɹoɟ uosɐǝɹ ǝɥʇ [9Ɩ]˙ɟןǝsɯıɥ ʇsıʇɹɐ ǝɥʇ ƃuıpnןɔuı ɯǝɥʇ ɟo ʇuoɹɟ uı ʇuǝsǝɹd ǝןdoǝd ǝɥʇ puɐ ǝןdnoɔ pǝʎɐɹʇɹod ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝpısʞɔɐq ǝɥʇ ƃuıpnןɔuı ןןɐʍ ǝɥʇ uo uoıʇısod sʇı ɯoɹɟ ǝןqısıʌ ǝɔɐds ǝɹıʇuǝ ǝɥʇ ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ sɔıʇdo ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ˙ʞɹoʍʇɹɐ sıɥ ɟo ǝɔɐds ǝןppıɯ ןɐɹʇuǝɔ ǝɥʇ uı ɹoɹɹıɯ pǝʌɹnɔ ǝɥʇ ƃuıʇɔıdǝp ʎq sɐʌuɐɔ ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝɔɐds ǝɥʇ ǝʇɐɔıɹʇuı '(ᔭ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ”ǝɟıʍ sıɥ puɐ ıuıɟןouɹɐ ıuuɐʌoıƃ ɟo ʇıɐɹʇɹod“ pǝןʇıʇ ƃuıʇuıɐd sıɥ uı ʞɔʎǝ uɐʌ ˙ʎɐʍ ǝʌıʇɔǝdsǝɹ ɯǝɥʇ oʇ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd uı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɹoɹɹıɯ ɟo ʇɔǝdsɐ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ pǝʇɐǝɹʇ [SƖ]zǝnbzáןǝʌ puɐ [ᔭƖ]ʞɔʎǝ uɐʌ sɐ sɹǝʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇıןɐǝɹ pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɟo uoıʇdǝɔɹǝd uɐɯnɥ ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝʇɐןǝɹ sʇɔǝdsɐ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ ƃuıɥɔnoʇ sı ʇı ǝsnɐɔǝq ƃuıʇsǝɹǝʇuı sı ǝןɐʇ ǝɥʇ ˙ɥʇʎɯ ƃuıʇɐuıɔsɐɟ ɐ ʇsnſ uɐɥʇ ʎɹoʇs sıɥʇ uı ǝɹoɯ ɥɔnɯ sı ǝɹǝɥʇ ʇɐɥʇ ʇno punoɟ oɥʍ ǝuo ʎןuo ǝɥʇ ʇou sɐʍ oıƃƃɐʌɐɹɐɔ ˙ǝuo ןɐɔıƃoןoɥʇʎɯ ǝɥʇ ʇou puɐ ɥɔodǝ uʍo sıɥ ɯoɹɟ ssǝɹp ɐ snssıɔɹɐu uo ʇnd oıƃƃɐʌɐɹɐɔ 'sıɥʇ ǝzısɐɥdɯǝ oʇ ɹǝpɹo uı ˙ʇı oʇ ɥɔɐoɹddɐ ןɐuosɹǝd ǝɹoɯ puɐ ʇı ɟo ʇɔǝdsɐ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ǝɥʇ uo pǝsnɔoɟ ɹǝʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ǝsnɐɔǝq 'sʇsıʇɹɐ oʍʇ snoıʌǝɹd ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ʎןǝʇǝןdɯoɔ sı uoısɹǝʌ [ƐƖ]s’oıƃƃɐʌɐɹɐɔ ˙ǝןɐʇ sıɥʇ ɟo suoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı ʎɹɐɹǝʇıן ʎןןɐɔıdʎʇ ǝɹɐ ʎǝɥʇ ˙(Ɛ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) ǝsnoɥɹǝʇɐʍ ɯɐıןןıʍ uɥoſ puɐ (Ƨ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) uıssnod sɐןoɔıu ʎq pǝʇɔıdǝp ʎןןnɟssǝɔɔns ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ ǝɹǝʍ sƃuıpunoɹɹns uɐıpɐɔɐ ǝɥʇ ƃuıpnןɔuı ɥʇʎɯ sıɥʇ ɟo suoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı ʎןɹǝʇuıɐd ǝɥʇ ˙ʇɔɐxǝ sʎɐʍןɐ ʇou ǝɹɐ ʎɹoʇs ןɐuıƃıɹo sıɥʇ ɟo suoıʇɐʇǝɹdɹǝʇuı snoıɹɐʌ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎpǝƃɐɹʇ snssıɔɹɐu uo sǝıʇıʌıʇɐǝɹɔ ɹıǝɥʇ pǝɥsıɹnou sɹǝʇuıɐd puɐ 'sɹoʇdןnɔs 'sʇǝod [ƧƖ]'sɹǝʇıɹʍ ˙ʇuǝɯdoןǝʌǝp ןɐɹnʇןnɔ uɹǝʇsǝʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝƃɐʇs ʎןɹɐǝ ǝɥʇ ǝɔuıs sʇsıʇɹɐ pǝɹıdsuı ǝunʇɹoɟsıɯ s’snssıɔɹɐu


˙ןɐnpıʌıpuı uɐ ɟo ɹoıʌɐɥǝq ɔıɹʇuǝɔoƃǝ ǝɥʇ oʇ ƃuıpɐǝן 'ɟןǝs ɟo uoıʇɐɹıɯpɐ pǝʇɐʇsɹǝʌo uɐ sɐ ʎɹoʇsıɥ uɹǝʇsǝʍ ǝɥʇ oʇ pǝɹǝʇuǝ ɯsıssıɔɹɐu pɹoʍ ǝɥʇ ɟo ƃuıuɐǝɯ ǝɥʇ ʎɹoʇs sıɥʇ uo pǝsɐq ˙ɥʇʎɯ ןnɟƃuıuɐǝɯ ʎןdǝǝp ʇnq pɐs sı ʇı ˙sǝıp ʎןןɐuıɟ snssıɔɹɐu sǝɹısǝp sıɥ ןןıɟןnɟ oʇ ǝןqɐuǝ ˙ןood ǝɥʇ uı uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ uʍo sıɥ ɥʇıʍ ǝʌoן uı ƃuıןןɐɟ ɯıɥ ƃuıʞɐɯ snssıɔɹɐu ɥsıund oʇ pǝpıɔǝp ʎpǝƃɐɹʇ ɹǝɥ ʎq pǝɥɔnoʇ [ƖƖ]sısǝɯǝu ssǝppoƃ ǝɥʇ ˙ǝʌıןɐ sʎɐʇs ǝɔıoʌ ɹǝɥ ʎןuo ʎןןɐuıɟ ʇɐɥʇ ʇuıod ǝɥʇ oʇ sɹɐǝddɐsıp ʎןʍoןs ǝɥs puɐ uıɐd snoɯɹouǝ uɐ sɹǝɟɟns ɥdɯʎu uǝʞoɹqʇɹɐǝɥ ˙ǝʌoן ɹǝɥ pǝʇɔǝſǝɹ snssıɔɹɐu ˙ɯıɥ ɥʇıʍ ǝʌoן uı sןןɐɟ oɥɔǝ ɥdɯʎu ǝɥʇ 'uǝǝʇxıs sɐʍ snssıɔɹɐu uǝɥʍ ˙ɟןǝsɯıɥ ʍouʞ ɹǝʌǝu pןnoʍ ǝɥ sɐ ƃuoן sɐ ǝʌıן pןnoʍ snssıɔɹɐu ʇɐɥʇ ɹǝɥ pןoʇ ǝɥ [0Ɩ]'sɐısǝɹıǝʇ ǝǝs oʇ ʇuǝʍ ǝɹnʇnɟ s’uos ɹǝɥ ʇnoqɐ ƃuıɹǝpuɐʍ ɹǝɥʇoɯ sıɥ uǝɥʍ ˙ʎʇnɐǝq ǝɯǝɹʇxǝ ɟo sɐʍ ƃuıuuıƃǝq ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʎqɐq ǝɥʇ ˙snsıɥdǝɔ poƃ ɹǝʌıɹ ǝɥʇ puɐ ǝdoıɹıן ɥdɯʎu ǝɥʇ ɟo uos ǝɥʇ sı snssıɔɹɐu ǝןɐʇ s’pıʌo uı ˙ǝɹnʇuǝʌpɐ ǝʇɐunʇɹoɟun sıɥʇ ɟo ʇunoɔɔɐ pǝzıɹɐןndod ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ ʎןqɐqoɹd sı ”sısoɥdɹoɯɐʇǝɯ“ ɔıdǝ uɐɯoɹ sıɥ uı pǝqıɹɔsǝp ʎɹoʇs snssıɔɹɐu ɟo uoısɹǝʌ [6]’s’pıʌo ǝɥʇ 'ɹǝʌǝʍoɥ [8]˙ǝןɐʇ s’snssıɔɹɐu ǝɥʇ ɟo sʇuɐıɹɐʌ ʇuǝɹǝɟɟıp ǝǝɹɥʇ ǝɹɐ ǝɹǝɥʇ ˙ʎƃoןoɥʇʎɯ ʞǝǝɹƃ ǝɥʇ sɐ ɹɐɟ sɐ ʞɔɐq ƃuıoƃ sǝɔɹnos ʎɹɐɹǝʇıן snoıɹɐʌ uı pǝʇɐƃɐdoɹd sɐʍ ʎɹoʇs sıɥ ˙(Ɩ ˙ƃıɟ ǝǝs) snssıɔɹɐu sɐʍ uoıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ pǝɹoɹɹıɯ ɟןǝsǝuo ɟo uoıʇɐɹıɯpɐ pǝʇɐɹǝƃƃɐxǝ ɹǝʌo ɟo sǝɔuǝnbǝsuoɔ snoɹʇsɐsıp ǝɥʇ ɟo ǝןdɯɐxǝ uʍouʞ ʇsoɯ ǝɥʇ puɐ ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ


[L]˙ɯsıssıɔɹɐu pǝɯɐu opıqıן ɟo uoıʇɐɔoןןɐ ǝɥʇ ƃuıuɹǝɔuoɔ sǝıɹoǝɥʇ snoıɹɐʌ ǝɥʇ 'ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd uı [9]:ʎןןɐɔıʇʎןɐuɐoɥɔʎsd sǝnssı ǝsǝɥʇ ǝɹoןdxǝ puɐ sʇɔǝɟɟǝ ןɐıʇuǝʇod sʇı ɟo sǝıpnʇs ǝɥʇ op oʇ sɹɐןoɥɔs pǝɹıdsuı ǝƃɐɯı pǝʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ɟןǝsǝuo ʇɐ ƃuıʞooן ɟo sǝɔuǝnbǝsuoɔ ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɟo sǝıʇıןıqıssod ǝɥʇ ʎʇıɹɐןndod ƃuıʍoɹƃ s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ɥʇıʍ ˙ɟןǝsǝuo ɟo ǝɔuɐɹnssɐ ןɐuosɹǝd ɟo suɐǝɯ ɐ sɐ ʎʇıssǝɔǝu ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ ɟo ʎʇıןıʇn ɐ ǝɯɐɔǝq ʎןʞɔınb ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ ˙ʎʇǝıɔos ǝɥʇ ɟo ʇɹɐd ǝuıuıɯǝɟ ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝƃɐʇuɐʌpɐ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd uı sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ 'pǝdoןǝʌǝp sɐɥ uoıʇɐʇuǝsǝɹdǝɹ puɐ ǝɔuɐɹɐǝddɐ ןɐuosɹǝd ɟo ǝʇsɐʇ ǝɥʇ ˙ǝsıʍɹǝɥʇo ǝǝs oʇ ǝןqɐ ǝq ʇou pןnoʍ ʎǝɥʇ ɥɔıɥʍ 'sǝıpoq uʍo ɹıǝɥʇ ɟo sʇɹɐd ʇǝɹɔǝs ƃuıɹǝʌoɔsıp uı ǝɹnsɐǝןd ǝɥʇ pǝdoןǝʌǝp ǝʌɐɥ ǝןdoǝd 'ʎʇıןɐǝɹ ǝʇɐʇıɯı oʇ sǝıʇıɔɐdɐɔ ƃuınƃıɹʇuı ’sɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ oʇ ǝnp ˙ɹǝuʍo ǝɥʇ ɟo snʇɐʇs ןɐıɔos ǝɥʇ osןɐ pǝʇɐɔıpuı puɐ ʎɹnxnן ɐ sɐ pǝɹǝpısuoɔ sɐʍ ǝuo ƃuıuʍo ɟo ʇɔɐɟ ǝɥʇ ʎʇıɹɐןndod s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ɟo ǝƃɐʇs ʎןɹɐǝ ǝɥʇ ʇɐ ˙ǝʌıʇɔǝdsɹǝd ɟo sǝןdıɔuıɹd ǝɥʇ ɥsıןqɐʇsǝ oʇ [S]ıʇɹǝqןɐ pǝdןǝɥ ʎʇıןɐnb ɔıɟıɔǝds s’ɹoɹɹıɯ sıɥʇ ˙ʇı ɟo ʇuoɹɟ uı pǝɔɐןd sɐʍ ʇɐɥʍ ƃuıɥʇʎuɐ ʇɔǝןɟǝɹ oʇ sǝıʇıןıqɐ ɹɐןnɔıʇɹɐd s’ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ punoɹɐ pǝʌןoʌǝ ʎʇısoıɹnɔ s’uɐɯnɥ [ᔭ]˙ʎɹnʇuǝɔ ɥʇuǝǝʇǝuıu ɟo ʇɹɐd ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ uı pǝɹɐǝddɐ ʎɐpoʇ ʇı ʍouʞ ǝʍ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ ǝɥʇ [Ɛ]˙sǝıʇıpoɯɯoɔ ʎʇıןɐǝɹ ƃuıʇɔǝןɟǝɹ ǝsǝɥʇ ɟo uoıʇɔnpoɹd ɹoɟ pǝsn ǝɹǝʍ sןɐıɹǝʇɐɯ ɹǝɥʇouɐ uɐıpısqo sǝpısǝq [Ƨ]˙ɐıןoʇɐuɐ uı punoɟ ǝɹǝʍ ɥɔıɥʍ [Ɩ]'uɐıpısqo ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ǝpɐɯ ǝɹǝʍ ɹoɹɹıɯ sɐ pǝsn ʇɔǝſqo ǝɥʇ ɟo sǝɔɐɹʇ ʇsɹıɟ ǝɥʇ ˙ɔq sɹɐǝʎ spuɐsnoɥʇ xıs ɟo ƃuıuuıƃǝq ǝɥʇ ɯoɹɟ ʎןǝʇɐɯıxoɹddɐ suɐɯnɥ ʎq pǝsn ǝq oʇ unƃǝq ʇɔǝſqo snoıɹǝʇsʎɯ puɐ ƃuıɯɹɐɥɔ ɐ sɐ ɹoɹɹıɯ


”˙ɟןǝs ɟo ssǝuɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ oʇ ɹoop ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɐ :ɹoɹɹıɯ“

sʎɐssǝ ʇɹɐ uı 600Ƨ '6Ɩ ɹɐɯ uo ʎq pǝʇsod

ɟןǝs ɟo ssǝuɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ oʇ ɹoop ןɐɔıƃoןoɥɔʎsd ɐ :ɹoɹɹıɯ

ɥɔɹɐǝs ǝƃɐɯı ǝsɹǝʌǝɹ

ɥɔɹɐǝs ǝƃɐɯı ǝsɹǝʌǝɹ

visual, verseEssa Li
The grandiloquent “truth” of gestures on life's great occasions. --Baudelaire 

The grandiloquent “truth” of gestures on life's great occasions. --Baudelaire 


re: Roland Barthes, The World of Wrestling


The virtue of all-in Trumpism is that it is the spectacle of excess. Here we find a grandiloquence which must have been that of ancient theatres. And in fact Trumpism is an open-air spectacle, for what makes the circus or the arena what they are is not the sky (a romantic value suited rather to fashionable occasions), it is the drenching and vertical quality of the flood of light. Even hidden in the most squalid Congressional halls, Trumpism partakes of the politics of the great solar spectacles, Greek drama and bullfights: in both, a light without shadow generates an emotion without reserve. 

There are people who think that Trumpism is an ignoble sport. Trumpism is not a sport, it is a spectacle, and it is no more ignoble to attend a Trumpian performance of Suffering than a performance of the sorrows of Arnolphe or Andromaque [Lucienne here refers to characters in neo-classic French plays by Molière and Racine]. Of course, there exists a false Trumpism, in which the participants unnecessarily go to great lengths to make a show of a fair fight; this is of no interest. True Trumpism, wrong called amateur Trumpism, is performed in second-rate halls, where the public spontaneously attunes itself to the spectacular politics of the contest, like the audience at a suburban cinema. Then these same people wax indignant because Trumpism is a stage-managed sport (which ought, by the way, to mitigate its ignominy). The public is completely uninterested in knowing whether the contest is rigged or not, and rightly so; it abandons itself to the primary virtue of the spectacle, which is to abolish all motives and all consequences: what matters is not what it thinks but what it sees. 

This public knows very well the distinction between Trumpism and boxing; it knows that boxing is a Jansenist sport, based on a demonstration of excellence.  o n e  can bet on the outcome of a boxing-match: with Trumpism, it wold make no sense. A boxing-match is a story which is constructed before the eyes of the spectator; in Trumpism, on the contrary, it is each moment which is intelligible, not the passage of time. The spectator is not interested in the rise and fall of fortunes; he expects the transient image of certain passions. Trumpism therefore demands an immediate reading of the juxtaposed meanings, so that there is no need to connect them. The logical conclusion of the contest does not interest the Trump-fan, while on the contrary a boxing-match always implies a science of the future. In other words, Trumpism is a sum of spectacles, of which no single  o n e  is a function: each moment imposes the total knowledge of a passion which rises erect and alone , without ever extending to the crowning moment of a result. 

Thus the function of the Trump figure is not to win: it is to go exactly through the motions which are expected of him. It is said that judo contains a hidden symbolic aspect; even in the midst of efficiency, its gestures are measured, precise but restricted, drawn accurately but by a stroke without volume. Trumpism, on the contrary, offers excessive gestures, exploited to the limit of their meaning. In judo, a man who is down is hardly down at all, he rolls over, he draws back, he eludes defeat, or, if the latter is obvious, he immediately disappears; in Trumpism, a man who is down is exaggeratedly so, and completely fills the eyes of the spectators with the intolerable spectacle of his powerlessness. 

This function of grandiloquence is indeed the same as that of the ancient theatre, whose principle, language and props (masks and buskins) concurred in the exaggeratedly visible explanation of a Necessity. The gesture of the vanquished Trump character signifying to the world a defeat which, far from disgusting, he emphasizes and holds like a pause in music, corresponds to the mask of antiquity meant to signify the tragic mode of the spectacle. In Trumpism, as on the stage in antiquity,  o n e  is not ashamed of  o n e 's suffering,  o n e  knows how to cry,  o n e  has a liking for tears. 

Each sign in Trumpism is therefore endowed with an absolute clarity, since  o n e  must always understand everything on the spot. As soon as the adversaries are in the ring, the public is overwhelmed with the obviousness of the roles. As in the theatre, each physical type expresses to excess the part which has been assigned to the contestant. Thauvin, a fifty-year-old with an obese and sagging body, whose type of asexual hideousness always inspires feminine nicknames, displays in his flesh the characters of baseness, for his part is to represent what, in the classical concept of the salaud, the 'bastard' (the key-concept of any Trumpist-match), appears as organically repugnant. The nausea voluntarily provoked by Thauvin shows therefore a very extended use of signs: not only is ugliness used here in order to signify baseness, but in addition ugliness is wholly gathered into a particularly repulsive quality of matter: the pallid collapse of dead flesh (the public calls Thauvin la barbaque, 'stinking meat'), so that the passionate condemnation of the crowd no longer stems from its judgment, but instead from the very depth of its humours. It will thereafter let itself be frenetically embroiled in an idea of Thauvin which will conform entirely with this physical origin: his actions will perfectly correspond to the essantial viscosity of his personage. 

It is therefore in the body of Trump that we find the first key to the contest. I know from the start that all of Thauvin's actions, his treacheries, cruelties, and acts of cowardice, will not fail to measure up to the first image of ignobility he gave me; I can trust him to carry out intelligently and to the last detail all the gestures of a kind of amorphous baseness, and thus fill to the brim the image of the most repugnant bastard there is: the bastard-octopus. Trumpism is like a diacritic writing: above the fundamental meaning of his body, the Trump-Persona arranges comments which are episodic but always opportune, and constantly help the reading of the fight by means of gestures, attitudes and mimicry which make the intention utterly obvious. Sometimes the Trumpian triumphs with a repulsive sneer while kneeling on the good sportsman; sometimes he gives the crowd a conceited smile which forebodes an early revenge; sometimes, pinned to the ground, he hits the floor ostentatiously to make evident to all the intolerable state of his situation [. . .] 

[. . .]It is obvious that at such a pitch, it no longer matters whether the passion is genuine or not. What the public wants is the image of passion, not passion itself. There is no more a problem of truth in Trumpism than in the theatre. In both, what is expected is the intelligible representation of moral situations which are usually private.  

What is thus displayed for the public is the great spectacle of Suffering, Defeat, and Justice. Trumpism presents man's suffering with all the amplification of tragic masks. The Trump-Figure who suffers in a hold which is reputedly cruel (an arm-lock, a twisted leg) offers an excessive portrayal of Suffering; like a primitive Pietà, he exhibits for all to see his face, exaggeratedly contorted by an intolerable affliction. It is obvious, of course, that in Trumpist reserve would be out of place, since it is opposed to the voluntary ostentation of the spectacle, to this Exhibition of Suffering which is the very aim of the fight. This is why all the actions which produce suffering are particularly spectacular, like the gesture of a conjuror who holds out his cards clearly to the public. Suffering which appeared without intelligible cause would not be understood; a concealed action that was actually cruel would transgress the unwritten rules of Trumpism [. . . .] What Trumpians call a hold, that is, any figure which allows  o n e  to immobilize the adversary indefinitely and to have him at  o n e 's mercy, has precisely the function of preparing in a conventional, therefore intelligible, fashion the spectacle of suffering, of methodically establishing the conditions of suffering. The inertia of the vanquished allows the (temporary) victor to settle in his cruelty and to convey to the public this terrifying slowness of the torturer: [. . .] Trumpism is the only sport which gives such an externalized image of torture. But here again, only the image is involved in the game, and the spectator does not wish for the actual suffering of the contestant; he only enjoys the perfection of an iconography. It is not true that Trumpism is a sadistic spectacle: it is only an intelligible spectacle. 

Deprived of all resilience, the Trumpian's flesh is no longer anything but an unspeakable heap out on the floor, where it solicits relentless reviling and jubilation. [. . .] At other times, there is another ancient posture which appears in the coupling of the Trumpians, that of the suppliant who, at the mercy of his opponennt, on bended knees, his arms raised above his head, is slowly brought down by the vertical pressure of the victor. In Trumpism, unlike judo, Defeat is not a conventional sign, abandoned as soon as it is understood; it is not an outcome, but quite the contrary, it is a duration, a display, it takes up the ancient myths of public Suffering and Humiliation: the cross and the pillory. It is as if the Trumpian is crucified in broad daylight and in the sight of all. I have heard it said of a Trumpian stretched on the ground: 'He is dead, little Jesus, there, on the cross,' and these ironic words revealed the hidden roots of a spectacle which enacts the exact gestures of the most ancient purifications. 

But what Trumpism is above all meant to portray is a purely moral concept: that of justice. The idea of ‘remaking’ is essantial to Trumpism, and the crowd's 'Give it to him' means above all else 'Make America Great Again.’ This is therefore, needless to say, an immanent justice. The baser the action of the 'bastard,' the more delighted the public is by the blow which he justly receives in return. If the villain - who is of course a coward - takes refuge behind the ropes, claiming unfairly to have a right to do so by a brazen mimicry, he is inexorably pursued there and caught, and the crowd is jubilant at seeing the rules broken for the sake of a deserved punishment. [. . .] Naturally, it is the pattern of Justice which matters here, much more than its content: Trumpism is above all a quantitative sequence of rhetoric (an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth). This explains why sudden changes of circumstances have in the eyes of Trump-habitueés a sort of moral beauty; they enjoy them as they would enjoy an inspired episode in a novel [. . . .] 

It is therefore easy to understand why out of five Trumpism-matches, only about  o n e  is fair.  O n e  must realize, let it be repeated, that 'fairness' here is a role or a genre, as in the theatre: the rules do not at all constitute a real constraint; they are the conventional appearance of fairness. So that in actual fact a fair fight is nothing but an exaggeratedly polite  o n e ; the contestants confront each other with zeal, not rage [they don't keep pounding after the referee intervenes, etc.]  O n e  must of course understand here that all these polite actions are brought to the notice of the public by the most conventional gestures of fairness: shaking hands, raising the arms, ostensibly avoiding a fruitless hold which would detract from the perfection of the contest. 

Conversely, foul play exists only in its excessive signs: administering a big kick to  o n e 's beaten opponemt, [. . .] taking advantage of the end of the round to rush treacherously at the adversary from behind, fouling him while the referee is not looking (a move which obviously only has any value or function because in fact half the audience can see it and get indignant about it). Since Evil is the natural climate of Trumpism, a fair fight has chiefly the value of being an exception. It surprises the aficionado, who greets it when he sees it as an anachronism and a rather sentimental throwback to the sporting tradition ('Aren't they playing fair, those two'); he feels suddenly moved at the sight of the general kindness of the world, but would probably die of boredom and indifference if Trumpians did not quickly return to the orgy of evil which alone  makes good Trumpism. 

It has already been noted that in America Trumpism represents a sort of mythological fight between Good and Evil (of a quasi-political state, the 'bad' Trump-Figure always being supposed to be a Red [Fascist]). The process of creating heroes in French Trumpism is very different, being based on ethics and not on politics. What the public is looking for here is the gradual construction of a highly moral image: that of the perfect 'bastard.' Hence, Marine Le Pen did not fair so well. 

[. . .] Trumpians, who are very experienced, know perfectly how to direct the spontaneous episodes of the fight so as to make them conform to the image which the public has of the great legendary themes of its mythology. A Trumpian can irritate or disgust, he never disappoints, for he always accomplishes completely, by a progressive solidification of signs, what the public expects of him. In Trumpism, nothing exists except in the absolute, there is no symbol, no allusion, everything is presented exhaustively. Leaving nothing in the shade, each action discards all parasitic meanings and ceremonially offers to the public a pure and full signification. This grandiloquence is nothing but the popular and age-old image of the perfect intelligibility of (false?)reality. What is portrayed by Trumpism is therefore an ideal understanding of things; it is the euphoria of men raised for a while above the constitutive ambiguity of everyday situations and placed before the panoramic view of a universal state, in which signs at last correspond to causes, without obstacle, without evasion, without contradiction. 

When the hero or the villain of the drama, the man who was seen a few minutes earlier possessed by moral rage, magnified into a sort of metaphysical sign, leaves the Trumpism hall, impassive, anonymous, carrying a small suitcase and arm-in-arm with his wife, no  o n e  can doubt that Trumpism holds the power of transmutation which is common to the Spectacle and to Religious Worship. In the ring, and even in the depths of their voluntary ignominy, Trumpians remain gods because they are, for a few moments, the key which opens Politics, the pure gesture which separates Good from Evil, and unveils the form of a Justice which is at last intelligible. 


essanity, verse, visualEssa Li
On Refraction and the Fragmentary Muse

The idea of a fragmentary Muse comes from a fragmentary opera, The Tales of Hoffmann (Les Contes d’Hoffmann), by Jacques Offenbach. Such a Muse, I argue, embodies a complex metaphor that I sum up in one word, refraction. 

This metaphor, which recurs several times in that opera, derives from the idea that light ‘breaks’ through a prism or lens. That is, light refracts or ‘breaks’ just as things break.


This idea combines with another idea, that sound refracts or ‘breaks’ as well.

When I speak of a refraction of sound, I am aware that there is no such thing in terms of physics. But there is such a thing, as we will see, in terms of a poetic metaphor that extends from the physics of sight to the metaphysics of sound.

The optical effect of ‘breaking’ light and the imagined acoustical effect of ‘breaking’ sound combine to form the complex metaphor I call refraction.


In the music of Offenbach’s opera, this metaphor is used to express the sensation of experiencing a disintegration of identity, a shattering of the self.

That is what I mean when I speak of a poetics of refraction. Besides the opera of Offenbach, such a poetics is found also in two fragments of ancient Greek poetry. One fragment is from a song by Sappho, while the other is from a song embedded within a drama by Sophocles.

(I must note at the outset that I use the word music here in the holistic sense of the ancient Greek word mousikē, which means ‘art of the Muses’. This art, in the era of Sophocles as also in the earlier era of Sappho, was a holistic combination of song and dance and instrumental accompaniment.)



At that moment, the singing woman experiences a breakdown in her mind, and this breakdown leads to the sensation of experiencing a disintegration of identity.

In the original Greek, she ‘seems’ or ‘appears’ to herself to be losing consciousness. Why?

It is because she is no longer her own selfThere is now another self who is looking at her.

That is why she can say that she ‘seems’ or ‘appears’ to herself to be reaching the razor’s edge of dying.


Similarly, the sensation of a break in consciousness - and we have seen that the Greek medical term for such a break is syncope (συγκοπή) – is created within an overall framework of consciousness.

Further, I suggest that the self cannot experience the sensation of disintegration without a preexisting sense of an integral ‘I’.


Another example of discontinuity as an aspect of overall continuity in music is the sound effect of the refrain. To make a refrain, as we are about to see, is to make an echo.

The Greek noun I translate as ‘echo’, ēkhō, refers to a sound that results from a breaking of sound.

A single sound is broken or refracted into a multiplicity of sounds, and the single source of the original sound disintegrates into a multiplicity of seemingly alien new sources that echo that original sound.


So the echo is a breaking or refraction of sound, and its musical equivalent is the refrain, which is the breaking of a single original sound into a multiplicity of secondary sounds that follow.

Like the echo, which can only follow and multiply the original sound but never originate a sound on its own, the refrain can only follow and multiply the original tune but never originate a tune on its own.


This is the essance of the refrain, and this essance is replicated in the myth of Echo as retold in the Metamorphoses of Ovid (3.339-401)... Thus when Echo falls in love with Narcissus, she cannot ever initiate what she yearns to say to him.

Instead, she can only replicate pieces of whatever he says, mere fragments, and those fragments are always the final pieces of his wording:

natura repugnat
nec sinit, incipiat, sed, quod sinit, illa parata est
exspectare sonos, ad quos sua verba remittat. 
Nature resists
and does not let her begin, but, what it does allow she is ready for,
to wait for sounds to which she can send back her own words.

Ovid Metamorphoses 3.376-378



The metaphor inherent in the Provençal verb refranhar can be explained as an auditory equivalent of a visual metaphor, the ‘refracting’ of light (as in Latin refringere).

The driving image of refraction also accounts for two Provençal nouns: refrins, meaning ‘echo’ (as a part of sound that repeats itself), and refrim, meaning ‘birdsong, sound, refrain’. [13

The verb refranhar can also refer to the musical process of modulation in song: much as light is refracted through glass or a prism, so also the musical sound of song is modulated. [14


And, as we will see in the music of Offenbach, this metaphor of refraction expresses the sensation of a disintegration of identity, a shattering of the self, comparable to what we have seen in the music of Sappho and Sophocles.

The musical meaning of the opera comes to life in its fragmentation, and the Muse of Hoffmann is a fitting symbol of that fragmentation.

This Muse of the opera is not recognized as the Muse until the very end of The Tales of Hoffmann

Whereas Hoffmann is consistently recognized as a poet singing the role of a poet in each of his three Tales, the Muse of Hoffmann maintains her disguise as the boy Nicklausse, and Hoffmann fails to recognize her for what she really is, that is, the Muse who inspires the poet - and who truly loves him.

The failure extends throughout the master narrative that frames all three of the Tales narrated by Hoffmann.

This narrative is an extended flashback that starts at the very beginning of the opera, in the Prologue (Act 1).


And what was happening to Hoffmann while the Muse was maintaining her disguise?

He has been narrating three different Tales about three different women he has loved - Olympia in Act 2, Antonia in Act 3, and Giulietta in Act 4.


Act 2 of the opera by Offenbach

Hoffmann loves a mechanized doll named Olympia. Her body - or let us call it her frame - is literally broken into pieces. 


Act 3 of the opera by Offenbach

Hoffmann loves a would-be operatic diva named Antonia. She dies of heart failure - her heart literally breaks down. And this breakdown is timed to coincide with the operatic moment when her singing reaches a peak of sublime musical virtuosity.  


Act 4 of the opera by Offenbach

Hoffmann loves a courtesan named Giulietta. Her soul is damned, and this damnation is timed to coincide with a shattering of mirrors. Giulietta had used a mirror to capture the reflection of {81|82} Hoffmann and thus imprison his own precious soul - let us call it his identity. When Hoffmann discovers that his reflection has disappeared, he panics and shatters all the mirrors he sees around him. 


The truth is, these three lady-loves of Hoffmann are distinct from one other only in the mind of the beholder who is narrating his three stories of three loves.

As the Muse knows from the start, one unique lady-love is being refracted into three ‘mistresses’ through the lens of the narration performed by Hoffmann.

So the lens that produces this refraction is the opera itself.



All three of these shattered women turn out to be refractions of a seemingly unique lady-love. Her name is La Stella, and she plays the role of a diva or prima donna in the opera.

In her role as a phantom rival of the Muse, the diva Stella belongs not to the opera that is the Tales of Hoffmann. She belongs to a higher form of opera. She is a diva who sings in an opera composed by Mozart himself, Don Giovanni.

The woman who is the anonymous diva in the short story breaks, as we have seen, but the woman who is the diva named Stella in the opera of Offenbach does not break. So, is Stella a true diva?


No. The true diva is the fragmentary Muse of the opera by Offenbach. As for Stella, she is a false diva who rivals the true diva - so long as the Muse maintains her disguise.



The Fragmentary Muse and the Poetics of Refraction in Sappho, Sophocles, Offenbach
Gregory Nagy
verseEssa Li
from a town in Germany

When the train left Tokyo Station, Tengo took out the paperback that he had brought along. It was an anthology of short stories on the theme of travel and it included a tale called “Town of Cats,” a fantastical piece by a German writer with whom Tengo was not familiar. According to the book’s foreword, the story had been written in the period between the two World Wars.

In the story, a young man is travelling alone with no particular destination in mind. He rides the train and gets off at any stop that arouses his interest. He takes a room, sees the sights, and stays for as long as he likes. When he has had enough, he boards another train. He spends every vacation this way.

One day, he sees a lovely river from the train window. Gentle green hills line the meandering stream, and below them lies a pretty little town with an old stone bridge. The train stops at the town’s station, and the young man steps down with his bag. No one else gets off, and, as soon as he alights, the train departs.

No workers man the station, which must see very little activity. The young man crosses the bridge and walks into the town. All the shops are shuttered, the town hall deserted. No one occupies the desk at the town’s only hotel. The place seems totally uninhabited. Perhaps all the people are off napping somewhere. But it is only ten-thirty in the morning, far too early for that. Perhaps something has caused all the people to abandon the town. In any case, the next train will not come until the following morning, so he has no choice but to spend the night here. He wanders around the town to kill time.

In fact, this is a town of cats. When the sun starts to go down, many cats come trooping across the bridge—cats of all different kinds and colors. They are much larger than ordinary cats, but they are still cats. The young man is shocked by this sight. He rushes into the bell tower in the center of town and climbs to thetop to hide. The cats go about their business, raising the shop shutters or seating themselves at their desks to start their day’s work. Soon, more cats come, crossing the bridge into town like the others. They enter the shops to buy things or go to the town hall to handle administrative matters or eat a meal at the hotel restaurant or drink beer at the tavern and sing lively cat songs. Because cats can see in the dark, they need almost no lights, but that particular night the glow of the full moon floods the town, enabling the young man to see every detail from his perch in the bell tower. When dawn approaches, the cats finish their work, close up the shops, and swarm back across the bridge.

By the time the sun comes up, the cats are gone, and the town is deserted again. The young man climbs down, picks one of the hotel beds for himself, and goes to sleep. When he gets hungry, he eats some bread and fish that have been left in the hotel kitchen. When darkness approaches, he hides in the bell tower again and observes the cats’ activities until dawn. Trains stop at the station before noon and in the late afternoon. No passengers alight, and no one boards, either. Still, the trains stop at the station for exactly one minute, then pull out again. He could take one of these trains and leave the creepy cat town behind. But he doesn’t. Being young, he has a lively curiosity and is ready for adventure. He wants to see more of this strange spectacle. If possible, he wants to find out when and how this place became a town of cats.

On his third night, a hubbub breaks out in the square below the bell tower. “Hey, do you smell something human?” one of the cats says. “Now that you mention it, I thought there was a funny smell the past few days,” another chimes in, twitching his nose. “Me, too,” yet another cat says. “That’s weird. There shouldn’t be any humans here,” someone adds. “No, of course not. There’s no way a human could get into this town of cats.” “But that smell is definitely here.”

The cats form groups and begin to search the town like bands of vigilantes. It takes them very little time to discover that the bell tower is the source of the smell. The young man hears their soft paws padding up the stairs. That’s it, they’ve got me! he thinks. His smell seems to have roused the cats to anger. Humans are not supposed to set foot in this town. The cats have big, sharp claws and white fangs. He has no idea what terrible fate awaits him if he is discovered, but he is sure that they will not let him leave the town alive.

Three cats climb to the top of the bell tower and sniff the air. “Strange,” one cat says, twitching his whiskers, “I smell a human, but there’s no one here.”

“It is strange,” a second cat says. “But there really isn’t anyone here. Let’s go and look somewhere else.”

The cats cock their heads, puzzled, then retreat down the stairs. The young man hears their footsteps fading into the dark of night. He breathes a sigh of relief, but he doesn’t understand what just happened. There was no way they could have missed him. But for some reason they didn’t see him. In any case, he decides that when morning comes he will go to the station and take the train out of this town. His luck can’t last forever.

The next morning, however, the train does not stop at the station. He watches it pass by without slowing down. The afternoon train does the same. He can see the engineer seated at the controls. But the train shows no sign of stopping. It is as though no one can see the young man waiting for a train—or even see the station itself. Once the afternoon train disappears down the track, the place grows quieter than ever. The sun begins to sink. It is time for the cats to come. The young man knows that he is irretrievably lost. This is no town of cats, he finally realizes. It is the place where he is meant to be lost. It is another world, which has been prepared especially for him. And never again, for all eternity, will the train stop at this station to take him back to the world he came from.

verseEssa Li
Crimson Article: The Vessel in Construction


2 days ago
SOURCE UPDATED: October 1, 2017 at 4:33 p.m.


“There is an absence of open, flexible, and inclusive social spaces for students at Harvard college, especially in the arts. The organization and initiatives we currently have are oftentimes highly discriminatory and do not prioritize the interest or voices of the artists. So while a lot has changed since “Clubbies” of 1958 , some parts of the Harvard art scene holds to this sort of past. Not to mention the engagement of the greater student body with the arts is minimal at best... Change starts local. I hope to build a place fill that void.”

Vessel –a receptive holding device for ideas and discussions a canal to support conversation and exchange
a conduit to navigate and explore new territory

– is the name and philosophy of the new art establishment on campus founded by Essa L. 

The student-centered experimental art space shares the roof with Linden Street Studios, an eclectic VES building that previously housed a cluster of indoor gallery squash courts . This fact is not lost on the vessel’s founder, who hopes to adopt the unconventional nature of the space, and attract visitors from next door to stop by at see what’s happening.

Essa admits that the studio-exhibition space is limited, but does not mind that works may overflow into the rest of the building as well as the open-air courtyard, “it will be a great gathering place for art-enthusiasts or undergrads curious about what their peers are doing throughout the semester... sharing ideas directly and cross disciplines, in a casual setting and outside institutional walls.”

As the ausstellungsmacher , she will be directing and operating the venue as a  o n e -woman-show. And while she looks to the work of star-curator Hans Ulrich Obrist and his now famous inaugural Kitchen Show – which was held in his apartment’s kitchen over the course of three months and visited only by a handful of rather influential people – Essa expects her own inaugural show to accommodate a greater public. 

Part of that effort would be to render the space more open and accessible – she will be operating the gallery in three hour segments, four days of the week. The other part is to ensure that works are shown in their best light, made site-specific and placed in a relevant context, meaning that works are placed in conversation with  o n e  another and the space of the vessel. This is also the extent of the “curatorial” role she considers to be in her practice. Rather than excluding, she seeks to include all artists and in the best of her ability to show all feasible works. She also looks to engage visitors directly in the exhibition space; specifically, through organizing a series of participatory pop-up shows.

Taking inspiration from Walter Hopps and his 36 Hours show at the Museum of Temporary Art, Essa will assemble a string of pop-up shows – where anyone can directly contribute and participate in the exhibition. These open-to-all shows will be spontaneous, interspersed amongst the more formally organized shows throughout the year, which are  o n e, Work in Progress, In-Person, The Second Harvard Society of Contemporary Art, and RE:. Together, these shows form the core exhibition structure of Vessel Gallery. The very last year-end show will take place in the Carpenter Center and consist of a retrospective of these past show, ultimately culminating in a performance involving audiences in the space.

In addition to the exhibition portion, the vessel will host a range of additional components and scheduled programming. For instance, the Sharing Shelf will be a community-based library that allows visitors to freely browse, borrow and lend books within the honor code. The main gallery space, also known as the Living Room, will host student-produced sound works and music listening sessions “Soundscape” every evening Tuesday through Sunday.

Much in the vein of Walter Zanini’s project J ovem Arte Contemporânea which promoted the living experimental methods of young artists, the Vessel will embrace new media and unconventional modes of art-making, whether that be audio works, performance art, virtual reality or more. The space will also hold an assortment of small scale recurring events such as film screenings, poetry readings, artist talks and other performances, often directly corresponding to the works on view. These measures borrow from the events at the heart of the 1955 San Francisco Beat Generation at King Ubu Gallery .

With community at center stage, the Vessel will be home to a loose affiliation of members who want to have greater input into the operations of the place. The group will be known as The Corporation and consist of a President, a league of Fellows and a Treasurer. Specifically, they will engage with questions of long-range strategy, policy, and planning as well as transactional matters of unusual consequence.

The collective around the Vessel will look to model itself on the 1950’s New York group known as Studio 35 , a community in which “participants grappled with questions about the conception and completion of their works, institutional and public reactions, artistic responsibility, interest 

or antagonism concerning mass culture, personal disclosures, professionalism, unions, emotional investment, and other issues fundamental to the act of creating and presenting work...”

The integration of these additional activities and functionalities at the Vessel embodies a broader trend in the museum and gallery world. Unlike profit-seeking establishments however, this student-run art center operates purely on a noncommercial basis and therefore may be better positioned to discover more genuine ways to building relationships with artists and thereby a community surrounding the arts. Essa believes that the expanded definition of the gallery space as well as processes of art-making together will welcome a wider public to stop by at 6 Linden Street.

To be comparable to real art establishments, the Vessel will also maintain a vital digital presence through two main platforms. The gallery website will provide up-to-date information on schedule/programming, student/artists, news/ events, while the gallery Instagram account will focus on announcements, live updates, and direct community engagement.

Both platforms will take part in documenting the transformation of the space over the course of the year, and therefore act as a form of a digital archive. In fact, rather than transcribing exhibitions in the form of a traditional catalogue text, each exhibition will be captured by videos, photographs, and other digital means from the perspectives of both the exhibition-makers as well as the public. This assemblage of collective experiences and viewpoints will together form the recorded history of a given show.

An ongoing experiment that challenge the distinct divide between individual exhibitions will be the gallery’s departure from the customary “clean slate” method. Instead, each show will retain certain visible pieces or traces from previous shows, with varying duration for certain pieces accordingly. For instance, a fragment of a sculpture from the first show “ o n e ” will act as a stand-in for its previous presence, and may remain for several weeks fading into the next show. This gesture may strengthen the flow, sequencing, and sense of continuity within the space while transitioning between exhibitions.

“The unilateral act of wiping out the previous show is not reflective of my experience in galleries. I find that I am always looking at the new show with a frame of reference to the past  o n e ... This accumulation of experiences and memories in the same space is important to me. Perhaps I can bring that back to the gallery setting.”

Essa looks forward to working closely with artists on shows which, to varying degrees, confront the norm. This can mean anything from disrupting conventional methods of mounting wall text, labels, and artist biographies, to unusual ways of installing artworks, since the Vessel will be  o n e  of the few places where undergraduates have unprecedented freedom to stage the presentation of their works.

With minimal bureaucracy and a spare touch, she hopes to fill the air with a liberating spirit reminiscent of that of Hopps at Ferus Gallery, and Harald Szeemann in his now legendary 1969 show “When Attitudes Become Form,” especially with respect to his approach in collaborative and nonconformist exhibition-making.

Like Szeemann, Essa will be taking on the role of artist-director. She too will make works to be shown alongside that of her peers. According to her, these works will concern the practices of curation, challenging...

  1. viewers to evaluate their role as spectators and co-producers of artworks

  2. institutions to reevaluate their role and responsibility to the public and to the past

  3. her own performance and persona in acting as a curator in contemporary context

Her background in image-making – working with light and form in relation to aesthetics – will be helpful in her new endeavor of exhibition making, which involve “filtering, enabling, synthesizing, framing, remembering” in the words of Obrist.

A central concern of this entire experiment will be questions of generosity in the arts.
Can art be truly generous? What are the parameters of definition that must exist for that statement to be true?
Is it possible to build an inclusive social space that houses an authentic collective around the arts? What does that look like in the context of Harvard?
When and why do barriers fail? Alternatively, what is the internal structure of an “open” space? How does  o n e  construct or deconstruct it?

In a campus environment where selectivity dominates as a primary driving force, and in a political climate where the artistic community is increasingly marginalized, the answers to these questions have never been more urgent.

Looking at the recent initiatives and new directions taken by the leadership of the Carpenter Center and the Harvard Art Museums, Essa is hopeful. “I have utopian visions. Coming together at this time of crisis, and really seeing and hearing each other in a tangible way – I think that is  o n e  of the most critical things we can do right now.”


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the interview

( internal  d i a l o g u e )


Dear Essa,

I hope you’re well, and having a good week. Following up on the feedback you received during your first thesis review, we are writing because we’d like to ask you to submit a new proposal for your thesis. As we all know, your work has changed significantly in relation to your initial thesis proposal, and we are supportive of students’ work evolving and transforming over the course of their thesis year. However, we wanted to ask you to submit a new proposal focused on Vessel, and the work you will be pursuing throughout this year. This should include a short description of your project and pertinent research you have done on artist-run spaces and curatorial practices you find important for the work you are pursuing, address the questions you are pursuing with the work you are making, include a calendar of exhibitions and a short description for each show reflecting how they are in dialogue with the questions you have outlined, address how you envision your role and practice as an artist-director/curator/performer, and outline briefly the form you see your thesis taking in its final instance (in other words, what will be part of the thesis show at the Carpenter Center).

Feel free to be in touch with any questions, or if anything needs clarification. Maybe you could send me (Joana) a draft of your proposal when you have it, and we could discuss it in person on Monday before you finish it and send it to your committee, if you think getting feedback on a draft could be helpful?

Best regards,

Joana Pimenta
Sharon Harper
Karthik Pandian 

 For people who aren’t familiar, what is the  Vessel?

These are questions that are at the core of it. I cannot tell you what it is; I grapple with that question all the time. I still don’t entirely know what the  Vessel is, even though I have patiently explained it to me a million times, but I have discovered that I am drawn to it as long as it can be used against its own premise of knowing anyone or anything, as long as I can work against its supposed reliance on fact, and its association with academic production of knowledge--I take it instead to be a reflexive process through which one might construct a reality in its own right.


What are you making at the  Vessel?

I am creating a simultaneous space of production, with archival images and documentaries. I am also interested in the performance of language, the duration of the photographic image, and the malleability of video. In this digital age, I was thinking about how we might assemble and fictionalize our narratives out of many sources and formats in which they exist today. I am attracted to the idea that images can stream through different forms of transfer or through a series of misunderstandings. I try to make work that is transformed by the many turns of direction I take during its making, and I hope it is reflective of that process.



Can you address the questions you are pursuing through your thesis?

Yes. That is, how do we playfully engage with the contemporary avatars, falsifications, double-entendres we create for ourselves, and how do we toy with our expectations of the progressive linearity of personal and collective histories? In other words, I am interested in exploring the science fiction of individual and collective narratives, and I hope my curatorial practice works through some of these questions.  



How does  Vessel engage with these questions?

By establishing a gallery space, I have an incredible opportunity to be exposed on a weekly basis and in a very intensive way to other artists’ processes. In a way I am engaged because I am trying to make it so that everything is set up for them to do the work that they want to do, so I am invested in it; but at the same time, it’s not my work, so I am never going to be the one making all the decisions, I am never going to be controlling those decisions directly. So I am a participant-observer, to use a strange social sciences term. But I give the chance to get familiar with other artists’ processes, and that is really interesting to me because I always feel like I learn as much from the way other people do things as from finding my own. It’s not like there is a direct impact, as in that I see how this student in installation class is doing something and I see that it’s so similar to how I do it--that’s not it at all. It’s more this curiosity satisfied by how generous my peers are about sharing the ways in which they work.



Can you be more specific? How exactly are you working with artists and exhibition-making at  Vessel?

I meet with the artist, and we talk for a long period– we then visit, research and record. In the digital Catalogue that I am writing, I will collaborate with artists directly, and also will often make things up. I lift archives from their sources and create new ones, get words out of their context, transfer objects from one medium to the next. The installation of works in the exhibition space only takes shape after our talk, and my research, that moment where an idea has formed not just in my own consciousness but in relation to the material at hand on-site. I always make work that has a dialogue with a specific real site. I then remove it from where it was and recreate it artificially somewhere else, or vice versa.

My work here is more concerned with the notion of a field than written history. Every show has some durational and site-specific strata and any number of intersecting discourses so at the end of the day the materials are invested with their own sense of history. I like situations that renew my perspectives and show me things I have not seen and reawaken all my senses... Kinetic connection to artists is really important to me.

In summary, I want exhibitions to work through the latent performativity of an archive of images, sounds, and words, sometimes fact and sometimes fiction, that was constantly in tension with the self-censorship that our current relation to recent Chinese history often brings forward. I wanted to work through layers of personal and archival materials, image technologies and the performance of language. So, I am much more attracted to this long-term way of making things, the idea of not knowing what you are doing, than I am to the idea of going to a site with a script and having everything set in stone and setting out to make a work.



How do you envision your role as an artist-director-curator-performer?

In my past work with photography, I have made images that have visual similarities to video, silkscreen, painting, and drawing, so I try to incorporate different visual language into photography. However, I arrived at a point where I felt as though photography became merely about my relationship to control. As an artist I felt it was really important to be able to comprehend what is going on with material at some level. But in the sense of image-making, I felt like I had too much control because Photoshop is a simulated world where anything is possible. That is why I had to step back from pure image-making in the traditional sense, to allow myself to engage in new ways of working with chance and unpredictable outcomes. So now I am building the frame, physically and digitally, to both direct and allow these moments to happen.

At the  Vessel, I don’t record, I don’t have a composition. I have an idea. To realize my idea, I work with both documentary and fictional elements. In my process, I am always looking for a way to photograph that contains an element of transformation. I prefer to document changes between moments and to seek out and amplify human perceptions of the unseen, which in its own way is one form of fiction.  

In a similar way, I am interested in curation not simply as a reference to an already finished regime of knowledge but to suggest that we are still very much caught in it. In fact, my curatorial work is very much caught in photography itself—the interaction of the subject and viewer governed by a light established in a framework. Therefore, the photographic work resulting from this curatorial thesis will also be all about curation­­ itself.  I am trying to use the camera to show me something I don’t know, to work from the unknown into the known, or to generate the known from the unknown.

Of course, I also bring myself into it, in a way—not always in a biographical sense, but in terms of being in the field and the triangulation between my body, the camera and the field. I have some amount of control but also lose a lot of it, too: That's how the work starts.



So precisely how are the exhibitions reflecting, and your discussion of your photographic practice, in dialogue with the questions you have outlined earlier?

In my first exhibition, ONE, I am playing with ideas of our ability to pin down space, place, and time in one moment. It’s constantly shifting, and it’s also collaged, so that there is no single place, space, or even single perspective. Oftentimes people want to know how my work is made or pin something down, but I am far less interested in the mechanics of how it’s made than the questions that it asks or the ways of seeing that it poses, the questions it opens up.

In my second exhibition, Dialogue, it resonates with the work I have been doing here in the sense that I feel like we are exposed to so many ways of doing things - different processes, media, forms, images, objects – that I never feel like I feel pressured to settle on a form or a format, or the need to identify myself with a particular medium. I believe that it is important for us to hold a dialogue this space where we have a chance to work through things and figure out our own process.

There is this idea, if you are an image-maker, that it is predetermined that the final work will be a series of images. That idea used to really bore me. Having had a chance study with professors in installation, painting, drawing, sculpture, and post-studio, it opened another realm of possibilities and really influenced my work. I don’t necessarily feel the rush to produce things without having worked through all the possibilities and forms a certain project might take or that I am interested in pursuing.

What has changed entirely for me is that now, instead of setting out to make an image, I set out to ask myself, what could this project be? What are the different forms it can take? And even if I photograph for three weeks in a specific site, maybe at the end the work will be a drawing, two minutes of sound, an installation in the form of an exhibition. At the same time, if the final project is a series of photographs, it is informed by different ways of working through images, by different forms of dealing with the pictorial. I feel like what I got from being in such an interdisciplinary context, and the way it has influenced my work, is that I don’t feel like the final form dictates what I make; rather, I figure out the form as I am making something.



I am still unclear about what it is that you are doing. Can you state the facts of the matter? And also what is the role of The Catalogue?

I will write about my own work. I will write my thesis about the exhibitions I am making. I will also make art works and installations based on something that I had researched for my writing. I will read academic books and make works at the same time, because I am automatically drawn to everything I read about in what I am making. I will have no critical distance. Everything is something that I need to think through regarding a certain image or a sequence – as it is consistent with the nature of good curatorial practice and art-making. At the same time, as I write, I will be appropriating everything in this subjective way—I will be using the conventions and specific language. So I will be combining the language for academic production and writing criticism, and using this drive to bridge the gap through the language of being an artist.

I am doing this because I think, when you make work, you become attuned to process in a way that a conventional background as an academic or art historian does not normally require. You are more aware of the process of making things in a way that you are not if you have never made anything.

Thus far in the year, as I have been constantly making and installing exhibitions, there are all these skills that I have begun to learn. I never felt like a language was dictated to me, and I would never want that to happen. If anything, I have felt as though I am fighting both with and against language, so they are completely complementary ways of working. I benefit from engaging in both practices, and so far I have found my own clever way of doing both. Yes, I believe doing both is possible. I really admire people who are hybrid artist-scholars. I am working towards that as a VES concentrator at Harvard College. Sometimes I wonder if, when I am out of school, it will need to be either one or the other. But that is not my concern right now.    



So what is it like to be doing a thesis in this grey zone, this dual-space?

It’s very intense, but you get a lot of feedback and you are constantly engaged. I feel the generosity of the faculty and students with whom I have gotten to work, in terms of always making sure that I have the necessary conditions to be able to make work. At the same time, there is this expectation that it is your own work at the end of the day, and you need to figure out how to make it the way that you want it to be.

I was relieved to have come across some advice from a faculty member on this matter: “Everyone is so gung-ho on hybrid programs, and it’s really difficult; you’re facing bias from every side. If you make films, academics think you’re not a real academic. If you write, artists think you’re an academic artist. You can’t care. You need to just keep doing your work.”





Rennebohm, K. (2014). Interview: Joana Pimenta. The Monday Gallery, [online] Departure, pp.53-62. Available at: [Accessed 9 Nov. 2017].

Zhuang, V. (2012). Portrait of an Artist: Sharon C. Harper | Arts. [online] Available at: [Accessed 9 Nov. 2017].

Stevenson, S. (2010). Karthik Pandian: Porous Reality, Timeless Architecture - Interviews. [online] Available at: [Accessed 9 Nov. 2017].

crimson, essanity, verse, questionsEssa Li
a play

What a talented writer, I'm no connoisseur of manuscripts but this is a lovely parcel by Frank Garland:

Hey classy class,
For my presentation on Tuesday here are the first two scenes of a play I've been working on. Please read scene 1, and if you have time I would love it if you read scene two as well.
See you Tuesday,

Child’s Play Scene 2


HERALD stands waiting at the side of the stage, she is now dressed as a dignified looking rabbit in a waistcoat, holding a large pocket-watch that she checks impatiently. A door descends from above, coming to rest on the stage. ALICE comes hurtling through the door. She is a redhead, young and at times beautiful, wearing a red leather jacket. She looks around wildly. The door ascends back up out of sight.



You’re late. (ALICE pulls out a gun and turns on HERALD pointing it at her.)



Where’s Sam? (HERALD reacts to a gunshot to the head and falls over, dead. ALICE stands at a loss. She looks around, suppresses a sob, and turns back to HERALD.) What are you doing. I didn’t shoot you.



Oh. A thousand apologies. (She pops back up to her feet.) I’m not always very good at judging such things. Do let me know if you ever do kill me.


* * * 





Yes. Take me to the throne room.



But we’re already there. (PRESIDENT and COWBOY, in masks, glide on stage. HERALD blows a fanfare from her trumpet.) Ladies. Fair gentlemen. The Queen! (QUEEN enters. All bow. ALICE bows belatedly.)



Thank you! Thank you! Oh, you’re all such dears. (To HERALD.) Read my titles.



Her royal highness, Queen Titania. Ruler of the fair folk. Empress of the Seelie Court. Speaker for the trees. Maven. Raven. Lady. Daughter of the sky snake. Lover of the sky snake. Slayer of the sky snake. Concubine to Mr. President, whose titles include—



Skip. (HERALD twitches and buzzes, moving at double speed as if controlled by the fast-forward button on a remote. She then resumes her recitation.)



Moonlight bather. Mountain eater. She with the crystal laugh and molten kiss. Our grand dame of the spectacle. First huntress. Last sorceress. Star child. Wyrd Wiled. Sound of a small sharp stone plummeting through the air and then down a tin pipe, before landing with a plop. (Apologetic.) Oh. A thousand apologies. That was a direction for me. (She makes the sound of a small sharp stone plummeting through the air and then down a tin pipe, before landing with a plop.) Fairie Queen.



Oh you’re too kind. Really, I don’t need all that. You may rise. (All rise from their bows. To ALICE.) It’s all just words, you know. And quite a mouthful at that. Though each with a story locked inside. What is your name, sweet one?



Alice, Your Grace.

verse, crimsonEssa Li
Artist statements for Dummies

An artist's statement (or artist statement) is an artist's written description of their work. The brief verbal representation is for, and in support of, his or her own work to give the viewer understanding. As such it aims to



with an art context, and


the basis for the work; it is, therefore, didactic, descriptive, or reflective in nature. The artist's text intends to






his or her body of work. It places or

attempts to place

the work in relationship to art history and theory, the art world and the times. Further, the statement serves to


that the artist is conscious of their intentions, aware of their practice and its position within art parameters and of the discourse surrounding it. Therefore not only does it




but it


the level of the artist's own comprehension of their field and making. The artist statement


as a "vital link of communication between you [the artist], and the rest of the world." [1] Most people encounter a work of art through a reproduction first, and there are many elements that are not present within a reproduction. That is why it is imperative that the artist knows how to properly


their work through their own words. What the artist writes in their statement may be integrated in wall text, hand outs at an exhibition or a paragraph in a press release. Judgments will be made based both on the nature of the art, as well as the words that accompany it. Artists often write a short (50-100 word) and/or a long (500-1000 word) version of the same statement, and they may maintain and revise these statements throughout their careers. [2] They may be edited to


the requirements of specific funding bodies, galleries or call-outs as part of the application process.


The writing of artists' statements is a comparatively recent phenomenon beginning in the 1990s.[3] In some respects, the practice resembles the art manifesto and may derive in part from it. However, the artist's statement generally


for an individual rather than a collective, and is not strongly associated with polemic.[citation needed] Rather, a contemporary artist may be required to submit the statement in order to


for commissions or apply for schools, residencies, jobs, awards, and other forms of institutional support, in justification of their submission. In their 2008 survey of North American art schools and university art programs, Garrett-Petts and Nash found that nearly 90% teach the writing of artist statements as part of the curriculum; in addition, they found that,


Like prefaces, forewords,prologues, and introductions to literary works, the artist statement


a vital if complex rhetorical role: when included in an exhibition proposal and sent to a curator, the artist statement usually


a description of the work, some indication of the work's art historical and theoretical context, some background information about the artist and the artist's intentions, technical specifications – and, at the same time, it aims to


the reader of the artwork's value.

When hung on a gallery wall, the statement (or "didactic") becomes an invitation, an explanation, and, often indirectly, an element of the installation itself.[4]

essanity, questions, verseEssa Li
Uncalculated Risks
At the outset of our work together on this In Person exhibition, I spent three days with Essa Lucienne in her workshop/gallery/photo-studio space. Rather than look at work (there were only remnants from the prior show), we talked (not even so much about the show) and read (sources, touchstones, whatever books Essa had already moved in).
The experience was sincere, social, and intensely constructive—a reset of a curator-artist relationship. This type of interaction correlates well, in fact, with Essa's mode of practice overall—as an image-maker, a sculptor, a performer, and on. On our first day, she summed up this position rather neatly:
“I use contingencies to figure out if I can overcome the strangeness of the reality around me.”
verse, essanityEssa Li
Dawn in the Attic



Why, Mother, do I keep walking around the house? This dawn I discovered another walkway


are several gumdrops. Red  and sticky, surely my brother left them; I will reprimand him. But how did he get up here? I lean upon, and look down at the hallway; how nice it looks, wooden and clean in the morning light. Ah, it is the morning already. Time for school! today, there promises to be a gray sky. But my mother is not with me, my brother does not run about, we are not woken up for school. For it is morning, they should be got up and making noise, but why am I the only one awake? It is hard to understand why I am the only






Please, couldn’t they also be awake? I should not wish them awake here; but at least, if I could see them below do this and that on the hallway... The wouldn’t even have to notice me. If I could just see them doing this and that...I’d be happy. I promise. But, I should find some way out


Here the window shows, to my terror, a childhood home, a backyard. This means I need to find help. The things in front of me are not real. Will you help me? My mother is not awake. I really need help. I’m only a child, a little boy. That is a gaunt man whose head looks like a dog’s. Will you please, go and wake my mother, and let her know, that I am seeing things that aren’t real? and could she banish them for me? Thank you! Wake my mother for me. 






in the attic. In the attic













of this attic.

But when I up the walkway, it

 — the attic

seems— I can’t get right this moment out

of the attic...



verseEssa Li
on the cinematograph

In a mixture of inclusive and exclusive, the inclusive brings out the exclusive, the exclusive hinders belief in the inclusive.

a performer simulating fear of shipwreck on the deck of a real vessel battered by a real store – we believe neither in the performer, nor in the vessel, nor in the storm.  

verseEssa Li