The nearer I get to it, the more upsetting it becomes. It is capped, contained, deflated behind a plexiglass cube. Elevated just below eye level so that you have to lean over it in order to decipher the mess of platinum blonde spilling out of the frame of a wooden shadow box, the stiff wax skin glistens as it peeks out from amidst the spill and shine of ratted wig hair.
Behind the stiff skin, the eyes are locked shut as if they had been forced so by an embalmer’s hand. The lips are parted slightly but expressionless. Coral lipstick picks up the undertones of rouge on the cheek. Half of the face is obscured by the platinum wig, it parts like a curtain to reveal the sallow, waxy skin. As I leer over it, for it is displayed prone, a troubling and disembodied giggle cuts the silence.
A giggle is entirely feminine. It is the remainder of a laugh, either forced or repressed. It is flirtacious, perhaps, a reaction in concert with eyelash-batting to a john’s bad joke. It is also the laughter that follows stinging gossip about that john with the other girls later on. It is a laugh with a hand covering the mouth, squeezing the sounds down like a choked cough.
But this stifled laugh is mechanical. It is the musing of a skinned cyborg paired with a maniacal repeated laugh track, triggered by a surveilling eye as bodies near. It is as if this creature had disobeyed the laws of Asimov, and its remains are kept under a plexiglass prison.
The giggle repels me. Any reflection of identity, any simper I read into the lipstick, any flush I spotted in the cheek, I suddenly recognize as duplicitous. The giggle is scripted, forced and run through audio tape. This giggle has been translated and traversed mediums like a nomad– from human lips to microphones, recorded on audio tapes, sent through mixers, play-back mediums, perhaps first on tape or vinyl (she was made in 1968) then later through Beta, audio cassette, CD, MP3 now, perhaps… who knows. Her mechanisms are hidden in the shadow box.
“In the traditions of ‘Western’ science and politics — the tradition of racist, male-dominant capitalism; the tradition of progress; the tradition of the appropriation of nature as resource for the productions of culture; the tradition of reproduction of the self from the reflections of the other — the relation between organism and machine has been a border war.” — Donna Haraway, Cyborg Manifesto1
The entire body of work in Lynn Hershman’s Civic Radar, a travelling exhibition currently at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, seemed to me to stem from this exploration. The Giggling Machine: Self-Portrait as Blonde is a perfect cipher. She is overtly feminine– the giggle, the makeup, the platinum wig, but contained as a “machine”, a cyborg, reveling in technology and always one step ahead of her human onlookers. Perhaps that’s why she giggles.
And it is a self-portrait. But what self can we find through this portrait? It mirrors back its nothingness to us, its depths are shallow, its giggle mechanical and forced. As we travel through the phase and life of Roberta Breitmore (perhaps Hershman’s most famed project, a construction of a life lived as another), the Phantom Limb series, wherein women and representation machines merge bodies, the Artificial Intelligence of DiNA and Agent Ruby, we are reminded of the themes of Giggling Machine: Self-Portrait as Blonde. It is a constant re-engendering of identity, less a reflection than a refraction.
As Haraway reminds us in Cyborg Manifesto, “The cyborg would not recognize the Garden of Eden; it is not made of mud and cannot dream of returning to dust.”
1Haraway, Donna. “A Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century”. Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. 1991. Routledge.
Blow Up (1966 dir. Michelangelo Antonioni) begins with David Hemmings playing the character of Thomas photographing a lithe blonde model (Vanessa Redgrave?). As he steps over her with his camera, the model writhes prone on the floor. Thomas shouts pre-orgasmic phrases usually relegated to a breathy moan, “give it to me”, “yes, yes, oh yes!” The mock sexual conduct climaxes as he leans over his camera and kisses the young model’s ear. The shot is taken and he exits to sit spent on the couch, as she rises, unsatisfied, and leaves the room. The scene establishes the unilateral direction of power given to the photographer and the blatantly sexual dynamics of the photographer/model relationship.
The next scene is another photoshoot, this time with several models, one of them a cameo by Peggy Moffitt. Moffitt is in her classic Vidal Sassoon geometric hair and makeup of her own design– mirrored metallic triangles set beneath heavy liner and lashes. Moffitt poses snake-like, each hold a seamless reflection of the previous pose and a midpoint for the next.
The photographer, pedantic and patronizing, stops the fluid dance, shouting “re-think it! Start again!” and continues to berate and belittle the models before him. “Wake up!” “Smile, I asked you to smile- do you know what a smile is?” he barks before ending the shoot and the scene.
Blow Up’s intention, in part, was to mirror a phenomena of the swinging 60s, exemplified by designer Rudi Gernreich, his photographer/collaborator William Claxton and his model/collaborator Peggy Moffitt. The three came to define the mod look of the 60s, and created an entirely new paradigm for modelling, fashion and fashion photography. Despite her cameo in Blow Up, Moffitt’s modelling career with Claxton and Gernreich was defined not by a paternalistic exploitation of her choreography, but by a collaborative spirit in which she and Gernreich worked together to define a “Total Look” of the 60s.
Gernreich’s designs stirred controversy (his monokini continues to shock even by contemporary standards) and defined the era. For a runway show in 1971, Gernreich outfitted the models in fairly standard knitted separates, but accessorized them with dogtags and rifles. Only a few months after the student shootings at Kent State, Gernreich reiterated his refusal of normative standards of fashion and voiced his politicization of the medium, stating “Women are on the warpath, they’re tired of being sex objects.”1
Surreptitiously using the medium of fashion to implode it’s own codes, Gernreich and Moffitt blew apart conventions in order to question them and their relevance in an ever expanding cultural zeitgeist. Reconstructing the troubling power binaries of photographer/subject, the collaboration brought about an entirely new lens for dressing and photographing the female body. Reversing the course of Dior’s “New Look” which structured and constricted the feminine form at the chest and waist, many of Gernreich’s designs were voluminous, taking inspiration from the caftan. Many more featured transparent panels or bared breasts to accentuate the body rather than conceal and reform it. Moffitt’s body in these clothes did not seem particularly more susceptible to the lustful eye, but rather engaged it– spoke directly to it as an equal participant rather than as a submissive.
No longer a sexualized object to inspire desire, Moffitt’s direct gaze and choreographed movements revealed her artistic control in the deployment of her body. Moffitt was able to animate a narrative for the designs that pushed them into the creation of a politicized, feminist world; one where the function of design is no longer to sexualize the female body but to assist in its liberation.
From the beginning of their collaboration in the early 1960s, Moffitt designed her own makeup for each shoot and runway show. The shared creative syncopation pushed Moffitt and Gernreich down similar aesthetic and conceptual paths simultaneously and wordlessly.
The most amazing example of our being on the same page occurred with the 1968 resort collection. By this time I was living in New York and had no idea what Rudi’s collection would look like. Just before he came to town, something compelled me to design a very exotic Siamese face. When I saw the clothes and Rudi saw the makeup, neither of us could believe it. It looked like the same person had designed both.2
Released the same year as Blow Up and Gernreich and Moffitt’s 1966 collection film Basic Black, Bay Area-based artist Bruce Conner created BREAKAWAY (1966, dir. Bruce Conner), a 5-minute experimental film starring a 23-year old Toni Basil.
BREAKAWAY (1966) is unlike much of Conner’s body of collage and assemblage work while maintaining his line of questioning. Filmed by Conner himself, a rarity in his body of work, the film questions cinematic convention through medium and representations of the female body.
“ This notion of remixing found footage was key to almost all of his films, although he did also insert his own footage, here and there. BREAKAWAY is the big exception as it’s completely his footage, but its a driven, frantic, complex montage and its aesthetics show he’s continuing his exploration of the representation of the female body.” – Rudolf Frieling2.
Featuring Toni Basil as the object of the camera’s gaze and the singer of the accompanying title track, BREAKAWAY acts as a collaboration between Basil’s choreography and voice and Conner’s manipulation of medium.
The film is five minutes long. It opens with a credit, “Antonia Christina Basilotta” (Toni Basil’s full name), followed by the title, BREAKAWAY.Conner often played with movie titles and authorship. A Movie (1958, dir. Bruce Conner), for example, disrupts narrative time by inserting the title cards and countdown sequences, “A MOVIE… BY BRUCE CONNER” throughout the duration of the film. Immediately crediting Basil, and only Basil, alerts the viewer of the collaborative nature of the film.
The first 2.5 minutes are a spasmodic, strobing exploration of Basil’s body and movement set to driving Northern Soul beats. Toni Basil is first introduced to us in an outfit that could have been a Gernreich design from the cutting room floor. She wears a black bra and leggings cut through with holes that double as polka dots. The polka dots both reveal and disguise her body as she hits poses. Her poses are smooth and articulate, but spliced with black frames that strobe and distort the movement.
The song, composed by Ed Cobb and sung by Basil, is the main narrative force of BREAKAWAY. Piano riffs punctuate loose driving guitar and drums to push forward lyrics like
“I’m gonna break away from all the chains that bind/ And everyday I’ll wear what I want and do what suits me fine/ Hey, hey I’m gonna break away, break away from the everyday”
Like a manifesto for a newly liberated world, the lyrics follow Basil as she gyrates with the deliverance of a lone dancer in their bedroom.
Sometimes credited as being the father of the music video, Conner often drew inspiration from music, as in a video collaboration with DEVO for the song “Mongoloid”, Cosmic Ray (1962 dir. Bruce Conner) an experimental film set to the Ray Charles song “What’d I Say”, and his photographic exploration of the 1970s San Francisco punk scene (some photos also featured Toni Basil). BREAKAWAY syncs its strobing camerawork with the heavy downbeat to transfix the viewer.
The camera roves back and forth and Basil moves in and out of frame. Like a moth trying to absorb itself into a streetlamp, the movements are jarring and spectral. Despite the frenzy, it’s clear that Basil is an experienced dancer, at one point she twirls with the precision and expertise of a ballerina. Her choreography animates and narrates Conner’s camera histrionics. Cigarette burns pulse in an overlay through the frame, mirroring the polka dots of Basil’s initial outfit and grounding the film in the geometric zeitgeist of the mid-60s.
As the song powers on, Basil jumps in and out of costume through nighties to nudity, and though the costumes have a sexualized air, the spastic camera eludes any eroticism. There is simply not enough time for desire to ferment in her image. The viewer is constantly trying to catch up.
Once the song ends, the film stops its forward motion and is set in reverse. The viewer takes in the entirety of the visuals again, this time in reverse motion– Basil’s movements seem even more convulsive when detached from linear time. Like a possession, the viewer soaks up the lyrics in their warped retrograde.
Though the lighting, camerawork, time reversals and the synaptic structure of BREAKAWAY create the film’s reverie, Basil’s ownership of the screen and her movements imbue the work with a feminist re-reading of the cinematic starlet– un-fixing them from the static subjectivity of the silver screen. BREAKAWAY not only ruptures this subject/object relationship, but, in reference to the title, breaks from traditional cinematic narrative by denying a fixed beginning-climax-ending structure.
Scott MacDonald: “Have you assumed that people would look at your films on a rewind, as well as watch them projected?”
Bruce Conner: “I look at them on the rewind.”3
Conner and Basil’s collaboration spanned from their first meeting in the early 60s and included many other famous faces. The collision of creative forces also brought in Teri Garr, Dean Stockwell and Dennis Hopper. Hopper recalls holding the lights as Basil danced for BREAKAWAY, and later cast Basil in Easy Rider (1969 dir. Peter Fonda). This collaborative network was one of many for Conner, as he flitted through different crowds and subcultures.
“I really did have the same vision as he did, and since I was the vehicle, I knew I could help drive the vision.” — Toni Basil4
After her collaboration with Conner, Basil herself began working with film as a medium. She created 8mm films involving superimposition, still frames, and physically manipulating the film. Her experience exemplifies how collaborative nodes and networks span outward, influencing and providing the backbone for movements.
BREAKAWAY existed in the same moment as Blow Up and Gernreich’s designs as modelled by Peggy Moffitt. The three depict a similar world, one driven by a collusion between art, film and design– a new paradigm, geometric, swinging and liberated. The failure of the opening scene of Blow Up in contrast to the two artifacts of the time is in it’s depiction of a unilateral power dynamic between the photographer and model. The relationships exhibited by Basil/Conner and Gernreich/Moffitt showcase how collaborative work can transcend normative power dynamics to incorporate politicization and radical world making. This division of authorship allows for creative capacities and possibilities that would not exist in a vacuum of power.
Office Space, an exhibition curated by Ceci Moss at YBCA in San Francisco, features artists responding to the immaterial labor force of the 21st century. Examining offices as a site of politics, these artists dissect contemporary work forces.
I work at a museum, and feel tied to this subject in two directions, one from working in an office, and two, from working in an office where my main task is to organize and maintain exhibitions of art.
My desk is located within an open office floor-plan. It is situated laterally between two other desks, such that our backs are against a wall. I look out at a row of five other desks, all of them situated against the opposite wall. On all of the desks is a phone and a computer. Although it is an open office, I have never worked anywhere as quiet as this. Everyone wears headphones, and although we’re often less than five feet away from each other, we still communicate tasks and requests through email, as if to force a paperless paper trail to hold one another accountable.
One of the first pieces in the exhibition is Cory Arcangel’s Permanent Vacation of 2008. Comprised of a set of two computers, keyboards, mice and an IKEA table, Arcangel has set up two email accounts with vacation responders. The vacation response bounces back and forth between the two inboxes, each time sounding a horrible tinny alert announcing the arrival of another email. Permanent Vacation considers our reliance on email, as a repository of information, as a record of our past, and as an impersonal avatar of ourselves while we are away.
I often think about how tied I am to my computer. In the office at the museum, we all stare at the computer for 8 hours, every day. I think, as I scroll through art blogs and do crossword puzzles in windows that I can easily hide should anyone in the office come over to my desk, what it would have been like to work for 8 hours WITHOUT a computer. Would I have to bring paper crossword puzzles? What is the real life analogue for closing out a conspicuous tab?
Reconfiguring a nostalgic mid-century modern office ideal, Mika Tajima’s A Facility Based on Change III reappropriates Action Office furniture from Herman Miller and a Balans chair of the artist’s design.
Action Office, first introduced in 1964, was the first cubicle system. Designer Robert Propst championed the Action Office, arguing that the environment of the office must encourage the mental activities of the worker. Initially encouraging an open, colorful, modern and flexible workspace, the first iteration of the Action Office didn’t catch on quite as Propst intended.
Designed for adaptability, Action Office II (2.0) focused on those three hallowed walls which would eventually become the bane of the office environment, the cubicle. The walls of the original Action Office were heightened, leaving the worker trapped in one sightless cell amidst a labyrinth of sameness.
In A Facility Based on Change III, Tajima plays on the notion of the cubicle, arranging the walls with no entry or exit points. Creating actual cubes, and reintroducing a midcentury modern color palette that reflects the concept initially intended by Propst, Tajima creates an alternate office space, one which blocks entry. Tajima hangs her own silkscreened images on the Action Office walls with pins and clips, allowing a brief glimpse of individuality within the mass-produced office environment and using its own tools to subvert its anonymity.
Precariously balanced near the cubicle walls is a Balans chair of the artist’s design. The Balans chair was initially developed in the 1970s in Europe from alternative seating positions conceptualized by a Danish surgeon. However, the strange contortions made by the body in order to fit into the sloping curves of the chair, in Tajima’s work, speak to the unnatural mental and bodily contortions made by workers in the office environment.
During my visit, one patron attempted to seat themselves in the chair. A gallery guide assured me that this happens “ALL of the time.” The comfortability with which white-collar workers view office furniture reveals the thin masking of designed environments meant to somatically manipulate employees in hopes of efficiency and productivity.
The late-20th century move toward immaterial labor has created a distinction in capitalism’s subject; because the work-day is not tied to material production, the divide between work and home life is non-existent. Office workers find themselves in a constant labor-loop that is not bound by the physical constraints of the office– evidenced by the migration of work-space to the virtual, where access is continuous and constant.
Further collapsing home/work divisions, in late-capitalism, the value of labor is determinant upon cognition rather than manual labor, and as such, a worker’s value is determined by their very subjectivity. Individual traits, the way in which the worker thinks, are monetized.
Bea Fremderman’s 2 minute video loop, Kafka Office, renders the office environment as a branching maze comprised of dead ends. Looping lighting and shadow to create an endless void of time in a digitally-rendered cubicle structure, Fremderman accompanies the video with deeply affective bass tones. The soundtrack tracks time in concert with the lighting effects of the video, creating a somatic response not unlike being trapped. Although the setting is filmed from an angled birds-eye-view into the office, the quality and tone of the soundtrack encompasses the viewer and leaves them with a deep sense of appurtenance and subordination.
Installed in YBCA’s gallery, the piece is on a monitor placed on the floor, which allows the viewer a skewed perspective, like gazing into a nihilistic circus mirror. The sense of captivity and infinitude resonates, still, as the viewer is unconsciously absorbed into the space of the video and its sound.
A discussion of the office space would be nothing without a dissection of office supplies, one of the dubious perks offered to the late-capitalist subject.
Haegue Yang creates an altar of office supplies in Office Voodoo, hanging lightbulbs, ballpoint pens, CDs, bulldog clips, stamps and stamp pads and other office detritus from drying racks positioned in a semi-symmetrical pentagram. Repurposing the sterile tools of the office environment into an occultist prayer object, the piece is a reliquary, a politically incorrect subterfuge constituted of the aseptic, soulless objects that enable immaterial labor.
Taking immateriality beyond its logical limits, Julien Prévieux’s What Shall We Do Next? (Sequence #1) projects hand movements onto a wall using an overhead projector and a Polaroid Polaview 3000. 
Julien Prévieux, What Shall We Do Next? (Sequence #1), 2006-11, video
On first glance, the hand movements look like a two-dimensional rendering of sign language. They are, however, human movements that have patents filed in the United States Patent and Trademark Office. Speaking both to the official bureaucracy of patent filing and the absurdity of trademarking human movements, What Shall We Do Next? (Sequence #1) illustrates gestures which may have a familiarity to users of Apple products. Extending the bureaucratic reach to the very body, the piece “speaks to capitalism’s pervasive reach.. how something so benign as a pinching finger becomes private property.” [2.]
Further asserting the tech sector’s bureaucracy (a topic near and dear to fellow San Franciscans), Andrew Norman Wilson’s Workers Leaving the Googleplex exposes the inherent caste system at play in office politics.
Wilson was employed at Google in 2007, during which time, he secretly filmed workers leaving buildings with differing security clearances. The taping was discovered by Google security, and Wilson was fired.
Andrew Norman Wilson, Workers Leaving the Googleplex, 2009-11, seven channel video, color, sound
The revelation, to me, was that employees at Google are given colored badges which denote their level of security clearance. Of course, the colors correspond to the brightly colored branding of the Google logo. White badges, for instance, are assigned to full-time Google employees, while red badges are saved for contractors, and green badges for interns. The color-coding of corporate hierarchy engenders an embodied ranking system, which bars workers entry to spaces within their work environment. Not unlike the complex caste systems created on the basis of skin color in colonial Brazil, these colors regulate and differentiate the bodies within the Google campus.
The exhibition taken as a whole fluctuates between mimicking/mocking the sterility of modern offices and exposing the subterfuge that flows beneath them.
The contemporary office, especially in an economically volatile city like San Francisco, seems to me a place of utter instability, a capricious agreement between workers, desperate for employment and fair pay in an untenable environment (made so, in large part, by Silicon-Valley tech companies like Google) and offices who aim for the highest profitability, efficiency and productivity for the lowest possible wage.
I realized the paradox inherent in spending my day off from my office in a museum to go to museum replete with mock-offices, but the removal was just far enough that I was able to see both spaces critically and with the sarcastic humor that makes me really ~*fun and likable*~ back at the office.
Office Space is on view at YBCA through February 14, 2016 and has a comprehensive exhibition catalogue available for $5, which comes with digital files (including almost all of the images reproduced here) on a USB stick that is also a handy pen. Office supplies, hooray!
Side note: this discontinued product from Polaroid is the coolest. It is an LCD screen designed to be used with an overhead projector to project video/presentations. I would like this so much more than the cumbersome projector/screen/laptop set-up that we use in my office. Studying it during my visit to YBCA was akin to sorcery– it is the magic screen as prophesied by PeeWee’s Playhouse.
Ceci Moss, Office Space Extended Wall Labels, 2015.
“This article is about the retail chain. For countries dependent on a single, limited-resource export, see ‘Banana republic.’”
See also: Banana Republic (album): a live album by Italian signer-songwriters Francesco De Gregori and Lucio Dalla
Banana Republic (song): a single by The Boomtown Rats
It does roll off the tongue. Ba-na-na re-pub-lic. Syllabically rhythmic, it conjures fruit trees and easy elegance—khakis and seersucker tops, cotton… but that’s another story. The overlap between the colonial safari aesthetic of the Gap Inc. brand Banana Republic and the actual lived horror of political instability dependent upon a singular primary export is a startlingly close disambiguation.
Although banana republic is a pejorative term, it aptly describes the thinly veiled colonialism that characterizes these impoverished nations. The term began, of course, with the exploitation of banana exports from Central America under the United Fruit Company (a merger consisting of US fruit enterprises Chiquita Brands + Boston Fruit Company.) The UFC bought huge tracts of land in Honduras and the Caribbean Basin, displacing native peoples through a policy of legalistic dispossession, and then employing them to work their own land for extremely low-wages.
When the trumpet sounded
Everything was prepared on earth,
And Jehovah gave the world
To Coca-Cola Inc., Anaconda,
Ford Motors and other corporations.
The United Fruit Company
reserved for itself the most juicy
Piece, the central coast of my world,
The delicate waist of America.
It rebaptized these countries
And over the sleeping dead,
Over the unquiet heroes
Who won greatness,
Liberty, and banners,
It established a comic opera:
It abolished free will,
Gave out imperial crowns,
Attracted the dictatorship of flies…
Pablo Neruda’s “La United Fruit Co.” in Canto General of 1950. 
The terms co-optation into a multinational retail chain with high brand recognition is a classic win-win in capitalism’s unyielding optimism; the lifestyle brand of a successful neocolonial plantation owner appeals to middle class Americans enough to overwrite history and place a store in every indoor mall in the United States.
Consequentially, Banana Republic and parent company Gap have production in factories in New Delhi and Bangalore, which, as recently as 2007, were employing children as young as 10. The Gap also settled from a lawsuit for using sweatshop labor in Saipan, a US territory in the South Pacific. Despite claims to the contrary  Saipan may very well also be classified as a banana republic.
The ever expanding nodes of history, exchange and imbued postcolonial energies makes the banana republic an analogous port to access the works in Rikrit Tiravanija’s curatorial project The Way Things Go through May 24, 2015 at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco. The project traces the global flows of commodity exchange, often through the cipher of food. The Way Things Go subtly hints at the shared experience that food provides, while also tracing the cultural ruptures of globalized trade as it relates to food as a commodity.
The exhibition consists of thirteen artists/artist-groups unpicking and untangling the multi-fibred net of postcolonial trade and cultural exchange. The objects are all imbued with a narrative essence; they weave together forgotten truths and slippery fictions to expose the agency and power of objects in a history of imperialistic exchange.
The work opens with a literal journey tracing the life and migration of seeds and plants from the Guangzhou district of China, as it was the lone port city through which foreigners were allowed entry into China. Maria Thereza Alves, a Brazilian artist working in Berlin, painstakingly delineates the network of travelers and options for migration of single seeds (she lists the mud-caked wheels of bicycles and traveling entertainers as well as various conquests) in Wake in Guangzhou: The History of the Earth (2008.) The viewer walks through this web around a constructed circular wall, and feels dizzy and dazed by the end of the proposition, having done exactly what the title suggested— traveling the history of the earth through a very specific lens.
Similarly, the Museum of Gourd in the central gallery of YBCA offers a look at the permutations of one specific object through its iterations in different cultures. A curatorial project by Chihiro Minato with works by Terri Friedman, Daizaburo Harada, Reiko Ogura, Shiro Takahashi, Victoria Wagner and Chihiro Minato and objects from the California Gourd Society, Museum of Gourd ranges from historical artifacts and archival traces to loose associative works. Reiko Ogura, an archivist, maps the usage of gourds in mythology; Terri Friedman and Victoria Wagner, two Bay Area artists, use the gourd as a springboard into deeper imaginations of their distinct practices. An anthropological assortment of objects both made of and influenced by the shape of gourds rest under plexiglass vitrines while two gourd shaped contraptions by Terri Friedman circulate water colored with glitter and light.
If the circulation of the gourd, and the range of its influences seems oddly specific to Native American cultures of the American West, it may surprise you to find that The American Gourd Society has chapters in 26 states, and there are brick and mortar Gourd Museums in Angier, North Carolina and Sautee, Georgia.
A secondary look through the intertwined distribution of product and politic is evident in Lonnie van Brummelen and Siebren de Haan’s Monument of Sugar. Rows of thick bricks made of refined white sugar lie in a grid on the floor. The narrow spaces between the bricks are dusted with erosion– some bricks have suffered vertical fractures leaving free standing columns of condensed sugar sediment.
While some blocks retain the opalescent white of refined cane sugar, others have experience browning and discoloration. Warm taupe colors radiate from the centers of the blocks, result in a gradation, which could be photographed and formatted to become a quality control test.
Van Brummelen and de Haan are based out of Amsterdam, and as such, their work had to be imported from the European Union. Currently, the European Union controls sugar imports by Tariff-Rate Quotas. These limitations force EU countries to meet their own sugar demands through the production of sugar beets and limit the amount of sugar that can be imported from abroad.
The Netherlands has a storied history with sugar import. The Dutch East India company first supported an international network of sugar exportation from the Brazilian sugar industry in the mid-1600s, creating their dependence upon South American supply. Trying to ease this dependence, trade restrictions have created a complicated web for the transport of sugar across international borders.
According to the Institute of Sugar Beet Research, two Netherlands-based companies, co-op Royal Consun and CSM Sugar, produced 865,000 tons of white sugar from 14,000 sugar beet growers in 2005. Despite these numbers, the EU is currently facing a supply shortage of sugar, due, in part to its tariff limitations. Between 2010 and 2011, the European Commission allowed for 500,000 tons of sugar to be imported duty-free from African, Caribbean and Pacific suppliers.
Van Brummelen and de Haan bypassed these restrictions by naming their piece as a monument, which is subject to an entirely different system of import. The United States Harmonized Tariff Schedule classifies works of art and monuments, regardless of material, as duty-free, liable to be imported and exported without overbearing tax penalties and restrictions.
Co-curator Bettie-Sue Hertz says of Monument of Sugar, “circumventing international trade regulations by converting a valuable commodity (sugar) into a work of art, their project exposes the complex sugar trade between the European Union and other countries while also exploring the larger intersection of social and political issues with artistic and aesthetic practices.”
The work is paired with a 16mm film, which is projected daily in the space at 3pm. The silent film hauntingly grazes over images both of the artists preparing the blocks of sugar which have arrived in the gallery, and of the landscape of sugar production in Nigeria, charting the labor intensive process of both international projects.
The piece has traveled to Brussles, Shanghai, and the Palais de Tokyo, spreading its network through different cultures and receptions.
The projects in The Way Things Go fold together with time. It may take more than one viewing to absorb the nodes they weave together and unwrap apart, but each work at the least wraps the viewer into a deeper understanding of the way goods move, and the politics that engage in the movement of product. Like the dual meaning now implied through the vast reaches of the Banana Republic brand, we can think more of the global implications of seemingly benign commoditization.
Christmas has just passed, and I’ve been high off the fumes of plastic blow-mold Santas and canned-snow on tinsel trees. One of my favorite cinematic masters of the holiday is producer K. Gordon Murray, and I’ve been meaning to write about him for some time. In my obsession with his camp treatises on Santa Claus and his mismatched band of “helpers” (the titular misfits of 1964’s short film Santa Claus and His Helpers inexplicably include Stinky the Skunk and Puss N’ Boots) I’ve never really understood the “King of the Kiddie Matinee.”
A short biography of Murray may shed some light on his eccentric aesthetics and tastes (big thanks to the research of fellow odd blogger The Uranium Cafe.) Murray was born in 1922, the son of a funeral home director, in Bloomington, Illinois. Bloomington happened to be the home-base for many wintering carnival workers. Murray, who hung around the carnival as a kid, later toured with West’s World Wonder Shows Carnival as a game operator, and eventually rose to the position of manager. He slipped into showbiz by aiding fellow carnival workers find work as extras in such Hollywood flagships as The Wizard of Oz and by helping to promote Cecil B. DeMille’s The Greatest Show on Earth. Finding his calling, Murray and his wife moved to Miami to set up a film production company, K. Gordon Murray Productions.
Easily parlaying his carnival barking roots into the promotion of exploitation flicks, Murray released 60 titles in 15 years. IMDB gives K. Gordon Murray 23 credits as a producer, 8 as an actor (usually as the dubbed over voice of perennial nightmare-fuel character Stinky the Skunk,) 6 as writer, and another 8 as “miscellaneous crew.” Murray is known best for plucking foreign B-movies and dubbing them in English for an American audience. Beyond the live action/puppet character films that earned him his monarchic title, Murray also dabbled in explicit horror films of the 1950s and 60s, as well as an odd assortment of Mexploitation Luchador films. The titles on his IMDB page read like a schizophrenic grab-bag of the subversive and bizarre. (Bring Me the Vampires of 1963, appears right below Santa Claus and His Helpers of 1964.) He might be the most important curator that camp has ever seen, but producers are rarely lionized as auteurs in the same way that Murray has been.
Murray’s Christmas oeuvre includes Santa Claus and His Helpers, Santa Claus, Santa’s Enchanted Village, Santa’s Magic Kingdom, Santa’s Giant Film Festival of the Brothers Grimm, and Santa’s Fantasy Fair. The first in the series, Santa Claus of 1959 was released in theaters every few years for several decades. Although originially produced in Mexico, directed by René Cardona and co-written with Adolfo Torres Portillo, Murray’s english dubbing of the film is the version most remember, and can never forget. It is the oddball, live-action precursor to the stop-motion camp Christmas classics of Rankin/Bass (The Year Without A Santa Claus, Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer) But K. Gordon Murray’s production of a seemingly benign holiday plot pushes the limits of subversion at a time that we typically relate with an obsession with normalcy. These films exploit the notion of Santa Claus as the purveyor of good and evil, literally pitting him against the Devil’s best henchman, “Pitch”, in Santa Claus.
Pitch is sent to Earth to convince children to lie and steal and engage in general juvenile delinquency. (As he says, “The devil loves rude little boys.”) Sometime after Christmas moved from the dark reign of the Krampus and into the world of Coca-Cola, it lost its glaze of religiosity and alternatively, I argue, some of its base pleasures. Santa Claus, for a time, was a simpler, psuedo-secular version of God, a seer of sinners, a punisher of evils. Now a figurehead of the capitalist state, Santa stands less as a symbol of discipline and punishment, and more as an emblem of the rewards of capital. All children of means receive gifts, only the poor are punished. (And just imagine the disappointment in the dedicated suburban bully’s eye when he woke not to lumpen coal but to a bounty of gifts! Try harder next year, asshole!) But I digress..
Santa Claus, meanwhile, polices the children from above in his panopticon. “Santa’s Laboratory” hovers above the North Pole… in space! A tour of the lab reveals the tools of Santa’s police state: “The Magic Teletalker”– a set of plush velvet lips undulating from within a riveted brass frame set with jewel-tone buttons and toggles. The Magic Teletalker is connected (somehow) to the “Hear-All Ear”, which floats, disembodied, in the dark of space and the “See-it-All Telescope.” These sensorial appendages are ultimately controlled by the “Behavior Tracker Computer”. Anthropomorphic and obviously sexualized, these components all aid Santa in his quest to delineate naughtiness. Although I still don’t know what the Magic Teletalker does, other than talk nasty to Santa about the baddies…
1964’s Santa Claus and his Helpers regurgitates some choice scenes of Santa Claus but mixes it with a few of K. Gordon Murray’s favorite characters and places them within the context of a promotional film for a franchise of Christmas-themed amusement parks. Joy! After an establishing shot of Santa’s space Laboratory, SC&H then pans, via the See-it-All Telescope to look down upon Earth from the heavens and focuses on the whimsical painted mushrooms that line the entrance to Santa’s Village.
The view of Santa’s Village is indeed magical and mysterious, reinforced by the narrator’s insistence that by “using the 5th dimension, Santa can be seen everywhere.” An engineering Easter Bunny motors us through the outside of the village by conducting a small train.
Inexplicably, we change course to an ensuing argument between the horrifying fur-suited Stinky the Skunk and Duke the Dog (recylced characters from Murray’s english-dubbing of Little Red Riding Hood and the Monsters of 1962.) Stinky the Skunk is voiced by Murray himself, recorded like the Chipmunks at 45RPM and played at 75RPM. The argument, of course, is about Stinky the Skunk’s offensive odor and lasts for FOUR of the twelve minutes that make up this short film. As Duke condemns Stinky, he carries a huge assault rifle, adding some immediacy and menace to the otherwise prolonged and benign quarrel. Puss N’ Boots then appears to break up the fight, but is forced to side with Duke, as Stinky apparently lives up to his moniker.
The Stinky the Skunk scenes of Santa Claus and His Helpers were filmed on location at three different “Santa’s Village” parks across the country. These Santa’s Village parks influenced some of the oddball circus of characters featured in the short film (the Easter Bunny Engineer was a Santa’s Village original.) In addition to a sleigh pulled by imported Arctic reindeer, Santa’s Village in Santa Cruz featured such odd characters as a good witch and “Jack the Pumpkin Head” (Tim Burton, I’m looking right at you, man.) Opened first in Santa Cruz in 1957 by H. Glenn Holland, with franchises later in Southern California and Dundee, Illinois, Santa’s Village was the first franchised theme park in the world. It’s rides are kind of lame, although the Santa Cruz park featured a small roller coaster and a snowman and snowball themed version of the Disneyland teacups ride. What a perfect storm that brought Christmas camp masterminds H. Glenn Holland and K. Gordon Murray together. I’d love to be a fly on the wall of this meeting.
Back in the twisted world of Santa Claus and his Helpers, the plot ends with Santa breaking up Stinky, Puss N’ Boots and Duke’s fight before the rifle has to be used. Santa then forces the three creeps to go make toys, because he underestimated the number of good children this year. (Distracted, perhaps, by the Magic Teletalker?) A final (ish) shot cuts between a tight focus of human hands assembling toy guns and Stinky operating a spark-firing band saw for 2 of the 12 minutes that make up this Christmas classic before abruptly, and without closure, sending up a “The End” title card.
Although Santa Claus of 1959 is undoubtedly a better film in the twisted cult sense, K. Gordon Murray’s involvement was only in Americanizing the film– dubbing it in English, giving it his name and a sensationalist pitch. Santa Claus and his Helpers was a direct product of Murray’s astounding filmic ineptitude. Splicing scenes from his appropriation of Santa Claus with out-of-context original scenes featuring recycled characters and costumes from Little Red Riding Hood and the Monsters and promotional video from Santa’s Village theme parks, Santa Claus and his Helpers is a perfect Frankenstein’s monster featuring the highlights of K. Gordon Murray’s eccentricities. I believe the film was also used to promote Santa’s Village theme parks…
Well, the one in Dundee, Illinois still exists. Let’s go!
You can watch Santa Claus and His Helpershere, and Santa Claushere.
I recently read this article outlining the involvement of the US government in the promotion of American Abstract Expressionists during the Cold War titled “Modern Art was CIA ‘Weapon'”.
Essentially, the CIA devoted a branch, called the Congress of Cultural Freedom toward promoting US artists in Europe… we’ll get to that.
The immediate lingering question in my mind became: What does this mean for the pedagogy of American art history?
Abstract-expressionism is (at most) a free relation between the artist’s internal dialogue and the canvas, a rejection of realist form and the establishment, and (at least) a mythic (and misogynistic) repositioning of the American male artist as a tortured genius, unleashing his untouchable soul upon an unwitting canvas.
Does this reveal of subversive government backing change the narrative? Does it do anything to change the value of American abstract-expressionism? Would these artists have been canonized had it not been for sanctioned patrons lurking in the dark?
In the end, to my eye, it doesn’t matter. The work does speak for itself, and the concept and execution remain valid, regardless. Ultimately, the more striking revelation is the doubling of American and Soviet tactics of cultural dissemination. Lets go there.
In the wake of World War I, Russian visionaries like Vladimir Tatlin, El Lissitzky, Vavara Stepanova, Lazlo Moholy-Nagy and Alexander Rodchenko constructed architectural visions, designed clothing, created luminous industrial design and painted geometric canvasses that defined 20th century modernism. Focusing on color, shape and the relationship of art to industry, the movement became, literally, the poster for post-October revolutionary Bolshevik government.
Starting from an essentially blank slate, this group of artists were able to construct their own reality of Russian civil life (the constructionists were bedfellows with the Proletkult movement, which advocated for an entirely new cultural life in Bolshevik Russia.) Pushing aside the previously upheld boundaries of art as a classist enterprise, the constructionists rallied for an art of necessity. Vavara Stepanova, for example, designed graphic futuristic working clothes intended for mass-production (more on Vavara.)
This avant-garde would eventually be suppressed in favor of a new state-sponsored Soviet Realism, which depicted the working proletariat in realistic renderings on oversized canvasses. Amazing paintings, yes, but they certainly didn’t contain the revolutionary progresive energy of the constructivists.
During the Cold War, the primary battlefront was conceptual. As Communist party leaders depicted the United States as culturally devoid, the US devoted an arm of the CIA toward promoting the US as the heir of European artistic traditions. This branch, titled the Congress for Cultural Freedom engaged in all sorts of vicarious promotion of American artistic progress.
The CCF promoted American avant-garde musicians such as John Cage and jazz artist Louis Armstrong, while diverting attention from classical composers such as Bach and Mozart, artists apparently associated with authoritarian fascism.
The CCF also covertly funded Encounter magazine, an arts journal that remained in existence, and funded by the CIA until 1991.
Most interestingly, for our purposes, was the CIA involvement in the spread of American modernist painters and sculptors during the 1940s and 1950s. Artists like Jackson Pollock, Robert Motherwell and Willem de Kooning, unbeknownst to them, were receiving government funding through vicarious and labyrinthine methods. The idea was to set up American Abstract-Expressionism as a free and fluid counterpoint to the rigidity of Soviet Realism.
In 1947, the State Department openly funded a touring exhibition titled “Advancing American Art” which was slated to tour through Latin America, Eastern Europe and Asia. This open diplomatic effort was decried and the exhibition eventually fell through before its tour. 
But the CCF had a long-leash effort designed specifically to keep even the artists they promoted in the dark. In an article by The Independent, former CIA case officer Donald Jameson says:
“Matters of this sort could only have been done at two or three removes so that there wouldn’t be any question of having to clear Jackson Pollock, for example, or do anything that would involve these people in the organisation. And it couldn’t have been any closer, because most of them were people who had very little respect for the government, in particular, and certainly none for the CIA. If you had to use people who considered themselves one way or another to be closer to Moscow than to Washington, well, so much the better perhaps.” 
That the CCF was promoting left-leaning, sometimes radical artists to Europe, Latin America and Asia parallel to the internal war of McCarthyism is an irony not lost.
Paradoxically, the US was simultaneously regurgitating the tactics coined by early Communist support of the avant-garde constructivists during the Bolshevik revolution. Stylistically, the work of El Lissitzky and Robert Motherwell share many similarities. Obviously, abstract expressionists are overtly aware of the artists hand while the constructivists cling to geometry– but the foregrounding of shape and color and disregard for realistic representation bind the two.
Similarly, after abstract-expressionism’s heyday, American artists moved heavily toward pop-art. Arguably, this move could be linked to Soviet Realism, in that pop-art depicts a more realistic portrait of American life under capitalism.
I recognize the straw-man effect of this argument, but couldn’t help but think of constructivism’s political project after having read the article by The Independent. Consider this a rough draft of thoughts relating to this article, and feel free to leave comments.
So Young, So Bad (1950) opens with a scream. The camera pulls in to the front door of a two story brick Colonial, which erupts violently as Loretta Wilson bursts through the door and past the garden, swings over a wrought-iron fence, and plants herself in the drivers seat of a work truck. Another young girl follows her into the cab of the truck, and Loretta fumbles turning over the engine. The camera frames her legs, exposed above the knee in a pencil skirt as she slams her foot against the pedal. The two drive off, leaving in their wake a frantic crowd. The camera drags behind the truck as it turns a corner and reveals a signpost that reads, “Elmview Corrective School for Girls”. The cut jumps to a police station interior, where dispatch is issuing a warning for two runaway girls aged 16. Three paddy wagons peel out from the exterior, sirens blaring. This hyperactive opening sets the scene for the rest of the film, as it takes us retroactively through the runaways’ stay at Elmview.
So Young, So Bad, directed by Bernard Vorhaus in 1950, throws its focus on the abusive disciplinarian methodology of Elmview Corrective School for Girls, a fictional school whose social injustices border on enslavement. As a tenacious new-hire, Dr. Jason, steps in to save the school through his more humane psychiatric approaches, he becomes enamored with the wayward teens and attempts to save them from a life of continued crime. The films focus is institutional reform, and as Dr. Jason conducts psychoanalytic sessions with each troubled teen, the blame is squarely placed upon poor parenting or abandoned childhoods. Blatantly absent from the film is any discussion of the criminal behavior that placed the girls in the reformatory in the first place, nor the conditions of state violence that mandate juvenile enslavement in the name of “reform” or “correction”.
In the 1950s, more than sixty films were produced with a narrative of juvenile delinquency1. With titles like Blackboard Jungle, Rebel Without a Cause, The Wild One, and So Young, So Bad, the films usually painted a portrait of attractive, suburban white teens engaged in some mild form of rebellion. As the narrative protagonists, typically their criminal tendencies are shallow and the films trace their predilection for delinquent behaviors to the supposed social short-comings of their past, be they familial disputes or poor (monetarily & morally) upbringing. The juvenile delinquency films of this era are less a commentary on the improper moral compasses of youth than an accusation against the disbanding of the nuclear family. The focus seems to be an enforcement of “national cultural uniformity/conformity heavily motivated by Christian morality and the dread of racial (and class) mixing”2.
As the girls in So Young, So Bad go through Dr. Jason’s rehabilitation programs, they are increasingly motivated by a suburban family ideal to replace their troubled pasts3. Anne Francis, a stunning blonde starlet who, at the time of filming, was barely a legal adult at age nineteen, plays Loretta Wilson, the film’s central bad girl. Anne Francis’ hyper sexualized femininity appears to be her only crime in So Young, So Bad. During the course of the film, and after special attention from Dr. Jason, she transforms, craving the suburban family home… wishing to wed Dr. Jason and reclaim her abandoned baby.
News media is responsible for the most transparent rhetoric of a juvenile delinquency “contagion” in the 1950s. Newsweek and The New York Times ran articles with sensational headlines like “Our Vicious Young Hoodlums”, “Who the Teen Killers Are”, “The Kids Grow Worse”, “Why the Young Kill”, and “Playing with Dynamite”5. These articles fanned public hysteria, reporting the spread of juvenile delinquency beyond borders previously policed by race, space and class. Colin Dayan, in “Legal Slaves and Civil Bodies” examines the rhetorical effects of criminality coded as contagion, “the diseased body must be extirpated from civil society; and once removed, the convict became the visible record of the sacrifice upon which civilization maintained itself.”6 As middle class white suburban teens began to be the subject of sensationalized news reports, the public reacted with hysterics to the perceived “spread” of criminalized youth.
A 1953 article in Newsweek titled “All Our Children” reported, “Authorities agree that juvenile criminality is spreading. Frequently it crosses the tracks from the wrong side to the right side”7. The report encodes juvenile criminality as contagious, racialized and spatial, locating a dubious “wrong side” in opposition to the right side on the other side of the tracks. This lackadaisical reporting also conceals the source of its information, naming instead, generalized “authorities”. Although FBI reports recorded “skyrocketing numbers of arrests of those under 18 years throughout the 1950s”8, these statistics were based on the voluntary reports of arrest numbers and neighborhood crimes volunteered by members of the police department and average citizens9. Problematic statistics and rhetorical jargon such as the Newsweek report served as part of the precarious scaffolding upon which juvenile justice was constructed.
In 1938, the Federal Juvenile Delinquency Act was passed “with the essential purpose of keeping juveniles apart from adult criminals”10, and was amended in 1948 to incorporate new federal agencies in the policing of adolescents. Prior to the Federal Juvenile Delinquency Act, persons under the age of 14 were presumed incapable of criminal intent and were thus not considered for legal punishment. During the ten-year period following the Federal Juvenile Delinquency Act, policies for juvenile detention were based upon discipline and punishment for crimes committed. Barnosky, in his article for Polity, describes the methodology of juvenile reprimand after the reform in 1948 as a turn toward rehabilitation11. He credits this to the creation of the first national strategic attempt to control juvenile delinquency, the efforts of the Senate Subcommittee to Investigate Juvenile Delinquency. The Senate Subcommittee, rather than investigating effects of juvenile delinquency in individuals or the effects of incarceration in adolescents, instead entwined itself in popular culture on a witch-hunt to locate the source of criminal behavior. Formed in 1953, the Senate Subcommittee pigeonholed comic books and celluloid as prime producers of violent behaviors in adolescents, eventually forcing defense testimony from leading figures in cultural industries (including a testimonial from Ronald Reagan). Despite their moral crusade, the Subcommittee eventually ruled to allow cultural producers to self-regulate content on the basis of morality.
Between the efforts of moral policing through news media, film and legal outlets, a restrictive category was formed: the juvenile delinquent.
Not quite adults, juvenile delinquents are legally barred from the civil rights afforded to adults, based on arbitrary age distinctions. Thus, although their crimes incur parallel punishment to crimes committed by those over the age of eighteen, juvenile offenders are not given the same distinction of limited, though beneficial, legal rights as adult offenders. Colin Dayan, in “Legal Slaves and Civil Bodies” examines the notion of depleted personhood through avenues of law. Although specifically speaking to the condition of the “freed” slave in the eighteenth century, the parallels between the two conditions are clear: “…we begin to see how the law, invoking the double condition of the unborn and the undead, can eject certain beings from the circle of citizenry, even while offering the promise of beneficent protection.” Juveniles, not able to fully benefit from the civil rights afforded to full personhood, live in this legal liminality of the unborn and the undead. Rejected from the realm of the adult offender, and relegated to the space of undone personhood, the juvenile delinquent’s legal status is malleable, and therefore subject to inconsistency in representation.
Rather than being granted individual personhood, it can be said that juvenile delinquents are merely afforded a slice of the civil rights of their parents. Indeed, Parental Accountability Laws12 can impose fines, or defer responsibility for juvenile offenses to legal guardians. Films like So Young, So Bad expose troubled childhoods as a direct influence on juvenile criminality, citing single parent households and abusive parentage. The tagline for the film, “What Made Them This Way!”, questions their subjective formation, implying a lack in parentage. Further entrenching the nuclear family as the preeminent mode of familial relations, criminality is culturally embedded into those homes that do not follow the nuclear structure.
The reason for Loretta Wilson’s containment at Elmview Corrective School for girls is never fully revealed. However, the film repeatedly mentions her unwanted pregnancy and subsequent adoption. An unwed mother who has abandoned her child, and a sexually charged, attractive young blonde, Loretta Wilson’s explicit criminality remains seamlessly unnamed and irrelevant in light of her implicitly criminalized identity13. According to Dayan, “inmates are not warehoused because of their crime, but for their ‘nature,’ which makes them ‘institutional risks.’”14 This transgression from the nuclear structure codes Loretta Wilson’s identity as criminal.
The women in So Young, So Bad have been stripped of their criminalized identities, and rebuilt in a manner that fits the constructed norm of civilized society. The Elmview Corrective School for Girls is a factory where criminalized identities can be “fixed”, “rehabilitated”, “reformed” or “corrected”, such that they may rejoin society. Reform replaces previous “corrective” modes of discipline and punishment, resulting in an even more intrusive form of radical transformation as controlled subjectivity. Returning to Barnosky’s claim for rehabilitative juvenile justice in the 1950s, we can clearly trace the development of the “juvenile delinquent” as a victimized subject category requiring reformation.
So Young, So Bad concludes with the narration of Dr. Jason: “Well, the depot train is due in again. That means a new batch of problems. Most of our old girls are ready for the outside, Loretta, Jane. Jackie still needs a little time here, but she’s making real progress.”16 Loretta Wilson, properly reformed with a pressed, white peter-pan collar on her sensibly demure dress, appeals a tearful goodbye to Dr. Jason as she boards a bus. On her way to begin her new life and reclaim her child, Wilson waves teary-eyed through the window at the group of girls who have not yet been saved.
Although the move from discipline to reform seems a milestone in the handling of juvenile delinquency, it belies obvious problems in the creation of juvenile delinquent subjectivities. The Elmview Corrective School for Girls functions as a fictional murder factory, one where self-authored identities enter, die through reformation, and exit as reborn, redefined and reformed agents of the state. I might side with the Senate Subcommittee here, in that, by promoting reformation through films like So Young, So Bad , juvenile corrective institutions have become a symbol of deliverance, although their methods remain deeply flawed and constitute the creation of dangerous subject categories. Ultimately, coding juvenile justice institutions as redemptive sites capable of reform antithetically produces subjects capable of juvenile criminality.
1Barnosky, Jason, “The Violent Years: Responses to Juvenile Crime in the 1950s”, Polity vol. 38, no.3 (July 2006) 2Barnosky, Jason, “The Violent Years: Responses to Juvenile Crime in the 1950s”, Polity vol. 38, no.3 (July 2006) 3Barnosky, Jason, “The Violent Years: Responses to Juvenile Crime in the 1950s”, Polity vol. 38, no.3 (July 2006) 4 Barnosky, p. 318 5 Barnosky, p. 318 6 Colin (Joan) Dayan, “Legal Slaves and Civil Bodies”, Nepantla: Views from South, vol. 2, issue 1, 2001, 3-39. 7 “All Our Children”, Newsweek, November 9, 1953, 28-30. (Found from Barnosky, “The Violent Years”) 8 Barnosky, p.320 9 Barnosky, p.320 10http://www.justice.gov/usao/eousa/foia_reading_room/usam/title9/crm00116.htm 11 Barnosky, Jason, “The Violent Years: Responses to Juvenile Crime in the 1950s”, Polity vol. 38, no.3 (July 2006). Barnosky claims that the efforts toward rehabilitation change in 1961 with the passage of the Juvenile Delinquency and Youth Offenses Control Act, and digresses further in the 1970s as juvenile delinquency falls deeper buried in bureaucracy in the hands of the federal government. So Young, So Bad and films like Blackboard Jungle take the system to task, lobbying for reform via psychoanalytic methods. 12 “California’s law imposing criminal parental responsibility is one of the most stringent in the Nation. Enacted in 1988 as part of the Street Terrorism and Prevention Act, the law amended the State’s CDM law by making it a crime when parents or guardians do not ‘ exercise reasonable care, supervision, protection, and control’ over their children.” http://www.ojjdp.gov/pubs/reform/ch2_d.html#71 13 The first two “plot keywords” for So Young, So Bad on IMDB are “Unwed Mother” and “Tension” (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0042982/) 14 Colin (Joan) Dayan, “Legal Slaves and Civil Bodies”, Nepantla: Views from South, vol. 2, issue 1, 2001, p. 22 15 Eva Hayward, “Lessons from a Starfish”, Queering the Non/Human, Ashgate, 2008. 16 So Young, So Bad dir. Bernard Vorhaus, United Artists, 1950.