Calling Bodies in Lived Space: Spatial Explorations on the Concept of Calling in a Public Urban Space [1 ed.] 9783666570919, 9783525570913

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Kaia S. Rønsdal

Calling Bodies in Lived Space Spatial Explorations on the Concept of Calling in a Public Urban Space

Research in Contemporary Religion

Edited by Hans-Günter Heimbrock, Stefanie Knauss, Daria Pezzoli-Olgiati, Hans-Joachim Sander, Trygve Wyller In co-operation with Hanan Alexander (Haifa), Carla Danani (Macerata), Wanda Deifelt (Decorah), Siebren Miedema (Amsterdam), Bonnie J. Miller-McLemore (Nashville), Garbi Schmidt (Roskilde), Claire Wolfteich (Boston) Volume 27

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht

Kaia S. Rønsdal

Calling Bodies in Lived Space Spatial Explorations on the Concept of Calling in a Public Urban Space

With 14 Figures

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht

This dissertation has been revised for publication. Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek: The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data available online: http://dnb.de.  2018, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht GmbH & Co. KG, Theaterstraße 13, D-37073 Gçttingen All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission from the publisher. Typesetting: 3w+p, Rimpar

Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Verlage j www.vandenhoeck-ruprecht-verlage.com ISSN 2197-1145 ISBN 978-3-666-57091-9

Acknowledgements This book is a somewhat expanded and elaborated edition of my doctoral dissertation. I am immensely grateful for being given the chance to revise and work through the project once again, and to hopefully enhance its quality. I am humbled and thankful toward Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, and the editorial board of the RCR series for reading my work so thoroughly and for finding it a valuable contribution to the series. I would like to take this opportunity to thank present and former colleagues at the University of Oslo, and at the Faculty of Theology, as well as colleagues in the HEROS (Heterotopic Hospitality. Spaces of Others) network, and NORDHOST (Nordic hospitalities in a context of migration and refugee crisis) network. Finally, I would like to take this time to express my respect and esteem to the people living their lives in the streets, in marginalised spaces and on the margins of society. The circumstances for these lives are cold and hard, literally, and obviously extremely strenuous and complicated. Any person encountered in these conditions should be met with the same esteem, dignity, and respect as any other human being.

Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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The Calling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Two Contemporary Contributions on Calling Encounter Calling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘Eye Calling’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Summary . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Space and Calling . . . . . . . . . Taking the Spatial Turn . . . . Why Space and Calling? . . . . A Short Introduction to Theory

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Methodological Contemplations . . . Fieldwork Reflections . . . . . . . Reflections Going into the Field Coming in from the Cold . . . . Struggles with the Material . . . Rhythms of the Field . . . . . . Impressionist Tales of Affection . . Ethical Considerations . . . . . . . Intermission . . . . . . . . . . . .

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An Illustration of Space . . . . . . Life at Jernbanetorget . . . . . . The Open Drug Scene of Oslo . . Sentrumsarbeidet – 2012–2015 Excursus . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Theories on Space . . . . Spatial Theory . . . . . Foucault’s Topology . Lefebvre’s Spatialities Intermission . . . . . .

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Jernbanetorget – Reinterpreted? . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 114 Reading the Intersection with Lefebvre . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 118 Immersion into the Lived . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

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The Researcher-Body’s Impact Whose Lived Space Is It? . . . . Bodies in Calling . . . . . . . . Recapitulation . . . . . . . . .

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125 129 133 143

Reinterpreting the Calling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 Embodied Spatial Calling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155 Collecting Thoughts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 The Science of Diaconia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Scandinavian Creation Theology . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Outlines of Diaconia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The Science of Diaconia – Walking the Walk or Talking the Talk? Diaconia in the City – A Philosophical Position . . . . . . . . . .

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The Rhythmanalysis of Calling . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 172 Concluding Thoughts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 174 APPENDIX I – Photographs . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180 Jernbanetorget . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180 The Intersection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 184 APPENDIX II – The Tales . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 188 Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 Websites . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201 Reports . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201

Introduction In the call that I receive, there is something that is demanded from me. The situationally embodied call precedes every moral or legal claim; the question of whether or not a claim is legitimate presupposes that it has already been received as a call. Here we reach the region on the hither side of good and evil, right and wrong (Waldenfels: 2011, 37)

This book introduces a concrete urban space in the centre of Oslo, Norway, characterised by visible marginality. The specific topic relates to the conceptualisation of calling1 and its spatial reconfiguration. In the following I discuss the relationships between space, calling, and observer. Spatial analysis is the driving force behind this reconfiguration of the calling through the discussion of material collected from fieldwork based on a phenomenological methodology rooted partly in spatial theory, and reading this material with contributions from spatial theory that is partly influenced by phenomenology. This direction developed over the course of working on this study and led to some surprising discoveries discussed further below. Jernbanetorget, the square outside Oslo Central Station, is the material space in question, though with a somewhat loose and expanded framework.2 This area is characterised by great social diversity: It is a place of travelling and commuting as well as a drug scene that has existed alongside the travellers for more than a decade. It is one of those places where people from all walks of life pass through; people whose vulnerability and marginality are highly visible next to people who are the very embodiments of health, with their skis strapped to their backpacks, next to businessmen in their crisp designer suits. All of them encounter each other in a small geographical area, in a space that holds information on a range of different matters. I want to address the issue of calling from inside this particular space. My discussion follows the works of the Swedish theologian Gustaf Wingren3

1 An account of this concept, in opposition and relation to vocation, is given in the chapter The Calling. 2 The geographical space will be accounted for in the chapter An Illustration of Space. 3 Wingren did his main work on Luther in his dissertation Luthers lära om kallelsen (1942), published as Luther on Vocation (1957) in English, and Luthers Lehre vom Beruf (1952 in German). In this text, I use his later work Credo. Den kristna tros- och livs sk dningen (Credo. The

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Introduction

on the concept of calling, emphasising the calling as coming from the other. To be more specific, Wingren’s position is that the calling comes from God – through the other – asserting that our focus be on our neighbour here on Earth, for his or her sake, rather than on Heaven, for our own sake or the sake of God. Some interpret calling as coming from within an individual, like an urge to choose a profession or action. I, however, interpret the notion of calling as something coming from without – the exterior – another important premise of this project. In this understanding, calling actively comes from others around us, regardless of our own professions and beliefs and those of the other, and every person has a responsibility to respond to the calling of others. Following Wingren’s interpretation of Luther, non-Christians are called as well – in his interpretations they are ultimately also called by God (Wingren: 1995 [1974]). According to Wingren, everyone has this responsibility, and the only motivation should be to our fellow human being – that he or she appears to us and we take action before we even consider where the calling comes from. This line of thought is developed through practical experience, combined with a need to grasp the social world. Years of professional experience working with substance users, the last four on the streets of Oslo, provided me with the initial ideas on this project. Although it is an interdisciplinary project, it is part of the rather new discipline, the science of diaconia,4 as well as systematic theology. Furthermore, the concept of calling is developed particularly within the context of Scandinavian creation theology (cf. Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017). The main lines of thought of this tradition are that the world outside the churches is not understood as “God-less. The world is God-given and imbued with a divine presence” (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 15). Furthermore, that to be “called from the silent needs of the other, and the way God reaches out to all people behind the mask of the other human persons, are to be considered as two dimensions of one and the same reality” (Gregersen/Uggla/ Wyller: 2017, 16). Such views provide other perspectives to diaconia than those that place greater emphasis on diaconia as something fundamentally clerical. The implications of these perspectives in this present discussion are further elaborated and related to Scandinavian creation theology in the chapter The Science of Diaconia. I discuss calling (as it is interpreted here) from a public space, through spatial theory: What is it and how may it be discussed spatially from this Christian Perception of Faith and Life). These are the recapitulations of the older Wingren on his work, and I find it relevant to use them in this context. 4 As diaconia traditionally has been a practice founded in church and theology, and the study of diaconia is related to such practice, the term science of diaconia elucidates how this discipline relates to the theology and philosophy where this practice is founded. It is an established term in the German Diakoniewissenshaft, or Norwegian diakonivitenskap, and is used in English in for instance the journal Diaconia – Journal for the Study of Christian Social Practice (Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht). I discuss the terminology and content of this discipline in the chapter The Science of Diaconia.

Introduction

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space? Is it something detectable among people? The goal is to challenge and contribute to traditional and contemporary notions of calling and vocation. The discussion centres around the question of what implications spatial analysis and experiences of everyday life in a marginalised microspace have for reinterpreting and construing the concept of calling. Although this question is relatively clear, the concepts used to approach it are not necessarily so, nor are they particularly obvious. In order to arrive at the point where the material can be discussed, I pursue two lines of thought. One concerns the concept of calling and spatial theory and the relationship between them; the other that the ways of discovering the calling within a spatial framework leads to certain methodological reflections entailing a perspective that, to a large degree, relates just as much to the researcher as to the methods employed. The concept of calling serves as starting point. The project revisits calling in the tradition of Luther and that found in Wingren’s conceptualisation in the mid-20th century. This conceptualisation is highlighted here and is furthermore enriched and developed with more contemporary contributions (cf. Wyller: 2004; 2006; 2008; 2014; Martinsen: 2012; 2014 [2000]; Nahnfeldt: 2006; 2016). These, however, sometimes seem to be of a more principal than applicable nature, and they lack input from theoretically grounded research experience emerging from the marginal public spaces, especially where the framework is unclear and encounters are unplanned or unorganised. How much sense do these concepts of calling make in a seemingly chaotic space characterised by visible marginality? I am interested in the common calling that takes place in our everyday lives and spaces – as well as how this common calling enriches the discussion of founding social and diaconal practice. When we discuss the concept of calling, it may be fruitful to use spatial concepts in order to search for, find, and understand such calling, something that has not been done before with public space as the starting point. In this context, I am concerned less with the geographical spaces we exist in and more with spaces as they form our lives. This will become clear in the chapters on methodology and theory. Although spatial concepts affect the methodology, they first and foremost form the theoretical foundation. One theoretical premise is found in Michel Foucault’s concept of heterotopia (Foucault: 1984). In the public realm, some spaces, through their very differences, direct criticism toward society, threatening the general discourse and challenging the ethical discourse. These are heterotopic spaces. Being in these other spaces is an expression of the power of the realm of the majority. Yet they too, hold a certain power. The heterotopias disturb us because they are out of place. When confronted by them, we are surprised, even jolted out of our rhythms: We notice the discrepancies around us. Society claims the public space in question – the area around Oslo central station – as a space for commuters, travellers, shoppers, for valuable and contributing citizens, and for welcome guests. However, all these other individuals also use

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Introduction

the space, but differently, doing other things than what the space was intended for. They are “out of place” in this space. In other words, this space is one that continuously challenges the general discourse, both with regard to this specific space as well as with regard to society at large. The constant confrontation with the different other makes it heterotopic in my interpretation. The concept of heterotopia is the contextual premise for the discussion at hand, as I understand this empirical space to have heterotopic qualities. How can the heterotopic provide valuable perspectives on calling? The other spatial premise I use, for reading and discussing the material, is that of Henri Lefebvre’s production of space. Part of his elaborate work on this topic is his three-levelled mode of analysis, where spaces are analysed and understood as spatial practice, representations of space, and representational space. These analytical levels relate to how spaces are seen and interpreted from different perspectives, such as how they are perceived, how they are conceived, and how they are lived. When spaces are analysed by this levelling, new details and perspectives are uncovered. My assertion is that even small social spaces may be interpreted through this mode of analysis, making a seemingly simple social encounter like that between police officer and a substance user a complex space where the relationships are not necessarily as they may seem. This adds to the surprise in the disorder of heterotopia. The question is whether and how the details uncovered in these social spaces relate to the calling. I discuss the calling based on a material context, an Oslo cityscape. I obtained this material by participant observation, developing it using phenomenology and rhythmanalysis.5 These perspectives demand a visible and present researcher-subject, as will become clear throughout the book. In this context, the material is unorganised public space, as opposed to spaces organised specifically for marginalised groups. The methodological concepts enable a new approach to this space, and they make it possible to uncover details that are not necessarily obvious. These details in turn may contribute to new perspectives being brought into the discussion. My starting point is that a myriad of things occur in any public space at all times, and as observer I have access only to parts of this, depending on my position with regard to the space. My interest lies in observing encounters between groups and people, so my assumption is that I have to enter into the spaces where they occur. And because I do not ask the people about these encounters, observing them enables me only to describe what I saw. I assume that, by experiencing the spaces and the encounters with my body and senses, other details and new information may be discovered and developed. Perspectives from rhythma5 A mode of observation and analysis used by Henri Lefebvre. The starting point is that the world and the human body consist of multiple rhythms. In order to understand the world outside, rhythmanalysts use their own bodies and their rhythms to make sense of it (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992]). This will be accounted for throughout the book.

Introduction

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nalysis and methods stemming from phenomenology, such as social phenomenological approach (Wyller/Heimbrock: 2010) and lived observation (Løkken: 2009; 2012), let me immerse myself into the spaces, developing narratives from the field, where my embodied and sensory experiences become part of the material. These narratives are referred to as “tales,” based on John Van Maanen’s notions of impressionist tales (Van Maanen: 2011). The impressionist concept in this context refers to both how the tales came to be, and the speed of the field. In other words, the concept lets the researcher metaphorically paint detailed pictures of events that happened within mere seconds. Any empirical research entails considerations of research ethics. This project involves observation, and in the chapter Ethical Considerations I give an account of the specific challenges and considerations with regard to ethical challenges. In the methodological contemplations, one important premise comes from researchers who have worked thoroughly with possible means of applying phenomenology as a method of empirical research. The researchers I refer to develop their theories based on central phenomenologists, such as MerleauPonty and Husserl, or for more specifically empirical or practical use, like Hans-Günter Heimbrock and Trygve Wyller in professional ethics (cf. Wyller/ Heimbrock: 2010), Kari Martinsen in nursing (Martinsen: 2014 [2000]; 2012; 2005), and Gunvor Løkken in toddler research (Løkken: 2009). I emphasise sensory experiences in the empirical work as well as in the analysis and discussion, so these phenomenological influences become apparent. Because the discussion on calling is also a theological one, the Danish theologian and philosopher Knud E. Løgstrup’s phenomenological contributions play a role (Løgstrup: 1997; Christoffersen: 2007). His thoughts run parallel to the contributions of both Martinsen and Wingren. In other words, phenomenology is more than mere inspiration: It plays a vital role. This project ultimately poses a challenge to the science of diaconia, specifically concerning its motivations and conditions. What is scientifically interesting for the science of diaconia is that this project goes directly to the marginalised lives and spaces that traditionally have been cared for by many, including the church, but approaches them without reference to these caretakers. The specific practices of diaconia do not make up the topic, rather the circumstances and the everyday aspects of these lives and spaces, and what can be learned through them. How the findings of the project relate to the science of diaconia is discussed toward the end. This discussion will show that, in order to point to and write about calling, particularly in a public space, one has to be affected by others: the caller and the called. This entails starting from the perspective of this space. The roles and positions of people and groups may not be as set as one may think in an unpredictable and unclear public space – it may not be obvious, and basically depends on approach and perspective

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Introduction

Clarifications The geographical area of the fieldwork is populated by several marginalised groups, and in this context ‘people suffering from addiction’6 play a major role. This is obviously a very heterogeneous group, and I do not attempt to provide definitions here. The people who catch my attention are groups that spend a lot of time in the streets, people who possess certain exterior characteristics I am aware, through my professional experience, of indicating addiction and participation in activities related to the buying and selling of illegal substances. I walk a fine line attributing such qualities to people, and in that manner drawing up certain dichotomies that ultimately put me in danger of appearing to make someone inferior. This is not my intention, and I must emphasise that the book is not about these people, or indeed about any others, in particular. Rather, it is about people as such – bodies, really – encountered in public spaces. Street people,7 and those people struggling with addiction among them, have long been the subjects (and objects) of care work and diaconia, and this area has a history of being a place for their gathering. This precipitates the clustering of organisations aiding them. It is a challenge to point to a group of people who have already been placed into so many categories, most with negative connotations, while attempting to not fall into the same trap. ‘Name-calling’ fares poorly when one is aiming to avoid categorising ‘us and them.’ All names define and thus limit how a person is perceived. There are plenty of discussions within social care as to what to call people who, for instance, use social services – “clients,” “guests,” “addicts”? When I discuss people in public spaces, they are not really anything other than just people, bodies. At least until we have more information. Bodies are given certain properties by visible exterior traits, such as clothing. When observing strangers, we identify them from such exterior traits, for example, substance users and police officers. In the confrontation with another body, there is an embodied reaction to this body, even before one begins to think about who this person is (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 19–23). Some theorists (cf. Waldenfels: 2007; 2011; Martinsen: 2014 [2000]; Wyller/Heimbrock: 2010) call this embodied reaction prereflexivity, meaning something that occurs before conscious consideration, and it is crucial to this discussion. These contributors moved the prereflexive motive into the ethical discourse, because their standpoint is that being in the world is in itself ethically and morally significant. I endorse this position. I 6 The term is placed in quotes to emphasise the challenges with labelling. For example, who decides who ‘suffers’ or ‘struggles’? I do not go into that discussion here, nor into the definitions of addiction, whether from illness or social problem, or both, etc. 7 A term used for people who spend their daily life in the streets, having them as their main social arena, workplace, home, etc. Following Nafstad, these areas (and specific groups) offer identity, self-respect, competence, and knowledge as well as income strategies (Nafstad: 2012).

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assume that bodies are aware of and respond to other bodies, even when there is no suffering. Because my body and my senses are my primary tools in the field, more information is available than the simple exterior traits. Thus, I must be aware of the bodies there, not just as persons belonging to the drug scene or to the police. Still, encounters may occur between people in the tales that may play out as they do for the simple reason that these people define each other based on certain traits and qualities. And because I do see some people who do hold certain traits and qualities, a term is needed. I will refer to people struggling with addiction, as ‘substance users.’ Sticking with the thematic of the body, there are groups in the tales that play the role of otherbodies. This notion implies that the vulnerable groups are often identified by features of their bodies, but in the calling and in the encounter, in the prereflexive, it is not as obvious who these vulnerable bodies are. The notion of otherbody is clarified throughout the book. A paramount notion in this context is that of being affected. This aspect plays an important role in the tales as well as in their analysis and interpretation. What does being affected mean in relation to calling? Why is it important what researchers sense with their bodies in the empirical spaces? What is the value of this embodied experience? The important premise in relation to being affected is the body. This has to do with the understanding of what “being affected” means. In Norwegian, the word for “being affected” is berørt, which literally means “touched.” In my understanding, the English words “moved” or “touched” relate to emotions, while here I want to emphasise that I understand being moved or touched as a physical experience. Martinsen writes of the Good Samaritan that he felt pain in the intestines, and what he felt is the most physical, embodied expression. It means that he saw something and was affected in his entire body. The pain of the other impacted him, without any distance (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 19). When I write about being affected, this is what I mean – seeing, sensing, physically feeling with the entire body, consciously using it as tool. This is rooted in the emphasis on the body and being bodies in a common lifeworld – that is something common to us all regardless of our religious position. It also relates to the discussion on the universal as an ethical question (cf. Wyller/Heimbrock: 2010). Throughout the book I refer to texts and books written in Scandinavian languages as well as German. Longer quotes of particular importance are reproduced in the original language in a footnote. Otherwise, the translations in the text are mine and refer to the pages in the original works. Structure The phenomenological and spatial perspectives can be traced throughout the text. The combination of the concepts of space and calling, and furthermore the emphasis on the researcher-subject, may be both unusual and unexpected.

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Introduction

Thus, the task of bringing it all together comprehensively leads to the logics of the rationale of the composition. Initially, the two lines of thought introduced above are kept separate – by introducing all the necessary tools needed to bring them together in the analysis and discussion. The structure is as follows: Nine chapters follow this Introduction, which prepares the reader for the context and the discussion at hand. A couple of tales are introduced along the way, to serve as examples and to familiarise the reader with the field as new concepts are introduced. There, the character ‘#’ appears several times. This symbolises the start of a new track on the recording device. This is part of the ‘everything’ included, showing how much and how little I saw at any given time. Directly following the Introduction, Chapter 1, The Calling, gives an account of the concept of calling, outlining the Wingren perspective as well as the contemporary contributions that comprise the main discussion. Chapter 2, Space and Calling, connects the calling to spatial theory. The chapter explains the so-called spatial turn and how society is challenged in public space. A very short outline of the main spatial contributions is also given, the goal being to introduce some perspectives that are central to the understanding of the field before delving into it. Chapter 3, Methodological Contemplations, contains the narrative of the fieldwork, including methodological considerations before and during the fieldwork, followed by methodological contemplations made afterwards that became central to the analysis. Chapter 4, An Illustration of Space, introduces the areas around the Oslo Central Station in detail, to aid the unfamiliar reader. This is essential also to the idea of spatial thinking. A short tale is presented after the geographical space where it took place is described, in order for the reader to have an impression of the seemingly chaotic life there and the framework and geographical circumstances of this life. This chapter also includes a short history of the open drug scene in urban Oslo and the key geographical background thereof, which is crucial for understanding the space and consequently its geography and socialities. Before the field and its tales are analysed and discussed, Chapter 5, Theories on Space, gives an elaborate account for the theoretical foundation. In the Lefebvrian reading that follows in Chapter 6, Jernbanetorget – Reinterpreted?, the empirical area and its different lifeworlds are analysed spatially. This chapter elaborates on the shared spaces of the bodies in the tales, the role of the researcher-subject, and whether signs of calling manifest themselves in the tales and what they look like. Chapter 7, Reinterpreting the Calling, discusses the concept of calling with the help of a few more tales, using details uncovered in the analysis and challenging concepts of calling introduced earlier. Through this discussion the concept of calling is eventually reinterpreted, pointing to what it comes to be granted the premises of spatial analysis and emphasising the significance of a participating body. The prerequisite for this interpretation of the calling is also a reading of the field and its tales using Lefebvre. The spatial

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reconfiguration of the calling has implications for the science of diaconia that will be elaborated on in Chapter 8, The Science of Diaconia. The chapter introduces the reader to the perspectives of Scandinavian creation theology as premise for this particular understanding of diaconia. This is not a provincial perspective but rather an understanding that implies that the specific everyday life discussed here also belongs as a foundational space within this science. The aim is to point to the implications the conclusions of this present discussion may have for the science of diaconia. In the final chapter, Chapter 9, The Rhythmanalysis of Calling, I highlight the findings, before pointing to some implications and outlooks, concluding the discussion.

The Calling […], announces a learning through suffering, yet not a learning of suffering (Waldenfels: 2011, 26 (my emphasis)).

The premise for this book is an understanding of calling stemming from Scandinavian creation theology (cf. Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017; Wingren: 1995; Løgstrup: 2000, see also the subchapter Scandinavian Creation Theology), as a specific understanding where “Our relationship with God is not something that starts when we enter Church or a presumed religious territory, but always a reality given in and with life itself” (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 23). I specifically turn to the Swedish theologian G. Wingren’s works on Martin Luther and his depiction of calling as a point of departure for this account. Vocation means that those who are closest at hand, family and fellow-workers, are given by God: it is one’s neighbour whom one is to love. Therein vocation points toward a world which is not the same for all people. The same course does not fit all circumstances. Each of the social factors arising through the vocational actions of different people has its own character; and the life of society in this way develops in rich variety. As for external relations on earth Luther personally certainly found pleasure in the many. […] Each is to do his own work, without eyeing others or trying to copy them (Wingren: 2004, 172).

The following outline is based on Wingren and his reception of Luther’s conception of calling, placing it in the world (as opposed to Heaven) (Wingren: 1995 [1974]; 2004). This is the concept I want to develop. Because the concept as it appears in this context ultimately builds on Luther, some initial references to language are in place. This English text refers to texts in all the Scandinavian languages as well as Luther’s Latin and German, so some language clarifications are appropriate. In Wingren’s interpretations of Luther, voca¯tio¯ is placed in everyday life, where every individual is part of the service of neighbourly love (cf. Nahnfeldt: 2016, 18 f). “Calling” in German refers to voca¯tio¯ as Beruf, which literally translates “called to.” In modern German, the word Beruf refers to one’s profession, appointment as well as religious calling. English translations of Luther render voca¯tio¯ often as vocation, which means both being called to specific tasks or occupations by God and “one’s ordinary occupation, business, or profession.”1 However, in English, one can also use the word calling, which largely refers to a divine calling – or at least a moral impulse 1 http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/224289?redirectedFrom=vocation#eid, retrieved 18 Sept. 2015.

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about doing what is right.2 It is my understanding that, when in English one speaks of calling, it is usually something beyond one’s profession or trade. In the Scandinavian languages, the words kall/kallelse are usually tied to religious motivations or a motivation for a specific profession or life choices. Here, the words for trade or professions are not related to the religious term. I use “calling” to set it apart from professions and trades. In the following I give an account for the perspectives that comprise my interpretation of the content of this term. In her contemplations on the meaning of calling for nurses, Kari Martinsen refers to the concept as it appears for many in opposition to professionality and the emancipation of women (Martinsen: 2014 [2000]; Nahnfeldt: 2006; 2016). Modern nursing developed in a specifically religious and ecclesiastical context, with a specific vow containing a commitment to God; nursing was thus seen as a specifically religious calling (Malchau:1998, 37; Nissen: 2000 [1877]; Martinsen: 2014 [2000]; Nahnfeldt: 2006; 2016). According to Martinsen, throughout nursing history there have been many differences in views on the nature of calling. The dispute lies at the intersection between action and attitude, in the social ethics involved in calling, in calling as aiding another, and in calling as duty and humility (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 87). Furthermore, she explains that calling today seems to be associated with many words that seem opposed to being professional, such as self-sacrifice, selfdenial, humility, and obedience. Calling is often put in opposition to paid work. Today, it is a stance professional nursing wants to distance itself from. But there are also tendencies to revive the positive elements contained in the old notion of calling (2014 [2000], 87). I refer to nursing in this context, as it has its basis in, and is historically so closely tied to, diaconia. With reference to Luther, Wingren broadens the concept and makes it relevant regardless of creed. However, Wingren wrote in another era, and the concept needs to be upgraded to the 21st century with more practical foundations to add specific value to how we relate to marginality, both as individuals and society. Wingren’s work is based on theoretical examples, with a specific and clear neighbour. This is useful for discussing and building principles, but in real-life practices it would appear to be inadequate. The ‘I’ and ‘the neighbour’ tend to simplify the concept, which I think is more complex in lived spaces. Although I principally agree with Wingren, I supplement and challenge his concepts from the perspective of everyday life. Some writers (cf. Wyller: 2004; 2006; 2008; 2014; Martinsen: 2012; 2014 [2000]; Nahnfeldt: 2006; 2016; Jensen: 2003; Wyller/Heimbrock: 2010) have explored and further developed the concept of calling. Although many of them also focus on professions and professionality from the perspective on who is [feels] called, they are nevertheless important contributions here and are elaborated on in the following section. 2 http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/26439#eid10442258, retrieved 18 Sept. 2015.

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Wingren’s understanding of calling is a fairly pragmatic one: Every sort of suffering is a calling, and the calling serves to alert the other human, provoking action (Wingren: 1995 [1974], 42). Based on this understanding, in this context the premise for diaconia is that every response to the needful other may be understood as a church service. Wingren points to the parable of the Good Samaritan when discussing calling. He emphasises how the Samaritan was in fact not Christian. Diaconia means service, and everyone, even the Samaritan, can and should step up to this service.3 It is obviously of no concern what the server believes, as long as he provides service to his neighbour. A piece of bread, according to Wingren, is life-giving to the starving individual regardless of whether it is given in aversion or in love (Wingren: 1995 [1974], 70). In life we are each other’s daily bread – that is how Luther expressed the relationship with our fellow human beings (cf. Løgstrup: 2000, 25). Through labour we are given our daily bread and live together in communities (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 95). Our fellow human being makes her suffering visible to us; what that person needs is not contained in the Bible (Wingren: 1995 [1974], 57). Understanding and responding to suffering – recognising the vulnerability of our fellow human being – may be understood as hearing the calling. A calling is a demand life poses on me to take care of my fellow human being, a fundamentally human law of love for my neighbour (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 87). For the respective action it is also irrelevant whether this is done by church or by non-Christian groups (Wingren: 1995 [1974], 71 f). Wingren, in his writings on Luther, thus places the calling in the one common world. This is the view of a theologian, impressed by his time. He himself came from a family of craftsmen (Uggla: 2010; Wingren: 1991), and his interest in the lives of people from backgrounds different than most of his fellow students and colleagues may have had an impact on his thinking. When he writes of the “other,” he may have been thinking of his own family, friends, and neighbours from his childhood and youth as well as the hardships, injustice, and challenges they encountered in their lives, controlled by the powerful people in the cities (Uggla: 2010). There are several works on Wingren and his interpretations on Luther (cf. Uggla: 2010; Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017; Jensen: 2003). In this context, I am concerned with the common calling of all and a rethinking of what this may mean, rather than any dogmatic questions. What do Wingren’s concepts mean in the contemporary context? What does common and all mean in our modern diverse and heterogeneous society? Wingren rarely referred to the more practical context. My take on the subject of calling is also based on its position in the common world. However, I doubt whether Wingren’s concept is broad enough to 3 The narrative of the Good Samaritan and its meaning for professional ethics is also elaborately discussed by others, for instance, Theiben: 1990; Foss: 2004.

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embrace substance users or foreign beggars, nor letting their space be the starting point. Wingren’s concept seems to support his specific focus on the ‘I’ and ‘the [suffering] neighbour.’ In this context, I want to emphasise that who we are in the calling, whether the caller or the called, is not always obvious. This of course does not mean that Wingren’s ideas do not serve us well as a kind of moral compass, but in the light of ever new challenges and ‘more other’ others, his contribution seems a bit inadequate and too ideological for modern everyday life. Some contributors recently added more “meat to the bone,” adding valuable perspectives from more practice-oriented contexts.

Two Contemporary Contributions on Calling […] is the language and practice of theology concerned with the Christian church only – or is the understanding of the gospel inextricably intertwined with the life worlds and experiences of all human beings? (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 13).

Encounter Calling The Swedish theologian Cecilia Nahnfeldt introduces the concept of calling in a contemporary context. Continuing the line of thought from Luther and Wingren, Nahnfeldt starts by saying that the task of all humans is to give life and not to take it (Nahnfeldt: 2016). Under modern unjust and uneven life circumstances, being called to be fellow humans to each other and exchange support for what each of us needs forms the basis of all human interaction. Love of one’s neighbour is thus not merely the exhibition of emotions, understanding, and empathy; rather, it constitutes a fundamental prerequisite for and an ability to relate to how we live in a world in which we are destined to walk side by side and share each other’s pains and burdens as one united humanity (2016, 202). Nahnfeldt explores the possibility of interpreting calling to include both attention to the call of our fellow human and a preparedness for action that such attention entails. She asserts that this interpretation should not be associated with positions supporting conceptions of obedience and submission. Rather, she explains and discusses calling from a theological point of view, where it is part of a life view. Rather than being a divine command to an individual, it is part of the overall picture of humankind and ethics – a way of seizing existence. Nahnfeldt asserts that the church is theologically not the only place for such calling (2016, 64). Scandinavian creation theology, and in this case Gustaf

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The Calling

Wingren, prepared the way for such an assertion, but Nahnfeldt takes it a step further by positioning calling as a life view. She opens the concept up to be more nuanced than simply ‘I’ and ‘the neighbour.’ This is linked to interpersonality, where one is placed in calling relations toward all human beings as well as dialogue, where someone needs me and I need someone. This implies that calling, according to the Lutheran interpretation, is about interhuman relations, not just relations to God. Calling therefore touches on the Lutheran view of man and view of society (2016, 111). Here, we also start to see the strong influences from phenomenology inherent in this tradition. In our modern, post-Christian society, the notion of calling is still very much alive in our language, although the hegemony of the Lutheran church has been challenged (2016, 39). The notion lives in language especially in the relationship to professions. Professions associated with being called, such as teacher or nurse, influence the whole idea of what it means to be a nurse or a teacher, even when they do not concur or identify with the notion (Nahnfeldt: 2006; 2016). She explains that this shows how certain Christian notions such as calling still have strong connotations in secular society. Nahnfeldt positions the human as a situated body, building on, among others, Simone de Beauvoir (2016, 61ff). Such a view of mankind in this perspective denotes a concrete living individual who realises herself through her interactions with the world. She goes on to state that not only are we situated bodies, we are “situations” (2016, 66). This means that the situation always contains a choice, which results in some sort of action. In the situation lies freedom, until a particular choice, and thus an action, is carried out. The action in turn is the outcome of the situation. The action manifests the body in motion from the action taken, making the human in action “situated.” The significance of the body is thus present in the process of creating new meaning (2016, 6). These perspectives on the situated body are particularly relevant in this context, and they will be part of the further development of the book. Building on the Lutheran notion of calling, Nahnfeldt states that there is support for humanity as a value in its own, as something that characterises the meaning of life and good relations. According to this logic, and in line with what is to be discussed, calling within interhumanity provides an understanding as a request for attentiveness and attention to a fellow human in need. This makes it more than just work ethics; rather, according to Nahnfeldt, it is a holistic view and attitude toward life. We are sent out in everyday life with an ethical request: to take responsibility for other humans and meet their needs. This request challenges us to ask who to listen to and what their needs really are (2016, 69). Nahnfeldt’s notion, which will play a central part in this context, stands in opposition to the traditional “templates” calling to obey and calling to serve, namely, encounter calling (2016, 186 f; 200–203).4 The concept is not new, as 4 Nahnfeldt uses the Swedish “Kallelse att möta,” which literally means calling to encounter or calling to meet. I use “encounter calling.”

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the encounter is a premise for both Wingren and Løgstrup, but she develops it further, concretely giving it a language in relevant contemporary contexts. The notion of obedience resonates with the traditional idea of being called, thus obeying and fulfilling God’s plan. The notion of service can be interpreted in two ways: The first is closely linked to obedience, interpreting service as a service to and for God. The second – and this is where Wingren’s contributions belong – is the calling to service for one’s fellow man. Both terms, calling as obedience and calling as service, however, include and accept perceptions of power on the part of the called. The called is clearly the active subject in these terms. Yet, still little emphasis and reflection is placed on the caller. None of them entails a view reflecting the world as democracy, with equal human rights or equality. Life is lived in asymmetrical power relations, which must be included in the reflections on the calling. The idea of attending to the needs of one’s fellow human being and encountering them has a value in itself: the potential to break norms and to create something new (2016, 202 f). Nahnfeldt states that encounter calling gives humans both possibilities and challenges, since it places us in the encounter and thus places us in the unexpected aspects of life. The term is suggested as one that protects people’s equal values and rights to shape their lives and the society they live in (2016, 203). In her interpretations of the calling, and I here presume that she emphasises the encounter calling, she introduces an idea of calling as meaning being prepared for disruption (2016, 198). This idea of disruption is her most important contribution in this context. Nahnfeldt explains that, in the calling, something restrains one or changes the circumstances. Furthermore, she writes that it is about letting oneself be interrupted, enduring seeing or daring to receive an opening. The right to disrupt as well as the possibility of being disrupted mean giving space for hope where life for a minute becomes more whole (2016, 198). She writes this in the context of living in line with the Lutheran concept of calling. Based on this, I presume that in order to live in attentiveness to our fellow human beings, in a willingness to share lived life with them, we also need to be prepared for disruption, to have the circumstances of our lives changed. This sounds dramatic, but it needs not call for more than realising that, in any encounter with another human being, one changes – or one must be at least willing to change in order to understand the needs of the other. This willingness also relates to the idea of being affected that is so central to this book. What sustain a society, Nahnfelt states, are space, conversation, and actions that embody our good intentions toward each other. So, the calling flows through everything – all of everyday life – as a possibility of encounters. Furthermore, compassion is something that shows. The calling is not just an audible word, it is a performative acting word (2016, 200, my emphasis). In encounter calling, the encounter is the starting point. The encountering

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The Calling

human is prepared to create something new from the encounter (2016, 187). In this preparedness to create lies the willingness for disruption, change, and affection. According to Nahnfeldt, encounter calling implies a curiosity toward those we encounter, knowing that we do not know much about those we meet before we ask or pay attention. Nor do we know what our role in the encounter is. An encountering human is prepared to dare encountering with the one who offers help. And she dares to reach out her hand even if the risk of rejection is great (2016, 188). Nahnfeldt states that the calling is about how people live for the living (2016, 207). In its ultimate abstraction, it is the relationship between an existential address and the response of humans. Nahnfeldt says that meeting another person’s needs as well as one’s own happens when we use the ability to take changing action, and the ability to show compassion. These abilities work together to direct one to where compassion is needed. Those are the prerequisites for taking action so that someone’s needs are met (2016, 207). The concept of encounter calling reflects that all humans shift between being in need and being the one who responds to the needs of the other, according to Nahnfelt. The calling to encounter is a request to be attentive and to act. To encounter is also about being ready to let life take new directions for the sake of others. To be open to the possibility that one may be shaped, influenced, and changed. This, Nahnfeldt states, is somewhat countercultural in contemporary society, where independent choice is highly valued and the belief in the ability to control things is strong. But encounter does not mean submission. Encounter happens between humans when no one has a priority from the beginning (2016, 203). This idea is open to the sociality of the calling, in contrast to the traditional reflections on the one-way calling. On the encounter Nahnfeldt writes: To encounter is not something we can choose, it also happens involuntarily. We clash. We happen to end up together, in the same place. To encounter means letting eyes see into each other, letting voices speak. To wait. To not understand. To come into conflict. To become uneasy. To stay and together attempt to give life. Not to kill. That is how I understand encounter calling (2016, 203).5

Here, the concept is raised to the next level, compared to Wingren. She leaves the exemplary situation of someone calling to another. In encounter calling, the relations are undetermined. Furthermore, she opens the perspective of calling as something that is not always beautiful, that the encounter is not necessarily harmonious. These aspects are also crucial to how I aim at reinterpreting the calling. 5 “Att mötas är inte n got som kan väljas, det är n got som ocks händar ofrivilligt. Vi stöter ihop. Vi r kar hamna i samma läge, p samma plats. Att mötas är att l ta ögon se in i varandra, l ta roster tala. Att vänta. Att inte forts . Att komma i konflikt. Att bli urolig. Att stanna och änd tillsammans försöka ge liv. Inte döda. S först r jag kallelse att mötas.” My translation.

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She extends it to the contemporary common world and to the encounter between people and bodies, emphasising the disruption. In encounter calling lies not only the premise for encountering the other, but the chance of being disrupted in one’s everyday life by another body, being called out of one’s way by somebody in need. Her concept of encounter calling is hence fruitful to this project. The encounters that occur in the tales are not produced, they are not imagined; they are neither self-explanatory nor predictable. Nahnfeldt’s concepts are thus more relatable to this discussion than the more ideological and principal standpoints of Wingren. However, her work does not occur from inside the encounters or from the spaces where the encounters take place.

‘Eye Calling’ The discussion on how to reconstruct the concept of calling demands one more contribution. This goes back to the Norwegian Professor of Nursing Science Kari Martinsen, who explicitly emphasises the significance of space, and phenomenological approaches and reflection. Whereas Cecilia Nahnfeldt discusses the concept of calling within the framework of Swedish Lutheran theology, Kari Martinsen discusses it explicitly in terms of the phenomenology and philosophy of practical nursing. In many ways the two connect, since Nahnfeldt refers to nursing and implied diaconia as well as embodied interconnectedness, whereas Martinsen leans on Løgstrup, who also writes in the Lutheran tradition. Common is their view on calling as something deeply human, humane, and social. Martinsen, besides the spatial, put greater emphasis on the body and more explicitly on compassion.6 In the following account, I mainly refer to her book Øyet og kallet [The Eye and the Calling] (2000), where calling as reflected on corresponds well with what I aim at discussing here. At the very core of Martinsen’s work lies Løgstrup’s ethical demand that you never interact with another human without holding parts of that person’s life in your hand (Løgstrup: 2000, 37). Building on Løgstrup, she states that trust is fundamental to the lives of all people, and that it is crucial to take care of the life that has been placed in our hands. It is an acknowledgement of the 6 In German, the word here would be barmherzigkeit, like the barmhjertighet of the Scandinavian languages. Etymologically, the word means taking heart with the suffering. The with is what is found in the English word compassion, a better choice than, say, mercy or charity, which do not include the relational and social with component. The narrative of the Good Samaritan is called ‘Der barmherzige Samariter’ and ‘Den barmhjertige samaritan’ respectively. The with is part of the emphasis in the professional ethical discourse of the narrative. See Martinsen: 2014 [2000]; Foss: 2004; Theiben: 1999.

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other, a deference to the life of the other based on the fundamental sameness we share (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 9). Martinsen writes from the perspective of nursing practice in contemporary society, where efficiency and professionalism challenge the traditional values of care and response to the suffering other. A constant problem is that it is so easy to go from sensing to noticing. Noticing means that one takes an outside perspective and classifies, for example, when making a diagnosis based on observable symptoms (2014 [2000], 10). It is easy to glide from seeing in a sensing, feeling, and participative way to seeing in a registering, ordering, and calculating way (2014 [2000], 41). This is why she emphasises the eye, the gaze, and how we see the other as having implications for the calling. From an outside and classifying perspective humans are reduced to being objects or completed facts. One must then, according to Martinsen, see with the “eyes of the heart,” meaning that “participating attentive eyes make the other stand out as meaningful” (2014 [2000], 21, my translation). A fundamental word in phenomenology is to discover, not to construct, according to Martinsen. She thus states that there is a battle going on in the eye as to where its attention should be directed. In this battle, it is the task of phenomenology to revert attention back to what we have forgotten, to our everyday experiences. One must see with feeling eyes that hold a worldview aligned to protect and care for life and human relations, as opposed to calculating eyes that seek only to govern, measure, and expose – that reject everything that cannot be systemised and mastered (2014 [2000], 31). She goes on to again refer to Løgstrup’s ethical demand, enriching it slightly, in that we share the common condition that we always hold something of the other’s life in our eyes (2014 [2000], 36). When seeing and sensing with our body and heart, our ethical judgement is challenged, since we are no longer protected from the other by quantifications, systematisation and measurement, and rules. Life itself then places us in the dilemmas and asks: Am I my brother’s keeper? Do I see his face, his body, his pain, his hope? This makes the phenomenological task indispensable. A task where one must constantly turn around, that is, be directed toward discovering what we so easily overlook: the sensed world, what we see with the participating eye of the heart (2014 [2000], 42).7

We are also unprotected against the other in the encounter. In modern professional nursing, one does not personally engage with or become involved with the patients, rather one should keep so-called professional distance, partly as a means of protecting oneself from getting ‘too close’ or ‘too involved.’ This, according to Martinsen, often leads to one-way communica7 “Da vil livet selv sette oss i dilemmaene og spørre: er jeg min brors vokter, ser jeg hans ansikt, hans kropp, hans smerte, hans h p? Dette gjør det fenomenologiske arbeid uunnværlig. Det er et arbeid der en stadig m vende om, det vil si være rettet mot oppdage det vi s lett overser: den sansede verden, det vi ser med hjertelig deltakende øyne.” My translation.

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tion or communication from above. Knowledge is limited to adjudging specific aspects, whereas the human is overlooked and reduced to an object, like the respective illness (2014 [2000], 11). She goes on to differentiate between the personal and the private, between emotions for the other and sentimentalism. The professional presents herself as a person with emotions, whereas in sentimentalism, she revolves around herself and limits the other to being part of her own horizon. Emotion for the other is a seeing emotion; it is an emotion opened up by the senses, and this sensing in turn opens the world to me and lets created life come to me. Sensing opens up to seeing emotions, and they are admissible emotions. They admit us, give us access to the world and our being (2014 [2000], 11). This, again, may be linked to the calling. Sensing a calling also has something to do with how we perceive others around us. In responding, one has to sensuously open up one’s emotions to the life that presents itself in this calling. Martinsen emphasises the significance of emotions in encounters with others, how crucial they are for how we see and understand the other, and in doing so she leans on Løgstrup when writing about understanding emotion. In this understanding, one is invited and given the opportunity to follow into the world of the other (2014 [2000], 11). She writes primarily of the professional caretaker, but I would also take it to signify how we all meet people around us. To strive at having an emotional communication with persons we meet, to be able to listen to – and live with – the other and to be sensitive to their understanding of their life and life circumstances (2014 [2000], 11). Martinsen goes on to explain how we can see humans in their integrity by employing a seeing and participating eye, supported by emotional understanding. Sensing lets the other, whom I do not necessarily know, appear as a stranger who concerns me. It is about being person-oriented and has also to do with becoming involved in what one is doing, to the extent that one wants to invest something of oneself in the encounter with the other, to become committed to doing one’s best for the person in need of help or care (2014 [2000], 14). For a professional caretaker, this is about developing an understanding of being placed in life circumstances that demand something, and to place the other at the centre of the care-encounter’s other-orientation (2014 [2000], 12). According to Martinsen, many professionals today refer to this as a calling, and they wish to return this calling to their professions.8 It is a foundational human(e)ly sort of calling they are talking about, where altruism, involvement, and proximity are central to the execution of professional work (2014 [2000], 14). This kind of calling can easily be transferred to a discussion of how we humans encounter the people around us. Although the concept used to be tied to creed, there are other aspects that contemporary professional caretakers want the concept to entail when reclaiming it. One such aspect is kindheartedness. In that word lies the working force in the humanity of 8 Reflections on this are elaborated in, for instance, Wyller/Heimbrock: 2010.

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nursing. Kindheartedness, the material force of emotion and thought – the sensing reason – is founded in love for one’s fellow humans. And nursing, according to Martinsen and, I would add, any care practice, is pointless if it becomes pure technique, if kindheartedness is lacking in what one is doing (2014 [2000], 14 f). Martinsen states that the calling is a demand life poses in a purely humane manner, to meet and take care of our fellow human being. The calling is given as a law of life, concerning love for our neighbour. This neighbourly love is fundamentally human (2014 [2000], 87). Martinsen centres her discussion on the calling around the parable of the Good Samaritan,9 being a fundamental narrative in the ethics of care.10 She interprets the parable as a narrative in which humans who are strangers to each other meet in proximity, time, and space (2014 [2000], 16). She elaborates on the sensory aspect, how the Samaritan recognises the other and is simply unable to not care for him, since it is an embodied reaction: He saw with his entire body which was affected. The pain of the other impacted him. The injured man shows the Samaritan what life is – that it is vulnerable and must be cared for (2014 [2000], 19). The Samaritan did not notice at first that he was stricken [by affection]. If we use our imagination, then perhaps he also listened and smelled. It was a conglomeration of senses as well as a willingness to partake in the suffering of another person, to create a space of action, a distance to acknowledge that identification is also identification of difference (2014 [2000], 19). The Samaritan saw with eyes that did not make the injured man different from himself (2014 [2000], 20). He recognised that he and the injured man are the same in the sense that they are equal as humans, albeit different in this particular situation, as one was injured and in need. He saw with the eye of the heart, with participation and empathy, making the other stand out as meaningful. He saw with eyes that made a difference, recognising the man lying there as someone who needed help (2014 [2000], 21; 20). The senses are thus crucial to Martinsen’s interpretation of calling and caring for the other. By sensing we overcome distances between us, for example, the distance present in our relationship or in our spatial location (2014 [2000], 22). A human does not simply exist; it is not irrelevant whether someone exists or not. The other is experienced as something that should be and therefore must be cared for (2014 [2000], 23). 9 Martinsen bases her reflections on several versions of the parable, as sometimes important details are lost in translations and revisions. For example, in the last revision of the Norwegian Bible (1978/85) it previously said that the priest and Levite “passed him.” She emphasises, for example, that in the Danish version, the priest and the Levite “walk around” the injured man, which eliminates the possibility of seeing and sensing him [with both body and heart]. Furthermore, in the Greek, what the Samaritan feels when seeing the wounded man is described with the word otherwise used for the intestinal and stomach area, meaning a very physical (visceral) feeling in the body (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 18 f). 10 For a non-Scandinavian reference, see Theiben: 1990.

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Sensing is qualified by this prior ‘should.’ All lived life presents itself with such a ‘should.’ This is part of the phenomenological core. I interpret this ‘should’ as the demand to care for the life you encounter. There lies a power in the sensed world that demands – an ethical power. Just seeing the nearly dead man is experienced as uncomfortably persistent and physically painful because such sensing is identifying. The sensing places us in a common world. The other concerns me and wants something with me. In this sensing I am immediately demanded, and I am faced with demands. It is in other words, an ethics of spontaneity in the ethical demand’s nature of appeal: be compassionate (2014 [2000], 23).11

Martinsen goes on to explain how terrible the openness of the sensing can be. In the eyes of the Samaritan, the pain of the other affects his body and concerns him (2014 [2000], 23). This concern relates to being affected by the other, which is important in this context. Like the Samaritan, we must also use our senses, meaning that, apart from seeing, we also attentively smell, listen, and talk when doing care. And, I would add, in all interaction with other human beings. We see with our entire body. We see and sense at the same time (2014 [2000], 31). Personal involvement in the encounter with our fellow human beings is emphasised as an important matter; one must invest something of oneself, one must be committed to do one’s best for him. Luther wrote that we are each other’s daily bread, and he considered the calling in this world to be an ethical demand (2014 [2000], 115). Løgstrup, according to Martinsen, follows up on this thought: It is the other who calls unto me. The demand is not something that is asked for, it is simply there. The other shows us what life is and that this life concerns us. He shows us that we must take responsibility, and that the response has to do with our esteem for the other (2014 [2000], 115). Martinsen asks: Is the calling, understood as something fundamentally human, a common concern for life – a demand to heed life and take care of it? (2014 [2000], 115). The concepts that Martinsen brings to this context are phenomenological perspectives, drawing on Merleau-Ponty and Løgstrup, among others. She points to our interconnectedness and how letting ourselves be affected moves us to action. These are important aspects to develop further. The sensory aspect as well as that of affection play an important role in the methodological foundation of this volume as well as in its analysis, and they are decisive in the interpretation of calling. These perspectives make it possible to point to aspects of calling in the tales from a seemingly chaotic public space. Apart 11 “Det er en makt i den sansede verden som stiller krav – en etisk makt. Bare det se den halvdøde mannen opplevdes som ubehagelig p trengende og fysisk smertelig fordi sansingen er identifiserende. Sansingen setter oss inn i en felles verden. Den andre ang r meg og vil meg noe. I sansingen gjøres det umiddelbart krav p meg, og det stilles krav til meg. Det er med andre ord en spontanetikk i den etiske fordrings appellkarakter: Vær barmhjertig.” My translation.

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from her perspectives on the calling and our esteem for the demands of the other, what I take from Martinsen is the vulnerable space of the sick and wounded – the hospital room or space. I state that public space, or the streetscape in question here, may be interpreted like a hospital space. Some of the people in the marginalised spaces of the tales are comparable to an unwanted illness (afflicted on society), one that must be cured, so that a healthy city can present itself in accordance with how we want others to see it. As Martinsen points out, the tendencies and risks of modern nursing is that it becomes a purely quantifiable practice where quality is measured in how patients respond to treatment, but lacking encounters of true care. I state that in public space we are all quantifiable objects. Most fit, but some, like dysfunctions in the body, do not, and public policies serve to find ways of either removing these or getting them in line with the healthy system.

Summary Both Nahnfeldt and Martinsen explicitly and implicitly write in the tradition of Scandinavian creation theology, following Luther, emphasising the calling or the demand that applies to us all regardless of our relationship to God. “We are all embodied persons, even if our bodies look different. We always live together with other persons, who appeal to us for help, and who we ourselves seek help from” (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 21). Although they belong to different disciplines, there are more similarities than differences between the two authors. What they both emphasise as particularly important is the fact that individuals are placed in the sometimes disruptive calling relationship as equals – the actions taken in the encounter determine the meaning for those involved. Nahnfeldt presents encounter calling as an act in which the premises are not defined beforehand, so that the relations in the encounter are also undefined. This effectively means that, in the moment of encounter, the individuals are equals. Martinsen writes that, upon seeing the other with one’s entire body – being impacted by that person – one realises that the other and I are the same. Nahnfeldt creates a concept – encounter calling – and Martinsen’s prerequisite for everything lies in the meeting of humans. Martinsen specifically refers to the phenomenologically embodied interconnectedness we experience as humans, while Nahnfeldt refers to the situated body, a nod to feminist theory. In other words, they both emphasise sociality and relationship as inherent in the calling. Neither of them, however, writes from the perspective of the spaces of the other in everyday public space, or the lived spaces where the minute details of bodies in everyday life are discovered. By this I mean that they do not sufficiently include the observer. Based on her readings of Løgstrup, Martinsen

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is concerned with the concept of intersubjectivity, though the position and perspective of the observer in the intersubjectivity are not really emphasised in her work. In Nahnfeldt’s work the observer’s role is not discussed at all. Here, my concern with both of these contributions is their lack of reflection on the observer. This is my contribution to the discussion on calling, starting with the contributions from Wingren and Scandinavian creation theology. A Lefebvrian reading of the tales from the street creates new meaning because the embodied and sensory experiences of the researcher-subject become concrete and new details emerge, as real bodies encounter and disrupt each other in real spaces. In order to reconstruct or reinterpret the calling, the tales from the field are read according to Lefebvre and his three-levelled mode of analysis. The results and findings of this analysis provide material for discussing the concept of calling from a shared lived space, which is what this project aims to do. In order to explain and specify what spatial analysis and lived space really entail, further introductions are necessary. Although the reader is invited to read the tales as candidly as possible, a short introduction to spatial thinking and its relationship to calling is needed in order to get a sense of the direction of the discussions to come.

Space and Calling While the city is constituted as a space of liberty for the citizen, it is also constituted as a space of discipline for strangers and outsiders – non-citizens. […], liberty and discipline presuppose each other. […] The tensions between liberty and order, and between discipline and civility in the modern city constitute citizenship as a space where the ‘normalcy’ of citizens is articulated against the ‘pathologies’ of non-citizens (Isin: 2000, 10).

The present book serves to point out and discuss the relationships between spatial theory and the concept of calling as well as how the observer plays an important role in the interpretation. In order to obtain an idea of what this means and what it entails for the empirical field, allow me to give an example of the spaces to be discussed. The following tale is from July 2011, and it would appear to be about who belongs and who controls a space. From Europar dets plass:1 “#It is 12:42, and the most eventful thing that has happened in a while has just happened: A substance user was standing to my left, looking down into the tunnel to the subway, for maybe 5–10 minutes. At the same time I noticed him I noticed two officers entering the subway at the other side of the road from where I am sitting. Suddenly they appeared from behind and started talking to him. No fuss, just talking. He apparently had to state his name, though I did not hear it. One officer checked with the headquarters (via walkie-talkie), then they handed him a piece of paper. From what I could understand he was suspended from the area, that is south of Oslo City, north of Prinsens gate (or Tollbugata), and east of Skippergata, in other words anywhere close to Jernbanetorget. If seen again in this area while suspended, he would immediately be arrested. From now until Saturday – 72 hours – he is not allowed to be here. How many people get suspended and what do you have to do to get suspended? Is it enough to just look like a substance user or must you be somehow registered as a substance user or what? I do not know. It cannot just be that you are simply a substance user, because then everyone else here would be suspended, too, so you do something to be suspended, and then you get registered as suspended – and then there is no mercy. But what you have to do, I do not know, because I just read about these fines … So, this means that people can get suspended for 72 hours … It is clearly better than a fine, yet this is not a private area … but now I know about it, which is good. As far as I understand it, he was allowed to use 1 Europar dets plass space is presented and described in the succeeding chapter.

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buses, trains, and trams, but then he would have to somehow prove what he was doing, I do not know how, but that was that.” The space here is a public space. It is a space where every citizen has the right to be. The stranger, the other, also has the right to dwell in this space, but he will be controlled since he is not participating in the space as planned and intended. Some public spaces are even more ‘of the other’ than others. The thought of the space of the other as meaningful, both in itself and in relation to society as a whole, provides the other or the strange – the ones on the outside or beyond – with an unpredictably significant role. They are no longer victims to be saved, improved, constituted, or shaped. Quite the contrary, in the other spaces important life forms take place (Lid/Wyller: 2017).

Taking the Spatial Turn The present epoch will perhaps be above all the epoch of space. We are in the epoch of simultaneity: we are in the epoch of juxtaposition, the epoch of the near and far, of the side-by-side, of the dispersed (Foucault: 1984, 1).

In research about human life and sociality, the main perspectives have traditionally been historicality and sociality (Foucault: 1984). In the second half of the 1900s, several thinkers pondered the meaning of space, as an important perspective for new ways to understand and think about different matters that surround us (cf. Lefebvre: 2007 [1974]; Foucault: 1984; Soja: 1996; Hetherington: 1997). It also represented the means for criticising and challenging the traditional modes of thinking of space in all disciplines (Soja: 1996). The interdisciplinary reorientation concerning the concepts of space and time that took place within the humanities and the social sciences during the second half of the 20th century, especially during its last decades, is usually referred to as the spatial turn (Bjerre/Fabian: 2010). A range of different fields “assert that space is a social construction relevant to the understanding of the different histories of human subjects and to the production of cultural phenomena” (Warf/Arias: 2008, 1). Furthermore, the spatial turn is much more substantive, involving a reworking of the very notion and significance of spatiality to offer a perspective in which space is every bit as important as time in the unfolding of human affairs, […]. Geography matters, not for the simplistic and overly used reason that everything happens in space, but because where things happen is critical to knowing how and why they happen (2008, 1). All practice (bodily and narratively) is spatial. This creates sociomateriality and atmosphere, territories and inhabitable places, borders, connections and routes, arrangements and combinations, geographical conceptions, etc. All elements that are

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in interaction further affect practice. Space thus becomes a relational phenomenon, constituted in practice and interaction, presence and absence, always open, always under production. Space is a verb, not a noun (Simonsen: 2010, 45).2

Common to many of the writers and thinkers on space is the attention they pay to the fact that we live in spaces, are shaped by spaces, and that we ourselves create spaces. By combining these perspectives with what it means to give others space and what it means that others are given space (or are given their rightful space), we see the outline of one of the most important tensions in the spatial turn in the present context (Lid/Wyller: 2017). This specific project aims to address these perspectives, from a public space. The premise of this project is thus that the social world is an active, participatory process. My notion is that Foucault’s heterotopias, mentioned in the introduction, are also in the public spaces, and that these spaces yield a potential challenge aimed at the knowledge that informs care, welfare, and politics. The contextual, empirical space of the book is interpreted as such a space.

Why Space and Calling? Everything we ever do in life, we do in spaces. We are never without space. We move in public spaces such as parks and squares; we move in private spaces such as homes or office buildings; we move in semiprivate spaces such as shopping malls. Practical experiences always take place in space. Spaces are experienced bodily; “We can say little more than that original space possesses structure and orientation by virtue of the presence of the human body. Body implicates space; space coexists with the sentient body” (Tuan: 1979, 389). That we are present in certain spaces is fairly obvious to us, and most of us know these spaces and their social mechanisms. However, there are also other kinds of spaces that we might not primarily think of in spatial terms. Social spaces, for example, or spaces that exist because of the people who constitute them. These spaces are everywhere and nowhere in particular, regardless of the physical or geographic places where they occur. When we are part of these spaces, we usually understand them; when we are not, especially when we do not know the people there, we do not understand them: They are strange, different, and sometimes frightening, as are the people there – especially when these social spaces are in places where we usually feel at home, 2 “Al praksis (kropslig og narrativ) er rumlig. Herigennem skabes socio-materialitet og atmosfære, territorier og beboelige steder, grænser, forbindelser og ruter, arrangementer og sammenføjninger, geografiske forestillinger mv. Alt sammen elementer, der i interaktion igen p virker praksis. Rum bliver i den sammenhæng et relationelt fænomen, konstituert i praksis og interaktion, nærvær og fravær, altid bent, altid under produktion. Rum er et verbum, ikke et substantiv.” My translation.

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places that we know. So, spaces affect not only the people in them, but also those outside of them. Spaces are formative. In encounters with others, especially with marginalised people in these spaces, challenges ensue, and these challenges need to be addressed. It is not necessarily a question of ‘doing something’; rather, marginality in public spaces poses a challenge to society, and society starts at the level of the individual. Our reaction to the challenge, the feelings that occur, and the actions we want to take (or not take) impact the societal discussion on marginality. When action is to be taken, however, in order to know what is needed, one needs to know the other. By entering the sites and spaces where people are, by learning what in reality takes place in the interactions between groups of citizens, we are informed about how society responds. Marginality and exclusion becomes particularly visible in public space: […] the representation of public space is deeply implicated in the process of othering: the way in which certain others are represented in public spaces is not simply a byproduct of other structures of inequity; it is deeply constitutive of our sense of community – who is allowed in, who is excluded, and what roles should be ascribed to “insiders” and “outsiders” (Ruddick: 1996, 146).

We can recognise this, and it addresses us. Hence, it could be said to challenge us socially, ethically, and politically. It is in the public spaces that such challenges need to be addressed. This is also where society has to relate, has to acknowledge that there are people who are struggling. As we relate to the other through encounters, we consider further courses of action and choose how to act, making it an ethical event as well as a challenge to our sense of citizenship. Furthermore, by getting to know the strange spaces in the public realm in a culture one comes to know about what excludes as well as the challenges exclusion poses (Wyller: 2006). One must see the other where the other is, not just concretely and physically, but spatially. Public strategies and practices aimed at street people are often aimed at moving marginality out of the public space, at making ‘them’ more like ‘us.’ Many steps directed at solving the issues related to caring for the marginalised tend to remove them from the public realm, either through institutionalisation or by creating special places where they are (more) welcome. The main goal seems to be to remove everything that is different and strange. Both in the sense that the different is physically removed from sight, but also by causing the strange other to turn into something else, something more familiar – someone more same than other (Wyller: 2006; Wyller: 2004; Wyller/ Heimbrock: 2010). An awareness of the issues related to contributing to sameness is important, because stripping the other of what makes him different from us is more of a response to our own needs rather to the actual needs of the other. It demands a change from him, rather than being open to disruptions and the possibility of being changed. The described practice of

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physically removing individuals from the streets eliminates the premise of bodily encounters, since the actors no longer occupy a shared space. Removing the possibility of personal, embodied encounters means removing the ethical challenge that is the calling of the sometimes different other.

A Short Introduction to Theory The present project discusses the implications for the concept of calling with respect to a marginalised public space from the perspective of spatial theory, i. e., the connection between the spatial perspectives, the calling, and the researcher-subject. I have already used certain terminology stemming from these theories, without sufficiently explaining or giving proper account to what they entail. Michel Foucault and Henri Lefebvre contributed to this endeavour on several levels, and they will be properly accounted for in the chapter Theories on Space. At this time, however, I would like to introduce their main ideas as guidelines for how to see the empirical space.

Michel Foucault’s Heterotopias Heterotopias are counter-sites. They exist and are real within any culture and civilisation, and “are simultaneously represented, contested, and inverted” (Foucault: 1984, 3).

In 1967 Michel Foucault held a lecture for architects about spaces, which was published in 1984 as Of Other Spaces, Heterotopias in the French journal Architecture/Mouvement/Continuit . His starting point is that, similar to how the19th century was concerned with history, the 20th century was concerned with spaces. He asserts that we presently are occupied with concrete spatial issues, such as whether there is enough space for us all. However, and more importantly, the problem of our spaces is that of “knowing what relations of propinquity, what type of storage, circulation, marking, and classification of human elements should be adopted in a given situation in order to achieve a given end. Our epoch is one in which space takes for us the form of relations among sites” (Foucault: 1984, 2). Foucault is concerned with the spaces in which we live, the set of relations “that delineates sites which are irreducible to one another and absolutely not superimposable on one another” (1984, 3). And more than anything else, he is interested in the spaces he describes as being curiously related to others sites, “but in such a way as to suspect, neutralize, or invent the set of relations that they happen to designate, mirror, or reflect” (1984, 3). He states that these spaces could be either utopias, meaning ideal or perfected, but not real spaces, or they are heterotopias. The

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word is originally a medical term, related to anatomy, but Foucault uses it to describe places of Otherness (Hetherington: 1997, 42). Heterotopias are kinds of polarities, like real utopias that point out real places in society, contradict them, and simultaneously reverse them. Such spaces, according to Foucault, lie outside other spaces, though one can point out their location in reality. He calls these spaces heterotopias because of their absolute difference from the spaces they reflect and refer to (Foucault: 1984, 3). Note that Foucault, although he implicitly refers to people as well in his theories on heterotopia, primarily emphasises the qualities of other spaces. These spaces are recognised based on the people there, giving the spaces their qualities; but Foucault does not explicitly write about these people. The other appears “other” by way of the ‘other space’ in which they appear, are observed, and are often forced to stay. The terms ‘other spaces’ and ‘spaces of others’ will both be used. The first comes from Foucault and specifically designates spaces that hold certain qualities that make them different or other; the second is conceived of by several thinkers and sees spaces that are specifically characterised by the otherness of the people there, bet it by seeming coincidence or by intention (cf. Wyller: 2009). Foucault’s notion of heterotopic spaces is the premise for how I understand the space at hand. Foucault, however, in his writings on the heterotopic, did not emphasise the observer nor the researcher – and certainly not the perspective coming from inside the heterotopic spaces. Rather, he elaborated on how spaces are significant to our formation, also in ways we have not been aware of. But he is not concerned about his own participation in the description of the space. Although he was concerned with clerical and pastoral power in much of his other work (cf. Foucault: 2009) and thus discusses the role and position of religion in society,3 he did not explicitly discuss the concept of calling. The specific notions of heterotopias that are of importance and that are highlighted here are that they are contested, that they are juxtapositions, that there is some kind of resistance, and that they reflect their surroundings. In addition, a contribution that includes the observer as participant in the observed space is needed.

3 Others have picked up Foucault’s thinking on these issues (cf. Sander/Villadsen/Wyller: 2016).

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Henri Lefebvre’s Spatialities Everywhere where there is interaction between a place, a time and an expenditure of energy, there is rhythm. […] This supplies the framework for analyses of the particular, therefore real and concrete cases that feature in music, history and the lives of individuals or groups (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 25).

Henri Lefebvre was highly influential in pointing out and exploring the dimensions of social spatiality. Like Foucault, he was concerned with the societal power structures, although his views were based in Marxism. Everything “occurs in space, not just incidentally, but as a vital part of lived experience, as part of the (social) production of (social) space” (Soja: 1996, 46). Lefebvre argued for connecting historicality, sociality, and spatiality in a balanced and interdisciplinary triple dialectic, meaning that his notion of space has three different levels of spaces: 1. Spatial practice, which embraces production and reproduction, and the particular locations and spatial sets characteristic of each social formation. Spatial practice ensures continuity and some degree of cohesion, in terms of social space, and of each member of a given society’s relationship to that space, this cohesion implies a guaranteed level of competence and a specific level of performance. 2. Representations of space, which are tied to the relations of production and to the ‘order’ which those relations impose, and hence to knowledge, to signs, to codes, and to ‘frontal’ relations. 3. Representational spaces, embodying complex symbolisms, sometimes coded, sometimes not, linked to the clandestine or underground side of social life, as also to art (which may come eventually to be defined as a code of space than as a code of representational spaces) (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 33).

Put simply, one may say that spatial practice is the way spaces are and how they are perceived. Representations of space are the abstract presentations, the maps. They are the construction of (urban) spaces, the drawings of architects, the measurements and calculations. Representational spaces cover heterotopias, but are more complex: They are the spaces of the ‘inhabitants.’ The three levels of spaces are explained as the perceived space of spatial practice; the conceived space defined as representations of space; and the lived spaces of representations. The ‘levels’ of space happens in mutual and reciprocal tensions, and the interpretations of spaces are connected to how the relationships are between them – changes occur in the interplay between all levels of space. A space is constantly in motion, always different, always being

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moved forward, being produced – the world is moved forward by contrasts, contradictions, and tensions (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 42). When the space and the tales are introduced, the accounts can, highly simplified, be interpreted as representations of the concerned space and spatial practice within. I expand on this in the presentation on theories in the chapter Theories on Space and thereby prepare for the analytical chapter that follows as well as the emphasis on lived space in the discussion. The triad is also fundamental to Lefebvre’s concept of rhythmanalysis. When we think about rhythms, we often think of music. We may also think of rhythms in history or in economy, cycles of trends or ideologies, etc. When explaining rhythms he points to something we all sense, something in our lives that is not necessarily known. There is a long way to go from an observation to a definition, and even further from the grasping of some rhythm, (or an air in music, or of respiration, or of the beatings of the heart) to the conception that grasps the simultaneity and intertwinement of several rhythms, their unity in diversity. And yet each one of us is this unity of diverse relations whose aspects are subordinated to action towards the external world, oriented towards the outside, towards the Other and to the World, to such a degree that they escape us. We are only conscious of most of our rhythms when we begin to suffer from some irregularity. It is in the psychological, social, organic unity of the ‘perceiver’ who is oriented towards the perceived, which is to say towards objects, towards surroundings and towards other people, that the rhythms that compose this unity are given. An analysis is therefore necessary in order to discern and compare them (Lefebvre/R gulier: 2013 [1989], 86).

Lefebvre ties rhythms to his other works on the everyday and to the production of space. Rhythms are something that are always tied to time, like repetitions. “It is found in the workings of our towns and cities, in urban life and movement through space. Equally, in the collision of natural biological and social timescales, the rhythms of our bodies and society, the analysis of rhythms provides a privileged insight into the question of everyday life” (Elden: 2013 [2004], 2). His point is that, similar to the way one listens to music, one should listen to the surroundings, such as the city, “as one listens to a symphony, as opera” (2013 [2004], 5; see also Lefebvre/R gulier: 2013 [1992], 89). In order to listen, however, one must be where what one is listening to is. Lefebvre uses rhythm as mode of analysis, as a tool to examine many different topics. And one of these is the life of cities, the urban. In everything he writes Lefebvre has a particular interest in the body, and in rhythmanalysis the body is crucial. When writing on rhythms, he describes the body as a ‘bundle’ of rhythms, as is everything outside the body (Meyer: 2008, 149). When describing rhythmanalysis, the point is that all these bundles can be heard.

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But the surroundings of bodies, be they in nature or a social gathering, are also bundles, bouquets, garlands of rhythms, to which it is necessary to listen in order to grasp the natural or produced ensembles […]. The rhythmanalyst will not be obliged to jump from the inside to the outside of observed bodies; he should come to listen to them as a whole and unify them by taking his own rhythms as a reference: by integrating the outside with the inside and vice versa (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 30).

His explanation of the rhythmanalyst is very short and is thus both frustratingly simple and complex. “He will be attentive, […]. He will listen to the world, and above all to what are disdainfully called noises, which are said without meaning, and to murmurs [rumeurs], full of meaning, and finally he will listen to silences” (2013 [1992], 29). Lefebvre, in his development of rhythmanalysis, thus makes the indispensability of the observer clear. This perspective becomes crucial in this present understanding and discussion on calling. The connection between the calling and the spatial contributions suggested in the chapter The Calling is thus starting to take shape. Next, it is time to connect this even more strongly to the present and to the researcher-subject. This is done through the methodological contemplations described in the following chapter.

Methodological Contemplations Phenomenology offers key concepts and research strategies for research on ‘living religion’ beyond conventional social and theoretical limits of religious research. To use phenomenological methods within empirical theology invites theological reflection on essential notions, principles, and assumptions that are at stake in empirical sciences, such as reality, praxis, action, objectivity, validity, and life (Heimbrock: 2005, 273). A balcony does the job admirably, in relation to the street, and it is to this putting into perspective (of the street) that we owe the marvellous invention of balconies, […] (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 37).

Up to this point, I have presented the concept of calling as it is conceived of here, like the spatial premise and the main aspects of the spatial theories that are used in the discussion to follow. The connection between the calling and the spatial is taking shape. But the role of the researcher-subject has yet to be accounted for.

Fieldwork Reflections Methods employed in anarchic settings such as street life should be fluid, spontaneous, and open-ended in order to cohere with the lifeways of the individuals and groups being studied (Amster: 2008, 128).

Based on what I have presented thus far, the challenge now is to explain how those aspects I have accounted for theoretically in the first two chapters may be discovered in practical, everyday spaces. The fieldnotes I developed did not explicitly concern encounters that immediately resulted in material for discussing a concept of calling – and it was not even obvious how to read them ‘spatially.’ This was something that developed over the course of several years. After working with the fieldnotes for a long time (nearly a year), I eventually discovered ways of reading the material and thus of discovering aspects, encounters, and surprises that provided new meanings that could be developed within a new theoretical framework. I did not have these elements in mind while I was in the field. As I prepared and carried out my fieldwork, I did not approach it with a look toward the calling. Put simply,

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I fairly openly wanted to explore a social space starting from spatial theory in order to see what could then be discovered that might not have been discovered had I explored a space starting from social theory. I wanted to learn something from this social space, and “the most advanced form of understanding is achieved when researchers place themselves within the context being studied” (Flyvbjerg: 2006, 236). I knew about the heterotopic perspective at that time, but I had only little knowledge of Lefebvre’s contributions – and very little understanding of its applicability. The present chapter regarding the methodological development of the project thus contains mainly reflections made after the fieldwork. In the first subchapter, the reflections are organised in four sections, in chronological order. The first concerns the considerations done before carrying out the fieldwork and those made while in the field; it relates to practical challenges and concerns. The following three sections are considerations mostly done after completion of the fieldwork. The first of these relates to the considerations made immediately after coming ‘back’ from the weeks in the field. The next relates to developments that took place much later, after months of attempting to make sense of the fieldnotes and starting to approach rhythmanalysis. In the section Rhythms of the Field, this approach is explained more elaborately, paving way for the material context. The next subchapter connects this development to the fieldnotes and to the reasoning behind developing these into ‘tales.’ There follows a section more elaborately presenting the present tales and explaining how they were used and understood as materials for the discussion at hand. Finally, the subchapter Ethical Considerations accounts for the ethical reflections made before, during, and after the execution of the fieldwork. Let me again emphasise the premise that a calling comes from outside, from somebody – some body. Furthermore, that the body is a space – an embodiment of space. This means that one needs to go to the body and to the space in order to hear or ‘see’ – or even feel – a calling. Using the body and the senses opens one up for the ‘seeing emotions’ – those that give us access to the world and our existence (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 11). The calling, as it comes to be interpreted here, cannot be discussed without reference to the one who is talking about it. In the following I clarify the methodological part of the question concerning the relationship between space, calling, and the observer, in order to prepare for the discussion which the second line of thought, that of the present researcher-subject, addresses.

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Reflections Going into the Field A researcher who wants to explore the city on foot must relate to the critique of the traditional fl neur’s lack of self-reflection, though it is still possible to work excellently in this way (Holgersson: 2011, 223).

In the dissertation Matrikelløse Rum [Unregulated Spaces] (2014) A.-L. Sand looks into certain group’s self-organised practices in unregulated spaces. Like her, I do not “explore a classical limited anthropological field but a range of dynamics that are expressed through the formalised city’s everyday spaces and alternative ways of using the city” (2014, 18, my translation). In addition to Sand’s set unregulated spaces – in the sense that they do not have a specifically publicly acknowledged [social] function, like a closed factory, a space under a bridge, etc. – I believe that most public spaces are in many ways unregulated. By this I mean that, although they most certainly are regulated, even to the degree that they are constantly being policed to make sure people follow the regulations, within these spaces there are a myriad of people and social groups who are not participating in the intended activities. This means that even strongly regulated spaces are constantly being negotiated; this negotiation creates a potential for new practices. Transgressions occur in these socialites and practices, and other realities, where the person considered other is not solely a victim calling out for aid.

Considerations on Participant Observation Participant observation is understood as “the process in which an investigator establishes and sustains a many-sided and situationally appropriate relationship with a human association in its natural setting for the purpose of developing a social scientific understanding of that association” (Lofland et al.: 2006, 17). Wadel draws up a model for the different roles involved in participant observation, separating ‘participant’ and ‘observation.’ Both concepts are again broken down into ‘in/of conversations’ and ‘in/of activities’ (Wadel: 1991, 46). This draws a line from an active participant to a more passive observer, from left to right, and during fieldwork one necessarily moves back and forth along this line, depending on the field (1991, 46–49). My researcher role was mainly to observe the activities lying along this line to the right. The goal was not to participate more than that. I would, however, respond to contact and hear (but not intentionally listen to) conversations, thus moving slightly on the line. I was not aiming to study any one particular group, although I had certain interests and inclinations, but rather

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interactions between different groups in the public space. And, in many ways, I was participating in activities in a public space, like hanging out on a bench, watching life, so on some level I was also situated on the left section of Wadel’s line. My methodological plan was never participation in the conversations, although I many times observed conversations, albeit mostly without actually hearing the exact dialogue. Generally, when planning the fieldwork as well as when sifting through the material afterwards, I would say that, in terms of Wadel’s line-up, I was definitely far to the right, not participating in the events I was taking note of. Before going out in the field, it had been my presumption that I would be participating in the public space where the practices take place. Below I give an account of how this participation in public space developed during the project. I wanted to look for encounters, interactions, and practices between the different groups who pass through or stay at Jernbanetorget every day. I wanted spontaneity – real glimpses into everyday life. In order to find out how to organise my fieldwork, and what areas would be most advantageous to observe, I carried out a small pilot study in the area. Where could I place myself, how could I inconspicuously blend in, where would there be more traffic, where did people go when it rained, etc? All these questions and many more demanded answers. The pilot was carried out a month ahead of the actual fieldwork. Because this area may not necessarily be familiar to the reader, and because imagining the spaces where this all takes place is important to later analysis and discussion, I have included photographs1 in Appendix I. The areas are also thoroughly described in the chapter An Illustration of Space.

Considerations on Locations Through my professional experience working in these streets and my experience as a citizen of Oslo, I had extensive knowledge of the area, which obviously impacted the contemplations concerning the location. Although I had an interest in the public behaviour and encounters between various groups of people, it is clear that my background influenced what and who I seem to see: “The habitus of the researcher is of utmost importance all through the project” (Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010, 34). And clearly I did have a specific interest in substance users, which is a large group in the area, though that does not mean that another researcher or observer would necessarily find them the most interesting or even the seemingly dominant group there. Social researchers find themselves in an unusual relationship to the social worlds around them. They both live in these worlds and seek to develop analytical understandings that go beyond the taken-for-granted realities and perceptions 1 All taken by me in April 2015.

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within which most people experience and live their lives. […], fieldwork takes advantage of researchers’ personal connections to the world(s) around them […] (Lofland et al.: 2006, 9).

The initial idea was that the two squares at Jernbanetorget and the stairs between them would be interesting areas as well as Christian Frederiks plass. These were areas known for being open drug scenes, hangouts for itinerant workers, Roma, and different youth groups. These areas would need to be observed for some time in order to localise suitable viewpoints. Fieldworkers “attempt to position themselves so as to facilitate observation of matters of interest” (2006, 81). The assumption was that the main areas of activity among the substance users would be the areas highlighted in yellow on the map, and especially the staircase facing Europar dets plass and “Plata.” In the pilot study, it was paramount to determine whether or not this was true as well as whether there were places where I could get a satisfactory overview of these or other sites. The idea was that the substance users generally stayed on and around the staircase, so that all the people using the subway and many of the buses had to manoeuvre around them, making it a space of encounter and sometimes conflict. And exactly those kinds of encounters were what I wanted to observe. It was also necessary to find out what times of day would be the best to carry out the field study. The fieldwork should take place at the times of day when the area was being visited by most of the various groups of people. Through the pilot study, I concluded this would be in the morning (8–10 am), at lunch time (12–2 pm), and in the afternoon (4–6 pm), when many people were moving to and from work. Outside these time periods, there seemed to be altogether fewer people in the area. Later I explain the reason for these ‘activity peaks,’ as I found plausible explanations for these cycle-like tendencies. The staircase and the “Plata” were in fact home to the most activities, although less on the “Plata” than expected. This area also seemed to generally be less visited. Because areas populated by all kinds of groups were more relevant, I was a little apprehensive about observing this area. The area on the old square seemed to be a more interesting spot, as many people passed through and even sat down for a while, including substance users, vulnerable itinerant workers, Roma, and commuters/travellers. The search for a good location to observe the staircase revealed that the new square could be suitable. However, this area has no seating available. Additionally, just standing in an area for an hour or more made my presence feel rather unnatural. In order to feel less conspicuous (especially when it was raining), I had to stay closer to the entrance to the new station building, which took me further away from the stairs. Moreover, because most of the activity took place at the bottom of these stairs, such a perspective was less than satisfactory. So, I decided against using the new square as location for observing the staircase. However, Europar dets plass did give a nice view of these stairs. Because of the large square cut stones functioning as benches, it

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seemed to be a place where people might stay for some time: Staying there would maybe not seem so unnatural. Additionally, a little further to the South, on Strandgata/Fred Olsens gate, there are waiting booths by the tram stops that could easily be used to observe the stairs during rain without losing too much of the view. Because three different tramlines stop there, it also seemed natural if someone were to remain seated even if several trams move by. Altogether, Europar dets plass seemed to be the perfect location. Eventually I decided against observing Christian Frederiks plass, for several reasons. One was the seemingly limited activity in this area. There mainly substance users huddled, which was not a good starting point for observing the interaction of different groups. After all, I was not observing substance users alone; I was looking for spaces where different groups of people would meet. Another reason was that it was difficult to find a spot that would give me a proper overview. Also, there is a restaurant right by the station building with a large outdoor seating area. Although this would give cover during the rain, it would be too covert a location. Yet another reason was that there was a crowd control fence separating the pathway going from the old square at Jernbanetorget and “Plata” which separates the different groups and might change or affect any interaction. This area also posed the challenge of distance and proximity: I would either get too far away from or too close to what I wanted to observe. The old square, however, was a desirable location as it is a site for many activities as well as a place where many different people hang out. It is also a place a substantial number of tourists visit. Many arrive on cruise ships, trains, and airport trains. A large bronze Tiger seems to be a bit of a tourist attraction. The stairs coming down from the newer square to the old one represent a place where all kinds of people like to stay – to drink, eat, sleep, rest, watch, socialise, etc. During the pilot study, construction work was going on at the old station building, which was set to be rebuilt as a hotel. This could be a challenge. The construction work could lead to fewer people using the square, because of the noise and dust. However, I decided to deal with possible challenges emerging from this if and when they arose. The benched area on the square was also considered, but posed two challenges: One was that these benches were occupied most of the time, and a secure location was needed; the other was that the view there became a bit limited, as they are located fairly central on the square, leaving a large area unobserved. Therefore, the stairs between the two squares were chosen as location, as ‘everyone’ was sitting there. Even though “public places are customarily thought of as spatial areas and physical structures in a community in which there is freedom of access […]” (2006, 34) and “continuing presence is not contingent on specific activities or characteristics” (2006, 34), as a researcher I did not want to stick out too much, but rather ‘participate’ in what at least two other people there were doing. The stairs gave a great overview of the square, as well as most of

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the roads leading to and from it, a bit of northbound Karl Johans gate2 and a corner of “Plata.” It was possible to blend in with the other people hanging out on the stairs. In the case of rain, the tram booths closer to this area could be used or a restaurant on the corner of Karl Johan. Sitting on one of the top steps, I could also observe things going on among people sitting on, or walking up and down, the stairs. I was able to “aimlessly hang out without drawing attention or disapproval to [myself]. Most people are allowed to be in public settings without having to engage in specific behaviors” (2006, 36). Locations and times of day were decided upon. I wanted to be visible but not conspicuous – after all, I considered myself partly a participant observer in the sense of participating in public space, albeit not dealing drugs or begging. It seemed important to be available for questions and inquiries concerning my presence, but not to appear as a ‘researcher.’ I also decided to bring drawing paper and pencils, which had two functions: One was to be able to make visual notes, such as maps, sketching the area, routes of activities, patterns, etc. And it could also be a way of looking busy, should I become uncomfortable with ‘just looking’ – a kind of a small mental safety net. The awareness of this possible discomfort, at this early stage, may be the first one pointing to my being affected – what later became the paramount “finding” from the field. This will be elaborated on at a later stage. Because the aim of the study was to observe as much as possible, taking notes by pen and paper would require too much of my attention. The solution was to use a recorder with an earpiece, which I could use hands-free. This made it possible to both speak continuously and take “notes on the spot” (2006, 109) – and to remain discreet. The recorder used voice activation, so there would be no fiddling with buttons, etc.

Seasonal and Temporal Considerations Regarding the seasons, it seemed fruitful to observe the field during different seasons. People obviously use outdoor spaces differently in different seasons; the numbers of tourists change, and holidays, temperatures, and daylight hours affect people’s habits and behaviours, etc. These variations seemed relevant. I decided to be in the area 2 weeks out of each of the months of July, August, October, and November, 4 days in each week, 1 hour at Europar dets plass three times a day, and 1 hour in the stairs between the two squares three times a day. Fridays were used for transcribing all the notes. Timeout locations where I could stay to make notes and digest my impressions between each session were also found. I would have to see what areas were the best during the different times. 2 Usually just called simply Karl Johan, as I will throughout the book.

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Considerations Based on Experiences During the Days in the Field On the very first day of the fieldwork it became clear that it was impossible to use the voice activation on the recorder, as the noise in the area kept it recording continuously, making transcription unmanageable. Instead, I held it as a phone, making it possible to manage the buttons and blending in at the same time. At times, all that I saw I recorded as it took place. At other times, I observed for a few minutes and then recorded what I had observed. However, the recorder was ready at all times, so the recording button could be pressed the second it was necessary to make a note. The area was characterised by constant motion, and I obviously only caught glimpses thereof. There were clearly many other events taking place that I did not note. Although I had planned, as often recommended when taking fieldnotes (cf. Lofland et al.: 2006; Denzin/Lincoln: 2000; Ellis/Bochner: 2000; Kleinman/Copp: 1993) to keep my observations and my personal accounts separate, I failed spectacularly from the first day on. Because of the speed at which events occurred, often with mere seconds in between, descriptions and emotions became muddled together. In the transcript, I attempted to strike a more distant tone, so to a reader the emotions may not be as prominent as they were to me in the moment. Having listened to the audio files many times, repeatedly hearing the emotions, however, made them visible to me in the written texts. As will be shown through later reflections, this became one of the strengths of the project. Because of the constant movement and the many events that appeared as flashes more than anything else, it became important to be precise in noting the time (Lofland et al.: 2006, 113), down to the very minute. This also provides the readers with an impression of the speed and rapidity of events. I made another decision during the first week: After trying several versions and making plenty of considerations, it was deemed more fruitful to always spend the first hour at Europar dets plass and the second at Jernbanetorget during the three daily sessions. This had to do with two daily events: the activities going on in the area observed from Europar dets plass before 9 am and the arrival of the police at Jernbanetorget at around 9:40 am.3 Every morning, soon after 9:30, a policed caravan4 (from now on called “the RV”) was driven onto Jernbanetorget. It served as base for the police on patrol in the area. Many substance users would appear and linger in the area between 8 and 9 am. During these early hours it was less stressful, as people could go about their business without the constant presence of the police. I soon experienced that the police’s presence caused a constant movement of people and groups 3 The police presence is accounted for and explained in the section Sentrumsarbeidet – 2012–2015 in the next chapter. 4 Caravan, camper or Recreational Vehicle.

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that most likely felt insecure by this presence – primarily substance users, dealers, vulnerable itinerant workers, and Roma, as well as the police themselves. A stroll through Skippergata at the end of each session proved useful. Because this street was also on my way back from breaks, I made notes about its status before the two afternoon sessions as well. These rounds through the area done every day was what later made me decide to move the midday session to the intersection of Karl Johan and Skippergata. The “scenes or settings studied seldom remain static. […]. As such, adjustments are continually necessary and the success of much field research is partly contingent on the willingness and ability of fieldworkers to adapt to the changes they encounter” (2006, 54). The reasons for this move were, first, the increased activity among the substance users in this intersection likely caused by the police presence – and that it was on a natural route to the SKBO5 caf , ‘Møtestedet.’ Second, because Karl Johan is both a pedestrian area and a shopping street, it is always highly trafficked by all kinds of people, meaning that the intersection becomes a place where there are many encounters between different groups, making it an even better location for finding the kinds of encounters I was searching for. I saw a tendency primarily for substance users and Roma to walk in Skippergata and for ‘everyone else’ to walk in Karl Johan, which increased the impression of this intersection as an encounter zone and thus a key location. The waves of people in movement was affected by regular work and school hours, the opening hours in the shops and the opening hours at ‘Møtestedet.’ On one corner of the intersection was the fast food restaurant, ‘Jafs,’ which made for a good location. My experience from earlier in the period was that sitting inside looking out was highly uncomfortable because of a feeling of being dishonest and compromising the goal of always ‘participating’ – being visible and available to answer questions. ‘Jafs,’ however, is on the street level and has floor-to-ceiling windows. Sitting on a bar stool in the window, and doing so every day, made me substantially more approachable. Here, I had a good view over the southern side of Skippergata toward Karl Johan, including the clothing store ‘Indiska,’ the 7/11, and a little piece of Karl Johan to the North. Upon turning I could see a piece of northern side of Skippergata as well. It was not a big perspective, maybe 20 x 30 meters in a T-shape, where I am at the top ‘cross-beam,’ looking down toward the old station building, but it was still an area where a lot could be observed. Few cars passed on this one-way street (and no buses), so the view was rarely blocked. The restaurant keeper was informed about why I was there, and he was encouraged to inform others if asked. The activities and the immense number of substance users in this small intersection made it seem relevant to add some counting to the observations. Initially, I did this because the numbers were so high that I thought it may be useful to document them, and because it could become important for my later 5 The Church City Mission in Oslo.

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discussion. I ended up not using the numbers ‘scientifically.’ However, in the attempt to give the reader a ‘real’ sense of the area, it is never sufficient to simply say ‘many’ – which can be anywhere from 10 to 1000. Because I use the numbers in these contemplations and in the tales, I need to give an account of my considerations and reasoning for the counting. Primarily, it seemed interesting to count the substance users, as they were, from my perspective, by far the most dominant group in the part of the intersection I saw from my window: They stayed a while and/or came back, whereas most others were merely passing through. Defining this group as consisting of a homogeneous people who are easily identified posed certain dilemmas for me. The ‘labelling’ of individuals and placing them within a certain group, particularly one that has many negative connotations, is not something I did easily, as reflected on in the Introduction. Also, my familiarity with the area, and consequently also with a number of individuals, gave me an advantage that another observer may not have. On the other hand, an individual I know to be struggling with addiction 6 months ago may be sober now, even if many of the exterior signs of addiction are still there. This arena is a meeting place, and if you have spent 15 years in this environment, you do not simply start to hang out overnight in ‘regular’ caf s with your new nonaddict friends. Hence, my own relationship with the setting was “simultaneously an advantage and a drawback” (2006, 23). I had to handle this relationship with care. Keeping this and many other perspectives in mind, some rather strict criteria were developed in order to decide who was being counted and who was not. Also, whenever I saw somebody I was unsure about, my rule was to not count that individual until some other confirmation had been made. I relied on my experience and knowledge of the field when working out the criteria, and they were related to easily identifiable traits where at least four had to be seen. These were bent or unstable knees; shuffling walk; swollen and/or dirty hands (wherever visible); a mismatch between weather and clothing; dirty clothing and/or same clothing for days; cell phone in hand; returning to a specific area several times; communication with already identified substance users; giving/receiving money and/or small items in a covert manner. Even if some individuals were known to me or I had seen them earlier in the fieldwork, they had to fulfil the criteria again and every time in order to be counted. The counting took place during the same hours every day. Also, if there was any doubt whether someone had been counted earlier in the same session, they were not counted. This means that the total numbers should be on the low side. A counting device was used in order to not distract the general observation more than necessary.

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Coming in from the Cold Carrying out the fieldwork was of course a very mixed experience. It was frustrating that it did not turn out exactly as planned, even though I was aware that this might happen. For one, I had to do with only 5 weeks, instead of the planned 6, due do unexpected events. Also, the rain messed things up a bit one or two days, when there was really no point in being outside because everyone else was trying to get indoors or somehow out of view. My own ‘rain location’ outside in the tram shelter overviewing Jernbanetorget, for instance, would become packed with people attempting to fit under the shelter, leaving me with no view at all. And from ‘Jafs’ I could see very few people, most of them just running past. In other words, the sheltered locations would be packed, blocking any view, and the open areas were deserted with only a few people running by. The police operation6 was initially a big frustration, because it largely changed the situation and scenery that I had imagined during the planning phase I would be observing. It was a long-term operation, and I could do nothing about it, which was very annoying at first. However, it turned to be a good thing for the present discussion. The changing geographies of Jernbanetorget are spatially relevant. Also, it enabled a lot more visible interaction between the police, Roma, and substance users as well as tourists and the general public. What initially seemed to be only frustrating later comprised some of the most useful material on all levels of analysis. Lofland et al. were probably right when they stated that “the passage of time usually provides the distance necessary for assessing what was going on and what was especially interesting from the standpoint of one’s scholarly perspective” (2006, 63). It was a good idea to let some weeks pass by between each time I spent in the field. This was not always planned as such, but was a fortunate coincidence. Perhaps it would be better to stay for longer periods each time, regarding possible patterns, etc. But it might also have been a greater challenge mentally and physically, and could have affected the neutral perspective I strived to maintain. According to Wadel, one’s position as researcher in terms of proximity and distance is important not only as factors while executing the research, but also in terms of time (Wadel: 1991, 177ff). Temporal distance and absence from the field let the researcher reflect on the field, the concepts [or informants] one is interested in as well as on one’s own role and position. This makes it possible to make the necessary informed adjustments during the fieldwork. Because my time in the field was relatively short, albeit very intense and stressful, these breaks also enabled these reflections for which there was no time for during the time in the field. 6 “Sentrumsarbeidet,” presented in the section Sentrumsarbeidet – 2012–2015.

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On many occasions things were going on that I did not understand at all. Other times, I saw that people were reacting to things going on outside my field of vision, but I decided that I was not ‘allowed’ to leave my post, so I observed what happened until it disappeared. At other times, there were too many things happening at the same time, so I probably missed things as by focussing on one thing or trying to pay attention to many things at once. Because many events only lasted for seconds, this was quite impossible at times. The substance users would more or less follow the temporal cycles of the commuters, meaning they would arrive in the morning, be less visible for a few hours, and then increase their activity again at noon. After midday there was overall decreased activity, only to increase again in the late afternoon. The opening hours at ‘Møtestedet’ seemed to also play a role here. Another factor may have been the effect of certain substances, which generally last for 3 to 4 hours. Meaning that if you get your dose at 8–9 am, you will need to get hold of another one between 11 am and 1 pm in order to not get sick. This would confirm the endless circling at these hours (once approximately 10 individuals passed up to 40–50 times in 1.5–2 hours), with people searching for the right substance at the right times. Most of the substance users moved around in couples or small groups, whereas others were always alone when I saw them. Some seemed careless regarding how they appeared, obviously dealing or ‘taking space.’ Others looked more as though they were trying to be invisible, hiding or moving quickly, never talking to other substance users more than a few seconds. Moving in and out of the area within a short period of time, maybe, and not seen (by me) later in the day. Some, especially women, appeared to try particularly hard to look like ‘everyone else.’ The last week in the field, in November, there were some challenges because of the cold and the lack of daylight, so I had to find some suitable solutions. At the coldest it was close to 0 degrees Celsius. It seemed very unnatural for anyone to be sitting outside in these temperatures, so it was also a question of blending in. Sometimes I took a quick stroll through the station to get some heat and circulation, and this worked fine in the mornings, as there were fewer people hanging around outside. Another challenge arose when it became drastically colder. Many Roma, vulnerable itinerant workers, and substance users suddenly had more or less identical red winter coats on. Also, many wore hats or beanies or had their jacket hood up, so it became more difficult to make out characteristics that differentiated them. Also, during the latest session in the afternoon, sitting inside the restaurant where light reflected on the windows, it became harder so see what was going on outside in the dark, as it gets dark in Oslo at around 3:30 pm in mid-November. The fieldwork was also a mental challenge to me. Obviously, there were also pragmatic reasons for such a challenge. Paying attention all the time, always feeling that I was missing important events was one factor. Another was that I

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had a very difficult time distancing myself emotionally from some of the things that took place, and experiencing the corporal hardship of days outside made this even more challenging. Some days were much worse than others – not necessarily because ‘worse’ things happened, but because observing so many depressing and upsetting things sometimes dissolved the disattached observer role I was trying to keep up. You also simply get physically and mentally exhausted from the cold, and from not being able to rest comfortably. I felt, for instance, that the way people were being frisked in the middle of the public street was unnecessary, undignified, and unethical. At times, I was approached by people who seemed like loners wanting someone to talk to, whereas I needed them to go away and not disturb me, which made me feel bad, trying to explain to them that I was busy, knowing that was what they were experiencing from others all the time. Of course, sometimes I was just thinking too much, not separating my personal emotions from my professional self; the intensity of the days in the field greatly challenged this ability. Once I left the field and started to work with the material, what I first thought of as emotions disturbing the reports from the field turned out to be decisive for the project. What I discovered (which will be elaborated on below) was partly due to my embodied involvement in the field.

Struggles with the Material One learns to see naively and freshly again, to value conscious experience, to respect the evidence of one’s senses, and to move toward an intersubjective knowing of things, people, and everyday experiences (Moustakas: 1994, 101).

During the fieldwork, and immediately thereafter, I did not feel sure about what I had found. It was certainly not one, easily pinpointed phenomenon or concept, in this fast-moving and at times chaotic field. The following reflections relate to considerations made several months after the fieldwork was finished, when struggling with what to do with all the material. I lacked the tools for understanding and interpreting what I had seen and experienced. And I needed to make my findings available and acceptable to readers. When I took note of the embodied affections of the researcher-subject in the fieldnotes, I realised that this might be the key. Prior to the fieldwork, I had decided to not follow the path of phenomenology, as I found it difficult to grasp. Furthermore, I had only limited knowledge of Lefebvre and rhythmanalysis, having only read parts thereof, and that only briefly. I entered the field with some practical knowledge and experience as well as knowledge of spatial theory, but very little ‘spatial

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methodology.’ Nearly a year after I had finished my fieldwork I revisited Lefebvre’s work. And this time, his mode of analysis and systems of concepts allowed me to place my observations and findings within sensible spatial frames, including the significance of body and senses, obviously also reincorporating the phenomenological contributions, later also providing tools for the analysis. What became clear was that I had experienced something that only made sense phenomenologically or, put another way, phenomenology made sense through lived, embodied experience. In systematic theology, there have been several attempts to develop a methodology that utilises the interpretations of lived human social life, an empirical theology that “converges with a phenomenological broadening of the realm of life at stake in the lifeworld encounter with the other” (Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010b, 200). This methodology helped me when managing aspects of my fieldwork. Rhythmanalysis facilitated the analysis of the material as productions of space. Although Lefebvre’s rhythmanalysis is mainly thought of as a tool for analysis, I believe it may also be understood as a way of seeing – or, at least, the perspectives affect how one sees and senses, and how one is present in the urban – especially when attempting to find signs of something that is not objectively evident. Using this way of seeing, I can relate to the idea of lived observation (Løkken: 2012) as well as the social phenomenological approach (Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010), based on the phenomenology of the body, which refers to both what the researcher explores through observation as research method as well as to the researcher’s attention paid to herself in all phases of such a research project (Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010; Løkken: 2012). Rhythmanalysis is explained thoroughly throughout the book. The two most central phenomenological contributions, lived observation and especially the social phenomenological approach, that helped me navigate my material came to at this later stage. Although they both develope concepts and ‘how-tos,’ I did not really follow them either, turning to these contributions later. Therefore, I do not present them thoroughly, but rather give just a short account, as part of these reflections. Lived experience builds on the works of Merleau-Ponty, in particular how our lives are universal and how we understand each other across different languages through the language of the body. Although we are different, we recognise each other as someone who is similar to ourselves (Løkken: 2012). What became particularly relevant in my context is that Løkken’s research on toddlers takes into account that there is little to no verbal communication with or among these children, and that their interaction takes place mainly through their bodies. Like me, this researcher struggled with the methodological and epistemological challenges of how to carry out such research – and how to then interpret and represent such observational studies. She asserts that observation is lived through the interpreting researcher body while it is being carried out, written, analysed and represented in some form. It is situated

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interaction on several levels, entailing attentive presence, attentive observation, attentive interpretation and analysis – attentive interaction throughout the entire research process (Løkken: 2012). This is not entirely different from other contributions to empirical phenomenology; however, there were certain examples from her empirical material where she became aware of her own body in the research and what it was communicating that lead me to explore this matter thoroughly in my own. She reflects on what her face and body are doing behind the camera while she is doing video observation – things she was otherwise unaware of – and on how the children explicitly relate to this communication, realising its significance (Løkken: 2012, 130 f). More than anything, this research first gave me the idea and furthermore the confidence to pursue the visible researcher and the notion of body in my material. The work on the social phenomenological approach is part of a substantial development of theories and methodologies to research the perception of otherness as part of particular professional practices, such as nursing and teaching (Wyller/Heimbrock: 2010). The crucial point is to not objectify the other as something to be dealt with in these practices. In order to reflect on (professional) ethics and normativity, the idea is to interpret practice with phenomenology rooted in these practices. The researchers themselves share these professions, as their own experience in developing ethical positions in the professional work for the disadvantaged is paramount. “A key issue in this alternative way of doing ethics is to give increased significance to the ethical demands arising from our encounters with others and their contexts” (Wyller: 2010a, 12, my emphasis). The ethical and the ethical demand are closely tied to the calling, as are the professions in the study. Theorists and researchers turn to case studies from these professional practices and develop two ways of utilising the phenomenological traditions (Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010). One relates to the phenomenological interpretations of empirical material, called the social phenomenological approach. This approach is highly pertinent to the attempt to understand what is taking place in challenging practices, pointing out and reclaiming aspects of givenness, interconnectedness, and lifeworld perspectives for participants and researchers in the case studies as decisive for ethical concerns. This approach points to a discomfort relating to traditional empirical research representations in healthcare and carework, a lack of an awareness of an other-orientation. In order to be consciously other-oriented, the researcher must move to a “positions which allows for participating in and perceiving the dynamic of encounter, encounter of bodily co-present persons, who behave intentionally, directed towards the other” (2010, 29). What the social phenomenological approach aims at is to research social action, through cases where “insightful of surprising encounters” (2010, 30) take place, and critically interpreting “findings by phenomenological perceptions of otherness” (2010, 30). The goal is to focus on and identify the source of ethics.

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The other approach, the empirical-phenomenological one, builds on phenomenology in order to “reflect on and adjust experience as a means to doing empirical research” (2010, 24). This approach is also based in case studies, not just as a basis for interpretation, but as being constituted by the entire process of the research. “Case studies of this type describe and interpret experiences in the field in order to come to a fuller, meaningful understanding of the particular in its concreteness. […] [Allowing] for engaging strange and overlooked aspects” (2010, 31) in the encounters and practices. The approach aims at creating a structured reflection of experiences from lived experiences, in a dynamic and circular process. Spontaneity and irregularity are important parts of the perceptions and the lifeworlds, and precisely by leaving the approach open, flexible, and dynamic, these are able to appear. The empirical-phenomenological approach wants to learn from and inform lived professional practice, through the discovery of the researcher’s lived experience in the (professional) field. It is not difficult to see how my work relates to these approaches, as it too “does not proceed detached from, but is immersed in cases. […], allowing for a perspective that is part of the social activities going on, from within practice (Heimbrock/Meyer/Wyller: 2010, 39). Because I do neither and both, it is not completely obvious whether my work is more the one or the other. In certain ways it is similar to both, as they “reveal something that is not simply ‘a matter of fact.’ Rather they have to represent ‘what takes place’ in its quality of ‘lived experience” (Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010, 34). However, I did not explicitly do my empirical work and following analysis as a specific professional, in a specific professional field, using specific professional experience, with the goal of communicating back to the same specific professional field. Hence, I refer to the social phenomenological approach in the following reflections. The point is that all perception represents reciprocity between what is being sensed and the sensing person, between what is being seen and the seeing person, between what is being heard and the hearing person, and between what is being touched and the one who does the touching (Løkken: 2012, 19). “Our body can be seen and heard, be touched; it also expresses itself, it moves and it has desires. The body is also the place that marks a position between the self and the other like a divided self […]” (Leonhard/Thoresen: 2010, 135 f). Combining this with, Lefebvre’s ways of being present in the urban makes it possible to think of rhythmanalysis as a more practical approach. Thus, aspects of rhythmanalysis that relate to observations of urban space as well as concepts from lived observation and the social phenomenological approach are clarified throughout the subsequent remarks. My starting point is that Lefebvre observed an urban space from his balcony, “overlooking one of the liveliest streets in Paris […]” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 41). According to Lefebvre, observing from the balcony makes the observer part of the experience, meaning also that the observer is not unaffected by the observed everyday surroundings and its murmurs. Lefebvre

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introduces the theory of moments (Lefebvre: 2008 [1961], 340ff). I work from the premise that a murmur can be (a sign of) such a moment. “The moment is constituted by a choice which singles it out and separates it from a muddle or a confusion, i. e., from an initial ambiguity” (Lefebvre: 2008 [1961], 344). Lefebvre goes on to state that life is nothing but ambiguity, and particularly everyday life he describes as an “amorphous muddle […] in all its triviality” (Lefebvre: 2008 [1961], 344). Being in the area for all this time provided many embodied experiences about certain groups’ everyday life in the urban which may be of relevance to the discussion at hand. These are reports from heterotopias. Lefebvre’s perspective entails certain principles. You cannot just stare; rather, you have to become part of what you see and sense. When this is combined with the social phenomenological approach and lived observation, it is emphasised how knowledge and learning comes from the incarnated researcher’s encounter with what is being studied and explored. We get to know the world through the lived body (Løkken: 2012; Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010; Leonhard/Thoresen: 2010). These perspectives allow us to be affected. “The phenomenological analysis of experience sharpens our eyes for the reverse of the active position: experiences sometimes are also doing something to us. It emphasises the perspective for those layers of reality where the subject is interactive, interwoven with reality, affected, touched, and perhaps ever overwhelmed by things that happen” (Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010, 33 my emphasis). Considerations on the Body and the Senses I would like to add some perspectives from Martinsen that point to the implications for the theme at hand. Her phenomenological perspectives fit surprisingly well with rhythmanalysis. Based on her contemplations on how seeing the other has an impact on how we care for him, I emphasise her assertion of the difference between noticing and sensing. Following Martinsen, noticing reduces the other to an object, while sensing relates to participating and sharing. She goes on to explain how there is always ‘something more’ to the person than what we notice, and that it is the other who invites me to partake in his suffering, pain, and hope (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 10). Building on this as well as on perspectives from the social phenomenological approach and lived observation, emotions must be introduced into the rhythmanalysis. These emotions are opened by the senses, as explained by Martinsen, and it is this sensing that opens up the world to the one who sees and senses (2014 [2000], 10). One of the most acute body experiences was the temperature, causing sensory experiences relating specifically to my researcher’s body. Even though the fieldwork started in the month of July, which is usually quite warm in Oslo, the cold turned out to be an issue from the first day on. Many areas in Oslo are

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dominated by stone features, such as the pavement, benches, and fences/walls. This may be aesthetically favourable, but it is not very inviting. And, experience shows, stone surfaces are cold and remain cold for hours, even after ambient temperatures rise. Moreover, the areas observed in the morning hours were in the shade, so the stone benches at Europar dets plass and the stairs at Jernbanetorget remained cool throughout the morning. As it turned out, this entire summer was not a good one, so it never got really warm, and it was also particularly windy. The fjord and the angle of the blocks of downtown Oslo also makes the streets into wind tunnels, so the conditions of the area are seemingly always windy. The expectation was for need of sun screen, but there turned out to be more need of a down jacket. The issue of temperature obviously became more and more intense as summer turned into autumn and winter. The cold increases the urge, and sometimes the need, to go inside. Most caf s and restaurants only let paying customers stay inside. And after a while the shops also throw people out who just stay on. The malls are available if you look and behave like a customer, but if you are considered bad for business, then you are thrown out as well. The station building is a place to dwell in, but if you look suspicious or you are considered undesirable, security guards are called to ask you to leave. This all makes sense, but it is quite different when it is a personal, embodied experience. These were also my embodied experiences. I was not there to play the shopper, and I was at all times keenly aware of my unfamiliar role, feeling uncomfortable when passing through the railway station or the malls. My own incessant returning to certain spots for days and weeks on end made me aware of how others might see me–I felt the need to become invisible. Not necessarily as a researcher, which is somewhat a ‘safe’ position; but there was an embodied discomfort, or even fear, of catching someone’s attention and being considered unwanted, of being shamed. Substance users are likely thrown out, given suspicious looks, or asked to leave, thus being shamed, several times a week.7 My discomfort was thus only a mere hint of the possible, well-reasoned, feeling of being chased and hunted – obviously underlined by the fact that the police is everywhere, ready to frisk you, arrest you, fine you, and generally ruin your day. Another embodied experience was that of finding adequate restrooms. As it turned out, few caf s or restaurants open before 10 am at the very earliest, and one cannot simply frequent the restroom unless as a customer. There are two options inside the Byporten Mall and the Central Station, but both cost 10 kroner, which is quite a lot if one has no money. Most of the spaces for the street people do not open until even later.8 The many public debates about restrooms available to homeless, itinerant workers and Roma are put into perspective when one simply cannot find a decent place to legally relieve 7 This is also confirmed by Nafstad’s informants in her dissertation (Nafstad: 2012). 8 ‘Møtestedet,’ for instance, opens at 11 am.

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oneself. A public restroom is not an invitation to camp in a park: It simply shows people reasonable decency.9 The question, as Løkken pointed out, is what informational value such sensory experiences have in a scientific examination (Løkken: 2012, 123). However, as she writes, there is reason to emphasise the meaning of being on a level with the subjects of the study, also out of respect toward what is being studied. Løkken’s subjects are small children, and it thus makes sense for her to speak about being on their level as literally meaning finding perspectives closer to the ground (2012, 123). I would prefer a position that enables the researcher to experience part of the observed world with her own body, such as through the social phenomenological approach. These embodied experiences also played a central role in the analysis, as they pointed once again to that of being affected. Another experience related to the ability to sense with the entire body concerns proximity and distance. Some substance users are fairly easy for an untrained eye to recognise: the posture, the unclean clothes, or something else altogether. But there are many others who appear inconspicuous unless one takes a closer look and knows exactly what to look for. In areas where dealing with illegal substances is going on, one of the things I notice is that people move much closer to each other than what is custom. Norwegians are not known for their need for physical closeness with strangers.10 Indeed, a Norwegian will even sometimes cross the street in order to avoid having to pass somebody or anybody on a narrow sidewalk, a highly embodied reaction and behaviour. Present in a substance ‘marketplace,’ a perceptive or attentive person may notice that people are suddenly moving unnaturally and uncustomarily close to each other. If you pay attention and listen, you may even notice that the people passing you are announcing that they possess specific substances or what substances they are looking for. At times people are standing still having an apparent normal conversation. But the ones moving about are communicating about ‘merchandise,’ without stopping, looking up, or even turning their heads. Seen from the outside, without noticing the ‘close walkers,’ nothing is really going on, unless you notice people suddenly changing direction, forming or reforming a group. All this is something you can observe, but in a way it also needs to be sensed more elaborately. You may realise that something is going on while listening to music with earphones. But you must take them off if you really want to perceive these events, as it is a multisensual experience. But then again, if you want to remain unaffected, you may just leave the earphones in.11 9 As added information, many of the emergency shelters for ‘homeless travellers’ close at 07.30 am, http://www.bymisjon.no/Virksomheter/Akuttovernatting-for-fattige-tilreisende—Oslo/ English/ (obtained 12.02.16). 10 For more elaboration on this topic, see Kiel: 1993. 11 A colleague, having experienced this rather un-Norwegian behaviour in another drug scene in Oslo, compared it to illegal underground work in dictatorships or even espionage movies.

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The constant presence of the police was also an experienced factor. Although a researcher is of no apparent interest to them, and one is not on the run from them, one is still not indifferent or unimpressed by their presence, neither physically nor mentally. Just passing through, one might not think too much of it. However, if you stay in place for six to eight hours, something else emerges. Knowing they are there because of you, which is true for many living their lives in these areas, must make it even more pressing. There was quite a lot of interaction between the police and other groups. However, most of the time I could not hear the conversations or know what was actually going on, so I could only make assumptions. Sometimes they would stop and chat with the substance users, other times they would question, interrogate, frisk, and even arrest individuals. It was like watching a game of hide-and-seek where one group was always doing the hiding and the other always doing the seeking. There was a strong physical urge to participate, to ‘help’ both sides in ‘winning the game.’ It was apparent that the hiders had their strategies for not being caught, which included signalling, shouting, texting, and calling, pretending to shop, etc. Some days the police had an aggressive approach, other days they appeared more cordial. Some days there were so many police that the atmosphere appeared tremendously stressful – even I felt uncomfortable. There were police cars and officers everywhere. One day I saw 23 uniformed officers gathering in and around the RV in the morning! At times, I saw obvious plainclothes officers, at least six at one time. Sometimes they made arrests, making them easy to identify. Often senior officers (recognised by their white hat), seeming to always be patrolling alone, were making their rounds, apparently more friendly and calm than the younger ones.12 Lived Life in the Field Often there were various careworkers in the area, some representing organisations, others seeming to operate on their own. There were also many security guards, working for the businesses in the area and in the public transportation. At times, there were confrontations between them and the different groups, too. A few times what appeared to be plainclothes officers in unmarked cars came gliding by, sometimes picking up seemingly random people, either taking them away, other times just keeping them in the car for a while. There was drug dealing to/from cars. There was fighting and arguments as well as signs of caring and friendly behaviour both within and between different groups. A few times I saw people I thought were sick, dead, or highly disturbed. These times I had a hard time sticking to my role and deciding whether to 12 In Nafstad’s (2012) work, it seems that these officers are less friendly than what I observed.

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interfere. Fortunately, the situation either passed (i. e., the “dead” person moved), or someone else stepped in before I had decided what to do. Twice I considered notifying the police, upon seeing someone who seemed underage and very drugged, but these challenges also somehow solved themselves. Issues like these challenged my role as a researcher, especially ethically. Regardless of the role I had in these situations, I would have taken action much as I would have as a ‘private citizen,’ but in these cases I did stop to think about the implications for my researcher position. However, with reference to Wadel’s line from active participant to [more] passive observer, I placed myself on the right and on the left, since, in a sense, I was participating in everyday life, which would not make it a disruption in the fieldwork in situations where I questioned somebody’s safety. Depending on the outcome of this interference, and the situations that may have arisen, whether I made a note about it could have entailed an ethical challenge. On the other hand, the close observation let me see things that I otherwise might not have noticed, maybe even things I was not supposed to see, which was also an ethical challenge with regard to notifying the police, almost giving me the role of snitch. Nonetheless, in cases where there were questions of safety, I think this is secondary; but it would have presented me with a challenge that I would not have considered as a nonresearcher. An observation I made when working with the tales is that none of these situations left me with a tale about what happened, which may indicate that I was distracted by judging my own role instead of taking note of who handled the situation in what manner. The observation of these incidents undoubtedly also had an impact on me and created an embodied reaction, an impact that could also relate to the concept of calling. Positioned at my observation points I was in the middle of it all. The visual, sensory, embodied experience gave me a perspective on the everyday life of the people there, following the logic of the social phenomenological approach that “asks for making use of the broad range of human experience” (Heimbrock/ Meyer: 2010, 31). “[T]he fieldwork situation is rarely, if ever, more difficult ethically than everyday life. And how could it be otherwise, since fieldwork is not detached from ongoing social life but is embedded in it and thus shares in the continuing ethical dilemmas of social life itself” (Lofland et al.: 2006, 79). All these moments and aspects that caught my attention and the readings of rhythmanalysis preceded the realisation that the material was even richer in content than what I had previously imagined. It was always detailed, but now I found tools to make all these details manageable and let me approach and understand them.

Rhythms of the Field Having discovered the rhythmanalytical tools – and rediscovered phenomenology and the significance of my own, embodied experiences – I approached

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and reflected on the material again. Phenomenology relates to what is given in everyday life experience, using one’s own eyes and ears and all our senses (Martinsen: 2014 [2000]; Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010; Heimbrock: 2005). In the following the methodological considerations made long after the fieldwork was completed are accounted for, elaborating on the perspectives from rhythmanalysis. Certain areas were visited, immersed in, so to speak, for a longer period of time, describing what took place. The immersion in this context was a multisensory one where all the senses played a part. This resulted in page after page of fieldnotes from everyday life that make up spatially interesting and significant material. These notes were later developed into tales, as will be explained momentarily. Some tales are interesting and telling on their own. While others may seem insignificant and mundane, their tendency to loop and occur again and again in some form or another make them analytically weighty when coupled with others. The tales from the field form the foundation for the theoretical discussion of this book. The spaces and the people who inhabit them tell us something about heterotopias and humanity, even without a theoretical interpretation. However, through embodied affectedness, the material also takes on challenges and develops the theoretical background. My claim is that big things happen in these small tales, also with respect to the discussion on calling. In Lefebvre’s work on rhythmanalysis, his ways of observing are very similar to this context. He talks about listening to the city: “The rhythmanalyst strolling about perceives more the ambience of a city, rather than the image flattering the eye; more the atmosphere than the spectacle” (Meyer: 2008, 156). His point is that, in order to understand a rhythm (and indeed I would say all aspects of urban life), one must not only grasp it – one must “have been grasped by it. One must let oneself go, give oneself over, abandon oneself to its duration” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 37). And I add that one must be affected by it, as this affection is directly linked to the concept of calling. This linking will become clear through the analysis, but let me already say with Martinsen that seeing with the eye of the heart, the entire apparatus of senses – in my understanding, with participating attentive eyes – makes the other stand out as something meaningful (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 21). We can then say that we thus discover “that the other person’s body makes a claim on us” (Wyller: 2008, 171) – with needs that are expressed and experienced ‘body to body,’ I would add. “In order to grasp and analyse rhythms, it is necessary to get outside them, but not completely: be it through illness or technique. A certain exteriority enables the analytic intellect to function. […]. In order to grasp this fleeting object, which is not exactly an object, it is therefore necessary to situate oneself simultaneously inside and outside” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 37). Although rhythmanalysis is linked both to space and time in Lefebvre’s development and descriptions, the rhythms are highly spatial.

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Both rhythms and cycles came to play a role in the observations from Jernbanetorget. Lefebvre’s descriptions of an unspectacular and seemingly ordinary scene from his window in Paris immediately resonated with my tales from Jernbanetorget. First of all, he describes his location and the benefits of seeing from the inside, so to speak, here described by Kurt Meyer: “The situation of the observer in relation to what is observed is constantly kept in mind. The window overlooking the street is not an abstract location from where the mental eye could, so to speak, abstractly grasp what is happening in the street. It is a real location not only enabling sights but leading to insights. The observer is implicated in what is happening on the street” (Meyer: 2008, 153, my emphasis). This is where Lefebvre and rhythmanalysis introduces a perspective that, in my view, is not elaborated on sufficiently in the phenomenological reflections on empirical research mentioned here, namely, how the observer is implicated in the space, as part of its three-levelled production. Although the researcher and the researcher’s body are being emphasised in this approach, as “reflecting experience” (Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010, 31), it is in the valuable interchanging role of the researcher and the practitioner, not in the lived space of the encounter as space. It is not tied to the implication of being random people in common, public spaces where nothing particular is supposed to happen, but is yet production of lived space. Lefebvre’s rhythmanalysis is not necessarily tied to finding something in particular, but rather being immersed in a perceived, conceived, and lived space and its rhythms and interpreting their social and spatial meaning. Lefebvre is not looking for any particular practice, he wants to ‘feel the rhythm’ of the city, to ‘hear’ what it has to tell him as implicated in the rhythms. He is just as much a part of the city as it is part of him. What is noticeable from Lefebvre’s observations, besides his sometimes poetic and fantastic descriptions, is precisely how unextraordinary it is: He who walks down the street, over there, is immersed in the multiplicity of noises, murmurs, rhythms (including those of the body, but does not pay attention, except at the moment of crossing the street, when he has to calculate roughly the number of his steps?). […] On red, cars at a standstill, the pedestrians cross, feeble murmurings, footsteps, confused voices. One does not chatter while crossing a dangerous junction under the threat of wild cats and elephants ready to charge forward, taxis, buses, lorries, various cars. Hence the relative silence in this crowd. A kind of soft murmuring, sometimes a cry, a call (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 38).

Lefebvre emphasises the importance of the location of the observer. He writes what can only be described as an ode to the balcony and its incommensurable qualities as a lookout post, partly because it also exposes you to the sounds of the observed. Lacking a balcony, “you could content yourself with a window […]” (2013 [1992], 38). Or, as the main focus here is related to human activities, less than a macroperspective, where one is implicated, and

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furthermore affected, one could immerse oneself on the actual ground level. To emphasise this from the perspective of lived observation, it is something that happens through a worldly researcher-subject, who with her own lived human body, is interactively situated in time and space (Løkken: 2012; Heimbrock/ Meyer: 2010; Leonhard/Thoresen: 2010). This book, with its contextual foundation in Scandinavian creation theology, has several connections to phenomenologist theories. And Lefebvre’s work on rhythmanalysis bears striking similarities to particular aspects of phenomenology, such as the importance of the body and senses. “In a phenomenological vision, he [Lefebvre] captures the rhythms of a varied street life that can be observed from the windows of his apartment” (Meyer: 2008, 153). This is further elaborated with the contributions from the social phenomenological approach and lived observation. Literally going outside to take a look, to immerse oneself with all our senses, does something to the theory. Even though the viewer is clearly the reporter of what is seen and sensed, that does not make for introspection; it is an external phenomenon, which has an impact on the theory. However, it is a balancing act, as Lefebvre himself points out: A philosopher could ask here: ‘Are you not simply embarking on a description of horizons, phenomenology from your window, from the standpoint of an all-tooconscious ego, a phenomenology stretching up to the ends of the road, as far as the Intelligibles: […]? Yes, and yet no! This vaguely existential ([…]) phenomenology ([…]) of which you speak, and of which you accuse these pages, passes over that which quite rightly connects space, time and the energies that unfold here and there, namely rhythms. It would be no more than a more or less well-used tool. In other words, a discourse that ordains these horizons as existence, as being (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 27 f).

The task, then, is to keep in mind that the tales from the field are not only about the self-reflexivity of the researcher (Løkken: 2012; Heimbrock: 2005), while at the same time remembering that the affectedness expressed in the tales are crucial to the interpretation of calling.

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Impressionist Tales of Affection Observation [le regard] and meditation follow the lines of force that come from the past, from the present and from the possible, and which rejoin one another in the observer, simultaneously centre and periphery (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 46).

The empirical narratives from a heterotopic space form a detailed description of everyday lifeworlds in a very small area, the goal being to interpret an established field of theory empirically. In order to consider all the impressions from the field and to present them to the reader, some further methodological tools were needed. In reading the material I presumed that the only way to capture the everyday, in these marginalised spaces, considered heterotopic, is by living them and being affected by them. By ‘affected’ I do not merely mean an emotional feeling of, say, anger or happiness, but literally an embodied feeling of being moved. As described by Martinsen, this means being stricken by affection with one’s entire body, being impacted by what is sensed, by all senses in collaboration (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 19). Through my initial readings and studies, I had some challenges in finding methodologies to enable me to search for what I wanted information about.13 Later I realised that it was a question of supplementing them with other perspectives. To present the field is also a challenge, because it is always changing. “To portray culture requires the fieldworker to hear, to see, and, most important for our purposes, to write of what was presumably witnessed and understood during a stay in the field” (Van Maanen: 2011, 3). In the following I aim to clarify how I link Lefebvre’s rhythmanalysis, embodiedness, lived observation and my tales from the field.

Why ‘Tales’? Going from my impressions on the street to text records entails a loss of details that may be great enough to have analytical significance (Tjora: 2011, 146). On the other hand, if I follow the logic of rhythmanalysis and I am affected, the fieldnotes could not be traditionally structured, that is, pure descriptions without a trace of the researcher. Lefebvre writes of the rhythmanalyst that she 13 The works referred to here, such as Heimbrock (2005), Wyller/Heimbrock (2010), and Løkken (2012), all give very useful perspectives and were of great help in the process. One issue is that they are closely tied to specific practices, such as nursing, teaching, and social work, particularly to the spaces and relationships related to these practices. Furthermore, none of them provided tools for interpreting the events and rhythms as spatial production. Nonetheless, their elaborations did help me understand how I could tie rhythmanalysis to phenomenology.

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listens, first to her body, “learns rhythms from it, in order consequently to appreciate external rhythms. [Her] body serves [her] as a metronome” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 19). If the observer’s or researcher’s body is to serve as a metronome, he or she must be actively present in the field and turn up in the resulting fieldnotes. Likewise, the researcher, in accordance with Løkken, is present in the world as an embodied subject, and knowledge comes through this subject (Løkken: 2012, 9). The body is thus decisive, and what is felt by the body as affection plays a major role in the analysis and thus in the writing and reading of the fieldnotes. Usually the intuitive elements emerging within the actual research process are not identified and studied. […] The challenge of phenomenological research is not, however, to extinguish or overcome the body-perceptions and preconscious elements of the researchers’ first encounters with research objects by interpreting them. ‘Bracketing-out’ is a most problematic notion! If bodily rooted perception is an interactive process, it is important for researchers to note how perception is affecting both the subjects and themselves (Heimbrock: 2005, 296).

In order to give the reader some insight into these embodied impressions as well as into the at times harsh everyday life in the streets, I needed to find an adequate way of presenting snippets from the field. The fieldnotes are, in one sense, quite descriptive; however, the events that came to play significant roles in the analysis and discussion were very minute, and decisive moments might easily be thrown out with the bathwater in the attempt to either just write extracts as means of examples or in the attempt to make them ‘correct.’ As will become clear later, the decision was to present some amount of text – certain ‘lowlights’ or highlights from the field – as they were transcribed. Initially, the descriptions from the field were called narratives, but that caused all sorts of problems from which I could not easily get untangled. Van Maanen’s term tales seemed to me to be a suitable term, and it made sense in a kind of impressionistic project – meaning, on the one hand, that the impressions are of importance, while on the other hand, trying to catch as many and detailed descriptions within a short time, not unlike an impressionist painter. Entering the field, the aim was to describe a public everyday space and everyday events as they emerged, including as many details as possible. To gain a personal understanding of the astounding human activity macrotheorists never see – or hear or smell – we must instead zoom in on the street level (Holgersson: 2011, 217). I did not want to observe people to see what they are doing, but rather to see and sense how they were using the space, how they were interacting. This is not necessarily something one is aware of, meaning it may not be something one can simply ask people about. I wanted to see what people do as they are doing it. The descriptions had to be as close to visual imagination as possible, in order for readers to ‘see,’ feel, sense, and imagine the events and affections as something credible – hopefully resonating with their own senses in experiencing urban marginality and life.

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In order to present all the aspects of the fieldwork, including that of an affected narrator, it was crucial to find an adequate way of including the reader in the field and the affectedness. Because John Van Maanen is concerned with the writing of ethnographic work – the presentation of the scientific work – his contribution became relevant as an inspiration. I assume that the majority of my fieldnotes are not too different from other people’s fieldnotes; they too are probably affected by their observations. However, because affectedness is a scientific point in this context, it needed to be visible when presented to the reader, not weeded out, even if the scientific ideal seems to be to keep things relatively sober in observer situations (Tjora: 2011). The following links rhythmanalysis, lived observation, and the social phenomenological to Van Maanen’s impressionistic writing. The first premise, then, is Lefebvre’s point of starting with one’s own body and its rhythms. He adds: “In order to grasp this fleeting object, which is not exactly an object, it is therefore necessary to situate oneself simultaneously inside and outside” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 37). The second premise is the assumption of the perspective that the lived body’s sensed perception is formed between the world and the perceiving body in the world (Løkken: 2012; Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010; Leonhard/Thoresen: 2010). These both make the embodied experiences of the researcher decisive. Without these perspectives, being affected by and pointing out the lived spaces in the field would be impossible. For instance, in one of the short tales from the field, witnessing how the police often coincidentally stopped where a group of substance users had gather for a second, I wrote: “It is ok, it is why they are here, but at the same time it is very invasive, regardless. Someone is paying attention all the time, waiting for you to do something wrong. They are not doing anything, just standing about a meter away. I would feel it very invasive – it might have been better had they just made contact, I think.” Expressed in the two sentences was a strong, embodied feeling of discomfort, distrust, of being under surveillance, of being un-free. Admittedly, the tales do not comply completely with Van Maanen’s concept of impressionist tales. He writes of the impressionist writers: “Their materials are words, metaphors, phrasings, imagery, and most critically, the expansive recall of experience. When these are put together and told in the first person as a tightly focused, vibrant, exact, but necessarily imaginative rendering of fieldwork, and impressionist tale of the field results” (Van Maanen: 2011, 102). This quote is longer than some of my tales. They often lack a tightly focused first-person narrator, and they do not really appear as expansive recalls of experience – and they do not read like the more short-story fieldnotes illustrating the concept in Van Maanen’s work. Certain to-the-point characteristics, however, leave room for both grasping the moments, drawing “an audience into an unfamiliar story world […]. Such tales seek to imaginatively place the audience in the fieldwork situation – seated ringside as witness […]” (2011, 103) and keeping “both subject and object in constant view. The

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epistemological aim is then to braid the knower with the known” (2011, 102). Lastly, following Simonsen that all practice (bodily and narratively) is spatial (Simonsen: 2010, 45, my translation), the premise is set for the researcher’s visibility in the tales. By leaning on these contributors, what describes the fieldwork is the social phenomenological approach, lived observation and rhythmanalysis, taking audio-visual notes that are then presented in writing as impressionist tales. Like a photographer who never snaps randomly, I observed what I saw, experienced, and sensed. Using a recorder, I recorded what I saw and sensed as it took place. Even if I was part of a small area for a short time, the observations are very detailed. “Impressionist painting sets out to capture a worldly scene in a special instant or moment of time. The work is figurative, although it conveys a highly personalized perspective. What a painter sees, given an apparent position in time and space, is what the viewer sees” (Van Maanen: 2011). Impressionist tales tell the surprising stories – or the outstanding ones. However, the subject always constructs the tales. Here, the tales tell everyday stories; most of them, at first glance, are not particularly spectacular in any way, though most, in some way, break with the general flow. Seen from a specific point of view, they may be interpreted as transgressive. The mundane is much more than what it seems to be. Elaborating on Lefebvre’s perspective: “No camera, no image or series of images can show these rhythms. It requires equally attentive eyes and ears, a head and a memory and a heart” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 45). And, furthermore, the interwoven interaction between senses and body and between body and world makes the human body fundamental and continuously participating in the world, even when we sit quietly and just look at it (Løkken: 2012; Heimbrock: 2005; Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010; Leonhard/Thoresen: 2010). I thus assert that it is impossible to connect with the empirical material in the tales without being affected by it. The subjective experience is not private, it is a decisive part of the project. While participating, one shares a lifeworld, which would not be possible if one were not willing to be as cold as the other participants, so to speak. How the tales would turn out was not really thought through from the beginning. It was rather a case of realising that, in order to present the field such that all the different spaces with all their visual and sensual aspects become visible, everything had to be included. The tales presented are more or less like the notes from the field, only polished a bit to be readable to others.

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Tales Good narratives typically approach the complexities and contradictions of real life. Accordingly, such narratives may be difficult or impossible to summarize into neat scientific formulae, general propositions, and theories (Flyvbjerg: 2006, 237).

Five weeks in the field resulted in hundreds of pages of fieldnotes. I organised these notes into ‘tales.’ A tale basically consists of a different number of things I noticed that, taken together, make up an event or an encounter between bodies. Sometimes something small I noticed made up an entire tale, some of them being only two lines long, whereas others are much longer, up to an entire page. Some more obvious for discussing the topic at hand than others. In most of the tales, there exists a rather apparent researcher-subject. The tales are not socalled confessionals, characterised by “their highly personalized styles and their self-absorbed mandates” (Van Maanen: 2011, 73). Nor are they autoethnographies, where the researcher’s personal experience becomes “the key to understanding a parallel experience of those studied” (Lofland et al.: 2006, 12). The idea behind presenting parts of the fieldnotes as tales as well as using the term impressionist is that “[W]hat a painter sees, given an apparent position in time and space, is what the viewer sees” (Van Maanen: 2011, 101) – I want the reader to have a fair idea about what I saw and sensed. The emotions expressed, either explicitly or implicitly, are not taken out, or “quarantine[d]” (Kleinman/ Copp: 1993, 17); in this context “separation implies that our objective analysis is untainted by any troubling (subjective) experiences we had during data collection” (1993, 17) which they were not. On the contrary, the data and the analysis are tainted by a visible researcher-subject. This is also emphasised by Martinsen, who writes that being professional does not stand in opposition to being personal, involved, and emotional. As explained in the subchapter ‘Eye Calling’, she differentiates between personal and private, between emotions for the other and sentimentalism (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 11). And furthermore, as will become clear in the analysis that follows, these troubling, subjective experiences are exactly the crucial points – they are indicators of the embodied affectedness I believe points to what opens up the concept of calling. Some of the tales form the very premise of the discussion, others are exemplary. Other tales are presented unanalysed and with few contextual details, more or less as they were ‘reported’ as happening, “in [their] diversity, allowing [them] to unfold from the many-sided, complex, and sometimes conflicting” narratives (Flyvbjerg: 2006, 238). Others are analysed and discussed extensively in the chapters Jernbanetorget – Reinterpreted? and Reinterpreting the Calling. The tales are packed with events and information. Some clearly relate to rhythmanalysis, lived observation, and to my own

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embodied presence, whereas others may seem less related. I do not aim to state truths about this place or about the protagonists of the tales; rather, in light of what I observed, the question is how to discuss things within the concepts presented in order to point to aspects opening up the concept of calling. I made my notes in Norwegian and then transcribed them in English, attempting to maintain the spontaneity and casualness of the initial recording. There is a spontaneity to the notes, and they were sometimes done quickly, as many events lasted for only a short time. This affects the language and the choice of words at times. The point of presenting the tales like this is letting the reader “[be] seated ringside as witness” (Van Maanen: 2011, 103) and “make different interpretations and draw diverse conclusions regarding the question[s]” (Flyvbjerg: 2006, 238) I present. All the tales have content that could be analysed in many different ways, depending on one’s area of interest and the topic at hand. Some tales have already been presented. Several other tales appear in the analysis and the following discussion. Also, in the presentation of the space below, some tales are presented with respect to the space in which they appear. There are other tales that are not analysed or discussed within the body of text since they either add to the already thorough and substantial analysis and discussion, or because their main content relates more strongly to other challenges and discussions than the ones here. However, within the theoretical and methodological framework, they all contribute to a certain interpretation of space as social and formative – and furthermore the interpretation and development of the concept of calling. The reason behind selecting those tales I have decided to elaborate on in the subsequent chapters of the book (and in the same manner decided not to discuss some further) is quite simple: The tales included tell to a certain degree their own story without demanding much prior knowledge or imagination from the reader. Their richness in detail makes them analysable on several levels. In the following, I give an account of how this reasoning was practically used when selecting the included tales, employing one of the tales not elaborated on later. The tale in question is from September and describes an encounter between a substance user and a high-school student. “#6: It is 09:02, and new substance users are constantly moving into the area here, from trams and buses. There are not very many, maybe around four since before, but that is still very many compared to yesterday. Right next to me now are a couple of girls from KG (a high school), collecting money for their school campaign to send to victims of famine in Africa. There are several other students around here. What is interesting is that it seems like people are more concerned with avoiding them than the substance users. Finding ways of walking around them. […] #7: It is 09:20, I will soon go over to Jernbanetorget, it is just a little more fun here … There were three or four more substance users here, and three of them settled on the square here, standing here for quite some time. One of them became

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interested in the KG students, so he just had a longer conversation with one of them about what they were collecting money for, why, etc. Then he sat down next to me for a while, before he seemingly realised that he was not done with that conversation. He approached her again and told her that his point was not to try to disagree with her, then he continued for 3 to 5 more minutes, before he took off down Fred Olsens gate. […] #8: I did not comment on it before, because I was unsure, but there is one substance user over by the benches, surrounded by KG students. At first, I was not sure he was a substance user, but now I am sure. He appeared to give them money, which is good. That people support each other.” Apart from being a ‘complete’ narrative, one criterion in selecting the tales to elaborate on was that they include some kind of encounter. In the tale above, there are actually several encounters: that of the passers-by and the highschool students, and at the same time the nonencounters some passers-by are struggling to achieve. Then there are the substance users who meet up in groups around me. Additionally, there is the encounter between the substance user and the student that results in two rounds of conversation. And there is the encounter between the substance user surrounded by the students over by the benches. These were some of the encounters I noted in this little tale. Furthermore, when selecting the tales to work on further, I look for an element of surprise or something that did not occur quite as anticipated. This tale includes several turns of events that were not expected. First, before starting the fieldwork, I thought that one of the things I might often experience would be how different people try to avoid each other. I thought this would mostly be about how, for instance, shoppers would cross the street to avoid a beggar or a substance user. I did witness some of this, but in the tale above there are very clearly people trying to avoid someone – and it is not the ones I had expected. Another unexpected aspect in this tale was how the students related to the substance users. They did not seem particularly uncomfortable by their sometimes constant presence. When the substance user first approached the girl, I was sure that she would somehow find a way of negotiating her way out of a conversation between herself and the substance user. His clothes and hands were dirty and he was not sober, and although she may not have realised this, she probably noticed that he was somehow different from the commuters and tourists. At least I expected her to try to catch the attention of her friends in order to have them join her or otherwise ‘save’ her from the situation. But she started up a conversation with the man, and respectfully remained in it until he left. And she did not run to her friends to giggle afterwards. When he approached her the second time, she again engaged with him in the same manner as she engaged with others. Yet another surprise in the tale was the other substance user on the bench who gave money to the students. Another premise in reading and working with the tales is that I have to presume that there was something about what took place that caught my attention – a reason for my taking notes of these events and not something

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else. Upon reading them after developing the tools from rhythmanalysis, the social phenomenological approach, and lived observation, they allow me to elaborate on those aspects, namely, my own role in the tale. As this became so important, I also wanted to include tales where the researcher-subject is relatively clearly present. In the tale of the substance user and the high-school student told above, the researcher is visible in several ways. There is an ‘I’ in the tale, and the events are described as they occur relative to my position. Furthermore, I express thoughts and feelings on what is going on, whether something is “interesting,” and whether the space is “more fun,” and I (preconceptually) express happiness about the substance user who supports the victims of famine and the students’ campaign. Although I do believe that another observer might have noticed some of the same details of this space at this moment in time, their notes about it may have been different. Or they may have found other details more noteworthy, or they may have written themselves out of the notes. The reader may see the aspects I have pointed out here even if I had not elaborated on them, but that is not the case for all the tales, at least not at first sight. The tales are broken down in even more detail as we get to the analysis. They are then to be read again using Lefebvre’s levels of spatial practice, representations of space, and representational space. The following descriptive presentation of the geographical space contains three short tales, this time with some indication as to how they may be seen as perceived and conceived space, preparing for the perspective of lived space so crucial to the development of the discussion. How I selected some tales for analysis and discussion and left others out does not purport to claim there is a kind of social scientific representation in some and not in others. Rather, the selection is based on qualitative considerations implying the theoretical and empirical foundations presented. Lofland et al. (2006) write: “What we ‘see’ is inevitably shaped by the fact that we are language; by our spatial, temporal, and social locations (by culture, history, status); […]” (Lofland et al.: 2006, 82). Statements like this may provide some legitimation for how we inevitably affect our research, and they surely function as reminders that we need to be conscious and aware of this. My methodology and theoretical foundations, and what I ultimately discuss prerequisites my presence and my experiencing what is portrayed in the tales. So, although it is thus “‘descriptive exactitude’” (Lofland et al.: 2006, 90) in terms of my descriptions of what I experienced and saw, it is still only “‘close approximations’ of the empirical world” (Lofland et al.: 2006, 90). I cannot know enough about the representation in the material in either negative or positive terms to say anything concerning scientific representation. It is a qualitative nonstatistical representation, where the ‘typical’ is based on context and research interest (Fog: 2002 [1982], 203 f). The statements here are connected to the empirical material, the tales, depicting a reality I can use to point to something common. Albeit the tales are mine, based on my experiences,

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but the analysis and discussions are based on material that is available to others. Furthermore, their creation is substantially accounted for descriptively, methodologically and theoretically (2002 [1982], 211). I have selected some of the many tales from the field, based on availability, readability, and amount of content that serve as a starting point to discuss further what takes place based on certain theoretical and methodological perspectives. The aspects I emphasise in the selected tales, those aspects I find particularly important or interesting, are also based on reflections made in the prior chapters. Thus, the reader has knowledge of the context from which my statements emerge (2002 [1982], 212). I made some surprising discoveries in the tales that I find relevant to discuss further based on my concepts of calling, space, and the observer and the relationships between them. There is no test for proving my claims, no objective criteria or ‘rules’ to point to, and the claims and their credibility are thus continuously at stake. I have so far aimed at basing my considerations and arguments in the tales and in the theories, and continue to do so throughout the book. Their reliability has hopefully been demonstrated and validated continuously through the rationale of the construction (2002 [1982], 218 f). In other words, the reliability and validity are not settled here once and for all; rather, this matter can be settled only throughout the overall account and descriptions (2002 [1982], 219). This clarifies how and where I obtained the tales and thus the conditions of how to understand and evaluate them. This explains how I understand different aspects thereof, their relationships, and the grounds for why I read and interpret them like I do (2002 [1982], 213). The tales that do not appear within the body of the text can be read, in all their simplicity, in Appendix II.

Ethical Considerations Several ethical issues were touched on in the previous contemplations. I aimed at reflexivity throughout the entire project with regard to ethical judgement in different situations (Løkken: 2012, 110). So far, however, I have not given an explicit, overall account of the ethical considerations behind this research. Løkken (2012) writes that the research ethical guidelines are binding norms for the researcher and the researcher’s responsibilities and respect toward what is being researched. However, she continues, the researcher’s overarching responsibility is to contribute to an improved society and to just institutions (2012, 113). Before I decided to do the fieldwork in the manner I did, I considered several other options. The one I worked on the longest was observing encounters in public space using a video camera. According to the Norwegian national directions for research ethics, however, this would have had to have been

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reported to the Data Protection Official for Research (NSD), because it entailed the possibility of identifying individuals on the video. The NSD strongly discouraged my doing this for several reasons. First and foremost, I felt it important to observe encounters between different groups, and I knew there would be certain vulnerable groups in the area. The idea was to observe how people encountered each other, not to ask what they themselves thought about such encounters. I wanted to observe such encounters without obtaining consent, since in the context of a public space many people may pass by at any given time, so it would be difficult to find them and ask for consent beforehand (which would also have affected their behaviour) or afterwards. The ethical issues in this regard, according to the NSD, were that, whenever vulnerable people are involved in the research, there are multiple ethical implications that have to be taken very seriously. The other issue they had with the planned research project was how to protect the other individuals on the video recordings. From the onset it seemed that the chances of having my use of video equipment approved were slim, and my request for the proposed project was eventually denied. As mentioned, I too had some apprehensions of my own about using a video recorder, so I started working out other possible methods for obtaining the information I was interested in. My main concern was doing fieldwork that I was comfortable with doing, first and foremost concerning the people and groups to which I had personal and professional relations. I needed to know that I was not intentionally or unintentionally taking advantage of any relationships or overstepping boundaries within these relationships. This was (and is) more important to me than gaining permissions – meaning that there were likely projects they had approved that I would not be comfortable doing. An example is their question about why I would not ‘just’ do interviews with the different groups (implying that this would be simpler with regard to obtaining consent and handling personal data). To me this would pose more problematic ethical challenges. One issue is the change in roles with the other person, which I think is more complicated in relationships that are possibly already unbalanced – although one could say that asking for help by finding informants and information would be empowering because that means tapping into another person’s skills and resources. This argument to me, however, is weak; it sounds more like a justification than a consideration for the vulnerable other, particularly when considering people and environments one already knows. Prior knowledge of the field would make me feel like I was somehow taking advantage of this knowledge by approaching people to make inquiries about doing interviews. To me personally, this would be easier to do without prior knowledge. If I were to interview someone, it would have to be within a range of different people using the area. I could ask them about their use; how they felt about other groups; whether they had ever witnessed mistreatment of others, etc. But I would still be left without the information I wanted – the spatial and embodied, sometimes subconscious encounters between different groups.

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The project I developed instead – the one carried out and described here – provided me with material to discuss the topics of interest, without jeopardising the interests of either the vulnerable groups or other passersby. It also let me use the spaces around Jernbanetorget, since observing them rather than video recording them would leave little time to consider faces and identities, easing some of the challenges related to actually already knowing some of the people who could be present. And because criminal activities sometimes took place, I would not be caught in situations where I had produced evidence on tape, with all the ethical implications that would entail. In this project, I assumed the researcher role of participant observant. Wadel writes of three challenges related to the method of participant observation, where the researcher needs to develop certain skills: admission to the field; the ability to expand one’s roles; and being able to be a “sociologist on oneself” (Wadel: 1991, 27). Regarding admission, he writes that the researcher role is not the one that gains access the easiest, and that one must be prepared to hold off other roles. In daily life, he writes, we are all participant observers without people feeling observed. Both daily life and professional life are present in participation, observation [and inquiries], central methods from which one gains information and knowledge (1991, 28). One advantage to studying one’s own culture, as I have done, is that it is easier to understand the roles one wants to study, as they are somewhat familiar beforehand (1991, 29). Qualitative researchers are encouraged “to start where they are, using their current or past situations or interests as the springboard for research” (Lofland et al.: 2006, 3). The research I carried out was in public spaces, so I did not need to ask permission to gain access to this area. My observation of the intersection and the areas around the Central Station occurred without the need for invitation or permission. As explained, invitation or permission would have left me without the information I wanted. I informed the police when I realised that they could see me every day, but they generally dismissed my approach. I also informed the people working at ‘Jafs.’ Apart from that, there was really no one I could have informed about this kind of research in this public space. Because the project in this form would not directly involve identifiable personal data, and because it was to take place in public spaces, it did not require notifying anyone or obtaining other permission or consent. The rapidity of the activities, the physical surroundings, and conditions left little time to concentrate on people’s identities. A question that should be asked by any researcher, according to Lofland et al., is whether the group or setting should be studied, and furthermore whether it should be studied by me (2006, 28). Such questions assess the potential negative consequences of the research. Further, they problematise the ethical challenges inherent in covert research. However, the exceptions14 are in line with the directions for reporting, namely, 14 In the American Sociological Association’s Code of Ethics (Lofland et al.:2006, 29).

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when the research involves minimal risk to participants and could not practically be carried out if one were to obtain informed consent. As seen in the tales and the methodological contemplations, I sometimes saw people I knew, albeit rarely in encounters that caught my attention and ended up in the tales used here. In the events in the tales presented, I was too caught up in what was taking place to consider the identity of the persons involved, other than their sometimes uniformed bodies and their formal roles in the encounter. As explained, I wanted to be visible at all times, although I attempted to look inconspicuous. I was prepared to answer any inquiry about my presence honestly, as I did the very few times I was approached. I also told the police about my presence and the reasons for my hanging around a lot, in which they expressed no interest. The police officers in the tales are the most vulnerable to identification, as they were fewest in number. However, because they all wore the same uniform, and because I rarely mention gender and never comment on other identifying features, I feel confident and safe that they are sufficiently protected. The events reported are memorable and noteworthy to me, but likely not so much to them. I think the major ethical challenge related to the project I eventually carried out lies in the fact that I did not consider appropriately beforehand the presence of criminality and of my witnessing people being in real physical danger. Regarding the issue of criminality, I obviously knew of the illicit drug dealing and drug use, which I did and do not consider problematic in this context. It is part of the premise for the qualities of the space and the encounters. Rather, the issue could have been other crimes, such as pickpocketing, robberies, violence, etc. Luckily, I did not witness any of this, but those are situations I could realistically have found myself in, where my own role and position would have been challenged considerably.15 The issue of people being in physical jeopardy, such as overdosing, collapsing, getting injured, being in accidents, etc., did not fully occur to me as an issue before doing the fieldwork. Calls to police/ ambulance are made every day in this regard, as the area attracts so many different people, some of whom use substances and others of whom are otherwise physically and mentally unstable – and I do not mean only the substance users. Things happen to people in public space, and the more people there are, the more things happen. I mention this in some of the tales and in the contemplations, as several times I saw people in situations where I was unsure whether I should do something. These situations could have posed challenges beyond those of research ethics, much like they would have for any person confronted with situations of people in peril in public spaces. The situations I found myself in, however, all solved themselves without my intervening, but I 15 In such situations, I could have turned to work by, for example, K. Fangen, who has done research among neo-Nazis (Fangen: 2001), or R. Amster, who has done substantial fieldwork among homeless people in Tempe, Arizona (Amster: 2008).

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realise in retrospect that I could and should have given more thought to these possibilities before carrying out the fieldwork. Many postmodern researchers state that what is ethical in research should be discussed with the participants (Løkken: 2012, 111). In my case, this could not have been done beforehand, at least not with the individuals who happened to be in the field at the same time as I was. In traditional ethnographic research, the researcher often returns to the informants with his or her reports from the study (cf. Lofland et al.: 2006; Whyte: 1993 [1943]. In my case, there are no informants to be reported back to, other than public society at large. I would, however, like to explore ways or possible channels for communication or even occasions where my research could become part of a discussion or dialogue. This could, for instance, occur with some of the groups the project interacts with, whether police, interest groups, city planners, or combinations thereof. My findings and the themes I develop would be interesting to discuss with all participants in this space. Furthermore, the ethical challenges of doing this kind of research in public space could be discussed in such contexts, which would be in line with the research ethical goal of discussing what is ethical with the participants. Although there were some issues and challenges from the onset about how to carry out the research and how to obtain permission to do so, I am very satisfied with what I learned from the field. The fieldwork and the methodology that evolved ended up giving greater depth to the methodological reflections, the theoretical development as well as to the analysis and discussion. It may be somewhat paradoxical to say that the proximity to the field, the encounters, and the individuals encountered is ethically acceptable research, in terms of what kind of research you must gain permissions to carry out.

Intermission There is a connection between the tales and lived space, but what is new is that I use the impressionist tales I have developed and tie them to lived space and calling. They are not just ‘tales,’ they are also narratives of a lifeworld with real bodies and real otherbodies in these specific spaces. Impressionist tales can stand alone with or without elaborate framing devices or extensive commentary. […] The audience is asked to relive the tale with the fieldworker, not interpret or analyse it. The intention is not to tell readers what to think of an experience but to show them the experience from beginning to end and thus draw them immediately into the story to work out its problems and puzzles as they unfold (Van Maanen: 2011, 103).

As shown above, based on the social phenomenological approach, rhythmanalysis, and lived observation, how I was cold or how I stressed about the police

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presence, are also paramount aspects of the tales. They are not merely details of the place: Lefebvre’s point about the balcony is essential. It was not cold because I used interpretations from Lefebvre – it was cold. That is important for the analysis and interpretation. I had to be there to experience and discover flashes of events. I had to be there in order to be affected by what took place, as there is a unity between the sensing and the sensed, and this sensing places us in a common world where the other concerns me (Martinsen: 2014 [2000]; Leonhard/Thoresen: 2010), as we learn the world through the lived body (Løkken: 2012; Leonhard/Thoresen: 2010; Heimbrock: 2005; Heimbrock/ Meyer: 2010). The dynamics of the public space is a major motif for this discussion, and the tales emphasise this. Theoretically, it is possible to argue for the reinterpretation of marginalised groups using spatial perspectives such as the heterotopologies of Foucault. Others do this, both in my field and in others. Within spatial theory, substance users in public spaces have not been extensively discussed in the Scandinavian context, especially not with empirical spatial narratives. The concept of calling is not discussed within the spatial field at all, at least not to my knowledge. And this is what forms the present discussion: The narratives, or tales, provide us with new knowledge about different lifeworlds. Through the fieldwork and the tales, an affectedness manifests itself, and it is this affectedness that will be emphasised in the analysis of the understanding of the calling. Here, we find a specific lived space, and through rhythmanalysis we find murmurs of something other than just marginality, power, and chaos, something that may be discussed as content for a reinterpretation of the calling. These are other narratives of public space than those usually created or told, and aspects of these narratives can take place only in this specific public place. The tales depend on a present and visible embodied observer experiencing the spaces sensually, as these experiences are part of the lived space. This knowledge does not come from the theorists, but from the rhythms of this specific space – and from the embodied affectedness experienced by the researcher. The theories are tools that point out the rhythms and the affectedness, and allow discussion of the content of the spaces. The reflections done both during and after the fieldwork show that there is no clear division between ‘theory’ and ‘method.’ According to Wadel (1991, 10), fieldwork is as much about theory as it is about method. Method, he says, is merely one of several tools a social researcher uses to find data on social phenomena that may explain what is uncovered. What is uncovered in the data is an encounter between theory and different observations of the field. Wadel lists three other tools: concepts, theories, and theoretical perspectives (1991, 10). These theoretical perspectives may be considered points of views or starting points that give direction to methods, concepts, and theories. My goal is to develop a theory pertaining to the concept of calling using theory-based, empirical data. The most important aspect to remember when reading the tales is that of being affected. That is obviously part of the tales, though it is not only methodologically significant, but in fact decisive to the calling.

An Illustration of Space The squares have re-found their ancient function, for a long time imperilled, of gathering, of setting the scene and staging spontaneous popular theatre. […]. Without doubt many deviant wanderers that seek, knowing not what for – themselves! […]. And for hours and hours they walk, find themselves back at the junctions, circle the places that are closed and enclosed. […]. On the square, they occasionally stop walking, staring straight ahead of them; they no longer know what to do (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 44).

“Indeed, it might be said that a researcher without a bias is either dishonest, disinterested, or dead” (Amster: 2008, 126). Everyone has some emotions about the place he or she is from, whether positive or negative. At times, we are all proud or embarrassed of where we originated, and even after trying to move as far away as possible, we always retain strong ties to places we have called home. Oslo, for example, is my city, my home, the place I always will, and want to, come back to. Seen in the ‘big’ context, however, it is a small town with little more than 600,000 inhabitants. It is the closest Norway gets to having a ‘big city.’ And like any major city, it is challenged with social issues of public marginality such as an open drug scene, beggars from near or far, teens with no particular place to go, and so on. Since the 1990s, the Oslo drug scene has become disproportionately large1 and visible. For nearly a decade its main locations for gathering have been in the close vicinity of the Oslo main railway station and metro station. This has been deemed both offensive and problematic, a threat to the business community and to tourism. To many, it is particularly interesting that a nation with such great economic resources and wealth and a highly developed welfare system would even have these kinds of problems, especially to such a degree. And also that it seems to have been ‘accepted,’ that certain areas are dominated by this and not addressed with visible results, for such a long time. To me, this issue has always been interesting on a human level. As a child and teenager, I experienced a mixture of fear and fascination 1 Numbers from The Norwegian Institute for Alcohol and Drug Research (SIRUS report, 2013) show that, in late 2000, there were between 10,000 and 14,000 injecting substance users in the country, and the numbers from the Rusmiddeletaten [Department for Drugs and Alcohol] show that in 2006 there were 5,000 to 7,000 injecting substance users in Oslo alone.

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for the individuals roaming about in the street, leading parallel lives to the majority of us. I wondered about the person “behind” the intoxication – and always with a strong sense of this situation being something anyone could find themselves in, that it could literally happen to anyone. The years of volunteer and professional experience did not make the individuals less interesting, though the ensuring interest and fascination had little to do with the substance use. This may be the reason for my never having wanted to do research “on” these individuals; I find the societal and spatial circumstances most interesting. Substance users do not live parallel lives detached from society, but are a part of society and public space as every other citizen or guest of the city. Public space needed to be the location for the research. The following presents this public space, as it appears as spatial practice and representations of space. Because these are close to pure descriptions, the perspective of lived space diminishes in this presentation. The lived space appears in the small tales that are presented with each space. Before going into the details of this space, I must point out one aspect in particular: the seeming incongruity in stating that the discussion is not about substance users while presenting 14 pages on spaces chosen precisely because of them as well as a short history of substance use in Oslo. The reason for presenting the spaces in such detail is fairly obvious for a spatial project, but they also play a central role in the drug scene. The drug scene and its history define the spaces where I did my fieldwork. As will become clear, the spaces and the history of the open drug scene of Oslo are decisive to the encounters in the tales and the individuals encountered. That is what constitutes the particular context that places them together in these spaces. In order for a reader to experience the tales and their spaces the way the researcher did, some basic knowledge of this area is essential. And the history and geographical journey of substance use in Oslo are central components of that knowledge, since they give some impressions to the ambience of the area in early July 2011.

Life at Jernbanetorget This project discusses the problem: What implications do spatial analysis and the experience of everyday life in a marginalised microspace have for reinterpreting and construing the concept of calling? It employs the areas outside the Central Station in Oslo as an illustration as well as a discourse partner. The places foreseen as the locations for the fieldwork were Jernbanetorget together with the neighbouring squares called Christian Frederiks plass2 and Europar dets plass as well as a nearby intersection. The 2 This square ended up playing only a minor role. There are thus no tales from this location.

Life at Jernbanetorget

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spaces are described below. Because it is sometimes unclear what is and what is not part of these spaces, these presentations also define the areas in this context. These descriptions and the tales stem from events in the area during the Spring and Summer of 2011. Because many areas in and around the port region and the city centre are undergoing major gentrification and reorganisation, these areas will continue to change rather rapidly. Although it is already quite different today, the area is described as it existed during the fieldwork. Appendix I provides photographs from the areas.

Three Squares, an Intersection, and the Tales Jernbanetorget Jernbanetorget is the square in front of the old Oslo Central Station building, though many Oslo citizens think of it as being a larger area. This area is the largest node for public transportation in all of Norway. Most city tram lines and many bus lines pass through it, connecting to all other train services in Oslo at the train station and all express and regional busses departing from Oslo Bus Terminal as well as the rapid transit passing through Jernbanetorget T-bane Station (subway/metro).

The Frames of Jernbanetorget In this context Jernbanetorget is the two-level square in front of the main entrances to the old and new Central Station buildings in Oslo. It also includes the tram and bus stops connected in the roadway in front of the square reserved for public transport. The lower level of the square is situated in front of the main entrance the old station building to the West, called Østbanehallen (built in 1882). This square also marks the start of the main street (Karl Johan), historically the parade street of Oslo, which continues along a direct line westward to the royal castle. On the southern side, this lower level is bounded by another old building – the office building of the Norwegian America Line (built 1916–1919). The western side of the square is bounded by a north/southward roadway,3 heavily crowded by most regional bus lines as well as local tram and bus lines, some taxis, and an occasional lost tourist. The northern side is bounded by a wide set of stairs that leads to the upper level of Jernbanetorget. In the middle of the square, marking the far side of these stairs, is a clock tower, where the ground floor 3 Fred Olsens gate/Strandgata.

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houses the information and ticket offices of the local transportation in Oslo and the surrounding area. This upper level of the square is situated by the main entrance of the newer railway building, popularly called Oslo S (built in 1980). This square is bounded on the western side by another set of stairs that leads down to the bus and tram stops in the roadway. On the other side of this roadway lie the old buildings of the Danish (commercial) shipping line DFDS (built in 1918), a newer commercial building, as well as a smaller square, Europar dets plass. On the northern side of the upper square is the new, modern shopping mall Byporten (opened in 1999), which also houses a hotel, several medical and dental clinics, as well as restaurants.

Details of Jernbanetorget On the upper level of the square there is a small kiosk serving fast food. There is also a restaurant in the Byporten complex which has a large area of outdoor serving, framed by a low fence. Here lies an entrance to this restaurant as well as an entrance to the shopping mall, with an automatic, rotating door. There are also a few benches close to the station entrance. The entrance itself has large, automatic sliding doors. The entire upper square is surrounded by a low heavy stone wall. The stairs leading to the lower level are built from heavy stone. The lower level is paved in large granite stones. A large copper sculpture of a tiger is situated on the square.4 There are several benches on the square and a few trees. There is a restaurant in the old railway building which has a fencedin outdoor serving area to the right of the main entrance. The roadway that separates the square from Karl Johan is actually two different streets, called Fred Olsens gate and Strandgata. This has a pedestrian crossing and is regulated by traffic lights. Apart from that, the division between square and roadway is not particularly well marked.

Organised Activities at Jernbanetorget Many different organisations and participants from a wide range of the private and public sectors use Jernbanetorget as their arena for different activities. For instance, throughout the summer the Oslo Church City Mission holds street services here every Sunday. These services take place in the middle of the square, with ministers, a band, communion, and all the other traditional 4 A reference to Oslo’s nickname “The Tiger City,” from a famous poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson (1870). The statue was part of a larger “pack” of tigers, made in 2000, to celebrate the city’s first millennium.

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elements, without any visible borders between what becomes the service “room” and the square. This means that people passing through may suddenly find themselves in the middle of a service and being offered communion. In the summer the square is also filled with all kinds of street entertainers, like Peruvian music and dance groups, guitar players, Roma accordion players, etc. The benches also appear to be a place where especially Roma people, earning money from begging or playing music, meet to rest and socialise. Several outreaching operations also often appear here – police, child-welfare services, street lawyers, street ministers, street youth ministers, street nurses, the Salvation Army, etc. In the relative vicinity of the square the Salvation Army, the City Mission, the Blue Cross, and other interest groups have their offices, cafes, activity centres, etc. A Tale from Jernbanetorget, July 2011 The tales from Jernbanetorget are from the old square, usually from the perspective of the stairs between that and the new, higher level. (21 July, 10 am), From Jernbanetorget: “#8: It is 09:50, and between 09:45 and now, two police vans have arrived, with in total five officers, and right now another van is arriving, with at least two more officers exiting, or actually three, four, sorry, they came out of all doors suddenly. It looks like the van is not staying. So, nine officers have arrived the last three minutes, plus the woman in the RV, making ten. Maybe more will arrive. (minutes pass). A new van just arrived … I will see if anybody from there is joining in the box [the RV]. #9: It is 10:00, another officer arrived from new entrance. Left again, and one was fetched by a security guard and left for Karl Johan. And just now two more officers arrived on foot, from Plata, plus a van, just talking to the others. Does not look like the van is staying. Still many tourists and suitcases. A few more people have settled in the stairs, the weather is quite good.” In this tale, the lived space at Jernbanetorget surfaces. What is described are aspects of the life as it is being lived within the geographical surroundings of this space. It is both the space in which I live at that moment as well as containing aspects of the lived spaces of others who are present in this space as it is lived, in addition to our shared lived space. Christian Frederiks Plass Christian Frederiks plass is a large square situated on the southern side of the old railway building. The square is quite large, with fairly little activity. The square might have a larger significance once the major modernisation of the harbour area comes to an end, when today’s highly trafficked roads have been moved underground.

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The Frames of Christian Frederiks Plass The southeastern side of this square is bounded by large set of stairs leading up to the actual railway, a taxi stop, a parking house, and a hotel (built in 2007). The southern side of the square is currently bordered by parts of the highway E6/E18, which separates the square from the new Opera House (opened in 2008), the Oslo fjord, and the old harbour warehouse (build in 1921). At the southwestern corner of the square lies the office of the Norwegian Customs and office buildings of a larger Norwegian shipping company. The western part of the square is bounded by a large parking house, a commercial building and the administration building of the Norwegian America Line. The northwestern corner of the square connects to the southeastern corner of the lower square of Jernbanetorget. The square itself consists of three areas: The western part is a grassy, parklike area, with large trees and a large birdhouse, commonly known as “Plata.” The middle area is a cobblestoned square directly connected to another entrance to the old railway building. There is a large fountain on this area. The eastern part of Christian Frederiks plass is both a granite-paved square as well as a drop-off/pickup parking area. The Oslo police have a small office in this part of the old building.

Details of Christian Frederiks Plass There is a restaurant inside the old seaside entrance of the old railway building. This restaurant has a large outdoor serving area on the cobblestoned square between the building and the fountain. This area is fenced in. There are some benches along the wall of the building, between the restaurant and the stairs leading to the railway. Europar dets Plass Europar dets plass is located one block North of Karl Johan, aligned by Skippergata to the West and Fred Olsens gate/Strandgata to the East. The northwestern staircase down from the square in front of the new station building lies in a direct line to Europar dets plass. The square was renovated as part of the 100-year anniversary for the union dissolution from Sweden in 1905 and further upgraded together with the overall area of Jernbanetorget in 2009.

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Details of Europar dets Plass The square of Europar dets plass is surrounded by the concrete wall and a large entrance to a hotel as well as a tourist shop/kiosk, a small stretch of Skippergata, and two roadways dominated by tram and bus lines. On the other sides of the roads, the area is dominated by shopping malls, more hotels, and office buildings. A sloping, wheelchair-accessible entrance to the subway is also located here. The entire square is paved with granite. Several rock cubes serve as benches, and there are three small flower beds with decorative shrubbery. There is also a bicycle stand for rental bikes as well as maps and information about the public transport system. Although the square is beautifully designed, it is not particularly inviting, apart from sunny days, because of the cold stone material. The stairs from the new square in front of Oslo S and Fred Olsens gate/ Strandgata in general are popular areas for the street people and substance users to meet, and Europar dets plass is a natural place to stop and chat or just sit for a while. A Tale from Europar dets Plass, September 2011 The tales from Europar dets plass are sometimes about things that take place on the actual square, but more often they tell of events taking place on the other side of the road, by the stairs leading up to the new Jernbanetorget square (13 September, 4:45 pm), from Europar dets plass: “#25: It is 16:45, I am at Europar dets plass, three police at the stairs for approximately 5 minutes now. I also see two up on the newer square, talking to someone. But there are so many trams and buses, so I do not know what they are doing really, what kind of person they are talking to. I also see fairly often that police cross between Jernbanetorget and Karl Johan. I have never seen so many police! I understand that there need to be more when so many people are outside. Compared to the summer weeks. Maybe this is regular amount, but I did not notice it being like this yesterday, so it may just be the strategy of the day.” What surfaces in this tale is more than perception and conception of a space. In the sense that someone is talking about experiencing the space, it relates to the level of the lived. The Intersection – Karl Johan/Skippergata About 50 metres up Karl Johan from Jernbanetorget, the parade street is crossed by Skippergata. It is a one-way street, running South to North, with little vehicular traffic. The intersection is, however, highly trafficked by pedestrians. It is a quite modest and seemingly insignificant little intersection.

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As became clear from the methodological considerations, this area was added as a research location at a later point during the fieldwork.

The Frames of the Intersection Karl Johan is a pedestrian zone, from Jernbanetorget to the Stortinget, the government building. It is crossed by one-way streets going South to North/ North to South and a few pedestrian streets every block (approx. 50–70 meters). From Stortinget, a few blocks of motor traffic continue up toward the royal palace (approx. 300 meters). Karl Johan is a popular shopping street, and many people also travel it on their way to/from work and public transportation. Tourists move about here, as the walking distance from the royal palace and other tourist attractions like the opera house is fairly short, and surely also for shopping reasons. Skippergata is the second street to cross Karl Johan starting at Jernbanetorget. This street has a few residences, but is dominated by office buildings, shops, service shops as well as a few pubs and hotels. Many of the different services directed at street people are also located in or in the vicinity of Skippergata. This means that there are many street people, many of them substance users, who move about in this street, especially in the blocks closest to Karl Johan and the Oslo Church City Mission’s (SKBO) locations two blocks to the South. Especially during the opening hours of their caf called ‘Møtestedet’ (11 am–3.30 am/8.30 pm), many substance users roam about, the peak around the time they serve dinner (12.30 pm–3 pm). The four building corners that surround the intersection consist of (per November 2011) the fast-food restaurant called ‘Jafs,’ two clothing stores, and a 24-hour 7/11 store. The Skippergata stretch from Karl Johan to Europar dets plass is fairly empty. On the eastern side of the street, there are no shops or restaurants, only a block of stone walls with one or two entrances to offices. The western side is dominated by the windows of one or two stores, with no entrances, as well as a nightclub that obviously does not open until evening. Two blocks in the other direction Skippergata is home to several small stores on both sides of the street, a few entryways to backyards as well as a pub, a cafe, hotels, and SKBO/ ‘Møtestedet.’5 After the Sentrumsarbeidet6 project started, one main marketplace for dealing illegal substances, although highly fleeting, came to be this intersection as well as one or two blocks in either direction east of Skippergata.

5 The street continues southeast toward the harbour and fortification. 6 See the section Sentrumsarbeidet – 2012–2015.

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A Tale from the Intersection, November 2011 Most of the tales from the intersection are from the perspective of the ‘Jafs’ restaurant, explained in the methodological contemplations (14 November, 1 pm), observing the intersection: “#26: The cops left right away, it is 13:03, toward Europar dets plass, so now there are no cops here. A group of four substance users has established itself. I will see for how long. #27: The four who met each other here came from different directions and just met up. Looks like they are having a normal conversation, like people have when they meet people they know. And once there were four in a group, people appeared from all sides, and there were up to eight or ten. Now all the ones who appeared have realised that the first four are just talking (or do not have what they were searching for), so now they have all disappeared again. So, the four remain in their conversation, and the rest are gone.” Once again, what happens in the tale, as opposed to what happens in the spatial practice and representations of space is related to lives as they are lived in the space. It is more than spatial practice, that is; what is perceived of the space, and it is more than how we think of it. It is linked to how the space is lived – and it should become clear that this is something we can only experience by spatially living it ourselves.

The Open Drug Scene of Oslo After having read the tales, one may wonder about the nature of this area; why the scene is as it manifests itself in the tales. This is evidently a question with more than one answer. In the following I give an account for one important factor, as background for the state of affairs during Summer of 2011. This factor is described mainly as representation of space, and the spatial practices within. Through these descriptions it is possible to imagine some aspects of the lived spaces. As in most larger cities in Europe, the area around Oslo Central Station is full of shady activities. Public transportation makes it a good meeting place for activities and businesses that are not tied to specific locations. The dealing of illegal substances is very prominent and visible in this area. The substance users were not always here, however, and because of the problems related to this phenomenon, the journey of substance users has been well documented. When (illegal) substance use became a visible phenomenon and/or problem (depending on how you see it) in Oslo in the late 1960s (SIRUS report: 2013, 250), the people associated with it, mainly the hippie movement, established a meeting point in the park surrounding the royal castle, where they mainly experimented with hashish or marihuana (Brekke/Ziebarth: 2000;

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Olsen/Skretting: 2006; Erdal/Reiermark: 1999). They grew to become a rather large group, between 70 and 120 people.7 In the early1970s, heroin entered for the first time (1974), and the first case of death by overdose was registered in 1976 (SIRUS report: 2013, 251). In the late 1970s, a conflict between substance users and the police developed, and the first major move of the substance users became a fact, initiated in 1984 (Brekke/Ziebarth: 2000). This is also the year drug-related crime was given the maximum sentence of 21 years (SIRUS report: 2013, 251). Their next location was a square connected to the entrance to the subway situated nearly right between the castle and the Central Station, Egertorget (Brekke/Ziebarth: 2000; Olsen/Skretting: 2006). The group, however, was not dispersed; instead a major marketplace for illegal substances developed at Egertorget, in the middle of Karl Johan. The area was a “good” place, because the subway station provided both easy access and a warm shelter in the colder periods of the year. This area continued to be the main marketplace, or the “headquarters” of the substance users throughout the 1980s and 1990s. In the mid-1980s, an increasing number of younger people, mainly males, became visible in the area. This attracted much attention, due to a (feared) increase in crime. During the 1990s heroin became significantly cheaper, and the supply increased dramatically as well (Brekke/Ziebarth: 2000). The people were constantly being hunted by the police, so that “business” moved up or down a block. Nearly every corner between Egertorget and Jernbanetorget was once the hang-out place of the users and dealers of substances. According to representatives of these groups or special interest groups, the continuous police campaigns were initiated by shop or restaurants owners who did not want these activities taking place outside their enterprise. Finally, in the late 1990s, business was driven down to the area that has been their most stable location up to recently – the grassy area on Christian Frederiks plass – popularly called Plata. This was “traditionally” an area “inhabited” by homeless (or rough sleepers) struggling with alcoholism. At the beginning of the 1990s, Uteseksjonen (the patrolling counselling service of the Department of Drugs and Alcohol) reported a tendency in these groups to change their patterns of substance use, moving toward illegal substances. The separation between the alcoholics and the illegal substance users disappeared (2000). When the house and techno culture appeared in Oslo at the same time, new and younger groups were introduced to Plata – groups of “regular kids,” not heavy users with multiple problems. This caused some concern as to whether Plata was contributing to substance recruiting, a concern that continued until its dissolution. At some point, it seemed that the police and the politicians had let the problem “rest” here, and all kinds of interest groups, organisations, social services, and the police established their substancerelated operations here (Brekke/Ziebarth: 2000; Olsen/Skretting: 2006). Some 7 The population of the municipality of Oslo in 1965 lay at around 483,000.

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of these services are located in Skippergata, like the city mission’s main office and caf (‘Møtestedet’). The open drug scene has been a topic of continual discussion, and popular opinion has been that it is not acceptable, being illegal. The arguments have indeed varied: Some have argued that it is problematic that this is the first thing tourists see when they arrive in Oslo. Others have argued that this kind of known activity at a known location recruits new and younger users and abusers. Others again argue that not taking action against this activity signals that the Norwegian state accepts, ignores, or has even surrendered to the problem. There are also arguments that this is a safety threat to the public, and of course that it is negative for the businesses in the area. Throughout the first decade of the new millennium, the response from the state has been to stage several operations lead by the police, with the goal of disintegrating the drug scene. These usually took place in Spring/Summer and lasted a couple of weeks every time. The operations usually burned out, and the groups returned. Some actions seemed more effective than others. In 2003, the group was dispersed and disappeared from Plata altogether. However, the substance marketplace turned up in shopping malls, shops, public restrooms, etc., an even less favourable situation, and after 2 months’ time Plata once again became the headquarters. In 2004, the most thorough and well-planned project was organised. The Oslo City Council decided that a new attempt should be made to disperse this group, with one of the main arguments being limiting the recruitment of youth to this environment. This was a very large, and initially a thoroughly planned, operation. Care organisations, health services, politicians, and police were all involved in developing a plan of action, to be initiated in early Spring of 2004. One aim was to decentralise the different care operations in the city centre, strengthen the services in the different districts in and around Oslo, coordinate the work between the police and health services, etc. (Olsen/ Skretting: 2006). The plan and the planned operation were heavily debated. Many members of the council and interest groups argued that the operations should not start before the Head of Council had given an account of the aid available to the substance users. The conclusion, however, was that the plan was good enough, and that the open drug scene could be safely scattered (the rhetoric was to “blow up” the group) without its re-establishing somewhere else. The Head of Council argued that the existing aid and care services for these people were sufficient, so they did not need to dwell at Plata (Olsen/ Skretting: 2006). According to the users themselves as well as the caring organisations, however, this was not the case, and the council was warned about carrying out the “blow-up.” Interest groups were worried about the chaos and possible fatalities that such a plan could cause.8 However, as part of 8 They were afraid of not being able to find people in need, i. e., overdose victims, in time, as they would not be within the relatively small area they had used to be. Also, there was a concern about

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the Oslo Spring or early Summer ritual of cleansing the city, the police operation of ‘cleaning’ Plata and the surrounding areas of substance users was set to be carried out. For various reasons, the plan was delayed, and the actual execution of the operation was announced at Plata and to all organisations and institutions related to substance use in the weeks before June 7, 2004 (Olsen/Skretting: 2006). Even though this was fairly well planned initially, the cooperation between the city council, the police, and the various organisations did not work out very well. The initial plan is documented and evaluated, and the conclusion is that the “disintegration” of Plata was not a result of the plan of action, but the police operation (Olsen/Skretting: 2006). For 2 weeks, the substance users of Oslo were invisible or at least under cover. However, after a while, they reappeared, this time in Skippergata. The visible drug scene became smaller during this time, and the more obvious dealing and use were somewhat less prominent. However, shortly thereafter, the situation returned to its previous state and indeed spread outside of Skippergata. The evaluation of this operation, officially discontinued in 2009, concluded that the substance users did not stay away from the city centre (2006). Throughout 2008 and 2009, a heated debate continued, involving the city manager, the police, the head of tourism, the business community, etc. At times, the rhetoric was that action needed to be taken in order to save lives; other times, it was felt necessary to disperse the open drug scenes once and for all. Throughout 2010 the police put greater pressure on the user groups, playing cat and mouse in the area around the stairs at the northwestern side of the square outside the new station building (2006). This area was a new place where large groups now gathered and stayed for hours, an even more visible and inconvenient location for everybody. The events over the last decade led to the development of a new, extensive, elaborate, well-planned campaign, known as “Sentrumsarbeidet.”9

Sentrumsarbeidet – 2012–2015 Based on the growing challenges related to the open drug scenes, the lack of permanent solutions following the prior operations as well as documented experiences from actions taken in other cities (Waal/Gjersing/Clausen: 2011), the need for collaborate actions resulted in Sentrumsarbeidet. not discovering children and “new recruits,” as the groups were no longer within reach of security cameras and/or the patrolling care services. 9 Translated loosely as “The centre work.” (The Municipality of Oslo’s Plan of Action for Sentrumsarbeidet 2012–2015).

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It was determined that the plan of action, initiated by the municipality of Oslo and the police council, could not be accomplished without the collaboration and dialogue between the care organisations, user organisations as well as all the districts of Oslo. The city council holds the superior responsibility of the effort. Based on several political initiatives, a collaborative group was formed, called Rusgruppa [“drug group”], consisting of the Oslo police, the Department of Drugs and Alcohol, and several care organisations working at the street level such as the Salvation Army and Oslo Church City Mission. The plans and strategies of these initiatives are thoroughly developed and well based. The essential idea, highly simplified, was first that the police should increase their presence in the areas in question and actively oppose drug-related crimes as well as monitoring the individuals. Second, the medical/health institutions should collaborate in establishing easily accessible spaces for detoxification and long-term rehabilitation, while public and private care organisations should establish specific alternative activities (Plan of Action). Another goal was that anyone not registered as a citizen of Oslo should be sent back to their own district and receive care and assistance there. Undocumented, returnable migrants should also be sent to their place of origin, and the nonreturnable should receive “repetition approach” (Plan of Action). What distinguishes this plan of action from earlier initiatives is the long-term perspective, with a specific action plan running throughout 2015. The Oslo Police Department’s operations were put into action in late Spring 2011.

Excursus When working with the concept of calling, one point is that the different contributions sometimes lack contact with practice, the people in question, and/or the spaces. I expand the public hospital space to make spatial perspectives become significant. My contribution lies in discussing the concept of calling within this empirical and common everyday life, where the caregiver is not the protagonist, but different people in public space. The idea is that the actual space is significant, and that a spatial interpretation thereof will bring new perspectives to the table. I have pointed out the importance of space, and especially otherbodies in other or strange spaces. These spaces become particularly significant, and the idea is that the stranger or otherbody within plays a surprisingly important role. He or she is not just a person to whom or for whom something must be done. For instance, in the encounters between the police and the substance users in the tales, it appears that the police are there to do something with the presence of the other. When one passes through these spaces, this impression is easily confirmed. However, with other approaches, the encounters and the

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bodies may not be as predictable as anticipated. The spaces are unpredictable, as are the encounters. The bodies in the encounters may surprise us. In the embodied encounters, the relations are not predetermined. What happens when there are just bodies encountering each other? What is the content of these surprise encounters? Can they inform the concept of calling? The goal is to see what is discovered when the spaces are analysed and interpreted from the inside – their conflicts, contradictions, and paradoxes. How do these spaces challenge us? How do they resonate with our models of welfare and care? What are these spaces really saying to us? Not only are more groups exposed to marginality than would appear, but we all are affected by our encounters with others. Stories from the substance users themselves as well as personal experiences about belonging to this social group sparked an interest in the significance of encounters and spaces. How a city or a specific area is constructed in order to invite some and exclude others played a major role. And how people use a geographical place for their own needs, whether to find shelter or to avoid a beggar. The station areas are both physical places and mental spaces. The tales are not necessarily understood primarily as tales of space: They are tales of a microspace. I have thus far aimed at directing the course toward the more elaborate reading of the material by pointing out perspectives that were mentioned in the introductory chapters. It is time to delve more profoundly into the theoretical foundations for these perspectives. The theories and the concept of calling are challenged as they are given a specific geography, spaces, and bodies. The relationship between the tales and space provoke the discussion to come. All of the discoveries made in the empirical examples are practice based, some in the sense that my previous practice experience as professional and volunteer in the area provided some insights that someone without this experience may have missed; others because I was part of the public everyday practice in the area, experiencing what took place in the tales. But none as part of a professional practice. My point of view – my gaze – is influenced by my many years in the field, not just my years of reading spatial theory. Although this may have made my perception sharper, the practical experience is decisive: that is social practice. The combination of space and calling is unusual and points to aspects of the social world that may not be thoroughly met in diaconia and social practice.

Theories on Space It is an attempt to think differently about, and uncouple the grip of, power relations: to overcome the dilemma of every form of resistance becoming entangled with or sustaining power (Johnson: 2006, 87).

Before accounting for the main theoretical basis, I think it is once again appropriate to recapitulate the discussion thus far. Early on, I explained that the combination of spatial theory, calling, and the observer in a marginal public space might be unusual and not necessarily obvious. I thus justified the long and relatively slow progression to my introduction of the empirical field. First of all, I started with a chapter accounting for the concept of calling as it is interpreted and discussed in this context. An account of the spatial turn was given in the second chapter, including its meaning in this context. Furthermore, the chapter explained the connection between the spatial and calling, thereby placing the project within contemporary theory development as well as preparing for the line of thought of the theoretical platform. This chapter also included a first, short presentation of the main lines of thought in the spatial theories to be used for analysing and interpreting the data, also as a means of preparing the way for the empirical field and what is to come. In the chapter Methodological Contemplations, the methodological reflections made before, during, and after the fieldwork were presented, including ethical considerations. The concepts of rhythmanalysis, the social phenomenological approach, and lived observation and tales were presented by means of reflections and examples from experiencing the field as a researcher. The researcher-subject and her embodied and sensory experience are of significance, which was also reflected on and accounted for. The chapter An Illustration of Space presented the space where the fieldwork was carried out, placing the project within its geographical framework. A short tale from each of the significant locations was included, while the descriptions of their surroundings were fresh in mind. They were presented shortly, with only some preliminary analyses, in order to depict the field as close to ‘reality’ as possible. Clearly, the tales are told as this concrete researcher saw and experienced them, but I do want the reader to have an idea of the specific lifeworlds this particular researcher was immersed into. The aim of this chapter was to give the necessary information in order to understand not only the design and shape of the space, but give some indications of what it may mean to analyse spatially. Furthermore, it also shows aspects of the social qualities of this space. This is why this chapter also included an account of the

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history of the open drug scene in the area, leading to the specific situation in July 2011 when the fieldwork started. I have now accounted for the second line of thought presented in the Introduction, namely, how the observer is a crucial factor when discussing the calling from a spatial perspective. This has consequences for the applied methodology, which I have also presented. The connection between space and calling should also have started to take shape. However, I have not substantially presented the spatial theories on which I intend to base the following analysis and discussion, other than in a very compact, introductory manner. Now that all the other elements should be in place, I would like to elaborate on the theoretical concepts. Similar to the way methodology shows how space must be part of the considerations, the theories show how methodology must be part of its development and understanding. Choosing a methodology where the researcher subject plays such an important part has implications for the interpretation of the theoretical concepts. If spatial analysis is to be the driving force behind the reconfiguration of the concept of calling, it is timely to delve into the most central concepts.

Spatial Theory In his approach to the issues of marginality, its mechanisms, and consequences, Michel Foucault always brought interesting contributions to the table. However, these were often only on a theoretical level. My interest is not as much theoretical as it is to learn from experience and practice. His notion of heterotopias proved to be very useful as a new perspective to the discussions and considerations on marginality with the space as starting point. At first sight, this contribution too seems a little distant, as Foucault was not necessarily physically present in the spaces he writes about. Although close to the spaces, his contemplations seem far from real, living people. However, it seems like a good place to start to point out the significance of spaces, the fact that there are spaces that are other, and specifically that these spaces hold certain possibilities. Designating the field where I did my study as heterotopic makes sense. Because these spaces are filled with moving, often random people, they became slightly more ephemeral and porous than, for instance, Foucault’s Jesuit colonies (Foucault: 1984, 8), in the sense that they are not tied to specific locations or buildings, but to wherever people are at a given moment. However, I continue to assert that the premise for the discussion is that the field is understood as heterotopia. Yet, there was no theoretical input to discuss cityscapes where people live their lives from the perspective of the observer. Once the urban environment started to play a major role and became more

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than ‘a scene’ where marginalised people hang out, it did not take long to come across Henri Lefebvre again. His theories of multi-levelled space formed the main point of fascination. Yet it is not easy to grasp the true content of these theories. And in my attempt to get at this theory, it became obvious that he had written so much more – and that he had many other agendas than this one project. What I discovered, years after finishing the fieldwork (and after having nearly pulled my hair out – out of frustration for never being able to explain what I was doing or to find a credible theorist to ‘lean’ on), Lefebvre showed up again, in a book I had had in my possession for 5 years. I had read only the first half, elegantly skipping contributions I naively thought was of little concern to what I was doing. But in fact Lefebvre had done something quite similar to what is being done here. “It is unbelievable what one can see and hear from the window” (Meyer: 2008, 154). I will give a short outline of his major ideas on the significance of space. But first we start with Foucault.

Foucault’s Topology Heterotopia disturbs and unsettles wherever it sheds its light: […] (Johnson: 2013, 800).

In The Order of Things – An Archaeology of the Human Sciences (Foucault: 1994), Foucault explains how we establish a system of elements and states our need for organising everything into different systems and orders. He explains, on the one hand, how every human being stands in relation to the basic codes of his/her culture, and that these codes are empirical orders defining how a person finds his/her place. On the other hand, philosophical and scientific theories provide interpretations of why we generally experience order. However, in between these two extremes lies another area; this place is of significance, a place that is difficult to see and to analyse, where cultures shift from empirical orders and are distanced from them and thus lose their transparency. The cultures are no longer passively infiltrated by the empirical orders and break free from their invisible power. They emancipate themselves enough to see that such orders are not the only thing possible, or that there might be better ones. They may realise that, underneath their spontaneous and subconscious orders, there are other things that may be ordered – things that belong to some silent order. Here is where the codes of language, perception, and practice are criticised and are partially invalidated, and here is where the general theories of the order of things and their interpretations arise. Between the coded perspective and the reflecting fact lies an ‘in-between’ that frees the order in its existence. This in-between may be the most fundamental in nature, as it occurs previous to language, perceptions and body – and it is darker, more archaic, less uncertain, always truer than those theories that try to give it

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a more explicit shape, a use, or a philosophical foundation (1994). This inbetween, as I understand it, is a starting point for Foucault’s development of the concept of heterotopia. Three times in his works Foucault outlines the notion of heterotopia. The word appears the first time in the Preface to Les Mots et les Choses (The Order of Things), published in 1966 (Johnson: 2006, 75). After giving an account of a textual scene from J. L. Borges’ The Analytical Language of John Wilkin, he points to the uneasiness that occurs with the “linking together of things that are inappropriate; I mean the disorder in which fragments of a large number of possible orders glitter separately in the dimension, without law or geometry, […]” (Foucault: 1994, xvii). His point is that heterotopias shatter the “syntax which causes words and things (next to and also opposite one another) to ‘hold together’” (1994, xviii). The second time he talks of heterotopias is in a radio broadcast from the same year. The “broadcast is part of a series on the theme of utopia and literature” (Johnson: 2006, 75). Finally, Foucault presents the concept in a lecture given to a group of architects in 1967. This lecture was published in 1984 as an article entitled Of Other Spaces, Heterotopias in the French journal Architecture/Mouvement/Continuit . Initially, in The Order of Things, he was clearly referring to textual spaces; in the broadcast and the lecture, his concern is with concrete spaces (2006, 75). The following is based on the lecture text from 1984. Because his text is so short and he opens so many possibilities (and not really closing any), more has been written by all his interpreters of heterotopia than by Foucault himself. Peter Johnson writes: The bunch of verbs that Foucault uses to describe these different spaces is dazzling and somewhat confusing. They mirror, reflect, represent, designate, speak about all other sites but at the same time suspend, neutralize, invert, contest, and contradict those sites. […] The examples are extremely diverse, and difficult to summarize, but they refer in some way or another to a relational disruption in time and space (2006, 78).

Johnson looked into several works conceptualising heterotopias in his article The Geographies of Heterotopia (Johnson: 2013). More than really clarifying the directions to go with heterotopias, it shows the range of interpretive possibilities the concept opens up. Initially, in order to grasp the concept, I give an account of Foucault’s six principles for heterotopias. To some extent this helps to set some limitations to the concept, instead of stating that anywhere, anything, and anyone can be interpreted as heterotopia. On the other hand, “Each heterotopia involves all the principles to some extent, forming a diverse group of family resemblances […]” (Johnson: 2006, 78). Later some interpreters are drawn back in to make some further elaborations on the concept for this context. Foucault’s first principle of heterotopias is that they are found in all cultures, it “is a constant to every human group” (Foucault: 1984, 4). He

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emphasises that they take different forms in different cultures, thus making it impossible to point to universal forms of heterotopia. He does, however, classify them in two different forms – crisis heterotopias and heterotopias of deviation. Crisis heterotopias are tied to rites, faith or religion, and/or certain stages of life, and are common in traditional or ‘primitive’ societies or even in strictly religious communities. These heterotopias are “reserved for individuals who are, in relation to society and to the human environment in which they live, in a state of crisis: adolescents, menstruating women, pregnant women, the elderly, etc.” (1984, 4). In modern, globalised and urbanised societies, such heterotopias are becoming less prominent, although they still exist to some degree. “In other heterotopias, the displacement of time is matched by the disruption of space. Emplacements for rites of passage or initiations take place out of sight or ‘elsewhere’” (Johnson: 2006, 79). Foucault uses boarding schools and the military as more modern examples of crisis heterotopias as well as the honeymoon as a “nowhere” [on a journey] a woman could be “deflowered” (Foucault: 1984, 5). What is supposedly taking over for such crisis heterotopias are heterotopias of deviation. As the term indicates, these are places where deviants of society and norms are situated or are placed. His two rather obvious examples are prisons and hospitals. Other, and for this context relevant, examples could be encampments for asylum-seekers, a caf for substance users, or detox facilities in the countryside.1 Foucault’s second principle is that existing heterotopias that appear in multiple cultures may function differently within these cultures. A cemetery, for instance, does not hold the same function within a society where religious logic promises a swifter trip to heaven the closer the body lies to the church and altar as in a society where a dead body means nothing more than deceased life. The cemeteries are connected to all other sites in society, since death concerns us all and we all know someone, a friend or relative, in the cemetery. Obviously, this becomes less clear in a global city, where we do not necessarily live where our family or we ourselves grew up, be it a village or even an urban district. But it is still true to say that we all have connections to and understand a cemetery. “Are they religious or secular places of despair or places of hope and reconciliation? Does the reminder of mortality help to moderate the fear of death or highlight it?” (Johnson: 2013, 799). The railway station could be interpreted as an example of this second principle. Built in 1854, the old station building at Jernbanetorget marked the opening of the first railroad in Norway. It was placed where it is to be a gateway to Karl Johan street in a straight line to the royal castle, giving the king direct access for commencing journeys around the nation.2 Although the old 1 Substance use, and of course the state of an asylum-seeker, could also be discussed as crisis heterotopias, but the point is that society also sees these as deviants, so we are comfortable keeping them to themselves, somewhere where we ourselves are not. 2 http://ostbanehallen.no/ostbanehallens-historie/

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building is not used as a station anymore, it is part of the main railway station of Norway, which plays a different role today. It is not so grand and no longer as ‘exclusive’ as it once was – today everyone travels, and some travel every day as commuters. In other words, because modern culture has a different view of travelling, a grand railway station is just another stop on the journey. Even if you travel from the other side of the world, the railway station you end up in in a new city is not somewhere you would want to dwell.3 About the third principle Foucault writes that this heterotopia “is capable of juxtaposing in a single real place several spaces, several sites that are in themselves incompatible” (Foucault: 1984, 6). His example is the stage of the theatre or the two-dimensional movie screen where three-dimensional space is projected. On both we find “series of places that are foreign to one another” (1984, 6). He goes on to describe the Persian gardens and carpets as representing the parts of the world, with sacred centres as fountains or water features. “The garden is the smallest parcel of the world and then it is the totality of the world” (1984, 6). In the fourth principle, Foucault returns to time, as he explains how heterotopias function fully “when men arrive at a sort of absolute break with their traditional time” (1984, 6). Again, he turns to the cemetery as the heterotopia where time ends in loss of life but is marked as an eternal resting place. He goes on to give the example of museums, libraries, and archives where history and time are accumulated and preserved. There is another side to these heterotopias, or heterochronies, and those are not concerned with the accumulation of time, but are linked to the “absolutely temporal” (1984, 7). His examples are the fairground, the empty lots at the outskirts of city centres or towns, which every once in a while are filled with a circus or a carnival. The heterochronies, or aspects of relating time to space, may be discussed in accordance with Lefebvre’s rhythms. The heterotopias are not freely accessible, which Foucault links to the fifth principle of heterotopia. Entry – or exit for that matter – is given by, for instance, ritual or certain gestures. Entering is either mandatory or in accordance with certain rites. “To get in one must have a certain permission and make certain gestures” (1984, 7). Sometimes these limitations are clear and other times a heterotopia may seem open, but there are hidden and strange systems of exclusion. “Everyone can enter into the heterotopic sites, but in fact that is only an illusion – we think we enter where we are, by the very fact that we enter, excluded” (1984, 7 f). In the example where young people prostitute themselves at the central stations, certain codes known only to those involved are used in order to distinguish them from the other travellers. Or, for a substance user to not be thrown out of a shopping mall, she must act like a shopper. 3 There are exceptions – historical landmarks such as Union Station in New York or Paddington Station in London, or architectural gems like Gare du Nord in Paris or Berlin Hauptbahnhof.

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Finally, the sixth principle of heterotopias is their relationship to all other spaces. Foucault sets up two extremes between which these relations lie. The one extreme is where these heterotopias create an illusionary space exposing real spaces as reflections, spaces of illusion, “that exposes every real space, all the sites inside of which human life is partitioned, as still more illusory” (1984, 7). The other extreme he calls heterotopias of compensation, where real other spaces are created as perfect as our world is disordered. He uses as examples the early colonies of the English and Spanish, organised as perfect other places. Another contributor to Foucault’s heterotopias is Kevin Hetherington. He uses Foucault’s theory in The Badlands of Modernity – Heterotopias and Social Ordering (1997) to interpret the development of modernity. Hetherington defines heterotopia as “spaces of alternate ordering” (1997, 9). Heterotopias organise elements of the social world in a different manner than the spaces around them (1997, 8 f). The alternating order defines them as ‘other’ and allows them to be seen as alternative manners of acting. There are ‘other’ places – heterotopias – places of contrast whose existence sets up a combination of inadequacies within the body of society. According to Hetherington, Foucault mentions heterotopia in relation to specific social spaces of which social significance is outside and disturbingly inside of the geographic relations of spaces (1997, 8). Heterotopias are places of otherness, whereby otherness is established through the relationships to others spaces, in a manner that their presence either brings a disquietedness in spatial and social relations or an alternative representation of spatial and social relations. ‘Otherness’ means ‘something without,’ defined as different from the norm, either in a culture or between cultures, ‘something reduntant,’ or ‘something inappropriate,’ or a combination of the inappropriate (1997, 8). These also overlap. Heterotopias do not exist in themselves, but emerge when the relationship between spaces is described by differences in the presentation, defined by their models of social ordering (1997, 8). For instance, how other the space of drug-dealing becomes when it appears in Karl Johan among the shoppers and tourists. One block to the South it may not be particularly ‘other.’ Following Foucault, Hetherington uses two main models for ordering, through resemblance and through similitude. The latter is associated with heterotopia. Ordering through resemblance means familiar social expectations developed over time, which assumes that some things go together in a certain order. These representations become signs where what they signify refers to a familiar referent. Similitude, on the other hand, describes an ordering that takes place through a combination of signs that are culturally considered not to go together, either because their relationship is new or because it is unexpected. This similitude may be used to challenge conventional representations, and such representation may also concern resisting or transgressing the cultural expectations implicit in the idea of social order.

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They challenge our expectations and offer an alternative. In this way spaces, given their position in the geography of a society, may be considered heterotopic (1997, 9). Heterotopia may consist of both spaces of freedom and spaces of complete control, because both are spaces of social ordering. Heterotopia has a shocking effect that comes from the different models of ordering (1997, 42; Foucault: 1994). It lies in the combination of things that are usually not found together and in the confusion such representation creates that renders the heterotopias visible and gives them their meaning. This is in line with Foucault’s third principle for heterotopia: that places that may be both textual or geographical bring together heterogeneous collections of unusual things without providing a unity or order established through resemblance. Instead, their order is deduced from a process of similitude that produces spaces of uncertainty and combinations that unsettle the flows of discourses (Hetherington: 1997, 43). The discourse of Norway as a wealthy and well-functioning welfare state is challenged by the exposed marginality and vulnerability of so many people in the heterotopic, public space that is Jernbanetorget. Another aspect of heterotopia, linked to Foucault’s sixth principle, which also comes from their significance as similitude is that heterotopias exist only in relationships. Heterotopias are established by their inequality in the relationship between places and not because their otherness is deduced from a place in itself. Not the relationships at a place form the source of heterotopias, because seen from within they may make complete sense; it is how such a relationship is seen from the outside, from the perspective of another space that allows a space to be seen as heterotopic (1997, 43). In a way, heterotopias are places of border experiences, especially those associated with, for instance, sexuality and death, where humans experience the borders of their existence and are confronted with the cruelty of these borders (1997, 46). The heterotopic spaces may both be marginal and central, related to transgressive outsidedness or limited places of social control and the desire of a perfect order. In both cases, the heterotopias are places where things are misplaced, marginal, unusual, rejected, or ambivalent. Through their combination with surrounding spaces they are seen as heterotopias (1997, 46). Heterotopias are a source of ambivalence and insecurity. They are thresholds that symbolically mark the borders of society as well as its values and attitudes. Crossing such a border or even being associated with them means delving into moral pollution. The lunatic is marginal and a border figure representing social insecurity; his very presence becomes a transgression of social order (1997, 49). The combination of the unusual creates a challenge to everything that is taken for granted. It challenges order, and the feeling of order gives us security. Traditional power is emphasised by people who are at the wrong place, in the other space. The power of heterotopias lies in the ambiguity that they may be a space of order, just as much as they may be spaces of resistance (1997, 50 f).

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Following Foucault’s six principles, Hetherington defines heterotopias as places of alternate ordering, places of otherness. This definition entails the following: First, no spaces may be described as permanent heterotopia. Furthermore, heterotopias always have multiple and alternating significance, depending on the power relations of those involved. Heterotopias are also always defined in relation to other spaces, or within a process of spatialisation; they never exist in and for themselves. If heterotopias are considered relational, they must have something distinct that makes them obligatory points of passage, as otherwise any place could be considered other in relation to another place. The final point is that heterotopia is not about resistance or order, but may be both, because both imply the establishing of alternative models of ordering (1997, 51). It would also be wrong to associate heterotopia with only the marginalised and powerless, by trying to use them to express a voice that is not heard. Such a space may be constituted and used by those who benefit from the existing power relations in a society. Then they become places of social control (1997, 52). Foucault does not write much about how one may work practically with heterotopia or directly about marginalised in other spaces. Nevertheless, it serves as a tool to point out other and unexpected qualities of spaces that could enrich discussions on these existing power relations. The point is that Foucault is concerned with the placement of people in space and their relations, not the physical walls of space and/or architecture, though he asserts that such physical framework are elements that ensure the different placements of people. Space is fundamentally an exercise of power. In other words, architecture is a way to enter the field of social relations, where it points out some specific effects (Foucault: 1982). Foucault places human sociality before architecture, in the sense that the play and strategy of human relations affect the way we construct our physical environment, not the other way around. But he also emphasises that this is interconnecting (1982). Here, Lefebvre and Foucault are fairly similar: “The use of sites whose attributed meaning leaves them somewhat ambivalent and uncertain allows for these spaces, according to Lefebvre, to offer a vantage point from which the productions of space can be made visible and be critically viewed” (Hetherington: 1997, 23). The liberty or resistance of people is, according to Foucault, not secured or guaranteed by the surroundings or the governing powers or laws. Rather, he asserts that “Liberty is a practice” (Foucault: 1982, 354). These complex thoughts on the concept of heterotopia thus form the contextual premise of the reasoning. The space around Jernbanetorget, the intersection, and Europar dets plass are, in their simplicity or even nonsignificance, very complex spaces, but they need a theoretical basis to point this out. With reference to the introductory contemplations, the heterotopias in this context are also recognised by the people there, considered as ‘other.’ As I mentioned in my methodological comments, I use both ideas of ‘other

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spaces’ and ‘spaces of others.’ The concept of heterotopia is an important foundational concept for the ‘other space,’ and specifically it regards spaces that hold certain qualities that make them different or other. The second concept is developed from several thinkers (cf. Wyller: 2009) and regards spaces that are specifically characterised by the otherness of the people there. Many of these thinkers, however, lean on Foucault and his heterotopias in their development of the ‘spaces of others.’ With the theoretical, spatial premise now laid down, it is time to turn to the spatial theories that define the analysis and the subsequent discussion of the material, leading to new insights on the concept of calling. Although they were contemporaries and are at times discussed together or compared, in their time Foucault and Lefebvre held very different positions. Throughout the last decades, Lefebvre has resurfaced as an important contributor to fields outside social geography and urban studies. He was a complex thinker with numerous works, and in the following I attempt to describe his most important contributions for this context.

Lefebvre’s Spatialities […], the crucial point of Lefebvre’s approach should be taken into consideration: to go beyond philosophy and theory, and to arrive at practice and action (Schmid: 2008, 43).

The heyday of Henri Lefebvre’s writing was the revolutionary 1960s in France. He built his central ideas on Marxism, crossing several fields such as phenomenology and existentialism (Kipfer et al.: 2008, 1). In order to fully grasp his thoughts, one needs to understand his basic influences: the thoughts and ideas of Hegel, Marx, and Nietzsche, and insights into language theory and French phenomenology (Schmid: 2008, 28). He described himself as a philosopher/sociologist (Kofman/Lebas: 2006, 44), and as such he will be a main contributor to this project. When interpreting Lefebvre, one needs to be aware that everything he ever wrote, it seems, was linked to Marxism, and everything comes down to issues of capitalism. This project, however, is not a political one and does not elaborate deeply on Marxist perspectives. His substantial contribution to political thought is not on this agenda – rather his sociological perspectives as analytical tools. However, it is acknowledged that Lefebvre has to be understood and interpreted within this context. Furthermore, many of Lefebvre’s Marxistbased concerns are highly relevant to the urban challenges appearing in this project, though the limitations of the task at hand do not leave much room for

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elaborating on all these concerns. Although several Lefebvrians as well as Lefebvre himself dismiss the possibility of using only certain aspects of his theories, for the purpose of pointing to certain events at the micro-level this project will regardless do just that. It is, after all, not a project about Lefebvre. I will, however, attempt to bring these events and aspects up to the more Lefebvre-friendly paramount ideas as the discussion develops. His contributions were, among several other things, attempts to theorise urbanisation through Marxism, pointing to the urban landscape as a means for the accumulation and reproduction of capital. He furthermore developed theories on the production of space, everyday life, and the right to be different, linking them to these ideas. His work was – and this is crucial to keep in mind – meant as a critique of political capitalism, linked to the urban and everyday life, as scene for the struggles against, but also advancement toward, capitalism (Kipfer et al.: 2008, 6; 14; 66ff). What makes Lefebvre so relevant in the context of this project is his interest in the specifically urban. Of epistemological importance is the fact that he pointed to the “totalizing tendency of urbanization” (Prigge: 2008, 49). Furthermore, with his emphasis on human beings as corporeal and sensuous beings, “with their sensitivity and imagination, their thinking and their ideologies; human beings who enter into relationships with each other through their activity and practice” (Schmid: 2008, 29), he touches upon the very essence of the object of this project. Lefebvre’s thoughts and ideas span many fields and aspects of life and society, oftentimes in a very complex manner, slightly changing in emphasis throughout his life and works. Several of his contributions are relevant in this context. In the following, I attempt to outline these contributions. It must be kept in mind that all his ideas are interrelated, building on one another, stemming from one overarching societal, political reflection and critique – not independent, exceptional concepts, detached from each other. It is not possible to use only some of his concepts: It is all or nothing. With this in mind, this project nonetheless gives some concepts more attention, while just mentioning others, fully acknowledging that Lefebvre worked and thought in a much larger political context. The aim is to point to certain aspects and argue why they are appropriate to utilise in this context. As a premise to Lefebvre’s thinking, it is necessary to understand that they are part of his concept of totality and levels. “The standpoint of totality invoked here demands not only an account of how the everyday can be conceived of as a totalizing phenomenon but also an explication of how it relates to society as a whole” (Goonewardena: 2008, 125). His understanding of totality is as something social and open-ended, “never-ending and dynamic spatio-temporal process of creation-negation” (Shmuely: 2008, 215). The way he organised his theories in levels was his way of acknowledging this totality in his thought. The levels, moments, or values are intertwined or appear in different relationships in complex dynamics. Sometimes one is prevalent, at

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other times another (Schmid: 2008, 34). “Lefebvre’s claim is no longer the construal of becoming, not even the production of becoming, but the analysis of becoming. His analytical method enables the discovery or recognition of a meaning; a horizon of becoming – of possibilities, uncertainties, chances” (2008, 34, my emphasis). Through the levelling, one can approach one level while considering the others as part of the one approached. “A level designates an aspect of reality, but it is not just the equivalent of a camera shot of that reality. […] In a reality where successive implications can be seen, it represents a degree or a stage, but with more consistency and ‘reality’ than symbols or models, for example” (Lefebvre: 2008 [1996], 119). Furthermore, “the idea of level encompasses the idea of differences between levels. […] Wherever there is a level there are several levels, and consequently gaps, (relatively) sudden transitions, and imbalances or potential imbalances between those levels” (2008 [1996], 119). He goes on to explain how the levels are always tied together, and how they may be found through analysis. “As one level mediates another, so they act one upon the other. At one particular moment of becoming, under one particular set of circumstances, one level can dominate and incorporate the others. The idea of a structural set of precise and separate levels is untenable” (2008 [1996], 119). Starting with his triadic concept of the production of space, the account aims at sticking to the common themes of his contribution as far as possible. The Production of Space Many thinkers are inspired by Lefebvre’s works on the production of space. He has been read in many academic fields, from geography to philosophy. It seems, however, maybe because of the different readers, that many still disagree on how his works are to be interpreted. Based on the approaches of some of these contributors as well as the works of Lefebvre himself, the following account gives one interpretive outline of the main concepts from his work on the production of space. Space is never finished. It is a constant process that is always under construction. All social relations become real and concrete and part of our lived social existence only when they are spatially ‘inscribed’ – that is, concretely represented – in the social production of social spoce (Soja: 1996; Hetherington: 1997). Lefebvre’s theories on the production of space do not place space over time, nor do they see it as something that lies before everything else, like a phenomenological concept. Rather, his aim was to develop a theory of space as “the shared aspect and outcome of all social practices” (Stanek: 2008, 63), his emphasis being on the “processes and strategies of producing space, which are by definition historical” (Kipfer et al.: 2008, 9). The notion of the production of

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space “integrates the categories of city and space in a single, comprehensive social theory, enabling the understanding and analysis of spatial processes at different levels” (Schmid: 2008, 27 f). Lefebvre’s contributions are very influential in opening up and exploring the dimensions of our social spatiality; and in arguing for connecting historicality, sociality and spatiality in a balanced and interdisciplinary triple dialectic (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 39; Soja: 1996). Lefebvre, as already mentioned, rejected all binary logic (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 20 f; Lefebvre, 2007 [1974]). He always asserted that a third made either/or choices impossible. Rather, it enables a both/and logic that disrupts the closed categories of the either/or (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 39; Soja: 1996). “Thus: ‘thesis-antithesis-synthesis’ in Hegel; or in Marx: ‘economic-socialpolitical.’ Or more recently: ‘time-space-energy.’ Or even: ‘melody-harmonyrhythm’” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 21). This both/and logic has consequences for how a field is seen and what questions are posed. There is always more to ask, and for the discussion at hand, the question ‘And?’ should always be asked. That is, a tale is not solely about spatial control or marginality, it is about spatial control and spatial marginality – and indeed it may be about something more, found only if always and continuously asking ‘And?’ This question must be asked from the field in order to discover the lives lived here. A premise for the production of space is that space is relational, firmly linked to social reality. From this follows that space is produced, it does not exist in itself (Schmid: 2008, 28). Space as well as time are social products, implying that they both form society and result in society. They are social practices between humans as bodily and sensuous beings who have relationships “through their activity and practice” (2008, 29). Lefebvre’s theory on the production of space is developed from both language theory and phenomenology, and it is based on a division into three analytical levels, initially approached as approximations, later dimensions, moments, or processes (Soja: 1996; Schmid: 2008; Lefebvre: 2007 [1974]). These are interconnected, dynamic, and exist always all at the same time, meaning that these are never three separate spaces or sequences. They indicate active processes that are both individual and social. In the interpretations of Christian Schmid, Lefebvre’s triad is thus both phenomenological and linguistic (Schmid: 2008, 29). Linguistically, when establishing the first moment in his triad, Lefebvre takes the starting point for his threedimensional analysis of social reality in material social practice (2008, 33; 36 f). His second aspect stands in contrast to the first, as “knowledge, language, and the written word, understood by Lefebvre as abstraction, as concrete power, as compulsion or constraint” (2008, 33). Finally, his third element represents desire and poetry as “forms of transcendence that help becoming prevail over death” (2008, 33). Again, although these three may be different levels of analysis, they are never separate. They are always all three at all times. “This makes it clear that the subject of Lefebvre’s theory is not ‘space in itself,’ not even the ordering of (material) objects and artefacts ‘in space.’

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Space is to be understood in an active sense as an intricate web of relationships that is continuously produced and reproduced. The object of the analysis is, consequently, the active processes of production that takes place in time” (2008, 41). In the phenomenological interpretation, it is important to remember that Lefebvre based his ideas on the works of the central French phenomenologists, such as Husserl, Bachelard, and Merleau-Ponty, and that he was mainly critical. The essence of his critique was their lack of concern for the social, emphasising the subjectivity of the ego. “Merleau-Ponty remained attached, however, to the philosophical categories of ‘subject’ and ‘object,’ which have no relation to social practice” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 183). The concepts of the perceived (perÅu), the conceived (conÅu), and the lived (v cu) are both individual and social, active processes that constitute both selfproduction of man and society (Schmid: 2008, 39). Lefebvre refers to the body when explaining these concepts. A premise for spatiality and sociality is man’s relationship with his body, as this body is needed to partake in social practice. Hence, the first dimension is the body perceiving its social surroundings (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 40). The conceived dimension, then, refers to the knowledge of the body, its physiological properties as well as its relationship to nature and its surroundings. When it comes to the lived dimensions of the body, it gets even more complex, as culture and morality are taken into account. The lived body is not a specific locality but is experienced through practice (2007 [1974], 40). “On this point Lefebvre is unequivocal: the lived, practical experience does not let itself be exhausted through theoretical analysis. There always remains a surplus, a remainder, an inexpressible and unanalysable but most valuable residue that can be expressed only through artistic means” (Schmid: 2008, 40). The triadic model is something found in any social process understood from this phenomenological interpretation. Lefebvre’s conceptual, spatial approach to the triad as employed here is introduced as spatial practice, representations of space, and representational spaces (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 33; Schmid: 2008, 29). However, before clarifying these concepts, I need to account for what Lefebvre means by space. First and foremost, his space does not refer to a space in itself, “[…] physical space has no ‘reality’ without the energy that is deployed within it” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 13), but “it subsumes things produced, and encompasses their interrelationships in their coexistence and simultaneity – their (relative) order and/or (relative) disorder” (2007 [1974], 73). His main philosophical argument in his theory was that space is a concrete abstraction (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 87; Prigge: 2008; Stanek: 2008: Stanek: 2011, xii). Lefebvre writes that social spaces are, when thought of in isolation, only abstractions. “As concrete abstractions, however, they attain ‘real’ existence by virtue of networks and pathways, by virtue of bunches or

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clusters of relationships” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 86). By concrete he means ‘real,’ that the universality of space “is produced by processes of an abstraction attributed to a range of social practices and reflected in the specific ‘abstract’ experience of modern space” (Stanek: 2011, 134). Furthermore, his theories on space developed from three theoretical specificities: “the shift of the research focus from space to processes of its production; the embrace of the multiplicity of social practices that produce space and make it socially productive; and the focus on the contradictory, conflictual, and, ultimately, political character of the processes of production of space” (2011, ix). According to Lefebvre, social space is in itself the result of actions that have already taken place: It lets new actions occur. Social space indicates as well as prohibits actions, both actions that serve productions as well as actions that serve consumption. Social space points to an immensity of diverse knowledge (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 73). In Lefebvre’s own explanations of the three terms, spatial practice refers to production and reproduction, “and the particular locations and spatial sets characteristic of each social formation” (2007 [1974], 33). There is an interrelationship ensured by spatial practice as well as continuity. Because every member of a community stands in a relationship to a social space, this interrelationship points to practices and to knowledge. On the analytical and phenomenological level, Lefebvre also refers to this space as perceived space (2007 [1974], 33; 38–46), and in the words of other thinkers, this level refers to a perception that “comprises everything that presents itself to the senses” (Schmid: 2008, 39). Simply put, how social spaces are perceived by people – spaces as we humans experience them. The tales refer to spatial practice when they point to and describe the different encounters that are taking place. When Lefebvre initially explains representations of space, he points to signs and codes, to representations tied to order or production (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 33). Phenomenologically, he refers to these as conceived, as spaces of scientists who “identify what is lived and what is perceived with what is conceived” (2007 [1974], 38). With Foucault, representations of space would be the “dominant discourses of space in a given society” (Simonsen: 2005b, 7). These representations can be images, maps, plans, anything that represents or depicts a space (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974]; Soja: 1996; Schmid: 2008), like a police officer’s report about an arrest in at a particular location. The tales also refer to representations of space when they for example describe the surroundings of the encounters. Also, the photographs in Appendix I are representations of this space. The third level, representational spaces, Lefebvre explains as spaces “embodying complex symbolisms, sometimes coded, sometimes not, linked to the clandestine or underground side of social life, […]” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 33). Phenomenologically, these are referred to as lived, meaning that these are the spaces that are experienced by “‘inhabitants’ and ‘users’” (2007

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[1974], 39) “in the practice of their everyday life” (Schmid: 2008, 40). According to Lefebvre, these spaces refer to the symbolic aspects of space. He emphasises that ‘symbolic’ refers to the ambiguities and complexities linked to life (2008, 36). So, the spaces of representations refer to something else than the spaces themselves: “a divine power, the logos, the state, masculine or feminine principle, and so on” (2008, 37). The third, the material ‘order’ that emerges on the ground, can itself become the vehicle conveying meaning. In this way a (spatial) symbolism develops that expresses and evokes social norms, values, and experience” (2008, 37). Such spaces, therefore, are not sites as such but temporal situations, events, which occur in particular places that open up the possibilities of resistance within society to certain marginal groups and social classes. […] Representational spaces are practices associated with places that have their origins in the realities of that everyday life, […] in resistance to the mundane and alienating features of everyday existence. In that sense, they contain a utopian element in the form of a desire for some form of improvement or change within society. […] The use of sites whose attributed meaning leaves them somewhat ambivalent and uncertain allows for these spaces, according to Lefebvre, to offer a vantage point from which the productions of space can be made visible and be critically viewed (Hetherington: 1997, 22 f).

The lived spaces have their foundations partly in subjectivity and the spatial body and partly in history – both on societal as well as on individual level. This entails that culture is also part of this spatial level, which allows for the creation of counterspaces and spaces for resistance and creative development from dominated and marginalised groups (Simonsen: 2005a, 60). When the researcher-subject appear in the tales, the lived spaces manifest themselves, as she becomes part of the lived spaces of the encounters – or, put differently, the encounters become part of her lived space. The levels, moments, or values are intertwined or appear in different relationships in complex dynamics. Sometimes one is prevalent, at other times another (Schmid: 2008, 34). But they are never solely one: They are always all three. However, for analytical purposes, the spaces can be dissected, so to speak, as these levels, in order to point out certain details and qualities within, which add these to the overall production of the space. In such spaces, it is the task of resistance “to make space as a whole visible, and in so doing reveal the social relations of power that operate within society” (Hetherington: 1997, 23). Analysing the tales from these levels give insight into certain lived spaces not otherwise seen. The analytical level of lived space or representational space lets the spaces produce a different meaning than before, giving the roles of the protagonists as not solely ‘marginal’ and ‘powerful,’ but giving them substantially more meaning.

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Lefebvre and the Right to Difference Was he not thinking of himself when he wrote: “only the man apart, the marginal, the peripheral, the anomic, those excluded from the horde (Gurvitch) has a creative capacity … [as] he is both inside and outside, included and excluded” (Kofman/Lebas: 2006, 36).4

Lefebvre’s concepts of right to the city and right to difference immediately sound like something that would fit well with this project. In the following, I endeavour to clarify what he meant by his concepts. Then, I aim at making them graspable tools for the following analysis. First, in order to grasp Lefebvre’s thoughts on difference, it is crucial that we understand the concept of abstract space. Basically, abstract space is understood as modern society, or urbanity, and, crucially for Lefebvre, capitalism. To him abstract space is concerned with objects and their relationship to signs: “[I]t depends on consensus more than any space before it” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 57). He explains this consensus as the agreements that exist in abstract space, related to behaviours and uses in and of spaces. Furthermore, it is “[F]ormal and quantitative, it erases distinctions, […]” (2007 [1974], 49). The dominant spaces of power and wealth work to manipulate the peripheral and marginal spaces they dominate, oftentimes by force, to eliminate resistance (2007 [1974], 49). The peripheral and marginal is created as art. Lefebvre’s ultimate point – and what matters in this project – is that abstract space is power and can suppress differences, and it is only through revolt that these differences can be recovered (2007 [1974], 49 f). He also points out that, in this abstract space, the ‘users’ are letting themselves be manipulated by these power spaces. However, therein also lies the potentiality of a new space, something he calls ‘differential space,’ one that emphasises differences instead of the homogeneity of the abstract space (2007 [1974], 52). For Lefebvre this differential space may be seen as an ideal space. Third, for Lefebvre, difference is a concept emerging from particular political struggles (Kofman/Lebas: 2006, 51). His assertion is that the state imposes normality through its rationality, which causes opposition. This opposition seethes under the surface “of the state and its space, for difference can never be totally quieted” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 23, my emphasis). He states that the struggle (of classes) is the only thing that prevents abstract, homogeneous space from taking over and eliminating all differences. His point is that these struggles are what cause difference, and what he means by difference is that it is not linked to capitalist production (2007 [1974], 55). 4 The authors translated this quote from Lefebvre’s work in French, La presence et l’absence, Casterman: 1980.

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Although this project, as stated before, is not concerned with explicit issues related to classes or revolution, it is not farfetched to relate street marginality to difference not linked to capitalist productions, here seen as a more moderate “productive society.” The ‘right to difference’ is a formal designation for something that may be achieved through practical action, through effective struggle – namely, concrete differences. The right to difference implies no entitlements that do not have to be bitterly fought for. This is a ‘right’ whose only justification lies in its content; it is thus diametrically opposed to the right of property, which is given validity by its logical and legal form as the basic code of relationship under the capital mode of production (2007 [1974], 396 f).

It seems, then, that what Lefebvre is pointing at is that modern society, with its implicit and explicit powers, aims to create a homogenous space of production where differences hinder the advancement of capitalism; or here, for the sake of the argument at hand, the goals of Norwegian society. Referring to notions appearing in this project, such a goal may be a society that favours sameness. However, the ideal is a differential space where there is not only room for differences, but where they are encouraged or, better, not even noticed or thought about. This is where the connection between this project and Lefebvre becomes most obvious: the goal of preserving otherness and difference, since the spaces hold valuable qualities precisely because of their difference and otherness. Although he ultimately keeps his discussions on the macro-level, using notions such as (class) struggle and revolution, the previous presentation aimed to point out the relevance of his contribution to the micro-level and more moderate notions like opposition, resistance and upholding ones right to urban space. Lefebvre and the Urban In contrast to Foucault, Lefebvre sets out to identify this modern topology in the urban (Prigge: 2008, 48).

At the very base of Lefebvre’s theories on the production of space lies the notion that social space “is encounter, assembly, and simultaneity” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 101). Furthermore, what is assembled is everything that there is in space, everything that is produced either by nature or by society, either through their co-operation or through their conflicts. Everything: living beings, things, objects, works, signs and symbols. […], social space implies actual or potential assembly at a single point, or around that point. It implies, therefore, the possibility of accumulation […]. Evidence in support of this proposition is supplied by the space of the village, by the space of the dwelling; it

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is overwhelmingly confirmed by urban space, which clearly reveals many basic aspects of social space that are still hard to discern in villages. Urban space gathers crowds, products in the markets, acts and symbols. It concentrates all these, and accumulates them. To say ‘urban space’ is to say centre and centrality, and it does not matter whether these are actual or merely possible, saturated, broken up or under fire, for we are speaking here of a dialectical centrality (2007 [1974], 101).

Lefebvre asks whether there is cause for an epistemological shift, as the modern dominance of the spatial is characterised by “the totalizing tendency of urbanization” (Prigge: 2008, 49). The episteme no longer focusses on industrialisation, but on the urban and the associated focus on consumption, spectacle, everydayness. “The urban […] has no specific content, but is a centre of attraction and life. It is an abstraction, but unlike a metaphysical entity, the urban is a concrete abstraction, associated with practice” (Lefebvre: 2003 [1970], 118 f). The city does not create anything, even as it simultaneously creates everything, as the premise of cities is relationship and nothing is created or exists without sociality and relationship. The city creates a situation, the urban situation, where different things occur one after another and do not exist separately but according to their differences. The urban, which is indifferent to each difference it contains, often seems to be as indifferent as nature […]. However, the urban is not indifferent to all differences, precisely because it unites them. In this sense, the city constructs, identifies, and delivers the essence of social relationships: […] (2003 [1970], 117 f).

The city is the concentration of everything – drama, crowds, lights, violence. It unites everything, but as it develops, it breaks down. It needs a periphery, an “elsewhere,” “an other and different place. This movement, produced by the urban, in turn produces the urban. Creation comes to a halt to create again” (2003 [1970], 118). One more reason for the relevance of Lefebvre’s thoughts thus becomes clear: The seeming chaos and constant movement of the field is not just this, chaos, it is rather production. He presents a theory that makes it possible to understand it as such. Which again, as explained in the methodological chapter, makes it possible to observe a specific space from the inside, so to speak. These are not insignificant spaces or insignificant people; they are producing space. The urban is concrete abstraction, a place of simultaneity, encounter, and sociality. It may be something without content, but it is still a centre. It accumulates all content and is hence concrete abstraction through practice. Its contents are both exclusive and inclusive, as they are both diverse and united, implying their mutual presence. It is both container and form, “associated with the logic of form and with the dialectic of content” (2003 [1970], 118). Even though the urban can be understood and discussed as logical form, it does not form a system. Because there is an independence between form and content, it is not possible to define the phenomenon of the urban in systemic

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terms, nor as an object of substance or subject with a consciousness. Lefebvre asserts that the urban is a form, tending toward centrality and policentrality, himself pointing to the challenge of understanding this contradictory movement (2003 [1970], 118). Lefebvre’s attention to space and the phenomenon of the urban is part of his theory of mediation. In his view, he does not solely emphasise the levels of the economic, the political, and ideological; rather, he pays special attention to space and builds his propositional levels on the urban ‘revolution’ (Goonewardena: 2005, 64). In his interest in the urban and its materiality, he developed analytical perspectives that discern three levels of the social: the global/general, the mixed/urban, and the private/everyday (Kipfer et al.: 2008, 14). The global/general level is situated at the top, which concerns the state. The level of the mixed is the specifically urban level, linked to the city (Lefebvre: 2003 [1970], 80). Lefebvre illustrates this level by imagining what remains on a map of a city when all state-owned and private buildings, such as churches, are removed, leaving “a built and an unbuilt domain: streets, squares, avenues, public buildings such as city halls, parish churches, schools, and so on” (2003 [1970], 80). “What remains before us assumes a form that holds some relationship to the site (the immediate surroundings) and the situation (distant surroundings, global conditions). This specifically urban ensemble provides the characteristic unity of the social “real,” or group: forms-functions-structures” (2003 [1970], 80). The private/everyday, according to Lefevbre, is underestimated in terms of significance, as it is basically housing. This is where humans live, and he obviously does not mean this as limited to “a handful of basic acts: eating, sleeping, and reproducing. These elementary functional acts can’t even be said to be animal” (2003 [1970], 81). His point is that the urban questions are not separated from macro- or microlevels of society or everyday life. “For Lefebvre, the urban is not simply limited to the boundaries of a city, but includes its social system of recognition. Hence the right to the city is a claim for the recognition of the urban as the (re)producer of social relations of power, and the right to participation in it” (Gilbert/DikeÅ: 2008, 254).

Intermission These contributions enable the interpretation of spaces not only as location, but as formative. Although it appears that Lefebvre and Foucault did not collaborate in any way, they wrote at the same time, both having lived in Paris for longer periods of time. It is not unlikely that they were inspired by the same influences (Soja: 1996). Soja (1996), Hetherington (1997), and Johnson (2013), for example, juxtapose them, pointing to differences and similarities. In my context, at the street level, they go together very well. “Likewise, but in a different register, heterotopias make differences and

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unsettle spaces, sometimes exposing the extraordinary in the most ordinary of places. […]. Heterotopia is a brief exercise in formulating a different ‘point of view’” (Johnson: 2013, 796). Up to this moment, I have elaborately presented the field as well as the contemplations and decisions made regarding the methodology. I have also presented some impressionist tales from the field, albeit barely analysed, in order for the reader to experience them as they unfold. Then, after the account of the tales, I gave a more substantial presentation of the theoretical foundation. Foucault’s heterotopia and Lefebvre’s production of space were thoroughly presented and explained. At this time, it should also be clear how the presence of the researcher is decisive in pointing out elements linked to the concepts of heterotopia and lived space, body, murmur, and calling. These are keywords when analysing the field and the tales. The analysis, Jernbanetorget – Reinterpreted?, is organised into several subchapters. The first concentrates on the geographical space and the second rather more on the social space. The third subchapter focuses on the role of the researcher-subject. The fourth and fifth subchapters mainly concern tales where the encounters through analysis show more surprising and unexpected turns of events. There follows a discussion that includes a few more tales. The chapter Reinterpreting the Calling is where the explicit findings in the previous chapter are discussed more elaborately. This leads to the reinterpretation of calling, drawing out what it comes to mean through spatial analysis, emphasising the participating body in the lived space. Finally, the discussion leads to a conclusion, providing answers to the questions posed at the beginning and ultimately addressing the main issue of the book. This leads to considerations of the impact of the conclusion, also elaborating on the specific impact of the science of diaconia. However, before jumping to the conclusion of the project, let us return to a possible reinterpretation of Jernbanteorget.

Jernbanetorget – Reinterpreted? […], it seems that if we are to ‘know’ something, we must of course study it, think about it, and analyze it, but we may also endeavor to experience it (Amster: 2008, 132). In this way, the kinds of meetings where participants consciously appeal to such primary levels could have the potential of opening up spaces that are not fully and completely discursively delineated (Wyller: 2008, 177)

Before the analysis can begin, we should clarify the premises once again. First and foremost, the main topic of the discussion concerns the implications of spatial analysis and experiences of everyday life in a marginalised microspace for reinterpreting and construing the concept of calling. Through a Lefebvrian reading of the tales I want to show that there are things going on in the spaces around Jernbanetorget that are underestimated and likely underresearched. Through this analysis, and through the subsequent discussion of the tales, it will become evident that a reinterpretation and construing of calling is in place. Because of the complexity of this particular reading of the tales, one should remember that what is ultimately being looked for is the common, neighbourly calling, which in its purest form is related to maintaining the life of fellow human beings. The reinterpretation has to do with the presence in lived spaces of calling, which appears through rhythmanalysis. This presence is a prerequisite for experiencing the calling and thus talking about it. The aim is not to do an analysis as in a traditional social science, but to make analytic interpretations from a Lefebvrian perspective. This chapter analyses the tales from this point of view. I do not claim that this is objectively evident; rather, given the Lefebvrian mode of analysis, it is one plausible way of interpreting the tales. In my introductory notes, I wrote that one needs to use spatial concepts and body to search for, find, and understand the concept of calling, and furthermore that one must be affected by others. This affectedness is tied to the researcher-subject in this context, but it also relates to how we encounter others in the calling. One prerequisite for being affected is being in the space – being inserted in the lived space of the calling. To follow the idea of using the body and being affected, I briefly introduced a rather complex theoretical

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framework, in combination with methodological contemplations building on both phenomenology and spatial theory. This was accompanied with a much less complex introduction to a field that can be as simple or complicated as one cares to make it. The combinations are not necessarily obvious, and I have aimed to explain and clarify the different elements included, inviting the reader to follow the process and the logic behind the choices. To return to the concept of otherbody, the point is that the otherbody is not necessarily the marginalised body or the suffering body or even the out-ofplace body. There are many tales where these otherbodies are substance users or Roma, but there are often other otherbodies. Bodies that are also noticed for their traits and characteristics – someone whom it is somehow ok to label and name, because they are always the ‘same,’ for example, a police officer. The term otherbody provides the possibility of underlining the thematic of same and other; emphasising how who is same and who is other is not obvious in this particular public space, as in most other spaces. Indeed, we are all otherbodies. In the encounter with the stranger, in the prereflexive moments, both are the otherbody, the stranger. The public street-level space, where these otherbody encounters take place, is the empirical starting point for this reinterpretation of the space and thus the calling. I make several statements based on an analysis and a discussion of the tales. The most important, in fact the premise of this discussion, is that of the spatial. I have made the assertion that using spatial theory to point out multiple levels of public and social space is fruitful, because it makes it possible to break down the spaces on an analytical level, discovering more than what is seen at first glance. The geographical space of the field, interpreted as Foucault’s heterotopia, is discussed using the spatial categories from Henri Lefebvre, as they open the spaces for more elaborate interpretations. These categories also make it possible to become aware of other sides of these spaces than are otherwise seen and deemed important. They facilitate the pointing out of rhythms and murmurs, which are of particular interest in challenging how these spaces, people and otherbodies are perceived. The previous pages have thus contributed to place the focus on the very street level where some contrapuntal tales manifest themselves in a microspace. In the following section, it is time to show how and why the assertions, statements, and choices pointed to above were made by analysing the tales. Some analytical key terms discovered are lived space, body, murmur, and calling. The distinctive features of the field to be shown are what takes place in the area as lived space. Small tales believed to point to new content for calling are put front and centre. The tales are now analysed spatially, using Lefebvre’s triadic model of the production of space and his rhythmanalysis. To recapitulate, spatial theory in this context relates to understanding society and socialities spatially. The spaces are not only the scene of events but decisive for what takes place. Spatial thinking and theory have spread over a wide range of fields in the last decades, almost all of which refer to Lefebvre on

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some level, especially more recently. Although several thinkers level the analyses of spaces and contribute with different approaches and models, his thinking has been the most fruitful here. For three reasons: (1) because he thinks on both macro- and microlevel, including a wide range of socialities; (2) his rhythmanalysis places him (and his readers) in the spaces he is interested in, taking into account that one is always part of the space one observes; (3) because, in his writing, particularly on rhythmanalysis, he seems to have a genuine enthusiasm and interest for the spaces he is part of, not just as an object of academic thought and research, but as a human being affected by the spaces around him, letting this become part of his work. I have accounted for Lefebvre’s three levels of analysis: spatial practice or perceived space, representations of space or conceived space, and representational space or lived space. In the following, I exemplify how to analyse a space within the different levels. The third level, lived space, is stressed especially in the discussion. That may be the most significant spatial contribution in this context, that spatial analysis here means concentrating on lived spaces, something Lefebvre enables. In other words, the analysis will largely be a Lefebvrian reading of lived space, pointing to how the details of a calling can be uncovered in lived space. In the subsequent chapter, the concepts by Nahnfeldt and Martinsen presented in the subchapter Two Contemporary Contributions on Calling are then discussed and sometimes critiqued, using these details and other perspectives developed in these analyses, exploring and interpreting the material for new perspectives on the calling. The other central point of view – what the book is about – is that there is a common calling. I base this in Scandinavian creation theology and the Lutheran tradition, where not only some actions are tied to calling (Nahnfeldt: 2016; Wingren: 1995 [1974]; 2004): All actions that are carried out in trust and with full attention to the best of one’s fellow man are tied to calling. The act of calling is not carried out for the sake of God or the Church: It is meant to give people life. Furthermore, according to Nahnfeldt, this Lutheran concept also belongs to the idea that the calling is not limited to what we see as religious spaces. Humans can take difficult roads, and the idea of calling is that no one needs to walk them alone. We must leave no one alone or behind, but can walk along with them (Nahnfeldt: 2016, 202). So the common calling is from all to all, which is before conscience or faith. This calling relates to bodies; it comes from body and is sensed and responded to by body. This means, for instance, that the other does not come to me with the calling. Rather we meet in and with the calling. Common calling means that none of us has a special ability or duty to see and hear the calling of the other, neither as religious persons nor as professionals. Furthermore, it means that the calling does not come solely from obviously marginalised people, and that anybody, including the marginalised, can respond to the calling other. The calling means being involved in others’ lives, understanding and appreciating that we coincide. These contributions are rather principal and theoretical. The question is how

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they fare in real, often vulnerable spaces. Hence the fieldwork and the resulting tales. The tales were obtained through a social phenomenological approach, lived observation, and rhythmanalysis, making the researcher, and the spaces as well as the people observed crucial. As to the premise of common calling, I have stated that the researcher-subject is not only important, but that she also plays a necessary and decisive role in the tales and the interpretation (Leonhard/Thoresen: 2010; Heimbrock: 2005; Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010). If calling is related to spaces and bodies, the researcher body is needed to share these spaces – to see, sense and interpret encounters with and between others within them. The researcher-subject is herself spatially embodied and participates in the tales, and she must herself be affected in order to point to the calling. This should entail that the researcher-subject in the tales is more than the researcher-subject in the social phenomenological approach. This means that there is a researcher-body in lived space. Subjectivity plays a lesser role than body and space. Furthermore, the concept of calling, as it sometimes appears in other ways and with different qualities than anticipated, cannot be explored without this presence and embodied experience. I take the discussion to the public space, to a particular area known for its social challenges. The particular space is chosen because there it is possible to witness different groups encountering each other there. However, the fact that it is a public space is also particularly important, as there are few rules or roles that are decided beforehand, only assumptions. Although some people are there to stay and other just pass by, and some are there to care and others to control, they are all actively or passively participating in the life there, even if only for a few seconds. This public space in many ways reflects society, in terms of how we as a whole respond to marginality, difference, and deviance. This is also the reason for my making the analogy to the hospital space in contemporary nursing, and that today, in the market logic that dominates, there is less room for care and more focus on results. We want the deviants, the ‘diseases,’ out of our public spaces, and we need to find ‘cures’ so we can get this result as soon as possible, so we can “cross them off our lists.” Here, I look for transgressions and surprises, searching for the murmurs. This is done by immersing into the space, using the body as primary tool in the search. The analysis is divided into five subchapters. The first analyses the geographical site within the spatial categories of Lefebvre’s triadic model of production of space, in order to open up the spaces within for new perspectives. Second, the socialities and everyday lives that appear in the tales are analysed spatially, pointing particularly to perspectives and details that appear through the concept of lived space. The third subchapter emphasises the role of the researcher-subject and the details her presence uncovers. The fourth and fifth subchapters pertain to tales where the protagonists hold expected roles, but act in transgressive and surprising ways, opening them up for interpretation.

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The subsequent chapter aims at interpreting findings from the analysis, pointing to details that could be discussed in relation to calling. In the concluding chapters, the main tendencies developed in this section are united with the Introduction to the book in order to point to implications for the science of diaconia and theology. Possible outlooks for these implications are then also mentioned.

Reading the Intersection with Lefebvre The premise for the following discussion is ’seeing’ the heterotopic spaces in Lefebvre’s mode of analysis: “[T]o release and listen to rhythms demands attention and a certain time. In other words, it serves only as a glimpse for entering into the murmur, noises, cries” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 41). At the very basis of Lefebvre’s theories on the production of space lies the notion that social space is “encounter, assembly, and simultaneity” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 101). In the following the intersection with its activities, here interpreted as a social space, is analysed within Lefebvre’s dialectical framework of the production of space. “Space is to be understood in an active sense as an intricate web of relationships that is continuously produced and reproduced. The object of the analysis is, consequently, the active processes of production that takes place in time” (Schmid: 2008, 41). The intersection is particularly suitable as an example, as it is the location in the fieldwork with the least specific and clear function, yet it is the space with the most encounters, which makes the analytical levels quite clear. It is a seemingly mundane place, albeit an important location for many of the tales. In the following it is interpreted within the spatial triad of Lefebvre. As spatial practice or perceived space, the intersection is basically how people perceive it. This could only be found out by asking, as it presupposes the use of the body (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 40), and is thus subjective. Hypothetically, however, on the surface it may be experienced as a place where a pedestrian area meets a one-way street with limited traffic. It is small and has few shops – it is rather on the way to somewhere else. It is one of those places along Karl Johan where one has to be aware of traffic lights and/or cars, meaning one has to pay some attention to what is happening. For substance users, it may be where they want to end up, their goal, even if it is only for less than a minute. Maybe it is a place where one must be on particular lookout, say, for police officers. It could be perceived as a safe place, since there are often many people there, meaning that it is easier to hide (safety lies in numbers), should one be assaulted or treated badly by police. For the police officers, the intersection may be perceived as one of the places on their patrol where they must be extra alert, where all eyes and ears must be attuned toward the people surrounding them. Maybe their pulse increases as they get closer.

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For a rhythmanalyst, it may be a place to sit down and open the senses to the murmur, to listen and watch intently to “the surroundings of bodies, be they in nature of a social gathering, […], to which it is necessary to listen in order to grasp the natural or produced ensembles” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 30). It is impossible to claim how people perceive the intersection as truth, as it “comprises everything that presents itself to the senses” (Schmid: 2008, 39), but for the sake of analysis these may be considered some of the perceptions. If we consider the intersection as a representation of space, as conceived space, it is the factual layout of it, what we know about it. This means that this too depends on who is making the representation. It can be shown as a map, a drawing, a police report or maybe even a photograph. It may at first sight not obviously look like a particularly interesting place as a representation. As shown earlier, in the presentation of the intersection, however, there was much more to describe and see when taking a closer look or taking another perspective. For a city planner, for instance, this intersection is maybe drawn and mapped as the roadways, the public transportation, the logistics, the number of cars it handles every week. When conceiving it as the people do who spend their everyday lives there, it may be considered quite differently. The police may have an actual map or strategic drawings of the intersection and consider its role in their operations, for example, the opportunities and challenges it poses in relation to other assignments in the Sentrumsarbeidet or in the city centre. The intersection may be lined up as a key location for certain efforts as well as in light of its position relative to the availability of vehicles when making arrests. Or it may be represented as a key location for relationship-building with certain target groups, such as substance users. They likely have numerous reports from the location. For the substance users, on the other hand, the intersection may be conceived of differently. For instance, it may be that certain substances are found at particular locations. The shops or restaurants at the intersection may provide hiding places, safety, cover, or even free food. Or they are spaces where one can participate (and sometimes pretend to participate) in the perceived everyday life of the general public, such as shopping. The intersection can be thought of in its distance to the subway or to ‘Møtestedet.’ A day, or even a week, may be planned from the intersection’s location in relation to other significant locations. For the researcher, the intersection is mapped, drawn, photographed according to anything that catches one’s attention. Who moves there, where do they move, what are their patterns, etc.? In many discussions and analyses on spaces for others, the discussion stagnates on this level. The focus lies on the space, that it is important to have a place to be, etc., rather than focussing on the places and spaces that already exist, what takes place there, what the practices are, what creates a specific space. I now approach the intersection from the perspectives of lived space to see whether such perspectives change anything for the calling. As lived space or representational space, the intersection becomes even more complex. “[…] – as a third term between the poles of perception and

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conception. Socially lived space depends on material as well as mental constructs – and on the body” (Simonsen: 2005b, 7). Most of the discussion takes place at this level of analysis, as this is where possible transgressions can be detected and discussed. These are the spaces that are experienced by “‘inhabitants’ and ‘users’” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 39) “in the practice of their everyday life” (Schmid: 2008, 40). These spaces refer to the symbols, the ambiguities and complexities linked to life (Schmid: 2008, 36). Maybe one can say that, when interpreted in this way, one really experiences what and how these spaces are, what they mean and signify to people, and what possibilities these spaces hold. Meaning, for instance, that the intersection is not only an intersection, that is, a junction of two roads where people constantly move through, filled with police and sometimes substance users. Rather, it is a place where people live their lives, a place that is the goal of their ventures, a social location where their everyday life takes place, where they struggle for health, for sociality, for acceptance. It is also a place where somebody is doing a job, and one of the goals of that job is to make sure that the space is used as intended and not for criminal activities or the disturbance of businesses. There are, in other words, many ways to analyse this, also within spatial theory. Lefebvre is one contributor, as I mentioned. Reading the tales with his theories in mind uncovers something different than when interpreted using other theorists. One central contribution lies in his negation of binary logic, which leads to the both/and concept.1 Through Lefebvre’s triadic model, it should be clear that the intersection is not either perceived or conceived or lived, it is perceived and conceived and lived. It is not just the stage or framework for everyday life; it is really and truly a space where someone lives. This ‘it’ can be anywhere; in this context, it is a particular place in public space. In public space, especially those with no particular social functions, like an intersection (as opposed to a park), the lived space may rarely be taken into account. We may not think of such spaces as important nor as social spaces nor as somebody’s goal, which makes it particularly interesting and important to approach it differently in relation to public marginality. The challenge is to see, interpret, and strive to emphasise and understand a space from all three levels – and to pay particular attention to and be sensitive to the lived space of the other. In order to encounter with, understand, and hear the other, his or her lived spaces must be understood. Or, rather, not understood per se, but seen and sensed, deemed important, and respected as somebody’s lived space that has value in itself. As Schmid emphasises: “On this point Lefebvre is unequivocal: the lived, practical experience does not let itself be exhausted through theoretical analysis. There always remains a surplus, a remainder, an inexpressible and unanalyzable […]” (Schmid: 2008, 40). One must approach people from the perspective of their lived spaces, in these spaces, not in or from our space. We must respect that there are aspects of that person’s life, a 1 The concept actually stems from Soja’s interpretation of Lefebvre, Soja: 1996.

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surplus, that we are not meant to understand. Instead of thinking that either he is like me or he is not, or he must either become like me or he is a problem, one must rather ask: Who is this individual who is different from myself through the ‘and?’? This must be asked repeatedly of the spaces, the encounters, and the people through analysis. Because the intersection is a space of bodies, rhythms, and the space that surrounds them, Lefebvre’s method of rhythmanalysis may expand the perspective. Rhythmanalysis “accentuates the centrality of the body to social understanding” (Simonsen: 2005b, 9) and “raises the question on development of alternative methodologies in order to grasp the more opaque sides of social life” (2005b, 9). Therefore, murmurs and obtaining them through rhythmanalysis become important, because they open up the perspective for the ‘and?’ even more. The space has to be given substance by actual life. Especially since the goal is to look for life interpretations and map their significance for the concept of calling. This particular reading of Lefebvre aims to show how complex, yet relatively ordered a very small and seemingly chaotic geographical space can be once it has been analysed by means of the three-level perspective. Furthermore, the analysis shows that, in the lived spaces of this space, by means of asking ‘and?’, new and sometimes surprising details surface. The point I want to make is that the calling must be discussed from these lived spaces. And the premise for lived space is that the observer is part of that lived space, as that is the only way to talk about it.

Immersion into the Lived The intersection is interpreted as a contested, heterotopic space and as lived space. Lefebvre also contributes to the notion of heterotopia, as heterotopy (Lefebvre: 2003 [1970]; 2007 [1974]), albeit in a slightly different manner. In The Urban Revolution (Lefebvre: 2003 [1970]), he describes it several times, but one concept is more significant in this context: “Historically, it is formulated as the ‘place of the other’ in terms of marginality [trade and exchange outside cities]. Such activities are both excluded from and interwoven within the city” (Johnson: 2006, 83; Lefebvre: 2003 [1970], 9). Although the intersection is inside the metaphorical city walls, the activities of the substance users in the intersection are outside of society. Such an inside/ outside concept adds to the analysis. The primary aim of using lived space analysis is to point out the transgressions and surprises in narratives from this particular location. In the following analysis, with regard to the different tales, I sometimes emphasise one or two levels, sometimes the perceived and conceived, and other times the conceived and the lived. Again, according to Lefebvre, a space is not one, two,

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or three levels – it is always all three in interplay. The focus on one perspective at times serves to direct attention to certain ways of seeing aspects or details of a space. The levelling allows us to approach one level while considering the others as part of the one approached. The intersection is, at first sight, even when one stops to take a closer look, a cacophony of noises, people, smells, and other sensual impressions – chaos. Without time and analytical tools, it is easy to simply leave it at that. However, one must look for transgressions and surprises, listen for the murmurs. Lefebvre states that the body serves as a metronome to get a sense of what is taking place around you, for instance, in a busy cityscape. But if I do use my body as a metronome in the field and in the tales, what will I find? According to Lefebvre, the city needs “a periphery, an elsewhere. An other and different place. This movement, produced by the urban, in turn produces the urban. Creation comes to a halt to create again” (Lefebvre: 2003 [1970], 118). In the tales, I am immersed in the periphery, but it is right in the middle of the centre, inside the heterotopy, not on the outskirts. One of the reasons for the relevance of Lefebvre’s thoughts thus becomes clear: The seeming chaos and constant movement of the field is not just this, chaos, it is rather production – as “every (social) space is a (social) product” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1991], 26), meaning that we are all part of the production of space. (16 November, 1:30 pm), from ‘Jafs,’ observing the intersection: “[…] There are still nine or ten substance users standing here, and no cops right now. #14: It is 13:34, and suddenly … the ones that have been standing here for a while, maybe 10 minutes, six or seven individuals, suddenly there were 25! Complete chaos, with several others approaching from everywhere to join the group. Many just appearing from the outskirts. Some disappeared around one corner, and others around another and some are still roaming around just outside here. So suddenly things are happening. And if one does not pay attention at that moment, one misses the whole event. It is just a question of seconds, really. #15: 13:38, two new cops came up from Jernbanetorget and took their place here. I have not seen them before today, so it appears to be up to eight, at least, walking around here. That is not extraordinary compared to other afternoons, but it is ok to have seen. Now, the entire cluster from before has dissolved, only one is left, and three more are on their way in from different sides, they appear to be just passing. They came before the police, but they may have seen them before I did.” This tale only exists because of my being there, observing as I did with all my senses, and interpreting and analysing it with the help of my theoretical and methodological foundations. In terms of rhythmanalysis, such a real location not only enables observation, but leads to insights. “The observer is implicated in what is happening on the street” (Meyer: 2008, 153). In Lefebvre’s three-level production of space, where the third, the lived level, is “charged with images, emotions, affectivity, and connotations” (Schmid: 2008, 36), he presents a theory that makes it possible to emphasise the corporeality and sensuousness of human beings and thus understand his

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theory of space as always and fundamentally tied to social reality. This again makes it possible to observe a specific space from the outside, so to speak. As already emphasised thoroughly, these are not insignificant spaces or insignificant people – they are producing space. Two tales (from 12 September): “It is 14:02. Police are still there, and they have been since before. I have counted everybody I have seen. 377 substance users. Here, while I have been sitting here, for 2 hours! I have to check that again, it seems like too many. Of those, around 30–40 I have seen more than once, the rest I have only seen once. I think. […] there are some who do not seem to mind being here, while others walk on this side of the road and never stop here, and some just come in, pick out a person and continue on together.” (14 November, 2 pm), from ‘Jafs,’ observing the intersection: “#43: It is almost 14:00! The total number of substance users for the last two hours is 231, sorry 233, so the number is not completely off, but … the majority today have passed once, a few have passed maybe five times, and a lesser number have been by 20–30–40 times (counting four more with counter), but that is maybe two to three individuals. There are many individuals I have not seen today, and there have been a few new ones, people I have not seen the other weeks.” The number of substance users in the small area that is the intersection does not simply express a failure in the Sentrumsarbeidet operation. It could obviously be seen as such, but then again, the police operations had only been going on around 3 months at this time, so no such conclusion could be drawn. The high number of substance users as well as their speed and endless circling could, in spatial terms, be a sign of policies changing the geographies of this group – changing not only how they behave, but where they do it. Also, it expresses what Soja calls ‘spatial injustice,’ where the needs of leading groups literally move the ‘less important’ somewhere else with inferior conditions and no use – injustice has spatial consequences (Soja: 2010, 1f). ‘And?’ The stress is apparent in the incessant circling. Sharing this space for some time, feeling the cold, feeling one’s corporal needs not being relieved, always seeing a twinkle of a police officer’s reflective trouser leg at the corner of your eye – the bodies of this space cry out for action. Here, the point is not to provide services to cover our own needs. In our discomfort we feel the need to do something: People cannot live like this! But, then again, maybe they can. The people of this contested space also show resourcefulness and resistance in their refusal to be forcefully removed from a public area.2 They do, to a certain degree, play along with the police, by trying to behave within the accepted framework, accepting the perception and conception of it, attempting not to 2 I do not intend to trivialise the hardships of the street people by this statement. I do believe that part of understanding the lived space of another is recognising his or her abilities and resources. People are not only victims. However, “the taboo against portraying participants as victims may also lead us to omit a central feature of their experience – the physical, emotional, and psychological pain of living under harsh material conditions” (Kleinman/Copp: 1993, 14).

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be caught in a criminal act. However, in their pursuit of survival and the ability to lead a life, they have to, and choose to be, there. Also, in order to lead a life of sociality and normalcy, participating in everyday activities like meeting friends, window shopping, getting a cup of coffee, or doing errands, they must come there. Obviously, in this area the chances of being perceived as other, be it a criminal or a substance user, is greater if you look a little different than other places, due to society’s perception of this area as particularly ‘loaded’ by marginality. So, the risks of being detained here may be higher than elsewhere. Yet, they still come and use the area as they want, thus declaring it as their own. The idea of the murmur can be tied to Lefebvre’s idea of moments, “the attempt to achieve the total realization of a possibility” (Lefebvre: 2008 [1961], 348). Moments for Lefebvre are instants of change and disruption of routine (Elden: 2004). According to Simonsen, he considered the moment as a “decisive sensation implicating a double recognition of the ‘other’ and the self” (Simonsen: 2005b, 8). The first quote refers to something lying there to be both revealed and performed, and discovering this possibility entails a significant action. If we combine this with the second quote, the possibility may, for this discussion, be interpreted as ‘the other’ and his body’s request (or call) for us to act. However, we must search for the present possibility, that is, not to turn to our own solutions to our problem. These are important lifeforms that are taking place in an important space, and we need to be grasped by them (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 37). Pushing a little further with Lefebvre, “this idea allowed him to extend the theory of moments from the analysis on everyday life to the understanding of sublime moments of revolutionary fervour” (Simonsen: 2005b, 8). And with Foucault, this countersite, this space of resistance, challenges the expected roles of the people in this public space. It may be farfetched thinking to interpret this as ‘revolutionary,’ since it could also be interpreted as “there is no place in the contemporary urban landscape for the homeless to be. [As] the homeless exist in a perpetual state of movement” (Kawash: 1998, 327), where they are perceived as completely powerless. However, through spatial analysis, the point is that there is a possibility in these spaces, because they are not only one thing. When the tales of spaces where people live their lives are combined with spatial theory (particularly Lefebvre’s), specific qualities of these spaces emerge. They must be pointed out. How the interpretation opens up lived space must be elaborated on more. The tales stem from a small landscape that is also lived space. The analysis seems to break the spaces to pieces, thus losing sight of the calling. I do state, however, that spatial theory opens up the tales without destroying the affectedness, thanks to rhythmanalysis. In the following I try to elucidate this more.

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The Researcher-Body’s Impact It is appropriate at this point to once again direct attention to some methodological aspects. The combination of perspectives from Lefebvre’s rhythmanalysis and Van Maanen’s impressionist tales makes the observer part of the narrative. In the tales, the researcher exposes her own embodied subjectivity. As in phenomenological intentionality, there is a relationship between the observer and the observed, which is imperative for the idea of being grasped. Additionally, immersing oneself into the field, with all one’s senses – feeling the same cold, smelling the same smells – is apposite to obtaining insights into the lived spaces. Once again, the researcher-subject must be spatially embodied in the lived spaces in order to be affected by the events that may relate to calling (Heimbrock: 2005; Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010; Leonhard/Thoresen: 2010; Løkken: 2012; Martinsen: 2014 [2000]) – a researcher-body in lived space. “The rhythmanalyst will not have these methodological obligations [like the psychoanalyst]: rendering oneself to passive, forgetting one’s knowledge, in order to re-present it in its entirety in the interpretation. He listens – and first to his body; he learns rhythms from it, in order consequently to appreciate external rhythms. His body serves him as a metronome” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 7). Here I interpret Lefebvre to mean that there are no criteria and no crosscheck lists to follow as with some other methods. It means placing oneself inside the space and opening up one’s senses. Furthermore, one’s prior knowledge as well as one’s thoughts and emotions are important and part of the empirical experience and data. Van Maanen writes: “Writing ethnography is an isolated and highly personal business and that those who discuss it in print are certain to discover that their best examples must be their own” (Van Maanen: 2011, xix). I interpret this statement as encouraging one to be an obvious researcher who is visible in the notes, the analysis and discussion. It seems that Van Maanen expects the researcher to use herself for the benefit of the research, almost an obligation to do so. The observer who is also part of the methodological centre is exposed. Because the body is the point of contact between the social and biological rhythms (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 6), it is crucial for understanding the other, according to Lefebvre. In other words, this is not just some methodological tool, it is also central to the findings as well as the analysis. It is decisive in the question of calling. Because the calling is to be found and discussed from the embodied lived spaces, and because they do not exist without the one [body] who talks about them, the calling cannot be discussed without embodied presence. In the following, some tales are again analysed, with the clear inscription of the researcher-subject, in order to point to yet new perspectives, as a response

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to the ‘And?’ question of the tales. Because the tales are sensory experiences from the field, they form lived space, so that the analysis takes place on this level. These new perspectives relate directly to the questions concerning the calling. Above, how the researcher-body was stressed was decisive for the tales and the analysis. I would like to start by pointing to some tales where this becomes particularly evident. Because other topics of the tales are to be discussed as well, it is important to show and explain what the visible researcher entails. What is discovered through the researcher’s embodied and sensory participation and spatial presence? (11 July, 1:30 pm), from Jernbanetorget: “The police do not seem to bother anybody; it looks like normal interaction, no chasing or bad tones; looks like normal interaction between everybody here really. Everybody is relaxed and hanging out. People photographing themselves with the police, tourists I assume. People are doing what they are doing, collecting bottles, sleeping, without being told off.” This tale is a good place to start this part of the analysis, for two reasons: It is early in the fieldwork, and I still feel that the whole thing is rather exploratory. I am trying to find reasons for everything, struggling to ‘make it interesting,’ while every day goes by without pomp or circumstance. Also, for the same reasons, I start to reflect on why I find all this so interesting and important. Why do I make the observations that I do? Reading this tale afterwards I started asking certain questions – why am I comfortable? Why do I make assumptions on the tone of interaction, etc.? It has something do to with rhythmanalysis, and using the body as a metronome. In the tale I did not know that this was the normal interaction or that everybody is relaxed, but I assumed it based on my own sensory experience. I was sitting right among the people, and since their practice and bodies seemed relaxed, I could relax myself. I assume that if people felt unsafe, they would not be there. This is also related to experience, and different things make us anxious and relaxed. At this time, during the fieldwork, I only had my prior professional as well as my embodied experience on which to base my observations and interpretations. I used my body as a metronome and imagined that the speed of the beat says something about the other bodies – in the reciprocity between what is sensed and the sensing person. If I were observing as a person suffering from severe anxiety, the beat of the metronome would be different – or if there were somebody on the stairs behaving erratically, unsettling the other bodies present. When entering a strange context, one uses one’s own senses, both consciously and subconsciously, to explore what the others are doing, and unless one is extremely uncomfortable (a conscious feeling), the body will relax and do what the other bodies are doing. The sensory information eventually reaches our mind and forces it to make conscious considerations. If we remember the ‘and?’ in everyday spaces and situations, we can return to the embodied, sensory

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experience, exploring the embodied reactions or possibly nonreactions to a space. We do not interpret the space only from thought, but from sensory experience. As mentioned, I do have certain special interests in the field. There are bodies and encounters that I see because of prior knowledge, and thus I am attuned to them such that another person might not see or not recognise it as an interesting or particular event. This would also mean, by the logic of Martinsen, that there are somebodies who appear relevant through sensing more than through registering. By understanding emotions for the other as a seeing emotion, it is opened by the senses, and it is the sensing that opens the world the one who sees and senses (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 10). (15 November, early afternoon), from ‘Jafs,’ observing the intersection, personal reflections: “Many are getting the benefit of the doubt today – it is more difficult to recognise people in the winter than in the lighter seasons. Lots of down jackets, sometimes with the hood down, sometimes up. Is it the jacket I have counted or the body inside? Then I do not count. And there is nearly no standing still today, only moving, moving, moving, which also makes it more difficult to get a good look at people, more than just the second they pass. If I do not see their face, it is impossible to keep people apart.” (Day 17) The bodies without individual characteristics show stress, they show cold. It is a challenge that the bodies are ‘feature-less.’ At the same time, it is a positive challenge because people outside the window become ‘just’ bodies, not ‘substance users’ and ‘everyone else.’ (12 September, 12:15 pm) From ‘Jafs,’ observing the Intersection: “(12:17) There is much more motion here, among the substance users. Many, many, many more substance users. Not motion, sorry, they stop and stay a little more still. But not for a long time, they dissolve relatively quickly, but a tiny bit more still maybe. Fairly obvious dealing at times. […] (12:27) Lots of dealing as I have said already. Maybe five to seven individuals who stay still for a while, in clusters. Maybe a couple of minutes every time. A few minutes ago the two policemen came back, hanging out here for a while. The groupings then dissolved fairly quickly. Now, there are no groupings, but people are constantly moving past in all directions.” The “many, many, many” are not necessarily noticeable to everybody in the intersection. Most people just pass through, in the perceived space of the intersection. Some may have prior conceptions of the place, the conceived space of substance users, the Roma, and other people at the margins. One really needs to pass at one of the ‘right’ moments and pay attention in order to perceive the large number of substance users in the intersection. Probably most people would say that there are indeed substance users in and around the intersection, and some might even notice that there are many. ‘And?’ When immersing into it, with all sensory systems going, one really gets an idea of the numbers and the atmosphere, the lived space that is the intersection. The individuals grouping and regrouping in the tale, the dealers and buyers are not merely

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‘extras,’ making up the geographies of society; they are living lives, partaking in the production of space. (11 July, 5 pm), from Jernbanetorget: “#It is 17.00 and two policemen have appeared, so they are still present in the area. They are talking to somebody drinking beer in public, and pour it out, without protest. Substance users. No fuss, even if they interrupt. Good tone. Few substance users at the moment, most are on the way across, apparently on their way to somewhere. Police sits down with beer people, have a chat. Probably means good tone. (something). Frisking of one individual, but still calm. But this leads to everybody else staring. Still, everything looks calm and respectful, but I am 30 meters away, so I do not know what is said. But no visible or audible reactions. […] # It appears that there is some form of symbiosis between police and substance users. There are also some ‘loose birds’ who contact the police themselves, sit down with them and chat a bit. I do not know if they are trying to be buddies, are already buddies, or just appreciate the conversation.” This tale is really a narrative of an “amorphous muddle […] in all its triviality” (Lefebvre: 2008 [1961], 344). Again, rhythmanalysis and spatial analysis open up the perspective. One has to become part of what one sees and senses in order to do the analysis that makes it plausible to interpret this on the level of lived space. This could be about sensing relaxing bodies, as with the former tale. However, somebody is also being frisked. I notice it, and it obviously affects me as I comment on the other people staring. It relates to a sense of shame, exposure, and being laid bare as well as a violation of privacy. Here, it is the people’s staring that I react to. The reference to some people as “loose birds” is also based on a sensory experience of bodies being neither this nor that, just searching for companionship. ‘And?’ This amorphous muddle of trivialities is also about the police and the drinker producing social space, and the spectators being the otherbodies. The officers and the drinker are sharing a social space, seeming amiable, in a space that is their lived, everyday space. The spectators are the ‘visitors,’ the ones on the outside, so to speak. As these individuals have this public space as their workplace and their meeting place, it lies ‘inside’ the tourist attraction or somebody else’s commute, passing through. The analysis obviously depends on the perspective and point of interest. If I did research on teenagers ‘killing time’ in the area or on the use of safety precautions among construction workers, or whether the tiger is preferred to be photographed with or without a rider, I would have body and senses attuned to something else. Other lived spaces and other socialities would appear, and the otherbodies would be somebody else. Based on my interest and my point of view, the police are easy targets of frustration, they are ‘always’ treating the vulnerable street people ‘badly,’ and the vulnerable are ‘always’ targeted. The tales, the analyses, and the lived space perspective let us see more complex spaces and lives. (12 July, 10 am), from Europar dets plass: “#It is 09.56, little happening, some tourists have asked some substance users on other side for directions somewhere. Interesting that they approached them, still a few over there, but

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just hanging out.” The event of this tale is a good example of what one researcher-body in lived space observes that very well may go unnoticed by another. By asking ‘and?’ in this tale, the substance users are not otherbodies, whereas the tourists may be. They reach out to others in order to ask for assistance. The tourists did not shy away from the substance users and stayed until they were given directions. Either they did not realise who they were, they were too polite to terminate the conversation, or they did not consider this a problem. From my reaction, using the word “interesting” shows a sense of amusement, a positive surprise, about the tourists approaching this group and not the police, for example.

Whose Lived Space Is It? Early on I made some assertions with regard to this space being somewhere where certain people live their lives, stating that there are people who actually live here – hinting at there being different groups of street people. I do not want to state at this point that this is not the case; I do, however, want to state that it is not as simple as that. Throughout the day many individuals encounter each other in different lived spaces, where they live together. Nobody ‘owns’ these spaces or has a greater claim to them than anyone else, neither police officers, nor substance users, nor researchers. In the encounter, all are just bodies, and all bodies are equal. This equality is part of the reinterpretation of the calling, as I state that, in accepting the calling as common, we also have to be equal in the calling. In the following, attention is drawn to tales where this is particularly clear when reading with Lefebvre. (13 September, 9:30 am), from Jernbanetorget: “#5: It is 09:35. We have been at Jernbanetorget since 09:00, very quiet, very quiet! Just four or five substance users. Just now three policemen came, so I guess they are on the way in now. #6: It is 09:53, and the RV just arrived. Before that, at least nine [officers] had come in cars and walked in. Now even more have arrived, one in an unmarked car, now there are (counting) 16. And the mini-bus just arrived, so now they will be even many more. Big operation today, must see how many they are, I will get back. #7: It is 10:05, and I am ending the session at Jernbanetorget. By the time all the policemen had arrived, they were 23, so it is clear that they have some other strategy today. It appears that they cannot start their meeting, because they are too many to fit. But this is the only thing that has happened all the time we were there, maybe a total of eight substance users have passed by only to disappear, and very few others.” Everybody is other but the police – the sheer number makes everybody controlled. When I transcribed this tale, I wrote a big smiley face after describing how the officers could not fit in the RV. This was a reaction to how I felt about the asymmetry between the officers and the subjects (or objects) of the operation. I do not mean this as a statement in

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regards to a discussion on political action concerning the challenges related to the open drug scene. I mean it as one sees the officers and substance users or Roma in encounters. Space is, according to Lefebvre, relational and thus a social product. This implies that spaces form society and result in society – the police space at Jernbanetorget this September morning could, for example, seemingly form and result in a discussion on social surveillance and control. When analysing the events I noted as interesting and relevant in this tale with the three-level mode of analysis from Lefebvre more details appear. In the space described above, from my point of view, the police do comprise the most prominent bodies, and my analysis takes that as the starting point. The police space, like all spaces, has three levels and must thus be interpreted from the interplay between these levels. Lefebvre’s levelling lets us focus on one level while always keeping in mind that the others, distinct from each other but equally important, are still part of the one in focus (Schmid: 2008, 33). The concepts that are perceived, conceived, and lived are social and active processes. One could claim that the main task of the police is to monitor and control perceived and conceived space, as the levels where space is experienced. Furthermore, conceived space is understood as the “dominant discourses of space in a given society” (Simonsen: 2005b, 7). This is the natural level to emphasise in the interpretations of the police space; these are the levels that are visible and maybe controllable. When the police RV is on the square and surrounded by uniformed officers, people may perceive and experience the geographical space as a somewhere where something or someone is unsafe and needs protection. A person who feels insecure about substance users, someone who may think all Roma people are criminals – or someone who thinks that the city centre is a place of blind violence and robberies – may have their preconceptions confirmed. The space is produced and reproduced as an unsafe location with particular “spatial sets characteristic of each social formation” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 33). The spatial practice of the police may, on the other hand, be perceived as actually rendering things safe. The point is that, through the interrelationship between the individuals standing in relation to this particular social space, this control or security practice is ensured and continued. Continuing the interpretation on the level of conceived space or representations of space, the Lefebvrian reading points to signs and codes and representations tied to the order of production. They are “shot through with a knowledge (savoir)” (2007 [1974], 41). In a way one could say that this is how the space is thought. The massive police presence is a representation of how Jernbanetorget and its inhabitants are thought. This is really what society thinks about how this space looks, how it is represented. It is conceived of as a problem that needs to be produced and reproduced as something else, ideally something better. However, because knowledge is not something static but always in the process of change, this representation changes over time. For

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example, were fewer arrests to be made within a certain period of the police operations, the representation would be of a safer space (than it used to be), at least for certain ‘inhabitants’ or ‘users,’ here interpreted as the ones mostly passing through, the ones whose thoughts about it matter. For the people who live their everyday lives here, in this context interpreted as the street people, the police presence has a direct impact on their lived space at Jernbanetorget. The police presence is a consequence of the spatial practice and representation of the space the street people inhabit and use. These spaces refer to the symbolic aspects of the space, following Lefebvre, referring to the “ambiguities and complexities” (Schmid: 2008, 36) of this life. On the other hand, the street people are also part of the lived spaces of the police officers. Thus, in these spaces, seemingly dominated by uniformed police bodies, the ambiguities and complexities could, for instance, be both resistance to “alienating features of everyday existence” (Hetherington: 1997, 23) and lived space encounters where calling bodies encounter in mutual reciprocity. Equal bodies encountering each other in the lived spaces of calling. The analytical level of the lived spatial aspects is the premise for interpreting it as such. The sensory, embodied experience of this space enriches these aspects. (13 September, afternoon), personal reflections: “#26: I have walked another round, seen some more substance users in Skippergata now. I did not see as many policemen now, but that does not mean that they are not around. It just means that they are out of my view somewhere. I will go through the railway station, too, before I end the session. #27: It was fairly quiet in there, but a lot of people. I met 2x2 police officers, only between the police office and the upper “new” square. I also looked over the wall and down at Jernbanetorget where there were another six policemen. It has been stressful, also for me, here now, because of all the police. It makes me nervous, and my thought is that maybe there is something I should be afraid of, since they are so many of them, instead of thinking that they are there to make it safer. I do not know how it makes other people feel.” How does it make other people feel, the ones who are not familiar in the area? I am not scared of the substance users, quite the contrary: I am familiar with the situation and circumstances many of them live in. This, of course, leads to my reacting to the police as I do. I understand the consequences of being detained and the different possible outcomes. The police, in this particular situation, are not associated with security – it is not a representation of a safe space. However, for other people, the substance users create insecurity, they are the strange otherbodies who are drugged out of control. For them, the constant presence of the police might in fact be a relief. It definitely looks dangerous, considering the number of uniformed police – whose presence nourishes the perceptions and representations of this space as ambivalent and uncertain. According to Lefebvre, this gives us a favourable starting point for critically discussing the production of space. (14 November, 4:45 pm), from ‘Jafs,’ observing the intersection: “#51: It is 16:46, and now a rather big group has gathered, about eight to twelve substance

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users on the other side of the road. For some time they were standing in twos with a few meters between them, now everybody is together in one group really close, and now everybody has started walking in different directions, and only three or four are left, not really together. I have already seen several that I did not see earlier today but that I have seen before. And a few whom I know, whom I have not seen more than maybe once earlier this summer.” After such a long time submerged in the lived observation in the field – my body carries embodied experience – there is a certain anticipation and understanding with regard to what is going on. This is experience that enriches and even prerequisites the lived space analysis. The embodied experience is both part of the spatial practice of the group in the tale as well as the representation – this group is represented in one manner in my tale, after weeks of sharing moments of the geographical and social space. The tales of someone else at the intersection at November 14 close to 5 pm might not even have mentioned this group. And this relates to the lived space analysis, as the lived space of this group, that I share parts of in this tale, brings particular details to the surface. Before ending this section, I want to draw attention to three short tales, as they may contain some indications of the discussion to come. (15 September, 12:50 pm), from ‘Jafs,’ observing the intersection, personal reflections: “#28: It is 12:50. I just saw a very, very young girl who passed by, 17 max, she also drew my attention, small wounds on her hands, and counting paper money very indiscreetly, looked drawn and untidy, but I have not counted her. I will see if she shows up again. Still have not been any police here, because she is a person I would like to let the police know about, if I get a better look at her.” (15 September, 1:50 pm), from ‘Jafs,’ observing the intersection: “(1:50) I just saw another very young girl, and also one more whom I see now who is very young, on the one hand. On the other hand, she looks very ‘clean.’ It makes me really, really miserable, and I have been miserable for a long time today, depressing day!!!” (15 September, 4:25 pm), from ‘Jafs,’ observing the intersection: “#53: It is 16:25, it appears to have calmed down a little, but it has been extremely stressful. 127 people have already passed here! Two cops just came up Karl Johan, going toward ‘Møtestedet.’ Right past a woman who is either mentally ill or very affected by drugs, walking barefoot in far too thin clothes.” The very vulnerable bodies in these tales are dramatic contrasts to the threatening space represented by the 23 officers in the tale of a morning at Jernbanetorget. Embodied challenges to us as society and as a welfare state, yes. But a threat? The representation of an area needing constant policing with the effectual perception of insecurity affects the lived spaces of these women. It may also affect their self-conceptions and self-representations in this space. ‘And?’ On this level of analysis, the symbolism of these bodies may express and evoke social norms and values that thus may be challenged. This critical vantage point is opened up, uncovering details that may reveal new possibilities. The embodied affection of immersing into this lived space is a prerequisite for bringing these details to the forefront.

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These bodies emphasise the heterotopic qualities of this space, really challenging a general discourse of this area being one for shopping and travelling. However, these marginal and vulnerable bodies affect and impact the surrounding bodies. In these tales, how the researcher-body is affected is clear; otherwise, the women would have remained invisible. These bodies affect me as I share this lived space with them, the cold, the fear of the everpresent police, of not having enough money, or of being exposed. I do not know what they are thinking or how they feel, but my body knows something about their bodies. Lived observation does not come with a filter of any kind to protect the researcher. Once one goes into a field with all of one’s senses and one’s body, one becomes, and indeed must be willing to become, vulnerable. As a researcher, one has no control over the field and what happens. With the premise of affectedness, one is also emotionally exposed to whatever turns the field takes. And sometimes the affectedness really hits “the intestines” (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 19). This recognition may be something to take into account in the discussion to come. The above tales, and their interpretations, were related to the analytical levels of the production of space – and to making the connection to the researcher-subject, what she has experienced, seen, and sensed in the field. In the following, tales are discussed where several other agents play a role.

Bodies in Calling Because of the police operation that was part of the Sentrumsarbeidet, the uniformed bodies of the police officers played a very central role in the fieldwork. The police are of course not only powerful, they also represent societal power, thought, and knowledge. It is ultimately a political decision that the drug scene needs to be dissolved (perception), and the police are the tool for carrying this out (representation). In the following section, some tales where the police are more body than police (lived space) are discussed. First, however, let me start with some tales that give further insights into the police presence. (12 July, 10 am), From Jernbanetorget: “(10:15 am) I have, however, gone back to Jernbanetorget, because there are a huge number of police officers here, the RVand (counting) three vans, and (counting) three cars, and (counting) six bicycle police. I will hang around for a moment to see if there is some reason for this, or if they are just having a briefing. Two substance users are next to the RV looking. Maybe they are trying to find out what is going on. Of course, some people have gathered around to stare. I will sit for a moment to find out what this is. What it is or if they are having a briefing. Half a minute has passed, and two vans are leaving, two policemen have left for ‘Plata,’ and two are going into Østbanehallen. At a calm speed. A few bicycle police disappear (two toward

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‘Plata’ and two toward Karl Johan). I assume this has been some kind of meeting. At least it is nothing panicky.” To start with, I wonder what is going on. At this point in the fieldwork, this also relates to the fact that I do not actually know what is happening. Attempting an analysis from a starting point that is less impressed by the engagement with the street people, the amount of police present could be experienced and explained differently. For a tourist, maybe perceiving Oslo as being extremely safe, the police presence may represent the production of this safe place. For a substance user, maybe perceiving Jernbanetorget as the riskiest part of the road to medication that ensures well-being and survival, the police presence may represent the production of a very unsafe place. Or, to a person without a place to sleep in the freezing cold, the police may be perceived as possible providers of relief, represented by their presence and, maybe, the RV’s. From the point of view of lived observation and the social phenomenological approach, sharing the space with somebody spending hours in the space, some insights on certain lived spaces are available. Through rhythmanalysis, sensory impression, and lived observation, insight may occur into certain lived spaces. When sensing seemingly calm bodies move away, the assumption is that the situation is calm – or that there is no ‘situation’ at all. Another body may become disquieted by this presence. The choice of “panicky” relates to my assumptions on behalf of everyone who has something to fear from the police. From the researcher-body’s point of view, the policed space under observation is all these levels, as in this context she is too an ‘inhabitant’ or ‘user’ practicing everyday life. (13 July, 9 am), from Europar dets plass: “Soon 09.00, a couple (of substance users) at the stairs and bus stop, bicycle police incidentally stopping close by. It is ok, it is why they are here, but at the same time it is very invading, no matter what. Somebody is paying attention, always waiting for you to do something wrong. They are not doing anything just standing one meter away. I would feel it very invasive. It might have been better if they just made contact, I think.” Somebody in this scene is supposed to be the otherbody. The police are anticipating something from the other, as they are a representation of an open drug scene space, and they prevent the other from performing certain actions by standing there. I assume that the police want to prevent drugs and money changing hands, or catch somebody in action. For many substance users, getting what they are searching for is a question of having a bearable day, of being able to function as somebody and as a body. That is their production of space, and their circling and searching is linked to “the clandestine or underground side of [their] social life” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 33), their lived space. The stress of not finding or getting this is something one can see and definitely sense. Having somebody watch over your shoulder who can take away your freedom, thus making the chances of relief (medication) even slimmer, adds to this stress. The tale shows how the police are power bodies and power representations through their uniform. There are other people

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standing in the exact same spot who do not cause the same embodied reaction, but the police bodies do. Obviously, as other tales show, there are also plainclothes officers in the area, and this knowledge is something that causes some trepidation. Almost anybody could theoretically be a threat, but one has to take one’s chances anyway. With the uniformed officers, one at least knows who they are and where they are, leaving, paradoxically, a certain freedom of action. The interesting point, especially reading this with Lefebvre, is that the substance users in the tale stay where they are and keep coming back to this place, often up to four times a day. This in many ways shows resistance, against being forced to move, to find somewhere else to go or something else to do. In resistance in the lived spaces, according to Lefebvre, one may make the space as a whole visible and thus “reveal the social relations of power that operate within society” (Hetherington: 1997, 23). Through the spatial production of these people, the space, although marginal, is rendered as a counterhegemonic space. The police bodies also control space, not just by their presence, but by their actions. (13 July, 1 pm), from Europar dets plass: “#It is 12:42, and the most eventful thing that has happened in a while has just happened: A substance user was standing to my left, looking down into the tunnel to the subway, for maybe 5–10 minutes. At the same time I noticed him I noticed two officers entering the subway at the other side of the road from where I am sitting. Suddenly they appeared from behind and started talking to him. No fuss, just talking. He apparently had to state his name, though I did not hear it. One officer checked with the headquarters (via walkie-talkie), then they handed him a piece of paper. From what I could understand he was suspended from the area, that is south of Oslo City, north of Prinsens gate (or Tollbugata), and east of Skippergata, in other words nowhere close to Jernbanetorget. If seen again in this area while suspended, he would immediately be arrested. From now until Saturday – 72 hours – he is not allowed to be here. How many people get suspended and what do you have to do to get suspended? Is it enough to just look like a substance user or must you be somehow registered as a substance user or what? I do not know. It cannot just be that you are simply a substance user, because then everyone else here would be suspended, too, so you do something to be suspended, and then you get registered as suspended – and then there is no mercy. But what you have to do, I do not know, because I just read about these fines … So, this means that people can get suspended for 72 hours … It is clearly better than a fine, yet this is not a private area … but now I know about it, which is good. As far as I understand it, he was allowed to use buses, trains, and trams, but then he would have to somehow prove what he was doing, I do not know how, but that was that.” This is certainly a case of concrete power of constraint by the police, in the representation of a certain, unwanted space, in order to produce another kind of space. The spatial practice that is taking place emphasises that the perception of the space by the researcher-subject is taking place not only in

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her mind, but rather that it is “based on a concrete, produced materiality” (Schmid: 2008, 37). There is some choice of words that shows a participating researcher-body in lived space. “Eventful” is here used ironically, hinting at the power the police bodies display in the tale. There is something most unsettling in how some bodies can control a public space, literally denying other bodies access, seemingly on the basis of some exterior criteria or representations. Through his spatial practice, the man in the underground tunnel appropriates the space and constitutes himself as subject of his space (Prigge: 2008, 52 f). This is his everyday spatial practice, where he uses the spaces where he lives for the activities that are necessary for him. However, the police, representing spatial structures, objectify this individual space of action (2008, 53). I have to assume that the man who was suspended did not actually commit a crime in this context, because then he would have been detained. This again must mean that he was stopped because he was familiar to the officers, or because he looked like he did. Ultimately, he was stopped because of his body3 – the police criminalised his body – in order to remove it. This also relates to the topic of sameness. This man is otherbody, he is being noticed and judged for his traits and characteristics. The police remove this otherbody from the streets, eliminating the premise of bodily encounters in this shared space. Police bodies make spaces into apparent power spaces, their spatial practice “as lived and taken-for-granted space of everyday production and reproduction denote[s] ‘the real’” (2008, 54). It is not necessarily questioned by the majority society, as the space is produced and reproduced as needing constant surveillance and control. It is fairly obvious that the police in the area play a major role, and that they have contributed to a change in the manner and geography of the substance users, because they probably impact the lives and routines of other people in the area, changing the representations of the space. For street people, police control is often expressed in a manner that diminishes their integrity and it may be experienced as degrading, and constraining. The fear of being controlled by the police creates a way of using public space that is limiting and full of precautions. Substance users know that uncomfortable situations outside their control may occur in the encounters with police (Nafstad: 2012, 123). They must move in and use public space in other ways, ways that are less free than for most other users of that space (2012, 123). The space is thus represented as unsafe, making the paths and courses of action different than before. However, through spatial analysis and by asking ‘and?,’ maybe the powers are not as one-sided as it appears – maybe there is some silent or subconscious revolution going on. Lefebvre’s ultimate point, and 3 When I write of ‘bodies,’ I do not mean to create someone without individual characteristics and qualities. The point is the phenomenological concept of bodies delivered to each other in the ethical demand, calling, and compassion – where the body does not stop to think who the other person is.

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what matters in the case of this project, is that abstract space – the urban – is power, something that removes differences, and only through revolt can differences be recovered (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 49 f). From his point of view, in this abstract space, the ‘users’ may be letting themselves be manipulated by these power spaces. Street people who are not participating in a workplace, in a shopping experience, or in admiring the tourist destinations have no place in the city. They hold an unstable position in public space and cannot even know their place, as they indeed do not have one (Nafstad: 2012, 151–154). Although they may have homes or live in shelters, they do not participate and/or are not welcome in the activities of the general public and are thus not desirable in public space. Their lack of this participation, in combination with the police gaze, may lead to their constantly moving about. The police gaze is directed toward the stereotypical conception of what a criminal looks like (2012, 107). The gaze is directed toward social characteristics and representation rather than behaviour. Place is an important factor when it comes to the police’s eye for the disorderly representation. It may be places where, from experience, the police know that crimes are often committed. Many things become dubious in such places (2012, 107). In light of the statements regarding the police gaze and how the substance users take on the roles of perpetrator, it may be interesting to imagine that this is a two-way street. The substance user’s gaze is directed toward the stereotypical conception of what the police officer looks like and thus contributes to defining who the police officer is and the space that officer represents. The gaze is directed toward social (or group) characteristics rather than behaviour. Of course, the purpose or intention of the encounter between the substance user and the police is different for the two parties, a factor that also plays a part in the encounter (2012, 108). And there is certainly a powerful force versus a rather powerless one. However, the tales show many other encounters between substance users and police than those guided by pure power and dominance. The lived observation and rhythmanalysis, analysed through lived space perspective, uncovers other details than a macroanalysis. In an intersection where every day there are hundreds of encounters between the police and substance users, one is tempted to assume who holds the power and who is always defeated – by being arrested, expelled, frisked, or told off. Observing such encounters does not necessarily prove such assumptions wrong. One could leave it at that and could carry on a meaningful discussion about surveillance society or power relations or any range of other important topics. However, if we look at the tales again, remembering the ‘and?’ and the lived space, the murmur may be about something else: “It has as perpetual witness and proof the cop at the junction, Law and Order, and if someone goes too far, he knows he will be arrested, whistled at, trapped, in such a way that the solitary cop induces the discourse of Order, […]” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 41).

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But, this is not always the case. Even if Lefebvre’s cop is in Paris, he could easily be at the intersection. “[…], the two in the window sill, they had moved to the 7/11 sill, had fallen asleep, heroin sleep, and two policemen came up Karl Johan and touched their shoulder and asked them to leave in a friendly way, well, maybe not friendly, but not stressful either. And all the ones along Skippergata disappeared toward ‘Møtestedet.’” This is a different cop tale, although also about maintaining and representing ‘law and order.’ The two officers are two of dozens of patrolling officers who constantly move through the intersection, part of a constant presence producing and reproducing this problematic space. The tale is also a tale where the police do not play the expected role of “inducing the discourse of Order” by the substance users being “arrested, whistled at, trapped.” This 3-second event took place by the intersection, among hundreds of pedestrians; substance users moving here and there, maybe dealing; police officers ever watchful and patrolling. This particular day was a day with a higher number of patrolling officers than most other days, so the assumption was that there would be a more aggressive atmosphere in the intersection. In my observation of the approaching officers and the two sleepers, the anticipated encounter did end in some kind of drama. But the encounter, interpreted as their lived space encounter, was something else. Following Lefebvre’s both/and logic and theory of production of space, this encounter was not about whether the police or the substance held the power in this particular space. Rather, asking ‘and?’ and using the concept of lived space, the encounter embodied complex symbolisms linked to social life (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 33), referring to the ambiguities and complexities that are linked to this life (Schmid: 2008, 36). Substance users use the space ‘improperly,’ behaving privately in a public sphere, using a window sill for sleeping. And the police fulfill their role as guardians of peace and order in the public, removing disorderly elements. And? – the encounter is something more. In the cacophony, there is a murmur of something else. It is bodies responding to the other bodies. It is possible to imagine the interaction between the police and substance users as its own space; and they definitely do produce a certain kind of space. The substance user is an undesirable neighbour who in many ways represents an undesirable space. First and foremost, however, the substance user is to most a stranger, maybe even more than stranger: the absolute, alarmingly ‘other.’ He or she may be perceived to be involved in criminal activities, joining others in bigger or smaller groups; is drugged, often on, to most, unknown substances with unknown effects; may look unwashed with stains of unknown matter on his clothes and dirty hair and hands; maybe seriously ill, pale, with an emaciated face and body, lacking teeth. Whether this is a person is not relevant, “[I]n public space, the homeless4 do not appear as individuals with 4 Although the substance users in Oslo are not necessarily homeless, they are by many seen and treated as such. They are, however, placeless.

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distinctive identities. […] As a specific mode of embodiment, the homeless body [or that of a substance user] is not an identity but an emergent and contingent condition that traverses and occludes identity” (Kawash: 1998, 324). According to Nafstad (2012), security guards play an increasingly important role in the power structures in public space, through their ability to decide who can and who cannot stay in the semipublic spaces such as shopping centres and the public transportation areas (2012, 158). The participants in Nafstad’s research report on negative encounters with security guards in and around the Central Station area, where guards have crossed the line with regard to their true jurisdiction. However, they also report that there seems to have been a positive development lately (2012, 160 f). Nonetheless, the security guards set limitations to the movement of the substance users. Nafstad explains that the guards cannot frisk people without their consent, but that they can hold them until the police arrive, if a crime is suspected. This means that, for instance, a substance user who has not committed a crime would rather have the guard doing the frisking than having to wait for the police. Nafstad points to the power position this puts the guards in with respect to the substance users (2012, 163), which obviously taints the relationship between the two groups. In my years of working in the area, I also heard several stories in which security guards were involved, and rarely as the good guys. My attitude toward them in the field was probably affected by this, and I expected them to fare badly in the encounters. There were many times I expected them to show up, and when they did, I expected them to instigate situations where they could exercise some (muscle) power. The first tale here shows my preconception. (12 September, 1 pm) “#19: It is a shortly before 13:00 [12:58], the security guards were in here [inside ‘Jafs’] for a long time. It distracted me a little, they were watching the crossing all the time, running out to chase people again and again, making sure people did not sit down. They always keep people from sitting down on things, and of course making sure there is no (obvious) dealing. There have not been any police since the two policemen walked by 45 minutes ago. There are quite a few people walking in Karl Johan, while the substance users mainly walk in Skippergata, so they literally cross each other’s paths here. Of course, there are some exceptions, but this is the general pattern. There are many, many substance users, I will come with a number as time here is ending.” To the researcher-subject, the space these guards represent is fairly unambiguously expressed in the tale. The representation is “as conceptual ideologies of disciplinary and political-technical dominance over space” (Prigge: 2008, 54), and I assume the taken-for-granted production and reproduction of a space where security guards treat the street people badly and participate in society’s production of Jernbanetorget as a ‘nice place’ where there is no room for anything or anybody different. Am I distracted because they are perceived as the ‘shared enemy’? I know the trouble they can cause for

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a substance user and also how afraid many are of them, because of the many bad episodes of mistreatment and violence they have experienced (Nafstad: 2012). Yet, contrary to my preconception before entering the field, the security guards were hardly present at all. This was probably because they were more indoors in the private spaces than I was. Every now and then they showed up, but they rarely lived up to my expectations – or rather my prejudices. Quite the contrary, as the following tale shows. (14 July, 12:30 pm), from Europar dets plass: “#It is 12:28, and right after last time I spoke, maybe 5 past [12:05pm], the ‘tourist’ got company from another substance user, or another substance user sat down by the same fountain. After a while I saw that the new guy was preparing a syringe, and the ‘tourist’ sat down next to him. I also saw that the guy who owns the tourist shop behind here and another man who appears to work/live nearby saw what was happening and they went into their respective shops/doors, and I thought the police would quickly show up. But the second man came out again and saw that a female security guard was about to come in our direction, and he called her and she calmly went over and made contact with the two men at the fountain. The calling guy started to interrupt, started to shout that they had to stop what they were doing and how can they do this, etc. The security guard had to ask him to stay out, go away. And after just under a minute, the syringe guy left, walked away without any drama, whereas the other stayed and talked for some time (1.5 min) with the guard, before he too left. Then the calling man came up to her (the guard) and started telling her off, that she couldn’t just chat (jabber) to people like that, and that she had to put a stop this. I too was surprised that she did not call the police, because she could have done that in seconds. But she didn’t. They stood there talking for a long time, until now, when another guard arrived. They appeared to part in a friendly tone (the two guards left). I am surprised there was no police and a full alarm at once, but like I said, I do not know the strategy of the day or the arrangements between the police and the security companies. There are guards here all the time, so maybe they have some kind of arrangement with the police, where they (I would guess and suppose) are supposed to call the police. But I may be wrong, and that was why this didn’t happened just now, or if this guard thought there was no need, I do not know. Interesting, that people start to tell her off because she was not more aggressive in her approach/appearance. […] So things are happening here too! I have seen that there are several substance users here too, the last few days, so maybe the people with businesses in the area do not really appreciate that, but this is the first time I have seen anything explicitly active with regard to substance use. But maybe they’re having major problems when I am not here or have had them before, I do not know. He was not so tough before the guard arrived, but then he was very tough about her not being tough enough.” The tale continues: “It its 10 to [12:50 pm], and the guy with the syringe was just back, along with some other people. Well, not together, but they bumped into each other by the fountain. One of them was changing

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clothes, and took off his pants, down to the shorts he was wearing underneath. The calling guy appeared the instant they arrived, calling security guards to have them chased away instantly, but nothing was really happening. Except that they were substance users and there. They left without a hassle.” In the afternoon, the tale continues: (4 pm) From Europar dets plass: “#It is 16:07 at Europar dets plass, a police car has parked across the street from Arkaden, but no officers that I can see. But I see the security guard from before, talking calmly to two substance users with a dog by the fountain. I wonder if it’s the same man from before who called her, or if she just passed conveniently. Good tone, apparently.” The tale shows an encounter that took a surprising turn with regard to the expectations. First of all, in this tale an actual criminal act is taking place, and several laws are being broken. The two men at the fountain are producing and reproducing the space as an unsafe space where substance users go about their business without consideration for others. The actions could also be perceived as such – this is how it is at Jernbanetorget! The crimes are related to the administration and usage of drugs. It takes place in broad daylight, with no attempt to hide. The shop owners are not pleased and understandably so, as it may jeopardise their business when potential customers do not want to pass (and see) these actively (drug)using bodies and may thus go to another souvenir shop or kiosk. As is clear in the tale, I expected the police to be called, and there were plenty in the area already. But this did not happen, even though the security guard arrived, seemingly by coincidence. I assumed this would be bad news for the two men. In the best of outcomes, she would call the police herself, and in the worst-case scenario she might somehow mistreat the two men by the fountain. Instead, she took care of the situation in a respectful and calm way, so that a new space was produced. She approached the two substance users respectfully and kindly asked them to leave, while being yelled at by the business owners. She called neither the police nor her colleagues. If somebody deemed ‘ordinary’ did something that is strange to do outside in a public space, such as changing their pants, most people would think it a bit weird. But when it is a substance user, or a Roma, people find it wrong and unacceptable, as they are conceived and perceived as not participating in the production of (capitalist or bourgeois) space. They are offensive bodies, representing an unproductive space. They are taking their private spatial practices into our public arena. They are using the space improperly. If you look ‘wrong,’ you cannot also do wrong, because that would add to the wrongness. People need to look like us and do like us, which is more comfortable and convenient to everybody. They need to participate in the capitalist production of space. This, in short, means being the same, not different. For Lefebvre, difference “emerges from struggle, conceptual and lived” (Kofman/Lebas: 2006, 26). The men at the fountain are struggling to live through another day as dignified participators in this space. Lefebvre states that “[t]he right to difference implies no elements that do not have to be

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bitterly fought for” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 396). Although this struggle entails committing a crime, the security guard produces a space where there is room for the difference. There are many people, both organised and on their own, who care for street people. Sometimes the people take care of the Roma women sitting closest to their apartment building or workplace, making sure they have warm clothes and food. Other times they collect knitwear to give to the shelters or bake for the street cafes. Different organisations as well as the police have outreach programmes on the street level, where small groups walk around in certain areas and talk to people, aiding them when necessary. This is often about informing people about places where different kinds of services are available, but it is also a way of making sure people are seen, as well as keeping a certain overview of the situation going on in the area. During my fieldwork, I saw many individuals in the area I assumed were somehow connected to the street people or the drug scene, without partaking in the milieu. Sometimes it was confirmed to me who they were, other times it was not, especially if they did not ‘do’ anything besides just being there. A few times I witnessed encounters where there was more than an apparent short exchange of words. (15 September, 12:50 pm), from ‘Jafs,’ observing the intersection: “(12:53) There is also another man whom I have not mentioned before but have seen many times. He is elderly and has a trolley bag with religious motives and saints on it. He came just now, and I see that he is handing out drinks to the people here. (Seconds later) The guy with the bags has been standing there until now, but then he disappeared, without my knowing exactly when and in what direction he went. #30: He is handing out food as well.” In most contexts, this man would make me feel uncomfortable. This gentleman often plays the guitar and sings about Jesus in various locations in Oslo. I do not have a particular need for salvation, so I do not want to be approached by people who want to tell me about The Good News. In another discussion on calling, however, he could play the central role. Albeit, in the life in the intersection, this man was a relief. Seen from the perspective of capitalism or politics or majority society, the space of this man – or his encounters with the street people – are not particularly useful. They do not contribute to any valuable production. As a superficial simplification, seen from the perspective of those understanding themselves as the real producers of space (society), in the daily practice and experience of perceived space, his practice produces and reproduces the spaces of the street-people – actually facilitating their lifestyle, making it possible to continue. It could also be imagined as such, on the second level. He is part of the mental construct of the space and becomes part of how it is thought. Lefebvre writes that “the producers of space have always acted in accordance with a representation, while the ‘users’ passively experienced whatever was imposed upon them inasmuch as it was more or less thoroughly inserted into, or justified by, their representational space” (2007 [1974], 43 f). If, however, the representational space, the third level, is the ‘And?,’ the real-

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and-imagined, the perceived and conceived and the lived, the space is more complex. It refers to something else besides the space itself: It refers to the symbolic aspects thereof, to its ambiguities and complexities. This could be enriched by doing the analysis again, but from inside the space. In the cold reality of this space, where hours and hours are spent on the cold and hard pavement, in the search for the medication that can make one’s existence manageable, with just enough money to cover this expense (maybe even less), the man with the trolley bag plays another, more important role. Spatial practice embraces the body’s perception of the space, specific locations, and spatial structures, and how we experience them. The embodied perception of the substance users can be sensed in the experience of the cold and the hard concrete surroundings. The conception of the space is materialised through its planning, construction, and architecture, expressing and representing the dominating discourse of society (Simonsen: 2005a, 59), namely, this is a space of consumption and for passing through – and nothing else. It is obviously not somewhere to stay and live. For those consuming and passing through, this dominating discourse may not be part of their present awareness, as they are partaking of it (participating in what is perceived and taken-for-granted). For the substance user, on the other hand, this may very well be part of the conception, as he or she is trying to get through everyday life by using the space in other ways, like spending time there. However, in this conception, the trolley bag-man represents something more than an unwelcoming, cold, and hard space. Not only is he someone relieving urgent needs, such as thirst and hunger, but he is also sharing moments of lived life and space. Maybe such social practices transgress the physical space, as the lived relates to the individual or the collective interpretations and the use of the materiality of the urban and the existing representations as well as the everyday infrastructure of the urban (Sand: 2014, 40). And maybe this is how the third level can become a space of resistance, a counterspace, as it is through the perceived and lived that social actors and groups can transform the meaning of the space as well as the space itself (Elden: 2004, 191). Lefebvre writes: “The dominant spaces of power and wealth work to manipulate the peripheral and marginal spaces that they dominate, oftentimes by force, to eliminate resistance” (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 49). By this his critique toward majority society becomes clear, emphasising his assertions of the potential that lies the marginal and the different even more potently.

Recapitulation On the preceding pages, I analysed the tales using Lefebvrian concepts and by pointing out aspects that these concepts uncover. The tales are rich in details and encounters; I could have pointed out many other aspects, given other

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perspectives. But for the discussion on calling, the three-level mode of analysis, with its particular emphasis on the level of lived space, this is all I need. Through this reading, including rhythmanalysis, the placement of the researcher-body inside the lived space was decisive. The calling inside cannot be talked about without this embodied presence. By analysing the small tales, pointing out details that are available to the researcher through sharing these lived spaces, the equal bodies encountering in the lived spaces of calling emerge. Having determined that, in order to reflect on the calling in practice, as opposed to principally, one has to become immersed in the spaces one is interested in and share the lived spaces of the lives there, it is now time to discuss what this means. Through a discussion with the other contributions on calling I aim at finally answering the question at hand, namely: What implications does spatial analysis of everyday life in a marginalised microspace have for the reinterpretation and construction of the concept of calling? Furthermore, on the basis of all that I have analysed, discovered, and discussed, I formulate what I consider a redefinition of the concept of calling.

Reinterpreting the Calling In phenomenology, evidence is tied to experiences, statements, artefacts in the world, and existence itself […]. That we cannot see the complete and entire artefact at once, meaning that it is not capable of obtaining adequate (exhaustive) presentation, does not mean that we cannot experience it with evidence (Martinsen: 2005, 53).1

Can Lefebvre-based lived space teach us something more about calling than what we have already learned from Cecilia Nahnfeldt and Kari Martinsen? In the previous chapter, I looked at the tales from the field through the Lefebvrian, three-level mode of analysis, conceptualising how to understand the spaces as spatial practice, as representations of space and representational spaces – or the present spaces as they are perceived, conceived, and lived. Through that analysis I was able to show how the analytical level of lived space uncovered perspectives and details not otherwise seen or found. Furthermore, I pointed out that these reveal more complex and profound content in the tales. I asserted the embodied presence of the researcher in lived space as decisive to the interpretation of calling. The reason for this is that the researcher herself is spatially embodied and participates in the tales, and that she herself must be affected in order to point to the calling. In the following chapter, I want to discuss the uncovered lived spaces, the goal being to explore what kind of calling is found and what its qualities and characteristics are. With this goal in mind, using the presented material on calling, I once again interpret a few tales. What these tales have in common and what I emphasise in the interpretation of calling is prereflexivity. I argue throughout the discussion that the significant moment in the tales is when the encountering bodies respond to each other momentarily, before all conscious considerations and assessments of the situation can occur.2 These moments are significant because in the prereflexive, the encountering bodies are equal. They are not uniformed police or substance users, they are just equal bodies without predefined positions. There are some premises for the present discussion, which I clarify once 1 “I fenomenologien knyttes evidens til opplevelser, utsagn, gjenstander i verden eller til tilværelsen selv. […] At vi ikke kan se den hele og fulle gjenstand p en gang, det vil si ikke form r la den komme til adekvat (uttømmende) presentasjon, betyr ikke at vi ikke kan erfare gjenstanden med evidens.” My translation. 2 This is the conception of B. Waldenfels (2007; 2011). I show this through my interpretations, which are addressed specifically below.

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again as we enter into the final considerations. However, in order to make these clarifications, let me recall what has been reviewed this far. I stated initially that the discussions on the concept of calling rarely make it into a more contemporary and practical context, and that when they do, they tend to remain on a meta-level. I introduced a theoretical premise for the discussion, namely, that the empirical space is interpreted as Foucauldian heterotopia. From this space, I collected a substantial amount of material by means of participant observation, specifically by lived observation, using a social phenomenological approach and rhythmanalysis. I emphasised the use of all the senses and being affected by the field, making the researcher-body in lived space a significant part of the observations. The material is presented as tales, a concept taken from John Van Maanen, the aim being to invite the reader to experience the field more or less like the researcher did. The theoretical framework, the premise from Foucault and the challenges from Henri Lefebvre were accounted for and explained more substantially. The subsequent analysis showed the complexity of the field. A discussion with the contemporary contributions on calling now explores the possibility of a reinterpretation. A short recapitulation of the main perspectives on the calling is in place. The premise for this particular discussion on the calling is Wingren’s interpretation of Luther, which places the calling in the world among humans – one does not aim up toward God in the calling, one bends down toward Earth (Wingren: 2004, 172 f). Wingren also followed Luther’s perspective that the calling is not limited to what we see as religious spaces (Nahnfeldt: 2016). In Nahnfeldt’s interpretation, which builds on both Wingren and Luther, calling is about how people live for the living. In its ultimate abstraction, it is the relationship of an existential address and human response (2016, 207). Great confidence is exhibited in our ability to meet each other’s needs. According to Nahnfeldt, meeting others’ needs as well as one’s own occurs when we use the ability to act as a changing agent and to show compassion. She emphasises the willingness to be disturbed by our fellow human (2016, 187; 198). It is not the action that decides whether the need is met, it is the receiver. Martinsen, on the other hand, places the calling within the ethical demand and emphasises how we must see the other with the eye of the heart. She states that not only do we hold aspects of the other’s life in our hand (Løgstrup: 2000, 37), we hold something of the other’s life in our eyes (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 37). She emphasises how we gain experiences by being shaken, by being torn from the habitual, by letting ourselves be affected. Our fundamental experience is impressions, being moved (affected) bodily (2014 [2000], 51). Thus, the following premises are established with respect to calling: The calling applies to us all, regardless of our creed; equal individuals encounter each other in the calling relation; we are all situated, sensing bodies in the world. But when interpreting the field from these premises, including the perspective of lived space, does it still make sense to speak about calling in this

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way? What characteristics would such calling have and what would its premises be? Martinsen and Nahnfeldt both contributed to and developed the contemporary discussions on the concept of calling. They focused on the encounter and the embodied, sensory attentiveness to the needing other, for the sake of that person – not for the sake of some god or religious community. However, neither places the discussion inside the spaces of the others – or lived space – which is where I want to situate this discussion. By this I mean that in their contributions they lay out the premises for the space and the encounters in the examples. In Nahnfeldt’s case the examples are recognisable situations from, say, a workplace. When Martinsen writes for, and from, the perspective of nursing, her examples are from nursing encounters, where an other comes into someone’s professional space for particular reasons that are mostly out of need, not desire or coincidence.3 Common to both is that they write about the calling from the outside, giving examples of how we could interact with people in a manner that makes us attentive to the other and his or her needs, and taking actions such that their integrity and dignity are preserved. In this project, the researcher-body in lived space is part of the tales, situations, and encounters, situated as a participating observer within the spaces in which they occur, discussing from the perspective of these spaces. I observed what the bodies did, not the words that were spoken, and I became part of what took place. Although the interpretations are mine, the encounters took place in real life. Because I was there myself, more details than the specific event became part of the details, even before the interpretations, because they affected me. I could have written about the area with the presumption of it being cold in November, but the actual and physical embodied experience of the cold has an added value. The contributions by Martinsen and Nahnfeldt are discussed based on the Lefebvrian reading. My contribution to the discussion lies in my emphasis on lived space as the most important space (level) for a renewal of the calling. There is, of course, so much more to say about the calling, but what do the tales provide beyond Wingren, Nahnfeldt, and Martinsen? Is the unpredictable and unclear lived space the proper space to explore the calling? Two points supplement Lefebvre’s three levels of spatial analysis: One is that the researcher-body is explicitly present; the other is that rhythmanalysis belongs in a discussion of calling as such a discussion necessarily starts in the particular space one wants to explore. These points make it possible to point out and discuss prereflexivity in the encounters, which is a prerequisite for this discussion of the calling. In the following, the concept of calling is

3 Although their work is not explicitly devoted to calling, but rather to care responses, the same can be said about the material and cases used in the Wyller/Heimbrock contribution to the development of the empirical-phenomenological approach in traditional health and care practices.

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reinterpreted by discussing a few of the tales, albeit this time emphasising prereflexivity, researcher-body, and rhythms. The common premise for Lefebvre’s three-levelled mode of analysis, rhythmanalysis, and the calling is the body. There are several tales where the concept of body and embodiment makes for a good interpretation starting point. By elaborating on the issue of the body, some tales are about a body responding to and touching another body. Other tales tell of similar, but even more acute embodied responses to a suffering other. The first example starts with some drama, where a substance user is frisked and the officer finds illegal substances on him, so he is placed under arrest. (14 September, 5 pm), from ‘Jafs,’ observing the Intersection: “#37: It is 17:00, a police car is coming up Karl Johan. Also two police officers, but they turned and went down again. Just along the street here are (counting) eight substance users, definitively dealing, very obviously. Now they got a very clear signal from another here, who called them and discretely gestured to them to get lost, though I do not know if they got it. The police are going in the opposite direction, as it is a one-way street, so it appears that they [the substance users] got lucky. #38: There were two police officers coming down Karl Johan, too, but they looked like they were just out buying food. They looked over at the group standing here and definitely dealing, but continued down, to eat? Take a break? #39: Now I just witnessed something I did not understand. The two police officers who just passed, now it is 17:07, apparently told the two other police officers I saw about what they had seen, so they came very quickly around the corner here, approached the dealing, and decided who it was that was doing the dealing. Now they have frisked two of them, like they did before, asking for ID and frisking them. It was clear that one found something, I saw her holding it in her hand. She took out one of those tiny evidence bags. It seems to be an easy-going tone, they were just standing for a while, and then she took out a small bottle of disinfectant, gave him some and took some herself, they both rubbed their hands. Now they are just standing there.” In this tale, the anticipated chain of events seems to have resulted. However, in the anticipated sequence, something unexpected occurs. It is a tiny gesture, and no one would necessarily remember it or even think about it at all. However, it is nonetheless noteworthy. They are together in this situation, sharing lived space. There are thousands of explanations for the officer sharing the disinfectant. One obvious one could be that she knew that she might have to touch his hands. Another could simply be that he asked for some. But seeing and sensing the interaction and encounters going on the entire time, this lived space was a breach in what seemed to be the routines in the spatial practice and representation. There people see each other every single day, they are “human beings who enter into relationships with each other through their activity and practice” (Schmid: 2008, 29). They literally share ‘work space’ – they share the heat or the cold, the smell and noises. In

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this tale there are “glints of the breakthrough of compassion” (Wyller: 2008, 180). Do they encounter each other in the calling? The second example is from November and the temperature outside is approximately 0 degrees C. “It is 13:28, the two cops walked toward ‘Møtestedet’ now. They have stood here quite some time now, chatting amiably with a couple of substance users, very amiably and pleasant, humanly. Not just being buddies, but warming each other. One of the policewomen is rubbing one of the substance users on the back. As one would do when helping another to stay warm. Even if this was a calculated move or a joke or if it was irony, it was still a physical, bodily, closeness that no one had needed to do.” There are so many ways of describing and telling this event – as with the policewoman with the disinfectant. This encounter between the police and substance users lasted for a few minutes. And the encounter in itself was a surprise, as it appeared to be genuinely pleasant. Like old friends meeting in the street. It is not possible to state for sure that it was, only what it seemed to be. However, regardless of the intentions behind the pleasantness, the event was a breach in events and surprising in that everybody behaved differently from what was expected. As representational or lived space, referring to “symbols, the ambiguities and complexities that are linked to life” (Schmid: 2008, 36), the space between these people challenges the symbolic character of both the police and the substance users, and it becomes highly ambiguous and complex. It is no longer simply an intersection with random people. And it is no longer a space where the marginalised are dominated by expected power persons. Everybody was in the same inside, in the same lived space. Then, it is the small gesture, the touching, that underlines the entire event. It is not a site, but it links to “temporal situations, events, which occur in particular places that open up the possibilities of resistance within society to certain marginal groups and social classes” (Hetherington: 1997, 22). This is manifested calling. I believe there is something in this tiny event, explicitly tied to embodied affectedness, prereflexive response, and equal bodies in lived space, that has implications for how we interpret and understand calling. But let us first look at one more tale. Many tales express a communal co–creation and re-creation of spaces that would not come to be if it were not for the police and the substance users. These spaces exist only for minutes, if not mere seconds, and they can only exist where they are. When they dissolve, they are no longer there, though they are reproduced several times a day or from day to day. These spaces would not be visible without observing the area over time and physically experiencing some of what the other bodies are experiencing. And they might not have meaning without the Lefebvrian reading, as the closeness or presence in these spaces may be described in spatial categories, which carries the tales. A third example of the human body in a police uniform responding to another is from the summer (13 July, 4:30 pm), From Europar dets plass: “#It

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is 16:34 and there has been a scene here that has lasted for the last 20–25 minutes. Two policemen came and took a young woman off a bus standing at a red light, I do not know whether the driver or another passenger contacted them, there has been a long confrontation here where … I did not hear the conversation, but it may have been something like we had this morning. She was frisked and all her things checked, and she did not have anything [illegal], but she was suspended from the area. She was completely drugged, so she may not have gotten the message. It was quite awful to witness, trying not to stare, and to catch what is going on without catching what is going on. It seems other people have no scruples – staring, standing right next to it, and observing what is taking place. Police had to lead her back several times, as she had no interest in listening to them. There was no screaming and shouting, very subtle, the male officer tried to help her get a little more dressed, as she may have showed more than intended. I thought it was, or it appeared to be, a respectful encounter, except for the fact that she was detained in the middle of the street, and it lasted for 20 minutes so everyone got to stand and stare … Another substance user, a woman, approached her as she was being talked to by the police, not sure what she was thinking. Still quite a few people in the area, circling. No one is stopping. In the meantime, while the police encounter took place, a music group and dancers settled outside the new entrance to Oslo S. I realised that they are proselytising. They’re singing and dancing to Jesus music, holding small speeches in between, where one is talking Norwegian, and another talking even more eagerly in English. And an entire Hare Krishna procession has passed, around 30 persons, in tunics and with drums and the whole package, in front of the bus stop and stairs.” This tale in many ways shows how complex and rich an account or tale can be, and this particular one is only about the things I saw. This again underlines the importance of the researcher-subject, as this tale would not exist as it is without me as observer, as the sensing of rhythms “requires equally attentive eyes and ears, a head and a memory and a heart” (Lefebvre: 2013 [1992], 45). One strength and weakness in my methodology is that I enter into an event without any information, introduction, or explanation. The weakness is more related to wanting to know, more than anything else, to having my curiosity satisfied. The strength is that the rhythmanalysis and lived observation can take place without the distractions of the ‘story’ – it is only about what is taking place and what the bodies are doing in that exact moment. The embodied presence in shared lived space gives insight and knowledge to the practices of these bodies, which relates to the calling. I refer to what is taking place with the girl as an event, meaning both ‘something to do’ for the police and ‘something to watch’ for the passers-by. A sense of disrespect for the curious, the unscrupulous gloaters by the pillory, is felt deep down, or, to be more precise, resignation. I remember thinking “Go away!”, while at the same time I was deeply uncomfortable with staying, as is clear in the tale. This embodied feeling stems from being witness to something

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not meant for me to see. Both in the sense that this woman was standing there in all her misery, defeated and exposed, for the world to see, while another body was exercising its powerfulness on her body’s powerlessness. On the other hand, the presence of the spectators also felt safe. For one thing, some might stop and stare, not for the pleasure of watching the other’s downfall, but to make sure that, in the midst of power display, the police are not overstepping their boundaries. Someone may be ready to speak up if something happens. Also, the spectators protect me from being mistaken, or exposed, as another nosy onlooker. The girl is so drugged, her body seems to not be obeying at all. She still might have been doing fine, even been able to fend for herself, if she had not been exposed, as it then becomes clear for more than the people who might have seen her on the bus that she does not seem to know what is going on. However, the police’s action may be discussed in that possible helplessness. In the lived space of these bodies, new details emerge. The police are obviously taking control of the situation, of her body, exercising their power to act in ways others cannot, such as going through somebody’s personal belongings, holding somebody back against their will, limiting somebody’s access to public space. With ‘and?’ there are, however, other aspects to point out. There are signs of protection and care, of stepping in to take responsibility for the other body. The situation and circumstances are such that the girl and the officer are placed in a common lifeworld. Because I was in a situation where I ‘had to’ watch and be part of the situation, I had the time to use all my senses in the observation. Normally, I would probably see the event, assess it, make up my mind about what was going on, make a judgement of all the ‘good guys’ and the ‘bad guys,’ and become upset or just carry on. All without even stopping for a second. Obviously, my mind is also part of the observation, but the ‘gut feeling,’ like the Samaritan’s pain in the intestines, is the guide. The officer’s approach and every move made toward the girl were very gentle. He never raised his voice, never manhandled her, although she did not do as told. He had the presence of mind to care for her appearance. Or, the presence of body to care for her. Her vulnerability increases as her clothes slip off to expose her body, and his body responds by taking appropriate action to protect it. This could definitely be a calculated move on his part, also to protect himself from possible accusations from the bystanders, or because he himself, in mind or body, felt offended by her body and skin. But then again it could just be an embodied, caring response to an exposed and vulnerable body. As the other woman approaches, there is a sense that the situation that is actually partly a ‘good’ one is about to spin out of control. The encounter is in a sense so fragile, and the new body barging in could easily break it. I assume her intention is either to protect a friend or to reprimand the officers for mistreating the substance users. She did, however, approach the girl, not the officer, and it seemed like she just gave a message, for she was immediately gone again, without disturbing the encounter.

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While this little encounter took place, the Christian youth group was playing really loud music, singing and dancing, and preaching, just behind the girl and the officer, on the other side of the street. From the perspective I had, from the interpersonal lived space I participated in and witnessed, there was a strong sense of this preaching being disrespectful behaviour. This encounter in front of me was rather dramatic, a person’s life was at stake, and the rejoicing in the background seemed misplaced. For anybody else in the area, the singing and music was probably experienced in many different ways, but in the space where I was it felt invasive. When the Krishna procession also moved past all of this, it became quite bizarre. There is so much going on that distracts our senses, things that also distract us from each other. The officer never lost focus on his task of dealing with the girl. This is probably part of his training, to not get distracted in a hectic situation or location, but his awareness and/or attentiveness to her embodied vulnerability and exposedness was constant. The actual touching in these tales is of great importance. Foucault gives many references to the metaphor of the social body, and Lefebvre also puts a great stress on the body, with his emphasis on human beings as corporeal and sensuous beings (Schmid: 2008, 29). A premise for spatiality and sociality is man’s relationship with his body, as this body is needed to partake in social practice, hence the first dimension is the body perceiving its social surroundings (Lefebvre: 2007 [1974], 40). In the context of urban public space, namely, the area around the station, this becomes relevant as the police are to keep public space in order, often by removing otherbodies “[…], the body emerges as the stake and the site of the contest over public space” (Kawash: 1998, 323). The touchings could be said to be spontaneous, even unconscious responses to perceiving a freezing or a vulnerable otherbody. It might not be a calculated action where anybody ‘wins.’ The people are probably very aware of their roles, where one could be arresting the other within the hour or day, but still, in the moment, one body responds to another. It shows interdependent humans in their vulnerability and exposedness, in their suffering and life courage. It is, as in certain interpretations and descriptions of the parable of the Good Samaritan, a narrative in which humans who are strangers to each other, encountered in proximity, in time, and space (Martinsen: 2005; Foss: 2004; Theiben: 1990). This kind of embodied, perhaps even unconscious interaction is prereflexive, meaning that it takes place before we assess and make judgement of the situation and the people with whom we are faced. There are several phenomenologists contributing to the concept of prereflexivity (cf. Løgstrup: 2000; Martinsen: 2014 [2000]; Merleau-Ponty: 1962), among them Bernard Waldenfels, whom I relate to in this context, as he places prereflexivity in the body. “The domain of our body includes all that really has to do with me without being done by me” (Waldenfels: 2007, 75). Space and the prereflexivity are closely connected, but Waldenfels also emphasises the encounter. He uses the concept of pathos, noting that they are “those events which are not at

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our disposal, as if merely waiting for a prompt or command, but rather happen to us, overcome, stir, surprise, attack us, […]” (Waldenfels: 2011, 26). They are events that happen to us and do not belong to a “first-person perspective as an act I perform, nor to the third-person perspective as an objective process registered or effected from the outside” (Waldenfels: 2007, 74). He states: In sum, everything that appears to us has to be described not simply as something which receives a sense, but as something which provokes sense without being meaningful itself yet still as something by which we are touched, affected, stimulated, surprised and to some extend violated. I call this happening pathos, Widerfahrnis or af-fect, marked by a hyphen in order to suggest that something is done to us (2007, 74).

This prereflexivity as pathos is a central feature in how the calling is to be interpreted in this context. It is human to encounter others with empathy and pathos, but it is not necessarily something we decide ourselves, as Wingren emphasised in his concept of calling: Solidarity is something we have to “endeavour to shake off” (Wingren: 1995 [1974], 39),4 in encounters with suffering. When the police officer pulls the clothes over the substance user’s shoulder, they are in pathos. As representations these strange bodies of the others may be threatening. However, the bodies in these tales can easily be interpreted as suffering bodies. And as humans this is the representation of space we must be sensitive to. It is in this representation, in this production of this space that the suffering calls to us in pathos. And our bodies respond. And in shared, lived space, it becomes harder to deny the body this response. On the other hand, by making the person into ‘just’ a body, it is also easier to keep a distance, also for politicians (and police) to make them into a representation, a removable problem. “[…] the production of a homeless body adds another dimension to our efforts to understand the sources of antipathy toward the homeless […]” (Kawash: 1998, 325). That, however, demands consciousness, not pathos. When a body responds to another body, the body becomes a person. The police are embodied uniforms or uniformed bodies. Without the uniform, they are individuals like everybody else – ‘just’ another body – but the uniform gives the body certain qualities, certain representations, including powers and rights. It may be like a protective layer shielding the body from being affected. In the tales above, one could maybe assert that this shield is broken, and the unprotected bodies step forward in pathos. Considering the minor gestures and details that surface, prereflexively, the uniform and the dirty, rumpled clothing of the girl are not relevant during the seconds in which they occur, in the pathos. Seen from the outside, however, they are. Without being in the encounter, in the pathos, reflections about the bodies set in, and they are attributed meaning. They are probably defining for 4 “Hon m sta anstränga sig för att skaka den av sig.” My translation.

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what the spectators are experiencing. This does not mean that the spectators cannot be attentive and compassionate to this other, but they may have consciously made assumptions about her, as well as about the police officer, and may thus not meet as equals where they are also in the calling. From the inside, on the other hand, in the shared space described in the tale, of which I too am part, there are no imagined or real uniforms in these decisive moments where the bodies respond to each other. I do not mean to say something along the line of ‘all being equals in the eyes of God,’ or that these people are exposed without uniform. It is something more. Even with a police uniform, with such strong and clear symbolic meaning, the officers can be in the pathos and thus the calling. “Pathos means that we are affected by something, in such a way that this ‘from where’ is neither founded in the previous ‘what,’ nor can it be sublated into a subsequently accomplished ‘for what.’” (Waldenfels: 2011, 27). So both the body in the substance user uniform and the body in the police uniform are prereflexively directed at the other, even with these uniforms. The significance of the body and senses in the encounter are established as decisive for discussing the calling. It is thus interesting to look back to a practice used in the police operation. This practice is exemplified in the tale from Europar dets plass in July recounted earlier, where a substance user was stopped by the police and then suspended from the area for 72 hours. This suspension practice, which the police exercised on several individuals, is worth discussing with regard to the demand or calling from the other. The removal of bodies has implications for the space as it precludes the possibility of personal, embodied encounters, and thus the prereflexive ethical demand that is the calling of the sometimes different other. This does not mean that this individual does not encounter others in other spaces, but the police are eliminating the ethical challenge posed to them and to everyone there, ‘freeing’ them from the pathos. This person may call out to them, but they refuse to hear, as they have registered and taken adequate action, rather than seeing and sensing with their bodies. In pathos, one must be close to, not moving away. By removing him they are liberated from the demand from the other. I obviously understand that there is a logic behind this kind of suspension, i. e., that he has been taken for something earlier and receives this kind of limitation instead of arrest. The officers may also have all kinds of training in detecting practices that have certain meanings and are to be discouraged or eliminated. However, they are not, from my perspective, free from the calling other or the ethical demand posed by them holding a piece of a life in their hand. In the suspension practice, they seem to turn down the calling other by simply removing the otherbody. At the end of the previous chapter I made some preliminary remarks concerning details of calling in relation to an analysis of the tales of the barefoot woman and the two very young girls. The affectedness and the gutwrenching details of that context are directly linked to pathos and the calling. By this I mean that, through multisensory observation and rhythmanalysis

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followed by lived space analysis, one sees these bodies – and one does so with the entire body – and one’s own body is affected. The vulnerability of these bodies has an impact, without any filter. These women and I are the same, and they mean something to me. They show me what life is – that it is precarious, and that it must be cared for (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 19). And the reason the researcher is impacted and affected is because of the shared lived space; hence, these tales indicate something that may be discussed as embodied spatial calling, as will be elaborated on in the following section. One important aspect is that the observer, in this case the [researcher]-subject, must also experience the calling – it cannot be talked about without her. And not only the caller is part if the calling, the called is just as important. The data are not only subjective – although based on my own sensory experience – as the point is to come so close to the lives observed, by sensing the same cold, for instance, that one is affected embodiedly. In these tales, not only the researcher-body in lived space is clear, but there are very clear, communicating bodies and affectedness. Is this the calling of the other? Can what takes place be interpreted as a clear embodied, spatial calling?

Embodied Spatial Calling The researcher-body in lived space is in the midst of the periphery of the city, the periphery that, according to Lefebvre, the city needs (Lefebvre: 2003 [1970], 118). It is the heterotopia that reminds us of the realities and complexities of society. What may be interpreted as calling in the tales results from rhythmanalysis, which is possible because the researcher was present and felt the breaches. Rhythmanalysis brings lived space, body, and calling together in the prereflexivity. What is most prominent from the last analysis of the tales is the emphasis on the “I,” which is rhythmanalysis. This implies that the called is an important part of the calling – the subject is part of experiencing the calling. The caller is not the only part of the calling, but rather the called is equally important. The actual events that take place obviously take place regardless of the presence of the researcher. However, the point is that the researcher presence, also in the tales, help to clarify the events. In other words, her embodied experience is prerequisite to discovering the details that are significant to the discussion. Hence, the present researcher must be part of the lived space. What is new is the emphasis on the lived space perspective – and how one must be present in rhythmanalysis. There is an explicitly embodied calling, with both the researcher-body and the protagonists of the tales. And this happens inside the intersection, or the square, which is already a space produced by the people there and thus spatial. Without the present researcher, this remains

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unseen. It is an ethically normative notion – one must be affected. To return to phenomenology, the affectedness and pathos belong with those who experience it. It seems to affect the policewoman who takes action and strokes the back of the freezing man, as well as the observer who was there and thus can tell the tale about it. This makes Nahnfeldt’s encounter calling partly precise, but it leaves out the one who speaks of it. Rhythmanalysis and the present researcher-body expand the spaces, and more spaces appear. Even where there would appear to be mostly violence, other aspects emerge. With Lefebvre, the point is that all this is production of space, and the tales and their interpretations concretise what it is. The glints (Wyller: 2008) are productions where the calling and pathos is present. There are counterspaces that I register. In the power play, there is another production of space going on at the same time: lived space. The police are operating in perceived and conceived space: It is their job to reduce the space of the substance users and Roma. The analysis, however, points to breaches and to new spaces that appear through lived sensory experiences presenting a new lived space. This has certain qualities that break with representations of the space and thus create another kind of interaction within – and that is where the calling is uncovered and can be discussed. That is why spatial interpretation is important. What do the tales show that goes beyond the earlier contributions? From the premise that the tales show a lived space with new – or at least other and unexpected – content, lived space is the place for rethinking the concept of calling. In the lived space, the observer or researcher becomes part of the same space she is observing, sharing the circumstances. She is provided with a larger insight into what is taking place. This uncovers more details, for instance, possible meanings of the arm that strokes the cold body. The presence of the researcher and her embodied experience in the lived space thus belongs in the discussion on the concept of calling. My point is that calling has to do with embodied and spatial practices and socialities – that is, the renewal of the notion of calling. This take on calling has implications for how we understand the concept in public space. What I have aimed to do is to take the encounter calling from Nahnfeldt and the eye calling from Martinsen and concretise them in the absolutely detailed space I am left with when analysing the tales with Lefebvre. I have taken certain aspects from their contributions, such as the emphasis on the situated body and locating the calling with our fellow man, and tried them in chaotic, unorganised public space. The point is not that calling is spatial, that is a prerequisite for both Nahnfeldt and Martinsen, but that with Lefebvre it is possible to read the spaces in even more detail, and that the perspective of lived space can teach us more about the calling. The calling is not only a disruption or an encounter or sensuousness; it also takes place in the microspaces of these lived spaces. The calling is not just ‘everywhere,’ and I have tried to show this: The calling is also in the nonspaces, not addressed by the contributors on

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calling, that are actually rich and complex social spaces, among the seemingly absolutely heterotopic. I have shown that there are manners of discovering the calling, and that we meet in the calling as equal bodies with pathos, provided the premise that it is something we are affected by (Waldenfels: 2011, 27), provoking sense, as something “done to us” (Waldenfels: 2007, 74). Who calls and who responds in these spaces is not something decided beforehand. Nor are the spaces – even the heterotopic is a space of calling. I wrote in the Introduction that I understand the material space of the tales as heterotopias because of the constant confrontation with the different other that disturbs the general discourse of this space. Although the geographical area in itself could be interpreted as heterotopia in line with Foucault’s accounts and principles, it is in these heterotopic spaces of encounters, these disruptions, that the calling is found. The individuals who live their everyday lives in these spaces, whether police or substance users, high-school students or Roma: All of them are otherbodies who reach out to each other and respond to each other’s embodied spatial callings.

Collecting Thoughts Independent of creed or religious point of view, we are all in calling relations to each other. It is up to every individual to define whether the calling ultimately comes from a deity. However, the premise is not that if you do not believe in a god you are not in a reciprocal commitment toward fellow human beings. I do believe that it is more important to be sensitive and attentive to our neighbours and what their needs are than to ponder upon who is actually calling us into action. An issue is that many seem to have the answer before they actually listen (Wyller: 2008). This is another critique of the Christian concept of calling that I specifically endorse; there seems to be a tendency to assume that the answer lies in the fact that we are called. Our bodies, regardless of our positions, ideology, or creed, are called, and they meet and respond in pathos when undisturbed by thought – like the policewoman stroking the back of the substance user: A cold body affectively responding to another cold body. As a fellow human being makes his suffering or embodied need alive for her (Wingren: 1995 [1974], 57). She just responds. The action, in accordance with Wingren, is latent, lying in waiting, rooted in human existence, something that can be executed to exemplary perfection by an illiterate (1995 [1974], 101 f). The policewoman is surely not illiterate, but the point is that her body does not need specific training or knowledge to respond to this other body. She may even have training in acting distant and professional, i. e., not being moved by this other body. Maybe it was a case of her mind slipping and her body stepping in – of pathos. By going outside of her professional training, she was transgressing Wingren’s perspectives on

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calling, with his strong emphasis on labour. According to him, by simple reasoning, the policewoman is called by her profession. And with Nahnfeldt’s encounter calling, something more is brought into the calling, but there is still something lacking. As the analysis shows, the calling in the tales entails rhythms – and thus cannot be found without rhythmanalysis and a (researcher-)subject present on the scene. This entails that calling could not be talked about without the subjects involved. The caller and the called and the one sensing and sharing their space are all equally decisive for the concept. The asymmetry in these spaces and others exist, I do not challenge that, also in the encounter and after it. The spatial analysis lets the discussion take place in lived space, where one is present in the rhythmanalysis. In order for it to be lived space, the researcher must also be part of it. In the moment of encounter, in the disruption of rhythm, there is a prereflexive moment of equality, where the calling and the pathos may be pointed out. This changes the space momentarily – and thus changes the production of space. It becomes explicitly embodied calling both in the researcher and the bodies in the tales, and it takes place in the intersection as heterotopic lived space. Without the researcher-body in lived space and the affectedness, it is not seen. This is an ethically normative idea – one must be affected to speak about the calling. I have, throughout the book, referred to theorists and contributions that relate to something of a universal humanity that unites us. I have placed the embodied spatial calling within this position. Inside the material space of this study, there are many lifeworlds and similar lifeworlds to those diaconia traditionally has been concerned with. That is why insights from this space and what they mean have to relate to this discipline. The spatial approach and the objective of common calling in the world are not necessarily unifying ideas; they do not make it an obvious position in the self-understanding of the scholars in the discipline. Before concluding and pointing to the impacts of the project, I turn to the contemporary science of diaconia and its present condition: to Scandinavian creation theology. In the science of diaconia there seems to be certain dissensions and a tension between two positions. On the one hand, there is a traditional concern for diaconia as a function of the church, which thereby lies in a particular focus within that context. On the other hand, the position opens to a diaconia field of research that does not solely lie within church contexts. The particular lifeworlds addressed and discussed here are also diaconal contexts. My position, which is elaborated on in the following chapter, is that these lifeworlds should be part of the core of the discipline. This explains the affiliation of the book and ultimately discusses the impact of an embodied spatial calling.

The Science of Diaconia While diakonia was earlier perceived often as the activity of professional diaconal workers or agencies, it is now emphasised that diakonia belongs to the nature and the mission of ‘being church’ (Dietrich et al.: 2014, 2). There seemed to be a commitment in the calling with regard to the suffering other that led the deaconess to find the suffering, to enter into it, to be close, and specifically present to help the situation of the needing: to change it. The calling drove them into the action and out to the other. The calling was a genuine and passionate involvement directed toward the other; it meant going beyond oneself, being in motion toward the other (Martinsen: 2014 [2000], 111).1

Diaconia is not easily framed. It is a term that is used in so many different ways that it may be problematic to create a clear definition in terms of content to what diaconia is compared to other types of religious or universal/humanist care (Foss: 2005, 39). Its significance varies in the different Christian denominations as well as in different nations.2 Diaconia does not have the same meaning, for example, in Germany and Norway, although the word used is exactly the same. Even within the Scandinavian countries, which are closely tied together both culturally and historically, there is no one common meaning. Not even within the context of the Church of Norway or Norwegian theology is there any obvious coherence in the understanding of the concept. In the following I give an account for my understanding of diaconia and the science of diaconia. This is my position in this field and thus positions this project. This account limits itself to the Norwegian context, however, although the discussion should be recognisable to others.3

1 “Det synes være en forpliktethet i kallet overfor den andres lidelse som drev diakonissen til oppspore lidelsen, g inn i den, være nært og konkret til stedet for bedre den hjelpetrengendes situasjon, endre den. Kallet drev dem inn i gjerningen og ut til den andre. Kallet var et ekte og inderlig engasjement rettet mot den andre; det var g utover seg selv, være i bevegelse mot den andre.” My translation. 2 For a contemporary, international discussion, see Collins:2014. 3 For similar discussions outside of Norway and Scandinavia, see, for instance, Röckle: 1990; Strohm: 1997.

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Scandinavian Creation Theology Scandinavian creation theology stands and falls with the claim that there are shared aspects of human life that offer room for open-minded discussions of how to live the human condition alongside people of other faiths, and with people of no professed faith at all. Scandinavian creation theology leaves ample room for common sense and common commitments, even where worldviews differ or even drift apart. Everyday life constitutes a third realm between a purely political realm, and a purely religious domain (Uggla/Wyller/Gregersen: 2017, 8).

The understanding of diaconia in the following account has its premise in Scandinavian creation theology. Because this text is in English and may have readers who are neither Scandinavians nor theologians, it seems pertinent to start with a contextual introduction. First of all, the discussion in this book relates to a theology that is “particularly interested in thinking of reality as a radically open concept, which leaves space to think otherness and changeability for the world. Such extensions into discourse are open for discussion, not holy laws to be either condoned or condemned” (Heimbrock/Meyer: 2010b, 199). It is a normative, philosophical, life-interpreting approach to God, life, humans, and the world, developed within Protestantism and usually referred to as systematic theology. This particular theological approach is tightly interwoven with Scandinavian creation theology. During the second half of the 1900s, Scandinavian creation theology developed and dominated as theological movement in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark, through the works of its central proponents Gustaf Wingren, Regin Prenter, and Knud E. Løgstup (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017). Their work is based in the works of Luther and emphasise two lines of thought regarding human life that are distinctive to this particular theological interpretation. The first is the understanding of creation, meaning interpreting the world as “already God’s creation, a reality which should be cared for and enjoyed for its own sake, by believers and non-believers alike” (2017, 11). Life is not created by us, it is given to us, and we partake in the continuous creation. This condition is the same and is shared by all human beings, regardless of faith. The other central and explicitly theological distinction is the profession of a divine presence also outside religious or sacred spaces – in the everyday. “Arguments and theological thinking in favour of an affirmation of everyday life are to be considered as distinct contributions of Scandinavian creation theology” (2017, 11). This is also true in the everyday lives of people who do not necessarily think of themselves as being religious. This gives a sacredness to the everyday life and to everyday spaces that are open to theological

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interpretations of aspects and locations of life traditionally not thought of as sacred. These shared aspects of being human are taken very seriously by Scandinavian creation theology, emphasising the interdependence implied in these shared conditions (2017). The other human being, the one who is fundamentally other to myself, is also a part of this shared condition of living in a world that is continuously being created. That person shares the spaces of the divine presence, also in a small intersection in Oslo. This other has always been an important figure and phenomenon for theology, that “takes part in the task of perceiving the other” (Heimbrock/ Meyer: 2010b, 1999). This emphasis is closely linked to phenomenology, relating it to the phenomenological perspectives that have run throughout the book thus far. In phenomenology, the fact that we share a [created] life, reality, and world makes us part of the same lifeworld [with divine presence]: “A human is inherently related to others, to nature, culture and society” (Wyller: 2010b, 190). Furthermore, we “share the same planet, and therefore unavoidably live at the expense of other life-forms, and repeatedly do so at the expense of others” (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 21). This should entail that the thorough contemplations on the narrative of the Good Samaritan and its meaning for ethics and care practices are also closely tied to Scandinavian creation theology. The discussion of the reasoning and logics of why and where to ground care and aid practices also exists outside Scandinavia (cf. Theiben, 1990), so the following reasoning should be recognisable and give resonance for non-Scandinavians as well.

Outlines of Diaconia Today, diaconia means both parish-based services as well as professionalised and specialised services provided by diaconal institutions and organisations. There are positions that can only be held by deacon/esses, and there are positions for diaconal services that may be held by other professions, both skilled or unskilled – and there are many diaconal organisations that base their activities on volunteers. The profession of deacon/ess today is a 5-year university college master program, where the bachelor degree can also be in nursing, pedagogics, or social care. The master program gives insight into church policy and mission, international aid, mission, and care (Jordheim: 2011). In the Church of Norway, deacon/esses are employed by each parish, and they are often ordained as well.4 Many other deacon/esses work in the same positions as nurses or social workers, whether in public or private organisations and institutions. 4 A parish deacon can also be a theologian.

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In an increasingly secular society, many public or state services seem to be apprehensive toward deacon/esses in employment processes: They are afraid of a ‘missionary motive,’ i. e., only if the patient accepts Jesus will aid be extended. At the same time, some diaconal organisations downplay their ideology, as they want to be more focused on professionalism and the practice, and they want to be considered available to everyone, regardless of creed (cf. Wyller: 2010a). Because these organisations are, to a large degree, publicly financed and deliver services to and on behalf of the state, they are also more bound by stately employment regulations, meaning, for instance, that they cannot demand that a potential employee be a Christian or a member of the (state) church.5 This changes the culture within the organisations compared to when faith was a matter of course. This may be seen in matters regarding, for instance, whether a senior centre should or should not have an altar in the common room. Or whether in a workplace every employee must be ‘loyal’ to the ideology of the organisation. This can in time change attitudes toward visible religious symbols, or the degree to which ideology is expressed in mission statements, etc. The Church of Norway still ‘owns’ diaconia. The Church is the premise for its existence, and it still has the authority to define the mandate of diaconia. Hence, the tie to the Church is highly visible in documents on the topic. The values and goals of the Church as a whole are also clear in such documents. The Church of Norway’s Plan for Diakonia (2010)6 discusses the role of diaconia and the church in contemporary society. One of the issues is whether diaconia is a supplement or an alternative to public services (2010, 10 f).7 The Church of Norway’s Plan for Diakonia defines it as the care service of the church. In the plan, it is formulated as follows: “It is the Gospel in action and is expressed through loving your neighbour, creating inclusive communities, caring for creation and struggling for justice” (2007, 5).8 Furthermore, according to this statement, diaconia is a service to our neighbour, to creation, and a service for the Lord. It has a specific responsibility where few or no one cares, formulated as “a special responsibility in cases where nobody else takes care” (2007, 5). In the substantial work on diaconia, there seems to be a strong need to legitimise and define it, more than anything as a (protected) profession. It is 5 At the time of writing, Norway still had a state church. The state and church separated 1 January 2017. 6 Note that the spelling here is not an editorial slip: There is also certain disagreement in the proper spelling of the word in English. This disagreement is mostly tied to the two perspectives explained here. Loosely speaking, the ecclesiastical position uses the Greek, Biblical term with a k, while the practice-oriented position uses the term stemming from the English deacon or deaconate with a stronger emphasis on the practice. Many consciously differentiate the spelling when they speak of diakonia as perspective and academic field, and diaconia as action and practice. 7 Norwegian document 8 English document

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important to emphasise what it is – and what defines it as opposed to nursing and (public) social work. The science of diaconia obviously mirrors the question of what diaconia is, but there are some challenges.

The Science of Diaconia – Walking the Walk or Talking the Talk? There are some disagreements on what the material of the science of diaconia is. In the following I line up what I see as the two main lines of the discussion. This mainly represents the Norwegian case, although I do make some references to more overarching discussions (cf. Strohm: 1997; Theiben: 1990). The two perspectives on what science of diaconia should be about are, highly simplified, diaconia as an ecclesiastical matter, where the church is the material starting point; and diaconia as a universal practice, where lived life takes place. In other words, one is a position where the church and its content comprise the starting point. The other position is research that relates to actual practice both inside and outside of diaconia, and has its starting point there. This position entails that it is the practices and the subjects within these practices that have the potential for new knowledge and information that may enrich the science and practices of diaconia. The first means that the church is the source of information and new knowledge. The background and reasoning in the disagreement of these positions is founded in a long history of theology, church and state matters, economic history, political development, welfare, the professionalisation of welfare, etc. I do not go into all this here, but I do give a simplified account for the present discussion, with respect to this particular project. There are theologians on the sides of both positions, and the theological aspects of the discussion also entail certain disagreements. These are tied to the relationship between diaconia and theology. These disagreements are deeply rooted in larger (historical) issues tied, for instance, to power, gender, and professionalisation. The one issue is that theologians have made the impression of not acknowledging diaconia as an important part of the church. On the other hand, theologians have been criticised for using diaconia as a justification, rather than emphasising the diaconal actions and practices. By this I mean that it is enough for the church to ‘have’ diaconia, while the actual practice of this diaconia is secondary. The standpoint of this project is that this part of the discussion is counterproductive, focussing inwards, parking the substantial discussion of material for the science. In the anthology Diakonia as Christian Social Practice (2014), the authors address how modern diaconia was founded and discuss what diaconia comes to mean when faced with new and potent challenges in the modern world. In the introduction to this anthology, it is pointed out that some may think that the practice is more important than the terminology, that “it is more

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important ‘to walk the walk’ than to ‘talk the talk’” (Dietrich et al.: 2014, 9). They state that terminology is important because it contributes to expansion of the understanding of the concept “and its potential for expressing an important and integral dimension of the church’s mission in today’s world” (2014, 9). Although I agree that terminology opens up a concept, I only agree if the exploration of the content of the terminology is processual and dynamic and never finalised once and for all. In the following, I give a short outline of the two positions, also clarifying the position of this project. The Ecclesiastical Position – Talking the Talk? The first introductory quote to this chapter, where diaconia is tied to “being church,” elaborating the “Biblical and dogmatic foundation of diakonia […]” (2014, 2), presents the position representing the ecclesiastical perspective. Furthermore, and in continuation of this quote, “[T]his means that diakonia is not just a possible consequence of the proclamation of the Gospel, but an integral part of it, and therefore a core dimension of ‘being church’” (2014, 4). This position should resonate well with those working with the science of diaconia, also outside Scandinavia. Like all practices in the welfare state, modern diaconia is also being professionalised. This professionalisation process poses ideological and ethical challenges for diaconia, as it does for all care practices. For the science of diaconia, this professionalisation provides interesting conditions for challenging research, not the least regarding the implications for the ideological impacts for a diaconia founded in scripture and dogmatics, and also for the church. In their presentation of this profession, the Norwegian Association for Deacons write that the deacon “wishes to walk parts of the walk of life with people,”9 which sounds like a concern of ‘walking the walk.’ However, this is also linked to a church focus on what the deacons are to do. Rather than placing the practice and receiver in focus, it is the deacon/ess and the church that seem to become the subject and material. Although the ecclesiastical position I aim to present also emphasises practice as paramount to its understanding of diaconia, referring to interesting and important empirical research and projects, it does not seem to have them as starting point. Church or diaconia itself is more often than not the starting point. It is often either empirical research in diaconal practices, critically reflecting on issues such as “What makes this practice good? How is the diaconal identity expressed? Is there a diaconal distinctiveness in what is performed, or is it done in the same way as any other professional work?” (Nordstokke: 2014, 48). Or it has a more Biblical approach, where the 9 http://www.diakonforbundet.no/index.php/diakon, retrieved 19 February 2016, my translation.

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theological focus is the vantage point (2014, 48), for instance, interpreting the Biblical meaning of the word. These approaches are both important, raising crucial questions for the discipline. However, the question of the other and of his or her position as an important starting point and source of information and knowledge to the field is rarely explicitly addressed. My main concern with this ecclesiastical position is the fundamental perspective that there is the church and the diaconia, and then there are people who need something. Obviously, this statement can be made with respect to the state and social welfare as well. The difference however, is that the church has another argument, namely, the moral one, that it is done “because the church/Jesus is ultimately good.” Also, the role of provider, having something the other needs, always places this other in an inferior position. There is something about “serving one’s fellow man in need” that risks hiding the power in being someone who serves (Nahnfeldt: 2016, 84). Again, this could be said of the public welfare as well, but if “diakonia is a call for action, as a response to challenges of human suffering, injustice and care for creation. […] shaped by how Christians have tried to be faithful to the Biblical call to be a neighbour throughout history of the church” (Lutheran World Federation, Diakonia in Context: 2009, 9), this becomes problematic. If diaconia is understood as a mission from God given to the faithful to care for the needing other, what happens to universal care and common calling? And what happens to the universal humanity in the parable of the Good Samaritan? And, in this context, what happens to the police officer and the girl who is thrown off the bus? Although certain research on diaconia also addresses aspects of these challenges, the position of the other is again overlooked. I do believe there is a keen awareness of the challenge, and that it is taken very seriously. But, again, I am critical toward the starting point of these reflections. With regard to the concept of calling, the ecclesiastical position places the calling in the Bible and thus in God: “As faith-based action, diakonia connects the reading of the context to the reading of the Holy Scripture. Stories of suffering and oppression in today’s reality […]. But even more, the Biblical witness reminds us of God’s unconditional love and care for the suffering and marginalized, and God’s promise of future and hope.” In this position, somebody may be passed by, which is problematic. As I have explained, the relations in the calling cannot be defined beforehand. When a “suffering” person is defined as the caller, and we relate to him in “God’s promise of future and hope” (2009, 13), we have already defined the different aspects of the encounter, such as the relationships, the problem, and solution. This will also impact how the science of diaconia could be formed and informed within an ecclesiastical position.

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The Universal Practice Position – Walking the Walk? This position, like the first one, is obviously not a united one either. I give an account of one position within, which is rooted in Scandinavian creation theology, which plays a central role in modern ethics of care as well as the science of diaconia in this region. One starting point of this position is that life has been created and given to us (Løgstrup: 2000, 41); we did not create it ourselves. This life is continuously created, in the here and now (Wingren: 1995, 35 f; 39 f). Our relationships and encounters with other people thus shape our world (Løgstrup: 2000, 39). There are, according to Løgstrup, phenomena and aspects of human life that are not subject to our power, that belong to life itself (2000, 30; 35, 38 f). Like the concept of calling, the concept of creation may be a terminology associated with faith or creed. It is, however, also a philosophical position, and in this context asserted by Løgstrup (Løgstrup: 2000; Christoffersen: 1999; Foss: 2005; Martinsen: 2014 [2000]). Life is in constant renewal (Løgstrup: 2000, 5), and thus creation is not something that is ever finished (Christoffersen: 1999, 9). According to Foss, in Løgstrup’s perspective, every human can, in certain situations be selfless and show care for another, regardless of creed or religious motivation (Foss: 2005, 13). Although a theologian himself, Løgstrup rejected making the question of compassion and care a religious one. Rather, he made them a universal challenge to everybody, in a reciprocal interdependence regardless of faith or creed (2005, 34). As we are created (by God), life is expressed as care for and reception of the other (Martinsen: 2014 [2000]). An interesting critical question posed in this position is whether “diaconia as Christian care practices cease to be diaconia if it separates from its ecclesiastical anchoring and enter into collaborations with political or humanitarian organisations who are unable or unwilling to define such collaboration as diaconia” (Foss: 2005, 10, my translation). Such questions become particularly poignant as diaconia becomes professionalised, performing services for or on behalf of the state. “How universal can diaconia become without giving up its foundation of Christian values?” (2005, 10). Foss points out that the science of diaconia may always have to navigate within this double aspect, between the evangelically founded task for the congregation and the world and letting it include any good deed and compassion. This navigation demands a critical perspective toward the regulated and institutional (2005, 42) One cannot simply say that diaconia consists of certain practices or belongs in a certain context, unalterable, once and for all. Rather, it should be dynamic and fluid, looking outwards and forwards for development and understanding, not inwards and backwards, always having lived life as starting point. Returning to the Scandinavian creation theology, this position transgresses the meaning of church and what is sacred, or ‘of God,’ “[…] the Word of God

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and the life worlds of human beings are always seen in tandem, with never the one without the other” (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 31). Through such a nonbinary view of the distinction between what may be understood as secular and sacred, the reflections of the Scandinavian creation theologians may strike a middle chord (2017, 17). A Philosophy of Diaconia? It is obvious that the concept of calling and diaconia are closely related. Because there are different positions with regard to the content of diaconia, this impacts the content of the calling. Theology gives insightful contributions to both concepts, but it may get entangled with or be misinterpreted as part of the ecclesiastical position and/or as something that must be related to the Church. There might, according to Wyller, be more gain in turning to philosophical discussions in the search for elements to reconstruct the content of the concept of calling and diaconia (Wyller: 2014). Løgstrup’s philosophical premise is that the world is created and given (Christoffersen: 1999, 9). His view of creation is that it is universal, and that it is characterised by motion, change, and life. We live in the tension between creation and destruction, and Løgstrup’s point is that this is a universal aspect of existence in which we all live (1999, 100). It is thus not a specifically Christian idea – you can share this view as an atheist. It is “a rediscovery of the aspects of faith, hope, and love inherent in all life, regardless of whether they belong to a religious sector, or not” (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 13). Because we do not have complete mastery of the world, we do not, quite obviously, but nonetheless frustratingly, have complete mastery of our own body or an other’s body either. That the world and other humans are not our creations is decisive in how we think about, and act toward, them. One of Løgstrup’s most central perspectives in the context of a philosophy of diaconia is that what we learn from life through experiments and attempts at controlling it makes us lose sight of the fundamental aspects. We must rather learn from life through living it. And, I would add, living it in the spaces of the people and lives we want to learn something about and from. The philosophical standpoint of life and world existing in perpetual, continuous creation may be discussed in the framework of production of space. Under the premise that space is continuously being produced, I stated that in the embodied spatial calling equals encounter in reciprocity. This encounter thereby changes the entire space, even if it lasts only for a moment, as the space will not be exactly as before the encounter. The term ‘production’ may be associated with something that is made by intention. However, it is also produced through socialites and human interaction and thus falls in line with creation in this interpretation. On Lefebvre’s level of conceived space, space is represented as something we have created, “designed and produced through

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labour, technology and institutions” (Elden: 2004, 191), which also form our perceptions. The lived spaces of people, on the other hand, are completely outside of our control, as this “practical experience does not let itself be exhausted through theoretical analysis. There always remains a surplus, a remainder, inexpressible and unanalysable but most valuable residue” (Schmid: 2008, 40). I also think that Løgstrup’s notion of learning life by living it can be tied to Lefebvre’s notion of bodies living, as inhabiting, space, and space understood as a verb. “Habiter is an activity, a situation, whereas habitat is a function, a brutal material reality” (Elden: 2004, 190, referring to Lefebvre’s Du rural l’ürbain, (1970), 222; 241), suggesting “a direct lived experience, a bodily embedded understanding of space and place” (Simonsen: 2005b, 7). Which again places the emphasis on the lived as the crucial point. This space, of which we have no mastery and which cannot be exhausted by analysis, is the space of the embodied spatial calling. This is the point where bodies can express needs and where other bodies can respond before thought in pathos. And, such space is also found in a chaotic cityspace, which is thus a space for the philosophy of diaconia.

Diaconia in the City – A Philosophical Position Human ethics are neither a social construction nor dependent on religious values, but are founded in the experience of the call from the other as a given reality. Thus, the ethical demand is based on the prior fact that human beings are social beings that always live in asymmetrical relations of interdependence. Hence, we are called to take care of what is laid in our hands by [vulnerable] other persons (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 23, my brackets).

The dichotomy of either talking the talk or walking the walk is rather toothless. It should not be an either/or, as in either sacred or secular, or either ecclesiastical or universal, as this chokes off the discussion. It should rather, again, be a question of ‘and?’ – is there more? Opening the discussion, bringing in more perspectives, discussing the thematic again with new starting points. This present discussion is interested in practices in and from a particular public space. The intention is not to challenge the professionals, but rather the academic field of the science of diaconia and certain types of theology, where the other is hidden behind aphorisms such as transformation, reconciliation, and empowerment (LWF, Diakonia in Context: 2009). Raising the question of where diaconia is taking place addresses the thought of seeking knowledge from the lives with whom it is concerned. One way of

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seeking this knowledge is through the concept of embodied spatial calling, which certainly is not limited to clerical spaces. The city is the premise for (mostly) everything – all that is central to this discussion: marginality, poverty, the public, and diaconia. This stretches from the time when the modern Norwegian cities developed during the industrialisation of the 1800s, with all their new challenges, to the modern city with other new challenges. The dynamics of the urban public space is a strong motive for this volume, and the lived spaces of the tales only emphasise this. One obvious reason is that “[p]ublic spaces are critical in the expansion of the public sphere, as they allow, at least potentially, for encounters between individuals or groups who might not otherwise meet” (Ruddick: 1996, 133). These spaces are spaces of possibility and even potential changes as individuals here “risk[s] encounter with those who are different, those who identify with different groups and have different forms of life” (Young: 1990, 240). With Scandinavian creation theology, it is even possible to attribute a certain sacredness to these spaces, as in this perspective: “God is already present in the gift of life and in the vocation to human coexistence” (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 22). Modern cities are like nodes – the primary field of many diaconal organisations, outreaching activities, so-called ‘low-threshold’ meeting places, close cooperation between different advocates, the police, the municipalities, etc. This leads to a discussion where “a new assessment of the relationship between religion and the public realm, based in the recognition of shared aspects of humanity” (2017, 13) should play a central role. Marginal life in public space is something diaconia traditionally has concerned itself with. Wyller writes that, like religion, diaconia needs perspectives from the outside, also from other academic fields to challenge and enrich its self-understanding and practices (Wyller: 2014). Church diaconia means practical action for the benefit of the weakest among us. That is why, in his perspective, science should methodologically and theoretically examine such practices as well as the everyday practices of those people one works among (2014, 171). Thus, taking the perspectives from Scandinavian creation theology as the foundation for diaconal practice, Wyller calls for a philosophy of diaconia founded in these traditions, which has as its task to remind church leaders of their responsibility for the universal aspect in diaconal practices and to discuss practices and diaconal institutions in relation to discussions on humanity, ethics, and circumstances in society (2014, 174). Going directly to these lives and spaces to openly seek out what they can contribute in these terms should then lie within this conceptualisation of a philosophy and the science of diaconia. The central point is that caring for one’s neighbour “is not part of a barter deal, in which the helper is to be reciprocated by the one cared for” (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 16). Most of present diaconia – and discussions on diaconia – remain within

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representation, in what is thought and known: It is reorganisation and spatial (in)justice – though lived space is more. Maybe, in this interpretation, one could say that the lived spaces interpreted here have many diaconal qualities – at least in the practical position. By this I mean that, in the interpretations, the lived spaces and embodied responses are what define the encounters, not a previously set agenda with specific goals developed by people from outside these spaces. However, they must be appreciated as diaconal even though the events do not take place under the auspices of diaconal organisations or the church. An important manner of letting others, and particularly the ‘strange’ others, speak is entering into the spaces where they are and sharing the lived spaces. By letting the other and their spaces be the source of information and knowledge, one may experience what actions (and nonactions) are relevant and necessary in the social and political challenges associated with these groups. One does not force them to fit into the suitable problem or solution nor in our perspectives thereof. Rather, one partakes in the production of new, common, and social spaces. The point is that one cannot explore calling without being present in the space in which the calling originates. This is where spatial theory, rhythmanalysis, and calling all come together. Consequently, the science of diaconia must continue to embrace and endorse research that examines life conditions that are both normatively and ethically significant to everyone, such as everyday life and exposed marginality in public space. This is not a metadiscussion about the content of science of diaconia, but one about where the efforts could be discussed. I am interested in practices at the intersection and in the people who live their lives there. Wingren’s point (as well as Løgstrup’s) is that everyone is doing God’s work, so it does not really matter what it is called – or whether the doer even relates to religion or creed. What takes place in the microspaces of the tales regards every body in society, as human solidarity with the suffering is a given in human existence. In fact, if we do not want to help, this solidarity is something we have to fight to rid ourselves of in encounters with this suffering (Wingren: 1995 [1974], 39). That is why it does not really matter who the caretakers are, since from these perspectives they are all doing diaconal work. “In the old Lutheran dialect, this is what the larvae dei (mask of God) has always pointed toward; the idea of God acting in the ordinary life shared by all in, between, and behind the face of other human persons” (Gregersen/Uggla/Wyller: 2017, 15). Through the concept of embodied spatial calling, I want to move the focus from inside certain sciences to inside of life practices in public space. I believe this practice, which is both common and public, can be transferred to other fields, such as a philosophy or a science of diaconia. This discipline and practice are also influenced by the challenges posed by professionalisation and the demand for evidence and documentable results – and I believe it needs to redirect the focus back to lived lives of the other, which are also our own lived lives. Society as a whole, and thus public space, too, is evidence based and

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quantitatively evaluated. That is why public space matters – it is metaphor for everything in society. The demand, and thus the embodied spatial calling, stems from the other – from every other – regardless of who we are to each other. “The particularity of the gospel and the universal aspects of creation are rather to be seen as interlinked, and are to be mutually defined with respect to each other” (2017, 12). A philosophy of diaconia in this perspective should approach lives from the lived spaces it is already part of and seek new knowledge, which should then be made part of the continuous discussion of the self-understanding of diaconia. The everyday life that I am concerned with is thus a created and God-given reality, regardless of the faith of the people there. This means that it is implicitly part of the lifeworlds I have written about. “The world is God-given and imbued with a divine presence, therefore it is religiously valid to approach it from a secular perspective, and one is free to do so” (2017, 15). It is paramount that this lifeworld be permitted to speak for itself, and tell its own tales. After analysing it, and explicitly not including the question of the divine, we can reconnect to such a discussion without overshadowing, or getting distracted from the spaces, people, and lifeworlds that have been the focus. “[T]o be called from the silent needs of the other, and the way God reaches out to all people behind the mask of the other human persons, are to be considered as two dimensions of one and the same reality” (2017, 16). The issue at hand here has been to make a contribution to the concept of calling, spatial analysis, and rhythmanalysis, as part of methodological and theoretical development within diaconia and systematic theology. Consequently, to explore a traditionally nonecclesiastical space does not mean leaving out the question of God. Rather, the question is bracketed, as is implied in the everyday life of Scandinavian creation theology. The spatial rhythmanalysis of calling in public space is also part of Scandinavian creation theology. The spaces that appear in the tales were not focused on within this tradition either, at least not explicitly. There may be new larvae dei that may be uncovered through rhythmanalysis of the spaces and their lifeworlds.

The Rhythmanalysis of Calling The appeal directed to me corresponds to a response that fills no hole, but comes to meet the invites and calls of the Other (Waldenfels: 2011, 38).

Epitome I have now been through eight chapters, trying to find answers to the issue at hand, presented at the very beginning: What implications do spatial analysis and experiences of everyday life in a marginalised microspace have for reinterpreting and construing the concept of calling? I started with an understanding of the calling stemming from Scandinavian creation theology, particularly that of the Swedish theologian Gustaf Wingren’s interpretation of Luther, where the calling is placed in the world among all human beings. This relates to every person’s responsibility to heed the lives of our fellow human beings. I stated that this understanding may be more theoretical than practical and turned to two Scandinavian contributions from K. Martinsen and C. Nahnfeldt, both of whom worked with the concept in a more practical and contemporarily relevant framework. I discussed these contributions using material from a public space in Oslo. This material was collected as part of my fieldwork, where the aim was to observe a public space and interpret it using the spatial theories by M. Foucault and H. Lefebvre. I wanted to see how these social spaces could be understood when a concrete space was the starting point. However, the material this left me with was, although highly detailed and promising, not obvious in terms of knowing how to proceed. Although the spatial theories opened up the spaces to new interpretations and details, there was something about the encounters between people that was difficult to pinpoint. Through meticulous readings of the material, I realised that one important denominator was the clear and visible researchersubject. A methodological reading of Lefebvre’s rhythmanalysis and the phenomenological contributions from Løkken, Martinsen, and Wyller/ Heimbrock could contribute to developing this as one mode of interpreting the space. By reading the embodied and sensory experiences in the field as a source of information, I discovered new perspectives. I found that the spatial readings of the material opened up the lived spaces of the encounters, which I was part of as well. And being in these spaces I was affected by the events there,

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sharing some of the circumstances with the people encountering, which lead me to assume that this may be related to calling. Although I started with the spatial concepts and the relating fieldwork, I realised that the concept of calling was in fact the central theme of the book. This made the rationale of writing the text a challenge. I had to establish the concept of calling first and then some of the spatial concepts. Because I wanted the reader to enter the field more or less as I did, I presented the methodological contemplations I had made before, during, and after the fieldwork as well as the geographical space of the fieldwork and the central parts of its history, before presenting the material, in order to provide an impression of the framework to an unfamiliar reader. I believe this was important before entering the field. Then, I more thoroughly presented the spatial theories on which I based my analysis. I presented Foucault’s theory of heterotopia first, as a premise for understanding the material space. Then I presented Lefebvre’s theory on the production of space and his three-level mode of analysis. His contribution was central to the reading of the tales, as may be seen in the analysis. Here, the tales were opened up for new interpretations, showing how different perspectives develop when read through Lefebvre’s contributions. Throughout this chapter the perspective of lived space has become the central analytical concept for discussing calling. This was discussed more elaborately in the chapter Reinterpreting the Calling revisiting the concepts on calling from the introductory chapters and developing a new concept, namely, that of embodied spatial calling. Because the academic discipline where this discussion belongs is science of diaconia, this discipline, and the implications of my findings, are presented and discussed in the penultimate chapter. In the following I would like to present my conclusions, drawing together the lines of discussion to respond to the question I posed concerning the content of calling.

Concluding Thoughts This particular discussion relates to spaces where the relations between the powerful and the (perceived) powerless are challenged by unexpected encounters in unexpected spaces. These encounters could enable discussions about the contents of calling. “[I]n some ways, heterotopias provide an escape route from power” (Johnson: 2006, 86). The point is not, however, to ‘escape’ power, but to enable the possibility that power in these heterotopias is more complex and could be discussed from perspectives that challenge the concept, to the extent that the powers at play could even be seen as inputs to calling. There may be a murmur of new knowledge and inputs, some counterbalance in this lived space that appears through this calling. It is embodied spatial calling, where the premise is that equal bodies encounter in the lived spaces of calling, as opposed to an interpretation of calling where the caller is defined beforehand, that is, where one is the caller and one is the called. Embodied spatial calling is spatial and embodied in the sense that it includes lived space and sensing bodies. In order to reinterpret and construe the concept of calling, one must seek embodied experiences of encounters and practices in lived space. Certain details are worth mentioning from the tales which I consider decisive to the concept of calling. First of all, what is common to all the tales is that the individuals who appear in them, including the researcher-subject, are in a space together. Although they have different life circumstances, they share the circumstances and conditions at the moment of the encounter – the geographical and physical surroundings, the weather, the smells, etc. These conditions affect all involved in the encounter, and they are embodied. When the substance user in thin clothing is met by the police officer or seen by the researcher, this has implications, because we feel the same cold as he does, which is different from imagining the cold in terms of being affected by this other. Obviously, one can be affected by a picture of someone in thin clothes being outside in the snow, because one has had the experience of being cold. One can even be moved to action. But one cannot immediately respond to that other body as a body. Because the individuals share the same circumstances – in the moment of encounter, in the shared lived space – all these individuals are the same, equal bodies as bodies. That is also why the bodies respond to each other. The body does not stop to consider whether this is someone it wants to aid: It just responds. The embodied reactions in the tales are prereflexive. I assume that some of the actions described ‘just happened’; if asked, the actors would not necessarily have an explanation for their behaviour, perhaps not even a

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memory of the gestures noted by the researcher. When reflected upon, whether afterwards or as an imagined example, the actions of the different people would most likely be different. The officers might stick to procedures and guidelines deemed professional; I might imagine what I would have liked to have done; and the substance user might have avoided the whole encounter. But because bodies do not think but just respond prereflexively, in real-time something else happens. At that moment, they are not police officers, substance users, researchers – they are bodies, stripped of their defining uniforms, whether real or imagined, in pathos. They are bodies exposed to the elements and circumstances in a space they have all been placed in together. I thus think that the calling is prereflexive – the calling body makes its needs visible to the other body, which recognises those needs and responds immediately, before the mind kicks in and considers alternative courses of action. By this logic, who calls and who responds is not predetermined – the policewoman stroking the substance user’s back could just as well be an expression of her being cold, reaching out to another body in that expression, as a response to his body expressing cold. There are raw, immediate, and prereflexive qualities to the calling and the responses to it. I could, in theory, have made these statements without referring to Lefebvre. Most of my theoretical contributors, whether theologians, philosophers, or phenomenologists, all turn to the body and recognise and emphasise its importance. They also all, to differing degrees, refer to prereflexivity in their writings on the calling. For instance, Wyller/Heimbrock calls for an empirical theology that “takes seriously the meaning of a lifeworld perspective, this is the pre-reflexive, habitual but in everyday-life ‘silent’ background of all meaningful action, engages in research that values other subjects as others, the breadth and validity of religious phenomena in everyday-life and the preference to inspire normatively relevant perceptions rather than to prescribe religiously justified sentences” (Wyller/Heimbrock: 2010, 200). However, I assert that, in all these different accounts, there is still someone coming to someone else in the calling with explicit needs or in particular roles. The caller and the called, and sometimes even the calling itself, is defined beforehand, as is necessary when drawing up examples. However, what the Lefebvrian reading does is enable the experience, understanding, and interpretation of the space with many more details that have implications for these minute encounters. If one were to imagine the encounter between the frisked man and the officer sharing the disinfectant as an isolated event, without these tools of interpretation, it would have other meanings (if any or if noticed at all). Or the gesture of the policewoman would be recognised as important in some way, as an act of compassion maybe. The Lefebvrian reading does two things – one has implications for how the tale is understood and interpreted, and the other has implications for how we understand and interpret the entire space. The first point lies in the implications for how a tale is understood and

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interpreted via Lefebvre’s contributions. By pointing to and explaining the possible contents of the different levels of the production of space, the microscopic instance of the encounter between the individuals sharing disinfectant becomes rich with content. Without rhythmanalysis and Lefebvre’s concept of levels, the encounter might not have been noted at all, or maybe just the part where the man was frisked. But using these contributions, we are able not only to enrich the encounter with details, but also to share the circumstances of the encounter – both of which leave us with substantially more information on which to base the interpretations. The encounter does not take place in a vacuum. Witnessing the encounter in passing, maybe even registering the sharing of disinfectant, may make one wonder about it. Why did the officer share the disinfectant? I also asked this question – maybe the officer knew she had to touch his hands or maybe he simply asked for some. After weeks of submersion in the field, however, having had the embodied and sensory experience of the cold and the obstacles of meeting basic physical needs, the interpretation according to Lefebvre’s levels leads to another focus: It becomes less interesting why she did it, but that it happened and how, considering all the other information gained through sharing the space. The second point I want to make is that the Lefebvrian reading has implications for the entire space – from the intersection to Jernbanetorget to the entire state or nation. For now I only want to point to this particular public space. The point is that a space always consists of all three levels of space – spatial practice or perceived space; representation of space or conceived space; representational space or lived space. Essentially, all spaces are the sum of all three, not once and for all, but continuously. It is production of space, always producing: Space is never finished. It is a constant process that is always ‘under construction,’ in creation. From another perspective, the tales and their encounters could be read as confirmations of the constant of the marginal substance user being controlled by the powerful police – even with a Lefebvrian reading, if one interprets from outside the space, or on a macrolevel. But rhythmanalysis lets us immerse ourselves into the spaces, interpreting them from the inside – it is the levels of production from the perspectives there. In other words, the police officer and the woman from the bus, these two individuals, are part of the production of space – not only the space that they make up, of which the researcher-body is part, but the entire square. So, the calling that is there, by creation itself, between them, is also part of the production. The glimpse into this minute space is also a glimpse into the larger space, changing it entirely. The calling formats and contributes to the nature of this larger space, changing its character completely, maybe just for a second or two, where afterwards the chasing and the practice of power and the marginalising continues. But for a moment, everything changes. If we follow the logic of the dynamic, ever-changing production of space, where life and the world are in perpetual creation, it is never exactly the same as it was before.

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I do not mean to say that by this I have found the solution to how society or diaconia should organise or found practices to direct toward marginality in public space. However, these perspectives do introduce new knowledge about certain lives and practices in a heterotopic space. This new knowledge can benefit and enrich the discussion about life in public spaces. Speed and efficiency are considered indispensable in modern, professionalised practices. There is little time or sympathy for detours and delays (Martinsen: 2005, 43). As Martinsen shows with respect to modern nursing, the bodies are not meant to set root, but are continually being moved, transferred to new spaces, circulated by the logic of classifications and standards. This is what happens at Jernbanetorget as well: The unattractive and unwanted bodies of the street people are not allowed to set root, and Sentrumsarbeidet would appear to move and circulate them to other places. I do believe, however, that the detours and delays involved are decisive. Nahnfeldt’s notion of disruption is really a disruption of the doxa, which is spatial practice and representations of space. The doxa, the taken-for-granted [non-]opinion of Jernbanetorget, the nonplace and nonlife that is there, is disrupted in an embodied sense. Here, it is lived space analysis that is the matter of embodied spatial calling. What I have uncovered through all of this with regard to calling is that there is an inherent, embodied reciprocity in the calling. The calling is not something someone comes to another with; rather, those involved meet each other as equals with and in the calling with pathos. The prerequisite is that we produce and share lived space, which is why it is spatial. The other prerequisite is the body: The body is attuned to the other body, sensing it and acting on it, prereflexively. To once again return to the main issue presented at the beginning: Through spatial analysis and the experience of everyday life in a marginalised microspace, I have uncovered complex and diverse details in even in the most uneven relations and seemingly unproductive nonspaces of the perceived conflicted areas of central Oslo. This has allowed me to reinterpret and construe the concept of calling into what I call embodied spatial calling. In this calling – in the pathos – we are all equally vulnerable and exposed, and it is unclear who calls and who responds – there is a potential for a rupture or breach that transgresses prior power status and knowledge. In the embodied spatial calling, every body is an otherbody; no body is in command, and no body is defined beforehand, even if it is powerfully uniformed. This lets all the lives and all the bodies in the lived spaces speak. The voices and the knowledge that this embodied spatial calling brings about are important. Not in terms of what needs to or should happen, because it already takes place; but it is an important source for normativity and ethics as well as theological questions. It is imperative to look for glimpses of transgression, a reconquering of the potential for a breakthrough for marginalised people (cf. Spivak: 1988). The point is not to secure so-called ‘better lives’ for the perceived marginalised others. With this perspective, we tend to equate ‘better life’ with

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what is better for us. Rather, we must encounter, see, and understand people from the perspective of where they are, in their spaces. Maybe the ‘better life’ is already there, or the potential lies within those spaces. In the embodied spatial calling where equal bodies encounter each other in pathos, there is a glimpse of universal better life, of equality, reciprocity, and human interconnectedness. Interpreting from these spaces rather than from the dominant spaces of society engenders new information and knowledge, and this may be a central contribution to the production of space and the science of diaconia. Therein lies a challenge in the lived lives in these spaces, one that the science of diaconia is challenged to rediscover. As a final remark, I return to the premise of heterotopia. In his Introduction to The Order of Things Foucault writes the following: The fundamental codes of a culture […] establish for every man, from the very first, the empirical orders with which he will be dealing and within which he will be at home. At the other extremity of thought, there are the scientific theories or the philosophical interpretations which explain why order exists in general, what universal law it obeys, what principle can account for it, and why this particular order has been established and not some other. But between these two regions, so distant from one another, lies a domain which, even though its role is mainly an intermediary one, is nonetheless fundamental: it is more confused, more obscure, and probably less easy to analyse. It is here that a culture, imperceptibly deviating from the empirical orders prescribed for it by its primary codes, instituting an initial separation from them, causes them to lose their original transparency, relinquishes its immediate and invisible powers, frees itself sufficiently to discover that these orders are perhaps not the only possible ones or the best ones; this culture then finds itself faced with the stark fact that there exists, below the level of its spontaneous orders, things that are in themselves capable of being ordered, that belong to a certain unspoken order; the fact, in short, that order exists (Foucault: 1994, xxii).

This is heterotopia. And the lives and spaces of the tales are the “confused, more obscure, and probably not so easy to analyse” domain, challenging the order and the general discourse. Foucault wrote from outside the heterotopias. However, Jernbanetorget itself, as shown, can be interpreted as holding heterotopic qualities in this outside perspective. The others appear other by way of the Foucauldian other space in which they appear, are observed, and are often forced to stay. My analysis shows the inside realm to the heterotopias. Through my actual presence in these spaces, through my Lefebvrian reading and rhythmanalysis, these can be interpreted as lived spaces. The embodied spatial calling also lies inside the other spaces and inside the spaces of others. Whether the calling is some order that exists beneath the empirical order is a question for the Foucauldians. But, in my view, the prereflexive realm, wherein all encounters occur between equals in the calling and in pathos, also lies inside the heterotopic, obscure, clandestine, and confused spaces. This gives the heterotopias a new potential, not just as the gloomy, negative mirroring of

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society, but as a formative source of normative and ethical thought. As a created space of divine presence.

APPENDIX I – Photographs Jernbanetorget

Pic. 1 The old station building and lower square, seen from Karl Johan.

Pic. 2 The Trafikanten tower, in front of the newer station building, and Byporten Mall (left).

Jernbanetorget

Pic. 3 The stairs between the upper and lower squares.

Pic. 4 The tiger on the old square, the stairs and new station building.

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Pic 5 The start of Karl Johan viewed from the old, lower square.

Jernbanetorget

183

Pic. 6 Fred Olsens gate going South toward the Oslo fjord from Jernbanetorget.

Pic. 7 Fred Olsens gate going North from Jerbanetorget. Europar dets plass is located on the left where the road ‘stops.’

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The Intersection

Pic. 8 The intersection. The shop “Synsam” in the building to the right used to be ‘Jafs’.

Pic. 9 The intersection as seen from ‘Jafs’.

The Intersection

Pic. 10 The intersection as seen from ‘Jafs’.

Pic. 11 Skippergata to the southwest, toward ‘Møtestedet’, seen from ‘Jafs’.

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Pic. 12 Skippergata to the southwest, toward ‘Møtestedet’, seen from ‘Jafs’.

Pic. 13 The old station building, seen from the intersection.

The Intersection

Pic. 14 The intersection, viewed from another angle.

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APPENDIX II – The Tales This appendix comprises the tales that were not specifically worked with in the body of text. It consists of the total of 13 tales, ranging from just four lines long to nearly a page. They tell tales of the presented geographical and social spaces in the vicinities of Jernbanetorget. All the tales were obtained during five weeks between July and November 2011. Although I attempted at rewriting them many times, they ended up as tales, where they are almost identical to the original fieldnotes transcribed from audio files shortly after each week in the field. I spent three hours in the three areas presented in the chapter An Illustration of Space; the stairs between the two squares at Jernbanetorget, Europar dets plass and the intersection where Skippergata crosses Karl Johan, every day in three different time periods. Every tale is marked by date, the time of day, and the location where it took place, and whenever the symbol # appears, it marks a new track on the dictaphone. Most of the tales are descriptions of events that took place that caught my attention, while some are related to reflections done along the way. Most of the reflections are from November, where I could think back to the summer and autumn weeks. They are not necessarily analysable in the same way as most of the others, but their content comprises important background information and context that is useful in reading the others. Reading these tales unanalysed will hopefully give a fair impression – the speed of people’s movement, the stress, the cold, the ambience, the emotions and senses – and thus give the reader an idea of the geographical and social spaces of the people and their lived spaces at Jernbanetorget. (18 July, 1:20 pm), from Jernbanetorget: “#11 It is 13:22, several things have happened. I do not know if I said before that two policemen arrived and a substance user, they even went in [into the RV], while he was left outside. It was obvious that he was a substance user. After about 2 minutes, the two policemen and he went over the square, up the stairs and into the new station building. At the same time, I did not notice at first, three people were standing, talking, two women and a man, on this side of the entrance to Trafikanten. Another person approached. Suddenly he takes out handcuffs, put them on the man, and suddenly another man runs across the square and joins them. The last to arrive takes something out of his hand [of the handcuffed man]. The two women and one man disappear into Trafikanten. Two stay with the handcuffed, talking to him, frisking all his things while he is standing cuffed. None of the (uniformed) policemen in the RV or around here reacts at all, no interaction between these groups. It appeared that they (nonuniformed) had their own communication

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system on them. Two seconds ago, a police van arrived, and got the man inside. The ones that went into Trafikanten I have not seen again. I do not know what the situation was, whether he offered the plainclothes something, but anyway… the van is leaving. And the two plainclothes stay, one on bike, leaving up “my” stairs.” (21 July, 1:20 pm), from Jernbanetorget: “#12: It is 13:20, the picture is the same. People are mostly moving, except for some relaxing on the stairs here. Two substance users sitting on the stairs here, and one has really been here since I came, the other arrived later. They appear to be relaxing, and no one seems to notice or care. A lot of tourists, many big backpacks and suitcases (something unintelligible). This is apparently not a place people have problems with hanging out at. If it was like that before the police operation started in the end of June I do not know, but people sit here with or without children, or the elderly who have come and sit here like I do. People would not do that if they felt unsafe or uncomfortable.” (11 August, 9 am), from Europar dets plass: (Seen from Egon the afternoon before) “Yesterday I forgot to say there was a very alcoholised, maybe mentally ill woman, I saw here twice. First time she was at the tram stop, talking to (bothering) people, touching their children, etc. And shouting/crying that they should not get mad at her. She had faeces on her pants, and looked very off. The second time, she had changed clothes. I noticed her as she was defecating on the ramp between the stairs and benches. From where I was (Egon), I could not see if anyone saw her, and hence no reaction to this behaviour. This could certainly cause reactions.” (11 August, 4:45 pm), From Jernbanetorget: “#17: It is 16:45, and I have moved. [So this is from Europar dets plass] The three policemen returned, they went down to the subway and reappeared behind me here. They stopped a Roma woman with a beggars cup, appearing to do the same procedure I saw some weeks ago, that is, they checked her with some register at the central administration. They may have some expulsion system with them as well. A few substance users in the stairs outside the subway when I left. A few also arrived up the stairs by the policemen and Roma woman, they were very buddy-like toward the police, greeting them and smiling. […] It is fascinating how some people just approach the police for directions or some practical problem when they are in the middle of something that is obviously police matters, like talking to someone who is drinking alcohol in public.” (12 September, 1 pm) “#21: It is soon ten past [1:10]. There are always some people I notice very well, I do not know whether it is because there is something about them or that they are here a lot, but there are some people who are constantly here. Some people pass and then I do not see them anymore, while

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others pass again and again, sometimes stopping, looking stressed, waiting for someone or something. Some I notice because they have special clothes or clothing on, others because they have characteristic appearance or looks, it varies. There are constantly, constantly people moving about, always moving, substance users. Also quite a few tourists moving in Karl Johan. I still have not seen any obvious interaction or reaction, between the different groups. #22: Just a moment has passed, I just needed to comment that a police car just passed, that it just stopped over there. A constable exited, the other one too, I do not know if they have been contacted or tipped. Right now they are just talking to a male, in a normal conversation manner. I will see what happens. #23: I understand that the police are doing their job, but… Now, they just stopped the mentioned person, asked for ID and other things. Then, apparently, all of a sudden they start frisking him, seemingly not in a rough manner, but gently placing him against the wall, but frisking him to the point where he had to open his fly to be checked on the inside of his trousers lining. It is ok that they have to do this, but it is in the middle of a busy street. Of course, it is the middle of Skippergata, and maybe they [the substance users] cannot expect anything else, but it makes me uncomfortable. I also think that tourists waiting to ask police for directions, and thus are standing two meters away from the scene, waiting “in line” to be helped, they do not really understand what is important! They could just walk into 7/11 and ask for directions. I was really provoked now! #24: That being said, he did not look particularly like a substance user. He did not look Norwegian, but he did not look very not Norwegian either. Just to mention it.” (13 September, 4:45 pm), From Europar dets Plass: “#24: And two other policemen by ‘Jafs’, but closer to ‘Møtestedet’, so that means that there are four here, and I see three by Europar dets Plass, and I see four over by ‘Møtestedet’ too. I will not count, even, how many there are, but I can do the math as I write this down. There are many! (They have fluorescent vests, so they are easily spotted). #25: It is 16:45, I am at Europar dets Plass, three policemen at the stairs for approximately 5 minutes now. I also see two up on the newer square, talking to someone. But there are so many trams and buses, so I do not know what they are doing, really, what kind of person they are talking to. I also see fairly often that policemen are crossing between Jernbanetorget and Karl Johan. I have never seen so many police! I understand that they need to be more when it is so much people outside. Compared to the summer. Maybe this is regular amount, but I did not notice it being like this yesterday, so it may just be the strategy of the day. But I did see that there were 23 this morning, and I did not see many of them as I was at ‘Jafs’, even if I saw a lot of substance users, so I am not sure what the deal is, but there are more now, at least! There is also many more people in general. I see many more substance users, and it is much more stress. A lot more stress! There was nearly no one in Skippergata when I went through 10 minutes ago, I do not know if that was because of the police. I feel

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stressed, so I gather they [the substance users] feel stressed too, as I am doing nothing illegal […]. (14 November, est. 1:30 pm), from ‘Jafs’, observing the intersection: “(1:24) The tired guy with the bicycle just came by again, holding a dove in his hand, that is probably why he is not riding the bike. Whether he has caught the dove, or is helping it or has had it since it was small I do not know. I did not see it when he came the other way.” (14 November, 5 pm), from ‘Jafs’, observing the intersection, personal reflections: “There are a few challenges here now. One is that it is dark, which makes my vision worse than normal, especially because the window reflects (between “my” window and the one on the other side of the road), and the lights behind me, so it is difficult to see everything. So there may be things that miss my attention, but I think I get a lot regardless, but it can be difficult to distinct individuals from each other.” (Day 17) (15 November, 12:20 pm), from ‘Jafs’, observing the intersection: “#16: It is 12:20. A group of four persons is standing outside ‘Indiska’, I think they are from Fransiskushjelpen or similar, they were talking to two others who left, but they were not substance users. But there were a few substance users who separately made contact with them to ask about something obviously regarding substances until they recognised their mistake, but there was no drama. Now everyone has left. But there are constant ones, twos, threes and fours walking by here, so far many have been the same….” (16 November, early afternoon), from ‘Jafs’, observing the intersection, personal reflections: “#5: An observation to mention now, compared to September, is that there seems to be much more Roma here. They also spin around a lot, without stopping just here, but I think there are more in total, but at least more here, walking by time and time again. Not as frequently as the substance users, but more often than before and more.” (Day 18) (16 November, early afternoon), from ‘Jafs’, observing the intersection: “#6: It is 12:53, and the cops are disappearing toward ‘Møtestedet’. The group of three substance users who have been here a while is still here, the cops talked to them, just a few moments, so now it is just those three standing here. #7: It is four to [12:56], and very obvious dealing on the other side of the road, outside 7/11, but in Skippergata. At least five or six are involved. So when the cat is gone, the mice dance on the table it appears…” “#10: It is 13:11. The cops hung out there for a while, but they have now come back here, going down Karl Johan again. The ones hanging out over there, they are still there. Then there are a couple in the middle of Karl Johan fooling

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around like friends do when they meet, completely regular behaviour. #11: 13:14, the cops have stopped somewhere where I cannot see them, talking to someone or doing something, I only see a tiny bit of the reflex on one’s shoulder. But while they have been there, a big number of substance users have gathered around here right now, it is actually very noticeable. I do not understand what is going on, but a huge cluster is in the middle of Karl Johan, some of the ones who were playing around before, who are still there, talking and doing their thing. Then there are five to six others, some together and some not. The police are standing literally five meters away, but they are occupied, but now they are not occupied as they get distracted by all the substance users. I will see what happens. It was interesting because everyone suddenly appeared from everywhere the same instance. They are all still there. #12: It is 13:19, there are still a lot of substance users, doing their own things, not minding the police. One of the cops was just approached by a person who pointed toward ‘Møtestedet’, so he took the others with him and went that way. Calmly, not storming. So now there are only substance users here, hanging around like they used to.” (16 November, 1:30 pm), from ‘Jafs’, observing the intersection: “#13: It is 13:28, the two cops walked toward ‘Møtestedet’ now. They have stood here quite some time now, chatting amiably with a couple of substance users here, very amiably and pleasant, humanly. Not just being buddies, but warming each other. One of the policewomen is rubbing one of the substance users on the back. Ever if it should be just joking, or if it was irony, it was still a physical, bodily closeness that no one had needed to do. So I think it was great! I am so happy that it is nearly too much. The bread and drinks man also just walked buy, and continued toward ‘Møtestedet’. There are still nine or ten substance users standing here, and no cops right now. #14: It is 13:34, and suddenly … the ones who have been standing here for a while, maybe 10 minutes, six or seven individuals, suddenly there were 25 here! Complete chaos, with several others approaching from everywhere to join the group. Many just appearing from the outskirts here. Some disappeared around one corner, and others around another and some are still roaming around just outside here. So suddenly things are happening. And if one does not pay attention that moment, one misses the whole event. It is just a question of seconds, really. #15: 13:38, two new cops came up from Jernbanetorget, and took their place here. I have not seen them before today, so it appears to be up to eight, at least, walking around here. That is not extraordinary compared to other afternoons, but it is ok to have observed. Now, the entire cluster from before has dissolved, only one is left, and three more are on their way in from different sides, they appear to be just passing. They came before the police, but they may have seen them before I did.” (16 November, early afternoon), from ‘Jafs’, observing the intersection, personal reflections: “#18: I can also ask what role that 7/11 plays among the substance users here. It is conspicuous how often substance users go in there,

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and it does not seem to be a problem at all. The same goes for the Levi’s store right next to it. I have often seen substance users go in there as well. I thought that there has been some kind of entrance area where they have taken cover from the weather or something, but yesterday I walked by and saw that one walks directly into the store. If it means that the people working there know everyone, or if some go in there because they are friends, I do not know. I just find it interesting, because it actually is … it has not only happened once, it happens several times every time I am here, that someone just walks in there like the most obvious thing in the world.” (Day18)

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WYLLER, T. (ed.) (2009), Heterotopic Citizen: New Research on Religious Work for the Disadvantaged, Göttingen. WYLLER, T./HEIMBROCK, H.-G. (ed.) (2010), Perceiving the Other. Case Studies and Theories of Respectful Action, Göttingen. WYLLER, T. (2010a), A Demanding Practice, in T. Wyller/H.-G. Heimbrock (ed.), Perceiving the Other. Case Studies and Theories of Respectful Action, Göttingen, pp. 11–20. WYLLER, T. (2010b), Religion and Professional Ethics in a Post-Secular Society, in T. Wyller/H.-G. Heimbrock, (ed.) (2010), Perceiving the Other. Case Studies and Theories of Respectful Action, Göttingen, pp. 188–191 WYLLER, T. (2014), Diakonivetenskap i biolpolitikens tid: En utmaning för tvärvetenskaplig kritisk forskning, in Religiös och social förändring i det glokala samhället. Samtida religionssociologiska perpektiv, P. Pettersson/M. Axner/A. Leis-Peters/M. Middlemiss L Mon/A. Sjöborg (ed.), Studies in Religion and Society, Uppsala, pp. 171–182 (The Science of Diaconia in the Age of Biopolitics: A Challenge for Critical Interdisciplinary Research). YOUNG, I. M. (1990), Justice and the Politics of Difference, Princeton, NJ. AARNES, A. (1996), Emanuel Levinas – liv og verk, in E. Levinas Den annens humanisme, translated by A. Aarnes, Oslo.

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