Negotiating Institutional Heritage and Wellbeing 9004468897, 9789004468894

Table of contents :
Half Title
Series Information
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Acknowledgements
Figures and Tables
Notes on Contributors
Chapter 1 Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage
1 Introduction
2 Institutional Heritage
3 Heritage and/ as Collective Memory
4 The Chapters
References
Part 1 Wellbeing and Collective Memory
Chapter 2 “It is, After All, a Churchyard”: Orthodox and Heterodox Embodiments at Three Cemeteries in Gothenburg, Sweden
1 Introduction
2 Cemeteries and Modernity
3 A Local Study of Three Cemeteries
4 Fieldwork in Familiar and Alien Space
5 Spatial Embodiments and the Issue of Orthodoxy
6 Doxa, Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy at the Three Sites
7 Proximity to Death: In the Grave Quarters
8 Establishing Locations of Death in Urn- and Memorial Gardens
9 Recreation in the Margins: Park Spatiality Embodied
10 Heterodox Embodiments and Defenders of Doxa
11 Contemporary Spatialities in Light of a Lutheran History
12 On Space, Wellbeing and Social Access
References
Chapter 3 The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing: The Burial Grounds of Racialized Communities in Canada
1 Introduction
2 Owen Sound
3 Priceville
4 Quebec City
5 The Destruction of Burial Grounds in a Wider Context
6 Burial Grounds and Their Consequence for Wellbeing
References
Chapter 4 Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing: Connection Spanning Time and Place
1 Introduction
2 Methodology
3 Heritage, Architecture and the Production of Culture
4 Wellness and Wellbeing
5 Progressive Jewish User Groups
6 Historic Synagogues
6.1 United Synagogue of Hoboken
6.2 Park Slope Jewish Center
6.3 Wilshire Boulevard Temple
7 Community Wellbeing
8 Psychological Wellbeing
9 Interpersonal Wellbeing
10 Conclusion
References
Chapter 5 Recovery Projects: Haitian Memory, Humanitarian Response and the Affordances of the Digital Disaster Archive
1 Introduction
2 The Space of Disaster
3 Sivivian pou Sivivian: Memwa Ayisyen: Local Storytelling as a Model for Wellbeing
4 Oral Heritage as Healing: Resistance, Resilience and Community Formation
5 Institutions of Wellbeing? The Affordances and Limitations of the Decolonial (Digital) Archive
6 A Space of Recovery: Living Heritage and a Way Forward
Acknowledgments
References
Part 2 Medical Institutions
Chapter 6 The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–1980
1 Introduction
2 The Context: Care of the Insane in England
3 The Sanatorium
4 Religious Needs and Medication in the Sanatorium
5 The Casebook Records
6 Other Experiences of the Sanatorium
7 The Sanatorium Closes
Acknowledgements
References
Chapter 7 The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care: A Material and Immaterial Heritage That Could Contribute to Current Practice
1 Introduction
2 Methodology
3 From Abandoned Space to Art Studio
4 The Courage to Paint
5 A Transitional Space
References
Chapter 8 Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time? Perceptions and Value Judgements of Alcohol Abuse in Different Historical and Spatial Contexts
1 Normal Use and Pathological Abuse – Medical and Social Norms
2 Who Drinks Too Much? Social and Psychiatric Problems in Synergy
3 The Present Chapter
4 The Macro-level Heritage: Considering Alcohol Regulations and Consumption Patterns
5 The Meso-level Heritage: Considering Factors Relating to Social Groups
6 The Micro-level Heritage: Considering Factors Relating to the Individual
7 Case Examples: Addiction within Psychiatric Praxis
8 The Turn of the Twenty-First Century: Alcohol Addiction Diagnosis and Theory
9 Addiction Symptoms and Behaviours: Changes Regarding Who, When, Where and Why
10 Functionality: Addiction as a Deviance from Both Social and Natural Function
11 Conclusion
Acknowledgements
Works Cited
Chapter 9 Institutionalized Waiting: Fragmented Temporalities and Wellbeing in the Medical Waiting Room
1 Introduction
2 Well-Being and the Heritage of the Waiting Room
3 Elizabeth Bishop, “In the Waiting Room”
4 Conclusion
References
Part 3 Carceral Spaces
Chapter 10 ‘Fit and Re-Orientation’: Carceral Heritage in Contemporary Design of Special Residential Homes for Youth and Its Impact on Wellbeing
1 Introduction
2 Background
3 SiS-Homes
4 The Physical Environment
5 Wellbeing and Incarceration
6 Methodological Considerations
7 Critical Analysis and the Concept of ‘Fit and Re-Orientation’
8 ‘Fit and Re-Orientation’: An Explanatory Model
9 ‘Fit’
10 ‘Re-Orientation’
11 Discussion: Living Carceral Heritage in Contemporary Design of Special Youth Homes
12 Conclusion
References
Chapter 11 Wellbeing as a Political Issue: Bad Girls and the (Representational) Heritage of Female Incarceration
1 Introduction
2 Representing the Impact of Imprisonment on Wellbeing
3 Conclusion
References
Index

Citation preview

Negotiating Institutional Heritage and Wellbeing

Spatial Practices an interdisciplinary series in cultural history, geography and literature General Editor Christoph Ehland (Universität Paderborn) Editorial Board Christine Berberich (University of Portsmouth) Jonathan Bordo (Trent University) Oliver von Knebel Doeberitz (University of Leipzig) Catrin Gersdorf (University of Würzburg) Peter Merriman (Aberystwyth University) Christoph Singer (Universität Innsbruck) Merle Tönnies (Universität Paderborn) Cornelia Wächter (Universität Dresden) Advisory Board Blake Fitzpatrick (Ryerson University) Flavio Gregori (Ca’ Foscari University of Venice) Margaret Olin (Yale University) Andrew Sanders (University of Durham) Mihaela Irimia (University of Bucharest) Founding Editors Robert Burden Stephan Kohl Former Series Editor Chris Thurgar-​Dawson

volume 37 The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/​spat

Negotiating Institutional Heritage and Wellbeing Edited by

Elisabeth Punzi, Christoph Singer and Cornelia Wächter

LEIDEN | BOSTON

Cover illustration: “Ringe” by Annica Engström. Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Punzi, Elisabeth, editor. | Singer, Christoph, 1982- editor. | Wächter, Cornelia, editor. Title: Negotiating institutional heritage and wellbeing / edited by Elisabeth Punzi, Christoph Singer and Cornelia Wächter. Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, [2022] | Series: Spatial practices, 1871-689X ; volume 37 | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Summary: “The Spatial Practices series is premised on the observation that places are inscribed with cultural meaning, not least of all in terms of collective constructions of identity. Such space-based constructions can manifest in material and immaterial, explicit and implicit forms of heritage, and they are crucial factors in the promotion of a group’s wellbeing. It is this intersection of spaces, heritage and wellbeing that the present volume takes at its object”– Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2021040821 (print) | LCCN 2021040822 (ebook) | ISBN 9789004468894 (hardback ; alk. paper) | ISBN 9789004468900 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Space–Social aspects. | Historic sites–Social aspects. | Cultural landscapes. | Social institutions. | Collective memory. | Group identity. | Well-being–Social aspects. Classification: LCC HM654 .N44 2022 (print) | LCC HM654 (ebook) | DDC 306–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021040821 LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021040822

Typeface for the Latin, Greek, and Cyrillic scripts: “Brill”. See and download: brill.com/​brill-​typeface. issn 1871-​6 89x isbn 978-​9 0-​0 4-​4 6889-​4 (hardback) isbn 978-​9 0-​0 4-​4 6890-​0 (e-​book) Copyright 2022 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill nv incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau Verlag and V&R Unipress. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Requests for re-​use and/​or translations must be addressed to Koninklijke Brill nv via brill.com or copyright.com. This book is printed on acid-​free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Contents  Acknowledgements vii  List of Figures and Tables viii  Notes on Contributors ix 1  Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage 1 Elisabeth Punzi, Christoph Singer and Cornelia Wächter

part 1 Wellbeing and Collective Memory 2  “It is, After All, a Churchyard”: Orthodox and Heterodox Embodiments at Three Cemeteries in Gothenburg, Sweden 21 Jessica Moberg and Wilhelm Kardemark 3  The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing: The Burial Grounds of Racialized Communities in Canada 47 William Leonard Felepchuk 4  Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing: Connection Spanning Time and Place 67 Julie I. TelRav 5  Recovery Projects: Haitian Memory, Humanitarian Response and the Affordances of the Digital Disaster Archive 90 Lindsay Graham

part 2 Medical Institutions 6  The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–​1980 117 Kate Miriam Loewenthal 7  The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care: A Material and Immaterial Heritage That Could Contribute to Current Practice 130 Elisabeth Punzi

vi Contents 8  Addiction –​Same for Everybody All the Time? Perceptions and Value Judgements of Alcohol Abuse in Different Historical and Spatial Contexts 150 Malin Hildebrand Karlén 9  Institutionalized Waiting: Fragmented Temporalities and Wellbeing in the Medical Waiting Room 177 Christoph Singer

part 3 Carceral Spaces 10  ‘Fit and Re-​Orientation’: Carceral Heritage in Contemporary Design of Special Residential Homes for Youth and Its Impact on Wellbeing 193 Franz James and Sepideh Olausson 11  Wellbeing as a Political Issue: Bad Girls and the (Representational) Heritage of Female Incarceration 218 Cornelia Wächter  Index 239

Acknowledgements First of all, we would like to extend our heartfelt gratitude to all contributors to this edition. We would also like to thank the anonymous reviewers for their constructive feedback. We are, moreover, very grateful for the financial support of the Centre for Critical Heritage Studies (cchs) at the University of Gothenburg, Sweden. For their careful proofreading, we would like to offer a special thanks to our research students Mona Rosenberg, Alexander Kurunczi and Vivien Sper of the Ruhr-​University Bochum, Germany, Felix Behler, Yvonne Jende and Timothy Kroupa of Paderborn University, Germany and Celine Gassner of Innsbruck University.

Figures and Tables Figures 2.1  The “dog-​trail” at Kviberg Churchyard. Photo by Jessica Moberg. 30 2.2  A sign points out where urns are buried at the Eastern Churchyard. Photo by Jessica Moberg. 33 2.3  The pillars that display names of the dead at the Eastern Churchyard. Photo by Wilhelm Kardemark. 35 6.1  Hogarth’s (1735–​1763) famous depiction of Bedlam in the eighteenth century, the final scene from Hogarth’s series The Rake’s Progress 119 6.2  The Sanatorium: A Patient’s Room (originally from The Graphic, October 1881, 425). Note the top-​of-​the-​line furnishings, and interior decorations, and peaceful views. 122 6.3  A sample of the casebook notes 124 8.1  The characteristics of group 3 are well illustrated by the inhabitants of Gin Lane 158 8.2  Taxonomy of theories of addiction according to Robert West (2013), presented in a report for emcdda 168 10.1  Sketch and Talk with a young man at special residential home. Sketch by James. 201 10.2  Photovoice. Photo taken by a young person at a special residential youth home. 203 10.3  Model of 'Fit and Re-​Orientation by James and Olausson 204 10.4  Photo from Halden prison. Photographer: Trond A. Isaksen, Statsbygg, 2011. 208 10.5  Photo from Kronobergshäktet (jail). Stockholm, 1950s. Photographer unknown. 208 10.6  Interior design for prisons and jails by Krimprod, 2018 208 10.7  Room at a special residential youth home. Photo by the authors. 208 10.8  “Sketch and Talk”. A living room at a SiS-​home. Sketch James. 212

Tables 8.1  The groups within the Gothenburg system: Examples of traits 157 8.2  Aspects of the identified themes (medical, psychological and social) from a behavioural perspective observable by others 162 8.3  d sm-​5 criteria for substance use disorder 166

Notes on Contributors Annica Engström is an artist and designer with a Master of Fine Arts from the Academy of Fine Arts, Umeå University. She works with three-​dimensional expressions as well as with drawings, paintings and graphics. As an exhibition designer and producer, she has had various assignments, among others, at the Museum of Medical History in Gothenburg. Annica Engström uses visual art and creative expressions to work with people with various forms of psychological distress. She has initiated and implemented major creative projects together with users of psychiatry, with the University of Gothenburg and other stakeholders. The cover painting for this anthology, “Ringe” is part of a series of paintings which are inspired by maps of the villages on the island Funen in Denmark. William Leonard Felepchuk is a PhD candidate at Carleton University’s School of Indigenous and Canadian Studies. He is a historical geographer who primarily researches the places inhabited by the dead in southern Ontario with a focus on the impact of race and colonialism on them. He is also a researcher at Archipel Research and Consulting, an Indigenous-​owned company offering research and consulting services as well as trainings. Lindsay Graham is a PhD candidate at Rice University. Her research is at the intersection of feminist science and technology studies, digital humanities, and nineteenth century British literature. She worked in Haiti alongside Carl Lindahl on the Sivivan pou Sivivian: Memwa Ayisyen project in 2014–​2015, is a digital humanist research fellow with Resilience Networks for Inclusive Digital Humanities, and has published on digital methodologies and digital intellectual history. She currently has an article on queer and feminist theology under review. Malin Hildebrand Karlén a clinical psychologist, works for the Department of Forensic Psychiatry, the National Board of Forensic Medicine, as well as a lecturer in addiction psychology at the Department of Psychology, University of Gothenburg. She is the assistant director of the Center for Ethics, Law and Mental Health, a cross-​ disciplinary research group at the University of Gothenburg. Her research focusses on aspects of cognitive, social and clinical psychology of substance

x

Notes on Contributors

use/​addiction among persons in a forensic context (i.e., forensic psychiatric care and criminal court), and also on how psychiatric co-​morbidity interacts with addiction psychology. Franz James is a senior lecturer in furniture design at hdk-​Valand, University of Gothenburg. He is a practicing interior product designer for secure care environments. His research is about the impact of the physical environment on health and wellbeing in various compulsory health and prison care settings. His publications include a number of articles on carceral design, ethnographic design methods and wellbeing. Wilhelm Kardemark PhD, is a senior lecturer at University of Gothenburg’s department of Literature, History of Ideas, and Religion. He has repeatedly published on religious education with a focus on literacy, teaching geographical perspectives of sacred spaces, the connections of health and religion. Kate Miriam Loewenthal is Distinguished Research Fellow at New York University in London, Emeritus Professor of Psychology at Royal Holloway, London University and is a Visiting Professor at Glyndwr University in Wales, and at the University of Chester. Her research has focused on mental health in minority groups in the UK, and she is interested in how religious factors relate to mental health. She has been involved in providing and evaluating culture-​sensitive mental health support services, including the provision of trauma therapy. She has published many articles and several books including Religion, Culture and Mental Health, 2007. Her mental health-​related work at Royal Holloway and in the community has given her an interest in the former Holloway sanatorium and in Holloway’s efforts to provide innovative support for mental health. Jessica Moberg is Associate Professor in Religious Studies at the Department of Literature, History Ideas, and Religion at the University of Gothenburg. She defended her dissertation, entitled Piety, Intimacy and Mobility: A Case Study of Charismatic Christianity in Present-​Day Stockholm in 2013. Recent publications include studies on Occult Reality tv, Charismatic Christianity in Finland, Norway and Sweden, and contemporary Swedes’ interactions with cemeteries.

newgenprepdf

Notes on Contributors

xi

Sepideh Olausson is a senior lecturer at the Institute of Health and Care Sciences, University of Gothenburg. She is also a clinical researcher at Rågården Forensic Psychiatric Hospital, Sahlgrenska University Hospital. Her research is about the impact of the physical environment on health and wellbeing in various health-​care settings. She has published a number of articles about the environment in institutional compulsory care settings and icu high-​tech environments. Elisabeth Punzi is a clinical psychologist and associate professor at the Department of Social Work, Gothenburg University. She also leads the work on heritage and wellbeing at the Centre of Critical Heritage Studies (cchs), a cooperation between Gothenburg University and University College London. Her research concerns the prerequisites and possibilities of client-​centred mental health care, artistic expression in mental health care and the heritage and history of psychiatry and psychoanalysis. Christoph Singer is Professor of British and Anglophone Cultural Studies at the University of Innsbruck, Austria. In 2012, he finished his dissertation on literary representations of shorelines as liminal spaces (Sea Change: The Shore from Shakespeare to Banville. Brill, 2014). In 2015, he published a co-​edited anthology Transitions in Middlebrow Writing, 1880–​1930. Julie I. TelRav earned her Ph.D. in Sociology from the New School for Social Research in New York City. Her research interests converge at the intersection of cultural and urban sociology, with a strong focus on space, place and architecture as active agents in the construction of cultural and religious identity, communal relationships and social change processes. In addition to her research, Dr. TelRav is an instructor at Western Connecticut State University. Cornelia Wächter is Professor of British Cultural Studies at Technische Universität Dresden, Germany. She is the author of Place-​ing the Prison Officer: The ‘Warder’ in the British Literary and Cultural Imagination (Brill/​Rodopi, 2015), co-​editor of Middlebrow and Gender, 1890–​1945 (Brill, 2016) and Complicity and the Politics of Representation (Rowman & Littlefield, 2019).

­c hapter 1

Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage Elisabeth Punzi, Christoph Singer and Cornelia Wächter 1

Introduction

The Spatial Practices series is premised on the observation that places are inscribed with cultural meaning, not least of all in terms of collective constructions of identity. Such space-​based constructions can manifest in material and immaterial, explicit and implicit forms of heritage, and they are crucial factors in the promotion of a group’s wellbeing. It is this intersection of (institutional) spaces, heritage and wellbeing that the present volume takes at its object. In doing so, it adds to a growing body of work in critical heritage studies that “attends to the value, power and politics of affect and emotion” and considers how affect and emotion “co-​constitute meaning in memory, identity and heritage, past and present […]” (Tolia-​Kelly, Waterton and Watson 2017, 1). The contributors to the present volume are, firstly, concerned with various ways in which institutional spaces in their materiality as well as in their cultural inscriptions impact on the wellbeing of the subjects inhabiting them. In line with Sarah Atkinson, Sara Fuller and Joe Painter, we argue that the “centrality of two concepts, wellbeing and place, within contemporary governance and policy makes it timely to examine their possible meanings and relationships” (2017, 1; emphasis in the original). Atkinson, Fuller and Painter furthermore stress that “[w]‌ellbeing, however defined, can have no form, expression or enhancement without consideration of place” (ibid., 3). The present anthology, secondly, explores how heritage comes to bear on these interrelations within specific institutions, such as prisons, hospitals or graveyards. Institutions can be understood as realisations of tangible and intangible heritage, a heritage that influences and governs the wellbeing of those occupying these spaces. This heritage, however, is neither a static, fixed and essentialized product nor is the influence of institutional spaces on the wellbeing of subjects monodirectional. Helaine Silverman, Emma Waterton and Steve Watson therefore speak of “heritage […] in action” (2017, 3; emphasis in the original). David Harvey similarly proposes to “understand heritage as a process, or a verb, related to human action and agency, and as an instrument of cultural power in whatever period of time one chooses to examine” (2001, 327). Expanding Harvey’s argument, we read both heritage and space as interrelated practices. The authors

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_002

2

Punzi, Singer and Wächter

in the present collection probe the relational and often reciprocal networks between spaces, subjects and their wellbeing and the ways in which heritage, in its broadest sense, is inscribed into this web of mutable interconnections. 2

Institutional Heritage

Since the term heritage is multifarious, the following will trace some of its key denotations, particularly as they pertain to the concerns of this volume, and it will map some of the interrelations between heritage, space and wellbeing. Heritage can, first of all, in a descriptive and expansive sense, refer to what Rodney Harrison terms “traces of the past in the present” (2013, 1). As far as institutions are concerned, ‘traces of the past in the present’ can be inscribed in material sites, occupational cultures, in traditions or practices. Whereas past approaches have debated whether heritage is to be regarded as exclusively tangible or possibly also intangible, this collection is primarily interested in mending the apparent binaries of tangible/​material and intangible/​immaterial forms of heritage. A range of articles in this collection explore how institutions such as cemeteries, synagogues, prisons and psychiatric institutions may be manifested as material spaces while operating as sites of various –​sometimes competing –​forms of intangible heritage. That these interactions are often deeply embedded in strategies of power and hegemonic discourses goes without saying. Heritage frequently assumes normative forms, privileging some sites, values and practices over others, determining how people are supposed to react to and interact with these sites, be they graveyards, prisons, or sites of religious worship. In doing so, heritage also tends to privilege the wellbeing of one group over that of another. Especially where human rights are concerned, intangible heritage is of even greater concern than tangible heritage “since it is living heritage that is both embodied in people and fundamental to their identity and well-​being” (Logan 2018, 55). Harvey’s interpretation of heritage as a ‘verb’ thus helps to reframe institutions and their impact upon wellbeing as historically, culturally and socio-​politically situated; it can unmask naturalised norms and values as heritage. At the same time, since institutions only come to life via the agents representing them, institutional cultures and practices may develop that run counter to the institution’s original intentions; individual engagements with institutional space may be in defiance of institutional heritage. As the contributions to this volume demonstrate, such counter-​practices are often deeply related to changing or outright oppositional understandings of whose wellbeing is of (central) concern and what constitutes wellbeing in the first place. For

Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage

3

instance, some of the oppositional practices discussed in this volume unmask the dark heritage of punitive institutions and demonstrate to what extent wellbeing is a political issue; other oppositional practices demand access to sites of heritage that have so far been exclusively relegated to (other) religious or ethnical subgroups; and some practices may be read as processes of de-​colonizing conceptions of wellbeing and cultural memory themselves. What this anthology intends to highlight is how, especially in times of socio-​cultural, economical change on a global scale, the very notion of what constitutes heritage is increasingly tied to concerns of wellbeing, and wellbeing has, in turn, come to be of crucial political relevance in the negotiation of heritage. While heritage and historicity are related, we propose that a focus on heritage rather than historicity allows for a more nuanced analysis of the production of institutional spaces and their reciprocal interactions with the subjects that inhabit them, be that clients or practitioners, people in an official position, communities or individuals. Where a historic perspective is largely diachronic, causal and developmental, it also entails the danger of an overtly teleological approach to space. From such a perspective, a given institution would be doubly teleological: on the hand, it could be read as the result of causal actions and policies that resulted in the creation and implementation of said institution. On the other hand, the task of these institutions could also be read as largely teleological. Accordingly, examining institutions such as prisons, hospitals, religious places and graveyards yields a helpful diachronic insight into major transformations, ideological changes and developments or epistemological breaks, to cast this in Foucauldian terms. As important as these insights are, however, they often fail to account for the fact that while ideologies may radically change, the spaces they inhabit rarely do so. A prison intended for punitive measures may, for instance, be transformed into a prison focused on re-​socialising the inmates –​but the traces of the past inscribed in the space often remain forceful. These traces can be material, e.g. a prison building that is re-​utilised, or a hospital that is renovated, will still express the spatial logic of older systems. Heritage can and often does also consist of immaterial ideas and perceptions of what came before, and these perceptions influence and interfere with contemporary ideologies of wellbeing. That is to say, while the system of old may be a thing of the past, its spatial and ideological heritage often lingers on and influences the (self-​)perception of those using these spaces. It is for this reason that Karen Morin and Dominique Moran aver: “In the case of prisons and jails, we see one pressing ‘need of the present’ to frame the hyper-​or mass-​incarceration trends of today within well-​articulated historical and geographical concerns” (2015, 6). This serves to illustrate that ‘traces of the past in the present’ often

4

Punzi, Singer and Wächter

complicate the perception of systems and systematic change especially in the context of institutions. As such, spaces and subjects stand in a relational and reciprocal relationship, the nature of which influences a certain degree of wellbeing. To argue with Sarah Curtis, spaces are not merely ‘containers’ for various subjects and their respective states of wellbeing; rather “space and place contribute to processes helping to constitute health variation among individuals and populations” (2010, 6; emphasis in the original). When it comes to different types of institutions, these contributions and the variations of wellbeing they eventually constitute do of course differ not only amongst these institutions but also within a given institution. That a prison, to speak very generally, has a different aim vis-​à-​vis the constitution of wellbeing than a hospital seems obvious. One might think here of the long list of mortifications of the self that Erving Goffman identifies as characteristic of total institutions such as the prison (1961, 12–​48) –​as opposed to institutions catering expressly to the wellbeing of the individuals it houses. The latter may include not only places like hospitals but also, for example, as Nuala Morse argues, “the museum as a space of social care” (2021, 1; emphasis added). From a historical perspective, an English prison in the eighteenth century will (at least officially) have placed a different importance on the wellbeing of the people it incarcerated compared to its contemporary successors. What is more important, however, is the variation of phenomenological perceptions of wellbeing in a specific institution and at a specific point in time. Here we would like to adopt, following Curtis, a relational perspective on the interactions between space and subject. This perspective offers a conceptual framework that highlights the material, social and symbolic dimensions, which merge in particular ways for every individual as they move along their lifecourse trajectory through space and time. The interactions between the person and these changing settings is [sic] important for health outcomes of the individual, and the individual also contributes to the health environment. curtis 2010, 7

Such a framework complicates a purely subjective conception of wellbeing. The latter view, in the words of philosopher Mark Bernstein, would hold that “how well and how poorly one is faring is solely and completely a function of one’s subjective appreciation of the world” (1998, 39). The opposite view of so-​called objectivists would argue that “how well or poorly one is doing is not

Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage

5

solely a matter of how one is faring ‘from the inside’ ” (ibid.). While a purely objectivist view is commendable in its focus on individual perceptions of wellbeing, it carries the danger of dissociating an institution’s intentions from its self-​perceptions. An extreme case in point is solitary confinement, which is intended to use separation and deprivation of human contact as a form of punishment. There may be a variety of ways in which an incarcerated person reacts to the punishment, but to take objective intentions and their architectural translation out of the equation would be a gross simplification. The same holds true for institutions designed to increase wellbeing. Consequently, “ ‘[t]‌herapeutic’ landscapes of wellbeing”, in Curtis’s words (2010, 7), may have very different effects on different subjects. What becomes clear is that the dichotomy between subjective and objective wellbeing is very hard to maintain. One reason for the variety of approaches to wellbeing and institutions is the fact that a synchronic analysis of any given institution at a given point in time is impossible –​even with an understanding of its history –​because of the material or immaterial presence of traces of the past, that is of its heritage. This heritage, we claim, is not the heritage of a specific space or place or a given institution but the result of the relational dynamic between spaces, people and their symbolic dimensions. Thus, for instance, ‘traces’ of history affect the extent to which different (ethnic, gendered, classed, etc.) bodies can extend into space (Ahmed 2006), and this has significant influence on their wellbeing. More specifically, ‘traces of the past in the present’ shape the degree to which different bodies can benefit or are incapacitated from spaces designated for wellbeing. Following the notion of heritage as a relational and intersectional concept, we therefore read the concept of wellbeing in similar terms. As Atkinson, Fuller and Painter stress, a dominant approach to wellbeing focusses on a quality that inheres to the individual. The scope of wellbeing may range from inner balance between positive and negative affect through to a breadth of components and it may be influenced by factors and processes from proximal personal interactions through to global scale processes. Wellbeing may be assessed objectively or subjectively, as a snap-​shot of a current state, longitudinally across time or as a projection into the future, but in all these diverse scenarios, the central concept of wellbeing is itself individual in scale. (2012, 5) Despite these individualised approaches to wellbeing, there do exist “less dominant discourses of wellbeing […] that treat the concept as collective” (ibid.).

6 3

Punzi, Singer and Wächter

Heritage and/​as Collective Memory

The second major sense in which this volume addresses heritage as a concept is as denoting commemoration –​as a deliberate preservation of material and immaterial ‘traces of the past in the present’ in the service of collective identity constructions and the promotion of collective wellbeing. In the words of Monique H. van der Dries, “[i]‌t is nowadays widely acknowledged that culture and heritage contribute to well-​being” (2019, 321). More generally, as Divya P. Tolia-​Kelly, Emma Waterton and Steve Watson maintain, “feeling the past through embodied presencing of geological/​environmental space-​time is core to understanding identity, difference and alterity at heritage sites. In this regard, memory is posited as an affective tool for the co-​constitution of embodied, political narratives” (2017, 3; emphasis in the original). Heritage in this sense, however, had long been deemed to be the prerogative of those in power and catered to their wellbeing only. In Michel Foucault’s terms, such heritage constructions are manifestations of power/​knowledge. Laurajane Smith speaks of an “authorized heritage discourse” (2006, 4) that fails to include non-​hegemonic subject positions along the lines of, for instance, class, race, gender, ability/​disability or religion. The fight for a broader and more inclusive understanding of heritage to replace a hegemonic and exclusive meaning thereof is reminiscent of what Smith describes as the contestation of such an authorized heritage discourse. While the concept of heritage can be probed and seen through many lenses –​such as gender, history, nation, class, etc. –​a reduction to any such lens is necessarily limiting and exclusive. Stuart Hall argues with regard to a national lens and the related production of heritage that “[n]ational Heritage is a powerful source of such meanings. It follows that those who cannot see themselves reflected in its mirror cannot properly ‘belong’ ” (1999, 4). He then proceeds to critique the particularly British usage of the term heritage which favours “preservation and conservation: […] keeping what already exists” (ibid.) as opposed to an understanding of heritage as changing and consequently affecting both the present and the future. Hall’s understanding of the concept as non-​static and inclusive thus aligns with Harvey’s deployment of heritage as a ‘verb’ or a process. When Hall takes heritage initially to “refer to the whole complex of organizations, institutions and practices devoted to the preservation and presentation of culture and the arts […] and sites of special historical interest” (1999, 3), he does so to critique a heritage industry that is overly concerned with an often nationalist and static perception of heritage, as well as an exclusive and limited understanding of those who have the rights to participate therein. The perception of heritage as

Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage

7

a preservation of the past has, moreover, been overtly reliant on expert knowledge. Ian Hodder argues that the monuments are evaluated in terms of objective and abstract knowledge about cultural variation, types, and norms. The heritage is surrounded in expert knowledge, or rather it is defined through practices of expertise that have a distanced universalizing character. Valuation of heritage in these terms cannot deal with the different claims on the past that are today made by a wide variety of diverse communities. (2010, 862–​63) To render access to material and immaterial heritage more just and open, Hodder suggests to determine whether “matters of justice and wellbeing are being considered alongside the scholarly estimation” (2010, 863). From this perspective, wellbeing may not only be a result of practices related to heritage; it may even more be an argument for having a right to a formerly exclusive heritage in the first place. A similar non-​teleological understanding of the term heritage is advocated by Rodney Harrison, who argues that heritage is primarily not about the past, but instead about our relationship with the present and future. […] Heritage is not a passive process of simply preserving things from the past that remain, but an active process of assembling a series of objects, places and practices that we choose to hold up as a mirror to the present, associated with a particular set of values that we wish to take with us into the future. (2013, 4) When considering the function of heritage in the construction of collective identities, this aspect turns out to be of prime significance. The association of a given sense of heritage with a particular set of values is often implicit rather than explicit. People may not necessarily be aware of this association, but its impact –​embodied and entrenched in performativity and embedded material and immaterial practices –​is no less profound in those cases. Consequently, heritage can not only be understood as a final product, but as a concept that, in turn, constructs identities, imaginations of self and other, and influences what counts as wellbeing in the first place. Peter Howard and Brian Graham similarly stress a constructivist perspective when it comes to heritage. Their perspective “regards the concept as referring to the ways in which very selective past material artefacts, natural landscapes, mythologies, memories and traditions become cultural, political and economic resources for the present” (Graham and Howard 2008, 2). In that sense, the

8

Punzi, Singer and Wächter

notion of heritage is less concerned with material and immaterial ‘traces of the past’ but more with the “meanings placed upon them and the representations which are created from them” (ibid.). Thus, for instance, as Jeroen Rodenberg and Pieter Wagenaar observe with regard to the #RhodesMustFall movement and other controversies regarding statues in the wake of the #BlackLivesMatter movement, “[s]‌ome groups connect [these statues] to positive (hi)stories and use them as building blocks for identity formation. Others see them as witnesses to a dark (hi)story of (post)-​colonialism, racism, and social exclusion, to which equally strong feelings are attached” (2018, 2). When it comes to articulating and constructing a sense of identity, Graham and Howard argue that “[h]‌eritage in its broadest sense is among the most important of those means, even more so because identity can no longer be framed primarily within the national context that has so defined it since the European Enlightenment of the eighteenth century” (2008, 1). Seen from this perspective, to quote Hodder, “[h]eritage ownership is often collective, and it is often more spiritual than pecuniary, more about identity and less about control” (2010, 870). Following Elisa Giaccardi, we therefore conceive of heritage as a form of participatory culture: “[Heritage] is about making sense of our memories and developing a sense of identity through shared and repeated interactions with the tangible remains and lived traces of a common past” (2012, 1). As Giaccardi points out, the “tangible remains” of heritage and the related forms of memory are not separate but deeply intertwined. Especially in the context of colonialism and post-​colonial attempts at retracing the forms of heritage and histories that have been all but erased, the importance of de-​colonizing heritage and an understanding of heritage as largely tangible and Western has become tantamount. This is an argument brought forth by Laurajane Smith and Natsuko Akagawa in their deliberations on the concept of intangible heritage. In response to the 1972 Convention Concerning the Protection of the World Cultural, Natural Heritage –​the so-​called World Heritage Convention –​Smith and Akagawa highlight two main points of criticism: firstly, along with other scholars, they point out the Eurocentric nature of the whc’s approach to world-​heritage. Secondly, they criticise its focus on “monumentally grand and aesthetic sites and places” (2009, 1), all of which are manifestations of an uneven distribution of power. Consequently, Smith and Akagawa argue for the inclusion of intangible forms of heritage, in line with the 2003 Convention for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage (ichc). They are, of course, fully aware that the dichotomy between tangible and intangible heritage, while allowing for greater inclusion of diverse cultural practices, is also a very complicated one when it comes to translating these theoretical approaches into meaningful practices. They argue:

Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage

9

Indeed, we question the practical and theoretical utility of polarizing debate between ‘tangible’ and ‘intangible’ heritage. Heritage only becomes ‘heritage’ when it becomes recognizable within a particular set of cultural or social values, which are themselves ‘intangible’. Any item or place of tangible heritage can only be recognized and understood as heritage through the values people and organizations like unesco give it –​it possesses no inherent value that ‘makes’ it heritage. smith and akagawa 2009, 6

In a bit of an argumentative leap, they solve this dichotomy by declaring that “[a]‌ll heritage is intangible, not only because of the values we give to heritage, but because of the cultural work that heritage does in any society” (ibid.). The importance of de-​colonizing equally pertains to the conception of wellbeing. As several scholars point out, rather than generalising and universalising Western medicinal and scientific discourses, these forms of understanding heritage and wellbeing are in need of de-​colonizing so as to allow for more situated and culturally appropriate approaches. Pat Dudgeon, Abigail Bray, Belinda D’Costa and Roz Walker, for instance, outline one such approach when it comes to Indigenous Australian concepts of wellbeing –​more specifically social and emotional wellbeing (sewb), which is a “widely accepted term for describing the health and wellbeing of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples” (2017, 316). Such an approach to wellbeing is especially useful for this collection as it highlights not only the importance of de-​colonising discourses of heritage and wellbeing and shows how to reclaim Indigenous voices; more importantly, a concept like sewb stresses the interconnectedness of tangible and intangible elements that bear on the individual’s wellbeing. Rather than approaching these aspects in binary and dichotomous terms, sewb highlights the connection of analytical subsections. Dudgeon et al. conclude that “recognition of Indigenous sewb, comprised of seven interconnecting domains of body, mind and emotions, family and kinship, community, culture, Country, and spirituality, is an emerging wellbeing paradigm that is gaining prominence in Indigenous health research and practice” (2017, 322). The past decades have seen growing interest in and demand for heritage. Harrison speaks of “the abundance of heritage in our late-​modern world, and its social, economic and political function in contemporary global societies” (2013, 1). Silverman, Waterton and Watson similarly note “the ‘overproduction’ of heritage” and argue that one might get the impression “that everything and anything is being declared, contested, and/​or performed as heritage” (2017, 3). The perceived need for a sense of heritage, as the contributions to this volume demonstrate, is often the result of voluntary or enforced displacement. While,

10 

Punzi, Singer and Wächter

as John H. Jameson points out, there are “recent international political trends toward nationalism and inward-​looking perspectives, globalization forces have nevertheless produced a need for contextualizing knowledge to address complex issues and collaboration across and beyond academic disciplines” (2019, 2). One may be reminded of David Loewenthal’s claim that “[d]‌ismay at massive change stokes demands for heritage” (1996, 7). Loewenthal argues that “[q]uests for roots reflect this trauma; heritage is invoked to requite displacement” (1996, 9). That is to say that, for instance, rapidly transforming technologies, dislocation caused by global migration, climate change and other disruptive developments, create a longing for a seemingly more stable past. To quote Ryan Trimm, “[o]ne of heritage’s strongest emotional components is the suggestion of continuities standing against an era of continuous change. However, this employment of the past stems from the present feeling itself imperiled” (2017, 2). The resulting construction of heritage is often a fluent, adaptive form of memory geared towards the promotion of wellbeing in the face of unpredictability and instability. The fluidity and adaptability of heritage is complemented by the new forms collective memorialization assume in the digital age. Thus, as Giaccardi observes, [t]‌he impact of social media and emerging cultures of participation on our understanding and experience of heritage is blurring. This leads to a questioning of the boundaries between official and unofficial heritage, reshaping and creating new relations between audiences and institutions, fostering grassroots understandings and manifestations of heritage practice, and in general bringing to the front the living and performative aspects of heritage as part of our present-​day existence. (2012, 4) As Giaccardi argues, social media on the one hand upends classical distinctions when it comes to participating in heritage discourses. At the same, one needs to be aware that those companies that offer and market digital spaces become increasingly monopolized and that their algorithms and attempts at guiding the attention of its users become new powerful players and can greatly shape these heritage discourses. 4

The Chapters

Wilhelm Kardemark’s and Jessica Moberg’s contribution, entitled “ ‘It Is, After All, a Church Yard’: Orthodox and Heterodox Embodiments at Three Cemeteries in Gothenburg, Sweden”, is based on a range of interviews and opens the book’s

Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage

11

section on Wellbeing and Collective Memory. The authors discuss how the different uses of these spaces express co-​existing but often dichotomous understandings of heritage. These usages range from the intended religious practices to secular uses such as sports and games. Kardermark and Moberg also show that, despite these seemingly oppositional attitudes towards and usages of the cemetery space, the different visitors do share a somewhat similar understanding of the heritage of these places: in terms of their motivation to visit and use Gothenburg’s cemeteries, most interviewees expressed a perception of the cemetery as a locale of serenity and sincerity that offers a continual home for the dead and momentary place of rest for the living. William Felepchuck’s chapter, “The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing: The Burial Grounds of Racialized Communities in Canada”, further highlights the importance of analysing the intersections of heritage and home –​both for the dead and the living. Felepchuck problematizes the notions of heritage and wellbeing in a multi-​cultural and multi-​ethnic society. He documents the fight of religious minorities to be granted a place to remember their dead and in doing so establishing a feeling of belonging for themselves. This connection between home, heritage and wellbeing is reminiscent of Thomas F. Gieryn’s argument that the “loss of place […] must have devastating implications for individual and collective identity, memory, and history –​and for psychological wellbeing […]. To be without a place of one’s own –​persona non locata –​is to be almost non-​existent” (2000, 482). Examples like these serve to demonstrate how important heritage and the traces of the past are for a sense of belonging and wellbeing of those living in the present and working on their futures. To return to Hodder: Given that a particular group is closely associated with a cultural heritage which is central to its wellbeing, it has a right […] to participate and benefit from that heritage. […] The question becomes whether a person is able to participate in cultural heritage so as to enhance that person’s wellbeing. (2010, 872) This is not to say that the material and immaterial sources of heritage can be disregarded as secondary to a meaning-​making process. But, as many articles in this collection show, these meanings are often malleable and conflicting. Conflicts in meaning-​making regularly arise from a diachronic as well as a synchronic perspective. The former is central to Julie TelRav’s analysis of the transformations of three synagogues in the United States in “Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing: Connection Spanning Time and Place”. She shows how contemporary congregations –​often from communities

12 

Punzi, Singer and Wächter

with different socio-​economic backgrounds –​engage in adapting the spatial surroundings and the symbolic architectures of the past to the needs of the present. This process of making sense of the space’s heritage and supporting the community’s (spiritual) wellbeing may not aim at radically upending normative traditions; nonetheless, this search for a viable Jewish identity and its spatial manifestation and the attendant evolving understanding of heritage is not without conflicts. Lindsay Graham’s article, “Recovery Projects: Haitian Memory, Humanitarian Response and the Affordances of the Digital Disaster Archive”, is equally concerned with intersections of wellbeing, collective memory and spatial identity. Graham discusses the implementation and the impact of humanitarian aid-​efforts after a devastating earthquake hit and devastated local communities in Haiti in 2010. She outlines the earthquake’s effects on the community’s collective memory and wellbeing and subsequent attempts at rebuilding the devastated spaces and identities. Alongside the reconstruction of physical space, digital archives supported the local communities in making sense of the events and aimed at creating an archive able to represent Haiti’s heritage. These digital archives not only turned out to be integral sites of healing for those afflicted by the earthquake but also established power-​relations between the helpers and those in need that were intended to be symmetrical in nature and afforded the Haitian participants the agency to make sense of the events and to maintain their collective memory on their own terms. Graham’s article thus highlights Giaccardi’s observation that participatory culture is “characterized by relatively low barriers to public artistic expression and civic engagement, strong support for creating and sharing one’s creations with others, and frameworks for formal and informal mentorship to novices” (2012, 3). Kate Miriam Loewenthal opens the book-​section on Medical Institutions with a chapter entitled “The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–​1980”. She examines a nineteenth-​century attempt to provide a “generous and dignified provision for the treatment of mental illness among the less prosperous middle classes” (Harrison-​Barbet 1994, 43), although the target clientele would later shift to the upper and upper middle classes. The Holloway Sanatorium in Surrey offered facilities which contrasted with the bleak conditions in lunatic asylums for the poor. The elaborate architecture was highly unusual for a medical institution. The facilities and their furnishings equalled contemporary hotels, and patients were allowed considerable freedom. The hospital eventually came under the aegis of the National Health Service in 1948 and was closed in 1980 amidst reforms that aimed at reducing the number of hospitalised psychiatric patients. Loewenthal reflects, for instance, upon the question to what extent psychiatric patients were able to expect care and treatment similar to and

Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage

13

different from that provided for patients in the United Kingdom today, and whether anything useful for contemporary care can be learned from what was offered in this sanatorium. Loewenthal’s chapter draws on a range of accounts of patients’ treatments and experiences, on published books and articles, as well as on hospital records now available at the Wellcome Foundation. In the second contribution to the section on medical institutions, “The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care: A Material and Immaterial Heritage That Could Contribute to Current Practice”, Elisabeth Punzi presents an art studio at a psychiatric inpatient clinic in Gothenburg, Sweden, and explores the different types of heritage that come to work together in such a space. The studio is located in an abandoned room in the basement of the hospital. Here, patients are invited to play and express themselves in the hope of enhancing recovery and wellbeing. In the nineteen-​sixties, Lillhagen, a former psychiatric hospital in Gothenburg, became famous for its arts activities. The artworks of the patients were presented at municipal exhibitions halls and private galleries. The current art studio can, therefore, be seen as a reassurance that the heritage of patients will subsist. Punzi describes these art activities in mental health care as a material and immaterial heritage that holds the possibility to inform and enhance current practices in a mental health-​care system which is domineered by bio-​medical perspectives. She stresses that contemporary psychiatry tends to be of the conviction that its most important task is to diagnose individuals who seek treatment and provide structured interventions. Punzi instead approaches the art studio from a humanistic perspective (Brinkmann 2017). She focuses on the meaning of the art studio for a sense of wellbeing and the reactions such a room might invoke in those who enter it, also emphasizing the courage it takes to start painting. Through examining her own memories of painting-​classes in school and her own subjective reactions to the art studio, Punzi argues that the patients who engage in painting are more courageous than herself. This comparison highlights the arbitrary nature of classifying people as functional/​non-​functional or healthy/​unhealthy, since the patients, when it comes to painting and the courage to try an activity that is new to them, might be considered more functional and healthier than the author herself. In “Addiction –​Same for Everybody all the Time? Perceptions and Value Judgements of Alcohol Abuse in Different Historical and Spatial Contexts”, Malin Hildebrand Karlén traces the changing nature of the diagnosis of alcoholism and how it evolved in Swedish contexts. She probes the boundary between ‘normal’ and ‘pathological’ consumption of alcohol. Not only does she read the related institutional discourses as a form of national heritage; she also investigates how these changing attitudes towards addiction shape the

14 

Punzi, Singer and Wächter

perception of attendant spaces and locations. Hildebrand Karlén shows how the classification and value judgement of drinking not only change over time but are also contingent upon the socio-​economic status of the individual concerned and the spaces in which alcohol is consumed. Adopting a diachronic perspective, she outlines how in the nineteenth century, perceptions about alcoholism became widely influenced by the Swedish physician Magnus Huss, who conceptualized the damage syndrome of alcohol: Alcoholismus Chronicus. In light of these discourses, Hildebrand Karlén discusses societal attitudes towards alcohol consumption in different spatial contexts. Christoph Singer exemplifies the impact of spatial heritage on individual behaviour and a sense of wellbeing in his chapter “Institutionalized Waiting: Fragmented Temporalities and Wellbeing in the Medical Waiting Room”. In his discussion of literary representations of medical waiting rooms, he outlines the intersections of spatiality and temporality of the medical waiting room and the attendant effects on the wellbeing of clients and practitioners alike. He shows how medical waiting rooms not only organize the ill according to social class or the urgency of their physical or psychological state; these rooms are also imbued with a clear understanding of how those in waiting are expected to behave and to present themselves. Part of their heritage is a normative sense of what behaviour is perceived as appropriate and required. This, often implicitly communicated, sense of order and regulation stands in stark contrast to the patients’ perception of being out of time, an experience that –​ due to its lack of eventfulness in narratological terms –​proves very hard to relate. Singer’s analysis of the spatiality of the medical waiting room is applied to literary representations such as Leah Kaminsky’s novel The Waiting Room or Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “In the Waiting Room”. The final section of the volume is dedicated to Carceral Spaces. As noted above, ‘traces of the past in the present’ come to bear heavily on the degree to which prison spaces cater to the wellbeing and illbeing of the people confined in them, and the heritage of prison architecture –​as Foucault has famously demonstrated –​is inextricably entwined with that of other institutions in the service of what he terms discipline. The first chapter in this section, Franz James’s and Sepideh Olausson’s “ ‘Fit and Re-​Orientation’: Carceral Heritage in Contemporary Design of Special Residential Homes for Youth and Its Impact on Wellbeing”, considers the –​often literal –​carceral design heritage of spaces for the compulsory care of children and adolescents in Sweden, with a focus on institutions run by The Swedish National Board of Institutional Care. James and Olausson analyse how the prisonlike character of these spaces impacts on the wellbeing of the youths inhabiting them. The authors moreover consider how the interaction of spatial design and wellbeing relates to the specific

Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage

15

individuals, depending not least of all on where they themselves come from and how past ideologies have been inscribed in their bodies. As Sara Ahmed observes, “spaces are not exterior to bodies; instead, spaces are like a second skin that unfolds in the folds of the body” (2006, 9). Accordingly, if a similar type of space has been ‘inscribed’ into the young person’s body prior to the custodial residence in a youth home, the perceived ‘fit’ is often higher than for youths arriving from very different spaces. The spatial heritage of the youth home thus interacts with the heritage the youths inhabiting them embody to produce a higher or lower degree of subjective wellbeing. When it comes to prisons, the wellbeing of those in incarceration is a highly charged and contentious political issue. From a punitive perspective –​ a perspective that has dominated public discourse over the past decade (see Garland 2001; Lerman 2014) –​those confined are supposed to be punished, and a certain degree of illbeing is not only accepted but desired for the purported wellbeing of society at large. In fact, as Hadar Aviram observes, one possible explanation for the emergence of punitivism directed at minorities –​ who are vastly overrepresented in prisons of the Western world –​“is that [it] is the manifestation of a sense of threat posed by large numbers of minorities to the economic and political wellbeing of the majority […]” (2015, 156). At the other end of the spectrum (bar the call for prison abolition) is a focus on rehabilitation and humanistic treatment of people in incarceration. Since prisons are largely hidden from public view and few people actually engage with those inside, media representations assume a central role when it comes to the affective politics surrounding the wellbeing of imprisoned people. The second chapter of this section, “Wellbeing as a Political Issue: Bad Girls and the (Representational) Heritage of Female Incarceration” by Cornelia Wächter, is concerned with precisely this issue. It explores how the British tv series Bad Girls (1999–​2006) negotiates the politics of wellbeing in prison in the light of the prison’s shifting policies and the lingering ‘traces of the past’. The series explicitly addresses central issues concerning female wellbeing in prison in light of a patriarchal heritage both within and beyond the prison. Unfortunately, however, as Wächter argues, the series increasingly falls prey to its generic heritage and thus ultimately caters to punitive attitudes towards the politics of wellbeing and illbeing of women in incarceration.

References

Ahmed, Sara. 2006. Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others. Durham and London: Duke University Press.

16 

Punzi, Singer and Wächter

Atkinson, Sarah, Sara Fuller, and Joe Painter. 2012. Wellbeing and Place. Surrey: Ashgate. Aviram, Hadar. 2015. Cheap on Crime: Recession-​Era Politics and the Transformation of American Punishment. Oakland: University of California Press. Barad, Karen. 2003. “Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter.” Signs 28 (3): 801–​31. Bernstein, Mark. 1998. “Wellbeing.” American Philosophical Quarterly 35 (1): 39–​55. Brinkmann, Svend. 2017. “Humanism after Posthumanism: Or Qualitative Psychology after the ‘Posts’.” Qualitative Research in Psychology 14 (2): 109–​30. Curtis, Sarah. 2010. Space, Place and Mental Health. Surrey: Ashgate. Dries, Monique H. van der. 2019. “Bring It On! Increasing Heritage Participation Through Engagement Opportunities at Unconventional Places.” In Transforming Heritage Practice in the 21st Century: Contributions from Community Archaeology, edited by John H. Jameson and Musteaţă Sergiu, 321–​36. Cham: Springer. Dudgeon, Pat, and Abigail Bray. 2017. “Decolonising Psychology: Validating Social and Emotional Wellbeing.” Australian Psychologist 52 (4): 316–​325. Ehrenreich, Barbara. 2009. Smile or Die: How Positive Thinking Fooled America and the World. London: Grant Books. Fullilove, Mindy Thompson. 1996. “Psychiatric Implications of Displacement: Contributions from the Psychology of Place.” American Journal of Psychiatry 153 (12): 1516–​23. Garland, David. 2001. The Culture of Control: Crime and Social Order in Contemporary Society. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Giaccardi, Elisa. 2012. “Introduction.” Heritage and Social Media: Understanding Heritage in a Participatory Culture. London: Routledge. Gieryn, Thomas F. 2000. “A Space for Place in Sociology.” Annual Review of Sociology 26: 463–​96. Goffman, Erving. 1961. Asylums: Essays on the Social Situation of Mental Patients and Other Inmates. New York: Anchor Books. Hall, Stuart. 1999. “Whose Heritage? Un-​Settling ‘the Heritage’, Re-​Imagining the Post-​ Nation.” Third Text 13 (49): 3–​13. Harrison, Rodney. 2013. Heritage: Critical Approaches. London: Routledge. Harrison-​Barbet, Anthony. 1994. Thomas Holloway: Victorian Philanthropist. Egham, Surrey: Royal Holloway, University of London. Harvey, David C. 2001. “Heritage Pasts and Presents: Temporality, Meaning, and the Scope of Heritage Studies.” International Journal of Heritage Studies 7 (4): 319–​38. Hodder, Ian. 2010. “Cultural Heritage Rights: From Ownership and Descent to Justice and Wellbeing.” Anthropological Quarterly 83 (4): 861–​62. Howard, Peter, and Brian Graham. 2008. The Ashgate Research Companion to Heritage and Identity. Aldershot: Ashgate.

Institutions, Wellbeing and Performative Heritage

17

Jameson, John H. 2019. “Introduction: The Critical Junctures of Archaeology, Heritage, and Communities.” In Transforming Heritage Practice in the 21st Century: Contributions from Community Archaeology, edited by John H. Jameson and Musteaţă Sergiu, 1–​12. Cham: Springer. Lerman, Amy E. 2014. The Modern Prison Paradox: Politics, Punishment, and Social Community. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Loewenthal, David. 1996. Possessed by the Past. New York: The Free Press. Logan, William. 2018. “Ethnicity, Heritage and Human Rights in the Union of Myanmar.” In Cultural Contestation: Heritage, Identity and the Role of Government, edited by Jeroen Rodenberg and Pieter Wagenaar, 37–​60. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Morin, Karen M., and Dominique Moran. 2015. “Introduction.” In Historical Geographies of Prisons: Unlocking the Usable Carceral Past, edited by Karen M. Morin and Dominique Moran, 1–​13. London: Routledge. Morse, Nuala. 2021. The Museum as a Space of Social Care. Abingdon: Routledge. Rodenberg, Jeroen, and Pieter Wagenaar. 2018. “Cultural Contestation: Heritage, Identity and the Role of Government.” In Cultural Contestation: Heritage, Identity and the Role of Government, edited by Jeroen Rodenberg and Pieter Wagenaar, 1–​10. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Silverman, Helaine, Emma Waterton, and Steve Watson. 2017. “An Introduction to Heritage in Action.” In Heritage in Action: Making the Past in the Present, edited by Helaine Silverman, Emma Waterton, and Steve Watson, 3–​16. Cham: Springer International Publishing. Smith, Laurajane. 2006. Uses of Heritage. Abingdon: Routledge. Smith, Laurajane and Natsuko Akagawa. 2009. Intangible Heritage. Abingdon: Routledge. Tolia-​Kelly, Divya Praful, Emma Waterton, and Steve Watson. 2017. “Introduction: Heritage, Affect and Emotion.” In Heritage, Affect and Emotion: Politics, Practices and Infrastructures, edited by Divya Praful Tolia-​Kelly, Emma Waterton, and Steve Watson, 1–​11. London and New York: Routledge. Trimm, Ryan S. 2017. Heritage and the Legacy of the Past in Contemporary Britain. New York and London: Routledge.

pa rt 1 Wellbeing and Collective Memory

∵

­c hapter 2

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

Orthodox and Heterodox Embodiments at Three Cemeteries in Gothenburg, Sweden Jessica Moberg and Wilhelm Kardemark Abstract Cemeteries are part of Sweden’s cultural heritage and accommodate practices that have the potential to contribute to wellbeing in a broad sense –​activities related to grief, memorialization and recreation –​and they have a history of controversy surrounding their use. On the one hand, this combination raises questions about the social boundaries for what is acceptable and the historical continuity and discontinuity of such boundaries. On the other hand, it invites critical discussion about access to spaces that are beneficial for people’s wellbeing. These spaces are therefore well suited to explore relations between heritage, space and wellbeing. This article is grounded in an ethnographic pilot study from 2017 and presents an analysis of people’s interactions with three cemeteries in Gothenburg, as well as a ­discussion about their historical roots. Our analysis is inspired by spatial theory –​p ­ articularly Pauline R. Couper’s (2018) and Setha M. Low’s (2003) versions that foreground spatial performance and embodiments –​and Pierre Bourdieu’s (1977) ­discussion of social principles (doxa) and struggles concerning proper and improper (orthodox and heterodox) actions.

1

Introduction

It is easy to imagine that cemeteries are, and have always been, sites used exclusively for burials, memorialization and handling grief. They are, however, ambiguous sites that are used for a variety of purposes (Blackburn 2007; Nielsen Porsborg and Groes 2014). Cemeteries in Sweden are home to both recreational activities and ritual practices relating to the dead, which means that sorrow, existential reflections and enjoyment of life appear side by side (Petersson et al. 2018). Multifaceted as they are, they are nonetheless entrenched in norms concerning conduct, and historical and present examples illustrate that transgressions may cause protests. In a letter to the editorials of the Daily News [Dagens

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_003

22 

Moberg and Kardemark

Nyheter] from 1923, an anonymous writer complained about the noise of children playing at a local cemetery –​something this person suspected disturbed the dead who enjoyed “their final sleep” (Hagberg [1937] 2015, 482). ‘Improper’ actions still stir debate, particularly during summer-​time, when urban cemeteries turn into a setting for picnics, sunbathing, dog-​walking and jogging. In 2016, the appearance of Pokémon Go-​players sparked protests on site and in the media.1 In an online article, a woman depicted the players’ actions as disrespectful towards the deceased’s relatives, not least because the gamers “must have stood on the grave stones.” A second interviewee who emphasized that she “is not religious” echoed the opinion: people “should show respect” (Sveriges Television 2016). Dog-​littering, too, has caused protests in the media. In one article, the journalist gave voice to a member of the cemetery staff, who expressed distaste about the dogs’ “big squishy piles” the dog-​owners failed to depose –​not only on lawns but on top of some of the graves. Marvelling about such lack of propriety, the staff-​member added a comment equally explanatory and opaque: “it is, after all, a churchyard” (Ingströmer 2016). Cemeteries are part of Sweden’s cultural heritage and accommodate practices that have the potential to contribute to wellbeing in a broad sense –​ ­activities related to grief, memorialization and recreation –​and they have a history of controversy surrounding their use. On the one hand, this combination raises questions about the social boundaries for what is acceptable and the historical continuity and discontinuity of such boundaries. On the other hand, it invites critical discussion about access to spaces that are beneficial for people’s wellbeing. As a case study, it is well suited to explore relations between heritage, space and wellbeing. The article is grounded in an ethnographic pilot study from 2017 and presents an analysis of people’s interactions with three cemeteries in Gothenburg, as well as a discussion of their historical roots. Our analysis is inspired by spatial theory –​particularly Pauline R. Couper’s (2018) and Setha M. Low’s (2003) versions that foreground spatial performance and embodiments –​and Pierre Bourdieu’s (1977) discussion of social principles (doxa) and struggles concerning proper and improper (orthodox and heterodox) actions. The study has four aims. First, it scrutinizes the presence of different spatialities and principles for their distribution at the three cemeteries. Second, it investigates conflicts and negotiations related to orthodoxy. Third, it discusses relations between contemporary spatialities in light of Sweden’s Lutheran history. Fourth, we

1 We would like to direct a special thanks to our students of the summer course “Religion in Gothenburg” who brought our attention to this controversy.

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

23

theorize relationships between heritage, space and wellbeing, with an emphasis on access. 2

Cemeteries and Modernity

The article taps into the expanding field of cemetery studies, brought about by an increased scholarly interest in death (Frihammar and Silverman 2018; Howarth 2007). This field encompasses both historical and ethnographical studies. As a rule, studies of the former kind have focused on how historical developments shaped the localization and organization of the modern cemetery in the late eighteenth century and onward (Foucault 1984; Laqueur 2001; Maddrell and Sidaway 2010; Schönbäck 2008; Åhrén Snickare 2002). Some scholars have emphasized how the relocation of the dead outside the cities was informed by the emergence of a modern subject with new sensibilities, for whom death and dead bodies became polluting (Laqueur 2001). Others have described it as the result of modern city planning and medicine (Schönbäck 2008; Åhrén Snickare 2002) or noted how broad cultural trends, such as new understandings of childhood, informed the organization and aesthetics of cemeteries (Nolin 2018). Ethnographic studies have addressed both contemporary trends such as intimization of gravesites (Silvén 2018) and visitors’ use of cemeteries (Francis, Kellaher, and Neophytou 2005; Nielsen Porsborg and Groes 2014; Petersson et al. 2018; Silvén 2018). Visitor studies have illuminated the role they play in grieving processes (Maddrell and Sidaway 2010), but also how they become sites of “dark tourism” that centres on visits to famous people’s tombs (Sather-​Wagstaff 2018; see also Banaszkiewicz 2018). Despite the growing number of studies, there are perspectives we find missing. In this article, we shed light on a blind spot: visitor’s spatial practices and their relations with historical religious transformations.2 3

A Local Study of Three Cemeteries

This article is based on an ethnographic study in Gothenburg, Sweden’s second-​largest city and home to approximately 580,000 people. The local cemetery landscape is the result of Gothenburg’s modern history during which 2 Hedvig Schönbäck (2008) has called attention to how Moravian burial customs influenced the organization of modern cemeteries, but as far as we know no studies have discussed spatial embodiments in light of religious history.

24 

Moberg and Kardemark

small and centrally located churchyards were replaced by larger cemeteries outside the city –​a development that began during the nineteenth century. Gothenburg accommodates 36 cemeteries of different age; a few of them are no longer used for burials, but all are kept tidy (see Svenska kyrkan 2020). In tandem with the city’s growth, the geographical separation between city and cemeteries has collapsed, and cemeteries from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries make up green areas (alongside parks) in today’s urban landscape. Due to the increased presence of religious and ethnic minorities, people of different faiths are buried at most sites. Four of them are dedicated exclusively to Jewish and Muslim groups –​two to each religious tradition (see Svenska kyrkan 2020). Recent transformations include the introduction of memorial gardens in the late 1960s and semi-​anonymous urn gardens –​where nametags display the names of the deceased –​in the new millennium (see Svenska kykan 2020). Legal relaxations in the 1990s that allowed increased variation in tombstone design and decorations have influenced today’s cemeteries, which have become increasingly diverse in this respect (see Åkesson 1997, 132–​43; Silvén 2018, 25–​28). Our study focused on the three largest ‘active’ cemeteries: the Western Churchyard (Västra kyrkogården), the Eastern Churchyard (Östra kyrkogården) and Kviberg’s Churchyard (Kvibergs kyrkogård).3 The three were founded between 1860 and 1935 and express different architectonic ideals, captured in the romantic and park-​like aesthetics of the Eastern Churchyard and Kviberg Churchyard’s functionalistic design. The Western Churchyard is the largest of them with a total of 28,600 graves. As for size, Kviberg’s Churchyard covers 130 hectares, which makes it substantially larger than the other two. Beside the grave quarters, the Eastern Churchyard hosts an urn garden, Kviberg’s Churchyard a memorial garden and the Western Churchyard both varieties. The cemeteries neighbour both residential and commercial areas. They are partly secluded from their surroundings by hedges, fences and walls, and visitors can access each of them through one main gate or several smaller ones. All cemeteries encompass a number of roads and paths. A large road that leads from the main gate allows passage to a centrally located chapel. The many small pathways serve a dual purpose: they divide the sites into grave quarters, urn-​and memorial gardens and green areas, and they connect the cemeteries’ different parts.

3 Technically, these are cemeteries, but their official Swedish names include the term “churchyard.”

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

4

25

Fieldwork in Familiar and Alien Space

The study was carried out between May and June 2017. It encompassed nine full days of participant observations on the three sites, and semi-​structured interviews with visitors. Ethnographic work is, however, not a straightforward affair. On the contrary, the process is shaped by the background and performance of the researchers (see Coffey 1999; Munthali 2001; Okely 2007). We were both raised in Sweden and have visited cemeteries from an early age; we have attended funerals, planted flowers on graves and learned to walk (not run) in socially sanctioned ways. It is well-​established that studying familiar milieus comes with its own sets of difficulties (see Coffee 1999; Munthali 2001). In our case, we sometimes assumed that we could tell what people would do and say. When they did the opposite, our sense of familiarity was replaced by feelings of being in a very alien place. However, the main difficulty was that our own notions of what was proper and improper were close (not necessarily identical) to those of the visitors. Among other things, we found it uncomfortable to engage people in conversation, particularly in grave quarters. It went against our gut feeling. Our ‘natural’ way to act was to keep our distance and lower our gaze rather than greeting people. This self-​inflicted censorship first prevented access to ‘sensitive’ locations and excluded categories of informants. As we resisted our discomfort and approached people, we were also met with suspicion, which illustrated that our emotions (in this case) were in line with local spatial norms. We learned, however, to overcome such difficulties by positioning ourselves on benches located along larger roads and address people from there –​sitting down appears to have made us less threatening. Although many still viewed us with initial suspicion when we greeted them, they agreed to answer our questions when we told them about our research. Much like the visitors in the study, we needed to negotiate what we describe as orthodoxy below. Those negotiations allowed us to perform forty informal interviews on site about motives for the visit, feelings about the place and perceptions of appropriate behaviour. We chose not to approach people who were clearly in mourning or attended to gravesites. Fortunately, the Cemetery Administration allowed us to use the advertising panels to recruit the latter group. As a result, we were contacted by ten people with whom we performed semi-​structured interviews (Kvale and Brinkmann 2014). Seven of them were women and three were men, and eight of them were 65 years of age or above. By contrast to the interviews that were conducted on site, they focused to a greater extent on the individual meaning of grave visits and they provided rich material on the interviewees’ relation to the cemeteries.

26  5

Moberg and Kardemark

Spatial Embodiments and the Issue of Orthodoxy

Our perspectives and analytical concepts derive from spatial theory and the work of Pierre Bourdieu. A central feature of spatial theory is the problematization of ‘space’ as reducible to the physical dimension and the acknowledgement of its social and performative aspects (Couper 2018; Lefebvre 1991; Low 2003; Soja 1996). The grandfather of spatial analysis, Henri Lefebvre, described space as a field of human production and emphasized how ‘spatialization’ (re)produces social order (1991 [1974]). Contemporary theorists commonly stress a dialectical relationship between people and space –​that we are producers and products of space –​but emphasize different aspects of this relationship (Couper 2018; Low 2003; Soja 1996). Social geographer Edward W. Soja (1996) incorporates material, narrative and experienced dimensions in his analysis. Courtney Bender (2016) has focused more exclusively on the performativity of material organization. In contrast, Pauline Couper (2018) and Setha M. Low (2003) foreground how people embody different spatialities through their movements, material and sensuous interactions –​performative embodiments. The latter perspective can be illustrated by thinking about a beach and a library. Both exist as physical locations, but the analysis would highlight how people reproduce them as cultural concepts by interacting with and experiencing them in socially sanctioned ways. For example, one might take off one’s shirt at the beach but not at the library and interact informally and noisily at the beach but restrain one’s movements at the library. These examples also highlight what Couper describes as “spatial demands” (2018, 291) –​challenges that come with the physical and social context, which people meet by adjusting their actions. We see interactions with cemeteries as instances of spatial production which directly involve visitors, the staff on site and the Cemetery Administration. In the analysis below, we foreground the role of visitors. We find Low’s and Couper’s embodiment perspective inspiring since it allows us to view people as experiencing subjects whose actions are performative in that they become parts of and establish a visible spatial order that others have to relate to as they engage with the cemeteries. We also draw inspiration from Couper’s view that people embody different spatialities. The latter allows us to conceptualize and theorize how cemeteries are home to several spatialities that entail different forms of interactions and experiences. For reasons of clarity, we also make an analytical distinction between site, place and space; the former two refer to physical locations, whereas the latter pertains to spatial production through people’s embodied interactions with the former.

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

27

To capture and conceptualize the sensitive nature of cemetery space, it is fruitful to revisit theories about sacred spaces and taboo that have deep roots in religious studies and anthropology (Chidester and Linenthal 1995; Douglas 1966; Kong and Woods 2016; Lynch 2012).4 Low, who recapitulates the discussion, stresses that sacred locations are surrounded by taboo and face the threat of profanation by the presence of ‘wrong’ bodies and actions. She also suggests that spatial production involves knowledge about excluded spaces: sites surrounded by taboo (2003, 14). Such knowledge is often internalized so that avoiding them becomes part of one’s normal spatial routine. In the analysis, we call attention to spatial taboos, what Low calls excluded spaces, and the role of self-​limitation and constraints in spatial production. Bourdieu’s (1977) work on how social perception (embodied in the habitus) informs our actions and reproduces order lends itself to spatial analysis. Bourdieu saw social order as grounded in social perception and took interest in principles that structure how we experience the world and our place in it. Referring to these principles as doxa, he stressed that they, for the most part, are internalized and invisible. In fact, the strength of a social order lies in doxa’s ability to be naturalized and fade from view; it needs no justification or explanation but ‘goes without saying’. Moreover, social order is embodied and anchored in aesthetical preferences and emotions. This means that people who encounter culturally challenging practices may experience compulsion or disgust and anger, while behaviour and spaces that are in line with orthodoxy can provide a sense of normality, comfort or Heimlichkeit. Yet, doxa is not static; it transforms as a result of struggles between heterodox opponents who challenge it (and its neutralization) through their actions and its orthodox defenders (Bourdieu 1977, 159–​171, see also 72–​73, 87–​89). What Bourdieu says about our sense of place could easily be rephrased as a ‘sense of space’ that is rooted in embodied knowledge about how to act ‘normally’. His work also invites us to see opaque statements like “it is, after all, a churchyard” (Ingströmer 2016) as grounded in naturalized and unarticulated spatial norms. Moreover, it offers ways to theorize relations between different spatialities and to comprehend conflicts by looking for underlying principles that structure how they are distributed. Our analysis begins with an account of how two principles (doxa) inform the distribution between two different spatialities. Thereafter, we flesh out our argument by accounting for orthodoxy in different locations, for heterodox embodiments and how people defend doxa.

4 The sacred-​profane dichotomy has been elaborated on by Émile Durkheim (1912), Mary Douglas (1966), Gordon Lynch (2012) and many others.

28  6

Moberg and Kardemark

Doxa, Orthodoxy and Heterodoxy at the Three Sites

At first glance, attitudes and actions in regard to cemeteries appear to be contradictory. The coexistence of joggers, grave visitors and picnickers suggest a laisser-​faire attitude, whereas emotionally laden complaints indicate the opposite: that cemeteries are culturally sensitive sites. This apparent paradox disintegrates if we view activities as parts of different spatialities, which under ‘normal’ circumstances often are kept separate. The activities we observed can be divided into (at least) three spatial clusters. The first is a cemetery spatiality that is practised by actions that are ritualized to different degrees. These include planting and watering flowers on graves, placing candles and flowers in urn-​and memorial gardens and a particular form of slow and contemplative walk. It typically involves socialization with family members, and contact with strangers is avoided. Second, we discerned a park spatiality that is embodied through outdoor sport activities, picnics, consumption of alcohol, sunbathing and dog-​walks. Socially, it centres to a greater extent on peer interaction, is slightly louder and more cheerful, and the pace of the activities is higher. In interviews, we also learned about a tourist spatiality that revolves around visits to famous people’s tombs, which is practised individually or collectively through guided tours (see Banaszkiewicz 2018; Sather-​Wagstaff 2018).5 Unfortunately, the lack of observation means that it is kept out of the discussion. We suggest that two principles structure where and under what circumstances the two spatialities are embodied. These principles are grounded in knowledge about excluded space and hierarchization, as well as separation of the two spatialities. In real life, the two can intertwine, but they are treated separately here for analytical clarity. The first centres on locations that are attributed symbolic significance as ‘locations of death’ –​like gravestones, grave-​quarters in general and the areas where ashes are spread or buried in the urn-​and memorial gardens. Locations of death can overlap with the locations where we find dead bodies, but they are best understood as a cultural category since it requires knowledge to ‘decode’ such locations.6 Locations of death are surrounded by taboo and interactions with them place demands on the visitors. These are locations set apart for cemetery spatiality –​slow walks along the aisles looking at gravesites, tending to graves, participating in burials –​and 5 It appears to be most common on the Eastern Churchyard where the poets and authors Karin Boye (1900–​1941) and Viktor Rydberg (1828–​1895) are buried. 6 Human remains can be found under lawns and green areas, while graves can be empty after many years.

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

29

are excluded space for park spatiality. The second principle consists of a hierarchization of spatialities, which establishes cemetery spatiality as dominant and park spatiality as subordinate, and that the latter is physically kept out of the way of the former. In contrast to the first principle, where knowledge about materiality set the boundaries for park spatiality, it is visitor embodiments of cemetery spatiality that render locations accessible or inaccessible for park spatiality. The principles make up what Bourdieu (1977) calls doxa: unarticulated rules that structure the spatial order. Orthodoxy, in this context, means to respect and reproduce the principles through one’s actions and embodiments. Heterodoxy, in contrast, implies to disregard doxa by embodying park spatiality too close to locations of death and to cemetery spatiality. With this in mind, we can see how the two spatialities were embodied in different locations when orthodoxy was upheld. Cemetery spatiality had its heartland in grave quarters and in the urn–​and memorial gardens, where it was embodied through practices of memorialization, burials and particular ways of walking. In contrast, we found park practices at some distance from ‘locations of death’ and places where people embodied cemetery spatiality. Activities like jogging and dog-​walking tended to be kept to the larger roads –​ in fact, we identified a ‘dog trail’ at each of the cemeteries (­figure 2.1) –​and picnics and sunbathing were carried out in green peripheral areas without graves. As argued, recreational activities were not regarded as wrong per se. Conflicts mostly arose if they took place under the wrong circumstances. 7

Proximity to Death: In the Grave Quarters

In grave quarters, orthodoxy was upheld through embodied knowledge, which was integral to people’s actions. In Low’s (2003) terms, internalized knowledge about excluded spaces allowed them to decode their surroundings (what grave quarters looked like and their symbolic significance) and act accordingly. As locations of death, the grave quarters raised demands that other locations did not, and orthodoxy was maintained by keeping recreational activities at some distance and by involving them in cemetery spatiality. Still, not all parts of the grave quarters were treated in the same way. We can speak of a spatial grading, where the stone and the small area immediately in front of it were associated with death to a greater extent –​and more surrounded by taboo –​ than the moved lawns and pathways that surrounded them (see Chidester and Linenthal 1995, 10–​12). This grading was visible (and reproduced) through the number of people who used the different locations and what they did there. Many who took recreational walks or jogs refrained from entering the grave

30 

Moberg and Kardemark

­f igure 2.1  The “dog-​trail” at Kviberg Churchyard photo: jessica moberg

quarters. Walking along the roads that enclosed them, they could stop by gravestones that they passed or stroll among old and monumental graves they found aesthetically appealing, but they rarely left the pathways or venture onto the lawns in the grave quarters. Moreover, the fact that we never saw visitors

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

31

physically interact with tombstones during clearly recreational walks illustrates that they were even more excluded from park spatiality than the grave quarters as a whole.7 Embodiments of cemetery spatiality granted access to grave quarters at the same time as they reproduced orthodoxy and made the locations inaccessible for recreational use (discussed below). Cemetery spatiality included particular ways to walk, talk and socialize, as well as visits to gravesites and participation in funerals.8 Such embodiments had in common the lowering of pace and voice and that interactions with strangers were kept to a minimum. Visitors often muted their conversations and began to walk more slowly as they passed by and through grave quarters. In addition, we never saw or heard visitors engage others in conversations unless they came to the site together. People also commented on this in interviews; sometimes the norm of non-​disturbance was described as positive and respectful, sometimes as sad and depressing. Visits to gravesites were a cornerstone in cemetery spatiality and involved quite standardized ways of tending to the area in front of the tombstone. Most often, visitors took care of graves together with their family or alone (rather than with friends), and middle-​aged and elderly women were particularly active. Visits followed the tempo we have described; many decreased their pace upon entering the grave quarters and walked the last meters to the grave even more slowly. Approaching the grave, they would take a short halt to quietly ‘take in’ the stone and decorations. Often, people ‘greeted’ the stone by patting it slowly, or they held a hand to it for a while. Occasionally, someone would sit on or lean against ‘their’ stone for some time. Thereafter followed five to ten minutes of maintenance, where old flowers (and sometimes candles) were replaced by new ones. The visitors generally stood up several times to dispose of garbage, water the plants, to inspect and make corrections to the arrangements. The procedure was often led by women, while the men were called upon to assist by fetching water and disposing of garbage. The whole process was characterized by non-​stressful care where women arranged the flowerbeds almost as if they were carefully tucking someone into bed. After the site had been attended to, visitors rose to inspect the grave and stood by the graveside a few minutes. Before departing, they would take a last glance over 7 Celebrity graves appear to be more socially accessible. Two interviewees admitted that they had placed objects on top of the graves of Karin Boye and Viktor Rydberg at the Eastern Churchyard. In contrast, we never heard of anyone who had done similar things with graves of unknown people. Several interviewees made remarks about how bad it looked when graves were “mistreated” but it never occurred to any of them to “fix them” by tidying them up. 8 Unfortunately, we made no observations of “coffin funerals”.

32 

Moberg and Kardemark

their shoulder, or stop after a few meters to have one last look. In some cases, they ended the visit by taking a photo of the tidy grave. The slow interactions with grave quarters show how visitor embodiments contribute to spatial production. However, as Couper (2018) reminds us, spatial embodiments are interwoven with and shaped by how our surroundings are organized. In this connection, the fact that may grave quarters were hedged by bushes or walls supported the cultural norm of non-​intrusion and privacy by making it hard to get a close look at visitors who attended to graves. Moreover, the water stations normalized and provided the infrastructure for visits of the kind we have described. Rather than enabling, for example, collective ritual meals, the conveniently located water stations facilitated ways of relating to the dead through flower planting. 8

Establishing Locations of Death in Urn-​and Memorial Gardens

The two principles also structured spatial production in urn-​and memorial gardens, but their relatively short history in combination with their organization made the process different. In grave quarters, orthodoxy was upheld by visitors’ internalized knowledge about how to decode clearly visible gravesites and respond to their demands. As more recently introduced burial customs, gardens were surrounded by greater uncertainty –​a few people voiced confusions about where the dead were buried. The fact that burial sites looked like any lawn or meadow also made them difficult to differentiate from other green areas. In this new setting, locations of death were (re)produced through visitors’ interactions with the materiality that the Cemetery Administration provided. The latter took a rather active role in the process by putting up signs in the gardens. Some had the single word “gravesite” (gravområde) written on it (­figure 2.2), where others contained instructions about where to place flowers and candles, and they established that outdoor torches were banned. In analytical terms, such signs were performative; “gravesite” signs transformed green areas into locations of death and the others established correct ways of embodying cemetery spatiality. As illustrated below, the signs appear to have had an effect. Similarly, the tags that displayed the dead’s names and years of birth transformed surrounding areas into locations of death. Orthodoxy was upheld by keeping recreational activities at some distance from locations of death. Like in the grave quarters, visitors reproduced a graded space through their interactions. The gardens in their entirety raised demands that other green areas did not, but those demands (and taboos) grew stronger with proximity to the burial sites and the places where nametags were

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

33

­f igure 2.2  A sign points out where urns are buried at the Eastern Churchyard photo: jessica moberg

displayed. There were also differences between the latter two locations; the former was surrounded by taboo to larger extent than the latter. Observations from the Eastern Churchyard are illuminating. The Eastern Churchyard is well known for its many recreational activities, some of which take place in and around the urn garden. The garden is located close to the main entrance, and it

34 

Moberg and Kardemark

is connected to other parts of the cemetery through a network of gravel paths. Except for the lawn where ashes are buried, it contains two collections of wooden pillars that display nametags of the dead. The pillars are surrounded by benches on the one side, and the two collections are located at some distance from each other, separated by a gravel path. During the study, only the pillars on one side had names on them –​the other side was not yet in use. Visitors often used the green areas for picnics and the benches to sit down alone or together with friends for a chat or a light meal or a drink. The pathways were popular among joggers and people who walked their dogs. Nonetheless, the urn garden and the surrounding areas were not used randomly. The fact that some people kept away from it altogether illustrates that the whole site had a somewhat different status than other green areas. Those who walked their dogs or pushed baby carriages often avoided paths that led through the garden and preferred the route around it. The location that was most strongly identified with death and exclusion was the burial site. In fact, visitors stayed off it, even though the neatly cut grass and the sunny location made it ideal for recreational purposes. People also carried themselves more carefully around the pillars where nametags were placed, even though they did not avoid them completely, as they did with the burial site (­figure 2.3). Visitors often used the benches that surrounded the pillars to enjoy the sun or to have a chat with a friend, but they clearly preferred the side of the garden where the pillars had no names on them. Covered with names, the area was transformed into a location of death and was not equally appealing for recreation. The other side of spatial production entailed involving locations of death in cemetery spatiality through certain embodiments. This was done through the adoption of particular movements, practices of memorialization and urn burials. Movements involved the same restraint as in the grave quarters, and the fact that voice and pace were more controlled close to locations of death and louder and more vivid at some distance illustrates their importance for reproducing spatial grading. Memorialization practices differed a bit between the two kinds of gardens. In memorial gardens, visitors often brought flowers that they placed on the designated areas and sat on one of the benches for some time. In urn gardens, they would bring flowers and other objects, but they would also interact with specific nametags. Quite often, they would touch one of them –​a qualified guess is that it displayed the name of a dead relative or friend –​caress it mildly or hold a hand to it for a while.9 They would sometimes 9 For a discussion of the disastrous impact on personal and community wellbeing, when the possibility of performing such mourning rituals as touching a headstone or nametag is denied, see the chapter by William Leonard Felepchuk in this volume.

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

35

­f igure 2.3  The pillars that display names of the dead at the Eastern Churchyard photo: wilhelm kardemark

finish the visit by sitting down quietly on the benches for some time. In the urn-​and memorial gardens, as among the graves, grief and memorialization were expressed in a calm and discrete manner. It happened that people sobbed but they did not cry loudly or act in ways that would be intrusive to others. Urn burials took place on the neatly cut lawns dedicated for this purpose, and we had the opportunity to observe a few of them. They were led by a priest and normally gathered what appeared to be the closest family. The site had been prepared by the staff who had dug a hole in the lawn (something we did not observe) and covered it with a thick green blanket, which was removed during the burial. Urn burials were no lengthy practices. Usually, they were over in a quarter of an hour. The small group of people would watch as the priest lowered the urn into the ground, say a few words to each other and slowly depart after leaving some flowers at the place where the urn was lowered. As careful readers may have noted, practices of memorialization and burials took place at different locations in the gardens. This not only set the gardens apart from the grave quarters where the two activities took place in the same location. Their separation also entailed a hierarchization between them, where practices of memorialization did not grant access to the burial site as they did

36 

Moberg and Kardemark

in the grave quarters. This location of death was an excluded space not only to park spatiality but also for embodiments of cemetery other than burials. 9

Recreation in the Margins: Park Spatiality Embodied

People embodied park spatiality through a variety of different activities. Some went for a jog, others sat down to read or talked to friends. In some cases, they would embody both park-​and cemetery spatialities during one visit, as when they made a stop by a bench to look for rare birds after having attended to a grave. Park spatiality had a complex relationship to the sites and to cemetery spatiality. Many described the cemeteries as beautifully cared for “green oases”. Such a description can perhaps be expected in urban environments where parks can be scarce. This was the case with the Eastern Churchyard, where there were no other green areas nearby. The green and parklike features were not the only things that attracted picnickers, joggers and others; the calm and quietness were also part of the appeal.10 Many described the atmosphere as calm, “special” and more relaxing than in other places, including parks. Commenting on relations between parks and cemeteries, a young woman explained that: “at a cemetery you don’t run the risk of ending up with a frisbee in the back of your head”. In terms of spatial production, the tranquillity that was praised was the result of the combined efforts of the staff that kept the sites tidy and visitors’ ability to respond to spatial demands and uphold doxa. If the spatial order (doxa) attracted visitors, it also shaped park spatiality by narrowing down the scope of possible activities and restricting the locations and circumstances under which they could take place. In contrast to local parks where large groups of people gathered and activities could be loud and fast, we did not observe larger gatherings or activities that included fast and unpredictable movements –​such as throwing a frisbee. Their absence indicates that visitors adapted to spatial demands by keeping the number of people low and engaging in activities that were in line with the (low) pace and volume that

10

Visitors’ descriptions of cemeteries illustrate the performative capacity of spatial embodiments. Many made a sharp distinction between scary and potentially threatening empty cemeteries (especially at night) and “populated” peaceful and inviting cemeteries. While they often had difficulties to articulate why the former were intimidating, their accounts nonetheless showed how the bodies of others transformed the locations to inviting spaces. Yet, the locations stopped being peaceful when people acted disturbingly. In analytical terms, peacefulness required that orthodoxy was upheld.

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

37

was required.11 In other words, the park spatiality that people embodied was a calm and restrained version. To maintain orthodoxy, those who engaged in recreational activities also had to accept the rules and hierarchies of doxa: they had to keep some distance from locations of death and from cemetery spatiality. We suggest that the principles that established that park spatiality was only accepted under certain conditions gave rise to a form of heightened bodily attention among recreational users. This attention can be described as an internalized awareness of the surroundings that allowed one to avoid excluded space. One example is how picnickers often used peripheral areas without gravestones or other signs indicating proximity to death. One woman whom we met a sunny day at the Eastern Churchyard was having a small picnic with her toddler and two friends at a peripheral lawn close to the fences. Living nearby, she missed other “green places” and used the cemetery –​described as a calm park –​so that her son could experience “grass beneath his feet”, as she put it. She assured us that she only used “the green areas” in the periphery and that picnicking among the graves was totally out of the question. In a similar vein, dog-​walkers proclaimed that they kept their dogs on a leash and always made sure that they did not walk on, and even worse, relieved themselves on graves. As examples, they also show both how visitors relate to locations of death and that the sight of graves indicated closeness to death. Also interesting in this connection are the actions and understandings of a young couple that had a picnic in a large meadow-​like area by one of the side entrances at Kviberg Churchyard. At this location, the grave quarters were out of sight, which made calm recreational activities acceptable. The couple, however, not only embodied park spatiality through their actions; they understood and referred to the area where they sat as a park and added that they “would not use the cemetery” –​a statement that shows that without visible object (graves) associated with death, park-​like parts of cemeteries could be conceptualized as parks. Unlike the stability of graves (they remained at the same location), the sudden presence of people who attended to graves, placed flowers in memorial gardens or took part in burials could rapidly turn areas in the vicinity into excluded space for recreational activities. As part of upholding orthodoxy, those who engaged in recreational activities paid close attention to the bodies of others. To visitors we spoke with, it was natural to modify their actions if they, for instance, saw a group of people dressed up and on their way to a

11

Jogging is a fast activity, but it usually involved single joggers whose routes were easy to predict.

38 

Moberg and Kardemark

funeral. To most, this was simply something they did, and it was often described as “showing respect” for those in mourning. The reasoning of a woman in her thirties who regularly jogged at one of the cemeteries is illuminating. When we encountered her, however, she was taking a walk with her dog. Explaining how she used the cemetery, she underlined that she was attentive to things that went on, especially since she feared that her dog or her own presence as a jogger could provoke others. In order not to risk upsetting others, she would change her route to keep a distance from grave quarters where people tended to graves. Similarly, the woman with the young child explained (and illustrated) how she would pick up her son, make sure he did not run around, and that he was as quiet as possible if she saw someone she suspected was about to visit a nearby grave. Like gravestones, the slow-​moving bodies of people attending to or approaching graves had symbolic significance, prompting the women to restrain their own movements and voices. By staying alert to their own bodies and those of others and making necessary adjustments, they reproduced orthodoxy and became parts of a visible spatial order. 10

Heterodox Embodiments and Defenders of Doxa

So far, we have accounted for orthodox spatial production, where those who used cemeteries for recreational purposes respected doxa. Yet, we observed and heard about situations when people, knowingly or unknowingly, acted heterodoxally by bringing park spatiality too close to locations of death and cemetery spatiality. Most transgressions took place in the urn-​and memorial gardens and the areas that surrounded them. Heterodox episodes did not normally lead to confrontations. It appeared more important not to disturb the calm atmosphere than to confront ‘disrespectful’ behaviour; loudly correcting someone would violate norms of minimal interaction and silence. Most times, visitors met heterodox practices with glares or a few muttered words. An example concerns a young couple who trained capoeira in the memorial garden at Kviberg Churchyard. The garden is located on a hill in the periphery and contains a meadow where the ashes are spread. Below it is an area where people place flowers and candles, as well as a small pond and some benches where people sit down for a while in connection with their visit. The benches are, in turn, directed towards a well-​groomed lawn. It was on this lawn that the barefooted man and woman engaged in their acrobatic martial art. On this occasion, an elderly man was sitting next to the pond where he faced the lawn, and, judging from his facial expression, he clearly disapproved of the couple’s activities. After glaring at them for some time, of which they took no notice, he

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

39

took off. As he did, he also directed an angry comment to those who sat at the bench next to his –​in this case, the researchers. The behaviour of the couple was, in his words, like “jumping on the dead” and hence extremely inappropriate. Since he left thereafter, we do not know if he mistook the lawn for the place where ashes were spread (we heard about such confusions), if they were too close to the meadow, or if the practice was deemed unsuitable in cemeteries as a whole. His comment, however, –​that it was like “jumping on the dead” –​supports the first or second interpretation. Occasionally, encounters with heterodoxy evoked feelings of disgust, anger and violation that propelled visitors to make formal complaints. A woman in her seventies recounted an informative story about a visit to the Western Churchyard. During this somewhat special visit, her purpose was to decide whether her mother’s last remains should be spread in the memorial garden or buried in the urn garden. As she witnessed how another woman walked her dogs through the very spot in the memorial garden where ashes were spread –​something she found hard to comprehend and described as “insane” –​ the choice was easy. Her mother came to rest in the urn garden, and following this event, she made a complaint to the Cemetery Administration in the hope that they would do something. In the above cases, heterodoxy meant getting too close to locations of death. The case of the beer-​drinking men at the Eastern Churchyard also illustrates other aspects of spatial production, such as negotiations of doxa, how its principles intertwined and how orthodoxy was defended. The men in question were a group of middle-​aged drinkers that many visitors voiced opinions about. They usually gathered in small groups in or in the vicinity of the urn garden and they were easy to detect; their bodies were marked by their way of life, and they interacted with each other and their surroundings somewhat differently than other visitors. They would openly drink beer from the can, and they could appear visibly drunk after some hours. Like other visitors, they enjoyed the quietness of the site. Speaking with and observing them, we learned that they modified their drinking and interactions in an orthodox direction. Generally, they stayed clear of parts of the urn garden where the nametags of the deceased were placed –​places that were excluded space both because of the proximity to death and of the actions of those who engaged in memorialization. The men primarily occupied the benches on the other side of the garden where the pillars still had no names on them. Moreover, they drank and interacted in a way that diverged from similar activities in parks and other public spaces. They were quiet and kept to themselves, which a middle-​ aged man who sat there more or less daily also emphasized. To this man, who self-​identified as “an alcoholic”, it was important to keep a low profile and he

40 

Moberg and Kardemark

warranted his presence with his discrete manners –​not speaking too loudly and keeping a distance from other visitors. Discussing his beer, he suggested that it was not a matter of the beverage as such but rather of how one drank it. In his view, “it is not really that bad if you have a few beers discreetly, as long as you keep quiet and to yourself”. In this sense, the location raised spatial demands and influenced how he inhabited space. He altered the ways he drank, sat and walked, but as our conversation revealed, also how he interacted with other visitors. He was careful about the company he kept so that he would not become part of any disturbing activity, which meant that he was cautious about the behaviour of his peers and alert to the size of the group. If it became too big it ran the risk of becoming noisy. Rather than disregarding doxa, the men negotiated it by taking up the slow, more silent and non-​intrusive features that were part of cemetery spatiality, as well as by stressing their non-​disturbing and respectful ways. Yet, the fact that they drank and were intoxicated in the urn garden and occasionally became a bit louder meant that the men stretched the boundaries of orthodoxy. It also happened that they, slightly drunk or with a beer in one hand, strolled through the area that contained the pillars with nametags, which raised particularly high spatial demands to most visitors. By doing so, they ventured into a part of the cemetery excluded for park spatiality and got close to the cemetery spatiality that others embodied through memorialization and calm manners. Accordingly, the men challenged both the hierarchical relation between the two spatialities, the principle of their separation and the taboo associated with locations of death. Their presence was also a source of aggravation to many. Yet, the strong reactions it spurred suggests that their heterodox embodiments probably provide only a partial explanation to why they were such a ‘problem’. It appears that their very bodies and the thought of “alcoholics” on such a site were threats to the spatial order. Better-​dressed and cleaner persons who had a beer or a glass of wine were not nearly as provocative, and generally other visitors had difficulties to understand why the men spent time there. The fact that they found the calm atmosphere appealing (or that they modified their actions to fit in better) seemed unlikely. As an elderly woman proclaimed as she commented on their motives: “Aren’t they just interested in their drinks?” While many had opinions on this, we never saw or heard visitors confront the men. However, as we have suggested, burials were special embodiments of cemetery space that alone granted access to the burial site. They also strengthened the sacred status and taboo associated with the urn gardens and raised demands that recreational activities should be kept at further distance. The performative capacity of burials was apparent in how the

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

41

Cemetery Administration handled the group of men and drinking more generally. In almost all cases, the beer-​drinking men were left alone. The Cemetery Administration did, however, intervene to defend doxa by enrolling security guards to patrol the urn garden at the Eastern Churchyard between 11 am and 2 pm. Those were the hours that urns were buried, and the task of the guards was to make sure that the site was appropriately peaceful and welcoming. As we observed, the guards would pour out drinks and remove loud drinkers from the site, meaning that they physically enforce doxa. The routine was well-​known to the beer-​drinking men who accepted it –​although they rhetorically asked “who really is disturbing [peace]”–​and dropped off before 11 am to return after 2 pm when the burial was over and their favourite spot once again accessible for discrete drinking.12 11

Contemporary Spatialities in Light of a Lutheran History

It is well known that the physical organization of cemeteries is the result of historical processes (Foucault 1984; Laqueur 2001: Schönbäck 2008; Åhrén Snickare 2002). Sites are, however, not alone in having a history. The same is true for the habits, practices and preferences that we take for granted; in some cases, they have roots in a religious history of which we are unaware (see Hall 1997; Thurfjell 2015). In fact, religious traditions can shape and accommodate spatial embodiments. In the following, we propose that Sweden’s history of state Lutheranism has been a significant influence on the spatial order we have described.13 The work of historians Göran Malmstedt (2002) and Terese Zachrisson (2017) is helpful for exploring such connections since they address changes in practice, materiality and spatiality that the Reformation brought about. Those entail the abolishment of Catholic prayers for the dead and the theological removal of Purgatory. To Martin Luther and his followers, the dead were resting in their graves awaiting Judgment Day, and communication with them was impossible (Malmstedt 2002, 153). As an alternative, churchyards were ascribed a new pedagogical purpose. By taking slow walks, contemplating life, death and the Final Judgement, one would find motivation for moral 12 13

For a more general exploration of the spatial politics of alcohol consumption, see the chapter by Malin Hildebrand Karlén in this volume. This should not be understood as indicating that Lutheranism is the sole source of today’s spatialities, nor that people who embody them are “covert Lutherans”. It does, however, imply that it has been of significance and that we should inquire further into the possible religious roots of contemporary spatialities.

42 

Moberg and Kardemark

improvement (Malmstedt 2002, 58–​65; see Schönbäck 2008). Malmstedt also describes a new “social geography” with stricter boundaries between sacred and mundane spheres, and a new piety characterized by self-​restraint and self-​ discipline (2002, 69–​71, 176). He calls special attention to church buildings and churchyards. Pre-​Reformation churchyards had been arenas for gossip, commerce, play, alcohol consumption and were used for grassing animals. With the Reformation, they were ascribed more sacred status, which called for new forms of ‘proper’ behaviour: visitors were to keep still, remain quiet and sober, and domestic animals were expected to be kept out. Activities that had previously been accepted, like dancing and using cemeteries for bleaching textile, were banned, and in some cases, they were rendered punishable by church law (Malmstedt 2002, 58–​65). The historians nonetheless stress the persistence of old habits and practices and describe the Reformation as a slow and never completed process, where attempts to quell pre-​Reformation piety remained unsuccessful for a long time (Malmstedt 2002, 71, 165–​67; Zachrisson 2018, 296–​ 300). People continued to use churchyards for playing, dancing and practising magic. It was not until the in-​church revivals of the early nineteenth century that larger sections of the population became ‘good Lutherans’ (Malmstedt 2002, 153, 182–​83, 194–​96). Malmstedt accounts for what we would describe as the slow implementation of normative spatialities connected to a new Protestant piety and how it rendered certain activities and uses heterodox. Where Malmstedt and Zachrisson stress the longevity of pre-​Reformation piety, scholars of religion have noted the same persistence of Lutheran religiosity. David Thurfjell (2015), for one, has illustrated how aesthetic preferences and habits among contemporary Swedes have such roots, which means that they have persisted despite the Church of Sweden’s weakened influence over societal spheres and institutions and increasing religious plurality. We suggest that Lutheranism informs today’s spatial production in two ways. First, there is a striking resemblance between the calm, quiet and restrained Lutheran piety that Malmstedt describes and the cemetery spatiality we have discussed, which indicates that the latter has roots in this form of piety. As illustrated, it is characterized by stillness, personal restraint and quietness, rather than loud expressions, with low pace and lowered voices. In contrast to other cultural contexts, we did not observe or hear people cry out loud or sing songs by the graves and drinking and dining with the dead was extremely rare. The contemplative walks we have described are also interesting. These apparently serve a pedagogical purpose, although people’s reflections are far removed from ideas about Judgement: from interviews, we learned that today’s walks can bring emotional comfort and frame serious discussions. Second, the

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

43

hierarchical relationship between cemetery spatiality and park spatiality has roots in the distinction that was made between proper and improper ways to interact with churchyards during the Reformation. It is telling that activities that are controversial today, in case they take place under the wrong circumstances, are to a great extent identical to those that Lutheran proponents attempted to weed out: drinking alcohol, eating, playing, loud gossiping and the presence of domestic animals.14 As people embody and defended doxa through their actions and complaints, they uphold a historical distinction between proper and improper. 12

On Space, Wellbeing and Social Access

In recent years, scholars in wellbeing studies have begun to scrutinize the wellbeing concept and highlight how it is anchored in problematic ideas. Gavin J. Andrews, Sandra Chen, and Samantha Myers (2014) have pointed out the vagueness of the concept (generally referring to a sense of being well), and how it is underpinned by a neoliberal view of people as autonomous and decontextualized subjects, responsible for their individual wellbeing. As Sebastien Fleuret and Sarah Atkinson (2007) have illustrated, spatial analysis can problematize this type of understandings, which reduce wellbeing to an individual condition. In the same spirit, our analysis invites discussion about access to ‘healing spaces’ where wellness can be cultivated. As illustrated, it is problematic to assume that the material organization of a location and its aesthetics possess healing qualities in themselves –​we need to acknowledge that people create healing spaces through their actions. What is perceived as good, calm and soothing is not universal but culturally specific, and it can require that people act in accordance with cultural norms. The cemeteries became calm and peaceful as they were visited by people who interacted with them in socially sanctioned ways and messy when visitors challenged the dominant spatiality. To generalize this point: healing spaces are not simply ‘out there’ and accessible for everyone –​they require internalization of cultural knowledge that stipulates that they are good and peaceful, as well as the cultivation of proper ways to interact with them. As we have shown, failure to do so can lead to social sanctions and visitors can be denied physical access. In conclusion, we agree with previous scholars’ critique of the decontextualized subject in 14

The ban on commerce remains extremely strong. Death and memorialization are fully integrated in the late modern market, but it is literally unthinkable to sell anything on site or even advertise for commercial products.

44 

Moberg and Kardemark

wellbeing studies. As an alternative, we propose an approach where the subject is spatially and materially embedded. To approach wellbeing from such a perspective implies asking questions about how embodied knowledge grants access to healing spaces, how cultural knowledge is naturalized and internalized, and where it has its roots. It also means to pose critical questions about unequal access to healing spaces and its implications for people’s health and wellbeing.

References

Andrews, Gavin J., Sandra Chen, and Samantha Myers. 2014. “The ‘Taking Place’ of Health and Wellbeing: Towards Non-​Representational Theory.” Social Science and Medicine 108: 210–​22. Banaszkiewicz, Magdalena. 2018. “Dissonant Heritage and Dark Tourism at Lenin’s Mausoleum.” In Heritage of Death: Landscapes of Emotion, Memory and Practice, edited by Mattias Frihammar and Helaine Silverman, 78–​91. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Bender, Courtney. 2016. “How and Why to Study Up: Frank Lloyd Wright’s Broadacre City and the Study of Lived Religion.” Nordic Journal of Religion and Society 29 (2): 100–​16. Blackburn, Kevin. 2007. “Heritage Site, War Memorial and Tourist Stop: The Japanese Cemetery of Singapore, 1891–​2005.” Journal of the Malaysian Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society 80 (1): 17–​39. Bourdieu, Pierre. 1977. Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chidester, David, and Edward T. Linenthal, eds. 1995. American Sacred Space. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Coffey, Amanda. 1999. The Ethnographic Self: Fieldwork and the Representation of Identity. London: Sage. Couper, Pauline R. 2018. “The Embodied Spatialities of Being in Nature: Encountering the Nature/​Culture Binary in Green/​Blue Space.” Cultural Geographies 25 (2): 285–​99. Douglas, Mary. 1966. Purity and Danger. An Analysis of the Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Routledge & K. Paul. Durkheim, Émile. 2008 [1912]. The Elementary Forms of the Religious Life. Mineola, N.Y.: Dover Publications, Inc. Fleuret, Sebastien, and Sarah Atkinson. 2007. “Wellbeing, Health and Geography: A Critical Review and Research Agenda.” New Zealand Geographer 63 (2): 106–​18. Francis, Doris, Leonie A. Kellaher, and Georgina Neophytou. 2005. The Secret Cemetery. Oxford: Berg.

“It is, After All, a Churchyard”

45

Frihammar, Mattias, and Helaine Silverman, eds. 2018. Heritage of Death: Landscapes of Emotion, Memory and Practice. Abingdton, Oxon: Routledge. Frykman, Jonas. 1993. “Nationella ord och handlingar.” In Försvenskningen av Sverige: det nationellas förvandlingar, edited by Billy Ehn, Jonas Frykman, and Jonas Orvar Löfgren, 120–​60. Stockholm: Natur och kultur. Foucault Michel. 1984. “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias.” Diacritics 16: 22–​27. Hagberg, Louise. 2015 [1937]. När döden gästar: svenska folkseder och svensk folktro i samband med död och begravning. Stockholm: Ersatz. Hall, David D., ed. 1997. Lived Religion in America: Toward a History of Practice. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press. Howarth, Glennys. 2007. Death and Dying: A Sociological Introduction. Cambridge: Polity Press. Ingströmer, Karin. 2016. “Pokemon go på kyrkogård upprör.” Last modified July 29, 2016. https://​www.svt.se/​nyheter/​lokalt/​halland/​pokemon-​go-​pa-​kyrkogard-​uppror?. Kong, Lily, and Orlando Woods. 2016. Religion and Space: Competition, Conflict and Violence in the Contemporary World. London: Bloomsbury Academic. Kvale, Steinar, and Svend Brinkmann. 2014. Den kvalitativa forskningsintervjun. Lund: Studentlitteratur. Lefebvre, Henri. 1991 [1974]. The Production of Space. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Laqueur, Thomas W. 2001. “Spaces of the Dead in Modernity.” Ideas 8 (2): 3–​16. Low, Setha M. 2003. “Embodied Space(s): Anthropological Theories of Body, Space, and Culture.” Space & Culture 6 (1): 9–​18. Lynch, Gordon. 2012. The Sacred in the Modern World: A Cultural Sociological Approach. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Maddrell, Avril, and James D. Sidaway, eds. 2010. Deathscapes: Spaces for Death, Dying, Mourning and Remembrance. Farnham, Surrey, England: Ashgate. Malmstedt, Göran. 2002. Bondetro och kyrkoro: religiös mentalitet i stormaktstidens Sverige. Lund: Nordic Academic Press. Munthali, Alister. 2001. “Doing Fieldwork at Home: Some Personal Experiences among the Tumbuka of Northern Malawi.” African Anthropologist 8 (2):114–​36. Nielsen Porsborg, Annika, and Line Groes. 2014. “Ethnography inside the Walls: Studying the Contested Space of the Cemetery.” epic: Ethnographic Praxis in Industry Conference 1: 108–​18. Nolin, Catharina. 2018. “Framing Children’s Sections in Cemeteries.” In Heritage of Death: Landscapes of Emotion, Memory and Practice, edited by Mattias Frihammar and Helaine Silverman, 38–​49. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Okely, Judith. 2007. “Fieldwork Embodied.” Sociological Review 55 (1): 65–​79. Petersson, Anna, Gunnar Cerwén, Maria Liljas, and Carola Wingren. 2018. “Urban Cemetery Animals: An Exploration of Animals’ Place in the Human Cemetery.” Mortality: Promoting the Interdisciplinary Study of Death and Dying 23 (1): 1–​18.

46 

Moberg and Kardemark

Sather-​Wagstaff, Joy M. 2018. “ ‘Dark’ Tourism and the Heritage of Death.” In Heritage of Death: Landscapes of Emotion, Memory and Practice, edited by Mattias Frihammar and Helaine Silverman, 225–​35. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Schönbäck, Hedvig. 2008. “De svenska städernas begravningsplatser 1770–​ 1830: Arkitektur, sanitet och det sociala rummet.” PhD diss., Uppsala University. Silvén, Eva. 2018. “Graveside Shrines: Private or Public Space?” In Heritage of Death: Landscapes of Emotion, Memory and Practice, edited by Mattias Frihammar and Helaine Silverman, 23–​37. Abingdon, Oxon: Routledge. Soja, Edward W. 1996. Thirdspace: Journeys to Los Angeles and Other Real-​and-​Imagined Places. Cambridge, Mass: Blackwell. Svenska kyrkan. 2020. “Göteborgs kyrkogårdsförvaltning.” Accessed September 23, 2020. https://​www.svenskakyrkan.se/​goteborg/​kgf. Sveriges radio. 2016. “Carina ryter ifrån: hundar bajsar på gravarna.” Last modified April 21, 2016. http://​sverigesradio.se/​sida/​artikel.aspx?programid=128&artikel=6416702. Sveriges television. 2016. “Pokémon go på kyrkogård upprör.” Last modified July 29, 2016. https://​www.svt.se/​nyheter/​lokalt/​halland/​pokemon-​go-​pa-​kyrkogard-​uppror. Thurfjell, David. 2015. Det gudlösa folket: de postkristna svenskarna och religionen. Stockholm: Molin & Sorgenfrei. Zachrisson, Terese. 2017. “Mellan fromhet och vidskepelse: materialitet och religiositet i det efterreformistiska Sverige.” PhD diss., Gothenburg University. Åhrén Snickare, Eva. 2002. “Döden, kroppen och moderniteten.” PhD diss., Linköping University. Åkesson, Lynn. 1997. Mellan levande och döda: föreställningar om kropp och ritual. Stockholm: Natur och kultur.

­c hapter 3

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing The Burial Grounds of Racialized Communities in Canada William Leonard Felepchuk Abstract This article explores the historical geographies of spaces of burial and their connection to the collective wellbeing of racialized communities in Canada. In late-​twentieth-​ century and early-​twenty-​first century Canada, racialized communities (in my case studies, Indigenous, Black, and Muslim communities) have sought to make places for their collective existence through establishing or reclaiming spaces for the dead to inhabit. Burial places are spaces where ontological meaning and physical heritage intertwine. They serve multiple temporal functions: they are recoveries and reminders of a past (a past that is often denied in the case of the racialized or subaltern), sites for present-​day relationality between dead and living, and institutions through which communities assert futurities of wellbeing, healing and belonging.

When I come into these cemeteries, it gladdens my heart to be able to honour my people. elise harding-​d avis, Community Historian (Roberts 2018)

∵ 1

Introduction

During night prayers at the Centre Culturel Islamique de Québec (cciq) on January 29, 2017, a white non-​Muslim gunman opened fire on the worshippers, killing six and wounding nineteen others. While the community mourned this act of terrorism, they were faced with another difficult reality: with no Muslim burial ground in Quebec City (The Hamilton Spectator 2017), one victim was taken to the nearest Muslim burial ground in Laval 250 kilometres away, while the five others were flown to their countries of origin to be interred. The struggle

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_004

48 Felepchuk for a solution to this problem is outlined later in this article, but its effect on the Muslim community is expressed by Boufeldja Benabdallah, a representative of the Centre Culturel Islamique de Québec, who lamented that “even in death, we’re being denied our place as human beings” (quoted in Peritz 2017a). University of Montreal anthropology scholar Yannick Boucher, in relation to the struggle to establish a Muslim burial ground in Quebec City, notes that In death, you face the ultimate form of integration. It’s integration through the disintegration of your body in your new home […] You’re giving your body to your new home […] Cemeteries are a place of remembrance that are highly symbolic […] They’re places that make you feel part of a society. quoted in peritz 2017b

Writing in the context of the Muslim community in the UK, Humayun Ansari observes that communities engage in a “collectivizing process” (2007, 549) through the establishment of cemeteries, thereby transitioning “from being thought of as an alien presence to being seen as more firmly rooted” (2007, 545). The Muslims of Quebec want to be buried in, and therefore belong to, the place where they lived. Where the dead are buried matters deeply to living communities. In this article, I argue that the institution of burial grounds, whether as past or future heritage, are essential to the wellbeing of racialized communities. Through gathering the published textual statements of community members, primarily from news media (and in some cases published interviews or scholarly reports), I demonstrate the central importance of burial grounds for the collective wellbeing of these communities in the face of racial destruction or backlash. Hans-​Georg Gadamer identifies wellbeing as one of the principal manifestations of health, noting that “despite its hidden character health none the less manifests itself in a general feeling of wellbeing” (1996, 112). When thinking through collective wellbeing in particular, I have drawn upon Gadamer’s definition of health as “a condition of being involved, of being in the world, of being together with one’s fellow human beings, of active and rewarding engagement in one’s everyday tasks” (1996, 113). Patricia Kishebakabaykwe McGuire offers a reflection on wellbeing that echoes Gadamer’s emphasis on the individual’s participation in the collective and that draws upon the intellectual tradition of the Anishinaabek, the Indigenous people of the Great Lakes region. Her theory is based on the Anishinaabemowin concept of mino pimaadziwin, or ‘the good life’. This conception emphasizes that “self-​development is not isolated

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing

49

from the interests of the collective Anishinaabe society” (McGuire 2013, 133). Thus, “the need for healthy, strong individuals in Anishinaabe society” (ibid., 134) cannot be separated from the need for those individuals to be “socialized to consider their contribution and obligation to the welfare of their overall society” (ibid.). Both McGuire and Gadamer argue that burial grounds are essential to both collective memory and to relationality between the dead and the living. McGuire chronicles the “grave robbery” of “known burial sites of relatives and other community people” (2013, 75), for anthropological study, noting “that these anthropological and archaeological works reduced Anishinaabe to objects of study.” (ibid.) For McGuire, the dead are not inanimate objects to be scrutinized scientifically, but rather beings with whom communities maintain living relationships. Anishinaabe ancestors were often anointed with red ochre upon their burial; McGuire reminds us that such “[r]‌ed ochre sites are considered animate spaces on the landscape” (2013, 23). Often burials would involve various items; McGuire notes that “the Anishinaabe would refer to such items (e.g., pipes) as being alive and sacred” (2013, 91). A distant echo of McGuire’s first-​hand knowledge of these relationships can be found in Gadamer’s observation that ceremonies related to burial constitute a desire for “an abiding with the dead, indeed a holding fast of the dead among the living. We stand amazed before the wealth of mourning gifts that continually flows up toward us from the graves of every ancient culture. Gifts of mourning are a way of cherishing human existence” (1981, 75). In this article, I thus argue that places of burial are part of the essential interests of racialized collectivities in the face of racial or colonial marginalization. Their existence is defended or sought after because they are existentially connected to a community and its members’ ability to be in the world in an active and rewarding way. Being together with one’s fellow human beings, including in death, being with those with whom one has spent one’s life, is essential to both community wellbeing and what one might call, perhaps paradoxically, a healthy death. Ian Hodder asserts that “everyone has a right to participate in and benefit from cultural heritage that is of consequence to their wellbeing” (2010, 874). In late-​twentieth and early-​twenty-​first century Canada (1990 to present), racialized communities have sought to make places for their collective wellbeing through establishing or reclaiming spaces for the dead to inhabit. Indigenous and Black communities have engaged in struggles to protect historic spaces of burial that have been destroyed or erased, while Muslim communities have tried to consecrate new spaces of burial as the communities themselves become more established in Canada. In the first three sections of this article,

50 Felepchuk I examine two case studies from Southern Ontario of Indigenous and Black communities reclaiming historic burial grounds. In the third section, I examine the case of the Muslim community of Quebec City in its long struggle to establish the first Muslim cemetery in the city. In each of these case studies, I provide a brief narrative overview, relying on a selection of statements by community members involved in activism related to burial grounds and drawn from published primary sources. I have highlighted textual statements that best capture the relational and collective dimensions of these sites. My aim in these sections is to underscore, as mentioned above, the important function of these burial grounds as either reminders of the collective past, sites for present-​day relationality, or places to assert future wellbeing, healing and belonging. In many instances, community members articulate their burial grounds as serving all these purposes at once. I have let the words of the community members stand on their own to make sure they hold the last word in each case study. With the case studies gathered here I underscore the importance of burial grounds to the wellbeing of racialized communities in the face of the racial destruction and backlash outlined in the fourth part of this article. In the fourth part, I situate the case studies in the wider history of burial grounds of racialized communities and their destruction or proscription. In the fifth and longest part of my article, I analyse these cases further by making three arguments about heritage and wellbeing in relation to burial grounds:



i. Burial grounds are places of concentrated ontological meaning for racialized communities. ii. This meaning is further intensified by the erasure and destruction of burial grounds, leading to traces, vestiges and open spaces being endowed with meaning not normally given such spaces in heritage discourse. iii. The ontological importance of these threatened spaces makes their protection essential to the wellbeing of living communities, and their destruction a serious threat to this wellbeing.

Throughout this article, I refer to a collection of graves in one place as a burial ground (instead of other terms, such as cemetery, that are often legally defined), following Saugeen Anishinaabe legal scholar Darlene Johnston’s nomenclature (2006, 6). Referring to all sites containing the dead as burial grounds also levels any potential racialized discrepancy in the names ascribed to these sites, and acknowledges that these sites are, at the most basic level, plots of earth in which to bury the dead.

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing

2

51

Owen Sound

In 1992, the Chippewas of Nawash Unceded First Nation, one of two contemporary Saugeen Anishinaabe communities (the Indigenous people of what are now Bruce and Grey counties), held an eight-​day vigil in Owen Sound to protect a plot of land containing the graves of their ancestors (Johnston 2003, 67). This vigil was the culmination of a long history of dispossession. In 1836, Treaty 45 ½ forced the Saugeen Anishinaabek off millions of acres of territory in the lands south of the Bruce Peninsula in what is now called southwestern Ontario (McLaren 2005, 7). Treaty 72 in 1854 once again forced the surrender of huge swathes of land: this time the entire Bruce Peninsula (Henderson 2014, 24). With this treaty, the Saugeen Anishinaabek were confined to five reserves, one of which was located at what is now Owen Sound. Treaty 82 of 1857 forced the Saugeen Anishinaabek living at Owen Sound off even this small tract of territory; they relocated to Cape Croker, the site of the present First Nation’s contemporary reserve (Henderson 2014, 24; McLaren 2005, 7). Their lands near Owen Sound became Sarawak Township. In Treaty 82, the Nawash community explicitly sought the protection of a one-​acre burial ground located within the surrendered lands. This burial ground was offered limited protection until 1903 (it was, for example, allowed to be damaged by roving livestock during the nineteenth century [Henderson 2014, 48]), when it was finally sold into private settler hands without the knowledge or consent of the Saugeen Anishinaabek. Two houses were eventually built on it in the late twentieth century. Research by the Chippewas of Nawash uncovered this violation of Treaty 82, leading to the vigil demonstration in 1992 as mentioned above. The following statements were made by members or representatives of the Chippewas of Nawash regarding the burial ground at Owen Sound:



i. The spiritual essence remains bound to the body after death […] Many Euro-​Canadians miss the redundancy in the expression ‘sacred Indian burial ground’. How could burial grounds not be sacred if they contain the Body-​Souls of one’s ancestors? –​Darlene Johnston, Saugeen Anishinaabe legal scholar (2003, 67) ii. In Anishnaabeg culture, there is an ongoing relationship between the Dead and the Living; between ancestors and descendants. It is the obligation of the Living to ensure that their relatives are buried in the proper manner and in the proper place and to protect them from disturbance or desecration. Failure to perform this duty harms not only the Dead but also the Living. The Dead need to be sheltered

52 Felepchuk







3

and fed, to be visited and feasted. These traditions continue to exhibit powerful continuity. –​Darlene Johnston (2006, 6) iii. My great, great grandparents were buried at this spot […] It’s a very sacred place and when you put people to rest you hope they’re going to rest without being desecrated. –​Jean Burrows (quoted in Thorbjornsen 1992) iv. These reserve lands contain the remains of our dead […] For all the desecration these grounds have suffered, they are still sacred to us. They are still Indian Land. –​Chief Ralph Akiwenzie (quoted in Anishinabek News 1993, 1) v. Even before we descended into the basement of the house, I could feel the power of their presence. Their silent witness is a complete vindication for our vigil here last winter. If we had not intervened when we did, who knows what would have happened to our dead. –​ Chief Ralph Akiwenzie (quoted in McLaren 2005, 29), following the discovery of ancestral remains in the basement of one of the houses built atop the burial ground. Priceville

On Lot 21 Concession 1, on the corner of Grey Road #14 and the Durham Road, near Priceville, Ontario, lies a burial ground of a Black community that began to settle in the area in the 1820s (Meyler 2007, 201); many of these Black inhabitants were fleeing enslavement and racial violence in the United States and believed that a British colony would offer them refuge. However, when white settlers from the British Isles began arriving in the southern part of Grey County in the 1840s, the Black community was viewed as squatters; in the words of one local historian, “some were driven out, and some went to form another black community in Collingwood, Ontario” (Meyler 2007, 201). Lot 21 Concession 1 remained as a testament to this community’s existence. However, in the early twentieth century, even this last vestige of Black presence in the area was threatened by destruction and desecration (Slaney 2004, 30). The descendants of the Black community at Priceville fought against stiff resistance to have this burial ground protected after many long years of abuse and neglect of the site (Speakers for the Dead 2000). These graves were protected in the face of a strong desire in Southern Ontario to erase the presence of Black people in both past and present. Naomi Norquay notes that in the local oral tradition amongst white settlers, stories from the early twentieth century “were in common circulation […] of people dragging away fallen and

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing

53

‘abandoned’ headstones behind their snowmobiles, recreation rooms having flooring made out of headstones, barns and sheds using headstones as subflooring, over which concrete was poured” (2014, 131). Carolynn Wilson, a descendant of the early Black inhabitants buried in the Durham Road burial ground, notes the panic and fear linked to revelations of mixed racial ancestry: “Some of the people living in the area didn’t know they had black ancestors. Some people had to be hospitalized when they heard about it” (quoted in Bourrie 1991). Local Black community descendant Helen Miller recalls, referring to the Priceville area: “Our people weren’t allowed out there” (quoted in Avery 2001). Another township in Southern Ontario displayed reticence at recognizing its Black history: Although the first settlers in Flos Township were black, the township council has refused to help locate their cemeteries and historic sites. At one church in the township, all of the white settlers were buried on one side, while two black pioneer graves lie alone and apart on the other side. quoted in bourrie 1991

For Black descendants, then, the graves were a matter of historical survival, of underscoring their being in the world, their participation in the life of the place they call home. Wilson remarks on the constant feeling of unbelonging she encounters in Grey County: “Bigotry is very subtle. Everyone, even black people, always ask me, ‘What island are you from?’ Little do they know” (quoted in Bourrie 1991). One of the filmmakers of the Speakers for the Dead documentary remarks on the comments she frequently received when filming in the county: “You people don’t belong here” (quoted in Avery 2001). The following statements were made by members or representatives of the Black community in Grey County regarding the burial ground on Durham Road:



i. We have to hunt, and see if we can, and see where our ancestors are. So we’re going to do our best. Everyone included, are going to do our best, to try and find them, to give peace, where peace belongs. –​ Helen Miller (Speakers for the Dead 46:37–​46:54) ii. Others can go and they can walk to their cemeteries and touch their stones and we can’t. So our object is to provide our history. If the stones were placed on a site with names, the names are to be seen so we are just reclaiming those stones so that people can actually touch the stones and read the names and perhaps we can find the rest of our people. –​Carolyn Wilson (quoted in Speakers for the Dead 39:04–​39:29)

54 Felepchuk





4

iii. There was a valuable item taken many years ago, that was our dignity […] I have ancestors buried in that cemetery, I feel I have the right to ask that they be acknowledged. –​Jason Troy (quoted in Freill 1998) iv. I heard people talk about the cemetery but I could never prove anything until now. This opens a whole new chapter in the history of Negro migration north […] It gives us a place in history. –​Howard Sheffield (quoted in Smith 1990) v. First of all, for us, if we had a cemetery we would know who our relations are, when we came, we would know who we were marrying. Often times there were links [but] we didn’t know who everybody was. A cemetery provides information or links, evidence for the future […] We like to honour our folks, and this is one way, a visual way, we can let them into our hearts. Many times our folks would plant trees if they knew they couldn’t put up stones. In the past we could always go to that resting place. We also have a religious belief in the hereafter for our folk. So it’s a calming feeling that all is well, and that we are the caretakers looking after not only our own, but having a respect for everybody’s cemeteries. –​Carolyn Wilson (quoted in Norquay 2011, 7) Quebec City

Following the massacre described in the introduction to this article, a solution was proposed to the Muslim community of Quebec City’s burial problems in the town of St-​Apollinaire nearby, where a funeral home entered into an agreement with the Centre Culturel Islamique de Québec (cciq) to sell some of its land for a Muslim cemetery (Paradkar 2017). The cciq soon faced a fiercely racist backlash from residents in the largely white town. One resident, Marcel Croteau, asserted: “With everything you see happening around the world, I have a lot of trouble with it […] Are we going to end up losing our freedoms here, too? Once they come here, maybe we’re going to see a mosque. We’re already feeling invaded” (Peritz 2017b). Another resident, Julien Joannette, stated: “If [the Muslim community] didn’t cause so many conflicts, they would have our support […] They lost our support because they wanted to stir things up too much. They wanted their way. We want peace” (Valiante 2017). Another article noted a series of racist and Islamophobic messages sent to the Mayor of the town, who supported the project: “ ‘Welcome to Saint ALLAH-​pollinaire,’ read

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing

55

one. ‘Ha ha ha! We just lost half the value of our homes!’ said another. ‘This cemetery is just the embryo of other projects,’ someone wrote. ‘These people are here to grab religious and political power’ ” (Peritz 2017b). Opponents to the project also forced a zoning referendum in which 62 residents adjacent to the proposed burial ground could vote. Undaunted, cciq and local supportive residents campaigned in favour of the burial ground’s establishment (Peritz 2017a), but to no avail. Of the 36 who voted in the referendum, 19 voted against the project, leading to its demise. Finally, in August, the Mayor of Quebec City, Régis Labeaume, initiated the sale of a 5,706-​square-​metre property to the cciq for use as a Muslim burial ground (Perreaux 2017), land which was already zoned for burial use and therefore could not face another potential referendum vote. Though the cciq and the Muslim community of Quebec City finally have a consecrated Muslim burial ground, it came only after years of struggle and the attention drawn to their situation by the massacre of six of their own. The following statements were made by members or representatives of cciq community before, during and after the mosque shooting and the saga in St-​Appollinaire:



i. Even in death, we’re being denied our place as human beings. Don’t do that, please. –​Boufeldja Benabdallah, Centre Culturel Islamique de Québec (quoted in Peritz 2017a) ii. If the project is refused and we’re not allowed to be buried in this land, how are we going to be accepted to live in this land? –​Imam Hassan Guillet, Centre Culturel Islamique de Québec (quoted in Peritz 2017a) iii. [D]‌o not impose on our children the duty to have to go to Montreal each time they want to say a prayer over the tomb of their father. –​ Imam Hassan Guillet (quoted in Peritz 2017a) iv. When you have land that you own, families have a plot for eternity. –​Mohamed Kesri, Secretary, Centre Culturel Islamique de Québec (quoted in Woods 2017) v. Many Muslim families in Quebec City will no longer have to endure the sorrow of the remoteness of their deceased […] We will die in peace […] Muslims who die here have a choice now […] Every person who dies, and takes a plot, it will be belong to them for eternity. It’s a big change in our psychology. –​Boufeldja Benabdallah, after the Mayor of Quebec City approved land for the construction of a Muslim burial ground. (quoted in Bellemare 2017)

56 Felepchuk 5

The Destruction of Burial Grounds in a Wider Context

The case studies presented in this chapter are local examples of much broader patterns of the destruction of, or resistance to, the existence of the racialized dead, and point to “the ready inclusion of white death and burial sites into the commons and the hesitant or refused recognition of non-​white death and burial sites” (Clark 2006, 488). Saugeen Anishinaabe legal scholar Darlene Johnston traces the history of this destruction and Indigenous resistance to it. She notes that when chiefs of the community of Rama near Lake Simcoe were asked to move their community to the Saugeen Peninsula in 1854, “they replied, ‘This is our home, it was the home of our fathers around these waters and on these Islands are the Graves of our fathers & Children and when we die we wish to be buried by the side of them’ ” (2006, 26). She further notes that “prior to the arrival of Europeans in Canada, Aboriginal cemeteries were protected by widely shared norms of respect and non-​disturbance” (ibid., 59). This would soon change however, as by 1797 the colonial government in Upper Canada “was required to issue a Proclamation in response to ‘many heavy and grievous complaints […] made by the Mississaga Indians, of depredations committed by some of His Majesty’s subjects and others upon their […] burial places […] in violation of decency and good order’ ” (ibid., 60). It appears these and other protests were to no avail, however, as “published accounts of the excavation of Aboriginal cemeteries suggest a widespread practice of grave disturbances” (ibid., 62). This pattern was also the norm in the US, where the remains of deceased tribal members and other items found in tribal burial grounds were treated with profound disrespect and callousness. The notorious Indian crania studies of the 19th century involved the desecration of grave sites and the decapitation of thousands of Indian remains in an effort by some government-​sponsored researchers to ‘prove’ that Indians were intellectually inferior to whites and to confirm their fate as a dying race. duthu 2008, 160–​61

In recent decades, flooding from the construction of hydroelectric projects has created a pattern of destruction of Indigenous burial grounds (McVey and Windsor 2005, 161). In one case from British Columbia, a company called Alcan did not fulfil promises to protect Indigenous burial grounds: Despite promises from Alcan that graveyards would not be affected, this did not prove to be the case. Particularly disturbing to the Cheslatta was

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing

57

the eventual destruction of the cemetery at the former #9 reserve and the erosion of grave sites, which resulted in several coffins being carried downstream in the current […] The Cheslatta graveyard had, until its destruction, provided the community with a sense of identity and continuity with their past. mcvey and windsor 2005, 155–​56

Destruction has also been widespread in the burial grounds of Black communities in North America. Many members of Black communities like the one that developed at Priceville came from states in which slavery (including Kentucky, Maryland and Virginia [Meyler 2007, 127–​30, 193–​94]) was the dominant economic system, and in which Black people faced dehumanizing and violent conditions. This oppression was not limited to the living. One 1831 advertisement noted, speaking of the states in which slavery was practised: No place in the United States offers as great opportunities for the acquisition of anatomical knowledge. Subjects being obtained from the coloured population in sufficient numbers for every purpose, and proper dissection carried out without offending any individuals in the community. halperin 2007, 491

In Virginia, Black burial grounds existed in a state of precarity. In what is one example in a much wider pattern of grave desecration, it is estimated that the Medical College of Virginia paid for the theft of thousands of Black bodies from the burial grounds of Black communities in Richmond, Virginia alone (Griset 2010, 9). In Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, the destruction of graves and the theft of bodies was so extreme in 1882 that “[w]‌hen the snow melted in the spring of 1883, the cemeteries looked as if ‘they had been subjected to an aerial bombardment’ ” (Halperin 2007, 490). This was in part because the burial grounds of Black communities were often unguarded municipally-​owned sites that “were more vulnerable to grave-​robbing” (ibid., 11). Many of the early Black communities in nineteenth-​century Ontario arrived fleeing enslavement and racial oppression. However, as noted above, they encountered a society in which “slavery [was] permitted until 1834 and the racial segregation [was] practiced until the cusp of the Sixties” (Clarke 2011, 11). This atmosphere of racial hostility did not spare the graves of Black communities; many of the burial grounds of Black communities throughout southern Ontario fell victim to vandalism (Brown-​Kubisch 2004, ix; Pearson 2016, n.p.). According to one news report, Windsor-​area Black community historian Elise Harding-​Davis has witnessed a range of indignities that echo the destruction and erasure of the Priceville

58 Felepchuk burial ground, including farmers ploughing in burial grounds, headstones used as decorations in white homes and local authorities “using a cemetery site as overflow parking for the annual Harrow Fair” (Roberts 2018). The hostility wrought upon the burial grounds of Black communities has also manifested in resistance to newly established burial grounds of racialized Muslim communities. As the population of minority Muslim communities in the West has grown, so too has the demand for ground in which to bury the Muslim dead. Negative reactions to the establishment of Muslim spaces of burial are not limited to Canada. Attempts at establishing additional space to bury the Muslim dead in Glasgow, Scotland, have been met with strong resistance (Milton 2008), as have such initiatives in Solihull, England. In the latter case, funeral director Mohammed Khalil notes of Muslim Britons, echoing the sentiments of Quebec City Muslims, that “ ‘They are saying ‘this is our country now […] We are living here and dying here so we should be buried here’ ” (Robinson 2014). A Muslim resident of Worcester, Massachusetts, noted in relation to his town’s resistance to his initiative to build a Muslim burial ground there: “I’ve been here since 1983 […] I don’t deserve to die here?” (Bidgood 2016). Throughout the United States, Muslims have faced similar situations to that which took place in St-​Apollinaire, Quebec: in Covington, Georgia, Murfreesboro, Tennessee, Farmersville, Texas, Bensalem, Pennsylvania, Castle Rock Township, Minnesota, and other localities across the country (ibid. 2016). Scholar of Muslim death rituals Leor Halevi notes in one news article, echoing Yannick Boucher (quoted in this article’s introduction): “This is part of a wider anxiety over integration and the place of Muslims in America and the extent to which Muslims are allowed to carve spaces in the country that are their own, for their own rituals and their own community” (ibid. 2016). These disparate examples from beyond the borders of Quebec point to a pattern of hostility to the establishment of spaces of burial for Muslim minority communities in the West. 6

Burial Grounds and Their Consequence for Wellbeing

As mentioned above, Ian Hodder asserts that “everyone has a right to participate in and benefit from cultural heritage that is of consequence to their well-​ being” (2010, 874). What makes burial grounds of particular consequence to the wellbeing of racialized communities? I offer three dimensions of a possible answer here: firstly, burial grounds are places of concentrated ontological meaning for racialized communities; secondly, this meaning is intensified by erasure and destruction of burial grounds; thirdly, this concentrated

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing

59

ontological importance makes protecting burial grounds all the more essential and urgent to the wellbeing of living communities. The deep meanings associated with burial grounds are made all the more intensive amongst communities struggling against marginalization and erasure. As J. Alistair McVey and James E. Windsor argue in the case of Indigenous communities in British Columbia, “the importance of a community’s graveyard, especially a long-​existing one, cannot be overestimated” (2005, 155–​56). Burial grounds contain not only the bodies of the dead, but also concentrated meanings; they are places where the dead live and where the living relate to the dead, and where communities intimately enact their ways of being in the world. Jean Burrows, quoted above, emphasizes the deep sacredness of Anishinaabe burial grounds; it is this collective ontological meaning that makes the burial grounds symbols of resilience and continuity, and to which Johnston refers when she asks: “How could burial grounds not be sacred if they contain the Body-​Souls of one’s ancestors?” (2003, 67). Describing a Black burial ground in Baltimore, Maryland, Diane Jones succinctly explains that The African-​American cemetery not only memorializes the dead, but also expresses the continuum of African-​American environmentalism and culture. The cemetery is a place to sustain land and custom. This is an essential tenet of African-​American living and dying. There are social, cultural, and spiritual customs uniquely expressed in the African-​ American cemetery. (2011, 239) For Muslims, burial takes place facing the holy city of Mecca, and cremation is forbidden, as the body dwells in the grave (an intermediary existence known as the barzakh), occasionally visited by the soul, until the Day of Resurrection. For Muslims, burial is thus connected to ontological conceptions of mortality and humanness, relationality and eternity (as noted by Mohamed Kesri, secretary of cciq, quoted above). As Imam Guillet notes, this relationality is threatened by a lack of nearby spaces of burial, as he laments that the absence of a Quebec City burial ground forces children to go to faraway Montreal in order to pay respects to their deceased parents. Such world-​forming significance needs something other than the discourse used to articulate the stockpiling of “the redundant, the disused and the outmoded as potential raw materials for the production of memories that we feel we are unable to risk losing, even when we are powerless to articulate what their possible value might be” (Harrison 2013, 3). Graves are far from redundant, disused, and outmoded to racialized communities. They are the locations of clearly articulated and contemporary processes of reclamation

60 Felepchuk and relationality. Carolyn Wilson observes that reclaiming stones means that descendants can interact with the material evidence of ancestral presence -​ can actually touch the stones. In another statement, Wilson emphasizes the historic importance of cemeteries as records of kinship relations, of knowing the ancestry of potential spouses. For Chief Akiwenzie, closeness to, and kinship with, the dead, is articulated as a powerful presence, felt even in the foundations of the houses built on top of them. The need for this closeness is articulated by Benabdallah, who remarks that with the opening of a Muslim burial ground in Quebec City, Muslim families will be relieved of the “sorrow of the remoteness of their deceased” (Bellemare 2017). The deep and intimate relationality of the living community to the community of the dead is facilitated by the proximity of burial grounds. The desire of racialized communities to preserve, protect, or establish burial grounds, thus poses challenges to necrogeographical heritage scholarship. The burial grounds of racialized communities are often sites of unassuming and unobtrusive appearance overlooked in this body of scholarship, work which has largely focused on the built aspect of cemetery institutions (Francaviglia 1971, 502). This focus on monuments and other built aspects of cemeteries, written from the perspective of conventional heritage discourse, ignores the consequences of such sites for wellbeing, as places to sustain land and custom, or for feeling the living presence of ancestors. Rodney Harrison’s emphasis on a dialogical approach to heritage as an “ontology of connectivity” (2013, 9) that, among other things, disrupts the Cartesian dualism of nature versus culture (ibid., 205–​6), can be extended to break down the dualism of separating the living and the dead. A dialogical approach will hear the dead of racialized communities as more than redundant or outmoded. Thinking through the prism of ontology allows for a multiperspectival approach to burial grounds that allows for multiple worlds of meaning. Mario Blaser argues that through ontology “we can fully recognize that there are other worlds –​not cultures –​that are different from the modern one” (2009, 890). Whether the Muslim barzakh or the Anishinaabe Body-​Souls, graves represent fundamentally different worlds of being. In the way that the modern world creates a distinction between nature and culture, so too does it create a hegemonic distinction between Life and Death. That the dead are not fully dead is a reappraisal of many of the Cartesian assumptions that Harrison critiques (2013, 205–​6). A heritage approach to burial grounds, especially of racialized communities, could benefit from a new ‘dialogical’ model in which heritage is seen as emerging from the relationship between people, objects, places and practices, and that does

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing

61

not distinguish between or prioritise what is ‘natural’ and what is ‘cultural’, but is instead concerned with the various ways in which humans and non-​humans are linked by chains of connectivity and work together to keep the past alive in the present. (ibid., 4) Such a method can help outsiders respectfully understand the heritage of burial grounds without imposing definitions of heritage incommensurable with the ontologies intimately associated with these sites. The intensive ontological meanings outlined above are often compounded by the marginality or destruction of these sites through long processes of dispossession and racism. Racialized communities often do not have the rows of intact tombstones, the neatly tended plots and the distinctive signage that mark cemeteries of white communities in North America. Thus, the traces, vestiges, or even simply open spaces known to be a burial ground carry concentrated meanings and importance not normally acknowledged in necrogeographical scholarship. When reading Harrison’s book Heritage: Critical Approaches (2013), I was struck by the following sentence on the first page of the introduction: “The first theme of this book is what we might term the abundance of heritage in our late-​modern world” (1). Harrison is here referring to the rapid expansion of heritage-​related industries and initiatives. However, the communities I examine in this article face the opposite of an abundance of heritage and its associated initiatives and discourses. They exist at the margins of these heritage efforts. They are either, like Muslims, relative newcomers trying to establish a place for themselves in the face of xenophobic resistance, or in the case of Indigenous and Black communities, much older groups trying to recover places that were lost to dispossession and racialized destruction. Racialized communities in Canada face a lack of recognized and protected heritage, rather than an abundance, a lack that takes long and tenacious struggle to correct. As Stuart Hall notes in the context of the UK, “ ‘The National Heritage is a powerful source of [ethnic and cultural] meanings. It follows that those who cannot see themselves reflected in its mirror cannot properly ‘belong’ ” (1999, 4). That feeling of not belonging echoes in the words of Carolynn Wilson, when she asserts: “We need protection […] We are being obliterated from history” (quoted in Crosby 1998) or in the inverse observation quoted above from Howard Sheffield emphasizing the rightful place in history of Grey County’s Black community. Imam Guillet also connects burial to belonging when he asks: “how are we going to be accepted to live in this land?” (Peritz 2017a) if prevented from interring the Muslim dead. While the heritage industry Harrison treats in his book may have a surfeit of raw materials and a shortage of memory (2013, 3), the communities I discuss

62 Felepchuk here have the opposite: a set of memories galvanized by long histories or intensive presents of exclusion and violence, and a struggle to maintain, establish, or re-​establish the raw materials that testify to these memories. Harrison is aware that the abundant heritage he refers to is based on “a common set of philosophies that have their origins in a particular, modern, Euro-​American way of thinking about the relationship between the past and present, a desire to order and categorise and a late-​modern obsession with vulnerability, uncertainty and risk” (ibid., 9). I would propose that though Harrison identifies this obsession as being commensurate with an eclipsed late modernity, these factors of vulnerability, uncertainty and risk are a historic and contemporary constant for racialized communities. In the cases of Priceville and Nawash, the very memory of a community of people’s existence was under threat, as the living communities to which these burial grounds belong had been forced to move elsewhere. Thus, Harrison’s characterization of heritage as being informed by a constant sense of threat (ibid., 7) is accurate –​it is simply not a recent development in relation to the burial grounds of the racialized. Finally, the intensive ontological significance of burial grounds combined with their threatened and marginal state create an urgency to the need to preserve and protect these sites (or, in the case of Muslims, to allow space for them) for the wellbeing of communities. When a burial ground is bulldozed or its establishment interdicted, the health of communities suffers. This threat to health is due to the disconnection of the community from the ability to lead a collective way of life (mino pimaadziwin, as defined by McGuire 2013 above). Dallmayr explains that Gadamer viewed “human wholeness” as involving not only the proper correlation of body and soul, but a broader attunement to the natural and cultural context, including social and political dimensions […] good health involves a way of life consonant with both the natural and the social-​political environment. (2000, 334–​35) The erasure or outlawing of burial grounds causes communities, in Gadamer’s understanding of health, to lose their freedom to practice a fundamental rite that gives meaning to life, from which they now face exclusion in the form of an expulsion from the rituals of death (Šolcová 2008, 103). If health, as Gadamer suggests, is an “integration into life, a place in the world” (ibid.), then the erasure of burial grounds has devastating consequences, a “state of social disruption” (ibid.), in Gadamer’s conception of disease. The “active and rewarding participation in everyday duties” (Gadamer 1996, 113) is cut off by the inability to tend to the dead. A community’s place in the world is denied by refusing a place in the world to their dead.

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing

63

In the aforementioned statement, Benabdallah notes that, with the final approval of a Muslim burial ground in Quebec, Muslims could now “die in peace” (Bellemare 2017, emphasis added). He goes on to say that this peace is connected to “a big change in our psychology” (ibid.; emphasis added). Helen Miller also emphasizes the peace that comes from the relationality experienced in burial grounds and characterizes burial ground restoration as giving “peace where peace belongs.” Benabdallah and Miller are pointing to a tangible increase in wellbeing by communities when they can claim a space for relationality with their dead. All the communities outlined in this article were eventually successful in their efforts (though wider protections for burial grounds of racialized communities in Canada and the USA are still grossly insufficient and inequitable [Clark 2006; Hong 2017, Johnston 2003; 2006; Roberts 2018]). The Chippewas of Nawash’s vigil at Owen Sound drew attention to the issue of Indigenous burial grounds and helped instigate revisions to Ontario’s Cemeteries Act. The Black community burial ground at Priceville is today a protected place with a pavilion commemorating its significance. And, of course, the Muslims in Quebec City now have ground in which to bury their departed. Benabdallah’s statement points to a relief at being able to fully participate in the life of the dead, and the mental peace that comes with being able to die in “a state of integration into the surrounding world” (Šolcová 2008, 103).

References

Ansari, Humayun. 2007. “ ‘Burying the Dead’: Making Muslim Space in Britain.” Historical Research 80 (210): 545–​66. Avery, Roberta. 2001. “Black Cemetery’s Story Unearths Deep Secrets: Locals Reluctant to Discuss Missing Tombstones in Potato Field; Ontario Edition.” Toronto Star, February 5, 2001. Anishinabek News. 1993. “Saugeen Ojibway Demand Control of Burial Ground Restoration.” Anishinabek News 5 (1): 1–​3, January 1993. Bellemare, Andrea. 2017. “Muslims in Quebec City finally get land for burials.” cbc News, August 4, 2017. Bidgood, Jess. 2016. “Muslims Seek New Burial Ground, and a Small Town Balks.” The New York Times, August 28, 2016. Blaser, Mario. 2009. “Political Ontology Cultural Studies without ‘Cultures’?” Cultural Studies 23 (5–​6): 873–​96. Bourrie, Mark. 1991. “Honoring Ontario’s Black Pioneers: Black Families Struggle Against Bigotry and Racism to Commemorate their Ancestors, Many of Whom

64 Felepchuk were among the First Settlers of some Communities; FIN Edition.” Toronto Star, September 30, 1991. Brown-​Kubisch, Linda. 2004. The Queen’s Bush Settlement: Black Pioneers 1839–​1865. Toronto: Dundurn. Chippewas of Nawash Unceded First Nation. 2006. Final Submission to the Ipperwash Inquiry from the Chippewas of Nawash Unceded First Nation. August 24, 2006. Accessed, February 23, 2021. https://​www.attorneygeneral.jus.gov.on.ca/​inquiries/​ipperwash/​ closing_​submissions/​pdf/​ChippewasofNawash_​ClosingSubmissions.pdf. Clark, Mary L. 2006. “Treading on Hallowed Ground: Implications for Property Law and Critical Theory of Land Associated with Human Death and Burial.” Kentucky Law Journal 94 (3): 487–​534. Clarke, George E. 2011. “Review: Broken Shackles: Old Man Henson from Slavery to Freedom.” Books in Canada 30 (4): 11. Crosby, Don. 1998. “Preservation of Black History Divides Small Towns: Repairing the Past; Effort to Save Desecrated Graves Creates Split Opinions; Final Edition.” National Post, October 31, 1998. Dallmayr, Fred. 2000. “The Enigma of Health: Hans-​Georg Gadamer at 100.” Review of Politics 62 (2): 327. Duthu, N. Bruce. 2008. American Indians and the Law. New York: Penguin Books. Francaviglia, Richard V. 1971. “The Cemetery as an Evolving Cultural Landscape.” Annals of the Association of American Geographers 61 (3): 501–​09. Freill, Adam. 1998. “Heated Debate at Public Meeting.” The Markdale Standard. Gadamer, Hans-​Georg. 1981. Reason in the Age of Science. Cambridge, MA: mit Press. Gadamer, Hans-​Georg. 1996. The Enigma of Health: The Art of Healing in a Scientific Age. John Wiley & Sons: Stanford. Griset, Rich. 2010. “Chasing Down a Body Snatcher: VCU Professor Documents Story of ‘Inside Man’ Who Stole Cadavers from Black Cemeteries for the Local Medical College in 19th Century.” Diverse Issues in Higher Education 27 (18): 9. Hall, Stuart. 1999. “Whose Heritage? Un-​Settling ‘the Heritage’, Re-​Imagining the Post-​ Nation.” Third Text 13 (49): 3–​13. Halperin, Edward C. 2007. “The Poor, the Black, and the Marginalized as the Source of Cadavers in United States Anatomical Education.” Clinical Anatomy 20 (5): 489–​95. The Hamilton Spectator. 2017. “Funeral Underway in Montreal for Three Quebec Mosque Victims.” February 2, 2017. Harrison, Rodney. 2013. Heritage: Critical Approaches. New York, Abingdon: Routledge. Henderson, Phil. 2014. “Worlds on the Edge: The Politics of Settler Resentment on the Saugeen/​Bruce Peninsula.” MA Thesis, The University of Western Ontario. Hodder, Ian. 2010. “Cultural Heritage Rights: From Ownership and Descent to Justice and Well-​being.” Anthropological Quarterly 83 (4): 861–​82.

The Dead, the Living and Collective Wellbeing

65

Hong, Mai-​Linh K. 2017. “ ‘Get Your Asphalt Off My Ancestors!’: Reclaiming Richmond’s African Burial Ground.” Law, Culture and the Humanities 13 (1): 81–​103. Johnston, Darlene M. 2003. “Litigating Identity: The Challenge of Aboriginality.” MA Thesis, University of Toronto. Johnston, Darlene M. 2006. Respecting and Protecting the Sacred. Toronto: Ipperwash Inquiry. Jones, Diane. 2011. “The City of the Dead: The Place of Cultural Identity and Environmental Sustainability in the African-​ American Cemetery.” Landscape Journal 30 (2): 226–​240. Leslie, Brynna. 1999. “Duo Seeks Tales of Local Black History: Final Edition.” Sun Times, June 21, 1999. Meyler, Peter, ed. 2007. Broken Shackles: Old Man Henson, from Slavery to Freedom. Toronto: Natural Heritage Books. McGuire, Patricia D. 2008. Restorative Dispute Resolution in Anishinaabe Communities: Restoring Conceptions of Relationships Based on Dodem. West Vancouver, B.C: National Centre for First Nations Governance. McGuire, Patricia D. 2013. “Anishinaabe Giikeedaasiwin –​Indigenous Knowledge: An Exploration of Resilience.” PhD diss., University of Saskatchewan. McLaren, David. 2005. Under Siege: How the People of the Chippewas of Nawash Unceded First Nation Asserted Their Rights and Claims and Dealt with the Backlash. December, 2005. Accessed, February 23, 2021. https://​www.attorneygeneral.jus.gov.on.ca/​ inquiries/​ipperwash/​policy_​part/​projects/​pdf/​under_​siege.pdf. McLaren, David. 2007. “Encountering the Other: Racism Against Aboriginal People.” Chippewas of Nawash Unceded First Nation Report to the Ipperwash Inquiry. February 26, 2007. McVey, J. Alistair, and James E. Windsor. 2005. “Annihilation of Both Place and Sense of Place: The Experience of the Cheslatta T’En Canadian First Nation within the Context of Large-​Scale Environmental Projects.” The Geographical Journal 171 (2): 146–​65. Milton, Nicholas. 2008. “Grave Concerns: Glasgow’s Muslims Say They Are Running Out of Space to Bury Their Dead, but Fierce Opposition Means a Timely Solution Looks Unlikely.” The Guardian, March 26, 2008. Norquay, Naomi. 2014. “Remembering in a Context of Forgetting: Hauntings and the Old Durham Road Black Pioneer Settlement.” Canadian Social Studies 47 (2): 127–​39. Norquay, Naomi. 2011. “Interview with Carolynn Wilson: Discussing the Topics of the Old Durham Road Pioneer Cemetery near Priceville and the Sheffield Park Black History Museum Move to Clarksburg.” Northern Terminus: The African Canadian History Journal 8: 10. Paradkar, Shree. 2017. “Vote on Muslim Cemetery Wasn’t Truly Secular.” The Guardian, July 24, 2017.

66 Felepchuk Pearson, Craig. 2016. “Community Celebrates Freedom at Once-​ Lost Cemetery.” Windsor Star, August 14, 2016. Perreaux, Les. 2017. “Quebec City Muslims to Get Cemetery.” The Globe and Mail, August 5, 2017. Peritz, Ingrid. 2017a. “Muslim Acceptance Still a Delicate Matter.” The Globe and Mail, April 1, 2017. Peritz, Ingrid. 2017b. “Approval of Cemetery for Muslims Rests on Just a Few Quebec Voters.” The Globe and Mail, July 6, 2017. Roberts, Meg. 2018. “Hidden Cemeteries of Essex County Hold Underground Railroad History.” cbc News, February 1, 2018. Robinson, Julian. 2014. “Plans for Britain’s Largest Muslim Cemetery with Space for 11,000 Graves on Green Belt Land Sparks Fury.” Daily Mail, September 4, 2014. Slaney, Catharine L. 2004. The Process and Implications of Racialization: A Case Study. PhD diss., University of Toronto. Smith, Sandra. 1990. “A Proper Place in History.” The Owen Sound Sun Times, September 22, 1990. Šolcová, Iva. 2008. “Health –​As Seen by Philosophy of H.-​G. Gadamer.” School and Health: Contemporary Discourse on School and Health Investigation 21 (3): 101–​7. Speakers for the Dead. 2000. Directed by Jennifer Holness and David Sutherland. National Film Board of Canada, https://​www.nfb.ca/​film/​speakers-​for-​the-​dead/​. Thorbjornsen, Lise. 1992. “Natives Claim Protest Peaceful.” The Owen Sound Sun Times, December 5, 1992. Valiante, Giuseppe. 2017. “49 People to Decide Whether Quebec City’s Muslims Get their Own Cemetery.” The Canadian Press, July 14, 2017. Woods, Allan. 2017. “49 Voters to Decide Muslim Cemetery’s Fate.” Toronto Star, July 15, 2017.

­c hapter 4

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing Connection Spanning Time and Place Julie I. TelRav Abstract In this chapter, I examine three historic American synagogues that have been adapted or preserved as Jewish heritage sites: United Synagogue of Hoboken, in Hoboken, New Jersey; Park Slope Jewish Center in Brooklyn, New York; and Wilshire Boulevard Temple in Los Angeles, California; exploring how these sites impact the wellbeing of their users. Using data collected by various qualitative research methods, I analyze these synagogues with regard to the three types of wellbeing that are central to a heritage site: community, psychological and interpersonal. Under these headings, I focus on subsets that speak to the particular reality of Jewish community and heritage. Themes that emerge under community wellbeing include place-​based identity, power and authority, and spiritual development. Under the sub-​heading of psychological wellbeing, I examine issues of engagement, the pursuit of meaning and authenticity. And, within the realm of interpersonal wellbeing, I focus on volunteerism, skill development and inclusivity.

1

Introduction

Heritage is a process by which buildings and places establish themselves as sites of collective belonging. It convinces a community that those places are rightfully theirs, and places their destiny in capable hands, because in some important way, it is representative of the identity of the group. But heritage also helps to establish historic sites as places where individuals can fit in, contribute, and be a vital part of longstanding cultures, traditions and community. These functions of heritage seem to be central, particularly in historic synagogues, to the development of progressive Jewish identity and associated searches for spirituality, belonging, purpose and meaning –​all important facets of wellbeing. In this chapter, I will explore the links between affiliation with historic synagogues, often considered heritage sites, the wellbeing of their

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_005

68 TelRav Jewish users, and how these are mutually constituted along with Jewish identity and searches for meaningful connection. In the first section, on community wellbeing, I argue that the synagogue architecture can be read as a type of narrative which tells us something about the identity and values of its founding members. Current clergy can either continue in the legacy of its predecessors by reinforcing the intended symbolism and use of the building elements, or it can counteract those messages by deliberately avoiding their use. Either way, it infuses the space with meaning and purpose and thus contributes to the place-​based identity of its congregants. This seems to enhance community wellbeing and allows congregants to take their place in the continuing narrative and heritage of the congregation. In the second section, I consider the links between psychological wellbeing and heritage, focusing on authenticity and the ways in which it supports or hinders a meaningful association with a historic synagogue. While nostalgia for ‘unbroken’ lines of tradition and the desire for authenticity may fuel claims to heritage, they are challenged by an incongruence with modern progressive values. Contested values, such as gender separation, are often inscribed in the building design and therefore play a prominent role in the narrative of the building and the community that inhabits it. These issues seem to be reconciled, not by rewriting the past, but by altering the focus to highlight those design aspects that are more meaningful to a progressive group, such as an architectural drama that emphasizes long-​standing rituals. Finally, in the realm of interpersonal wellbeing, I consider the impact of volunteerism at a heritage site. Despite a high degree of transience in these urban areas, volunteerism created connections and meaningful claims of heritage to historic synagogues. It was clear that volunteer activities to preserve and enhance the synagogue built skills and interpersonal relationships, but also pride, Jewish identity and a strong sense of ownership. 2

Methodology

Much of the data discussed in this essay was originally collected for doctoral dissertation research on the reciprocal influences of progressive Jewish communal architecture and the social, cultural and religious behaviour of its users. From this, I culled data on the three oldest synagogues, which also seemed to be the best representations of Jewish heritage sites: United Synagogue of Hoboken, in Hoboken, New Jersey; Park Slope Jewish Center in Brooklyn, New York; and Wilshire Boulevard Temple in Los Angeles, California.

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

69

The data was collected using a multi-​pronged approach that included ethnography, participant observation, interviews and archival research. An ethnographic method was used to discern the ‘culture’ of the places. Field notes were recorded on the type, frequency and intensity of interactions, the rituals and any modifications of behaviour that occurred specifically as a response or reaction to the space. I observed each building environment with the intention of discerning the narrative of the building design, noting how various design elements are used to communicate ideas to, or about the community. In each location, I was also able to become a participant-​observer, attending events or religious services, with observations noted afterward. Interviews included a few focus groups consisting of individuals and couples in their late 20s or 30s who were members of synagogues or of alternative Jewish groups known as minyans, as well as partially structured and open-​ended interviews of clergy and members of the various communal institutions, using a snowball and convenience sample approach to finding interviewees. In addition, many “interviews” took the form of casual conversations with knowledgeable informants that I met at the various sites. Interviews and observations were supplemented by archival and historical sources which document building plans, design processes and public response to institutional changes. 3

Heritage, Architecture and the Production of Culture For buildings to become heritage objects, visitors must be induced to feel that in some sense they belong to the ‘inheriting community’ –​that the building is somehow ‘theirs’. markus and cameron 2002, 108

In a building designated as a heritage site, the structure and the material things contained within it illustrate a story, in object form, of a link to a historical past. Yet, heritage is a slippery concept, and certainly not the same as history. As David Lowenthal writes, “Heritage should not be confused with history. History seeks to convince by truth, and succumbs to falsehood. Heritage exaggerates and omits, candidly invents and frankly forgets, and thrives on ignorance and error” (1998, 7). David Harvey points out that this attitude toward heritage may be overstated, in that both history and heritage are processes which require interpretation and a subjective selection of ‘important’ facts and details (2011, 325–​26). Yet Harvey acknowledges that heritage is an invention of the present that draws on the past to redefine the future. Therefore, heritage can be seen as an effort to illuminate historical connection and create links to the past, even

70 TelRav if that effort requires the obfuscation of historical fact and truthful, traceable connections. My conceptualization of both architecture and heritage has been influenced in large part by the “production of culture” theoretical paradigm (Crane 1994, 1–​20; Peterson and Anand 2004, 311–​12). In this framework, a primary role of architects and other major stakeholders is to creatively and purposefully engage the use of symbols in the built environment in order to influence its inhabitants (Brain 1994, 191–​220). These symbols, when linked together, create a three-​dimensional, volumetric narrative. My understanding of architecture as a type of social narrative stems from the work of Magali Sarfatti-​Larson (1997) and Sophia Psarra (2009). Sarfatti-​Larson explains how architectural elements are encoded with symbolism and meaning. When users move through architectural spaces, they engage with these symbols, both interpreting and contributing to the building’s story. Psarra adds that architectural narratives go beyond the content to include the structuring of experience, much the way the format, organization and presentation of a story influence our perception and comprehension of the ideas. As inhabitants move from space to space, ascend and descend, cross thresholds and connect with symbols throughout, they physically engage with, interpret and lay claim to the story (Sarfatti-​Larson 1997, 62–​91; Gieryn 2000, 463–​96). They also insert themselves into the narrative, simultaneously contributing to the story, while assimilating it into their own identities. In this way, a building and its inhabitants become mutually constitutive: each influences and shapes the narrative of the other. When these narratives are successfully built into a physical environment, they provide opportunities for individuals to feel that they are part of the collective whole, including the story, the space, and the communal bonds within it. It is important to remember that the inhabitants and users are not just passive recipients of these cultural forms; they contribute to their production. Richard A. Peterson observes that our reception of cultural forms is not passive, but rather “an active process of selection, interpretation, and recombination of elements” (1994, 183). User-​groups invest places with meaning and communicate that meaning to others in a variety of ways; through ongoing physical adaptations or contributions to the place, spoken or written narratives and through demonstrative actions and behavioural changes. All of the above holds true for heritage, as well. Heritage, including architectural sites, is an interpretive cultural form, in which a narrative is adapted and retold in order to provide contemporary meaning and purpose for its audience. As Rodney Harrison writes,

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

71

[h]‌eritage is not a passive process of preserving things from the past that remain, but an active process of assembling a series of objects, places and practices that we choose to hold up as a mirror to the present, associated with a particular set of values that we wish to take with us into the future. (2013, 4) In other words, heritage is a malleable narrative, which highlights valuable aspects of a communal past because it is somehow useful to the current, and perhaps future, group members. Moreover, as I will discuss below, claiming heritage narratives can contribute positively to the group members’ wellbeing in several different domains. 4

Wellness and Wellbeing

According to Johnathan Duff et al., [w]‌ellness1 is a positive state of affairs brought about by the satisfaction of needs in six primary domains of life: Interpersonal, Community, Occupational, Psychological, Physical and Economic. Together, these six domains […] underscore wellness as a multidimensional construct, which views humans as individuals embedded in interrelated contexts. (2016, 128) Though I recognize the importance of all six domains to wellbeing, like other researchers (e.g. Andrew Power and Karen Smyth), I am primarily concerned with the three most central to psycho-​social wellbeing in an architectural heritage site: community, psychological and interpersonal. More specifically, in the context of Jewish institutions, I am focused on particular subsets of these broader categories. In the community domain, I concentrate on aspects of belonging and identity. As I will discuss below, much research has been conducted on “place identity” (see Cuba 1993; Knez and Ingegaard 2018), in which architectural sites can provide a positive framework for exploration of self and social identity, and create both physical and metaphorical boundaries for locating oneself as an insider. Here, I am interested in how progressive Jews lay claim to heritage 1 Wellness is used interchangeably with wellbeing by the aforementioned authors. For terminological clarity, I will only use the term wellness when directly quoting an author, but will otherwise be consistent in my use of the term wellbeing.

72 TelRav sites, particularly when they are newcomers to the inhabiting community and cannot necessarily claim the history as their own.2 The psychological domain more broadly reflects one’s satisfaction with one’s own emotional life, which has a number of significant contributing factors. I am primarily concerned here with the factors related to spirituality, engagement, and the pursuit of a meaningful existence (Duff et al. 2016, 130). In this section, I focus on themes such as authenticity and tradition at heritage sites. Lastly, in the interpersonal realm, I am interested in the ability to take on desired roles, participate in enjoyable activities, or pursue opportunities to develop strengths and create meaning along with others (Duff et al. 2016, 129) within, and perhaps beyond, the synagogue. I consider how individuals relate to each other within these historic cultural and religious environments, paying particular attention to how volunteerism at these heritage sites qualitatively affects interpersonal relationships. 5

Progressive Jewish User Groups

The historic synagogues chosen for this study all identify with the progressive streams of Judaism, including the Conservative and Reform movements. I decided to focus my research on these denominations for several important reasons. First, the discrepancies and paradoxical findings of the various Jewish population surveys3 present a complex, yet compelling picture of the progressive American Jewish community, as well as their relationship to synagogues and other Jewish institutions. The non-​Orthodox constituency is generally recognized to be most profoundly affected by assimilation and intermarriage.4 Despite this, many progressive Jews make the proactive decision to affiliate with local Jewish communities and their synagogues.5 The reasons for stable 2 This is sometimes because the synagogues previously identified as Orthodox, rather than the more progressive Reform or Conservative denomination of its current members, and sometimes because the individuals are newcomers to the community, without any prior relationship to the institution. 3 Included here are the National Jewish Population Survey conducted in 1990 and repeated in 2000; the American Jewish Identity Survey conducted in 2001; and the Pew Research Center report published in 2013. 4 According to the 2013 report by the Pew Research Center, 98% of Orthodox respondents, 73% of Conservative respondents and 50% of Reform respondents married a Jewish spouse. 5 The Pew Research Center reports that of the respondents that state they belong to a synagogue, the largest proportion is Reform affiliated at 39%, followed by Conservative at 29% and Orthodox at 22%.

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

73

and, in some cases, rising progressive affiliation despite significant demographic change can perhaps be explained by what synagogues are doing well and how they are successfully meeting the needs of contemporary American Jews. For example, progressive leadership is reaching out to previously overlooked segments of the Jewish community such as Jews of patrilineal descent, intermarried couples and members of the lgbtq community, and finding new points of entry for them into congregational life. Additionally, new modes of affiliation, alternative ritual, innovative music and liturgy, volunteer opportunities and, most applicable to this study, rethinking the uses of the physical environment, are important changes that aim to rejuvenate waning congregations (Valley 2004, 2). Secondly, progressive Jews are not necessarily obligated by halacha (Jewish law) and perhaps need other stimuli to motivate Jewish affiliation and practice. Thus, this research is primarily concerned with those who do not feel that sense of commanded-​ness, but who might find encouragement, inspiration, or even the responsibility to participate in Jewish life from being in the right kind of environment (ibid.). Reasons for joining a progressive synagogue might include raising Jewish families, learning, community and spirituality; the physical and social environment should be conducive to these goals (Hoffman 2004, 9–​10). Alternate motives may include avoidance of Orthodox synagogues,6 which are not typically accepting of the lbgtq community and espouse more traditional gender roles. This leads to my third reason for focusing on progressive synagogues, which is that neither Reform nor Conservative affiliated congregations segregate according to gender. Therefore, the historic synagogues which have Orthodox roots and seating designed for this purpose must find ways to creatively adapt their use of space and the narrative of their heritage accordingly. 6

Historic Synagogues

6.1 United Synagogue of Hoboken One such synagogue, started by a splinter Orthodox group but now affiliated with the Conservative movement, is known today as The United Synagogue of Hoboken. This synagogue, currently home to approximately 320 member families, has maintained its original hall-​plan design (with a women’s balcony stretching around three sides of the perimeter, overlooking the sanctuary

6 The 2013 study by the Pew Research Center reports that approximately 25 percent of Jews raised in the Orthodox tradition have moved to the Conservative and Reform movements.

74 TelRav below). The sanctuary is distinguished by an elaborate, double story, carved wooden construction on its front wall behind the bimah,7 enhanced by golden animal sculptures and an ornate stained glass window. Although Hoboken was once a hub for Jewish life, economic decline after World War ii, along with a dwindling Jewish population, left behind a small, struggling congregation. In the following decades, without the membership or funds to support it, the property fell into disrepair. By the 1960s and 1970s, the building was only opened twice a year for the holidays of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. Falling bits of plaster and debris were not uncommon during these religious services, as the building had suffered serious dilapidation and water damage. By the late 1980s, Hoboken, then a city of about 42,000 inhabitants (today estimated at 55,000) (Hoboken 2021), had been rediscovered by the young adult population who were interested in the beautiful brownstones and convenient access to New York City. The Jewish community also experienced a resurgence, though its character had changed significantly from that of the more traditional Eastern European immigrants to the city. By the mid-​1990s, a decision was made to restore and expand the synagogue building. This was accompanied by a second decision to move away from the synagogue’s Orthodox roots and begin affiliating with the more progressive Conservative movement. Community lay leaders began a capital campaign to raise enough money to fund two planned phases of the project: firstly, building a new wing for administration, education and a residence for the rabbi, and secondly, a complete restoration of the historic structure. Although progress was slow, particularly due to lack of funds and partial reliance on volunteers, restoration became a community priority. In 2008, the synagogue was given a sizable matching grant of $280,000 by the New Jersey Historic Trust and was incorporated into the New Jersey and National Register of Historic Landmarks. With narrative links to the holiday story of Hanukkah, in which the Second Temple in Jerusalem was destroyed and needed to be rebuilt,8 the synagogue building was finally rededicated during Hanukkah, 2011, though some restoration work is still ongoing.

7 I elaborate on the definition and history of the bimah in the section entitled “Community Wellbeing”, later in this essay. 8 The Jewish story of Hanukkah commemorates the rededication of the Second Temple in Jerusalem, destroyed by the Greek-​Syrians in the 2nd century B.C.E. (History.com 2009).

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

75

6.2 Park Slope Jewish Center Similar issues confront Park Slope Jewish Center, another East Coast, Conservative movement affiliated congregation. In fact, this synagogue has much in common with United Synagogue of Hoboken, including everything from its historic status, having been included in National Register of Historic Places in 2002; to its hall-​plan design and Orthodox roots; to its problems with dilapidation and urgent need of repair; to its transient urban population. A $1.75 million major renovation of their circa 1925 Romanesque and Baroque style building was completed in 2015 (National Park Service 2017), though the synagogue is now trying to raise another $750,000 for additional repairs caused by continued water infiltration. Compared to the synagogue in Hoboken, the congregation is a bit smaller in size, with membership somewhere in the range of 200–​300 families. It has also been headed since 2000 by an openly gay female rabbi, Carie Carter. This is quite unusual among Conservative synagogues, as the Conservative movement only began ordaining lgbtq clergy in 2011, following a landmark decision in 2006 (Nussbaum Cohen 2011). This speaks to the liberal social and political values for which the Park Slope neighbourhood is well-​known. 6.3 Wilshire Boulevard Temple Wilshire Boulevard Temple is the oldest Reform synagogue in Los Angeles. Its iconic Byzantine-​Revival sanctuary, built in 1929, was entered into the National Register of Historic Places in 1981. The institution, which played a significant role in the development of the West Coast Jewish identity, the Hollywood film industry and the city of Los Angeles as a whole, was also thought to be falling apart, both physically and metaphorically. The historic dome of the sanctuary was crumbling, and the Jewish population that had sustained the institution were moving further west in the city, or dispersing throughout Southern California. The synagogue began attracting media attention in 2008, after making the controversial decision to start a $100 million campaign to preserve, restore and expand the synagogue’s namesake building –​by far the largest financial campaign for a synagogue in world history (Gottlieb 2008). The campaign and building project were divided into three phases, all of which were preceded by the purchase of the remaining parcels of land on the square city block on which the historic building stands. Phase 1 included the 2013 renovation of the sanctuary; the recently completed Phase 2 was comprised of inclusive educational, sports and social services facilities, offering food, dental and legal aid to its largely Korean and Latino, non-​Jewish neighbouring populations; and the

76 TelRav final planned Phase 3 will include a pavilion to be used as gathering, banquet and event space (see “Wilshire” 2021). Many congregations would regard a building in the condition of those listed above to be a serious liability, but, if anything, these congregations view their buildings as assets. The buildings are not just historic relics, but important parts of the life and identity of these Jewish communities –​what I would call prime examples of heritage sites. According to Markus and Cameron (2002), the establishment of heritage is about the creation of boundaries, both physical and ideological. It is really a spatial and political positioning of people in relation to outsiders. The formation of insider groups is done for any number of reasons, but, in a declining Jewish community, it is primarily about increasing membership and affiliation, and building a group identity. It is a way of convincing people that, if they were to walk away, they would be the missing link in the continuous chain of Jewish history. All three of these historic synagogues are located in urban areas. On the one hand, these neighbourhoods are likely to attract steady streams of young professionals, with many Jews among them. But on the other hand, they lack the infrastructure desired for raising young families, such as strong school districts and homes with larger living spaces. This creates transient populations that often move on after just a few years, but are constantly renewing themselves. While a portion of the congregant bases have remained, sometimes over multiple generations, each institution must contend with significant populations of newcomers. So, while these communities do not necessarily need to worry about how to sustain a population, they do have to worry about how to engage a population. This means that the vast majority of people active in the synagogue today, and responsible for the character of the community, had virtually no connection to those who preceded them. This presents some unusual questions for these Jewish communities: How do you make a transient population feel that they are the rightful inheritors of a century old historic building –​even if it was not exactly their history? How is affiliation with an institution, and claiming the heritage of a community, good for their wellbeing? In what follows, I explore the ways that these heritage sites contribute to the wellbeing of their community members. 7

Community Wellbeing

In the case of the synagogues discussed here, which are religious as well as heritage sites, place becomes a central player in establishing and preserving group

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

77

identity. The place is imbued with meaning that is of value, and demonstrates the principles of the group. While this can be true of multiple cultural artifacts, it is all the more apparent in buildings that can be inhabited by a group, providing both literal and metaphorical answers to the question of where one belongs. In this way, historic synagogues are inhabitable cultural artifacts that can tie a group together, even over multiple generations and beyond the participation of individuals that currently belong to the group. Some of these ties are influenced by personal or familial connections to a place. As Rabbi Steve Leder (2009) of Wilshire Boulevard Temple noted, “[w]‌hen people come in here and say, ‘I was married on this bimah, my parents were married on this bimah, and my grandchild will be [married on this bimah]’, that means something to people. Places do matter to Jews.” The question here is how, specifically, these places present themselves architecturally to impress upon others that this is indeed a heritage site, to which they might claim ownership and belonging. Moreover, how is this sustained over multiple generations, or in some cases, where there is no prior affiliation with the synagogue? Lee Cuba and David Hummon explain, In general terms, place identity can be defined as an interpretation of self that uses environmental meaning to symbolize or situate identity. Like other forms of identity, place identity answers the question –​Who am I? –​by countering –​Where am I? or Where do I belong? From a social psychological perspective, place identities are thought to arise because places, as bounded locales imbued with personal, social, and cultural meanings, provide a significant framework in which identity is constructed, maintained, and transformed. (1993, 112) In order for places to contribute to identity and create a sense of belonging, they must be permeated with meaning and purpose, and the inhabiting community must feel that they are a valuable, essential part of maintaining it. When we compare two different heritage synagogues, Wilshire Boulevard Temple and United Synagogue of Hoboken, we can see how the architecture attempts to solidify heritage and motivate community wellbeing. In the former, it is through strong, charismatic leadership in a powerful architectural space that inspires its members to actively pursue community goals and necessary change. In the latter, it is by creating a feeling of equality, comradery and mutual responsibility for spiritual development in a way that is counter to the hierarchy of the architecture, which places God, clergy, men and women in descending order.

78 TelRav A key architectural element of most synagogues, particularly historic ones, is the bimah. It is usually a raised stage-​like platform or a stage, containing a table or podium, as well as few stately chairs for clergy and lay-​leaders. It was said to have originated in the First Temple in Jerusalem as the platform from which the king of Israel would read the Torah to the public once every seven years. Throughout much of Jewish history, the bimah was located in the centre of synagogues, so that listeners could assemble on all sides. With the advent of Reform Judaism, it was moved to the front of the sanctuary, facing the congregation, likely in emulation of the chancel in Christian churches (see Gruber 2003; Moffson 2003). In the modern era, it is still thought of as the focal point of the sanctuary, from which the clergy will lead the congregation in prayer, deliver sermons and offer moral guidance. In true Hollywood style, the sanctuary at Wilshire Boulevard Temple was constructed with a massive, stage-​like bimah, in order to give congregants the feeling of being in a theatre. The effect of smallness of the congregants below is exaggerated by a high domed ceiling, and the echoing acoustics of the space. Hanging directly over the bimah and on the other three sides of the sanctuary is a massive mural depicting the history of the Jews from the Biblical story of creation until 1929, when the sanctuary was constructed. The design of the sanctuary signifies that, when sitting in the sanctuary, surrounded by these images and listening to a powerful orator, congregants should have the sense that they are responsible for maintaining the unbroken chain of Jewish heritage. Rabbi Steve Leder (2009) describes the sanctuary as “a room that demands decorum and power. You better have something to say when you’re in a room like that, or you won’t be heard. And you have to be able to control the bimah in a way that you can’t get away with much out there.” Some might find the power suggested by the grandiose architecture of this institution, modelled after the Pantheon in Rome and cathedrals of Europe, distasteful. Members of a focus group interviewed for this study, who rejected the institutional synagogue model, frequently derided this and other similar synagogues, critically describing them as “monoliths”, or “a huge edifice with plaques all over the place” (Focus Group). But, for Rabbi Leder and his predecessors, it is compelling and inspiring. This does not seem odd for a rabbi that has embraced the role of leader within a congregation of wealthy, highly influential, progressive Jews in Los Angeles (see Spence 2008). For him, power is not something to shy away from, but rather something to be wielded effectively to strengthen community and enact social change. The sanctuary represents the core of this idea, as it demands greatness from its clergy, and creates the kind of progress that ultimately is in the best interest and wellbeing of its congregants.

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

79

One staff member expressed concern about families possibly leaving the congregation if the renovation continued for too long. She believed that for many of the loosely affiliated “twice-​a-​year Jews”, the annual act of coming to the historic sanctuary and listening to the powerful oration of the rabbi on the High Holy days in this space,9 was the way that they connect to the heritage of the building and the community. The opportunity to immerse themselves in the complete sensory experience was essential to maintaining their congregational identity. Even for the more regular attendees, the charismatic and authoritative leadership of the rabbi, as it is enhanced by the architectural space, contributes positively to their wellbeing in the community realm. For many, the morality and ethical direction of religion is what creates a sense of wellbeing and belonging amongst its followers. As one female interviewee (40 years of age) explained: In most of my life, I like a sense of freedom. I tend to be a bit of a hippie, and I like things to be flexible; to make my own choices and decisions. But when I walk into my synagogue, I prefer authority. I want a rabbi who is going to take charge and tell me what to do –​how I should live my life. For this woman and other progressive Jews, living outside the strict confines of halacha can result in an overwhelming number of behavioural choices. Ethical guidance, often sermonized from the bimah, can provide welcome restrictions and offer a respite from a world that is constantly making demands on our sense of moral judgment. As Power and Smyth note in their essay on heritage and social wellbeing, in the turmoil of the modern political and social era, “it’s surely understandable that there is a new yearning for social values based on community, belonging, order, balance, stability and place” (2016, 161). However, in recent years, as many Jews have begun to reject the authority and confines of institutionalized Judaism, many synagogues have attempted to appear more egalitarian and participatory. In new synagogue architecture, the bimah is often eliminated, placing the rabbi on the same physical level as the congregants. Symbolically, this implies that while the rabbi may be seen at times as influential, and even instructive, he/​she has neither greater spiritual powers, nor any real authority. The congregants themselves are in charge of their own spirituality and prayer, and ultimately their own wellbeing in this regard. 9 Holiday services with the Rabbi would be held at an off-​site location during the renovation.

80 TelRav In the historic building of United Synagogue of Hoboken, there is a bimah, although when the rabbi leads services, he tends to avoid its use. Eschewing the magnitude and authority granted to the service leader by virtue of the raised bimah, with its ornate decoration, large wooden podium and elegant seating, the rabbi most often sits on a plain metal folding chair placed below and off to one side. Like the sanctuary at Wilshire Boulevard Temple, the historic design enhances an uneven power dynamic between clergy and worshippers, yet this rabbi sends an equally strong, yet very different message to his congregants by countering the power structure inscribed in the architecture. As another interviewee (male, 20s) commented: I don’t like [the bimah] being raised. I think it is a really Protestant thing. I don’t think that is the way that Jews are supposed to pray. Maybe that is too harsh, but I don’t think it is organic for Jews to pray that way. I don’t think that rabbis or lay leaders are supposed to be pretending to be God, or even intermediaries between us and God. I like the idea of us all praying on the same level. In the early Reform Jewish tradition, and shortly after in the Conservative movement, community wellbeing was about establishing power and decorum, and claiming one’s proper place among other successful, assimilated (Christian) Americans. Synagogues were designed to be awe-​inspiring, creating emotional and spiritual distance between congregants, clergy and even God (Hoffman 2004, 78–​80). As Jews have found greater acceptance in American society, that attitude no longer speaks to the values or attitudes of this generation. My research suggests that the active contradiction of the architecture indicates a reformulation of the heritage narrative that is more in keeping with contemporary progressive Jews. It seems to be a more authentic representation of their egalitarian, inclusive approach to spirituality. 8

Psychological Wellbeing

The theme of authenticity was one that arose repeatedly throughout my research at these synagogues. Duff et al. highlight the quality of authenticity as being especially important to satisfaction within the psychological realm. They write: “For psychological wellbeing to grow, and for personal strengths to flourish, we need practical wisdom, which is the ability to act authentically, practically, and in accordance with a set of values” (2016, 130).

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

81

It is notable, particularly when one considers the exaggerated, if not downright false, connotations of heritage, how frequently I heard people describe their worship experiences as made “more authentic” by occurring in a historic building. Yet, authenticity, much like heritage, is a controversial topic, difficult to assess and document. According to unesco’s Nara document on Authenticity (1994) (International Council of Monuments and Sites), authenticity of a heritage site can be established by somewhat more tangible factors, such as form, design, materials and function, but also by those characteristics that are harder to pinpoint, such as traditional uses, as well as the spirit of, or feelings toward, a particular place by a particular cultural group. One congregant, Mark (26 years old), thinks that the historic connection adds weight to the experience of attending services at United Synagogue of Hoboken. He says that, “[f]‌or one thing, it’s nothing like the synagogues of the 1970s that most of us grew up in –​none of the ugly orange carpet with brown velvet seat covers that we’ve all come to know and hate. This building makes you feel like you’re part of a history.” In truth, the brown and orange synagogues of the 1970s are just as much a part of collective Jewish history and memory as the older buildings. Yet, people seem to delight in being in the historic building (Park Slope Jewish Center 2020), commenting on how it has “so much more character” and “felt more authentic” than the synagogues they had been used to. For them, the timeworn, century-​old building adds positively to their experience, wellbeing and sense of heritage, even when the values and traditions that inspired the building design no longer apply to their progressive communities. Lowenthal, in an article entitled, “Authenticities Past and Present,” concurs, adding that:



What seems to me authentically modern is growing awareness of three heritage insights –​ 1. The past is gone and irretrievable 2. it nonetheless remains vital and essential for our well-​being 3. we cannot avoid changing its residues, especially when trying not to. (Lowenthal 2008)

Natalie Quli (2009), whose work focuses on the Westernization and modernization of the Buddhist community, argues that this attitude likely has to do with nostalgia for a more traditional past. She says that statements on the authenticity of past forms are illustrative of a “concern for the preservation of a ‘tradition’ that scholars fear is being lost to the ravages of modernity” (2009, 2). Certainly, Jews, too, have been concerned with the changes resulting from assimilation and modernization, and have heard the dire predictions that

82 TelRav Jewish life is slowly disappearing (Dershowitz 1997). Yet, they maintain a nostalgia10 for the values and traditions of previous generations, particularly as represented by the historic synagogues. For example, the antique furnishings at both Park Slope Jewish Center and United Synagogue of Hoboken are reminiscent of a Jewish past, and therefore deeply meaningful to many of their congregants. The rabbi at Park Slope Jewish Center, Carie Carter, believes that the historic details of her synagogue evoke images and collective memories of old Ashkenazic Jewry, which communicate a pleasing authenticity to many of her congregants. She says: I think people like the old and that this is not something that has been touched by modern hands […] I think it’s like the Conservative Jews who have, and like, pictures of the Hasidim dancing. It’s a little bit like that. It’s something from the old world. There are a lot of people from the synagogue whose families are second and third generation Americans and children of Holocaust survivors, and a lot of them grew up with Orthodoxy. It has beautiful echoes for them. I think for a lot of people this is what a synagogue is supposed to look like. In a crazy way, it does [have an authenticity]. Here, the term “echoes” references what sociologists denote as the collective memory of Jewish communities, which create meaningful points of connection for current members. Quantitative research studies have shown that collective memory, along with other previously established cognitive and emotional links to place, increases the perception of wellbeing of its visitors (Knez and Ingegard 2018). But while nostalgia and collective memory may encourage support of a heritage site, they also undermine critical views of history and dismiss the reality and veracity of interpretative traditions. At times, collective memory clashes with current ideology. While some community members may “dream of a line of unbroken continuity extending into the past” (Quli 2009, 10), shifting cultural values and circumstances will necessitate change for others. Park Slope Jewish Center and United Synagogue of Hoboken are both hall-​ plan synagogues, which, as Gruber explains, “are often exceptionally tall, with space to insert galleries for women along two or three sides of the room. Upper galleries maximized the seating capacity and created a theatrical atmosphere” 10

My use of the word nostalgia is based on the Jewishly-​influenced definition of Michael Chabon, referring to “the ache that arises from the consciousness of lost connection” (“Nostalgia” n.d.).

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

83

(2003, 19). This design, with separate gendered seating, represents a past that did not support the egalitarian participation of women. Hall-​plan synagogues were built with an intentional narrative that references this widely-​known Jewish tradition, but it is not one that reflects the culture and identity of the local, immediate community. In this liberal enclave, egalitarianism is a high priority –​one that stimulated them to want a gay female rabbi as their spiritual leader. If communities such as this want to maintain the sense of authenticity and wellbeing provided by a historic Jewish environment, then they must also alter the narrative of the space to reflect current values. In my observations, I noted that access to the balconies remains open and all members are encouraged to sit there, even when the sanctuary is not nearly full. Many will consistently choose the balcony seats, because from this vantage point, one can really experience the theatrical quality of the space as it intensifies the rituals happening below. The height, volume and classical decor of the building become a dramatic backdrop for the performance of ceremonies steeped in tradition and authenticity. I believe that powerful experiences of watching the rituals from high above the bimah now provide an alternate narrative and reason for keeping the original design intact –​it allows for nostalgia and authenticity, while still honouring egalitarian values. Links to a meaningful Jewish past are preserved as new claims to heritage evolve. Ultimately, the flexibility of interpretive traditions and narratives contributes to wellbeing in the community realm. 9

Interpersonal Wellbeing

Though historic design plans may contain contested or outdated ideas, they are still often valued as heritage sites, and therefore preserved for future generations. However, preservation is an adaptive process which requires ongoing evaluation and re-​interpretation of a building. Users must decide what is essential to the character and purpose of the building, what might be modified to accommodate new uses and changing values, and whether the necessary labour and expense to preserve the historic character is worthwhile or even feasible. This becomes salient when one considers the high degree of geographic mobility of the Hoboken Jewish community. They have such a high turnover that an investment in a preservation project is likely a charitable act on behalf of current members to preserve the heritage and identity of future generations. Likewise, Wilshire Boulevard Temple had a similar problem when the

84 TelRav dome of their historic sanctuary began crumbling, and the local Jewish community seemed to be moving westward. Their leadership made a decision to preserve the building as a Jewish heritage site and historic national landmark, but also to expand the synagogue into a multifunctional campus to address the changing needs of the surrounding community. However, at 2,400 families (Weiss 2015), the members of Wilshire Boulevard Temple are numerous and have deep pockets, whereas the primarily young professional community in Hoboken is not nearly as large or wealthy. Instead, the synagogue has given congregants the option of paying off some of their membership dues through “sweat equity”, contributing time, skills and labour in lieu of money. This allows congregants to volunteer alongside others on a building (or administrative) project in order to save costs. While this certainly includes one of the other key components of wellbeing noted earlier, economic wellbeing, I think the more important consideration here involves interpersonal wellbeing. The preservation process at United Synagogue of Hoboken plays an important role in engaging the community and contributing to group identity. Power and Smyth note the positive impact of heritage preservation projects, which include volunteerism and working with others in the community, on interpersonal wellbeing. They write: “Heritage projects also appeared to have positive impacts on people’s interpersonal skills. Heritage projects typically involved people working together with others in the community (often for the first time) over a long period of a year or longer. They often required the learning of new skills” (2016, 164). This was certainly the case at United Synagogue of Hoboken, though I would add that the teaching of new skills and creation of an inclusive atmosphere by volunteer organizers added significantly to the sense of meaningful contribution and were equally important in this setting. Elisabeth Punzi and Josef Frischer (2016) also note that volunteer organizers with an inclusive approach can provide an important complement to the work of congregations, enhancing Jewish identity, building community and contributing to future vitality. Several congregants go well above and beyond their required investment, contributing their professional know-​how and welcoming others to take a significant part in the project. For example, Susan Klein, a congregant and stained-​glass artist agreed to repair and reconstruct all of the existing windows in the synagogue and create several new ones. She also taught others how to work in stained glass and formed a committed group of volunteers on what is expected to be a 15–​20-​year project. In this social context, both the teacher and the volunteers say that they feel valued and respected by other members, key aspects of interpersonal wellbeing. In a 2012 article on the windows, Klein

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

85

describes the work as “her legacy,” while another volunteer expressed “a sense of ownership as well as pride, knowing that she’ll be remembered for her contribution to the project” (Goldrich 2012). This volunteerism seems to go a long way towards overcoming the sense of disconnectedness amongst the transient population by allowing members to lay claim to a history and a building that may have otherwise felt irrelevant. The preservation project fosters a collective feeling of ownership, social responsibility and a genuine interest in the local community. The more people get involved in the preservation, the more pride they take in the community, its architecture and its history, and the more wellbeing they seem to experience. 10

Conclusion

In this chapter, I have looked at three historic synagogues that have been claimed by their communities as heritage sites: Park Slope Jewish Center, United Synagogue of Hoboken and Wilshire Boulevard Temple. While each of these synagogues have families on their rosters that have been members over multiple generations, each also has a significant number of newcomers to the community who have no prior connection. Moreover, the architecture of these worship spaces was designed to reflect and accommodate the communal values and practices of previous generations, which were either more traditional or simply from a bygone era. So, the overarching question here was: How do modern Progressive Jews find their heritage and wellbeing in a synagogue that neither seems to represent their personal history, nor embodies their values, identity or practice? The answer, in broadest terms, as Harvey reminds us, is that heritage is “a selective portrayal contingent on present-​day requirements” (2011, 337). Historic synagogues are agents in a formative process where people produce heritage, and therefore a cultural and religious identity through the place itself, in the present-​day. One might assume that because these buildings pre-​date their current inhabiting communities, the buildings embody and transmit religion and culture from one generation to the next. But I would suggest that this is a faulty assumption, in that each generation, and each person, that comes to a place also imposes their own historical notions, and sense of identity, and interprets their environment according to the meaning that they bring to it. In my research, I found several factors that seem to help guide the establishment of new narratives, contribute to wellbeing, and overcome the incongruence between the synagogues and their members. These include the leadership of

86 TelRav the rabbi, a modern ‘reading’ of building narratives and symbolism, and volunteerism in building preservation projects. Thus, in the first section on community wellbeing, I investigate the ways in which both long-​time members and newcomers locate themselves within the heritage and architectural narrative of these historic synagogues. What I found to be essential is the role of the rabbi as both charismatic and authoritative leader, who guides the congregation in defining the relationship between communal place-​based identity and the synagogue. In the case of Wilshire Boulevard Temple, the rabbi actively works with, and reinforces, the structural narrative, moving congregants to see themselves as the next generation in a long and powerful timeline of Jewish history. The rabbi of United Synagogue of Hoboken takes the opposite approach, directly opposing the structure the building, helping congregants to create their own narrative of an evolving community that takes action and responsibility for their own spirituality, as well a connection to their Jewish heritage. I would not say that these congregations rewrite history in order to make their spaces meaningful, but rather suggest that they creatively reframe the importance and usefulness of these traditional designs. It is worth noting that they also do not redesign or rebuild these spaces, as maintaining them in their historic form seems to add to the sense of authenticity of the heritage environment –​a theme that arose repeatedly during my research and is a key element of psychological wellbeing. Though authenticity can be as elusive as heritage, it seems to substantiate emotional and nostalgic claims to a particular space. While it may not fully accommodate current members and functions, particularly when it comes to the separation of genders, it is warmly remembered as essential to the ritual practices of many previous generations of Jews. Lastly, to claim heritage as one’s own, it can be important to feel as though one has connections to the history of the associated place or community, and a vested interest in maintaining those social ties over time. Even new volunteers can take a building from the past, preserve and adapt it in the present, and make it available to generations of the future, thereby making them an essential link in the historical chain. For many volunteers, these legacy projects also allow them to work alongside others of similar identities, backgrounds and values, giving them an important sense of pride, ownership and wellbeing.

References

Brain, David. 1994. “Cultural Production as ‘Society in the Making:’ Architecture as an Exemplar of the Social Construction of Cultural Artifacts.” In The Sociology

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

87

of Culture: Emerging Theoretical Perspectives, edited by Diana Crane, 191–​220. Cambridge: Wiley-​Blackwell. Carter, Rabbi Carie. In Discussion with the Author. August 2012. Chabon, Michael. 2017. “The True Meaning of Nostalgia.” The New Yorker, March 25, 2017. https://​www.newyorker.com/​books/​page-​turner/​the-​true-​meaning-​of-​nostalgia. Crane, Diane, ed. 1994. The Sociology of Culture: Emerging Theoretical Perspectives. Cambridge, MA: Wiley-​Blackwell. Cuba, Lee, and David M. Hummon. 1993. “A Place to Call Home: Identification with Dwelling, Community and Region.” The Sociological Quarterly 34 (1): 111–​31. Dershowitz, Alan. 1997. The Vanishing American Jew: In Search of Jewish Identity for the Next Century. New York: Touchstone. Duff, Johnathan, et al. 2016. “Wellness and Fairness: Two Core Values for Humanistic Psychology.” The Humanistic Psychologist 44 (2): 127–​41. Focus Group. In Discussion with the Author. October 2011. Fortier, Anne-​Marie. 2000. Migrant Belongings: Memory, Space, Identity. Oxford: Berg. Gieryn, Thomas. 2000. “A Space for Place in Sociology.” Annual Review of Sociology 26: 463–​96. Goldrich, Lois. 2012. “These Volunteers Do Windows.” Jewish Standard, March 9, 2012. https://​jewishstandard.timesofisrael.com/​these-​volunteers-​do-​windows. Gottlieb, Jeff 2008. “Rebuilding a past Glory.” Los Angeles Times, September 7, 2008. https://​www.latimes.com/​archives/​la-​xpm-​2008-​sep-​07-​me-​temple7-​story.html. Gruber, Syxamuel D. 2003. American Synagogues: A Century of Architecture and Jewish Community. New York: Rizzoli. Harrison, Rodney. 2013. Heritage: Critical Approaches. New York: Routledge. Harvey, David. 2011. “Heritage Pasts and Heritage Presents: Temporality, Meaning and the Scope of Heritage Studies.” International Journal of Heritage Studies 7 (4): 319–​ 38. http://​dx.doi.org/​10.1080/​13581650120105534. History.com. 2009. “Hanukkah.” October 27, 2009. Accessed February 4. https://​ www.history.com/​topics/​holidays/​hanukkah. Hoboken, New Jersey (Demographics, Maps, Graphs). 2021. “Hoboken, New Jersey Population 2021.” Accessed February 4. http://​worldpopulationreview.com/​us -​­cities/​hoboken-​nj-​population/​. Hoffman, Lawrence. 2004. “Synagogues and American Spirituality.” In Synagogue Architecture in America: Faith, Spirit and Identity, edited by Henri Stolzman and Daniel Stolzman, 72–​95. Mulgrave, Australia: The Images Publishing Group. Hoffman, Lawrence. 2004. “Synagogue 2000: Lessons for the Future.” Contact 7 (1): 9f. Accessed February 4, 2021.https://​steinhardtfoundation.org/​wp-​content/​uploads/​ 2018/​05/​contact_​autumn_​2004.pdf. International Council of Monuments and Sites. n.d. “Nara Document on Authenticity, Report of the Experts Meeting, November 1994.” Accessed February 4, 2021. https://​ www.icomos.org/​charters/​nara-​e.pdf.

88 TelRav Knez, Igor, and Ingegärd Eliasson. 2018. “Relationships between Personal and Collective Place Identity and Well-​Being in Mountain Communities.” Frontiers in Psychology 8 (79): n.p. Accessed June 14, 2018. https://​doi.org/​10.3389/​fpsyg.2017.00079. Leder, Rabbi Steve. In Discussion with the Author. January 2009. Lowenthal, David. 2008 “Authenticities Past and Present.” crm: The Journal of Heritage Stewardship 5 (1): 6–​17. Accessed July 28, 2020. https://​www.nps.gov/​CRMJournal/​ Winter2008/​Winter2008.pdf. Lowenthal, David. 1998. The Heritage Crusade and The Spoils of History. New York: Cambridge University Press. Markus, Thomas A., and Deborah Cameron. 2002. The Words Between the Spaces: Buildings and Language. New York: Routledge. Moffson, Steven H. 2003. “Identity and Assimilation in Synagogue Architecture in Georgia, 1870–​1920.” Perspectives in Vernacular Architecture 9: 151–​65. National Park Service. (1999) 2017. “NHL Bulletin –​National Historic Landmarks (U.S. National Park Service)”. 2017. Accessed February 28, 2021. https://​www.nps.gov/​ subjects/​nationalhistoriclandmarks/​nhl-​bulletin.htm. Nussbaum Cohen, Deborah. 2011. “JTS Ordains its First Openly Gay Rabbi.” The Forward, May 25, 2011. https://​forward.com/​sisterhood/​138141/​jts-​ordains-​its-​first-​ openly-​gay-​rabbi/​. Park Slope Jewish Center. 2020. “PSJC History”. Park Slope Jewish Center. Accessed February 28, 2021. https://​www.psjc.org/​history. Peterson, Richard A. 1994. “Culture Studies through the Production Perspective: Progress and Prospects.” In The Sociology of Culture: Emerging Theoretical Perspectives, edited by Diana Crane, 163–​90. Cambridge, MA: Wiley-​Blackwell. Peterson, Richard A., and N. Anand. 2004. “The Production of Culture Perspective.” Annual Review of Sociology 30: 311–​34. Accessed February 4, 2021. www.jstor.org/​ ­stable/​29737696. Power, Andrew, and Karen Smyth. 2016. “Heritage, Health and Place: The Legacies of Local Community-​Based Heritage Conservation on Social Wellbeing.” Health and Place 39: 160–​167. Psarra, Sophia. 2009. Architecture and Narrative: The Formation of Space and Cultural Meaning. New York: Routledge. Punzi, Elisabeth, and Josef Frischer. 2016. “Voluntary Work with Sporting Activities for Jewish Children and Teenagers: Commitment to Inclusiveness, Jewish Identity and a Future Jewish Life –​an Interview Study.” Journal of Modern Jewish Studies 15 (3): 419–​35. Quli, Natalie. 2009. “Western Self, Asian Other: Modernity, Authenticity, and Nostalgia for “Tradition” in Buddhist Studies.” Journal of Buddhist Ethics 16: 1–​18. Accessed February 17, 2010. http://​www.buddhistethics.org/​16/​quli-​article.pdf.

Historic Synagogues, Jewish Heritage and Wellbeing

89

Sarfatti-​ Larson, Magali. 1997. “Reading Architecture in the Holocaust Memorial Museum.” In From Sociology to Cultural Studies, edited by Elizabeth Long, 62–​91. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers Ltd. Spence, R. 2008. “Storied L.A. Shul Thinks Big, Seeks $100 Million.” Forward. August 15, 2008. https://​www.forward.com/​articles/​13909/​. Valley, Eli. 2004. “Revitalizing Our Synagogues.” Contact 7 (1): 2. https://​ ­steinhardtfoundation.org/​wp- ​content/​uploads/​2018/​05/​contact_​autumn_​2004 .pdf. Weiss, Anthony. 2015. “In L.A.’s Koreatown, Wilshire Boulevard Temple Bets Big on the past for Its Future.” Jewish Telegraphic Agency. April 15, 2015. https://​www.jta.org/​2015/​04/​ 15/​united-​states/​on-​wilshire-​boulevard-​temple-​bets-​big-​on-​the-​past-​for-​its-​future. Wilshire Boulevard Temple Los Angeles. n.d. “Wilshire Boulevard Temple.” Accessed February 4, 2021. https://​www.wbtla.org/​. World Population Review. n.d. “Hoboken, New Jersey Population 2021 (Demographics, Maps, Graphs).” Accessed February 4, 2021. http://​worldpopulationreview.com/​us -​cities/​hoboken-​nj-​population/​.

­c hapter 5

Recovery Projects

Haitian Memory, Humanitarian Response and the Affordances of the Digital Disaster Archive Lindsay Graham Abstract This chapter examines the potentialities and limitations of the digital disaster archive as that which can serve as a healing platform to voice the stories of a nation’s past, its self-​fashioned present and its future. Bringing together the medical humanities, folk studies and digital humanities methodologies, this chapter analyzes the role of oral storytelling –​and its digital incarnation –​as an integral site of healing for local communities following Haiti’s 2010 earthquake. More specifically, the chapter suggests that the way in which Haitian survivors narrated their own tales following the earthquake challenges traditional approaches to humanitarian response and healthcare often imposed on developing nations during times of crisis. But what happens after personal stories are collected, archived and shared online? Does the digital disaster archive achieve the change to which it aspires?

1

Introduction

On January 12, 2010, a magnitude 7.0 earthquake shook the island nation of Haiti. In a space of twelve days, fifty-​two aftershocks buckled the land and sent water pouring over the beaches and bursting from river banks. Haiti’s colourful, vibrant gingerbread houses in Port-​au-​Prince, architectural markers of its postcolonial history, crumbled. Food and water resources were immediately scarce. The International Red Cross arrived, as did Doctors Without Borders. The United Nations ground troops were deployed. Many more followed. The homes, history and heritage of Haiti –​the health of a people –​seemed in the hands of humanitarian disaster response organizations. Increasingly, national history and cultural heritage are threatened by global climate catastrophes, as the Haitian earthquake attests, but the paradox of disaster is that it can also transform space into a place of heritage through memorialization and remembrance of the event (Convey et al. 2014, 2). Those

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_006

Recovery Projects

91

aforementioned historic gingerbread homes have recently been named a protected heritage site and attract numerous tourists annually, even as the labour of reconstruction and revitalization continues. These postcolonial homes are greater than their physical, objective presence; they were –​are –​the home of a community’s cultural and intangible heritage. Within their walls, folk dances are held, music is heard and children and visitors learn from older generations through storytelling and sharing. While the buildings’ exteriors reflect a historic moment, phenomenologically, their interiority is a moving, fluid site of embodied experience, a space of ontological significance that challenges the perception of the world as static object. The transformation of the historic structures from decimated to rebuilt both recalls and enacts Haitian history and heritage just as it commemorates the lives affected by the quake. Intangible heritage, like the Haitian folk dance and storytelling, needs a protected, preserved space even if it lacks a definitive place. Heritage organizations have long grappled with issues of preservation and sustainability following large-​scale disasters (Barthel-​Bouchier 2016), and recently digital disaster archive have come to fill a void engendered by immediate geographic instability bound with a desire, as Patricia Carlton (2016) notes, to safeguard cultural memory and the collective experience of a people, and this archival work is increasingly examined for its healing potential following trauma. As Timothy Recuber (2012) points out, there are numerous online memorials to catastrophic events that are essentially works of collective memory, but he warns us to critically consider the distinctive features of these digital sites. According to Recuber, looking primarily at US digital disaster archives, the stories produced for commemorative online sites demonstrate a “therapeutic ideal” whereby healing results at the individual level through the emotional act of sharing stories (2012, 533). This ideal, as he goes on to suggest, is quite American in its origination, as it places the onus of healing on the individual as opposed to seeking redress or to effect change at the level of policy for broader social and institutional equity. He urges us to consider what “forms of online collective memory might emerge that are more explicitly concerned with social, rather than individual, change” (ibid., 547). Indeed, we must be critical about what an ‘ideal’ of healing looks like and interrogate it for its cultural formation and applicability. Scholars engaged in archival creation and digital preservation studies in non-​Western contexts, such as Verne Harris (2007) and Jessica McLean (2020), have demonstrated how we can, in fact, use the digital archive as a tool for both individual and social change, as a means to incite conversations across borders, regions and ideologies in a way that can bolster social justice and humanitarian response following disasters. Moreover, scholars working at the

92 Graham intersection of social justice, Indigeneity and digital technologies (Greenwood, Te Aika, and Davis 2011; McLean 2020) have examined disparate digital geographies –​archives, social media platforms, etc. –​as unique spaces to overcome or challenge structural inequalities, particularly those related to the history of colonization. According to Janinka Greenwood, Lynne-​Harata Te Aika and Niki Davis, “digital technology creates less of a divide than an opportunity to repair some of the devasting landslides created by colonization” (2011, 59). And Jessica McLean’s latest book, Changing Digital Geographies: Technologies, Environments, and People (2020), on the political uses of digital spaces for social justice, argues that sharing stories in digital spaces can undo damaging, “stereotypical binaries” of Indigeneity (100). Further, Naomi Adelson and Michelle Olding (2013) suggest digital storytelling as having the potential to aid in the healing process in a broad, non-​individualistic sense –​particularly as Indigenous peoples are able to revise stories imposed through the long history of the coloniality and its legacy. In this way, then, digital space as a site of storytelling and exchange is potentially formidable in affecting political, social and humanitarian intervention and may prove particularly powerful for postcolonial nations such as Haiti. Digital space has long been conceived as either a site of angst or of utopian fantasies, and, most commonly for digital humanists, it is imagined as an uncertain frontier filled with both exposure and expectancy. This chapter will thus examine the potentialities and limitations of the digital environment as a sustainable site for preserving cultural heritage, particularly through the creation of digital disaster archives. I will consider the digital archive as a space to voice the stories of a nation’s past, its precarious present, and, importantly, its future. Bringing together digital humanities approaches, cultural studies and feminist science and technology studies, I examine the role of oral storytelling in the folk tradition looking specifically at the Haitian Memory Project –​ and its potential digital incarnation –​as an integral site of healing and wellbeing in Haitian communities following the 2010 earthquake. Story sharing has been seen as integral to Haitian culture, but as to whether preservation and thus archives are valued in non-​Western societies has often been debated and thus deserves to be interrogated in culturally specific contexts. Scholar of Caribbean culture Rachel Douglas has argued that archiving and preserving stories, particularly through rewriting and thus keeping the story relevant to the resent, is fundamental to Caribbean literary history and cultural heritage (2017). Haitian writers and storytellers have, she claims, “always been archivists preoccupied with ‘saving the word’ long before the earthquake struck and the cultural search and rescue operations began” (2017, 2), and further contends that the archival impulse and the need to preserve Haitian stories have become

Recovery Projects

93

more acute since the quake. Thus, I will argue for a decolonized, digital archive modelled upon the dynamism and exchange underpinning these Haitian traditions of storytelling –​one with the structural freedom to both rewrite and respond to the stories it contains. I choose the term decolonial here with intentionality, as I mean to promote an archive that is continually created and re-​ created by the Haitian community and for the Haitian community. Ultimately, though, I claim such participatory space functions not only to nurture cultural heritage but also, through its vital function as a witness, the digital disaster archive can embolden humanitarian activism and foster sustainable, healthy communities. This chapter thus responds directly to Diane Barthel-​Bouchier’s call to expand our understanding of heritage as “not just responding to societal conundrums, but as helping to resolve them” (2016, 22). In this line, I further suggest that we reorient our notion of heritage preservation to reflect the mutability of community, culture and context, particularly when the people to whom these traditions, practices and experiences belong cannot meaningfully sustain physically, emotionally, or economically. Much ink has been spilt by scholars differentiating between space and place, noting place as a concrete, more precise locale –​a geographic coordinate –​and space as a more abstract concept (for instance, the ‘public sphere’ or ‘domestic space’). Thinkers like Michel Foucault and Henri Lefebvre understand space as produced through human activity and social engagement and not “an inert, neutral container for human activity” (Cohen 2007, 235). This line of thought reverses the idea that a space exists, objects meet there, and then events occur; instead, space is relational and acquires meaning through the ‘how and why’ subjects and objects are situated and come together. Both space (as socially constructed) and place are crucial to understanding sites of public and private resistance, and are central arenas for public demonstration, areas in which and through which witnesses are gathered to protest, resist, or produce change, as in cases of political demonstrations. Space is always emergent and continually co-​created, exposing our entanglement with objects and subjects. Always already opening into the other, space unfolds itself across geographies and through temporalities, and online space has come to be seen by many scholars as the manifestation of such ideas (Cohen 2007). Rather than a space fully divorced from the real world, the digital environment is best understood as an extension of real or experienced space, and through its architecture and metaphors of depth, reveals to us our comingled existence with other beings, other places, and other spaces and thus exposes our connected position in the world (Cohen 2007). The built space of any archive is certainly a site for public demonstration and witness gathering in that it encourages public assembly in response to a moment, an idea, or an event, and in its digital figuration, an

94 Graham archive has the potential to amplify those connections between people, place, and power. By focusing on the way in which the digital archive can be immediate, fluid, evolving and simultaneously individual and community centric, we can come to understand digital disaster archives –​archives centred around a disaster event –​as spaces of living heritage as well as witness gathering. If we consider the power of these living heritage spaces, we can come to understand the way in which they can foster wellbeing and improve crisis response following disasters that affect populations traditionally marginalized by the global policy-​making community. It is thus proposed that the digital disaster archive be considered in relation to global resiliency efforts, particularly as it relates to the improvement of immediate humanitarian response and long-​term community healing. Scholars of humanitarian response have argued that media reflecting upon and produced in response to disaster has the potential to serve as testimonial, as a necessary and integral act of witnessing, and yet they are divided on the implication of witnessing from a privileged position (Wohlford 2017). Scholars who emphasize the efficacious role of narrative accounts tend to focus on cinematic, documentary-​style media where an unaffected third-​party (filmmaker, journalist, academic, etc.) goes on location to ‘capture’ a disaster zone, to document the atrocities of war, or to detail the challenges and urgencies of a particular situation. In the case of the documentary A Reason to Hope: The Earthquake in Haiti (2011), for example, journalists reveal the chaos and trauma of post-​quake Haiti, and in so doing, document their own emotional journey while there. In essence, the film becomes a witness to the devastation climate catastrophes wreck upon developing nations. Such emotional accounts of witnessing experienced and subsequently re-​experienced by others through media outlets at a geographical, political, or moral remove from the site of the actual disaster engenders, as Didier Fassin suggests, “moral indignation” that acts as a catalyst to take action and intervene on behalf of the community in crisis (2010, 1). This act of witnessing that purposefully or inadvertently moves people to activism can take a variety of forms and can be performed via a multitude of platforms. Human rights archives, for instance, have served as repositories for witness testimony in cases of human rights abuses and have played a “central role in the formulation of new rights protections” (Schaffer and Smith 2004, 16). From this perspective, the archive-​as-​witnesses is a tool vital to humanitarian aid response and planning, and it is the unique ability of what may be called the viral witness in digital space to reach audiences at a critical mass. However, according to Corinne Wohlford, by telling the stories of other people, particular those people who have been affected by catastrophic natural disasters, writers of travel and humanitarian response narratives

Recovery Projects

95

“prioritize their own sensations, feelings, and thoughts over those of the victims with whom they claim to connect” (2017, 95). The tension between the first strand of thought that aligns the media/​secondary witness as catalyst for change, as does Fassin, and the second strand of thought that is troubled by the narrative consumption of affected communities, exemplified by Wohlford, is substantial. While the approach to ‘witnessing’ as an act that creates a sympathetic concord amongst disparate groups is valid and currently a key component of quick action, to adopt this methodology in lieu of critically investigating and improving current humanitarian response and recovery programs following catastrophic disasters is deficient and curtails the authority and agency of victim and survivor narratives. From this witness-​focused approach, questions arise such as: Who has the authority to present and re-​present the culture of others?1 Donna Haraway has argued that we should “privilege the kind of witness possible from the view of those who suffer the trauma of not fitting into the standard” (quoted in Barry 1998, 876). Therefore, in order to create effective coping and long-​term recovery strategies for individuals and communities impacted by disaster, an approach to heritage and wellbeing that moves survivors from the periphery to the centre of their own stories is essential. Here I follow Paul Taçon definition of wellbeing and its relationship with heritage: [wellbeing] can be viewed as a positive sense of personal and cultural wellness that results from strong cultural identity. Strong cultural identity is underpinned by connection to places, landscape, tradition, heritage, shared stories and communal histories. Thus, well-​being is here defined as a positive sense of psychological, physical, emotional and spiritual satisfaction that results from being part of a culture and community that actively engages with its environment, heritage and traditions. (2019, 1302) In what follows, I argue for the ethnographic paradigm of survivor-​led interviewing2 that foregrounds the agency of the individual and the culture affected by environmental trauma as integral to recovery and wellbeing, while also grappling with the after-​lives –​the digital incarnations –​of the survivor stories themselves. This examination highlights the dynamic formation of community following trauma through survivor-​to-​survivor storytelling techniques 1 For more on this, see Hall (1999, 7). 2 This model was established by folklorist Carl Lindahl, director of Surviving Katrina and Rita in Houston (skrh) and the director of Sivivan pou Sivivian in Haiti.

96 Graham and oral history recovery projects, but it also looks to archives as instantiations of public connection, public memory and public policy. The scale and scope of archives done digitally are rife with opportunities for global influence but must constantly negotiate and critically interrogate their own role as powerful gatekeeper and as arbitrators of the local and the global. Thus, through the ethnographic project Sivivan pou Sivivian: Memwa Ayisyen (Survivor to Survivor: Haitian Memory) (2014), I will demonstrate how cultural heritage endeavours that utilize a bottom-​up and top-​down approach can foster improved global humanitarian participation and aid in promoting and sustaining wellbeing following disaster. Beginning with a discussion of disaster as itself a spatial and an extended temporal event, I will then provide a brief overview of Sivivan pou Sivivian, a small-​scale ethnographic project initiated in response to the 2010 earthquake in Haiti and will discuss its innovative, interdisciplinary approach to healing through personal narrative. My emphasis will then shift to the role of archives as institutions of authority and will grapple with the politics of constructing and maintaining digital archives while highlighting their distinctive position in social network building. Finally, I will conclude with an exploration of the way in which local, under-​represented communities and various groups involved in health and healing may work in tandem and turn to digital tools to preserve cultural heritage and enact global policy change. Speaking to the institutional and organizational practices of curating culture and heritage, Stuart Hall suggests that we need to consider a “substantially enhanced programme of training and recruitment for curators, professionals and artists from the ‘minority’ communities, so that they can bring their knowledge and expertise to bear on transforming dominant curatorial and exhibitory habits” (1999, 9). But we need to go beyond merely supplementing local archives with personal, oral histories. Oral histories and personal narratives, in their original and digital after-​lives, are how we as a global community separated by time, space, place and experience can connect to the needs of others in times of disaster and recovery. If we consider digital archives, specifically digital disaster archives, as sites of living heritage by focusing on people and communities, then heritage itself is the very catalyst for future change and not a reified product of the past. 2

The Space of Disaster

Too often the material devastation of a disastrous event belies the obscured temporality and spatiality of disaster and recovery. Yet when we attempt to

Recovery Projects

97

temporally define disaster or a disaster event, says Kai Erikson, “we find ourselves looking backward in time to moments well before the official beginning of a disaster” and often discover “that its true origins are to be found far back in the course of history” (2014, xviii). Those Haitian gingerbread houses mentioned at the chapter’s opening, for example, did not crumble from the quake alone; rather, homes, businesses, churches collapsed due to a lack of infrastructure and lack of resources spanning decades. Prior to the earthquake, establishments were built with concrete, and rebar, the structural support running through typical concrete spaces, was not a standard building feature. With a reliance on vernacular architecture3 and without the financial means to purchase and transport steel pieces to rural homesites and dense urban areas, the concrete buildings of Port-​au-​Prince were flattened. However, recent studies demonstrate that traditionally constructed buildings, ones utilizing the local knowledge of clissage (using a mix of earth, stone and wood), fared much better with the telluric movement of the quake than did their ‘modern’ counterparts (Audefroy 2011). In stories collected in the Haitian Memory project, participants conveyed their distrust of outsider knowledge regarding building construction following their experience in the quake, and even months following the quake, many Haitians refused to sleep in concrete structures. Similarly speaking to disaster as extending beyond the present and engendering a precarious future, the renewal of the historic gingerbread neighbourhood, both a memorial to the earthquake and to local heritage, simultaneously marks other spaces –​sites that are less visible, less easy to rebuild –​as too abstract, too intangible, or simply too large to be recovered any time soon. Certainly the preservation of the gingerbread neighbourhood warranted funds and support, but it is worth mentioning that as those colonial homes were being rebuilt, thousands of displaced people lived in make-​shift tent cities such as Cité Soleil. Four years following the disaster event, Cité Soleil remained a maze of blue tarps, cinderblock shelters and dirt paths filled with people drying mud cookies4 under the bright Caribbean sun. Another unsettling paradox of disaster is that while it has a nebulous and complicated temporality, it is also unequivocally timestamped. January 13, 3 Vernacular architecture refers to structures constructed without an architect and usually favors local knowledge, community members as builders, and the use of local materials. See Audefroy (2011) for a more in-​depth discussion of construction practices in Haiti. 4 Mud cookies are a traditional “remedy” for hunger pains. They are a mix of salt, dirt and spices that are mixed with water and left in the sun to harden. One informant, now living in the US, described being given the mixture as a child when food was scarce.

98 Graham 2010, the day following the quake, one out of six Haitian were physically displaced (Kushner 2019). As evinced in those tent cities, climatic events can instantaneously transform a tight community into a diaspora, scattering people across the land. Both spatial and spatializing, disasters divide neighbours and devastate entire neighbourhoods; disasters uproot communities and families and fundamentally suspend an individual’s understanding of personhood in the world. Disaster affects the human body itself through physical trauma and pain, but so too does disaster distort a person’s subjectivity through the body. In Phenomenology of Perception (2012), Maurice Merleau-​ Ponty argues that the subject, the ‘I’, constitutes herself as the centre of perception and movement, and it is through her body that she relates to other bodies in the world.5 From a phenomenological perspective, then, the force of an earthquake radically distorts the survivor’s sense of self as an embodied, knowing subject, a subject who makes meaning through his or her movement in time and space. When one’s movement through space is violently upended, as during an earthquake, meaning-​making at the ontological level is severely arrested. The very spatiality of disaster de-​spatializes the survivor, impedes her ability to organize and relate to the world. Even for a body that escapes physically unscathed from an earthquake, the landscape’s radical and violent transformation tangibly constricts human mobility, degrades perception and ultimately thwarts a survivor’s sense of spatiality. In those moments when the earth buckles and shifts, the survivor’s status in the world also shifts from subject to object; no longer is that person’s world one that can be organized through movement, relationality and, most importantly, choice. In the very minutes that the earth quakes, the world is arbitrary for the subject; post-​disaster, the world is strange and disorienting. In post-​quake Haiti, the loss of the physical sites –​churches, town-​centres, historical structures –​in which people constitute themselves as a community inflicts yet another layer of trauma –​cultural trauma –​and further erodes a survivor’s sense of self. In time, though, survivors reconstitute themselves through this uncanny space shared with other survivors. Recovery, like disaster itself, extends in time and space.

5 Merleau-​Ponty writes that “the body, by withdrawing from the objective world, will carry with it the intentional threads that unite it to its surroundings and that, in the end, will reveal to us the perceiving subject as well as the perceived world” (2012, 74). Ideas on the body and space and the emergence of the subject are developed extensively in “Part One: The Body” (2012).

Recovery Projects

3

99

Sivivian pou Sivivian: Memwa Ayisyen: Local Storytelling as a Model for Wellbeing

Recognizing the sustained impact of environmental disasters, folklorist Carl Lindahl, founder of the Survivor to Survivor umbrella project, seized upon his own experience as the co-​director of the US project Surviving Katrina and Rita in Houston (skrh) as a model for a Haitian-​specific humanitarian response to the 2010 quake. skrh, the first large-​scale ethnographic project of its kind, provided free training and employment for more than 70 survivors [of hurricane Katrina] to record and archive the stories of their peers. The voices of survivors were heard on national and local radio programs, as well as in exhibits where their photos were also featured.6 survivor to survivor 2013

According to Lindahl, “[many] of the narrators and interviewers who participated in the project reported that sharing their stories was a healing act, a means of recovering from the devastation of the hurricanes” (2013, emphasis added). Evidence, though anecdotal, from that project demonstrates that survivor-​to-​survivor connection is one of the greatest benefits to people following a disaster event.7 The survivor-​to-​survivor interview technique used in the Houston-​based project allowed survivors not only to document their experience of the hurricane, but it also revealed community building and systems of kinship formation across and around the event itself. Based on the oral tradition, this particular model of healing provides a means to make survivors more active agents in their own recovery. In order to effectively respond to the survivors of the 2010 earthquake and make the Haitian Memory project one that would truly serve the needs of the Haitian community, University of Houston, Lindahl’s home institution, partnered with the Family Memorial School of Nursing and Technology (fames-​n utech) in the Port-​au-​Prince suburb of Delmas to identify quake survivors interested in employment with the program.8 In brief, the Haitian Memory project is 6 7 8

For further discussion, see Lindahl 2012. According to F. Sayer, much scholarship linking heritage and wellbeing lacks a standard of measurement, and he therefore proposes the visual analogue scale and the positive and negative effect schedule as tools to track wellbeing over time. For more, see Sayer (2018). Soon after the partnership was created, I began to work on Lindahl’s project, as did Dr. Shasta Jones, also of the University of Houston. Together, Jones and Lindahl established a new university course that brought US students into the project. We worked with Haitian immigrants in the Houston area as well as people living in Port-​au-​Prince to assist

100 Graham designed to allow survivors of the earthquake to take the lead in documenting their own experiences before, during and after the earthquake and is structured to aid in the participants’ (trainers’, interviewers’ and interviewees’) short-​and long-​term recovery. In this model, trainers and interviewers receive monetary compensation from the project for their time and skills,9 thus providing immediate financial stability, a key factor in short-​term disaster recovery, for individuals when the nation is still recuperating. The project additionally provides translatable job skills, including proficiency with transcription, communication strategies, experience working with local and international aid organizations and an understanding of heritage preservation work –​all skills that bolster long-​term recovery following disaster. The technical and communicative skills promoted through the project proved so valuable to the trainers and interviewers, in fact, that our Haitian colleagues requested that Lindahl create certificates detailing the range and value of these skills, as they claimed such accreditations would later allow the participants to secure jobs with ngo s and/​or local government intuitions. Interviewees benefited from the experience through the healing act of telling their own stories and connecting with other survivors.10 In this model, the key component of the interviewing process is that interviewees own the interview process. Put simply, the interviewee leads the discussion with little interruption by the interviewer, and the interview itself follow the ‘kitchen-​table format’ in order to avoid the white-​coat effect where anxiety and discomfort might arise in response to the presence of a healthcare provider or person of perceived authority. Though the interview is determined primarily by the needs and comfort of the person being interviewed, similar consideration of the mental health needs of the interviewer, who risks being re-​traumatized through listening to a peer’s tale, is at the centre of interviewer training. Lindahl’s project should thus be seen

9

10

in translating both the language and the cultural impact of the project materials for the first survivor-​to-​survivor program piloted in a non-​US setting. While trainers are hired to recruit interviewers who would then identify local interviewees, interviewees are never compensated for their stories, as it is important that participants share when they are emotionally able. A financially insecure interviewee may feel pressured to share their experience when they are not ready in order to receive monetary compensation. Premature or pressured narratives can result in further trauma of the survivor and goes against the principles of a healing heritage preservation project. It is important to note interviewees were never compensated for their stories, as it was felt that fiscal incentives in a low economic community could potentially compel people to share traumatic events prematurely and thus re-​traumatize the participant. A successful, in my view, decolonial, oral history project is based upon the open, honest and voluntary –​not compelled –​communication and exchange.

Recovery Projects

101

as a multi-​layered approach to recovery that promotes cultural heritage while proffering a path to economic security, skills-​training and social bonding. It is heritage preservation that truly seeks to preserve the values and the daily activities of the people, and it is from this low-​tech model that responsive digital disaster archives could be fashioned if they wish to serve as effective social justice and humanitarian tools. Despite the challenges posed by undertaking a venture of this scale from a different country, the benefits of such a project extend into the university setting as well. With the Haitian Memory project’s partnership with the Port-​ au-​Prince nursing school already established, it was a natural extension to involve students from both nations not only in the project itself but in the fostering of a more global, humanities-​based approach to health and the study and practice of medicine. With Lindahl and Shasta Jones as lead instructors and myself as the teaching assistant, an undergraduate service learning course at the University of Houston was created. “Healthcare in Haiti” (2015) was an interdisciplinary, team-​taught course that blended the Haitian Memory project with a medical-​oriented, service abroad trip. The course itself focused on patient-​centred care, the role of story-​telling in healing and the need to critique assumptions implicit in Western medical practices, particularly in humanitarian relief for vulnerable populations. Following the academic term, we spent ten days in Haiti hosting six basic-​needs, low-​level medical clinics and gained further insight into health and heritage as mutually influential. When we arrived on the island, our team, which then consisted of US university students, course leaders (Lindahl, Jones and myself), along with a small assembly of registered nurses and doctors, expanded to include Haitian nursing students and English-​Creole language translators. In Haiti, we met with the local community leaders to learn about local needs, interacted with earthquake survivors and provided basic medical supplies. Applying the foundational principles of Haitian Memory and a folk-​first approach to health and needs assessment prioritizes non-​Western attitudes to health and overall wellbeing and moves us outside of the Euro-​centric model of medicine as fixed and universal. Haitian conceptions of health, for instance, are centred around equilibrium, an equilibrium within the immediate ecologies of food, family and environment as well as within the invisible realm of the spirit (Colin and Paperwalla 2003). To negotiate the terrain of the tangible and intangible world is to employ a system marked by balance yet governed by the will of a supreme deity. Numerous collected oral histories likewise described God’s will when communicating their experiences during and after the quake, and though younger informants in the project sometimes shrugged at its validity, nonetheless, they too often acknowledged divine will in relation

102 Graham to the disaster. Unfortunately, the belief that a supreme spirit is the ultimate arbiter of life manifests in health situations, to many non-​Haitians, as a general passivity or apathy concerning medical decisions (e.g. “It is God’s will that my home collapsed”; “What is meant to be, will be”) (Colin and Paperwalla 2003). In our clinics, despite the presence of local leaders and language translators, we witnessed this general reticence on the part of the locals to communicate with us. As we learned, often prior to seeking treatment in our clinics, many patients engaged in more traditional approaches to health, such as consultations with spiritual healers, folk practices and ritual, and the use of ethnopharmacological therapies. Typically, Haitian healers and spiritual leaders are able to ascertain the patient’s ailment without a recounting of her or his symptoms, a marked difference from the Western system of diagnosis that relies heavily upon specific symptom description and observation. But because the folk practitioner is able to read the body and sometimes spirit of the patient, a similar onus of diagnosis is commonly placed on the Western medical professional who is likewise expected to heal with circumscribed or circumstantial information. Thus, patient reserve should not be interpreted as passivity towards their own health outcome, but it should rather be regarded as a cultural bridge to traverse. A patient may also be unwilling to disclose that they consulted a healer or priest prior to seeking Western treatment for fear that the Western practitioner will discount or even chastise that system of belief. It is pertinent, though, that healthcare providers authentically engage with the patient’s full range of medicinal consults, particularly as medications and herbal remedies obtained through traditional routes may adversely interact. Failure to authentically engage with a patient’s belief system will likely result in poor health outcomes. Furthermore, reticence to speak with non-​Haitian healthcare workers or even with Haitians working alongside outsiders is understandable given the recent past. In the 1980s in the US, following the discovery of hiv/​a ids, Haitians were publicly assailed as carriers of the disease, and though this was later proven unfounded and rooted in racial biases and fear, the effects of the cultural stigma endure. And only a few decades later, following the 2010 earthquake, cholera was introduced to the local population through improper waste disposal from a United Nations peacekeeping base in Mirebalais which contaminated the Meye River and resulted in the deaths of over 10,000 Haitians. Even a terse overview, such as I have given, of the medical interactions between Haitian and Western communities exposes how the Caribbean people have been continually scapegoated and pathologized. In order to overcome a legacy of cultural distrust, then, non-​Haitian healthcare providers and humanitarian workers alike would do well to recognize and engage with the significance and weight of a culture’s heritage and historical treatment.

Recovery Projects

103

Attention to a culture’s conception of health should underpin global health policies, but too often these factors are ignored. By focusing on the humanistic and sociocultural aspects of patient care, one understands that health, for many Haitians, is driven by cultural ideas of self-​worth and communal participation and integration; illness is but a facet of a much larger idea. The desire for economic independence and the drive to own the means of their labour and production is a crucial indicator of wellbeing, particularly following a devastating event. Often, we were told, locals would attend pop-​up clinics, such as the ones in which we participated, to procure simple health remedies not for their own immediate use but for future use by the community or even to sell in proximate villages. This latter insight underscores the narrative thread in the oral history interviews: care as communal and also self-​directed. In this particular context, medicine as a reactive practice shifts to medicine as a pre-​emptive practice. Here I mean pre-​emptive as not only future-​oriented but also as an imagining of the conditions of possibility under which health and wellbeing might be achieved. Wellbeing, here, is a reintegration into the community through the economic, entrepreneurial position of the merchant, a seller of medicinal goods acquired from outsider-​hosted medical clinics. As a vendor, not only was their domestic role and sense of identity within the family positively affected by the ability to provide income, but their role in the community as a care provider with products and services bolstered their sense of belonging and self-​worth. If we pivot away from the Western ‘disease-​based’ approach to medicine and towards a new form of care, we privilege the whole patient over a conglomeration of symptoms (Green et al. 2002, 141). Deeply reliant upon ­personal ­narrative, this turn to patient-​centred healthcare encourages provider-​patient interactions, fosters deep and open listening, and validates patient experiences, values and beliefs. The same can be true for disaster recovery and response writ large. Through an oral heritage approach to medical and humanitarian care more broadly defined, heritage and health open into one another. It is in the space between survivor stories and the intimate space between survivors themselves that one truly comes to comprehend the complexity of a person’s needs. 4

Oral Heritage as Healing: Resistance, Resilience and Community Formation

The personal stories from the Haitian Memory project often narrate the heroic actions of ordinary Haitians and recount neighbours helping neighbours, and

104 Graham the collection debunks contemporary images of the country as a geography marked by weakness, primitive conditions and disease. Post-​colonial theory has done much to highlight not only the dehumanization of the other as justification for colonial abuses of power but also points to the multifarious ways similar tactics continue today. Paul Farmer, the founder of Partners in Health, has studied the violent impact on Haiti emerging from centuries of misrepresentation. By pathologizing the nation and its culture, locals absorb the blame for the condition of the nation and thus foreigners are able to absolve themselves, their governments, and international, global politics of any wrong-​ doing or part in the current economic and social justice situation (Farmer 2010, 248). Haiti, however, has a rich history of resistance to these dominant Euro-​ American images, and this legacy of colonial resistance continues in the narratives collected by earthquake survivors. Far from helpless victims, Haitians depict themselves and one another as strong, as fighters, as survivalists and as entrepreneurs, and their narratives effectively record the internalized struggle for freedom and liberation from various sources of oppression that continue to impact their daily lives. The stories shared between Haitians reveal the fortitude not the fragility of a developing nation. Resistance to dominant narratives circulating in Western media outlets about their experience during and after the quake is a hallmark of the survivors’ interviews but so too are stories of community. Community formation, both as evinced in the shared stories and in the very structure of Haitian Memory project itself, is integral to short-​and long-​term recovery following catastrophic events, and victims of disaster, argues Christina Luchetta (2018), report greater feelings of security when they are able to draw on both economic and social capital. Lindahl’s stance to have Haitian trainers and interviewers receive compensation for documenting the stories of the earthquake clearly endeavours to fulfil the financial void following the destruction of the country’s infrastructure and loss of employment prospects, but it is the ability of survivors to draw on social networks that truly work to make long-​term recovery possible. As the interviews demonstrate, Haitians drew on the strength of their community faith, participated in food and goods sharing, and formed collectives based on cooperation and an exchange of skills and services, including sharing the responsibility of childcare, transportation and housing needs. Haitian Memory participates in this extended social network formation, effectively adding nodes to an individual’s web of social contacts upon which they can draw. Trainers make connections with people whom they bring into the project as interviewers. In turn, these interviewers seek out interviewees. We often found that interviewees would then recommend their friends or family to be interviewed or would describe their interview to people they knew who would

Recovery Projects

105

then reach out to the program to tell their own stories. More narratives were shared informally than the project documented, as interviewees often recount their experience with other members of their community thereby sparking impromptu story sharing amongst friends, family and even strangers. Similarly, translators working in our medical clinics expressed interest in sharing their stories with the Haitian Memory project and some even made connections with interviewers. In sum, what we discovered was a desire on the part of survivors to share –​to share with one another and with outsiders. Through the very act of sharing their stories, social networks are expanded, and these new communities are thus more capable of providing security, stability and mental and emotional outlets. These networks are crucial in the months and years following disasters that displace people from their homes, their places of worship and employment, and their friends and family. Re-​creating, both in memory and in person, those severed social ties is integral to healing after trauma. 5

Institutions of Wellbeing? The Affordances and Limitations of the Decolonial (Digital) Archive

While the vast majority of archives are marked by the silence or erasure of a colonized community, a decolonial archival project, such as I envision of Haitian Memory, is doubly predicated upon recovery. First, it aims to recover the voices of the marginalized population of Haiti and makes them more active agents in their own recovery following disaster. It also represents the present and, importantly, the decolonial future of the nation by providing a bottom-​up, local perspective. Writing on Haitian history, M.R. Trouillot explores why some narratives become instrumental in the production of history, while others are neglected. He infers that Silences enter the process of historical production at four crucial moments: the moments of fact creation (the making of sources); the moment of fact assembly (the making of archives); the moment of fact retrieval (the making of narratives); and the moment of retrospective significance (the making of history in the final instance). (1995, 26) Indeed, archives emerge at the precise historical moment when facts become assembled, when decisions are made concerning whose stories are worth telling and worth preserving (Basu 2016, 1; Burton 2005). Verne Harris has affirmed that archivists are “recordmakers,” and, as such, “are, from the beginning and always, political players” and “active participants in the dynamics of power

106 Graham relations” (2007, 241). The labour of “recordmaking”, says Harris, “is justice and resistance to injustice”, as this labour necessarily involves presenting diverse ways of knowing through multiple voices and privileging narratives of the marginal over the dominant (ibid., 257). In the creation of an archive of narratives that runs counter to leading historical descriptions of Haiti and similar postcolonial nation states, the archive may now be contemplated from the political perspective of a decolonialized future or the conditions of possibility under which such a future may be envisioned (Basu 2016, 15). The International Council on Archives further describes the ways in which archives meaningfully contribute to just societies and “quality of life”: Archives record decisions, actions and memories. Archives are a unique and irreplaceable heritage passed from one generation to another. Archives are managed from creation to preserve their value and meaning. They are authoritative sources of information underpinning accountable and transparent administrative actions. They play an essential role in the development of societies by safeguarding and contributing to individual and community memory. Open access to archives enriches our knowledge of human society, promotes democracy, protects citizens’ rights and enhances the quality of life. (2011, n.p.) Central to this claim is that “open access” to archives furthers a more just and civil society. Open access to a material archive where, for example, photos and recordings of interviews documenting the Haitian experience of the quake would need a location to be housed. But where would a physical Haitian Memory archive be kept when roads and buildings are, at best, fragile in urban areas and non-​existent in remote regions? Currently, Haitian Memory does not exist as a digital archive, though it utilizes digital technologies including voice recorders, computers and cloud-​based audio transfer and storage systems. But now, as the nation rebuilds roads and expands broadband connections, it seems that a digital archive and its unique affordances, including open access, would best suit the needs of this project and could build upon the face-​to-​face community formation initiated in the peer interviewing process. Open-​access to the digital archive would also mean that Haitians could continuously contribute, respond, edit and even rewrite their stories, as well as engage in dialogue in a community forum section; the archive would be mutable –​forever open to the new, to the other, to the unexpected. Enticing for its promise of openness and often envisioned as a space of continual expansion, the digital realm and digital technologies have greatly altered the scale and scope through which we are able to understand both historical

Recovery Projects

107

records and accounts of the present. If an archive of Haitian interviews is transformed into a digital archive, we could witness the growth of Haitian and international community building, insofar as a digitally based archive allows more people to tap into the wealth of Haitian heritage. While only an estimated 13% to 15% of Haitians currently have stable internet access, those numbers are expected to increase dramatically in the coming years as new international digital initiatives and training programs for information technology are developed and expanded (Mitchell 2018). International humanitarian workers and researchers could learn about the medical and mental needs of the earthquake survivors and potentially compare this archive of survivor narratives to other local survivor-​narrated archives such as the skrh database. Researchers and policy-​makers might, through computational analysis, trace historical patterns of local needs at a larger scale by consulting and examining various postcolonial and survivor-​centred archives, and this information may provide a trajectory of disaster recovery from a unique, first-​person perspective. Increasingly “seen as a contributing factor to the ways in which community resilience can be built in new and novel ways” (Beel et al. 2017, 460), digital technologies, including archives, have the unique ability to connect people across the globe and across time. The social and political ramifications of such an extension of community network would dramatically alter the way that humanitarian response is fashioned. The digital after-​lives of the first-​person survivor stories would, or at the very least should, do much to change the dynamics and composition of participation at the policy-​making tables across the world. It is only by ensuring that survivors have a place within the political global community that we can more accurately meet their needs in times of trauma and in the critical months and years that follow. Ideally, this temporally and spatially expanded network model would increase the resources and thus resiliency of the local community, particularly if financial support and skills-​ based training was integral to the archive’s mission. However, though the existence of an archive authorizes and legitimatizes the history and heritage that it contains, it always exposes power and authority even as it attempts to overturn those very same structures. When considering the potentialities of the digital realm, in particular, we are necessarily confronted with its limitations, limitations that gesture to class and power structures. Who, for instance, would create the digital archive –​build a platform to host the recordings and transcriptions of the Haitian Memory project? Who has the authority to curate the materials? And to whom does it belong? Curation of the materials is a complex issue, insofar as Lindahl’s paradigm always relinquishes control of the narratives to the original story-​teller/​survivor, and thus consent to access a recording can be withdrawn at any time by the teller. Issues

108 Graham of consent are more complicated, though, in a digital archive, as several web applications refuse the notion of complete erasure of a narrative’s digital incarnation.11 In short, the digital trace of a story is far more permanent and static than the fluidity and ephemerality of the oral tradition. Of course, there are various levels of permissions that can be applied to a digital platform that can work around such applications; however, the creation of a database of such complexity requires a specific skill-​set that is often attached to funding dollars. Similarly, a well-​rehearsed truth in the Digital Humanities regarding digital environments is that they are marked by discontinuity and interruption as technology evolves. To return to the original question posed, then, who would build and maintain the digital component of project? The US based team with strong academic funding and institutional ties, or the Haitian team? Ideally, a project concerning Haitian cultural heritage would be based, even in its digital format, in Haiti and run by locals, as promoted by Hall, as this is at the heart of a true decolonial, living heritage project embedded in the present and in the community. An employee at New Life Children’s Home expressed that Haiti had more cell phones than potable water, and that the internet access available through cell phones had revolutionized daily life. He also shared, however, that it was exceedingly difficult –​at least at the time of this writing –​to have reliable internet through a computer, a somewhat necessary component to building a digital site. And despite the fact that 55% of Haitian have smartphones, their internet connection is often interrupted due to availability or expense (Mitchell 2018). Furthermore, space is still an issue in the digital world, despite the fantasy of the unending expansiveness of the digital frontier. The 250 recorded interviews which Haitian Memory aspires to collect must be hosted on a server, and if we are to responsibly consider the future space needed to amend, rewrite and respond to the stories in the archive so that it may grow and evolve, we should consider that unless one has access to an institutional repository with a dedicated server, server space comes with a financial commitment. Though far from novel, this speaks to major debates currently facing digital humanists. Who has access to this supposed democratic space of the internet? Often developing areas lack the resources to truly tap into and exploit the potentialities of the digital. Thus, the issue of turning to the digital to house the Haitian Memory archive exposes the disparity of resources –​specifically, economic and technical –​that plague postcolonial nations. 11

These include the Internet Archive’s Wayback Machine, which archives web pages from 1998 including pages that are no longer live or that have been significantly altered, or Chrome’s Time Machine.

Recovery Projects

109

Though the bottom-​up perspective that the original Haitian Memory project espouses is potentially in tension with the top-​down perspective of an archive housed and promoted by a US academic institution, the stories emerging from the project epitomize the feminist standpoint theory of situated knowledge, a specific form of knowledge about the world that highlights the way in which knowledge is culturally and socially constructed.12 Through the sharing of their local, situated knowledge, Haitian survivors and story-​tellers become epistemic agents, active producers of knowledge concerning their culture, rights, heritage and status in the global world. Further, as witnesses to the survivor stories through creation of a digital archive, visitors and policy makers alike can open themselves up to the perspective of the other and interrogate their own response and responsibility to act. This notion of opening oneself up to the other furthers, as I see it, the stance evinced by Verne Harris’ seminal work on South African archives, Archives and Justice (2007), as capable of enacting social justice through an ethics of hospitality wherein an archive invites, listens and responds to the multifarious voices and perspectives of the other. By maintaining a contradictory or spilt perspective, one that sees through the standpoint of the survivor as well as through their own frame of reference, visitors to the archive become accountable, in some ways, for producing new forms of knowledge of non-​Western populations. 6

A Space of Recovery: Living Heritage and a Way Forward

In disaster situations, the first responders are local people and communities; they are also the last responders and often the last to be responded to. Yet it is in these communities and through their networks, both dispersed and proximate, that relief, rehabilitation and revitalization occur. Phil O’Keefe describes this local driven response to disaster as “an economy of affect”, wherein we might understand the local environment as one of “giving and receiving” (2014, 322). Affect extends beyond the immediate response to disaster, though, and also includes “memories of trauma and lessons learned” (ibid.). For a digital disaster archive to collect and display these communal memories, it is crucial that care be at the fore, care in terms of caring for the stories and for the people who share their stories. Polyvocal and multifarious, our model of a digital disaster archive is one that 1) is created by the local people, 2) altered by and 12

For a thorough discussion of the evolving methods and history of standpoint theory, see Susan Hekman’s (1997) “Truth and Method: Feminist Standpoint Theory Revisited” in Signs 22 (2): 341–​65.

110 Graham responsive to local needs, 3) brings the global into conversations around care and trauma, 4) addressees local heritage as integral to wellbeing. A dynamic, participatory archive such as this is one marked by openness to new stories by new community members; it is also marked by the agentive power of silence. The power to remain silent, to deny one’s voice to another, is crucial to maintaining the agency of local people and their heritage. A participatory digital disaster archive fitted to the oral tradition, then, is one that is, in fact, not wholly open access. Though certain stories may always be available for outsider viewing, other narratives in the online archive may require permission to access. Through scaffolded access, the archive may protect against global consumption of the local community while its very construction concretizes that community’s authority to speak for itself in the global landscape. It is also important to remember that an archive of this kind has the potential to serve as a platform where contributors and visitors alike can discuss their experiences at sites of historical trauma through the creation of a community forum. An archive, though, that is removed from the wants and needs of the local community is an archive that forecloses change, but an archive underpinned by the same theories of exchange, of “giving and receiving”, as is seen in the oral tradition itself, truly performs the role of the “living institution”, which, as Hall suggests, is by definition already incomplete and always in process (2001). Shifting the notion of heritage from objects and built environments to living people is, according to Paul Taçon and Sarah Baker, the greatest challenge to heritage and its connection to wellbeing (2019, 1310). The digital environment, though, is unique. It is a built environment, but its construction is greater than the sum of its wires, hard drives and servers; it is built of flesh, built from the connections forged between people. Yet metaphors of depth pervade digital work and work about the digital; online archives, for example, are ‘deep’ and also ‘scaffolded’, ‘layered’ and ‘embedded’. These decidedly architectural terms speak to the spatial aspect and the sociocultural nexus of life, and yet we lack a solid, critical discourse for interrogating the spatiality and relationality of the digital world, particularly in regards to the heritage wellbeing relationship. Nevertheless, it is clear that as a liminal and transformative space, the digital archive is where we may both take shape and be shaped in the formative, on-​ going process of network building and community making. Despite the hurdles that remain to be addressed, the participatory model of a digital disaster archive, one that follows the principles of the Haitian Memory project, still serves as a public witness to the present lives of local people while it also serves as a witness to the effects of climate disasters and public humanitarian response as it “[reinforces] the medical, social, and civic infrastructures associated with a community’s recovery from and resilience to

Recovery Projects

111

calamities” (Carlton 2016, iii). Understanding historically marginalized populations through a variety of technologies promises not only to recover the voices Western history has neglected but provides an immediate framework for wellbeing through expanded community formation following catastrophic disasters; this is the penultimate goal of many recovery projects. Yet a digital disaster archive of oral heritage has the potential to stretch our concept of disaster recovery and its connection with wellbeing. As an active space of social solidarity, the digital disaster archive can and does shape our experience of and desire for real, experienced global space; in a way, then, it is a site intimately bound with changing the politics of place. Digital cultural heritage is not about preserving a singular moment in time but about preserving the dignity, the rights and the communities of our world.

Acknowledgments

All personal information that would allow the identification of any person(s) described in the article has been removed.

References

Adelson, Naomi, and Michelle Olding. 2013. “Narrating Aboriginality Online: Digital Storytelling, Identity and Healing.” The Journal of Community Informatics 9 (2): n.p. Audefroy, Joel F. 2011. “Haiti: Post-​Earthquake Lessons Learned from Traditional Construction.” Environment and Urbanization 23 (2): 447–​62. Barry, Andrew. 1998. “Modest Witnesses: Donna Haraway, Science, and International Relations.” Millennium: Journal of International Studies 7 (4): 869–​83. Barthel-​Bouchier, Diane. 2016. Cultural Heritage and the Challenge of Sustainability. Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press. Basu, Paul, and Ferdinand De Jong. 2016. “Utopian Archives, Decolonial Affordances: Introduction to Special Issue.” Social Anthropology 24 (1): 5–​19. Beel, David E., Claire Wallace, Gemma Webster, Hai Nguyen, Elizabeth Tait, Marsaili Macleod, and Chris Mellish. 2017. “Cultural Resilience: The Production of Rural Community Heritage, Digital Archives and the Role of Volunteers.” Journal of Rural Studies 54: 459–​68. Burton, Antoinette, ed. 2005. Archive Stories: Facts, Fictions, and the Writing of History. Durham: Duke University Press. Carlton, Patricia M. 2016. “From Ashes to Ashé: Memorializing Traumatic Events Through Participatory Digital Archives.” PhD diss. University of Central Florida.

112 Graham Cohen, Julie. 2007. “Cyberspace As/​And Space.” Columbia Law Review 107 (1): 210–​56. https://​scholarship.law.georgetown.edu/​facpub/​807. Colin, Jessie M., and Ghislaine Paperwalla. 2003. “People of Haitian Heritage.” In Transcultural Health Care: A Culturally Competent Approach, edited by Larry D. Purnell and Betty J. Paulanka, 70–​84. Philadelphia: F.A. Davis. Convery, Ian, Gerard Corsane, and Peter Davis. 2014. “Introduction.” In Displaced Heritage: Responses to Disaster, Trauma, and Loss, edited by Ian Convery, Gerard Corsane and Peter Davis, 1–​5. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press. Douglas, Rachel. 2017. “Writing the Haitian Earthquake and Creating Archives.” Continents Manuscrits 8: 1–​16. Erickson, Kai. 2014. “Preface.” In Displaced Heritage: Responses to Disaster, Trauma, and Loss, edited by Ian Convery, Gerard Corsane, and Peter Davis, xvii–​xx. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press. Farmer, Paul. 2010. AIDS and Accusation: Haiti and the Geography of Blame. Berkeley: University of California Press. Fassin, Didier. 2012. Humanitarian Reason: A Moral History of the Present, translated by Rachel Gomme. Berkeley: University of California Press. Green, Alexander R., J. Emilio Carrillo, and Joseph R. Betancourt. 2002. “Why the Disease-​Based Model of Medicine Fails Our Patients.” Western Journal of Medicine 176 (2): 141–​43. Greenwood, Janinka, Lynne-​Harata Te Aika, and Niki Davis. 2011. “Creating Virtual Marae: An Examination of How Digital Technologies Have Been Adopted by Maori in Aotearoa New Zealand.” In International Exploration of Technology Equity and the Digital Divide: Critical, Historical and Social Perspectives, edited by P. Randolph Leigh, 58–​79. Hershey, PA: igi Global. Hall, Stuart. 1999. “Whose Heritage? Un-​settling ‘the Heritage’, Re-​Imagining the Post-​ nation.” Third Text 13 (49): 3–​13. Hall, Stuart. 2001. “Constituting an Archive.” Third Text 15 (54): 89–​92. Hamilton, Paula, and Linda Shopes, eds. 2008. Oral History and Public Memories. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Harris, Verne. 2007. Archives and Justice: A South African Perspective. Chicago: Society of American Archivists. International Council on Archives. 2011. “Universal Declaration on Archives.” November 10, 2011. Accessed June 5, 2018. https://​www.ica.org/​en/​universal -​declaration-​archives. Hekman, Susan. 1997. “Truth and Method: Feminist Standpoint Theory Revisited.” Signs 22 (2): 341–​65. Kushner, Jacob. 2019. “Beside a Vast Graveyard, a New City Rises in Haiti.” Pacific Standard. February 14, 2019. https://​psmag.com/​economics/​after-​the-​earthquake -​a-​new-​cities-​rises.

Recovery Projects

113

Lindahl, Carl. 2012.“Legends of Hurricane Katrina: The Right to Be Wrong, Survivor-​ to-​ Survivor Storytelling, and Healing.” The Journal of American Folklore 125 (496): 139–​76. Lindahl, Carl. 2013. Survivor to Survivor Stories. https://​www.survivortosurvivorstories .com. Accessed 21 June 2018. Luchetta, Christina. 2018. “What Matters for Households’ Recovery Trajectories Following the Gorkha Earthquake.” Mercy Corps. April 16, 2018. https://​www .­mercycorps.org/​research-​resources/​gorkha-​earthquake-​recovery. McLean, Jessica. 2020. Changing Digital Geographies: Technologies, Environments, and People. Cham, Switzerland: Palgrave Macmillan. Merleau-​Ponty, Maurice. 1945. Phenomenology of Perception. Reprint. Abingdon, Oxon and New York: Routledge, 2012. Mitchell, Alanna. 2018. “From Disaster, a New Digital Economy for Haiti.” Charting in Change. February 22. http://​idrc.canadiangeographic.ca/​blog/​new-​digital -​­economy-​haiti.asp. Nayar, Pramod K. 2015. Writing Wrongs: The Cultural Construction of Human Rights in India. New Delhi: Routledge. O’Keefe, Phil. 2014. “Endpiece.” In Displaced Heritage: Responses to Disaster, Trauma, and Loss, edited by Ian Convery, Gerard Corsane, and Peter Davis, 321–​ 23. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press. Recuber, Timothy. 2012. “The Prosumption of Commemoration: Disasters, Digital Memory Banks, and Online Collective Memory.” American Behavioral Scientist 56 (4): 531-​549. Taçon, Paul S.C., and Sarah Baker. 2019. “New and Emerging Challenges to Heritage and Well-​Being: A Critical Review.” Heritage 2 (2): 1300–​15. Trouillot, Michel-​Rolph. 1995. Silencing the Past: Power and the Production of History. Boston: Beacon Press. Sayer, Faye. 2018. “Understanding Well-​Being: A Mechanism for Measuring the Impact of Heritage Practice on Well-​Being.” In The Oxford Handbook of Public Heritage Theory and Practice, edited by Angela M. Labrador and Neil Asher Silberman, 387–​ 403. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Schaffer, Kay, and Sidonie Smith. 2004. Human Rights and Narrated Lives: The Ethics of Recognition. New York: Palgrave McMillan. Smith, Kevin. 2016. “Negotiating Community Literacy Practice: Public Memory Work and the Boston Marathon Bombing Digital Archive.” Computers and Composition 40: 115–​30. Wohlford, Corinne. 2017. “Perishability and Desolation: Disaster and the Racialization of Suffering in the Neoliberal Memoir.” The Midwest Modern Language Association Journal 50 (1): n.p.

pa rt 2 Medical Institutions

∵

­c hapter 6

The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–​1980 Kate Miriam Loewenthal Abstract This chapter examines an attempt to provide psychiatric care for the British middle classes. Lunatic asylums for the poor offered poor care and bleak conditions. By contrast, the Holloway Sanatorium provided physical facilities and conditions comparable to a good hotel, and respectful patient management, hopefully promoting refreshment and recuperation. Indeed, recovery was expected and re-​admission was not permitted. The chapter draws on a range of sources –​including hospital records now available at the Wellcome Foundation –​illustrating the quality of life experienced in the sanatorium. The chapter compares psychiatric care in the Sanatorium with care that might be expected in the UK today. Could provisions in the Sanatorium foreshadow later movements in psychiatric care? Possible similarities with contemporary therapeutic communities are suggested.

1

Introduction

This article examines some reported features of a nineteenth-​century attempt to provide “generous and dignified provision for the treatment of mental illness among the less prosperous middle classes” (Harrison-​Barbet 1994, 43), with the nature of the clientele being later modified to the upper middle classes. The Holloway Sanatorium in Surrey offered facilities which contrasted with the bleak conditions in lunatic asylums for the poor. In asylums for the poor, patients were ill-​fed, kept in insanitary conditions, sometimes tied or chained up, and overall treatment wavered from neglect to cruelty (Burtinshaw and Burt 2017, chap. 19). In the Holloway sanatorium, patients were allowed considerable freedom, could roam freely in the grounds and the surrounding area. The facilities and furnishings were equivalent to those of a good hotel. Those admitted were expected to recover, and any who relapsed were not re-​ admitted after discharge. The architecture is considered extraordinarily fine and of major historical importance. The premises are now privately-​owned residential properties. There was strong debate about the appropriateness and nature of the religious facilities to be provided. The hospital came under the

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_007

118 Loewenthal aegis of the UK National Health Service in 1948, was closed in 1980 following a fire, and was never re-​opened. This closure was in the context of massive reforms in the UK health service aimed at reducing the number of hospitalised psychiatric patients. This article draws on a range of accounts of patients’ treatments and experiences, drawing on published books and articles, and hospital records now available at the Wellcome Foundation. This chapter aims to outline what these accounts suggest about the establishment and achievements of a relatively unusual and innovative nineteenth-​century institution for psychiatric care. Two questions are raised: In what respects could psychiatric patients expect care and treatment similar to and different from that provided for patients in the United Kingdom now? Could the provisions made by the sanatorium be seen as aspects of general movements in psychiatric care in the later late nineteenth and twentieth centuries? 2

The Context: Care of the Insane in England

Prior to the nineteenth century, in Britain, lunatics, imbeciles, idiots and epileptics (terms recognised as having a medical meaning in those times) were regarded as uniformly hopeless cases. Neglected, cast out of society and/​or cruelly treated, institutionalisation in an asylum was regarded as a work of charity (Burtinshaw and Burt 2017, chap. 19). Notoriously, the original British asylum, the Bethlem Maudsley Hospital was founded in Bishopsgate, London in 1247, originally as a place for the care of sick paupers, but came to concentrate on the insane. It is now a prestigious teaching hospital known as The Maudsley. In earlier years it was known for scandal and intrigue: conditions in the hospital had become poor, and ‘Bedlam’ become synonymous with madness and pandemonium. Hogarth’s depiction of Bedlam as the final stage of The Rake’s Progress became iconic (Figure 6.1). Until 1770, unrestricted visiting was permitted by the hospital governors. The inmates became an attraction for the amusement of the public. It was a popular tourist site and was even listed in guidebooks. Those visiting the hospital took the experience to be like visiting a zoo, patients were expected to ‘perform’. Many came to the hospital because they hoped to spectate odd and eccentric people (see “From Bethlehem to Bedlam”). Common treatments in the eighteenth and nineteenth century asylums included cold baths, restraint in strait jackets or chains. Some patients were

The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–1980

119

­f igure 6.1  Hogarth’s (1735–​1763) famous depiction of Bedlam in the eighteenth century, the final scene from Hogarth’s series The Rake’s Progress

confined to their rooms. Other treatments included bloodletting or purges (Burtinshaw and Burt 2017, chap. 19). There were changes in the nineteenth century, following the 1774 Lunacy Act. The 1833 Madhouse Amendment Act, the 1886 Idiots Act, the 1890 Lunacy Act other legislation was designed to enforce the inspection of asylums, an increase in provision for the psychiatrically unwell, and to recognise that different provision was needed for the learning disabled and the psychiatrically disabled. Thomas Holloway’s attempts to develop care for the insane came in the context of major reform; many of his innovations were radical and since the hospital sanatorium closed, conditions for the former patients, placed in regular psychiatric wards, probably became less pleasant than they were in the sanatorium.

120 Loewenthal 3

The Sanatorium

It has been claimed that Holloway “formulated concepts of the care and treatment of mentally ill people nearly a century ahead of current thought” (Harrison-​Barbet 1994, 46). “Neither epileptic, paralytic or presumed incurable patients can be received. Patients cannot remain for a longer period of twelve months, and no patient can be re-​admitted” (ibid., 47). This ruling seems to have been relaxed in the twentieth century. The sanatorium’s clients might include “the student who has overdone cramming […] the overworked barrister or clergyman […] those whose minds are filled with illusions on account of domestic troubles or bereavements” (Holloway, quoted in Elliott 1996, 21). It appears that Holloway did not want the sanatorium filled, even partly, with those deemed incurable, although at one time Holloway had plans for a second hospital providing for “incurables” (ibid., 47). Departure and cure were expected, and although this has a high-​handed tone, these expectations may have offered hope. Notably, the sanatorium was explicitly embedded in the British class system. It was patently for those with some money and /​or from the higher professions. The striking architecture emphasised this, and the almost unique introduction of electricity, the latter a very hi-​tech luxury at the time. The Sanatorium boasted a grand exterior and a closeness of the railway station –​this latter was of course an attractive feature in the nineteenth century, prior to the introduction of private motorised transport. The Sanatorium and the nearby ladies’ university (Royal Holloway), both innovative and funded by Holloway, were designed by William Henry Crossland, with extensive input from Holloway. John Betjeman described them as “two of the most amazing buildings in Britain […] once seen they haunt the mind like a recurring and exciting dream” (quoted in Harrison-​Barbet 1994, 90). There was much correspondence involving Holloway about the details which would add to the patients’ comfort, such as small viewing panel in each door “so that the night attendant might look through without disturbing the patient as by unlocking the door”, and a “tiny kitchen on each floor where tea could be made and other comforts kept ready” (1874–​1877). Each patient had a private room. The furnishings and decor were carefully attended to: “It is endeavoured […] to avoid leaving a dimmed intelligence opposite to a blank wall” (quoted in v. Holloway 2016, 114). Here is another, rather glowing description: Holloway Sanatorium for the Insane in Surrey, England opened in 1885 as a private hospital for the wealthy middle classes. It was founded by the Thomas Holloway (1800–​1883), a patent medicine businessman and

The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–1980

121

philanthropist who commissioned a grand gothic-​style building set in extensive parkland at Virginia Water in Surrey to house the hospital. Holloway died before building was completed, but he left enough funds for the sanatorium to continue as a private charitable foundation. Unlike the bleak public county asylums of the time, the building was beautifully decorated and furnished. The Grand Hall, equipped with electricity, was used for dances, performances and other entertainments. Some patients, as in other mental hospitals, worked in the gardens and farm, and in the laundry and kitchen. During their leisure time, they could stroll in the grounds, play tennis, croquet or cricket. A band entertained the staff, patients and visitors on summer afternoons. (see “Holloway Sanatorium for the Insane”). We will shortly look at some further specific features of the facilities and treatments provided as the sanatorium opened and moved into the twentieth century. The sanatorium remained a private hospital until 1948 when it was taken over by the National Health Service. It closed in December 1980 following a fire. The remaining patients were transferred to a local hospital. 4

Religious Needs and Medication in the Sanatorium

The role of religion in psychiatric care was a controversial topic in nineteenth-​ century psychiatric reform (Loewenthal 1994, chap. 1). In France, Philippe Pinel insisted that the mentally ill should not be exposed to religious practices as it was felt that these might encourage delusions and hallucinations. In England in the 1790s, William Tuke, a Quaker merchant, founded the York Retreat, where prayer and religious devotion were seen as central to the healing process. The British Lunacy Act of 1890 ordered a church in every asylum, which the inmates had to attend twice a day. Thomas Holloway was not warm towards the clergy of the established church. Holloway agreed that there should be religious teaching and a chapel at the ladies’ college (university) he founded, but he insisted that the college should be non-​sectarian. Further, he specified that the Sanatorium should have no church or chapel attached, and that no chaplain should be appointed. He also said that no-​one should be excluded because of their religious views. Ultimately, the Commissioners in Lunacy recommended that a chapel be added and this was done in 1882 (v. Holloway 2016, 120). It perhaps enabled religious tolerance that patients should have their own rooms in which they were free to engage in a range of activities, including

122 Loewenthal

­f igure 6.2  The Sanatorium: A patient’s room (originally from The Graphic, October 1881, 425). Note the top-​of-​the-​line furnishings, and interior decorations, and peaceful views.

religious practices. This gave patients considerable religious freedom, and also helped to avoid misjudgements of patient’s psychiatric status, made as a result of patients lacking privacy to engage (or not engage) in religious practices. What about other aspects of psychiatric care? We know of course that psychotherapy did not develop until the twentieth century was well under way.

The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–1980

123

There are sanatorium case books in the Wellcome Trust dated until 1926. We can see that at least some patients in the sanatorium were given medication. This seems to have been generally to calm the patients and to make them more manageable. For example, there are records of the use of Sulphanol, a hypnotic (see ­figure 6.5), and (later) Thorazine (Chlorpromazine) “to keep the patients docile” (Bryson 1995, 85). Verity Holloway (2016, 118) records the use of bromide, cannabis and morphine. It appears that the primary sources of therapeutic benefit in the Sanatorium were felt to be the gracious living conditions and decor, to which enormous attention had been given, the sports facilities for pastimes such as cricket and swimming, and opportunities for creative activities such as painting and photography. The sympathetic and respectful treatment of the patients was of great importance, and patients were encouraged to socialise with each other. Verity Holloway (2016, 115) says that the superintendent’s journals read like a holiday camp diary –​fetes, dances, picnics, river trips. Family members could become boarding guests at the Sanatorium. 5

The Casebook Records

A closer impression of patient management can be gained from the Holloway Sanatorium papers in the Wellcome Library. There is a digital collection comprising nine casebooks with notes on patients, often accompanied by photographs. Inserted in the casebooks are temperature charts, death notices and correspondence. Six casebooks record female patients from between 1885–​ 1926. The remaining three casebooks record male patients between 1891–​1902. Some examples follow: Casebook Example 1: From the Case book covering admissions May 1918–​Oct 1926: (see ­figure 6.5) “[…] fears that he may die without seeing his wife –​says that the sight of a knife frightens him. 30th Nov 1923: Emotional, with feelings of impending calamity, which he declares keep him awake, though he has been sleeping fairly well lately. Has craving for sal volatile which he says makes him sleep. Stated that he used to have to take precautions, such as attaching a piece of string to his foot and tying it to the foot of the bed, lest he should suddenly wake up and run to the window, or walk in his sleep and harm himself. Is apparently making a strong effort to control his fears. 6th Dec 1923: Left today.”

124 Loewenthal

­f igure 6.3  A sample of the casebook notes

Casebook Example 2: From the Case book covering admissions Mar 1897–​Aug 1907: Admitted May 18 1897: Details of appearance etc. e.g. “small thickset with grey hair”. Mental: “Has somewhat elated ideas. Says he is the most successful commercial traveller of modern times (which of course may be the fact), is somewhat incoherent and is somewhat inclined to resent being questioned. His writing is very unsteady […].” These records offer excellent descriptions of patients’ behaviour, thinking and feeling, but there is negligible indication of therapeutic interventions of the kind used nowadays. 6

Other Experiences of the Sanatorium

We turn now to two twentieth-​century accounts of experiences of the sanatorium, one by a former patient, and one by a former mental health nursing assistant. In 2008, Laura Marcus (2008) writes in The Guardian how she was hospitalised after a serious nervous breakdown. She first assumed that she was in prison, as a result of the name Holloway (a women’s prison bears that name), and the uniformed attendants. However, she soon began to appreciate the pleasant surroundings, the beautiful building, the opportunity to socialise

The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–1980

125

and share experiences with other young people, and the woodland walks –​ these led to pleasant memories of the sanatorium after recovery and discharge. Bill Bryson (the well-​known travel writer) visited England as a young student in 1973, and in order to subsidize his travels, applied for a job as a mental health nurse/​assistant in the Holloway Sanatorium. Visa problems were not prominent in those days. He says his duties were light: presiding over a male ward whose patients were able to care for themselves (eat and dress), and who were out of the ward most of the day, gardening, playing cricket and other sports, and shopping. The village of Virginia Water was a “extraordinary community” in which “wealthy people and lunatics mingled on equal terms” (Bryson 1995, 87). Local shopkeepers and others were undisturbed by (for example) “a man with wild hair declaiming to a spot on the wall” (ibid.). Many residents of the Sanatorium could conduct regular conversations giving no hint of psychological disturbance and were able to do their errands in the local village. But they could have outbreaks of disturbance. For example, the quiet and timid Arthur would explode if spoken to by a stranger, as witnessed by Bill one day when Arthur was asked in a local bookshop shop by the assistant if she could help him. “How dare you speak to me you sluttish bitch”, he hissed, and a long tirade followed. The assistant was terrified. Bill told Arthur to put his book down and leave. Arthur obeyed but meekly returned to enquire timidly whether he would be allowed pudding (dessert) that night (description published in 2015, of a 1973 event). 7

The Sanatorium Closes

The Sanatorium was closed in 1980 following a fire, and the residents re-​housed in a local hospital. Sadly, their behaviour in the local community was not tolerated, and they were confined to the hospital wards. The move was originally intended to be temporary, but the Sanatorium did not re-​open, apparently in the context of reforms to move psychiatric patients out of permanent hospitalisation where possible. The Sanatorium was eventually developed into an up-​market housing estate. Turning now to the introductory questions: In what respects could psychiatric patients expect care and treatment similar to or different from that provided for patients in the United Kingdom now? Could the provisions made by the sanatorium be seen as aspects of general movements in psychiatric care in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries? Some differences are attributable to the lack of resources when the sanatorium opened –​particularly, little medication and no psychotherapy –​these

126 Loewenthal were not available in for much of the Sanatorium’s duration. But Holloway’s trust in the curative power of beautiful surroundings and pleasant life-​style deserves further investigation. Patients at the Sanatorium had greater freedom of movement within and outside the hospital than patients nowadays, who may sometimes be confined to locked wards, and even if they can leave their ward, there may be greater control over movement outside the hospital. Nowadays, health and safety considerations, and perhaps lack of resources, combine to keep hospitalised patients in conditions of less freedom. Medication at the sanatorium, especially in the early days was less sophisticated than that used nowadays. Patients nowadays appear to be far more frequently and heavily medicated. There was limited/​no psychological therapy, as was normal for at least the first 40–​50 years (approximately) of the Sanatorium’s existence. And finally, there was the expectation that stay would be limited and return not allowed. This combination of factors would have conspired, ideally, to enable patients to return to life outside the hospital without having become accustomed to a large amount of support –​medication, secure confinement, therapy –​and the insistence that patients could not be re-​admitted. This might have helped some of those admitted to improve to meet the deadline for discharge. Outcome studies were not done in the nineteenth or early twentieth centuries, and retrospective studies would be difficult, with unreliable conclusions especially given the selectivity exerted in admitting patients to the sanatorium. But it is tempting to speculate, perhaps over-​simplifying, that Holloway’s recommended regime may have inhibited the development of iatrogenic illnesses, which psychiatric hospitals were sometimes accused of inducing (see Davies 2013). It would be reasonable to suppose that long-​stay patients probably had more pleasant conditions and treatment in the Sanatorium than they might receive now, even though they could not benefit from the proactive and often effective psychotherapies now available. The possibility of having family members staying along with patients in the Sanatorium seems a radical idea, which probably required careful management, but might have potentially positive effects. Nowadays, many countries offer some kind of free-​of-​charge treatment for those unable to afford to pay for treatments they or their families might prefer. Things may have improved somewhat since the times when lunatics from the lower classes were abandoned, locked away, marginalised, and subjected to degrading treatments. However, Erika Jääskeläinen et al. (2013) in a systematic review and meta-​analysis of studies throughout the twentieth century, report that recovery rates from schizophrenia have not improved, despite

The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–1980

127

changes in treatment. Treatments have certainly changed in the twentieth century, notably the introduction and expansion of psychopharmacology and psychotherapy. There have been drastic reductions in the numbers of hospitalised psychiatric patients in the UK since the 1970s. Arguably the sanatorium could be seen as one partial step in a move towards establishing therapeutic communities –​alternatives to hospitalisation –​such as the York retreat (The Retreat York 2021), the Arbours Association (Arbours Association 2021), Community Housing and Therapy (Community Housing and Therapy 2021), and the Richmond Fellowship (Richmond Fellowship 2021) (such residential therapeutic communities in addition to the extensive use of psychotherapy for the non-​hospitalised). Note that like the sanatorium, these therapeutic institutions have avoided the use of the terms such as “psychiatric”, “hospital” and “asylum”, ostensibly to avoid stigmatisation. Such communities are only used by a minority of those with psychological disturbance; they are often seen as a movement that is not supportive of what is sometimes termed the “medical model” in psychiatry (e.g. Szasz 1961; Bentall 2004). The Holloway sanatorium might be seen as a precursor of this movement in psychiatric care. Clearly there are features of life in the sanatorium which we might not want to see emulated in current treatment, particularly the lack of psychological therapy. But minimising the amount of medication –​with patient cooperation –​might have a salutary effect for some. There is an empirically based suggestion that recovery from psychosis is possible without anti-​psychotic medication, for some (Harrow and Jobe 2007). The sanatorium’s requirement to improve and leave within a specific time frame may seem unacceptable for some, but might be helpful for others. Respectful treatment is clearly desirable on humanitarian grounds. We can always hope that the comfortable and pleasant conditions that were regarded as essential for the middle and upper classes at the Sanatorium, should be available to all who wish to use the option of supported independent living, with minimal constraint and medication, and encouragement to aim for a termination of institutionalisation. To return to the questions near the opening of this chapter: In what respects could psychiatric patients expect care and treatment similar to different from that provided for patients in the United Kingdom now? Could the provisions made by the sanatorium be seen as aspects of general movements in psychiatric care in the late 19th and 20th centuries? The sanatorium can be seen as embedded in the British class system, aimed a relatively prosperous clientele, whose symptoms which offered some hope of being alleviated in pleasant surroundings with respectful treatment, and in the course of this, might be seen as a precursor of twentieth century therapeutic communities.

128 Loewenthal

Acknowledgements

This article is based on a presentation at the conference “The Material and Immaterial Heritage of Psychiatry”, in the Centre for Critical Heritage Studies, Department of Historical Studies, University of Goteborg, Sweden, June 11–​ 12, 2019. I am particularly grateful to Dr Elisabeth Punzi from the Psychology Department, one of the organisers, who was particularly encouraging and helpful to me. It was a wonderful opportunity to participate in this fascinating conference. Note: The digitised Holloway Sanatorium papers are available under a Creative Commons Attribution-​NonCommerical license; they can be downloaded and reused for non-​commercial purposes, so long as attribution is given to Wellcome Library. A url is given in the references.

References

Arbours Association. 2012. “The Arbours Association.” Accessed February 5, 2021. www.arboursassociation.org. Bentall, Richard. 2004. Madness Explained: Psychosis and Human Nature. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Bryson, Bill. 2015. The Road to Little Dribbling: More Notes from a Small Island. New York: Doubleday. Bryson, Bill. 1995. Notes from a Small Island. London: Random House, Penguin. Burtinshaw, Kathryn, and John Burt. 2017, Lunatics, Imbeciles and Idiots: A History of Insanity in Nineteenth-​Century Britain. Barnsley: Pen and Sword Books. “Community Housing and Therapy.” Accessed February 5, 2021. https://​cht.org.uk/​. Davies, James. 2013. Cracked: Why Psychiatry is Doing More Harm Than Good. London: Icon Books. Elliott, John Patrick. 1996. Palaces, Patronage and Pills. Thomas Holloway: His Sanatorium, College and Picture Gallery. Egham, Surrey: Royal Holloway, University of London. The Graphic (1881) The Sanatorium: A Patient’s Room.From The Graphic, October 1881, p 425). “From Bethlehem to Bedlam –​England’s First Mental Institution.” Historic England (undated) https://​historicengland.org.uk/​research/​inclusive-​heritage/​disability -​history/​1050-​1485/​from-​bethlehem-​to-​bedlam/​. Accessed February 5, 2021. Harrison-​Barbet, Anthony. 1994. Thomas Holloway: Victorian Philanthropist. Egham, Surrey: Royal Holloway, University of London.

The Holloway Sanatorium 1885–1980

129

Harrow, Martin, and Jobe, Thomas H. 2007. “Factors Involved in Outcome and Recovery in Schizophrenia Patients not on Antipsychotic Medications: A 15-​Year Multifollow-​ Up Study.” The Journal of Nervous and Mental Disease 195 (5): 406–​14. Hogarth, William. 1735-​1763. A Rake’s progress (plate 8) https://​www.tate.org.uk/​art/​ artworks/​hogarth-​a-​rakes-​progress-​plate-​1-​t01789 “Holloway Sanatorium for the Insane.” Wellcome Collection (undated). https://​ wellcomelibrary.org/​collections/​digital-​collections/​mental-​healthcare/​holloway -​sanatorium/​ Accessed February 5, 2021. Holloway, Thomas. 1874–​1877. “Private Letters”. Royal Holloway College Archives. Accessed 18 February 2020. www.royalholloway.ac.uk/​archivesHolloway. Verity. 2016. The Mighty Healer: Thomas Holloway’s Victorian Patent Medicine Empire. Barnsley: Pen & Sword History. Jääskeläinen, Erika, Pauliina Juola, Noora Hirvonen, John J. McGrath, Sukanta Saha, Matti Isohanni, Juha Veijola, and Jouko Miettunen. 2013. A Systematic Review and Meta-​Analysis of Recovery in Schizophrenia. Schizophrenia Bulletin 39 (6): 1296–​306. Loewenthal, Kate Miriam. 1994. Mental Health and Religion. London: Chapman & Hall. Marcus, Laura. 2008. “It’s Worse Than a Criminal Record.” The Guardian, 11 February 2008. https://​www.theguardian.com/​society/​2008/​feb/​11/​mentalhealth. Richmond Fellowship. (undated) “Residential Care Homes.” Accessed February 5, 2021. https://​www.richmondfellowship.org.uk/​residential-​care-​homes/​. Szasz, Thomas. 1961. The Myth of Mental Illness: Foundations of a Theory of Personal Conduct. New York: Harper & Row. “ The Retreat York.” (undated)“ Accessed February 5, 2021. https://​theretreatyork.org .uk/​.

­c hapter 7

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

A Material and Immaterial Heritage That Could Contribute to Current Practice Elisabeth Punzi Abstract This chapter concerns the heritage of artistic expression in psychiatric inpatient care. Former mental health institution, Lillhagen hospital in Gothenburg, Sweden and the artistic activities that took place there are presented. These artistic activities are currently revived in an art studio at a psychiatric inpatient unit in Gothenburg, where an art studio has been established in an abandoned room in the basement. Two days a week, patients are invited to paint together with an established visual artist. The art studio is a transitional space; patients are encouraged to use it, co-​create it, and leave traces. The studio is capable of holding the patients and invites them to have the courage to create, play and to trust the artistic process. Thereby the art studio provides alternatives to current tendencies toward reductionism and standardized interventions in psychiatric care and revives the heritage of integrating art in psychiatry.

1

Introduction

In current mainstream Western psychiatry, there is a tendency to focus on diagnostic classification and structured interventions. In this process, clients become consumers of interventions, rather than agents and co-​creators of their life-​course, recovery, wellbeing and context. Moreover, this focus creates an impression of clients as a unified group, possible to control in a health care system influenced by the business sector with its emphasis on efficiency, predictability and administration (Forsell and Ivarsson Westberg 2014; Teghtsoonian 2009). Mental distress is perceived as inherent disorders, disconnected from life experiences, socioeconomic factors and materiality. This perspective is connected to a master narrative stating that current psychiatric practices are humane, effective and scientific while psychiatry in earlier times was inhuman, in-​effective and even fraud. Emphasizing oppressive practices in the history of psychiatry might serve to justify current psychiatry and might

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_008

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

131

contribute to a neglect of current oppression and degrading interventions. In the history of psychiatry, there have certainly been oppressive and inhumane interventions. Simultaneously, psychiatry has a history of empathic and holistic perspectives, centred on the wellbeing of clients, and these fragments of humane practices should also be acknowledged. Psychiatry holds a material and immaterial heritage that demonstrates these holistic perspectives as well as oppressive practices. But what does heritage concern? Laurajane Smith describes the traditional perspective on heritage with the following words: The authorized heritage discourse (ahd) focuses attention on aesthetically pleasing material objects, sites, places and/​or landscapes that current generations ‘must’ care for, protect and revere so that they may be passed to nebulous future generations for their ‘education’, and to forge a sense of common identity based on the past. (2006, 29) Smith questions this perspective, and writes that ahd legitimizes certain persons, for example archaeologists, historians and heritage managers, as spokespersons for the past and for what counts as heritage. She argues that traces of the past in the present, and how they influence the future, are not an abstract phenomenon; it has material reality, and consequences for community identity and sense of belonging, and as David Lowenthal (1985) argued, for wellbeing. The ahd tends to exclude the heritage of marginalized groups. Accordingly, there is a need to approach difficult heritage with awareness and strivings to amend injustice and make under-​represented narratives available. Insights from critical heritage studies and Mad studies scholars help to understand that psychiatric institutions constitute ‘difficult heritage’ (Macdonald 2009; Reaume 2006) that does not fit within the ahd that presents a particular view of history (Smith 2006). According to Sharon Macdonald (2016), difficult heritage concerns wrongdoings perpetrated by nations. These wrongdoings tend to be repressed, but there are always counter-​memories and counter-​narratives that demand recognition. Former residents and their representative organizations have however seldom opportunity to give input into decisions about the redevelopment and future uses of institutional sites (Yahm 2014). Moreover, former clients’ experiences and histories are often not even comprehensible as forming a part of heritage. This is problematic since this counteracts clients’ sense of recognition as well as the possibilities society, practitioners and researchers have to learn from the past in order to hinder current and future wrongdoings (Punzi 2019b). Expressive arts and handicraft are examples of the material and immaterial heritage of clients and of psychiatry. During the twentieth century, art studios

132 Punzi were arranged at many mental health institutions. In, for example the UK, Miss Crawford was teaching art and painting at Crichton mental hospital, in Scotland, during the 1920s. In the 1940s, Edward Adamson initiated art studios at Netherne Hospital, a mental health institution in Surrey. The art activities at Netherne were researched by the medical superintendent at the hospital, Cunningham Dax (Hogan 2000). Adamson referred to himself as the artist and strived to separate the studios from the hospital wards so that clients could gain a sense of freedom while painting. He advocated a non-​directive approach and sensed that clients should not be forced to talk about the creative process or their paintings. Another example is House of Artists in Gugging, Austria. At Gugging, a diagnostic interest in art made by clients became transformed into art therapy that in turn became transformed into a renowned centre of the arts, currently directed by Johann Feilacher (Feilacher 2017; Joerchel 2015). In Russia, the psychiatrist Pavel Ivanovich Karpov started collecting poetry and paintings made by clients and inspired by psychoanalytic theory, he studied questions of creativity (Lerner, Podolsky, and Witztum 2016). It should however be noted that the boundaries between ‘Arts and Health’, which means that the arts are included in healthcare, and art therapy are not definite. Shaun McNiff (1998; 2004) describes that art therapy might be centred on artistic expression rather than on symptom reduction or ideas of curative interventions. Simultaneously, some art activities might be so structured that they resemble interventions that aim at symptom reduction. Accordingly, McNiff writes that art and therapy need not be in opposition to each other. He also writes that the spaces in which these activities take place and how localities are planned or not planned, are important for whether these are perceived as artistic or therapeutic. The activities at Netherne Hospital in the mid-​twentieth century, were of such a kind that if they had taken place outside the hospital, they would have been defined as art education, but since they were performed at a hospital they were termed as “therapy” (Hogan 2000). Moreover, McNiff (2004) describes that the art studio is both a creative space and a creation. Locations need not be perfectly planned; any empty space with good enough light is enough to initiate an art studio. In Sweden, artistic expressions were encouraged in many mental health institutions during the first and middle part of the twentieth century (Svedberg 2014; White 1989). The large-​scale mental health institution Lillhagen hospital, outside the city of Gothenburg, became known for the various client activities, specifically the visual art activities. Lillhagen opened in 1932. During the fifties, established visual artist Bengt Dimming initiated painting offers for clients. In 1963, formal painting courses were created. From the late sixties onward, there were hundreds of courses in, for example, visual arts, literature and guitar

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

133

playing, and also lectures about art and literature. Visits to art exhibitions, Gothenburg opera house, and museums were also arranged (White 1989). Art made by clients was exhibited at private galleries and in 1968 the City art gallery of Gothenburg, connected to the Gothenburg Art museum, had an exhibition with art created by clients from Lillhagen. Clients also created mural paintings in the basements under Lillhagen. Lillhagen was, however, discontinued during the nineties and the following decades. In 2018, the houses where the nurses used to live were demolished. From the beginning of the twenty-​first century it has been discussed whether it is possible to preserve the murals in the basements, that need to be restored. It had been decided that a new street will be named after the murals in the basement. A residential area is under construction at the former site of the hospital. At the time of writing, what will happen with the heritage of the site, whether it will further be remembered or not, is still not known. In current psychiatry, governed by the idea that it is possible and even desirable to organize psychiatric care according to incentives in the business sector, clients’ opportunities to engage in expressive arts and contribute to the environment at treatment units become jeopardized. There is, however, increasing interest in expressive arts and their impact on recovery and wellbeing. One can speculate that the increasing interest in art might be a reaction toward the insistence on structure and predictability. Art activities have been described as spaces in which clients might express themselves and also raise criticism toward previous and current psychiatry (e.g. Sajnani, Marxen, and Zarate 2017). Clients themselves also have emphasized the importance of spaces dedicated to self-​expression, peer-​support, agency, wellbeing, and opportunities to engage in meaningful everyday activities (Faulkner 2017; Mancini 2007). In this article, wellbeing refers to a multidimensional construct that includes interpersonal, community, occupational, psychological, physical and economic domains. In this article, the focus is on interpersonal and psychological aspects, including opportunities to practice strengths and develop self-​esteem, engage in enjoyable activities, and experience meaning and engagement (Duff, Rubenstein, and Prilleltensky 2016). This does, however, not mean that the importance of physical wellbeing, economics, or occupational position is neglected. All domains are connected to each other and to overall wellbeing, and the context of the individual should always be acknowledged (Duff, Rubenstein, and Prilleltensky 2016). During recent decades, architects, designers and visual artists as well as practitioners, clients and mental health researchers have acknowledged that environments and spatial practices are important for recovery and wellbeing (Blank and Rosen-​Zvi 2012; Price and Paley 2008; Vaaler, Morken, and Linaker

134 Punzi 2005). Some researchers assume that there is an optimal environment, in which certain stimuli influence the clients’ moods and emotions in beneficial ways. I would like to argue that such assumptions represent the essentialist idea that human beings react in predictable and controllable ways, thereby neglecting agency, diversity and varying cultural backgrounds and contexts (Gergen 2016). Other researchers assume that clients are co-​creators of spatial, social and material environments, and their recovery (Laws 2009; Topor et al. 2011). Recovery refers to a process in which clients’ experiences and social and material contexts are at the centre of attention; this process emphasizes the importance of agency, a satisfying life, wellbeing and relationships (MacDonald-​Wilson et al. 2013; Ramon, Healy, and Renouf, 2007; Topor et al. 2011). From a recovery perspective, it is acknowledged that meaning-​making, belonging and a dignified life might be more important than symptom reduction, and such experiences are often central to wellbeing even though symptoms or difficulties might prevail. Recovery became an important concept through activism and user involvement, but it should be noted that the term might be, and in some cases has been, co-​opted and diluted, thereby losing the capacities for resistance and alternative approaches (Beresford and Russo 2016; Faulkner 2017). Clients have pointed to the importance of meaningful activities, supporting relationships, and milieus that are owned by users themselves. When it comes to milieus, clients might experience designed localities, decorated with care, as beautiful and curative, especially if they are connected to a park or a garden that is easily accessible (Curtis et al. 2007). It should however be acknowledged that clients might also experience growth and meaning in practices and spaces that are not part of, or only loosely connected to, treatment units. What ‘experts’ consider a beautiful and healing environment might not coincide with clients’ preferences. Clients might gather and support each other in spaces that are neither planned, structured, or designed, nor connected to therapeutic interventions,1 and they might find such spaces curative and empowering (Laws 2009). Moreover, Inger Larsen and Alain Topor (2017) describe how clients might prefer places they have chosen and decorated themselves. Their participants related that in such spaces they found possibilities for just ‘being’. In sum, there is increasing interest in spaces that escape traditional arrangements in health care systems and there is also increased interest in the 1 Therapeutic interventions refer to arrangements that aim to bring about a change in behaviors, emotions, conditions, or functioning. It includes psychotherapy, pharmacological interventions, electroconvulsive therapy etc. and is delivered by trained practitioners.

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

135

importance of meaningful activities, not least art activities, in psychiatric care. Based on the clients’ experiences, it seems important to arrange for spaces that are not imbued with therapeutic interventions or arranged according to universalist ideas of curative environments. Accordingly, this article concerns the art studio in the basement of a psychiatric hospital in Gothenburg, a space that is neither planned nor designed according to ideas of structure, control or predictability. Many rooms in the basement of the hospital are abandoned and there is no plan for how they should be used. The basement could be described as a heterotopia, a place that is ‘between’, that transgresses categories, part of the hospital and yet not fully included (Foucault 1986). The art studio provides clients with a space that is separated from the wards, and with possibilities to engage in art activities under the guidance of an experienced visual artist. The purpose of this chapter is to explore the meaning of the art studio as a place, and the clients’ possibilities to engage in art activities that are not framed as therapeutic interventions. I have strived to understand what the art studio communicates and how human beings might interact with it. As a clinical practitioner and researcher, I am rooted in humanistic psychology and critical perspectives. In consequence, the clients’ meaning-​making and agency, as well as contextual factors including the history and the heritage of psychiatry, are central to my clinical and academic work. It also means that I have a critical perspective toward diagnostic systems, structured interventions and research methods that contribute to reductionism and oppression. Theories and perspectives with relevance for such a perspective have guided the work with this chapter. The chapter is by no means comprehensive. It should rather be seen as a contribution to the understanding of art studios in psychiatric inpatient settings. 2

Methodology

This chapter is written from the standpoint that physical objects and materiality, in this case the art studio as a space, are important to acknowledge when human experience and mental health care is analysed (Larsen 2011). Moreover, the perception that human beings are rational and able to understand and describe in coherent and predictable ways, is questioned. Research methodologies based on the idea that knowledge can be gained from categorizing and/​ or coding ‘empirical data’ are not seen as superior, as they often are in traditional clinical research (Brinkmann 2017; Mazzei 2014). As human beings, we are entangled in our psychical and relational world. This, of course, also concerns researchers. As researchers, we cannot distance ourselves from the

136 Punzi studied topic. Rather we need to immerse in the research process and use ourselves as points of departures in the investigations. The chapter is also written from the perspective of humanistic psychology, acknowledging the unique individual(s) and their agency and meaning-​ making. From this perspective, the criticism of conventional qualitative research methods and terms such as experience and subjectivity are taken seriously, yet the focus lies on understanding individuals and the perceptions of their life-​world and themselves (Brinkmann 2017). Post-​qualitative and humanistic perspectives need not be in opposition. On the contrary, they are preferably combined, not least since both perspectives view human beings as being in processes of becoming rather than as fixed objects. Current post-​ qualitative perspectives might influence qualitative research to abandon its preoccupation with method and instead start with theory, thereby questioning the idea that empirical data might be achieved in objective ways and is as such more ‘real’ than theories or philosophical perspectives (Brinkmann 2017). The ethical aspects of research methodologies also need to be acknowledged. A post-​qualitative perspective provides an alternative to quantitative and qualitative investigations in which the focus lies on participants, who run the risk of being exploited and/​or exposed for research purposes. Doing research on mental health care and mainly working with qualitative methodologies, I would like to argue that there is a risk that participants in traditional interview studies paradoxically become exposed and simultaneously marginalized, since there is a tendency to focus on shared experiences and themes that are prominent in the ‘data’. Moreover, in both, quantitative and qualitative research, the participants’ attention is directed toward the research topic. These research questions might be intrusive, potentially disturbing and simultaneously exclude other questions that may be more relevant for the participants themselves. Researchers may also influence the participants in ways that are not necessarily relevant, or beneficial for the clients. It is possibly more respectful, and ethically appropriate, to approach research topics from theoretical perspectives rather than collecting empirical data from participants who run the risk of becoming influenced in non-​beneficial ways. In this chapter, the art studio is seen as a complex entity in itself, with a range of possibilities and varying, even contradictive understandings. Through adding different theoretical perspectives and questions during the analysis, the varying meanings are represented. Thereby, the analysis might be seen as the opposite of traditional research methods in which the richness of data is condensed into a few themes, or numbers, formulating a theoretically demarcated piece of work. In my analysis, theoretical perspectives and my experiences encounter each other. The art studio is the object that makes understandings

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

137

possible. It should however be noted that the chapter is written from a practitioners’ perspective, focusing on how individuals who experience considerable psychosocial distress might interact with the art studio and the art activities. Before writing this chapter, I visited the art studio on seven occasions over nine months. At two of these occasions, clients were participating. At two occasions me and the artist who runs the studio visited it and he explained to me how the studio operated and showed me paintings made by participants. At two occasions, one of the managers of the Affective clinic was also there, explaining how the studio was integrated in the daily routines. Finally, at one occasion the hospital manager was there with me and the artist. The manager wanted to show the interest from the management and wanted to discuss practical aspects of the art studio as well as possible theoretical, financial and research perspectives. After each visit I made notes concerning practical aspects of how the studio operated and was integrated in the daily routines, as well as concerning my reflections and reactions. During one visit, the artist asked me if I wanted to paint. I will explore my reaction to this question further on in the chapter. I have written two internal reports about the artistic activities at the Affective clinic, one about the art studio and one about creative writing workshops that took place over one year. Clients were invited to write, read and discuss literature. In these reports I interviewed clients, administered a questionnaire to clients, and interviewed the authors who managed the creative writing workshops. I have also written an article that examined the perspectives of four managers at Sahlgrenska, who walked many extra miles to support the establishment of the art studio (Punzi 2019a). This means that I have engaged with the art studio in varying ways and this chapter offers an overview of my reflections and what I have learned during my collaboration with Sahlgrenska, the clients, the artist and authors and the art studio as a place. 3

From Abandoned Space to Art Studio

Psychiatry has, for better or worse, gone through varying reform processes during the last decades of the twentieth century. From the 1950s onward there were attempts to avoid institutionalization (Haack and Kumbier 2012; Söderlund 2011). These strivings were fuelled by users of psychiatry who criticized the system and testified about abuse and oppression, as well as by critical health professionals (Morrow 2007; Starkman 2013). The de-​institutionalization was also connected to efforts to save money. The old mental health institutions did cost a lot and by the middle of the twentieth century they needed to be

138 Punzi restored which would cost considerable amounts (Dwyer 2018). Living conditions and daily activities in the society should be encouraged, and psychiatry and social services should be integrated in society. In Sweden, the so-​called ‘Reform of psychiatry’ was implemented in 1995 (Socialstyrelsen 1999). The reform meant that hospitals were discontinued. Since the 1960s, psychiatry was thus literally moved from the delimited space of mental health institutions, to the spaces of general society. Control mechanisms aiming at clients became transformed. The clients were no longer excluded from society and included in the institution; but rather included in society. This, however, meant that their homes and daily lives often became arenas of control. To be permitted access to society, the clients often had to interact with health care professionals in their everyday life and in many cases in their homes (Shimrat 2013). Control, boundaries and spaces of inclusion and exclusion were transformed rather than deleted. The results of the reform have been debated and are not easily assessed or understood. One result was, however, that psychiatric buildings and localities were abandoned and sometimes turned into spa-​ facilities (focused on the kind of wellbeing that might be bought by citizens who want to indulge in luxurious wellbeing centred on consumption), refugee accommodations, business parks, or residential areas (Rodéhn 2018). In some cases, parts of the psychiatric buildings were continuously used whereas other parts were abandoned. At Sahlgrenska hospital (sh) (a part of Sahlgrenska University hospital (su) –​one of the largest and most research-​intense hospitals in Sweden), situated in Gothenburg, a city with 500,000 inhabitants, the psychiatric care has been downsized. The buildings that are still used have not been renovated. With support from the Cultural affairs committee, Region Västra Götaland (the politically governed area to which Gothenburg belongs), a visual artist and two managers at the Affective clinic at sh, turned an abandoned room in the basement of the hospital into an art studio in 2017. The Affective clinic at sh has four wards, aimed at persons who experience anxiety, depression, self-​ harming behaviours, or who have attempted suicide. Many of them have been diagnosed with so-​called neuropsychiatric, affective, or personality disorders. A majority of the clients are women. The clients are in the hospital from some days up to three months, most stay for two or three weeks. Some are under voluntary treatment, others under compulsory treatment. Those involved in establishing the studio had worked at Lillhagen many years ago and thus remember the artistic activities that took place there. They wanted to revive and maintain what they perceived as important activities and an important heritage. Clients at the four wards are invited to the art studio on Tuesdays and Thursdays from one o’clock until seven o’clock in the evening. The clients are

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

139

invited by staff members or by the artist or encouraged to participate by other clients. The clients can choose to make paintings, a collage, or any other art form they prefer, as long as it is possible with the provided material (easels, varying papers, canvases, varying colours). Clients who ask for guidance are given instructions and suggestions. Those who want to paint by themselves, or just play with colours, are free to do so. The art studio has not been subject to renovation, interior design, or ideas about healing environments. Ideas of healing environments represent the Enlightenment heritage with its insistence on predictability and objectivity and a desire for universal explanations and solutions (Harrison 2013), as if there were certain environments that in themselves were healing for anyone attending them. I do not argue that places and environments are not important, if so, I would not write this chapter. What I do argue is that places and environments are important, just because they hold varying meanings and possibilities, and might invoke pleasant as well as unpleasant emotions, memories and experiences. The art studio is a place in constant transition, open to change as well as to unruliness. It is neither ‘clean’ nor perfect. Thereby it does not communicate any need for perfection. The room is an art studio, not a place for therapeutic interventions, including art therapy. Art therapy might be supportive for individuals who struggle with varying forms of mental distress and traumatic experiences (Hanevik et al. 2013; Quinlan et al. 2016; Springham et al. 2012). The concept of therapy might however simultaneously be entangled in expectations and presumptions. Interventions, including some forms of structured art therapy, are increasingly framed as “methods”, delivered to clients who become consumers of care aimed at predetermined change rather than agents with both difficulties and strengths (Maddux 2016). Clients might even perceive therapeutic interventions as methods of control and classification, which exclude their knowledge and perspectives (Faulkner 2017). Moreover, current psychiatry with its emphasis on diagnostic systems, disorders and symptom reduction communicates that there is a golden standard of normality and orderliness that the client is compared to, even if this is not explicitly articulated (Maddux 2016). Thereby, regardless of how empathic and user-​friendly therapeutic interventions are, there is a risk that they become (perceived as) controlling. Moreover, art therapy might be perceived as an example of the ever-​expanding power of the ‘psy disciplines’ (Rose 1985), that have the power to name, classify, medicalize, treat and evaluate more and more human behaviours with more and more forms of interventions. Rooms dedicated to creative expression provide an alternative to those spaces clients regularly encounter. In art studios, some roughness and smudge

140 Punzi are prerequisites. Creative processes are characterized by openness, one never exactly knows the result in advance, and therefore some unruliness is needed (May 1975). For clients in psychiatry, who often are exposed to correctional interventions and often told how they should think, feel and behave, it might be a relief to enter a room that communicates that there is no right or wrong, and that the skewed is valuable. The art studio at Sahlgrenska is indeed a result of a process. Worn-​out bedside tables have been turned into palettes; a creative way to use and re-​use the heritage of psychiatry. The room is constantly shifting with the ongoing work. The walls are covered with paintings, sometimes the floor is used; one can see that there is ‘work in progress’. Clients are not only permitted, but encouraged to leave traces, and encounter and interact with the traces left by others. In such an environment, focus might shift from the essentialist perspective of ‘what is’, to ‘what could be’ (Gergen 2016). 4

The Courage to Paint

On one wall in the studio, a homemade sign says: “Self-​criticism declined” (translation). It is an adequate appeal, but perhaps easier said than done. In On not being able to paint, Marion Milner, British psychoanalyst and creative writer describes her experiences of painting (1950). Throughout her work Milner questions boundaries between the person and their environment and she exposes herself to anxiety provoking imperfection when she engages in painting. In line with this, Rollo May (1975) describes that it takes courage to create. May investigates creative processes and emphasizes that those who engage in creative work encounter their life-​world, themselves and their own creations, and have to face the reactions these invoke. Milner’s and May’s understandings of creative processes as encounters, and the artworks as objects in themselves, implies that neither the creator nor the audience own the creation, but are approached by it. To understand the experience of the art studio as a place, I scrutinized my own reactions when I interacted with it. What happens with me when I enter the art studio and start to think about painting? What thoughts, emotions, bodily sensations and memories are being invoked in me? My reactions are of course not comparable to the reactions of clients. After all, I am not hospitalized due to overwhelming distress and I do not participate in the art activities. I rather consciously explore my reactions to the art studio and my own memories of painting. Nevertheless, my reactions might be used to understand some aspect of how some clients encounter the art studio. Moreover, it is possible

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

141

that also some clients explore their reactions and memories when they enter the art studio. I truly appreciate visual arts, but I have never experienced a sense of creativity or openness when I have attempted to paint. During art lessons in school, I used to have a vision inside my head, but my hands were unable to express it, no matter how hard I tried. A sense of being without talent, and also a sense of embarrassment for not being able to paint, and also for not enjoying it, evolved. My incompetence as well as my lack of joy in the process became exposed. The failing was there for anyone, especially myself, to see. In the art studio, my memories are evoked. No, not memories, but reactions, a sense of unease, of being exposed and not able to paint ‘good enough’. McNiff (2011) describes that the pervasive idea that one should deliver a predefined picture that exists inside one’s head, becomes inhibiting and creates a sense of unease. Instead, one needs to trust the process and approach painting as a bodily experience. I have to admit that I seem unable to devote myself to the process and decline self-​criticism. Expressed differently, I do not have the courage to paint. According to May (1975), courage means the ability to move ahead despite anxiety and despair. Moreover, he describes that during creative processes, human beings need to let go of control since creativity by definition means that something new, unknown, is emerging. Using the art studio as a point of reference, it turns out that the clients who engage in artistic activities seem more courageous than me. They are capable of trying out something new, to let go of control and they do this despite the overwhelming anxiety and despair that made them seek out psychiatric care. Their courage should be juxtaposed to the prevailing current view of clients as dysfunctional, suffering from lifelong disorders, and in need of effective, structured interventions. Obviously, the clients have capabilities and are able to encounter the unknown, at least in this specific place. Mainstream psychiatry and various mental health care interventions tend to forget that even though individuals with overwhelming mental distress are vulnerable in ways that might be difficult to imagine, they also hold capabilities. Clients who enter the art studio at Sahlgrenska and engage in art activities are for example courageous enough to encounter possible failures, and are capable of letting go of control. 5

A Transitional Space

Most individuals have an intuitive sense of the emotional and experiential importance of places. When we for example return to places where significant events have occurred, emotions and memories are evoked. Likewise,

142 Punzi memories of spaces that are forever gone, or spaces we are unable to return to, influence us (Varvin 2015). Also places where significant and/​or emotionally charged events have occurred to others, influence us. When I walk through the basement of Lillhagen, I am moved by the heritage of psychiatry, what is left of it and I wonder whether the traces, and the persons who stayed or lived there, will be preserved and remembered. In the basement, clients have engaged in expressive painting. Through the basement, clients have also been transported to electroconvulsive therapy. How should these spaces be approached? These spaces are part of a cultural heritage, and how we preserve and remember them is not a question about history. It is a question of whose narratives and experiences that are perceived as worthy of remembrance and the decisions we make will inform current as well as future practice (Harrison 2013). Places that represent oppression, abuse, or even crimes against humanities, might be perceived as important to preserve, not least by those who were subject to the brutality, since the very presence of the buildings and the places forces us to remember (Reaume 1994). Should the heritage of psychiatry be deconstructed and forgotten? Should spa-​facilities, residential areas and business parks hide it? Should we cherish the humane heritage of psychiatry and preserve its traces and places? Or should we approach these places as oppressive in themselves and destroy them? Such questions also direct attention to current practices. Should we strive to preserve narratives and memories of those people who are currently in treatment, and support them to leave traces, that future generations will be able to interact with, and gain understanding from? There are no straightforward answers to such questions; in many cases both oppressive and humane practices occurred, and still occur, in the same places. These questions, however, need to be raised. I argue that such questions point to the inherent paradoxes in psychiatry, and to possibilities of using the heritage and the abandoned places to inform current psychiatry. Even though places are important for our wellbeing and remembrance, surprisingly few psychological theories have acknowledged the importance of places. One exemption is Donald Winnicott (1896–​1971), psychoanalyst and paediatrician, who wrote about transitional spaces and holding environments. The term ‘holding environment’, initially connected to developmental psychology, signifies an environment characterized by physical security and continuity as well as by empathic and attentive others who are capable of ‘living with’ the individual concerned. Living with means to accompany and support the individuals to see themselves as a unique person with unique needs and experiences, simultaneously acknowledging that we share this world with others who in turn have their unique needs and experiences which we need to understand and respect. Winnicott described both the relational and the physical

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

143

environment as important for children as well as for adults who seek out mental health care. In holding environments, we are permitted to express ourselves to other human beings who communicate that our emotions, experiences and reactions are understandable and tolerable. In such an environment, we are slowly able to understand and tolerate our emotions and reactions, and perhaps most importantly, ourselves. The term transitional space refers to a space, concrete as well as symbolic, characterized both by external reality and boundaries, and by individual and shared phantasies. The child’s play space, concrete and simultaneously imagined, is an example of a transitional space. Another example is the therapeutic space, in which concrete as well as imaginary experiences and emotions are examined and understood (BenEzer 2012; Freshwater 2005). The art studio might be seen as a transitional space, capable of holding clients and permitting them to play. In the studio, the concrete as well as the symbolic is valued and the artist’s interest in the artwork the participants create is non-​directive. From Winnicott’s perspective, play is not a childish activity that we should outgrow. Play is essential, and there need to be opportunities for clients and practitioners to play together; examine phantasies, joy, fears, and the blurred borders of reality and imagination. In play, there is no right or wrong and there is no predetermined aim. In current psychiatry, with its preoccupation with efficiency and predictability, play however becomes increasingly circumscribed. Even in contemporary psychodynamic psychotherapy with its striving to be accepted as an evidence-​based treatment, focusing on structure, time-​limited interventions and measurable treatment goals, play is seldom encouraged. The art studio provides possibilities for play, expression and meaning-​ making, thereby supporting wellbeing. But wait a minute; interaction between the art studio and the individual might also invoke unpleasant emotions, and memories of failures rather than wellbeing. After all, I cannot be the only one who senses unease and a lack of talent when the idea of painting is introduced. It should therefore be acknowledged that art studios, or painting, should not be perceived as solutions; clients in psychiatry should not by default be recommended or persuaded to paint or engage in any other creative activity. Such general recommendations and universalist ideas reduce human diversity to controllable units (Deleuze and Guattari 1987). I, however, would like to argue that spaces centred on creative activities might communicate openness for diversity, imagination and play, and acknowledgment of processes that are neither controllable nor predictable. At Sahlgrenska, clients are welcome to the studio even if they do not want to paint, they are invited to immerse themselves in art books and be part of the ‘atmosphere’. This captures the meaning

144 Punzi of a holding environment and the capability of ‘living with’ clients. The art studio becomes a reminder to trust the process and the clients. It also becomes a reminder of the importance of ‘living with’ clients rather than informing them about their ‘disorders and symptoms’ and how these should be reduced or handled, practices that are at the core of current psychiatry. Clients in psychiatry have emphasized the importance of meaning-​making, expression and artistic ways of dealing with mental distress and to increase a sense of wellbeing (Lewis 2010). During the 1960s, user activism evolved and, in this process, artistic expressions were important. Clients for example published magazines in which artistic expression was a central part (e.g. LeFrancois, Menzies, and Reaume 2013). Clients have thus created a heritage that provides insights; if managers, practitioners, stakeholders and researchers are prepared to respect and value these perspectives. It should also be noted that peer-​run, recovery-​oriented activities centred on artistic expression, and the places in which they occur, are often important to clients (Hansen 2013). As researchers and practitioners, we need to remember that despite decades of research concerning structured therapeutic interventions such as questionnaires, time-​limited psychotherapy, psycho-​education, electro-​convulsive therapy and medication, these efforts do not seem to have led to much progress. Even though structured interventions and medication might be helpful for some clients, these efforts have more often led astray and contributed to oppressive approaches and practices such as increased drug prescription, harmful interventions and medicalization of human difficulties (Bentall 2009; Breggin 2010; Moncrieff 2014; Nilsson Sjöberg 2017; Timimi 2011). Spaces for expression, creativity, meaning-​making and sense of community might be perceived as a counter-​culture to such reductionist approaches. Spaces are not interchangeable, they encounter us, we leave traces in the spaces we inhabit and we become interconnected with them. Throughout this analysis I have challenged reductionist approaches and investigated complexities of the art studio and the art activities and reflected on the reactions invoked when encountering the studio. The art studio might be perceived as a non-​therapeutic space –​a space that it is free from the repressive heritage of the psy-​disciplines as well as from expectations and normative ideals of health and wellbeing. The art studio as well as the basement of Lillhagen are material spaces, yet they are more. Painting is an activity, yet it is more than an activity. The art activities are not therapy, yet they might paradoxically be considered ‘therapeutic’ since they promote wellbeing, meaning-​ making and belonging. Thereby, spaces for artistic expression could counteract the current tendency to define and create boundaries between the past and the present as well as between clients who have been diagnosed with certain

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

145

conditions, syndromes or disorders, and also between clients and practitioners (Bentall 2009; Lane 2008). Spaces centred on creative activities include those who are interested in the activity, regardless of how they are classified or what treatment they are recommended. The history of psychiatry is shameful, with abuse and oppression that are sometimes beyond the imaginable (Dwyer 2018; Reaume 1994). Simultaneously, there were examples of humane approaches and practices that should be acknowledged, not least since they show that alternatives are possible. The heritage of psychiatry holds examples of alternative spaces and activities, including those initiated by artists or users of psychiatry. We need to learn from them.

References

BenEzer, Gadi. 2012. “From Winnicott’s Potential Space to Mutual Creative Space: A Principle for Intercultural Psychotherapy.” Transcultural Psychiatry 49 (2): 323–​39. Bentall, Richard. 2009. Doctoring the Mind: Why Psychiatric Treatments Fail. London: Penguin Books. Beresford, Peter, and Jasna Russo. 2016. “Supporting the Sustainability of Mad Studies and Preventing its Co-​option.” Disability & Society 31 (2): 270–​74. Blank, Yishai, and Issachar Rosen-​Zvi. 2012. “Introduction: The Spatial Turn in Social Theory.” Hagar: Studies in Culture, Polity & Identities 10 (1): 151–​52. Breggin, Peter. 2010. “Antidepressant-​Induced Suicide, Violence, and Mania: Risks for Military Personnel.” Ethical Human Psychology and Psychiatry 12 (2): 111–​21. Brinkmann, Svend. 2017. “Humanism after Posthumanism: Or Qualitative Psychology after the ‘Posts’.” Qualitative Research in Psychology 14 (2): 109–​30. Curtis, Sarah, Wil Gesler, Kathy Fabian, Susan Francis, and Stefan Priebe. 2007. “Therapeutic Landscapes in Hospital Design: A Qualitative Assessment by Staff and Service Users of the Design of a New Mental Health Inpatient Unit.” Environment and Planning C: Politics and Space 25 (4): 59–​110. Deleuze, Gilles, and Felix Guattari. 1987. A Thousand Plateaus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia. Translated by Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota. Duff, Jonathan, Carolyn Rubenstein, and Isaac Prilleltensky. 2016. “Wellness and Fairness: Two Core Values for Humanistic Psychology.” The Humanistic Psychologist 44 (2): 127–​41. Dwyer, Ellen. 2018. “The Final Years of Central State Hospital.” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 74 (1): 107–​26. Faulkner, Alison. 2017. “Survivor Research and Mad Studies: The Role and Value of Experiential Knowledge in Mental Health Research.” Disability & Society 32 (4): 500–​20.

146 Punzi Feilacher, Johann. 2017. “Walla –​Artist of the Universe.” Epidemiology and Psychiatric Sciences 26 (1): 16–​7. Forsell, Anders, and Anders Ivarsson Westberg. 2014. Administrationssamhället. [The Administrative Society]. Lund: Studentlitteratur. Foucault, Michel. 1986. “Of Other Spaces: Utopias and Heterotopias.” Diacritics 16, no. 1: 22–​27. Freshwater, Dawn. 2005. “The Poetics of Space: Researching the Concept of Spatiality through Relationality.” Psychodynamic Practice 11 (2): 177–​87. Gergen, Kenneth, J. 2016. “Toward a Visionary Psychology.” The Humanistic Psychologist 44 (1): 3–​17. Haack, Kathleen, and Ekkehardt Kumbier. 2012. “History of Social Psychiatry.” Current Opinion in Psychiatry 25 (6): 492–​96. Hansen, Helena. 2013. “Weighing the Evidence: Risks and Benefits of Participatory Documentary in corporatized Clinics.” Social Science & Medicine 99: 194–​200. Harrison, Rodney. 2013. Heritage. Critical Approaches. Oxford: Routledge. Hogan, Susan. 2000. “British Art Therapy Pioneer Edward Adamson: A Non-​ interventionist Approach.” History of Psychiatry 11 (43): 259–​71. Joerchel, Amrei C. 2015. “Personal Life Space: Learning from Martha Muchow’s Classic Study.” Culture & Psychology 21 (4): 546–​65. Lane, Christopher. 2008. Shyness: How Normal Behavior Became a Sickness. New Haven: Yale University Press. Larsen, Inger. 2011. “Materiality Talks. Including Materiality in Mental Health Research.” In Interactions, Health and Community, Theories and Practices from Italy and Norway, edited by Andrea Salvini and Anders Johan Wickström Andersen, 255–​267. Pisa: Pisa University Press. Larsen, Inger, and Alain Topor. 2017. “A Place for the Heart: A Journey in the Post-​ asylum Landscape. Metaphors and Materiality.” Health & Place 45: 145–​51. Laws, Jennifer. 2009. “Reworking Therapeutic Landscapes: The Spatiality of an ‘Alternative’ Self-​Help Group.” Social Science & Medicine 69 (12): 1827–​33. LeFrançois, Brenda, Robert Menzies, and Geoffrey Reaume, eds. 2013. Mad Matters. A Critical Reader in Canadian Mad Studies. Toronto: Canadian Scholars’ Press Inc. Lerner, Vladimir, Grigory Podolsky, and Eliezer Witztum. 2016. “Pavel Ivanovich Karpov (1873–​1932?) –​the Russian Prinzhorn: Art of the Insane in Russia.” History of Psychiatry 27 (1): 65–​74. Lewis, Bradley. 2010. “A Mad Fight: Psychiatry and Disability Activism.” In Disability Studies Reader, edited by Lennard J. Davies, 160–​76. New York: Routledge. Lowenthal, David. 1985. The Past is a Foreign Country. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Macdonald, Sharon. 2016. “Is ‘Difficult Heritage’ Still Difficult? Why Public Acknowledgement of Past Perpetration May No Longer Be So Unsettling to Collective Identities.” Museum International 67 (1–​4): 6–​22.

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

147

Macdonald, Sharon. 2009. Difficult Heritage: Negotiating the Nazi Past in Nuremberg and Beyond. Milton Park & New York: Routledge. MacDonald-​Wilson, Kim L., Patricia E. Deegan, Shari L. Hutchison, Nancy Parrotta and James M. Schuster. 2013. “Integrating Personal Medicine into Service Delivery: Empowering People in Recovery.” Psychiatric Rehabilitation Journal 36 (4): 258–​63. Maddux, James E. 2016. “Stopping the ‘Madness’: Positive Psychology and Deconstructing the Illness Ideology and the DSM.” In The Oxford Handbook of Positive Psychology, edited by Charles R. Snyder, Shane J. Lopez, Lisa M. Edwards and Susana C. Marques, n.p. Mancini, Michael. 2007. “The Role of Self-​efficacy in Recovery from Serious Psychiatric Disabilities: A Qualitative Study with Fifteen Psychiatric Survivors.” Qualitative Social Work 6 (1): 49–​74. May, Rollo. 1975. The Courage to Create. New York: Norton. Mazzei, Lisa, A. 2014. “Beyond an Easy Sense: A Diffractive Analysis.” Qualitative Inquiry 20 (6): 742–​46. McNiff, Shaun. 2004. Art Heals. How Creativity Cures the Soul. Boulder: Shambhala. McNiff, Shaun. 2011. Trust the Process. An Artist’s Guide to Letting Go. Boston and London: Shambhala. Milner, Marion. 1950. On Not Being Able to Paint. London: Heinemann Educational Books. Moncrieff, Joanna. 2014. “The Medicalisation of ‘Ups and Downs’: The Marketing of the New Bipolar Disorder.” Transcultural Psychiatry 51 (4): 581–​98. Morrow, Marina. 2007. “Critiquing the ‘Psychiatric Paradigm’ Revisited: Reflections on Feminist Interventions in Mental Health.” Resources for Feminist Research 32 (1–​ 2): 69–​85. Nilsson Sjöberg, Mattias. 2017. “(Un)becoming Dysfunctional: ADHD and How Matters come to Matter.” International Journal of Inclusive Education 21 (6): 602–​15. Price, John N., and Graham Paley. 2008. “A Grounded Theory Study on the Effect of the Therapeutic Setting on NHS Psychodynamic Psychotherapy from the Perspective of the Therapist.” Psychodynamic Practice 14 (1): 5–​25. Punzi, Elisabeth. 2019a. “Art and Mental Health Care as Cultural Heritage and Current Practice.” ikon 12: 295–​302. Punzi, Elisabeth. 2019b. “Ghost Walks or Thoughtful Remembrance. How Should the Heritage of Psychiatry be Approached?” Journal of Critical Psychology, Counselling and Psychotherapy 19 (4): 242–​51. Quinlan, Rosalind, Robert D. Schweitzer, Nigar Khawaja, and Jane Griffin. 2016. “Evaluation of a School-​based Creative Arts Therapy Programme for Adolescents from Refugee Backgrounds.” The Arts in Psychotherapy 47: 72–​78. Ramon, Shulamit, Bill Healy, and Noel Renouf. 2007. “Recovery from Mental Illness as an Emergent Concept and Practices in Australia and the UK.” International Journal of Social Psychiatry 53 (2): 108–​22.

148 Punzi Reaume, Geoffrey. 2006. “Mad People’s History.” Radical History Review 94: 170–​82. Reaume, Geoffrey. 1994. “Keep Your Labels Off My Mind! Or ‘Now I Am Going to Pretend I Am Craze but Don’t Be A Bit Alarmed’: Psychiatric History from the Patients’ Perspectives.” Canadian Bulletin of Medical History 11 (2): 397–​424. Rodéhn, Cecilia. 2018. “Ulleråkers sörjbara andra. Ett queert perspektiv på det psykiatriska sjukhusets kultruarv. [Ulleråker’s grievable others. A Queer Perspective on the Cultural Heritage of the Psychiatric Hospital].” Tidskrift för Genusvetenskap 39: 31–​50. Rose, Nikolas. 1985. The Psychological Complex: Psychology, Politics and Society 1869–​ 1939. London: Routledge and Kegan-​Paul. Sajnani, Nisha, Eva Marxen, and Rebecca Zarate. 2017. “Critical Perspectives in the Art Therapies: Response/​Ability across a Continuum of Practice.” The Arts in Psychotherapy 54: 28–​37. Shimrat, Irit. 2013. “The Tragic Farce of ‘Community Mental Health Care.’ ” In Mad Matters. A Critical Reader in Canadian Mad Studies, edited by Brenda LeFrancois, Robert Menzies and Geoffrey Reaume. Toronto: Canadian Scholars’ Press, 144–​57. Smith, Laurajane. 2006. The Uses of Heritage. New York: Routledge. Socialstyrelsen. 1999. Välfärd och valfrihet? –​Slutrapport från utvärderingen av 1995 års psykiatrireform. [Welfare and Freedom of Choice? –​Final Report from the Evaluation of the Reform of Psychiatry, 1995]. Stockholm: Socialstyrelsen. Springham, Neil, Diane Findlay, Ami Woods, and Jane Harris. 2012. “How Can Art Therapy Contribute to Mentalization in Borderline Personality Disorder?” International Journal of Art Therapy 17: 115–​29. Starkman, Mel. 2013. “The Movement.” In Mad Matters. A Critical Reader in Canadian Mad Studies, edited by Brenda LeFrancois, Robert Menzies and Geoffrey Reaume, 27–​37. Toronto: Canadian Scholars’ Press. Svedberg, Gunnel. 2014. Hugo Lindblads förlorade drömmar –​om en patient i vetenskapens tjänst. [Hugo Lindblad’s Lost Dreams –​about a Client in the Service of Science]. Stockholm: Ersta Sköndal. Söderlund, Annika. 2011. Utvärdering av SLÖP-​modellen. Integrerad sluten-​och öppenvård i psykosvård. [Evaluating the SLÖP-​modell. Integrated in and Out-​treatment Care in Treatment of Psychosis]. Göteborg: Sahlgrenska universitetsjukhuset. Teglbjaerg, Hanne Stubbe, Hanevik, Hilde, Knut Hestad, Lars Llien, and Lars Johan Danbolt. 2013. “Expressive Art Therapy for Psychosis: A Multiple Case Study.” The Arts in Psychotherapy 40: 312–​21. Teghtsoonian, Katherine. 2009. “Depression and Mental Health in Neoliberal Times: A Critical Analysis of Policy and Discourse.” Social Science & Medicine 69 (1): 28–​35. Timimi, Sami. 2011. “Globalising Mental Health: A Neo-​liberal Project.” Ethnicity and Inequalities in Health and Social Care 4 (3): 155–​60.

The Art Studio in Inpatient Psychiatric Care

149

Topor, Alain, Marit Borg, Simonetta di Girolamo, and Larry Davidson. 2011. “Not Just an Individual Journey: Social Aspects of Recovery.” International Journal of Social psychiatry 57 (1): 90–​99. Vaaler, Arne E, Gunnar Morken, and Olav M Linaker. 2005. “Effects of Different Interior Decorations in The Seclusion Area of a Psychiatric Acute Ward.” Nordic Journal of Psychiatry 59 (1): 19–​24. Varvin, Sverre. 2015. Flugt och Eksil [Escape and Exile]. Oslo: Universitetsforlage. White, Eva. 1989. Lillhagenmålarna. [Lillhagen-​painters]. Göteborg: Tre böcker. Winnicott, Donald. 1969. “The Use of an Object.” International Journal of Psycho-​ Analysis 50: 711–​16. Winnicott, Donald. 1960. “The Theory of the Parent-​Infant Relationship.” International Journal of Psycho-​Analysis 41: 585–​95. Winnicott, Donald. 1971. Playing and Reality. London: Routledge. Yahm, Sara. 2014. “Oregon State Hospital of Mental Health.” The Journal of American History 101 (1): 203–​8.

­c hapter 8

Addiction –​Same for Everybody All the Time? Perceptions and Value Judgements of Alcohol Abuse in Different Historical and Spatial Contexts Malin Hildebrand Karlén Abstract In this chapter, a summarizing historical outline is given, including examples, of how normal alcohol use and pathological addiction has been construed and how these ideas have shifted within psychiatric terminology between the beginning of the twentieth and twenty-​first century. The examples of ideological heritage within the addiction concept, principally within a psychiatric diagnostic context in Sweden, a focus on stable vs. unstable conceptions of alcohol use patterns (i.e. how much/​how often) and their functional effects. Also, since ideas of when alcohol use becomes pathological addiction have been influenced by the spatial and temporal circumstances, stable and instable ideas over time regarding where and when alcohol consumption is considered normal vs. pathological has been related to changes in the psychiatric addiction concept. Awareness of these issues are important for clinicians and researchers within the addiction-​field today so that contextual moral values do not influence psychiatric diagnostics in a biased manner.

All people have a natural need of joy, recuperation and amusement, and when this need is not enough satiated by other sources, one of the conditions for abuse of drink exists. thunberg 1920, p. 121

∵ A boundary defining normal alcohol consumption from alcohol abuse has been acknowledged since antiquity (Cook et al., 2007). However, the nature of this boundary, what it consists of and under what circumstances it has been drawn,

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_009

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

151

has gone through changes over time (Crocq 2007). Nevertheless, a constant aspect of this boundary –​an ideological heritage still incorporated in today’s concept of alcohol addiction –​is that persons whose consumption exceeds the cultural norm are often considered to risk developing psychiatric as well as somatic illnesses (Eckhardt et al. 1998; Pontén 1967), and have an increased risk for violence or other antisocial behaviours (Tomes 1994). Another constant, and more problematic from an empirical point of view, is that persons suffering from alcohol addiction also have been considered flawed in a moral sense, exemplified as lacking willpower or self-​control as well as lead more immoral lives, which often has been attributed to a personality disposition considered sometimes to be innate, sometimes as a cause of social context or of alcohol abuse itself (Lindgren 1993; Sjövall 1924; Thunberg 1920). Who is given the epithet of ‘addict’ therefore depend on many other factors than physiological harm or psychological suffering. Just as Oscar Wilde’s fictional character Dorian Gray is not perceived as an addict while looking young, healthy and drinking expensive alcohol at home parties or fancy clubs with the upper classes, his drinking behaviour is only shunned when he drinks in cheap pubs with the wrong company, indulging in an inaccurate way relative to his social standing. Meanwhile, Dorian Gray’s acquaintance Lord Henry, a person with dubious moral standards who indulges too much, personifies the ‘grey zone’, the managing of a well-​mannered balance act on the border of decadence that is not considered outright abuse in his social circle since he despite his disdain for moderation and decency respects certain social boundaries. But when Gray indulges too much he also ignores all the rules regarding type of drug, places to drink and persons to drink with, this behaviour transforms from risqué and exciting into abuse and debauchery. An ideological heritage of the addiction concept, with origins in both Greek antiquity and the Bible, incorporates a personification of the alcohol addict as a generally immoral, uncultured and often mentally substandard individual (Gadelius 1924; Thunberg 1920; Pontén 1967). It was not until the nineteenth century that the phenomenon ‘excessive alcohol consumption’ began to be construed more clearly as a form of individual and biomedical form of pathology (Blomqvist 2012), changing the perception of a person who drinks too much from ‘more immoral than sick’ to ‘more sick than immoral’ and incorporated relationships between several factors as explanations for developing addiction (Qvarsell 1982). Many of these ideas, both empirical and moral, that are prevalent in Swedish psychiatrist Georg Engström’s (1795-​1855) journal notes 200 years ago prevail and forms part of the ideological heritage within today’s perceptions of alcohol abuse, and of the addicted person as such,

152 

Hildebrand Karlén

influencing the thinking of medical doctors at the beginning of the twentieth century (Thunberg 1920; Gadelius 1924) as well as the twenty-​first century (apa, dsm-​5 2013). The nature of this ideological heritage is explored further in the present chapter. 1

Normal Use and Pathological Abuse –​Medical and Social Norms

Defining the borderline between alcohol use and abuse have always been difficult since different times have emphasized different markers. When establishing this limit, some have used a medical perspective, focusing on health-​issues and the fact that alcohol increases the risk for developing diseases. However, a problem with this perspective is deciding what kinds of ailments that should be used (Eckhardt et. al. 1998). For example, a certain level and pattern of consumption increases the risk for developing cardio-​vascular problems, while other levels and patterns increase the risk for developing gastro-​intestinal problems. Other limits are based on a social value norm perspective, since different levels of consumption may invoke socially unacceptable or dangerous behaviours (for the person in question and/​or for others) or behaviours. However, attitudes regarding where, when and how much alcohol is acceptable to consume has varied over time and how these aspects should be combined for alcohol consumption to be socially acceptable is far from given. For example, on which days is an ‘after work’ gathering at the pub acceptable? How often per week can you go to ‘after work’ as a normal consumer? How many drinks separate an ‘after work’ from a night out? Since different points in history have emphasized different norms regarding these issues (i.e. amount, who drinks and in which spatial context), the definition of when normal use becomes pathological abuse has also varied, as well as the perceived cause of this shift. Therefore, both historical changes regarding how much alcohol that from a medical perspective should be considered harmful, and from a social value norm perspective being inappropriate and/​or inducing unacceptable behaviours, are important parts of today’s heritage regarding how we construe and understand abuse and addiction. Historically, the medical perspective and the social value norms perspective have often been intertwined, and since today’s psychiatric conceptualization of when harmless alcohol use turns into harmful abuse should be empirically based to ascertain similar care to all, it is important to understand each perspectives’ ideological heritage and how it may affect psychiatric decision-​making today.

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

2

153

Who Drinks Too Much? Social and Psychiatric Problems in Synergy

A widely accepted diagnosis of alcohol dependence did not enter western psychiatric diagnostic systems until the twentieth century.1 At the turn of nineteenth century, alcohol consumption was mainly considered a complicating factor adhering to a generally unsound way of life, not singled out as a sole target for psychiatric diagnosis and treatment (Qvarsell 1982). Since then, substance abuse has evolved into a separate disease concept, encompassing both psychological and physiological changes (apa 1994, 2013; Henriques 2002; Levy 2013), and several different forms of treatment has emerged. However, the dominating view in Sweden over the last 200 years has been that persons with substance abuse also needs social interventions, which often has entailed a moralizing attitude towards this group (Thunberg 1920; Qvarsell 1982; Levy 2013). This close perceived relationship between substance abuse and social factors is evident in the current structure of addiction care in Sweden, where the responsibility for this patient group is shared between healthcare and social services. Even though the effectiveness of this shared responsibility and its consequences for how abuse is construed as a phenomenon has been questioned (sou 2011, 35), many seeking treatment for substance abuse today also need some kind of social service and/​ or psychiatric care. It is also clear that the social problems and the psychiatric problems afflicting these persons act in synergy, amplifying each other, and the combination makes it even harder for the person to engage in and benefit from treatment (samhsa 2012; Grant et. al. 2015). However, we also know that many persons with alcohol addiction never seek treatment, and that many do not need social services (e.g. termed ‘socially stable alcoholics’) (Lesch and Walther, 1996; Wallace et. al. 1988). This group may still drink in the finer spaces of Dorian Gray, which may serve to uphold the façade of luxury and indulgence, rather than addicted need, for longer than if they drank the same amount of alcohol in a shabby bar. This subgroup may refrain from seeking treatment due to difficulties identifying with a general stereotype of the alcohol addicted person, further contributing to a biased picture of the ‘alcohol addict’.

1 Blomqvist, Perspektiv på missbruk, 2012. Nevertheless, patients with primary alcohol abuse problems had been treated in psychiatric hospitals before this, see Tomes, The art of asylum-​ keeping, 1994.

154  3

Hildebrand Karlén

The Present Chapter

The aim of the present chapter is to offer a summarizing outline, including examples, of how normal alcohol use and pathological alcohol abuse has been construed and how these notions have shifted over time within psychiatric terminology. This was done by investigating examples of ideological heritage of the concept alcohol addiction, focusing on stable vs. unstable conceptions of a) consumption patterns and b) functional effects of these, as well as of b) temporal and c) spatial circumstances in normal and pathological alcohol consumption and d) how these factors have been related to addiction over time. Historical stability and instability of ideas concerning when and where it has been considered normal vs. pathological to drink alcohol may raise awareness of the inherent moral values in todays’ guidelines regarding addiction which are important to researchers and clinicians within the addiction-​field to be aware of. This is especially important since we live in an era characterized by ideas of constant progress and of value-​free systems of diagnostic classification. Hence, to not risk basing decisions regarding diagnoses and treatment of addiction on implicit moral values, such historical awareness is vital. A historical awareness of the shifting guidelines for normal and pathological alcohol consumption, and of their inherent normative values, is particularly important in Sweden today due to a governmental investigation (sou 2011, 35) yet again actualizing the issue of which theoretical perspective to base care of addiction on, whether the care should be organized within healthcare, within social services, or in continued shared responsibility between the two. This debate actualizes the question whether alcohol addiction be construed as a social problem or a medical problem, which has far reaching consequences regarding how we should understand both the nature of addiction and, subsequently, which interventions that could alleviate this state. Background and theoretical aspects of the present chapter. Sweden has, since the beginning of the twentieth century, a main tradition of a macro-​level, social consequences-​perspective of alcohol addiction and a corresponding politic of diminishing the negative social effects of alcohol abuse (e.g. homelessness, unemployment). However, during the course of the twentieth century, a medical perspective on addiction has gained in exploratory value and influenced praxis, exemplified by increasing number of addiction units being tied to hospitals, not only to social services. This forms the backdrop for the present chapter and the perspective of social pathology (Lindgren 1993, 36; Wright Mills 1943) has often been used in the material studied here. Based on this perspective, an outline is given in this chapter of personality factors, social behaviors and spatial circumstances at different points in time that in relation

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

155

to alcohol consumption have been considered healthy, and consequently, which have deviated from such requirements and therefore considered as bad, pathological and substandard (Lindgren 1993, 36). From the perspective of social pathology, a social problem constitutes a violation of moral ideals, and since the explanatory emphasis has varied between a societal level (i.e. defect social systems) and pathology on an individual level (i.e. an expression of individual maladaptation) (Lindgren 1993, 36), examples from both levels have been explored in the present chapter. Methodological aspects and material. A genealogical method (Foucault 1969, 2019), was utilized to create an outline of the ideological heritage within today’s concept alcohol addiction and diagnosis substance use disorder (sud), analysing key aspects of the addiction concept as exemplified by normal consumption (here: alcohol use) and pathological consumption (here: alcohol abuse) within a psychiatric setting. Guidelines for alcohol consumption with a wide distribution among the Swedish population at the turn of the twentieth and twenty-​first century were summarized and examples from a macro-​, meso-​and micro-​level analysed. Also, to illustrate how these ideas were put into psychiatric praxis at the turn of the 20th century, examples of cases (from forensic medical examinations between 1928–​1930) where alcohol consumption was mentioned were analysed, focusing on demarcating lines between alcohol use and abuse. Results from this analysis was compared to what the current psychiatric diagnosis Substance Use Disorder (sud) (apa 2013), an example of the current concept of alcohol addiction used in Sweden, encompass. Similarities and differences among the included aspects when outlining alcohol abuse and addiction at both points in time were investigated, focusing on which aspects were stable over time in their inclusion within the poles ‘normal use’ and ‘pathological abuse’ and which were unstable (i.e. which were added or omitted in the twenty-​first century) (Hildebrand Karlén 2013). 4

The Macro-​level Heritage: Considering Alcohol Regulations and Consumption Patterns

One of the leading figures in defining alcohol abuse after Magnus Huss (1807–​1890) had conceptualized the medical damage syndrome of alcohol, Alcoholismus Chronicus (Huss 1849-​1851) was the physician Ivan Bratt (1878–​ 1956) who continued to work against the personal and societal harm due to alcohol abuse. The perspectives of Huss and Bratt complemented each other and still reflect the two main foci of the harm factor within the addiction

156 

Hildebrand Karlén

concept today: individual/​ pathological and societal/​ public health. Huss thought of alcoholism as a physiological disease syndrome and Bratt conceptualized his politics against alcohol’s negative effects from mainly a social perspective with negative effects on society’s welfare. Both aspects have been inherited by today’s substance abuse concept, and can be seen in the diagnostic symptoms of physiological dependence of alcohol (as a disease) and of maladaptive behaviours (as a social and societal malfunction), but the balance between them regarding explanatory value have shifted over time. Drinking Customs in the Beginning of the 20th Century. The magnitude of alcohol abuse problems during the first half of the 20th century in Sweden, was that of the 90% of men in Sweden who drank alcohol, approx. 10% were estimated to abuse alcohol.2 Bratt was a central figure in the development and implementation of the Swedish alcohol politics at the time and his politics focused on decreasing the proportion of the Swedish population that developed alcohol addiction. He did so by implementing individual sales control, abolishing private profit on selling alcohol and a legislated alcohol monopole initiated 1923 (Willner 2005). Therefore, besides establishing an upper limit of how much alcohol an individual could buy, a focus of his politics was to be able to refuse sale of alcohol to specific persons. These persons, for primarily social reasons, were especially vulnerable to alcohol or likely to harm others through their drunkenness, violent behaviour or neglect. Hence, in the Gothenburg system created by Bratt, which types of persons who were permitted to drink what amounts of alcohol and to whom purchase should be prohibited, and on what grounds, where described. As can be seen in the descriptions in Table 8.1, these boundaries came to differ both between socio-​economic groups, and gender, regarding alcohol consumption. Macro-​factors as causes for alcohol abuse and addiction. Perceived originating factors for alcohol abuse at the time were lack of education and availability of alcohol, which led physicians to consider alcohol abuse as a social issue (Thunberg 1920) . The high cost of alcohol coupled with a high consumption among the poor, resulted in especially negative repercussions of alcohol addiction on impoverished families’ economy and their ability to function in society, through lowering their quality of food, housing and clothes. This chain reaction had negative effects on the health and education of future workers according to Thunberg, since children from these (primarily poor) families had less opportunity to go to school. Hence, Thunberg noted the loss of a current and future

2 Thorsten Thunberg’s (M.D., professor at Lund University, Sweden) description of moderate alcohol use roughly encompassed to not drink until intoxication.

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

157

table 8.1 The groups within the Gothenburg system: Examples of traits

Group 1

Group 2

Group 3

In his daily life usually perceived as a totally impeccable, honourable and believable person Who’s economic standing is very good Who do not seem likely to use their ration of alcohol to give to others Whose social network is considered as ‘the best’ Person who do not fulfil criteria for Group 1, by: Whose believability at one point or another has been doubted Whose economic standing is not the best Who would not think twice regarding giving their ration to others Persons who do not fulfil criteria for group 2, and should be especially noted: Non-​believability, bad character in general Very weak economic standing Who, without hesitation, would give their ration of alcohol to others Bad social network No respect for the law, both regarding alcohol but also in general Who are tax evaders

work force, as well as increasing costs regarding hospital and poverty care, due to alcohol abuse –​a loss both for the individual and for society (Thunberg 1920, 122). Thunberg emphasized that even though alcohol, through its initially stimulating properties, may make it easier to initiate work, it soon diminished the ability for both physical and mental work. Especially “hard work filled with responsibility”, which demanded alertness, energy, endurance, and concentration –​abilities that suffered after alcohol consumption –​was not considered compatible with a liberal view on alcohol consumption (Thunberg 1920, 122). Following this line of reasoning, increasing demands on mental acuity within the work available in the society should lower its tolerance for drinking during the day even more than previously in history. On a societal/​population level, alcohol addiction was perceived by Thunberg as caused by one or more of the following factors: ignorance to the potential dangers of alcohol, the general tradition in Sweden of drinking alcohol in

158 

Hildebrand Karlén

­f igure 8.1  The characteristics of group 3 are well illustrated by the inhabitants of Gin Lane

many kinds of social events (and having to face the peer-​group’s dislike when breaking with this tradition), as well as a liberal perception of what kinds of social behaviours are allowed. Pressing social circumstances that Thunberg believed increased drunkenness in the population were unhealthy and disagreeable living quarters, questionable food, and an overall lack of comfort and well-​being, factors which became reasons to visit the pub where alcohol and friends made life more agreeable. Thunberg noted that such social circumstances were linked to an “overall lack of what gives joy and content to life”, which seemed to incline people to drink to find “a temporary substitute” (Thunberg 1920, 119-​120). Thunberg’s focus on spatial patterns and conditions as one motivating reason for developing alcohol addiction, clearly originates from the context of the poor social groups in Sweden, not its more affluent

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

159

groups, and many of these theoretical aspects have been inherited by today’s alcohol abuse discourse. 5

The Meso-​level Heritage: Considering Factors Relating to Social Groups

In the beginning of the twentieth century, physicians disagreed whether all alcohol consumption should be considered harmful, or if it sometimes could be beneficial. For example, Thunberg noted that the effect of smaller amounts of alcohol groundlessly had been considered beneficial to physical health and mental well-​being, and other physicians cited contemporary research that supported the view that alcohol could have harmful effects even in smaller (i.e. non-​intoxicating) amounts (Quensel 1913). However, Gadelius (Gadelius 1924) still advocated the harmlessness of non-​intoxicating alcohol doses a few years later, and many important voices with him at the time considered alcohol to enhance well-​being, especially for hard working manual labourers who needed it to relax and gain strength, while the more sedentary upper classes needed to be more moderate consumers. This highlights that different alcohol consumption standards could be considered as perfectly sound in different occupational groups due to their level of physical activity. Revisiting the statistics presented earlier, that of the 90% of men in Sweden who drank alcohol, approx. 10% who were considered to abuse alcohol, differences can be seen between social groups. The proportion of persons with registered addiction related problems was higher among manual labourers (12%) than among officials and entrepreneurs (6% in the respective groups) (Willner 2005). The different drinking customs in social groups were considered as a central factor for the varying risk of developing addiction and alcoholism. Thunberg, as well as Bratt, thought that persons in social milieus with a more accepting attitude to alcohol consumption, were more at risk to exceed these limits and abuse alcohol. Gadelius noted that alcohol’s role within social life had changed with growing demands on outer decency and self-​restraint, and that the intoxicated state no longer was in keeping with appropriate social behaviour, but more so in certain social groups than others. In “less discerning” social circles, by which Gadelius (Gadelius 1924, 325) principally meant poorer, more public displays of drunkenness were still tolerated. This, among other factors, made Gadelius perceive groups with alcohol abuse as intellectually and ethically substandard. Emphasizing the social group affiliation as a cause of alcohol abuse, Gadelius thought that this group’s penchant for alcohol abuse was much easier to understand than the “corresponding decay” within

160 

Hildebrand Karlén

more fortunate social groups (Gadelius 1924, 326). Early in life, this group were often exposed to the “bad example of drunken parents”, had to make their own way, were forced to perform hard work in the cold, lacking food, which in time made them value alcohol (Gadelius 1924, 326). Gadelius discusses no apparent reasons for why richer or more educated social groups would start to abuse alcohol. 6

The Micro-​level Heritage: Considering Factors Relating to the Individual

Which kind of person was considered addicted to alcohol at the beginning of the twentieth century? According to Thunberg (1920), it was a person suffering from chronic alcohol poisoning due to extended periods of excessive consumption. This had created disturbances within the individual, worsened by the “sickly need” of alcohol that emerged after a while. Such a need was considered related to alcohol’s effect on the central nervous system and psychic life. Consequences of when alcohol abuse had developed into addiction were a diminished capacity to work and a dulling and debilitating effect on all “higher psychic capacities” (Thunberg 1920, 116). Such psychological deterioration progressed as alcoholism –​this term was used by Thunberg –​developed, together with a more substantial loss of the sense of correct and dignified behaviour, increasing the risk for mental disorder, such as delirium tremens, and physiological damages. The ethical degeneration of the individual, as highlighted by Gadelius, was according to him the common factor in alcoholism as a whole (Gadelius 1924). Nevertheless, he thought it was difficult to ascertain whether the ethical degeneration should be attributed to degenerated heritage, since, as he put it, it was persons with a weak will that were afflicted by alcoholism, and their will was further weakened by alcohol by lowering the ability to create memories. However, most important from an individual perspective, Gadelius noted that without an innate, “inferior ancestry, that often was the unequivocal expression for a degenerated predisposition, there could be no alcoholic” (Gadelius 1924, 333) . Gadelius considered the nervous system of a person with “undisturbed” mental health could, in a moderate manner, adapt to “outer events of happiness and sadness” (ibid., 380). in other words, the person had a hormonal constitution that provided an “unfailing stimuli” that coloured the environment, and therefore “had no need for alcohol, morphine or cocaine” (ibid., 380). Hence, Gadelius clearly thought that the individual characteristics, in both a biological, psychological and sociological sense, predisposed a

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

161

person to develop alcoholism, but that the biologically predisposing factors relating to an “inferior ancestry” were the most important in this process. Despite emphasizing an ethical degeneration as a common factor in all alcohol abuse, Gadelius noted a difference between a medical condition due to alcohol’s toxic physical effects, Alcoholismus chronicus (as defined by Magnus Huss), and the large group that only were “alcoholics in the social or socio-​ ethical sense” (ibid., 337), who consumed too much alcohol which negatively affected their behaviour and ethical reasoning. 7

Case Examples: Addiction within Psychiatric Praxis

Around the time of Thunberg, Gadelius and Bratt, between the year 1928 and 1930, 64 forensic psychiatric examinations were conducted in the southwestern part of Sweden. These persons’ relationship to alcohol has been one of the issues to investigate, since it was generally assumed that a too high alcohol consumption influenced the persons psychiatric profile and relevant to why the person committed crimes. However, in only 26 of these 64 examinations, alcohol consumption was mentioned, and the quality of these descriptions varied widely. It ranged from only stating that the person did not drink alcohol, to a hereditary investigation for alcohol abuse and how the person reacted to alcohol, to finally, in just a few cases, include a comprehensive analysis of the person’s consumption (e.g. where and when the person drank alcohol and its potential psychological and physiological hazards for the person and others). Considered aspects of why and how alcohol was consumed. A thematic analysis was conducted of the 26 cases that mentioned alcohol consumption to explore how alcohol abuse and addiction was a) ascertained and b) portrayed by psychiatrists at this time. For example, whether it was emphasized if persons considering abusing or being addicted to alcohol drank in a different manner with other consequences, drank other amounts, in other patters, at special places or during other times of day. The results showed that several areas of investigation appeared to have been important to establish presence of alcohol abuse. These areas can be summarized in overarching themes, consisting of: the consumed amount, the effects on the person and, the effects on the person’s ability to function in society. Consumed amounts, consumption patterns and their consequences. Some cases entailed a clear reasoning regarding how the amount of consumed alcohol and attitude towards his/​her alcohol consumption were related to the openly manifested effects of alcohol (and hence observable by the physician). Others cases lacked such a discussion, but traces of investigations of alcohol

162 

Hildebrand Karlén

table 8.2 Aspects of the identified themes (medical, psychological and social) from a behavioural perspective observable by others

Amount

–​How much alcohol can the person handle? –​To drink all the time is worse than to drink abundantly in periods Negative effects on –​Creates a need for alcohol (phrasings such as “misses the person it” and “longs for it” –​Creates disturbing behaviour at places serving alcohol (i.e. cannot regulate how much to drink before getting violent) –​Displays a special kind of humour created by alcohol, termed “the alcoholic’s grim humour”, which constitutes a restricted form of humour relating to loss of creativity Ability to function –​Needs to steal to satisfy the need for alcohol/​tobacco in society –​Cannot handle his/​her work due to the effects of alcohol consumption

habits could be found. For the persons in the sample who drank abundantly (6 out of 26), considerable negative effects regarding economic, social and physical spheres were reported, as well as some illustration of the persons’ lack of reality orientation. The persons who drank moderately (11 out of 26), drank regularly and frequently, or drank heavily in periods. The negative alcohol effects within the group were maladaptive behaviour while drunk (e.g. being angry, got sick, saw ‘little animals’ while drunk). Only 3 out of 26 persons were reported having only slight or no use of liquor, and these were also described as well-​behaved when intoxicated, displaying no boisterousness or urge for more. In the remaining cases, heredity for addiction or use of liquor was only mentioned, with no notes on its presumed effects on the person. Comparing the amounts consumed in these cases to what in the early twenty-​first century is considered pathological alcohol consumption, case no 4 was informative. Case no 4 was considered to have a high alcohol consumption, but not in line with alcohol abuse or an alcohol related diagnosis, despite a one day’s consumption of alcohol consisting of approx. 50 cl of liquor plus 1.65–​3.3 litres of beer. This is equivalent to between 119–​154 standard drinks/​week, and should be compared to one of today’s guidelines of hazardous alcohol use, ≥14 standard drinks/​week, and harmful use, ≥19 standard drinks/​week. Regarding changes

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

163

in behaviour, an informative case was no. 25 who often drank until intoxication, stole to be able to buy alcohol and had several times experienced delirium. Despite these alcohol-​induced behaviours, he was expressly considered to show no signs of alcohol abuse by the examining psychiatrist. The amounts of consumed alcohol, consumption patterns and its behavioural consequences in both cases would without a doubt be considered to be in line with the requirements of today’s diagnosis substance use disorder (as would the previously presented person who saw ‘little animals’ while drunk). Crimes. The crimes within the referenced sample were often committed during intoxication and during daytime, in public or semi-​public spaces (e.g. in the streets or in backyards in front of neighbours), and associated with other kinds of loss of self-​control by this group, such as loss of control over temper or sexuality.3 Spatially, many were described as often drinking alcohol in public places, drinking together with strangers and falling asleep outside. They lost control over themselves so profoundly that they severely disturbed and often hurt others, thereby committing their crimes. Many also drank at home, victimizing their families or neighbours. This means that these persons violated several of the social norms and laws that governed their social circumstances. In their need to frequently consume alcohol, they had lost their sense of appropriate time to drink, since they drank alcohol during the daytime when people were supposed to work. Because of this, they could not handle a job, also due to the generally rising standards of attention and concentration in contemporary working life. Hence, in addition to violating the private sphere of others, they could not earn their upkeep, support their families or contribute to society. Reasons for their alcohol consumption. Why this group drank is important, since it separated them from ‘normal’ consumers in an obvious way. The group drank because they needed it to avert otherwise unavoidable anxiety and return to a more neutral emotional state, hence, not in line with traditionally healthy reasons to drink alcohol, namely to gain a state of well-​being and joy.4 They were not as free to choose to drink as non-​addicted alcohol consumers were, since alcohol had taken, at least a considerable amount of, control over how they lived their lives. All these aspects of alcohol, upsetting society’s calm, diminishing free will and self-​support and to contribute to society as a whole, were considered harmful and a socially inappropriate drinking custom (Thunberg 1920; Sjövall 1924) –​in line with Gadelius’ concept of a socio-​ethical 3 E.g. physical abuse, disturbing or scaring others by anger tantrums or unwanted sexual advances. 4 Cf. Martin Luther’s opinion of how to distinguish acceptable from non-​acceptable alcohol consumption in the sixteenth century, cited in Pontén, Historia kring alkoholen, 1967, p. 134.

164 

Hildebrand Karlén

alcoholic, but not necessarily an alcoholic in Huss’ medically diagnosable sense. However, today, such reasons would be considered in a diagnostic process of substance use disorder. Different social groups break different social norms. The central behavioural norms regarding alcohol consumption related to these cases, mediate important reflections on which alcohol related behaviours that Swedish society thought violated social norms. The general violations of socio-​behavioural norms, exhibited in the wrong public or private space, among these cases were the following.

–​ To fight in an intoxicated state –​ To appear drunk in a public place which is not related to alcohol consumption (e.g. a restaurant) –​ To lie drunk by the wayside/​in the ditch –​ To create disturbance by rowdy (verbal) behaviour –​ To be so drunk that the person cannot walk

Most of these utilized norms relate to citizens in general, but in one of the cases, the violation of norms surrounding alcohol use related to socio-​ economic standards was clearly stated by the examining psychiatrist. Only a minority of the sample could be considered as part of middle or upper socio-​economic groups, and the case in question could be construed as what today sometimes is termed ‘socially stable alcoholic’ (Wallace et al. 1988). Interestingly, he was also the person who received by far the most comprehensive description of his alcohol consumption. One remark in this person’s biographical study was that “the person used liquor to a larger extent than was considered to be appropriate and in line with his social standing”, indicating that socio-​economic status and current norms of acceptable behaviour in the person’s social group was indeed an aspect that physicians considered at the time when ascertaining pathological alcohol consumption. Examples of the spatially inappropriateness of his behaviour were that he went out of the house too often to drink with friends, and often appeared intoxicated in restaurants (i.e. drank in public spaces, displayed boisterous, impulsive behaviour). However, he did not drink a considerably larger amount, or specific patterns, compared to persons in other socio-​economic groups. Likely, this implies that persons with higher socio-​economic status, compared to low-​ earning/​unemployed persons, had to at least in public appear to consume low/​moderate amounts of alcohol and adapt their intoxicated behaviour to a narrower and a more impulse restrained behavioural range. Conversely,

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

165

higher alcohol consumption and boisterous behaviour were tolerated in public for persons with lower socio-​economic status. Regarding an alcohol related diagnosis for this person, the psychiatrist’s strong emphasis on alcohol’s role in decreasing his ability to function in society and declining mental health was not enough. Instead, it was the biomedical changes, the drinking to the point of seriously degenerating his physical health (e.g. liver cirrhosis, delirium tremens) that was central5. Hence, although public violations of social behavioural norms surrounding alcohol use where the drinking took place often were considered (but for far from all considered a sign of pathological abuse), it was primarily the issue of having drunk oneself into bad physical health that was central for diagnosis. These two aspects actualize the relevance of the individual/​pathological and social/​public health perspectives of Huss and Bratt, and mirrored in Gadelius’ distinction between the bodily disease Alcoholismus chronicus, and the socio-​ethical alcoholic who drank too much in the wrong places and considered a substandard and immoral individual (e.g. low intelligence when tested, caused disturbance, annoyance, harm to others). 8

The Turn of the Twenty-​First Century: Alcohol Addiction Diagnosis and Theory

In forensic psychiatric examinations today, almost 100 years later, substance abuse or dependence is routinely described, and alcohol or drug use in some form is very common. Before outlining the shift over time regarding when alcohol consumption has been considered pathological within these examinations, and gone from seldom diagnosed to often diagnosed, a short summary of current diagnostic criteria (and emphasizing important changes over time) as well as a summary of theoretical frameworks concerning addiction utilized today is needed. Diagnosis. The current dsm-​5 diagnosis substance use syndrome (here: alcohol) outlines a problematic pattern of alcohol use leading to clinically significant impairment and suffering, as manifested by at least two of the following criteria, occurring within a 12-​month period (apa 2013). The severity is defined by calculating the number of displayed symptoms: Mild: 2–​3; Moderate: 4–​5; Severe: 6 or more. Regarding the four overarching

5 As supported by attitudes previously presented by Thunberg and Gadelius.

166 

Hildebrand Karlén

table 8.3 dsm-​5 criteria for substance use disorder

Impaired control over substance use 1. Alcohol is often taken in larger amounts or over a longer period than was intended 2. There is a persistent desire or unsuccessful efforts to cut down or control alcohol use 3. A great deal of time is spent in activities necessary to obtain alcohol, use alcohol, or recover from its effects 4. Craving, or a strong desire or urge to use alcohol Social impairment 5. Recurrent alcohol use resulting in a failure to fulfil major role obligations at work, school or home 6. Continued alcohol use despite having persistent or recurrent social or interpersonal problems caused or exacerbated by the effects of alcohol 7. Important social occupational, or recreational activities are given up or reduced because of alcohol use 8. Recurrent alcohol use in social situations in which it is physically hazardous 9. Alcohol use is continued despite knowledge of having a persistent or recurrent physical or psychological problem that is likely to have been caused or exacerbated by alcohol Pharmacological criteria 10. Tolerance, as defined by either of the following: a) A need for markedly increased amounts of alcohol to achieve intoxication or desired effect b) A markedly diminished effect with continued use of the same amount of alcohol 11. Withdrawal, as defined by either of the following: a) The characteristic withdrawal syndrome for alcohol b) Alcohol (or a closely related substance such as a bensodiazepine) is taken to relieve or avoid withdrawal symptoms criteria used today, the symptoms used by Gadelius and Thunberg only capture these to a certain extent. It is notable that neither today’s diagnosis, nor the opinions of physicians such as Gadelius, Thunberg and Quensel, entail a description

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

167

of how much alcohol that should be consumed to be considered “too much”. Nevertheless, cut-​off limits for hazardous drinking are used in screening instruments today, and Gadelius as well as Quensel cite research that presumably indicate a harmless consumption. Today’s cut-​offs vary internationally, but in Sweden the current limit in standardized self-​report instrument (e.g. audit) is set at four standard glasses containing 12 grams of alcohol for women and five glasses for men/​day or 10–​15 glasses per week for women and men respectively.6 To establish this, self-​report in an interview or questionnaires are used together with observation today, while observation was almost exclusively used 100 years ago. However, test of liver function still endures to establish the effects of alcohol consumption, a heritage going back to Huss and Alcoholismus chronicus. Theory of addiction. Regarding contemporary explanations for why alcohol abuse and addiction emerge, Robert West (West 2013) has synthesized different theoretical families used during the latter half of the twentieth century (see Figure 8.2). As seen there, explanations both on an individual and a societal level is still considered relevant today, while different theories emphasize different aspects of the addiction concept as central to understand its origin and/​or its cure. In his analysis, West has constructed an overarching model of behaviour (com-​b ). This model of addiction recognises that behaviour (B) arises from three necessary conditions, capability (C), opportunity (O) and motivation (M), how these aspects interact and how the system as a whole can become disordered. West further nuance the motivation aspect of this addiction model within the prime theory of motivation. prime is an integrative model of motivation (based on learning theory, decision theory, self-​control theory, identity theory and drive theory), including both ‘reflective’ and ‘automatic’ processes (i.e. a spectrum of motivational functions from biological processes up to and including its psychological effects on a person’s sense of self) and how they interact to control behaviour and promote development of addiction and its recovery. Within com-​b , the person’s context (i.e. opportunity) is also acknowledged as an important factor in establishing, maintaining and defeat addiction.7 Also important to the present analysis is that, based on the aspects involved in the motivational areas of the theories in Wests analysis, it is here (albeit using different terminology which to some extent have altered the focus 6 The term abuse is, as opposed to hazardous drinking, less vague since it through diagnostic means have some boundaries regarding level of consumption and that the consequences of the consumption damage the person’s ability to function in society. 7 This make all three parts of the biopsychosocial model represented in how to understand addiction within this theoretical framework, see Engel, A new model, 1977.

168 

Hildebrand Karlén Addiction theories Modelling the individual Automatic processing theories Learning theories Drive theories Inhibition dysfunction theories Imitation theories Reflective choice theories ‘Rational’ choice theories ‘Biased’ choice theories Goal-focused theories Positive reward theories Acquired need theories Pre-existing need theories Integrative theories Self-regulation theories Broader integrative theories Process of change theories Biological theories Population/group level theories Social network theories Economic models Communication/marketing theories Organizational systems models

­f igure 8.2  Taxonomy of theories of addiction according to Robert West (2013), presented in a report for emcdda

of the terms), that some of the historically held moral aspects of the addiction concept now principally lives on. For example, learning theory incorporates early (and later) ingrained patterns of behaviour, self-​control theory the ability to control impulses, decision-​theory ability to formulate and stick to decisions favouring positive long-​term (above short-​term) consequences, and identity theory an adherence to behaviours characteristic of which persons/​social groups we identify with.

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

9

169

Addiction Symptoms and Behaviours: Changes Regarding Who, When, Where and Why

Comparing the symptoms at the turn of the twentieth and twenty-​first century, it is clear that the earlier emphasized primarily observable symptoms. For example, symptom 1 and 2 (see Table 8.3) of the impaired control aspect as considered in dsm-​5 are more seldom seen in journal material from the early twentieth century compared to symptom 3 and 4, as well as all symptoms concerning social impairment. Also, for symptom 9 to be considered, a certain amount of self-​reported information is necessary, which is considered more thoroughly today. However, as previously noted, an important difference is that the medico-​physiological harm criteria seem to have been lowered considerably since the beginning of the twentieth century, where symptoms 10 a and b often were prevalent in journal material although no diagnosis relating to alcohol consumption was made. Even delirium in combination with high alcohol consumption could be present, and still not diagnose alcohol consumption as problematic. Instead, in these journals, a considerably higher symptom load and/​or severity of physiological deterioration was required. A more circumscribed normality: both medical and socio-​ethical. Many alcohol consumers in the investigated, 100 year old, sample would most likely meet diagnostic criteria for substance use disorder today. Among the sample’s heavy drinking group, abuse was explicitly considered not present in several cases, indicating a reliance only on alcoholism syndrome for an alcohol related diagnosis, although the persons’ alcohol consumption’s role in the loss of important functions often was acknowledged. This lends support to an inherited two-​edged concept of alcohol abuse and addiction, divided into a physiological part (the alcoholism disease) and a psychological part (the craving, the changes in behaviours and priorities), being acknowledged at both points in time, but with different notions of where to draw the diagnostic line and on what basis. This distinction was described by Gadelius (1924) as medical vs. socio-​ethical alcoholism and can be compared to the dsm-​i v-​t r diagnostic terms alcohol abuse vs. alcohol dependence, due to a presumed dividing line whether negative physiological changes have occurred yet or not. However, it should be noted in such a comparison that the harmful physiological changes at the turn of the twenty-​first century also incorporate milder forms (e.g. increased tolerance), within the medical subgroup of alcoholism which expands the range of possible incorporated physiological states for diagnosis. Comparing the cases at the turn of the twentieth century cases and the perceptions of abuse and dependence according to contemporary medical experts, with the criteria of dsm-​5 and West’s theoretical model regarding

170 

Hildebrand Karlén

amount, spatial consumption pattern (when and where) and behaviours associated with intoxication, it is clear that alcohol use diagnoses capture a much larger group of consumers, making “normal” consumption more circumscribed today. First, diagnosis can be made applicable to a much larger group due to a lower amount, and broader scope, of symptoms required for establishing diagnosis, also shifting away from the emphasis on solely biological factors in the beginning of the twentieth century towards a broader diagnosis after the introduction of dsm-​i ii and dsm-​i v-​t r (apa 1980, 1994). Second, a consequence of this is that the SUD-​diagnosis is applicable to a considerably more multifaceted group of persons today, including both Gadelius’ ‘medical alcoholics’ and ‘socio-​ethical alcoholics’, due to the larger amount of possible symptom combinations, making the pathological group larger. For example, combining symptom 1 and 2 would solely concern a high consumption which is difficult to control, which could warrant diagnosis, or 10 and 11 which would solely reflect physiological tolerance, but still warranting the same diagnosis. For persons seeking help, the positive aspect of such a change is that a focus on early prevention and previously neglected forms of alcohol dependence, often equally destructive for the addicted person as well as for their environment, are now included and can result in better care and enhanced well-​being. However, negative aspects of a broadening of the same diagnostic group are that societal means could be taken away from persons who need more care to persons who need it less. Furthermore, by changing from dsm-​i v-​t r and its different diagnoses for dependence and addiction to a unitary diagnosis for substance use disorder in dsm-​5 , another step has been taken away from emphasizing Huss’ ‘physical’ alcoholism and the concepts addiction (psychological/​ socio-​culturally determined) and dependence (bio-​medically determined) now have become more intertwined. What ideological and practical consequences this mixing of perspectives into one diagnosis, apart from making the patient group a lot more diverse, may have is too soon to tell. However, at the very least, it increases the vagueness of the concept addiction and by doing so, increases the risk of misunderstandings and problems with construct validity both within research and clinical use. Drinking in public and private: is it abuse if handled ‘normally’? The abuse concept har also since the early twentieth century entailed consideration of societal functioning. While the physiological aspect of abuse and some psychological aspects primarily connected to impulse control seem to remain stable over time, the more fluid aspects of psychological such as ideals, self-​ image, and society’s norms regarding appropriate behaviour in public and private change. Based on the outward manifested signs of addiction (see Table 8.2), there exist inherited assumptions of alcoholism/​abuse that entail

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

171

overt and observable behaviours which relates to the issue of temporal and spatial context –​where (in private vs. public) and when during the day alcohol consumption is allowed. Alcohol induced behavioural changes accepted in some spatial and temporal contexts (e.g. bars at night) are not accepted in others (e.g. city square in the morning). It is also clear that some types of behaviours are less accepted in some social groups than in others. Becoming intoxicated in bars and display intoxicated behaviours in public was less acceptable for more affluent socio-​economic groups but considered more common (and less pathological) for less affluent groups. This division was not only founded in pseudo-​biological/​moral notions of that ‘well-​rounded persons’ should not need alcohol to stimulate themselves, but also that alcohol exerted different effects due to degree of physical activation during their work. This actualizes the long-​standing ingredient of functionality within the addiction concept, but that such functionality is deeply ingrained regarding social norms of in what context, and how, the person is supposed to function. 10

Functionality: Addiction as a Deviance from Both Social and Natural Function

How can we then understand todays’ inherited perceptions and value judgements of a person regarding a failure to live up the functional demands of society when alcohol is thought to have caused this failure? Despite research concluding that alcohol abuse lead to changes in behaviour and personality expression as well as functional and structural brain alternations, have we really left the old moral model of the alcoholic described in this chapter by Thunberg and Gadelius: a social outcast who has lost the ability for self-​ support and self-​control and who has little hope of recovery, since the person is considered genetically and psychologically predisposed to develop alcohol problems? Jerome Wakefield (Wakefield 1992) concluded that the concept of mental disorder constitutes both of a deviance from social value norms and from the natural function of a certain mental mechanism. However, in the case of addiction, and several other psychiatric diagnoses related to impulse control and behaviour deviating from social norms, the harmful dysfunction definition is problematic (Henriques 2002). Substance abuse, as outlined in dsm-​i v-​ tr and also in the symptoms used in dsm-​5 , would not, according to Wakefield (1992), include a clear malfunction of a mental mechanism or a design failure of such a mechanism. However, the repetitive behaviour of drinking alcohol, often against the person’s expressed long-​term wishes (i.e. when starting to

172 

Hildebrand Karlén

incorporate compulsion), defies social values norms regarding self-​control (i.e. to abstain) and self-​support (i.e. since consumption may impair capacity to work). Since the judgement of harm is made by reference to norms of flourishing both in the individual’s macro-​(i.e. society as a whole) and meso-​level social context (i.e. in his/​her immediate social context), value judgements related to social functioning are not only related to society as a whole but also to differential norms within social groups. A person’s function is contextualized to his/​her social sphere, making an implicit social group reference also an ‘inherited’ part of the addiction diagnosis and concept today. Despite this, to accept that mental illness partially, but not essentially, involves some deviation from societal value norms and behavioural norms, does not by definition entail accepting the old moral model (Levy 2013) as represented in the early twentieth century and not entail an assumption that addiction is not objectively ‘real’ or that the person should be blamed for the condition. According to Levy (2013), if we are to understand addiction and respond appropriately to it, we must not focus on just the addicted individual herself, much less her brain, but instead on her in her social, including spatial, embeddedness. Levy argues that by understanding this interaction between person and his/​her social and spatial environment as a balance act between opposing forces, between the personal responsibility for the addicted state and the external circumstances which have facilitated or heavily primed such a state to emerge and to be maintained over time, the moralizing blame could be reduced. If such a change in perspective or the broader diagnosable group today could change the stereotypical picture of the addict will lead to reduced blaming, or if these changes instead will make the blamed group in society even bigger, only future can tell. However, history warrants scepticism of either less blaming or changing the stereotypical picture of the addict. The spreading of morphine and cocaine drug habits among upper-​class academics and physicians at the turn of the twentieth century, came to be conceptually framed as a way for over-​worked intellectuals to enhance working capacity or relax from hard work while not disturbing others. A similar framing can be seen today in Europe and USA in the recreational use of expensive alcohol and drugs (e.g. champagne, cocaine) in clubs as a flirt with decadence and illegality, but not with misery. The analysis indicates that the grey-​zone between well-​mannered decadence and miserable abuse have narrowed during the past century, when persons from lower socio-​economic strata have spent their lesser economic means on cheap vodka and cheaper drugs and consume these in the street, clinicians as well as lay persons are generally much quicker to conclude the person to abuse drugs and/​or to be addicted. Hence, historically as well as

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

173

today, important factors forming the perception of alcohol abuse incorporates stereotypical and morally infused notions of who does the drinking, who do you drink with, what you drink, where you drink, if drinking makes you violate the social circumstances of the spatial situation, and whether you drink to obtain joy (more healthy use) or to avoid sorrow (more pathological abuse8). Therefore, even with the recent diagnostic changes making potential addicts of a considerably larger proportion of the alcohol consuming population, due to the deeply ingrained ideological heritage concerning these aspects, it is hard to see how this could contribute to an attitude change, making it important for researchers and clinicians to be vigilant not to base their conclusions on their personal notions of what constitute ‘too much’, ‘a great deal of time’, ‘social and interpersonal problems’ and not to apply these notions differently due to how close the person display the stereotypical ‘addicted’ behaviours or not. 11

Conclusion

In conclusion, within the ideological heritage relating to alcohol abuse, many aspects from the beginning of the twentieth century are still retained. Within previous DSM-​editions, the division of alcohol’s medical harm vs. socio-​ethical harm was mirrored in the concepts of dependence vs. abuse/​addiction, but with dsm-​5 ’s dimensional scale of severity, these aspects become intertwined and their conceptual roots harder to differentiate. It is also clear that the concept of alcohol abuse follows changing societal demands of function on a person, both decreasing amounts and narrowing patterns considered to be within normal range but also of changes within the harm aspect where the person’s specific social context is considered. Due to a narrowing of social norms surrounding acceptable alcohol consumption as well as to dsm-​5 induced changes, the picture of the ‘alcoholic’ could potentially become more varied in the future, but so far, inherited characteristics of ‘the addict’ still prevail. Furthermore, the mixing of a medical and social perspective within one diagnosis may lead to increased eclecticism and make research into the addiction concept more difficult due to increased vagueness of the concept. Due to this, the moral aspects of the addiction concept have, as Foucault emphasized with 8 For example, the aspect of drinking to reduce sorrow or alleviate other negative states could arguably be more difficult for clinicians to perceive if the person does not admit to this and do not clearly display negative economic, social or psychiatric consequences of the alcohol use. Hence, this aspect could be easier to miss this among clients within the “socially stable” subgroup of persons with alcohol problems.

174 

Hildebrand Karlén

other psychiatric disorders, become harder to notice –​and control for –​with this diagnostic change, and also been extended to the possibility of including persons with less manifested symptoms in the diagnosis, hereby lowering the threshold for ‘abuse’ and further narrowing the range of normality based on moral notions.

Acknowledgements

The author is very grateful for the insightful comments on this text by certified psychologists and Ph.D.s Solveig Olausson, Elisabeth Punzi and Claudia Falhke, as well as by Christoph Singer, Ph.D.; Franz James, Ph.D.; and Cornelia Wächter, Ph.D. This work would not have been possible without the funding and support of Spritmuseum, ab and its curator Eva Lenneman, for which the author is very grateful.

Works Cited



Primary References



Secondary References

American Psychological Association (apa). 2013. Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 5th Edition. Northwest, Washington DC. Gadelius, B. (1924). Det mänskliga själslivet I belysning av sinnessjukläkarens erfarenhet. Stockholm: Hugo Gebers Förlag. Thunberg, T. (1920). Lärobok i hygien. Stockholm: Håkan Ohlssons Boktryckeri. Huss, M. (1849–​1951). Alcoholismus Chronicus eller chronisk alkoholsjukdom: ett bidrag till dyskrassiernas kännedom enligt egen och andras erfarenhet. Stockholm.

Blomqvist, J. 2012. Perspektiv på missbruk och beroende –​från Magnus Huss till Robert West. In Handbruk i missbrukspsykologi, In C. Fahlke (Ed.), 152–​69. Malmö: Liber. Cook, C. C. H., Tarbet, H., & Ball, D. (2007). Classically intoxicated. British Medical Journal, 335, 1302–​1304. Crocq, M-​A. (2007). Historical and cultural aspects of man’s relationship with addictive drugs. Dialogues in Clinical Neuroscience, 9, 355–​361. Eckhardt, M. J., S.E. File, G. L. Gessa, K.A. Grant, C. Guerri, L. Hoffman, and B. Tabakoff. 1998. “Effects of Moderate Alcohol Consumption on the Central Nervous System.” Alcoholism: Clinical & Experimental Research 22, no. 5: 998–​1040. Engel, G. L. (1977). The need for a new medical model: A challenge for biomedicine. Science, 196, 129–​136.

Addiction – Same for Everybody All the Time?

175

Foucault, Michel. (1969) 2015. The Archaeology of Knowledge. London, New York: Routledge. Grant, B. F., Goldstein, R. B., Smith, S. M., … Hasin, D. S. (2015). The Alcohol Use Disorder and Associated Disabilities Interview Schedule-​5 (AUDADIS-​5): reliability of substance use and psychiatric disorder modules in a general population sample. Drug and Alcohol Dependence, 148, 27–​33. Henriques, G. 2002. “The Harmful Dysfunction Analysis and the Differentiation between Mental Disorder and Disease”. Scientific Review of Mental Health Practice 1: 157–​73. Hildebrand Karlén, M. 2013. Vansinnets diagnoser –​Om historiska och möjliga perspektiv inom svensk psykiatri. Carlssons Bokförlag, Stockholm. Lindgren, S-​Å. (2003). Den hotfulla njutningen: Att etablera drogbruk som samhällsproblem 1890–​1970 [The threatening pleasure: To establish drug use as a societal problem 1890–​1970]. Symposion Graduale, Stockholm. Lesch, O. & Walther, H. (1996). Subtypes of alcoholism and their role in therapy. Alcohol and alcoholism, 31, 63–​7. doi: 10.1093/​oxfordjournals.alcalc.a008221. Levy, N. (2013). Addiction is not a brain disease (and it matters). Frontiers in Psychiatry, 4, 1–​7. Pontén, J. (1967). Historia kring alkoholen [History regarding alcohol]. Natur och Kultur: Stockholm. Quensel, U. 1913. Alkoholfrågan från medicinsk synpunkt. Band I. Almqvist & Wiksells Boktryckeri ab: Uppsala. Qvarsell, R. 1982. Ordning och behandling. Doktorsavhandling, Idé-​och lärdomshistoria, Umeå Universitet. Sjövall, E. (1924). Alkoholfrågan ur medicinsk synpunkt [The alcohol issue from a medicinal perspective]. In: Handbok i alkoholfrågan [Handbook of the alcohol issue], T. Dahlgren, K. Nordlund, & E. Sjövall (pp. 50–​86), Norstedt och Söners Förlag: Stockholm. samhsa (2013). Substance abuse treatment for persons with co-​occurring disorders. Treatment Improvement Protocol (TIP) Series, No. 42. HHS Publication No. (SMA) 133992. Rockville, MD: samhsa. sou 2011:35. Bättre insatser vid missbruk och beroende –​Individen, kunskapen och ansvaret. Stockholm: Elanders Sverige ab. Tomes, N. (1994). The art of asylum-​keeping: Thomas Story Kirkbride and the origins of American psychiatry. University of Pennsylvania Press: Philadelphia. Wakefield, J. 1992. The Concept of Mental Disorder: on the Boundary Between Biological Facts and Social Values. American Psychologist 47: 373–​88. Wallace, J., McNeill, D., Gilfillan, D., MacLean, K., & Fanella, F. (1988). Six-​month treatment outcomes in socially stable alcoholics: abstinence rates. Journal of Substance Abuse Treatment, 5, 247–​252.

176 

Hildebrand Karlén

West, R. (2013). Models of addiction. EMCDDA INSIGHTS. European Monitoring Centre for Drugs and Drug Addiction, Luxembourg: Publications Office of the European Union. doi: 10.2810/​99994. Willner, S. 2005. Hälso-​och samhällsutvecklingen i Sverige 1750–​2000. In Svenska folkets hälsa i ett historiskt perspektiv, J. Sundin, C. Hogstedt, J. Lindberg, H. Moberg (red:er). Rapport från Statens Folkhälsoinstitut. Retrieved from: www.fhi.se 2015-​08-​16. Wright Mills, C (1943). The professional ideology of the social pathologist, American Journal of Sociology, 49, 165–​180.

­c hapter 9

Institutionalized Waiting

Fragmented Temporalities and Wellbeing in the Medical Waiting Room Christoph Singer Abstract Waiting rooms in general and medical waiting rooms in particular form interesting bonds between wellbeing and heritage. Not only are waiting rooms embedded in a long spatial history but also with a heritage of behavioural politics. That is to say these sites not only organize the ill according to criteria such as class and the urgency of the help needed. More importantly, these rooms come with a clear understanding of how those in waiting are expected to behave and present themselves. This sense of strict spatial organization, however, is opposed by a feeling of being out-​of-​time and of ambiguous identity. In this article I will analyse the spatial and behavioural heritage of medical waiting rooms and their representation in literary texts.

1

Introduction

In his autobiographical account A Good Death: Conversations With East Londoners, Michael Young outlines his wife’s terminal struggle with cancer. While Sasha and her husband Michael both initially anticipated a recovery as realistic outcome, they quickly realized that this was not the case: There would be prompt surgery or other treatment. Not at all. Instead of that, Sasha was sent home to wait for the results of tests. To wait. To wait. To wait. We were in for many long periods of helpless waiting. Cancer is waiting. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, the results came in and a date was booked for the operation. We imagined the cancerous cells swimming ever deeper into her abdomen. We were already starting to become institutionalised, using doctors’ words like abdomen. Young and Cullen 1996, x

Young’s narrative not only indicates the temporalities of health-​care, but more importantly, the effects thereof. Waiting here is not only understood as

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_010

178 Singer an extreme form of uncertainty and passivity –​as opposed to the personified ‘swimming’ cancer. Waiting also changes ones identity: “We were starting to become institutionalised” (ibid.). Unsurprisingly, the idea of suffering, and more importantly, of experiencing time while suffering is related to the etymological root of the words ‘patient/​ and patience’. The Latin word ‘pati’ means ‘to suffer’. In waiting we feel time. Psychologist Florian Klapproth argues similarly: “Whenever we wait, time occupies our perception.” (Klapproth 2010: 2) This statement is also supported by Tracy Carr et al. who argues that “a resounding theme in many studies is that wait time often elicits uncertainty and anxiety, suspending aspects of ‘normal’ role function” (2014, 1674). And the waiting room is an interesting resource in probing the intersections of space and well-​being, as well as an understanding of what it means to wait in such an institution. In the following article, I will discuss the heritage of the waiting room and its relationship to a sense of well-​being and apply my findings to Elizabeth Bishop’s modernist poem “In the Waiting Room”. I intend to explore how a sense of well-​being and a lack thereof –​is being experienced and communicated in spatial terms. 2

Well-​Being and the Heritage of the Waiting Room

Despite its centrality, not only for the health-​care system but for the organization of daily life in general, waiting rooms have not exactly been at the centre of attention. Especially in the context of the analysis of institutional waiting, this setting is often rather disregarded, so obvious appears its function and its implementation into the organization of power. Historically speaking, the medical waiting room is a remnant of the triage-​system. Here medical staff would survey those in waiting and sort them into different groups. After an initial assessment the respective urgency of the individual causes determined who was given access to medical help. This triage system, according to Iain Robertson-​Steel was “originally applied to a process of sorting, probably around 1792, by Baron Dominique Jean Larrey, Surgeon in Chief to Napoleon’s Imperial Guard” (2006, 154). Today, depending on the respective health-​care system and ones financial background, ones wait-​time may be reduced if one can afford the right kind of insurance. And the type of insurance –​e.g. in Germany –​will not only determine ones wait-​time in the waiting room, but also the extent of waiting required to access this space in the first place. Simply speaking, the lower the social status, the longer the wait time. Anne Secor argues that the resulting stories on waiting “provide a critical insight into

Institutionalized Waiting

179

the everyday sociospatial constitution of power –​not despite but because of their banality.” (2007, 42) That this experience of power is anything but banal, can be attested by everyone who had to experience such a situation. The seemingly mundane, is often quite existential. The waiting room transforms into a passage and a space of transit, which by means of metonymical extension also defines the staff’s and the physician’s job –​namely to assign the patients with a specific status. A number of similar concerns are expressed in the novel The Waiting Room by the Australian medical-​doctor/​writer Leah Kaminsky. The novel, set in Israel, is mostly related from the perspective of a physician called Dinah. Dinah is pregnant with her second child and struggles with her job, memories of her late mother, and the constant threat of terror in her new hometown Tel Aviv. The waiting room, that lends the novel its title, is a space that is highly symbolic and also rendered in terms of a culture’s heritage: “The tile in the centre of the waiting room has always been a little crooked, but last month it finally came loose, lifting up all the others around it. […] According to Nilli, it is a Muslim custom to set one tile in the centre of a room slightly askew as a reminder of man’s imperfection in the face of God” (Kaminsky 2015, 61). Kaminsky’s novel The Waiting Room perfectly expresses the staff’s responsibility of assigning patients a status to those in waiting. They are the ones that helps the patients to navigate this intermediate space and its peculiar temporalities. This change of status Katherine Young refers to as ‘realm-​shift’, a concept that can be applied to a notion of well-​being. In her study Presence in the Flesh: The Body in Medicine (1997) she argues that in the waiting room “persons await realm-​shift, and await too, the cues that tell them when to shift realms” (1997, 17). These cues are given by the related spaces and their staff. In Kaminsky’s novel, the receptionist Yael also has a clear understanding of the space’s heritage she and Dinah reside over: “Anyway, Yael thinks, a doctor’s job description is rather like being purgatory’s quack; the boatman who ferries people across to the other side, perched in a no-​man’s land, somewhere between the living and the dead. On the whole, she thinks, patients are idiots” (2015, 93). The seemingly neutral space is suddenly placed in the context of Western heritage and Greek mythology. The waiting room is a peculiar space. It is a space that creates its own temporalities and often painfully alerts the waiter of her or his ‘being-​outside-​time’ as well as of one’s embodiment. Where the healthy subject is able to ‘go with the flow’ of daily, quotidian life, a painful illness and the related stop of quotidian life quickly foregrounds body and time and leaves clients and staff vulnerable. The waiting room thus builds a community of people who have almost oppositional experiences therein, and as such, only superficially builds a sense

180 Singer of community. For patients this experience is perceived as exceptional, leading to uncertainty and dependency on the institution and its representatives. For those working in the waiting room the experience may be more mundane and routine. Leslie Rittenmeyer, Dolores Huffman and Chris Godfrey argue: waiting is a fearful, turbulent experience and one in which the healthcare system affords patients, families and/​or significant others little opportunity to have the power to influence time and outcomes. […] For those who work in healthcare waiting is part of the culture, and is considered routine and normalized. For those who must wait the waiting is personal, fearful, and sometimes tortuous. (2014, 218) This proposed dichotomy of experiences between staff and patients, however, is only superficially true. After all, it is the staff –​and by extension the institution as such –​that are expected not only to organize and structure the patients’ experience of being out of time. Specifically administrative staff and nurses have to deal with the emotions and reactions of those in waiting. A psychological study conducted in Sweden, for example, highlights the stress waiting in a health-​care setting places on patients and care-​givers alike: “nurses reported that patients often gave them a ‘telling off,’ which could include drastic, personal comments about their being ugly, fat, lazy, and so forth” (quoted in Akerstrom, 509). I believe that Laura Tanner is correct in her assessment that “the medical waiting room provides a space in which the seemingly ‘immutable’ categories [that is the body as whole and incomplete, abled and disabled, normal and abnormal, functional and dysfunctional] are fraught, contested, or blurred” (2002, 115). In doing so, especially medical waiting rooms not only modify the behaviour of those in waiting but also their sense of well-​being and more specifically they come with certain behavioural expectations concerning ones conduct in such a semi-​public space. While a lack of well-​being is implied by ones very presence in the waiting room it is not permissible to express one’s pain and insecurity explicitly. The spatial heritage of the waiting room forces the patients ‘to keep it together’. This leads to one of the most important aspects of the public waiting room. It is not only passage, but more importantly is a stage. This stage, however, demands an extremely high psychological and mental self-​control of those who enter it. Patients in the waiting room are expected, to a certain extent, to hide their current emotions and pain. As such, the waiting room is a temporal architecture that demands from its ill inhabitants to behave as if they were

Institutionalized Waiting

181

healthy. Sarah Sharma argues: “The rise of a temporal architecture elevates the cultural significance of waiting from the dead time of doing nothing to a time of self-​improvement and a privileged moment of reprieve. Everyone manages time in one way or the other, for better or for worse. But for most populations, the management of time is more or less internal or at least invisible –​hidden from the view of others” (2014, 53). Adrienne Rich sketches how these temporalities of waiting translate into behavioural politics of pregnancy. Societal expectations on how to ‘be pregnant’ and on how to wait lead, in Rich’s account, to a strong dissociation of body and mind, a dissociation that echoes Bishop’s poem. In Rich’s own words: In my own pregnancy I dealt with this waiting, this female fate, by denying every active, powerful aspect of myself. I became dissociated both from my immediate, present, bodily experience and from my reading, thinking, writing life. Like a traveller in an airport where her plane is several hours delayed, who leafs through magazines she would never ordinarily read, surveys shops whose contents do not interest her, I committed myself to an outward serenity and a profound inner boredom. If boredom is simply a mask for anxiety, then I had learned, as a woman, to be supremely bored rather than to examine the anxiety underlying my Sistine tranquillity. (1991, 39) Pregnancy becomes a performance of waiting. Yet, with Rich, it is less the fear of the unknown future that governs this outward performance, but societal expectations, to wait “reasonably”, as Ernest Hemingway’s male protagonist in the short-​story “Hills Like White Elephants” would express it. (Hemingway 1981, 375–​6) This performance of waiting is all about the suppression of outward fear and the substitution of anxiety with boredom, which relates back to the argument made above: socially expected performances of waiting transform women into doubles. Waiting rooms, additionally, alert those who wait to various things: firstly, the stratification of societies. The lower your socio-​economic status, the longer you have to wait. Secondly, those who wait are becoming aware of their absolute dependency on others (the state, the doctors, the nurses, the insurance companies) and also the dependency on their own bodies. In waiting to regain health, the waiter not only experiences the passing of time more acutely but also a sense of embodiment is foregrounded by the feelings of pain and suffering. The waiting room can also be understood as a de-​localized space. We are left with the question: how can an experience of ‘being-​out-​of-​time’ be

182 Singer narrated in the first place? After all, ‘nothing’ much happens if you are waiting. This is an eventless state, yet at the same time it is unbearably intense. When I use the compound ‘out-​of-​time’ I refer to the notion of being out of social time. In such a situation an illness, unemployment or incarceration place the subject outside of the perceived daily progression of quotidian life. Virginia Woolf, in her essay “On Being Ill”, discusses such a temporal rupture and the challenge of relating this experience to others. Whereas the sick are barred from quotidian life, the everyday and its protagonists’ life steadily continues: “Mrs. Jones catches her train. Mr. Smith mends his motor. The cows are driven home to be milked. Men thatch the roof. The dogs bark” (Woolf 2002, 16). The paratactical structure of these sentences, implies the monotonous, iterative structure of the everyday –​as opposed to the phenomenological experience of those in waiting, an experience Woolf linguistically often expresses in sprawling hypotaxis, thematic detours and diversions. Illness, Woolf repeatedly implores, “sets us to wait, hour after hour” (ibid. 6). While the “army of the upright” (ibid.) marches on, the ill lie down in their secluded rooms, enduring completely different temporality. Yet, such an experience of time and space is not restricted to the ill, as Laura Tanner argues: “the space of waiting casts even its healthy occupants outside the world of time and reference” (2002, 120). She illustrates this statement by referring to Jane Hamilton’s novel A Map of the World (1994) or Raymond Carver’s short story “A Small, Good Thing” which tells the story of parents waiting for their 8-​year-​old son –​who was hit by a car –​to awake from a coma. How can these experiences of being out of time, experiences with minimal change and narrative telos be related? How can an attendant lack of well-​being be expressed? The problem one faces is a seeming contradiction between the existential experience made by those in waiting and the expected demands of narrative form, expectations which form a heritage of its own kind. Certain types of narratives in particular, and modes of relating one’s experiences in general, are normalized and thus expected. Especially these narratives –​ ­chronological, causal, and subdivided into clearly discernible phases –​can be understood as a specific form of cultural heritage. And the central element of these narrative forms is the event. If the event, however, is one of the key-​ elements of narrative, how can a rather eventless state be put into a meaningful narrative form? Perceived from a larger perspective an illness can, of course be regarded as a highly important and decisive life-​event. Yet, the experience of waiting, day-​to-​day, week-​to-​week, month-​to-​month is harder to relate. This renders the communication of one’s personal well-​being or the lack thereof not impossible, but clearly delimits a specific narrative mode of doing so. Laura Tanner argues:

Institutionalized Waiting

183

If the narrative of a life is structured around a series of experiences and activities that make up everyday existence, waiting represents the consumption of time without the creation of plot. In the waiting room, the force of time not only structures but to some extent constitutes experience, so that the temporal form of existence temporarily becomes its content. (2002, 123) This lack of a plot is more than a mere theoretical, narratological concern. If narratives are perceived as some of the key-​elements of human interaction and communication as well as of identity-​construction, then an inability of emplotment has repercussions. To be placed outside of time, often can mean to be placed outside of narrative time. That is to say, that narratives such as the aforementioned essay by Virginia Woolf are not merely concerned with relating the experience of being ill and outside of time. They are more concerned with finding a way of communicating their experiences in the first place. An eventual achievement of plot is understood as the reconstruction of time, space, body and self. In Woolf’s words: “The public would say that a novel devoted to influenza lacked plot […] wrongly however, for illness often takes on the disguise of love, and plays the same old tricks” (2002, 6). This does not preclude, however, the possibility of narrative. Yet a normative reliance on narrativity understood as a form that stresses progress and change rather than immobility and stasis –​may lead to overlooking essential developments at hand. For the psychologist Christine C. Kieffer the waiting room is both: a symbolic and a very real space: Presentation of case material both at conferences and in journals tends to privilege the dramatic moment. In keeping with our operatic metaphor, we tend to wait impatiently for the arias and pay less attention to the background music from which it emerges—​and which makes its own essential contribution to the aria’s dramatic effect. In fact, rich exchanges such as the ones depicted were often interspersed with long periods (they could seem like an eternity!) in which I would be waiting in my consultation room for Carla to enter, which she finally would do, after a final crisp snap of a closing magazine. It should also be noted that the periods in which Carla defiantly sat in my waiting room were rich with connection and meaning for both of us. (2010, 340) Kieffer’s extended simile of a conversation as music perfectly expresses normative nature of narrative. The overt focus on a narrative as the intended end-​ result completely overlooks the required periods of time where supposedly

184 Singer ‘nothing happens’. But these periods of silent waiting are anything but devoid of meaning or even communication. It is against the background of such silences and periods of narrative anticipation that such communication gains its importance. In Leah Kaminsky’s novel The Waiting Room this seemingly plotless state of the patients is also perceived through the eyes of the protagonist, who herself, struggles with the burden of altering the biographies and life-​stories by communicating life-​altering results. In the novel, Dinah increasingly fights with her responsibility of ending the uncertainty and the waiting of her patients by being the bearer of bad news. In one case, she feels unable to inform a patient of a test-​result, malignant cancer. At the same time, she feels increasingly unable to deal with an abundance of narratives herself and feels she is “becoming the doctor she never wanted to be –​feels bloated with stories. They spill out from her onto the pavement as she walks down the street, and she seems to be losing pieces of herself along the way” (Kaminsky 2015, 104). 3

Elizabeth Bishop, “In the Waiting Room”

Women in waiting, or women as waiting are some of cultural history’s oldest themes and images. As Adrienne Rich states: “Women have always been seen as waiting: waiting to be asked, waiting for our menses, in fear lest they do or do not come, waiting for men to come home from wars, or from work, waiting for children to grow up, or for the birth of a new child, or for a menopause.” (1991, 39) Sylvia Plath expresses these expectations in her poem “Morning in the Hospital Solarium” where the waiting women are compared to various animals. The “[w]‌omen float like dream-​fish in the languid limbo /​of an undulant aquarium” (ll.8–​9). This image of relative calm, reminiscent of The Odyssey’s Lotus-​Eaters is shortly after opposed by a conflicting image: Like petulant parakeets corked up in cages of intricate spunglass routine, the women wait, fluttering, turning pages of magazines in elegant ennui. (1960, ll.19–​22)

These four lines perfectly express the feeling of sitting in a waiting room, a paradoxical state where activity (“fluttering”, “turning pages”) meets passivity (“corked up”, “floating”), where activity is iterative and repetitive (“spunglass routine”), a place where the passing of time consists of reading old magazines

Institutionalized Waiting

185

(ibid.) and where the “elegant ennui” –​unsurprisingly forming an assonance with “routine” –​appears like a mask that hides the anxiety beneath. Adrienne Rich in a similar passage from her study on motherhood describes these magazines as the harbingers of ideological ideas of femininity. The ideologies expressed by these magazines, Rich argues, “allowed me only certain views, certain expectations, whether embodied in the booklet in my obstetrician’s waiting room, the novels I had read [or] my mother-​in-​law’s approval” amongst others (1991, 39). In Plath’s poem it is no coincidence that “pages” rhymes with “cages” to bring home this very point. This kind of gendered waiting and the related spaces is also one of the key-​concerns in the following discussion. Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “In the Waiting Room” (1976) takes as its central concern the lyric I’s memory of her younger self’s quest for identity. This younger ‘Elizabeth’ is queered in line with Carolyn Dinshaw’s argument that queerness often includes “forms of desirous, embodied being that are out of sync with the ordinarily linear measurements of everyday life” (2012, 4). This asynchrony is represented by the timescapes falling apart. While the poem represents a young girl in a moment of acute identity-​crisis the text still manages to express narrative clarity as Claire Bowen argues in regard to Bishop’s poem (2008, 484). “In the Waiting Room” presents a young girl, the soon to be seven years old Elizabeth, waiting in a dentist’s waiting room for her aunt Consuelo’s treatment to be finished. While waiting for her aunt to return from the dentist’s practice-​room she hears a scream from inside: “Suddenly, from inside /​came an oh! Of pain /​–​Aunt Consuelo’s voice” (Bishop 1976). This scream triggers a short, but existential identity-​crisis that places Elizabeth in a liminal state in between a number of dichotomies such as future/​past, inside/​outside, young age/​old age, fragmentation/​totality. Hand in hand with the ensuing deconstruction of dichotomies, space and time as the perception of bodies in the poem are falling apart. Catherine Cucinella argues: Bishop’s “In the Waiting Room” clearly implicates the body in the process of becoming a gendered and active subject. However, the ontological crisis arises not only with the child’s terror of “becoming a woman” and resolves not only with the power to call herself “Elizabeth.” Rather, this moment of self-​awareness occurs amid an overdetermination –​an excess of the bodies, an awareness of those bodies, a moment of disembodiment, and finally, a return to the body. (2010, 59) In the poem the experience of being out-​of-​time also leads to a perception of bodies and whole identities being fragmented, othered and estranged. The

186 Singer other patients waiting in the room are largely described by means of synecdoches. Quite literally only parts of their bodies represent their identities: […] shadowy gray knees, trousers and skirts and boots and different pairs of hands lying under the lamps. Bishop 1976, ll.68–​71

At the same time, this representation of the lyrical I’s gaze perfectly illustrates the institution’s expectation of where and how to look at others. Rather than directing one’s gaze directly at others, and rather than outright staring at her fellow waiters, the lyric I only perceives of others via disconnected glimpses. This is reminiscent of Laura Tanner’s argument that “the waiting room emerges as a place in which ‘the knowing body’ fragments into a series of connected but ineffectual pieces” (2002, 124). More importantly, the waiting room becomes a space of mutual observation and surveillance. Not only is Elizabeth observing others in the room, she sees her potential future self(s) in or as those other people around her. Yet, sitting in the waiting room, the waiter has to endure an openness and uncertainty mirrored by other waiters. All people-​in-​waiting have to deal with a paradox dynamic of being the subject and the object of the gaze at the same time: In the medical waiting room, the gaze that lingers on the abject bodies of others engages in a form of surveillance that is ultimately self-​ surveillance. The waiting room lends its inhabitants the power of seeing only to unsettle the subject-​object split and to undermine the stability of their identity as viewing subjects. The body that is both self and object, internal and external menace, threatens the stability of a single coherent subject position, rendering the seer susceptible to the objectifying power dynamics of the gaze. (Tanner, 126) The waiters form a community outside of time, left to their own devices, insecurities, fears and their bodies, whose constant throbbing pain alerts them that something is wrong. They are literally in-​between, in a radical openness that belies the seemingly mundane experience that is being stuck in a waiting room. The aforementioned fragmentation of the body goes hand in hand with a disruption of the sense of self culminating in an epiphany for the young girl.

Institutionalized Waiting

187

At the very middle of the poem, she hears her aunt’s scream from the doctor’s office and comes to realize that “[it] was me: my voice, in my mouth.” (Bishop 1976, ll. 61). This out-​of-​body experience unhinges the body’s situatedness in space and time and the related subjective perspective. Only in the final stanza she regains her sense of space, time and self. The poem ends with a precise mapping of space and time, the kind of world-​setting one would expect at the beginning of a narrative. Then I was back in it. The War was on. Outside in Worcester, Massachusetts, were night and slush and cold, and it was still the fifth of February, 1918. Bishop 1976, ll.94–​9

There is something to be said about the experience of being in the waiting room, a space that demands utmost control over one’s thoughts, one’s body and one’s gaze. Waiting in such a place is certainly not a passive state, it is a performance of self-​restraint, self-​discipline and humility. As said, the end of this poem echoes its beginning,. The ending’s clear demarcation of space (Worcester, Massachusetts) and time (5 February 1918) resembles the beginning of a narrative with a clearly structured plot. Students always wonder whether this poem is not a short story of sorts –​especially considering its beginning and end. I would like to claim, however, that this is a narrative that collapses  and has to reconstitute itself. We read, after all a text about bodily perception and identity dissolving and attempting to find a new form to express itself. The state of waiting –​for the sick and the healthy –​is an eventless one, which heavily bears on the way we construct our identities and selves. At the end, Bishop’s poem may be less about fragmentation but about a form of dissociation that wants to prohibit just that. In Kieffer’s words, speaking about dissociative states in general, “rather than a form of fragmentation, dissociation is a defence against fragmentation: the experience that is causing the incompatible experience and emotion is ‘unhooked’ from cognitive processing and remains ‘raw data’ ” (2010, 336). In a sense, Bishop’s poem expresses just that, an attempt to illustrate how such an unformulated, immediate experience of dissociation becomes formulated, that is turned into a narrative, in the first place. It is, after all, not the six-​year-​old Elizabeth that is the poem’s lyric i, but the grown-​up Elizabeth. The experiencing-​and the

188 Singer narrating I are separated not only spatially but by several decades. The waiting room in the poem could then be interpreted not only as the literal space described therein, but also as an expression of the extent of years it took to make sense of the experiences of the past. Such a biographical reading is supported by Alicia Ostriker who argues that this poem is a text Bishop “waited a lifetime to write” (1986,72). 4

Conclusion

The (medical) waiting room is part of an institution that comes with a heritage of specific rules and expectations that are so deeply engrained that they may appear obvious. As such, this immaterial heritage is one of that guide the behaviour of those in waiting, of those seeking for help while enduring pain and uncertainty. This clear set of expectations counteracts –​and may actually help those in waiting to endure –​a number of paradoxes: in the waiting room one seemingly waits alone with others. One is expected to remain still and passive, while –​as the literary examples have highlighted –​and extensive mental activity and self-​control is required to do so. And while one may perceive a loss of self and of control over ones body and identity, the very institution sorts and structures those in waiting along various social markers such as health and wealth, gender and age, and the urgency of their causes.

References

Akerstrom, Malin. 1997. “Waiting –​A Source of Hostile Interaction in an Emergency Clinic.” Qualitative Health Research 7 (4): 504–​20. Bishop, Elizabeth. 1976. “In the Waiting Room.” In Geography III, edited by Elizabeth Bishop, 3–​8. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Bowen, Claire. 2008. “Frames of Reference: Paterson in “In the Waiting Room”. Twentieth-​Century Literature 54.4. 472–​492. Carr, Tracy, Ulrich C. Teucher, and Allan G. Casson. 2014. “Time While Waiting: Patients’ Experiences of Scheduled Surgery.” Qualitative Health Research 24 (12): 1673–​85. Carver, Raymond. 1982. “A Small, Good Thing.” Ploughshares 8 (2–​3): 213–​40. Clapton, Gary. 2018. “The General Practice Health Waiting Area in Images: Threshold, Borderland, and Place of Transition in the Sense of Self.” Forum: Qualitative Social Research 19 (1): 1–​17. Conrad, Joseph. 1899. Heart of Darkness. Third edition, edited by Robert Kimbrough. New York: Norton.

Institutionalized Waiting

189

Cucinella, Catherine. 2010. Poetics of the Body: Edna St. Vincent Millay, Elizabeth Bishop, Marilyn Chin, and Marilyn Hacker. Houndmills Basingstoke: Palgrave. Darling, Julia. 2015. “In a Waiting Room in August.” In Indelible, Miraculous: The Collected Poems of Julia Darling, edited by Bev Robinson, 24. Todmorden: Arc. Dinshaw Carolyn. 2012. How Soon Is Now? Medieval Texts, Amateur Readers, And the Queerness of Time. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Hamilton, Jane. 1994. A Map of the World. New York: Doubleday. Hemingway, Ernest. 1981. 1927. “Hills Like White Elephants.” In The Oxford Book of Short Stories, edited by Victor S. Pritchett, 341–​45. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Henley, William Ernest. 1970. “In Hospital.” In Poems, Vol. 1. Reprint. New York: ams. Kaminsky, Leah. 2015. The Waiting Room. Sydney: Random House Australia. Klapproth, Florian. 2010. “Waiting as a temporal constraint.” Limits and Constraints: The Study of Time XIII. Eds. Jo Alyson Parker, Paul A. Harris and Christian Steineck. Leiden: Brill. 179–​98. Kieffer, Christine C. 2010. “The Waiting Room as Boundary.” Journal of the American Psychoanalytic Association 59 (2): 335–​49. Lombardi, Marilyn May. 1992. “The Closet of Breath: Elizabeth Bishop, Her Body and Her Art.” Twentieth Century Literature, 38 (2): 152–​75. Ostriker, Alicia Suskin. 1986. Stealing the Language: The Emergence of Woman’s Poetry in America. Boston: Beacon. Plath, Sylvia. 2007. “Morning in the Hospital Solarium.” Collected Poems, edited by Ted Hughes, London: Harper, 2007. Rich, Adrienne. 1991. Of Woman Born: Motherhood as Experience and Institution. London: Virago. Rittenmeyer, Leslie, Dolores Huffman, and Chris Godfrey. 2014. “The Experience of Patients, Families, and/​or Significant Others of Waiting When Engaging with the Healthcare System: A Systematic Qualitative Review.” jbi Database Systematic Review Implement Reports 12, (8): 193–​258. Robertson-​Steel, Iain. 2006. “Evolution of Triage Systems.” Emerg Med J 23 (2): 154–​55. Secor, Anna. 2007. “Between Longing and Despair: State, Space and Subjectivity in Turkey.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 25 (1): 33–​52. Sharma, Sarah. 2014. In the Meantime: Temporality and Cultural Politics. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Tanner, Laura E. 2002. “Bodies in Waiting: Representations of Medical Waiting Rooms in Contemporary American Fiction.” American Literary History 14 (1): 115–​30. Woolf, Virginia. 2002. On Being Ill. Ashfield, Massachusetts: Paris Press. Young, Katherine. 1997. Presence in the Flesh: The Body in Medicine. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Young, Michael, and Lesley Cullen. 1996. A Good Death: Conversations with East Londoners. London: Routledge.

pa rt 3 Carceral Spaces

∵

­c hapter 10

‘Fit and Re-​Orientation’

Carceral Heritage in Contemporary Design of Special Residential Homes for Youth and Its Impact on Wellbeing Franz James and Sepideh Olausson Abstract With the present call in Sweden for longer sentences, higher security and more beds for young offenders and norm-​brakers it is vital to understand interior design’s role for incarcerated children and adolescents’ wellbeing and health. Despite the fact that Sweden does not have youth prisons the design of the Special Residential Youth Homes shares the same dna. Through the lens of critical heritage and phenomenology this article unfolds the layers of carceral design heritage forming these institutions. The visual methods ‘Sketch and Talk’and ‘Photovoice’ are used in understanding how lived experiences, orientation and rehabilitation of young incarcerated bodies is affected by the past in the present, and for the future. The explanatory model of ‘Fit and Re-​ orientation’ is introduced to make visible the counterproductive effects of the carceral. Unreflected reproduction of carceral design for future Special Residential Youth Homes needs to be considered, if intended as a place for ‘Re-​Orientation’.

1

Introduction

In this article we apply the lens of critical heritage and phenomenology to unfold how wellbeing and interior design is played out for children and adolescents under compulsory care at special residential youth homes (SiS-​homes) in Sweden. Within the structure of the Swedish state’s child welfare system these institutions care for youth that either have committed serious crimes and/​or are identified with a severe norm breaking behaviour. Young offenders under 18 years of age are not sentenced to prison in Sweden but cared for at these homes by The National Board of Institutional Care (Statens institutionsstyrelse, SiS). A majority of the children and adolescents under care at SiS-​homes have experienced institutional incarceration and coercive measures in similar settings. In other words, even though they are young, they have already

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_011

194 

James and Olausson

experienced a specific institutional interior design with a particular heritage; the carceral heritage of the prison and the psychiatric hospital. These institutions display an inherited design-​narrative where a disciplinary distribution of space (Foucault 1977) and the concept of the ‘total institution’ (Goffman 1973) characterize the interior and exterior design. As such, the design fosters control of the individual through, time, space and objects. Bodily movement is controlled and restricted, the self is diminished through geographical, social and organizational isolation. The concept of ‘Fit and Re-​Orientation’ is used in this article to explore carceral interior design and its impact on wellbeing and health from a phenomenological perspective. The concept is inspired by Sara Ahmed’s theories on queer phenomenology (2006) and happy objects (2010). Ahmed’s theories are used to critically analyse the role of carceral heritage in shaping youth’s life and health for the future. Examples of empirical data are used to elucidate youth’s lived experience of carceral design, and how the physical environment ‘Fits’ or not, in relation to their past experiences. Moreover, we suggest a model for how the dialectic relationship between an incarcerated person and the physical environment can be understood. Furthermore, we will discuss why this relationship becomes counterproductive for (re)habilitating care processes and wellbeing. Finally, unpacking the carceral layers suggests that contemporary interior design in SiS-​homes on one hand embraces, but unintentionally develops its carceral heritage and ideology, on the other hand, struggles to create caring environments in relation to current research on wellbeing. This dualistic phenomenon nurtures the dichotomy between penal ideology and care. Moreover, it raises the question of how incarcerated youth can orientate themselves within this ambiguous space. As researchers within the fields of health and design we have come to focus on the physical environment’s meaning for incarcerated people. We have previously studied different types of institutions where incarceration is interwoven with caregiving; psychiatric hospitals, prisons, jails, forensic psychiatric hospitals and SiS-​homes. Our specific interest has been in the living accommodation for youth who live their lives in a room of a limited size, with a carceral interior design that cannot be modified. This room is like no other, and yet visually similar to rooms in institutions, such as boarding schools, rehabilitation centres, or elderly homes. However, neither of them are designed for incarceration. A room designed for incarceration is intentionally designed to be “visually porous” (Wener 2012, 12), creating a sight line from the entering point by a vision panel or a door that at any hour can be opened for a controlling scan.

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

195

The contemporary design of the rooms at SiS-​homes shares its dna with the prison cell from the nineteenth century. This needs to be made visible as long as the reproduction of the past in the present remains un-​reflected (Emerick 2014, 190). The dna of materiality, objects, interior design, architecture and geographical location all deploy ethics, ideology and politics of the time and context. As such, carceral heritage is both tangible and intangible. When visiting institutions where incarceration takes place, we have been struck by the similarities in the spatial design of the room, design features and disposition of furniture. It appears as if a standard design is repeated, not only internationally, or between different institutions, but also over time (Jewkes 2018). It appears as if the institutional room for incarceration has been shaped for infinity and has become an entity of its own. By contrast, when we reflect on the design of bedrooms, kitchens, living rooms and bathrooms in domestic settings or public buildings, there have been significant changes decade after decade. How come newly designed rooms for incarcerated youth share the same plan and features as the room/​cell in a jail from the 1950s? Due to the small body of knowledge in this specific field (Connellan et al. 2013), as well as the complex ethical research challenges for this vulnerable group (Hart 1992), there is not yet enough evidence for how the physical environment, per se, affects incarcerated youth. However, research related to mental health facilities points in the direction that the physical environment plays a significant role for health-​related outcomes, (re)habilitation and wellbeing (Ulrich et al. 2008; Evans 2003). In this chapter, we will use examples of design from institutions we have visited in Sweden and Norway, as well as examples of data we collected from youth’s lived experiences of incarceration in relation to interior design. The institutions we have visited can neither be said to be anywhere near a full representation in each of these countries, nor of what exists in total of these types of institutions where incarceration and care takes place. Finally, we do not take a stand for or against specific residential youth homes or prisons as such. We understand that the Swedish government and their agencies’ intentions strive to provide the best possible child and adolescent welfare and prison system as possible. 2

Background

The development of the special residential youth homes emerged as a socio-​ political movement in the late nineteenth century. It was a political response to industrialization’s production of severely poor economical and living

196 

James and Olausson

conditions for working class families, causing difficulties to care for their children. During the late nineteenth and early twentieth century the concept of childhood, in the modern sense, lead to the recognition of youth as a distinct group with specific needs. Consequently, special institutions were formed for youth with norm breaking and criminal behaviour where care rather than punishment was given. These institutions focused on vocational training, behavioural correction and education, as means for rehabilitation (Norburg 2015). This was an answer to what was seen as increased criminality, gangs and immoral behaviour among youth in urban environments. In the early twentieth century the Swedish government declared that the majority of children with norm breaking behaviour should not be punished within the prison system but be taken into compulsory care at youth institutions. The legislation of the mandatory school system in 1882 decreased child labour. The school system became an arena to identify neglected children and individuals with norm breaking behaviour. In 1905, based on the 1902 child welfare law, Bona, the first state run children and adolescent behavioural institution was taken into use (Norburg 2015). Bona’s rural location was a deliberate decision to remove the youth from the destructive urban life, a geographical heritage that is prevalent today. Reshaping young men at Bona was based on discipline, labour and education. However, there is narrative evidence through biographies and research that the environment and care was penal and disciplinary, which provoked resistance that was met with corporal punishment and isolation (Frangeur 2007; Allmänna barnhuset 1992). Nevertheless, there was a clear ‘rhetorical’ turn towards education rather than penal discipline which is stated in the following document from 1921: Though an educational institution, even if it is intended for under-​aged criminals, must be organized as an open institution without those in prison facilities common protective means against escapes, though such cannot be avoided, they shall not give rise to such measures that the freedom of movement, that must be granted the students for pedagogical regards, even with the danger that it could be abused, shall not be much restricted. Swedish State 1921, 241; authors’ translation

Yet, the design of Bona was akin to the prison, where distribution of space and bodies was carefully orchestrated to hinder social and physical contact. The architectural site plan located housing units separated as far from each other as possible to hinder ‘contamination’ between the youth, and decrease the risk of riots. The housing units consisted of two wards at each wing with

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

197

the warden’s apartment placed between the wards as a barrier. Each ward was divided into dormitories for twelve young men with an adjacent monitoring room for security and surveillance (Swedish State 1921, 241). Ever since these institutions were constructed, there has continuously been a development towards a higher level of security, as well as individualized care programs which the physical environment plays a substantial role to facilitate (Qvarsell 1996). 3

SiS-​Homes

Statens institutionsstyrelse (SiS) was commenced as a governing authority in 1993 with an assignment to centralize all existing special residential youth homes which then were regionally governed. The aim was to improve caregiving outcomes by amending the quality of care and treatment. SiS states: [The] purpose of the activity is to give the young people and adults who are cared for with us better conditions for a socially functioning life without abuse and crime. Our vision is a place for change. It expresses that the care and treatment we provide creates better conditions for making the changes needed for a socially functioning life. Place for change is a guiding light for the agency’s long-​term focus and organization. Statens Institutionsstyelse 2020

Incarceration of youth is a juridical act based on the Care of Young Person’s Act (Special Provisions) or the Secure Youth Care Act. In total, the 23 SiS-​homes accommodate 705 beds for youth between 12–​21 years of age who stay for treatment on average for 302 days, some as short as a couple of weeks, some for years. During 2019, as many as 1152 (80% male, 20% female) children and adolescents were registered at special residential homes in Sweden (Statens Institutionsstyelse 2019). With global and local challenges, unaccompanied refugee minors and increased socio-​economic differences in society the demand for beds at SiS has increased. As a consequence, new buildings are being raised, and other buildings such as former jails and prisons have been converted. A cost-​effective standard unit has been developed to meet the increased demand. Producing new standard units is not a small investment for society. It may therefore be asked, what research has informed the design of these facilities? It is important to remember that the special residential youth homes that are being built today will be used for decades to come.

198  4

James and Olausson

The Physical Environment

The physical environment, including man-​made buildings as well as the surrounding nature is gaining attention from decision makers as a means to improve care outcomes. Research claims that the physical environment has a substantial impact on wellbeing in more general terms (Daffern, Mayer, and Martin 2004; Long et al. 2011; Ulrich, Bogren, and Lundin 2012). Even though the interest in the physical environment’s impact on care appears to grow, the lack of literature and research in the specific field of incarceration and care is, to our knowledge, limited. However, the body of knowledge in Evidence Based Design (ebd) (Hamilton 2020; Peavey and Vander Wyst 2017) related to health care, points to specific design features, such as private rooms with en-​suite bathrooms and windows with a view of nature as important factors to lower stress levels for improved care outcomes (Ulrich 1984; Ulrich et al. 2004; Ulrich et al. 2008; Ulrich 2012). Moreover, clear sight lines, positive distraction, art that represents nature, moveable furniture and autonomy to control one’s immediate environment as flow of air, temperature and light, are believed to promote wellbeing (Statens Institutionsstyelse 2017). Studies that point to specific design features that promote wellbeing such as certain types of furniture, materials and interior design in carceral settings, are sparse. In this article we are specifically interested in how the physical environment presents itself to youth under compulsory care and the implications for designing therapeutic/​ healing environments for wellbeing. 5

Wellbeing and Incarceration

From an existential point of view, wellbeing can be understood as “the intertwining of ‘peace’ and ‘movement’, at metaphorical, existential and literal levels.” (Todres and Galvin 2010, 1). In its simplest definition wellbeing means having the possibility to move forward in life. Furthermore, wellbeing implies a peaceful attunement to existence. The concept of wellbeing in this article refers to the existential theory of wellbeing built upon Martin Heidegger’s notion of dwelling and mobility (Galvin and Todres 2013). Dwelling as a mood of existence (being-​in-​the-​world) embraces not only being in time and space, but also being related to others and togetherness. A place that makes dwelling possible should allow individuals to realize their possibilities in life (Heidegger 1962). Phenomenologically speaking, wellbeing is how a person’s pathway of being in the world (dwelling) is felt and how this certain way of being in the world is experienced (Galvin and Todres 2013), something that goes beyond health,

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

199

illness and incarceration. This way of understanding wellbeing raises a question: is it possible to experience wellbeing when incarcerated, considering that incarceration means the loss of freedom, loss of movement, loss of autonomy and detachment from one’s ordinary life? We do believe that the design of the physical environment plays a significant role to foster wellbeing and may mitigate, at least not enhance, the losses that come with incarceration. 6

Methodological Considerations

The main theoretical standpoint in this article is based on phenomenology, specifically drawn on Sara Ahmed’s Queer Phenomenology (2006). Ahmed combines phenomenology with feminist and sociological theories to critically discuss how social norms affect orientation and shape people’s life (2006). The essence of ‘queer’ is created in-​between the normative and traditional when the subject experiences a sense of ‘otherness’. A phenomenological approach aims to understand the relationship between the subject and the world, and recognizes time, body, self and space as an intertwined whole. The subject always exists in space and time, both of which are an inseparable part of creating one’s lifeworld. Phenomenological investigations aim to “capture lived experience –​to connect directly and immediately with the world as we experience it” (Finlay 2011, 15) and systematically elucidate the implicit meaning of situations and events that shape people’s everyday life (Finlay 2011). The constituents of the lifeworld consist of lived body/​corporality, lived space/​spatiality, lived time/​temporality and lived relations/​relationality (Van Manen 1990). Relating to the spatial dimension of the lifeworld, phenomenological philosophy focuses on the mutual relationship between human beings and their environment through the material, social, historical and cultural world (Cresswell 2015). One of the core concepts in Ahmed’s theory is that of orientation, i.e., an enquiry on what gives direction –​a sense of belonging that provides a map in life –​and “how bodies are directed in some ways and not others, as a way of inhabiting or dwelling in the world” (2006, 27). Orientation relates to one’s identity and place in relation to the normative society. Building upon the concept of orientation, Ahmed (2006) uses the term ‘Fit’ that refers to the effects of our bodies and objects repeatedly being orientated towards each other, so that they become familiar and a background for everyday life. In addition, the concept of ‘happy objects’ (Ahmed 2010) is used to deepen our understanding of how objects are agents in orientation. Objects affect us in one way or another, they contain promises e.g., happiness, affordances,

200 

James and Olausson

agency or power. While holding the promise, or failing it, they define the place where we want to be, a place of happiness, constituted by happy objects. When objects cease to hold their promises, we orientate ourselves in another direction. Ahmed’s theory and concepts offer a new way of understanding the impact of the physical environment’s manifestation through materiality and objects. Given the specific situation of being incarcerated and cared for in a total institution, we believe this specific situation requires a research methodology that has the potential to go to “the things themselves” (Husserl 1991). It offers a way to understand the dialectical relationship between the subject and the physical environment, not least in the context of SiS-​homes. In this article we use quotes and images from our data collection at SiS-​ homes to exemplify youth’s lived experience in relation to the physical environment. The visual methods ‘Sketch and Talk” and ‘Photovoice’ (James and Olausson 2018) have been used to collect data. ‘Sketch and Talk’ is a method for data collection that uses open-​ended interviews while simultaneously sketching the discussed phenomena by hand (James 2017). Likewise, ‘Photovoice’ combines open-​ended interviews with photographs taken by participants as a means to empower and give voice to vulnerable people (Wang and Burris 1997). Visual methods may serve to e.g., redress imbalance of power between the researcher and the participants (Heidelberger and Smith 2016; Allen 2012) and have therefore been found useful in the study of prisons (James 2018), psychiatric hospitals (Olausson et al. 2019) and special residential youth homes (James and Olausson 2018). The methods have proven to be ethically sound as it is important to bear in mind that when meeting youth in their private rooms, it is necessary to acknowledge that their room is one of the few places where it is possible for them to maintain a personal sphere. Subsequently, it is vital for researchers to respect that “the invasion of a persona is an intrusion into a person’s self-​boundaries” (Sommer 1969). 7

Critical Analysis and the Concept of ‘Fit and Re-​Orientation’

In our data collection and field work at SiS-​homes, a common response from the youth regarding the interior design is that the interior reminds them of a jail/​detention centre or a prison and that they would prefer a home-​like environment. Others express that they are satisfied with the environment, as they are used to it; it ‘Fits’. Being used to the carceral environment means similarly being used by it, the environment acquires its meaning and societal symbolic impact through the

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

201

youth, as well as the system behind it. Being used to the environment means knowing it; internalizing narratives and symbols, being “used to use something” (Ahmed 2019). At the SiS-​homes we have met boys and girls who have shared their family’s heritage. One of the girls we met shared that one of her parents had lived at the same home, consequently, the girl had already lived it through her mother.

­f igure 10.1  Sketch and Talk with a young man at special residential home sketch by james

202 

James and Olausson

In Figure 10.1, a young man says: “Used to the jail room, it’s cozy here, not as cozy as at home, I’m comfortable here. It’s the best room, toilet, shelf, right kind of bed, tv, desk –​I write my songs sitting on the chair. Lived at homes [SiS] since I was eleven years old //​… back pain … spend too much time in bed” (authors’ translation). As stated earlier, a large number of the youth in SiS-​homes have grown up in different types of institutions and have experienced carceral environments. It is important to bear in mind that institutions that provide compulsory care and/​or incarcerate will inflict losses and pain to their clients. As Yngve Hammerlin states, “What does it mean for a person to be in prison and the prison to be in the person?” (2018, 254) as materiality, architecture and interior design become embodied. A prison or a special residential youth home is a place based on distrust manifested in static and dynamic security measures, materiality and the distribution of space. The impact of the physical environment does something to the person who is incarcerated, it affects the person’s whole existence. There is a reciprocal relationship between the carceral space and the incarcerated body, not only does the body become shaped by the carceral the body also shapes the carceral space, e.g., through ‘vandalism’ as a form of resistance. Rooms and cells in institutions are marked, and so inhabited, by generations of people who lived them prior to the newcomer. Youth communicate with each other through hidden or open messages. The incarcerated youth act out counter-​power and boredom, e.g., in form of violence or markings onto the physical environment: “Torn wallpaper, scribblings on the wall, engraved messages and tags, the evidence of prior inhabitants imposes other bodies and life stories upon the present inhabitants” (James and Olausson 2018, 134). The body is thus not only orientated by the physical environment of the room/​ cell, but also by its former inhabitants. Prison culture, incarceration and security have become a natural habitat. They know it, they have internalized the environment and maintain the identity of the ‘criminal’ —​a ‘Fit’ occurs. The imposed identity of the ‘criminal’ and feeling of distrust through evaluations of risk of self-​harm or violence towards staff, becomes amplified by the objects that surround the youth. If a body is used to being controlled and placed in certain positions and spaces by the physical environment, it will follow what is there, it is trained and ready, it recalls, it ‘Fits’. The incarcerated youth are restricted in their physical movement by constrained space and surveillance. The limitation of space is therefore a limitation of the body and a limitation of their life/​world. Short and narrow ­corridors, tight spaces and minimal outdoor spaces all restrict pacing, walking or running and contribute to the creation of “docile bodies” (Foucault 1977). To

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

203

­f igure 10.2  Photovoice photo taken by a young person at a special residential youth home

sit or lie down constitutes an obedient behaviour, it becomes the main bodily position, a way to show that ‘adaption’ and ‘change’ has occurred. It is a behavioural ‘virtue’, in hope of being released. The interior –​the wardrobe, the bathroom, the chair, the desk and the bed constitute a tight network of objects. They are in proximity and dependent on each other, in many cases physically attached to each other in a chain of functions, as an organism –​one body of controlling interior design, orientating the young body. When the body enters the cell/​room, what first comes into view is the bed. The bed’s placement denotes the cell/​room typology. For surveillance purposes, the bed is placed in direct line of sight from the cell door (James 2018). The positioning of the bed can be understood as a two-​folded aim: it allows the staff to see the young person, it is as well the first object in sight for the youth, directing to a bodily position of calmness. In the researchers’ data it has become evident that in the youths’ state of sadness, anxiety, fear, hopelessness, loneliness, that orientates their body towards the bed, makes it the only place to be with one’s emotions. Similarly, Elisabeth Fransson observes: “…particular prison spaces contribute to the youths’ process of becoming” (2018, 196) and denotes the youth’s room as a specific place for existential pondering.

204 

James and Olausson

Living in incarceration means being in a mood of confinement, existential homelessness (Torkildsby 2014) and displacement, which directly contradicts the elements that promote wellbeing. Can architecture and interior design make incarceration less damaging and make dwelling possible by bringing the human being to the forefront, beyond the carceral? Understanding wellbeing as a reciprocal action between ‘dwelling and mobility’, ‘peace and movement’, ‘home and adventure’ (Todres and Galvin 2010), is fundamental as it is this dialectical relationship that makes wellbeing possible in the first place. 8

‘Fit and Re-​Orientation’: An Explanatory Model

Ahmed’s theory can contribute to a new understanding of what the design of the cell/​room ‘does’ in the specific context of the special residential youth

Orientation towards life outside. Awayness.

‘Re-Orientation’ Closed for the therapeutic alliance.

Carceral design features. Fixed furniture. Hard materiality. Poor functions. Dominating security features. Low sense of autonomy. Distrust. Perception of the self as a ‘criminal’.

­f igure 10.3  Model of 'Fit and Re-​Orientation by james and olausson

Open for the therapeutic alliance. Well-being. Empowerment. Change.

Normalized design. Sense of autonomy. Trust. Comfort. Moveable furniture. Design for movement. Normalized security features. Well-functioning furniture designed for children and adolescents’ needs.

Model of ‘Fit and Re-Orientation’ James & Olausson 2020 ©

‘Fit’

Orientation towards the self. Self-awareness. Openess.

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

205

homes. According to Ahmed, “orientation […] is about how the bodily, the spatial, and the social are entangled” (2006, 181, note 1, emphasis in the original). In this sense, space as well as the objects in the space, could be understood as meaningful agents in a dialectic relationship, with the power to orientate the body in one direction, or another. Thus, to be orientated means to be turned towards certain objects and how these objects guide us in finding our way in life. Above, we propose a model to visualize how the complex process of ‘Fit and Re-​Orientation’ affects wellbeing, caregiving, and youth’s orientation in life. 9

‘Fit’

‘Fit’, as illustrated in the left section of the model above, occurs when the incarcerated body is familiar with and used to the carceral environment. The red frame represents carceral design heritage, its hard materiality, the interior’s lack of well-​functioning objects and the incarcerated youth’s loss of autonomy. There is limited, or no, control of light, temperature and air. Stainless objects, such as toilets and sinks, embody distrust and ascribe the interior its readiness to violence. The walls are cluttered, the furniture is fixed, the space is tight, noisy and smelly, it is familiar and it ‘Fits’. The carceral design heritage labels the youth and produces the perception of the self as a ‘criminal’ thus it orientates the youth away, towards the outside, to what is/​was out there. ‘Fit’ does not mean to be at ‘peace’, even though the body is familiar with and used to the environment. This place, with carceral design heritage in its dna, constituted by penal ideology, is not where we want to be. ‘Fit’ is ‘awayness’, to be orientated away from things. It means to not be present, to be occluded, to become hindered from self-​reflection and to not be able to open for the crucial therapeutic alliance. 10

‘Re-​Orientation’

‘Re-​Orientation’, as illustrated in the right part of Figure 10.3, occurs when the person is offered other directions by the environment than the affirmation, labelling and perception of the self as a ‘criminal’. An environment for ‘Re-​ Orientation’, as symbolized by the green frame, becomes a place where new horizons present themselves, horizons of change and hope. The place and its objects therefore act as agents orientating inwards, towards self-​reflection, thus offering possibilities for change and wellbeing, ‘dwelling-​mobility’, ‘peace and

206 

James and Olausson

movement’ and ‘home and adventure’ (Todres and Galvin 2010, 2). We propose that such an environment may incorporate a “promise of happiness” (Ahmed 2010), meaning that this place can happen and contribute to an upholding of one’s existence and being in place, such a place empowers to take action towards what has begun to present itself as a future direction. The green frame represents an interior design which has broken free from carceral heritage and is inhabited by “happy objects” (ibid) that offer ownership to the body and what is in proximity. Such objects communicate trust and create a place to ‘dwell’. Here, trust can be embodied in the design through materiality and design features that offer well-​functioning furniture designed for children and adolescents’ needs. Features as ‘normalized’ materiality (e.g. bathroom with porcelain instead of stainless steel) would offer a sense of normality and dignity. A combination of moveable and fixed furniture would give the affordance to create an environment that can turn space into place and dwelling, rather than incorporating the body into ‘the organism’ of fixed furniture. Well-​designed functionality and comfort (e.g., a comfortable bed designed to enhance the quality of sleep) would express care and concern for the growing body and an understanding of the pain related to sleeping disorders. An increased sense of autonomy (e.g., the ability to control light, temperature and air) would offer the agency to regulate the environment to emotional and physical needs. Such design features as discussed above do not mean to downplay the need of security measures. The risk of self-​harm, suicide and violence must be taken into account. Through designing for ‘Re-​Orientation’, it may be possible to in a greater degree direct youth’s orientation towards openness for treatment programs and an improved therapeutic alliance with staff. In summary, the model above strives to gain a deeper understanding of the role of carceral design heritage in relation to wellbeing and (re)habilitation. However, we are aware that the model does not fully explain the complex nature of reality for incarcerated youth. Nor do we believe that there is a single solution when designing for wellbeing and ‘Re-​Orientation’. Nevertheless, ‘Fit’ is a hindering factor that needs to be critically viewed and discontinued. 11

Discussion: Living Carceral Heritage in Contemporary Design of Special Youth Homes

Carceral design heritage is not merely traces of what has been and is therefore no longer relevant, heritage is constituted by how we choose to define it in the present. Heritage is the past, the present and the future. Heritage can

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

207

be understood as an “active process of assembling a series of objects, places and practices that we choose to hold up as a mirror to the present, associated with a particular set of values that we wish to take with us into the future.” (Harrison 2012, 4). It is also important to remember that heritage relates not only to materiality and design, but also to politics, values, morals and norms as they shape the lens through which we see the ‘assemblage’. The repetition of the carceral, both tacit and non-​tacit, needs to be critically discussed, or it will impact generations of young people to come if carceral heritage is the foundation on which their lives are shaped while in care. Outside the institutions, private homes and public space continuously reshape and organize space and interiors to current needs, but the carceral in institutions is set ‘on repeat’. As Ahmed points out: It is important that we think not only about what is repeated, but also about how the repetition of actions takes us in certain directions we are also orientating ourselves toward some objects more than others, including not only physical objects […] but also objects of thought, feeling, and judgment, as well as objects in the sense of aims, aspirations, and objectives. Ahmed 2006, 56

Sixty years have passed between the two cells in Figure 10.4 and Figure 10.5 below. The differences appear to be minimal; the barred window in the 1950s’ cell to the right has been replaced by laminated glass with no ‘visible’ bars in the cell to the left. The desk, storage and bed are similar, fixed to the floor. The cell on the right was state of the art in the 1950s in Sweden, the cell on the left is at Halden prison in Norway, the so-​called “most humane prison in the world” (Gentleman 2012), established in 2010. Figure 10.6 shows a contemporary standard interior designed by the Swedish Prison and probation office’s industrial production unit (Krimprod), produced by prisoners. Figure 10.7 is a recently designed room at a special residential youth home. This interior is as well an effect by the work of imprisoned men, and as such it shapes the work and everyday life of the incarcerated (Ahmed 2006). The interior and its functions point to a specific type of work —​training for the outside world. The below cells/​rooms preserve a carceral tradition and, to our opinion, lack critical and innovative design intention. Ideologically the carceral features point in a penal direction, intentional or not, and it is important to ask if the design of an interior in a SiS-​home or a prison is intended to ‘normalize’ the individual or the physical environment? (Hammerlin 2018). The physical

208 

­f igure 10.4 Photo from Halden prison photographer: trond a. isaksen, statsbygg, 2011

­f igure 10.6  Interior design for prisons and jails by krimprod, 2018

James and Olausson

­f igure 10.5  Photo from Kronobergshäktet (jail). Stockholm, 1950s. photographer: unknown

­f igure 10.7  Room at a special residential youth home photo by the authors

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

209

environment that is suggested in the model of ‘Fit and Re-​Orientation’ aspires to ‘normalize’ the carceral, rather than to ‘correct’ the individual through penal features. The designs above can lead to unintentional corporal punishment caused by the physical environment (James and Olausson 2018) as these spaces are designed to foster, control and punish rather than having the wellbeing of the youth in mind. There is, no doubt, an implicit and explicit ideology in the design of the physical environment in newly built homes for young offenders. This ideology is framed as humanistic. Nevertheless, its manifestation in the repeated carceral design of the room with fixed furniture and designed for surveillance, cannot be understood other than as rooted in a tradition that ceaselessly brings security (and its penal heritage) first. Carceral heritage is undoubtedly present in new designs (Hammerlin 2018 Wener 2012). One may furthermore ask if there is a risk that an accelerating political and ideological trend towards prolonged and penal punishment is a threat to critical and innovative theoretical and applied design intentions of the special residential youth homes, orientating them in a carceral direction and putting at risk the opportunity to create potential for ‘Re-​Orientation’? The perpetuation of penal ideology in Sweden since the 1980s (Hagberg 2006) can be seen as one of the causes of carbon-​copied carceral interiors. Further underlying causes may be found in the system of self-​supporting interior design and furniture production that the prison system is equipped with, as well as the continuum of additional buildings and standard units placed on century old carceral ground. Undoubtedly, there are as well reasons to be found in the Foucauldian theory of the prison’s objective as a symbol of norm creating narratives. The risk of laying ground to future special residential youth homes on the foundation of carceral heritage would risk bringing not only buildings that embody a penal ideology, but penal ideology to society’s plan for a specific group of youth. As Richard Wener points out: [t]‌he design of a jail or prison is critically related to the philosophy of the institutions, maybe even to the entire criminal justice system. It is the physical manifestation of a society’s goal and approaches for dealing with arrested and/​or convicted men and women [as well as children and adolescents], and it is a stage for acting out plans and programs for addressing their future. (2012, 7) How we design our domestic, public and institutional environments can be understood as a sum of factors, such as traditions, norms, heritage, social

210 

James and Olausson

values, economics, identity, law and power relations, among others. Combined they set the location of a building, its exterior, the interior, all the way down to each single piece of furniture and the material it is made of, as well as where and by whom it is made. To recognise the underlying subject matter, the ‘sum’, for the design of prisons and special residential youth homes we need to make visible how carceral heritage orientates towards a semantic language and function that calls for ‘security first’. We are not arguing that security shall not be taken as one of the most important factors for design of a prison or a special residential youth home, they shall meet all necessary aspects of security. However, the subject matter for designing ‘beyond’ issues of security, appears to be of a more arbitrary sort. The physical environment’s impact should be a recognized factor for incarcerated children and adolescents’ rehabilitation. Thus, it would be beneficial to integrate ‘design and wellbeing’ in national and international standards. Unfortunately, there are no guidelines in Sweden or internationally that in any substantial way prescribe the design for incarcerated youth. The minimum rules regarding imprisoned youth (defined by the UN as between 15 and 24 years of age) are stated in the “The Beijing Rules” (UN Human Rights 1990, art 39). However, there is nothing stated that specifically considers interior design for this group, “The Beijing Rules” essentially refer to the United Nations Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners (the Nelson Mandela Rules), Rule 13 that states: All accommodation provided for the use of prisoners and in particular all sleeping accommodation shall meet all requirements of health, due regard being paid to climatic conditions and particularly to cubic content of air, minimum floor space, lighting, heating and ventilation. united nations 1957, 1977

The statement “all requirements of health” should in our opinion be understood as more than a technical description. As an unintended outcome of the interior’s design a majority of the youth we have met stated that they suffered from bodily pain, e.g., in their back or neck. The unclear directives open for critical reflection to how wellbeing and health can be incorporated when designing new standard units for youth and inmates. The Convention on the Rights of the Child states that, “States Parties shall take all appropriate measures to promote physical and psychological recovery” and that “[s]‌uch recovery and reintegration shall take place in an environment which fosters the health, self-​ respect and dignity of the child.” (UN Human Rights, art 39). Naturally, the standard of the physical environment will vary depending on national context, though this article discusses specifically Sweden’s opportunities, our hope is

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

211

that critically viewing carceral heritage can foster development for the many incarcerated. Scholars have suggested that an increased sense of autonomy and wellbeing can be fostered by incorporating design features that ‘normalize’ institutional and carceral interior design (Ulrich 2019; Wener 2012; Sommer 1974). As opposed to the prison produced floor bolted body controlling ‘organism’ it is not only possible, but necessary, to develop design that has its starting point in wellbeing. The social, emotional and temporal isolation that is caused by incarceration risks to be enhanced if the physical environment does not mirror how people in society perform contemporary life. Compact living, multifunctional spaces and lifestyle adapted interiors would offer opportunities for dwelling, movement and peace. Such a dynamic interior would e.g., produce fewer static positions and offer the body to take a variety of positions which could promote less back pain and foster movement. Sofas, chairs and beds that enable an array of seating or laying positions are therefore crucial to wellbeing and health and create less bodily damage (Cranz 1998). The ‘living room’ in Figure 10.5 displays in its simplicity a number of factors we suggest can play a vital role when designing for wellbeing. The room below offers a variety of seating/​lying positions that can be adapted to personal needs and different bodies. The room, its objects and ceiling height offer a spatial disposition for semi-​private zones within the larger space. The ‘islands’ of seating furniture and the open floor space, together with two openings to the room that are elevated through broad steps (not visible in ­figure 10.8) open for movement, alternative seating and for the young growing body to develop sensory and motoric skills. Designing for movement with the growing body in focus is key to the design of new innovative school buildings (Waco 2016), but not yet an integrated part of the design for SiS-​Homes. Nor could ergonomics, the interaction and interface between an object and a human being, be assumed to be less relevant at special residential youth homes and similar institutions than in a school or office environment (Dogbeh et al. 2015). In these environments unions, employers and governmental agencies set comprehensive guidelines for the work environment. This further elevates the issue to see how these institutions’ physical environment affect staff as well, and how designing for ‘Re-​Orientation’ can improve staff’s capability to address care outcomes. Design —​to shape and ascribe ‘something’ with intentions holds promises. However, “forms may mislead a user regarding affordances, suggest capabilities that are not there” (Krippendorf 1989, 20). Therefore, when promises become misleading, design fails to facilitate intentions and needs. The perceived dichotomy between security and wellbeing may be two-​folded if

212 

James and Olausson

­f igure 10.8 “Sketch and Talk”. A living room at a SiS-​home. sketch by james

critically viewed, objects may be ascribed to suggest capabilities that intentionally do not intend to fulfil what an object promises. A critical discussion to “the extent to which prison buildings can perhaps ‘heal’ as well as harm” (Moran 2015, 122) is urgent. However, it is important to acknowledge that the physical environment, per se, cannot replace or compensate for the losses that incarceration inflict. As

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

213

John K., an inmate in a Norwegian prison, expresses in his essay Humanity Rather than Materialism –​A Short Essay About the Prison Environment, “Location, colour and furniture are no substitute for the need of humans to feel that they belong, to be accepted, to be recognized and possibly even forgiven. I have been placed somewhere I do not want to be.” (K. 2018, 35) Undoubtedly, design cannot surrogate human losses and needs, nevertheless, the physical environment holds vast potential to support clients, youth and staff to prevail in stated outcomes of care. 12

Conclusion

It is important to remember that heritage is not simply a given spatial and socio-​material tradition in the context of care and incarceration. Heritage is also reproducing itself and as such producing new heritage to come. The impact of carceral design heritage can no longer be neglected as its negative impact for care outcomes is evident. Moreover, the suffering inflicted to children and adolescents by holding this heritage is un-​ethical, un-​economical and un-​sustainable for any society that argues to provide equal and humanistic care. It is urgent to bring forth a model that sheds light on the problematic and counterproductive embodiment of carceral design heritage in relation to health and wellbeing. Finally, it is of utter importance for decision makers to critically consider the design of contemporary and forthcoming special youth homes, if intended to be a place for ‘Re-​Orientation’.

References

Ahmed, Sara. 2010. The Promise of Happiness. Durham: Duke University Press. Ahmed, Sara. 2006. Queer Phenomenology: Orientations, Objects, Others. Durham: Duke University Press. Ahmed, Sara. 2019. What’s the Use? On the Uses of Use. Durham: Duke University Press. Allen, Quaylan. 2012. “Photographs and Stories: Ethics, Benefits and Dilemmas of Using Participant Photography with Black Middle-​Class Male Youth.” Qualitative Research 12 (4): 443–​58. Allmänna barnhuset. 1992. Från tukthus till behandlingshem: ett mörkt eller ljust kapitel i Socialsverige? Helsingborg: Nordjem; Stockholm: Allmänna barnhuset distributör. Connellan, Kathleen, Mads Gaardboe, Damien Riggs, Clemence Due, Amanda Reinschmidt, and Lauren Mustillo. 2013. “Stressed Spaces: Mental Health and Architecture.” Health Environments Research & Design Journal (herd) 6 (4): 127–​168.

214 

James and Olausson

Cranz, Galen. 1998. The Chair: Rethinking Culture, Body, and Design. New York: W.W. Norton. Cresswell, Tim. 2015. Place: An Introduction. Second edition. Chichester: John Wiley & Sons. Daffern, Michael, Maggie M. Mayer, and Trish Martin. 2004. “Environment Contributors to Aggression in Two Forensic Psychiatric Hospitals.” International Journal of Forensic Mental Health 3 (1): 105–​14. Dogbeh, Audrey, Grunde Jomaas, Søren Peter Bjarløv, and Jørn Toftum. 2015. “Field Study of the Indoor Environment in a Danish Prison.” Building and Environment 88: 20–​26. Emerick, Keith. 2014. Conserving and Managing Ancient Monuments: Heritage, Democracy, and Inclusion. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press. Evans, Gary. 2003. “The Built Environment and Mental Health.” Journal of Urban Health 80 (4): 536–​55. Finlay, Linda. 2011. Phenomenology for Therapists: Researching the Lived World. West Sussex: Wiley-​Blackwell. Foucault, Michel. 1977. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. New York: Pantheon Books. Frangeur, Renée. 2007. Pojkar, pli och pedagogik: vanart och manligheter på Bonaanstalten 1905–​1948. Stockholm: Carlsson. Fransson, Elisabeth. 2018. “The Lunch Table. Prison Architecture, Action-​ forces, and the Young Imprisoned Body.” In Prison Architecture and Humans, edited by Elisabeth Fransson, Francesca Giofré and Berit Johnsen, 177–​97. Oslo: Cappelen Damm Akademisk. Galvin, Kathleen M., and Les Todres. 2013. Caring and Well-​Being: A Lifeworld Approach. London and New York: Routledge. Gentleman, Amelia. 2012. “Inside Halden, the Most Humane Prison in the World.” The Guardian International Edition, May 18, 2012. https://​www.theguardian.com/​society/​2012/​may/​18/​halden-​most-​humane-​prison-​in-​world. Goffman, Erving. 1973. Asylums: Essays on the Social Situations of Mental Patients and Other Inmates. Chicago: Aldine Pub. Co. Hagberg, Mattias. 2006. Släpp fångarna loss: ett reportage om brott, straff och trygghet. Stockholm: Atlas. Hamilton, D. Kirk. 2020. “Evidence-​Based Practice: Four Levels Revisited.” herd 13 (3): 26–​29. Hammerlin, Yngve. 2018. “Materiality, Topography, Prison and ‘Human Turn’ –​ A Theoretical Short Visit.” In Prison Architecture and Humans, edited by Elisabeth Fransson, Francesca Giofré and Berit Johnsen, 241–​66. Oslo: Cappelen Damm Akademisk. Harrison, Rodney. 2012. Heritage: Critical Approaches. Hoboken: Taylor and Francis.

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

215

Hart, Roger A. 1992. Children’s Participation: From Tokenism to Citizenship. Innocenti Essay no. 4. Florence: unicef International Child Development Centre.https://​ www.unicef-​irc.org/​publications/​100- ​childrens-​participation-​from-​tokenism-​to -​citizenship.html. Heidegger, Martin. 1962. Being and Time. New York: Harper. Heidelberger, Lindsay, and Chery Smith. 2016. “Low-​ Income, Urban Children’s Perspectives on Physical Activity: A Photovoice Project.” Maternal and Child Health Journal 20 (6): 1124–​32. Husserl, Edmund. 1991. On the Phenomenology of the Consciousness of Internal Time (1893–​1917). Edmund Husserl Collected Works. 4th Volume, edited by Rudolf Bernet and Translated by John B. Brough. The Hague: Nijhoff. James, Franz. 2017. "Sketch and Talk" : An ethnographic design method opening closed institutions. Paper presented at the Cumulus Working Papers 33/​16 : Cumulus Hong Kong 2016 : Open Design for E-​very-​thing, Hong Kong. Conference Paper. http://​cumulus.hkdihongkong2016.org/​uploads/​files/​cumulus_​hong_​kong_​2016 _​working_​papers.pdf James, Franz. 2018. “ ‘It’s Important to Not Lose Myself’. Beds, Carceral Design and Women’s Everyday Life within Prison Cells.” In Prison Architecture and Humans, edited by Elisabeth Fransson, Francesca Giofré and Berit Johnsen, 151–​ 76. Oslo: Cappelen Damm Akademisk. James, Franz, and Sepideh Olausson. 2018. “Designing for Care: Employing Ethnographic Design Methods at Special Care Homes for Young Offenders –​A Pilot Study.” Design for Health 2 (1): 127–​41. Jewkes, Yvonne. 2018. “Just Design: Healthy Prisons and The Architecture of Hope.” Australian & New Zealand Journal of Criminology 51 (3): 319–​38. https://​doi.org/​ 10.1177/​0004865818766768. K., John. 2018. “Humanity Rather than Materialism –​A Short Essay About the Prison Environment.” In Prison Architecture and Humans, edited by Elisabeth Fransson, Francesca Giofré and Berit Johnsen, 39–​64. Oslo: Cappelen Damm Akademisk. Krippendorff, Klaus. 1989. “On the Essential Contexts of Artifacts or on the Proposition That ‘Design Is Making Sense (Of Things)’.” Design Issues 5 (2): 9–​39. Long, Clive G., Vikki Langford, Rebecca Clay, Lorraine Craig, and Clive R. Hollin. 2011. “Architectural Change and the Effects on the Perceptions of the Ward Environment in a Medium Secure Unit for Women.” The British Journal of Forensic Practice 13 (3): 205–​12. Moran, Dominique. 2015. Carceral Geography: Spaces and Practices of Incarceration. Abindon, Oxon: Ashgate Publishing Limited. Norburg, Ulrika. 2015. “Fängelse, skola, uppfostringsanstalt eller skyddshem? Åkerbrukskolonien Hall för pojkar år 1876–​1940.” Phd diss., Linköping universitet. Olausson, Sepideh, Ella Danielson, Inger Berglund Johansson, and Helle Wijk. 2019. “The Meanings of Place and Space in Forensic Psychiatric Care: A Qualitative Study

216 

James and Olausson

Reflecting Patients’ Point of View.” International Journal of Mental Health Nursing 28 (2): 516–​26. Peavey, Erin, and Kiley B Vander Wyst. 2017. “Evidence-​Based Design and Research-​ Informed Design: What’s the Difference? Conceptual Definitions and Comparative Analysis.” herd 10 (5): 143–​56. Qvarsell, Roger. 1996. Ungdomars brottslighet och samhällets vård. Retrieved from Sweden: https://​www.stat-​inst.se/​contentassets/​debca5bf1d3240abb2d1a4da0a32b203/​vard-​av-​ungdomar-​med-​sociala-​problem-​del-​ett.pdf Sommer, Robert. 1974. Tight Spaces: Hard Architecture and How to Humanize It. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-​Hall. Sommer, Robert. 1969. Personal Space: The Behavioral Basis of Design. Englewood Cliffs: Prentice-​Hall. Swedish State. 1921. Katigt. Maj:ls proposition Nr 241. Proposition 1921: 241. Stockholm: Sveriges Riksdag. https://​www.riksdagen.se/​sv/​dokument-​lagar/​dokument/​proposition/​katigt-​majls-​proposition-​nr-​241_​DI30241. Statens Institutionsstyelse (SiS). 2017. SiS Vårdmiljö-​En guide för lokalutveckling. Stockholm: SiS. https://​www.stat-​inst.se/​contentassets/​c9b6b7d8d05c4ba0911ee6c97924bedd/​nr-​9-​2017-​sis-​vardmiljo-​-​en-​guide-​for-​lokalutveckling.pdf. Statens Institutionsstyelse (SiS). 2019. SiS i korthet. En samling statistiska uppgifter om SiS. Stockholm: SiS. https://​www.stat-​inst.se/​globalassets/​arlig-​statistik/​sis-​i -​korthet-​2019.pdf. Statens Institutionsstyelse (SiS). 2020. Verksamhetsplan 2020. Stockholm: SiS. https://​ www.stat-​inst.se/​globalassets/​verksamhetsplaner/​sis_​verksamhetsplan_​2020.pdf. Todres, Les, and Kathleen Galvin. 2010. “ ‘Dwelling-​Mobility’: An Existential Theory of Well-​Being.” International Journal of Qualitative Studies on Health and Well-​being 5 (3): 5444. Torkildsby, Anne Britt. 2014. “Existential Design: Revisiting the ‘Dark Side’ of Design Thinking.” Phd diss., University of Borås. Ulrich, Roger. 2019. Evidence-​Informed Design Recommendations for Juvenile Facilities in Sweden Report prepared for the Swedish National Board of Institutional Care (SiS) (2019). Gothenburg: Chalmers University of Technology. https://​www.chalmers. se/​SiteCollectionDocuments/​Centrum/​CVA%20Centrum%20f%C3%B6r%20 V%C3%A5rdens%20Arkitektur/​publikationer/​Ulrich_​2019_​Evidence-​Informed _​Design_​Recommendations_​for_​Juvenile_​Facilities_​in_​Sweden.pdf. Ulrich, Roger. 2012. Evidensbas för vårdens arkitektur 1.0: Forskning som stöd för utformning av den fysiska vårdmiljön. Translated by P. Fröst. Malmö: Charlmers tekniska högskola, Centrum för vårdens arkitektur. Ulrich, Roger. 1984. “View Through a Window May Influence Recovery from Surgery.” Science 224 (4647): 420–​21.

‘Fit and Re-Orientation’

217

Ulrich, Roger, Xiaobo Quan, Craig Zimring, Ainjali Joseph, and Ruchi Choudhary. 2004. The Role of the Physical Environment in the Hospital of the 21st Century: A Once-​in-​ a-​Lifetime Opportunity. Concord, California: The Center for Health Design. https://​ www.healthdesign.org/​system/​files/​Ulrich_​Role%20of%20Physical_​2004.pdf. Ulrich, Roger, Lennart Bogren, and Stefan Lundin. 2012. “Towards a Design Theory for Reducing Aggression in Psychiatric Facilities.” In arch 12: Architecture, Research, Care & Health. Aalborg, Denmark: Aalborg Universitet.1–​14. Ulrich, Roger, Craig Zimring, Xuemei Zhu, Jennifer DuBose, Hyun-​Bo Seo, Young-​Seon Choi, Xiaobo Quan, and Anjali Joseph. 2008. “A Review of the Research Literature on Evidence-​Based Healthcare Design.” herd 1 (3): 61–​125. United Nations of Human Rights. The Office of the High Commissioner. 1990. “Convention on the Rights of the Child.” Geneva, Switzerland: Office of the United Nations High Commissioner for Human Rights. https://​www.ohchr.org/​EN/​ ProfessionalInterest/​Pages/​CRC.aspx. United Nations. The Office on Drugs and Crime. 1957, 1977. Standard Minimum Rules for the Treatment of Prisoners. Geneva, Switzerland: The Office on Drugs and Crime of the United Nations. https://​www.unodc.org/​pdf/​criminal_​justice/​UN_​Standard _​Minimum_​Rules_​for_​the_​Treatment_​of_​Prisoners.pdf. Van Manen, Max. 1990. Researching Lived Experience: Human Science for an Action Sensitive Pedagogy. Albany, N.Y.: State University of New York Press. Waco, Margarida N. 2016. “Frederiksbjerg School.” Accessed February 5, 2021. https://​ dac.dk/​en/​knowledgebase/​architecture/​frederiksbjerg-​school/​. Wang, Caroline, and Mary Ann Burris. 1997. “Photovoice: Concept, Methodology, and Use for Participatory Needs Assessment.” Health Education & Behavior 24 (3): 369–​87. Wener, Richard. 2012. The Environmental Psychology of Prisons and Jails: Creating Humane Spaces in Secure Settings. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press.

­c hapter 11

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

Bad Girls and the (Representational) Heritage of Female Incarceration Cornelia Wächter Abstract In the world of the prison, the strong interrelation between space and wellbeing (or rather lack thereof) is perhaps more readily apparent than in most other institutions. However, gathering from the message conveyed by many ‘dark’ prison heritage sites, imprisonment today appears comparatively humane. The present chapter examines how the itv series Bad Girls (1999–​2006), by contrast, highlights traces of the institution’s ‘dark’ past in the present and sharply criticizes a system that, in many respects, is detrimental to women’s health and wellbeing. Unfortunately, however, Bad Girls progressively succumbs to its generic wip heritage, and, by catering to a public fascination with ‘deviancy’, closer to the message conveyed by ‘dark heritage’ sites.

1

Introduction

In the world of the prison, the strong interrelation between space and wellbeing (or rather lack thereof) is perhaps more readily apparent than in most other institutions; the fact of confinement itself, the enforced separation from loved ones, the temporary or final suspension of social roles and the sensory deprivation all have an undeniably negative impact on the wellbeing of those subjected to incarceration. However, gathering from the message conveyed by many prison heritage sites, imprisonment today appears comparatively humane. The Clink Prison Museum in London, for instance, promises prospective visitors the opportunity to “handle torture devices, and to view and hear all about the tales of torment and many misfortunes of the inmates of the infamous Clink Prison” (n.d.: n.p.; emphases added). While providing pleasantly gruesome entertainment, such ‘old prisons’ of dungeons and chains are implicitly juxtaposed with current prisons, suggesting “that contemporary practices of imprisonment are more ‘civilized’ when compared with the barbarous past […]” (Morin and Moran 2015, 4; see also Turner and Peters 2015, 71). Implicitly and explicitly, the emphasis is placed on the fact that cells are

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | DOI:10.1163/9789004468900_012

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

219

now sanitised, and the old shackles have been transformed into new means of physical constraint, which, at least supposedly, are more humane and only rarely deployed. Even buildings of the so-​called ‘new prisons’ that emerged in the mid-​nineteenth century with the express purpose of preventing moral and physical contamination and ostensibly geared towards reform are now presented as sites of ‘dark heritage’ –​places catering to “consumerist interest in ‘dark sites’ of death and disaster, and the conscious preservation and marketing of such sites in ways which enhance their macabre appeal” (Moran 2016, 137). Crumlin Road Gaol, for instance, once considered to be at the forefront of these ‘new’ and reformed prisons, advertises its “Gaol Experience” tours with the words: “Explore 150 years of the Crumlin Road Gaol where 17 men have been executed and explore its darkest secrets” (2017–​2020, n.p.). Heritage, in these instances, is something preserved as a means of contrast, promoting a narrative of progress in terms of the wellbeing of incarcerated people. Like material sites, literary, televisual and filmic representations of the prison constitute forms of cultural heritage (Harrison 2013, 6) which can –​ deliberately or not –​operate as ‘dark heritage’. For instance, canonised literary works, such as Charles Dickens’s American Notes for General Circulation (1842), Oscar Wilde’s “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” (1898)1 or John Galsworthy’s Justice (1901), in their sharp criticism of the prison system of their time, may suggest to a modern readership that incarcerated people fare significantly better these days. Instead, the following quote from a 2017 report on hmp Liverpool vividly illustrates that these literary texts, unfortunately, remain more topical than ‘dark heritage’ representations suggest: Some of the most concerning findings were around the squalid living conditions endured by many prisoners. Many cells were not fit to be used and should have been decommissioned. […] Many lavatories were filthy, blocked or leaking. There were infestations of cockroaches in some areas, broken furniture, graffiti, damp and dirt. In one extreme case, I found a prisoner who had complex mental health needs being held in a cell that had no furniture other than a bed. The windows of both the cell and the toilet recess were broken, the light fitting in his toilet was broken with wires exposed, the lavatory was filthy and appeared to be blocked, his 1 Inside … , a 2016 art project by Artangel, in association with the National Trust, combined material heritage with literary heritage, predominantly via readings of Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis and “The Ballad of Reading Gaol” and artistic responses to these works, within the actual hmp Reading, which was closed in 2014. The website reports that the project “revealed the dark history of Victorian prison life […]” (National Trust n.d., n.p.; emphasis added).

220 Wächter sink was leaking and the cell was dark and damp. Extraordinarily, this man had apparently been held in this condition for some weeks. [One] part of the jail had become so dirty, infested and hazardous to health that it could not be cleaned. hm Chief Inspector of Prisons 2017, 5

There has, moreover, been a marked rise in long-​term solitary confinement, with disastrous consequences for the mental and physical wellbeing of the individuals subjected to it –​again, rendering, for instance, Dickens’ and Galsworthy’s criticism of solitary confinement deplorably topical. Aleida Assmann describes (cultural) heritage as a “gift that connects us with our ancestors beyond their deaths” (2020, 9; translation mine). In the case of representations of the prison, the gift is double-​edged in that even texts that served as a direct criticism of the prison system for their contemporary readership, can easily be appropriated for opposite ends to a twenty-​first-​century readership. The world of the prison is notoriously hidden, while the ‘deviancy’ it represents tends to generate public curiosity. For that reason, representations of the prison –​material, literary, televisual or filmic –​all play a crucial role when it comes to public attitudes towards people in incarceration and their wellbeing. For a large section of the public, representations stand in for first-​ hand experience (see, e.g. Harmes et al. 2020, 4). The Clink Museum tellingly promises its visitors the experience of “the sights, sounds and smells of the prison” (n.d., n.p.; emphases added). Literary texts can similarly convey what Monika Fludernik calls experientiality –​“the quasi-​mimetic evocation of ‘real-​ life experience’ ” (1996, 9); and what Erica Meiners remarks about hbo’s series Oz (1997–​2003), equally holds true for other televisual and filmic representations of the prison: they “[offer] audiences the feeling and the belief what life is like” in these institutions (2007, 23). And such feelings and beliefs are rarely scrutinised for accuracy. The power of representations holds particular significance in the current climate of “new punitiveness” –​“a trend towards mass incarceration” that “has been accompanied not only by longer prison sentences but by penal laws that seem to abandon long-​standing limits to punishment in modern societies” (Pratt et al. 2000, xii). As the “new” indicates, this punitiveness reverts to –​ bears the traces of –​an ‘old’ form of punitiveness. In Discipline and Punish (1977), Michel Foucault famously traced the emergence of the direct and aggressive targeting of the body in punishment of the ‘old’, sovereign system to disciplinary forms of punishment intended to produce docile bodies. As John

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

221

Pratt et al. point out, “new punitiveness may therefore be understood as forms of punishment that seem to violate the productive, restrained and rational tenets of modern disciplinary punishment and hark back, in different ways, to the emotive and destructive themes of sovereign punishment” (2000, xii–​xiii). These new forms include a return to the notion of mere punishment rather than (at least the attempt at) rehabilitation, and this inevitably deemphasises attention to the wellbeing of people in incarceration. If the main objective is punishment, illbeing may even become desirable. It, therefore, matters whether representations foreground concerns of the wellbeing of people in incarceration or whether they cater to an attitude that writes these people off as irredeemable; it matters whether representations juxtapose a ‘dark’ past with an ostensibly more humane future or whether they highlight the continuation of problematic aspects of imprisonment as punishment. The present chapter is thus concerned with representations as and in relation to two different types of ‘dark heritage’: representations of the prison can, on the one hand, serve as forms of ‘dark heritage’. They can, on the other hand, map and/​or highlight ‘dark heritage’ in the sense of what Rodney Harrison calls “traces of the past in the present” (2013, 1) –​in this case, deleterious or ‘dark’ traces of the past in the present prison system. Representations of women in prison deserve particular attention on the grounds that incarcerated women have long been side-​lined both within the penal system and in representational terms. Incarcerated women are, moreover, frequently construed as doubly deviant: for being convicted criminals and for standing in defiance of gender roles, especially when they have been convicted of violent crimes. As Dana M. Britton phrases it, “[w]‌omen’s violence stands in stark contradiction to prevailing norms of (white) femininity […]. The requisites of femininity have the paradoxical effect of making women inmates appear even more aberrant than men […]” (2003, 2). In 2019, 4% of the prison population in England and Wales and 4.9 % in Scotland were female (Sturge 2020, 5, 16). In line with society at large, the prison system has long tacitly conceived of ‘the prisoner’ as (white) male, and even “prison studies and activism have […] until recently rarely attended to the ways that gendered difference produces carceral difference” (Stanley et al. 2011, 4). In 2013, Mary Borthworth and Emma Kaufman still tellingly open their chapter on “Gender and Punishment” in The sage Handbook of Punishment and Society with the words: “Gender is strangely missing from studies of punishment and society” (2013, 186). This is highly problematic in that women are, in fact, “uniquely harmed through disproportionate prison sentences, sexual

222 Wächter assault while in custody, and nonexistent medical care, coupled with other forms of violence” (ibid.).2 This unacknowledged bias is also reflected in representations of the prison. In 2007, Dawn Cecil still pointed out that whereas “[w]‌omen in prison are a vulnerable and invisible population […] we rarely have the opportunity to hear their stories” (1). If we consider the enormous popularity of women-​in-​prison series such as Bad Girls (1999–​2006), Wentworth (2013–​present) or Orange Is the New Black (2013–​present), there is certainly a growing interest in the stories of women in incarceration. The fact that such narratives now proliferate makes them all the more worth exploring, especially with a view to their generic heritage. By and large, the so-​called Women-​in-​Prison (wip) tends to “reinforce society’s stereotypes about female prisoners: that they are violent, worthless, sex-​crazed monsters totally unworthy of humane treatment” (Clowers 2001, 28). This representational heritage is very obviously shaped by the patriarchal heritage of society at large, and it impacts the perception of women in prison and public attitudes towards their wellbeing. At the same time, depictions of women in prison have offered welcome opportunities for challenging gender roles and gender stereotypes (see Alber 2007, 8–​9; Ford 2020, 614; Halberstam 1998, 201). In the words of Heather Love, “[t]hrough the criminalization of homosexuality, prisons have served as holding cells and correctional facilities for gender and sexual outsiders. But they have also served as dream worlds, sites for the production of fantasies about sexual excess and disorder, desire, and domination” (2014, n.p.). Accordingly, when discussing contemporary representations of women’s prisons, it not only matters whether they foreground traces of a punitive past in the present but also to what extent they engage with the patriarchal heritage of society at large and the ways in which it still manifests in a prison system that has only recently become attentive to concerns of gender. The present chapter examines how the itv series Bad Girls (1999–​2006), created by Maureen Chadwick and Ann McManus, negotiates the wellbeing of women in incarceration as a political concern. The series, which is set in hmp Larkhall, a fictional prison in South London, sharply criticises a system that is, in many respects, detrimental to women’s health and wellbeing. In this regard, the series emphasises that the shackles of old may indeed have been 2 For lgbtqi prisoners, a similar case can be made. Eric Stanley goes so far as to claim that “regimes of normative sexuality and gender are organizing structures of the prison industrial complex” (2011, 4). The prison system is rigidly binary, and women and lgbtqi prisoners continue to be the ‘others’ of a prison system which, by and large, construes ‘the prisoner’ as heterosexual cis male.

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

223

largely replaced, as places of dark heritage suggest, but that they have transformed into other means of punishment. Bad Girls unmasks punitive ‘traces of the past in the present’ that run counter to an ostensible reform agenda. Over the course of its eight seasons, the series addresses a variety of issues faced by women in incarceration, such as lack of adequate health care for (cis and trans*) women, problems surrounding motherhood in prison and, more generally, the observation that incarceration as punishment is neither what these women need nor what best serves to counter their offending behaviour. Instead, as one of the characters states to the press subsequent to her release: “[It] only makes bad situations worse” (S1E10 00:40). In this sense, Bad Girls echoes the narrative criticism which, for instance, Dickens made in American Notes concerning the earliest of the ‘new prisons’ or penitentiaries of the nineteenth century (see Wächter 2019). By drawing attention to and heavily criticising the deficits of the current system, Bad Girls stands in contrast to the progress bias represented by ‘dark heritage sites’. It is the present that is read as dark; it is a present that has by no means left its past behind. This sense of a past that is still inscribed in the present is, for instance, visually encoded in the Victorian buildings in which hmp Larkhall is housed.3 The series’ relation to the heritage of the wip genre, however, complicates matters. As David Wilson and Sean O’Sullivan remark, Bad Girls is very self-​consciously a women’s prison drama –​in two senses. Firstly, the structure of the programme and the choice of topics for inclusion make it quite clear that the show is intended as making some comment on real-​life experiences of incarceration. […] But secondly, the producers and writers seem to be acutely aware that women’s prison dramas have been done before, and that they are entering a field littered with baggage. (2004, 123; emphasis added) Unfortunately, largely due to this baggage, Bad Girls’ narrative criticism is progressively eclipsed by what Kyra Hunting describes as an “emphasis on violence and power struggles” (2016, 121). In its ostensible aims and certainly at the beginning, the series may highlight ‘dark heritage’ in the sense of harmful 3 Incidentally, one of the filming locations of Bad Girls is an example of what Jennifer Turner terms dark tourism. Formerly hmp Oxford, the building was rented to several production companies, before it was converted into The Malmaison Hotel (Turner 2016, 104). According to Turner, “[t]‌he remains of the castle are classed both as a Grade i listed building and as a Scheduled Monument (English Heritage 2007). The hotel therefore exists as both a heritage site and a luxury business” (2016, 106).

224 Wächter traces of the past in the present; increasingly, however, the series succumbs to its generic wip heritage. In terms of catering to public fascination with ‘deviancy’, it thereby comes closer to the message conveyed by ‘dark heritage’ sites, and the series thus –​wittingly or unwittingly –​plays into the hands of a ‘new’ punitive politics that justifies the illbeing of incarcerated women. 2

Representing the Impact of Imprisonment on Wellbeing

Unlike many other prison representations, Bad Girls neither opens with an identification figure entering the prison who represents supposedly ‘normal’ society (as in Wentworth or Orange Is the New Black) (see Ford 2020, 615; Wächter 2020, 659–​61)), nor with dismal views of staple metonymic representations of incarceration, such as iron doors slamming shut (as in the British tv classic Porridge), but with a close-​up of a smiling woman’s face with glittering hair-​ dress, dancing to the sound of N-​Trance’s version of “Stayin’ Alive” (featuring Ricardo Da Force). The camera zooms out to show more dancing women in sparkling outfits. The scene is suddenly intercut with a close-​up of another woman’s face, screaming in agony, only to return to the depiction of yet more dancing women on a stage. Two more oscillations reveal that the screaming woman is on a bed in a cell and bleeding. The juxtaposition is enhanced by the tonal tension generated by contrasting colour schemes in the sequence: glittering colourfulness on the one hand, and monochromatic cell interior on the other hand. The dancing is ended abruptly when officers switch on the light and turn off the music. When the women are moved back to their cells, Nikki Wade (Mandana Jones) attempts to check up on the suffering Carol (Ashlee Miller) but is prevented by Officer Sylvia Hollamby (Helen Fraser). In a classic metonymic representation of the prison, Hollamby’s eye is then shown peering through the spyhole into Carol’s cell, telling her that if she had wanted to see people, she should have gone to the rehearsal. A reaction shot in medium close-​up shows Carol banging on the door with hands covered in blood, demanding to see a doctor, reporting that she is bleeding, to which Hollamby replies: “Here we go again. […] Just stop dramatizing and get in your bed. […] You can see the doctor in the morning if you’re serious” (00:05). Another reverse shot depicts Carol bending her head in tearful desperation. The officer walks off and complains to a colleague about the long hours and her ensuing desire to take sick leave. In the subsequent shot, Carol is seen doubling over in agony and crawling onto her bed, bleeding profusely. The high angle, with the camera circling over Carol, visually dwarfs her suffering figure and emphasises

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

225

her vulnerability. When Carol finally screams again, the shot dissolves into the bright red of what turns out to be a traffic light, suggesting a loss of consciousness and simultaneously a visual signal that this must stop. The next morning, another officer finds Carol unconscious on her bed. It turns out that the young woman had miscarried and almost bled to death overnight. Accordingly, from the very first scene on, as Kenneth Dowler points out, “Bad Girls brought to the screen the current concerns revolving around the UK Home Office minister Ann Widdecombe, who had defended the shackling of pregnant female prisoners while in hospital” (2020, 158). The series’ opening, moreover, introduces the incarcerated women first and foremost as women, not as criminals. At the same time, the stark contrast between the joyful and noisy dancing and the woman writhing in pain emphasises the latter’s helpless isolation. Dowler describes the opening as “[highlighting] the juxtaposition of ‘country club corrections’ with the harshness of corrections” (2020, 158). The notion of ‘country club corrections’, or prisons as ‘holiday camps’ (Jewkes 2006, 149), is the most extreme manifestation of the misguided notion that, contrary to the ‘dark’ prisons of the past, contemporary prisons cater too much to the wellbeing of the people they incarcerate. In the words of criminologist Yvonne Jewkes: “Whilst the statistics on prisoner self-​harm and suicide provide graphic evidence of the damage that prisons do to some of society’s most vulnerable members, the popular view of prisons as holiday camps offering an array of ‘luxuries’ such as in-​cell television and gourmet cuisine to an undeserving and dangerous underclass continues to circulate” (2006, 150). As opposed to that, in the initial representation of Carol, camera work and editing place heavy emphasis on the continuing suffering of people in incarceration –​ a harmful inheritance that has by no means been left behind. Bad Girls cites the ‘holiday camp’ narrative and simultaneously unmasks it as inadequate. At the same time, via the dancing scene, the series promises viewers what Wilson and O’Sullivan describe as “camp fun” (2004, 127). That Carol serves to represent women in incarceration in general, rather than being an exception, soon becomes readily apparent in a verbal fight between Wing Governor Helen Stewart (Simone Lahbib) and Nikki Wade in the wake of Carol’s miscarriage. Nikki paraphrases Helen’s speech to the women as follows: “What she’s telling us is we’re none of us safe in here […] because even if we’re bleeding to death we don’t get believed” (S1E1 00:19). While Helen ostensibly sides with her officers, it turns out that this was, in fact, her (however misguided) attempt to prevent a riot. In a conversation with her superior, she points out that the women are angry and that she does not blame them (S1E1 00:27). This, however, is the first of many instances in which Helen’s attempts at improving the situation of the women under her care are thwarted

226 Wächter by what she calls the “old boys’ network” (S1E1 00:44). As Helen remarks in confronting her main antagonist, Prison Officer Jim Fenner (Jack Ellis): “So you thought you’d go over my head, did you, Jim? Man to man, the way the prison service loves best. […] I know that you have got a problem with me, Jim. It’s things I cannot do anything about: my age, my background –​the fact that I’m a woman” (S1E1 00:27; emphasis added). The representation of a miscarriage endangering a woman’s life for lack of medical attention thus moreover provides the vehicle for the series’ introduction to the subject of the patriarchal heritage of the prison system in a broader sense. From the outset, Bad Girls presents the politics of wellbeing of women in incarceration as a matter not only of prison policy but in direct interrelation with the heteropatriarchal heritage of society at large. With very few exceptions, it is female characters on both sides ‘of the bars’ who struggle against this. The episode concludes with a conversation between Helen and Nikki in the segregation cell to which Nikki had been moved:

helen:

“I intend to make a lot of changes here, but I need your cooperation. You’re right, I can’t run things around here without your help.” nikki: “Listen, darling, I don’t even know how people like you can sleep at night if you believe in a system that locks up pregnant women.” helen: “Well, you’re just going to have to trust me: I don’t. […] It’s up to you. Either we both climb down together and make something positive out of this […] or we all lose out to the old boys’ network.” (S1E1 00:42–​00:44)

In this scene, both women are visually coded as equal by means of the very similar shade of blue they wear. Helen is placed in front of the barred window looking out, her back half-​turned to the camera –​a common visual trope of prison film and television but usually showing a prisoner, not a member of staff, gazing wistfully outside. This visually represents her ‘confinement’ in the established (patriarchal) structures of the system. Nikki is placed at the front left, the camera focusing on her. Consequently, her facial expressions in response to what Helen says are emphasised, which underlines Helen’s claim that she depends on Nikki if she wants to change anything. The camera finally changes to deep focus, presenting both women’s faces in sharp focus, when they turn their heads to face each other, foreshadowing the (love) relationship that will develop between them.4 Accordingly, from the outset, it is (queer and 4 For discussions of the relationship between Helen and Nikki in light of the conventions of the wip genre, see Herman 2003, Millbank 2004.

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

227

feminist) women against the establishment –​against an institutional heritage and its established structures that fail to fully acknowledge the very existence of women, much less their needs. Heritage in the sense of ‘traces of the past in the present’ is also a matter of embodiment. Writing from a (queer) phenomenological perspective, Sara Ahmed maintains that “[i]‌t matters how we arrive at the places we do” (2006, 2). Familiarity is a central aspect of what Ahmed considers to be important in situations of arrival since “[e]ven in a strange or unfamiliar environment we might find our way, given our familiarity with social form, with how the social is arranged” (Ahmed 2006, 7). Being familiar with certain social forms makes it easier for ourselves to make ourselves at home: “The familiar is an effect of inhabitance; we are not simply in the familiar, but rather the familiar is shaped by actions that reach out toward objects that are already within reach” (Ahmed 2006, 7). For some people in incarceration, for instance, the architecture of the cell resembles that of other institutions the individual has (usually involuntarily) resided in and thus generates a sense of ‘fit’ (see James and Olausson, this volume). As noted above, prison representations notoriously tend to invite empathetic viewer identification with someone presumed to be part of the narratively constructed (white, middle-​class, conventionally attractive, able-​bodied and heterosexual) ‘us’ and follows this figure of identification into the ‘otherworld’ of the prison (see Wächter 2020, 660–​661).5 In these cases, the emphasis is on a body that clearly and unambiguously does not ‘fit’ this environment. While Bad Girls does not deploy such an identification figure for its opening, the introduction of Zandra Plackett (Lara Cazalet) in the second half of the first episode is nevertheless contrasted with that of Monica Lindsay (Jane Lowe) via whom the series cites the classic opening. Both women are brought to hmp Larkhall on the same transport. Zandra is shown at her ease and openly defiant of the officers until she realises that she will be placed on the same wing as a person she has drug debts with. Zandra is a reoffender and already familiar with the place and places similar to it. The traces of her past in the present 5 In terms of race, class and sexuality, it is still predominantly white heterosexual, middle-​ class, able-​bodies and conventionally attractive accounts of imprisonment that get published and remain published, thus over-​representing the perspective of those entering this ‘otherworld’ as part of the ‘us-​them’ dichotomy and thereby perpetuating it. Among the most recent manifestations of this phenomenon are Piper Kerman’s Orange Is the New Black: My Year in a Women’s Prison (2010) and the subsequent tv series (2013-​present). It is no coincidence that it is a white, middle-​class woman’s account of her experience of imprisonment that has found such widespread attention –​nor is the fact that she was ‘lured into crime’ by a female lover, which makes her deviancy more easily relatable to a mainstream audience.

228 Wächter are inscribed in her body and assume the form of familiarity. She ‘fits’ because she has been made to fit. As it turns out, she was moved from one foster home to another as a child and never had loving caregivers. Zandra is one of the characters via whom the series emphasises that the past is what has brought many of the women into prison in the first place and that they need help rather than punishment. Bad Girls does so even with regard to its most brutal and ruthless characters, notably the wing bully ‘Shell’ Dockley (Debra Stephenson). Monica, by contrast, is depicted as decidedly unfamiliar with the environment and with the other imprisoned women. Her privilege as a white, middle-​class woman makes her ‘unfit’ for the environment. The suggestion that a past deprived of loving care renders a life trajectory leading to imprisonment more likely, is reinforced by the narrative of ‘Denny’ Blood (Alicya Eyo). Denny, Shell’s sidekick, is the person Zandra is afraid of when she is moved to G-​Wing. After initial violent encounters, the two eventually become friends. In episode six, Jessie Devlin (Denise Black), a chronic alcoholic, arrives on the wing, and it turns out that she is Denny’s mother (S1E6 00:28). Jessie, however, does not recognise her daughter and denies having any children when Denny first asks about them (S1E6 00:25). The episode traces the burgeoning of a relationship between the two. Jessie finally recognises her daughter. She relates that she had a series of relationships, none of them happy at all, and sought refuge in alcohol. When social services took her baby from her, she did not fight, thinking that this would provide Denny with a chance she did not have with her mother (S1E6 00:30–​31). Instead, however, Denny, like Zandra, was moved from one institution to another and never experienced any sustained emotional attachment, nor did she receive adequate support in the social system. In both cases, this lack of attachment and care is suggested to stand in direct causal relation to the two women’s incarceration, and Denny, too, was made to ‘fit’ into the world of the prison. Another dominant aspect of the series’ trenchant criticism of the prison system is the enforced separation of mothers and children and the disastrous consequences for the wellbeing of both. The issue first gains prominence when Monica repeatedly and desperately demands being allowed to make phone calls (S1E2). Her son, Spencer, has trisomy 21 and has never before been separated from his mother for a single night (S1E2). Even when he is brought in to visit his mother, his distress caused by the separation and the environment he finds his mother in is unmistakably severe. Spencer, too, does not ‘fit’. This narrative strand comes to a dramatic head when Spencer dies of a heart attack. Monica, in conversation with other women in the garden, is called into Helen’s office, expecting to talk about her home visit, when she is faced by the nun who takes care of Spencer in her absence (S1E8 00:17). Monica calls “Spencer” in awful

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

229

premonition, then the screen fades to black and subsequently to a high-​angle shot of the prison. Monica’s disembodied voice is blended in: “I should have been with him!”, further emphasising the institutional separation of mother and son and, by implication, mothers and children in general. While Monica’s voice goes on to ask: “Why wasn’t I with him? Why didn’t I know?”, the camera returns to the governor’s office. The subsequent shot/​reverse shot sequence oscillates between Monica’s and Helen’s face, revealing the latter’s aggrieved expression at witnessing Monica’s grief, as well as at the accusations Monica levels at Helen and the institution she represents (S1E8 00:17). Accordingly, the representational strategies of the scene highlight that this is not an isolated incident but paradigmatic of a systemic problem. In Precarious Life (2004), Judith Butler argues that grief can promote a tenuous sense of ‘we’ across lines of identification because “all of us have some notion of what it is to have lost somebody” (20). Bad Girls draws upon this common knowledge of a sense of loss to criticise the causes of illbeing for women in prison. As Dawn Cecil points out, “the stories told about mothers in prison have the potential to humanize these women more than any other element included in the programs. Viewers see that women behind bars are actually not very different from women in the free world” (2007, 322). More specifically, Monica’s story points to the fact that women still tend to be the prime caregivers for children and other people in need –​another aspect of a heteropatriarchal heritage. Monica’s grown-​up son here represents both children and, more generally, people in need of care, emphasising that, if women are incarcerated, this frequently entails that those under their care are left destitute. This reading is further enhanced when Helen seeks out Nikki to talk about the incident. Nikki shouts at her, asking how she can sleep at night, knowing that a mother is locked up in a cell separated from her son’s body (S1E8 00:22). As several subsequent scenes reveal, Helen is by no means indifferent to the women’s suffering, and the same holds true for several other members of the prison staff. I have argued elsewhere that narratively placing the blame for what goes wrong in prison on prison staff –​and this has a long tradition in various media –​ultimately serves to deflect collective complicity with the existence of prisons and the wrongs committed as part of the prison system (Wächter 2014, 30). As opposed to that, Bad Girls, at least at the beginning, refuses to provide audiences with a figurative means of “[washing] their hands off the corollaries of punishment” or with a narrative compensation of guilt (ibid.). There are bad officer figures in the series, but viewer empathy is guided towards those who empathise with the incarcerated women. Another respect in which the series probes the deleterious corollaries of traces of the past in the present is the impact of such traces inscribed into

230 Wächter incarcerated people’s institutional files. According to Foucault, the introduction of the case file was one of the key markers of the shift from sovereign to disciplinary power (1995, 190). Developing most prominently in the hospitals of the eighteenth century, such procedures of disciplinary writing “opened up two correlative possibilities”, one of them being “the constitution of the individual as a describable, analyzable object, not in order to reduce him to ‘specific’ features […] but in order to maintain him in his individual features, in his particular evolution, in his own aptitudes or abilities, under the gaze of a permanent corpus of knowledge […]” (1995, 190). In line with Foucault’s claim that power and knowledge are inextricably entwined, Bad Girls repeatedly unmasks that the ‘knowledge’ contained in such files stands in the service of institutional power and by no means captures the individual adequately. The series especially criticises the deleterious impact of case files on the wellbeing of those it supposedly represents. This first becomes readily apparent in the opening episode by way of the officer’s misassessment of the pregnant woman’s need for medical care based on the latter’s previous assessment as an ‘attention seeker’. It is on these grounds that Carol is refused medical attention –​a refusal that almost leads to her death. The power of institutional files gains even more prominence in the second season. The fifth episode opens with a prison transport entering the gates. When officers approach the vehicle, shouting can be faintly heard from within. Then a high-​angle shot reveals one of the vehicle’s tiny cells and ‘Babs’ Hunt (Isabelle Amyes) within –​visually dwarfed –​banging desperately on its walls, shouting “Let me out, please, let me out! For god’s sake, let me out!” (S2E5 00:01). Some of the G-​Wing officers are sent to pick up the women in the van, when Officer Fenner receives a phone call by a colleague from another prison who tells him that one of the new arrivals is a renowned ‘troublemaker’: a woman who is hiv positive and once bit off an officer’s ear. In consequence, when Officer Hollamby hears the woman scream and bang on the cell walls, she deducts that this is the ‘troublemaker’ whose file has gone missing and therefore has her sent directly to the segregation block. Babs is next seen from a low angle, being pinned to the floor by three officers, still screaming desperately “No, let me go”, while the doctor bends down to inject her with a sedative (S2E5 00:06). When sympathetic Officer Dominic McAllister (Joe Shaw) later checks up on her, she accuses him and his fellow officers: “You are making me ill! I can’t breathe! I want to get out of here!” (S2E5 00:22; emphasis added). When Dominic explains that the officers are only keeping her in the segregation cell due to her violent behaviour, Babs shouts at him: “Me?? What?? You treat me like an animal, you hold me down and inject me with drugs […] What are you talking about? You don’t know anything about me. You don’t even

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

231

know my name” (S2E5 00:22; emphasis added). While most of the scene is a sequence of shot-​reverse-​shot close-​ups of Dominic’s and Babs’s faces, when Babs begs “Stop doing this to me! I can’t stand it”, the camera zooms out to show her entire body sliding down the wall, folding in on itself in desperation, further enhancing the impression of her powerlessness in the face of such fundamental dehumanisation (S2E5 00:22). Babs, as it turns out, is suffering from severe claustrophobia. Far from intending to inflict harm on anyone, she was convicted for having assisted her husband, who was dying slowly and painfully from cancer, in his suicide. The medical attention she would have needed is prevented by undue reliance on falsely attributed ‘traces of the past in the present’, supposedly explaining her present behaviour. Accordingly, the episode levels heavy criticism at the utter blindness of the system to the person as a whole and the prison’s inability to assess behaviour neutrally. Instead, it bases its reading entirely on disciplinary case files. That it was possible to attribute information about another person to Babs –​with both women having very little in common –​renders the criticism even more pronounced. As was already indicated by Carol’s case, Bad Girls illustrates that institutional files come to bear particularly heavily on the ways in which people in incarceration are read in medical terms. In season two, Zandra repeatedly reports having severe headaches and complains that the doctor refuses to give her anything (S2E5 00:07). While the audience is aware that Zandra is off drugs, the doctor reduces her to her status as a known drug addict and reads her headaches exclusively in that light (S2E5 00:09). Zandra rightfully protests: “[N]‌obody listens to what we want in here”, to which Denny adds: “Because we’re scum” (S2E5 00:20). When Zandra finally faints (S2E5 00:46), even Dominic, the sympathetic officer, asks her: “Why do you keep taking this stuff” (S2E5 00:47). The doctor diagnoses low blood pressure and explains: “If you take as many drugs as you do, your body is going to react”, and upon Zandra’s retort that she is clean, he merely adds: “Well, stay off them. And you’ve just had a baby, that can’t have helped” (S2E6 00:03). In a conversation with Dominic on the way back to the wing, the officer is incredulous at Zandra’s report that the doctor did not explain anything, but Zandra retorts: “They just tell you to piss off if you ask anything. It’s like we deserve to be ill” (S2E6 00:05; emphasis added). In episode six Zandra finally collapses into seizures in a bathroom stall (S2E7 00:13). Even then, Officer Hollamby proclaims: “You don’t have to be George Clooney to work out the diagnosis here. It’s drugs, you’ll see. A quick test in the hospital will prove I’m right” (S2E7 00:14). Zandra’s cellmate Crystal is appalled at the reaction: “Why can’t you just believe she’s sick. We do get ill, you know”, to which Hollamby replies: “Yes, because most of the time you take drugs” (S2E7 00:14). After yet another syncopal attack, Zandra is

232 Wächter finally taken to an outside hospital and diagnosed with an incurable malignant brain tumour (S2E8 00:31). Even then, however, she only receives inadequate pain medication (S2E8 00:33). In the context of Zandra’s fatal illness, the series repeatedly and explicitly expresses criticism of the lack of adequate medical care for women in incarceration. When it comes to the promotion of wellbeing, the series suggests, the women have to rely on each other. Thus, for instance, Babs helps Nikki secretly grow marihuana to supplement the inadequate pain treatment Zandra receives, and Crystal goes so far in her dedicated emotional care as to stay in prison voluntarily after her sentence has ended so as to look after Zandra, even though her fiancé is waiting for her outside. Considering representational heritage, this is striking in that female characters in various genres and various media have traditionally relied virtually exclusively on men for the promotion of their wellbeing. Women’s same-​sex friendships as important sources of love and care came to be pathologized at the beginning of the twentieth century (Roseneil 2006, 327), and while the emergence of second-​wave feminism saw the promotion of same-​sex networks of support (ibid., 328), the value of female friendships has only recently re-​gained prominence in popular representations. Those more recent representations reflect more adequately that relationships and caring practices are by no means reduced to the heteronormative family but that “friendship is a relationship of increasing social significance in the contemporary world” (ibid., 334). Among the genres introducing such a focus is the female ensemble drama that emerged in the 1970s. Bad Girls is representative of this genre in that it “moves to centre stage that which is celebrated only periodically in British soap opera: women’s relationships with other women outside of their familial roles as wives and mothers” (Ball 2013, 246). Concerning the degree to which the series privileges intimate relations between women (whether sexual or not) over their relation to men, the series is certainly striking, if not trailblazing. It counters a representational heritage that has depicted women always in relation to men (Roseneil 2006, 325). The series was produced in the 1990s, when the “ ‘New Right’ ideology of the Conservatives […] resulted in tougher sentencing policies and more offenders being imprisoned” and when Michael Howard, the Home Secretary at the time (1993–​1997), “strongly defended the efficacy of imprisonment as a criminal justice strategy, and believed that the more humane prison regimes become, the less effective they are as a deterrent” (Jewkes 2006, 143). Over the course of its five seasons, Bad Girls continues to address issues of wellbeing in prison from a variety of angles and is often rather explicit in its call for reform and a more humane treatment of incarcerated women (see Herman 2003, 2). As

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

233

Wilson and O’Sullivan point out, the series “generally concludes that, as far as women are concerned, for a surprising proportion of prisoners prison is not an appropriate response to their problems, or their offending behaviour” (2004, 130). In its unambiguous criticism of the system, Bad Girls initially stands in stark contrast to a ‘dark’ heritage industry that would make us believe in a reformed present as opposed to a ‘dark’ past. Instead, the series perpetually undermines any notion of progress and emphasises the continuing need for reform. This emphasis, however, is progressively overshadowed by the much greater prominence of escalating violence on the part of both officers and incarcerated women. Kyra Hunting maintains that, in Bad Girls, “violence is not momentous but mundane; [it] is an important way in which the women address grievances and exert power and the prison is depicted as a place of regular violence” (2016, 121). While violence between officers and the people under their care, as well as between incarcerated women, clearly exists in actual prisons, it comes nowhere near such representational excess. In the evocative works of Marsha Clowers, “if violence occurred with even half the frequency of the extent to which it occurs in prison films [and the same holds true for series], all of the inmates would be dead or in solitary” (2001, 25). Dowler similarly observes that, “[a]‌lthough actual prisons are overflowing with the most marginal members of society, reform is not a common concern among television executives. Although reform may be implied, ultimately, the audiences are exposed to extreme levels of violence and sociopathic characters that undermine any notion of reform, rehabilitation, or potential for improvement” (2020, 159). Bad Girls turns from a playful engagement with its generic heritage to succumbing to violence and sexploitation as the most deleterious aspects of the wip genre. The balance shifts to such an extent that the series no longer provides a contrast to the implicit progress narratives of ‘dark heritage’ representations. Instead, it increasingly comes to focus as much on spectacular aspects of ‘criminal deviancy’ as is characteristic of ‘dark heritage’. 3

Conclusion

Jewkes rightfully cautions that “the effects of fictional, dramatized portrayals on screen must not be overestimated” and that a multitude of factors contribute to the decoding of a televisual representation (2006, 142). She goes on to maintain that, “[h]‌owever noble their intentions, then, programmes with a revelatory or reforming mission may only provoke strong and lasting reactions in viewers who are already thus motivated, and raising public awareness is not

234 Wächter the same as changing people’s opinions” (2016, 145). It thus remains uncertain to what extent the series initial reform endeavours have had any significant effect on the audience. I would, however, argue that the deleterious potential of an overemphasis on excessive violence does actually pose a threat to the wellbeing of women in incarceration. For one thing, “[b]y overemphasizing violence and sex, issues such as drug abuse, [the incarcerated women’s] histories of sexual and physical abuse, and other problems faced by female prisoners are significantly downplayed” (Cecil 2007, 322).6 Moreover, in contrast to promoting the wellbeing of women in prison, the predominance of violence “reinforce[s] society’s stereotypes about female prisoners: that they are violent, worthless, sex-​crazed monsters totally unworthy of humane treatment” (Clowers 2001, 28; emphasis added). Such representations can fan what Ahmed terms “global economies of fear” (2014, 71). In a social climate of punitiveness that has little interest in the wellbeing of people in incarceration but, instead, considers illbeing to be a constitutive part of imprisonment as punishment, this can have manifest consequences for incarcerated women not just during imprisonment but also upon their release.

References

Ahmed, Sara. 2006. Queer Phenomenology. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Ahmed, Sara. (2004) 2014. The Cultural Politics of Emotion. Second edition. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Assmann, Aleida. 2020. “Vom Wert der Erinnerung. Gedanken von Aleida Assmann zum Kulturellen Erbe.” Wissen –​Bildung –​Gemeinschaft. Magazin. Was Wir Weitergeben: Unsere Werte in der Welt von Morgen 1: 8–​11. Accessed, January 9, 2020. https://​issuu.com/​wbg-​wissenverbindet/​docs/​wbg-​magazin_​2020_​01.pdf. Alber, Jan. 2007. Narrating the Prison: Role and Representation in Charles Dickens’ Novels, Twentieth-​Century Fiction, and Film. Youngstown, N.Y: Cambria Press. Ball, Vicky. 2013. “Forgotten Sisters: The British Female Ensemble Drama.” Screen 54 (2): 244–​48. Bosworth, Mary, and Emma Kaufman. 2013. ‘Gender and Punishment’. In The SAGE Handbook of Punishment and Society, edited by Jonathan Simon and Richard Sparks, 186–​204. Los Angeles: sage.

6 It is worth noting here that, as far as the problematic representations of homo-​and bisexuality in the wip genre is concerned, Bad Girls continues to present a challenge to the heteropatriarchal heritage of both the genre and society at large.

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

235

Britton, Dana M. 2003. At Work in the Iron Cage: The Prison as Gendered Organization. New York and London: New York University Press. Butler, Judith. 2004. Precarious Life: The Powers of Mourning and Violence. London and New York: Verso. Cecil, Dawn K. 2007. “Looking Beyond Caged Heat: Media Images of Women in Prison.” Feminist Criminology 2 (4): 304–​26. Clink Prison Museum. n.d. “Welcome to Clink Prison Museum.” Accessed 29 August 2020. https://​www.clink.co.uk/​index.html. Clowers, Marsha. 2001. “Dykes, Gangs, and Danger: Debunking Popular Myths about Maximum-​Security Life.” Journal of Criminal Justice and Popular Culture 9 (1): 22–​30. Crumlin Road Gaol Belfast. 2017–​2020. “Welcome to the Crumlin Road Gaol.” Accessed 15 September 2020. https://​www.crumlinroadgaol.com/​. Dickens, Charles. 1842. American Notes for General Circulation. London: Chapman & Hall. Dickens, Charles. 1898. “American Notes.” In American Notes and Pictures from Italy, 1–​305. London: Chapman. Dowler, Kenneth. 2020. ‘ “Within These Walls’: The History and Themes of Prison-​ Themed Television Series.” In Palgrave Handbook of Incarceration in Popular Culture, edited by Marcus Harmes, Meredith Harmes, and Barbara Harmes, 139–​61. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Fludernik, Monika. 1996. Towards a ‘Natural Narratology’. London: Routledge. Ford, Jessica. 2020. “Can Prison Be a Feminist Space? Interrogating Television Representations of Women’s Prisons.” In Palgrave Handbook of Incarceration in Popular Culture, edited by Marcus Harmes, Meredith Harmes, and Barbara Harmes, 139–​61. Cham.: Palgrave Macmillan. Foucault, Michel. 1995. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. 2nd Vintage Books Edition. New York: Vintage Books. Galsworthy, John. 1901. Justice: A Tragedy in Four Acts. London: Duckworth. Garland, David. 2001. The Culture of Control: Crime and Social Order in Contemporary Society. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press. Halberstam, Judith. 1998. Female Masculinity. Durham and London: Duke University Press. Harmes, Marcus, Barbara Harmes, and Meredith Harmes. 2020. “Popular Visions of Incarceration.” In Palgrave Handbook of Incarceration in Popular Culture, edited by Marcus Harmes, Meredith Harmes, and Barbara Harmes, 1–​15. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan. Harrison, Rodney. 2013. Heritage: Critical Approaches. Milton Park, Abingdon and New York: Routledge. Herman, Didi. 2003. ‘ “Bad Girls Changed My Life’: Homonormativity in a Women’s Prison Drama.” Critical Studies in Media Communication 20 (2): 141–​59.

236 Wächter Jewkes, Yvonne. 2006. ‘Creating a Stir? Prisons, Popular Media and the Power to Reform’. In Captured by the Media: Prison Discourse in Popular Culture, edited by Paul Mason, 137–​53. Cullompton, UK ; Portland, Or: Willan. Love, Heather. 2014. “Made For TV.” Virtual Roundtable on ‘Orange Is the New Black’ (blog), Public Books, May 15, 2014, https://​www.publicbooks.org/​virtual-​roundtable-​ on-​orange-​is-​the-​new-​black/​. Lowenthal, David. 2015. The Past Is a Foreign Country –​Revisited. Revised and updated edition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Meiners, Erica R. 2007. “Life after OZ: Ignorance, Mass Media, and Making Public Enemies.” Review of Education, Pedagogy, and Cultural Studies 29 (1): 23–​63. Millbank, Jenni. 2004. “It’s about This: Lesbians, Prison, Desire.” Social & Legal Studies 13 (2): 155–​90. Moran, Dominique. 2016 [2015]. Carceral Geography: Spaces and Practices of Incarceration. London and New York: Routledge. Morin, Karen M., and Dominique Moran. 2015. “Introduction.” In Historical Geographies of Prisons: Unlocking the Usable Carceral Past, edited by Karen M. Morin and Dominique Moran, 1–​13. London and New York: Routledge. National Trust. n.d. “Reading Gaol Tours.” Accessed 16 September 2020. https://​ www.nationaltrust.org.uk/​readinggaoltours. Pratt, John, David Brown, Mark Brown, Simon Hallsworth, and Wayne Morrison. 2005. “Introduction.” In The New Punitiveness: Trends, Theories, Perspectives, edited by John Pratt, David Brown, Mark Brown, Simon Hallsworth, and Wayne Morrison, xxi–​xxvi. London and New York: Routledge. Roseneil, Sasha. 2006. “Foregrounding Friendship: Feminist Pasts, Feminist Futures.” In Handbook of Gender and Women’s Studies, edited by Kathy Davis, Mary Evans, and Judith Lorber, 322–​41. London: Sage. Stanley, Eric. 2011. “Fugitive Flesh: Gender Self-​Determination, Queer Abolition, and Trans Resistance.” In Captive Genders, edited by Nat Smith and Eric Stanley, 1–​11. New York: ak Press. Sturge, Georgina. 2020. “UK Prison Population Statistics”. Briefing Paper. House of Commons Library. Accessed 22 February 2021. https://​commonslibrary.parliament .uk/​research-​briefings/​sn04334/​. Turner, Jennifer. 2016. The Prison Boundary: Between Society and Carceral Space. London: Palgrave Macmillan. Turner, Jennifer, and Kimberley Peters. 2015. “Doing Time-​Travel: Performing Past and Present at the Prison Museum.” In Historical Geographies of Prisons: Unlocking the Usable Carceral Past, edited by Karen M. Morin and Dominique Moran, 71–​87. London and New York: Routledge. Wilson, David, and Sean O’Sullivan. 2004. Images of Incarceration: Representations of Prison in Film and Television Drama. Winchester: Waterside Press.

Wellbeing as a Political Issue

237

Wächter, Cornelia. 2014. Place-​Ing the Prison Officer: The ‘Warder’ in the British Literary and Cultural Imagination. Spatial Practices 21. Amsterdam and New York: Rodopi. Wächter, Cornelia. 2019. “Dickens, Reade and Galsworthy on Waiting in Solitary Confinement.” In Timescapes of Waiting: Spaces of Stasis, Delay and Deferral, edited by Christoph Singer, Robert Wirth, and Olaf Berwald, 79–​93. Leiden: Brill. Wächter, Cornelia. 2020. “Wentworth and the Politics and Aesthetics of Representing Female Embodiment in Prison.” In Palgrave Handbook of Incarceration in Popular Culture, edited by Marcus Harmes, Meredith Harmes, and Barbara Harmes, 655–​69. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan.

Index ‘Fits’ 194, 200, 202, 205 ‘Re-​orientates’ 194 ‘Sketch and Talk’ 200 ‘socially stable alcoholic’ 153, 164 act  British Lunacy Act 121 Idiots Act 119 Madhouse Amendment Act 119 Act  Lunacy Act 119 affect 1, 5 Ahmed, Sara 227, 234 fit 227–​228 Alcohol consumption 152 Excessive consumption 160 Normal consumption 155 Pathological consumption 155 Alcoholismus chronicus 161 chronic alcohol poisoning 160 Anishinaabek 48, 51 architecture 68, 70, 77–​80, 85 architectural 68, 70–​71, 77–​79, 86 archive 90–​94, 99, 106–​110 asylum 117–​119, 121 authenticity 67–​68, 72, 80–​83, 86 Nara document on Authenticity 81 Bad Girls 218, 223n3, 222–​227, 229–​233, 234n6, 234–​235 behaviour 68–​69 Bethlem Maudsley Hospital 118 Bishop, Elizabeth 178, 181, 184–​185, 187–​189 Bourdieu, Pierre 26–​27, 44, 41, 43, 49, 50, 52 Bratt, Ivan 155 British Columbia 56 Burial Grounds 47 Butler, Judith 229, 235 Canada 47 carceral design heritage 193, 205–​206, 213 carceral heritage 194 carceral interior design 194, 211 care 193–​198, 202, 206–​207, 211, 213

cemetery 48, 63–​64, 66 Charles Dickens 219–​220, 234 circumscribed normality 169 commemoration 6 community wellbeing 67–​68, 77, 80, 86 construct validity 170 Couper, Pauline, R. 26, 44, 41, 43, 47, 48, 55 critical heritage 193 culture 69–​70, 83, 85 production of 70 dark heritage 218–​219, 221, 223, 233 decolonization 93 de-​colonization 3, 8–​9 delirium tremens 160, 165 Dickens 223 difficult heritage 131 digital disaster archive 90, 110 disease 153, 156 Donald Winnicott 142 doxa 21–​22, 27, 29, 36, 38–​41, 43 drinking customs 159 drunkenness 156, 158–​159 embodiment 26, 179, 181 emotion 1 Expressive arts 131 female friendship 232 First Nation 51, 64–​65 Fit and Re-​orientation’ 193 Foucault, Michel 220, 230, 235 Free will  diminishing 163 free to choose 163 Functionality 171 social 171 Functioning  biological malfunction 171 Harmful dysfunction 171 Gadamer, Hans-​Georg 48 Gadelius 159 Gadelius, Bror 167 gaze 186–​187

240 Index Gothenburg system 156 graveyard 1–​3 Haitian Memory project 97, 99, 101, 103–​104, 107, 109–​110 hall-​plan synagogue(s) 82 happy objects 194, 199, 206 Haraway, Donna 95 healing 90–​92, 94, 96, 99, 100n9, 100–​101, 105 health-​care 177–​178, 180 heritage  dark heritage 3 heritage industry 6 intangible heritage 1–​2, 8 heterodox, heterodoxy 21–​22, 27, 38, 40, 42 history 69, 72, 74n7, 74–​76, 78, 81–​82, 85–​88 holding environments 142 Holloway Sanatorium 117, 120, 123, 125, 128–​129 Holloway, Thomas 119 hospital 1, 3–​4, 117–​121, 125–​127 Huss, Magnus 155, 161 identity 1–​2, 6, 8, 11–​12, 67–​68, 71, 75–​77, 79, 83–​86 ideological heritage 151–​152, 173 incarcerated youth 194–​195, 202, 205–​206, 210 incarceration 193–​195, 198–​199, 202, 204, 211–​213 Indigeneity 92 Indigenous 9 inferior ancestry 160–​161 interpersonal wellbeing 67–​68, 84 Jewish 67–​69, 71–​72, 72n3, 72n4, 74n8, 74–​76, 78, 80–​89 Judaism 72, 78–​79 John Galsworthy 219–​220 Kaminsky, Leha 179, 184, 189 leaders 74, 78, 80 leadership 73, 77, 79, 84–​85 Lillhagen 132 Love, Heather 222 Low, Setha M. 26–​27, 45, 41, 43, 47, 48, 52 Lutheranism 41n13, 41–​42

Mad studies 131 May (1975). 197  memorial garden 24, 28–​29, 32, 34–​35, 37–​39 Merleau-​Ponty, Maurice 98 migration 10 Mississaga Indians 56 moral values 154 motivation 167 Motivation 158, 167 Muslim 47–​49, 54–​55, 58, 60–​61, 63, 65–​66 narrative 68–​71, 73–​74, 80, 83, 86 necrogeography 60 Nostalgia 82n10, 87–​88 oral storytelling 90, 92 Orange Is the New Black 222, 224, 227n5, 236 orientation 193, 199, 205–​206 Orientation 193–​194, 199–​200, 204f.10.3, 204–​206, 209, 211, 213 orthodox, orthodoxy 21–​22, 27, 38–​39 Oscar Wilde 219 Park Slope Jewish Center 67–​68, 75, 81–​82, 85, 88 Pathology 151 Individual pathology 155 Social pathology 154–​155 patriarchal heritage 222, 226 Perspective  Medical perspective 152, 154 phenomenology 193–​194, 199 Photovoice 193, 200, 215, 217 Physical Environment 198, 217 play 143 plot 183, 187 Porridge 224 power 78, 80 powerful  power 77–​79, 83, 86 preservation 81, 83–​86, 91–​92, 97, 100, 100n9 preserve  preserve 68, 75, 83–​84, 86 prime 167 prison 1–​4, 14–​15, 124, 219n1, 222n2, 218–​224, 226–​230, 232–​234 medical care in 222–​223, 226, 230–​232 motherhood 228–​229

241

Index pregnancy in 224–​226, 230 solitary confinement 5, 220, 226, 230 psychiatry 117, 130 psychological wellbeing 67–​68, 80, 86 psychotherapy 122 punishment 5 Quebec 48 Queer Phenomenology 199, 213 Quensel, Ulrik 166 rabbi 74–​75, 78–​80, 82–​83, 86, 88 reality orientation 162 Reformation 41–​43 restoration 74 restore 74–​75 sanatorium 117–​121, 123–​127, 181 self-​control 172 loss of 151, 163 theory 167–​168 self-​support 163, 171–​172 severity 165, 169, 173 SiS 193–​195, 197, 200–​202, 207, 211, 212f.10.8, 216 Sketch and Talk 193, 201f.10.1, 212f.10.8, 215 Smith, Laurajane 131 social media 10 social value norm 152 Social value norm 152 social value norms 171 socio-​ethical alcoholic 164–​165, 170 Spatial  Spatial context 152, 163, 170–​173 Spatial norms 164 Spatial patterns 158 spatialities 22, 26–​29, 36, 40, 41n13, 41–​42 Special Residential Youth 193 special residential youth homes 193, 195, 197, 200, 205, 209–​211 Special Residential Youth Homes 193 spiritual 67, 77, 79–​80, 83 substance use disorder 155, 163–​164, 170 Substance Use Disorder 155

temporality 96, 177, 179, 181 time 183 terrorism 47 Tolerance  Individual 170 Society 157 trace 2–​3, 5–​6, 8, 11, 13–​15 traditional 73–​74, 81, 85–​86 tradition 68, 72, 73n6, 80–​81, 83 Transitional Space 141 trauma 91, 94–​95, 98, 100n9, 105, 107, 109 UK National Health Service 118 United Synagogue of Hoboken 67–​68, 73, 75, 77, 80–​82, 84–​86 urban 68, 75–​76 urn garden 24, 28–​29, 32–​35, 38–​41 value judgement 172 volunteer 84–​85 volunteerism 67–​68, 72, 84–​86 voluntary 88 volunteer 68, 73–​74 volunteers 84, 86 waiting 177–​189 wellbeing 193–​195, 198, 204–​206, 209–​211, 213, 218, 220–​222, 225–​226, 228, 230, 232, 234 well-​being 158–​159, 163, 170 Wellbeing 193, 198 Wellbeing and Incarceration 198 Wellcome Foundation 117–​118, 129 Wentworth 222, 224, 237 West, Robert 167 Wilshire Boulevard Temple 67–​68, 75, 77–​ 78, 80, 83, 85–​86, 89 wip (Women in Prison genre) 218, 222–​224, 226n4, 233, 234n6 Women in Prison genre 221 York Retreat 121