The Price of Prestige: Conspicuous Consumption in International Relations 9780226433349

Citation preview

The Price of Prestige

The Price of Prestige Conspicuous Consumption in International Relations

l i l ac h g i l a dy

the university of chicago press

chicago and london

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2018 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact the University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th St., Chicago, IL 60637. Published 2018 Printed in the United States of America 27  26  25  24  23  22  21  20  19  18  1  2  3  4  5 isbn-­13: 978-­0-­226-­43320-­2 (cloth) isbn-­13: 978-­0-­226-­43334-­9 (e-­book) doi: https://doi.org/10.7208/chicago/9780226433349.001.0001 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Gilady, Lilach, author. Title: The price of prestige : conspicuous consumption in international relations / Lilach Gilady. Description: Chicago : The University of Chicago Press, 2018. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: lccn 2016030084 | isbn 9780226433202 (cloth : alk. paper) | isbn 9780226433349 (e-book) Subjects: lcsh: International relations—Social aspects. | International relations— Economic aspects. | Prestige. Classification: lcc jz1249.g55 2018 | ddc 327.1— dc23 lc record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016030084 ♾ This paper meets the requirements of ansi/niso z39.48-­1992 (Permanence of Paper).

Contents chapter 1. Explaining Conspicuous Consumption in International Relations 1 chapter 2. Status Symbols and Luxury Goods in International Relations 33 chapter 3.  The Aircraft Carrier Club 55 chapter 4. A Contest of Beneficence: Prosociality in International Relations 90 chapter 5. Big Science and the Transits of Venus: The First Race to Space 121 chapter 6.  Conclusions: Living in a Veblenian World 152 Notes  167 References  187 Index  221

chapter one

Explaining Conspicuous Consumption in International Relations A tower studded with elephant tusks marked the way to the palace gate. All elephants belonged to the emperor, and by spiking a tower with their teeth he was demonstrating his power. Beware! The tower said. You are entering the realm of the Elephant King, a sovereign so rich in pachyderms that he can waste the gnashes of a thousand of the beasts just to decorate me. (Rushdie 2008, 5)

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hat is the role of prestige in international relations? Following decades of relative neglect, international relations scholars are once again trying to tackle this question.1 In this volume I contribute to this renewed effort through an analysis of conspicuous consumption in international relations. The theory draws on the economic literature on Veblen effects. I argue that states engage in conspicuous consumption in a quest for prestige and that the pursuit of prestige rivals the pursuit of power as a motivating force in international affairs.2 Veblen effects are an analytical construct that explains distortions in patterns of demand. Instead of preferring cheaper goods for a given level of quality, actors sometimes show preference for more expensive ones. Veblen effects account for these anomalies by suggesting that actors use consumption as a signal to indicate their social station. Actors are willing to pay more in the hope that the additional expense may buy them prestige. Just as in Salman Rushdie’s fictional palace, excess in international relations is often used as a means for demonstrating power and seeking prestige. Hence, a state’s motivation for embarking on a costly policy is sometimes akin to an individual’s purchase of  a luxury car or a designer gown—­it establishes that country’s place in an international social hierarchy. International relations are replete with examples of excess: some states buy expensive weapons systems they do not need and cannot afford to maintain;

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others engage in expensive foreign-­aid programs of little benefit to the recipients; small, poor, landlocked countries procure navies; the superpowers continue to hold nuclear arsenals well in excess of the amount needed to counter any conceivable threat. International relations, therefore, provide us with many examples of contemporary Elephant Kings, complete with imposing modern equivalents of ivory-­covered towers. A Veblenian analysis views consumption as a communicative act—­a social signal (Campbell 1995, 114). The ensuing signaling game involves continuous and simultaneous cycles of emulation and distinction as actors struggle to define their position in the social hierarchy. Thorstein Veblen, who introduced this model in his seminal book The Theory of the Leisure Class (1899), used it as a socioeconomic critique of what he considered an increasingly rigid and overly material study of economics. For Veblen, it is impossible to understand consumption decisions without accounting for human motivations and social institutions. Consumption is not solely inner directed, aimed at satisfying actors’ needs and desires, but is also other directed, aimed at demonstrating what one is able and willing to afford. In this sense, consumption is a deeply social act. This is true for the political realm as well. Policy decisions are not only a means for achieving specific material goals but are also a gesture to be observed by other peers. A glance at several concrete examples can help further elucidate both the theoretical argument as well as the empirical puzzles this book seeks to explain. On the morning of October 15, 2003, the Chinese spacecraft Shenzhou V blasted off from the Gobi Desert, carrying with it China’s first astronaut, Yang Liwei. Yang’s historic flight is part of an ambitious Chinese space program that includes plans for a manned moon landing by the year 2020. Most observers saw this mission as a “part of Beijing’s plans to create a space industry and earn the prestige of joining the United States and Russia as the only nations to have sent humans into space” (Demaria 2001). Yet it is not necessarily clear why China would seek prestige (or be able to acquire it) by embarking on a mission that was abandoned years ago by the United States as a result of its low utility and prohibitive price tag. Brazil, similarly, chose to spend much-­needed resources on a dubious purchase. In 2000, Brazil spent most of its naval procurement budget on the purchase of an aging French aircraft carrier of little or no strategic value. This was the highlight of a wider naval buildup trying to “reinsert the country into the graces of the major powers” (Brazilian Defense white paper, as quoted in Jane’s Defense Weekly, September 29, 1999). Here

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again, prestige is associated with expensive policies of dubious material merit. Finally, the failure of the US F-­20 program offers another useful illustration. The F-­20 was developed in the late 1970s as a cheaper fighter plane. It was thought that poorer countries would find such a plane an attractive alternative to other, more expensive fighters. However, the F-­20 found no market. States preferred to have very small forces of expensive fighters rather than larger and more able forces of cheaper ones (Eyre and Suchman 1996, 93). The symbolic value of owning a top-­of-­the-­line fighter was proven to be higher than the value of having a larger, cheaper, and more effective fighter force. Ironically, reducing the cost of the F-­20 fighter made it less attractive to its most likely customers.3 The Veblenian framework provides one simple unifying explanation for these disparate examples. The preference for excess is explained through the dynamics of conspicuous consumption. Indeed, in all these examples, actors engage in expensive behavior in the hope of gaining prestige: China wishes to be recognized as a superpower; Brazil aspires to join the ranks of the major powers; poorer countries reject the F-­20 to avoid a humiliating label. Rushdie’s Elephant King similarly uses an extravagant ivory-­covered tower in order to emphasize his aspirations to greatness. These actors are sensitive to the way in which their consumption decisions affect their social standing. In all these examples, actors show at least a rudimentary level of reflexivity regarding the connection between costly conspicuous consumption and international prestige. Like these actors, in this book I take conspicuous consumption seriously. I argue that the study of international “luxuries” is not frivolous but is rather key to a deeper understanding of the implications of prestige in international relations. Identifying the international equivalent of the Prada handbag or the Rolls Royce is a theoretical hook that can allow us to start unpacking the notoriously elusive concept of prestige. Conspicuous consumption does not cover all possible prestige-­seeking behaviors in international relations. Nevertheless, it is important and distinct enough to warrant special attention. Indeed, the many examples that are sprinkled throughout this book demonstrate that conspicuous consumption has discernable empirical implications that cannot easily be fully accounted for by traditional explanations such as those relying on deterrence or domestic or bureaucratic politics. Consequently, I hope that the discussion in this book can highlight the potential utility and importance of further development of a broader theory of prestige in international relations and that the argument offered here can serve as an important

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stepping stone in this direction. In order to do so, I first explore the concepts of prestige and conspicuous consumption. This opens the door to an elaboration of the logic of status symbols in international relations in chapter 2. To demonstrate the dynamics of conspicuous consumption in action, the following chapters review three international “luxury commodities”: aircraft carriers, prosocial policies, and Big Science projects. Each of these commodities illustrates different aspects of international conspicuous consumption. An application of conspicuous consumption to international relations relies on three nontrivial analytical moves. First, the theory of conspicuous consumption views prestige as social, hierarchical, and positional. Sociality accounts for the need for conspicuousness, while the remaining two elements provide the impetus for spending competitions and for excessive consumption. Second, the theory relies on a consumption-­based analysis of international relations. While households may spend their incomes on various combinations of food, housing, and leisure, states use their policies to “purchase” various combinations of international commodity bundles. Some states may decide to buy more “security,” others may put a premium on purchasing “health.” Once viewed through the consumption lens, these decisions can be subjected to a broad range of political-­economic theories that are otherwise rarely utilized in international relations. Finally, the theory of conspicuous consumption allows us to circumvent the intractable problem of measurement. As a latent and multifaceted concept, prestige has proven difficult to measure. The conspicuous consumption argument dances around this difficulty by tackling prestige indirectly. Accordingly, the theory concentrates on one sort of observable implication of prestige-­seeking behavior, one that only makes sense within a prestige-­seeking framework. The remainder of this chapter elaborates each of these analytical moves in order.

Prestige and International Relations Theory The State of the Study of Prestige in International Relations Theory As a facet of power, prestige has always been an important concept for international relations theory. And yet, until recently, it has mostly been treated in passing. Classic works of scholars such as Thucydides, Machiavelli, Rousseau, and Hobbes, to name a few, are rife with references to the importance of honor, glory, and prestige as fundamental human motivations.4

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Contemporary literature, aside from sporadic explorations, largely shies away from dealing with these motivations: they are deemed too vague, old fashioned, and notoriously difficult to quantify.5 The analytical attributes of prestige contributed to this marginalization. Prestige is social, hierarchical, and competitive. As such it is a concept that challenges the traditional paradigmatic divisions in international relations: it is too competitive and deterministic for most social approaches and too social and vague for more materialistic ones. As Larson, Paul, and Wohlforth (2013, 4) note, status and prestige “simply did not fit the field shaping debates of the 1980’s and 90’s.” Paradigmatically “orphaned,” the topic was largely abandoned until a rekindling of interest in recent years. Four reasons explain the renewed interest in prestige in international relations. First, the decline in the salience of interparadigmatic wars in international relations theory has allowed for previously neglected issues to resurface.6 Instead of fortifying paradigmatic barricades, the literature is looking for theoretical bridges.7 The same qualities that led to earlier marginalization of prestige make it attractive for bridge-­building purposes. Second, the emergence of China and of a wider set of aspiring powers (e.g., the BRIC countries) raises questions regarding the dynamics of a changing international hierarchy and consequently questions regarding status and prestige.8 The resulting literature, therefore, reflects a moment of transition both in world politics and in international relations theory. Third, Lebow’s 2008 treatise on A Cultural Theory of International Relations offered an ambitious theoretical framework revolving around motivations such as honor, status, and prestige.9 The book calls for a reincorporation of these motivations, which Lebow’s typology labels as spirit, into contemporary international relations theory. The ambition of Le­ bow’s work underscores the relative paucity of extant literature on these topics and thus highlights the need for definitions, conceptualizations, and midrange theorizing for each of the spirit motivations.10 Hence, Lebow’s work created a salient space for theoretical development of spirit. Subsequent literature on status and prestige can be seen as part of Lebow’s influence. Fourth, there is a parallel resurgence of interest in prestige in economics.11 Part of this interest is a result of the growing importance of behavioral economics, which tends to rely on insights from psychology and sociology (Diamond and Vartiainen 2007). At the same time, there is a sense of dissatisfaction with the explanatory power of many mainstream economic models following the 2007–­2008 financial crisis. These models failed, according to

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some critics, because they did not carve out space for basic human motivations. In addition, the increasing sophistication of the economist’s toolbox can also account for this resurgence. Modeling these motivations formally is often a complicated endeavor, and it becomes easier as the field develops methodologically. As these trends conspire to draw renewed attention to the importance of prestige, this relatively nascent field still struggles to find a more coherent and distinguishable voice within international relations theory. As an aggregate, the literature on prestige in international relations tends to simultaneously aim too high and too low: when it aims too high, it claims to explain all international relations, especially patterns of conflict and war; when it aims too low, it ends up being the study of curiosities and anecdotes. The current literature, therefore, still vacillates over the demarcation of the scope and magnitude of prestige-­seeking behavior in international relations. Some of these scope issues stem from deeper problems: there is still no widely accepted definition of prestige in international relations; the concept remains notoriously difficult to operationalize or measure; and there is no accepted conceptualization of the benefits of being prestigious. Toward a Definition of Prestige A useful conceptualization of prestige needs to incorporate three essential attributes: prestige is social, hierarchical, and positional.12 The social dimension differentiates prestige from power; the hierarchical dimension explains why prestige is such a lucrative (and hence expensive) commodity; the positional dimension is what makes the struggle for prestige so competitive. Analytically, prestige is an interesting yet slippery concept. It straddles the material and the social, the objective and the subjective. As such it is compatible with several theoretical paradigms but is truly at home in none. To date, the literature lacks a widely accepted definition of prestige. When a definition is sought, the starting point is most often Morgenthau’s conceptualization of prestige as a reputation for power—­a psychological image that actors hold regarding the power positions of other nations (Morgenthau [1947] 1960, 78). Similarly, Gilpin argued that “prestige is the reputation for power, and military power in particular. . . . Prestige, rather than power, is the everyday currency of  international relations” (Gilpin 1981, 31, italics added). However, establishing prestige as a derivative

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of power does not tell us much about the independent qualities of the con­ cept. Prestige and power are not synonymous, and a change in one does not always translate into an equal change in the other (Kagan 1997). As Johnston (2001, 500) notes, many markers of prestige, such as medals or having your name on a plaque, do not offer clear material rewards. For prestige to be a meaningful concept we need to explore the independent components that differentiate it from power. In the absence of such differentiation, a power-­centric and prestige-­centric approach to international relations would be indistinguishable—­it would matter little whether it were prestige or power that served as the “everyday currency of international relations.”13 Viewing prestige as a simple extension of power neglects an essential dimension. Prestige is a social concept; it requires a community, an audience, to be meaningful (McGinn 1972, 103). A “reputation for power,” be it a reflection of power or an illusion of power, needs to be shared by members of a community in order to be considered prestige. O’Neill (1999, 193) summarizes this aspect of prestige nicely: “Prestige means that everyone thinks that everyone thinks the person has the quality. Perhaps no one admires the person, but if each person thinks the rest do, that constitutes prestige. . . . Someone can gain prestige by convincing everyone that he or she has a good reputation—­there is no need to possess the quality in question.”14 Consequently, prestige is a relational concept; it is not a monadic quality of the actor (Mercer 1996, 27). It describes a subjective reading of an intersubjective evaluation of an objective (yet potentially manipulated) quality.15 For actors to be able to guess other actors’ assessments and to navigate between the objective, subjective, and intersubjective, the group needs to have shared understanding as to what characteristics, possessions, and behaviors would signal desired qualities. Prestige is not a neutral term that simply measures a quantity of power; it implies a level of approbation, a positive evaluation of the actor in question (McGinn 1972, 104).16 Collective approbation necessarily assumes the presence of a community. Functionalist sociological theories, for exam­ple, view prestige as a reward a society grants to actors whose actions provide societal benefits.17 As such, prestige includes a normative dimension: communities reward qualities they view as “good.” Actors need to anti­ cipate what attributes are valued by members of their respective communities and to direct their behavior accordingly. Thus, in order for a stable system of prestige to be possible, we have to assume some level of intersubjective consciousness among members of the group. Consequently, an

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understanding of prestige is in essence an investigation of social institutions. Indeed, the inclusion of prestige in international relations theory moves the analysis away from a purely material view of power and international hierarchy to a more social one.18 The amount of prestige held by each group member defines the hierarchy within the society; it is therefore an important ordering principle of social stratification. Prestige “is the relative esteem in which an individual is held in an ordered total system of differentiated evaluation” (Parsons 1952, 131–­32; Wegener 1992). In this hierarchy of prestige, status denotes the ordinal position of actors. An actor that has higher status enjoys a greater endowment of prestige.19 Both terms are therefore highly positional. Positional goods are those in which “one individual’s forward move in the hierarchy can occur only at the expense of backward moves by others” (Frank 1985b, 108; 1985a).20 This is clearly the case for an ordinal concept such as status. The zero-­ sum quality of positional goods creates an especially competitive environment. A social reading of international relations is therefore not necessarily more pacific. In fact, analysts have often connected competition for prestige with patterns of violence (Rousseau [1754] 1993; Hoffmann 1963; Galtung 1964; East 1972; Wallace 1971; Schweller 1999; Wohlforth 2009; Peterson 2002). Thus, adopting a prestige-­centric approach generates a hierarchical reading of international relations. Social hierarchy does not contradict international relations’ devotion to anarchy: “The international system is oligarchical (or hierarchic) precisely because it is an anarchic one, wherein might makes right and differences in power and wealth serve to perpetuate inequality rather than alleviate it” (Schweller 1999, 42). Instead of viewing anarchy and hierarchy as contradictory opposites, a theory of prestige forces us to examine the complementary interaction between institutional anarchy and social hierarchy (Donnelly 2009: 52; Lake 1996). On Pride and Prestige Why is prestige so desirable? If actors are willing to accept significant costs in an attempt to secure prestige, then the acquisition of prestige must provide them with sufficient returns to justify the expense. Yet the identification and certainly the quantification of these returns is problematic. Part of this difficulty stems from the nature of prestige. Prestige is a diffused form of power. It rarely operates within the context of a specific relationship, in a direct and immediate manner. Instead, the influence of

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prestige is more subtle: it affects patterns of deference, structures actors’ preferences, and directs rules and norms of social institutions (Barnett and Duvall 2005b). Prestige can also affect the levels of significant psychological factors such as self-­esteem (Maslow 1943). Through these processes prestige can produce significant psychological, social, and material benefits. However, because of the diffused nature of prestige, the immediacy of the relation between cause and effect is absent: prestige paybacks can occur years after the initial investment; they can come in small increments or in large installments; they can be paid by nearby observers or by unintended audiences; they can be objective or subjective. The establishment of causality in a diffused setting is challenging. A somewhat circular reply to this conundrum comes from actors’ own behavior. Prestige matters if actors believe that it matters. A systematic recurrence of acts of conspicuous consumption tells us that actors indeed believe that prestige matters. However, the circularity of this argument is somewhat unsatisfactory. The fact that prestige-­seeking actors believe that their behavior is likely to result in increased levels of prestige does not necessarily mean that they are correct. It might well be the case that prestige-­seeking policies are a collective form of “chasing ghosts.” Hence, despite the challenges of diffused power, we need better elaboration of the benefits of prestige. The literature offers a plethora of mechanisms that identify prestige benefits. In mapping these arguments, it is useful to differentiate between objective prestige benefits and subjective ones, though both kinds matter. From the objective side, prestige matters because prestigious actors are privy to tangible advantages. Prestige affects patterns of deference and responsiveness, regulates access to positions of influence, and shapes the distribution of material benefits (Lake 2009).21 A hierarchical system tends to transfer values from bottom to top, allowing the actors at top positions to get more than their “fair” shares. Galtung (1964, 97–­98) notes that where there is stratification, there will also be exploitation. Such benefits make the top-­dog position a very lucrative one. Accordingly, an investment in prestige is an investment in social capital that can be converted into material capital. Amassing such easily convertible capital, according to Bourdieu, is “the most valuable form of  accumulation in a society” ([1977] 2003, 179–­80, italics added). The second approach focuses instead on actors’ subjective worlds. Prestige may be desired simply because it makes us feel good. Psychologists view esteem and recognition as an essential human need and even as

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the “dominant motive of man” (Becker 1971, chap. 7; Maslow 1943).22 In Maslow’s (1943) famous hierarchy of needs, esteem is a “high need” that can be achieved only once the material preconditions for survival have been met. Accordingly, it is a desire that is not driven by a material necessity but rather by a psychological one.23 Similarly, Adam Smith ([1759] 1976, 61) viewed the desire to gain approbation as the main purpose of economic activity: “it is the vanity, not the ease, or the pleasure, which interests us.”24 A useful way to distinguish between objective and subjective benefits is through the distinction between prestige and pride. While prestige is generated through actors’ estimates of the approbative collective assessment of a third party, pride is produced through an assessment of their own social standing. Thus, I feel proud when I believe that everyone else believes that I am worthy of respect.25 The subjective benefits of prestige, therefore, operate through the generation of pride. While pride is subjective, it is still a social concept because it relies on a reading of the collective assessment of one’s community. As long as the feeling of pride provides sufficient subjective benefits to the actor, it can motivate and direct her behavior. While the desire for prestige may motivate individuals, the question remains whether it can motivate groups. The extension of motivations such as prestige, honor, or emotion to a state, especially when analyzed as a unitary actor, runs the risk of anthropomorphism. This invokes the problem of aggregation, extending a theory from the individual level to that of the state or the international system, which plagues a broad swath of international relations theory. In the case of prestige, studies in social psychology provide a possible solution by showing the prevalence of prestige-­seeking behavior not only among individuals but also across groups. One of the most robust findings of social psychology is the recurrence of intergroup discrimination. Following the pioneering work of Henry Tajfel, repeated experiments demonstrate that actors tend to favor in-­ group members and discriminate against outsiders. Tajfel and Turner (1986) developed social identity theory as an explanation for this discrimination, rooting the theory in individual desire to maximize self-­esteem. One possible way to gain self-­esteem is through identification with a group that compares favorably to others. Cialdini et al. (1976) describe this as “basking in reflected glory.”26 An individual gains prestige because she belongs to a respected group. Accordingly, group members have an incentive to discriminate against the out-­group in the hope of improving

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their group’s relative position, thus boosting their own self-­esteem. Consequently, individual prestige seeking is mirrored by similar competition among groups (Mercer 1995, 241–­43). Because in Tajfel’s experiments discrimination is a costly strategy, participants are showing a willingness to incur cost in an attempt to improve the prestige of their respective groups. Social identity theory views self-­esteem as an end in and of itself. The desire for prestige is a means for generating pride. Therefore, if individuals gain pride through membership in a prestigious group, then, for a citizen, an improvement of her state’s relative position in the international hierarchy becomes a worthy goal regardless of whether it is accommodated by material gains. Megasports events such as the Olympic Games or the World Cup provide a good illustration of this point. The 2014 Winter Games in Sochi, for example, cost at least US$51 billion. The 2018 World Cup in Russia is expected to cost at least US$21 billion, though some estimates fear that this figure will double by the time of the games (Muller and Wolfe 2014, 2). The cost of the 2004 Olympic Games in Athens increased Greek sovereign debt by about 2–­3 percent. Many analysts argue that this financial deficit contributed directly to the outbreak of the Greek financial and economic crisis later in the decade (Panagitopoulou 2014). The exorbitant cost of such events raises important questions. Why would individuals in the hosting countries support such expense? Why would leaders of hosting countries (or cities) bid for such expensive events to begin with? Indeed, public opinion polls in Russia in the years leading to Sochi identified growing concerns regarding the advisability of the Russian investment in the games. However, once the games started, public support for the games galvanized, and respondents reported a sense of national pride (Wolfe 2015). Similarly, Kuper and Szymanski (2009) argue that leaders are aware that megasports events are not likely to generate significant economic returns. However, they claim that the games generate psychosocial returns in the form of public happiness and national pride (see also Nooij and Van den Berg 2013). Moreover, public polls in China following the 2008 Beijing Olympics demonstrate that this sense of pride is connected to international prestige. Respondents saw the games as an instrument for enhancing Chinese international reputation and for consolidating Chinese national identity. The expectation for private economic benefits was weaker and less significant (Ying, Kolstad, and Yang 2013).27 If public opinion on Sochi and Beijing is indicative of a more general approach to megaevents, it may offer an explanation for leaders’ preferences. Political leaders may choose to partake in such costly public

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displays of consumption because such participation can boost their popularity through a sense of national pride. Yet this fails to explain citizens’ preferences. In many ways, this argument takes us full circle, back to the starting point of our discussion—­in the absence of a theory of conspicuous consumption, it is difficult to explain why bewildering expenditure of public funds—­for a sports event, a moon landing, or an aircraft carrier—­ would generate a frenzy of national pride. It is the combination of the domestic dynamics of social identity theory (especially through “basking in reflected glory”) and the international patterns of conspicuous consump­ tion that generate this wave of national pride. These patterns of national pride are therefore not an alternative explanation but rather part and parcel of the dynamics of prestige in a group setting. Some variants of social identity theory focus on member identification with the group as well as members’ willingness to partake in prosocial group-­ related activities. Kelman (1961) argues that groups that are perceived as successful generate higher levels of identification, leading members to experience the group’s successes and failures vicariously (Kagan 1958). Studies suggest that strong identification with a group is often correlated with voluntary participation in costly group-­enhancing activities (Cialdini et al. 1976; Fisher and Wakefield 1988; Dutton, Dukerich, and Harquail 1994). As this theory predicts, respondents in Russia and in China report a greater sense of  national identity during and after hosting their respective Olympic games (Wolfe 2015; Ying, Kolstad, and Yang 2013). Accordingly, if we apply the “basking in reflected glory” argument to international relations, we can expect a national group that enjoys high international prestige to benefit from a stronger and more cohesive sense of national identity and a greater level of good citizenship. Therefore, an investment in prestige-­enhancing policies can be seen as a tool for enhancing in-­group cohesion.28 In the case of Sochi, observers indeed saw the games as an instrument to promote a new sense of Russianness (Wolfe 2015). Intergroup competition for prestige relies on the ability to compare and assess the relative prestige endowments of different actors (Festinger 1954). However, because prestige is a latent attribute, it can only be assessed indirectly. While we cannot measure prestige, we can anticipate how a prestigious actor may look and behave. Consequently, prestige can be vulnerable to deception. Actors can purchase the symbols of prestige without ever possessing the qualities they supposedly signal. Manipulation can occur through what Morgenthau calls “policies of prestige”—­ policies that seek to control and enhance an actor’s image (Morgenthau

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[1947] 1960, 80). In fact, as O’Neill (1999, 193) points out, the word prestige originates from the Latin root praestare, meaning the creation of an illusion. Similarly, Jervis (1989, 10) labeled his study of image-­enhancing policies the “theory of deception in international relations.” Observers are left with the task of sorting out which image-­enhancing effort to believe and which to discount as trickery. The establishment of a social hierarchy, therefore, involves an intricate signaling game. Because prestige is awarded by the community, all signals must be public, and conspicuous. Accordingly, social hierarchies are the result of a continuous process of public displays and communal assessments: “In order to gain and to hold the esteem of men it is not sufficient merely to possess wealth or power. The wealth or power must be put in evidence, for esteem is awarded only on evidence” (Veblen [1899] 1979, 36). The most readily available evidence, both for individuals and for states, is provided through acts of consumption.

Toward a Theory of Conspicuous Consumption Consumption: Handicaps and Tastes We do not often think of political choices in terms of consumption. Yet under scarcity, a decision to enact a policy, deploy an army, procure a weapon system, or dispatch an emissary carries tangible opportunity costs. The resources and political capital used in each of these decisions are consumed and cannot be used to “purchase” other policies. In almost all cases, states face multiple policy substitutes, several ways to spend their resources.29 By selecting a set of policies, states establish a particular consumption pattern. The decision to “consume” a certain policy is likely to be the result of a myriad of motivations. Normally, however, we would expect the policy choices of states to respond to the basic dynamics of supply and demand in the same way that consumers’ choices do. The economic theory of demand, in its most classic form, predicts an inverse relationship between price and individuals’ willingness to purchase commodities, other things being equal. As prices fall consumers will buy more goods and vice versa. This is a common implicit assumption in political science as well. When faced with two policies offering a similar utility, we expect a rational decision maker to opt for the cheaper one. This assumption is so deeply engrained that it is maintained even in analyses that are not strictly formalized as rationalist. However, actors

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do not always behave in this predictable way. In some cases, an increase in price may lead to an increase in demand, contradicting our intuitive understanding of rational behavior. Indeed, why would a rational actor opt for an expensive good when a cheaper one would work just as well? This is the puzzle that motivates the analysis of conspicuous consumption. Veblen viewed conspicuous acts of consumption as public displays of one’s social standing. Once consumption is viewed as also involving a signal, then two differently priced goods no longer provide the actor with the same utility. If the actor benefits from this display, choosing the more expensive good may prove rational. An example from zoology is instructive.30 Studies in zoology identify patterns of conspicuous and excessive displays among animals and plants.31 Yet excess in the animal kingdom seems to contradict the Darwinian logic of the survival of the fittest; the colorful peacock’s tail is a case in point. What kind of evolutionary advantage can such a heavy and visible tail provide? Zahavi and Zahavi (1997, 229) explain puzzling traits through the handicap principle. The handicap principle is a very simple idea: waste can make sense, because by wasting one proves conclusively that one has enough assets to waste and more. The investment—­the waste itself—­is just what makes this advertisement reliable.

The male peacock “accepts” a handicap by growing a costly resplendent tail and by parading it around despite its weight and visible colors. In the wild, when avoiding potential predators, such an exaggerated and burdensome tail can prove lethal. However, according to Zahavi and Zahavi’s model, what the peacock loses in agility is compensated through the use of the tail as an effective signal of  fitness to prospective mates. In this, Zahavi and Zahavi’s handicap principle relies on the logic of costly signals that is also employed frequently by international relations theorists.32 Following this logic, wasteful handicaps are sound from an evolutionary perspective if they establish effective communication by enhancing the credibility of signals. A male peacock displaying a full and healthy tail signals his ability to survive and prosper even with the handicap of a large, heavy, and conspicuous appendage. He thus proves himself a worthy mate. In this manner, the handicap principle, which Zahavi and Zahavi see as a necessary companion to Darwin’s law of natural selection, encourages wasteful traits. Importantly, when dealing with social species, Zahavi and Zahavi

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find that the handicap principle is tightly connected to issues of hierarchy and prestige (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997, 141–­49). Extending the theory to anthropology, Alden and Blige Bird (2000) explain altruistic patterns of turtle hunting among the Meriam of the Torres Strait islands. Hunters who volunteer to supply turtle meat to community gatherings enjoy better marriage deals and are the only young men who feel secure enough to speak at tribal meetings.33 These hunters incur cost—­a voluntary handicap—­in terms of equipment, risk, and time. Through this investment they demonstrate their superior abilities and consequently gain respect and deference in return. In this case, prestige brings about tangible benefits but requires an investment of time, effort, and resources. Similarly, Sosis (2000) finds that among the fishermen of the Infaluk Atoll, canoe owners often deliberately adopt a suboptimal but conspicuous method of fishing, thus accepting a voluntary handicap as a means for gaining prestige.34 Similarly, when Brazil decides to buy a naval vessel, it has to calculate not only how such a purchase could satisfy its strategic needs but also what such a purchase would signal regarding its social standing. Thus, the purchase of an expensive, aging aircraft carrier is not necessarily directed at any regional adversary but is rather an attempt to broadcast Brazil’s improved social station.35 Brazil is accepting a voluntary handicap by parading a highly vulnerable vessel at great cost and with questionable strategic value. This is also true for Brazil’s costly voluntary choice to host the Olympic Games. As noted above, the games are an extravagant expenditure that demonstrates the host’s ability to organize and pay for grand public displays. Similarly, countries that seek leadership positions often need to accept a handicap. In a study of leadership in climate-­change gov­ ernance, for example, Van der Heijden and Moxnes (2013) find that would­be leaders had to adopt costly domestic carbon-reduction policies. This study demonstrates that leaders are more successful when they accept a heavier cost. In this sense, an aging aircraft carrier, playing host to the summer games, or accepting leadership positions in international governance are akin to the peacock’s tail: all are voluntary handicaps made explicable through the logic of costly signals. In fact, the more expensive, exclusive, ostentatious, and luxurious the handicap, the more effective the signal it sends. In all these cases, the actors signal that they have enough resources to satisfy their basic needs and to pay for luxuries. At the extreme end, the most effective costly signals will involve an active destruction of one’s own property. Such examples do exist. In the Pacific Northwest, intertribal hierarchy was largely established through

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extravagant potlatch feasts. Instead of fighting wars, competitions were played out when tribes demonstrated their status through a self-­inflicted destruction of property: Whole boxes of olanchen (candlefish) oil or whale oil are burnt, as are houses and thousands of blankets. The most valuable copper objects are broken and thrown into the water, in order to put down and “flatten” one’s rival. In this way one not only promotes oneself, but also one’s family, up the social scale. (Mauss 1990, 37)

In this example, “fighting with property” became a substitute for war because it established a clear and indisputable hierarchy (Codere 1950). For outsiders, the meaning of this destruction was unclear. For the first Westerners to arrive at that region, the potlatch was a curious, wasteful, and irrational behavior that was to be discouraged and even banned (Fisher 1992, 206).36 This incommensurability between two cultures highlights the importance of understanding prestige as social and community based. What may be an incontrovertible signifier of prestige for one community may be unintelligible for another. Thus, effective signaling is not a function of cost alone. The meaning depends not only on the magnitude of the actors’ consumption but also on the type of goods that they choose to consume and on the social setting in which the goods are consumed. Certain goods have categorical significance inasmuch as they help us to catalog actors into different classes and types. Hence, China can see the acquisition of a new aircraft carrier or the funding of an ambitious space program as means for claiming superpower status. Indeed, Bourdieu (1984, 376) observed that families from different classes often spend very similar amounts of money on food. However, an examination of the contents of their respective diets shows clear differences in tastes and preferences that correspond to class distinctions.37 In this example, it is taste rather than expense that distinguishes between the different actors. For Bourdieu, taste is an institution, cultivated and refined through repeated social interactions. Ultimately, taste acquires classifying significance that is central to the process of distinction. Similarly, actors in the international system may use their “taste,” as is manifested through their consumption choices, as an act of classification. In this way actors who wish to improve their standing in the international hierarchy may develop a “liking” for larger naval vessels, space programs, foreign interventions, or contributions to foreign aid. The same actors could have

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just as easily chosen a “diet” consisting of higher teachers’ wages, investment in carbon-­reduction measures, and universal health care. While the cost of these substitutes may be greater than the first set of options, they are less conspicuous and less “luxurious,” and thus for prestige-signaling purposes, they may be deemed less desirable despite their higher price. The Utilities of Consumption It is important to note that conspicuous consumption should not imply a complete lack of instrumental value. Even luxuries deliver some “functional” utility. Hence, an analysis of Veblen effects must distinguish between the primary and secondary utilities of consumption. The primary utility is derived as “a consequence of the direct service of the consumption to enhance life and well-­being on the whole,” whereas the secondary utility is an “evidence or social confirmation of the consumer’s relative ability to pay” (Basman, Molina, and Slottje 1988, 531). The two utilities are in conflict with each other: one seeks to minimize cost while the other wants to increase it; one tries to maximize instrumentality while the other seeks to emphasize luxury and extravagance; one is inward looking while the other is directed at others. Thus, prestige considerations can overlap with considerations of security, deterrence, and welfare without being mutually exclusive. Veblen summarizes the overlap between these two dimensions of utility eloquently. It is obviously not necessary that a given object or expenditure should be exclusively wasteful in order to come under the category of conspicuous waste. An article may be useful and wasteful both, and its utility to the consumer may be made up of use and waste in the most varying proportions. . . . It would be hazardous to assert that a useful purpose is ever absent from the utility of any article or any service, however obviously its prime purpose and chief element is conspicuous waste; and it would be only less hazardous to assert of any primarily useful product that the element of waste is in no way concerned in its value, immediately or remotely. (Veblen [1899] 1979, 100–­101)

Every act of consumption is therefore driven by some combination of primary and secondary utility. This complementarity makes the distinction between these motivations murkier. It is hard to estimate the extent to which a policy is motivated by primary utility or by secondary utility. It is therefore a mistake to ask, for example, whether China’s space program is

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a result of a strategic calculation or prestige-­seeking behavior or whether Brazil’s aircraft carrier purchase is a result of domestic bureaucratic politics or the desire to enhance Brazilian prestige. The answer in most such cases would be both. Arguing that an individual purchased a Rolls Royce in order to commute to work is not an alternative to the assertion that the decision to opt for a Rolls Royce is also motivated by conspicuous consumption. Knowing that an actor needs a car in order to get to work still does not explain the choice of this particular vehicle. Similarly, stating that the Brazilian navy would always like more influence and resources does not explain why it opted to purchase a carrier rather than numerous smaller but more functional ships for the same amount of money. Just as it is difficult to explain the purchase of a Rolls Royce without a reference to conspicuous consumption, it is difficult to explain the choice of the Brazilian navy fully without a reference to structures of international prestige. An explanation of such decisions requires an exploration of both primary and secondary utilities. These are not alternatives but rather necessary complementary components of a full model of consumption. While both utilities play a role in every consumption decision, the balance between them changes across actors, time, and goods. Lebow, for example, distinguishes between honor-­based societies (those that focus on secondary utility) and appetite-­based societies (those that focus on primary utility). Broad cultural and temporal processes affect the transformation from one type of society to the other as the balance between primary-­and secondary-­utility shifts (Lebow 2008, 162–­63). Veblen tries to identify the conditions under which secondary utility, “insolent pomp and cheating trickery” (Rousseau [1754] 1993) takes the upper hand. In particular, he argues, it was the establishment of property rights that enabled accumulation and thus set the stage for the emergence of conspicuous consumption.38 Other necessary conditions for the institutionalization of conspicuous consumption include routine exposure to war and access to resources that go beyond what subsistence economy produces (Veblen [1899] 1979, 7).39 If we accept Veblen’s characterization of the preconditions that tilt the balance in the direction of secondary utility, then the modern international state system clearly qualifies: it is exposed to war, it vigorously upholds property rights, and, for most states, it relies on a sophisticated market economy. The balance between primary and secondary utilities varies not just across historical epochs, as Lebow and Veblen argue, but also across individuals. Some actors are more sensitive to prestige considerations than

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others. Some of this variance may be due to personality differences between individuals (Frank 1985a). This psychological dimension is not easily applicable to international relations, however. Alternatively, differences in sensitivity to status considerations may stem from structural reasons, that is, the position of actors in the social hierarchy and the respective trajectories of their social mobility. Ceteris paribus, we would expect actors who experience status anxiety to assign greater value to secondary utility. A sudden decline or improvement in actors’ social fortunes can lead to such anxiety. Thus, for example, Suzuki (2008) finds that China’s and Japan’s adoption of prosocial policies—­a form of conspicuous consumption—­is driven by their position as “frustrated great powers.” Both countries are trying to use their consumption in order to alleviate their frustration with their international social standing. If a good is consumed solely for its signaling value, it is considered a “pure Veblen good,” one that “contributes to the welfare of any one individual only in so far as it affects that individual’s relative consumption of the good; it provides no utility of its own accord” (Eaton and Eswaran 2009, 1088). Empirically, it is much easier to identify conspicuous consumption in cases that approximate “pure Veblen goods” when the primary utility is nonexistent, or virtually so. The Brazilian aircraft carrier may be such a case. While it is true that extreme cases offer the most compelling examples of conspicuous consumption, we must be careful not to discount the importance of secondary utility in a wider set of decisions where primary utility is still present. Consumption Externalities: Bandwagoners, Snobs, and Conspicuous Consumers When it comes to conspicuous consumption, an increase in price can become an advantage rather than a deterrent, contrary to the expectations of supply and demand. While most countries are able to afford small naval vessels, only a major power is able to purchase and maintain a carrier. Thus, the very fact that the carrier is expensive is part of its attraction. Morgenstern was among the first economists to formally acknowledge this shortcoming in demand theory: certain goods are more desirable as their price increases. He chose to tackle this anomaly by focusing on the problem of additivity of demand curves. In order to reach a collective demand curve for a certain good, we need to aggregate individual curves. However, as Morgenstern notes, individual curves are only additive if we

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assume that they are independent of each other, that is, if we assume that actors are not in any way affected by the consumption decisions of others (Morgenstern 1948, 175; Liebenstein 1950, 183). If individual demand curves are interdependent, it becomes very difficult to estimate the general demand for a specific good. In the context of international relations, an assumption of independent demand curves is implausible. It would be akin to stating that the Athenian decision to build the Long Walls should have had no effect on the consumption patterns of Sparta, or that the American decision to invest in moon landing was completely independent of the Soviet space program. Accordingly, the assumption of  independence is especially problematic for international relations, where almost all key concepts and motivations are defined in relative terms. While welfare, wealth, and perhaps security can, to some extent, be defined in absolute terms, power, influence, and prestige cannot. Power, influence, and prestige are relational concepts; they cannot be measured or understood independently of other actors (Mercer 1996, 27; Baldwin 1980). Consequently, while economists, focusing on wealth and welfare, can by and large maintain the assumption of independence of demand curves for theoretical convenience, international relations theorists cannot. In the context of international relations, the assumption of independence is unacceptable even as a theoretical simplification because it defies the most basic principles of international relations theory. We cannot simply add individual utility curves in order to assess the overall demand for aircraft carriers or space programs, because actors’ consumption patterns are interdependent. Once we allow for interactions between individual demand curves, we need to be sensitive to a set of effects such interdependence is likely to introduce. Interdependence of demand curves generates consumption externalities.40 Consumption externalities highlight the way in which one actor’s consumption decisions affect the consumption preferences of other actors. For example, if more Latin American countries decided to purchase aircraft carriers, the increase in aggregate demand for carriers in the region would have a negative effect on the utility Brazil gets from its carrier. Owning a carrier would no longer be a distinguishing mark of Brazil’s regional preeminence. Liebenstein (1950) formalized a typology of consumption externalities by differentiating between bandwagon, snob, and Veblen effects. Bandwagon and snob effects refer to the ways in which individuals try either to join general consumption patterns by emulating them or to

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separate themselves from these patterns by adopting unique tastes. For a bandwagoner, an increase in aggregate consumption of some good creates positive externalities, whereas for a snob, the externalities of wider consumption of a good are negative. When an item becomes fashionable, the bandwagoner is more likely to consume it. Conversely, the more fashionable an item becomes, the less appealing it is for the snob. Veblen effects refer to the aforementioned phenomena of conspicuous consumption. Here, the effect is driven by the price of the good rather than by the level of its aggregate consumption. Accordingly, Veblen effects look at the “extent to which the demand for a commodity is increased because it bears a higher rather than lower price tag” (Liebenstein 1950, 189).41 Brazil’s carrier purchase is an example of both snob and Veblen effects. The implications of a snob effect are quite straightforward. The purchase was attractive for Brazil because so few countries own carriers. Only ten other countries in the world, most of them major powers, own aircraft carriers.42 Moreover, the fact that Brazil would become the only country in Latin America to own a carrier made the purchase more salient and hence more attractive, especially after Argentina was forced to give up its old carrier because of the heavy operation and maintenance costs. The implications of a Veblen effect are less intuitive but equally important. A higher price point enhances the strength of the consumption signal. A Veblenian analysis thus suggests that the high cost of the carrier contributed to its attractiveness to Brazil. By and large, other things being equal, a higher price contributes to an item’s exclusivity and to its conspicuousness, making it more desirable. The combination of snob and Veblen effects made the carrier purchase an appealing target of conspicuous consumption for Brazil. More generally, price alone will not always suffice as an effective status signal unless it is accompanied by elements of the snob effect. Consequently, throughout this volume, the application of conspicuous consumption to international relations treats both effects in tandem. Conspicuous consumption, as in the purchase of a luxury good rather than a necessity, almost always involves a dimension of waste. After all, there are cheaper ways to satisfy hunger than by eating caviar and more economical ways of commuting to work than driving a Rolls Royce. Veb­ len, therefore, alternates between the terms conspicuous consumption and conspicuous waste and uses them interchangeably. For him, it is the wasteful dimension of conspicuous consumption that turns it into a truly costly (and therefore credible) signal. This waste is akin to the voluntary handicap accepted by Zahavi and Zahavi’s peacock. For the peacock, the

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investment in a resplendent tail guarantees a better selection of mates. This handicap, therefore, is not wholly wasteful, because it improves the ability of actors to signal their attributes credibly. Pecuniary Emulation and Invidious Comparison Veblen argues that consumption externalities produce two conflicting processes, pecuniary emulation and invidious comparison: “Members of the upper classes voluntarily incur costs to differentiate themselves from members of lower classes (invidious comparison) knowing that these costs must be large enough to discourage imitation ( pecuniary emulation)” (Bagwell and Bernheim 1996). Invidious comparison is one of the main motivations of the snob. Conversely, pecuniary emulation is the practice of those who try to “keep up with the Joneses.” The emulators will try to adopt the consumption patterns of the upper classes even if they have to compromise some necessities in the process. The result is never-­ ending cycles of differentiation and emulation. The snob will consume luxury goods as a means of differentiation, which will automatically make them desirable for the Joneses despite, and sometimes because of, their questionable functional value. For those without sufficient means, pecuniary emulation can impose significant long-­term costs. Canterbery (1999) describes this kind of ruinous overspending by an aspiring actor as the “Gatsby effect,” echoing Fitzgerald’s ([1925] 1995) famous novel. Snobs, therefore, have to overspend just enough in order to keep the emulators out of reach. The ruinous consequences of the 2004 Olympic Games in Athens provide a good illustration of an international Gatsby effect. A notable method for blocking emulators and enabling clearer distinctions of rank is through the establishments of exclusive clubs.43 Once effective membership restrictions are in place, clubs become a form of invidious comparison. Clubs can be formalized, as in the case of the United Nations’ Security Council or the G8, or they can be kept informal, as in the case of the aircraft carrier club. Whereas in the first two examples, institutional rules create effective restrictions on membership, the latter example relies on the prohibitive cost of aircraft carriers as a barrier to entry. Larson, Paul, and Wohlforth (2013) argue that club memberships create two types of status competitions. First, actors compete to gain membership in desired clubs. Once accepted, the competition continues within the club between members who strive to define in-­club hierarchies. Stratification therefore exists both across clubs and within clubs. Clubs often create internal status

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positions, such as chairperson or treasurer, which can become coveted as part of this struggle. Competition within clubs can be intense. The smaller number of actors diminishes the diffused aspect of prestige. In a club of two, like the superpower club during the Cold War, status competition can approach a zero-­sum game. Actors that sit on the boundaries of club membership— ­either close to gaining membership or just about to lose it—­are especially prone to engaging in competitive behavior in order to secure their position. Higher levels of status anxiety are likely to be associated with greater propensity for conspicuous consumption. In the absence of checks and balances, the constant tension between pecuniary emulation and invidious consumption can lead to increasingly insatiable spirals of consumption. Not unlike the familiar security dilemma, increased consumption by one player can pressure other actors to increase their own consumption. One man’s consumption becomes his neighbor’s wish. This already means that the process by which wants are satisfied is also the process through which wants are created. The more wants that are satisfied the more new ones are born. . . . The more that is produced the more that must be owned in order to maintain the appropriate prestige. (Galbraith 1958, 125–­26)

Hence, actors need to be strategic in their decisions in order to avoid negative consumption externalities: “overconsumption [underconsumption] exists because individuals do not take into account the negative [ positive] effect of own consumption on jealous [admiring] others” (Dupor and Liu 2003, 423). Indeed, if all actors chose to engage in conspicuous consumption equally and simultaneously, the result would not affect their relative levels of consumption; there would be no gain in prestige.44 Hence, when actors use conspicuous consumption as a prestige-­enhancing tool, they may generate a suboptimal equilibrium in which insatiable cycles of consumption leave everyone “running to keep in the same place.”45 Eaton and Eswaran (2009, 1101) find that under such conditions, an increase in productivity tends to lead to the crowding out of functional goods in favor of prestige goods, a perverse situation where increased productivity is inversely related to actors’ well-­being: “In the limit as productivity increases without bound, virtually all productive resources are devoted to the production of the useless Veblen good.” To support such high levels of consumption, actors need to work more. According to some estimates, overworked actors who partake in the prestige “rat race” experience

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significant reduction in productivity, leading some analysts to propose government restriction on working hours (Alvarez-­Cudrado 2007). International politics lack an authority that could intervene to curb spirals of excess when those get out of control. This highlights an important implication of conspicuous consumption—­it is likely to lead to costly and extravagant outcomes. Both snob and Veblen effects tend to drive prices up and increase consumption (Wagner 1983, 342). In the example of the F-­20 fighter plane, secondary-­ utility consideration led to the rejection of a cheaper plane in favor of more expensive ones. Similarly, Kohler (1977), in one of the only direct applications of a Veblenian approach in international relations theory, suggests that a consumption spiral provides an explanation for arms races and in particular an explanation for the almost constant growth in global military capabilities and military expenditures.46 Keynes ([1930] 1991, 365) recognized these risks and warned against their ever-­increasing cost: Now it is true that the needs of human beings may seem to be insatiable. But they fall into two classes—­those needs which are absolute in the sense that we feel them whatever the situation of our fellow human beings may be, and those which are relative only in that their satisfaction lifts us above, makes us feel superior to, our fellows. Needs of the second class, those which satisfy the desire for superiority, may indeed be insatiable; for the higher the general level, the higher still are they.

Identifying Conspicuous Consumption in International Relations Identifying conspicuous consumption empirically is no easy task. Actors are rarely candid when it comes to prestige-­motivated behavior. Very few owners of luxury cars would admit that they chose those vehicles as a means for announcing their wealth and success. Similarly, international actors rarely use prestige as a direct justification for an expensive procurement or a costly policy. In some issue areas, such as space programs or nuclear weapons, the rhetoric of prestige is more prevalent. However, the absence of an explicit reference to prestige considerations in an actor’s account does not mean that it was absent from the decision-­making calculus. Failing to report the role social motivations play in one’s decisions does not necessarily stem from a conscious attempt to mislead.47 It is the nature

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of many social institutions to be unobservable to those who are part of the society. For Bourdieu, for example, a social practice is to a large extent defined by generating actions that occur “without presupposing a conscious aiming at ends or an express mastery of the operations necessary to attain them. . . . The schemes of the habitus, the primary forms of classification, owe their specific efficacy to the fact that they function below the level of consciousness and language, beyond the reach of introspective scrutiny or the control of the will. . . . It functions as a sort of social orientation, a ‘sense of one’s place’, guiding the occupants of a given place in social space towards the social positions adjusted to their properties, and towards the practices or goods which befit the occupants of that position” (Bourdieu 1990, 53, 466–­67; Trigg 2001).48 Steven Lukes (2005), similarly, argues that power structures often operate subconsciously by affecting actors’ preferences. Furthermore, in the prestige case, strong norms restrain an open discussion of conspicuous consumption— ­one does not wish to be seen as smug or vain. Because prestige is a positional quality, an explicit admission of prestige-­seeking behavior is likely to trigger emulative reac­tions by other actors. Thus, acknowledging conspicuous consumption openly can be self-­defeating. Instead of acknowledging prestige-­ seeking motivations, actors often justify the purchase of expensive goods by reference to higher quality, aesthetics, cultural sophistication, interesting design, famous brands, or similar quasi-­functional assertions. Veblen describes the process through which acts of conspicuous consumption get wrapped in a tangle of mitigating values. While initially conspicuous consumption was admired exactly because it was expensive, over time it gained other meanings, such as efficiency, resolve, or aesthetic value. Furthermore, “whereas at the start the wealth was desired only secondarily, as one of the marks of prestige, later it was desired because by itself it conferred prestige”(Andersen 1933, 610). Actors will therefore tend to motivate their behavior in terms of wealth rather than prestige.49 Hence, research on conspicuous consumption often has to rely on indirect evidence—­not on the articulated rationale of actors but rather on their observable behavior. This methodological problem is not exclusive to the study of Veblen effects. All theoretical approaches that rely on actors’ preferences suffer from a similar difficulty. Because their starting point lies in an assumption about preferences, rational choice approaches are especially susceptible to this shortcoming. Samuelson (1947, 91–­92) offers a classic formulation of this problem: “Consumers’ market behavior is explained in terms of

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preferences, which are in turn defined only by behavior. The result can very easily be circular, and in many formulations undoubtedly is. Often nothing more is stated than the conclusion that people behave as they behave, a theorem which has no empirical implications, since it contains no hypothesis and is consistent with all conceivable behavior, while refutable by none.”50 The study of Veblen effects is a social extension of traditional rational choice approaches and hence is susceptible to comparable circularity. Theorists try to circumvent this problem by focusing on the consistency of actors’ choices (Samuelson 1947, 92). Thus, demand theory cannot explain one act of consumption of a specific consumer, but it can suggest that on average consumers will buy more goods as prices go down. Similarly, neorealism provides little analytical leverage when it comes to explaining specific events and instead focuses on explaining general patterns of behavior under different structural conditions. Accordingly, repeated be­havior that meets the expectations of the theory increases our confidence that we are analyzing actors’ preferences correctly. So, how do we know when international actors are engaged in conspicuous consumption? The theory generates several expectations around which we should identify consistent patterns of behavior. First, actors’ sensitivity to price should be inversely correlated with the conspicuousness of the goods. Because inconspicuous goods cannot be observed by others, they offer no social utility. Accordingly, the consumption of such goods is motivated by primary utility alone and is thus subject to the classic expectations of demand theory. More conspicuous goods allow for secondary-­utility considerations to kick in, at times inverting the relation between price and demand. Basman, Molina, and Slotjje (1988) find that the conspicuousness of the good affects the elasticity of demand, with more conspicuous goods being less elastic than less conspicuous ones. When faced with hard times, consumers need to decide which goods they can no longer afford. According to this argument, individuals are likely to give up their health insurance before settling for an older car or cheaper clothes: “No class of society, even the most abjectly poor, forgoes all customary conspicuous consumption. The last items of this category of consumption are not given up except under stress of the direst necessity. Very much of squalor and discomfort will be endured before the last trinket or the last pretense of pecuniary decency is put away” (Veblen [1899] 1979, 85). Second, the theory identifies the actors who are likely to engage in conspicuous consumption more frequently and with greater fervor. Actors

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who experience status anxiety, mostly as a result of sudden social mobility, are expected to be among the most enthusiastic consumers of expensive status goods. Actors who inhabit a marginal position in the social hierarchy, on the cusp of becoming a great power (or losing that status) or just about to gain (or lose) membership in a coveted club, are also likely to exhibit enhanced prestige-­seeking behavior. The theory also identifies several structural conditions that can affect the proclivity of actors to engage in conspicuous consumption: the size of the relevant group of competitors, the general level of social mobility, and the degree of intersubjective communal agreement regarding the qualities that deserve prestige are some of the conditions discussed so far. Finally, the theory posits several core mechanisms that should generate repeated patterns of behavior across space and time. Pecuniary emulation and invidious comparison, for example, should lead to constant instability of status symbols as snobs and bandwagoners engage in an endless game of imitation and distinction. The logic of costly signals, another cornerstone of the Veblenian approach, should lead to a coupling of cost and claims of prestige. As the potlatch demonstrates, when taken to the extreme, as in the case of pure Veblen goods, claims for prestige may be associated with overtly wasteful and extravagant consumption. In order to explore whether conspicuous consumption offers a more plausible account of why international actors pursue certain policies, I focus on four issues. 1. price.  Conspicuous consumption employs the logic of costly signals. Consequently, establishing the relative costliness of consumption is an important first step in establishing the plausibility of the argument. Cost can come into play in several ways. It can be measured in absolute terms (how much does a carrier cost?), it can be measured vis-­à-­vis possible substitutes (the cost of the F-­20 in contrast to that of the F-­15), and it can be demonstrated through extravagance and waste (burning one’s own property in a potlatch). 2. conspicuousness.  The preference for conspicuousness stands at the heart of the theory. When prestige is in play, we expect actors to prefer conspicuousness often at the expense of other dimensions of consumption. Hence, we expect a conspicuous act of consumption to be preferred over a less conspicuous one even if (and, at times, especially if) it is more expensive or less functional than the alternative. Equally, we expect actors

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to be particularly impressed by acts of conspicuous consumption, even when they clearly hold very little substance, and to be less impressed by inconspicuous acts, even when these have more potency. This is expected to be the case even when there is complete information regarding both conspicuous and inconspicuous acts. Traditional theories of international relations fail to provide a persuasive account of conspicuousness. Hence, by demonstrating that such a preference exists in international relations, we can establish one piece of suggestive evidence for the existence of Veb­ len effects. 3. hierarchy.  Prestige is social, hierarchical, and positional. Social hierarchy is, therefore, a fundamental component of the Veblenian approach. Improving or securing one’s position in the social international hierarchy is the main motivation of conspicuous consumers. Hence, we can assume that the position of an actor within this social hierarchy matters and is likely to have behavioral implications. Actors who wish to be regarded as great powers must behave as great powers. Great powers need constantly to differentiate themselves from the rest of the crowd in order to maintain their privileged position. Their location in the system is likely to induce behavior qualitatively different from the behavior of those located elsewhere in the social hierarchy. The same would be true of every class of actors all the way down to the bottom of the social ladder. As we move up and down the social ladder we should observe different commodity bundles. Actors that experience a change in their social fortunes will adjust by developing a taste for a different combination of goods suitable for their new social station. 4. cycles of status symbols.  When a specific act of conspicuous consumption is used with regularity as a means of establishing actors’ relative position in a hierarchy, it becomes a status symbol (Goffman 1951; Dittmar 1992). Once such symbols are institutionalized, they are coveted by all who wish to be considered members of the club those symbols are thought to represent. We can therefore expect such symbols to be attractive targets for pecuniary emulation and invidious comparison. The interplay between these conflicting patterns of consumption leads to continuous instability, if not in the distribution of prestige then at least in the choice of symbols. Once too many “emulators” gain access to a certain status symbol, an observer can no longer differentiate between legitimate members of that social class and those who carry “fake ID cards.” Those who wish to separate themselves from the “illegitimate” newcomers would

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have to invent new prestige symbols in the hope of creating more effective restrictions on new admissions to their exclusive club.51 Furthermore, normative and material changes are also likely to be reflected by lagging corresponding changes in the different structures of prestige in the international society, further enhancing the rise or decline of existing prestige symbols. The combination of price, conspicuousness, hierarchy, and cycles of prestige symbols is distinctive to the Veblenian approach. If we can find evidence of all four dimensions in important policy choices that states actually make, that will provide powerful support for the validity of the theory. In the next chapter I further develop this theoretical account by analyzing the way in which price, conspicuousness, and hierarchy are translated into the consumption of specific status symbols. In the subsequent three chapters, I explore three cases in which the theory of conspicuous consumption offers a much better account of why states have made certain policy choices than more conventional rational choice approaches that limit their analysis to states’ pursuit of primary utilities.

Carriers, Peacekeepers, and Astronomers The biggest challenge to this theoretical account is to establish that states actually engage in conspicuous consumption. In many ways a preference for waste and excess stands at odds with rational state behavior as conventionally understood. Accordingly, for conspicuous consumption to matter, it does not need to happen all the time (in every consumption decision) or to be consistently present in the decisions of all actors. It simply needs to recur with some regularity and to affect significant policy decisions. Once we detect conspicuous consumption in some policy spheres, we are obliged to consider the possibility that it plays some role in many other decisions as well. Because conventional rationalist approaches to international relations offer little room for conspicuous consumption, identifying illustrative cases of the phenomenon generates a broader theoretical challenge. It forces us to consider prestige as a significant motivation in international relations. Cases of conspicuous consumption are particularly striking when they concern issues of national security. If there were any issue areas in which we would expect actors to follow functional, material, and cautious policies,

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they would be characterized by high stakes and evident choices.52 National security is such a domain. In other words, according to conventional international relations theory, national security is the least likely domain to tolerate conspicuous consumption or to allow actors to diverge from the dictums of survival in pursuit of elusive social considerations. Conversely, the Veblenian approach predicts that the significance of national security, its salience in international relations, and its reliance on positional goods should render it a magnet for Veblen effects. Hence, when we identify cases of conspicuous consumption that concern issues of national security, those cases can serve as important testers for the validity of the theory as a whole. In order to explore the role of conspicuous consumption in international relations, I focus on three kinds of goods with respect to which states often make national security consumption decisions: naval vessels, prosocial endeavors, and large-­scale scientific projects. Thus, for the purposes of this study, a case refers to a type of good rather than to a specific actor. By looking at the demand for a specific commodity, we can better identify bandwagon, snob, and Veblen effects. Each good attracts a small to medium group of consumers that engage in repeated consumption decisions. By comparing and contrasting actors’ consumption decisions concerning a specific good, we can highlight patterns of consumption that defy the conventional expectations of rationality. States consume many types of goods. In order to show that conspicuous consumption matters, I chose to focus on goods that affect core issues of modern international relations. Thus, I look at cases that, prima facie, should have persuasive primary-­utility justifications, especially in the anarchic, competitive, self-­help world of international politics. The case of weapons procurement stands at the heart of national security decision making. These are among the most expensive goods a state can buy, and a wrong decision can carry significant repercussions. Identifying and explaining prestige-­driven inefficiencies in this competitive environment could bolster the conspicuous consumption argument. The navy, the most expensive arm of the military, presents the most extreme case in this respect. Similarly, Big Science projects, such as space programs, have long been a visible and important aspect of great-­power competition. This was especially true during the Cold War and may regain salience as the Chinese space program continues to advance. The visibility and cost of such programs raises the stakes for these scientific competitions. Here again we may expect a competitive environment to generate efficiency and to be inhospitable to the frivolity of conspicuous consumption. Finally, prosociality may seem like a less intuitive

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target for conspicuous consumers. Here actors employ their resources in an attempt to help others. The benefits of consumption are not enjoyed by the consumer directly but rather by the recipient of this assistance. Identifying Veblenian tendencies even among international do-­gooders offers a strong indication of the prevalence and magnitude of conspicuous consumption in international relations. These three goods are therefore challenging cases for conspicuous consumption because they generate an environment that should be inhospitable to the kind of excess predicted by the theory. In fact, instead of the cautious frugality that we would expect in expensive and visible policy decisions, in all three cases it is possible to identify puzzling examples of behavior that can be best explained through the conspicuous consumption lens. Thus, for each of these goods I focus on instances of consumption decisions that seem to approach the status of “pure Veblen goods.” These are not meant as a test of the theory but rather as a systematic illustration of the phenomenon of conspicuous consumption in international relations as well as a source for further inductive theoretical refinement and development. While all three goods generate extreme patterns of consumption, they vary in significant way: they involve varying levels of competitiveness, they involve different actors in different times, they rely on different bureaucratic branches, and they engage different alternative explanations. This spread of cases ensures that whatever prestige-­seeking behavior we identify is not simply a by-­product of the particular dynamics of a single issue area. In addition, each of the cases allows me to examine and highlight different aspects of the theory. First, whereas procurement and Big Science involve long-­standing status symbols, prosociality involves more recent and less established ones. The cases, therefore, include goods that are undergoing different stages of their life cycle as prestige symbols. Second, the three goods also vary in the degree of competitiveness under which they are consumed: the highly positional world of arms procurement stands at one end, and the more collaborative sphere of prosociality stands at the other. Science is an interesting case because it can be both competitive and collaborative simultaneously. Identifying competitive prestige-­seeking behavior even in collaborative endeavors is interesting. At the same time, identifying the type of excess that is often associated with conspicuous consumption even in a highly competitive environment is also counterintuitive. Thus, the conspicuous consumption argument challenges both ends of the competitiveness spectrum in different ways. Third, the cases also involve different levels of expense. In particular, prosocial policies tend to be cheaper than procurement or Big Science. As such, prosociality is

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consumed by a wider set of actors and by a different stratum of international social hierarchy, expanding the scope of the empirical inquiry. Identifying persistent patterns of conspicuous consumption despite all these differences would bolster the generalizability of the theory. Finally, each of these cases allows us to explore an interesting and nontrivial empirical puzzle. In each case, conspicuous consumption allows us to make sense of what otherwise seems like inexplicable behavior. Why do countries routinely procure expensive, suboptimal, and, at times, ineffective weapons systems? In order to answer this question, in chapter 3 I explore the logic behind the procurement decisions of the navy, the most expensive branch of the military, and of the navy’s most exclusive and glitzy showpiece—­the aircraft carrier. Why do states volunteer resources and personnel for peacekeeping operations? Why do they donate foreign aid? Why do states offer their services as mediators for faraway conflicts? Prosociality is puzzling in the supposed self-­help world of international relations. In order to answer these questions, in chapter 4 I examine patterns of prosocial behavior in international relations. What explains governmental investment in extravagant Big Science projects such as the race to space? Moreover, what explains the intense sense of international competition that tends to accompany these projects (especially when science might benefit from a more collaborative and well-­ coordinated effort)? In order to answer these questions, in chapter 5 I explore four early cases of Big Science—­the international races to measure the precise distance between the Earth and the sun through the observation of the transits of Venus in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries—­ quite likely the first examples of an international race to space.53 Together these three cases show that conspicuous consumption does occur in international relations. Far from an oddity, it is a persistent pattern of state behavior that affects important policy decisions. The combination of price, conspicuousness, hierarchy, and cycles of status symbols is distinctive to the Veblenian approach. By combining evidence on all four dimensions across three cases, this research provides, at the very least, powerful circumstantial evidence for the validity of the theory that conspicuous consumption aimed at gaining symbolic stature matters a great deal in international relations.

chapter two

Status Symbols and Luxury Goods in International Relations sir humphrey: Don’t you believe that Great Britain should have the best? jim hacker: Yes, of course. sir humphrey: Very well, if you walked into a nuclear missile showroom you would buy Trident—­it’s lovely, it’s elegant, it’s beautiful. It is quite simply the best. And Britain should have the best. In the world of the nuclear missile it is the Saville Row suit, the Rolls Royce Corniche, the Château Lafitte 1945. It is the nuclear missile Harrods would sell you. What more can I say? jim hacker: Only that it costs £15 billion and we don’t need it. sir humphrey: Well, you can say that about anything at Harrods. (Lynn and Jay 1986)

I

n this scene from the British comedy series Yes Prime Minister, the writers satirize the political process that led to the procurement of the controversial Trident nuclear program. The £15 billion program is com­ pared to other luxury goods—­things we may want to own for prestige rea­ sons but do not really need. The appeal of Trident should be apparent to anyone walking into “a nuclear missile showroom” just as the appeal of a Rolls Royce should be apparent to anyone walking into a luxury car dealership. In this chapter I explore this analogy in more detail: how do states know what goods to buy at the international “Harrods” of status symbols? What makes for an appealing and effective international status symbol? If in the previous chapter I focused on identifying the motiva­ tions for conspicuous consumption and the most likely actors to become conspicuous consumers, in this chapter I concentrate on identifying in­ ternational luxury goods. The dynamics of conspicuous consumption—­ costly signals, invidious comparison, and pecuniary emulation—­generate

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constant instability in the selection of luxury goods. They also drive cycles of exaggeration and guide patterns of diffusion. The processes through which status symbols are chosen and consolidated further highlight the social aspects of prestige-­seeking behavior. Theorizing the logic of status symbols is therefore imperative for our understanding of the composi­ tion of international commodity bundles that are adopted by conspicuous consumers. The use of expansive weaponry as an extravagant status symbol offers a handy illustration of these dynamics. Weapons have long been used as international status symbols, and the talented writers of Yes Prime Minister were not the first to note it. The opening scene of Kipling’s famous novel Kim, for example, finds the young protagonist playing King of the Hill on top of the imposing cannon Zam Zammah in Lahore: “Who hold Zam Zammah, that ‘fire breathing dragon,’ hold the Punjab; for the great green-­bronze piece is always first of the conqueror’s loot” (Kipling [1901] 2004, 3). Indeed, Zam Zammah, a cannon famous enough to warrant a sin­ gular name, was the largest cannon cast in India. Given its size and weight, it is not surprising that its twin, an identical “fire breathing dragon,” was lost during a river crossing (Hopkirk 2001, 43–­45). Zam Zammah itself was damaged in battle and became an immobile showpiece and a symbol of power: a perfect location for a bitterly fought game of King of the Hill. By Kipling’s time, Zam Zammah symbolized power not because it was pow­ erful but because it was coveted by the powerful. Zam Zammah is indicative of a larger Indian trend. Throughout the eighteenth century, local leaders tended to procure increasingly large can­ nons to the extent that they often necessitated “elephants and hundreds of bullocks to drag around” (Bryant 2004, 458). Such heavy pieces of ar­ tillery were certainly an imposing sight, but they proved inferior to lighter and more maneuverable British cannons. The fate of Zam Zammah and its sunken twin is a good example for the questionable strategic value of exces­ sively large cannons. This move toward maladaptive gigantism is not unique to India or to cannons. During World War II, for example, German tanks grew rapidly in size, weight, and cost. The Panzer I and II, which formed the bulk of German tank forces during the successful initial stages of the war, weighed 5.4 and 8.9 tons respectively. The Panther tanks that were intro­ duced in the later stages of the war weighed close to 45 tons. At 68 tons, the Tiger II tanks were just a precursor to the development of an even heavier tank, the Panzer VIII Maus. Only two prototypes of the Maus were built. At 188 tons, this slow and expensive tank was too heavy for most bridges

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and terrains and too vulnerable for combat.1 Yet the Germans did not stop there. Their most ambitious tank design was the Landkreuzer P. 1000 Ratte, which was expected to weigh close to a thousand tons. At such weight, the Ratte would have been too heavy for regular roads, bridges, or any rail trans­ portation. Moreover, it would have been a slow and highly visible target for enemy fire. The Ratte proved too great a challenge, and despite Hitler’s enthusiasm, no prototype of this steel monster was ever built (Chamber­ lain and Doyle 1999; Estes and Palmer 2014). As with Zam Zammah, at a certain point, the stupendous increase in size and weight became an op­ erational liability. The process through which a strategically viable piece of weaponry grows out of proportion is illustrative of the broader dynamics of status symbols in international relations. The evolution of such symbols tends to involve a spiral of exaggeration that distorts a useful object into a showpiece of conspicuous consumption. The symbolic value of the cannon in eighteenth-­century India had impor­ tant strategic repercussions. Regional prestige structures, which generated these increasingly useless guns, heightened British military supremacy and ultimately contributed to the British takeover of the subcontinent (Bryant 2004, 458). Yet despite such significant implications, the study of symbols tends to be overlooked by the international relations literature. Barring sev­ eral notable exceptions (Jervis 1989; Eyre and Suchman 1996; O’Neill 1999, 2006; Hurd 2007; Kaufman 2001), international relations theory tends to marginalize the role of symbols, relegating them to the realm of curiosities and anecdotes. Hurd (2007, 49) argues that this marginalization stems from a Weberian worldview that promotes a false dichotomy between symbolic politics and rationality. Symbolism is deemed part of a traditional, prera­ tional world that will be inevitably replaced by a modern and reasoned one. The study of symbols is thus a study of anachronistic inferior relics facing ex­ tinction. The Veblenian framework rejects the dichotomy between prestige policies and rationality and instead offers a rationalist account for prestige-­ seeking behavior. The analysis of status symbols developed in this chapter continues to build on this premise, relying heavily on the work of sociologist Erving Goffman. In this chapter I examine five aspects of status symbols and luxury goods in international relations. I begin by developing a functionalist ex­ planation for the utility of status symbols in international relations. In the following section I explore the evolution and diffusion of status symbols before focusing more closely on the role of status symbols as classifying markers. In the last two sections of this chapter I investigate what makes

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for a good and enduring status symbol in international relations, starting with a broader discussion in the fourth section and focusing more closely on Goffman’s test of status mechanisms in the fifth.

The Functional Role of Status Symbols The concept of power in international relations is elusive and highly com­ plex. Because power itself is unobservable, actors have to rely on numer­ ous indexes that are considered a proxy for an actor’s power (Jervis 1989, 18).2 A country’s GDP, the life expectancy of its citizens, and the size of its tank force are examples of such indicators. Yet international relations of­ fer countless possible indexes. While more tangible than “power,” these in­ dicators do not eliminate the complexity of power estimates. We still need to be able to measure the relative weight and importance of each index and find a way to aggregate all indexes into a workable power estimate. This process is theoretically daunting— ­even more so when done collectively by a group of actors. In order to enable some level of multilateral cooperation and predict­ ability, actors need to reach some loose consensus on the relative ranking of their peers (Goffman 1951, 294). This type of mutual comparison is part of almost any human interaction, and the resulting assessment of relative rank affects deference, leadership, cooperation, and discord (Festinger 1954). Lake (2009) offers a detailed account of patterns of domination, subordination, and authority that result from the recognition of hierar­ chical structures in international relations. Similarly, Morgenthau ([1947] 1960, 80–­81) observes that the “foreign policy of a nation is always the result of an estimate of the power relations. . . . It is the primary func­ tion of the policy of prestige to influence these evaluations.” Thus, any intersubjective conceptualization of hierarchical ranking has to rely on a shared understanding of which indexes matter and how much. Hurd (2007, 54) argues that symbols should therefore be analyzed as collective goods: they are shared assets that depend on the intersubjective beliefs of com­ munity members. Thus, a painted cloth becomes a flag only if we think that a sufficient number of our peers are likely to view it as such. In this sense, like prestige, symbols are a third-­order concept—­they depend on what we think other community members think about a specific object. Over time, through repeated social interactions, actors learn to iden­ tify a core set of indexes that enables them to reach conclusions regard­

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ing the stratification of the international system more easily. This process requires at least a rudimentary level of intragroup communication and some consensus regarding values and norms. When an index is used with regularity as a means of establishing actors’ relative position in a hierarchy, it becomes a status symbol (Goffman 1951, 295; see also Dittmar 1992). Hence, a status symbol is in fact a ritualization of specific patterns of con­ sumption and behavior into institutionalized signals that assist actors in establishing effective comparison processes (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997, 67). In this way, the conceptualization of the term symbol in this chapter is largely interchangeable with signal. Status symbols, therefore, facilitate in­ tragroup communication by operating as vehicles for signaling one’s posi­ tion in a given society.

The Evolution and Diffusion of Status Symbols Status symbols are not selected randomly. Indeed, most patterns of con­ sumption cannot become recognized status symbols overnight. For a good to be chosen as a status symbol, it needs to be understood as such by both the signaler and the target or audience (O’Neill 1999, 241). A novel signal is ineffectual if it fails to establish the desired communication with the tar­ get. Therefore, the evolution of new signals, in this case the evolution of new status symbols, requires coevolution of both the signaling actor and her audience (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997, 67). Hence, when trying to estab­ lish effective communication through the use of new signals, actors usually have to rely on preexisting norms and values. By selecting signals from an established and mutually recognized menu of indicators, the signal­ ers maximize the chance that the meaning of their signal will be properly understood by the desired audience. Therefore, we can expect signals to surface at first as an extension and later as an exaggeration of preexisting patterns of consumption behavior. Navies, for example, were not originally procured as a status symbol. Countries built navies because of their primary utility as strategic tools of power projection. This initial stage occurred naturally because of the intrinsic utility of naval power. These qualities, in turn, made naval power a widely recognized index of national power. Almost all great powers had great navies, and any actor wishing to match those great powers had to ac­ quire similar naval capabilities. Because this strong correlation between great-­power status and naval capabilities was well recognized, an actor

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could be relatively confident that signals sent through the manipulation of this indicator would be accurately interpreted by the intended audience. Yet once an object is recognized as a status symbol, it starts emanating secondary utility as well. The consumption of this good can now become other regarding. Accordingly, the institutionalization of a status symbol affects the relative balance between primary and secondary utility and consequently alters the logic of its consumption. While initially actors sought to possess such objects because of their instrumental value as mate­ rial components of national power, now the same objects may be desired simply for their symbolic value. Thus, once large navies become a status symbol, actors may wish to procure a large navy in order to be perceived as a great power independent of its primary utility as an instrument of power projection. Once this pairing of signalers and audience is established, the symbol tends to evolve through repeated rounds of exaggeration and excess fol­ lowing the logic of costly signals. In many instances, as in the case of Zam Zammah, a cannon so big and heavy that it can no longer serve in battle, this spiral of excess can compromise the initial instrumental value of the object. In evolutionary terms, we can think of this process as a trade-­off between “utilitarian selection,” which seeks to maximize material instru­ mentality, and “signal selection,” which seeks to maximize the credibility of communication (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997, 67). Once we allow for sig­ nal selection, excess becomes an integral part of even the most Darwin­ ian of analyses. Within this logic of signaling, therefore, communication and other-­regarding behavior are tightly connected to the acceptance of excess and a preference for extravagance. In many ways, this process of increasing exaggeration, which distances consumption from its original utilitarian rationale, differentiates between a functionalist-­realist view of international relations and a Veblenian one. Once consumption is ritual­ ized into status symbols, which are coveted for their symbolic value rather than solely for their intrinsic value, it can no longer fit into a strictly realist world without auxiliary assumptions. Mackie (1996) argues that status symbols diffuse and evolve across three complementary dimensions. The first is a class dimension, where symbols, which first appear in the higher strata of society, begin to trickle down through emulation to the lower classes.3 The second dimension, echoing Zahavi and Zahavi’s logic of “signal selection,” is the tendency of symbols to become extreme over time. The third dimension focuses on the geographic diffusion of symbols, usually from the core to the periphery.4 Patterns of

status symbols and luxury goods

39

watchtower construction in Italy during the fourteenth and fifteenth centu­ ries can illustrate these three processes of diffusion.5 San Gimignano, a small Tuscan hill town, is famous for the imposing cluster of watchtowers that dominate its skyline. Such towers were not unique to San Gimignano. Watchtowers were a prevailing feature of Italian cities’ skylines during the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. Watchtowers were first erected by wealthy local families in order to contribute to their city’s defense. The towers had clear functional value, but they also served as conspicuous advertisement for the family’s wealth. The contributing fam­ ily demonstrated that it had enough resources to satisfy its own needs as well as to provide public goods. The practice of tower building soon led to a competition among local families that resulted in what Thomson (1993) describes as “tower mania.” By the late fourteenth century, many Italian cities looked like a forest of increasingly lofty towers. Bologna, for example, had at least 194 towers known by family name, while Florence enjoyed the defensive services of at least 400 privately owned towers, the tallest of which reached 250 feet (Thomson 1993, 175). This tower mania demonstrates both the trickle-­down aspects of sym­ bol diffusion as well as the processes of exaggeration. The symbol devel­ oped from a recognized instrumental practice connected to core values of the community, in this case maintaining the security of the inhabitants. However, once the towers were converted into status symbols, through their role as a venue for conspicuous consumption, they became coveted by more and more local families. Tower construction started as a practice of the very rich but soon spread to families farther down the social ladder, consuming increasingly significant shares of these families’ wealth. Obviously, beyond a certain point, an additional watchtower offers no strategic value and in many cases could reduce the value of nearby towers by blocking their view. In this increasingly dense and competitive forest of towers, a new tower had to be taller and more extravagant in order to stand out. Thus, reduced utility and increased extravagance contributed to a spiral of waste and excess. The tower mania became so severe that it threatened to impoverish many communities. Local authorities were forced to intervene, and the private construction of towers was banned in most Italian cities. In Florence, for example, all privately owned towers were demolished by the seventeenth century (Thomson 1993, 175). Renaissance Italy was a political and cultural center. The tower ma­ nia followed Mackie’s third process of diffusion when it spread from the core to the periphery, from Italy to the rest of Europe. This process of

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geographic diffusion took some time. Thus, the watchtower fashion ar­ rived in London and Toulouse at the time when it was already banned in Italy and was considered archaic and grotesque (Thomson 1993, 176). In this case, there seems to be a clear connection between the life cycle of the status symbol and issues of taste, fashion, and aesthetic valuation. The watchtower example highlights the connection between symbol dif­ fusion and spirals of exaggeration. In the absence of state intervention, conspicuous consumption was likely to devour an increasingly large share of local resources. The Romans recognized the risk of such trends through a normative distinction between luxus and luxuria. Whereas luxus referred to sensuality, splendor, and indulgence, luxuria referred to excess and waste and, at times, was described as a “social malaise”—­the ruinous spending of inherited assets on worthless demonstrations of wealth (Thomson 1993, 2–­3). In the tower mania case, processes of symbol diffusion certainly went beyond luxus and into the realm of luxuria. As anyone who traces the sky­ lines of Dubai, Taipei, Shanghai, or Kuala Lumpur can observe, contem­ porary tower mania is alive and well. The economic cost of contemporary tower-­mania luxuria became evident when Dubai’s construction of a mil­ lionaires’ playground in the middle of the desert, complete with the world’s tallest tower, led to a financial crash in November 2009. The Renaissance tower ban was a successful effort to curb the social cost of luxuria. Throughout history, we can find similar political attempts (with varying degrees of success) to check spiraling consumption through the introduction of sumptuary laws. In most cases, sumptuary legislation regulates consumption based on class and rank. An English 1517 law, for ex­ample, determined the number of courses to be served in banquets based on the rank of the top attendee: nine courses for a cardinal, six courses for a lord, and three for those whose annual income exceeded forty pounds (Hooper 1915, 435). Other laws regulated the color, design, and fabric of clothing (even underwear), the type and quantity of food, the size of hous­ ing, the style of furniture, the length of swords, and even the size and dress­ ing of children’s dolls (Hooper 1915; White 2014; Benhamou 1989; Shively 1964, 135). Excesses of fashion, for example, were seen as drivers of infla­ tion, trade deficits, and vice and even as strategic liabilities in war. In 1356, during the battle of Poitiers, dismounted French cavalry discovered that their fashionable long-­toed footwear, an exaggerated shoe that was popular among medieval upper classes, was not suitable for walking, let alone fight­ ing in the mud. Many had to chop parts of their shoes off in order to be able to fight. The resulting defeat was followed by sumptuary restrictions

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on ornamental clothing (Benhamou 1989, 35n17). Since out-­of-­control con­ spicuous consumption imposed such high social costs, governmental regu­ lation was seen as necessary and legitimate. Generally, there are two types of sumptuary laws: proscriptive laws (that ban the consumption of certain items) and prescriptive laws (that dictate appropriate consumption based on class or rank) (Benhamou 1989, 27). Regardless of the selected approach, most sumptuary laws proved ineffective over time because of weak enforcement and continuous social demand for conspicuous consumption. Once one avenue of consumption was blocked, consumers found new ways to establish (or cross) class dis­ tinctions. Consequently, changes in fashion tended to outpace the speed of legislation (Hooper 1915). The fact that sumptuary laws were deemed necessary already indicates social fluidity and instability. When class dis­ tinction is clear and stable, the threat of a spiral of luxuria is less acute. In a study of the timing of Roman sumptuary legislation, Dari-­Mattiacci and Plisecka (2010) develop a formal model to demonstrate that sumptuary laws were introduced when there was a mismatch between economic and political power. Legislators relied on these laws to protect their eroding influence. Similarly, Benhamou (1989, 34) finds that 70 percent of sump­ tuary legislation occurred during the Renaissance, a time of great social upheaval and fluidity. Even in its heyday, sumptuary legislation often proved an ineffective instrument of domestic governance. Yet controlling conspicuous consump­ tion internationally is even more challenging. First, international politics lack an overarching authority that could intervene to curb spirals of excess when those get out of control. Second, restricting conspicuous consump­ tion is mostly a public good and thus subject to the problem of collective action. Third, in the absence of enforcement, a collective agreement to reduce excess would require cooperation and trust. However, if spirals of excess are indeed indicative of unstable social hierarchies and status insecurity, they may occur in times in which cooperation and trust are in short supply. Nevertheless, while there are no explicit cases of interna­ tional sumptuary laws, many international regimes do include a sumptu­ ary dimension. For example, the nuclear Non-­Proliferation Treaty, which was created to prevent a spiral of procurement, famously prescribes differ­ ent patterns of consumption to different classes of states: great powers are allowed to develop and keep nuclear weapons, while lesser powers must limit their consumption to nonweaponized nuclear energy. Arms control agreements, more generally, can be seen as attempts to curb periods of

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bomb-­making mania. Similarly, international organizations such as the United Nations and the International Monetary Fund determine mem­ bers’ obligations and privileges based on wealth, size, and rank. While in­ ternational regimes are clearly different from laws that deal with the fabric and design of hosiery or ruffs, they still play an important role in securing and defining social hierarchies and class structures.

Class and Classification in International Relations The acquisition of status symbols often entails categorical significance in­ asmuch as these symbols help us to classify actors into different categories and types. Thus, Brazil can see the acquisition of an aircraft carrier as a means for reinserting the country “into the graces of the major powers,” while China can rely on its ambitious space program as a means for claim­ ing a superpower status. Before developing the relationship between status symbols and classification, it is important to discuss the meaning, origins, and implications of class in international relations. As a category of social hierarchy, class formation is tightly connected to the dynamics of prestige. Prestige space refers to the group that serves as the reference audience, the community, for a certain act and actor. In the international system, each state is usually a member of more than one prestige space. Each act may resonate differently in different circles of association and might have dif­ ferent effects (in direction as well as degree) on the actor’s prestige. For example, O’Neill (2006, 19) finds that when Canada agreed to deploy US nuclear weapons on Canadian aircraft in the 1960s, it improved its prestige among NATO members but at the same time lowered it among members of the nonaligned movement. Similarly, Saunders (2001) explores the role played by prestige considerations in nuclear proliferation. He notes that while nuclear weapons have long been considered a source of prestige, the decision not to procure nuclear weapons can also generate prestige (as in the cases of Brazil, Japan, Argentina, and South Africa). Saunders con­ cludes that prestige considerations rest on societal norms and are therefore not deterministic but rather depend on the values of the relevant prestige space (Saunders 2001, 7). Hence, when claims are made regarding the ef­ fects of a certain act on an actor’s prestige, it is always important to specify the prestige space (McGinn 1972, 109). The German and Italian obsession with colonial expansion in the lat­ ter decades of the nineteenth century was to a large extent a result of the

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constant inferiority these two powers experienced when comparing them­ selves to other leading powers in their most immediate prestige space. Similarly, the BRIC countries (Brazil, Russia, India, and China), who fill an equivalent position in the contemporary international social hierarchy, reappear habitually in current discussions of prestige-­driven policies and thus play an important role in some of the empirical analysis presented later in this volume. Actors are uncomfortable with a position of constant inferiority: “So long as the comparison is distinctively unfavorable to him­ self, the normal, average individual will live in chronic dissatisfaction with his present lot” (Veblen [1899] 1979, 31). Janos (2000) claims that the need to block and ameliorate such “chronic dissatisfaction,” stemming from insistent unfavorable comparison vis-­à-­vis the West, was a major motiva­ tion behind many of the restrictive domestic and international policies of the Soviet Union.6 These types of unfavorable comparisons are even more bothersome when the superior actor is close and visible. Actors tend to be more sensitive to local rather than global comparisons (Frank 1985a, 8–­9).7 We do not care much about an additional billion earned by Warren Buf­ fett, but we can obsess over a raise of $50 received by one of our colleagues. Similarly, research suggests that incidents of air rage were more frequent on flights that included a first-­class cabin and even more so when passen­ gers had to walk past first class in order to get to their crowded economy seats (DeCelles and Norton 2016). In this example, a direct exposure to local inequality in a contained space seems to trigger higher levels of vio­ lence. Passengers on flights with no first-­class cabin are aware that such su­ perior seats are available elsewhere. However, since the experience of this unfavorable comparison is more remote and less visceral, it fails to prompt high levels of status anxiety. In the context of international relations, lo­ cal sensitivity is not limited to geographic proximity but extends as well to neighboring positions in the international hierarchy. Hence, India is likely to be very sensitive to Pakistani consumption but also to the consumption patterns of other aspiring powers such as the geographically distant Brazil. Individuals can alleviate this type of chronic dissatisfaction by opting to associate with a prestige space that compares more favorably with their capabilities (Frank 1985a, 34). Unlike individuals, international actors are unable to relocate, meet new friends, or move to another profession. Ko­ rea’s history is defined by being stuck between three great powers, and it would be hard for any Korean leader to ignore these powers as a point of comparison. International actors still have some limited flexibility in the framing of their identity and reference points: they can choose a regional

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rather than global comparison, construct alternative hierarchies based on specific capabilities, or, as in the case of the Soviet bloc, seek to block or manipulate information regarding unfavorable comparisons. Thus, while actors cannot generally choose their strengths or weaknesses, they can, to an extent, choose a more flattering comparison group, a league in which they are best suited to compete. Therefore, when possible, actors will prefer not to stay in groups in which they are low-­ranking members.8 This process leads to the formation of relatively uniform groupings. Frank refers to these voluntary groupings as leagues, Festinger calls them comparison groups, and for the purpose of this study, I will follow Goff­ man and refer to them as classes (Frank 1985a; Festinger 1954; Goffman 1951, 296). Goffman defines classes as clusters of actors that share simi­ lar prestige levels. These clusters create distinct strata, each defined by a complex set of qualifications. Discrete and well-­guarded classes operate like a club, restricting access to club membership as a form of invidious comparison. The process of class formation is important for and inher­ ent to the creation of social stratification. Goffman’s definition of class focuses on an observable set of entry qualifications, mostly in the form of status symbols, which identify each class. In this sense, Goffman follows the Weberian view, which defines class in terms of consumption rather than the more familiar Marxist definition, which focuses on processes of pro­ duction (Burke 2005, 62).9 The process of class formation is not unproblematic. Class distinction—­a discrete discontinuity in prestige structures—­while inevitable, brings with it potential tension: “The cessation of comparison with others is accom­ panied by hostility or derogation to the extent that continued comparison with those persons implies unpleasant consequences. The process of mak­ ing others incomparable [through the creation of discrete classes] results in status stratification” (Festinger 1954, 131). Hence, the process of hierarchy formation is often accompanied by competition, tension, and conflict. For Veblen, this interclass tension plays an important role in the interplay be­ tween pecuniary emulation and invidious comparison. Here again, the no­ tion of interclass competition should not be equated with Marxist variants of class warfare (Diggins 1999). A consumption-­based understanding of class emphasizes the role of taste and acquisition decisions as class markers.10 Such class markers, or status symbols, vary vertically along social hierarchies and temporally or spatially across prestige spaces. Indeed, status symbols are where this ab­ stract discussion of prestige, hierarchy, and class translates into observ­ able political decisions.

status symbols and luxury goods

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Symbols of class membership usually do not refer to one source of sta­ tus but to a configuration of sources. It is usually not enough for a country to show superiority on one index of power alone in order to gain legitimate claim to a great-­power status. Hence, actors will seek to acquire at least some of the constellation of status symbols that could signal membership in a certain class. Therefore, it is not surprising to find the same actors ex­ hibiting patterns of conspicuous consumption across different indexes of power. Thus, for example, we can find Brazil acquiring a carrier, investing in an ambitious space program, and striving to achieve an enhanced role in international prosocial endeavors. This complexity of class distinction makes it more difficult for observers to identify fraud. An actor may have some of the requirements for membership but fall short on others. There­ fore, as long as the pretender is within the margin of doubt we will find it hard to reject the legitimacy of her claims for membership in a desired class (Goffman 1951, 297). Status symbols are not a function of cost alone. Classification depends not only on the magnitude of actors’ consumption but also on the type of goods that they choose to consume. For Bourdieu (1984), taste has a clas­ sifying significance that is central to the process of class distinction. Taste directs members of a certain social stratum to choose one bundle of com­ modities over another. For example, observers note that emerging powers tend to show a “widespread propensity to procure highly sophisticated, ex­ pensive weapons systems and technologies, despite well-­known absorption handicaps, and to reject equally serviceable, but cheaper, and perhaps less expensive options that are readily available” (Jones and Hildreth 1984, 65). Many of these weapons systems are so poorly maintained and operated that they often actively reduce the military capabilities of these emerging powers. Interestingly, according to C. Wright Mills, patterns of conspicuous consumption are most prevalent among the nouveaux riches, as aspiring newcomers try to ensure their position by translating money into status symbols (Mills 1959, 58). In many ways emerging powers are the nouveaux riches of the international system, and they seem to behave accordingly. We can assume that both the nouveaux riches and the nouveaux poor would have greater incentives to invest in the acquisition of status symbols: the first to announce their arrival, the latter to delay and conceal their decline. Being labeled a member of a certain class often entails categorical sig­ nificance that cannot be subordinated to questions of balance of power. The label “major power” brings with it certain privileges and responsi­ bilities. However, not all international relations scholars accept this no­ tion of classification. Waltz’s view of international relations, for example,

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does not allow for any categorical significance that goes beyond the direct implications of the distribution of power. Alternatively, Eyre and Such­ man (1996, 98) suggest that actors try to carve out separate status for them­selves by acquiring distinctive roles: regional power, superpower, mediator, balancer. Through their investment in conspicuous consump­ tion, actors are in essence purchasing and expressing both individual as well as class identity (Burke 2005, 68). This suggestion that actors gain certain rights, benefits, and responsibilities based on membership in a certain class violates Waltz’s assertion that actors are not functionally dif­ ferentiated within the international system (Waltz 1979, 97–­99).11 Once we claim that roles, tastes, consumption patterns, and preferences are affected by class membership, we start allowing for some functional dif­ ferentiation in the system, thus moving away from the Waltzian model of international relations.

What Makes an Effective Status Symbol? What makes certain status symbols more attractive and enduring than oth­ ers? We have already established that status symbols are usually picked from a recognized menu of power indexes. However, not all indexes evolve into status symbols. The process through which an indicator is selected and then translated into a specific act of consumption that can serve as a status symbol requires further theorizing and elaboration. Eyre and Suchman (1996, 96) argue that distinctive and technologically sophisticated weap­ ons systems hold greater symbolic value than widespread and mundane ones. Taken more generally, their argument suggests that status symbols need to have high “broadcast efficiency” in order to be effective (Gintis, Smith, and Bowles 2001, 113).12 Most enduring status symbols in interna­ tional relations, therefore, tend to be conspicuous and distinct; they are easily observable and leave little room for interpretation. O’Neill makes a similar point when he analyzes the prestige implications of India’s 1998 nuclear test. Responding to dovish Indians’ calls for focusing on economic development as an alternative vehicle for Indian prestige, O’Neill notes, “events of social development do not usually explode; they are generally gradual. A decrease in infant mortality of 1 percent does not make head­ lines to ensure that everyone knows that everyone else knows it” (O’Neill 2006, 19). In this sense, for example, an aircraft carrier is a much more effective status symbol than an expensive and highly sophisticated ballistic

status symbols and luxury goods

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defense system such as the Aegis, even though the latter is more exclusive and to a large extent more technologically sophisticated. Similarly, a Mars space mission is more attractive than the routine maintenance of a space telescope. Emulation is another mechanism that attracts actors to specific pat­ terns of consumption. Indexes that are characteristically correlated with success and with membership in the higher strata of the international hi­ erarchy often become obvious focal points for the institutionalization of status symbols. In the military sphere, for example, this process leads to a preference for symbols that emphasize technology and capital over man­ power even in the face of mounting evidence that militaries that are built around such symbols may not always enjoy strategic advantage (Barnett and Wendt 1992; Lyall and Wilson 2009). Fordham and Asal (2007) ex­ amine the connection between prestige and emulation patterns. They find support for a “trickle-­down” pattern of emulation in the spread of democ­ racy, women’s rights, and restrictions on political persecution. Finally, Eyre and Suchman argue that actors find more symbolism in indexes that are closely connected with qualities that are socially accepted as the mainstays of the modern nation-­state. Therefore, indexes related to a country’s technological achievements and military or economic power are more attractive than those related to food production, merchant ma­ rine, or religious piousness. This argument echoes the work of the Stan­ ford School of sociological institutionalism. The Stanford School suggests that both national and international structures are affected by a global cul­ ture that tends to favor modernity, rationalism, and progress. The choice of symbols reflects and reinforces the prevailing culture (Finnemore 1996; Meyer 1997; Boli and Thomas 1997). Interestingly, in a study of market­ ing, Vigneron and Johnson (1999) find that a perception of technological superiority and extreme care in manufacturing is crucial for the creation and maintenance of luxury brands. As the Stanford School predicts, these aspects of modernity play an important role in determining luxury both domestically and internationally. Hence, the choice of status symbols is closely related to the set of  values and norms held by a community. While the struggle to attain prestige and recognition is intrinsic to social interaction, the way in which this struggle manifests itself, and the status symbols it produces, varies over time and space (Langman 1998, 199–­200). This connection between a communi­ ty’s value system, the social hierarchy that this value system reflects, and the corresponding status symbols that help regulate this hierarchy both

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reflect and enable these changes. Thus, the great European powers could find themselves fighting over the acquisition of new colonies as the most coveted status symbol at one point in time and over who provides more foreign aid to these former colonies in another (Jackson 1993). Similarly, watchtowers could be coveted sources of prestige and aesthetic satisfac­ tion yet turn into grotesque demonstrations of bad taste a few decades later. As values change, status symbols can decline in importance and even become a drain on an actor’s prestige. The dynamic nature of status sym­ bols, again, highlights the social aspect of prestige politics. Because we face several alternative indexes that measure different as­ pects of power at any given time, the ability to influence the choice of one indicator over another becomes an important yet often neglected aspect of power in international relations (Hurd 2007, 57). Each index can gen­ erate different status symbols. Actors will naturally try to promote those indexes in which they enjoy a relative advantage. While a great power may focus on status symbols that reflect its military might, a weaker middle power may choose to promote prosocial behavior as an alternative index.13 The choice of one index over another also implies a judgment regarding the values that each index represents. Being able to affect the legitimacy and relative importance of competing indexes and status symbols is thus an important source of power that cannot be detached from questions of interest (Bourdieu 1984, 85–­96). In a study of international stratification in Latin America, for example, Schwartzman and Mora Y Araujo (1966) asked groups of students to rank the region’s countries, divide them into classes, and single out the indexes that matter most for assessing a country’s prestige. The study shows high correlation in rankings as well as a regional consensus that industrializa­ tion and development are the main sources of regional prestige.14 Interest­ ingly, the only ones to suggest an alternative index were Chilean students. According to Schwartzman and Mora Y Araujo, Chileans saw themselves as legitimate members of the Latin American “upper class,” together with Brazil, Argentina, and Mexico. However, based on industrialization and development indexes at the time of the study, Chile did not make the cut. Hence, Chilean students ardently rejected indexes such as territory and population, which disadvantaged Chile and underplayed the importance of industrialization. Instead, Chilean participants promoted education as the most important index for establishing regional stratification because this was an index in which Chile enjoyed a relative advantage. Similarly, Feinsilver (1989) argues that Cuba tried to gain prestige through the pro­ motion of the quality of health services as an important international

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indicator. The Cuban regime invested a lot of effort and resources in pre­ senting Cuba as a “world medical power.” In order to promote this image, Cuba exported health personnel to developing countries in Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Finally, domestic processes of classification through invidious compari­ son can affect the choice of international status symbols and vice versa. Weinberg (2003), for example, examines the reasons behind the adoption of the cavalry as a weapon of choice during the medieval period. He claims that while initially successful, over time the use of a lance became waste­ ful and proved ineffective when facing infantry. It is therefore difficult to explain the popularity of the cavalry in feudal Europe based solely on the primary utility of the lance. Instead, he suggests an explanation that em­ phasizes the role of the horse as a conspicuously costly status symbol: “The great expense of this tactic was an advantage, not a drawback, because peasants could not afford a destrier and armor. The reason that foot sol­ diers were not used in battle is not that they have been ineffective, but that they were common” (Weinberg 2003, 58; see also Tucker 2001; Howard 2001). In fact, war fighting itself was a status symbol. Commoners were not supposed to fight and were not protected by the laws of war (Keen 1965, 19). Subsequently, medieval European armies tended to replicate feudal hierarchy on the battlefield: a knight “firmly believed that, since he was infinitely superior to any peasant in the social scale, he must consequently excel him to the same extent in military value. He was, therefore, prone not only to despise all descriptions of infantry, but to regard their appear­ ance on the field against him as a species of insult to his class pride” (Oman 1885, 102). As a consequence, for example, the French army resisted giving archers a greater role in their battle plans and continued to rely on cav­ alry despite repeated calamitous defeats in Crécy (1346), Poitiers (1356), and Agincourt (1415) (Tuchman 1978; George 1895, 736). In the case of the French army, domestic class structures resulted in significant military defeats, culminating in the capture and imprisonment of the French king. The feudal upper classes preferred an inferior tactic internationally be­ cause its cost offered a convenient venue for invidious comparison domes­ tically. In this example, domestic processes of classification defined the types of weaponry that became prestigious internationally. Actors who used cavalry were seen as more “civilized” than those who relied on infan­ try or archery.15 Medieval cavalry offers a second-­ image model of prestige policies. However, the interaction between the domestic and the international can flow in the other direction as well. The Italian tower mania is an example

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of such “second image reversed.” A symbol that was aimed at repelling ex­ ternal threats was adopted as a way of outspending domestic competitors. Another example is provided by Krostenko’s (2001) study of status per­ formance in ancient Rome. Krostenko finds that Roman elites tended to imitate the international consumption patterns of the Roman state. Thus, the elites, for example, “adopted versions of the aestheticism practiced by the state to define their own status” (27). If Rome was superior to all other nations, a Roman citizen could imitate Rome’s behavior when facing its hapless international competitors in order to demonstrate his own superi­ ority when facing domestic competition. Contemporary critics of extrava­ gance and waste, like Cicero, tended to direct their critique at excess in the private realm, res privita, but to ignore similar wasteful trends at the national level, res publica (Thomson 1993, 3–­4). This normative stance seems to tolerate, and to an extent even advocate, conspicuous consump­ tion in the international and national arenas. It stands in sharp contrast with the more contemporary discourse that tends to tolerate private acts of excess and to denounce extravagance and waste in the public sphere.

Status Symbols and Tests of Status Once an index is established as a status symbol, actors may wish to im­ prove their standing by manipulating that index even if they do not possess the quality it had originally sought to reflect.16 Hence, for example, actors can try to construct “cardboard navies” in the hope of being perceived as a great power even when they do not possess the resources and skills required for the procurement of an effective naval force (Luttwak 1974, 40). Veblen captures the vulnerability of status symbols to manipulation and misrepresentation through his focus on the simultaneous processes of emulation and differentiation. While the lower classes try to improve their position in the hierarchy by obtaining the markers of the upper classes, the upper classes try to maintain their superiority by upping the ante and acquiring more expensive and exclusive symbols (Bagwell and Bernheim 1996). For Bourdieu, similarly, “pretentious challengers” who adopt sym­ bols in an attempt to emulate the upper classes vulgarize those symbols and force the upper classes to pick new ones. This desire for distinction leads to a spiral of inexhaustible demand.17 For both Bourdieu and Veb­ len, therefore, a successful policy of differentiation requires a good dosage of snobbery and excess.

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These constant processes of emulation and differentiation stand at the heart of the “trickle-­down” model of symbol diffusion and lead to an inher­ ent fluidity in the structure of status symbols. Social mobility, technological changes, and symbol diffusion ensure that no symbol survives forever. Once too many “imposters” gain access to a certain status symbol, an observer can no longer differentiate between legitimate members of that social class and those who carry “fake ID cards.” Hence, those who wish to separate themselves from pretentious “illegitimate” newcomers are forced to rein­ vent new status symbols in the hope of creating more effective restrictions on new admissions to their exclusive club.18 In order to protect their advantageous position, the upper classes depend on credible status symbols. Such symbols must include restrictive mecha­ nisms that reduce the possibility of fraud and thus limit social mobility and curb wasteful consumption cycles. Increasing the probability of fraud detection can generate deterrence, because being exposed as an imposter inflicts “immediate humiliation and sometimes permanent loss of reputa­ tion” (Goffman 1959, 50). In other words, credible status symbols require an effective test of status (Goffman 1951, 296).19 Goffman suggests several structures of restrictions that can serve as effective tests of status. Among those that are relevant to international relations are intrinsic restrictions (mainly through cost and access to technology), natural restrictions, and cultivation restrictions. Symbols that contain intrinsic restrictions are directly connected to the property they represent (Goffman 1951, 298). Only a wealthy actor can purchase an extortionately expensive luxury; only a nation with advanced technological capabilities is able to develop a space program. For Veblen, cost is the most effective mechanism of intrinsic restriction, and thus the consumption of luxuries offers an effective test of status for economic ca­ pabilities. Intrinsic restrictions, by definition, are relatively immune to at­ tempts at misrepresentation. They create very high costs for any imposters. However, in a competitive environment an actor may decide to redistrib­ ute her assets in a way that would clear enough resources for the procure­ ment of the desired status symbol even if this risks the ruinous trajectory of a “Gatsby effect.” A country can decide to invest in a large, impressive car­ rier while forgoing maintenance, training, command-and-control systems, or even basic defenses that could be crucial for the survivability of the vessel in a case of actual conflict. The Thai aircraft carrier, as described in chap­ ter 3, provides an illustrative example of the Gatsby effect in international relations. This type of misrepresentation can work in the short term, but

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as in Gatsby’s example, because of intrinsic restrictions, the trade-­offs im­ posed by such patterns of consumption are not viable over time. Natural restrictions rely on scarcity to ensure that only a handful of actors would be able to obtain those symbols: “Luxury goods, desired for prestige value, are scarce by definition; if they were not, they would not serve a prestige function” (Xenos 1987, 232). Scarcity, therefore, guaran­ tees the exclusivity and distinctiveness of those status symbols.20 The role of the legendary white elephant in Southeast Asian politics offers a use­ ful example. White elephants result from an uncommon genetic mutation, and their symbolic importance is directly related to their rarity. In Burma and Siam, all white elephants belonged to the king, who was often referred to as the “Master of Many White Elephants” (Vincent 1882, 164). Acquir­ ing a white elephant was considered a divine sign of political legitimacy to be followed by peace and prosperity. Accordingly, regional hierarchy was set by the number of white elephants each court possessed. The impor­ tance of the “balance of elephants” was such that in 1838 a British envoy, hoping to instigate conflict with Burma, gave a white elephant as a present to Siam (Pollak 1978). Indeed, conflict over the rightful possession of white elephants was considered a legitimate casus belli. The white elephant was in no way superior to normally colored elephants: it was not stronger, faster, healthier, or smarter. It was simply rarer. Thus, its symbolic value was tightly connected to natural restrictions.21 Similarly, in the burgeoning prestige market of art patronage in Renaissance Italy, patrons competed over a limited number of public spaces in which their commissioned art could be flaunted. A chapel can only display one altarpiece that can ad­ vertise a patron’s wealth, superior lineage, and fine artistic taste. Locations with greater broadcast effectiveness were deemed more prestigious and accordingly were more expensive (Nelson and Zeckhauser 2008, 60). Thus, for commissioned art, natural restrictions and intrinsic restrictions became closely intertwined. This is also the case in international relations. Because resources are limited and finite, there is a natural restriction on the number of vessels a navy can maintain or the number of simultaneous military interventions an army can carry out. In this sense, natural restrictions closely resemble intrinsic restrictions and are mainly a derivative of cost. Other natural re­ strictions can be generated by scarce nonrenewable resources such as oil or uranium. The second type of scarcity that is relevant to international relations stems from what Schweller (1999) defines as positional conflict (see also Frank 1985b, 108; Frank 1985a). As Schweller notes, positions are indi­

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visible. Only one country can own the largest navy in the world; only one country can be the first to put a man on Mars. Other positional scarcities can be created by institutions and organizations: the Security Council has a finite number of permanent members; only one country can chair an or­ ganization at any given time. Actors can try to reduce this scarcity by di­ viding the system into subgroupings or by creating new organizations and new roles in which they can obtain better positions. In this manner, Bra­zil can claim the largest navy in Latin America, while China can be the first Asian power to send a man into space. Finally, symbols that require the cultivation of expertise impose higher costs, or “cultivation restrictions,” on newcomers, and hence they can cre­ ate an effective test of status. Cultivation requires large investment over time, extensive concentrated effort, discipline, and perseverance. Naval procurement, for example, is an expensive and lengthy process. Most na­ val programs take fifteen to twenty years before they can have any sig­ nificant effect on the relative standing of world navies (Anthony 1990, 9). Similarly, the acquisition of submarines requires the construction of spe­ cial shore installations, effective communication systems, and specialized training for submarine crews. In fact, the costs of cultivation are often con­ sidered to be a larger obstacle for countries who wish to gain submarine forces than the procurement cost of the submarine itself (Anthony 1990, 51). Cultivation restrictions focus on the dimension of time as well as cost and hence tend to support durable symbols that can withstand periods of rapid technological advance and/or enhanced social mobility (Goffman 1951, 303). The cultivation test, therefore, tends to favor “old money” and to penalize the consumption patterns of the nouveaux riches. The combination of all three categories of test of status restrictions can help us in analyzing the effectiveness of international status symbols. Thus, for example, we can explain the durability of the warship as a prominent international prestige symbol by examining the specific qualities of large naval vessels: warships are conspicuous and distinct; they were the main instruments of power projection of the leading world powers for the last few centuries; they are still symbols of modernity and industrial capabili­ ties; very few countries in the world at almost any given time have pos­ sessed a significant number of top-­of-­the-­line ships (Modelski and Thomp­ son 1988); navies require a very high level of cultivation, maybe more so than any other military service; and most importantly, navies have been, and still are, extortionately expensive. The aircraft carrier, even more than other contemporary warships, represents an almost archetypal example for a potentially effective test of status.

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In contrast, peacekeeping forces have proven to be a poor test of sta­ tus because they do not impose significant intrinsic and cultivation restric­ tions. Participating in peacekeeping forces is relatively cheap and can of­ ten even be profitable. The profusion of international crises ensures that there is constant demand for more peacekeepers, thus removing natural restrictions on entry. Hence, participating in peacekeeping forces, as ar­ gued in chapter 4, failed to serve as an effective status symbol. Poor tests of status can lead to flattened hierarchies and increased mobility. Conse­ quently, there has been a sharp decline in middle-­power participation in peacekeeping operations—­as a poor status symbol it is not an attractive venue for conspicuous consumption. Finally, Big Science is an especially appealing luxury good: it is distinct, expensive, and is the quintessential symbol of modernity. Many Big Science projects are susceptible to natural restrictions, mainly as a result of scarcity of resources, expertise, and human capital. Moreover, Big Science requires an infrastructure, scientific and industrial, that takes decades to cultivate. No one can develop Big Science overnight. Indeed, as chapter 5 demon­ strates, Big Science is a very stable status symbol. It maintains its allure even in the face of significant geostrategic and/or technological changes.

chapter three

The Aircraft Carrier Club A German fleet is a luxury not a national necessity. —­Winston Churchill1 It is well known that there are societies in which prestige is gained by the acquisition of some sort of good that is completely useless in fulfilling any need whatsoever. In spite of the complete uselessness of things in general, their acquisition may be vital to the acquisition of prestige or maintenance of self-­esteem. A great deal of effort may be expended in acquiring these useless items. (Duesenberry 1949, 29)

O

n the lightly windy afternoon of August 10, 1628, the Swedish flagship Vasa prepared to embark on its maiden voyage. The newly constructed Vasa was a sight to behold. With two decks and sixty-­four guns, it was one of the largest and most expensive warships ever built. It was covered with colorful carvings depicting the sovereign, the young king Gustavus II Adolphus, the “Lion of the North,” and his regalia. The king, deeply embroiled in seventeenth-­century European power struggles, was eager to acquire this new ship. Sweden suffered several naval setbacks, and he was determined to reestablish Swedish maritime power. For three years he put pressure on his shipbuilding team to construct a bigger, greater ship, one so superior to other vessels that it would single-­handedly establish Swedish dominance over the Baltic Sea. The Vasa was the Swedish key to regional hegemony. The builders complied. Under severe time pressures, they exaggerated existing models and constructed a ship out of proportion with anything they had assembled before. On the day of its maiden voyage, an excited crowd gathered to watch the Vasa make sail, and family members joined the jubilant crew on deck for the short trip. Yet the voyage was shorter than planned. The Vasa—­unstable, unruly, and poorly designed—­sank less than a kilometer from the Stockholm shipyards, taking more than thirty people with it (Arrison 1994; Konstam 2008, 247–­62).

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Like Zam Zammah, a cannon too large for actual war, or the Ratte, a tank too heavy for any terrain, the Vasa offers a cautionary tale highlighting the potential tension between size, conspicuousness, extravagance, and the strategic utility of weaponry. The quest for more decks and more guns overshadowed basic issues such as proportion and stability. More time was spent on decorating the ship with royal figurines and symbols of grandeur than on testing the safety and viability of the ship’s design. The priorities seemed clear: bigger and more extravagant was by definition better. All else was deemed of secondary importance. The outcome was catastrophic and, in true Gatsby fashion, shattered Swedish maritime aspirations irreversibly. The sinking of the Vasa is an extreme example. Yet the tensions that it highlights are still relevant. While today’s flagships are not decorated with the actual likeness of the sovereign, they are still a symbol of sovereignty and national pride. The contemporary equivalent of the Vasa is the aircraft carrier—­the biggest and grandest of vessels. Carriers are the flagships of their respective navies; they usually bear the names of symbolic places, events, and national heroes, and for the most part, their main role is ceremonial. Carriers serve as instruments for showing the flag, as an impressive setting for national celebrations, and in some cases even as popular tourist attractions. When George W. Bush searched for a backdrop for a speech announcing the end of major operations in Iraq in May 2003, he opted for an aircraft carrier, the sine qua non symbol of American power. Yet like the Vasa, the aircraft carrier is an extremely expensive symbol. Procuring and maintaining an aircraft carrier is beyond the reach of most countries and is a considerable drain on the budgets of those who nevertheless decide they can afford one. Owning a carrier imposes great budgetary constraints that often require the cancelation of other procurement programs and/or the decommissioning of existing vessels, as well as compromises on the standards of maintenance and training. Other trade-­offs often involve reducing the number and quality of vessels in the carrier group, cutting the quality and number of aircraft, and reducing the sophistication of the carrier’s defensive systems, thus compromising the survivability of the carrier if it ever faces real threat. It is therefore not surprising that only ten countries currently own aircraft carriers. Three of the carrier club members, Britain, India and China, are in the midst of an ambitious carrier construction effort. Not unlike Gustavus II Adolphus, they are facing a dilemma: what kind of vessel to build? Should they opt for the biggest possible carrier regardless of cost or should they build a smaller carrier and compromise on conspicuous consumption?

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In order to analyze this dilemma, we must first understand the qualities that make the aircraft carrier, or the great gunship in the Vasa’s time, such a prominent and effective status symbol. Analytically, there are two types of answers to this question: those that rely on primary-­utility qualities and those that focus on secondary utility. Primary utility–based explanations focus on the inherent strategic value of aircraft carriers, especially as tools for power projection. According to this interpretation, the carrier is an effective instrument of power and therefore a credible prestige symbol—­ there is truth in advertisement. Deterrence models would mostly focus on this type of primary-­utility interpretation. Conversely, secondary utility– based explanations focus on the high cost, exclusivity, and conspicuousness of aircraft carriers. According to this approach, the allure of the carrier stems not from its usefulness in battle but rather from its ability to serve as an effective instrument of invidious comparison. Technological innovations affect the type of warship that is considered the main carrier of prestige. A hierarchy of naval strength was thought to be easily inferable from the number of “vessels of prestige,” or ships of the line, employed by each navy. Modelski and Thompson (1988) argue that currently the aircraft carrier and the submarine constitute the top ech­ elon of the world naval hierarchy. The carrier is therefore an expensive and conspicuous symbol of a most expensive and most conspicuous armed service. Yet even a cursory glance at the state of the world’s aircraft carriers raises serious questions regarding their strategic value. Currently, most of these grand ships are outdated and inadequately equipped. Even at full capacity, most carriers are incapable of projecting decisive power that could justify their cost.2 Nearly all non-­American carriers employ small numbers of aging planes. Even the advanced jets that are used on American carriers are less effective than their ground-­based, Air Force– ­operated counterparts. Carrier deployment requires lighter jets, which tend to be slower, carry a lighter payload, and have a shorter range. Even when discounting the cost of the carrier and its escorts, naval aviation is more expensive than ground-­based aviation. The cost of one Super Hornet F-­18, one of the mainstays of the American carriers’ air wing, can finance the purchase of two F-­15s or three to four F-­16s, both of which are faster and can carry heavier payloads and have a longer range.3 The cost of the 35-­year life cycle of a carrier including its air wing is $65 billion (in 1995 dollars). The cost of the 35-­year life cycle of a wing of B2 bombers is just under $26 billion (Wages 1995). The cost of four thousand cruise missiles is estimated at around $14 billion dollars (Myers 1991). Zhang Zhaozhong of the Chinese

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University of National Defense has estimated that the cost of the life cycle of one Nimitz-­class carrier “is equivalent to the total military spending of the Chinese People’s Liberation Army for six to seven years. This means that if our entire armed forces do not eat, wear clothes, or buy any equipment for six to seven years, the money thus saved will not be enough to maintain the Nimitz” (Zhang 1999). The prohibitive cost of the American carrier fleet is an almost fail-­safe guarantee that it remains “second to none,” at least in the foreseeable future. However, since the United States has no naval competitors, the need to maintain this degree of superiority is questionable. When it comes to most littoral operations, the carriers are an extravagant overkill; in case of a showdown with another major power, the carriers are likely to be vulnerable and inadequate. The carrier may be useful in dealing with a country lacking all air defenses, such as Afghanistan, but it would be forced to stay away from shore in any future conflict with China. Observing the record of the American carrier fleet, Chinese analyst Zhang Jian (Zhang 1999) summarized this paradox colorfully: “Why use an ox-­cleaver to kill a chicken?” In order to better understand the symbolic value of naval vessels and more particularly of aircraft carriers, in this chapter I open with a review of the deep-­rooted connection between conspicuousness and naval power. I continue with a discussion of deterrence and conspicuous consumption that seeks to disentangle the intrinsic strategic value of a vessel from its symbolic value as a venue for conspicuous consumption. This analysis identifies methods for differentiating between primary-­utility explanations of procurement and those based on conspicuous consumption. In the last part of this chapter I offer an overview of the state of the world’s carrier fleet, highlighting the tension between carriers’ questionable strategic utility and their well-­established role as a vessels of prestige.

Naval Power and the Preference for Conspicuousness The tension between the symbolic and the strategic value of naval vessels is not a modern phenomenon unique to the aircraft carrier. As the Vasa demonstrates, in extreme cases this tension can lead to catastrophic results. Indeed, naval history is replete with examples in which the logic of conspicuousness seems to overshadow strategic concerns, with varying degrees of deleterious effects. The famous naval arms race between

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Britain and Germany in the years leading up to World War I offers another striking example that can serve as a useful starting point for an exploration of this tension. The first decades of the twentieth century were the high point of the “battleship era.” With the introduction of bigger and more impressive ships, navies were generally ranked according to the number of battleships they possessed. The great battleship became an obsession of naval planners, often at the expense of smaller vessels (Kennedy 1989, 163). In a study of Wilhelmine Germany’s naval buildup, Robert Art (1973) finds that because battleships were considered the most appropriate vessel for a great power, the Germans neglected an advantage they had in submarine technology. They allocated more resources to battleship procurement not because it made strategic sense but because it conformed with the norm. A navy could not gain respect if it did not have the right type of vessels. The battleship was regarded as an “essential instrument of a great power wishing to represent and enforce world-­wide interests” (Rahn 1991, 81).4 By 1905 the British government was spending more money on the navy alone ($36.8 million) than on all other civilian services combined ($28 million) (Kennedy 1983a, 340). In the winter of 1913–­14, Churchill, as the First Lord of the Admiralty, requested an additional investment of £5 million in naval procurement, stirring up significant political opposition and growing fears that the British economy “would not stand the strain of ‘wasteful’ naval expenditure” (Weinroth 1971, 94). Yet this prewar obsession with battleship procurement proved to have limited operational value during the war. The role played by the great British and German battle fleets in World War I was anticlimactic considering the amount of resources, attention, and political capital that was invested in naval competition before the war.5 The great battleships proved too valuable and too vulnerable and were mostly kept out of harm’s way, justifying Churchill’s depiction of the German navy as a “luxury fleet” (Herwig 1980).6 The Dreadnought, the ultimate battleship of its era, sank only one vessel during the Great War, and even this was accomplished by ramming the enemy ship rather than using gunfire (Herman 2005, 343). Instead, smaller vessels and submarines, which were mostly discounted before the war, proved to be of greater value: “one is struck by the importance and ubiquity of small ships, the sheer variety of tasks they were required to carry out in the ‘Great War at Sea,’ and the absence of any reference to them in the maritime strategy of both the British and American navies” (Kennedy 1989, 179).

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Despite the proven wartime effectiveness of small ships, by the end of the war we do not find a “different definition of naval power— ­one based on these light craft,” but rather a reaffirmation of the role of big ships as the sole bearers of naval prestige (Halpern 1987, 10). Large ships were again the focus for great-­power competition, culminating in the Washington Conference on the Limitation of Armament (1921–­22), which institutionalized the symbolic role of the battleship as a status test by officially defining naval hierarchy in terms of the relative number of battleships that each navy was allowed to procure. Thus, despite their demonstrated uselessness in the First World War, large naval vessels retained their role as symbols of power and carriers of prestige. While it is often said that generals prepare to fight the last war, in the years leading to the Second World War the admirals were taking their lessons from a war that never took place—­a war of glorious naval battles in which the battleship plays a decisive role. The lessons of the naval record of World War I were largely ignored. Instead, faced with a rapid reconstruction of German military force in the midthirties, Britain signed an Anglo-­German naval agreement (1935) that again solely focused on the relative balance of large surface ships. This unpopular and diplomatically costly agreement, which set the balance of battleships between the two countries at a ratio of 100 British to 35 German, allowed Germany to reach parity in the number of submarines (Watt 1956). Thus, even after the pivotal role played by submarines during World War I, Britain was still primarily obsessed with maintaining its relative supremacy in battleship procurement and was willing to sacrifice less conspicuous, though potentially more effective, aspects of naval power in order to protect it. Interestingly, many professional officers within the British and German navies understood the limitations of the big battleship. Watt (1956) argues that during the Anglo-­German naval negotiations of 1935, British officers pressed the government to opt for an agreement that limited vessel size rather than focus on limitations on the number of vessels. The admiralty feared that in the absence of such an agreement, the dynamics of an arms race would again dictate an increase in the size of units as well as in their numbers regardless of professional assessments of operational effectiveness. They understood that such large and expensive ships would be practically useless in the face of an air attack (Watt 1956, 171). Thus, even when professional officers were explicitly aware of the strategic limitations imposed by conspicuously large naval vessels, they recognized that they could not escape the political pressure to acquire them and to participate in a race of increasing size and reduced utility.

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When the inevitable naval arms race between Britain and Germany accelerated, the Germans indeed followed the British prediction by constructing the infamously colossal Bismarck and Tirpitz. Erich Raeder, Hitler’s naval commander, saw the main utility of the Bismarck as political rather than strategic: it represented a challenge to the Versailles treaty. German planners were well aware of the great ships’ limitations and vulnerabilities, and their prewar studies clearly foretell the vessels’ ill-­fated demise. The chief of fleet operations, Staff Captain Herman Boehm, stated these objections forcefully: “From a purely military standpoint, the building of 10,000-­ton armored ships is quite unwanted, as they are inferior in every way to ships-­of-­the-­line and battle cruisers of other naval powers. . . . The construction of armored ships rests not on our own choice but as a consequence of the chains binding us by the Versailles Treaty” (Mulligan 2005, 1020). Yet even such sober analyses could not diminish the appeal of procuring a mammoth ship. For his principled objection, Boehm was removed from his position, and the Bismarck and Tirpitz were later sunk, taking with them thousands of German seamen. The internal debate within the British and German navies regarding the usefulness of large battleships is important. It demonstrates that the preference for large vessels is not simply a reflection of bureaucratic pol­itics (Allison 1971). Following the logic of bureaucratic models, it is certainly reasonable to assume that navies would always prefer more resources and additional ships. However, this is not the same as stating that navies should always prefer larger ships. This was precisely the crux of the debate within these bureaucracies. The logic of bureaucratic politics cannot tell us why the admiralty would repeatedly favor larger ships to more ships and surface ships to submarines. This is reminiscent of the F-­20 example that opened this book. A bureaucratic model can tell us that the air force would prefer more resources but cannot tell us why it would prefer one F-­15 over several F-­20s. Indeed, in the case of Britain and Germany, officers in both navies recognized that larger ships are often a handicap rather than an asset. The procurement of larger ships was promoted not because it offered the best operational choice but because it was the best political choice. If the navy was to obtain more resources, it needed to secure political support. It is this intersection between the professional judgment of the admiral and the political reasoning of the government that opens the door to conspicuous consumption. The result, to use Zahavi and Zahavi’s terms, is a vessel that balances the pressures of natural selection, in this case the dictums of battlefield functionality, with those of signal selection, in this case the political role of the ship as a conspicuous status symbol.

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When signal selection trumps natural selection, we end up with the Vasa and the Bismarck. Moreover, the British and German cases highlight another weakness of bureaucratic models in explaining conspicuous consumption. Historically, the British admiralty enjoyed a special position in society, government, and culture (Morriss 2004; Kennedy 1983b). Accordingly, even in the face of mounting critiques and political opposition, the admiralty was able to secure immense investments in naval procurement repeatedly (Weinroth 1971, 109). This was not the case in Germany, which was traditionally more of a land power than a naval power. Under Hitler, the position of the navy was particularly weak. Hitler’s main focus was on the army and the air force. When it came to the navy, he appreciated the role played by submarines but was particularly wary of the German surface fleet. In a 1943 lecture, for example, he even argued that the battleships should be scrapped and their cannons should be used to protect the shores (Herwig 1988, 68). And yet despite the marked difference in political influence, both admiralties ended up with a preference for large ships and the budgets required to procure them. Focusing on the structure and strength of bureaucracy as the main explanatory variable, therefore, is insufficient. The allure of the large warship is maintained even across very differently positioned bureaucracies. With the notable exception of the Pacific theater during World War II, large warships played an increasingly marginal role throughout the twentieth century. According to Cable (1989, 18), the Falklands War was the only war since 1945 in which naval power played an essential role. Yet the allure of the great ship as a symbol of power has not diminished. The persistent prominence of large ships as the main naval test of status, even in the face of clear and recent contrary evidence, indicates that there is something about expensive large vessels that makes them a better instrument of prestige than more efficient, versatile, and cheaper smaller vessels. Kelleher, Mullins, and Eichenber (1980) find very little variation over time in the number of large battleships owned by European navies—­there is no elasticity in the demand for this good. This stability was maintained at times of economic difficulties, rising procurement costs, and significant geostrategic shifts. The authors conclude that the reason for this stability was therefore political. Navies were successfully insulated from geopolitical and economic pressures by reason of their function as a source of national prestige. The age-­old practice of gunboat diplomacy is another well-­known example of the symbolic value of the large ship. In fact, gunboat diplomacy

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still plays an integral part in international affairs. According to Cable (1989, 44–­45), 1944 was the only year between 1919 and 1989 in which there were no recorded incidents of gunboat diplomacy; at least twenty-­three states used gunboat diplomacy in the 1970s. It is widely accepted that the success of gunboat diplomacy depends not on the inherent power of the gunboat itself but rather on its symbolic value (Luttwak 1974, 29). The single gunboat is perceived as a reflection of national power and prestige. The connection between naval power and prestige is therefore a deep-­ rooted one.7 The navy has traditionally been and still is the most expensive arm of the military. Consequently, the development of strong naval capabilities is a costly enterprise that can be successfully executed only by a few countries. If anything, contemporary naval procurement is more expensive and exclusive than ever. Another long-­term tendency which is having serious effects on British military strength is the sheer costliness of modern armaments. . . . The Dreadnought, the first British nuclear powered submarine, cost over $18 million; a few years later the Polaris-­type boats, such as Resolution, cost $40 million but that was without the missile system. With the latter the cost soared to $52.5 million per vessel and it would no doubt would have been higher but for American assistance. The aircraft carrier Eagle, which cost $15.75 million when new, was refitted in the early 60’s for $31 million. . . . With each new model the increase in price is steeper. . . . The building of a major warship is now impossible without vast resources. One Trident submarine is estimated at more than $1 billion. (Kennedy 1983a, 341)

It is not surprising, therefore, that leading maritime powers tend to be the principal world powers. Only a great power can tolerate such rap­ idly expanding spirals of excess. Tilly (1985, 178) finds a tight connection between naval capabilities and international rank. Modelski and Thompson (1988) claim that this has been the case ever since the discovery of the “new world” in the fifteenth century. Initially, naval capabilities were necessary in order to exploit the opportunities and resources of newly discovered lands. In this early stage there was a tight correlation between naval capacity and material power. However, once naval power was established as a credible index of power, it became attractive to aspiring actors for symbolic reasons as well as for material ones. An impressive navy thus became a prerequisite for great-­power status regardless of its actual strategic utility (Booth 1977, 57). Over time, through cycles of exaggeration and

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excess, the potential disconnect between actual capabilities and symbolic value grew further, enabling and encouraging the procurement of vessels such as the Vasa, Bismarck, and Tirpitz. The Italian naval experience during the interwar years can further illuminate this discussion. From Versailles to Munich and beyond, the Italian Navy made Mussolini’s Italy a great power in the Mediterranean. For two decades, in crises large and small, the Italian Navy, with its beautiful ships and poorly trained gun crews, more than earned its keep as it enabled Mussolini to have his way in Yugoslavia, Greece, Turkey, Spain, Ethiopia, and Albania. It was not only that the British did not want to fight, even in a war that they could win, but rather that they (like other observers) mistook form for substance. Year after year, the Italian Navy budget was pre-­empted by highly visible new ship acquisitions at the expense of such trifles as gunnery training, maintenance, and non-­visible (e.g., communications) equipment. The visible capabilities may have been spurious, but the political leverage that the Italian Navy secured for its master was all too real. It was not until 1940 that war provided the ultimate test of viability, exposing the basic weakness of the Italian Navy. Until then even the British admiralty had been deceived together with the Mediterranean powers, large and small, which chose to conciliate an Italy whose navy was as impressive as it was ineffectual. (Luttwak 1974, 40)8

It would be erroneous to view the Italian interwar navy as a product of an elaborate and intentional Machiavellian scheme. The Italians were probably as astonished and dismayed as anyone when their grand navy collapsed so rapidly. Similarly, it would be erroneous to regard the British misperception as a product of poor intelligence, naivety, or spinelessness. Instead, following the Veblenian logic, these actors were showing a predictable preference for conspicuousness, the same preference that makes the aircraft carrier such an effective symbol of power nowadays. The Italians preferred a conspicuous navy, forgoing investments in less visible components such as training or improved communications in favor of the purchase of additional “beautiful ships.” The ultimate ineptness of the “grand” Italian navy emphasizes the extent to which a strong preference for conspicuousness is often linked to inefficiency. Like the Vasa, the Italian case provides a colorful example of an international Gatsby effect, where overinvestment in conspicuous consumption ultimately leads to ruin. Like Gatsby, the investment in the conspicuous allowed Italy to buy prestige for a while. However,

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Italy was forced to divert resources away from essential components of naval power in order to keep up appearances. The growing tension between form and substance was not sustainable over time. The British, on the other hand, showed their preference for conspicuousness by deferring to Italian grandeur even when it should have been quite clear to them that it held very little substance. This type of seemingly irrational deference is to be expected in a society with established and enduring symbols of prestige. These implications of conspicuous consumption can generate provocative suggestions for naval planners. In the light of the highly selective nature of political perceptions of naval power, one might be tempted to advocate ship configurations that emphasize explicitly the visible variables of naval power at the expense of those that are less transparent . . . to deploy bigger ships with bigger weapons. . . . To frighten South Yemen or encourage the Sheikh of Abu Dhabi one does not need a powerful sonar under the hull or a digital data system in the superstructure. If the saliency of political missions (and low intensity conflict) is accorded the priority that the present state of international politics would seem to warrant, forceplanning may yet take the path of more visible and less sophisticated sea power. (Luttwak 1974, 42–­47)

Luttwak’s analysis of naval power fits very comfortably with the conspicuous consumption argument. The salience of navies as instruments of prestige makes them especially attractive as targets of prestige policies. This could create discernable distortions in patterns of naval procurement. Indeed, Wettern (1982, 1108) finds “comparatively few navies that could be described as adequate and well-­balanced to support national policies and aspirations.” If this is true for navies in general, it should be even more so for the most conspicuous and salient naval weapon system—­the aircraft carrier.

Deterrence and Conspicuous Consumption One of the most easily recognizable aspects of the Veblenian approach is its emphasis on the conspicuousness of consumption. Because only visible consumption can serve as an effective social signal, prestige-­seeking behavior manifests itself through public acquisition of conspicuous goods. Looking at conspicuousness as a variable that differentiates between different

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types of goods challenges traditional explanations of procurement. Most existing theories ignore the dimension of conspicuousness and instead focus on a narrower material assessment of a weapon’s functionality. Thus, when selecting between substitutable procurement programs, the conventional approach is to assume that states will chose the weaponry that best serves their strategic needs (or the needs of the most influential bureaucracy or interest group). The Vebelenian approach amends this assertion by suggesting that prestige-­seeking states will purchase the procurement program that best serves their strategic needs and/or is most conspicuous. One obvious functional justification for military procurement is deterrence. If procurement is motivated by deterrence, we should expect it to follow strategic reasoning, taking into account issues such as the probability of conflict, the number and type of assets the procured weaponry is designed to protect, the effects of geographic factors, and the force structure of potential adversaries. Deterrence cannot be generated by secretive procurement programs, as anyone who ever watched Dr. Strangelove would know. However, the issue of conspicuousness works differently. Under assumptions of complete information, conspicuousness should not be a significant factor in a rationalist analysis of deterrence. Deterrence theory would find it hard to explain, for example, why an Indian purchase of a decrepit carrier attracted more attention and concern in Pakistan than a massive Indian purchase of modern submarines that took place around the same time: “While subsurface vessels may in fact be the Navy’s most puissant weapon, disproportionate attention has been accorded to expansion of Indian carrier arms, in part, because aircraft carriers are such manifestly visible instruments of sea power” (Tellis 1990, 30). This has also been the case for the Chinese carrier program. China’s submarine program is more advanced and strategically more significant. It does not, however, attract as much public attention as China’s first carrier, despite the dubious strategic value of the latter. This observation suggests that although Modelski and Thompson (1988) are correct in identifying the submarine as one of the mainstays of contemporary naval power, it does not play an effective role as a status symbol, simply because a submerged vessel is not conspicuous enough. Thus, when seeking to enhance its international profile, Thailand chose to buy an aircraft carrier and not a submarine fleet. The second basic dimension of conspicuous consumption is cost. If actors are cost minimizers, as most primary utility–based theories would lead us to believe, we should expect them to consume expensive items only if

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those are really needed. Hence, we should expect models that emphasize material functionalism to work best when explaining consumption patterns of expensive goods. The theory of conspicuous consumption, on the other hand, predicts the opposite. Because the consumption of inexpensive items cannot generate an effective test of status, those goods would be consumed only when needed. Expensive items, on the other hand, could serve as attractive venues for conspicuous consumption, and therefore their acquisition patterns should be more loosely correlated with functional reasoning. Thus, for example, according to this argument, the procurement of fast attack crafts, small and relatively cheap vessels, should be more significantly affected by strategic variables than the procurement of cruisers. Finally, a rational actor is likely to be deterred only by capabilities that may inflict costs on her in case of conflict. Capabilities that would play no role in an expected confrontation should have little effect on the cost-­ benefit calculations of the actors. For example, a land power, planning a land offensive against its neighbors, may not be easily deterred by a maritime power, even if the latter has superior maritime capabilities. In this example maritime capabilities are not directly relevant to the protection of the disputed asset. Mearsheimer (1986) claims that this is one of the reasons behind the failure of British deterrence in both world wars. Germany did not view the British navy as a deterrent because naval power had a marginal functional role in any expected land campaign in Western Europe. Deterrence thus assumes a relatively narrow functional relationship between the capabilities developed by the actors and their potential use in a future conflict. The concept of conspicuous consumption, on the other hand, challenges this tight functional relationship between the acquisition of new capabilities and strategic need. Actors may continue to develop capabilities that have very little to do with the requirements of deterrence. In fact, paradoxically, these are the types of capabilities that would attract the greatest amount of attention and prestige. A weak functional justification combined with a high price tag transforms the development of such capabilities into a form of luxury that can effectively signal actors’ status. The more tenuous the functional dimension of consumption and the more expensive it is, the more it can be viewed as a luxury good. Indeed, when an object becomes a status symbol, we often observe a persistent mismatch between its design and the strategic needs it is supposed to fulfill. Such mismatches have been an almost consistent facet of naval procurement.

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The discussion so far has generated several hypotheses that should enable us to differentiate between the conventional understanding of procurement and the one generated by the Veblenian approach. In particular, it suggests that the consumption of prestige goods (those that are both conspicuous and costly) will show weaker association with traditional strategic explanatory variables when compared with the consumption patterns of less conspicuous and/or cheaper goods. Indeed, a statistical examination of the world’s navies finds wealth (as measured by the size of GDP) and the size of a country’s fishing industry (measured by annual maritime catch in metric tons) to be the only robust determinants of naval procurement. Other variables—­such as the length of a country’s shoreline, the size of its merchant marine, its reliance on trade, the number of conflicts it has been involved in, or the size of its exclusive economic zone (EEZ)—­ prove statistically insignificant. While fishing is statistically significant, the coefficient estimates suggest that its real effect on a navy’s size is largely inconsequential. Hence, wealth seems to be the main determinant of naval procurement (Gilady 2006).9 Interestingly, a similar examination of the determinants of tank procurement finds exactly the opposite. Traditional strategic variables are closely correlated with tank procurement, but wealth, the only variable that seems to explain naval procurement, is proven statistically insignificant (Gilady 2006). These findings match the expectation of the conspicuous consumption approach but are difficult to explain through more conventional approaches such as deterrence. As predicted by the conspicuous consumption theory, the procurement of the less conspicuous and less expensive weapon system—­the tank—­is more heavily affected by geostrategic considerations, while the procurement of the more conspicuous and expensive weapon system—­the warship—­is driven mainly by wealth. In the case of less conspicuous goods, such as the tank, there is little utility in acquiring additional units once the strategic needs are satisfied. An additional unit cannot generate secondary-­ utility benefits because it is not extravagant enough. Conversely, in the case of conspicuous goods, especially ones like the navy that are connected to international structures of prestige, buying an additional unit can still generate positive utility even when strategic needs have been met. These goods are conspicuous enough to spawn secondary-­utility returns. In fact, these returns may grow with every additional unit because the growing level of excess increases the appearance of luxury. These findings indicate that contemporary naval procurement is not driven by immediate geostrategic concerns. Instead, they establish a strong and robust connection between naval procurement and wealth—­actors

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purchase naval units when they can afford them, not solely when they need them. While statistical analysis can support the general framing of naval power as a manifestation of wealth, it can tell us very little about other dimensions of the conspicuous consumption argument. In order to do so, we need to look at specific consumption decisions in more detail.

The Aircraft Carrier Club The aircraft carrier is one of the most expensive and sophisticated weapons systems employed by contemporary military forces. Even when we exclude the design stage, the construction of shipyard equipment, and the acquisition of technological know-­how, and even with no trial and error, building a carrier takes close to a decade. This does not yet address the procurement of aircraft and the training of seaman and aircrews. The acquisition of a carrier is just the beginning, because in order to be fully operational, the carrier requires an impressive carrier battle group that often includes cruisers, frigates, antiaircraft warships, antisubmarine destroyers, submarines, helicopter carriers, and supply ships. A single American carrier group is larger than many of the world’s navies. The battle group is crucial in order to protect the carrier in times of battle. In the absence of a battle group the carrier is exposed and vulnerable. Moreover, maintaining an operational carrier and a well-­trained crew requires constant work. It is generally estimated that a carrier spends close to two thirds of its life undergoing training and maintenance. Hence, even after all this investment, the carrier may be ready for deployment for only a few months every year and may be unavailable at a time of need. In order to ensure that the navy has access to at least one carrier at any given time, a country needs to procure at least three carriers. A country that decides to develop naval aviation capabilities, therefore, is undertaking an immense endeavor that is likely to materialize only decades down the road. Besides the financial, technological, and organizational prerequisites for such a project, there is a need for solid political commitment that can carry this procurement to its completion. If a country decides to go down this treacherous path, it must also decide what kind of carrier to build. Currently, it is customary to differentiate between three types of carriers. The largest, most expensive, and most capable carrier type is the CATOBAR (Catapult Assisted Take-­Off But Arrested Recovery). The catapults and the landing barriers allow aircraft to operate in a way that

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resembles conventional takeoff and landing. The catapults in particular are expensive, large, and difficult to operate. They consume a lot of energy, which often leads designers to opt for nuclear propulsion. However, this type of carrier can operate heavier aircraft and allow for greater pay­ loads and longer range. Because of its size, it can also carry a larger number of planes, and with the right design and training, it can allow for simultaneous takeoffs and landings.10 Currently, only the United States, France, and Brazil operate CATOBAR carriers. Intuitively, the easiest way to reduce the cost of a carrier is to reduce its size. A smaller and cheaper carrier is bound to offer lower capabilities, but that is often tolerated as an acceptable trade-­off. Yet efforts to procure smaller carriers have always failed—­resulting in significantly re­ duced capabilities but an only marginally cheaper ship. On average, a car­ rier of about 75 percent of the displacement of a USS Nimitz–class car­ rier provides only 25 percent of the American design’s overall capabilities at 80 percent of the Nimitz’s cost (Slade 1994). The second option is the STOBAR (Short Take-­Off But Arrested Recovery), a Russian technique employing conventional aircraft but utilizing a ski jump instead of catapults. While the STOBAR is cheaper and allows for a smaller ship, it imposes significant trade-­offs. In order to use the ski jump, the planes have to be lighter and carry a lighter payload. This means less effective aircraft and a smaller range. Because the ship is smaller, it also means fewer planes. Russia and China currently operate STOBAR carriers. The last option is the cheapest and produces the smallest vessels. STOVL (Short Take-­Off and Vertical Landing) carriers employ special aircraft capable of vertical takeoff and landing. This allows for a smaller deck and eliminates the need for catapults, ski jumps, or landing barriers. However, the ability to fly vertically comes at a cost. Taking off or landing vertically consumes significant amounts of energy, thus reducing the range of the aircraft and the payload that it can carry. Moreover, these planes are usually less nimble than their more conventional counterparts. The small size of the vessel also means a smaller fleet of aircraft. The STOVL requires the simplest design of the ship but the most specialized design of the aircraft. Because of its simple design and lower cost, the STOVL is the preferred choice of most carrier club members: Britain, India, Italy, Thailand, and Spain opted for this type of carrier.11 Hence, even within the carrier club there is significant variance in cost, size, and capabilities. In fact, the smaller carriers in this review are not

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much larger than a cruiser. The United States is the only country to operate supercarriers, which in many respects are in a class of their own. Interestingly, it is not the expensive carriers but rather the cheaper ones that tend to suffer from poorer maintenance and training, since some of those who purchase them suffer from the implications of the Gatsby effect. They can muster enough resources to buy the carrier and gain access to the club, but they cannot afford to operate the vessel in any meaningful way. In such cases it is difficult to explain the purchase of the carrier (knowing the projected operating cost) without some reference to its symbolic value as a signifier of status and prestige. Moreover, the discourse surrounding the procurement and deployment of carriers is often explicitly loaded with many references to prestige. The following is an overview of the current state of the world’s carriers. The discussion relies on information gathered from the SIPRI (Stock­ holm International Peace Research Institute 2001) archives, specialized pub­ lications on procurement, intelligence, and defense (such as Jane’s Defense Weekly, Military Affairs, Naval Force, Jane’s Intelligence Review, etc.), trans­ lated domestic news coverage provided by FBIS (Foreign Broadcast Information Service), and academic analyses. The discussion introduces the members of the carrier club in alphabetical order and ends with a review of China, the newest and most controversial member of the club. Brazil In 1996 Brazil published an official document defining its National Defense Policy (Politica de Defensa Nacional [PDN]).12 The PDN defined Brazil’s strategic interests and concluded, “Without any doubt, the Amazon basin is currently the main strategic issue for Brazil . . . which has a number of direct consequences as regards the priority of missions being assigned to the national armed forces” (Vigdal 2001, 9). Giving priority to patrolling the Amazon basin requires the procurement of riverboats and airplanes that can operate in this remote area (Godoy 2001). However, “despite the stated importance of the protection of the Amazon region, the Navy programs do not include any specific projects for new river patrol boats” (Vigdal 2001). Instead, in August 2000, Brazil purchased the aging French aircraft carrier Foch, a thirty-­seven-­year-­old vessel, for $42 mil­lion. Renamed the São Paulo, it consumed most of the Brazilian naval budget for the year 2000 and was likely to continue doing so for years to come (Military Affairs, August 29, 2000, 5).13

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The purchase of the São Paulo came at a time of great financial difficulties for the Brazilian armed forces. The Brazilian army, for example, had to discharge forty thousand recruits before the end of their training because of budget shortages (Proença et al. 2003). In 1999, a year before the carrier deal, a lack of money led to the grounding of most Brazilian combat aircraft (Jane’s Defense Weekly, September 29, 1999, 27).14 Following the carrier purchase, the navy had to postpone the nuclear submarine project it had been developing for three decades and order a complete restructuring of its resources.15 The discrepancy between Brazil’s strategic interests, financial capabilities, and naval procurement policy is striking. Proença et al. (2003) question the utility of the Brazilian carrier because it lacks the necessary escort of a carrier group or the logistical support that could enable power projection. Antonio Carlos Pereira (2000), a prominent Brazilian journalist, voices similar concerns. The main purpose of a carrier such as Foch is power projection, yet Brazil has no international commitments that necessitate such capabilities. To accomplish missions of sea control—­a true necessity of our defense policy—­this carrier would be insufficient. . . . A less costly combination of long-­range aircraft, submarines and battleships could handle that mission with more efficiency. . . . One carrier will be nothing more than a training facility, because, from an operational point-­of-­view, the old saying is still valid: he who has one carrier, has none; he who has two, has half a carrier; he who has three, may have one. The Malvinas/Falkland War between Argentina and England provides us with a good example: having just one carrier, Argentina had to leave it anchored in a protected cove, away from the hostilities, where the aging carrier would have been an easy prey to British submarines.16

Why does Brazil need an aircraft carrier? Most of the justifications for this purchase refer to Brazil’s desire to police its extensive EEZ or to Brazilian aspirations to achieve higher international status. Brazilian analysts note that “politically carriers are international status symbols. They are versatile and very visible politically. Brazilian diplomatic missions and peace operations might gain greater weight if a carrier division went along” (Proença 2000). Others discuss the carrier purchase together with the Brazilian quest for a permanent seat on the UN Security Council (Tosta 2000).17 Yet proponents of the Brazilian carrier purchase fail to explain why acquiring an aging carrier, which can scarcely be described

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as a considerable threat to any of Brazil’s most immediate regional competitors, would have any effect on Brazil’s status, or on the credibility of its Security Council aspirations. The Veblenian framework, on the other hand, can provide persuasive answers to these questions. An aging carrier can be a source of prestige because it is an almost perfect example of conspicuous consumption. Brazil’s desire to be recognized as a great power can benefit from the acquisition of appropriate status symbols that signal membership in the desired great-­power class. The carrier has little to do with military strategy and more to do with political signaling. However, since Brazil has yet to augment the resources that can safely support such aspirations, by making expensive military acquisitions it is risking the long-­term deleterious implications of the dreaded Gatsby effect.18 Nevertheless, more recent Brazilian defense planning calls for the establishment of two fleets, each with a corresponding carrier (Wiesebron 2013). At the same time, with no replacement in sight, the aging São Paulo is expected to serve for two more decades, at the very least, taking it well past its seventieth birthday. Britain and France In the years following World War II, the British navy experienced a radical reduction in size and scope of operations. Faced with a rapidly shrinking procurement budget, the government adopted the 1966 defense white paper that canceled the British carrier fleet (Kennedy 1983a, 344). Naval aviation was renewed only in the beginning of the seventies with the commissioning of three STOVL carriers. The British carriers were small and limited in their capabilities. In fact, many observers do not even consider them “true” aircraft carriers.19 The British design sought to compensate for the limited size and capabilities of the carrier by dividing the roles of an aircraft carrier among many ships. In this way, some missions can be carried out by helicopters, while others can be dealt with using the missile power of the escorting frigates. A cheaper carrier can enable the procurement of more escorts that can fulfill these roles (Slade 1994). The recent decision to reverse course and procure new medium-­sized CATOBAR carriers reflects the failure of this approach. The first noteworthy deployment of the STOVL British carrier fleet came during the Falklands War. The carriers provided an important contribution to the war effort. However, even with all three carriers taking part in this relatively limited military confrontation, the carriers were

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unable to supply enough Harriers to protect the fleet and the ground forces at the same time. The British carrier force was therefore stretched to its full capacity facing a relatively minor opponent. While the Falklands War provides a good example of the significance of carriers, it also highlights their vulnerability to submarine attacks. The loss of any carrier would have doomed the British operation. Argentina understood the potential effect of such a loss and deployed its limited submarine capabilities accordingly. Argentina had a fleet of two submarines, only one of which, the San Luis, was operational at the time. Moreover, the San Luis was poorly equipped and had an inadequately trained crew. Yet this lone submarine caused the British navy a lot of trouble and required the commitment of significant resources to antisubmarine warfare (ASW). The San Luis penetrated the British ASW net three times to reach firing position. All three attacks failed because of a combination of equipment failure and poor leadership. Over two hundred ASW weapons were fired by the British over twenty-­eight days, all failing to hit the Argentine vessel (Wallace and Meconis 1995, 83–­84). The travails of the San Luis offer a good demonstration of the potency of the less prestigious submarine. Following the Falklands War, the British government declined to enlarge or improve its small carrier fleet. The debate regarding the future of the British carrier fleet reheated in the second part of the nineties as the British government was called to select Britain’s future carrier. The future carrier debate led to a lengthy public process of assessment that culminated in a procurement order for at least two carriers of the new Queen Elizabeth class (Isnard 2002; Hore and Hirschfeld 1999). The next generation of British carriers will rely on conventional landing and takeoff. This new design, significantly larger than any other non-­American carrier, will bring Britain closer to being able to deploy forces alongside American carriers in future conflicts. The immense cost of this buildup, however, is already dictating cuts in other procurement programs and is raising concerns among senior army and naval commanders. Critics question whether future conflicts are likely to require the services of large carriers. A fleet of small carriers, according to this critique, was appropriate for supporting British efforts in the Afghanistan and Iraq wars, which are probably indicative of the most likely type of conflicts Britain is expected to face in the future (Rogers 2007). Moreover, it is not clear whether the navy will be able to provide the required escorts and defenses for the carrier in times of war (Black 2005, 360).20 The many delays in development and procurement created a gap between the decommissioning of Britain’s aging STVOL fleet and the

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launching of the Queen Elizabeth class. Once the last STVOL carrier is decommissioned, the Royal Navy will have no carriers in its possession for several years. The Invincible, the Illustrious (both recently decommissioned), and the Ark Royal have been among Britain’s most conspicuous contributions to international military operations over the last few decades. During the Kosovo campaign, for example, the Invincible was ordered to join NATO forces while it was on its way home following a long deployment in the Persian Gulf. The frustrated homebound crew were baffled by this decision given the limited contribution the Invincible was able to add to the war effort: “There is a limited role for us. They have more vehicles and more aircraft than they know what to do with and our role is more political. . . . There are better located jets and better equipped jets in Italy” (Lyons and Roberts 1999). In fact, despite the televised fanfare, the Invincible was able to offer a force of seven Sea Harrier fighters poorly suited for missions of close air support that were the mainstay of the Kosovo campaign. The additional value of seven Harriers is especially questionable, since at the time of the ship’s arrival, NATO already had hundreds of fighters in convenient ground bases around the fighting zone (Lyons 1999). Yet the arrival of the Invincible in the Adriatic received extensive media coverage. The BBC, for example, described the carrier group as “a floating fortress” (BBC, April 11, 1999). Such hyperbole is particularly striking given the modest size and capabilities of the carrier. The contrast between the image of the carrier and its actual strategic contribution is not unique to the Invincible or to Kosovo. In July 2002 the French carrier Charles de Gaulle returned to France after completing a six-­ month deployment, one of the longest ever for a French carrier, as France’s chief contribution to the war in Afghanistan. According to French assessments, throughout these tumultuous six months, the Charles de Gaulle dropped or fired a total of thirty-­six bombs or missiles. It took a crew of over two thousand men and women and a three-­billion-­dollar nuclear-­ powered vessel to fire thirty-­six bombs at a relatively defenseless country like Afghanistan. Similarly, the deployment of the Charles de Gaulle to the Middle East was the most notable French military response to the 2015 terror attacks in Paris. During its mission, the carrier launched ten to fifteen attacks a day against ISIS, attracting significant media attention. Yet France already had fighters in the region that were carrying out attacks without much fanfare long before the arrival of the carrier (Gordon 2015). As in the case of the Invincible, when we ignore the hyperbole and the

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attention-­grabbing media images, the imposing carrier group’s actual contribution to the war effort is less impressive. Unlike Britain, France has opted to procure a large nuclear-­powered carrier. The French carrier (Charles de Gaulle) is the first nuclear-­powered surface warship to be built in Western Europe and is the largest warship built for a European navy since Britain’s conventionally propelled carrier Eagle was launched in 1950. Currently, France is the only European country to operate a CATOBAR carrier, and the Charles de Gaulle is the only non-­American vessel to somewhat approach the capabilities of a Nimitz-­ class carrier (Miller 1994). The decision to build the Charles de Gaulle was taken in 1980, at a time when Britain was commissioning its STOVL carriers. It took France almost twenty years and close to three billion dollars to bring this project to completion (Hebrard 1999, 63). The French insistence on a uniquely French design (complete with passageways named after Paris streets and a wine bar) resulted in an embarrassing series of mishaps and technical failures that delayed the commissioning of the ship, increased its price far beyond the original estimations, and continues to affect its operability (Gordon 2015). Even without such problems, on average, carriers are only operational for a third of the year. With only one technologically challenged carrier, and despite the immense cost, the French Navy can expect the Charles de Gaulle to be available only a limited portion of the year. India India currently has two operational aircraft carriers, the Vikramaditya (formerly the Kiev-­class Russian carrier Admiral Gorshkov) and the aging Viraat (formerly HMS Hermes). In late 1999, India concluded a deal to purchase the inoperative Russian aircraft carrier Admiral Gorshkov. However, never-­ending negotiations and constant price hikes have delayed the refitting. Critics have argued that with the delays and constant increases in price (currently more than three times the original estimates, more than a decade of delay, and over $US2.3 billion in total cost), the Admiral Gorshkov proved more expensive than a new carrier (Kainikara 2000; Pant 2009). The Gorshkov saga was finally concluded with its recommissioning as the Vikramaditya in 2013. The Viraat, India’s second carrier, was launched in 1953 based on a World War II model, making it the oldest carrier in service in the world. The Viraat is expected to be replaced by India’s indigenously designed carriers, which are currently under construction

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(Bedi 2003; Pant 2009; Ladwig 2010).21 India recently launched its first homebuilt carrier, the Vikrant, which will not be fully operational before 2017 (Pant and Joshi 2015; Kaplan 2010). With the Vikrant, India became the first Asian power to build and launch an aircraft carrier. A second indigenous carrier, the Vishal, is on order as well. It is expected to be significantly larger, and there are rumors that it will rely on nuclear propulsion and an ambitious CATOBAR design (Pandit 2015). The ultimate Indian dream is to maintain a force of five carriers so that at least three ships are available for deployment at any given time; a more realistic goal focuses on two to three carrier groups (Scott 2013; Tellis 1990).22 The carrier program is part of a massive Indian naval buildup that includes forty new ships at an estimated cost of US$32.3 billion (Bana 2015). While these ambitious and expensive programs are under way, about half of the navy’s inventory is not operational and in dire need of repair. The air wing of the carriers uses aging fighters, and currently there are not even enough of those to supply the existing ships. The Indian navy does not provide the required vessels for the battle groups that are supposed to escort and protect the carrier and is lacking sufficient investment in command and control and communications (Kainikara 2000). Under the current budgetary limitations, there is a real risk that ambitious key projects such as the carrier construction can become “silver bullets in a fleet of diminished performance, diluting its effect and jeopardizing, with the high share of resources absorbed, the overall readiness of the Indian Navy” (De Lionis 1998, 34). Moreover, even when completed and fully operational, the strategic value of the carriers is highly questionable. The Viraat, which was refitted at great expense in order to prolong its life, is capable of launching only eight antiquated Sea Harriers. Such a vessel ties down more resources than is justified by the utility it may provide. It does not have enough aircraft to carry out an attack and protect itself at the same time. Even a more advanced carrier, such as the Gorshkov, would have a questionable role in almost any future naval confrontation. It is estimated that the refitted Gorshkov and the newly designed Vikrant will carry sixteen aircraft. This comes at a cost of at least 11 percent of the navy’s budget for the foreseeable future (Ladwig 2010). All of India’s potential rivals have strong enough air forces to deem any littoral use of these carriers unfeasible. In case of war, the Indian carriers will have to stay offshore to attack escaping enemy ships. Yet this role can be easily filled by cheaper surface vessels, a weapons category in which India already enjoys a clear advantage over its

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regional rivals (Tellis 1990). In cases of humanitarian crisis, fixed-­wing carriers are not a necessity. When India conducted a complex airlift operation to rescue more than five thousand citizens and foreign nationals who were trapped in war-­torn Yemen in 2015, it did so successfully without deploying its aircraft carriers (Bana 2015). Given this state of affairs, the Indian investment in its carriers and the attention this investment receives are disproportional to the potential utility of these vessels. Captain Arun Prakash of the Indian navy notes that although India has had a million-­strong army and a thousand-­aircraft air force for quite a while, it is the expansion of the navy, and especially the carrier fleet, that has raised most concerns abroad: “Many in the West are perplexed by India’s growing maritime power and are overcome by a sense of the preposterous that a third world country should begin to assume what has traditionally been the ‘white man’s burden’ ” (Prakash 1990, 58). For Prakash, India’s acquisition of a small carrier is an indication of a change in the international hierarchy, and the overblown reaction is not an indication of strategic fears but of status anxiety. Prakash goes on to argue that India needs to build a stronger navy that would match its power and status. Indeed, in the past few decades, Indian naval ambitions “have grown from simply countering the Pakistani navy to becoming capable of unrestrained blue-­water operations and power-­projection” (De Lionis 1998, 32). Throughout this naval expansion a disproportionate amount of attention was given to the Indian carrier program while more substantial acquisitions, such as the acquisition of eight Kilo-­class Russian submarines in the late eighties or the current development of indigenously designed nuclear submarines, have received relatively little international notice (Tellis 1990; see also Dowdy 1990).23 Italy and Spain Both Italy and Spain have experienced historical periods of maritime supremacy. At present, however, both countries employ medium-­sized navies with very limited carrier capabilities. The Italian carriers are small—­Cavour, Italy’s newest carrier, which is significantly larger than its predecessor, is a 27,100-­ton ship, whereas Principe de Asturias, Spain’s recently decommissioned carrier, is just under 18,000 tons (compared with a displacement of approximately 100,000 tons for most American carriers). The Cavour, which is heralded as a significant boost to Italy’s international profile, operates eight Harriers (Bonsignore 2004). The carrier’s first mission was Operation White Crane, which delivered Italian humanitarian assistance to

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earthquake-ravaged Haiti in 2010 (Kingston 2010). It is debatable whether a carrier arriving several weeks after a natural disaster is the best method of delivering humanitarian aid or whether this type of operation justifies the cost of this platform. The Spanish navy opted for a cheaper model based on an American prototype for a large patrol ship. The Spanish carriers, Principe de Astu­ rias and Juan Carlos, can hold up to thirty-­seven Harriers but usually carry up to twenty planes (“ ‘Grupo Alfa’: The Spanish Navy’s Main Fighting Force” 1991). In order to minimize cost and space, the Spanish eliminated most detection and command-and-control electronic equipment from these ships. The Spanish carriers lack sophisticated sonar capabilities and rely on only one propeller, affecting maneuverability and speed. The result is an extremely vulnerable ship, practically defenseless and dependent on its escort for protection. However, the Principe de Asturias was relatively cheap, and as such, this model became an attractive choice for the Thai navy (Slade 1994; Gause 1999). A similar design was also adopted by Australia for its new helicopter carriers. Because most major naval battles and operations take place in littoral waters, carriers are likely to face land-­based air forces (Keegan 1993, 66–­68). With the expansion of air forces around the world, there are not too many cases in which ten or even twenty planes would be a decisive force (Luttwak 1974, 51). The limitations of these carriers were clearly demonstrated in the course of their last major deployment, during Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan. Although Italy and Spain are among the very few countries that can send a carrier force to a conflict zone, their contribution to the Afghanistan campaign received harsh assessments: “Italy and Spain were both late and largely irrelevant in sending small forces to Afghanistan” (Radu 2002). The Italian and Spanish carriers were unable to provide fast response and were not able to provide a significant one. The number of possible scenarios in which the actual military effect of this type of carrier can match its symbolic value is, consequently, very small. Russia For many years the Soviet Union opted to stay out of a carrier arms race. Carriers were described as instruments of imperialism and criticized for their offensive nature, high procurement and maintenance costs, vulnerability, and questionable utility. Soviet experts argued that new cruise-­ missile technology as well as improved submarine-warfare capabilities

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indicated an inevitable decline in the strategic viability of Western carrier fleets (Cigar 1992). The debate surrounding carrier procurement was indicative of the general ambivalence of the Soviet Union toward naval power. Aircraft carriers, and naval power more generally, were at the same time a hated mark of imperialism and a coveted symbol of power and prestige. Debates within the Soviet leadership, especially during the Khrushchev years, highlight the tension between the status-­enhancing quality of a large navy, its high price tag, and its questionable strategic value (especially for a land power such as the Soviet Union). Khrushchev explicitly viewed most naval force as a prestige symbol with very little direct military utility. He conducted a long debate with his naval officers throughout his tenure regarding the advisability of investing in Russian naval force. His memoirs include many references to such debates. As another concession, I suggested that perhaps we should have a few high class modern cruisers for purposes of calling on foreign ports. The ships were good solely as showpieces, and very expensive showpieces at that. . . . Our naval commanders thought they looked beautiful and liked to show them around to foreigners. (Talbott 1974, quoted in Booth 1977, 62)

As for carriers, in his memoirs Khrushchev acknowledged that those were simply out of the Soviet Union’s reach. I’ll admit I felt a nagging desire to have some in our own navy, but we could not afford to build them. They were simply beyond our means. Besides, with a strong submarine force, we felt able to sink the American carriers if it came to war. (Quoted in Horowitz 2010, 90)

While the Soviet Union, especially under Khrushchev, was able to maintain a superpower status without much of a navy, it was not immune to the symbolic value of naval forces. Even Khrushchev, the main objector to Soviet naval buildup, chose a large cruiser as his vessel of choice for his visit to Britain in 1956 (Booth 1977). Subsequent Soviet leaders were no longer able to resist the pressure to compete with Western naval capabilities. The Soviet Union embarked on a massive naval buildup that absorbed significant resources and contributed to its economic decline. Some of this grand fleet can still be found rusting along the piers of several Russian ports (Whitten 1998). The first significant Soviet experimentation with naval aviation came at the end of the sixties. However, while the Soviet navy was becoming

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one of the most formidable naval forces in the world, the Soviet carriers remained small, largely experimental, and mostly insignificant. Several high-­ranking Soviet naval officers opposed carrier development because they viewed these vessels as prestige vehicles lacking strategic justification (Whitten 1998, 76). The first and only large Russian carrier was laid down in 1983 and launched in 1985.24 However, this ship was procured at a time when the navy was facing a sharp decrease in resources. The carrier was under repairs until 1991 and subsequently was anchored in the Ura Guba fjord with no aircraft on board. This was an uncomfortable position for the Russian navy, which saw the ship as one of its greatest technological achievements. It would have been disastrous in terms of prestige if the only tangible result was a 65000-­t ship with an inoperative combat system and a non-­existent air group. . . . The navy is determined to get the ship into service even if other major vessels have to be scrapped or mothballed in order to finance the program. (Jordan 1993)

The navy chose to promote the carrier, the Admiral Kuznetsov, as its flagship long before it was operational. The first Mediterranean deployment of the Kuznetsov was extensively covered by the Russian media and was accompanied by a wave of patriotism. The members of every aviation crew to train on board the carrier were given the title Hero of Russia (Vinogradov 1996). The Moscow-­based newspaper Rossiyskiye Vesti dedicated a special celebratory cover to the event: “300 Years of the Russian Fleet: Our Aircraft Carrier in the Mediterranean” (Maryukha 1996). Subsequent budgetary constraints forced long periods of inactivity and poor maintenance. The carrier lacks significant equipment, and the operational status of its air wing is questionable more often than not. The carrier’s aircrews conduct most of their training using simulators and shore-­based facilities. Since 1996 the Kuznetsov conducted several “show of flag” deployments abroad. The most notable “accomplishments” of these tours so far were a deadly fire on board the carrier and a major oil spill off the coast of Ireland (“Major Oil Spill from Tanker Heads towards British Isles,” Associated Press, February 18, 2009). Thailand Thailand joined the carrier club with the purchase of the Spanish-­built carrier Chakri Naruebet. The purchase of the Chakri Naruebet was the high

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point of a Thai naval buildup, the most dramatic naval expansion within the Association of Southeast Asian Nations. Traditionally, the Thai military has primarily been a land force. It is only in the last few decades that Thai procurement has taken a “heavy maritime bias” (Mak and Hamzah 1994, 30). As Mak and Hamzah note, this shift is hard to explain since despite Thailand’s extensive coastline, the probability of a naval attack that would threaten Thai interests is vanishingly small. A major naval buildup in an environment lacking any identifiable threats requires an explanation: “in the absence of any discernible threat in the region it is hard to see the reasoning behind a navy’s build-­up except for reasons purely of national prestige” (Wettern 1982, 1104).25 In a study of costly military acquisitions in South Asia, Bitzinger (2010) does not find evidence for a classic arms race. Regional procurement does not follow a tit-­for-­tat model in which two or more adversaries try to match each other’s escalating spending. Instead, Bitzinger finds selective and stochastic purchases of sophisticated modern weaponry. Bitzinger (2010, 63) concludes that much of this pattern is motivated by nonmilitary influences such as prestige and cites the Thai carrier as the most obvious example.26 A closer look at the Chakri Naruebet seems to support Bitzinger’s assertion. The Chakri Naruebet is a light carrier, a lighter version of the Spanish model, capable of carrying a small number of Harriers or a few helicopters. It has almost no defensive systems onboard and is therefore completely dependent on escorts for its defense. The limited capabilities of the Chakri Naruebet are further compromised by the budgetary limitations of the Thai navy. Out of the nine Harriers purchased with the carrier, only two are operable because of an acute shortage of spare parts. Moreover, a third of the carrier’s helicopters have been cannibalized for spare parts as well. Proper maintenance of the fighters would require an estimated 200 million baht, an astronomical sum for the Thai navy (Nanuam 2001). The Chakri Naruebet has been spending most of its time docked at Sattahip naval base ever since its arrival in Thailand as a result of its high operation costs. Training exercises, which are estimated to cost close to a million baht a day, have been cut back to only one training exercise every two months. Even in port, the carrier consumes about 50,000 baht a day (Nanuam 2001). In 2000, after being more or less inactive for three years, the Chakri Naruebet required an urgent repair, costing the navy close to five million baht and forcing a delay in urgent repairs of other vessels. In fact, the main use of the Thai carrier is as a local tourist attraction (Na­ nuam 2000). A Thai critic suggested considering the carrier a Thai record: “world’s biggest toy” (Crutchley 2001).

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The official justification for the purchase of the Chakri Naruebet was the need to combat pirates, protect fishing rights, stop illegal refugee flows, and improve search-and-rescue capabilities (NAVINT 2001).27 Yet no other Southeast Asian country, all of which face similar pirate and refugee problems, adopted an aircraft carrier for these purposes. To the casual observer, employing an aircraft carrier as a weapon of choice in the struggle against pirates or the policing of refugees does not appear to be the most cost effective of approaches. The fact that not a single other navy in the world uses carriers for such purposes seems to support an apprehensive assessment of official Thai accounts for the rationale behind the purchase of the Chakri Naruebet. Thai officials often draw attention to the dispute over the Spratly Islands as a potential trigger for naval hostilities that may directly affect Southeast Asia (Kasitipradit 1997). Yet in the case of a full-­fledged naval conflict over the Spratly Islands, which is likely to involve at least five regional navies (including the Chinese navy) and might well lead to an American and/or Japanese intervention, the largely defenseless Chakri Naruebet cannot be of much assistance. Malaysia, Taiwan, and Vietnam, other actors likely to be affected by a regional flare-­up, chose to invest their limited resources in the procurement of submarines, a weapons sys­ tem that even according to the commander of the Thai Institute of Ad­ vanced Naval Studies, Vice Admiral Nitz Srisomwong, is “the most suit­ able weapon in safeguarding the country’s vital interests” in case of a na­val clash over the Spratlys (Kasitipradit 1997). The Thai navy has been trying, unsuccessfully, to pressure a series of successive Thai governments into purchasing at least two diesel-­powered submarines. However, the purchase of the Chakri Naruebet reduced the available budgets for naval procurement and maintenance, thus reducing the likelihood of a submarine deal. The navy tried to use the Chakri Naruebet as further justification for an urgent need for submarines: “The scheduled arrival of Thailand’s first aircraft carrier, HMTS Chakri Narue­ bet, from Spain next month makes it even more vital that the navy has submarines—­to escort the carrier” (Nitz, in Kasitipradit 1997). Instead of providing security, the Chakri Naruebet becomes another asset in need of protection. In fact, the carrier might make a negative net contribution in a naval war, demanding resources and requiring defense while providing very little positive output. Large naval vessels can tie down a large number of escorts even when not directly participating in the fighting. By 1917, for example, the British navy was employing some 280 destroyers to hunt U-­boats and escort convoys in the Atlantic. At the same time, a

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hundred more were languishing aimlessly with the North Sea battle fleet waiting to escort battleships to a battle that never took place. A quarter of Britain’s destroyers were constrained by the need to protect the large battleships (Kennedy 1989, 178). This is a likely scenario for the Chakri Naruebet as well. While the Chakri Naruebet is an asset with questionable strategic value, the Thais do not hesitate to cash in on its diplomatic value. Thailand chose the naval base in Satthip as the backdrop for the negotiations between Sri Lanka and the Tamil Eelam. Hosting the talks was deemed “important for Thailand’s prestige,” and there was no better place for signaling Thai prestige than the home of the Chakri Naruebet, the only aircraft carrier in Southeast Asia (Chongkitthawon 2002). While Thai spokesmen vehemently deny that prestige played any role in Thai procurement decisions, defense analysts disagree (NAVINT 2001, 8). In the months following the Asian monetary crisis, arms suppliers in Bangkok did not expect a sharp reduction in Thai purchases. One reason for the optimism that the Thai military will continue doing business with its traditional suppliers, say industry observers, has much to do with the Thai military’s spending habits. “Prestige is an important factor for the Thai military. They like sophisticated and expensive weapons.” (Pathan 1997)28

United States In 2001, a Pentagon-­sponsored war game simulated war between the United States and China. In the simulation, China tried to invade Taiwan to force reunification, and the US Navy rushed to the island’s defense. One of the most resounding conclusions of this simulation was the ineffectiveness of aircraft carriers in such a scenario. All of the three carrier groups that were sent to aid Taiwan had to stay far away from the shore to avoid the threat of Chinese antiship missiles. From this distance, the carrier’s jets were unable to reach mainland China and hence were left out of the game (Prasad 2002; Boot 2006). The symbolic value of the carriers enhanced their strategic vulnerability: “the effects of a single Chinese cruise missile hitting a U.S. carrier, even if it did not sink the ship, would be politically and psychologically catastrophic, akin to al-­Qaeda’s attacks on the Twin Towers” (Kaplan 2005). This war game was part of an extensive strategic review conducted by Andrew Marshall, director of net assessment of the United States

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Department of Defense. This review, jokingly known as the “Marshall plan,” proposed a complete rethinking of American reliance on carrier power (Bull 2001; Prasad 2002). The Marshall report called for deemphasizing the carrier’s role and recommended a cut in the number of carrier groups and a transition to lighter, faster, and smaller carriers. More­ over, the report endorsed a shift toward a more significant reliance on long-­range, unmanned precision weapons. The controversy over the Marshall report reheated an ongoing debate regarding the effectiveness of the American carrier fleet (e.g., Wages 1995; Wode 1995; Bagley and La­ Rocque 1976). Similarly, in the summer of 2002, as part of the preparation for the invasion of Iraq, the United States conducted a three-­week-­long war game titled Millennium Challenge 2002, which involved 13,000 soldiers, countless computers, and a price tag of close to $250 million. Veteran Lieutenant General Paul Van Riper, who played the role of the Iraqi leader, chose to employ untraditional low-­tech tactics that relied on surprise and numbers rather than sophisticated technology. Van Riper created a flotilla of small, explosive-­laden kamikaze boats and planes in order to launch a surprise attack on the incoming American fleet. The result was sixteen sunken US warships, including one aircraft carrier and two helicopter carriers. The Pentagon had a clear and decisive reaction to this loss; it stopped the game and ignored the results. General Van Riper resigned and issued harsh public critique of the Pentagon (Borger 2002, 2). Again, the expensive carrier fleet was vulnerable and ineffective when facing a simple assortment of weaponry that required only a fraction of the procurement, maintenance, and operation costs of a carrier group. Despite the results of these war games, American naval planning includes a newly designed class of carriers, similar in size and function to the Nimitz class—­the current mainstay of the American carrier fleet.29 The carriers are heralded as the definitive instrument of power projection. They are intended to release American decision makers from the need to make political concessions in order to gain access to land bases. A carrier group can bring with it all the necessary equipment and thus offer ultimate strategic flexibility. However, all recent American operations required access to land bases, demonstrating the limits of carrier power. The expensive carrier force was unable to exempt the United States from the need to pay a political price for the use of allies’ airports, even when facing rivals such as Serbia, Afghanistan, and Iraq, who lack significant air force, navy, or missile capabilities. Thus, six carrier groups, more than half

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of the American carrier fleet, were needed to support a relatively modest military effort in Afghanistan (Lambeth 2005). Yet the participation of the carriers in these conflicts further bolstered their symbolic value, especially following President Bush’s “carrier speech”—­in itself an exercise in conspicuous consumption, which came with the not insignificant price tag of $800,000 to $1 million. While the American fleet of ten supercarriers is, without a doubt, “second to none,” it is also second to none in terms of its expense. Estimates for the life-­cycle cost of a US carrier vary. However, it is even more difficult to provide clear assessment for the opportunity costs of such gargantuan expense. Sokolsky argues that this unprecedented maritime supremacy produces paradoxical results. American carrier supremacy is “so overwhelming it was taken for granted by some; at the same time its very relevance was doubted” (Sokolsky 1989). While the carriers’ ability to serve as an effective instrument of invidious comparison is uncontested, their strategic utility is challenged by technological and geostrategic developments. Yet the carrier’s established symbolic value suggests that any actor wishing to claim an equal status to the United States will find it difficult to resist the need to develop comparable carrier capabilities regardless of their strategic merit. China China is the newest member of the carrier club. In September 2012, China officially commissioned its first carrier, the Liaoning (a Soviet Kuznetsovclass carrier renamed Varyag in Ukraine). Furthermore, China is reported to be in the process of constructing two additional, locally designed carriers. The Chinese carrier program attracts a lot of international attention, and its potential strategic and political significance is a topic of contention. The debate within China regarding the desirability of carrier procurement is illuminating. Chinese naval analysts are loosely divided into two camps: those who advocate specialization in submarine and missile technologies as a form of asymmetric naval warfare against the United States, and those who prefer carrier procurement in order to directly balance American capabilities. Members of the first camp tend to emphasize the exorbitant cost of the carrier and the potential for a Gatsby effect. Moreover, with limited technological know-­how, little operational experience, and no advanced defense systems, a carrier might become a “floating coffin” (Diamond 2006, 51). Carrier advocates, on the other hand, focus on the symbolic value of

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the carrier: China cannot be a great power without acquiring a carrier, the ultimate great-­power status symbol (Pu and Schweller 2014; Diamond 2006).30 Indeed, until the launching of the Liaoning, China was the only permanent member of the UN Security Council who was not also a member of the carrier club. The 2004 tsunami relief effort, in which Chinese ability to offer assistance was significantly hampered by lack of naval aviation, clinched the carrier advocate camp’s ability to muster enough support to jump-start an ambitious procurement program (Ross 1997; Kristof 1993; Kaplan 2005; Erickson and Wilson 2006; Sakhuja 2000). In strategic terms the Chinese carriers are not likely to be game changers. The exact condition of Liaoning, a refitted Soviet carrier, is unclear. In November 2013, a leaked Canadian document offered a critical assessment of the Liaoning’s capabilities. Even according to Chinese sources, at the time of the report’s writing, only five pilots had completed their carrier training. The Canadian document suggests that even this number was inflated. Even when fully operational, the small fleet of aircraft carried by the Liaoning is not likely to be effective in any significant future confrontation (Westhead 2013). The main role of this carrier is likely to be as a training platform. China purchased two other Russian carriers, the Minsk (1998) and the Kiev (2000) and turned them into tourist attractions (as part of theme parks and, in the case of the Kiev, as a luxury hotel) after a detailed study of their design (Diamond 2006, 41). The design of the local carriers is still not clear. Given China’s lack of experience, we may expect relatively small (10,000–­25,000-­ton) carriers. However, as Erickson and Wilson (2006) note, prestige considerations may push the Chinese to adopt bigger and bolder designs. Indeed, recent reports suggest that the new carriers are likely to be in the 50,000-­ton range. Yet building the carrier is just the first step. A carrier requires a flotilla of escorts as part of a cohesive carrier group. It also requires trained and experienced naval and air crews. Training for naval aviation is a dangerous and costly endeavor: “In 1954 alone, in working to master jet aviation off carriers, the US Navy lost nearly eight hundred aircraft. In 1999 the Navy lost only twenty-­two, but these were the most advanced aircraft flown by the world’s most experienced aviators” (Erickson and Wilson 2006, 53). Naval aviation, therefore, imposes significant cultivation restrictions that are likely to affect Chinese capabilities for a while. Any immediate effect of Chinese carrier procurement will therefore be political rather than strategic. Most observers frame the future Chinese carrier in categorical terms: by procuring an aircraft carrier, China is finally asserting its role as a bona fide great power. Prestige considerations make the carrier very attractive:

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“for a nation that has always felt profoundly insecure, nothing makes more sense than a spanking new aircraft carrier as a symbol that it has made it” (Kristof 1993, 70). This symbol, however, comes at a cost. With limited resources, China has to divert assets from other programs and services in order to fund carrier construction. Moreover, the same positional qualities that make the carrier so attractive also make it potentially dangerous. An assertive Chinese carrier program can be seen as a direct challenge to American status. Yet China’s interest in a carrier is not motivated only by comparisons with the United States. With a reinvigorated Indian carrier program and the Thai purchase of the Chakri Naruebet, China’s status as a regional power was also challenged (Diamond 2006, 44). Before China’s procurement decision, Ross (2005, 86) echoed these sentiments: “Thus far, China’s leadership has resisted the temptation to acquire this prestigious symbol of great-­power status. It apparently concurs with analysts who argue that China’s geopolitical constraints and the costs of dealing with the U.S. response would be punishing.” The Chinese are therefore facing a dilemma. Given the prominence of the carrier as a status symbol, they cannot establish themselves as a great power without building one. However, doing so can trigger consumption externalities and with them a spiral of further expenditure and excess.

Conclusions The analysis presented in this chapter has direct bearing on all four components of the conspicuous consumption argument. In particular, the dis­ cussion focused on the roles of conspicuousness, cultivation, and cost in establishing military symbols of prestige and affecting patterns of procurement. This enables us to identify the fingerprints of conspicuous consumption and differentiate between primary-­utility explanations, such as deterrence or bureaucratic politics, and secondary-­utility ones. A study of the historical role of the large battleship, especially in the context of the Anglo-­German naval competition, and a review of contemporary aircraft carriers demonstrate the tension between the symbolic value of the large ship as a bearer of prestige and its questionable value as a strategic asset. For deterrence theory, this tension presents a puzzle. For the Veblenian framework, this persistent tension is not a puzzle but rather a predictable indicator of conspicuous consumption. As the carrier survey demonstrates, carrier procurement is often accompanied by a discourse

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of prestige and a sensitivity to international social hierarchy. In particular, carriers are perceived as prerequisites for major power status. The carrier is the most notable contemporary example of the symbolic role of naval power. Despite technological advancements, the navy retains its position as the most expensive military service. As such, it is an attractive venue for invidious comparison. This generates pressure to procure bigger and more conspicuous vessels regardless of their utility or viability. In extreme cases, like those of the Vasa or Bismarck, such cycles of excess can lead to catastrophic results. Yet even in more benign cases, societal opportunity costs are immense. What could have been achieved if funds invested in the futile Anglo-­German naval arms race were invested elsewhere? This is a timely question when Chinese procurement decisions run the risk of igniting a naval arms race with the United States. Why then would anyone “use an ox cleaver to kill a chicken”? Precisely because of the excess and waste embedded in such an act. This conspicuous extravagance is what makes the aircraft carrier one of the most effective and enduring symbols of power in contemporary international affairs. The unrivaled supremacy of the carrier when facing Afghanistan or Iraq offers a striking demonstration of might. The cost of the carrier guarantees its exclusivity. Using an ox cleaver to kill an ox demonstrates little and is therefore a poor signal. It involves no signaling cost. Thus, in a world of conspicuous consumers, the owner of an ox cleaver may be pur­ posely walking around looking for chickens.

chapter four

A Contest of Beneficence Prosociality in International Relations For we like to flatter ourselves by falsely attributing to ourselves a nobler motive, whereas in fact we can never, even by the most strenuous self-­examination, get entirely behind our covert incentives, since, when moral worth is at issue, what counts is not actions, which one sees, but those inner principles of actions that one does not see. (Kant [1785] 1997, 19–­20)

W

hen commenting on ethics, Rabbi Hillel famously asked, “If I am not for myself, who will be for me? If I am not for others, what am I?” Hillel’s first question captures the concept of self-­help, one of the most often-­cited characteristics of the international system (Waltz 1979; Schroeder 1994, 109; Mercer 1995, 233–­34). Yet Hillel does not stop with self-­help. His second question focuses on “other-­help,” or prosociality. This pair of normative maxims seems to offer contradictory prescriptions: how can we observe other-­help while practicing self-­help? This tension is especially pronounced in the self-­proclaimed self-­help environment of international relations. A quick survey of international politics provides many examples of actors that are involved in other-­help. The forces of the United Nations Mission for the Referendum in the Western Sahara (MINURSO), for example, currently consists of  soldiers, policemen, and observers from thirty-­three countries including Mongolia, Paraguay, El Salvador, and Poland. International relations theory, with its emphasis on self-­help, finds it difficult to explain such prosocial behavior. What explains the participation of these countries in this remote mission, which has already claimed fifteen fatalities?1 Helping others often consumes resources that are no longer available for self-­help. This is especially striking when life and limb are at stake. Thus, the decision to consume prosocial goods, such as sending peacekeepers,

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participating in humanitarian interventions, offering emergency relief, providing mediation services, or donating foreign aid, is somewhat perplexing, especially when analyzed within a rationalist framework. Consequently, the literature offers little in the way of rationalist analysis of prosociality. Instead, the discussion of prosocial behavior is often marginalized, and when it does occur it is analyzed as a pronorm behavior and an indication of socialization and norm internalization (Ikenberry and Kupchan 1990; Johnston 2001). Analyzing prosociality within the framework of conspicuous consumption does not necessarily contradict the socialization literature. Prestige, after all, is a thoroughly social concept. Yet the conspicuous consumption approach still rests on a rationalist foundation. Accordingly, the analysis in this chapter focuses, at least initially, on the identification of the possible payoffs of prosocial behavior. If prosociality can generate prestige, the tension between self-­help and other-­help is resolved. Thus, in this chapter I highlight those aspects of prosociality that demonstrate the hallmarks of prestige-­seeking behavior. Empirically, prosocial policies are rarely analyzed together under one theoretical framework. Instead there are separate bodies of work on issues like aid or mediation but little overarching discussion treating such policies as related examples of a broader phenomenon. Moreover, while one can easily find substantial literature regarding the efficacy of UN peacekeeping operations, relatively little has been written about the motivations of contributing members. The literature regarding the determinants of foreign aid is more developed but is still lagging behind the literature analyzing the effectiveness of foreign aid, both in quantity and in theoretical sophistication. The same is true of the mediation literature.2 The growing literature on humanitarianism, on the other hand, mainly focuses on the motivations and practices of nonstate actors but generally ignores prosocial actions by states (Barnett 2005, 2009; Stein 2001). The puzzle of international prosociality is further compounded by the following observation: at times, international prosocial efforts do little to improve the welfare of the recipients. Decades of foreign aid have so far culminated in a relatively dismal record of success. Some critics go as far as arguing that foreign aid and even humanitarian assistance have had a net negative effect on developing countries.3 The record of UN peacekeeping has been similarly questioned and is most often found to have no discernable influence on conflict outcome, duration, or recurrence (Diehl, Reischneider, and Hensel 1996; Lipson 2007).4 Similarly, the number of failed mediation efforts outweighs any anecdotal evidence of success. Bercovitch and Diehl

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(1997) find little evidence that mediation affected the behavior of enduring rivals or that it reduced the probability of future conflict. Nevertheless, Bercovitch and Schneider (2000) argue that past failure as a mediator does not dissuade actors from embarking on future mediation efforts. Furthermore, international prosociality tends to persist and grow regardless of demand. James Fearon (2008), for example, finds that emergency aid relief grew significantly since the end of the Cold War despite a decrease in the number of civil wars and a decline in subsequent refugee populations worldwide. Prosocial policies, then, seem only tenuously connected to the needs of the recipients. This raises questions regarding the motivations of the donors. What then explains the persisting allure of international prosociality? In this chapter I identify ten puzzling empirical patterns of international prosociality. While it is possible to find alternative explanations for some of these puzzles, a model that hopes to provide a unified theoretical explanation for prosocial behavior should be able to account for all of them. As I demonstrate in this chapter, all ten observations are consistent with the conspicuous consumption framework. No other single analytical model is able to provide an explanation for all ten observations. Discussion of these puzzles is peppered throughout the chapter. The observations are as follows: 1. Prosociality has been constantly increasing since the end of World War II. 2. International prosocial efforts often do little to improve the welfare of the recipients. 3. International prosocial efforts often do little to improve the material welfare of the donors. 4. In many cases we can observe contests of beneficence defying the logic of collective action. 5. Patterns of foreign aid show a convergence on a small number of recipients. 6. Middle powers carry a relatively heavier burden of foreign aid. 7. Middle powers have been reducing their support for peacekeeping over the last few decades. 8. International prosociality exhibits rampant tokenism. 9. Donors show a preference for conspicuousness, sometimes compromising the success of the prosocial endeavor. 10. Some actors refuse offers of prosocial assistance even in times of need.

In order to explore these puzzles and their connection to conspicuous consumption, we must first reach a clearer analytical definition of what

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prosociality means in the context of international relations. Hence, the chapter opens with a short theoretical discussion of prosociality and its possible connections to conspicuous consumption. I then develop a conspicuous consumption model of prosociality. Once the model is presented and explained, I survey three empirical implications of prosociality as conspicuous consumption: its connection to patterns of subordination and domination, its connection to conflict, and its interaction with class, mainly through an exploration of middle-­powers advocacy. The discussion weaves together insights from anthropology, philosophy, economics, and evolutionary biology to provide a rich theoretical analysis of prosociality as conspicuous consumption in international relations.

Rationalism and Prosociality Prosociality is a voluntary action that aims to assist other actors (Baston and Powell 2003). Benefitting others is not necessarily an altruistic act. Instead, prosocial actors may profit from their actions as well. They may receive material benefits, social benefits, or enjoy the warm glow of doing the right thing. In this sense there is no necessary tension between prosociality and rationalist models. An actor can help others as long as she gains enough returns to justify the investment. Prosociality is therefore defined not by acting contrary to one’s self-­interest but by acting to benefit another’s. Valavanis’s formulation offers a useful framework for our purposes (Valavanis 1958; see also Frohlich 1974; Fitzgerald 1975). Valavanis differentiates between two types of utility. The first is derived from the consumption of goods, while the second, a vicarious utility, is obtained from the welfare of other actors (Frohlich 1974, 61).5 In the extreme case of “love thy neighbor as thyself,” for example, the actor derives the same utility from her neighbor’s consumption of a unit of goods as she would from her own consumption of it (Fitzgerald 1975, 477). But this is not a necessary condition for prosociality. Instead, an actor still shows prosocial tendency when her neighbor’s consumption of a unit of goods provides her with a fraction of the utility she would get from consuming the same unit herself. This is true as long as her “vicarious utility” is positive for an increase in the welfare of the other actor. Valavanis does not define the source of this vicarious utility. It can be a result of ideology, psychology, or some other form of positive retribution. In most economic studies of prosociality, such vicarious effects are treated as externalities. Andreoni (1990) refers to the vicarious utility of prosociality as warm glow

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giving—­a sense of personal satisfaction experienced by the donor (see also Arrow 1971; Andreoni 1995a, 1995b).6 However, because most prosocial policies consume resources and impose significant opportunity costs, helping others may come at the expense of self-­help. The consumption of resources in the name of other-­help in the competitive environment of international politics is, therefore, somewhat puzzling. Analytically, spending precious resources in order to benefit others can be seen as a form of luxury. Normatively, Sir Francis Bacon famously quipped that there is no excess in charity. In practice, since charity consumes resources, there can be no charity in the absence of excess. A prosocial actor needs sufficient resources to ensure self-­help as well as enough resources to practice other-­help. Prosociality is therefore a signal of actors’ access to an excess of resources. When applied empirically, it is not always easy to identify what benefits prosocial international actors hope to receive or whether such benefits exist at all. Even more problematic is the assertion that it is not always possible to identify discernable benefits to the recipients, nullifying the possibility of vicarious utility. Constructivist models escape the need to identify such benefits by analyzing prosociality as driven by the logic of appropriateness (March and Olsen 1998; Johnston 2001). Prosociality, according to such analyses, is driven by the internalization of social norms and hence has less to do with calculations of costs and benefits. For rationalist accounts the identification of benefits is crucial. Indeed, most rationalist analysis of prosociality focuses on the search for a robust model of such benefits. Extending this discussion to international relations, we should expect states to participate in prosocial endeavors only when there is a stable mechanism that ensures the provision of positive payment that balances or outweighs the cost. The existence of a stable mechanism that provides positive retribution is a necessary component of any rational model of prosociality. This positive retribution can operate either directly through material and social benefits or vicariously through the warm-­glow-­giving effect. The most intuitive answer is to view prosociality as providing a collective good. By assisting other group members, the actor is assisting the group as a whole. Because our actor is also a group member, assisting the group is in her best interest: instability in one area of the world is a threat to all members of the system; local conflicts, severe poverty, and extreme inequality create potential threats and reduce the welfare of the system as a whole (Sachs 2000).7 This line of argumentation stands at the heart of

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collective security arrangements and provides the raison d’être for United Nations peacekeeping operations (Kupchan and Kupchan 1995; Bobrow and Boyer 1997; Khanna, Sandler, and Shimizu 1996; Shimizu and Sandler 2002). However, this explanation of prosociality is susceptible to problems of collective action (Olson 1965; Olson and Zeckhauser 1966; Hardin 1982). Improving the collective welfare of the group provides a benefit to all group members even if they did not partake in the prosocial effort. It is a prosocial act. This creates strong incentives for free riding, which is likely to result in an underprovision of the good. The collective welfare explanation, therefore, results in a tautology—­it suggests that prosociality is driven by prosociality. Some actors, for example, may have an unusually strong interest in the provision of the collective good. Such actors, according to Olson, constitute a “privileged” group in which “each of its members, or at least one of them, has an incentive to see that the collective good is provided even if he has to bear the full burden of providing it himself” (Olson 1965, 49–­ 50).8 This type of explanation is often used to account for the seemingly prosocial behavior of hegemons or great powers (Gilpin 1981; Kindleberger 1973; Stein 1984; Webb and Krasner 1989; for criticism, see Gowa 1989; Snidal 1985). Similarly, the literature on middle powers claims that their intermediate position in the international hierarchy turns them into a privileged prosocial group. Middle powers, according to this argument, are more prosocial because they have the highest stakes in keeping the system stable and peaceful (Holbraad 1984; Pinchaud 1966; Mackay 1969; Wood 1988; Gordon 1966; Boyd 1964, 81–­81; Pratt 1989, 1990; Lovbraek 1990; Naeck 1995, 184–­85). However, contrary to the expectations of hegemonic stability theory and theories of public goods, smaller countries, rather than big or even middle powers, carry more of the burden of UN peacekeeping (Bobrow and Boyer 1997, 729). Similarly, Hoadley (1980) finds that small Western countries tend to be more generous and offer higher levels of foreign aid than big Western powers. Privileged groups can also be formed by actors who are ideologically committed to prosociality. Actors can engage in prosocial policies simply because they believe that it is the right thing to do (Lumsdaine 1993; Van der Veen 2000; Thérien and Noël 2000). This explanation is often used to account for the internationalist policies of the Scandinavian countries (Pratt 1990; Lamsdaine 1993; Thérien and Noël 2000; Van der Veen 2000; Stokke 1989). However, even in the Scandinavian case, not all dimensions of foreign policy follow the prosocial line. If ideology is the motivating

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force, how can we account for inconsistencies across policy areas? Some of the most frequent participants in UN peacekeeping operations (such as Sweden, Brazil, the Netherlands, and Italy) are also among the biggest arms exporters to the developing world. This type of policy inconsistency seems to contradict an ideology-­based explanation (Naeck 1995, 168). A study of Swedish foreign aid in Africa, for example, finds that it is not distributed according to the level of need, as the ideology argument would suggest. Instead, the study finds “positive relationship . . . between aid levels and trade with recipient countries” (Schraeder, Hook, and Taylor 1998, 316). A connection between the ideology of the ruling party and the tendency to engage in prosocial policies has also been debated.9 However, Van der Veen (2000) finds that throughout the 1990s, left-­controlled governments were in fact correlated with lower levels of aid. Finally, when it comes to foreign aid, there is little statistical evidence to support the ideology argument. Instead geopolitical and economic factors are repeatedly shown to have greater explanatory power for foreign aid allocation (Alesina and Dollar 2000; Maizles and Nissanke 1984; Schraeder, Hook, and Taylor 1998; Aarse 1995; Hook 1995; McKinlay and Little 1977, 1979; Lebovic 1988; Meernik, Krueger, and Poe 1998). Consequently, De Carvalho and Neumann (2014) analyze the policies of a prominent international do-­gooder such as Norway as a form of prestige-­seeking behavior. Tokenism is another characteristic of prosociality that cannot be easily explained by ideology. Because the Scandinavian countries seem to make the strongest case for the ideology model, a closer inspection of their patterns of participation is especially damning. Indeed, a significant portion of Scandinavian prosociality seems to be little more than tokenism. In 2009, for example, Sweden participated in ten out of nineteen UN peacekeeping missions.10 However, in six out of the ten missions, the Swedish contribution was two participants. The biggest Swedish contribution was a contingency of seven experts that served as part of the UN Truce Supervision Organization in the Middle East (see also Coleman 2013). Compare these numbers to Morocco, who was involved in only two missions (in Congo and the Ivory Coast), with peacekeeping contingencies of 836 and 726 participants, respectively. Much of the Swedish participation in UN peacekeeping forces is therefore symbolic rather than substantial. Yet ac­ cording to Lumsdaine’s argument, it is the tokenistic Sweden who is fol­ lowing a moral ideological dictum rather than Morocco. Norway demonstrates a similar pattern in its foreign aid program. In 1997 Norway divided its generous aid funds between no less than 117 recipients. Of

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these recipients thirty-­six received less than 0.1 percent of the Norwegian aid budget (most of them getting less than 0.025 percent each). Only twenty of the 117 received aid that approached 1 percent of the allocated funds (Van der Veen 2000, 208).11 Another possible solution to the collective action problem of prosociality follows Axelrod’s (1984) classic analysis of reciprocity (see also Axelrod and Keohane 1985; Oye 1985; Keohane 1986; Bendor 1987; Peterson 1993; Sahlins 1972). Put simply, actors may participate in “other-­help” with the expectation of receiving some corresponding assistance in the future. In essence this is an explanation that sees prosociality as a form of exchange, or even bribery (Glazer and Konard 1996; Morgenthau 1962). Reciprocity can work directly or indirectly. Direct reciprocity assumes that an actor assists another in expectation that this specific recipient will offer future assistance in return. This suggests that Canada sent its forces to help ameliorate the tension between Israel and Egypt in 1956 with the expectation that these countries would send similar forces if Canada finds itself in a similar pickle in the future. Alternatively, Canada may have expected better trade relations, more responsiveness to its policies and needs, or some other forms of tangible reciprocal benefits. Yet the expectation for direct reciprocity is especially problematic in the international context. Many attributes of international actors are quite stable—­it is difficult to imagine Sweden moving from a donor status to that of a foreign aid recipient in the foreseeable future. In a similar way, Canada is unlikely to re­ quire the good services of Egyptian peacekeeping forces anytime soon. Even under a looser conceptualization of direct reciprocity it is not always clear what the recipient can provide as a compensation. It is doubtful that Mongolia’s decision to participate in MINURSO was motivated by an expectation of greater leverage vis-­à-­vis the Western Saharans. The indirect reciprocity variant expects other members in the system to provide the payback. According to this argument, Canada helped Israel and Egypt, expecting other members to come to its aid in the future if need arises. Indirect reciprocity quickly collapses into a collective action problem. Upholding the promise of indirect reciprocity is a collective good, and enforcing such commitments requires significant investment in prosociality (Keohane 1984; Guisinger and Smith 2002). Why should any third country volunteer to help Canada as a payback for assisting Egypt and Israel in 1956? Most importantly, understanding prosociality as a form of collective good cannot explain the occurrence of contests of beneficence. If the goal

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is to provide collective welfare, we should be most interested in the provision of the good rather than the identity of the provider. If anything, once someone volunteers to pay for the good, we should expect the rest of the actors to practice free riding. Accordingly, collective prosociality should be carried out in a manner that best serves the desired welfare outcome rather than in the most conspicuous way. Very little should be gained from getting credit for being a do-­gooder, even less from only pretending to be one. Thus, for example, the collective welfare model cannot account for the French behavior following UN Security Council resolution 1701 in the summer of 2006, which led to a tenuous truce between Israel and Hezbollah. In the days following the resolution, France, who initially agreed to head the international effort to augment peacekeeping forces in Lebanon, retracted its support for the peacekeeping force and offered only two hundred soldiers instead of the thousands of soldiers it originally committed to the mission. On August 22, 2006, Italy announced its willingness to lead the UN operations in Lebanon and to send between two and three thousand soldiers as the backbone of this new UN force. It took France less than forty-­eight hours to change its mind again, pledge two thousand soldiers, and reclaim its leadership. Such competitive behavior contradicts the expectations of a collective action model. Once Italy stepped in, France should have been able to free ride and enjoy the collective welfare that the Italian forces provided. However, French decision makers showed higher sensitivity to the identity of the provider than to the provision of the good. Similarly, it is difficult to explain why throughout the history of UN peacekeeping, very few countries contributed willingly to the logistical end of the missions even though the logistical dimension is just as crucial for the success of the mission. When countries do contribute to UN missions, they prefer to focus on the more conspicuous and glamorous operational side. Even Canada, a self-­declared do-­gooder and the initiator of UN peacekeeping, contributed more personnel than logistical support (Neack 1995). Similar patterns are observable in foreign aid. The formation of the Swedish International Development Agency (SIDA) in 1965 encouraged the Norwegians to upgrade their own aid program in order not to fall behind one of the most prominent competitors in their prestige space. The government immediately established a committee that led to the creation of the Norwegian Development Agency (NORAD) two years later (Van der Veen 2002, 35). The Canadians followed suit and established their own aid bureaucracy, CIDA (Canadian International Development Agency), in 1968. Here again, the provision of public goods

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did not encourage free riding but instead triggered a contest of beneficence. Only if the helper benefits privately from the act or receives some rewards from being credited for helping should we expect such behavior. Even more puzzling is Van der Veen’s observation of bandwagoning in aid allocation. Once a recipient receives a significant amount of foreign aid, it becomes more attractive to other donors and is therefore likely to attract even more aid flows (Van der Veen 2000, 241). Given the scarcity of aid, we should not see this type of crowding if donors are truly interested in helping as many recipients as possible. Barnett (2005, 731) describes a similar dynamic in the allocation of emergency humanitarian aid following the Asian tsunami in 2004. The disaster triggered a contest of beneficence in which donors tried to outbid each other in order to avoid censure and gain stature. Such crowding often saturates the ability of recipient communities to absorb the incoming aid (Moyo 2009). Similarly, we should not observe cases of symbolic assistance and tokenism. Only if there is some value to the act of giving itself, independent of its effect on the recipient or on the collective welfare of all group members, would symbolic acts of prosociality make sense. Competitions of beneficence suggest that actors gain some private utility from prosociality. Indeed, one of the most common explanations for international prosociality is that some of the donors actually profit from their contribution. The financial compensation and training that donors get for contributing forces to UN peacekeeping, for example, can allow poorer nations to finance their militaries, afford better salaries for military personnel, offer better training, gain operational experience, and stock up on equipment (Bobrow and Boyer 1997, 727; Shimizu and Sandler 2002, 654). This can explain why the top three contributors to UN peacekeeping are Pakistan, Bangladesh, and India, populous and relatively poor countries. A similar argument is used to explain food aid donations. It has been suggested that donors are simply interested in cutting expenses for the storage of food surpluses and hence are happy to ship some of their redundant stocks away (Uvin 1992, 297).12 This is a very plausible explanation for some prosocial acts. However, while it works well for the top contributors of personnel to UN operations, it is difficult to find an equiva­ lent benefit that can result from foreign aid or mediation in foreign conflicts. However, there is no reason to assume that private paybacks are always paid through material goods. If prosociality can generate secondary utility in the form of prestige or pride, it can offer a more generalizable solution to the prosociality puzzle.

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Prosociality as Conspicuous Consumption The conspicuous consumption model provides a simple answer to the prosociality puzzle: actors engage in prosociality in an attempt to gain prestige. The noninstrumental nature of prosociality makes it an attractive costly signal—­the actor is strong enough to practice self-­help and yet has sufficient resources to help others. In fact, viewing other-­help as a costly signal has become one of the most prominent explanations for prosociality among biologists, zoologists, and economists (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997; Offer 1997; Van Vugt and Hardy 2010; McAndrew 2002; Zahavi 1975; Grafen 1990a, 1990b; Maynard Smith 1991; Glazer and Konrad 1996). The costly signals explanation gained popularity because it is the only analytical model that offers a self-­enforcing mechanism for positive retribution through the effect of prosociality on social stratification and prestige. Similar interpretations of prosociality and generosity have been widely applied in anthropological analyses as well (Mauss 1990; Gurven et al. 2000; Clark and Blake 1996; Malinowski 1932; Hage, Harary, and James 1986; Fiske 1990; Hyde 2007). The following discussion extends this growing literature to international relations. If indeed conspicuous consumption is at play in international prosociality, we should observe a preference for conspicuousness, sensitivity to hierarchy, and dynamic adoption of status symbols. We should see actors more interested in being seen as providing assistance and less interested in the actual effect of that assistance. We should expect symbolic policies, tokenism, and a preference for grandiose projects. In the case of hierarchy, we should observe different patterns of prosociality based on actors’ locations in the international social stratification. Finally, we should expect actors to adopt or reject prosocial policies based on their utility as credible instruments for invidious comparison. Other hints regarding the workings of conspicuous consumption are likely to be found in the discourse surrounding international prosociality. Even a superficial study of  international aid provides a plethora of references to prestige. Thus, when discussing aid allocation in Italy, proponents of foreign aid argued that “a country obtained prestige and weight in the international context in proportion to its activities in the Third World” (Van der Veen 2002, 20–­21). Similarly, following its defeat in the Falklands War, Argentina tried to regain prestige by becoming the biggest contributor of peacekeepers in Latin America in hope of acquiring “ ‘first-­world’ status”

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(Bain et al. 1999; Goodman 1999). Observers note that President Carlos Menem and his advisers believed that “one of the best ways to top tier status is participation in international peacekeeping operations” (Evers 1997). Similarly, a 1951 governmental review of Dutch technical assistance missions concluded that such programs are likely to “establish the Dutch name” and “increase the respect for the Netherlands, with consequences in many areas” (Van der Veen 2002, 23; Arens 2003, 458). In his review of Nordic participation in peacekeeping missions, Jakobsen (2006, 386) similarly concludes that “the rise of the Nordic model can, in short, be explained by the fact that it generated power, pride and prestige on the cheap.” Conversely, Norwegian parliament members emphasized the need to manage foreign aid in a way that maximized the country’s reputation, while others warned that “development aid is a serious international task, and must not be treated as some form of international competition between nations where the most important consideration is one’s rank in a table,” highlighting the pressures toward a contest of beneficence (Van der Veen 2002, 26–­27). More recently, Barnett’s (2005) analysis of the post-­tsunami humanitarian effort similarly identifies prosociality as a “status category” pushing countries toward a contest of beneficence. Similarly, Brazilian assistance to Haiti following the devastating 2010 earthquake has been analyzed as an attempt to gain “prestige and international acknowledgement to Brazilian involvement in global affairs,” bolstering Brazil’s ambition “to take center stage in multilateral politics” and gain a seat at the UN Security Council (Hirst 2010, 2). Less predictable donations to Haiti arrived from many African countries more often found on the receiving end of international prosociality. This move from recipient to donor has been wrapped with prestige discourse as well. Guillaume Lacaille, an analyst for the International Crisis Group in Nairobi, analyzed African donations as a “matter of prestige. . . . It doesn’t always go well with the people, though. When this was decided, a lot of Congolese reacted negatively to it. But the government has said, this is a matter of pride, we are an African country, and we have to give something” (Baldauf 2010). The antiaid demonstrations in Congo emphasize the opportunity costs of international prosociality and the potential for a Gatsby effect for poorer do-­gooders. These are but several examples of many allusions to prestige considerations in the prosociality discourse. However, in the absence of the conspicuous consumption model, the connection between prosociality and prestige remains unspecified. Once we understand prosociality as a form of conspicuous consumption, this narrative of prestige receives clearer

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theoretical grounding. The same is true for conspicuousness. Many prosocial endeavors show a strong preference for conspicuousness and empty grandeur. In the early decades of post–­World War II prosociality, Morgenthau identified a penchant for big capital projects that generated very few tangible economic benefits. The unprofitable or idle steel mill, the highway without traffic and leading nowhere, the airline operating with foreign personnel and at a loss but under the flag of the recipient country—­all ostensibly serve the purpose of economic development and under different circumstances might do so. Actually, however, they perform no positive economic function. (Morgenthau 1962, 303)

For Morgenthau, this type of aid had little to do with the needs of the recipients or with economic logic and more to do with political calculus, because such projects reflected on the prestige of the donor: “A limited commitment of resources in the form of a spectacular but economically use­ less symbol of modernity may bring disproportionate political dividends” (Morgenthau 1962, 304). More recent studies identify a similar preference for large-­scale and capital-­rich projects that lead to suboptimal utilization of aid resources and sometimes adversely affect the recipients (Tendler 1975; Ensign 1992; Van der Veen 2000, 157; Moyo 2009). Indeed, interna­ tional prosociality is packed with examples of failed projects, sym­bolic policies, tokenism, and outright folly. The discussion so far has emphasized patterns that were already explored in previous chapters. However, prosociality offers insights into more nuanced dynamics of the conspicuous consumption model. In particular, it emphasizes the role of hierarchy and social bonds. In order to explore these aspects, I will first offer an overview of the relevant literature on prosociality and consumption before turning to develop three important dimensions of prosociality: the connections between prosociality, subordination, and dominance; the link between prosociality and conflict; and finally, the relation between prosociality and class. Prosociality as a Costly Signal: An Overview Analyses of prosociality as a case of conspicuous consumption are increasingly prevalent among evolutionary anthropologists, zoologists, and economists. I have already alluded to Zahavi’s “handicap principle” in previous chapters. In their book, Zahavi and Zahavi utilize the handicap

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principle in order to develop an explanation for altruism. They argue that altruistic behavior helps establish the pecking order within social groups (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997, chap. 12). Alden Smith and Blige Bird’s (2000) study of turtle hunting patterns among the Meriam Islanders finds no evidence of reciprocity as an explanation for prosociality and instead supports a model that views prosociality as a source of rank and prestige. Similarly, in his seminal study of the Kula Ring of the Trobriand Islands, Malinowski (1932, 60–­61) describes puzzling practices of local prosociality: farmers do not enjoy the fruits of their labor and instead divert 75 percent of the crops to their sisters’ families or to the local chief. What then drives the farmer to invest in the quality of his crops? The food is exhibited publically in ornate displays before it is gifted and consumed. The locals visit the gardens to observe the quality of the gifts, and prestige is bestowed accordingly. Interestingly, a commoner faces serious risks if his prosocial food display surpasses the display of the chief. For Malinowski, prosociality is tightly connected to prestige and power. Gurven et al. (2000) find that Ache households in eastern Paraguay get more than 70 per­cent of their food through sharing with others. Those able to contribute more than their share gain prestige. Similarly, studies of early modern Europe find strong connections between patterns of conspicuous hospitality and class distinctions (Heal 1964; Thomson 1993, 19–­21). Finally, an archeological study of Central America leads Clark and Blake (1996, 276) to conclude that patterns of prosociality were the main engine that led to the creation of stratification and hierarchy in those societies. Other studies focus on cross-­cultural variance in participation in prosocial behavior. Wetherell (1982) finds higher levels of generosity toward the out-­group among Polynesian children when compared with groups of European children. Mercer (1995, 224) suggests that what Wetherell observed might not be a lack of competitiveness but rather a contest of beneficence. De Cremer, Snyder, and Dewitte (2001) focus on actors’ willingness to contribute to the provision of public goods. They find that donors are more likely to donate when their donations are visible and identifiable. Interestingly, Van Vugt and Hardy (2010) find that donors are more likely to donate when the public good they are contributing to is unattainable. More prestige is bestowed on actors that contribute to such unachievable goals. However, donors are less likely to support pointless goals if their donations are inconspicuous. These counterintuitive findings follow the logic of conspicuous consumption and provide a good description of many unproductive prosocial endeavors in international relations.

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chapter four If a contribution is critical in providing a public good . . . the donation might be perceived as entirely selfishly motivated. After all, when givers profit personally from the good they help to create, they have a personal incentive to contribute. . . . Therefore, this might not be interpreted as a reliable signal of a person’s generosity or resources because any rational individual would be expected to contribute under those circumstances. Yet when a person is essentially wasting their resources on a public good that is unattainable—­paradoxically—­this provides more reliable information about their underlying qualities. . . . People are perhaps extra motivated to contribute to public goods and charities that already have sufficient support . . . or are unlikely to be secured, provided that these contributions are public rather than private. (Van Vugt and Hardy 2010, 5)

Blurton Jones (1984, 1987) and Hawkes (1993) offer an alternative model for prosociality in primitive societies. According to Hawkes, prosociality is a form of “tolerated theft” in which the “haves” allow the “have-­nots” to partake in their surplus because defending these surpluses is likely to prove more costly than allowing some excess to be consumed (see also Peterson 1993). Thus, for example, in his seminal study of primate politics, Frans de Waal (2007, 197–­99) finds that food sharing occurs only when there is an excess of food—­when hunger is satiated and therefore the cost of policing exceeds the cost of sharing. The tolerated-­ theft argument offers an interesting way for thinking about prosociality in international relations. However, even according to a model of tolerated theft, a prosocial act is a reliable signal for capabilities and rank—­it separates the haves from the have-­nots. In the case of the chimps, de Waal (2007, 199) finds that the alpha male supervises the distribution of food excesses, leading him to conclude that control within chimp society “rests on giving.” Glazer and Konrad (1996) use a costly signal model as a basis for understanding charity. They argue that prosociality enjoys a high level of broadcast efficiency when compared to other forms of consumption, since the provision of public goods is likely to be observed by all group members. Their model offers an interesting account of the evolution of prosociality. According to the authors, the initial act of giving is likely to be motivated by a real commitment to other-­help. In this case, the value of charity as a prestige-­enhancing signal is an unintended externality. However, this externality attracts status seekers who value the secondary utility of giving and now opportunistically join the ranks of the do-­gooders. These status seekers trigger a contest of beneficence that increases the cost of charity.

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The first ones to be pushed out of the philanthropy game are the poorest of the real altruists. Because their original goal is met—­a collective good is being provided to the needy—­there is no reason for them to stay in the game. Contests of beneficence are irrational for a “real” altruist. This process of crowding out enhances the exclusivity of prosociality and with it its attractiveness to status seekers. Over time the charity act itself becomes more of a status symbol than an instrumental tool for the provision of public goods. Glazer and Konrad’s description of the evolution of prosociality recalls the fortunes of Zam Zammah, that “fire-­breathing dragon,” and other international status symbols. This overview emphasizes the role of prestige as a positive retribution that compensates the do-­gooder. In this sense, the conspicuous consumption model maintains the structure of barter—­we trade assistance for prestige. However, this is a very different barter than other market exchanges because it combines material and social payments. Thus, the conspicuous consumption model of prosociality pushes us toward Bataille’s ([1976] 1991) General Economy—­an economic analysis that focuses on the exchanges of honor and power in addition to the traditional economic focus on transactions of goods and services.13 Conspicuous consumption solves the collective action problem that afflicts other reciprocal models of prosociality by relying on positive retribution that operates automatically through deeply rooted social institutions. The robustness of this model is preserved as long as the social institutions that bestow prestige on conspicuous consumers are retained. This barter between material goods and the establishment of social hierarchy, which is endemic to the conspicuous consumption argument, is especially pronounced in the case of prosociality. Prosociality, Subordination, and Dominance The full political and social meaning of international prosociality remains concealed if our analysis dawdles within the confines of the market analogy. Prosocial exchange is inherently different from other market activities. Polanyi famously argued that the market is not the only possible structure of economic exchange and that the primacy of market analysis in contemporary economic theorizing obscures the role of alternative forms of exchange that have dominated the bulk of human history. Polanyi suggested reciprocity, or gift giving, as one of these alternative structures (Polanyi 1944, 1957, 1971; North 1977). Unlike simple market barter, the gift economy includes substantive “process benefits”—­such exchange generates

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communication, social bonds, and hierarchical structures regardless of the material value of the gift (Offer 1997, 451; Hyde 2007; Fiske 1990). Understanding international prosociality as part of the gift economy highlights these social and political dynamics. Viewing process benefits as externalities overlooks the social and political role of the gift economy. The creation of social hierarchy and protection of social bonds are often the main goals of the exchange, the material gift being but a symbol of the political undertones. Analyzing international prosociality as gift giving brings the role of conspicuous consumption to the forefront. The link between prosocial ex­change and the formation of hierarchical relations is central to this argument. In many societies higher status is established and preserved through acts of giving—­a sort of noblesse oblige (Malinowski 1932; Fiske 1990; Sahlins 1972, 132–­52; de Waal 2007, 199). Giving transforms hierarchical structures from ones that rely on domination through brute force to ones that rely on the more subtle workings of prestige. Thus, for example, gift giving often accompanies the conclusion of international conflicts. The Marshall Plan and American investment in Japan at the end of World War II signaled a shift toward cooperative relations while bolstering American dominance. The end of the Vietnam War, conversely, was not accompanied by an equivalent exchange or by a similar transformation of the relations between the adversaries (Hyde 2007). A closer look at the politics of gift giving is instructive. In a classic study of social comparison processes Leon Festinger describes an experiment conducted to study competition among children: Greenberg ran an experiment with children in which they needed to take blocks out of a common pile and build something with them. Taking blocks was deemed a competitive behavior whereas giving blocks to another child was deemed noncompetitive. The observers noted that when a child’s construction was much better than his peer’s, he tended to be helpful and offer blocks. After that help, the two constructions were almost identical, but both children agreed that the helping child’s construction was better. “Sometimes when a child gave another a ‘stone,’ it was not at all an act of disinterested generosity, but a display of friendly competition and superior skill” (Festinger 1954, 128; Greenberg 1932). As this experiment demonstrates, prosociality offers a relatively reliable index of the helping child’s ability and hence establishes his superior position vis-­à-­ vis the recipient. Consequently, being a recipient is a sign of weakness and need.

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Patterns of gift exchange are a good example of the social signals attached to receiving or giving. Studies show that recipients try to match the value of gifts they receive. Consequently we tend to give more expensive presents to rich relatives than to poor ones, even though the poorer relations may have a greater need for presents and may use and value them more (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997, 226–­29). Cross-­national comparisons of tipping patterns find that tipping, a form of nonreciprocal giving, is more prevalent in more hierarchical societies (Lynn 1997). Keohane (1986, 7) notes that true reciprocity can only exist among equals. Accordingly, any prosocial offering across status differentials cannot be truly reciprocal because it involves power exchange. Mauss makes similar observations in his classic anthropological study of gift-­giving practices around the world. The unreciprocated gift still makes the person who has accepted it inferior, particularly when it has been accepted with no thought of returning it. . . . Charity is still wounding for him who accepted it, and the whole tendency of our morality is to strive to do away with the unconscious and injurious patronage of the rich almsgiver. (Mauss 1990, 63)14

Peterson (1993, 860) notes that in certain cultures “giving can be construed as both rude and dominating— ­even as an aggressive act.” Power exchanges that occur through acts of giving and receiving led Derrida to conclude that a pure gift is an impossibility. Once a gift is recognized as such by either the giver or the recipient, it is no longer pure and free because it entails an exchange of power (Derrida 1991; Laidlaw 2000).15 Maimonides endeavored to minimize such power exchange by prescribing anonymous and inconspicuous giving as the preferable and most righteous forms of charity (Bremner 1996, 18). An expectation of perfect reciprocity—­a gift for a gift, an eye for an eye— ­commodifies the gift and pushes it back into the familiar realm of market exchange (Hyde 2007, 90). In many examples of gift economy there is a conscious effort to decouple reciprocity, either through an institutionalized delay in reciprocation or in the establishment of indirect reciprocity, in an effort to prevent such commodification (Hage, Harary, and James 1986, 109). Perfect reciprocity thus depoliticizes prosociality. International prosociality, far from being reciprocal, is therefore highly political. International actors often prefer to incur high costs rather than be seen on the receiving end of prosociality. Strong actors rarely accept charity even

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in times of need. In a similar way even weaker actors can try to gain prestige by refusing help or by offering help to the needier. Turning down assistance is a way of establishing an actor’s ability to resist the dominance of the donor. In times of great need, refusing help is conspicuous and costly; in a way it is a striking form of voluntary handicap. In the perfectly material and apolitical world of market exchange, we should never observe an actor snub an offer of free benefits. Voluntary deprivation makes sense only within the context of gift economy. Mauss notes that in many archaic societies, refusing a gift could lead to war. Only those on the top end of the social hierarchy are usually strong enough to be able to reject a present and force the other actor to challenge them to a conflict or accept defeat (Mauss 1990, 41). Again, a model that ignores power and prestige cannot account for these patterns and thus misses an important dimension of the politics of prosociality. This is especially true when applied to international relations, a field which is often depicted as dominated to the point of obsession with power relations and relative gains (Mearsheimer 2001; Waltz 1979; Brooks 1997; Powell 1991, 1994; Snidal 1991). Hence, it is not surprising that the United States refused to accept almost all offers of search-and-rescue assistance following the September 11 attacks and was very reluctant to accept aid in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. On the other end of the scale, we can find Zimbabwe’s Mugabe refusing much-needed food assistance for his starving population, officially due to concerns over genetically modified organisms, or North Korea’s initial rejection of food aid because of concerns regarding mad cow disease. In 1992, Indonesia announced that it will no longer accept Dutch aid because with it came too much intervention in its domestic affairs (Van der Veen 2000, 227). Through this unusual and costly act, Indonesia was striving to improve its position in power relations with its former colonial ruler. Conversely, some African states tried to utilize their contribution to Haiti following the 2010 earthquake as a prestige policy, signaling their shift from recipients to donors. As the Indonesian-­Dutch case demonstrates, prosociality rarely comes without some exertion of control over the recipient. In international relations this is often institutionalized explicitly through aid conditionalities. While aid conditionalities are rarely enforced, they serve as an explicit reminder of the power relation between the donor and the recipient (Kosack and Tobin 2006). This exertion of control is a natural outcome of a prosocial act. The act of giving serves as a signal that institutionalizes

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the relative ranking of the actors. It helps in fleshing out deference and subordination and establishes a social bond between the donor and the recipient. Thus, the recipient trades increased subordination for material benefits and tighter connections to a member of a higher class. This combination of material benefits and social bonds may offset the loss of autonomy. David Lake (2009, 104–­11), for example, finds that the United States is more likely to offer military assistance to its subordinates in time of crisis. American willingness to intervene on behalf of its subordinates increases with increased levels of hierarchy. While gift giving consolidates a dominant-­subordinate relationship between the donor and the recipient, it also helps bystanders identify local structures of hierarchy. This signaling is achieved through a conspicuous demonstration of excess on one side and a conspicuous demonstration of need on the other. The conspicuousness of giving is thus crucial for the establishment of social hierarchy. Therefore, the target audience of generosity is not limited to the recipients. Studies of philanthropy, for example, find that most of the signaling is directed at other members of the elite, who know who sits on what board and how much it costs to buy a table at a charity dinner (Ostrower 1997). Van der Veen uses a similar logic to explain the convergence of foreign aid donors on a few attractive recipients. By contributing to the same recipient, donors ensure that their donation is visible to other competing donors (Van der Veen 2000, 241). Thus, once a recipient gains aid from one donor, it increases the probability of gaining aid from others. This bandwagoning increases the broadcast efficiency of the prosocial signal and offers a more contained environment for a contest of beneficence.16 Prosociality and Conflict For Zahavi and Zahavi (1997) a contest of beneficence is the main indication that prosociality is used as a signal of status contestation, conspicuously carried out in front of a prestige space. International competition is often described in ways that connect it to arms races, violence, and war. Contests of beneficence allow competitors to battle using more palatable means. Is there a way to understand a shift from competition through violence to contestation through generosity? Evolutionary theorists provide an account for such transformation (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997). In functionalist terms a contest of beneficence offers a more efficient and less destructive method of competition. Groups that establish hierarchy

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through fighting use a very costly process for signaling their status and capabilities. The use of threats and ritualized forms of aggressive behavior as a substitute for fighting could reduce these costs. The anthropology of war provides many examples of limited and ritualized forms of fighting aimed at reducing the cost of contestation while allowing for some demonstration of capabilities and rank (Keegan 1993). But threats are still pricey. For threats to be credible, they need to be costly (Fearon 1994a). Moreover, if signaling fails, a fight has to be fought. A failed threat may harm an actor’s reputation not only vis-­à-­vis the rival but also vis-­à-­vis other bystanders. Third parties may even use this revealed weakness as an opportune time for an attack. This is especially true in closely knit societies, in which all interactions are closely monitored by all other members. Thus, the next evolutionary step is to further distance the contestation from actual fighting. Zahavi and Zahavi (1997, 142) suggest that “actions that are not direct threats but are closely related to an individual’s ability to win a struggle can take the place of threats. . . . The altruist’s investment in the prosocial act offers a reliable, concrete index of the individual’s ability.” As in the case of the evolution of signals, the movement toward a contest of beneficence starts with the use of indexes with robust intrinsic restrictions. In order to be a donor, an actor has to be able to produce excess wealth. Therefore, prosociality is dependent on core power indexes and thus can play an effective role as a test of status. Once a contest of beneficence is institutionalized, it proves to be socially superior to the more traditional forms of competition and thus improves the welfare of the group that adopts it.17 In the potlatch celebrations, the host used to end the ceremonial feast by giving expensive gifts to members of other kin groups. This was often accompanied by burning or destroying part of his own property in order to demonstrate his superior wealth. This demonstration of consumption and beneficence was deemed instrumental to the establishment of social position. Codere (1950) points out that this practice arose concurrently with a decline in violent warfare.18 The institutionalization of this lavish contest of beneficence and excess served as a substitute for war. Similarly, Mauss notes that in many societies festivals and wars are closely connected, and one can turn into the other very rapidly. It is a competition to see who is the richest and also the most madly extravagant. Everything is based upon the principles of antagonism and rivalry. The political status of individuals in the brotherhood and clans, and ranks of all

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kinds, are gained in a “war of property,” just as they are in a real war, or through chance, inheritance, alliance, and marriage. Yet, everything is conceived of as if it were a “struggle of wealth.” . . . In a certain number of cases, it is not even the question of giving and returning gifts, but of destroying, so as not to give the slightest hint of desiring your gift to be reciprocated. . . . Objects are broken and thrown into the water, in order to put down and “flatten” one’s rival. In this way one not only promotes oneself, but also one’s family, up the social scale. (Mauss 1990, 37)

The potlatch example offers another explanation for the rise of contests of beneficence. Potlatch feasts became more about “fighting with property” when tribal societies were facing growing outside intrusion that limited their ability to use force. We can therefore expect groups in which the use of force is not common, or not feasible, to adopt alternative patterns of competition as substitutes. If this is correct, we should expect beneficence competitions to be more prevalent among members of stable regional subsystems in which the use of force is very unlikely. It is therefore not a coincidence that foreign aid appeared as an integral part of international relations in the years following the end of World War II, when the cost of systemic, rank-­defining wars was proven agonizingly high (Lumsdaine 1993, 33; Mueller 1998). Nuclear weapons further reduced the probability of a survivable war and necessitated the development of alternative modes of competition (Gaddis 1987). The sharp increase in humanitarian aid in the decades following the end of the Cold War signals a similar process of substitution (Barnett 2005). Van der Veen (2000, 165) argues that the most prosocial countries are those who, because of geographic, historic, and economic constraints, have a very limited ability to gain prestige through other means. Similarly, Gordon (1996, 51) analyzes Canadian prosociality as stemming from “aggressive modesty,” as Canadians realized that their geographic location and resources “made major power pretensions unrealistic” and therefore forced Canada to “salvage chauvinistic satisfaction from espousal of an in between position which is not quite major and certainly not minor.” Wylie (2009) also argues that Canadian foreign policy is often driven by prestige-­ seeking considerations. In particular, she looks at Canadian leadership in the development of the International Criminal Court as a form of prestige-­ seeking behavior. This argument is consistent with Hoadly’s (1980) findings that within the Organization for Economic Co-­operation and Development (OECD), smaller countries tend to be more generous. Similarly,

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Japan, upon which were imposed severe limitations on its ability to use violence, was forced to search for alternative venues for capability demonstration. Consequently, in absolute terms, Japan offers the second largest aid program in the world. Suzuki (2008) finds strong connection between Japanese (and Chinese) participation in UN peacekeeping operations and its quest for great-­power status. He concludes that powers that fall just short of the great-­power mark, what he terms “frustrated powers,” can turn to prosociality and contests of beneficence in order to gain recognition. Status competitions, therefore, are not always fought through violent conflict. Consequently, middle powers, which match Suzuki’s frustrated powers definition, are among the most likely candidates to be attracted to contests of beneficence. Middle powers are not strong enough to use force in order to compete with great powers, yet they are strong and rich enough to seek ways to differentiate themselves from the rest of the pack. Since middle powers are structurally constrained in their ability to use force as a venue for conspicuous consumption, they have an incentive to advocate prosociality as an alternative index of international social hierarchy. A contest of beneficence is, therefore, an attractive venue for such powers. A closer look at the connection between prosociality and class can shed some more light on the role of middle powers as international altruists. Class and Patterns of International Prosociality In their respective studies of relative income, Duesenberry (1949) and Frank (1985a) find that the cost of conspicuous consumption weighs more heavily on poorer actors, forcing them to consume higher fractions of their income.19 American donations to foreign aid and food aid are a good example of this pattern. While the United States is by far the biggest donor in absolute terms, it is among the most miserly in relative terms. Contests of beneficence force lower-­ranking donors to bear heavier economic burdens. Correspondingly, Round and Odedokun (2003) find that when defined in absolute terms, aid flows show progressivity in relation to donor income. However, in relative terms the share of national income devoted to aid decreases with donor size. This tension between absolute and relative terms is identical to the one predicted by Dusenberry’s and Frank’s relative consumption model. Similarly, Bobrow and Boyer (1997, 741) find that, contrary to the expectations of the hegemonic stability and public goods theories, poorer countries bear more of the financial burden of UN peacekeeping than richer countries. The failure of Olson and Zeckhauser’s

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(1966) exploitation hypothesis, which predicts that smaller countries are likely to exploit greater powers when jointly producing collective goods, is especially interesting in this context, since peacekeeping seems to be aimed at improving public welfare. If anything, in the case of international prosociality, it is the great powers who are doing the exploitation and relative free riding. This heavier burden is likely to be tolerated as long as it proves to be an effective instrument of invidious comparison, that is, as long as it remains expensive enough to deter small powers from joining the donors’ club. The literature on middle powers is very instructive on this aspect of prosociality (Behringer 2005; Michaud and Belanger 2000; Holbraad 1984; Pinchaud 1966; Mackay 1969; Wood 1988; Pratt 1989, 1990; Chapnick 2000; Stairs 1998; Gelber 1945; Ravenhill 1998; Cooper, Higgott, and Nossal 1993; Van der Westhuizen 1998). Much of the theoretical work on middle powers is written from a Canadian, Australian, or Nordic point of view. The literature tries to formulate a theoretical justification for claiming a distinct character and special role for middle powers in the international system. It describes a series of conspicuous political and diplomatic efforts to institutionalize a special international position for middle powers. At times, this literature reads like an analytical exercise in invidious comparison. It is interesting to observe the significant role played by prosociality in both the theoretical and diplomatic discourse on middle powerhood. One of the most assertive attempts to institutionalize middle-­power status in the international system was taken by the Canadians during the negotiations on the structure of the nascent United Nations at the end of World War II. The Canadians demanded a special role in the United Nations for middle powers in recognition of their contribution to international peace and stability. Other countries joined the Canadian initiative and self-­identified as middle powers. This impromptu middle-­powers group included Australia, New Zealand, Brazil, the Netherlands, Yugoslavia, Poland, Belgium, and Sweden (Neack 1995). Middle powers did not see themselves as middle in the sense of being close to the mean but rather as being near the top. They consequently wanted to distance themselves from the bottom (Mackay 1969, 138). The middle-powers initiative was therefore a blatant case of invidious comparison. Chapnik’s (2000, 188) assessment of the Canadian effort reaches similar conclusions: “Canada’s status as a middle power is a myth. The history of middle powerhood uncovers a tradition . . . crafted to justify the attainment of disproportionate influence in international affairs.”

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Although the Canadian initiative did not result in a special recognition for middle powers in the United Nations, it did succeed in inserting the concept into the international political discourse. Yet if middle powerhood was to be a meaningful political distinction, it required a clear definition. Interestingly, early efforts at defining middle powers did not focus on traditional power estimates but rather on David Mitrany’s (1933) conceptualization of functional structures of political hierarchy. Middle powers were seeking legitimacy in hierarchical structures that best suited their endowments. Thus, a middle power is an actor that fulfils a specific set of functions: “since major powers are differentiated by their greater functions from the rest, the middle powers ask that they be distinguished from the lesser ones by the same criteria” (Gelber 1945). A functional definition of this sort is prone to producing circularity—­a middle power is an actor behaving like a middle power and vice versa. But, circular logic aside, what were those attractive functions that were supposed to be identified with middle powerhood? Not surprisingly, middle-­power advocacy focused on international prosociality. The Canadians tried to justify their claim for special-­status recognition by arguing that middle powers are more prosocial and more responsible than other actors.20 It is the behavior that defines the class and gives it merit (Holbraad 1984, 71). The first wave of UN peacekeeping, which was the result of a Canadian initiative, reinforced this view (Boyd 1964, 81). According to this advocacy, unlike the great powers, middle powers are not strong enough to impose their narrow self-­interest and hence are natural coalition builders and sponsors of international cooperation (Higgott and Cooper 1990). Because they support peace, development, and cooperation, they should gain greater influence, which will enable them to protect the interests of the collective. This argument quickly collapses into the collective welfare model or prosociality, the shortcomings of which were discussed at length above. Moreover, the middle powers’ inability to form a unified front during the negotiations played an important role in the failure of the Canadian UN initiative. This failure to promote the group interest raises serious questions regarding the claim that middle powers are uniquely skilled in the art of cooperative coalition building. It is unlikely that such a diverse cluster of actors could overcome the collective action problem and create a prosocial bloc as envisioned by middle-­powerhood advocates.21 Middle powers occupy a tough spot in the international hierarchy. They are trapped in the constant need to balance emulation and differentiation

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and have to protect their position from pressures from both above and below. A sort of international Gulliver, middle powers are at home neither among the Lilliputians nor among the giants of Brobdingnag. This makes them a restless and inventive lot. They adopt new status symbols with eagerness and abandon them with similar zeal. They constantly seek new prestige markets in which they can gain a first-­mover advantage. The fluid world of international prosociality offers many opportunities for this type of entrepreneurship. Canada’s promotion of the concept of human security under the guidance of its foreign minister, Lloyd Axworthy, is a good example of such entrepreneurship (Axworthy 1996). This Canadian leadership initiative came at a time when Canada was abandoning its traditional support for peacekeepers and reducing its aid commitments. It was therefore looking for a new way to purchase prestige, and this prosocial leadership initiative seemed to fit the bill (see also Wylie 2009). Chapnick (2000, 205–­6) was quick to proclaim that with this human-­security initiative, Canada finally found middle powerhood’s Holy Grail. The declared expert or leader on human security, Canada would finally be justified in its demands for middle-­power status in the international community; now it would sit on a different tier of the international community— ­one with spaces for powers that exercise influence over parts of international affairs. The promotion of the human security agenda is designed to increase Canada’s status in the international community and allow it to climb into that higher group of powers that has eluded it since the failure to achieve true middle-­ power status at the end of the Second World War.

A decade later, Chapnick’s assertion regarding the utility of the human-­ security agenda as a status symbol seems overly optimistic. Canada is still searching for a reliable and effective venue for conspicuous consumption. Regardless of the empirical merit of the middle-­power category, the claim that middle powers behave differently than other classes of international actors supports the argument that certain patterns of international consumption are correlated with class and therefore with prestige. This correlation can in itself create a motivation for actors to try to emulate these consumption patterns. This is especially true when advocating a functional definition of middle powerhood: if middle powers are peacekeepers and peacekeepers are therefore middle powers, lower-­status actors may quickly develop a keen interest in peacekeeping as a cheap instrument for improving their rank. The conspicuous consumption model

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suggests that middle powers are no more prosocial or moral than other countries but rather that their location in the international hierarchy constrains their ability to take park in traditional forms of international status competitions and hence encourages them instead to take park in contests of beneficence as cheaper prestige policies. The formation of the Development Aid Committee (DAC) in 1961 is another example of an attempt to institutionalize a club or a class of actors.22 Since only donor countries can become DAC members, the committee in fact defines the “donors’ club” and thus becomes a venue for expressing invidious comparison (Ohlin 1968). One of the DAC’s main functions is the compilation and distribution of information regarding members’ aid policies. Some of these reports are conducted through peer review, when two members are assigned to assess the aid policy of a third. One consequence of this structure is the enhancement of the broadcast efficiency of the aid signal. Thus, the club is an instrument of conspicuousness. DAC members can rest assured that their most relevant peers are conscious of their prosociality. It is therefore not surprising that Greece chose to join the DAC in 1999 to signal its ascendance from aid recipient to aid provider even though joining the DAC came with significantly increased obligations (Van der Veen 2002, 12n13). Greece’s official development aid level in 2007, in relative terms, placed it (together with the United States) as the least generous member of the DAC.23 Such low levels are more of a token, a membership fee, than a substantive commitment to development aid. In fact, most members fail to reach the DAC’s own benchmark of 0.7 percent of GDP and instead maintain minimal levels of aid. Critics of Canadian aid have referred to such tokenism as pinchpenny diplomacy (Nossal 1999). Tokenism of this sort challenges middle-­power discourse regarding their prosocial nature. It is, however, consistent with the conspicuous consumption argument. Just as in the case of the Thai carrier, actors need to spend enough to purchase entry into an exclusive club, in this case the DAC; once they are admitted they have little incentive to spend more than the minimum unless they can truly challenge the top-­ tiered members of the club.24 Peacekeeping lacks a formal club but still exhibits patterns of club politics. Unlike the exclusive DAC, peacekeeping seems to attract a growing number of contributors. Until 1990, fifty-­two states participated in UN peacekeeping operations. According to UN data for January 2010, 115 countries were taking part in ongoing operations. Obviously not all of these are middle powers. Participation in UN operations is cheap. A country is considered a participant even if it sends only a handful of troops. As

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a consequence, over time there has been a decline in the participation of great powers and classic middle powers in UN peacekeeping operations (Neack 1995, 185). This point deserves further elaboration. Bobrow and Boyer (1997) define active peacekeeping nations as those who participate in at least 20 percent of the operations. While this measurement ignores the large number of token participants, it does capture some level of commitment to peacekeeping. The authors claim that the group of activist countries remained relatively stable, indicating a domestic institutionalization of the peacekeeping tradition. However, even based on Bobrow and Boyer’s problematic data, we can easily observe a significant decline in traditional activists’ commitment to peacekeeping over the years. An analysis of this data shows that the ranking of peacekeeping activists in the pre-­and post-­1988 periods shows a correlation of 0.25. This suggests significant change in the relative commitments of peacekeeping activists over this period. The data show that a country that was a leader in peacekeeping operations in the pre-­1988 period was likely to be significantly less committed to peacekeeping operations in the post-­1988 period. Indeed, in a study of the Nordic peacekeeping model, Jakobsen (2006) finds a dramatic decline in Nordic participation in peacekeeping missions at a time when the number and size of these operations showed considerable growth. These findings are consistent with Neack’s observation of peacekeeping’s “middle-­powers-­drain.” It is difficult to identify similar trends in other types of prosociality. This “middle-­powers-­drain” is consistent with the expectations of the conspicuous consumption model. The inflation in the number of contributors to UN peacekeeping operations indicates that peacekeeping lacks restrictions on entry—­it is a poor test of status. Participation in peacekeeping operations is simply too cheap. It is therefore not an exclusive enough club to retain the interest of middle powers. This can explain the gradual withdrawal of great and middle powers from peacekeeping operations. With so many smaller participants, UN peacekeeping cannot provide as much prestige as it used to do in the past. In fact, Jakobsen reaches precisely these conclusions when analyzing patterns of Nordic participation in peacekeeping operations. The rise of the Nordic model can, in short, be explained by the fact that it generated power, pride and prestige on the cheap. . . . The fall of the Nordic model can in short be explained by the massive increase in the number of troop contributors, which made it impossible for the Nordics to maintain their position as major troop contributors. (Jakobsen 2006, 386, 390)

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The rise and fall of the Nordic model provides an instructive example of the cyclical nature of status symbols. Peacekeeping was abandoned by middle powers since it proved to be a poor marker of status. Foreign aid shows higher levels of stability on all fronts: the identity of the donors, the recipients, and the average levels of development aid (Kosack and Tobin 2006; Hook and Zhang 1998; Van der Veen 2000). DAC statistics for member Official Development Aid (ODA) levels in the nineties, for example, show a correlation of 0.92, which suggests very few changes in rank over this period.25 Only three new members (Luxemburg, Greece, and South Korea) joined the DAC in the last two decades. DAC entry requirements, which include the creation of substantive domestic aid bureaucracies, impose significant cultivation restrictions that further encourage stability.26 While part of this stability can be explained by the bureaucratic nature of ODA, especially when compared with the volatile ad hoc nature of peacekeeping missions, some is also a consequence of the dynamics of international status symbols. The high cost of foreign aid ensures an effective test of status and with it lasting exclusivity. Yet the markers of conspicuous consumption are evident even within this established club of donors. The conspicuous consumption model of prosociality leads us to expect greater participation of middle powers in aid donations when compared to other donors. Hence, this “middleness” hypothesis should lead to a curvilinear relation between relative aid levels and GDP size. Quantitative studies that look into this question, most notably Hoadly (1980), Round and Odedokun (2003), and Van der Veen (2000), tend to support the middle-­powers hypothesis. Hoadly finds that within the OECD, smaller countries tend to be more generous. These smaller OECD members include many of the traditional middle powers. In a previous study I replicated and extended Hoadly’s study to the post–­ Cold War era (Gilady 2006). I found robust support for the middleness hypothesis. Actors who are closest to the mean (those closest to the “middle”) tend to be more generous. Interestingly, the data show a consistently positive and significant correlation between military spending and foreign aid. This last finding refutes the notion that prosocial actors are inherently more pacific.27

Conclusions The conspicuous consumption model solves the tension between Hillel’s two maxims. For prestige maximizers, prosocial other-­help and self-­

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help are one and the same. Actors’ prosocial investment is compensated through increased prestige and improved rank. Prosociality requires excess, and conspicuous displays of excess guarantee prestige. Prosociality offers an especially illuminating example of conspicuous consumption. It touches on all four core components of the conspicuous consumption theory: cost, conspicuousness, hierarchy, and cycles of prestige symbols. In particular, international prosociality emphasizes the power exchange that often occurs through acts of conspicuous consumption. Interestingly, of the three policy areas covered by this book (procurement, prosociality, and science), prosociality, the most benevolent and peaceful of the lot, seems to incorporate the most evident dimension of domination and subordination. The most intuitively noninstrumental, other-­help-­ oriented policy is also the most hierarchical. My discussion in this chapter addressed ten empirical puzzles that are difficult to explain through other models of prosociality. I combined a detailed analytical discussion of prosociality in international relations with diverse anecdotal evidence. I demonstrated that many contemporary studies of peacekeeping and foreign aid reach conclusions that are consistent with the predictions of the conspicuous consumption model. The theory is further supported by findings in economics, psychology, anthropology, and even evolutionary biology. It is important to reemphasize that the conspicuous consumption model does not seek to deny the validity of competing explanations. The fact that actors may engage in prosocial acts in order to further economic or geostrategic interests or to fulfill their “moral vision” does not negate the plausibility and significance of the role played by prestige in triggering prosocial behavior. As in other types of consumption, prosociality is likely to be motivated by both primary-­and secondary-­utility considerations. In this sense, the conspicuous consumption theory does not seek to replace alternative explanations but rather to add to them. Indeed, the conspicuous consumption model does add to our ability to account for significant patterns and nuances unique to prosociality. It is therefore a valuable if not necessary complement to any theorizing on this topic. Analyzing prosocial policies under one theoretical framework rather than as disparate fields of study allows us to highlight similarities and interconnections. Thus, for example, we can identify a connection between stable commitment to foreign aid and a declining commitment to UN peacekeeping among Nordic countries. While these policy choices seem unrelated at first, they are both indicative of the underpinning logic of international status symbols. These dynamics emphasize the significance of the social aspect of this theory. The conspicuous consumption model

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of prosociality is driven by an exchange of material and social capitals. As Veblen, Polanyi, Mauss, Bataille, and others note, this trade-­off between the material and the social is inherent to many patterns of human behavior and is especially prevalent in the gift economy. A theory that does not recognize this exchangeability between the material and the social is likely to miss crucial facets of the politics of international prosociality. In the absence of such an exchange, we would not expect to see a growing set of prosocial policies take hold in the self-­help environment of the international system. Indeed, it is this connection between the material and the social that allows for an almost symbiotic relation between self-­help and other-­help.

chapter five

Big Science and the Transits of Venus The First Race to Space When history looks at the 20th century, she will see science and technology as its theme; she will find in the monuments of Big Science—­the huge rockets, the high-­energy accelerators, the high-­flux research reactors—­symbols of our time just as surely as she finds Notre Dame a symbol of the Middle Ages. She might even see analogies between the motivations for building these tools of giant science and the motivations of the church builders and pyramid builders. . . . We use our Big Science to add to our country’s prestige, they used their churches for their cities’ prestige. (Weinberg 1961, 161)

T

he launch of the $3 billion US-­funded Brain Activity Map project (BAM) in early April 2013 seemed to corroborate a growing sense that “Big Science” is making a comeback (Dimond 2013). BAM followed the footsteps of the human genome project, the Large Hadron Collider, the “Yellowstone” climate-­change supercomputer, and the creation of a European Spallation Source in Lund, Sweden (Giudice 2012; Jacob and Hallonsten 2012). Similarly, China’s second manned spaceflight in June 2013 and India’s launch of a Mars orbiter in November of that year offered but the latest examples of a rejuvenation of space programs and potentially of space races around the world (Bal 2013). Not surprisingly, the Big Science debate was reignited as well. In September 2012, Bruce Alberts, the editor of Science, published a letter bemoaning the demise of small science. His letter hit a nerve with many in the scientific community (Sills 2012). Much of the response repeated earlier premonitions that overreliance on Big Science will lead to a world in which “the spectacular rather than the perceptive becomes the scientific standard” (Hoyle 1964). This recent resurgence comes at a time when the world’s leading powers are recovering from a traumatic financial crisis that often resulted in the imposition of controversial austerity programs (Blyth 2013). The continuous governmental funding of multimillion- (and sometimes multibillion-)

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dollar science and technoscience projects in the face of such a political-­ economic environment highlights the persistence and resilience of Big Science: it maintains its political allure (Jacob and Hallonsten 2012). Observers expected Big Science to decline following the end of the Cold War (McLauchlan and Hooks 1995; Ross 1996). Indeed, American cancelation of its superconducting supercollider project in 1993 and the downsizing of NASA’s Mission to Planet Earth indicated a possible move away from Big Science (Lambright 1998). Yet even in those early years of readjustment, not all Big Science projects were abandoned. Funding for the construction of the International Space Station, for example, was maintained, and the shuttle program was allowed to continue. Two decades later, Big Science is growing and attracting new actors: China, the EU, India, and Brazil. Big Science, therefore, provides an example of a luxury good that con­ tinues to attract old and new customers despite dramatic geopolitical changes. We therefore need to identify uninterrupted underlying motivations that can account for this persistence in consumption patterns. Events such as wars, technological innovations, or economic crises can affect the primary utility of Big Science programs. Accordingly, primary-­utility calculations are susceptible to change and cannot properly explain the continuing allure of such programs. However, if we understand Big Science as an exercise in conspicuous consumption, the consistency of demand becomes more easily explainable. Indeed, Big Science bears all the hallmarks of conspicuous consumption: a preference for the extravagant, a staggering price tag, copious deployment of the language of prestige, an explicit sense of competition, emulation by smaller powers, and redirection of funds from the inconspicuous basic research of “small science toward showy megaprojects such as space travel, the Mohole Project, or multimillion-­dollar particle accelerators” (Capshew and Rader 1992; Weinberg 1961; Paul 1972; Greenberg 1967; De Solla Price 1963). Big Science projects are so often associated with claims of national prestige that we rarely stop to question this connection—­it seems common­ sensical. Yet science and prestige make strange bedfellows—­the first symbolizes rationality and modernity and the second manifests the emotional and irrational workings of spirit (Lebow 2008). In this chapter I explore this puzzling connection between expensive scientific projects and international prestige. I analyze extravagant state-­funded scientific megaprojects—­ otherwise known as Big Science—­such as space programs, giant particle accelerators, and ambitious biomedical projects like the human genome

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project, as examples of conspicuous consumption. To illustrate this point, in the first section of this chapter I offer a short review of the international reaction to China’s 2003 space launch and the possible reawakening of the race to space. I then move to a theoretical discussion of Big Science projects, defining the concept and examining alternative explanations. I end with a review of the international race to observe the transits of Venus in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as a case study of conspicuous consumption.

A New Race to Space? On the morning of October 15, 2003, the Chinese spacecraft Shenzhou V blasted off from the Gobi Desert, carrying with it China’s first astronaut, Yang Liwei. Yang circled the Earth fourteen times before safely landing, twenty-­one hours later. Yang’s brief space adventure was the first step in an ambitious Chinese manned space program that includes plans for a manned moon landing by the year 2020. With this launch, China joined Russia and the United States as the only nations to have sent humans into space; China could now “stake its claim as one of the world’s elite space-­faring nations” (Yardley 2003; Solomone 2006). Pundits were quick to frame the Chinese space program as a prestige policy (New York Times editorial, October 19, 2003). Yet this assertion is not self-­evident. Why should a Chinese space program, culminating in a space launch that replicates forty-­year-­old scientific and technological achievements, add to China’s prestige? If anything, such an expensive manned space program must be reducing available Chinese resources for the development of more prac­ tical contemporary technologies. In many ways, China’s neighbors and potential rivals could have found great solace in Yang’s historic flight; after all, the Chinese seem to be spending their resources on showy space tourism rather than improving satellite capabilities or revamping their obsolete command-and-control capabilities. Nevertheless, the response to the Chinese flight promptly framed the event in competitive terms. In neighboring Tokyo, the headlines of a leading newspaper were quick to portray Japan as “Shocked at Being Placed Way Behind,” relying on positional terms and neglecting to remind readers that Japan could probably have launched such a flight years ago had it chosen to do so (editorial, New York Times, October 19, 2003). In India, a neighboring power with an ambitious space program of its own, the Economic Times tried to

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distinguish between India’s space program, which works “in the service of India’s real socio-­economic needs,” and the Chinese program, which followed the tradition of “ephemeral pride building or prestige creating enterprises.” China, therefore, according to the Indian author, deserved no praise or prestige for its hollow achievement (Ramesh 2003). Russian officials and editorials congratulated the Chinese on their accomplishment but were quick to point out that the Shenzhou V was an almost identical copy of Russian spacecraft to the point where the “spacesuits for Shenzhou and Soyuz differ only by the Russian and Chinese flags sewn to the sleeves” (Saradzhyan 2003). China’s success was therefore based on Russian know-­how. Consequently, these editorials imply that the prestige really belonged to Russia. American response to the Chinese launch was expressed most openly in President Bush’s speech on January 15, 2004, in which he announced new plans to return to the moon no later than 2020 and to use lunar bases as a launching pad for a manned mission to Mars (Sanger and Stevenson 2004). If the Chinese were to go the moon, the Americans needed to fly even farther. In an interview, Joan Johnson-­Freese, an expert on space programs, expressed a widely held view: “The Bush administration had no choice but to respond to China’s recent successes with a space initiative. . . . The success allowed China to reach out to other countries and they’ve been responding favorably, so we could not do nothing” (Yardley and Board 2004). The new American space initiative shows all the symptoms of consumption externalities. An enhanced investment in space research would not have taken place if it were not for increased Chinese consumption. The initiative was clearly a reactive policy that sought to preserve the consumption gap between the two powers. The threat here was not to American strategic power but to American prestige. Renewed interest in space as a status symbol was not limited to the China-­US dyad. Brazil and India also diverted significant resources to the development of domestic space industries over the last few decades (Yardley and Broad 2004; Rother 2004; Rohde 2004). Having lost the race to be the first Asian power to send a man into space, India decided to leapfrog over China by being the first Asian power to reach Mars. In 2013 it launched a Mars orbiter in an attempt to claim this trophy, successfully reaching Mars’s orbit in the fall of 2014. An embryonic space race seems to be underway. The American space initiative was expected to set in motion a broad restructuring of NASA. New priorities would be met by diverting resources away from existing projects. Two of the most likely and notable victims

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of this restructuring were the International Space Station (ISS), an extravagant joint effort of sixteen nations, and the acclaimed Hubble Space Telescope (Broad 2004; Chang 2004). The withdrawal of funds would have been a deathblow to both projects. This restructuring led some observers to question “whether science will benefit by or be destroyed by this new proposal’’ and whether science is simply the “first casualty of the new era” (Chang 2004; Overbye 2004). The most spirited debate focused on the fate of Hubble, often heralded as the most significant instrument of modern astronomy and the “best marriage of human spaceflight and science” (Overbye 2004; Benson 2004). Prioritizing a back-­to-­the-­moon program over the maintenance of Hubble seemed to fly in the face of scientific logic. These concerns mirror earlier public debates. In 1963, a New York Times editorial questioned “whether the prospective gain in prestige outweighs the loss in development of scientific and human resources in other directions that the United States will inevitably suffer by such large scale concentration of its energies and abilities on an intensified moon race” (January 29, 1963, 6). Similarly, Senator William Fulbright’s words during a congressional review of the space-­program budget sound as pointed today as they did in the heydays of the space race: “Assuming that prestige can be bought, who can say with any degree of certainty how much it costs and what kind of activity pays the richest dividends?” (Whelan 1968, 249).1 The prospects for a renewed space race were diminished, at least temporarily, in the wake of the global economic crisis. American budgetary planning for 2011 threatened to cancel NASA’s moon and Mars programs altogether (Matson 2010). Nevertheless, the Chinese space program, the reactions it generates, and the subsequent American space initiative are but the latest illustrations of the attractiveness of Big Science as a prestige-­ enhancing instrument. The debate regarding the effect of the space initiative on the budgeting of Hubble highlights the recurring tension between Big Science and the accumulation of scientific knowledge. Kay (1994) goes even further by suggesting that the political logic of Big Science works against the scientific and technological viability of such projects.

Understanding Big Science The term Big Science has been in use since the late 1950s, when, in the wake of World War II and the Sputnik launch, a surge of government funds generated large-­scale, state-­funded scientific endeavors. By the early 1960s, Big

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Science was used to define projects that “required large scale organization, massive commitment of funds, and complex technological systems” (Capshew and Rader 1992, 4). Most of these projects are run by nonacademic administrations, tend to be technology driven, and most often include a specific end goal rather than open-­ended investigation (Giudice 2012). Very few entities, other than the state, control enough resources to support the scale, extravagance, and complexity of Big Science. The resulting dependency on state funding turns Big Science into a deeply political phenomenon and forces Big Science entrepreneurs to master techniques for securing political support. The media often play an important role in consolidating this support. In fact, media hype is almost a necessary characteristic of Big Science (Capshew and Rader 1992, 5). Science must be conspicuous to be “Big.”2 The need for media hype tends to push Big Science toward spectacular projects, often at the expense of their functionality (Brooks 1971). For example, the originators of the infamous Mohole Project wanted increased funding for the earth sciences. They looked for “projects . . . which would arouse the imagination of the public . . . the perfect antianalogue of the space probe.”3 In order to guarantee governmental support for the Mohole, proponents fabricated a frantic Cold War race to the earth’s mantle. They opted for a grandiose project that resulted in a colossal failure (Greenberg 1967, 174–­77). Similarly, Bruce Murray, the director of California’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL), looked for projects with “pizzazz” as a way of securing federal funds when he took over the laboratory in 1976. Projects that could attract public interest and enthusiasm were dubbed “purple pigeons,” and projects that were scientifically sound but lacked public appeal were termed “gray mice.” Murray spent his time and energy promoting purple pigeon projects, often by exaggerating their international appeal (Logsdon 1989). These types of purple pigeon projects led Big Science critic Daniel Greenberg to develop the fictional character Dr. Grant Swinger, who worked for the Center for Absorption of Federal Funds (Greenberg 1966). Yet Cold War Big Science politics, at times, seemed to surpass even the mythical fund-­siphoning abilities of Dr. Swinger.4 The expense of Big Science ensures that only a handful of actors can afford such endeavors. Hence, Big Science can serve as a credible costly signal for actors’ capabilities. Big Science is therefore an attractive status symbol: it is exclusive, it requires significant cultivation, it is prohibitively expensive, and it is highly conspicuous (Goffman 1951). Moreover it is associated with qualities such as advanced technological capabilities,

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industrialization, and modernity, which are valued by contemporary inter­ national society (Goffman 1951; Eyre and Suchman 1996; Barnett and Wendt 1992; Fox 1968). This opens the way to spending competitions. Indeed, the notion of international competition seems to be an almost inherent part of Big Science. It is no wonder that many observers use sports metaphors to describe such projects. Once a project is framed as a “race” it becomes part of a zero-­sum game that has to be won regardless of cost. Appeals for governmental funding often draw on sentiments of patriotism and nationalism by framing the competition as a challenge to national prestige (Whelan 1968).5 In 1960, George V. Allen, the director of the US Information Agency, appeared before the House Science Committee to justify the space program. His words clearly echo this sentiment. Our space program has an importance far beyond the field of activity itself, in that it bears on almost every aspect of our relations with people of other countries and on their view of us as compared with the USSR. Our space program may be considered as a measure of our vitality and our ability to compete with a formidable rival, and as a criterion of our ability to maintain technological eminence worthy of emulation by other peoples. (Knorr 1960, 579)

Allen’s statement captures much of the logic of conspicuous consumption. He refers to the space program as a signal of capabilities, vitality, and competence. The target of this signal is not the USSR alone but international society more generally. Similarly, when advocating for a space exploration of the Comet Halley, which was expected to approach Earth in 1986, Bruce Murray expressed “personal horror of the thought of a number of other nations of the world carrying out national exploration of Halley and the U.S. not involved. . . . That prospect can hardly be regarded as anything other than the conspicuous end to what has been a completely unblemished record of U.S. leadership in planetary exploration” (Logsdon 1989, 270). Here again, Big Science is justified in competitive international terms and is associated with questions of leadership and rank. Elzinga (2012) finds that the internationalization of scientific projects through the invocation of a global competition was one of the hallmarks of Big Science during the Cold War. Interestingly, he argues that internationalization remains an important facet of Big Science even after the end of the Cold War, this time invoking collaboration rather than competition. Big Science therefore depends on interplay between domestic and international politics. Domestic support for these behemoth projects is

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dependent on expectations for gains on the international level. Big Science is often described explicitly as a tool for gaining international prestige, and hence even groups that are not usually interested in astronomy, biology, or the nature of the “Mohorovicic discontinuity” can still find such projects appealing (see also Nelson 1977). When domestic incentives reinforce international pressures for conspicuous waste, the outcome is often a potent political amalgamation that can topple many checks and balances. It should therefore not surprise us that Congress provided more funds for the space program than either the White House or the scientists dared to request (Lakoff 1974). Interestingly, investment in Big Science does not signal a broad commitment to scientific research. In fact, the United States trails other industrialized powers in civilian R & D budget as a percentage of GNP (Solingen 1993, 38). Extravagance does come at a cost. This symbiotic web of government, media, and science is often a source of concern for scientists.6 Many question the effect of Big Science on the prioritization of scientific projects. Gomory (1992) differentiates between “real” science megaprojects and those that are not. “Real” science projects, such as the Hubble space telescope, are scientifically beneficial. Yet even then, “the question is: is this the right way to prioritize and spend our science money. . . . And historically the individual investigator has been much more productive” (Gomory 1992, 81–­82). As Hoyle (1964) argues, scientific progress has traditionally been achieved through big ideas rather than through Big Science. Nonscience megaprojects are not motivated by scientific curiosity but rather by a sense of competition: “we did put people on the moon, and we did it to surpass the Soviets, not to settle the question of what the surface of the moon looks like” (Gomory 1992, 82; see also Weinberg 1961). Over half of NASA’s budget over the years has been devoted to manned space missions. Such missions are conspicuous and expensive. They are also of questionable scientific utility (Friedman 1996).7 While the United States can probably afford the liability of expensive projects, Big Science is much more burdensome for less affluent countries. Big Science is especially striking in such countries, where large-­scale projects can consume a substantial percentage of national development budgets (Steinberg 1987). The cost of Brazil’s nuclear and hydroelectric projects, for example, accounted for a large portion of Brazilian governmental investment in the 1970s and 1980s and contributed significantly to the massive Brazilian external debt. India’s investment in development-­relevant

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R & D is dwarfed by Big Science investment in military, nuclear, and space programs (Ross 1996, 5). Egyptian decision makers discounted alternatives to the high dam in Aswan because they could not match the conspicuousness, boldness, and symbolic value of this grandiose construction (Rycoft and Syliowicz 1980). The outcome was extravagant both in the scale of construction and in the scale of its deficiencies. Weinberg (1961, 161) finds historical support for the Gatsby effect that accompanies monumental Big Science projects: “In many cases the distortion of the economy caused by construction of the big monuments contributed to the civilization’s decline.” Alongside the long-­term risk of bankruptcy, trying to develop Big Science on the cheap is a risky strategy as well. It can sometimes lead to tragic consequences, as was painfully demonstrated by the August 2003 deadly Brazilian satellite rocket accident, which killed twenty-­one of Brazil’s top scientists (Rother 2000, 2004). While a prestige-­driven analysis of Big Science seems intuitively possible, we need to look more closely at alternative (or complementary) explanations. The following section offers three primary utility–based alternatives. The analysis highlights the shortcomings of these explanations and suggests that conspicuous consumption is a necessary complementary component for the analysis of Big Science. In particular, primary-­utility explanations fail to account for the intense competitive nature of Big Science in international relations, and they cannot explain the dubious scientific utility of many such projects.

The Utility of Big Science In 1865 the British Geographical Society was trying to secure governmental funding for an expensive expedition to the North Pole. Captain S. Osborn, one of the leading supporters of the proposed expedition, described the opposition to the idea as “the cuckoo cry of cui bono.” An anonymous “Naval Fellow” offered his rejoinder to this “cuckoo cry” in a letter to the editor of the Times: “You, Sir . . . surely will agree with me in thinking that it is not unreasonable before embarking in any scheme to submit it to the ‘cui bono’ test, and inquire first, whether any and what benefit can result from it, and secondly, whether such benefit is commensurate with the cost” (“Letters to the Editor,” Times [London] February 4, 1865, 12). The cui bono test is still an important step in understanding and evaluating the logic of Big Science. What motivates governments to fund Big Science?

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What are the expected benefits? Who benefits? And to the extent that such a question can be objectively answered, is Big Science an efficient way of achieving these goals? Big Science is rarely if ever a “pure Veblen good.” In almost all cases we can find solid material motivations for Big Science that can provide alternative answers to “the cuckoo cry of cui bono.” These answers constitute a set of complementary explanations to the conspicuous consumption argument. We can break up these arguments into three primary-­utility justifications for Big Science: (1) Big Science is a form of strategic investment (either militarily and/or economically), (2) Big Science is a tool for the accumulation of knowledge, and (3) Big Science is driven by local interest groups. The following section explores each of these explanations and demonstrates the complementary importance of conspicuous consumption for the understanding of Big Science in international relations. Big Science as Strategic Investment Today the connection between science and national power seems self-­ evident. The Manhattan Project, often described as the first major case of Big Science, provided indisputable evidence for the decisive role of science in a country’s war-­waging abilities. This lesson served as a trigger for an unprecedented upsurge in government funding in subsequent years. Consequently, certain Big Science programs can be perceived as hothouses for the development of militarily relevant technologies, such as ballistic missiles and satellites in the case of the space program. In some cases, procurement programs can be Big Science without the “scientific” facade; in others, the military benefits from spin-­off technologies. However, while the Manhattan Project demonstrated that basic research can have strategic implications, its effect seems to be the exception rather than the rule. Project Hindsight, a study conducted by the US Defense Department, concluded that very little post–­World War II basic research had any influence over weapon procurement (Greenberg 1967, 163n). Governmental support of Big Science can also be perceived as a generator of economic growth. Since R & D requires high capital, high risk, and long-­term investment, it is not very attractive for private investors. Moreover, scientific inquiry often results in forms of collective goods available freely even to those who did not partake in the investment. Hence, costly R & D can be easily hampered by market failure (Mansfield 1966, 477). Consequently, government intervention is needed in order to generate the necessary goods (Stigler 1971; Pavitt 1973). Again, positive economic

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externalities can be the explicit aim of Big Science, such as in the case of European investment in supersonic transport, or it can be a beneficial spin-­ off, cascading into civilian industries, such as the improvement in deep-­sea drilling technologies resulting from the defunct Mohole project. Another possible positive externality of Big Science is the creation of higher demand for scientists, thus supporting a larger scientific community and possibly improving the quality of scientific education (Gomory 1992, 82). Interestingly, the realization of the intimate relationship between scientific capabilities and national interest is a relatively recent phenomenon. In the nineteenth century many governments were largely indifferent to science (Plotkin 1978). Sponsorship of science was akin to state support for the arts, a lavish signal of national power rather than a means for enhancing it (Finnemore 1993, 567). Even when institutional links between “science” and government existed, the potential was poorly realized. The American National Academy of Sciences, for example, was established in 1863 and was supposed to serve an advisory role to the government. Yet between 1863 and 1913 the US War Department addressed the academy with only five minor questions: “On the Question of Tests for the Purity of Whiskey; On the Preservation of Paint on Army Knapsacks; On Galvanic Action from Association of Zinc and Iron; On the Exploration of the Yellowstone; On Questions of Meteorological Science and its Applications” (Schilling 1962, 287). Governments distinguished between “scientists” and “inventors” and found the former to be of little practical use or importance. The connection between science and technology, that is, between basic research and applied research, was realized only in the twentieth century, to a large extent as a result of both world wars (Schilling 1962). Within the Big Science debate, there is a tendency to equate basic research with small science and technology with Big Science. Yet, every Big Science project is likely to have some aspects of science and some of technology. While a clear-cut distinction between basic research and applied research (technology) is not easy to make, it is still possible to place different Big Science projects along a continuum that runs between science and technology. There is a noticeable difference, for example, between projects aimed at studying the structure of the earth’s crust or mapping the brain and projects aimed at constructing supersonic transport airplanes or building national missile defense. In the case of the latter two, the development of applied technologies is the explicit aim of the project; in the first two examples, technology may be a desired spin-­off, but the project maintains its scientific facade. As was the case in the nineteenth century, there are good reasons to

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assume that governments are more interested in the potential value of the inventor than in the often unintelligible results of the scientist. Since basic-­ science projects offer few tangible applied implications, they cannot be easily explained as strategic investments. In material terms, the closer a project gets to the “science” pole, the more it resembles a “pure Veblen good,” and the more puzzling it becomes to those that ignore its signaling qualities. The strategic investment argument, therefore, fails to explain many Big Science cases, including the transits of Venus races explored below. Big Science as a Promoter of Knowledge If Big Science is taken at face value, then the main object of these projects is the accumulation of scientific knowledge. According to such interpretation, governments fund Big Science because they value scientific knowledge. Yet, such an explanation quickly succumbs to the collective action problem. Science tends to produce knowledge that is accessible to all, both domestically and internationally. Domestically, the “public good” qualities of scientific research often lead to market failures that can only be solved by governmental investment in R & D (Stiglitz 1999; Stigler 1971).8 However, when we move to the international level, governments find themselves locked into a similar collective action problem, this time with no “world government” to intervene and regulate international funding for basic research. Why should the French government invest in basic research when German scientists are likely to benefit from that research as well? Hence, a country that funds basic research is providing an international public good (Solingen 1993, 45). While most governments are likely to prefer a world with greater knowledge, they are also likely to prefer that someone else pay for it. This should lead to free riding and suboptimal levels of funding. Consequently, the theoretical puzzle is not why governments shy away from funding “pure” science projects, but why they would ever pay for such projects, not to mention compete over the right to do so. Indeed, governmental investment in basic research tends to be con­ siderably lower than governmental investment in applied sciences. In the end of the 1920s, for example, the United States provided $200 million a year to applied sciences compared with only $10 million for basic research; only four thousand American scientists were involved in basic research compared with thirty thousand scientists engaged in applied science. Herbert Hoover used the logic of free riding to explain this discrepancy: “We have depended on three sources—­that the rest of the world would bear this

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burden of fundamental discovery for us, that universities would carry it as a byproduct of education, and that our men of great benevolence would occasionally endow a Smithsonian or a Carnegie Institution or a Rockefeller Institute” (Greenberg 1967, 52). Hoover aptly describes the confluence of domestic and international market failures that resulted in suboptimal levels of funding. Conspicuous consumption provides a possible solution to the collective action problem by focusing on prestige externalities. If actors gain international prestige by engaging in expensive and conspicuous endeavors, then we are no longer dealing with a question of a pure collective good: “More than curiosity or altruism or even profit, what drives discovery is the spirit of competition. . . . The prospect of personal glory or national prestige propels us to risk reputation, capital and even our lives to get there first” (Safire 2004). The prestige impetus, according to this argument, is strong enough to overcome the collective action problem. Consequently, actors who fund Big Science generate both collective goods, in the form of scientific knowledge, and private goods, in the form of status and prestige.9 In fact, the collective-good quality of science emphasizes the voluntary burden that is accepted by the funder. The decision not to free ride enhances the costliness and therefore the credibility of the signal. The ability to solve a market failure and provide the collective good altruistically is in itself a source of prestige. Zabusky’s (1995, 229) analysis of the European space program homes in on this connection between prosociality, Big Science, and prestige. For Europe to succeed in its bid for superpower status, it is not enough simply to participate in a space agency that brings pragmatic rewards; the region must demonstrate its ability to compete in this (apparently) altruistic endeavor as well, supporting science research that is perceived as being good for humankind, and not just for the particular economic interests of sponsoring governments.

Finally, providers of public goods are often more interested in being recognized for their contribution than in the actual provision of the good. They are more interested in being seen doing the job than in getting the job done. Actors often go to great lengths in order to ensure that discoveries are associated with their particular effort and genius. Given the public-­good characteristics of scientific knowledge, both domestically and internationally, it is difficult to assume that the thirst for knowledge alone could generate and consolidate sufficient political support to provide the massive funding required by Big Science. It is hard

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to imagine that a passionate interest in astronomy among congressmen or their constituencies played a critical role in creating broad congressional support for the American space program. When Republican senators Thurmond, Goldwater, and Laxalt wrote that “it would be tragic for the United States not to be in the Halley race” in 1981, it was not because of a keen interest in comet morphology (Logsdon 1989). The tragedy, for them, was an injury to American prestige, not a loss of scientific data. Finally, the constant bickering within the scientific community regarding the questionable scientific merit of Big Science further erodes the credibility of the “quest for knowledge” hypothesis. Big Science as Pork-­Barrel Politics In 1961, the National Science Foundation (NSF) was in charge of the construction of the Mohole’s drilling vessel. The chosen design was to be approved by Congress. NSF director Alan Waterman selected a Texas company despite its questionable record in order to gain favor with frugal Texas Congressman Albert Thomas, who controlled the NSF budget in the House. In the subsequent hearing, Thomas was “in an unusual affable mood” and described the proposed budget as a “work of art” (Greenberg 1967, 191).10 Waterman’s decision to hire a Texas-­based contractor proved politically expedient because it helped secure congressional funding for the project. Unfortunately, by selecting a politically expedient contractor rather than more experienced and capable competitors, Waterman’s decision also led to the ultimate undoing of the project. The contractor was never able to procure the drilling vessel, and the project was abandoned. As the Mohole example demonstrates, Big Science is often aligned with local interests by directing large government funds to specific localities and generating high-­paying jobs, improved infrastructure, an influx of young professionals, and a better image and higher media profile. It is no wonder, therefore, that the American space program would be popular with Texans and Floridians and, consequently, with their elected representatives. An experienced public official like Waterman knew how to use this type of pork-­barrel politics in order to fund Big Science.11 However, while pork-­barrel politics highlights an important aspect of Big Science, it fails to explain several important dimensions. First, Big Science often enjoys broad appeal outside the benefiting communities and even outside the borders of the funding country. Moreover, and most importantly, it cannot explain why these projects are designed to begin with. Though it is easy to see why Texans support the space program,

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claiming that the program was created in order to benefit Texans is more far fetched. In the case of the Mohole, the Texan angle was underscored in order to amalgamate the necessary political will for the funding of the project, but it was not its raison d’être. The project was not aimed at benefiting Houston or helping the reelection of Congressman Thomas but rather at helping another interest group—­geologists. Scientists are often the entrepreneurs, evaluators, and main beneficiaries of Big Science. It is therefore no wonder to find scientists involved in all stages of Big Science politics. However, unlike Floridians or Texans, astronomers, physicists, and biologists are not likely to have significant electoral influence. While scientists can exert more authority than a layman, there are many cases in which the power of knowledge fails to translate into political influence (Haas 1992). The general failure of scientists to influence many aspects of environmental legislation is a case in point. Scientists quickly learn that a successful bid for government funding depends on finding a way to connect scientific goals with political motivations. In many cases this means justifying the proposed project in terms of national prestige and international competition. Ironically, since the logic of conspicuous consumption is deeply engrained within the political system, being successful often means “thinking big”— ­coming up with extravagant projects even if those produce less desirable science. The politics of Big Science, therefore, creates a demand for purple pigeons and tends to neglect the more solid promise of gray mice. In the case of the Human Genome Project, for example, sequencing the entire genome was an expensive yet captivating proposal even though only 5 percent of the genome carries meaningful information. Federal funding for the project reduced available resources for more focused genetics studies, leading critics to question the advisability of the project as a whole (Haseltine 1998; Hughes 2002, 147). Government agencies remained committed to funding the project even when private investors were willing to take over. Instead of transferring funds to other projects, politicians sought the prestige that comes with this symbolic achievement. As a result, the logic of Big Science is often detached from the logic of science and from the interests of scientists, suggesting that there is more to Big Science than simple pork-­barrel politics. * * * As this discussion demonstrates, it is difficult to find one all-­encompassing explanation for Big Science. Most projects are likely to include aspects of each of the three hypotheses elaborated above: the desire for strategic

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investments, the quest for knowledge, and the influence of domestic interest groups. But even when we combine all these explanations, an important aspect of Big Science is still missing. None of these explanations accounts for what makes Big Science so “Big.” Describing the Apollo program as the result of a curiosity regarding the geomorphology of the moon, a desire to improve missile and satellite technology, and domestic lobbying activity provides a very partial view of the American space program. In fact, such an account misses the essence of the space race altogether. The hypotheses above focus on primary utility— ­on the instrumental material value of each project. They therefore provide very little insight into the social logic of Big Science. By definition, they ignore secondary-­ utility considerations. Once we introduce secondary-­utility considerations, such as the desire to acquire prestige, into the analysis, the preference for conspicuousness and the insensitivity to cost become understandable and even predictable. Moreover, since prestige is a positional good, the competitive aspect of Big Science becomes predictable as well. Thus, analyzing Big Science as a case of conspicuous consumption fills many of the holes left by primary-­utility explanations while offering a compelling theoretical account for the often-­cited connection between Big Science and prestige. It is important to reemphasize that we are dealing here with complementary rather than competing explanations. Decisions are rarely the result of a single motivation. In order to better isolate the role played by secondary utility, we need to find cases in which primary-­utility considerations are weak or nonexistent. In the context of Big Science, these will be basic-­research projects that involve little to no applied science. Since these distinctions were much clearer in earlier centuries, pre-­twentieth-­century Big Science could serve as a productive environment for the disentanglement of primary utility from claims of status and prestige. Furthermore, eighteenth-­and nineteenth-­century examples are even more striking than contemporary Big Science given the limited governmental funding for civilian services at the time. Although the Manhattan Project is often cited as the first case of Big Science, this is inaccurate. None of the components that make Big Science—­size, government funding, media hype, international competition—­is unique to the twentieth century. In the eighteenth century, for example, the ship was the most complex and expensive scientific instrument (Sorrenson 1996, 224). Only states or very large corporations could afford ships, and hence, almost any scientific endeavor that involved seafaring

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required state sponsorship, making naval voyages the Big Science of the era. A useful early example of seafaring Big Science is provided by the international races to observe the transits of Venus in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.

The Transits of Venus: The First “Space Race” Transits of Venus (TOVs), in which Venus travels between the Earth and the sun and is seen as a dot crossing the face of the sun, occur in intervals of 105.5 years, 8 years, 121.5 years, and 8 years. The last TOV took place on June 6, 2012, and did not attract much international attention. This was not the case in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Four transits took place during this period: June 6, 1761; June 3, 1769; December 9, 1874; and December 6, 1882. These transits became the focus of unprecedented international scientific competition accompanied by intensive media coverage, generous governmental funding, and globetrotting expeditions. As many as 150 observation stations were established by eight different countries for the 1769 transit, leading historian Harry Woolf to conclude that “no other particular scientific problem in the eighteenth century brought so many interests to a single focus” (Woolf 1959, 23, 182–­87). The interest in the TOV arose from what British Astronomer Royal George B. Airy (1801–­92) coined “the noblest problem in astronomy”—­ the desire to determine the average distance between the Earth and the sun (Jayawardhana 2004). This distance, the mean radius of the Earth’s orbit, serves as the natural constant of physical astronomy, the astronomical unit, used for calculating the relative position of all members of the solar system (Woolf 1959, 3). Scientists have grappled with this problem since the days of ancient Greece, refining their measurements but never reaching a satisfactory estimate. The first to realize the importance of the TOV as an instrument for solving this problem was Edmond Halley (1656–­1742). In 1716 Halley published a paper suggesting a method for calculating the astronomical unit based on transit observations: if two or more observers, separated widely at latitude, measure the time it takes Venus to cross the sun, the difference between the timing at the various locations would provide astronomers with the solar parallax from which the astronomical unit can be easily deduced. Halley left detailed plans for his successors, ensuring

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that by the next TOV scientists would finally be able to measure the astronomical unit (Sheehan and Westfall 2004). Halley’s plans required sending scientific expeditions to the far corners of the earth to observe the TOV. All this effort could be thwarted by a few cloudy hours. A missed opportunity could result in more than a century of delay before the next transit offered another chance to calculate the astronomical unit. Increasing the number of expeditions improved the probability of having successful observations. This opened the door to international competition: Which country would support the largest numbers of expeditions to the most distant and inhospitable locations? Which country would be the first to solve “the noblest problem in astronomy”? The calculation of the astronomical unit is an example of pure basic research. Within the context of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, such measurement had no technological implications. A Times editorial (September 22, 1883) states this point explicitly. The determination of the precise distance which separates the sun from the earth would be an achievement which nearly every one would admit to be surprising, but which would scarcely impress the mind of the average man with the idea of eminent practical utility. . . . The business therefore is one which States alone can undertake, and probably all the principal civilized nations of the world will take their share in it.

Since this calculation had little primary utility, only states could ad­ dress the inevitable market failure. Only through Big Science could the ex­ peditions get the required funding. Following the collective-action logic, the TOV should have generated an observable preference for international free riding. Instead, in all four transits we see states competing over the right to contribute more to the collective effort. The four TOVs took place over the course of more than a century, in times of war and peace, under varying geostrategic and sociopolitical conditions, and under the aegis of different leaders and scientific luminaries. These transits, therefore, offer structured case studies in which the same scientific puzzle is tackled at four different points in time by a changing set of actors. Since TOV observations had no clear practical implications, they help us in isolating the role played by prestige in cases of Big Science—­a role that is often obscured by primary utility in more recent, technology-­driven examples. The following provides a description of each transit race. As this review demonstrates, there is little change in

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the patterns of international competition despite the great variance in the circumstances of each TOV. Together, the four transits provide uniquely structured case studies of Big Science and conspicuous consumption. The Transit of 1761 Despite Halley’s memorandum, there was no great interest in the 1761 transit in Britain. Instead, the most notable advocate of transit observations was French astronomer Joseph-­Nicholas Delisle (1688–­1768). In the years leading to the transit, Delisle raised the issue before the French Academy and corresponded with other astronomers in an attempt to encourage international preparations for the upcoming transit. Yet the political environment in 1761 was not hospitable for international cooperation. With the Seven Years’ War (1756–­63) raging along the world’s major maritime routes, organizing scientific expeditions, an immense undertaking in eighteenth-­century terms even during peacetime, became vastly more complicated. The spirited Delisle published a document describing the importance of the transit, complete with a map of suggested observation stations. Delisle circulated two hundred copies of this document, at his own expense, throughout Europe. Based on Delisle’s map, the French Academy planned three expeditions: to Pondicherry in India, to the isle of Rodrigue in the Indian Ocean, and, with Russian assistance, to Siberia. The estimated cost was £12,000, which was paid by the French royal treasury (Woolf 1959, 60–­67).12 British interest in the transit arose only after the Royal Society received Delisle’s memorandum. This gave British planners less than a year to make their preparations. Ironically, the war proved to be a great asset for astronomers seeking government support. As with many contemporary examples, the sense of enhanced international competition helped in fusing scientific and political interests into Big Science. Delisle’s memorandum was a clear indication of French interest in organizing expeditions, and this was a good enough reason for undertaking similar British efforts. This sense of challenge to national prestige is stated clearly in a letter from the president of the Royal Society to the Duke of Newcastle, asking for the duke’s assistance in securing royal funding. The motives on which it is founded are the improvement of astronomy and the honor of this nation. . . . And it might afford too just ground to Foreigners for reproaching this nation in general . . . if, while the French king is sending

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observers . . . and the court of Russia are doing the same . . . not to mention the several observers who are going to various places, on the same errand from different parts of Europe; England should neglect to send observers to such places. . . . This is by foreign countries in general expected from us. (Woolf 1956, 510–­11)

The Royal Society was granted £1,600 and the services of Navy vessels. This funding supported two British expeditions, one to the South Atlantic island of St. Helena, and one to Bencoolen (in southern Sumatra). Together with a Massachusetts-­funded expedition to Newfoundland, Britain was able to match the French effort. The Royal Society’s petition, reminiscent of modern Big Science advocacy, focuses on the implications of TOV expeditions for British national prestige. Since there were no apparent strategic or economic benefits that could have resulted from successful observations, advocates were left with prestige as the main form of expected utility. Moreover, although Britain had all the information regarding the scientific importance of the transit, it started viewing it as a worthy endeavor only after learning that the French were doing so. Hence, British governmental investment in transit observations was not motivated by scientific curiosity but by international competition. In the context of pure scientific knowledge, such competition makes sense only if it generates prestige side benefits. However, while transit observation had no economic spillovers, the voyage itself could produce significant paybacks. The mission provided an opportunity to test and improve navigation methods and seafaring know-­how, which were crucial for the welfare of a maritime power such as Britain, and to explore some of the most distant regions of the planet. While the desire to improve navigation skills and to discover new lands was certainly important, it was not sufficient to consolidate support for a mission. Only when international competition was introduced were mission advocates able to secure the needed funds. Voyages such as the ones required for transit observations were lengthy, expensive, and dangerous.13 The ongoing war added risk and uncertainty to an already precarious adventure. Despite expectations for mutual safepassage guarantees for astronomers, British observers Charles Mason and Jeremiah Dixon found themselves under fire when their ship, HMS Seahorse, was attacked by a French frigate (Woolf 1959, 101). The Seahorse was forced to return to port and undergo repairs, wasting precious time and forcing Mason and Dixon to forgo their original plan and instead ob-

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serve the transit from Cape Town. Mason and Dixon were not the only ones affected by the war. French observer Le Gentil arrived at Pondicherry after months of arduous voyage only to discover that the city had been occupied by the British. Unable to anchor, his ship had to sail back to the Indian Ocean, forcing the Frenchman to observe the transit on board an ocean-bound vessel without the necessary conditions for any scientific measurements.14 France and Britain were not the only sponsors of transit expeditions. Numerous intracontinental expeditions participated in the 1761 effort. The Swedish Academy of Science and the Danish Crown were major sources for expedition funding.15 Russia organized two expeditions in addition to the Franco-­Russian Siberia effort mentioned above. France sponsored the largest number of observers (thirty-­one), followed by the Swedes (twenty-­ one) and Britain (nineteen). On the whole, at least 120 observers from eight countries spread over sixty-­two stations took part in the 1761 effort (Woolf 1959, 141–­43). The Transit of 1769 The disappointing results of the 1761 observations generated a sense of urgency in the years leading to the 1769 transit—­another missed opportunity would mean over a century of delay in measuring the astronomical unit. Members of the British Royal Society called for early preparations for the upcoming transit: “It behooves us . . . to profit as much as possible by the favorable situation of Venus in 1769, when we may be assured that several Powers of Europe will again contend which of them shall be most instrumental in contributing to the solution of this grand problem” (Carter 1995, 249). Although the war had ended in 1763, international competition was still an important motivating force. The Royal Society, not wishing to repeat the hasty preparations of 1761, started to plan its expeditions in 1766. The main lesson of the 1761 experience was the need to add additional southern stations. While the relative proximity of the northern polar regions made northern observations relatively cheap and trouble free, sending an expedition to the scarcely explored South Sea was a formidable challenge (Woolley 1969). In order to fund its ambitious plans, the Royal Society again appealed for governmental support. An official memorandum sent to King George III echoes the same arguments that successfully secured funding for the 1761 expeditions.

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That several of the Great Powers in Europe, particularly the French, Spaniards, Danes and Swedes are making the proper dispositions for the Observation thereof. . . . That the British nation has been justly celebrated in the learned world, for their knowledge of astronomy, to which they are inferior to no nation upon Earth, ancient or modern; and it would cast dishonour upon them should they neglect to have correct observations made of this important phenomenon. (Sheehan and Westfall 2004, 163)

The Royal Society was granted £4,000 for staff and equipment and was promised the cooperation of the Admiralty, which was to provide means of transportation. A coal bark was purchased and refitted for the journey as HMS Endeavour. The estimated cost of the Endeavour, including supplies and crew, was at least £8,235, or roughly US$6.5 million in 1996 terms (Sorrenson 1996, 224–­25n9).16 The Admiralty appointed Captain James Cook to lead the expedition to the recently discovered islands of Tahiti and ordered him to “make discovery of the Great Southern Continent,” assuming it existed, on his way back to Britain (Sheehan and Westfall 2004, 183).17 Britain sent additional expeditions, most notably to the North Cape, Scandinavia, and to Canada’s Hudson Bay. In addition, the Royal Society circulated instructions for transit observations throughout the British colonies. France organized three overseas expeditions: to India, to the West Indies, and together with Spain, to Baja California.18 Russian preparations for the 1769 transit were intensive as well. Catherine the Great ordered the Imperial Academy in 1767 to ensure the availability of astronomers, instruments, and infrastructure for the impending transit. In order to staff the proposed expeditions, the Russians invited foreign astronomers to observe the transit from local stations at the expense of the Russian empress (Woolf 1959, 179–­81). Again there were numerous additional intra­ continental expeditions. This time Britain led the number of observations (sixty-­nine), while France dropped to second place (thirty-­four). On the whole, as many as 150 observation stations sponsored by eight different countries took part in the effort (Woolf 1959, 182–­88). The absence of war did not lessen the competitive approach to transit observations. The only notable change was in the hierarchical ranking of the different contributors, reflecting British ascendance toward hegemony. The Transit of 1874 Eighteenth-­century observations did not provide a conclusive value for the astronomical unit (Jayawardhana 2004). The desire to redress this failure

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was strong enough in Britain, France, the United States, Germany, the Netherlands, Italy, Egypt, Mexico, Australia, and Russia to generate over sixty expeditions for the 1874 TOV (Sheehan and Westfall 2004, 236–­39). The list of participants reflects dramatic geopolitical changes that had occurred since 1769. New actors joined the system, and with them the transit race became a global endeavor. Participation in transit observations was perceived as a membership fee for the club of “civilized nations.” This symbolic importance is demonstrated by the significance that both Germany and Italy assigned to participating in the 1874 effort, shortly after both en­ tered the international stage. Similarly, Mexico, Egypt, and Brazil funded expeditions in an attempt to become bona fide members of the “civilized world.” It would be very hard to conceive of any technological or strategic value that these countries could have gained through transit observations. Moreover, even the interest in improved navigation and geographic exploration was gone by the second half of the nineteenth century. There was little to be gained from lengthy sea voyages to distant locales. Despite these developments, the patterns governing the transit race hardly changed at all. States were still willing to pour large sums of money into globetrotting expeditions, scientists still used national prestige arguments in order to anchor their pleas for funding, and the precise value of the astronomical unit still eluded the tireless astronomers. The persistence of the transit race is especially striking in face of the advance of new and more convenient methods for calculating the astronomical unit: “Given the proliferation of other methods for obtaining its value, the question remains why such effort was to be expended to observe the transit of Venus” (Sheehan and Westfall 2004, 225). The media’s role in turning the transits into public spectacles is the most noticeable novelty of nineteenth-­century races, bringing them closer to the modern specter of Big Science. The emerging popular and populist features of transit observations led the editors of the New York Times to comment sarcastically, “This is the first time within the memory of man that the unlearned common people have been permitted to observe a transit, and it is the first revelation of the fact that a transit can be seen through smoked glass” (December 6, 1882). While members of the public were observing the transits through smoked glass, scientists were experimenting with the use of photography and spectroscopy for astronomical observations. Transit expeditions also benefitted from more mundane technological advancements such as better clocks, the telegraph, and faster ships.19 The main engine behind British preparations for the 1874 transit was Astronomer Royal George Airy. Airy started to formulate ambitious plans

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for transit observations in 1857, securing the necessary funds and working on the acquisition of scientific instruments as early as 1870. Not satisfied with organizing British expeditions alone, Airy worked diligently to promote TOV observations abroad and called on leading powers to establish “transit commissions” as preparation. Germany established a governmental “transit commission” in 1869, France in 1870, and the US Congress granted $2,000 for such a commission in 1871.20 The British government furnished £15,500 for transit expeditions, as well as the use of military personnel and navy vessels (Dick 2003, chap. 7).21 Ultimately, Airy oversaw more than twelve British expeditions to the far corners of the world.22 In the United States, preparations began relatively late, raising fears that the expeditions would be ill prepared for the “astronomical event of the century”: “England, France, Germany and Russia are busily equipping astronomical expeditions to assist in solving what has been justly called ‘one of the sublimest problems of the universe.’ . . . While other countries are so busy, what are the United States doing? We have found previous attempts to answer this question not very satisfactory” (“The Astronomical Event of the Century,” 1874). Similarly, Hilgard (1874) used the pages of the International Review to warn American policy makers, “No nation could now claim to be in the foremost rank of civilization that would refuse to bear its part in researches of an interest to all mankind.” Here the participation in transit observations becomes a clear status symbol— ­only those countries able and willing to pay can be considered part of the civilized world. The American transit commission needed to secure congressional fund­ ing for overseas expeditions, a daunting task given Congress’s general reluctance to fund astronomy projects (Plotkin 1978). In March 1872, the US Naval Observatory’s superintendent requested $150,000 for transit expeditions. He argued that funding is needed because other nations offered their scientists generous support. He ended up securing $177,000 for overseas expeditions in addition to the right to use navy ships and personnel—­more than he had asked for (Dick 2003).23 Again, the political motivation for Big Science funding was not the expected scientific benefit but rather a sense of international competition and a challenge to national prestige. The American transit commission organized eight expeditions. The USS Swatara was refitted to transport the expeditions to their destinations, resulting in a thirty-­month voyage to the most remote corners of the earth. The New York Times triumphantly described the mission as “the most important expedition that has ever been sent out by the United

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States” (April 30, 1874). In addition to British and American expeditions, France organized six expeditions, Germany organized two, Russia furnished no less than thirty-­two, mostly domestic, and the Mexicans, Italians, and Dutch organized one overseas expedition each. Lack of coordination led to inefficient distribution of observers when international expeditions converged on identical remote locations: the desolate Kerguelen Islands saw no less than five expeditions (three from Britain, one from the United States, and one from Germany), New Zealand hosted no less than thirteen stations from four different countries, and central Japan welcomed six stations from four countries (Sheehan and Westfall 2004, 236–­39). A cloudy day over the Kerguelen Islands could have single-­ handedly thwarted years of international preparations. This convergence resembles similar trends in foreign aid allocations and serves a similar need. It raises the same puzzle: why send an expedition if another actor is already paying for data collection from that location? While this observation violates the logic of collective action, it fits the conspicuous consumption framework. Convergence increases the broadcast efficiency of the expedition— ­other observers are guaranteed to witness the expe­ dition since they will be sharing space on the same desolate island. The redundancy of the international effort is a further demonstration of the inefficiencies that are integral to conspicuous consumption. By taking part in the production of knowledge, actors willingly accept an avoidable burden. This voluntary handicap becomes a costly signal of their relative social standing. Consequently, a major focus in cases of conspicuous consumption is not who got the job done but who was seen carrying the heaviest burden. An 1874 Times editorial describes the transit race in these terms. The United States lead all the other nations, in respect both to the amount of money which her Government has contributed, and of the discomfort, not to say dangers, of the stations she has chosen in the southern seas. . . . The Germans have closely followed England and the United States in this noble competition. (December 9, 1874)

In the case of the TOV, another important aspect of getting the job done was compiling the data collected by the observers and using it to calculate the astronomical unit. Astronomers found their respective governments less forthcoming in financing this less glamorous stage of research. Despite repeated appeals, no concentrated international effort was ever conducted

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to analyze the data (Journal of  the Franklin Institute 1882, 312). Again, if the motivation were purely scientific, the data-­analysis portion of this exercise should have received equal attention and support. Instead, it was mostly neglected. Another wasteful aspect of the transit races is connected to the number of observation stations. Without the aid of a computer, there was no possible way to use so many data points. Astronomers had to discard most of the data and work with a small sample of observations (Sheehan and Westfall 2004, 276). Hence, there was no scientific need for Russia to finance thirty-­two expeditions in 1874 or for Britain to organize sixty-­nine stations in 1769. Much of the effort was therefore a case of competitive waste and redundancy. The Transit of 1882 By 1882 many were convinced that the transit method was flawed. The uncertainty interval for the value of the astronomical unit was reduced to 0.5 percent, and it was unlikely that transit observations could narrow this range.24 Yet scientific skepticism had little effect on the transit race. Instead, the 1882 transit generated unprecedented public interest. The transit inspired novelists, poets, composers, and painters and appeared frequently in the press (Sheehan and Westfall 2004, 268–­76). As part of a set ritual, appeals were made for funding, transit commissions were convened, exotic destinations were chosen, and an army of international astronomers again took to the roads and seas. No less than forty-­five overseas expeditions were sent in 1882, with sixteen countries taking part in the international effort (Sheehan and Westfall 2004, 270–­72).25 North America was expected to be a choice location for observing the 1882 TOV. Nevertheless, Congress provided $75,000 for transit expenditures, including five overseas expeditions.26 The New York Times followed American preparations for the upcoming transit. In every civilized country preparations are being made to observe the transit, and the various civilized governments have made liberal appropriations to send out parties of observers to various points. The United States Government is not behind the rest of the world in this respect. (August 22, 1882)

Here again, taking part in the transit effort receives categorical significance as a signal of membership in the club of “civilized” nations; a failure

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to pay, by definition, connotes lower international status. It is no wonder, therefore, that with every transit more nations were willing to fund expeditions in order to gain membership in this “civilized” club. Interestingly, Russia refused to fund a transit expedition in 1882, providing an illuminating example for the logic of free riding. In a frank letter to their British counterparts, Russian astronomers tried to justify the Russian decision: “Although I must admit that so rare an opportunity of studying the atmosphere of the planet ought not to be neglected, yet it seems certain that so many and such excellent data will be obtained through the agency of the United States, as well as by other countries, having well pro­ vided observations in the Southern Hemisphere, as well as by other seafaring nations. Under these circumstances Russia has not considered it incumbent on itself to organize any observing parties” (Times [London], December 2, 1882, 4). While $75,000 or even $177,000 might not seem much in comparison with the budgets of modern Big Science, these sums are striking when compared to the almost nonexistent governmental investment in the sciences at the time. The only continuous fund for science in Britain, for example, was an annual governmental grant administered by the Royal Society. From 1849 to 1914 this grant funded 2,316 projects with an aggregate sum of £179,000, or an average fund of £77.2 per project (MacLeod 1971, 324). At the turn of the century, the US National Naval Observatory, the best-­funded observatory in the world, had an annual budget of $85,000. Congress rejected reforms to the observatory to avoid hiring a scientific director with an annual salary of $5,000 (Plotkin 1978). The amount of $177,000 was therefore a lot of money, and it is no wonder that such unusual investment attracted public scrutiny. As the New York Times noted, if New Yorkers could view the transit through smoked glass from their own backyard, how could one justify the expense of international expeditions? Hitherto the most remarkable feature of a transit of Venus has been the assumed impossibility of seeing it at home. No matter where an astronomer might live, the transit was never visible within a thousand miles of his home. The New York astronomers had to go to Pekin to observe a transit; the Chinese astronomers had to go to Australia, and the Australian astronomers had to go to Europe. . . . The opinion that all transits of Venus may be observed at home and through smoked glass will be as universal today as are blackened noses and eye-­brows, and there will be no astronomer hereafter who will venture to dissent from this opinion. (December 6, 1882)

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By 1882 there were enough trained and well-­equipped astronomers around the world to render most expeditions redundant. Astronomers could have observed the transit in their respective countries and shared the data rather than exchange expeditions (Chapman 1998). The editors of the London Times took a less cynical view: “There are people who tell us there are sure and easier ways of ascertaining this distance [the astronomical unit], but we can hardly suppose all the astronomers of the world in a league for no other purpose than to set up scientific picnics at the pub­ lic expense” (December 14, 1882). The observations of the 1882 transit did not determine the value for the astronomical unit. The solution of “the noblest problem in astronomy” was finally resolved through modern technology. The “first race to space” was thus concluded without a clear winner. The specter of international expeditions of astronomers crisscrossing oceans and continents in hope of establishing the value of the elusive solar parallax was to make way for a new era of scientific competition. Instead of transit observations astronomers focused on other forms of Big Science: gigantic telescopes, satellites, and ultimately space travel. Yet the core logic of Big Science as a form of conspicuous consumption remains visible and influential despite these technological advancements.

Conclusions The most salient feature across the TOV races is that despite great upheavals, there was very little change in the behavior of all major actors. The striking similarities, across both space and time, suggest that the core motivation was not affected by the processes of change that took place during this extended period. TOV funding was not reduced even when scientific and technological advances demonstrated the futility of the transit method. Competitiveness did not wane once the Seven Years’ War ended. Races continued despite the fact that it was almost impossible to identify any discernable strategic benefits to the entire endeavor. The race was gladly embraced by new entrants such as Germany, Italy, and the United States. Moreover, competitive behavior does not seem to vary with regime type or the identity of political and scientific leaders. In short, the TOV example suggests that the allure of Big Science is structural. Furthermore, it is difficult to identify material benefits that resulted from participation in transit observation. In fact, the only case of a tangible benefit resulting from a transit expedition was Cook’s 1769 voyage to

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the South Sea, which opened the door to British colonization of Australia and New Zealand. But even this benefit had little to do with the transit observation itself. Accordingly, the best explanation for the continuing allure of Big Science resides not in primary but rather in secondary utility. Consumption patterns of Big Science remain stable as long as it continues to be a credible status symbol. Counterintuitively, the more useless and expensive the TOV races proved to be, the more effective status symbols they became. Big Science continues to serve a similar purpose today. It remains a tool for outspending others more than a tool for the advance of knowledge. In fact, the similarities between the transit races and more recent scientific “competitions” are so striking that it is difficult not to conclude that they, too, share a common underlying cause. The funding for transit expeditions is especially striking when compared with contemporaneous levels of governmental investment in the sciences. Governments were generally reluctant to invest in science unless it was framed as part of international competition. Moreover, the transits created unambiguous focal points for international status-­enhancing efforts. This boosted the conspicuousness of the investment as all eyes were literally focused on the same event. For politicians this was an attractive feature, and TOV advocates used it to their advantage. Unlike other scientific projects, the transits presented a solid time frame, relatively clear budgetary parameters, and fairly low levels of uncertainty (provided the politician was interested in the expedition as such rather than in its actual scientific value). The transit races display all the hallmarks of conspicuous consumption: they were costly, wasteful, and eye catching; they provided very few material benefits yet were considered a status symbol; the discourse surrounding them was filled with references to prestige and celebrated the voluntary burden that was involved in such undertakings. Moreover, actors clearly perceived their investment competitively. They demonstrated a preference for conspicuousness by funding expeditions while failing to fund the analysis of the collected data. They argued over who sent expeditions to the most inhospitable locations. This led to uncoordinated and redundant efforts. Interestingly, relative investment in transit observations closely mirrors power shifts throughout this period. The number of stations and their locations reflects the rise of Britain and the relative decline of France, the emergence of the United States and of Germany, and the frantic yet unsuccessful attempt of the Russians to catch up with the rest of the industrialized world. Big Science thus proved to be a relatively reliable measure of international status. The Big Science example highlights the two-­level game of conspicuous consumption. Domestic entrepreneurs select projects that could generate

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international prestige as a way for securing state funding. Transit expeditions enhanced the visibility of the Royal Society just as the Human Genome Project enhanced the visibility of biomedicine. Domestic and international prestige structures are tightly connected and often reinforce one another. Murray’s quest to find the perfect purple pigeon demonstrates that many domestic Big Science entrepreneurs are acutely aware of these interconnections and strategize their efforts accordingly. At the end of the Cold War, under unipolarity, the international hier­ archy was relatively uncontested and unambiguous. Status signaling serves little purpose in such an environment, and hence it is not surprising to find a slight reduction in Big Science funding in this period. The picture is murkier today. With the relative decline of the United States, the rise of China, the ascent of the BRIC countries, and instability in Europe, the international hierarchy is more contested than it has been in decades. This is the precise environment in which conspicuous consumption thrives. It is a time to create illusions, project images, and establish reputations. The revival of Big Science makes sense within this broader context. Big Science remains an attractive venue for conspicuous consumption because it is an effective test of status. It incorporates all of Goffman’s major restriction mechanisms: the exorbitant price of Big Science creates effective intrinsic restrictions, the competitive nature of Big Science imposes natural restrictions, and the amount of time and training required for the establishment of a viable scientific infrastructure capable of supporting Big Science entails considerable cultivation restrictions. Science serves as one of the most prominent markers of modernity, thus connecting it to core values of many prestige spaces in the contemporary international system. The competitive nature of Big Science generates important focal points that increase the broadcast efficiency of status-­seeking behavior. Landing on the moon, finally decoding the human genome, a successful nuclear test: all these provide threshold moments that are bound to attract international attention. Big Science is not geared toward the gradual and largely esoteric processes of research and knowledge accumulation but rather toward the production of spectacle. In 1882, William Harkness (1837–­1903), probably the biggest American supporter of transit observations, tried to imagine the world of science that would greet Venus on its next voyage across the sun. We are now on the eve of the second transit of a pair, after which there will be no other till the twenty-­first century of our era has dawned upon the earth, and

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the June flowers are blooming in 2004. When the last transit season occurred the intellectual world was awakening from the slumber of ages, and that wondrous scientific activity which has led to our present advanced knowledge was just beginning. What will be the state of science when the next transit season arrives. God only knows. (Dick, Orchiston, and Love 1998, 249–­50)

Harkness would have surely been amazed to see rockets carrying men and women into space, scientists decoding the most fundamental secrets of life, and physicists harnessing powerful energies capable of destroying the earth. Yet Harkness might have been equally amazed to discover that throughout all these scientific transformations, the politics of Big Science that he was all too familiar with remained largely unchanged. Thus, the blooming June flowers of 2004 that welcomed Venus on its transit across the sun were also welcoming the potential emergence of yet another Big Science race, this time to faraway planets. In the world of conspicuous consumption, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

chapter six

Conclusions Living in a Veblenian World The outcome of any serious research can only be to make two questions grow where only one grew before. (Veblen [1919] 1961, 33)

I

n early 2010, Abdoulaye Wade, the president of Senegal, unveiled the African Renaissance, a giant bronze statue designed to celebrate the rebirth of African greatness. The ceremony attracted a celebratory crowd of dignitaries and fellow African leaders who came to congratulate Wade on this achievement. Three points stood out to most Western observers. First, at $27 million, this colossus was an extravagant investment for the Senegalese economy. Second, heralded as the largest statue in the world, the installation stands one foot taller than the Statue of Liberty. This is hardly accidental. Finally, the brash pseudo-­Stalinist design and generous funding for this giant sculpture were provided by the equally destitute North Koreans (Walker 2010; “Statuesque or Grotesque?,” 2010). The Senegalese monument displays many symptoms of conspicuous consumption: a preference for conspicuousness and extravagance, sensitivity to rank, questionable prosociality, a desire to gain prestige, and an acceptance of high cost. Not to be outdone by this colossal statue, in 2015 Greece, still dealing with the aftermath of a historic economic crisis and bankruptcy, debated the resurrection of the Colossus of Rhodes himself. True to his name, the proposed 150-­meters-­tall statue, with an estimated cost of £250 mil­lion, will dwarf both the Statue of Liberty and African Renaissance (Williams 2015). These examples of a modern-­day Ozymandias, instilling awe in the observer through their wasteful might, offer an extreme illustration of contemporary conspicuous consumption. They highlight the puzzling para-

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dox that stands at the heart of this book: the need to explain the logic through which questionable expenditure can become a source of prestige. These recent examples echo many of Veblen’s original insights, which often relied on satire to expose the social role of excess. In one of the most often cited passages of Theory of the Leisure Class, for example, Veblen sardonically recounts the dismal fate of an unnamed French king who lost his life as a result of overly pious observance of the rules of class decorum and good form. In the absence of the functionary whose office it was to shift his master’s seat, the king sat uncomplaining before the fire and suffered his royal person to be toasted beyond recovery. But in so doing he saved his Most Christian Majesty from menial contamination. (Veblen [1899] 1979)

Such tales of ultimate folly in the name of status and prestige are memorable because they defy common sense and go against the instinct of self-­ preservation. However, as unforgettable as such egregious examples may be, they are often a disservice to the broader study of prestige. The politics of prestige is not limited to lampoonery or satire nor must it always involve frivolous demonstrations of folly. Methodologically, by focusing on extreme cases, the researcher can better reject alternative material explanations—­little else can explain such extreme behaviors. However, a methodology of extreme cases does not necessarily imply a theory of extremes. Overemphasizing memorable fringe oddities often obscures the more normalized role of prestige-­seeking behavior in average political decisions. Indeed, conspicuous consumption is not restricted to cases of oversized bronze statues, apocryphal toasted kings, or fictional pachyderm-­ covered towers but rather touches on core issues of international relations such as procurement patterns, aid policies, research and development allocations, and even war and peace.

Prestige Matters Prestige matters. It matters across the board, from fringe to core issues, even when it is difficult to isolate and measure its independent effect. Many previous attempts to study prestige stumbled on precisely this is­ sue. Measuring prestige is difficult if not impossible. An attempt to quantify the relative weight of the prestige impetus, actors’ relative levels of

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prestige, or the material returns generated by prestige is likely to produce unsatisfactory results. Many researchers have found this to be an intractable problem and consequently abandoned the study of prestige altogether. Yet our inability to quantify prestige does not mean that we cannot study it in a systematic way. Instead of trying to measure prestige directly, we can gain traction by focusing on the implications of prestige-­driven behaviors such as conspicuous consumption. As long as actors believe that prestige matters, it should affect their behavior with observable effects. This is precisely the motivation behind the study of conspicuous consumption. By understanding political decisions as acts of consumption, this Veb­ lenian approach opens the door to the application of basic economic models such as supply and demand or consumption externalities to international relations. By differentiating between the primary and secondary utilities of consumption and identifying their respective relation to cost, conspicuous consumption highlights the way in which social and material motivations interact and comingle. Finally, by analyzing consumption decisions, the theory underlines the substitutability of many policy decisions (Starr 2000; Most and Starr 1989). Actors can choose different commodity bundles in order to satisfy their needs. Thus, consumption decisions cannot be taken for granted. Just as there are many combinations of goods that can satisfy hunger, there is more than one commodity bundle that can generate greater security. The presence of substitutes allows actors to use their consumption decisions as a form of social communication. They can utilize expensive goods as costly signals, opt for symbolic goods to gain access to an exclusive club, or demonstrate class membership through the adoption and cultivation of specific tastes. Ignoring the possibility that states engage in acts of conspicuous consumption impoverishes our theoretical account. It can also lead to problematic policy prescriptions. The following example illustrates this point analytically. In his seminal rationalist analysis of war, Fearon (1995) notes that wars pose a thought-­provoking puzzle for rationalists: if wars are costly, deadly, and unwanted, why do they recur? As long as both sides suffer some costs for fighting, then war is always inefficient ex post—­both sides would have been better off if they could have achieved the same final resolution without suffering the costs (or by paying lower costs). This is true even if the costs of fighting are small, or if one or both sides viewed the potential benefits as greater than the costs, since there are still costs. Unless states enjoy the activity of fighting for its own sake, as a consumption good, then war is inefficient ex-­post. (Fearon 1995, 383–­84)

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This puzzle is analogous to the one motivating the study of conspicuous consumption. Wars occur when actors choose a more expensive option (war) over a cheaper one (ex ante diplomatic agreement) even though both options offer the same primary utility. Fearon offers a set of three ra­ tional mechanisms that can explain this counterintuitive choice: information structures, credibility of commitments, and divisibility of goods. Yet because he only relies on primary-­utility calculations, he ignores the possibility of Veblen effects. Just like the Thai carrier, or the moon landing program, war may be chosen precisely because it is more expensive than negotiation, precisely because the additional cost may increase an actor’s stature. Indeed, many contemporary studies of war are so caught up in the language of material interest that they discount the possibility that prestige and honor could still be motivations for war (Kagan 1995, 8). Yet the Veblenian framework, while focusing on prestige, does not depart from the rational choice character of Fearon’s bargaining approach—­it only points out that one has to acknowledge a wider set of concerns when calculating the utility functions of actors, especially when social and/or positional goods are at stake. Indeed, analyzing war as a product of a Veblen effect offers a fourth rationalist solution to Fearon’s puzzle.1 The study of war is not the only topic that can benefit from the introduction of conspicuous consumption. The logic underlying the puzzle of war, as presented by Fearon, surfaces in similar terms in other rationalist studies of international relations. Wagner’s (1983) study of arms races offers another example of a similar puzzle:2 Wagner argues that following the logic of the security dilemma, a rational actor should be able to anticipate that increasing his own defense expenditures is likely to trigger similar reactions by his rivals. Once a rival matches this initial investment in new armaments, our actor is likely to find himself just as insecure as he was before making the initial investment, and considerably poorer.3 Con­ sequently, arms races present a rationalist puzzle. Why would he ever increase defense expenditures? Or in game theoretic terms, the armaments game is a zero sum game with perfect information. It ought, therefore, to have an equilibrium in pure strategies, and it appears that this equilibrium should be at low levels of expenditure. How, then, are arms races possible? (Wagner 1983, 340)

Arms races occur when actors prefer a more expensive equilibrium (mutual high levels of defense expenditure) to a cheaper one (low levels of expenditure), even though both result in similar levels of insecurity.

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Here again, the rationalist puzzle resembles the basic pattern of Veblen effects—­a more expensive good is consumed when a cheaper substitute is readily available. Accordingly, within this framing, conspicuous consumption can be used to explain some arms races. When tackling the puzzle of arms races, Wagner is forced to salvage the assumption of rationality by concluding that actors are either myopic or that they engage in arms races as a result of a highly complex set of calculations. Analyzing arms races as the result of a Veblen effect is neither a less parsimonious solution to this puzzle nor a less plausible one. The importance of conspicuous consumption goes beyond abstract theoretical musings. Veblen effects challenge conventional predictions regarding the relationship between price and demand. If certain weapons systems serve as status goods, for example, reducing their price might decrease their appeal and vice versa. This was the case with the F-­20 fighter program: instead of selling more planes, the cheaper price tag drove consumers away. Similarly, the low price tag of participation in peacekeeping operations reduced their appeal for middle-­power contributors. Following this line of argument can lead us to counterintuitive and paradoxical prescriptions such as advocating lower prices for weaponry as an effective instrument of arms control. Conversely, increasing the costs of war may not always be an effective tool for war prevention. While provocative and undoubtedly problematic, these policy implications suggest that relying on price manipulation as a policy tool can have counterintuitive consequences. On the whole, as the historical record of sumptuary legislation demonstrates, policies aimed at curbing conspicuous consumption are likely to fail if they rely on price manipulation alone while neglecting to address the social dimensions of consumption.

The Four Dimensions of Conspicuous Consumption In chapter 1 I identified four dimensions in which we should expect to find observable behavioral footprints of the quest for prestige: conspicuousness, cost, hierarchy, and cycles of status symbols. Indeed, throughout the empirical chapters of this study, we can find many examples of all four dimensions at work. Through the exploration of different issue areas, this volume submits a body of illustrative evidence in support of the conspicuous consumption theory. It lends support to the existence of prestige-­seeking behavior in international relations by identifying consumption patterns

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that are associated with and are indicative of the dynamics of conspicuous consumption. By simply demonstrating that conspicuous consumption occurs in international relations, we open the door for further incorporation of prestige-­centric analysis into international relations theory. The preference for conspicuousness is tightly connected to the acceptance of high cost. It is this bias in favor of the extravagant that is the hall­ mark of the conspicuous consumption argument. Accordingly we find navies opting for observable weapons systems instead of investing funds in improved communications or defense systems. The resilience of the large ship as the backbone of the British and German navies even after the marginal role played by these ships in World War I similarly demonstrates a preference for conspicuousness. Moreover, the striking differences be­ tween the determinants of naval procurement and tank procurement provide further support for the conspicuousness hypothesis. Finally, the poor state and questionable utility of many of the world’s aircraft carriers stands in stark contrast to their cost and to the amount of attention that they attract. In the prosocial realm, we can also identify an effort to enhance the conspicuousness of investment. Thus, we find actors shying away from providing logistical support to peacekeeping missions, flocking to assist the same aid recipients, and using token contributions in aid or peacekeeping in order to enhance their reputation for generosity. When it comes to Big Science, we similarly find a preference for purple pigeons over gray mice, leading states to support attention-­grabbing delegations of transit observers while penny-­pinching the painstaking and decidedly unglamorous process of data analysis. The implications of class and club politics in international relations are woven throughout this study. The desire to become a member of an exclusive class or club often plays an important role in the decision-­making calculus of conspicuous consumers. Along these lines, we see countries struggle to fund transit observations as a way of claiming membership in the club of civilized nations while carrier owners parade their ships in an attempt to earn an entry pass to the club of major powers. The case of the Thai carrier is illustrative: once Thailand acquired the vessel and could claim to be a member of the carrier club, it no longer was able or willing to invest even minimal funds for the maintenance and operation of the ship. This suggests that Thailand was more interested in having a carrier than in having an operational carrier. In chapter 4 I explored the hypothesis that certain patterns of conspicuous consumption are more prevalent among members of a specific class by focusing on prosocial tendencies

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among middle powers. These examples suggest that prestige symbols are understood as a mechanism for identifying class membership. The hierarchical order of international society therefore is not so much a continuum of individual actors but rather a stratified sequence of clusters and clubs. Finally, in chapters 3 and 5 I focused on cases in which prestige symbols show a remarkable level of endurance. Transit delegations were funded even when technological developments demonstrated the futility of the endeavor. Large naval vessels continued to be the focus of international attention even when they were proven practically useless during World War I. This endurance in the face of severe challenges cannot be easily explained without reference to the symbolic meaning of the items in question. In chapter 4, on the other hand, I offered an example of a declining prestige symbol. Peacekeeping has become too popular over the years because of its relatively low price tag, and it has thus failed to maintain the necessary allure of an exclusive status symbol. Once peacekeeping became déclassé, it lost its appeal to elitist conspicuous consumers. Indeed, there is a sharp decline in middle-­power commitment to peacekeeping, especially when compared with the relative lack of change in the list of foreign aid donors.

Conspicuous Consumption and Rational Choice A prestige maximizer is still a rational actor. This rationalist approach, which is retained throughout this volume, is not surprising given the pedigree of the theory. Veblen, an economist, wrote Theory of the Leisure Class as a critique of the modern study of economics. Indeed, Veblen’s actors are rational even when they behave in the most exaggerated and counterproductive way. Stating that an actor is rational does not suggest that she is socially blind. Veblen feared that by ignoring the effects of social institutions, economics was becoming insensitive to important aspects of economic and social life. This critique is especially poignant for the contemporary study of international relations at a time when the use of economic analysis as a basis for understanding the political sphere is widespread. As a theory that grew from within the rationalist approach, conspicuous consumption offers a constructive critique that can potentially serve as a means for reincorporating social aspects into rational choice models. In essence, the theory does not attack the concept of rationality but rather the way in which we understand and operationalize the concept of utility. By limiting our understanding of utility to material factors, we

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become insensitive to other forms of capital. This study overcomes this shortcoming by identifying two forms of utility: material and social. Once we break the concept of utility into its material and social components, we find that each type interacts differently with cost. Primary utility, which is defined in material terms, follows a straightforward economic logic and shows a decline in demand when faced with an increase in cost. Secondary utility, which is defined in social terms, follows the logic of costly signals and consequently shows an increase in demand as the price goes up. Thus, contrary to the predictions of demand theory, we see a decline in the attractiveness of peacekeeping operations because the cost of participating in such missions is proven to be too low. Conversely, we can observe a competition over who gets to send transit observation missions to the most inhospitable and expensive locations. As the conspicuous consumption theory predicts, when prestige-­seeking behavior is at play, a decline in cost leads to a decline in demand, and vice versa. Models that do not address the implications of secondary-­utility calculations are therefore likely to lead to false predictions. There is, therefore, a need for serious theorizing on the nature of utility in international relations and the way in which utility-­based models should be constructed and operationalized within the international context. The material/social divide is not the only possible typological distinction that can be adopted for the study of utility. The prosociality chapter, for example, uses a distinction between a consumption utility and a vicarious utility. These types of alternative distinctions should be explored inasmuch as they have empirical consequences for the study of international relations. The process of problematizing the components of the rationalist model is likely to improve the empirical traction of the theory and enable a better dialogue and synthesis between rational choice and competing or complementary theoretical approaches. It is an essential and overdue step in the formation of a richer and more robust application of rational choice to international relations. Analyzing conspicuous consumption as a rational phenomenon raises two additional important issues that require further elaboration. First, throughout this study I referred to primary and secondary utilities in order to distinguish material/instrumental utility from a social/communicative one. While true to Veblen’s original terminology, the use of “primary” and “secondary” in order to denote the differences between these utilities can be misleading because it seems to suggest a theoretical bias toward material explanations. Yet as I demonstrate, “secondary” does not mean

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less important. There is no necessary theoretical reason to assume material primacy. Despite the terminology, the theory of conspicuous consumption is agnostic when it comes to weighing the relative importance of material and social motivations. Instead, the general structure of the theory sees acts of consumption as outcomes of the sum of both motivations. Consequently, the argument can be read as a theory of residuals. Prestige as a social motivation is used to account for the margins that cannot be explained by primary utility. However, it is equally possible to look at material explanations as constituting the unexplained residuals of social motivations. In fact, in the case of pure Veblen goods, where consumption is mainly driven by prestige considerations, the material clearly plays a residual role to the social. Distinguishing between core and residual is therefore a matter of theoretical taste, preference, and convenience and can vary across different goods, actors, or issue areas. Such an agnostic approach can seem too permissive at times. Instead of viewing material and social explanations as competing theoretical frame­ works, it accepts both as inherently complementary. When analyzing the Brazilian carrier or the Chinese space program, we do not need to choose between material or social explanations, between domestic or international interests. Instead, conspicuous consumption accommodates all these motivations as necessary integral components of the decision to consume. Instead of either/or, conspicuous consumption opts for “all of the above.” In so doing, it evades tough analytical choices in favor of a more centric approach. While some may criticize such a stance as noncommittal, it is precisely this agnostic nature that makes conspicuous consumption an attractive meeting place for different theoretical approaches and a potentially fertile ground for bridge building. The second issue that I wish to highlight here is the unique conundrum surrounding prestige-­driven strategic behavior. By adopting a rationalist approach to the study of prestige, conspicuous consumption treats prestige policies as strategic manipulation. However, prestige presents a challenge to the strategic actor. A behavior that is too visibly aimed at gaining prestige is often deemed vulgar, and hence not overly prestigious. This paradox is captured nicely by James Barrie’s famous villain Captain Hook. In Peter Pan ([1911] 1987), Barrie describes Hook as a deeply anguished actor. An illegitimate son of a nobleman, Hook is constantly searching for social recognition and approbation. He is obsessed with prestige and suffers from extreme status anxiety. Hook realizes that in order to gain social acceptance he needs to maintain “good form.” However, this realization

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generates a trap: “Was it not bad form to think about good form? His vitals were tortured by this problem. . . . Good form without knowing it . . . is the best form of all” (Barrie 1987, 121–­22). Hook’s paradox is that knowingly and visibly adopting prestige policies is decidedly unprestigious—­ deliberately striving for “good form” is the epitome of “bad form.” Following Hook’s paradox, it should not be surprising to find only very few candid acknowledgments of prestige-­seeking behavior. Few actors are willing to openly admit that a certain policy or act is driven by prestige considerations. Such an admission is likely to trigger Hook’s paradox and, in many cases, defeat the purpose of prestige enhancement altogether. Instead, prestige policies are rationalized as driven by material necessity, taste, quality, and even aesthetics. Such rationalizations are not necessarily manipulative but are often a result of the deeply rooted institutionalization of prestige structures. Indeed, many of the most effective social institutions operate subconsciously by affecting our preferences and constructing our lists of needs and wants. While this social aspect of prestige helps mitigate Hook’s paradox, it also makes the work of the social scientist more challenging. It reduces the usefulness of single-­case process tracing: the consumer is not likely to describe her actions as driven by prestige considerations, and, with no point of reference, assessing the relative weight of primary and secondary utilities is difficult if not impossible. Consequently, instead of analyzing the decision-­making process of a single act of consumption, we must focus on more general patterns of consumption. Thus, instead of interviewing specific consumers who just purchased an expensive Louis Vuitton purse or a luxurious Rolex wristwatch in order to uncover their rationalization, we can gain better insights into the workings of prestige by analyzing the general consumption trends for such goods. Who are the likely consumers? How do they use these luxury goods? Is there change over time? What is the elasticity of demand? Accordingly, in this book I did not focus on tracing the decision-­making process in an individual state. Instead of studying why one actor decides to consume certain goods, I traced how one good is consumed by a class of actors. Arguing that prestige is not an explicit or even reflective component of a decision-­making process does not mean that it cannot be part of a rationalist analysis. Many game-­theoretical analyses of international relations involve similar issues. Asserting that democratic institutions are advantageous during crises or conflicts does not mean that those advantages were a conscious part of regime design or even the crisis-­management process

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itself. It is doubtful whether complex models that focus on the strategic international implications of public speeches by statesmen or opposition leaders, or the international repercussions of domestic resource allocation choices, are fully comprehended by decision makers (Fearon 1994a, 1994b; Schultz 1998; Bueno de Mesquita et al. 1999). Yet such models are used with regularity in studies of strategic choice. Similarly, most systemic theories assume the causality of factors that rarely play a conscious part in a decision-­making process. Nevertheless, we feel comfortable asserting that bipolarity played an important role in many aspects of European post–­World War II politics or that Latin American political economy can be explained through the lens of dependency (Mearsheimer 1990; Cardoso and Faletto 1979). Asserting the role of prestige should therefore not make us less comfortable. As I demonstrate, an analysis of prestige is not inherently different, and the theoretical and methodological challenges that it raises are not insurmountable. Let me add one last point regarding Hook’s paradox. In Barrie’s fable, the paradox is introduced in order to explain Hook’s vile actions. Faced with an inescapable social trap, Hook chose to replace prestige with notoriety. A rigid social structure that offered no room for mobility and scorned those who visibly exhibited aspirations for social ascendance left Hook with little choice. He could either resign himself to enduring lifelong inferiority, which did not match his constitution or ambition, or he could adopt an antisocial stance, rejecting the social order altogether. Unable to secure the prestige of a hero, Hook could still enjoy recognition as a villain. While Barrie’s psychologizing is obviously simplistic, it does raise interesting questions. What role do prestige structures play in the case of international “villains”? What is the potential connection between prestige and notoriety in international relations? Is there a way to preempt frustrated actors from “going rogue”? These questions warrant further research.

Living in a Veblenian World Viewing the world through a Veblenian lens paints a provocative picture of international relations. If actors care about their position in the international hierarchy, they are prone to adopt costly, conspicuous, and often excessive policies. As such, the conspicuous consumption argument raises interesting normative concerns. Are we willing to pay the price of

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prestige? And if so, how much are we willing to invest? What are the opportunity costs of such investments? A discussion of the political and normative price of prestige is especially important for understanding contemporary international trends. Times of ambiguity and change create a particularly conducive setting for the emergence of Veblen effects. Ours is a system in which there are high levels of uncertainty regarding both the distribution of power and the symbols of power. Indeed, this is a system in which there is very little consensus on how to rank or even to conceptualize the order of the international social hierarchy. It is therefore not surprising to observe a new surge in apparent cases of conspicuous consumption, such as the reawakening of the race to space, the emergence of nascent naval arms races (mainly in the Pacific and Indian Oceans), or a new wave of ambitious construction projects. Consequently, the current system makes the study of Veblen effects a very timely and important topic. A Veblenian world is populated by prestige maximizers. They are involved in an endless and expensive cycle of invidious comparison and pecuniary emulation and are obsessed with the way in which they are perceived by their peers. The conspicuous consumer is still a rational actor, driven to prefer ostentatious venues of expenditure by the social institutions of her prestige space. This depiction stands in contrast to mainstream international relations theory, which views its actors as power maximizers, security maximizers, or welfare maximizers (Mearsheimer 2001, 138; Brooks 1997). By portraying actors as prestige maximizers, the conspicuous consumption theory reemphasizes the competitive nature of the international arena. In this sense, the world depicted here is not dissimilar to the one portrayed by traditional realists, who tend to view their actors as motivated by the quest for power or security. However, unlike most realist accounts, conspicuous consumption understands prestige, and therefore power, to be inherently social. In fact, the definition of prestige used in this study suggests that the term prestige is meaningless in the absence of at least a rudimentary level of societiness. As a social concept, the contextual meaning of prestige relies on the specific intersubjective norms and values of every prestige space. Once the norms change, the way in which conspicuous consumption manifests itself changes as well. The suggestion that states can establish status through a contest of beneficence that can over time replace traditional force-­based venues of competition, for example, is one that cannot be easily accounted for by a theoretical framework that views its actors as power

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maximizers. Similarly, extravagant acts that lead to a counterproductive Gatsby effect, such as the purchase of the Thai aircraft carrier, cannot be easily explained as acts of welfare maximization. It is this shift from the material to the social, from power to prestige, that allows for the possibility of nuance and change. Realism can provide a partial explanation for only two of the four main elements of conspicuous consumption that were identified at the beginning of this study. While deterrence theory can partially account for the preference for conspicuousness, and while some variants of realism acknowledge the importance of hierarchy, realists cannot adequately explain the attractiveness of costly goods or the cyclical nature of status symbols. Deterrence theory cannot explain the persistent attraction of extravagant showpieces and suboptimal policies: a world populated by power maximizers, conventionally understood, cannot account for conspicuous consumption. By portraying actors as prestige maximizers, conspicuous consumption theory generates a realist-­constructivist hybrid.4 It retains realism’s assertions regarding the competitive nature of international relations but, through the shift from power to prestige, suggests that the form in which this competition takes place is socially constructed and thus open to change. All three cases described in this book provide examples of competitive behavior in search of prestige in international relations. Yet competition in these examples is not necessarily violent. In fact, in two of the three cases competition may lead to positive collaborative outcomes. In the case of prosociality, competition provides an important motivation for other-­help and generates contests of beneficence. In the case of Big Science, competition helps actors overcome the collective action problem and muster the required political capital to fund large-­scale scientific projects. The big theoretical challenge here is to understand the process that leads actors to enact their competitive urges through one venue rather than another. Can we envision the process through which violent competition gives way to more benign contests? Further research is needed in order to provide an answer to this question.

The Next Step Future research on conspicuous consumption will likely go beyond the modest empirical goals of this study. However, any substantial advance

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will need to address a few problematic issues. The most prevalent of these is the need to weigh the relative significance of primary-­and secondary-­ utility considerations. Comparing the relative weight of material and social motivations is essential if we are to assess the empirical significance and scope of the theory more broadly. Yet in my assessment, this issue is likely to prove somewhat intractable. Another empirical minefield awaits those who seek to measure the material and social utility of increased prestige. In this study I chose to bracket that part of the analysis and assume that such benefits exist at least in the minds of the actors. However, a more complete theory of prestige in international relations may wish to address this part of the equation as well. Such research may enable us to better delineate the boundaries between power and prestige and to better understand the way these two concepts interact with each other. Finally, one of the most important theoretical implications of the conspicuous consumption argument is the possibility for a substantial transformation of the manifestation of competition in international affairs. A closer study of the rise and fall of prestige symbols could serve as a key component of a broader theory of transformation and change in international affairs. Other important avenues for future research include an extension of the current framework to more issue areas in international relations. Topics such as nuclear proliferation, membership in international organizations, adoption of treaties, and normative leadership are just a few of many potential issues where conspicuous consumption may be in action in a discernable and observable manner. The interaction between prestige and notoriety also holds a lot of promise. Another issue that deserves more attention and further elaboration is the connection between domestic and international structures of prestige. Finally, the price of prestige raises many normative and ethical questions. A rigorous effort to grapple with these issues could prove to be of significant value. Prestige is a core concept of international relations theory, yet it is not an easy concept to define or measure. As such it is often ignored or marginalized. However, as I demonstrated in this book, it is a useful concept. Prestige, almost by definition, is a bridge between the social and the material, between agency and structure, and between realism and constructivism. The theory of conspicuous consumption offers one way of getting at this elusive and evasive concept. However, it is just one step toward a more general theory of prestige in international relations. Paradoxically, it is the use of increasingly sophisticated and formalized theoretical models that forces us to go back to the many poorly defined core concepts of

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international relations theory. Prestige, as one of these concepts, deserves our renewed attention. Veblen’s statement, which opens this chapter, summarizes much of his approach to social science. Good research makes us think and generates valuable questions. In this book I introduced many new concepts and frameworks to the study of international relations. I tried to take a bite at a broad, and so far elusive, theoretical concept. While the current venture produced many interesting findings, it is my hope that I was even more successful in generating additional questions and theo­ retical challenges such that “two questions grow where only one grew before.”

Notes Chapter One 1. For examples of recent works, see Milliken 1996; Gilady 2015; Onea 2014; Larson, Paul, and Wohlforth 2013; Wood 2013; Galasso 2012; Wolf 2011; Volgy et al. 2011; Welch 2010; Wohlforth 2009; Wylie 2009; Deng 2008; Lebow 2008; Fordham and Asal 2007; Rosen 2005; Kim 2004; O’Neil 1999; Markey 2000. 2. For example, Veblen (1899) 1979; Frank 1985a, 1985b; Bernheim 1994; Andersen 1933; Bagwell and Bernheim 1996; Basman, Molina, and Slottje 1988; Duesenberry 1949; Coats 1954; Gruchy 1958; Zinke 1958; Leibenstein 1950. For a general review of Veblen’s life and work, see Diggins 1999; Dorfman 1934. 3. Morgenthau similarly sees the main value of modern weaponry for underdeveloped countries as driven by prestige considerations: “The provision of jet-­ fighters and other modern weapons for certain underdeveloped nations can obviously perform no military function. It increases the prestige of the recipient nation both at home and abroad. Being in the possession of some of the more spectacular instruments of modern warfare, a nation can at least enjoy the illusion of having become a modern military power” (1962, 303). 4. For a survey of the role of prestige in these early works, see Markey 2000; Lebow 2008. 5. For notable exceptions, see Morgenthau (1947) 1960; Gilpin 1981; Galtung 1964; East 1972; Wallace 1971. 6. Reus-­Smit 2012, 528–­29; Fearon and Wendt 2002, 52; Lake 2011; Sil and Katzenstein 2010; Wight, Hansen, and Dun 2013. 7. The Practice Turn is an example of this trend (Adler and Pouliot 2011). 8. See Larson, Paul, and Wohlforth 2013; Johnston 2014; Deng 2008; Suzuki 2008; Larson and Shevchenko 2010; Lanteigne 2005, 28. 9. For critique and further discussion, see Welch 2010. 10. On definitional shortcomings in Lebow’s framework, see Morrow 2010. 11. E.g., Alonso-­Carrea, Caballe, and Raurich 2002; Jo and Lee, 2016; Huang

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and Shi 2015; Moav and Neeman 2012; Valente 2009; Alvarez-­Cuadrado 2007; Tian and Yang 2009; Arrow and Dasgupta 2009; Eaton and Eswaran 2005; Chang, Cheng, and Shieh 2012; Winkelmann 2012. 12. For discussion of related concepts such as honor, respect, status, esteem, and face, see Larson, Paul, and Wolhforth 2013; Wolf 2011; O’Neill 1999; Lebow 2008; McGinn 1971. 13. A discussion of the different definitions and conceptualizations of power in international relations is beyond the scope of this volume. For a useful review, see Barnett and Duvall 2005b. 14. For a similar discussion, see Singer and Small 1966, 238. 15. Parsons similarly sees prestige as operating between the objective and the subjective (Parsons 1970). 16. Larson, Paul, and Wohlforth (2013) prefer the term status to prestige because they see it as a more neutral term. Status is usually understood as denoting the ordinal position of different actors in the social hierarchy. Wolf (2011, 115), on the other hand, argues that the approbative dimension of prestige makes it the most important form of esteem in politics: “Enjoying prestige means being widely accredited with having achieved valuable political ends or with having special abilities for achieving such ends.” In practice, both terms are so tightly connected that it is difficult to separate them analytically. I therefore use these terms interchangeably throughout this volume. 17. See Marshall 1953, 45; Davis and Moore 1945; Hope 1982. 18. I do not use the term international society in order not to conflate the current argument with the English School. While authors of the English School have analyzed international social hierarchy, the role of prestige is largely unexplored in their theorizing. See Bull and Watson 1984; Watson 1992; Buzan 1993. For an overview and a typology of social readings of power in international relations, see Barnett and Duvall 2005a, 2005b. 19. An analogy from the world of tennis may be helpful: professional tennis players earn ATP (Association of Tennis Professionals) points for every match they win. The total number of points (the equivalent of prestige in this analogy) determines the ranking of the players (the equivalent of status). 20. Positional goods were first defined by Fred Hirsch (1976 ). See also James 1987. 21. It is important to note that while Lake (2009) explores the distributive implications of hierarchy, his analysis is notably asocial. For Lake, the dynamics of hierarchical relationships are not necessarily wrapped in questions of status and prestige. Indeed, the term prestige appears only once in his book, as part of a quote of Gilpin’s work. 22. Pyszczynski, Greenberg, and Solomon (1997) argue that high self-­esteem serves as a tool for reducing anxiety, and it is the reduction of anxiety and fear that motivates human behavior. If indeed esteem is correlated with lower levels of

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fear, it is likely to be a desired commodity in an anarchic system, where life is often characterized as “solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short.” 23. While greater levels of self-­esteem may be connected to increased confidence and assertiveness (which can result in material gains), this indirect link is not a necessary component of a subjective approach. Prestige may be desired even in the absence of material returns simply because it feels grand to be prestigious. 24. See Offer 1997, 451. 25. O’Neill (1999, 97) uses a similar formulation to define honor. He relies on a quote from Peristiany (1966, 21): “Honor is the value of a person in his own eyes but also in the eyes of society. It is his estimation of his own worth, his claim to pride, but also the acknowledgment of that claim, his excellence recognized by society, his right to pride.” See Tajfel 1970; Fisher 1990, 45; Mercer 1995, 240. 26. See also Mercer 1995, 241–­43; Luhtanen and Crocker 1992. 27. These postgames reactions occur in democracies as well. When Toronto hosted the Pan-­Am games in the summer of 2015, pregames discussion of cost overruns, traffic congestion, and public apathy were replaced by pride, public euphoria, and a desire to host even bigger megasports events by the time of the closing ceremony (Pagliaro 2015). Similarly, the success of the 2004 Olympic Games in Athens contributed to a sense of national pride and a strengthening of national identity (Panagitopoulou 2014). 28. Threats to in-­group cohesion play an important explanatory role for theorists of diversionary wars (Levy 1989; Heldt 1997; Baker and Oneal 2001). More recently, the ontological security literature has further developed a similar subjective line of argumentation. According to this literature, actors often engage in practices that risk their material security in order to protect a subjective sense of identity (Mitzen 2006; Giddens 1991; Steele 2008; Kinnvall 2004). 29. On substitutability, see Most and Starr 1989; Starr 2000. 30. For an evolutionary model of prestige, see Henrich and Gil-­White 2001. 31. Zahavi 1975; Zahavi and Zahavi 1997; Maynard Smith 1976; Grafen 1990a, 1990b; Gintis, Smith, and Bowles 2001. 32. E.g., Williamson 1983; Fearon 1994a, 1994b, 1997; Schultz 1998; Sartori 2002. 33. This ritualistic aspect of turtle hunting occurs only during seasons in which turtles are far from the shore. When turtles are bountiful, the hunting loses its ritualistic significance. Only when there is a clear handicap do altruistic hunters gain prestige. 34. Torch fishing, which produces only a quarter of the yield of regular fishing methods, is carried out in a ritualistic manner. It confers prestige on those who partake in the fishing expedition. 35. For more on Brazil’s purchase of an aircraft carrier, see the discussion in the subsection on Brazil in the section “The Aircraft Carrier Club” in chapter 3 (pp. 71–73). See also “France Sells Aging Aircraft Carrier to Brazil” 2000.

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36. In Canada, a potlatch ban was in effect between 1884 and 1951. 37. See also Fussell 1983, 28. The terms primary and secondary do not signify the relative importance of these utilities in actors’ calculations. Veblen uses primary and secondary to differentiate between the more direct functional benefits and the less tangible social ones. 38. In this Veblen echoes classic economists such as Adam Smith and David Hume. Both see a direct link between property rights and the introduction of lux­ uries. Interestingly, Smith saw a positive economic role for secondary-­utility considerations: “It is well that nature imposes upon us in this manner. It is this deception which rouses and keeps in continual motion the industry of mankind” (Smith [1759] 1976, 183, as quoted in Xenos 1987, 203). For Smith, emulative prestige-­ seeking behavior is a necessary condition for sustainable economic growth. 39. While Veblen discusses societal characteristics that enable the growth of conspicuous consumption, he does not set the concept in a particular historical context, nor does he qualify the applicability of his theory. C. Wright Mills’s insightful critique of Veblen’s work focuses on this point. Mills argues that Veblen’s Theory of the Leisure Class is not a general universal description of upper classes across time and space but rather a rich contextual account of some of the upper classes in the United States at the end of the nineteenth century: “The Theory of the Leisure Class is not the theory of the leisure class. It is a theory of a particular element of the upper classes in one period of the history of one nation” (Mills 1959, 58). Mills claims that Veblen fails to describe the behavior of upper classes in societies with institutionalized nobility. Conspicuous consumption, according to Mills, is prevalent especially among the nouveaux riches as new upper classes try to ensure their position by translating money into status symbols. 40. For more on consumption externalities, see Tian and Yang 2009; Valente 2009; Eaton and Eswaran 2005; Dupor and Liu 2003; Meade 1952; Duesenberry 1949; Pigou 1920. 41. Logically, we should also expect a counter-­Veblen effect, that of the inconspicuous consumer. Under such a scenario, consumers buy cheaper items to avoid ostentation. The inconspicuous consumer seeks not to embarrass others by seeming wealthier or more powerful. However, empirically, it is not easy to differentiate between the counter-­Veblen effect and the expectations of demand theory. See Lea 1980. 42. The exclusive aircraft carrier club currently includes ten members: the United States, the United Kingdom, India, Brazil, Russia, Spain, Italy, France, Thailand, and China. 43. For classic works on club goods, see Buchanan 1965; Olson and Zeckhauser 1966; Sandler and Tschirhart 1980. For a discussion of club membership as a status mechanism, see Hansmann 1986. 44. Frank 1985a, 4.

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45. Hopkins and Kornienko 2004; Keynes (1930) 1991, 358–­73. See also Duesenberry 1949; Dupor and Liu 2003; Easterlin 1995. 46. Kohler’s application of Veblen offers a plausible explanation for arms races but fails to support it with convincing empirical evidence. As Deleu and Wiberg (1978, 348) note in their critique of Kohler’s article, “Let us repeat that we believe that Kohler’s explanation has some validity, even without seeing any solid empirical evidence. But such evidence would be required if his proposal is that this is the main explanation and that it is better than all its competitors—­and until then, it can hardly be used as a point of departure for attempts at disarmament.” See also Kohler 1979. 47. In this sense, this analysis diverges from Jervis’s analysis of signals and images in international relations. Jervis describes this analysis as a “theory of deception in international relations” (Jervis 1989, 10). While for Jervis the manipulation of signals and indexes involves some dimension of deceit and bluffing, the Veblenian analysis sees conspicuous consumption as part of a wider social institution rather than intentional deceit. 48. Similarly, for Deutsch (1978) the realm of politics highlights institutions that are taken for granted by actors, most of whom are often hardly aware of the existence of these institutions because they are already part of institutionalized patterns of habitual compliance. It is this automatic compliance, according to Deutch (1978, 478), that should be the main focus of the study of politics because it is “not the end of political domination, but its near perfection.” 49. For an elaborate discussion of the effects of prestige on taste, see Veblen (1899) 1979, 115–­66. Similarly, Bourdieu’s seminal work on “Distinction” explores the connection between taste, class, and social hierarchy (Bourdieu 1984). Veblen and Bourdieu differ somewhat on the connection between price and taste. For Veb­ len, taste is a way to justify and mask the importance of cost. For Bourdieu, taste seems to precede and direct price. Interestingly, recent research in behavioral economics offers further support for the connection between price and taste. In an experiment, Shiv, Carmon, and Ariely (2005) found that more expensive drugs generated a more robust placebo effect. That is, respondents rated more expensive drugs as having greater positive effect on their health even though in practice there was no difference between the cheaper and more expensive pills. A simple difference in price, therefore, had a significant effect on actor’s preferences and experiences. 50. Neorealism, a rational approach that borrows a lot of its basic concepts from economic theory, demonstrates similar circularity: “On the one hand, it claims that (the distribution of) power is the main criterion for the explanation of outcomes. On the other, in some cases the outcomes are the main criterion for the assessment of power(s)” (Guzzini 1993, 449). 51. For an analysis of the dynamics governing admission to the great-­powers club, see Heimann 2014; Volgy et al. 2011.

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52. In his discussion of the universalism of rational choice (RC) approaches, Fiorina (1995, 88) defines the domain for which rational choice models are most suited: “I teach my students that RC models are most useful when stakes are high and numbers are low.” 53. Transits of Venus took place in 1761, 1769, 1874, and 1882.

Chapter Two 1. Interestingly, the main designer of the Maus was Ferdinand Porsche, whose name is almost synonymous with luxury sports cars and conspicuous consumption. 2. Shimbori et al. (1963) claim that international prestige relies on eight dimensions, each of which can be signaled through various indexes. Based on a survey of attitudes in Japan, they conclude that economic and political dimensions are more influential in determining actors’ prestige than dimensions such as the state’s physical attributes, military might, or national character. 3. This “trickle-­down” model of class diffusion is central to Veblen’s work, although others, most notably Bourdieu, have suggested that in some cases the emphasis on the “trickle-­down” model is exaggerated, because symbols can actually follow a “status float,” where practices permeate upward from lower to higher classes, or a “trickle-­round” model, where the upper classes outflank the emulating middle classes by adopting some patterns of consumption and behavior of the lower working class (Trigg 2001). 4. Mackie’s study of foot-­binding in China demonstrates all three dimensions. The practice moved from the imperial palace to the upper classes and from there farther down the social ladder. It continued to be a class signifier where “the higher the social status, the smaller the foot.” While it started as an attempt to improve the aesthetics of dancers, it became so extreme as to preclude any dancing and impeded women’s ability to walk. Simultaneously, it also spread geographically from the capital to the provinces (Mackie 1996, 1001). 5. For other historical examples of similar processes, see Hamadeh 2002; Barth 1959; Heal 1964; Munck 1988; Clunas 2004; Krostenko 2001. 6. Janos refers to Veblen effects as International Demonstration Effects (IDE). His research focuses on the effect of IDEs within the context of underdevelopment and dependency. Starr (1991, 360) similarly refers to Global Demonstration Effects. 7. Marx ([1849] 1972, 182) made a similar observation: “A house may be large or small; as long as the surrounding houses are equally small it satisfies all social demands for a dwelling. But let a palace arise beside the little house, and it shrinks from a little house to a hut. . . . The occupant of the relatively small house will feel more and more uncomfortable, dissatisfied and cramped within its four walls.” 8. As Frank notes, a favorable comparison cannot take place without reciprocal

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invidious comparison. It is easy to see why a frog might choose to live in a pond populated by smaller frogs. What is less apparent, though, is why frogs already in that pond would permit the larger frog to enter their circle and make them feel even smaller (Frank 1985a, chap. 1). 9. Lipset (1955) and Hofstadter (1955) similarly differentiate between class conflict and status conflict. They argue that in American politics, class conflicts become more salient at times of economic difficulty, whereas status distinctions play a more important role at times of economic prosperity. Their distinction between class and status follows the Weberian lead of distinguishing between production/ income and consumption/lifestyle classifications (see Gusfield 1986, 17). Alternatively, Burke (2005, 63) differentiates between a class model and an orders model of society. A class model implies a conflictual view of society, whereas an orders model focuses on differences in lifestyle and allows for more harmonious relations across social cleavages. 10. In an early study of social class, Chapin (1928) followed Veblen’s lead and devised a measurement of a class based on inventory of items found in a family’s living room. Later studies confirm Chapin’s findings and offer further elaboration on the connection between taste, consumption patterns, and class (see Dittmar 1992, 96; Laumann and House 1970; Bourdieu 1984; Baudrillard 2006; Fussal 1983). 11. For a critique, see Schroeder 1994, 124, 127. 12. A signal that can maximize the fraction of the group that can observe and understand it is a signal with high broadcast efficiency. 13. Bourdieu describes a similar dynamic as actors try to manipulate cultural capital. When actors find one form of “capital” blocked, they try to adopt another as a substitute. Those who do not have the required cultural capital to master classical music may try to compensate for it by gaining familiarity with film or jazz. These alternatives, however, do not provide the same cachet as classical music because in Bourdieu’s terms they are not “fully legitimate”: “These arts, not yet fully legitimate, . . . offer a refuge and a revenge to those who, by appropriating them, secure the best return on their cultural capital . . . while at the same time taking credit for contesting the established hierarchy of legitimacies and profits” (Bourdieu 1984, 86–­87; Trigg 2001). 14. Tajfel (1970) found similar consensus regarding international stratification when groups of 6–­7-­year-­olds in Britain were asked to rank international actors. Their answers showed a correlation of 0.98 and suggested that we are aware of such stratification from a very early age. 15. Archery, for example, was seen with such disdain that in 1139 Pope Innocent II declared the crossbow “hateful to God and unfit for Christians” and threatened any Christian who would use a crossbow with ex-­communication. Later, the ban was relaxed to allow the use of the crossbow against non-­Christians (Brodie and Brodie 1973, 35–­37). While the norms of chivalry protected warring knights, defeated infantry and bowmen were often treated harshly. Bowmen, in particular,

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were often executed at the end of a battle, reflecting a sense of moral outrage at their “barbaric” trade (Strickland 1996, 181). 16. For Jervis (1989) the difference between indexes and signals rests in actors’ ability to manipulate them in order to project a desired image. An index is supposed to be directly related to actors’ capabilities and be difficult or very expensive to manipulate. Hence, indexes tend to be less malleable and more reliable. In Jervis’s terminology, status symbols that are poor tests of status are signals rather than indexes. 17. “The possessors of distinctive properties threatened with popularization [are forced] to engage in an endless pursuit of new properties through which to assert their rarity. The demand that is generated by this dialectic is by definition inexhaustible since the dominated needs which constitute it must endlessly redefine themselves in terms of distinction which always defines itself negatively in re­ lation to them” (Bourdieu 1984, 251–­52). 18. These processes are familiar to us from the worlds of fashion and culture. Following Bourdieu, Trigg (2001) provides an illustrative example of this dynamic: “Opera, once the exclusive preserve of the upper classes, has entered into the realm of popular music. In Europe the three tenors—­Domingo, Carreras, and Pavarotti—­sang to sell-­out open air shows in the early 1990s. By the mid-­1990s, however, the Sunday Times (April 21, 1996) reported that ‘classical music has become the latest victim of middle-­class “culture fatigue” ’ and the ‘loss of interest by those who regard opera as a ladder for social advancement . . . resulted in lower classical record sales and declining concert audiences’ ” (Trigg 2001, 105). In similar fashion, lace ceased to adorn the clothes of the wealthy when industrial mass production of lace made it affordable to all consumers (Zahavi and Zahavi 1997, 60). 19. For an economic modeling of these dynamics, see Basu 1989. 20. A perception of scarcity is essential for luxury goods. For a review of the ways in which luxury brands maintain and manufacture a sense of scarcity, see Catry 2003. 21. White elephants continue to attract attention in Southeast Asia. Four white elephants were captured in Burma in 2010, signaling the beginning of a political change for many locals. Currently, Thailand has ten white elephants, more than any time in its history. The reward for the capture of a white elephant cub in the wild stands at six million baht (Otis 2013).

Chapter Three 1. Quoted in Padfield 1974, 159. 2. Especially when compared with other alternative modern weaponry that could support power-­projection missions. Some of the current alternatives are

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long-­range bombers, cruise missiles, unmanned drones, surface vessels, submarines, and helicopter carriers. 3. According to the official websites of the US Navy and the US Air Force, a Super Hornet costs $57 million, while the F-­15 Eagle costs $29.9 million and the F-­16 Fighting Falcon between $14.6 million and $18.8 million (depending on the model). See http://www.af.mil and http://www.navy.mil. 4. German naval ambitions did not disappear with the dismantling of the great imperial navy. In 1934 Admiral Erich Raeder, Hitler’s naval commander, announced, “The scale of a nation’s world status is identical with the scale of its sea power.” Hitler did not have much appreciation for sea power and used to refer to the imperial navy as an insignificant “parade piece.” However, Raeder’s advocacy proved effective, and before the outbreak of the Second World War, the German navy reached Tirpitz’s standard of 66 percent of the British naval force (Herwig 1991, 73). 5. Most observers expected the two opposing battle fleets to play a decisive role in the war. One of the only public prewar critiques of the battleship came from Admiral Sir Percy Scott, who in a controversial letter to the Times, in June 1914, suggested that the British strategy should rely on a large air force, submarines, and a fleet of destroyers instead of a large surface fleet (Kennedy 1983b, 54). 6. Kagan (1997) holds a similar view regarding the questionable utility of the great German navy in World War I: “Though it played a major role in causing the war, it took no significant part in the fighting and never did Germany any practical good.” 7. Consequently, it may be the case that gunboats are an example of weaponry that operates better in peacetime, as a political instrument, than during conflict as an instrument of war. Because wars are relatively rare, actors may procure gunboats not for war fighting but as instruments of diplomacy. If this is the case, this role reversal is an extreme manifestation of the evolution of status symbols, where consumption is increasingly detached from its original utilitarian rationale, and spirals of exaggeration distort useful objects into showpieces of conspicuous consumption. 8. Luttwak argues that the difficulties in assessing naval power stem from the limited naval experience of most international actors. Countries with little or no naval capabilities are likely to have insufficient knowledge on naval matters. They are therefore likely to rely on form rather than substance (Luttwak 1974, 16). How­ ever, this does not explain why Britain, a country with an unsurpassable naval tradition, would so easily fall prey to such miscalculations. The dangers of over­ emphasizing cruisers at the expense of a more diversified and capable navy were well known to the British. In fact, this line of argument was prominent in the work of influential British strategist Sir Julian S. Corbett (Hunt 1989, 128). 9. This list of independent variables closely corresponds to Mahan’s conceptualization of the elements of sea power. When studying sea power, it is impossible

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to ignore the immense influence of the writings of Mahan on the structure and strategies of modern navies, particularly the effect of his classic book The Influence of Sea Power upon History (1890). Mahan is considered to be the most influential theorist of maritime thinking, and his writings are still the paradigm of naval strategy (see, e.g., Kennedy 1983a; Hattendorf and Jordan 1989). Navies still rely on Mahan to highlight their centrality and justify the high costs of their maintenance and procurement. Hence, Mahan serves as a good theoretical benchmark for the examination of the determinants of naval procurement. Mahan lists six elements of sea power: (1) geographical position, (2) physical conformation, (3) extent of territory, (4) size of population, (5) national character, and (6) character and policy of governments. As Paul Kennedy notes, some of Mahan’s variables, such as national character, may be questionable to the modern social scientist or historian, but generally, “there is much in his work which can be accepted without question; indeed a great deal of his ‘elements of sea power’ appears to consist of truisms” (Kennedy 1983a, 6). As this study shows, very few of Mahan’s “truisms” seem to be supported by contemporary data. 10. As a general rule, carriers require approximately one thousand tons for every aircraft they carry (Stocker 1997). 11. For more on these distinctions, see Ryczkowski 2012. 12. The PDN led to the creation of a Ministry of Defense in 1998, aimed at restructuring the Brazilian defense forces according to a unified strategic framework. 13. The Foch’s sister carrier, the Clemenceau, was decommissioned in 1997. The French government tried to find a way to scrap the asbestos-­ridden vessel, but because of strict EU health regulations, the scrapping was deemed illegal in Europe. The carrier was sent to Turkey, but the Turkish firm backed down after discovering the health risk involved. The Clemenceau farce reached new heights when Indian trade unions forced the decommissioned aircraft carrier back to France when another attempt to decontaminate the ship, this time in India, failed. Chirac was forced to accept the floating health hazard, once the proud flagship of the French navy, back in France (Wyatt 2006). If it were not for the Brazilian deal, the Foch would have met a similarly embarrassing fate. 14. The crisis in the Brazilian air force is so deep that some pilots are flying only forty hours a year, well below the recommended safety level for a supersonic jet. 15. The São Paulo replaced the obsolete carrier Minas Gerais, which the Brazilians tried desperately to sell as a way to pay off some of the expenses of the São Paulo. The Minas Gerais was built for lighter, older planes and hence is not well suited to accommodate jets. Furthermore, the carrier has only one takeoff track. Security measures require a landing track as well, forcing the Minas Gerais to oper­ ate only near friendly airports (Proença 2000). The Minas Gerais was sold at auction to a Chinese businessman hoping to turn the antiquated vessel into a floating shopping center off the coast of Shanghai (Godoy and Leal 2003). 16. In 1997, Argentina, the only other country in Latin America to own a car-

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rier, had finally to accept the demise of its aging carrier, Veinticinco de Mayo. The carrier was de facto out of service since 1986. The costs of a revamp were estimated at $150 million, with uncertain results (Jane’s Defense Weekly, May 21, 1997, 26). The Argentine navy hoped to maintain its aviation skills by using the Brazilian carrier for its training. Even in the face of a worsening economic crisis, the Argentine navy still hoped to regain carrier capabilities (D’Odorico 2001, 78–­79; English 1992). 17. As noted in chap. 1, emerging powers tend to be especially prone to Veb­ len effects. Hence, it is not surprising to find Brazil involved in various cases of conspicuous consumption. The Brazilian space program is another example. Jang (2004, 217) argues that the enhancement of Brazil’s international prestige was an important policy goal of the Brazilian regime between 1964 and 1985. The Brazilian government adopted several large-­scale projects during those years, such as building the world’s longest bridge (a fourteen-­kilometer-span bridge connecting Rio de Janeiro and Niteroi), the erection of the world’s largest hydroelectric dam, the expensive and complicated construction of the trans-­Amazonian highway, and the commissioning of ten nuclear power plants. Jang concludes, “Military leaders’ perception of Brazilian security, prosperity and sovereignty centered on national values concerning Brazilian prestige. The leaders pursued various policies to increase national prestige . . . and they heavily influenced defense policies even under subsequent civilian regimes” (Jang 2004, 217). See also Perry and Weiss 1986. 18. Interestingly, Brazil allowed Chinese pilots to use the São Paulo as a training platform. Because Brazil is one of the only countries to operate a CATOBAR, this was a rare opportunity for the Chinese and a strong signal of the tenuous status of US-­Brazil relations (Ryczkowski 2012). 19. When the British government decided to build new, larger carriers in 2001, the French defense minister described the decision as a significant change, because “the British, after having no aircraft carriers for a very long time, have decided to build two new ones before this decade is over” (Radio France Internationale, Saturday, April 28, 2001). For the French minister, the Invincible, Illustrious, and Ark Royal were too small and insignificant to be described as carriers. 20. Some reports suggest that Britain may be searching for a way to cancel the procurement of at least one of its two new carriers because of economic constraints. It was suggested that India might be interested in purchasing the unfinished vessel or that one of the vessels might serve as a helicopter carrier as a cost-­cutting measure. With a fleet of only one carrier, Britain will need to coordinate with France in order to ensure that at least one medium-­sized European carrier is operational at any given time. Other options include building the carriers as STOVL rather than CATOBAR in order to simplify the design and reduce the cost (Webb 2009; Smith 2009). 21. India is the only country in the Indian Ocean region with significant local shipbuilding capabilities. Yet in practice, the standards of local shipbuilding

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are poor. Ships take a long time to build (the record is seventeen years for an oil tanker) and obsolete features are retained, too often accompanied by poor quality. Local designs have been problematic as well. Historically, the Indians have tried to overarm their ships, resulting in overstressed hull structures made worse by the Indian preference for very large crews (Slade 1991). 22. The Indian navy is also currently trying to build indigenously designed nuclear submarines. 23. The first third-­world submarine battle took place in the 1971 India-­Pakistan War. A Pakistani submarine failed to sink the Indian carrier Viraat, but another managed to sink the Indian frigate Khukri, killing 191 of its crew of 288 (Wallace and Meconis 1995). In a survey of submarine forces in the Indian Ocean, Dowdy notes that Indian submarine imports were the biggest change to regional naval balance. The Indian navy was the first navy to lease nuclear submarines. Yet the Russian submarines proved so problematic that the Indians chose not to extend the lease, and the submarines returned to Russian hands (Dowdy 1990). 24. The Montreux convention of 1936 bans the passage of aircraft carriers through the Dardanelles. The Soviet and Russian navies therefore tend to refer to their carriers as heavy-­aircraft-­carrying cruisers, which are not officially banned by the treaty (Cigar 1992). 25. Wattaanayagorn (1998) identifies an increase in the importance of maritime security among Thai military elite in the post–­Cold War years. However, as he notes, “The RTN has not identified any specific potential threat to justify its procurement plans” (220). 26. Other nonmilitary influences that are mentioned by Bitzinger include the desire to acquire showpieces that encourage national pride, corruption, effective marketing by arms sellers, and the temptations of good deals generated by the international arms “buyers’ market.” 27. The folly of using a carrier for constabulary missions was demonstrated by the relative failure of the American carrier force to protect civilian vessels in the Persian Gulf during the lengthy Iran-­Iraq War. Two to three carrier groups were patrolling the gulf at any given time between November 1979 and October 1981. By 1987 the American deployment in the Persian Gulf was costing $1.7 million a day. Yet this enhanced presence did not stop more than four hundred attacks against civilian vessels during this period of time. A carrier group, even an American carrier group, is incapable of stopping or monitoring sporadic movements of small, fast motor boats (Cable 1989, 5765). The Thai carrier group is far inferior to the American groups; its ability to achieve a better record at such missions is questionable. 28. An editorial in the Bangkok Siam Rat questions the need for such purchases (in this case a canceled purchase of American F-­18 planes) and uses the logic of conspicuous consumption to make its case: “The planes could have been bought (provided there was money to buy them), or they did not have to be bought

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if there was no money. The purpose of having these planes was not to fly combat missions against any country, but to show other countries in the region our status of superior wealth” (Bangkok Siam Rat, May 10, 1998, 2). For a broader overview of regional arms buildup at the time of the carrier purchase, see Ball 1993/1994. 29. It is interesting to note that when the United States perceived a disadvantageous balance of power in the distribution of ground forces in Europe during the Cold War, one of its main responses was to adopt a maritime strategy aimed at increasing the US Navy to a force of six hundred ships. This case is interesting because the perceived imbalance with the Warsaw Pact was in ground forces, the alleged tank gap (Chalmers and Unterseher 1988). Acquiring maritime capabilities seemed more appealing than acquiring additional ground forces, although the latter was a cheaper alternative with clearer functional relation to the problem at hand (Mearsheimer 1986). Mearsheimer claims that the United States was operating according to an outdated Mahanian view that looks at the sea as the “major arena of competition.” Yet he does not provide an explanation as to why this view persists. A prestige-­based explanation can offer an additional dimension to Mearsheimer’s argument. As in the Russian case, it seems that when a power feels that its position in the international hierarchy is challenged, it finds it appealing to use prestige symbols in order to demonstrate that it is still capable of supporting its status. 30. This position tends to resonate with many Chinese. In 1999, following NATO’s bombing of the Chinese embassy in Belgrade, for example, there was a public procarrier campaign. The angry public demanded the construction of a carrier that could protect Chinese interests abroad. Carrier advocates collected donations in order to fund this procurement. They were able to collect 11 million yuan in under a month (Sakhuja 2000).

Chapter Four 1. All data regarding current UN peacekeeping operations are taken from UN data for November 2015 as it appears on the UN official site: http://www.un.org /en/peacekeeping/resources/statistics/. 2. There are few studies that do address these issues. Neack (1995), Khanna, Sandler, and Shimizu (1998), Shimizu and Sandler (2002), Suzuki (2008), Paris (2014), Coleman (2013), and Bobrow and Boyer (1997) try to account for contributions to UN peacekeeping. Schraeder, Hook, and Taylor (1998), Kosack and Tobin (2006), Maizels and Nissanke (1984), Alesina and Dollar (2000), Lumsdaine (1993), De Carvalho and Neumann (2014), Palmer, Wohlander, and Morgan (2002), Hook (1995), Thérien and Noël (1994, 2000), Morgenthau (1962), Stokke (1989), Imbeau (1988, 1989), Hoadley (1980), and Van Der Veen (2000) of­ fer comparative studies of the determinants of foreign aid policies. In addition to these studies, there is a significant body of literature that analyzes aid policies of

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specific countries, most notably the United States. For examples of this literature, see Regan (1985), Wang (1999), Wittikof (1973), Kegley and Hook (1991), Aarse (1995), Conteh-­Morgan (1990), McKinlay and Little (1977, 1979), Lebovic (1988), Meernik, Krueger, and Poe (1998), Meernik and Poe (1996), Poe and Meernik (1995), and Lumsdaine (1993). Some researchers focus on the unique determinants of specific kinds of aid: e.g., Uvin (1992), Paarlberg (1985), and Kegley and Hook (1991) offer a discussion of food aid. For a review of the literature on mediation, see Gilady and Russett (2002). 3. For literature questioning the utility of aid, see Moyo 2009; Kosack and Tobin 2006; Easterly 2003, 2006; Rajan and Subramanian 2008; Friedman 1957/1958; Boone 1996; Bauer 1948, 1954; Boyce 2002; Levy 1989; Diamond 1998. For a more positive outlook on aid effectiveness, see Burnside and Dollar 2000; Radelet, Clem­ ens, and Bhavnani 2005; Hadjimichael et al. 1995; Dalgaard, Hansen, and Tarp 2004; Roodman 2007; Petrikova 2016. For a critique of humanitarian assistance, see Lischer 2003. 4. For a more positive assessment of the UN peacekeeping record, see Fortna 2004; Doyle and Sambanis 2006. 5. Frohlich (1974, 60) notes that this formulation can be used to describe other types of relationships, such as envy, sadism, and other mixed forms. 6. Andreoni (1995a) conducted several experiments to measure the effects of warm glow giving. He finds that actors are more likely to take part in acts that are framed as good, and hence involve a warm glow feeling, than in identical acts that are framed as bad, and hence are associated with a negative externality, or cold prickle. Park (2000) refines some of these findings. De Quervain et al. (2004) employed brain scanners to track brain activity during actors’ participation in prosocial acts. They identify brain activity patterns that correspond to warm glow giving. See also Boyd et al. 2003; Fehr and Gachter 2002; Fowler 2005. 7. For a realist take on this question, see Glazer 1994/1995. 8. In many articles this group is defined as a “k-­group,” Schelling’s more refined term for Olson’s privileged group; see Schelling 1978. Snidal (1985, 599) defines k as the point “where the benefits of cooperation begin to outweigh the costs for the cooperating states”; see also Gowa 1989, 316; Lake 1993, 465. 9. Stokke (1989) argues that variations in foreign aid allocations are best explained through party politics. When the Left is in power, aid goes up, and vice versa. Lumsdaine (1993) reaches similar conclusions. However, subsequent quantitative studies find little or no support for the Lumsdaine-­Stokke argument that “the Left matters” (Imbeau 1988, 1989; Breuning 1995; Thérien and Noël 1994, 2000; Round and Odedokum 2003). 10. The data provided in this section are official UN data for December 2009. 11. According to Schreader, Hook, and Taylor (1998, 299–­300), Sweden used an alternative policy in order to improve the broadcast efficiency of its aid effort. Instead of spreading its aid thinly across the world, Sweden chose one geographic

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niche (Southern Africa) and focused its effort there: “Enjoying a higher level of socioeconomic development than most countries but still lacking the financial resources of the great powers, Sweden could not afford to provide foreign aid to all regions of the world, let alone to all countries within a particular region. Like other middle powers, Sweden was forced to carve out an international niche by focusing its foreign aid on carefully selected regions or individual countries.” By focusing its effort on one region the Swedes hoped to gain more conspicuousness. 12. Uvin notes that this argument is problematic because food aid only affects a very small percentage of food stocks in donor countries. It can only be applied to the first decade of American food aid, in which larger quantities of food were supplied. Moreover, many donors do not have surpluses and have to purchase the food for their aid programs in other countries. In fact in many cases food aid is triangular—­i.e., the donor pays for the recipient to buy food from another developing country—­a very costly exercise to the donor (Uvin 1992, 298). 13. Veblen’s work emphasizes the need to include social factors in economic analysis as well: “To Veblen, however, the absence of profit calculations is merely further evidence that economic behavior, primitive as well as modern, must be understood in broader sociological terms, the result of the deeper motives of prestige and power” (Diggins 1999, 96). 14. Mauss was influenced by Veblen’s work and referred to him as “the only American sociologist of consequence” (Diggins 1999, 96). 15. According to Derrida a pure gift should fulfill three conditions: it should entail no expectation of reciprocity; in order for this to occur, it should not be rec­ ognized as a gift by the recipient, and the recipient should not see herself as a recipient; similarly, it should not be recognized as a gift by the donor, and the donor should not see herself as one (Derrida 1991). 16. Bataille ([1976] 1991, 68) uses the potlatch example in order to emphasize the importance of the publicity and conspicuousness of giving (or in the case of the potlatch, of voluntary self-­destruction): “If he destroys the object in solitude, in silence, no sort of power would result from the act. . . . But if he destroys the object in front of another or if he gives it away, the one who gives has actually acquired, in the other’s eyes, the power of giving or destroying. . . . He is rich for having ostentatiously consumed what is wealth only if it is consumed.” 17. In evolutionary terms, one of the shortcomings of this account is that it relies on group selection. Although Darwin used group selection to explain human behavior, subsequent research suggested that while group selection is theoretically plausible, it is so unlikely to occur that it can safely be ignored (Wilson 1998; Williams 1966; Ruse 1980). In recent years, there has been a revival of interest among evolutionary anthropologists in group selection, and recent theoretical models provide support for its plausibility. Much of the study of group selection in evolutionary biology is motivated by the need to explain prosociality (Boehm 1999; Wilson 1997; Wilson and Sober 1994; Sober and Wilson 1998; Wilson 1998; Mayr 1997; Okasha 2001).

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18. Establishing an efficient and well-­institutionalized method for the identification of social rank can have some pacifying effects. On the connection between status inconsistencies in conflict, see Wallace 1971; Galtung 1964; East 1972. 19. For a discussion of the connection between Duesenberry’s and Veblen’s economic and social theories, see McCormick 1983. See also Frank 2005. 20. This normative claim regarding the special value of middle powers follows the Aristotelian worldview that sees the middle class as inherently better than other classes (Politics, bk. 4, pt. 11; Holbraad 1984, 3). 21. Neack (1995, 185) does find that middle powers are the most frequent participants in UN peacekeeping operations, especially middle powers that at one time or another tried to establish themselves as a regional power. However, it is not very clear how middle powers were defined and therefore hard to assess whether this finding is not in itself a result of the circular nature of the functional definition of middle powerhood. 22. The DAC succeeded the Development Assistance Group (DAG) that was created in 1960, mainly as the result of an American initiative (Führer 1996, 8). 23. DAC official aid statistics for 2007 (http://www.oecd.org/dataoecd/47/25 /41724314.pdf). 24. DAC aid patterns correspond to findings of studies of philanthropy. Glazer and Konrad (1996) note that when aid is categorized into different classes of donations, donors tend to contribute the lowest sum that could get them into a desired category. When examining the distribution of donations to Carnegie Mellon University, the authors find that within the category of $500–$­999, the average donation was $525. Similarly, 93 percent of all donations to the Harvard Law School that belonged to the $500–­$999 category were of exactly $500. Most donors chose a donation sum that barely passed the $500 threshold but could still qualify for membership in this class of donors. Glazer and Konrad note that if donations had no signaling effect, we should expect donations to be more evenly distributed across this spectrum. However, for prestige-­driven donors a donation of $999 and $501 provides the same utility—­both offer membership in the same class of donors. The convergence of donors on these arbitrary thresholds, therefore, supports the signaling hypothesis. The 0.7 percent of GDP benchmark generates a similar phenomenon in the DAC. All countries that approach that level of aid end up surpassing it. There is no value in contributing 0.68 percent of GDP. All countries that fail to meet the threshold maintain aid levels well below it. 25. ODA data were taken from the DAC’s online database: http://www.oecd .org/dataoecd/50/17/5037721.htm. 26. This lack of variance over time is problematic for quantitative as well as qualitative analysis. Including a lagged ODA variable as a measurement of path dependency explains more than 90 percent of the variance in ODA levels. Because international hierarchy, our independent variable, is highly sticky as well, using cross-­sectional panel data based on annual observation runs the risk of artificially

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inflating the data set by introducing identical data points that offer very little additional information or variance (Green, Kim, and Yoon 2001). 27. This finding corresponds with Van der Veen’s observation that there was a parallel decline in aid flows and military expenditures in the years following the end of the Cold War. Aid flows did not experience a discernable peace dividend, refuting substitutability arguments and suggesting joint causation. For literature regarding the peace dividend, see Ward and Davis 1992; Gleditsch et al. 1996.

Chapter Five 1. For additional examples, see Adler 1987; Van Dyke 1964; Etzioni 1964; Rycroft and Szyliowicz 1980; Pavitt 1973; Shreeve 2004. 2. The OECD differentiates between Big Science and megascience. Megascience refers to large multinational research centers. These centers are so large as to necessitate international cooperation (hence national laboratories, regardless of size, are considered Big Science rather than megascience). In addition, unlike Big Science, megascience centers can be technoscience (such as the superconducting supercollider) but not purely technological (such as the international space station) (Jacob and Hallonsten 2012, 412). For the purposes of this study, I do not distinguish between Big Science and megascience. 3. The Mohole Project (1957–­66) was a defunct attempt at drilling a hole through the crust of the earth to the mantle (otherwise known as the Mohorovicic discontinuity or “Moho”) (Greenberg 1967, 176). 4. Interestingly, Hughes (2002) finds that Big Science budgets became in themselves a source of professional prestige, and thus physicists found themselves competing over who can gather budgets to construct the biggest possible particle accel­ erator: “If you really wanted to become famous in our field, you had to get yourself the biggest and most powerful accelerator” (161). The logic of conspicuous consumption in science affected prestige in several prestige spaces: the profession, the state, and the international system. 5. See also Van Dyke 1964; Etzioni 1964; Rycroft and Szyliowicz 1980; Pavitt 1973; Shreeve 2004. 6. Current concerns (Alberts 2012) echo those of the 1960s Big Science debate (Tuve 1959; Hoyle 1964; Weinberg 1961). Moreover, these concerns resemble those of British scientists in the late nineteenth century who feared that increased government funding could mean an end to scientific freedom (MacLeod 1971, 339). 7. Investment in Big Science does not signal a broad commitment to scientific research. In fact, the United States trails other industrialized powers in civilian R & D budget as a percentage of GNP (Solingen 1993, 38). 8. For scientific knowledge to be considered a pure public good, the benefits it produces should be nonrival and nonexcludable. Indeed, scientific knowledge,

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once it enters the public domain, is a good example of a nonrival good (Hartley and Sandler 1999, 29). The value of Einstein’s theory of relativity does not diminish when it is used by a larger number of scientists. On the contrary, the more a theory is used, the more influential it becomes. Moreover, the norms of scientific research limit the ability to exclude free riders from enjoying the benefits of the produced knowledge. In many cases, limited access to such knowledge would dramatically decrease its value because it would limit its influence and diminish the prospects of further scientific progress. 9. Big Science is therefore a “joint product” combining private and collective goods (Hartley and Sandler 1999, 29–­37). In basic science (more public good), we can expect higher levels of free riding. Within alliances, public goods lead to un­ even burden sharing, where larger allies bear more than their fair share (Hartley and Sandler 1999; Olson and Zeckhauser 1966). This seems to match the international distribution of Big Science funding. 10. Hughes (2002) found similar patterns in funding of particle accelerators in the 1960s. According to Hughes, funding became “part of the ‘pork-­barrel’ politics by which federal funds and projects are distributed to particular regions for political reasons.” 11. Texas played a similar political role in the superconducting supercollider project. The project, which involved massive construction, was coveted by many states. In 1988 it was awarded to Texas, shortly before George H. W. Bush took office. Presidential support was crucial in order to secure congressional approval, and the selected location was chosen with the interests of a Texan president in mind (Lambright 1998, 265). In the case of the European Spallation Source, Sweden was selected following a prolonged political process that involved coalition building and significant side payments (Jacob and Hallonsten 2012). 12. Economic circumstances in the eighteenth century were significantly different from contemporary conditions. It is therefore difficult to offer accurate conversions of the worth of eighteenth-­century monetary sums to today’s terms. According to Measuringworth.com, a website constructed by two University of Illinois economists, the value of the French investment in TOV observations in 1761 (£12,000) ranges from £1,517,000 to £134,900,000 in 2011 terms, depending on the conversion method. While the lower number calculates the real price of the investment, accounting for inflation and growth, the higher estimate looks at its economic power, the share of GDP captured by the sum in 1761. Regardless of the selected index, £12,000 was clearly a significant amount of money. 13. The expenditure on such expeditions included the cost of personnel, transportation, accommodation, scientific instruction, and instruments. Most expeditions lasted more than a year, and the adventurous astronomers had to be compensated accordingly. Instruments were another expensive component. In the absence of mass production, a good telescope was likely to cost as much as £1,400, and take months to prepare. For comparison, Messier, Delisle’s well-­paid assistant, earned £500 a year (Woolf 1959, 75).

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14. The disappointed Le Gentil decided to stay in the region and await the 1769 transit, only to be confronted with a cloudy day denying him any contribution to transit observations. On his return to France, he discovered that during his absence he was presumed dead and had lost his job and property (Chapman 1998). 15. Swedish and Danish observations were especially important because of their proximity to the North Pole. 16. The society received additional funding for the expedition from Joseph Banks (1743–­1820), a wealthy amateur naturalist, who joined Endeavour’s journey. Banks is estimated to have paid £10,000 for this journey (Woolf 1959, 168). 17. After successfully observing the transit from Point Venus, Tahiti, Cook’s famous three-­year-­long voyage took the Endeavour along the shores of New Zealand and Australia back to Britain. 18. The California expedition was one of the most ill-­fated efforts throughout the TOV saga. The observers were affected by an epidemic that claimed the lives of 75 percent of the region’s population. They quickly succumbed to the disease. Only one expedition member survived (Woolf 1959, 157–­61). 19. By the 1860s it took eight days to cross the Atlantic compared with seventy-­ seven days spent at sea by a 1769 expedition. Nevertheless, sea travel was still a demanding affair: in 1874 it took the USS Swatara ninety-­one days to get from New York to the Kerguelen Islands in the southern Indian Ocean (Sheehan and Westfall 2004, 207). 20. French preparations were again affected by a war, this time the Franco-­ Prussian War of 1870–­71. 21. According to Measuringworth.com, in 2011 terms, the relative value of £15,500 from 1871 ranges from £1,184,000 to £20,320,000, depending on the calculation method (real price vs. economic power index). 22. In addition to British state-­sponsored expeditions, Lord Lindsay (1847–­ 1913) organized a private expedition to Mauritius. It was the most extensive private effort to observe the TOV. 23. The TOV appropriations are the only act of Congress concerning an astronomical event. According to Measuringworth.com, the value $177,000 in 1872 ranges from $3,030,000 to $331,000,000 depending on the calculation method. The cost of navy ships needs to be added to this sum in order to properly assess the American investment in the 1874 TOV. 24. Simon Newcomb (1835–­1909), a prominent American astronomer and a mem­ ber of the American transit commission, concluded that transit expeditions were not worthwhile: “It did not take long for the astronomers to find that the result was disappointing. . . . This important element could be better measured by determining the velocity of light and the time which it took to reach us from the sun than it could by any transit of Venus” (Newcomb [1885], quoted in Dick 2003, 263). 25. Argentina, Austria-­Hungary, Brazil, Chile, Denmark, France, Germany, Great Britain, Italy, the Netherlands, Norway, Portugal, Spain, Switzerland, Belgium, Greece, Mexico, and the United States.

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26. According to Measuringworth.com, in 2011 terms the relative value of $75,000 from 1882 ranges from $1,540,000 in real price to $94,500,000 when measured as a share of GDP (economic power).

Chapter Six 1. Wohlforth (2009) offers another prestige-­related interpretation of Fearon’s analysis. Fearon argues that conflict over indivisible assets can explain war because it precludes any ex ante mutually accepted bargaining space. However, it is difficult to think of too many material international assets that are truly indivisible. Positional goods, such as prestige and status, on the other hand, are truly indivisible because they are defined as a zero-­sum game. Thus, any conflict that involves prestige considerations entails some degree of indivisibility. This connection between positional goods, prestige, and war is not new to international relations. Gilpin (1981), for example, saw great-­power warfare as a major instrument of the affirmation and creation of international prestige hierarchies (see also Lebow 2008, 23). 2. For other rationalist studies of arms races, see Brams, Davis, and Straffin 1979; Jervis 1978; Snyder 1971. 3. This reading of arms races is based on the logic of the familiar “security dilemma.” The security dilemma is triggered by the fact that “one state’s gain in security often inadvertently threatens others” (Jervis 1978, 170). These newly threatened actors are likely to take the necessary measures to restore their security by increasing their defenses, bringing all actors back to the starting point, yet this time burdened by increased defense expenditures. 4. For a discussion of such hybrid approaches, see Barkin 2003; Jackson 2004; Jackson and Nexon 2004; Bially Mattern 2004; Lebow 2004.

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Index aesthetic values, 25, 40, 48, 161 Afghanistan, 74, 75, 79, 85, 89 African countries, 42, 101, 108, 152 aircraft carriers: Brazil and, 2, 19, 42, 45, 71–­73, 169n35; Britain and, 73–­76, 175n8; carrier club, 81–­88; China and, 58, 66, 86  –8­ 8, 179n30; costs of, 69  –7­ 0; France and, 73–­76; Italy and, 64; largest, 69  –7­ 0; naval history and, 32, 57, 58  –­  65; nuclear power and, 76; Russia and, 79  –8­ 1; strategic/symbolic value, 58  –­  65; Thailand and, 81–­   84, 157; United States and, 58, 84–­86 Alberts, Bruce, 121 Allen, George V., 127 altruism, 93, 103, 133. See also prosociality; and specific topics archery, 173n15 Argentina, 48, 100, 176n16 Ariely, Dan, 171n49 arms races, 65–­   69, 155, 156, 171n46, 186n3. See also weapons Axelrod, Robert, 97 bandwagon effects, 20–­21, 27, 99 Bangladesh, 99 Barnett, Michael, 101 Barrie, James, 160  –­  61, 162 Battaille, Georges, 181n16 Bercovitch, Jacob, 91–­   92 Big Science: Cold War and, 127; comeback of, 121; costs, 125, 126, 128, 130; financial crisis and, 121; internationalization and, 127, 132; knowledge and, 132;  lux­­ury

goods and, 54; megascience and, 183n2; Mohole example (see Mohole Project); pork-­barrel politics and, 125, 134–­37; prestige and, 122; science and, 30, 31, 57, 121–­   52; space and, 32; supercol­­ lider, 184n11; United States and, 128, 183n7; utility of, 129  –3­ 7. See also spe­ cific projects Bird, Alden, 15 Bird, Blige, 15 Bobrow, Davis B., 117 Bourdieu, Pierre, 16, 25, 171n49, 173n13 Boyer, Mark A., 117 Brazil, 2, 15, 18  –2­ 1, 43, 48, 71–­73, 101, 169n35, 177n17 BRIC countries, 5, 43. See also specific countries, topics Britain, 73–­76, 148  –­  51, 175n8 bureaucratic models, 61, 62 Bush, George H. W., 184n11 Canada, 42, 97, 98, 111, 113, 115 Canterbery, E. Ray, 22 carbon reduction, 15, 121 cavalry, use of, 49 Chapnick, Adam, 115 Chile, 48 China, 5, 11, 12, 16, 19; carrier fleet and, 58, 66, 86  –­  88, 179n30; foot-­binding and, 172n4; space programs and, 2, 42, 43, 123–­24; United States and, 58, 84 Cialdini, Robert B., 10 circularity, logical, 9, 26, 114, 171n50, 182n21

index

222 class distinctions, 44, 171n49; consumption and, 16; defined, 44; formation, 44; in­ ternational relations and, 42–­46; mar­ kers of, 44; prosociality and, 112–­18; status and, 173n9; status symbols and, 44, 173n9; symbols and, 172n3; Veblen on, 44, 173n10; wars and, 49 climate change, 15, 121 Cold War, 92, 122, 127, 179n29, 183n27 collective action problem, 164; Big Science and, 132; competition and, 98, 138, 164; conspicuous consumption and, 41, 105, 133, 145; middle power and, 114; pro­ sociality and, 92, 95, 97 (see also prosociality); reciprocity and, 97 conspicuous consumption: aesthetic value and, 25; arms races and, 65–  ­69, 155–­56, 171n46, 186n3 (see also weapons; and specific countries, topics); bureaucratic models, 62; consumption and, 13–­29; cost and, 26, 27, 40, 67, 102, 112; deterrence and, 65–­   69; dimensions of, 65–  ­68, 156  –­  62; future research, 164–­   66; Gatsby effect, 22, 51, 64, 71, 73, 86, 129, 164; inconspicuous consumption, 26, 28, 170n41; international relations and, 1–­ 32, 100, 157 (see also specific countries, topics); invidious comparison and (see invidious comparison); luxury and, 40; material/social, 160; pecuniary emulation and (see pecuniary emulation); power and, 45 (see also power); prestige and, 3, 4, 25, 28, 154; price and, 19, 26, 27; property rights and, 18; prosociality and, 91, 92, 100  –1­ 16, 119; rational choice and, 29, 158  –­  61; status symbols and, 28; Veblen effects, 14, 19, 25, 156 (see also Veblenian theory); war and, 18 (see also weapons; and specific conflicts, countries); waste and, 21; weapons and (see weapons; and specific conflicts, countries) constructivist models, 94, 164 consumption: class and, 16 (see also class distinctions); communicative act and, 2; conspicuous consumption (see conspicuous consumption); costs and, 51, 67, 171n49; dimensions of, 27–­28; emula­ tion and, 47; excess and, 110; externalities, 20, 21; handicaps, 13; legislation

and, 40, 41; political decisions, 13, 154; power and (see power); prestige and, 13 (see also prestige); status symbols and (see status symbols); taste and, 13, 45; utilities and, 17–­19; war and, 154 (see also wars); waste and, 110. See also specific persons, topics counter-­Veblen effect, 170n41 Cuba, 48 cultural capital, 173n13 Cultural Theory of International Relations, A (Lebow), 5 DAC. See Development Aid Committee Dari-­Mattiacci, Giuseppe, 41 Darwin, Charles, 14, 38, 109, 181n17 Delisle, Joseph-­Nicholas, 139 demand theory, 13, 19, 20, 26 Derrida, Jacques, 107 Development Aid Committee (DAC), 116, 118 De Waal, Frans, 104 Diehl, Paul F., 91–  ­92 diffusion, 39, 51 dominance, 105–­   9 Eaton, Curtis, 23 Egypt, 97 Eichenber, Richard, 62, 171n49 Elephant King metaphor, 1, 3 emerging powers, 45, 117n17. See also spe­ cific countries emulation, 22, 47, 50 English School, 168n18 environmental legislation, 135 Eswaran, Mukesh, 23 evolution, 14, 38, 109  –1­ 0, 181n17 expertise, 53 exploitation hypothesis, 113 externalities: Big Science and, 130  –3­ 1; consumption and, 19  –2­ 3, 88, 133, 154; gift economy and, 106; space program and, 124; vicarious utility, 93 Eyre, Dana P., 46, 47 Falklands War, 73–­75, 100 fashion, 174n18 fear, anxiety and, 168n22 Fearon, James, 92, 154, 155 Festinger, Leon, 106

index financial crisis, 5–­   6, 121 fishing, 15, 169n34 foot-­binding, 172n4 foreign aid, 91, 92, 99 France, 73–­76, 98, 139  –4­ 2, 148  –5­ 1 functionalist approach, 7, 23, 35 game-­theoretical models, 161 Gatsby effect, 22, 51, 64, 71, 73, 86, 129, 164 Germany, 35, 61–­   62, 148–­   51 gift economy, 106  –1­ 0 gigantism, 34 Gilpin, Robert, 6 Global Demonstration Effects, 172n6 Goffman, Erving, 44 Gordon, Donald, 111 Greece, 11, 116, 152 Greenberg, Daniel, 126 Haiti, 101, 108 Halley, Edmond, 137 handicap principle, 14, 102 Harkness, William, 150, 151 hierarchical systems, 44, 114, 168n21; anarchy and, 8; benefits in, 9; class and (see class distinctions); Cold War and, 150; definition, 9; English School and, 168n18; feudalism, 49; gifts and (see gift economy); indexes, 50; Maslow and, 9–­10; middle powers, 113–­15; naval (see naval power); prestige and, 5, 6, 8, 28, 168n21, 186n1 (see also prestige); prosociality and, 100, 102, 119; ranking and, 36  –3­ 7; signaling and, 13; social, 2, 8, 13, 22, 27, 28, 42, 171n49, 197; symbols and, 36  –3­ 7, 50, 100. See also specific topics Hillel, Rabbi, 90 Hobbes, Thomas, 4 honor, 18, 169n25 Hook paradox, 160  –6­ 1, 162 Hoover, Herbert, 132, 133 Hubble Space Telescope, 125 Human Genome Project, 135 Hume, David, 170n38 Hurd, Ian, 36 IDE. See International Demonstration Effects identity, 11–­12, 169n28. See also prestige; and specific topics

223 inconspicuous consumer, 26, 28, 170n41 independence, assumption of, 20 indexes: hierarchy and, 36, 37; power and, 36, 45, 46–­48, 110; signals and, 110, 171n47, 174n16; status symbols and, 47, 48, 50, 172n2 India, 34, 43, 76  –7­ 8, 99, 177n21 Indonesia, 108 institutionalism, 47 International Demonstration Effects (IDE), Veblen and, 172n6 international hierarchy, 28 International Monetary Fund, 42 international relations, 35; anarchy and, 8; Big Science and (see Big Science; and specific countries, topics); class and, 42–­46 (see also class distinctions); conspicuous consumption and, 1–­32, 100, 157 (see also conspicuous consumption; and specific topics, countries); cooperation in, 182n2 (see also prosociality); deception and, 171n47; demand curves and, 20; foreign aid and, 91, 92, 99; future research, 165; game-­theoretical analyses and, 161; hierarchies in, 28 (see also hierarchical systems); independence and, 20; invidious comparison and, 49; national security and, 29  –3­ 0; natural restrictions and, 52; positional conflict and, 52–­53; power and, 48, 112, 168n13; prestige and, 3, 4–­13, 29, 157, 163, 172n2 (see also prestige); primary utility and, 30; prosociality and, 90  –1­ 21 (see also prosociality; and specific countries); rationalist analysis, 161 (see also rationalist approach); reciprocity and, 107; secondary utility and, 18; signals and, 171n47; status symbols and, 4; utility in, 18, 159; war (see wars); welfare and, 92 intrinsic restrictions, 51 invidious comparison: carriers and, 57, 86, 89; class and, 44; conspicuous consumption and, 33 (see also conspicuous con­ sumption); DAC and, 116; frog meta­ phor, 172n8; international relations and, 49; middle powers and, 113; pecuniary emulation and, 22–­23, 163 (see also pe­ cuniary emulation); prosociality and, 100; status and, 27, 28 Iraq, 85

224 Israel, 97 Italy, 64, 78, 98 Jakobsen, Peter V., 117 Janos, Andrew C., 43, 172n6 Japan, 19, 112 Johnson, Lester W., 47 Katrina, 108 Kelleher, Cathrine M., 62 Keohane, Robert O., 107 Keynes, John Maynard, 24 k-­group models, 180n8 Khrushchev, Nikita, 80 Kipling, Rudyard, 34 Korea, 43 Kosovo campaign, 75 Krostenko, Brian A., 50 Lake, David, 36, 109 Larson, Deborah W., 5, 22 Latin America, 20, 21, 45, 48, 50, 53, 100, 162. See also specific countries Lebow, Richard Ned, 5, 18 Liebenstein, Harvey, 20, 21 Lukes, Steven, 25 Luttwak, Edward N., 65 luxury, 35, 52, 161; Big Science and, 54; con­ spicuous consumption and (see conspic­ uous consumption); luxury brands, 47; scarcity and, 174n20; status symbols and, 47 (see also status symbols); utility and, 17 Machiavelli, Niccolo, 4 Mackie, Gary, 38, 39, 172n4, 176n9 Mahan, Alfred T., 175n9 Malinowski, Bronislaw, 103 Manhattan Project, 130, 136 marginal position, 27 market economy, 18 Marshall report, 84–­   85 Maslow hierarchy, 10 Mauss, Marcel, 107, 108, 110, 181n14 Mearsheimer, John J., 179n29 medieval period, 49 Mercer, Jonathan, 103 Mexico, 48 middle powers, 113, 114, 115 military, 2, 3, 4, 6, 15, 30. See also security, national; weapons; and specific conflicts, countries

index Mills, C. Wright, 45, 170n39 Mitrany, David, 114 Modelski, George, 57, 63, 66 Mohole Project, 126, 131, 134–­35, 183n3 moon landing, 12 Mora y Araujo, Manuel, 48 Morgenstern, Oskar, 19, 20 Morgenthau, Hans J., 6, 12, 36, 167n3 Moxnes, Erling, 15 Mullins, Alden F., Jr., 62 Murray, Bruce, 127 NASA, 124, 128 naval power, 30, 37, 58  –  ­65, 68, 175n8. See also aircraft carriers neorealism, 171n50 notoriety, 162 nouveau riche, 45, 170n39 nuclear weapons, 42, 75–­76, 111. See also weapons OECD. See Organization for Economic Co-­operation and Development Olympic Games, 11, 12, 15, 169n27 O’Neill, Barry, 7, 42, 46 ontological security, 169n28 opera, 174n18 Organization for Economic Co-­operation and Development (OECD), 111–­12 other-­help. See prosociality Pacific Northwest tribes, 15–­16, 27, 110 Pakistan, 99 Paul, Harry W., 5, 22 peacekeeping, 32, 158; UN peacekeeping and, 117 peacekeeping forces, 54 peacock metaphor, 14, 21–­22 pecuniary emulation: class and, 44; conspicuous consumption and, 33 (see also conspicuous consumption); externali­ ties and, 22–­24; invidious comparison and, 22–­23, 163 (see also invidious comparison); status and, 27, 28 Pereira, Antonio Carlos, 72 Peter Pan (Barrie), 160  –­  61 Plisecka, Anna E., 41 Polanyi, Karl, 105 pork-­barrel politics, 134–­37, 154 Porsche, Ferdinand, 172n1 positional goods, 8, 28, 52–  53, 168n20

index potlatch feasts, 16, 27, 110 power, 1, 8; concept of, 36; foreign policy and, 36; frustrated powers, 112; gift and, 107–­   9; indexes of, 48; international relations and, 46, 112, 114, 168n13 (see also international relations); middle powers, 113, 114, 115; military and, 6 (see also military); positional, 8; prestige and, 6, 7, 8, 25, 46, 163; prestige seeking and, 25; security and (see security, national) preferences, 25, 26 prestige, 1, 35; analysis of, 12–­13, 157, 162; Big Science and, 122; conspicuous con­ sumption and, 3, 4, 13, 25, 154 (see also conspicuous consumption); definition of, 5, 6  –  ­8, 9, 168n16; function and, 23; hierarchy and, 8, 28; international relations and, 3, 4–­13, 29, 157, 163 (see also international relations); notoriety and, 162; positional, 8, 28; power and, 6, 7, 8, 25, 163 (see also power); prestige space, 42; rationalism and, 158 (see also rationalist approach); reflected, 10, 12; self-­esteem and, 9, 10, 11, 13, 168n22, 169n23; signals and, 15; social capital and, 4, 6, 7, 9, 28; space and, 42; status and, 4, 8, 168n16, 168n19 (see also status symbols); study of, 154; subjective benefits, 9, 10; taste and, 171n49; utility and, 17, 136; weaponry and (see weapons); word origin, 13; zero-­sum game, 186n1 prices, 19, 24–­26, 27, 171n49. See also conspicuous consumption primary utility, 17–­19, 30, 136, 159  –  ­60 productivity, 23 property rights, 18 prosociality, 4, 30, 32; altruism and, 93; bandwagoning, 99; benefits of, 94; class and, 112–­18; as collective good, 94, 95, 98; conflict and, 109  –1­ 2; conspicuous consumption and, 91, 92, 100  –1­ 16, 119; costly signals, 102, 104; counterintuitive findings, 103–­4; dominance and, 105–  ­9; evolutionary biology and, 181n17; ex­ ploitation hypothesis and, 113; gift economy and, 106; international, 92, 100, 112–­18; national security and, 30, 31; primitive societies and, 104; private utility, 99; puzzles of, 119; rationalist analysis, 91, 93–­100; reciprocity and, 97;

225 social comparison, 106; tokenism and, 92, 96; tribal, 103; welfare and, 92 rationalist approach, 14; arms races and, 155; conspicuous consumption and, 29, 158  –  ­61; international relations and, 161; preferences and, 25; prestige and, 158; prosociality and, 92, 93–­100; rational choice models, 8, 25, 172n52; symbol­ ism and, 35; utility and, 158; Veblen and, 35; wars and, 154, 155 Ratte (tank), 56 realism, 164 reciprocity, 97, 105, 107 Rome, ancient, 41, 50 Rousseau, Jean-­Jacques, 4 Royal Society, 139  –4­ 2 Rushdie, Salman, 1, 3 Samuelson, Paul, 25 San Gimignano, Italy, 39 Saunders, Phillip C., 42 Scandinavian countries, 55, 95, 96, 98 scarcity, 52, 174n20 Schneider, G. H., 92 Schwartzman, Simon, 48 Schweller, Randall L., 52–­53 science, 31, 57, 131–­33. See also Big Science; and specific topics secondary utility, 18, 26, 38 security, national: arms races and, 186n3 (see also arms races); Big Science and, 30, 31; deterrence and, 65–  ­69; dilemma, 23, 155; international relations and, 29  –­  30; military and, 2, 3, 4, 6, 15, 30; naval vessels and, 30; ontological secu­rity, 169n28; power and (see power); prosociality and, 30, 31; tower building and, 39  –4­ 0; Veblen effects, 30, 31; weapons and (see weapons). See also specific countries, topics self-­esteem, 9, 10, 11, 13, 168n22, 169n23 Senegal, 152 September 11 attacks, 108 Seven Years’ War, 139 Shiv, Baba, 171n49 signals, 2; consumption and (see conspicuous consumption); efficiency, 173n12; evolution and, 37, 38; indexes and, 174n16; international relations and, 171n47; prestige and, 15 (see also

226 signals (cont.) prestige); status and, 174n16 (see also status symbols) Smith, Adam, 10, 169n35; Veblen and, 170n38 snob effects, 21, 22, 24, 27 social hierarchy, 2, 8, 27, 28, 171n49 social identity theory, 11, 12 Sosis, Richard, 15 Soviet Union, 11, 12, 43, 79  –­  81, 147 space programs, 30, 121–­52; Big Science and, 32 (see also Big Science); Brazil and, 177n17; China and, 42, 123–­24; Eu­ rope and, 133; United States and, 124 Spain, 78 sports, 11, 12 Stanford School, 47 status symbols, 27, 35, 37; aircraft carrier and, 57; broadcast efficiency, 46; class and, 44, 173n9; class markers and, 44; consumption and, 28, 44, 45 (see also conspicuous consumption); defined, 168n16; differentiation and, 50; diffusion and, 37–­42, 51; effectivity of, 46  –5­ 0; em­ ulation and, 47, 50; evolution of, 37–­42; functional role of, 36  –3­ 7; index and, 50; international relations and, 4; luxury brands and, 47; power indexes and, 46; prestige and, 8, 168n16, 168n19 (see also prestige); signals and, 174n16; symbolism and, 35 (see also symbolism); tests of, 51, 174n16; utility and, 35, 38, 136 subordination, dominance and, 105–  ­9 subsistence economy, 18 Suchman, Mark C., 46, 47 supercollider, 184n11 Suzuki, Shogo, 19, 112 Sweden, 55, 96, 98 symbolism: class and, 172n3 (see also class distinctions); diffusion of, 38, 39; expertise and, 53; intrinsic restrictions, 51; rationality and, 35; signal and, 37; status and (see status symbols); as third-­order concept, 36; trickle-­down model, 172n3 Tajfel, Henry, 10, 11 tanks, 34–­35 taste, 45, 171n49 technology, 57, 131. See also science; and specific topics

index tennis, 168n19 Thailand, 81–­   84, 157 Theory of the Leisure Class, The (  Veblen), 2, 153, 158, 170. See also Veblenian theory Thompson, William, 57, 63, 66 Thomson, David, 39 Thucydides, 4 Tilly, Charles, 63 tokenism, 96 towers, 39 –­40 Transits of Venus (  TOVs), 137–­   51, 184n12 trickle-­down model, 172n3 Turner, John C., 10 turtle hunting, 15, 169n33 United States: aircraft carriers and, 58, 84–  ­86 (see also aircraft carriers); Big Science and, 128, 183n7 (see also Big Science); China and, 58, 84; space programs, 124; TOVs and, 143–  ­46; weapons and (see weapons). See also specific topics UN peacekeeping, 42, 91, 99, 112, 114–­17, 179n2, 182n21 utility: of aid, 180n3; concept of, 158; con­ sumption and, 17–­19; demand curves and, 20; luxuries and, 17; pres­tige and, 17 (see also prestige); primary/secondary, 17–­19, 30, 136, 159  –­  60; rationality and, 158; social/material, 159; status symbols and, 35; use and, 17; Veblen and, 17; vicarious, 93; waste and, 17 Valavanis, S., 93 Van der Heijden, Eline, 15 Van der Veen, Anne Maurits, 99, 109, 111 Vasa tragedy, 55 Veblenian theory, 2; behavior theory and, 26; class and, 44, 173n10 (see also class distinctions); conspicuous consumption and, 3, 14, 19, 25, 156 (see also conspic­ uous consumption); counter-­Veblen ef­ fects, 170n41; critique of, 170n39; dif­ ferentiation and, 50; emulation and, 50; IDE and, 172n6; intrinsic restriction and, 51; invidious comparison (see invidious comparison); Mills and, 170n39; national security and, 30, 31; pecuniary emulation (see pecuniary emulation);

index perspective of, 162–­   64; prices and, 24; procurement and, 59  –  ­65; productivity and, 23; rationality and, 35; satire, 153; science and, 132; Smith and, 170n38; snob effect and, 21; taste and, 171n49; utility and, 17; wars and, 155; waste and, 27. See also specific concepts, topics Venus, 137–­   51 Vigneron, Franck, 47 Wade, Abdoulaye, 152 Wagner, Harrison, 155, 156 Waltz, Kenneth N., 45–­46 warm glow, 93–­   94, 180n6 wars, 169n28; anthropology of, 110  –1­ 1; arms races (see arms races); class distinctions and, 49; consumption and, 18, 154; deterrence and, 65–­   69; international relations and, 5; navy (see naval power); rationalist analysis, 154, 155; secondary utility and, 18; as status symbol, 49; substitute for, 16; Veblen effects and, 155; weapons and (see weapons) waste, 17, 21, 27, 110 watchtowers, 39  –4­ 0

227 weapons: archery, 49; arms races and (see arms races); carriers (see aircraft carriers); cavalry, 49; deterrence and, 65–­   69; diplomacy and, 175n7; military and, 30; nuclear, 42; in peacetime, 175n7; prestige and, 167n3 (see also arms races; and specific topics, weapons); security and, 31 (see also security, national); tanks, 34–­35; war and (see wars). See also spe­ cific types, topics, countries Weber, Max, 35, 44 Weinberg, Alvin M., 49, 129 Wetherell, Margaret, 103 Wettern, Desmond, 65 white elephants, 52, 174n21 Wohlforth, William, 5, 22 World Cup, 11 World War I, 59, 60, 67, 158 World War II, 60, 62, 67, 92, 102, 111 Wylie, Lana, 111 Yes Prime Minister (  TV series), 33 Zahavi, Amotz, 14, 21, 38, 102, 109 Zahavi, Avishag, 14, 21, 38, 102, 109 Zam Zammah (cannon), 34, 38, 56