Here’s the slide deck and script for my #cwcon 2016 talk, “The University Library as Junk Shop: Visualizing DIY Composition.”
I took a break from dissertating last week to make a zine for Syracuse in Print‘s first-ever event: Zine Swap! It’s issue #2 of my dad-zine Hotdogz (which is much lighter than the content from #1). Here’s the pdf, which aside from being hastily screen-shot-stitched in a garbage resolution, is boring as hell. If you want a proper print copy, which is a lot more fun, hit me up.
According to the mastheads, Broken Pencil started without any government sponsorship, but gradually accepted more as time went on. The Ontario Arts Council (OAC) started subsidizing the magazine with #7 in the summer of 1998 (though curiously this language is missing from #s 10 and 11— and maybe #9, though I can’t locate that issue). In #15, they begin to acknowledge both the OAC and Canada Council for the Arts. In #16 (2001) they add “BP acknowledges the financial support of the Government of Canada, through the publications assistance program (PAP), toward our mailing costs.” In #19 (2002) they add “…and the Canada Magazine Fund of the Department of Canadian Heritage toward our mailing and project costs. Canada agreement number 1377914.” Then in #47 (spring 2010) they replace PAP (presumably because it dissolved) with the Canada Periodical Fund (CPF). The language seems to have stayed constant since.
In chapter 10 of Canadian Content Edwardson continues to explicate the affect of globalization on Canada’s culture industry, arguing that the government — through its various sponsoring agencies like those mentioned above — cultivated a cultural economy that defined success through employment and sales. As he notes, this is embodied through programs like Tomorrow Starts Today. Introduced in 2001 by the Department of Canadian Heritage, the now-defunct TST provided $560 million to help, as the government put it, “brand Canada around the world” (261). Describing culture in quantitative terms, Edwardson argues throughout this chapter, is typical of Canadianization in the time of globalization, where the export of culture is put at a premium. This, in turn, affected the content of magazines, music, film, and television, as cultural producers were pandering to multinational investors or international distributors who would be leery of circulating content saturated with Canadian identifiers.
Although Broken Pencil hardly pandered to the Canadian government, two symptoms of globalization — emerging network technologies and free-trade policies — did begin to affect them, sometimes simultaneously. For example, in the mid-90s American magazines like Sports Illustrated began to use satellite transmission to bypass the technical stipulations in the 1964 Paperback and Periodical Distributors Act, a law that “limit[ed] tax deductions for advertisements in magazines to those that fulfilled domestic criteria” (273). Essentially because this legislation kept American and other foreign magazines from entering the Canadian market (the exceptions being Time and Readers Digest), Canadian content was protected from foreign influence. Once the Canadian government caught these magazines circumventing via satellite, they passed Bill C-103, which Broken Pencil addressed in the inaugural “Pencil Sharpener” editorial section of #3 (1996):
“Canada has a new law that levies an 80-percent excise tax on the advertising revenue of Canadian editions of foreign magazines. These odious examples of corporate waste previously published so-called Canadian editions of American magazines with all Canadian advertising and little in the way of Canadian content. Bill C-103 protects Canada from such evils, and clears the way for Canadian corporations to keep control over their own mediocre stable of all Canadian sports, fashion and lifestyle magazines.” (10)
The US subsequently argued that Bill C-103 violated the terms of NAFTA, leading to a showdown at the WTO. Perhaps anticipating the outcome, the editors at Broken Pencil rendered the legal basis for the showdown with dependable sarcasm: “Naturally, the US is appealing this decision through that upstanding free trade agreement NAFTA.”
The WTO, as predicted, ruled in favor of the US and this, as Edwardson puts it, led to “a startling wake-up call as to how the pursuit of foreign markets had led to a surrendering of control over cultural policy and the ability to ensure domestic discourse on Canadian terms” (274).
The editors at Broken Pencil were explicitly critical of this outcome in issue #5 (1997). While they interpreted the ruling as an example of how “economic bureaucracies view the independent culture of small countries” as expendable, they also criticized the Canadian government for deciding to “fight a trade battle over Canadian magazines as if they were hot-dog companies” (10-11). Yet the consequences of this ruling didn’t concern the editors per se; they simply saw it as another example of corporate media control. A secondary effect from the WTO was more damaging: subsidized mailing rates for Canadian material was deemed equally hostile to foreign market interests and thus, the government had to restructure its Publications Assistance Program (PAP) so that magazines would get the subsidy up front, which cost taxpayers more (Edwardson 274). As Broken Pencil argued, when it came to print at least, the cultural pulse of Canada wasn’t found in “twenty mainstream magazines … that everybody reads but seem to have little to say,” but within the hundreds of independent nonprofit little magazines “with fewer readers but a lot to say about what is going on in various local and cultural spheres” (11). Whether or not they made this exact case to the government is unclear, but they started acknowledging funding from the PAP a few years later.
Still, rather than focus on supporting smaller spheres, Canada more generally was following the US’s example and actively creating foreign markets for its culture industry. These programs, like Tomorrow Starts Today in 2001 and PromArt or Trade Routes in 2010, turned artists and writers into “ambassadors, sharing Canadian voices and values with the world,” as one Department of Canadian Heritage fact sheet put it (276). The problem with this dubious subject position, Edwardson explains, is that it conflates “industry with identity in the face of cultural insecurity, instability, and blatant contradictions that arise in a system which relies upon domestic profiteers and multinational corporations to develop Canadian content” (278-79).
Edwardson ends his history in the early aughts, arguing that if there’s any hope for the future of Canadianization, “federal bureaucrats need to come to terms with the fact that economic strength and industry growth do not equate with opportunities for national discourse and expression” (283). And yet in the midst of a severe recession in 2006, the Liberal Party’s 70-year reign ended with the election of Conservative Party leader Stephen Harper. Tretheway’s piece in Broken Pencil #46 (2010), mentioned in my last post, explains how the Tories seized the opportunity of the recession to defund programs typically dedicated to smaller, independent “fringe” artists and publishers. Using a process called “strategic review,” bureaucrats defunded sectors of programs under the guise of a routine budgeting process, removing the threat of any real political accountability. Through this process, programs like the Canadian Musical Diversity (CMD) fund — which supported the production of recordings of artists who made unconventional and underrepresented music — was axed in favor of supporting “digital marketing and international touring,” echoing Edwardson’s concerns that globalized Canadianization conflates the visibility of the culture industry with an essential cultural or national identity. As the executive director of the British Columbia Association of Magazine Publishers, Rhona MacInnes, notes in the article, “They don’t have to come out and say it, but there is an emphasis placed by the Canadian Periodical Fund on what sells” (16; emphasis mine). Hence, starting in 2009 — less than a year before this article was published — the CPF revealed that magazines under a circulation of 5,000 would not longer be eligible for subsidies. It just so happens that Broken Pencil’s circulation is now 5,000; though I’m not sure when it started publishing this many copies, it’s clear based on the masthead that they had been printing that many since at least 2010.
The important takeaway here is that although Broken Pencil has accepted government sponsorship for its cultural work since as early as 1998, it has served as a voice for a sector of the public arts that gets grossly underrepresented in Canadian culture. And yet, MacInnes’s statement, published in Broken Pencil, begs the question: how did BP manage to convince the Canadian government to help fund it? It will also be interesting to see to what extent these issues flare up over time and how the introduction of other media affects BP’s arguments about funding and access.
After spending the last few weeks closely reading the first three issues from the first year of Broken Pencil, 1995-1996, this past week has been about accounting for the various cultural, socio-economic, and technological contexts through which these issues and this magazine emerged. Essentially that has meant working backward from these issues to identify potential threads that would explain things like the nationalism in the letters section, or why Broken Pencil have been poised for hybidity. This has led me to books on the history of the Internet and how and why the Web came to be; to texts about Canadian culture and history; and, finally, texts about neoliberalism and globalization, especially when they affect the culture industries. Three books in particular have occupied my time, mostly since they discuss the above threads in overlapping ways. In the next few posts, I’m going to try to connect these texts to threads throughout Broken Pencil’s issues, regardless of time period. Today: Canadianization.
Ryan Edwardson’s Canadian Content: Culture and the Quest for Nationhood explores the ways in which culture has been used to shape postcolonial Canadian nationalism since the country’s first confederation in 1867. Edwardian traces Canadianization, his term for this process, through three distinct periods: Masseyism (1920s-1950s), The New Nationalism (1960s), and ending with Cultural Industrialism (1968-present). Importantly, the roots of Canadian nationalism differ from those of America’s because it developed throughout 20th century rather than the 19th; that is, as Canadian nationalism has been cultivated, the available technologies used for reaching and making publics have changed significantly. As a result Canada has regulated mass media — especially TV and radio — through quota systems that require a certain percentage of broadcasted content be Canadian in origin. First introduced in 1968, but still used today (with increasing vulnerability, which I’ll discuss in a moment), the quota systems are used alongside more common cultural bodies — such as The Department of Canadian Heritage — to insure that Canadian Content (CanCon, for short) sustains nationalist or domestic discourse throughout the public sphere.
According to Edwardson, quota systems were an easy sell in the 1960s, as public intellectuals helped fashion the nation’s self-image of a “Peaceable Kingdom,” asserting its independence from the United States, whose imperialism was becoming more of a threat. Importantly during this period, culture became “freed from elite domination and ostracizing paternalism,” typical of Masseyism, “in order to encourage a national project with a wider social base” (17). This move allowed domestic discourse to circulate more widely using more accessible cultural identifiers, like certain comics or pop music. In essence, this was the New Nationalism.
These quota systems, however, increasingly mapped nationalism onto the growth of the Canadian culture industries by increasingly commodifying culture. As Edwardian notes:
“Economic incentives and industrial point systems all placed Canadian content within the dynamics of profitability and cultural commodification, which encouraged industries to strip it of national identifiers — or more commonly, replace Canadian ones with American equivalents — in order to attract the interest of distributors at home an abroad” (20).
This period, which Edwardson dubs “cultural industrialism,” sees government officials increasingly making use of economic rather than social benchmarks (employment, sales, returns of return, investment, etc.) in garnering continued support of these public programs. The sum of this shift, at least for Edwardson, is that a globalized and subsidized 21st century Canadian culture industry has facilitated an “entrenchment” of culture where the motivation for profit negates “social cohesiveness” that should come with Canadianization (25).
He has more to say about this period in Chapter 10 and in the Conclusion, but for now the question is: how might these policies affect our understanding of Broken Pencil?
For one, at some point (I’m not certain when) several public programs began subsidizing Broken Pencil. According to their About page, the magazine is currently supported by four agencies: The Department of Canadian Heritage, Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council, and The Access Copyright Foundation. And although a letter in the most recent issue of BP, #67, criticized the magazine for accepting government money, these public programs are organized in such a way that they filter funding through a bureaucratic process that makes it difficult for the public to hold government officials directly responsible.
An example: according to The Department of Canadian Heritage’s website, BP was awarded between $13-$14,000 under their “Aid to Publishers” program during the last three years— plus what appears to be additional money under their “Business Innovation—Print” program ($25,000 in 2011-12 and $18,500 in 2013-14). I don’t understand the particulars of these programs, or their application process, so that is something to look into. These complications are discussed in certain issues of the magazine. In #46 (2010), for example, BP ran an article on the affects of the recession on public money for the arts, pitting certain parts of public funding against free market ideology, much like Edwardson suggests:
“The recession and rising deficits have once again put arts funding and culture-friendly policies on the chopping block… And the independent arts—the bands, publishers, artists and creators on the front lines of grassroots creativity—are once again the easy prey of a sustained, yet unproclaimed, hunting season” (15).
The article goes on to provide an example of the Toronto electro-experimental group Holy Fuck and the cutting of a program called PromArt — a program meant to fund overseas tours of Canadian music — through a strategic review, introduced by the Tories.
Author Laura Trethewey puts it this way: “The new, ongoing auditing program singles out ‘lower priority, lower performing’ government programs and redirects the money towards other programs vaguely defined as ‘higher performing’” (15). Hence, DIY or indie culture — arguably the least organized and most impoverished arts sector — are ostracized under an economic rubric of culture.
In a follow-up post I’ll take a closer look at Chapter 10 and the Conclusion of Edwardson and apply some of what he says to this article.
The first issue of Broken Pencil was published in Toronto in June 1995 — incidentally, the same month I graduated from high school 100 miles south, in a suburb of Buffalo, New York. I say incidentally because I was also publishing a zine at the time, Mud, which was between issues 3 and 4 (of a total 8 between 1992 and 1997). Although I had heard about and occasionally read Factsheet Five, the American review digest of zines, Broken Pencil wasn’t on my radar for reasons I’ll explain in a moment.
Flash forward 18 years later and I’m a c/r doctoral student at Syracuse, voluntarily writing reviews for BP in exchange for free copies of current issues.This makes looking at the print copy of #1 this week feel somewhat strangely nostalgic. Current issues of BP are slicker, the result of both cheaper printing costs and a wider circulation. For example:
While the covers have always been glossy, the early issues are marked by a 90s-like design, with several corny fonts and graphics overlaid on opaque images, and cheaper newsprint inside the cover. While I don’t know the circumstances of the BP’s early days — especially how it was bankrolled — I do know that it was founded by Hal Niedzviecki, a writer who was born in Canada, but schooled in the Washington DC suburbs and Bard in upstate NY (as near as I can tell, he received an MFA in creative writing from there not long before he started Broken Pencil). Although he’s written several books over the years and has freelanced for popular North American newspapers and magazines (including the New York Times Magazine, Playboy, Utne Reader, and more), at the time of BP’s launch, he was only 24 years old, and did not — again, as far as I can tell from a Proquest search — have any significant publications under his name. Niedzviecki edited BP until 2003, with #20 being is last issue before Emily Schultz takes the reigns. At some point he became the fiction editor. [Note: I am hopeful Niedzviecki will help fill in these gaps via interviews throughout my project.]
Editorially, the first year of Broken Pencil is marked by some hesitance, but it also sets forth an agenda for underground Canadian culture that sticks with the magazine throughout the next 19 years. The first issue, for example, included no feature stories — only an editorial, letters, interviews, excerpts, and reviews. But by #2, published 6 months later, two features were added. The first, written by Niedzviecki, focused on Canada’s law of legal deposit, a common copyright law that requires publishers to submit two copies of every publication to a cultural repository (the National Library in Canada’s case). The other feature, written by contributor Derek Winker, examines the free market impulses of “millennial colonists” of the early World Wide Web and sounds a jeremiad for zinesters to start taking control of it or suffer by watching its potential disappear. In #3, published in the summer of 1996, we see two more topical features. The first is article by Niedzviecki that draws a correlation between advancing technology and a shrinking of public money, suggesting that the independent artist is now code word for entrepreneur. As if they were paradoxically assisting in these advances, #3 also includes a short piece by Winkler on how to make a website for as little as $7.
The concerns articulated in these features make it clear that DIY, at least as far as Broken Pencil conceived it in the mid-90s, is about more than teaching each other how to make stuff (although there is a little of that with Winker’s website guide). For them, it is also about reflecting on the politics and agency of the underground within a larger consumer culture, thereby requiring a measurement of Canadian culture writ large. This is captured in the first words of the magazine, in #1’s editorial, written by Niedzviecki and his co-editor, Hillary Clark:
“…each new entry into the world of language is a potential wrong turn for some reader the danger of a blind corner is the pitfall of new ideas, undiluted view-points, radical and libertarian rants all produced by individuals who take it upon themselves to manufacture documents that have nothing to do with so-called market forces. So why do they do it? And why is it dangerous? We at Broken Pencil believe that the force of alternative publishing, from fringe ‘zines to little read literary journals to obscure chapbooks, is equal to any great manifesto that human ingenuity has sought to declare. Individually, these obscure publications may seem to not matter. But when considered as a collective unit, they are amazingly pervasive documents that insist on the sanctity of a life where independent creation is still possible in a society, a country, a world that might have it otherwise.” (1)
Of course only so much can be deduced from four articles written by two writers — Niedzviecki and Winkler — but many of the comments from early readers also suggest a preoccupation with Canadian culture, especially in reference to the United States. For example, in many of the letters published in these issues, there are allusions to BP being a newfound spokesperson and hub for Canada’s underground culture. Several letters thank BP for providing an alternative to Factsheet Five. Upon hearing about the initial creation of BP, early commenters in #1 wrote to say things like “it’s about time Canada had some type of zine guide” (5) and “Factsheet 5 tends to neglect zines in Canada, and see them in ‘Canadian Perspective’” (5). By #2, letters were already debating the shape and texture of the magazine, critiquing it for being too centered on Ontario or looking too much like Factsheet Five. One of the writers whose zine was excerpted in #1, Dave Cussword, wrote to remind the magazine that “as warden of Canadian pulp subculture,” they should “represent the non-conformity of its subject in design as well as content” (7). Likewise, “It’s Hip to Buy: The Evolution of Radical Culture in Canada,” Niedzviecki argues that “New Canadian culture is mean, marketable and looks a lot like the hipster ‘counter-culture’ of our Southern neighbors.” I’m not sure if this stays constant throughout the magazine’s history, but given the obvious US bias within zine culture, much of this makes sense. Defining the changing essence of Canadian culture, however, will require another layer of research for this diss.
The first year of BP also sees it move swiftly into a hybrid media; that is, it not only crafts a print and online presence but attempts to integrate the two. This occurs much earlier than I thought. Although the only real digital presence in first issue is an email address (firstname.lastname@example.org), by #2 there is an “E-Zines” section in the reviews section in addition to Winkler’s article about the Web, and in #3, a year after #1, they not only have a website counterpart ( www.io.org/-halpen/bpencil.html) to the print magazine, but a regular section called Zine of the Month, that features regular content on the website. Moreover in #3, Niedzviecki provides an email in the letters section, and one that is significantly cleaner than in #1 (email@example.com).
Questions/ideas moving forward:
- In terms of content, I’m most interested in the editorial, features, and letters sections since they make it easier to gauge the concerns of readers and editors than the reviews section. That said, I’m also wondering if I should trace metrics on other details — page count, # of reviews, etc.
- Much of the early life of the magazine is concerned with descriptors, especially “alternative” culture. It is an operating term in the editorial in #2 (“ Those enquiring into the nature of alternative publishing — already a cumbersome, self -perpetuating and almost meaningless term — insist on generalizations”). The tagline for the magazine begins with “The Guide to Alternative Publications in Canada,” which runs through #9. Moreover, in a 2000 interview about his book Hello I’m Special, Niedzviecki shied away from the description his publisher’s publicity team described as “alternative culture guru,” preferring the term “underground culture guru.” I wonder if tension is visible in the next 4-5 issues.
- Early issues shuttle between playing the role of sponsor and critic — excerpting certain zines, but also slamming others in the reviews section. Feature stories about topics of concern, continue, but so do interview with people or makers. I wonder if (1) this is always the case, and (2) if this role is unique to a textroom or a magazine like BP.
- How else does the BP continue to function as a hybrid media?
My project explores two basic questions: First, how has do-it-yourself (DIY) publishing changed since the popularization of the Web? Second, what might those changes tell us about the ways in which we conceive of and teach multimodal, public writing?
To answer these questions, I look at the ways in which DIY publishers have taught each other about the affordances and challenges of certain aspects of their work as they have come to terms with emerging networked and digital technologies in the so-called late age of print. My source for this analysis comes from the Canadian magazine Broken Pencil (BP).
Founded by pan-am cultural critic and publisher Hal Niedzviecki in 1995 — the same year the Web went mainstream — BP is a widely-read magazine that has covered zine culture and independent arts. Throughout its 66 issues, BP has reported on DIY publishing and independent arts primarily in Canada, but increasingly over time, the rest of the world. Although many columns have come and gone throughout the years, it has consistently published feature stories, letters, excerpts, editorials, and reviews of zines and other DIY media, always considering the stakes of cultural intermediaries through articles like “The 7 Dollar Website” (issue #3), “7 Reasons to Get a Shot-Gun and Kill Your Modem” (#5), “Photocopied Politics” (#6), “Media Monopoly on Zine Culture” (#10), “E-Zines” (#23), Where the Fuck Are the Zines?” (#36), “Zines Aren’t Dead” (#50), and “Zines are Undead” (#57). Moreover, with a current circulation of over 5,000 they’ve served as an important epicenter for North American DIY culture, not only playing the role of critic, but also sponsor.
The current plan is to begin the dissertation by reviewing how self-publishing and DIY culture have historically been addressed in comp/rhet, and to create more space for discussing it (1) in a digital context, and (2) in relation to other aspects of rhetoric besides production, especially delivery. This is especially important in DIY publishing, as writing cultures and communities are primarily created through a desire to simply make and circulate texts. In Chapter 2, I develop a methodology and method for my historical reading of DIY culture since 1995. This will likely involve grounded theory, but at the moment I’m interested in thinking about the ways in which I can intertwine multiple narratives in Chapters 3 and 4 — histories of BP, of course, but also histories of comp/rhet and histories of technology. Ultimately, I am trying to situate and contextualize the conversations within the pages of BP to talk about what’s different about self-publishing in 2015 and what this bodes for the future of writing and self-publishing. To manage this, I’m planning to break Chapters 3 and 4 chronologically, with the former focusing on 1995-2003 (early Web) and the latter focusing on 2004-present (Web 2.0). These dates also serendipitously represent a break in editorship, which will help manage the data. The final chapter, Chapter 5, takes stock of these histories to argue for pedagogies that encourage students to make writing spaces and communities using contemporary self-publishing technologies.
So why am I writing a history of BP, a 20-year spanning Canadian magazine about zines, as part of a composition studies dissertation? First and foremost, my field has very little understanding of the history of digital writing as it has enveloped or emerged from print culture. Second, and probably more importantly, we also have little understanding about what DIY means — or could mean — for our writing pedagogies. How do DIY writers learn for instance, as new tools and technologies emerge into already existing writing ecologies? How do we tap into students’ obsessions and passions without ruining them? How do we encourage them to go public with their work? I’m hoping that by reading back issues of BP, I’ll be able to generate some generalizations about:
- the history of BP, specifically, and DIY publishing more generally in the last 20 years
- the rhetorical strategies of independent writers in the face of increasingly privatized tools and spaces
- the nature of self-sponsored writing and the nature of delivery systems
So what’s next? Or rather, what’s first? One of the major takeaways from my hearing last month was to immediately dig into the data itself — that is, to read BP both distantly and closely. But because access to most back issues required me to use digital scans of pages in Proquest, I could not really see the context for BP in all its printed glory. For example, Proquest carves up publications for content, truncating things like advertising or their “using Broken Pencil” page — and yet in a participatory community like zines, it’s important to see who is advertising in the magazine and how the editor-curated content relates to those ads.
So a day or so after I passed I emailed founder Hal Niedzviecki who had already welcomed me and my project in an email exchange last summer. He offered to send me all the back issues of BP, which I received in the mail earlier this week from my wonderful editor at BP, Alison Lang.
In the meantime, the last few weeks have seen me gathering texts about archives, history, and coding, specifically from the perspective of grounded theory so I can begin to experiment with the ways in which I might read BP. Joyce Neff, for example, argues that grounded theory requires the researcher to code in waves, starting with something called “open coding,” a early, generative process where concepts emerge from a quick reading of the text(s). I might read several reviews from BP, for example, that use language to refers to impurity, obsession, niche, or other concepts evoked in DIY. Neff suggests developing an exhaustive list and then worrying later about validating terms through a more refined coding process called “axial coding.” Gesa Kirsch has uses a similar approach as she attempts to understand social circulation in women’s medical journals from the late 19th/early 20th century. Social circulation, as she and Royster argue in Feminist Rhetorical Practices, “invokes connections among past, present, and future in the sense that the overlapping social circles in which women travel, live, and work are carried on or modified from one generation to the next and can lead to changed rhetorical practices Here we are talking about evolutionary relationships—not just revolutionary ones—and more mediated legacies of thought and action, such as, things that we absorb even without conscious awareness rather than a static sense of direct inheritance.” (23). What Kirsch uses is a method also articulated in Feminist Rhetorical Practices called “tacking in” and “tacking out,” which balances close readings of a text with more traditional methods of using secondary research or thinking broadly using critical imagination. I was lucky enough to hear about these experiences myself as Kirsch has been a visiting professor at SU this semester and has taken the time to lead several grad student writing groups.
The plan, then, is to read those issues of BP that are relevant to Chapter 3 (#1-30) alongside texts on methodology so that by the end I can actually write Chapter 2 with something concrete in mind. Then, I hope to read for Chapter 4 and write that chapter with a more specific method in mind. The revisions of those chapters, then, will ideally align them. From this, I’ll have a better sense of the lit review in Chapter 1 and where I might go with Chapter 5, when I discuss DIY and pedagogy.
All told, I hope to have almost 3 chapters drafted in the 16 weeks (80 days) I have this summer — which, as some people have more or less told me, is insane. But before I get too overwhelmed, I should note that if I break it down — 80 days, 160 pages of writing — that’s only 2 doubled-spaces pages a day or about 500-600 words. Totally doable, right?
Neff, Joyce Magnotto. “Grounded Theory: A Critical Research Methodology.” Under Construction: Working at the Intersections of Composition Theory, Research, and Practice. Ed. Christine Farris and Christopher M. Anson. Logan: Utah State University Press, 1998. 124–135. Print.
Royster, J. J, G. E Kirsch, and P. Bizzell. Feminist Rhetorical Practices: New Horizons for Rhetoric, Composition, and Literacy Studies. Southern Illinois University Press, 2012. Print.
I’m celebrating May Day by injecting some sorely needed labor back into this blog. If you are somehow reading this and don’t know me or why I’ve been in abstentia, the short version of this academic year is as follows:
- July: passed my exams
- October: Witnessed the birth of our third child, Christian,
- January: Lost my mom suddenly to a pulmonary embolism
- April: Passed my prospectus; now ABD
Frankly, it’s been a hard year, full of the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Aside from the emotional strain of loosing one of the most important people in my life, trying to make progress on the diss with three small kids feels impossible. When I’m home, I’m not working. When I’m teaching or consulting in the Writing Center, I’m not working. And when I am working, I’m not at home — and I’m trying not to grade, consult, or otherwise respond to students. And yet here I am. While I’ll be working a few hours a week this summer, I do have the time and space to write. And that work begins today.
Below is an approximation of the talk I gave at my CCCC panel in Tampa last week, called “Meaning Is In the Making: Three Responses to Shipka & Her Response”. You can view the slidedeck here. Special thanks for co-panelists Frank Farmer and Kristi Prins, and an extra special thanks to our respondent, Jody Shipka.
4Cs is a annual reminder that the most intriguing aspects of Jody’s work can be gleaned from her own composing practices, where she makes meaning by experimenting with [slides 3-6] forgotten technologies and alternative archives, purchased through dedicated Saturday afternoon visits to Maryland junk shops, flea markets, estate sales, garage sales, and thrift stores which then get reassembled in her house, then edited through film and circulated via social media, journals, workshops, and, of course, national conferences. Her work gives objects a memorable, visceral afterlife through accumulation, curation, resuscitation, and remediation. [slides 7-8] In her Inhabiting Dorothy project, for example, she [planning to ad lib briefly here based on your panel]. In this paper, I’d like to align myself with Jody’s gestures to reuse materials, but apply this as a communicative practice that is more political than has been discussed in her work.
The act of reusing materials seems powerful to me because it employs an aesthetic and politics that Adela Licona has called second order consumption — an oppositional process that “disrupts the capitalist imperative and circuits of production and consumption that rely on the individual to value the new, the first, the singular, and the latest, including planned obsolescence” (153n60). I realize Jody’s intention isn’t necessarily to promote second order consumption when she criticizes our tendency to equate multimodality with digital texts, tools and processes. After all, first order consumption is being showcased right now through this machine — and Jody herself uses programs like Adobe Premiere Pro, and equipment, like iPads to make her films. And yet, defining multimodality beyond the digital encourages an awareness of second order consumption — to look to our own embodied histories, experiences, and traversals, as well as to our search engines and applications for the available means. As she argues in a 2012 film for Enculturation, “research is a lived process.”
In short, Jody has both theorized and demonstrated throughout her work that all communicative practice is multimodal. That is, following Paul Prior and Jason Palmeri, she argues that multimodality is not a genre or a certain kind of text, but a “routine dimension of language in use.” In her essay “Including, but Not Limited to, the Digital” she echoes an emphasis originally laid out in her book, Toward a Composition Made Whole, that multimodality should call our attention to systems of activity that lead to meaning-making. She explains how multimodal production is a “complex and highly distributed process” that accounts for “the role that texts, talk, people, perceptions, semiotic resources, motives, activities, institutions and so on play in the production, reception, circulation, and valuation of” things — whether they are printed texts, digital films, material objects, machines, or other hybrid forms not yet imagined (75). Hence, rather than ask students to respond to assignments with specific, genre-driven products, Jody’s courses emphasize a variety of possible rhetorical and performative multimodal accomplishments — “things” that are not restricted by representational systems that were denied or made available to them by their instructors. Time permits me from fully explicating some of the rich examples from her classroom, but in short, Jody’s students make a wide variety of things — objects like ballet shoes, garbage cans, and shirts [slides 11-13].
In the time I have left, I want to quickly offer a multimodal accomplishment of the public kind by looking at zines — self-made, self-circulated, do-it-yourself print publications that obsess about something, whether that “thing” is punk music, anarchism, bisexuality, Thai food, dishwashing jobs, murder histories, or something else. Before I theorize a bit about the multimodality of zines, I thought I’d illustrate what zines are and what they can do through an example of my own zine, Hotdogz.
I’ve been waiting to make a zine about parenting for a while and so I began Hotdogz knowing that Cs would be a useful occasion to connect my complicated experiences with Florida to the state’s broader social history. But instead of beginning with my own writing, I started making issue 1 with “F 319” — the Library of Congress letter and number most relevant to Florida history. Because zines are a visual medium, I found the relevant shelves in our university library and sat and fumbled through the books, pulling titles off the shelf and marking intriguing passages and pictures [slides 18-22], which I then scanned using one of dozens of photocopy machines in the library. Meanwhile, I gathered family images from my computer files and Flickr account. Knowing that I would eventually make photocopies of my zine, I used Photoshop to adjust my images from color to halftone black and white [slides 23-31]. In between these processes, I read a few chapters from the edited collection, The History of Florida and took notes on the facts and stories from Floridian history that struck me; I also began to narrate my familial history as simply as possible. I then downloaded and imported a free comic book font into Pages and printed these with my images on my aging laser printer.
Similar to Jody’s process for making films and her students’ processes for their projects, zines often take, borrow, and remediate from everyday materials. Mine came from the library and my own photos, but they could have just as easily come from printed matter found in junk shops, garage sales, or through Google Image. However, unlike the multimodal accomplishments articulated in Jody’s examples, the guiding force for making zines isn’t performance or interanimation but circulation; that is, although the epistemologies of our communicative practices are similar in our view of research as a lived process, success for a zine is determined by the rhetor’s ability to anticipate what happens after the prototype is built: how, where, and to whom the zine be distributed. This is facilitated by two critical encounters — one material, one cultural — that influence the goals and choices made in the production process: the copy machine and the stranger.
For example, in terms of materiality, not only did the copy machine dictate how my images would reproduce, but [slide 36] I chose to make my zine a fourth of the size of a letter sized sheet of paper since I could make 50 copies of a 24-page zine using only 150 sheets of doubled-sided paper. In other words, I could reach more people with less resources if I worked with less space. I then spent 3 late hours in my department’s copy room, printing, collating, cutting, folding, and stapling issue 1. And, of course, as a cultural encounter, Cs provided me with the temporal and spatial occasion to circulate a zine to you, strangers, all of whom will judge me on the appropriateness of the occasion, my awareness of kairos.
In their book The Available Means of Persuasion Sheridan, Ridolfo, and Michel suggest that “kairotic inventiveness” plays an essential role in public rhetoric since it not only requires an understanding of how composition anticipates circulation, but also how kairotic determinants — time, space, channels — are often beyond the rhetor’s control. This has particular importance for public pedagogies that make use of multimodal forms as the material and cultural contexts of those forms limit the available means for production and circulation. As Sheridan, Ridolfo, and Michel put it, “rhetorical theory has yet to confront the full implications of taking circulation into account” (61) realizing that it is at least partially “constitutive of rhetorical composition” (67; emphasis in original); this gap in our theory is reflected in our multimodal pedagogies.
For example, when I ask students to make zines in my undergraduate classes they fully immerse themselves in the production process — [slides 40-43] cutting and pasting covers from old copies of Seventeen, remediating their nonfiction through comics or handwriting and type, scanning old children’s books from the library to use as backgrounds, and even sprinkling glitter throughout. But sometimes when I remind them that the photocopy is what’s really important for zines, they seem a bit disappointed. For some of them who are used to the ethos of professional magazines, black and white just isn’t what they envisioned; if they want a color cover or stitched binding, for instance, they have to find a way to reproduce that effect 20, 30, or even 50 times. Some students do vouch for color copies, but even then they have to significantly reduce their print runs if they want to stay within a reasonable budget. The printed copy is the reality that part of circulating one’s work means loosing control — that it means coming to terms with kairotic determinants that bring rhetorical agency in sharp relief. They learn that to publish is ultimately to commodify writing and that the available means of production and mediation are based on their own resourcefulness and capital.
While it is true that Facebook posts, retweets, blog entries, and wiki edits constitute other ways in which students engage textual reproduction (and they do this for me too), new media can sometimes obscure the material aspects of circulation. I can create a blog in no time, but who will read it? When it comes to distribution, zines don’t work through bots or analytics. They are either seen or they’re not. Hence, putting all those copies to public use is part of the multimodal work of zines. For this reason, I’ve pushed students to organize, curate, and publicize zine festivals hosted on campus where they can distributed copies of their work to strangers. On Tuesday, for instance, my students made the decision to [not sure what they decided yet — put I was pushing for a public festival like my Spring 2013 students did!]. When my students did this in the Spring 2013, they circulated their work for more than 30 strangers made of writing professors and the friends of their classmates.
As Sheridan, Ridolfo, and Michel argue in the introduction to their book, when the field brings multimodality and the public turn together, it can more clearly see the importance of who has — or does not have — the available means of production and mediation. In other words: “who owns culture” (xvi; emphasis in original) becomes a paramount concern. This extends — but also politicizes — Jody’s arguments that multimodal frameworks should be “engineered to underscore the interconnectedness of systems of production, distribution, reception, circulation, and valuation” (77). DIY and zines have historically pushed the politics of this interconnectedness, always aiming to minimize or altogether eliminate “moneypeople” — what Mary Sheridan has dubbed “corporate intermediaries” — from their systems. Although their content isn’t always political, the anticipation of circulation in the material production of zines renders these intermediaries — human and nonhuman agents alike — more clearly.
Even as zines limit the available “representational system” to printed objects, the ecology of their multimodality — their original obsessions, their remediated scraps, their changing of hands — are worth exploring, not in spite of the late age of print, but because of it.