Magical Realist Sociologies of Belonging and Becoming: The Explorer [1° ed.] 0367432390, 9780367432393

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Magical Realist Sociologies of Belonging and Becoming

At the bottom of the sea, freedivers find that the world bestows humans with the magic of bodily and mental freedom, binding them in small communities of play, affect and respect for nature. On land, rational human interests dis­ solve this magic into prescriptive formulas of belonging to a profession, a nation and an acceptable modernity. The magical exploration is morphed by such multiple interventions successively from a pilgrimage, to a cinematic and digital articulation of an anarchic project, to an exercise in national citizen­ ship and finally, a projection of post-imperial cosmopolitan belonging. This is the story of an embodied, relational and affective journey: the making of the explorer of worlds. At its heart stands a clash between indivi­ dual and collective desires to belong, aspirations to create and the pragmatics of becoming recognised by others. The primary empirical context in which this is played is the contemporary margins of European modernity: the posttroika Greece. With the project of a freediving artist, who stages an Under­ water Gallery outside the iconic island of Amorgos, as a sociological spyglass, it examines the networks of mobility that both individuals and nations have to enter to achieve international recognition, often at the expense of personal freedom and alternative pathways to modernity. Inspired by fusions of cultural pragmatics, phenomenology, phanerology, the morphogenetic approach, feminist posthumanism and especially postcolonial theories of magical realism, this study examines interconnected var­ iations of identity and subjectivity in contexts of contemporary mobility (digital and embodied travel/tourism). As a study of cultural emergism, the book will be of interest to students and scholars in critical theory, cultural, postcolonial and decolonial studies, and tourism/pilgrimage theory. Rodanthi Tzanelli is Associate Professor of Cultural Sociology at the University of Leeds, UK. She is author of numerous research papers and chapters, as well as 11 monographs.

Routledge Advances in Sociology

277 On the Genealogy of Critique Or How We Have Become Decadently Indignant Diana Stypinska 278 Nostalgia Now Cross-Disciplinary Perspectives on the Past in the Present Edited by Michael Hviid Jacobsen 279 Magical Realist Sociologies of Belonging and Becoming The Explorer Rodanthi Tzanelli 280 Queer Campus Climate An Ethnographic Fantasia Benjamin Arnberg 281 Children in Social Movements Rethinking Agency, Mobilization and Rights Diane M. Rodgers 282 The Global Citizenship Nexus Critical Studies Edited by Debra D. Chapman, Tania Ruiz-Chapman and Peter Eglin 283 People, Care and Work in the Home Edited by Mohamed Gamal Abdelmonem and Antonio Argandona For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/ Routledge-Advances-in-Sociology/book-series/SE0511

Magical Realist Sociologies of Belonging and Becoming

The Explorer

Rodanthi Tzanelli

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 Rodanthi Tzanelli The right of Rodanthi Tzanelli to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Tzanelli, Rodanthi, 1974- author.

Title: Magical realist sociologies of belonging and becoming :

the explorer / Rodanthi Tzanelli.

Description: Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon ; New York, NY : Routledge, 2020. |

Series: Routledge advances in sociology |

Includes bibliographical references and index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2019052875 (print) | LCCN 2019052876 (ebook) |

ISBN 9780367432393 (hardback) | ISBN 9781003002000 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Belonging (Social psychology) | Group identity. | Critical theory.

Classification: LCC HM1033 .T93 2020 (print) |

LCC HM1033 (ebook) | DDC 305--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019052875

LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019052876

ISBN: 978-0-367-43239-3 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-1-003-00200-0 (ebk)

Typeset in Times New Roman

by Taylor & Francis Books

For Majid and Evelyn

‘I can’t help it. That’s how I see it’ (Charles Sanders Peirce) ‘Fascism is the afterimage [of the inhospitable blinding age of big-scale industrialism]. In its reflecting mirror we recognize ourselves’ (Susan Buck-Morss) In the end, what is [play] all about? It is about bursting the heavens, it is about going too far’ (Georges Bataille) ‘Zarathustra says: “Let every thought which does not make you burst out laugh­ ing at least once be regarded as false”’ (Friedrich Nietzsche) ‘Pain, pleasure and death are no more than a process for existence. The revolutionary struggle in this process is a doorway open to intelligence’ (Frida Kahlo) ‘Never fall in love with the victim’ (Bosch 2019, Season 5, Episode 5)

Contents

List of images Acknowledgements (about the ‘journey’) A preface not to skip An epistemological and methodological introduction

ix

x

xii

1

PART I 1

Dialogues between (nominated) centres and peripheries 1

Methodological notes on the book’s organisation 14

PART II 25

Field, time–space and iconic mobilities 25

Reading one: The pendulum of environmental and artistic firstness

37

Design mobilities and magical naturalism 37

PART I 38

The aesthetics of nature: on geo-topographies of beauty 38

Ecoaesthetics and values: the craftsmomentum 45

PART II 52

Photographic aesthetics of movement: the deep as a magical

atmospheric world 52

A. Diagrams, affects, emotions 52

B. Orientations 57

Conclusion 63

Reading two: Thanatourism and community-making Breathing life and death through technology 65

PART I 70

Immersed in the deep: anarchic and romantic hallucinations 70

65

viii Contents PART II 80

On land: conviviality in two frames 80

Conclusion 87

Reading three: (Inter)national aesthetics: Cinematic thirdness

89

Into governmobilities 89

PART I 95

Networked content: from events on Amorgos to travels

in iconicity 95

Indexical centrifugalism: Greece’s multiple modernities 105

Deep aesthetic structures and agencies 112

PART II 118

Symbolic centripetalism: natality and biopolitical freedom 118

From choreopolicing to magical-realist ballet: exorcising

morphostatic discourse 124

Conclusion 136

Reading four: International indexing: The biophysics of land(scape)

140

PART I 140

The environmental uncanny: the nature/culture conundrum 140

Practical poetics as global connectivity 147

PART II 152

Breaking the link with religion: digital and environmental

revolutions 152

The reproductive loneliness of the environmental sublime 158

From play to plot: gendered and racialised imaginaries

of belonging 178

Conclusion: Reading zero: Dual (un)consciousness and the

mathematics of being

181

From sediment to sentiment: upsetting Master Modernity’s

deep blue 181

Morphogenetics of violence: thanatourist creativity as the

harbinger of life 185

Bibliography Index

191

237

Images

3.1 The famous ‘Big Blue’ (Απέραντο Γαλάζιο) window of the

Monastery of Panayia Hozoviotissa, Xora, Amorgos. 3.2 The façade of the Monastery of Panayia Hozoviotissa,

which is built on a rock by ‘divine intervention’, according

to local legend. 4.1 ‘Anthropocene’ by Jason deCaires Taylor, Museo

Subacuatico de Arte (MUSA), between Cancun and Isla

Mujeres, Mexico. 4.2 ‘Archivero de los Sueños’ (‘The Archive of Lost Dreams’ –

more commonly known as ‘Dream Collector’) by Jason

deCaires Taylor, Museo Subacuatico de Arte (MUSA),

between Cancun and Isla Mujeres, Mexico. 4.3 ‘Viking ship museum’, Roskilde, Denmark. 4.4, 4.5 Tropical World, Roundhay Park, North Leeds UK.

and 4.6 A tropical imaginarium species for educational

consumption. 4.7 ‘Gaia/Earth’, Museu do Amanhã (Museum of Tomorrow),

Porto Maravilla waterfront, Rio de Janeiro. 4.8 ‘The house of knowledge’, Museu do Amanhã (Museum of

Tomorrow), Porto Maravilla waterfront, Rio de Janeiro.

98

99

165

166

169

171

174

176

Acknowledgements (about the ‘journey’)

This work benefited from intellectual exchange and informal (digital and face-to­ face) communiques. A thanks goes to Tom Campbell, Jack Palmer, Austin Har­ rington, Ben Hirst, Angharad Beckett, Ruth Holliday, Bobby Sayyid and Adrian Favell, colleagues from Sociology & Social Policy at Leeds. I also extend thanks to: two colleagues who shared their recent work with me (Maximiliano Korstanje and Maria Dorina Buda); four who advised on interesting relevant bibliography (Maria Rovisco, Jennie Germann Molz, Monika Büscher and Nick Emmel); and three who helped me shape aspects of my argument through their own established work (Nelson Graburn, Michael Herzfeld and Keith Hollinshead). Interactions with two of my PhD students, Kamalika Jayathilaka and Walaa Husban, have been stimulating and Vasilios Ziakas’ help in laying this project’s practical foun­ dations by introducing me to the right people has been invaluable. Thanks to Ste­ fanos Kontos, who dedicated some of the time he did not have to be interviewed and provide comments on an early clumsy draft of my ideas (but he persevered). Thanks to the two Cultural Sociology anonymous reviewers, who pushed me in the right direction: to write a book rather than a puzzling article. I also thank my three anonymous book reviewers, who made some useful comments on my proposal. A big thanks goes to the Routledge Editorial team, and especially Emily Briggs and Lakshita Joshi, who helped me to bring this project to completion. None of my interlocutors is responsible for the analysis I provide in this book. An acknowledgement goes to my Greek family, which, while experiencing the worst socio-political crisis to hit Greece in recent decades, continued to teach me that life, fun and love do, and should, go on. As ever, I am grateful to my companion in life, Majid Yar, for being himself: a performative chef, whose generosity makes my world brighter. A farewell note of love goes to my two departed adopted grandmothers, Rodanthi (a renowned coffee-cup reader and feared match-maker) and Irini (a quiet human being who always spread affection around her), and my two natural grandmothers, Lambrini (who always made her voice heard, oh boy) and Vassiliki (who died of old age after living a life full of difficult choices and compromises in exceptionally positive style with ouzo and smokes). All four of them are echoes of the quintessential pragmatic agent of this story.

Acknowledgements (about the ‘journey’) xi

The analysis of ‘edgework’ as a form of Western risk-taking in the Intro­ duction of this book includes an adaptation of parts of the literature review from a co-authored article: Yar, M. and Tzanelli, R. (2019). Kidnapping for Fun and Profit? Voluntary Abduction, Extreme Consumption and SelfMaking in a Risk Society. Hospitality and Society, 9(2), pp. 105–124 (pp. 107– 109 from the published article). The analysis of the Museum of Tomorrow in Reading three was first published as a museum review in Tzanelli, R. (2018). The ‘Mangle’ of Human Practice: Museu Do Amanhã’s Artistic Staging as a Socio-Scientific Narrative on Climate Change. Transfers, 18(2), pp. 138–141. Both journals’ publishers (Berghahn and Intellect) granted permission to reproduce my work in the present study. Unless otherwise stated (e.g. in presentations of particular magical realists’ work) I use ‘magical realism’ to refer to my own social-scientific methodolo­ gical fusion. ‘Realist magics’ – an analytical term of my own creation – finds two different uses: first, it refers to the phenomenal and atmospheric rendi­ tions of reality in context, and second, to situational disenchantments (‘dark [realist] magics of capitalism’) or re-enchantments of sociality.

A preface not to skip

The status of reality ‘on a single breath’ What constitutes ‘authenticity’ in the era of fast digital reproduction? Have artistic objects and artmaking undergone such intensive serialisation that artists and their audiences cannot achieve unmediated aesthetic engagement, or are these the wrong questions to ask? In the early autumn of 2018, news swamped international digital networks that a unique artistic exhibition opened (19–22 September) in the deep blue waters of Amorgos, Greece (Tornos News, 18 September 2018). With 126.346 square kilometres (48.782 square miles) and a population of 1,973 (Resident Population Census, 2011), Amorgos is the easternmost of the Cyclades islands, neighbouring the Dode­ canese island group. Just over three decades ago, Amorgos’s rich aquatic life and architectural beauty featured prominently in French director Luc Bes­ son’s internationally acclaimed English-language film on freediving, The Big Blue (Le Grand Bleu, 1988), transforming the island into an international destination for tourists and freediving communities. The exhibition, which was installed at a depth of 7 to 17 metres inside a sea cave in the Aghios Pavlos area of the island, included photography shot underwater between 2013 and 2018 in various parts of the Aegean Sea by freediver and cinematographer, Stefanos Kontos (The Underwater Gallery, 2018). Nine photos were placed in the underwater cave and another three nearby in a smaller cavern leading to a deadlock flooded by artificial light (Axia News, 7 October 2018; Huffpost Greece, 11 October 2018). Among the nine photo subjects were a submerged shipwreck, a medusa, a starfish and a giant oxidised cannonball; the three extra images, framed in tripods sank in the sand, depicted a rock, a coral and a shipwreck. The bravest of journalists, who dived to visit the Gallery, commented on the way such images of sea life merged with actual moving fish, creating the illusion of reality (Karali, 26 September 2018; Mavrantza, 11 December 2018). Some of these photographs had also featured in a different exhibition in 2015 under the curation of Euge­ nides Planetarium (Athens) with great success. Back then, the exhibition had enjoyed the second biggest visitor numbers after the famous ‘Kostakis

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xiii

Collection’, with success among schools and families wishing to become familiarised with the Greek underwater world (Konstantinidou, 2 March 2019). An aspect of this innovation related to a combination of the technique of creating these images (without breathing equipment at depth between 3 and 35 metres – see Karali, 26 September 2018; Karabelas, 10 October 2018) with the injection of an aesthetic dimension in encapsulating the marine world. All the divers involved in the Exhibition’s installation and curation worked ‘on a single breath’ (ápnoia: άπνοια), the practice and decision of not using oxygen masks while working underwater. There was also another technical innova­ tion: to display the photos in the sea, a special technique was employed involving printing on aluminium, followed by special light fixtures to illumi­ nate the images (Greek City Times, September 2018). The staging, which was supervised by teams of diving experts under and above the water, was sup­ ported by high-voltage electricity, involving spot and flood lighting equip­ ment. The exhibition was free of charge and open to the public. Visitors could dive in to see the exhibits with proper support and even attend short scubadiving courses at the local centre in Amorgos. The exhibition’s organisers professed to promote at least four different versions of ‘authenticity’. These involved: the creation of unmediated versions of underwater reality; the immediacy with which they engaged with underwater landscapes and seaworlds (‘on a single breath’); the originality of style involved in presenting these worlds as parts of a Greek (land)scape; and the style in which they tried to ‘teach’ visitors to both feel and apprehend all the above. Unpicking each of these dimensions, a careful social scientist would discern variations of engagement with the status of reality (or even multiple realities in feeling and apprehending the world around and within). An equally careful philosopher would add that we deal with techniques of making worlds, which are constitutive of art-making in communal contexts. A cautious postcolonial or literature studies colleague would conclude that these techniques introduce fabulism to human experience, because they try to voice things difficult to share with others. Just have a quick look at all the actors involved in the chain of events that I presented: the self-professed artist, who started all this with his freediving ventures; his peers and collegial team; his economic (various inter­ national businesses) and ethno-cultural (the Greek Ministry of Tourism) spon­ sors; and the interviewers/journalists and audiences he managed to attract. Then consider the setting and its international broadcasting: the marginal Amorgos of Greece (a marginal European state) that now acts as an interna­ tional freediving event location and a tourist hotspot, partly inspired by its late 1980s film début’. How many ‘authenticities’ can such a complex hold, and how many individual and collective experiences can it host? In fact, concentrating on the concept of ‘authenticity’ may be slightly mis­ leading, because it gives the impression that we deal with ‘tourism’, when at stake in all the aforementioned events and contexts is human apprehensions of the world, as well the relationship between ontological dwelling and

xiv A preface not to skip

travelling. Posited this way, the aforementioned questions would conflate at least two layers of what we often call ‘reality’, which are qualitatively differ­ ent: one concerns our inner world and the ways this communicates with the outer ones, as well as another possible extension of it, which deals and/or creates counter-factual wonders, such as the ones partaking in the theatrical staging of (fictional) narratives and performances. The other layer concerns the events and processes that order our everyday life, social interaction and cultural commitment. This second layer binds a seemingly transitory ‘artistic’ detail not only to the production of global movements of capital, ideas, pro­ fessionals, landscapes, technologies and experiences, but also the consolida­ tion of the law of such multiple movements or ‘mobilities’. The two layers, which are further fragmented into what I shall term ‘magical world versions’, can easily be split at this stage between the phe­ nomenal and the material realm of human being and belonging. But as I endeavour to show, this is also simplistic and fit for this kind of public sociology I do not claim to be doing. The human subjects inhabiting and/or creating these worlds (depending on which [social] scientist you ask), display particular ‘orientations’ towards them, which inform action. I will discuss at length what Joas ([1996] 2005) has termed the ‘creativity of action’ – what I translate in this study into the ways our acting upon the world is productive of further versions of magical reality. It may even be argued, in line with expert groups’ understandings of atmospheres, in which I situate myself, that such magical-realist orientations towards the materiality of worlds are inter­ twined with its phenomenal matrix. Actions upon the materiality of the world, which interact with its phenomenal, mystical and ideational – ‘magi­ cal’, in short – depth, inform what I perceive as pragmatics. Such phenomenal orientations towards ‘world-things’ (pragmatics is derived from the ancient Greek prágma [πρᾶγμα] or thing and action, from the verb prátto- [πρᾶττω], meaning ‘to act’) have a ‘quasi-thingly’ quality that we know as ‘atmosphere’. But before we get to the atmospheric part of the analysis, which frames my thesis on magical realist sociology, we must focus on materialities enabling the movement of atmospheres. I borrow Bærenholdt’s (2013) term ‘govern­ mobilities’ to explain how mobilities such as technology, migration or tourism may be governed by various institutions, but they are also a way of governing in their own right: a ‘political technology’ (Dean, 2013, pp. 46, 49). Especially in the Greek context, tourism and migration acquire a special place as gov­ erning blueprints for human capital-ability – what Lazzarato (2004, p. 205) explores as ‘the cognitive, cultural, effective and communicative resources (the life of individuals), as much as territories, genetic heritage (plants, animals and humans), the resources necessary to the survival of the species … putting life to work’ (see also Lash and Urry, 1994, chapter 10; Taussig, 1997, p. 136). These abilities produce definitional guidelines for the movement of the immutable mobiles that they advertise. ‘Immutable mobiles’ are subjects and objects med­ iating traffic of all sorts of illegal and legal commodities and experiences (which

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xv

are connected to atmospheres) at different points in history and in different geopolitical coordinates of belonging (Latour, 1990, p. 32). As Sheller notes, research on such mobilities focuses on the power of discourses, practices and infrastructures that hinder, prohibit or facilitate movement (Sheller, 2011, p. 2, emphasis mine). Unlike Latour’s systemic focus, I argue that, contextually, such movements can also be agential mechanisms. Perspective matters, as what one group considers freedom, another group experiences as its opposite – a point bringing into play identity variables, such as class, gender or race/ethnicity. Examined from multiple perspectival points (the ‘magical realities’ of the study), the ‘Underwater Gallery’ forms a nodal point for glocal governmobilities, laws bringing together global and the local movement, which also (re)produces individual identities, communities and places, in ways defying their realist law. This is particularly prominent when we take the idea of ‘underwater art-work’ – a statement on artistic and environmental aesthetics – as a starting point. As I endeavour to explain, the Gallery releases ‘state­ ments’ on future possibilities in the world of art and politics, participating in utopian policy-making that exceeds the intentions of its makers, designers and stagers. At the same time, within the boundaries of its community of makers, the Gallery retains its uniqueness as a project of becoming within the realms of the possible (Manning, 2009, 2013). This is because both illicit and licit forms of creativity are welcome in utopian choreographies of space and cul­ ture as mobile affects. The rule of law subsides in such contexts, even though it literally funds them – for, how can a Gallery come to life without networks of funding and advertising within and without the land in which it is staged? At the same time, one should wonder if a critique regarding the loss of ‘authenticity’ at any of the layers of reality that I presented truly captures the experience of the working freedivers, Stefanos’s and his colleagues’ investment in creating works of art, which are reproducible but experientially unique in terms of making, staging and consuming, or the values for which they stand as human beings. Without dismissing the strong arm of capitalist worldmak­ ing on their fates, in early readings/chapters of this book, I explore the experiential dimensions of their agency. For this, I attempt a critical adapta­ tion of the basic predicates of the ‘strong program’ in sociology (i.e. agency is weaved with(in) structures – Alexander, 2006a, 2011b), to unpack what it means to create under immense physical and structural pressures in postnational economic systems. This criticality, which communicates with, but differs from that of classical critical theory, borrows its phenomenal and practical tools from postcolonial and decolonial theory, as well as gender studies. For this reason, I have split the analysis into ‘readings’, rather than ‘chapters’, paying homage to the practical magical acts of fortune-tellers, who turn interpretivism into an interpersonal craft. I am interested in critically retrieving, adapting and weaving such postcolonial and decolonial traditions’ live elements in my analysis of ‘realist magics’.

xvi A preface not to skip

I understand ‘live sociology’ in relation to what constitutes topicality and fluidity in contemporary thematic and problematic contexts of mobility (Sheller, 2014b). To be clear on this point, by elevating ‘mobility’ instead of ‘travel’, ‘tourism’, ‘pilgrimage’ or ‘art’ to a master term, I do not seek to fragment my thesis (as a tourism studies theorist may argue – ‘why claim to be doing that much?’) but shift my problématique. The new focus in also not the automobile transport systems, but particular phenomenal/material com­ plexes (‘atmospheres’ – a less-developed branch of the new mobilities para­ digm). Hence, my frequent commentary of use of media forms and formats in the study is auxiliary to the questions I ask (so they are not methodological or epistemologically excluded as Western either), but not necessarily constitutive of the messages transmitted or disseminated in McLuhan’s (1964) terms. This is because I wish to address some situated ontological needs and histories that Western science and politics (even those of ‘mobilities’ in Cresswell’s [2001, 2006, 2010] thesis) do not address as such. I ‘travel’ readers through many social scientific and humanity traditions ‘on a single breath’ to produce a meaningful thesis, commencing with an excursus on magic(al) realism as its modus operandi. For this, I take seriously the damning verdict of Malaysian sociologist Syed Hussein Alatas that often native social scientists behave as ‘captives’ of Western thought. Alatas defines the native ‘captive mind’ (by polemical analogy to Bergson’s [1946] ‘creative mind’) as an ‘uncritical and imitative mind dominated by an external source, whose thinking is deflected from an independent perspective’ (Alatas, 1974, p. 692). This external source is the Western domain of social sciences and humanities, which is uncritically imitated, influencing all the constituents of scientific activity, ‘such as problem selection, conceptualization, analysis, generalization, description, explanation, and interpretation’ (Alatas, 1972, p. 11). The thesis is powerful but too apologetic of the errors of Western ‘holo­ causts’ (e.g. see also Bauman, 1989 for a European perspective) to acknowl­ edge that ‘native minds’ are now also part of a more integrated world than that of nineteenth-century colonial times, in which ideas, critiques and pro­ blems flow multidirectionally. Recalling again Sheller’s emphasis on topicality and fluidity in contemporary mobilities studies, I stress that my change of focus does not aim to reject Western knowledge, just decentre it, while appropriating those of its tools that I find useful for my deciphering of loca­ lised puzzles. Though important, the ‘tourism/ist studies’ field debilitates my criticality, if not treated as a just one aspect of this study (in Reading three). The change of focus reconsiders Bhabha’s (1994) notion of ‘mimicry’ as the ambivalent act of turning imitation into mocking, through feminist analysis (Fuss 1994, pp. 21–22), elevating instead ‘performance’ to a principal metho­ dological gateway (on citizenship and performance, see Rovisco and Lunt, 2019). The gateway leads to worlds of belonging, citizenship and conviviality that human subjects cannot enter without compromises and sacrifices – without a pragmatic orientation towards the world. Such an orientation guides

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my sociological manifesto on ‘realist magics’, which is also feminist, in that it disrupts singular notions of ‘love’, ‘hate’ and ‘fear’ we may find in decolonial theses such as those of Alatas, who prompts committed native sociologists to just resentfully transcend Western regimes of knowledge. Instead, I suggest that we enter what Tolia-Kelly (2008, p. 117) has problematised as a ‘process of exploring issues of motion and emotion, power difference and identifica­ tions with cultures of landscape’, such as those Stefanos, the artistic freediver of this study, enters. By doing so, we acknowledge how different modernities have become so entangled, that we have to sit violent masters and vulnerable victims on the same table – or we will get nowhere.

A sociology of realist magics Not punk: Bosch on the contemporary sociological imagination Committed sociologists argue that we live in challenging times – a statement freely tied to neoliberalisation, capitalist violence and the likes, to produce statements on the dismantling of academic autonomy and scholarly creativity. One of these voices develops in David Beer’s (2014) Punk Sociology. In this long essay, Beer presents an ‘alternative’ sociological practice, by turning ‘punk’ as a cultural style into a way of interrogating and researching the social. Connecting his thesis to other known sociological voices, such as Mills, Burrawoy and Holmwood, he calls for a ‘reinvention’ of the discipline in new circumstances through the use of varieties of data produced in new and old media sites. He also advocates the use of alternative styles of communication, such as blogging, and the collaboration with non-sociological communities and students, in comprehensive ways that do not promote what he calls ‘prog’ discursive show-offs in publications. The punk ethos, he argues, can give sociologists ‘creative space’ and an ‘imaginative framework’ to ‘escape from orthodoxy and conservatism’ (Beer, 2014, p. 16). The book’s actual orientation and institutional commitment connects to a British sociological agenda: it calls for interdisciplinarity that it does not do – a task difficult to complete in the space of a long essay anyway. However, this gives the impression that the hard graft of literature-updating and idea-refin­ ing can be done by others, who must simultaneously conform to the proposed paradigm to become punk sociological pioneers. What is branded ‘alternative’ is in fact work that has been going on in popular culture – a ‘field’ sociologists constantly marginalise as too interdisciplinary (Grindstaff, 2008). Strangely for such a thoughtful scholar, the thesis does not reflect on its own rooting, both in geographical and intellectual terms: it elevates what eventually evolved into a predominantly white aggressive Western European ‘artform’ to a methodologi­ cal tool, airbrushing the cultural and political complexities of global human pragmatics. Joas ([1996] 2005, p. 167) cautions us that a lot of action theory has to defend itself against the accusation ‘that it intrinsically leans more

xviii A preface not to skip

heavily in favour of an activistic relationship to the world, which is evidently culture-specific, if not gender-specific, and thus does not fulfil its claim to uni­ versality’ (emphasis in the text). Admittedly, Beer finds himself in a similar trap. However, the pragmatic complexity of the world exceeds what we know as ‘subculture’ in Hebdige’s (1979) terms (a thesis Beer uses), because, especially its phenomenal dimensions are a much more multifarious field than that recognised by orthodox Marxists. The problem with some subcultural theories promoting ‘revolution’ as a perpetual phenomenon, is that sometimes they stick too close to what Merleau-Ponty (1973, p. 64) terms a ‘western Marxist’ apologetic discourse for the horrors of Stalinism. Others have already furthered this point, by reinterpreting ‘revolution’ as ‘creative action’ in the tradition of western Enlightenment (e.g. Joas, 1996] 2005) – an argument, with which I also take issue as too Eurocentric. The latter version of revolutionary critique is enmeshed in cosmopolitan disseminations of ‘knowledge’ from the margins, which promote ‘reflexive communication’, inclusion and polyvocality as an ‘alternative humanist Enlightenment’. However, repurposing these anthropocentric experiences to answer current Anthropocenic challenges risks conflating multi-species com­ plexity with critiques of (capitalist) ideology. As I explain in Reading three, more recent problematisations of global crises as the advent of the ‘Capita­ locene’ (Moore, 2016), the recognition that the current global crises are human and rooted in histories of industrial capitalism, is a more wholesome answer. The issue is multifarious, yes, but calls to use Enlightenment-based intellectual traditions as panaceas for the end of times (e.g. Aravamudan, 1999, p. 330 on ‘disciplinary activism’ via the global enterprise of Enlight­ enment; Aravamudan, 2016 on Enlightenment legacies) do not consider how human affairs have always worked in terms of radical problem-solving to radicalism’s detriment and structural or systemic incorporation. Proponents of pro-environmental ‘Enlightening activism’ forget that the original fighters for postcolonial agency also excelled at eliminating internal human difference and damaging local environments in equal stead (MacKenzie, 1997). For reasons that become clear later, I content that we may not rescue our­ selves, the earth or our human integrity by endorsing the textual resurrection of such European/Western traditions without at least some hermeneutic sus­ picion and revision. Enlightenment knowledge must be challenged, if we are to produce purposeful creative knowledge for the future. This knowledge’s nomothetic potential is preserved by human consciousness, not nature, which is an actant in a wider memory network on earth, narrated and preserved by human communities. The power of this preservation is not based solely on reason. The lack of a sustained sociological and interdisciplinary discussion about emotion in critical cosmopolitan action is the symptom of Enlight­ enment’s hydrocephalous rationality, which continues to dominate an other­ wise praiseworthy theory of communicative action. Herein also lies the importance of popular-cultural sociology, which takes seriously the emotional

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world and the pitfalls of the romantic spirit of capitalism. The Situationists’ self-critical oscillation between scepticism and utopianism, which, notably, influenced the very punk movement on which Beer based his thesis and which embraced all forms of life as variations of ‘artwork’ (Debord and Wolman, [1956] 2006), proved more catastrophic than the self-same artistic/activist group’s undoing. The situationist repurposing of aesthetic forms (détourne­ ment) would soon turn from a subversive performance to capitalism’s staple of bricolage, pastiche or even kitsch: a negation of artistic strategies as reified radicalisation mirroring the jouissance of new twentieth-century consumer­ isms (Debord, [1969] 1995; Krauss, 1999; Nilsson, 2018). There is an additional reason, relevant to discussion on cosmopolitan action, that I do not want to fully affiliate with Beer’s agenda (despite my personal borrowing from situationist principles and methodologies in the past): it can reproduce the trace of laicism (or potential populism) in its misplaced commitment to ‘activism’. This mistake, of which I also blame myself and now take openly issue with, has an elective affinity with the non­ representational properties of music outside Europe (see Tzanelli, 2011, which, like Beer’s thesis, was framed precisely on this idea of music worlds as lifeworlds). It is an unconsciously devised mode of separating class inequalities and poverty from gendered and ethnic difference – a strategy now employed by as terrifying authoritarian leaders as Donald Trump. Despite its painful origins in gendered violence, ‘punk’ stylistics are for Beer a nod to protect social groups in need, an invitation to students to think in crafty ways (blog and make posters) and question authority without a stable agenda. Beer is right to say that this is the perfect moment to publish this book – it is perhaps expected to strike the same cultural keys that rose Beethoven to fame in a different field (see also DeNora, 2000 on music and cultural distinction). To be clear, although I am generally sympathetic to popular aesthetics, which is a particular ‘realist magics’, I think that it should not lull our criticality. The laicism that these magics endorse reminds the manifesto promoted in Greece after the last political restoration (1974) by Papandreou’s socialism, which in the long run, proved as corrupt and violent as its dictatorial predecessors. In addition, punk is the product of Western individualism, despite its community-building intentions, so it is a very limited way of doing things in the world (in all fairness, Beer notes this in his book). In short, our world, our motivations and actions are more complex than Beer suggests, and we should hesitate to offer such manuals to dis­ affected and ‘punk angry’ students as potential live sociological agendas. Students often confuse dissidence for healthy criticality and their anger results in unproductive chaos. The slide into laicism is explored in latter readings in this study, not as an unintended consequence in Giddens’s terms, but as part of the largely predictable magics of a privileged (Wes­ tern) modernity that needs transcending (see also Bhambra, 2007a,

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2007b; Tzanelli, 2008). The call to transcend does not take issue just with the development of the capitalist system (which, as I explain with reluctance, it can become a lifesaver for humans in some cases, even in its more recent and brutal form), but mainly various forms of native heritage and their problematic interaction with Western modes of being – economic and otherwise. This suggests to social scientists that victims in ethnic garments may turn out to be the real murderers: that ‘heritage’, in all its phenomenal (traditions), ritual (embodied interaction) and mate­ rial dimensions (e.g. ‘dark tourist spots’ – Rojek, 1993), can kill aesthetic plurality in the name of collective honour. Later I shall explain how such phenomena assume gendered qualities, which interact with class-based aesthetic hierarchies globally – yet another form of realist magics I explore in readings three and four. My starting point is, therefore, more mixed than Beer’s positive outlook on the discipline of sociology. I see its future entwined with the modernity from which it sprung, and which now proves its slow undoing, the same way anthropology’s colonial legacy acted as its institutional Nemesis. It is ques­ tionable if sociology is a discipline ‘shy’ and ‘lacking confidence’, as Holmwood (2010) purports; it can still fail to address non-Western or alternative gendered and sexual ways of being outside its institutional prescriptions. A fixation upon its old Marxist, Durkheimian or Weberian tools without hybri­ disation, produces an investigative realism that resembles the proverbial (adapted for TV from novels) character detective Harry Bosch’s obsession with righting the wrongs of an old murder case that affect his judgement in adverse ways: ‘never fall in love with the victim’, his retired colleague admonishes. I will try not to ‘fall in love’ with the victims of my study and also shy away from thinking about my popular cultural agenda as supporting the workingclass poor of post-recession landscapes. My fear remains a lapse in populist advocacy – a phantom looming large both over Greece and global recession landscapes. As Frank (2004) has noted in the American context, the primary contradiction of conservative populism has been that ‘a working-class move­ ment has done incalculable, historic harm to working-class people’. I would argue that, when left to operate within the governmobilities of tourism and consumerism, middle-class movements can do similar harm to themselves and other lifeworlds, by resorting to gendered or racial essentialisations that eliminate plurality. Mukerji and Schudson (1991, p. 36) puts this succinctly in the context of academic research on these popular cultural issues: we happily celebrate discoveries in popular culture of sociability, fellow­ ship, and creative resistance to exclusionary cultural forms; but that should scarcely blind us to popular traditions of racism, sexism and nativism that are just as deeply rooted. This is popular culture too.

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I abstain from using ‘class’ as the sole criterion to research the multi­ dimensional phenomenon of popular culture (including new and old media and tourism), even though tourism has been connected primarily to class in Urry’s classical ‘tourist gaze’ thesis (Urry, 1990, 2002; Urry and Larsen, 2011). I will also not focus on the ‘culture-producing organisational’ perspective in Howard Becker’s style (Becker, 1982), because I prioritise magical or experi­ ential variations (Becker’s is demoted to an auxiliary method). Intertwined with performance in everyday life in many world-settings, popular culture (here understood also in transitions from folk to contemporary pop styles), is not limited to one class, gender ethnicity or status group, but embedded in ‘eco­ nomic circumstances, nationalism, history and heritage, human migration, and transnational cultural flow, political environment and cultural resistance, reli­ gious organization, and social relations’ (Fedorak, 2009, p. 15). Popular cul­ ture is an expression of our humanity and a way to ritualise our social interactions (Fedorak, 2017, pp. 9–10), to orient ourselves towards our cultural environments – in short, it generates forms of action, and therefore realities. My turn to magical realism to reconsider sociological perspectives on action and not specifically to literature as a sociological medium (e.g. Becker, 2007) should ring an alarm about the poverty of sociological engagement with cultural pragmatics, as well as the latter’s lack of sufficient connection to non-Western systems and modes of thought. This necessitates problem-sol­ ving styles that cannot stay attached to a particular type of sociological theory. Instead, I suggest that we also generate new conceptual frameworks that can also acknowledge the significance of pre-reflexive internationalities of the body in Merleau-Ponty’s (1962: 163–165) tradition of post-Cartesian phenomenology. To study the magics of inner and outer movement (pilgrim­ age, travel and systems of tourism), I had to have recourse to as diverse forms of pragmatism as those proffered by Alexander, Peirce and Archer, as well as tourist phenomenology and constructivism developed by Hollinshead, Cohen, MacCannell and Dann. After these theoretical amalgamations, I had to ven­ ture into the religious and aesthetic unknown within Europe, as well as to decolonial, postcolonial and feminist aesthetics. Such alternative aesthetics may also promote a meaningful loss of intentionality, which assists in rein­ statements of mimicry as unconscious mocking and self-mocking, as well as the loss of distance from tragic or difficult situations (Honneth and Joas, 1988, pp. 70–75).

Magical realism: structural logic, styles and modes The actual tradition of magical realism originates in the 1920s interwar years in Germany and is associated with two distinctive takes on reality and objec­ tivity. The first, which was developed by German art historian Franz Roh, was called ‘Magischer Realismus’ (Magic Realism) and the second was pro­ pagated by museum director Gustav Hartlaub and became known as ‘Neue

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Sachlichkeit’ (New Objectivity). Both theses started with a similar premise concerning the promotion of a new form of representational art that emerged on the demise of Expressionism’s apocalyptic style after the First World War. The need for solemnity and clarity after the horrors of a war suggested the turn to objectivism as a spiritual creation. However, Hartlaub discerned two distinctive traits in this New Objectivity that were soon to inform two opposing ideological forces: a conservative Neoclassicist and a left-wing Verist (Guenther, 1995, p. 41). The compositional structure of these two con­ flicting styles/ideologies spoke the language of interwar crisis in values – so much so, that Verism informed the political activism of some artists who waned to promote class struggle and improve society (Bertonati, 1981). Roh’s impact was minimal until his introduction to Latin America through the Spanish translation of his book on the trend by Revista De Occidente in 1927. The massive migrations of European intellectuals and political dissidents to Central and Latin America between 1933 and 1941 helped in the global dis­ semination of his work. Subsequently, magical realism developed into a resurgent postcolonial trend in countries such as Argentina, Chile and Mexico, while simultaneously regaining an existential and metaphysical link its European father had rejected (Guenther, 1995, pp. 60–61). As this study’s analysis develops, the significance of both theses will some into sharper focus in the contemporary Greek context. I am against adopting a flat, structuralist view of reality, in which phenomena have no historic depth or global connectivity. I therefore see in magical realism as a cultural force a global mutation that comes to life in contexts of socio-political crisis. Apart from the fact that Greece has had its own shape of magical realism, its national birth and development was clearly led by what Hartlaub recognised as conservative Neoclassicism (imported from the nineteenth-century centres of European colonial power) and Verism (attached to mid-twentieth-century emergence of a working-class consciousness). Neoclassicism and Verism con­ tinue to affect modern Greek self-conceptions of the country’s place in the world and appear unexpectedly also in the Underwater Gallery’s cultural conjoncture. As my thesis’ perspective widens, we will also move from Har­ tlaub’s European analysis to a postcolonial one, which speaks the language of Latin American adaptations of Roh’s work instead. The significance of this move and of Greece as a cultural-political topos that is paradigmatic of con­ temporary changes in governmobilities is probably lost on most social and political theorists or cultural/art analysts. Suffice it to say at this stage, that modern Greek identity absorbed and produced many conflicting realist magics as a European non-colony but the focal point of European civiliza­ tion, a potential ‘Bolshevist den’ during the Second World War and then an opportune fit for Euro-American industrial and liberal expansion. In its now decrepit post-bailout social fabric, all these forces re-appear to claim dis­ cursive space as alternative politics, utopian futures or popular-cultural (artistic and tourist) lifestyles. Greece’s social fabric is infused with the scent

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of foolhardy optimism and the stink of neo-Nazi totalitarianism in equal measure; we are struggling to identify its distinctive aroma any more. The fact that my social and cultural context connects to an event in con­ temporary Greece, allows me to be creative in my use of philosophical terms originating in Greek (I avoid discussing continuities and discontinuities in ancient and modern Greek histories here, because they are not my focus – see, however, Reading three). I have already explained what I mean by pragmatism and how this connects to the cultural-linguistic roots of the notion of reality (this is known as pragmatikótita [πρᾶγματικότητα from πρᾶγμα]), but I am yet to explore ‘magic’. Having recourse to anthro­ pological genealogies of magical systems in Evans-Pritchard’s work, or James Frazer’s intellectualist/scientist movement is of little use at this stage, so I adopt a more meaningful path: from the Latin magus, through the Greek μάγος, which is from the Old Persian maguš (‘magician’), the word ‘magic’ is part of a contested branch of the Indo-Iranian languages also known as ‘Aryan’. The Old Persian magu, which originates in the Proto­ Indo-European magh (‘be able’), was subsequently connected to practices of divination and mystical ritual that ancient Greeks thought of as dangerous - - (Sanskrit: माया) is a word in an exotic/Orientalist fashion. Notably, maya with unclear etymology, probably from the root ma- which means ‘to mea­ sure’ (Buswell and Lopez, 2013, p. 535). Confusions of ‘measurement’ with rational calculation abound in European proto-capitalist cultures, where Eastern traders were seen as dangerously exotic cheaters. So, right from the start, magic was connected to unwarranted, illicit and excommunicated practices that promote forms of calculation (and by extension, exploitation). This illicit note was also gendered through and through, with Maya being the name of Gautama Buddha's mother in Buddhism and an epithet for ‘goddess’ in Hinduism (Lochtefeld, 2002, p. 405). The travails of the Magi are recorded in antiquity as stretching from Mesopotamia to the Levant, and their affiliations with Zarathustrians are discussed for their misunderstood ‘pro­ fessionalism’: even Zarathustra himself was seen at the time the religion entered China (c.1100 BCE) as part of this professional guild that ministered against payment, ‘much as a professional musician earns his living by performing the works of different composers’ (Mair, 2015, pp. 36–39). These early cultures of geographical and phenomenal mobility did similar damage in the treatment of women deemed ‘unconventional’ by the communities in which they lived during the Middle Ages within Europe. Federici (2005, p. 165) recognises witch-burning trials ordered by the Catholic Inquest as the first ‘campaigns of terror against women’, whose transgressive wisdom stood as one of the primary sources of resistance of European peasantry to state and gentry privatisation. The same practices would reinstate themselves in rational scientific contexts of Western modernity as capitalist ontologies of insecurity and private securitisation (Bauman and Lyon, 2013) – what many sociologists today prefer (wrongly, in my humble opinion) to explore independently from cultures of sexism.

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This short genealogy highlights how the illusionary and dangerous properties of magic connected lay and scholarly histories of exoticism to the pragmatics of social boundary definition and crossing (as Orientalism, racism and sexism). Their basis in the belief that an atmospheric field we cannot see but certainly feel, allows magic practitioners to manipulate material worlds (the soul and body of the subject on which spells are cast), is constitutive of my organisation of estab­ lished versions of magical realism in this book. These versions produce different cultural pragmatics: in Reading one, we will see an emphasis on naturalism as aesthetics, which organises a freediving photographer/cinematographer’s action in terms of an affective pragmatics; in Reading two, we will move on to discuss the virtual-convivial pragmatics of the community of freediving artists to which he belongs, and which is connected to the staging of his Underwater Gallery; in Reading three we will move further away from affective embodiment to explore the thick pragmatics of national self-presentations in media and tourist sites; and we will conclude in Reading three with the technopragmatics (a marriage between téchne as art and technology as both virtual and material manipulation of natural environments in global contexts) of staging Galleries and Museums narrating human futures in relation to natural environments. The readings appear to be ‘progressive’ in an ‘Enlightenment dialectics’ fashion, but by the time we finish Reading three, I endeavour to have shown how the movement is cyclical and interactive/answerable in a magical realist fashion: if biopolitical institutions appropriate progressive design by artists, scientists and designers, the latter’s responses reinstate themselves in cen­ trifugal magical ways. In other words, even ‘technopragmatics’ prepare the world for further creative action, which does not necessarily conform to the rules and regulations of the global technocultures that connect to capitalist structuration. The movement from Readings one to four completes a ‘magical realist cycle’, which, despite some structural similarities with the ‘hermeneutic cycle’, should not be confused with it. The structural similarities the two cycles share involve understandings of creativity in pragmatist terms, which produce problem-solving techniques, conceptions of intelligence, reconstruc­ tion, abduction and constitution of meaning (Joas, [1996] 2005; Harrington, 2013). Because I stress the presence of power in constitutions of meaning, I also introduce moments of rupture or violence in this cycle – which is why I will also be thinking in terms of discourses, especially in contexts of tour­ ismification on Amorgos (Salazar, 2009; Hollinshead, 1998, 1999). In the following methodological chapter, it will become obvious that, unlike orthodox hermeneuticians, but in agreement with the pragmatist critique of Cartesian thought by some of them, I have recourse to understandings of vio­ lence inflicted upon human populations not by institutions as such, but dis­ courses circulating in social fields and mediated by institutions and individual actors. This means that I cannot always trust Weberian theory to explain how collective or individual actors are formed in these settings, because such for­ mations can and are overdetermined by histories from a plethora of cultural

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fields outside European ways of being and intelligence. By the same token, what I term ‘magical realist types’ in the study, should not be confused with Weber’s ‘ideal types’. This is because the motivations of state or collective and individual actors in the study are not neatly compartmentalised in Weber’s fashion of ideal action, nor do they conform to a singular pragmatic field of action but develop often performance repertoires across different realities that make sense at some future point in time. Epistemologically, let us say that I must persuade Bosch and a prominent proponent of postcolonial magical rea­ lism, Frida Kahlo, to sit at the same negotiating table so that I arrive at a meaningful conclusion about the actions of different actors in my study. To achieve this, I frame my ‘readings’ on matchings of Western/European social thought and variations of magical realism – for, I firmly believe that there are also ‘contact points’ between different culturally framed action structures – what social theorists would place under the ambit of a ‘cosmo­ politan imagination’ (Delanty, 2014; see also Swain, 2009 for specific inter­ pretations in tourism studies). Here, I briefly introduce my adaptation of a sensible typology of magical realism developed by Guatemalan William Spindler (1993), who proposes the existence of three main but often interlaced types of magical realism: the European metaphysical magics stressing a sense of estrangement and uncannyness (associated with Kafka’s fiction); an onto­ logical magical realism characterised by a ‘matter-of-factness’ in interpreta­ tions of the inexplicable, manifesting when Eastern and Western worlds collide and collude in terms of cosmology and science (associated with Bor­ gesian fiction); and an ‘anthropological’ magical realism, in which such con­ tacts do not result in immediate intermingling, but suspend native cosmologies and Western rational worldviews in different compartments (associated with Garcia Marques’ or Isabel Allende’s fiction). It is impossible to further categorise magical realism without facing the accusation of playing the game of Western discourse associated with tourist systems, so I prefer to move on to an introduction to Kahlo’s perspective. This will involve a careful mining of methodological tools from Western and European domains of thought for the final synthesis. In the narrower field of tourism studies, I want to review the somehow fragmented perspectives on the relationship between tourism and modernity. I stress ‘modernity’ as the scientific figment of the sociological imagination, rather than ‘modernisation’, a process on which many tourism scholars occa­ sionally confuse with ‘modernity’. I detect two distinctive trends in this frag­ mentation of perspectival analysis: the first has to do with the unequivocal connection of ‘modernity’ (often standing for ‘modernisation’) to indus­ trialisation, urbanisation and institutional rationalisation in Western spheres (Franklin, 2003, p. 24, p. 164; Maitland and Ritchie, 2009). This approach is also part of sociology’s Western industrial heritage, which often leads scholars to prioritise questions of class in their writings (see also Urry’s [1990] original thesis on the ‘tourist gaze’). The other perspective focuses on the encounter of

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specific cultures with Western modernity but does not devise a theoretical framework applicable to ‘tourism’ and ‘modernity’ in multiple contexts. This perspective demonstrates an awareness of the ethno-racial complexities bequeathed to national polities by colonialism and imperialism and which currently define their tourism policy and hospitality attitudes (e.g. Oakes, 2005; Timothy and Nyaupane, 2009), but does not proceed to think about the unity within the multiplicity outside Western conceptions (e.g. it focuses on ‘heritage’, which is a master Western European term – see Jamal and Kim, 2005). On the margins of such analyses, we have Wang’s (2000) and Picard’s (2011) theses. Wang’s work has turned into a bible in the field of tourism studies because of its generation of two ideal types of tourist/tourism experi­ ence. However, the epistemological design of this thesis is less curious about the European premises of tourism as an activity and tourists as an ideal type. Picard’s alternative (Picard, 2011, pp. 6–7, 15) posits other problems as much as it opens up new perspectives. The fact that it examines, among other things, cultural disenchantments in geographically specific cosmological domains, is certainly relevant to my thesis. The difference in our approaches stems from anthropology’s indiscriminate celebration of nativism in all spheres of human action. Occasionally, this leads to an ambivalent attitude or rejection of cultural pragmatics that sociology is better-equipped to introduce in the field of tourism. My uses of magic as a methodological tool do not suggest the dethronement of all the technological achievements that we have at our disposal today, nor do they elevate the practice to the status of a ‘modernity’ (to me, magic also promotes premodern prejudice). I use magic as a conceptual portal to the hermeneutics of multiple modernities, as these are inflected by magical realist subjects, such as Frida Kahlo. Therefore, my approach is markedly different in terms of disciplinary and epistemological perspective from that of an anthropologist. Another difference between what I do in this study and what the afore­ mentioned perspectives offer, has to do with my contextual elaboration (in Reading three) of the established terms ‘multiple’ and/or ‘entangled moder­ nities’ (Eisenstadt, 2003; Arnason, 2003). My own revised reading of these two concepts as more-than religious, aesthetic categories (on this I agree with Picard’s turn to aesthetics) does not intend to display a series of modernities, as many tourism scholars do in edited volumes, but to consider their episte­ mological usefulness in rethinking the origins and development of what we came to accept as ‘tourism’ and ‘travel’ in our contemporary academic lex­ icon. The first certainty we must throw out of the window is that we know exactly what we are talking about when we discuss ‘tourism’ or ‘travel’, or others may rename by having recourse to their own disciplinary fundament­ alisms (e.g. ‘migration’ instead of ‘tourism’ – see also Cohen, 2019). To rescind this certainty, I populate my readings with Peirce’s phaneroscopic pre­ semiotics and semantics, which are more familiar to tourism analysis (e.g.

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Lau, 2011; Knudsen and Rickly-Boyd, 2012; MacCannell, 2014; Chen, 2015). The second certainty that we must forgo has to do with tourism’s epistemo­ logical and ontological birthplace as the centre of human thought: Europe. My version of ‘provincialising’ Europe communicates with Chakrabarty’s (2000) critique of continental racialisation of difference only in part: my pro­ ject focuses on revisions of the human matrix (a modification of Butler’s [1990] ‘heterosexual matrix’), For millennia this matrix maintained the image of the white European heterosexual and able-bodied Man, who judges others against his ‘civilisational’ standards (and finds them short) (Braidotti, 2013, pp. 14–15). This (hu)Man’s prevalence in discourses of development and mobility (including tourism) has to be challenged in favour of a flattened posthuman ontology (Massumi, 2002, 2014) that restores our respect for ethnic, gendered and non-human difference. Let us proceed now to more epistemological clarifications and a fuller presentation of the book’s metho­ dological framework.

An epistemological and methodological introduction

PART I Dialogues between (nominated) centres and peripheries Having allowed the Western Bosch to play the role of the principal investigator in the Preface, I now let Kahlo to do the same in my methodological analysis. Where an instantly recognisable fictional hero frames my postcolonial thesis in the Preface, a real artist is called upon to inspect my Euro-Western tools. This is ‘anti-phatic’ (anti [αντί]: against and placed side-by-side + fásko- [φάσκω]: support) in a magical sense: it challenges and develops alongside discursive interpellations of human subjects and situations. Anti-phasis is a playful tech­ nique of producing new associations in critical ways, which allows us to rethink real problems with the use of creative thinking (‘outside the box’). A novel schema emerges from my anti-phatic matching, which updates Said’s (1993) ‘contrapuntalism’, a postcolonial methodology of knowledge that casts the mediation of different viewpoints into a musical metaphor (Chowdry, 2007, p. 103). In the resulting chiastic (X-formed) schema, a magical human actor ends up ‘answering’ to an alien cultural form (e.g. Bosch to post and decolonialism and Kahlo to Euro-Western social and cultural theory), when their dialogues with the alien forms cross and meet at a particular point (Diagram I). This criss-crossing is constitutive of my attempt to diminish the distance between different, conflicting worldviews, by showing how they can also mimic each other in ways we are yet to explore. Mimicry does not relate just to racial (Bhabha, 1994) but extends to gendered interpellations (Fuss, 1994). Irigaray (2000, 2010) refers to the female irrational way of speaking as ‘parler femme’ – commonly translated as ‘womanspeak’. The term emphasises that processes of communicative derailment are essentially gendered: the content of women’s speech has no real centre; its logic unfurls only in peripheral articulations dif­ ficult to unify under concrete ideas. This notion of peripherality matches postcolonial cultural formations, which allegedly ‘fail’ to achieve Western civilisational completion – a form of ‘educational valorisation’. Notably,

2 An epistemological and methodological introduction

Diagram I Methodological correspondence of actor to theoretical traditions (creator: Rodanthi Tzanelli).

however, even postcolonial formations try to repress the female styles of such ‘failures’, in favour of honourable community-building (Spivak, 1988). My methodological criss-crossing tries to rectify this repression. It aspires to high­ light the presence of a horizontal ‘epistemological conversation’ (Chambers and Buzinde, 2015, p. 13) between the West and the Rest that may be lost in more mainstream scholarly explorations of postcolonial violence. The suggestion is appropriate for the creation if an epistemology of ‘explora­ tion’ through adventurous lifestyles. I suggest that this is reflected in Kahlo’s aes­ thetics of mobility – especially her attraction to psychic and somatic pain (Zamora, 1990, p. 46). To examine the aesthetics of Kahlo – a fearless left-wing artist from the New World, who, although debilitated by disease and an accident at young age, repeatedly engaged in embodied urban flâneries in Western worlds – we must have recourse to phenomenology. Ironically, then, we cannot do a cri­ tique of postcolonial and gendered violence without looking to the traditions that emerged from its very geographical sources, including Britain, France and espe­ cially Germany. A successful critique of hegemonic European paradigms that inform Western philosophies (of science) and endorse the ‘colonial capitalist/ patriarch world system’ (Grosfoguel, 2006) must be placed in context, examined ‘from within’. Even then, the assumption of a single ‘world-system’ does not encapsulate the mutations of postcolonialism and late capitalism.

An epistemological and methodological introduction

3

Choosing epistemological tools should not be prejudiced by their geopo­ litical origins. Instead, it is better to scrutinise the cultural and social orientation of the methodological service at which we place them. We would never have had Frantz Fanon’s analysis of racism without Marx’s obsessive focus on class as the instrument of power and industrial domination. By the same token, I cannot have a decolonial theory of mobility without a critical evaluation of the traditions of tourism analysis (Pritchard and Morgan, 2008, pp. 24–26). Likewise, my turn to formal sociology, especially in Anglo-Saxon scholarly domains, is a gateway to critique, not imitation of its mistakes and limitations. Finally, we must recognise that we can never occupy a failproof position in our assessment of such diverse traditions of knowledge because, despite their unmistakable entanglement in the deep mental structures of modernity/coloniality (Bhambra, 2014), they are still evolving in real time. At first, my discussion of (Greek) mobility and belonging in relation to the metaphorical travails of a Mexican magical-realist artist seems infelicitous. However, there are stark similarities between Mexican and Greek genealogies of identity and belonging, as well as the structures of social inequality with which they supplanted social identities. Although Mexico and Greece were colonised by premodern empires (Spain and the Ottoman empires respec­ tively), the emergence of their modern identities and structures of thought was haunted by phantom colonialisms (originating in American and EuroAmerican policies and cultural formations respectively – Herzfeld, 2002; Gallant, 2016). Both in the case of Mexico and Greece, supporting tradi­ tionalism, custom and heritage assisted native groups and institutions to pro­ duce a nationalist programme that elevated masculine ways of being to statist and social values. Within this context, to find that Kahlo’s artistic work remained unknown until the 1970s, when art historians discovered it and activists elevated her to an icon for the Chicanos, the feminist and the LGBTQ movement (Ankori, 2013), is anything but coincidental. Mostly overshadowed by her husband Diego Riviera’s artwork and hard activism, Kahlo would find recognition posthumously, thanks to her uncompromising depiction of female experience and form (Broude and Garrard, 1992, p. 399). This juxtaposition of hardness to softness continues to be a reality to date, both in individual and collective self-presentations and representations. It is constitutive of the politics and poetics of mobility in Greece and seriously implicated in Stefanos’ interpellations and self-interpellations in media and tourist/leisure networks. The individual does not have one ‘empirical soul, or self, or ego’, to quote Sorokin, but several biological and social egos, ‘as there are different social groups and strata with which he [sic.] is connected. If some of these groups are antagonistic to each other, then the respective egos that represent these groups in the individual will also be antagonistic’ (Sorokin, 1969, p. 345, emphasis in the text). Weaving those within the discourse of a Mexican female artist’s magical realism is pertinent: as I explain later in the

4 An epistemological and methodological introduction

book, freediving art presents stark similarities with the avant-garde Neue Sichtlichkeit from which Kahlo was initially influenced (Burrus, 2005, 2008). Not only did Neue Sichtlichkeit’s transgressive/deviant spirit express the dis­ affection of young generations towards social and economic structures, it became auxiliary in some cases to the emergence and consolidation of authoritarian and totalitarian politics. Above all, Kahlo’s propensity to create alternative worlds and her theatrics of the Self fit well what has been called the ‘odd, androgynous chemistry of our … epoch’ (Collins, 4 September 2013), which is displayed in public, as long as it does not threaten collective (i.e. national) sensibilities. There are many comic and darker connections to make to both contemporary and interwar European phenomena in the study, before we complete the magical-realist cycle. My methodological matching of a TV/literary figure with a real artist of folk forms helps me to move across and between different local and global sites and practices of embodiment, affect and digital and cinematic technolo­ gies. This movement produces a particular version of complexity we can convey as a ‘complex structure of feeling’ (Urry, 2005a, p. 1; Maasen and Weingart, 2000). Such structures of feeling challenge everyday notions of social order, bringing into play a version of neo-vital thought (Fraser et al., 2005). At a more analytical level, such complexity rests on combinations of system and processes of thinking that can potentially generate forms of agency (Thrift, 1999). To realise my methodology’s complexity chiasma and produce a meeting point, I need to explain how glocal communications (in Robertson’s [1992, 1994, 1995] terms) happen. As a repeatedly ‘failed experi­ ment’ in Western modernisation (first in the hands of the nineteenth-century Great Powers of Europe and now of the EU and the IMF – Tzanelli and Korstanje, 2016), Greece provides a generalisable example of developmental greed. Against all odds, in its baroque political landscapes and increasingly multicultural lifeworlds, old folk practices entertain a surprising Renaissance among new lifestyles and technological mobilities. Kahlo helps me to paint the country’s complex picture so that I form the chiastic meeting point in the versatile hermeneutics of communication. I invite you to float with me towards the chiastic centre of a magical realism that can re-centre the socio­ logical imagination outside Western poles of thought. Comaroff and Comaroff (1999, 2001) and Seremetakis (2009, 2019) note how divinatory practices (the folk face of contemporary Greek culture) often register the impact of large-scale transformations on local worlds. Their abil­ ity to distil through the body of the witch or fortune-teller complex sociomaterial processes is relayed as a translocal event and discourse. As is the case in almost any part of the ‘civilised’ world penetrated by Western modernity, what Benjamin described as the mediatic innervation of society’s sensory apparatus is systematised by cinematic and digital networks in consumerist contexts (Benjamin, [1968] 1992; Buck-Morss, 1992). Divinatory practices performed by both amateur and professional coffee-cup readers and evil-eye

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exorcists – two feminine folk practices with widespread appeal today in Greek urban contexts (Seremetakis, 1991) – serve to heal and restore the violence of this ‘transcendental nervous system’, which promotes distracted visuality and somatic untouchability (Taussig, 1997; Seremetakis, 2009). In the first reading of this study, one comes across a recurring ambivalence in first-hand descriptions of freediving as an unmediated, somatosensory experience of the world, and an athletic/artistic science someone masters by technological means. The semiotic and performative density of such utter­ ances, as well as their re-presentations in various new and old media sites (a theme in Readings two and three) place Greek modernities on a border, in which the human and communal ‘bodies’ are ‘partitioned, segmented and circulated as discrete commodity units’ (Seremetakis, 2009, p. 338; Ser­ emetakis, 2019, chapter 1). However, I would also challenge the eschatologi­ cal tendency of such observations, adding that it is precisely through dark magical technologies, such as that of the internet (Seremetakis, 2001) that human actors manage to restore sociality and reinterpret forms of cultural wholeness. Fragments of Greek modernities are pieced together in potentially healing ways. Even in the atomised networked environments produced in the increasingly techno-visual organisations of the metropolis (in Facebook and Twitter networks), community and belonging can be reinstated. Much like the blue evil eye, which serves in Greek popular culture as both the material cause and the healing source of the spell (Tzanelli, 2011, p. 17), technology can also enable beneficial mobilities. Therefore, another problem with contemporary sociological theory is not that it cannot escape stylisations of phenomena in terms of social dystopias. In the particular context of this study, the dystopias of modernity are often adequately problematised for their Western industrial particularity in Marxist or Weberian ways, but never enough for their lack of ‘sympathetic’ or ‘apo­ tropaic magic’ (Sabar, 2010). The term is associated with the uses of talismans such as the hamsa or khamsa, a palm-shaped amulet popular throughout North Africa and the Middle East and now commonly used worldwide in wall dec­ orations and jewellery. Used across different world religions to ward off (apo [από]: away + trépein [τρέπειν]: to turn) harmful influences, such initially healing, and now tourist-souvenir amulets form the grotesqueries of cultures of consumption. No social scientist recalls today that hamsa’s apotropaism origi­ nates in Berber warding-off styles involving the utterance of khamsa fi ainek (‘five fingers in your eyes’) while raising off one’s right hand with the palm outwards and the fingers slightly apart to ‘blind the aggressor’ (Schimmel, 1994, p. 92). Nothing is more revealing about the ways we choose to look at things today – let us recall here Peirce’s admission for matters of method: ‘I can’t help it. That’s how I see it’ (CP 7.643, in Dymek, 2013, p. 47). This per­ spectival rigidity is also embedded in the ways we choose to do sociologies of leisure and tourism in relation to modernity.

6 An epistemological and methodological introduction

Now I must place myself in the researcher’s prison to further validate my chiastic thesis: for any diagrammatic reduction of underwater play to a methodology, we cannot avoid the tired sociological ruminations on risk. In fact, the point at which the study’s two perspectives meet, is called in Western sociology ‘edgework’ (alternatively, I explore this under ‘magical-realist mobilities’ and ‘Greek anarchic individualism’). Aside from any help from political and cultural sociology, to understand edgework we must make sure that anthropologies of religion become answerable to sociologies of aesthetics and vice versa. ‘Edgework’ refers to the habit of undertaking extraordinarily risky activities in the context of leisure for seemingly no reason other than pleasure – a peculiar contradiction matching freediving activities. A broader matching pertains to conceptions of dark tourism as a peculiar emotional and physical engagement with sites of death. It is worth recalling that the fasci­ nation with death has been examined not only as part of Western societies’ postmodernisation (Rojek, 1997; Muzaini et al., 2007) but a challenge to modernity itself ‘and the current political order’ (Ashworth and Isaac, 2015, p. 317; Lennon and Foley, 2000): a sort of ‘postmodern madness’ (Tarlow, 2005, p. 48), ‘powered by a reaction to the notions of rationality and progress assigned to modernity’ (Ashworth and Isaac, 2015, p. 317). In his landmark book Risk Society, Ulrich Beck (1992) explores what he claims to be a profound transformation in the ways that human societies understand and respond to dangers, harms and hazards. In premodern socie­ ties, he argues, harms such as injury, disease and untimely death were seen to ultimately emanate from outside the scope of collective human agency, being the responsibility of non-human forces such as a God or gods, malign demons and other spirits, nature or fate (Elliott, 2002, p. 295). However, modernisa­ tion processes brought with them a revolution in such understanding. From a worldview in which calculation and rational action can be used to control and direct natural and social processes, harms and dangers become available for anticipation (they can be predicted) and management (they can be forestalled, or at least mitigated in their effects) (Jarvis, 2007, pp. 31–32). The implication of such practices is that human existence becomes cumulatively less vulner­ able to the arrival of unwelcome and unforeseen harms, thereby rendering that existence more stable and certain. However, in Beck’s account, the dynamics of modernisation have ultimately brought about quite the opposite outcomes, increasing, rather than decreasing, our vulnerabilities and the sense of doubt about our individual and collective futures. Responsible for this inversion are two main material and cultural dynamics. First, the interventions of modern techno-scientific rationality, aimed at reducing our vulnerabilities and improving our wellbeing, unleash a kind of ‘boomerang effect’ in which unanticipated and unpredictable consequences rebound upon society (Beck, 1992, pp. 37–38). For example, the exploitation of fossil fuels (a driving force behind industrialisation and the concomitant rise in living standards and longevity) results in an entirely unforeseen process

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of global climate change that threatens the very survival of the ecosystem; and the widespread use of broad-spectrum antibiotics (central to the fast and effective treatment of commonplace infections that once killed millions) has led to the unanticipated emergence of virulent drug-resistant bacteria that have life-threatening consequences. Second, the socio-cultural dynamic of modernisation has, for Beck, entailed a process of ‘de-traditionalisation’1 and a corresponding ‘reflexive individualisation’.2 Taken together, these dynamics underpin the ‘new modernity’ that Beck dubs the ‘risk society’. Although Beck does not explicitly discuss the ways individuals perform risk for pleasure or other reasons, he does note the centrality of different media apparatuses in the dissemination of what he calls ‘manufactured uncertainties’ (Beck, 1992, 1999), scenarios of a future (human and/or nature-induced) breakdown in societal order through the realisation of risks immanent to the society that experiences them. Placing Beck’s observations in the present study’s context yields additional observations. Archer’s (2013, p. 6) astute critique of Beck’s ‘reflexive modernisation’ thesis for failing to acknowledge that the human subject has ‘sufficient personal identity to know what he or she cares about and to design the “projects” that they hope (fallibly) will realise their concerns within society’ is, paradoxically, a prerequisite for the activation of edgework. However, when we shift emphasis from reflexivity to modernisation, we must interrogate the temporality and nature of risk – questions that bring in play the geo-temporal coordinates of one’s social and cultural identity. In my diagrammatic schema of freediving I delve deeper into this dynamic though an engagement with both sociologist Stephen Lyng’s analysis of ‘voluntary risk taking’ in terms of ‘edgework’ (Lyng, 1990), and Beck’s and Giddens’ accounts of the reflexive project of the self as sociologies that can become ‘answerable’ to realist magics. Such theses are then brought back ‘home’ (the Greek cultural context – see Reading three), to consider alongside traditions of individualism rooted in Greek encounters with Wes­ tern and Eastern modernities (but see Marangudakis, 2019, pp. 62–71 for a positively different perspective to ‘Western risk’). It is important to stress that central to the analysis offered by these theses is a determination to avoid psychological reductionism,3 and a corresponding commitment to situating such practices in the wider social and cultural context of a ‘late modern’, ‘reflexive modern’ or ‘risk’ society. In other words, the aim is to develop ‘an account that would explain high-risk behaviour in terms of a socially-con­ structed self in a historically-specific social environment’ (Lyng, 1990, p. 853). However, both Beck’s rationalist thesis and Lyng’s leap from phenomenology to materialism and then back, leaving the core of edgework experiences ‘dis­ articulated’ (in both Irigaray’s and postcolonial theory’s terms). Could it be that their methodological tools are too engaged with Western thought? Lyng (1990) starts his analysis of voluntary risk-taking by noting an appar­ ent paradox: the coexistence in contemporary America of a public agenda that places significant emphasis upon the reduction of risk, alongside a private

8 An epistemological and methodological introduction

agenda in which individuals and groups actively seek to increase and embrace risks. In terms of the latter, he documents the rapid growth (not just in America but also elsewhere across the world) of participation in high-risk leisure and sporting activities such as skydiving, rock climbing, scuba diving, and motor­ cycle racing. To these we may add more recent innovations such as basejumping (Laurendeau, 2011), freerunning or parkour (Saville, 2008), tram surfing (Yar, 2012) and snowboarding (Donnelly, 2006). Lyng develops the concept of ‘edgework’ so as to embrace a wide range of such voluntary risktaking behaviours that negotiate ‘the boundary between chaos and order’ and which ‘all involve a clearly observable threat to one’s physical or mental well­ being or of one’s sense of an ordered existence’ (Lyng, 1990, pp. 855, 857). It is important to note that the edgework concept extends beyond (a) sports and outdoor activities and (b) activities whose risks are related to the risk of physical injury. Also included within its ambit are those voluntary activities whose risks may be more clearly associated with threats to the participants’ psychological integrity, sense of self, or environment. Indeed, Lyng borrows the terminology of ‘edgework’ from the ‘Gonzo journalist’ Hunter S. Thompson, who first coined the term to denote risk-taking activities such as experimenta­ tion with drug taking (Thompson, 1971) – a link I visit in Reading two as central to metaphors of exploration in freediving. Lyng further elaborates upon both the ‘specific individual characteristics and capacities that are relevant to the edgework experience’ and ‘the subjective sensations associated with parti­ cipation in edgework’ (Lyng, 1990, p. 857). In respect of the former, he identi­ fies cognitive capacities that participants discuss in terms of ‘mental toughness’ and ‘survival capacity’ - the ability to maintain one’s focus and attention and avoid paralysis in extreme situations (ibid., p. 859). In relation to the latter, he determines that participants experience fear, but ‘having survived the chal­ lenge’ this gives way to ‘a sense of exhilaration and omnipotence’ (ibid., p. 860). Edgeworkers report that their risk-taking endeavours generate a sense of ‘self-realization’, ‘self-actualization’ and ‘self-determination’. Beck’s understanding of ‘risk’ as immanent to social structure and Lyng’s concept of edgework, seem to equip sociological analysis with some useful analytical conceptual tools. Yet, both approaches were exposed for their lim­ itations, prompting varied critiques that feed into the present study’s con­ ceptual analysis of ‘heterology’, the discourse about what constitutes the other in social and cultural worlds (see Part II of this Introduction). Beck’s account has been subject to significant criticism for its excessive rationalisation of risk, a neat epochal segmentation of modernity and postmodernity and the total neglect of the cultural dimension in favour of socio-political analysis (see, inter alia, Alexander, 1996; Wilkinson, 2001; Elliott, 2002; Mythen, 2007). Lyng’s Marxist-phenomenological elaboration on edgework was deemed insufficient in terms of application across class, race and gender lines (Walk­ late, 1997; Chan and Rigakos, 2002; Campbell, 2005; Laurendeau, 2008),

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making the concept narrowly useful in conceptualisations of ‘the unique experience of white, middle class, adult males’ (Lyng, 2005, p. 11). I will return to such critiques in later readings; the connection of edgework to freediving artmaking is more pertinent here. Pace the rise of Romanticism in the nineteenth century, Western modernity’s emphasis upon the production of rational order and predictability incited a yearning for precisely their opposite: the thrill of the sublime, the experience of an excess of affect based upon uncertainty and the scent of danger (Löwy and Sayre, 2001; Yar, 2015). However, in risk societies, we see not a perceived excess of constrictive order and rationally engineered predictability (Weber’s famous ‘iron cage’), but their antithesis – a world replete with globally mobile dangers that appear to mul­ tiply apace.4 This world can be escaped or modified phenomenologically through different rituals that restore if not some sense of stability, at least a modicum of belonging (Marangudakis, 2019, pp. 60–62). The submerged ideological content of such rescue missions is not explored in this Introduc­ tion. Instead, it is revealed, step by step, in the tradition of detective work. As I explain in the following two readings, risks in freediving and under­ water artmaking are ways of ‘touching cheeks’ with death metaphorically, so as to create sublime experiences to imprint on photographs, Facebook pages and videos/vimeos. Such digital and physical utterances can also be ‘read’ by a magical-realist sociologist as sympathetic magic, prompting us to rethink rigid conceptual and methodological portfolios on the death of solidarity and community in (post)modern times. Now my chiastic diagram looks like the one in the next page. My work considers forms that in world cultures marry the ‘hermeneutics of recovery’ (the ability to retrieve, regenerate or even build anew from ruins) with those of ‘suspicion’ (the certainty that something lurks under the surface of the world, which needs uncovering and ‘dealt with’ discursively). Such binarisms, which informed social theory frequently over the last centuries, were never examined in answerable ways as forms of cultural action. On the contrary, their proponents tended to superimpose a ‘hermeneutics of suspi­ cion’ onto a ‘hermeneutics of difference’ (Dallmayr, 2001, p. 40). Admittedly, when it comes to method, it is rather unclear how a statement on ‘formal sociology’ can apply to different cultural contexts, their histories, memories and futures. Specifically, we cannot assess the ways social forms (e.g. versions of beauty conveyed in tourist landscapes) communicate (with) the pragmatic modalities of reality: how we act on our apprehension of these forms and why (Tibbetts, 1975). There are at least two different ways to clarify this opacity, which Guyer (2005, p. 81) terms ‘precognitive’5 and ‘multicognitive’.6 How­ ever, Joas bemoans the lack of a stable sociological action theory paradigm and proceeds to suggest an alternative to the two dominant ones (the ‘rational’ and the ‘formative’), which he terms creative’ (Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 4). During several beautifully written chapters, he develops this alternative in relation to human teleology: corporeal control by and autonomous

10 An epistemological and methodological introduction

Diagram II Methodological correspondence of activity to epochal blocks and theoretical traditions (creator: Rodanthi Tzanelli).

individuality of the human actor. He stresses that all models of human action that have rationality as their starting-point, seem to create their own Nem­ eses: a non-rational counterpart into which ‘they force the multiplicity of action phenomena’ (ibid., p. 146). Note that ‘irrationality’ is the box in which colonial power trapped native action – much like the way the professional development of tourist destina­ tions nominated native modes of being in the world primitive (Hollinshead, 2004, p. 36; Hollinshead, 1998; Meethan, 2001). This displacement, which has acquired contemporary capitalist ‘extensions’ according to proponents of cultural imperialism in tourist studies, is noticeable in cultural, commu­ nicative and even labour inequalities in tourist settings (Jamal and Robinson, 2009, pp. 7, 10; Meethan, 2001; Ness, 2003; Bianchi, 2009; Chambers and Buzinde, 2015; Mostafanezhad and Hannam, 2016; Wijesinghe et al., 2019). It would not be injudicious to argue that tourism is seen as the lifting out of this barbarous state, a passport to a fictional Eden only the fortunate few can attain, if they mend their ways. Reactions to such straitjackets of labour and unidimensional civility are built into the contemporary social worlds in which my case study moves: the artistic beautification and tourismification of Amorgos and post-bailout Greece at large, as well as their historical pathways within and without an imagined uni­ tary ‘European’ world. The genealogies of such box-makings are forced to look

An epistemological and methodological introduction

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to the so-calldaed ‘Hobbesian problem’, the argument that all human subjects have to subdue their egoistic tendencies so that a peaceful social order is maintained (Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 9). Paradoxically, of course, notions of irra­ tionality or immaturity can also guide tourism as a form of action – and on this, let us pay homage to the late Dann’s recognition that tourism feeds our anomic (Dann, 1977) and childish (Dann, 1989) subjectivities. All things said, sociologists and other social scientists or even tourist studies scholars have been pretty good at confounding the problem of action with irrationality and civi­ lity, mostly by recycling European rationalist frameworks we associate with positivism, variations of realism and social physics, which talk about a mind without a heart (that is, if one is to be civilised). Such reductionist analytical schemata hail Parsonian models of social ordering that recognise the state and various social institutions as the primary worldmaking authors, or the only ones worth a lengthy discussion.7 In this analytical category we could place Keith Hollinshead’s (2002, 2009a, 2009b) early theory of tourist ‘worldmaking’, which he recently revised, to acknowl­ edge the rigidity of his older argument (e.g. Hollinshead and Suleman, 2018). For Hollinshead, ‘worldmaking’ encompasses a set of approaches or an angle of vision akin to Mannheim’s (1933] 1968) Weltsanschauung. These angles draw attention to the ‘varied sorts of things in which tourism is involved or “does”, or which are advanced in some fashion or other through what tour­ ism “is” or “can be”’ (Hollinshead et al., 2009, p. 428). In his work, Hollins­ head identifies the state as the primary worldmaking author (an interpellator of landscapes and cultures as ‘identities), and various actors, including tourist policy-makers and tourists as potential ‘agents’. There is a twin Althusserian and Weberian note in this schema, which prioritises rationality and utility in the formation of contemporary worlds. His recent reading of worldmaking as an enlarged world vision is also uncompromisingly European, but asks a series of important questions, which I visit later in the study. Outside tourist studies, classical sociological theory does not do much better. Simmel’s functional formalism is, for example, often accused of a geometrical reduction of the social (Aron, 1956), the same way Weber’s Verstehen is con­ sidered a product of Euro-Western rationalisation (Tzanelli, 2011). However, especially in the case of Simmel, who is recognised today as one of the pre­ cursors of (especially urban) tourism and travel analysis (Hollinshead and Suleman, 2018), critics miss his lateral connections to non-European, or paraWestern systems of thought. This happens mainly because he discusses the human subject’s and any social group’s emotional and phenomenal differ­ entiation in the experiential realm of culture in a rationalistic fashion (Kra­ cauer, 1920, p. 308), so such connections have to be ‘teased out’ with effort. Much like Weber, Simmel remains ambivalent toward the place of emotions in social life, here displaying emotional and affective action as premodern relics, there granting them a place in modernity as ‘counter-currents’ (Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 43; Thrift, 2009; Pitts-Taylor, 2015).

12 An epistemological and methodological introduction

Indeed, such ambivalence haunts critical takes on Western thought in sophisticated theses on the mutation of modernity across Europe (Herzfeld, 1992; Marangudakis, 2019). On the other hand, Simmel himself teased out large structures mainly out of small moments and social acts. It is small wonder that the European founder of systems theory, Parsons, ignored Simmel because of his ‘essayistic’, non-committed and ‘microsociological’ style. Simmel is important in my practical analysis of how different social actors turn into agents that challenge conservative rigidity in the making of ideas of mobility, especially ‘travel’ (see Reading three). It is essential to con­ nect quotidian notions of micro-mobility to large structures – otherwise, we miss the everyday psychic dimensions of social and cultural change (Ser­ emetakis, 2019, chapter 1). Below I extend these geometrics to American pragmatist Charles Peirce’s ‘hypostatic abstraction’. This ‘geometrics’ is traced in Aristotle’s logical cate­ gories and often read as a European intellectual legacy in problematic ways. Contrariwise, Simmel’s recognition that we always deal with a plurality of intel­ lectual situations, emotional events and existential forms within individual and communal lives, could be examined as a statement which opens a window wide to alternative (non-Western and non-European) worldviews (Ren et al., 2010, p. 901). Simmel’s inability, or unwillingness to transcend relativist/relationist methodologies of flânerie should not prompt us to discard the baby of worldopenness together with its Eurocentric water out of the window. I would also suggest that we do not associate his propensity to find in the particular (‘each of life’s details, the totality of its meanings’ – Frisby, 1992, p. 7) fashionable theories of cosmopolitan nationalism as a collection of singularities that display struc­ tural logics or formal similarities (Tzanelli, 2018a, chapter 6). In line with these suggestions, my mobilisation of Simmelian investigative methodology commences with the identification of associations across modes of being and belonging as the genealogical product of Eurocentric discourse with all its problematic forms of inequality. At first, the movement from the individual and the particular to the plural and collective as interconnected modes of being appears to replicate the structural functionalism of Durkheimian sociology as this comes after the co-option of Herder in European nationalist discourse. However, my intention is to mobilise Simmel’s formalism as an alternative pathway to ‘systematic sociology’, so that I do not just place one form alongside another, as he did, but investigate the diversity’s ‘law orders’ (Kracauer, quoted in Frisby, 1992, p. 8). More specifically, I want to explore how in today’s globalised spaces individual and collective social agents act on such Eurocentric laws and predicates, as well as how such actions propel stylistic changes to the system (from ‘tourism’ to non-elitist ‘travel’), or uncover alternatives not properly explored so far (existential travel or post-secular pilgrimage). Consequently, this book is not meant as a collection of perspectival studies, but a systematic exploration of their historical and contemporary convergence as forms of action in contexts of mobility: art, technology, travel and tourism.

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13

My focus on the aesthetic as a mode of action only partially speaks the lan­ guage of modernity theory we associate with the humanities. Its focus on understanding how cultural re-typification is achieved transforms my own scholarly flânerie from a random collection of impressions to a re-familiarisa­ tion with new social situations and events at what used to be my home(land) (Morley, 2000, p. 105). Although this is akin to the ethnographic principles of urban sociology, especially of the Chicago School (Bulmer, 1984), or the situationist methods of geographers (Kaufman, 2006), both influences are better read through current webthnographic and multimedia forms of magicalrealist investigation. Therefore, the study’s strong aesthetic element is partly artistic and partly social-scientific (Frisby, 1992, p. 78). At the heart of such aesthetics there is a modus vivendi as epistemology, a revised magical Leben­ sphilosophie that, unlike Simmel’s, connects the existential and experiential to the political, which here is understood as a mode of participation in a parti­ cular ‘commons’. The forms of belonging such action set in motion are not as fixed as those dictated by nationality, but ever-shifting, potentially and con­ tingently interconnected and rife with possibility (Kracauer, 1920, p. 315; For­ tier, 2006; Conradson and McKay, 2007; Büscher et al., 2016; Sheller, 2019). I will include in these forms that of existential travel, which is both indivi­ dual and shared with others. Moreover, as Alexander (2006b) and Isin (2009; Isin and Nielson, 2008) suggest, there is citizenship beyond the nation-state, which originates in acts or performances of sociality that both attend to the formalist aspects of civic ethics and articulate lifestyles as alternatives to rights-based participation. Hence, I do not seek to merely emphasise how (world) systems trap humans and communities, but how both constantly negotiate their place, role and identities within these systems, including that of tourism. Nor, nevertheless, do I wish to claim that national citizenship is an institutional relic that people seek to disavow, or that such disavowal is a good or bad thing. As always, everything depends on context and perspective; we must also bear in mind that citizenship is a practical advocation of perso­ nal security against a chaotic world. All things said, my study of agential potentialities is situated within the ever-expanding literature on ‘mobile citi­ zenships’, the socio-philosophical traditions of phenomenology and a deco­ lonial critique of the strong programme in cultural sociology in the context of tourist expansion. I borrow from poststructuralist epistemologies and critical methodologies, including those of Judith Butler and Critical Discourse Analysis (CDA). Joas’ ([1996] 2005, pp. 245–246) astute observation that action theory has experi­ enced a new regeneration in sociological approaches to lifestyles and cultural structures is pertinent for my study into freediving as a multifaceted phe­ nomenon, with athletic and artistic, as well as novel Western and ancient Eastern extensions that we associate with the new post-secular age (Haber­ mas, 2002, 2007; Harrington, 2011). The ‘postmodern’ has been declared a variety of things, ranging from an epochal demarcation to an aesthetic

14 An epistemological and methodological introduction

movement, whereas the poststructuralist has more modestly been placed by some amongst methodical elaborations on the state of structures in con­ temporary research. My focus on Butler, among all possible ‘postmodern’ voices, is based on a welcome connection between phenomenology and epis­ temology in her early work – two schools of thought that parted ways in the 1970s on not very good terms. Although Butler lacks clarity when it comes to discussing the modes of resistance adopted by the nominated/interpellated subject (Taylor, D., 2002), she recognises that resistance is possible – some­ thing that resuscitates postmodernity’s dead human. Such sympathetic magic is welcome in the current sociological vortex of pessimism, which threatens to suck us all in, regardless of our positionality. Butler’s more recent borrowing from Arendt’s politics (Butler, 2015), though dissimilar to my aesthetic focus, is compatible with my critical con­ sideration of Eurocentric norms in mobility studies, especially those relating to tourism. Although I distance myself from her exclusive political focus, which reiterates Arendt’s uncompromising thesis on citizenship as political belonging, I agree with her extension of civic subjectivity to embodied per­ formance – a missing link for which she was criticised in the past. Her recent resuscitation of the embodied human subject parallels the old hermeneutics of recovery in its positive diagnosis about structural unfreedom as a con­ temporary malaise. From a different period Gadamer (1975, p. 57) was dis­ cussing Simmel’s ‘instinct for the times’ and ability to follow with ‘seismographic accuracy’ key intellectual movements against industrialisation. A decolonial-magical combination of Simmel’s Lebensphilosophie and Butler’s performativity of the assembly produce a diagnostic thesis on the place and role of youth cultures in world regions currently facing a combination of economic, political and cultural-existential crises. These links are of profound methodological implications in the study, which blends concerns about the role of style in belonging with the practice of human interpretation. Methodological notes on the book’s organisation Methodologically, Simmel’s likening of sociological research to linguistics and mathematics grant conventional Foucaultian understandings of ‘discourse’ with a dual spatial and linguistic character. We find such extensions embed­ ded in the Eastern cultures of the evil eye, which can be cast upon others or healed with words uttered through proximate sympathetic magic in rural communities – but, increasingly in the case of Greece, by telecommunication systems in urban settings (Seremetakis, 2009). The crippling telesthesia,8 which critical theorists identify in the makings of mediatised modernity, regresses to the very psychological evolutionist paradigms they contest. It is more fruitful to consider these digital and audio-visual media as forms of ‘travelling/remote clairvoyance’ that allow the hidden ‘target’ to come to life (Blom, 2009, p. 451). Therefore, my reading of digital texts does not support

An epistemological and methodological introduction

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McLuhan’s thesis that the medium is the message: messages and their witches/ magi as one and the same thing exert power on our perceptions of the world, not the media as such. Textual meanings contribute to constructions of power related not to a stable ideology (e.g. Fairclough, 1992; Bryman, 2016), but discourses moving through and between contexts and fields to shape human behaviours (to ‘enchant’). This is a primarily social scientific approach to the social and the cultural, which considers how groups interact in society and manage interac­ tions (Cameron and Kulick, 2003; Partridge, 2012), not a humanities approach based on textual forms. Constant discursive movements of this sort conform to the aims of CDA to the extent that they strive to ‘make more visible their opaque aspects’ (Fairclough and Wodak, 1997, p. 258). This opacity, which often relates to hidden contextual meanings that I try to illu­ minate (Phillips and Hardy, 2002, p. 4), is also resolved through intertextual readings of events and utterances (Richardson, 2007). It is worth remember­ ing that the greatest cultures of modern mobility, especially of tourism and migration, emerged in contexts of Western European modernity (Wang, 2000; Dann and Parrinello, 2009), so my critical reading of them through decolo­ nial and postcolonial theory attempts to defamiliarise ideas of masculinity and whiteness as their norms (Dyer, 1997a). Discursive ‘spatiolinguistics’ emerges as stylistics of method, in which one maps utterances on the world and its social spheres, including those of small communal formations. Thus, I am not planning to proffer new linguistic analyses here. My aim is to examine inductively and contextually mediated voices and immediate human utterances as ‘forms of sociation’ (Frisby, 1992, p. 52). This con­ textualisation has an empirical hue not present in Kant’s transcendental sub­ ject as a knowing actor (ibid., p. 64), pointing instead to decolonial modifications of the rich traditions of American pragmatism (Peirce, 1893; Alexander, 2006a). More importantly, however, this link can be traced in one of the facets of Greek modernity, in which its heart, mood and feeling con­ stantly clash with its head and reason9. As I explain, there is an enforced ‘dualism’ rather than ‘duality’ (Giddens, 1979, p. 69) – in the ‘phenomenology of Greek society’, which was maintained over the centuries precisely because of its clashing and evolving modernities (Herzfeld, 2001b). Today this dualism is further pluralised through encounters with multiple ‘others’ in different world-settings and spheres – so much so, that dualism’s original religious nature has transformed into a performative-aesthetics of becoming (Papastergiadis, 2000, p. 14, p. 19, p. 127; Papastergiadis, 2005, pp. 40–41). Also, as Papastergiadis (2010, p. 356) responds to ‘kinetophobic’ dystopians, mobility is neither a consequence of individual choices, nor the result of a straightforward interplay between individual actions and structural forces: change emerges in and through the interaction between a range of vectors, including ‘the reflexive patterns in decision-making, the shifting forms of knowledge, the cascading effects of new technologies, and the

16 An epistemological and methodological introduction

dialectic of both an integrative and fragmenting tension between national and global structures’. Here Papastergiadis comes close to Margaret Archer’s (1995, 2000) morphogenetic paradigm, suggesting a continuum between knowledge and becoming. Such shifts, which we will notice in Stefanos and the artistic-freediving community with which he is associated, but also in the strategic presentations of his work by Greek media and Greek scientific and political agents, highlight the presence of multiple ontological substrata: both individuals and collectivities have to negotiate their place in the world, espe­ cially when they navigate the straits of global political and economic hegemonies. Negotiations of belong and beholding values that pluralise worldviews can be considered as the essence of the irrealist mereological thesis of philosopher Nelson Goodman. He is known for his philosophical work on ‘worldmaking’ as a critique of counterfactuals: sociologically speaking, we are confronted with multiple world-versions or realities in Schütz’s ([1932] 1967, 1970b) and Schütz and Luckmann’s (1973) terms. Instead of a methodology, Goodman suggested the concept of ‘rightness’ for researchers, who try to select an appropriate world-version for their work. The selection of rightness, which takes the place of truth-making in Butler’s and Foucault’s theories, should be informed by what represents the standard to separate acceptable from inac­ ceptable world descriptions. This multidimensionality of truth, of which Fou­ caultian ‘discourse’ robs the world (Leteen, 2012, p. 30), is branded ‘symbol theory’, a technique of thinking (Goodman, [1951] 1977). Unlike Schütz’s phenomenology, Goodman’s ‘phenomenalism’ is proposed as a methodologi­ cal technique that enables observers to select one of the many possibilities of reality-reconstruction – a point of immense importance in understanding how I organise materials in the study. As a form of meta-theory, phenomenalism also suggests that all we need to arrive at any world-version is an ‘extensional isomorphism’ – in other words, to ascertain that two world-versions have identical extensions (Cohnitz and Rossberg, 2016). This is also the function of a ‘synecdoche’ as an economisation present in the selective arrangement of signs (of identity or belonging) that makes worlds (Fullerton and Ettema, 2014, p. 198). Because this economisation supports the hermeneutic production of significations of belonging, consuming and producing lifeworlds, it is reminiscent of an enhanced (by Papastergiadis’ (2010) kinetophilia of global mobilities) cultural sociology’s ‘strong pro­ gramme’ of structuralism with hermeneutics (Alexander 2006a, 2011b). We always resort to a ‘mapping’ system to construct a version of the world, which has a function of arranging symbols and not merely copying or representing a world. But this systematisation ‘discloses facts we could hardly learn imme­ diately from our explorations’ (Goodman, 1972, p. 15). Stefanos and his fellow freedivers/artists arrive at their own world-versions while doing instal­ lations underwater; the media that interview him release a different ‘map’ of the same project; and the institutional and organisational centres that co-opt

An epistemological and methodological introduction

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his project arrive at yet another world-mapping with different consequences. However, the ‘extensions’ of all these world-versions are identical: they talk about belonging in a mobile world. The commonality of extension transcends conventional searches of motivations and causes, and thus informs both the title of this study and its organisational map into ‘readings’. Framed as a distinctive ‘reading’, each chapter (further divided into ‘parts’) looks at a particular world-version, which may eventually contribute towards the for­ mation of ‘discourse’ (the sociological ‘product’ of analysis). For this reason, readings commence from the individual and proceed to incorporate the meso­ and then macro-social formations of identity and belonging. Though generally considered in scholarship in epistemological terms, this movement from the individual to the collective is also constitutive of the study’s methodological stylistics: much like the Geertzian voice of the writer, it constantly attempts a ‘thick(er) description’, only to discover that all cul­ tural analyses are intrinsically incomplete the deeper we dig under the surface of human action (Geertz, 1973, p. 29). Such techniques of digging unearth different things, events, phenomena and utterances. As a result, there are three types of data on which the study is based: ethnographic (interview), textual (exhibition brochures, digital texts and newspaper articles) and audio-visual (vimeos and YouTube videos). This diversity of data advocates a multimodal form of reading, but one that transcends traditional ethnomethodological or psychological readings, often supported by multimodal methodologists in communication studies (e.g. Kress and van Leeuwen, 2001). Such traditions are useful only for their attention to cultural coding, not their stylistic pre­ ference. The incompleteness of any analysis humans can proffer points to its placement in ever larger discursive schemata, where systems of technology and policy operate (Habermas, 1989b). However, such placement alone is guilty of a problematic Parsonianism, which disregards the possibility of a radical dialectic or even fragmented dialogics between (symbolic) systems and (interactional) events (Errington, 2011, p. 35). This is particularly important where conventional ethnographic analysis takes the front stage, and researchers deal with human subjects within or without their social settings. Whenever this happens, we cannot separate the interview as a mediation of perspective (inter-view – Kvale, 1996) from the ritual of interviewing. ‘Ritual’ stands here both for the development of rela­ tionship between interviewer and interviewee and a community-bonding mechanism in the interviewee’s perspective (Jamal and Hollinshead, 2001). This dialogically constructed view of a world resembles Kvale’s (ibid., pp. 4–5) suggestion that the interviewer fits into the metaphor of a traveller ‘on a journey that leads to a tale to be told upon returning home…wander[ing] through the landscape and enter[ing] into conversations with the people encountered’. In the spirit of such conversational styles of communication, I disclosed my first analysis of the interview and the exhibition’s staging and context to Stefanos, inviting him to share his own perceptions of the

18 An epistemological and methodological introduction

happening and ideas that I recorded (Malone et al., 2014, p. 245). Such interactions are also discussed in social theory as ‘transitions’ (Hannam et al., 2016, pp. 7–8), a way of adventuring with the world, which may even be implicated in larger framings of experience by media systems. Crucially, the new mobilities paradigm, which critiques the presence of a disembodied human cogito acting independently of the material worlds in which it exists, may cast this constant interpretative movement as a ‘ther­ apeutic’ solution to the rigidity of social scientific method (Büscher et al., 2011, pp. 3–4). Because there are different data to interpret in this study, there are different levels of what is seen as rigidity to overcome. To organise them epis­ temologically, I couple Goodman’s mereology with Charles Sanders Peirce’s trichotomous division of ‘signs’ (‘stimulus patterns’ that acquire a meaning) into icon, index and symbol. Where icons are word-like entities prior to any designation, indexes participate in conceptual organisation and symbols in fullmeaning production. Where icons physically resemble what they stand for, indexes are defined by sensory features of a stable referent (e.g. ‘A’) so that they correlate to another referent (‘B’ – e.g. dark clouds [A] are indexes of impeding rain [B]). The principle of correlation allows indexes to also point to other referents, to which they often stand in opposition (e.g. clear skies are indexes of sunny atmosphere in opposition to dark clouds). Indexes can be ‘artificial’ in that they cannot be found in the environment but are produced by humans – an observation pointing to the production of atmospheres, with which I deal in the study extensively. Indeed, to understand symbols, we must stress the uttering (‘discursive’) subject’s power to place these entities in a chosen context, asso­ ciating them with a particular group of words/phenomena. It does not take much to see in Peirce’s pattern trichotomy a more organised approach to what Simmel saw in endless world associations for individuals and social groups (Peirce, 1897, p. 161). Ultimately, we can consider human meaning-making and belonging in a continuum, placing both thinkers’ analyses within an enlarged investigative cultural-sociological spectrum. I treat textual and audio-visual resources separately from the interview but not independently. Through purposive digital ethnographic sampling of advertising minutiae recovered from Google searches,10 I collected several Greek and Anglophone press materials on the Underwater Gallery’s exhibi­ tion in 2017–2018, as well as the cultural events on Amorgos around the same period, on the knowledge of existing strategic connections between them generated by different social actors. Some of the press cuttings were sent to me by Stefanos, so their connections to what he thinks as important for his work are indisputable. This helped me recover more relevant and (inter)active threads on websites discussing the Underwater Gallery or its freediving team that provided me with reliable data-rich results (Kozinets, 2010; Vannini, 2015). For example, I collected textual and audio-visual advertising data and several posts by Stefanos on Facebook, featuring his collaborative underwater explorations11. I treated those in relation to what appears in vimeos on the

An epistemological and methodological introduction

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freediving group’s ‘On a Single Breath’ site, highlighting that there is a coherent epistemological matrix, with a logic that organises my data collec­ tion (Lincoln and Guba, 1985). As I explain in Readings two and three, especially the community’s vimeos, end up articulating a spectacle of beauti­ ful but dangerous exploration, acting as mobility nodes in their own right (Hannam et al., 2016, p. 6): a para-tourist ‘industry’ that stimulates move­ ments of professionals, customers, leisure practices, technologies and ideas. Theorists of memory and technology have conceptualised this hidden matrix as the ‘tertiary retention’ of events (Stiegler, 2011, pp. 27–28) which are put together by an industry as frozen images so as to assume the quality of emo­ tionally and experientially distant icons (Mitchell, 2005). But more on this in Reading three. The very focus on internet data collection highlights two of my theoretical premises: the first is that, not only do new technologies permeate contemporary social practices, but they define and disseminate cultural goods in the ‘experi­ ence economies’ we often find infrastructurally embedded in urban environ­ ments (Pine and Gilmore, 1999; Rose et al., 2014; Degen et al., 2017). As researchers in hospitality and tourism note, virtual spaces are multi-dimen­ sional performative spaces, ‘in which consumers (re)construct their values and identities’ (Osman et al., 2014, p. 239) in a way that parallels the liminal or anomic rituals of tourism (Shields, 1991; Urry and Larsen, 2011). Employing Peirce’s ‘phaneroscopy’, I consider such online data (‘seemings’ in his termi­ nology) of freediving and relevant artmaking as the reversal of a ‘cycle’, whereby visual advertising stands for a well-processed version of the world, using affective/embodied experience (freediving) to induce atmospheric sensi­ bilities (Peirce, 1992; 1998a). This processual thinking partakes in a sort of technologically-informed ‘transduction’, a process whereby cameramen cast digitised narratives of dangerous pursuit as events recalling real happenings, ‘contingent [upon the freedivers’ biographies] the whole way down, rather than covering over or reducing contingency’ (Mackenzie, 2003, pp. 4–6). Much like the atmospheres they generate, digitised and audio-visual data such as videos and photos are read as materialised texts adhering to parti­ cular embodied experiences (Degen et al., 2017, p. 5). There is in fact a con­ tinuation between the interview with Stefanos, which was conducted in a network site (Facebook Messenger) and everyday physical environments, thanks to the audio-visual immediacy with which our interactions were endowed; at the same time, however, many of his comments, were purpose­ fully non-material so as to convey spiritual continuities between life and death (see also Horst, 2009, pp. 108–109 on digital interactions). This manifests a clear connection between materialism, phenomenalism and phenomenology of experience, which frames several of the versions of realist magics I discuss in my ‘readings’. It helps highlighting that digital self-formations are part and parcel of the poetics of material culture. The experience of self-making in them is not based on notions of an ‘isolated self ’ made in the individual’s

20 An epistemological and methodological introduction

mind (mine or Stefanos in this case), or ‘a switchboard between ties and net­ works’ operating ‘a separate community network and switch[ing] rapidly among multiple networks’ (Wellman et al., 2003: unpaginated; see also boyd and Ellison, 2007 on understandings of social network sites as ‘places’). On the contrary, it is an engagement that reinforces physical and material objects both interviewer and interviewee work to eschew or bring to life in magicalrealist ways (Strathern, 2004). I treat videos as communal documentary that is eidetically similar to pho­ tography: as a practice, it does not so much flow from photography as its inspiration, as it is improvised out of it (Marvin, 1988, p. 5). Practically speaking, this is a small-scale study aiming to produce transferable, rather than generalisable knowledge (Denzin and Lincoln, 1988, p. 22) about the ways that identities are negotiated in contemporary environments of mobility. Generally, by recognising that today humans are always caught in endless moves with the materialities they shape and through which they are reshaped, one can only envisage a ‘social world’ in which truths are also in motion (Hannam et al., 2006; Sheller and Urry, 2006; Urry, 2007; Pink, 2011). I used this form of truth-making consciously to organise the book, turning the aesthetic not into a methodology of knowing, but getting to know, ‘exploring’. Proffering ‘exploration’ as a keyword, instead of the conventional ‘critique’ or ‘criticism’, is constitutive of my conviction that no entity, actant or agent in the discursive field we study knows who they are, what they want to be or what they become a priori, before their becoming (which is also processual). As an analytical statement, this observation (the subtitle of this book) works beyond inductivism or deducti­ vism, because it facilitates ‘abductive reasoning’ to unfold the co-constitution of method, data and theory (Halford and Savage, 2017, p. 1143; Tzanelli, 2018a, p. 166). My replacement of Simmelian ‘stragerhood’ and Benjaminian ‘flânerie’ as methodological devices with that of ‘exploration’, connects to one of my principal speaking subject’s (Stefanos Kontos) self-designation (as an ‘explorer’). The cultural origins of such deliberations have other epistemolo­ gical and methodological consequences I reserve for later readings. Suffice it to mention here that they lead me to question connection between explora­ tion and non-European ways of being, as well as the power of hetero­ normativity to shape ethno-national belonging. My attempt to bridge my epistemological tools with the ‘epistemontological’ (Barad, 2010)12 means of my interlocutors accommodates the art of knowing into the ‘art of listening’ (Back, 2007). However, not only do people express themselves through a wide repertoire of cultural modalities not always easy to access (Back, 2007, pp. 76–77), the most important matters to human life often remain unsaid (Bauman, 2003, p. 2). The freediving community and its selfdesignated ‘artists’ are actually learning while doing in worldmaking ways – a phenomenon I discuss in the case of Stefanos as the ‘craftsmomentum’. A feminist dialogue between Karen Barad and Donna Haraway in science studies

An epistemological and methodological introduction

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highlighted the significance of inheritance and indebtedness in the production of spatio-temporal configurations of agential realism: ‘phenomena do not occur at some particular moment in time … [they] are specific ongoing reconfigurings of spacetimemattering’ transcending the modus of particular autobiographical stories, they conclude (Juelskjær and Schwennesen, 2012, p. 12). Even the learning-while-doing mode requires reflexive reworking to acquire coherent meaning – a processes in which technology can play a key role. This is particularly pertinent when one examines video/vimeo renditions of freediving and art-staging, which retain the quality of purposive dreaming. I take ‘rendition’ seriously, because, much like dreams, cinematic-like renditions of freediving simulate a risk (of death) that is nevertheless essential to their artstaging (Tikka, 2006, pp. 154–155). In this respect, perceiving of the task through filming it, becomes the affair of what Peirce terms ‘secondness’, a sort of forceful connection between reaction and judgement (Dymek, 2013, p. 40). The experiential realm is always susceptible for researchers to representationalism, a theory of knowledge that critics of epistemology base on the suggestion that knowing is not ridden with a priori intentionality but is constitutive of and interconnected with practical standpoints (Taylor, 1989, p. 14). To remember Geertz and couple him with the late Wittgenstein ([1953] 2009, p. 106), the deeper we dig, the more we fail to find a fundament, the more we unearth inar­ ticulate human practice awaiting interpretation. However, if this is so, humans and their environments are open to multiple possibilities – a point extensively purported by theorists of hope. I abstain from claiming that my encounter with Stefanos leads to my relaying of his fundamental experience – rather, it is a sort of Darstellung, a practice of forming presentations (world-versions) upon his presentations that has its own standards and factuality. To recall Peirce, first Stefanos and then I arrive at a judgement that chases up the fugitive ‘percept’ (the a-cognitional aspect of freediving or creating as such or ‘instinctive thought’) to discipline it, give it meaning – only what he achieves with his actions in the field is not logical but compulsive (‘logical thought’) (Dymek, 2013, pp. 40–41). Ulti­ mately, without me, as a secondary explorer, there will be no story to share with others in the academic community or perhaps beyond it (Pernecky and Jamal, 2010). Despite our different styles of exploration13, we share in our style of ‘artist critique’. The artist critique, which features prominently in the readings, considers capitalist modernity as a source of disenchantment, oppression of freedom, autonomy and creativity but also inequality – all things connected to the destruction of forms of solidarity in contemporary contexts. As Chiapello (2004, p. 586) noted about the ‘artist critique’, the issue is not artists’ autonomy alone (or their ability to avoid falling prey to the precepts of profit-seeking), but ‘the active existence, within capitalist society, of a critical view of this same society’. I would clarify that the focus is also not artistic subjects as such, but actors believing in the power of poetics and emergence – something I share with Stefanos.

22 An epistemological and methodological introduction

As a secondary explorer, I need to adopt a method of ‘alienation’ in the Brechtian sense, so that I do not resort to comfortable comparisons of differ­ ent forms of action (e.g. travel, pilgrimage, tourism or artmaking), but trans­ pose the familiar (‘tourism’ as a system) into the realms of the unrealised (underwater pilgrimage as a post-secular form of action), and perhaps ‘unrealizable possibilities’ (Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 213). In this respect, I wel­ come posthuman deconstructions of dominant concepts such as that of the ‘tourist’, looking instead at the diverse ways tourism is actually done in con­ text (Cohen, 2019, p. 6). At the same time, because this study moves beyond the freediving community’s presentations, it is fair to say that I have to ven­ ture into the Vorstellungen (representations) of media and institutional appa­ ratuses. Again, this is a methodological point, because it suggests ways of reading into the chosen world: my job is to deploy heuristic concepts to con­ struct objects of inquiry in the first place (Nunning and Nunning, 2010, p. 19; Hollinshead and Suleman, 2018, p. 209). Notably, posthumanism radicalises existing humanist ethical precepts, so it is related to humanist traditions from which I operate and therefore has to be regarded with caution (Badmington, 2003). On this, I can reiterate that my methodological design uses a particular case to test theories of mobility, therefore providing opportunities for accountability (Gänshirt, quoted in Jensen, 2014, p. 26). Although I do not reject the usefulness of visualisation, my primary objective is to counter ideologies of visualism in excessive consumption milieus (Halford and Savage, 2017, p. 1139; Büscher, 2006). What I am trying to say is that Simmel’s empiricism and Goodman’s irre­ alism need Peirce’s pragmatism to resolve their equivocations, arbitrariness of flânerie and ambivalence of meaning-making – all characteristics of the function that Simmel ascribes to metropolitan strangerhood (Bauman, 1991, p. 56). The resolution of ambiguity in symbolism is very important for the discursive organisation of the world (Meethan, 2001), but, as we will see later in the study, also responsible for an irrevocable loss of ‘authenticity’, of stay­ ing true to one’s dreams and desire to be whole on one’s own terms. In other words, the fixity of meaning, the stranger’s interpellation by institutions, grants them with a home, revoking their ‘multiplying masks and [alleged] “false selves”’ (Kristeva, 1991, p. 8) and bringing their exploratory journeys to a potential end. Simmel, Peirce and the discursive feminists provide the book with a progressive phenomenal/phenomenological organisation, which both mobilises Western European social-scientific traditions of belonging and thought and interrogates their authoritarian validity – what Peirce (1896, pp. 415–519) dubs ‘an attempt to develop categories from within’. Indeed, Peirce’s Aristotelian categories of reasoning resort to further useful analytical triads, such as that of ‘actuality’, ‘possibility’ and ‘(freedom from) destiny’ as modes of being (Peirce, 1906) and firstness, secondness and third­ ness as parts of the phaneroscopic process (Peirce, 1998a). Whereas the former triad connects to the poetics and politics of hope, as developed by

An epistemological and methodological introduction

23

Ernst Bloch ([1986] 1995), the latter is an organised rendition of Simmel’s sociological impressionism within and beyond the national Raum. However, it is also fair to say that Simmel’s latent Hegelianism, exemplified in his pro­ pensity to proffer an incomplete dialectics (Frisby, 1992, pp. 74–75), echoes Bloch’s famous ‘not yet’ – the recognition that we have to make do with unfulfilled states of being, until our fragments are pieced together in mean­ ingful ways (Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 213). One cannot lose the global perspective in processes of meaning-making, or the political extensions such aesthetic processes acquire regardless of individual actors’ intentions (Smith et al., 2009; Sheller, 2016). Nor can we dismiss the economic potentiality of aes­ thetic mobilities in the world, which are constantly co-opted by institutions and organisations. What we can do pertains to the recognition of capital as the ‘symbol of essential forms of movement within this world’, which cannot nevertheless be deemed reducible to money as such (Simmel, 1978, p. 484; Frisby, 1992, 112). The process of what Peirce calls phaneroscopy commences as a response to Aristotle, Hegel and Kant’s categorical distinctions between the qualities of, reactions to and representations of the world humans reside. Although, at first, this organisation appears to be hierarchical in a progressive Enlight­ enment logic, Peirce is quick to point out that connections between the cate­ gories can be regressive, interactive and generative of novel constellations of meaning-making. This is an important point in our assessment of the ways different modes of being as treated qualitatively in real socio-cultural con­ texts, as well as which ones are consciously excluded from the grand schemes of civilised belonging. Especially ‘firstness’ as a quality of feeling (Ginsborg, 1997), which has been firmly associated with barbaric states of (non-Eur­ opean) being in nationalist and colonial discourses of civility (Kuntsman, 2012; Closs Stephens, 2015; Rowe and Tuck, 2017), stands as the universe of experience, chance and vagueness we associate with renditions of the good life. The realm of feelings conveys atmospheres of happiness, but also as-yet­ unfulfilled desire, so it is constantly demarcated as the realm of danger and excess in civilised societies, which try to regulate it, especially in the context of contemporary leisurely regimes (Korstanje, 2017, pp. 3, 175). The firstness of feeling connects to Reading one’s exploration of Stefanos’ creation of the ‘Underwater Gallery’ as both an environmental and an artistic statement on the good life. As a physicalised statement speaking a magical-realist language of danger and desire, the project nicely accommodates the ‘secondness’ of the freediving contributors to its installation. This team of six, which is part of a larger community to which Stefanos belongs, forms a unique anarchic resistance to the worldly powers-that-be, asserting its stylistic singularity, while constantly expressing its need to corre­ late with like-minded individuals and groups. This theme, which comprises the focus of Reading two, points to the freediving/artistic group’s uses of technology as magical-realist tools, as well as the contradictory qualities of

24 An epistemological and methodological introduction

the technologies themselves: their messages are embodied, yet mediated by video cameras, moving image and music. This shift from the immediacy of embodiment and affect to its attempted picturisation and auditory con­ veyance, is often recognised as a conventional ‘cosmopolitan’ statement (Christensen and Jansson, 2015). I endeavour to explain that this must be problematised, if one considers the exclusion of firstness from discourses of civilised style. Not only does it consolidate a sensory Western European hierarchy (Jay, 1993), it assumes that the emotional world is caged in a first­ ness, without hope of autonomous recognition.14 This slide has an ironic consequence: its stylistic propensity to brightness and light, which guides most theories of cosmopolitanism, contributes to the elimination of racial (ised) forms of otherness. In Reading three, where I explore the conundrums of national symbol (ism)s, I tell the story of these eliminations, attain an unequivocal gendered and sexual quality. The accomplishment of the ‘symbol’ as a self-contained Peircean phaneron, is, at the same time, a world-version that forecloses versions of hope and potentiality, while endorsing other potentialities and versions the growth. In this reading, not only is the symbolism of ethno­ national heritage (of Greece’s underwater world but also of its relevant islandic architecture) interpellated as a rigorous masculinist project of selfdevelopment in a competitive European context of (cinematic) touristifica­ tion, it robs the artistic freedivers’ self-definitional freedom – their ‘colour’ in Goodman’s terms (Goodman, [1968] 1999, p. xi). In the end, even Ste­ fanos appears to endorse this discourse of belonging as a form of recog­ nition, interpellating himself as a unique male romantic Greek artist. There is ambiguity in this endorsement: as Dahlgren (2009) concludes, such mediated performances can also uncover the limits of institutional belonging (national citizenship), because they allow subjects to recognise themselves as citizens in alternative modes. Such alternate modalities revise the old scripts of modernity by instilling the fluidity Bauman (2000) recognised in contemporary spaces of being within old fixed home territories (Stevenson, 2003). As Hollinshead and Suleman (2018) note, the worldmaking power of institutions coexists but does not always overlap with the discourses circulating in social and cultural fields (of identity in our case). Concluding on a positive note, I highlight how Ste­ fanos’ counter-stylisation in media channels reverts to the ambivalence of strangerhood, so his identity does not remain fixed as civic belonging at all times. I note that, even compulsory national stylisations cannot evade anar­ chic determinations to radically revise enduring stereotypical forms of belonging. This points to the advent of cultural globalisation (i.e. hybridisa­ tion – Papastergiadis, 2005; Nederveen Pieterse, 1997, 1998, 2001) and the intensification of ideoscapes and mobilities, which constantly rearrange the world into networks of interest and belonging (Rovisco, 2013).

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Purposeful and contingent movements of people, technologies, ideas, crea­ tivity and even belonging, suggest an addition of ‘fourthness’ to Peirce’s tri­ chotomy (Burgess, 1988), which I posited above as the synecdoche. A ‘fourthness’ would juxtapose, for example, the law of the state or the habit of its people (thirdness of representation) to moral laws all polities need to observe to live harmoniously (Schneider, 1952, pp. 209–210; Atkins, 2013, p. 101, pp. 105–106). There is a suspicious normative cosmopolitan agenda in fourthness, which creates compulsory chains of ‘belonging’ and ‘withholding’. These chains adhere to Eastern ontologies and epistemologies that produced totalitarian regimes within and without Europe (Nazism, communism). In Reading four I explore how the scientised language of dark tourism proceeds to excise the project of photographic and cinematographic creativity (under­ water worlds in motion) from its creators’ self-assignation, turning natural worlds into ‘specimen’ of potentially dying ecosystems that humanity has to museumify. I reconnoitre this development through actual and potential associations of Stefanos’ ‘Underwater Gallery’ with other similar projects in other parts of the world. Such projects appear to have serious implications, not just for the autonomy of individuals or localities, but whole national units consigned to the margins of civilised domains, such as those of ‘Europe’ or the ‘West’. As demonstrations of ‘fourthness’, they develop in time (Vaught, 1986, pp. 318–325): their makers have already expedited energy reflecting on the consequences of an array of hidden norms, values and necessities of action, propelled by climate change and the destruction of our planet by capitalism. Because of this expenditure (a gift to our planet and the new generations), I conclude with a counter-observation, which returns us to our starting-point: Stefanos’ belief that not only do we belong to a larger posthuman sphere of being, but that this sphere posses a kind of sympa­ thetic magic not truly affected by the machinations of touristic McDonaldisa­ tion, as other purport (Ritzer and Liska, 1997; Hollinshead, 1998; Ritzer, 2006). Within this sphere, human artistry initiates endless phaneroscopic cycles, in which the students/visitors of Galleries actively participate as potential problemsolvers. As parts of the realist magics of climate change, such cycles stand out­ side institutional aims and objectives in small but meaningful ways for our freedom.

PART II Field, time–space and iconic mobilities Sociological studies of mobility as tourism, migration or consumption practice usually draw on Bourdieusian conceptions of the ‘field’, even when they are critical of Bourdieu’s work (see, for example, Hanquinet and Savage, 2019, pp. 87–89). Such studies often consider a twenty-first-century

26 An epistemological and methodological introduction

mutation in traditional splits between highbrow and popular cultures along the lines of ‘univorous’ and ‘omnivorous’ audiences/consumers respectively (Peterson, 2005; Warde et al., 2007). They calibrate an argument that examines critically younger generations’ cultural omnivorousness as a sign of cosmopolitan openness to diversity, post-national orientation and the reworking of national boundaries (Savage, 2010; Prieur and Savage, 2011, 2013). The emphasis of such studies on the relationship between cultural hierarchy and ‘taste’ is, nevertheless, indisputable (Prior, 2005; Hanquinet and Savage, 2016). There is also another issue, which I address in Reading three: despite their rich empirical pool and sophisticated analysis, they tend to interpellate a uniform Europeanness and European identity through their methodological basis. Thus, although I do not operate outside such suggestions altogether, I want to err in this study on the structural-phenomenological side, which is less obvious in Bourdieu’s (1977, 1984) Marxist/Weberian analysis of cultural production. This statement merits unpacking: for Bourdieu and Wacquant (1992, p. 11), ‘social praxeology’ weaves together a structuralist and a con­ structivist approach. The same duality was explored by Alexander (1982) under the rubric of a clash between sociological materialism and sociological idealism, which he tried to integrate into a multidimensional model. However, much like Simmel’s (1997c, pp. 47–48) persistence that we find the creativity of social action in an ‘objective culture’, Bourdieu and Wacquant’s thesis hinges primarily on Durkheimian ‘social facts’ and Marxist materiality, side­ lining the contribution of prerational or fragmented forms of action in scho­ larly understandings of culture-making. Bourdieu and Wacquant’s call for a reflexive sociology usefully presents my own practical and conscious implica­ tion in the study’s fields, because it makes me account for all the bias I and potentially my subjects carry: the ‘social coordinates, such as gender, ethnicity and class; our position in the social field; and our so-called “intellectualist bias”’ (Bourdieu and Wacquant, 1992, p. 39; emphasis in the text). However, when all these are accounted for, how can we explore the experiences difficult to share, the actions not connected to a fixed social identity and their products that are rushed to markets without stable mean­ ing? Some of these fragments do not even reside the prerational domain, they are just unspoken for because they are embarrassingly disorganised. One only needs to invoke Barthes’ (1981, p. 27) musings on photography to exemplify this: his division between the ‘field’ of familiarity, knowledge and culture (studium), which is connected to the photographer’s skill, and the images’ punctuation by both the photographer’s and the viewer’s specific orientation (punctum), suggest two disparate things: first, perhaps signification can be arbitrary and in the eye of the beholder (Hanquinet et al., 2014), but second, it can also be disingenuously articulated in a limbo between intentionality and the subconscious. There Bourdieu fails to explain things well, as his habitus elaborations prove.

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As I explain elsewhere in this study, the ambiguity on objectivity is present in Bourdieu’s magnum opus on habitus and field – a thesis that leads to his recognition of symbolic structures as means of domination. On the one hand, his mobilisation of Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenology of ‘kinetic knowledge’, makes him recognise an ontological complicity between the world and habitus as modicums of ‘practical sense’ (Bourdieu and Wacquant, 1992, p. 20). Nevertheless, his placement of habitus within a field of rationalised action does not resolve the actual place of pre-objectivity in practical action. By also dismissing methodological individualism and holism (a strange decision, given his attachment to Merleau-Ponty), he is left to navigate methodological reflexivity only within the rational ‘field’, something which is bound to say less about the disorderly genesis of cultural forms as a process in which indi­ viduals and social groups are implicated15. If, indeed, habitus is both incul­ cated and unconsciously performed but also rationally mobilised by social actors, how can we account for these actors’ epistemontological becoming? Here we cannot do without Goodman’s mapping (übersichtliche Darstellung), as an ongoing practice of supporting considered judgements, the art of lis­ tening and recording ‘on the go’ – a mobile methodology. The process of knowing/learning thyself and the community in which one belongs involves a rather messy to-ing and fro-ing of epistemic self-positioning and structural interpellation with some consequences in the ontological plain. The reason for this has to do with the ontological power of the very performative repetition in which pre-subjects are caught up.16 This power turns them into subjects ‘in motion’, who can subsequently change the world they inhabit at certain points in time. This repetition, which grants us with a look into the process, is not practical or rational but aesthetic all the way down. In the process’s earlier stages such aesthetics are politically undefined, whereas in the latter stages they may be connected to a political project (including that of not adhering to mainstream politics). Action does not have to be political and economic stricto sensu to be valuable and valid (‘right’). For this reason, I return to Bataille’s differentiation between primary and secondary expenditure in socio-cultural ontologies, stressing that both partake in the production of social meaning, albeit in different ways. Their contribu­ tion to an ‘economy of things’ transcends the rational Marxist thesis on which Bourdieu based his work – a point on which I elaborate more, when I explore the absence of a real core in European belonging in poorly explored, but sig­ nificant cultural contexts, such as the Greek. Where Simmel purports that the ‘economic’ as the realm of cultural production and exchange affect human existence and sociality (Frisby, 1992, p. 147), Bataille speaks of expenditure as an exchange economy beyond economic rationalisation. More specifically, he says that ‘primary expenditure’ is the primeval, intuitive and pre-logical force of nature that permeates cultural taboos, whereas ‘secondary expenditure’ occurs in the realm of social regulations. Consequently, not only does primary expenditure always operate a tergo and a priori, it ultimately forms an ecstatic

28 An epistemological and methodological introduction

energy we cannot contain in social life, as secondary expenditure only stems from its workings in unpredictable ways. The primary field is formative of the secondary in unpredictable ways, which supersede the rules of Bourdieusian cultural production, because it is defined by free-floating affective forces without prior delineation (Arppe, 2009). As a limitless surplus of energy, primary expenditure cannot be fully represented in ways we would represent one’s habitus and the field in which it is produced (McHugh and Fletchall, 2012; Igrek, 2018). The latter falls within the ambit of what Bataille would recognise as secondary expenditure, which, when cast as rationalised dramatisation of giving/wasting, renders parodic performance threatening to human freedom (Irwin, 2002, p. 33). In Readings three and four it becomes more evident that, despite its rational/ discursive strictures, the representational regimes of the nation-state and the media do not contain the development of the primary field (of freediving art­ work, design and community-making), but lead not just to displacements of performativities in the market, but also their ontological contribution to postnational belonging the aforementioned studies of taste criticise too harshly. In short then: contra Bourdieu’s and the Bourdieusian European/Western sociologists, this study identifies at least two fields at work in the formation of modernities in this moment of global time (2013–2019) and space (Greece) that it explores. The placement of this study within an allegedly existing European cultural taste aims to challenge interpellations of its hierarchical hegemony as both an object and a methodology of sociological study. The field in which the Underwater Gallery is staged includes both Amor­ gos’ ‘above’ and ‘below’ terrains. And if ‘terrain’ marks the cosmic space of terra nostra, the Greek piece of island-homeland, its underwater counterpart is no less chthonic in the sense of its interpellation as a native property based on motherly soil. This field is weaved into understandings of marketable heritage, which scholars discuss as ‘dark tourism’. This type of tourism involves visits to locations wholly or partially motivated by the desire for actual or symbolic encounters with death (Lennon and Foley, 2000; Halgreen, 2004; Sahlins, 1996). The locations are replete with meaning for localities or nation-states, because they are rooted in ethno-national memory nodes (Dann and Seaton, 2001), functioning as cohesive community mechanisms (SatherWagstaff, 2011; Korstanje, 2014, 2015; Stone, 2013; Stone and Sharpley, 2008). Their nodal connection to death inspired Freudian, Durkheimian and Weberian analyses of thanatos as a force of ordering social life by means of mediation between materiality and spirituality (Bloch and Parry, 1982; Weber, 1985; Walter, 2009). Even theoretically, ‘dark tourism’ is the child of Eur­ opean sociology and psychology, with the latter still dominating analyses in tourism studies (rather unhelpfully for this book). Urry (2004), whose rumi­ nations on dark tourism involve transformations of land into landscape, and Hollinshead (2002), who speaks of the nation-state’s authorial role in tourism worldmaking, are useful starting-points, if we intend to limit our analysis to

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in the field of conscious praxis, academic praxeology and secondary expen­ diture or objective culture. However, the real treasure-hunting in this study takes place in the other field – that of atmospheric production and primary expenditure. There, death is an aspect of pilgrimage beyond religion, which still involves potential encounters with death and the nomination of landscapes as (home)land.17 This reversal of what Urry identifies in dark tourism (not land to landscape, but objectified or unnamed commercialised landscape/seascape to national land) is the product of thirdness – a fully worked-out and often technologi­ cally mediated (film) reworking of a particular ‘reality’, which in our case commences with a dreaming freediver/photographer’s work. This reversal also prompts us to enlarge definitions of ‘dark tourism’ so that we include analyses of ‘danger-zone tourists’ embodied, emotional, affective and sensuous experi­ ences in areas of ongoing conflict’ (Buda, 2015, p. 4). Unlike Buda’s focus on danger-zones of political and military conflict, I examine a dark tourist field that freedivers enter at their own physical peril (breathless), and media and state institutions eventually turn into a controversy-zone (as ‘heritage’). Before this controversy sparks, the field belongs to the freediver/explorer: this is Stefanos and his fellow freedivers/artworkers’ multisensory field, which involves holistic participation in the environment, constituting a ‘field-world’ in its own right (Tzanelli, 2018a, chapter 2). This field-world is rife with experiences difficult to convey, because it involves boundary-crossings that disturb the neat social order of life and society. Its association with expendi­ ture and irrationality can only be approached heterologically, as the domain of the ‘other’: the mystic, the ineffable or non-representational. Of course, we must always remember that even the founder of heterology, Georges Bataille (2018, p. 241), does not claim that only a mystical understanding of the other (pleasure) is possible (Bataille, 1985, p. 98). But more on this later. The heterological and its affects leave imprints on the material world in the form of atmospheres. The status of atmospheres as ‘quasi-things’ prompts one to refer to phenomena of embodied-responsive reception of world stimuli transcending the dualism of ‘things’ (substance) and ‘sensible qualities’ (acci­ dent). Encountered in everyday parlance as ‘ambience’ or ‘mood’, and in philosophical discourse as Stimmung or subject-object boundedness (Hei­ degger, 1962; Bollnow, 2011), atmospheres are constellations of people and things, or ‘ecstasies of the thing’: the way the thing (or event) qualitatively and sensuously stands out from itself (Böhme, 1993, p. 121). This definition purports a sort of ‘ecological aesthetics’, which necessitates the bodily pre­ sence of human beings that feel and experience the ‘thing’ or ‘event’ that brings atmospheres to life (Böhme, 1995). The entry point to this phenom­ enon is pragmatic in so far as we are left with representational tools to explain what it involves (Griffero, 2017, pp. xv–xvi). Above all, however, the entry is personal and experiential, because atmospheres first formulate in subjective, metaphorical and circumscriptive ways ‘and often convey a mood

30 An epistemological and methodological introduction

of enthusiasm’ about the world (Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 70). However, I have not forgotten the Bourdieusian’s focus on identity and taste altogether: the type of pragmatism I analyse marries atmosphere to performance studies, prompting the researcher to focus on the circumstances under which the cultural artefact was created and exhibited, as well as the ways site shapes its reception (Schechner, 2013). Performance is also collateral to identity, not just sub­ jectivity. But there is also another entry point, which combines interactional means, speech acts and embodied performances that bring the atmosphere to life for the researcher. Methodologically, both ways prove useful in my vicarious participation in these ‘quasi-thingly’ performances. Nevertheless, with atmospheres we almost touch the Holy Grail: the freediving community’s taste for instant feeling, the presence of character, ‘the flourish (in gesture and in music)’, constantly clash with a commitment to surface and picturesque representation in vimeos, which we associate with camp sensibility (Sontag, [1966] 2013, p. 263). Although this attention to surface/form as content is characteristic of the experience of Western modernity at large (Frisby, [1985] 2013; Alexander, 2008b), in vimeos it borrows from the musical Stimmung that comes closer to Eastern forms of being. The expressive quality of such disclosures or stagings (atmospheres can be both immanent to environments and created by humans) makes atmospheres both natural and artificial phenomena. Generally, Wes­ tern thought struggles to understand their salient qualities, not despite of their relevant ephemerality, but precisely because of it: allegedly devoid of ‘realism’ and of borders, or fully separated from other things and beings (such as humans), surely, they cannot be indexed as civilisational categories. Even more troubling is that their associative nature connects ‘the felt- or lived-body (Leib)’ (Griffero, 2017, pp. viii–x) as the site of Original Sin, with the nonphysiological or anatomic qualities of being human (emotions, feelings and affects), further disturbing the Christian link between ‘good’ motivation and action. The (social) scientists’ inability to reduce these quasi-things to an etiologic or genetic approach and the theologian’s refusal to admit them into the paradisiac realm, problematise the neat psychic ontology of Western and European modes of being. I return to this conundrum in Reading three, which looks at Greece’s multiple modalities (or ‘modernities’, if one prefers established social theory’s terminology). Against such confusion, I argue that atmospheres breach the limbo of sub­ jectivity and identity, because they produce ‘evidence’ of belonging to share with like-minded humans. I will provide a detailed account in Reading two of what comprises a post-national community of interests18 and include an ana­ lytical defence of audio-visual aesthetics. ‘Audio-vision’ is not a descriptive term in this study, but a methodological tool that considers ways of listening with the eye or seeing with the ear where the rest of the body cannot participate in significatory exchange. It is useful to recall Back’s (2012, pp. 100–101) note that, ‘listening with the eye’ is not always a sign of subjection of all senses to

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the ocular regime, but a synaesthetic process in almost medical terms. This replacement of one sense with another helped artists such as Kandinsky, to promote the experience of disability to internationally admired artwork. To clarify, however, medical renditions of synaesthesia are not identical to the metaphorical employment of audio-visual engagement with vimeos. Hearing music while watching a freediving event – that is, experiencing its moods – is a metaphorical hearing with double intentionality: ‘hearing both sounds and tones by hearing tones in sounds’ (Krebs, 2017, p. 1427). Music provides us with a way of being in the world and making sense of it. In fact, its uses by freediving communities transports its form into their own field-world, where it is subjected to their aesthetic sensibilities before being consumed by audiences, who bring their own interpretations to it (Frith, 1996, p. 272). The freediving vimeos’ music bears the mark of a mobility commonly associated with the irreducible image of the traveller. Unpacking some of the meanings of the vimeo music’s master signs in the networks of these secondary producers of meaning (freedivers) and their technologies (Dwyer and Crang, 2002) helps me map its global circulation in art-worlds and art-works (Becker, 1982). Vimeo music is constitutive of the formation of soundscapes, which view sound as an experience implicated in social practices and the material spaces of performance (Schafer, 1994). Just like landscape, soundscape encloses the ‘contradictory forces of the natural and the cultural, the fortuitous and the composed, the improvised and the deliberately pro­ duced’ (Samuels et al., 2010, p. 330), so it connects to practices of touring the freedivers’ inaccessible worlds from afar. I enact a form of synchronised ‘audio-visual ethnography’ (cf. DeNora, 2000, 2003) that reflects the aes­ thetics of multiple phenomenal and material mobilities (global professional migrations, electronic media flows and types of tourism). Clifford’s (1986) and Erlmann’s (2004) suggestion that we make space in social analysis for the ‘ethnographic ear’ resonates with urban and art sociologists, and comple­ ments sociologies of the tourist gaze, but also of pilgrimage and non-Western existential movement. If silence is a ‘vacant niche’ and sounds of nature are popular with sophisticated ecotourists (Bell and Lyall, 2002, pp. 44–45, 58–59), the vimeos’ sound ambiance simulates the listener’s search for audio-visual sublimation in a heavily industrialised world. I too become involved in the production of atmospheres as tertiary subject (in Peircean terms), listening while watching and reading the accounts that accompany the vimeos (synergising or harmonising them, in other words). It is also not injudicious to argue that both versions of synaesthesia contribute to the way the practice of photodynamism (shooting and collating on the go) articulates social landscapes and cultural forms. Especially the ‘quasi-thingly’ nature of music, calls for a methodology of ‘harmonisation’ across different sensory inputs. The German ‘Stimmung’ does not refer just to English ‘mood’, a transitory reception of world stimuli (I listen to music in passing), but also to lasting affective attitudes (Krebs, 2017, p. 1420) – what in Reading one I

32 An epistemological and methodological introduction

introduce through my analysis of the ‘craftsmomentum’. A musical metaphor, Stimmung calls for attunement of instruments – a sort of orchestration between recording freedivers, musical composers and vimeo technicians under and above the water at different time slots. Hence Stimmung does not merely support the metaphorical musical integration of, or a collaboration between human faculties in the Kantian sense (ibid., p. 1421), it sings the song of Actor-Network moods. Unlike the affects of the Peircean secondness, such enduring moods contain orientations: they are intended to something or someone. The synthesising potential of moods as world-disclosing emotions in the freediving community’s vimeos is important: it tells us stories about the human condition in general, even though it emanates from a very specific context (freeviding adventures). Thus, one may conclude that Stefanos’ personal agential project (not a ‘commercial’ enterprise, as he stated to me), clashes with the politico-eco­ nomic powers at work within the country (on which Bourdieusian sociologies would focus). I will consider this clash as constitutive of the agonistic princi­ ples of play, both in Stefanos’ self-presentation as an ‘explorer’, rather than a ‘merchant’ and the logic ruling audio-visual/artistic and performative/leisure markets. In the former case, we deal with the project of self-identity that Bourdieu and Wacquant (1992, pp. 3–4) treat with methodological suspicion, whereas in the latter we face the vast global networks of capitalism. In any event, by considering both as versions of ‘tourist akrasia’ (a: without + krátos [κράτος]: power or strength) to denote diminished judgement due to weakness of will, is problematic. This connection stems from philosophical investiga­ tions of tourism as a form of eudaimonía or wellbeing (Fennell, 2006) in potential contradistinction to notions of collective welfare. However, the binary opposition of collective good versus individual interest is too simplis­ tic. A sociological critique might point to Pareto’s (1935) observation that the only occasions where human behaviour is rational are those in which human subjects choose the means necessary and adequate to the fulfilment of given ends. Such rationalism, nevertheless, has been at the heart of state-controlled violence supplanted by ‘experts’, who were deemed to be largely responsible for the misguided (e.g. racist) affective reactions of the ‘common people’ (Bauman, 1989). Contrariwise, to act as an explorer of worlds or even a tourist merchant involves the mobilisation of reasonableness, rather than rationality in action, which allows the subject to develop or participate in future projections of an idea(l). This is not identical to Schütz’s argument that motivation as the explanatory basis of action could only be fully understood by reference to a projected action – an argument borrowed by Dann (2015, pp. 262–263) to think about tourist engagement in ethically questionable activities during travel. The reasonableness of the explorer in the context of the Underwater Gallery exhibition remains processual and ever-changing, destabilising the notion of an idea(l) as something other than sharing and belonging (e.g. trading in or making beautiful things as a form of

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communication). Also, where Schütz sees rational action, Peirce and Bataille would also highlight the presence of a libidinal economy of mobility, which makes worlds in unpredictable ways. Both battles are enacted in public sites (of the TV interview, the YouTube videos, the Facebook posts and the advertising brochures), which displace intimate community moments to a non-representational limbo (see Reading 1: Stefanos claims he cannot fully communicate his thoughts and feelings while freediving). Notably, the underwater explorer’s apprehension of the world is characterised by a perceived immediacy missing from the sojourns of the tourist: (s)he loathes conventional understandings of the picturesque, the prin­ cipal mode of aesthetic appreciation of the tourist industry, which invites others to see and apprehend the natural world through travel brochures and internet images – in other words, ‘artificial landscapes’ that prescribe view­ points (Todd 2009, pp. 163–166; Urry and Larsen, 2011, p. 174). Ironically, this always bears the possibility of inversing while reproducing the elitist form of worldmaking (Hanquinet and Savage’s [2019] ‘omnivorous’ taste), because it celebrates non-Cartesian modes of being as the only correct form of being in the world, thus turning its utopian potentialities into a neo-fascist form of aesthetic appreciation (Argyrou, 2005). In reality, Stefanos and his underwater peers need picturesque modes of apprehension to disseminate their pursuits. It - (αγών) stems from ancient Greek is pertinent to mention here that agon notions of public gathering in the market place (agorá: αγορά) (Huizinga, [1949] 2016, pp. 48–49) – a corruption of linguistic and normative nature, if we follow Arendt’s (1958) suggestion that politics and aesthetics occupy separate domains in the public sphere. However, in such analyses we only conflate aes­ thetics with the pragmatism of ‘work’, assuming that prioritising the display of forms entails lack of (political or otherwise) content and commitment. We should rather apply similar caution when the creativity of action is recognised in primary expenditure and play. This form of expenditure, which connects to the freediver’s thanatic journey underwater and, by extension, to their thanatourist experience, supports another revision of ‘dark tourism’s’ connection to psychoanalysis, especially that of Freud, which prioritises bio­ logism (the body) (Buda, 2015, p. 36). This physicalism is also a rendition of the Anglo-Saxon magical realism that we find in the writings of both social theorist Roy Bashkar and artistic critic Frantz Roh. Even though I reject Huizinga’s ([1949] 2016, p. 1) historicist approach to civilisational develop­ ment, I agree with his argument that play has meaning, which ‘adds a nonmaterialistic quality in the nature of the thing itself ’. His conclusion that play transcends psychological and biological necessity (e.g. energy discharge, imi­ tation or relaxation), serves, decades after his publication of Homo Ludus, as a reliable reminder that it possesses aesthetic qualities no science can fully analyse or understand. The non-materialist aspects of play in artistically motivated freediving assert the primacy of a body/mind/heart complex over ‘the determinacy of the cosmos’ (ibid., p. 3). This primacy suggests that we

34 An epistemological and methodological introduction

accept the presence of a special blend of phenomenal materialism in artistic freediving: the diver that encounters the underwater world participates in the task as a human whole, exploring it immediately through emotions and senses and then re-creatively, through discursive texts, modified images and new audio-visual technologies. Therefore, my reading of freediving as an aesthetic pursuit rests on Bataille’s consideration of the ambiguity characterising pleasure and play, by questioning Freud’s conceptualisation of pleasure as the suppression of a tension and sug­ gesting instead play as its principle. This definition comes closer to the Laca­ nian notion of jouissance, which, ‘when it goes beyond pleasure, it reveals an “exquisite pain”, or a “paradoxical form of pleasure that may be found in suffering”’ (ibid., pp. 37–38). It is as if we hear Kahlo in these revelations, talking about the ways pain, play and pleasure are intertwined in one’s pro­ duction of humanity. To define play Bataille drew on Lalande’s (1926) obser­ vation that it involves expenditure of physical or mental activity without definitive aim; Huizinga’s ([1949] 2016) suggestion that it is voluntary and timeframed but accompanied both by tension and joy; and Caillois’ (1958) addition that the player enters a fictitious, non-productive and uncertain process (Bataille, 2018, pp. 235–236). All four readings in this book deal with forms of play, beginning with the most basic (of freediving and artmaking) and ending with the most complex, which leads to the (unsuccessful, I would argue) destruction of pleasure and freedom in rationalised domains (the discursivity of international cultural representations). The focus on play rather than taste or class is more appropriate for a critical cultural-sociological analysis of belong­ ing, identity and subjectivity than Bourdieu’s portfolio. Joas’ ([1996] 2005) and Bataille’s (2018) reflections on the fulfilling but regulated nature of work as a form of creative action are relevant here: it can be argued that this is the death of play and the beginning of international ‘gaming’ that we find in political science (Lerner, 2014; Burke et al., 2018). Active pleasure requires aesthetic-sympathetic attention or resonance (attune­ ment in/with the world around us), so that we participate in it (von Wright, 1993, pp. 63–65; Scruton, 2009, pp. 28–31). Bataille says: ‘a game is never work, it is a comedy of work’ (Bataille, 2018, p. 236). However, I stay true to Bataille’s (1985, p. 96) principle of expenditure and Bloch’s principle of hope, pointing that this death sparks a new beginning: despite its insertions in var­ ious networks of national and international power, Reading four’s case studies (other underwater galleries and museums) produce creative human agency anew in the form of artwork (Bataille, 2018, p. 238). This almost circular movement from freedom of play to the unfreedom of institutional or organi­ sational regulation and then back is constitutive of both Peirce’s (1998b, paras 66–81, 88–92) belief in the creative unconscious of secondness and Bataille’s (2018, p. 235) support of experience over intelligence, ‘which brings to the reflective consciousness particular exterior data, outside the data of intelligence’.

An epistemological and methodological introduction

35

Even if a methodological investigation of atmospheres can encapsulate the ways the ineffable leaves its mark on the material world, we are still short of a practical sketch or Peircean ‘diagram’ (De Tienne, 2004, p. 10) of the ways pleasure unfolds in risky environments of freediving. The fundamental ambi­ guity resting at the heart of pleasure between the achievement of sublimation, pure beauty as authenticity or becoming on the one hand, and ugliness, dirt, or death on the other, provide us with a clear pragmatic ‘sketch’ that follows the direction of human life course. By this I mean that all the terms I devised so far (adventure, flânerie, exploration etc), but also those that take centre stage in the latter readings/chapters (dark tourism, thanatourism, death drive) are projections of the ways humans traverse this world in the earlier stages of their life with pleasure and excitement. Bataille was right: if the desire that guides the birth of the search for pleasure is linked to youth, the constitutive instability and vagueness of play ‘can readily link desire to old age, in the same way as the desire which essentially relates to beauty, to life, to what is clean, is at its basis likely to be displaced onto ugliness, death, or dirt’ (Bataille, 2018, p. 243). This almost ‘inorganic’ element of play with life and death corresponds to the freediver’s – and any game-player’s – search for its pure, authentic form, which instantly destroys play (because we cease to play and start working with elements and experiences we fully understand!). Ste­ fanos’ magical-realist aesthetics in the first reading problematises these ideas.

Notes 1 For example, the declining force of received normative frameworks, institutional anchors, moral codes and life narratives. 2 This refers to the opportunity and imperative that we become authors of our own social trajectories in a context of political, economic and cultural uncertainty, instability and constant change. 3 E.g. reducing the human subject’s participation to individual psycho-affective dis­ positions or ‘personality types’. 4 Such as the aforementioned impacts of climate change, terrorism, mass movements of refugees, the spread of infectious contagions and financial instabilities (Urry, 2003, 2011). 5 I.e. we feel pleased by something, but the source of pleasure awaits specification.

6 I.e. beauty can be constituted in a variety of cognitive processes.

7 See also Alexander’s (1983) critique of Weberian emphasis on utilitarianism in the

emergence of modernity. 8 This is likened here to a paranormal ability to perceive and act upon remote hidden targets without the help of the senses. 9 This contradicts Marangudakis’ (2019, p. 124) integrated self in religious ritual. 10 On similar but larger-scale sampling see Lugosi et al. (2012). 11 These appear under ‘my story’ or as videos followed by captions and short com­ mentary on Facebook. 12 The term refers to ways of knowing that they produce during experiencing. 13 Stefanos has an active embodied style, whereas I adopt in this study primarily a cognitive one and we share only affective potentialities.

36 An epistemological and methodological introduction 14 In other words, it assumes that the embodiment of its darkness can only find logical symbolic representation through its subjection to alien technologies. 15 See Archer’s (1995, 2010) work on ‘morphogenesis’ in sociological theory and Peirce’s contribution of ‘phaneroscopy’ to philosophical pragmatism as fuller accounts of this conundrum. 16 This is closer to Butler’s (1990, p. 79) thesis. 17 Seremetakis (2019, p. 13) discusses this specifically with regards to embodied pilgrimage. 18 This is akin to Ratto and Boler’s (2014, p. 19) notion of ‘DIY citizenship’ or Maffesoli’s (1996) ‘neotribes’.

Reading one

The pendulum of environmental and artistic firstness

Design mobilities and magical naturalism How can we design the experience of viewing and apprehending a natural land­ scape without removing its magical natural-ness from it? This is a question asked by Stefanos Kontos (hereafter in the book ‘Stefanos’) and his freediving collea­ gues with regards to the creation of the Underwater Gallery. After listening carefully to Stefanos’ presentation of his own work, the German magical realist Fratz Roh would have answered that by using ‘magic’, rather than ‘mystic’, we indicate that ‘the mystery does not descend to the represented world, but rather hides and palpitates behind it’ (Roh, [1925] 1995, p. 15). The embeddedness of mystery in the natural world cautions us that we should not think about percep­ tion as something that exhausts reality, but as a subset of it, in Bhashkar’s (2011) tradition of ‘transcendental realism’. Unlike his later advocates’ and revisionists’ use of the adjective ‘critical’ next to ‘realism’, the original naming of Bhashkar’s approach as a ‘critical naturalist’ human science denoted something different. This was a meta-critical approach to natural science focusing not on the limita­ tions of scientific perception, but the paucity of analytical tools at our disposal so that we acknowledge and deal with such limitations (ibid., pp. 190–191). Stefanos and his peers’ magical-realist project attempts to address such ques­ tions of perception in a popular-cultural fashion, by designing a particular orientation to the underwater world. This re-orientation of senses and feelings lends visitors a pair of ‘new eyes’ to see and feel with their bodies what has always been there. We will notice below how Roh’s ([1925] 1995, p. 18) observa­ tion that ‘there is an elemental happiness of seeing again, of recognizing things’ as parts of a palpable exteriority, is echoed in Stefanos’ discussion of the role of staging artist(s) like himself. The amalgam of colours, textures and spatial forms of the marine deep reappear to visitors with an ignited passion for both tactile feeling and spirituality. In this respect, the Underwater Gallery introduces a particular realist magics for ‘design mobilities’ scholars, mostly concerned these days with the production of space and sociality through straightforward prac­ tices of ‘consociateship’ (Jensen et al., 2016, pp. 27–28; Jensen, 2013, 2014). Such realist magics aspires to relay the rhythms of nature to a musical-pictorial art

38 Environmental and artistic firstness

unfolded in time. Such art remembers how a natural sphere embodies completely different meanings from different reference points (incidentally, this is also part of Bhashkar’s (2011, p. 190) view of a philosophy of science). Stefanos’ reference point is the unending miracle of eternally mobile and vibrating molecules of life from a close-up perspective (‘the interior figure of the exterior world’ – Roh [1925] 1995, p. 24, emphasis in the text) that simultaneously want to shape the world we find in front of us. This could be a critical realist’s nightmare – but let us proceed to ascertain that. The project is not short of ambition and internal contradiction. Interestingly, for example, both the staging of the exhibition itself and the invitation of visi­ tors to dive into the deep blue to enjoy underwater Greece attempt to cancel the schematisation they need. By ‘schematisation’ I mean the manufacturing of a coherent narrative about an intense emotional engagement with natural habitats, with the use of technology (Makkreel, 1990, p. 56; Stiegler, 2009, pp. 90–91). Let us consider this as a form of raw and unedited moviemaking cancelling the immediacy of reality. I expose the importance of this ambiguity through the emotional poetics of freediving photography as a unique form of art – an ‘exposure’ communicated to me by Stefanos in an interview. This will move us closer to phenomenologies of travel experience (e.g. Cohen, 1996), which for some can be productive of healthy individualisms and communal openness. Within this magical-realist version, I attempt to recover the core values used in Stefanos’ atmospheric staging of seascapes for others. I follow in this reading his understanding of the exhibition as a form of nat­ uralist art. Important in this reading is Stefanos’ attempt to re-establish a (lost) relationship between art, nature and everyday life, by stressing both the exhibi­ tion’s potentiality to democratise the Greek deep and a rejection of the idea that works of art are aesthetically valuable only in their final stage (as ‘paintings’ framed in an easel and hanging on the wall). There is no contradiction in these two convictions, only a particular view of making as a process worth sharing with others. The two statements work in harmony with my reading, in so far as they allow me to see Stefanos’ ‘artistic objects’ as inseparable from their ‘condi­ tions of origin and operation in experience’, before ‘a wall is built around them that renders almost opaque their general significance’ (Dewey, [1934] 1980, p. 3). This wall will be fully erected in Readings three and four by individual and col­ lective actors in the globally networked Greek Bourdieusian field before I attempt to demolish them as a social scientific reader.

PART I The aesthetics of nature: on geo-topographies of beauty Let us commence the reading in Tuan’s (1974) tradition of ‘topophilia’, by noting that there is a geo-topographical dimension in this underwater beauty,

Environmental and artistic firstness

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which is overdetermined by the suitability of an underwater place for the staging of such an exhibition. Whereas the geographical coordinates are part of a globular economy of perception, in which the ‘world’ is a globe to be inspected, enjoyed or apprehended ‘from afar’ (Szerszynski and Urry, 2006), the topographical ones are the emotional and aesthetic labour of the creative artist or designer who transforms physical locales into stories with the power of their imagination (Olwig, 2008; Beery et al., 2015; Cronin, 2016). Such imaginative inscriptions (grafe-: scripture) of the world echo two complementary scholarly analyses: the first looks to Ingold’s (2011, p. 217) contrasting of the image of the globe, which appeals to the environmentalist principles of ecocentrism, with the anthropocentric image of the sphere, which is based on relationality (Tzanelli, 2018a, p. 51). The second considers Hollinshead and Suleman’s (2018, p. 512) observation that any such act of inscription can assume the quality of: a cultural and spiritual bequest via the adoption (here and there) of an improved critical multilogicality in the understanding of different worldmaking cosmologies – that is, where, for instance, nature is no longer just seen as an ‘outsider’/‘noncultural’/‘unconnected’ and thereby merely as environmental phenomenon. (Emphasis in the text; also Hollinshead et al., 2015) As I endeavour to explain during four readings, the Underwater Gallery activates such acts of worldmaking, which has a progressive quality. This means that marine locales are self-standing ‘lifeworlds’ before being fully articulated and understood as a cultural bequest, but their collective percep­ tion changes as they enter the staging phase, which is a form of scripting (grafe-). Scripting the earth is equated with making a world to be appre­ hended, enjoyed or rejected anew by locals and strangers. These physical locales will eventually feature in the artist’s photographic work as nature that does not simply provide a neutral, characterless background for the exhibi­ tion, but is integral to its presentation as a sphere. Let us consider this process as the popular-cultural equivalent of Bhash­ kar’s (2011) critical naturalism: the role of imaginative planning that merges the natural/topographical aesthetic with the scientific needs of staging is obvious in what Stefanos has to say about the history of the project. He explains that he has ‘been meaning to do this for quite some time, and first did tests to see if the material could survive natural conditions underwater about three years ago … the spot had to have particular characteristics and attributes’ (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018). He discovered the selected locations together with some team members in September 2017, during a visit to Amorgos. Later we will also hear him say that he has always been inter­ ested in bringing human subjects closer to some natural realities through what he calls his ‘art(work)’. His observations on the finished product

40 Environmental and artistic firstness

constantly echo ruminations on what we may call, after Simmel, ‘naturalistic art forms’, which do not require ‘determined and far-reaching intellectual activities for [their] enjoyment’ and their ‘approaches are quite direct’ (Simmel, 1997f, p. 215). Peculiarly, however, the same aesthetics of proximity will be revised in Stefanos’ observations on the atmospheric staging of his work, as well as its artistic core. In the following pages I endeavour to show that this contradiction is superficial, in so far as Stefanos’ philosophy acknowledges the free flow of ideas in humanscapes, placing freediving pho­ tographers within the work of life (Adorno, 1966, p. 87). Therefore, the ‘crafty’ dimension of his professional pursuit is matched with a commitment to the democratisation of artistic experience. This exhibition is, then, more complicated than one might have assumed at first: unlike art, the appreciation of nature is plagued by indeterminacy. This often refers to a lack of ‘framings’ we associate with institutional art, because natural appreciation cannot be separated from the environment – indeed, some theorists (Hepburn, [1966] 2004) would go as far as to claim that it is not sub­ jected to natural constraints. At the same time, Stefanos says to us that, although when freediving, he and his team can apprehend the underwater environment only on its own terms, a certain degree of imagination and feeling are always at play in this contact (ibid., p. 50). Marine nature’s aesthetic value is endowed with expressive properties, which are communicated to and through the apprehending subject (the freediver). It is up to them whether such com­ munications are ‘serious’ or ‘trivial’ (Hepburn, 1995, p. 70) – otherwise put, the interplay between the human and the environmental subjects assumes ethical content contingently and based upon the nature of the interaction. Sig­ nificantly, for Stefanos, freediving is not just a conduit to artmaking, but con­ stitutive of it. The freediver/artist adopts what I will call a ‘stylistic firstness’ to enter the underwater environment – ‘and in order to do this, you have to have a very deep respect for the sea’ (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018). The comment elucidates that the stylistic firstness of freediving involves our mind’s ‘instinctive adaptation’ to the world (Dymek, 2013, p. 41). This sort of pre-logical reasoning is rendered at a later stage (see Part II below) with an indexical relation: thereafter, freediving for photographing is artmaking in motion, the moment the ‘percept’ (instinct) stops resisting sig­ nification. In other words, artistic indexing renders the presentation (Dar­ stellung) of the world (sealife) before the freediver’s eyes as a direct dynamic interpretant; this will culminate in sealife’s representation (Vorstellung) as an atmosphere. Roh critiqued impressionists for precisely this use of space as a perspective of air or vaporous atmosphere, which allegedly flattened out feel­ ing on the canvas. However, before all these take place, for Stefanos the diver does not interpret, he just feels his way through the world: You must not be afraid, there is no fear, but this does not mean there is arrogance. You know that the sea is in charge, and you do what you must

Environmental and artistic firstness

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do to adapt and to allow the sea to accept you. Having said that, human beings are mammals and all mammals have this trait of … what we call ‘underwater adaptation’ that has to do with immersion in liquid. Your heart is slowing down, the blood is leaving the extremities and con­ centrating in the core of your body to feel warm and protect your organs – this is very similar to what happens in a dolphin … if we study about the sea, and about the creatures that live inside the sea, we gradu­ ally become able to connect to the sea in a very pure way. It is this con­ nection and purity that is attained through freediving, and when I mentioned that it is part of these photographs, I am trying to explain that, when I take a photograph, when I capture the sea, this is a sea that I view as a person, as a creature that is freediving. I am participating in this environment, I am also present there in the same way [sea creatures] are. I am not using equipment … my form, my shape is very compatible to theirs, it’s very natural. (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018) The quote is a primer in Irigaray’s conception of the breath, as ‘a state of gathering with oneself and of meditative quietness’ (Irigaray, 2010, p. 6). Lack of fear and the conviction that, despite its dangers, freediving does not threaten the freediver’s existential core, allow for the development of a special bond with the seacape, which can even allow sublimation (Cosgrove, 1984; Pritchard and Morgan, 2008). Nevertheless, becoming one with the sea through training does not entail the immediate use of acquired knowledge while freediving. The knowledge freedivers accumulate also continues to engage with ‘intransitive’ objects that act independently of it in a near-trans­ cendental realist fashion (Bhaskhar, 2011, pp. 68–69). Perhaps more correctly, in Roh’s ([1925] 1995, p. 25) tradition of magical realism, the intransitivity of the seaworld rests on the fact that it offers constantly new physical avenues for exploration, but also new experiences of transcending the physical limits of human resilience and its communication to others. This means that the ways sealife is presented to the diving subject (percept or ‘seme’) produces a dynamic interpretation of this sealife (a new ‘pheme’). The movement from presentation (seme) to interpretation (pheme) is subsequently entwined with ‘self-knowledge’ (Karabelas, 10 September 2018) – what Stefanos elaborates on as ‘the search for our limits, psychologically and somatically’ (Kon­ stantinidou, 2 March 2019). The claim is nothing short of Schopenhauer’s (1958, p. 100) elementary experience of human will, which relates to our ability to move our bodies. For Schopenhauer, our bodies afford us direct access to the world and the opportunity to seamlessly blend our actions in it. Perhaps, against the interpretative stability of Bhashkar’s transcendental realism, this blending has an emotional hue that is creating, not reproducing an externally objective world. As Wollheim explains, moods are the outcome of human projection, which stands at heart of both art and landscape: while

42 Environmental and artistic firstness

Stefanos finds a way to express moods in landscapes, when he photographs them, he unconsciously creates them (Wollheim, 1993) – he worldmakes in geo-topographical terms. In fact, atmospherically speaking, his entire photo­ graphic work is the example of a series of complex projective properties rooted in his travelling underwater experience (see also Krebs, 2017, p. 1426 on the projective model). In Cohen’s (1996, pp. 98–99) analysis of tourist phenomenologies this features as an experiential mode of travel (i.e. Mac­ Cannell’s ([1976] 1989, p. 1959 leisure theory), undertaken by those who wish to break their bonds with the everyday. If this sounds too a-sociological, let us recall the ways Simmel’s stylistics of the Lebenswelt already had a special place in youth movements of his time and later; or how this immediately compared to the appropriation of Marcuse’s (1955) Eros and Civilization in the 1960s social movements. Both modes of social thought spoke of liberation from oppressive social and political structures, a reiteration integral to freediving philosophy. Inversely, but symmetrically to such occurrences, the peaceful atmospheric mood enveloping the freediver’s coexistence with the marine life is punctured by a sense of departure and separation from the world above the water, a moment of fleeting fundament­ alism. But I reserve further elaborations on this for the next two readings. To return to Stefanos’ words, the collateral experience of inner and outer worlds, which entails an instinctive cognitive adaptation, consists in an automatic formation of a perceptual judgement (Atkins, 2013, pp. 100, 102). Much like the hallucinations of an afflicted breathless freediver who may die, the underwater explorer may metaphorically attempt to touch the bottomless bottom of the sea to no avail – the precepts (i.e. ‘experiences’) (s)he forms may be of the same substance with consciousness (i.e. ‘water’), but they remain pre-logical until they are consciously moulded into art. Stefanos explains that the ‘On a Single Breath’ team is serious about their freediving pursuit, in which they also include the underwater installation. In recognising this commitment as an articulation of pro-environmental values, it matters greatly to him to appreciate the accounts he and his team give of their appreciation of marine beauty and their commitment to caring for it (Hepburn 1995, p. 65). I will return to this question of commitment in the next section, when I revisit the process of value-formation through my con­ cept of the ‘craftsmomentum’ as the blend of aesthetic skill with physical force that freediving photography requires. Suffice it to mention here that Stefanos is an educated mobile urbanite better associated with a middle-class pro­ pensity to engage with nature beyond the pursuit of a pleasurable picnic, as a proponent of environmental protection from careless post-industrial abuse. One wonders if we should conclude that there is a ‘right’ way to appreciate nature aesthetically, which supports the seriousness of our appreciation and the objectivity of our judgements. But for Stefanos, aesthetic guidance stems from blends of (natural) science (‘we train, we study, we learn’ – Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018), cognition and affect. These allow underwater

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explorers to surpass banal conceptions of underwater worlds as ‘picturesque’, ‘blocks of scenery … viewed from a particular [view]point by the viewer, who is separated by the appropriate spatial distance’ (Carlson, 1979, p. 132). Instead, this training of the body that turns into an unconscious skill to navigate the natural world becomes ‘not something that one has, like knowl­ edge that can be brandished, but something that one is’ (Bourdieu, quoted in Gersch, 2013, p. 105). As cultivation of the breath becomes a ‘cultivation of the soul’ (Gersch 2013, p. 106), humans are released from the need to justify their aesthetic engagement with nature in rational ways. In several interviews, including ours, Stefanos stressed that freediving exploration does not happen ‘“without a second thought”, on the contrary, it necessitates concentration and good planning, most times followed by a good study of the area and its natural conditions’ (Konstandinidou, 2 March 2019). Interestingly, where Stefanos’ own first-hand experience of this world can easily bypass the ‘scenery cult’ associated with artistic representations of nature (Carlson, 2000), exhibition visitors may have to fall back on categoryrelative aesthetic judgements we associate with conventional photographic artworks (Walton, 1970). This is why he is so excited that his attempt to democratise Underwater Gallery visitations through scuba diving has yielded some positive results. He explains that the greatest success of the 2018 exhi­ bition was to engage people who had never dived before: It was amazing to see 60-year-old visitors … who never did diving, rarely even go swimming, to put on gear and scuba-dive for this exhibition … The artistic pursuit seems to have created this dynamic, which I never expected. (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018) Indeed, he clarifies that the reason behind keeping the exhibition’s second staging in the same place in July 2019 was to both attract more interest and democratise diving as a way of art-watching, extending this to visits by young generations. ‘July is good because schools are closed, and the weather will probably be more amenable to staging’, he concludes (ibid.). His concentra­ tion on the dual communication of pleasure and education considers visitors as active interpreters of the Greek deep, which now features as a complex cultural site (Macdonald, 2006, p. 321; Macdonald, 2007, p. 150). However, this does not mean that Stefanos attributes to meaning-making the properties of a conscious or ‘privately ideational’ phenomenon that we may associate with digital museum visitations (Stevens and Toro-Martell, 2003). Also, the structured narratives and responses we associate with specific heritage repre­ sentations (e.g. Bagnall, 2003) are missing from such ad hoc visitor engage­ ment with the Greek deep at this stage. There is a reason this is the case: unlike Roh’s fear that the impressionistic adherence to atmospheric production compresses the world, Stefanos’

44 Environmental and artistic firstness

magical-realist philosophy treats the images he creates not like blocks of scenery, flattened out in a static two-dimensional pictorial stage (Carlson, 2000, p. 34), but extensions of the living entities they depict underwater in their natural environment. This means that he sees the deep as an interlocutor that ‘converses’ with its guests – something corroborating with his admission that the exhibited images were not planned, so they carry within them the rarity of a moment the normal eye cannot arrest – what Barthes (1981, pp. 32–33) calls ‘numen’. There is no need to recreate an atmosphere of depth, because the images are, for Stefanos, the equivalent of a photodynamic sta­ ging of their object, whereby each shot adds meaning: ‘In a way’, he says, ‘I want to make the fish leave the photograph and come alive and start swim­ ming inside the cave. Especially during night time, the photographs came alive in a way that cannot be described in words’ (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018). The admission reflects Roh’s ([1925] 1995, p. 26) observa­ tion that the new magical-realist art of post-expressionism hollowed out the canvas, ‘fill[ing it] with depressions and elevations [and moving] all the fore­ shortened figures … forward rather than backward’, while also ‘giv[ing] them a different trajectory’. As blocks of sensation, Stefanos’ photographs make their affective intensity felt in bodies even before they are ‘perceived’ in any particular way (Thrift, 2007; Latham and McCormack, 2009; Larsen and Sandbye, 2014). Hence, the photographs acquire an illusionary copresence with their visitors in the cave, they become extensions of the natural envir­ onment in which they are placed (Rose, 2004, p. 555). Such alternative pho­ todynamism counters associations with ‘environmental formalism’, which would prioritise the formal properties of nature, the visual arrangement of shapes, colours and lighting or patterns as such (Carlson, 2000). For Stefanos all these exist within the natural environment and animate the expressive qualities of the photos as intricate now parts of the cave, allowing visitors – especially those capable and willing to try scuba diving – to engage emotion­ ally, sensorially and imaginatively with the underwater world. Unlike the Frankfurt School intellectual’s self-perception as a unique communicator of socio-cultural complexity to the crowds (e.g. Benjamin, [1936] 1969), Stefanos thinks of himself as a conduit or facilitator of a pas­ sage to an aesthetic experience anyone can have, under certain conditions (Budd, 2002). He appreciates and accepts the power of pre-cognitive engagement with the world, as well as its non- or more-than-representational dimensions. His understanding of wildlife art as creative action evolving out of a collision between pre-cognitive experiences and reality moves his project away from those involving ‘engineering’ imaginary movement (e.g. Dewey, [1934] 1980, pp. 65–66) and into an aesthetics of immediate engagement (Barleant, 1995), which is multisensory and dynamic, immersing the human subject in the environment (Atkins, 2013, pp. 108–109). Stefanos concludes that the endeavour behind this exhibition is polymodal, rather than an easily classifiable pursuit:

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It is spiritual, artistic, and a way to connect to the energy that makes the planet go around. If there is a higher energy that connects us all, I think that for me and my team the sea and the underwater is where we find the closest conduit for this energy. (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018) Yet, past the spirituality of freediving, Stefanos also recognises in this staging a conventional artistic aesthetics, which he alone introduced to the rest of the team. He indicates that others ‘couldn’t see this, the artistic part of it’ (ibid.). He had to persuade them – and ‘once I did, even those who were sceptical were, like: “OK, what do we get out of putting artwork inside a cave”, [but] they were mesmerised’ (ibid.). Therefore, although the people participating in the project ‘have a common vision and a common set of values related to the environment and the sea … the exhibition, the artwork, and the ways that the colours, textures and shapes are combined, this is my personal vision’ (ibid.). This indicates more than a contagious enthusiasm, because it casts Stefanos as an artistic leader, whose sensitive eye supersedes the entire team’s, but also his own, polymodal engagement with the world. The discourse of artistic individualism belongs to this study’s discussion on (inter)national aesthetics (Reading three), so I will not expand on it here. We can be contained with the observation that, at this stage, Stefanos drops the topic of environmental connectivities in favour of his individualised artistic vision. This prompts me to return to a discussion on the values underscoring the making (by Stefanos) and staging/installing (by an entire team of freedivers) of the Under­ water Gallery. There is no better time to introduce a new concept in con­ temporary social theory and the new mobilities of travel/tourism and migration.

Ecoaesthetics and values: the craftsmomentum With Stefanos’ last comments, we have arrived at a different mode of aes­ thetic appreciation of the Underwater Gallery as ‘artwork’. After this section, I return to this second mode for another reading of the Underwater Gallery. Together, the two modes, the environmental and the artistic, produce a unique magical-realist variation of Simmel’s Lebensphilosophie (life-philosophy), as a corollary of the European aesthetic traditions of Kant, Schopenhauer, Hegel and the early romantic philosophers. These intellectual voices enabled Simmel to elaborate on the ‘vital movement’ and ‘flow’ in art from the Middle Ages to the high modern period, as well as on issues of artform, genre, artistic mediation, representation and expressivity. His vitalistic understanding of art as a socially produced phenomenon is governed by notions of ‘motion’ (Bewegung): defined by animate life and outward ‘forms’, these motions are the ways inner living experience (Erlebnis) is projected onto outer worlds, attaining dynamic expression as ‘psychic life’ (Beseelung) with the help of sensuous appearances (de la Fuente, 2008).

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Simmel distinguishes between movements/motions and counter-motions in the world, with the former conforming to the structures of language and social ordering, and the latter expressing spontaneous animate forces. The tension between the two opposing motions defines the ways expression and style emerge in life and art (Whimster, 1987, pp. 273–275). It would not take much to read Stefanos’ endeavour as a counter-movement, seeking to not just keep the tide of everyday time at bay, but also create a ‘magical’ place, to borrow his words, in which the soul can rest and contemplate while the body is in hard motion. We should not forget that the project’s greatest challenge was to com­ bine athletic ability with psychic strength (Mavrantza, 11 December 2018). This is a particular interpretation of Kropotkin’s ([1974] 1998, p. 172) vision of éducation intégrale, whereby brain and manual work or handicraft are taught as a single vocation. Nevertheless, this magic should not exist just for the benefit of the freediver – for Stefanos, there is clearly a call to share with others. My gateway to these questions is Stefanos’ propensity to disseminate lived (by himself) seas­ cape atmospheres. ‘Atmospheres’ are micro-events that bridge the materiality of life (nature) with its perception by humans (culture), a question tackled masterfully by Böhme, a contemporary critic of Baumagarten’s tradition of aesthetics. Note that Böhme (1993, p. 114) warned his readers to not consider his ecological aesthetics (‘ecoaesthetics’) as a fundamental ecology (e.g. a political ecology collapsed into ‘environmental activism’) or as organicism (e. g. claims that ‘we are all part of nature’). His ecoaesthetics is focused on establishing a relation between human states (affects, feelings and perception) and environmental qualities (marine life and scapes) – a focus close to Sim­ mel’s Bewegung. This suggests the prioritisation of logically unprocessed experiences of such scapes over judgements or conscious elaborations on emotions such experiences/encounters induce – a sort of preparatory phase for fully articulated explanations of the place of art and design in society (see Bhashkar, 2011, p. 83 on the ‘explanatory’ rather than ‘predictive’ role of social science theories, on which I expand in Reading four). The orientation of judgement towards language and communication has wedded aesthetic, but also parts of art theory, to semiotics, ignoring that, this way, when we read a work of art, we deny the experience of what is represented, its atmosphere. This exclusion of the prelogical, which sustains normative reorientations in the field of aesthetics at large, is also part of the ways travel is demarcated from tourism as a worthier pursuit. As I explained in the Introduction, the real problem is not whether the latter is a poor relative of the former, but how both are rooted in Eurocentric conceptions of experience. Again, I return to this point in later readings. There is also a concern that this denial of atmospheric experience severs the link between a sociology of aesthetics and the sociology of emotions, which includes both prelogical affective labour and consciously felt feelings orien­ tated towards things and situations. Similar concerns can be raised about the

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principles of critical cosmopolitanism, which includes ‘feelings’ in its pro­ grammatic statement (e.g. Delanty, 2009, p. 12), but never proceeds to address them as social and cultural forces. This exclusion, which differs from Böhme’s (1995) call to collapse aesthetics into a study of the production of atmo­ spheres in all domains of human activity (e.g. decoration, design, cosmetics and so forth), may have to do with the lack of a coherent sociological meth­ odological portfolio in the study of contemporary atmospheres. Perhaps we forgot that Simmel spoke of such connections as attitudinal orientations, or ‘deep tendencies’ that human subjects discover a posteriori, in their articula­ tion of forms (Simmel, 1997b, p. 34). Alternatively, perhaps we deal with a deeper cultural crisis based on emotional paucity, from which we have not yet attained enough distance to analyse. Accordingly, we must also account for the fact that, despite the scholars’ awareness that artwork as a process is tied both to material beautification (‘making art presentable to audiences’) and aesthetic production,1 hierarchies of aesthetic value continue to persist.2 Such constructivist desiderata distort the ways the artwork’s ‘craftsmo­ mentum’ is registered in time and space, stripping the artworker of their creative subjectivity, if not also their identity as embodied worldmakers. Let me first unpack the etymological and analytical depth of the term to prove that we need it: of Germanic origin, originally kraft referred to strength and skill to handle small trading vessels, as opposed to large ocean ships. This original association with sea trade may also be responsible for later connec­ tions to deception, chicanery and sharp practice. Generally, kraft came to denote a low form of ‘artfulness’, which has been repeatedly attributed to amateur, feminine, ethnically exotic or working-class pursuits, but also to professional artists using technological means to allegedly ‘lull’ audiences into submission, trick communities out of their cultural assets and appropriate the property of others (Belting, 2011, p. 90; Tzanelli, 2016b, pp. 116–117). This is the equivalent of the atmospheric magic that Stefanos and his peers wish to release in the world, by redirecting visitor perception to natural beauty in positive ways. However, it implies a normative reversal, because it draws on perceived (due to various prejudices) negative qualities of our global dark/ heritage, based on class, race and gender. For Stefanos and his peers ‘craft’ would stand for stylised vital movement, a skill freedivers master with hard training, education and a lot of will (Huffpost Greece, 11 October 2018). Significantly, however, in his presenta­ tion of the project, photography (mastery of technological knowledge) and freediving (mastery of the natural elements by instinct, trial and error as much as organised knowledge) are not separated: they are one and the same. He says that he spent about a decade acquiring professional skills in photo­ graphy and freediving before creating a team of six, ‘who realised what the mind cannot even imagine’ (Mavrantza, 11 December 2018). Therefore, fully articulated knowledge and instinctual training must co-exist and feed into each other, even when the latter appears as an early stage of the former: we

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are always learning. Still, for a magical-realist analysis of his project in this study, I must establish a timeline for craft’s cultural/conceptual genesis, see­ mingly irrelevant to freediving art, yet impregnated with contemporary implications. Indeed, such implications are better elucidated in Reading two in relation to the freediving team’s commitment to open access policies of their vimeos, but also through Stefanos’ protestations about allegations that he prioritises profit-making. To understand all these, I must account for craft’s philosophical genealogy after Renaissance and into the Age of the Enlightenment. The split between ideas of art and craft begun as a division between epis­ téme (knowledge) and téchne (technology) in European thought (Stiegler, 1998; Parry, 2003; Frabetti, 2011). The real turning point was an Enlight­ enment reading of Aristotle’s (1946, bk 6, pp. 3–4) definition of the technical being as a being with no end, hence a tool to serve someone else’s ends. The demotion of technítis or technical human to an instrument echoes both Weber’s Zweckrationalität (instrumental/goal rationality), a type of social action involving the calculation of the most efficient means to the desired ends (Gerth and Mills, 1948, pp. 56–7) and Marx’s critique of human aliena­ tion from labour and its production tools. Indeed, the onset of modernity and industrialization conceded téchne as technology with utilitarian value, but also led to dehumanizing associations of labour with capitalist profit-making (Scribano and Lisdero 2019, p. 26). Ancient Greek conceptions of téchne – as read and understood by Enlightenment philosophers – would also encompass technologies of writing, which philosophers such as Plato (1974) had asso­ ciated with amnesia. The loss of memory or anámnesis was predicated on the suggestion that writing technologies, including the art of poetry, were instru­ mental, hence crafts in the service of power that drifts humans away from the truth. Unlike Plato’s, European modernity’s self-establishing essence of tech­ nology focused on the mastery (Herrschaft) of nature, which became respon­ sible for the division of the world into subject and object (Moran, 2012, pp. 267–268). The verdict is now that téchne has come closer to modernity’s epistemic objectives of articulating the object of mastery, hence subjecting it into alien ‘power grammars’ (Derrida, 1976; Foucault, 1980, 1989). To make this even clearer, contemporary technologies of the digit and the image, are supposed to serve structural purposes – of the nation-state, the multinational corporation, the travel business and have nothing to do with the purity of art, which is supposed to make people better and more caring human beings. Let me return now to the particular context I explore. Sitting between the technology of image-making and the technology of the (trained) body, ‘craft’ coupled with the notion of ‘momentum’ grants freediving artmaking with temporal and cultural depth in late modernity. To tie its etymology to the aforementioned genealogy, we only have to ask: is this art/craft of underwater photographing any good (for human betterment)? Of course, such a question subjects artmaking to a utilitarian view of the world, but on the other hand,

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utilitarians would argue that such arts/crafts have to have meaning in today’s society (a point partly addressed by the move of the Underwater collection of images to an institutional setting – Reading three). Simmel himself noted how (art)forms, such as that of the photograph, are abstractions from the formless flow of lifeforce (Lebenskraft). This led to a pronouncement of image-making as a ‘dead’ rather than living form (Barthes, 1981), a sort of ‘technomorphic interpretation’ of the world (Belting, 2011, p. 114) to which Stefanos would object vociferously. Therefore, the idea of these underwater images as ‘glan­ ces’, capturing a moment in time is only part of the story that Stefanos and his team wish to stage and convey to others. Listen to what he says about how the making of such photos is registered in time through the freediver’s underwater journey and not independently from it: Sometimes when we dive, we take a small trip in time … When you dive next to or inside a wreck, it is as if you travel back in time. You see objects and find a particular place by the wreck that you can feel the time has stopped. It might be scary, might be awe-inspiring but time can sometimes be a relative value, it moves slower. And that is another question I am asked sometimes – “what do you do in three minutes?” These three minutes can be so magical, that they feel like a whole hour. When we come back from a trip with our family or our friend, we find ourselves telling other people what a good time we had, and we speak of magical moments. Although we took a full trip we mention a magical moment. So maybe when we take a trip we seek some special moments. These moments can be very brief, but they can encapsulate feelings, they can give us so much more that lasts for so much longer. (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018) ‘Magic(al)’ is a recurring word in Stefanos interactions, both with me and journalists. Magic defines the spatial coordinates of the environment in which he moves as both a physical and fictional seme. For him, each of his photo­ graphs should be seen as a Momentbild that is nevertheless placed into the moving atmospheres of the deep blue (a ‘whole’, inviting multisensory appreciation, as opposed to Simmel’s (1971) ocular apprehension of the environment), participating in an animate world. On this, Simmel borrowed from Henry Bergson’s philosophy the verdict that ‘reality is movement’ (Bergson, 1946, p. 169), without actually looking into the limitations of Bergson’s theory of perception (on this affinity, see Frisby, 1992, p. 28, p. 99). Bergson’s realist mobility suggests that we may inhabit changing environ­ ments (for example, in a city), but end up fixing them in the ways we encap­ sulate them in memory – a peculiar rendition of Peirce’s thirdness but without a firstness and a secondness to which we can return to modify meaning. Simmel’s Momentbild is used in the production of ‘snapshots sub specie aeternitatis’, essential forms the observer preserves for their typicality (Frisby, 1992, pp. 82, 139). But then, we must ask two additional questions: how is

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movement recorded in our mind, and how is Stefanos producing movement rather than still pictures? His account suggests an interesting actor-network version of photography superseding the limitations of the old photodynamic style, which can only exist as a Bergsonian collation of stills to create the illusion of movement (Bergson, 1941, pp. 314–331). Between the encapsulation of an image of the deep and its staging in a moving environment among other images now stands the sea’s atmospheric potential, which produces moods we cannot conflate for example with realist accounts of the city. First of all, Stefanos’ photography is phenomenal mobility that exceeds Cohen’s (1996) discussion of tourist experience. It is the imprint of an existential moment that Graburn (2012) saw in the Japanese exploratory youth’s inner movement towards a personal centre, which rejects social conventions and a coherent outer social self-image. Second and most importantly, unlike regular photographic encap­ sulations, it ‘answers’ to (like Frida Kahlo), rather than introduces the tourist body of modernity, because it inscribes an intimacy based on shared sub­ stance with the sea (Kreft-momentum). Much like coffee-cup reading, it involves a face-to-face ‘dressing with the eye’, a close observation of the other/nature ‘to see “from whom [it] took after [e.g. was violated]”’ (Ser­ emetakis, 1991, p. 216). Therefore, it is an almost ‘divinatory’ mode of knowing-while-experiencing that ‘looks beyond the immediate and the apparent to absence and the invisible. What one chooses to look at influences one’s character formation’ (ibid., p. 220, emphasis mine). Hence, unlike Gra­ burn’s (2012) exploratory dark tourist’s introvert mood, it is a manifestation of somatic magical-realist art focusing on the miniature, the cursory but important in its own right (Roh, [1925] 1995, p. 27). I will expand on this divinatory quality in the fourth reading, where Stefanos’ work is placed among similar international stagings of nature. I promote the notion of the ‘craftsmomentum’ to an epistemontological tool capable of breaching the gap between Peircean pragmatism and critical phenomenology, so that we explore the moment embodied activity (kreft, craft) transforms into art in particular contexts. In this activity, we cannot separate space from time, nor can we view them as phenomena external to the processes by which physical and social worlds are made (Whitehead, quoted in Urry, 2005b, p. 4). The transformation of technology via embo­ died activity into art can be encapsulated after decisive modifications of both critical and pragmatic traditions with the help of Judith Butler’s per­ formativity and the strong paradigm in cultural sociology. For Butler (1990, 1993), performativity is embedded in mobile interpellations of subjectivity (one is expected to act like a woman or a man according to an unwritten but fixed ‘script’), which are supported by various institutions, but exist inde­ pendently from them at the level of discourse. Any (and not just that of gender or sexuality) performativity’s phenomenological dimensions can introduce reflexive modifications of such scripts, small revolutions that begin

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in our minds, then shared with peers and turn into real social and cultural change3. Such change materialises in revisions of long-standing ‘values’ that define what is correct, proper and beautiful. Let us connect this to Alexander’s pragmatic elaborations on ‘iconic conscious­ ness’ and ‘experience’, the ways aesthetically shaped materiality communicates with values (Alexander, 2008a, 2008b), to re-examine the value of the craftsmo­ mentum. Such understandings of iconic consciousness resemble Butler’s rendition of performativity as a potentially revolutionary process, and Arendt’s (1958) notion of ‘work’ as a step towards self-realisation through communal action (activity). In all three approaches, the momentum of technological craft amounts to the com­ pletion of a full work cycle, commencing with the photographer/freediver’s unpro­ cessed encounter with the world and concluding with his/her ‘coming of age’ through the acquisition of ‘natality’ (belonging as rebirth) within an enlarged community of individuals. Hence, I read Alexander through a unique blend of Arendt’s ‘vita activa’ (1958), Butler’s performativity and Charles S. Peirce’s ‘pha­ neroscopic cycle’ (1931–1958, vol. II, pp. 56–173), including his contention that feelings have spatial extensions (Peirce, 1998c, pp. 205–206). I do not wish to reiterate established conceptions of cosmopolitanism as yet. In fact, such a move would place freedivers within a bourgeois framework of educated ‘species’ rather unjustifiably. The natality about which I speak has a distinctive meta-political value, which neither critical cosmopolitan theorists nor Arendt herself develop, assuming that the ‘meta’ leads to a complete rejection of political life and not an alternative politics of aesthetics. This is precisely what Simmel sought to encapsu­ late in his own conceptualisation of ‘distinction’ (Vornehmheit) as an aesthetic (Vornehm as refined) rather than ethical category (Frisby, 1992, p. 86). At the other end of social theory, natality is connected to ‘light’ notions of cultural citizenship reserved for privileged individuals (Stevenson, 2003), reintroducing Arendt’s contempt for contemplation (vita contemplativa) – hence, a dismissal of atmospheric creativity that does not have a conventional political orientation. Lest we wrongly attach the craftsmomentum to Arendt’s Aristotelian ‘bíos politikós’, I illuminate the presence of a ‘bíos synaesthema­ tikós’, in which both sensory firstness (aísthesis: sense: contact with the deep) and emotional secondness (aisthánomai: to feel: immerse myself in the deep) contribute to the making of the engaged subject in a community (Tzanelli, 2017b). In tandem, one may note that Simmel’s prejudicial analysis of ‘female culture’ used ‘the entire history of work’ and division of labour to consign women’s contribution to civilisation to ‘diversified’ household tasks while elevating men to highly differentiated labourers (ibid., pp. 49–50). The idea is supposed to be that craftsworkers are devoid of originary creativity and only able to contribute reproductive labour in society. Incidentally, the term craftsmomentum also encapsulates a distinctively Greek experience of moder­ nity, symbolically associated with gender (women feel, men think) and emo­ tionally with a desire to be European (a real European man should use his mind before the heart) (Tzanelli, 2011, chapter 5). Such traditional scripts are

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slowly being revised by contemporary subjects, that feel more part of an enlarged world than a national community that fixes them socially and cul­ turally (as men, women, Greeks and so forth). The Greek experience of modernity creeps into Stefanos’ work but is reflexively reworked into a series of professional statements in which he becomes more a world traveller than a rooted cosmopolitan (Beck, 1994). At the same time, traces of rootedness are reworked into his appreciation of the Greek seascapes in almost unconscious ways. If we follow the old European genealogy of art, Stefanos’ pho­ tographic craft may struggle to qualify as true art produced by someone who has a special relationship with the seascapes he encapsulates technologically. It is as if Stefanos’ craftsmomentum is consigned to the realm of non-articulation and irra­ tionality (the pre-semiotic realm), because it is both body-driven and open to mass consumption by unqualified audiences (Benjamin, ([1936] 1969, p. 7). It would be better to acknowledge that the non-representational is the material of our con­ sciousness, which enables us to connect to the world via perception – for, any representation, needs time to come to life (Dymek, 2013, p. 50): this is the ‘momentum’ of my term. The inability to articulate is part of Orientalism, a colo­ nial discourse about anything disqualified for European inclusion, and ‘unciv­ ilised’ enough to be pushed down the hierarchies of aesthetic and political value (Said, 1978). However, the darkness (incomprehensibility) of the craftsmomentum is both an essential step within the process of artmaking and part of what we can build into a sociology of aesthetics that speaks about the arts of possibility (Rich, 2001), including that of creating tourism. These ‘arts’ seek to establish a durable connection between what Scheler (1992, pp. 230–231) calls ‘vital values’ or feelings of life (e.g. weakness– strength, quickening–declining, being youthful–ageing and oncoming death) and ‘spiritual values’ or phenomenal states and corresponding acts of psychic/ existential preference (e.g. beauty–ugliness, rightness–wrongness or truth–fal­ sity/deceitfulness). Practically emanating from vital values, Stefanos’ artwork arrives aesthetically at spiritual values, such as those we associate with high art and scientific or tourist achievement (ibid., pp. 231–232). To unpack this transition, I re-read his work through his own admission that he does a form of art and then proceed to explore their value-ridden atmospheric core.

PART II Photographic aesthetics of movement: the deep as a magical atmospheric world A. Diagrams, affects, emotions Reading through the 2018 brochure produced for the exhibition, I suggest that we view Stefanos’ Underwater Gallery in a Peircean trichotomous

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schema: it includes three sections under the titles ‘Yphalos’ (reef), ‘Vythos’ (the bottom/deep) and ‘Mythos’ (legend). Where Yphalos is described as a submerged cosmos that ‘reveals’ the Greek sea’s hidden beauty (Greece Underwater – On a Single Breath by Stefanos Kontos, p. 4), Yphalos allures the subject into a ‘deep adventure and a universe few can reach’ (ibid., p. 19) and Vythos focuses on ‘reflections and shadows … light and darkness expos [ing] emotions that transcend the physical world’ (ibid., p. 28). This is not a fictional narrative of a landscape in conventional realist terms, but an imagi­ native process of feeling through beautiful nature as a work of art, an act of freedom which is integral to its aesthetic appreciation (Budd, 2002, p. 148). This is Wittgenstein’s ([1953] 2009) Darstellung as a practice of forming pre­ sentations with standards of their own, or Goodman’s ([1968] 1999) ‘right­ ness’ as contextual truth-making. We are now past Bhashkar’s thesis and into the realm of irrealism we associate with Hollinshead’s tourism analysis, but without the specificity of tourism as an institution or an activity. It is no wonder that the exhibits had to be contained in caverns that were visible from the surface (Huffpost Greece, 11 October 2018): the intrusion of natural light fused with the shadows of human bodies inspecting the arrangement ‘from above’, produces a hallucinatory affect close to the quality of our dreams. A progression seeming to be in terms of physical depth, is one of near-existential quality, unmediated from the diver’s perspective, but actu­ ally produced in the thirdness of a piece of artwork. One may easily see in these shots blends of European artistic techniques and styles, including chiaroscuro, sfumato and impressionism. Although individual photographs attest to Stefanos’ aversion to ‘clear definitions … documentary-style’ or ‘crisp and finite images’ so that the photographer ‘captur[es] the pulse of this unique world as it is interacting with [him], during [his] dives’ (Kontos, Greece Underwater, 2018, p. 1), the very act of iconic organisation in the booklet and the live gallery online assumes the form of a diagrammatic representation, so that what begins with observation ends with a description, subsequently opened to the visitor’s perception. Nevertheless, the freediver/ photographer’s observation of the deep’s phaneron does not (cannot) collapse into mere introspection – for, how could [s]he convey his/her work to others – but is neatly ‘projected’ in a form that can only be iconic in an existential fashion (Peirce/Robin, quoted in De Tienne, 2004, p. 10). The photographs are saturated in shades of light, which becomes an affec­ tive source, granting animate and inanimate objects with shapes and humans freedivers with an orientation – what Stefanos calls a ‘technical ascent … from the deep in perfect form’ (Kontos, Greece Underwater, 2018, p. 20). Where sunlight ‘fails to penetrate the liquid barrier at 100 feet and colours do not exist … [we only have] freediver ghosts’ (ibid., p. 24). These are the fading freediving technicians/stages, who use artificial light ‘to reveal’ the colours of a boat carcass, a giant fish or a newly-born reef, playing with our perception of forms (ibid., pp. 21–22). Notably, the exhibition’s last section frames legend

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(‘Mythos’) in terms of ‘reflections and shadows of the deep; light and dark­ ness [that] expose emotions that transcend the physical world’ (ibid., p. 28). The light and darkness do not colour the world physically, but ‘reveal emo­ tions that transcend reality and travel us to a fantastic world’ (Kon­ stantinidou, 2 March 2019). Stefanos plays with affects that his textual discourse moulds into emotions, providing the contours of a (lost to viewers) firstness – what Thrift (2004, p. 60) calls ‘a sense of push in the world’, or a sense of flow moving through human and non-human bodies in the deep. The depicted micro-events retain a transpersonal intensity that counters the intersubjective quality of emotions, while nevertheless translating this inten­ sity to socially meaningful encounters with Greek seascapes and enabling viewers to recognise their appearances as meaningful forms or events (McCormack, 2008). As Edensor (2012, pp. 1105–1106) succinctly notes, such practical blurring of affect with emotion, the immediate and the processed, is constitutive of what we call atmospheres. This blurring partakes in the mys­ tery that breathes behind ‘things’ (the images) which were captured in a state of heightened reality at the limit of human ability to not breathe (see Leal’s (1955) notion of ‘estado limite’ as a way to realise all levels of reality). The fact that their essence is revealed via local colours but through the eyes of someone who lived breathless for a while in a ‘timeless fluidity’ of real time (ibid., p. 189), suggests that, as soon as Stefanos proceeds to describe Greek seascapes, he effectively switches to the Latin American postcolonial code of magical realism. We should bear this in mind for Reading three, which chal­ lenges transcendental/critical realist codes and the European/Western specifi­ city of cultural pragmatism. To conclude, Stefanos’ propensity to encapsulate forms and colours – ‘slices of experience…of essentially different formal elements’ (De Tienne, 2004, p. 8) – works towards a whole that has already schematised the experience of the deep in topophilic terms (it is not any sea bottom he presents but the Greek Vythos). So, one may ask to what end such schematisation emerges. If we accept the photo­ grapher’s introductory remarks that ‘photographs taken freediving are seldom calculated and planned or re-arranged’, hence ‘are real and contain a unique ele­ ment of dynamism and life’ (Greece Underwater – On a Single Breath by Stefanos Kontos, p. 39; emphasis mine), we must also address the logic by which Stefanos produces his artistic schema: the gallery. Every phaneroscopic diagram follows a painstaking process of subtraction, insertion, displacement or iteration, even when it appears to impressionistically convey the moment (Alexander’s ‘iconic con­ sciousness’ and Simmel’s Momentumbild). Contrariwise, for Peirce, solid schemata involve the removal of all insignificant features and accidental characters, so that we are left with the features that will always belong to the diagram. Peirce’s pha­ neroscopy never discovers accidentally the fundamental categories used in sche­ matisation. Is it possible to conjure up such purified processes in the real world (note that Peirce felt tempted to name his invention ‘phanerochemy’, in honour of natural science)? It is difficult to think of such a conscious process separately from

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what makes us social beings – namely, the emotional and value commitments we uphold in the course of our lives, but especially at those particular timeframes in which we create culture (the momentum of craft). Useful though phaneroscopy is methodologically, epistemologically it falls into the trap of an impossible, if not unfair rationalisation that preoccupied the likes of Weber in analyses of modernity. As I explain below, there is also money to be made from Stefanos’ enterprise, so it is easier to conflate rationalised professional transaction with spiritual values, or their lack thereof. To decouple value from economic process, I reintroduce in my analysis more traditional phenomenological tools. Let us consider again the emplaced textures and colours of the Underwater Gallery. Although a sceptic may argue that they involve digital modification and the enhancement of natural light bathing sank objects and marine life, they cannot refute the real presence of the natural source of lighting. The same applies to night lighting and shadowing, which was manipulated with the help of sophisticated underwater lighting equipment that shed light from above.4 The Gallery’s atmospherics have to ‘rehabilitate’ the so-called first impression at all times, employing the artworker’s insight to induce a catholic emotive, value-orientated response to the spectacle (Griffero, 2014, p. 29). We deal with the eyes of a scientific-like artist, who knows where/what to look at, and who is ready to convey with his/her mechanical tools ‘objects of con­ sciousness that words cannot express’ (Peirce/Robin, quoted in De Tienne, 2004, p. 10). However, this opens a crack on the pragmatist fabric of artmaking, warning us that any unsayable things the photographer transformed into images are not products of pure representable logic, but blends of affect, chance and bodily agility (Griffero, 2017, p. 94). We must always heed that, for Peirce, phaneroscopy is a prelogical process closer to the sort of artistic expressivity Stefanos purports than to ‘pure science’ and cannot appeal to semiotics, as it precedes them. By this I mean that for Peirce, the phanero­ scopic labour of freediving would ‘serve as the semiotician’s preparation of thought’ (De Tienne, 2004, p. 18) – a partition of tasks responsible for Cartesian fallacies in artmaking (Ranciére, 2004, pp. 7–14). Although the photographer’s art-staging appeals to its phaneroscopic genealogy, its inter­ pretative technique5 has already surpassed it. By the time the artist has arrived at some sort of visual articulation of ‘tokens of types’, or ‘general signs’, we are well inside the game of thirdness, where reality is played in a cinematographic style and viewers begin to scrutinise relations of individual elements of material surfaces (seascapes) with a symbolic whole (Alexander, 2008a, p. 84; Stiegler, 2011, pp. 75–76). I do not expand on audience recep­ tion but note a change in the artist’s agency: what he now does involves the production of new worlds from his unique encounter with the deep (Makk­ reel 1990, p. 56). I return to the Cartesian fallacy of this scopic profession bellow, because Stefanos and his freediving colleagues seek to reject its pre­ dicate by particular forms of action.

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This worldmaking process still approximates the Peircean logic, in that all the fundamental characteristics highlighted by the artist’s individual experi­ ence can now be extrapolated to stand for (‘instantiate’) experiencing in gen­ eral. Stefanos claims that he developed a strong fascination for the sea at the age of 12 when ‘he “borrowed” his father’s Nikonos camera and from there began his passionate quest for underwater photography’ (Greece Underwater – On a Single Breath by Stefanos Kontos, p. 42; Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018). His initial and strongest motive in turning this hobby into a project was to share his own underwater experience with friends and his family (Karabelas, 10 September 2018; Novak, 28 September 2018; Huffpost Greece, 11 October 2018). This betrays an oscillation between communicating authenticity and authenticating the existence of a natural phenomenon (Barthes, 1981, p. 107), connecting Stefanos’ adventures to his images’ ‘advenience’ (ibid., p. 19): how they ‘speak’ to his loved ones. The note of his motivation to speak to his own community and family also recurs in interviews, so it provides us with a solid genealogy of his passion to communicate marine atmospheres (Axia News, 6–7 October 2018). The beginnings attest to the epistemontological development of ‘knowl­ edgeability’ (Giddens, 1984), a know-how approach to the environments Ste­ fanos wants to embrace on a single breath, understand and communicate to others as knowledge. Such epistemontologies firmly connect to a need to belong and communicate with others. Interestingly, the exhibition’s booklet concludes by placing Stefanos within a mobile group of middle-class profes­ sionals, who respond to the calls of emerging markets (Nederveen Pieterse, 2004; Favell et al., 2007). His professional statement (a ‘CV’ to which I return in Reading three) hints at a movement away from the ‘art of knowing’ (Polanyi, 1966) and towards the art of photographing and filmmaking, a process of worldmaking, which draws on technological expertise and can be more monological, not prelogical. The same monological process may define the work of tourist professionals, who may produce alternative representa­ tions of place and culture, which they are always self-contained and water­ tight in nature (Hollinshead, 2009a). Tourist worldmaking is a process of border-making, as I explain in Readings three and four. This border-making also connects to the worldmaker’s perceived reputed social identity, especially conceptions of ‘middle-classness’, which may obscure more important ele­ ments of his social and existential participation in society and culture (race, gender or even able-bodiedness). We must be careful here, because Stefanos and his freediving team and col­ leagues do not self-fashion as policy experts. Their activities may be profession­ ally organised but are also rife with the type of unregulated aesthetic potentiality we associate neither with policy-making (Rose, 1999), nor with institutionalised art (Danto, 1974). In fact, the recognition that freediving photography ‘should be signed by two artists: the photographer and nature’ (Greece Underwater – On a Single Breath by Stefanos Kontos, p. 45), frames Stefanos’ values as a project

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standing between contemplation and anarchic-countercultural activity. A video was filmed, in which all freediving curators were captured at work, with a note that ‘no marine sanctuary, no tank or … protected or controlled environment’ was involved in the staging of the exhibition. ‘Exposed to the elements the freedivers had to overcome force 7–8 winds and waves in order to submerge the entire installation and create a magical atmosphere that immersed visitors inside a dream’ (The Underwater Gallery, 2018). However, realising such a video crosses an important boundary that separates leisurely presentations from pro­ fessional representations, activating ambiguities between an activist and a mar­ keting gaze. Welcome to the world of engaged moviemaking, where the viewer is not introduced to audio-visual and discursive suggestions of something as it is but seems to be. Standing now between iconic replication and atmospheric interpretation, such iconic thirdness mars the appearance’s (underwater nature) innocence, fracturing it into endless realities, or disciplining it into saying things that it never intended. There is little wonder why Stefanos is sceptical of formal documentarymaking as a technique of unmediated immersion: its ‘reality slices’ taste like genetically modified produce, in which flavours are both technologically bas­ tardised and unhealthy for the consumer. The digitally now presented Underwater Gallery amplifies the ‘landscape-like forms’ and ‘near-abstract shapes’ emerging from the deep’s darkness, in a style one may associate with theatrical staging (Kracauer [1960] 1997, p. 36), dismissing that originally, they were done not realistically or naturalistically, but by nature itself. Such paradoxical ‘phenomenological positivism, which bases the possible on the real’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, p. xix), suggests that atmospheric perception entails experiencing phenomena without looking for their cause. However, we cannot dismiss that the perceiving subject (the freediver), who is also in our case a world-recorder (cameraman), works on the world’s ‘retentional’ con­ texts (Stiegler, 2011, pp. 73–74), which are also part of his own (professiona­ lised) natality. In other words, we have to explore how the Greek seascapes are endowed with atmospheres both by their intrinsic histories and the free­ diver/cameraman’s stored memories and work orientation in these environ­ ments. Accordingly, all these philosophical investigations return us to my original sociological question on the status of authenticity in Stefanos’ artmaking. B. Orientations Thibaud (2011), who attributes to atmospheres the pervasive qualities of a situation, in which we find ourselves ‘caught up’, also regards atmospheric situations as mechanisms of endowment, ways of orientating humans towards particular actions and expressions. To recall my suggestion that we connect vital to spiritual values (Scheler, 1992), Stefanos’ and his freediving collea­ gues’ unprotected immersion in an unpredictable aquatic environment tends

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to extend the ‘viewing field’ first to a proto-synaesthetic experience, and sub­ sequently to a realisation that this unreachable world is fragile and open to human abuse. Note for example how in his digital profile Stefanos stresses the freediver’s ‘deep understanding and awareness of the marine environment and its inhabitants’ (Kontos, Vimeo, 2018; Kontos, Facebook, 2018). His urgency to convey previously unobserved shades and values of marine atmospheres is also characteristic of a sort of impressionistic sociological painting, which ‘analyse[s] the significance of minor social forces that were previously unob­ served’ (Mannheim, 1953, p. 217).6 We should certainly avoid conflating ethics with aesthetics here and place them instead in a schema of pragmatic (dis)continuities, which may involve both precognitive and multicognitive perception. Rauch (2014, p. 258) speaks of the formation of ‘special atmo­ spheres’ when we manage to locate them temporarily and recognise the enveloping effect of surroundings that have a certain tinge to them. Although he employs an unedited Arendtian theory of action, his conclusion that this ‘tinge’ allows the subject (artworker) to sense what is right or wrong as ‘an authentic, aesthetically grounded moral experience’ (Hauskeller, quoted in Rauch, 2014, p. 259) approximates the function of the craftsmomentum as the moment an aesthetic fourthness is born – what Arendt dubs in her politicallyridden analysis ‘truthmaking’ or ‘worldmaking’. The aesthetic properties of truthmaking allow both for the production of a freediving community with members broadly sharing in values while preser­ ving their individuality, and of creations (artwork) that, once released to the world, acquire different interpretations from those ascribed to them by their makers (Arendt, 1958, pp. 168, 174). Contra Arendt’s thesis, it is not really the public world of texts and material artifice where we find the values of freedivers – even though one may argue that all events such as that of ‘On a Single Breath’ will become enmeshed into the society of the spectacle. Nor are Stefanos and his colleagues environmental activists, but a particular species of traveller-adventurer engaged in artmaking as ‘worldmaking’. ‘Every human being on this planet is an environmentalist’, he responds to my question. Our planet and our environment are our home … If by this you mean that I seek to protect the place where I live, I think that this should be a given for all. I feel that sometimes when you push some issues to the extreme you lose the attention of your audience. I prefer to remain qui­ eter, but I try to bring out messages that have content. (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018) In effect, he tells me that he has a desire for beauty – a human constant that has to be fulfilled as an important part of the good life. Only on this, perhaps one can isolate his comment on respect for the environment as a sort of moral obligation. But to what extent should we turn to notions of moral obligation at the expense of the idea of ‘a free play of sympathy’ in beauty

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(Scruton, 1997, p. 355)? The following chapters nod positively to this sacri­ fice, but at some cost for human freedom. Let us recall Simmel’s (1919, paras 2–3) suggestion that art and adventure present an elective affinity, which resembles dreaming (significantly, Stefanos’ repeatedly used this word about his photographic art but not his freediving craft, placing them in a complementary organisation of reality-making – Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018). We may argue that Stefanos’ and his freediving colleagues’ dreaming is not just a stylistic statement for the Gallery, but an essential aspect of the craftsmomentum. This moment, which appeals to vital values, shapes a life project, and then proceeds to produce the Homo Faber in her/ his various life stages: a human being that is not a-historical, but steeped in concerns about belonging to a world and a community, to be a cultural citizen of sorts (also Stevenson, 2003). The craftsmomentum does not con­ form to instrumentalism but promotes a conception of action ‘that also encompasses passivity, sensitivity, receptivity and imperturbability’ (Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 168). One inevitably wonders if Stefanos’ orientation to these environments, as well as the way he feels and apprehends them, is a manifestation of aesthetic appreciation of nature or of art. If we adopt Carlson’s (2000) suggestion that appreciating nature aesthetically as what it is (the environment) differs from picturesque-based appreciations of art (landscape or seascape), then Stefanos is stuck within the world of the natural sciences in which he was educated. However, placing his craftsmomentum within a revised strong paradigm of sociology historicises his artwork without removing its scientific tools (all technological prostheses essential for freediving and photographing or videorecording), its science-based knowledge (he and his team are experts in freediving and instructors, who dissuade prospective clients and general audiences from replicating what they watch in videos) or artistic sensibilities, challen­ ging Carlson’s category-relative aesthetic judgements. A consideration of institutional analogies between processes by which certain frameworks of analysis and categories came to be incorporated into the scientific canon (Latour, 1987) and processes by which artistic canons were established (Bourdieu and Darbel, 1990; Zolberg, 2015) could also be extended to an examination of blended aesthetic appreciations of art and nature, the phe­ nomenal and the material. Such associations revise Simmel’s (1997a, p. 43) contention that the two spheres of human activity are altogether estranged from each other, in so far as they share in epistemological, but not necessarily phenomenological, style. If the project of environmental protection does not constitute the freediving photographing project’s core value, then we must look into the artwork’s romantic underpinnings, which can be partially related to a ‘tourist gaze’ (Urry and Larsen, 2011) or even the ‘romantic ethic and the spirit of con­ sumerism’ (Campbell, 2018). Let us consider the atmospheric potential of light in Stefanos’ artwork more carefully: although generally burdened with

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all sorts of metaphors in Western scopic regimes (‘shining the truth’, power and godly authority), light comes in shades, each with its own interpretative associations. Variations of light populate all textual and visual encodings of the exhibition, acting as fulcra of something more fundamental, raw and permanent than their transitory nature. Stefanos’ world is that of the sea, the primordial element of salt water, which is coloured by the sun, inflected by light and flows freely through generations of Greek literary and pictorial tradition. The sea provides a nomothetic subtext for light, granting the Greek liquid ‘land’ with atmospheric depth. I do not wish to reiterate poli­ tical theses on border-making in this first reading (e.g. Schmitt, 1996), but stress how Stefanos conveys the (life)world in which he was born now as a distant world picture. Proof of this distancing, which is atmospheric through and through, is how he introduces his exhibition with a map of Greece, highlighted only by the beautiful island of Amorgos or seafront locations from which he com­ menced his underwater journeys (Greece Underwater – On a Single Breath by Stefanos Kontos, p. 2). Assuming the model of ‘Mercator’s Projection’ in this mapping, Stefanos provides a proportional, ordered and textured image of the Greek world, which he and his readers can now master visually. Such visual mastery was constitutive of knowledge production by the first sys­ tematic explorers, who opened way to ‘Western world hegemony’ (Hall, 1999, p. 285). Mezzandra and Neilson (2013, p. 30) note that borders have an ontological sense encapsulated in the notion of fabrica mundi, which ‘resonates with the fabricated image of the homo faber fortunate suae’ (human as the maker of his/her own destiny). Surely, however, the same image can acquire phenomenological resonance to celebrate the craftsmomentum of artisticae humanae, the ability of humans to make (art) on the go. It is unfortunate that, when the artist attempts to transfer such a cosmogonic act onto a piece of paper, the very process of creation evaporates (ibid., pp. 31–37), and (s)he is left with a series of images out of which (s)he strives to convey a much richer story. In this failure, we see Simmel’s old contention that money, law and intellectuality display parallel structures which everyday necessity can conflate, to the detriment of the individual’s desire to attain an ideal (Joas, [1996] 2005, pp. 42–43). Is then Stefanos orientated towards the Greek world in which he was born? A far more complicated answer is found in his work’s inflections of light, as well as their metaphorical connection to bordering. The Underwater Gallery is not infused with the intrusive lights of the interrogation room, which would disorientate viewers. Instead, two European lighting techniques are merged in the magical-realist tradition of post-expressionism (Roh, [1925] 1995, p. 22), which turn clarity, the pure medicalised lux, on its head, with the help of an unedited hazy lumen as the practice of atmospheric perception (Tzanelli, 2018a, p. 125). The first technique draws on the contrasting qualities of chiaroscuro (dark/bright, light/darkness) to direct attention to aspects of

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objects (a sunk boat or a fish); the second draws on the blurring qualities of sfumato to allow for an immersive unitary tonality of the optical field (a freediver blending in the seascape’s deep; a fish almost disappearing in bub­ bles), evoking ‘the status nascendi of objects’ (Griffero, 2017, p. 108). This birth could be for the exhibition’s viewers also dynamic and natural, not just ‘staged’, engineered by the team. Stefanos notes, for example, that during the exhibition’s staging in 2018, The light would attract the fish and they would swim inside the cave, so there would be no distinction [between live fish and those in the photograph]. This is something I tried to do with several photo­ graphs – there were rocks that I placed in front of other rocks and I used lighting to bring out the colours of the rocks in the background in a way that they would merge with the rocks inside the photograph, in the hope that distinctions between what was real and what was photographed would merge. (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018) So, there is also unplanned natural merging on top of placing singularities centre-stage. The selection of the photographs and the way they were placed in the cave, allowed the subject ‘to leave the boundaries of the photograph and merge with the environment that it was placed in’. The metal prints were placed in a spot that was open ‘and behind the photograph there was actually deep blue water’ (ibid.). The easel of the photographic artwork is seen by Stefanos as a limitation: ‘I wanted to make sure that Sífnos’ [island] medusa and Angístri’s [island] mayatika [May fish] swim in the Aegean waters of Amorgos’ (Mavrantza, 11 December 2019). The dissolution of framing is an atmospheric tool, because it lets affect ‘become the exhibition’s main factor’ for visitors (Novak, 28 September 2018). This atmospheric ‘contagion’ (from photographer to audience) endows the natural objects’ sculptural forms with deeper meaning, redirecting attention from exterior surfaces to emotional things (Alexander, 2008b, p. 2). Hence, the project’s innovative aspect is not, strictly speaking, defined by ‘the magic of the deep’, as Stefanos claims (Mavrantza, 11 December 2019), but the magical mediation between its appearances and the viewer’s emotional world, on which Stefanos ponders in passing elsewhere (see interviews in Karabelas, 10 September 2018; Novak, 28 September 2018). This is fascinating, in the multiple re-semanticisation of the term ‘fascina­ tion’: its change from a word meaning ‘witchcraft’, which signified the femi­ nine manipulation of natural realities (Federici, 2005; Blencowe, 2016), to Enlightenment and nineteenth-century notions of interpersonal association and gravitation, and then to the twentieth-century notion of attractiveness of things and events of all types (Schmid et al., 2016, pp. 3–4). In Reading four, I expand on such semantic fields under the rubric of ‘technomancy’ with

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regards to an (inter)national movement towards environmental protection, which has acquired its own artistic schematisations: technology-mediated representations that are supported both by artists and non-artistic institutions. Here let us stick to Stefanos’ intention to manipulate the field of perception for the benefit of the visitor. His intention is already articulated in the Underwater Gallery’s exhibition booklet, where he discusses the notion of Mythos: What I do is create a mythical place – and by this I do not mean fan­ tastic. Because ‘mythos’ needs to have some reality in it; mythos is not fiction … it must be based on a real value that is then augmented. Whereas fiction may be something that does not exist at all. So, what I was trying to do was to take something real captured in a photograph and illuminate it in the cave, and when you hear the sound of the sea and the waves crashing on the rocks above, you hear all the fish sounds, it becomes amazing. [This blend of sensations creates a] dream place, a dream world – yet real at the same time. (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018; emphasis mine) But ‘blurring’ and ‘blending’ belong to different lexicons, attesting to Stefanos’ fusion of aesthetic horizons. Blending refers to a particular cosmopolitan thesis focusing on hybridisation (Nederveen Pieterse, 1997), which atmo­ spherically celebrates the emergence of a singular new form out of two or more distinctive ones. Contrariwise, blurring refers to the indeterminacy of form, which can, and has been associated with Orientalist and gendered het­ erologies (Said, 1978; Tzanelli, 2008, 2011). Blurring was first associated in the Middle Ages with deliberate confusion and variations of witchcraft, which were in turn, associated with what Stefanos constantly calls ‘mesmerising’. In late nineteenth-century Europe mesmerising began to inform a ‘disease-phi­ losophical approach’ due to the popular astrophysics of Franz Anton Mesmer, who concluded that the planets influence the human body and affect its response to disease (Sloterdijk, [1998] 2011, p. 228). Mesmer’s theory led to the revolutionary uses of hypnosis in the treatment of various somatic ail­ ments, on the belief that the ‘mesmerist’ can enter their subject through their use of electromagnetic pathways and cure them. In subsequent interpretations by Johann Gottlieb Fichte mesmerism was read as a manifestation of máthe­ sis or learning (ibid., p. 257), which leads to the felicitous formation of indi­ viduality: the student who devotes their whole attention to the rhetoric of their teacher, promotes a sort of ‘attentional ecstasy’ paralleling one’s selfabandonment before God (ibid., p. 260f.). The advent of new audio-visual technologies detached the term from interpersonal attraction and magic, making it instead the effect of bestowing fascination upon objects or ideas, including projection screens addressed to consumers (Hahnemann and Wey­ land, quoted in Schmid et al., 2011, p. 5).

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To connect mythos to the previous discussion on lighting techniques in paint­ ing, I stress that Stefanos frames the Underwater Gallery’s atmospheric staging by a regression to premodern forms of blurring, invoking the underwater objects’ ‘birth’, rather than functionality as objects of consumer fascination. Where chiaroscuro directs attention in ways we associate with Western investigative techniques (note for example Caravaggio’s propensity to encapsulate the causes and effects of physical reality – Robb, 2000, pp. 252–253), sfumato is tied to the climactic effects of Mediterranean landscapes, allegedly endowed with ‘misty transparency’ or ‘haziness’ (Goethe’s natural and metaphysical atmospheric blends – Griffero, 2017, p. 107). The second atmospheric tonality resembles that of flickering lights and misty indeterminacy that has come to define Danish home designs and other Nordic national intimacies, which promote hygge or cosiness, a feeling of informality and relaxation allegedly guiding social beha­ viour and structure (Linnett, 2011). The same tendency to informal association informs Greek attitudes to socialisation and hospitality, framing a ‘Greek way’ of doing things that contrasts stereotypes of the ‘cold’ Western habitus. Both techniques of painting/toning tie truthmaking to artmaking, by reco­ vering the eros of distance that Benjamin thought was lost forever with the advent of mechanical reproduction. Where chiaroscuro allows illuminations pleasing to the eye7 sfumato retains an exotic indeterminacy and vagueness.8 Hence, one may say that Stefanos’ artwork engages in a battle with the ‘globe’ and the ‘map’, which adheres to a mathematical vision of space – but perhaps this is a battle he should not win, as he needs to orient his audiences from without. He takes an extra step, by tying the two lighting techniques to new technologies of reproduction, which now allegedly produce unique works of art in both material and phenomenal ways (Simmel, 1997a, pp. 44–45). Claiming that the unique nature of his work is preserved in limited edition metal pints (Huffpost Greece, 11 October 2018), which bear a watermark, are personally inspected and signed by himself and are indestructible, he trades the hat of the artist for that of the mercator, the cosmetic merchant who fabricates images for the capitalist world in which he is thrown. ‘No papers, adhesives or other materials are used. The printing is transferred directly onto the surface of the aluminium, so it is not affected by environmental conditions, such as heat or moisture’ (Greece Underwater – On a Single Breath by Stefanos Kontos, p. 41). The discourse of authenticity returns now to validate a ‘product’ that was born out of its maker’s heart.

Conclusion Towards the end of this reading, it becomes more obvious that, although endowed with the flesh of atmospheric tonality, the textures of technique and the mechanics of technology, the supporting backbone of Stefanos’ project is the performative ambivalence defining his search for identity and belonging. To also draw a meaningful conclusion for tourism studies scholars, although

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the map-making merchant is a mobile subject who does not wear his heart or identity on his sleeves, (s)he still searches for belonging, by trading ideas of homeland, citizenship and identity for those of subjectivity, like a pilgrim (Geertsema, 2018, p. 189; Bauman, 1996b). Phenomenal affiliations of art as an alternative lifestyle with freediving point to their shared ‘experiential anarchy’, which is professionally ordered and controlled, but totally unregu­ lated during its successive craftsmomentums of ‘living’ the deep blue world. We are left with a paradoxical social formation: on the one hand, the freediving community’s ‘leader’ preserves aesthetic traces from the culture in which he was born and grew up; on the other, both he and the community’s lifestyle choices and behaviours (on which, see Huffpost Greece, 11 October 2018) defy some basic lawful predicates on social belonging, which ‘simply cannot be negotiated by relying on internalized institutional routines’ (Lyng, 1990, p. 875). Although this belonging follows, up to a point, what Marangudakis (2019, pp. 62–77) associates in Greek culture with a move from ‘amoral familism’ (the prioritisation of family interests over all collective interests) to anarchic indivi­ dualism, it parts ways with it in its dialogic connection to other cultural lifestyles as a form of cosmopolitan openness. Again, I reserve further comments on this for Reading three. Priority here should be placed on the communication of such community lifestyles to the world – the ways the ‘On a Single Breath’ disciples are implicated in the game of self-representation and belonging. Let us dig a bit digger into the ways this lifestyle is projected in the secondness of self-recording. The second reading is as revelatory about the conundrum of ‘demediating med­ iation’ (Strain, 2003, p. 3) – the romantic pursuit of authenticity and immediacy by technology, which rejects its presence in its apprehension – as the third, but far more autonomous from the demands of systemic memory.

Notes 1 See Benjamin’s ([1936] 1969, pp. 1–2) notion of ‘aesthetic politicisation’ as the par­ tition of lifeworld experience in domains of mundane transactional activity, such as markets. 2 See Bourdieu’s (1996) conception of distinction with regards to art-reading as sym­ metrical to artmaking. 3 For example, Archer (2000, pp. 119–120) discusses this in relation to the indivi­ dual’s morphogenetic approach. 4 See also Axia News, 6–7 October 2018, on the uses of light in the staging. 5 This would involve, for example, arranging seascapes in image-narratives. 6 This would also match Roh’s ([1925] 1995, p. 27) celebration of post-expressionist miniature form that ‘takes inspiration from a special way of intuiting the world’ (emphasis in the text). 7 This is what Simmel (1997b, p. 209) associates with the pleasure of personal bodily adornment, which connects appearance to a public sphere of atmospheric irradiation. 8 This is what Edward Said (1978, pp. 70, 86) associates with practices of orientalist attributions of ornamentalism to non-European subjects and cultures.

Reading two

Thanatourism and communitymaking

Breathing life and death through technology The first reading focused on Stefanos’ vision of the Underwater Gallery as a form of art and a craft of communicating with nature. It also explored how the perceived immediacy of such communications is a shared value in the freediving community that he claims to lead. The present reading extends the analysis to examine what this sharing entails, how it is performed, and above all, how it is practically communicated to others. As I already explained, sharing in values is constitutive of the act of membership-claiming. I also argued that the craftsmomentum as the realisation of embodied and artistic skills plays an important role in the development of such claims to belong. Two issues follow on from this: first, according to Stefanos’ admission, valuesharing in a freediving community may involve learning techniques to com­ petently navigate seaworlds and encapsulate them photographically. These forms of learning seem to be overdetermined by a desire to experience plea­ sure while perfecting forms of play with the natural elements, which may or may not have an end (e.g. environmental protection). Second, in today’s glo­ balised spaces of communication, especially in more developed countries, such a membership is often actualised with the use of new technologies. Not only do new technological spaces encapsulate natural atmospheres, they may also modify or create them in various ways. Such re-presentations (Vor­ stellungen) or modifications complete in new technologies such as that of video-making, what commenced centuries ago with photography: they turn individuals and their consociates into both subjects and objects of the gaze of knowledge (Danston and Galison, 2007; Garlick, 2009). In freediving ludic consociates are bodies in motion, but also carriers of ludic atmospheres. Their atmospheric halo is never fully trapped in visual fields, where all that is left of it, circulates in material tokens of memories mediated by technologies.1 This prompts us to consider how the introduction of technology in atmospheric production matches Roh’s ([1925] 1995) original magical realist focus on accurate detail and seamless photographic clarity in art. The first change new technologies introduce is an emphasis on their

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shared creative content, including in our context short audio-visual narratives of freediving explorations, often made by freedivers themselves. The filtering of magical reality through digital technologies differentiates the firstness of the act of freediving from the secondness of its perception, which can also be displaced now from the maker of digital stories to its spectator as a thirdness. Naturally, one must ascertain what kind of magical realism we encounter in vimeo sites, if viewing and making them still involves happenings, in which highly realist settings are invaded by ‘something too strange to believe’ (Strecher, 1999, p. 267), and if this has any social scientific relevance at all. I answer positively to all three questions. On the second question, I point out that reality is invaded by a sort of hallucinogenic contagion we associate with the realist magics of mesmerism (see previous reading). All viewers are introduced to an almost otherworldly activity, a ‘travel in paradox’ (Minca and Oakes, 2006) that is intended mostly for global freediving communities moving in Western modernity. On the first question, I answer that this strangeness begins to communicate with notions of alien-ness from migration contexts, or strangerhood in Simmel’s definition of existential alienation in urban settings. This means that we have to leave Roh’s artistic musings behind and move toward the kind of meaning-produc­ tion that we find in magical realist cinema.2 This cinema is steeped in postcolonial ‘colouring’ (Bowers, 2004, pp. 109–111) – a reference to the racialised and gendered politics of belonging that stay submerged or con­ cealed in freediving representations, because freedivers are supposed to belong to a privileged social class of Western leisure. This concealment is based on a misconception of mesmerism and a misrecognition of such digital produc­ tions of freediving as solely leisurely activities3. These representations also turn the freediver’s ‘play’ into satisfactory work, which is communicated to others through ‘baroque’ audio-visual rhythms. I use the term ‘baroque’ in Alejo Carpentier’s ([1975] 1995, p. 93) postcolonial magical realist tradition, to denote a ‘constant of the human spirit’ characterised by both the horror of a vacuum, the naked surface and the harmony of linear geometry, and a style of mobility in which the central axis of the movement is surrounded by ‘what one may call “proliferating nuclei” … motifs that contain their own expansive energy, that launch or project forms centrifugally’ (ibid., emphasis mine). This echoes Cohen’s (1996) understanding of tourist phenomenology as a centrifugal act but, more cru­ cially, provides a reading (my reading) of Hardt and Negri’s (2000, 2004) conditions of contemporary imperial formations of capitalism and the transformative role of the multitude in them. Specifically, I wish to grant dia­ chronic interpretative depth to Hardt and Negri’s thesis that, although it does not replicate a supposed autopoesis of the colonial condition in contemporary contexts (e.g. ‘cultural imperialism’) (Castro-Gómez, 2007; Mignolo, 2009, 2011), it registers echoes of it in contemporary collective action. This also answers the third question, by highlighting how the freediving community is a

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multitude of sorts, a ‘nucleus’ with centrifugal tendencies (its identity does not stem from, adhere to a nation-state or is exclusively defined by capitalism). The underlining philosophy of this nucleus is ‘conviviality’ (Gilroy, 2004), a cultural politics of tolerance and coexistence with others beyond symbolic and real borders in a creative space defining one’s identity. The nucleus’s ‘play’ in the vast field of global mobilities is now digitised, therefore placed in a new spatio-temporal perspective that removes bodily immediacy. Sontag ([1971] 2008, p. 24), who identifies in photographic images a longing for beauty, ‘an end to probing below the surface … a redemption and a celebration of the body of the world’ (emphasis mine), succinctly cap­ tures this audio-visualisation of experience. One of the primary actants in such freediving consociations is the camera, which has served across indus­ trialised territories in Europe, the Americas and beyond, as both a ‘rite of family life’ and technology entangled with tourist activities (Sontag, [1971] 2008, pp. 8–10; Haldrup and Larsen, 2003). In terms of preserving the nucleus or multitude, any non-representational work has to conclude with iconic community-building, in which all freediving individuals participate, in spite of the prevalence of individualism in contemporary capitalist environ­ ments. Indeed, it is impossible to examine this phenomenon in digital envir­ onments, by resorting to conventional understandings of Greek ‘anarchic individualism’, as the evolution of amoral familism in recent decades. Resorting to an analysis of these individualistic tendencies only in relation to the development of a narcissistic (consumer, producer a-political) ego (e.g. Marangudakis, 2019, p. 62–63), may also be inaccurate, if one focuses exclu­ sively on Stefanos and his Greek peers. On the other hand, to speak of ‘transgression’ in digital environments, a popular culture scholar may be inclined to discard half a century of traditional ethnographies of closed Greek communities – something I will not do, as there are useful observations to adapt to contemporary conditions of mobility and belonging from this lit­ erature. The need to adapt will become obvious in later readings; suffice it to mention here that traditional ethnographers' weakness relates to their use of methodological tools that are woefully out of date, when reflecting on con­ temporary communicative styles. To define the freediving community’s exploratory style online, one may recall the multi-layered notion of the alítis, which is directly linked to that of the explorer. At stake here is the relationship of both concepts/praxes to artistic romanticisations of death in thanatourism. Nature’s objective intensity may be ‘unutterable’ to remember Stefanos, who echoes Adorno (1970, p. 92), but its domination in modern societies activates processes of re-enchantment, which produce static images of it (Stone A., 2006, p. 237). The production of these ‘afterimages of magic’, Adorno (1970, p. 24) contends, are found in tourist advertising and uncritical art imitating nature by actually killing its object. We deal with a form of colonisation of the imagination, according to critical theorists (Nederveen Pieterse and Parekh, 1995), which is produced

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and reproduced in the promotional gaze of tourist advertising. Nevertheless, it is questionable whether freediving vimeos fulfil this function. As records of experiential travel, they instantiate this travel as a community rite, therefore also producing a creative/activist gaze of movement. Lest I confuse, by ‘acti­ vism’ I refer to the non-instrumental role of bodily movement in the envir­ onment, as well as the recording of this movement as part of the craftsmomentum. Joas ([1996] 2005, pp. 167–184) cautions us that the major sociological and philosophic-anthropological projects such as those of Nor­ bert Elias and Michel Foucault focused on the historical genesis of an instrumentalist relationship to our body. The adoption of this perspective in the social sciences has led to an exclusion of receptivity, imperturbance or even sensitivity from understandings and definitions of ‘activism’. As Seaton (1996) notes, thanatourism dates back to Grand Tourist motiva­ tions and the European colonisation of the world. Bauman’s (1996) distinction between Southern ‘vagabonds’ and Northern ‘tourists’ ascribes to such ideal types the specifics of class and status (e.g. destitute migrants versus rich pro­ fessionals). However, the tendency to universalise Western or gendered ‘types’ in Baumanesque theorisation is less acknowledged. It is telling that Bauman’s thesis is rooted in socio-linguistic traces of Europeanised ‘Greek’ antiquity: the term comes from the Latin vagere, a derivative of which is ‘vague’, an attribute stereotypically associated with ethnic and feminine difference. The stereotype appeals to conceptions of wandering the world without a cause and failing to articulate clearly one’s ‘worldmaking’ potentialities. Within the European parameters of articulation, vagabonds are the negative image of Hellenic alítes (aláomai = to wander), the peripatetic strangers who endeavour to satisfy their theoretical (theoría=God’s view) needs (Vardiabasis, 2002). The scopic notion of theoría that we find in Heidegger’s (2013) epistemic analysis of art, shunts aside the ontological/experiential dimensions of the vagabond’s journey. In (Europeanised) Plato’s Kratylos the alítis roams the world looking for the Truth – a futile exercise, given that ‘truth’ is in the eye of the beholder. Viewed through Bauman’s typology, today’s privileged professionals in cultural indus­ tries are anomic alítes, ego-enhancing (Dann’s [1977] tourists) theoreticians who conceptualise the world via a camera-like mourning vision. Though seemingly disembodied, the mobile alítis/ alítisa of communally produced vimeos recalls the pre-photographic era of what Barthes (1981, pp. 12–13) calls ‘heautoscopy’,4 which is at least comparable to hallucination. Foucault ([1966] 1989, p. 312) would complete this observation by adding that the photographic immortalisation of natural history made life visible as a form of organism, placing humans to an ambiguous position ‘as an object of knowledge and as a subject that knows’. This way the visible moved from the timeless order of the camera within the unstable physiology and temporality of the perishable human body (Crary, 1990, p. 70). Following Barthes’ and Foucault’s reasoning, we may even reduce the communal vimeo-selfies to the eidetic function of photography as a form of death that breathes life as a

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communal bios. Roelofsen and Minca (2018) suggest that digital data assem­ blages in Airbnb networks control interactions by exposing bodies to prac­ tices of observation and comparison. In more amiable terms, Germann Molz (2014) sees in such practices new forms of trust-building as ‘collaborative surveillance’. Both perspectives emphasise epistemologies of discipline, which may be less amenable to experiences of hospitality and belonging than their proponents suggest. There is always a hidden ‘dataveillance’ (Lupton and Michael, 2017) or ‘data gaze’ (Beer, 2018) epistemological subtext in such perspectives, which, ultimately, affects the ontological outcomes of the actual interactions. Unlike such arrangements, the magical-realist eye of vimeo­ making freediver attempts to establish a network of sympathetic enchantment that does not focus on individual bodies in the deep, but a posthuman land­ scape of movement and harmony. Selfies articulate a ‘social media pilgrimage’ during actual travel, producing a specific set of behaviours which are related to internet usage and the online persona of the traveller (Couldry, 2003; Reijnders, 2010a, 2010b, 2011; Magasic, 2016). Not only does selfie-taking direct the gaze of the traveller, it frames tourist destinations during self-performance in a pervasively sharing digital culture (Germann Molz, 2013, 2014; Dinholp and Gretzel, 2016; Hopkins and Higham, 2018). As documents of communal play, vimeo-selfies structure and set in motion an adventure, in that they exert advenience upon their makers and their global peers (Barthes, 1981, p. 19), making, remaking and demaking their world at different times and in different contexts with remarkable ease. As tokens of a mobile networked society in which socialising, and mediat­ ing are conducted through distant screens (Larsen et al., 2006; Larsen and Sandbye, 2014) their ‘wandering’ quality communicates the logic of travel – a worldmaking activity par excellence (Hollinshead and Suleman, 2018, pp. 202– 203). Their function is to generate a conceptual space, which is created by the merging of borders between physical and digital spaces ‘built by the connection of mobility and communication and materialised by social networks that develop simultaneously in physical and digital spaces’ (de Souza e Silva, 2006, p. 265; Larsen, 2008, p. 150; Germann Molz, 2012, p. 71). Buck-Morss (1992) and Gilroy (2004) might have viewed such ‘mourning’ techniques with suspicion for their potentiallly anaesthetic and nostalgic overtones respectively. The verdict would be that such activities sanction lack of interest in the commons in favour of athletic pursuits or are rife with para­ nationalistic glorifications of nature as homeland. However, it is injudicious to launch such an attack before exploring what we really deal with in more detail. In Latour’s (2011) words, first we should ask what images – and I would add the accompanying actions of their makers – really want from us. The next two parts of the reading inspect digital recordings of communal performances of Stefanos’ gallery-staging team and other close peers and friends. I divide them into performances unfolding underwater (Part I) and on land (Part II): the island of Amorgos and elsewhere in Greece.

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PART I Immersed in the deep: anarchic and romantic hallucinations The vimeos I discuss in this part include recordings of the Gallery’s staging in 2018 and other explorations in Greece. The primary connection between photography and vimeo-making is found in their shared eidetic nature as expressions of (be)longing. This refers not to participations in a nationalistic project, but a hidden desire (‘longing’) to replace the metaphor of the mechanical, ‘non-evolving clock’ of audio-visual technologies with the freedivers’ key value of living freely in nature: the metaphor of the evolving organism, which stands for the biocentric concept of organic nature (Opper, 1993, p. 35; Garlick, 2009, pp. 99f.). Further down the line of analysis we will find a crypto-romantic element in this expression, which can be easily con­ nected to the Romantic spirit of consumerism (Campbell, 2005), if we pursue a straightforward realist approach. However, here I remain in the magical realist plain of a ‘heightened reality’ that in postcolonial terms expresses ‘the seemingly opposed perspectives of a pragmatic, practical and tangible approach to reality and an acceptance of magic and superstition’ with an environment of differing cultures (Bowers, 2004:, pp. 2–3). Of course, this acceptance also has positive pragmatic consequences for community-building (‘belonging’): without this agreement there would be no community in the first place. On the magical realist plane (my first field – see Introduction), it allows (be)longing to ‘seize the mystery that breathes behind things’ (Leal, [1967] 1995, p. 121) with the help of audio-visual technologies. By this I mean that vimeos of freediving explorations communicate to freediving spectators, or larger audiences, atmospheres of the ‘limit state’ (estado limite), in which they are shaped through the accentuation of, or focus on particular natural colours in the sea environment and the use of music that further heightens the feelings of magic (Simmel, 1997e, p. 115). A vimeo filmed by Stefanos (7 December 2018) records freediver John Volakakis descending into a chthonic cave, which is coloured in various earthly tones of brown, green, grey and black but also by a ‘total of 100.000 lumens light power from 8 light sources positioned in a way that would out­ line the cave walls’ (ibid., emphasis mine). The bubbles from his movement attack the camera and dissolve in natural sparkles, as if they were produced by the wand of a wizard. ‘Space, the final frontier’, is posted on the Vimeo’s weblink. Underwater and Underground at the same time. Underwater caves pre­ sent the ultimate setting for exploration and “out-of-this-world” experi­ ences. In the dark of night and entering undersea caves, all sense of direction and position can be easily lost and confused. (Ibid.)

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The visual stylistics of chiaroscuro-with-sfumato persist, as the camera’s light adumbrates the diver’s body and only hints at the specifics of the surrounding environment. If indeed this vimeo is seen as an ‘extension’ of Stefanos’ art­ work, then we, the spectators, are offered ‘glimpses’ into the totality of life as recorded close to death. Such thanatourist journeys into the big unknown reveal what Simmel saw in art’s advantage over philosophy: ‘it sets itself a single, narrowly defined problem every time: a person, a landscape, a mood. Every extension of one of these to the general, very addition of bold touches of feeling for the world is made to appear an enrichment, a gift, an unde­ served benefit’ (Simmel, quoted in Frisby, 1992, p. 111). However, there are texts accompanying vimeos to relay this dynamism. These are specimen of the essayist cult: their fragmentary style encapsulates the need to slow down and contemplate amid the mobile chaos of late mod­ ernity. To adapt Lukács’ (Simmel, 1971, p. 17) observations, being neither wholesome like a scientific report, nor just impressionistic like a disinterested flânerie, these texts can bring to life and inspect a ‘precious’ (in Stefanos’ words) selection of these fragments. We must be careful here: unlike Beer (2014), who celebrates the cult of blogging as a form of sociological analysis that can be adopted even by students, I consider the freedivers’ digital essayism as a form of primary resource. The difference in this is that I recognise fundamental functional dissimilarities between sociological analysis and blogging, which may feed into, or unconsciously reproduce populist agendas (a theme of the following reading). I argue that vimeo captions are not against systematisation as such but seek to illuminate novel or different sets of combinations of materiality and experience from those we find in organised articles and books that we may treat as primary data (also Adorno, quoted in Frisby, 1992, pp. 71–72). Their quality of ‘intimacy’ does not connect to a sense of proximity or embodied sharing as such,5 but to a dialogue transferred onto a digital text as more-than-extension of experience. Much like the eth­ nographic writing of the sociological explorer, these texts combine intimacy with estrangement to a novel ‘fieldnote’ genre on meta-experience (Errington, 2011, pp. 36–37). Texts with audio-vision produce complete narratives, but not always as their maker might have intended. The cameraman’s eye is more defining of what one sees than Stefanos would admit: in interviews he compared the deep with ‘another planet, without gravity and with different rules regarding light and colours. It is the closest to a fairy-place in which a human being acquires magical abilities and can fly’ (Konstantinidou, 2 March 2019, translated from Greek). The idea that in the sea, ‘you have a pervasive feeling that you are in [outer] space’ (Novak, 28 September 2018) connects Stefanos’ magical realism to science fiction, a film genre that debates a question central to the human sciences: what it means to be human (Smith, 2007). Stefanos does not com­ ment on the clash between his re-humanising – even if partial – vision with science fiction’s rational/physical explanations of unusual occurrences, which

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we associate with Aldous Huxley’s imperialist project of social-scientific clas­ sification of ‘human types’ in photographs (Edwards, 2001, p. 44–45). How­ ever, if we remember that Huxley’s Brave New World depicts a world in which populations are controlled by the government with mood-enhancing drugs (Bowers, 2004, pp. 29–30), we find a structural connection between them in realisations of the magical-realist type of the alítis. The key difference between the two hallucinatory visions is that, where science fiction’s reality stems from an unrecognisable present to relay possibilities for the future, the vimeos’ realist setting (the cave and the seaworld) is embedded in recognisable ones from any past or present human experience. Nothing extraordinary happens during John’s descend in the cave, yet the movement of his body through narrow cavities and his torch’s illuminations of passages does more than define his ‘kinesphere’. By this I refer to John’s per­ sonal space, ‘the sphere around the body whose periphery is reached at all limbs’ length, with the rest of space outside it figuring as not our personal world’ (Laban, [1966] 2011, p. 10, p. 29). The underwater kinesphere is pro­ moted to a mediatised sphere of play: it substitutes the embodied and soma­ tosensory basis (Patterson, 2007; Paterson, 2009; Obrador, 2016) on the ‘World Wide Web’, which is discursively framed by sublimation (John’s tha­ natourism). The viewer of the vimeo is made aware of the act’s organised but naturalised ‘dance’ that produces a living architecture ‘in the sense of chan­ ging emplacements as well as changing cohesion’ (ibid., p. 5). The organised/ naturalised dance forms a master metaphor in the spectacle, because it places the freediver into a social rather than biological/natural circle (à la Huxley), which resembles the chorus of ancient Greek tragedies singing the same song in harmony. Urban scholar Ole Jensen (2014, p. 50) reframed Laban’s concept of ‘ballet’ ([1966] 2011, p. 30) to consider the language of embodied microinteractions in the ‘dynamosphere’ or sphere of social action, effectively introducing the emergence of the ephemeral local beyond fixed neighbour­ hoods. The vimeo has such a dynamic power to bond humans as more-than bodies, social beings claiming a sort of aesthetic natality. In terms of stylistics, this aesthetics of (be)longing borrows from an emo­ tional music trailer by Really Slow Motion, a music company founded by composer and sound designer Agus Gonzalez-Lancharro. The composition’s philosophy echoes Stefanos’ belief that time ceases to exist underwater – nota­ bly, Gonzalez-Lancharro based the company’s name on the idea that ‘really slow-motion footage is so beautiful, you can observe every single detail in a very cinematic way that you wouldn’t normally spot in regular motion’ (Lebrun, 25 February 2013). There is a structural-functional affinity between Baudelaire’s urban connoisseur of empathy, the flâneur, who is drawn to the city’s dark corners (Benjamin, 1983, p. 62), and the ludic cameraman, who is drawn to their journey’s bright ones: whereas the former is clearly adept to the joys of watching and the latter keen to turn a ‘dark’ inner into a bright outer world by virtue of resemblance, both apprehend ‘unofficial realities behind the

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façade of … life’ (Sontag, [1971] 2008, p. 156). We could associate such slow­ ness with slow tourism, a commercialised niche and activity bridging the nor­ mative gap between tourism and travel, generated by injudicious elitist discourse on what constitutes ‘authentic experience’ (Fullagar et al., 2012). It has been repeatedly argued that capitalist organisations of time intro­ duce instrumentalism in the ways we use various technologies (Sewell, 2008). The recorded underwater journeys reject this goal-orientated, linear time, introducing in it its stead a magical merger between bodily underwater movement (fish-like strides) and the quintessential symbol of slow travel: the spiral motif (Guiver and McGrath, 2016, p. 13). Much like slow travel, freediving begins to represent in vimeos a circular and more abundant vision of time, which allows us to exercise our freedom (Germann Molz, 2009). What Stefanos alone cannot fully articulate in his description of artistic freediving pursuits, begins to be articulated in the journeys of peers, which, his recording, transforms into a magical realist pilgrimage (Howard, 2012).6 The camera enables a ‘transcendental leap’ that unfolds different strata of understanding the freedivers’ movement-as-action (Dobson, 2012; Pratt, 2014), shaping the form and meaning of the activity as an expression of human freedom (Archer, 2000). At the same time, there is a combination in such audio-visualisations of mobility between Roh’s attention to detail and science fiction’s propensity to analyse reality in a clinical manner. The music company’s first release, ‘Cos­ mogony’, claimed to do just that in its analysis of any sentient being ‘coming to existence [ibid.]. However, any such music insertions in a documentarystyle shooting cancel, according to the proponents of cinema verité the immediacy of reality by introducing a diegetic element in the form of music (Rogers, 2015, pp. 2–3). Close to this documentary stylistics is the conclusion of several videos/vimeos of the team with the presentation of its brand (‘On a Single Breath’) on the screen. This is coupled with sounds of deep breathing, a natural occurrence in the environment that relays the realist magics of the sea itself. Such natural diegetics occur at the beginning and/or end of a doc­ umentary (Birdsall, 2015, p. 35), ‘signposting’ the real coordinates of percep­ tion (Leonard and Strachan, 2015, p. 175) in a style that mirrors the function of material tourist markers (MacCannell, [1976], 1989). Such dance-like movements in the deep also connect metaphorically per­ ishable spectacles, such as that of a shipwreck (Kontos, 31 December 2018), to the mortality of human subjects. Viewing these techniques from outside, rather than within the communal experience connects their atmospherics to practices of performative stilling. Stilling modifies the perception of (im) mobility: everything goes slower underwater and occasionally completely still, like time, even though the freedivers’ bodies work overtime underwater. Excessive light will whiten freedivers like the busts of the ancient totemic theatre and the painted faces of the Chinese theatre, or the rice-paste makeup of the Indian Katha-Kali performances, so that their bodies transform into

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cosmic actors without specific human identity (Barthes, 1981). Excessive sha­ dowing will conceal lines and curves and exaggerate the spatialisation of the ‘uncanny’ we find in shadow theatre. Simultaneously, shadowing will allow for the rebirth of the freediver as a magical realist type that not only explores, but also stages worlds: an aethereal Homo Faber. The finitude of the human next to a shipwreck is both embodied and symbolically condensed in the freedivers, who traverse the deep on a single breath (Badiou, 2013, pp. 58–59). Where mortality dominates everything, viewers are ‘mesmerised’ by the freedivers’ corporal rhythm: watch, for example, Theodora, a skilled female freediver circling the boat’s carcass with another three peers in the ‘Skindive’, projecting in this gloomy atmosphere of mortality a life-affirming message. This ‘necromobile’ effect (Sebro, 2016, p. 103), which debates the human condition at large (humans move towards their own death irreversibly), is matched with a dynamic musical piece, which intensifies the feeling of dread – for, the journey into narrow crevasses and ship holes is anything but straightforward when you do not breathe. Stefanos frames the vimeo with the following comment on music: I was working on this clip but could not find the music that would satisfy me, until I discovered this piece, “Through the Darkness”, by Mark John Petrie. In some ways it reminded me of the “Raise The Titanic” Sound­ track Suite by John Barry but with a darker feel to it. Track: Through the Darkness Composer: Mark John Petrie Album: Ascendance (2018) (Kontos, 31 December 2018) Although an analysis of cinematic intertextuality falls beyond the scope of this study, it is worth noting that Stefanos refers to the original motion pic­ ture soundtrack of the film (1980), which was composed by Barry and per­ formed by the City of Prague Philharmonic. Of more relevance is to stress the emphasis on ‘darkness’ as a stylistic expression of human finitude – an emphasis accentuated in the New Zealand composer’s crescendo in the trail. In Stefanos’ synthaesthetic darkness there is no clash between what Scheler (1973) calls ‘vital feelings’ (localised bodily emotions) and ‘spiritual’ ones (fear or awe of death), on the contrary, the fleeting (of musical tonality) and the permanent (death-mood) are orchestrated in a narrative of being human. This orchestration also allows for the emergence of a sympathetic, interhuman affect to grow – what Krebs (2011, 2015) calls ‘collective atmo­ spheres’. Vimeo viewers enjoy the safety of being alive while looking at an event that stresses human finitude. We could go on analysing such vimeos, but it is preferable to highlight the freediving team’s propensity to refract freediving performances through a soundscape transcending the natural environment and enhancing or heigh­ tening its reality through the diegetic music of mourning, death but also

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celebration of life. Stefanos in particular connected this refraction to the Underwater Gallery’s visit by Big Blue French music composer Eric Serra – a film pivotal to the foundation of freediving communities globally. ‘When a man who has inspired you with his work praises your dream’, Stefanos says, ‘well, I do not need to ask for more. My aim is to create an experience through which I project … art, civilisation, athleticism, ecology but also the numerous beauties of Greece’ (Konstantinidou, 2 March 2019). We may say that the explorer’s liberating embodied performance and non-representa­ tional art come together under the event’s musical articulation. One can imagine the alítis/explorer as a disciple of the musical arts, which can relay more-than images and generate emotions of craving and desire for experi­ encing freedom in creativity. Muse, from Μούσα, originates in μάειν, which refers to seeking, craving or inventing, in the tradition of the alítis (Hui­ zinga, [1949] 2016, p. 159). I steer away from Aristotelian and Platonic admonitions on art as mere pastime for children (paideía: παιδεία), or its antithesis in diagoge- (διαγ­ ωγή) – that is, ‘art for art’s sake’ or aesthetic preoccupation befit for free men in the polis respectively. An alítis/ alítissa’s journey is made possible through their body’s transgression of itself, so that they ‘open up’ to an ecstatic moment of hope: much like the participant of the Brazilian carnival (Lan­ caster and Leonardo, 1997, p. 368; Igrek, 2018, pp. 248–250, 252), the alítis/ alítissa is a subject that has to live in time out of time.7 Within these liminal spatio-temporal coordinates of existence, they can restore the lost value of freedom by relinquishing this freedom: letting go of life’s order and purpose for a while so that they feel the environment to which they belong as an organism (Gibson, 1979). It is in this respect that we cannot dismiss the moment of ecstasy or delirium – an essential component of the craftsmo­ mentum – as apolitical, due to its alleged metaphysical inaccessibility (Igrek, 2018, p. 253). What cannot be communicated in the firstness of freediving is wedded to community-making hermeneutics in its audio-visual projections as shared experience. By the same token, posting vimeos online should not lead sociologists to critique the Internet as an artefact partaking in the dehuma­ nisation of interaction (e.g. Bauman, 2007), but an activity that feeds into the ‘mechanism’ of the World Wide Web as a true social structure of commu­ nication (Pratt, 2014; Tzanelli, 2015). This structure makes and unmakes mobile communities in the same way organised tourism systems produce tourism and tourist groups (e.g. Hollinshead, 2002, 2009a). Another implication of this observation is that Lyng’s conception of ‘edgework’ as an athletic mechanism of self-making cannot fully encapsulate the experience of this team. We could alternatively develop in this reading a modification of ‘thanatourism’ through Simmel’s work on landscape for now, which Reading three will question for its European roots. Simmel’s inspiration from Goethe (‘Is not the core of nature already inside the heart of human kind?’ Simmel asks, [1913] 2007, p. 20), rather than Kant, led to an analysis

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of landscape with regards to the place of Bild or image in Western European modernity. With roots in the verb schaffen, Landschaft became for Simmel an image or depiction indicating a creative achievement. The artist’s own spirit (Geist) and vitality (Lebendigkeit) ‘encounter a pre-formed object, so to speak, whose own inherent spirit and vitality stimulate, delimit and direct the artistic process’ (ibid., p. 21). The freediver’s performance of death on the lens defines and is defined by the environmental (the sea’s conditions that cannot sustain breathing humans) and atmospheric potential (it is Greek space with a social, cultural and political biography exceeding that of its freediving guests). The camera relays those explorers’ thanatouring as an encounter with the other of nature, death, so that it communicates values through the emotions it generates (Korstanje, 2013, 2016). Listen to what Stefanos has to say about connections between knowing, valuing and doing, which recoup Scheler’s theory of emotions: Mortality defines the value of life. As human beings we will die some­ day … this is what gives our lives value. And I think this is the reason why when we do things that bring us close to this line where we feel that maybe our life is threatened … this actually creates this exhilaration that we feel even more alive when we do it. However, I think that there is a way to approach activities that have inherent risk with respect and with knowl­ edge, which means that there is a line that you must not cross … I can tell you that – speaking for all of them [the team of fellow freedivers] – the things we do may from the point of view of an observer, look very dan­ gerous, crazy, but we are in such control of what we do that we have vir­ tually eliminated this risk. We allow this perception of risk because it makes it more impressive for the observer, but it is not there. (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018, emphasis mine) In sum, the alleged ‘edgework’ is both an illusion (viewer-inducing halluci­ nation) staged for the benefit of an audience and the freediver’s way of coping with the inevitability of mortality. In fact, here Stefanos delivers a white lie, given that he repeatedly noted to others that the Gallery’s installation in the summer of 2018 took place with bad weather that made everything difficult (Karali, 26 September 2018; Novak, 28 September 2018). Nothing is more revealing about the ways pleasure is tied to states of arousal that determine instability than this admission in his other interviews. Despite his claim of risk elimination to me, the ‘pleasure principle’ in freediving is distinguished from calm and pleasant rest to shape within in condensed amounts of energy that are needed for a violent discharge (Bataille, 2018, p. 239). At the same time, the staged edgework appears in Stefanos’ observations to institute a boundary of perception, whereby the inside is that of action as performance and the outside is that of spectatorship or partaking emotionally in appreciations of European modernity’s thanatourist Landschaft. This

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combination is also reminiscent of secular and religious forms of pilgrimage that promote the hardship of ascesis (Adler, 2002). Adler’s conception of pilgrimage originates in understandings of purposeful spiritual training (asko- [ασκώ]: to exercise, train). Here this training is achieved in the form of a multi-sensory, embodied (freediving) or imaginative engagement with the audio-visual world as a semantic metaphor or ‘meta-movement’ (Coleman and Eade, 2004). In other words, thanatourism in vimeo-making and watching refer to a combination of mobilities with a degree of reflexivity as to their meaning, form and function on the audio-visual plane and not just ‘edgework’ stricto sensu. When this performance recedes further in the recorded background of a dive, it allows the freediving adventure to assume the quality of a dream. But, as Simmel notes, the notion of ‘dreamlike’ experience ‘is nothing but a memory, which is bound to the unified, con­ sistent life-process by fewer threads than are ordinary experiences’ (Simmel, 1919, pp. 1–2). This tertiary revision of experience endows the recorded adventure as a form of memory with the essence of digital artwork, because recording means ‘cut[ting] out a piece of the endlessly continuous sequences of perceived experience, detaching it from all connections with one side or the other, giving it a self-sufficient form as though defined and held together by an inner core’ (ibid., p. 2). Let us consider ‘Epic Blue’, a vista of a shipwreck hosting sealife of all sorts. The two filmed freedivers circle the rusty structure, extending their hands to touch big fish moving around it. Stefanos explains in a summary posted on vimeo, that we deal with the ‘magical moment … a point in freediving that you “cross-over”, you connect with the deep and the inha­ bitants of the underwater kingdom’. Breathless, the divers lose sense of time and depart on ‘an epic journey into the blue and into [themselves]’ (Kontos, 17 July 2018). This moment approximates Merleau-Ponty’s (1962) suggestion that our field of perception is organised in accordance with our being both towards and within the world, so movements anchor our per­ ception. Stefanos repeats this when he discusses his photographs, which ‘are produced by the very behaviour of this environment around me’ (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018). In such liquid environments the encountered objects are not apprehended by their geometrical shape, but the ways their forms ‘stand in a certain relation to their specific nature, and appeal to all other senses as well as sight’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1962, p. 267). Back (2012, p. 100) invokes filmmaker Kavassos’ admission that, while filming, he does not look through the lens, but points the camera ‘blindly’. By this he means that ‘reality’ is not governed by technologies, it forms a complex dialogue with the environment in which it operates (ibid., p. 104). For freedivers as cameramen/women the world is not trapped in an ocular field but expands is multisensory ways: they feel and taste, hear and see the world at once in various sensory combinations and overlaps, even while they record it technologically.

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Matched with another emotional piece by (‘Suns and Stars), the vimeo relays the atmospheric content of sublimation, which ‘confronts us with a tension between a celebration of the other and self-negation’ (Krebs, 2017, p. 1434). Historically, associations of sublimation with Christian decency worked in harmony with patriarchal systems to sideline the importance of sexual agency (Etcoff, 1999) in subjective conceptions of wellbeing, which encompass an agent’s holistic emotional state, but also their propensity to experience a variety of moods in different contexts (Haybron, 2008, p. 30). From this perspective, the maintenance of a juxtaposition between the ludic (which is the domain of the carnivalesque, profanity and play) and the sub­ lime (which is the domain of sacredness and heritage), intended to affirm the naturalness of deep structures (atmospheres of seriousness, comedy or absurdity), modulating human conduct in different socio-cultural fields (women and other races are ludic, carnivalesque and profane, therefore sui­ table to be entertaining objects). Articulations of humanity in relation to the sublime existed since at least the genesis of aesthetic theory in the West, in the writings of Baumgarten, but found their apogee in the critical theory of Adorno, who validated the notion of artistic authority as the only educated authenticity to trust. So, ‘while aesthetics as a theory of the work of art was substantially responsible for creating a canon of great or authentic works … the aesthetics of taste was much more concerned with aesthetic education, that is, the development of aesthetic competences’ (Böhme, 2017, p. 55). Such meta-sublime atmospheres of ‘education’ depend on contingent (ad hoc) orchestrations of at least three dynamic groups in the aquatic kinesphere: first, we have inanimate materials and structures (e.g. architectural and nat­ ural surroundings, sporting, swimming and camera equipment); second, we have ethereal/intangible media (e.g. light, undercurrents, water and the sen­ sory reactions these induce), and third other ludic consociates (e.g. freediving peers). However, one wonders where gendered and racial categories fit in this case. It seems that in a convivial environment of freediving, they may be replaced by (young) age and bodily fitness, which modulate membership in such communities. This also explains in a more sociological fashion why the here and now matters so much in narratives of freediving, as well as why it recurs in the ways the playful style of freediving activity is audio-visually communicated to audiences. The carefree style of ‘play’ emphasises another the camera eye’s incurable romantic attachment to youth. If only the young and healthy were allowed to live their lives in its immediacy and without compromises - because old age comes with what Simmel calls ‘a historical mood’ that cancels the spirit of adventure (1919, p. 9). In this respect vimeos and Facebook presentations of freediving form windows to the formation of a young magical individuality (Wellman, 2001; Saxenian, 2006; Horst, 2009; Bullingham and Vasconcelos, 2013) and self-making – in Goffman’s (1959) language, ‘presentations of the self ’ in the age of networked cultures (see Miller [1995] for adaptations of Goffman in analyses of digital homepages).

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At the same time, the freedivers’ camera eye is equipped with a Nietzschean mood, which is essential for writing a strong ‘gospel of creative power’, an appeal to the daring genius of Vythós (sea bottom), ‘pouring delightful scorn on narrow-minded authorities and conventional opinions’ (Tönnies, 1887, p. 10, quoted in Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 66). The display of this anarchic tendency is significant. Where Goodman (1978) recognised worldmaking’s modus vivendi in artistic communities, Tön­ nies noted how free association could establish a form of community with progenitive qualities, ‘like artistic creation’ – provided that its members have ‘the right attitude’ that directs ‘all their efforts towards this goal’ (Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 68). Similar observations reappear in Simmel’s work on Nietzsche and Schopenhauer as Lebensphilosophie’s foundational thinkers: the clash between the rationalisation induced by modernity’s money culture and the individual’s need for creative development, he says, culminate in the ‘punc­ ture’ of form and its unmediated absorption (Simmel, 1997e, p. 77). An artistic adventure’s atmosphere is absolute presentness, ‘the sudden rearing of life-process to a point where both past and future are irrelevant’ and freedivers gamble their own life (Simmel, 1919, p. 10). The given context of decay, burial and death accompanying notions of human finitude, the human subject’s interpellation by ‘necropower’ (e.g. Mbembe, 2003), or the equally constricting possibility of biopolitical classification (e.g. Foucault, 1998), are annulled by the freediver’s willingness to come close to the edge. Given the admission that, even though freediving training seeks to safely eliminated risk from the ritual, the diver is always confronted with the possi­ bility of death, it may be more constructive to think of this encounter as a feeling of excess and exuberance for inviting near-death experiences and transgressing rational pursuit. The knowledge that risk-taking is potentially ‘safe’, but risk is never fully eliminated, pushes the human subject beyond the boundaries of knowledge in Foucault’s (1998, p. 25) terms. The very act of transgression activates rebirth, because moving between and betwixt bound­ aries of being and non-being negotiates their very existence. This renegotia­ tion can also involve everyday movements, which, for freedivers, have to do with novel arrangements of time (non-breathing), space (the underwater) and energy expenditure (Lefebvre, [1992] 2015, p. 15). There is no necrospace or necrotime in these negotiations, only an endless living blue environment in which the human feels ‘at home’. The homeliness of the living environment often detaches the explorer from his or her social identity altogether, allowing them to trade it for an intersubjective participation in the natural environment. ‘When we are there’, Stefanos says about collective freediving journeys, ‘we are connected even closer’ (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018). Teaming up underwater allows freedivers to develop a unique connection and a system of commu­ nication through signs and bodily movement. This system is voiceless and highly performative/embodied, like sign language for the deaf. Working in

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pairs in freediving trips and during the first staging of the Underwater Gallery (summer 2018), led freediving peers to the adoption of animalist metaphors in describing each other’s bodily movements and style. With Stefanos’ encour­ agement and organisation, the animalist metaphor became constitutive of this performance of underwater coupling and featured in captions accompanying several vimeos. However, unlike its unconscious formation (‘we move together well’, Stefanos says – ibid.), its digital representation is an intentional and deliberate action. As part of a performative repertoire (in Schechner’s [2003] terms), it both highlights the freediving stage’s uniqueness (the underwater world) and the theatricality of the freediving community’s social life as a whole. The staging team’s freediving aliases may be borrowed from the names of animal creatures (for a full list provided by Stefanos, see Axia News, 7 October 2018), but the intimate associations of particular freedivers underwater are intersubjective in a more humanist sense. Burber discusses this ecstatic com­ munication in terms of a dynamic relationship between two human beings. This relationship is characterised by such forced vitality that the separateness of the two communicators (what Burber calls ‘the I and the Thou’) is forgotten (Burber, [1937] 2004, p. 69). Even though on the representational plane of vimeo-making this dynamism is relayed through atmospheric colourations of the deep and the non-representational qualities of elegiac music, the vimeo’s watchers can only experience the formation of a stage, the theatre on which freedivers perform meaningful ‘dance-moves’. Nevertheless, this theatricality is also a threat for the community’s anarchist ideals.

PART II On land: conviviality in two frames From the outset, the staging of the Underwater Gallery had an implicit con­ nection to the spatialisation of theatre performance (Karabelas, 10 September 2018): the photographic exhibits’ amphitheatric arrangement in both caves, which also connected to the stylistics of an exhibition of similar photographs in 2015 by Stefanos (see Reading four), was matched by the ways the parti­ cipating members of the team organised themselves spatially to complete tasks underwater. Videos showing members of the artistic freediving team installing the artwork (ERT 1, 3 October 2018) relay a stressful atmosphere – for, how much time can a freediver spend doing this meticulous work before running out of oxygen? However, the stylistics of the staging behind sand and bubbles connect to those of a reputable ethno-national heritage: the Chinese shadow theatre. A staging practice that survived for millennia, the Chine shadow theatre has a distinctive phenomenology: with all its figurines coloured and almost translucent, a script unambiguously connected to popu­ lar shamanic rituals, a recognition of the ‘figure’ as a shapeless agent in the

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plot8 and a careful matching of roles to musical pieces, music and musical instruments, these theatrical performances were the earliest renditions of magical realism (Chen, 2007, pp. 5–9). The choreographed vimeos of the ‘On a Single Breath’ community and Stefanos’ staging of the Underwater Gallery, as well as the freedivers’ (recorded) tasks appeal to the principles of ‘panor­ ama theatre’ (Taussig, 1997, pp. 79–80). This means that the phenomenal aspects of the landscape in which these tasks and performances take place, form a core theme in the situations and narratives the vimeos convey – something, which makes them conducive to national myth-making. We should consider, then, the possibility that these vimeos are repurposed (with or without real consent), as digital modes of landscape museumification. Then we find ourselves just a few steps away from concerted institutional and organisational efforts to monetise national landscape heritage. Tourismification and museum display are two of the policies to which I will turn my attention in Reading three to examine such repurposing mechanisms. It has been argued that massive digital networks have allowed modern curators and users to create a construct of Shakespeare via digital platforms: an apparition of heritage that can easily move between and across organisational and popular cultural chan­ nels to consolidate visions of heritage and consumption practices. The digital ghost of heritage is the product of a massive Shakespeare network—the culmi­ nation of hundreds of years of history transposed to the digital sphere and focused through one character (Rosvally, 2017). One may argue the same about videos recording the installations of the Gallery: as tokens of a magical process that commenced centuries before Stefanos’ initiative through the nationalisa­ tion of Aegean seascapes, they recall Kahlo’s connection of pain, pleasure and death as revolutionary means that open a doorway to intelligence. Against the aforementioned observations, this intelligence is not existential but culturalpolitical, because it transforms a spiritual journey into dark tourism: a tertiary revision of image storing the memory of a whole nation (Stiegler, 2011). Here we must fast-forward to explain that the Underwater Gallery initia­ tive and the freediving vimeos of journeys in the underwater deep led to the team’s further explorations of Greek landscapes and aquatic formations, including lakes. These began to appear online, on Facebook, with more explicit connections to risk and adventure, a few months after the Underwater Gallery’s installation outside Amorgos (Into the Green, The Underworld Project, May 2019). The multiple hashtags’ reference to ‘adrenaline’, ‘risk’ and ‘adventure’ sidelined the spiritual dimensions of Stefanos’ earlier narra­ tives too. This change of ‘hashtag heart’ recalls sociological critiques of blindness to questions of gender and race in Lyng’s original conceptions of edgework: not only is emotional investment in risk-taking posited as a female and racialised trait associated with professions of caring for others (Lois, 2001, 2005; Laurendeau, 2008), personal physical risks are de facto gendered and racialised, with fear being a pervasively female issue (Gardner, 1995; Walklate, 1997; Chan and Rigakos, 2002; Lyng and Matthews, 2007).

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I will return to race and ethnic dimensions in risk-taking later. Although it is unwise to endorse essentialisations of gendered action (there are also very committed female freedivers), the ways Stefanos’ emotional discourse is progressively modified online through references to norm-free ‘adven­ ture’, align him with such essentialisations. There is also more emphasis on freediving competitions on the team’s project website, which were pre­ viously missing, and which introduce bravado in later postings. The new project, ‘Into the Green’, which was underway in the spring and summer of 2019, shifted emphasis to Greek thanatourist Landschaft proper, asserting Thomas Mann’s suggestion that the Western modernity of those who ‘tour the world’ makes them lovers of the abyss (Urry, 2004, pp. 213). In Bell and Lyall’s (2002, p. 36) words, this is indicative of our propensity to pro­ cess a sense of the accelerated sublime: nature provides a site in which tourists indulge their dreams of mastery over the earth. As for local tra­ vellers, such as Stefanos, they can be adventure heroes who star in their own movies, seeking ways to cheat death. It is as if the beauty of nature becomes terrible under the sign of our capitalist sublimation, while its guests enjoy an exploration into the dark. In Stefanos’ case, where ‘love of death’ informs landscape pilgrimage, it becomes a topophilic rite (Tuan, 1974). Such topophilias are rooted in the promotion of rural innocence to a lost ideal due to industrialisation and the rise of urban claustrophobias. In the present reading’s digital context, these topophilias feed the repositories of urban phantasmagorias, even when the city appears nowhere in their travails.9 This theme becomes more prevalent in Reading three, which steps outside the phenomenal terrains of the present reading’s digitopias and into the politics of media networks, as well as the poetics of national identity, before reintroducing phenomenologies of mobi­ lity. It is important to stress in advance that the love of topos is not far from the love of land – a move that does not stem from the freediving community’s or Stefanos’ pathic intentionality, but the (institutional and organisational) powers with which they have to coexist or even collaborate.10 Specifically, from the perspective of arbitrary uses of digital poesis in online presentations of the Underwater Gallery and vimeos of freedivers exploring the Greek deep’s treasures used by national or business institutions, we can recall Archer’s (1995, 1998) critical realist thesis on ‘morphogenesis’. This thesis allows us understand such online installations as ‘resources’ that enable a relationship between social structures/institutions and people/makers, with a note of caution: to understand the structuring of relationships (i.e. critical realism) is not identical to understanding the content of artefacts enabling these relationships or their maker’s vocational call (i.e. their magical realist nature). The tragedy of the alítes/alítisses’ near-metaphysical journeys outside the world of fully conscious doings is that their dreaming qualities can be co-opted and transformed into heritage iconicity precisely because of their ‘attentional substance’s’ vividness, which allows for the thanatic nature of

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heritage for public consumption by all generations (Haack, 1994, p. 19; Dymek, 2013, pp. 46–47). To use the chilling terminology of European nationalist functionalism that we associate with Anderson’s (2006, pp. 54–56) magnum opus, the cities’ recognition as sacred centres was used in the articu­ lation of ‘statescraft’ thanks to the ‘constant flow of pilgrims [read here: freedivers] moving towards them from remote and otherwise unrelated local­ ities’ (emphasis in original). If we replace the religious subtext of these observations with the aesthetic one, which guides today’s global transforma­ tions, in the hands of institutions, the freediving alítes/alítisses become a tool (‘resource’) to shape the world as an imperium, a nationally controlled tourist object or a globally networked mechanical reality. Vimeo-making can turn into a resource, whereby the technological death of the object gives way to the remaking of its moving subjects in biopolitical terms. This re-making happens on (home)land, not in the convivial anarchist deep blue. Evidently then, I slowly move from the magical realist coordinates of Stefanos’ earlier ruminations, to a different form of realist magics, which increasingly borrows from Archer’s (1995) thesis on the interplay between morphogenesis and morphostasis. Topophilia is a morphostatic (‘the fixity of form’) process to the extent it reasserts the homeliness and nation-ness of visited and filmed places. If placed in the current Greek ethno-populist con­ text, topophilia may yield a ‘postmodernised’ expressive-anarchic self that borrows both from religious prejudice and fictional national collectivism (e.g. Marangudakis, 2019, pp. 214–219). The previous section’s focus on the making of an alternative freediving community are an example of ‘morpho­ genesis’, because it considers the formation of this community on the world wide web as a web of post-national interactions (Pratt, 2014, p. 6). In this context, the binding force of the craftsmomentum defines technical activity as something undertaken ‘to harness the intrinsic powers of material artefacts in order to extend human capabilities’ (Lawson, 2008) and a sense of post-bio­ political conviviality (Illich, 1975, p. 26). My argument runs against techno­ phobic interpellations of digital labour in all its variations in the particular context that I explore.11 This biopolitics does not replicate the Foucaultian death of the subject, but breathes Arendtian life into them, making them members of a community (of) learning about the world (Simmel, 1978, pp. 66–67; Tzanelli, 2016a). Dewey ([1934] 1980, p. 35), who criticises the reduction of art to a com­ pensatory or ornamental role in everyday life under industrial labour condi­ tions, predates but agrees with Illich’s notion of ‘conviviality’ and Arendt’s view that ‘natality’ forms the basis of individuality and human happiness. There is a convivial feeling in the making these short videos, which can also be funny and playful at times: they produce collaborative images of a com­ munal experience (Franklin and Crang, 2001, p. 14). I hold true from Barthes’ reflections on the status and function of the image only his decision to grant it with the quality of adventure (Barthes, 1981, p. 20), a ‘lifelike’

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endeavour of photographs he attributes only to those ones that ‘speak to us’. To adjust these observations: as a form of ‘shared hallucination … a mad image, chafed by reality’ (ibid., p. 115), the moving image of vimeos is des­ tined to bring together two primary discontinuous elements (ibid., p. 23): flow, life and bodily immediacy vs. stasis, death and aethereal presence. This antithesis, which emulates the role of the border between things, nature and humans, is settled when photographs, like Stefanos’ exhibited collection, and filmmaking endeavours are connected as forms of ethno-national artmaking. Significantly, the new ‘Underworld Project’s’ teaser video suggests peculiar oscillations between morphogenesis and morphostasis: its participant freedivers are only male and playful with the natural elements on the scenic mountain location, in which a lake is situated (‘The Underworld’ Project, Production Teaser, April 2019). Often discussed in the spatialisation of particular playful activities (Crang, 2004) in relation to the liminoid (Cohen, 1985; Crick, 1985), the banal (Edensor, 2000) and the experientially authentic (Wang, 1999, 2000), conceptions of the ‘ludic’ appear in tourism theory focusing on extra-ordinary experiences borrowing from quotidian pursuits. Due to its association with play, embodied experience and recreation (from sports to sex activities), the ludic’s atmospheric core is open to processes of design by contemporary cultural industries (tourism) and the nation-state, which turn affective experiences of tourism into products that retain its mediation between subjects and objects (Böhme, 2017, p. 14). Simmel (1919, p. 8) sees in adventure the erotic as its quintessential form of life, with unique psychic qualities: a force that attracts and resides the centre of our being. However, this may also mean that clear inten­ tionality goes out of the window in ludic performances, even in front of a camera operated by a friend: it is just that freedivers love being in touch with the marine environment and nature, and their play is not necessarily connected to some strict notion of ‘capital accumulation’ in the Bourdieusian sense. The ludic can only be captured through collaborative ventures into iconi­ city, the principle of signification through resemblance. Accordingly, emo­ tionally rich situations can only be shared by virtue of a perceived similarity to what is in front of our eyes: a swimmer’s body in motion, a group’s tennis play in the sea. On this, photography (an encapsulation of the ludic) as a way of redeeming the homely and reinforcing communal sharing (in memories), has to transcend individual expressivity (as per Sontag ([1971] 2008, p. 130). While ludic performances stem from, and enrich our inner emotional world, they also tend to extend their reach to shared pictorial situations, such as the ones against which two young male freedivers jokingly explain that they ‘chase after’ (wink) opportunities to explore the wilderness of Greek land­ scapes and lakescapes, and then strip off in front of the camera to wear their freediving suits (‘The Underworld’ Project, Production Teaser, April 2019).12 The micro-event brackets off the freedivers’ play in meaningful ways: it removes the bracket from the landscape heritage, which can speak the bio­ political language (landscape as national property).

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Within the bracket, magical things happen that invert gender orders, turn­ ing male bodies into objects. Simmel encapsulated modern sexist stereotypes in his essay on ‘Female culture’ with alarming clarity, when he noticed that ‘women’s movement’ grounded its ‘eudemonistic, ethical and social emphases’ on personal participation in cultural goods, whereas the alleged ‘objectivity’ of the ‘masculine character’ alone accounted for demonstrations of ‘initiative, distinctiveness and creative power’ (Simmel, 1997c, pp. 47–48). Yet, the new freediving project’s advertising mocks this split, because it pairs off its mas­ culine façade with a conflicting (socially conscious) message of environmental protection and eudemonic play. Where articulations of sexuality belong to a liminal zone of play, in this vimeo the stereotype of dominant masculinity speaks alternative truths to power in the context of community micro-inter­ actions (McNay [1992] 2013; Butler 1993). Within such ‘alternatives’ new, predominantly anarchic versions of community form, which preserve values of individual and collective freedom. This freedom is also preserved with the appropriation and adaptation of structural goods (‘erotic capital’) as a com­ munal stylistic principle.13 Still, it would be incorrect to identify tendencies to favour the unofficial as an aesthetic mode without social, or even political content, in the sense that it is a practice productive of belonging in heavily technologised environ­ ments – a modicum of what can be termed, after Ratto and Boler (2014), ‘DIY citizenship’ or, after Ong (1999), ‘flexible citizenship’. Indeed, political theorist’ snobbery aside, the demarcation of such flâneries or explorations as ‘aesthetic mobilities’ should draw analytical attention to what really changed in civic participation in post-national spheres and how. Here the otherwise normative Arendtian Butler (2015, pp. 100–103) comes to our rescue, when she suggests that pre-designed media images can only offer incomplete representations of performativity, and that it is better if we also consider spontaneous styles of action to attain a fuller picture of what makes people belong. In the Greek magical-realist tradition, audio-visualisations of freedivers’ belonging invite us to adopt a semiotic approach that attributes the ‘evil eye’ not to envy but to ‘bad luck’ as one’s failure to satisfy those membership criteria or norms of social/somatic interaction that ensure their inclusion (Herzfeld, 1981, p. 560). We may notice this in CNN’s journalistic glances into interactions between freedivers of both genders while preparing to immerse themselves in the water (CNN Greece 2018 Review, undated); or in photodynamic presentations of their camaraderie (Platform Stories, November 2018). These are less or not staged at all and talk about changing perceptions of performing belonging more accurately. We may choose to call these photodynamic activities ‘edgework’ in Lyng’s (2005) tradition of sociology, ‘pil­ grimage’ in the tradition of tourist or sociology of religion studies, or otherwise. Regardless of our choice, Stefanos and his peers, who are named in the project’s website and include both male and female freedivers of

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foreign and Greek citizenship, partake in what sociologies of work would describe through a combination of physical, cognitive and emotional labour that is constitutive of their artwork, hobby and profession (Hochschild, 1979, 1983; Lisdero, 2019). In such unstaged moments, physical touch and playful glances between peers of all genders sexes and ethnicities, place somatosensory communique at the centre of the community’s philosophical ethics. Spontaneous performance does not lie. To round things up, for the team ‘conviviality’ in terms of learning (e.g. Illich, 1975) does not exist independently from ‘conviviality’ as cultural tol­ erance (e.g. Gilroy, 2004), on the contrary, the two approaches occupy the same performative space of emotional belonging. Stefanos stresses that the Underwater Gallery’s staging team includes freedivers from as diverse coun­ tries as New Zealand, Korea and the United States, whereas in the extended team to which he belongs, there are also friends from the Gulf: ‘There are people from every race, every religion, every gender – everybody is connected in this team. What brings us together is the love for the sea, and our way of expressing this love’, he concludes (Kontos Interview, 30 November 2018). The togetherness of the freediving team endorses a post-national cosmopoli­ tan aesthetic, in which membership is defined by neotribal attributes (e.g. shared interests – Maffesoli, 1996; D’Andrea, 2004, 2006). Its unity may be guided by shared involuntary intuition when they operate underwater but their values are based upon co-experiencing (Miterlebel) both above and under the water. Co-experiencing produces communities whose members ‘are bound together by mutual comprehension, cooperation and sympathy (‘Lebengemeinschaft’ – Scheler, 2008; Schütz, 1970a), as well ‘autonomous’ or meta-reflexive action (Archer, 2007, 2012). This collective project can be designated as a sort of ‘world orientation’ enclosing a willingness to ‘engage with the Other’ (Hannerz, 1990, p. 103; Hannerz, 1996) – only the Other is nature and humans in unison. More correctly, then, the transformation of this blend of physical and emotional labour guarantees the freediver’s membership in a bíos synaesthe­ matikós, in which emotional apprehension is released from a specifically Greek gender performativity but remains tied to aesthetic apprehension (Simmel, 1978, pp. 66–67). This mirrors Mills’ (1959) Western musing on the ‘sociological imagination’, as filtered through tourism mobilities, bundles of activities that make sense ‘as an imaginative process, which involves a certain comprehension of the world … enthus[ing] a distinctive emotional engage­ ment with it’ (Crouch et al., 2005, p. 1). In this second reading, the mode of engagement becomes dependent upon the new technologies of filmmaking and the internet to reinstitute the freediving community on the virtual plane. As a result, the idea of digital travel itself (complete with the maintenance of a collective web profile with audio-visual extensions) becomes an ‘act of citi­ zenship’, a practical manifestation of belonging (Isin, 2009, 2017; Isin and Nielson, 2008; Isin and Ruppert, 2015).

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Conclusion As repeatedly stressed, to speak of freediving and artistic activity exclusively in relation to ‘tourism’ is a conceptual crime that I commit in this reading intentionally. Tourism reduces the multiplicity of modernities to a system, a commercial category or particular activity we can immediately recognise. Such functional reductions emerge everywhere in social contexts in which the freediving team is emplaced like puppets (or Chinese figures) in a theatre of impressions. The puppet/subject constitutes the simplest unit of sociation that assumes a social role ‘only in the presence of a social matrix’ (Sorokin, 1969, p. 40). All we need to do is watch the way Stefanos assumes the role of the spokesman on behalf of the entire community during the exhibition’s official evening launch on Amorgos (Kontos, Pre-night Dive Speech, September 2018). Diligently acknowledging every single peer’s contribution to the sta­ ging, he articulates Western modernity’s division of labour (he is the artistic leaders, his peers are stagers) and proceeds to stress once more that the event is the product of love for freediving. The ensuing photographic flashes illu­ minate in the dark only his athletic figure, in a circle of applauding visitors and peers. Though not professionally produced, the video’s camera-work is not neu­ tral. On land, things are different; the underwater loneliness of the freediving pilgrim or explorer is replaced by configurations of exceptional individuality, regardless of one’s giving spirit, cordiality and commitment to camaraderie. Following the custom of organised systems of tourism and media to reduce things to an image for the benefit of consumers, on camera and in tourist settings, Stefanos’ role begins to transform into something that he perhaps never intended to bring to life. Together with his image, we watch Amorgos’ and Greece’s polyphonic culture and experience of modernities shrink into a more monologic tourist present. This globally now widespread monologue is supposed to help post-troika Greece to secure an Edenic future in Europe’s privatopias.

Notes 1 Consult, for example, Kingsbury and Jones (2009) on ‘Dionysian scopic regimes’. 2 This is unlike Archer’s (2000, p. 68) critical realist meaning-making, which is more firmly anchored on social reality. 3 For this reason, I return to questions of class and race in such intersectional phe­ nomena in Reading three. 4 Literally looking at oneself in images. 5 This is what we may call the experiential realm of ‘consociateship’ (Schütz, [1932] 1967). 6 In this case we may consider pilgrimage alongside Archer’s work (2003) on the ‘internal conversation’ and Simmel’s (1986, p. 345) analysis on emotions. 7 See also Stefanos’s comments on time underwater in Reading one.

88 Thanatourism and community-making 8 This goes against the Western European materiality of the ‘puppets’ (English: dolls) existing in three dimensions. 9 On atmospheric modifications of the city online, see Melhuish et al. (2016) and Bissell and Fuller (2017). 10 This is part of the process Touraine (1977) discusses as the ‘self-production of society’. 11 Alternatively see Korstanje (2019a, p. 98) and Ritzer (2013). 12 This carefree ritual can also be considered as an exercise in playful (‘silly’) citi­ zenship (Hartley, 2010). 13 See also Martin and George (2006) on social stratification; Alexander (1988, 2006a) on structure and agency.

Reading three

(Inter)national aesthetics Cinematic thirdness

Into governmobilities Reading two hinted at a clash between the creativity of art and the pragmatics of economic development, which may devour cultural polyvocality. The ghosting of Stefanos in the video celebrating the inauguration of the Under­ water Gallery installation produces a blind recording of cultural ‘emergism’ in both filmmaker Kavassos’ (Back, 2012, p. 104) and social theorist Archer’s (1998, p. 359) terms: something, not necessarily pleasant, comes to life. This new ‘thing’ suffocates Leal’s ([1967] 1995) estado limite that breathes magic into the real world. The Shakespearean ghosting of digital platforms, an estado limite or heightened (hyper) real phenomenon, has a strange effect on reality. Roh refused to call this ‘mystic’ and opted for ‘magic’ in his elabora­ tions on magical realism’s attention to detail. Objects, like Stefanos’ de­ hypostasised and disembodied media image, Roh insisted, depicted in their minutiae, ‘appear as “strange shadows or phantoms”’ (Roh, 1925, p. 25 in Guenther, 1995, p. 35). The same shadows came to represent death in Greece’s journeys to multiple modernities. Greek culture’s focus on the shadows’ tactile texture rather than their visual flatness betrays a propensity to synaesthetic apprehensions of the world. The same synaesthetic narrative connects past and present in the shadow of the Greek people’s beloved deceased, by pointing to the separation of the flesh from the bones while establishing their brief presence in invocations of the now absent body (Seremetakis, 1991, p. 188). This is not identical to the Western view of the shadow; instead, it resembles the Chinese attention to shadow as sub­ stance. The elimination of all non-Western paths to modernity changed this arrangement of perception. The term Roh used to describe Western attention to substance is significant in this respect, as an answerable counter-point: das Geis­ tige is often translated in German as ‘intellectual’ or ‘spiritual’, so the said artistic object’s objectification and distancing promotes abstraction as a positive quality. In fact, Roh was contrasting this, as a reference to intellectual clarity, to ‘ethnological’ notions of magic, ‘demonic irrationalism’ or the ‘naïve vitalism’ associated with indigenous cultures (Roh, 1925, p. 25 in Guenther, 1995, p. 35).

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Contrariwise, the shadows of the dead retain an eerie connection to tactile life in Greece, which manifests in tactility’s absent presence. The emphasis on abstrac­ tion preoccupied Wassily Kandinsky in his book Über das Geistige in der Kunst (On the Spirit/Intelligence of Art). Through his involvement with the crafts movement, Kandinsky saw two future trends in art, one heavily abstract and focused on ‘real uses of colour … in a “bodily form”’ to generate pure realism (the precursor of surrealism) and another, geometric and ornamental to such an extent, that would ‘resemble a tie, or a carpet’ (Weiss, 1975, p. 70; Weiss, 1979, pp. 140–141). Greek magical realism does not choose between these two but incorporates both into an alternate state of perception. The origin of this fusion is the country’s cryptocolonial experience. A decolonial or racial studies scholar would have immediately spotted an Orientalist slur in Kandinsky’s reference to the merits of European high abstraction vis-à-vis ‘ornamentalism’;1 however, let us follow Roh’s and Kandinsky’s original trails of thought for the moment. These certainly match Simmel’s prognostication on the general tendency of modern thought to dissolve substance into function, and the rigidity of eternity into a flux of restless development (Bauman, 2000). Pragmatists would retort that even the dynamic energy of movement can meet with the obstructions of stasis: especially when it comes to identity, the urgency to shape and fix the meaning of what must travel the world as an ‘immutable mobile’ (Latour, 1990; Sheller, 2003) colonises the plane of action. Immutable mobiles are subjects and objects mediating traffic of all sorts of illegal and legal com­ modities and experiences (Latour, 1990, p. 32). Among them, we often find the mobility of ‘national character’, a durable magical-realist type that unleashes its power in the real world in unpredictable ways (Morden, 2016). All one has to do is ask: how ‘Greekness’ as heritage or landscape moves in the world artistically and touristically? Who happens to move it and what impact do their actions have on the world? Stefanos’ ghosting in media channels is at the heart of these questions. They remind us that New Objectivity’s juxtaposition between ‘magic’ and ‘realism’ ended up exposing the monstrous qualities of the Unheimlich (the sublime terror of the uncanny) both within the human (their affective reaction to governmobilities) and their ‘technological surroundings’, which began to assume new meanings as objective pictures (Guenther, 1995, p. 36). This version of New Objectivity is anything but ‘objective’: its hauntological nature colo­ nises collective creativity and imagination (Derrida, 1994; Nederveen Pieterse and Parekh, 1995; Gourgouris, 1996). Let us contextualise these theoretical observations now: the agential deci­ sions of the makers of a gallery of Greek underwater treasures will have to battle against structural pressures (Archer, 2000, p. 84) and, ultimately, may have to blend into grander systemic projects, such as those of nationalism or capitalism (Dredge and Jamal, 2015). There, the freediving community’s vision is sidelined, and their work assumes the status of an ‘objective picture’

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on behalf of the ‘nation’. Like all topophilic endeavours, ‘what begins as undifferentiated space [the deep of Amorgos] becomes place when we endow it with [Greek] value’ (Tuan, 1977, p. 6, insertions in brackets mine). The shadow’s substance is split from its materiality, which is superimposed on it. In global capitalist environments identity-formation is often distanced from reality, because its structural proponents (e.g. institutions) are made to borrow from strategies of perspectivism to release representations from stable meanings and promote marketable ‘pure forms’ (Simmel, 1978, p. 174). Examined from this perspective, the Underwater Exhibition’s online presence illuminates not Greece’s treasures of the deep blue, but the intricate machi­ nations of governmobilities, in which even Stefanos, the seafaring explorer, is caught. This is a different coffee-cup reading from the previous one, even though it still centres on community and identity-making, which focuses on dark realism as disenchantment. Snuggling among a group of sponsors, including the Greek state and multi-national business, the Gallery’s virtual appearances are, from without, no more than an advertising extension of Luc Besson’s cult film. The onset of this ‘spectral objectivity’ that informs cultural communication does not highlight Greece’s exceptionalism, nor should it be rebuked for its allegedly ‘corrosive’ impact on Greek identity. Both arguments are deeply conservative, with little analytical value. The true damage lies in the reac­ tionary reversal such processes may set in motion, by resurrecting old repre­ sentational ‘plots’ and archetypal ghosts from the nation’s cabinet of curiosities.2 This is the reason why it is not enough for this reading to follow Simmel’s celebratory recipe on ‘objective culture’, in which all ideas and ideals ‘are true as they remain within their own sphere’ (Steinhoff, quoted in Frisby, 1992, p. 152). This is a pragmatic perspective without phenomenol­ ogy – especially the phenomenology of those entities cast as modernity’s others. As such ideational forms are produced in a web of very subjective corporate-state interests, representational regimes connected to creativity are not to be dismissed as ‘subjective cultural’ pastime. Joas (1996 [2005], p. 71) identifies three ways of relating to the world: an expressive, which may circumscribe creativity in relation to the subjective world of the actor; a productive, which relates this creativity to an allegedly ‘objective world’ of material objects conditioning human action; and a revo­ lutionary, assuming that human creativity can reorganise the social world and the institutions governing human coexistence. One wonders what sort of reorganisation can take place when revolutionary relationality prioritises the pathological aspects of subjective creativity. Simmel’s recognition of aesthetics as a ‘protective shield’ from the worst aspects of the world, encourages the artworker’s ‘world-fleeting fundamentalism’. This fundamentalism, which manifests in freediving philosophy as a combination of ecofascism with artistic anarchism, is as problematic as its world-mastering counterpart that we find in the actions of real-life terrorist actors (Riesbolt, 1998, p. 18; see

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also Korstanje, 2017 on connections between tourism and terrorism). This message is echoed in Stefanos’ verdict that freediving is a daring choice everyone should opt for – ‘you only need to dare once and finally partake in a unique experience’ (Novak, 28 September 2018): ‘you who are brave … dive!’ (Karali, 26 September 2018). Human difference in capability and inclination are erased in these invitations. This fundamentalism has been connected to economic crises that trigger selfish existentialist journeys in other cultural contexts. Graburn (2012) notes that there are two types of Japanese existential tourists: the first stems from the history of Buddhist pilgrimage, is interest-orientated (e.g. religion, age, gender etc.) and communal; the group’s activities are effervescent in spirit, organised, and with the expansion of overseas travel, occasionally sedentary in terms of mobility. The other type of tourist engages in lonely or ‘haiku’ travel, risking direct contact with alterity or searching inside themselves for this alterity, while ignoring the world around them. This existentialist travel approximates a feminist interpretation of edgework (Newmahr, 2011) as an emotional movement into the ‘interior self (naimen)’, an existential surface never expressed to others, because it is part of one’s irrational self (honne) and ‘is indeed frightening, difficult to control, and best left repressed!’ (Graburn, 2012, p. 58). Naturally, if such (freediving) travels into an interior are so dangerous, one wonders when an autonomous self can emerge in society. In the case of Japanese oppressions of honne, this also posits larger questions regarding the coexistence of lack of individualism (tatemae: public/collective self) with the promotion of ‘Nihonjinron’ or cultural nationalism. The con­ tradictory ethics of Nihonjinron, which were based on the conflict between two imaginary opponents, the ‘West’ and ‘Japan’ (Iwabuchi, 1994), had mul­ tiple consequences for Japanese culture and society: they honed the nation’s competitive capitalist spirit and produced the second-greatest world economy, validated the merits of a culture of overwork, but also suggested that, turning one’s back on technologically powerful competitors is not a forward-looking attitude (Delanty, 2003; Sugimoto, 2006). We must forget Kavassos’ impressionist shooting of events and adjust our lens with some degree of cultural-political intentionality: popcultural funda­ mentalism is also a form of creative action rooted in a Germanophone Eur­ opean outlook. This outlook, which, during and after the interwar years inspired fascist litterateur Massimo Bontempelli’s argument that literature can create collective consciousness by opening mythical/magical perspectives on reality (Bowers, 2004), produced the pseudo-geniuses of totalitarian ‘Sturm und Drang’ that sought to eliminate any cultural difference (Joas, 1996 [2005], pp. 72–73). Such are the processes endorsing the engineering of utopias amid social crises, often to ensure discursive submission to suspect ideological for­ mations (Mannheim, [1933] 1968; Frisby, 1983). The form that these utopias assume appeals to popular-cultural audiences and cultural-industrial produ­ cers with rebellious tendencies, only the ‘revolution’ they promote is based on

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an escape from the commons, an ascetic withdrawal from the public sphere(s) (Habermas, 1989a). To connect this third reading to marvellous-realist styles, these revolutionary tendencies informed Venezuelan intellectual, writer, tele­ vision producer and politician Arturo Uslar-Pietri’s belief that magic realism was a continuation of Latin American vanguardia’s (avant-garde) experi­ mentation with European modernist tendencies (Bowers, 2004, pp. 14–16) – the very experimentations that supported European and Latin American slides to dictatorship (Guenther, 1995, p. 61). Much like the renouncer of Brazilian culture, who claims ‘not to offer a higher life by virtue of social and economic ascent’, but ‘a wholly new social world’ (DaMatta, 1991, p. 211), these popular-cultural experimentations replace one utopian ideology (of nationalism or/and capitalism) with another (of non-participation in grand communal life). The utopian ideology into which such revolutionary creations as the Underwater Gallery are placed by institutional discourse promises to recon­ nect marginal communities (the island of Amorgos) to the national centre (Athens) and its global digital/cinematic networks. The modus vivendi of such utopianism is the realisation of an amicable relationship between universality and particularity, imagined within the context of margins, local experiences and cultures (Baban, 2006). The promise is pragmatically needed in cashless contexts, increasingly relying on digital and touristic connectivities to survive a crisis that is slow to pass. Aside from its small native tourist clientele, which I discuss later as an offshoot of its second Axial modernity, Amorgos has a single ‘place capital’ (Larsen and Urry, 2008) to trade in global tourist net­ works (Dredge and Jamal, 2013): its ‘iconic’ Monastery of Panayia Hozovio­ tissa which inspired Luc Besson’s title in the Big Blue and continued to signify ‘community’ for freedivers flocking into the island every summer. I will unpack the notion of place iconicity later, because it associates the poetics of identity (Geertsema, 2018, p. 6) to those of the moving image (Bordwell, 2008, p. 44). Germann Molz (2012, p. 43), explains that, these days, tourist places are more likely to be hybrid assemblages of physical and virtual environments. Tourist places come into being with the help of ‘blended geographies’, in which digitised information and images blend into material environments. Unlike Germann Molz’s conclusion that material-informational environments are embedded in urban landscapes, in the case of Amorgos we find them woven into a more complex place-identity formation that displaces the urban, in favour of the peripheral and the islandic. To reiterate the significance of Stefanos’ artistic focus on the marine atmospheric, not only does the islandic stand for the primal in formations of modern Greek identity (Doumanis, 1997; Sutton, 2000; Tzanelli, 2011; Papachristoforou, 2013; Argenti, 2019), it often brings together material-communicate structures on location. Greekglobal assemblages will not necessarily continue to promote a ‘sense of pla­ celessness’ (Richards, 2007, p. 98; Relph, 1976), ‘delocalisation’ (Nowak et al.,

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2010) or ‘non-places’ (Augé, 2008) to tourists, but also feed into a concerted programme of identity-making. Such identity-making obeys to the economic logos or reason of branding (Lury, 2004), which is Greece’s cultural passport to the European and global neoliberal Eden. These processes are by no means harmonised, but based on continuous friction, which produces movement, action and affect (Tsing, 2004). Above all, frictions produce temporalities of movement for people as cultural and political subjects, and with them, bor­ ders and citizenship boundaries move and are readjusted to fit contemporary needs (Sheller, 2019). From this perspective, Stefanos’ and Greece’s citizen­ ship conundrums begin to overlap – a phenomenon integral to what Ong (2006) discusses in terms of ‘sovereignty mutations’ in contemporary globa­ lised contexts of cash and culture flows. It seems that, the more we contextualise Stefanos’ artistic production, the deeper we dive into the waters of contemporary capitalism in the context of European governmobilities (Bærenholdt, 2013). Stefanos’ work, though independently designed, now features online (Underwater Gallery, 2018) alongside bundles of software mobilities involving film-tourism events (Croy et al., 2019, pp. 329–334 on organisational objectives in film-tourism; Beeton, 2006 and Heitmann, 2010 on stakeholders). These mobilities rescale the island’s space, packaging natural enclaves into imaginary ‘offshore economies’ that communicate with automobile infrastructures and forms of travel (Sheller, 2009, p. 1394; Urry, 2014, pp. 189–190). Within these con­ texts of communication, art attains a reductive exchange value: because it contributes to the insertion of beautiful locations as iconic capital owed by the nation into barely regulated international markets, it facilitates a simul­ taneous monetisation of their memory storerooms and exploitation of their bio-properties.3 By extension, the artworker is refashioned into a ‘machine of competences’, a ‘creative soldier’ who is asked to facilitate the reproduc­ tion of what Foucault (2010, p. 225) has termed ‘capital ability’. In these new economic landscapes, artists have to constantly showcase the right skills and attitudes that will allow them to become ‘change agents and system innovators’, regardless of their individual dreams, desires and values (Lingo and Tepper, 2013, p. 348). If artists have this fate, artwork is also destined to lose its auratic potential, if we follow Benjamin’s ([1936] 1968, p. 23) obser­ vations on photography’s and filmmaking’s erosion of memory, experiential authenticity and uniqueness. The serialisation of artistic creations is suitable for mass consumption, but engaging with true art deserves concentration, he says, therefore an educated mind and heart the masses do not necessarily possess (ibid., p. 18). This is a lot to take in in one stride, so let us commence the third reading with some observations on the tourist activities initiated on Amorgos. This will help us to consider in more depth how the advertising of the Monastery of Panayia Hozoviotissa, a cinematic landmark in Besson’s Big Blue and a local dark tourist spot of national significance, contributes not only to

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tourism mobilities but also the elimination of alternative phenomenal ones related to Greece’s multiple modernities. The philosophical basis of some of these excluded alternatives to development, demonstrates likeness4 to freediving philosophy and praxis for which Hozoviotissa is also significant, at least at the structural level. Unlike conventional practices of pilgrimage, which bring together God (Theòs: Θεòς) and place (placéa: πλακέα) in what Belhassen and Caton (2012, p. 683) termed ‘theoplacity’, today the site encloses a multiplicity of religious, secular and post-secular experiences and forms of aesthetic apprehension. However, such likenesses acquire culturalpolitical significance when considered alongside Stefanos’ media ghosting (see end of Reading two). This ghosting reveals the dark magical-realist powers of Western modernity, which are pragmatically connected to Greece’s desire to master European models of statescraft, a version of Realpolitik. This reading is, then, not just an excursus on the cultural pragmatics of civic belonging, but a warning that analyses of cultural pragmatics should not be understood as the completion of hermeneutic investigations into action. Behind these pragmatics hide layered phenomenologies of social and cultural experience not always explored well, because of sociology’s inability to think outside its European epistemological box.

PART I Networked content: from events on Amorgos to travels in iconicity Fortunately, or not, Stefanos’ initiative to stage a pioneering exhibition next to Amorgos coincided with organisational and institutional attempts to bolster the local economy by inducing more blended forms of tourism, including cinematic tourism. At first, it may look as if the entire enterprise of ‘reviving’ touristic interest payed tribute to Besson’s fictionalised narrative of the friendship and sporting rivalry between Jacques Mayol and Enzo Maiora, two twentieth-cen­ tury champion freedivers who met their end while deep-diving in the movie. Steeped in competitive spirit, the film could be read as a series of vignettes on stereotypical professional masculinity, endowed with performative heroic naï­ veté. In Reading two we heard Stefanos acknowledging the impact the film had on his creative development. A CNN review of the initiative (CNN Greece 2018 Review, undated) named the extended freediving team ‘heroes’, sealing semiotic connections between cinematic fiction and reality. Stefanos’ Underwater Gallery featured alongside the annual international freediving event organised in Amor­ gos under ‘Authentic Big Blue’, a title reminiscent of Besson’s cult freediving film. ‘It also did no damage [to our initiative] that Amorgos has some symbo­ lisms that are related to freediving and is, of course one of Greek Aegean Sea islands’, Stefanos said to me (Kontos Interview. 30 November 2018).

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For an economically exhausted Greece that will be paying its IMF bailouts for the decades to come, such developments may help to inject vital mobilities into its impoverished islandic margins. Indeed, the exhibition followed a year after a group of orchestrated activities aiming to attract international eco­ nomic and cultural capital to the island (Larsen and Urry, 2008): the 15th Amorgos International Convention on Culture and Tourism (25–30 October 2017); the Eighth Amorgos Tourism Film Festival (paying tribute to Bes­ son’s Big Blue); events involving alternative forms of tourism such as gas­ tronomic travel, hiking pilgrimage and diving and wellness; an educational session addressed to those with an interest in filmmaking; a film journalism masterclass organised by academics from the University of Utrecht; and the screening of five films focusing on the environment (GTP, 15 September 2017). Even the Underwater Gallery was co-opted by local tourism, with the Amorgos Diving Centre organising packets of group training for visitors who wanted to see the exhibition from below but had no diving experience (Karabelas, 10 September 2018; Huffpost Greece, 11 October 2018). In the summer of 2018, thanks to the Communications Director of the Greek Embassy in France, Dina Paneti, the French show 50 Inside of TV channel TF1 centred its filming on the Authentic Big Blue. Starring Nikos Aliagas and airing every Saturday for almost 5 million viewers, the show opened with images of Amorgos that a TV crew of 14 filmed during the summer (Visit Greece – The Blog, 9 July 2018). From all these activities, visitor traffic orientated towards variations of slow tourism and ecotourism – two of the few tourist trends connecting to social justice and environmental sustainability (Hall, 2009) – are singled out here. Slow tourism and ecotourism promote fundamental changes in the ways that tourism and travel mobilities are organised to ensure respect for the planet and the restoration of ecosystemic balances harmed by human excess and climate change (Dickinson and Lumsdon, 2010; Dickinson and Peters, 2014; Fullagar et al., 2012; Guiver and McGrath, 2016). To reiterate the first reading’s reflections on the relationship between ecoaesthetics and values in the craftsmomentum of freediving photography, there are signs of a shift in the behaviour of both institutions and some groups of consumers in how holidays are catered for and enjoyed in ethical ways: the time of travel and consump­ tion has to decelerate so that space is made for experience and ecological recovery. This shift is also registered in the ‘On a Single Breath’ underwater installations and Stefanos’ aspiration to connect the Exhibition’s eikastic experience to the development of ecotourist imaginaries (Novak, 28 Septem­ ber 2018). Both factuality or Realität (‘factual factness’ involving the materi­ als, sounds, colours and narratives of the stage) and actuality or Wirklichtkeit (‘actual factness’ involving the states and effects these induce in the perceiver) are quintessential components of ‘phantastikés téchnes’ (Böhme, 2001, p. 57). These are the arts that allow imagination (phantasía) to modify pure imita­ tions of reality (as is the case with eikastikés téchnes or imitative/iconic arts),

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introducing alternative narrative and performative pathways into the subject’s perception (Böhme, 2013). The conjunction of policy circumstances in the summer of 2018 does not allow us to disconnect Stefanos’ initiatives from the governmobile machine any more. This association is not just with regards to the touristification of Amorgos, but also widespread initiatives to green Greek islands (Howard, 15 June 2017) and connect this greening to alternative forms of slow travel, which connect to artmaking. A separate study could be conducted on the actual beneficiaries of all these initiatives. Over the last few years international press reports exposed state neglect in the welfare of Greek citizens living in islandic areas (Smith, 3 May 2012; Pazianou, 17 August 2017; Smith, 12 September 2018). The fact that a lot of the touristic and media activities on Amorgos are managed by statebusiness networks is not necessarily a positive development in this sense, because, not only are economic flows more likely to be distributed inter­ nationally, their national distribution may concentrate on more development in the cultural sectors instead. Lack of funds is ubiquitous in Greece and the rise of a ‘self-help’ economy of informal reciprocity (Rakopoulos, 2014) and voluntary support (Sotiropoulos and Bourikos, 2014) in towns and cities often fills the welfare gap left by the recession. As is always the case with event digitisation, Amorgos’ website has to serve as a touristic window, airbrushing such problems (Brockmeier, 2010; Tzanelli, 2011): instead, we are invited to explore varieties of custom and practice against a sunny island backdrop promising the visitor a good time. The ‘folk­ lorisation’ of materialities online aims to grant activities and products with an exotic and ‘unmistakably local’ feel (Kirschenblatt-Gimblett, 1997, p. 171) but may also counter the proliferation of non-place narratives about the island as a tourist destination (Augé, 2008). As many scholars have noted, in mobile communication technologies place and location have become more, not less, important in everyday social interactions (Germann Molz, 2012, p. 42; Sutko and de Souza e Silva, 2011). Therefore, Amorgos’ local event website serves to both connect the island to the national centre and to build the illusion of independent growth via locative media (de Souza e Silva and Sutko, 2010; de Souza e Silva and Frith, 2011; de Souza e Silva and Sheller, 2014). The local website’s connection to Stefanos’ own online advertising of the Underwater Exhibition is not unexpected, because the latter’s serene atmospheric content does not upset local intentions to project a good image of actual factuality. To conclude regarding the Exhibition’s staging: geo-topographical and cli­ mactic suitability aside, the selection of Amorgos by Stefanos was over­ determined by synecdochical associations: the island, he admits in an interview, ‘is a very “authentic”, unique island, which is a suitable choice [for the Exhibition] because of the movie Le Grand Blue’s associations’ (Huffpost Greece, 11 October 2018). Instead of ‘authentic’, Stefanos used the term ‘iconic’ in my interview with him. His explanation commences with references to the Monastery of Hozoviotissa, which is standing

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Image 3.1 The famous ‘Big Blue’ (Απέραντο Γαλάζιο) window of the Monastery of Panayia Hozoviotissa, Xora, Amorgos. Creator: Paul Arps, 21 August 2017. Creative Commons Licensing. https://creativecomm ons.org/licenses/by/2.0

at the face of a very steep cliff – and there is this window there, where the monks sit and contemplate, and it’s called ‘the Big Blue’ [Απέραντο Γαλάζιο]. All you can see from this big window is the Aegean Sea, and there is no land. After mentioning that this window became an inspiration for Besson’s film, he intersects: ‘the “Big Blue” is Greek, it’s not a title that foreigners thought of … the movie came to Amorgos to find the “Big Blue”’. The movie, he concludes, was a way to approach some of the characteristics of freediving, which ‘are very difficult to express – because it is a very spiritual process and that is very difficult to put on the big screen’. Since the film’s release, Amorgos has been associated with this story and ‘many people became inspired to research freediving because of the movie’ (Kontos Interview. 30 November 2018). The statement condenses more than it initially seems to discuss. Let us begin by acknowledging the atmospheric potential of the Monastery as both part of a beautiful landscape complex and a self-contained architectural structure. Its potentiality to be synaesthetically appreciated, increases its immersive effect, when we are close to it (Berleant, 1992). Built in 1017 and renovated in 1088, the Monastery hangs on a steep cliff of about 300m above

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Image 3.2 The façade of the Monastery of Panayia Hozoviotissa, which is built on a rock by ‘divine intervention’, according to local legend. Creator: Paul Arps, 21 August 2017. Creative Commons Licensing: https://creativecomm ons.org/licenses/by/2.0

the sea. It is proudly advertised on Amorgos’ official website as an original tribute (old poem) to the Grace of Virgin Mary (Demos Amorgos, undated). The Monastery hosts an icon of Virgin Mary that is rumoured to have come from the Holy Lands and is displayed on religious days. At certain times of the day visitors can enter the place and enjoy the hospitality of monks who serve an (originally allegedly godsent – Pazianou, 17 August 2017) local liqueur (rakí) and delight (loukoúmi). Such rituals exemplify the shift in con­ temporary societies from ‘network sociality’ to ‘network hospitality’ (Ger­ mann Molz, 2014), with a corresponding shift of emphasis from touring to catering and caring for strangers (Veijola and Jokinen, 2008). There is a blend of banality with religiosity in these pilgrimages, which does not exclude commodification but decentres it as practice, so that communing with Greek heritage takes centre stage (on pilgrimage and the sacred see Eade, 1992 and Eade and Sallnow, 1991; on the banal in secular pilgrimages see Coleman and Eade, 2004; on pilgrimage and commodification see Gra­ burn, 1983; on the biopolitical staging of landscape see Minca, 2010). The legend of the monastery’s construction stretches back to the second (eleventh century) iconoclastic period, a controversy over the status of icons as divine simulacra, when several icons were destroyed in Jerusalem. It is said that the

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icon of ‘the dark-eyed Mary’, as Hozoviotissa’s icon is called, was broken into two halves that escaped total destruction, thanks to a wise woman’s decision to throw them to the sea. One half drifted to the island of Patmos, where another Hozoviotissa exists today. The other half washed out to the shores at the foot of Profitis Ilias mountain in Amorgos, where a chapel was built. At the start of the eleventh century, the Amorgiotes decided to replace the chapel by a monastery, but their efforts were constantly halted by an unknown force. The spell was broken when a shepherd spotted some builder’s tools hanging off the cliff of Profitis Illias from a path 300 metres above sea level. This was received as a godly sign and the monastery was built in that precise location without further obstructions (Wendoula, 29 January 2011). Architectural constructs endowed with spiritual histories have an easily and publicly accessible expressive beauty, as well as a localised resonance of importance in the case of Hozoviotissa (on architectural ‘attributes’ see Krebs, 2017, p. 1433). This resonance can also acquire intra-local significance, something we find embedded in the two Hozoviotissa legends. Endorsed by realist-magical materialities, the legend of islandic connectivity is retold on a mural of the Amorgiote monastery. This depicts a ship returning from Patmos to Amorgos, which is caught in a storm as well as some monks aboard hailing Mary for help; the Virgin appears to facilitate their safe landing in safety (Wendoula, 29 January 2011). As is the case with landscapes, the religious content of such structures teaches us how to ‘dwell on earth’ but look for the heaven – an extension that Heidegger (2013, pp. 141–160) refused to make in his work on building and dwelling. Intriguingly, Hozoviotissa’s linguistic dwelling (Hoziva or Koziva is a place-name in the Holy Lands [Hozovo or Kozovo of Palestine] and a real name in Wadi Quilt of Jericho – Monastiria tis Ellados, undated; Marangou, 1988) communicates something about East­ ern Christianity’s mystical entanglement with Islam. The famous breathtaking view from the building’s top-most balcony that leaves a lasting impression on one’s mind may be an ‘icon’ awaiting indexing by visitors/tourists; however, the view’s ethnic-hermeneutic closure connects to the rumoured dark craft that prevented locals from paying homage to Virgin Mary. Framing (literally, in a window) the Aegean ‘big blue’ fixes its spiritual content as Orthodox Christian heritage, which legitimately exorcises tourism and media’s technical evil by using its tools. The technical evil is connected to the ‘evil eye’ or nazar, the Islamic Turkish amulet that the Orthodox Church consigns to paganistic practices, is a technique of dis­ orientation from God. Against this evil technics, the view’s ethnic-hermeneu­ tic closure suggests that the Monastery’s ‘big blue’ window is national folk heritage befit for ‘pilgrimage proper’ (Reader, 2006) that should be separated from banal popcultural tourism (Reader and Walter, 1992; Gyimóthy et al., 2015). When, to designate photographic reality, Barthes (1981, pp. 4–5) cited the Buddhist terms ‘sunya’ (void) and ‘tahata’ – ‘the fact of being this, of being thus, of being so’ or the child-like gesture of pointing at something – he

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could have easily been referring to the naïve immediacy of Hozoviotissa’s monastic icon in a perceptual sea of tourist mobilities. A generalisation of technical firstness ‘robs’ the landmark of its historic situatedness in the axial world as a more-than religious relic: a token of faithfulness to the original (God), who can perhaps be approached through devotion. The tourist’s claim to the ego’s sovereignty, which occupied Nietzsche’s aesthetic travails, con­ stantly sets universality against singularity in learning, experiencing and apprehending. In this respect, to consider the ‘Big Blue’s indexical place exclusively in tourist markets is not enough. This was also recognised even within tourist studies early on, with Lew (1987) categorising tourist attractions in terms of perspectival analysis, to ideographic, organisational (market-driven) and cognitive. Within the same field, MacCannell ([1976] 1989, p. 42) introduced a systemic organisation of the same phenomenon based on an alternative tripartite schema of gazing (tourist, sight and marker), whereas Leiper (1990) developed a more elaborate model in which individual and collective motivations (to visit an attraction) were elevated to an all-encompassing explanandum. Leiper’s model relates psychological aetiologies to the ways markets function, whereas MacCannell’s does not engage with the development of ‘sights/sites’ outside tourism. Out­ side these three perspectives, the development of an axial-aesthetic nexus ‘drags’ the site (in Rojek’s [1997] terms) to worldmaking politics associated with state power and networked market control, suggesting a reworking of Hollinshead’s (2009a) thesis. The reworking also connects in this study to a note from Cohen’s (1996, pp. 91–92) experiential tourist phenomenologies on the proliferation of ‘centres’ (e.g. political, religious or cultural) in modern societies, with an acknowledgement that these will not necessarily overlap. Unlike Cohen’s individualised argument concentrating on the tourist actor, which was inspired by Eisenstadt’s (2003) ‘multiple modernities’ thesis, my thesis focuses on the plane of collective cultural action, where overlaps can be structurally engineered by centres of powers. I will bring Cohen’s argument back home (to Eisenstadt’s focus on collective agency) but will also revise its inspiration. This revision will focus on both the problematic European dom­ ination of ‘culture’ by ‘civilisation’, and the Weberian emphasis on rationa­ lised differentiation of spheres of action, which continues to inform studies of Greek modernity (and modernities at large) in unedited ways (e.g. Mar­ angudakis, 2019). Let us acknowledge first that, seeing past ‘On a Single Breath’s firstness and secondness of being in the world, we find ourselves in a political-cultural minefield. This is so, in agreement with MacCannell ([1976] 1989), because to turn anything fed to us by experience into a stable sign (a Vorstellung), we need time and an environment in which we rework meaning. Also, all signs, including tourist or religious markers, presuppose some sort of semiotic con­ tinuity (in national self-narration or global tourist marketing – see Meethan, 2001). This is the ‘stuff’ that places them in spatio-temporal coordinates and

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assigns them with a direction (Legg, quoted in Dymek 2013, p. 52). This is also how markers are crafted in particular successions of time (or moments) by the workers of time: cameramen, web designers, the state and independent tourist markets. Santaella-Braga (1995, p. 210) nicely explains that Peirce’s conception of the iconic ingredient (the ‘Big Blue’ as a phenomenal-material marker or the ‘special atmosphere’ [Rauch, 2014, p. 258] of Amorgos), both facilitates sup­ port in how we perceive things and functions as a substratum of an illusion. The illusion’s core is that the object (the ‘Big Blue’), as it is perceived, is the object itself: it is a sight as a marker, contra MacCannell’s thesis. This play between support and illusory substratum is nothing short of what we see unfolding in Besson’s Big Blue, which features the Monastery’s window to the world as a re-read spiritual-come-subcultural event beyond conventional reli­ gion: the pure freediving encounter of the sublime in (near-)death experiences underwater. Nevertheless, we must still at least heed Barthes’ (1981, p. 27) astute observation on the quality of the punctum as a sting, a hole, a Buddhist sunya/void that traumatises the body/form of the marker and thus its cultural situatedness within the Greek Raum. The suggestion that Besson is a ‘technological stinger’ connects to the replacement of Christian religiosity with what is, in effect, representations of secular-athletic pilgrimage in the domain of popular art (filmmaking). This replacement elevates the marker to an unconscious datum ‘independently form [ing] the value which others attribute to such and such religion’ (Bataille, 2018, p. 238). The repetition of such markers in the public imagination brings to discourse unconscious inclinations shared by many unconnected people, including those belonging to subcultures and national communities (Bataille, 2018, p. 238; Anderson, 2006). Besson’s pioneering of the French movement Cinéma du Look in the 1980s and the 1990s prioritised surface (his films emphasised visual beauty and slickness) and focused on young, alienated char­ acters representing the marginalised youth of François Mitterrand’s France (Powry and Reader, 2011; WikiMili, undated). Cinéma du Look’s prioritisation of style over substance (Austin, 1999, pp. 199–120) contrasted to Christian Orthodoxy’s ascetic preference of depth over surface. However, the purpose here is not to prioritise perspective or specific punctums – after all, each of them comprises a detail privileged by a different gazer or from a different angle. Their partiality enters the game of modernities to which we must give ourselves up, until we encounter the next trauma (Barthes, 1981, pp. 43, 51, 55; Cresswell, 2010). It matters more to stress that Hozoviotissa is part of the local social memory’s body, which is constantly punctured by the technologies of the eye and the ear: the more holes are created in it, the more its window is frag­ mented, the more it enters different pathways to modernities. When I introduced the notion of the craftsmomentum in the first reading, I stressed ancient interpellations of craft as an airbrushing factor in the ways that collective memory works. Not only are such approaches deemed in

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contemporary contexts problematic, digital capitalist nodes of business uti­ lise téchne in a variety of educational ways, including that of aesthetically reflexive tourism. Tourism has aptly been connected to conceptions of scholé as a holiday. Nevertheless, in the interwar years ‘holidays’ were differ­ entiated on the basis of entertainment for the working classes and educa­ tional pursuits for the middle and upper classes (Dann and Parrinello, 2009). Following Western rules, educational téchnes such as that of digitised tourism have become part of knowledge economies in the service of capital, prestige-building for international media conglomerates and nation-states (Lash and Urry, 1994, chapter 10; Miége, 1987, 1989; Hesmondhalgh, 2007; Hesmondhalgh and Baker, 2011). However, we can trace their origins in folk and working-class technological work (or ergopoesis: the ergetic ability humans display to learn while doing – Funkenstein, 1986, p. 290; Ricoeur, 2005, pp. 157, 260–262; Trey, 1992; DeNora, 2000, 2003), which stemmed from peripheral custom and cosmologies. Marcuse’s (1955) master narrative of civilisational progress as a suppressant of the erotic desire gestured towards the psychogenesis of such structural inequalities (Poovey, 1998). Among such inequalities were the ways art was separated from craft and joined the game of gendering and racialisation in utopian planning that I explore in Part II below (Mannheim, [1933] 1968], pp. 292–309; de la Fuente 2007, p. 413; Foucault, 1998; Witkin, 2005). This process transformed gender into a systemic metaphor of space and became complicit in European national phylogeneses, the emergence of gender/race formations as factual realities for European national identities (Ricoeur, 1970; Hill Collins, 1990, 2006, 2015; Loomba, 2005). These phylo­ geneses were never distinctive processes, but fusions of gender/race forms used to support various discursive ‘facts’.5 On the one hand, gender became a master metaphor of civility: even Marx praised the proletarian combatants of the Paris insurrection of 1848 and the Communards of 1871 for their honour, principles and determination, castigating the ‘lumpen proletariat’ as the ‘subhuman refuge of all classes’ (O’Brien 2008, p. 148). On the other, the idea of the ‘East’ or the ‘Orient’ offered easy possibilities ‘of translating in simple terms the complex issues that the English colonial metropolis was facing’ (Skopetea, 1992, pp. 91, 136), making its oppressed nationalities and the English working-class interchangeable terms. When gender/race forms crys­ tallised in discourses of identity, nations acquired factual tools in their naming and claiming of land and landscape as intimate territories (mother­ land) of ethno-cultural uniqueness (race/ethnicity). An analytical pessimist would argue that today, all these layered connec­ tions are either obliterated or manipulated by means of commoditisation: having now undergone a civilising process of their own, especially digital and organisational téchnes can master the nature or character of dark sites, their histories and surviving narratives – above all, they can and do connect to travel, individuation and societal pluralisation (Delanty, 2006, p. 31; Erskine,

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2002; Stevenson, 2003). After dethroning folk technics, especially the technics of digital crafts became the most powerful disembodied and posthuman articulators of aesthetic principles conferred upon dark tourist sites. By ana­ logy to the old bureaucratic regimes of the nation-state, the new disorganised digital tourist business articulates the nature of dark sites, facilitating a gov­ ernmobility conducive to consumerism and the individualisation of action (Benhabib, 1992; Bauman, 2005; Davis, 2008). The power of such Western and Eurocentric articulation is based on the digit, which, by analogy to wording, connects phonemes into concepts and generates meanings in social contexts in the form of discourse (Bourdieu, 1992, pp. 44–45; Derrida, 1997, pp. 218–219). Etymologically the term comes from the ancient Greek noun árthõsis (connection, joint) and describes the bending of one’s joints. But the noun’s origins in arthrõnõ (verbally articulate) reminds us of Durkheim’s embodied understanding of nationhood in terms of human maturity and subjectivity (Tzanelli, 2011, chapter 5). However, to speak and act and the conditions under which speaking and acting take place are not one and the same, but are morphogenetically connected processes (Archer, 1995, 2011): indeed, today this ‘physicalisation’ of power is con­ stantly countered by the polygenesis of sociality, which manifests in the form of assemblages or multiple competing social compositions such as those of the mobile web designers and the freediving artists (Tonkonoff, 2013, p. 277). In line with Foucault’s (1997) concept of biopolitics, web designers continue to blend cultural symbolisations of biology (the ‘nature’ of dark histories as aspects of a community’s ‘evolution’ in time) with industrial (dark pasts) and post­ industrial (digital-technological) processes, including those of bureaucratisation.6 Laclau and Mouffe think of ‘articulation’ as a transformative praxis: ‘any practice establishing a relation among elements such that their identity is modified as a result of the articulatory practice’ (2014, p. 105). However, in terms of practice, events can lead in either direction with and in time: if we think in Western, linear terms, backwards movement promotes stasis, whereas moving forwards promotes the genesis of new phenomena; occasionally, looking forward also necessitates inspecting the past and often reproducing it without any awareness of the act of repetition (Archer, 1998, p. 365). There will also be societies, such as the Greek, which underwent coerced Wester­ nisation with a strong heritage code that counters Westernising modes of being and moving in time (Marangudakis, 2019, pp. 67–71). In Greek culture linear and cyclical conceptions of time coexist (Hirschon, 2014, p. 160), with the former direction as the local master-pattern preserving the past and the latter as the imposed Euro-Western direction constructing a collective (national) future in evolutionist, psychochemical, biological and socio-cul­ tural terms (see also Sorokin, 1969, p. 676). This blended movement of time on Greek land explains how ghosting operates in media platforms in the case of Stefanos, (see Part II).

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I seem to have arrived at a contradiction: is the Underwater Gallery and its proponents and makers cogs in the new spirit of capitalism or not? Do they promote a Greek mode of being, a cosmopolitan or a capitalist one? There is merit in exploring both the infrastructural constrictions and to creative free­ dom and the move(ment) towards autonomy with(in) them. Often, such apparently contradictory movements develop interdependently, like most forms of economic and cultural development (Sewell, 2008). My priority here will be the cultural core of such movements. This may enable us to enlarge the new agenda of ‘mobilities justice’ (Sheller, 2018), which explores the con­ strictions imposed upon social actors in circuits of migration, tourism and technology. The social/artistic critique delivered by the ‘On a Single Breath’ team should be studied as a separate worldmaking agency in this context, which can move both for and against neoliberal global forces as a moral narrative. This agency, which is not always overridden by the rationalism of the principal orders of worth in contemporary Greek or global modern con­ ditions (urban metropolitan agendas of development), could win over the reputational needs of a Greek state caught up in an endless shrinking cycle in terms of autonomy, sovereignty and international recognition (Boltanski and Thévenot, 2006). In opposition to new analyses of crises in world societies, such as Greece (e. g. Marangudakis, 2019), I will not talk about religious or economic variables as the principal agential causes of movement and regression. Prioritising the aesthetic, I divide the two worldmaking movements into ‘indexical cen­ trifugalisms’ (next section) and ‘symbolic centripetalisms’ (Part II), with the former gesturing towards agential freedom in a non-hierarchical or pro­ gressive order and the later both affirming and contesting systemic power at the representational level. This conceptual organisation should not be mis­ taken for a reproduction of the economic determinism we find in theories of migrations (e.g. push–pull factors). It will become obvious below that in my analysis materialist dimensions are less prominent than their phenomen­ ological effects and magical meanings. To unpack this complexity, I have to move across and between religious, aesthetic and phenomenological theories to capture the elusiveness of Greek modernities and performativities of belonging. Indexical centrifugalism: Greece’s multiple modernities Deep religious structures and agencies I mentioned in the Preface that I intend to show how the instantly recogni­ sable commercial setting of this study may mislead scholars to acknowledge the presence of a single Western (tourist) modernity. To clarify the mistake, moving within the field of tourist studies will not suffice. In the last two dec­ ades, the study of modernity has been rewritten through the intricate position

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offered by Israeli sociologist Shmuel Eisenstadt (2000, 2001, 2003). His posi­ tion, which displaces the Western experience and seeks to re-conceptualise modernity from the margins, has been posited as an epistemic break from social theorists’ fixation on the erstwhile ‘world centre’, Europe. Ironically, even Eisenstadt’s model of multiplicity, is incurably Eurocentric: not only does it draw on the sociologies of Max Weber and Benjamin Nelson, it posits the various counter-models that he calls ‘Axial Civilisations’ as mere respon­ ses to a Western/European ‘civilisation/modernity’. This argument’s otherwise rigorous thesis also fails to acknowledge that, what social scientists see as the domination of the European civilisational model in many world cultures, is in fact a much more complex hybrid product of clashes and collaborations between non-Western and non-European influences (a point he accepted later). This is one my departure points from Eisenstadt’s original model, which favours the idea of Europe.7 My second objection, which is even more important, has to do with Eisenstadt’s analytical fixation on religion: all alternative programmes seem to stem from pre-modern Axial civilisations of primarily mystical-religious nature (Eisenstadt, 2001, pp. 328–330). My particular case, Greece, suggests that a blend of modernised aesthetic forms-as-norms has been far more influential in the formation of the modern Greek identity, than their alleged emanations in the Greek past, which I consider as an institutional fabrication, not a historical fact. Such invented forms-as-norms sought to both relate to Europe via an adopted antiquity,8 and differentiate Greek culture from European centres of power by constantly interpreting and adapting a near-Eastern cultural habitus in its self-narration to others.9 In more recent decades, this dialogic aesthetic was further (and often forcefully or unwillingly) pluralised by mass migrations to Greece from East and West. The 2008 global economic crisis, the country’s subsequent economic collapse and bailout by the EU and its practical loss of political sovereignty to capitalist networks had another, far more prevalent impact on its self-recognition as an automomous cultural and institutional entity. This impact, which is also aesthetically articulated, resides in a permanent second­ ness10 and provides my third and final objection to Eisenstadt’s historical model: the dominant Greek modernity’s ‘seemings’ are gendered – indeed, they are hermaphrodite – and oscillate between discourses of empowerment and disempowerment. For a culture still striving to escape its cryptocolonial past, it is small wonder to find that its dialogic aesthetic suffers from a crisis of recognition (see also Tzanelli, 2008 on historical formations). Consequently, my revisions come closer to Therborn’s (2003) Arnason’s (2003) conceptualisation of all modernities as plural, processual and ‘entan­ gled’. Although my thesis binds the aesthetic, the political and the religious in a cosmological complexity, it prioritises the aesthetic as the end product. Especially Arnarson’s borrowing from Cornelius Castoriadis’ ([1975] 1987) ‘imaginary’ as a central feature in the constitution of society – the recognition that there is always a conflict between its ‘social’ grounding and its ‘radical’

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potentialities – fits better my notion of modern Greek identity’s aesthetic core. I will bring all these observations back to Stefanos’ indexical constitution in media networks in Part II. First, I present the country’s initial entanglement in debates on the status of reality before the institution of modern Greek identity in Renaissance and Western Enlightenment contexts. This is a crucial preamble to the Greek Enlightenment’s implication in the nation-to-be’s twin project of transcendental becoming – as a unique cultural entity and a prag­ matist player in world politics (Kitromilidis, 1989, 1996, 1998). The material aspects of this articulation, which came to life as reactions to Western European technological domination11 were weaker than the cultural. The cultural ones proved pervasive and fundamentalist and led to the for­ mation of a collective necropolitical honne: the expression of a desire to depart this world of politics, in which an impoverished nation cannot achieve sovereignty (Herzfeld, 2001b, 2002; Mbembe, 2003). This necropolitical orientation has been, and still is magical in the deepest performative sense, promiscuous in terms of aesthetic repertoires and orientated towards biopoli­ tical economisation. Modern Greek identity’s world-fleeting fundamentalist tactics serve to conceal how self-obliteration perfects a strategy of creative repetition: a ‘becoming’ an autonomous aesthetic agent in world politics, who is morally above the trivialities of rational political action (Nietzsche, 1980, 1996). In this respect, Greek Enlightenment intellectuals felt more affiliated to Herder’s Romanticism (Joas, 1996 [2005], p. 76), which already contradicted Western Enlightenment’s belief in progressive scientific rationality. As the tourist expansion on Amorgos proves, the historicity of the debate does not completely remove the nation-state and its institutional strongholds from today’s big picture, it just alters the ways institutions practically articulate their philosophical alignments with the world: the ‘nation’ embraces technol­ ogy but symbolically ‘beats’ Western technological primacy by showcasing the uniqueness of its ‘authentic’ natural treasures in artistic presentations led by its subjects. So, tourist and technological mobilities are not rejected, but downgraded in terms of value content to a ‘necessary evil’. To be more pre­ cise, the effect such networked mobilities have is felt in the ways of what Campion (2012, p. 2) discusses as the ‘Cosmic State’: the ways cosmological theory is applied to political ideology and the management of society. We should affiliate this to what Hollinshead (2009a, 2009b) recognises as the axiomatic roots of tourism worldmaking. Undoubtedly, pursuing cosmological analysis exclusively at the technologi­ cal level, also risks reinstating Kantian dichotomies between external and internal cultural expressivity, or Simmel’s objective and subjective cultural engagement.12 Such splits were not accepted in Herder’s model of articula­ tion: for him, human beings express themselves and are often surprised by what they express, ‘gaini[ing] access to [their] “inner being” only by reflecting on [their] own expressive acts’ (Joas, [1996] 2005, p. 79). Much like the poet, who rejects scholasticism and rule-making to secretly harbour iconoclastic

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tendencies, nations engage in a cultural poetics that, as Herzfeld (2005) notes, may ensure complicity between individual(ist) and institutional rule-breaking behaviour. It is precisely this rule-breaking behaviour that brings together discourses of victimhood that draw on religious prejudice and fictional national collectivism, to produce the archetypal postmodern expressive-anar­ chic self in Greek culture (Tzanelli, 2008, pp. 52, 114, 144; Tzanelli, 2011, p. 147; Marangudakis, 2019, pp. 214–219). Although Herder never defined culture in biological or hierarchical terms and was mainly interested in the individuality of their form (Taylor, 1975), he was co-opted by spokespersons of precisely such biocultural nationalist agendas. Herder was also not interested in the elitist or aestheticist limitations of the idea of creativity but conceived of the pivotal role of cultural forms in collective self-realisation by analogy to individual ones.13 In this respect, the cultural forms and institutions of a people must express who they are – something which places Herder among the funders of humanities (Geis­ teswissenschaften). We may note for future reference how this model of articulation reflects Stefanos’ engagement with the underwater world, which is mediated according to his opinion only via embodied language between freediving couples/peers – a clear connection to Herbert Mead and Ludwig Wittgenstein’s linguistic socio-anthropologies. Hence, one may argue that, whereas almost from the outset, modern Greek articulation reflected the postcolonial modes of magical realism, it was also forced to engage with European calls to conform to their (Germanic) naturalist counterparts. The Greek intellectuals’ practices of worldmaking had to negotiate with Western ontological and epistemological ‘scripts’ to lift the Greek nation-to­ be out of its subordinate condition in the Ottoman Empire, under which it stayed for four centuries. This lifting was followed in two contradictory ways, which would later contribute to the nationalist programme in equal measure: the ancient Greek philosophical and the Christian Orthodox. In Greek ethnogenesis, we do not deal with the discarding of what are per­ ceived as Greek traditions (à la Therborn, 2003), but a meaningful blending of their repertoires via Western routes of archiving human memory (Herz­ feld, 1986, p. 46). Of primary importance is the phenomenal outcome of such encounters: a cosmos not as something encompassing humans, but an idea that humans create to describe their existence and participation in social and cultural life. The discarding of memory is immediately activated when Greek intellectual traditions face their Eastern roots and routes. Today, no Greek pedagogical manual will acknowledge that not only did the Islamic religion benefit during the Abbasid period (750–1258) from its encounters with ancient Greek anti­ quity, but that the Aristotelian legacy survived through its Koranic inter­ pretations by Ibn Sina (Latin Avicenna, 980–1037), who encouraged the development of hermeticism (Campion, 2012, p. 180). This religion, which today survives in Sufi teachings with an emphasis on kashf (the unveiling of

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truth) is the philosophical cornerstone of exploration – a worldmaking ven­ ture that at least parallels the freediving adventure. Nor will textbooks tell us anything about the ways kashf worked truth-exploration artistically through abstract mathematical patterns (Nasr, 1993, pp. 25–104; Critchlow, 1983), again paralleling the freediver’s non-representational journey through ápnoia. Cosmologies are conditioned by environmental, historical, technological, psychological and social factors, conforming our perceptive world to patterns of action. Nevertheless, cosmologies also project atmospheres. As ecologist Freya Matthews (1991, p. 109) explains, ‘a flourishing community is likely to evolve a bright, self-affirming cosmology, and a languishing community is likely to see the world in darker shades’. An emergent community stuck between an admired ancient Greek culture that Europe had embraced as its heritage of order, beauty and civility, a perceived Ottoman Turkish barbarity that classified ‘Greeks’ as Oriental specimens, and a Christian Orthodox tradition that con­ nected them to a glorious religious past irretrievable in world politics (Byzan­ tium as the Middle-Age Eastern ‘Roman Empire’) could only develop a very confusing cultural atmospherics (see also Herzfeld, 1986, 1987). Soon these atmospherics acquired a political tonality we associate with ‘phenomenologies of race’, which ordered the way that ‘peoples’ of different ethnicities could move and be perceived in interactional spaces as full human beings and accomplished European communities (also Ahmed, 2007 on race). The princi­ pal alignment between Christianity and Christian Hellenism was to be found in aesthetic combinations of the white Hellenic statues, the ancient philosophers’ ‘uncovering’ of a bright truth and the projection of God’s orderly kingdom on Greek land (Herzfeld, 1986, p. 125; Tzanelli, 2008, chapter 6). This pathway to modernity appears to chime with that of other European nations; however, it is in some ways very different. This is because the spectre of European law of being and knowing was never imposed on Greeks by colonisation (e.g. Bhambra, 2007a), but through cryptocolonial impositions (Herzfeld, 2002) in the Greek communities’ structures of thought. A combination of European economic patronage and educational brainwashing produced a Greek intelligentsia at the service of the ‘fateful European triangle’ of race, ethnicity and nation (Hall, 2017). It took several centuries to create alternative scripts of belonging – a project still in progress in many ways. To make another useful connection to the historic pathway I presented above, I stress that, today, the interweaving of cultural mobilities into the workings of globalisation is preserved in etymological and sub­ stantive clashes between kosmos (Greek κόσμος for beauty in order) and universe (Latin unnus verto for ‘changing into one’, closer to panta from Greek πάς/πάντα for ‘everything/whole’). The Latin legalistic nature, which presents the Roman world as a unified population subjected to law differs from the ancient Greek philosophical one, which looks at qualities and forms of being and acting (Inglis and Robertson, 2004, 2005). However, the two together do not take us further from the European worldview as an all­

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consuming experience of life, a unitary Lebensphilosophie. The Roman translation of Greek transcendental knowledge into Mundus, which means mundane or worldly, also divested the kosmos of its positive evaluation of any object (Joas, 1963, p. 243). The Greek origins of the word point to an aesthetic narrative subsequently endowed with political, legal and religious subtext by early modern Western scholars of the ancient texts and con­ temporary European social theorists (e.g. Delanty, 2009; Inglis, 2014). Nederveen Pieterse’s (2006) conception of ‘cosmetic cosmopolitanism’ as the education of desire to attain a place in the world order, nicely gestures towards the racialised (cryptocolonised) ambiguities of Greece’s strategic alignment with dominant discourses of being and action (Plantzos, 2014, p. 154). Analytically, such ‘education’ points to Piaget’s (1977, p. 328) critique of Durkheim’s authoritarian pedagogy as a tool of civic engagement, which guides Marangudakis’ (2019, pp. 17–24) model of analysis of populism. This authoritarian tendency to shape the mind and heart of the citizen-student, prompted Archer (1995) to recognise in social movement actors the potential rulers and tyrants of tomorrow. This action also agrees with a fundamental Christian split in modern Greek thought between the ways of ‘ánthropos - up and throsko: - - stare at, aspire to), a being aspiring to reach the (from áno: upper level of “truth”, and those of vrotós (vivro-skomai: being consumed, perish), who represents the perishable, malleable side of human nature’ (Tza­ nelli, 2008, p. 149). Where the former type conformed to the rules of Chris­ tian European civility, aligning physical beauty and inner virtue with good manners, the latter was seen as the workings of the Devil, always matching practical goals with reasonable means. The split between desire for perfection and the reality that action requires compromise consolidated an unhappy collaboration between Platonism’s and later Christian Neoplatonism’s ontological split between ideas, reason and the embodied emotional experience (Plato, 1974). Subsequently feeding into the Cartesian law, these splits also endorsed artistic and athletic pursuits as part of the grand Western civilising process, which managed emotions in the name of world peace (Wenning, 2009, p. 93; Freud, 1948, 1967, 2002). This civilising process was acclimatised in Greece through Byzantine theological appropria­ tions of Platonic idealism, which encouraged a compartmentalisation of worldview (kosmotheorίa), ontology and biotheory (Matsoukas, 1994, pp. 35–36). In the context of Humanity 2.0, modern Greek thought would struggle to follow the Western combinations of ecological, biomedical and cybernetic interests (Fuller, 2012, p. 122). The misalignment was historical and based on the Greek religious institutions’ rejection of the suggestion that we may have reached a posthuman age, where human survival (pragmatism) is vitally dependent on embracing ecofriendly values (ideals). Reading these expulsions against the psychologisation of the emotional sphere discussed by Bataille and Butler or alongside a critique of Hermann Schmitz’s introjectionist metaphysics, may help us to understand how at least

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one version of Greek modernity is organised atmospherically. Vrotoί fea­ tured as humans with knowledge of their finitude, hence reminders of nat­ ure’s rebellion against the divine orders, thanks to their ability to give birth (i.e. regenerate humanity). Because their physis allowed reproduction, the vrotés/oί also came to embody the fearful demonic forces that Marxist and Weberian theory associated with revolution and charisma (Tilly, 1984, p. 13). However, the idea of vrotós was modelled first by Andalusian Ibn Rushd (Averroës, 1126–1198), who advocated that only physical arguments can explain physical things. In reaching his conclusion, he was assisted by Isla­ mic and Zoroastrian astrological work that comes closer to the organisa­ tional proto-sociology of state management (Kennedy and Pingree, 1971, pp. 51–52). Again, in a repressed non-Western pathway to modernity (Averroës), we uncover a definitional archaeological lifeline for the explorer. This time, the explorer is a subject on the one hand enjoying an elusive mal (‘pain’ – i.e. not breathing and liking the ordeal) without pragmatic purposes (Sartre, [1943] 1978, p. 333) and on the other employing reasonableness to develop or participate in a collective idea(l) (i.e. ecological protection). In order to reach these ideals, the explorer cannot just feed their mind and eyes, but use their whole being in their adventure. Their aspiration has also some practical requirements, which involve engagement with the world of money, markets and allegedly ‘shady’ transactions. From Hindu and Buddhist cosmological registers freedivers also reportedly borrow techniques of divination, which they use as means of survival (e.g. yoga to control breathing – see Kontos Interview. 30 November 2018). From both ancient Greek and Christian Orthodox points of view, the immersive explorer is a vrotós with a corrupt cosmetic cosmopolitan project. The transformation of religious content into an aesthetics of the body that borrows from strategies of survival represents a radical break in con­ temporary Greek cosmology. This aesthetics mobilises old atmospheric nar­ ratives of Islamic darkness to produce a controversial proposal of human emancipation by means of play. There is an aesthetic dimension in freediving edgework, which Lyng’s (1990) original thesis encapsulates only partially. This partiality challenges us to extend our observations on cultural prag­ matics to the contemporary Greek context of existential/experiential, rather than political crisis. I contend that the spectacularisation and artistic refine­ ment of such extreme sports in new Greek media sites relays the experience of a Greek identity that is, once again, socially downgraded on the European order of things. The freediving mal metaphorises what is perceived as the affliction of the Greek society: it exposes its ‘decay’ as an atmospheric force that pervades the human subjects’ peri-corporeal space and a pathological (from páthos: suffering and affect) climate. This atmospheric force has a dual action: ‘on the one hand it calls for a kind of “helpless activity” (a sense of oppression); on the other, it promotes attention, even of a social kind, for the sufferer’ (Griffero, 2017, p. 70; emphasis mine).

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The metaphor (as transfer) of physiological pain to the domain of the collective Greek psyche problematises our relationship with the world (it ‘worldmakes’ experientially and from below), pointing to a symbolic and sacred experience as a sort of memento mori revealing the limits of humankind (Le Breton, 2017, p. 19). Greece’s current economic crisis (Knight, 2017, 2018) allows a very old Greek pessimism rooted in notions of moíra (μοίρα) or fate to re-emerge, whereas the stylistics of play are called upon to stage it. Moíra is a manifestation of the ‘fact’ that activity-dependence structures ‘can be affirmed in only one acceptable way: by reference to the activities of the long dead’ (Archer, 1998, p. 63; Taussig, 1997, p. 4). By this I mean that moíra’s historicity (the genealogy of the Greek crisis) is poetic, in the sense that it ‘shatters the uniform surface of the present’ (Ser­ emetakis, 2009, p. 339) to re-arrange its pieces in appropriate, topical contexts. The term refers to the allocation of positive and negative events during one’s life course, an activity often transferrable in everyday parlance to communal move­ ment in time (‘the Greek nation’s moíra’14). The poetics of pain produce what Sorokin calls a ‘Gesamtperson’: a synthesis of the freediving community’s Leben­ gemeinschaft15 and a community formed on utilitarian or commercial/contractual ends or Gesellschaft (Tönnies, [1887] 1955). The Gesamtperson is a complex collective personality, which exists as an idea binding multiple subjects on the basis of love and a ‘common fund of supreme values’ (Sorokin, 1969, p. 114). The empathic nature of this collective person­ ality can become pathological under extreme duress (Scheler, 2008). It is no wonder that, especially in Greek urban centres, where people suffer most, practices of divination have picked up since 2008: everybody wants to know what their future holds in a state with an insecure future (Seremetakis, 1991, p. 48; Seremetakis, 2009, p. 340). Sympathetic magics enable a participatory mode of communication that moves human subjects with atmospheres in the world (Krebs, 2017, pp. 1428–1429; Scheler, 1954), nourishing their emotions of solidarity or mourning so that it brings small (e.g. a freediving) and large (e. g. a national) communities into life (Ahmed and Fortier, 2003; Ahmed, 2007, 2014). Stefanos’ invocation of professional knowledge is a form of divination seeking to master not the future, but one’s knowledge of it: the freediver gets to live, if (s)he knows how to control breathing. However, this does not beat the moíra, it just has recourse to a language of violation of intimacy through a sort of ‘forensic’ exploration of one’s body (Appadurai, 1998) so that it consolidates the ‘civil-ness’ of the freediving pursuit. Freediving as a metaphor of existential crisis creates a crossroad between deep aesthetic structures and agencies –what, following Chiapello (2004) and Sontag ([1966] 2013), emerges in our analytical journey as the artist, avant-garde critque of contemporary capitalism.

Deep aesthetic structures and agencies When we arrive at Greece’s techno-tourist modernity, the moving image takes over articulations of civility to insert the country into global business and

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political networks. Not only do these networks exert control over the moving image, they overdetermine the image of the countries with which they partner (Cunningham, 2008; Scott, 2008; Mowforth and Munt, 2015). Image-making and image-fixing of this kind used to be managed exclusively by the largest metropolitan centres of the country. These days, regional networking gave the same power not just to local urban centres (Soja, 2011), but also smaller administrative units at the countries’ geographical margins (Dredge, 2006; Bramwell, 2006, 2011; Bramwell and Meyer, 2007; Sheller, 2009; Tzanelli, 2011). Nevertheless, if indeed, the new spirit of capitalism is pragmatically equipped with both profit-creation and reflexivity that allows its agents to trade universal principles for profit-making,16 then urban/metropolitan cen­ tres with organised media and tourist infrastructures still act as its trusted spokespersons. Reflexive organisation with a moral compass (justice) is easier said than done in cashless contexts such as those of Greece, pushing social agents to replace justice with demands for reputation-building, industrial development, commercial progress and general accomplishment of inspira­ tions to global recognition (Boltanski and Chiapello, 2018, pp. 22–24). Paradoxically, where the aspiration to conform or surpass the standards of Western and European civility internally suppresses any deviation from these standards (e.g. being part of a freediving community), externally, it produces an environment conducive to normative anomie so that it enables actors to achieve this integration into European and Western markets.17 The violence of this anomic form of agency is institutional (it can be supported by the state, the educational system or the media) and begins with a semantic reor­ ganisation of the local experience (Ray, 2018): unlike the natural time that material markers (a Monastery) take to develop into symbols, connections between filmic techniques18 and the filmed object produce ever-faster sig­ nification (the Monastery in Le Grande Bleu). Peirce refutes the argument put forth by film semioticians, such as Christian Metz (1977, pp. 1–2), that images possess a syntax: what we truly have, Peirce argues, is perceptual judgement that represents an existential relation between the perceiver and the perceived. But where in real-time perception is existentially integrated into our precepts (our immediate encounter with the world), in film we partake in a de-prag­ matisation of experience, because we are physically apart from the filmic event: we ‘study’ it, like a phenomenological map, a diagram akin to Stefanos’ Exhibition brochure (Itkonen, 2005). To better connect these ideas to our case: the cinematic medium enters the Greek phenomenological Raum not to reveal, but to invent modernity in a unique meta-ontological fashion or ‘style’, in Simmel’s terms. One may have to be sceptical toward normative appreciations of meta-ontologies, such as the ones we find in Gilles Deleuze’s ([1985] 2010) ‘good’ (high art) and ‘bad’ (cheap or kitsch) film: not only do they assume that pedagogy relies on a fixed perception of beauty as a good social order, they neglect to explore the ways the art’s technological body contributes to revelations of a subjective,

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embodied vision, which structures experience privately (Sobchack, 1992). The introduction of the viewer to an ‘unconscious optics’ (in Benjamin’s [1936] 1968 terms) by the camera, which can now be brought to conscious­ ness19, should make us rethink what we do, who we are and what our place is in the world at different times. All we need to do now is connect the intrusion of this techno-tourist modernity to stylistic representations of Greekness, to ascertain how they affect Greek culture’s schematisation in the grand scheme of world poetics. Where such poetics infuse the social and cultural world with magical realist atmospheres of hope and possibility, politics enmesh possibilities into con­ crete projects of development. I will not attribute ‘faulty’ feedback loops and errors of development solely to global capitalist structures or neoliberal ideology: the problem is more complex and brings, in my opinion, native structures of prejudice into play in more than one ways. Also, considering native violence in contexts of development as a reactive mechanism to foreign intrusion justified by the ‘circumstances’ will not get us very far. Although many things can go wrong during the morphogenesis of developmental action, a lot of mishaps can also be rectified or critiqued by social actors. The absence of such actors will lead us back to an examination of the persistence of local prejudice and endemic inequality. If tackled at the level of repre­ sentation, which is amenable to tourism and media development, the effects of critique depend on the circumstantial and contingent status of these actors­ come-agents, such as Stefanos. To emphasise Archer’s (1998, p. 366) cautionary note, the long dead continue to rule the social life of the living for a long time after their departure: structures of prejudice and inequality they endorsed or endured in silence will ‘continue to feature in present structures, despite strenuous efforts of current actors to change them, as [is the case] with racism and sexism’ (emphasis mine). Barthes (1981, p. 71) notoriously argued that the Greeks ‘entered into death backward: what they had before them was their past’. This prompts one to ask if heritage is getting in the way of the nation’s future prospects and how. We have, therefore, arrived at the axiological nexus of tourism and media mobilities with older native systems of thought, such as the religious ones that I presented above. As Bærenholdt et al. (2004) explain, places are today ‘staged’ and performed by visitors via tourist networks. Such networks are increasingly generated by media pilgrimages to places that feature in films (Reijnders, 2011, 2016).20 Since the 2008 global economic slide, Greek tourist organisations and state agents have been proactive in attracting global media business to island and urban sites. Even when such initiatives have been con­ troversial or disorganised, they persisted in this course of action, because Greece’s place-capital is connected to tourism and image-management (Basea, 2012; Papadimitriou, 2012; Tzanelli, 2013). Papadimitriou (2017) explains that the crisis also generated a centrifugal style of filmmaking development with three distinctive trends: intensified search for transnational

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co-productions; solidarity among filmmakers, who prefer to work in each other’s projects without getting paid, or deferring payment; and ‘crowdfund­ ing’ or direct appeal to the public for funds via specialised websites. Not only does this tripartite style match Stefanos’ ethics of (net)working, despite his connections with international business, it communicates with the spirit of solidary networks within urban centres, where people suffer most. Please note that I do not claim that Stefanos and his peers are on a par with the masses suffering poverty in Greece. My observation, which will lead to a critique of standard pragmatic assessments of class in Western academia, is of a different order, and unfolds in Part II. As explained above, not all strenuous efforts to change the status quo will yield good results. A crucial axiological fusion between Greek and Western media representations was promoted from the 1970s, which is the decade of island touristification in Greece. The Greek cinematic musical of the 1970s connected a country still en route to modernisation to Western popular scenes without losing its relevance to Greek cultural themes (Papadimitriou, 2000): unfolding changing social mores and generational dissonance against increasingly touristified Greek landscapes, it educated native audiences on imagined intercultural exchange via cinematic characters, often fraught with wild gender, ethnic and sexual stereotyping. Notably, the circulation of gen­ dered, sexual and ethno-racial stereotypes in these films, which almost always concluded with the triumph of Greek heterosexual family values, did not differ that much from Besson’s late-1980s portrayal of human characters in a freediving island competition. The whirlwind of sexual revolution and youth emancipation was strong, but its impact in la longue durée of social pre­ sentation (Darstellung) was yet to come. Within Greece, a dictatorship that ended in 1974, left indelible traumas on the social fabric: not only did it consolidate ethno-racial prejudice against Eastern and Western neighbours and foes; on the other, it intensified the interplay between patriotic and het­ erosexual values (Tzanelli, 2011). The introduction of multiple cultural styles affected the phenomenal coordinates of Greek perception: the nation’s encounters with non-European deep cultural mores, such as that of its Islamic Turkish neighbours would be registered as one of the intimate faces of Greek modernity and marketed abroad in feminine cinematic characters (ibid.). Encounters with Western others retained an ambivalent antagonistic and judgemental quality for their disrespect for tradition. At the same time, Greek cultural creators displayed a propensity to mimic styles, which were perceived to project a progressive (connective) Greek outlook. This ambivalence, which responds to the ima­ ginary European accusation that Greece never managed to fully modernise, partly explains why the modern Greek aesthetic is outwardly playful but serious in its self-regard all the way down. Above all, however, it explains why its intimate face has a hermaphrodite relationship with the world of international scheming: although it acknowledges its formation in webs of

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political/ocular power and thus its interpellation as a being suffering from ‘arrested development’, it always resorts to (counter-)developing a poetics of distant performativity. This is informed by techniques and increasingly also audio-visual technologies of theatrical staging, in which spectators (the powers that be) can see the drama and its actors in ornamental contexts and agreeable situations, but not necessarily comprehend that they deal with a tragic comedy akin to Bhabha’s mimicry (1994), with its double effect of imitation/parody and subordination/resistance. At times, the contemporary Greek aesthetic sensibility emulates that of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century Greek peasant women, who used to hide behind window shutters to inspect Western travellers without allowing them to do likewise. This game of concealment involved making the Western tra­ veller aware of these women’s presence and stylistics of evasion by the shadow they cast on the window’s shutters (Tzanelli, 2008, p. 84) – a sort of desire to be noticed but not poked and ‘dissected’ by the gaze. Consider for a moment Barthes’ (1981, p. 13) suggestion that, in front of the lens, the human subject can be ‘the one they think [they are], the one [they want] others to think [they are], the one the photographer thinks [they are], and the one he [sic] makes use of to exhibit his [sic] art’. Although his observations are useful to com­ prehend the theatrical plot as a form of performance ‘passing’ (à la Goffman), they do not explain the actors’ performativity as processual therapeutics of evasion. If we follow Barthes blindly, we would have to succumb to uni­ versalistic thinking or a lazy reading of cosmopolitanism as analogous and compatible forms of being and practice,21 agreeing to a set of ethical ‘guide­ lines’ all cultures have to follow.22 As a ‘comedy of work’ (Bataille, 2018, p. 236), the risky Greek dialogic aesthetic counters the principles of play while employing them to enable public engagement. My turn to a discussion about the role of female performativity in Greek culture serves to highlight the prevalence of an analogical thinking between gender and racial inequalities, which continues to stand at the heart of Eur­ opean national politics and the international surge in neoliberal structurations of labour (Walby, 2011, chapter 7). It has been suggested that different defi­ nitions of the ‘knowledge economy’ will yield different perspectives on gen­ dered inequality: the more centred is the definition on technology and fixed capital, the more masculine it is, whereas the more centred on human capital, the more gender-balanced it becomes (Walby, 2018). A hermaphrodite dialo­ gic aesthetic does not wish to choose between these two options but works instead ‘on a single breath’ in a magical-realist style. This style acknowledges the pragmatic demands of the international field but is selective in its aes­ thetic techniques of engagement to navigate a political and economic chaos. This aesthetics fuses the realities of ‘can do’ with fanciful enactments of ‘it is possible in my dreams’. A belief that extraordinary things can happen in ordinary settings is the paragon of Greek notions of hope, which today sur­ vive even the harshest economic winter (Arampatzi, 2017).

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My analogy between performative cultural strategy and freediving resides on my observation that everyday Greek actors often choose to work on the edge of chaos but equally often withdraw from the game for pragmatic rea­ sons: the decision to withdraw is a negotiation with the circumstantial poli­ tical and cultural partners and a means of survival (Newmahr, 2011, p. 685). At the highest level of state governance, this has led political formations, such as the previously ruling party of SYRIZA, to swap the cosmology of the victimised guerrilla fighter who can only be protected by amoral familist networks (Marangudakis, 2019, p. 243), with that of the flexible businessman, who can dream of a better Greek future in the company of troika managers. However, against such dystopian formations of subjectivity, a new style of solidarity-as-survival emerged in everyday life. This revived the ideal of toge­ therness, which does not hesitate to employ the tools of technological selfpresentation to respond to adversity, therefore working in complicity with what indignant Greeks otherwise recognise as the tools of Western European hegemony (Theodossopoulos, 2014). The stylistics of solidarity make one recall the second reading’s observations on the phenomenology of the Asian shadow theatre: in it, characters ‘shadow’ ideal times of being and magical forms of action, so they do not exist as individuals with distinctive personal­ ities in the way ‘personality’ is conceived of in Western sociology (Simmel, 1986, p. 40). The employment of abstraction that is always attributed to the dark magics of Western economic violence is turned into a tool of resistance: it exorcises the evil eye of austerity. This exorcism is akin to Schopenhauer’s metaphysics, in which imagination and will are naturalised through the workings of the body in an inverse Cartesian mode (Schopenhauer, 1958, p. 348): the body does things separately from, and before the mind, ‘on a single breath’, like a freediver, who encounters the world in its raw form. I cannot stress enough that, despite its theatricality, the Greek ‘edge’ is neither a fun activity, nor part of a Western specie ludi. Huizinga ([1949] 2016, p. xi) dedicates a whole chapter to explaining why play should histori­ cally be seen not just as a Western civilisational species/category, but the modus vivendi of civilisation in its early phases (ibid.; emphasis mine). This linear look at the development of play into a singular civilisational force obscures the significance of his otherwise useful argument that world imperi­ alism was based on the modus operandi of world emporium (ibid., pp. 174– 175) and that potlatch-like play rituals permeated the public sphere even before modernity (ibid., p. 178). Huizinga explains in the same chapter that, until before the industrial revolution and the mechanisation of the world, play remained constitutive of different epochal styles in art and everyday life and laments the rise of professionalism in Western modernity for contributing to its disappearance from social life (ibid., pp. 197–198). In line with Benjamin’s ([1936] 1968) analysis of the fate of art in modern times, he stresses that, because since the eighteenth century, art styles were regimented into produc­ tion techniques (e.g. impressionism, cubism and so forth), art ‘lost, rather

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than gained in playfulness’ (Huizinga, [1949] 2016, pp. 202, 204, 206). If so, Part II offers glimpses into a similar process of rationalisation from a nonWestern viewpoint. Its principal aim is to contextualise the process under which an embodied creative craftsmomentum had to undergo a Western and European process of abstraction and disembodiment. These adjustments are observed through a progressive adjustment of Stefanos’ image in national, international and independent media circuits. This adjustment conforms to gender normalisation but produces a ‘play’ and a ‘character’ that conform to a deep ethno-racial plot, so ‘gender’ becomes a metaphor for race. It would be unwise to ‘read’ this magic independently from Greece's current political, cultural and economic transformations, as these feed into touristification and media management.

PART II Symbolic centripetalism: natality and biopolitical freedom By detaching themselves from formal creative production, the ‘On a Single Breath’ team is allowed as a collectivity to belong in moral spheres of being that defy nationalist objectives. To follow Boltanski and Chiapello’s (2018, pp. 4–5) terminology, while there is little ‘voluntary subjection’ of the team’s labour to production objectives, the team does not have to distance itself from conceptions of the common good (ibid., p. 21). Nevertheless, this does not mean that, as a collective endeavour, the Underwater Gallery is not digitally co-opted by differ­ ent constituencies, including that of the principal ‘worldmaking author’ in tour­ ism (Hollinshead, 2009a, 2009b; Hollinshead et. al., 2009): the Greek state. As a node that binds multiple automobile infrastructures and forms of travel (Sheller, 2009), Amorgos weaves this project’s iconic potential into national worldmaking ventures, attesting once again the legerdemain of tourism (Hollinshead, 1999b). Because of tourism’s developmental malleability, Stefanos’ magical-realist indi­ viduality becomes a target: he will not be left alone to explore the interior of his self any more, nor will he avoid media interpellation. Before I proceed to analyse Stefanos’ interpellation in media networks, I must provide a general background to phenomena pertaining to the struc­ turation of natality in connection to European conceptions of being the per­ fect human. This will complement last section’s analysis of specific pragmatic translations of this generic dogma in Greek thought and action over the cen­ turies. Notably, feminist social theorists argued that, early on in modernity, Western and European discourses of being sought to connect the myth of creative imagination to the masculinisation of human freedom at large. Romantic reactions to the spread of mechanical materialism and rationalism that alienated humans from the natural world triggered a biocentric move­ ment. According to this movement’s philosophy, the (hetero)sexual order had

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to evolve into the principal teleological governing force in Western societies (Garlick, 2009, pp. 95–97). Indeed, Romantic artists such as Goethe, who rejected the emergent positivist paradigm, pushed for the adoption of an alternative ‘Romantic biology’ as an essential step toward the orderly struc­ turing of life, which should be based on the coexistence of two sexual polar opposites, the male and the female (Tantillo, 1998, p. 124). Simultaneously, the myth of the perfect autogenetic being that is entirely self-contained was juxtaposed to the embodied sensory and sexualised being exerting biological power over the world (Irigaray, 1974; Mouffe et al., 1997). Paradoxically, this perfect (hu)man being’s a-sensual character recon­ ciled his anaesthetic protuberance with the display of a sexual propensity towards phallic behaviour. There has been complete silence over the widespread recognition of this behaviour’s cultural likeness to the Islamic code of honour, according to which women carry the shame of the clan and therefore have to abstain from public life.23 Indeed, the same silence permeates Greek sexist structures to date. Buck-Morss (1992, pp. 9–10) opts to explain this paradox’s prevalence in Romantic thought through the role of the aesthetic in Kant’s thesis on the critique of judgement. His elevation of the fearless warrior to higher aesthetic esteem than the artist was based on the former’s contribution to shaping reality (be an actor) – in opposition to the latter’s propensity to manage representations (be a spectator). Kant’s aesthetic production of the perfect autogenetic prototype mirrored that of the Judeo-Christian God, which is equivalent to the Greek ánthropos. This led to the aesthetics’ absence from the Second Cri­ tique and the robbing of its sensory capabilities in the Third Critique: the perfect Man was supposed to be ‘sense dead from the start’ (ibid., p. 9). There is more to tease out, if we adapt this Kantian God to the modern Greek context: following the Christian Orthodox norm of purposeful hetero­ philia (i.e. family-making as its telos), the Kantian transcendental subject should also not succumb to homophilic sensibilities, which culturally are asso­ ciated with the Hellenic aesthetic. This aesthetic is rooted in the beautiful marble bodies of male warriors that haunted modern Greek education and national imagination, in which Europeanisation is still prevalent (Tziovas, 1997; Shannan Peckham, 2001; Athanassopoulos, 2002; Kazamias, 2009). The pur­ ging of the senses was also supposed to preserve the perfect Man’s autonomy by keeping at bay his susceptibility to tears and sympathy, something asso­ ciated with the ‘Oriental voluptuaries’ (Kant, 1987, p. 133 in Buck-Morss, 1992, p. 9). The Western father of atmospheres, Heidegger, did great damage to understandings of subjectivity by reproducing the ‘same neglect of sexual dif­ ference that has been inscribed throughout the history of Western metaphysics’ (van Leeuwen, 2010, p. 111). Associations of sense-making with effeminacy, Orientalism and passivity, reserved the ‘good qualities’ for humanity’s male counterpart: a rational actor that shapes the world (Tzanelli, 2011, pp. 132, 139). Stripped of his carnal aspects, this version of the human foreclosed any

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possibility of ‘interrogating the meaning of Being in terms of carnality or materiality’ (van Leeuwen, 2010, p. 120). The project of Western modernity laid its foundations on sexism and racism – what Heidegger read into Nietzs­ che’s ‘Mannesaesthetik’ (Heidegger, quoted in Buck-Morss, 1992, p. 10). It is wrong to think of this genealogy as irrelevant to tourism or artistic worldmaking. The split between action and spectatorship produced a sec­ ondary division between popular wisdom (Ricoeur’s [1993] ‘practical wisdom’) and authorial knowledge (policy-making, tourism worldmaking) that, under certain conditions, fosters authoritarianism. Authoritarian authorship24 brings into play genetic explanations of heritage and patronage: in the case of touristic and artistic worldmaking, who is authorised to make beauty, safeguard it from enemies, display it to visitors and exploit it as a national/natural resource. The purpose of such ‘explanations’ is ‘to coordinate an ontogenesis and a phylogenesis within one fundamental history, which could be called the history of desire and authority’ (Ricoeur, 1970, p. 179; Pellauer, 2007, p. 50). In this history, practical wisdom (and, by extension, folk and popular culture) are stereotyped Eastern, feminine and synaesthy­ matikí (emotional), therefore, unable to control their inflated imagination. Contrariwise, active policy world-making is stereotyped rational and anaes­ thetic – therefore, fit to create orderly realities. As I proceed to explain in the following pages, the subordination of what Nietzsche calls ‘Weibesaesthe­ tik’,25 to the rules of governance, would lead to practices we know today as populism, laicism and xenophobia. This hegemonic aversion to Weibesaesthetik encompassed everything deemed socially disreputable and therefore identified as an alien (to Western modernity) body – an accursed excess that must be discarded, sequestered or eliminated. The response would generate an equally virulent climate of exclu­ sion, only this time, the excluded was everything standing against modernity’s civilised achievement. Laclau (2005, pp. 4–5) is only partly right, when he argues that populism serves as an irrational appeal to the ontological condition of the people. Irrationality may be the outcome of the exclusion, but it is only one of the many consequences of a long process, in the course of which ‘The People’ draw on cultural archetypes to deliberate on their perceived conditions of marginalisation. This process certainly contains pre-logical affective moments, but it always enters the stage of conscious deliberation: a sort of collective ‘internal conversation’ (Archer, 2003, 2013). The mocked and effeminate good folk is such an archetypal product of the deliberative stage. Perhaps now we can understand why Stefanos’ (Greek) hermaphrodite selfexpression is in danger: as a self-taught photographer, cinematographer and webpage developer for his freediving group, he is a bit too close to practical wisdom; as a daring edgeworker, he is wasting his warrior skills in a synaes­ thetic adventure that preserves immediate contact with the world of nature and emotions. However, as a group leader and an artist displaying Greek heritage to the masses, he can employ the modern ‘“protective eye” [cameras]

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that wards off impressions’ (Buck-Morss, 1992, p. 18) against the popularcultural eye of embodied experience that wards off the technologies of dis­ tance (Seremetakis, 2009). The association of this anaesthetics with mechan­ ical technics can be likened to commoditised pilgrimages with no purpose other than the calming of the tourist nerves – what Dann and Parrinello (2009) identified in the reasonableness of the institution of holidays as a human right in interwar Europe. This double ‘repeat prescription’ of artisticeducational valorisation and emotional incapacitation is not, strictly speak­ ing, administered by the biopolitical state, whose role is to resolve ambiguity (Butler, 1990; Dean, 2013). On the contrary, it depends on the free flow of prejudice in society in the form of discourses, from which state institutions can and do borrow, as an interpretation of Herzfeld’s (2005) social poetics. For those averse to representational analysis, one may note that the hatred toward homosexuality is a real modern Greek problem: there is little toler­ ance of it in modern Greek culture, especially in smaller communities, in which being gay is a stigma comparable to other ‘eugenic failures’ such as sickness, deformity or disability (Loizos and Papataxiarchis, 1991; Just, 2008, pp. 172–9). There is certainty that gay people will not – indeed cannot – marry, given the stance of the Orthodox religious establishment to homo­ sexuality (Kirtsoglou, 2004). However, realist politics aside, at the level of representation and self-presentation, Greek institutional biopolitics’ indelible dark source emanates from the very discourses of Romantic biocentrism that brought European nation-states to life in the postcolonial era. It is the nation­ state’s European and Western discursive foundations that have been the ori­ ginal carriers of sexism and racism, among other things (Walby, 2011). It is not unexpected to hear Stefanos discussing his project in international media in a more rational style than that employed in his endearing confession to me about the feelings he experiences during freediving expeditions. Stefa­ nos’ ‘egos’ or ‘selves’ produce different dynamic constellations of material, spiritual and social nature in different contexts of social interaction (Sorokin, 1969, p. 346, p. 351; Manning, 2013). In formal mediatised contexts, priority is given to his insertion into those institutional and business networks whose support he needs to carry his vision forward. This harmonious alignment of his and the institution’s ego constellations prescribe to Stefanos some duties that exceed his personal values (e.g. act as a Greek citizen and member of a vocational freediving group – Sorokin, 1969, p. 352). Listen to what he has to say about the organisation of his project to Huffington: ‘My aim was to create an experience that embraced art, civilisation, athleticism and ecology, but also to promote the numerous beauties of Greece – and I believed that together with my team, this was succeeded’ (Huffpost Greece, 11 October 2018; emphasis mine). In this discourse, which stereotypically masculinises his activities (Irwin, 2004; Berger et al., 2012; Kidd, 2013), Stefanos’ natality is separated from his anarchic community’s belonging, so that it is better ‘choreopoliced’ (Lepecki,

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2013) by national institutions. The notion of choreopolicing refers both to institutional scrutinisation and sorting of subjectivities in the classical Fou­ caultian sense, as well as their digital articulation in an organised, musicdance lifestyle. Simmel’s observation that ‘creative life constantly produces something which is not itself life, something on which it somehow peters out, something which raises its own opposing legal claim’ is pertinent (Simmel, 1997e, p. 103). This independent (from life) expression of creative life signifies what Foucault terms biopolitics, in particular juxtaposition to Arendt’s con­ ception of natality in formations of identity and participations in nonnational or post-national communities. In other words, Stefanos ends up being interpellated through a series of strategic media representations as the unique, authentic male artist, who speaks the language of Greek heritage. But it would also be incorrect to see this discursive adjustment as part of a Greek national field producing ‘ex nihilo’, to remember Smith’s (1995) response to Gellner’s (1983) analysis of ethnogenesis. The Greek cultural field interacts with contemporary European cultural and political expectations, so any sty­ listic adjustments to representations and self-presentations are also affected by them (on situating action through interpretation see Dewey, 1910; Thomas and Znaniecki, 1926). As a consequence, in interviews Stefanos is interpellated as a solitary artist, with his peers demoted to helpers (e.g. see Novak, 28 September 2018). This ubiquitous representation (Vorstellung), which is in line also with Besson’s overtly sexist rendition of the two protagonist freedivers as creators of worlds (in contradistinction to their love object, Johana Baker [Rosanna Arquette], who is overwhelmed by a desire to have a baby), signifies creativity and ori­ ginality as a male quality. Casting now Stefanos as an artist, the representa­ tion aligns with European tropes of the male artistic genius under which women’s (i.e. the other synaesthetic freedivers’) contributions are subsumed (Chadwick, 1996, p. 20). The Greek cosmic drama of fragmented moder­ nisation and pluralisation comes back to haunt Greek-made Vorstellungen, which seem unable to separate ‘the question of artistic style from the inscrip­ tion of sexual difference in representation’ (ibid., p. 25). The presence of hierarchy in the freediving/artistic community becomes complicit in such representations and Stefanos is comfortably cast as ‘the soul and organiser of the venture, which countenances a utopia’ (Axia News, 7 October 2018). Gone now is the craftsmomentum as a process of knowledgeability, with all its performative iterations and emotive trials Stefanos inti­ mated to me. Gone is Stefanos the craftsworker who learns while doing – for this would mar the long-standing European bourgeois admission that women’s ‘art’ is an extension of their domestic ‘refining’ role in society, which is essentially linked to reproduction (Chadwick, 1996, p. 40). We must bear in mind that craftwork is both a relic of the Greek past that can achieve mini­ mum recognition in tourism for its exotic quality (Graburn, 2009, pp. 413– 414) and a traditional manual activity/labour that presents its performers as

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humans dealing in reality rather than abstraction (Herzfeld, 2004, p. 33). This means that it has an ambiguous place both in Eurocentric value hierarchies26 and in a prevailing gender order of things.27 In short, although crafts have become part of nationalised (masculinised) and commoditised (feminised) folklore that is ‘associated with the emergence of national consciousness and glorified as the repository of ancient skills’ (ibid., p. 5), the decline in institu­ tional support and recruitment of young apprentices has led to the profes­ sion’s symbolic emasculation. The tertiary revision of Stefanos’ performance of the craftsmomentum addresses these antithetical registers of value, which both denigrate and praise craft. The masculine version of Stefanos becomes a dark traveller of his home­ land, who records Greek landscapes. At first, he explains to me that the pre­ sentation of Greek underwater environments is only ‘one of his objectives’, because ‘this part of the Mediterranean has distinct motifs and character­ istics’, but of course ‘this beauty is also global’ (Kontos Interview. 30 November 2018). However, with some encouragement by his interlocutors, in nearly all press and TV interviews, his attempt to internationalise these seas­ capes gives way to references to their distinctive Greekness (Novak, 28 Sep­ tember 2018). This code-switching is present even in our discussions of his work as an activity endorsing memory-work. When this occurs, he openly nationalises his worldmaking endeavours: It is as if we compare a climber training and succeeding in reaching the top of Everest, and someone doing so on a helicopter, landing on it and taking a photograph. If someone claimed that is the same photograph, it would be a mistake. A photo includes the trip you took to get there, it is what Homer was trying to explain when he was talking about the value of the destination as opposed to the trip that goes beyond your destina­ tion. This may relate to ancient Greek values and culture. I think freediving is the very essence of the value of that trip. (Kontos Interview. 30 November 2018) This ‘trip’ is for Stefanos as spherological as that of freediving or mountainclimbing, because it invites the subject to experience things from below and within a life sphere (Olwig, 2008; Sloterdijk, [1998] 2011; Ingold, 2011). It is also a journey, whose nature is timeless and spatio-temporalised at the same time, through the establishment of a questionable genealogy of Greekness stretching all the way back to antiquity without any interruptions. Once again, Stefanos rejects the idea that the use of technological means (the helicopter’s aerial eye view) enables the subject’s authentic world-engage­ ment and experience. But, at the same time, his genealogical placement of the ‘trip’ as a singular experience, brackets it out and emplaces it in a par­ ticular lifeworld. Ironically, this process approximates ‘gardening’ as a pho­ tographic style, a selective vision that produces out-of-place myths awaiting

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new classification (Urry and Larsen, 2011, p. 174). However, this gardening also appeals to biopolitical sorting (Bauman, 1992, p. 178), which allows the nation-state to weed out ‘disruptive’ elements from the body politic and plant in their place beautiful flowers.28 Either as a masculine craftsworker or as a feminised patio decorator, Stefanos is not a weed, as long as he allows the state to ‘handle’ him.

From choreopolicing to magical-realist ballet: exorcising morphostatic discourse In the second reading, Stefanos’ recording of freediver John’s movement into a narrow cave, was discussed as an example of freediving consociateship. I used the term ‘ballet’ from design mobilities (Jensen, 2014, p. 50) to describe the affective and embodied language that develops between the recorded and recording freedivers in the sphere of social action (the deep sea). This lan­ guage is not constricted but enabled by technology, an observation inviting us to rethink its value in more amenable terms than those suggested by Benja­ min or Buck-Morss. Without ignoring its structuralist and systemic uses in the hands of power, or its implication in morphostatic discourses,29 I want to suggest the presence of agential (magical) realism on other occasions. Stefanos’ emergence in media discourses as an autotelic Greek European subject can and is countered by his actions and reactions to systemic representations. This section takes the long genealogical road of representational emergence, which is tied to image-making practices in Greece as a media and tourist destination. In their own conjuncture, Stefanos and his peers’ response to structural and systemic representationalism provide social theorists with a primer in magical realist action. Operating within the coordinates of Stefanos’ heritage and indebtedness to the long dead of the Greek land, these magical realist poetics attempt to exorcise Greece’s fearsome phantom of authoritar­ ianism. Originally operating in liaison with cryptocolonial demands of Eur­ opeanisation, in postwar years this phantom transformed into the dark project of laicism and populism, which was embraced both by dictators and socialist rebels. In these contexts, Stefanos’ ghosting is masculinised and feminised in turns: the last postwar Greek dictatorship (1967–1974) happily promoted the coun­ try’s and its political saviours’ image as warriors-philanthropists. This involved forging an aggressive Islamophobic policy against Turkey, a Euro­ philic and Westernphilic alliance with Britain and the United States, and a domestic policy of housing the refugees from Asia Minor in exchange for their loyalty to the ultra-conservative values of ‘πατρίς [patrís: motherland], θρησκεία [thriskeía: Orthodox Christian religion] and οικογένεια [oikogéneia: heterosexual family]’ (Herzfeld, 1986, p. 141). The aesthetics of the author­ itarian being matched those of the Kantian autotelic subject, who lives with­ out feeling and rules the world in a phalologocentric style. The reaction of the

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hunted and (self-)exiled socialist-anarchist communes of artists has been equally interesting: those who stayed at home developed a pacifist guerrilla tactics of speaking truth to power in musical riddles that the dictatorship could not understand, whereas those who moved abroad made a career by promoting distinctive images of Greekness in film and music (Doulis, 2011). From the latter, two contradictory feminine icons resurrected the Cartesian split between ideality and reality, mind and body/emotions (Tzanelli, 2011, pp. 140–143): the first was of the philanthropic European subject and the second was of the ‘Romaic’ (Romiós-iá: Ρωμιός-ιá: modern descendant of an imaginary monocultural Byzantine-Greek culture – Herzfeld, 1986, pp. 39– 41; Kaplanis, 2014) or hybrid playful Greek-Turkish subject. Despite their resurgent essence, these feminine icons, which were embodied in Nana Mouskouri and Melina Merkouri respectively, had a deep conservative link to narratives of being human. Merkouri’s icon in particular both displayed and displaced Greek culture’s hermaphrodite embodiment – something which may partly explain why she moved in the civil restoration era to serve in Andrea Papandreou’s socialist government (PA.SO.K. or Πανελλήνιο Σοσιαλιστικό Κίνημα: Panhellenic Socialist Movement) as a popular Minister of Culture effortlessly (Spourdalakis, 1996). Merkouri’s propensity to humiliate male authority in public, demand justice from Greece’s former cryptocolonists30 and general emotional and risqué style in decision-making, promoted a brand of Greekness that defied the rules of Western Cartesianism and European civility (Tzanelli, 2011, p. 143). In line with her party’s inclination to please the ‘people’ by praising practical wisdom over intellectual achievement (Mavrogordatos, 1997), Merkouri’s icon was the offspring of what religiously devoted Turks call in contempt laik: a profane civil figure set to upset the Godly order. The matching was paradoxical, given Merkouri’s unquestionable national­ ist love for things Greek and aggressive attitude toward Turkey (Herzfeld, 1987, p. 157). Still, the very same laicist attitude promoted a Greek socialist style that critiqued Western imperialism and cajoled the masses, while pro­ gressively engaging in nepotism and secretive international transactions that, for some, much like the conservative’s political behaviour, should not be dis­ associated from Greece’s current status in the world (Lyrintzis, 2011, p. 22). Such discursive repetitions of stylistic ghosting have been prevalent ever since and guided tourism and media representations of Greekness with alarming popularity at home and abroad. They will take us straight to Stefanos’ strug­ gles for recognition, so we have to follow them in some detail. The same ghostings can now produce fleeting fundamentalisms in the public sphere, if not taken seriously. Praising them as stylistic initiatives without at least some clarification on their advocates’ objectives and aspirations can enhance the populist chaos in which Greece finds itself today. Early in the chapter, I noted how comforting patterns of performativity can reinstate themselves both at individual and collective level in times of crisis

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(Simmel, 1971; Butler, 1993). Such crises may involve the unhinging of identity from its stable referents due to an economic upheaval, among other reasons. I do not wish to promote Greece’s perpetual economic crisis to a single meta-narrative, given that the country’s unique journey in time was shaped by cultural influences also independently from economic conditions. Nor do I wish to lament the suppression of particular cultural forms during its modernisation – and of course, we should be mindful of the power games behind such processes of selectivity (Asad, 1986, 2003). What I want to highlight is that, in the present context, a clash of representational potentialities produces alternative indexical options for discursive presenta­ tions. The media that Stefanos and his sponsors control produce a perfor­ mative potentiality for the freediving artists that stands in stark contrast to that generated by some state-centred media hubs. Which version of their identity is to be trusted then? Whether we approach this as a dialogic clash (Tzanelli, 2008) or even an instance of cosmopolitanisation (Beck, 2000, 2016), there is a lot of work to do on determining the nature of the result, as well as its emotional (rather than normative) content, which is not explored by dominant theories of cosmopolitanism. Herein a battle for the manipulation of the ‘sign’ ensues, which casts its objects/subjects in various roles, shades and, ultimately, atmospheres. At this conjunction, the amiable relationship between capitalism and nationalism can either be strengthened or reinforced: it can be that the former will side with popular culture and the latter with high art and heritage. However, it can also be that nationalism will use consumer-orientated sig­ nification31 as way of creating ‘collective consciousness’ (within the nation hosting tourism), by opening up mythical/magical perspectives (dark tourist heritage narratives). Indeed, this opening stands at the heart of the postcolonial magical realist project’s contribution to nation-building, a process that may even introduce racial ideologies (Martin, 1995, p. 104). Magical realism’s ‘naturalisation of the supernatural’ (Warnes, 2005, p. 2) produces entangled environments of faith and irreverence that correspond to Greece’s entangled (Eastern-Western/European) modernities. To be more precise, it borrows from their genealogies to produce a potent translation of Romantic philosopher Novalis’ reaction to the ‘disenchanting’ logic of the Western Enlightenment (Beiser, 2002, p. 426). Such reaction can also be traced in spatio-temporal overlaps between the announcement of a Neue Sachlichkeit exhibition by Gustav Hartlaub (subse­ quently a victim of Nazist purging) and the successful publication of Hitler’s Mein Kampf (My Struggle) (Guenther, 1995, p. 34). Novalis’ magical-idealist thesis in such contexts may end up endorsing the racialisation of the world – as it really did in the 1930s and the 1940s. Unleashing the ‘conscious primi­ tivism’ of such realist magics has been Italian fascist Massimo Bontempelli’s contribution to Latin American magical realism (Warnes, 2009, p. 28). This was a trend properly introduced in these lands by Uslar-Pietri’s unfortunate

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and regretted connection to Bontempelli and Borges’ open veneration of Novalis (Warnes, 2005, p. 5). Against these frightening connections stands a different version of magical realism that invites healthy epistemological scep­ ticism (Faris, 2004, pp. 1–2) and promotes projects that address common human problems and risks. This is taken up towards the end of this reading in the Greek context of consumerism and in the following reading in an inter­ national context. In the Greek media Stefanos is often cast as an artist with anonymous helpers around him, whereas in independent media channels he is presented as an artworker in a communal endeavour. The Greek Stefanos is developed into a heteronormative value of professional and reliable masculinity, whereas the communal one is a ‘decent’ descendant of the 1960s’ Greek ‘kitsch-man’, a crafty version of ‘aesthetic lying’ to his audiences (Ca˘linescu, 1987). We can examine Merkouri’s icon in similar kitsch terms, but it is important to be gender-consistent. The 1960s’ Greek kitsch-man was embodied by as unedu­ cated heroes of the geographical margin such as Zorba the Greek, who jux­ taposed his honest simplicity to that of foreign tourist gazes (Herzfeld, 2001a, 2005). Much like folk deviant types that national discourses elevated to dig­ nified stereotypes of identity, Zorba the Greek, who was played by a Mexican actor in the film, was the product of Greece’s twentieth-century techno-cul­ tural modernity. Sociological arguments place the ‘kitsch-man’32 in the safe domain of home (Holliday and Potts, 2012, pp. 83, 97, 103), next to the housewife, who beautifies the domestic hearth and raises the children. Zorba the Greek crossed this border because he was, in fact, born outside the domain of home(land), as the child of a group of mobile artists. However, Zorba’s expulsion from the domain of high art obeys the comic’s inherent versatility: frequently entering formal rites of identity, we are reminded that, in fact, the comic genre is the most ‘appropriate aesthetic for the magic of the state’ (Taussig, 1997, p. 94). In cryptocolonial contexts such kitsch forms of deviance become complicit with practices of national(-ist) indexicality to produce ideal meta-imageries of belonging. So, there is precedence when we find that in today’s media circuits, Stefanos as a communal artworker assumes the role of a public figure, but there is also discontinuity. Stefanos is a Greek citizen armed with the professional tools of Western education and set to de-domesticate the intimate aspects of this ethnic, gendered and classed identity. In this respect, his polished professional performance in front of the camera also attests to the practical aspects of national belonging: he is a sort of unconsciously performed ‘rooted cosmo­ politan’ (Appiah, 1998, 2004, 2006), despite his commitment to a transna­ tional communal sphere. If he does not engage with Greek media and institutions, how will he affect practice or reach the right audiences to make a positive impact on public life (Iannelli and Marelli, 2019)? Nevertheless, in live televised interviews, his performance stands miles apart from Butler’s performativity, a notion which does not address action in situ as constitutive

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of different forms of embodied agency (cultural, political and so forth), or the available discursive repertoires, framing strategies and opportunity structures at work for performative iterations (McNay, 2008, p. 164; Archer, 2012). As the post-national and the national coexist in Stefanos’ performance, we can argue that practices of citizenship can take place simultaneously in multiple sites within and beyond the normative or legal ‘directives’ of the nation-state (Clarke et al., 2014). Consequently, we can also no longer understand the place of Zorba the Greek, an erstwhile ‘lowly character’, in contemporary contexts of consump­ tion, if we persist in identifying him with the Verkitschen cheapness of earlier modernity, more associated with fears of totalitarian unfreedom (Adorno and Horkheimer, 1991) and the cult of nationalism in political sociology (Elias, 1982, 1996, 2006). Nor will we get any clear answers by interpellating Stefanos vis-à-vis Zorba as a working-class actor in abstracto. A version of atmo­ sphere less well investigated, this embodied character reveals in a post-bailout world of uncertainty, secular Greek modernity’s ‘deep play’. This play is the unintentional excess of Stefanos’ conscious public performance and not a fully intended or ‘designed’ process, either by his interviewers or by himself. By ‘deep play’ I refer to Clifford Geertz’s celebrated essay on the Balinese cockfight as a cosmic drama played in everyday life in gendered and racial terms. Geertz’s essay challenged practices of ethnographic decoding that separate the represented from the representing, suggesting a deep Orientalis­ ing tendency in scholarly analysis. The thesis is on friendly terms with Sim­ mel’s interest in stylistic relativity up to the point at which it recognises in individual performance a ‘meta-social commentary’ (Geertz, 1973, p. 448) and a ‘dramatization of status concerns’ (ibid., p. 437). However, there are also differences between the two approaches, which cast Simmel on the Eurocentric camp. To examine the circulation of Stefanos as a ‘character’ in representational fields and public discussions of the Underwater Gallery I use the term ‘deep plot’ instead of Geertz’s original term. The idea of a ‘plot’ communicates both with film theory’s notion of ‘arcplot’ as the central sce­ nario of a movie (McKee, 1999, pp. 3–4, 41–2) and Butler’s (1993) suggestion that gender performativity is based on fixed scripts that can only be chal­ lenged through constant repetition. Here, we can also bring into discussion Archer’s (1995, 2000) analysis of morphostatic challenges in ways of being human. No liberated subjectivity can emerge out of ahistorical contexts, because liberation presupposes power relations at work (Mouffe et al., 1997, pp. 9–10). Therefore, artistic representations communicate with social stereo­ types in traceable ways, when both are placed in cultural contexts that have some fixed (morphostatic) representational meaning. My replacement of ‘play’ with ‘plot’ aims to replace the genre of the (melo) drama (Smith, 2011, p. 21) with that of comedy, which appeals more to tra­ ditional public attitudes towards the kitsch-man. Such attitudes are now driven underground to be reversed (Holliday and Potts, 2012, pp. 120–122),

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because the erstwhile drama’s lead actor, Stefanos, is a middle-class profes­ sional commanding respect in media fields and government networks. In this junction, the Greek reception of Enlightenment mores ensures that rationality suppresses humour’s deep philosophical meaning and with it, the modern subject’s ability to see the world from an alternative perspective (Bakhtin, 1986). Stefanos’ cultural capital shields him from the risks of his masquer­ ade – and yet, masqueraded he chooses to be, entering discourses of ‘camp’ even in dark tourism contexts. As Sontag aptly notes, ‘camp’ is a glorification of instant character ([1966] 2013, p. 268), which nicely matches the practice of edgework as a risky lifestyle (Lyng, 2005), but also the rule of contemporary avant-garde, which threads the line between moral and aesthetic passion (Ca˘ linescu, 1987). In independent media discourses, Stefanos’ visual place­ ment in a group of workers embossing Maori signs on diving costumes both essentially challenges (the costumes do not borrow from Greek identity sym­ bols) and reinstates his identity (as a dedicated folk worker). Now carrying the ambivalent badge of the ethnicised but cosmopolitan Homo Faber, Stefanos also challenges the Homo Ludus sloth characterising the kitsch-man (Ca˘ linescu, 1987, p. 260), comfortably claiming campness as part of a civilis­ ing process for his community of freedivers, designers and artists. Such performative iterations uncover the necrophiliac economy underpinning the interest of such Homines Faber in old or dead cultural forms that they revive with a new identity and a new function in markets (Ross, 1989, p. 322; Hol­ liday and Potts, 2012, pp. 126–129). Alexander (2011a) noted that, when it comes to political rituals, the logic of performance has displaced the depth of meaning in social life for favour­ able audience high scores. This is perhaps peculiar to come from a scholar who advocates the unity of surface and content in cultural emergism. I would argue that we should not dismiss how such performative reiterations (ghost­ ings) manage to change the scope of and objective in self-narration: their theatrics can also challenge modes of knowing and addressing the polity and its cultural substrata (Reinelt, 2015; Balme, 2015). In our case, we may even argue that a hopeful avalanche33 formed by a group of dreamers enters sys­ tems of national memory34 to overtake their rationale as a global-collective telos. In our techno-modern age, any act of civic participation or critical contestation of how things are in society filters questions of imagination, recognition and identity via media representations (Stevenson, 2003). As the firstness of the craftsmomentum, this process is anything but neatly and rationally organised by media complexes that manufacture risks (à la Beck, 2009); on the contrary, it attracts attention due to its spontaneity and denial of participation in creative disenchantment. What makes even more difficult to place this obstinacy within the context of the new ‘third spirit of capital­ ism’, is that the artistic endeavour has a series of sponsors operating within this system, who nevertheless do not appear to impose managerialist demands on the team (Boltanski and Chiapello, 2018, pp. 109–112). Contrariwise, such

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contributions strengthen both legs of the ‘social critique’: one geared towards structural/institutional domination, the other towards creative freedom and autonomy. Hence, not all is as it seems at first, and what starts as an instantly recog­ nisable ‘plot’ of leisure, artistic passion or hobby, produces a ‘scene’ set to disturb comfortable or sedimentary forms of identity or belonging35. Having entered a performative minefield, even ideas of a stable ‘deep plot’ become unhinged in the deepest socio-cultural crisis to hit Greece and other countries after the second world war. To understand Stefanos’ kitsch/camp ghosting as the critical reversal of the figure that organises discourses of public/national decency (de Certeau, 1986, p. 24), one must consider the development of Greek society since the postwar years, instead of engaging in generalisations. The completion of ‘national integration’ that commenced with a GreekTurkish war and a lengthy exchange of population in the 1920s and the 1930s, and the Axis Occupation in the 1940s, followed by a civil war between roy­ alists and communists (1944–1949), left Greece divided both socially and politically. Postwar migrations to countries such as Australia, the US and Germany, produced rooted diasporas, leaving Greece drained in terms of labour and resources. The political restoration in 1974 reoriented the country’s political goals towards the consolidation of a new democratic system by binding it into the EEC in 1981 (under the PA.SO.K. government) in the context of the ‘Second Enlargement’. Internally, European integration triggered a process of positive social and cultural change, which connected to a series of EU loans to Greece and the revitalisation of local economies, as industrialisation was slow and mostly concentrated in urban zones. An emergent Greek middle class bene­ fited from such contributions, leading the more affluent and aspiring Greek families to place greater emphasis on tertiary education, by encouraging their children to excel at school and conform to European standards of profes­ sional competence. Simultaneously, for the first time, new generations felt the effects of neoploutismόs (the nouveau riche culture) on mannerisms and forms of public conduct (Tzanelli, 2007, p. 683). Though a formulaic grievance, especially among the less affluent social substrata, neoploutismόs consolidated a phenomenon that other world societies had experienced before the ‘belat­ edly’ industrialised and networked Greece: a reciprocal definition of status and symbolic capital (Bourdieu, 1984, p. 132). At first, such connections married social recognition with the status that education bestows upon indi­ viduals (Stewart, 1991, p. 126; Sutton, 2000). Soon, however, this was also extended to the mastery of new lifestyle mobilities, including tourism and leisure subcultures, such as that in which Stefanos places himself (on the new lifestyle mobilities see O’Reilly, 2003; Burns and Novelli, 2008; Benson and O’Reilly, 2009; Cohen et al., 2013; Rickly-Boyd, 2013). Nevertheless, the link between lifestyle and class should not be misunder­ stood as an exact replication of Western models of stratification, especially in

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experiential terms. Despite Greece’s twentieth and twenty-first-century devel­ opment in the content of European integration, ‘class’ continues to be trans­ lated in Greek contexts into a relational value of starker phenomenal than material content. The historicity of this phenomenal relationality is condi­ tioned by Greek society’s critical gaze at peers, who are rewarded if and when they display good skills at manipulating reality. For this reason, Greek con­ ceptions of class transcend the straightforward pragmatism that guided Bourdieu’s thesis on capital. Judged by peers to be worthy necessitates pos­ sessing the skills (or ‘craft’) to amaze and thus attain wider recognition in professional sectors, including those managed by the state.36 Much like the quasi-thingness of suffering, social amazing points to the symbolic memento mori of performance, which reveals the limitations of our humanity (Le Breton, 1995, 2017). The Greek critical gaze posits the class experience as a deviation from Savage’s (2015, chapter 5) thesis in one parti­ cular point: its phenomenal dimension refracts folk exorcisms of the evil eye – that is, one wards off their critical peers and enemies through successful public performance. This mode of perception and apprehension is not a replication of Veblen’s ([1899] 2005) thesis on conspicuous consumption either, but closer to African epistemontologies: in them, although the mode of seeing (ìwòran) is determined by individual and collective responses to specific representations or spectacles, its enactment is guided by synaesthetic performances inducing emo­ tions.37 This quasi-thingness of knowing-while-doing also conforms to Latin American conceptions of magical realist atmospherics: their role is ‘to express emotions, not to evoke them [because they are] an attitude towards reality that can be expressed in popular or cultured forms, in elaborate or rustic styles, in closed or open structures’ (Leal, [1967] 1995, p. 121). We live in a technological age, so this phenomenal/embodied mode has to be matched with an ideational/scriptural one, which is suitable for televisual broadcasting. In Greek media Stefanos’ public persona has to satisfy the Greek nationalist transcendental narcissistic male ego (Geertz, 1973, p. 419). In this respect, the moment that Stefanos’ craft became a profession cannot be mediated as just a public demonstration of strength and skill. In addition, Stefanos’ narcissistic male ego has to demonstrate craft that transcends the conventional European class values to be recognised as ‘Greek’ (Giesen, 2011). This is a challenge, because any public characterisation also flows globally and must be ‘legible’ to foreign audiences. The impossible transcendence of European representational essence can be observed in both Stefanos’ and two ET1 1 (Greek Television Channel 1) interviewing journalists’ on-screen performances (ERT 1, 2 October 2018). The journalists frame in their interventions Stefanos’ pursuit as the outcome of a ‘hobby’, something matching Savage’s (2015, chapter 5) interest-base classifications of contemporary social class. Stefanos response stresses the polyphonic nature of the Gallery’s staging as a Greek cultural, ecological and athletic project. His analysis appears to endorse the Western middle-class

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artistic ‘radical habitus’ which acts as a manifestation of the ‘submerged net­ works’ and ‘abeyance structures’, keeping radicalism in constant flow through various mobility channels (Crossley, 2003, p. 45). However, the attention to European form subsides when Stefanos advertises his project visually: then we watch short clips from the staging phases, which display simulacra of freediving sociality (intimate interactions) with Stefanos as the unambiguous leader. Even more significant is Stefanos’ announcement of the forthcoming production of a full-length documentary on the project, a modern technique of amazing others. In his interview with me, he also mentioned that he is in discussions with the National Geographic about his work. Spokespersons from the organisation, who explored the possibility of turning his work into a documentary, could not place his exhibition into a genre – proof of his tech­ nical wizardry. ‘It was difficult to see it as art, it was definitely wildlife pho­ tography but also adventure/exploration documentary’, National Geographic staff concluded (Kontos Interview. 30 November 2018). At the same time, Stefanos appears to place the Greek transcendental male ego’s techniques of mesmerism at the service of the ‘common good’. Thus his project has recourse to a ‘hermeneutics of suspicion’ to alert audiences to the presence of an interpretative depth they cannot comprehend at first: For most of the people that I dive with, the underwater environment is this very precious place … and as we know, it is the birthplace of all life. By presenting this beauty of this place … doing exhibitions that display this beauty, I believe that I am taking one step closer to helping people understand how important it is … there are many people out there that do not have any connection to the sea. They always see the surface. Maybe I help them understand what lies beneath this surface. I may give them more incentives to be more sensitive and aware of the damage they may cause to this world they did not realise it exists beneath the surface. (Ibid.) Stefanos’ ecofriendly statement matches the intensification of debates on European environmental protection in Greece in more recent years. However, the ability to amaze audiences while displaying Greek treasures overlays European understandings of habitus centring on class.38 First of all, it trans­ lates European styles into surface form, underneath which we find the desire to claim authority not on a collective or even international level. The narcis­ sistic male ego’s search for recognition reappears in a CNN interview, in which Stefanos discusses the freediving team’s collective focus, but retains the project leadership and authorial narrative. Also, that we watch in this tele­ vised interview is framed by his voice and his guiding image (Mavrantza, 11 December 2018). The interview’s original title was ‘“12 Heroes” – Stefanos Kontos’ (CNN Greece 2018 Review, undated), a peculiar echo of Jesus Christ’s Apostolic followers.

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Public demonstrations of the ability to amaze and therefore lead, which have been ubiquitous in rural and urban contexts ever since the institution of modern Greece (Herzfeld, 1986, p. 192), have become in today’s mediatised environments a necessary skill for charismatic political personas in particular (Tzanelli, 2011; Marangudakis, 2019). On the one hand, this demonstration is more akin to Eastern and African class formations, in which worthy profes­ sionals are supposed to attain their individuality by offering performances useful to society (e.g. be lawyers or doctors). On the other, the Greek class index reiterates the country’s phantom cryptocolonial conditions in con­ temporary neoliberal contexts of mobility, where monetisation of skills is essential (Calotychos, 2013, p. 208). However, Stefanos’ performance also critiques these Western/European values for their lack of creative imagination (Tziovas, 2014, p. 3). His critique is more in line with the rise of alternative national imaginaries in Latin American postcolonies, where rebellious writers such as García Márquez, couched land as a ‘boundless realm of haunted men and historic women that outsized reality’ and nourished ‘insatiable creativity’ more adequately for the representations of the continent’s excesses than the ‘rational talents’ of Europe (Chanady, [1985] 1995, p. 133). Stefanos’ self-presentation in the first two readings presented us with a puzzling contradiction in the coexistence of optimism and playfulness with thanatourist seriousness. We may consider this contradiction as part of the ‘tragic comedy of human inconsistency’ in the face of belonging to many antagonistic groups (Sorokin, 1969, p. 352; Alexander, 2011a), but the rationality of this view is insufficient. A deeper contextual reading suggests inconsistency as symptomatic of the Greek cultural style, in which joviality has to be dressed in seriousness and an aversion to sentimentality (as opposed to emotion). Separations of sentimentality from emotion assist in the mascu­ linisation of synaesthetic performativity. This grants emotions, including jea­ lousy or ressentiment, with a rational basis. Again, Stefanos’ performed thanatourist seriousness acts on a gendered margin – note how he explains to Greek journalists that his amateur project is work (in Arendt’s terms) done with extra love that is sometimes missing from professional labour activities (ERT 1, 2 October 2018). The same style is also present in displays of one’s skill to be serious while performing mischief (Herzfeld, 1986, p. 211, n. 2), a certain form of craftiness matching the aesthetics of black humour (Le Breton, 1995, p. vi). This serious joking, which is currently informing various popular-cultural African contexts as a form of popular ‘infrapolitics’ (Oba­ dare, 2009), a means for common people to ridicule the state and to construct meaning out of a reality decidedly contradictory and surreal, is very suitable for popular intimations of the Greek economic crisis. However, this stands at the margins of the present analysis. It is more appropriate to conclude that, despite the economic crisis, for the first time since its institution, modern Greece is playing performative games for fun, prestige and the production of glamorous self-identities in global markets.

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Here we reach a contemporary social and cultural paradox in mobilities studies: as specimen of a structural transformation, educated Greeks such as Stefanos increasingly fall in an indexical crack: they are neither destitute refuges/migrants, nor members of the new intra-European ‘elite’ of profes­ sionals (on classifications of migration see Favell, 2009, pp. 167–168). Most of the student migrants from Stefanos’ generation (he is now in his late forties), began their life as ‘Eurostars’ with dreams to make it to the big time of business by investing in the acquisition of a Westernised educational portfolio (Favell 2008, p. 64; Favell, 2009, pp. 177–182). Greece’s liberalisation was expected in the European Union and, in turn, encouraged the expansion of education in various professional sectors that young Greeks could not enter before (on liberalisation in the EU, see Evans and Sewell, 2014, pp. 55–56). The allure of European belonging was strong, so, since the 2000s, the number of Greeks studying abroad an Erasmus programme or a regular degree increased considerably (King, 2002; Ruiz-Gelices et al., 2003; Makridis et al., 2017). Leaving the ‘thick’ cultural heritage in which they grew up at the start of the twenty-first century, some of these nationals began to circulate more within, and increasingly without the EU, to realise their professional ambi­ tions (Labrianidis and Sykas, 2017; for comparisons with black students see Wallace, 2019). Stefanos opened his wings wider than most of them: he obtained a Business and Marketing degree from UNLV California and subsequently studied in the Department of Physical Education & Sport Science of the University of Athens (Underwater Gallery, 2018). This also explains the interest CCN took in his work, which has now reached the other end of the Atlantic though his bespoke interviews on art and the environment. So, his and his peer’s exploratory identity could be placed within debates on cosmopolitan travelling with an important qualification for Stefanos in particular: he is a returnee to Greece and Europe, who can potentially contribute to his birth-culture’s interpretation in global contexts (Clifford, 2013). Such middle-class labour connects disparate ‘cultural and social practices arising in the context of migration and diaspora and the new modernities of the “emerging markets” (Nederveen Pieterse, 2004, p. 88). Stefanos’ biopolitical classification exemplifies the ways the institutional time of governance attempts to take over the biographical time of the ima­ ginaries of past, present and future that he constructs within his community – his everyday ‘lived time’, in other words (Robertson, 2014, 2015). Generally, this interference intensifies, when mobile professionals display marketable skills that can enhance their citizenship rights in the nation-state (Ong, 2006). Stefanos’ craftsmomentum acquires value when it is related to a valuable cause that can amaze international citizens in new mediatised spheres. This cause is a ‘worthy’ combination of environmental protection (something adhering to European and international law and needs) with máthesis or education of Gallery visitors (to obey nationally endorsed rules of global

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citizenship). The practice kills two birds with one stone: it exorcises an ima­ gined criticism of inability to follow the established class grammar of perfor­ mative surface (à la Savage et al., 2015), so as to address the depth of the European ‘spell’. This spell of European and global neoliberalisation can potentially lead to the complete collapse of the ‘social nervous system’ (Ser­ emetakis, 2009): Greek social life’s new cryptocolonisation by alien cultural and economic forces, in which ‘networking’ replaces tangible interactions and experience (Habermas, 1989a, p. 28; Habermas, 1989b). Not only does this code-switching gender the invisible (the spell is exorcised by the restoration of social intimacy in class-making practices only for knowing Greek audiences – see Tzanelli, 2008), it suggests that Greek ‘divinations’ of class are not com­ pletely detached from the historic trauma of cryptocolonisation. On the last point, I want to regard critically and with caution interpella­ tions of the freediving team or Stefanos as proponents of an elitist ‘dis­ crepant cosmopolitanism’ (Clifford, 1997), just because they participate in glocal connections in the impoverished economic South (Cheah, 2006, p. 104). At the other end, it also helps to bear in mind that I do not address the question of human rights or refugee flows that swamped Greece over the last decade in this study, so such critiques of elite discrepancy stand on the margins of this study. Stefanos’ peculiar in-betweenness is further amplified by his potentially semi-conscious display of years of hard study and work abroad and in the Greek capital, which feeds into his cosmetic cosmopolitan project (Nederveen Pieterse, 2006). Viewed from the wisdom of temporal distance, the education of desire is the biggest gamble a young student can make. Few could have predicted the complete collapse of social institutions in the country after 2008, which would leave such ‘stars’ on empty native stages and in search of ever more international audiences to please. Born in the margins of the country (Ioannina is a city in North-Eastern Greece), today Stefanos coordinates his work from the Greek capital (his current residence), which is one of the few globally networked sites in Greece (Jacobs et al., 2009). An intense gentrification following preparations for the Athens 2004 Olympic Games that benefited only the most affluent popula­ tions, as well as years of austerity and new refugee settlement, have placed Athens in the geographical and economic periphery of post-Fordist Europe (Gospodini, 2009). It is not injudicious to argue that Stefanos would have followed the massive outbound migration, had he not been globally net­ worked with business (King et al., 2016). Consequently, what we might have read as the comedy of camp, is the heart-breaking drama of the last few Greek generations’ struggle to build a better life for themselves and live in a happier environment. Played as irony to secure some degree of emotional distance from history and culture, it invites collective reflexivity or even critique of tired ethno-nationalist imagery that fuels the populist imagination (on cosmopolitan irony see Delanty, 2009, pp. 78–80; Turner, 2001; Turner and Rojek, 2001). By extension, this is also the

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drama of a country whose ‘narcissistic male ego’ (Geertz, 1973, p. 419) was defeated by the European troika and the ensuing poverty that led to constant brain-drain and the urge to beg for international tourist clients, property developers and political protectors thought to be part of its indecorous cryp­ tocolonial past (Lyrintzis, 2011). In this respect, the camp atmosphere of independent video recordings, especially those in which Stefanos is involved, constantly ‘undercut rage by [their] derision of concentrated bitterness’ – a protopolitics of becoming associated in a very different context with gay rights movements (Babuscio, 1980, p. 48). Seemingly also trapped in a version of ‘choreopolicing’, a controlled mobilisation of bodies as aesthetic properties in national and international markets, their makers strive to assert their free­ dom (Lepecki, 2013). The section reintroduces the poetics of emotion into the cultural politics of cosmopolitanism, whose criticality is often emotionally poor. Nevertheless, it does not glorify this poetics, which can also be destructive. Rushdie’s reference to Fanon’s insight in Satanic Verses that ‘the native is an oppressed person whose permanent dream is to become the persecutor’ (Walker, 1995, p. 356) is particularly apposite. This persecutor displays the archetypal characteristics of ‘Puer Aeternus’, the eternal youth that oppression has turned into Fanon’s ‘dark gangster-shadow’ (ibid., p. 357): an especially vicious underside of the charming youth. This is the reverse image of Stefanos’ magical realist char­ acter, who wishes to share underwater marvels with the world so as to inspire and produce better futures. Such bitterness is diluted in spaces of subcultural camaraderie, which may escape in self-selected market networks to both make a living and achieve proper recognition. The bitterness of exclusion by institu­ tional proxy can be replaced by the Nietzschean ‘laughter of the heights, the affirmative laughter at all human tragedies, real or imaginary’ (Watson, 2015, p. 417). This übersichtliche Darstellung also reveals camp sensibility as love for the shortcomings of human nature in a non-judgemental way (Sontag [1966] 2013, p. 274), escaping the Axial basis of Greek Orthodox modernity, in which a vrotόs is an irredeemably fallen human. Celebrating the vrotόs’ corrupt and finite identity for its theatrical value, onlookers can laugh with, rather than at fragile human beings – or choose not to laugh at all, when their synecdochic standing in a geopolitical crisis becomes just too much to bear.

Conclusion As a journey into the big blue and Greece’s multiple and entangled moder­ nities, the third reading generates as many questions about where we, the readers, are moving towards with regards to the events’ and the networked cultural contexts’ interpretation, as those it answers. One final coffee cupreading will make us take off to the stratosphere: from there, we will anxiously watch our blue planet getting bluer due to carbon emissions and accelerated technological automobilisation (Urry, 2010, 2011a); we will reflect on our excess

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fascination with novelty and the consequences of climate change (Urry 2011b); and we will dream aluminium nightmares under ‘light Western mod­ ernity’s’ modified by atmospheric pollution skies (Sheller, 2014a). In such global contexts of policy-making and breaking, coffee-cup readers and freediving dreamers are laughing stock, if they fail to learn how to speak the language of science and money. Those who choose otherwise, have to be truly creative to survive the clash of neoliberal and activist currents in which we are all enmeshed. In Stefanos’ and his freediving friends’ and peers’ case, there are several additional hurdles to jump, including the rise of resentful narratives of xeno­ phobia in a Greece increasingly internationally known for its economic woes rather than tourist paradises, as well as local resentments towards artistic pursuits and freediving hobbies that ignore the poverty of common folk. When we add Stefanos’ biopolitical policing, these forces seem to be impos­ sible to exorcise. At this point, we notice a meaningful return of inheritance and heritage as a ‘blue eye’ that can be both evil and beneficial to its bearers. Although Stefanos’ Greek and global televised communications bring notions of Greek property to the fore (‘our Greek environments’), the notions them­ selves do not represent the core of his value judgements. Such value judge­ ments emerge as a statement on pro-environmental lifestyle, occasionally masqueraded as policy-making to which Stefanos does not contribute in concerted ways.39 The return to environmental or tourist commentary is a statement on ecoaesthetics that support both natural and artistic values of beauty. At this point, readers may feel that we move in a magical-realist cycle that reiterates the first reading’s ruminations on values. Using a modified version of Barad’s (2010) thesis I recognise in this a form of agential magical realism that attempts to re-enchant a world drained in its self-imposed dystopianism. Ste­ fanos’ reiteration that he wishes to engage in audio-visual máthesis of young Greek pupils should not be taken as an exercise in nationalist indoctrination, without careful examination of its performative iterations. As we will see in the next reading, Stefanos’ performative iterations resemble the Greek state’s cultural-poetic representations in global scenes40. There, we observe the elimination of Greek identity’s ‘baroque’ (Carpentier, ([1975] 1995, p. 93) hermaphroditical essence, because the country desires and needs global inte­ gration. The baroque hermaphrodite of mystical art à la Greco was rejected by Roh, who, ironically, was going to influence its very Latin American pro­ ponents (Guenther, 1995, p. 40). Its stylistic ‘cleansing’ follows Greece’s rationalise course towards a European Eden in ways comparable to Hitler’s obliteration of magical realist art as ‘Jewish’ and therefore ‘in need of artistic and racial cleansing’ (ibid., pp. 53–57). Bauman (1989) was right to discern in the utopian aspects of centralised bureaucratisation the basis of aesthetic – that is, ethno-racial – cleansing.

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However, there is also positive movement. The next reading reveals that, despite Amorgos’ governmobile entanglement in global capitalism, the Greek state’s and media’s interest in Stefanos’ project also exceeds the logic of eco­ nomic or ethnocentric production: it is intended as a gesture of exchange or gift-giving extended to its younger generations and a world ailing from its own consumerist excess. There is slow but sure morphogenesis in this interest, which is guided by ‘the purest and most developed kind of interaction … lit­ erally shap[ing] human life’, in that it guides hearts and minds towards alter­ native ways of acting upon the world (Simmel, 1968, p. 80; Simmel, 1978. p. 493). However, even this formula, which also appears in other, comparable to Stefanos’ projects in other parts of the world, has to confront the dark magics of Western modernity.

Notes 1 Said (1978, pp. 68–69) discussed this in terms of ‘schematizations’ of the feminised Orient in European arts. 2 On dark tourism, national memory and emotions see Tzanelli (2011, chapters 1 and 2) and Ashworth and Isaac (2015, p. 322). 3 These observations can be connected to Fuller’s (2011) consideration of the ways ecological and cybernetic interests produce (post)modern humanity and Hollins­ head’s (2009a) thesis on the ‘worldmaking’ regulatory power of tourism. 4 This matches Goodman’s ([1951] 1977) understanding of ‘extension’ discussed in the Introduction. 5 In Poovey’s (1998) terms of naturalisation of utterances. 6 This refers to the organisation of image and sound to narrate dark stories. 7 For a similar critique see also Delanty (2009, pp. 186–190). 8 This corresponds to Hartlaub’s conservative vision of New Objectivity rooted in the timelessness of a venerated past. For more information, see Guenther’s (1995) analysis and this chapter's introductory section. 9 This would correspond to Hartlaub’s radical and chaotic vision of New Objectivity rooted in the present and the future. For more information, see Guenther’s (1995) analysis and this chapter's introductory section. 10 That is, it is semi-consciously sketched in embodied and audio-visual registers. 11 See Chatterjee’s (1986, 1994) thesis on Asian nationalism for comparisons. 12 These are not identical to Graburn’s, Herzfeld’s or my decolonial thesis, as readers discover in latter parts of this study. 13 See also Taylor (1989) on the (Western) making of modern identity. 14 See also Tzanelli (2008) for historic manifestations of this fatalism. 15 This refers to unity based on co-experiencing – see end of Reading two. 16 See Archer (2012) on the fractured reflexivities of late modernity. 17 On this, let us remember Merton’s (1938, 1949) distinction between strain and anomie. 18 Such as framing, lighting and editing. 19 Not only can we rewind films, but watch them several times and analyse them better than, say, a unique freediving experience or a communication with God. 20 Although, admittedly, not all films generate sustainable tourist networks (Macio­ nis, 2004). 21 See Delanty (2009) for a critique.

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22 Here I draw on Rabinow’s (2003) problematisation of universal notions of human, Lemert’s (2004) concerns about ethical standards in different spheres of human activity and Back’s (2012) discussion of the bureaucratisation of ethics clearance in research. 23 On the Mediterranean codes of conduct see Herzfeld (1987, p. 180); Herzfeld (1991) and Blok (1981). On honour and shame in modern Western democracies, see Herzfeld (1992) and Tzanelli (2011). 24 This refers to McKay’s (1994, p. 16), Smith’s (1986) and eventually Hollinshead’s (2009a, p. 530) ‘mythomoteur’ or ‘authorial’ figure in tourism. 25 That is, female aesthetics receptive to sensations from the outside. 26 Manual labour is deemed less important that intellectual labour; indeed, it is even considered demeaning in Greece (Herzfeld, 2004, p. 33). 27 Artisanship is a traditionally masculine profession and female artisans avoid the grandstanding risqué attitude that their male counterparts adopt as a ‘social obli­ gation’ (Herzfeld, 2004, p. 91). 28 On Bauman’s ambivalence see Hviid Jacobsen (2016). 29 That is, representations of gender, race or class. 30 Notably, she led the campaign for the return of the Elgin Marbles to Greece (Hamilakis, 1999; Yalouri, 2001; Zorba, 2009). 31 For example, in tourism contexts. 32 This is a debased, uneducated and unconsciously low-taste product of working­ classness. 33 That is, a discourse of environmental care. 34 That is, marine environments constantly nominated as ‘Greek ethnic property’. 35 Another compatible observation would come from Isin’s (2009, pp. 379–380) con­ ception of the ‘scene’ in cultural activism. 36 See also Herzfeld (2004, 2005) on poniriá or craft/cunning/skill employed by both common citizens and institutions; for a feminist take on craft in contexts of disempowerment see Jacobs ([1961] 1992), and on bureaucracy and performance see Ferguson (1984). 37 That is, repertoires that have an evocative power ([ara] – Lawal, 2001). 38 Significantly, Stefanos also mentions that his Underwater Gallery was the first such initiative internationally. ‘I don’t know if it qualifies for Guinness’, he said in an interview (ERT 1, 2 October 2018). 39 For example, see his observation that ‘diving tourism has a great potential in our country that we are yet to exploit’ (Karabelas, 10 September 2018). 40 See also Herzfeld (2005) on the national stage.

Reading four

International indexing The biophysics of land(scape)

PART I The environmental uncanny: the nature/culture conundrum In the previous reading, the intersubjective and answerable coffee-cup experi­ ence was invaded by state prioritisations of global connectivity. These impinged on particular historic formations of modernities in Greek culture, leading to novel entanglements, modifications and obliterations of memory in tourist contexts. The present reading extends these issues to global plateaus, in which we find the presentations of nature turning into representations of indigeneity – a form of heritage/dark tourism with environmental extensions in Goodman’s tradition of worldmaking (Cohnitz and Rossberg, 2016). Native nature is not entirely natural: to be relayed to audiences, it has to be staged. These are the stagings that we encounter in museums, which social science tends to examine not as individual institutions, but as part of a larger field of museological operations, in which they can be compared and interpreted (Clifford, 1997, pp. 107–146). Museology’s adherence to the Western canon befits an understanding of the field of cultural production along the lines of Bourdieu’s (1993) under­ standing of institutional complexity. I will contest this approach in the conclu­ sion as devoid of real phenomenological depth. Shelton (2013, p. 16) locates museology in the circulation of different cultures of ‘works’ in different con­ texts, which obscures their biographical attachments. He sees this as ‘the separation between the condition of being and the act of experience’, a radical split of the world from consciousness (ibid.). In a world that still struggles to come to terms with the reality of climate change,1 such representations of ‘factual factness’ (Realität), in which the materials, sounds, colours and narratives take centre stage as versions of the ‘environment’ are supposed to induce the ‘actual factness’ (Wirklichtkeit) of emotional and cognitive engagement with the ‘problem’ of biodiversity: a precious property in danger of extinction (Böhme, 2001, p. 57). The ‘facticity’ of museum objects gives substance and authority to their collection: a sort of narratorial veracity (Macdonald, 2007, p. 155). When actual sites and

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landscapes become the exhibited objects, the logic of exhibition acquires additional complexity. Museum studies scholars are quick to acknowledge that, reciprocally, periods of economic crisis, socio-political unrest and resis­ tance – and why not add climate crisis to this list – intensify debates on the role of the museum in society (Brown and Mairesse, 2018, p. 534). In such contexts, museums have to secure the atmospheric engagement of the percei­ ver/visitor and the creative imagination of the stager. These two answerable roles transform the visited site into a place in which phantastikés téchnes can thrive as means of aesthetic problematisation (similarly to Miller and Rose, 2010). At these conjunctions Western modernity is ‘closing in’ on native modes of being and action, displacing their magical potentialities in favour of communicative efficiency and global connectivity. In 1909 the Austrian artist and writer Alfred Kubin, who had already spent a vocational lifetime exploring variations of the Unheimlich (uncanny), pub­ lished Die Andere Seite (‘The Other Side’), a novel illustrated with 52 draw­ ings. The theme of this work was the exploration of the ‘other side’ of the world, which is dominated by corruption, evil and grotesquerie on the one hand, and mystery and wonder on the other. The split is reminiscent of the Greek dualistic makeup of human beings, who can be virtuous ánthropoi or prosaic and corrupt vrotoí (Tzanelli, 2008, p. 149). Similar to Leal’s ([1967] 1995) estado limite, this other-world promised to heighten reality through interventions of dreaming, constantly pushing the boundaries of human per­ ception. For Kubin, the moving border between reality and dreaming had to help writers relocate the Unheimlich literally and literarily outside the Eur­ opean geographical coordinates and into the fictional Asian capital of Dreamland. Kubin’s decision to relocate dreaming in Asia was supposed to convey the duality of human existence, which is lived between ideal, exalted moments and everyday monotony. Such magical-realist renditions of Benjamin’s (2002) phantasmagoria had the qualities of dark cerebral explorations or honne, to remember last reading’s Japanese inner psychic journeys. However, they also reproduced the myth of homo autotelus, Western philosophy’s self­ produced Man, who had suppressed the biological power of his feminine aspects and the desires of his sensory body to perfect his rational Mind (Buck-Morss, 1992, pp. 8–10). We also find these journeys in essayist and poet/novelist Ernst Jünger’s part ‘dream diary’ and part ‘daily journal’ Das Abentuerliche Herz (The Adventurous Heart, 1929), in which magical-realist journeys in writing bear the potential to express the allegedly ‘inherent pre­ cision of the world of machines even better than the machine itself ’ (Guen­ ther, 1995, p. 58). In fact, for Jünger, this achievement of precision could reach its climax in an almost mathematical formula that retains the trans­ parency of a magical background. European magical realism was set to become replica and vassal of the homo autotelus.

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Such conceptual journeys were a far cry from perceived phantasmagorias outside Europe. As opposed to the Asian Dreamlands of Kubin, which had acted as precursors of European surrealism, Carpentier’s Lo Real Maraviloso Americano (The Marvellous [Latin] American Realism) worked with the idea that an amplified reality is inherent in Latin American culture and nature. The relocation of the fantastic in unique spatio-temporal spheres of human/nature realities formed a potent manifesto concerning Latin America’s marvellous mixture of history, geography and politics (Huntington and Parkinson Zamora, 1995, p. 75). The ‘tropicopolitan’ fusion of indigenous humans with their environment looked to an alternative version of environmental aesthetics, which nevertheless was not allowed by circumstances to exist completely out­ side the influence of colonialism. Tropicopolitanism featured in societies of the American tropics as a domesticated version of cosmopolitanism (Aravamudan, 1999, pp. 6–7) and helped in the generation of a native dialogue with the world’s imperial centres in not always beneficial for the natives, ways. The native intellectuals’ and policy-makers’ engagement with these centres drew on the European aesthetics of the picturesque to ‘adjust’ local cultural nature, producing a way of ‘worldmaking’ more conducive to capitalism and the new consumerisms of tourism (Duncan, 1999, p. 153; Dann, 2002, p. 6). At the same time, a latent reinstatement of local traditions of holism in native arts and crafts helped the same native intellectuals to interweave adventurous narratives of ‘physical movement and imaginative migration’ in tropicopolitan visions (Wardle, quoted in Sheller, 2004, p. 14). The native mind/body/emotion trinity continued to affect the ways of native worldmaking, but it was not allowed to assert its pragmatic integrity any more. The most peculiar outcome of these encounters with world centres has been a periodic presence of experiential schizophrenia in native modes of being and action. This would be incited by conflicts between the homo autotelus who did not feel but made the world with his powerful mind and the homo indigenus, who now had to make worlds in their mind’s eye and not instead of engaging in embodied, multi-sensory apprehension. It is not coincidental that, where the European proponents of magical realism crafted their inner journeys against exotic backgrounds, their non-European counterparts tried to exter­ nalise (that is, carve into the materiality of nature) their belief in magic: drawing at first on experientially formed imagery of their (home)land and its populations as biological repositories (Hollinshead, 1998, 1999b; Minca, 2010), they subsequently began to mirror colonial power’s invitation to cere­ brally voyage the remote, by producing environmental imaginariums for tourists. Commencing its life as a reference to naturally occurring reproduc­ - copy) first of plants and animals and then also ‘objects’ (nountion (ima: suffix ago), the imaginarium would evolve into an image-word of the worlds we travel in our minds and physically get to know from outside, as tourists. Standing in a complementary relationship with Heidegger’s mature autotelic ‘world picture’, imaginariums are today complete replicas of nature, butterflies

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that have burst out of their cocoons to mesmerise viewers. Ironically, the native reproduction of imaginariums marked the moment scientific categories began to be imported to shape native aesthetic guidance on how to appreciate natural objects (Todd, 2009, pp. 158, 164; Carlson, 2000). It is worth stressing that ‘tropicalisation’ was originally used to describe the acclimatisation of flora, fauna ‘and even machinery to warmer habitats’ (Aravamudan, 1999, p. 6). Such developments, which are by no means limited to Latin and South American contexts but feature in all lands and populations affected directly or indirectly by colonial and capitalist machines (including Greece), had two major consequences. The first, which mostly affected native holistic cultures, marked a decisive shift away from a synaesthetic matrix, in which the world is experienced and apprehended in sensory/aesthetic synergies, to a ‘scopic regime’, which facilitates the deliberate construction of acts of seeing under ‘a set of conditions considered valid at a certain time’ (Verhoeff, 2012, p. 15). This change is concomitant with native perspectival formations of the insti­ tutional/professional ‘gaze’, which streamlines, in mocking or revisionist forms, the Western eye-of-power, into the institutions, organisations and ‘worldmaking agencies’ of tourism and travel (Hollinshead, 1999a). The impact this has on the arrangement of native memory archives into audio­ visual schemata communicates a Western model of ‘knowing’ (Thrift, 2015) or ‘cognitive capitalism’ (Boutang, 2012) thriving on quantification and monetary exploitation of experience – a corollary of what Beer (2016, 2018) has termed the ‘data gaze’. Otherwise put, Urry’s (1990, 2002) ‘tourist gaze’ and Hollinshead’s (1999a) professional worldmaking in tourism have turned into aestheticised practices of surveillance, which are based on a particular history of Western and European visualisation. Within these Western Eur­ opean historical coordinates, native time is colonised together with the native mind that cannot creatively develop outside the Benjaminian phantasmagoric plot (Alatas, 1974). The time bubble within which these natural museums exist and act upon perceptions of the world is fed by the dystopia of personal and collective insecurity. In this time bubble the visualisation of humanity’s environmental body forms continuities with scopic regimes of bodily visualisation in scan­ ning technologies for national security purposes (Amoore and Hall, 2009; Skoll, 2014; Korstanje, 2019a). Suffice it to draw an unpalatable connection in the case of the Underwater Gallery in Amorgos, which can easily feature in state discourses of national security: Turkey’s constant invasion of Greek ‘national waters’ (χωρικά ύδατα: choriká ýdata) over the last few decades, speaks the language of an unavoidable Turkophobia. As is the case with other European nation-states of lesser political power, discourses of such phobias are symbolically used to ensure European belonging (Tzanelli, 2011; Sayyid, 2018). To this one may add the ever-pressing global refugee crisis, which made Turkey and Greece the twin portals to Europe for illegal migrants (Çackmak, 2019). The Aegean waters both refugees and Turkish military

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forces trespass are part and parcel of an unrecognised agenda of Greek iden­ tity, which Stefanos discusses in non-surveillance terms. However, the unsavoury connection cannot be dismissed: it throws less fortunate humans into dark deep waters in which they cannot afford to enjoy the magical view, without the risking their last breath. This is the state’s biopolitical ordering of uneven mobilities (Sheller, 2016), which also endeavours to translate (i.e. appropriate and morph) situated space–time networks (Ek and Hultman, 2008, p. 228), such as those involved in the artistic craftsmomentum. Which­ ever way we see this, the differentiation of action and work in post-industrial modernity has ensured that the sacred law of hospitality has ended not just in the West, but also in those marginal European countries that expel refugees to make space for much-need tourists (Korstanje, 2017). There is an artificial imaginary of surveillance in such synecdoches that may encroach upon the creative imaginary of art and design. The logic of this imaginary is mimetic of death: it kills its subject matter to produce the object it seeks to discipline, thus equating bureaucratic organisation with ‘despir­ itualisation’ (Taussig, 1997, p. 78). However, we should not confuse the two domains of human creativity (of action) or the actors themselves: the artificial imaginary of violence does not always obliterate the independent spirit of artistic or design utopias, which seek to stimulate human thought by invoking emotions of solidarity and belonging.2 We must also consider the beneficial role of artificial technologies of the digit, film and landscaping independently from dystopian imaginaries of totalitarian submission to the imperatives of statism, capitalism or postcolonialism. Such categorical imperatives stem from the dark magical figure of the Kantian warrior, who conquers lands and imaginations in a rational and heartless style (Kant, 1987, pp. 133–134). Abstract, spiritless organisation of work in Arendt’s terms can only be achieved if ‘all groups subjugate their values to a set of universal norms or make them concordant’ (Sorokin, 1969, p. 355; emphasis in the text). There are also ‘ways around’ structures: the ways tertiary revisions of the craftsmo­ mentum by individuals such as Stefanos address antithetical registers of value3 in the international terrain are resolved with the uses of ecological technology. Generally, such technologies involve the physical demarcation or even mod­ ification of lands-as-landscapes for the gazes of the scientific expert and the tourist; virtual transmission of these landscapes as national projects that par­ take in a new (posthuman) scientific revolution; and concomitant ‘gardening techniques’ (as per Bauman, 1992) that define national and international (tourist) belonging and access to these areas. In other words, in international staging and displaying of natural and acculturated environments the craftsmomentum partakes in the formation or reinforcement of ‘law-norms’ of dis­ tributive and organisational potency as guides of human conduct (Sorokin, 1969, pp. 76–79). In this case, the craftsmomentum explicates how movement in time binds science with creativity. This often produces ‘truths’ guided by reason that may either struggle to survive in ideational cultures or allow for

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the flourishing of human creativity, solidarity and play in idealistic supersystems of secular nature (ibid., p. 652). Sorokin classifies art into four categories according to external style and internal content: ideational forms of art focus on transcendental symbolism that connects visible symbols of value to invisible ones; sensate forms live in the empirical world of the senses, communicate pathos and are naturalistic or illusionist and free from supersensory symbolism; idealist forms act as inter­ mediaries between ideational and sensate forms, but focus more on the noblest aspects of sensory reality and suppress what is considered ‘vulgarity’ or ‘kitsch’; finally, eclectic forms of art represent a ‘mechanical mixture of anything’, [have] no internal utility and resemble bazaar congeries of diverse styles (Sorokin, 1969, pp. 591–592). The idealistic supersystems in which natural imaginariums narrate the world purge vulgarity to civilise intention. In the case of truth-production, however, we obviously deal with more than one fields of action. I have already suggested two fields in this study’s Intro­ duction, which roughly correspond to materiality (the Bourdieusian field of capital-exchange) and ideality (the Merleau-Pontian field of phenomenal apprehension). My pluralisation of the ‘field’ is consistent with both agnostic positions on the ‘truth’ of science, which constantly constructs the relation­ ship between nature and society (Latour, 1987, 1999), and the acknowl­ edgment that art-making relationships produce multiple ‘truths’ in situ. For this purpose, I follow the actors within the network of technology-enabled art, so that I recover their voices also ‘from without’ its bureaucratic machinations (Starr, 1995). The second consequence of capitalist and postcolonial violence is uncan­ nier and more resurgent. It uses the double reality of native alienation from the Western worlds of reason and native systems of thought as a performative narrative vehicle so as to help the visitor/stranger/tourist participate in a Brechtian defamiliarisation with the world of native nature/culture. We are a step away from creative discourses of hospitality, which I will enter in a while. For now, I return to the contribution of Latin American magical realism to our conceptual discussion on creative potentiality in environmental art. One of the principal magical realists’ concerns in postcolonies has been the pre­ sence of cultural barriers to global communication. The fear that travelling one’s cultural surface was not enough to achieve cultural-cosmopolitan com­ pletion is prominent in Carpentier’s and Borges’ work. Carpentier talks about one’s ability to respond to ‘invitations to a voyage’ and enacts an imaginary journey to China, the Soviet Union, Europe and the world of Islam, only to find the incompatibility of linguistic articulation forming an insurmountable barrier: I am increasingly convinced that a single lifetime is not enough to learn, understand, explain the fraction of the globe that destiny assigns a man to inhabit – although the conviction does not absolve him of an immense

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curiosity to see everything beyond the limits of his own horizons. But curiosity is rarely rewarded with complete understanding. (Carpentier, [1947] 1995, p. 80; emphasis mine) Borges is even more creative than Carpentier, who had conveniently resorted to Baudelaire’s La Langoureuse Asie et la Brulante Afrique as an exemplary travel record. Borges’ story La Busca de Averroës (Averroës’ Search, 1947) features the renown Islamic Andalusian scholar as its principal hero, who is capable to conceptualise ideas but lacks some specific concepts from other languages to cross cultural barriers. Averroës’ actual problem is that he cannot think about ‘comedy’ and ‘tragedy’ – two cultural forms he encounters in Aristotle’s Poetics – because he comes from a non-figurative, non-repre­ sentational culture with no theatrical records in its memory archives. Indeed, when another returnee traveller from China relates his experience of watching natives enacting theatrical performances, the audience debates whether the traveller was dealing with madmen (Ben Menahem, 2017, pp. 28–29). During this discussion, Averroës also appears to be increasingly frustrated by the background noise caused by children playing – a detail also related to his inability to understand the significance of play itself. This Averroës is not inarticulate but certainly stands disarticulated within the complexities of global cross-cultural communication. He lacks the right ‘figurative tools’ to translate (ideational articulation) what he sees (sensate) . into meaningful idealist schemata in his own culture (Dúc Thao, 1973). His inability to recognise in performative ritual (theatre, play) the qualities of replication (acting) as a community-binding mechanism make him a stranger of worlds but a worthy conceptual worker, in Arendt’s (1958) division between - However, Arendt’s division between biological and biographical bíos and zoí. life is based on a reading of repetition as a biological fact, when repetitive play is productive of human biographies (the Aristotelian Averroës got it all wrong!). It is questionable whether this exclusion is based mainly on his ethnic profile – the plot is deeper and nastier. In any case, we can see his ghosting in Stefanos’ admission (Reading one) that there is a whole domain of being and experiencing we cannot access without adopting a perspective (of play) that resides outside the limits of science and reason: of Western worldmaking (Bataille, 2018, p. 238). In other words, Averroës, the spectator of worlds, who promoted the unity of the intellect as a shared human feature (Adamson, 2016, p. 190), is embodied/active Stefanos’ answerable counter­ part, an ‘edgeworker of the mind’. As perceiving subjects, humans find that the world looks at them with a questioning regard, but then they may look back ‘by organising and conceptualising it in ways other than those endorsed by science’ (Scruton, 2012, pp. 128–129). What I am trying to tease out before substantive analysis of ‘museum’ examples, is that the atmospheric staging of human perception in underwater galleries and museums cannot be assessed just as the product of scientific

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schematisation. On the contrary, it is a metaphorical mediation between sci­ ence and diverse commonsensical human cognition of different worlds (Goodman, 1978), which must leave something important outside articula­ tion, so that it achieves translation. The staging cannot appeal to ideational, sensate or idealist subjects only, it has to attract the eclectic visitor (Sorokin, 1969, p. 592), even if they prefer bazaars of ethnic tokens. Perhaps these exhibits are playful so as to attract and retain attention, but a study of their technology-enabled games has to be assessed with cross-cultural sensitivity based on Barthes’ ‘this and that’ childish engagement. Both Carpentier’s and Borges’ parables of communication challenge the universality of Wittgen­ stein’s ‘language games’: their cultural pragmatics as tools of communication and social action are rooted in particular notions of articulation explored in the third reading. As Chanady ([1985] 1995, p. 126) explains, New World imaginaries were controlled by European requirements to express national identity ‘in accordance with the precepts of positivism’, which hinged on sci­ entific rationality, when their internal realities thrived on performative senti­ ments – a paradox that led to many postcolonial activists’ urgency to ‘hide the stigma of [their magical-realist] fiction’.

Practical poetics as global connectivity Wittgenstein’s language games came to life as an analysis of forms simpler than the entirety of a language itself, ‘consisting of language and the actions into which it is woven’ ([1953] 2009, p. 7) and connected by family resem­ blance (Familienähnlichkeit). ‘Family resemblances’ referred to the ways meaning emerges contingently, as well as to the epiphenomenal likeness of words. A tireless investigator of the sharing traits among human populations that produce our common humanity, in Borges’ Averroës, the Islamic peripa­ tetic pilgrim, found the portals of other worlds hermetically sealed. I would argue that this frustration is parabolic: it targets (emvállo- [εμβάλλω]) by proxy (para [παρά]). The parabolic refers to forced renunciations of one’s intimate cultural upbringing, so that as native subjects can travel in the mind. Even the two resurgent Latin American critics of First World violence had to generate a cosmopolitan idiom by translating their cultures into intelligible schemata without any record of Western reciprocation. As a result, their work is remi­ niscent of the formalistic aspects of European and Western thought, as well as its doubling qualities of performance, every time it crosses continents as an alleged ‘cosmopolitan engagement’. There is more to this literal ‘morphogenetic’ example, which produces plausible beauty-harmony: while it strives to be rid of its non-figurative native aspects so as to become ‘heritage’ conforming to modernity’s (post)industrial standards,4 it is also forced to wear the panoply of masculine violence. The following analysis, explains that, not only do epiphenomenal replicas of indi­ genous culture attract the dark forces of Hall’s (2017) ‘fateful triangle’ (race,

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ethnicity and nation), they ‘forget’ to acknowledge its true binding agent and saviour from Western violence: feminised intimacies of belonging. The morphogenetic production of heritage as belonging and property to display on tourist stage is ambivalent. The touristified displays with which we deal in this reading – for, this is where morphogenesis takes us now – are material forms of biocultural specificity. Stripped of their contextually mean­ ingful aspects, all forms become biophysical phenomena and subject matter for the biophysical sciences (Sorokin, 1969, p. 47). Herein we reach the crossroads of heritage, legacy and biopolitical coordination of land-as-land­ scape (Urry, 2004), that in the hands of power can endorse particular forms of environmental racism (Blanton, 2011). By this term, I refer to a clear jus­ tice question that manifests itself in the form of population displacement or exclusion from native natural and social resources in favour of tourist devel­ opment (Ek and Hultman, 2008; Higgins-Desbiolles et al., 2013; Jamal, 2019. ‘Land’ that is nominated and displayed by its national owners as a biophysi­ cal park, acts as a sort of ‘conductor’ between reality and the dark magics of capitalist structuration (Sorokin, 1969, p. 53). Such biophysical ‘realities’ are constitutive of borders.5 Nevertheless, if in realist parlance, borders are enac­ ted practices that do not stop at the territorial borders but shape national or global spaces, their Borgesian parable is located in the human body that produces its own biological replicas: ‘bodies carry borders on them’ (Brah, 2016, p. 4). The third reading’s analysis of Herder’s implication in nationalist discourse connects these two conceptions of bordering to the (post)industrial touristification of the world as a means of development (Lanfant and Gra­ burn, 1992; Bianchi, 2018; Bianchi and Stephenson, 2014). The staging artists and designers of such ‘museums’ have to jump several hurdles to produce work that speaks to their heart, rather than their pocket. Martínez Luna (2019, p. 78) puts this succinctly in assessments of the limits of innovation for workers in immaterial industries: designers and artists have been ushered into a phase of capitalism that ‘leaves [them] suspended between a modernity that has not just finished saying goodbye – although its principles are exhausted, they maintain an imperative force – and a future that is unknown’.6 It is understandable why all such projects try to retrieve village utopias on behalf of a metropolitan centre – small Amorgos is not exactly an exception, despite its developing global connectivity. This utopian work has always been present in the generation of national and transnational imaginaries of modernity with a special ‘character’ (Williams, [1973] 2016). As artistic projects, they are nothing short of a creative reworking of ‘climate imaginaries’ as shared socio-semiotic systems ‘that articulate and structure a field around a set of shared understandings that provide a sense of coherence and link actors into a network around the issue’ (Levy and Spicer, 2013, p. 660). Changing social imaginaries connect to the rise of capitalism, which brought about economic rationality, the rise of individualism and a separation of public from private spheres (Taylor, C.,

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2002, 2004). Despite their independent articulation at an ideational level, their propensity to generate competing alternatives to crises, remains ana­ logical to political-economic critiques of capitalism (Jessop, 2010). Having to negotiate ‘sustainable lifestyles’ or ‘anarchic retreat’ propositions amid more dominant ‘techno-market’, ‘fossil fuels forever’ and ‘climate apoc­ alypse’ suggestions (Swyngedouw, 2010, p. 217; Korstanje, 2019b), most of these projects re-organise the normative principles on which production and consumption currently function (Levy and Spicer, 2013, pp. 659–660). This is also why such projects need rooted atmospheres to counter the human mal or hyper-neoliberal affliction of the soul that Dredge and Jamal (2013) saw in the rushed tourist connectivities. To avert the evil eye of rushed development, these projects try to induce sympathetic emotions in visitors, including embodied feeling, cognitive eva­ luation and aesthetically attuned behaviours – a sort of participatory sym­ pathy that facilitates their holistic involvement in the ‘events’ they project (Eyerman, 2015; Hannam et al., 2016, pp. 7–8). At the same time, the prac­ tice of schematisation has to achieve an aesthetic resonance or reaction in Wittgenstein’s ([1938] 1966) terms: it has to be directed. The exhibits and exhibitions may not presuppose a ‘gymnastics of attention’ (Krebs, 2017, p. 1431) but they usually want to educate visitors. However, if aesthetic reso­ nance is put at the service of a rescue mission for humanity and the environ­ ment, it would be wrong to limit its staging to the domain of art. Goodman’s (1978) turn from ‘truth’ to ‘rightness’ in his recognition of ‘irreconcilable conflicts of world versions’ suggests a pluralisation of thinking standards and thus a diversification in the domains of action. Naturally, where such plur­ alisation exists, artists or philosophers cannot claim a privileged position, and science is allowed in as a form of practice (ibid, p. 129). Practices such as those guiding the visual and material grammar of these installations in nat­ ural environments (as ‘experimental museums’ or ‘underwater galleries’) can also be considered as self-problematisations in terms of cultural and economic development. Their role is partly that of translation of local problems into global ones, in the sense that they become self-standing cultural forms to be understood as a ‘paradigmatic third culture’ (Delanty, 2009, pp. 13, 192–193). Their outward-looking thrust (towards a globular notion of ecocentrism) partakes in the struggles to cultural self-definition, also potentially amending the damaged social fabric (Touraine, 1977). In the case of performative and staged plots, such as the ones promoted by these installations and bounded environments, we must also be aware of the bigger socio-technical picture: that of borders and flows between them. The Underwater Gallery is just one of the many examples of regionally bound ‘experiments’, which, thanks to digital communications, can circulate across networks (Mol and Law, 1994; Law and Hassard, 1999; Urry, 2002, 2003, 2005a, 2005b, 2007). As much as it belongs to a nationally bounded region, its messages move between regions with the help of its sponsors. Here, we

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must also leave behind the idea of a web of European networks7 and begin to think in terms of global, ideoscapal contiguities and collaborations, or immutable mobiles sharing in purpose (e.g. environmental protection, aes­ thetic conservation and so forth – see Latour 1987, 1990). This is the terrain of ‘Empire’ in Hardt and Negri’s (2000) terms, which facilitates capitalist but also ideational flows, and whose pragmatic and aesthetic rules and ideals are constantly modified by ever-forming ‘multitudes’ (Hardt and Negri, 2004), joined by dreamers, policy-makers, artists and scientists, such as those fea­ turing in the present study. As exercises in ‘hybrid collectifs’ (Callon and Law, 1995), such mobilities of ideas, expertise and labour, bear the potential to reshape humanity’s futures. Hybrid collectifs draw on established meanings of nature and the environment so that they relay intelligible concepts to audi­ ences (Dreyfus, 1991). The legacies of humanity’s cultural pasts come to the fore in present meaning-makings to condition future action (Archer, 1995, 2011; Eyerman, 2015, p. 8; Heidegger, 1967). As the most prominent form of play for adults (Bataille, 2018, p. 238) art is much needed for the staging of natural museums. Comparable to dark tourist pilgrimages, visitations to them enable processes of learning about one’s homeland within the exhibition’s or event’s host community. However, for global visitors such visitations may also activate emotional and cognitive mechanisms of resilience for disasters that can be prevented (Korstanje and Ivanov, 2012; Korstanje and Baker, 2018). I refute the argument that in such environmental stagings of land we experience a separation of heritage from dark tourism – an occurrence prevalent in modernity (Johnston, 2013). Because such stagings are implicated in narrations of the nation’s bíos, they preserve their place in heritage politics, while also engaging in global biopic experiences: a kind of ‘white tourism’. Their white exhibiting potential8 feeds into curricula of aesthetic máthesis with a utilitarian focus on the ‘good life’ that we risk losing, if we do not learn to respect nature: as Boltanski (1999) notes, positive change can happen only if we learn to inspect problems with empathy so that we arrive at durable solutions. Should we confuse such artistic and design interventions with policy­ making? My own answer is in the negative at this stage. The role of art retains the pragmatist spirituality of performative healing that we know as Derrida’s ‘Pharmakon’. This is the art of creative assemblage,9 of collective thinking that may enable us to consider ‘courageous attitudes of genuine experimentation (the thirst for some novelty)’ (Blencowe, 2016, p. 35). Such assemblages include tourism professionals, scientists and activists joined by common people in an attempt to cultivate new ‘economies of imagination’ (Tzanelli, 2017a, pp. 32–33), capable of transcending ‘the capitalist sorcery of infernal alternatives’ (Blencowe, 2016, p. 35). Art can figure in this project as the activity of naming problems (Tzanelli, 2018a, chapter 3), a process of rec­ tifying the inability to articulate ‘what is wrong, what matters, what is the real’ (Blencowe, 2016, p. 36; Read, 2011). The intrusion of Disneyfication into the

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making of a destination endowed with ecological value shapes social realities for the worst, stripping these places of their local identity and global sig­ nificance simultaneously (Torres, 2002, p. 110). This Pharmakon has actually been with us for millennia. It may be a good time to stop mocking evil eye and coffee-cup reading practices as peasant pas­ times and consider their technical extensions in the fields of science and tech­ nology: both of them have been manifestations of the human technomantic ability to read and represent the signs of time and nature. Technomancy is a postmodern fusion of the art of schematisation and sympathetic picturisation (téchne) with the embodied craft of divination (manteía). A relevant techno­ mancy of the world is fe-ng shui (‘geomany’), which articulates a constellation of theories aiming at achieving guanxi (a variation of ‘kinship’) or harmonious being/belonging between humans and earth (Zheng and Yan, 2012). The seven known geomancies (the term means ‘foresight by earth’) were banned in Renaissance as ‘forbidden arts’, in line with a European spiritualisation of materiality in religion and art until the nineteenth century, when they underwent a revival in the form of astrology (Skinner, 1980). The epochal conjunction with a combined rise of imperial and national ideologies brought back concerns about territorialisation and the bordering of (mother)lands, while also exciting the Orientalist’s scientific curiosity for anything relating to the Eastern occult. From all these ‘pseudosciences’, fe-ng shui would be translated in Western scientific regimes into a sort of architectural, mostly urban, design. Literally meaning ‘wind-water’, fe-ng shui comes from the Book of Burial and is one of the five arts of metaphysics known as ‘physiognomy’. This is the observation of appearances with the help of formulas and calculations: a form of ecobiologi­ cal rationalisation, to interpret Jamal et al. (2003). The aim of fe-ng shui, which operates on architectural organisations of the world, is to take advantage of the vital life force (qi) residing on graves and other structures. This means that the qi’s orientation is bound with the territory’s dead (its heritage); depending on their moods, it may produce states that either endanger or make life flourish (Paton, 2013, pp. 49–51). The Daoist principle of harmony maintenance focu­ ses on human adaptation to seasonal rhythms and the motions of heavenly bodies, but its structural integration into land/heritage also matters (Campion, 2012, pp. 94–95; Ames and Hall, 2003). Harmony maintenance becomes in this context a practice requiring the development of technical skills of observation and lifestyle revision (Chun-chieh, 2017, p. 191). These days, such skills con­ nect to the moderation of capitalist mobilities and focus their work on atmo­ spheric constellations that preserve life: humans and the natural elements. This not Simmel’s Lebensphilosophie but a synaesthetic technique of being in the world and representing it not for, but with others. When it enters processes of education, it often feeds into the experimental movie-making of imaginariums, which, unfortunately, is not always managed well by institutions. The most prominent mismanagement comes from interpretations of ‘harmonious inte­ gration’ into variations of environmental racism.

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PART II Breaking the link with religion: digital and environmental revolutions For those who think that I dropped Bosch and Kahlo’s story, there is a sur­ prise: now facing each other at a breath’s distance, our magical-realist char­ acters enjoy a romance. Unfortunately, as is the case with most magical-realist plots, their budding love is doomed by the circumstances and the couple splits in misery. How can such a love of worlds be revived? Part II considers this plot of romance between scientific rationalisation and artistic/design idealism. One miserable ending suggests that our magical heroes can only be together, if Kahlo renounces her belief in sympathetic magic and submits to Bosch’s rational planning. Another version concludes with the certainty that ‘answer­ ability’ itself changes nature in relationships of love, which are bonds of kin­ ship: Kahlo and Bosch now form a singular force against all other human bonds, prioritising their interests. The first ending is the story of policy­ making and the second is the story of conservative communitarianism – and of course, we may also have blends of them. A third plot portrays the two magical-realist characters losing their magic, to address collective rational interests (Habermas, 1986). A fourth scriptwriter protests: scrap all three plots and start again on a posthuman basis. Following this last gleam of hope, I explore radical imaginaries of ecological art that has to work with topographically rooted bureaucratic machines, such as those of urban and rural planning and tourism. I begin with a convenient gateway (the Greek example) to the poetics of paradigm-formation in Western modernity, which encompasses the emergence of artistic/design communities such as those of ‘On a Single Breath’. For them to have social and cultural presence, the world has to withdraw its support from religious authority. The renouncement of religion as an institution is usually followed by the valorisa­ tion of statism in Western modernity (Bauman, 1989; Offe, 1996). To continue the exploration from Part I’s discourses of capitalist consumption, I note that, today, Greece’s relationship with nature shapes not only the public spaces of tourism, but also its public spheres. This relationship is beginning to stand for the younger educated generations for a democratic value (Theodossopoulos, 2004). Even for the state machine this relationship has begun to feature in dis­ courses of an intergenerational legacy with the power to connect Greece to European legal frameworks of environmental conservation (Kazakos, 2007). Despite the ecological crisis that humanity faces, the environment is not treated kindly in the country. Over the last 50 years, the development of transport systems and electric power stations, the degradation of coastal zones, the loss of marine and land biodiversity, the overexploitation of water resources and the proliferation of municipal and environmental waste without sustainable disposal, has inflicted considerable damage to the environment.

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The economic crisis (2008–) also ensured that the country’s economic growth remained unregulated. The generation of financial flows at any cost ensured that the state invested more in consumer satisfaction and neglected the pro­ tection of its immense variety of lagoons, wetlands and long coastal lands from pollution and degradation. The country consists of an archipelago of about 3,000 islands with 18,000 km coastline and three types of climate (Mediterranean, Alpine and temperate). In 2010 (the year of evaluation of the EU Biodiversity Action Plan and the UN International Year of Biodiversity), the European Commission initiated legal proceedings against the country for its failure to implement a programme of wetland protection (Valavanidis and Vlachogianni, 2012, pp. 12, 16–17). The introduction of environmental edu­ cation in educational curricula and the promotion of cooperation between public school teachers and NGOs is an ongoing project. I will return to this objective shortly, because it coincides with Stefanos’ project. Seeing past the problems of climate change that trigger fires or feed the greed of developers that care little about reforestation, for centuries now, in Greece the destruction of nature followed a cosmological ‘pull’ to eradicate the inconvenience of natural biorhythms. The ever-delayed industrialisation following Greece’s belated national integration that concluded in the postwar years (1950s), was followed by the emergence of a poor working class with links to Eastern communism and a civil war. This class’ political scapegoating emboldened capitalist growth and fed into the country’s industrialisation without conscience, turning progress at all costs into a monologue of moder­ nity. Unlike the secularisation of the Western mind elsewhere in Europe and the North America, this monologue also resurrected anthropocentric religious priorities and harmonised them with the state’s ecological neglect and prop­ erty development at the expense of the country’s rich biocultures (Marmaras and Wallace, 2018; Sarantakou and Terkenli, 2019). By the second decade of the twenty-first century, the biomass of Greek forests had reduced sig­ nificantly, either in favour of urban development and the touristification of island and mainland peripheries, or due to constant fires of natural and manmade causes (Deforestation Statistics for Greece, 2018). This ‘pull’ to destruction is not specifically Greek. Indeed, for some, it mirrors observations on the escalating environmental destruction wherever Christianity prevailed in the world: as White (1967, pp. 1205–126) pointed out, the Christian notion of a God creating and presiding over nature is dif­ ferent from the gods of Eastern shamanic religions, which are entities imma­ nent in nature. In line with divine law and as a potential participant in godly transcendence, the Christian human subject could simply objectify nature qua environment, separate it from understandings of wellbeing and exploit it to their interests. This godly order of things defined modern Greek ideas about the environ­ ment even more in marginal islandic contexts, in which ‘rights’ could only be defined by having recourse to notions of kinship. However, such notions

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provide a different explanation for the Greek ‘pull’ to destruction. Generally, kinship and fiscal nepotism inform a particular form of Greek heritage, which is property-based and therefore treats nature as an object to be exploited, not a vital subject with rights (Theodossopoulos, 2003). As is the case in many other parts of the world, in late capitalist conditions utopian forms of mate­ rial and symbolic-social architecture (fe-ng shui) ‘capitulate before the property developer, who spends the money’ (Lefebvre, [1992] 2015, pp. 63–64; emphasis in the text). Not only has the increased neoliberalisation of Greek financescapes in the last decade and a half reduced the nation-state’s worldmaking authority in decision-making processes of development (Lekakis and Kousis, 2013) it promoted the collection and privatisation of inheritance-based riches to the principal driver of inequality in ‘capital’s stead’ (Gudeman, 2015, p. 77; Piketty, 2014). Therefore, although the Christian-inspired hierarchy of needs is still prevalent in Greece and elsewhere on the planet, it does not provide a unilateral explanation to environmental degradations and, when used alone, is unnecessarily hostile to religion (Whitney, 2015, p. 400). Historically, Greek attitudes towards the environment were shaped within the context of the nation’s peculiar place in European worldmaking. The rupture between the country’s modernity and antiquity formed a probléma­ tique about European civility: modern Greece was viewed as an entity not yet ‘civilised’ by Western standards, which paradoxically stood at the centre of narratives of European identity because of its ‘objective’ connection to Hel­ lenic antiquity.10 This international ‘drag’ had certain material morphogenetic consequences: even two centuries after the country’s institution, to modernise involved the destruction of nature and thus formalise life in ways that replace the beauty of gardens with the utility of build structures. The ‘interpretation’ of what fully industrialised countries would find at least an aesthetic crime, colonised public culture with an imaginary of material order, in which any­ thing ‘natural’ was a ‘pollutant’ to progress. This discourse reversed modern Northern European calls to rescue first the picturesque and then the natural environment from the advent of indus­ trialisation. The habit to suppress nature materially and symbolically is hard to change, but we could see the institutional support Stefanos received in 2015 to present his earlier work to publics as an attempt to ‘realign’ with European pro-environmental movements. Even this perspective is not impartial – for as I explain, the link between artistic-technomantic initiatives and touristic fasci­ nation11 often delivers artists and institutions to the hands of a powerful hybrid organisational ‘beast’. This ‘beast’ merges the qualities of biological heritage with those of capitalism in ways comparable to those we find in ecofriendly installations elsewhere on the planet. Such an unfortunate turn seals the demise of fe-ng shui as a particular version of hospitality extending beyond the com­ mercialisation of tourism mobilities. Not only does this kill the new networked objectivity of climate change optimists, it is one step away from forms of environmental racism that we encounter in tourist utopias.

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In 2015 (6 November–31 December) Stefanos exhibited a series of photo­ graphs at the Eugenides Foundation–Athens Planetarium, which attracted more than 30,000 visitors as ‘one of the most successful exhibitions in the history of the institution’ (Underwater Gallery Brochure, 2018, p. 4). The Foundation was instituted through the will of Eugenios Eugenedes, a busi­ nessman and shipowner with a rumoured love for his homeland. Aiming to contribute to the education of young students of Greek citizenship in scientific and technical fields, the Foundation developed into one of the most successful world organisations, attracting prestigious awards in marine business and supporting one of the best-equipped planetariums in the world to date (Eugenides Foundation, 2019). The initial design of the underwater installa­ tion near Amorgos was based on this spectacular exhibition: staged amphi­ theatrically in the Planetarium’s circular room, Stefanos’ images were organised in a panoptic style, possibly with the intention to produce an answerable effect: marine life and land ‘gazing back at the visitor’. Encircling visitors, the photographs animated a uniform cosmogonic event (‘the magic of our Greek sea waters’) that turned visual engagement into an ascetic experience. Media ‘afford’ different types of audience relations that are based on par­ ticular connotations when it comes to collections: the visitor can also be prompted to regard the genre of the collection in ways that are already instilled in its presentation and media staging (Silverstone, 1994a, 1994b; Usherwood et al., 2005; Macdonald, 2007). The Eugenides/Kontos collec­ tion’s scopic nature has a contradictory effect on the visitor: on the one hand, it calls into being a Borgesian Averroës unaware of the playfulness through which these spectacular images came to life – for, without Stefanos in their visual field as the narrator, they are mere mementoes mori; on the other, Averroës’ bodily and emotional stillness is ‘unbound’ (Bissell and Fuller, 2011; Gibson, 2016) by his very ability to inspect, dissect and enjoy these underwater treasures. In reality, then, the images do not speak to the scientific pilgrim, they are only displayed as part of a precious Greek landscape. Their scientific value as mathetic ‘things’ (prágmata) produces the reality of a Greek heritage at risk of extinction.12 The exhibition comprises an institutional attempt to share paradigmatic events with Greek citizens. I stress ‘paradigmatic’ as something that encloses the Western Kuhnian thesis (1970) in their style of display. Any paradigm, including those of climate change denial, environmentalism or even heritage conservation (Urry, 2011, pp. 38–39), is conditioned by the practice of dis­ playing a number of given samples of things (deígmata: δείγματα) in a sequence (pará: παρά). For an exhibition of this calibre and sophistication, paradigmatic organisation relies on atmospheric enhancement (vivid colours and precise placement of images-ideas in a narrative that makes sense) as well as the provision of a few significant punctums that can traumatise visitors in educational ways (Barthes, 1981, p. 27; Eyerman, 2015, p. 21 on meaning­

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making and disaster). The atmospheric dimensions of this ‘heritage event’ are so strong that they whisper ‘phantasmagoria’, prompting visitors to assume the role of Averroës as a homo autotelus. This is a peculiar version of the native pilgrim, who has lost his ability to feel, so that he is directed towards collecting 3D versions of nature, while watching promotional videos of events. This is the caption of the event’s promotional video: ‘On a single breath … one dive, one adventure, one shot … Witness, through our eyes, images and moments from the photo-shoot for the exhibition “on a single breath” at the Eugenides foundation planetarium in Athens’ (Kontos, 5 December 2015). Staged in Greece’s capital, the exhibition did more than its stagers inten­ ded: it collected and displayed a selection of internal cultural–natural differ­ ences in the nation’s conceptual and actual political centre in exchange for the periphery’s metropolitan recognition. This ‘innovation’ might have appeared to amount to little actual change in the system of both scientific and artistic representations, but its successful synchronisation of geographically different ‘samples’, contributed to a ‘heterarchical’ change in the overall system (Stark, 2009). ‘Heterarchical agency’ does not necessarily reflect market hierarchies, but its interpretative intervention in the system’s architectural organisation with the help of new technologies (of the eye in this case) may actually trigger systemic reorganisation – in marketable representations in this case (Urry, 2011, p. 131). Let us recall the fallacious distinction between ‘museology’ (the study of museums) and ‘museography’ (the configuration of scientific, techni­ cal and managerial knowledge), to understand the significance of the exhibition: in reality, the two ‘systems’ are interdependent because of their epistemic origins in ways of seeing as knowing and their function as statist ideological tools (Latour and Woolgar, 1986, p. 21). Not only does the exhi­ bition enable the craftsmomentum of the artistic technician to ‘reveal’ an alternative world that human subjects can enter, it articulates the values of professional bodies that buttress the nation-state in which they operate. As a collection, the photographic exhibition appealed to the function of environmental tourist imaginaries as essential elements in the process of identity-formation, place-making (‘Greece’ as a national water-world) and perpetual cultural invention (Greece as a socio-scientific laboratory that pre­ serves life) (Clavir, 2002; Salazar, 2013). The principle of equivalence-as-one­ ness generates the preconditions for the territorialisation of the collective/ national imaginary in ways similar to Angel Flores’ Latin American avant­ garde (‘local colour realism’) answers to hegemonic European forms of fiction and action (Chanady, [1985] 1995, pp. 128, 131). Such calls aspire to turn magical realism into a collective attitudinal trend that attacks the institutio­ nalisation of art (as per Danto, 1974, 1997) in highly differentiated societies (Luhmann, 1982). Unfortunately, their resurgent nature almost always har­ bours cryptonational aspirations. Postcolonial realist magics face the dark magics of Western modernity for a confrontation with no apparent winners but clear losers: forms of internal diversity.

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The rest of the story is a textbook case of mobility: Stefanos, who by now has developed into a true paradigmatic magician, thanks to organisational backing, hard-earned qualifications and his cultivated skills of connectivity, also ventures into the world of the moving image. In this world, which spe­ cialises in the digitisation of shared representations and images, tourist ima­ ginaries of Greece are based on a constant rearrangement of native and visitor experience. In this world, Stefanos’ photographs ‘shift continuously between correspondence and dissonance which either confirm by the closeness or illustrate the gap between the “real” and its representation’ (GravariBarbas and Graburn, 2012, unpaginated). Based at the American College of Greece (ACG) and organising events at the Pierce Theatre, the Adventure Film Festival (heretofore AFF) initiative speaks the language of alternative living, which draws on multiple combinations of athletic pursuits centring on adventure, with audio-visual technological narration. Adventure-driven sports tourism is a new niche, which involves active physical, intellectual or emo­ tional recreation (Roberts, 2011, p. 148) often close to edgework. However, the AFF’s mission has an even stronger element of emotional engagement with culture, as it supports responsible lifestyle choices13, which simulta­ neously afford escapism from stressful urban dwelling. AFF’s programmatic statement is telling: Our aim is to organize a comprehensive, multifaceted and quality film festival that meets world standards and will be framed by parallel events, speeches and exhibitions. Our vision is to inspire and sensitize people to respect and enjoy nature by using it as a way out of urban everyday life, through art, combined with adventure. (Adventure Film Festival, 2018) The initiative, which hosted Stefanos for a discussion of his work on 23 October 2018 (AFF, 2018), is sponsored by ‘Wayout Adventures’, an Athe­ nian independent organiser of athletic, tourist and leisure events. Regarding the AFF’s composition in particular, we must read the small print: all its principal members are Greeks with tertiary education qualifications, often acquired abroad, and specialisation in tourism and event management; all of them endorse blends of technomantic creativity with business. Any large metropolitan formation achieves global status through the presence of cor­ porate business and trade services, a developed mobility infrastructure, a tol­ erated blend of national and foreign workers and a concentration of artistic and scientific elites (García Canclini, 2014, p. 167; Roche Cárcel, 2019, p. 184). Stefanos’ isolated display of alternative thinking has found yet another ‘home’ to flourish in the form of paradigmatic action. Indeed, his other indi­ vidual activities in 2019 involved the production of a video advertising a campaign against plastic with National Geographic: after watching Stefanos dive into the deep blue to reach a shipwreck allegedly enveloped by plastic,

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the video prompts viewers to take a quiz test and save the planet (National Geographic, 2019). It is unclear how this is achieved. We have almost run a full circle back to Reading one’s craftsmomentum: in these organised spheres of work-play, the subjective formation of values also shapes reality. Professionals such as Stefanos and the AFF leaders may be part of a more privileged creative class, but they still stand by virtue of their Greekness between concept and experience (Sahr, 2011, p. 109): their hallu­ cinatory projects are parabolic, in that they struggle with the old Cartesian conundrum of subjective incoherence inflicted on humans and communities in late capitalism. Their audio-visual and embodied projects attempt a tertiary revision of reality, which is firmly embedded in a cosmopolitanised network of relations (Maffesoli, 1996) so as to produce a new cartography of things and subjectivities (Guattari, [1992] 1995). This alternative magical-realist reterritorialisation of subjectivity in the world rather than the nation (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987), does not operate completely outside social differentiation but rejects the split between consciousness and unconsciousness, the real and the surreal. As proponents of particular versions of ‘artist’ (the capitalist demise of aesthetic values) with ‘social critique’ (the capitalist demise of socialities and solidarity) (Boltanski and Chiapello, 2018), these paradigmmakers attempt to dissolve traditional European differentiations between form and content, favouring instead a medial position of performative thinking-with-action that connects humans with their environments (Morin, 2009; Sloterdijk, 2016). There are versions of social justice excluded from this pro­ ject, which I touched upon in Reading three but have no space to expand on here. However, these come back to haunt the production of imaginariums. Welcome back to the latest capitalist mutation of postcolonial magical rea­ lism, where reality is relocated ‘far beyond the simple rationalistic “real”’ (Sahr, 2011, p. 110), into ‘perceived atmospheres’.

The reproductive loneliness of the environmental sublime The latest mutation of capitalism has colonised alternative imaginaries of mobility justice across the world in different degrees and modes (Sheller, 2018). One of the deepest wounds it has inflicted upon planetary, national and regio­ nal social fabrics involves the production of clashes it across and within differ­ ent ecologies spanning society and the environment. Again, we have to relocate Stefanos’ personal underwater dream: situated firmly among other similar promising projects involved in touristification through copyrighted art, it runs the risk of commercial decontextualisation. Although Stefanos’ Underwater Gallery can still claim uniqueness due to the means by which its fragments (photographs) were produced (by ápnoia: άπνοια), and he run the event free of charge for the public, the market walls are closing in around him. Similar projects around the world have become incorporated into regional policies of development with connections to touristification. There are at least

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three extensions to their commercialisation, with various consequences: the first stresses the destination’s cultural reputation, endowing the imaginarium’s developers with educational intentionality; the second, more honestly, prior­ itises the destination’s development of a tourist/visitor market; and the last links it to at least two often overlapping visions of sustainability based on pro-environmental and labour priorities. Such extensions overlap, clash, cross and interact at most times, and always in relation to the ways regional civic alliances and formations are benefited or suffer from them. Significantly, such imaginariums hardly ever operate outside the broader ring of metropolitan influence: as Boltanski and Thévenot (2006) note, cities are fields, wherein (in) justices are ‘played out’ in the context of development. Such an explicitly touristified project is the Underwater Museum of Art, MUSA, a joint initiative between the Director of Arrefices de Cozumel’s National Marine Park, Cancun’s Nautical Association and the English-born sculptor Jason deCaires Taylor, who describes himself as an environmental activist and artist. One of the Museum’s centrepieces is a Volkswagen Beetle sculpture submerged in 2011 in the reef body of Sala Manchones between Cancun and Isla Mujeres. The Beetle, which is engineered as an artificial reef to attract coral life and fish, poses sculpture as a ‘conservation method’: together with another 500 submerged artefacts of the Museum, which are designed to problematise the loss of marine life due to global warming, it can be visited by scuba diving. There is an implicit recognition in such artwork of a ‘timeline’, which recalibrates the artist’s craftsmomentum as an inter­ pretative tool of the new global complexities generated by ecological crises. The crisis timeline, such artefacts tell us, commences with the Industrial Revolution, which, after various curves and loopholes in isolated disaster ‘events’, terminate with the Anthropocene. Hence, from an interpretative point of view, deCaires Taylor’s artefactual creativity ‘gestures’ towards, or tries to become ‘answerable’ to magical-realist discourse because its narrato­ logical content is critical of Western modernity (Urry, 2005a, pp. 242–243). The dialogue is turbulent and difficult. In critical museological terms, the artefacts craft a distinctive style of temporal structuration, which obeys to the workings of Western modernity (Bhambra, 2007a): they still structure time on the norms of Western socialities, which have particular historical orientations towards linearity (Gurvitch, 1964). The project, which is a representation of representations, has, like all such projects, limitations in the ways it encodes and transmits collective human memory (Belting, 2011, p. 66): it is based on discourses of sustainable tourism production and con­ sumption, which, in turn, are based on conceptions of Western linear mobility. Human memory coding is sustained in these projects by practices of ‘deep seeing’, which is informed by European phenomenological practices (McCormick and Scales, quoted in Córdoba Azcárate, 2018, p. 12). How­ ever, as Stefanos alternative deep seeing betrays, MUSA’s logic and design are now far from unique: with the exception of Amorgos, there are another

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six Underwater Museums (in Granada, the Bahamas, Lanzarote and Eng­ land), which draw on the work of Jason deCaires Taylor, who is an experi­ enced scuba diver (Córdoba Azcárate, 2018, p. 12). Overall, the question of sharing in icons and iconic reproduction has been one of the causes of the artist critique’s (see Introduction) weakening role in con­ temporary societies (Chiapello, 2004, p. 590). It would be wrong to view the question of reproduction as something irrelevant to these exhibitions’ potency of ecological content: their mission is to stimulate human conscience to recognise the threat of irrevocable loss of vital authenticity (the natural environment). When such education turns into a consciousness industry based on endless copies (Kirschenblatt-Gimblett, 1997), it can appeal only to a post-tourist clientele interested in enjoying simulacra, without engaging in a painful self-cri­ tique. At the same time, accusations of iconic reproduction expose a trauma inflicted on contemporary socialities. This occurs on the plane of capitalist vio­ lence, which now runs parallel to that of human-made ecological disaster. This needs more explanation: deCaires Taylor’s underwater sculpture was widely discussed, when Damien Hirst displayed ‘Treasures from the Wreck of the Unbelievable’ in the 2017 Venice Biennale. Just a few minutes away from one of Hirst’s two venues, the Punta Della Dogana, stood the Grenada Pavi­ lion’s group presentation with ‘The Bridge’, where deCaires Taylor displayed underwater sculptures resembling some of Hirst’s creations (Davis, 16 May 2017). Gossip of copyright violation spread. This assumed ridiculous pro­ portions, when one considers carefully the two artists’ different objectives but also the production timelines of their artworks: they ‘prove’ that both artists have violated copyright, depending on whom you ask. To amplify the confu­ sion, one may note that another of deCaires Taylor’s sculptures from Museo Atlántico, another MUSA clone located in Las Coloradas (Atlantic Ocean) displaying a dingy with refugees, seems identical to Ai Weiwei’s inflatable dinghy with refugees from his 2016 exhibition at the National Gallery in Prague ‘The Law of the Journey’ (Tzanelli, 2018c, p. 529). However, Ai’s concern with biopolitics as read through Walter Benjamin’s ruminations on Franz Kafka’s Das Gesetz der Fahrt, differs from deCaires Taylor’s environ­ mental sculpture and its inspiration, as I explain below. One may add to this list John Akomfrah’s incorporation in his video work Vertigo Sea (2015) of a terrible détournement from the recent global refugee crisis next to his poetic visualisation of the ways new ‘technologies of terror’ affect the environment and animals (Akomfrah, quoted in Nilsson, 2018, p. 6). The list of these examples transposes us to the realm of the carnivalesque of originality. All human creativity can present points of iconic convergence, but each artwork’s journey alone may produce different ‘pilgrimage’ registers in existential and experiential terms (Bauman, 1996a, p. 27). These days, considerations of the originality of artwork stand at the heart of both the artists’ and their scholarly researchers’ examination of the emer­ gence of multiple or series-produced works (Tzanelli, 2018c, p. 590). Overlaps

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in the works of Hirst, deCaires Taylor, Akomfrah and Ai should urge an adjustment of perspective on at least three points, which prompt research to move away from legal frameworks of plagiarism. The first concerns the indexical interpretation of icons that appear in different artworks: the ascrip­ tion of different meanings by different artists to the same icon already differ­ entiates the content and possibly the primary audience of their artwork, producing different forms of authenticity (Peirce, 1897, p. 161). DeCaires Taylor’s statement with regards to the Venice Biennale incident is revealing. After stressing that he feels proud to have created a genre to which ‘people respond to’, he noted that Hirst’s ‘marine facsimiles are very different from [his own facsimiles’] living conditions’ (Davis, 2017). It is unclear whether he presented his ‘living’ artwork as a superior product than Hirst’s ‘facsimiles’, which emphasise death and darkness. It matters more at this stage to note that Hirst’s thanaphilia qualifies as cognitive thanatourism, which has nothing to do with eco-art. Considerations of artistic arrogance aside (the ‘narcissistic male ego’), deC­ aires Taylor’s statement echoes Adorno’s observation that artistic natural beauty turns the non-existing into a possibility of becoming and therefore a utopian nod to the future (Adorno, 1970, p. 179). Another appropriate ques­ tion to ask would be if the artist’s facsimiles are intended unequivocally as positive expressions of such possibility, therefore endorsing, according to Adorno (ibid., p. 79), techniques of false re-enchantment: a phantasmagoric technique of sorts. A second point, which follows on from the first, involves the degree of value affiliation between these artists, which may or may not make them feel part of the same community (Tzanelli, 2013, chapter 1; Tzanelli, 2015, chapter 3). Lack of affiliation may spark more disagreements over what is authentic and original in and between different artistic communities endor­ sing the neoliberal values of individualism and entrepreneurial competition. The third point has to do with status inequalities in the artworld, which may or may not ‘permit’ one or more of the better-networked artists to appropriate other less-known colleagues’ or indeed non-artists’ work. This happens more often than we might expect and its dark craftiness mars the spirit of collegiality and solidarity on which utopias of belonging are supposed to be built. Finally, especially in the case of overlaps between artistic and non-artistic work, one has to consider likenesses formed contingently or during fortuitous meeting points in values. Different arrangements of these criteria may explain different formations of likeness. In the case of underwater museum exhibits, one perhaps also has to consider how public exposure of ‘illicit’ borrowing obfuscates the fact that such ‘artistic objects’ are part of a scientific-like serialisation based on impositions of Western (scientific) frameworks about time and cultural pro­ gression (Latour and Woolgar, 1986, pp. 36–37). Their attachment to scientific debates that fuel the political and cultural imagination turn them into ‘hyper­ objects’ (Morton, 2013) that serve economies of gazing and abstraction in multiple ways (Seremetakis, 2019, p. 45; Nilsson, 2018, p. 8).

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Let us get to the real point: what constitutes copyright violation (a con­ temporary institutional imposition on ‘artistic authenticity’), artistic likeness or extension (Goodman’s [1978] perspective on the formation of artistic paradigms) and scientific paradigmatic culture (Kuhn’s [1970] take on the new scientific revolutions) allegorises Western modernity’s propensity to grant particular atmospheric formations with the values of originality. As character testimonies, such likenesses are parabolic of the intrusion of the market logic into artistic utopias that are supposed to benefit our social life. They are the ultimate ‘technologies of terror’ with which all creative humans and not just refugees (Nilsson, 2018, p. 6–7), live in late capitalist environments. One may argue that the failure to admit likeness is the postmodern mutation of the ‘uncouth’ village thief of sheep, who uses his criminal craft to accrue manly bravado over his cheated peers (on this, see the classic study of animal theft as gender performance in Herzfeld, 1985). In some cases, the contemporary variant’s integration into displays of professional integrity can destroy the very intimate socialities that make art a worthy pursuit: concealing the act’s mutation transforms the performer into the ultimate homo autotelus, who cannot even admit the deviance of their narcissistic reproduction – and therefore, their belonging to a community of friends.14 Behind these issues stands the predicate of value orientation: should eco-art be considered as any art, or is it just a cultural-political statement on human responsibility for the onset of climate crisis? Therefore, as per Chiapello’s (2004) artist critique, one may argue that the destruction of sociality plaguing contemporary artworlds and the denial of responsibility for our role in the current climate crisis are icons we can index under the same causes: capitalist expansion. The promotion of climate opti­ mism in places, such as Cancun, Córdoba Azcárate warns, helps to conceal the violence of unrestricted development in them (2018, p. 13): not only has the MUSA been turned into an extension of Cancun’s tourist privatopias (the Museum now offers boutique diving experiences and sophisticated packages to ‘art tourists’), it has been incorporated into the post-hurricane dark tourist industry of the region, which was hit twice by extreme weather (Córdoba Azcárate et al., 2014). The intrusion of this new ‘dark experience economy’ into practices of creativity has led to a major re-articulation (see also Reading three) of the arts, cultural and knowledge organisations, also prompting institutions to become more ‘experimental’ in their approach to display (Pine and Gilmore, 1999; Löfgren and Willim, 2005). To add insult to injury, pressures to cater more for the tourist gaze (about 80,000 tourists visit MUSA per year) have ensured that scientific risk maps and scholarly/scientific studies on environmental degradation due to development have been decommis­ sioned or suppressed in favour of further development, even though the marine area (Arrecifes National Park) in which the Museum exists is pro­ tected under legislation (Córdoba Azcárate, 2018, p. 13).

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This example can certainly serve as a warning for the artistic markers of ‘On a Single Breath’, as well as the corresponding metropolitan policy-makers for film tourism. Because Greece oscillates between a religious legacy of eco­ phobia and a new capitalist spirit of enforced invention and accumulation, it can easily find itself merging the realities of the ‘Anthropocence’15 with what Moore (2016) has termed the ‘Capitalocene’: a dark imaginary of ecological destruction due to unregulated capital accumulation. The prioritisation of privatopic tourist production that does not respect the environment but enhances the spectacularisation of culture has led before to land privatisation, deforestation, depletion of natural resources and displacement of native inti­ macies (populations and their cultures) (McBrien, 2016, p. 120). The danger lies now in the replacement of the religious abstraction of ánthropos with an equally sinister abstraction of the ‘human enterprise’ of development, in which ‘we are all [allegedly] in it together’, but most of us are reduced to impassionate, indifferent or disenfranchised spectators of the worst holistic destruction to hit earth (Hartley, 2016, p. 155). The current capitalist muta­ tion has had an unexpected effect on understandings of ‘Holocaust denial’: it has transposed utopian discourses of biologically engineered human better­ ment16 onto the plane of geo-engineering of ‘good’ sustainable tourism enclaves, new ecofriendly, paradigmatic art and so forth. Concomitant and often complicit with the withdrawal of hospitality to forms of human differ­ ence - the refugee, the asylum seeker, the labour migrant – Korstanje, 2016, 2017; Tzanelli and Korstanje, 2016 – this rationalisation of fe-ng shui is slowly turning our natural home into an uninhabitable topos. It is against such dark plots that ecofriendly artists have to create utopias. To consider their transfiguration into privatopias for the tourist gaze as part of their makers’ original intentionality is wrong. Because this study considers the magical-realist potential of such projects, it is better to assume an alter­ native critical perspective to that of political economists. This perspective examines two things: the first has to do with the cultural-industrial transmu­ tations of artistic environmentalism into post-tourist activity. This has been part of a persisting Enlightenment humanistic tradition that endorsed travel and tourism as a ‘generalized interest in things beyond [one’s] particular habitat’, so that humans can enjoy variations of strangeness and novelty ‘for their own sake’ (Cohen, 2004, p. 39, emphasis in the text; Cohen, 2019, p. 5). The second issue explains how Kahlo’s voice is obliterated in her calami­ tous relationship with an otherwise considerate Bosch. The loss of voice is symptomatic of what posthumanism really is: an offshoot of Western reac­ tions to Enlightenment constructions of nature. The trend’s non-foundational, flat-ontological thesis (Latour, 2005) is part and parcel of both the rise of proenvironmental consciousness in the West and some of the most gifted proenvironmental artists’ Western stylistic portfolios. Similar to MUSA concerns may be raised for MOUA, another Underwater Museum installed in the Great Barrier Marine Park close to Townsville, Northern Queensland. The

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official website of the project marries calls to environmental consciousness with ecofriendly tourism (MOUA, 2019), but, currently, the Museum features as key project in Townsville Enterprise’s State Election Priorities, as it gen­ erates extra tourist visitations (Townsville Enterprise, 2019). The installations of such renowned artists as deCaires Taylor in Cancun attempt to equate the ecofriendly acclimatisation of materials and forms with the tropicalisation of ideas rooted in Western geo-engineering. This phenomenon, which is part and parcel of global professional labour mobilities that may lead to the replace­ ment of native artwork, risks reproducing the ‘white man’s burden’ in other­ wise well-meaning activities. Again, my entry point is not political-economic but cultural-pragmatist – a selection that harmonises with the dominance of the Western and European origins of artistic stylistics in some such environmentally inspired art. This cultural pragmatics is lodged between agential and structured interpretations of relevant ‘artwork’. From an agential-worldmaking perspective, MUSA’s immersed sculptures occupy a certain measurable geometrical space under­ water as a pragmatic system of reference of things and places (Griffero, 2014, p. 36). Axially, they are meant by their maker’s own admission (deCaires Taylor 2019, p. 1) to expose human exceptionalism: a presumption that humanity can stand outside a spatio-temporal web of interspecies dependen­ cies (Haraway, 2008, p. 11). Overall, deCaires Taylor’s axial eco-thesis blends with artistic imperatives to nurture life. As he states in his personal website, his sculptures, which are individually designed using safe pH neutral materials with textured surfaces, create homes, breeding areas and protective spaces … These sites offer an important area for marine biologists to document and monitor a reef developing from inception. Some projects have seen marine biomass increase by over %200 [sic] on once deserted sections of sea bed. (deCaires Taylor 2019, p. 1) Aesthetically, the human forms’ arrangement in banal interactions (here a group sitting around a table, there a pregnant woman holding her belly) speaks the language of absolute spatiality tied to the multi-sensory body (‘this space measures your scope of movement’, they suggest to visitors – MerleauPonty, 1962, p. 332). However, as statuary, the model human forms ‘bare their primordial function … namely, the preservation of life by a representation of life’ (Bazin, 1960, p. 5). There are symbolic clusters of artwork: The Bankers refer to human short-termed greed; The Silent Evolution, which was based on real-life models from the nearby fishing village of Puerto Morelos, represents a community of people defending their oceans; Reclamation features an angel after a catastrophic sea storm (deCaires Taylor 2019, p. 2). The staging of the body-sculptures’ movements is atmospheric: not only do they generate kinetic orientations for the scuba-diving visitor, they trigger with their banal sociality

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scenarios a sentimental mechanism of perception. This mechanism relies on simulacra of the ‘rhetoric of intimacy’, with all its endearing minutiae (Tar­ pino, quoted in Griffero, 2014, p. 95). By the same token, one may argue that the magics of these messages acquire atmospheric qualities connecting to environmental aesthetics because they engage viewers and olfactory scuba divers with textures of coral and other forms of sealife that now inhabit the surface of these sculptures. From a structural viewpoint, the worldmaking author is the region’s tourist industry. deCaires Taylor’s thesis centres on the conception of ‘a new era for tourism, one of cultural and environmental awareness, with the hope that more tourists may begin to reconceptualise our beaches as more than sunny paradises but living and breathing ecosystems’ (deCaires Taylor 2019, p. 1). This idea comes closer to the cittaslow model of slow tourism, which advo­ cates slowness as the mother of reflection, producing blends of beauty and sustainability (Howard, 2012). However, at an institutional level, this super­ imposes a commodity aesthetics to the artwork, which is even mediated in the MUSA’s two centrepieces, ‘Dream Collector’ and ‘Anthropocene’. The second of these sculptures, which is a cast of a Volkswagen Beetle with a mourning

Image 4.1 ‘Anthropocene’ by Jason deCaires Taylor, Museo Subacuatico de Arte (MUSA), between Cancun and Isla Mujeres, Mexico. Creator: Andy Blackledge, 21 October 2015. Creative Commons Licensing: https://crea tivecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0

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child on the windshield, is intended as a rumination on ‘what we are leaving to future generations’ (deCaires Taylor 2019, p. 2). Its articulation of legacy and debt adhere to a posthuman ethics of care, in which regimes of natural resource exploitation have to be re-evaluated on the basis of a common good for the human species, its polity and relationship to other inhabitants of the planet (Braidotti, 2013, p. 2). However, the ethics of making may also clash with posthuman ethics, in so far as human makers are constantly confronted with a ‘failure of reciprocity’ between themselves and other beings in the world (Soper, 2012). As a result, artmakers assume an ethothetic role in their alleged reciprocal relationship with the land and its non-human creatures.

Image 4.2 ‘Archivero de los Sueños’ (‘The Archive of Lost Dreams’ – more commonly known as ‘Dream Collector’) by Jason deCaires Taylor, Museo Subacuatico de Arte (MUSA), between Cancun and Isla Mujeres, Mexico. Creator: Andy Blackledge, 21 October 2015. Creative Commons Licensing: https://crea tivecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0

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This is the ‘Dream Collector’s’ crypto-normative message, according to its maker: El Archivero de los Sueños (The Archive of Lost Dreams – more com­ monly known as ‘Dream Collector’) depicts an underwater archive that consists of hundreds of messages in bottles drifted to this place by oceanic currents. The archive is maintained by a male registrar, who categorises messages according to their emotional content (fear, hope, loss or belonging). The original intention was to invite international multicultural communities to provide the actual messages, which will symbolise a unity in human dreams and emotions (Kradel, 1 July 2010). The design is peculiarly taxonomic in its inception: not only does it echo the bureaucratic ethos of modernity, it mirrors the biopolitical project of the institutional Western gaze of the clinic, the asylum and the prison (Foucault, [1966] 1989, 1991, 1998). Stewart ([1984] 1993) and Pearce (1989), who distin­ guish three modalities of collecting (fetishistic, souvenir and systematic), would have seen in this sculpture a potential escape from the confines of the ego, which is subjected to the rules of transcendental objectivist taxonomic science. If the act of collection is modulated by classification of objects that share natural affinity, then we are in the realm of an allegedly ‘emancipatory’ scientific oper­ ationalisation that we associate with museums (Lyotard, 1984). However, the overall staging is much more ambivalent: on the one hand, the gendered identity of the Dream Collector counters the otherwise feminist content of the artist’s aesthetics of care, conforming to masculine allegories of Western modernity; on the other, the content of its taxonomical object/principle, which objectifies ‘dreaming’, fragments the unitary scientific logic of the taxology itself. Resem­ bling the individualistic modality of fetishistic and souvenir collections that Benjamin attributes to phantasmagorias, brings into play a critique of Enlight­ enment: the living/dead exhibit’s collection of dreams questions the conflicted contexts on which its ‘collection’ is based (Fabian, 1983, 2007), promoting a sort of ‘meta-museology of rupture’ (Hainard and Gonseth, quoted in Shelton, 2013, p. 11; Dilworth, 2003, p. 5). The theme of dreaming recurs in Museo Atlántico, another MUSA clone located in Las Coloradas (Atlantic Ocean) within Lanzarote’s UNESCO World Biosphere Reserve. Clinical problematisation persists in sculptural creations such as deCaires Taylor’s Raft of Lampedusa (a critical comment on European refugee policies) and Rubicon (35 people sleep-walking towards an underwater wall, symbolising humanity’s contribution to earth’s ecosystemic death) (deCaires Taylor 2019, p. 3), two Théodore Géricault-inspired pieces of artwork. Much like the strategy of global networking followed by the Museum of Tomorrow in Brazil, which I explore below, these museum clones have to negotiate their poetic autonomy amidst calls for their national politicisation and their tourist McDonaldisation (Shelton, 2013, p. 15). Practices of cloning also seem to connect to new marketable conceptions of art and spectacular architecture designed by so-called ‘starchitects’ (Frey, 1998), who, regardless of their personal visions, end up participating in this new urban dynamic of creative industrial development (Brown and Mairesse, 2018, p. 531).

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Ultimately, deCaires Taylor is left to articulate First-World mobility’s twin malaise: the dialectic of Enlightenment’s phantasmagoric staging (a sculptured registrar collecting dreams) with automobility’s ‘aluminium dreams’ (Sheller, 2014a) that threaten our planet with an ecosystemic collapse. Here the ‘signs’ of artistic wizardry can easily operate outside public education as tokens of exhib­ ited culture that we encounter in theme parks (Hollinshead, 2009, p. 270). As notional-institutional sites (e.g. Danto, 1974, 1997) that recreate particular forms of cultural and environmental heritage, MUSA, its clones and its principal art­ worker’s artefacts run the risk of turning into commercialised thanatourist museums. In this new institutional capacity, the sites and their artefactual orchestrations participate in an ontological transformation that obeys to aes­ thetic differentiation: their ‘aura’ distances them from their viewers (Benjamin, 1979), due to their newly founded capacity to enclose notions of pristine native nature. Ironically, like the native artworker, native nature is absent – or, rather, it has been re-engineered into a site of global touristic pilgrimage. The absence of native creativity as such is not ‘evil’ – there is merit in the cosmopolitanisation of culture; it does, however, rear an ugly face when behind individual or institutional practices and ideals of love, care and con­ cern, we find the absence of any direct ‘meaningful participation’ and ‘expression of difference’ by the native voice in development processes, including especially those of tourism planning (Whyte, 2010, pp. 86–89). In this context, MUSA’s principal Homo Faber becomes a Homo Articulator of worlds which exist outside native time, in a peculiar touristic bubble crafted by bureaucratic machines. In this respect, Homo Articulator’s making of images for non-anthropocentric, non-utilitarian purposes, is just an ideal world made in the likeness of the real but with its own separate destiny that annuls reality (Bazin, 1960, p. 6). Like his beautiful artefacts, Jason the mundi fabricator (Mezzandra and Nelson, 2013, chapter 4) is coerced into adopting the language of cosmopolitan art we inherited from conflations of a white masculinist Enlightenment paradigm of art with the tourist industry’s ecolo­ gical rationalisation. As is the case with his absent native colleagues and lay native people, we cannot know who deCaires Taylor really is; and as is the case with the expressions on the faces of his MUSA statues, we may find him overwhelmed by a disappointment that, after all, he has produced ‘only images [to] hang in [the deep sea]’ (Benjamin, 1979, p. 96). The onset of the Capitalocene (Hartley, 2016; Moore, 2016) has been both the theme and the entropic outcome of environmental staging elsewhere on our planet. Art seems to mutate Stefanos’ and Averroës’ play and reflexive pilgrimage all the time, only to be eventually co-opted by capitalist and national(ist) networks of tourism mobilities in the form of atmospheric design. The posthuman plea is buried under piles of technical priorities that involve regional reputation and participation in variations of networked civi­ lity. Regardless of their artmakers’ nativity, stripped of their realist magics, such projects become Frankenstein variations of the museum laboratory. This

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Image 4.3 ‘Viking ship museum’, Roskilde, Denmark. Creator: helen@littlethorpe, 29 July 2018. Creative Commons Licensing: https://creative commons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0

laboratory accumulates samples (deígmata: δείγματα) but does not necessarily generate artistic paradigms of experiential mobility. One may argue that thereafter, we find little difference between MUSA’s mission statement (to attract scientific expert research on the marine ecosystem) and the Viking Ship Museum in Roskilde, which emphasises specialised research, knowledge and skills in experimental maritime archaeology and the construction and sailing of replica ships on the on hand, and the attraction of tourism and accruement of European reputation on behalf of the city that hosts it on the other (Bærenholdt and Haldrup, 2006). The Viking Ship Museum can also function as an extension of topophilic acculturation (Tuan, 1974) for visitors, who are interested in heritage tourism. As a variation of consumption of ‘guilty landscapes’ (Reijnders, 2009), whose histories of violence are erased to make space for pleasure, the Viking Ship Museum partakes in atmospheric sanitisations of lighter (than, say, concentra­ tion camps) dark national heritage. Capitalising on the atmospheric potential of marine land-as-landscape (Urry, 2004), the practise of displaying ‘exotic native­ ness’ (Nochlin, 1991) helps the Museum’s designers to replicate the post-tourist gaze of the theme park industry (Ritzer and Liska, 1997, pp. 97–99; Clavé, 2007; Whatt, 2010). The emphasis on scientism trumps art and even native under­ standings of craft (ship-making), when the two are supposed to work together to

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enhance play as máthesis. This does not follow the new vision of arts-with-sci­ ence that circulates as paradigmatic analogy in Actor-Network approaches (Zolberg, 2015); it is just a capitalist mutation in tourist markets. Such processes of scientisation can also be coupled with touristification of the family and school niches, as is the case with the Tropical World in Leeds, UK. The initiative is situated opposite Roundhay Park, one of the UK’s most popular garden tourist attractions and home to the largest collection of tro­ pical plants outside Kew Gardens. The entire complex obeys to the principles of theme-park leisure, as it encloses activities on greenfield sites, offers a cri­ tical mix of amenities and range of performance activities such as festivals and is operated in a safe and clean site (Hollinshead, 2009, pp. 271–272). It is worth noting that Roundhay Park is a public park and no fee is necessary to enter its premises, whereas after Tropical World’s re-launching in 2008, an admission fee was introduced. In a recession context that has hit local administration hard, collaborations with independent business become inevi­ table (Clavé, 2007) – which is why the Leeds City Council has been in nego­ tiation with private business for the establishment of other leisure parks in Leeds’s green suburbia (Tzanelli, 2018b). Mostly advertised as a family leisure attraction, Tropical World’s preservation of tropical climates (the original concept of the institution), and subsequent repository of flora and fauna from extinguishing species residing erstwhile colonised lands, seems to reproduce the taxonomic logic of imperialism in contexts of mass-tourist consumption. Such a conventional form of ‘heterology’ combines the medical-material qualities of otherness-as-excess with the ethereal of tropical/exotic atmo­ spheres. This is a postcolonial experiment in achieving the portability of atmospheric values from the tropics to the former colonial centre. However, in the contemporary context of climate change, the original messages of coloni­ alism may be about to be revised. What the initiative is set to teach these days to young pupils and families is a more pressing issue: the absent presence of nature in the onset of the Anthropocene (Tropical World, 2019). The current Visitor Tour pack, which can be downloaded from the local government’s website, is evidently addressed to children, both through its accessible travel discourse through its rooms/sites and its images, which depict children in contact with nature (Tropical World at Roundhay Park Education Pack, undated). Because the Tropical World’s collection of flora and fauna and their placement in recreated native environments projects native nature as heterol­ ogy (Bataille, 1985, p. 98) to be studied by native eyes and minds (Image 4.4), the result is even more bizarre than its stagers might have intended. By ‘bizarre’ I refer to ancient Greek conceptions of the períergon17 as the reduction of creative play in contemporary leisure activities to an inculcating chore (as in Bourdieu’s [1977] ‘habitus inculcation’). The Tropical World may not be an underwater initiative, but its institutional stagers (the City Council and its scientific experts) have immersed most aquatic tropical creatures into artificial ponds and lakes (Image 4.5). The recreated tropical climate is matched

Image 4.4, 4.5 and 4.6 Tropical World, Roundhay Park, North Leeds UK. A tropical ima­ ginarium species for educational consumption.

Image 4.4, 4.5 and 4.6 Continued

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Image 4.4 4.5 and 4.6 Continued

with a claustrophobic tropical jungle atmosphere, which is enclosed within a glass container (the main building), where species are arranged and displayed (Image 4.6). This being and not being in the natural ecosystem is periergic in its scientific conception in ways approximating the Eugenides Exhibition: first, it uses science to represent rather than mirror reality (Jasanoff et al., 1995) – perhaps with the utmost care, but always as a tertiary revision of life cycles in alien cultural-national contexts; second, its re-localisation of tropical vitalities allows science to construct new tropes of ‘objectivity’ and ‘facticity’ (Latour, 1990; Danston and Galison, 2007) at the service of the collections’ modern state-host (Skocpol and Rueschemeyer, 1996; Shelton, 2013, p. 14). Finally, periergic action removes the playful anarchic element of cognitive and embo­ died travel from the picture in favour of an inculcation of the ‘aesthetically reflexive’ postcolonial citizen (Beck et al., 1994; Urry, 2002). Otherwise put, the

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Council’s experts may have to decouple the Averroës gaze of pilgrimage from that of underage play, to generate lasting impressions of the project’s sig­ nificance on young minds, which do not speak the language of educational chore. Tropical World’s staging philosophy would also merit from a decolonial version of Johann Pestalozzi’s democratic invitation to partake in inclusive forms of education that work against colonial amnesia. Currently all such educational projects are also a way to ‘instil’ worldmaking (Hollinshead and Suleman, 2018), but at a cost for human freedom: the institu­ tional project’s twin objective is to normalise cultural-industrial labour’s creative imagination. More specifically, national subjects are acculturated into particular ways of knowledge-making (Jasanoff’s [2005] ‘civic epistemologies’), whereas transnational creative and scientific labour remains contract-bound to reproduce the same civic or corporate-civic methods of knowledge validation (Jasanoff, 2010, p. 240). In both cases, the revolutionary magical-realist spirit, which was thought to be running a full cycle, appears to have terminated in a zigzag style at a dark deadlock: on the one hand, its transnational now ‘epistemic’ commu­ nities, which are bound by common perceptions of what counts as ‘natural’ and how it is to be protected (Haas, 1990, 1992), do not always communicate well with the cultural habitats of their object of ‘care’ – for, nature is treated as an object to be acted upon by institutions that control the movements of these epistemic groups. In other words, the ‘native’ ontological element of the revolu­ tion has either dissipated or was hybridised in unrecognisable ways. On the other hand, alongside this hybridisation or ‘cosmopolitanisation’, processes of speedy touristification, which have removed local or regional inter­ est groups from the picture, have also made the life of the transnational artist and/or designer difficult, as their work depends on rooted axial narratives to promote worthy inheritances (Hollinshead, 2009, pp. 279–280, 285). Conse­ quently, transnational creative labour has to employ their transnational imagi­ nation on what is supposed to represent the ‘native’ or ‘local spirit’: for better or worse, these are already hybridised forms, often obeying to European or Western aesthetic (for the environment) and artistic (for art) canons. Given the stifling control of creativity in such environments, it may not be entirely unexpected to witness a convergence of science-making and artmaking on this point. It is not uncommon under such conditions for artistic pilgrims to lose their will to breathe and give themselves to the natural elements – a sad conclusion to Kahlo’s promise that revolutionising pain opens a door to intelligence. The staple of some versions of critical theory, political-economic pessimism on climate change forges a disabling imaginary, which offers a ‘dreary politics of self-sacrifice and self-denial’ (Levy and Spicer, 2013, p. 664) and may serve elite interest in maintaining control over technical and managerial solutions (Swyn­ gedouw, 2010). Perhaps Adorno got it wrong, and ecologically inspired art should only mobilise pessimist scenarios to construct a consciousness stimulus, but not neglect to promote potentially positive endings at a utopian level, which suggest a way out of the crippling technocultural logic. This is the case with the

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Image 4.7 ‘Gaia/Earth’, Museu do Amanhã (Museum of Tomorrow), Porto Maravilla waterfront, Rio de Janeiro. Creator: C. Duncan, 5 May 2016. Creative Commons Licensing: https://creativecommons. org/licenses/by-nc/2.0

Museum of Tomorrow (Museu do Amanhã), a joint public–private partner ven­ ture,18 whose conceptual design is based on a dark but open-ended narrative on climate change and the future of humanity. Designed by the renowned Spanish architect Santiago Calatrava to house artefactual and audio-visual displays pro­ duced by an international artistic contingent, including the American artist Daniel Wurzel and the Brazilian filmmaker Fernando Meirelles, the Museum was meant as both Rio’s 2016 Olympic Games touristic landmark and a narra­ tivised innovation on cosmopolitan scientific practice (Tzanelli, 2017a, p. 85). As the Museum’s current Chief Curator Luiz Alberto Oliveira notes, the aim is to ‘offer a collection of possibilities to visitors’ while also allowing space for the attraction and support of international researchers, and contributing to the formation, maintenance, and mobility of international scientific networks (ibid., p. 69). However, aspiring to add such expert mobilities to the Muse­ um’s projected international tourist flow tells only part of the story. Its inno­ vation lies in its makers’ effort to rearticulate scientific observation and social prognosis in an accessible popular-cultural language by technological means. Such schematisation involves the theatrical staging of whole epochal transi­ tions for humanity in ways that criticise its propensity to inconsiderate environmental exploitation.19

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At first, it seems that this artistic-technological staging is narrativised line­ arly, because the museum’s permanent exhibition is divided into five areas, each representing one epochal segment: Cosmos, Earth, Anthropocene, Now and Tomorrow. Each segment adds to an ultra-pessimistic ‘script’ of left-wing undertones resembling a particular version of ‘dark tourism’ as visitations to sites of disaster, death, and heritage, but extends this to conceptions of a complete human-made death of nature, followed by the death of human societies. ‘Cosmos’ and ‘Earth’ involve narratives of both human and natural ecosystemic genesis, which nicely match the display of a Gaia-like globe at the museum’s entrance. The ecofeminist aesthetic of these segments complements Calatrava’s bright curvilinear design of the building, in which Christian ideas of Madonna with child are subtly embedded (Jacobs, 18 December 2014). Mereilles’ contributions are much darker and disparaging in scope, with film clips portraying all possible ways that we kill our planet. The ‘Anthropocene’ is represented by audio-visual clips of ecological degradation, excessive con­ sumption, and death, both locally and internationally. Further dystopian concepts and ideas make their way toward interactive games that allow visi­ tors to shape alternative futures, including calculating one’s ecological foot­ print; how many planets are needed to support humankind if everyone on Earth had the same living standard; deciding on energy sources, finance, and land usage to support or diminish humanity’s survival prospects; and more (the ‘Now’ for ‘Tomorrow’). Before visitors are placed in this role of future policy-makers, they have to go through an area dominated by powerful images of human–nature interdependency: microbes, organisms and flora. Their neovitalist undertones suggest that all energy flows through networks of life that transcend human life, admonishing visitors to stop placing them­ selves at the centre of everything and join instead orchestrated movements stemming from nature. Admittedly, moving through these areas is unsettling. However, nothing prepares visitors for the grand finale: a ‘Tomorrow’ awaiting authoring. The final exhibit maintains the Museum’s ambivalent core attitude toward dysto­ pian ecosystemic imaginaries, by suggesting collective existential rebirth as the ultimate form of travel. So, holistic ‘rebirth’ is achieved through a return to premodern values, symbolised in the wooden structure of an indigenous ‘house of knowledge’, where communities share stories. In the centre of the structure lies the Australian aboriginal tjurunga, a symbol of learning, ferti­ lity, ritual power, and the ability to cope with change, which befits Brazilian notions of resilience (gambiarra), coping, and wellbeing (buen vivir). The exhibit’s phallic form ‘pierces’ a series of concentric cycles, which stand for its feminine counterpart. Hence, a Museum walk commencing with the feminine symbol of Gaia (the Earth-sphere), concludes with the most vital ritual of life: human intercourse, which here stands of regeneration. The selection of an aboriginal totem may be communicating with the fact that the Australian aboriginal cosmos was gendered and structured around practices of dreaming

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Image 4.8 ‘The house of knowledge’, Museu do Amanhã (Museum of Tomorrow), Porto Maravilla waterfront, Rio de Janeiro. Creator: Elias Rovielo, 14 October 2016. Creative Commons Licensing: https://creative commons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0

(Campion, 2012, p. 29), where legendary totemic beings wandered ‘singing the world into existence’ (Chatwin, 1988, p. 2). This positive tonality is mat­ ched with light and sound adjustments in the hall every time visitors move, as a more critical reminder of how humans and their mobilities change the world around them. The aboriginal exhibit is intentionally open to interpretation, but its her­ meneutics seem to gravitate toward the nonrational and the subliminal— hence, remain open to reworking—future imaginings. This open-ended movement in time, which is based on a closed one on regeneration, appeals to a radical proposition not to rationalise dreaming as a Freudian diagnosis but accept it as an ‘alternative reality’ (Campion, 2012, p. 27). Prioritising an

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aboriginal ecofeminist articulation (the cycle of life), the exhibit’s power to induce such ad hoc responsive action from visitors counters the conventional technoscientific hegemony we associate with organisations. This is then sym­ bolic ‘womanspeak’ of sorts (Irigaray, 2008), commencing with an aethereal visit to the looming disaster of life on our planet and concluding with the most intimate embodied experience: impregnation. One may even argue that the exhibit is used as a form of decolonial alle­ gory, because it turns its back on the Western scientific narrative, even though it employs it in its staging (‘we are healed by ancient magic’). This ambiva­ lence rests in the realisation that we may want to improve things now, but our hopeful attitude is not equipped with the appropriate concepts and tools with which action can be taken to prevent the death of our common heritage: Earthly Nature. Indeed, despite its superficially retrospective linear tour, and in line with scientific controversies on practice, the overall artistic staging promotes an intersection of temporalities as they happen in our minds and hearts and not as dissected in laboratories. This ‘mangle’ or perspectival platform on which science, technology, and society interact provides a ‘real­ time understanding of practice’ (Pickering, 2003, p. 3). In other words, the Museum’s scientific simulation ‘for dummies’ through the ‘tick of birth and the tock of death’ we associate with apocalyptic genres (Kermode, 2000, p. 58), provides a more accessible language by which to speak about scientific complexity (Urry, 2011, pp. 40–42). All in all, we may argue that the Muse­ um’s designers attempt to mediate between mobile situations initiated by social behaviours and beliefs about climate change and their planning ‘from above’ (technocracy and systems of consumption and automobility) by offer­ ing an opportunity to visitors to perform ‘from below’, potentially changing their course (Jensen et al., 2016, pp. 27–28). The building’s inner structure blends nicely with the newly introduced mobi­ lities of its outer surface and surroundings: the solar panels of its roofs to gen­ erate electricity where one previously found only piles of garbage; the lengthy areas for walking and cycling around it by the port, where locals used to be confronted only with chronic flooding and sewage; and artistic education in place of crime and empty grounds abandoned to fortune. On this rare occasion, the joint forces of art, science, and technocracy suggest that death might be an essential precondition in utopian planning and imagining alternative pathways not just for the city of Rio de Janeiro, but the whole world. As ecologically informed practice, art is in this case, a ‘chaosmos’ (Guattari, 2008, p. 52): an intrinsic ecological event that hosts human understandings of the world as it is and can be, but also a cosmological event that ‘folds potential becomings into its own processual unfolding’ (Brunner et al., 2013, p. 11). Seeing past the rea­ list potentialities, the atmospheric embeddedness of the project in the endan­ gered aquatic environment aims to breathe life into the city’s ecological imaginaries. It is not coincidental that, after the tjurunga exhibit, visitors are ushered to a ‘reflective pool’ filled with the port’s seawater to meditate: the

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breathing aquatic atmosphere suggests that it is possible to achieve greater cosmopolitan cohesion, ‘to find higher levels of wellbeing and yet still to reduce [our] material impact on the environment’ (Jackson, 2011, p. 35). In this initiative, at an ideational level, Kahlo, Bosch, Stefanos and the Bor­ gesian Averroës, all these magical-realist characters of modernity, advocate ‘slowness’ in posthuman imaginaries of a transspecies future (Braidotti, 2013). At a realist level, the project was co-opted by the regional administrative machine and the national centre in international tourist development, including, initially, Rio 2016 Olympic tourism: its infrastructural realisation operated on the margins of the country’s endemic environmental racism (involving massive slum population eviction, police pacification and barely solicited structural development in slum neighbourhoods – see also Tzanelli, 2017a, chapter 3). Even the Museum’s narrative basis provides fertile ground for the global adver­ tising of the Brazilian postcolonial nationalist project. This project is firmly embedded in the artistic pilgrimage proffered by two of the Opening and Closing Olympic Ceremonies’ lead artistic advisers, Gilberto Gil and Caetano Veloso (ibid., p. 89). With the effects of the Capitalocene looming large upon the other (underdeveloped) end of the ‘Marvellous City’, where slums snuggle, there is a lot more to reflect upon for the tourist pilgrim (including the Museum’s designers and artistic creators) than the onset of the Anthropocene (Moore, 2011).

From play to plot: gendered and racialised imaginaries of belonging Guattari (2008, p. 6) uses the term ‘existential territory’ to discuss the rela­ tional processes involved in productions of subjectivity. Such processes are in fact pragmatic, he says, because they involve decisions that happen ‘on the go’, hence in entanglements of one’s milieu, socius and incorporeal ecological dimensions. This resembles Sorokin’s (1969) discussion of the intermediary role idealist art plays between sensate (synaesthetic) and ideational variations of artmaking: somewhere, somehow, artistic creators have to resolve the plights of development the human species generated. Perhaps the caging of art and its makers in governmobile systems of consump­ tion is not really how things conclude. What the rigidity of the scientific canon cannot allow, the resurgence of the radical imaginary achieves in art rituals – again, at some cost for global solidarities. A pragmatic form of action that manifests across such cases of environmentally conscious art pertains to their lead artists’ propensity to construct environmental imaginaries of regeneration in their work. Where scientific communities operate within the domain of epistemic becoming, artistic communities adopt epistemontological potentialities of heritage and indebtedness (Barad, 2010). This recurring meta-narrative of becoming, regrowth and flourishing is evident in deCaires Taylor’s sculptural design and reappears in Rio de Janeiro’s architectural centrepiece for the 2016 Olympic Games, the Museum of Tomorrow (Museu do Amanhã). The same radical imaginary ‘breathes’

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life in Stefanos Kontos’ underwater images and life philosophy. However, I want to argue that such discourses carry more-than the marker of the ethico-political immanence that we find in Guattari’s (2014) ‘three ecologies’ thesis. This is so, because sometimes unwittingly, art generates deep plots on the basis of play (as per Geertz, 1973) that are larger than life itself. To put it in a feminist postcolonial language, it stages the story of life itself in magical-realist ways. Guattari’s model would suggest the interlacing of cosmologically bound artmaking, which speaks the local or native language, with homeliness as a form of hospitality (i.e. ‘this artwork belongs’). However, this ecological model does not truly invest in intimacy – what Irigaray identifies in the ‘breath’ as a feminine version of becoming with others and investing in their growth, by establishing meaningful connections between carnality and spirituality (Irigaray, 2008, pp. 128–129). From Irigaray’s otherwise Orientalist discourse that I reject, I borrow the concept of breath as a vital and spiritual matter of human being, which is speaking the language of relationality20. Seen from this perspective, even the two dedicated diving artists of this study, do not always manage to retain a her­ maphrodite quality of creativity that Western modernity’s homo autotelus con­ demns to extinction. At the same time, one must acknowledge the pragmatic constrictions imposed on such artists’ ideals in an age that is yet to welcome ‘post-media’ engagement in the commons or renew the democratisation of media technologies for creative purposes (Brunner et al., 2013, p. 12). The radi­ cal artistic imaginary bears the potential to defeat rationalised modernity’s and capitalist opportunism’s dark magics. Unfortunately, currently, radical art has to work with such dark opportunism to amplify the dissemination of hope. Let us then assess what the consequences of such compromises are in one final reading.

Notes 1 Recently, the Guardian (Carrington, 17 May 2019) suggested the replacement of ‘climate change’ with ‘climate crisis’. 2 ‘The earth is our Home’, Stefanos mentions in the first reading. 3 For example, simultaneous denigration and praise of craft. 4 See, for example, Perez-Alvaro’s [2019] institutional definitions of ‘underwater heritage’; Shelton’s [2013] discussion of praxeological museology’s critique of institutional narratives. 5 See also Jamal et al., 2003 on resistances in natural area destinations; Roelofsen and Minca, 2018 on contemporary contexts of hospitality. 6 Especially, I would add, in the context of a contemporary global crisis. 7 For example, transport networks and mobile citizenries (Walters, 2006; Rumford, 2006, 2008). 8 I use the term instead of Stone’s (2006) ‘dark tourism spectrum’ to denote ethno­ racial bias. 9 Here I draw on Butler’s (2015) thesis on bodies and affects in motion. 10 This is Hartlaub’s conservative vision of ‘New Objectivity’ – see Reading three. 11 Consult Schmid et al. (2016) and Shelton (2013, p. 8) on collaborations between empirical knowledge and ‘amateur’ fictions.

180 International indexing 12 There is a separate discussion on the interpretation of heritage by international organisations – e.g. see Perez-Alvaro (2019, chapters 1 and 2) on UNESCO defi­ nitions of ‘underwater’ and ‘cultural heritage’. 13 The organisation is involved in the production or hosting of indigenous filmmak­ ing, Third World cinema, wildlife documentary and photography. 14 See also Herzfeld’s (1985) conclusion on animal theft and social belonging, which, although in a traditional context, is also revealing about contemporary human attitudes. 15 I use the term in the study to discuss the destructive human domination over the environment. 16 That is, the elimination of particular ‘human types’, such as the Jewish popula­ tions, to refer to Bauman’s (1989) classic anthropocentric thesis. 17 Perí [περί]: around + érgon [έργον]: labour. 18 The partners include the City of Rio de Janeiro, the Roberto Marinho Foundation, Banco Santander, the British Gas Project, and the government of Brazil. 19 On the theatrical staging of life, see Brissett and Edgley (2005). 20 We are all mortals and breathe (Irigaray, 2000, p. 20).

Conclusion Reading zero: Dual (un)consciousness and the mathematics of being

It is suggested that all four previous readings adhere to a progressive development of ‘craft’ in international and ethno-national time and space (the ‘craftsmomentum’). These readings’ critical-realist surface is not identical to the magical realist core of the phenomenon. This dissonance contradicts the technics of Western time and style and Western modernity. It registers the pragmatic separation between the image that one projects in public and the chaotic environment of the inner self, thus bearing witness to (a) the enduring consequences of the postcolonial condition that Greek culture experienced phenomenally and existentially, and (b) of capitalist modernity at large. Although the consequences of this stylistic schism are examined primarily with regards to the Greek case, their socio-political consequences match those in other instances of postcolonisation and more recent neoliberalisation of national lifeworlds. One of these consequences converges upon the pragmatic masculinisation of artwork, design and nationalist discourse across all the examined examples: the male voice appropriates ‘womanspeak’ and men dominate the public sphere. It is also suggested that considerations of ‘class’ in complex postcolonial and international mobility contexts inspired by Bourdieu’s work alone cannot help us to understand how social and cultural reality emerges. The enduring discursive and material violence of (post)colonialism, nationalism and capit­ alism enforces Cartesian fragmentations of the human experience and cogni­ tion, thus splitting Bourdieu’s unitary ‘field’ of production into three separate fields: the material, the phenomenal and the atmospheric. The conclusion is of interest to social and cultural theorists, popular culture and tourism analysis scholars, as well as all interdisciplinary students of identity and culture.

From sediment to sentiment: upsetting Master Modernity’s deep blue There is not much left now to reach the conclusion, only one final upsetting of the cup, which involves a separate divination on the ‘travelling’ subject’s

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symbolic centre. This divination is delivered when the main reading of their fortune has concluded. Then, the fortune-teller places her index finger at the centre of the cup’s bottom to produce one final sign. Overall, the arrangement of signs in the sedimented cup (for, Turkish/Greek coffee is thick and leaves a lot of sediment or katakáthi [κατακάθι]) necessitates a division of its surface to bottom and top but also left and right. Time is represented spatially and the objects/signs (prágmata) cease to be ‘floating signifiers’ in a ‘paradigmatic’ process that arranges deígmata in meaningful clusters. Depending on which side one drinks from (which by turn, depends on their dominant hand that writes), where the cup is touched by the lips represents home and the opposite side is the outside, the public space. Strictly speaking, I do not follow Seremetakis’ (2009) organisation of coffee-cup reading, but my personal knowledge of divination as this was handed down to me by my grandmother. However, we agree on the sig­ nificance of ‘accumulated, clustered events’ (Seremetakis, 1991), which pro­ duce coherence in the reading out of a constellation of fragments. Homologous to Master Modernity’s interpretative modus vivendi (its ‘meta­ narrative’ – Lyotard, 1984), such readings have been repressed during its structural assembling into industrial systems of reason. Not only does coffee­ cup divination symbolise what Irigaray (2000) refers to as ‘parler femme’ or ‘womanspeak’, an allegedly irrational female way of speaking with no centre, it proves that such speech actually has a centre. This is symbolised by the cup’s centre-node: the read subject’s heart. Focusing on the invisible field of vision (Merleau-Ponty’s contribution to phenomenology of perception), rather than the visible (Simmel’s lauded ‘public culture’), this reading counters the position of visual objectification that we associate with cultures of technolo­ gical surveillance, by restoring intimacy’s vernacular honne or private selfhood (Seremetakis, 2009: 341; Graburn, 2012: 58–59). The sediment’s centre is also one’s core of existence, their emotional world. From my personal experience of having seen and performed such readings, some read subjects abstain from having this reading done. The logic of rejecting the free service functions on the principle that coffee-cup readings are not reciprocated by a thanks or any monetary compensation: these may actually annul the reading’s validity. By refusing to have your heart read, you reject what Archer (2013, p. 2) discusses as ‘“eavesdropping” on ourselves, which implies that we are “self-listeners” rather than “self-observers”’. I may be taking this comment in a slightly different direction than Archer, who is primarily interested in constructing a genealogy of reflexivity, but our paths eventually cross: to listen to one’s own thoughts transcends the scopic basis of Western modernity, restoring the human subject’s somatosensory wholeness. It also – and here I follow Archer (ibid., pp. 4–5) closely – grants such ‘internal conversations’ between the Meadean I-You-Me with temporality, which I discussed as part of the craftsmomentum. Indeed, the gratitude one feels for the coffee-cup reader (but they cannot express/articulate) resembles

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the pact of artistic thieves, who belong to the same experiential community: if they admit their transgression in public (‘sharing’/theft of their peer’s ideas), they cancel the magic of bonding; other ways of acknowledgment are used – and should be displayed publicly in my humble opinion. Coffee-cup heartreadings can be painful and embarrassing, because they expose one’s human vulnerability.1 Nevertheless, this is what this final reading attempts to do. I promised to not fall in love with the victims and will stick to my promise. First, I must pull together the threads of the previous four readings. In terms of process, they adhere to a progressive development of ‘craft’ in international and ethno-national time and space. However, their critical realist surface2 is not identical to the realist magics of the phenomenon’s core. This dissonance between surface and content goes against the technics of Western time and style (Alexander, 2008b; Smith, 2008, 2011) and certainly contradicts Simmelian conceptions of modernity at large. It registers the pragmatic separation between the image one projects in public3 and the chaotic environment of the inner self.4 This schism bears witness to the drama of both the postcolonial condition that Greek culture never experienced in material terms (Herzfeld, 1982, 2002) and capitalist modernity at large, which pushes humans to take ‘hard’ and ‘assertive’ action in the world so that they are heard. In the latter case, the instantiation of communities online has a contradictory effect on subjectivity and identity: on the one hand, it detaches human voice and agency from deep social positionality, but on the other, it allows for a rhizomatic development of creative action (Deleuze and Guattari, 1987; Mitra, 2001; Carpentier et al., 2003). Therefore, although in this study the consequences of this stylistic schism are particular to the Greek case (due to Greece’s phenomenal cryptocolonisation), their sociopolitical consequences communicate with global instances of postcolonisation and also more recent neoliberalisations of other national lifeworlds. I stress one last time that the two processes have to be explored in context, rather than be merged in ‘cultural imperialism’ generalisations. The origins of craft in seafaring cultures connect the musings of this study’s principal actors to the experience of modernity: all seafarers have been explorers of sort. However, some of our modern explorers, such as Stefanos, wish to be separated from practices of modern tourist production as the monetisation of experience. This is not identical to ‘tourism’ as an activity: travels of the mind may be treated as different endeavours, even though they necessitate tourism mobility (Bauman, 1996a, p. 22). This means that we do not even have to step outside the European or Western theoretical traditions of tourism analysis to detect conceptual errors in the treatment of different phenomena under the rubric of tourism. This study’s ‘readings’ provide a methodological key in de­ and re-mystifying the world of such mobilities, because they adopt a progres­ sively merological (Goodman), phaneral (Peirce) and finally genealogical (Fou­ cault) approach to mobility structuration: a sort of ‘governmobile historicity’, where tourism scholars often take for granted smooth continuities in and between social, cultural, political and economic development (Archer, 1998).

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Drafting again the map of such development from a perspective more conducive to Western Enlightenment intellectual genres, may make us think that such mobilities’ smooth surface reflects a smooth depth: in Reading one, the craftsmomentum tells a gendered and racialised story of professional development based on experience; in Reading two, it highlights the extension (in Goodman’s terms) of artistic photographic craft to the development of web surfing narratives of belonging that draw on thanatourist stylistics; Reading three shows how such individual and anarchic-communal leisurely play is enmeshed into the politics of statescraft, a skill that manipulates space, time and style for national integration into global (tourist) markets; finally, Reading four concludes with the emplacement of such craft into the pha­ nerochemy of biological-cum-racial belonging. Such phanerochemy – a term attributed to Peirce’s early terminological experimentation – produces a sort of mathematical language. Institutions use this language to classify and iden­ tify human ‘quantities’ in so many different variations (see Beer’s [2018] ‘data gaze’), that the exercise itself develops into a ‘meta-mathematical network’ of representations (Atkins, 2013, p. 105). Hence, the fourth reading gestures towards global morphogenetic processes, in which the artists’ and designers’ original vision and desires (their parler femme aspects of creativity) are mobilised only for profit-making, regional and international institutional networking and even ethno-national valorisation. Taussig (1997, pp. 127, 130, 139) was right when he pronounced that the ontological interpenetration of the gift of artmaking with the state’s social contract is the source of modern structural violence writ large in systems of global financial mobility. I think that I let Bosch talk us through this study enough, structuring Kahlo’s magical-realist perspective till the previous chapter; it is time to let Frida have her say. Also, I am only too aware that a good coffee-cup reader, who aims for the heart’s riches, would move in the opposite direction from Bosch’s (i.e. she would move from statescraft/racecraft to the craftsmo­ mentum), so that she addresses the repressed interpersonal moment of answerability. The resort to the ‘invisible field’ (Merleau-Ponty, 1968) is not coincidental or random, but constitutive of the methodological corrective I want to issue in this study: if we follow the father of praxeology in our ana­ lysis of artistic involvements in postcolonial modernities but also Master Modernity’s context, we miss an important part of the story. This part would not consider ‘cultural production’ as a unitary field (Bourdieu, 1993) but acknowledge that the violence of Western modernity (the Master Narrative of Modernity) in all its mutations of colonialism, nationalism, racism, sexism and capitalism, has split production-as-creativity into multiple fields of repressed somatosensory quality.5 I can account for at least three fields involved in processes of production: the material of actual artefact and infrastructural making, with its value extensions that prioritise notions of class and habitus; the phenomenal, in which values of community, artistic expression and affiliation are bounded by magic-realist activity; and the

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atmospheric, which stands between the materiality of the first field and the ethereality of the second, to make worlds of emotional and somatosensory content. The two latter fields err less on class affiliation and more on shared substance, cosmopolitan criteria actively seeking to replace prejudicial ver­ sions of gendered and ethno-national belonging.

Morphogenetics of violence: thanatourist creativity as the harbinger of life In short, Master Modernity’s fragmentations of somatosensory experience and cognition connect to phenomenologies of whiteness, gendering and middle-classness. Ironically, such fragmentations do not have just female vic­ tims, but also male ones – for, gender and ethno-racial acculturations put them in the same stifling box that Butler (1993) called the ‘heterosexual matrix’. In real postcolonial and cryptocolonial contexts, artistic actors tread the worlds they visit, make and de-make in dual consciousness, which corre­ sponds to two separate worldviews: that resulting from their socialisation into the dominant Western culture, and another based on their native environment and their practical experiences of life. If their upbringing is outside Western cultural spheres, the social and cultural split in the psyche is more painful. Note that this dual consciousness is not what Archer (2013, p. 8) calls ‘frac­ tured reflexivity’, an inchoate engagement with the world because ‘internal conversations’ do not lead to purposeful action. Quite the opposite: for the professionals, business is delivered as usual, so creativity persists, while they experience a fracture in their consciousness. Thereafter, sociologically, we enter the minefield of superdiversity, through which we need to go to enter the fragmented field of (un)reflexive performativity and becoming: Du Bois ([1903] 2007, pp. 2–3) spoke of ‘dual consciousness’ as a sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of the big white Other, ‘measuring one’s soul by the tape of the world that looks on in amuse, contempt and pity’. Partitions of social ontology that supplanted the abstraction of universal equality are products of the white Western male actor, Mills (1994, 1998) argues, who consolidated the poetics of Cartesian cogito: ‘I think [as a white HuMan], therefore I am’. From the outset, this cogito was based on a sup­ posedly universal human ability to think as precondition of one’s subjective being, ‘without questioning the reality of some populations’ inability to con­ trol their own mental and physical existence (Mills, 1994, pp. 229, 231). Racial difference is not the only ‘prerequisite’ for this torture of the soul: most westernised national democracies produce citizen-subjects also in gen­ dered registers, which comply with the rule of heritage and creativity examined in Reading three. When such citizens become implicated in the politics of national valorisation,6 their pockets may expand at the expense of the horizons of their freedom of action and becoming: now, their creative presence has to comply to the cosmopolitanised blueprint of the Kantian

186 Conclusion: Reading zero

warrior-artist, who makes worlds for the capitalist machine. Berman’s (2010) allegory of the utopian developer who makes a pact with the Devil only to supersede him in greed, lead his loved one to suicide and destroy his own humanity is pertinent here. Much like Berman’s Faustian story, the Kantian one reproduces the Western blueprint of the homo autotelus bitterly criti­ cised by Buck-Morss (1992, pp. 9–12). Divested of disinterested playfulness, which is purposely stereotyped as feminine and childish quality, the artistwarrior simply conquers the world to numb its multi-sensory qualities and conversational whispers. To engage in the socially dominant gaze7 puts immense pressure to not look elsewhere, outwards and towards the threshold of the visible and the invisible, to what is absent and belongs to the worlds of dreaming and geomancy/technomancy. Not allowed now to focus on the invisible – a predilection frequently associated with children and women (Denzin, 1982, p. 31; Seremetakis, 2009, p. 341) – these predominantly male artists invest in the material aspects of networking that Bourdieu so elo­ quently outlined in his work. From this materialist portal we enter the realm of a cultural-pragmatic cycle that sustains violence over both human and natural ecosystems. Systems of tourism stand at heart of this violence. Caton’s (2012) revealing accom­ modation of pragmatic analysis in tourism theory considers Rorty’s (1989) exposition of a clash between the project of personal fulfilment and that of social justice. The clash between one’s self-interest (human fulfilment) and the plight of justice (social solidarity) occupied much space in philosophical scholarship and the practice of tourism, where morality sometimes takes a back seat in favour of pleasure and relaxation (Caton, 2012, pp. 1918–1919). Much like Barber’s (2003, 2010) discussion of today’s cosmic clash between ‘Jihad’ and ‘McWorld’, the artists/designers/environmental pilgrims of this study have to make a choice between dissidence, reaction to capitalism and full embracement of its spectacular machinations. A solid example is provided by the case of Stefanos, in which the dark-realist consequences of network capitalism are manifested in particular ways. They begin with the Greek social institutions’ call for the pacification/spectacularisation of the feminine aspects of Greek identity on the grand plane of politics, demanding from Stefanos to align himself with Western practices of development (Boltanski and Thévenot, 2006). The loss of self-fulfilment that Stefanos finds in the breath and its experi­ mental loss is immanent in reactions to capitalist-nationalist development, which removes one’s existential pilgrimage from the picture (Bauman, 1996a, pp. 23–24). The turn to the ‘education’ of younger generations about the environment and eco-friendly tourist development instils in Stefanos the gaze of institutional power (Hollinshead, 1999a). This ‘instillation’ – a reworking of what Hollinshead and Suleman [2018] have to say about ‘worldmaking’ in tourism – is a miniature cloning of a larger system of alignment with the values of Western neoliberal civility: it reproduces the way the Greek state

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had to instil Western practices of worldmaking into its structures.8 All in all, the scaffolding supported by these social and cultural adjustments to Western and European demands for civility is stylistically gendered and racialised through and through. Ironically, the scaffolding’s separation of the private from the public sphere clashes with their conflations in other contemporary cultural and political contexts (Sheller and Urry, 2003). In any case, this scaffolding is deliberated upon and occasionally resolved on the phenomenal plane only, through the magical-realist practices of small communities such as that of ‘On a Single Breath’, or of individuals, who cannot change large structures singlehandedly. This retreat to the phenomenal plane produces the third field of this study as an atmosphere of freedom and solidarity. This atmosphere points to two seemingly incompatible conceptions of the term: the first is Marx’s metapho­ rical term that achieves the spatialisation of emotion and affect in contexts of resurgence (Anderson, 2009, pp. 77–78); the second, sustains a particular version of what Chiapello (2004) calls the ‘artist critique’. This form of action, she argues, synthesises disparate forms of critique first levelled against the ‘new industrial, capitalist, and bourgeois society of the nineteenth century, largely by artists in the name of freedom and individual fulfilment’ (ibid., pp. 585–586). This is the thanatourist moment that this study addresses through more contemporary forms of artistic/activist journeys into environmental and material heritage. One may argue that in the current global crisis, which combines concerns over economic and environmental sustainability, the artist critique seems to resurrect concerns first raised by the European proponents of magical realism (Bertonati, 1981). However, appearances can lie: the split between the material and phenomenal planes is reminiscent of postcolonial renditions of magical realism as the structure of perception of living on the margins. This marginality forms a social-symbolic contract that ‘carries the residuum of resistance toward the imperial centre and … its totalizing systems of generic classification’ (Slemon, 1995, p. 408). Bauman (1996a) mourned the replacement of the pilgrim with disparate types of mobile subjects in modernity, which tends to fragment their psyche. Possibly modifying Marcuse’s (1955) thesis at the time, he proffered the ‘player’ as modernity’s rationalised ideal type, who has to negotiate their way through risks: In play, the world itself is a player, and luck and misfortune are but the moves of the world-as-player. In the confrontation between the player and the world there are neither laws nor lawlessness, neither order nor chaos. There are just the moves - more or less clever, shrewd or tricky, insightful or misguided. The point is to guess the moves of the adversary and anticipate them, prevent or pre-empt - to stay ‘one ahead’. (Bauman, 1996a, p. 31)

188 Conclusion: Reading zero

Note that Marcuse was using Schiller’s Aesthetic Education of Man to make the opposite point from Bauman. In Schiller we learn that natural necessity can be reconciled with sensuality and understanding only through play – an aesthetic state, through which humans can be made whole again (Marcuse, 1955, pp. 149–150). The warrior-artist can shed their autotelic panoply, if they return to the starting point of their career and ‘art’ before its separation from ‘craft’ (Chiapello, 2004, p. 588): to become erasitéchnes (ερασιτέχνης: έρως [éros] + τέχνη [téchne]). By not examining this from the artist’s per­ spective ‘as the creative preserving of truth in the work … the becoming and happening of truth’ (Heidegger, quoted in Deg˘irmenci, 2015, p. 262), we are able to return to sociological questions of ontology. The erasitéchnic phase is the time of innocence, in which the craftsmo­ mentum took shape as one’s vocational call, only to then transform into a flourishing but structured profession. Resorting (or regressing) to this her­ maphrodite state of being, a master artist can display the transgressing char­ acter of a female copyist. The gendered and racialised qualities of this phase restore the artistic/travelling subject’s wholeness, by exposing to public cri­ tique their flawed humanity as members of a community of thieves: of the Promethean fire; the sinful apple of Eden; the copyright of divine knowledge (Tzanelli, 2011). Notably, as Ai’s, Akomfrah’s, Hirst’s and deCaires Taylor’s cases attest, the idea of theft rests on shaky ground and is only validated by a particular institutional discourse (alleged copyright violation), which dis­ placed the normative content of the ‘Original Theft’ to the legal realm in Master Modernity. This discourse uses rational indexing to nominate illicit forms of action and disregards the presence of invisible fields of experience, where rational ‘Cartesian sums’ (Mills, 1994) produce unhappy and alienated humans. The institutional inability to examine fortuitous cross-overs in crea­ tivity – or, more importantly, consider the use of the same sign with a differ­ ent indexing rationale – is often dismissed. The practical male poetics of such artistic pilgrimage assume the following direction: some of these artists will maintain collaboration with discursive centres and institutions so that they amplify their professional reputation. Remaining the authentic communicators of their country’s or the contracted nation’s revered dark heritage,9 including its natural environments, they keep their anarchist endeavours in a separate field of action, or suppress them altogether. Others will denounce this world and move to the phenomenal field, if the circumstances allow it. However, both categories’ involvement in the discharge of a debt to someone’s heritage (Taussig, 1997, pp. 133–134) involves at some point their assumption of the role of the mobility designer (in Jensen’s [2013, 2014] terms). Regardless of their choice, between them, they continue the game of shared substance that Master Modernity demo­ nised (as was the case with the Church’s excommunication of evil eye exor­ cisms and disavowal of coffee-cup reading). This praxis produces and reproduces a deep plot, which strips the Kantian warrior/artist of their

Conclusion: Reading zero

189

pretence to originality, exposing their reproductive and relational nature, by analogy to feminine reproductive labour, working-class artisanship and Christian conceptions of evil cunning as the non-civilised other. This ‘deep play’ (Geertz, 1973) of ‘craft(iness)’ is also the ultimate form of breathless edgework for someone who worked so hard to achieve recognition in their field. Its intimacy reverts performance to the invisible so as to achieve a magical-realist restoration of belonging in a fragmented word. Magicalrealist belonging is nothing like critical-realist evaluations of the creativity of action: it seeks neither to break with particular clichés, nor destroy abstract clichés, nor extract a pure enchanting Image from them, as Deleuze ([1983] 2003, p. 214) prognosticates about postmodern reproductive banality in con­ temporary art. It just prepares the coffee for a progressive divination on creativity, which is polyphonic and not reducible to a Master Image. To remind readers of my unwillingness to consider ‘class’ as the most important criterion of inequality,10 suffice it to stress that, albeit with different resources at their disposal, even these service-class leaders have to negotiate their status between dominant and subordinate value systems – what Parkins (1972) reserved for analyses of working-class ‘dual consciousness’. Replacing the technological eye of classifying power, in which the subject has no voice, with the fortune-teller’s index finger, in which the subject chooses to belong and become with others, this play/plot tells the world that the heart cannot always be ‘managed’ to the interests and expectations of capitalist structuration (Hochschild, 1983). In the interests of justice, where artists find a voice, localities and native populations may lose their power to articulate their own collective needs, dreams and aspirations. Wherever such creative projects take hold, commer­ cialisation and touristification institute environmental partitions. The nation­ state’s appropriation of the spiritual aspects of magical-realist art and design are often accommodated into aggressive postcolonial nationalist projects, as several cases of such national integration attest (Chatterjee, 1986, 1994). Consequently, it would be equally naïve to claim that the morphogenetics of violence ever stop wreaking havoc on life; often the only questions we are able to address stop at the point of human self-realisation. On this, I hope that this study manages to make a small contribution to alternative visions of moder­ nity through existential, experiential and corporeal travel. The ‘explorer’ is a magical-realist type worthy of consideration as an antiphasis to Weber’s ana­ lysis of modern rationalisation.

Notes 1 This is what Stefanos calls ‘our finitude’. 2 These point to the mechanisms of morphogenesis (Archer, 1995, 2000) 3 What may appear to be, for example, a ‘meta-reflexive’ turn to conventional acti­ vism (Archer, 2012).

190 Conclusion: Reading zero 4 This is a desire for soft activist creativity that we associate with contemplation and analytical deliberation (Graburn, 2012). 5 This is the obverse of what vernacular Asian and African cultures do in magical practice (McCreery, 1995). 6 This is what Boltanski and Thévenot (2006) and Boltanski and Chiapello (2018) explore in terms of ‘justification’ of developmental pathways. 7 I connect this to what Beer (2018) critiques as the imperialist nature of the ‘data gaze’ in his recent excellent study. 8 For system analysis I draw on Habermas (1989b) but consider his lifeworld ana­ lysis too rationalist. 9 This is what Bourdieu (1984, pp. 100–101) discusses as ‘cultural intermediaries’ in a rational-materialist fashion. 10 See Preface.

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Index

50 Inside 96 Abentuerliche Herz, Das (The Adventurous Heart) 141 abstraction 48, 89–90, 117, 163; hypostatic 12 ACG see American College of Greece action: creativity of xv, 33, 144, 189; cultural analyses of 17–18; meta-reflexive 86; native 10; rationality of 10; tourism as a form of 11 action theory xix, 9, 13, 58 activism xix, xx, xxiii, 68 Adorno, Theodor W. 67, 78, 161, 173 adventure 59 Adventure Film Festival (AFF) 157, 158 Aesthetic Education of Man 188 aesthetic mobilities 23, 85 aesthetics 13; and atmospheres 47; audio-visual 31; ecological 29; and freediving 34; of immediate engagement 44; Kant on 119; of nature 38–45; popular xx; as a ‘protective shield’ 91; of proximity 40; sociology of 46; of taste 78; see also ecoaesthetics aesthetic value 47 AFF see Adventure Film Festival affects 54, 187 agential realism 21 - 33 agon Airbnb networks 69 aisthánomai 51 Ai Weiwei 160, 161 Akomfrah, John 160 Alatas, Syed Hussein xvi, xvii; see also Orientalism Alexander, J.C. 13, 26, 51, 129 alienation 22

alítes/alítisses 68, 82, 83 alítis/alítisa 67, 68, 72, 75 American College of Greece (ACG) 157 amnesia 48 Amorgos xiii–xv, xxv, 10, 18, 60, 87, 93–100, 118 anámnesis 48 Andere Seite, Die 141 animalist metaphors 80 Anthropocene 165–166 ánthropos 110, 119, 163 antibiotics 7 anti-phasis 1 ápnoia 109, 158 Archer, Margaret 16, 82–83, 89, 110, 114, 128, 182; on fractured reflexivity 185; on reflexive modernisation 7; see also critical realism; transcendental realism Arendt, Hannah 14, 51, 58, 144, 146 Argentina xxiii art: ability to make 60; and adventure 59; aesthetic appreciation of 59; classification 145; and craft 48–49, 103, 188; ecological 152, 173, 177; idealist 178; magical-realist 3, 44, 50, 137, 189; and natural museums 150; place in society 46; radical 179; role of 150; Simmel on 45, 59; transformation of technology into 50; trends in 90; see also artmaking; artwork árthõsis 104 artificial landscapes 33 artist critique 21, 160, 162, 187 artisticae humanae 60 artistic authority 78 artistic process 76 artmaking 52, 55, 179; ethno-national 84; freediving as 9, 19, 40, 48–49;

238 Index ideological variations of 178; and science-making 173; and truthmaking 63; as worldmaking 55–56, 58; see also artwork art-staging 21, 55

artwork 34, 47, 58, 94, 164–165; digital

177; forms of life as xix; originality of

160–161; see also artmaking

ascesis 77

asko- 77 assemblages 69, 93, 104, 150

astrology 151

atmospheres xv, xvi, 35, 57–58; and

aesthetics 47; and belonging 30;

collective 74; and cosmologies 109;

of the ‘limit state’ 70; as ‘quasi-things’

29–30; seascape 46

audio-vision 31, 71

audio-visual aesthetics, 31

audio-visual data 17, 19

authenticity xiii–xv, 22, 35, 56, 63, 64,

161–162

authorial knowledge 120

authoritarian authorship 120

authoritarianism 120, 124

authoritarian pedagogy 110

Averroës see Ibn Rushd Avicenna see Ibn Sina ‘Axial Civilisations’ 106

ballet 72, 124

Barad, Karen 20, 137

baroque 66, 137

Barry, John 74

Barthes, Roland 26, 83, 116;

on numen 44

base-jumping 8

Bashkar, Roy 33

Bataille, Georges 28, 29, 33–35

Baudelaire, Charles 72, 146

Bauman, Zygmunt 24, 68, 137, 187–188

Beck, Ulrich 6–9 Becker, Howard, xxi

becoming xv, 35, 161, 179, 185; epistemic

178; epistemontological 27; and

knowledge 16; performative-aesthetics

of 15; transcendental 107

Beer, David xviii–xx, 71, 143

being, modes of 23, 33

belonging xv, xvi, xviii, 3, 5, 9, 12–14,

17–18, 23–24, 59, 85–86, 109, 184, 189;

and atmospheres 31; civic 24, 95;

compulsory chains of 25; emotions of

144; ethno-national 20; European 28,

134, 143; and heritage 148; institutional

24–25; national 127, 144; postnational

28; racialised imaginaries of 178–179; as

rebirth 51; and recognition 24; social 64

Benjamin, Walter 4, 20, 63, 94, 117, 143,

160; on phantasmagorias 141, 167

Bergson, Henri xvi, 49–50 Berman, M. 186

Beselung 45

Besson, Luc xii, 93–98, 102

Bewegung 45, 46

Bhashkar, Roy 37–39, 41; see also transcendental realism Big Blue, The xiii, 75, 93–98

biodiversity 140

biopolitics 104, 122

bio-properties 94

bios politikós 51

bios synaesthematikós 51, 86

black humour 133

‘blended geographies’ 93

blending 62

Bloch, Ernst 23

blogging xviii, 71

blurring 62–63 Bontempelli, Massimo 92, 126–127 Book of Burial 151

border-making 56, 60; see also borders

borders 148, 149; see also border-making

Borges, Jorge Luis 127, 145–148 Bosch, Harry (fictional character) xx,

xxv, 152, 163, 178, 184

Bourdieu, Pierre 26–27, 32, 140, 181

Brave New World 72

buen vivir 175

Busca de Averroës, La (Averroës’

Search) 146

Butler, Judith 13–14, 16, 50, 85, 128, 185

Calatrava, Santiago 174, 175

camp 129–130, 135–136

‘capital ability’ 94

capitalist modernity 21, 183

Capitalocene xviii, 163, 168, 178

‘captive mind’ xvi

Carpentier, Alejo 66, 142, 145–147

Castoriadis, Cornelius 106

CDA see Critical Discourse Analysis

‘centres’ 101

change, emergence of 15, 51

Index 239 Chiapello, Eve 21, 112, 118, 162, 187, 188 chiaroscuro 60, 63 Chicago School 13 Chile xxii China 145, 146 choreopolicing 121–122, 136 Christian Hellenism 109 Christianity 109 cinema 66 Cinéma du Look 102 cinema verité 73 citizenship 13–14: ‘acts’ of 86; civilising process 110; cultural 51, 59; ‘DIY’ 85; ‘flexible’ 85; ‘mobile’ 13; as political belonging 14; practices of 128; ‘silly’ 88n12 class xxi–xxii, 130–131, 189; middle xx, 9, 42, 56, 103, 130, 142; working xx, xxii, 47, 103, 153, 189 climate change 7, 137, 140, 153 co-experiencing 86 coffee-cup readings 4, 136–137, 151, 181–184 cogito 18, 185 ‘collaborative surveillance’ 69 ‘collectifs’ 150 collecting 167 collective consciousness 92, 126 collective personality 112 ‘colouring’ 66 community-building xix, 2, 67, 70 community-making 28, 65–87, 91 consciousness: collective 92, 126; dual 185; ‘iconic’ 51, 54 ‘consociateship’ 37 consumerism xx contrapuntalism 1 convivality 67, 86, 83 cosiness 63 ‘Cosmic State’ 107 cosmologies 109 cosmopolitan action xx cosmopolitan imagination xxv cosmopolitanisation 126, 168, 173 cosmopolitanism 24, 47, 51, 116, 126, 142, 168, 173; cosmetic 110–111, 135; discrepant 135 cosmopolitan nationalism 12 cosmos 108 craft 47, 102, 123, 131, 183; and art 48–49, 103, 188; ‘deep play’ of 189; photographic 50–52

craftsmomentum 20, 32, 42, 47, 50–52, 59, 64, 68, 75, 83, 122–123, 144, 156, 158 creativity xxiv, 25, 51, 91, 160, 184; ‘of action’ xiv, 33, 144, 189; collective 90; and ‘dark experience economy’ 162; and freedom 75; native 168; and science 144–145; thanatourist 185–189 crisis 125–126; see also Simmel, Georg crisis: climate 141, 162; cultural 47; ecological 152, 159; economic 92, 106, 112, 126, 133, 141, 153; existential 112, 114; global xviii, 187; refugee 143, 160; social 92; socio-political xi, xxiii, 92 Critical Discourse Analysis (CDA) 13, 15 critical naturalism 39 critical realism 37; see also transcendental realism cryptocolonisation 90, 106, 109, 125, 127, 133, 135, 136 cultural archetypes 120 cultural citizenship 51, 59 cultural crisis 47 cultural hierarchy 26 cultural imperialism 10 cultural nationalism 92 cultural production 26, 27, 28, 140, 184 culture: Greek 5, 64, 89, 104, 106, 108–109, 114–116, 121, 125, 181, 183; highbrow 26; ‘objective’ 91; popular xx–xxii, 5, 26, 67, 126; youth 14 dangers 6 darkness 74 Darstellung 21, 40, 53 Das Gesetz der Fahrt 160 ‘data gaze’ 69, 143 death: desire for encounter with 28–29; fascination with 6; and freediving 9, 21, 76, 79; photography as a form of 68–69; romanticisation of 67; see also thanatourism deCaires Taylor, Jason 159–161, 164–165, 167–168, 178 deep, the 44, 50, 52–55, 57, 61, 70–80 ‘deep play’ 128, 189 deígmata 155, 169 Deleuze, Gilles 113, 189 delirium 75 delocalisation 93 Derrida, Jacques 150

240 Index design mobilities 37–38

détournement xix, 160

de-traditionalisation 7

diagoge- 75

digital crafts 104

digital data 14, 19

digital revolution 152–158

Disneyfication 150

divination 4, 111–112, 181–182

documentary-making 57

Dream Collector 165, 167

dreaming 59, 186

drug taking 8

dual consciousness 185

dynamosphere 71

ecoaesthetics 45–52, 96, 137

eco-art 161, 162

ecocentrism 39, 149

ecological aesthetics 29

ecological crisis 152, 159

ecological technology 144

economic crisis 92, 106, 112, 126, 133,

141, 153

economic violence 117

‘economy of things’ 27

ecotourism 96

ecstasy 75

edgework 6–9, 75, 76, 81, 85, 129, 189;

feminist interpretation 92

éducation intégrale 46

eikastikés téchnes 96

Eisenstadt, Shmuel 106

Elias, Robert 68

emotion: and affect 54, 187; and

sentimentality 133; and social life 11;

sociology of 46

‘Enlightening activism’ xviii

Enlightenment xviii–xxiv, 107, 129,

163, 167

entangled modernities xvii, 106, 136

environmental protection 59, 62

environmental racism 148, 151, 154

environmental revolution 152–158

epistéme 48

erasitéchnes 188

ergopoesis 103

Erlebnis 45

Eros and Civilization 42

escapism 157

estado limite 54, 70, 89, 141

ethogenesis 122

eudaimonía 32

Eugenides Foundation 155

European Union (EU) 130, 134

‘evil eye’ 5, 15, 85, 100

existential crisis 112, 114

existential territory 178

existential tourism 92

expenditure 28, 29, 33

experience 51; dreamlike 77; near-death 79

exploration 20–21, 109

fabrica mundi 60

Facebook 5, 18, 19, 81

Fanon, Frantz 3, 136

fascination 61

fate 81, 112

‘female culture’ 51, 85

fe-ng shui 151, 154

Fichte, Johann Gottlieb 62

field, the 26–28 filmmaking 56, 84, 86, 114–115; and

erosion of memory 94

‘firstness’ 23–24, 54, 66, 75; sensory 51;

stylistic 40

flânerie 2, 12, 13, 20, 22

flâneur 72

fossil fuels 6

Foucault, Michel 16, 68, 94, 104, 122

‘fourthness’ 25

freedivers, interactions between 85–86 freediving 8, 9, 23, 66–67, 75–79, 87; as

an aesthetic pursuit 34; and artmaking

9, 19, 40, 48–49; and bond with the

seascape 40; communication system

79–80; and death 9, 21, 76, 79; and

freedom 24, 73; and movement 73,

79–80; and music 31; photography

40–42, 50, 54, 56; renditions of 21;

and techniques of divination 111, 112

freedom xv, 28, 34, 75, 85, 173, 187; bio­ political 118–124, 130; creative 75, 105;

and freediving 24, 73; and nature 53

freerunning 8

Freud, Sigmund 34

Gaia 175

gambiarra 175

Geertz, Clifford 128

Geistige 89

gender 103; and fear 81; inequalities

116; performativity 86, 128; and

risk-taking 81

Index 241 geomancies 151, 186 Germany xxi Gesamtperson 112 Gesellschaft 112 ‘ghostings’ 89, 90, 95, 124, 125, 129–130 global communication 145 global connectivity 147–151 globalisation 24, 109 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von 119 Gonzalez-Lancharro, Agus 72 Goodman, Nelson 16, 18, 27, 53, 79, 149; see also art; worldmaking governmobilities xiv, xv, 94, 104 Greece xx, xxii, xxiii, 106–138, 143–144, 152–157; cryptocolonisation 90, 106, 109, 125, 127, 133, 135, 136; culture 5, 64, 89, 104, 106, 108–109, 114–116, 121, 125, 181, 183; identity xxii, 91, 93, 106–107, 111, 129, 137, 186; mapping 60 Graburn, Nelson 50, 92, 99 guanxi 151 Guattari, Felix 178–179 habitus 27 haiku travel 92 hamsa 5; see also khamsa Haraway, Donna 20 harmony maintenance 151 harms 6–7 Hartlaub, Gustav xxiii, 126 hazards 6 heautoscopy 68 Heidegger, Martin 68, 100, 119–120, 142 Herder, Johann Gottfried 12, 107–108, 148 heritage 147–148, 155–156, 188 ‘hermeneutic cycle’ xxiv hermeneutics 16: of communication 4; of community-making 75; of difference 9; of multiple modernities xxvi; of recov­ ery 9, 14; of suspicion 9–10, 132 hermeticism 108 Herzfeld, Michael 3, 108, 121, 162 heterology 8, 170 ‘heterosexual matrix’ 185 Hirst, Damien 160, 161 ‘Hobbesian problem’ 11 holidays 103, 121 holism 142 Hollinshead, Keith 25, 39, 101; on tour­ ist worldmaking 11, 28, 107, 143 Homo Articulator 168

homo autotelus 141, 142, 156, 162, 179, 186 Homo Faber 59, 74, 129, 168 homo indigenus 142 Homo Ludus 33, 129 homosexuality 121 honne 92, 107, 182 Huizinga, Johan 33–34, 117–118 ‘human matrix’ xxvii Huxley, Aldous 72 hygge 63 Ibn Rushd (Averroës) 111 Ibn Sina (Avicenna) 108 ‘iconic consciousness’ 51, 54 icons 18, 99–100 ‘ideal types’ xxvi identity-making 91, 94 image-making 48–49, 113, 124 imaginariums 142–143, 145, 151, 158, 159 imagination, colonisation of 67 ‘immutable mobiles’ xiv, 90 indexes 18 indexical centrifugalisms 105–112 indigeneity 140 individualism xix, 6, 7, 148; anarchic 64, 67; artistic 45; and cultural nationalism 92 individuality 10, 58, 62, 78, 133; and ‘natality’ 83 inequality 12, 21, 114, 154, 189; gendered 116; social 3 informality 63 ‘infrapolitics’ 133 intellectualist bias 26 interior self 92 internet 5, 19, 75 interviews 18 intimacy 50, 71, 112, 179, 182; rhetoric of 165; social 135 Irigaray, Luce 1, 7, 41, 179, 182 irrationality 10, 11, 120 irrational self 92 irrealism 53 Islam 145 Islamic code of honour 119 ìwòran 131 Japan 92 Jensen, Ole 72 Joas, H. xiv, xvii, 9, 13, 34, 68, 91

242 Index jouissance 34 Jünger, Ernst 141 justice 113, 148, 189; ‘mobilities’ 105, 158; social 96, 158, 186

lumpen proletariat 103 Luna, Martinez 148 lux 60 Lyng, Stephen 7–9, 75, 81, 85, 111

Kafka, Frantz 160 Kahlo, Frida xxv, xxvi, 1–4, 81, 151, 163, 184 Kandinsky, Wassily 31, 90 Kant, Immanuel 15, 23, 119, 124, 144, 186 kashf 108–109 khamsa (hamsa) 5, 10 kinesphere 72, 78 ‘kitsch-man’ 127, 129 knowledge xviii–xxi, 21, 47, 48, 65, 173; authorial 120; and becoming 16; Foucault on 68, 79; ‘house of ’ 175; ‘kinetic’ 27; postcolonial methodology of 1 ‘knowledgeability’ 56 ‘knowledge economies’ 103, 116 Kontos, Stefanos xii, xv, xvii, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 23, 24–25, 32–33, 37–64, 70–84, 89–90, 92–97, 115, 120–138, 154–158 kosmos 109, 110 Kratylos 68 Kubin, Alfred 141–142

magical naturalism 37–38 magical realism xi, xxi, 41, 127, 156; agential 137; Anglo-Saxon 33; anthro­ pological xxv; and attention to detail 89; earliest renditions 81; European 141–142, 187; Greek xxiii, 90; and Latin America xxii, 54, 93, 126, 145; and naturalisation of the supernatural 126; ontological xxv; postcolonial xxii, xxv, 54, 66, 108, 158, 187; and science fiction 71; structural logic xxi–xxvii; styles and modes xxi–xxvii; typology of xxv ‘magical realist cycle’ xxiv ‘magical realist types’ xxv ‘magical world versions’ xiv Magischer Realismus (Magic Realism) xxi Maiora, Enzo 95 mal 111, 149 Mann, Thomas 82 Marcuse, Herbert 42, 103, 187–188 marginalisation 120 Márquez, Garcia 133 Marx, Karl 48, 103, 187 masculinity 15, 85, 95, 127 máthesis 62, 137, 150, 170 Matthews, Freya 109 Maya xxiii Mayol, Jacques 95 Mead, Herbert 108 meaning-making 18, 22, 23, 43, 150 Meirelles, Fernando 174 memory 108; erosion of 94; national 29, 129 mental toughness 8 Merkouri, Melina 125, 127 Merleau-Ponty, Maurice xviii, xxi, 27, 77 Mesmer, Franz 62 mesmerising 62 mesmerism 62, 66 Metz, Christian 113 Mexico xxii Middle Ages xxiii middle class xx, 9, 42, 56, 103, 130, 142 ‘middle-classness’ 56 migration xiv, 15

laicism xix, 120, 124 landscape: artificial 33; museumification 81; as national projects 144; Simmel on 75–76 Landschaft 76, 82 ‘language games’ 147 Las Coloradas 160 Latin America xxii, 54, 93, 126, 131, 133, 137, 142, 145 Latour, Bruno xv, 69 Lebensgemeinschaft 112 Lebenskraft 49 Lebensphilosophie 13, 14, 45, 79, 110 Lebenswelt 42 Leeds 169 lifestyle choices 157 lighting 60–61 literature 92 ‘live sociology’ xvi logos 94 ludic, the 78, 84 lumen 60

Index 243 mimicry xvi, 1, 116

Miterlebel 86

mobile communication technologies 97

mobilities xiv–xvi; aesthetic 23, 85;

cultures of 15; design 37–38; ‘justice’

105, 158; libidinal anatomy 33

modernisation: and modernity xxv–xxvi; and risk society 6–7 modernities: capitalist 21, 183; Greek

15–16, 51–52, 111; mediatised 14; and

migration 15; and modernisation

xxv–xxvi; multiple xxvi, 89, 95, 101,

105–112; ‘reflexive’ 7; and tourism

xxv–xxvi, 15

moíra 112

Molz, Germann 69, 93

Momentbild 49, 54

momentum 48

Monastery of Panayia Hozoviotissa 93,

94, 97–102; see also Amorgos

moods 41–42, 78

morality 186

morphogenesis 82, 83, 84, 138, 148

morphostasis 83, 84, 124, 128

mortality 74, 76

motorcycle racing 8

MOUA 163–164 Mouskouri, Nana 125

moviemaking 38, 57; see also filmmaking

‘multiple modernities’ xxvi, 89, 95, 101,

105–112

Mundus 110

MUSA see Underwater Museum of Art Muse 75

Museo Atlántico 160, 167

museography 156

museology 156

Museum of Tomorrow 174–178 museums 140–141, 146, 148, 168–169,

174–178; experimental 149; natural

150; see also underwater museums

music 31–32, 73, 74

mystery 37

Mythos 53, 54, 62, 63

naimen 92

natality 51, 57, 72, 83, 118, 121–122

National Geographic 132

national identities 103

nationalism 126

national memory 28, 129

nation-building 126

nationhood 104

nation-state 28, 84, 103, 104, 107, 124,

128; European 121, 143; and tourism

worldmaking 28

naturalist art 38, 40

nature: aesthetic appreciation of 59;

presentations of 140

nazar 100

near-death experiences 79

Nelson, Benjamin 106

Neoclassicism xxii

neoliberalisation 135

Neoplatonism 110

neoploutismós 130

network hospitality 99

network sociality 99

Neue Sachlichkeit see New Objectivity New Objectivity (Neue Sachlichkeit) xxii,

90, 126

new technologies 19

Nietzsche, Friedrich 79, 101, 120

Nihonjinron 92

‘non-places’ 93

Novalis 126–127 numen 44

‘objective culture’ 26

old age 78

Olympic Games 178

Orientalism 52, 128; see also Alatas, Syed

Hussein; Said, Edward

Orthodox Church 100

paideía 75

pain 112

panta 109

Papandreou, George xix

pará 155

parkour (freerunning) 8

parler femme 1, 182, 184; see also

‘womanspeak’

Peirce, Charles Sanders 12, 21, 52–53,

56, 113; on categories of reasoning 23;

on division of ‘signs’ 18; on ‘iconic

ingredient’ 102; on phaneroscopy 23,

51, 54–55

perception 37, 62, 113; Bergson’s theory

of 49

performances 30

performativity 14, 50–51, 85, 116; female

116; gender 86, 128

períergon 170, 171

244 Index Petrie, Mark John 74

phanerochemy 54, 184; see also

phaneroscopy

phaneroscopy 19, 23, 51, 54–55; see also

phanerochemy

phantasmagorias 82, 141–142, 156, 167

phantastikés téchnes 96

Pharmakon 150, 151

pheme 41

phenomenalism 16

phenomenology: and epistemology 14; of

Greek society 15; and materialism 7, 19;

and phenomenalism 16; post-Cartesian

xxi; tourist xxi

photodynamism 31

photography: Barthes on 26; as a form of

death 68–69; and erosion of memory

94; and freediving 40–42, 50, 54, 56

phylogeneses 103

physiognomy 151

Pieterse, Nederveen 110

pilgrimages 77, 99, 114

placelessness 93

Plato 48, 68

Platonism 110

play 33–35, 84, 117–118, 128, 146, 188;

‘deep’ 128, 189

pleasure 34

plot 81, 91, 128, 130, 149, 178–179, 189;

ethno-racial 118; ‘deep’ 128, 130, 179,

188; magical-realist 152; theatrical 116

poetics 21, 22, 38, 114, 188; of Cartesian

cogito 185; cultural 19, 108; of distant

performativity 116; of emotion 116;

and global connectivity 151; of

identity 82, 93; magical realist 124; of

mobility 3; of pain 112

Poetics 146

poetry 48

policy-making xv, 56, 120, 137

popular culture xxi

popular wisdom 120

populism xx, 110, 120, 124

post-expressionism 44, 60

posthumanism 22, 163

postmodernity 8, 14

power: creative 79, 85; physicalisation

of 104

prágma xiv

prágmata 155

pragmatics xiv, xvii; cultural xxi, xxiv,

xxvi, 95, 111, 147, 164

pragmatikótita xxiii

prátto- xiv

predictability 9

prejudice 114, 121

presentations 21

profit-making 113

psychoanalysis 33

public self 92

public spheres 152

punk xvii–xix

Punk Sociology xvii

race 103, 109

racial cleansing 137

racial difference 185

racial inequalities 116

racism 120, 121; environmental 148,

151, 154

Raft of Lampedusa 167

rationality 10; scientific 6, 107, 147

Raum 23, 102, 113

realist magics xvii, 7, 19, 83, 126; for

‘design mobilities’ scholars 37–38; and

Greek identity xxii; popular aesthetics

as xix; postcolonial 156; sociology of

xvii–xxi

Realität 96, 140

reality, layers of xiv

Really Slow Motion 72

Real Maraviloso Americano, Lo (The

Marvellous [Latin] American

Realism) 142

Realpolitik 95

reasonableness 32

reflexive individualisation 7

reflexive modernity 7

reflexivity 7, 77, 113, 182; collective 135;

‘fractured’ 185

religion 152–158 representationalism 21

resistance, modes of 14

Revista De Occidente xxii

revolution xviii

rightness 16, 53, 149

risk society 6–7; see also Beck, Ulrich; violence, of Western Modernity Risk Society (book title) 6; see also Beck, Ulrich; reflexive modernity risk-taking 6–8, 79, 81–82 rock climbing 8

Roh, Franz xxii, 33, 37, 40–41, 65,

89, 137

Index 245 ‘Romantic biology’ 119

Rorty, Richard 186

Roskilde 169

Rubicon 167

rule-breaking behaviour 107

Rushdie, Salman 136

Said, Edward 1; see also Orientalism Satanic Verses 136

schematisation 38

Schiller, Friedrich 188

scholé 103

Schopenhauer, Arthur 41, 79, 117

science fiction 71

scripting 39

scuba diving 8, 43–44 seafaring cultures 183

Second Critique 119

‘secondness’ 21, 23, 32, 35, 106;

emotional 51

self-actualization 8

self-determination 8

self-development 24

self-identity 32

selfies 68, 69

self-interest 186

self-knowledge 41

self-making 19, 75, 78

self-negation 78

self-realisation 8, 51, 108, 189

seme 41

Serra, Eric 75

sexism xxiii–xxiv, 119–121 sfumato 61, 63

shadows 89–90 shadow theatre 80–81, 117

signs, division of 18

Simmel, Georg 11–14, 22–23, 42, 45–46,

51, 79, 90; on art 40, 45, 49, 59; on

creative life 122; on dreamlike

experience 77; on ‘female culture’ 51,

85; on ‘historical mood’ 78; on

individual performance 128; on

landscape 75–76; on strangerhood

22, 66

Situationists xix

skydiving 8

slow-motion footage 72–73 slow tourism 73, 96, 97, 165

snowboarding 8

social dystopias 5

social network sites 20

social order 11

social solidarity 186

sociological imagination 86

Sontag, Susan 67, 112, 129

Sorokin, P.A. 3, 112, 145, 178

Soviet Union 145

spatiolinguistics 15

Spindler, William xxv

statescraft 95

statism 152

Stimmung 29–32 strangerhood 22, 24, 66

subculture xviii

subjectivity 30, 50, 64, 104, 119, 178,

183; civic 14; creative 47

subject-object boundedness 29

sublimation 78

suffering 34, 111, 131

sunya 100, 102

surrealism 142

survival capacity 8

symbolic centripetalisms 105,

118–124

symbols 18, 24

symbol theory 16

synaesthesia 31

synecdoche 16

Syriza 117

tahata 100

talismans 5–6 tatemae 92

téchnes 48, 103

technology, transformation into art 50

technomancy 61, 151, 186

technopragmatics xxiv

telesthesia 14

telos 129

terra nostra 28

thanatos 28

thanatourism 35, 65–87, 133, 161, 168,

185–190

theatre 80–81 theoplacity 95

theoria 68

Third Critique 119

‘thirdness’ 22, 29, 49, 53, 55, 57;

cinematic 89–138

Thompson, Hunter S. 8

time 72–73, 75, 104

tjurunga 175, 177

topophilia 38, 82, 83

246 Index tourism xvi, xx–xxi, xxvii; as a form of

action 11; aesthetically reflective 103;

alternative forms 96; dark 6, 25,

28–29, 35, 104, 140; digitised 103; as

eudaimonia 32; existential 92; and

genealogy 120; McDonaldisation 25,

167; and modernity xxv–xxvi, 15; and

modes of being 10, 33; and

nation-state 28; popcultural 100; slow

73, 96, 97, 165; and travel 46; and

worldmaking 11–12, 28, 56, 107,

142–143, 186–187

tourismification xxiv, 10, 81

tourist advertising 67–68 tourist attractions 101

tourist gaze xxi, 31, 59, 127, 143, 163

touristification 97, 115, 148, 158,

170, 173

tourist places 93–94 tram surfing 8

transcendental realism 37, 41; see also

Archer, Margaret; Bhaskar, Roy;

critical realism

transduction 19

travel, demarcated from tourism 46

tropicalisation 143, 164

Tropical World 169–172 tropicopolitanism 142

Trump, Donald xix

trust-building 69

truth: multidimensionality of 16; of

science 145

truthmaking 16, 20, 58; and

‘rightness’ 53

Turkey 143

Twitter 5

Über das Geistige in der Kunst (On the

Spirit/Intelligence of Art) 90

uncanny, the xxv, 74, 90; environmental

140–151

Underwater Gallery xii–xiv, 18, 23,

25, 28–29, 32, 37–40, 43, 45, 95–96,

105, 118; atmospheric staging 63;

lighting 60–61; staging team 86;

textures and colours 55; theatre

performance 80–81; trichotomous

schema 52–54

Underwater Museum of Art (MUSA) 159, 162–165, 167–169 underwater museums 159–160, 163–164 Underworld Project 84

Unheimlich 90, 141

Urry, John xxi, 29, 143

Uslar-Pietri, Arturo 93, 126–127

utopias 92–93, 148, 154

vagabonds 68

value-sharing 65

Venice Biennale 160, 161

Verism xxii

Verstehen 11

Vertigo Sea 160

videos 19, 20, 65, 73, 80

Viking Ship Museum 169

vimeos 31–32, 66, 68–75, 77–78, 81,

83–85

violence xxiv, 5; artificial imaginary

of 144; capitalist 145, 160, 181;

economic 117; gendered 2; histories of

169; institutional 113; morphogenetics

of 185–189; native 114; postcolonial

2, 145, 181; state-controlled 32; of

Western Modernity 184

virtual spaces 19

visualism 22

‘vital values’ 52

Volakakis, John 70, 72

Vorstellungen 22, 40, 65, 101

vrotós 110, 111, 136

Vythos 53, 54, 79

Wacquant, Loïc 26, 32

Weber, Max xxv, 9, 11, 48, 101, 106

Weibesaesthetik 120

wellbeing 32

Weltsanschauung 11

wetland protection 153

whiteness 15

wildlife art 44

Wirklichtkeit 96, 140

witch-burning trials xxiii

witchcraft 61, 62

Wittgenstein, Ludwig 21, 53, 108,

147, 149

‘womanspeak’ (parler femme) 1, 177,

181, 182, 184

women: Islamic code of honour 119; speech 1; “unconventional” xxiii; see also ‘womanspeak’ (parler femme) work, as creative action 34

working class xxii, 47, 103,

153, 189

Index 247 worldmaking 11, 16, 39, 42, 58, 108, 173;

and art 55–56, 58, 120; and

exploration 109; movements 105; in

tourism 11, 28, 56, 107, 142–143,

186–187

world-mapping 17

world-versions 17

Wurzel, Daniel 174

xenophobia 120, 137

youth 78, 102

youth cultures 14

Yphalos 53

Zarathustra xxiii

Zorba the Greek 127, 128