News from the Collective

In the early morning of April 14th, 2021, the four editors of the journal DOXA were arrested by Russian authorities. Armen Aramyan, Natasha Tyshkevich, Volodya Metelkin and Alla Gutnikova appeared in court later that day. The purpose of the charges were made clear by the judge – to silence critics – who ordered the editors to house arrest and has restricted them from all electronic communication.

DOXA is a Russian student-run popular journal dedicated to critiques of the modern university. They have served as a clearinghouse for disseminating radical philosophy, especially feminist, Marxist, and anarchist voices. It also hosts editorials about the sprawling Russian university system, highlights student protests, and organizes solidarity for students harassed for speaking out.

The charges against the editors are preposterous. DOXA had posted a rather innocent video urging others to protest without fear and that expelling students for political reasons was unlawful. In response, the Russian communications authority Roskomnadzor demanded they remove the video. DOXA complied and removed the video. Even then, the editors were charged under Article 151.2 of Russian law (“involvement of youth in activities that can be harmful to them”).

Perhaps there is some honor to being charged with the same crime as Socrates? Yet it is remarkable to suggest that university students need protection from DOXA. Only one who uses education to manufacture obedience outlaws critical thinking as self-harm. And it is no coincidence that laws like these are also used against social critics, queers, and migrants.

The Institute of Network Cultures urges all charges to be dropped against the DOXA editors and that all harassment of students immediately cease.

More information:

1) https://doxajournal.ru/ (in Russian)

2) Chronology of Events (in English) https://open-assembly.calarts.edu/index.php/2021/04/14/doxa-chronology-of-events/

3) News report on the Amnesty site: https://www.amnesty.org/en/latest/news/2021/04/russia-police-searches-at-student-magazine-are-a-new-low-for-press-freedom/

4) The Moscow Times: Russian Student Journalists Face Jail Over Navalny Protest Video https://www.themoscowtimes.com/2021/04/14/russian-student-journalists-face-jail-over-navalny-protest-video-a73585

The information above has, in part, been collected by ‘Dark Deleuze’ Andrew Culp, now teaching at Calarts/LA. Please sign his petition. He writes:

This is the follow-up of the three-part blog series of the insightful conversation between film professor, media producer, theorist, and activist dr. Alexandra Juhasz and journalist, historian, and filmmaker Peter Snowdon.

Alex

Peter, I really love the way you write about each of the distinct videos in your book The People Are Not an Image, your deep close readings. You let each small work take time on the page to stand as a separate complex object, while at the same time making larger claims about vernacular video and its place within these movements. YouTube videos so rarely get seen (by critics) with the kind of attention we more typically offer to great works of media art. And then, your writing about the video itself produces that very feeling of mediated-connectedness, or maybe even friendship that we’ve been discussing.

You dedicate each chapter to one video, often beginning with a transcript of audio and some screenwriting direction to let us see the piece, followed by an analysis that develops through what you learn in conversation with each short work. Chapter One, “A Happy Man,” focuses on a video by rideaudur, posted January 17, 2011. You begin:

In this short clip, we hear more than we see a man walking up and down along a main artery (“the avenue,” as he calls it) of a North African city. As he walks, he improvises a poetic panegyric in honor of the people of his country and the freedom they have won for themselves. Yet the people of whom and to whom he speaks are nowhere to be seen. Indeed, as the clip progresses, it may seem that he is less assuming their existence than trying to conjure them into being. (pg, 29)

9. A Happy Man from Peter Snowdon on Vimeo.

Peter

That particular video is one that means a lot to me, as I believe it did to many other people. It is one of the few that made it into my film more or less unedited. And a large part of what I was doing in the book came from something that occurred to me fairly early on when making the film. I had to accept that, as a general rule, I couldn’t keep the videos whole, that I had to edit them. And so the writing became, in part, a project to restore the integrity of each video.

I was seeing short films coming from a place that I had never expected, which were made in an audiovisual language that seemed both very new, but also coherent with languages that I knew from traditions of experimental media work that seemed to me to have nothing to do with this place and time, and which may or may not have been particularly political in their intent. So, when I was describing these individual videos, I really wanted the writing to recreate for me, and thus for the reader, this sense that this may only be three minutes and 27 seconds of screen time, but this is an actual “work,” as solid and as densely wrought and as present as anything you might pay to see in a cinema (or, more likely, a cinematheque…).

If I insist on the sensory and kinetic qualities of these videos, it is because the videos themselves insist on them. They are above all exercises in the concrete, and as such, acts of resistance against the kinds of abstraction that characterize both the practice of government and certain species of intellectual discourse. (…) They do not offer etiologies, genealogies, or any other type of rationalization. They do not explain, much less explain away. They are presentations rather than representations. They are committed to appearance as a space of action in and for its own sake, not as something to be decoded or demystified. (p. 3)

There is so much that happens in each video which needs to be recognised and honoured. So, in some sense, it was a relief to be able to just attend to one video at a time, and not to have to be also thinking of all the others, or negotiating between them, as I had in making the film where I began to understand the work of editing not just at a practical level, but also more theoretically. My hypothesis was that these videos could together tell a story that would be intelligible without any external assistance, without the need for narration or context. That they could do that work themselves, and that all I had to do was trust the videos. But then, I discovered that it wasn’t enough to trust the videos – they also had to accommodate each other, to make space for one another, without any one of them cancelling or erasing the others. Just as you can’t have a collectivity in which each person does nothing but proclaim their individuality, you cannot have a film in which each shot runs its full unedited length. And in this precise sense, editing is, by its very nature, a political enterprise.

Alex

In this sense, so too is videomaking. It is always an act of selection, framing, argument-building, and affect-production in service of communication or inspiration. But I need to emphasize that not all vernacular video is political video, and this is where I find your close readings and associated theorizing of this body of work so important. You are writing about video that engages self-documentation with a revolutionary duty. You outline the many conditions that need to be in place for people-made video (always in conversation with or even as corporate media) to be active in a project of world-changing and revolution-making. You bring to our attention a kinetic, affective regime, in its formal dimensions, and as a body of video made of individual work by individual people—how this makes us feel, and what it asks us to do.

Figure 10: Still from The Uprising(2013) / YouTube video uploaded by feb tub, February 14, 2011.

Peter

My focus was on disrupting definitions that decree what is and is not possible. I was consciously writing in opposition to a lot of the rhetoric and ideology around YouTube and social media which seemed to posit a form of “sharing” which is actually not an act of sharing at all. In particular, the term “vernacular” is often used in a very apolitical, and watered-down sense. I wanted to reclaim the word vernacular as that which is outside of, and resistant to, the administered and governed life. I took this from Ivan Illich, who I had first read back in Paris in the 1990s. It wasn’t an accident that these videos which seemed to be contesting the conventional, Euro-American sense of the vernacular as a kind of inoffensive amateurization, rather than a space of resistance and contestation, were happening in these specific places and at this particular time – that is, within an Arab world where, as Mohamed Bamyeh has argued, a centuries-old “civic ethics” still persists today, not as some sort of ossified tradition, but as “an old, rational and enlightened common attitude” that continues to guide people as they work through the trials and tribulations of everyday life.  In these countries, there is still a certain real experience of shared space as itself a form of never-ending negotiation, and community as something tangible, not merely aspirational. And this is true not only in working-class neighbourhoods or farming villages, but also to a large extent for many strata of the middle classes, including those who might be seen to have benefited from economic liberalisation, in so far as their position remains contested, and often fragile.

Alex

You use the word vernacular two more times in the book. On top of “vernacular video,” you also take up this verb, vernacularization: video that records daily life and in so doing understands this new kind of visibility as part of a larger political project that you say exceeds the local. It must be local to make it vernacular, but the vernacularization occurs in its mediation and distribution when technology assures that the daily exceeds the local. You claim that this is performative. There’s a necessary self-awareness in the enacting of the self, and the place, and its dailiness, which is written formally and received affectively and hence politically.

Figure 11: screengrab of YouTube video uploaded by webamri amri, 29 January 2011.

I wrote something quite similar about AIDS activist video when I was theorizing my own community-based video activism by, for, and about urban women of colour and AIDS. While realist practices might seem to outsiders as untutored, unintentional, and not of the more rigorous practices of artists or intellectuals, media coming from and for a movement knows itself with a formal self-awareness. This is a political awareness because it is generated through an often dangerous personal act of coming into voice and community. It is performed and received as such by viewers from that place. That’s easy to feel for its local viewership (which is the point), but harder to name for others, I think. And that’s what you’re attending to when you so carefully engage in close readings of the quick, daily, but connected mediation of actual bodies and their political lives.

Can you talk about the tension between how vernacular videos document actual people, bodies, and their political lives and how these fit into vernacular anarchives: a complex assembly of all these discrete videos—and their people— that is bigger and more convincing than what any one video can do.

Peter

Maybe this goes back to what I alluded to before, that my own formative experiences of community were not experiences of unproblematic self-identity, but rather of complex and even disruptive forms of displacement. Community doesn’t always coincide with itself, or with the local. Perhaps it would be better to think of it as a certain way of being with displacement and non-coincidence, and not as their absence or their abolition. And then, community always needs an outside. The question is what is the relationship to that outside – is it generative, or is it simply erasure and violence? Somewhere we’re afraid of? Or somewhere we can escape to?

These videos are very much addressed to an outside—to multiple outsides—in a way that is not strictly bounded or policed, though at times there are boundaries which are, and have to be, very firmly asserted. But in general, their address is open. They don’t exist as atoms but are already an assemblage. Even in each individual video, there’s a sense that it’s the collectivity of videos that matters, not any single gesture. And the power of that assemblage is not simply numerical. It’s not simply a question of how many people are in the street, or how many videos take over the internet. What matters is to create an intensity which can attract people to it. So, between the individual video and the anarchive as an open totality, there are all these specific associations and assemblages that come into being for a certain time, and act as attractors of energy, as provisional poles of clarity, and as creators and distributors of meaning.

If filming was a means of participation for the filmer, then the videos that were produced and uploaded were not just documents of that participation, but rather (in the most direct sense) invitations to others to act in their turn. (…) More specifically, they were inviting the viewer not only to emulate but also to compete with what they had seen, to try to exceed the model in revolutionary fervour. (p. 175)

Figure 12: still from The Uprising (2013) / YouTube video uploaded by 5000zukoo, September 21, 2011.

Alex

You suggest that the possibility of an outside is critical for an ethics of solidarity: what you call “a we.” This calling comes from of a local, every day, but also, of course, exceptional I that is living and taping in-community in-revolution. There could be, or perhaps there must be, an anticipated outsider—a you—who is called by this performative address, someone who is outside the local, someone who needs this representation, someone who might connect. That is one reason, among many, why each I is making and distributing each short videotape: to be seen and heard, yes, but also to connect to other I’s in this articulation. In your book, you write about that person, that outsider, that imagined or hailed viewer, as being close by, in proximity, although not exactly local: ideally in one of these countries in revolution, and thus called not just to look or connect but also to the/their street. The call asks: who’s going to join us in the street and become the we?

Figure 13: screengrab of YouTube video uploaded by Iyad El-Baghdadi, 2 February, 2011.

But what of the “we” who is not nearby, not in or of the region? We who hear the call and cannot respond. Before the internet, if you made a work like this it would stay local, and it would take many years for it to circulate to others around the world: a local call displaced by time. You suggest that for this body of video from the Arab Spring, and because of social media, this nearby in place happens in real time. But I think about this differently. I actually understand the production of this kind of “we” as a failed promise of YouTube; the deep lie of the internet; and an aspect of your theorizing of vernacular video that is not yet complete. What does it mean when we reach that person, those people, in great numbers—really reach an outsider, and you, who is distant and other. Yes, the reaching happens, the call is heard, but the associated doing that you build into your theory of vernacular video stays impossible, even if it is felt in each work.

Figure 14: screengrab of YouTube video uploaded by LLWProductions, 20 March, 2011.

The energy of the call and response to the street that you find so intoxicating in these videos is consumed differently for another “we” that is made up of distant viewers, like me (and not you!), even as or perhaps because the intoxication of the local and the revolution is so very evident, so skillfully produced, in each iteration. Voices from afar on the internet are intoxicating, yes, and just as often also paralyzing. We can’t help, we can’t go there. And things on the internet, even when they are intoxicating, are also always interchangeable. For that other, for this we, there is another consumption and a different politics. What is the value of vernacular video for viewers who can’t join in the street, who never will even as they are moved by the videos, if momentarily but frequently?

Figure 15: screengrab of YouTube video uploaded by LLWProductions, 20 March, 2011.

And then, of course, there’s difference in time as well as distance. Over time, the videos stay there online, and they also stay the same. Do they continue to call for a “we,” even as their insurrections are over, or have failed? How do they work now, still there in their “anarchive.”

Peter

In 2001, there was a major uprising in Algeria which almost brought the regime to its knees. I remember following this, both through daily reports in the French and Algerian press, and by listening to stories told by my friends, which they had heard from their families back “home.” Shortly afterwards, I came across Jaime Semprun’s book, Apologie de l’insurrection algérienne,  which had a huge impact on me (though I later understood how partial some of his sources probably were, and thus the potential for other interpretations of these events). I remember how at the very end of this short text, he writes that, while we cannot know whether this insurrection will fail or succeed, what we do know already is that there has never been a group of revolutionaries who were so completely isolated, both inside their own country and outside it, as those in Algeria in 2001.

From this, I inherited a sense that an essential question for those on the outside – and so, for me, in 2011 – was, what could we do to address and alleviate this isolation? That is, how could we retrieve and restore forms of international or transnational political practice which already, in 2001, seemed to hang in the balance? This was very much in my mind when I was working on the film and book. Semprun also says that anybody in Europe who is following what is happening in Algeria through the newspapers can only feel ashamed of their own failure to stand up to the forms of oppression and dehumanization under which they themselves live.

And so, it seems to me that he suggests two axes along which we can approach these different degrees or kinds of outsiderness: the transnational other and the ethical other. And both these forms are in need of re-activation.

While obviously most people who watch these videos outside the places where they were made – or even within those countries – do not act, that is not necessarily the fault of those videos. If we are in Brussels or Paris or London or New York (or in some province of one of the countries of which these cities claim to be in some sense the capital) and we do not act, it is not because there is nothing to do and no one to act with. After all, even if we do not go there, “our” governments often do, with armies and weapons that are operated by our compatriots and funded by our tax dollars. And the people who live “there”, and whose only aspiration is perhaps to continue living there in peace, increasingly and massively take the enormous risk of coming here, because the risk of staying where they are even one day longer has become quite literally intolerable.

So perhaps we should see our inaction rather as one symptom of a larger problem – a problem of modes of isolation, demotivation, and disempowerment, that do not require literal physical distance to play a structuring role in our lives, and which can be questioned and ultimately overcome starting in many places, not just one. And perhaps our anger and frustration with these videos, and with the passivity-enchancing effect we imagine they may regularly (but not infallibly) have on people around us, is just one part of a larger process that is actively pushing many of us to act, not just against video, but against the causes of (this kind of) video, too.

In any case, we cannot isolate video as one total self-sufficient moment or action, and then find it wanting. No single form of communication will ever be adequate in itself. Video may be useful as part of a larger process, but it is not a substitute for that larger process. And the basis of that larger process, if it is to be fruitful, has to begin with the recovery of lived practices of mutual support and trust, not only within, but also across the frontiers and barriers that are used to divide and separate us.

So, perhaps what we are lacking is not so much the means to act from wherever we may happen to find ourselves, but the capacity to see through the barriers that are carefully placed in the way of our impulses to solidarity. The question, then, for the images of vernacular video would be: do they act to naturalise those barriers, to make them seem even more immovable and opaque? Or to reveal them for what they are – artificial, impermanent, and fragile in proportion to the force that has to be deployed to defend them?

In any case, we cannot simply say that for we who are “outside” or far away there is nothing to do, that there is no concrete way to convert affective solidarity into action. The crucial role played by so many diasporas, and their allies, in the decolonial and national liberation struggles of the 20^th century is sufficient to demonstrate the opposite. And today, when the world is even more intricately interlinked by transnational infrastructures of circulation and extraction, the potential for strategies of distributed solidarity and disruption is, if anything, even greater than in the past! Andreas Malm’s recent call to revive the North-South anti-imperialist fronts that characterised the second half of the 20^th century as the only strategically adequate response to climate change is just one example of how this potential could be channelled into meaningful action.

But beyond that, I think these videos and the worlds they invoke should also encourage us to question our definition of “action.” Historically, many of the most potent forms are in fact assertive inaction: the boycott, the strike… What we saw across the Arab world in 2011-12 is perhaps better figured as a series of massively disruptive interruptions in the forms of habitual activity that support and sustain existing forms of power and governance. Occupying squares, or marching slowly down streets, are themselves, first and foremost, ways of bringing traffic to a halt, of preventing the unquestioned continuation of all those other connections between us – the ones we do not choose, the ones we may not want.

In a world that is running to its ruin in large part because of the psychotic addiction of a small but influential minority of people to producing things that nobody needs (and to producing the desires that can make those things seem necessary), the refusal to produce anything, to “do” anything, even to desire anything, can still, I think, be a radical act – and depending on how it is configured, perhaps, the most radical. And this potential – to down tools, to cease to consume, to withdraw our attention and our participation, to become not only more self-reliant (materially, emotionally, and intellectually) but also less productive, less visible, less “active” – is always available, everywhere. It is not equally possible for everyone, of course; but it is equally available. Making it equally possible, equally imaginable – that is the work.

Alex

So, your work with vernacular video, your new book about it, and this conversation all focus on ethical media engagements: through friendship, hospitality, and lived community. These are less actions than better ways of being human, together, by making use of technology, as needed. You suggest that there is a vernacular form of mediamaking that produces, invites, and moves this ethics of engagement. I think we are together suggesting that deeper commitments—beyond a received-hail and its linked feelings of being seen or a momentary exhilaration—must align with the call to connect through representation for this work to be revolutionary or perhaps transformative. Are we making a case for the mediated local, a known, felt, and sharable here-and-now of a specific person for a known people?

Figure 16: still from The Uprising / YouTube video uploaded by FreedomRevolution25, January 24, 2012.

Peter

I certainly don’t want to minimise the importance of the local in any way. As long as our economies and lifeways have not been completely deracinated, then the local will continue to be where many of our most important relations emerge and flourish. But I don’t want to fetishise it, either. There are many different kinds of relationships that we can embrace on many different scales. Effective change will probably require us to mobilise across many or even all of them, in different combinations and for different purposes. Strong linkages, after all, can surely work both ways– to facilitate trust, but also to block change. The devil seems to me, as always, to be in the detail.

As for the question you raise about what happens to these videos when the insurrections are “over,” when they have “failed” (whatever that means – and without denying that, in one very real sense at least, their immediate aftermath has been catastrophic both for those from this region who were most directly involved in these movements, as well as for the larger society around them), this is a very important one. But in writing, I have always felt that part of my work is, precisely, to keep the question of success or failure open. In 2013, 2014, many other people were writing about these events as if they were already history. And to me, already then, that just seemed wrong. 

In 2013, I spent almost two months in Egypt. And I remember the second time I came back I was physically depressed by the experience – by what I was picking up from what was going on with my friends. Most of them were not frontline actors: they were of my generation, already in their late 40s or 50s, and it was often their children who’d been in the streets more than they had. And I wanted to write against that depression, and all its suppositions and assumptions. I was looking for something like an antidote. So it seemed to me more important at the time to try and keep this idea alive: that these videos were still speaking to us in the present tense. And therefore, that the possibilities that they had opened were somehow still alive. And it is part of the nature of moving images – their perpetual, ineliminable present tense – that they are constantly moving us to respond to them as if they were present – as if what they show us is still unfolding. Even if that presentness is, in some sense, a fiction – the fiction that is embedded at the heart of every act of viewing an audiovisual document (or of reading an essay, or a poem, or…): that the past is not yet past, and so that the future of that past might still turn out differently. That it, somehow, still depends on us, on what we choose to do.

It was the same when I made the film: I wanted it to end in such a way that whatever was in the newspaper the next morning, I wouldn’t feel like I’d foreclosed a future that was still unfolding, by over-committing to one specific concrete narrative, to one particular outcome, whether it be labelled “success” or “failure.” And, when I watch the film again myself, I see how my own response varies wildly from screening to screening. Of course, that’s true of all images, and of all art and all media. Our perception, our changing awareness, is an index of how we’re reading ourselves into the image at any particular viewing. Our reading, our response, is always a function of the state which we ourselves are in. Our ability to engage or not to engage with what an image may be proposing varies widely, and often in ways we are not aware of. This is part of the radical openness of media – that they expose us also to our own radical openness, and thus, ultimately, to our own capacity for change, both personal and collective.

––

Read the final part of the conversation here.

This is the first of what will be a three-part blog series in which we present the insightful conversation between film professor, media producer, theorist, and activist dr. Alexandra Juhasz and journalist, historian, and filmmaker Peter Snowdon. Last year, the two held multiple virtual conversations at the digital roundtables of Zoom about the ubiquity of such communication methods and underlying philosophical themes such as being human in communities across distance in times of the pandemic.

In the Fall of 2020, Alex Juhasz, in lockdown at home in Brooklyn, NY wrote an email to Peter Snowdon in Belgium. They didn’t know each other, but he had quoted her once or twice in his new book, The People Are Not an Image (Verso: 2020), which she had just completed reading. They knew of each other, as people of certain intellectual/art worlds are wont to do. Over a few email back-and-forths, she explained that beyond complimenting him on his book, she hoped for something quite a bit more: might they talk? Could they record this, transcribe it, and try to share what emerged from their digital encounter about online video? These resulting words have been both edited and changed for clarity, and at one or two points extended, to give space for tracks of thought unfolding. What follows became something they named and did together online during COVID (to which they both ultimately succumbed over this time!): a demonstration of some possibilities for being alive, human, and connected, in what we hope is a non-sentimental, non-simplifying kind of way, albeit via corporate technologies and their dominant capitalist platforms.

Alex

Peter, I want to start by situating ourselves in place and time and technology—a conversation recorded and transcribed from Zoom—for reasons related to our kindred theories and practices around what you call “vernacular video.” I also need you to know that this will be my last scholarly endeavor for a while. My mother is really sick and I’m flying to Colorado this afternoon. I’m very stressed out. But I also need you to know that I prepared for this conversation as one of the last things I did in my own specific space of COVID-inspired trauma. I was just as re-energized and excited by your book this morning as I was the first time I read it, and this reminded me that our intellectual and activist commitments, and the ideas and practices that matter to us as individuals and allies, are part of what makes me feel most alive, human, and connected. So, that’s where I’m coming from: a little distracted and stressed and also a human being meeting and talking with you for the first time on a video-screen about activist digital media, what I myself called “ThirdTube” in 2007 in my born-and-stay-digital Learning from YouTube (MIT Press), so many years ago now in the short but fertile life of social media and its dominant capitalist platforms.

Figure 1: View of corporate mall/long-stay hotel complex where Alex lived, isolated for a month, in the outskirts of her hometown of Boulder CO.

Peter

Thank you for that—for making the space and time to talk at a moment that is so fraught for you, and for letting me know that for you, this conversation isn’t just another piece of work, but—like all the best things we call “work”—something that gives you energy.

It’s a strange period. As we speak, I’m sitting in an unorthodox position myself, not surrounded by books or DVDs for once, because I’m in the bedroom! My partner and I, we’re both working from home in an apartment that is large enough, but still isn’t really designed for that. But it’s quite nice in some ways to be in what is not my usual space! And I’m really grateful to you for reaching out because this is the first evidence for me that the book physically exists, aside from one friend who posted a photograph of it on Twitter just before I completely bailed out of social media in order to try and remain relatively sane. So, it’s nice to feel that the connections that can arise by publishing a book can continue in different forms in this time and even make possible some things which weren’t possible—or were at least a lot less likely—before.

Figure 2: Corner of Peter’s workspace, with detail from Anna Boghiguian’s painting of the street on Geziret El-Manial, Cairo, where Anna and Peter were neighbours in the late 1990s.

And what you said about feeling human through being engaged with reading or watching actually resonates a lot with my feelings when I was working on the whole project: which for me is indivisibly made up of the film I made back in 2013 (The Uprising), the book I have just published, and also—just as vitally—all the invisible networks of roots and tendrils around them and which connect them to each other, and which are by far, for me who was in them, the larger part of the iceberg. For there was something about the insurrections that broke out across the Arab world in 2010-2011, and about the videos produced by their actors which, when I encountered them at the time they were being made, reconnected me with a sense of my own humanity. So, if the book serves any purpose, I would hope that it is one of reconnection—in a non-sentimental, non-simplifying kind of way—that mirrors some of what I experienced when watching and working with these videos the first time.

Figure 3: Still from The Uprising (2013) / YouTube video uploaded by Gigi Ibrahim, 24 March 2011.

Alex

I have gotten into the practice of reaching out to authors when I read a book that moves me. Usually just a short email of recognition and thanks. But in your case, I wanted more! I was writing voluminously in its margins as I was reading; I was so active and excited. I no longer really work on YouTube. But this isn’t because I’m not interested in its potential, or what we can learn about people, technology, activism, and video inside of and because of this corporate media behemoth. So, I didn’t just want to read you, I wanted to talk with you about people-made video, so many years after I had spent too much time in that very space. And I wanted to actively engage with you as a writer and thinker, because while our work shares an object, a political sensibility, a shared training in avant-gardist or formalist media traditions, our findings are often quite dissimilar. I’m excited to learn with you and I’m really thankful to you for your book. This is a review, a celebration, a conversation.

I thought we could start by you explaining the book and the larger project.

Figure 4: Front cover of The People Are Not an Image (Verso Books, 2020)

Peter

I think everything I do is part of my own learning process. So, I hope the book remains open-ended in its inquiry. Now that I am in some sense detached from the arguments I put forward – if only by the simple fact of the book being out there, in the world, in material form, and I cannot change it anymore – I can step back a little and look at them again.

The book grew out of making the film, The Uprising – a montage film made exclusively out of videos posted to social media in 2011-12 by the actors of the Arab revolutions. But the film too grew out of something else, because it was not originally intended to be “a film.” It became what it is through a series of decisions that were made over the years, and which were all oriented towards trying to help these videos reach as many people as possible. While I was working on the film, over two years of research and editing with my friend and partner in crime, Bruno Tracq, I was seeing lots of things that I couldn’t put in it and having lots of ideas that didn’t fit into the constraints that we had set. So, I began to write about these things in order to provide an outlet for everything that was bubbling. Over time that slowly grew into this book.

And there was also a more formal context that encouraged the choice to seek an outlet in writing: I was only able to do all that I did because I had, at a rather late age, entered a PhD program for which I had been awarded a very generous bursary. This meant I was able to give up other forms of gainful employment for a while and really just focus on my filmmaking and writing. I was doing a practice-based PhD, so as the written component, I was able to present a piece of writing that was more like a book than a traditional dissertation. I wanted above all to write something that could stand on its own, independently of the film, because I didn’t want the reception of the book to be conditioned by people’s reception of the film – I wanted it to be able to win its own audience, including among people who might not like, or might even be quite hostile, to the film itself. So, the book isn’t an attempt to explain the film, though I hope that it can provide a context which may lead some people to be able to see the film differently than they would have done without it.

In any case, the book and the film are driven by the same underlying invitation, which is that I want people to look at the videos produced by the actors of the Arab revolutions. I want people to actually take the time to see these videos and to form their own responses and reactions to them. I want to persuade people that it’s worth taking the time to engage with these images as an aesthetic proposition, not just a data point for social scientists. And I want to argue that both the videos themselves, and the act of posting them online, are worthy of our attention, whether we feel ourselves to be addressed by them directly, or less directly.

Alex

I am drawn to be in conversation with you in large part because you are doing work that I think of as in conversation or connection to mine: a practice-based engagement with contemporary political media.

You started this project by making a film, but your making was not disconnected to your writing or your PhD work. And that was not disconnected to a political project in which you seem deeply invested. Your orientation and practice as a media maker and writer invested in digital culture called to me because I don’t have many compatriots in a practice-based project itself rooted in a deeply felt and enacted political and theoretical engagement in the space of media. In my own PhD research in the eighties, I was making AIDS activist video with a VHS camcorder within my own activist community. My collective’s video activism (The Women’s AIDS Video Enterprise) became part of my doctoral research that itself evolved into my first monograph on activist media, AIDS TV: Identity, Community, and Alternative Video (Duke 1995).

Figure 5: AIDS TV and screengrab from “We Care: A Video for Care Providers of People Affected by AIDS” (The Women’s AIDS Video Enterprise, 1990)

These linked meditated iterations—making, thinking, and writing—about activist media were embedded within the first decade of the ongoing AIDS pandemic in North America. And that raises my first question: what was your political stake and position in relation to the uprisings and their videos? And did that change through the period you were making the film, and then writing your book, that is through your praxis?

Peter

Perhaps what I am most conscious of, also coming out of other films that I’ve made, whether they were explicitly political or not, is that all of them extend for me out of something that one might call not simply an ethics, but also a politics of friendship. I’ve realized over time that one reason why I’m a lousy would-be professional filmmaker is that I don’t enjoy making films with people who are not or could not potentially become my friends. There has to be a sense of complicity, and of mutual play, which can possibly – but not certainly – open up on to a deepening sense of trust. So, I guess I see friendship in this context as both a politics, and an experiment – something that may not work out, a risk that has to be taken, and which is deeply imbricated with the eventual success or failure of the film. And for me, this is far more important than anything more rationally identifiable, like a conceptual or ideological alignment, or even some participatory protocol that is meant to safeguard against the abuse of power, but will probably, or even inevitably, fail.

Alex

I’m curious to know what led you to believe that you could be in an ethical friendship with these human beings, these video makers. My practice as a community-based activist video maker and theorist has led me to try to make video in communities in which I already reside. So, it’s not even friendship for me, it’s shared alignment in a known community. I made AIDS activist videos when I was an AIDS activist. I made a documentary about leftist understandings of media and the scale of political movements with and about my sister, Antonia, a well-known activist and writer in the United States during and about ending the Bush administration (Scale: Measuring Media Might, 2007). I understand making media where I live, and with those with whom I want to change the world, as a feminist ethics of documentary. So, do you want to talk about how potential friendship was a facet of your politics or practice of with these videos?

Figure 6: Flier for Scale: Measuring Might in the Media Age (digital video, 58 mins, 2007)

Peter

Perhaps the basic question is, why was I watching these videos in the first place? And the simple answer is that at the time when these revolutions broke out, a lot of my closest friends were living in these countries – were from there, had been born there – and I wanted to know what was going on with them.

My work on these videos was therefore one outcome of my own personal journey over the preceding twenty years. And there were two essential stages to that. The first was when I moved from the UK to live in Paris in 1992. I was there for five years, and by the time I left, essentially 90% of my time was spent among friends who were Algerian immigrants or the children of immigrants. At a certain moment, when I was beginning to struggle with the fact of being a foreigner in Paris, through a series of chance encounters, these people had – from within their own even more complex and conflicted situation – taken me in, and adopted me, as it were. There was one family in particular who gave me a sense of being at home, even though – and, perhaps, especially because – this was with and among people who were never going to really feel straightforwardly at home themselves. This was my first real encounter with structural racism, not as something analysed in a book, or implicated in my own relative privilege (“relative” as in “situated,” not “relative” as in “less than”), but as something directly impacting the people who were at the centre of my life. But it was also more than that – it was an experience of great generosity welling up out of the centre of that injustice, despite and beyond it. From these friends, I learned something important about being a human being which connected with and deepened things I already knew, if more obscurely, through my own family background, as someone who had grown up at one generation’s remove from the working class. And if I had to sum that up in one word, it would be, hospitality.

My friends in Paris were not all Algerian, of course. When my time in Paris ran out, I’d been working for a year or so on short-term contracts with UNESCO, where I’d met people from across the whole world, including most of the Arab region. And so, as I was beginning to think about leaving a city where I felt there was no professional future for me, and I didn’t have a clue about what to do with my life, an opportunity came up through an Egyptian friend to go and work there. I jumped at that opportunity. After all, I had spent several years writing documents for UNESCO about what was wrong with the way that “the West” dealt with other peoples and their cultures, but I’d never been outside Europe. And I thought, well, what if I’m all wrong about that? I should go and see!

So, I went to Egypt and lived there for three years, working at the English edition of the Al-Ahram newspaper, and that was also a deeply transformative experience for me, both personally and politically. Not least because Cairo in general, and the paper in particular, were a meeting point for people from well beyond Egypt: from Palestine of course, but also from Sudan, Zimbabwe, Ghana… what felt like a large part of the African continent. It was also a place that looked east, towards the Indian sub-continent and the rest of Asia, in a very different way from the way that Europe did. Which meant that when I finally went to India, I arrived there from Egypt – not just in the sense that that was where I got on the plane, but conceptually, too. This helped reconfigure my inner map of the world, not just intellectually, but also physically and intuitively. It helped me realise in my bones that there isn’t just one world, one map, but many, and that “my” map – the one I had grown up with – had no particular importance or priority, in and of itself.

Figure 7: Guy Fawks, Cairo, 9 October 2012 (march to commemorate the martyrs of Maspero). Photo: Peter Snowdon

After I came back to Europe in 2000, I spent much of the next decade travelling back to Cairo at every opportunity. It was Cairo that still felt like “home,” like the place where my most important, and most vital, friendships were. I put a lot of energy into maintaining that as best I could, despite the distance. So, in 2011, when the revolutions broke out, almost the first thing I did was go online looking for my friends.

Remember, in the first days of the Egyptian uprising, there was a concerted attempt by the regime to disrupt communications with the outside world. So, I couldn’t get in touch with anyone by email, and the telephone lines weren’t working. But many of my friends were journalists, as I had been when I lived in Cairo. I knew that if anyone had access to a satellite phone, it would be them. I might be able to find them online to see if they were safe, even if I couldn’t talk to them directly. Almost immediately, I fell down the rabbit hole that is social media in times of popular unrest. And at the bottom of the rabbit hole were not just many of my friends, who were, by and large, doing okay, but also all these people making videos. And suddenly, I was spending all my waking hours hanging out with these videos, and with the people who were making them, some of whom I knew personally, and some of whom I came to know, or at least be in contact with, through the online connections forming around these events.

A lot of this activity was sharing videos and talking about them, and that combination of circulation and discussion stuck with me. Everything I’ve done since is basically an attempt to enlarge (or recreate) the circle of that initial sense of residing in a community through video – a community of discourse and exchange that goes well beyond just looking at images, and includes many, many layers of displacement and non-coincidence.

Alex

Your words resonate with what draws me to social media as well. I became a theorist of the internet and internet video in the decades after my AIDS work because my media praxis has always been medium agnostic. I am not a theorist or maker of video or film or websites per se. Rather, I’m an activist and a human being who wants to be in community and change the world with like-minded people using whatever medium is at hand. Your “being human” in community across distance is particularly resonant to me, especially because I’ve been recently working on practices of media proximity, given the protocols of social distancing and the fact of fake news (fakenews-poetry.org).

Figure 8: Participants at the New Haven Fake News Poetry Workshop, one of 25+ held around the world from 2017-ongoing.

My current work on fake news and radical digital media literacy (including a 2021 book co-written with Nishant Shah, Really Fake! that blends out creative renderings of situated authentification through stories, poetry, photos, and dating, in its many senses, temporal and inter-personal) strives to be human together while not letting go of technology. Media suit or align with their people, struggles, and places. I appreciate how your work on vernacular video is situated in a specific local and temporal struggle—what became known as the Arab Spring—itself locally and differently experienced across the countries of the region, and the changing conditions of their struggles. You name here and with more detail in the book, how making video and then also talking about and sharing this is a powerful place for political empowerment, agency, and humanity making—well, I agree with you—and am pleased to learn about this in both its situated and distributed formats.

Peter

For me, too, these videos were never just about “video”. They were always about experimenting with the multi-layered nature of community via technologies that preserve or repurpose some of those layers in order to bring us together differently, even as they create new kinds and qualities of distance and absence. And that is also what we are doing “here” today – coming together differently to trace out yet another path, or at least one segment of what may become one, through these fields of presence and absence we call “media”.

––

Read the follow-up to the conversation here.

by: Xuan Zhao & Heather Morrison

Abstract

The Directory of Open Access Journals (DOAJ, http://doaj.org/) is an essential world-wide open access service (16,134 journals listed, as of March 29, 2021), which promotes quality, peer-reviewed open access journals. The journals included can get higher and broader visibility. To make the most of this service, journal editors need to pay attention to the accuracy of their entries in the DOAJ metadata (journal-title, publisher information, location information, subject, language, URLs, etc.). This post aims to explain the benefits for journals of improving the quality of metadata and what journal editors can do. 

Our discussion is mainly based on recent research of the Sustaining the Knowledge Commons team and cites some other researchers’ findings. 

For journals, what are the benefits of improving the DOAJ metadata?

As detailed on the DOAJ website (DOAJ, https://doaj.org/apply/why-index/), there are five benefits for journals indexed in DOAJ, and accordingly, five reasons to improve the metadata: 

1. “Reputation and prominence”

“DOAJ is the most important community-driven, open access service in the world and has a reputation for advocating best practices and standards in open access. By indexing your journal in DOAJ, its reputation and prominence will be enhanced.”

We assume that journals with accurate and precise entries can give a serious and active impression, helping them maintain the reputation. 

2. “Standards and best practice”

“DOAJ’s basic criteria for inclusion have become the accepted way of measuring an open access journal’s adherence to standards in scholarly publishing. We can help you adopt a range of ethical and quality standards, making your journals more attractive publishing channels. DOAJ is committed to combatting questionable publishers and questionable publishing practices, helping to protect researchers from becoming trapped by unethical journals.”

As open access journals are listed in a quality standards system like DOAJ, it is important to make sure that their information is correct to distinguish them from the questionable journals undoubtedly. 

3. “Funding and compliance”

“Open access publication funds often require that authors who want funding must publish in journals that are included in DOAJ. Indexing in DOAJ makes your journals compliant with many initiatives and programmes around the world, for example Plan S in Europe or Capes/Qualis in Brazil.”

With correct entries in metadata, the DOAJ journals can be more easily discovered by foundations, related programmes and organizations.

4. “Discoverability and visibility”

“DOAJ metadata is free for anyone to collect and use, which means it is easily incorporated into search engines and discovery services. It is then propagated across the internet. If you provide us with article metadata for your journal, this will be supplied to all the major aggregators and the many research organisations and university library portals who use our widgets, RSS feeds, API and other services. Indexing your journal in DOAJ is likely to increase traffic to your website and give greater exposure to your published content. Levels of traffic to a journal website typically increase threefold after inclusion in DOAJ. Your journal’s visibility in search engines, such as Google, will improve.”

Indexing journals in DOAJ means they are more easily discovered and cited by other researchers. Correcting metadata will help raise the chances that people working in the same area will find the relevant research they need.

5. “International coverage”

“Our database includes more open access journals from a diverse list of countries than any of the other major indexing services. We have a global editorial team via a network of Managing Editors, Ambassadors and volunteers, so we will do our best to offer local support in your language. We promise you that information about your journal will be seen around the world.”

The DOAJ journals are aimed at readers from all over the world and may be seen by people who are not proficient in the journals’ language. In this case, journal editors need to ensure the correctness of data entry so that readers can read with confidence. 

What’s more, a higher quality database will be more valuable for researchers and promote the entire OA ecosystem. Especially for services like university libraries, which tend to keep up with the latest content and take advantage of metadata corrections. 

In brief, keeping the entries of DOAJ metadata correct reinforces the advantages for journals mentioned above and benefits the users of DOAJ. 

As journal editors, what can we do?

As demonstrated in a study of the SKC (Zhao, Borges & Morrison, 2021), “as of January 5, 2021, only 30% of DOAJ journals have a ‘last update’ date within the previous year (2020)”, which means only 30% of DOAJ journals fully or partially updated their information in DOAJ system. To make the best use of DOAJ, journal editors should regularly check their entries to ensure that their data is correct and up to date. For example, if journal URLs are not kept up to date, an incorrect URL means, at best, that the journal cannot be found. Crawford (2016), in a study of DOAJ journals, found journals flagged that were as malware (or as containing malware) by Mal- warebytes, Windows Defender, McAfee Site Advisor or Office 2013. 

Most of the visible inconsistencies in the metadata are input errors or location errors (listed below). Most of the input errors are “small differences in punctuation and/or characters, extra spaces at the beginning and/or at the end”, as reported by SKC (Zhao, Borges & Morrison, 2021). Combined with the findings of Crawford (2016), we list the data to be modified by categories as follows:

• Input error or location error in:

wrong column, journal title, special character, keywords, copyright information URL, plagiarism information URL, URL for journal’s instructions for authors, other submission fees information URL, preservation services, preservation service: national library, preservation information URL, deposit policy directory, persistent article identifiers, URL for journal’s open access statement, etc. 

• Publisher name duplicates:

Extra space or short of space, minor detail (e.g. non-English character in one but not the other), minor difference in punctuations and/or characters (e.g. “Abant İzzet Baysal Üniversitesi” vs. “Abant İzzet Baysal University”), abbreviation in one but not the other (e.g. “Asociación Interuniversitaria de Investigación Pedagógía” vs. “Asociación Interuniversitaria de Investigacion Pedagogica (AIDIPE)”), etc.

• “APC-charging journals that don’t clearly state the amount charged” (Crawford, 2016)

Sometimes it is hard to indicate “who is the publisher”. We list some situations below:

• When there are branch publishers under one publisher, and all of them are recorded in DOAJ, especially when their journals’ websites do not have any clear indications ;
• When a publisher has more than one active names (perhaps due to different sponsors of one publisher, or the nature of commercial publishers), but their journals’ websites do not have any clear indications ;
• When journals changed their websites but didn’t renew the URLs in the DOAJ database;
• Invalid URLs;
• Unmatched publisher name/journal name and URLs.

DOAJ also provides article-level search and is working to encourage more journals to provide article-level metadata. It makes both the journal-level and article-level metadata available for anyone to download. (DOAJ, https://doaj.org/docs/public-data-dump/) Thus, it would be better if journal editors can ensure the correctness of the articles’ information. 

References

Crawford, W. (2016). Gold Open Access Journals 2011 – 2015. https://waltcrawford.name/goaj1115.pdf

Directory of Open Access Journals. Retrieved March 29, 2021, from http://doaj.org/

Public data dump. Directory of Open Access Journals. Retrieved March 29, 2021, from https://doaj.org/docs/public-data-dump/

Why index your journal in DOAJ? Directory of Open Access Journals. Retrieved March 29, 2021, from https://doaj.org/apply/why-index/

Zhao, X., Borges, L., & Morrison, H. (2021). Some limitations of DOAJ metadata for research purposes. Sustaining the Knowledge Commons. https://sustainingknowledgecommons.org/2021/02/10/some-limitations-of-doaj-metadata-for-research-purposes/

Learning from other scholars’ work on Haitian radio was, and still is, one of the greatest pleasures in the process of writing Isles of Noise: Sonic Media in the Caribbean (UNC 2016). People living in or from Haiti widely acknowledged and almost took for granted radio’s outsized role in public and political life. Edwidge Danticat and Jonathan Demme also understood this and paid tribute in Claire of the Sea Light and The Agronomist respectively, but historians remained largely fixated, understandably, on pivotal moments in Haiti’s rich history. Radio is different. Not pivotal, but witnessing the pivotal. Less dramatic and more long lasting and adhering to the same format for days, years, decades. It speaks to people who wouldn’t read newspapers or books. It floods private and public space with the sounds of music, talking, ruling, dissenting, explaining, satirizing, creating, crying, testifying, lying. But it leaves few archival traces. This is why the work of the five scholars in this series is so important. They allow us to hear a little and honor the listeners who make the medium what it is.

Liveness, and company: Ian Coss’s finely tuned account of a “day in the life” of a radio station follows the programming rhythm of days and nights, from rollicking to quiet and back again. Radio is a predictable presence, an intimate friend who anticipates your needs even before you do. Coss draws from his years of listening to the listeners as he marks radio time and space in Cap Haïtien. Guest Editor– Alejandra Bronfman

——-

Fabrice Joseph is a mender, set up on a street corner in Cap Haïtien, Haiti’s second largest city. He shows me a red plastic toolbox filled with supplies — thread, wires, scraps of fabric—which he can use to fix a jammed zipper or stitch up a torn backpack strap. I stop because he’s cradling a radio set in his hands, tuned to the city’s most popular station: Radio Venus. 

We meet on a quiet day; Fabrice has been sitting on the stoop for five hours already with no work. Another day he’s engrossed in assembling a large umbrella—the kind food vendors use for shade—but the radio is still on, now propped on a ledge just behind his head. He replaces the batteries almost weekly, because the radio is always on. In the morning Radio Venus plays news, Fabrice tells me, followed by music as the day heats up. Then in the afternoon he’ll hear sports or perhaps a religious program, before the station returns to music in the evening. 

This arc Fabrice describes is designed to follow the arc of his day. In this post, I trace that link: between the rhythms of radio programming and the rhythms of daily life, to show how formatting choices create a heightened sense of ‘liveness’ on Haiti’s airwaves, with all content located in a specific moment: the present moment. 

In a technical sense, terrestrial radio broadcasting has always been defined by real time or ‘live’ transmission (an dirèk in Creole), a characteristic that is often invoked in discussions of the medium’s capacity to create shared experiences or even ‘imagined communities.’ And yet where I live in the United States, the passage of time is barely discernible on most commercial stations. Where radio schedules once varied from hour to hour (often reflecting gendered and classed norms of listening), today market research has driven the rise of so-called “format stations” that target specific interest groups and demographics with an equally targeted form of programming: non-stop sports, news, top 40, easy listening, etc. 

When I first visited Haiti in 2015, I was surprised to find a radio format unlike any I had grown up with, and not unlike those broadcast schedules of the 1920s and 1930s. While doing research in Cap Haïtien, I conducted a series of bandscans—systematic reviews of the entire radio dial—in order to identify the different types of programming heard on stations throughout the day there. I found the full range of talk and music-oriented shows you might expect, and yet of the 31 stations I picked up, only a handful carried the same type of programming all day. The vast majority carried every kind of program, including Fabrice’s favorite station, Radio Venus.

The Radio Venus studio sits on top of a three-story building, with a door leading straight out onto an open roof deck where the transmitter tower rises several more stories up in the air. That tower operates at 10 watts, just enough to relay the signal to a nearby mountain, where it’s then rebroadcast at roughly 450 watts, blanketing the country’s whole Northern Department. The person in charge of this whole system, as well as the overall flow of the day’s programs, is known as the opérateur. The station employs four operators—Molliere, Louis, Wilkonson and Simon—who work in shifts to cover the 24-hour schedule. This rotation provides stability as the hosts (or animateur) of different programs come and go—often showing up late, and sometimes not showing up at all. For long stretches of the day there is no host, so the operator just cues up a folder of songs in Windows Media Player, occasionally leaning over to trigger a station ID: a chesty voice that declares, “W’ap koute Radio Tele-Venus”—‘You are listening to Radio Tele-Venus.’

One day, while sitting behind the board of the cramped control room, Simon explains that the goal of the station’s format is to satisfy all of the listeners’ interests and to provide “stability” in their often unstable lives. That last descriptor, “estabilite,” strikes me as somewhat ironic, given that the station’s programming is constantly changing. But for Haitians like Fabrice, who listen all day while they work, the description fits: he never needs to touch the dial, and at the same time he knows exactly what he will hear. Indeed, most of the radio listeners I meet in Cap Haïtien praise the medium’s consistently variable nature; if they wanted to hear the same thing all day they could get a stereo that takes a kat memwa—a memory card—and load it up with their favorite mp3s. Radio should change with the hours of the day; that’s part of what makes it radio. 

Many of the staff at Radio Venus describe the art of matching programming to the mood of the moment, in terms of ‘hotness’ (cho). For example, it’s important to have a lively host on the air between about 10am to noon, usually playing konpa music, so that the radio ‘heats up’ to give listeners more energy for their day. This shift takes place simultaneously across virtually every station on the dial, such that it’s literally audible on the street, from countless battery-powered radio sets. The timeliness of this ‘heating up’ is further emphasized by the host—at Venus, a local favorite named Don Lolo—who constantly reads the exact hour and minute off of a large analog clock on the studio wall. Lolo’s job is to make the music live in the moment; to make it ‘hot.’ By the same token, when I interview the overnight operator, Louis, he tells me that since many listeners keep the radio on all night, it’s important that he doesn’t play any music that’s ‘too hot,’ so as not to disturb their sleep. Everything in its right time.

The most dramatic shift in programming, however, begins on Friday evening. For the entire weekend, the station drops most of its talk-oriented shows and plays constant music—almost all of which is bootlegged recordings of live concerts. The idea is to convey the freewheeling mood of a night out on the town, even for those who won’t be at a bar or concert. To keep up this atmosphere, the station operators can choose from whole folders of “konpa live” tracks dating back decades—most of which run twelve to fifteen minutes long. Again, this programming convention of playing live recordings on weekends is ubiquitous across the dial, and indeed across Haiti. Turn on the radio on a Saturday night and you will be hard pressed to find any music that was recorded in a studio. 

My first weekend at Radio Venus, I step out of the studio at dusk, and find the station’s signal is suddenly all around me—far more present than just a few hours earlier. Around the corner from the station, an electronics store has set up a row of folding chairs in the street, and is blasting Radio Venus for a small audience. At the end of the same block is a barbershop; there too the stereo is tuned to Venus, with one cabinet speaker set in its arched entryway. 

At this hour, both the street and the shop are definitively male spaces—save for some market women packing goods and a mother overseeing her son’s haircut, those listening in public are men. A cell card vendor is perched on top of the stereo speaker itself; a man with two live chickens—their heads poking out of the bottom of plastic shopping bags—stops by and quickly exchanges some money with one of the barbers, who plays some air guitar as the next customer takes his seat. One of the other remaining barbers is perched sideways in his stool, feet in the air and a bottle of Barbancourt rum in one hand. The energy is loose, encouraged by the radio announcer.

Back at the station, the small studio is lit only by a single fluorescent bulb, whose harsh light spills through the glass pane into the neighboring control room. Don Lolo is on the air once again, but his style is different. No more telling the time or giving long monologues. Instead he sings along in a full-throated voice, occasionally adding personal shout-outs. We learn that Gerald is celebrating a birthday today, just as Claire and Alex are marking their anniversary. When his phone then rings, instead of picking it up Lolo silences the call and responds by radio: “Sorry, I can’t talk now!” 

It’s late when Don Lolo wraps up his show and we head out of the studio, leaving Louis alone to cool the music back down for the overnight shift. The evening operator, Simon, offers to walk me home. At this hour, we can stroll down the middle of the street side by side, the city’s elaborate facades cast in silhouette by the occasional streetlight. As we head up the hill towards my place, Simon cocks his head and gestures across the street. I turn just in time to catch the station ID—“W’ap koute Radio Tele Venus”—coming out of a barbershop. The radio is still on.

Tune into a livestream of Radio Tele-Venus via Tune In: https://tunein.com/radio/Radio-Tele-Venus-1043-s181945/

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Featured Image: “An electronics vendor in Cap Haïtien, Haiti” by Ian Coss

—

Ian Coss is an audio producer, composer and sound designer whose work spans the worlds of podcasting and performance. He has produced several critically acclaimed series with the Radiotopia network, including Ways of Hearing, The Great God of Depression, and Over the Road. His audio work has been reviewed by the New Yorker and the Guardian; featured on NPR, Al Jazeera and the BBC; and recognized with an Edward R. Murrow Award for ‘excellence in sound.’ Additionally, Ian has premiered live sound works at the Boston Museum of Science and Harvard University, and collaborated on immersive audio tours for the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, Richmond ICA, and other major art institutions. Ian holds a PhD in ethnomusicology from Boston University, where he conducted research on Haitian radio broadcasting and Indonesian shadow-puppetry. He continues this work as musical director for The Brothers Čampur, an international puppetry collaborative that has performed at major festivals in Indonesia, and at universities throughout the eastern United States. More on all these projects at iancoss.com.

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REWIND! . . .If you liked this post, you may also dig:

Radio de Acción: Violent Circuits, Contentious Voices: Caribbean Radio Histories–Alejandra Bronfman

Radio Ambulante: A Radio that Listens –Carolina Guerrero

The Sweet Sounds of Havana: Space, Listening, and the Making of Sonic Citizenship–Vincent Andrisani

Over het plezier van samen servers overbelasten

Gisteravond vond onder leiding van The Hmm en PublicSpaces een virtuele tour plaats rond verschillende alternatieve platforms. Ongeveer 90 online deelnemers bezochten 5 open source platformalternatieven voor sociale media, samenwerktools, videoconferencing en onderwijspresentaties. Platforms waar eigen databeheer, hosting en de privacy van gebruikers voorop staan, en zo wel degelijk een alternatief bieden voor de infrastructuren van o.a. Google en Facebook waar we niet van lijken los te komen.

De tocht startte via de eigen livestream van The Hmm, waarna er uitstapjes naar de 5 platforms werden gemaakt. Bezoekers kregen steeds een link in de chat om zo naar de volgende stop te kunnen navigeren. Je kon echter ook in de livestream blijven hangen en daar de presentaties van de ‘platform hosts’ volgen. We ‘lurkten’ en namen online ruimtes over bij Fediverse (Mastodon), Ethercalc, Mozilla Hubs, Nextcloud en de command line interface Terminal.

Het platformhoppen verliep echter verre van vlekkeloos. Geluid viel soms weg, het laden van websites duurde erg lang, we kregen foutmeldingen en overbelastten servers. Maar dat was juist vermakelijk. Je zou het niet zeggen in tijden waarin de zinsnede ‘je staat nog op mute’ ons de strot uit komt en elke schermhapering ons irriteert, maar hier viel dat allemaal weg. Recent onderzoek van de Boekmanstichting naar online evenementen in coronatijd laat zien dat bezoekers bereid zijn over technische problemen heen te stappen, als het onderwerp interessant genoeg is. Gisteravond bleek dat eens te meer. Het onderwerp was nota bene de functionaliteit van deze platforms, en de improvisatie die van zowel hosts als bezoekers nodig bleek om de tocht voort te zetten, zorgde voor een gevoel van gezamenlijkheid. Het technisch trouble shooten was niet langer ruis, maar verplaatste naar de voorgrond. Na die eerste korte vlaag van irritatie, zagen we er met z’n allen de lol en het belang van in: de chat stroomde vol met triomfantelijke berichten als ‘We broke it!’

Een gevoel van eigenaarschap maakte zich daarnaast (onbewust) van ons meester. Gezamenlijk testen en ervaren hoe deze alternatieve platformen werken, zorgt voor frictie. Ze worden niet gehost door Big Tech met hun bijbehorende financiële en personele middelen, maar zijn kleinschalig en kunnen dus soms geen negentig mensen tegelijkertijd aan. Dit drukt je met je neus op het feit dat we gewend zijn geraakt aan geruisloze ervaringen op gratis platforms waar we niets zelf in de hand hebben. Het plezier van ontdekken, leren snappen hoe iets werkt is echter een broodnodige eerste stap naar dataeigenaarschap. Online evenementen als deze laten zien dat er behoefte aan is, dat het leuk is, en dat het kán!