Apr 26

Marie Darrieussecq – Pig Tales (London, 1998)

First Edition cover of Marie Darrieussecq's Pig Tales. Originally published as Truismes (Paris, 1996)

First edition cover of Marie Darrieussecq’s Pig Tales. Originally published as Truismes (Paris, 1996)

The main protagonist of Marie Darrieussecq’s novel finds herself inexplicably slowly transforming into a porcine animal. When reading novel an immediate question is raised to us as readers: Why a pig in particular? The pig is not a diametrically opposed to us like an invertebrate or a cold blooded reptile or amphibian. But then a pig is equally not as easy for us to relate to as a more humanoid animal (such as an ape) or a more essential domestic animal (such as a horse or a dog).

Sarah Dunant (writing for the Observer) summarised one aspect of the choice of a pig to metamorphosize into: ‘If all men are pigs, then what can a woman do but turn into a sow?’ Marie Darrieussecq was writing in a time in which feminism was entering what is commonly described as its third wave. The feminism of the 1990s was much more bodily-representational than previous incarnations, focusing on the reproductive rights of women and to a certain extent the aestheticism of the female body among other issues.

The nature of the pig is a major consideration in the choice of the animal into which the protagonist transforms. Pigs are naturally docile animals that are farmed and specifically bred for consumption by humans. Many parallels can be drawn between this and the lifestyle of the sex worker that the protagonist finds herself drawn to. The form of a pig is a stark contrast to the wolf like form that Yvan is transformed into with its predatory connotations.

Alongside the feminist aspect, another political change was taking place in France in the 1990’s. France (due to its proximity to northern Africa) has continuously considered its approach, stance and response to Islam and Islamic culture. The Algerian war of independence (in which France was the colonial power) had brought this into sharp focus, specifically whether Islam was compatible with French culture. This came to a head in the 1990s when the Front National came very close to winning the presidential elections.

The pig is particularly significant in respect to Islam as it is one of the meats that are considered Haraam, not fit for consumption by humans. This, when combined with the far-right revolution in the novel that oppresses the Islamic community, enables us to see that one of the fears in the novel is the oppression of such Islamic minorities. France had as recently as 1945 seen the effects of far right politics on the Jewish community (who incidentally also forbid the consumption of pig meat).

The transformation of the protagonist into a pig is in hindsight the natural choice for the novel. We find that political implications as well as the social and physical implications provide a basis to inform us readers of a harsh reality that could so easily occur.

Reuben Bennett

2nd Year Undergraduate

Member of the ‘Twentieth Century Literature and Science: Remaking the Body’ module

Mar 19

Margaret Atwood – Oryx and Crake (London, 2003)

First edition cover of Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake (2003)

First edition cover of Margaret Atwood’s Oryx and Crake (2003)

When the body becomes a commodity is it really yours anymore?

In Oryx and Crake, humans harness the power to create life in any form which is of most convenience. The natural is rejected for the innovative. The transgenic organisms named Chickie nobs are just one example of the rejection of the unnecessary. These creatures have ‘no eyes or beak or anything, they don’t need those’ – simply a hole in which to pour nutrients to sustain life. When genetics are so thoroughly understood and controlled, humans become the ultimate creator. In what has been labelled by some as the ‘biotech century’ (the twenty-first century), the issue of commodification has become an ever more serious concern. Commodification can take the form of cloning, genetic engineering, eugenics, social engineering, social Darwinism, mass marketing, fascism and employment. All of these are addressed within the novel. In its most extreme form it can take the shape of slavery, where humans are bought and sold – they no longer own their own bodies. Oryx is an example of this in relation to the child sex slave industry. Jimmy and Crake watch her and her compatriots via the internet, and this becomes a regular and normal pastime for them. This is a contemporary issue which threatens the moral health of our society today. Atwood uses the novel as a frightening forecast of the dangers of allowing this kind of commodification to continue.

With the mapping of the genome completed in the same year that this book was published, was Atwood suggesting that its exploitation is inevitable? If we know what means what with regards to genes, then what’s to stop us from choosing our favourites? It’s just like pick ‘n’ mix.  Throughout history, mapping something seems to allow us to lay claim to it.  (Just as Columbus laid claim to ‘The New World’ when he discovered America – which ironically was already inhabited).  Crake lays claim to people because he has the power to alter and create them. He even goes as far as actively pursuing the extinction of mankind, through pill-disguised sterilisation (BlyssPluss), and the implementation of a super virus. By gaining ultimate control over the body, the characters of the book seem to have actually lost control. Improvement is ultimately destructive. As society seems ever more focused on achieving physical perfection, concerns are growing over the impact of this obsession. In the novel large corporate empires such as RejoovenEsense have pounced on this market, to produce BeauToxique skin treatments and beauty enhancements. Slowly these alterations are no longer a simple luxury; they become a necessity in order to maintain any sense of status within society. It becomes another way of trapping people – of taking control and their bodies. The eventual apocalypse simply illustrates this prediction of helplessness. Their bodies are no longer their own.

Sarah Rivers-Martin

2nd Year Undergraduate

Member of the ‘Twentieth Century Literature and Science: Remaking the Body’ module

Mar 06

William Golding – The Inheritors (London, 2011. Originally published 1955)

The first edition cover of William Golding's The Inheritors (1955)

First edition cover of William Golding’s The Inheritors (1955)

Why did Golding decide to portray his Neanderthals as largely vegetarian?

The Neanderthal family group so vividly described in Golding’s 1955 novel are clearly happiest when eating a vegetarian diet. When they are at a near state of collapse through hunger, after making the long journey to their summer cave, they feast on the meat of a dead deer. Golding makes it clear that they only do so because it is already dead and ‘a cat has sucked all her blood’ and therefore ‘there is no blame.’ (p. 43)

Golding carefully relays his perception of Neanderthal man, and their diet is a recurring theme throughout the book that in many ways helps to develop their innocence. ‘Some of the fungi were good to eat and Lok gave these to Liku’ (p. 6); ‘they talked while they ate [leaves and shoots], brief ejaculations of pleasure and excitement’ (p. 38). By contrast, there is less enjoyment when presented with the meat of the deer: ‘the people are thin with hunger and they must eat. They do not like the taste of meat but they must eat.’(p. 46) Interestingly, this one foray into eating meat, both raw and cooked, encompasses the only true death scene from their family group – that of the old man Mal.

Juxtaposed against the Neanderthal’s innocence, is the violence of the new people (Homo sapiens) who have invaded the Neanderthal’s summer territory. Unlike the vegetarian Neanderthals, the new people are hunters and eat meat.  They wield arrows, drink from containers made of skin, and wear skins and furs. In the case of the privileged female Vivani, Golding gives us a good description of her physical connection with hunting, as she ‘was covered with a magnificent skin, the cave-bear skin that had cost two lives to get.’ (p. 215) This theme of innocence through vegetarianism versus the violence of Homo sapiens the meat eater is exemplified by their cannibalising Liku (pp. 158-9).  It is interesting to see how Golding manipulates our perceptions of these two different peoples, whether or not these depictions are true in a paleoanthropological sense.

Of course, Neanderthal, and early human theory (palaeoanthropology) is constantly evolving as more evidence is found and as the technology used to study it improves. Much theory came from the discovery in 1912 of fragmentary parts of a skull and jaw found in East Sussex. This find, hailed the ‘missing link’ was named Piltdown Man and led to scientific assumptions on our evolutionary beginnings. Although scientific opinions on our exact evolutionary process were divided, it did lead to questions of what it was to be human and often, the dynamics of the time were applied to scientific research.

Piltdown Man was reconstructed and portrayed as reassuringly masculine, with a heavyset body and masculine features. This reconstruction possibly reflected and defined contemporary perceptions of masculinity in the Edwardian era, just as Britain was about to enter The Great War. However, in 1953, two years before Golding wrote The Inheritors, Piltdown man was revealed to be a hoax.

So, why does Golding portray his Neanderthal people in a less masculine light? Vegetarianism by the 1950s had had an 80 or 90 year connection with political movements, such as feminism, and vegetarians often perceived themselves as having higher civilised values. Possibly, after WWII, Golding and his contemporaries perceived the battle for existence between the Neanderthal and Homo sapiens as a reflection of the German invasion during the war. Therefore, by presenting Neanderthal man with ‘feminising’ qualities, he created an innocent race juxtaposed by a violent and invading one; Homo sapiens.

Angela Websdale

2nd Year Undergraduate

Member of the ‘Twentieth Century Literature and Science: Remaking the Body’ module

Mar 06

Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, Newton?

Ernest Rutherford was having none of it: he was very anxious that everyone knew his results were down to him and nothing else.  On hearing ‘Lucky fellow, Rutherford, always on the crest of a wave,’ he is said to have replied, wittily, ‘Well, I made the wave, didn’t I?’[1]

But Rutherford aside, many of our important science-discovery stories do have an important role for luck.

lucky-scienceAlexander Fleming famously returned to his messy lab after a break to discover that Staphylococcus bacterial growth had been inhibited by a mould (Penicillin) that had accidentally contaminated one of the petri dishes.  Result: antibiotics.

In another well-known example, Luigi Galvani just happened to have some frogs’ legs knocking around in a thunderstorm, and observing their twitches is said to have discovered the electrical impulses in nerves, transmitted to muscles.[2]

And, of course, there’s Newton and the apple.  One fruity bonk on the head and gravity sprang irresistibly to mind.

The reality in all these cases is less poetic.  Fleming had in fact already been researching anti-bacterial agents (known as lysozymes) before the mould incident, so he was primed to look for things that worked against bacterial growth.  It’s also worth noting that Fleming didn’t personally make the jump to thinking of Penicillin as a systemic medicine – only as a topical application.  He didn’t, if you like, discover a medicine by chance.

The stories about Galvani and Newton have an even poorer basis in reality.  Galvani had a distinct plan (inspired by the work of others) to investigate the links between nervous irritation and electricity, so he didn’t need a chance observation to make him think of it.  Besides this, the careful dissection required for his experiments was far beyond the kind of chopping you’d do for the pot.

We can, I think, agree that luck is not a real thing. Chance is real, but not luck, which is the characteristic of obtaining favourable chance.

Assuming, then, that we don’t believe in luck, we need instead to ask what role luck plays in the stories we tell about scientists.  How does it help us shape the kinds of narratives that we want to tell about them and what they do?  Here’s a historic example, from the early nineteenth century:

How many a fine mind has been lost to mankind by the want of some propitious accident, to lead it to a proper channel … We know not whether the story of Newton’s apple be true, but it may serve for an illustration, and if that apple had not fallen, where would have been his Principia?  If the Lady Egerton had not missed her way in a wood, Milton might have spent the time in which he wrote ‘Comus’ in writing ‘Accidence of Grammar;’ and if Ellwood, the Quaker, had not asked him what he could say on ‘Paradise Regained,’ that beautiful poem … would have been lost to us.[3]

This is quite different from modern notions of luck.  Rather than delivering a scientific discovery out of the blue, luck seems to play the role of divine grace in enabling men of science to channel their otherwise wayward intellects.

Stories of luck are commonly supposed to serve as a source of inspiration to scientific learners.  This example comes from 1807:

[W]hile contemplating gradual improvement of science by the successive labours of many philosophers, and tracing the slight hints and little accidents which often led to important discoveries, [the student] is insensibly encouraged to exert his own ingenuity, and to search for modes of applying the knowledge which he has already acquired.  Perhaps even the trite stories of Archimedes’s bath and of Newton’s apple have not unfrequently contributed to excite a spirit of attentive observation in young experimentalists.[4]

In effect this is the very opposite to what we might expect: although it contains two of our famous lucky exemplars, what’s supposed to be learned from them is something within human control, i.e. ingenuity.  It bears a strong relation to Pasteur’s famous claim in 1854 (speaking of Oersted and the ‘birth of the telegraph’) that ‘luck favours only the prepared mind’.[5]

In modern stories about science, luck does two related things.  Firstly it grants humility to the scientist (especially if a scientist claims it for him or herself) in that he or she claims no personal pride in the discovery.  But, contrarily, the attribution of luck also indicates that the scientist is favoured by nature.  There is something special and magical about the fact that nature deigned to speak to them.  The scientist, even though we don’t exactly believe in luck, goes up on the same pedestal as Jack of Beanstalk fame.[6]

I suspect that we, in the UK at least, got a fresh wave of lucky-science stories in the years following the Rothschild Report of 1971.  This Report recommended to the government of its day that 25% of funding allocated through the research councils should be committed in a customer-contractor relationship to fulfil particular (i.e. applied science) needs.  This was considered, by many scientists, to be a serious blow to the autonomy of their research.  The Rothschild Report, together with all the funding threats that have followed ever since that 1960s financial zenith, provoked them to re-articulate the value of pure research, and one of the ways that they have done so is to emphasise how pure science can produce chance results that are useful.  In other words, you can’t by-pass pure science to get to the applied sort.  One of the most persistent versions of this particular myth is Teflon, a supposed spinoff from space research.[7]

Finally, it’s worth noticing that stories of luck are often applied to scientists who either came from a humble background and/or were of a shy personality.  It’s a way of explaining how, nevertheless, they came to be successful, without transgressing borders of class or gentlemanliness.  Don’t worry, he didn’t get superior; he just got lucky.  But C. P. Snow, like Rutherford, was having none of it.  He was proud of his achievements, yet acutely aware of where his path had been trammelled by cultural expectations and prejudices.  He declared:

By training I was a scientist: by vocation I was a writer.  That was all.  It was a piece of luck, if you like, that arose through coming from a poor home.[8]

This is a rather complex statement.  Which thing is lucky?  To be a scientist?  A writer?  Both?  Or to have come from a poor home?  He seems, in a back-handed sort of way, to be saying that he was lucky to get the best of both worlds because poverty meant that he could not develop his natural inclination (literature) in its naturally posh environs, but instead forced him to be trained in science.

Whatever we think about Snow’s class-based assessment of science, it raises a final and rather serious version of luck in science.  It’s luck whether you are well educated in science or not; whether you have a good teacher, good equipment and early opportunities to participate in research.  It’s luck whether you are nurtured to study a STEM subject at University, and whether you have appropriate and plausible ambitions beyond that.  All this requires funding and effort; it’s too important to leave to chance.

[1] C. P. Snow, Public Affairs (London: Macmillan, 1971), p. 15.

[2] See Charlotte Sleigh, Frog (Reaktion books, 2012).

[3] Review of The Life and Writings of Dr Parr, Quarterly Review 39 (1828), 255-314; p. 255.

[4] Review of Thomas Young, A Course of Lectures on Natural Philosophy and the Mechanical Arts, The British Critic 30 (for Jul-Dec 1807), 1808, p. 8.

[5] ‘… dans les sciences d’observation le hasard ne favorise que des esprits préparés.’

[6] This image of the scientist as humble conduit of nature was cultured by Michael Faraday.  See the publications of Iwan Rhys Morus.

[7] NASA scotches the familiar myth that Teflon was a spin-off from the space programme here: http://spinoff.nasa.gov/spinfaq.htm#spinfaq12

[8] Snow PA, p. 13.

Feb 13

Karel Capek – Rossum’s Universal Robots (Prague, 1920)

First Edition cover of Rossum's Universal RobotsAre human bodies merely machines controlled by our vindictive minds and the minds of those whose authority we are under?

At the turn of the 20th century, Western culture was optimistic and scientific advancements were providing society with a faith in human achievement. Darwin’s research into the origins of species seemed to prove that humans had progressed beyond other animals. Early twentieth century life was littered with new innovations such as Henry Ford’s ‘horseless carriage’, not to mention the invention of railways, electric lighting and the airplane. Science was aiding human progression and growth dramatically in the early years of the twentieth century. However, this blissful view of progressive science was torn down by the destruction of The Great War. Trench warfare saw the birth of new weaponry; rifles that could kill a man up to 1400 metres away, shells containing chlorine gas, and the introduction of tanks. All of these showed the brutal side of science. The positive and hopeful view of science had been shattered; the abuse of technology had been exposed.

But what is the real weapon? The human body itself or the machine it controls?

In Rossum’s Universal Robots, Capek challenged the typical utopian notion of science that was so prevalent before the Great War. The robot revolt at the end of the play highlights this topic perfectly. Although the idea of a mechanised workforce seems progressive and conforms to the early twentieth century view of science, this is quickly shot down by the robot uprising. The robots are secretly given a bit of humanity by Dr Gall, as we find out in Act 2 (p57-61), which allows them to form opinions and strive for freedom. The workers that were once humanity’s loyal subjects quickly turn into a force stronger than the humans could contend with. The element of humanity that Dr. Gall gives the robots transforms them into an army. Capek seems to be warning us of further negative effects science could have upon humanity should we develop such technology as Rossum did. Yet his message is also deeper.

In the Saturday Review, 1923, Capek remarked ‘For myself, I confess that as the author, I was much more interested in men than in robots’. He was highlighting the fact that it is not the robots that are the focus of his tale; the humans in the play are the heart of the story’s narrative. It is not simply the science that has created the robots that is to blame for the destruction and misery, but the humans behind it. Old Rossum is not to blame, as he only created the technology, but rather Domin is guilty for spreading the technology so far. The Great War exposed the devastating effects of some sciences, but without the army generals and the tank drivers- the humans controlling the science- the destruction would not have occurred. How far does Capek show humanity as a weapon in the wake of The Great War? Are each and every one of us a potential weapon, a potential robot, a potential body to be manipulated by authority, science and war?

Sarah Hunter

2nd Year Undergraduate

Member of the ‘Twentieth Century Literature and Science: Remaking the Body’ module

Nov 01

Graduate profile: Lucie Houghton

Course studied: MSc Science, Communication and Society
Year of graduation: 2011

Any previous roles before the one you currently have?

After graduating from my BSc (Kent) I got a job on a graduate programme as a sales executive for an orthopaedic company. However, there was a lot more to the role than just sales. I had to undertake an extensive training programme which involved learning how to do a hip, knee, ankle and ligament replacements so that I was able to advise the surgeons and nurses using our product how to use it whilst in theatre. This meant most days I was in scrubs in theatre assisting with surgery. When I wasn’t in theatre I was liaising with hospital staff, checking equipment, arranging transportation of stock, training theatre staff, attending surgeon conferences, attending surgeon training on cadavers or doing demos of kit in theatre waiting rooms. I covered the south east so I spent a lot of time driving round all of the hospitals in the region. Unfortunately, theatres generally don’t run to time so I also spent a lot of time waiting and drinking coffee in theatre staff rooms!  After working here for 18 months I decided I wanted a career change so I returned to Kent to complete a Masters. On completing this I got a job as a Communications and Public Engagement Coordinator for The Royal College of Pathologists in London.

What is your current role?

I have recently been promoted and am now the Public Engagement Manager for The Royal College of Pathologists.

Describe a typical working day.

'An Edible Form of Pathology' by Dr Sylvia Berney, prizewinner in the National Pathology Week 'Pathology in Focus' competition.

‘An Edible Form of Pathology’ by Dr Sylvia Berney, entry in the National Pathology Week ‘Pathology in Focus’ competition.

There isn’t really ever a typical day as the job is very varied – one of the best things about it! My days can involve attending public engagement events which we have organised, designing new resources for pathologists to use in schools, designing new event ideas, arranging and attending science communication training for pathologists, updating the website or social media, developing the public engagement strategy in line with budgets and publicising and judging public engagement competitions. I am also currently working with publications to produce a book which will be used for future public engagement activities.

What do you most enjoy about your job?

I love how different it is every day – I can be in the office cutting out organ shapes for a school activity one day and then in Newcastle hosting science communication training for pathologists the next! I get to collaborate with lots of other organisations in London, for example the Science Museum and NHS Blood and Transplant, I love meeting these different scientists and science communication teams and being inspired by the work they do. I am very passionate about communicating science so I love being able to do something where I feel like I am making a difference to the future of science.

How did your degree prepare you for the job you have now?

My Masters helps me every day in what I do. I am consistently referring back to many of the areas which we studied and applying the knowledge to the practical implementation of science communication within my field.

Do you have any particular memories of your time at the University and the degree programme?

The ‘Science on the Buses’ activity was definitely a highlight of my Masters degree. It gave us the opportunity to undertake some real science communication and potentially have an impact on the local community. The project involved being innovative and creative with our plans and it was exciting to know that these would be implemented for the general public to see. It was this activity which I feel really inspired me and confirmed my desire to work in the field.

Did you feel like an individual, not a number?

There was always a lot of individual support available. Lecturers were always willing to give up their time to help you if you asked for it and this helps to create a positive learning environment. There were only 15 of us on my Masters which meant there was even more time for one to one discussion and support as well as giving us the opportunity to tailor seminar discussions to our particular interests.

Do you have any advice for students interested in your career path?

Get involved in as much as you possibly can – employers will notice your enthusiasm for achieving if you have gone out of your way to learn new skills. A lot of skills are transferable to the work place so even if you don’t have much work experience, think of other ways you can enhance your CV. For example, volunteer at science festivals or get involved with your local Café Scientifique. I would also recommend keeping up to date with current topics, research, debates (and jobs!) in the field by joining the PSCI-COM mailing list available via JISC Mail.

Oct 25

Chain Reaction! video posted on YouTube

The film maker Mike Bellinger has posted his promo for Chain Reaction! on YouTube.  Click to view and enjoy Steven Shapin and Bruno Latour set to video game-style electronica.  Thanks, Mike!

Aug 29

Torches of Freedom, or the self-perpetuating promotional power of science

Wake up people! Politicians and corporations are manipulating us. And they’re using all the sophistication of science to do it.

Thus is the general tenor of a recent wave of internet news articles and blog entries, illustrating the hidden machinations of the shadowy figures who ‘really’ control our lives. And though the claims made in these stories may not always hold true, they tell an interesting story about the power of science and scientific rhetoric to promote an idea.

If you enjoy a good conspiracy story, if you work in PR, or if you have campaigned for or against cigarettes, there is a good chance that you will have heard of Edward L. Bernays (1891-1994), nephew of Sigmund Freud, founder of public relations, and the man who first used his uncle’s theories to better manipulate the masses. Perhaps Bernays’ most infamous campaign, now commonly referred to as the “Torches of Freedom” stunt, was conducted in 1929 for the American Tobacco Corporation, manufacturer of Lucky Strike cigarettes.

Edward Bernays

Edward Bernays in the 1920s

As the story goes, in the 1920s there was a taboo on women smoking in public. Aware that he was missing out on a sizeable portion of the market, the president of American Tobacco called on Bernays to find a way to break this taboo.  To achieve this, the illustrious nephew of Freud, in turn, went to a psychoanalyst to figure out what cigarettes mean to women.

Can you see where this is going?

The psychoanalyst naturally identified the cigarettes as being a phallic symbol of male power and domination. So a natural way to get women to smoke was to link cigarette smoking to the female emancipation movement. And thus the phrase “torches of freedom” was born.

According to his memoirs[1], Bernays put the plan into action by having a group of ten debutantes march down 5th Avenue as a part of the great spectacle that traditionally was the Easter Day Parade in New York; at a given signal, they got out their cigarettes and proclaimed to the prearranged news reporters that they were lighting these torches of freedom as a protest against women’s inequality. The next day, the story made the headlines in newspapers around the nation, the taboo was broken, and henceforth women were free to let Humphrey Bogart light their cigarettes.

Though Bernays himself was never shy to boast of his successes, the story has by now gained a momentum of its own. It was first picked up in the mid-1990s by Bernays’ biographer Larry Tye and PR historian Stuart Ewen, but it soon garnered greater popularity when Adam Curtis featured it in a BBC4 documentary entitled The Century of the Self (here’s the relevant clip).[2] In recent years, a number of internet news sources and blogs have discovered it and touted it as an insider-tip on how the PR industry really works. Thus, it featured prominently in an issue of the Culture Wars magazine.  And boastful as he was, Bernays could never have hoped to get the kind of treatment that he got from the blog Little Known Facts.  Here, Bernays’ ten debutantes have turned into “thousands upon thousands of women marching right down famed Fifth Avenue [and] almost everyone had a cigarette too.” Recently, the torches of freedom campaign received its own Wikipedia page.[3] And even the former Fox News commentator Glenn Beck in January 2011 dedicated an entire show to Bernays, drawing parallels between the torches campaign and the psychological tricks used by the Obama administration to brainwash the American citizens.[4]

Indeed, the torches of freedom campaign was so perfect, in conception and execution, that it appears to have become the ultimate prototype for a successful PR campaign. After all, it has many features of a good PR story: A Freudian psychoanalyst, a phallic symbol, and a catchy patriotic slogan. In sum, it is a perfect application of scientific principles to the public relations practice. And hence, it doesn’t really matter that the campaign was in reality a complete failure.

woman smoking lucky strike

Advertising photo for Lucky Strike by Nickolas Muray, 1936.

In reality, the torches of freedom were only a very small part of a massive campaign that American Tobacco was running throughout the 1920s and early 30s, specifically to target women. And in reality the ten debutantes at the Easter Day Parade hardly received any attention at all. The ‘headlines’ were very few and far between. In fact, the only headline that is ever quoted (in the Curtis documentary) is from an article in the New York Times about the Parade in general, which lists as a fifth sub-heading, below more exciting news about current fashion trends at the parade, that some girls puffed at cigarettes “as a gesture of freedom.” The article dedicates a grand total of one sentence to Bernays’ campaign.[5]

The Chicago Daily Tribune paid a little more attention to the campaign, writing that “the customary efforts of advertisers to profit by the Easter parade were very much in evidence.” Thus, along with “half a dozen ‘sandwich’ men, […] five stunningly dressed girls puffed industriously at a certain brand of cigarette as they giggled their way down the street.”[6] Finally, the LA Times dedicated an entire stub to the stunt, which deserves to be quoted in its entirety:

“Presumably employed by a cigarette-manufacturing concern, a bevy of fashionably dressed women, most of them young, paraded Fifth Avenue today past St. Patrick’s Cathedral, calmly smoking cigarettes. They attracted but little attention and told reporters they were opposed to the sex taboo on women smoking elsewhere than in the home, in cafes, theatre rest rooms and private vehicles.”[7]

So the PR stunt attracted little attention. In fact, it was only one of many advertising gigs at the parade. And it was obvious to most reporters that it had been orchestrated by a tobacco company.  Not even the brilliant phrase ‘torches of freedom’ made it into print. Indeed, the PR campaign itself can only be seen as a failure. Yet the story of the campaign lives on as an example of a great PR stunt. Why is this? Why is the story of this campaign now thriving above and beyond all other PR campaigns? Apparently, it is too good a story to not be true. But what makes this story so good?

The answer lies in the image of science and psychology. There is a certain aesthetic to seeing a scientific theory put to work. And though the scientific rigour of Freud’s ideas about cigarettes and the unconscious may be debatable, they certainly served to lend credibility to Bernays’ campaigns in the 1920s. We are, after all, governed by psychological principles. People can be manipulated through the clever use of symbols and the application of these principles. In this sense, the torches campaign is exactly what we expect: We expect PR people to use psychological tricks on us.

Like many PR practitioners, Bernays was eager to use scientific imagery and rhetoric to promote his profession. Thus, he was always fond to talk about this story. And it is a powerful testament to the self-perpetuating promotional power of science that this story has taken on the life that it has. For though the science behind the campaign may have failed, the image of scientificity has clearly succeeded.

Michael Kliegl, PhD student, University of Kent


[1] Bernays, Edward L. 1965. Biography of an Idea – Memoirs of Public Relations Counsel Edward L. Bernays. Simon and Schuster: New York.  386-7.

[2] Tye, Larry. The Father of Spin: Edward L. Bernays and the Birth of Public Relations. 1998. Henry Holt and Co.: New York; Ewen, Stuart. 1996. PR! A Social History of Spin. Basic Books: New York; Curtis, Adam. 2004. The Century of the Self. TV documentary for BBC4.

 

[3] To my knowledge, this is the only PR campaign to have its own wikipedia page. The story also features prominently in the articles about the history of PR (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_public_relations) and about Bernays himself (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edward_Bernays).

[4] Beck’s programme is so full of factual errors, that it would take a separate blog entry to list them all. The Fox News show can be seen in two parts here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-boOFCpJ1I and here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qz0hi21f3sM&feature=related. (The bit about the ‘torches’ campaign starts at around 12:10).

[5] “Easter Sun Finds the Past in Shadow at Modern Parade,” New York Times, 1 April 1929.

[6] “Sun Smiles on New Yorkers in Easter Parade,” Chicago Daily Tribune, 1 April 1929.

[7] “Fair Smokers Go on Parade,” Los Angeles Times, 1 April 1929.

Aug 24

Big Science and the Atomic Clock

Modern Times means Modern Time! Don’t trust the Earth, trust the Atom!

Caesium Atomic Clock 1955 on display in the Science Museum, London, England.

This was the first successful atomic clock. In 1955, when it was developed, it proved more accurate than any other time keeper in the world.

The use of stable vibrations of caesium atoms at a time standard was first proposed by the physicist Isidor Rabi. This led to a design built at the US National Bureau of Standards in 1951, but it was not accurate enough to replace existing master clocks.

In 1953, Louis Essen and JVL Parry, at the National Physics Laboratory, began work on a parallel approach. The challenge was to provide a microwave radio signal that would be ‘locked’ to natural radio frequency that excites caesium atoms to switch between energy states. This principal has been likened to the atomic pendulum.

By 1955, they had developed a clock to provide an accuracy of one second in 300 years. This work led to the current international system whereby time is set by averaging results from atomic clocks in many laboratories across the world.

Text from the display at the Science Museum

The development of the Caesium I atomic clock illustrates many themes and issues within this module, specifically the discussions on Big Science and atomic research as well as the post-war perceptions of science.

Historians suggest that there was intense competition between the two western super powers in relation to Big Science during the mid-twentieth century, specifically Big Science being seen as something mainly happening in America with Britain struggling to keep up. Yet, the political difficulties in the USA which almost ended their research into atomic clocks consequently resulted in Britain’s Caesium I becoming the world’s first source of atomic time. This shows two things; that the supposed ‘brain drain’ of Britain which saw British scientist’s move across the pond due to lack of government support must be questioned, and in turn that America perhaps weren’t as productive in terms of Big Science as is commonly thought. Thus, in being the first successful atomic clock created Essen’s Caesium I questions the extent to which America was leading in Big Science. Moreover, the fact that in the early 1950’s Essen became interested in the research being conducted in America, and then took that research one step further, significantly shows that there was communication between Britain and America in terms of Big Science.

The Caesium I further demonstrates the nature of mid-twentieth century modernity as well as the altering perceptions of science. In 1953 Essen and Parry were given Government approval and funding to produce an atomic clock at the National Physics Laboratory, revealing that there was a demand for more accurate time keeping. It was costly research, and the investment shows that Britain realised it needed to keep up with the times. As the Science Museum online declares, ‘it is difficult to imagine that we need to measure time so accurately but it is essential for many aspects of modern life which we take for granted […] many industrial and commercial activities need this level of accuracy.’ This work led to the current international system whereby time is set by averaging results from atomic clocks in many laboratories across the world. More accuracy in time keeping illustrates how every part of modern life was accelerating, not only in science and technology. The original definition of the second as 1/86400 of a mean solar day was abandoned because the Earth’s motion was not reliable enough. The Earth was thus deemed outdated and could not keep up with the acceleration of modern life. The atomic clock would now form the new basis of modern life, not our own planet.

Most importantly, Essen’s Caesium I illustrates the brighter side of atomic research. Generally, the term ‘atomic’ was – as is now – associated with the bomb in the public mind. The fact ground breaking developments in time keeping were undertaken using atomic research suggests a conscious attempt to make ‘atomic’ not always induce negativity and moral antipathy. In turn, this could further seen as an aim to alter the negative perception of science and scientists generally, following the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Perhaps this was not successful at the time in altering the British attitude towards atomic science, but why should it not be so now? Indeed, at the very least, the Caesium Atomic Clock should remind us that in mid-twentieth century Britain the word ‘atomic’ didn’t always follow with the word ‘bomb’.

by Emily Jane Roe

Aug 21

“‘The dentist will see you now’ – Dental unit fills hole in new health service”

An image of a Rathbone Dental Unit now hpused in the Science Museum, London.The Dental Manufacturing Company Dental Unit, 1945-55

In July 1948, the NHS was opened by Labour health minister Bevan, making dental treatment available to the whole population, free of charge, for the first time. This sudden expansion of treatment meant that, at first, there was a shortage of specialist dental equipment. The Dental Manufacturing created, with units such as this (1) that were instrumental in providing affordable health care to all.

During the Second World War, the state had unprecedented control over people’s lives, including the care of civilians injured in bombing raids. Other government measures, such as rationing, had led to the health of the poorest in society improving (2) . The NHS was part of a programme of reforms designed to rebuild Britain after the devastation of WW2, taking advantage of the progress made in public health and the normalisation of state-controlled resources. It was, to the Labour government of the day, the ‘realisation of a socialist dream’ (3) ; improving welfare was a key priority of the left-wing elements of the Post-War Consensus.

WW2 led to an increased government interest in science, especially that which would benefit the military. This political support for science extended in the post-war years to include the social sciences and medicine. The first decade of the NHS saw previously unprecedented advances in medical science and technology, primarily driven by the Medical Research Council (4) . The government was investing not just in public health provision, but also in medical technologies and research as part of an increasing inter-dependence between non-military sciences and government.

The NHS was founded at a time when one devastating war had ended with the use of the ultimate destructive force in the atomic bomb, and the Cold War was beginning; in the eyes of many, irresponsible science was to blame for the absolute threat war now posed. The NHS and the benefits it brought presented the positive, constructive side of science to the public. The 1951 Festival of Britain promoted the idea of British technology and science, both in the past and into the future, as progressive and beneficial, and medical progress was included in this. The Dental Unit is an embodiment of these optimistic ideals.

by Caitlin Page

  1. Science Museum ‘ ‘Rathbone’ Dental Unit, England, 1946-1955’ http://www.sciencemuseum.org.uk/broughttolife/objects/display.aspx?id=6729 (accessed 25/11/2011)
  2. ‘Origins of the National Health Service’ http://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/cabinetpapers/alevelstudies/origins-nhs.htm (accessed 25/11/2011)
  3. ‘Making Britain Better’ http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/events/nhs_at_50/special_report/119803.stm (accessed 25/11/2011)
  4. John Steward, ‘The Political Economy of the British National Health Service, 1945-1975: Opportunities and Constraints?’ in Medical History Vol. 52, Issue 4 (October 2008) pp. 453-470