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I return to tragedy as a necessary but insufficeint lens for policymaking and contrast the mindset that gave rise to tragedy with that of the Enlightenment and its reliance on reason. I suggest ways of combining the benefits of both prspectives.
The premiere of the Ring and the opening of the Bayreuth Festival in 1876 was the most significant European cultural event of the later nineteenth century. The idea of a festival after the model of classical Greek theatre was integral to the Ring. Performances were to be given free of charge under ideal conditions in a temporary theatre constructed for the purpose in a location away from the corrupting influence of modern industrial civilisation. The festival idea as finally realized was, however, far removed from the utopian ideals of the original conception. The scale and practical demands of Wagner’s enterprise forced him to compromise with shifting political paradigms and harsh economic reality. The first Bayreuth Festival thus became a meeting place not for Wagner’s classless society dedicated to the ideals of art, but of aristocracies and plutocratic elites. The democratic festival, originally conceived in the white heat of revolutionary fervour, became a symbol of artistic hegemony and the aggrandisement of the newly founded German Reich. The resulting artistic, cultural and highly potent political legacy was to extend far beyond the historical context in which the festival first came about.
This chapter analyzes Native performers’ visits to London in the nineteenth century, their mobility, and their self-conscious negotiations with the modern world. It emphasizes their resistance to the stereotypes through which impresarios, audiences, and commentators sought to circumscribe them. It considers the visits made by the Ojibwe who traveled with George Catlin in the 1840s, and the performers who appeared with Buffalo Bill later in the century, among others, discussing how they pushed back against the framing narratives of “savagery” and the “vanishing Indian.” It explores in detail the two London visits made by Pauline Johnson, her social and cultural interactions, and the apparent ease with which she navigated the slippage between her Mohawk heritage and London drawing rooms and theatres at Empire’s high point. Distinctive as Johnson was, she comes at the end the end of a long line of visitors who both exploited, and destabilized, familiar cultural stereotypes.
Modernity is often defined as the category that by definition excludes Indigenous people. We could say the same for the modernism, the cultural movement that came into being precisely as a modality of reimaging the future. This essay explores how reimagining Native Americans was not only central for writers during what Michael Denning refers to as the "third wave of modernism" from the late 1920s to the Cold War, but also how Native American modernists imagined themselves within the new emergent forms of modernity. Modernist Native American writers John Joseph Mathews’ and D'Arcy McNickle's touchstone novels, Sundown and The Surrounded, deployed many of the generic tropes of modernism: alienation, hybrid forms, ambiguity, and unreliable narration to express an ambivalence about an emergent modernity. Rather than read the Indigenous as "outside" of modernity, Mathews and McNickle serve to remind us of how Native American modernists complexly engaged with the emergent possibilities of modernist futuricity.
This article investigates how Progressive Era writers, both popular and scientific, helped to construct multiracial identities alongside competing efforts to enshrine race into strictly black and white terms. Existing scholarship on race in the Progressive Era has not sufficiently analyzed the presence of multiracial populations. Instead, scholars have treated state and federal efforts to police racial boundaries, namely through anti-miscegenation laws and the census, as evidence that multiracial persons were a legal impossibility. However, scientific and popular writing on Appalachia provides a conceptual space in which multiracialism was not only a conceptual possibility, but was engendered. Appalachia took on increased importance during the Progressive Era as both intellectuals and reformers used the region to frame their anxieties about the limits of modernity and the threat of racial mixing. The region was home to white mountaineers who appeared arrested in time, existing in uncomfortable proximity to newly discovered groups with white, black, and Native American ancestry who also seemed to have been shunned by civilization. In attempting to understand the peculiar conditions of Appalachia, these Progressive Era writers helped to advance some of the first ideas about what it meant to be mixed-race in America.
Over sixteen months in 1857 and 1858, Walter Buller produced a weekly newspaper for Māori of the Wellington region in their own language. Although he was the son of a Wesleyan missionary and an official interpreter, the niupepa was neither a church nor a government publication, although it promoted discourses favoured by both. A number of niupepa had preceded Buller's Te Karere o Poneke, the first appearing in 1842, but his paper was distinctive in the sizable platform he provided for correspondence. Over half of the items printed comprised letters from Māori, many of them commenting on, and occasionally critiquing the colonial milieu.
The concept of “public sphere” is heavily theorized, often postulated in acultural terms (although suspiciously European in form) and it is debatable if Te Karere o Poneke's readership and their engagement with the textual discourse meet the theory's required criteria of constituting a public sphere. New Zealand was annexed to the British Empire in 1840, meaning that by 1857 colonization was still a relatively new phenomenon, but with substantial immigration and a developing infrastructure, change was both extensive and dynamic. According to the theory, it may be difficult to apply the concept of “public sphere” to Māori anytime during the changing contexts of nineteenth-century colonialism, and indeed other colonised cultures for whom the advent of literacy, Christianity, market economy and colonial administration had been sudden and unexpected. Of course this does not mean that Māori lacked a voice, at times critical. Using Te Karere o Poneke as a case study, this essay argues that Wellington Māori of 1857 do not readily fit the Western model of the “public sphere”, but they nevertheless utilized the discursive spaces available to them to discuss and evaluate the world they now encountered.
In this chapter, the universal theories developed by cultural researchers that can be applied across geographic regions are reviewed. The theories reviewed include early works of Parsons and Shils (pattern variables), Kluckhohn and Strodtbeck (universal human value orientations), and Hall (values associated with time and space). Following this the constructs of tightness and looseness by Pelto, and later Gelfand, a framework for traditional and modern values by Inkles, and later postmodern values by Inglehart, and instrumental and terminal values by Rokeach are discussed. Next, the cultural dimensions presented by Hofstede, individualism and collectivism, power distance, uncertainty avoidance, masculinity versus femininity, which were supplemented by Bond and colleagues’ work (long-term orientation) and Minkov’s work (indulgence versus restraint) are reviewed. House and colleagues’ GLOBE Project and its contributions to Hofstede’s framework is noted. Schwartz and colleagues work on a universal framework of values, cultural complexity, social exchange patterns identified by Fiske, and Social axioms presented by Leung and Bond are also briefly reviewed. The chapter is concluded with a discussion of the implications of cultural theories for intercultural training.
An analysis of MacMillan’s The World’s Ransoming presents an underlying conflict between modernity and tradition, observed on three levels, and focused to form the chapter’s main issue: how to configure MacMillan’s relationship with modernism, particularly given his characteristic stylistic mixture of modernist and traditional elements. Dominic Wells’s label for MacMillan (‘retrospective modernism’) highlights two questions: do the modernist and traditional co-exist as comfortably as this suggests? Can modernism be ‘retrospective’ so easily? I propose ‘conflicting modernities and a modernity of conflict’ as a better description. ‘Conflicting modernities’ highlights the centrifugal aspects of MacMillan’s style in three ways: the conflict between modernist and traditional elements, categorising them as examples of conflict first, before they are rapprochements with modernity; the inclusion of traditional elements stems from a modernist impulse, evidenced in MacMillan’s essay ‘Music and Modernity’; and the multiplicity of modernist influences in MacMillan’s style. ‘Modernity of conflict’ suggests a conclusion that conflict in MacMillan must be defined overall as modernist, explored through two strands of Adorno: meaning as contradiction; and Adorno’s aim to expose totalitarian tendencies, restrictions, and blindspots. In MacMillan this takes the form of a desire to turn modernity’s critique onto itself, exposing its atheistic elements and nihilistic worldview.
Among the major reform activities drawn from the transnational experiences of Korean women were the rural revitalization projects that took place from the late 1920s to the mid-1930s, a period of worsening economic conditions in the rural communities. Danish rural programs were a particular source of inspiration for Korean reformers. This chapter offers a detailed history of the role that women reformers played in the rural revitalization movement. At the core of these efforts was an interdenominational, global Christian network that brought together people, resources, and information and linked the urban elite with the rural populace. This chapter argues that these women reformers were pursuing an alternative modernity that was inspired by their transnational experience in Europe and the US but reworked for the local conditions in Korea.
Carmen was first given in Stockholm at the Royal Swedish Opera in 1878 just three years after its Parisian premiere. The Swedish Carmen went on tour to Copenhagen and Kristiania, but within thirteen years the opera had been staged with a predominantly local casts also in the other three Nordic countries: Denmark in 1887, Finland in 1889 and Norway in 1891.
The opera arrived in the Nordic countries amidst fierce public debate between idealists and realists arguing about how art should represent woman: as a self-sacrificing and morally high-minded model for the nation-building project (especially in Finland and Norway), or realistically, as a modern troubled woman, such as Nora in Henrik Ibsen’s A Doll’s House.
This chapter examines how the character of Carmen was enacted on the stage and the press reactions to her at this aesthetic and societal turning point of the fin de siècle. I argue, that the singers and critics participated in the ongoing debate about realism, gender equality and modernity. Amidst confusion at a time of aesthetic change, the will to take control of the issues at stake was still rooted in models and strategies from the past.
This concluding chapter offers some insights into the complex interplay between local, national, and transnational forces in the making of modern Korea during Japanese colonial rule with a central focus on gender and global Christianity. Highlighting the significant role of the global Christian network in fashioning modern gender relations, the chapter considers the ways in which the network both enabled and hindered major shifts in identity that marked the life and work of women discussed in the book. It also discusses the contribution of the book to the broader dialogue concerning gender and empire, and religion and modernity.
The introductory chapter lays out the specific historical context of the period from the late-nineteenth century to the eve of the Asia Pacific War when the competing forces of Japanese colonial power, Korean nationalism, and Western modernities fashioned changes in gender ideology, enabled transnational mobility, and fostered women’s engagement in sociopolitical and economic affairs. The concept of “Protestant modernity” is introduced as a heuristic device to unpack the complex dynamics that shaped gendered modernity in Korea under Japanese colonial rule. Placing gender and religion at the center of the analysis, the chapter diverges from the conventional understanding of modernity as “secularization” and provides a theoretical basis for the argument that the development of modern gender relations finds its roots in the transnational experience of Koreans rather than in the simple nexus of the colonizer and the colonized.
The chapter follows the transformation of kabbalistic life that took place in the sixteenth century, especially in Safed. The Ottoman context (including Sufi influences) is addressed. The main circles covered here are those of R. Yosef Karo, R. Moshe Cordovero and (most extensively) R. Itzhak Luria. The examination of theurgical-mythical themes continues here, alongside new psychological theories of the soul and messianic visions of both history and cosmos. Views of femininity and sexuality are explored, as well as the psychology of the mystical fellowship as a new social form and accompanying techniques and experiences, forming what the chapter's conclusion describes as a mystical culture. In the literary domain, particular emphasis is placed on the roles of print and exegesis (especially around the Zohar), as well as poetics. The interrelationship of all these innovations accounts for the staggering complexity of the Safedian doctrine (accounting for the intensive commentary it received in later generations). One of the main contributions of the chapter is that of familiarizing readers with the unique terminology of this system.
Kabbalah’s impact as a catalyst on mass social movements, effect on European intellectual life, quantitative vastness and global reach, and its qualitative complex diversity in theosophical systems, techniques, experiences and conflicts cannot be overstated. Nonetheless, the serious treatment of these topics has been limited to specified studies. This book represents the first attempt to provide modern Kabbalah with a comprehensive history, beginning from the mid-sixteenth-century spiritual revolution that took place in the Galilean town of Safed, up until the present day. The implications of the book include the need to place modern Kabbalah within its own context both as autonomous from but also continuous with earlier periods, as well as within a broader Jewish and extra-Jewish historical context. It will offer an account of central schools, figures, works and themes, and a treatment of recent and contemporary developments. Moreover, it will provide a critical history of scholarship in various languages but will prioritize the texts themselves, reflecting their prominence in Kabbalah. Finally, it will point toward areas for further research in the study of modern Kabbalah.
Chapter 5 examines urban beautification efforts, welfare associations, liberal clubs, and staged state theater (e.g., the Minerva festivals) during Manuel Estrada Cabrera’s dictatorship (1898–1920). If state sovereignty was circumscribed by the coffee planters’ efforts in the countryside, in the city of Cobán, Estrada Cabrera responded to popular demands for access to civilization by staging elaborate festivals that provided all Guatemalans access to Western civilization and learning. The ladino nationalism that flourished under Estrada Cabrera blurred racial boundaries and held up the ladino artisan as the ideal national subject. A series of national and global events – earthquakes, World War I, the Mexican and Russian Revolutions, and the 1919 influenza pandemic – upended these efforts and transformed the Minerva festivals from symbols of national inclusion and modern belonging into symbols of the corruption and political discontent that erupted in 1920 with the overthrow of Estrada Cabrera.
The conclusion illustrates the uneven and nonlinear nature of Guatemalan nation-state expansion in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It also highlights the important role played by Q’eqchi’ patriarchs, the legacies of colonialism, and the centrality of race and time to political struggles. The Conclusion also illustrates how the historical debris of nineteenth- and early twentieth-century histories shaped Guatemala’s post-1954 descent into civil war. It shows the longer historical genealogy of the Guatemalan military’s doctrine that Mayas were dangerous because they were “alien to modernity” and how the legacies of coerced labor and planter sovereignty reemerged with new meaning and contours during the scorched-earth campaign.
The archaeological imagination is defined as a creative capacity mobilized when we experience traces and vestiges of the past, when we encounter, gather, classify, conserve and restore, when we work with such remains, collections, archives to deliver narratives, reconstructions, accounts, explanations, or whatever. Examples are given and features described of such archaeological experiences that reach far beyond the academic discipline: the dynamics of working creatively with what remains. The roots of the archaeological imagination are traced in three phases from the seventeenth century: challenges to traditional relationships with the past associated with field science; the empirical accumulation of material remains of the past; the expansion of the heritage industry in post–1970s globalization. Encompassing wide cultural valency, the archaeological imagination is argued to be a key aspect, relating to temporality and materiality, of contemporary cultural agency: our imaginative capacity to work with what remains in building future worlds.
The introduction highlights how Guatemalan state-building in the nineteenth century continually rendered Mayas as anachronistic subjects rather than agents of the future. Guatemalan state officials and coffee planters labeled certain forms of difference uncivilized or anachronistic to justify denying citizenship rights and to legitimize the application of coerced labor laws to individuals deemed not yet civilized. However, as the Introduction highlights, Q’eqchi’ Mayas continually undermined these strategies and built innovative political modernities based on a combination of radical liberalism and Q’eqchi’ cosmologies. The Introduction provides an overview of how modern notions of linear, measurable time and space and racial-capitalism–based political modernities and colonialism interact. Finally, it provides a methodology for reading along and against the archival grain and for dialoguing with disparate visual, textual, and oral sources.
The chapter specifically explores the Futurist aesthetics of noise as manifested in Luigi Russolo’s ‘noise machines,’ or ‘intonarumori.’ Noise, and composition with noises, folds in with the Futurists’ general affirmation of technological modernity and with their related aesthetic practices extolling the virtues of speed, violence and war. The chapter also ponders Futurist noise and its relationship to twelve-tone dissonance, and discovers a common spiritualist thread linking these musical formal practices. For Russolo, at least, the technical and spiritualist connections relate to Leonardo da Vinci’s own plans for music machines, and his general view art’s ‘spirituality.’