Over the last few years my research has focused on representations of the injured body and face in First World War Britain. Some of the most intriguing cases are those in which art and medicine seem to converge or redefine each other, as in Henry Tonks' delicate pastel portraits of British servicemen with severe facial injuries, and the equally exquisite – and unsettling – prosthetic masks made by the sculptor Francis Derwent Wood for some of these patients to conceal their disfigurement when surgical reconstruction was impossible. In both of these examples, art could be said to ameliorate – and in different ways to aestheticise – the horrors of war, and to humanise men who had suffered what were considered at the time to be the most dehumanising of injuries. In both cases, the sources that have survived contain assumptions – often unspoken – about how, where and by whom the injured body may be seen – assumptions that have changed over time. My current project considers the afterlives of some of these documents. When we encounter medical images in art galleries or on television – or in the pages of an academic journal – what kind of cultural and imaginative work do they perform? Are there ethical considerations raised by their re-deployment or appropriation within the contexts of art and entertainment, education and academic research?

In April 2009, Sir David Attenborough, the respected face and voice of British natural history programmes for more than fifty years, became the patron of a new charity, the Optimum Population Trust (OPT), an organisation campaigning to limit the world's population. His reason for accepting the honour, he confessed to The Times, was that he was terribly worried about the dramatic increase of the world's population and the effect it was having on the quality of human life throughout the world:

There are three times as many people in the world as when I started making television programmes only a mere fifty-six years ago. It is frightening. We can't go on as we have been. We are seeing the consequences in terms of ecology, atmospheric pollution and in terms of the space and food production.

This article is drawn from a doctoral thesis called ‘Governing Public Bodies: Reconsidering the Relationship Between Statecraft and Healthcare in England, 1650–1730’, which considers two things: how certain categories of person, certain subjectivities, have been assembled through government in the name of health; and how the health of the individual has been understood to relate to that of the collective.

Recent historical investigation into the rise of ‘biopolitical modernity’ in China has shed some surprising light. While it was long thought that British public health initiatives entered China via Hong Kong, the recent work of Ruth Rogaski, Philippe Chemouilli and others has established that it was actually early Japanese colonialism that played the crucial role. It was the Meiji Empire's hygiene reform projects in Taiwan and Manchuria that provided the model for Republican China. Curiously overlooked by medical historians has been one of the major early works of Japanese public health that directly inspired and guided this colonial medical enterprise. This was that of the Japanese health reformer and colonial officer, Gotō Shinpei (1857–1929), and it was undertaken in Munich as a doctoral thesis under the supervision of Max von Pettenkofer. In this article, I focus on the way in which Shinpei dealt in his thesis with the relations between centralisation and local self-administration as one of the key issues facing hygienic modernisation and colonial biopolitical control.