A list of things I wanted to include in a blog post about lists

My application for British Citizenship paperwork has been collecting in piles on my kitchen table since Brexit was little more than a glint in a politician’s eye. It requires me to be an excellent archivist of self. It includes sections for listing the last five years of trips into and out of the UK; family history; the last ten years of employment history et al. I’m not an excellent archivist. I’m forever almost completing the form. The Home Office seems to issue a new and improved version of the form each time I come close and I have to begin the listing process all over again.

The presence of so many lists, unbound and semi-finished, written and re-written, makes me strongly aware of all the lists in my life. They call to each other, replicating, and turning my kitchen into their ideal habitat by force of numbers. They flutter on post-its, the backs of scrap paper and old envelopes, bits of cardboard. Lists of characters and their motivation for my fiction writing; lists of books to read; to-do lists; shopping lists.

I’ve become obsessed with lists. I bought a book by Umberto Eco all about lists in art and literature. Followed by a book about lost and found shopping lists. I’ve been collecting articles about historical lists and I even started listing all the things I found while trawling the internet in our Ephemera Online section.

The truth is I’ve also been meaning to write a piece of sustained prose about lists for some time now, but all I’ve managed to generate are further lists. So I’ve decided to let form be informed by content. Here’s a list of all the things I wanted to include in my piece about lists, which, a bit like my application for citizenship, I can never quite seem to complete:

  • Kinds of lists I want to write about: shopping lists. Other types of list. Are all lists shopping lists?
  • The aesthetics of the shopping list – visual culture and lists. Visual lists. Eco. Ciphers. Symbols. Barthes.
  • Lists in the movies; lists as plot device. Who writes the lists? Why?
  • Shopping lists as writing:
    • Shopping lists as journals – private writing. Private lists in public places – the mall/market
    • Everyday writing – ephemeral and domestic. The everyday.
    • Gendered writing: Over 70% of female shoppers are likely to carry lists. Only 59% of male shoppers do – find where you found this statistic! UK? US? Is this the same everywhere?
    • Cultures of lists. Consumerism and archives. Is a receipt a list? ‘Retain for your records’. Self as curator and archivist. Shopping as writing or defining. Foucault??
  • Shopping lists as ephemeral history:
    • The shopping list they found under the floorboards in an old stately home (find that article…)
    • Cities as lists. Bureaucracies. The postal service. Codes and coding.
  • Lost and found shopping lists
  • The meaning of the space between the list items. Shorthand. Handwriting. Back to the private/public thing
  • Scrap all of the above and simply do a detailed textual and visual analysis of the shopping list below (found stuck to a tub of humous in a shop in Bloomsbury):




Maybe this list will one day become a fully-fledged blog post. Or maybe I can no longer think in prose, only list form, which is a kind of banal poetry. Until then, I hope the intellectual shopping list above — with its ideas half-way formed, not quite yet purchased — gives anyone who has ever thought deeply about lists (shopping or otherwise) some food for thought.

NOTE: If the list pictured above belongs to you, tweet us and we’ll credit you!

Ealing Filmworks – trading on false nostalgia

The Ealing film studios are synonymous with the heyday of British post-War filmmaking. The studio became such a well-recognised player in the 1940s and 1950s that the ‘Ealing film’ became a genre in its own right. For audiences, the geographical location represented films with ensemble casts, community spirit and celebrations of the plucky British spirit. Hue and Cry (1947), Passport to Pimlico (1949), Kind Hearts and Coronets (1949), The Blue Lamp (1950), The Lavender Hill Mob (1951) and The Ladykillers (1955) were all produced by Ealing in the space of ten years and remain beloved classics.

Producer Basil Dean founded Associated Talking Pictures (ATP), as the production company working out of Ealing Studios was initially known, in 1929. The studio building itself was finished in 1931 and the production company’s name changed to Ealing Studios in 1938.[i]

The studio itself used community and collaboration for its corporate branding as well as for its film topics. Michael Balcon, who took over the running of the studio in 1938 when Dean left, has been described as managing the studio with “benevolent paternalism.”[ii] This neighbourhood feel was also reflected in the shape of the studio’s main building, which from the front looked like a house:

Associated Talking Pictures/Ealing Studios films from the interwar period include Look Up and Laugh (1935) and Laburnum Grove (1936). As is evident from the posters for these films, Ealing Studios also cultivated its brand of ‘cozy old England’ in its film advertising.

The very British pedigree of the films are the focus of the posters. Not only do the British stars receive ample attention, both posters also highlight that the films’ stories are written by J.B. Priestley, a quintessentially British writer. The posters have the feel of a collage, with different fonts and images laid over one another. These are not posters that stress modernity, like other types of posters of the same era such as posters for ocean liners or railways. Instead, they almost have a home-made feel.

I found it curious, then, to see the advertising campaign used by property developer St George to market a new development in Ealing. As such developments are now inevitably given a name, St George has called this site ‘Filmworks’. It is not at the site of the studios, but stands in the place of what used to be the Ealing Empire Cinema. The development’s website promises a property development ‘inspired by the past’. On the hoardings of the building site itself (although not used on the website) are copies of four advertising posters made to look like film posters:

Or, more correctly, they are made to look like what a corporate entity thinks a 2018 audience thinks an interwar film poster resembled. The sharp lines and minimalist designs of the Filmworks posters stand in contrast to what film posters in the 1930s actually looked like. The Filmworks advertising alludes to a vague idea of transnational modernism that cannot be found in British interwar cinema posters. The films that used similar poster designs were German cinema posters such as for Fritz Lang’s Metropolis and Spione.

Ironically, these German films were produced by the UFA studios, a massive company that produced the majority of Germany’s films in the interwar period. UFA was the polar opposite to Ealing in its vision and approach to film production. Yet today, years of re-appropriation and re-hashing of historical illustration and design styles means that a minimalist illustration of a woman with short bobbed hair wearing a tuxedo is believed to represent interwar London. The historically imprecise style of the posters represents the opposite of the Ealing Studios’ ethos – they employ a false nostalgia to sell luxury goods.

[i] Charles Barr, Ealing Studios, London: Cameron & Tayleur, 1977, p. 4

[ii] Ibid., 6

Achilleion: Legacy of an Empress


On 10th September 1898, the Italian anarchist Luigi Lucheni murdered Elisabeth, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary, in Geneva. As it turned out, the royal known as Sisi had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time: Lucheni’s target, the Prince of Orleans, never showed up. Instead, Lucheni sealed Sisi’s undying mythology: the heavenly beauty, beloved by the people, trapped in her fate and longing for privacy, was finally free.

Elisabeth, a Bavarian duchess, married Emperor Franz Joseph of Austria at the age of 17, against the wishes of her parents and new in-laws. Legend has it that Elisabeth and Franz Joseph fell in love at first sight and that the emperor was under Elisabeth’s spell henceforth, willing to forego even official policy to fulfill her every wish. To the dismay of the emperor’s mother – and apparently all the men at court – Elisabeth had the “audacity” to be politically active. What was even worse, in her critics’ eyes, was that she lobbied for Hungary’s independence, which was a thorn in the Austrian Empire’s side. Elisabeth married for love and not duty and famously hated official ceremony. Instead she loved horseback riding, an allegedly unrefined sport for an empress. Romanticized even during her lifetime, worshiped Sisi also lived off the monarchy’s riches, supposedly had a private bank account in Switzerland, and traveled through Europe, Anatolia and North Africa for decades.


In 1860, Elisabeth fell ill and doctors recommended a change of climate. She went to Corfu, the Greek island in the Ionian Sea. Between 1889 and 1891, she had Achilleion built, a palace in the Pompeian architectural style, which also paid homage to Greek mythology. Elisabeth reportedly admired Achilles, the Greek hero of the Trojan War, and the palace became a manifestation of her love for Greece, its culture and its language. Until her assassination, Elisabeth spent many years living in this palace. Her daughter Gisela inherited Achilleion but sold it to Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany in 1907, who used it for diplomatic meetings with other European rulers. The Kaiser was forced to abandon the palace in 1914 and it was used as a military hospital during World War I. After WW I, Achilleion became the Greek state’s property who used it as an orphanage in the early 1920s and later held official functions there. During World War II, Nazi Germany took over the Achilleion and transformed it into one of their military headquarters. After WW II, the Hellenic Tourist Organization seized the property and between 1962 and 1983 leased it to a private investor who converted the ground level to a museum and the upper level to a casino. While the Sissi trilogy* never filmed on location in Corfu, the 1981 James Bond film For Your Eyes Only used the Achilleion for its casino scene. Throughout the 1990s and 2000s, the building hosted several diplomatic meetings. Today, the Achilleion is a museum.


Sisi’s life is common knowledge – films, biographies, and even a musical,** while painting the image of an impressive woman also perpetuate certain theatrical “facts”: the “evil” mother-in-law who “tortured” Elisabeth; Franz Joseph’s “self-effacing worship” of his wife; Sisi’s “narcissism,” her “unfounded passion” for Hungary’s political freedom or her “calculated” use of her beauty as a persuasive power. This woman’s life thus reads like a classic Greek tragedy with the Achilleion as a monument to Elisabeth’s mythology.

Both the palace and its mistress endured a turbulent life. Just like this building on a Greek island, the factual and/or fictional representations and thus Elisabeth’s spell persist over a century after her assassination. A fierce individualist, Elisabeth did what she wanted by defying rules designed to keep an empress – a ruler – “in her place.” Far from remaining demurely at court in Vienna, the restless traveler even had an anchor tattooed^ on her shoulder. Tragically, she paid with her life for her unapologetic strength, independence, and hunger for knowledge. The palace’s unwavering resilience – it endured transformation throughout a century and was finally molded to serve as a tourist attraction today – remains as a contemporary witness to this 19th-century feminist.


All images © Stefan Gart 2018

*) This 1950s Austrian production of three films representa Elisabeth’s life story: Sissi (1955), Sissi – Die junge Kaiserin (Sissi: The Young Empress, 1956), and Sissi – Schicksalsjahre einer Kaiserin (Sissi: The Fateful Years of an Empress, 1957).

**) Elisabeth, written by Sylvester Levay and Michael Kunze, is an Austrian musical production, which premiered in Vienna in 1992, and was performed all over the world until 2016.

^) Women and tattoos are a contested subject even today. See, for example, this article in The Guardian or this project on Instagram.

Permanent disposables – waste in Isle of Dogs

Please note this blog post may contain spoilers

Wes Anderson’s latest feature, Isle of Dogs, was released in cinemas in March 2018. The stop-motion animation is made using puppets, and is set in Japan in the near future. In the film’s fictional city of Megasaki, a dog-hating mayor has banned all dogs to a nearby ‘trash island’. The film’s hero, 12-year-old Japanese boy Atari, goes to the island to find his dog Spot. He is helped in his quest by a pack of file male ‘alpha-dogs’, whilst on the mainland an American exchange student leads the protests against the mayor’s anti-dog decrees.

Since the film has come out, much attention has rightly been given to the problematic depiction and appropriation of Japanese culture (and critics’ subsequent calling out of that appropriation) – for example in articles here, here and here. For the purposes of this blog, concerned as it is with ephemerality in urban environments, I instead want to explore the landscape of Trash Island.

Trash, garbage, rubbish – it is an inevitable part of modern human existence. The challenge of getting rid of ever-increasing mounds of refuse, in particular in cities, is a common challenge for city planners. As citizens, we expect that rubbish is collected regularly and then ‘disposed of’, preferably in a way that is invisible and unobtrusive. When this does not happen, as during the infamous ‘Naples waste crisis’ in 2008, it leads to health and environmental risks as well as unsightly streets.

But after trash is collected from individual households, it still needs to go somewhere – in particular given that only a small percentage of all waste can currently be truly recycled. In most cases, it gets heaped into enormous landfill sites, which are either left out in the open or buried. For now, this seems to be the best solution that we have to manage our waste, and this is also how it is managed in Anderson’s fictional city of Megasaki.

In Isle of Dogs, Trash Island is located a short distance from Megasaki. The ‘island’ is in fact a series of connected islets, which original sole purpose appears to be the collection of the city’s refuse. Trash is delivered to the island via a rope and pulley system:


However, other scenes imply that there is some sort of order to how the garbage is stored on the island, as rubber tyres and glassware appear to be grouped together:



And when Spot, Atari’s dog, gets dropped at the island his cage is surrounded by trash that is neatly compressed in blocks:


Wes Anderson is known for the aesthetic coherency he brings to his films, a visual style that is instantly recognisable by its symmetry and use of colour. It has spawned a subreddit and Instagram account on which people share real-life images that look like they are from an Anderson film. It appears that in Isle of Dogs, Anderson tried to find a compromise between using a landfill site as a primary location, and his natural inclination for order and harmony. Rubbish by its definition is messy, but Anderson manages to turn it into something that is (almost) beautiful. In this he was reportedly inspired by environmental photographers who have turned images of real trash collection sites into art. The difference is that whilst these photographers use their art to make people think about the impact of consumer culture on the environment, Isle of Dogs does not explicitly ask such questions of its audience.

Anderson can partly represent garbage as beautiful because of the permanence of Trash Island. Isle of Dogs does not give much information about how Trash Island came into existence, but it does become clear that the island has been used as a landfill site for some time. In the second half of the film, Atari and his five dog companions find a group of dogs at the other end of the island, who have been there for several years. This group of dogs has managed to build a real home out of the waste that surrounds them. Objects that have been thrown away by humans are given a new lease of life by the dogs, who build permanent structures and communities out of them.

Inevitably, Anderson’s aesthetics romanticise the landfill site. The location serves as an easy way to communicate how the mayor thinks dogs are trash, and then provides visual pleasures in the heaping together and repeating of textures and colours. But there is no discussion as to why Trash Island exists, or whether the citizens of Megasaki should consider better ways of disposing of their waste. When all dogs return to Megasaki at the end of the film, Trash Island presumably continues to exist as it did before. And there a parallel can be drawn between Anderson’s treatment of Japanese culture and his use of a landfill site setting: both give him great visuals to work with, but Isle of Dogs fails to engage meaningfully with either cultural appropriation or environmental issues.

All images courtesy of Fox Searchlight

Between Fiction and Reality: Mars Architecture

The MartianThe Martian (Ridley Scott, 2015)

In 2015, The Martian envisioned the hardships of life on Mars. Since NASA unveiled their plans to send a human mission to the red planet by the 2030s, architects around the world have started to envision possible habitats for humans.

These include Martian-concrete and 3D-printed housing, forest domes, and underground structures.

Martian concrete

Martian concrete.

Forest dome 1

Forest domes.

Forest dome 2

Redwood Forest Domes.

3D printing 1

3D-printed housing.

3D printing 2

More 3D-printed housing.

Underground martian-architecture-3

And underground structures.

Not only NASA aspires to colonize Mars, the United Arabic Emirates are working on designs for the first Martian city.

First City

A simulation in Dubai will benefit their research.


Meanwhile, endeavors to inhabit another planet have inspired sustainable architecture on Earth.


Feeling wanderlust? Check out NASA’s Journey to Mars!

The Feminist Camera in the City

The British Film Institute’s online streaming service, BFI Player, gives anyone with an internet connection an opportunity to go through British archival film and TV footage. I stumbled upon the 14-minute film Working Women, made in 1975 by feminist activists in Newcastle. The film was originally part of a regional television programme, and was made to highlight local support for the Working Women’s Charter, a trade union charter launched in 1974 to achieve equal pay and equal rights for both genders.

The film is a delight to watch as a historical document, but what I am interested in here is the formal tactics the film uses to visualise the city as a space inhabited by women. Although the film is on the face of it not particularly sophisticated, it utilises various techniques to ensure that the visual aspects of the film support the arguments made by voice-over narration. In this way it shows that it can be rewarding to analyse a piece of locally produced reportage in the same way as one would analyse a high-end production.

The first part of Working Women discusses the difficulties women run in to when they try to find employment, and it includes several ‘vox-pops’ with women looking for work. The film opens with several shots of women pushing prams along the streets of Newcastle (see figures 1 and 2).

These shots establish that when the film talks about ‘working women’, it is primarily interested in the plight of working mothers – a division that was arguably less distinct in 1975 than it is today. The start of the film includes a brief historical overview in which the voice-over explains that gender roles and responsibilities only became entrenched in the industrial revolution. The film thus makes a direct link between urbanisation and women becoming responsible for all domestic duties and child rearing. By extension the city is designed to suit the public lives of men and not the domestic existences of women.

Throughout the film, the streets of Newcastle are shown to be almost exclusively populated by women (see figures 3-5).

Figure 3 shows only one man walking down a fairly busy street, that is otherwise full of women. In figure 4, there is a woman in the foreground of the shot, as well as four women walking abreast in the middle of the shot. They take centre-stage, and their formation can be read as a united front. They are, indeed, blocking the path of the man behind them. The framing of these four women serves as a visual metaphor for the film’s argument that women should unite in trade unions to achieve parity with working men. Although the four women in this shot are not characters in the film, and there is no explicit comment made on this framing, the staging of the shot underwrites the message of the film.

These shots show that Newcastle by day is a city almost wholly inhabited by women. This serves as evidence to the film’s argument that whilst men are normally in full-time, permanent work, women struggle to get employment as they are primarily responsible for childcare and housework. Naturally, therefore, men are in their places of work during the day and women are out on the streets. But the absence of men also serves to ensure that the viewer’s attention is not detracted from the stories told by the women that are interviewed for the film. Women are allowed to take centre stage in this film both literally and figuratively.

Working Women only allows men in a role of significance in its final section, when the camera is present at a trade union meeting. This is the only part of the film where men are shown in close-up (figures 6 and 7). As trade union representatives these men are necessary allies in the fight for pay parity and other equal gender rights. The film therefore gives them a voice and visual prominence. The camera privileges those inhabitants of the city that support the film’s argument. However, by allowing these male trade union reps a voice, the women in this final section of the film are immediately in danger of being drowned out. The male voices dominate during the meeting, as the men apparently struggle to understand the women’s viewpoint. Again, this mirrors the political argument that the film is making: although women need male allies to advocate on their behalf within existing power structures, there is a risk that the female perspective is side-lined as a result.

Working Women is a piece made for regional television and probably not produced with the intention to preserve it for posterity. This brief analysis shows that despite the film’s modest budget and aspirations, the formal aspects of the film serve to underscore its arguments. It shows the city to be a space that women must use and navigate, even if it is not built with them in mind.

Gendered Dirt

We all know that living in a city can be a dirty affair, even in cities where extensive regulation and legislation prevents too much litter from floating the streets. Singapore famously penalises littering of public space with fines of up to 300 dollars – but this does not prevent the city state from having to grapple with air pollution caused by exhaust fumes. Indeed, no city is exempt from subjecting its inhabitants to soot and dirt. London, of course, seems continuously unable to curb its pollution levels and its air quality is getting worse rather than better.[1]

Everyone who lives in a big city is affected by poor air quality, but L’Oréal has found a way to not only use urban pollution as a marketing ploy, but also to make it a gendered issue. I picked up my male housemate’s L’Oréal Men Expert Hydra Energetic Black Charcoal Wash “Magnetic” Effect facewash the other day, and was startled to read the text on the back of the package:

Too much DIRT? Pollution, oil, impurities…Everyday’s [sic] a challenge in the urban jungle. Unfortunately this can show on your skin: dullness, shininess… For skin that feels squeaky clean: TRY THE “MAGNETIC” EFFECT WASH

(…) The formula acts like a magnet on skin to capture & get rid of dirt (impurities, excess sebum and pollution) and helps fight 5 problems that can be caused by daily city grime: SHINE; BLACKHEADS; STICKINESS; DULLNESS; ENLARGED PORES.

Putting the bogus claims about ‘the power of charcoal’ and ‘magnetic facewash’ to one side, what really struck me is how this product, marketed at men, states that the city is to blame for any skin issues. By comparison, this is the text on the facewash I use myself, which is branded for female use[2]:

Is PureActive Anti-blackhead deep pore wash right for me? Yes, if your skin is prone to blackheads, blemishes and imperfections, if it is combination to oily and if you are looking for a deep cleansing wash. (…) Enriched with Zinc and Salicylic Acid, selected for its purifying power, it helps to control shine and helps protect against the appearance of blemishes, blackheads and imperfections.

Here, it is not an external factor that causes the skin to break out, but it is the skin’s innate failure and ‘imperfection’ that is the culprit. Women are told they probably have skin that is ‘prone’ to blackheads and they can buy products to ‘control’ this natural urge of their skin. Men, on the contrary, are implied to have ‘perfect’ skin as their natural state, and this is only disrupted by their environment.

Of course, in either case, it is limiting and worrying that these products imply that the only skin worth having is one that is completely free of ‘blemishes’, which are in any case naturally occurring and completely harmless phenomena. I also personally quite enjoy the feeling of having freshly washed skin, and I presume my male housemate does, too, and that is the reason we use these products. But these brief marketing texts show that the gendered advertising of ‘care and beauty’ products goes beyond using black packaging for ‘male’ products and pastel-coloured packaging for ‘female’ products. The narrative used in the marketing copy reinforces the notion that women are somehow faulty and can only hope to one day be worthy, whereas men are sufficient in their own right and only need to use products to scrub off external tarnish.

The L’Oréal product presents the city as the source of all pollution, the cause of imperfections, without challenging one’s choice to live in the city if it is such a source of dirt. You can imagine the kind of man this product is aimed at: someone with a successful professional job, who is go-getting and does not want his impure skin to stand in the way of his success. Lewis Hamilton, who is currently the ‘face’ of the L’Oréal Men Expert line, embodies this ideal. The wash even claims to have an ‘Active Defence System’, to further the connotations with masculinity and the military. Living in the city is a battle which the Man is going to win – never mind that the city is wholly man-made. The ‘defence’ is against man’s own creation, the city like a Frankenstein’s monster that has gone out of control.

Finally, in a curious twist, the RRP for the Men Expert face wash is £6.35, whereas my own facewash sells at £3.69.[3] I was expecting the ‘male’ product to be cheaper – after all, the Internet routinely reports on examples of ‘female’ products having an inexplicable mark-up. Not in this case; I wonder if it is because the Men Expert wash has that Active Defence System and is apparently veritable piece of engineering. The price increases the status of the wash developed by ‘experts’. All my own soap does is try to assist my own body’s apparent inability to control itself.

[1] King’s College London maintains a website which gives Londoners access to live air pollution levels in the capital: www.londonair.org.uk

[2] This is Garnier PureActive Anti-Blackhead Deep Pore Wash

[3] Original retail prices at Boots UK

Battersea power station: heritage and gentrification

I have recently moved to south London, so now I frequently pass Battersea Power Station on my way into the city centre. This old coal-fired power station was partly built in the 1930s, and partly in the 1950s, in the ‘brick cathedral’ style. Although it was aesthetically pleasing, its main purpose was to supply one-fifth of the total electricity needed in London. It stopped its core activities in 1983 and stood empty for decades, during which the four tall chimneys remained a London landmark, complete with its own ‘heritage’ memorabilia. In 2012 private investors bought the site and started refurbishment works which are due to be completed in the next year. The new development comprises not only the original power station but also a large number of new apartment blocks and a new Tube station. The website designated to the project promises it to be ‘London’s newest neighbourhood – a truly mixed-use destination’ which will include spaces to ‘live, work, play, shop, eat, and stay’. Last week it was announced that Apple Inc will move its London headquarters to the site in 2021.
The chimneys are the most recognisable element of the Power Station, and an important guarantee the private investors had to give in 2012 was that the chimneys will be retained. However, during the refurbishment works each of the chimneys has been taken down and built back up, temporarily depriving London of an ‘iconic’ part of its skyline. Although the refurbished Power Station will ostensibly look exactly the same as the original building, it will in fact be made up from new materials. The insides of the building will also be completely transformed as its industrial function is replaced by third sector work spaces. So, while the Power Station will rejoin the skyline, it will never be the same again.
A big selling point of the new corporate branding of the Power Station (which includes a new logo) is the heritage of the building. But although the building will look the same, its old identity will be gone and be replaced by the uniformity of luxury flats, copies of which are springing up all around the area. The London Mayor has recently called for an inquiry into foreign ownership of such flats, an action triggered by the revelation that more than 60% of residences in the St George’s Wharf Tower are owned by foreign buyers who do not actually live in the apartments. St George’s Wharf Tower is only 0.8 mile east from Battersea Power Station, so it is not inconceivable that many of the Power Station’s new flats will suffer the same fate – especially as 2 bedroom flats start at £1.16 million. Rather than a thriving ‘new neighbourhood’, the Power Station site seems set to become a ghost town for the super-rich.
Battersea Power Station has been a much-loved London building since its opening in 1939. But by attaching such importance to the Power Station keeping the same outward appearance, attention is diverted from the implications of the building’s radically altered function. From having an industrial function it becomes ‘industrial’ purely in its aesthetic.
It used to be a marker of modernity and functionality, providing electricity to a large part of south London. Now it will be one in many property investment opportunities for the 1%, contribute to London’s ever-escalating housing prices and erode local communities in favour of bland globalisation.

Sleepless at Stansted: A Nocturnal Airport and its Representations

Recently, I had an early morning flight from London Stansted Airport, located 40 miles outside the capital’s city centre. The day before, while cursing myself for not flying from central Heathrow Airport, I checked my travel options to Stansted and was left with two alternatives. Either, I would take the last evening train and sleep at the airport; or I could get some sleep at home but leave in the middle of the night to take, first, a night bus and, then, a coach. A little curious, I chose the first option, which inspired this blog post. Needless to say, I did not sleep at all. In what follows, I seek to make sense of this nocturnal experience of an out-of-town airport architecture and how different media play into that experience. Three types of representation formed part of my trip: a website about spending the night at airports; a TV show that another night guest watched on her laptop; and an airport information screen. Throughout, I explore night-time Stansted in relation to what anthropologist Marc Augé has established as typical of airports, in order to pin down what made my experience so peculiar.[1]

First of all, I started an internet search at home to check under which conditions a stayover at Stansted was possible. Google pointed me to “The Guide to Sleeping at Airports.” This website assures you that “[a]irport sleeping is no longer just for the cheap young backpacker” but an accepted activity for any early flyer. The online guide normalises the idea of being private and restful in a space commonly associated with publicness and passage. This approach challenges Augé’s definition of airports as non-places which are destined for transit and in which time is spent economically.[2] It suggests that, at least for a few hours every night, people can try to turn this site from a non-place into a place. The guide even promises first-timers to become part of an established community of “fellow airport sleepers.” This counters the loneliness that individuals experience in the typical non-place where they only share their status as consumers with others. [3]

The tips and reviews do not only verbally invite the travellers to imagine the upcoming experience but the website also visualizes it in illustrative drawings of what the bivouacs should look like. A lady in one illustration has gotten comfy on a row of seats, equipped with blanket, pillow, slippers, alarm clock, and magazines. Are past airport sleepovers shaping their representations on the website or is the online guide moulding future airport behaviour? The website leaves it undeterminable which influence is stronger, yet the acts of normalising and visualising the sleepover help to establish it as a cultural practice.

I arrived at Stansted shortly after midnight. Indeed, a considerable amount of people had come to sleep there and they had come prepared with blankets and even air mattresses. The check-in and security-check counters were shut. Individuals, couples, and families with children had begun to populate the floor in front of the security check. Early settlers had occupied the desirable electricity sockets to keep their devices charged for the sixty free minutes of Wi-Fi flagged in the Stansted review online. Others were wrapped up in sleeping bags and snoring. A quasi-colonization was in progress, leaving the colder, windier spots around doorways empty. Couples walked around, contemplated a spot as if it was a piece of real estate, only to move on and find a more favourable night quarter. Pathways remained clear in the middle for wheeled (suitcase) traffic. I observed in miniature what non-places in Augé’s view do not accommodate: the becoming of an “organic society.”[4] At first, people attempted to keep some distance from others. This was not an act of isolation but mutual respect of privacy. As the fringes of the hall filled up, settlers became neighbours.

This proximity put me next to a lady watching Desperate Housewives on her laptop. Her choice of entertainment is strikingly intimate. She did not turn to video games or YouTube clips, both of which are connected to usage in various locations, from desktops to parties to means of transport. The (horizontal) reception of a television show like Desperate Housewives is most closely linked to the home living room or bedroom. Additionally, this specific show concerns itself with residential space and its intimacies. By lying down on a pillow and watching this series, my neighbour privatised her airport spot. Her individualisation problematizes Augé’s claim that the airport non-place defies identity.[5] My neighbour brought a hint of her personal living room to her nocturnal stay at Stansted.

Another screen attracted my attention almost simultaneously: while the hall lights were dimmed, an airport animation on the wall stoically showed the steps for placing hand-luggage into security trays. Yet no one was currently allowed to pass through the security area. Stansted Airport neither stopped this light source nor customized it with information tailored to the nocturnal settlers. The screen confirms what the website guide suggested: Stansted “tolerates” but does not endorse this colonization. This standard communication which is neither specific to this airport nor the stayover passengers, corresponds to Augé’s writing on airports: the abstract institution of the airport contacts an anonymous mass of customers through depersonalised signs.[6] Stansted continues this communication at night, reminding everyone of its ultimately de-individualised nature.

Stansted Airport presents a paradox: it is both tailor-made and badly-suited for inviting sleepovers. Located out of the city and not easy to reach, it tempts the guide’s sleep-community to arrive the evening before their flights by train. They avoid the longer and more stressful trips by bus in the middle of the night. The airport is a likely target for individual nocturnal appropriations which shake up the characteristics of this non-place for a couple of hours a night and which made my time there feel so unusual. Yet, specializing in cheap flights, Stansted does not provide additional comfort to its stayover customers inside the airport hall.[7] The unpleasant lights of the daytime screen keep flashing throughout the night. They prevent the travellers from making the airport really homely – and from ultimately turning it into a place.

Around 2:30AM, my night ended abruptly. The shutters went up and the night quarters became an airport hall again. The website guide does not prepare users for this part. People looked unsure, hesitant, before they started wrapping up their camps. They joined the queue at the security check behind which duty-free shops encouraged a nocturnal shopping spree in glistening light. But that is a story for another night…

[1] Marc Augé, Non-Places: Introduction to an Anthropology of Super-Modernity, trans. John Howe (London: Verso, 1995).
[2] Augé, Non-Places, 96, 103-104.
[3] Augé, Non-Places, 101-104.
[4] Augé, Non-Places, 112.
[5] Augé, Non-Places, 103.
[6] Augé, Non-Places, 96, 101-102.
[7] The only option for such comfort is to book a room in one of the surrounding bed and breakfasts.

Senior Hunger, Spatial Hurdles

Elderly people going hungry is a problem that many people still do not know about or act upon. Enid Borden, president of the American Meals on Wheels Association, contends that the phenomenon has long been neglected in the country.[1] In 2013, nearly one in six of those above sixty years of age were at least slightly “food insecure.”[2] Ethnic minorities are hit harder than white seniors. Hispanics, for instance, are more than twice as likely as non-Hispanics to deal with hunger.[3]
The American Association of Retired Persons (AARP) engages with senior hunger. It has funded an award-winning, eight-part mini-documentary about the issue in the American city of Providence. The programme’s title Hungry in the West End (2013) firmly roots senior hunger in a specific underprivileged locale of the city. Sixty-five per cent of West End residents are Hispanic, and the unemployment rate among this community was the highest nationwide in 2011. The documentary reveals the difficulties of tackling senior hunger by filmically emulating the spatialities of victims and volunteers.
“Isolated seniors, by definition, are difficult to find,” admonishes the voice-over narrator early in the programme. The hungry elderly are rarely willing to admit their hardship. Moreover, numerous seniors suffering from hunger are homebound, so the documentary tells us. The only person you see outside on the filmic city streets is the Meals on Wheels driver on his way to those citizens in need. Hungry in the West End does find elderly people who speak in front of the camera and it does go to their homes. Yet, here, a sense of isolation and claustrophobia prevails. Medium shots and medium close-ups of talking heads, which are not introduced by establishing shots, lock the seniors inside a narrow camera space. This space is reminiscent of the small room the elderly are allocated in their city and in society. Significantly, the Meals on Wheels concept of food delivery is rare among food banks.[4] A worker of a different association explains that most volunteers feel “safe” serving food inside a public centre but refuse to deliver it to strangers’ homes. Spatial seclusion and the anonymity it spawns inhibit the fight against senior hunger.
If the documentary aims to raise public awareness, it struggles in similar ways as the support organisations themselves. The local head of Meals on Wheels regrets their long waiting list and assumes that the number of eligible applicants is far greater than they know. Since they are not able to aid all those in need, they refrain from advertising, as it would be of no avail to attract more people. Similarly, the film never shows any food bank or other institution from outside. It gives no clue as to where in town one might find remedy against hunger and how one would recognise the place. Even inside the centres and soup kitchens, most shots recall the claustrophobic framing of the elderly’s homes. The documentary doubles the institutions’ spatial difficulties to spread support against senior hunger in the city.
Like so often in capitalist society, solutions hinge on money. Recurrently, interviewees from aid organisations emphasize how difficult funding is. The documentary itself only came to life thanks to AARP funding. Yet a study featured in the documentary suggests that food-delivery programmes could save the state a lot of money in the future. By allowing seniors to “age in place,” that is, in their homes, their twilight years might not only be happier: such schemes might also drastically reduce the number of applications for nursing homes that state medical aid covers. The findings by Feeding America and the National Foundation to End Senior Hunger reinforce this view: seniors threatened by hunger are also facing other health risks more than food-secure people, from depression to asthma to heart attack or failure.[5]

The documentary’s focus on the West End yields a delimited space that illustrates the spatial, social, and economic dynamics at play in the fight against senior hunger. But the issue cannot be pared down to Providence. In times of an ageing society, the number of elderly in the U.S. has more than doubled in the new millennium. Likewise, the figure of those who are at risk of going hungry in America has become twice as high as in 2001.[6] In our ever-changing world, senior hunger is here to stay – unless society acknowledges and tackles it.

[1] Food and Nutrition Board, Institute of Medicine of the National Academies. 2012. Nutrition and Healthy Ageing in the Community: Workshop Summary. Washington: The National Academies Press, 119-120.
[2] Ziliak, James P., and Craig Gunderson. 2015. The State of Senior Hunger in America 2013: An Annual Report. Report submitted to National Foundation to End Senior Hunger, 2-3, 14.
[3] Ziliak and Gunderson, 3.
 The documentary uses the North American term “food pantry.”
[5] Feeding America and National Foundation to End Senior Hunger (NFESH). 2014. Spotlight on Senior Health Adverse Health Outcomes of Food Insecure Older Americans. Referenced on: http://www.feedingamerica.org/hunger-in-america/impact-of-hunger/senior-hunger/senior-hunger-fact-sheet.html.
 Ziliak and Gunderson, 2, 14.