As I work on my paper for this year’s annual meeting of the American folklore society, I find myself treasuring one of a collection of offprints once sent to me by Bill Nicolaisen. I am pretty sure that others will find his work compelling and that the conference proceedings in which it appeared, Journées d’Études en Littérature Orale: Analyse des contes, problèmes de méthodes, is probably pretty hard to find. Here’s a PDF version. (The OCR is okay, not great: I’m working on am improved scan.)
As with any intellectual history, there is more to “the turn toward performance” than meets the eye: there is considerable buildup across a broad intellectual front, including the introduction of existentialism into the American academy and public culture. (E.g., William Barrett’s The Irrational Man  — see note below). A consideration of these broader trends would reveal that the acceptance of work by Martin Heidegger, Jean-Paul Sartre, and Albert Camus following the second World War was anticipated by work in American philosophy, such as John Dewey’s Art as Experience (1934) and Kenneth Burke’s Philosophy of Literary Form (1941). Some of the effort to discern a particular American culture was in response to the rise of rich international connections (which manifested in politics as a concern over communism), many of which were brought about by displaced intellectuals who came to the U.S. in the thirties and forties. Some of them stayed and the result was that American intellectuals interested in work by Roman Jakobson found him referring to work by Vladimir Propp and Mikhail Bakhtin, and so American scholars found themselves confronted by an entire school of literary theory, now known as Russian formalism, which interacted somewhat with their emerging interest in structuralism as it had been developed in France by Lévi-Strauss, Piaget, Lacan, and others. (And all of this ignores the many contributions of the Frankfurt School during this time.)
Burke, Kenneth. 1973/1941. Literature as Equipment for Living. The Philosophy of Literary Form. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Pp. 293-304.
Jakobson Roman. 1960. Closing Statement: Linguistics and Poetics. In Style in Language, 350-377. Ed. Thomas Sebeok. MIT Press.
Lord, Albert. 1960. The Singer of Tales. Harvard University Press. (The link below will take you to an online version of book hosted by Harvard University.)
Note: If you have never had the chance to read Barrett’s The Irrational Man, I highly recommend it. A survey of its chapter titles should prove reason enough: from “The Encounter with Nothingness” and “The Testimony of Modern Art” to “The Place of the Furies,” the book was the gateway to existentialism, and thus also phenomenology, for many.
Hannah Arendt holding court at the New School for Social Research.
With the rise of Lore from an obscure podcast about odd moments in “history,” to an Amazon production, there was been a concomitant rise in interest in the possibilities for expanding the scope of the engagement between folklore studies and some form of a “popular audience.” At least two folklorists I know have been contacted by production companies looking to be a part of this emergent interest.
Like its cousin, history, folklore studies has had a strange, and often estranged relationship with popular media. Some of the popular contact has been initiated by folklorists themselves: e.g., Jan Harold Brunvand. Brunvand was a much beloved individual among the folklorists I know, which seems to be unlike how historians felt about, say, Stephen Ambrose — I know, I know, Ambrose had other issues (e.g., plagiarism). There’s also the recent discussion among historians about (yet another) Ken Burns’ film. (See Jonathan Zimmerman’s “What’s So Bad about Ken Burns?”.
Jeffrey Tolbert has written about this and even engaged in a dialogue with the creator of Lore. (For those interested, Tolbert has a personal essay in New Directions in Folklore: [here].
A statement for “The Politics of Place” panel at the University Art Museum, 12 April 2017.
The talk was preceded by a series of images that were presented both as evidence for places that don’t get into museums but also as examples of culture that have become commodified as “culture” and thus the human elements have been lost. The images included in this series were:
[Slides 1-18]: a burning sugar cane field, a crawfish boat by Venable Fabricators stationed near the edge of a flooded rice field, a rice field ready to be flooded with curtains in place along its levees, a flooded rice field with an S-curved levee running through it, a rice field being flooded, Gerard and Dale Olinger repairing an augur, Mike Richard sitting in one of his boats, a Mardi Gras assessing someone’s shoes, two Mardi Gras playing with a hand dolly, a Mardi Gras approaching a woman, the woman and the Mardi Gras hugging, a wide shot of the Mardi Gras with one of the organizers and the police escort looking on, the procession for Burt Hargrove, a Mardi Gras holding and kissing a baby, a young woman looking admiringly on a young man (both running Mardi Gras but with masks pushed aside), an uncle playing with his nephew (the uncle is in MG gear), a young MG man just sitting and thinking, and, finally, Lou Trahan sitting in a trailer smiling.
As a folklorist, I am regularly called upon, either purposefully or accidentally, to define my field, its practices, and its objects of study. This can be a tedious task, as yet another interlocutor – be it an aged aunt or a university colleague – tells you that they know someone who “knows some stories” or when they approach you with confidence about some kook or some kooky thing that surely must be of interest, because, you know, folklore. Sometimes they tell you it’s folk art, because, well, folk art is just about anything that isn’t art and isn’t otherwise explicable.
Since this is a regular thing, it will, then, surprise no one here that such encounters as these have long been a part of being a folklorist and are accounts of them are a genre of the stories we folklorists tell in their own right. That’s right: scholars and scientists have oral traditions, and those oral traditions, and customs, are part of what makes universities work. Not all that we do, even here in the very seat of formal education, is in fact formal. Some of the stories in this genre that folklorists tell are told with outrage, some with black humor, and some with genuine fondness for the people involved. Much of the effect of the stories hinges, I must tell you, on a kind of exhaustion held in common, an unstated wonder of having to explain ourselves again.
Luckily for me, I’ve come to a point in my career, and in my life, that I rather enjoy the need to answer questions even when they aren’t asked: it gives me an opportunity to re-think what it is I do and why I do it. It’s a kind of first principles refresher, if you will. Here’s the short answer: being a folklorist requires me to go out into the world, the world beyond the confines of this museum – which here is a synechdoche for the university – and find intelligence and beauty in places where people do not expect to find them.
[19. Charlie Kraft in his home.]
In my time practicing the discipline, I have spent hours and days with Appalachians living in the urban confines of Cincinnati;
[20. Enola Matthews preparing to say the rosary.]
I have spent hours and days with African Americans telling me the history of the people and places they have loved;
[21. Gerard Olinger cutting with a torch, aka the fire wrench.]
and I have spent years in machine and equipment shops and sheds, learning what farmers and fabricators see when they look out upon the Louisiana prairies. I have made friends with people with whom I would not otherwise made friends. I have come to love them for who and what and how they are. And I have tasked myself with trying to communicate that who, what, and how to others like myself, like you, sitting here in this room.
As a folklorist, I try in my own small way to “tell the number of the stars and to call them by their names” (Psalm 147:4). My job is not to anonymize the people I encounter and try to come to understand but to place them in the world we share. Folklorists and anthropologist and sometimes historians and sometimes museum curators try to create small road signs that tell us to look up, look around, and not to miss the world as we whizz through it, so much in a hurry all the time. We miss these strange people who could be our friends as we speed past houses we call shacks or fields we imagine to be marshes. We miss them as we text on our phones and, in the case of Burt Hargrove, drive them off the road and kill them. We miss them, my field of folklore studies argues, because we have forgotten our own place. By reminding us of them, we hope to remind us of our better angels.
This is an old proposition, by the way. The very idea that in order to know our modern selves we need to understand the primitive or peasant other is practically written into the charter for modernity. It’s the reason we invented fields like folklore studies and anthropology, kissing cousins across the great divide between the humanities and the human sciences.
Folk art as a term, and thus also as a useful tool for gathering up bits of reality, is part of this larger explanatory invention. It’s used to look backwards – or sideways – to a pre-modern moment in a given group’s history. It is an idealization of the moment before industrialization, before commodification. It is a moment when the maker knows the person for whom the object is made and, we suppose, that means something. Of course, it meant something because we need it to mean something, because in our current moment it means so little to pull a slab of meat on a styrofoam tray all wrapped in plastic while under the omnipresent hum of fluorescent lights. We need something somewhere or at some time to have meant something to someone. This observation is nothing new: William Barrett noted sixty years ago in his account of modern art that it begins and ended as “a confession of spiritual poverty” (45), and that artists since the Romantics have turned to modernity’s others for comfort and insight.
And so we arrive at our current moment, inside this stylish concrete box into which we gather objects that, we hope, will speak to us by speaking for others. The politics of place is the politics of getting into this place. Artists want in. It’s part of the art world’s economy. Artists hope to have their art installed in galleries and museums in hopes of having their work not only seen but authenticated. Curators and directors are brokers of careers, which at the very least means being able to put food on the table – with any luck it’ll be some of that meat on a styrofoam tray! Scholars like me, and perhaps the others here, want in because we hope to expand the people who get in here, maybe so they can make some extra money but if not them, then others like them that may follow, but also because it puts food on our table – and, occasionally, it is meat in a styrofoam tray.
[22. An Acoma pot on a Turkish rug.]
None of this is new. None of this is bad, unless we do it without recognizing what we do, because there is a danger inherent in this work and that danger lies in what must be done to get things into a museum, or into a bookstore: highly dynamic human cultures must be rendered into things, into commodities, and in doing so we make them into something they are not. Yes, a clay pot is a thing, but a clay pot is but part of a larger dynamic of a living society and the many things that circulate within it, constantly changing as the world changes – because that is the nature of the world to change, and we humans even as we ourselves change each and every day fight that inexorable change with all our might and we do so by fixing things in a particular state.
So we take a dynamic thing, like a pot that is part of an ongoing conversation, and we have it stand for that conversation. The pot is no longer dynamic. It is instead quite static. The danger of this is that we begin to imagine that our world is populated by things in states, and so we end up with Cajun this and Creole that, because they are no longer living people who cook and talk but things we learn in school or buy in restaurants or grocery stores or see in museums or on billboards.
The danger is that in too readily commodifying the culture of others, we begin to think of culture as commodities, and then we turn our own world into a museum of ourselves as we once were, or in how we imagine we might have been or how we would like ourselves to have been if in fact we had been there. (It gets weird quickly.)
What saves us, what saves the museum, are the artifacts and the people who lie behind them: in this case, the people I have in mind are the Collinses themselves. I had the distinct pleasure of meeting Becky and Wyatt, if I can call them by their first names, in their home last spring, as part of the museum’s planning process. What I wish we could display in the museum, what I wish visitors could experience, is the joy that fills their home. Every room, every space, is filled with artifacts, sometimes in layers, and each piece carries with it a memory and/or an idea that can be a cause for conversation. For ultimately, their collection is, I think, a conversation, a record of their own dialogue with a world they find endlessly fascinating. If there is immortality to be found, then surely it must be in such generosity: their support of artists of many stripes, and their concomitant support of places like this museum and its efforts to re-think itself as a place of politics.
For our next class, we are going to go a-hunting, tale-type hunting. I am going to bring an assortment of texts, some folktales and some not, that I will give you to track down. Your means of determining the nature of the texts will be the Tale-Type Index and the Motif Index. You will, I think, fairly quickly figure out how to use those two instruments to your best advantage.
It might also be a good moment to think about the nature of such cataloging efforts. One place to begin, as a kind of quick review of the origins and development of the indices is the Wikipedia entry on the Aarne–Thompson classification systems. (There is a separate entry on motif worth reading.) Once there, you will see a reference to a rather recent, in terms of the indices themselves, consideration by Alan Dundes’ “The Motif-Index and the Tale Type Index: A Critique”. (There is also Hans-Jörg Uther’s assessment in “Classifying Folktales”.)
The two indices work together to catalogue those tales within their pages by their constiuent parts, motifs. As a number of observers have remarked, this is no small matter and has lead some to regard the entire enterprise as hopeless, given the seemingly endless variability of the human imagination.
And yet, as seemingly old-fashioned as the tale-type and motif indices would seem to be, we have re-created them in TV Tropes. And so, it would seem, some of you have already played a drinking game to tale types. Congratulations.
“That’s All Folks!” is a piece from a 1997 issue of Lingua Franca, for those who remember it fondly, about the perils of the name of “folklore”. The name of the field was enjoying a moment, in a larger cycle of such moments, of being debated. Should we switch to folkloristics to sound more, well, ic-ky, like linguistics or physics, or to ethnology to sound more like all the ologies (biology, psychology, sociology, etc.). I’m shortly headed to UCLA to join the Culture Analytics program, so I thought it was worth remembering that this nominal nom-nom, as the kids might say, has a history.
[Göttingen Centre for Digital Humanities is hosting a hackathon] focused on automatic detection of various kinds of text re-use. As you might imagine, text re-use comes in a wide variety of forms: “Text re-use can take the form of an allusion, a paraphrase or even a verbatim quotation, and occurs when one author borrows or re-uses text from an earlier or contemporary author.” Most of these re-uses are *intentional*. Scholars of text re-use also have a category of *unintentional* re-use, which, from a folklorist’s point of view, seems fairly familiar: “Unintentional text re-use can be understood as an idiom or a winged word, whose origin is unknown and that has become part of common usage.” Winged words seems a particular form of traditionalizing, since they are “words which, first uttered or written in a specific literary context, have since passed into common usage to express a general idea—sometimes to the extent that those using them are unaware of their origin as quotations” (okay, [Wikipedia]).
Interestingly, there doesn’t seem to be any interest in, or awareness of, words or phrases that are uttered within the vernacular domain, become widespread in usage, and achieve stickiness purely that way, or even get captured into a literary text. There is, however, a lovely illustration by Marco Büchler that graphs out the various possible kinds of text re-use:
[Göttingen Centre for Digital Humanities is hosting a hackathon]: http://etrap.gcdh.de/?p=669
Paul Ford’s [“The American Room”] (link is to Medium) should have been written by a folklorist, or, rather, it’s the product of the kind of careful observation that, I think (I hope), is the purview of folklorists. That is, when folklorists are at their best, they are simply paying attention, compiling an inventory of acts and artifacts, in order to allow us, potentially, insight into both the syntax and vocabulary of how others construct their world(s).
In brief, Ford’s essay begins with a (re)construction of the American room as glimpsed through Youtube videos — he notes at one point that he has friends who collect such videos (800 so far) and that he has watched 400 of them. It’s a familiar space, one which I have found myself considering through the windows of Reddit image posts or unboxing galleries on tech websites. The dimensions are familiar to anyone who has lived in — owned or rented — a tract home or apartment built in the last thirty years: white walls, carpets in an indeterminate range from beige to tan, eight foot ceilings, perhaps a sliding glass door giving onto a balcony or backyard. Ford notes two things about these rooms: their difference from other spaces, spaces of desire like those found on Pinterest or on webcams of sex workers, and how the space is now so conventional as to be available for faking or parody, e.g. “lonelygirl” of 2006 or Jimmy Kimmel’s fake twerking video.
I am reminded of a conversation with Henry Glassie twenty some-odd years ago. It was after the semester he taught his “American Home” course, and we were discussing the range of projects students had submitted. Glassie recalled that one student had, not knowing what else to do, described the living room of a couple, and then, sensing something was important in the collection of books that were tucked into a small bookcase along one way, inventoried the case’s contents. Each and every book. That list of titles, Glassie observed, really did tell its own story.
Who is [Paul Ford]? He is a writer and programmer who is also a terrific observer of the American scene. A previous essay of his, [“It Is Impossible to Believe How Mindblowing These Amazing New Jobs Are”][jobs], is a list of job advertisements that were written to mock the contemporary era’s love of *social-data-media*. (You have to say it, and think it, as one word.) In doing so, he also effectively mimics the quackery that takes place on the educational side of the equation to take advantage of the current moment’s obsession. Like, cinema, no image, no media, no data arts! (Yeah, throw *arts* after it, it’s like adding *-lytics*: it makes everything better.)
On that note, I leave you with this:
[“The American Room”]: https://medium.com/message/the-american-room-3fce9b2b98c5
[Paul Ford]: https://medium.com/@ftrain
Jonathan Goodwin and I had the chance to team up again at the [Texas Digital Humanities Conference][txdhc]. While our work began with the chronological topic models built last year, Goodwin has recently been experimenting with [co-citational network graphs][jg] based on data drawn from the Web of Science. (We had to depend upon the Web of Science data because the citational data from JSTOR is currently unavailable.)
While we contemplate how to integrate the co-citational data with the topic models, I found myself recalling that the American Folklore Society also has a collection of abstracts submitted for the annual meetings for at least the last few years. I wondered if that material was available through [Open Folklore]. It isn’t, but the [program brochures and books][bb] produced for AFS annual meetings from 1949 are.
[Open Folklore]: http://openfolklore.org/
As Elisa walked me through her TEI-encoded documents, and showed me the XSLT she uses to transform the TEI encoding into network files, I realized that I needed to start working on my own use of TEI. A quick search *ye olde web* for “TEI folklore” turned up … not much.
Two things occur to me: First, this represents an opportunity to be involved in getting TEI up and running in folklore studies, and, second, I need to start collecting useful links:
* So far, it looks like [oral history] is leading the way.
* The [MLA] recently received a grant from the NEH to “to begin development of Humanities Commons Open Repository Exchange, or Humanities CORE. Humanities CORE will connect a library-quality repository for sharing, discovering, retrieving, and archiving digital work with Humanities Commons, a developing platform for collaboration among scholarly societies and other humanities organizations.”
* There are [seminars] on TEI encoding.
**Please note**: if you know of already extant implementations of TEI in folklore studies, please let me know! I don’t want to re-invent the wheel. Drop me a note, if you can, and I’ll add links here, with credits for contributors. (Or we can do this somewhere else, if you like. G+?)
[oral history]: http://www.cdlib.org/groups/stwg/OH_BPG.html