History Through Rose-Coloured Glasses

November 12, 2014

Rarely have there been so many meanings so definitively associated with the same colour.

From the innocence of childhood to the sexy, all-night glow of Las Vegas neon, pink has a colourful and controversial history associated with noble and common, demure and gaudy, masculine and feminine. And it wasn’t even known as “pink” (in English) until the late 1600s, centuries after its purported opposite — blue — really arrived on the scene, both linguistically and in the popular consciousness.

Madame de Pompadour, mistress to King Louis XV

Madame de Pompadour, mistress to King Louis XV

Some have argued that pink’s “golden” age was in the eighteenth century, when it was the mode for high-fashion ladies of the French court. At that time, of course, they were among the only people who could afford the expensive dyes that coloured the fabrics they wore. Madame de Pompadour, mistress to King Louis XV, popularized pink amid a bevy of other pastels that were favoured in the Rococo period.

Pink continued to be associated with the rich and royal until the twentieth century, when chemical dyes allowed for its more widespread use in clothing that could be washed repeatedly without the colour fading or washing out. It was also around this time that pink transitioned from being largely a pastel hue associated with the innocence of children to a more bold, exotic shade. The new dyes allowed for the creation of deeper and darker versions of pink that spread around the world in the fashions of the 1920s.

The new and the neon

Buildings started to be sheathed in rose around the same time. In the 1920s and 30s, at the height of the Art Deco movement, vivid colours emerged as an alternative to the drab sameness and deprivation of depression-era interiors. A splash of bright paint could change the tone of a whole room. And with a focus on modern, technologically-enabled streamlining of form, the architecture and products of this age contrasted both with the ornate and intricate styles from earlier in the century and the contemporary countertrends of European functional Mies Van der Rohe-style block modernism.

Pink on pink at the Hotel De Anza, a classic example of Art Deco in San Jose, California

Pink on pink at the Hotel De Anza, a classic example of Art Deco in San Jose, California

Art Deco was colourful and accessible — and immensely popular. This was particularly the case in America, where, as architectural historian Robert M. Craig puts it,“Art Deco was jazzy, bright, sexy, loud, and visually appealing.” It was everywhere: from department stores to movie theatres to the new motels that had sprung up all over the country to provide for a growing motoring class.

Pink walls and pink fashions were a way to stand out and be noticed, and thus the colour was increasingly used in advertising, from splashy storefronts to the neon signs that dominated the landscape starting in the 1920s. In this way pink came to be associated with both the egalitarianism of commerce and material things: stylish perfume bottles, vacation homes in South Beach, new living room walls. Marilyn Monroe wore a notorious pink dress on the cover of the 1953 film Gentlemen Prefer Blondes. Elvis’s famous pink convertible, purchased in 1955, was seen as the height of post-war luxury and is featured at Graceland.

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (in pink) -- Marilyn Monroe in the 1953 movie poster.

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (in pink) — Marilyn Monroe in the 1953 movie poster.

Flight of the pink flamingos 

Pink is everywhere in California, as it is in many places where there are beaches, single-story construction, and a touch of the exotic. It is the colour of soft sunsets (because of Rayleigh scattering, in which only the longer rays on the visual spectrum, in the red-yellow colour range, reach the eye), and flowering plants. And in its heyday in 1950s, it represented the triumph of modernism and new frontiers.

Then its meaning shifted again. From being the bright colour of the future, it became the gaudy holdover from a bygone age. The lights of Las Vegas started to look a bit too commercial, too fake. Pink houses now stand out, “island[s] of whimsy in a sea of drab conformity,” and as such aren’t always viewed positively by the neighbours. Gradually pink started to represent the Miami Vice-like excesses of the 1980s or the wastefulness of neon tube lighting, first patented almost 100 years ago.

Nothing symbolizes the pink backlash more than the popular conception of lawn flamingos. Elegant and exotic, flamingos can be found across the globe in warm and wet areas, from India to Chile. The first pink lawn ornament was created in 1957 and was a smash hit. But by the late 1960s, the negative image of the plastics industry and the “unnatural” look of giant pink birds on the lawn led to a spiralling decline in their popularity. Now, of course, they are popular again, an ironic wink and nod to the kitsch of an earlier time.

Gentlemen prefer … pink?

This was not, however, the greatest reversal in the popular perception of pink. It is perhaps surprising today to imagine that pink was for most of its history considered a very masculine colour. Contrasted (as it always is) with blue, pink was seen as more stimulating and active, appropriate for clothing young boys, and the soft daintiness of blue more appropriate for clothing young girls (think: Cinderella’s dress at the ball). It remains a symbol of strength to this day in Japan, where it is associated with cherry blossoms, said to represent fallen warriors.

In nineteenth-century Britain, when military might was shown with red uniforms, boys wore pink as a kind of lesser red. And let’s not forget that the standard map of the British Empire is coloured pink, symbolizing the strength and breadth of British power, from the Cape to Cairo, and Whitehorse to Wellington. The old pink maps cemented the idea of empire in the popular consciousness of the time, creating what Linda Colley, (my favourite) scholar of the British Empire, has termed “a sense of absolutely uncomplicated, uncompromising power.”

Imperial Federation Map of the British Empire, 1886

Imperial Federation Map of the British Empire, 1886, by John Charles Ready Colomb

Pink now, of course, is considered near-exclusively feminine. It is often used idiomatically to refer to women’s or gay rights issues, as in “pink-collar” work, or “the pink economy.” And it has been helped in this image by marketers for almost seventy years, who both helped to shape tastes in colour and hew to common perceptions of them. Pink was a target during the 1970s with the feminist backlash against the confines of gendered clothing. As women started to dress in a more unisex and stereotypically masculine way, pink was eschewed. As an interesting overview in the Smithsonian notes, there was a time in that decade when even major retailers such as Sears Roebuck didn’t sell pink baby clothes, for girls or boys.

Living in a material world

2011 Color of the Year, "Honeysuckle"

2011 Color of the Year, “Honeysuckle”

The shift toward the ownership of colour could be said to have begun with the Pantone Institute’s codification of colours for matching purposes in the late 1950s. In recent colour analyses of brands, pink is considered warm, sensitive and nurturing, commonly used in products or campaigns targeted at women, such as Cosmopolitan and Victoria’s Secret. And that most enduring lightning rod of femininity, Barbie, naturally has her own shade. Barbie pink (Pantone 219C) has been associated with everything Barbie from the very beginning, including a fuzzy pink bathroom scale released in 1965 that was permanently (and controversially) set to 110 lbs.

Love in pink. Photo courtesy of Flickr user Chris Goldberg.

Love in pink. Photo courtesy of Flickr user Chris Goldberg.

And yet pink remains an aspirational colour, just as it was when Madame de Pompadour wore it at the French court. In 2011, Pantone chose Honeysuckle (18-2120), a bright variation of classic pink, as its Color [sic] of the Year, citing its “confidence, courage and spirit to meet the exhaustive challenges that have become part of everyday life.” It is a colour for the zeitgeist, a necessary perk in the dark days of our latest recession, with its many pink slips. According to Leatrice Eisema, Pantone’s Executive Director,”In times of stress, we need something to lift our spirits. Honeysuckle is a captivating, stimulating color that gets the adrenaline going – perfect to ward off the blues.”

So often viewed in opposition to something, pink can nonetheless be understood as a world unto itself. Whether seen as high or low, kitschy or elegant, soft or strong — or all of the above — it seems doubtful we’ve reached peak pink. Who knows what it will signify next?

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The Empire Strikes Back … with Hammers

March 4, 2014

This is a post about curling.

It is also a post about colonialism and the sadness and rhetoric that accompanies the sunset of an empire.

Toward the end of the 2014 Olympics came the men’s curling final, a dramatic showdown between Great Britain and Canada. Watching in Europe, as I was, meant coverage was courtesy of the BBC and commentary by two storied skips from the grand Team GB of yesteryear. (Let’s put aside the fact that, like most British curlers, the commentators and players were all Scottish, because they all displayed a sufficient amount of “national” pride to be considered British. I will get into the whole Scottish nationalism affair later.) The stage was set: the Canadian women had beaten the female British team in the semi-finals and gone on, undefeated, to win the gold medal the day before. There was an enormous amount of pressure from home on the Canadian men to repeat their gold-medal successes of the 2010 and 2006 games. The tension was palpable.

Canada ended up winning a lopsided 9-3 for the gold.

Now, the Canadians were the odds-on favourites in this match. Despite curling being a Scottish sport originally, Canada is its foremost powerhouse nation. Since curling was introduced to the Winter Olympics in Nagano 1998, Canada has won medals in both the women’s and men’s tournaments every time. Only Sweden comes close. This particular team GB was also very good – they have won several World and European Curling Championships – but I doubt many people would have bet on them for the gold.

Our Boys Aren’t Like That

And yet, to listen to the BBC commentary, the victory was Britain’s almost by rights. The callers were making a valiant effort at being neutral at first but later abandoned the impartiality to lament the way the game was going for “our boys.” But what was most fascinating to me, as a student of nationalism and empire, was the language they used. I’ve written before about how the Olympics brings out the very best/worst in our jingoistic selves and allows the media and advertising to fall back on hoary old national tropes (the whole #wearewinter Canadian twitter campaign being just one example – do they not have winter elsewhere?).  But I had never seen this rhetoric play out between former imperial power and its precocious colony before. According to the BBC, the Canadian team was (and please say this with a Scottish accent in your heads, because I assure you it’s better) “a wee bit too aggressive,” “quite loud with their calls” and “not as polite as some of the other teams.” At one point, jokes were made that the Canadians’ shirts were too tight — or perhaps their biceps were too big? It was all just too masculine for Britain! “Our boys aren’t like that.”

 

Canadian curling skip Brad Jacobs: too much muscle mass for Britain!

Canadian curling skip Brad Jacobs: too much muscle mass and yelling for Britain!

 

Uncouth colonies! How dare you go to the gym and yell at the rink and celebrate your victories! It was a distant echo of the accusations that have always been aimed at settlement colonies, like Australia and Canada – and internal colonies, like the untamed “Wild West” within the United States – as justifications for the continuation of central control. Australia, incidentally, has never shaken off its image as the raucous outpost of empire “Down Under.” (Google suggest says: “Why are Australians so…” “Racist? Obnoxious? Violent?” Notably masculine traits, and not in a good way.)

It is odd that the British should still be falling back on this language. Perhaps sport commentary, like holiday foods, preserves tradition longer than the everyday. After all, it is hardly news that the games that originated in the former imperial capitals have since spread around the world and been mastered by foreign nationals to a far greater degree than those in the home country. Golf, a typically Scottish exercise in hitting objects with sticks, has been perfected by Americans like Tiger Woods or Fijians like Vijay Singh. Cricket is now the almost exclusive realm of South Asians. And then of course there is (sigh) soccer, an originally English sport which is now dominated at the international level by South Americans and Southern Europeans, much to my biennial chagrin.

Rugger for the Empire

Perhaps the general British population is now past the point with these sports that they feel they should win, as the original players. But that is patently not the case with every sport. For comparison, I thought a look at another English game – rugby, a product of the Victorian English public school system – would be interesting. Rugby spread about as far as the former settlement colonies of Australia, New Zealand and South Africa (though really not much further, to look at the top teams), and my hypothesis is that British commentary would deem those foreign players rough and aggressive as well. Indeed, a short search of British news outlets finds the formidable NZ All Blacks masters of “thuggery” and the English team still fending off accusations of being hampered by its antiquated class system and uselessness on the pitch. One author, a former English international rugby player, talks about how the “relentless,” “ruthless” All Blacks laughed at him and assaulted his manliness when he twisted his knee, and how a recent match between the Aussies and the All Blacks was “a frightening gauntlet thrown down to all the players in the northern hemisphere.” You can’t make this stuff up.

 

The New Zealand All Blacks: "all things dark and Kiwi"

The New Zealand All Blacks: to the English, “all things dark and Kiwi”

 

It is competitive and familiar and has overtones of parent-child conflict. This same language was appropriated by the colonies themselves to justify their independence from Mother England: “You’re right: we are stronger and healthier and more willing to get our hands dirty, so we’ll have that control of our own government now, thank you.” Canada and Australia in particular used the physical superiority of their young men as indications that the centres of empire should shift to these places where willing hands were stronger at carrying its mission forth. As one former Canadian Governor General once said, “It is in climates and countries where the white man may multiply…that we must look for the strongest elements of Empire, and it is only at the Cape of Good Hope, in British North America, and in Australasia that we find these conditions realized.” And so it was that British men became stereotyped as effete weaklings more interested in their cravats than the serious business of governing a plurality of the world’s population.

And we’re still talking about it, a century later.

Hammer Time

In curling, the team that gets to throw the last stone (and has the opportunity to win points) in each end has the “hammer.” At the moment, the imperial hammer lies with the United States. And yet, Olympic jingoism was muted this year in the US, with various news outlets decrying the “step back” from previous triumphs, with fewer medals and some surprise podium shut-outs. Much national hand-wringing and poor sportsmanship ensued, perhaps signs of an empire uncertain of its own strength.

A sign of decline? Stay tuned for accusations of China’s uncouth aggression.

Oh wait…

US News Reports of Chinese Aggression

US News Reports of Chinese Aggression


Coffee vs. Alcohol: A better brew?

February 28, 2011

Almost everyone enjoys a good brew, but some brews are more acceptable than others, it seems. Around the world, coffee consumption has far outstripped that of alcoholic beverages, with around 2.9 pounds (or around 30 litres) of coffee consumed per person, on average, in one year. Compared with an average consumption of 5 litres per person, per year of alcohol worldwide, it seems we are much more inclined to be hitting a Starbucks than a bar on an average day.

Global average alcohol consumption

Global average alcohol consumption

Coffee is also a critically important trading commodity, second only to oil in terms of dollar value globally. I won’t get into the cultural influence of Starbucks, Tim Hortons and the like, but the impact on consumers and on the business world has been significant – much more so than any individual brand of alcohol in recent history.

Coffee is a relatively modern beverage. There is no Greek god of coffee, like there is of wine (though if there were, no doubt he would be a very spirited half-child of Zeus who enjoyed bold flavours, waking up early, and being chipper). The first evidence of coffee drinking as we know it today is generally placed in the fifteenth-century Middle East. Evidence of wine and beer consumption, in contrast, dates to 6000 BC and 9500 BC, respectively, or even earlier. Yet for such a young contender, coffee’s rise in popularity has been impressive.

No doubt in part this rise in Europe related to the appeal of the exotic, like the chocolate and other goods that originated in Turkey or other Arab countries. It is also likely that, like sugar, coffee was just tasty and appealing in its own right, and those who tried it liked it and wanted more. And certainly there is the social aspect, the rise of coffeehouse culture across France and Britain in the eighteenth century, which brought together politics, business and social interaction in a public forum as never before. The purported offspring of the coffeehouses, such as the stock market, French Enlightenment ideals, and even democracy, were significant. In a TED talk I watched recently, author Steven Johnson slyly remarked that the English Renaissance was curiously closely tied to the changeover from imbibing large amounts of depressants to large amounts of stimulants with the rise of the coffeehouse (go figure).

The best part of waking up?

Today, it seems that coffee has generally been linked to a host of other caffeinated beverages that are considered “good” (such as tea and cola) and alcohol has been linked with commodities that are “bad” and “unhealthy” (such as drugs and cigarettes). Why? Perhaps it is because colas, tea and coffee are unregulated, entirely legal, and (to a point) even considered safe for children, while the opposite can be said of alcohol, drugs and cigarettes.

Is the association fair? Hardly. While the dangers of addiction may be greater for the latter group, and public drunkenness more severely chastised than public hyperactivity, coffee and sugary colas (as fantastic as they are) are hardly the healthiest choices of beverages.

I suspect it is something else, something in the inherent nature or promotion of coffee that makes it seem less threatening than alcohol. Coffee suffers from none of the religious ordinances forbidding its consumption the way alcohol does (though, interestingly, coffee was also banned in several Islamic countries in its early years). Is has also never endured the smug wrath of teetotalers or wholesale prohibition.

Alcohol is generally placed into the realms of evenings and night-times, bars, and sexy movies, while coffee is the drink of busy weekday mornings, weekends with the paper, and businesspeople. Both are oriented toward adults, but coffee is in some ways more socially acceptable. Consider the difference between remarking that you just can’t get started in the morning without your coffee versus saying the same about your morning shot of whiskey. Similarly, asking someone out for a drink connotes much more serious intentions than asking someone for a coffee. And vendors are catching on: in Britain, many pubs are weathering the downturn in business caused by the recession and changing attitudes by tapping into the morning market of coffee drinkers.

Worldwide annual average coffee consumption (courtesy of ChartsBin)

Worldwide annual average coffee consumption (graphic courtesy of ChartsBin)

I wonder if the trend toward increased coffee consumption is in place of alcohol. I also wonder if it mirrors the general cultural shift toward an American orientation. The global dominance of Starbucks and other coffee shops seem to me to be supplanting the role of the local pub or licensed hang outs of the old world with a chirpy kind of Americanism and a whole new roster of bastardized European terms and ideas like “caramelo” and “frappuccino.” The New York Times backs up the idea of American dominance, noting that the U.S. makes up 25% of global coffee consumption and was a primary instigator of the takeover of coffee shop chains. Yet coffee is also extremely popular in Europe (especially in Scandinavia, as fans of Stieg Larsson would be unsurprised to discover) and even Japan.

Is this another case of American cultural colonialism, whereby traditions from Europe are adopted, commercialized, and re-sold to captive populations who want to tap into small piece of American corporate and social culture? Or is the global interest in coffee indifferent to American opinion?

Reading the tea leaves (coffee grinds?) to tell the future of consumption

Will coffee culture continue to increase in popularity, eventually supplanting the role of alcohol in social meetings? Two factors are worth considering here. The first is that while demand for alcoholic beverages in the developed world is shrinking, there is a growing interest in all kinds of alcohol (and especially wine) in emerging markets. Take, for instance, the rise of wine as a drink of choice and status symbol in China and Hong Kong as expendable incomes have grown. A similarly proportioned increase in coffee consumption there could be monumental – will it occur?

The second factor is the great cost of producing coffee. Putting aside the fact that most coffee is produced in comparatively poorer countries than those that refine, sell, and consume the finished product, the environmental cost is staggering. Waterfootprint asserts that for every 1 cup of coffee, 141 litres of water are required (mostly at the growing stage). Compare this figure with 75 litres for one similarly sized glass of beer and 120 litres for the average glass of wine and it would seem that a rise in coffee culture at the expense of alcohol could be disastrous for the environment.

Do the above statistics figure largely in the minds of those who drink any of the above beverages? Likely not. But all might – and likely will – in time affect production, and the economics of supply and demand will come into play, changing the equation once more and making it even harder to determine which is the better brew.


Silence and Schematics: The Things You Don’t See

December 16, 2010

In my last post I wrote about context and perspective in mapping, and the biases that are inherent in the information presented in different kinds of maps. Biases, of course, can be dangerous because we generally trust the information maps give us. They are more powerful for their apparent objectivity. The science behind them is sound, we think – after all, cartography is based on empirical data.

But just as maps can inform us, they can also make us ignorant – of context, of specific details, and of what we don’t know – even while they’re giving us other information. It isn’t just what we see in the frame that matters, but also what we don’t see, what’s left out. In conveying information, art can be as important as accuracy, and sometimes even more so.

Most early maps contained a lot of information. When little was known about the area beyond what had been explored, cartographers would create a sense of danger and excitement by inserting allegorical images, fantastical creatures, or mythical mountain ranges. They would decorate the frames with pictorial Biblical references, or symbols of their nation’s prowess at exploration and conquest.

A very busy map of Africa from the 1600s

In the above (relatively complete!) map of Africa from the 1600s, note the prevalence of mountain ranges and large rivers (that don’t really exist) and the animal drawings used to take up space. Also note the many decorations of ships in the ocean around the frame (side note: web address watermark not included on the original). What is silent? The cartographer’s ignorance – about the interior topography and other geographical markers. But a casual observer then would not have known this.

It was considered a great leap forward when in 1759 cartographers – influenced by French mapmaker Jean Baptiste Bourguignon d’Anville and the Enlightenment tradition dictating that all maps be empirically verifiable – begun to leave blank spaces if precise information about parts of the areas they were mapping was unclear. The practice served to encourage new forays into the “unconquered” and “uninhabited” areas they depicted to determine, for example, the as-yet undiscovered mouths of rivers or the potential treasure/glory/conquest that lay beyond established borders. But primarily these blank spaces lent increasing credibility to what was shown (whether it was accurate or not), by silencing everything else.

Accentuating some pieces of information over others with emphasis and silence grew in popularity even further as the centuries progressed. The most common world map we see, for example, privileges the northern hemisphere over the southern through the use of Mercator’s projection. It also puts the Western world – whether Europe or North America – in the centre of the frame, relegating all other areas to the peripheries.

"The Queen's Dominions at the End of the Nineteenth Century"

In the map above, the bright red colour of Britain’s imperial territories contrasts with the neutral colour of other lands. Islands of small geographical significance jump from the page with red underlines and heavy black labels indicating that they are strategic refuelling outposts, places that ship spices back to Britain, or simply more territory in red. Mercator’s projection is used to great effect, enlarging North America even above the bounds of the map’s frame, at the expense of the southern hemisphere.

It is all intended to provide a sense of a vast, interconnected Empire. While looking at this, viewers might fail to notice the absence of information not related to Britain’s imperial conquest. About other lands, the map is relatively silent, because they are not the focus.

Maps are now used for all kinds of things – everything from directions to websites or thoughts. The proliferation of maps has tended to swell the number of those used for a single purpose, and the trend seems to be toward more specificity but less context.

Consider subway maps, most of which are a legacy from the modernist era. They fall squarely into the “art” over “accuracy” way of conveying information, and are characterized by highly stylized lines, multiple colours and use of sans-serif fonts. The most famous, of course, is Harry Beck’s map of the London Underground, which dates to 1931. Its genius lies in its abstraction, its ability to draw order in the form of clean and easy-to-read visuals from the confusion and complexity of the actual system. Compare the official underground map with the actual map of the subway stations from above the ground:

Schematic Tube Map, Zone 1

 

Tube Lines Mapped to Actual Geography

It takes a certain genius to create schematic subway map order from chaos; no doubt this is the reason these maps are such iconic art pieces, found on buttons, t-shirts, and posters the world over. It’s fascinating to me that they are so simple and so focused – and yet divorced from the actual geography they represent. Almost every major city is the same.

Paris:

Paris Metro

Paris Metro

Washington DC:

Washington DC Metro

Washington DC Metro

Moscow:

Moscow Subway Map - Like an Alien Creature

Even maps of New York City’s frenzied system are relatively simple. But sometimes accuracy wins out over art. In 1975, the New York City transit authority determined that the map they had been using to that point was too much so, and commissioned something that would line up more with the streets above ground. (You will find a fascinating interview with the designer of the 1979 map, which was only just retired a few years ago, as well as several old subway maps from NYC, here.) Yet even this more “accurate” and “realistic” new map has some deviations from reality: Manhattan, and lower Manhattan in particular, have been expanded to accommodate the landmarks and subway lines that all seem to converge there; Brooklyn and the other boroughs are made relatively smaller than their actual size.
It would seem that for clarity or for a great story, some alteration is always necessary, and a bit of silence too. No map designed to emphasize transit lines could hope to show every street, and of course designers realize this.  People are perhaps more willing to put up with silence and abstraction in maps now because they are used to it, and because maps are not expected to be geographically accurate to be authoritative.  It’s an interesting trend that points to our increasing ability to cope with the abstraction and de-contextualization of cartography, even as the broader minimalist modernism movement appears to be winding down (the ever-popular clean lines of IKEA products notwithstanding). What does it mean for the future of maps? Will the definition of a map become ever-broader as we incorporate variations from site maps to schematics? Or do we need a new name for this kind of information vehicle altogether?

This post is part two of a three-part series on the past, present and future of mapping. Check back for a wrap-up later this week.


Mapping in Three Dimensions

December 14, 2010

It’s standard fare these days to think of maps as political tools, each with its own particular bias or bent. From Mercator’s projection to Greenwich Mean Time, what we see in maps is often exactly what we have been conditioned to see by generations of cartographers and a tradition of Western mapping that prioritizes specific views, divisions, and perspectives. J.B. Harley, a preeminent scholar of maps, characterized cartography as a language, with the cartographer in a significant position of power over the viewer. Yet maps are changing. No longer static lines on a canvas, they can now be seen and experienced with modern tools like GPS and Google Maps. In this first post in my series on modern mapping, I’m going to zero in on a specific element of maps and how we read them that is changing rapidly: perspective.

 

A delightful aerial view map of the St. George Campus in 1932 (From the University of Toronto Archives)

Consider: when you think of a map, you likely think of an aerial, “bird’s eye” view of a terrain, probably subdivided by political boundaries into nations, states, provinces, or other political entities. Land is probably marked as green. Water is blue.  It’s probably centred on Europe or North America. This marks you (and me) as a student of fairly recent Western-style cartography. The method of representing the world through political divisions dates to the era of the rise of the nation-state, but the predominance of the aerial view is also a legacy of the nineteenth century and grew with the rise of scientific cartography. Imperial cartographers, often at the forefront of discovery and seizure of territory, derived much of their feeling of superiority over the populations that inhabited the lands they discovered from what they perceived as their more advanced cartographic knowledge.

To geographers who could explore, measure, name and represent large areas of land in two dimensions, ownership was the logical next step, and a natural right. Organizing territory in this way made sense, and particularly reinforced (for example) the British obsession with characterizing and arranging things. Their power was often exerted even by the act of mapping itself.  Imperial mapmakers used tools and methodology that colonial populations rarely understood, which in the minds of cartographers clearly legitimized the modernizing imperial mission. To the British, a nation that could not identify its own resources, borders and population through mapping could legitimately be colonized by one that could, as various historians from Ian Barrow to Anne McClintock (of Freudian Imperial Leather fame) have explored.  To map using scientific methods was to differentiate colonizer from colonized and project Western “progress” onto the landscape – and its peoples – through logical and rational classification and categorization.

The Great Trigonometric Survey of India

A view of India while undergoing the "Great Trigonometric Survey" in the 19th Century, at the zenith of British Imperial scientific cartography (from the Utah Education Network)

 

The irony, of course, is that science has caused the imperial map of two dimensions to become almost obsolete for practical purposes. Of course, people still pore over maps, hang them on their walls as artefacts, and even sometimes use them to find their way, but the way we actually use maps has shifted.

Native populations in what would later become colonial territories (for example, in Africa) had their own ways of categorizing and describing territory. Boundaries ran along tribal lines, and were dynamic and flexible as tribal lands changed. Rivers – often unexplored to their full extent, in the absence of a British fixation with discovering their mouths and sources – could have a variety of names as they passed through different stages of their existence, from a spring to rapids to a wide oasis on a dry savannah that changed with the season. Geographical markers made sense and were referenced in terms of local context and use, not neat aerial classification at a high level. Above all, land was experienced in three dimensions, as humans really see it, not as birds do. Native peoples were closer to the lands they lived on without the distance of science, and experienced its fluctuations and nuances deeply.

Today we appear to want maps to be more this way. With distance may come power, but with experience comes understanding. I was repeatedly tripped up by a new GPS system last weekend that depicted the area I was driving through in three dimensions. Apparently this form of navigating is far more popular than a bird’s-eye view equivalent. Drivers can feel more a part of the territory through which they are driving – and there is the added benefit of a textual overlay with street names and important markers.

Mapping UofT in Three Dimensions

Mapping UofT in Three Dimensions

And there is little distance at all with applications like Google Earth and Google Maps. With Street View, people can experience geographies without ever having been there. They can effect an instant déjà-vu and familiarize themselves with territory before arriving, enabling familiarity without experience. Mapping has returned to three dimensions.

But what are the costs? I can’t help but think of two articles I read in the last year, one of which described the “barbell” effect of living in a city, where we tend to know the areas in which we live and work, with little knowledge of the neighbourhoods in between. The other referred to the rise of GPS as sounding a death knell for getting lost, a tragedy because it forestalls ever getting to know an area to which we are not explicitly travelling. (Clearly this author had never experienced a faulty GPS that landed him in a sketchy parking garage 40 minutes from the movie theatre he had intended to visit, as I have.) Nonetheless, being lost can be an experience of discovery. But how often do we look to explore areas on Google Maps with which we aren’t already familiar?

We now have a scientific three-dimensional view, in some ways the best of both worlds. But it may be that we lose the overall sense of continuity that a scientific, small-scale map brings while also losing the sense of connectedness and local context that comes with intimate knowledge of a certain small piece of territory.

I started this post talking about bias and manipulation by cartographers. With the variety of perspectives we can simultaneously employ now, much of that manipulation has disappeared. What we choose to see and seek out is now up to us, and the bias has become less the cartographer’s than our own. We’ll learn in time which one obscures more.

This post is part one of a three-part series on the past, present and future of mapping. Stay tuned.


How Bronzed Gods Triumphed Over Pale Britannia

July 28, 2010

It’s summer in the northern hemisphere, the season when the attentions of those who follow fashion shift to achieving that suitable all-over skin blistering we commonly refer to as a “suntan.” I always marvel at how the desire for a deep brown “glow” exists in the same societies in which racism against all those not of European origin still flourishes. I also wonder at how these bronze aspirations exist so strongly in the western world, when pale skin is still the preferred look in much of India, the Far East, and Africa.

Less than a century ago a tan, anywhere in the world, was seen as the unquestionable mark of someone who laboured outside in the sun because he could not afford to pay someone else to do it for him. The sun makes the skin tough and leathery, the opposite effect of what Victorian ladies desired. For centuries, women used everything from arsenic powder to drawn-on blue veins to highlight the soft, pale, translucent nature of their skin. The look was a very European courtly one, where the majority of social gatherings occurred indoors away from the prying eyes of the lower classes. And the ideal spread with European imperialism, condemning those races with naturally darker skin tones to perpetual inferiority. In the famous ad below, for Pears soap, a white boy uses Pears as part of a cleansing ritual with a black boy, the end result being lighter, more desirable, skin. Read the rest of this entry »


Post-Imperial Football Guilt

June 23, 2010

For those among you who don’t follow sports, or news, or the stricken faces of football fans of varying teams, the French football team imploded yesterday in front of millions of viewers, in its last group stage match at the South African World Cup. Their opponents, South Africa, managed to net two goals but will still not be continuing in the tournament because of previous losses. Had it not been for a second-half French goal, the host nation’s team might have continued a fairy tale run with the hopes of a whole continent on its shoulders.

For this is supposed to be Africa’s World Cup, despite the fact that only six of the 32 teams are African, and they are all among the lowest-ranked. This is the first time the tournament’s been held on the continent, and pundits the world over are hoping for a victory for the perennial underdogs, because it seems fitting. Even Shakira is getting in on the action, with her official tournament song, subtitled “This Time For Africa,” which shows delightful snippets of the world’s best players touching their hearts and wearing t-shirts with the African continent on them, all while traditional African dancing (led by Shakira, of course) goes on in the background.

All this, and that nasty French team had to go and ruin it all by scoring a goal – one goal, when they were likely going home anyway! – to stop the momentum and dash the hopes of so many. Surely they are the villains of the piece (certainly they are to the Irish), for all the “neutral” viewers are behind South Africa and its continental brothers.

But why? Why should the immense pressure under which the French team (and many others as well) succumbed be so delightful, so seemingly just? In part, it is because we love the story. Which former world champion, awash in cash and world-class talent, won’t even get out of the group stage this time? It is a kind of ironic pathos that those in other nations (especially those who have fallen by the wayside along the way) can revel in.

It is perhaps also in part because we want to compensate, in some way, for a history in which Africans were underdogs in more significant ways than in football rankings. The big teams, with a few notable exceptions in South America, are all former colonial powers: wealthy, powerful, and Western. England, Spain, France, Germany, Portugal, the Netherlands – all countries that did and still do impact the fates of African nations in important ways. A victory for Ghana, or Côte d’Ivoire would be, in a word, revolutionary, an upset to the old order.

For football, like economics and militarism, can also be imperialistic. A fascinating post I read recently talks about how the World Cup is only reinforcing football imperialism: the most talented African stars leave their home countries to play in the big European leagues, leaving behind weaker players who lack the same experience and have little hope of getting it in impoverished African leagues and a generally weakened sporting culture. They are then re-imported to be the stars of their teams, all the while implicitly reinforcing the idea that European/Western is better, and that the place where African talent should migrate to be “discovered” is Europe. Even in countries that are seeking to bolster their footballing hopes for the future, the reflexive bent toward playing for European teams being the apex of a career is evident. In Nigeria, for example, a former national star has set up a school to find the most promising children and train them in football – but also in English and accounting, to prepare them for “making it big.” It aims to perpetuate its success by selling the best graduates to rich European teams.

I wonder if an element of our support for the African teams, however unconscious, comes from feelings of “white guilt,” the uneasy emotion that blogs like Stuff White People Like play upon. A thought-provoking post I read recently goes into more detail about white guilt in films from Dances With Wolves to Avatar, but the same concepts can be applied to football: white people feel that they are, in some ways, contributors to the continuing debasement of ex-colonial (footballing) culture, so to assuage their guilt they go against their traditional allegiances and support the “other,”  the underdog.

Am I extrapolating too much? Perhaps. But the fact remains that it will never be “Time for Africa” until a lot of cash and a thriving sporting – and general political – culture combine with the requisite amount of luck and natural skill involved in winning a World Cup. In the meantime, the answer is not to cheer for France’s demise – unless, of course, you are Irish.

MARGINALIA: In a stroke of marketing genius, Pizza Hut in Ireland gave out 350 free pizzas every time a team scored on France at this year’s World Cup. The “Handball Campaign” continued with more free pizza to celebrate France’s ouster yesterday.  I guess they don’t feel the need to grow market share in France.