Citation
Tourism and invention

Material Information

Title:
Tourism and invention
Creator:
Saper, Craig Jonathan, 1960- ( Dissertant )
Ulmer, Gregory L. ( Thesis advisor )
Cottom, Daniel ( Reviewer )
Ray, Robert B. ( Reviewer )
Flinn, Caryl ( Reviewer )
Bloomer, Jennifer ( Reviewer )
Place of Publication:
Gainesville, Fla.
Publisher:
University of Florida
Publication Date:
Copyright Date:
1990
Language:
English

Subjects

Subjects / Keywords:
Creativity ( jstor )
Cultural studies ( jstor )
Discourse ( jstor )
Film criticism ( jstor )
Inventions ( jstor )
Memory ( jstor )
Movies ( jstor )
Theater ( jstor )
Tourism ( jstor )
Wordplay ( jstor )
Dissertations, Academic -- English -- UF
Genre:
bibliography ( marcgt )
non-fiction ( marcgt )

Notes

Abstract:
This dissertation extrapolates a method primarily from Roland Barthes's Empire of Signs. Similar to a travelogue and ethnographer's diary, that text serves as an example of a new genre called invention-tourism. This genre plays through tour guides, travelogues, and the cliches about travelers in order to explore how tourism mediates differences, strangers, newness, etc.. This tourist's discourse suggests a semiotician-on-tour. That on-tour changes the understanding of attractions from objects-to-demythologize to magnets of attention. Attractions of attention change research routes and provoke a lost-sense, a doubt between knowing the way and asking for directions. A sense of loss, and of being lost, sets in motion an inner stenography of textual substitutions, variations, and multivalences. In terms of invention, these variations in expectation indicate emergent ideas. Without deciding on any particular choice, truth, or argument, it creates a setting for an artificial or textual brainstorming. Psychological traits of creativity no longer orient research on invention. A textual theory of invention based on a synthesis of contemporary psychological research and philosophical criticisms of creativity stresses the importance of the organization, accessibility, and provocativeness of knowledge. These textual factors restrict or encourage invention. Invention-tourism, applied to our home language and way of knowing, affects how we package knowledge and how we use our memories. Rhetors have long interpreted memory as a textual practice, an art of memory, rather than a purely cognitive function. By "drawing a blank" in memory or memory theaters, an art of invention emerges. Rather than a theater it functions as an invention multimedia performance. In terms of pedagogical applications, tourism is an oft repeated term for the new attitude required by the electronic classroom. Cultivating access and links among bits of information requires one to move through information as a tourist; informatics and generative assignments supplement memory in invention- tourism.
Thesis:
Thesis (Ph. D.)--University of Florida, 1990.
Bibliography:
Includes bibliographic references (leaves 214-228)
General Note:
Vita.

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University of Florida
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The University of Florida George A. Smathers Libraries respect the intellectual property rights of others and do not claim any copyright interest in this item. This item may be protected by copyright but is made available here under a claim of fair use (17 U.S.C. §107) for non-profit research and educational purposes. Users of this work have responsibility for determining copyright status prior to reusing, publishing or reproducing this item for purposes other than what is allowed by fair use or other copyright exemptions. Any reuse of this item in excess of fair use or other copyright exemptions requires permission of the copyright holder. The Smathers Libraries would like to learn more about this item and invite individuals or organizations to contact the RDS coordinator (ufdissertations@uflib.ufl.edu) with any additional information they can provide.
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23296390 ( OCLC )
0024051163 ( ALEPH )

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TOURISM AND INVENTION:
ROLAND BARTHES'S EMPIRE OF SIGNS
















BY


CRAIG JONATHAN SAPER


A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT
OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY



UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA


1990















TABLE OF CONTENTS

ABSTRACT . iii INTRODUCTION . 1
Notes . 10


CHAPTER ONE:
FROM PSYCHOLOGY TO CULTURAL STUDIES
Maps Of Invention .
Myth Of Creativity .
Invention As A Language Game . .
Notes .


. .11
.oil
.22 .43 .53


.
.


CHAPTER TWO: INVENTION-TOURISM .
Out-Of-Towners
Attractions .
Wandering .


.
.
. o .
.


. 54 . 54 . 75 . . . . . 90
. 93


Invention-Tourism As A Minor Language.


Notes . 110


CHAPTER THREE:
INVENTION-TOURISM AT HOME .
fcritour .
Tele-Tourism .
Epistourmology .
Media and Cultural Studies Today .
Roland Barthes and Cultural Studies Notes .


120 120 133
142 151 159
164


170 193
200 206


.
.
.
.
.
.
.


CHAPTER FOUR:
INVENTION-TOURIST GUIDE .
Empire of Souvenirs .
Becoming An Invention-Tourist Attraction .
Notes .


CONCLUSION . 209 BIBLIOGRAPHY . 214 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . 229














Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy TOURISM AND INVENTION:
ROLAND BARTHES'S EMPIRE OF SIGNS By

Craig Jonathan Saper

August, 1990




Chairman: Dr. Gregory Ulmer
Major Department: English


This dissertation extrapolates a method primarily from Roland Barthes's Em~pire of Signs. Similar to a travelogue and ethnographer's diary, that text serves as an example of a new genre called invention-tourism. This genre plays through tour guides, travelogues, and the cliches about travelers in order to explore how tourism mediates differences, strangers, newness, etc. This tourist's discourse suggests a semiotician-on-tour. That on-tour changes the understanding of attractions from objects-to-demythologize to magnets of attention. Attractions of attention change research routes and provoke a lost-sense, a doubt between knowing the way and asking for directions. A sense of loss, and of being lost, sets in motion an inner stenography of textual substitutions,









variations, and multivalences. In terms of invention, these variations in expectation indicate emergent ideas. Without deciding on any particular choice, truth, or argument, it creates a setting for an artificial or textual brainstorming. Psychological traits of creativity no longer orient research on invention. A textual theory of invention based on a synthesis of contemporary psychological research and philosophical criticisms of creativity stresses the importance of the organization, accessibility, and provocativeness of knowledge. These textual factors restrict or encourage invention. Invention-tourism, applied to our home language and way of knowing, affects how we package knowledge and how we use our memories. Rhetors have long interpreted memory as a textual practice, an art of memory, rather than a purely cognitive function. By "drawing a blank" in memory or memory theaters, an art of invention emerges. Rather than a theater it functions as an invention multimedia performance. In terms of pedagogical applications, tourism is an oft repeated term for the new attitude required by the electronic classroom. Cultivating access and links among bits of information requires one to move through information as a tourist; informatics and generative assignments supplement memory in inventiontourism.














INTRODUCTION


This training manual provides general advice about

textual methods of invention and specific suggestions for designing guide books, intellectual attractions, and information agencies. In offering these suggestions, it describes a specific project, the project's potential uses, and the facilities and facilitators needed. As a guide to thinking your way to somewhere you have not visited, this manual extrapolates a textual method of invention primarily from Roland Barthes's Empire of Signs. Similar to a travelogue and ethnographer's diary on Japan, that text serves as an example of a new genre called invention-tourism. This genre plays through tour guides, travelogues, and the clich6s about travelers in order to explore how tourism mediates differences, strangers, and otherness. The institutions of an invention practice will function according to a tourism model. This tourist's discourse suggests a semiotician-on-tour which changes the understanding of attractions from objects-to-demythologize to magnets of attention. By focusing on the organization and retrieval of information rather than on the characteristics of genius, invention-tourism follows the contemporary research in psychology and cultural studies. A textual theory of

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invention based on a synthesis of contemporary psychological research and philosophical criticisms of creativity stresses the importance of the organization, accessibility, and provocativeness of knowledge. These textual factors restrict or encourage invention. Invention-tourism, applied to our home language and way of knowing, affects how we package knowledge and how we use our memories. By examing the metaphors and images we use to frame our thinking (about invention), we can study the implications of the ways scholars organize knowledge for invention. Rather than merely a scholarly analysis of theories of invention, the chapters that follow present a program for thinking differently.

In the early 1980s Yale French Studies published a special issue on pedagogy which argued that French poststructuralist theory can inform teaching as well as reading and writing strategies. Articles turned to Derrida, Lacan, and Barthes as guides into a theoretically informed teaching practice. One article, Steven Ungar's "The Professor of Desire" later became a book with the same title.1 This dissertation responds to Ungar's challenge to understand Barthes as a writer .And a teacher. Specifically, it uses Ungar's book as a spring-board to explore, for example, attractions, and the mediations of differences in both the tourism and invention. In this sense, the dissertation extrapolates an institutional practice (of invention) from Barthes's textual method. Just as his trip to Japan becomes the pretext for an exploration of writing,









playing through his writing becomes the pretext for an exploration of invention. Barthes wants to assert and play through an otherness which resists the control of semiotic, ethnographic, and positivistic mastery. For example, in his own image "Japanned" and in his attempts to find the words for "drawing a blank," he finds an alternative perception somewhere between lost and found. The impasses and failures in his own mastery force "a change in perception that Barthes responds to in a desire to write"(Ungar 50). Through writing, he works through that image of "himself displaced-dis-Oriented?--by the loss of meaning that a foreign culture sends back to him"(Ungar 50). Ungar concludes that "it is this loss--and its impact on Barthes as the writer/semiologist on vacation--that he recasts in L'Pmpire des signes as a momentary exemption from the mastery of signs he had sought to write out" in earlier texts(Ungar 50). Barthes called this his only successful book, and yet, it "asserts loss against mastery"(Ungar 50-51). This alternative perception attempts a writing practice neither critical nor fictional, but with elements of both. Images of deviations, twists, and turns around empty centers become not objects of study, but ways to understand a loss of confidence. This sense of loss resists any meaning projected "out of a need to assume mastery and appropriate difference"(Ungar 54).

This dissertation extrapolates an invention method out

of this simulation of Barthes's images of momentary loss. By










"drawing a blank" in something like a memory theater, he discovers another dimension or lost-sense. This encounter with, what I refer to as farblonzhet--the Yiddish term for the affect which corresponds to an undecided pause at an intersection--sets in motion detours and necessitates rhetorical detours around impasses of knowledge. It uses the fascinations or manias usually discarded by conventional reading practices and understands these variations of expectation as indicators of emergent ideas. Those little gifts fascinate and divert the attention, changing our path long enough for one to wonder, "am I lost yet?" Those moments, which resist a meaning within current symbolic systems, take on implications of an unheard-of symbolic system. In this sense, the failures of empirical reading strategies offer an entrance into a model of invention.

In chapter one, I introduce a textual theory of

invention based on a synthesis of research by psychologists and Paul Feyerabend's criticisms of creativity. How we organize our knowledge and the questions we pose determines the accessibility and provocativeness of knowledge. These textual factors of organization can restrict or encourage invention. Chapter one introduces which textual factors will help and which will hinder those efforts. Neither psychological traits of creative geniuses, nor personal histories function as central characters in the current research on the textual factors of invention. As I demonstrate, this stress on cultural and textual factors has





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influenced changes in the models used to describe creativity and invention. Problem setting, rather than problem solving, has become the crucial factor in determining how to make knowledge accessible and provocative. In this scenario, art and literary works change from objects of study to models for research. Sifting out relevant information, combining isolated fragments into new groupings, and, by using analogy, relating newly acquired information to information from past situations function as the major textual factors in invention. These information processing strategies of selective encoding, combination, and comparison create a situation, I argue, of artificial brainstorming. Part of this "storming" of information makes use of the plundering of cultural history, common places, or even funny coincidences. The textual factors currently considered to encourage invention are used by Roland Barthes in, what I call, invention-tourism.

In chapter two, I explore Empire of Signs as a lesson on, and model of, informatics, on how to find questions to ask and how to package our knowledge. In preparing our situations for invention, Barthes argues for an openness to otherness. Through the impasses and circular misunderstandings, he allows differences to rattle the foundations of sameness. Even temporality is disrupted by "anachronisms of culture and illogicalities of itinerary"(ES 79). 1 extrapolate from this text a way to make knowledge more suitable to non-academic problems. These problems are









messy, ill-defined, and sometimes unanswerable. Merely identifying that there is a problem can determine the solutions offered. Solving these problems requires more inventive textual settings rather than heuristic methods. As Paul Feyerabend argues, even scientific breakthroughs depend on making moves forbidden by methodological rules.

In this alternative textual setting, myths and clich6s become important. The myths and clich6s of tourism become the initiators of research. It is these paradoxical

moments, cliched (representations of sterotypes) and unique (infinite combinations and distortions), which Barthes-astourist seeks to find. He offers a method to deal with uncertain problem situations: invention-tourism. Tourism, in this scenario, functions as a trope: a way of creating and directing the trajectory of research. In a general sense, this research uses the procedures of selecting, turning, and sifting through objects and attractions (in every sense of that word) . I argue that Barthes's (often unsuccessful) efforts to find his way through Tokyo leads to a kind of rhetorical way-losing--a lost-sense necessary for invention. As an alternative way of knowing, which depends neither on traditional notions of the human subject nor on conscious memories without forgetting and the unconscious, invention-tourism disrupts the usual connection between an individual and a social background. The social milieu no longer functions as a mere background for individuals' actions. Instead, the social space of tourism allows Barthes









to, in Deleuze and Guattarils terms, "pick-up ideas." Invention-tourism creates a situation in which one becomes an alien in relation to the major language. Although Barthes explores an image of a foreign city, his own language is what becomes strange and foreign to him. From those internal tensions, he offers an opening, or a line of flight, to alternative languages.

Chapter three addresses the consequences of applying invention-tourism to our home language and situation. In exploring the relationship between tourism and staying at home, I suggest that we can write with the mythical construction of tourism (e.g., the image of the tourist with camera in tow). That writing of tourism I call 6critour playing on Derrida's use of the French term for writing 6criture. Changes in ideology and technology collapse the opposition between tourism and home. Media bring the faraway close-at-home. We no longer need to go to a foreign land to function as tourists. The encyclopedic storage capacities of multi-media computers and the ease in linking information allow informatics (how we package knowledge) to supersede rote memorization as a foundational skill in all levels of education. Cultivating access and links among bits of information does not require "correct" answers or a recall of "significant" details. It requires students to know how to access information and move through information as a tourist navigating in unknown territory. Indeed, researchers often use the term tourism to describe the new attitude









required by the electronic classroom. Tourism has become a major cultural activity; one survey found that "nearly four out of five vacation travelers plan to make more trips in the 1990s than they did in the past five years, while fewer than one in 12 expect to cut back on travel.''2 Because tourism is already so important to modern culture, it comes as no surprise that educators have turned to that experience to describe alternative pedagogies. Researchers attempting to incorporate computer multimedia technologies into the classroom have suggested that educators use the term tourist instead of student. They argue that the use of computers has more to do with the whims of tourism than any techno-formal constraints.

Besides becoming tourists at home, the explosion of tourism allows anyplace to become an attraction. Writing through touring and tourism (i.e., 6critour) invents an alternative way of knowing and perceiving, an epistourmology or knowing through 6critour. The writing, in the general grammatological sense, has far-reaching implications for traditional books and textbooks. The rhetorical method of teaching writing focuses on making good arguments, while the invention-tourist-text emphasizes an alternative to rational arguments which scholars describe under the rubrics of creativity, paleologic, etc. The passage to this alternative discourse depends on the crossings and switchings found in the poignant encounters with the details of what attracts one's attention. The punctum functions as an encounter










between framer and framed, picture and context, and then and now. In that sense, the relationships among the mediation of differences through a boundary or punctum can influence invention. Teaching invention-tourism does not merely use tourism as a metaphoric vehicle for the tenor of invention, it works through a literal connection between these two discourses.

Chapter four applies 6critour to an institutional

practice of invention. In order to allow institutions to handle an enormous amount of visual, verbal, and semantic information and to encourage an invention discourse, snapshots become more than evidence of a trip to a foreign city. They provoke further thought. A invention-tourism institution will encourage a way to think with the tourist's stereotypes and a lost-sense rather than memorization (of answers to tests), rules of formal similitude, or rational argument. To think as a tourist or to make one's home (institution) a tourist attraction requires an institutional practice which makes the mediation of difference a primary concern. In designing and managing such a practice, images and details which mirror and resist the search for connections between differences can function as discontinuous switches and links among sources of information. Differences will not dissolve into sameness nor synthesize into a dialectical merger. To the modernist rejoinder, "only connect," invention-tourism responds, "get lost." Only a lost-sense, the sense of getting lost and losing the










connections, will help one navigate through an institutional

practice for invention.






1Steven Ungar, Roland Barthes: The Professor of Desire (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1983). Hereafter referred to in text as Ungar.

2 Richard Morin, "Polls show baby boomers will travel,
demand more," cited from a survey by the Daniel Yankelovich Group, The Gainesville Sun, Sunday, February 4, 1990.
















CHAPTER ONE

FROM PSYCHOLOGY TO CULTURAL STUDIES


Although every creation is of necessity
combinative, society, by virtue of the romantic myth of 'inspiration' cannot stand being told so.
Roland Barthes, Sade, Fourier. Loyola


Maps of Invention

How do we map invention? What models do we use to understand it? In the past, two complementary models described invention as an individual's journey; one focused on particular routes, while the other described the peculiar terrain. One method appeared in the social sciences, the other in the humanities. Psychologists explored the traits and processes of individual innovators, while cultural historians illuminated the contexts surrounding an individual's creative achievement or breakthrough. This harmonious conjunction of cultural studies and the social sciences marked the most important foundation of humanism: the world was built by the creative genius of individuals; by studying their traits and achievements we could continue to progress into, and master, the future. Humanism has come under sharp attack for its conception of an "ideal man," a parochial way of life, and an apolitical conception of cultural history. The contention here has less to do with 11










these sweeping condemnations of the humanist project than with the current trends in research on creativity and invention. The humanistic theories no longer hold complete sway and no longer orient research. Indeed, both contemporary psychological approaches and cultural histories of innovation have identified inadequacies in previous approaches. Much of the current research debunks previous myths and misconceptions. By going beyond a mere explication of these criticisms, this chapter explores a different theory of creativity and invention. From the synthesis of elements of social psychological approaches, Paul Feyerabend's cultural history, and textual theories, this chapter offers a theory of invention which the other chapters in this dissertation more fully explore and develop.

The maps of invention examined here suggest a textual

theory of invention. The way we organize our knowledge, the metaphors and images we use to frame our thinking, and the questions or settings we pose determine the accessibility and provocativeness of knowledge. These textual factors, neither neutral nor universal, function as a system which can restrict or encourage invention. In the discussion of Paul Feyerabend's theory, this chapter explores when a community should or should not encourage invention; however, the emphasis of this chapter concerns hs x to encourage invention. Once we have defined invention and decided to engage in it, we should know which textual factors will help and which will

hinder our efforts.










Researchers no longer exclusively study particular traits in an autonomous creative genius, nor do they study personal histories as autonomous events separate from language and culture. This stress on cultural and textual factors has influenced changes in the models used to describe creativity and invention. Contemporary social-psychological approaches describe individual creativity as a composite picture. Cultural historical approaches also use the composite model, but they describe this picture as a myth or illusion. This essay does not focus merely on the differences, but on the synthesis of these approaches. The synthesis proposed in this essay suggests that invention does not depend on an autonomous creative genius, but rather on manipulating shared cultural commonplaces. This model makes invention into a collective and cultural activity rather than a picture of "man against the world" or a genius transcendent above the community. Invention becomes a type of discourse--what Wittgenstein called a language game. Wittgenstein uses this term to describe the rules and properties of modes of discourse. Jean-Frangois Lyotard has equated these language games with "the minimum relation required for society to exist . . . . Lyotard's statement allows us to see that the invention language game describes a particular social bond. The rules of the game do not legitimize themselves but require the contract or agreement between players. Without the rules, the game would cease, but each and every modification of the rules changes the game. This open exchange creates the rules as the










participants play the game. Lyotard goes on to explain that "certain institutions impose limits on the games, and thus restrict the inventiveness of the players in making their moves"(Lyotard 16). These institutions demand a guided exchange with unquestioned rules. This essay will offer a model of invention which uses an open exchange. By conceiving of invention as a type of language game, we open the exchange of ideas to both more players and more methods.

The research discussed here leads to the conclusion that invention usually occurs by mixing knowledge from different disciplines and playing with language. Further, invention has less to do with autonomous creativity than with the relative restrictions on the flow of information. Some institutions and institutional practices create barriers to flexible networks. The crucial element of invention concerns the fluidity of ideas across disciplinary and specialized boundaries. The approach extrapolated here emphasizes movement through information rather than the explication of any particular piece of information. Invention requires an understanding of informatics, how we package and transmit ideas and information. Because the connection of information previously thought to be separate plays a key role in the method extrapolated here, an "open exchange" of ideas will encourage the potentially productive crossing of apparently unrelated information. This model of invention appears both in contemporary psychological approaches and in cultural studies.









Robert Sternberg's anthology on contemporary

psychological perspectives of "the nature of creativity" functions as a useful indicator of the shift in psychological conceptions. The volume includes traditional research on individual creativity and a "new view" which explores the "Isystems" surrounding creative achievement. That "new view" indicates how the current paradigm of psychological research has moved toward a cultural studies approach. And, by playing this psychological paradigm off of Paul Feyerabend's cultural criticism of creativity,2 we can appreciate the conjunction of shared cultural commonplaces and uncommon innovations. Innovation, the process of making changes, appears to have little in common with inventio, finding and connecting commonplaces. But, because inventio allows the speaker to find something to say, it might suggest how an innovator finds questions to ask. In that sense, it functions not as a solution to problems, but as an artificial brainstorming, which does not require an individual genius, nor a universal true or Rational method.

To find the conjunction between the commonplace and the innovative requires an interrogation and dismantling of the boundary between specific individuals' creativity and general cultural contexts. The study of the interaction between individuals and socic-cultural influences has now become common. For example, studies of Thomas Edison no longer focus on his achievements, but on cultural influences and myths as well. The stories about Thomas Edison's life help









determine our common assumptions about innovators. The anecdotes about his work epitomize, and help create, our assumptions about the moment of invention. As one of his colleagues recalled, "Mr. Edison had his desk in one corner and after completing an invention he would jump up and do a kind of Zulu war dance. He would swear something awful. We would crowd round him and he would show us the new invention.113 Many biographers have attempted to find the psychological traits or childhood events which led Edison to "greatness," and historians have recounted the commonplaces Edison coined about invention (e.g., "Invention is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration;" "To stop is to rust;" "A harvest must be reaped occasionally, not once in a lifetime.") as well as the stories about his working methods (e.g., he often worked through the night and could sleep standing on his feet).

Edison's importance for cultural studies has shifted. from an example of individual genius to an example of

cultural myth.4 Studies now focus on, for example, Edison as an American cultural hero and on how he created and manipulated that image. These studies focus on textual evidence and on changing conceptions of Edison rather than on any "man behind the myth." Significantly, these accounts call into question even the notion of Edison as an individual creative genius. For recent histories argue that Edison's achievement had as much, if not more, to do with winning patent fights as it had to do with creativity. And, at least










at his Menlo Park lab, team research, not individual inspiration, led to breakthroughs. Again, the changes in approaches to understanding Edison's achievements are indicative of a shift away from studying creativity as a psychological trait.

The notion of a creative genius, a person with an

extraordinary capacity for original thought or invention, comes from the merger of two related ideas: inspiration and natural talent. In Latin, the word ingenium (innate ability) joins with the more complicated term genius. Genius comes from the term for the divinity which guided the stars during one's birth. The genius was worshipped on birthdays and the birthday cake is all that remains of the ritual of making an offering to one's genius. "Genius in this sense of guardian spirit was attributed not only to individuals but also, by extension, to groups of people . . . and to places . . . genius loci: cities, towns, houses, marketplaces, and street

corners. 115 In later chapters, I argue indirectly that something similar to a genius loci can help to reorient invention toward a concern with setting instead of individual genius. For the purposes of this chapter, it is important to understand how spiritual concerns enter into humanist notions of creativity. Creativity suggests a relationship to notions of possession by forces greater than the individual's self or at least knowledge of the supernatural. Hence, the common equation of creativity and melancholy since the fifteenth century has to do with too much knowledge, or even demonic










possession. More importantly for the argument here, these previous conceptions of creativity suggest an activity transcendent above, rather than a product of, social bonds and language games. From the late nineteenth century on, creativity describes a trait found in individuals without necessarily referring to divine intervention. The inspiration of creative artists shifted from divinity to psychology.

Freud had studied creativity, but most psychoanalytic research dealt only tangentially with creativity and sublimation, and always in relation to pathology. The effort to study creativity as a psychological trait has overdetermined origins. But many authors, including Sternberg, use J. P. Guilford's presidential address to the American Psychological Association members in 1950 as the watershed event which sparked wide-spread interest in creativity. The staggering increase in the number of citations in Psychological Ahstracts during the 1950s indicates the growth of interest in studying creativity.6 Typical of the research in the 1950s, Guilford's study catalogued the cognitive characteristics of creative geniuses. These people had a generalized sensitivity to problems or an ability to notice inadequacies in situations; they could also offer solutions (what Guilford called "fluency of thinking") and they could think in new and flexible ways about old problems. In solving these problems they offered original and uncommon responses. In their










processes of problem solving, they often redefined or reorganized their knowledge, and they usually combined two or more of these abilities in constructing often complex solutions. The apparent obviousness of these traits does not arise from their poignancy but from their generality. Guilford sought to map the parameters of creativity, but he offered a tautological definition: if creativity requires an original response, then original responses are traits of creative individuals. To merely state the obvious in the most general terms does not help guide applications for the encouragement of creativity. In spite of these problems, psychologists at the time attempted to find individuals with these traits in the general population.

While Guilford extrapolated traits from accounts of

creative geniuses, E.P. Torrance developed a creativity test. As an indication of its current importance, the Sternberg anthology includes Torrance's discussion of the test. The test, initially devised in the mid-60s, asks participants to manipulate objects in unusual ways, draw pictures from abstract shapes, or solve a riddle. Unusual answers are encouraged. For example, one question asks the participant to list possible uses of a brick. The evaluator grades the test according to four factors which closely resemble Guilford's traits: fluency, flexibility, elaboration, and originality. In grading the test, one counts the total number of solutions to determine fluency, and counts different types or kinds of solutions to determine









flexibility. For example, if you wrote down two uses for a brick, then you would have a fairly low score on fluency. If you suggested different types of uses, then you would have a high flexibility score; using a brick as a sheltering device in a brick house is a different type of use than using it as a water displacement device in the tank of a toilet. Elaboration depends on how much extra information a participant supplies for each solution. For example, the answer "to build things with" is less elaborate than the answer "to use in the tank of my toilet to save water every time I flush the toilet." An unusual but appropriate or possible answer determines the score for originality. An inappropriate use would be an impossible use. According to Torrance, any creative individual will have a high cumulative score on this test.

By defining creativity outside of cultural contexts, Torrance does not explain how a high score leads to innovation. And, by focusing on individual traits, he does not explore which social contexts might encourage these traits. Criticisms of narrow notions of creativity have invariably alluded to Torrance's test. Critics complain that knowing ways to use bricks has little to do with innovation or creativity in a large-scale social context. The use of practical building objects (e.g., bricks or nails) in tests of creativity may suggest a link between conceptions of language and architecture. For example, Wittgenstein described language games by alluding to the discussion









between a carpenter and a helper. His conception of the building trade as some how linked to the very foundations of language resembles Torrance's implied suggestion that creativity has something to do with understanding how to use a brick. It is as if Torrance answered Wittgenstein by claiming that participants can build alternative language games from the raw materials of their current language games. Further, being "hit over the head with a brick" may change the very rules of the language game. This connection between language games and building materials may be a "yellow brick road" or an indicator of being "dumb as a brick." It is beyond the scope of this chapter to explore this issue further. In terms of the argument presented here, the traits Torrance describes have more import than the fascinating textual resonances.

Significantly, in the Sternberg volume, Torrance adds two more traits. He argues that "falling in love" with the endeavor and the perseverance to overcome hostility toward that love are the major factors for predicting creative achievement later in life. In making this argument, he describes a boy who "was in love with nature, especially birds. He was a social outcast in his youth because of this. . . . This has been a common experience of many of our most eminent inventors, scientists, artists, musicians, writers,

and so on. 117 This statement describes something most of us take for granted: creative people love their endeavors even if that love alienates them from their own community.











Myth Of Creativity

Paul Feyerabend questions this supposedly innocent love and the corresponding alienation. He argues that the myth of creativity isolates researchers and experts from the community. Although Torrance sees the community punishing creative individuals for their love, Feyerabend explains how this faith in the endeavor creates many dangers for an uninvolved community. They both agree that whether the community finally forces the individual into alienation or not, the individual's love and faithfulness initiate that alienation. Torrance never examines if, and how, the community benefits from an individual's love of the endeavor. More importantly, he fails to examine how creativity functions in the context of a socio-political structure. That social structure includes what science considers objective, reasonable, and creative. The relationships among these terms help Feyerabend explain the dangers of an unfettered love for the endeavor. For example, within his criticism of the ideas of reason and objectivity, he objects to Albert Einstein's privileging of creativity as an element within rational scientific discovery; to understand Feyerabend's objections and arguments, we need to explicate his general critique of objectivity.

Feyerabend claims that when cultures identified their way of life with the laws of the (physical and moral) universe they invented objectivity. When those cultures had










to confront different views, objectivity became an issue. Cultures have three typical reactions to these confrontations: persistence, opportunism, and relativism. Some cultures persist in believing in the infallibility of their ways and fail to change. Other cultures opportunistically accept or adopt the institutions, customs, and beliefs they find attractive. The third group of cultures, the relativists, has many forms of explanation. Within their cultures they can accommodate many different belief systems. The Ancient Greeks introduced a fourth reaction to differences: Argument. Arguments standardized and formalized the method of accepting or rejecting different belief systems. It gave the user a way of finding supposed "truths" (objective laws of the universe), and it led the way to the equation of reason and rationality with Objective Truth.

Each of these four versions represents different conceptions of objective truth. And, therefore, as Feyerabend writes, "cultural variety cannot be tamed by a formal notion of objective truth because it contains a variety of such notions"(FR 140). The introduction of reason and rationality into notions of objectivity, presumes a right or truthful way of living, and everyone must accept that way of life. This supposedly universal validity of rationality justifies intervention into different cultures and gives rationality the same aura as that which surrounds gods, kings, and tyrants. Even those cultures which did not change










after confronting different cultural practices refrained from insisting as a point of Law on changing and intervening in other people's cultural practices.

This imperialism of rationalism also internally

controls the exchange of ideas. For Feyerabend, there are two ways to exchange ideas. The guided exchange has . participants adopt a specified tradition and accept only those responses that correspond to its standards, while the open exchange has the participants develop the tradition as the exchange goes along. The open exchange is guided by in statu nascendi (words born under the impact of the moment). For the most part, we live within a scientific paradigm which guides our intellectual exchanges. To counteract the guided exchange of rationalism, we can adopt "an attitude" that understands people as inseparable parts of the culture they live in rather than independent autonomous creators. With this "attitude" we would no longer have rational laws guide our exchange of ideas; instead we would open our exchanges to the impact of the moment or situation. Even fictitious theories work for communities engaged in this type of ongoing exchange.

Counter to the common assumption, Feyerabend does not engage in a philosophy of science, nor does he criticize scientific research. He criticizes science education. That type of education attempts to force a peculiar methodology on historical evidence. It ignores the variety in history, and it accepts only the information which leads to the current









"truth." He does not make an argument against science; he focuses his attack on the legitimation of disciplines and methods which hinder scientific progress. The research in cognitive psychology supports Feyerabend's contention that limitations on cross-disciplinary work and an over-reliance on fact-finding disrupts the increase of scientific, or any type of, knowledge. As one researcher notes, "knowledge is not facts. Cognitive science suggests that our minds make huge collections of interconnections and categorizations among the facts we learn. We cannot be said to know anything until the mind . . . cross-relates it to the maximum number of other things we know.118 The problem with science education (and its applications in the humanities) concerns the formation of disciplines around "objective" goals. Lyotard summarizes the problem.

If education must not only provide for the reproduction of skills, but also for their
progress, then it follows that the transmission of
knowledge should not be limited to the transmission
of information, but should include training in all of the procedures that can increase one's ability
to connect the fields jealously guarded from one
another by the traditional organization of
knowledge.(Lyotard 52)

In Feyerabend's interrogation of how this traditional organization of knowledge limits the ability to make connections, he examines the relationship between creativity and objectivity; he uses Albert Einstein's discussions of creativity to highlight this relationship. Einstein argues that we create the world from "a labyrinth of sense impressions;" he suggests that creativity concerns the










ordering of the otherwise meaningless world, and of putting a pattern or theoretical structure onto the universe. The connection between theory and appearances needs "a deeply religious attitude" and "tremendous creative efforts are required to establish it"(FR 133). Feyerabend counters this explanation by arguing that a person put into a labyrinth of sense impressions could never construct physical objects; the complete disorientation would prevent any thinking including the simplest thoughts. Rather than a creative solution, paralysis would take hold. If sense-data do not have a logical equivalence with the world of real objects, it does not follow that an act of creativity made the objective world. He argues that, "the existence of a logical gap taken by itself does not yet show that it needs an individual creative act itself to bridge the gap"(FR 133).

The development of concepts need not be a result of the conscious actions of those using them.9 Nevertheless, we can explain even the conscious and intentional formulation of novel general principles without depending on the concept of creativity. "Speaking of creativity makes sense only if we view human beings'in a certain way: they start causal chains, they are not just carried along by them . . . that is not the only possible assumption and a life that rests on it is not the only form of life that ever existed"(FR 133). The Rational model depends on a unified idea of a self, while other models (e.g., the Homeric model) have a conception of selves as relays for loosely connected events such as dreams,









thoughts, emotions, divine interventions, and so on. In the Homeric model, the individual imbedded in its surroundings does not 'act' or 'create' in the sense proposed, for example, by psychologists like Robert Sternberg. But, the individual in the Homeric model does not need the miracles of creativity to engage in and benefit from change.

In the Sternberg anthology, P. N. Johnson-Laird makes another analogy between creativity and irrational acts; he writes, "Creativity is like murder--both depend on motive, means, and opportunity." And, he continues in the next sentence to say, "Society has . . dramatic effects on the creation of works of the imagination."110 This analogy highlights precisely the problem Feyerabend identifies in explanations and justifications of creativity. It gives free reign to the individual over and above the needs and desires of a community. In terms of this analogy, we try to prevent murders as much as possible, and regardless of motive we recognize that murder has a dramatic effect on society, not merely the effect of society on murderers. If we did understand creativity like murder, we would also have to confront the responsibility of the community to intervene. The type of intervention is crucial.

The way we intervene, the questions we ask of inventors and researchers, should, Feyerabend claims, go beyond tests for rationality and methodological prudence. The rational model might not serve our interests at all. Theoretically it cannot deal with the mind/body split, the problem of









induction, nor the reality of the external world. It has practical problems as well. It desperately needs to find a way to rethink the role of individuals; instead of masters (and potential destroyers) of Nature and Society, it must reintegrate the notion of human agency back into the context of language and culture. As long as certain "rational" actions appear to transcend culture, this Western intellectual imperialism will not allow for Otherness or different Natures and/or cultures. As Feyerabend concludes, "the allegedly most rational view of the world yet in existence can function only when combined with the most irrational events there are, viz. miracles . . . . It needs a miracle to bridge the abyss between subject and object, Man & Nature, experience and reality . . . creativity is supposed to be that miraclell(FR 140). Creativity bridges the gap only in the Rational model.

In a poignant example of the problem of an overreliance on the Rational model, one group of researchers recounts the story of the Kpelle farmers. The researchers presented the farmers with a set of 20 items, five each from four categories: food, clothing, tools, and cooking utensils. They asked the farmers to sort the objects into groups of objects that go together. Instead of putting objects into the four Rational taxonomic categories, the farmers would, for example, put the potato with the pot. "After all," they would explain, "one needs the pot to cook the potato." A "wise" man, they reasoned, would group these









things in the same way. Startled, the experimenters asked how a "fool" would group the objects; the farmers explained that a "fool" would put the objects into four categories: food, clothing, tools, and cooking utensils. Obviously, the Kpelle had the ability to do the Rational taxonomic

classification." For the Kpelle farmers, the Rational organization not only seems inadequate, but also foolish. In order to benefit from something like Kpelle "wisdom," we must entertain false notions and even fictional logics. Unfortunately, the dominant system of knowledge does not merely ignore those responses, it actively discourages them.

In an effort to protect a domain of knowledge from the lures of "false" thinking and "fictional" forms of expression, science education represses the rhetorical strategy or language game which allows for an open exchange of ideas and the manipulation of shared commonplaces. Science education supposedly replaces this rhetorical strategy, invention, with "fact finding" and an objective method. Invention returns in the guise of a personal trait, creativity. This "creativity" functions as the foundation of science's ontology; it bridges the gap between a patterning mind and facts. Science and the study of history require rhetorical processes to function. Rigidified notions about historical or scientific research repress the very rhetorical processes required to continue practicing science or studying history. This repression forces inventio to return as a









element of a person rather than as a cultural strategy; an innate trait replaces a learned skill.

Researchers arguing for norms of objectivity and guards against "flights-of-fancy" also assume that an individual's creative mind connects obvious facts with the immutable logic of a domain. The term "creativity" can mask this cognitive or psychological bias. A bias which presumes an a priori split between a logical mind and the factual world; without creativity one can never connect subject and object or Man and Nature. Scientific breakthroughs, including scientific applications in the humanities, neither require this mind/world split, nor gain anything from presuming its existence. Advocates of the Rational model might warn that models which use invention as a research strategy allow "any old thing" and have no guides for responsibility toward the community (of researchers); these models supposedly threaten the community with irresponsible, or even dangerous, projective readings and absurd speculations. The Rational model, including the social scientific and other scientific applications in the humanities, effaces its own irresponsibility to the community by inventing logics which it then obeys and remains faithful and responsible to. The corresponding guided exchange prohibits responsibility to anything but abstract laws.

In the context of Feyerabend's criticism, we must

recognize that psychological perspectives do not ignore the social contexts of creativity. Indeed, Teresa Amabile, whose









essay begins Sternberg's volume, rejects the notion "implicit in much of the research [that] the important characteristics of creative people are largely innate (or at least immalleable) iil2 and instead offers anecdotal surveys on creative people. She finds among the most repeated traits in these people the recurrence of a resistance to social control, the undermining of creativity by the expectation of external evaluation, and intrinsic motivation. Dean Keith Simonton analyzes the effects of the educational context on creativity. He notes that education encourages creativity until the graduate school level, where the many years of academic training required hinders creativity through the overcommitment to traditional views of artistic and

scientific issues.13 Other recent discussions of the social context merely mention the possibility of pursuing research of families, schools, organizations, and societal-cultural setting. The language used in some of these discussionsindicates a deep concern for social contexts. "Originality depends on context. If you don't know the context, you can't evaluate its uniqueness."114

As early as 1947, researchers considered the cultural context as a variable of creativity. For example, in discussing Shakespeare the researchers note that creative genius "is usually only possible at a given stage of cultural progress and can never be closely paralleled in a different

era."115 By 1959, researchers included the social field as a crucial factor in understanding creativity. For Lasswell,









the recognition (by the social field) of a variation (to the domain of knowledge) as "valuable" functions as a necessary condition for creativity. He also noted that although the social field may repeatedly withdraw and reinstate recognition, each time a consensus occurs creativity appears. The social field determines what is and what is not creative. This "ecology of innovation" attempts "to predict the routes

which novelties would originate in a social context.,,16 In 1961, Stein also stressed the importance of the social field's acceptance of creativity. According to Stein, creativity functions in the transactions between an individual and the environment. For Stein, the social field selects creative variations, and only reputation determines

whom we consider creative.17 Also in 1961, Rhodes suggested a multi-variable conception of creativity: the four P's of Creativity: Person, Process, Product, and Press (i.e., the

press or pressure of the social context) .18 Sternberg uses these categories to schematically summarize the information in his anthology of contemporary perspectives.

In Sternberg's anthology, the social context becomes a central concern of the "new view" of creativity in the systems approach. Indeed, these theorists partially answer Feyerabend's call for scientists to recognize the variety in history. According to system theorists, we attribute creativity only after a social field agrees to except a variation into the domain of knowledge. For Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the appearance of creativity depends on the










social agreement within the artistic or scientific establishment. As Howard Gardner explains, the social field's obstacles leave creative individuals vulnerable. They must learn to endure hostility from both peers and gatekeepers. The gatekeepers have more power in determining which variations enter the domain of knowledge. Unfortunately, the social field chooses these gatekeepers according to social success in the current system, not according to an ability to add variations to the domain.19 We can conclude from this that many gatekeepers have a vested interest in excluding rule changing or methodological variations in order to maintain their power to referee changes to the domain. Further, any group which wants to maintain the status quo may discourage interest in variations. On the other hand, a fragmented social field which rarely reaches any agreement condemns variations to remain parochial for a long time. If a particular social field does not accept a variation, then it may enter a domain of knowledge only through its acceptance by a group of people from related fields, who may then go on to form a new field. For example, Freud's psychoanalysis, which met with hostility from the medical community, found its initial acceptance by people from related fields who helped form the new social field of psychoanalysis. Once the social field accepts the variation into the domain and, thus, begins to replicate and/or imitate it, then future generations can benefit from that meme (i.e., or unit of imitation). A creative










variation requires a social context. And, "if no qualified persons are willing to invest their energy in preserving the variation, it will not become one of the memes that future generations know about."'20

For system theorists, originality depends on relative and fallible social processes, and posterity can all too easily reverse this designation of originality. Therefore, they reject originality or the process of variation as the sole criteria for creativity. We can only evaluate the creativeness of a person or product in a socio-historical context; nothing in objects or people solely determines creativity. Csikszentmihalyi writes, "It is impossible to tell whether an object or idea is creative by simply looking at it" (Csikszentmihalyi 326) . It might appear that psychologists still equate creativity with originality. For example, Robert Weisberg appears to offer a dissenting opinion in Sternberg's anthology of contemporary perspectives on the nature of creativity. He argues first that "creative thinking may require neither extraordinary individuals nor extraordinary thought processes," and he stresses the importance of commitment and expertise in a chosen field. He goes on to explain that "true originality evolves as the individual goes beyond what others had done before." Moreover, "in order to produce something new, one should first become as knowledgeable as possible about the old."'21 Although he uses the term originality, he connects it to the mee or "what others had done before" in the social field.









In this peculiar use of originality as a criterion for creativity, Weisberg discounts any radical and complete originality and imbeds the term in a social context.

Although the social field may "reverse its judgment," at some point in time, the field does reach a "collective agreement." Of course, depending on the social structure of the field (e.g., the power controlled by the gatekeepers), that collective agreement may more closely resemble coercion. On the other hand, only a compromise(d) variation may find acceptance in the case of a fragmented field. The system theorists seem to recognize this difficulty in determining a creative adaptation. Therefore, they focus their initial efforts at studying "unambiguous" instances of creativityinstances where "no one" would disagree with the status of the accomplishment. Finally, the system theorists study only the initial context of creation, reception, and acceptance of a person or product by a social field. Using these histories they illustrate that only imitated and replicated variations appear successful or creative. A variation which the social field ignores appears as a weird aberration rather than an indicator of a creative breakthrough. On the other hand, what was once taken as a new variation (and changed the domain of knowledge) appears later as normal and uncreative. For example, we do not consider re-inventing the wheel a creative breakthrough. Because variations depend on historical contingencies, system theorists claim to evaluate a domain's content before and soon after the variation rather









than the contents of the current domain of knowledge. For example, to determine if inventing the wheel was a creative variation a researcher would not study the current domain of knowledge. If the researcher did attempt to decide whether the wheel is a creative variation by reading current physics texts, then that researcher would obviously argue that the wheel is not a creative variation. Unfortunately, when the system theorists look for "unambiguous" cases of creativity, which "no one" in the current social field would dispute, they allow contemporary prejudices to sully their historical analysis.

As I discussed in relation to (science) education's

role in forming disciplines, an over-reliance on objectivity and fact-finding restricts potential inter-disciplinary connections. These restrictions coalesce through the socialdiscursive practices of educators. They define a domain of knowledge, which they separate from the rest of history; the domain then operates according to a "logic" of its own. The education process consists of training in that specific logic; the process stresses uniform actions and ignores historical vicissitudes. While Feyerabend questions the arbitrariness of domains, the system theorists take it for granted. The system theorists use Karl Popper's definition of "World III" to explain that domains contain theoretical systems, problem situations, and critical arguments, and all of the contents of journals, books, libraries, etc., hold this knowledge, a knowledge "independent of anyone's claim to









know.1122 The term "domain" resembles Plato's Form; like Plato's notion of Form, domains do not merely communicate states of subjective consciousness because they contain an objective element; however, while people can never change the eternal Form, people can and do change domains. We discuss a domain when we refer to a branch of learning (e.g., mathematical knowledge) and we often attribute an autonomous quality to domains.

Using Popper's model, the system theorists can evaluate the structuring of information and the accessibility of that information within a domain without attributing those structures to a particular writer or subjective consciousness. Popper's model allows them to deal with general structures rather than specific contents and individuals' communications. Unlike Feyerabend, who focuses on the structure of a domain to highlight how meaning is controlled for ideological or political reasons, the system theorists examine how neutral structures control access. They want to reveal that "some ways of imparting information result in knowledge representations that are not especially

accessible.1123 They hope to discover which symbols are better for "storing creative ideas" within a domain. To make domains and social fields more receptive to variations, the theory suggests organizing them for accessibility, relevance to a wider socio-historical context, and for the ability to recognize problems rather than describe (old) solutions. Studying past and possible ways to organize and store









knowledge becomes a major concern in the study of invention. Indeed, this relatively new social field, with contributors from semiotics, psychoanalysis, and poststructuralism, has begun to investigate how we frame, organize, and present our

knowledge. 24

Science education (and educational programs based on that model) organizes knowledge into facts. Only after educators have established a new domain does the social field create "stable facts" for the domain. These facts remain constant despite the vicissitudes of history, and students experience them as independent of opinion, belief, and cultural background. Later, these facts justify the boundaries between domains. Science educators try to prevent any style of thinking which might lead to a blurring of boundaries between domains. Again, the argument of this chapter concerns those restrictions as well as suggestions of ways to construct less restrictive language games. In the educational practices influenced by the science education model, including dominant practices in the humanities, restrictions still remain. For example, a student's sense of humor or sense of tragedy must not influence his or her scholarly activity. If these "external" elements influence students of science, then they may begin to question the relevancy of a domain's conceptual boundaries and the timelessness of unitary facts. As an example, Sternberg presumes that "showing humor, fantasy, color, and movement, in both literal and metaphoric senses, probably are more










relevant to the arts . . . then they are to science" [emphasis added] .25 However, he fails to examine this presumption. By taking that presumption for granted he unwittingly discounts much of the research on creativity. In spite of the research he presents, Sternberg opts for the primacy of normal science (normal in Thomas Kuhn's sense of the word) over creative research.

For Feyerabend, progress in science only occurs when

boundaries blur and when we compare contemporary reason and experience with false or fictional (and often incommensurable) ideas--unreasonable, nonsensical, unmethodological theories. But, science education effaces this dialectical thinking crucial for its own success. The unitary concept of an observed fact supposedly leads inductively to clear principles and theories.

Almost everyone takes it for granted that precise
observations, clear principles, and well-confirmed
theories are already decisive; that they can and must be used here and now to either eliminate the
suggested hypothesis, or to make it acceptable, or
perhaps even prove it!"(AM 168)

This conception of definitive proof "makes sense only if we assume that the principles of our arguments--are timeless entities which share the same degree of perfection . . . and are related to each other in a way that is independent of the events which produced them" (AM 52) . The distinction between a context of discovery and a context of justification depends on this conception of timeless entities. As an example, in the conclusion and summary of the Sternberg anthology, Tardif









and Sternberg argue that the field of creativity requires "much empirical research," but they never investigate the possibly contradictory, and at least problematic, relationship between creativity and empirical research (Tardif and Sternberg 433).

Feyerabend not only identifies the influence of

historical change on supposedly stable and unchanging facts, he also discusses how qualitative factors disrupt the use of factual evidence as a basis for a methodology. The medium of observation (e.g., microscopes, telescopes, eyes) and the procedures of observation (the conceptual parameters on what is and what is not an object) partially determine the object or, at least, what we observe and understand about the object. Only through contrasting the ideational context of observation (i.e., using various media and various procedures) will we expose prejudice. Comparison replaces analysis in Feyerabend's "pluralistic methodology." "Learning does not go from observation to theory but always involves both elements. Experience arises together with theoretical assumptions not before them" (AM 135) . Out of this criticism of science education and creativity, Feyerabend offers an alternative which makes use of psychological theories of invention, but he abandons the notion of a psychological individual as well as objectivityas-research-guide. In that sense, he makes use of an inventio, a strategy, with neither genius nor rational argument. Inventio, in classical rhetoric, does not use









hermeneutics of truth nor arguments. It functions not as a solution to problems, but as an artificial brainstorming. This plundering of cultural history, common places, or even funny coincidences does not require a genius nor a fool-proof method. It requires the manipulation of shared cultural commonplaces.

Before abandoning the individual, an examination of what role it plays in creativity research can help to highlight impasses and salvage insights. In order to study the creative pg,_a the system theory uses models of motivation, information-processing, and problem finding. The information-processing model uses research on the components of problem solving26 and problem-finding.27 Sternberg has a variety of components for problem-solving processes. Conditionalized knowledge, selective encoding, selective combination, and selective comparison contribute the most to creative problem solving. Conditionalized knowledge, all the information about the conditions and constraints of the use of abstract knowledge, helps a subject determine the relevance of information to a problem situation and the relevance of that situation to a wider social context. Sternberg rejects creativity tests like Torrance's because they focus on the most banal aspects of creative problem solving. "A person's ability to think of unusual uses of a brick, or to form a picture based on a geometric outline, scarcely does justice to the kind of freedom of spirit and intellect captured in people's implicit theories of









creativity. 1128 For Sternberg, the creative problem solver sifts out relevant information, combines the isolated parts into a unified whole, and relates the newly acquired information to information from past problem solving situations through the use of analogy. The information processing strategies of selective encoding, combination, and comparison work on conditionalized knowledge in a real-life situation to generate creative solutions. In addition to these strategies, the creative person must be able to discern that a problem exists. Not only do they have a sensitivity to problems, they also question accepted notions and received ideas. These strategies, traits, and motivations do not operate in a cultural vacuum. Constantly under the pressure of socio-historical conditions, the creative problem solver must contend with efforts to inhibit creative solutions through socialization like science education. Some educational institutions, in an effort to socialize students into a preset mold, discourage any unconventional or imaginative responses. It appears that the system theorists would agree with Feyerabend that science education (or any discipline built on that model) usually prohibits unusual ways of formulating, solving, and evaluating problems. And, if we no longer equate strategies with personal traits, we can extrapolate an invention without psychological explanations. The problem with the term creativity, its allusion to autonomous genius, leads to problems in attempts to encourage creative solutions; if we follow the lead of









system theorists and Feyerabend, we might look away from individual traits and toward textual and cultural practices.


Invention As A Language Game

"Proliferation,"S the generative principle, which for

Feyerabend, replaces creativity, changes the relation between the context of discovery and the context of justification. While "the context of discovery tells the history of a particular piece of knowledge, the context of justification explains its content and the reasons for accepting it. Only

the later context concerns the scientist" (FR 110) . "In the history of Science, standards of justification often forbid moves that are caused by psychological, socio-economicpolitical and other 'external' conditions"(AM 165). Psychological research on invention explains that when we invent theories, "we often make moves that are forbidden by methodological rules." Because these two contexts (discovery and justification) gather conflicting information, we have to confront the problem of which context deserves preferential treatment. Feyerabend suggests that "they must be given equal weight." These contexts actually function as "a single uniform domain of procedures" (AM 167).

The generative procedure makes the context of

discovery, the history of science, an integral part of science itself. No longer do "facts" and "data" justify theories. Instead, the difference between (often incommensurable) ideas implicitly modulates the progress of










justification. Comparison replaces analysis and observation as the test of ideas, while the supremacy of falsifiability, as the gatekeeper of scientific knowledge, gives way to eclectic affirmation of both true and false ideas--false only from the perspective of (scientific) common sense. Science and common sense depend on the formal logic of falsifiability; this logic insists that theories must contain the possibility that new empirical evidence may prove the theory false (or true). This logic depends, therefore, on the idea of objective evidence.

Because the alternative sensibility, conditioned by

dialectical thinking, depends on comparison of ideas, not on the single idea of objectivity, this sensibility dissolves everyday thinking (including ordinary scientific thinking) and everyday practice "into nothing." But Feyerabend explains how this dialectic between true and false already exists in the history of science. A scientist, like Galileo, begins with a "strong belief," which runs counter to the "contemporary reason and experience." This belief spreads and "finds support in other unreasonable beliefs." It can, as of yet, find no support in the objective facts of contemporary experience. Then, technologists build new kinds of instruments to find evidence to confirm the belief. Finally, an ideology forms which contains arguments for specific phenomena in many areas of research. In this scenario, "theories become clear only after incoherent parts of them have been used for a long time. Such unreasonable,









nonsensical, unmethodological foreplay thus turns out to be an unavoidable precondition of clarity and empirical success"(AM 26-27). Thomas Kuhn offers a slightly different version of change. As Kuhn explains, "anomalies do not emerge from the normal course of scientific research until both instruments and concepts have developed sufficiently to make the anomaly which results recognizable as a variation of expectation. 1129 And he continues by explaining that "the conditions which make the emergence of anomaly likely and those which make anomaly recognizable are to a very great extent the samell(Kuhn 763, note 16). Kuhn does not stress the emergence of an unreasonable belief before the anomaly appears. But both theories agree that even science depends on "false" ideas and "unmethodological foreplay" for its own progress. Science does naL progress according to strict methods and accurate descriptions. Science education, on the other hand, inscribes a method into the particular context of discovery as a justification; this pedagogy simplifies the processes of invention and discovery not by highlighting the essential patterns of these processes but by "simplifying its participants," students of the sciences. Science's complexities give way to the demands of pedagogical efficiency.

Psychoanalytic models suggest that the boundary between language games and individuals blurs when we examine cognition more closely. Although this chapter focuses on textual models, a psychoanalytic perspective can suggest ways









to conceive of creativity without the primacy of a conscious masterful mind, and this perspective can link the cognitive systems model with my textual approach. Indeed, psychoanalytic conceptions of creativity suggest that the machinations of forces outside the control of any individual ego resemble the linguistic procedures discussed above by Sternberg: analogy and combination.

In traditional psychoanalytic models, creativity

requires the use of "primary-processes," which function by grouping apparently different objects according to some common element and then generalizing across rational domains. In primary-process thinking, "a class is a collection of objects that have a predicate or a part in common . . . and that become identical or equivalent by

virtue of this common part or predicate. 1130 The combination of this process with "secondary-processes" (i.e., rational thinking) forms the tertiary process and converts the "primitive thinking" into "innovating powers." The amorphous process occurs without expression in words, images, thoughts, or actions of any kind; instead of appearing a concept it emerges as an endocept. Endocepts (e.g., surprise, hesitation, and doubtfulness) appear as "atmospheric" or "global experiences."

A paleologic (paleo, Greek for old) responds to these endocepts. This logic works by identification according to similarity of formal structure rather than meaning. For example, Arieti tells the story of a man obsessed by the









fear that his wife was poisoning his food; later the man admitted that the wife had "poisoned his life." This type of identification allows the "stream of thought to proceed in a large number of directions" (Arieti 75) . Arieti suggests three processes of association at work in paleologic: contiguity, similarity, and par pro toto (part for whole) . "The few ideas that are associated by contiguity and similarity stand for a whole constellation of ideas (par pro toto) and tend to bring about the whole constellation" (Arieti 97) . The associative processes have three corresponding stages; first, the abstraction of unities and grouping according to contiguity; then, metadphoric connections between similar elements; and, finally, the inference of the not given from the given, the whole from the piece. By explicating these procedures, Silvano Arieti helps us understand creativity as structured like a linguistic procedure and arising from processes outside our rational control. Later chapters will explore further the textual basis for invention.

The comparison between the psychological perspective

and Feyerabend's agenda has identified some differences and similarities. More importantly, it has begun to chart a different route for research. As Frank Barron urges in the Sternberg anthology, "we have reached such a point of development of our knowledge of creativity that it is ready

for application.",3' This application requires the manipulation of images and commionplaces. For example,









Darwin's use of the tree image, according to Howard Gruber in the Sternberg anthology, helped generate the principle of

natural selection.32 Images generate ways of thinking. In terms of where we find these images, Feyerabend argues that art functions "as a necessary means for discovering and perhaps even changing the features of the world we live in (AM~ 52) . He suggests we use examples from art (he mentions dada explicitly) as generative models and as research methods not merely as objects of study.

In her book How Great Ideas are Born, Denise Shererjian suggests that, among other things, creativity is aided by

travel.33 Roland Barthes uses a tourist's visit to the city as a model of invention in Empire of Signs. Tourism functions like a trope in defining the qualities of an invention process. While most tourists bring home memories, Barthes brings home an image of loss, of being lost. From his mishaps, he hints at the consequences of a rhetoric premised on getting lost among the places or J.nci in a kind of memory theater or city. He travels not for inspiration, but in order to find a language for that which resists taxonomic classification and scientific fact-finding. From the impasses and detours he encounters he builds a method of inventing something from nothing, of making much of little.

Barthes's text functions neither as an ethnography, nor as a philosophical treatise on otherness, but as a model. The image of wandering through the City, in this case Tokyo, functions not as an object of study, but as a model of










invention; it demonstrates how to find our way or make connections between topics, and by making those connections to invent something other, different, or innovative. The maps of invention examined here, from psychology and cultural studies, pave a route to this city of invention. Only by elaborating on the metaphors and images we use to frame our thinking can we investigate the implications of the way we organize our knowledge. Studies of problem setting, rather than problem solving, will teach us how to make knowledge accessible and provocative. Moreover, art and literary models offer a way to study what we do not know, something Other, different, or as of yet impossible.






Notes


1 FranQois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 15. Hereafter referred to in text as Lyotard.

2 Feyerabend writes about his cultural criticism of
creativity in Farewell to Reason and Against Method. Paul Feyerabend, Farewell to Reason (London: Verso, 1987). Hereafter referred to in text as FR. cf. Paul Feyerabend, "Creativity--A Dangerous Myth, Critical Inquiry (Summer, 1987), 13, 4. Paul Feyerabend, Against Method (London: Verso,1975). Hereafter referred to in text as AM.

3 Unidentified reporter, The New York Times (19 October
1931), as quoted in Ronald Clark, Edison: The Man Who Made The Fntu1re. (New York: G. P. Putnams's Sons, 1977), 31.

4 Wyn Wachhorst, Thomas Alva Edison: An American Myth
(Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1981). cf. Carolyn Marvin, When Old Technologies Were New: Thinking About Electric











Communication in the Late Nineteenth Century (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988). For discussions of the patent fights over the movie camera and projector see John L. Fell's editorial introduction to Film Before Griffith (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), and for a discussion of how Edison's assistant W. K. L. Dickson actually invented the motion picture camera see Gordon Hendrick, The Edison Motion Picture Myth (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1961).

5 Penelope Murray, "Poetic Genius and Its Classical
origins," in Genius: The History of an Idea, Ed. Penelope Murray (New York: Basil Blackwell, 1989), 3.

6 J. P. Guilford, "Creativity," Presented as the presidential address to the American Psychological Association annual meeting at Pennsylvania State College on September 5, 1950. Published in American Psychologist (1950), 5, 9: 444-454.

7 E. Paul Torrance, "The Nature of Creativity as Manifest in Its Testing, " in The Nature of Creativity: contemporary psychological perspectives, Ed. Robert Sternberg (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 68. cf. E. P. Torrance, Role of Evaluation in Creative Thinking, Report of project number 725, U.S. office of Education, H.E.W., 1964.

8 Thomas Anderson, "Beyond Einstein," in Interactive
Multimedia: Visions of Multimedia for Developers, Educators, and Information Providers, Ed. Sueann Abron and Kristina Hooper (Redmond, Washington: Microsoft Press, 1988), 197.

9 cf. Jacques Lacan, "Desire and the Interpretation of
Desire in Hamlet," Yale French Studies (1977), 55/56. Lacan explains that the conscious individual cannot bridge "the gap" in reality. He suggests that the development of concepts and rituals, which we use to bridge that gap, arise from unconscious forces completely out of our control.

10 Philip Johnson-Laird, "Freedom and constraint in creativity," in The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, Ed. Robert J. Sternberg (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 208.

11 Michael Cole, et. al., The Cultural Context of Learning and Thinking: An Exploration in Experimental Anthropology (New York: Basic Books, 1971).











12 Teresa Amabile, The Social Psychology of Creativity (New York: Springer-verlag, 1983), 5. cf. Beth Hennessey and Teresa Ainabile, "The conditions of creativity," in Ib& Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, Ed. Robert Sternberg (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 11-38.

13 D.K. Simonton, "Socio-cultural context of individual creativity: A trans-historical time-series analysis," Journal of Personality and Social Psychology (1975), 32. cf. D.K. Simonton, "Formal Education, Eminence and Dogmatism: The Curvilinear Relationship," Journal of Creative Behavior (1983), 17, 3. cf. Dean Keith Simonton, "Creativity, leadership, and chance," in The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 386-426.

14 J. Young, "What is Creativity?" Journal of Creative Behavior (1985), 19, 2: 77-87.

15 L. M. Terman, "The Gifted Child Grows Up," In Genetic Studies of Genius, Vol. 4, Ed. L.M. Terman (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1947), 448.

16 H. Lasswell, "The Social Setting of Creativity," in
Creativity and Its Cultivation, Ed. H. Anderson (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1959), 217.

17 M. I. Stein, Survey of the Psychological Literature in the Area of Creativity With a View Toward Needed Research, Cooperative Research Project number E-3, H.E.W (New York: New York University, 1962). cf. M. I. Stein, "Creativity as Intra- and Inter-Personal Process," in A Source Book for Creative Thinking, Ed. S. Parnes and H. Harding (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1962), 85-92.

18 Cited in E. P. Torrance, Role of Evaluation in Creative Thinking, Report of project number 725, U.S. office of Education, H.E.W., 1964, 1-2.

19 Howard Gardner, "Freud in Three Frames: A CognitiveScientific Approach to Creativity," Dadalus: Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, (Summer, 1986), 105134. This is an earlier and unacknowledged, but nearly identical, version of Gardner's "Creative lives and creative works: a synthetic scientific approach,"' in The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 298321.











20 Mihaly Csikszentrnihalyi, "Society, Culture, and Person: A Systems View of Creativity," in The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 332. Hereafter referred to in text as Csikszentmihalyi.

21 Robert Weisberg, "Problem solving and creativity," in The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 173.

22 Karl Popper, "Knowledge: Subjective versus Objective", (1967), in Popper Selections, Ed. David Miller (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1985), 60.

23 J. Bransford, R. Sherwood, N. Vye , and J. Rieser, "Teaching Thinking and Problem Solving: Research Foundations," American Psychologist (1986), 41, 10: 1080.

24 See for example Robert B. Ray, "The ABC of Visual
Theory," and Gregory L. Ulmer, "Handbook For a Theory Hobby," Visible Language, Special Issue on "Instant Theory: Making Thinking Popular," Ed. Craig Saper, (Autumn 1988), 22, 4: 423-448 and 399-422.

25 Twila Z. Tardif and Robert Sternberg, "What do we know about creativity?" in The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, Ed. Robert Steinberg (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 438. Hereafter referred to in text as Tardif and Steinberg.

26 Robert Steinberg, Beyond 1O: A Triarchic Theory Of
Human Intelligence (New York: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1985). cf. Robert Steinberg, "Intelligence, Wisdom, and Creativity: Three is Better Than One," Educational Psychologist (1986), 21, 3: 175-190. Robert Sternberg and J. Davidson, "Insight in the Gifted," Educational Psychologist (1985), 18. Robert Sternberg and D. Caruso, "Practical Modes of Knowing," in Learning and Teaching: The Ways of Knowing, Eds. Eisner and Rehage (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985).

27 Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and J. Getzels, The Creative
Vision: A Longitudinal StudJy of Problem Finding in Art (New York: Wiley, 1976).

28 Robert Sternberg, "Intelligence, Wisdom, and
Creativity: Three is Better Than One," Educational Psychologist (1986), 21, 3: 187.











29 Thomas Kuhn, "The Historical Structure of Scientific Discovery, Science (June 1, 1962), 136: 763. Hereafter referred to in text as Kuhn.

30 Silvano Arieti, Creativity: The Magic Synthesis (New
York: Basic Books, 1976), 71. Hereafter referred to in text as Arieti.

31 Frank Barron, "Putting creativity to work." in Tj. Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 76. cf. Frank Barron, "The Psychology of Imagination," in A Source Book for Creative Thinking, Ed. S. Parnes and H. Harding (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1962).

32 Howard Gruber and Sara Davis, "Inching our way up Mount Olympus: the evolving-systems approach to creative thinking," in The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives. cf. Howard Gruber, "Darwin's "Tree of Nature and Other Images of Wide Scope," in Qn Aesthetics in Science, Ed. Judith Wechsler (Cambridge, Mass.: The M.I.T. Press,
1978), 131.

33 Denise Shererjian, How Great Ideas are Born (New York:
Viking, 1989).














CHAPTER TWO
INVENTION-TOURISM


a space not of seeing but of doing.
Roland Barthes, Empire of Signs On arriving in a foreign city, the point is to learn,
not how to find your way, but how to lose it.
Walter Benjamin


Qut-Of-Towners

Lost in a tangle of streets without names, unfamiliar

with language, customs, and rituals, and guided only by a map which resembles an illegible palimpsest, a middle-aged man wanders around a crowded Asian city. If we add a robbery to this scene, then we might expect Karl Malden to appear from an alley telling us not to forget our American Express Traveler's Checks. That infamous commercial plays on our greatest fears about otherness. Indeed, as the commercial teaches us, unless we can hope to reduce chaotic foreignness to a series of commodities, unless we can, that is, incorporate the threat of difference, we probably should not leave home at all. Faced with this dilemma, the writer "at one and the same time knows and hesitates."

Who would celebrate precisely those elements of travel we find most threatening? It is Roland Barthes, not Malden, who can hardly contain his enthusiasm for an otherness which eludes him. And, his Rmpire of Signs, which resembles a









travel guide, includes only the absolutely other within tourist attractions. The "neglected study of tourism" 2 offers a way to understand both the social aspect of spatial structures (in this case the city of Tokyo) and, by extension, an invention-tourism. As many urban and cultural theorists recognize, "the organization, and meaning of space is a product of social translation, transformation, and

experience."13 The experience of the tourist in a foreign city defines the urban experience as much as, if not more than, architectural practice. This essay explores a way to use socio-spatial settings to think with, learn from, and invent out of. It uses a tourist's visit to the city as a model of invention; tourism becomes a major trope in defining the qualities of that invention process. Barthes's use of tourism brings with it all of the, often derogatory, connotations from social histories and literature. As he does in A Lover's Discourse, he appears to take a particularly un-fashionable pose: a tourist in the age of sophisticated travellers and ethnographers.

Tourism predates modernity, as Dean MacCannell explains, "in the same way that capitalism predates Protestantism. But this is not the point. Premodern tourists were not socially organized as they are today. Sightseeing, before about seventy-five years ago, was mainly speculative and individualistic"(MacCannell 194). That social construction and organization of the modern tourist has as much to do with critical and literary discourses as it









has to do with merely travelling to exotic places. Indeed, travellers often define themselves in opposition to a mythical "Tourist." "The Tourist," mocked by writers from Ruskin to E.M. Forester, never seeks the authentic, while actual "tourists demand authenticity" (MacCannell 104) . That pilgrimage defines their very essence. All the pictures and stories on the attraction draw them to experience the "Real Thing." By challenging the notion of the authentic, while taking on a touristic rhetoric of adventure, Barthes resembles "The Tourist." That pose puts him, paradoxically, at odds with tourism because of the "long-standing touristic attitude; a pronounced dislike, bordering on hatred, for other tourists" as if to say 'they are the tourists, I am n.QZ='(MacCannell 107) . Indeed, it is a commonplace among tourists and travel writers to denigrate "The Tourists" as passive spectators, who expect interesting things to happen to them, and expect everything to be done to them and for them. Andy Warhol struck a pose similar to Barthes when he remarked that he liked the postcard version of the "Mona Lisa" more than the real thing.

Neither MacCannell nor Barthes scoff at this touristic activity. As noted above, by not scoffing they, paradoxically, oppose the tourists' elitist discourse. MacCannell defends tourists against the intellectual nay-says who claim to have privileged access to the authentic,4 while Barthes becomes a tourist looking for The Japanese City. He initially wants to domesticate all cultural differences until









he can incorporate them into the familiarity of his own language. He goes to Japan with the ultimate travel fantasy to visit a far-away place from the comfort of his own home (language) . He finds only a loss of his semiotic mastery and inadequacies in his familiar language. He confronts a block to any positivistic knowledge; over and over again he meets an impasse, what he would later call the punctum, which resists any metalanguage to describe the signs of Tokyo. If we equate tourism with Auguste Comte's sociology-religion, as MacCannell does, then Barthes's invention-tourist lacks the positivistic fervor necessary for a successful pilgrimage to The Center of the Foreign City. Barthes is the worst sort of tourist: he lets things happen to him, he allows himself to be thrilled by cliches like the Zen experience or the cute Japanese style of packaging, and, worst of all, he does not attend to the "real beauty" of Tokyo; he looks only at peripheral details. He uses tourism as a way to interrogate his relation to objective truth-seeking.

Tourists' claims to the contrary, tourism functions as a metonymic indicator of the current redefinition of the categories of "truth" and "reality" precisely because tourism disrupts the notion of authenticity. Dean MacCannell describes how tourist traps highlight what exists throughout all tourist sites and everyday life: inauthenticity.

[Tiourist settings, like other areas of
institutional life, are often insufficiently
policed by liberal concerns for truth and beauty.
They are tacky. We might also suggest that some
touristic places overexpress their underlying








structure and thereby upset certain of their
sensitive visitors: restaurants are decorated like
ranch kitchens; bellboys assume and use false,
foreign first names; hotel rooms are made to appear
like peasant cottages; primitive religious
ceremonies are staged as public pageants.
(MacCannell 103)

The earlier reference to American Express concerns the common assumption that tourism "seeks to make the world a series of accessible sites, equivalent as markers for goods."(Culler 167). Again, paradoxically, it can only do this by reducing the threat of alienating difference or otherness while still maintaining its authenticity. Barthes poses as a tourist who finds the authentic inaccessible and discovers an otherness invading the familiar. These missed encounters and threatening situations could be part of a tourist's worst nightmare. Those moments of impasse and detour function as intense intersections which resist an almost religious faith in positivism common to semiotics, ethnography, and tourism.

This faith in positivism accounts for the prejudice

against those tourists who would seek anything less than the absolutely authentic. The social construction of this truthseeking tourist began, as noted above, during the nineteenth century. The use of the guide-book quickly stigmatized "its bearer in contrast to all that was indigenous, authentic, and

spontaneous. 115 In literature and criticism the tourist became the dupe of deception and crass manipulation. In a contemporary version of this mythic deception, one researcher describes how "a Turkish respondent of mine, whose job it is to divert tourists off the main thoroughfares of Istanbul to









a backstreet leather coat factory, described the language he uses in his work as 'Tarzan English, you know, the kind one reads in comic books' (MacCannell 200) . In Puerto Rico, a popular joke tells of a man who in his dreams dies and goes to hell; he finds hell contains dancing girls, gambling, and booze, and he has a wonderful time. Upon awakening, he makes a covenant to live his life in sin and try for hell instead of heaven. When he dies, he goes to hell; Satan gives him a pitch-fork and tells him to start shoveling the hot coals. In protesting, he recounts his dream, and asks where are the dancing girls, the booze, the gambling, and all the rest. "Oh that's for the tourists," Satan replies.

As the authentic recedes, efforts to follow it lead

inevitably behind-the-scenes. For example, a travel guide to Disney's EPCOT suggests we put one such attraction on our "must-see list." It explains that "the Hidden Treasures of The World Showcase tour will give you a better understanding of the art, architecture, and culture of the world showcase countries. You'll also get some surprising behind-the-scenes

looks at several pavilions."16 To discover the authentic holds sway over many tourists, especially ethnographers and semioticians. Once the tourist goes behind-the-scenes, the attractions out front might no longer appear authentic at all. The tourist seeks the staging ground to learn more and to protect against the un-fashionable pose of the unknowing, or worse, the deceived tourist, and this double liberal desire to see the real life of other people and to avoid









deception sometimes takes on a morbid (but perhaps politically necessary) cast. For example, tourists to Dachau are told that

the Dachau Memorial Museum is open year round
except for Christmas and national holidays. As
with most of Europe, crowds are at their peak
during the spring and summer. The morning hours,
however, will afford the viewer the most intimacy.
Visitors during the fall and winter will find the camp most depressing as the Bavarian weather will
shroud the sight in a gray blanket.7

Do we really need to know so much, in such detail, not about Dachau, but about getting an authentic intimate view of a concentration camp. In Hiroshima Mon Amour, about a French woman's visit to Hiroshima and the memorial museum there, the Japanese man tells the visitor, who says she saw the horror at the museum, "You weren't there, you don't know." The distinction to extrapolate from these anecdotes is not merely between knowing and ignorance; sometimes chronological history, the desire to know, and the effort to avoid deception prevent otherness from having any impact on our language and lives. We see, we know, we understand; what does the attraction think of us?

This essay explores what Kristin Ross describes as "an 'ethics of combat,' one that poses space as a terrain of

political practice. 118 Barthes uses the spatial ambience of the urban terrain for an "ethics of combat" rather than an aesthetic appreciation of Tokyo. His adventure resembles the Situationists' d6rives.9 Both projects attack the control of the imagination through the complementary categories of









creativity and rationality. Barthes attempts to "grasp the everyday without relegating it either to institutional codes and systems or to the private perceptions of a monadic

subject.1110 He rejects both science education's method and subjective genius as the cause of knowledge. The city becomes, in this scenario, "not merely a network of streets, but a conjunction of habit, desire, and accident"(Ross & Kaplan 3). The practice Barthes describes is "situated somewhere in the rift between the subjective, phenomenological, sensory apparatus of the individual and reified institutions"(Ross & Kaplan 3).

Invention-tourism loosens the hold of any one context

or any supposedly limitable context and, by doing so, allows information to function generatively. It uses information to suggest different contexts or the illimitable boundaries of contexts. It no longer finds information circumscribed by given contexts and applicable only to particular problems. This generative scholarship uses tourist attractions, not as objects of study, but as guides for research. The attraction, paradoxically both the epitome of the real thing and its negation, calls into question both hermeneutics of truth and meaning and outright rejections of the desire to know (more, other, differently, etc.). All too often critics equate the rejection of critical hermeneutics with the rejection of the desire to know. The tourism model shows how this equation need not hold: the tourist, especially the denigrated mythic one, wants to know more about an obviously









staged or inaccessible authenticity. Tourists seek these paradoxical moments clichedd objects and unique combinations) in which learning becomes a matter of jumping tours rather than using contextualized information for given problems.

This model is not a cure-all, nor a "How To" manual on creativity; it offers instead a way to understand the importance of how we frame our questions and present our knowledge. If we present information with an invisible frame, then little invention takes place. If, on the other hand, we delay conclusion and foreground the process of construction, then invention becomes like Brecht's Epic theater; it becomes distanced. This distance and forestalling conclusion occurs by interweaving codes and references. Textual machinations replace the expression of a transcendent author.

By using a visit to the city as a model of invention, tourism becomes a major trope in defining the qualities of that invention process. And, as the cultural histories of tourism explain, tourists always want to find the "Real Thing." Yet, contrary to the claims of these truth-seeking travellers, tourism, by creating sights "for the tourists," disrupts the notion of authenticity. The invention-tourist does not ask what to think about all the attractions; the invention-tourist wonders/wanders what the attractions think of us.

In this urban territory where streets have no names, where the neighborhoods and city alike have only empty









centers, where a cook "cooks nothing at all" (ES 24), and where "emptiness is produced in order to provide nourishment" (ES 24), the impasses support this landscape with a "central emptiness, forcing the traffic to make a perpetual detour" (ES 32) . The moments of loss or getting lost become the intense potential detours of invention. What I argue is that Barthes's efforts to find his way through Tokyo leads to a kind of rhetorical way-losing, a lost-sense necessary for invention.

The extrapolated method of inventing from a breakdown of semiotic mastery uses the procedures of selecting, turning, sifting through objects and attractions (in every sense of that word) . That is, Barthes diverges from the tourist's discourse of truth-seeking by allowing the trope of tourism to affect, provoke, and comment upon his writing practice. Through that use, he hints at an invention-tourism premised on an image of loss, of Being lost; he hints at the consequences of a rhetoric premised on getting lost among the places or J&Q.j in a kind of memory theater or city. In classical rhetoric, inventio is the act of recalling stored information; finding something to say by moving from locus to locus is aided by the memory theater's ability to store information. The ancient art of memory shifts a process from cognition to a discursive practice. Invention, similarly, is a discursive practice rather than a cognitive trait. Invention depends on how we store and recall knowledge rather than on what we know or who we are. Different than the art









of memory, which teaches a way to recall information, invention works by loosing the way among that stored data. The two systems are closely related and cannot be thought of separately, but in invention, movement rather than place becomes crucial to knowledge production. We can know the world by following and generating links as tourists lost in a foreign city rather than as mneumenitists in a familiar place.

In a discussion of memory and writing, Plato rejects the performances of epic poetry. Knowledge in that oral culture depended on an artificial memory system, which made use of visual images, temporal "becoming" rather than transcendent "being," a mixture of fact and fiction, and audience participation. As Jacques Derrida explains, even though Plato agrees that writing is "good for memory," writing is for Plato "external to memory, productive not of science but of belief, not of truth but of appearances.1111 Plato objected to the passive recitations of poetry because it created a monument of memory (hypomnemata) rather than living memory (mneme). In their efforts to visit or recite these monuments rather than think for themselves, the audience lost any hope of thinking as individual subjects. Plato coined an appropriate phrase for the epic audience, who he claimed had a lost-sense and could not reason for themselves; he called them "sight-seers." Invention-tourism depends on the play between sightseers and seers; it depends









on using sightseeing (in every sense) in an invention program which resembles the seer's activities.

As I have argued, contrary to the notion that tourists want only the cheap imitation, they want to "get off the beaten path" and "in with the natives." Tourists desire to share in the real life of the places they visit. The modernist and romantic versions prize "the unpromising, remote, or marginal places off tourism's beaten track as the havens of a valid genius loci" (Buzard 165) . Barthes, on the other hand, does not find revelations in marginal areas far away from tourist attractions; he finds the impasses and detours, what he later calls punctums, right there where "everyone" goes. As an unsure tourist, unsure of his own frame for understanding what he tours, he does not mock tourism like elitist tourists; his pose as a "'mickey mocker" abandons the romantic search for authenticity and the modernist myth of originality. He occupies the smudged, the effaced, the cliched in order to find a language for that which resists taxonomic classification and scientific factfinding. Barthes's discourse is very different than, for example, Ruskin's, who in order to subvert the authority of the Murray guidebooks ironically incorporated that discourse into his own work. Ruskin writes,

Without looking about you at all, you may find, in
your Murray, the useful information that it is a
church which 'consists of very wide nave and
lateral aisles, separated by seven fine pointed
arches.' And as you will be--under ordinary
conditions of tourist hurry--glad to learn so much,
without looking, it is little likely to occur to








you that this nave and two rich aisles required
also, for your complete present comfort, walls at
both ends, and a roof on the top."12

Barthes does not rely on any guide book. The city nevertheless deceives, blocks knowledge, and offers everything-up as tourist attractions (e.g., a Pachinko gallery, the Bunraku theater, restaurants, etc.) . His opening comment to Enipire of Signs, "Orient and Occident cannot be taken as 'realities'"(ES 3), take on reverberations of the degraded activities of the tourist: finding only the unauthentic, the reproduction, the "Japanesy" instead of the "Japanese." Like a typical tourist tale, one of Barthes's anecdotes describes how he follows a map in vain, telling the taxi cab driver when to turn. Finally, he asks the driver to stop at a phone booth so that he can call for new directions. We never learn if he reached his destination or not. There is nothing peculiar about this story; everyone has experienced the frustrations of following "bad" directions. So it comes as a surprise when Barthes not only affirms the experience but builds a method of invention from this and other impasses.

Seduced by the absurdity of this travel guide, one can imagine Mr. Hulot playing Barthes in an eventful trip to Japan. Hulot, the central character in Playtime and other films by the French director Jacques Tati, would, like Barthes, move through this disastrous adventure unaware of the seriousness of the situation. Yet, by doing so, he would teach us, like Joyce's Bloom (a "Charlie Chaplin as









advertising agent" who takes "pratfalls within mass commodity

culture"13), about the wonders of this Otherness which we usually try to contain and repress. We would tag along as Barthes-as-Mr. Hulot on holiday struggled with the "apparently illogical, uselessly complicated, curiously disparate address system" (ES 33) . The journey would take us from a close encounter with a violent student protest to the Pachinko galleries, where everyone appears as if working in a factory instead of enjoying an amusement. Of course, Tati would stage amazing sight gags in the rooms which Barthes tells us look the same upside down as right side-up. Our hero would visit stationery stores and puppet theaters. Most of the time he would, like the most degraded of all tourists, wander around lost. And, as always, end up in yet another restaurant, where he could marvel over everything from chopsticks to things floating in his murky watery soup. His "Japanned" picture would appear in the newspaper to his surprise. fbisu, the Japanese god of tourism, would appear not in its traditional form of a hunchback but as an "ugly American."

More than an amusing film treatment, Barthes's

"controlled accidents" go beyond our hero's mishaps to a method of "yielding to the path of the initial dispatch" (ES 28): a method of making much of little. He delicately selects, turns, and sifts through objects and attractions (in every sense of that word) to meet with differing aspects of nothing, or the loss of a centered meaning and memory. He









finds over and over again "a shock of meaning lacerated, extenuated to the point of its irreplaceable void" (ES 4). Even the essence of the "Japanese thing" is determined not by a positive value or meaning, but by a frame, a frame of "nothing, empty space which renders it matte (and therefore to our eyes reduced, diminished, small) "(ES 43) . That diminutive character which "tends toward the infinitesimal", creates a sense of a collection of fragments organized around an impasse, an empty center of meaning. His own language shows its internal tensions, its impasses to sense, and its limits. These moments of loss or getting lost become the intense switches or detours of invention. Efforts to navigate through Tokyo, what architects call "wayfinding," leads to a kind of rhetorical waylosing. The image of wandering through the city functions as a model of invention.14

In a discussion of travel guides, Barthes complains

that these guides give travellers only an abstract reading of a place and exclude the possibility of appreciating the nonmonumental and the temporal.

Generally speaking, the Blue Guide testifies
to the futility of all analytical
descriptions, those which reject both
explanations and phenomenology: it answers
in fact none of the questions which a modern
traveller can ask himself while crossing a
countryside which is real and which exists in
time. (M 75-6)

The rejection of analytic descriptions and the inclusion of the temporal and a concern for extreme particularities mark much of Barthes's work. He seeks that which resists the










eternal values of Art and Knowledge. These values always presume to exist outside the vicissitudes of time, the lives of people, and the contingencies of place. Barthes rejects those methods, from analytic history to formalism and structuralism, which attempt to protect these values. But rather than leave a vacuum in their place for some romantic notions to fill, he proposes methods and procedures to approach that which the study of Art, Literature, and Knowledge have left unnoticed on the wayside. As Barthes shifts away from the enlightenment project of Mythologies, especially in the last ten years of his life, the tourist guide no longer functions merely as an illusory veil or displacement of reality. In those years he makes a decisive break with efforts to appreciate form, structure, or Knowledge. While his early works contain flashes of the importance of the particular, he does not yet incorporate those moments of insight into a larger project. In the later works, he no longer attempts analytic elucidation of a terrain; instead, he provokes us to approach the absolutely particular in our readings, viewings, travels, etc. And out of this particularity he builds a general method: a method of writing as well as reading. This essay could, in fact, introduce a Barthes Guide, vexing and difficult, but still useful to the tourists.

In America, the challenge comes less from the Eternal

values usually found in museums, histories of Art, and canons of Literature, than from the pseudo-science of supposedly









neutral and objective description. As Barthes notes, the myth of travel embodied in the Blue Guide had already begun to give way to statistics and rankings of the banal. "Notice how already, in the Michelin Guide, the number of bathrooms and forks indicating good restaurants is vying with that of 'artistic curiosities'"l(M 76). Who can doubt the veracity of a guide which gives addresses, telephone numbers, and prices of motels along the road, and who would think to question the validity of such truths? In his early work, like Mythologies, Barthes demonstrated how these everyday facts hid many underlying assumptions; in his later work, he noticed how our attention to facts discounted and ignored the particularities these facts presumed to offer. By focusing attention on the monumental or the statistical social geography, we often fail to notice the city-spiel (play of the city's structure), the setting. He went further: he offered an alternative method to both fact mongerers and calculators of eternal values. He offered an alternative to descriptive readings which depend on the abstract notions of aesthetics, knowledge, or even empirical objectivity. The essence of (rhetorical) traveling is not "certain boring and useless things: customs, mail, the hotel, the barber, the doctor, prices" (ES 13) . What is traveling? Meetings, Barthes answers. The rendezvous becomes that momentary intense intersection, like a train station, an empty value, which sets in motion a perpetual combination of lines.









Empire of Signs primarily teaches us about a discursive method rather than about architecture, building, or urban planning. Beatriz Colomina, in her editorial introduction to Architectureproduction, explains how architecture refers to interpretation and criticism, not merely to buildings. She goes onto explain that "a building is interpreted when its

rhetorical mechanism and principles are revealed.",15 With the mechanical reproduction of the image of the City the size of the audience increases. As that image influences the audience, the cognitive maps of cities changes. The audience (the tourist in front of a building, the reader of a journal, the viewer of an exhibition or a newspaper advertisement) "increasingly become the user, the one who gives meaning to the work" (Colomina 9-10) . The meaning Barthes makes out of the City has more to do with "a tourist in front of a building" than the function of buildings and streets. He does not live in a city; he uses images of the city to talk about discursive practices and rhetoric. That is, his efforts at "wayfinding" lead toward an inventio.

Designers interested in the situation of disorientation in cities have noted the importance of a conceptual image or cognitive map. Wayfinding depends more on cognitive maps and on what one knows about a situation than on what one sees. The recognition of a cognitive-textual aspect to space conceives of space as a textual translation. Feminist work on cities also points to the importance of contextual factors in mapping a city. In a discussion of detective fiction, one









critic asserts the difference between how female detectives conceived of a city versus how men picture cities.

The tradition of the detective novel clearly deals with the questions and darkness of the
city, but from Williams' description, it seems to do so in a particularly masculine way: the
rational abstract intelligence, elevated and
separated from others, which isolates and
differentiates until it identifies a single
cause. 16

Women writers of detective novels, on the other hand, "see light and change in the city as well as darkness"(Sizemore 155). This rather pat contrast does highlight an alternative to the film noir city. This essay focuses not on the solution of the dark city crimes, but on those elastic intersections and confusing boundaries which provoke both male and female detectives with unsolved enigmas. What the comparison of male and female writers does, perhaps unintentionally, is suggest that the city is a textual system, not merely a neutral setting.

The most influential of studies of urban design and one of the first to consider a city as a text, Kevin Lynch's Mha Image of the City, argues that "the mishap of disorientation" creates

a sense of anxiety and even terror that . . .
reveals how closely it is linked to our sense
of balance and well-being. The very word
"lost" in our language means much more than a
simple geographical uncertainty; it carries
overtones of utter disaster.17

This essay focuses on the linguistic and rhetorical overtones of the word lost. In helping us to work through those overtones, Lynch lists the elements of disorientation in the









image of the city: direction ambiguity, characterless path, lack of differentiation, elastic intersection, weak or absent boundary, point of confusion, and many others. The knowledge of these disorientations has influenced urban planning. For example, Paul Rabinow explains how, in the mid-60s, an enormous effort at urban planning began in France. He writes, "In addition to including the latest technological and functional advances, the urbanism teams were directed to create a symbolism of urbanity and micro-spaces of sociability embodying the values of comfort, ease, and centrality.''18 He goes on to quote the authors of the "authoritative Histoire de la France urbaine" who conclude their discussion of this urban planning project by saying, "The material to be worked on is as much human behavior as the physical environment."'19 Rabinow's thorough exploration of the norms of modern life addresses how the image of the city became "an object to be harmoniously ordered" and organized according to "an urban parallel to Bentham's Panopticon"(Rabinow 211-212). Urban architecture can be read as an effort to enact "universal norms for humanity" and that "three universal needs--shelter, boundaries, and signaling-provided the grid of intelligibility"(Rabinow 244). Foucault uses such plans and schemes as "strategic exemplars" "as a means of illuminating not an entire age but particular nuclei of knowledge and power"(Rabinow 212). Like the project undertaken here, Foucault's Discipline and Punish finds a way


of thinking with an image (e.g., the Panopticon).









The image which this essay focuses on has little to do with being controlled, or seen, from a panopticon. Instead, this essay addresses the image of getting lost, of being out of sight or unsighted. The Yiddish term, farblonzhet, expresses the affect we can only translate as lost or confused. It describes the pause one takes at a crossroad; not the certainty of knowing you are lost, but the self-doubt implied in asking am I lost? It suggests more of what Barthes tries to describe than the English lost because it makes that spatial description more personal and meditative. It describes a situation between lost and the decision to try a different route. Farblonzhet used as an initiator of an invention-tourism functions as an instant selecting, turning, and sifting of possibilities intersecting in a momentary break with certain knowledge.

The image Barthes uses to explore rhetoric resembles

neither the intelligible image of the rational city, nor the legible image of the functionalist city. In that sense, Barthes's Tokyo is not a Moer image of a city, and the rhetoric he describes is, likewise, found at weak boundaries and elastic intersections of classical rhetoric. The two moments of invention-tourism, an encounter with elastic intersections and wandering around weak boundaries, make the impasses productive. The elastic intersections function as punctums.









Attractions

For Barthes, the punctum appears as something notquite-in-harmony, a problem or an impasse.20 The vacillation in knowledge which falls between subjective expression and objective grammar corresponds to moments of farblonzhet. Like Proust's madelaines, punctums provoke involuntary memories. The train station epitomizes this shuttling of desire. The station always alludes to other places as it "permits departure" (ES 34). This place of other places functions as a relay of desire: always pointing to something outside itself. Like a passenger jumping at the arrival of "his" train, Barthes gets hooked not because of an interesting detail in a photograph, but because of where that detail promises to take him. Proust's involuntary memories begin with a childhood scene of waiting in his bedroom for his mother to kiss him good night; analogous to this connection of the mother's figure with involuntary memory, the most potent punctum, for Barthes, is a photograph of his mother. In this photograph, "the mask vanished"(CL 109) and the air was "consubstantial with her face," but instead of the past made present ("it is happening"), the past arrests the present. This puncture or arrest in reading does function as an index of a past reality, an identification of "that has been." It cynically proves that reality is missing and dead. In terms of this death, Barthes's choice of the word "consubstantial" alludes, again, to Bazin's theory of cinema. Bazin makes an analogy between the photographic









image and the shroud of Turin, but Barthes has perverted this religious metaphor by casting his mother in the role of Christ; he personalizes the truth. The religious idea that Christ's flesh and blood coexists with the wine and bread given during the Eucharist closely resembles Bazin's notion that the dead past coexists in the present. Barthes perverts the analogy by suggesting we feel pity, instead of guilt or exaltation, for the past, and he raises this pity to such a mad intensity that it suggests a death without heaven, without return. Rather than the past living-on in our presence, Barthes ask us to consider certain photographs as textual time machines. For example, a photograph of a man condemned to die puts us into a past time or an anachronism of culture; as Barthes writes, "He is dead and he is going to die ."1(CL 95) . The analogy between the death mask and the photographic image still holds, but his ecstatic logic allows photography to "reverse the course of the thing" (CL 119). This "temporal hallucination" indicates an emergent symbolic system. As Barthes writes,

I want to change systems: no longer unmask,
no longer to interpret . . . . Let us imagine
that the science of our ilai were to
discover, one day, its own jauga, and that
this l.asus should turn out to be: a new,
unheard-of form of consciousness?(LD 60)

The punctum, as a lapsus. in our current understanding of a chronological model of reading, forces knowledge of discontinuity and fragmentation; it makes us vacillate. The reader or spectator stumbles. Interpretation becomes "an









action of thought without thought, an aim without a target"(CL 111). Barthes uses this vacillation as the "initial dispatch," which sets the course of inquiry. One might easily misunderstand this ! u,, which Barthes explains as implicating the viewer, as something which will eventually reappear like a missing address. But, this "no address" (or noh address) only appears in art or in reality as a something missing, a structural inconsistency, an empty gesture. The inability to find a fit, or to place the look in a body (spectator's, author's, politic's, etc.) disconcerts Barthes. He responds to that "noh place" with a writing which originates neither in a first person narration, nor a third person narration. He speaks what Mary Wiseman calls "no person," neither private nor communal. He does not argue for a universal truth, nor does he make an argument for adopting particular practices.

This no address of the no person functions as a method to study the punctum as a "spider's web" where the subject "dissolves" into a "speck, cut, little hole--and also a cast of the dice." This loss and emptiness in the photograph "takes you outside yourself"(Grain 352), or carries you back to something that was and is no more. That effect marks the "photograph's transgression of the logocentric association of the real and the present."'21 It offers an alternative to conventional logocentric notions of reading: a breakdown of spatial and visual conceptions or symbolic codes. As Jacques Derrida explains, logocentric or spatio-visual metaphors









(e.g., absence versus presence) center or orient Occidental or Western conceptions of writing. He interrogates the

"analogy between nu looking and sensible looking."122 All philosophical descriptive language depends on the metaphor of vision. Spatial metaphors (e.g., inside versus outside) "are embedded . . . at the very heart of conceptuality itself.",23 Logocentric logic, which describes in one spatially oriented stroke how something looks, its boundaries, and how one can see or understand its meaning, falters when confronted with the figural excess of variations and multivalence. The map of Tokyo has a center, an empty center, which mirrors the subject's empty center.

Obviously, Barthes's guide to this city of invention

does not resemble AAA's "trip tic," but it does provoke us to travel, to wander, and to think through the urban landscape. The new logic teaches us that what attracts his attention becomes Tokyo--hence its conceptual boundaries always change. Usually we describe the elements of a city, but with a retroactive logic, the qualities retroactively connect to the city. With the clash of cultures and languages, racism appears in cities especially with outsiders like tourists looking for the authentic. The man who spoke like "Tarzan" to fool the tourists, in the example cited above, played with those prejudices. Indeed, thinking with stereotypes and schemas is more common than common sense. That organization of information is always riven with punctums, always open to a lost-sense; nevertheless, the attraction depends, in part,









on this everyday or popular thinking. Indeed, as we will see in chapter three, researchers in artificial intelligence now try to program computers to have prejudices instead of formal scientific or rational logics.

Racism works not by accusing an individual of some

supposedly derogatory quality (e.g., lazy, greedy, boring, etc.), but by claiming that members of a race or group always have those qualities. Prejudice works by retroactively attributing a quality to someone only after they are identified as a member of a group. It is not racist to say you are dirty and you are a Jew. It is racist to say, All Jews are dirty; therefore, retroactively you, as a Jew, are dirty. This retroactive logic can justify prejudice against large groups of people--we need not know anything besides your difference from the dominant group. This racist logic leads to a whole group being subjected to a metaphoric cleansing. Indeed, Christian propaganda used this retroactive logic to banish, punish, and, in the Nazi's extension, exterminate the dirtiness (the Jews). By claiming incorrectly that Jews belonged to a race distinct from other races, retroactive logic allowed them to be permanently differentiated as unclean, and, hence, prohibited from conversion by baptism or cleansing. That is, the racist syllogism would read: All Jews belong to a single race. You or your parents are Jewish; therefore you must belong to that race. If the premise is accepted as true and the case is true, then by accepting the conclusion one accepts the









premise. To forestall prejudice against otherness, one must infect this logic with something that can call into question the premise.

Barthes explores this retroactive reasoning in his

examination of otherness. Instead of protecting himself from otherness, difference, and circular misunderstanding, he allows differences to rattle the foundations of sameness. Retroactive temporality creates what Barthes calls "anachronisms of culture and illogicalities of itineraryll(ES 79). His language can say nothing, or only nothing, about this foreign city; therefore, his language has, retroactively, blank spots in it. He does not first recognize his language's inabilities; instead, he notices the inaccessibility of the "Empire of Signs." These signs (of nothing, or with no central meaning) designate, only after the encounter, the weak points in his semiotic mastery. He does not blame the signs for their tenacity; he finds fault with his premise of semiotic mastery. From this discovery, Barthes goes onto discuss language, writing in general, not only in relation to his encounters with "Japan." The singular disruption becomes the (w)hole movement of his writing practice around impasses. The logic of Empire of Sians works according to the following syllogism. My semiotic mastery can understand how meaning is constructed. There is a lack of meaning in this territory. Therefore, semiotic mastery fails. Again, we can compare this to a racist logic if we make the syllogism a bit more abstract.









All of this group have meaning. within that group one does not have meaning. Therefore, the method of designating meaning is flawed. The understanding of all sign systems changes, and the general rule or premise is proven false. There is a subtle distinction between this logic and one that merely states that the particular case proves the premise false. Barthes does not claim that this territory is merely an exception to the rule, he claims it retroactively proves the rule false and untenable. Prejudice allows for exceptions, not doubt.

This politics uses the "initial dispatch" of the

punctum in a combinatory similar to what the situationists called d~tournment. This detour of the signifiers functions to derail tourism, "the leisure of going to see what has become banal. "24 In this derailing of the tourist attraction and the discounting of the monument in favor of the street, tournament loosens the meaning of each element--"which may go so far as to lose its original sense completely. .12 Not an empirical object, but an object of desire, the realm of our likes, dislikes, and fantasies (what Lacan calls the "Imaginary order") regulates the course of Barthes's movements. He explains that "the system of the imaginary is spread circularly, by detours and returns the length of an empty subject" (ES 32) . These detours function according to a retroactive temporality. In classical rhetoric and structuralism, language functions according to a chronological temporality. The sign's meaning can not









reverse, the signifier cannot change the signified, but repetition, "the circularity which makes the one pass into the other indefinitely," allows, according to Derrida, "the production of some elliptical change of site."26 As Derrida writes, "Repeated, the same line is no longer exactly the same, the ring no longer has the same center, the origin has x t.,27 A retroactive time distorts deduction and induction.28 For example, Barthes explains that the elements he finds do not add up to a totality called Tokyo, a irreversible signified, and he also explains that he does not begin by looking for the qualities, or signifiers, of Tokyo. The metonymic collection of fragments creates a kind of synergistic effect without a center.

Roger Cardinal explains how to recognize details which function as punctums. He places Barthes's work on "third meaning" and the punctum in relation to other similar work like the Surrealist's "paranoid criticism." That criticism emphasizes "irrational knowledge fed by a tangential features of the film shaped in the light of oneiric associations--a kind of errant dream-criticism"(Cardinal 114). He also describes other types of details, obviously intended or intended but understated, which do not function as punctums or according to third meaning. His essay explores how we can use peripheral details as part of a decentered reading strategy. This strategy does not focus on the intended meaning of a film, but on details which are poignant to the viewer. Rather than use details as examples to prove a point









about a film's form or meaning, Cardinal suggests that the use of peripheral details, details probably unimportant to other viewers, offers an alternative way to understand films. The use of peripheral details calls into question what it means to read. Indeed, Cardinal argues that the decentered reading strategy offers an alternative to "literate" reading.

This strategy demands a willingness to experiment and

to attend carefully to films. In that sense, it fulfills one of the major concerns of film studies: to encourage students to attend more carefully to the cinematic apparatus. Rather than follow the story or appreciate the film making, the decentered attention floats in "mischievous curiosity which inspires a non-acquiescent look and leads to a conscious prioritization of that which is other than the focal image" (Cardinal 114) . As Cardinal explains, "there can be creative energies released by virtue of a studied dislocation of the gaze from the center of the frame to its quirky circumference" (Cardinal 114) . Passive spectators will find this strategy practically impossible, but active spectators will succeed if they add something to the film which, as Roland Barthes writes, is "nonetheless already there." In arguing that we must add something to the film which is already there, Barthes suggests that saying any old thing will result in the same unproductiveness as saying the same old thing. More importantly, his description of the punctum as both added and already there suggests that what simultaneously escapes language and has a meaning (i.e., a










third meaning); he creates new meaning for something which we can say nothing about. The punctum requires you to find something as of yet unsaid, something different, supplemental, or left over.

There are obviously intended details. For example, in Hitchcock's Notorious, the heroine, a government agent who marries a suspected Nazis to uncover his scheme, picks-up the key to the wine cellar where her husband has secretly stored uranium. When he goes to kiss her hands, she hugs him, drops the key behind him, and kicks it under a table. In the next scene, we look down in an establishing shot over a large formal party; in a single shot, the camera cranes down until the screen fills with the heroine's hand; we see the key back in her possession. This is an example of a central and centered detail. In the last scene of Welles's Citizen Kane, the camera cranes over a warehouse of Kane's belongings. In the penultimate shot of the film, we see workmen through a sled into the furnace; the words on the sled, "Rosebud," were Kane's last words, and an unsolved mystery for the investigator of his life. In both of these examples, we cannot help but notice these details. Indeed, they are arguably the two of the most famous scenes in the history of cinema. In producing films, directors use details to build or conclude a narrative.

The understated detail appears as a reinforcement of themes or narratives, or as part of less conventional narratives. The final scene in Antonioni's The Passenger and










the opening scene of Coppola's The Conversation, a film strongly influenced by Antonioni's Blow-Up, use understated details to build or conclude the narrative. The last scene of The Passenger begins when the hero lies down to take a nap; the camera records only what can be seen of the dusty dirt plaza outside the window. Assassins who have pursued the hero throughout the film arrive. We see the assassin in the room only briefly in a reflection in one of the windows. Later, the hero's wife arrives and when asked if she knows the victim, she says, "no, I never knew him." The hero's new-found girl-friend says, "yes, I knew him." This scene concludes both the narrative and thematic lines of this film about switching identities. The Conversation begins with a crane shot of a city park in San Franscisco. The camera follows a mime and then follows various other characters around the park. As we piece together the relationships between the various characters, we learn that a surveillance team has an elaborate system to record a couple strolling around the park. The enigma, why are they following such an unlikely pair, involves the spectator and the investigator in a nightmarish look at the implications of voyeurism. Many of the initial scene's details become quickly recuperated into the narrative and thematic structure. We are led through the sometimes understated details like tourists consulting a guide to know what to look at next.

The multi-media tourist-text makes use of found

materials. Its use or programming of that material functions









as a way to organize and access information for invention. In that sense, in responds to the challenge of the cultural and cognitive scientists who have stressed the importance of textual models in allowing for invention. The inventiontourist-text is a model of an invention informatics. It reiterates texts by using peripheral details. Barthes explains that even in the most tightly controlled films available, peripheral details can appear. To stress his point, he chooses Eisenstein's Ivan the Terrible, Part I, a film and director famous for the careful control over every element of the film's form and mise-en-sc6ne. We need not look for peripheral details in unseen or peripheral films; we need not search through rare archives to find the marginalized. One can find the peripheral detail in the most control sites; like a tourist, who stands in front of the monument and can not help but notice some "unimportant detail," the peripheral is not the modernist dream of the authentic away from the crowd. We need not leave the tourist attraction, the movie theater to find it. We need not mock the tourists and praise the discoverer. For those dreams of conquering new territory, of finding the authentic where no one has looked before, carry with them the baggage of colonialism, imperialism, and even sexism. The peripheral detail, the tourist's attractions, is neither heroic nor uniquely authentic.

Barthes's decision to focus on an apparently carefully controlled film, Ivan the Terrible, and the recognition that










peripheral details appear even in the most trite, crass, and insipid films suggests how one can use Barthes's method in analyzing other films. The goal in this dissertation is not to use the punctum to read films with, but an example can further define a reading strategy based on the punctum. According to Hollywood lore, the most takes in any film occurred during the shooting of Chaplin's City Lights: one scene took over three thousand takes to produce. This startling number of re-takes indicates an obsessive desire to control the final product. These takes also indicate the importance in this film of the pro-filmic event rather than camera set-ups or editing. Indeed, when looking at this film, one is struck both by the unimaginative mis6-en-scene, camera work, and editing, and, conversely, by the minute care and brilliance in choreographing the actors' movements. The sets, nearly empty of any detail, and Charlie's central and centered sight-gags make this film an appropriate limit case for Barthes's theory. Only by carefully scanning the film can one find any details, never mind peripheral and unintended details. The plot of the film concerns a blind "flower girl" and a homeless "tramp." He falls in love with her and, in spite of many misadventures, he raises enough money for her to have an sight restoring operation. She gains her vision and is very disappointed to see her hero, who she assumed was wealthy, is actually a tramp. To identify intended, understated, and peripheralized details in City Lights, allows one to discover the differences between










these details. Only by actually touring films can one pickup punctums.

In a discussion of an often cited film, which was supposed to teach a group of indigenous people the importance of boiling water, Barthes suggests how punctums might occur in representation.

According to an old experiment, when a film was
shown for the first time to natives of the African
bush, they paid no attention to the scene
represented (the central square of their village)
but only to the hen crossing this square in one
corner of the screen. One might say: it was the
hen that gazed at them.29

Pecked by the punctum, Barthes investigates a "kind of subtle beyond--as if the image launched desire beyond what it permits us to see. ."(CL 59). As Barthes explains, the punctum's gaze "is located b appearance: it implies at

least that this 'beyond' exists, that what is 'perceived' (gazed at) is truer than what is simply shown"(Barthes, 1983, 240). As Lacan explains,

In our relation to things as constituted by the
path of vision and ordered in the figures of representation, something shifts, passes, is
transmitted from stage to stage, in order to be-invariably, to some degree--elided: this is what
is called the gaze.30

Resistant to your consciousness, the gaze alludes to a staining or a resist as in the dying of fabric: a stain in an image. This nt seeing something, of something missing or lost functions as neither part of a personality nor an element in a discursive structure, except as a loss or blockage in that structure. Jane Gallop explains this "blind










field" as something outside the frame; in her discussion of such photographs where "things continue to happen outside the frame"(Gallop 153), she discusses how in those cases even certainty escapes the frame. Barthes's word choice in his discussion about the lack of intention involved in punctums betrays his doubt: "the detail that interests me is not, or at least not rigorously, intentional, and probably it must not be . . . it does not necessarily attest to the photographer's art"(CL 79-80) (emphasis added by Gallop]. Barthes "cannot be certain the detail that pricks him is not intended"(Gallop 158). But, faced with this and other uncertainties about the "unsayable," he admits he has "no other resource than this ir n : to speak of the 'nothing to say'"(CL 93). This nothing becomes the locus around which Barthes travels in Empire of Signs. Each frame of reference, which can appear as a photograph, a narrative, a video, a metaphor, or an essay's argument, can contain a links to something outside the frame. The links in multi-media computer programming for invention connect to other frames of reference. The punctum links frames even at the expense of rational certainty. This literal discontinuity or lack of certainty appears as a structural inconsistency. It thus contradicts readings which rely on authorial intention, aesthetic formalism, or cultural contextualizations. It cannot support readings which found themselves on the consistency of text or context. It always depends on a blurring between view and viewer, framed and framer, etc. It










cannot exist as an unchanging image in a picture nor as a definitive frame of reference. It passes between frame and picture. The punctum becomes a pass-word or a passage among figurative snapshots.


Wandering

Walter Benjamin's description of his "Arcades" project describes a selection procedure similar to Barthes's: "Method of work: literary montage. I need say nothing. Only show. I won't steal anything valuable or appropriate, any witty turns of phrase. But the trivia, the trash: this, I don't want to take stock of, but let it come into its own in the only way possible: use it.",31 Just as Joyce, in Ulysses, borrows "advertisement's capital to turn it to his own uses," Barthes builds his method from the trivial as a significant component of the alternative symbolic system (Advertisements 123) . For example, the haiku focuses on the trivial but raises the image to neither the metaphoric, the symbolic, nor the paradigmatic. Barthes's space of doing closely resembles Benjamin's letting the trivia come into its own by using it.

In combining the elements, the goal is to create a

light, fragile, and "fresh" product. These qualities arise from the looseness of construction. No one element dominates the others; "everything is the ornament of another ornament" (ES 22) . This "purely interstitial object" (ES 24) has no deep substance. As the signs empty of meaning, a









visually raw effect appears: not a deep meaning, nor a secret code, but a construction which shows its joints. Like the logic of advertisements, without discernable authors but with personal messages, the logic of Empire of Signs connects fragments according to the magnetism of gossip or graffiti. Barthes writes through street talk or the popular. The walk follows special places which produce anemnesis. "Things extra and other (details and excesses coming from elsewhere) insert themselves into the accepted framework, the imposed order. The surface of this order is everywhere punched and torn open by ellipses, drifts, and leaks of meaning: it is a sieve-order"(Everyday 107). This is the order of Tokyo. The map cannot help us here.

Barthes uses the improper, disordered, and irrational

as a method of research. Michel de Certeau argues that this impropriety lies at the origin of many investigations. "(B)outs of surprise (in the same way there are bouts of fever), the sudden jubilatory, semi-ecstatic forms of "astonishment" or "wonder" . . . have been, from Aristotle to Wittgenstein, the inaugurators of philosophical activity. Something that exceeds the thinkable and opens the possibility of 'thinking otherwise' bursts in through comical, incongruous, or paradoxical half-openings of discourse." He goes on to explain that these philosophers find "events of a thought yet to come" (Heterologies 194). As Gregory Ulmer explains, "this 'impropriety' is necessary in any case because Barthes addresses a level of reality that









exists at the limit of knowledge excluded from the extant

codes of both opinion and science.",32 Even scientific breakthroughs, as Paul Feyerabend argues, depend on making moves forbidden by methodological rules. "Theories become clear only after incoherent parts of them have been used for a long time. Such unreasonable, nonsensical, unmethodological foreplay thus turns out to be an unavoidable precondition of clarity and empirical success.,3

The procedure makes use of variations, substitutions, and multivalence without deciding on how these choices support a particular truth or argument. In that sense, this logic allows for brainstorming without unnecessary criticism. It builds on the fascinations or manias usually discarded by conventional reading practices; it allows for the intensity, patience, and personalized analogies necessary for generating associations; it makes reading into an invention situation; and it understands variations of expectation as indicators of emergent ideas, metaphors, or even a new paradigm. Empire of Sansa explores details which resist taking a meaning within current symbolic systems; these extreme particularities suggest an unheard-of symbolic system. The new rhetoric does not merely offer a negative criticism of a dominant ideology of reading, writing, or thinking; out of the failures of empirical reading strategies it builds a method: seect, comhine or turn, and frame or sift.

Details or extreme particularities appear as temporal

problems or anomalies in reading. At those moments something










happens. "This something--which is etymologically an adventure--is of an infinitesimal order: it is . . . an anachronism of culture . . . an illogicality of itinerary."(ES 79). These "changes in reading" indicate a disruption of the symbolic system, that binary opposition which holds our conceptions in place. After selecting these details, we combine them in a bricolage which highlights suspicions, affirmations, transgressions, and our desires. Then, we frame this combination to encourage an active reading, to have the text become a model.


Invention-Tourism As A Minor Language

Such recombination does not pierce the materials, but gradually unravels them; it does not cut them from another context, but finds the "natural fissures"(ES 18). Each gap appears as a "fissure of the symbolic," the rift between individuals and institutions. Barthes looks for what exceeds the institutional explanations and from that builds the combinatory of otherness. The invention of otherness out of, as well as in, commonplaces involves what Gilles Deleuze and F6lix Guattari call a minor literature. This "deterritorialized language, appropriate for strange and minor uses," disrupts the usual connection between an individual and a social background.34 For Barthes, the social milieu does not serve as a mere background, but rather it allows him to, in Deleuze's and Guattari's terminology, "pickup ideas." This invention through a minor method allows










Barthes "to become a nomad and an immigrant and a Gypsy in relation" to his own language (Kafka 19) . Although he uses an image of a foreign city, his commentary suggests that what becomes strange and foreign is his own language. From within the major language, he finds the possibility of minor languages and internal tensions. He becomes a "sort of stranger within his own language" (Kafka 26) . He finds not a foreign city but, in a prophetic image of the contemporary Japanese cultural and financial expansion, a linguistic or rhetorical Oriental zone in the Occident. As one Congressional representative said, "the United States is

rapidly becoming a colony of Japan. "35 Indeed, one educator even claims that "we used to export philosophy. Now we import it [from Japan] ."36 This minor method entails escaping "the force of gravity to enter a field of celerity" (Kafka 36) . As Jean Baudrillard explains, Japan manages, "in what seems to us an unintelligible paradox, to transform the power of territoriality and feudalism into that

of deterritoriality and weight lessness.",37 This minor method not only digs a space for Otherness but also calls into question the ground of both subjectivity and any stable or major method: it floats, like a tourist on a cruise, from place to place, towos to toos

In his discussion of Tokyo, Barthes explains that that city's address system "is apparently illogical, uselessly complicated, curiously disparate," but this alternative system requires that the knowledge of a city










usuallyy managed by map, guide, telephone book," gives in to a system not based on the abstractions of printed culture but on the "gestural practice."

This city can be known only by an activity of
an ethnographic kind: you must orient
yourself in it not by book, by address, but
by walking, by sight, by habit, by
experience; here every discovery is intense
and fragile, it can be repeated or recovered
only by memory of the trace it has left in
you: to visit a place for the first time is
thereby to begin to write it: the address
not being written, it must establish its own
writing. (ES 36)

Barthes focuses on the "delicate communication" of someone drawing directions and explaining how to follow the visual cues to a particular address. In reading these diagrammatic directions, Barthes recovers the writing practice by retaining "the gesture of my interlocutor reversing his pencil to rub out, with the eraser at its other end, the excessive curve of an avenue, the intersection of a viaduct" (ES 34). The fabrication of the address fascinates him more than the address itself. By following the gestural marks in each reading and by re-reading that address, he creates an occasion to recover the process of constructing a narrative. "When an artist struggles with material . . sounds, words . . . it is . . . that struggle and that struggle alone that is in the last instance being told."38 Instead of a single abstract metalanguage, like a printed map, Barthes's method requires us to engage with, experience, and write the text the way a lost visitor might wander










through a foreign city: slowly with surprises and hesitations.

The cognitive map does not appear continuous, unified, logical, or complete. The wanderings no longer uncover denotative meanings nor certain destinations. The text becomes a situation rather than a substance. It has less to do with definitive meanings than with potential combinations and with changing the setting or frames for understanding. A practice of invention which takes into account cultural criticisms of creativity, Barthes's model depends neither on genius, nor on rational method. The twenty-six sections of Empire of Signs, which suggest an alphabetic guide or set of instructions rather than a subjective journal, explain, as they demonstrate, invention without inward reflection or objective goals. This burrowing through the city, neither centered on speech nor limited by reason, writes its own rules as it explores an unheard-of symbolic system.

We no longer know the topos or place in advance, nor

have abstract rules to guide our thinking. Barthes lets the materiality of language and culture decide his path and orient invention. He explores and elaborates on the vehicle of the metaphor topoi to disengage invention from the metaphysics of any transcendent strategy or genius outside of the shared cultural commonplaces about the City. He returns invention to a writing practice and leads us to find Otherness inscribed in common categories of the urban landscape. As he wanders from place to place, topic to




Full Text

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TOURISM AND INVENTION: ROLAND BARTHES'S EMPIRE OF SIGNS BY CRAIG JONATHAN SAFER A DISSERTATION PRESENTED TO THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF THE UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY UNIVERSITY OF FLORIDA 1990

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TABLE OF CONTENTS ABSTRACT ............................................. iii INTRODUCTION Notes .. CHAPTER ONE: FROM PSYCHOLOGY TO CULTURAL Maps Of Invention STUDIES Myth Of Creativity Invention As A Language Notes CHAPTER TWO: INVENTION-TOURISM Out-Of-Towners Attractions Wandering Game Invention-Tourism As A Minor Notes CHAPTER THREE: Language INVENTION-TOURISM AT HOME Ecritour Tele-Tourism Epistourmology Media and Cultural Roland Barthes and Studies Today Cultural Studies Notes ........ . CHAPTER FOUR: INVENTION-TOURIST GUIDE .. Empire of Souvenirs 1 ..... 10 .11 .... 11 .... 22 .43 ........... 53 ... 54 .54 .. 75 . 90 . 93 110 120 120 133 142 151 159 164 Becoming An Invention-Tourist Attraction 170 193 200 206 Notes ....................... . CONCLUSION ............................................ 209 BIBLIOGRAPHY .......................................... 214 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH ................................... 229 ii

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Abstract of Dissertation Presented to the Graduate School of the University of Florida in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree of Doctor of Philosophy TOURISM AND INVENTION: ROLAND BARTHES'S EMPIRE OF SIGNS By Craig Jonathan Saper August, 1990 Chairman: Dr. Gregory Ulmer Major Department: English This dissertation extrapolates a method primarily from Roland Barthes's Empire of Signs. Similar to a travelogue and ethnographer's diary, that text serves as an example of a new genre called invention-tourism. This genre plays through tour guides, travelogues, and the cliches about travelers in order to explore how tourism mediates differences, strangers, newness, etc .. This tourist's discourse suggests a semiotician-on-tour. That on-tour changes the understanding of attractions from objects-to-demythologize to magnets of attention. Attractions of attention change research routes and provoke a lost-sense, a doubt between knowing the way and asking for directions. A sense of loss, and of being lost, sets in motion an inner stenography of textual substitutions, iii

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iv variations, and multivalences. In terms of invention, these variations in expectation indicate emergent ideas. Without deciding on any particular choice, truth, or argument, it creates a setting for an artificial or textual brainstorming. Psychological traits of creativity no longer orient research on invention. A textual theory of invention based on a synthesis of contemporary psychological research and philosophical criticisms of creativity stresses the importance of the organization, accessibility, and provocativeness of knowledge. These textual factors restrict or encourage invention. Invention-tourism, applied to our home language and way of knowing, affects how we package knowledge and how we use our memories. Rhetors have long interpreted memory as a textual practice, an art of memory, rather than a purely cognitive function. By "drawing a blank" in memory or memory theaters, an art of invention emerges. Rather than a theater it functions as an invention multimedia performance. In terms of pedagogical applications, tourism is an oft repeated term for the new attitude required by the electronic classroom. Cultivating access and links among bits of information requires one to move through information as a tourist; informatics and generative assignments supplement memory in invention tourism.

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INTRODUCTION This training manual provides general advice about textual methods of invention and specific suggestions for designing guide books, intellectual attractions, and information agencies. In offering these suggestions, it describes a specific project, the project's potential uses, and the facilities and facilitators needed. As a guide to thinking your way to somewhere you have not visited, this manual extrapolates a textual method of invention primarily from Roland Barthes's Empire of Signs. Similar to a travelogue and ethnographer's diary on Japan, that text serves as an example of a new genre called invention-tourism. This genre plays through tour guides, travelogues, and the cliches about travelers in order to explore how tourism mediates differences, strangers, and otherness. The institutions of an invention practice will function according to a tourism model. This tourist's discourse suggests a semiotician-on-tour which changes the understanding of attractions from objects-to-demythologize to magnets of attention. By focusing on the organization and retrieval of information rather than on the characteristics of genius, invention-tourism follows the contemporary research in psychology and cultural studies. A textual theory of 1

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2 invention based on a synthesis of contemporary psychological research and philosophical criticisms of creativity stresses the importance of the organization, accessibility, and provocativeness of knowledge. These textual factors restrict or encourage invention. Invention-tourism, applied to our home language and way of knowing, affects how we package knowledge and how we use our memories. By examing the metaphors and images we use to frame our thinking (about invention), we can study the implications of the ways scholars organize knowledge for invention. Rather than merely a scholarly analysis of theories of invention, the chapters that follow present a program for thinking differently. In the early 1980s Yale French Studies published a special issue on pedagogy which argued that French poststructuralist theory can inform teaching as well as reading and writing strategies. Articles turned to Derrida, Lacan, and Barthes as guides into a theoretically informed teaching practice. One article, Steven Ungar's "The Professor of Desire" later became a book with the same title.1 This dissertation responds to Ungar's challenge to understand Barthes as a writer .and a teacher. Specifically, it uses Ungar's book as a spring-board to explore, for example, attractions, and the mediations of differences in both the tourism and invention. In this sense, the dissertation extrapolates an institutional practice (of invention) from Barthes's textual method. Just as his trip to Japan becomes the pretext for an exploration of writing,

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3 playing through his writing becomes the pretext for an exploration of invention. Barthes wants to assert and play through an otherness which resists the control of semiotic, ethnographic, and positivistic mastery. For example, in his own image "Japanned" and in his attempts to find the words for "drawing a blank," he finds an alternative perception somewhere between lost and found. The impasses and failures in his own mastery force "a change in perception that Barthes responds to in a desire to write"(Ungar 50). Through writing, he works through that image of "himself displaceddis-Oriented?--by the loss of meaning that a foreign culture sends back to him"(Ungar 50). Ungar concludes that ''it is this loss--and its impact on Barthes as the writer/semiologist on vacation--that he recasts in L'Empire des si2nes as a momentary exemption from the mastery of signs he had sought to write out" in earlier texts(Ungar 50). Barthes called this his only successful book, and yet, it "asserts loss against mastery"(Ungar 50-51). This alternative perception attempts a writing practice neither critical nor fictional, but with elements of both. Images of deviations, twists, and turns around empty centers become not objects of study, but ways to understand a loss of confidence. This sense of loss resists any meaning projected "out of a need to assume mastery and appropriate difference"(Ungar 54). This dissertation extrapolates an invention method out of this simulation of Barthes's images of momentary loss. By

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4 ''drawing a blank" in something like a memory theater, he discovers another dimension or lost-sense. This encounter with, what I refer to as farblonzhet--the Yiddish term for the affect which corresponds to an undecided pause at an intersection--sets in motion detours and necessitates rhetorical detours around impasses of knowledge. It uses the fascinations or manias usually discarded by conventional reading practices and understands these variations of expectation as indicators of emergent ideas. Those little gifts fascinate and divert the attention, changing our path long enough for one to wonder, ''am I lost yet?" Those moments, which resist a meaning within current symbolic systems, take on implications of an unheard-of symbolic system. In this sense, the failures of empirical reading strategies offer an entrance into a model of invention. In chapter one, I introduce a textual theory of invention based on a synthesis of research by psychologists and Paul Feyerabend's criticisms of creativity. How we organize our knowledge and the questions we pose determines the accessibility and provocativeness of knowledge. These textual factors of organization can restrict or encourage invention. Chapter one introduces which textual factors will help and which will hinder those efforts. Neither psychological traits of creative geniuses, nor personal histories function as central characters in the current research on the textual factors of invention. As I demonstrate, this stress on cultural and textual factors has

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5 influenced changes in the models used to describe creativity and invention. Problem setting, rather than problem solving, has become the crucial factor in determining how to make knowledge accessible and provocative. In this scenario, art and literary works change from objects of study to models for research. Sifting out relevant information, combining isolated fragments into new groupings, and, by using analogy, relating newly acquired information to information from past situations function as the major textual factors in invention. These information processing strategies of selective encoding, combination, and comparison create a situation, I argue, of artificial brainstorming. Part of this "storming" of information makes use of the plundering of cultural history, common places, or even funny coincidences. The textual factors currently considered to encourage invention are used by Roland Barthes in, what I call, invention-tourism. In chapter two, I explore Empire of Signs as a lesson on, and model of, informatics, on how to find questions to ask and how to package our knowledge. In preparing our situations for invention, Barthes argues for an openness to otherness. Through the impasses and circular misunderstandings, he allows differences to rattle the foundations of sameness. Even temporality is disrupted by "anachronisms of culture and illogicalities of itinerary"(ES 79). I extrapolate from this text a way to make knowledge more suitable to non-academic problems. These problems are

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6 messy, ill-defined, and sometimes unanswerable. Merely identifying that there is a problem can determine the solutions offered. Solving these problems requires more inventive textual settings rather than heuristic methods. As Paul Feyerabend argues, even scientific breakthroughs depend on making moves forbidden by methodological rules. In this alternative textual setting, myths and cliches become important. The myths and cliches of tourism become the initiators of research. It is these paradoxical moments, cliched (representations of sterotypes) and unique (infinite combinations and distortions), which Barthes-as tourist seeks to find. He offers a method to deal with uncertain problem situations: invention-tourism. Tourism, in this scenario, functions as a trope: a way of creating and directing the trajectory of research. In a general sense, this research uses the procedures of selecting, turning, and sifting through objects and attractions (in every sense of that word). I argue that Barthes's (often unsuccessful) efforts to find his way through Tokyo leads to a kind of rhetorical way-losing--a lost-sense necessary for invention. As an alternative way of knowing, which depends neither on traditional notions of the human subject nor on conscious memories without forgetting and the unconscious, invention-tourism disrupts the usual connection between an individual and a social background. The social milieu no longer functions as a mere background for individuals' actions. Instead, the social space of tourism allows Barthes

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7 to, in Deleuze and Guattari's terms, "pick-up ideas." Invention-tourism creates a situation in which one becomes an alien in relation to the major language. Although Barthes explores an image of a foreign city, his own language is what becomes strange and foreign to him. From those internal tensions, he offers an opening, or a line of flight, to alternative languages. Chapter three addresses the consequences of applying invention-tourism to our home language and situation. In e x ploring the relationship between tourism and staying at home, I suggest that we can write with the mythical construction of tourism (e.g., the image of the tourist with camera in tow). That writing of tourism I call ecritour playing on Derrida's use of the French term for writing ecriture. Changes in ideology and technology collapse the opposition between tourism and home. Media bring the far away close-at-home. We no longer need to go to a foreign land to function as tourists. The encyclopedic storage capacities of multi-media computers and the ease in linking information allow informatics (how we package knowledge) to supersede rote memorization as a foundational skill in all levels of education. Cultivating access and links among bits of information does not require "correct" answers or a recall of "significant" details. It requires students to know how to access information and move through information as a tourist navigating in unknown territory. Indeed, researchers often use the term tourism to describe the new attitude

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8 required by the electronic classroom. Tourism has become a major cultural activity; one survey found that "nearly four out of five vacation travelers plan to make more trips in the 1990s than they did in the past five years, while fewer than one in 12 expect to cut back on travel."2 Because tourism is already so important to modern culture, it comes as no surprise that educators have turned to that experience to describe alternative pedagogies. Researchers attempting to incorporate computer multimedia technologies into the classroom have suggested that educators use the term tourist instead of student. They argue that the use of computers has more to do with the whims of tourism than any techno-formal constraints. Besides becoming tourists at home, the explosion of tourism allows anyplace to become an attraction. Writing through touring and tourism (i.e., ecritour) invents an alternative way of knowing and perceiving, an epistourmology or knowing through ecritour. The writing, in the general grarnrnatological sense, has far-reaching implications for traditional books and textbooks. The rhetorical method of teaching writing focuses on making good arguments, while the invention-tourist-text emphasizes an alternative to rational arguments which scholars describe under the rubrics of creativity, paleologic, etc. The passage to this alternative discourse depends on the crossings and switchings found in the poignant encounters with the details of what attracts one's attention. The punctum functions as an encounter

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9 between framer and framed, picture and context, and then and now. In that sense, the relationships among the mediation of differences through a boundary or punctum can influence invention. Teaching invention-tourism does not merely use tourism as a metaphoric vehicle for the tenor of invention, it works through a literal connection between these two discourses. Chapter four applies ecritour to an institutional practice of invention. In order to allow institutions to handle an enormous amount of visual, verbal, and semantic information and to encourage an invention discourse, snapshots become more than evidence of a trip to a foreign city. They provoke further thought. A invention-tourism institution will encourage a way to think with the tourist's stereotypes and a lost-sense rather than memorization (of answers to tests), rules of formal similitude, or rational argument. To think as a tourist or to make one's home (institution) a tourist attraction requires an institutional practice which makes the mediation of difference a primary concern. In designing and managing such a practice, images and details which mirror and resist the search for connections between differences can function as discontinuous switches and links among sources of information. Differences will not dissolve into sameness nor synthesize into a dialectical merger. To the modernist rejoinder, "only connect," invention-tourism responds, "get lost." Only a lost-sense, the sense of getting lost and losing the

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10 connections, will help one navigate through an institutional practice for invention. Notes 1 Steven Ungar, Roland Barthes; The Professor of Desire (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1983). Hereafter referred to in text as Ungar. 2 Richard Morin, "Polls show baby boomers will travel, demand more," cited from a survey by the Daniel Yankelovich Group, The Gainesville Sun, Sunday, February 4, 1990.

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CHAPTER ONE FROM PSYCHOLOGY TO CULTURAL STUDIES Although every creation is of necessity combinative, society, by virtue of the romanctic myth of 'inspiration' cannot stand being told so. Roland Barthes, Sade, Fourier, Loyola Maps of Invention How do we map invention? What models do we use to understand it? In the past, two complementary models described invention as an individual's journey; one focused on particular routes, while the other described the peculiar terrain. One method appeared in the social sciences, the other in the humanities. Psychologists explored the traits and processes of individual innovators, while cultural historians illuminated the contexts surrounding an individual's creative achievement or breakthrough. This harmonious conjunction of cultural studies and the social sciences marked the most important foundation of humanism: the world was built by the creative genius of individuals; by studying their traits and achievements we could continue to progress into, and master, the future. Humanism has come under sharp attack for its conception of an "ideal man," a parochial way of life, and an apolitical conception of cultural history. The contention here has less to do with 11

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12 these sweeping condemnations of the humanist project than with the current trends in research on creativity and invention. The humanistic theories no longer hold complete sway and no longer orient research. Indeed, both contemporary psychological approaches and cultural histories of innovation have identified inadequacies in previous approaches. Much of the current research debunks previous myths and misconceptions. By going beyond a mere explication of these criticisms, this chapter explores a different theory of creativity and invention. From the synthesis of elements of social psychological approaches, Paul Feyerabend's cultural history, and textual theories, this chapter offers a theory of invention which the other chapters in this dissertation more fully explore and develop. The maps of invention examined here suggest a textual theory of invention. The way we organize our knowledge, the metaphors and images we use to frame our thinking, and the questions or settings we pose determine the accessibility and provocativeness of knowledge. These textual factors, neither neutral nor universal, function as a system which can restrict or encourage invention. In the discussion of Paul Feyerabend's theory, this chapter explores .il.lliill. a community should or should not encourage invention; however, the emphasis of this chapter concerns hIDl to encourage invention. Once we have defined invention and decided to engage in it, we should know which textual factors will help and which will hinder our efforts.

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13 Researchers no longer exclusively study particular traits in an autonomous creative genius, nor do they study personal histories as autonomous events separate from language and culture. This stress on cultural and textual factors has influenced changes in the models used to describe creativity and invention. Contemporary social-psychological approaches describe individual creativity as a composite picture. Cultural historical approaches also use the composite model, but they describe this picture as a myth or illusion. This essay does not focus merely on the differences, but on the synthesis of these approaches. The synthesis proposed in this essay suggests that invention does not depend on an autonomous creative genius, but rather on manipulating shared cultural commonplaces. This model makes invention into a collective and cultural activity rather than a picture of "man against the world" or a genius transcendent above the community. Invention becomes a type of discourse--what Wittgenstein called a language game. Wittgenstein uses this term to describe the rules and properties of modes of discourse. Jean-Francois Lyotard has equated these language games with 111 "the minimum relation required for society to exist .. Lyotard's statement allows us to see that the invention language game describes a particular social bond. The rules of the game do not legitimize themselves but require the contract or agreement between players. Without the rules, the game would cease, but each and every modification of the rules changes the game. This open exchange creates the rules as the

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14 participants play the game. Lyotard goes on to explain that "certain institutions impose limits on the games, and thus restrict the inventiveness of the players in making their moves"(Lyotard 16). These institutions demand a guided exchange with unquestioned rules. This essay will offer a model of invention which uses an open exchange. By conceiving of invention as a type of language game, we open the exchange of ideas to both more players and more methods. The research discussed here leads to the conclusion that invention usually occurs by mixing knowledge from different disciplines and playing with language. Further, invention has less to do with autonomous creativity than with the relative restrictions on the flow of information. Some institutions and institutional practices create barriers to flexible networks. The crucial element of invention concerns the fluidity of ideas across disciplinary and specialized boundaries. The approach extrapolated here emphasizes movement through information rather than the explication of any particular piece of information. Invention requires an understanding of informatics, how we package and transmit ideas and information. Because the connection of information previously thought to be separate plays a key role in the method extrapolated here, an "open exchange'' of ideas will encourage the potentially productive crossing of apparently unrelated information. This model of invention appears both in contemporary psychological approaches and in cultural studies.

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15 Robert Sternberg's anthology on contemporary psychological perspectives of "the nature of creativity" functions as a useful indicator of the shift in psychological conceptions. The volume includes traditional research on individual creativity and a "new view" which explores the "systems'' surrounding creative achievement. That "new view" indicates how the current paradigm of psychological research has moved toward a cultural studies approach. And, by playing this psychological paradigm off of Paul Feyerabend's cultural criticism of creativity, 2 we can appreciate the conjunction of shared cultural commonplaces and uncommon innovations. Innovation, the process of making changes, appears to have little in common with inyentio, finding and connecting commonplaces. But, because inventio allows the speaker to find something to say, it might suggest how an innovator finds questions to ask. In that sense, it functions not as a solution to problems, but as an artificial brainstorming. which does not require an individual genius, nor a universal true or Rational method. To find the conjunction between the commonplace and the innovative requires an interrogation and dismantling of the boundary between specific individuals' creativity and general cultural contexts. The study of the interaction between individuals and socio-cultural influences has now become common. For example, studies of Thomas Edison no longer focus on his achievements, but on cultural influences and myths as well. The stories about Thomas Edison's life help

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16 determine our common assumptions about innovators. The anecdotes about his work epitomize, and help create, our assumptions about the moment of invention. As one of his colleagues recalled, "Mr. Edison had his desk in one corner and after completing an invention he would jump up and do a kind of Zulu war dance. He would swear something awful. We would crowd round him and he would show us the new invention . " 3 Many biographers have attempted to find the psychological traits or childhood events which led Edison to "greatness," and historians have recounted the commonplaces Edison coined about invention (e.g., "Invention is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration;" "To stop is to rust;" "A harvest must be reaped occasionally, not once in a lifetime.") as well as the stories about his working methods (e.g., he often worked through the night and could sleep standing on his feet) . Edison's importance for cultural studies has shifted from an example of individual genius to an example of cultural myth. 4 Studies now focus on, for example, Edison as an American cultural hero and on how he created and manipulated that image. These studies focus on textual evidence and on changing conceptions of Edison rather than on any "man behind the myth." Significantly, these accounts call into question even the notion of Edison as an individual creative genius. For recent histories argue that Edison's achievement had as much, if not more, to do with winning patent fights as it had to do with creativity. And, at least

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17 at his Menlo Park lab, team research, not individual inspiration, led to breakthroughs. Again, the changes in approaches to understanding Edison's achievements are indicative of a shift away from studying creativity as a psychological trait. The notion of a creative genius, a person with an extraordinary capacity for original thought or invention, comes from the merger of two related ideas: inspiration and natural talent. In Latin, the word ingenium (innate ability) joins with the more complicated term genius. Genius comes from the term for the divinity which guided the stars during one's birth. The genius was worshipped on birthdays and the birthday cake is all that remains of the ritual of making an offering to one's genius. "Genius in this sense of guardian spirit was attributed not only to individuals but also, by extension, to groups of people and to places genius loci: cities, towns, houses, marke tplaces, and street corners." 5 In later chapters, I argue indirectly that something similar to a genius loci can help to reorient invention toward a concern with setting instead of individual genius. For the purposes of this chapter, it is important to understand how spiritual concerns enter into humanist notions of creativity . Creativity suggests a relationship to notions of possession by forces greater than the individual's self or at least knowledge of the supernatural. Hence, the common equation of creativity and melancholy since the fifteenth century has to do with too much knowledge, or even demonic

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18 possession. More importantly for the argument here, these previous conceptions of creativity suggest an activity transcendent above, rather than a product of, social bonds and language games. From the late nineteenth century on, creativity describes a trait found in individuals without necessarily referring to divine intervention . The inspiration of creative artists shifted from divinity to psychology. Freud had studied creativity, but most psychoanalytic research dealt only tangentially with creativity and sublimation, and always in relation to pathology. The effort to study creativity as a psycholoQical trait has overdetermined origins. But many authors, including Sternberg, use J.P. Guilford's presidential address to the American Psychological Association members in 1950 as the watershed event which sparked wide-spread interest in creativity. The staggering increase in the number of citations in PsycholoQical Abstracts during the 1950s indicates the growth of interest in studying creativity. 6 Typical of the research in the 1950s, Guilford's study catalogued the cognitive characteristics of creative geniuses. These people had a generalized sensitivity to problems or an ability to notice inadequacies in situations; they could also offer solutions (what Guilford called "fluency of thinking") and they could think in new and flexible ways about old problems. In solving these problems they offered original and uncommon responses. In their

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19 processes of problem solving, they often redefined or reorganized their knowledge, and they usually combined two or more of these abilities in constructing often complex solutions. The apparent obviousness of these traits does not arise from their poignancy but from their generality. Guilford sought to map the parameters of creativity, but he offered a tautological definition: if creativity requires an original response, then original responses are traits of creative individuals. To merely state the obvious in the most general terms does not help guide applications for the encouragement of creativity. In spite of these problems, psychologists at the time attempted to find individuals with these traits in the general population. While Guilford extrapolated traits from accounts of creative geniuses, E.P. Torrance developed a creativity test. As an indication of its current importance, the Sternberg anthology includes Torrance's discussion of the test. The test, initially devised in the mid-60s, asks participants to manipulate objects in unusual ways, draw pictures from abstract shapes, or solve a riddle. Unusual answers are encouraged. For example, one question asks the participant to list possible uses of a brick . The evaluator grades the test according to four factors which closely resemble Guilford's traits: fluency, flexibility, elaboration, and originality. In grading the test, one counts the total number of solutions to determine fluency, and counts different types or kinds of solutions to determine

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20 flexibility. For example, if you wrote down two uses for a brick, then you would have a fairly low score on fluency. If you suggested different types of uses, then you would have a high flexibility score; using a brick as a sheltering device in a brick house is a different type of use than using it as a water displacement device in the tank of a toilet. Elaboration depends on how much extra information a participant supplies for each solution. For example, the answer ''to build things with" is less elaborate than the answer "to use in the tank of my toilet to save water every time I flush the toilet." An unusual but appropriate or possible answer determines the score for originality. An inappropriate use would be an impossible use. According to Torrance, any creative individual will have a high cumulative score on this test. By defining creativity outside of cultural contexts, Torrance does not explain how a high score leads to innovation. And, by focusing on individual traits, he does not explore which social contexts might encourage these traits. Criticisms of narrow notions of creativity have invariably alluded to Torrance's test. Critics complain that knowing ways to use bricks has little to do with innovation or creativity in a large-scale social context. The use of practical building objects (e.g., bricks or nails) in tests of creativity may suggest a link between conceptions of language and architecture. For example, Wittgenstein described language games by alluding to the discussion

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21 between a carpenter and a helper. His conception of the building trade as some how linked to the very foundations of language resembles Torrance's implied suggestion that creativity has something to do with understanding how to use a brick. It is as if Torrance answered Wittgenstein by claiming that participants can build alternative language games from the raw materials of their current language games. Further, being "hit over the head with a brick" may change the very rules of the language game . This connection between language games and building materials may be a "yellow brick road" or an indicator of being "dumb as a brick." It is beyond the scope of this chapter to explore this issue further. In terms of the argument presented here, the traits Torrance describes have more import than the fascinating textual resonances. Significantly, in the Sternberg volume, Torrance adds two more traits. He argues that "falling in love" with the endeavor and the perseverance to overcome hostility toward that love are the major factors for predicting creative achievement later in life. In making this argument, he describes a boy who "was in love with nature, especially birds. He was a social outcast in his youth because of this . . . . This has been a common experience of many of our most eminent inventors, scientists, artists, musicians, writers, and so on." 7 This statement describes something most of us take for granted: creative people love their endeavors even if that love alienates them from their own community.

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22 Myth Of Creativity Paul Feyerabend questions this supposedly innocent love and the corresponding alienation. He argues that the myth of creativity isolates researchers and experts from the community . Although Torrance sees the community punishing creative individuals for their love, Feyerabend explains how this faith in the endeavor creates many dangers for an uninvolved community. They both agree that whether the community finally forces the individual into alienation or not, the individual ' s love and faithfulness initiate that alienation. Torrance never examines if, and how, the community benefits from an individual's love of the endeavor. More importantly, he fails to examine how creativity functions in the context of a socio-political structure. That social structure includes what science considers objective, reasonable, and creative. The relationships among these terms help Feyerabend explain the dangers of an unfettered love for the endeavor. For example, within his criticism of the ideas of reason and objectivity, he objects to Albert Einstein's privileging of creativity as an element within rational scientific discovery; to understand Feyerabend's objections and arguments, we need to explicate his general critique of objectivity. Feyerabend claims that when cultures identified their way of life with t he laws of the (physical and moral) universe they invented objectivity. When those cultures had

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23 to confront different views, objectivity became an issue. Cultures have three typical reactions to these confrontations: persistence, opportunism, and relativism. Some cultures persist in believing in the infallibility of their ways and fail to change. Other cultures opportunistically accept or adopt the institutions, customs, and beliefs they find attractive. The third group of cultures, the relativists, has many forms of explanation. Within their cultures they can accommodate many different belief systems. The Ancient Greeks introduced a fourth reaction to differences: Argument. Arguments standardized and formalized the method of accepting or rejecting different belief systems. It gave the user a way of finding supposed ''truths" (objective laws of the universe), and it led the way to the equation of reason and rationality with Objective Truth. Each of these four versions represents different conceptions of objective truth. And, therefore, as Feyerabend writes, "cultural variety cannot be tamed by a formal notion of objective truth because it contains a variety of such notions"(FR 140). The introduction of reason and rationality into notions of objectivity, presumes a right or truthful way of living, and everyone must accept that way of life. This supposedly universal validity of rationality justifies intervention into different cultures and gives rationality the same aura as that which surrounds gods, kings, and tyrants. Even those cultures which did not change

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24 after confronting different cultural practices refrained from insisting as a point of Law on changing and intervening in other people's cultural practices. This imperialism of rationalism also internally controls the exchange of ideas. For Feyerabend, there are two ways to exchange ideas. The guided exchange has participants adopt a specified tradition and accept only those responses that correspond to its standards, while the open exchange has the participants develop the tradition as the exchange goes along. The open exchange is guided by .in statu nascendi (words born under the impact of the moment). For the most part, we live within a scientific paradigm which guides our intellectual exchanges. To counteract the guided exchange of rationalism, we can adopt "an attitude'' that understands people as inseparable parts of the culture they live in rather than independent autonomous creators. With this "attitude" we would no longer have rational laws guide our exchange of ideas; instead we would open our exchanges to the impact of the moment or situation. Even fictitious theories work for communities engaged in this type of on going exchange. Counter to the common assumption, Feyerabend does not engage in a philosophy of science, nor does he criticize scientific research. He criticizes science education. That type of education attempts to force a peculiar methodology on historical evidence. It ignores the variety in history, and it accepts only the information which leads to the current

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25 "truth." He does not make an argument against science; he focuses his attack on the legitimation of disciplines and methods which hinder scientific progress. The research in cognitive psychology supports Feyerabend's contention that limitations on cross-disciplinary work and an over-reliance on fact-finding disrupts the increase of scientific, or any type of, knowledge. As one researcher notes, "knowledge is not facts. Cognitive science suggests that our minds make huge collections of interconnections and categorizations among the facts we learn. We cannot be said to know anything until the mind . . . cross-relates it to the maximum number of other things we know." 8 The problem with science education (and its applications in the humanities) concerns the formation of disciplines around "objective" goals. Lyotard summarizes the problem. If education must not only provide for the reproduction of skills, but also for their progress, then it follows that the transmission of knowledge should not be limited to the transmission of information, but should include training in all of the procedures that can increase one's ability to connect the fields jealously guarded from one another by the traditional organization of knowledge. (Lyotard 52) In Feyerabend's interrogation of how this traditional organization of knowledge limits the ability to make connections, he examines the relationship between creativity and objectivity; he uses Albert Einstein's discussions of creativity to highlight this relationship. Einstein argues that we create the world from "a labyrinth of sense impressions;" he suggests that creativity concerns the

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26 ordering of the otherwise meaningless world, and of putting a pattern or theoretical structure onto the universe. The connection between theory and appearances needs "a deeply religious attitude" and "tremendous creative efforts are required to establish it"(FR 133). Feyerabend counters this explanation by arguing that a person put into a labyrinth of sense impressions could never construct physical objects; the complete disorientation would prevent any thinking including the simplest thoughts. Rather than a creative solution, paralysis would take hold. If sense-data do not have a logical equivalence with the world of real objects, it does not follow that an act of creativity made the objective world. He argues that, "the existence of a logical gap taken by itself does not yet show that it needs an individual creative act itself to bridge the gap"(FR 133). The development of concepts need not be a result of the conscious actions of those using them. 9 Nevertheless, we can explain even the conscious and intentional formulation of novel general principles without depending on the concept of creativity. "Speaking of creativity makes sense only if we view human beings in a certain way: they start causal chains, they are not just carried along by them ... that is not the only possible assumption and a life that rests on it is not the only form of life that ever existed"(FR 133). The Rational model depends on a unified idea of a self, while other models (e.g., the Homeric model) have a conception of selves as relays for loosely connected events such as dreams,

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27 thoughts, emotions, divine interventions, and so on. In the Homeric model, the individual imbedded in its surroundings does not 'act' or 'create' in the sense proposed, for example, by psychologists like Robert Sternberg. But, the individual in the Homeric model does not need the miracles of creativity to engage in and benefit from change. In the Sternberg anthology, P. N. Johnson-Laird makes another analogy between creativity and irrational acts; he writes, "Creativity is like murder--both depend on motive, means, and opportunity." And, he continues in the next sentence to say, "Society has .. dramatic effects on the creation of works of the imagination." 10 This analogy highlights precisely the problem Feyerabend identifies in explanations and justifications of creativity. It gives free reign to the individual over and above the needs and desires of a community. In terms of this analogy, we try to prevent murders as much as possible, and regardless of motive we recognize that murder has a dramatic effect on society, not merely the effect of society on murderers. If we did understand creativity like murder, we would also have to confront the responsibility of the community to intervene. The type of intervention is crucial. The way we intervene, the questions we ask of inventors and researchers, should, Feyerabend claims, go beyond tests for rationality and methodological prudence. The rational model might not serve our interests at all. Theoretically it cannot deal with the mind/body split, the problem of

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28 induction, nor the reality of the external world. It has practical problems as well. It desperately needs to find a way to rethink the role of individuals; instead of masters (and potential destroyers) of Nature and Society, it must reintegrate the notion of human agency back into the context of language and culture. As long as certain "rational" actions appear to transcend culture, this Western intellectual imperialism will not allow for Otherness or different Natures and/or cultures. As Feyerabend concludes, "the allegedly most rational view of the world yet in existence can function only when combined with the most irrational events there are, viz. miracles. . It needs a miracle to bridge the abyss between subject and object, Man & Nature, experience and reality ... creativity is supposed to be that miracle"(FR 140). Creativity bridges the gap only in the Rational model. In a poignant example of the problem of an over reliance on the Rational model, one group of researchers recounts the story of the Kpelle farmers. The researchers presented the farmers with a set of 20 items, five each from four categories: food, clothing, tools, and cooking utensils. They asked the farmers to sort the objects into groups of objects that go together. Instead of putting objects into the four Rational taxonomic categories, the farmers would, for example, put the potato with the pot. "After all," they would explain, "one needs the pot to cook the potato." A "wise" man, they reasoned, would group these

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29 things in the same way. Startled, the experimenters asked how a "fool" would group the objects; the farmers explained that a "fool" would put the objects into four categories: food, clothing, tools, and cooking utensils. Obviously, the Kpelle had the ability to do the Rational taxonomic classification. 11 For the Kpelle farmers, the Rational organization not only seems inadequate, but also foolish. In order to benefit from something like Kpelle ''wisdom," we must entertain false notions and even fictional logics. Unfortunately, the dominant system of knowledge does not merely ignore those responses, it actively discourages them. In an effort to protect a domain of knowledge from the lures of "false" thinking and "fictional" forms of expression, science education represses the rhetorical strategy or language game which allows for an open exchange of ideas and the manipulation of shared commonplaces. Science education supposedly replaces this rhetorical strategy, inventio, with "fact finding" and an objective method. Inventio returns in the guise of a personal trait, creativity. This "creativity" functions as the foundation of science's ontology; it bridges the gap between a patterning mind and facts. Science and the study of history require rhetorical processes to function. Rigidified notions about historical or scientific research repress the very rhetorical processes required to continue practicing science or studying history. This repression forces inventio to return as a

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30 element of a person rather than as a cultural strategy; an innate trait replaces a learned skill. Researchers arguing for norms of objectivity and guards against "flights-of-fancy" also assume that an individual's creative mind connects obvious facts with the immutable logic of a domain. The term "creativity" can mask this cognitive or psychological bias. A bias which presumes an a priori split between a logical mind and the factual world; without creativity one can never connect subject and object or Man and Nature. Scientific breakthroughs, including scientific applications in the humanities, neither require this mind/world split, nor gain anything from presuming its existence. Advocates of the Rational model might warn that models which use inventio as a research strategy allow "any old thing" and have no guides for responsibility toward the community (of researchers); these models supposedly threaten the community with irresponsible, or even dangerous, projective readings and absurd speculations. The Rational model, including the social scientific and other scientific applications in the humanities, effaces its own irresponsibility to the community by inventing logics which it then obeys and remains faithful and responsible to. The corresponding guided exchange prohibits responsibility to anything but abstract laws. In the context of Feyerabend's criticism, we must recognize that psychological perspectives do not ignore the social contexts of creativity. Indeed, Teresa Amabile, whose

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31 essay begins Sternberg's volume, rejects the notion "implicit in much of the research [that] the important characteristics of creative people are largely innate (or at least irnrnalleable)" 12 and instead offers anecdotal surveys on creative people. She finds among the most repeated traits in these people the recurrence of a resistance to social control, the undermining of creativity by the expectation of external evaluation, and intrinsic motivation. Dean Keith Simonton analyzes the effects of the educational context on creativity. He notes that education encourages creativity until the graduate school level, where the many years of academic training required hinders creativity through the overcommitment to traditional views of artistic and scientific issues. 13 Other recent discussions of the social context merely mention the possibility of pursuing research of families, schools, organizations, and societal-cultural setting. The language used in some of these discussions indicates a deep concern for social contexts. "Originality depends on context. If you don't know the context, you can't evaluate its uniqueness." 14 As early as 1947, researchers considered the cultural context as a variable of creativity. For example, in discussing Shakespeare the researchers note that creative genius "is usually only possible at a given stage of cultural progress and can never be closely paralleled in a different era. 1115 By 1959, researchers included the social field as a crucial factor in understanding creativity. For Lasswell,

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32 the recognition (by the social field) of a variation (to the domain of knowledge) as "valuable" functions as a necessary condition for creativity. He also noted that although the social field may repeatedly withdraw and reinstate recognition, each time a consensus occurs creativity appears. The social field determines what is and what is not creative. This "ecology of innovation" attempts "to predict the routes which novelties would originate in a social context. 1116 In 1961, Stein also stressed the importance of the social field's acceptance of creativity. According to Stein, creativity functions in the transactions between an individual and the environment. For Stein, the social field selects creative variations, and only reputation determines whom we consider creative. 17 Also in 1961, Rhodes suggested a multi-variable conception of creativity: the four P's of Creativity: Person, Process, Product, and Press (i.e., the press or pressure of the social context) . 18 Sternberg uses these categories to schematically summarize the information in his anthology of contemporary perspectives. In Sternberg's anthology, the social context becomes a central concern of the "new view" of creativity in the systems approach. Indeed, these theorists partially answer Feyerabend's call for scientists to recognize the variety in history. According to system theorists, we attribute creativity only after a social field agrees to except a variation into the domain of knowledge. For Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, the appearance of creativity depends on the

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33 social agreement within the artistic or scientific establishment. As Howard Gardner explains, the social field's obstacles leave creative individuals vulnerable. They must learn to endure hostility from both peers and gate keepers. The gatekeepers have more power in determining which variations enter the domain of knowledge. Unfortunately, the social field chooses these gatekeepers according to social success in the current system, not according to an ability to add variations to the domain. 19 We can conclude from this that many gatekeepers have a vested interest in excluding rule changing or methodological variations in order to maintain their power to referee changes to the domain. Further, any group which wants to maintain the status QUO may discourage interest in variations. On the other hand, a fragmented social field which rarely reaches any agreement condemns variations to remain parochial for a long time. If a particular social field does not accept a variation, then it may enter a domain of knowledge only through its acceptance by a group of people from related fields, who may then go on to form a new field. For example, Freud's psychoanalysis, which met with hostility from the medical community, found its initial acceptance by people from related fields who helped form the new social field of psychoanalysis. Once the social field accepts the variation into the domain and, thus, begins to replicate and/or imitate it, then future generations can benefit from that llli!.lll..e. (i.e., or unit of imitation). A creative

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34 variation requires a social context. And, "if no qualified persons are willing to invest their energy in preserving the variation, it will not become one of the memes that future generations know about. 11 20 For system theorists, originality depends on relative and fallible social processes, and posterity can all too easily reverse this designation of originality. Therefore, they reject originality or the process of variation as the sole criteria for creativity. We can only evaluate the creativeness of a person or product in a socio-historical context; nothing in objects or people solely determines creativity. Csikszentmihalyi writes, "It is impossible to tell whether an object or idea is creative by simply looking at it"(Csikszentmihalyi 326). It might appear that psychologists still equate creativity with originality. For example, Robert Weisberg appears to offer a dissenting opinion in Sternberg's anthology of contemporary perspectives on the nature of creativity. He argues first that "creative thinking may require neither extraordinary individuals nor extraordinary thought processes," and he stresses the importance of commitment and expertise in a chosen field. He goes on to explain that "true originality evolves as the individual goes beyond what others had done before." Moreover, "in order to produce something new, one should first become as knowledgeable as possible about the old. 1121 Although he uses the term originality, he connects it to the memes or "what others had done before" in the social field.

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35 In this peculiar use of originality as a criterion for creativity, Weisberg discounts any radical and complete originality and imbeds the term in a social context. Although the social field may "reverse its judgment," at some point in time, the field does reach a "collective agreement." Of course, depending on the social structure of the field (e.g., the power controlled by the gatekeepers), that collective agreement may more closely resemble coercion. On the other hand, only a compromise(d) variation may find acceptance in the case of a fragmented field. The system theorists seem to recognize this difficulty in determining a creative adaptation. Therefore, they focus their initial efforts at studying "unambiguous" instances of creativity.:.. instances where "no one" would disagree with the status of the accomplishment. Finally, the system theorists study only the initial context of creation, reception, and acceptance of a person or product by a social field. Using these histories they illustrate that only imitated and replicated variations appear successful or creative. A variation which the social field ignores appears as a weird aberration rather than an indicator of a creative breakthrough. On the other hand, what was once taken as a new variation (and changed the domain of knowledge) appears later as normal and uncreative. For example, we do not consider re-inventing the wheel a creative breakthrough. Because variations depend on historical contingencies, system theorists claim to evaluate a domain's content before and soon after the variation rather

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36 than the contents of the current domain of knowledge. For example, to determine if inventing the wheel was a creative variation a researcher would not study the current domain of knowledge. If the researcher did attempt to decide whether the wheel is a creative variation by reading current physics texts, then that researcher would obviously argue that the wheel is not a creative variation. Unfortunately, when the system theorists look for "unambiguous" cases of creativity, which "no one" in the current social field would dispute, they allow contemporary prejudices to sully their historical analysis. As I discussed in relation to (science) education's role in forming disciplines, an over-reliance on objectivity and fact-finding restricts potential inter-disciplinary connections. These restrictions coalesce through the social discursive practices of educators. They define a domain of knowledge, which they separate from the rest of history; the domain then operates according to a "logic" of its own. The education process consists of training in that speriific logic; the process stresses uniform actions and ignores historical vicissitudes. While Feyerabend questions the arbitrariness of domains, the system theorists take it for granted. The system theorists use Karl Popper's definition of "World III" to explain that domains contain theoretical systems, problem situations, and critical arguments, and all of the contents of journals, books, libraries, etc., hold this knowledge, a knowledge "independent of anyone's claim to

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37 know. 1122 The term "domain" resembles Plato's Form; like Plato's notion of Form, domains do not merely communicate states of subjective consciousness because they contain an objective element; however, while people can never change the eternal Form, people can and do change domains. We discuss a domain when we refer to a branch of learning (e.g., mathematical knowledge) and we often attribute an autonomous quality to domains. Using Popper's model, the system theorists can evaluate the structuring of information and the accessibility of that information within a domain without attributing those structures to a particular writer or subjective consciousness. Popper's model allows them to deal with general structures rather than specific contents and individuals' communications. Unlike Feyerabend, who focuses on the structure of a domain to highlight how meaning is controlled for ideological or political reasons, the system theorists examine how neutral structures control access. They want to reveal that "some ways of imparting information result in knowledge representations that are not especially accessible. 1123 They hope to discover which symbols are better for "storing creative ideas" within a domain. To make domains and social fields more receptive to variations, the theory suggests organizing them for accessibility, relevance to a wider socio-historical context, and for the ability to recognize problems rather than describe (old) solutions. Studying past and possible ways to organize and store

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38 knowledge becomes a major concern in the study of invention. Indeed, this relatively new social field, with contributors from semiotics, psychoanalysis, and poststructuralism, has begun to investigate how we frame, organize, and present our knowledge. 24 Science education (and educational programs based on that model) organizes knowledge into facts. Only after educators have established a new domain does the social field create "stable facts" for the domain. These facts remain constant despite the vicissitudes of history, and students experience them as independent of opinion, belief, and cultural background. Later, these facts justify the boundaries between domains. Science educators try to prevent any style of thinking which might lead to a blurring of boundaries between domains. Again, the argument of this chapter concerns those restrictions as well as suggestions of ways to construct less restrictive language games. In the educational practices influenced by the science education model, including dominant practices in the humanities, restrictions still remain. For example, a student's sense of humor or sense of tragedy must not influence his or her scholarly activity. If these "external'' elements influence students of science, then they may begin to question the relevancy of a domain's conceptual boundaries and the timelessness of unitary facts. As an example, Sternberg presumes that "showing humor, fantasy, color, and movement, in both literal and metaphoric senses, probably are more

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39 relevant to the arts , , , then they are to science"[emphasis added] . 2 5 However, he fails to examine this presumption. By taking that presumption for granted he unwittingly discounts much of the research on creativity. In spite of the research he presents, Sternberg opts for the primacy of normal science (normal in Thomas Kuhn's sense of the word) over creative research. For Feyerabend, progress in science only occurs when boundaries blur and when we compare contemporary reason and experience with false or fictional (and often incommensurable) ideas--unreasonable, nonsensical, unmethodological theories. But, science education effaces this dialectical thinking crucial for its own success. The unitary concept of an observed fact supposedly leads inductively to clear principles and theories. Almost everyone takes it for granted that precise observations, clear principles, and well-confirmed theories are already decisive; that they can and must be used here and now to either eliminate the suggested hypothesis, or to make it acceptable, or perhaps even prove it!"(AM 168) This conception of definitive proof "makes sense only if we assume that the principles of our arguments--are timeless entities which share the same degree of perfection ... and are related to each other in a way that is independent of the events which produced them"(AM 52). The distinction between a context of discovery and a context of justification depends on this conception of timeless entities. As an example, in the conclusion and summary of the Sternberg anthology, Tardif

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40 and Sternberg argue that the field of creativity requires 11 much empirical research," but they never investigate the possibly contradictory, and at least problematic, relationship between creativity and empirical research (Tardif and Sternberg 433). Feyerabend not only identifies the influence of historical change on supposedly stable and unchanging facts, he also discusses how qualitative factors disrupt the use of factual evidence as a basis for a methodology. The medium of observation (e.g., microscopes, telescopes, eyes) and the procedures of observation (the conceptual parameters on what is and what is not an object) partially determine the object or, at least, what we observe and understand about the object. Only through contrasting the ideational context of observation (i.e., using various media and various procedures) will we expose prejudice. Comparison replaces analysis in Feyerabend's "pluralistic methodology." "Learning does not go from observation to theory but always involves both elements. Experience arises together with theoretical assumptions not before them"(AM 135). Out of this criticism of science education and creativity, Feyerabend offers an alternative which makes use of psychological theories of invention, but he abandons the notion of a psychological individual as well as objectivity as-research-guide. In that sense, he makes use of an inyentio, a strategy, with neither genius nor rational argument. Inyentio, in classical rhetoric, does not use

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41 hermeneutics of truth nor arguments. It functions not as a solution to problems, but as an artificial brainstorming. This plundering of cultural history, common places, or even funny coincidences does not require a genius nor a fool-proof method. It requires the manipulation of shared cultural commonplaces. Before abandoning the individual, an examination of what role it plays in creativity research can help to highlight impasses and salvage insights. In order to study the creative person, the system theory uses models of motivation, information-processing, and problem finding. The information-processing model uses research on the components of problem solving 26 and problem-finding. 27 Sternberg has a variety of components for problem-solving processes. Conditionalized knowledge, selective encoding, selective combination, and selective comparison contribute the most to creative problem solving. Conditionalized knowledge, all the information about the conditions and constraints of the use of abstract knowledge, helps a subject determine the relevance of information to a problem situation and the relevance of that situation to a wider social context. Sternberg rejects creativity tests like Torrance's because they focus on the most banal aspects of creative problem solving. "A person's ability to think of unusual uses of a brick, or to form a picture based on a geometric outline, scarcely does justice to the kind of freedom of spirit and intellect captured in people's implicit theories of

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42 creativity." 28 For Sternberg, the creative problem solver sifts out relevant information, combines the isolated parts into a unified whole, and relates the newly acquired information to information from past problem solving situations through the use of analogy. The information processing strategies of selective encoding, combination, and comparison work on conditionalized knowledge in a real-life situation to generate creative solutions. In addition to these strategies, the creative person must be able to discern that a problem exists. Not only do they have a sensitivity to problems, they also question accepted notions and received ideas. These strategies, traits, and motivations do not operate in a cultural vacuum. Constantly under the pressure of socio-historical conditions, the creative problem solver must contend with efforts to inhibit creative solutions through socialization like science education. Some educational institutions, in an effort to socialize students into a preset mold, discourage any unconventional or imaginative responses. It appears that the system theorists would agree with Feyerabend that science education (or any discipline built on that model) usually prohibits unusual ways of formulating, solving, and evaluating problems. And, if we no longer equate strategies with personal traits, we can extrapolate an inyentio without psychological explanations. The problem with the term creativity, its allusion to autonomous genius, leads to problems in attempts to encourage creative solutions; if we follow the lead of

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43 system theorists and Feyerabend, we might look away from individual traits and toward textual and cultural practices. Invention As A Language Game "Proliferation," the generative principle, which for Feyerabend, replaces creativity, changes the relation between the context of discovery and the context of justification. While "the context of discovery tells the history of a particular piece of knowledge, the context of justification explains its content and the reasons for accepting it. Only the later context concerns the scientist"(FR 110). "In the history of Science, standards of justification often forbid moves that are caused by psychological, socio-economic political and other 'external' conditions"(AM 165). Psychological research on invention explains that when we invent theories, "we often make moves that are forbidden by methodological rules." Because these two contexts (discovery and justification) gather conflicting information, we have to confront the problem of which context deserves preferential treatment. Feyerabend suggests that "they must be given equal weight." These contexts actually function as "a single uniform domain of procedures" (AM 167) . The generative procedure makes the context of discovery, the history of science, an integral part of science itself. No longer do "facts" and "data" justify theories. Instead, the difference between (often incommensurable) ideas implicitly modulates the progress of

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44 justification. Comparison replaces analysis and observation as the test of ideas, while the supremacy of falsifiability, as the gatekeeper of scientific knowledge, gives way to eclectic affirmation of both true and false ideas--false only from the perspective of (scientific) common sense. Science and common sense depend on the formal logic of falsifiability; this logic insists that theories must contain the possibility that new empirical evidence may prove the theory false (or true). This logic depends, therefore, on the .i.de.a of objective evidence. Because the alternative sensibility, conditioned by dialectical thinking, depends on comparison of ideas, not on the single idea of objectivity, this sensibility dissolves everyday thinking (including ordinary scientific thinking) and everyday practice "into nothing." But Feyerabend explains how this dialectic between true and false already exists in the history of science. A scientist, like Galileo, begins with a "strong belief," which runs counter to the "contemporary reason and experience." This belief spreads and "finds support in other unreasonable beliefs." It can, as of yet, find no support in the objective facts of contemporary experience. Then, technologists build new kinds of instruments to find evidence to confirm the belief. Finally, an ideology forms which contains arguments for specific phenomena in many areas of research. In this scenario, "theories become clear only after incoherent parts of them have been used for a long time. Such unreasonable,

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45 nonsensical, unmethodological foreplay thus turns out to be an unavoidable precondition of clarity and empirical success"(AM 26-27). Thomas Kuhn offers a slightly different version of change. As Kuhn explains, "anomalies do not emerge from the normal course of scientific research until both instruments and concepts have developed sufficiently to make the anomaly which results recognizable as a variation of expectation." 29 And he continues by explaining that "the conditions which make the emergence of anomaly likely and those which make anomaly recognizable are to a very great extent the same"(Kuhn 763, note 16). Kuhn does not stress the emergence of an unreasonable belief before the anomaly appears. But both theories agree that even science depends on "false" ideas and "unmethodological foreplay" for its own progress. Science does Il.Q.t. progress according to strict methods and accurate descriptions. Science education, on the other hand, inscribes a method into the particular context of discovery as a justification; this pedagogy simplifies the processes of invention and discovery not by highlighting the essential patterns of these processes but by "simplifying its participants," students of the sciences. Science's complexities give way to the demands of pedagogical efficiency. Psychoanalytic models suggest that the boundary between language games and individuals blurs when we examine cognition more closely. Although this chapter focuses on textual models, a psychoanalytic perspective can suggest ways

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46 to conceive of creativity without the primacy of a conscious masterful mind, and this perspective can link the cognitive systems model with my textual approach. Indeed, psychoanalytic conceptions of creativity suggest that the machinations of forces outside the control of any individual ego resemble the linguistic procedures discussed above by Sternberg: analogy and combination. In traditional psychoanalytic models, creativity requires the use of "primary-processes," which function by grouping apparently different objects according to some common element and then generalizing across rational domains. In primary-process thinking, "a class is a collection of objects that have a predicate or a part in common . and that become identical or equivalent by virtue of this common part or predicate. 1130 The combination of this process with "secondary-processes" (i.e., rational thinking) forms the tertiary process and converts the "primitive thinking" into "innovating powers." The amorphous process occurs without expression in words, images, thoughts, or actions of any kind; instead of appearing a concept it emerges as an endocept. Endocepts (e.g . , surprise, hesitation, and doubtfulness) appear as "atmospheric" or "global experiences." A paleologic (paleo, Greek for old) responds to these endocepts. This logic works by identification according to similarity of formal structure rather than meaning. For example, Arieti tells the story of a man obsessed by the

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47 fear that his wife was poisoning his food; later the man admitted that the wife had "poisoned his life." This type of identification allows the "stream of thought to proceed in a large number of directions"(Arieti 75). Arieti suggests three processes of association at work in paleologic: contiguity, similarity, and par pro toto (part for whole). "The few ideas that are associated by contiguity and similarity stand for a whole constellation of ideas (par pro toto) and tend to bring about the whole constellation"(Arieti 97). The associative processes have three corresponding stages; first, the abstraction of unities and grouping according to contiguity; then, metaphoric connections between similar elements; and, finally, the inference of the not given from the given, the whole from the piece. By explicating these procedures, Silvano Arieti helps us understand creativity as structured like a linguistic procedure and arising from processes outside our rational control. Later chapters will explore further the textual basis for invention. The comparison between the psychological perspective and Feyerabend's agenda has identified some differences and similarities. More importantly, it has begun to chart a different route for research. As Frank Barron urges in the Sternberg anthology, "we have reached such a point of development of our knowledge of creativity that it is ready for application. 1131 This application requires the manipulation of images and commonplaces. For example,

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48 Darwin's use of the tree image, according to Howard Gruber in the Sternberg anthology, helped generate the principle of natural selection. 32 Images generate ways of thinking. In terms of where we find these images, Feyerabend argues that art functions "as a necessary means for discovering and perhaps even changing the features of the world we live in"(AM 52). He suggests we use examples from art (he mentions dada explicitly) as generative models and as research methods not merely as objects of study. In her book How Great Ideas are Born, Denise Shererjian suggests that, among other things, creativity is aided by travel. 33 Roland Barthes uses a tourist's visit to the city as a model of invention in Empire of Signs. Tourism functions like a trope in defining the qualities of an invention process. While most tourists bring home memories, Barthes brings home an image of loss, of being lost. From his mis haps, he hints at the consequences of a rhetoric premised on getting lost among the places or .l,Qti in a kind of memory theater or city. He travels not for inspiration, but in order to find a language for that which resists taxonomic classification and scientific fact-finding. From the impasses and detours he encounters he builds a method of inventing something from nothing, of making much of little. Barthes's text functions neither as an ethnography, nor as a philosophical treatise on otherness, but as a model. The image of wandering through the City, in this case Tokyo, functions not as an object of study, but as a model of

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49 invention; it demonstrates how to find our way or make connections between topics, and by making those connections to invent something other, different, or innovative. The maps of invention examined here, from psychology and cultural studies, pave a route to this city of invention. Only by elaborating on the metaphors and images we use to frame our thinking can we investigate the implications of the way we organize our knowledge. Studies of problem setting, rather than problem solving, will teach us how to make knowledge accessible and provocative. Moreover, art and literary models offer a way to study what we do not know, something Other, different, or as of yet impossible. Notes 1 Fran~ois Lyotard, The Postmodern Condition (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1984), 15. Hereafter referred to in text as Lyotard. 2 Feyerabend writes about his cultural criticism of creativity in Farewell to Reason and Against Method. Paul Feyerabend, Farewell to Reason (London: Verso, 1987). Hereafter referred to in text as FR. cf. Paul Feyerabend, "Creativity--A Dangerous Myth, Critical Inquiry (Summer, 1987), 13, 4. Paul Feyerabend, Against Method (London : Verso,1975). Hereafter referred to in text as AM. 3 Unidentified reporter, The New York Times (19 October 1931), as quoted in Ronald Clark, Edison; The Man Who Made The Future (New York: G. P. Putnams's Sons, 1977), 31 . 4 Wyn wachhorst, Thomas Alva Edison; An American Myth (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1981). cf. Carolyn Marvin,~ Old Technologies were New; Thinking About Electric

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50 communication in the Late Nineteenth century (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988). For discussions of the patent fights over the movie camera and projector see John L. Fell's editorial introduction to Film Before Griffith (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), and for a discussion of how Edison's assistant W. K. L. Dickson actually invented the motion picture camera see Gordon Hendrick, The Edison Motion Picture Myth (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1961). 5 Penelope Murray, "Poetic Genius and Its Classical Origins," in Genius; The History of an Idea, Ed. Penelope Murray (New York: Basil Blackwell, 1989), 3. 6 J.P. Guilford, "Creativity," Presented as the presidential address to the American Psychological Association annual meeting at Pennsylvania State College on September 5, 1950 . Published in American Psychologist (1950), 5, 9: 444-454. 7 E. Paul Torrance, "The Nature of Creativity as Manifest in Its Testing, "in The Nature of Creativity; contemporary psychological perspectives, Ed. Robert Sternberg (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 68. cf. E. P. Torrance, Role of Evaluation in Creative Thinking, Report of project number 725, U.S. office of Education, H.E.W., 1964. 8 Thomas Anderson, "Beyond Einstein," in Interactive Multimedia; Visions of Multimedia for Developers. Educators, and Information Providers, Ed. Sueann Abron and Kristina Hooper (Redmond, Washington: Microsoft Press, 1988), 197. 9 cf. Jacques Lacan, "Desire and the Interpretation of Desire in Hamlet," Yale French Studies (1977), 55/56. Lacan explains that the conscious individual cannot bridge "the gap" in reality. He suggests that the development of concepts and rituals, which we use to bridge that gap, arise from unconscious forces completely out of our control. 10 Philip Johnson-Laird, "Freedom and constraint in creativity," in The Nature of Creativity; Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, Ed. Robert J. Sternberg (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 208. 11 Michael Cole, et. al., The Cultural context of Learning and Thinking; An Exploration in Experimental Anthropology (New York: Basic Books, 1971).

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51 12 Teresa Amabile, The Social Psychology of Creativity (New York: Springer-Verlag, 1983), 5. cf. Beth Hennessey and Teresa Amabile, "The conditions of creativity," in~ Nature of Creativity; contemporary Psychological Perspectives, Ed. Robert Sternberg (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 11-38. 13 D.K. Simonton, "Socio-cultural context of individual creativity: A trans-historical time-series analysis," Journal of Personality and social Psychology (1975), 32. cf. D.K. Simonton, "Formal Education, Eminence and Dogmatism: The Curvilinear Relationship," Journal of Creative Behavior (1983), 17, 3. cf . Dean Keith Simonton, "Creativity, leadership, and chance," in The Nature of Creativity; Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 386-426. 14 J. Young, "What is Creativity?" Journal of Creative Behavior (1985), 19, 2: 77-87. 15 L. M . Terman, "The Gifted Child Grows Up," In Genetic Studies of Genius, Vol. 4, Ed. L.M. Terman (Stanford, Calif.: Stanford University Press, 1947), 448. 16 H. Lasswell, "The Social Setting of Creativity," in Creativity and Its Cultivation, Ed . H. Anderson (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1959), 217. 17 M. I. Stein, Survey of the Psychological Literature in the Area of creativity With a View Toward Needed Research, Cooperative Research Project number E-3, H.E.W (New York: New York University, 1962). cf. M. I. Stein, "Creativity as Intraand Inter-Personal Process," in A Source Book for Creative Thinking, Ed. s. Parnes and H. Harding (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1962), 85-92 . 18 Cited in E. P. Torrance, Role of Evaluation in Creative Thinking, Report of project number 725, U.S. office of Education, H.E . W., 1964, 1-2. 19 Howard Gardner, "Freud in Three Frames: A Cognitive Scientific Approach to Creativity," Dmdalus; Journal of the American Academy of Arts and Sciences, (Summer, 1986), 105134. This is an earlier and unacknowledged, but nearly identical, version of Gardner's "Creative lives and creative works: a synthetic scientific approach," in The Nature of Creativity; Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 298321. .

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52 20 Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, "Society, Culture, and Person: A Systems View of Creativity," in The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 332. Hereafter referred to in text as Csikszentmihalyi. 21 Robert Weisberg, "Problem solving and creativity," in The Nature of creativity; contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 173. 22 Karl Popper, "Knowledge: Subjective versus Objective" (1967), in Popper Selections, Ed. David Miller (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1985), 60. 23 J. Bransford, R. Sherwood, N. Vye, and J. Rieser, "Teaching Thinking and Problem Solving: Research Foundations," American Psychologist (1986), 41, 10: 1080. 2 4 See for example Robert B. Ray, "The ABC of Visual Theory," and Gregory L. Ulmer, "Handbook For a Theory Hobby," Visible Language, Special Issue on "Instant Theory: Making Thinking Popular," Ed. Craig Saper, (Autumn 1988), 22, 4: 423-448 and 399-422. 25 Twila Z. Tardif and Robert Sternberg, "What do we know about creativity?" in The Nature of Creativity: Contemporary Psychological Perspectives, Ed. Robert Sternberg (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 438. Hereafter referred to in text as Tardif and Sternberg. 2 6 Robert Sternberg, Beyond IO; A Triarchic Theory Of Human Intelligence (New York: Cambridge Univ. Press, 1985). cf. Robert Sternberg, "Intelligence, Wisdom, and Creativity: Three is Better Than One," Educational Psychologist (1986), 21, 3: 175-190. Robert Sternberg and J. Davidson, "Insight in the Gifted," Educational Psychologist (1985), 18. Robert Sternberg and D. Caruso, "Practical Modes of Knowing," in Learning and Teaching; The Ways of Knowing. Eds. Eisner and Rehage (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985). 27 Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi and J. Getzels, The Creative Vision; A Longitudinal Study of Problem Finding in Art (New York: Wiley, 1976). 28 Robert Sternberg, "Intelligence, Wisdom, and Creativity: Three is Better Than One," Educational Psychologist (1986), 21, 3: 187.

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53 29 Thomas Kuhn, "The Historical Structure of Scientific Discovery, Science (June 1, 1962), 136: 763. Hereafter referred to in text as Kuhn. 30 Silvano Arieti, Creativity; The Magic Synthesis (New York: Basic Books, 1976), 71. Hereafter referred to in text as Arieti. 31 Frank Barron, "Putting creativity to work . " in The. Nature of Creativity: contemporary Psychological Perspectives, 76. cf. Frank Barron, "The Psychology of Imagination," in A Source Book for Creative Thinking, Ed. s. Parnes and H. Harding (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1962) . 32 Howard Gruber and Sara Davis, "Inching our way up Mount Olympus: the evolving-systems approach to creative thinking," in The Nature of creativity; Contemporary Psychological Perspectives. cf. Howard Gruber, "Darwin's "Tree of Nature and Other Images of Wide Scope," in on Aesthetics in Science, Ed. Judith Wechsler (Cambridge, Mass.: The M.I.T. Press, 1978), 131. 33 Denise Shererjian, How Great Ideas are Born (New York: Viking, 1989).

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CHAPTER TWO INVENTION-TOURISM . a space not of seeing but of doing. Roland Barthes, Empire of Signs On arriving in a foreign city, the point is to learn, not how to find your way, but how to lose it. Walter Benjamin out-Of-Towne rs Lost in a tangle of streets without names, unfamiliar with language, customs, and rituals, and guided only by a map which resembles an illegible palimpsest, a middle-aged man wanders around a crowded Asian city. If we add a robbery to this scene, then we might expect Karl Malden to appear from an alley telling us not to forget our American Express Travler's Checks. That infamous commercial plays on our greatest fears about otherness. Indeed, as the commercial teaches us, unless we can hope to reduce chaotic foreignness to a series of commodities, unless we can, that is, incorporate the threat of difference, we probably should not leave home at all. Faced with this dilemma, the writer "at one and the same time knows and hesitates. 111 Who would celebrate precisely those elements of travel we find most threatening? It is Roland Barthes, not Malden, who can hardly contain his enthusiasm for an otherness which eludes him. And, his Empire of Signs, which resembles a 54

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55 travel guide, includes only the absolutely other within tourist attractions. The "neglected study of tourism" 2 offers a way to understand both the social aspect of spatial structures (in this case the city of Tokyo) and, by extension, an invention-tourism . As many urban and cultural theorists recognize, "the organization, and meaning of space is a product of social translation, transformation, and experience." 3 The experience of the tourist in a foreign city defines the urban experience as much as, if not more than, architectural practice. This essay explores a way to use socio-spatial settings to think with, learn from, and invent out of. It uses a tourist's visit to the city as a model of invention; tourism becomes a major trope in defining the qualities of that invention process. Barthes's use of tourism brings with it all of the, often derogatory, connotations from social histories and literature. As he does in A Lover's Discourse, he appears to take a particularly un-fashionable pose: a tourist in the age of sophisticated travellers and ethnographers. Tourism predates modernity, as Dean MacCannell explains, "in the same way that capitalism predates Protestantism. But this is not the point. Premodern tourists were not socially organized as they are today. Sightseeing, before about seventy-five years ago, was mainly speculative and individualistic"(MacCannell 194). That social construction and organization of the modern tourist has as much to do with critical and literary discourses as it

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56 has to do with merely travelling to exotic places. Indeed, travellers often define themselves in opposition to a mythical "Tourist." "The Tourist," mocked by writers from Ruskin to E.M. Forester, never seeks the authentic, while actual "tourists demand authenticity"(MacCannell 104). That pilgrimage defines their very essence. All the pictures and stories on the attraction draw them to experience the "Real Thing." By challenging the notion of the authentic, while taking on a touristic rhetoric of adventure, Barthes resembles "The Tourist." That pose puts him, paradoxically, at odds with tourism because of the "long-standing touristic attitude; a pronounced dislike, bordering on hatred, for other tourists" as if to say 'they are the tourists. I am nm..' (MacCannell 107). Indeed, it is a commonplace among tourists and travel writers to denigrate "The Tourists" as passive spectators, who expect interesting things to happen to them, and expect everything to be done to them and for them. Andy Warhol struck a pose similar to Barthes when he remarked that he liked the postcard version of the "Mona Lisa" more than the real thing. Neither MacCannell nor Barthes scoff at this touristic activity. As noted above, by not scoffing they, paradoxically, oppose the tourists' elitist discourse. MacCannell defends tourists against the intellectual nay-says who claim to have privileged access to the authentic, 4 while Barthes becomes a tourist looking for The Japanese City. He initially wants to domesticate all cultural differences until

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57 he can incorporate them into the familiarity of his own language. He goes to Japan with the ultimate travel fantasy to visit a far-away place from the comfort of his own home (language) . He finds only a loss of his semiotic mastery and inadequacies in his familiar language. He confronts a block to any positivistic knowledge; over and over again he meets an impasse, what he would later call the puncturn, which resists any metalanguage to describe the signs of Tokyo. If we equate tourism with Auguste Comte's sociology-religion, as MacCannell does, then Barthes's invention-tourist lacks the positivistic fervor necessary for a successful pilgrimage to The Center of the Foreign City. Barthes is the worst sort of tourist: he lets things happen to him, he allows himself to be thrilled by cliches like the Zen experience or the cute Japanese style of packaging, and, worst of all, he does not attend to the ''real beauty" of Tokyo; he looks only at peripheral details. He uses tourism as a way to interrogate his relation to objective truth-seeking. Tourists' claims to the contrary, tourism functions as a metonymic indicator of the current redefinition of the categories of ''truth" and "reality" precisely because tourism disrupts the notion of authenticity. Dean MacCannell describes how tourist traps highlight what exists throughout all tourist sites and everyday life: inauthenticity. [T]ourist settings, like other areas of institutional life, are often insufficiently policed by liberal concerns for truth and beauty. They are tacky. We might also suggest that some touristic places overexpress their underlying

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58 structure and thereby upset certain of their sensitive visitors: restaurants are decorated like ranch kitchens; bellboys assume and use false, foreign first names; hotel rooms are made to appear like peasant cottages; primitive religious ceremonies are staged as public pageants. (MacCannell 103) The earlier reference to American Express concerns the common assumption that tourism "seeks to make the world a series of accessible sites, equivalent as markers for goods."(Culler 167). Again, paradoxically, it can only do this by reducing the threat of alienating difference or otherness while still maintaining its authenticity. Barthes poses as a tourist who finds the authentic inaccessible and discovers an otherness invading the familiar. These missed encounters and threatening situations could be part of a tourist's worst nightmare. Those moments of impasse and detour function as intense intersections which resist an almost religious faith in positivism common to semiotics, ethnography, and tourism. This faith in positivism accounts for the prejudice against those tourists who would seek anything less than the absolutely authentic. The social construction of this truth seeking tourist began, as noted above, during the nineteenth century. The use of the guide-book quickly stigmatized "its bearer in contrast to all that was indigenous, authentic, and spontaneous." 5 In literature and criticism the tourist became the dupe of deception and crass manipulation. In a contemporary version of this mythic deception, one researcher describes how "a Turkish respondent of mine, whose job it is to divert tourists off the main thoroughfares of Istanbul to

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59 a backstreet leather coat factory, described the language he uses in his work as 'Tarzan English, you know, the kind one reads in comic books' (MacCannell 200). In Puerto Rico, a popular joke tells of a man who in his dreams dies and goes to hell; he finds hell contains dancing girls, gambling, and booze, and he has a wonderful time. Upon awakening, he makes a covenant to live his life in sin and try for hell instead of heaven. When he dies, he goes to hell; Satan gives him a pitch-fork and tells him to start shoveling the hot coals. In protesting, he recounts his dream, and asks where are the dancing girls, the booze, the gambling, and all the rest. "Oh that's for the tourists," Satan replies. As the authentic recedes, efforts to follow it lead inevitably behind-the-scenes. For example, a travel guide to Disney's EPCOT suggests we put one such attraction on our ''must-see list." It explains that "the Hidden Treasures of The World Showcase tour will give you a better understanding of the art, architecture, and culture of the world showcase countries. You'll also get some surprising behind-the-scenes looks at several pavilions." 6 To discover the authentic holds sway over many tourists, especially ethnographers and semioticians. Once the tourist goes behind-the-scenes, the attractions out front might no longer appear authentic at all. The tourist seeks the staging ground to learn more and to protect against the un-fashionable pose of the unknowing, or worse, the deceived tourist, and this double liberal desire to see the real life of other people and to avoid

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60 deception sometimes takes on a morbid (but perhaps politically necessary) cast. For example, tourists to Dachau are told that the Dachau Memorial Museum is open year round except for Christmas and national holidays. As with most of Europe, crowds are at their peak during the spring and summer. The morning hours, however, will afford the viewer the most intimacy. Visitors during the fall and winter will find the camp most depressing as the Bavarian weather will shroud the sight in a gray blanket. 7 Do we really need to know so much, in such detail, not about Dachau, but about getting an authentic intimate view of a concentration camp. In Hiroshima Mon Amour, about a French woman's visit to Hiroshima and the memorial museum there, the Japanese man tells the visitor, who says she saw the horror at the museum, "You weren't there, you don't know." The distinction to extrapolate from these anecdotes is not merely between knowing and ignorance; sometimes chronological history, the desire to know, and the effort to avoid deception prevent otherness from having any impact on our language and lives. We see, we know, we understand; what does the attraction think of us? This essay explores what Kristin Ross describes as "an 'ethics of combat,' one that poses space as a terrain of political practice." 8 Barthes uses the spatial ambience of the urban terrain for an "ethics of combat" rather than an aesthetic appreciation of Tokyo. His adventure resembles the Situationists' derives. 9 Both projects attack the control of the imagination through the complementary categories of

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61 creativity and rationality. Barthes attempts to "grasp the everyday without relegating it either to institutional codes and systems or to the private perceptions of a monadic subject. 1110 He rejects both science education's method and subjective genius as the cause of knowledge. The city becomes, in this scenario, "not merely a network of streets, but a conjunction of habit, desire, and accident"(Ross & Kaplan 3). The practice Barthes describes is "situated somewhere in the rift between the subjective, phenomenological, sensory apparatus of the individual and reified institutions"(Ross & Kaplan 3). Invention-tourism loosens the hold of any one context or any supposedly limitable context and, by doing so, allows information to function generatively. It uses information to suggest different contexts or the illimitable boundaries of contexts. It no longer finds information circumscribed by given contexts and applicable only to particular problems. This generative scholarship uses tourist attractions, not as objects of study, but as guides for research. The attraction, paradoxically both the epitome of the real thing and its negation, calls into question both hermeneutics of truth and meaning and outright rejections of the desire to know (more, other, differently, etc.). All too often critics equate the rejection of critical hermeneutics with the rejection of the desire to know. The tourism model shows how this equation need not hold: the tourist, especially the denigrated mythic one, wants to know more about an obviously

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62 staged or inaccessible authenticity. Tourists seek these paradoxical moments (cliched objects and unique combinations) in which learning becomes a matter of jumping tours rather than using contextualized information for given problems. This model is not a cure-all, nor a "How To'' manual on creativity; it offers instead a way to understand the importance of how we frame our questions and present our knowledge. If we present information with an invisible frame, then little invention takes place. If, on the other hand, we delay conclusion and foreground the process of construction, then invention becomes like Brecht's Epic theater; it becomes distanced. This distance and forestalling conclusion occurs by interweaving codes and references. Textual machinations replace the expression of a transcendent author. By using a visit to the city as a model of invention, tourism becomes a major trope in defining the qualities of that invention process. And, as the cultural histories of tourism explain, tourists always want to find the "Real Thing." Yet, contrary to the claims of these truth-seeking travellers, tourism, by creating sights "for the toursits," disrupts the notion of authenticity. The invention-tourist does not ask what to think about all the attractions; the invention-tourist wonders/wanders what the attractions think of us. In this urban territory where streets have no names, where the neighborhoods and city alike have only empty

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63 centers, where a cook "cooks nothing at all''(ES 24), and where "emptiness is produced in order to provide nourishment"(ES 24), the impasses support this landscape with a "central emptiness, forcing the traffic to make a perpetual detour"(ES 32). The moments of loss or getting lost become the intense potential detours of invention. What I argue is that Barthes's efforts to find his way through Tokyo leads to a kind of rhetorical way-losing, a lost-sense necessary for invention. The extrapolated method of inventing from a breakdown of semiotic mastery uses the procedures of selecting, turning, sifting through objects and attractions (in every sense of that word). That is, Barthes diverges from the tourist's discourse of truth-seeking by allowing the trope of tourism to affect, provoke, and comment upon his writing practice. Through that use, he hints at an invention-tourism premised on an image of loss, of Being lost; he hints at the consequences of a rhetoric premised on getting lost among the places or~ in a kind of memory theater or city. In classical rhetoric, inyentio is the act of recalling stored information; finding something to say by moving from locus to locus is aided by the memory theater's ability to store information. The ancient art of memory shifts a process from cognition to a discursive practice. Invention, similarly, is a discursive practice rather than a cognitive trait. Invention depends on how we store and recall knowledge rather than on what we know or who we are. Different than the art

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64 of memory, which teaches a way to recall information, invention works by loosing the way among that stored data. The two systems are closely related and cannot be thought of separately, but in invention, movement rather than place becomes crucial to knowledge production. We can know the world by following and generating links as tourists lost in a foreign city rather than as mneumenitists in a familiar place. In a discussion of memory and writing, Plato rejects the performances of epic poetry. Knowledge in that oral culture depended on an artificial memory system, which made use of visual images, temporal "becoming" rather than transcendent "being," a mixture of fact and fiction, and audience participation. As Jacques Derrida explains, even though Plato agrees that writing is "good for memory," writing is for Plato "external to memory, productive not of science but of belief, not of truth but of appearances." 11 Plato objected to the passive recitations of poetry because it created a monument of memory (hypomnemata) rather than living memory (mneme). In their efforts to visit or recite these monuments rather than think for themselves, the audience lost any hope of thinking as individual subjects. Plato coined an appropriate phrase for the epic audience, who he claimed had a lost-sense and could not reason for themselves; he called them "sight-seers." Invention-tourism depends on the play between sightseers and seers; it depends

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65 on using sightseeing (in every sense) in an invention program which resembles the seer's activities. As I have argued, contrary to the notion that tourists want only the cheap imitation, they want to "get off the beaten path" and "in with the natives.'' Tourists desire to share in the real life of the places they visit. The modernist and romantic versions prize "the unpromising, remote, or marginal places off tourism's beaten track as the havens of a valid genius loci"(Buzard 165). Barthes, on the other hand, does not find revelations in marginal areas far away from tourist attractions; he finds the impasses and detours, what he later calls punctums, right there where ''everyone" goes. As an unsure tourist, unsure of his own frame for understanding what he tours, he does not mock tourism like elitist tourists; his pose as a ''mickey mocker" abandons the romantic search for authenticity and the modernist myth of originality. He occupies the smudged, the effaced, the cliched in order to find a language for that which resists taxonomic classification and scientific fact finding. Barthes's discourse is very different than, for example, Ruskin's, who in order to subvert the authority of the Murray guidebooks ironically incorporated that discourse into his own work. Ruskin writes, Without looking about you at all, you may find, in your Murray, the useful information that it is a church which 'consists of very wide nave and lateral aisles, separated by seven fine pointed arches.' And as you will be--under ordinary conditions of tourist hurry--glad to learn so much, without looking, it is little likely to occur to

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66 you that this nave and two rich aisles required also, for your complete present comfort, walls at both ends, and a roof on the top. 1112 Barthes does not rely on any guide book. The city nevertheless deceives, blocks knowledge, and offers everything-up as tourist attractions (e.g . , a Pachinko gallery, the Bunraku theater, restaurants, etc.). His opening comment to Empire of Signs, "Orient and Occident cannot be taken as 'realities"'(ES 3), take on reverberations of the degraded activities of the tourist: finding only the unauthentic, the reproduction, the "Japanesy'' instead of the "Japanese." Like a typical tourist tale, one of Barthes's anecdotes describes how he follows a map in vain, telling the taxi cab driver when to turn. Finally, he asks the driver to stop at a phone booth so that he can call for new directions. We never learn if he reached his destination or not. There is nothing peculiar about this story; everyone has experienced the frustrations of following "bad" directions. So it comes as a surprise when Barthes not only affirms the experience but builds a method of invention from this and other impasses. Seduced by the absurdity of this travel guide, one can imagine Mr. Hulot playing Barthes in an eventful trip to Japan. Hulot, the central character in Playtime and other films by the French director Jacques Tati, would, like Barthes, move through this disastrous adventure unaware of the seriousness of the situation. Yet, by doing so, he would teach us, like Joyce's Bloom (a "Charlie Chaplin as

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67 advertising agent" who takes "pratfalls within mass commodity culture" 13 ), about the wonders of this Otherness which we usually try to contain and repress. We would tag along as Barthes-as-Mr. Hulot on holiday struggled with the "apparently illogical, uselessly complicated, curiously disparate address system"(ES 33). The journey would take us from a close encounter with a violent student protest to the Pachinko galleries, where everyone appears as if working in a factory instead of enjoying an amusement. Of course, Tati would stage amazing sight gags in the rooms which Barthes tells us look the same upside down as right side-up. Our hero would visit stationery stores and puppet theaters. Most of the time he would, like the most degraded of all tourists, wander around lost. And, as always, end up in yet another restaurant, where he could marvel over everything from chopsticks to things floating in his murky watery soup. His "Japanned" picture would appear in the newspaper to his surprise. Ebisu, the Japanese god of tourism, would appear not in its traditional form of a hunchback but as an "ugly American." More than an amusing film treatment, Barthes's "controlled accidents" go beyond our hero's mishaps to a method of "yielding to the path of the initial dispatch"(ES 28): a method of making much of little. He delicately selects, turns, and sifts through objects and attractions (in every sense of that word) to meet with differing aspects of nothing, or the loss of a centered meaning and memory. He

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68 finds over and over again "a shock of meaning lacerated, extenuated to the point of its irreplaceable void"(ES 4). Even the essence of the "Japanese thing" is determined not by a positive value or meaning, but by a frame, a frame of "nothing, empty space which renders it matte (and therefore to our eyes reduced, diminished, small)"(ES 43). That diminutive character which "tends toward the infinitesimal" creates a sense of a collection of fragments organized around an impasse, an empty center of meaning. His own language shows its internal tensions, its impasses to sense, and its limits. These moments of loss or getting lost become the intense switches or detours of invention. Efforts to navigate through Tokyo, what architects call "wayfinding," leads t6 a kind of rhetorical waylosing. The image of wandering through the city functions as a model of invention. 14 In a discussion of travel guides, Barthes complains that these guides give travellers only an abstract reading of a place and exclude the possibility of appreciating the non monumental and the temporal. Generally speaking, the Blue Guide testifies to the futility of all analytical descriptions, those which reject both explanations and phenomenology: it answers in fact none of the questions which a modern traveller can ask himself while crossing a countryside which is real and which exists in t.im.e..(M 75-6) The rejection of analytic descriptions and the inclusion of the temporal and a concern for extreme particularities mark much of Barthes's work. He seeks that which resists the

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69 eternal values of Art and Knowledge. These values always presume to exist outside the vicissitudes of time, the lives of people, and the contingencies of place. Barthes rejects those methods, from analytic history to formalism and structuralism, which attempt to protect these values. But rather than leave a vacuum in their place for some romantic notions to fill, he proposes methods and procedures to approach that which the study of Art, Literature, and Knowledge have left unnoticed on the wayside. As Barthes shifts away from the enlightenment project of Mythologies, especially in the last ten years of his life, the tourist guide no longer functions merely as an illusory veil or displacement of reality. In those years he makes a decisive break with efforts to appreciate form, structure, or Knowledge. While his early works contain flashes of the importance of the particular, he does not yet incorporate those moments of insight into a larger project. In the later works, he no longer attempts analytic elucidation of a terrain; instead, he provokes us to approach the absolutely particular in our readings, viewings, travels, etc. And out of this particularity he builds a general method: a method of writing as well as reading. This essay could, in fact, introduce a Barthes Guide, vexing and difficult, but still useful to the tourists. In America, the challenge comes less from the Eternal values usually found in museums, histories of Art, and canons of Literature, than from the pseudo-science of supposedly

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70 neutral and objective description. As Barthes notes, the myth of travel embodied in the Blue Guide had already begun to give way to statistics and rankings of the banal. "Notice how already, in the Michelin Guide, the number of bathrooms and forks indicating good restaurants is vying with that of 'artistic curiosities"'(M 76). Who can doubt the veracity of a guide which gives addresses, telephone numbers, and prices of motels along the road, and who would think to question the validity of such truths? In his early work, like Mythologies, Barthes demonstrated how these everyday facts hid many underlying assumptions; in his later work, he noticed how our attention to facts discounted and ignored the particularities these facts presumed to offer. By focusing attention on the monumental or the statistical social geography, we often fail to notice the city-spiel (play of the city's structure), the setting. He went further: he offered an alternative method to both fact mongerers and calculators of eternal values. He offered an alternative to descriptive readings which depend on the abstract notions of aesthetics, knowledge, or even empirical objectivity. The essence of (rhetorical) traveling is not "certain boring and useless things: customs, mail, the hotel, the barber, the doctor, prices"(ES 13). What is traveling? Meetings, Barthes answers. The rendezvous becomes that momentary intense intersection, like a train station, an empty value, which sets in motion a perpetual combination of lines.

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71 Empire of Signs primarily teaches us about a discursive method rather than about architecture, building, or urban planning. Beatriz Colomina, in her editorial introduction to Architectureproduction, explains how architecture refers to interpretation and criticism, not merely to buildings. She goes onto explain that "a building is interpreted when its rhetorical mechanism and principles are revealed." 15 With the mechanical reproduction of the image of the City the size of the audience increases. As that image influences the audience, the cognitive maps of cities changes . The audience (the tourist in front of a building, the reader of a journal, the viewer of an exhibition or a newspaper advertisement) "increasingly become the user, the one who gives meaning to the work"(Colomina 9-10). The meaning Barthes makes out of the City has more to do with "a tourist in front of a building" than the function of buildings and streets. He does not live in a city; he uses images of the city to talk about discursive practices and rhetoric. That is, his efforts at "wayfinding" lead toward an inyentio. Designers interested in the situation of disorientation in cities have noted the importance of a conceptual image or cognitive map. Wayfinding depends more on cognitive maps and on what one knows about a situation than on what one sees. The recognition of a cognitive-textual aspect to space conceives of space as a textual translation. Feminist work on cities also points to the importance of contextual factors in mapping a city. In a discussion of detective fiction, one

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72 critic asserts the difference between how female detectives conceived of a city versus how men picture cities. The tradition of the detective novel clearly deals with the questions and darkness of the city, but from Williams' description, it seems t o do so in a particularly masculine way: the rational abstract intelligence, elevated and separated from others, which isolates and differentiates until it identifies a single cause . 16 Women writers of detective novels, on the other hand, "see light and change in the city as well as darkness"(Sizemore 155). This rather pat contrast does highlight an alternative to the film noir city. This essay focuses not on the solution of the dark city crimes, but on those elastic intersections and confusing boundaries which provoke both male and female detectives with unsolved enigmas. What the comparison of male and female writers does, perhaps unintentionally, is suggest that the city is a textual system, not merely a neutral setting. The most influential of studies of urban design and one of the first to consider a city as a text, Kevin Lynch's :I'.lli!, Image of the City, argues that "the mishap of disorientation" creates a sense of anxiety and even terror that . . reveals how closely it is linked to our sense of balance and well-being. The very word "lost" in our language means much more than a simple geographical uncertainty; it carries overtones of utter disaster. 17 This essay focuses on the linguistic and rhetorical overtones of the word lost. In helping us to work through those overtones, Lynch lists the elements of disorientation in the

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73 image of the city: direction ambiguity, characterless path, lack of differentiation, elastic intersection, weak or absent boundary, point of confusion, and many others. The knowledge of these disorientations has influenced urban planning. For example, Paul Rabinow explains how, in the mid-60s, an enormous effort at urban planning began in France. He writes, "In addition to including the latest technological and functional advances, the urbanism teams were directed to create a symbolism of urbanity and micro-spaces of sociability embodying the values of comfort, ease, and centrality." 18 He goes on to quote the authors of the "authoritative Histoire de la France urbaine" who conclude their discussion of this urban planning project by saying, "The material to be worked on is as much human behavior as the physical environment." 19 Rabinow's thorough exploration of the norms of modern life addresses how the image of the city became "an object to be harmoniously ordered" and organized according to "an urban parallel to Bentham's Panopticon"(Rabinow 211-212). Urban architecture can be read as an effort to enact "universal norms for humanity" and that "three universal needs--shelter, boundaries, and signalingprovided the grid of intelligibility"(Rabinow 244). Foucault uses such plans and schemes as "strategic exemplars" "as a means of illuminating not an entire age but particular nuclei of knowledge and power"(Rabinow 212). Like the project undertaken here, Foucault's Discipline and Punish finds a way of thinking with an image (e.g., the Panopticon).

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74 The image which this essay focuses on has little to do with being controlled, or seen, from a panopticon. Instead, this essay addresses the image of getting lost, of being out of sight or unsighted. The Yiddish term, farblonzhet, expresses the affect we can only translate as lost or confused. It describes the pause one takes at a crossroad; not the certainty of knowing you are lost, but the self-doubt implied in asking am I lost? It suggests more of what Barthes tries to describe than the English lost because it makes that spatial description more personal and meditative. It describes a situation between lost and the decision to try a different route. Farblonzhet used as an initiator of an invention-tourism functions as an instant selecting, turning, and sifting of possibilities intersecting in a momentary break with certain knowledge. The image Barthes uses to explore rhetoric resembles neither the intelligible image of the rational city, nor the legible image of the functionalist city. In that sense, Barthes's Tokyo is not a Modern image of a city, and the rhetoric he describes is, likewise, found at weak boundaries and elastic intersections of classical rhetoric. The two moments of invention-tourism, an encounter with elastic intersections and wandering around weak boundaries, make the impasses productive. The elastic intersections function as punctums.

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75 Attractions For Barthes, the punctum appears as something not quite-in-harmony, a problem or an impasse.20 The vacillation in knowledge which falls between subjective expression and objective grammar corresponds to moments of farblonzhet. Like Proust's madelaines, punctums provoke involuntary memories. The train station epitomizes this shuttling of desire. The station always alludes to other places as it "permits departure"(ES 34). This place of other places functions as a relay of desire: always pointing to something outside itself. Like a passenger jumping at the arrival of "his" train, Barthes gets hooked not because of an interesting detail in a photograph, but because of where that detail promises to take him. Proust's involuntary memories begin with a childhood scene of waiting in his bedroom for his mother to kiss him good night; analogous to this connection of the mother's figure with involuntary memory, the most potent punctum, for Barthes, is a photograph of his mother. In this photograph, "the mask vanished"(CL 109) and the air was "consubstantial with her face," but instead of the past made present ("it is happening"), the past arrests the present. This puncture or arrest in reading does function as an index of a past reality, an identification of "that has been." It cynically proves that reality is missing and dead. In terms of this death, Barthes's choice of the word "consubstantial" alludes, again, to Bazin's theory of cinema. Bazin makes an analogy between the photographic

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76 image and the shroud of Turin, but Barthes has perverted this religious metaphor by casting his mother in the role of Christ; he personalizes the truth. The religious idea that Christ's flesh and blood coexists with the wine and bread given during the Eucharist closely resembles Bazin's notion that the dead past coexists in the present. Barthes perverts the analogy by suggesting we feel pity, instead of guilt or exaltation, for the past, and he raises this pity to such a mad intensity that it suggests a death without heaven, without return. Rather than the past living-on in our presence, Barthes ask us to consider certain photographs as textual time machines. For example, a photograph of a man condemned to die puts us into a past time or an anachronism of culture; as Barthes writes, "He is dead and he is going to die .... "(CL 95). The analogy between the death mask and the photographic image still holds, but his ecstatic logic allows photography to "reverse the course of the thing"(CL 119) . _ This "temporal hallucination" indicates an emergent symbolic system. As Barthes writes, I want to change systems: no longer unmask, no longer to interpret .... Let us imagine that the science of our lapsi were to discover, one day, its own lapsus, and that this lapsus should turn out to be: a new, unheard-of form of consciousness?(LD 60) The punctum, as a lapsus in our current understanding of a chronological model of reading, forces knowledge of discontinuity and fragmentation; it makes us vacillate. The reader or spectator stumbles. Interpretation becomes "an

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77 action of thought without thought, an aim without a target"(CL 111). Barthes uses this vacillation as the "initial dispatch," which sets the course of inquiry. One might easily misunderstand this lapsus, which Barthes explains as implicating the viewer, as something which will eventually reappear like a missing address. But, this "no address" (or lli2h address) only appears in art or in reality as a something missing, a structural inconsistency, an empty gesture. The inability to find a fit, or to place the look in a body (spectator's, author's, politic's, etc.) disconcerts Barthes. He responds to that "noh place" with a writing which originates neither in a first person narration, nor a third person narration. He speaks what Mary Wiseman calls "no person," neither private nor communal. He does not argue for a universal truth, nor does he make an argument for adopting particular practices. This no address of the no person functions as a method to study the punctum as a "spider's web" where the subject "dissolves" into a "speck, cut, little hole--and also a cast of the dice." This loss and emptiness in the photograph "takes you outside yourself"(Grain 352), or carries you back to something that was and is no more. That effect marks the "photograph's transgression of the logocentric association of the real and the present." 21 It offers an alternative to conventional logocentric notions of reading: a breakdown of spatial and visual conceptions or symbolic codes. As Jacques Derrida explains, logocentric or spatio-visual metaphors

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78 (e.g., absence versus presence) center or orient Occidental or Western conceptions of writing. He interrogates the "analogy between .QlJ.l: looking and sensible looking. 1122 All philosophical descriptive language depends on the metaphor of vision. Spatial metaphors (e.g., inside versus outside) "are embedded ... at the very heart of conceptuality itself. 1123 Logocentric logic, which describes in one spatially oriented stroke how something looks, its boundaries, and how one can see or understand its meaning, falters when confronted with the figural excess of variations and multivalence. The map of Tokyo has a center, an empty center, which mirrors the subject's empty center. Obviously, Barthes's guide to this city of invention does not resemble AAA's "trip tic," but it does provoke us to travel, to wander, and to think through the urban landscape. The new logic teaches us that what attracts his attention becomes Tokyo--hence its conceptual boundaries always change. Usually we describe the elements of a city, but with a retroactive logic, the qualities retroactively connect to the city. With the clash of cultures and languages, racism appears in cities especially with outsiders like tourists looking for the authentic. The man who spoke like "Tarzan" to fool the tourists, in the example cited above, played with those prejudices. Indeed, thinking with stereotypes and schemas is more common than common sense. That organization of information is always riven with punctums, always open to a lost-sense; nevertheless, the attraction depends, in part,

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79 on this everyday or popular thinking. Indeed, as we will see in chapter three, researchers in artificial intelligence now try to program computers to have prejudices instead of formal scientific or rational logics. Racism works not by accusing an individual of some supposedly derrogatory quality (e.g., lazy, greedy, boring, etc.), but by claiming that members of a race or group always have those qualities. Prejudice works by retroactively attributing a quality to someone only after they are identified as a member of a group. It is not racist to say you are dirty .a.rui you are a Jew. It is racist to say, All Jews are dirty; therefore, retroactively you, as a Jew, are dirty. This retroactive logic can justify prejudice against large groups of people--we need not know anything besides your difference from the dominant group. This racist logic leads to a whole group being subjected to a metaphoric cleansing. Indeed, Christian propaganda used this retroactive logic to banish, punish, and, in the Nazi's extension, exterminate the dirtiness (the Jews). By claiming incorrectly that Jews belonged to a race distinct from other races, retroactive logic allowed them to be permanently differentiated as unclean, and, hence, prohibited from conversion by baptism or cleansing . That is, the racist syllogism would read: All Jews belong to a single race. You or your parents are Jewish; therefore you must belong to that race. If the premise is accepted as true and the case is true, then by accepting the conclusion one accepts the

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80 premise. To forestall prejudice against otherness, one must infect this logic with something that can call into question the premise. Barthes explores this retroactive reasoning in his examination of otherness. Instead of protecting himself from otherness, difference, and circular misunderstanding, he allows differences to rattle the foundations of sameness. Retroactive temporality creates what Barthes calls "anachronisms of culture and illogicalities of itinerary''(ES 79). His language can say nothing, or only nothing, about this foreign city; therefore, his language has, retroactively, blank spots in it. He does not first recognize his language's inabilities; instead, he notices the inaccessibility of the "Empire of Signs." These signs (of nothing, or with no central meaning) designate, only after the encounter, the weak points in his semiotic mastery. He does not blame the signs for their tenacity; he finds fault with his premise of semiotic mastery. From this discovery, Barthes goes onto discuss language, writing in general, not only in relation to his encounters with "Japan." The singular disruption becomes the (w)hole movement of his writing practice around impasses. The logic of Empire of Signs works according to the following syllogism. My semiotic mastery can understand how meaning is constructed. There is a lack of meaning in this territory. Therefore, semiotic mastery fails. Again, we can compare this to a racist logic if we make the syllogism a bit more abstract.

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81 All of this group have meaning. Within that group one does not have meaning. Therefore, the method of designating meaning is flawed. The understanding of all sign systems changes, and the general rule or premise is proven false. There is a subtle distinction between this logic and one that merely states that the particular case proves the premise false. Barthes does not claim that this territory is merely an exception to the rule, he claims it retroactively proves the rule false and untenable. Prejudice allows for exceptions, not doubt. This politics uses the "initial dispatch" of the punctum in a combinatory similar to what the situationists called detournment. This detour of the signifiers functions to derail tourism, "the leisure of going to see what has become banal." 24 In this derailing of the tourist attraction and the discounting of the monument in favor of the street, detournment loosens the meaning of each element--"which may go so far as to lose its original sense completely .. tt25 Not an empirical object, but an object of desire, the realm of our likes, dislikes, and fantasies (what Lacan calls the "Imaginary order") regulates the course of Barthes's movements. He explains that "the system of the imaginary is spread circularly, by detours and returns the length of an empty subject"(ES 32). These detours function according to a retroactive temporality. In classical rhetoric and structuralism, language functions according to a chronological ternporality. The sign's meaning can not

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82 reverse, the signifier cannot change the signified, but repetition, "the circularity which makes the one pass into the other indefinitely,'' allows, according to Derrida, "the production of some elliptical change of site." 26 As Derrida writes, "Repeated, the same line is no longer exactly the same, the ring no longer has the same center, the origin has played." 27 A retroactive time distorts deduction and induction. 28 For example, Barthes explains that the elements he finds do not add up to a totality called Tokyo, a irreversible signified, and he also explains that he does not begin by looking for the qualities, or signifiers, of Tokyo. The metonymic collection of fragments creates a kind of synergistic effect without a center. Roger Cardinal explains how to recognize details which function as punctums. He places Barthes's work on "third meaning" and the punctum in relation to other similar work like the Surrealist's ''paranoid criticism." That criticism emphasizes "irrational knowledge fed by a tangential features of the film shaped in the light of oneiric associations--a kind of errant dream-criticism"(Cardinal 114). He also describes other types of details, obviously intended or intended but understated, which do not function as punctums or according to third meaning. His essay explores how we can use peripheral details as part of a decentered reading strategy. This strategy does not focus on the intended meaning of a film, but on details which are poignant to the viewer. Rather than use details as examples to prove a point

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83 about a film's form or meaning, Cardinal suggests that the use of peripheral details, details probably unimportant to other viewers, offers an alternative way to understand films. The use of peripheral details calls into question what it means to read. Indeed, Cardinal argues that the decentered reading strategy offers an alternative to "literate'' reading. This strategy demands a willingness to experiment and to attend carefully to films. In that sense, it fulfills one of the major concerns of film studies: to encourage students to attend more carefully to the cinematic apparatus. Rather than follow the story or appreciate the film making, the decentered attention floats in "mischievous curiosity which inspires a non-acquiescent look and leads to a conscious prioritization of that which is other than the focal image"(Cardinal 114). As Cardinal explains, "there can be creative energies released by virtue of a studied dislocation of the gaze from the center of the frame to its quirky circumference"(Cardinal 114). Passive spectators will find this strategy practically impossible, but active spectators will succeed if they add something to the film which, as Roland Barthes writes, is "nonetheless already there.'' In arguing that we must add something to the film which is already there, Barthes suggests that saying any old thing will result in the same unproductiveness as saying the same old thing. More importantly, his description of the punctum as both added and already there suggests that what simultaneously escapes language and has a meaning (i.e., a

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84 third meaning); he creates new meaning for something which we can say nothing about. The puncturn requires you to find something as of yet unsaid, something different, supplemental, or left over. There are obviously intended details. For example, in Hitchcock's Notorious, the heroine, a government agent who marries a suspected Nazis to uncover his scheme, picks-up the key to the wine cellar where her husband has secretly stored uranium. When he goes to kiss her hands, she hugs him, drops the key behind him, and kicks it under a table. In the next scene, we look down in an establishing shot over a large formal party; in a single shot, the camera cranes down until the screen fills with the heroine's hand; we see the key back in her possession. This is an example of a central and centered detail. In the last scene of Welles's Citizen Kane, the camera cranes over a warehouse of Kane's belongings. In the penultimate shot of the film, we see workmen through a sled into the furnace; the words on the sled, "Rosebud,'' were Kane's last words, and an unsolved mystery for the investigator of his life. In both of these examples, we cannot help but notice these details. Indeed, they are arguably the two of the most famous scenes in the history of cinema. In producing films, directors use details to build or conclude a narrative. The understated detail appears as a reinforcement of themes or narratives, or as part of less conventional narratives. The final scene in Antonioni's The Passenger and

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85 the opening scene of Coppola's The Conversation, a film strongly influenced by Antonioni's Blow-up, use understated details to build or conclude the narrative. The last scene of The Passenger begins when the hero lies down to take a nap; the camera records only what can be seen of the dusty dirt plaza outside the window. Assassins who have pursued the hero throughout the film arrive. We see the assassin in the room only briefly in a reflection in one of the windows. Later, the hero's wife arrives and when asked if she knows the victim, she says, "no, I never knew him.'' The hero's new-found girl-friend says, "yes, I knew him.'' This scene concludes both the narrative and thematic lines of this film about switching identities. The Conversation begins with a crane shot of a city park in San Franscisco. The camera follows a mime and then follows various other characters around the park. As we piece together the relationships between the various characters, we learn that a surveillance team has an elaborate system to record a couple strolling around the park. The enigma, why are they following such an unlikely pair, involves the spectator and the investigator in a nightmarish look at the implications of voyeurism. Many of the initial scene's details become quickly recuperated into the narrative and thematic structure. We are led through the sometimes understated details like tourists consulting a guide to know what to look at next. The multi-media tourist-text makes use of found materials. Its use or programming of that material functions

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86 as a way to organize and access information for invention. In that sense, in responds to the challenge of the cultural and cognitive scientists who have stressed the importance of textual models in allowing for invention. The invention tourist-text is a model of an invention informatics. It re iterates texts by using peripheral details. Barthes explains that even in the most tightly controlled films available, peripheral details can appear. To stress his point, he chooses Eisenstein's Ivan the Terrible, Part I, a film and director famous for the careful control over every element of the film's form and mise-en-scene. We need not look for peripheral details in unseen or peripheral films; we need not search through rare archives to find the marginalized. One can find the peripheral detail in the most control sites; like a tourist, who stands in front of the monument and can not help but notice some "unimportant detail," the peripheral is not the modernist dream of the authentic away from the crowd. We need not leave the tourist attraction, the movie theater to find it. We need not mock the tourists and praise the discoverer. For those dreams of conquering new territory, of finding the authentic where no one has looked before, carry with them the baggage of colonialism, imperialism, and even sexism. The peripheral detail, the tourist's attractions, is neither heroic nor uniquely authentic. Barthes's decision to focus on an apparently carefully controlled film, Ivan the Terrible, and the recognition that

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87 peripheral details appear even in the most trite, crass, and insipid films suggests how one can use Barthes's method in analyzing other films. The goal in this dissertation is not to use the punctum to read films with, but an example can further define a reading strategy based on the punctum. According to Hollywood lore, the most takes in any film occurred during the shooting of Chaplin's City Lights: one scene took over three thousand takes to produce. This startling number of re-takes indicates an obsessive desire to control the final product. These takes also indicate the importance in this film of the pro-filmic event rather than camera set-ups or editing. Indeed, when looking at this film, one is struck both by the unimaginative mise-en-scene, camera work, and editing, and, conversely, by the minute care and brilliance in choreographing the actors' movements. The sets, nearly empty of any detail, and Charlie's central and centered sight-gags make this film an appropriate limit case for Barthes's theory. Only by carefully scanning the film can one find any details, never mind peripheral and unintended details. The plot of the film concerns a blind "flower girl" and a homeless "tramp." He falls in love with her and, in spite of many misadventures, he raises enough money for her to have an sight restoring operation. She gains her vision and is very disappointed to see her hero, who she assumed was wealthy, is actually a tramp. To identify intended, understated, and peripheralized details in City Lights, allows one to discover the differences between

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88 these details. Only by actually touring films can one pick up punctums. In a discussion of an often cited film, which was supposed to teach a group of indigenous people the importance of boiling water, Barthes suggests how punctums might occur in representation. According to an old experiment, when a film was shown for the first time to natives of the African bush, they paid no attention to the scene represented (the central square of their village) but only to the hen crossing this square in one corner of the screen. One might say: it was the hen that gazed at them. 29 Pecked by the punctum, Barthes investigates a "kind of subtle beyond--as if the image launched desire beyond what it permits us to see ... "(CL 59). As Barthes explains, the punctum's gaze "is located beyond appearance: it implies at least that this 'beyond' exists, that what is 'perceived' (gazed at) is truer than what is simply shown"(Barthes, 1983, 240). As Lacan explains, In our relation to things as constituted by the path of vision and ordered in the figures of representation, something shifts, passes, is transmitted from stage to stage, in order to beinvariably, to some degree--elided: this is what is called the gaze. 30 Resistant to your consciousness, the gaze alludes to a staining or a resist as in the dying of fabric: a stain in an image. This no.t. seeing something, of something missing or lost functions as neither part of a personality nor an element in a discursive structure, except as a loss or blockage in that structure. Jane Gallop explains this "blind

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89 field" as something outside the frame; in her discussion of such photographs where "things continue to happen outside the frame"(Gallop 153), she discusses how in those cases even certainty escapes the frame. Barthes's word choice in his discussion about the lack of intention involved in punctums betrays his doubt: "the detail that interests me is not, or at least not rigorously. intentional, and probably it must not be . it does not necessarily attest to the photographer's art" (CL 7 9-80) [ emphasis added by Gallop] . Barthes "cannot be certain the detail that pricks him is not intended"(Gallop 158). But, faced with this and other uncertainties about the "unsayable," he admits he has "no other resource than this irony: to speak of the 'nothing to say'"(CL 93). This nothing becomes the locus around which Barthes travels in Empire of Signs. Each frame of reference, which can appear as a photograph, a narrative, a video, a metaphor, or an essay's argument, can contain a links to something outside the frame. The links in multi-media computer programming for invention connect to other frames of reference. The punctum links frames even at the expense of rational certainty. This literal discontinuity or lack of certainty appears as a structural inconsistency. It thus contradicts readings which rely on authorial intention, aesthetic formalism, or cultural contextualizations. It cannot support readings which found themselves on the consistency of text or context. It always depends on a blurring between view and viewer, framed and framer, etc. It

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90 cannot exist as an unchanging image in a picture nor as a definitive frame of reference. It passes between frame and picture. The punctum becomes a pass-word or a passage among figurative snapshots. wandering: Walter Benjamin's description of his "Arcades" project describes a selection procedure similar to Barthes's: "Method of work: literary montage. I need say nothing. Only show. I won't steal anything valuable or appropriate, any witty turns of phrase. But the trivia, the trash: this, I don't want to take stock of, but let it come into its own in the only way possible: use it." 31 Just as Joyce, in Ulysses, borrows "advertisement's capital to turn it to his own uses," Barthes builds his method from the trivial as a significant component of the alternative symbolic system (Advertisements 123). For example, the haiku focuses on the trivial but raises the image to neither the metaphoric, the symbolic, nor the paradigmatic. Barthes's space of doing closely resembles Benjamin's letting the trivia come into its own by using it. In combining the elements, the goal is to create a light, fragile, and "fresh" product. These qualities arise from the looseness of construction. No one element dominates the others; "everything is the ornament of another ornament" (ES 22). This "purely interstitial object" (ES 24) has no deep substance. As the signs empty of meaning, a

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91 visually raw effect appears: not a deep meaning, nor a secret code, but a construction which shows its joints. Like the logic of advertisements, without discernable authors but with personal messages, the logic of Empire of Signs connects fragments according to the magnetism of gossip or graffiti. Barthes writes through street talk or the popular. The walk follows special places which produce anemnesis. "Things e x tra and other (details and excesses coming from elsewhere) insert themselves into the accepted framework, the imposed order. The surface of this order is everywhere punched and torn open by ellipses, drifts, and leaks of meaning: it is a sieve-order"(Everyday 107). This is the order of Tokyo. The map cannot help us here. Barthes uses the improper, disordered, and irrational as a method of research. Michel de Certeau argues that this impropriety lies at the origin of many investigations. "(B)outs of surprise (in the same way there are bouts of fever), the sudden jubilatory, semi-ecstatic forms of "astonishment" or "wonder" ... have been, from Aristotle to Wittgenstein, the inaugurators of philosophical activity. Something that exceeds the thinkable and opens the possibility of 'thinking otherwise' bursts in through comical, incongruous, or paradoxical half-openings of discourse." He goes on to explain that these philosophers find "events of a thought yet to come''(Heterologies 194). As Gregory Ulmer explains, "this 'impropriety' is necessary in any case because Barthes addresses a level of reality that

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92 exists at the limit of knowledge excluded from the extant codes of both opinion and science. 1132 Even scientific breakthroughs, as Paul Feyerabend argues, depend on making moves forbidden by methodological rules. "Theories become clear only after incoherent parts of them have been used for a long time. Such unreasonable, nonsensical, unmethodological foreplay thus turns out to be an unavoidable precondition of clarity and empirical success. 1133 The procedure makes use of variations, substitutions, and multivalence without deciding on how these choices support a particular truth or argument. In that sense, this logic allows for brainstorming without unnecessary criticism. It builds on the fascinations or manias usually discarded by conventional reading practices; it allows for the intensity, patience, and personalized analogies necessary for generating associations; it makes reading into an invention situation; and it understands variations of expectation as indicators of emergent ideas, metaphors, or even a new paradigm. Empire of Signs explores details which resist taking a meaning within current symbolic systems; these extreme particularities suggest an unheard-of symbolic system. The new rhetoric does not merely offer a negative criticism of a dominant ideology of reading, writing, or thinking; out of the failures of empirical reading strategies it builds a method: select, combine or turn, and frame or sift. Details or extreme particularities appear as temporal problems or anomalies in reading. At those moments something

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93 happens. "This something--which is etymologically an an adventure--is of an infinitesimal order: it is anachronism of culture ... an illogicality of itinerary."(ES 79). These "changes in reading" indicate a disruption of the symbolic system, that binary opposition which holds our conceptions in place. After selecting these details, we combine them in a bricolage which highlights suspicions, affirmations, transgressions, and our desires. Then, we frame this combination to encourage an active reading, to have the text become a model. Invention-Tourism As A Minor Language Such recombination does not pierce the materials, but gradually unravels them; it does not cut them from another context, but finds the "natural fissures"(ES 18). Each gap appears as a "fissure of the symbolic," the rift between individuals and institutions. Barthes looks for what exceeds the institutional explanations and from that builds the combinatory of otherness. The invention of otherness out of, as well as in, commonplaces involves what Gilles Deleuze and Felix Guattari call a minor literature. This "deterritorialized language, appropriate for strange and minor uses," disrupts the usual connection between an individual and a social background. 34 For Barthes, the social milieu does not serve as a mere background, but rather it allows him to, in Deleuze's and Guattari's terminology, "pickup ideas." This invention through a minor method allows

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94 Barthes "to become a nomad and an immigrant and a Gypsy in relation" to his own language (Kafka 19). Although he uses an image of a foreign city, his commentary suggests that what becomes strange and foreign is his own language. From within the major language, he finds the possibility of minor languages and internal tensions. He becomes a "sort of stranger within his own language"(Kafka 26). He finds not a foreign city but, in a prophetic image of the contemporary Japanese cultural and financial expansion, a linguistic or rhetorical Oriental zone in the Occident. As one Congressional representative said, "the United States is rapidly becoming a colony of Japan. 1135 Indeed, one educator even claims that "we used to export philosophy. Now we import it [from Japan] . 1136 This minor method entails escaping "the force of gravity to enter a field of celerity"(Kafka 36). As Jean Baudrillard explains, Japan manages, "in what seems to us an unintelligible paradox, to transform the power of territoriality and feudalism into that of deterritoriality and weightlessness. 1137 This minor method not only digs a space for Otherness but also calls into question the ground of both subjectivity and any stable or major method: it floats, like a tourist on a cruise, from place to place, topos to topos. In his discussion of Tokyo, Barthes explains that that city's address system "is apparently illogical, uselessly complicated, curiously disparate," but this alternative system requires that the knowledge of a city

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95 "usually managed by map, guide, telephone book," gives in to a system not based on the abstractions of printed culture but on the "gestural practice." This city can be known only by an activity of an ethnographic kind: you must orient yourself in it not by book, by address, but by walking, by sight, by habit, by experience; here every discovery is intense and fragile, it can be repeated or recovered only by memory of the trace it has left in you: to visit a place for the first time is thereby to begin to write it: the address not being written, it must establish its own writing. (ES 36) Barthes focuses on the "delicate communication" of someone drawing directions and explaining how to follow the visual cues to a particular address. In reading these diagrammatic directions, Barthes recovers the writing practice by retaining "the gesture of my interlocutor reversing his pencil to rub out, with the eraser at its other end, the excessive curve of an avenue, the intersection of a viaduct"(ES 34). The fabrication of the address fascinates him more than the address itself. By following the gestural marks in each reading and by re-reading that address, he creates an occasion to recover the process of constructing a narrative. "When an artist struggles with material .. sounds, words . it is . that struggle and that struggle alone that is in the last instance being told." 38 Instead of a single abstract metalanguage, like a printed map, Barthes's method requires us to engage with, experience, and write the text the way a lost visitor might wander

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96 through a foreign city: slowly with surprises and hesitations. The cognitive map does not appear continuous, unified, logical, or complete. The wanderings no longer uncover denotative meanings nor certain destinations. The text becomes a situation rather than a substance. It has less to do with definitive meanings than with potential combinations and with changing the setting or frames for understanding. A practice of invention which takes into account cultural criticisms of creativity, Barthes's model depends neither on genius, nor on rational method. The twenty-six sections of Empire of Signs, which suggest an alphabetic guide or set of instructions rather than a subjective journal, explain, as they demonstrate, invention without inward reflection or objective goals. This burrowing through the city, neither centered on speech nor limited by reason, writes its own rules as it explores an unheard-of symbolic system. We no longer know the topos or place in advance, nor have abstract rules to guide our thinking. Barthes lets the materiality of language and culture decide his path and orient inyentio. He explores and elaborates on the vehicle of the metaphor topoi to disengage invention from the metaphysics of any transcendent strategy or genius outside of the shared cultural commonplaces about the City. He returns invention to a writing practice and leads us to find Otherness inscribed in common categories of the urban landscape. As he wanders from place to place, topic to

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97 topic, Barthes expands the Aristotelian conception of inventio. As Gregory Ulmer writes, the image of his method "is a literalization of 'discourse' tt39 He goes on to quote Barthes's description of this literal "Dis-cursis" at the beginning of A Lover's Discourse: "originally the action of running here and there, comings and goings, measures taken, plots and plans." 40 Ulmer explains that "The movement of discourse, in other words, may be associated with the ancient topos for rhetorical invention--the walk through the places."(TeleTheory 167). In this sense, Barthes's text functions neither as an ethnography of Tokyo nor as a philosophical treatise on Otherness. The image of wandering through the City functions not as an object of study, but as a model of invention; it demonstrates how to find our way, or make connections, between topics, and by making those connections to invent something other, different, or innovative: make much out of little. In Barthes's Empire, the rules of the game do not legitimize themselves, but require a contract or agreement between players. Without those rules, the game would cease. As we play the game, wander through the city, we make the rules. As Gregory Ulmer writes, "the tourist in the visit through the place of memory transforms invention"(TeleTheory 199). In terms of this transformation, Barthes explains that "an aberrant grammar would at least have the advantage of casting suspicion on the very ideology of our speech"(ES 8). Deleuze and Guattari connect this aberrant grammar to

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98 invention; they write, "All this inventiveness, not only lexically, since the lexical matters little, but sober syntactical invention .. "marks a "movement of language toward its extremes, toward a reversible beyond or before"(Kafka 26 & 22). This grammar of invention suggests the possibleness of the impossible. It unites what could "not be apprehended together in the mere flat space of representation"(ES 14), it encourages unforeseen combinations, and it limits any definitive certainties. Lyotard goes on to explain that "certain institutions impose limits on the games, and thus restrict the inventiveness of the players in making their moves"(Lyotard 16). Moreover, "the essential element of newness is not simply 'innovation,'" but "flexible networks." Barthes's practice explains how to make the networks of the social bond flexible; that type of social bond corresponds to what Paul Feyerabend calls an "open exchange." In this sense, Barthes's city is a lesson on informatics, on how to find questions to ask and how to package our knowledge. Barthes connects together "a series of data that were previously held to be independent. This capacity to articulate what used to be separate can be called imagination"(Lyotard 52) or invention. Barthes plays through a spatial metaphor of invention and discourse (going from place to place) to return the tenor to the vehicle, the materiality of language and culture. Elastic intersections and ambiguous boundaries open rhetoric

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99 to a non-logocentric inventio. Just as Barthes selects materials according to lines of force and rifts in symbolic systems, he combines materials according to a type of magnetism. For example, we can follow one series from the arrangement of the dinner tray and the description of things floating in soup to the arrangement of food at the floating market to the chopping of vegetables to the uses of chopsticks to the preparation of Sukiyaki. All of these topics deal with the problem of division, scale, and arrangement. The way each topic moves around this motif, however, is quite different. Barthes describes food arrangement in terms of painting, then in terms of cultural materialism, and then in terms of anthropology. If we drew a line on a map, it would go from eating experience to eating e x perience, but it would miss the suspicions, affirmations, and transgressions; it would look at the food without tasting and touching; it would walk without listening to the street talk. Barthes, following Lacan and Freud, connects desire to displacement and metonymic slides. Meaning moves, in a dream, from one place to something far removed, usually something small. The famous example Freud gives is of a Yiddish joke: "Two Jews met in the neighborhood of the bathhouse. 'Have you taken a bath?' asked one of them. 'What?' asked the other in return, 'is there one missing?'" What is important to our discussion is not merely the shift or displacement of the meaning, the play on the idea of

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100 "take," but rather, that in some sense the joke describes two efforts to orient oneself in an urban setting. We tend to think of the urban setting as a way to get somewhere like the bathhouse, but the joke conjures up this notion only to offer an alternative possibility. A paradise? I don't know. It offers a way of making connections, of finding our way, which depends not on deep or general meanings, but on truth as an experiment and on forgotten connections, on getting lost. This writing practice has the "grammar of tempura" like de Certeau's ''rhetoric of walking [or waking]" Michel de Certeau explains how the "long poem of walking manipulates spatial organizations. 1141 Like Barthes 's wanderings through Tokyo, de Certeau rejects the transcendent view from the skyscraper; that view offers a "clear text of the planned and readable city"(Everyday 93). This optical knowledge, like the maps in Tokyo, represses "all the physical, mental and political pollutions" that would obstruct the rational view of the city. It flattens out "all the data in a plane projection"(Everyday 94). The "ruses and combinations of powers that have no readable identity proliferate . they are impossible to administer"(Everyday 95). Just as Barthes's city resists maps, metaphors, and rational grids, de Certeau explains that the "concept-city is decaying"(Everyday 95). In analyzing what escapes this decay of the concept of totality, he focuses on the

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101 microbe-like, singular and plural practices. His description of walking rejects a formal mapping of a particular route. Surveys of routes miss what was: the act itself of passing by. The operation of walking, wandering, or 'window shopping', that is, the activity of passers-by, is transformed into points that draw a totalizing and irreversible line on the map. (Everyday 97) Indeed, walking connects "a sequence of phatic topoi," and "affirms, suspects, tries out, transgresses, respects," etc., the trajectories it "speaks"(Everyday 99). De Certeau's analysis explains this model: For the technological system of a coherent and totalizing space that is "linked" and simultaneous, the figures of pedestrian rhetoric substitute trajectories that have a mythical structure, a story jerry-built out of elements taken from common sayings, an allusive and fragmentary story . . (Everyday 102) The coherent grammar of Western discourse does not help the inventive practice just as "the technological system of a coherent and totalizing space" tells us little about de Certeau's walking; instead, each of the sights, sounds, smells, and experiences on the walk must actually build the method. We cannot get very much of an idea of how the invention process works from merely drawing out its trajectory on a map. Choosing objects, dividing them up, and combining them into poignant groupings helps create the frame for invention. As I explained in chapter one, an openness to apparently unrelated or trivial factors functions, according to researchers in both psychology and cultural histories, as an asset to invention. Moreover, how we frame our problems allows or restricts that openness. As Robert Sternberg and

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102 Lynn Okagaki write, school tends to contextualize or frame knowledge so it only seems "relevant for doing the kinds of problems that are found in school. 1142 They go on to suggest that outside of school "problems and problem solving are not neat and clean. . Non-academic problems are messy, illdefined, and sometimes unanswerable. With non-academic problems, even identifying that there is a problem is crucial"(Sternberg and Okagaki 9). The problem-setting frame must postpone conclusion. It must reinforce the fantasy of a repetition of the "course of the writing's labor"(ES 45), and show the process of construction, so that the reader can replay (backwards) the process--so that in the logic of a retroactive fantasy, the reader's path creates the writer's path. The frame must produce what Bertolt Brecht called an alienation effect, "distance made explicable"(ES 54). Barthes does this by interweaving codes and references and by showing the path of construction. Labor replaces the expression of a transcendent author. The focus on anachronisms of culture and the illogicality of itinerary leads to the impossibility of any paradigm of choices: no metaphors, nor symbols, but metonyms of an empty (w)hole. This procedure merely "designates." "What is designated is the very inanity of any classification of the object"(ES 83). The Rational taxonomy that classifies without regard to local particular uses is attacked. Language no longer operates as the expression of

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103 reason, but as an action "limitless without the notion of grandeur"(ES 107). In finding the frame for his endeavors, Barthes occupies, like a squatter, other language games: "When no language is available to you, you must determine to steal a language--as men used to steal a loaf of bread"(RB 167). The text demonstrates what Wittgenstein called a language game, the rules and properties of a category of discourse (in this case, the game of invention). Barthes's montage of contiguities does not describe a city but constructs a cognitive map or a language game. In this way, the Tokyo of Empire of Signs resembles Wittgenstein's city: "Our language can be seen as an ancient city: a maze of little streets and squares, of old and new houses, and of houses with additions from various periods; and this surrounded by a multitude of new boroughs with straight regular streets and uniform houses. 1143 Wittgenstein's city has distinct areas which correspond to different uses of language; each use functions as a language game. Jean-Francois Lyotard has equated these language games with "the minimum relation required for society to exist .. the question of the social bond, insofar as it is a question, is itself a language game, the game of inquiry"(Lyotard 15). Lyotard's statement allows us to see that Barthes's language game describes a particular social bond; not the reified ancient city of language, but the shifts in attention around the tourist attractions, a game of invention.

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104 He does not merely record his ego's subjective wanderings; instead, he gets the last laugh on those critics who would confine Barthes to the ranks of trifling dilettantes by demonstrating with careful precision how to write about an inyentio without a psychological subjectivity centering thinking. He thinks around what he cannot think, writes beyond or off the subject, and makes much of little. If, as Susan Horton suggests, "writing allows us to wrestle with the emergent idea and give it shape [if] we think through writing," then Barthes offers a method to think beyond ourselves, beyond or other than our habituated experience of reality. Horton explains that the "sense of something not-quite-right, something not-quite-in-harmony, or something missing in our picture of the world ... triggers the process of invention and results in our 'getting an idea. 'n44 We can appreciate the relation between the punctum (private) and the combination system (public) by referring to the City as a nexus of public and private. For example, Walter Benjamin writes that we are currently "building houses with glass walls, and patios extending far into the drawing rooms that are no longer drawing rooms . in other words, private life . is dismantling itself, openly shaping itself. 1145 Avital Renell compares Benjamin's description of houses to "those that can be viewed in Southern California, with large curtainless windows into which you can look, if you want, and see a man walking around in his underwear, beer

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105 in hand, the television on, doubling public diffusion in the radical translucency of a private space, the television communicating with the window, the outside looking inside. 1146 In this sense, one kind of living, private life, is thrust out to another kind, public life. Renell makes the connection explicit when she writes that "rumor belongs to the ec-static"(Street Talk 129). In a similar fashion, a scene in Jacques Tati's Playtime has Hulot looking at an apartment complex with a glass wall; all of the individual scenes are open to the people on the street below. If, as in the film version of Empire of Signs mentioned at the beginning of this essay, Hulot plays the role of Barthes, then perhaps this scene might be a kind of flash-back (or in Heidegger's terms Entrilckung) from Tokyo to Paris; this scene teaches us about the meaning of paper thin walls and small apartments in our allegorical Tokyo: invention works by using the personal, by making private punctums public. Eric Charles White describes inyentio with the Greek word kaironomia; its etymology suggests the moment in archery when the arrow will have the power and angle to hit and penetrate the target. 47 Barthes's procedure no longer reads a city-text as a "ready-made veil, behind which lies a, more or less hidden, meaning (truth) . 1148 A city-text is a generative occasion: kaironomia. Knowing the right moment and the lines of fissure allows us to wait while generating possibilities without immediate concern for truth, sincerity, or reality. It allows for artificial brainstorming. As

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106 Cicero explains the logic of inyentio concerns the orator's ability to "hit upon what to say. 1149 Barthes 's method offers reading positions from which to allow language to strike; it allows language to hit us with something to say. As it forestalls the use of habituated categories, it allows for alternative frames or taxonomies. In the Fashion System, he writes that "the taxonomical imagination, which is that of the semiologist, is both psychoanalyzable and subject to historical criticism. 115 Karinornia supersedes taxonomy. In many of his later works, Barthes uses an alternative taxonomic descriptive system. He alters it by dramatizing it, making it work in a particular performance or setting rather than in an abstract generalization. The Kpelle farmers discussed in chapter one also use an altered and dramatized taxonomy. Shown many items from four taxonomic categories (food, clothing, tools, and cooking utensils), the farmers grouped the objects, not according to a Rational system, but to use in a particular performance; for example, they put the potato with the pot. Likewise, A Lover's Discourse, for example, appears to study .the. discourse of love-as-passion, romantic love, epitomized in Goethe's The Sorrows of Young Werther. The method of dramatization, of making it "a" lover's discourse, prevents one from assuming that Barthes intends to apply a descriptive system to his data. Instead, the lover struggles with the inadequacies of a general rhetorical taxonomy.

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107 Michel de Certeau makes a similar claim in Heterologies. 5 1 By making the past an objective fact, history becomes a taxonomy; chronology converts history into nature, what Barthes in Mythologies calls an "alibi. 1152 Jonathan Culler connects the effort to discount this alibi to the tourist's practice. "The tourist is not interested in the alibis a society uses to refunctionalize its practices"(Culler 155). When time functions to categorize events as, for example, "a cultural movement which occurred during the first quarter of the twentieth century," it does not function to remind us of the possibility of other conceptions and the mortality of our own. The principle of death in the field of knowledge reminds us that our truths are metaphors or models and that other models may replace our current conceptions. As de Certeau argues, time can have repercussions on our reasoning only if reason does not "renounce what it is as yet incapable of comprehending"(Heterologies 220). Even the notion of what will probably occur uses a Rational taxonomic system. This use of probability might function quite well in certain circumstances; it does not encourage invention. By following how a text addresses a reader, Barthes writes what calls him to read, what holds his attention, and beckons him to read on. This tracking of the address depends on the appreciation of extreme particularities, "the singular image which has miraculously come to correspond to the speciality of my desire"(LD 34). Suggestiveness replaces the

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108 notion of a correct context of reception. This drifting of meaning has a profound impact on the tone of research. Gregory Ulmer describes this shift in terms of Barthes's study of Requichot. Bernard Requichot's scribbles, scrawls, and unintelligible script represented to the artist an impasse in communication leading to despair and suicide. "But what was a process of despair for Requichot is bliss for Barthes. What began as a critic's concern for connotation . . developed .. into a perverse pleasure . n53 The e x amples from "Japan" function like fetishes, charged not with symbolic meaning, but perverse pleasure. Barthes's "work proceeds by conceptual infatuations, successive enthusiasms, perishable manias. Discourse advances by little fates, by amorous fits. 1154 It allows us "to venture in directions towards which certain words vaguely point, words which, for some as-yet-unaccountable reason, captivate us and provide what Barthes calls 'a flush of pleasure. 11155 In explaining how we can use Barthes's strategies as a research method, Robert Ray argues that, "a particular phrase or vocabulary can reanimate a whole domain. Such 'constitutive' words do not simply explain in colorful imagery something already known . rather they 'suggest strategies for future research'"(Ray 163). He goes on to explain that the crucial factor in using these suggestive figures depends on the open-endedness of their meaning. He writes, "Such 'constitutive' words or phrases are precisely not yet ideas, but rather maps for which the territory must be, not found, but invented;

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109 incomplete allegories, clues (Sherlock Holmes's dog that does nothing in the nighttime), hermeneutic enigmas, what Walter Benjamin called 'the rumor about true things.' Barthes himself offers several names for these research-generating terms: 'mots yaleurs,' 'fashion words,' 'mana-words,' color words. '"(Ray 163-4) In a different context, Douglas Hofstadter discusses the foundations of invention in similar terms. Barthes's arguments follow figures, what Hofstadter refers to as the half-coded, half-projected, and built-in "implicit counterfactual sphere, which refers to things that never were but that we cannot help seeing anyway . the sphere of implications. . tt56 The amorous fit, in its heightened ability to attend to "fashion words," leads to a method through which to appreciate and use implications rather than reject them as trivial. A city not of structures nor of meanings, but of implications and combinations, might scare-off a timid traveller; American Express(ions) may fool us into thinking we can couch difference and Otherness in creativity or rational method. We may, indeed, look for a guide which tells us all the answers, which makes the trip unnecessary, and which puts Otherness in "its place." If we read Barthes's Empire of Signs as a guide and a model, we will have to release invention from the bounds of individual creativity; then we will have to take risks, make guesses, and follow clues up possibly blind alleys. This lesson in informatics, a demonstration on packaging knowledge, plays through possibilities of storing

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110 information to encourage invention. Barthes's writing strategy moves between the cultural code or image of the city and the discourse of knowledge on inyentio (moving from place to place). Like Hulot on holiday, you find yourself in treacherous situations. Without adequate maps, nor a common language, you might hope to have your identity re-asserted on a credit card; this card would announce not just your name, but, in spite of the encroaching Otherness, a claim to sameness: I am not Other! Hulot as Barthes will take a less paranoid journey; in this film we no longer know where we are going. We tag along as the traveller gets lost, never to return to a home without aliens. Barthes unravels the metaphor topoi to disengage invention from the metaphysics of any transcendent scientific method or individual genius. He wanders through an unknown city. A practice to apply to our own situations, the linguistic cities we inhabit. This writing practice demonstrates how to find our way or make connections between topics, and by making those connections to build something Other, different, or innovative: an invention-tourist lost in a foreign city. Notes 1 Roland Barthes, Empire of Signs, trans. Richard Howard (N.Y.: Hill and Wang, 1982), 11. Published in French as L'Empire des Signes (1970) by Editions d'Art Albert Skira S.A., Geneve. Hereafter referred to in text as ES. For other readings specifically focused on Empire of Signs, see

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111 Jay Caplan, "Nothing But Language: On Barthes's Empire of Signs, Visible Language, special issue on the work of Roland Barthes, Guest Editor Steven Ungar, 11, 4 (Autumn 1977): 341-354. cf. Scott Malcomson, "The Pure Land Beyond The Seas: Barthes, Burch And The Uses Of Japan," Screen, 28, 1. cf. Zhang Longxi, "The Myth of the Other: China in the Eyes of the West," Critical Inquiry. 15, 1 (Autumn 1988): 129-130. cf. Maureen Turim, "Signs of Sexuality in Oshima's Tales of Passion," Wide Angle, 9, 2 (1987): 32-46. 2 Jonathan Culler, Framing the Sign; Criticism and Its Institutions (Norman, Oklahoma: University of Oklahoma, 1988), 153. Hereafter referred to in text as Culler. Culler writes, " ... despite the pervasiveness of tourism and its centrality to our conception of the contemporary world ... tourism has been neglected by students of culture." The most important work on tourism is Dean MacCannell's .I.he. Tourist; A New Theory of the Leisure Class (New York: Schocken Books, 1976, reissued 1989). Hereafter referred to in text as MacCannell. For an indication of the importance of Barthes's work for cultural studies see Juliet Flower MacCannell and Dean MacCannell, The Time of the Sign (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1982), 135 (note). 3 Edward w. Soja, Postmodern Geographies; The Reassertion of Space in Critical Theory (New York: Verso, 1989), 78-79. 4 See for example Daniel J. Boorstin, The Image; A Guide to Pseudo-Events in America (New York: Bantam Books, 1963). 5 James Michael Buzard, "Forester's Trespasses: Tourism and Cultural Politics," Twentieth Century Literature, 34, 2 (Summer 1988): 155. Hereafter referred to in text as Buzard. 6 Bob Martin, Orlando and Disney World; A Travel venture Guide (Kissimmee, Florida: Teak Wood Press, 1989), 120. 7 Ken Baron, "A Haunting Memorial in Dachau: Death Camp Visit Leaves Lasting Impressions," St. Petersburg Times (Sunday, February 4, 1990), llF. 8 Kristin Ross, The Emergence of Social Space; and The Paris Commune (Minneapolis: University of Press, 1988), 8. Ross borrows the phrase, "ethics combat," from Tristan Tzara. Rimbaud Minnesota of 9 Gregory Ulmer, "'A Night At The Text': Roland Barthes's Marx Brothers," Yale French Studies, Special issue on

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112 "Everyday Life," 73: 38-60. For an example of a derive see George Perec, Life; A User's Manual, Trans. David Bellos (Boston: David Godine, 1987), 237 . Perec writes: "He let himself wander, going wherever the whim took him, plunging into the five-o'clock bustle of office workers. He trailed along shopfronts, went into all the art galleries, walked slowly through the arcades in the IXth arrondissement, stopping at every store. He stared with equal attention at rustic washstands in furniture stores, bedheads and springs in matteress-makers' windows, artificial wreathes in undertakers' shopfronts, curtain rails in haberdasheries, 'erotic' playing cards with macromammaried pin-ups in novelty stores (Mann sprich deutsche, English speaken), the yellowing photographs advertising Art studios: a moon faced urchin in a vulgarly-cut sailor suit, an ugly boy in a cricket cap, a pug-nosed youth, a rather repellent bulldog type of man by a brand-new car. " lO Kristin Ross and Alice Kaplan, "Introduction," xal,e. French Studies, Special issue on "Everyday Life," 73: 3. Hereafter referred to in text as YFS. 11 Jacques Derrida, Disseminations, Trans. Barbara Johnson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), 103. 12 John Ruskin, Mornings in Florence; Being Simple Studies in Christian Art for English Travellers, 3rd ed. (Sunnyside, Orpington, Kent: George Allen, 1889), 10-11, as quoted in James Michael Buzard, "Forester's Trespasses: Tourism and Cultural Politics," Twentieth Centur:1 Literature (Summer 1988), 34, 2: 157. 13 Jennifer Wicke, Advertising Fictions; Literature, Advertisement, and Social Reading (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 125. Hereafter referred to in text as Advertising. 1 4 Marc Eli Blanchard, In Search of the City; Engels, Baudelaire. and Rimbaud, Stanford French and Italian Studies, 37 (Saratoga, California: Anma Libri, 1985). Focuses on the three thinkers as respectively investigator, flaneur, and spectator. cf. Burton Pike, The Image of the City in Modern Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981). Examines the relationship between an individual and the mass, and utopian visions of cities. cf. Raymond Williams, .The. Countr:1 and The City (New York: Oxford University Press, 1973). cf. Lewis Mumford, The Cit:1 in Histor:1 (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1961). cf. David R. Weimar, The Cit::{ as Metaphor (New York: Random House, 1966).

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113 15 Beatriz Colomina, Architectureproduction (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 1988), 7. Hereafter referred to in text as Colomina. For a brief discussion of an architect's use of Empire of Signs, see Kisho Kurokawa, "Le Poetique in Architecture," The Japan Architect, 60 (February 1985) : 25-30. 16 Christine Wick Sizemore, A Female Vision of the City: London in the Novels of Five British Women (Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 1989), 154. Hereafter referred to in text as Sizemore. 17 Kevin Lynch, The Image of the City (Cambridge, Mass: MIT Press, 1960), 4. l8 Paul Rabinow, French Modern; Norms and Forms of the Social Environment (Cambride, Mass.: MIT Press, 1989), 6. cf. Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish; The Birth of the Prison, Trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage Books, 197 9) . 19 Maurice Roncayolo, Histoire de la France Urbaine (Paris: Seuil, 1985), 5: 370, as quoted in Paul Rabinow, French Modern; Norms and Forms of the Social Environment (Cambride, Mass.: MIT Press, 1989). Hereafter referred in text as Rabinow. to 20 Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida; Reflections on Photography (New York: Hill and Wang, 1980). Hereafter referred to in text as CL. cf. Jane Gallop, "Carnal Knowledge," in Thinking Through The Body (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 135-159. For an excellent discussion on the connection between "fading" of the subject, voice, or presence and the "punctum" see Ned Lukacher, "Prosopopoeia," Primal Scenes: Literature, Philosophy, Psychoanalysis (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1986), 68-96. Lukacher argues, among other things, that Barthes teaches us how to locate instances of "tonal instability" or "fading." These interpretations of the fading voice signal "the ending of the Platonic notion of voice as presence. Anarnnesis enables memory to make voice present to the self in the absence of the voice"(72-73). Lukacher also connects Barthes's project to Derrida's and Lacan's theories. Although it exceeds the scope of this chapter, I would argue that the punctum is similar to Lacan's objet a. For a reading of the objet a as similar, although unstated, to the punctum see Ellie Ragland Sullivan, "The Writing of the Real," Visible Language, 22,4.

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114 cf. Craig Saper, "Lacan's Theory of the Gaze: A Response to Cinema and Art Theory," in Lacanian Theory and the Practice of Cultural Criticism, Eds. Mark Bracher and Richard Feldstein (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, forthcoming) . 2l Mary Bittner Wiseman, The Ecstasies of Roland Barthes (New York: Routledge, 1989), 153. 22 Jacques Derrida, "White Mythology: Metaphor In The Text of Philosophy," Trans. F.C. Moore, New Literary History 6 (1974), 55. 23 Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference. Trans. and introduced by Alan Bass (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), 113. 24 Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle (Detroit: Black & Red, 1970), aphorism number 168, pages not numbered. 25 Guy Debord, "Detournment as Negation and Prelude,"(1959) in Situationist International Anthology. Ed. and Trans. Ken Knabb (Berkeley: Bureau of Public Secrets, 1981), 55. 2 6 Jacques Derrida, Speech and Phenomena, Trans. David Allison (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1973), 128. 27 Jacques Derrida, Writing and Difference, Trans. and introduced by Alan Bass (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1978), 296. 28 Jacques Lacan, "Desire and the Interpretation of Desire in Hamlet," Yale French Studies, 55/56 (1977). 2 9 Roland Barthes, Responsibility of Forms, Trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1983 ), 239. Hereafter referred to in text as Barthes, 1983. 30 Jacques Lacan, The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis, Seminar XI, Trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Norton, 1978). 31 Walter Benjamin, "N[Theoretics of Knowledge; Theories of Progress]" (from the Arcades Project), Philosophical Forum, 15, 1-2 (Fall-Winter 1983-1984) : 5.

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115 32 Gregory Ulmer, Studies (Milwaukee: 223-224. "Barthes' Body," Twentieth Century University of Wisconsin Press, 1983) 33 Paul Feyerabend, Against Method (London: 1975), 26-27. Verson, 3 4 Giles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, Kafka; Toward a Minor Literature, Trans. Dana Polan (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1986), 17. Hereafter referred to in text as Kafka. cf. Roland Barthes, "Kafka's Answer," in Franz Kafka, Ed. Leo Hamalian (New York: New Directions Press, 1974), 140-143. cf. Alan Udoff, "Introduction: Kafka's Question," in Kafka and the contemporary Critical Performance, Ed. Alan Udoff (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1987), 4-10. Barthes explains that "Kafka's narrative is not woven of symbols, as we have been told so often, but it is the first of an entirely different technique, the technique of allusion"(l42). Udoff objects to Barthes's privileging of "a particular form of multivalency" which valorizes only one interpretation of Kafka. Udoff ends his essay by explaining that "at the root of the questions that proliferate through Kafka's writings, then, there lies an expeditionary striving ... "(13). One argument of this chapter is that Barthes's Kafkaesque expedition through Tokyo questions inventio. Empire of Signs offers an alternative to Udoff's opinion that "to read Kafka is to attempt to 'find one's way' ... "(12). Barthes demonstrates the importance of losing one's way. 35 United States Congressional Representative Helen Bentley, quoted in "Fear and Loathing of Japan," Fortune (February 26, 1990): 50. 36 Clyde Prestowitz, quoted in "Fear and Loathing of Japan," Fortune (February 26, 1990): 52. 3 7 Jean Baudrillard, America, Trans. Chris Turner (New York: Verso, 1988), 76. 38 Roland Barthes, "Event, Poem, Novel"(CritiQue, 1965), afterword for Phillipe Sollers, Event, Trans. Bruce Benderson and Ursula Molinaro (New York: Red Dust, 1986), 104.

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116 3 9 Gregory Ulmer, TeleTheory: Grammatology in the Age of Video (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989) 167. Hereafter referred to in text as TeleTheory. 40 Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse; Fragments, Trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1978), 3. Hereafter referred to in text as LD. cf. Gregory Ulmer, "The Discourse of the Imaginary," Diacritics, 10, 1 (1980): 61-76. 41 Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life, Trans. Steven Rendall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 101. Hereafter referred to in text as Everyday. 42 Robert Sternberg and Lynnn Okagaki, "Teaching Thinking Skills: We're Getting the Context Wrong," unpublished manuscript (1989), 9. Hereafter referred to in text as Sternberg and Okagaki. 43 Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations, Trans. G. E. M. Anscombe (London: Oxford University Press, 1968), 18. cf. Robert Ackermann, Wittgenstein's City (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1988). Ackermann's reading of Wittgenstein divides the city into neighborhoods containing "clear linguistic assertions." 44 Susan Horton, Thinking Through Writing (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1982), 71 . 4 5 Walter Benjamin, "Karl Kraus," in Reflections, Ed. with an Intro. by Peter Demetz (New York: Shocken Books, 1986), 247. 46 Avital Ronell, "Street Talk," Studies in Twentieth century Literature, 11, 1 (1986): 128 . 47 Eric Charles White, Kaironomia: On The Will-To-Invent (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1987). If a science of Kaironomia exists, it must promise "fore-knowledge of chance," and if it has a philosophy, it stands against .dQz.a. and conventional wisdom. Kaironomia "implies that there can be more than a contingent and provisional management of the present opportunity. 11 It "counsels thought to act . . . on the spur of the moment ... to make do with whatever is conveniently at hand"(l3). This "purely circumstantial activity" "entails a conception of temporality according to which the flow of time is understood as a succession of

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117 discontinuous occaisions rather than as duration or historical continuity"(l4) . With this ethos, one finds oneself in the position of having to at once invent new meanings to meet the demands of the moment and subordinate "meaning to the occaision"(15). On the other hand, "the activity of invention must be founded on the recognition that originality is only the instauration of a new common place"(89). White connects the ethos of kaironomia to the "middle voice;" the middle voice coalesces subject and object. The middle voice can function as a strategy "not for remaining the same, but for becoming other"(53). It "remains the middle voice only so long as it loses itself in its own process. As soon as it reconizes itself as middle voice, it has already become the reflexive voice"(94). Roland Barthes, in "To write: intransitive verb?''(1966), e x plains how the "middle voice" functions in modern texts; in this way Barthes becomes the middle term between the ancient tradition (or its revival in artistic and literary modernism) and contemporary theory. For Barthes, speculative invention from the middle voice undermines the notion of the self as a noncontingent, essential, discrete, autonomous, self always dependent on, what Lacan calls, "the voice of the Other." Barthes uses the middle voice to "transcend the ego's tendency to attach itself to an illusory plenitude in the hope of having its dream confirmed of truly being the author of its experience"(55). He adds in The Pleasure of the Text, that the "middle voice never [is] an achieved voice;" if it identifies the "mutability of Being than it falls prey to the illusion of a static representation"(56). In SLZ, Barthes dramatizes the problems of the subject/object split; Sarrsine establishes "an inverse relationship between Zambinella and himself, so that their respective attributes perfectly complement one another .. to define or fix his own being." White writes that, "the fixing of the object has, then as its purpose the desire to fix the subject. Love for the other returns in the form of self-love, or narcissism . " In this way desire becomes stagnant . Disrupting this homeostasis, "the castrato [Zabinella] is simultaneously outside the difference between the sexes as well as representing the literalization of its illusory symmetry"(81). Zabinella functions as the middle voice in the allegorized version of Sarrasine; the middle voice disrupts the Imaginary certainty of an autonomous ego; it transforms subject and object in an endless dynamic of repetition and difference never coming to rest in a symmetical certainty; and, as the will-to-invent, it keeps desire in play by fixing neither object nor subject. This "grammar of desire" locates the emergence of desire in an irritation (47). And, just as Sarrasine sought to guarantee his pleasure in fixing Zambinella's sexuality

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118 as symmetrical to his own, the sadist and masochist seek to hold desire at bay. Sadism and masochism strategically circumvent the disruption of the irritating desire by using an habitual mode of satisfaction rather than improvising with each encounter. The achievement of erotic satisfaction becomes routine, and, in doing so, releases "the self from the burden of invention"(49). Desire constantly destabilizes the subject's certainty. "The disintegrating agency of desire ceaselessly undermines the subject's attempt to attribute finality to its present stage of realization"(51). This ethos demands a subject imbedded in its surroundings guided by in statu nascendi (words born under the impact of the moment), and an openess to disintegrating every certainty. 4 8 Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of The Text (New York: Hill and Wang, 1975), 64. 4 9 Cicero, De Oratore, I, xxxi, Trans. E. w. Sutton (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1959-60), 142143. 50 Roland Barthes, The Fashion System, Trans. Matthew Ward & Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1983), 293. 5l Michel de Certeau, Heterologies, Trans. Brian Massumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota, 1986). Hereafter referred to in text as Heterologies. 52 Roland Barthes, Mythologies, Trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1972), 128-9. Hereafter referred to in text as M. 53 Gregory Ulmer, "Fetishism in Roland Barthes's Nietzschean Phase," Papers on Language and Literature, 14, 3 (1983): 340. 5 4 Roland Barthes, Roland Barthes, Trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 110. 55 Robert Ray, "The Bordwell Regime and the Stakes of Knowledge," Strategies, 1, 1 (Fall 1988), 162. Hereafter referred to in text as Ray. 56 Douglas Hofstadter, Metamagical Themas (New York: Basic Books, 1985), 247. Hofstadter's "chemistry of creativity," begins by examining spheres of "hypothetical variations," "implicospheres," which form new concepts from

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119 "a compound of previous concepts" (24 7) . In this chemistry, concepts "slip." The slippage begins from a "conceptual skeleton," a reified concept, a point of immediate reference like the image of the City; this skeleton functions as the "key for retrieval." We can generate new variations on this skeleton by turning the "knobs" of the concept. These knobs move the parameters of the concept; in this way, each concept has the ''slippability" built into its pattern; the built-in "implicit counterfactual sphere," refers to things that "never were but that we cannot help seeing anyway [ ... ] the sphere of implications surrounding any given idea"(247).

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CHAPTER THREE INVENTION-TOURISM AT HOME Ecritour Maps of invention have shifted from lists of individuals' traits and problem-solving techniques to textual problem-setting programs. Robert Weisberg, for example, has argued against the myth of individual creative genius. He also attacks supposedly significant contributions to creativity: unconscious incubation, sudden flashes of insight independent of past experience, brainstorming, and divergent thinking. Besides the problems with these strategies, he also notes that group problem solving is usually less successful than individual work. From his research and careful reasoning, he concludes that "creative thinking is not an extraordinary form of thinking." 1 Creative thinking only becomes extraordinary "because of what the thinker produces, not because of the way in which the thinker produces it"(Weisberg 69). Weisberg, among the systems theorists discussed in chapter one, argues that creative genius is bestowed on individuals by social groups. The judgements of these groups are open to the vicissitudes of time, and therefore a person judged as a creative genius at one time may at another time lose that standing. He concludes that "if creative genius is a function of social 120

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121 judgements, then looking at the characteristics of an individual, in order to determine the basis for genius, must be doomed to failure"(Weisberg 88). What this argument adds to the research discussed in chapter one is the rejection of various strategies of creative thinking. My project agrees with the criticisms of heuristics, brainstorming, and sudden leaps in understanding for individual creativity. Beyond the notion of individual creativity, or even group creativity, a textual theory alters the notions of brainstorming and sudden leaps. Textual-storming focuses on questions of the organization and accessibility of information rather than on an individual or group using strategies to provoke "living memories." Sudden leaps concern questions of combinations rather than some mystical unconscious process. The important shift is not merely to debunk the myth of creative genius or behavioral reductions, nor is it to merely discount the supposed transcendence of genius in favor of sociological_ factors. The textual alternative, which addresses informatics rather than cognitive processes, creates an entirely new area for research. The shift unexpectedly focuses attention on representations which concern the interaction with what attracts our attention. By examining tourist attractions, and the entire field of attractions, we can understand how these attractions write and how we can write through or with them. In chapter two, I explored the specifics of how one's relation to maps of knowledge has changed. As Roland Barthes

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122 explains, the map changes from an abstract and visual grid based on print culture to a gestural practice based on an alternative sensibility. This practice has less to do with definitive meanings than with potential combinations and with changing the setting or frames for understanding. Specifically, chapter two explored Barthes's tour of "Japan" in Empire of Signs. That text's emphasis on texture and play functions as a particularly apt demonstration of invention as a textual rather than purely cognitive function. Rather than a narrative of invention, the text functions as a wandering journey. 2 Unlike heroic journeys of conquerors and explorers, the text works through the problems encountered by a common tourist. Barthes misses the meanings and significance obvious to a native familiar with the language and social customs. "Japan II is opaque. 3 Not only does this territory not offer a clear view, it appears as an anamorphosis, a distortion of vision, and creates a vertiginous effect. 4 Some critics, like Annette Lavers, have argued that these effects create a utopian vision in the tradition of Voltaire's appreciation of England. These texts aim "to castigate one's own country by means of a utopian portrait of another. 115 In other words, Barthes's tourist has as much to with our home language as it does with the problems encountered in dealing with a foreign language. Out of the disadvantages of a tourist lost in an unknown symbolic system, he teaches us about a foreignness at home. Neither merely a utopian vision, what one critic calls a text of

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123 jouissance, nor a purely negative criticism of our language system, Empire of Signs demonstrates a strategy. 6 Not merely a "semioclasm, the deliberately irreverent destruction of signs as we know them"(Thody 122), it offers a program for a textual invention. Moreover, as Barthes explains, "this text is outside pleasure, outside criticism, unless it is reached through another text of bliss (jouissance); you cannot speak on such a text, you can only speak in it, in its fashion, enter into a desperate plagiarism. " 7 Rather than a description of a foreign country, the text offers a model. Martin Heidegger's discussion of the problems in translating Japanese terms hints at such a model. Even though the "spirit of the Japanese language remains closed" to translation, for Heidegger, the lesson it offers only appears when Japan becomes foregrounded as an American product and in the background Japan is experienced like a Noh play. 8 Only by playing through the text can we understand its invention language game. This language game suggests not a pure expressive consciousness motivating language as in cognitive introspection, nor an ideal univocal meaning as in grammatically logical progressions, but a non-formal textual play dependent on a signifying system. In this case, the signifying systems of tourism determine the invention game. By involving the home in tourism, we change the parameters of the game and make it useful in changing everyday life. Invention-tourism depends on the cultural commonplaces and mythic cliches surrounding tourism.

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124 Duane Hanson's sculpture group, "The Tourists," includes two life-like statues. One is of a bald middle-aged man wearing checkered shorts, a floral print shirt, and plastic sandals. Next to him stands a middle-aged woman wearing sunglasses, a scarf over her hair, and a sleeveless polyester blouse. She is carrying a large faux-quilt patterned bag. The couple is looking up at some unseen spectacle. The camera hanging around the man's neck and the tripod and camera case slung over his shoulder, however, are the icons which definitively identify the couple as tourists. This representation suggests that sightseeing has become the raison d'etre of tourism; the camera has changed the way we travel. Beyond this defining trait, the sculptures also suggest that tourists have become cliched myths. Much of the research on travelers focuses on how groups distinguish themselves from "the tourists." Tourists are always someone else. More importantly, they function in quotes or as part of a symbolic system of meanings. In short, they are written, and, as this essay argues, we can, therefore, write using that peculiar representation. Tourism is a kind of grammar open to variations and transformations. I call this writing ecritour. As a mythic representation, tourism has already entered into theoretical speculations on poststructuralist research strategies. Georges Van den Abbeele has discussed in detail the fruitful conjunction of tourists with theorists. He has also suggested a nomadic thought which might transcend many of the problems in the

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125 tourist/theorist model. 9 And Paolo Prato and Gianluca Trivero have suggested that mobility has come to characterize everyday life more than home and family. 10 Meagan Morris goes one step further in using this conjunction of tourism and theory. She argues that we can "mark out space for considering convergence and overlap, rather than divergence and distinction, between the rhetoric of mobility and the politics of placement, the mapping of the voyage and the metaphorics of home." 11 This feminist strategy, which this essay adopts, corrects the notion that travel excludes the home and home-life. Invention-tourism can function as part of home-life. It can do this in two ways. Our home territory may become the attraction rather than "Japan." As Kathy Acker writes, "the news is full of the Japanese. They seem about to own New York. Perhaps the Japanese are being drawn here by the lack, by the absence of order." 12 Besides making home an attraction, one becomes a tourist by bringing the foreign land into the home land via telephones, televisions, films, etc. Electronic media bring the far-away to the close at-home. No longer in a foreign city, the theorist feels like a tourist at home. 13 Before turning to how electronic tourism changes perception and thinking, the notion of becoming an attraction will elucidate the first step in bringing invention-tourism home. In the Pueblo "turtle dance," a clown has, at least once, borrowed a spectator's camera reversing the usual photographic process. "The clown became the tourist with

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12 6 camera while the tourist became the photographic subject." 14 This parody of tourism suggests a strategy for becoming an attraction. The double-edged logic comes out more clearly in a Native American cartoon which depicts a Japanese tourist taking a picture of three totem poles. On the back of one of the poles, unbeknownst to the tourist, we can read "Made in Japan." 15 This parody of both unauthentic Indians and a naive tourist foregrounds the dynamics of tourism discussed in chapter two. Tourism creates a situation where the demand for the authentic produces the unauthentic until the distinction between the ''Real Thing" and the staged no longer holds. In Native American descriptions, tourists are often broken down into mythical types rather than traditional categories. These types include "tourists from back East," "tourists from Texas," "hippie tourists," and "Save-the whales tourists." In indigenous (or home) cultures, parody allows the tourist to become a part of the group. Burlesquing the characteristics of the mythical tourist foregrounds the relationship between the same and the different or the old and the new. As Constance Perin explains, "every anomaly and 'stranger' announce that they cannot be accounted for by concepts that organize a familiar field of meaning." 16 This sign of difference is not easily assimilated without distress. Perin notes that "familiar meaning systems are lodes of conservative energies, mined to provide the visceral comforts of equilibrium. They can be contested successfully, from within or without, only

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127 gradually when changes are more attentionthan fear arousing"(Perin 23). On one level, these cartoons and parodies function to mediate the threat of difference. In mediating difference, something else happens. Not only do the natives ultimately give up authenticity in their efforts to present it, the tourist finally captures only a simulated difference. Particular ways of mediating difference invent an alternative to both authentic and simulated cultures. A Hopi Kachina Doll, the "Koshare Tourist'' (Kosher? Could this be a reference to a Jewish tourist?), concretizes another mediation of difference. That mediation invents something unexpected. The doll is of a balding man, with dark hair and a ridiculous grin, wearing Bermuda shorts. He wears three cameras around his neck and carries four camera cases. The empty fourth case suggests that someone is taking his picture. The place of that fictional someone is occupied by the person looking at the doll. A visitor who buys a tourist doll owns a mise-en-abyme of his or her own tourist's position. Obviously, the doll helps the natives to cope with the tourist as stranger and it allows the tourists to recognize their position in the native's social structure. Out of that mediation something else happens. As a mise-en abyme, the doll represents not a tourist nor a native American, but a boundary or passage between different ways of looking and understanding. Through the mirroring souvenir, an invention or difference occurs from the repetition of the cliche, the myth, or the same.

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128 The relationship of the tourist's position (i.e., taking pictures of his or her own search) to ethnography demonstrates how tourism-at-home changes the place from which we look at other cultures. For example, the ethnographic film Trobriand Cricket flaunts its access to the power of facts. In contains interviews, films of events, photographs of historical development, drawings, and a consistent voice over to anchor the diegesis. During one of the cricket matches, a mock-tourist appears replete with faux camera and Bermuda shorts. That mock-tourist plays-off the spectator's ethnographic urge to "see the natives as they really are.'' In short, masquerading or burlesquing the tourist position allows for it to function at home and on our drive for knowledge. The "tourist" marks a double-edged simulation of authenticity and difference. That simulation allows for the mediation of differences. Out of that miming mediation an alternative to the opposition between tourism and home appears: a tourist in our home language. The Pueblo and Trobriand burlesques, the "Made in Japan" totem-pole, and the posing Kochina doll all represent the mock-tourist--mock as in the mock-up of a model as well as in the mocking gesture of parody. Each of these mock tourists mediates the difficulty of allowing outsiders to "see" even a self-conscious and inevitably staged "authentic" home life. Beside the mediating function, these mock tourists function as models of an alternative--a third termto the clash of differences. This third alternative

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129 resembles a moire effect created by the superimposition of two almost identical patterns (in this case the tourist looking and the native's image of the tourist looking). Chapter two argued that Barthes became a mock-tourist by not knowing the language, getting lost, and finding little or no meaning in any of the attractions. In that sense, Empire of Signs also functions as a mock-up or model of tourism which can function on home languages. In this chapter, writing with or through the mock-tourist becomes part of a generalized writing practice: ecritour. This neologism plays-off of Derrida's ecriture in two ways. It suggests a variant of Derrida's questioning of philosophy as a kind of writing. This variant explores invention as a kind of writing. On the other hand, in its similarity to the term ecriture, it also suggests a pragmatic American tourist's mispronunciation of the French term. The project here does not explore the writing of invention (i.e., the tour through the places) merely to inflict on that discourse a hermeneutic scrutiny. One understands ecritour only by becoming a mock tourist with camera in tow. In the first vignette of Jim Jarmusch's film Mystery Train, "Far From Yokohama," two young Japanese tourists travel to Memphis, Tennessee, to visit Graceland and Sun Studios. In one scene, Mitzuko asks her boyfriend, Jun, why he only takes pictures inside the motels they stay at. He answers that the monuments and sights they visit will remain in his memory, but he will soon forget the inside of the

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130 motel rooms. This strange logic goes against the now common conjunction of camera and sight (i.e., tourist attraction). The tourist's efforts to link sightseeing and cameras marks an important historical shift in tourism. This shift had an enormous impact on the privileging of sight over other senses. As we have seen from the various examples of using, or writing with, "The Tourist," the traveler's body becomes positioned by a social role. That position, not natural, but historically determined, might suggest how the move from sightseeing to tele-tourism will change the relations between perception and knowledge. In terms of the social roles tourism creates, gender plays an important role in determining how one experiences travel. Moral treatises used to warn women of the many dangers of traveling. Age and health also determine the travel experience. These factors call into doubt any effort to essentialize the tourist's position. Indeed, if Barthes's Empire of Signs presents, to some critics, an essentialized male perspective on travel, then this essay serves to show the potential variations on the tourist's pose. Judith Adler goes beyond the classifications of gender, age, or health to study "the traveler's body as the literal vehicle of the travel art." 17 Historical construction and stylistic constraint have molded "the very senses through which the traveler receives culturally valued experience." Indeed, Adler goes on to argue that

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131 [T]he strong present link between tourism and sightseeing should not be taken for granted or regarded as static in nature .... The practices of the contemporary sightseer, so often caricatured with his camera in tow, must ultimately be understood in relation to the historical development (and eventual popularization) of post Baconian and Lockeian orientations toward the problem of attaining, and authoritatively representing knowledge. (Adler 8) The questions of representing knowledge changed which senses were privileged and, in turn, changed how one collected knowledge. Before the sense of sight became dominant (before the "camera in tow" epitomized sightseeing), travelers went abroad for discourse rather than picturesque views or scenes. The art of travel . was in large measure one of discoursing with the living and the dead--learning foreign tongues, obtaining access to foreign courts, and conversing gracefully with eminent men, assimilating classical texts appropriate to particular sites, and, not least, speaking eloquently upon his return. (Adler 9) The ear and the tongue were privileged. And, rather than photo albums, travelers carried a book of blank pages (an Album Amicorum) to collect words of wisdom. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, travel manuals started to praise "eyewitness" reports over "hearsay." Auricular knowledge and discourse, identified with traditional authority, Aristotelianism and the Schoolmen, are devalued in favor of an "ego" believed to yield direct, unmediated, and personally verified experience. (Adler 11) Not only does this quote allude to the shift from scholastic training in the arts of memory to modern the pedagogical emphasis on internal cognitive functions discussed in chapter one, it also suggests similarities with arguments found in

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132 science education. Paul Feyerabend connects "creativity" to epistemological individualism (centered on an "ego") and to direct unmediated empiricism . Privileging of the eye over the ear parallels the scientific emphasis on visual verification. From this "raw data" an individual supposedly creates an ordering of the otherwise meaningless world. In this scenario, creativity orders the objective world. As Adler explains, the travelers were nurtured by a fashion in courtly circles for Natural Philosophy and an epistemological individualism which enjoins everyman to "see," verify, and, in a sense, "create" the world anew for himself. (Adler 11) This shift from auricular perception to vision allowed travelers to take a more distanced and "objective" perspective on the sights they saw. They were often counseled to keep their eyes open and their mouths closed. The distanced view allowed tourism to become rationalized. The link between epistemology and the sensorium suggests that current shifts to a more synesthetic sensorium might change thinking and invention. During the eighteenth century some travelers wanted guides which would catalogue the most important sites in each town. Similarly, the rise in popularity of askew travel narratives (e.g., the film Sherman's March) may indicate a shift in the tourist's sensorium away from a rationalized picture of the world to a more tactile or felt experience. Collecting inventories of eyewitness descriptions of things served the drive to create scientific "polyhistories"

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133 of all knowledge. By the end of the eighteenth century, this fealty to science gave way to training in connoisseurship and good taste. This history of the shifts in sightseeing is not absolute. Adler mentions minor languages (e.g., thermalists, aerotherapy seekers, and music lovers) which focused on other senses besides sight. From these anomalous alternatives one could find seeds of alternative tourisms today. Besides these alternatives, Adler's history suggests that the tourist with camera in tow is neither natural nor eternal. Just as ideological concerns and technological changes (e.g., improvements in printing pictures) allowed traveling to shift from an auricular practice to sightseeing, current ideological problems with detached and distant viewing and technological changes have made new types of tourism possible. Tele-tourism appears as the most important model for invention-tourism. Tele-Tourism One of the most striking factors of electronic media, the contraction of space and time, allows what was once foreign and distance to enter our immediate surroundings and everyday lives. It brings the outside world inside and opens our lines to all points simultaneously. Not only can we travel to any point in the world, but any point can visit unannounced and uninvited. We can install electronic safety valves like answering machines, but the flow moves to beepers and fax machines. As the distinction between the near-by and

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134 the far-away broke down, tourism became one of the world's largest industries. In the United States alone the tourism industry makes $160 billion annually, supplies jobs for five million people, and contributes sixteen billion a year in taxes. It is the third largest industry behind only food and automobile production. 18 In a shift indicative of the new sensibility, the phrase "having reservations" has migrated from critical theory to a last ditch effort to assure ourselves we will have an assured destination. With ''overbooking" (over and beyond what can be contained in a book) no destination is certain. Anyone who deals with information and the flow of knowledge begins to resemble a tourist lost in a foreign city, an out-of-towner wandering. In this scenario, the emergence of the cinema corresponds to the growth of tourism. The Lumiere brothers' and Melies's films appear at about the same time as early tourist guide books like Baedeker's. These two film makers offer two different models of tourism. The Lumiere brothers show a behind-the-scenes look at the authentic (e.g. Women Leaving A Factor~), while George Melies creates an obviously staged fantastic adventure (e.g., A Trip to The Moon). Both film makers consciously and explicitly catered to the touristic drive. In film theory, many have used these two film makers as the division between realism and the fantastic which still characterizes the cinema. Whether real or fantastic, the desire to go someplace helped create the cinematic apparatus.

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135 In America, Hale's tours took that effort one step further. Hale's tours used the realism of the motion picture to take the passengers on impossible and fantastic journeies. One would enter the pavilion and buy a train ticket. In the entertainment pavilion, an open-sided railroad car was made to run on tracks within a dark tunnel. The wall facing toward the open side was a continuous screen. As the train began to move, the films showed the country side or city streets pass by. Often a tour guide would lecture during the adventure. The unevenly laid tracks heightened the illusion which was so overwhelming that frequently passengers would yell at pedestrians to get out of the way. One passenger who went to the same show week after week was quoted as saying he was waiting to see if the conductor would make a mistake so he could see a train wreck. Strangely, the films were shot from both the cow-catchers and from other locations on the train; these different views were then edited together without regard for a continuous point of view. The metonymic fragments are linked by the spectators. The tour confuses the distinction between the actual and the virtual. The important issue is that the electronic media have made tourism a factor in information and innovation. The switchings, crossings, and indexing available in computer technologies foregrounds the crossed paths or wires which make sparks even as they short circuit. In computer parlance the term hypermedia and hypertext designate this opening of paths. In a different context, Jean Baudrillard has used the

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136 term hyper-reality to designate the mixing and crossing of transmissions which creates a type of intense and generalized solipsism. More importantly he shifts his analysis from determining the relation between events and Reality to understanding how information flows mediate various (un)realities. My concern here is not with Baudrillard's cultural theories, but with his work as an indicator as an indicator of an interest in how information flows and in the effects those flows create. This chapter explores media as part of an institutional practice. To examine media as functioning as part of invention-tourism, instead of as an object of study, will change not only how we pursue knowledge, but what the history of media represents. A theorist such as Paul Virilio, who thoroughly charts how film technology and war technology advance along similar and intertwining lines of development, works to enlighten us about the historical determinations of our current situation. 19 My project is both more modest and more daring. Like Virilio's War and Cinema, it makes a claim about the interdependence between cinema and another institution, in this chapter tourism. Unlike Virilio's essays, it claims that this relationship between cinema and tourism is neither dominant, determining, nor absolute, but useful. The use value of this mediation and connection concerns the invention of a socio-techno-discursive practice which tours at home. Virilio's description of Hale's Tour, which I describe as a tourist attraction, highlights the

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137 similarities and differences between the two projects. Virilio sees the Tour as "setting the audience up as aggressors" and notes that "the whole performance was usually financed by transport or arms companies, which were to lose no time in distinguishing themselves during the First World War"(Virilio 40). His book does theorize how the cinema, and, even more so, electronics and video, diminish space and time through the instantaneity, but it does not go on to suggest how we can use those effects to invent alternative socio-techno-discourses. Gregory Ulmer has argued that schools should explore electronic communications, especially video, in order to "participate in the invention of a style of thought as powerful and productive as was the invention of conceptual thinking that grew out of the alphabetic apparatus. 1120 Ulmer describes this type of thinking associated with electronic culture as "more 'euretic' (concerned with invention and making) than hermeneutic"(Tele-Theory xi). Not only does he call for an integration of this thinking into academics, he goes onto argue that "we must include the possibility of a change not only in technology, but also in the ideology of the subject and the forms of institutional practice"(Ulmer 4). The history of film described briefly in this chapter has less to do with a hermeneutics than with what Ulmer calls "euretics." Jean-Francois Lyotard argues that the computer creates a need to educate students in informatics (i.e., the packaging and ordering of information). The student's

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138 ability to access relevant data to solve a problem ultimately depends on arranging the data in new ways. The connecting of a series of data previously thought of independently allows one to make new moves or change the rules of the game. The lesson we can learn from Barthes's efforts are that something is to be gained by encouraging an open syntax or ordering. Instead of merely following one line (of argument), many lines intertwine simultaneously. Barthes offers not only texts to comment on, but also models to emulate. We cannot write in Barthes's fashion unless we attempt to make texts useful rather than merely setting out an order of things. Unfortunately, even Barthes makes only a slight effort to encourage the reader to skip around. He sometimes goads us to skip around, but he gives few explicit directions of how to move from one segment to another and he does not build the movement of the textual flow into the text. Empire of Signs offers an implicit method of moving between fragments. My project not only makes that method explicit, but puts it into theoretically productive action. Cultural critics and cognitive psychologists alike agree that the emphasis on the individual has not allowed us to understand how we store and retrieve knowledge. This essay suggests a way to build-in a storage and retrieval mechanism which allows for the discursive practice of invention to occur. The importance of Barthes's method is not that he puts together so many different found textual and photographic images, but because he has a theoretical method

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139 which can serve as a model; he understands the connections between images not in terms of some mysterious creative trait of a genius-artist at work, but in terms of a discursive practice or language game. He calls his game "Japan." The real boldness of that project is not that he uses found images, nor that he uses everyday images, but rather that he has a model for using these materials and a method of moving between fragments. As an alternative to the rational memory model of moving between loci, he demonstrates the tenuous connection between loci of information. As I have explained, the rational memory model has a supposedly assured order and connection between loci. The connections, not merely part of the discourse of remembering, set up alternative and dialectical memories. Roy Wagner's The Invention of Culture investigates the relationship between dialectical memory and invention. Wagner explains that dialectical thought foregrounds the play of differences against a background of similarity. When a culture mediates conventional or commonplace information dialectically it makes differentiation the basis of thought and action. In a culture which mediates the commonplace or popular dialectically, difference becomes not just a way to make distinctions, but also the basis of thought. This effort to constantly reconstit~te the conventional according to an open exchange is precisely what Benjamin seeks to suggest in his Arcades project. As we have seen, and as Wagner argues, "rationalist approaches emphasize integration

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140 and the element of similarity against a background of differences"(Wagner 116). These cultures pattern their thought and action on the consistent and rational, and they avoid paradox and contradiction. Wagner explains that these cultures "repress" the dialectic . As I have argued, the repression of the dialectical qualities of inyentio appear in science in the formation of an individual trait called creativity. The distinctions between invention, inventio, and creativity are only apparent in a culture which represses the dialectic. The functions of creativity (the trait) and invention (an activity) and inventio (a discursive practice) are dialectically joined rather than distinct activities. Mediating the conventional in terms other than objectivity and rational progression foregrounds cultural factors in the tension between fragments. As Wagner explains, The dialectic is always 'there.' It is just being "used" differently. . The inherent contradictions and paradoxes it embodies are 'masked' in the collectivizing objectifications used to mediate it. (Wagner 126) Wagner mentions that "media'' is an area which often masks its creative and contradictory nature by justifying the activities as contributions to the collective whole. The media are part of "a tradition that invents itself as man's relation to nature, rather than the creative relationship of one part of society to the other"(Wagner 126). Wagner sees society as a social clash between groups. Out of this clash comes the invention of culture. Again, neither the

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141 individual nor the group invent culture. Only out of the play of differences ecritour, the writing of invention tourism, take place. From popular myths about how a culture mediates differences, one can recognize not only prejudice, but also the suggestion of a boundary or passage discourse between differences. On one level, "read as signs of 'too much' unfamiliarity, 'others' often suffer the consequences of our drive to equilibrium," yet that equilibrium, as mentioned earlier, can be contested "when changes are more attentionthan fear-arousing"(Perin 22-23). In this sense, the representations of tourism are crucial to understanding the writing of invention, ecritour. Tourism has an ambivalent status in culture. It is an activity common to almost all Westerners. If we include refugees, boat people, and, most importantly, indigenous people in the same cultural milieu as tourism, which many tourism theorists have done, then everyone has had some experience with these socio-cultural forces. On the other hand, almost everyone thinks of the tourist as a bit of a fool. A tourist has neither the creative genius's heroic status, nor the explorer's power to conquer. Yet, the tourist mediates differences. By mediating those differences dialectically, tourism can suggest an an alternative to both the ethnographer's descriptive truths and the traveler's moral arguments. This alternative to truth and argument suggest a way of knowing built on particularities of the tourist's denigrated status as a go-between.

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142 Epistourmology The drive for continuity in knowledge, rather than the play of differences, appears most obviously in ethnographies rather than travel books. The ethnographer functions as a camera-like observer, while the traveler typically gives a more egocentric account. For the purposes of this essay, the way ethnographers and travelers write about and understand anomalies offers clues on how to make use of attractions. Anomaly is crucial for the travel book "and the more wondrous the anomalies the better the account. " 21 Ethnographers, on the other hand, "embrace the task of dissolving anomaly showing that the seeming anomaly is ordinary; the bizarre disappears in a social context in which everything fits together and makes sense (Wheeler 58). Tourists focus on anomalies or punctums not to reinscribe them in a context of similar deep structures of social situation. Naomi Schor explains that in "the empire of signs the detail reigns supreme [and] in 'Japan' everything is a detail." 22 These details harbor Eros, a charge of the attraction. This question of the attractiveness and unrecuperated difference of the detail foregrounds the possibility that the detail is feminine. Naomi Schor argues that although "the detail has been traditionally connoted as feminine and devalorized there exists no reliable body of evidence to show that women's art is either more or less particularistic than men's"(Schor 97). The important lesson is that using details

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143 allows one to explore a previously devalorized way of knowing. That way of knowing was associated with a "feminine style" also connects to technology. In a description of the type of meaning which corresponds to the punctum, Barthes explains that "the third meaning ... can now be seen as the passage from language to significance and the founding act of the filmic itself. 1123 This punctum passage opens onto, not film form, but the filmic. This filmic, like textuality, has more to do with an altered perception than it does with any particular medium. As Barthes explains, the filmic travels in that "region where articulated language is no longer more than approximative and where another language begins (whose science, therefore, cannot be linguistic, soon discarded like a booster rocket)"(IMT 65). Electronic media play a part in this region where "another language" appears. The most famous, if not currently respected, media theorist Marshall McLuhan offers a way to understand this punctum passage which alters the sensorium. McLuhan's moral judgements and his supposed insistence on technological determinism have caused his works to fall into disfavor with the academic community. In fact, his most important works The Gutenberg Galaxy and The Medium is The Massage are both currently out of print. In spite of his over enthusiastic evaluations of technology, he still offers some fascinating and useful readings. In the Gutenberg Galaxy, he argues that Shakespeare's King Lear dramatizes the painful consequences of the emergence of a visually based individual

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144 consciousness. 24 In the previous social order, authority was centralized and each member had a peculiar role in the hierarchy. Power shifted from one's predetermined role in society to a job centered definition of self. According to this ideology of the self, individuals make their own fate by becoming skilled in specified and demarcated domains of knowledge. Whe n Lear proposes the division of his land with authority decentralized, he disrupts the stability of the hierarchal roles . The play functions as a model of the process by which people ''translated themselves from a world of roles to a world of jobs"(McLuhan 14). McLuhan notices that Lear uses a map to conceptualize his plan. The map, "a novelt y in the sixteenth century ... was a key to the new vision of peripheries of power and wealth .... More important, the map brings forward at once a principal theme of King Lear, namely the isolation of the visual sense as a kind of blindness" (McLuhan 11). Once the territory is conceived of in terms of a map, the journey inevitably involves analytico-referential reason. One cannot~ an alternative. Although subjects now had free choice and individual consciousness, they sacrificed the ability to make connections across rationally unrelated domains of knowledge. The isolation of one sense, vision, creates a specialist bias. Subjects do their jobs according to their expertise in demarcated domains of knowledge rather than play their roles across boundaries of specialized domains. This shift from the medieval to the Renaissance world has implications for

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145 our own situation. Even after a century of electric media the "West still feels the presence of the older values of literacy and privacy and separateness"(McLuhan 14). The shift in the sensorium changed how we organized and understood information. Homer's Odyssey chronicles a similar shift in the sensorium. Ulysses's "voyage to the self" uses a travel narrative to explore the breakdown of a passage to an alternative consciousness. 25 That passage connected what some biologists refer to has the left and right brain. The passage created a bicameral mind with both sides interacting regularly. The right brain was the place of ''the Gods." It produced voices and visions which the left brain would obey without free-choice or conscious decisions. The left brain would speak and think without the sense of an internal cognition. Achilles in the Iliad represents an example of the bicameral mind. His destiny was determined by "the Gods." Julian Jaynes, another taboo name, argues that consciousness arose with the "breakdown of the bicameral mind." Although he tends to rely on biological determinism, he connects the dissolution of the bicameral mind to subjective consciousness's relation to language. Jaynes explains that physiologically we have the neurological structures for speech and language use in both the left and right areas of the brain. Yet, in the modern world, we almost always find speech functions localized in the left area. Most other important functions are bilaterally

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14 6 represented in both hemispheres. Indeed, many neurological researchers have demonstrated that biologically we do n.o.t. have left and right brain differentiation. 26 What Jaynes explains is th a t the dissociation is metaphoric not biological. The metaphoric use of language generates consciousnes. Metaphoric language sets up an inside and outside (including the inside self and outside world) without remainder. The way conscious subjects use language creates the impression that the voices and visions of the right brain have no ~--no sway over our thoughts and actions. Without consciousness, the voices and visions of the right brain (i.e, "the Gods") would direct each subject in peculiar directions. Ulysses in his disagreements and battles with "the Gods" not only marks the emergence of consciousness, he also indicates a new power relation. Jaynes argues that, in terms of the emergence of consciousness in the Near East, volcanic eruptions fragmented many groups. In effort to organize scattered people, consciousness arose in relation to state power. Reason became the glue which held subjects together in a common goal. As Deleuze and Guattari note, Ulysses is the first man of the modern State. 27 We do not use the right brain, place of "the Gods," much anymore. It appears under the rubrics of the unconscious, savage mind, child, and even "feminine style." All of these descriptions "share similar features, which we recognize to have been generated for the most part in opposition to analytico referential reason"(Tele-Theory 66). Gregory Ulmer explains

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147 a way to link the two sides of the mind. "One aspect of this intercommunication concerns the technical invention of computer-video interface; another aspect concerns the invention of a cognit i ve style integrating right and left modes"(Tele-Theory 66). The cognitive style that makes the passage possible and relates to the electronic medium is epistourmology . Jacques Derrida characterizes his approach to art with the term "passe-partout," which is a not only the mat board joining/separating frame and painting, but is also a term of passage. As David Carroll explains, it "provides passage everywhere." 28 This passage "between the outside and the inside, between the external and internal edge-line, the framer and framed, [and] the figure and the ground" produces a critical discourse which travels among fact, fiction, theory, art, and other discourses without terminating. 29 As Carroll concludes, "the term that perhaps best characterizes Derrida's approach to art ... the term that is fundamental to his borderline aesthetics ... is a term that frequently in his essays: passage"(Carroll 144). Again, to locate the punctum passage one need only tour the conventional order of things. The rhetorical stance so common in teaching composition privileges order . The mock-tourist transforms the marching orders into a tourist's derive. There are pass-words beneath order words. Words that pass, words that are components of passage, whereas order-words mark stoppages or organized, stratified compositions. A single thing or word undoubtedly has this twofold nature: it is necessary to extract one from the other--to transform the compositions of

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148 order into components of passage. (Deleuze and Guattari 110) Epistourmology mediates the conventional with various tensions, disparities, and analogical connections. It does not merely dispense with the rational. It places it the way a cartoon places speech in a balloon. It allows information to connect to other contiguous elements by finding the fissures, lines of break, and anomalies. It combines elements like pieces of a puzzle according to the magnetism of graffiti or rumor. The new combinations always suggest an otherness, difference, or as yet unrealized possibilities. This writing strategy travels among cultural codes to create a "passage" to another way of knowing. It "associates intellectual activity with delight. This swerve of affect from alienated thought to carnivalesque thinking occurs by exploiting the indirections of metaphors, images, and key words employed in theoretical explanations. 1130 As a tourist led around by the nose according to the play of attractions, one takes a "passage" between consciousness and otherness. A famous practical example of the passage to an alternative way of knowing (e.g., primitive or creative thinking) comes from Sergei Eisenstein. In the famous intellectual montage sequence from the film October, he strung together images: a Baroque Chirst surrounded by a semicircle of golden rays, the many-armed Hindu god Shiva, the mosque on Kamennostrovsky Prospekt in Leningrad, a mask of the Japanese goddess Amaterasu, the beak of one of the minor deities of the Nipponese

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149 Olympus, a religious mask from Yoruba, Eskimo shamans with hanging swinging wooden arms, and a Giliak hollow wooden idol. This sequence was in turn within a larger sequence: Karensky, Kornilov, a small plaster Napoleon, and the Czar's statue miraculously reassembled. He described the sequence of figurines in terms of a passage to an alternative way of thinking. [T)he 'method' of my intellectual cinema consists of moving backward from a more developed form of expression of consciousness to an earlier form of consciousness; for the speech of our generally accepted logic to a structure of speech of another kind of logic.31 We wander through our cultural commonplaces, our collection of souvenirs, to create a passage to invention. We apply tourism to our own situation, the linguistic home we inhabit. This writing practice, ~critour, demonstrates a ''passage." By making that passage it suggests something other, different, or innovative. Ecritour "keeps the discourse from 'setting,' from thickening. . At the limit, there is only intermezzi: what interrupts is in its turn interrupted, and this begins all over again. 1132 All contexts of reception interrupt each other, while suggestiveness replaces the notion of a correct context of reception. By following how a text addresses a reader, one writes using attractions and the tourist's relation to difference. This materialist tracking of the address depends on the appreciation of extreme particularities, "the singular image which has miraculously come to correspond to the speciality of my desire"(LD 34).

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150 These positions are neither universal nor static, they are open to transformations--open to writing and mechanical reproduction. As Dean MacCannell argues, the mechanical reproduction of images of attractions "is most responsible for setting the tourist in motion"(MacCannell 44). The tourist attraction blurs with the media which project it until it resembles Archigram's "Instant City" project, initiated in 1970, which used a multi-media system to transform towns into "instant" cities. Tele-tourism functions as a trope of the receding authenticity. In this sense, Barthes becomes a tourist looking for "The Japanese city," like the "Italianicity" he found in particular advertisements. This time he finds only a loss of his semiotic mastery. He confronts an impasse over and over again, an impasse he would later call the punctum, that which resists any metalanguage, denotative or connotative. Those impasses also function as passages to a an epistourmology, an alternative way of knowing the world differently. This different way of organizing and understanding information has dramatic implications for traditional books and textbooks.

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151 Media and Cultural studies Today Before using media as models to design an alternative text to the literate rhetorical writing handbooks, we need to review contemporary theoretical work in media and cultural studies. In the area of cultural theory, film studies, partly because it became an academic discipline long before "cultural studies," has provided the most influential models of research. Introductions to film studies use, in some form, two descriptive theories. Formalism explains how films are put together and how the construction of a film creates meaning; semiotic analysis looks at how films create meaning through a system of reference to cultural codes (rather than strictly formal codes). These theories have an enormous influence in film studies because they allow students to learn both conventions of reading and to gain a critical distance from the media texts they read. The discounting of the formalist New Critical approach to literature has not caused film studies to abandon these dominant reading strategies. They have clung to those strategies because media studies has added an historical and political dimension to the type of formal analysis typical in New Criticism. The debate about the privileged or competent reader was effaced in media studies by the political imperative to combat the cinematic apparatus's hegemonic control over spectators. To understand how a film exerted control over viewers, film theory used formalism, psychoanalysis, and semiotics. After carefully re-examining the theories which film studies

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152 imported, theorists from Mary Ann Doane to Colin Maccabe realized that the cinema's control was neither certain nor complete. Indeed, much of the psychoanalytic film theory since the mid-1980s has criticized the mistaken notion that films can control or even create subjects. Barbara Klinger's thorough examination of "film studies today" explores these changes in film theory from the early 1970s until the mid 1980s. 33 She initiates her essay by noting that Baudry's and Mulvey's studies of the apparatus ''continues to incite transformations" in film theory (Klinger 129). She goes onto explain that the apparatus theory sought to analyze the relation between cinema and ideology; in attempting to find the link between technology and social control, theorists turned to a psychoanalytic approach to understanding how spectators became subjects (and subjected to) specific ideologies. For example, Laura Mulvey sought to "explain the alliance of the cinema with patriarchal ideology, specifically how cinema structures looking to endorse culturally dominant ideas of sexual difference"(Klinger 131). Klinger goes onto explore the various transformations on this formative work. One trend has sought to challenge "the privileging of the image and perception in apparatus theory, since it ignores a substantial part of the cinematic experience--sound"(Klinger 133). The major advocates of this challenge are Mary Ann Doane, whom Klinger mentions, and Kaja Silverman, whose book The Acoustic Mirror marked a turning point in film theory by

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153 re-thinking apparatus theory in terms of sound track and an author's voice. Caryl Flinn has subsequently analyzed the often derogatory and phallocentric theoretical discussions of the sound-track in the cinema. Another, not entirely separate, criticism of apparatus theory seeks to find films which do address expressly female spectators. Again, the most influential theorists in this area are Doane and Silverman who have analyzed films to theorize the female spectator; Mulvey, in her effort to criticize the patriarchal control in Hollywood cinema, only focused on the male gaze. Because efforts to theorize specifically female spectators depends on discussions of films made for, and usually by, women, film criticism has played a role in calling attention to these films and film makers. Indeed, much of the work on experimental films in the last five years has focused on feminist film making. Constance Penley and the journal Camera Obscura have played an important role in calling attention to feminist film makers like Trin T. Min-ha, Sally Potter, and many others. Klinger also addresses "more radical responses" to apparatus theory which "have criticized the limits of film theory in general for an adequate concept of the spectator"(Klinger 135). This chapter attempts to use these "radical responses'' to apparatus theory. The question of how much control the film exerts over a spectator is crucial for a discussion of peripheral details. If the control is complete, then no amount of peripheralized attention can

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154 escape the hegemonic control of the cinematic apparatus. Jean Baudry argues that as soon as one submits to the showing of a film made by a standard movie camera and projected through a monocular lens, one enters into a humanist ideology. Control, in that scenario, is so complete that any discussion of peripheral details not only is moot, but misses the real issue, the illusion of perspectival reality. Only an effort at highlighting the discontinuity of film form can, for Baudry, break the control of humanist ideology. In apparatus theory the cinema/spectator relation is, as we have seen, exclusively specular, singular and asocial. The spectator identifies with, and is positioned by, a series of psycho-perceptual manipulations. Klinger discusses Paul Willemen's claim that with the formal emphasis found in apparatus theory, where the film's form positions spectators, signification is cut off from people's everyday life and history(Willemen 1978, 48). Teresa DeLauretis also addresses the insufficiency of apparatus's theory of how cinema constructs subjectivities; she writes that, "Cinema is at once a material apparatus and signifying practice in which the subject is implicated, constructed, but not exhausted"(DeLauretis 14-15, as quoted in Klinger 136). Klinger concludes that "such responses to theory propose both that the cinema is more than its specular effects, since it is also a social institution involved in a circuitry of other practices, and that the cinema is not the. site of subject constitution"(Klinger 135-136). Apparatus theory forces any

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155 opposition or alternative to Hollywood cinema to focus on on formal practices. David Rodowick's seminal book The Crisis of Political Modernism explores in-depth the problematic use of psychoanalytic and poststructuralist theories in the politically informed formalism of apparatus theory. He concludes his book by suggesting a different conception of cinema. He argues that "if the ultimate goal is knowledgecreating different relations or possibilities of knowledge, subjectivity, and desire--then this process resides not solely in the formal possibilities of a text. 1134 Rather what we need to take into account are the contexts of reception. We need to intervene in the contexts "where aesthetic practices are received, read, and transformed in relation to the institutional practices of theory, criticism, and pedagogy, and to the organized struggle of political movements"(Rodowick 260). He agrees with DeLauretis that we need to understand cinema in terms of" .an intertextual network of discourses"(Rodowick 262). And, he concludes by suggesting areas for further work. If the crisis of political modernism is to be overcome, and if semiology and psychoanalysis are to advance in the areas of political aesthetics and criticism, further work must be accomplished in two areas: that of the the theory of reading and what might be called the political economy of film culture. (Rodowick 281) This chapter argues that Barthes's later texts offer an alternative theory of reading which accounts for the

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156 political economy of film culture. His theory depends more on what we do Il.Q.t.. see or hear in the cinema than on how a film's form manipulates, constructs, or creates subjects of ideology. He makes the discontinuous peripheral detail into the foundation of a theory, and he goes beyond that foundation to use these blinding-spots in a potentially generative process. Let me stress that this description of film and media studies does not focus on the mistakes of previous theories. Elsewhere I explore how film theory has used the phrase "the gaze of the Other" and how a different psychoanalytic interpretation of the ''gaze" might lead to alternative ways to theorize the cinema. In that article, I argue that influential film theories on the ''cinematic apparatus," like Laura Mulvey's theory of "visual pleasure and narrative cinema," placed the gaze within an individual's point of view. Instead of taking issue with any of these film theories on their own ground, I suggest that a number of influential film theories based on the "apparatus" theory have a contradictory foundation, which is effaced in order to conform to the norms of practical criticism. Each theory notices that the gaze writes on and through discursive practices, but each suppresses (more or less) how that gaze might write on, or as, theory itself. Each theorist still remains within a hermeneutic and formalist tradition which reads films, art, and culture as examples of particular theoretical claims and then suggests further action from

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157 these readings; on the other hand, each theory radically calls into question the very act of reading . No longer can we think of some asexual neutral pure perception of looking and studying films. Yet the overwhelming urge is to continue to study individual films, to continue to look at culture as if no gaze was disrupting that view, as if the gaze itself did not write. Again, each of these theories has taught us that the gaze does write on us and through us, but none see the anomaly of the gaze as a problem with the dominant theoretical practice in cultural studies. Film theory sought the way out of that supposedly privileged reading through production of alternative formal techniques. These changes do not, and did not, change subjects' construction. Significantly, the Lacanian interpretation of the gaze resembles Barthes's description of how the punctum functions; indeed, Barthes explicitly refers to the punctum as "what Lacan calls the Tuche, the Occasion, the Encounter, the Real, in its indefatigable expression"(CL 4). And Lacan mentions the Tuche in describing how the gaze functions. Joan Copjec, in a discussion of Lacan's theory of the gaze of the Other, has teased out the salient features of a theory which focuses on discontinuity, particularities, and blind-spots. In that sense, her work is useful for a discussion of Barthes's work. In an attack on apparatus theory she writes, It is not the long arm of the law that determines the shape and reach of every subject, but rather something that escapes the law and its

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158 determination, something we can't manage to put our finger on ... an indeterminate something which is perceived as extradiscursive. 35 These are precisely the terms Barthes uses to describe the punctum in Camera Lucida. Copjec goes on to explain that this "indeterminate something'' functions as a kind of limit or impasse in a subject's efforts to make sense (of the picture, sound, world, etc.). The important feature of Camera Lucida is not the peculiar punctums, not the range of possible answers, but the quality of the punctum as an impasse. Barthes takes up many positions in relation to the peripheral details, but none of these positions contextualize, once and for all, the punctum. Copjec explains that the "different positions are structured so as to circumscribe and thus define an absence at the fantasy's center. This absence or 'kernel of nonsense' holds the fantasy and the subject in place, limits the subject. It provides the link between the subject and social discourse"(Copjec 241). The link which Copjec identifies between the "kernel of nonsense'' and social discourse helps to highlight how Barthes's use of peripheral details might enter into a discussion of a pedagogical practice which uses the political economy of film, media, or culture. This kernel of nonsense, which I equate with the punctum, becomes the foundation for a general method in Empire of Signs. In that empire the lost-sense guides Barthes through detours. Through an encounter with the failure or impasse in making sense of a representation, a hole in perception and knowledge

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159 creates a situation where mediation will produce or invent an alternative sensibility. In every place he visits, he finds nothing--the nothing in something, the kernel of nonsenseand that nothing generates a mediation with the lost-sense. Again, this chapter uses Barthes's work on this lost sense to construct an institutional practice or a context of use and reception. That practice seeks to change the discursive context in which literature, films, and other cultural performances are read and {mis)understood. The method proposed here attempts to respond to recent theoretical imperatives to appreciate films, and culture in general, in terms of, or as, a context of reception. As David Rodowick points out, film and media are always received in a discursive context; you might see a film in a first run theater or in a classroom . The film cannot be viewed as something autonomous, outside of arguments, discussions, viewing patterns, etc. Not only are films in contexts, but they also create contexts. Reading becomes crucial to changing film's role from a passive tool of hegemonic control to part of a generative process. Roland Barthes's work on cultural studies can explain the shift in understanding contexts as part of a hermeneutic explanation to using contexts as part of generative practices. Roland Barthes and cultural studies The early works of Roland Barthes still have an enormous influence on college curriculums. Mythologies,

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160 often found on reading lists of cultural studies courses, and .s.L.Z., a standard in many literary theory courses, are widely considered to be among the most important texts in cultural stud i es. 36 Two trends characterize the use of these early works. One type of Barthesian criticism emphasizes the oppressive messages communicated by popular culture, while another use of Barthes illuminate the contradictory messages or struggles within films, soap operas, Harlequin romances, etc. 37 Barthes's later works have also been influential in theoretical discussions and, judging by the publication of books, anthologies, and journal articles, continue to influence academics. 38 Yet those later works rarely show up in undergraduate courses, especially not introductory lower division courses. This chapter argues that Barthes's Camera Lucida, a reflection on peripheral details called punctums, and Empire of Signs, a (rhetorical) tourist guide to inventing something out of nothing, can function in introductory media, theory, and cultural studies courses. Indeed, those two works, usually discussed as particularly obtuse and difficult to use in a pedagogical context, can help students study the often daunting information explosion associated with mass electronic media. Camera Lucida and Empire of Signs demonstrate how to handle an enormous amount of visual, verbal, and semantic information part of an invention process. Camera Lucida, which resembles a family photo album, puts Empire of Signs in a different light. It now resembles a tourist's photo album. Indeed, the two works

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161 do resemble each other more than they resemble any traditional scholarly work. The similarity is the interplay of photos with short fragments of text and captions. In this sense, they theorize a way to allow visual and written information to combine in peculiar contexts. No longer does the photograph function to document the empirical truth; instead the two texts join together to form a suggestive combination. As photo albums, they say more about their construction than about the subjects of the photographs. In decentering the meaning from empirical accuracy to particular combinations, Barthes focuses on the peripheral detail. In the preceding chapters, I have argued that we can understand these details in terms of the mediation of differences. If we understand invention as a way of organizing information, then invention depends on an ability to mediate differences. Out of that mediation something else happens. On one level, any mediation allows a culture to cope with strangers and strangeness. Yet dialectical mediation can create an alternative to rational oppositions. The punctum functions as a passage between differences (e.g., inside and outside, indigenous and tourist, framed and framer, old and new, etc.). In that sense, it joins/separates differences in a paradoxical construction. The drive for continuity in knowledge, rather than the play of differences, often demands that scholars attempt to dissolve anomaly. The peculiar detail becomes ordinary and everything fits together and makes sense in the context of

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162 what Barthes calls the studium. The studium is all socially shared knowledge. Rather than reinscribe anomalies or punctums in a context of similarity, allowing for a dialectical mediation of the play of differences highlights the Eros or charge of these attractions. These details function as punctum passages to an alternative way of knowing. Although it diverges from decentered reading strategies which use details, the strategy which uses punctum passages shares a number of important features. One could use peripheral details as part of a decentered reading strategy. That strategy would not focus on the intended meaning of a film, but on details which are poignant to you. Rather than use details as examples to prove a point about a film's form or meaning, this method uses peripheral details as an alternative way to understand films. The use of peripheral details calls into question what it means to read, and it shifts the ground of a student's wandering attention from media illiteracy to a political activity . Rather than follow the story or appreciate the film making, the decentered attention floats in what Roger Cardinal describes as "mischievous curiosity.'' Passive spectators will find this strategy practically impossible, but active spectators will succeed if they add something to the film which, as Barthes writes, is "nonetheless already there . " In arguing that we must add something to the film which is already there, Barthes suggests that saying "any old thing" will result in the same

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163 unproductiveness as saying the "same old thing." The puncturn requires you to find something as of yet unsaid, something different, supplemental, or left over. By actively scanning the literal and figurative periphery of a text's message, concentration becomes crucial at the very moment when our minds or eyes or ears wander: attention to distraction becomes a foundation of a reading strategy. As Cardinal explains, this method diverges from Barthes's work by making "peripheralized attention" a willful activity. By doing so, it becomes a political act. Using the puncturn, which resists discourse, within a discursive practice of political activity might go against Barthes's work in Camera Lucida, but we can understand the use of peripheral details in decentered readings in terms of conceptual play--hence language. By initially following what already happens in reading and spectating--a wandering attention--we can design essay assignments which encourage an active scanning of texts and a questioning of our own desires ("Why did .I look at .t.hat. detail?"). In that sense, Barthes's early work shares something in common with his last essay: an interest in the relationship between a theory of reading and the political economy of understanding (or misunderstanding). When language shows its internal tensions, its impasses to sense, its limits, its puncturns which resist appropriation into the dominant social discourse, these moments of loss or getting lost become the detours of invention. In the effort

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164 to mediate the stranger or strangeness of differences, cultures create a passage or go-between. That passage not only mediates differences, but also functions as an alternative difference not entirely recuperated by any culture or sense. Invention occurs with the mediation of differences and invention-tourism foregrounds that relationship. In this sense, Empire of Signs picks up where Camera Lucida ends and allows us to write and invent with punctum passages. To use ecritour, an inventing out of differences, in the design of pedagogical practices will require a different kind of textbook: an invention-tourist text. Notes 1 Robert Weisberg, creativity: Genius and Other Myths: What You. Mozart. Einstein. and Picasso Have In common (New York: W . H. Freeman, 1986), 69. Hereafter referred to in text as Weisberg. 2 Roland Barthes, Responsibility of Forms; Critical Essays on Music. Art. and Representation (translation of L'obvie et l'obtus), Trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1985), 90. cf. James Klinkowitz, Rosenberg. Barthes. Hassan: The Postmodern Habit of Thought (Athens, Georgia: University of Georgia Press, 1988), 67-68. 3 Jonathan Culler, Roland Barthes (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), 95. 4 Philip Thody, Roland Barthes: A conservative Estimate (London: MacMillan, 1977), 123. Hereafter referred to in text as Thody. 5 Annette Lavers, Roland Barthes: Structuralism and After (London: Metheun, 1982), 203.

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165 6 George Wasserman, Roland Barthes (Boston: Twayne, 1981), 100. 7 Roland Barthes, The Pleasure of The Text (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 22. 8 Martin Heidegger, "A Dialogue on Language'' in On The Way to Language, Trans. P.D. Hetz (New York: Harper and Row, 1971), 4. cf. Eugenio Donato, "Historical Imagination and the Id i oms of Criticism For Edward Said," in The Question of Textuality; strategies of Reading in Contemporary American Criticism, Ed. William Spanos, Paul Bove, and Daneil O'Hara (Bloomington : Indiana University Press, 1982), 39-56 . 9 Geores Van den Abbeele, "Sightseers: The Tourist as Theorist," Diacritics, 10 (December 1980), 2-14 .. 10 Paolo Prato and Gianluca Trivero, "The Spectacle of Travel," The Australian Journal of Cultural Studies, 3, 2 (December 1985), 27. 11 Meagan Morris, "At Henry Parkes Motel," Cultural Studies 3, 1 (1987), 44. 1 2 Kathy Acker, "New York Diary," New Statesmen and Society. March 23, 1990, 42. 13 cf. John King and Andy Gill, "At Home He's A Tourist" (song lyrics), from Entertainment, sound recording by The Gang of Four (1982). 14 Jill Sweet, "Burlesquing The 'Other' in Pueblo Performance," Annals of Tourism Research, Guest Editor Dean MacCannell, 16, 1 (1989): 71. l5 This description of the cartoon is an altered version of a cartoon described in Deidre Evans-Prtichard, "How 'They' See 'Us': Native American Images of Tourists," Annals of Tourism Research, Guest Editor Dean Maccannell, 16, 1 (1989): 94. 1 6 Constance Perin, Belonging In America; Reading Between The Lines (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1988), 146. Hereafter referred to in text as Perin.

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166 17 Judith Adler, "Origins of Sightseeing," Annals of Tourism Research, Guest Editor Dean MacCannell 16, 1 (1989): 8. Hereafter referred to in text as Adler. 18 R. Leo Penne with Robert McNutty and Dorothy Jacobson, The Economics of Amenity; Community Futures and Quality of L..i.f.e. (Washington, D.C.: Partners for Livable Places, 1985), 65. 1 9 Paul Virilio, war and Cinema; The Logistics of Perception, Trans. Patrick Camiller (New York: Verso, 1989). Hereafter referred to in the text as Virilio. 20 Gregory Ulmer, TeleTheory (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), ix. Hereafter referred to in text as Tele-Theory. 21 Valerie Wheeler, "Traveler's Tales: Observations on The Travle Book and Ethnolgraphy, Anthropological Quarterly, 59, 2 (April 1986): 58. Hereafter referred to in text as Wheeler . 2 2 Naomi Schor, Reading In Detail; Aesthetics and The Feminine (New York: Metheun, 1987), 88. Hereafter referred to in text a Schor. 2 3 Roland Barthes, Image. Music. Text. Trans. Stephen Heath (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 65. Hereafter referred to in text as IMT. 24 Marshall McLuhan, The Gutenberg Galaxy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1962), 11 . Hereafter referred to in the text as McLuhan. 25 Julian Jaynes, The Origin of Consciousnes In The Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1976), 276. 26 see for example Roger Sperry, "Some Effects of Disconnecting the Cerebral Hemispheres," Science, 217 (24 September 1982) : 1223-122 6. 27 Giles Deleuze and Felix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus; Capitalism and Schizophrenia, Trans. and Forward by Brain Masumi (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 355. Originally published as Mille plateaux, volume 2 of Capitalisme et Schizophrenia (Paris: Les Editions de Minuit,

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167 1980) . Hereafter referred to in text as Deleuze and Guattari. 2 8 David Carroll, Paraesthetics: Foucault. Derrida. Lyotard (New York: Metheun, 1987), 208 . Hereafter referred to in te x t as Carroll. 29 Jacques Derrida, "Passe-Partout," in Truth In Painting:. Trans. Geoff Bennington and Ian McLeod (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 12. 30 Craig Saper, "Instant Theory: Popular," Visible Language, 22, 4 Making Thinking (1988): 375. 3l Sergei Eisenstein, Immoral Memories: An Autobiography, Trans . Herbert Marshall (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1983), 209. 3 2 Roland Barthes, Responsibility of Forms: Critical Essays on Music. Art. and Representation (translation of L'obvie et l'obtus), Trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1985), 300 . 33 For the most influential examples of apparatus theory see Jean Baudry, "Ideological Implications of the Basic Cinematographic Apparatus," in Movies and Methods, Vol. II, ed. Bill Nichols (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976): 531-542; for a similar argument about the apparatus see Jean-Louis Comolli, "Technique & Ideology: Camera, Perspective, Depth of Field," in Movies and Methods, Vol. II, ed. Bill Nichols (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985) : 40-57; for the foundation of feminist apparatus theory see, Laura Mulvey, "Visual pleasure and narrative cinema," Screen, 16, 3 (1978): 6-18; also reprinted in Movies and Methods, Vol. II, Ed. Bill Nichols (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985); for a more sophisticated version of feminist apparatus theory see Jacqueline Rose, "Sexuality in the Field of Vision." Sexuality in the Field of Vision (London: Verso, 1986); for the version of apparatus theory which Mulvey reacts against see Christian Metz, The Imaginary Signifier: Psychoanalysis and the Cinema, trans. Celia Britton, Annwyl Williams, Ben Brewster, and Alfred Guzzetti (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1982); cf. Christian Metz, "The Imaginary Signifier," Screen, 16, 2 (1978): 14-76; cf. Bertrand Augst, "The Lure of Psychoanalysis in Film Theory," in Apparatus: Cinematographic Apparatus: Selected Writings, Ed. Theresa Hak Kyong Cha (New York: Tanam Press, 1980), 420; for good summaries of apparatus theory see Colin Maccabe, "Theory and

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168 Film: Principles of Realism and Pleasure," in Narrative. apparatus. Ideology; a Film Reader, Ed. Philip Rosen (New York: Columbia University Press, 1986), 187; cf. Stephen Heath. Questions of Cinema (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1981); for debates about apparatus theory see Noel Carroll, "Address to the Heathen." October, 23 (Winter 1982): 89-163 and Stephen Heath, "Le Pere Noel." October, 2 6 (Fall 1983) : 63-115 and Noel Carroll. "A Reply to Heath." October, 27 (Winter 1983): 81-102; to understand the psychoanalytic foundations of apparatus theory see Jacques Alain Miller. "La suture (Elements de la logique du significant)." Les Cahiers pour l'analyse no. 1 (January February 1966): 37-49. Delivered on 24 February 1965 to Lacan's seminar, translated as "Suture (Elements of the logic of the signifier) " in Screen 18, 4 (Winter 1977 /7 8) : 24-34; for an early application of psychoanalysis to a proto apparatus theory see Jean-Pierre Oudart. "La Suture." Cahiers du cinema, 211 (April 1969): 36-39, and 212 (May 1969): 50-55. Translated as "Cinema and Suture" in Screen 18, 4 (Winter 1977/78): 35-47; cf. Jean-Pierre Oudart. "Le fantasme. Symptome. Scenes." Cahiers du cinema, 222 (July 1970): 43-50; this article elaborates on some of the concepts around suture; cf. Serge Daney and Jean Pierre Oudart. "le Nom-de-l'Auteur." Cahiers du cinema, 234-235 (December 1971-January/February 1972): 79-93; this article offers comments on the "unsutured" quality of contemporary cinema; for the most influential version of "suture" in apparatus theory see Daniel Dayan. "The Tutor-Code of Classical Cinema." Film Quarterly 28, 1 (Fall 1974): 22-31; reprinted in Bill Nichols, ed. Movies and Methods, vol. 1 (Berkley: University of California Press, 1976): 438-451; cf. Robert Eberwein. "Spectator/Viewer." Wide angle 2, 2 (1978): 4-9; this article is a discussion of Dayan and others; cf. Stephen Heath, "Notes on Suture," Screen 18, 4 (Winter 1977/78): 48-76; reprinted in Stephen Heath, Questions of Cinema (London: Macmillan, 1981), 76-112; cf. Kaja Silverman. The Subject of Semiotics (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983); chapter 5 of her book deals with suture; cf. William Rothman. "Against 'The System of the Suture.'" Film Quarterly 29, 1 (Fall 1975). Reprinted in Nichols, Ed. Movies and Methods, Vol. 1 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976), 451-459. 3 4 David Rodowick, The Crisis of Political Modernism; Criticism and Ideology in Contemporary Film Theory (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988).

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169 35 Joan Copjec, "Cutting-up," in Between Psychoanalysis and Feminism, Ed. Theresa Berman (New York: Routledge, 1989), 238-239 . Hereafter referred to in text as Copjec. 36 see for example Barbara Klinger, "In Retrospect: Film Studies Today, " The Yale Journal of Criticism, 2, 1 (Fall 1 9 8 8 ): 13 9. Klinger writes, "One of the chief texts fueling the development of cultural . studies is Roland Barthes's Mythologies." Hereafter referred to in text as Klinger. cf. Roland Barthes; Structuralism and After, Annette Lavers (London: Methuen, 1982), 3. Lavers writes, "Roland Barthes is generally acknowledged ... as one of the leading figures of the French intellectual scene." 3 7 For example, Rosalind Coward in Female pesires and Judith Williamson in Consuming Passions use Barthes "to emphasize the oppressive messages communicated by popular culture to the female consumer: popular forms construct female desire falsely through patriarchal notions of the 'body beautiful' and the pleasure in purchase"(Klinger 140). The other use of Barthes by Tania Modleski in Loving with a Vengeance and others reconsiders "the assumption that mass cultural representations always operate to entrap their audiences with the dominant order"(Klinger 140). 38 See for example Signs In Culture: Roland Barthes Today. Eds. Steven Ungar and Betty McGraw (Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 1990).

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CHAPTER FOUR INVENTION-TOURIST GUIDE Invention no longer depends on the sedentary institutions of the research lab or the University. As an avocation, people can practice invention at home beyond the confines of classrooms, lecture halls, and science laboratories. Indeed, as chapter one explained, science education's insistence on a rational method discourages invention. Instead of dissolving anomalies into rational explanations, practicing invention requires a mediation of differences which changes one's relation to the home or major language. That change occurs initially as a lost sense, a moment of doubt, and an attraction of attention. Instead of working at inventing, invention-tourism responds to the emergence of avocations as the primary source of identity and satisfaction in contemporary culture. No longer does one's job or vocation determine identity. Working in the everyday world of the major language does not exclude the possibility of exploring invention passages, but invention-tourism actively encourages taking a passage. As an amateur activity practiced as leisure, invention-tourism can function as a source of cultural invention and innovation. To disseminate knowledge beyond the sedentary 170

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171 schools requires invention-tourist guides and intellectual attractions. This chapter offers a guide for informationtravel and suggestions for making your home an invention tourist attraction. To understand the construction of the invention-tourist guide depends on a brief reading of a textbook designed for sedentary language, logic, and education. St. Martin's Press has recently released a rhetoric and composition book which represents the epitome, and probably one of the best versions, of a traditional writing textbook. 1 The St, Martin's Handbook describes and applies traditional Aristotelian rhetoric including modern and contemporary versions from Kenneth Burke, I.A. Richards, Wayne Booth, and Peter Elbow. The literate "rhetorical stance" presumes that rationality is an "essential characteristic" of all people. This rationality depends on a sender receiver model with a tripartite distinction of writer, audience, and text (or in Aristotle's version: ethos, pathos, and logos). The "text" is only conceived of in terms of logic . That logic, limited to either inductive or deductive reasoning, necessarily depends on the presumed a priori existence of a "probable reader." With this schema, the Handbook explicitly and implicitly argues that every statement is either true ("what is") or arguable ("what ought to be"). Either it is agreed upon as a truth or open to reasonable argument. There is no other option. In terms of the writer, the Handbook

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172 emphasizes internal cognition and heuristic rules. It wants to encourage students to "realize individual selves in discourse"(St. Martin's sec. I, 8). The tourist-text differs significantly from this "rhetorical stance." The tourist-text encourages students to sift through information in order to discover intensely attractive peculiarities. These peculiarities or punctums will not then function in the weave of conscious and reasonable discourse. Instead, these punctum passages open onto a third possibility (besides given truths and arguable statements) which resembles a non-formal aesthetics. It opens onto a realm of voices and visions (with the logic of haiku). Haiku enacts a series of literal moments. In a famous anecdote about a lesson in Zen, a student "designated" a fan neither by definition, nor even by silent use, but by a series of aberrant actions: "close the fan and scratch one's neck with it ... open it, put a cookie on it, and offer it to the master"(ES 83). Only a perplexed machine invents. In the tourist-text's use of punctum passages, ecritour functions as a way to produce texts which depend in part on combining citations. The Handbook only mentions extensive mixing of citations in reference to avoiding plagiarism. It addresses denotation and connotation only in terms of "appropriate" and "concrete'' meaning (St. Martin's 395-396). It discusses figurative language only in terms of "tone" which, it suggests, should not merely ornament an argument,

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173 but more importantly help the reader to "follow the writer's meaning"(St. Martin's 407). Although the preface to the Instructor's Edition argues "that writing decisions are never merely mechanical, but are always rhetorical as well"(St. Martin's sec. I, 5), most of the textbook focuses on mechanical rules of grammatical construction. These grammatical rules have no explicit connection in the Handbook to rhetoric or thinking through writing. One would assume that grammatical rules did have an impact on what is said and what can be said, but the Handbook does not address these issues directly. The implicit connection suggests the importance of the invisible style. Grammar succeeds when it functions as a transparent medium for truth or argument. Suggesting that mechanical rules can maks!, meaning would not only identify the opaque qualities of writing, but also might encourage experimental transformations. In sum, the Handbook highlights the literate connection between the construction of an individual subject and rational argument or reasoning. In that sense, it provides a useful model of how stylistic ideologies become naturalized. By successfully incorporating rhetoric into a writing guide, the editors have also broken down the literate ideology into specific rules. The shift to a tourist-text with its emphasis on tele-tourism, ecritour, and epistourmology diverges from these rules in a number of

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174 significant ways. We can foreground these differences by listing the rules of the "rhetorical stance." 1. Literate rhetoric depends on the presumption of an a priori probable reader and advocates reading strategies, which depend on a statistical norm to indicate the characteristics of a literate person. As Barthes explains, "an ideology of the 'greatest number,' of the majority-asnorm .. of 'the probable'" still makes use of Aristotle's rhetorical method. 2 Indeed, Rhetoric (along with a particular form of humanism) informs most of academic research (Semiotic 92-93). Barthes rejects the probable as the fulcrum for research. The connection of the probable with Aristotle's "mean" highlights the relationship between the stranger and the "average reader." Constance Perin explains Aristotle's mean in terms of Greek and Roman society. She argues that the mean is not a standard among differences. [The Greeks and Romans] way of life constituted not a comparative "standard" for it was the only one they knew. . . [The mean] was simply a system of meanings which were already familiar, known, or believed in relation to which an~thing "too" dissimilar, novel, and discrepant would evoke the distresses translated as "vice" and its variants in denial, negativism, and disapproval. Indeed, Aristotle's "mean" signifies the experiences of fear and anxiety. (Perin 147) The probable does not represent the midpoint among many different possibilities. It represents a way to efface

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175 differences by moralizing about underand over-arousal when confronted with strangeness or strangers. 2. In the literate rhetoric denotation, connotation, and figurative language allow the probable reader to follow the writer's meaning more closely. If one bases a writing method on the situation, variations, or potentialities (versus the probable) of conceptions, then one can reject any ideal which assumes that literate people probably share a common knowledge. In that sense, language is suggestive in ways not necessarily intended by any authorial figure. 3. In the rhetorical stance, all language statements are either true descriptions or open to argument. The tourist-text procedure makes use of variations, substitutions, and multivalence without deciding on how these choices support a particular truth or argument. It builds on the fascinations or manias usually discarded by conventional reading practices. It allows for the intensity, patience, and personalized analogies necessary for generating associations. It understands variations of expectation as indicators of emergent ideas, metaphors, or even a new paradigm of understanding. Extreme particularities can suggest an unheard-of symbolic system. Invention-tourism does not merely offer a negative criticism of a dominant ideology of reading, writing, or thinking. Out of the failures of empirical reading strategies it builds a method.

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176 4. In contemporary rhetorical models of inyentio, internal cognition and heuristic rules allow writers to find something reasonable to say. This essay and most of chapter one have addressed how current research in the social sciences and humanities lead to the conclusion that neither internal cognition nor heuristic rules determine or encourage invention. The alternative conception requires us to return to questions concerning rhetoric's relationship to memory. To understand how a cognitive function is translated into a textual practice, the example of memory seems particularly apt. Because rhetors have long interpreted memory as a textual practice, an art of memory, rather than a purely cognitive function, and because memory has a dialectical relationship to invention it is a useful example for my purposes. The memory theaters use imaginary buildings packed with details and walked through to initiate recall. In this way the memory theaters functioned like an "inner writing" (which resembles Vygotsky's "inner speech," a kind of mental verbo-visual short-hand). Using this art of memory, practitioners are able to return to these imaginary points and recall the details packed there. The relationships among loci must remain the same, and, likewise, the categories of details stored in each place must also remain the same. The invention process Barthes explores wanders around in the memory theater, but "draws a blank." He loses his

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177 way and makes new connections. He discovers another dimension or lost-sense among the .l.Qci.. Bruno's memory system offers an important lesson about ecritour. Specifically, his dialogues Cena de la ceneri explain important moves in making a passage to an alternative way of knowing. As Frances Yates explains, "the dialogues have a topological setting which takes the form of a journey through the streets of London." 3 During the journey Bruno and his party get lost. Bruno later concludes that "though you may never reach the winning post nor gain the prize, cease not to run the race"(Yates 310). Not only does Bruno introduce a memory system with getting lost as an element, he also moves his art of memory close to the realm of fiction. As Yates explains in reference to Bruno's dialogues, the "art of memory could develop into literature; the streets of memory places could become populated with characters, could become the backcloth for a drama"(Yates 312). Invention requires a momentary loss of the connections between existing .l.Qci. or topics or bits of information in order to generate alternative flows between and among .l.Qci.. It depends on losing your way and on the interferences or folie encountered. This model of innovation resembles the "hypermedia" model now being developed for computers. In those programs, the given pieces of information are connected and reconnected by linking pieces of one document to others. In the memory

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178 theater, the model involved the presence of loci on a stage; it depended on a notion of theater in which an actor takes only one space in relation to other actors. In theater terminology, this is called "blocking": everything is arranged to be seen by the audience. In this case the audience is the person trying to remember not only pieces of information but a particular relation or order between those loci of information. In invention-tourism the absent path supersedes the presence of actors. Not only is the path or blocking missing, but it is riven with interferences and disruptions. It functions because of disruptions not in spite of them. Jacques Derrida has theorized these disruptions in terms of communication technologies (e.g., broken down telegraph wires) and connected the disruptions with a kind of invention. He makes this connection in "The Inventions of the Other," where he explicitly rejects models of creativity which depend on notions of genius or newness. Nevertheless he suggests that the disruption of the connection with the other (e.g., the memory of syntax, connections, and meaning of symbolic structures or .lQci. of information) is never a complete break but sets in motion a discursive practice, a reinvention of invention. 4 This invention, which invents nothing, has to do with a preparing for what happens outside conscious control. One could understand this practice not in terms of a staging of

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179 knowledge, which depends on the certainty of information and the ordering of that information in pre-given ways (e.g., blocking) but in terms of the hum of electricity and information moving in waves, the palimpsests of graffiti and billboards, the symphony of sounds, the wafts of smells, and the violent clashes and quiet struggles of systems of exchange in the urban melting pot. This description does not romanticize the urban experience as modern or advanced; it appreciates it as a synecdoche for the discursive practice which concerns disruption and interferences, of getting lost, and of flows among loci. No longer are the loci located in the pastoral settings of ancient Greek or the pristine stages of the renaissance, but in the hustle and bustle of the traffic jam, cable TV, the overloaded switchboard, and the other technologies which have done much more and less than the supposed functions. These technologies have both generalized the city-life everywhere into something much more daunting than McLuhan's "global village"--something more like a global megalopolis--and at the same time intensified the affect on users. The old model of knowing depended on knowing your place in relation to the loci of knowledge. Invention-tourism depends on losing your place. Flow rather than place becomes crucial to a way of knowing different than memory. In practical terms, the selection of information has more to do with the camera shutter. When it clicks, it sets off a shudder or

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180 disruption. These information snapshots function as punctums. In the memory theaters of Giulio Camillo, all knowledge was stuffed into an imaginary Roman amphitheater. This encyclopedia, thesaurus, and poetry machine became "a work of manic idiosyncrasy, resembling a private museum like those of Des Esseintes, Huysman's paragon of decadence." 5 Barthes makes the private museum more public. L i ke Camillo, his connections are often idiosyncratic (e.g., he describes Pachinko's pay-off as diarrhea), but his invention-machine offers a public entrance to that madness shared by Camillo. In architecture, Bernard Tschumi has designed a similar invention machine which "aims to unsettle both memory and context . " He uses small built structures called "folie'' as points of intensity and "encounter" to create new and unforeseen groupings of information. These folie are the weak points in the memory system even as they are part of . it. For our purposes, the folie function as punctum passages which set diversions and detours in motion. As the tourist wanders through the memory theater, the encounter with a momentary madness, folie, farblonzhet (an undecided pause at an intersection), or the breakdown of wayfinding becomes the initiator of invention. The punctums mark intersections of intensity in one's world view. They function as mirrors of one's looking or searching for knowledge. They stage the Imaginary, the pieces of self

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181 identity. As chapter three discussed, these points of self order cover pass-words or passages to otherness. By taking figurative snapshots of one's self as a tourist/researcher, the theorist sets up a mirroring situation. Just as the tourist looks at the Kochina tourist doll, the theorist looks at a mock(or mock-up) researcher. From the play between researcher and a model of a mock-researcher a passage or betweenness suggests an alternative way of knowing. The invention discourse depends on figural snapshots of mediating differences in the search for knowledge. In short, the invention-tourist guide stages the image-repertoire of the researcher/tourist. It stages the wandering path. In terms of the role of technology in the passage to thinking differently, one can apply this notion of a lost sense to computer applications in education. It is precisely this lost-sense which computer programming can encourage. The folie allows pedagogy to include the loss of memory and the rhetoric of adventure. Just as the notion of a memory theater shifts a process from cognition to a discursive practice, invention functions as a discursive practice rather than a cognitive trait. Just as the art of memory teaches a way to store and connect information, invention works by losing the way between .J.Qci. In classical rhetoric, inyentio is a way of recalling stored information. Finding something to say by moving from locus

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182 to locus allows the memory theater to store and recall information. Likewise, invention depends on how we store and recall knowledge rather than on what we know or who we are. In that sense, invention-tourism is intimately connected to the memory theaters. In the memory theater the loci are crucial. One must know where and what knowledge is stored for the theater to work as a discursive practice--for it to work as "memory." In terms of the collection of snapshots, the album of research not only contains references to how knowledge is organized and accessed, it also functions as a model or guide to invention passages, the way information is organized for invention rather than memory, taxonomies, etc. In Francesco Colonna's Hynerotomachia Poliphili, "a mnemonic system gone mad," the memory theater is so "obscure as to the pathways between [loci] that ... the result is a journey ... without coordinates"(North 138). In this confusion, "the advantages that caused the ancient mnemonic system to use spatial form are thereby sacrificed. Pure succession easily gives the impression that each moment is the same moment, so that reiteration replaces history, and memory is lost"(North 153). Empire of Signs does give the impression that the fragments are spatially unrelated and the coordinates among these fragments are either lost or impossible to read. The repeated stress on the emptiness of each loci also suggests that reiteration replaces any sense

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183 of chronology. Most importantly, memory of taxonomic systems is momentarily lost or at a loss. Barthes's project differs from Colonna's by using the simulated image of loss to initiate detours and invention rather than a private fantasy of complete knowledge and total memory. There is no secret or hidden meaning in the researcher's tourist album. The symbolic system which goes under the rubrics of creativity, paleologic, primitive thinking, the right brain, madness, and even schizo-analysis becomes public information rather than the black box secrets motivating individual genius. Part of the effort to make private apperception of otherness public concerns the ability of electronic media to bring otherness close-at-home. Electronic media already have an enormous influence on public education, but using electronics for cultural invention and innovation requires a different programming. The suggestion that students now in school will be members of an information society based on various manifestations of computers has become a central concern of educators. With more than twenty percent of U.S. households having at least one computer and probably every University owning scores of computers, few doubt the enormous impact that computers will continue to have on our thinking. Along with the interest in pedagogical applications of electronics has come a theoretical dilemma. We cannot teach the same things that have been taught, and use computers

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184 only as training aids; rapid accessibility to encyclopaedic storage, easy mixing of media (e.g., texts, pictures, video, sounds, etc.) and switching among materials changes our relation to information. With this foregrounding of alternative storage and retrieval systems, "informatics" becomes an important part of the curriculum. How we package knowledge from using graphs and flowcharts to the methods of coding and decoding information no longer are trivial concerns ghettoized in "educational technology." The concern of informatics has less to do with finding right answers than cultivating access and paths among loci of information. The shift in emphasis from answers to settings suggests that using computer models for invention applications requires a textual theory; that theory would demonstrate how to move from one loci of information to another. It would foreground information flows and retrieval mechanisms. The trope of tourism plays a major role in informatics. A fictional dialogue written by educators about educational computer applications suggest the relevance of the metaphor of the tour and the tourist. Mr. Gold: I have a question about the role of the individual user. Is he or she a gamester, a tourist, a reporter, a researcher, or what? Reply: Perhaps any or all of those roles might be appropriate at various times. 6 To understand the role of computer models in theoretical applications we cannot merely assume that a translation of cognitive functions (e.g, intelligence) into textual

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185 practices is unadulterated. On the other hand, we cannot assume that the computer is a pure medium with characteristics which define its essence. It is defined in part as a switching mechanism or cross-referencing index which mixes systems of communication and blurs the boundaries among media. The modernist trap of claiming that a medium has a pure essence unto itself is particularly inadequate in using computer models as switching or path opening media in applications for invention. The concern is not with what is pure to the computer medium. The challenge is to open routes or paths to thinking using media. The notion of an essence to a particular technology falls in the face of inaccurate predictions of how a community will use new technologies. The telephone, developed as a hearing aid, was hailed as the future medium for home musical entertainment. In a more recent example, the interactive message services developed in France were funded by the French government to provide transit schedules, weather reports, news, telebanking, and teleshopping. The most common conversations on these services deal with sex and dating; the service has become an electronic singles bar. As researchers note the services are used "like a telephone, not a newspaper (as had been forecast). French consumers appropriated this new medium and remolded it to suit unanticipated needs." 7 The essence of technology is, to borrow Heidegger's phrase, nothing

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186 technological. 8 Even answering the apparently neutral question of "what does it do and how does it do it" depends on the use and interpretation of the medium rather than on some ahistorical science: the phone was not a phone until we could "phone home." In this sense, technological determinism depends more on use than production. Technology poses a question, not an answer. How we respond sets in motion the way technology will determine how we think, and are able to think. In that sense, technology and socio political decisions can only be understood together. Neither one has the final say about a context of reception. Neither one has the sole power to change how we think. The invention-tourist guide works with technology's potential, not necessarily through it or because of it. Researchers in educational media note that the computer offers "not merely stacks of books, articles, videotapes, and the rest, but a wealth of material like that connected linked to form paths that lead students to intriguing byways and illuminating vista points"(Campbell and Hanlon 161) . These intricately connected materials also allow users to change and manipulate the potentially enormous amount of information. Besides this ability to make connections, the computer also blurs the distinction between authors and readers. "Creating new materials, making new links and followings links, are all integrated into a single, modeless environment." 9 Consciousness no longer

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187 becomes the ground of research. This ability to construct complex and visually dense arguments and to have students move among and manipulate these connections at varying paces not only helps teach the arts, humanities, and the social sciences with their polyvalences of meaning and hard-to record-events, but also helps students explore interdisciplinary areas. Researchers argue that as tourists on a trip to learn something, learning situations are sometimes structured and sometimes unstructured. For example, before embarking, the typical explorer will consult with others who have already made the trip and will read books on a variety of topics and levels. That is, the explorer will consider a variety of structured approaches to mastering the subject and may well put together a personal synthesis of them all. Once arrived at the tour--while also continually breaking out of this routine by freely exploring the environment, making connections and discoveries along the way. 1 0 The lesson here applies not just to the model of writing, but also to the use of the terms associated with tourism. The researcher goes on to apply these lessons to multimedia computer programming. He concludes that making a choice between discontinuous "links" or narrative "stories" in the design of interactive media "is an unnecessary choice--one we are not, in fact, forced to make. If the user is viewed as an explorer--not a 'student'--then at every moment, both guided tours ('stories') and free exploration ('making links') should be options provided by the program" (Frischer 302). One researcher describes the practice of Touring:

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188 If we think of the information spreadsheet as a map, then we can package "tours" simply by specifying which places (data cells} are to be visited in what order. For each such tour, we can create an advance organizer that previews what the tour is about and where it goes. Then we can create a voice-over that ties the individual pieces of media together into a coherent whole. This is what we did for the orientation tours. 11 As a space-time-travelling tourist, your first choice is, according to the Grapevine project, to decide on a brief Highlight Tour, a Regular Tour, the Full Tour, or detour. 12 Jumping from tour to tour would depend on, what Feyerabend calls an open exchange, because each move would influence and determine the other moves, switching frames of reference. Switching frames of reference requires, according to Susan Stewart, an ability to entertain nonsensical information. The unforeseen allusions appear as nonsense or, as I have argued, a lost-sense. Computer applications, informatics, which studies how we frame our knowledge, must focus on these boundaries. The hypermedia invention-tourism functions as a language game or genre: an artificial creativity to match the artificial memories and intelligences we already have. Significantly, the use of the terms tourism and tourists have been used, but not adequately theorized. This tends to be a general problem with many of the technical advancements in media labs. The work on interactive media requires theoretical work before it becomes useful as a model for invention. As chapter three explained, the mediation of differences uses burlesques of stereotypes, jokes which play

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189 on myths, parodies of cliches, and other meta-communications about prejudice. Those mediations allow cultures to cope with and assimilate strangers and strangeness. Through its coping function, the repetition or mirroring of the commonplace invents an alternative to the conflicting/joining cultures. That alternative functions as a passage to another way of thinking: a non-rational, paleological, atmospheric, and inventive mode. This mode is often at odds with rational choice. Rather than abandoning consciousness, electronic media offer a model for touring through a passage from analytic-rational reasoning to a lost-sense or a non-sense without terminating at either end. Switchings or crossings between cultures and ways of knowing occur at moments of intensity--the links, discontinuous jumps, oscillations, or sudden catastrophes in stories about researching/tourism. Computers already have the ability to store information. Programming them for invention will require touring or following the singularities of attractions. Instead of effacing differences in information by determining links according to rational rules of coherence around a predetermined lesson, links can occur at the crossings and switchings of our cultural encyclopedias. These punctum passages will simply connect iterated alternatives from the details of our tourist tales. The connection between tourism's and invention's attempts to

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190 mediate differences becomes the locus for an invention tourism. By programming multi-media texts with invention tourism, we bring the far-away close-at-home, highlighting the friction between stories or narratives of explanation. Again, this is not a modernist experiment where the purity of the form is crucial. A hypermedia text can function in film, video, print or in combinations of those. There is no beginning to a tourist-text. As a kind of uncompleted map, it shows the flows and links between tracks of information (e.g., anecdotes, myths, and an expert discourse about invention and research). Links can be fashioned to instruct, to guide, or to amuse. It is not a spontaneous creative endeavor but an artificial programming of invention ("for the tourists"). As a discursive practice of a disruption of memory without a complete break, it shifts the topography of thinking without advocating unthinking. The space where tourism and invention cross and switch occurs through the way users (i.e., readers or tourists) mediate the differences. The displacing of oppositions through mediation marks a passage to an alternative sensibility. Freud explains that the censor prohibits unconscious wishes from gaining access to conscious articulate discourse. In Freud's model, the ideational representative of these wishes appears as an image-word or thing-word. This thing-word has no particular affect connected to it, and it can return to consciousness

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191 in the guise of an innocuous detail. The idea or thing-word returns to consciousness only in a distorted fashion. The distorting compromise between the repressed idea and the repressing one condenses and displaces the detail onto iterated substitutions in a passage to invention. As chapter three explained, the collection of souvenirs in, for example, Eisenstein's intellectual montage sequence (October) function as a punctum passage to an alternative way of knowing. That way of knowing occurs as a lost-sense as chapter two explained. The punctum functions as a switching link between getting lost and passages to invention. Yet the punctum is not merely a detail. The play of the punctum as described by Barthes, once reactivated as a form of writing, folds reference in upon itself to place reality in a kind of chiastic symmetry with death, presence with absence, confounding inside with outside to the extent that the signifying surface of the representational process is opened to a less strictly institutionalized play of meaning than that prescribed by mimesis. In fact, this disturbance is anticipated by Barthes in his original definition of the punctum, where he supplies a further sense for the Latin word that we have not yet mentioned: a cast of the dice . 13 The punctum passage changes how we represent information. By changing the relation to information, textual variations allow for an invention process. By reactivating the puncturn as a form of writing, we can use electronic media as a potential model of this alternative writing, ecritour.

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192 Winston Weathers suggests that electronic media have influenced the emergence of an alternative grammar. He calls this different programming of language "grammar B." The stylistic devices of grammar Bare often based on cinematic, audio, and televisual techniques. This grammar, used in fiction and poetry since the early twentieth century, has had little impact until recently on the organization of (non-fictional) knowledge. The "New Journalism" used grammar B to report on non-fictional events and made grammar Ba viable option in organizing information for invention. The seven maneuvers or devices of this grammar have resonances of ecritour. The maneuvers include the fragment or crot, the labyrinthine sentence and sentence fragment, the list, the double-voice or self-reflexive commentary, repetitions, word play, and collage/montage. In discussing the use of the crot or fragment in relation to collage/montage, Weathers explicitly connects grammar B to an invention-tourist guide. Since each crot is not unlike a snapshot or a color slide, the overall composition, using crots, is similar to a slide show, especially if the slides have not been arranged into any neat and tidy sequence. "My Trip to New Orleans" written in traditional style will have some sort of orderly quality to it: the trip will be presented chronologically, spatially, or what have you. But "My Trip to New Orleans," written in the alternative style, will depend, not on the order in which the "slides" appear, but on the sharp, exceptional quality of each crot or slide and on the "crazy leaps of logic" ... with the reader jolted from one snapshot to the next. 14

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193 The use of snapshots becomes an important intersection between invention-tourism and grammar B. As an intersection, it suggests a way to generalize the snapshot into a composition strategy. The tourist's snapshot gives us a model of selection, and collage/montage gives us a model of combination. And, in refining the model of combination, computer technology gives a precise model for combining information. We need go no further except to offer a brief example of an invention-tourist guide (i.e., a collection of souvenirs) and suggestions for making your home language or social situation into an invention-tourist attraction. Empire of souvenirs; M~ Trip To New Orleans While wandering around in a magic shop, we found this figurine and mirror. The figurine, molded and painted as a ballerina, has a magnet in its base, while the mirror has a magnet inside its casing. When the mirror approaches, the ballerina spins around. I bought it and decided to incorporate it into the talk for the conference. When I put a glass over the figurine, it did not turn. The law of the 'proper' rules in the place: the elements taken into consideration are beside one another, each situated in its own 'proper' and distinct location, a location it defines . A place is thus an instantaneous configuration of positions. It implies an indication of stability. . . Space comes into play when direction, velocities, and time variables become considerations. Space consists of "intersections of mobile elements . like the word when it is spoken ...

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194 caught in the ambiguities of an actualization . . Space is a practiced place. (De Certeau 117) We decided to walk down a street we had not yet explored. It was a busy street filled with business people. After we lost track of our direction, we arrived at a strange park--a palazzo with the the atmosphere of neo-classical ruins mixed with modern art. Because of the sense of ruin, I wondered if we were in a particularly dangerous neighborhood. One snapshot shows me standing next to an a plaster column cut off at the top. Another picture shows a line of metallic orangish columns. Computer networking topology: the Physical shape of the network. There are three types: ~, with all nodes connected to a central location;~, with all nodes on a closed circle that passes information without going to a central location; and b.u.s., with all nodes connected to a linking wire that does not close in a circle. 15 A small appendage of Mississippi is squeezed in between Alabama and Louisiana on the Gulf coast. That small stretch of land, called long beach, tempted us to take a detour. We drove inland for a stretch. When the territory changed from an old southern resort to a mix of empty lots and highway honky-tonk, we decided to head back. After we tried to retrace our route to no avail, we stopped at the first place we found. We were hungry, but this bar had no restaurant. They gave us confusing directions and we drove off. Lost again, we turned left and spotted a run-down restaurant. the sign out front said, "Ray's seafood.'' Not knowing what

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195 to expect, we ordered everything that looked good on the chalk board. When the waitress served the large mound of crabs, we had to ask how to eat them. A old man came over to our table and, in a Cajun accent, explained the technique. His performance was something from a tourist's dream of authenticity. This was the best seafood we had ever had and dirt cheap. If you are ever in that part of the country, then remember these directions: get lost and turn left. The scene illustrates but the idea, not any actual action, in a hymen (out of which flows Dream), tainted with vice yet sacred, between desire and fulfillment, perpetration and remembrance: here anticipating, there recalling, in the future, in the past, under the false appearance of a present. That is how the Mime operates, whose act is confined to a perpetual allusion without breaking the ice or the mirror: he thus sets up a medium, a pure medium, of fiction. 16 This antebellum hotel's facade, an icon for my ''New Orleans," suggests an interstitial space--not a place between places, but a collection of in-betweens--of columns. The Columns hotel, perpetually in the process of renovation, is something of a disappointment to friends, following our recommendations, who have stayed there. The paint is peeling-off the walls, the columns are in disrepair, and the restaurant mixes elegance with an air of decay. The column, always poised between facade and deep structure, marks an entrance as a kind of threshold without closure. In typography, columns are both the standard (for journalism)

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196 and the marginal (for scholarly essays). What does it mean to write in or with columns? What does it mean to write with a tour of columns? A flight is a sort of delirium. To be delirious [delirer] is exactly to go off the rails (as in deconner--to say absurd things, etc.). There is something demoniacal or demonic in a line of flight. Demons are different from gods, because gods have fixed attributes, properties and functions, territories and codes: they have to do with rails, boundaries and surveys. What demons do is jump across intervals, and from one interval to another. 17 As a picture language, "Blissymbolics," investigated by Charles Bliss, allows one to "translate any interpretive or metaphoric statement" into a concrete metaphorai or passage between frames. 18 Michel De Certeau notes that "in modern Athens, the vehicles of mass transportation are called metaphorai. To go to work or come home, one takes a 'metaphor'--a bus or train. 1119 If one takes the 'map' in its current geographical form, we can see that in the course of the period marked by the birth of modern scientific discourse (i.e., from the fifteenth to the seventeenth century) the map has slowly disengaged itself from the itineraries that were the condition of its possibility. (De Certeau 120) De Certeau distinguishes between the "tour" type of memory and a memory based on maps. For example, he explains that maps used to have the tour type of memory superimposed on them. These tour type maps had little boats and other figures painted on them.

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197 Far from being 'illustrations,' iconic glosses on the text, these figurations, like fragments of stories, mark on the map the historical operations from which it resulted. Thus the sailing ship painted on the sea indicates the maritime expedition that made it possible to represent the coastlines. (De Certeau 121) At the intersection of the major highway entering the city, the edge of the garden district, and the outer perimeter of the French quarter, the road makes a "Y" shape. On an island in the middle of the "V" part of the shape, stands a bus/trolley stop. The bus goes in one direction and the trolley goes in the other. Across the street from this stop a public sculpture garden meanders around a small office building. Neither guides nor guards greet you. Instead, a little empty box marked "Brochures" welcomes anyone who might wander over to this unlikely location. At the bus/trolley the sculpture garden overlapped with the city. A bench or something between a bench and a sculpture might make a modest allusion to Rosalind Krauss's thoughts on sculpture in the expanded field: somewhere between sculpture, architecture, and landscape. It had nothing of the large monumentality of, for example, an Alice Aycock project. A small monument to the in-between, this bench "in the middle of nowhere" waited for the perpetual combination of lines and meetings. Two unequal columns, they say distyle each of which--envelop(e) (s) or sheath(es) incalculably reverses, turns inside out, replaces, remarks, overlaps the other. 20 From one angle a view of the Shroud of Turin appears. When the postcard is tilted another way, an Italian picture

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198 of Jesus appears. This shroud of tourism was found in a store which sold religious and mardi gras paraphernalia. Bazin used the example of the shroud to explain the indexical quality of the photographic process. That process works through the imprinting of light onto film. In this oscillating card, the referent is an Italian painting of Jesus's face. The young model is clean shaven with small features, full cheeks, and a rounded face. The shroud image looks like a xerox of an older man's face with large features, a full mustache, and an angular face. The oscillation between the reference systems of painting and photographic process suggests both an attraction and discontinuity between figure and reflection. Near the northern end of the new forum two libraries were built, one for Latin works, the other for Greek. Between them rose the column, behind them the temple, of Trajan. When the forum was complete it was accounted one of the architectural wonders of the world. The column, still standing, was first of all an achievement of transportation. It was cut from eighteen cubes of marble, each weighing some fifty tons; the blocks were brought by ship from the island of Paros, were transferred to barges at Ostia, were drawn against the current up the river, and were moved on rollers up the bank and through the streets. . Before being raised into position the blocks were carved with reliefs . . It is a strange document, too crowded for full effectiveness; some figures so crude that one wonders if a Dacian warrior carved them; superposition primitively substituted for perspective ... Its 'method of continuity' -making each scene melt into the next--carried on the the suggestions of Titus' arch and prepared for medieval reliefs. 21

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199 We kept walking until we arrived at the waterfront. Underneath the bridge were the ruins of the abandoned world's fair. One snapshot shows me next to an aluminum column pulling a wire from the column to my head as if it was connected to me. We searched the only standing building, a ticket stand. Apparently, the demolition crew had left behind a box of "Hanger Irons" her holding up the box and smiling. A snapshot shows The five columns are also unreal, introduced for the purposes of the mnemonics. Fludd himself says that they are feigned. Nevertheless, they too have a 'real' aspect for they are situated on the line on which there would be on the real stage, not five, but two columns or 'posts' rising to support the 'heavens. ' 22 I looked through the local newspaper and came across an article on the choreographer Glen Tetley which discussed the use of dance, mime, and gymnastics in his productions. Later, I remembered that it referred to Marcel M.Qrceau. I tried in vain to locate the article with the spelling mistake to confirm my memory. "Even when the development of the arch had taken from columns their old supporting role, the Romans added them as functionless ornaments--a custom that has survived into our own uncertain age"(Durant 357). [I]t was almost visible, like a column belonging to a perfect order, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian--and now dada--standing upright and watching the conference. 23 Diogenes, who wanted no students who imitated him, slept under the roof of the hall of columns of Zeus. He once

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200 remarked that the Athenians had probably built the structure especially for him as an abode. When asked about his hometown, he replied "I am a citizen of the world!ll Indeed, "Everything kynics own, they carry with thern." 24 One day, in broad daylight, [Diogenes] lit a lamp and, on his way through the town he was asked what he was doing, his answer was,'I'rn looking for people.' This episode provides the masterpiece of his pantomimic philosophy. (Sloterdijk 162) Limbo is derived from the Latin limbus (border or edge). In Christian theology and Dante's Divine Comedy, it designates the place of souls that, through no fault of their own, for they lived before the corning of Christ, are debarred from heaven. It is almost exclusively occupied by Romans and Greeks. Becoming An Invention-Tourist Attraction As an alternative to describing how attractions exert hegemonic control, one can explore how to use the attraction as a model of organizing information. The invention-tourist guide suggests a way to merge the educational with entertainment values while creating a space from a place. As the invention-tourist guide demonstrates, to organize information for invention requires an alternative grammar. That grammar offers a model for an alternative institutional practice. Making home into a tourist attraction does not require building something absolutely new. Making use of existing social structures, adding sight markers, and advertising the

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201 situation as an attraction can change a research situation into an attraction. The Moon Rocks depend on captions. Marketing or making knowledge touring popular depends on organizing information rather than on the essential wonder or genius of a place or person. This dissertation has argued for the importance of the organization of knowledge for invention and has offered an experimental demonstration of an invention-tourist guide. The institutional setting for invention-tourism depends not on Taylorized or rationalized organization of curriculums, but on making knowledge an attraction and a passage. An experiment with a merger of entertainment values with educational goals appears at Disney's EPCOT. The Disney fantasy of urban life, EPCOT (Experimental Prototype Community Of Tomorrow), has an obviously fictional character to it. How does the illusion work as a generative device rather than as a veil over some reality? We might dismiss Disney Land or even World as merely "quaint" entertainment. The explicit educational and political goals (a "World of Nations" with neither black African nations nor the Soviet Union) make the experimental city a far bolder construction. With its underground workers, its techno-global-village of amusements and robe-guides, its perceptual-architectural games like fountains which throw sausage size globs of water over passersby, smell machines, and its rooms which make music when you walk over the multi-colored floorboards this

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202 city resembles a number of other narratives . Its techno architectural emphasis falls somewhere between Metropolis or Brazil and Tati's Playtime. Its familiar or supposedly comforting social control falls somewhere between the home bound thrills in Huysmann's A~ainst the Grain and Leni Riefenstahl's Triumph of the Will. It has always been an undecided fantasy between hallucinogenic excitement and hegemonic panopticonic pleasure. This dialectic of delirium and control is precisely the mix theorized by psychoanalytic film theorists during the 1970s. In those theories, the cinematic apparatus allowed for delirium, but only in the confines of a patriarchal-humanist social order. The gaze of the viewers was carefully guided and, through that guidance, social control sutured subjects into a hegemonic ideology. As chapter three explains, apparatus theory ran aground when it attempted to decide the issue on the side of control. Instead of building or reading the merger of educational with entertainment values in terms of the positioning of subjects or the sedentary location of an education-city, invention-tourism depends on the punctum. Barthes defines punctum in terms of the studium. Significantly, studium refers to an institutional practice not a textual effect. It defines a city with several schools. It is a school which is closely associated with a particular place and a particular function. A University (Latin universitas) in the relevant medieval sense is a legal term,

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203 meaning a guild or a corporation, a group of men engaged in a common activity of any sort and having a collective status, that is legally recognized to be self-governing and to exercise control over its own membership. In the strict sense of the the term, there was no university in Paris until the masters and scholars in the city had formed their own corporation and had been formally recognized to have legal standing. This happened no earlier than between 1208 and 1215. A studiurn, on the other hand, is a place of study, a city where there are several schools, that is, masters offering instruction. The medieval concept of the universitas was not tied to a specific place in the way the studiurn was; nor was the university intrinsically defined by function, again in contrast to the studiurn. 25 The punctum, neither a studium nor a university, is more and other than a textual effect like a detail. It designates an institutional practice based on a blurring of the distinction between literal and figurative meaning and on opening passages to a lost-sense. In practical terms, knowledge souvenirs require the concretizing literal/figurative fragments or crots of information. Invention-tourism depends on mediating the differences between souvenirs in order to increase potential allusions and alternative sensibilities. In terms of the knowledge souvenir and invention-tourism, the invention-tourist guide becomes a figurative model of the institutional practice called invention-tourism. That practice will differ from the studium or school practice. The school context may be the wrong context for developing widely applied thinking skills .. . For learning about learning to be achieved, there must be a decontextualization of the message, a discrimination of the message from

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204 its particular instances of use. Learning depends upon freeing the message from the constraints of the situation at hand .... 26 It is not that schools teach irrelevant information but that information is always contextualized to solve school or academic problems. The practice associated with the punctum allows information to move away from the school context of problem solving. As Susan Stewart explains, learning comes to be associated with the 'impossible context' of nonsense by a progressive decontextualization. 27 It is appropriate that commonplaces be transformed from collections of fixed and established, communicable cliches to neutral sources of new perceptions operative in new directions .... Whereas the rhetoric of the Romans took its commonplaces from the practical arts and jurisprudence and the rhetoric of the Humanists took its commonplaces from the fine arts and literature, our rhetoric finds its commonplaces in the technology of commercial advertising and of calculating machines. 28 The knowledge souvenir functions as an advertisement neither of a product nor a place, but of a potential space of invention-tourism. Souvenirs, like a Fifth column in the territory of studiums, make knowledge trip. Both conveyed and conveyances, these disruptions to sedentary institutions of learning suggest an institutional practice. That practice consists not merely of scholars moving literally or figuratively from place to place, but of the movement of knowledge from language to language or discourse to discourse. The souvenir seeps its saprophytic machinations into our major, dominant, or home languages by giving itself

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205 away. To stage thinking as a touristic attraction depends not on sedentary structures like studiums or collegia (the Roman guilds which celebrated specialization and democracy among members). It depends on organizing information for easy access and combinations rather than for rational progression within disciplines, fields, or colleges. It depends on becoming a go-between not in order to move to another place but to open lines of information movement and to ease the dominance of any one sense and sensibility. How we exchange information and how knowledge moves away from its proper place in a discipline can only be understood through activity. In a figurative columnar transposition, a list of poignant chunks of information becomes something more and other than a map of loci or a recollection of research. It becomes a tour of attractions--a model of research out of place or out of bounds. In practical terms, packaging information as attractions which move (i.e. entertaining, poignant, moving, etc.)--as knowledge souvenirs--will change the role of scholars from experts of a discipline's logic and objects to information-travel agents, invention-tour guides, and tourists. Neither the classroom nor the University will necessarily serve as the locus for invention-tourism. One will call, or access 11 on-line, 11 an information-travel agent the way one consults advertisements and tourist bureaus. Invention-tourists will share itineraries and packing hints.

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206 In an effort to save sacred disciplines and secret information from the well-meaning tourists, restrictions will attempt to limit access. Yet those efforts at preservation will lead to making the havens and reserves of pristine and authentic knowledge into touristic attractions. In the transition to the practice of invention-tourism, teachers need to tell their students to get lost. When they cheerfully ask for directions, the emergence of a different way to mediate knowledge has already begun. Notes 1 Andrea Lunsford and Robert Connors, Eds., The St. Martin's Handbook (Annotated Instructor's Edition) (New York: St. Martin's Press, 1989). Hereafter referred to in text as St. Martin's. 2 Roland Barthes, The Semiotic Challenge, Trans. Richard Howard (New York: Hill and Wang, 1988), 92. Hereafter referred to in text as Semiotic. 3 Frances Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), 309. Hereafter referred to in text as Yates. 4 Jacques Derrida, "The Inventions of the Other," Trans. Catherine Porter, in Reading De Man Reading, Eds. Lindsay Waters and Wlad Godzich (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1989), 25-65. 5 Michael North, The Final Sculpture: Public Monuments and Modern Poets (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1985), 136. Hereafter referred to in text as North. 6 Robert Campbell and Patricia Hanlon, "Grapevine," in Interactive Multimedia, Ed. Sueann Abron and Kristina Hooper (Redmond, Washington: Microsoft Press, 1988), 174. Hereafter referred to in text as Campbell and Hanlon.

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207 7 Fredrick Williams, Ronald Rice, and Everett Rogers, Research Methods and The New Media (New York: The Free Press, A Division of Macmillan, 1988), 89. 8 Martin Heidegger, The Ouestion concernin~ Technolo~y, Trans. and Intro. William Lovitt (New York: Harper and Row, 1977) . 9 Norman Meyrowitz, "Issues in Designing a Hypermedia Document System," in Interactive Multimedia, Ed. Sueann Abron and Kristina Hooper (Redmond, Washington: Microsoft Press, 1988), 37. lO Bernard Frischer, "Links or Stories--A Compromise," in Interactive Multimedia, Ed. Sueann Abron and Kristina Hooper (Redmond, Washington: Microsoft Press, 1988), 302. Hereafter referred to in text as Frischer . 11 Thomas Anderson,"Beyond Einstein," in Interactive Multimedia, Ed. Sueann Abron and Kristina Hooper (Redmond, Washington: Microsoft Press, 1988), 203. l2 cf. Robert Campbell and Patricia Hanlon, "Grapevine," in Interactive Multimedia, Ed. Sueann Abron and Kristina Hooper (Redmond, Washington: Microsoft Press, 1988). 1 3 Peter Brunette and David Wills, Screen/Play: Derrida and Film Theory (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1989), 117. 14 Winston Weathers, Alternate Style: Options in Composition (Rochelle Park, N.J.: Hayden Book, 1980), 15 . 15 J. Victor Baldridge, Janine W. Roberts, and Terri A. Weiner, The Campus and the Microcomputer Revolution (New York: Macmillan, 1984), 148. l6 Stephen Mallarme, as quoted in Jacques Derrida, Dissemination, Trans. Barbara Johnson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981), 175. 17 Giles Deleuze and Claire Parnet, Dialogues, Trans. Hugh Tomlinson and Barbara Habberjam (New York: Columbia University Press, 1987), 42.

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208 l8 Ellen Lupton, "Reading Isotype," in Design Discourse: History, Theory, Criticism (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1989), 155. 1 9 Michel De Certeau, The Practice of Everyday Life (Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1988), 115. Hereafter referred to in text as De Certeau. 20 Jacques Derrida,~' Trans. John Leavey, Jr. and Richard Rand (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1986), 1. 21 Will Durant, Caesar and Christ: A History of Roman Civilization and of Christianity From Their Beginnings to A,D, 325 (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1944), 412. Hereafter referred to in text as Durant . 22 Francis Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1966), 348. 23 Stephan Themerson, "Kurt Schwitters on a Time-Chart," in The Liberated Page: An anthology of Major Typographic Experiments of this Century as Recorded in Typographica magazine, Ed. Herbert Spenser (San Francisco: Bedford Press, 1987), 209. 24 Peter Sloterdijk, CritiQue of Cynical Reason (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1987), 158. Hereafer referred to in text as Sloterdijk. 2 5 Stephen c. Ferruolo, "Parisius-Paradisus: The City, Its Schools, and the Origins of the University of Paris," in The university and the City: From Medieval origins to the Present, Ed. Thomas Bender (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 24-25. 26 Robert Sternberg with Lynn Okagaki, "Teaching Thinking Skills: We're Getting the Context Wrong (unpublished manuscript, 1989), 1. 27 Susan Stewart, Nonsense University Press, 1986), 204. (Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins 28 Richard McKean, "Creativity and the Commonplace," Rhetoric: Essays in Invention and Discovery, Ed. and Intro. Mark Backman (Woodbridge, Conn.: Ox Bow Press, 1987), 34.

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CONCLUSION In this textual tour of invention, the quizzical "hrnrnm, let me think about that," the expectant "wait a second . " or the perplexed guttural "huh?" function as "shifters," signifying not only a mediation of difference but also the interference of language: as if language said, "what about this or that," and you could say nothing. This textual reinvention of invention "storms" alternatives as in an inner stenography. Which way? Look there. Watch out! Think twice. What now? From criticisms of the notion of creativity, one can recognize the current shift away from a focus on autonomous genius to the study of textual questions about the organization and social control of knowledge. Psychological models of creativity and invention inherently fail to address these concerns adequately. In a textual approach, problem setting, rather than problem solving, becomes the locus of struggles over restrictions, encouragements, accessibility and provocativeness of knowledge. Invention functions as a kind of language game or discourse rather than a trait or method. To play this language game neither romantic notions of spontaneity nor classical notions of repeatable method guide moves. Information processing strategies of selective 209

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210 encoding, combination, and comparison create a situation of artificial brain3torming. The "storming" of cultural history, common places, or even funny coincidences crosses disciplinary boundaries of specialization . Preparing this information for invention requires the use of various strategies. On a general level, those strategies, demonstrated in Empire of Signs, include sifting out relevant information from the "storm" of possibilities, combining isolated fragments into new groupings, and relating these groupings to each other in constellations of attractions. Invention tourism loosens the hold of any one context or any supposedly limitable context, and, by doing so, allows information to function generatively. It uses information to suggest different contexts or the illimitable boundaries of contexts. It no longer finds information applicable only to particular problems. This generative scholarship uses tourist attractions, not as objects of study but as a guide for research. Cultivating access and links among bits of information does not require "correct" answers or a recall of "significant" details. It requires students to know how to access information and move through information as a tourist navigating in unknown territory. The institutional practice of invention-tourism depends on packaging information as knowledge souvenirs. The souvenir concretizes information to allow it to move between frames of reference. Efforts to keep knowledge under the

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211 control of disciplinary logics and the specialization and expertise commonly found in Universities hinder invention. An alternative practice depends on mediating differences not as pieces of a universal whole, but as impasses in research. Rather than overcome these moments of hesitation by placing anomalies into a grid of rational connections, the invention tourist notices how these anomalies change the course of research and attention. Noticing these changes does not become part of a hermeneutics of information flow. The understanding of invention-tourism requires moving along invention-tourist guides and making your home an invention tourist attraction. These attractions change scholarly activity from the production of expert knowledge to consultation with fellow-travellers. In that sense, the research done in this dissertation suggests areas for further study and activity. How will an invention-tourist bureau or agency function? Information-travel agents will share knowledge itineraries (invention-tourist guides) and citation-packing hints. The guide in this dissertation demonstrates precisely how the invention-tourist can link knowledge souvenirs together and give figurarive directions to passages of invention. In a consultation situation, agents would link into travel/research stories to set them going in new directions. In the example demonstrated here, stories and links interact to suggest, among other things, a kind of calculation for invention. An information agent calculates

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212 attractions in order to test which links move knowledge along a passage to another way of knowing. The guide suggests how knowledge moves between .J..o.ti and what effects that movement creates. Those suggestions do not fit into a discursive description. The suggestions depend on a kind of genius loci or the materiality of the combinations . What kinds of effects can we invent as the knowledge souvenirs spread within traditional sedentary institutions of learning? The University community already welcomes some interdisciplinary research. If researchers begin moving from place to place, it may soon become easier to open lines (both job lines and technological lines of communication) in the spaces between. The space is always a practiced place. This exploration will require research into how disciplines receive and process knowledge. By working in disciplines where one is n.o..t. an expert, one can understand how knowledge souvenirs change the context of reception--the recipient discipline. This future research will initially explore how the theories discussed in this dissertation can work on and with other disciplinary ways of working. Research into ''critical legal theory," "deconstructionist architecture," "post-positivist marketing," "Visible Theory,'' and other uses of textual theories in professional discourses may suggest both how disciplines use knowledge souvenirs and how those souvenirs may enter into the public realm. In that sense, the exploration of the effects of the spread of souvenirs and the invention of a invention-tourist agency will overlap.

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213 To make a method of invention out of getting lost is counter-intuitive. The notion that tourism plays a part in this method might strike some as a burlesque of serious scholarship. The related research into the mediation of differences, the play of attractions, the role of a lost sense, the punctum as snapshot, passage, and social practice, and the possibility of inventing an institutional practice from knowledge souvenirs and unexpected detours will leave some puzzled. Incongruity and doubt initiate research. What remains is to learn where these souvenirs will take us.

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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH Craig Jonathan Saper was born in Albany, New York, on May 22, 1960. He attended the first half of elementary school (K-3) in Delmar, New York, the second half of elementary school and junior high school (4-8) in Orono, Maine, and high school (9-12) in Miami, Florida. He attended the National Theater Institute in 1980 and did graduate work at the University of Wisconsin-Madison from 1984-1987. He began his studies at the University of Florida in 1978, receiving the B.A . degree in December of 1981, the M.A. degree in 1984, and the Ph.D. in English in August of 1990. He has been on the editorial board of The Velvet Light Trap film journal and the Newsletter of the Freudian Field, and has guest edited a special issue of Visible Language, Volume 22, Number 4 (1988). He has over fifteen publications to date including articles in the Yearbook of Interdisciplinary studies in the Fine Arts and the Journal of Urban and Cultural Studies. Besides scholarly activities, he has curated and organized exhibits on Visual and Concrete Poetry and co-produced two videos. Craig Saper is the author of Qn Being Read published in 1985. 229

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I certify that I have read this study and that in my opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy . :7 { ,' Gr ~. Ulmer, Chair Professor of English I certify that I have read this study and that in my opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly presentation and is fully ad e, in scope and quality, as a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy . .:JoHtJ IY} . ?0e'-c-]Ji,) nglish ]). c-ff '11MI certify that I have read this study and that in my opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly presentation and is fully adequate, in sc pe and uality, as a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. g ' c:>"'-,,c-l=--,----____c;~'--1---A-------obert Ray Associate Professor of English I certify that I have read this study and that in my opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality , as a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy . ~ f /;,, :::--... Caryl Flinn Assistant Pr essor of English I certify that I have read this study and that in my opinion it conforms to acceptable standards of scholarly presentation and is fully adequate, in scope and quality, as a dissertation for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy. This dissertation was submitted to the Graduate Faculty of the Department of English in the College of Liberal Arts and Sciences and to the Graduate School and was accepted as partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy . August, 1990 Dean, Graduate School

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