Sometimes, taking a step back from what we do…
… or looking at it from the other side…
… might help us see things more clearly.
It’s what history does for us.
Many feel we are living in times of crisis, and our civilisation is under threat. (Whose civilisation, by the way?) As is usual with these things, we are not the first people to have this feeling. Many – writers, priests, scholars, politicians – have voiced the same idea, in many different centuries.
The great historian Johan Huizinga was one of them. Even though he understood that the sense of a downfall was nothing new, he nevertheless thought things were fundamentally different in his day. In 1935, he published his book In the Shadow of Tomorrow (originally In de schaduwen van morgen. Een diagnose van het geestelijk lijden van onze tijd, but soon translated into English and many other languages). In it, he complained that
We are living in a possessed world. […]
almost everything which once seemed certain and sacred, has become unsteady: truth and humaneness, reason and right. […]
since recently, a mood of impending doom and the festering decay of civilisation has become general.
Clearly, historians are not immune to short-sightedness. Nor do they always know how to separate the important from the less important. One thing Huizinga was bothered by, was aesthetic innovation. Amongst many other things (dadaism!), he disliked cinema and the radio: for him, they could never be art but merely ‘a cheap mass product’, ‘trivial’, ‘fake’, ‘external’. Those who enjoyed them were the ‘passive’ consumers of the ‘shadow’ of something real.
We have the benefit of hindsight of course, and for the same reason we can tell that it’s not all naivety we find in his book. For instance, Huizinga had a sharp eye for fashionable cliches. Just like about ten years ago, everything suddenly had to be ‘sustainable’ or green, in Huizinga’s day it was all about ‘life’, ‘blood’, ‘dynamic’, and, soon, he predicted, the word would be ‘existential’…
This critique by Huizinga, which in the first instance just uncovers a laughable habit, becomes more serious as he turns it into a political critique.
In the 1930s, European political discourse was suffused with the idea ‘don’t think: act’. Even if politics had never been particularly friendly anyway, strive and conquest had now become a sanctioned goal, bare and unexcused, beyond all judgement of good and evil. It was no longer considered the right thing to do, according to Huizinga, to fight against evil: it was now fine to fight against anything and anyone who was different from you – less powerful. War had become the normal state of being.
This ideology justified any act of violence, and announced the collapse of the fragile international peace that had reigned in Europe, at least, since the First World War, and the impending wolfing down of all societies by one military superpower. Obviously, Huizinga was thinking in the first place of the German state.
But Huizinga also turned to his fellow academics and researchers. In his book, he launches a sharp attack at those biological anthropologists who espoused racial theories. As he writes,
[This era] has become susceptible to a degree of nonsense, to which it had been immune for a long time.
Although clearly untenable, Huizinga explains, because these scientists assumed people to be completely determined by their birth and failed to take into account the influence of culture, racial theories nevertheless had an enormous popular appeal to Huizinga’s contemporaries, as he notices with disdain.
Jews and Germans are [both] exceptionally gifted in philosophy and in music […] This must be deemed to point to the strongly similar nature of the semitic and the germanic races. And so on, according to taste. The example is ridiculous, but not any sillier than the conclusions which are nowadays commonplace in wide circles of educated people.
To most of us nowadays all of this looks pretty obvious, but in the 1930s, reasoned racism was the order of the day (practical racism still is, of course). And, though even Huizinga did not completely escape racial thinking in his work, the following probably constituted the most important contribution he wanted to make with this book.
For he writes that even if someone ‘instinctively’ feels that certain people are different or less than they, it is their duty as ‘civilised human being’ to suppress this ‘animal-like’ thought. So quite the opposite from nurturing it with science and scholarship. The cultural crisis of the 1930s had to be averted by controlling these less-benign aspects of our nature. This was what ‘culture’ or ‘civilisation’ was all about: control. And Huizinga certainly accepted the consequences of his ideas, by clearly voicing his antifascist opinion in publications and university politics.
For Huizinga, going to the movies, racist science, and a score of other things that were completely different again, such as the supposed collapse of sexual morality, were all symptoms of the same cultural crisis. Perhaps we should be a little more discerning than Huizinga was in this matter, but equally brave.
Quotes are from pp. 1-2, 48-9, 57-9 and 68-79 of the Dutch edition (1963 reprint). Translations are mine.
This month is, amongst other things, about how societies in the past turned physical impairments into disabilities: those with physical impairments encountered social and material obstacles which kept them (‘disabled them’) from having the wide range of options in occupation, lifestyle, etc. that people without (substantial) impairments enjoyed.
Yet history also offers a wealth of examples of people turning these disabilities, or their impairments, into abilities.
In early-nineteenth-century England lived a man called John Kitto. A fall from a roof in his early teen years took away his hearing. Rather than becoming part of a sign-language community, he stuck to English. He did this by expanding his reading and writing activity, now that hearing had become impossible and speaking more difficult. After all, reading and writing in English were ways of communicating he was already familiar with and, as historian Esme Cleall found, John Kitto himself in fact stigmatised sign language.
Still, having been brought up in a poor family of manual workers, his illness and impairment seem to have given Kitto cause to read and write more, as well as offering some time and legitimacy to study (although this summary perhaps gives too rosy a picture of his life at that stage. Grim economic necessity soon began to play its part as well).
Kitto became a Biblical scholar and educator and travelled to the Middle East for his work. All this was highly unusual for people from his socio-economic background. You can read all about John Kitto in Esme Cleall‘s (upcoming) work.
Later on, famous Dutch historian Jan Romein would seize a similar opportunity when he fell ill at age twelve, we read in I.Schöffer’s biographical sketch. It enabled Romein to read a lot and even write the first of many books.
As a final historical example, in Yeats’s collection of folk tales and local Irish history we find the story of ‘the last gleeman’. Michael Moran lived in the early part of the nineteenth century, ‘being alike poet, jester, and newsman of the people.’ He was the most popular singer of religious tales and sassy poems of his day and place. But how did he achieve this position of ‘rector of all the ballad-mongers’? This is what Yeats heard tell of him, several decades after Moran’s death:
A fortnight after birth he went stone blind from illness, and became thereby a blessing to his parents, who were soon able to send him to rhyme and beg at street corners and at the bridges over the Liffey.
[Perhaps it needs mentioning here that the advantage Moran’s parents’ took of his impairment, although it would be rightly rebuked by many nowadays, may have saved the boy from possibly much harsher types of work that poor children were routinely applied to then.]
They may well have wished that their quiver were full of such as he, for, free from the interruption of sight, his mind became a perfect echoing chamber, where every movement of the day and every change of public passion whispered itself into rhyme or quaint saying.
It speaks to these people’s merit that they worked around the pain and anger no doubt caused by their illnesses, impairments and disabilities, and lived their lives. It is a testimony of their creativity that they applied these very obstacles in doing so.
Luckily, such examples are not confined to history. Much more recently, Fem Korsten wrote an article on the apparently more flippant topic of the love for high-heeled shoes. Below the surface of this theme, however, she transforms physical restriction into physical freedom – not-being-able-to-walk into being-able-to-dress-how-you-like – and, for a change, shows you how to use fashion to love your body. I suggest you go and read it. Regardless of Month or Day.
Orientalising images of women’ s clothing are common enough. But how about occidentalist views?
Many Europeans and North-Americans regard Muslim women who wear a veil with an orientalist eye. This means that they see them as specimens from outlandish and traditionalist Asian and north-African cultures that differ fundamentally from their own. Often, these women are regarded as the victims of Muslim men, who are thought either to force them to wear a veil, or against whom they would need their veil as a symbolic protection. (But see this interesting short documentary from Pakistan.)
Such European orientalist interpretations of cultures in North Africa, Asia, and indeed south-eastern Europe itself, stretch back several centuries.
Now from 1716 to 1718, as this orientalism was gaining ground, a wealthy English woman made a famous journey to south-eastern Europe. Mary Wortley Montagu joined her husband on a diplomatic and trade mission to the Ottoman Empire. In Sofia, then part of this empire, she visited a bath house. (The beautiful public baths still existing in Sofia all seem to be much younger, from around 1900.)
Montagu noted three things while there. First: the women were ‘stark naked’ and presented a beautiful sight; a sight, she suggested, as one might see on an Italian Renaissance painting. Second: for the women, the bath house fulfilled the social function of a coffee-house. Third: the women did not mock Montagu’s foreign habits, as western-European women would have done, but welcomed her politely.
I was in my travelling habit, which is a riding dress, and certainly appeared very extraordinary to them. Yet there was not one of them that shewed the least surprise or impertinent curiosity, but received me with all the obliging civility possible. I know no European court, where the ladies would have behaved themselves in so polite a manner to such a stranger. I believe, upon the whole, there were two hundred women, and yet none of those disdainful smiles, and satirical whispers, that never fail in our assemblies, when any body appears that is not dressed exactly in the fashion. They repeated over and over to me; “Uzelle, pek uzelle,” which is nothing but, Charming, very Charming. (Letter xxvi from the collection she edited after her return to England, published online by Jack Lynch.)
Nevertheless, the Sofia women demonstrated a slight streak of reverse ‘orientalism’, that is, occidentalism.
They tried to convince Montagu to join them in their bath. But Montagu found it only self-evident that, as an Englishwoman, she could not expose herself. She excused herself – in vain. In the end, she stripped up to her stays.
they believed I was locked up in that machine, and that it was not in my own power to open it, which contrivance they attributed to my husband
The Sofia women easily convinced themselves, it seems, that she had been ‘locked up’ in her stays by her husband. Pityingly, they allowed her to keep her clothes on.
It’s hard to decide which Indiana Jones scenes to prefer: the ones where Indiana makes his way through a web of skeletons, metal spikes and slithery creatures set up to deter curious archaeologists; or the ones where he is magically restored, scrubbed face and clean shirt, to his university classroom. Only what does he teach there?
Archaeology is the search for fact, not truth.
(See this fragment on Youtube, for as long as it lasts.)
What could Indiana mean there? Are facts not true then, and is the truth not made up of facts?
That’s difficult to tell. We see the classroom Indiana Jones just a few times in the films. To us, he is like a Classical Greek philosopher: we have only fragments of his ideas. It’s up to us to interpret what he meant by ‘fact’ and ‘truth’, and what important wisdom he apparently wished to impart on his students.
But what he may have said, is that his students have to look for facts first. If they were to start with the truth – with a theory about the site they’re digging up, which may turn into a hope, an expectation of what the place used to be – they might find any facts they want. For, unfortunately, research can be very circular and self-affirming.
Instead, a researcher should be curious first of all. The world is made up of disparate facts, and this needs to be acknowledged first. When, later on, you start to fit them together into some sort of truth, you try to keep this in mind. And you will keep coming back to the multitude of facts, some of which fit this truth, and some of which don’t.
The truth itself does not allow itself simply to be found, because it is spread out over so many facts that all the scientists in the world cannot catalogue it. But you might find a fact or two. If you search for them.
This is one possible meaning of Dr Jones’s lecture. The irony of the movies, of course, is that in the end, Indiana is after the truth: the truth of the holy grail, the truth of his father’s search and his mother’s sacrifice, the truth of the nazis and of greed. ‘X marks the spot’, after all. Or in Hollywood it does.
Ook een historicus is consument. En als de dagen dan korter worden, dan grijpt die consument nog wel eens naar het blikje met anijsblokjes. Maar dit keer greep die mis.
In de lage landen is de boosheid niet van de lucht: De Ruijter is gestopt met het maken van anijsblokjes, en op huishoudblogs, de website van de Consumentenbond, Facebook en het consumentenprogramma Kassa vraagt men zich alom af wat men in ‘s hemelsnaam met de vervanger van de blokjes aanmoet: zakjes poeder.
Op de verpakking van de nieuwe zakjes doet De Ruijter ondertussen alsof er niets aan de hand is: er wordt gesuggereerd dat we hier met een klassieker van doen hebben.
Sommige klassiekers zijn sterker dan de tijd. En dat geldt zeker voor De Ruijter Anijsmelk.
Maar dan volgt iets dat nog vreemder is:
Al sinds 1928 maakt dit authentieke product deel uit van de rijke historie van De Ruijter.
Uiteraard is het doel van deze tekst een brokje (blokje?) nostalgie toe te voegen aan de zakjes suiker met anijssmaak, en daardoor de hogere prijs acceptabel te maken.
Maar wat lazen we vroeger op de blokjes?
Anijsblokjes van De Ruijter – sinds 1860.
Wil dat zeggen dat we, zonder het te weten, eigenlijk al sinds 1928 zakjes drinken in plaats van blokjes? Of hebben we hier te maken met een klungelig stukje geschiedvervalsing dat nadelig uitpakt voor De Ruijter? Of heeft de Ruijter juist iets rechtgezet waar het bedrijf vroeger niet helemaal eerlijk over was?
Nog zoiets vreemds: hoewel de eerdere blokjes met plantaardig vet (naast suiker, dextrose en anijsextract) waren gemaakt, bevatten zij 0,5 g vet per 100 g. De zakjes, met slechts suiker en anijsextract, bevatten daarentegen 1,2 g vet per 100 g. Zijn de meetmethodes veranderd; of bevat anijsextract wellicht een hoop vet?
Nog één ding: de blokjes moesten gedoseerd worden met
twee tot vier blokjes
per mok. De zakjes met
een tot twee zakjes.
Ergo 2 blokjes = 1 zakje? Toen bij deze recensent thuis de blinde proef op de som genomen werd, bleek de anijsmelk uit het zakje wel erg subtiel te smaken. Op de website van De Ruijter lezen we dan ook
De smaak van 1 anijsstaafje [jargon voor zakje] komt overeen met de smaak van ongeveer 1,5 blokje.
Dat maakt de zakjes nóg een stukje duurder, namelijk 3,4 keer zo veel. (Blokjes: EUR 0,88 voor 12 mokken bij 3 blokjes/mok. Zakjes: EUR 1,50 voor 6 mokken bij het equivalent van 2 zakjes/mok, dus EUR 3,00 voor 12 mokken. Prijspeil eind 2013.) (Dat de zakjes per 100 g meer kosten dan de blokjes, zoals hier en daar wordt opgemerkt, is niet gek: anijsextract is allicht duurder dan dextrose en plantaardig vet.)
Betalen we hier misschien vooral voor de prachtige gele, met aluminium gevoerde plastic zakjes? En de verwijderingsbijdrage hiervan?
Met deze hoop gefabriceerde raadsels heeft De Ruijter waarachtig een spannend produkt in de markt gezet. Een surprise mag je wel zeggen.
Shakespeare’s plays are often called ‘timeless’. But should we really treat them as such?
Recently, star writer Joss Whedon brought his version of Much Ado About Nothing to the screen, which, overall, resulted in a well-played and occasionally funny film. He moved the action from sixteenth-century Sicily to twenty-first-century California, which is well enough: turning Leonato’s noble court into a mafia clan presents a clever solution to some of the problems this presents. Where Whedon may have gone wrong, however, was when he kept the original text.
Now this is a text which, to present-day North-American ears, sounds deeply misogynist as well as racist. A happy woman is a silent woman. A bride must be a virgin (but a groom must not). A single word of slander is enough for a father to want his daughter dead. And a brown-skinned woman is understood to be an undesirable one.
All of this is not surprising in a sixteenth-century text, for in Shakespeare’s society a man could be what we think of as a sexist and a racist, and still be considered a decent person. But things have changed. And a movie in which a present-day North-American household lives by the same ideas as sixteenth-century Englishmen, is odd if nothing more.
It is true that Shakespeare offers emancipating moments, most obviously in the role of Beatrice. She lets Benedick have it with both barrels – until her mouth, too, is stopped towards the end of the play. Admittedly, Joss Whedon has fiddled a little with the dialogue, altering some pronouns, in order to squeeze two more women into the list of speaking characters, which is almost completely male in Shakespeare: Conrade and the clerk are played by actresses in the film.
But if you turn a sixteenth-century play into a twenty-first-century movie, you should go further than that. At least in gesture and facial expression, show the opinions of characters who do not get to speak their minds: they may not always agree with the more vocal characters. (Hero gets to speak even less in the film than on stage.) And at least change Claudio’s line about ‘even’ being willing to marry an Ethiope – referring to ‘black’ women. Unless as a director you expressly decide to portray Claudio as a racist person, you risk ending up making your entire film a racist film. (Because this impression is only strengthened by the fact that all the speaking roles are played by pink actors. Brown actors are relegated tot the extras bench.) Even then, it remains an open question whether such measures are sufficient to turn Shakespeare’s lines and plot into a believable twenty-first-century North-American story.
My aim is not to chide either Shakespeare or Whedon for being racist or misogynist; rather, what I am saying is that Much Ado About Nothing, as it turns out in Whedon’s version, does not escape being a racist and misogynist play in the end; and that this could happen because the director made some unlucky choices.
To put it simply: either change the text, or change the textile. As it is, Whedon invites us to watch sixteenth-century characters in a modern environment; to judge sixteenth-century people by twenty-first-century standards. And those clothes do not fit too well.