Displaying Filipinos : photography and colonialism in early 20th century Philippines 9789715420457, 9715420451

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D isplaying F ilipin o s : Photographyand Colonialism In Early ao"1CenturyPhilippines

Benito M. Vergara, Jr.

University of the Philippines Press 1995

Philippine Copyright 1995 by Benito M. Vergara, Jr. All rights reserved, no copies can be made in part or in whole without written permission frpm the author and the publisher. Cataloguing-in-Publication Data University of the Philippines Main Library Recommended entry: Displaying Filipinos: Photography and Colonialism in Early 20th Century Philippines/Benito M. Vergara, Jr.—Quezon City: University of the Philippines Press, University of the Philippines, cl995. 194 pp. 1. Philippines—History—1898 2. Photograph Collections I. Title ISBN 971-542-045-1 Production Supervision: Laura L. Samson Editorial Assistants: Armine Soberano and Benilda Escutin Cover artwork and design: Arne Sarmiento and Tonton Santos The Creative Response Co., Inc. Layout and Typography: Mona Lisa S. Escara Set in PalmSprings and Americana XBdCn BT Printed in the Philippines by the UP. Press Printery

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CONTENTS

List of Figures Acknowledgments Foreword

vii xi xiii

1

Introduction: The Kodak Zone

1

2

Photography and Truth

7

3

The Taste of Empire

17

4

"An Enumeration of Themselves"

37

5

Confirming the Scowl

75

6

On Display

111

Afterword: Two Photographs

151

Works Cited

161

Index

173

LIST OF FIGURES

Figure 1. "1. Mayoyao Igorot, 'Headman' of Banaue. 2. Igorot. 3. Igorot Head-Hunter, Lepanto-Bontoc. 4. Igorot Girl in Fem-Leaf Costum e. 5. Mayoyao Igorot, Young W om an." Photographs are credited as "Collection of Dean C. Worcester." (Source: Census, Vol. 1, facing p. 541.)

56

Figure 2. "1. Moro Showing One Way of W earing the Sarong. 2. Sanguil Moro W arrior in Brass Helmet and Cuirass. 3. Samal Moros, Characteristic Dress. 4. Samal Moro of Zamboanga. 5. Malanao Moro. 6. Yakan Moro." (Source: Census, Vol. 1, facing p. 563.)

57

Figure 3. "1. Presidente of Agusan (Visayan). 2. Presidente of Oroquieta (Visayan). 3. Presidente of Misam is (Visayan). 4. Enumerators of Marinduque (Tag£logs). 5. Enumerators of Masbate (Visayans)." (Source: Census, Vol. 1, facing p. 522.)

59

Figure 4. "Enumerators, Province of Sorsog6n (Bicols)." (Source: Census, Vol. 1, facing p. 450.)

60

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DISPLAYING FILIPINOS

Figure 5. "Gov-Superior Locsin and Presidentes, Province of Negros Occidental (Visayans)." (Source: Census, Vol. 1, facing p. 526.)

61

Figure 6. "Entertaining the Kalingas. They are listening with great interest to the reproduction of a speech which one of their chiefs has just made into the receiving horn of a dictaphone." (Source: Worcester, The Philippines Past and Present, facing p. 426.)

85

Figure 7. Above, 'T h e Old Way of Crossing a River." Below, "The New Way of Crossing a R iver." (Source: Worcester, The Philippines Past and Present, facing p. 650.)

86

Figure 8. 'T h e illustration was taken not far from the water works toward the river Pasig." (Source: Fighting in the Philippines.)

89

Figure 9. "Died in Action . . ." The view is of the battle field strewn with dead. The central figure is that of a hero as he died defending his country's honor." The picture is of an American soldier in the Philippines. (Source: Souvenir o f the 8th Army Corps, Philippine Expedition.)

90

Figure 10. "Negrito Hunters, Father and Son." (Source: Hannaford, p. 23.)

93

Figure 11. "Head-Hunting Gaddane and Wife." (Source: Hannaford, p. 26.)

94

Figure 12. "Philippine Malays. The youth's kris is in its sheath and one of the maidens has hold of the handle." (Source: Hannaford, p. 29.)

96

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LIST OF FIGURES

ix

Figure 13. "Group of the Better Class of Filipino Women, Suburbs of M anila." (Source: De Olivares, p. 551.)

97

Figure 14. "Sm oking is Epidemic in the Philippines; Children Are Weaned on Cigars." (Source: Givens, p. 72.)

99

Figure 15. "A Philippine Fam ily." (Source: Thomas H. Seim Papers, # 4067. Box 2, envelope 8, photograph 5. Department of Manuscripts and University Archives, Cornell University Library.)

100

Figure 16. "Scene near San Miguel Street in Manila, taken December 25, 1898, showing caribou and a dray cart; also the natives in their natural costumes and positions." (Source: Coursey, frontispiece.)

103

Figure 17. "Educational Value of the Constabulary. 1. Bontoc Igorot on entering the service, 1901. 2. After a year's service, 1902. 3. After two years' service, 1903. (Source: Frederick C. Chamberlain, The Philippine Problem 1898-1913 (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1913), facing p. 160.)

105

Figure 18. "A Negrito of Bataan Province. [Age, 15. Photo No. 3; Bilibid Prison No. 2339 C. Plate 78.]" (Source: Folkmar.)

118

Figure 19. "The Bontoc Head-Hunters . . ." (Source: The World's Fair, p. 169.)

125

Figure 20. "The Igorot as an Exhibit . . ." (Source: The World's Fair, p. 149.)

127

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DISPLAYING FILIPINOS

Figure 21. "Filipino Representatives of the Malay Race . . ." (Source: The World's Fair, p. 155.)

129

Figure 22. 'T he Visayan Troupe . . ." (Source: The World's Fair, p. 163.)

131

Figure 23. "Antaero, the Igorot, at Home . . . " (Source: The World's Fair, p. 167.)

135

Figure 24. "Peace and Prosperity. This chance photograph showing General Emilio Aguinaldo as he is today, standing with Director of Education Frank L. Crone, beside a field of com raised by Emilio Aguinaldo, Jr., in a school contest . . ." (Source: Worcester, The Philippines Past and Present, facing p. 658.)

140

Figure 25. "The Metamorphosis of a Bontoc Igorot. Two photographs of Pit-a-pit, a Bontoc Igorot boy. The second was taken nine years after the first." (Source: Worcester, The Philippines Past and Present, Vol. 2, 1914, frontispiece.)

152

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

T

his study could not have been completed without the help of many people. First of all, I would like to thank Professor Randolph Barker, Professor Benedict R. O'G. Anderson, and Professor James T. Siegel, for their patient guidance and invaluable advice. This work has also benefited from the comments and insights of Professor John Borneman, Professor Harold C. Conklin, Professor Isagani R. Medina, and Professor David K. Wyatt. I am indebted to the following individuals for their assistance in answering my complicated queries: Anne Frantilla of the Bentley Historical Library at the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor, David Kennedy of the Museum of Anthropology at the University of Michigan at Ann Arbor, Mary Ison of the Prints and Photographs Division of the Library of Congress, and most especially, Nicholas Natanson of the Still Pictures Branch of the National Archives and Records Administration. Allen Riedy of the Echols Collection at Cornell kindly helped me in searching for archive locations and contents. Helen Swank and Teresa Palmer of the Cornell Southeast Asia Program attended to my persistent requests and questions with great patience.

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My stay at Cornell as a graduate student was funded by a Southeast Asia Program Fellowship for Southeast Asians (1990-1991) and a Benedict R. Anderson Fellowship for Southeast Asians (1991-1992). I am most grateful to the Cornell Southeast Asia Program for this support. During the four-year course of my research, writing, and revision, many other people contributed to this study in ways that go beyond the academic. So, in the spirit of overwhelming enthusiasm (and constant gratitude!) that accompanies initial scholarly endeavors, I present a partial list of individuals I am deeply indebted to for countless reasons: Jun Aguilar, Donna Amoroso, Joshua Barker, Kiko Benitez, Bingbing Caouette, Dominique Caouette, Eleanor Courtemanche, Henry Facundo, Anne Foster, Nick Fowler, Jill Gillespie, Jackie Hatton, Carol Hau, Lotta Hedman, Nap Juanillo, Doug Kammen, Tammy Loos, Sarah Maxim, Astrid Muller, Brad Prager, Romeo Quintana, Mike Richardson, John Sidel, Sabine Tattersall, Nora Taylor, Nai Vail, Peter Vail, and Portia Wu. But I would like to single out the following people: Jojo Abinales, Jeff Hadler, Bin Lau, Mike Montesano, and Erick White. These five people generously provided me with a constant supply of advice (wise and otherwise) and good company throughout my first two years in Ithaca as I wrote this book. I thank them all. Finally, I wish to thank my parents, my brother, and my sister for their love, guidance and encouragement.

FOREWORD

I

n the author's own words, Displaying Filipinos is an attempt "to provide deeper insights into the nature of American colonialism and representation of the Philippines" through the medium of photography. He discusses the part played by photography, published in travel accounts, books, exposition catalogues or brochures, and official reports, in the 'legitimation" of the American "colonial enterprise" in the Philippines. Colonial photography parallels the rhetoric of "Manifest Destiny" and the "White Man's Burden," which fueled and provided the rationale for the "im perialist im pulse" of the 1890s, leading to the acquisition of overseas territories. Photographs of Filipinos in town and country harmonize with historical antecedents and jurisprudence which established the legal basis and scaffolding for the "constitutional" legitimation of colonial sovereignty over the Filipino people. Vergara adds a new dimension to, and deepens our knowledge of, what one would think is by now a field saturated by historians, alongside whose works Displaying Filipinos would neatly fit and be a fine companion. He combines the approaches of the historian and of the cultural and social anthropologist. The novel use of photographs as credible sources of

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historical information (or even mis-information) is one of the main characteristics and merits of Vergara's study. Indeed, the author has produced a fine piece of scholarship, informative and enjoyable to read. He w rites very clearly and argues convincingly and logically. His work is a refreshingly new and welcome enrichment of Philippine historiography.

Bonifacio S. Salamanca, Ph.D. Club of America Diamond Jubilee Professor of History University of the Philippines

1 INTRODUCTION: THE KODAK ZONE

Few persons had more than a very hazy idea as to the geographical position of the Philippines until the exhilarating news of Dewey's victory brought out the atlases. Manila was a familiar enough name. It suggested a short, thick cheroot...and was intimately connected with coils of bright yellow rope seen in every cordage shop. But the geographical position of this busy capital and of the group of islands of which it is the metropolis was about as vague in most minds as the situation of the last discovered irrigation area in Mars. The literature concerning the islands was phenomenally scarce....The reading public in the United States had more or less knowledge of the Hawaiian islands and of both Micronesia and Polynesia....The Philippines, however, remained outside the kodak zone.

W

hen Frank D. Millet wrote this opening passage in his book The Expedition to the Philippines, he was perhaps echoing the sentiments of an American majority. As special correspondent for Harper's Weekly, Millet was one of the first authors to publish a book on one of the most important and w ell-forgotten events in American history: the Filipino-American War. By the time the book was published in 1899, the war had only been raging for a few months, but other

2

DISPLAYING FILIPINOS

writers were already generating their own versions of the "insurrection." A flood of texts—magazine articles, histories, memoirs, travel guidebooks, anthropological research papers, collected letters, diaries, official state documents—about the Philippines would soon follow. The mystery surrounding this reported paradise was naturally a very strong element of attraction for adventurous spirits, and when the expedition of occupation and conquest was decided upon by the authorities at W ashington, there was a scramble all over the country for an opportunity to join in the crusade....There was an irresistible fascination in this long voyage across the Pacific to the palm-draped islands where naked savages still live in prim itive barbarism ....The glamour of ancient Spanish power still lingered in this distant archipelago and there still remained, scarcely touched by the levelling forces of modern civilization or transformed by the lapse of time, the picturesque life of the tropical East as described by the sturdy explorers of Queen Elizabeth's days and which has furnished material for libraries of fiction to unsettle the minds of generations of schoolboys with dreams of Malay pirates and all the melodrama of adventurous lire on the high seas. It was certainly no mean experience to take part in the first foreign expedition of the great Republic, to witness the very beginning of the inevitable expansion follow ing an unbroken period of consistent isolation. It was to be a history-making event, the first act in the great international drama to be played on the broad stage where the great powers of the world are in active com petition for supremacy. Who with a drop of red blood in his veins could fail to be tempted by this prospect? Millet's account, written so early in the regime, reveal some interesting aspects of his thinking. One is

INTRODUCTION: THE KODAK ZONE

3

his awareness of the primacy of the event—"the first foreign expedition of the great Republic/' "the very beginning of the inevitable expansion/' "the first act in the great international drama." He knew, even then, that this "drama" was to be ineluctably played out. There was no question of cancellation, or postponement; the script for colonialism, in a sense, had already been written by politicians, novelists, reporters, business people, historians, newspaper colum nists, and, indirectly, by other colonizing countries as well. Moreover, the drama was already inextricably welded to an imbued awareness of "greatness." America only needed to find an excuse to continue its colonization, and so it did. It was not only these convictions of inevitability and superiority that drove Millet across the waters. There was also another elem ent: the thrill of adventure, the "irresistib le fascination." It was prim arily the idea of an exotic unknown—"the palm -draped islan d s," "the naked savages"—that provided the "very strong element of attraction." The Philippines for him was only a scattered group of islands, in some hazy location—practically out of this world—a virtual unknown for most Americans. What constituted his preconceived image of the Philippines were m erely the rope and cigars, and most importantly, the notion of "the picturesque life of the tropical East," "the melodrama of adventurous life" as constructed through juvenile fiction. These were elements, then, that tempted Frank D. Millet: visions of imperial destiny, the excitement of discovering the unknown. Most intriguing of all, however, is how he accounts for this unknowing: the lack of personal experience, the inadequacy of literature on the subject—and the Philippines's location outside "the kodak zon e." Here M illet equates

4

DISPLAYING FILIPINOS

knowledge with seeing—not simply through sight but through photography. The implication here is that the Philippines was beyond Millet's knowledge because it had not yet been photographed, i.e., dissected into particular im ages and displayed for the reader. Bringing the Philippines into the kodak zone would extract it from the fog it was in, making it real to readers. Dreams of empire, manifest destiny, the romance of exploring an exotic unknown—unmapped, uncharted, unphotographed: these preoccupied Millet as he began writing about America's expedition to the Philippines. The same concerns would linger on for years afterward in the mind of America. In this study, I w ill explore the role of photography in the legitim ation of the American ^colonial enterprise m^ffie Philippines. I will show how photography, a s/a privileged mode of obtaining knowledge and/expressing reality, was unusually / effective for tfte presentation and ju stification of [ colonialist ideoldgy. The tjody of photographs that will be analyzed can be divided into two genres, according to their sources: travel literature and official colonial docum ents. In both genres, colonial officials, anthropologists, and travelers of different kinds utilized the camera as an instrum ent o l^ u rv eilla n ce and ! display, and imaged the pilipinos as racially and technologically inferior. I w ill argue that the reproducibility of photographs, augmented by mass circulation in journals and travel memoirs, shaped stereotyped images of the Philippines and Filipinos. The standardized representation of Filipinos, predicated on inferiority, an unmanageable heterogeneity of people, and the presumed incapacity for self-rule, contributed to the legitimation of the American colonial occupation of the Philippines.

INTRODUCTION: THE KODAK ZONE

5

NOTE 1. Frank D. Millet, The Expedition to the Philippines (New York: Harper and Bios. Pubv 1899), 1-2.

i

I

2 PHOTOGRAPHY AND TRUTH

he power of the photograph lies in its capacity to be invested with truth. Aside from cinema, photography comes closest to portraying the "real." A radical shift in perception was created by the introduction of the camera; never before had nature been presented so "realistica lly ." The former controversy over photography's inclusion within art stemmed from its apparent fidelity to reality, as opposed to painting, for example. It was an act of blasphemy, especially when aided by machinery, a newspaper article had argued, to go against the artist's divine inspiration "to dare to represent the divine-human features."1 The ease with which truth was attributed to the photograph came from what was believed to be the equivalence of camera vision and human vision, which Patricia Albers and William James call "photography's basic epistemological premise."2 What one saw in the pictures seemed to look exactly as it would in "real life." The privileging of sight among the human senses also contributed to the overwhelming enthusiasm for the new technique. Photography's "realist" quality made it easily utilizable by anthropologists, or the p o lice; for instance, as a means of obtaining "knowledge." This legacy still survives today in the

T

8

DISPLAYING HUPINOS

admission of photographs as legal evidence, in the use of photographs for identification purposes, and the like. However, this truth is not merely located in the finished product and/or the viewer alone. It may be argued that "realism" can also be located within the process of production itself. The light entering the cam era's chamber, recording onto a light-sensitive material base the positive or negative image of the photographed, is light that was coexisting with the photographed at the moment of its production. As Roland Barthes writes: "The photograph is literally an emanation of the referent. From a real body, which was there, proceed radiations which ultimately touch me, who am h ere..."3 Perhaps this explains the talism anic powers of photographs: the same light "touches" both the photographed and the viewer. From this link it is established that the photographed subject was undeniably present in front of the camera. The photograph, then, serves as a "certificate of presence."4 The photograph does not merely illustrate, or represent, but also authenticates.5 The view er's willingness to ascribe truth to the photograph lies not ju st in the equivalence of visions, but also in the certainty of presence. The articulation of truth within the photograph can also be seen in contrast with print the mere reading about a fact in print does not com pletely confirm reality, but seeing that fact captured in a photograph makes it seem even more "real." One further factor may have secured the relation between truth and photography: the distancing of the producer from the photograph's moment of production. It is the presence of a sophisticated—and mostly mystified—technological apparatus that creates this distance; the work, after all, is performed by the ghost

PHOTOGRAPHY AND TRUTH

9

in the machine. The separation of the producer from the photograph im plies that the possibility of manipulation is reduced, and truth, therefore, is more easily ascribed. Authority is ascribed to the photograph for similar reasons—the more objective, therefore, the more authoritative. Thus, the basic notion of the photograph as the bearer of truth is based on several factors: the privileging of sight, the presumed equivalence of camera vision and human vision, the attribution of objectivity and authority, the authentication of presence/existence, and the distancing of the producer at the moment of production. In a sense, photography had to operate on these basic assumptions for it to be as revolutionary as it was then, and as important then as it is now. Paradoxically, however, falsity can also reside with truth in the photograph. Is one led to simply assume that photographers and view ers of photographs alike labor under a common illusion? Is one to assume, hesitantly, that modern-day viewers are more aware of manipulation than viewers of the past? Is it possible to posit an unspoken agreement of sorts between the viewer and the producer? Is the awareness of potential distortion always present, but is the ascription of truth more potent and therefore inscribed in the foreground of the viewer-photograph interaction? Perhaps this is so. Evidently the "camera" and photographer can lie, but the connection between truth and photography, as opposed to distortion and photography, seems to be stronger. The photographer taking a photograph more or less knows what the outcome will be; sh e/h e expects the photograph to look exactly like the view taken. Here there are many exceptions, but even at the camera's most amateur level of use—family snapshots, for instance, a reproduction of the scene is not just

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DISPLAYING FILIPINOS

expected but required. The serendipitously "good " photograph aside, the accidental moment when camera vision and human vision do not coincide—therefore producing a different photograph from what was expected—would be considered flawed. One could argue that the rationale behind the act of taking a photograph is based primarily on this notion of the equivalence of visions. Distortion of reality operates at a more insidious and unseen level than mere physical retouching. Despite its perceived objectivity, the photograph is no simple open text, free to any possible reading; it is actually rather restricted, embedded within the ideology that produced it. There are several factors which contribute to the creation of boundaries of meaning which restrict the viewer's interpretation of the photograph. An automatic act of framing—both literally and metaphorically—is involved when one takes a picture. This is perhaps why the photograph is ideal for the transmission of ideas: the illusion of truth effectively masks the mechanics of deceit. Before discussing this restriction of meaning, it is important to note that "meaning," in a sense, is almost effaced at the production of the photograph. Photography decontextualizes; it transforms reality into a flat image. The photograph removes the subject from the temporal and spatial specificity of the occasion of its production.6 Despite their realist aspect, photographs without any explanatory trappings remain stubbornly reticent. The photograph would obviously provide visual clues for the viewer, but only the bare bones of a context could be imagined.7 Certain photographs may invoke associated ideas and images, but their original location in time and space, needed to anchor the photograph to a more concrete context, is absent.

PHOTOGRAPHY AND TRUTH

11

The next logical tactic, then, is the (re)contextualization of the decontextualized object. This underscores the transformability of the photograph. "[Photographs] demand a specific kind of approach; free-floating contemplation is not appropriate to them," wrote Benjamin.8 It is during the process of forming this approach—a process of contextualization that occurs even before the photograph is taken—that the photograph's surface meaning is at its most porous. The tractable photograph is thus open to reinterpretation and even misinterpretation, deliberately or unconsciously. The possibilities for distortion of meaning are many. Manipulation of the image could occur before the taking of the photograph—in posing, for example. Posing involves more than a selection of subjects, for it requires cutting-off certain elements in the photograph. The photographer's act of framing, in effect, literally limits interpretation. Framing and cropping cuts off the viewer from seeing elements potentially crucial to the photograph's meaning. The cut-off portions are deemed not to be part of a whole, as unimportant to the integrity of the photograph. (But whose criteria for integrity? What whole? What goes on beyond the frame?9) The caption also limits interpretation and reinforces the preconstructed meaning even further. As Barthes writes: "The linguistic message no longer guides identification but interpretation, constituting a kind of vice which holds the connoted meanings from proliferating, whether towards excessively individual regions... or towards dysphonic values."I t .i s not only an act of limiting or restricting interpretation that is involved here, but one of directing. The function of illustration is reversed: now the text "illustrates" the photograph. The ascription of truth to the photograph

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sweeps the caption along with i t 'The verbal message seems to share in its objectivity, the connotation of language is 'innocented' through the photograph's denotation...." Its most insidious effect, however, is that the caption's content is "realized" into the picture, and not extracted from it. "Sometimes... the text provokes (invents) an entirely new signified which is retroactively projected into the image, so much as to appear denoted there."11 Barthes concludes: "The text has thus a repressive value and we can see that it is at this level that the morality and ideology of a society are above all invested."12 Presenting this shift in balance from the photograph to the caption shows how strongly interpretation of a photograph is restricted and directed. In fact, the "encodation" of photographs into a travel memoir or an anthropological paper further anchors meaning with the requirements of the genre and the "horizon of expectations" that accompanies it.13 Ideology may be invested "above all" in the text of the book, but it is likewise heavily invested in the image. The text may be a primary instrument, but the special nature of photographs, both in terms of their production and reception, also makes them powerful—many times, even more than the text. Interpretations can certainly be forced, or simply insinuated, but the viewer does not have to follow. Forming alternate interpretations—of resisting the direction of prescribed readings—is eternally possible.14 However, the foregrounding of a particular meaning, considering the many sites of its strategies—the caption, other photographs, the text, the photograph itself, and even elements outside the book—effectively tip the scale toward the desired interpretation. Considering the Philippines's position beyond "the kodak zone," the photographs served as the most

PHOTOGRAPHY AND TRUTH

13

tangible connection between readers and the photographed subject itself. It would not be surprising to see the foregrounded reading succeed. In the end, it is the photographer, with the burden of her or his individual history, who chooses to shoot or not to shoot, what to take and what not to take. The photographer's selection of subjects involves a synecdochic process. The selection of subjects to photograph often operates under the assumption that a certain subject is representative of some group. The photograph, then, implies a claim to representativity. The power relations inherent in the interaction between photographer and photographed are then thrown into relief. If, as Victor Burgin argues, "the real is itself constituted through the agency of representations," then the power to select representations and to subsequently circulate them should not be taken for granted.1 Bur gin's assertion may seem far-fetched; after all, one does possess mental faculties capable of acquiring knowledge experientially—knowledge that does not necessarily require mediation through representation. His point, however, is crucial in the context of this study. As Millet writes, the Philippines existed for the N American readers m erely on the periphery of experienced reality. Their conception of it was derived mainly from preconstituted representations—adventure books, a concept of "the Orient"—and would derive from future representations (like Millet's book). The reality of the Philippines for American readers may be seen as constituted wholly through American representations, especially through those with the weight of higher authority and truth. Most of the photographs discussed in this study were taken with the desired view, and perhaps the desired effect, already in mind. The popular dictum that to make a "good" photograph, "the image must

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I exist in the photographer's mind at or before the moment when the negative is exposed" is more than I just partly true.16 As in the passage from M illet's book, the soon-to-be-colonized subjects were already constructed through previous imaginings. The photographs of the colonized Filipino, in a way, were already taken long before. I have shown how meaning in the photograph can be easily manipulated within the foregrounded guise of truth. I have stressed this to show the potency of the photograph and its impact on viewers. My analysis of photographs will revolve around these issues: framing, representativity, authentication of presence, the genre, the caption. I have perhaps dwelt too long on photographic theory, but this is to show that photographs are not mere illustrations in a travel book but powerful bearers of colonial ideology. They reflect the preconceptions of the photographers more than the photographed. My analysis of these pictures attempts to provide deeper insights into the nature of American colonialism and representation of the Philippines. NOTES 1. From Leipziger Stadtanzeiger, quoted in Walter Benjamin, "A Short History of Photography" [1931], trans. Stanley Mitchell, Screen 13, no. 1 (Spring 1972): 5-6. 2. Patricia C. Albers and William R. James, "Private and Public Images: A Study of Photographic Contrasts in Postcard Pictures of. Great Basin Indians, 1898-1919," Visual Anthropology 3, nos. 2-3 (1990): 346. 3. Roland Barthes, Camera Lucida: Reflections on Photography, trans. Richard Howard (New York: The Noonday Press, 1981), 80. Susan Sontag refers to the photograph as "a trace, something directly stenciled off the real, like a footprint or a

PHOTOGRAPHY AND TRUTH

15

death mask." Susan Sontag, 'The Image World," in On Photography (New York: Anchor Books, 1977), 154. 4. Barthes, 87. 5. Ibid., 89: 'The power of authentication exceeds the power of representation." 6. Christian Metz describes this ripping out of context as "an instantaneous abduction of the object out of the world into another world, into another kind of time..." Christian Metz, "Photography and Fetish," October 34 (Fall 1985): 84. 7. Even these visual clues could be and were suppressed. I will discuss in a later chapter the influence of anthropometry on ethnological pictures, and the influence of the anthropometrical "style" of photography on travel photography. 8. Walter Benjamin, 'The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction" [1936], in Illuminations, trans. Harry Zohn, ed. and with an introduction by Hannah Arendt (New York: Schocken Books, 1985), 226. 9. Metz refers to this as the "off-frame space," "the place of an irreversible absence, a place from which the look has been averted forever." Metz, 87. 10. Roland Barthes, "Rhetoric of the Image," in Image-Music-Text, trans. Stephen Heath (New York: Hill and Wang, 1977), 39. 11. Ibid, 26-27. 12. Ibid., 40. Emphasis Barthes's. 13. Tzvetan Todorov, 'The Origin of Genres," chap. in Genres in Discourse (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 18-19. Readers generally limit their interpretations according to the "expectations" the institutionalized genres furnish (or sometimes "demand"). 14. It is to this extent that a Reader cannot be truly posited; certainly one must make allowances for misinterpretation and deliberate rejection of imposed meaning given the diversity of readers' backgrounds and experiences. But my

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main intention in this study is to look behind the photographs to see what story they were made to tell; as I explain throughout, this narrative was already deeply lodged in American consciousness, making reader resistance somewhat more difficult. At this point I will interrupt myself again and address the issue of resistance from another, more important angle: that of the photographed subject. But this is directly linked to the problem of what constitutes resistance itself; anything, it seems, from changing the television channel to stepping in front of a tank can be called resistance. However, several possibilities do suggest themselves: from beating up the cameraman to staring directly at the camera to challenge the photographer (and viewer). Elsewhere in the text I mention grumblings concerning the display of Filipinos at the 1904 World's Fair, but nowhere else do I find recorded instances of concerted efforts to contest the presentation of photographs. This does not mean that protestations did not exist; it may well be that I have not found them yet. My discussion may stress the repressive element to a deafening degree, but there is not much point in ascribing resistance where there may have, in fact, been none. Perhaps my attempt to make the pictures tell a different story—to swing the camera the other way, as it were—may be generously recognized as a belated act of something akin to resistance, and I leave it at that. 15. Victor Burgin, Introduction to Thinking Photography, ed. Burgin (London: Macmillan Education Ltd., 1982), 9. Emphasis Burgin's. 16. Sontag, "Photographic Evangels," in On Photography, 117.

3 THE TASTE OF EMPIRE

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he body of photographs I will be analyzing reflects pre-constructions of meaning specifically predicated on a colonial ideology. These photographs, because of their reproducibility and consequent mass circulation, not only materially constitute an important component of this ideology, but also transmit and perpetuate it. The concept of ideology would be fruitful as a take-off point for analysis. It would explain the " 'pre-photographic' stage in the photographic production of meaning." As Victor Burgin writes, this ^complex of texts, rhetorics, codes, woven into the fabric of the popular pre-conscious... pre-construct the photographer's "intuitive" resp onse...if is J neither theoretically necessary nor desirable to make psychologistic assumptions concerning the intentions of \ the photographer, it is the pre-constituted field of discourse which is the substantial "author" here, photograph and photographer alike are its products; and, in the act of seeing, so is the viewer.

f

L*

Ideology bears down on the photographer and creates boundaries of meaning to restrict interpretation even before the picture is taken. But I would like to move away from this concept of ideology toward a

18

DISPLAYING FILIPINOS

broader, looser notion. Although my analysis will pivot on the power relations between the colonizers and the colonized, and w ill deal with so-called state apparatuses, positing a m onolithic, repressive governm ent as the ultimate source and cause of standardized representations would be a mistake. The texts from which I draw the photographs are derived from a multiplicity of sources—most of which are certainly associable with the state, but not so easily reducible to it. The colonial ideology I will be examining may find its genesis and its most powerful articulation in colonial state policy, but 1 argue that the center of the mechanics of its power cannot specifically be located within any particular institution. What I have in mind is a diffuse, floating mass of beliefs, materially constituted through representations, which form what could be called a colonial ideology.2 I will discuss this ideology based on what I will call the colonial narrative. What Millet called "the great national drama" was, in a sense, exactly just that: the inevitable unfolding of events corresponding to an already-written "plot." My objective here is not exactly to use the narrative as an analytical tool but to uncover the underlying master narrative beneath the flotsam of events and ideas—specifically, within the photographs. Produced, in a sense, by this prescribed narrative, photographs are emplotted, and re-emplotted, /^ w ith in the narrative. As Allan Sekula w rites: "A photograph communicates by means of its association V, with some hidden or im plicit text."3 It is the ram ifications of this text that we w ill look at subsequently. The motive force of this specific colonial narrative is accelerated by the historical nourishing of a sense of predestination. When historian and lecturer John Fiske published his speech "Manifest Destiny" in Harper's

THE TASTE OF EMPIRE

19

Magazine in 1885, it struck a deep chord in the minds of its American listeners. In his lecture he could foresee when every land on the earth's .surface that is not already the seat of an old