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This chapter discusses the ways in which horror stories and creatures invade the space of spectators and players in gimmick horror screenings, experiential cinema, and video games—including those using augmented and virtual reality technologies. It considers films and games that engage the space of viewing and playing—the augmented auditorium, which augments the experience of the horror tales by inviting active participation and providing a sensorial experience beyond seeing and hearing (involving drafts, smells, motion). Case studies include William Castle’s gimmick horror films of the 1950s and ’60s, contemporary Secret Cinema screenings, and a variety of survival horror games.

This chapter first examines the enduring, cultural ideal of growth, providing a historical context for the modern transformative self. The chapter then introduces cultural master narratives as story prototypes that a culture cherishes in part because they provide individuals with examples of how to live a good life in that culture. The transformative self has a cultural master narrative in the bildungsroman genre of literature—stories that extol character development, personal growth, and self-actualization as the path to happiness, love, and wisdom. Generally speaking, the bildungsroman protagonist rejects the materialistic values of society’s mainstream and forges a personal path of humane growth. On this path, the protagonist learns how to resolve internal conflicts such as money versus meaning, self-discovery versus self-invention, individuation versus interdependence, and playing roles versus living authentically. The chapter introduces characters from a handful of bildungsroman novels that will serve to illustrate concepts throughout the book.

Everyone wants a good life. Some try to create a good life by cultivating personal growth. They have a transformative self. This book explains how people form a transformative self, primarily in their evolving life stories, to help cultivate growth toward a life of happiness, love, and wisdom for the self and others. It introduces an innovative framework of values and personhood to strengthen and integrate three main areas of study: narrative identity, the good life, and personal growth. The result is a unique model of humane growth and human flourishing. Each chapter builds on that framework to explore topics central to the transformative self, such as how cultural beliefs of a good life shape our narrative identity; how narrative thinking shapes cultural and personal beliefs of a good life; how cultural master narratives shape our ideals for personal growth; how growth differs from gain, recovery, and other positive changes in the life story; how happiness, love, wisdom, and growth serve as superordinate goods in life; how the hard and soft margins of society thwart and facilitate personal growth; the dark side of growth; and the lengthy development of authenticity and self-actualizing. This book synthesizes scholarship from scientific research across several subfields of psychology to philosophy, literature, history, and cultural studies. It offers a creative and scientifically grounded framework for exploring three of life’s perennial questions: How do we make sense of our lives? What is a good life? and How do we create one?

This chapter considers the relationship between divine revelation and digital religion by exploring how revelation of divine or religious truth is presented and negotiated on the internet and within digital culture. Revelation is a fundamental component of religious practice and experience and has long been studied in its relation to mediation. Digital culture offers unique resources that allow individuals to receive, engage, and share in divine revelation in digital contexts. The multiplicity of digital contexts and their blended ties to offline practices in worship practices have become known as digital religion (Campbell 2013), which can be likened to a bridge which connects and extends religious practice online into offline religious spaces and contexts. This chapter will consider how revelation is understood and enacted in different spaces of digital religion by providing an overview of Digital Religion Studies and looking at Campbell and DeLashmutt’s (2014) research on multi-site churches to offer insights into how churches structure and negotiate their digital worship practices to assist people in engaging with divine revelation. In particular, we emphasize questions of presence and authority that churches ought to consider in regard to how their use of digital technology may impact views on divine revelation in digital contexts.

Writers have always been conscious of the contribution that clothes can make to their work—as material objects, as outward signs of inner character, and as metaphors, especially for language itself. In the early 20th century, however, a time of rapid technological change, as well as of industrialization, globalization, and urbanization, literary interrogations and descriptions of dress evolved to respond to the new ways in which garments were designed, made, marketed, and sold, and to fashion’s increasing pervasiveness in society. Particularly sensitive to these changes were many of the writers associated with modernism, who shared with the nascent fashion industry a preoccupation with questions of novelty and the presentation of the self. Russia was no exception, and there poets, playwrights, and novelists explored and exploited the meanings of clothes and fashion in order to address the urgent questions concerning sex, gender, and race that were thrown up by life in the modern city. Moreover, as elsewhere, these explorations were not limited to the page; rather, writers’ own wardrobes played a part, especially among those who styled themselves as dandies. In other ways, however, Russia diverged from the European norm in its relationship to clothes and fashion and, therefore, in their intersection with literature. First, the habit of appropriating motifs and styles from non-European cultures, which was further galvanized by the modernist turn away from 19th-century culture, had a very different significance in Russia. The long history of ambivalence about Russia’s place in European culture meant that Russians were capable of finding the exotic in their own backyard, leading, for instance, to a vogue for peasant poets. Second, Russia experienced a particularly intense craze for masquerades in the first two decades of the century, which was both reflected in contemporary literature and, in part, a product of an obsession with the connection between inner essences and outer appearances that also manifested itself in modernist poetry. Third, Russian writers of the time were more inclined than most to see their work as part of a wider transformative mission; this often took the form of an attempt to overcome the perceived division between life and art by infusing the everyday with creativity. Clothes, both on the page and in the streets, were an important front in this battle. Finally, the upheaval caused by the revolutions of 1917 and the emergence of the socialist state had profound effects on the organization of fashion as both industry and discourse. Some writers responded by imagining the post-fashion future; others by involving themselves in reconfiguring what socialist commodities might look like; still others by criticizing a surprisingly resilient consumer culture, at least until the Stalin-inspired reorganization of many aspects of society, including fashion and literature, in the late 1920s and early 1930s.

This chapter explores the sensory evolution of cinematic representations of surveillance, with a particular focus on the role of sound in shaping what I call the corpo-“real.” Cinematic representations of surveillance initially used sound to make “real” their affective and embodied impact but then evolve into bodies that are, literally, embedded within the surveillant apparatus. At the same time, the intensifying modes of embodied surveillance representation diminish the importance of discrete listening, which becomes subsumed within the audiovisual/body amalgam. I trace some of the ways in which surveillance has shifted its attention from the audible, and the sensory, to the embodied. As surveillance in society has expanded and intensified, film has attempted to grapple with challenging questions of interiority and exteriority through a journey from listening through feeling to becoming.

Walkman and iPod devices have often been discussed in quasi-cinematic terms. This typically implies an analogy between the personal stereo user and the transcendental subject of film theory, who is allowed to see and hear without being seen or heard. This chapter offers an alternative route. Taking as starting point a cinematic moment in which iPod listening is turned into a first-person voiceover, it suggests that cinematic and personal stereo listening share not only an orientation towards privatization and individualization but also a fantasy of communication: one that blurs the lines between “self” and “other” and between listening and speaking. Analyzing a wide range of films and historical marketing campaigns by Sony and Apple, the chapter shows how mainstream cinema—through its representational tropes and modes of spectatorial address—feeds into a broader cultural construction of personal stereo listening as a highly individualized activity that is always imaginatively open-ended.

This chapter approaches the phenomenon of “cinematic listening” through a combined critical consideration of “poetic” cinema and aural reflexivity. In the first instance, I draw on a longstanding, oft-neglected lineage of challenges to “narrative” assumptions about the filmic medium, exemplified (for example) in P. Adams Sitney, George Mekas, and Maya Deren. I then select examples from Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968) and Eyes Wide Shut (1999) to suggest how a more “poetic” consideration of particular instances of “the hearing of represented acts of hearing” can refine critical understanding of particular, exceptional “narrative” moments in film. Opening out to adumbrate the relevance of this reframing to a wide variety of contemporary productions, I offer a further challenge, after Michel Chion and Kubrick himself, to the literary (and more broadly “vocal/verbal”) models that often go unchallenged in film theory and film music studies alike.

This introduction maps out the methodological and intellectual issues at stake in the study of “cinematic listening.” The first half argues that the vagueness of the “cinematic” and the elusiveness of “listening” can be productive if, instead of attempting to define what cinematic listening is, we focus on analyzing how changing notions of the “cinematic” and of “listening” have shaped each other through time, exploring cinema’s changing relationship with listening cultures past, present, and imagined. The second half offers an overview of the structure and content of this volume. It sums up how, by means of engaging with the archaeologies, aesthetics, and extensions of cinema’s aural protocols, each volume section contributes to our understanding of how listening to film is mediated by particular texts, places, and practices, and how listening cinematically extends beyond the texts, places, and practices typically associated with film.

In this chapter, I explore the function of dress in its wider social context, informed by anthropological and sociological approaches to the body. I consider the role of clothing as a disguise in the stories of Pughat, from the Ugaritic epic of Aqhat, and Tamar, from the book of Genesis. These stories reveal the gendered dimensions of clothing. At the same time, as something which can be changed at will, clothing allows these female characters to adopt and discard various personas, and in so doing to affect a change in their social status and positioning. Moving from female bodies to male bodies, I then consider the dress of the High Priest prescribed by the book of Exodus. The elaborate and ornate clothing worn by the High Priest manifests his liturgical power. But beyond this, these garments are what mark individuals as priests, granting them privileged access to the divine. We will see that clothing is central to the construction of identity—and the articulation of power.

In parallel to the broad diversity of musical styles that accompanied the early punk explosion, the graphic design and visual communication strategies tell a similarly wide-ranging story. This chapter explores the complex relationship between the stereotype of “authentic” do-it-yourself (DIY) punk graphics and the music industry professionals who created many of the visual conventions that came to be closely associated with the subculture. While the groundswell of amateur artists, illustrators, photographers, typographers, and other cultural producers inspired by the subculture to create a new aesthetic should not be underestimated, their story has become almost the default history of punk graphic design. The role of design professionals—often with many years of experience within the music industry—has frequently been overlooked, an embarrassing secret kept in the closet for fear of undermining notions of authenticity and punk’s revolutionary rhetoric.

This chapter defines expanded cinema, traces its history broadly from the 1960s to the present, and reviews previous scholarly and critical literature on the subject. It argues that while expanded cinema has traditionally been seen as a rejection or abandonment of cinema in its conventional form, and as a form of “intermedia” or “new media,” with historical perspective it is better understood as an attempt to define and explore the limits and essences of cinema as an art form. While it takes forms commonly associated with the other arts (including installation, performance, sculptural objects, and even text), it is precisely by exploring this aesthetic territory that avant-garde/experimental filmmakers have tested the boundaries and clarified the specific nature of their art form. The introduction also defines the category of “avant-garde” or “experimental” cinema, defining it as a distinct cinematic culture and historical tradition, which represents a set of aesthetic and social values that can be traced through works of expanded cinema. The title of the introduction indicates the book’s larger argument: that expanded cinema does not represent the end of cinema as we know it, but its persistence, albeit in new and unconventional forms.

The conclusion argues that while expanded cinema might seem radically opposed to conventional, popular, and mainstream cinema, it nonetheless attempts to articulate and specify the aesthetic qualities that define all cinema. This parallels a trait of conventionally made avant-garde/experimental films; the assertion of cinema’s nature and essences, which constitute all forms of cinema regardless of how different one kind of film appears from another. The conclusion also draws upon the notions of the “essentially cinematic” explored across the book to counter theoretical arguments against such specificity positions (e.g. medium specificity) that have been advanced by critics and scholars in the worlds of cinema and art. The conclusion argues that these anti-specificity positions are overly simplistic, and that expanded cinema represents a more nuanced and sophisticated notion of what a medium specific theory—or work of cinema—can be.

Background Since COVID-19 was declared to be a worldwide pandemic and US national emergency in March (week 11), it has significantly changed aesthetic plastic surgery. As plastic surgeons now move towards reopening practices, understanding public interest in medical aesthetics will be critical to maximize efforts and resource allocation in procedures and treatments that patients want. Objectives In this study, the authors sought to passively query public interest in aesthetics utilizing Google Trends search data. Methods Google Trends was utilized to quantify relative search volumes over the past 4 years for a variety of categories: patient-related, surgery-related, injectables, breast procedures, face procedures, and body procedures. Data were deseasonalized and represented graphically. Z-scores of each time-point differing from the expected values were determined utilizing least squares regression. Results Of the 204 significantly anomalous search term data points in 2020, 172 (84.0%) occurred after week 11 (pandemic/national emergency declaration). Sixty percent of searches in all time-points after week 11 significantly differed, and 25/26 (96.0%) search terms experienced significant changes after week 11. There was decreased interest for 18 terms with variable recovery. Procedural nadirs for decreased search volume troughs occurred between weeks 11 and 14. Six patient-related chief complaints saw increased search interest after COVID-19, with peak interest between weeks 11 and 17. Conclusions This is the first study, to the authors’ knowledge, to assess real-time, national data about the impact of COVID-19 on public interest in aesthetics.

Pure cinema is situated in terms of a larger aesthetic narrative that involves visual artists, theorists, intellectuals, and avant-garde filmmakers such as René Clair, Germaine Dulac, and Sergei Eisenstein. Hitchcock appears in this milieu in his relation to a German experimental cinema tradition, and most obviously in his work with F. W. Murnau at UFA studios from 1924 to 1925. The chapter traces pure cinema as an evolution of a silent cinematic ethos that championed pure form: shape, pattern, line, symmetry, and the freedom of expression of movement and time within a moving image medium.

“No one ever left a cinema with shell-shock” is an apt summary of Michael Bull’s study of the relationship between fighting troops and civilians; between those experiencing sonic warfare and those consuming an imagining of the sounds of war. Bull builds his chapter around evidence and artifacts from World War I—firsthand testimony of those experiencing the sounds of war; attempts to recreate the sound of industrial warfare through poetry, novels, and film; the propaganda of popular song and theatrical revue; and early attempts to record warfare. Bull establishes a trope of sonic realism, and, throughout, shows us that the imagination of that realism on the home front was merely a simulacrum of the everyday, sonic realism experienced by those on the Front; there remains a distance between testimony and mediated reception no less for the sounds of war than for its horrors.

This article explores a lesser known source of graphic images of male and female figures produced during the early decades of the People’s Republic of China. Propaganda posters, stage performances, and cinema suggest a high level of visibility for women in Mao’s China. In contrast, how-to-sew manuals and pattern books, which in Japan, Western countries, and even the Eastern Bloc were dominated by images of women and designs of clothing for them, in China show an overwhelming preponderance of designs for men’s clothing, and graphic drawings of the male figure. The main exceptions were privately authored manuals produced in the early 1950s, preceding socialist transformation. The article argues that the associated development of an everyday “regime of invisibility” for women was linked to the development and intensification of the Mao cult, and the obliteration from the emotional (affective) landscape of objects of desire that might rival Mao himself.

Recent scholarship in international relations (IR) and international political sociology (IPS) has made significant contributions to the study of images. Chief among such studies on visual politics has been the focus on popular visual media including cartoons, film, photography, and video games. This article takes a look at another prominent medium: the comic. Comics provide ample potential starting points for IR scholars and political sociologists; the comic's aesthetic qualities-the way in which it narrates geopolitical events to public audiences through condensed image-word relations-reveals a distinct politics of representation. Thus, the study of comics contributes to a better understanding of visuality-theoretically, methodologically, and empirically. This article complements existing work by engaging an example outside of familiar European-language contexts. It discusses a comic booklet that was published by the South Korean Ministry of National Defense in the aftermath of the sinking of the Cheonan, a navy vessel that was allegedly sunk by a North Korean torpedo in 2010. Recognizing comics as narrative sites of (geo)politics, the article explores the booklet's own way of seeing by discussing its dramatic structure and rhetorical devices. In this way, the article provides an exemplary reading of comics, which can serve as a conceptual basis for future studies in the field.

This text examines four Québécois movies and their impact on the affective relation of the province to key aspects of its territory: La Mort d’un bûcheron (Carle 1973), Kanehsatake 270 ans de résistance (Obomsawin 1993), Les Racquetteurs (Brault and Groulx 1958), and Le Chat dans le sac Groulx (1964). This chapter is divided in two main parts that are devoted respectively to the experience of thresholds, frontiers, and territorial conflicts as well as to the concrete effect of seasons and weather on exterior movie settings and film equipment. It uncovers a long-lasting instability in the relation between the rural spaces of Québécois cinema and the commonly associated emotions, as well as a corresponding unpredictability in the actual filmic experience tied to weather elements not directly associated with sight and sound. Ultimately, the text calls for the integration of this instability and this unpredictability as critical tools in Canadian cinema historiography.

The final chapter examines the way artist participants in “Land of Smiles” began to undergo the passage from rupture to “hospitality”—an ethical contract formed not around “sameness,” but rather, around “encounters with the unknown.” By articulating their experiences of rupture and its complementary process of hospitality, the artist narratives reveal the power of musical theater as a means of breaking down preconceptions and opening new pathways to empathy and trust. It is here that we see the tenets of liberation unfold most dramatically, illuminating DAR’s transformative essence.

This chapter looks at Hong Kong cultural identities by analyzing the postcolonial Hong Kong comic Harbor Heroes, by Siuhak, in which the heroes are fictional characters in the form of anthropomorphologized robots transformed from famous architectural landmarks along the Victoria Harbor front. The characterization of these robots reflects the transmedial influences of robot animations produced in Japan and the United States in the 1980s when Siuhak was growing up. Originally published as editorial comics from 2004 to 2016, Harbor Heroes has the features of political cartoons that are closely tied to current issues and political events. The narratives include political humor, nostalgia, and parodies. Therefore, they have displayed the transformation of Hong Kong as well as the shifting cultural identities among Hong Kong people. After studying its comic forms, functions, and publication format, it is proposed that this story embodies multilayered hybridity which also accentuates hybrid Hong Kong cultural identities.

This chapter examines the prominence of “queerness” in music-related images in devotional books of the period 1200–1500. Musical and sexualized images in the physical margins of medieval books blurred the divinely ordained categories of society, reveling in the queering of traditional hierarchies by music and the sounding sexual body. The chapter first considers notions of queerness in music in the Middle Ages, particularly as it pertains to music’s conception, representation, and performance. It then explores the concept of queerness and sexuality before 1500 by referencing Christian legal texts and musical behaviors and practices that might have been construed as acts of transgression, and the distinct overlap of discourses relating to musical and erotic pleasures. It concludes with a discussion of clerics’ sexual identity, showing that the increased focus on celibacy threatened the distinction between men and women, and sparking a crisis in clerical identity in which masculinity figured significantly.

This chapter converges on the sound-in-film/sound-on-film dichotomy, when Cage revised his aesthetic stance on multimedia sound-system assemblages in the 1960s. Framed around a conference panel in 1967 at the University of Cincinnati, Cinema Now, in which Cage discussed the current state of Underground Cinema in the United States, this chapter outlines Cage’s interaction with the “two Stans,” Stan Brakhage and Stan VanDerBeek, culminating in a detailed critique of Cage’s 1965 immersive interactive multimedia work, Variations V. The chapter begins with a detailed reading of the fundamental tenets of Cage’s negative aesthetic set forth in his seminal publication, Silence (1961), exploring its implications for multimedia and intermedia theories in the 1960s. Two competing poles of interpretation of Cage’s theories surrounding chance and indeterminacy emerged from the first post-Cage generation. The first sought out a reduction of the artwork to its base materials in an act of contraction, whereas the second reached for the opposite, a total expansion of individual medium-specific artworks in a monumental Gesamtkunstwerk, epitomized by Stan VanDerBeek’s theories of expanded cinema and intermedia.

Through ethnographic explorations of the question of viewership, this chapter shifts the focus from film texts to film-viewing contexts. It critically reflects upon the embodied character of viewer engagement with mythological and devotional cinema through a special focus on the figure of the possessed spectator. It theorizes the interesting intersections between film viewership and religious practice through the concept of habitus. It engages with the question, does affective engagement necessarily preclude critical and rational engagement with the narrative? It argues that viewers bring with them to the cinema embodied dispositions and sensibilities, that is, a particular habitus that has been cultivated in traditional performative contexts and this shapes their responses. However, this does not necessarily render them passive or uncritical in their engagement with film.

This chapter is concerned with the question, what are the conditions under which insincerity blocks testimonial knowledge and what are the conditions under which testimonial knowledge may be acquired in the face of insincere testimony? The chapter argues that when insincerity blocks testimonial knowledge, the insincerity involved is a kind of unreliability. In particular, insincere testimony—in particular, lying—is seen to involve fabrication, that is, making something up. It is argued that acquiring testimonial knowledge requires that the testimony be given on a reliable basis. Yet fabrication is not a reliable basis for testimony, and hence this explains why lying testimony typically does not yield testimonial knowledge. By contrast, the chapter shows that, in cases where listeners acquire testimonial knowledge from insincere testifiers, the testimony is given on a reliable basis.

Woolf scholars have been at the forefront of bringing economic and especially Keynesian perspectives to bear on modernist literature. This chapter makes the case instead for a sociological approach. Whereas Keynes promoted a separation of egoism and altruism, Marcel Mauss called for a “new morality” that would be a mixture of egoism and altruism. For her part, Woolf, too, conceptualized the modern mind as a mix of contradictory feelings both in her nonfiction and in Mrs. Dalloway, published the same year as Mauss’s The Gift. Drawing historical and conceptual connections between the novel’s representation of feminine consciousness and Claude Lévi-Strauss’s structural re-reading of Mauss, the chapter argues that, in Mrs. Dalloway, everyday metropolitan experience is an experience of gift exchange and, more specifically, of hospitality—of being at once open and closed to the thought of other people in ways that are shaped by gender, class, and nationality.

I must say I was pleased when asked by the editor of this journal to write a commentary when I received the title,1 since I developed (and named) the composite facelift. Every surgeon who publishes original work wants to see his contribution accepted by his peers. However, I was baffled when reading this article. The technique the author describes is not a composite facelift, as he has entitled his publication. Perhaps the history of the development of the composite facelift2 will clarify and justify my criticism of this article. I was fortunate to start with the Skoog rhytidectomy in 1973,3 and together with Dr. Mark Lemmon we published the only extensive series on Skoog rhytidectomy4 since Prof. Skoog died in 1974. In 1985, after performing the tri-plane rhytidectomy, which I had published in 1983,5 I continued to be unhappy with the results. This was essentially an extension of the Skoog rhytidectomy, but with a subcutaneous elevation of cervical skin, since we concluded that the subplatysma cervical Skoog rhytidectomy could not create optimal neck contouring. While the jawline was satisfactory, I felt that the nasolabial fold could be better, and then began working on the technique that I wanted to give an original designation. I called it the deep plane rhytidectomy6 since it was an extension of the tri-plane rhytidectomy. The concept was relatively simple, as the cheek fat that was between the zygomaticus major and minor was lifted with the skin and kept in continuity with the platysma of the lower face (SMAS). Thus the skin was the vehicle for moving the cheek fat and the SMAS in the traditional lateral direction toward the ear. This original dissection was published, and met with enthusiasm among aesthetic surgeons everywhere. The result of the deep plane …

This chapter traces two distinct and diametrically opposed attitudes to drink in the Dickens canon that find their way into both the novels and the journalism. The first, associated with Dickens’s comic characters and with the spirit of conviviality, sees drink as a positive social force binding people and groups together, while the second sees drink in what we would now think of as the idiom of alcoholism, leading to violence, alienation, and death. Drawing from studies of narrative, and on scholarship about addiction, this chapter argues that the coexistence of euphoric and dysphoric drunkenness cannot entirely be explained by recourse to opinions held by a biographical Dickens—to ideas for example of ambivalence or even paradox. Instead, it maintains that Dickens’s comic and tragic or serious drunks are embedded in different relations of cause and effect, and different narrative temporalities, logic, and genres. The chapter examines these different rhetorics of drinking in essays from Household Words and in two novels from different stages in Dickens’s career, The Pickwick Papers and David Copperfield.

Depictions of disability in Chinese-language films from China and Taiwan, once a rarity, have become mainstream since the 1980s and have shifted from critiquing national policies, historical accounts, and collective experiences to highlighting disabled people as complex characters and advocating for greater support for them. These films reveal how disability has become a positive source of identity in its own right. Films from the late 1980s and early 1990s such as Tian Zhuangzhuang’s The Blue Kite use disability to offer critiques of official policies or alternative accounts of historical events. Zhou Sun’s Breaking the Silence and Xue Xiaolu’s Ocean Heaven, which focus on caregiving parents and their disabled children, reveal the need for private, extragovernmental networks of support as well as greater government support for those with disabilities and their families. Finally, films such as Zhang Yimou’s Happy Times feature characters with impairments living rich and rewarding lives, countering stereotypes about disability.

This chapter defines the object of study of the Natural Sciences: the unique material reality existing irrespective of the observer. This is a logical necessity for scientists to even start doing Science. It also reminds the reader that this unique material reality is the only object of study for Science. Nothing else that is not testable with empirical means can be accessed by Science.

The Inca developed and perfected a special type and quality of weaving that was the hallmark of their garment-making tradition. Textiles made of high-quality tapestry (cumbi) embodied the Inca aesthetic as a political and cultural force. In the colonial period, these Inca attributes were transformed and adapted in new directions: some self-referential, overt expressions of rebellion against colonial viceregal rule, others more acquiescent to the new social order. During festivals and other celebratory events, such garments were worn as part of a “theater” of Inca heritage. The garments, including the tocapu designs, were part of complex cultural interactions and contributed to expressions of status and identity in the Andes.

Our relationships to places, people, and our physical and metaphysical environment drive our personal journeys. Our identity develops from birth through this complex web of relationships where skills, creativity, and personality grow in unique pathways. A sense of place is about this personal development as well as the way communities grow in response to their constituents in a symbiotic process of sympathetic exchange. This chapter will examine how music and culture articulate these changes and through examining forms of practice in historic and geographic contexts I will also investigate aspects of the role of the artist, educator, and facilitator. Over thirty years I have created work inspired by the towns and countryside of Morecambe Bay in the North West of England. Through detailed examination of this work in this chapter, I introduce themes of cultural creativity, vernacular art, and civic and personal celebration that are at the heart of the work of a community musician.

sMemory, tired of its metaphors of media that gave it substance, strength, and vitality in the world, has embraced the new radical uncertainty of this era. Digital media have unmoored memory, messing with its traditional constraints (brains, groups, archives) to send it off in trajectories with unpredictable finitude and effects. As our attention is held by screens and smartphones, it is lost to memory. But what are the prospects of ever arresting the new gray media’s rendering of remembering beyond human focus? This chapter takes digital media as memory’s most radical collaborator and argues that recognition is needed of the emergent risks from the digital underlayer to twenty-first century living that is pushing remembering out of focus and out of human control.

In this chapter, the author investigates how distinctive pictograph and petroglyph traditions promote emplacement, a sense of the cultural past, and ancestral memory of seminal events and foundational epistemological and ontological understandings. In doing so, the author examines the integrated emplaced materiality of memory performances at Agawa, an Ojibway rock art site in the Canadian Shield on the northern shore of Lake Superior, through narratives, representations, objects, ritual behaviours, places, and placelings. Following Latour (2005), the author suggests that places are actants within broader actor-networks involved in creative dialogic memory-making processes. This interpretation can potentially inform broader anthropological concerns, including the dichotomous thinking underlying materialism and idealism.

The word yoga refers to a multifaceted array of beliefs and practices. Yoga is twinned with sāṃkhya as one of the six orthodox darshanas (worldviews) of Hindu philosophy, with Patañjali’s Yogaśāstra having been codified by around the 5th century of the Common Era. A distinct body of texts known as the haṭhayoga corpus appears around the 11th century and emphasizes physical practices most likely used by ascetic communities. The ultimate aim of yoga is described by various words (e.g., kaivalya, samādhi, mokṣa, etc.); it is often described as an experience of an individual soul’s uniting with the divine, and/or becoming liberated from the material world. These historical precedents have continuities with contemporary yoga practices, and for many Indians today, yoga is understood as the essence of Indian spirituality. Yoga, however, took on new meanings in the late colonial period, becoming a mental, physical, and ethical discipline to aid in the struggle for an independent Indian nation state; a scientific, evidence-based practice to improve health and well-being; and a template for the evolution of an individual as well as humanity as a whole. At the same time, yoga kept an association with liberation and the realization of the ultimate nature of reality. In the early 21st century, all these meanings remain current in the Indian context, where yoga is continuing to experience a revival. In India, yoga is understood as a unique and valuable cultural resource that has the potential to revitalize both an individual’s health and the Indian nation-state, being an exemplar of the unique insights that Indian traditions can give to the rest of the world. Despite a notable shift in what is understood by yoga in the modern period, yoga continues to be a multivalent and increasingly popular practice in contemporary India.

The "early modern" has always suffered problems of periodization. Its beginnings overlap with the Late Middle Ages when sport and athletic exercise were moving away from military training. It encompasses the Renaissance, Reformation, and Counter-Reformation and the scientific shifts of the Age of Enlightenment, movements that were diverse chronologically, geographically, culturally and intellectually. Some historians link its beginnings to block-printing, the beginning of the Tudor period, or the rediscovery of America in the late 15th century; others trace it to the early sixteenth century and the Reformation. Its end dates are equally problematic. The French Revolution is sometimes used, as are the nebulous beginnings of the Industrial Revolution. Its sporting source material is likewise challenging: simultaneously rich yet also fragmentary and patchy with many silences and biases. Sport was rarely a main focus of discussion. Even so, different discourses indicate that sporting and other leisure activities, in complex cultural combinations, were becoming more apparent across the period. Such sources reflected the intellectual interests of the male leisured elite, helping to legitimate their leisure time and practices.

Much of the current thinking about adaptation owes its orientation to Mikhail Bakhtin’s theory of intertextuality. Chapter 4 traces Bakhtin’s most influential contributions to adaptation studies. Against the assumption that adaptation is the faithful translation of a core of meaning, a Bakhtinian theory argues instead that adaptation is a way of looking at texts through interdeterminations with other texts that all texts share to a greater or lesser degree, rather than a special kind of text that is uniquely interdetermined. Although all relationships between texts exist only in the minds of individual audiences, interpreting texts has the power to generate productive dialogues between readers and other readers, texts and other texts, which overcome the isolation of individual audiences.

What is the lived experience of the black male body within the context of white America in the twenty-first century? How can we describe the deep existential and psychic dimensions of black male bodies as they negotiate their lives within the context of white hegemony? How do their bodies continue to be truncated according to a distorted and racist imago in the white imaginary? The black male body, within the context of this white imaginary, constitutes a site of “contamination.” As such, then, within the white body politic, black male bodies are thereby always already targets of the state, deemed “criminals,” “monsters,” and “thugs.” Textual testimony, coupled with social, political, and existential phenomenological analyses, demonstrates the sheer gravity of being black and male in a mythical postrace America.

This chapter offers three contemporary case studies of the British musical, which push the boundaries of what might normally be considered to belong to this art form and genre: Shockheaded Peter, Jerrry Springer: The Opera, and London Road. They do so by challenging conventional creation processes, theatrical and musical dramaturgies and idioms, performance aesthetics and topics. By contextualizing them within the theoretical discourse on ‘genre’, the author seeks to explore the dialogic nature of artwork and audience in relation to generic conventions and expectations, arguing that these are particularly relevant in the case of the musical. These case studies demonstrate the critical and even subversive potential that the musical—often unfairly dismissed as the most commercial and conventional form of music theatre—has.

This chapter considers the transformative power of leisure music making as leisure by examining the lasting impact a series of adolescent jam sessions had on the lives of two participants. Those experiences, which the participants have affectionately dubbed “the Red Light Jams,” offered a formative, potent mix of refuge, catharsis, and transformation of their individual identities, of their friendship, and of their burgeoning musicianship. The chapter draws on autoethnography, structured reminiscence, and narrative reporting to describe those experiences of making rock music. Although the participants lead separate adult lives, they often share memories of those sessions. The author analyzes their recollections through a variety of lenses, including the concept of intentionality, Foucault’s notion of crisis heterotopias, and Lukács’s understanding of artistic activity as catharsis.

This chapter explores the current landscape of black British and Anglo-Asian musical theatre, in both the commercial and subsidized sectors. Finding parallels in early twentieth-century British performance histories, the chapter suggests that popular commercial definitions of ‘hybrid’ musical theatre works such as Bombay Dreams (2002) or Bend It Like Beckham (2015) are almost always mediated and received through a lens that is coloured by white middle-class concerns. Yet, while the mainstream musical is showing definite signs of change in its performance of multiculturalism, it is primarily because of the work of Off-West End producing houses (for instance the Theatre Royal Stratford East) and theatre companies (such as Nitro) that many of the productions representing contemporary experiences of diaspora communities in Britain are staged.

Beginning with the legacy of nineteenth-century realism, this essay traces the emergence of specifically literary notions of naturalism and Impressionism in British and Irish writing of the long fin de siècle. While noting theoretical differences between naturalism and Impressionism, special attention is paid to how often they overlap in the literary practice of such authors as Henry James, George Moore, John Galsworthy, Virginia Woolf, Ford Madox Ford, Jean Rhys, and James Joyce. Impressionists and naturalists often use the same metaphors and settings; some works usually associated with Impressionism are governed by naturalistic plots. At the same time, realism never really dissolves; it persists and renews itself even in some of modernism’s most experimental narratives.

This chapter sets Shakespeare’s Hamlet, Troilus and Cressida, Timon of Athens, and King Lear in the context of classical and early modern satire—most notably the satiric vogue of the 1590s. It explores the language of disease (especially syphilis) and purgation, and considers the relationship between tragedy and satire, which is often focused on the figure of the malcontent. In particular, it suggests that satire is inherently undramatic, however theatrical the figure of the railing malcontent, such as Thersites, may initially appear.