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This paper examines contemporary Singaporean artist Marvin Tang’s project The Colony – Archive  (2019), a part of his ongoing research The Colony  (2018–). The Colony – Archive  takes as its point of departure the homogeneity of botanical landscapes across various colonies as observed from old postcards, which evidences a deep-rooted colonial legacy in Singapore’s national narrative. This essay investigates these artificial landscapes and the power relations captured by three archival modes: botanical gardens, photography, and postcards. Applying Michel Foucault’s (1926-84) concept of ‘heterotopias’ to these archival modes, this paper posits that they foreground the tension between human intervention and natural history, instating the artist-archivist as an authorial figure who produces new archival images rewriting the social memory surrounding botanical gardens. Tang’s production, (re)presentation, and dissemination of archival images is understood as a subversion of the persistent structures of power and control enacted by botanical gardens. Situating these ideas in relation to Singapore’s nature-centric national identity, The Colony – Archive engages with discussions charting the future of the independent nation and reclaiming its agency through its natural landscape. Figs 1-9. Postcards, in order of display in The Colony – Archive. Courtesy of Marvin Tang. *   The botanical gardens which proliferated in multiple British colonies during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries brought together specimens deemed profitable from all over the world, moving an immense amount of plants across the former British Empire while radically transforming ecological and geographical landscapes. Native species were replaced and landscapes homogenised across colonies, with imported specimens cultivated to fulfil the metropole’s agendas. As colonial institutions of research, established for scientific and economic gain, and subsequently represented as utopic, timeless spaces in colonial-era postcards, botanical gardens are crucial archives of the agendas of the former British Empire. They have also left an indelible mark on the historical narratives of the former colonies in which they were established. They are therefore sites which not only enable the production of knowledge, but also reveal the power relations inherent in this process. In botanical gardens, specimens extracted from their native environments congregate with others with they have little or nothing in common with. They therefore demonstrate how colonial efforts co-opt temporal and geographical boundaries to expand colonial power. The French philosopher Michel Foucault identified gardens as ‘heterotopias’ in his essay ‘Of Other Spaces’, as they juxtapose ‘several sites that are in themselves incompatible’ and enclose a ‘perceptual and indefinite accumulation of time in an immobile place’.[1] Contemporary Singaporean artist Marvin Tang’s ongoing project The Colony  (2018-) explores the power relations that underlie the production and circulation of, and access to, knowledge of these botanical institutions. This essay will focus on a constituent project: The Colony – Archive (2019, fig 10). By investigating three modes of archival practice which inform the work—botanical gardens, photography, and postcards—this paper posits that The Colony – Archive  comes to embody the function and workings of an archive while rewriting the social memory of colonialism. By setting off its own circulation of postcards and taking an active part in knowledge production, this new archive of the present recoups an agency lost under colonialism. Fig 10. The Colony – Archive (2019–, Installation View). Courtesy of Marvin Tang and Mizuma Gallery, Singapore. The Colony – Archive  takes as its point of departure the homogeneity of natural landscapes in botanical gardens across former British colonies, as observed from old postcards sold at London postcard fairs.[2] When collecting colonial-era postcards of botanical gardens, Tang observed similarities regardless of their locations, be they Singapore or Kandy, Sri Lanka. Specimens such as hevea brasiliensis  (para rubber tree) native to Brazil were found throughout former colonies such as Indonesia and Singapore.[3] The work consists of nine sets of postcards displayed on a large canvas. Some are nineteenth-century postcards, and others are created by Tang from photographs of the Singapore Botanical Gardens and London’s Kew Gardens. The postcards are placed in an arbitrary order, each of them numbered at the top corner (figs 1-9), with the exception of figs 3 and 5 which belong to the artist’s personal collection.[4] The canvas which forms the backdrop for the postcards depicts a hilly tropical landscape—half plantation and half forest—capturing the transition from dense, natural forests on the right to neatly terraced plantations on the left, likely cash crops. Beside this display of postcards are two frames (fig 11), comprising an image of a botanical garden and a list of gardens established by Kew, as evident from its title, ‘Established at Home, and in India and in the Colonies’. This amalgamation of images, and the list of gardens, form an archive of colonial agenda enacted through the establishment of botanical gardens and environmental manipulation. Fig 11. Framed image of botanical garden and framed list of ‘Establishments at Home, and in India, and in the Colonies, in Correspondence with Kew’.Courtesy of Marvin Tang and Mizuma Gallery, Singapore. Botanical gardens as heterotopias   Botanical gardens are transnational archives of colonial ecological, scientific, and economic efforts in agriculture and trade, charting the global migration of plant specimens. These curated landscapes were established to support the former British Empire’s scientific research, and its commodification and exploitation of valuable plants for crop cultivation. They were born out of a worldview which regarded ‘the world as its plantation’ and amid efforts to secure resources, profits, and trade monopolies.[5] Singapore, for example, was the optimal testing ground for cultivating nutmeg from Indonesia’s Spice Islands, the Brazilian para rubber tree, and Senegal mahogany trees from Africa, which today are the largest evergreens lining Singapore’s parks and roads.[6] As repositories for a variety of plant specimens from around the world, botanical gardens are, as Foucault called heterotopias, ‘contradictory sites’ which are simultaneously ‘the smallest parcel of the world and … the totality of the world’.[7] However, Tang uses the heterotopic potential of botanical gardens as counter-sites, where real space is ‘simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted’ to expose and counter established power relations inherent to colonial ideology and institutions.[8] At all times, viewers of The Colony – Archive  are confronted with the artificiality of these heavily curated   landscapes. The framed list of correspondences between Kew and establishments in the colonies stands in stark contrast to the utopic scene promised by the botanical gardens, foregrounding the deliberate, economic motivations underlying the colonial enterprise. The illusion of a timeless utopia, as perpetuated by the curated compositions and images of the gardens, is shattered against the backdrop of the plantation, alluding to the exploitative nature of the colonial enterprise. Through such a display, a direct relationship is drawn between the two colonial establishments, highlighting their shared commercial purposes. Indeed, these colonial institutions are what Tang calls ‘impossible landscapes: [sites] that would not occur in the wild, in first-hand nature’.[9] Thus, botanical gardens are productions and re-productions of colonial ideology which transcend geographical boundaries. They are archives of the newfound research value attributed to specimens upon entering the exploitative institution of colonialism.   Photographic perspectives   Having discussed the colonial motivations underlying the establishment of botanical gardens and their archival function, we can consider how Tang uses photography to counter the hegemonic colonial narrative represented by botanical gardens. Tang ironically employs the archival value of photography as pictorial testimony to problematise the supposed timelessness promised by botanical gardens and their utopian reproduction in images. As William Henry Fox Talbot speculated in his 1846 book The Pencil of Nature , a photograph can be produced against a thief in court, underscoring its unique potential as a visual document that relays legalistic truth.[10] Tang’s postcards are compositions entirely dominated by an amalgamation of plant specimens, depicted with a deliberate yellowing, ‘vintage’ effect and the addition of noise to the image texture. They thus foreground the manipulative interventions in the creation of the images and gardens, a quality made more blatant by the lack of distinction between the colonial-era postcards. The large canvas captures the liminal landscape in a moment of transition and depletion, from a forested area to the bare, structured terraces of a plantation, showing the symptoms of human intrusion into nature. The staged naturality of botanical gardens presented by the postcards stands in stark contrast to the violent reality of colonialism through which these species came to coexist. Displayed alongside colonial-era postcards, Tang’s postcards reject their status as archives of socio-geographical memory, and instead form a new archive which confronts the artificiality of this constructed landscape. Unlike the ordered list of botanical gardens, which presents a systematised, geographical categorisation, the arbitrary ordering of the photographs, their unidentifiable locations, and their mocking imitation of colonial-era postcards criticise the use of gardens by colonial powers in order to implement systematic homogenisation and exploitation. Hence, through an examination of the use of photography in The Colony – Archive , Tang produces a counter-narrative which exposes and highlights the artificiality of botanical gardens. Fig 12. Archival postcard from Marvin Tang’s personal collection (fig 3 enlarged). Postcards on the move   Moving beyond the subject matter depicted on the postcards, we turn to the modes of dissemination which give postcards their extensive mobility and ambiguous provenance, and how Tang uses these to challenge the hegemonic colonial discourse built into botanical gardens. In Tang’s words, ‘postcards became an easy and accessible way for people to collect the world’ during the Victorian age of exploration.[11] This act of ‘[collecting] the world’ as supported and represented by postcards reinforces a colonial worldview which sought to subsume and assimilate others. This worldview is mirrored in the heterotopias that are botanical gardens. Far from being a democratic medium, then, postcards became a symbol of the exotic. They perpetuated romanticised stereotypes of far-flung lands in Southeast Asia and operated as oppressive symbols affirming the extensive reach of the former British Empire. Indeed, Tang sees the postcard as symptomatic of Ernst van Alphen’s notion that photography and imperialism would meet and collaborate.[12] However, Tang also draws on the ease of transmission of postcards—and hence, their potential as democratised modes of dissemination—to counter the colonial narrative of Southeast Asia.   This resonates with the notion of effective democratisation posed by Jacques Derrida in ‘Archive Fever’, which states that ‘there is no political power without control of the archive … Effective democratization can always be measured by this essential criterion: the participation in and the access to the archive, its constitution, and its interpretation’.[13] Tang uses his own postcards (participation in the archive), provides free access to them in the gallery (access to the archive), operates from the Southeast Asian perspective (constitution), and problematises the colonial worldview which created ‘impossible landscapes’ in the colonies (interpretation). He also uses the ambiguity of postcards which ‘blur the line of where the image was taken [and] the provenance’ to foreground the still-powerful colonial ideology underlying the botanical gardens.[14] Tang’s act of reproducing and numerically classifying the postcards therefore reclaims the referential significance of botanical landscapes as pictures in archival photographs. For Tang as artist-archivist, the act of reproduction not only inserts his postcards into the physical circulation of goods in the economy, but also (re)introduces colonial postcards into the realm of collective social memory. By engaging with social memory, The Colony – Archive  effects a ground-up movement that disrupts the still-pervasive effects of colonialism. Fig 13. Archival postcard from Marvin Tang’s personal collection (fig 5 enlarged). From ‘Garden City’ to ‘City in Nature’   Through the three archival modes of the botanical garden, photography, and postcards, The Colony – Archive reveals and subverts the structures of power and control as enacted by the colonial institutions of botanical gardens in former British colonies. Tang draws on the archive of the past to create a new archive of the present. He replaces the former colonial power with the artist-archivist as the authorial figure and producer of archival images, overturning the hierarchy embedded in the creation of these botanical gardens. Elevating this analysis to a consideration of Singapore’s national identity, the work questions Singapore’s ‘garden city’ narrative so famously espoused by founding Prime Minister Lee Kuan Yew, and its implications for collective identity. The Singapore Botanical Gardens, nominated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2015, have always played a key role in Singapore’s national narrative and identity, especially in view of Singapore’s founding motto ‘Garden City’, established in 1967.[15] This motto evolved into ‘City in a Garden’ in 2014 and ‘City in Nature’ in 2020, corresponding to more intensive greening and conservation efforts in the city-state.[16] ‘City in a Garden’ evokes an image of Singapore encapsulated by carefully curated nature, which is amplified by its colonial links. The subsequent transition to ‘City in Nature’ not only indicates a shift in Singapore’s greening objectives, but also charts its growing independence from the colonial narrative so deeply embedded in its natural master plan. Viewed collectively, this evolving discourse surrounding Singapore’s greening journey illustrates how nature can be, and historically has been, controlled to serve different agendas. This essay has demonstrated the complex and amorphous quality of ‘nature’, and its susceptibility to manipulation. How might we best define ‘nature’ today? And since the Singapore story is so closely intertwined with nature, how should we define Singapore’s national identity? By raising questions which link collective identity to the definition of ‘nature’, The Colony – Archive  engages with discussions charting the future of the independent nation, reclaiming its agency through its natural landscape. Constance Koh   Constance Koh (Cui Shan) is a second-year undergraduate in History of Art (Asia, Africa, Europe) at SOAS. Interested in contemporary Asian art and arts education, she is looking forward to working in the library and heritage sector in Singapore.   [1] Michel Foucault, ‘Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias’ (Jay Miskowiec tr, 1984) 5 Architecture/Movement/Continuité 6. [2] Adeline Chia, ‘Online Artist Talk: The Seeds We Sow’ (2020) < http://www.mizuma.sg/wp-content/uploads/2020/06/MG-Conversations-The-Seeds-We-Sow-2020.pdf > accessed 5 December 2020. [3] ibid. [4] ‘[Image Copyright] The Colony – Archive’, email from Marvin Tang to Constance Koh (10 March 2021). [5] Ee Ming Toh, ‘How Geopolitics and History Shaped Singapore’s Natural Landscape Over The Centuries’ A Magazine Singapore  (2020) < https://read-a.com/heres-how-geopolitics-and-history-shaped-singapores-natural-landscape/ > accessed 6 December 2020. [6] ibid. [7] Foucault (n 1) 6. [8] ibid 3. [9] Chia (n 2). [10] William Henry Fox Talbot, The Pencil of Nature  (Longman, Brown, Green and Longmans 1844) 19-20 < http://www.gutenberg.org/files/33447/33447-pdf.pdf > accessed 7 December 2020. [11] Chia (n 2). [12] ibid. [13] Jacques Derrida, ‘Archive Fever: A Freudian Impression’ (Eric Prenowitz tr, 1995) 25(2) Diacritics 11. [14] Chia (n 2). [15] Lim Tin Seng, ‘Singapore Botanic Gardens’ (Singapore Infopedia, 27 August 2015) < https://eresources.nlb.gov.sg/infopedia/articles/SIP_545_2005-01-24.html#:~:text=Although%20the%20Singapore%20Botanic%20Gardens,Hill)%2C%20where%20he%20resided > accessed 15 December 2020. [16] Audrey Tan, David Fogarty, and Ernest Luis, ‘Desmond Lee on transforming Singapore into a City in Nature’ The Straits Times  (Singapore, 22 Sep 2020) < https://www.straitstimes.com/singapore/environment/green-pulse-podcast-desmond-lee-on-transforming-singapore-into-a-city-in > accessed 31 Jan 2021.

What is it that makes you tremble?’[1] Jacques Derrida poses this question to discuss the vulnerability that we fear. We see vulnerability as a form of powerlessness, but this fear itself shows our desire to be alive. As Laurence Simmons writes, ‘life entails an openness to alterity and event, which is also an openness to the possibility of an instant death and destruction’.[2] The answer to Derrida’s question seems to be on the tip of every person’s tongue today. It is in the look of the person sat opposite you on the tube line. It is in the barista’s eye when they hand you your coffee. It is in the flicker of your own eyes on yet another Zoom call. The human body, contact, and touch all seem so far away from our present, a present that keeps continuing. The year 2020 played out as a much less comical version of Murray’s Groundhog Day . I have found myself ‘Walking round Tavistock Square’, as Woolf did, with only the changing of leaves to tell me the time. But Derrida writes that trembling itself is an example of catachresis, or using language against itself. ‘Death too, is an image of catachresis, a term embodying what is unnameable because we cannot experience it as such, and fiction, in turn is a way of figuring that void’.[3] Therefore, I have turned to literature as the future appears to be on standby whereas the past seems wider and deeper than ever. Through literature I have found that the theme of contagion exists not only in much of our reality today, but also in the reality of centuries ago. The similarity that connects experiences over time is how we use language to describe it or evade it.   Language has always been a means of contact but now it is our only means. Although I cannot touch you, through words I can feel you. As Roland Barthes said, ‘Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other. It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words. My language trembles with desire’.[4] Language holds meaning that make us tremble: the verbs ‘to isolate’, ‘to distance’, ‘to quarantine’, ‘to live’, and ‘to die’ now each hold a different meaning, perhaps one of more personal significance. Our language describes our experience, it describes our distance from one another. Barthes suggests that we touch the world through language. We desire to touch each other and therefore literature is a way to summon the body from the untouchable. To read a text is to read a body. It is a body of words but, nonetheless, it is a body. It has a spine, a front and a back. Both a text and a body are inscribed with memories of a past, a past that is desired to be touched and to be returned to. Nostalgia is the greatest contagion of them all.   If language structures our existence, it poses an obstacle for where we desire to travel to, both in memory and in reality. The word remains a mark on the page, both literally and metaphorically a mark we cannot get past. Language is, then, both a barrier and a stepping stone in the boundaries of time, between past and present, present and future. The history of literature proves that the century we inhabit is not the first to experience this kind of distancing. The sixteenth century, for example, experienced a plague; in 1593, 15,000 people died in the city of London, which was one tenth of the English population at the time. As a result, Renaissance literature dwells on the themes of the body, touch and contact. Christopher Marlowe’s poem Hero and Leander  is a clear representation of this. The poem relays the Greek myth of two lovers living in cities divided by the Hellespont river. Leander swims across the river each night to catch a glimpse of the one he desires most. But the journey brings up obstacles which interrupt the meeting. The poem attempts to reach a climax, a climax both plot-driven and sexual, between the two lovers, but it does not and cannot succeed.   The tension between the fear of and need for touch was therefore topical then as it is now. The poem revolves around the transition of desire to touch. The narrative strives towards the meeting of two bodies, at a time when touch made the general public tremble with fear. But in any poetic narrative, there must be a struggle, an obstacle, or a wall in between the two lovers in order to create tension. In A Midsummer Night’s Dream , Pyramus and Thisbe erotically speak   through a ‘kink’ in the wall, and in Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet , the lovers speak through the glass of a fish tank. In Hero and Leander , the lovers are separated by the depths of water, in an extended instance of the Greek motif paraclausithyron . Paraclausithyron  is usually translated as ‘lament beside a door’, meaning that it places a lover outside the door of his mistress. The lover remains trapped outside, unable to reach what he desires. Hero and Leander , then, narrates the hopeless aspiration to immediacy, the desire to bring oneself into close contact.   Marlowe narrates that Leander is pushing through the water, through the paraclausithyron , to reach what he yearns for: ‘Wide open stood the door … / And she herself … had spread the board with roses …’[5] Hero is there and waiting, but he cannot reach her. He can see that which he desires, but the act of describing it fails to bring it any closer towards him. The poetry itself is pushing through the boundary. Marlowe therefore displays language as the paraclausithyron . The words ‘herself’, ‘almost’, and ‘but’ are mere   reminders of what Leander cannot achieve because of his own failings and, ultimately, his own condition of isolation. There are dreams of ‘he’ and ‘she’ ‘touch(ing)’, but ultimately the poem leads us back to self-referential pronouns, such as ‘she herself’. Back to self-enclosure, to self-isolation. Leander even asserts, ‘My words shall be as spotless as my youth, / Full of simplicity and naked truth’.[6] But they are anything but. We desire a language that is not artificial, but we cannot escape its boundaries. The ‘roses’, symbolic of the female genitalia, offer a glimpse of Leander’s own desires. The door is wide open, but he cannot move. Language paralyses him.   Marlowe implies not only that we use language to gain closer contact with one another, but also that language comes directly from our inward desires—our thoughts become manifest in our speech. The lines ‘Therefore even as an index to a book, / So to his mind was young Leander’s look’, allegorise the idea that what Leander thinks becomes what he sees.[7] The two are inseparable, like an index and a book. Thus, what he thinks becomes the language that he speaks. Likewise, Hero becomes an object of his language. She becomes the object of his very thoughts, as of the reader’s. In a sense, then, language precedes their real consummation. Leander’s language and gaze has penetrated Hero’s body. Additionally, in the lines ‘immortal fingers did imprint / That heavenly path’, the reader is provided with the image of Leander’s fingers ‘imprint[ing]’ the ‘path’ he desires to take—both literally across the wide expanse of water, and more metaphorically to Hero’s genitalia.[8] It is interesting to note the verb ‘imprint’, and in particular the prefix ‘ im- ’, which calls us back to other verbs, such as ‘impress’, synonymous with ‘to influence’. It is also possible that language not only describes Hero but inscribes itself onto her. Language comes to define her identity. In this sense, the poem becomes a tragedy on her behalf, where touch was fatal to a woman’s status and value.   Today, language can be fatal to anyone’s status. Language internalises external government regulation and engenders a collective governmentality. We come to internalise this language and it thus becomes the very thing we fear. It is the matter which stands in between the subject and object, between the signified and signifier. Language, then, not only describes our social distance but also distances us from one another. It seeps into culture, society, and politics. For example, our current Prime Minister, Boris Johnson, constantly evades the ongoing pandemic in his words. Through language, we attempt to find the truth, but there is no centre, there is no truth to uncover. Johnson says of lockdown that ‘it is like a nuclear deterrent’. Hero and Leander surrender to their own lustful desires and thus destroy themselves. Johnson’s simile seems to suggest that we assure our own destruction if we too surrender. But, according to Johnson, it is also ‘the narrow path (that) we have to tread’. This metaphor suggests how we are teetering on a boundary, for very few mistakes can be made. Language itself verges on the boundary, as our very words tremble with our fear. Johnson told us ‘that we can turn the tide’—that like Leander, we can attempt to push through this stasis, through this stagnant time, and create some dynamism and move toward contact. But language lies in the way, the double entendre displaying language’s duality. It is both an aid and an impediment. The conjunction ‘like’ itself suggests that we cannot know, that we cannot describe or ascribe meaning to our current state. Instead, we are stuck in a limbo state of mere wandering.   Even Marlowe deploys these literary obstacles for the reader. Jones asserts that, although Marlowe does not use the word in Hero and Leander , ‘plague hovers menacingly in its margins’.[9] The structure   of the poem prevents the very meeting Leander desires. Marlowe repeatedly refers to classical and Greek mythology, as in ‘The way to new Elysium’,[10] ‘Than for the fire filched by Prometheus’,[11] and ‘Yet there with Sisyphus he toiled in vain’.[12] Literary allusions throughout obstruct the relation between the reader and text. They become objects rather than words. ‘Elysium’ is a place of ideal happiness inhabited by the blessed dead in Greek mythology.[13] It is therefore interesting that Marlowe chooses to create a ‘new’ one. Leander is striving for a place of perfect happiness, a place he believes is with, or perhaps even inside, Hero. Our utopia is intertwined with the body. However, the allusion to ‘Sisyphus’ is significant as he ‘was condemned to Hades and made to roll a stone uphill forever’.[14] We are Sisyphus, unable to reach the climax of the poem, and unable to reach the end of this pandemic. Uncertainty is like a disease bleeding into our language. Marlowe prevents progress of chronological time through this back-and-forth motion, mirroring the very waves Leander fights against. Our reading experience then becomes that of our reality. Language makes us tremble, because it reminds us of our present. Marlowe evades the topic of the plague and yet, in doing so, he discusses it. In using language, one cannot escape its plague. Its transmission is just as deadly, for its speechlessness is given a voice.   Adam Islip, the printer of the original published poem, stated that Marlowe’s version is an ‘unfinished tragedy’. It may seem ‘unfinished’, or at least to cut off abruptly, if one agrees with the interpretation that Leander prematurely ejaculates. The finishing point that both Leander and the reader crave is not permitted by the poet. Dreams of intimacy and touch are cut short both literally and metaphorically. The last line inscribed in Latin, ‘Desunt Nonnulla’, translates to ‘something is missing’ or ‘something is lacking’, summarising this incapability of touching what one desires the most.[15] The poem then informs us how time is a continuum. Like the ‘tide’, we cannot control it. It rushes on, moving forward and backward, creating some kind of whirlpool around us. Meanwhile, we find ourselves stuck in stasis. The year 2020 was left unfinished. Relationships lacked touch, intimacy was missed, maybe life was abruptly stopped.   Language, then, defines our experience. It is how we interact with the world and reality and how we describe change. But, since there is no change, no future proposing itself, are we forced to go back to the past? Not only does our language describe social distancing, its very words also distance us from each other. The government imposes guilt, responsibility, and conformity on the individual, urging us to ‘Act like you have it’ and proposing that if we ‘Stay home’ we can ‘Save lives’. But the pronoun ‘it’ again separates us by its very meaning. The sibilance between ‘stay’ and ‘save’ propels us further into a condition of stasis. It places emphasis on our own moral responsibility. The words follow one each other, leaving us behind in the past. The phrases exemplify how language communicates and perhaps even structures our social distance. Therefore, beneath this simple affirmation is a realm of complexity and questionability. It holds as much ambiguity as Descartes’ phrase ‘cogito ergo sum’ (‘I think, therefore I am’). It asks us to seal off from the external and move to the internal. But where do we go? Where do we go when we cannot move forward? The answer is literature.   Literature provides momentum, it provides perspective. It is no ‘narrow path’ but a broad spectrum of experiences. The present is a mere echo of the past. The present is born out of the past. Like Marlowe’s allusions, echo is like a stark figure on the page. It is a shadow across the lines. But the next page is blank—unwritten and uncertain. So, we look to literature, to language, to our past for answers. We desire to move back to a time where things were more certain, back to a time when language made us tremble not with fear but with feeling, with desire, and with love. Because language—the word on the page, the whisper between two bodies—is all we have left. Madeleine Nina King   Madeleine Nina King is a first-year undergraduate in English at University College London. She is interested in literature focussing on the human condition, cultural movements, and theatre. She has been involved in a plethora of amateur productions and is hoping to pursue a career in the dramatic arts, in both writing and acting. [1] Jacques Derrida, The Gift of Death and Literature in Secret  (second edn, David Willis tr, University of Chicago Press) 54. [2] Laurence Simmons, ‘“Comment Ne Pas Trembler?” Derrida’s Earthquake’. (2013) 42(3) SubStance 28, 32. [3] ibid 35. [4] Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments  (first published 1977, Richard Howard tr, Vintage 2002) 73. [5] Christopher Marlowe, ‘Hero and Leander’ (first published 1598) in Margaret Ferguson, Tim Kendall, and Mary Jo Slater (eds), The Norton Anthology of Poetry  (sixth edn, 2018) First Sestiad 207-8. [6] ibid Second Sestiad 129-30. [7] ibid First Sestiad 67-8. [8] ibid First Sestiad 54. [9] ibid First Sestiad 411; Katherine Duncan-Jones, Ungentle Shakespeare: Scenes from His Life  (The Arden Shakespeare 2001). [10] Marlowe (n 5) First Sestiad 439. [11] ibid Second Sestiad 277. [12] ibid Second Sestiad 259. [13] ibid Second Sestiad 266. [14] Christopher Marlowe, The Complete Poems and Translations  (Stephen Orgel ed, Penguin Classics 2007). [15] ibid.

The forging of a life in culture, economics, and security   My formative years were marked by my parents’ hopes and dreams that I would channel my vocal talents into a future where I would perform as a lyrical tenor on an operatic stage.[1]   Musical talent and voice training had inspired these aspirations, which were cruelly shattered when I joined a rock band to accompany my academic studies. Gradually, my father’s disappointment subsided as my career as an economist developed, gaining me recognition and influence.   Eventually, he came to acknowledge that my lifelong commitment to music, economics, and security had provided a fine platform for success. Combining a career in economic analysis in the twentieth century with economic security assessments for NATO in the twenty-first created a richly varied, cultural, and rewarding life.   ‘Are you a professor of economics or a rock ’n’ roll performer?’: The antecedents from wintry Illinois   The antecedents to this lifelong passion emerged one cold winter’s morning in January 1979. The Dean of the College of Arts and Sciences at the Illinois university I was visiting asked me this question in a withering voice.[2] Memories of my father’s disappointment came flooding back. The Dean had obviously been made aware of the events of the previous night, and the reckoning had arrived. I had made my debut as a singer/guitarist at a popular pizza house/bar in town. While singing a well-known contemporary ballad, a young woman emerged from the shadows to stand behind the stool on which I was precariously perched.   Swaying and holding me tight, her embrace threatened to dislodge me and the guitar, and terminate the song. Somehow, the song was finished and after a warm hug and a farewell flourish, she returned to the shadows, never to be seen again. With compelling urgency, the pizza house manager rushed up and insisted that I repeat the song. Sales of pizza and beer had suddenly soared during the ballad and gently erotic spectacle.   Confronted by the curious but faintly amused Dean the following morning, there was no choice but to accede to her request that I write a paper for the First International Conference of Cultural Economics in Edinburgh later in the year (it transpired that the Dean was one of the Editors of The Journal of Cultural Economics ).[3] My agreement drew inspiration from John Maynard Keynes’ dying dictum that ‘economists are the trustees not of civilisation but of the possibility of civilisation’.   From Edinburgh and culture to Bristol and defence   Following Edinburgh, I returned to my home city, Bristol, and increasingly undertook research into the understanding and analytical foundations of defence economics, inspired by Bristol’s regional, national, and international importance as a major centre of the European aerospace and defence industry. This distinctive field of enquiry led to many conference presentations and papers. These achievements stimulated a unique invitation from the United States Naval Academy to accept an endowed Chair in the Economics of the Defense Industrial Base at Annapolis, Maryland (combined with a semester at the Naval Postgraduate School in Monterey, California).   This new transatlantic odyssey permitted once more a life combining business with culture and the nurturing of my musical soul when singing Monteverdi, Mozart, Motown, and the blues in Annapolis. A fulfilling chapter of life ended when I crossed the Atlantic once more to occupy a senior post at NATO in Brussels, heralding new opportunities and contributions to security, economics, and culture.   The nexus of economic security and cultural diplomacy   I arrived in Brussels in late August 2001. Within three weeks the US was convulsed with anger, sorrow, and disbelief following the devastating, extraordinary Al Qaeda attacks on the New York World Trade Center and the Pentagon on 11 September 2001.   In the frenzied aftermath of 9/11, and as the fear of a similar attack on NATO Headquarters receded, I was employed in an international role as NATO’s principal Defence Economic Analyst, cooperating with Allies and Partners in developing sustainable security. During the 12 years of my NATO job, missions to numerous NATO member and Partner countries and regions meant frequent presentations at events and conferences, and a permanently packed suitcase.   The unstable unfolding of the twenty-first century   These missions took place in the complicated aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. A decade of retribution and conflict embodied in the so-called ‘War on Terror’ followed, enacted in the October 2001 US invasion of Afghanistan and the calamitous and misconceived US-led coalition invasion of Iraq in March 2003.   These actions inflamed antagonisms and discord among NATO Allies—notably France and the US—and also with some Partner countries. The antagonised states were notably from the Middle East and the Gulf, including the seven members of the Mediterranean Dialogue and the four members of the Istanbul Cooperation Initiative.   Such tensions built on the festering and continuing insecurities in Southeast Europe, notably among Bosnia-Herzegovina, Croatia, Slovenia, Serbia, and the Former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia. These insecurities resulted from the fragile Dayton Peace Agreement of 1995, at the end of the Yugoslav War, and NATO’s bombing of targets in Serbia during the 1999 Kosovo crisis.   NATO membership granted to Slovenia in 2004, Croatia in 2010, and the Republic of North Macedonia in 2020 has left a legacy of smouldering ethnic, linguistic, religious, and economic instability in other Southeastern European states, such as Serbia, Kosovo, and Bosnia-Herzegovina.   A sacred mission to the Russian Far East   Brighter news and a cautious sense of optimism appeared with the historic NATO–Russia Summit in Rome in May 2002. The hope that a constructive and mutually beneficial partnership between Russia and NATO could be forged was represented by the formation of the NATO–Russia Council. A few months later, the Office of the Secretary General requested that I travel to Moscow and then to Khabarovsk in the Russian Far East. A speaking engagement at an international conference organised by the Khabarovsk State Academy of Economics and Law, on the integration of the Russian Far East into the Pacific Rim, provided an opportunity to stimulate comparisons and contrasts with NATO’s origins and Euro-Atlantic identity.   The ten-hour journey from Brussels across nine time zones and the seemingly endless Russian taiga provided an unforgettable prelude to my visit to this remote region beyond Siberia. A note of sharp realism emerged during a subsequent speech to the Khabarovsk regional parliament. The Speaker was forced to take decisive action to protect me from visceral and angry Deputies who insisted that I be arrested as a NATO spy.   Escaping from Khabarovsk was accomplished by means of a dramatic overnight train journey on the last leg of the Trans-Siberian Express. I arrived in the early morning at the menacing but beautiful Vladivostok railway station. Vibrant, welcoming students from the celebrated Far Eastern State University escorted me to the campus. There followed a series of presentations on international relations and security to a variety of enthusiastic students and classes. Later, I held some conversations in—other than English and Russian—French and German, and to my Scandinavian surprise,[4] there was even a hybrid Swedish–Old Icelandic dialogue! Such a linguistic mélange offered the perfect prelude to an impromptu concert with caretaker Nikolai in the Vladivostok Children’s Home. The spacious meeting room echoed to anthems from Santana and the Beatles including, inevitably, ‘Back in the USSR’.   An eventful return journey from Vladivostok to Brussels was followed by congratulations from Secretary General Robertson on a successful diplomatic and musical mission. This affirmation emboldened me to engage in further musical diplomacy at other NATO conferences and events.   The return of the Cold War   Unfortunately, the positive vibrations from the NATO–Russia partnership faded, and were fatally damaged in 2008. Georgia had become increasingly vociferous and articulate in expressing its desire to join NATO as a full member. This provoked the surprise Russian invasion of Georgia’s South Ossetia and Abkhazia regions in August 2008.   This disruption to the framework and programme of mutual NATO–Russia cooperation was never fully restored. The death knell was sounded as Russia became increasingly alarmed by Ukraine’s own ambitions to join NATO. Unrest in Kiev preceded the Russian occupation of Crimea in 2013, and the subsequent insurgency in Russian-speaking Eastern Ukraine erupted when separatists were backed by Russian militia.   The origins of this particular (ongoing) ‘Frozen Conflict’ were precipitated by the 2005–06 natural gas crisis between Russia and Ukraine, which was manifested in unresolved financial and transit disputes between Naftogaz Ukraine and Russia’s Gazprom. This ‘gas war’ greatly unnerved NATO member states, especially those with a significant dependency on Russian natural gas and its transit through Ukraine.   Russia’s continuing need for the security of hydrocarbon energy demand and critical state revenues combines with Western Europe’s dependency on Russian gas. This pas de deux continues to be played out against the economic dislocations of COVID-19, and against the alarming escalation in climate insecurity and international pressure for radical reductions in hydrocarbons and energy substitution through renewable energy sources.   Singing before the Orange Revolution   At the conclusion of a NATO–Ukraine Joint Working Group on Economic Security in Kiev in 2004, the year of the Orange Revolution, a reception took place in a stylish contemporary art gallery in the Old Town of Kiev. A distinguished string quartet from the Kiev National Symphony Orchestra had been asked to provide music, but neither they nor I could have anticipated a request from the Reception Host, the Deputy Minister for Economic Security, that they should accompany me in some songs. With neither rehearsal nor music, the quartet brilliantly improvised accompaniments to Lennon–McCartney songs, which culminated in ecstatic dancing at the reception. This experience imparted an indelible impact on the folklore of NATO–Ukraine meetings that resonated throughout my tenure at NATO.   Music has charms to soothe troubled breasts in the South Caucasus   The most compelling example of the power of musical diplomacy to transform an acrimonious and tense Euro-Atlantic Partnership Council (EAPC) event took place in Tbilisi in the early summer of 2004.   The EAPC conference on economic security in the Black Sea had promised to be a difficult, uncooperative, and hostile event, with the genial Georgians hosting Bulgaria, Romania, Turkey, Russia, Armenia, and Azerbaijan.   In autumn 2020, violent and tragic confrontations erupted between the Azeris and Armenians in and around the enclave of Nagorno-Karabakh in the South Caucasus. The Azeris, supported by Turkish and Syrian militias, sought to wrestle back control of this volatile territory, which had been seized by Armenian forces during the internecine conflict of the late 1980s and early 1990s. The secession of predominantly Christian Armenia and predominantly Muslim Azerbaijan from the Soviet Union reawakened deep historical ethnic and religious wounds.   On the first day of the EAPC conference, the hostility and the tensions between many of the participants were palpable, and the NATO chairman of the conference called on me to sustain fragmented and difficult discussions.   The Georgians hosted a large dinner that evening at a restaurant just outside downtown Tbilisi. At the circular table, the Georgian Minister of Economy, members of his ministry, NATO participants, and the new British Ambassador drank an initial toast. My NATO boss then commented jokingly that my talents as an economist were outweighed by my singing abilities. Shortly after, the aide-de-camp to the Minister came over and whispered that the Minister requested that I sing. Observing my incredulity, she pointed to the band on the stage in the large imposing hall and returned to her seat. While pondering what to do next, the personal assistant returned to restate the Minister’s request more insistently.   This prompted the newly appointed British Ambassador to announce that he liked to sing in the bath every day. As though in a dream (or nightmare), I went with the Ambassador to the stage, discovering en route that he had never previously sung in public. Short conversations in Georgian, Russian, and English set the scene. The band began to play, and to the astonishment of the hall we began to sing ‘Johnny B. Goode’ followed by ‘Let It Be’.   The audience, electrified by this spectacle, flocked toward the stage with chants of enthusiasm and encouragement. The evening continued with a Georgian contingent performing animated national dancing, followed by the rendition of beautiful national folk songs, firstly and artistically by the Armenians and then by the Azeris. Long after most guests had departed the dinner hall, the restaurant manager begged me to persuade the vodka-inspired Ambassador to stop singing and go home to the Embassy.   The consequence of this extraordinary evening was a reinvigorated conference the next day, with frequent constructive exchanges between Azeris, Armenians, and other participants. The conference report that I submitted to the Office of the Secretary General was applauded for the substantive discussions and proposals. Music had won the day, and would do so many more times in many more places before I retired from NATO in early 2014.   My retirement from NATO did not end regular participation or contributions to NATO’s Building Integrity Programme,[5] or to NATO’s Strategic Foresight Analysis programme (including virtual conversations through the pandemic). Retirement has not diminished my enduring love for the benefits to soft cultural power and security from music, economics, and security. Professor Adrian Kendry   Professor Adrian Kendry was appointed NATO’s Senior Defence Economist in August 2001. Until 2014 he coordinated all NATO economic intelligence, and he reported directly to the Office of the Secretary General on strategic economic challenges and risks confronting NATO and international security (including Afghanistan). Subsequently he has moderated and spoken at many NATO Strategic Foresight Analysis events, including SFA2021 Webinars on Economics and Resources (most recently 2020, and 2021 forthcoming). From 1996–2001 he held the Admiral William Crowe Chair in Defense Industrial Economics at the United States Naval Academy, Annapolis, including a Visiting Professorship of Economics at the US Naval Postgraduate School, Monterey, in 1999. He is now Visiting Professor of Economics, Security and Peacebuilding at the University of Winchester.   Article not to be quoted or reproduced without the author’s permission. [1] Such hopes and dreams had been nurtured by my singing Bach to win a major music festival. [2] Precipitated by a headline in the local newspaper announcing that a British rock and roll singer would be performing at a well-known pizza house/bar. [3] Published by Springer in Switzerland. [4] Swedish mother and biological father. [5] Including the composition and performance of ‘Building Integrity Blues’.

For far too long, Ashutosh Gowariker’s Swades  (2004) has maintained its status as an Indian cinema cult classic. It is a film about a non-resident Indian (NRI) from the USA who visits India to reconnect with his foster nanny. Through his visit, he becomes deeply involved in the socioeconomic issues of the village of Charanpur and ultimately decides to return and settle there. It owes its high status to several features but primarily to its frank depiction and criticism of certain ills of Indian society.   Those ills persist to this day, and in light of this, it is pertinent that Swades ’ status and reputation be re-examined. Whilst Gowariker’s   film was certainly ahead of its time, not recognising its limitations would be both a disservice to the aim of progressing Hindi cinema as well as to the very real issues that the film delves into. Inevitably, such a conversation will expose Swades  as deeply hesitant and trifling in its subversion and critical analysis.   To expose Swades ’ criticality as hesitant and trifling, this article will begin by presenting two crucial ways in which the film does engage in both filmic and cultural subversion. Firstly, Gowariker successfully presents a uniquely nuanced depiction of the NRI, forgoing the typical depictions. This novel conceptualisation lets the narrative critique the caste system—an endogamous system of social stratification unique to India[1]—and conceives of an Indianness that can perhaps be detached from adherence to such oppressive traditions. Unfortunately, because of the large focus on the NRI experience, Gowariker falls woefully short of providing an enduringly meaningful critique of the caste system. It stereotypes the characters of marginalised identities, something that can be seen in current Indian cinema, arguably because no lessons are learnt from Swades . This article concludes that there is an important message within that resonates to this day, but realising it is conditional on taking Swades  off the pedestal on which it has been placed.   Scholarship on Swades  and its relevant themes must be recognised for its contributions to the ongoing conversation about Hindi cinema and the various social issues which are framed within it. Kae Reynolds has recognised Swades for its use of servant leadership in the characterisation of the protagonist, Mohan Bhargava.[2] Relatedly, Amy Bhatt, Madhavi Murty, and Priti Ramamurthy critique the film for operating within a neoliberal framework in which caste (and other social justice issues) are treated merely as barriers to the final aim of economic development,[3] rather than issues in and of themselves.[4] Examination of late-1990s and early-2000s Hindi cinema suggests that Swades  was distinct in its portrayal of NRIs and the West and lacked a cultural superiority complex. Nonetheless, the more simplistic portrayals have persisted.[5] Furthermore, Swades  is recognised for depicting oppressed-caste people as passive and in need of rescuing and recent Hindi cinema films have continued to reinforce the stereotypes of Brahminical saviour complex).[6] Most scholarship critical of Swades relates to caste and neoliberalism, and tends to highlight similar films, rather than critiquing it in isolation.   At the outset, it is essential to outline the Indian caste system as well as the current realities of caste-based oppression. This is crucial to evaluating Swades ’ message. Caste is an endogamous system of social stratification. It has a long and complex history, but throughout various historical periods on the Indian subcontinent, caste-based stratification has endured as part of the dominant religious culture of Hinduism.[7] Through the processes of bonded labour and or strict segregation, those labelled ‘Brahmins’ and other privileged castes have attained great generational wealth and power,[8] and those labelled ‘Dalits’[9] have been made to experience untouchability, violence and exclusion.[10] One’s caste identity is virtually inescapable and shapes every aspect of existence.[11]   According to Rajesh Sampath, caste oppression is comparable to racial oppression to a certain extent. Police brutality, workplace discrimination, and privilege blindness are but a few violations to which oppressed-caste people are constantly subject.[12] Caste has endured perhaps because of its religious roots. Hindu epics and the Manusmriti  feature stark lessons against caste transgression.[13] Eradication has been more difficult since the Modi administration professed a desire to shape India into a Hindu- rashtra (state), with caste politics being redefined as acceptable and defensible to suit this agenda.[14]   Having outlined Swades  and the caste system, the article can begin to examine Swades  for its subversiveness that facilitated its frank social commentary.   To convey the depth of Gowariker’s subversion in the depiction of the NRI protagonist, it is important to be aware of the socioeconomic conditions in which Swades  enters the Indian consciousness. At the turn of the twenty-first century, the Indian economy had been liberalised for over a decade, with it bringing rapid change. Huge shopping centres materialised alongside the bazaars in major cities, bringing foreign retailers into India. Migration opportunities increased tenfold post-liberalisation because of the emergence of an upwardly mobile middle class whose members took up work placements and educational opportunities abroad, particularly to the UK and USA. Whether one emigrated or not, for the middle-class, this was a time of improving living standards and a sense that all social issues have been, or will be imminently, resolved.   As Western media—from the Disney Channel to Comedy Central— began to permeate the televised landscape, Indians became keenly aware of the stark differences in lifestyle. Regardless of social class and region, they were being exposed to the superior quality of life in foreign countries, even as things were improving at home.   The yearning for a Western lifestyle of ease and prosperity began to clash horribly with a sense of patriotic pride. After all, adulation of the Occident is difficult to reconcile with a colonial past and the contemporary realities of racism that the Indian diaspora faced. The NRIs—with their theoretically split loyalties—became prime real estate for Indian cinema to play out these clashing values in vivid Technicolor.[15] It would not be far-fetched to argue that an ‘Indian identity’ was strengthened by Bollywood in careful opposition to Western culture. At this time, many films featured overly patriotic themes. The plots follow the model of ‘Indians in the Occident realised India is just so much better’. NRIs were presented in binary terms—those who ‘lost touch’ with their roots were villainised,[16] and ‘good’ ones always felt alienated and yearned to be in their true home.[17] Indian authenticity was measured by checking how much an NRI resisted the ‘Western mindset’ and maintained their sanskaar aur parampara  (cultural norms and tradition), even though ‘there is   no single opinion about what these values are’.[18]   In these vacuously patriotic times, Gowariker released Swades , which had all the markers of a film that would deliver on contemporary audiences’ nationalistic expectations.   Except, Swades  ignored various Bollywood cinematic tropes,[19] and more importantly had a protagonist who turned a critical eye on India, rather the West. The sheer beauty of Mohan’s character lies in his genuine critique of the Indian government (the intertemporal entity) and Indian society at large, whilst being attached to and invested in it. The film begins with Mohan deciding to visit his foster nanny—a personification of India—because he believes he has a duty to not be so detached from her. His undeniable attachment does not render him blind to the ills of Indian society, which he credibly exposes in private, and when the village elders question him.   This realistic NRI character naturally allows for more meaningful critique, and the most notable issue that Mohan condemns is the Indian caste system. Mohan repeatedly mentions caste—not just caste-based discrimination—in the list of issues that plague the country, at a time when middle-class Indians hardly interrogated their caste-based privileges at all. This would have been the first time this generation of the audience was made to confront sociopolitical issues, since themes ‘concerning class/caste oppression, workers’ rights … [had] been tucked away’ in the post-liberalisation Indian cinematic landscape.[20]   In Swades , degrees of casteism are depicted through the characters. First, there is Mela Ram, an entrepreneurial chef, who is not allowed to sit in on the village elders’ meetings. Then, there is Birsa, who is deeply afraid that the village school will not admit his children. Finally, there is Haridas, a severely impoverished farmer, kept poor by the refusal of the community to do business with him because he is viewed as a caste traitor for abandoning the ‘prescribed’ occupation.   The lack of any obvious display of physical violence or verbal abuse against these oppressed-caste characters stresses the extent to which the caste system has been normalised under the guises of peace and social harmony. Casual acceptance of caste-based segregation marks some of the film’s most powerful sequences. In a scene of an outdoor cinema, all the oppressed-caste people are made to sit on the other side of the makeshift screen. After spending a day helping with the task of enrolling children to the local school alongside Mohan, Mela Ram pauses at the cinema divide, shakes Mohan’s hand, and gestures to the fact that he cannot sit with the privileged-caste protagonist.   Mela Ram and the rest of his peers are forced to watch the entire film, including the title, inverted . The cruelty of this is emphasised by how one of Swades ’ major themes is the way in which oppressed-caste people are excluded from their right to education, embodied by Birsa’s struggles. One can easily envision a village elder character remarking: ‘They can’t read, so how does it make a difference whether they view the film from this side or the other side?’   In depicting the normalisation of caste, Gowariker acknowledged casteism as essential to Indian society. After all, the fact that societal structures are a central feature of Indianness forces the audience to wonder what exactly they should be feeling any attachment or loyalty to. Essentially, Swades  asks, can one conceive of an Indianness without social subjugation under the guise of sanskaar aur parampara ?   Gowariker’s answer is revealed when Mohan leaves Charanpur for the USA. It is held in the parting-gift token. It is a wooden box with compartments filled with spices essential to Indian cuisine. When back in the USA, Mohan’s nostalgia for India is shown through a montage. It features the people he met, rich farmland, traditional architecture, and finally the very spices that come from the soil. Thus, Gowariker fashioned a pathway towards an altered sense of Indian identity at a time when cinema blindly mimicked the Indian tendency to claim superiority based on adherence to centuries of religious culture. This critique is not limited to Hindu religious culture. One could question the merits of linking national identity to a specific geographical region, but the attempt to shift the focus away from vague and uncritically accepted social norms such as caste is noteworthy.   The pathway from a critical protagonist—with whom the audience must identify—to a vision of an inclusive Indian identity that has divested itself from oppressive tradition bears further examination. In fact, this examination of Swades ’ messaging will reveal that the pathway is broken, because it relies on an incomplete analysis of the Indian caste system.   Gowariker’s method for creating a new Indian identity is to employ caste-blindness. An entire song—‘Yeh Tara Woh Tara’ (‘Star Here, Star There’)—is dedicated to this message, although it never uses the word ‘caste’.[21] When Mohan was asked by the village elders about his own caste identifier, he simply says, ‘What difference does it make?’ Although this response is meant to challenge caste adherence, when viewed in conjunction with the message of caste blindness, it suggests a wilful apathy towards an issue that has lasted for centuries. Much like race blindness, caste blindness does not rectify centuries of trauma and injustice. In the aforementioned scene where Mohan displays an initiative to discard his caste identity, he is sat in front of the village elders and Mela Ram—one of the few oppressed-caste characters—is pointedly excluded from the conversation. Mohan had made no effort to have him included, which would have been far more meaningful than claiming his own indifference to caste identity.   Furthermore, merely two seconds afterwards, Mohan volunteers his caste identity and—to no surprise—he is a Brahmin. If it takes a Brahmin man to convince the other privileged caste people to not commit caste-based atrocities, has caste identity truly been challenged? For Gowariker and other filmmakers like Anubhav Sinha,[22] to present an outcome where caste oppression ends on the oppressor’s terms cheapens the message.   The film might convince the audience that its project to display the humanity of oppressed caste people is well executed. When Mohan visits Haridas (Bachan Pachehra), Haridas narrates his story of injustice with tears in his eyes. The camera pans slowly forward as Pachehra’s voice and malnourished appearance become the focal point, and the audience forgets all else. It is a deeply moving scene, undoubtedly the emotional apex of the film.   However, Haridas—like the other oppressed-caste characters—never displays any anger at his oppressors. It is Mohan who exclaims, ‘This is an injustice!’. Haridas, the man subjected to the injustice, is only afforded some poetic dialogue intended to invoke the audience’s pity. There is a privileged-caste saviour; the lower-caste people talk about their plight politely and eloquently with a sense of resignation, never outrage; and the story itself ‘does not answer questions like who created caste’.[23]   The characterisation of Dalit people—especially as lacking in anger—reveals the oppressor’s desire never to be harshly critiqued. A Dalit (and oppressed-caste) identity has been fashioned by the dominant caste to create boundaries and put conditions on Dalit liberation. In doing so, any hint of anger is classed as a digression, a reason to discredit the voice (and therefore the message) without feeling guilty. This is evident in Indian media’s treatment of Mayawati, a Dalit politician and leader of the Bahujan Samaj Party (BSP). Her rise to mainstream politics has been praised by prominent journalists for avoiding the ‘abuse of the upper castes’, and she was later characterised as ‘raging again, on the warpath’.[24] It is saddening, though unsurprising, that privileged-caste people have their blindspots. This underscores the need to question and dismantle each misguided fictional representation of oppressed caste people. Lack of such examination has impoverished Swades ’ legacy. Storytellers and film-watchers continue to place it on a pedestal, and they remain nostalgic about themes that did not shake them out of their comfort zones.   To give an idea of the current state of Hindi cinema, one can consider Anubhav Sinha’s Article 15 . The latest major film to depict caste-based violence, it features all the aforementioned tropes. The glaring difference is that the director does not shy away from the darker themes of sexual violence. Whilst there was more criticism of the Brahmin saviour complex, in a panel discussion on NDTV, Sinha can be seen as deflecting from the criticism. He says: ‘If it’s wrong to show a Brahmin, then we can re-cast with a Dalit hero, but in today’s times this story is a humble beginning’.[25] Rahul Sonpimple, a Dalit student activist, could be seen looking unsatisfied with the director’s response. It is evident that a lack of critical engagement with Swades  has resulted in repeating patterns of casteist storytelling, employing all the tropes that damage the cause of caste eradication, and openly profiteering from uninspired narratives of caste-based oppression.   Is there hope for more grounded social commentary, which centres the voices of the oppressed? The current political climate does not provide any reassurance. The Modi administration cannot tolerate an iota of criticism) and routinely acts to subdue and threaten it.[26] Its primary aim (besides maintaining power) is to continue to act on a Hindu nationalist agenda. Any criticism that can be even vaguely considered an attack on Hinduism—which anti-caste storytelling would certainly be—is likely to receive strong pressure to be rescinded, if it gets published at all.   The most recent behaviour of the Modi administration—attacking public figures such as Rihanna and Greta Thunberg for their opinions on the farmer protests—has already revealed its wild and unhinged character to the world. Less known is the tendency of Bollywood personalities to act as governmental mouthpieces. This is widely interpreted as a sign of the devastating reach and influence that the Indian government wields.[27]   That said, creative resistance is free to take root in any space it can. In a thread on Twitter, Raghu Karnad, an Indian journalist, pointed out the historical precedent of raising awareness and forming resistance against previous Indian regimes through important institutions such as The New York Times and Western governments.[28] Promisingly, the most recent iteration of resistance is the ‘younger generations of Indian expats and diaspora’, which uses safer spaces such as social media to profess support for issues back home.[29]   However, the diasporic community is also dominated by privileged-caste people. It therefore remains important that lending a critical voice does not overshadow the ongoing efforts of oppressed-caste people to create their art and provide their critique.[30] Therefore, questioning Swades ’ elevated status is a small step towards making space for better narratives, especially given that I am a part of the community that largely holds Swades  in very high esteem.   Ultimately, after re-evaluating the film, only one message from it still resonates with me, as an NRI in 2021 looking at a fictional NRI in 2004. Just like Mohan, voices like mine need to recognise their own privilege and hold Indian institutions accountable. Richa Kapoor   Richa Kapoor is the Impact Officer at Social Market Foundation. Prior to this role, she graduated from the University of Warwick with a degree in Politics, Philosophy and Economics. She contributed an article to the first issue of CJLPA , before becoming an editor for the second. [1] For detailed understanding of the caste system in India, it is crucial to learn from oppressed-caste voices. Some of the most notable works on the subject and experience are: BR Ambedkar, Annihilation of Caste  (seventh edn, Verso Books 2014); Meenakshi Moon and Urmila Pawar, We Also Made History: Women in the Ambedkarite Movement  (sixth edn, Zubaan Books 2016); and Om Prakash Valmiki, Joothan  (third edn, Columbia University Press 2008). [2] Kae Reynolds, ‘The Hindi language film Swades: We, the People: A different kind of journey to the east’ (2013) 7(1) The International Journal of Servant Leadership 279. [3] Near the end of the film, Mohan leads a bottom-up electricity generation project, since the village was plagued with unreliable electricity. Making the climax an economic development project has been criticised. [4] Amy Bhatt, Madhavi Murty, and Priti Ramamurthy, ‘Hegemonic Developments: The New Indian Middle Class, Gendered Subalterns, and Diasporic Returnees in the Event of Neoliberalism’ (2010) 36(1) Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 127 < https://doi.org/10.1086/652916 > accessed 14 February 2021; Prem Singh, ‘The Representation of the Dalit Body in Popular Hindi Cinema’ (2011) < https://www.academia.edu/25943972/The_Representation_of_the_Dalit_Body_in_Popular_Hindi_Cinema > accessed 27 March 2021. [5] Ravinder Kaur, ‘Viewing the West through Bollywood: a celluloid Occident in the making’ (2002) 11(2) Contemporary South Asia 199 < https://doi.org/10.1080/0958493022000030168 > accessed 14 February 2021; Laya Maheshwari, ‘How Bollywood stereotypes the West’ ( BBC Culture , 2017) < https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20170922-how-bollywood-stereotypes-the-west > accessed 12 February 2021. [6] Vidushi, ‘Cinematic Narrative: The Construction of Dalit Identity in Bollywood’ in Einar Thorsen, Heather Savigny, Jenny Alexander, and Daniel Jackson (eds), Media, Margins and Popular Culture (Palgrave Macmillan 2015) 123; Khushi Gupta, ‘Stereotypes in Bollywood Cinema: Does Article 15 Reinforce the Dalit Narrative?’ (2021) 13(1) Inquiries Journal 1 < http://www.inquiriesjournal.com/a?id=1868 > accessed 12 March 2021. [7] Romila Thapar, The History of India , vol 1 (second edn, Penguin 1990) 28. [8] Rajorshi Das, ‘My Casteism & Privileges: A Test For Upper Caste People In Academia’ ( Feminism In India , 2020) < https://feminisminindia.com/2020/06/10/casteism-privileges-test-upper-caste-people-academia/ > accessed 14 February 2021. [9] Caste is hierarchical. Several groups are between Brahmins and Dalits on the caste ladder. [10] Das (n 8); Adam Withnall, ‘Caste in India: What are Dalits and how prevalent is casteism in modern-day society?’ The Independent (London, 30 September 2020) < https://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/asia/india-caste-dalits-brahmins-hindu-society-b718984.html > accessed 14 February 2021. [11] Kaur (n 5); Varghese K George, ‘Caste is the constant’ The Hindu  (2016) < https://www.thehindu.com/sunday-anchor/conversion-confusion-caste-is-the-constant/article6711442.ece > accessed 27 March 2021 [12] Rajesh Sampath, ‘Racial and caste oppression have many similarities’ ( The Conversation , 19 June 2015) < https://theconversation.com/racial-and-caste-oppression-have-many-similarities-37710 > accessed 12 February 2021. [13] Tejas Harad, ‘Why Manusmriti is the symbol of the caste system for anti-caste reformers’ ( The News Minute , 3 November 2020) < https://www.thenewsminute.com/article/why-manusmriti-symbol-caste-system-anti-caste-reformers-136809 > accessed 14 February 2021. [14] Avishek Jha, ‘BJP’s 2019 victory: How caste-based politics has been redefined and reinvented’ ( South Asia @LSE , 26 June 2019) < https://blogs.lse.ac.uk/southasia/2019/06/26/bjps-2019-victory-how-caste-based-politics-has-been-redefined-and-reinvented/ > accessed 14 February 2021. [15] Laya Maheshwari, ‘How Bollywood stereotypes the West’ ( BBC Culture , 25 September 2017) < https://www.bbc.com/culture/article/20170922-how-bollywood-stereotypes-the-west > accessed 12 February 2021. [16] As in Pardes  (1997). [17] As in Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge (1995). [18] Kaur (n 5) 207. [19] Song lyrics featured the messages of the story and weren’t mere eye or ear candy. The romance was not the focus of the narrative, and it lasted three hours without much epic drama. [20] Kaur (n 5) 206. [21] Although the song does not mention caste, the film alludes to caste by playing it during the segregated outdoor cinema event scene. During the song, the makeshift screen that divided the villagers is brought down and all  the children sing together about ignoring differences and truly unifying. [22] The director of Article 15  (2019), a crime drama film about a police investigation about the disappearance of three Dalit girls. The film is inspired by several real-life incidents. [23] Khushi Gupta, ‘Stereotypes in Bollywood Cinema: Does Article 15 Reinforce the Dalit Narrative?’ (2021) 13(1) Inquiries Journal 1 < http://www.inquiriesjournal.com/a?id=1868 >. [24] Bhatt, Murty, and Ramamurthy (n 4) 139-40. [25] NDTV, ‘Does “Article 15” Have An Upper-Caste Gaze? Filmmaker Anubhav Sinha Responds’ ( YouTube , 19 July 2019) < https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uIdZs7DbBfA > accessed 14 January 2021. [26] Meenakshi Ganguly, ‘Dissent is “anti-national” in Modi’s India - no matter where it comes from’ ( Scroll.in , 13 December 2019) < https://scroll.in/article/946488/dissent-is-anti-national-in-modis-india-no-matter-where-it-comes-from > accessed 14 February 2021. [27] Geeta Pandey, ‘Farmers’ protest: Why did a Rihanna tweet prompt Indian backlash?’ ( BBC News , 4 February 2021) < https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-asia-india-55931894 > accessed 14 February 2021. [28] Ironically, the Rashtriya Swayamsevak Sangh (RSS), the group that rallied foreign bodies and lobbied them to put pressure on Indira Gandhi in the mid-1970s, is closely associated with the Modi administration and supports curbing dissent. [29] Raghu Karnad ( Twitter , 3 February 2021) < https://mobile.twitter.com/rkarnad/status/1356917930194202627 > accessed 14 February 2021. [30] Satyajit Amin, ‘Dear Indian Diaspora, We Need to Talk About Caste’ ( Varsity , 24 July 2020) < https://www.varsity.co.uk/opinion/19634 > accessed 27 March 2021.

Abstract   In the wake of successive disappointing election performances by the UK Labour Party, commentators on the party’s centre-right have argued that it can only be electorally successful if it is perceived as closer to the political centre than it was under leaders such as Jeremy Corbyn and Ed Miliband. These comments reiterate the received wisdom that, for a political party to be successful, it must be perceived as occupying an ideological centre ground. This political wisdom is derived from Anthony Downs’ ‘median voter theorem’,[1] which states that ‘a majority rule voting system will result in the outcome most preferred by the median voter’.[2] The following study tests this argument empirically by comparing voter estimations of the ideological positions of the Labour, Conservative, Green, and Liberal Democrat parties on the left-right ideological scale before the 2017 and 2019 General Elections and during polling carried out in June 2020.   Introduction   Discourse within the political commentariat, and the general public, often involves discussion of whether parties have moved towards the left or right because of leaders, political philosophies, or significant events such as Brexit or the 2008 financial crisis. Failure at the polls—such as the Labour Party’s failure to win a majority in 2015 and 2019—is often attributed to a party shifting its position on this scale so that it is out of sync with the electorate. The UK Labour Party was accused of moving ‘too far to the left’ under Corbyn,[3] while Joe Biden was attacked on the campaign trail in the US as being not left-wing enough.[4] However, studies have suggested that it is actually quite rare for parties to shift significantly on the left-right ideological spectrum.[5] This raises the question: is there actually a correlation between a party’s position on the left-right axis, as perceived by the mean voter, and electoral success? Do voters ignore ideological shifts when making electoral decisions—and is electoral perception of such shifts even accurate enough to allow informed decision making? The following study seeks to answer these questions by using a number of simple statistical tests and linear models to investigate the link between voter estimation of British parties’ ideological positions on the Anthony Downs’ scale,[6] and the electoral success of these parties. As a precursor to this analysis, the study also considers the conclusions of two previous studies on voter estimation of ideological position in Europe and Britain, and the influence these have on this study’s results. Ultimately this study finds that—based on the results of two previous general elections, pre-election surveys from these polls, and survey results after one year of Sir Keir Starmer’s leadership of the Labour Party—the proximity of a party’s perceived ideological position to that of the median, centrist voter, is a poor indicator of electoral success. The study also highlights that, in order to better understand the relationship between voter estimation of the ideological position of a party and electoral success, more data from smaller-scale electoral contests is required.   Theoretical background and previous studies   Before testing the hypothesis that, in the UK, the party which is perceived as being closest to the ideological centre ground does the best, it is necessary to consider some of the assumptions within this hypothesis.   The first of these is the assumption of a level of ‘political knowledge’ or ‘political sophistication’ within the electorate. Parties in Britain and many other Western democracies tend to be characterised as ‘left’, ‘right’, or ‘centrist’ on the two-dimensional scale described by Downs.[7] In Down’s model, these labels describe, with broad strokes, the ideological positions held by parties which determine their stance on a range of policy issues. They let members of the electorate identify the party they are most closely aligned with without having to analyse the party’s stance on individual issues.[8] Busch[9] points out that this model assumes voters can understand the ideological content of a party’s positions and compare it with their own, rather than comparing the label itself, which may disguise significant differences between party and voter priorities. The same assumption is present within the argument made by centrist politicians such as Tony Blair[10] and Peter Mandelson[11] that the Labour Party can only win elections if it is perceived by the median voter as being closest to the median (centre) ideological position. This argument, like Downs’ model of electoral decision making, relies on voters being able to understand the congruence between their own ideological stances, and their political parties’. However, research on voter perceptions of European parties and electoral decision making has suggested that the average voter does not notice when a party changes the ideological content of its manifesto.[12]   Similarly, several studies[13] have found that if individuals have strong positive or negative emotional predispositions to specific parties they tend to exaggerate the ideological similarity or difference between themselves and said party.[14] This undermines the core assumption of informed electoral decision-making of Downs’ model and the arguments of Mandelson and Blair. Busch tests the hypothesis that voters are able to accurately perceive and compare the ideological position of a party with their own using multi-level linear modelling, identifying the individual-, party-, and system-level factors that influence the accuracy of voter estimations of ideological position.[15] Busch finds that voter estimation of a party’s ideological position, and shifts in this position, is generally accurate. Changes in a party’s political ideology around economic policy actually appear to improve accuracy. The greatest source of confusion to voter estimation was multiple parties significantly shifting ideological position simultaneously, which caused a decrease in estimation accuracy. Dahlberg suggests that if parties want to avoid voter confusion about their ideological position they should take distinctive positions, since the further from other parties they are, the clearer voter estimation is.[16] However, successful parties tend to try to have ‘broad appeal’ amongst the electorate by operating under as wide an ideological umbrella as possible,[17] which makes them harder to locate accurately on the left-right scale as ideological positions will inevitably overlap.   The second assumption made by commentators such as Blair and Mandelson is that the distance between the perceived ideological position of the Labour Party and the electoral median position, is greater than the distance between the same median position and the perceived ideological positions of other parties. Ed Fieldhouse considers this claim in a widely republished blog post for the British Electoral Survey.[18] Fieldhouse argues that the overall mean ideological position of the British Labour Party is less important than the difference between its position and that of the electoral median, or whether competing parties position themselves closer to this median. Fieldhouse uses data from the British Electoral Survey—the source from which this study’s data is also drawn—to interrogate the claim made by Tony Blair that the Labour Party moved too far left under Ed Miliband and Jeremy Corbyn,[19] in the wake of the 2015 General Election, where Labour won 232 seats to the Conservatives’ 330. His study is therefore a useful precursor to this paper. Fieldhouse’s comparison of mean voter position on the ideological scale and mean voter estimation of Labour’s position on the same scale showed that in 2015 Labour moved further away from the median voter than any time during the more electorally successful Blair years. This suggests that the received wisdom of Downs’ model—and the arguments of Blair, Mandelson, and other centrists—may be correct. As Labour has moved further from the median, its electoral success has declined. However, Labour’s perceived ideological position was actually 0.6 points to the right of its own voters’.[20] This is a good position for a party attempting to have a ‘broad appeal’ across the electorate.[21] Additionally, Fieldhouse’s study showed that despite the Liberal Democrats being perceived as the party ideologically closest to the median voter’s position,[22] they still suffered an electoral collapse, losing 49 of their 57 seats in 2015. Additionally, while the Labour party was considered left-of-centre, they were still perceived as closer to the centre than the Conservative Party. The modal score of the Conservative Party was 8, compared to Labour’s 3.[23] The Conservative Party’s ideological position was also further to the right of Conservative supporters (0.9 points) than the Labour Party was from Labour supporters.[24] Fieldhouse concludes that there are more important factors in electoral success in Britain than perceived ideological position. This suggests that Labour’s main challenge will be increasing its support by implementing new policies associated with conservative fiscal responsibility, whilst also keeping its established electoral base.   A brief overview of previous studies on voter estimation of ideological positions in the UK and Europe upholds the core assumption of the Downs model—that the average voter can accurately estimate the ideological position of a political party. However, it appears that, in the UK, the ability of voters to accurately estimate party positions does not necessarily mean they set great store by them when making electoral decisions. As Fieldhouse concludes, the proximity of a party’s perceived ideological position to the median is a poor indicator of electoral success.   Method   The following section will lay out the steps taken in the treatment and analysis of data during this study. While the techniques used are simple, they can still reveal significant phenomena concerning voter estimation and electoral success.   Data   This study focuses exclusively on voter estimation in the United Kingdom. While restricting the applicability of the study’s results, this also brings several benefits. The presence of multiple parties within the UK electoral system has been proven to make voter estimations of ideological position more accurate.[25] So has the presence of several established parties which have traditionally been associated with a specific area on the left-right axis.[26] The time frame studied (2017-20) was selected because, within it, multiple parties changed either their ideological position or party leader, and because it largely predates the confounding effects of the COVID-19 pandemic on electoral decision making. The raw data from the study was obtained from three waves of the British Electoral Study 2014-23: Wave 11 (April-May 2017), Wave 17 (November 2019), and Wave 20 (June 2020). The results of each survey were compared to the percentage vote share and number of seats won by four major parties (Labour, Conservative, Green, and Liberal Democrat) in the General Elections they preceded. Data from the Wave 20 survey was compared to YouGov polling on voter preferences carried out between 11 and 12 June 2020. Vote share was taken directly from polling, and the seat count this vote share would translate into was calculated using the online calculation tool at . By comparing mean estimated ideological position to both vote share and seat count, this study can resolve the effects of the first-past-the-post electoral system in the UK, whereby a party with a lower national vote than another may win more seats if its votes are concentrated in a smaller number of constituencies. The raw data was aggregated into a dataframe showing each respondent’s answer to the question, ‘In politics people sometimes talk of left and right. Where would you place the following parties on this scale?’, for each of the political parties listed above, as well as the respondent’s response when asked to give an estimation of their personal ideological position. Scores were given on a scale of 1-10, with 0 being the most left-wing and 10 the most right-wing position.[27]   Statistical test selection   The analysis of the resultant dataset was structured around three questions. Did voter perceptions of the ideological position of each party change significantly over time? Is there a correlation between a particular voter estimation score and electoral success? And finally: If such a relationship exists, could it be adequately modelled using a simple linear model? Having established a set of guiding research questions, the first step in the analysis was to check the distribution of the data using a Shapiro-Wilk test. This found that the data was not normally distributed (see Appendix I in PDF below), and so non-parametric tests were used throughout this study. A Kruskal-Wallis test was used to test whether voter estimations of party ideological positions varied significantly over time, followed by a post hoc Wilcox rank sum test to identify where these specific differences lay. The Benjamini and Hochberg method[28] was used as the adjustment. It controls the false discovery rate rather than the more stringent family-wise error rate, which makes it a more powerful method than alternatives.[29] Following the Kruskal-Wallis test a Kendall’s Tau correlation test was used to identify any cases of significant correlation between ideological position and electoral success amongst each party. Significance level was set at 0.05. Kendall’s Tau was selected as the test, rather than Spearman’s Rho, because it is less sensitive to error and the p-values it produces are more accurate at smaller sample sizes. A power analysis was carried out for each correlation test. Finally, a simple linear model with a fitted regression line was used to model the relationship between vote share or seat count, and voter estimation of a party’s ideological position. A post hoc goodness of fit test was run to check the residuals of this model, with the effect size and test power also calculated.[30]   Results   Results in the first set were from the Kruskal-Wallis test for significant difference between voter estimations of ideological position in 2017, 2019, and 2020. The results are summarised in fig 1. We can see that, in the majority of cases, the perceived ideological position of each party has shifted in between each round of polling. The exception to this is voter estimation of the Liberal Democrats’ position between 2017 and 2019. Respondents’ self-estimations also appear to have shifted significantly, but only between 2017 and 2020. These results allow us to make several statements about shifting ideological positions within different parties between 2017 and 2020. The Labour Party was perceived by the electorate as moving significantly to the left after the 2017 elections, at which it prevented the Conservative Party from winning a majority. However, it was perceived as having shifted further to the right than it was in 2017 after one year of Sir Keir Starmer’s leadership. The replacement of Teresa May with Boris Johnson as Conservative leader and Prime Minister appears to have resulted in a small but significant shift to the right, followed by a sudden shift to the left by around 2.6 points between November 2019 and June 2020. This dramatic shift is probably the result of increased public spending and of the expansion of government regulation and policy into more sectors of public life as a result of the coronavirus pandemic. Other notable shifts include the leftward shift of the Liberal Democrats between 2017-20 (4.19-3.88), and the leftward shift of respondents over the same period (4.93-4.57). In summary, voters perceived a significant ideological shift in all four parties between 2017 and 2019, while shifting to the left by almost half a point themselves over the same period. These shifts are visualised in figs 3-6. Fig 1. Summary table showing p-value for changes between estimated ideological position of parties in 2017, 2019, and 2020. Fig 2. Summary table of estimated ideological scores for political parties in 2017, 2019, and 2020. Fig 3. Boxplot of perceived position on the ideological spectrum for the Labour Party, 2017–20. Fig 4. Boxplot of perceived position on the ideological spectrum for the Conservative Party, 2017–20. Fig 5. Boxplot of perceived position on the ideological spectrum for the Green Party, 2017–20. Fig 6. Boxplot of perceived position on the ideological spectrum for the Liberal Democrats, 2017–20. Having established that there were significant shifts in perceived ideological positions between 2017 and 2020, we can look to the results of our correlation tests to see if this change was significantly correlated to electoral outcomes.   The overall correlation tests between mean perceived ideological position and vote share or seat/MP count returned p-values of 0.2496 for Mean Score vs Vote Share and 0.1116 for seats won. This indicates that there is no significant correlation between the average perceived ideological position of a party and electoral success. However, a significant caveat to this result is that a power analysis of both sets of Kendall’s Tau tests showed them to be very underpowered (fig 7), with scores well below 0.8, probably being a result of the small sample size (n=12) for the overall tests. The chance of these results being a false negative is therefore relatively high. The p-values returned by Kendall’s Tau correlation tests for specific parties were all non-significant (see Appendix II in PDF below). While their sample sizes (n=3) prevented power tests from being run, it can be assumed that small sample sizes will also have influenced these results. Despite the lack of a significant relationship, plotting our variables by political party still produces an interesting graphic (fig 8). Fig 7. Summary statistics for the Kendall's Tau correlation test of the overall dataset. Fig 8. Scatter plot of mean estimated ideological position of political parties (L0–R10) vs percentage vote share in the 2017 and 2019 UK general elections, and projected vote share in June 2020. Even if we cannot confirm a significant relationship between perceived ideological position and electoral success, the coefficients from a linear model are informative. Fig 9 shows the coefficients and p-values for each linear relationship modelled.   Fig 9. Summary table of coefficients and p-values for linear models of mean estimated ideological score vs seats won and mean estimated ideological score vs vote share for individual political parties and for the overall dataset. While the p-values for our linear models show only four significant relationships, the coefficients indicate several interesting trends. For the overall linear model, the coefficients for both seats and vote share were positive, with every point shift towards the right gaining a party 3.8% of the national vote share, or 38 seats within the UK-wide electoral system. For the Labour Party this trend was more pronounced, with a single point shift towards the right modelled to net the party an extra 52 seats, or 13% of the vote. The Conservative Party, however, was not modelled to profit from any shifts to the right, with a one point shift costing them 4.7 seats and 0.7% of the vote. A heavy caveat to these figures, however, is that neither the Labour, Conservative, nor overall model had a p-value indicating a significant relationship. The coefficients for the Green Party Seats~MeanIDScore model suggest a flat regression line, but the Green Party would only ever win 1 seat, no matter what its mean estimated ideological position was. While this model produced significant p-values, common sense tells us it is implausible. The model for Green Party Vote Share~MeanIDScore appears to be better, indicating that Green Party vote share decreases by 5.9% for each perceived point further to the right. The linear model for Seats~MeanIDScore for the Liberal Democrats was the only model with a non-flat regression line to produce two significant p-values. It suggests the Liberal Democrats would gain 25.8 seats for every perceived point shift to the right, while the model for vote share (p-value:0.585) suggests such a shift would increase the party’s share of the vote by 10.29%.   While the trends outlined above all suggested plausible relationships, even if most were statistically insignificant, there were some coefficient and p-value outputs which indicated that a linear modelling method was not always appropriate for modelling the relationship between estimated ideological position and electoral success. For example, the intercept coefficient for a linear model of Seats~MeanIDScore for the Conservative Party indicates that, if the Conservative Party had a mean estimated ideological score of 0 (as left-wing as possible), they would win 380 seats. This is clearly incorrect. Furthermore, post hoc goodness of fit testing suggests that the relationships suggested by the linear models do not encompass enough explanatory factors. Figs 12 and 13 show the residuals for the overall model plotted against fitted values. The value of the residuals for each model can clearly be predicted based on the fitted values, indicating that the model is missing explanatory information. However, power analysis of the overall models returned values of 0.94 for the Seats~MeanIDScore model and 0.95 for the VoteShare~MeanIDScore model (fig 14), indicating the tests had sufficient explanatory power. This may be because, despite the small sample size and the absence of other explanatory variables, the effect size, calculated as Hedge’s G (see fig 14), was large for both models. Goodness of fit tests, power analyses, and effect size calculation present a contradictory picture of how well linear models can describe the relationship between electoral outcomes and voter estimation of ideological position. Nonetheless, the R-squared and F-statistics (fig 14) indicate more clearly that linear regression modelling with only the mean voter estimated ideological score and an electoral outcome does not sufficiently explain our data. The R-squared statistic for the Seats~MeanIDScore model was 0.286 and 0.192 for the VoteShare~MeanIDScore model. This indicates that the linear models explain only 29 and 19 percent of the variability in electoral outcomes. The F-test p-value was greater than 0.05 for both overall models (fig 14), indicating that neither linear regression modelled a significant relationship. The only party-specific model with a significant F-test p-values was the Liberal Democrat Seats~MeanIDScore model. Therefore, although examining the coefficients of linear models provides us with a number of hypothetical relationships, linear regression modelling suggests these relationships are significant in only a small number of cases. The clearest result from linear modelling is that, in order to improve the effectiveness of this method, more data is needed. It could be gathered either by increasing the longitude of the study, or the granularity of the data—potentially looking at results at a constituency level. Fig 10. Linear model of vote share vs mean estimated ideological score for overall dataset. Vote share attained by political parties in 2017, 2019, and 2020 plotted as individual points. Fig 11. Linear model of total MPs elected (seats won) vs mean estimated ideological score for overall dataset. Seats attained by political parties in 2017, 2019, and 2020 plotted as individual points. Fig 12. Plot of residuals vs fitted values for a linear model of seats won vs mean estimated ideological score derived from the overall dataset. Fig 13. Plot of residuals vs fitted values for a linear model of vote share vs mean estimated ideological score derived from the overall dataset. Fig 14. Summary table of post hoc test outputs for linear models. * Model was a perfect fit because of flat regression line. Discussion and conclusion   Following the above analysis of data from the British Election Study 2014-23, we can draw several conclusions about the relationship between a party’s perceived ideological position and its electoral success. The first key finding was that voter estimations of the ideological positioning of the four major political parties of the UK have shifted significantly between 2017 and 2020, and in most cases (Liberal Democrats excluded) shifted significantly between each set of surveys. This finding runs contrary to Adams[31] and Budge and Klingemann,[32] who suggest that significant shifts are rare. While the applicability of this trend outside the UK is not proven, it does confirm that the electorate perceives ideological repositioning amongst political parties as something that occurs relatively often in the UK.   The following findings, the most important, concern the relationship between these shifts and the electoral fortunes of the parties in question. Correlation testing on the level of both the electoral system and the individual parties found no significant correlation between a party’s perceived ideological position and electoral outcomes. This suggests that, while commentators such as Blair and Mandelson might link the decline of Labour’s electoral fortunes to a perceived leftward shift, there is no evidence in the data to support this. The same was true for the linear modelling approach, which found no statistically significant relationship between mean voter estimation of ideological position and electoral outcomes, except in one case (see fig 9). This study’s most statistically robust results were associated with modelling of the Liberal Democrat party (figs 9 and 14), which suggested that shifting a point to the right could increase the party’s seat count by 25.8 seats. This directly contradicts the centrist mantra that parties should strive to be perceived as closest to the median voter. The Liberal Democrats scored 4.43 on average between 2017 and 2020, by far the closest average score to the average self-estimation by respondents across the same period (4.82) (see fig 2). This trend may illustrate Dahlberg’s argument that parties which adopt more distinctive ideological positions are easier for voters to recognise ideologically, and hence easier to identify with.[33] Further evidence can be found in the modelled results for the Green Party, which lost 5.9% of its national vote share for every point it moved away from its clear left-wing position (2.82 across all three years) towards the centre, where its position would overlap with Labour and potentially the Liberal Democrats.   A methodological issue which prevented more conclusions being drawn from the correlation analysis and linear modelling was the lack of statistical power when testing and modelling at the level of individual parties. This was probably down to two factors: the simplicity of the models, which used only one independent variable, and the small sample size of the data. These factors led to some results being clearly inappropriate, such as the linear model suggesting a far-left Conservative Party would win 380 seats. Similarly, the linear model describing the relationship between the Green Party’s seat count and ideological position was clearly impacted by the Greens’ consistent score of 1 seat regardless of vote share, leading to a flat regression line and a meaningless model. However, as always with hypothesis testing, the failure of our models also points us towards useful conclusions. There are two notable failure-driven conclusions. 1) Perceived ideological position alone is not a sufficient predictor variable of electoral success. 2) Research in this area would benefit from using data on the relative electoral success of parties, either a greater number of administrative levels (council, mayoralty etc) or from a greater breadth of electoral contests (local council elections, mayoral races, devolved-administration elections).   The key finding of this study is as follows: there is no evidence to support the centrist mantra that the party perceived as being ideologically closest to the median voter will have the best electoral outcomes. There is no significant correlation or relationship between how the electorate perceives a party’s ideological position and how well it does at the polls. This confirms what Fieldhouse[34] suggested when investigating the issues facing the Labour party after the loss of the 2015 general election. Instead, it appears that other explanatory factors are of greater importance in determining which parties individuals vote for. These factors account for the 70-80% of variability in electoral outcomes that is not explained by the impact of perceived ideological positions within the linear models (fig 14). These other ‘explanatory factors’ may be valence issues, such as which party has the best leader or is the most charismatic, which are often primed as being significant by the media during election campaigns.[35] While focus by the media on leadership and personality issues does not detract from voters’ abilities to accurately estimate the ideological position of parties,[36] it could very well alter their priorities when it comes to the issues which bear heavily on electoral decision making. In summary, this study’s conclusions suggest that politicians who advocate recreating a party’s ideological position in line with the mythical ‘median voter’ are sacrificing the useful asset of ideological recognisability for little to no electoral gain. Colin Kaljee   Colin Kaljee is an MPhil student in Archaeological Research at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where he completed his undergraduate degree. After the MPhil he will start on the Civil Service Fast Stream as a Generalist streamer. He has excavated at archaeological sites in Belize, Massachusetts, and the UK, and his work on the chronology of Scottish brochs will be published in a volume later this year. [1] Anthony Downs, An Economic Theory of Democracy. (Harper and Row 1957). [2] Ed Fieldhouse, ‘Is Labour really too left-wing to win an election?’ ( British Election Study , 2015) < https://www.britishelectionstudy.com/bes-findings/blog-update-is-labour-really-too-left-wing-to-win-an-election/#.YKz_Q42Sk2x > accessed 28 May 2021. [3] Tony Blair, ‘If your heart is with Corbyn, get a transplant’ The Telegraph  (London, 22 March 2016); Rajeev Syal, ‘Ditch Corbyn’s “misguided ideology” Tony Blair urges Labour’ Guardian  (London, 18 December 2019). [4] ‘Why Progressives Think Joe Biden Is Not ‘Electable’ ( NPR,  17 July 2019). [5] James Adams, ‘A theory of spatial competition with biased voters: party policies viewed temporally and comparatively’ (2001) 31(1) British Journal of Political Science 121; Ian Budge and Hans-Dieter Klingemann, ‘Finally! Comparative over-time mapping of a party policy movement’ in Ian Budge, Hans-Dieter Klingemann, and Andrea Volkens (eds), Mapping Policy Preferences: Estimates for Parties, Electors and Governments 1945-1988 (Oxford University Press 2001). [6] Downs (n 1). [7] ibid. [8] Kathrin Barbara Busch, ‘Estimating parties’ left-right positions: Determinants of voters’ perceptions’ proximity to party ideology’ (2016) 41 Electoral Studies 159. [9] ibid. [10] Blair (n 3). [11] Peter Mandelson, ‘It’s simply a myth that Labour can win from the left’ The Independent  (London, 3 April 2021). [12] James Adams, Lawrence Ezrow, and Zeynep Somer-Topcu, ‘Is anybody listening? Evidence that voters do not respond to European parties’ policy statements during elections’ (2011) 55(2) American Journal of Political Science 370; James Adams, Lawrence Ezrow, and Zeynep Somer-Topcu, ‘Do voters respond to party manifestos or to a wider information environment? An analysis of mass-elite linkages on European integration’ (2014) 58(4) American Journal of Political Science 967. [13] Andrew Drummond, ‘Assimilation, contrast and voter projections of parties in the left-right space: does the electoral system matter?’ (2010) 17(6) Party Politics 711; Donald Granberg and Soren Holmberg, T he Political System Matters: Social Psychology and Voting Behaviour in Sweden and the United States  (Cambridge University Press 1988); Samuel Merrill,   Bernard Groffman, and James Adams, ‘Assimilation and contrast effects in voter projections of party locations: evidence from Norway, France and the USA’ (2001) 40(9) European Journal of Political Research 1999. [14] Busch (n 8). [15] ibid. [16] Stefan Dahlberg, ‘Does context matter - the impact of electoral systems, political parties and the individual characteristics on voters’ perceptions of party positions’ (2013) 32(4) Electoral Studies 670. [17] Zeynep Somer-Topcu, ‘Everything to Everyone: The Electoral Consequences of the Broad-Appeal Strategy in Europe’ (2014) 59(4) American Journal of Political Science 841. [18] Fieldhouse (n 2). [19] Blair (n 3). [20] ibid fig 4. [21] Fieldhouse (n 2); Somer-Topcu (n 17). [22] Fieldhouse (n 2) fig 2. [23] ibid. [24] ibid. [25] Busch (n 8); Stacy B Gordon and Gary M Segura, ‘Cross-national variation in the political sophistication of individuals: capability or choice?’ (1997) 59(1) Journal of Politics 126; Giovanni Sartori, Parties and Party Systems: A Framework for Analysis  (Cambridge University Press   1976). [26] Busch (n 8). [27]  British Election Study 2014-2023: Waves 1-20 Internet Panel Codebook  s l (2020) 303. [28] Yoav Benjamini and Yosef Hochberg, ‘Controlling the False Discovery Rate: A Practical and Powerful Approach to Multiple Testing’ (1995) 57(1) Journal of the Royal Statistical Society: Series B (Methodological) 289. [29] RDocumentation, p.adjust: Adjust P-Values for multiple comparisons  (no date) < https://www.rdocumentation.org/packages/stats/versions/3.6.2/topics/p.adjust > accessed 29 May 2021. [30] fig 14. [31] Adams (n 5). [32] Budge and Klingemann (n 5). [33] Dahlberg (n 16). [34] Fieldhouse (n 2). [35] Busch (n 8); Elisabeth Gidengil, Andre Blais, Neil Nevitte, and Richard Nadeau, ‘Priming and campaign context: evidence from recent Canadian elections’ in David M Farrell and Rudiger Schmitt-Beck (eds), Do Political Campaigns Matter? Campaign Effects in Elections and Referendums (Routledge 2002). [36] Busch (n 8); Danny Hayes, ‘Has television personalised voting behaviour?’ (2008) 31 Political Behaviour 231; Max Kaase, ‘Is there personalization in politics? Candidates and voting behaviour in Germany’ (1994) 15 International Political Science Review 211; Klaus Schoenbach, ‘The “Americanization” of German election campaigns: any impact on the voters?’ in David L Swanson and Paolo Mancini (eds), Politics, Media and Modern Democracy  (Praeger Publishers 1996).

Fig 1. The Danish Palaces Egg (House of Fabergé 1890). James Petts, Wikimedia Commons. . The Russian jeweller Peter Karl Fabergé achieved enduring fame under the last Czar of the Russian Empire, Nicholas II. Fabergé is best known for his eggs, which are better described as objects of opulence and fantaisie  than as pieces of jewellery. In the form of small pendant eggs, these Easter gifts were adorned with gemstones, chromatic porcelain, and Imperial monograms.   Although Fabergé eggs represent only a fraction of the magnificent jewellery the house produced for the Romanovs, they are key symbols of the Russian Empire. Peter Fabergé was appointed jeweller to the Imperial Court in 1886. He was at the heart of Imperial production, and described as the ‘reinventor of Russian jewellery’.[1] In celebration of Easter, Nicholas II’s Czarina and mother would receive a Fabergé egg each year. 52 Imperial Fabergé eggs were produced between 1885-1917. They often took more than a year to complete, and are now exceptionally rare. These Imperial treasures were therefore incredible displays of affluence. However, the significance of Fabergé eggs extends beyond their glittering façade. They were to become symbols of the schism between the Russian people and the Romanov dynasty.   After almost 300 years of Romanov rule, Fabergé eggs came to symbolise the extravagance of the Russian Empire. They were polyvalent, simultaneously reminders of Christ’s death and of his revolutionary resurrection.[2] They would become emblematic of the attempts to uphold the artificial, luxurious façade of the Romanov Empire in Russia, which concealed the discontentment permeating through society. The contrast between actual events in Russia and these lavish gifts is one between violence and beauty, destitution and extravagance. By exploring Fabergé eggs as an insight into the watershed of the 1917 Revolution, I intend to highlight the stark disconnect between the last Romanov Imperial family and their country’s people.   Blinding glory and magnificence   The memory of a previously magnificent Russia would distort the reign of Nicholas II, who was both a deeply religious and absolutist. The Romanovs saw themselves as irreplaceable, each of them being a gift of revelation by God to Russia. Their privilege was perceived as a rightful consequence of their God-given status. Although the jewelled eggs were gifted through an annual tradition, commemorating Easter festivities, they had the political aim of illustrating Nicholas II’s transcendent power, unique to the Czar. Nicholas II’s coronation of 1897 was marked by the ‘greatest’ and most significant Fabergé egg, the ‘Coronation Fabergé Egg’.[3] As Malcolm Forbes put it, ‘one man’s decadence is another man’s creative art’. Forbes characterises the Romanovs’ lifestyle as both excessive and artistically enriching, illustrative of the growing moral and cultural severance of the Imperial court from its nation.[4]   Made of red gold, the egg was covered in yellow enamel and encrusted in a lattice pattern of black Romanov eagles. Drawing inspiration directly from Czarina Alexandrovna’s coronation attire, the colours of the Fabergé egg were intended to evoke power, succession, and the extreme luxury of celebration.[5] The egg opens to reveal an exact replica of the coronation chariot, constructed with remarkable delicacy. The main frame of the carriage is encrusted in diamonds and red enamel. The chariot’s detailing extends to the windows, made of rock crystals, and to the tyres, made of platinum. The chariot alone took 15 months to complete. The jeweller did not spare on materials—these objects were of astounding luxury. This projection of power and expressive visual opulence seems incongruous with the actual events of the coronation in 1897, which the Romanovs may have preferred to forget.   Ambitions to secure a smooth transition of monarchical power from Alexander III were crushed at Nicholas II’s coronation. Whilst an elaborate coronation ritual was orchestrated to reinforce the notions of a positive ‘consensus of a new monarch’, events transpired that became known as the ‘Khodynka Tragedy’. As authorities failed to maintain civic order, a rush to acquire celebratory gifts resulted in a catastrophic crowd crush following the coronation.[6] The repercussions of the event caused approximately 5,000 deaths.[7] Despite the number of lives lost, festivities continued as soon as the Czar and Czarina appeared, suggesting a dismissive element to the Czar’s early governance. Nonetheless, the ubiquity of deprivation—with citizens desperate to receive edible gifts—is symbolic of the dichotomy in Russia at this time. Despite fabricating opulence with the Fabergé traditions, the system of dynastic power was not representative of contemporary life. The precursors of revolution were already occurring in the newly anointed Czar’s Empire. While the Romanovs continued to fund their lavish lifestyles, the Czar was turning a blind eye to the mass poverty and deprivation in his country. Thus, the glorious tradition of the coronation ended up as a blood-stained reminder of the beginning of the end for Russian dynastic rule.   Although these events were not known to the jewellery house at the time of the gifts’ conception, the ‘Coronation Fabergé Egg’ had become a tainted symbol of Nicholas II’s ascension to the throne. The concepts of the Fabergé egg were leveraged from the Empire’s traditional past, characteristic of state ideology under the fatal rule of Nicholas II. Alla Bychkova further encapsulates the significance of historicity for Fabergé: the jewellery house was ‘breaking through all the barriers between the past and the future, between myth and reality’.[8] Although the Empire was founded in ruthlessness and ruin, both jeweller and Czar developed their image by invoking historical power.   The growing divide between Czar and subject was embedded in this dynastic flamboyance. Although they shimmered, the Fabergé eggs also blinded the dynasty to its true situation: a ticking time-bomb which culminated in revolution.   Reality and the dynasty   The contrast between dynastic majesty and harsh reality in Russia was concealed by the scalding grip of Nicholas II. Transfers of power were initially straightforward in the Romanov Empire. However, the throne changed nine times during the nineteenth century, much more often than in any other European state. Following the shooting of Alexander II, initial reforms towards a more democratic Russia were upturned.[9] The Duma had broken down into a number of warring factions. Nicholas II reverted to conservative reform, considering it to be more successful at maintaining social order. The normal ‘metamorphosis from absolute monarchy to democracy’ did not occur. This was one of the many consequences of Romanov rule.[10] Those who celebrated absolute monarchy and political stability were misguided, as revolutions do not simply erupt unexpectedly.   The tercentenary of the Romanov dynasty was marked by celebration across Russia. Culminating in the grand entry of Nicholas II to Moscow—upon his return across the Volga river from Kostroma—the Imperial family were greeted by immense crowds of people wanting to get a glimpse of the Romanov Czar and Czarina.[11] The events of 1897 seemed to have been safely overlooked and cloistered. This momentous event was independently celebrated with the commission of the ‘Tercentenary Egg’ by Fabergé. The jewelled Easter egg’s surface incorporates 18 separate miniatures, one for each Romanov Czar, from Michael I to Nicholas II. Within the Fabergé egg is the surprise of a rotating globe of the Earth. One hemisphere shows the original Empire inherited by Michael Romanov in 1613. The other hemisphere shows the Romanov Empire in 1913, which had grown to a vast 6.2 million square miles.[12] The messages of the egg are Imperial strength, power and, notably, continuity of expansion. The materials of enamel, gold, and precious stones are mimetic of sovereign affirmation, having been extracted from the lands of Romanov Russia. For the Czarina, that there were personal and national celebrations upon their return to Moscow signalled that the rumours of revolution were false. Remarkably, she told her lady-in-waiting, ‘We only need to show ourselves, and at once their hearts are ours’.[13] As usual, the Romanovs perceived their dynasty as the jewel of the Empire. They did not even attempt to understand the real situation of Russia.   The corollaries of the 1912 famine, and increased demonstrations for workers’ rights, were more indicative of the reality of the Empire on the ground. Whilst the Romanovs squandered the nation’s wealth on Fabergé eggs—the ‘Tercentenary Egg’ was valued at 175,000 rubles in 1927—their country lived in poverty.[14] The causes of the 1905 Revolution continued to affect the lives of radicals, trade unionists, and ordinary people. Disastrously, two million deaths followed the 1912 famine, and three million workers came out on strike between 1912 and 1914.[15] A morbid awareness of extreme poverty became widespread as the endemic deprivation created a sense that life was fleeting. Education was seen as the best means to increase the workforce’s productivity, but it had uncomfortable political consequences—literacy rates remained at only 24% at the start of Nicholas II’s reign.[16] This highlights that the regime was more concerned with self-preservation than with promoting education, especially since education could increase actions against their absolutism. Lenin’s vision of a communist Russia was becoming more appealing by comparison with the deeply flawed and archaic actual system. Revolution was in the air and it seemed only a matter of time before the business of 1905 was completed.   The duality of Romanov Russia is manifest in the Imperial jeweller’s creations. The dynasty was resistant to recognise the constant hunger and the dire conditions of their nation’s workers. Fabergé eggs were still produced in the First World War, and even in 1917 epitomised the extreme naivety of the Romanovs. The jewels of the Empire, which seem to speak of eternal life, would come to emblematise death.   Converted symbols of revolution   On the brink of revolution in 1917, these works were still being created. The volatility of the situation did not diminish the extravagant tradition. The production of the ‘Steel Military Egg’ by Fabergé would come to symbolise the destructive force of war and Romanov misfortune. Intended to have a finish of dull blackened steel, with minimal decoration, the Easter egg is supported on four small artillery shells. Hidden inside is a surprise miniature of Nicholas II and his son. The humility of father and son, and the bond between them, are captured in the miniature surprise. However, both were trapped in a politically volatile situation, inside and outside the image. The Czar was unable to uphold his sovereignty and Romanov rule. His son, Alexei Nikolayevich, would never succeed to the throne, because of his haemophilia. In the image, father and son are surrounded by soldiers, who are a poignant reminder of the imminent revolution. Kenneth Snowman described the egg as a ‘banal kitsch’, as its black finish has gradually degraded, symbolising the breakdown of the dynasty.[17]   Eventually, this breakdown was completed. The way forward for Russia, following the 1917 revolution, was the formation of Vladimir Lenin’s communist government. As Tatiana Muntian argues, the Fabergé eggs were a ‘tangible symbol of the destruction of the Russian monarchy’.[18] This interpretation evokes the Romanovs’ ignorance to the Russian people’s plight. The fragile nation and Imperial family became subverted upon revolution, just as the polishing away of the egg’s black finish revealed an artificially glistening metal shell. This destruction is epitomised by the abandonment of the jewels in the wake of the forced abdication and exile of the Romanov family.[19] Fabergé eggs were confiscated and nationalised. Such was the denouement of the jewelled dynastic symbol of Imperial Russia. The remaining Fabergé eggs are a nexus to the times of the Romanovs, a reminder of previous, opulent suppression. As substitutes, pluralist experience and commonality came to the forefront of political symbolism in the new socialist Russia.   The Romanovs were sentenced to death by communist revolutionaries. Thus, the Fabergé traditions of splendour vanished, never to return.   Loose ends of Fabergé   Today, Fabergé eggs are objects of Russian cultural heritage, exhibited around the world. Several Fabergé eggs disappeared during the pillaging of palaces, and 12 are still missing. However, Tatiana Muntian and Marianna Chistyakova have solved the intriguing mystery surrounding a 1917 Easter egg, the unfinished ‘Blue Tsarevich Constellation Egg’, discovered in 2003. This egg represents the final struggle of the Romanovs, who refused to entertain the possibility that their Imperial opulence may have sparked revolution. It represents ‘a scattered [and] incomplete’ façade of the Romanovs, cracking under revolutionary force. The fragments left over from the Easter egg’s construction by Fabergé likewise ‘epitomiz[e] the collapse of the illustrious firm’.[20]   Nevertheless, the eggs originally had a religious purpose: to reflect the resurrection of Christ. These decorative objects remain an insight for the contemporary viewer into the turbulence of the Romanov dynasty. Even though the dynasty collapsed, Fabergé eggs have been revived for the contemporary viewer on view in museums, in keeping with the Easter egg’s religious connotations of revival. Danielle Jump   Danielle Jump is an undergraduate student of History of Art at the University of Cambridge. She is interested in the decorative arts, jewellery, and the ways in which these art forms are reflective of contemporary culture. She hopes to pursue a career within the art industry, specialising in contemporary jewellery. [1] ‘Carl Faberge’ accessed 14 February 2021. [2] ibid. [3] ‘Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ ( Fabergé Research Site ) < https://fabergeresearch.com/eggs-faberge-imperial-egg-chronology/ > accessed 12 February 2021. [4] Toby Faber, Fabergé’s Eggs  (Random House 2008) 206. [5] ibid 46. [6] Richard Wortman, Scenarios of Power: Myth and Ceremony in Russian Monarchy , vol 1 ( Peter the Great to the Death of Nicholas I , Princeton   University Press 1995) 89-90. [7] Faber (n 4) 47. [8] Alla Bychkova, ‘Peter Carl Fabergé, Biography, History of the Fabergé House in Russia’ ( La belle epoque ) < https://www.liveinternet.ru/users/la_belle_epoque/post73433488/ > accessed 14 February 2021. [9] Cynthia Hyla Whittaker, ‘The Idea of an Elected Monarch in the 18th century’ (2001) 18 Acta Slavica Iaponica 1. [10] Daniel Gordon, ‘“Public Opinion” and the Civilizing Process in France: The Example of Morellet’ (1989) 22 Eighteenth-Century Studies 302. [11] Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ (n 3). [12] Faber (n 4) 95. [13] ibid 96. [14] ‘Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ (n 3). [15] Fuyuki Kurasawa, ‘The Making of Humanitarian Visual Icons: On the 1921-1923 Russian Famine as Foundational Event’ in Jeffrey C Alexander, Dominik Bartmański, and Bernhard Giesen (eds) Iconic Power: Materiality and Meaning in Social Life  (Palgrave Macmillan 2012) 68;   Faber (n 4) 96. [16] Lenore A Grenoble, Language Policy in the Soviet Union  (Kluwer Academic Publishers 2003) 46. [17] A Kenneth Snowman, ‘Carl Fabergé Goldsmith to the Imperial Court of Russia’ (Debrett’s 1979, as cited in Faber (n 4) 112). [18] ‘Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ (n 3). [19] Faber (n 4) 129. [20] ‘Fabergé Imperial Egg Chronology’ (n 3).

The assumption we live in a secularized world is false. The world today … is as furiously religious as it ever was. —Peter Berger[1] Fig 1. Illustration of the opening sequence of La dolce vita (Federico Fellini 1960) (the author 2021). In his seminal work The Desecularization of the World: Resurgent Religion and World Politics  (1999), Peter Berger challenges the assumption that modernisation means secularisation. Following Berger’s repudiation of the secularisation thesis, a ‘postsecular turn’ has, in recent years, appeared in many fields of scholarship, from political theory and sociology to religious studies and cultural history. Largely popularised by Jürgen Habermas, ‘post-secularism’ seeks to accommodate the place of religion in modern society, rather than occlude one in favour of the other. Although I cannot cover the theoretical nuances of this elusive concept in the space of this article, I wish to stage the question of the secular and the sacred using two Italian films from very different time periods: Federico Fellini’s La dolce vita  (‘The Sweet Life’, 1960) and Paolo Sorrentino’s La grande bellezza  (‘The Great Beauty’, 2013).   La dolce vita  chronicles the colourful spectacle of modern Rome through the world of Marcello Rubini (Marcello Mastroianni), a suave journalist-cum-gossip-columnist, whose aspirations as a writer are ultimately drowned out by the glamorous spectacle of Roman nightlife, Hollywood stars, declining aristocrats, and jaded intellectuals. Marcello descends into bitter, Dionysian revelry and self-serving hedonism.   Jep Gambardella (Toni Servillo), protagonist of La grande bellezza , is not unlike an older version of Mastroianni’s charismatic journalist. We meet Jep at his sixty-fifth birthday. Despite early success in his career, Jep has only written one book. Since then, he too has been seduced by ‘the sweet life’, living, like Marcello, between the dizzying late hours of Roman nightclubs and the lonely, hungover moments of clarity that accompany the light of dawn. Although both characters never quite part ways with their cool cynicism—we may think of La grande bellezza ’s final words, ‘in fondo, è solo un trucco’ (‘after all, it’s just a trick’)—both films end with a possible glimmer of hope. In La dolce vita , the angelic waitress Paola (Valeria Ciangottini) waves on a beach to Marcello, who has just emerged from a night of partying. Though he seemingly cannot understand her, she proceeds to look directly into the camera. Even if she cannot reach Marcello, she extends her mysterious, salvific gesture to us as spectators, and the film fades to black. La grande bellezza similarly ends with a saintly figure and a beach. In Rome Jep meets Sister Maria (Giusi Merli), a missionary nun and proclaimed ‘Santa’ (‘Saint’), unambiguously a parody of Mother Theresa. Jep then leaves Rome and returns to the island where he consummated his first relationship, with a girl named Elisa. In a direct evocation of Fellini’s final shot, Elisa now looks into the camera. It is here, in turn, that we hear Jep read in voiceover the opening of his new novel. As his words spill beyond the film frame through his disembodied voice, they suggest the genesis of a wholly new medium, yet to be written—yet to be told.   Produced during a period of unprecedented Italian economic growth known as the ‘Economic Miracle’ (1958–63), La dolce vita  juxtaposes the secular with the sacred from its outset. In the opening sequence (fig 1), a helicopter carries a statue of Jesus above the peripheral ruins of a Roman aqueduct. It then turns towards the city centre. As this buzzing emblem of modern technology heralds the arrival of the sculpture, the effigy casts its shadow over awestruck construction workers and glamorous sunbathers. When the flying statue finally arrives at the Vatican, we witness, quite literally, a migration of the religious icon into the modern city. Decades later—and arguably now at a time that no longer grapples with the question of the modern but dwells instead in the postmodern—Paolo Sorrentino alludes to this moment in his television series The Young Pope  (2016): in one scene, the camera hovers over the dome of St Peter’s basilica, the humming of a helicopter audible offscreen.   Throughout his works, Sorrentino sets himself in dialogue with Fellini. Sorrentino’s intertextual playfulness is particularly apparent with regards to Fellini’s thematic and formal penchant for repositioning the sacred into the secular. Rather than opposing the religious and mundane worlds as irreconcilable,[2] both directors use stylised tableaux, cityscapes, and panoramas to show how religious icons and rites move into the everyday, urban landscape—how they move, as it were, from the otherworldly sublime into the earthly quotidian. This use of setting is especially evident in Sorrentino’s La grande bellezza  and Fellini’s La dolce vita . The backdrops of both   films, of which Rome is the central one, become the locus for the shift between sacred and secular. Using the city as a metonym for modernity, both Fellini and Sorrentino foreground the figure of the flâneur through an urban, secularised landscape, mapping the shift of religion in modernity through distinct, juxtaposed topologies. By emphasising the geographies of the modern cityscape—and its antithesis in the natural seascape—both Fellini and Sorrentino trace the relocation, rather than the disappearance, of the sacred into the secular.   The narratives of La dolce vita  and La grande bellezza  feature protagonists who correspond to the Benjaminian/Baudelarian model of the ‘flâneur’, the quintessentially secularised aesthetic figure of the modern urban experience. As artist figures who have become creatively impotent over time, Marcello and Jep wander through Rome in a series of loosely connected vignettes. Even the episodic structure reflects a kind of ‘flâneurship’: it is propelled by the meandering movement between accumulative long takes and by non-causal narratives. Aligning themselves with the camera, Jep and Marcello tend to adopt a detached, passive viewership of the city. Significantly, the flâneur is a product of modernity, pursuing ‘the modern only through a fundamental passivity’.[3]   In Walter Benjamin’s terms, the Baudelairean flâneur receives ‘profane illumination’ and ‘materialistic, anthropological inspiration’ through his ‘overcoming of religious illumination’.[4] I propose that the flâneur is a modern-day foil to the pilgrim. Unlike the flâneur, the pilgrim performs an ultimate act of ‘sacrifice’ through movement, as Giorgio Agamben points out, reestablishing ‘the right relationships between the divine and the human by moving…into the sacred sphere’.[5] Though Agamben contrasts this process with the tourist’s ‘destruction of all possible use’, the flâneur—even more so than the tourist, another recurring motif in Sorrentino’s works—aestheticises the world around him in a way that is purely self-serving.   Sequences from both La dolce vita  and La grande bellezza  echo this idea. In La grande bellezza , Jep peruses some of Rome’s most beautiful buildings with Ramona (Sabrina Ferilli), a stripper who in fact offers a much more profound relationship than any of Jep’s friendships with glamorous literati. After attending a grotesque party at which a child prodigy is forced to perform action painting, Jep and Ramona leave with a friend who is entrusted with ‘le chiavi dei più bei palazzi di Roma’ (‘the keys of the most beautiful palaces in Rome’). The three experience a kind of museum by night, and as spectators we are led through a montage of oil paintings, sculptures, and spectacular architectural works. While the wide-eyed Ramona faces the galleries with childlike awe, Jep is more apathetic. He turns away from the paintings with a cynical smile, retreating into the dark shadows of the candlelit corridor. In La dolce vita , Marcello visits a historic castle on an evening revel with the mysterious heiress Maddalena, with whom he has one of several profound yet melancholically doomed relationships. The two hold up a candle to an array of portraits. Marcello comments to a tipsy Maddalena, ‘Che bello, hanno tutti gli stessi occhi, hai visto?’ (‘How marvelous, they all have the same eyes, did you notice?’). Maddalena, though, is more interested in playing with her veil than in examining the paintings.   It is important to note the axial connotations of the flâneur as one who moves horizontally. This meandering direction contrasts with the verticality associated with religion. As S Brent Plate observes, ‘vertical sacred spaces aspire with their spires’, whereas ‘horizontal landscapes are bodies, circuitries that circulate and foster social communication’.[6] Sorrentino juxtaposes Jep’s horizontal movement across the social circles of Rome with the vertical acts of penance performed by Sister Maria. Despite the caricatural vein that inevitably accompanies this postmodern use of the cliché saint figure, Sister Maria’s presence in the final sequence of the film is striking. Sorrentino juxtaposes her penance with the opening of Jep’s novel, spoken in voiceover. On her knees, the ‘Santa’ toils upwards, ascending the stairs towards the altar. Whereas Jep frequently has the advantage of looking down, surveying the convent courtyards from his terrace, the ‘Santa’ looks up towards the final step in a physically gruelling act of humility. Furthermore, this vertical-horizontal axis undergoes a redemptory reversal in the flashback to Jep’s ‘prima volta’ (‘first time’). He often nostalgically recalls the event by looking up at the ceiling of his apartment in Rome. In a flashback, Jep also looks up at Elisa, who stands a few steps above him, filmed from a slightly low angle.   La dolce vita  frames the reversal of religious, pilgrim-like ascension even more clearly. The religious journey now transforms into secularised sightseeing. One scene was deemed particularly blasphemous by a reader of L’Osservatore Romano  ( The Roman   Observer ),[7] the Vatican’s daily newspaper. In the scene, the film star Sylvia (Anita Ekberg) ascends the stairs of the Vatican. Dressed in a couture version of priestly vestments, her costume further emphasises the culture industry’s desecration of religion and pilgrimage. Sylvia, as the figurehead of the ‘cult of the sex goddess’[8] or ‘cult of the star’, replaces the saint as an object of reverence. She becomes yet another character that, like the flâneur, has transformed the acts of walking, aestheticising, and surveilling into a new modern myth. The enraptured Marcello comments, ‘Tu sei tutto Sylvia! … Tu sei la prima donna del primo giorno della creazione’ (‘You are everything, Sylvia! … You are the first woman of the first day of the creation of the world’). The flâneur is thereby attached to the secular ‘cult of beauty’.[9] La dolce vita ’s Steiner (Alain Cuny) embodies this kind of detached intellectualism. He touts the rhetoric of an aesthetic avant-gardist but, as with Sorrentino’s performance artist Talia Concept (Anita Kravos), this rhetoric masks emptiness. These spatially grounded figures, led by the flâneur, use the city to stage the shift between the religious cult and the modern ritual of secularised aestheticisation, rather than wholly nullifying the former.   Georg Simmel linked the city to modern spiritual anxiety in the early twentieth century, and many have followed suit. We can see Rome as a metonym of modernisation. Zach Zimmermann notes that, in La dolce vita , ‘Fellini presents an image of [a] new Rome in which religion is absent and material and sexual impulses rule’.[10] Yet this assertion overlooks the pervasiveness of religious symbols, architecture, and rites. These still dominate Roman life, albeit in a secular mode. As Michel de Certeau quips, ‘unlike Rome, New York has never learned the art of growing old by playing on all its pasts’.[11] Rather than transforming into a wholly new, urbanised metropolis, Rome preserves its iconographic identity as capital of both Hellenism and Christianity. Jep’s apartment, for example, is surrounded by the courtyards of a convent, but it also has a spectacular view of the Colosseum. Though set in the twenty-first century, Sorrentino’s production shuns modern transport and urban movement in favour of the old model of the ambulatory flâneur. Fellini, on the other hand, juxtaposes Rome’s new and old. Modern transport, in fact, pervades the film. Characters ride cars frequently, Sylvia flies in to the airport, and there is of course the helicopter opening sequence. Yet while Fellini’s helicopter symbolises modernisation, it moves towards a historic destination: the Vatican. Thus, the opening sequence foregrounds the Vatican within the modern-day cityscape. Despite the dwindling religious participation brought by Italy’s 1958–63 ‘Economic Miracle’, the dome of St Peter’s dominates the Roman skyline in La dolce vita .[12] Even today, Rome, as capital of the Catholic Church, cannot completely renounce its religious affiliations.   These religious symbols and institutions coexist with consumer-driven capitalism. This coexistence is the mode of survival for a postmodern Rome that persists today, in which, as Pierpaolo Antonello comments, ‘l’unico ancoraggio simbolico viene dato da una estetica e dalle sopravvivenze del sacro nel contesto di un processo continuo di “profanazioni”’ (‘a symbolic undercurrent only appears through an aesthetic and perpetual process of “profanations” that allow the sacred to survive’).[13] In one episode in La dolce vita , the debauched aristocrats wander through the ruins of a decaying palazzo which, as the smarmy host explains, was originally built for two popes. ‘Due papi!’ (‘Two popes!’) repeats his vapid German girlfriend, seemingly amused by the sacral history of the now-derelict building. Though the architecture survives, it is now a site for pagan séances and nighttime sexual escapades. Modern relics are displaced, even defamiliarised, into mundane settings. In La grande bellezza,  ageing aristocratic ‘principesse’ (‘princesses’) are patrons of   some of Rome’s most beautiful buildings. However, surrounded by Rome’s melancholy historicity, the ‘principesse’ spend their evenings playing cards and drinking whisky. In La dolce vita , miracle trees stand in a halo of cameras. In Sorrentino’s The Young Pope , popes awaken under crucifixes to slip their feet into Havaiana flip-flops. The mise-en-scène of each tableau ironically juxtaposes religious symbols with secular, mundane objects of capitalist modernity.   While the city becomes the main site of modern secularisation, the sea represents its antithesis, a possible site of redemption and true spiritual experience. Andrew McKenna points out that in both La strada  (1954) and La dolce vita , Fellini makes the beach a ‘threshold   space’. It offers symbolic redemption to Zampanò (Anthony Quinn) in La strada  and to Marcello in La dolce vita .[14] Similarly, Jep’s nostalgic flashbacks to his ‘prima volta’ with Elisa take place on the beach of a depopulated island. Jep returns to this site by way of an oneiric ocean edited onto his apartment ceiling, a surrealist image that blurs time—as both a flashback and a diegetically present-tense daydream—and place—Jep’s bourgeois interior merges with the faraway island. The simple horizons of these seascapes mark a formal contrast to the decadent baroque textures featured in both films. When Marcello first meets the angelic Paola at a seaside trattoria, he asks her to turn her head in profile. As a few rays of sunlight form a flat canvas-like background, she resembles a Cimabue cherub or Umbrian angel, and Marcello comments on this resemblance. Paola, as image, presents a stark contrast to the busy textures and depth of field Fellini uses for the decaying Roman palazzi. It is no surprise, then, that her reappearance at the end of the film occurs at the beach. Sorrentino makes an intertextual reference to this scene with Elisa. In a Caspar David Friedrich-like panorama, the sea aligns itself with biblical references and with the figure of the spiritual wanderer, but not with the flâneur. Rather than inviting secular aestheticisation, the seascape solicits self-reflection. The empty horizon has religious connotations and presents both Jep and Marcello with a chance for redemption and ascetic natural contemplation. In Marcello’s case, though, this is seemingly lost. The waterscape is thus a visual, spatial, and (given its premodern simplicity) temporal foil to the cityscape. Read symbolically, the sea is an embodied setting for the Catholic ‘grace’ that Pier Paolo Pasolini criticised in Fellini’s film.[15]   As a result, Fellini and Sorrentino thematise the migratory, modernised identity of religious symbolism through their formal language. They use tableaux to reflect the totalising effect of their modern worlds. Rather than being eliminated, the mystic ritual migrates into empty forms of ‘pure art’ and ‘secular beauty’.[16] Mythical symbols survive in a modern setting by stripping themselves of their spiritual value, becoming objects that offer themselves to the secular aesthete and flâneur. For this reason, Jep Gambardella can proudly declare himself ‘il re dei mondani’ (‘the king of high society’, or ‘the worldly king’). Yet despite the superficial appearance of his aesthetically opulent life, Jep has not found ‘the great beauty’ of the film’s title. Thus, although Fellini and Sorrentino primarily adopt a formal method of juxtaposed coexistence, they use a thematically contrastive approach, mapping spiritual debasement—and rare pockets of hope—through a progression of symbolically imbued loci. Authentic spiritual enlightenment, on the other hand, peeks through as a simple, silent, and uninhabited landscape. The words of a priest in La dolce vita  capture this irresolvable dichotomy, exposing the mundane as cluttered, modernised chaos that occludes possibilities of individual contemplation. ‘I miracoli nascono nel raccoglimento, nel silenzio … non in questa confusione’ (‘Miracles are born in contemplation, in silence … not in this chaos’). Marie-Louise James   Marie-Louise James studied German and Italian as an undergraduate at Trinity College, Cambridge (2016), and is an MPhil student at the Cambridge Faculty of Modern and Medieval Languages and Linguistics. In autumn 2021, she will be begin a PhD with the German Department at Princeton University. She works between film, visual media, and literature and has both written and illustrated articles for Varsity , Polyglossia , and Notes Magazine . [1] Peter Berger, ‘The Desecularization of the World: A Global Overview’ in Peter Berger (ed), The Desecularization of the World: Resurgent Religion and World Politics  (Eermans Publishing 1999) 2. [2] ‘Mundane’ derives from the Latin mundanus (worldly/earthly). [3] Dimitris Eleftheriotis, Cinematic Journeys: Film and Movement  (Edinburgh University Press 2012) 17. [4] Sigrid Weigel, Body and Image Space: Re-Reading Walter Benjamin  (Routledge 1996) 17. [5] Giorgio Agamben, ‘In Praise of Profanation’ (2007) 10 Log 23, 31. [6] S Brent Plate, Religion and Film: Cinema and the Re-Creation of the World  (Columbia University Press 2009) 68. [7] Tomaso Subini, ‘La lagrimetta negata nel finale di La dolce vita ’ in Raffaele De Berti (ed), Federico Fellini. Analisi di Film: possibile letture  (McGraw-Hill 2006) 65. [8] Andrew McKenna, ‘Fellini’s Crowds and the Remains or Religion’ (2006) 12/13 Contagion: Journal of Violence, Mimesis, and Culture 159, 167. [9] Walter Benjamin, ‘The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction’ in Gerald Mast, Marshall Cohen, and Leo Braudy (eds), Film Theory and Criticism  (Oxford University Press 1992) 669. [10] Zach Zimmermann, ‘Film as History: Fellini’s La Dolce Vita  as a Historical Artifact’ (2010) 6(2) Elements 42, 49. [11] Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Steven Rendall tr, University of California Press 1984) 91. [12] Peter Bondanella, The Films of Federico Fellini (Cambridge University Press 2002) 66. [13] Pierpaolo Antonello, ‘Rivalità intermediali e destino della letteratura in La grande bellezza di Paolo Sorrentino’ in Denis Brotto and Attilio Motta (eds), Interferenze: scrittori/registi e registi/scrittori nella cultura italiana  (Padova University Press 2019) 163. [14] McKenna (n 8) 171. [15] Pier Paolo Pasolini, ‘The Catholic Irrationalism of Fellini’ (Frank Demers and Pina Demers trs, 1984) 9(1) Film Criticism 63, 70. [16] Benjamin (n 9) 669.

On 11 September 2001, as I walked to the Rome bureau of  The New York Times , I stopped in a café on the Campo di Fiori to see why a crowd had gathered to watch CNN. Just as I edged towards the bar, the second plane crashed into the World Trade Center.   In the silence that engulfed the room, everyone understood that the world had suddenly become a different place. A torrent of thoughts rushed through my head as I imagined seismic geopolitical upheaval, but mostly I stood there, overwhelmed by the enormous and symbolic violence of the attack. Certainly, I did not understand how this moment would, in tandem with the digital charge of the internet, be the catalyst that would change my life as a photojournalist.   Shaking me from numbness, an editor called a few hours later and asked me to depart to Gaza as soon as possible. And so, I duly left for the Middle East the next morning. I saw daily violence between Palestinian youths and Israeli forces, but nothing out of the ordinary happened. After two weeks yo-yoing between Gaza and Jerusalem, the paper called again and asked if I would be prepared to head to Afghanistan. To convince me, they dangled a carrot: a digital camera. I had never seen a physical digital camera, even though there had been models available for over a year. When I had been in Kosovo in 1999, The New York Times had sent one with a photographer who had arrived from the United States, but the day before he was supposed to hand it over to me, he somehow managed to drop it into a river. The editors were almost as unhappy as I was—the camera had cost them $12,000.   Unpacking the box, I looked with equal wonder at the small screen on the back of the camera and the sizeable instruction manual that came with it. I took a plane the next morning to Moscow, and another the day after to Tajikistan. This was the jump-off point for reporters heading into northern Afghanistan, where the base of the Northern Alliance was located. I remember still trying to decipher the manual when I arrived in Dushanbe.   Taking the camera in my hands, I was surprised by two things. Firstly, that the operation was almost the same as using a film camera—though why I had been expecting something different, I am not sure—and secondly, that the camera was so big, and heavy. It felt robust, which was a relief, since I had to take it to Afghanistan.   We have become so accustomed to digital cameras and photographs, that it is hard to imagine what a change this signified for photographers like myself working under deadlines in the field. Starting work as a photographer in 1991 in the Soviet Union, I had left the UK with a couple of cameras and a few boxes of film given to me by The Times . Most of the work that I shot in the early years of my career was for slow-burning feature stories or projects—it was also not particularly good, but that is another story—and the few times that I photographed news events were usually when I had been hired by the Reuters Moscow bureau. Travelling on assignment for them was a technologically complicated business. In addition to my camera equipment, I would depart with a big suitcase that contained a Hasselblad film scanner as well as chemicals and canisters for processing film. Since colour film needed to be developed at 38 degrees Celsius, usually in some cramped Soviet-style hotel bathroom, I also had to take a hand-sized electrical heating coil which, happily, also served for making cups of tea. At the time, it all felt like a perfectly normal way to go about sending photographs from the road but, looking back, it seems nothing other than a huge palaver. So when I could see this image appear immediately on the back of the camera, it was naturally an enormous revelation. I ended up spending three months in Afghanistan in late 2001, starting from the town of Khwaja Bahauddin in the north-east, where Ahmad Shah Massoud, the Northern Alliance commander had been killed, before moving through Kunduz, Mazar-i-Sharif, Herat, and finally flying to Kabul. Without that digital camera, it would have been all but impossible to have worked there for a daily newspaper.   Of course, every war is covered in a different way, depending on access to the battlefield and the country where it is taking place. A close friend of mine and neighbour from London, Horst Faas, was the legendary head of the Associated Press photo operation during the Vietnam War, and both a great photographer and a great editor. He recounted how photographers like himself could head to the military airport in Saigon and hitch a ride to the front on almost any helicopter. Because the roads outside of the city were under constant attack, it was the safest as well as the fastest way to travel. This was a time when the US military was still very open with the press—a legacy of goodwill that remained from positive coverage during World War II and the Korean War—and not at all comparable to the controlled access of today’s embedded journalists. Generally, after a day or two outside of Saigon, he would come back to the city, have his films processed, edited and the photographs sent on the wire.   Afghanistan was a very different proposition, and being digitally connected was not always so simple. At that time most villages in Afghanistan were off the grid, meaning that the only way to have electricity was to possess a generator. But to have a generator work for six hours or more a day required good petrol that wasn’t watered down with water (as it often was to make an easy profit). Not only did one need to power up the camera batteries and computer, one also needed to maintain a constant charge to a satellite modem and telephone in order to transmit the digital images. To complicate matters, the speed with which it was possible to send images depended enormously on the specifications of your satellite phone. I had one rated at 2,400 baud per minute, which was slow even by 2001 standards and laughable by today’s. On average it took 20 minutes to send a 300-kilobyte image—one that is only a fraction of the size of those taken on a modern mobile phone. To the frustration of my editors in New York, on any given day I was rarely able to send more than five photographs.   Then there were the unexpected technical problems that arrived with a digital camera. Specks of fine dust would constantly and infuriatingly find their way onto the receptors of the camera’s matrix, causing the photographs to appear as though they had drops of water on their surface. I remember looking at the instruction manual to figure out how to lift up the shutter to access the matrix, attempting to remove the particles with a soft brush and the delicacy of a Renaissance painter. I had to repeat the process every couple of days, knowing that one false move could damage the matrix and effectively mark the end of my assignment.   On a far deeper and more fundamental level, there came all the ethical issues that evolved from the digital source itself, in particular the temptations that Photoshop, the primary software tool used by photographers to edit images, could offer. Mercifully or not, I have never been very adept at the post-production of images. In my student days ,when I used to print photographs in a darkroom, the results were always very simple, without much toning or dodging and burning. I never had the patience to learn the delicate techniques that the darkroom demanded, but I also understood that whenever I gave a negative to a printer the photograph was transformed. The style might have been darker or lighter, or simply more sophisticated, but it nonetheless appeared, to my eye, to have a different feeling. In most cases this was probably little more than a question of nuance and taste, and a far cry from the intentional manipulation that had existed in places like the Soviet Union, where commissars and generals, who had fallen out of favour or worse with the Kremlin, would be airbrushed out of official images. Those kinds of change required serious know-how and technique. The troubling brilliance of Photoshop lay in the fact that adjustments, such as cloning pixels, could be done with ease.   These concerns weighed on me from the very beginning. Previously, I had worked with digital images that had been scanned from negatives, but when I started dealing with ones created by a digital camera in Afghanistan, I set myself a limit of not spending more than a minute on a single photograph. I would make sure that the image was correctly exposed and the colour precisely rendered if the camera’s white balance had gone haywire, as often happened with the early digital cameras. My discipline was aided by the fact that I was, and still am, digitally incapable of moving heads from one person to another. Nonetheless, I understood that even dedicated and experienced photojournalists could, in the heat of the moment, yield to the temptation. Two years later, when I was travelling to Baghdad with the Allied invasion force, I heard of a photographer from the Los Angeles Times , Brian Walski, who combined two images showing British troops directing Iraqi civilians outside of Basra in order to make a stronger picture. As soon as the photograph was recognised as being manipulated, he was unceremoniously fired. Today, it is rare that a serious newspaper will encounter such a blatant attempt to change a journalistic image, but the prevalence of minor manipulation remains a problem within the photographic community. When my former Director of Photography at The New York Times , Michelle McNally, was chairwoman of the jury for the 2015 World Press Photo contest, the most important competition for photojournalists worldwide, she stated that ‘20 percent of the photographers entering the penultimate round—where images are considered for the top three awards—were disqualified after technicians compared the entries against the unprocessed RAW files.’   This debate arising at the core of photojournalism stems, in many ways, from the lack of a formal code of conduct and ethics. The manner in which a photojournalist behaves both in the field and afterwards during the editorial process remains, very much, a question of personal choice. On the ground, photojournalists have always had to carefully weigh the issues of proximity to a subject and bearing witness to them against being intrusive. Robert Capa’s mantra, that if a photograph wasn’t good enough one wasn’t close enough, has remained a constant whisper in every war photographer’s ear. The intrinsic choices of how to frame a scene demand rigourous visual, journalistic, and ethical judgments. While for most photojournalists it is a process that is generally instinctive, it is nonetheless one that needs to be permanently engaged.   The move to digital cameras also altered traditional photojournalistic practices in other ways, and one significant change was the way in which the editorial process shifted and became increasingly a role for the photographer. Previously, nearly all the important work I had done for The New York Times  and other news magazines had been sent unseen to the photo-editor in charge of the shoot. I remember being based in Kiev and then Moscow, and constantly searching for friends to carry bags of unprocessed films to Paris, London, or New York, which were then picked up by couriers at the airport. Both the initial selection of images and those intended for publication were left entirely in the hands of the editors. In the digital age, it became up to the photographer to edit his or her own work, leaving only the final choice of images for publication to the photo-editor. It was an empowering but weighty responsibility. Editing images is a far more complex process than might be imagined. Not only does one need to judge the journalistic and artistic merits of a photograph, but the process requires enough emotional distance to let one be sure of one’s decisions. Often, at the end of a long, hard day on the frontline, I was very far from being in the right frame of mind to be balanced and dispassionate about the photographs I had just taken and the scenes that I had witnessed.   The digital camera also changed the manner of the creative process. Using films, it was self-evident that there were only 36 frames for a 35mm camera or 12 for a medium format one, but that was, nonetheless, a natural brake on the way that I photographed. This gave a more measured manner to shooting, and one could almost visualise the images taking their place on the contact sheet. Each frame had to show a noticeable, if incremental, difference, rather than the imperceptible ones that occur with the endless space that a digital camera offers. Of course, in the early days, the first versions of digital cameras did have some technical limitations: the cameras themselves were less powerful, the writing speed of the images to the compact flash cards was slow, and the files were small and of poor quality. A little less than ten years later, I would photograph the royal marriage of William and Kate, and in the 15 minutes or so that they stood alongside the Royal Family on the balcony of Buckingham Palace I took over 1,000 frames. The idea of shooting 25 rolls of film during that length of time seems absurd, but the arrival of the digital camera fundamentally changed the way in which photojournalists looked at and captured what was in front of them.   Above all—and the revolution that I had not foreseen that day in Rome—was the freedom that a digital camera gave me to work in the most remote places imaginable. Once the Northern Alliance began their attack on the Taliban and the front began to move, often on a daily basis, my colleague Dexter Filkins—now a journalist with The   New Yorker —and I had to move with it. Creating a mobile bureau was not so much a choice as a necessity. So we hired a driver with a Toyota pick-up truck, and bought a set of mattresses, a generator, and jerry cans to carry petrol. Whenever we arrived in a new village or town, we would rent a hut in someone’s yard to work from and sleep in. To have used analogue cameras and met a daily news deadline would have been unimaginable, so the Nikon D1H camera in my hands was nothing less than a liberation.   In the 20 years since, digital technology has continued its visual revolution for the public at large. As the cost of cameras has gone down, and the quality of photographs taken on mobile phones has continued to improve, so every one of us has effectively become a photographer. The manner in which we document our daily lives has rarely been so incessant and ubiquitous. We live in a world increasingly saturated with images and so, perhaps, we question their place and value. As the power and capabilities of digital photography become ever greater, so with them grow the boundaries of its possibilities both for creation and manipulation. Soon, wars will be photographed by drone cameras, with deepfake images impossible to distinguish from real ones. Just as, 20 years ago, I sat unwittingly on the cusp of a change that would bring a new era for war reporting in particular and for photojournalism in general, so today the incessant march of technology has brought us to the edge again. More than ever, it will be dependent on the desire of each individual photographer to capture the truth with honesty and courage to show and explain the world that we live in. James Hill   James Hill is a contract photographer for The New York Times . After studying History at Oriel College, Oxford, and Photojournalism at the London College of Printing, he began his career in the Soviet Union in 1991. His work, much of it spent in conflict zones across the Middle East and the former Soviet Union, has garnered multiple awards, including the Pulitzer Prize, the World Press Photo, and the Visa d’Or. He is currently based in Paris.

1   To become an administrative official in imperial China necessitated following a burdensome path from an early age. To begin with, a student needed to familiarise himself (being born male was a prerequisite) with the classical canon of Confucian philosophy, history, and poetry, encompassing some 400,000 characters. Mastery of the source material was then to be demonstrated during a series of increasingly selective examinations, beginning locally and eventually reaching the imperial level before proceeding to the final palace exam, conducted under the eyes of the emperor himself.[1] Those who succeeded became scholar-officials and were guaranteed lives of wide-reaching influence, material comfort, and social respect among the imperial ruling class.   One aspiring student seeking a place among the elect during the late days of the last imperial dynasty was Hong Xiuquan. Born in 1814 as the son of a moderately prosperous farmer, he showed enough talent that his family made the necessary financial sacrifices to let him undertake further study. After intensive learning in primary school, Hong took the local examination and placed first. Enthralled by this early success, he continued studying in hopes of a great career. Eventually the talented youth attempted the imperial examination—and failed.   Returning to farm work, he continued to hope and study. After still more years of toiling, he failed again. While taking the examination for a third time, he suffered a nervous breakdown during which he came to believe himself to be the son of God. After a fourth and final failure, Hong finally recognised the God of his vision as the Christian God of whom the pamphlets of Christian missionaries told. He finally understood the degradation of idolatrous China and his own mission to preach as a brother of Jesus Christ. Travelling the country he gathered followers. Within ten years he had proclaimed the ‘Heavenly Kingdom’ (‘ Taiping ’) and begun a rebellion that would last for years with a death toll in the millions. Before the rebellion was violently squashed in 1846, Hong had just enough time to implement his own version of the examination system—only with a Christian canon instead of a Confucian one, and with himself on top.   2   Today, in another declining empire, no single exam decides the career of aspirant youngsters. A person of the same calibre as Hong might instead follow the arduous path of admission to selective elementary school, boarding school, outstanding A levels and gap year, and then dreaded university admission to inevitably wind up at an international elite university like Cambridge, where this journal originated. Here the ambitious fresher will seek to distinguish themselves intellectually or socially. They might join a well-connected club like the Cambridge Union, seek professional openings, or join a political party. If they are more finely minded they will try their hand at student writing. They might even found a journal themselves, not entirely unlike this one.   It is one of the curious observations to be made at Cambridge these days that the number of student-run journals has grown vastly. Where once the Cambridge Quarterly ruled supreme in the highbrow segment, a flush of ‘Review of …’s and other obscurely titled magazines now compete for a meagre market share. This surge does not correspond with a rise in total readership. At any given launch event one is bound to find cheap wine and the same artsy people encountered at the last. The new journals serve primarily as outlet for aspiring intellectual types who are finding it ever more difficult to place their writing in established publications. Life is tough when even a student journal will not have you, though this is a good primer on what awaits any wannabe writer on the journalistic and academic job market. Most students know better and care little. They are here not for high-minded discourse but to achieve good grades and attend careers events.   3   The universities best known for producing the leisure class of Brideshead Revisited fame have become hothouses of striving ambition. Where once a privileged few mingled fashionably, now many toil hard. This development is apparent in the total number of students, which has ballooned to more than 20,000 at Cambridge. It has also left visible traces in the architectural disasters that all too often followed the overextension of colleges previously housing nearer 100 than 1,000 students. But complaining about aesthetic escapades leaves a bitter taste. When the students were fewer, they were also almost exclusively white, male, privately educated at public schools, and exceedingly rich. Without the expansion of higher education beginning in the post-war years, the university would not be as open to grammar-school, female, non-white, and international students.[2]   It is perhaps for this reason that it has become so difficult to talk about having too many graduates. The meritocratic opening has given talent at least some  chance to thrive regardless of origin. Yet with upward mobility for select poor, but no downward mobility for the rich, it gets crowded on top. Critique so far has been reserved for humanities students, whose degrees are more openly educational credentials rather than signifiers of hard skills. Further tuition fee hikes could close the gates of merit again and reduce the number of economically useless humanities graduates burdening the national economy by reintroducing feudal restrictions.   But that misses the point: that there has been a vast increase in graduates of all subjects, of whom fewer than ever find appropriate jobs.[3] Deindustrialisation has left few opportunities in the productive sector. Instead there is increased competition for the last remaining bastions of well-paid white-collar work in Britain’s financialised service economy: law, banking, and consulting. As a result, even finance salaries are stagnating and there is a lawyer glut. The meritocrats of today fail slowly: they have nowhere to go.   4   What connects a newly meritocratic Britain with imperial China? Both share a fundamental societal defect. Acceptance rates to elite universities and jobs are sinking today for the same reasons that the pass rate fell below 1% in Qing-era imperial examinations: there are too many applicants and too few places. After economic growth has peaked and elite selection has ossified, societies produce more aspirant elites through their established institutions than they can accommodate in the ruling class.   Such is the thesis of Peter Turchin, the historian who coined the concept of ‘elite overproduction’. His ideas are finding keen readers increasingly worried about decline. He has been given space in Bloomberg  and inspired a ‘long read’ in The Atlantic  as well a Financial Times  piece titled ‘The real class war is within the rich’.[4] A Soviet émigré zoologist turned prophet of history, Turchin makes for a curious figure. Frowned upon in academia, he has crossed the Rubicon of the discipline: predicting historical dynamics of the future instead of just retracing the movement of the past.   Elite overproduction is one key feature of the demographic analysis by which Turchin wishes to quantify the challenges that mount up as a society ages and is overcome by rivals. In books such as Historical Dynamics: Why States Rise and Fall  (2003), Secular Cycles  (2006), and   more recently Ages of Discord  (2016), Turchin draws an image of social determinism. His theories of long-term patterns in demography seek to apply the precision of the natural sciences to history. But just like Francis Fukuyama, the last public philosopher of history, Turchin seems more like a thinker of the big-picture history of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. In 1992 Fukuyama proclaimed ‘the end of history’ in capitalist and democratic liberalism. Yet while Fukuyama was reading Hegel and finding history’s eschatology in modernity, Turchin seems rather inspired by Oswald Spengler’s The Decline of the West . Turchin’s suggestions of cyclical development   confront us with the question—has history ended yet?   5   Already the resurgence of authoritarianism and great power competition seems to render Fukuyama’s end of history thesis a cruel joke. But Turchin goes further. There is a direction to our historical movement—declining—and there are identifiable causes for this disintegration. After a period of post-war consolidation, Western hegemony is challenged not just from the Far East but also increasingly by internal social unrest. Elite overproduction, for which the late-stage Chinese imperial examination system is such a fitting parable, correlates to social instability. In China, failed candidates would become local teachers for a new generation of students or retreat into ascetic hermitage. But they would remain highly educated, having come close enough to the structures of power to see their functioning, while remaining excluded from them.   Those with the liberty to educate themselves do not integrate well with hierarchical orders. This is a truth well known to realist political philosophers from Hobbes to Machiavelli. No one grasped this better than ancient Chinese legalist thinker Lord Shang, who in opposing the meritocratic Confucianism that would lay the foundation for the later imperial examination system wrote that:   Sophistry and cleverness are an aid to lawlessness; rites and music are symptoms of dissipations and licence; kindness and benevolence are the foster-mother of transgressions; employment and promotion are opportunities for the rapacity of the wicked.[5]   Is it not always members of the disaffected elite who have both the greatest motivation and the means to challenge the existing order? That, in any case, is the explanation most often suggested for the Cambridge Five, the upper-middle-class spies who went on from then-exclusive Cambridge to supply information to the Soviet Union. Bored and ostracised, they did not fit into the ruling class— who could take the bourgeoisie seriously again after dining at high table in Cambridge?—but they did find elite places from which to spy. Elite class traitors are also what the former law student Vladimir Ilyich Ulyanov imagined in his pamphlet ‘What is to be done?’. The working classes need to be instructed into revolt by bourgeois renegades who possessed greater insight into capitalism, he insisted, as he began leading precisely that revolt under the name of ‘Lenin’.   6   One does not need Turchin’s historical prophecies or Spengler’s pessimism to appreciate the usefulness of the concept of elite overproduction. In many ways it is not so very distinct from Thomas Piketty’s empirical work on inequality. Piketty showed in Capital in the Twenty-First Century  (2013) that the rate of capital accumulation   has grown faster than even the highest wages. As a consequence, the outpaced managerial elite, whose wealth and status stem from work, is unable to keep up with those who happen to inherit much greater riches. That is the ‘class war among the rich’: Magic Circle lawyers and City bankers who struggle to keep up in London. More recently, Capital and Ideology  (2019) correlated this economic divergence with   political demography and the emergence of the ‘Brahmin left’. Losing out economically, educated voters (read: the meritocratic elites) throughout the Western world now tend to vote on the left, when historically they were firmly part of the conservative establishment.   This should be no surprise. Revenue streams from the British Empire have ended and the value of the UK’s exports has failed to keep up since the 1970s. Economic growth has been sluggish as we stumble from one economic crisis to the next. Real wages are stagnating, while the cost of housing has risen so sharply that home ownership is now well out of reach for all but the highest-paid percentiles or those who can expect inheritances. Those who are forced to rent pay an ever greater share of their income into the pockets of buy-to-let landlords. This culminates in substantial generational inequality, so that for the first time in recent history those in the new generation will be materially worse off than their parents. And this does not even take into account the havoc to be wrought by climate change, with which the next generation will pay dearly for the lifestyle of the last. These are easy times to be unhappy, even as a prospective member of the meritocratic elite better off than the rest of the generation.   7   Elite overproduction is here a small part of a greater picture of economic and industrial developments. As the economic pie shrinks and inequality deepens, elite credentials become ever more important while also losing out against culminated financial interests. This is not to say that conflict broods only within the elites—instead, elite conflict is part of an increasing rift. Intra-elite competition is, then, not so much the canary in the coalmine as the very last stop before chaos. The good people of Workington have learnt to expect little. But if even the Cambridge overachievers struggle, trouble is inbound.   Will the overproduced elites of the new generation turn to unrest, with Oxbridge graduates leading the masses? So far, the tradition of British schooling continues to succeed in leaving its products docile and removed from social action. Instead, it is the establishment upper-class scions on the right who have forged an alliance with some of the left-behind masses: Trump, the Brexiteers, the Oxford graduate Viktor Orbán. By themselves, surplus elites produce little but increasingly shrill newspaper columns.   Elite overproduction and competition are but snapshots of larger conflicts. Still, they incentivise us to reconsider the sort of bold historical thinking necessary to understand such challenges. It is a tautology that a society which produces conflict is not peaceful, but the statement bears repeating. When even the very best have to fear for their place, something is off. Either the Enlightenment promise of education and opportunity for all will be fulfilled and we build a society that accommodates for it, or feudal limitations for the majority will return. Talking openly about our elites highlights this urgency. Unless taken seriously, Turchin’s historical theories may prove to be right, and we may tumble into the end of Western civilisation as we know it, led by some disappointed meritocrat who has failed their final examinations.[6]   Instead, give the young meritocratic elite opportunities to address the challenges of our time—from stagnation and climate change to that other great meritocratic nation in the East, we have enough issues that deserve attention. Give the aspiring elite something to plough their hubris into. Something good might come out of it. At the very least, keep them busy and buy their new journal. Jakob Gomolka   Jakob Gomolka read Human, Social, and Political Sciences at Cambridge before pursuing an MPhil there in Political Thought and Intellectual History. He is currently studying Chinese Philosophy at Fudan University, Shanghai. [1] The content, number, and order of examinations of course varied throughout history. Nonetheless, an examination system existed continuously in its open, meritocratic form from at least from the tenth-century Song dynasty to its abolition in 1905 under the Qing dynasty. [2] This is a Pyrrhic victory indeed. About half of undergraduates at Cambridge and Oxford are still privately educated, and the other half are still unrepresentatively middle- and upper-class. Leaving the EU, meanwhile, will cause ever more international students to be outpriced, with only the super-rich being able to afford the fees three times as high as home fees. [3] Higher education participation rates have increased from below 5% in the 1940s to almost 40% of each new cohort today. At the same time, GDP growth has contracted, and the UK has slipped from being the third-largest exporter nation, in 1970, to being the sixth-largest, in 2019. [4] Peter Turchin, ‘Blame Rich, Overeducated Elites as Society Frays’ ( Bloomberg , 12 November 2016) < https://www.bloomberg.com/opinion/articles/2016-11-12/blame-rich-overeducated-elites-as-society-frays >; Janan Ganesh, ‘The real class war is within the rich’ Financial Times  (London, 1 December 2020) < https://www.ft.com/content/0bf03db8-c61b-4222-8c76-4fb23988ec13 >; Graeme Wood, ‘The next decade could be even worse’ ( The Atlantic , December 2020) < https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2020/12/can-history-predict-future/616993/ > all accessed 1 March 2021. [5] Shang Yang, The Book of Lord Shang . [6] Art school rejects are of particularly dangerous character, one hears.

Identity drives human agency. Who we consider ourselves and the groups we are part of determines the choices we make. This principle is most evident in the political context of democratic elections. Failure to vote in line with rational interests, such as economic gain, does not occur because people do not understand what is best for themselves, but because rational interests are secondary. People vote for their primary interests, but what these primary interests are has been misunderstood. Understanding that identity drives decision-making is essential to understanding choices made. Two emotive responses determine which of the plethora of identities an individual holds has the greatest salience and therefore is acted upon. Titled colloquially for ease, the first of these emotional responses is love : what aspect of ourselves, and which group membership, is most highly valued. Completing the pairing is fear : which identity is perceived to be under the greatest threat. Together these determine the priority given to the multiple identities held by each person. It is also important to note that, in this, perception is reality. Who we consider ourselves and the groups we are part of to be, as well as any threats, are determined by perception. Choices are made based on what reality is believed to be, regardless of whether this perception is accurate or not. Therefore, perceptions of identity and circumstance are the most important factors in human agency, past, present, and future.   This paper seeks to understand the roots of political polarisation in the United States; division rooted in a perception of what is considered to be America and American. In other words: what and who is meant by the opening line of The Constitution, which states ‘We the People of the United States’? Fear amongst an influential proportion of the electorate, over the loss of their nation and who they are, to those not considered to be equally entitled or American, has both driven and enabled political polarisation within the United States. Whilst both political parties (Democrats and Republicans) and traditional ideological groups (liberalism and conservatism) have shifted further away from each other,[1] it is from the ‘right’ that the extremities of polarisation have emerged.[2] It is amongst the adherents of what I term the ‘conservative national identity’ that fear over the loss of ‘America’ is prevalent. The nomination of Donald Trump and subsequent loyalty to him as President is prime evidence for this identity at work and for the power that its adherents possess. Other groups may hold similar sentiments, but they are not in comparable positions of influence and therefore cannot drive and enable polarisation on the scale seen today. This paper is divided into three broad sections: first, highlighting the key components of the conservative national identity; second, exploring how the adherents of this identity enabled and drove political polarisation; and third, briefly considering the identity’s future. Throughout, it argues that human agency is fundamentally driven by identity, to which all else is subservient. In the case of America, choices that have resulted in polarisation stem from a conservative national identity, the adherents of which have been driven by a fear for what they love.   The conservative national identity   Uniting the adherents of the conservative national identity is a fear of the changes they perceive to have occurred to the country they love. ‘Make America Great Again’ perfectly encapsulates the sentiment of the conservative national identity. It places the issue of contention (‘America’) front and centre, whilst appealing to those who identify with it (‘Great’). The salience of this identity, what is it to be American and what is meant by America, is further increased by evoking a sense of loss (‘Again’). Importantly for electoral appeal, it combines this sense of loss with the hope of salvation (‘Make’). In all, it increases the salience of an identity whilst capitalizing on it. ‘Take Back Control’ had the same effect during the 2016 EU referendum in the UK. Both of these slogans directly appealed to powerful notions of identity that had remained largely hidden from view. Donald Trump was the lightning rod for this group. He allowed its members to feel morally righteous and generally superior to those they considered ‘other’ or beneath them,[3] affirming what they already felt: that they were the true Americans.   Race  plays a key, if subtle and coded, role in informing and motivating the conservative national identity. Race has defined America and American identity. It has defined the societal structure and the distribution of benefits in the US since its inception.[4] Yet perceived changes to the racial hierarchy have induced ‘status anxiety’[5] amongst some elements of white America. Race no longer provides a backstop to descending the social hierarchy.[6] The growing belief that the push for equal rights has ’gone too far’[7] reflects the fear created by the erosion of white entitlement. This anxiety is most strongly felt by white working-class Americans, who are increasingly seeing their social and political power decrease[8] to the benefit of those they do not perceive to be ‘real Americans’.[9] There is evidence that the strength with which a person identifies as American goes hand in hand with the exclusion of minorities from their ideal of America.[10] It is the perception that ‘minority groups are, in some way, taking their country away’[11] that has driven a proportion of the American electorate to mobilise and polarise. For many, Barack Obama’s 2008 election was a manifestation of these changes they feared.[12] It is clear that the adherents of the conservative national identity are not merely concerned with maintaining status and power, but are also, perhaps more importantly, reacting against those perceived to be gaining status and power within America—with whom they do not identify and consequently distrust.   Religion  is still prominent in American politics. Yet those who ‘vote for candidates that put the Bible where it belongs’[13] are all motivated by the same emotive responses as the conservative national identity. What they perceive to be America and American is under threat. If polarisation solely stemmed from religious observance, then a wider coalition, particularly as Christianity is increasingly diverse,[14] would be expected. Yet it is amongst white evangelicals that conservative standpoints and Republican partisanship have been adopted.[15] African Americans who regularly attend religious services vote overwhelmingly for Democratic candidates.[16] Polarising issues that are seemingly based upon religious morality, such as abortion or homosexuality, are made subject to the larger conservative national identity. Social and religious conservatism are closely linked to racial attitudes.[17] It is because of this that similarly religiously observant groups, such as African Americans, do not en masse support candidates that espouse these positions. Polarisations supposedly rooted in issues of morality are expressed more explicitly than those concerned with race. This is because the ‘religious’ aspects are more acceptable to the conservative national identity.   Notions of gender, particularly of masculinity , also have a place in the conservative national identity. Trump, the emblem of this identity, consistently enjoys higher support amongst men across all ethnic groups.[18] Robert Self points to efforts in the 1970s to change traditional gender roles as the seminal moment for polarisation.[19] Perceived threats to the traditional dynamic of men being breadwinners have spurred people into action, in the same manner as perceived racial and moral changes. It is the unity in fear for what they consider America and American that has brought these facets together to form the conservative national identity.   Economic insecurity  has catalysed this fear. The growing ‘wait for the American Dream’[20] has made tangible these feelings of decline, loss, and marginalisation. Amid this widespread economic insecurity,[21] the government is viewed as aiding ‘line cutters’[22] over the adherents of the conservative national identity.[23] Yet ‘honour’[24] prevents them from accepting the government aid available. Accepting such support would be tantamount to confessing their fall from grace. The government is therefore perceived as the agent of the very change they fear. Simultaneously, as The Dream has become increasingly unattainable, the importance of ‘being an American’ has become greater.[25] Those who consider themselves to be losing ‘their country’ are the same as those for whom identifying with it is increasingly important.   Enablers and drivers of political polarisation   Because of the perception that the state is no longer benefiting people like them[26] but benefiting undeserving line cutters,[27] distrust of the federal government has grown[28] amongst the adherents of the conservative national identity. In consequence, so has the desire to see its role lessen.[29] This opposition to government intervention is the bond between the various constituents of the Republican Party. The success of any constituent in reducing the scope of government powers is perceived as beneficial to all. It is through groups operating on this premise that political polarisation has been enabled. Political and economic elites and adherents of the conservative national identity can openly pursue their interests without compromising their support from the others.   By letting conservative political and economic elite groups forgo moderation and compromise when pursuing their interests, the adherents of the conservative national identity have enabled  political polarisation. Such unbridled and intransigent pursuit of self-interest is supported because of its perceived benefit: reducing the role of the government. Motivating the adherents of the conservative national identity is the perception that the government is responsible for the changes they oppose. Elites pursuing such policies not only gain support but through their success create a vicious cycle. As the role of the government is reduced, through for example loosening environmental or financial regulation, greater tangible insecurity is created. When experienced, this insecurity compounds the perception amongst adherents of the conservative national identity that change is occurring that threatens their way of life, in turn making this identity even more prominent.[30] Because they place blame for this change on the government, they continue to seek to reduce its role, starting the cycle over again. Without such a point of confluence around opposition to big government, political polarisation would not have been able to occur to the extent seen today. Elite groups would not be able to forsake moderation in favour of polarising self-interest.[31] Nor would the accomplishment of these interests have resulted in entrenched electoral support.   The conservative national identity has driven  polarisation within the Republican Party, thereby within the political system as a whole, because its adherents are the predominant electoral group at the Party’s primaries. Following democratisation of the processes by which Republican nominees for elected positions are selected, power has shifted from party bosses to these ‘primary electorates’. Those seeking nomination are therefore no longer selected for their perceived appeal to the average voter,[32] but on their actual appeal to this more polarised base.[33] Candidates must either reflect or placate this more engaged and impassioned group. Ironically, the Democratic party has a less democratic nomination process which largely prevents this,[34] as does the diversity of its members.[35] The strict two-party system also polarises the primary electorate. Extreme groups that in other countries would have a separate political party[36] are more likely to be engaged in the political process. They are therefore less easily rejected and more able to wield disproportionate influence. Donald Trump’s nomination for President is the most obvious example of this. Other aspects of the Republican Party enable this polarisation. Partisan identity is increasingly important.[37] In recognition of the perceived mutual benefit from electoral success, those who do not adhere to the conservative national identity continue to support the party that its adherents control. Trump’s victory in the 2016 presidential election was due in no small part to the fact that ‘he was the Republican nominee’.[38] The conservative national identity can drive political polarisation on a large scale because of its position of power within the primary electorate of the Republican Party, as well as the continued support of other factions within the party.   Attempts to reduce polarisation through a reform of the Republican Party have failed or not been attempted for two reasons. First, the party has not experienced a loss of political power serious enough to prompt such a reform.[39] Thanks in large part to the federal structure, Republicans have multiple avenues through which power can be acquired and maintained, making the loss of power less absolute than in other democratic systems such as the UK. Republicans also benefit from the non-majoritarian nature of the US political system. In presidential elections ‘in which they narrowly lose the popular vote’, the Republican nominee should be expected to win 65% of the time.[40] Second, there is little incentive for elite groups in the party to pursue reform. Self-serving political and economic elites can openly pursue their interests in collaboration with the adherents of the conservative national identity. Both sets continue to support each other as long as there is perceived mutual benefit. Seemingly inconsistent policies put forward by Republicans do not matter to these groups as long as they do not encroach upon their primary interests, preserving what they consider to be America and American. In other words, why fix it if it works for you? Rather than attempting to contain or reverse the influence of this polarised group, Republicans have sought to accentuate its electoral power through voter suppression and gerrymandering.   The future of the conservative national identity   It is overly optimistic to assume that the defeat of Trump marks the end of the conservative national identity’s power, although hopefully, it marks the passing of its zenith. There are four broad ways through which the polarising power of this group may be reduced. Each of the points outlined below deserves further consideration, but this initial overview should provide a starting point.   1. Constructing an alternative national identity   Providing an alternative national identity means this conservative variation is no longer the sole point of reference for the all-important American narrative. This conservative notion of what is America and American will continue to define the American national identity as a whole if unchallenged. There are two forms an alternative national identity can take. Either, a negative/reactionist national identity, one that relies upon an ‘other’ against which an identity can be defined. Easy to construct, its exclusionary nature could have serious implications when applied to a democratic multi-ethnic-cultural society. Or, a positive/proactive  national identity, one that defines itself by what it ‘is’ not what it ‘is not’. Although significantly harder to construct, the principles it may be based upon already exist (the equal right to ‘life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness’).   2. Reducing the prominence of identity   Identity is the fundamental omnipresent driver of human agency, but circumstances can act as catalysts for its prominence, or the polarising nature of its different aspects. Removing these catalysts, the most obvious being economic insecurity, would dampen the extreme polarisation currently seen.   3. Reducing the power held by polarising groups   This may occur through a structural shift  in the distribution of political power. An increasingly democratised political system, free of partisan manipulations, would offer such a structural change, but would also face significant political obstacles. An alternative is a societal shift  in the acceptance of these groups and their beliefs. Either, it is perceived that insufficient mutual benefit is derived from the success of these polarising elements, thereby making support or toleration no longer worthwhile. Or, this polarising expression of national identity reaches such a point of extremism that it threatens the identities of those that support or tolerate it. This may already have started occurring in light of the storming of the Capitol on 6 January 2021.   4. Waiting it out   Demographic shifts and the growing political power of historically marginalised groups mean it is only a matter of time before adherents of the conservative national identity become such a minority that even the non-majoritarian political system can no longer afford them power. However, this strategy is not as well founded as popularly believed.[41] Furthermore, the danger of ‘waiting it out’ emerges when considering how much damage will be wrought to the nation if polarising and exclusive identities continue to define it.   Conclusion   The conservative national identity is founded on the perception that what is considered to be America and American is under threat. Opposition to changes in racial, moral, and gender-based hierarchies has been exacerbated by economic insecurity. Distrust of the government and consequent desire to see it curtailed have provided the basis for a mutually beneficial alliance between the constituent parts of the Republican Party. Afforded disproportionate power by the political system, the adherents of the conservative national identity have enabled Republican economic and political elites to engage in an uncompromising and polarising pursuit of self-interest. In turn, they have found themselves in the driver’s seat of the party, steering it to further extremism. Donald Trump exemplified the power this group held, just as the Republican Party’s support for him exemplified the reluctance of others to constrain polarisation in light of mutual benefit. Resolution and reconciliation require the recognition that it is not merely policy that divides America, but the very identity of people as Americans. Who is meant by ‘We the People’ remains highly contentious. Christopher George   Christopher George is a first-year undergraduate in History at Wolfson College, Cambridge. He previously spent a year as a visiting student at UC Berkeley focussing on Political Economy and Public Policy. [1] Shanto Iyengar, Gaurav Sood, and Yphtach Lelkes, ‘Affect, Not Ideology: A Social Identity Perspective On Polarisation’ (2012) 76(3) Public Opinion Quarterly 405, 413. [2] Arlie Russell Hochschild, Strangers In Their Own Land: Anger And Mourning On The American Right  (The New Press 2016) 7. [3] ibid 228. [4] Joel Aberbach, Understanding Contemporary American Conservatism  (Routledge 2017) 121. [5] Steven Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt, How Democracies Die  (Broadway Books 2018) 173. [6] Matthew Desmond, ‘In Order To Understand The Brutality Of American Capitalism, You Have To Start On The Plantation’ The New York Times   Magazine: 1619 Project  (14 August 2019). [7] Aberbach (n 4) 68. [8] EJ Dionne Jr, Norman J Ornstein, and Thomas E Mann, One Nation After Trump: A Guide For The Perplexed, The Disillusioned, The Desperate, And The Not-Yet Deported  (St Martin’s Press 2017) 26. [9] Levitsky and Ziblatt (n 5) 174. [10] Thierry Devos and Mahzarin R Banaji, ‘American = White?’ (2005) 88 Journal of Personality and Social Psychology 447, 463. [11] Aberbach (n 4) 89. [12] ibid 90. [13] Hochschild (n 2) 47. [14] Clem Brooks and Jeff Manza, ‘A Great Divide? Religion And Political Change In US National Elections, 1972–2000’ (2004) 45 The Sociological Quarterly 421, 450. [15] Janelle S Wong, ‘Race, Evangelicals And Immigration’ (2019) 17 The Forum 403, 408. [16] EJ Dionne Jr, ‘Polarised By God? American Politic And The Religious Divide’ in Pietro Niovla and David Brady (eds), Red And Blue Nation? Characteristics And Causes Of American’s Polarised Politics (Brookings   Institution Press 2006) 185. [17] Aberbach (n 4) 121. [18] Erin B Logan, ‘A “man’s man”: Why some Black men are drawn to Trump’s toxic masculinity’ Los Angeles Times  (28 October 2020). [19] Robert O Self, All In The Family: The Realignment Of American Democracy Since The 1960s  (Hill and Wang 2012) 338. [20] Hochschild (n 2) 151. [21] Robert Reich, Saving Capitalism: For The Many, Not The Few  (Icon Books Ltd 2016) [22] Hochschild (n 2) 151. [23] ibid 114. [24] ibid 114. [25] ibid 140. [26] Katherine J Cramer, The Politics Of Resentment: Rural Consciousness In Wisconsin And The Rise Of Scott Walker  (University of Chicago Press   2016) 146. [27] Hochschild (n 2) 61. [28] Cramer (n 26) 152. [29] Aberbach (n 4) 43. [30] Hochschild (n 2) 140. [31] Aberbach (n 4) 77. [32] Levitsky and Ziblatt (n 5) 51. [33] Morris P Fiorina and Matthew S Levendusky, ‘Disconnected: The Political Class Versus The People’ in Niovla and Brady (n 16) 71. [34] Levitsky and Ziblatt (n 5) 51. [35] Joel Aberbach, ‘The Future Of The American Right: Evidence and Questions from the Bush Years’ in Joel Aberbach and Gillian Peele (eds), Crisis Of Conservatism? The Republican Party, The Conservative Movement, & American Politics After Bush  (Oxford University Press 2011) 47. [36] Aberbach (n 4) 112. [37] Dionne, Ornstein, and Mann (n 8) 32. [38] ibid 32. [39] Aberbach (n 4) 113. [40] Ezra Klein, ‘Why Democrats Still Have To Appeal To The Center, But Republicans Don’t’ The New York Times  (New York, 24 January 2020) < https://www.nytimes.com/2020/01/24/opinion/sunday/democrats-republicans-polarization.html > accessed 1 March 2021. [41] Thomas B Edsall, ‘Democrats Are Anxious About 2022 — and 2024’ The New York Times (New York, 10 March 2021). < https://www.nytimes.com/2021/03/10/opinion/democratic-voters-anxieties.html > accessed 1 March 2021.

Introduction   Webster’s Dictionary  defines culture as ‘the integrated pattern of human knowledge, belief and behaviour that depends on the capacity for learning and transmitting knowledge to succeeding generations’.[1] Culture, often understood as the sum of artistic creation, is the sum of knowledge of a society and things other than art form an integral part of it, notably science. To exclude the world view of science from culture is as myopic as eliminating the artistic vision from knowledge. The need to create reality or realities from environmental stimuli—all of which are representations and therefore virtual products of our imagination—is fundamental to mankind. It is a form of knowing, attempting to understand, and art and science even in their most primitive earlier forms codified and transmitted it from generation to generation. This process is the same as building models, constructing some limited form or expression of reality from received givens, and making mental pictures from what is perceived by projecting patterns on those givens. We interpret to survive; the need to know is fundamental to life and an expression of it.   Artists reveal the evolution of the psychological environment of their era, often anticipating the changes coming in society. The psychological climate of a place or a time is a very real fact of society and one observable by others as well as the artist, but of particular concern to the artist because it is his or her domain. The physicist Werner Heisenberg described it: ‘The spirit of a time is probably a fact as objective as any fact in natural science, and this spirit brings out certain features of the world which are even independent of time and are in this sense eternal. The artist tries by his work to make these features understandable … The two processes, that of science and that of art, are not very different. Both science and art form in the course of the centuries a human language by which we can speak about the more remote parts of reality’.[2] This again can be called exploring and building a visual space, the continued remodeling of humanity’s imaginary space according to how fundamental human values are expressed in a particular period.   The role of the artist, as the scientist, is thus that of a researcher. At least it has become so in the twentieth century. The artist is a kind of social researcher applying his or her creative intuition to the condition of man in order to discover, as another scientific great of our era, Niels Bohr, described it, ‘the relations between the manifold aspects of our experience’.[3] Through their work artists comment and critique, judge and debate, evaluate the human condition—the analysis of man in his environment from the interior of the individual creator. This is the artist’s role within reality as defined by another physicist, John Wheeler, student of Niels Bohr, who said that ‘reality is the joint product of those who communicate’,[4] a view very much influenced by the Copenhagen School of Quantum Physics, established by Niels Bohr, and its emphasis on the important role of the observer. The artist is an observer and art is communication and thus an important part of that ‘joint product’, communication from the individual to the collective, that is, the sum of individual realities—culture in its anthropological sense as well as transmission of knowledge.   A second and closely related part of the dynamic in the movement from art to culture is the role of the artist as educator of perception (by Marshall McLuhan’s definition). A person relating to the new propositions of a work of art is in fact going through a change of perception, learning to see differently through the differing set of relations proposed by the artist. This is particularly true in regards to new definitions, systems, functions or technologies that will eventually have an impact on our lives that may not be immediately apparent. The subjectivity of perception furnishes each individual with his own form of measurement and the communication of these different points of view defines reality in the sense that Wheeler has proposed, of social convention.   Marcel Duchamp seemed to be anticipating or moving parallel with the scientific paradigm changes in almost everything he did. He dealt intimately with art as process more directly than many other artists. Art is process, first in the act of creation and then in the acts of appreciation and interpretation. The observer forms part of the indispensable interactivity that is art. Duchamp regarded a work of art as having two poles, the artist and the spectator, each equally participating in the definition of a work.   What model of reality is emerging from those points of departure, from the artistic experimentation of the twentieth century? What is the paradigm that art and science are proposing? What will the new visual space of our culture look like? In response to those questions, I think we can honestly say that the artistic and scientific revolutions of the past century are far from finished. The model or models they will eventually propose are still in development but becoming more evident. When that space is finally defined it will provide the schema of how we operate. We have already seen some of the clues coming from both art and science as to what it might look like. That space, like the prior space of the Italian Renaissance, will be our visual space, our communication space, an organisational space, the space of how we imagine reality. It has been anticipated by artists since the Impressionists, defined by science starting with the Theories of Relativity and Quantum Physics, and made habitable by artists again during the course of the century as it has gradually been integrated into our cultural consciousness.   Models as visual space   If we accept the parallel between art and science as two sources of knowlege, looking at them as an ensemble can provide us with complementary information. The models of reality proposed are from radically different approaches. Science is concerned with building concepts from observed facts and artists work from individual concepts to create new artefacts. Science strives to create a model of reality that is all encompassing and objectively arrived at and, eventually, socially acceptable in the sense that society agrees with the proposition and accepts the model as real. Art is quite different in that the reality expressed is uniquely that of the artist, and in it one hopes to see something universal. The role of art is to construct individual models of reality, the artist’s reality, and the symbolic language for communicating it. Each work is like a fragment of a broken holographic plate. Each shard of glass contains the whole object—the worldview of the artist. Each piece of the plate is distinct in itself but each contains the entire image and not a fragment of it. That image/object is the artist and his or her vision, filtering, funneling, concentrating what he or she has pulled from the surrounding world—a personal mythology or ideology. In contrast, science appears more monolithic than art and the scientist more anonymous than the artist. In reality, both must be regarded as an ensemble in order to understand where the search for understanding is taking us and what kind of model is presented by that combined whole.   We can understand this process by imagining the worldview of a society as a visual space, a space in which we see how things work. All of us carry such a vision in our heads. It is a product of our culture and, in that sense, the visual space is a shared space. We understand the world—and by extension the universe—to be operating in a particular fashion and know how we fit into it. This can be a very primitive image, one based on numerous different sources of so-called knowledge. It can be the mythology of early man formed into what we can recognise as a religion. It can be based on scientific information that is later proved to be false. Exchanging and accepting as correct those pictures, those conclusions, is another way of defining culture.   Just as individuals need to make sense out of perceptual information in order to act and survive, by communication they exchange concepts allowing them to live together. Each society constantly recreates itself through communication by continually redefining its collective reality, its culture, its shared space. The sum of our different communication possibilities, all of the ways we converse and exchange information—word of mouth, newspapers, radio, television, cinema, and now the net—form a space in which we see ourselves reflected. It is from that communication space that we learn how to act toward others, where new members learn what society proposes, and where the unspoken rules of society are demonstrated. The domination of this space by the media, and now social media, is basically a twentieth-century phenomenon which we are now finally beginning to understand can have very negative consequences. These are issues which need to be addressed. The communication space, which is very real, is fundamental to how our society operates. What creates and recreates that space is important to how we continue to function, particularly at a time when so much change is happening.   Another way of understanding the space is to consider it as a paradigm, a set of rules governing how things work. It is thus an organisational space as well. We construct the communication space, the visual expression of the paradigm, as a way of comprehending the world around us. By pretending to understand how it works we develop responses to the model in our own individual or collective actions. We act according to how we think things work. That visual, cultural, organisational space becomes a philosophical and psychological space, a virtual representation of what we know and how we act.   When society changes profoundly, one of the obvious manifestations of that change is a new visual space, a new paradigm. When religion was the means used to define the universe it was normal that art was intimately related to religion. It was the ideology that provided the context for the artist, his psychological and philosophical base for interpreting sensory information. The motivation of art and religion was the same, building a visual space to give meaning to the chaotic mass of information received and provide society with an operational base. This was also true for science, and in certain societies that form of investigation was obliged to reinforce the existing worldview of the dominant ideology rather than set out on its own. But science explains how things work, not why. Culture supplies the ‘why’, and when society pretends that this isn’t the case, it usually means that science has been misappropriated.   When Western civilisation accepted science as the exclusive means of defining the material universe, it was natural that it influenced art to a tremendous degree. First, it was a source of new metaphors, but also many of the artistic discoveries of our century did parallel those of science: space-time, interactivity, observer-created reality—art engaged with this material universe, asking the questions about what it means to us and how we fit into it. Since science was dealing exclusively with the ‘how’, much of that artistic production was attempting to go beyond, looking for the ‘why’. Science may define the world but art transmits a feeling for it, and a sense of how we might fit into it, going well beyond science in often intangible ways. In a society which ceded to science the right to define its reality, the material definition of reality is often all that is asked for. In that case, much of what art proposes can seem mysterious, puzzling, and put-offish, yet intriguing and attractive, because of the series of ‘whys’ it may suggest. Fig 1. Organisation of Graphic Motifs II (Frantisek Kupka 1912–13). Courtesy of the Pudil Family Foundation. Anticipating fractal geometry? Benoit Mandelbrot, the inventor of that geometry, introduced me to this painting as an example of a fractal in art. Coming from video, I recognised it as video feedback, the result of a camera filming itself. What inspired Kupka to paint a discovery in maths and art which came 60-70 years later? Network space: Experimenting with the paradigm   Science, and by extension technology, solves problems. Art creates them. Science answers questions, art poses them. The two circle the central questions of a society in different directions making them seem as opposites when they are not. Every mode of communication has at one of its extremes a form of expression we call art. As it is the densest form of expression, art is often the supreme test of any means of communication. Each work of art contains the entire worldview of the artist and, as such, demands of any means of expression the dimensions necessary to express that. Art questions that communication process to find out what it can say about the human condition in relation to the changed environment caused by the new means of communication. Art is the procedure by which we test a communication system, and by doing so, the reality of the relational context it proposes.   The new technologies of the emerging visual environment have always presented a particular challenge to the artist: to adapt these tools to the process of artistic expression, to define their content, to develop visual languages, to construct the new communication space that will be virtual, international, and interactive. It is the role of the artist to help define that space, to make it livable and a part of contemporary culture. The traditional role of art has been to renew the visual environment, to redefine it for each new era, and through doing so, provide society with models of action. It is what Marshall McLuhan and many others have meant by the education of perception by the artist. Simply put, art is a form of questioning and the interface between the public and art is culture. The media may influence culture profoundly, but not in the same sense as art and, unfortunately not in the sense of culture suggested earlier—the integrated pattern of human knowledge. The media are an expression of the anthropological definition of culture—how people act.   But let us step back again in an attempt to imagine what the new visual space will look like. If we could already see it clearly and understand how it functions, we would be through the period of transition and living with the new visual references and the operational schema they represent. We’re not, but it’s beginning to take shape. We have seen many words attempting to define its parameters: ‘space-time’, ‘duration’, ‘process’, ‘the role of the observer’, ‘interactivity’, ‘collective worldviews’, ‘artistic synthesis’, and ‘collaboration’. There is the unique existence of the individual in the new space, but also the individual related to others and finally to the whole we call society, not as a singularity but as a singularity embedded in a network of relationships. The network that we are building today from a synthesis of video, computer, and telecommunication technologies is potentially the model for that space, calling into question many of the values that have been taken for granted in our society. The widespread use of social media has exposed the downside of individualism: that it encourages chest-pounding in the guise of communication, an egocentric exposé rather than genuine interactivity. Many users of the web talk ‘at’ the world and not with it. The broadcast model, with its one-way transmission, is still the predominant model, but now everyone can reach a mass audience. This may be interesting economically, but it is a simplistic view of interactivity and what the network model proposes. In order for real interactivity to take place, a hard look at what it means becomes essential. Very important or unique individuals or institutions remain unique—alone—on the network. The top of the pyramid is a lonely place. If real interactivity is to take place, partnerships are essential. A network demands a minimum of two. Vertical hierarchical organisation gives way to horizontally connected structures.   The profound change in western thought and society that this organisational change represents can be called a new Renaissance. It is a rupture with the formulations of the past equal to that of the fifteenth century, which introduced to our culture the Euclidean space of Italian perspective and its organisational values. That visual space has since become the dominant intuitional space of our culture. In the twentieth century that situation changed radically, first through a rejection of the organisational schema of the mechanical universe, and then with the proposal of a new paradigm still being defined. If indeed we are living in a new Renaissance, what we are currently experiencing is the need for redefining all aspects of our society and reinventing our social institutions. This includes the invention of a new geometry to describe the coming visual space. Happily, in a neat parallel with the new tools of communication, we have a new geometry which allows us to visualise the new space and better understand its functioning in all its complexity: the fractal geometry of complex systems.   In a network, everyone is connected directly with everyone else, on a one-to-one basis, without going through any other point (person). While a signal may travel through several sites and switches to arrive at the desired point, the psychological and sociological reality of connection is direct one-to-one communication. This possibility of everyone being connected to everyone multiplies the number of potential one-to-one connections rapidly, and the addition of any new member increases enormously the number of those connections. As the number becomes larger, tending toward infinity, the pattern slides away from that of a complex line on the surface of a sphere and approaches that of a spherical plane. An infinite number of connections contained in a finite space. The dimension must be spherical, between one—a line—and two—a plane—being therefore fractal. In the network we have, in fact, two geometries superimposed: classical spherical geometry which describes the cabling of the network, and a fractal description of its functioning, the geometry of its use. This may be the same as the operation of the mind with one geometry describing the neuronal connections and another their sum—the mind itself. And just as the human mind is made up of the fractal form of its operation imposed on the classical form of the circuits between its communicating centers, society may be said to be constructed in the same manner. This is an image. By trying to visualise the operation of the network we start to develop an image of network space that is the beginning of what our future visual space will look like. To make that space a part of culture and the intellectual reflex of the individual members of society, an enormous amount of artistic experimentation and proposition is essential.   The social space-time that seems to be emerging from the last 130 years of experimentation—what I call a new Renaissance—is not fixed but one whose evolution is part of its definition. This examination of the art of our lifetimes brings us to realise that both art and science have been labouring with the notion of interactivity. The clues have been persistent and multiple: process—moving away from the object to the process of production; duration—existing in time; multiple points of view; connectivity; empathy; complementarity; systems. Art and science have in fact been defining the new space and establishing it as a governing concept, as a paradigm for action for several generations. The observer as actor and actor as observer. Our cultural reality will be found in the collection and communication of those definitions that will eventually add new dimensions to the Euclidean geometry of the past in the western imagination. Fig 2. Réseau des stoppages (Marcel Duchamp 1914). Courtesy of the Duchamp family. Duchamp created his ‘stoppages’ by dropping a metre-long piece of string from the height of one metre three times, tracing the lines to produce alternative metres, alternative ways of measuring the world. In 1914 he put them in a network ( réseau ) possibly suggesting collective points of view.   Institutional experimentation   Individual artists have been exploring and building the new space for many years, and not always with the full understanding of the cultural establishment. For myself, it has been 40 years of working with art and the telecommunications network as a new space to be experimented with. Art history has often overlooked the relation between art and science, reflected in a remark I heard from a French bureacrat in the 90s when explaining the relation between the two: ‘Monsieur, we are the Ministry of Culture, science doesn’t interest us’. When the issue is discussed at all, it is mistakenly understood as art and technology, that is, the tools and not the deeper meaning of parallel paradigms. It is important to see the cultural transformation in both, side by side, in order to understand what in fact our civilisation has been confronting and where it is going. Now that it is clearer, an institutional mobilisation is essential to integrate this change into our education system and cultural lives, to bring more energy into exploring its implications and potential, and to deal with the transformation in how we see and understand reality even though the process is an open one. I am a network optimist from the 80s, when we saw the cultural potential of the emerging technology, only to see it kidnapped by commerce in the 90s and transformed into the distorting communication space it is today: one based on advertising and identity theft.   It is essential to recognise the new world being created around us and recuperate and redirect the tools of communication to make them a better expression of the best of our culture. The evolution of Western civilisation—and today we must talk rather about world civilisation—is dependent on its communication environment. If we are to have a genuine cultural presence in that environment, based on real knowledge and the accumulated intelligence of mankind, encouraging collaboration from all aspects of society to address the problem, to explore the new communications space together, is essential. Implicit in this is the redefinition of roles and objectives. If we are living a new Renaissance it is normal that we do so. Communication and commerce is what links the individual to the whole, and all players, even in seemingly unrelated fields, must be brought together to understand the critical importance of addressing that change. If culture is absent from that mix, then commerce becomes the culture.   Another parallel may exist with science and provide a key to a better understanding of the process of artistic creativity. We can consider art in the same light as science, with a spectrum of activity ranging from fundamental research to applied research on a continuum containing all the various forms of creativity and artistic practice. Fundamental research could be considered the pure artistic creation of an individual artist or group of artists without any outside direction or imposed objective. It is a response to the need to create as defined above, arising from the need to know, the need to build models of reality. Applied research would be the applied arts, for instance design, a principally commercial application of the creative disciplines for specific clients and a pre-defined objective. Wherever the pointer falls along the line connecting the two is again very subjective for the creator but it is the same line. On the fundamental end there is building of models of reality. On the applied arts end, the translation of those realities into socially useable forms.   Pure artistic creativity is the means by which the language of the applied arts is constantly renewed. The experimentation implied in the idea of fundamental artistic research leads to renewal, to innovation and discovery, which filters down to influence and change other forms of creativity. For people who work in the arts, their personal position along the spectrum is again subjective and the divisions we know today are institutional, not personal. Many artists spend careers sliding up and down, or across the spectrum of creative possibilities, some through personal desire, others because of economic necessity. Even within institutions the frontier between the various divisions is very blurred and often counterproductive and, too often, does not correspond to the desires of the creators themselves. The point is that the applied arts, the commercially viable and therefore more readily understandable aspect of creativity, would not evolve, would not surprise, would not be effective if they were not renewed by the experimentation that takes place in the areas of fundamental artistic research. The changing worldview proposed by the ensemble of artistic experimentation and production of a particular moment is manifest in the applied arts, which help communicate it to the general public. Again, this is one of the ways that artistic ideas get transformed into what we understand as culture.   I created the MARCEL network 20 years ago to explore that potential, to bring artistic experimentation permanently into the network space to try its potential, to learn how to work artistically in that new space, to develop the tools necessary to do so and to learn the protocols. [5] It became very obvious very early on that we would never have the necessary tools from industry, because they are usually not commercially viable. This is why multipoint connectivity was mostly invisible until the pandemic made it obligatory. But connecting is not enough. We need to learn how to use the space and build the tools to let us use it to its fullest. Our goal in MARCEL has been to drive technological evolution through the demands of art and not technological or commercial whim looking for the next fad. Many interesting efforts are being made in the network everywhere in culture—art, science, research and education—but in a fragmented way which needs to be brought together in a coherent fashion. We need a part of the network to be transformed into a non-commercial, publicly owned entity, working for the common good of culture and developing the legal framework for governing it. Again, people are working on this idea, and those efforts need to be unified, the space and its objectives identified and agreed to with a judicial framework for making it a recognised part of contemporary society. We need an economic study of its viability, how it can remain non-commercial while allowing artists for instance to earn a living from it, as all other researchers do.   The spirit of the times is interactivity. There is a general sense that trans-disciplinarity is good, that collaboration is essential, the federation of the means of experimentation, exploration, and production a desirable goal. Science is searching for more interdisciplinary approaches to research, artists for more joint collaboration across specialisations. If I am correct about our living a new Renaissance, we must reinvent our social institutions based on a new operational schema, which is the interactive network. More and more people accept the network format as a structural good. Everyone is looking for the larger picture and it is coming into focus. The important thing is that we keep that ‘looking’ as open as possible recognizing that the outline of the new space must be drawn from all forms of knowledge, artistic and scientific, meaning recognising what those forms of knowledge are and directing resources to permit them to reach their potential.   The manipulation of time and space, process, duration, interactivity, have all become important underlying elements in the art of our times, art using new technologies. They have become an integral part of art just as they had already become the very heart of twentieth-century science. McLuhan described it thus: ‘The serious artist is the only person able to encounter technology with impunity, just because he is an expert aware of the changes in sense perception’.[6] Artists understood the implications of the new systems because they saw their multi-layered application to the human environment, and not a single-purpose tool. In working directly with the new tools of communications they have helped create the new communications space which is the technological representation of the visual space we have been discussing. Because the technology continues to evolve, the artistic experimentation must also continue to evolve.   Technology creates tools for a specific purpose, responding to a specific demand. The artist finds other uses for those same tools by making them do things beyond what they were constructed to do, and in doing so, advances the human application of that technology. Artists socialise machines and technology by discovering an aesthetic use for them, sometimes creating new demands for machines to which engineers must respond. This fact has been demonstrated over and over again in the field of electronics. Artists first entered there in a spirit of play, the safest and surest way of overcoming our natural sense of intimidation towards a complex technology. The second step has been the mastery of the technology through experimentation and production. Finally we find the artist actually inventing, or collaborating on the invention of new systems in order to respond to his or her creative needs.   At this point, artists and their work should become meaningful to the technological evolution of a communications system—and the industry that created it—since, through artistic innovation, the real integration of the technological system into the human environment has begun. It is no longer a passive tool serving predetermined human needs, but an active system evolving as man evolves, an integral part of human culture. This interaction between the creativity of the artist, the evolution of a technological process, and the reaction of the public represents a new form of relationship between these entities, providing new experimental potential for exploring the future of these new systems as we attempt to define them.   In general, the work of many contemporary artists has led us to understand space-time and its potential for interactivity. They have taken us into the new communications space with which we are now confronted and are helping us assimilate it. The synthesis between the performing and artificial arts referred to earlier has become a staple. Music, dance and theatre are space-time and interactive which makes them natural candidates for an interactive network. Dance and theatre reinvented space and pushed to the limits what technology could add to that space and they are still doing so. The fact that the exchanged image is digital means that all elements can be manipulated, reworked in evolution with the performance, and the entire physical, virtual, audio-visual experience must be considered as a complete ensemble in total collaboration. We have arrived at a point today where the representation of space is both live and artificial, permitting experimentation in real time with all the dimensions of space-time.   The emerging network paradigm will entail changing definitions, new roles and professions, new organisational structures, and new visions of our environment. This is the still fuzzy image that will eventually replace the perspective of the Renaissance in which we have lived up to now. The network as interactive space will become the metaphor for our civilisation, much as the clockwork machine was for that earlier era. Its geometry will be what the Euclidean geometry of the Renaissance has been for us, the visible form of our imagination. Don Foresta   Don Foresta is a research artist and art theoretician who incorporates new technologies in his art. He holds a Sorbonne doctorate in Information Science and is a Chevalier of France's Order of Arts and Letters. [1] ‘Culture’ ( Merriam-Webster Dictionary ) < https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/culture >. [2] Werner Heisenberg, Physics and Beyond  (George Allen & Unwin Ltd 1971) 109. [3] Niels Bohr, Atomic Theory and the Description of Nature  (first published 1934, AMS Press Inc 1978) 18. [4] (1985) 37 Johns Hopkins Magazine 5. [5] ‘Welcome to Marcel’ (Multimedia Art Research Centres and Electronic Laboratories) < http://www.mmmarcel.org/ >. [6] Marshall McLuhan, Understanding Media  (Signet 1964) 33.

Fig 1. Returning (detail of SYNTERESE (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2020, mosaic)). Akropoli-Strovolos. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. The theologian serves the Church and, at the same time, he is a teacher. He is an iconographer of the sanctity of the human face.   Special importance is attached to his work in schools, as young souls are prepared to become acquainted with the deeper relationship between man and his fellow man and God. He focusses on the shaping and development of the temperament of young people on the basis of Christian virtue.   Up until half a century ago, there were only a few theologians in Cyprus. Since then, there has been a significant increase in the number of theologians in Cyprus, both in the clergy and in the laity. Thus, our martyred island benefits from a more complete service to the Church and pedagogy based on the modern spiritual requirements and educational needs. Fig 2. The occupied monastery of Apostle Barnabas, founder of the Church of Cyprus (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2017). Nicosia. Around the middle of the last century, theologians in western countries usually came from the clergy, while in Hellas and Cyprus theologians came mainly from the laity. This is why the Theological Schools of Hellas established the Department of Pastoral Theology, as they aimed to provide clergymen with a theological education. Respectively, the Theological School of Cyprus, ‘Apostolos Barnabas’, which has operated since 1948, established a new two-year Advanced Course in 1968, while in 2015 the Church of Cyprus founded the Theological School of the Church of Cyprus so as to provide both the clergy and the laity with university-level theological training.   Orthodox theologians, whether clergy or laity, are considered as primarily serving the Church, because their mission in both cases is always to promote the purposes of the Church with regard to the transmission of the Divine Word and the supremacy of Christian ideals. In this sense, the theologian, either as a clergyman or layman, as a preacher, as a missionary, or as a teacher, is the Church’s instrument of teaching, the bearer of the Christian sermon, the teacher and the educator, whose mission is sacred and high, and his work is diverse and difficult.[1] Fig 3. Saint Kassianos (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2016). Nicosia. Theology is neither strictly a theoretical nor an exact science. In fact, the theologian is not a scientist in the sense of having a lot of knowledge that he will use to formally achieve his work. The theologian is mainly an apostle. In addition to the encyclopaedic knowledge, there are many other qualifications and qualities that are actually required for the theologian to succeed in his mission. For this reason, iconography par excellence explains the sanctity and the inviolability of the person with an austerity that possesses the richness of thousands of words.   ‘Follow me and I will make you fishers of men’, Christ said, calling His first disciples and apostles.[2] Through these words of the calling of the first apostles, we can define the work and the mission of the theologians. They are ‘fishers of men’, ‘fishers of souls’ in the stormy sea of life.[3]   Man, as a person, is a divine creation. The image of man is a primary concern of the Church. After all, Christ lights the spark of Christian life in our psychic world. However, the task of preserving the spiritual life falls upon our shoulders as well, so that we may ensure that we have preserved Grace and be glorified when the Lord calls us to depart from this world, having kept the treasure of the ‘life in Christ’ safe and sound.[4] We always need the strengthening from the Grace of God, which is faithfully reflected in the Holy Icons, and these have a very rich theological content. The ancient icons are evidence of the piety of our ancestors who, through struggles and often with sacrifices, have bequeathed to us the faith and the path of salvation.   Fig 4. Christ and the apostles Peter and Andrew (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2015) High School of Empa, Paphos. Moreover, the Holy Icons, in what the iconographer had in mind and in what is accepted by faithful Christians, are a practical manifestation of the inner experience of the Christian faith. Very often, they were painted by anonymous iconographers and prove the artistic power of the Christian religion, which has no equal in the entire history of man, primarily because it possesses a spirituality enlightened by the Triadic God. That is the reason why the Holy Icons have a leading role, since through their spiritual teaching and theology they constitute a testimony of faith and art at the same time. They are a tangible proof of the piety of our ancestors here in Cyprus. Fig 5. The occupied Metropolitan Church of Arhangelos in Kyrenia. Photograph: Stavros Mihaelides. Since the Turkish invasion in 1974 to this very day, almost 37 per cent of Cyprus has been occupied with the aid of the Turkish army. There remained 23,000 ecclesiastical icons found in the 520 occupied churches of Cyprus that date from the twelfth century to the twentieth.[5] The Greeks of the Republic of Cyprus became refugees because of the primitive violation of the fundamental principles of morality, clearly expressed with the violation of human dignity. Almost all the ecclesiastical treasures were looted or destroyed, while works of ecclesiastical art and of great spiritual value were destroyed or crushed down to the size of a few centimetres.[6]   Fig 6. The occupied Church of Agios Mamas, Syghari. Photograph: Stavros Mihaelides. The Church of Cyprus, through the peaceful diligence of its flock, is fighting for the restoration of morality and justice, and is ready to reconstitute artistically what was lost during the barbaric Turkish invasion and the ongoing occupation.[7]   The ecclesiastical mosaic SYNTERESE  depicts the theme of the 520 occupied Cypriot churches in a border area like Cyprus, but where there has never been a religious confrontation or war, at any time in the turbulent history of the island. The interpretation of the mosaic titled ‘Theological Restoration in Memory of Andreas Mitsidis’, which we made at the Second Technical and Vocational School of Education and Training in Nicosia in 2018, is a key landmark for theology in Cyprus’s struggle for survival.[8] Fig 7. Detail of SYNTERESE (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2020, mosaic). Akropoli-Strovolos. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. Fig 8. Father Demosthenes Demosthenous pictured with his ecclesiastical mosaic SYNTERESE (2020). Akropoli-Strovolos. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. The art of charity   ‘Τέχνη φιλανθρωπίας’ (the ‘art of charity’) is a theological phrase especially loved by Saint Maximus the Confessor in his correspondence to Marinos, a seventh-century Bishop of Cyprus. Saint Maximus expresses himself in the triptych: Triadic God; man; will. In this way he interprets the divine ingenuity with regard to salvation, so that man, with his personality crushed by sin, may move towards the work of restoration leading to the deeper recognition of sanctity and the inviolability of the human face. Here, too, Byzantine iconography is a pioneer; this was a century and a half even before the Second Council of Nicaea. With regard to the personal human being   The liberating character of Christianity is seen in liberation from egocentrism through the observance of the Divine Law.   Vanity repels the wealth of justice, while humility disperses the multitude of passions, but if we lead our lives with humility, then, our Savior, help us to have the fate of the Tax Collector.[9]   During the period of Great Lent, we experience the preparation for the great Despotic Feast of the Passion, the Crucifixion, and especially the Resurrection of our Christ. Drawing lessons from this helps shape experience in favour of virtue, intertwined with law on the basis of respect for ethics. We call upon our memory the parables of the Tax Collector and the Pharisee, and of the Prodigal Son by Luke the Evangelist, and we connect these with the difficulties of daily life. Freedom is a gift from God and a natural right, which no one can deprive us of in Cyprus, as it includes a moral spirit and moral values, expressing the sound principles of our culture, which is based on peace and the ancient tradition of the Cypriot craftsman.   In March 1983, the first exhibition of such icons was held at the Centro Internazionale Giorgio La Pira, in Florence. 50 works and icons, painted in the traditional style by Father Demosthenes Demosthenous, became the first breath of the re-creation of those Holy Icons destroyed during the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974. As these are experiences of modern religious and national life, this presupposes the ideals of justice and freedom. It’s necessary that law and freedom are expressions of harmony between man, his fellow man, and God.[10] Furthermore, political and spiritual life is developed based on the loving coexistence and the uniqueness of each person as sacred.   Moral freedom liberates us from sin and takes on unimaginable extensions in the world of knowledge and art in imitation of the divine-human art of charity. In response to the universal request of the moral man, we attest in the Church that the use of hymn and psalm together with iconography is a real expression of recognition of the image of God and His Grace as a unique original.   Any historic disturbance of equilibrium is temporary, because equality between human persons (one person, one vote) is restored through Christianity. Because, with the preaching of the God-man, the parallel pair, the twin pair of the principles of justice and freedom is irrevocably placed on the basis of love. As a criterion and guide of our actions, the God-man commands love.[11] Fig 9. Ελευθερία ’38 (Freedom ’38) (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2016, mosaic). High School of Palouriotissa, Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. That is, love and respect for God and for man. In the spirit of such consensus, the concepts of justice and freedom are inherent as an anxious state of vigilance and struggle when these elements are absent. Love without justice is inconceivable. Accordingly, justice without freedom cannot exist. This is identified with the character of Christianity in relation to the Orthodox life and practice that extends between the Byzantine Orthodox culture and the corresponding Russian.[12] Fig 10. Painter-iconographer Andreas Chrysochos gives advice on the realisation of a work. Second Technical School, Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous.  As St John Chrysostom argued, God created man not to be a slave but free.[13] That explains the law of moral conscience and the Christian ethos of peaceful restoration.   The Christian faith is primarily interested in freeing man from the bondage of sin, in liberating him internally, but does not remain indifferent to his overall freedom.   Therefore, the foundations of modern Greek society are divine justice and human freedom.[14] They maintain the intact and immovable component in the universal consciousness, which does not wish for the power of supremacy seen in the works of Machiavelli and Nietzsche, but for the consistency in managing the challenge for a clearer picture of the future, based on pure vigilance so as to preserve the testimony of origin and its revitalization through art.[15]   Under conditions of blackmail, hostage-taking or captivity (as in the consequences of the Turkish invasion of Cyprus in 1974), abandonment of sought material goods may be understood. But the abandonment of moral principles and rights is dishonourable and unacceptable.[16] That explains the prestige of Byzantine iconography with its timeless spiritual dimension. This is especially true under conditions of struggle for freedom. Such a struggle has the vote of God and a lot of moral support for the enslaved people by the spiritual people, who largely guide the course of the stand for freedom, in a peaceful and peace-making way. An example of this is the school of painting that was developed in Cyprus, especially after the establishment of the Republic of Cyprus in 1960, with one of the protagonists, Andreas Chrysochos, who studied the art of painting in England.   The dream retains as its characteristics the impossible and at the same time the tangible, accessible reality. In a time of slavery or incomplete freedom (such as the continuation of the invasion and occupation from 1974 until today), the only option left to us is the remembrance of the sacred and holy elements of our civilisation and our 520 occupied churches.   Respect for our parents and ancestors alone is not enough. It is urgent to practise at all times the customs, the morals, and the traditions kept by our parents and our Holy Fathers with the assistance of the Church and our language, in an unceasing and uninterrupted continuity since the very last day of life before the arrival of the invaders.   As an example, we state the case of the Diassorinos family, and especially Iakovos Diassorinos (in the thirteenth-sixteenth centuries).[17]   The ideals remain active in the psychic world of those fighting, especially when they are alive and cultured. They offer a clear and critical look at the constant challenges posed by the invaders for concessions and discounts from freedom and intimacy with one’s own character, which are components that affirm the value of every struggle for freedom. As long as they persist, blackmailing remains; and the lack of freedom is oppressively extended towards darkness. Fig 11. The Occupied Holy Monastery of Agios Paneleimonas, Myrtou (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2018, mosaic). Second Technical School, Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. However, the human soul does not compromise with this, since the lack of freedom is an insult to the unbreakable continuity of culture and to the natural relationship with our parents and ancestors, which is understood through the purity of soul, thought and mind. Therefore, it is an indisputable destiny: first of all, it’s necessary to believe in the moral principles given to us by the minds of those who fought before us for the same purpose of freedom. The refugees of Cyprus, during their exile within their own country, died and were buried (without wishing for such a development) away from their ancestral homes, the occupied cities of Kyrenia, Famagusta, or Morphou. Most art and painting exhibitions after 1974 have dealt with this tragic situation with representative icons.   Fig 12. First page of the Gospel of the Cathedral of Cyprus (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2020). Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. It is an experience that constitutes a national heritage, which has been threatened since the summer of 1974, when the Turkish troops landed, violating all forms of law in Cyprus, along with violating every principle of morality. This is clearly confirmed by the deprivation of worship and any contact with the 520 occupied churches of our parents and ancestors.[18]   Fig 13. ‘The Calling of Matthew’, Folio 15 of the Gospel of the Cathedral of Cyprus (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 2020). Nicosia. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. Since the establishment in 1983 of the Laboratory for the Restoration of Ancient Icons, Paintings, and Manuscripts of the Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus, the Director, Father Demosthenes Demosthenous, DDr, has witnessed the receipt of destroyed or irreparably damaged ecclesiastical icons and sacred objects, which had remained intact until the events of the 1974 Turkish invasion. These sacred objects, although in poor condition, attest to the descriptive speech of Archbishop Makarios III at the United Nations in October 1974.[19] They include a Holy Chalice with cast metal handle from the occupied area north of Nicosia and pieces of an iconostasis from the area of Morphou. Unfortunately, the invaders never cooperated honestly in the matter of the origin of the destroyed relics, which ended up through various ways in hands of the Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus, mainly with the assistance of the Police of the Republic.   The restoration and promotion of the ecclesiastical heritage of Cyprus includes the following as well: calligraphy and miniature iconographies, included in the art of the Gospel of the Cathedral, which was made by Father Demosthenous and commissioned by the Blessed Archbishop of Cyprus Chrysostom II. The manuscript, written on a parchment measuring 50 x 70cm, with 80 miniature representations and about 400 decorated chapters and chapter titles, was completed in 2020 in memory of Father Spyridon Demosthenous—Good Samaritan—and of the 520 occupied churches of Cyprus. Fig 14. Iconography of the Dome (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 1998). Church of Agios Makarios, Nairobi. Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. We, the refugees, in this long-term effort for the justification of Cyprus and the completion of its freedom, keep as a model in our minds the struggle of our saints and ascetics, such as that of Saint Sozomenos in Potamia, an abandoned village located within the Dead Zone, which in fact bears the name of the saint and in the past was mixed (that is, it used to be inhabited both by Greeks and Turks of Cyprus). In the kekragaria  (ecclesiastic hymns) of the saint we read:   [Y]ou lived in the cave, flying in the silence, defeating the passion with the efforts of temperance and hard work, showing patience against the temptations and perseverance against the various circumstances.[20]   When the hymnographer mentions the word ‘circumstances’, he means the adversities caused by the arbitrariness of the conquerors.   And elsewhere below, we read in the next troparion :   You shone like the sun in the cave, Saved (Sozomenos), illuminating all those who ran to you and invoked your help, oh Wise one.   The intercession of the saints of our Orthodox Church offers an unexpected spiritual strength to the claim for restoration of the occupied churches of Cyprus. Repentance on our part, along with spiritual exercise, makes us follow Christ, having a warm mind, as did Saint Sozomenos, who is now on the throne of the omnipotent God and intercedes for all of us who invoke him, so that we may receive help and assistance from God. Kathisma  (ecclesiastic hymn):   With your words you decorated the Church of Christ, with your works you honoured the fact that you were created as an image of God, oh Saint Sozomenos, as your wisdom shone in the world with the grace of healing, in the radiance of faith, and therefore we honour your memory with much affection.    The hymn clearly reveals the inseparable relation of spirituality to the national consciousness, together with the respect for moral principles. The ancient frescoes, probably of the eighth century AD, preserved in the cave of Saint Sozomenos, in the village having the same name, are proof of the spiritual wealth that pilgrims gain. Whether they are literate or illiterate, they all have the same spiritual benefit and education. Such is the power of iconography—an iconography that continues to serve in its mission up to this day.   In 12 missions of iconography and its teaching between 1995 and 2008, courses of theory and technique of Byzantine Iconography were delivered at the Patriarchal School of Archbishop Makarios in Nairobi, Kenya. The iconographies in the Church of Agios Makarios were painted by Father Demosthenous and students of the School.   The true exponent of the truth is the one who serves it with freedom and justice. It gives meaning to the words that in the mouth of others, even orators, seem misguided and unrealisable, when the latter are vested with neither bravery nor virtue, nor spiritual power.   The proper exponent reaches up to the realisation of the restoration work. Thus, his virtue and bravery are proven, as a continuator of his origins and ancestry—that is, to be a servant of the moral spirit and moral values.[21]   In fact, such virtue guarantees the natural continuity of the spiritual civilization, and not only on the basis of the law of origin; these are elements which need special preservation.[22] What we say, in the moral law of the Gospel, is perfectly natural. In the minds of the media, perhaps this is seen as simply normal. The love for consistency with the ancestry of the Person on the basis of His origins is identified with the religious awe; while the emotional superficial resemblance to beauty is subjective, a preference that expresses the conquest of self-extension that is being attempted is not.[23]   The iconographies that Father Demosthenous painted in Agios Dimitrios of the Acropolis (1983-2021), in Agios Andreas, Via Sardegna 153 in Rome (1981-96) and elsewhere, are just small examples of the spiritual militancy and vigilance of the population which is the Greek Orthodox Christians of Cyprus, waiting until they can live freely in the 520 churches of their parents and ancestors, which are occupied and date from the era of Constantine the Great. Fig 15. Christ Pantocrator (Father Demosthenes Demosthenous 1982). Church of Sant’Andrea (Via Sardegna 153), Rome.Courtesy of Father Demosthenes Demosthenous. Father Demosthenes Demosthenous   Father Demosthenes Demosthenous, Archpresbyter, is a theologian, conservator, and iconographer. He is Director of the Restoration Laboratory of Ancient Icons of The Holy Archbishopric of Cyprus in Nicosia. [1] Nearchos Nearchou (ed), Άπαντα Αρχιεπ. Μακαρίου Γ ( The Complete Works of Archbishop Makarios III ) vol 8 (1965) 127. [2] Matthew 4:18-19 (English Standard Version 2007). [3] Nearchou (ed, n 1). [4] St Nicholas Cabasilas, Η Χριστιανική Ζωή ( The Life in Christ ) (Nicosia 2008) 56. [5] Father Dionysios Papachrystoforou, Report as Director of the Restoration Centre of Ancient Icons, Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus in the Holy Monastery of Saint Spyridon of Tremetousia  (Archives of Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus,   March 1975). [6] Father Demosthenes Demosthenous (speech to the European Parliament, April 2007). [7] 8 Συντήρηση-Εικονογραφία-Τέχνη (R estoration-Iconography-Art ) (2018) 8. [8] ‘Theological Restoration in Memory of Andreas Mitsidis’ (2020) 19 Συντήρηση-Εικονογραφία-Τέχνη (Restoration-Iconography-Art) 17. [9] From the orthros  for the Sunday of the Tax Collector and the Pharisee. [10] Nearchou (ed, n 1). [11] Konstantinos Sathas, Μεσαιωνική Βιβλιοθήκη  ( Medieval Library ) 2 (Venice 1873) 1-2; Andreas Mitsidis, Σύντομη Ιστορία Εκκλησίας Κύπρου  ( Short History of the Church of Cyprus ), (Nicosia 1986) 43, citing Neophytos the Recluse, ‘Περὶ τῶν κατὰ χώραν Κύπρον σκαιῶν’ ( On the shadows over Cyprus ) in Ecclesiastical Letters during Francocracy . [12] Arnold Toynbee, A Study of History  (London 1934-54); Theodoros Papadopoulos, Presentation (1958); Arnold Toynbee, ‘The Theory of the Genesis of Civilizations’ in Tribute to Konstantinos Spyridakis  (Nicosia 1964) 159. [13] St John Crysostom, Homilies on the Gospel of John  (written fourth century, John Henry Parker 1848). [14] ibid 160. [15] Marios Begzos, Δοκίμια Φιλοσοφίας της θρησκείας ( Essays on Philosophy of Religion ) (Athens 1988) 21. [16] Andreas Mitsidis, Άπαντα Αρχιεπ. Μακ. Γ  ( The Complete Works of Archbishop Makarios III ) 8 643 (1965, Nicosia 1997). [17] Fighters who maintained the Greek Byzantine Tradition, seen for example in the frescoes of the Diassorinos in the Medieval Church of Arhangelos in Pedoulas. See Theodoros Papadopoulos, Ιστορία της Κύπρου-Μεσαιωνικό Βασίλειο  ( History of Cyprus-Medieval Kingdom )   D’-A’ (Nicosia 1995) 537. [18] Reverend Demosthenes Demosthenous DDr, The Occupied Churches of Cyprus  (Nicosia 2000) 6. [19] Reverend Demosthenes Demosthenous DDr, The Occupied Churches of Cyprus  (Nicosia 2001). [20] Holy Archdiocese of Cyprus, Κύπρια Μηναία ( Monthly Cypriot News ) 3 (Nicosia 1996) 192. [21] ‘And our King, those letters which they considered as dead, he himself carries them out with strength and vitality, projecting through his own power, the true and brave valour, not the false one … Virtue and valour was perhaps the father for his child and the child for the father, good for the good’ in Paul Gautier (ed), The Letters of Theophylactus of Ochrida  (Thessalonica 1980) 217. [22] ‘[T]his state of good heart did they have and, thus, defeated not only the enemies but also time’ Paul Gautier (ed), The Letters of Theophylactus of Ochrida  (Thessalonica 1980) 219. [23] Andreas Chrysochos, Κείμενα για την Τέχνη  ( Texts on Art ) (Nicosia 2006) 51.