Symbolic Interaction and Cultural Studies

and

Symbolic Interaction cultural Studies

•

o IC nteraction and

tura

tu ies Edit6� Howard s. Becker and Michal M. McCall

The University of Chicago Press Chicago etJ London

TilE UNIVa;RSIT'( Uf CHICAGO PRESI;, CHICAGO 60637 Till; UNIVERSITY Of CI IICAGO PRESS, LTD., LoNDON � 1990 by The University of Chicago

5432

Library of Congress Calaloging-iu-Publication Data Symbolic interaction and cultural studies I cdited by Howard S. Becker and Michal M. McCall. p.

em. Papers originally prepared for the 1988 Slone Symposium sponsored by the Society for the Study 01 Symbolic Interaction. lududes bibliographical rderences. Cooteuts: lnuoduction' Michal M. McCall lind Howard S. Bccker -Social interaction, cuhure, aoo hislOrkal studies r 'ohn R. Hall Tile good news about life Witmer - Studying religion in the dghties I Mary Jo Neitz - Why philosopheIS should become sociologists (and \;ce versa) I Kathryn Pyne Addelson - Art worlds: developing the interactionist approach w social organization I Samuel Gilmore - Symbolic interactionism in social studies of science' Adele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Gerson - fit for postmodern selfhood , Barry Glassner - People arc talking: convt!Isation analysis and s),mbolic interaction' Deirdre Boden. ISBN 0-226-{)4117-4 {alk. paperl. - ISBN 0-226-04118-2 Ipbk. : alk. paper) I. Symbolic imeractionism-Congresses. 2. Culture-Congresses. I. Becker, Howard Saul, 1928- . II. McCall, Michal M. III. Society for the Study ot Symbolic Interaction. rv. Stone Symposium (1988 : Chicago, Uti HM291.S887!! 1990 306-dc20 89-48060

CIt>

The paper used in [his publication meets [he minimum require ments of the American National Standard for lnfonnation Scicnccs Permllnen.ce of Paper for I'rinted Library Materials, ANSI Z39.48-1984.

Contents Acknowledgments 1 Introduction

Vll

Michal M. McCall and Howard S. Becker SYMBOLIC INTERACTION AND ·

•

History 2 Social Interaction, Culture, fohn R. Hall Life History

and HistoTical Studies

3 The Good News about Life History

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner Religion 4 Studying Religion in the Eighties

Mary /0 Neitz Philosophy 5 Why Philosophers Should Become Sociologists (and Vice Vcrsal

119

Kathryn Pyne Addelson ·

Art 6 Arl Worlds: DeveJoping the Interactionist Approach to Social Organization

148

Samuel Gilmore Science 7 Symbolic Intcractionism in Social Studies of Science

179

Adele E. Cll1Ike and Elihu M. Gerson . The Body 8 Fit for Postmodern Selfhood 215 Barry Glassner Language .

9 People Are Talking; Conversation Analysis and Symbohc interaction

Deirdre Boden Contributors Index

277

275

244

Acknowledgments We wish to thank the several organizations that made this volume possible by contributing to the support of the conference at which these papers were originally presented: the Gregory P. Stone Founda tion, the Midwest Sociological Society, and the College of ArtS and Sciences, the Center for Interdisciplinary Research in the Arts, the Center for Urban Aff airs and Policy Research, and the Department of Sociology, all of Northwestern University.

Introduction Michal M. McCall and Howard S. Becker The papers in this volume were originally prepared for the 1988

Stone Symposium, sponsored by the Society for the Study of Symbolic Interaction, they are presented here in the order in which they were given at that meeting. The authors had the following assignment, more or less in these words: tell about work being done in your substantive .l(e3 of cultural studies; say what the tradition of symbohc interaction thought and research has t o tell other people who do such work; say what the other people who work in your area have to tell those of us who a.rc symbolic intcractionistsi and illustrate yOUT points and argu ments with examples from your own work (all the authors had in fact recently done empirical studies of the topics they were to discuss). The assignment assumed that symbolic interactionists have not taken full advantage 01 work done in related fields that would be useful to their own projects, and that other people in cultural studies would be glad to know, and find useful, some of what symbolic interactionists take for granted as working ideas and procedures. Most of the authors are sociologists, and many of them�Clarke, Gerson, Gilmore, Glassner, McCall, Neitz, and Wittner-have worked within the symbolic interactionist tradition. Oiliers of the authors have been more loosely identified with that tradition. Boden, a weB known conversational analyst, makes her affinity with symbolic in teraction explicit here. Although familiar with symbolic interaction dleory, Hall has worked primarily in the area of cultural history. Ad dclson, a feminist philosopher, has found interactionism sufficiently useful to want to bring it t o the attention of her disciplinary coJleagues as well as to make the links between philosophy and sociology clearer to sociologists.

AUDIENCES As a result of the assi!,'Tlment and the mixed disciplinary affilia tions of the authors, the papers address tnemselves to several audi ences from several subject matter positions, with all the risks and

Michal M. McCall and Howard S. Becker

potential confusions that entails. Most confusing, perhaps, and cer tainly the most numerous, are the papers that speak to symbolic inter actionists from within that same tradition but from another content area. North American sociology is organized around content areas, not around methodological and conceptual approaches. Thus, there arc sociologies of art, science, religion, and knowledge, into which the symbolic interac(ion approach has been incorporated, but symbolic in teractionists have not developed a general approach to cultural studies. Furthermore, practitioners of symbolic interaction research and thinking often have little in common beyond their common possession of certain "sensitizing concepts," their inductive approach to empiri cal research, and their adherence to the faith that thc proper object of that research is "the natural world of every-day experience" (Blumer 1969: 148). They may know very little about what other symbolic in teractionists are doing in content areas other than their own. Rather, individual interactionists have arrived at positions on gen eral theoretical questions by solving the problems of working with the specific data of their content specialties. So, for instance, symbolic in teractionists create an approach to epistemology by dealing with prob lems created by such specific subject matter as scientific texts. But, as a group, symbolic interactionists seldom bring their solutions together to

deve10p a more general approach through comparisons of the find

ings specific to their subject matters. The annual Stone Symposium is one occasion for such a comparative, intellectual exchange. Most of the papers in this volume, then, tell symboUc interaction ists, in one way or another, what their colleagues in related areas are up

to.

{The detailed bibliographies follOWing the separate papers will

help interested readers follow up these introductions.1 Neitz, for in stance, describes a body of wOTk on religion which other interaction ists should see as cmeiaHy related to the problems of identity and personal change they study in other milieus. Gilmore describes the symbolic intcractionist tradition o( research on the arts, and Clarke and Gerson do the same for science studies. Boden and Hall bring news from other areas of srn.:iology, and from other methodological and theoretical approaches. Boden speaks to sym bolic interactionists from the flourishing specialty of discourse anal ysis. She renders an important service by making the connections between the two apparent, in order to make them more useful to each other than they have been in the past. Hall, discussing historical research, shows how concepts adapted from work by historians as vari ous as Braudel and Kubler can be put to work in interactionist think-

Introduction

ing. as well as the way findings from specific studies in cultural history can help solve our own research problems. Other p.1pcrs bring interactionists news of work on topics symbolic interactionists share witb wnrkcrs in other disciplines, particularJy the papers by McCall and Wittner and by Glassncr, McCall and'Wittner focus on a method-the gathering of life histories-that has provoked much argument and raised many basic analylic problems in a variety o f fields in the humanities and socia] sciences. They bring discussions from both sides of the fence

bear on these questions, demonstrating

concretely what each has t() offer the other. Their paper, in its use of long quotations arranged in dialogue form, exemplifies some of the problems and solutions they discuss. Glassner uses a frankly post modem approach to understand the social nature of the human body, an area to which sociology has given scant attention (although see Yonnel198S). Addelson's paper brings a different kind of news to interactionists. She reports on her efforts to construct a feminist ethic-an "ethic of respect" as contrasted with the "traditional" (patriarchalI ethic of "rights" (propertYI-bascd on Blumer's injunction to "catch the pro cess of interpretation from the standpoint of the acting person." She thus shows a more practical connection between philosophy and soci ology than many interactionists would be aware of.

WHAT IS SYMBOLIC INTERACTION?

Symbolic interaction is a sociological tradition that traces its lin eage to the Pragmatists-John Dewey and George Herbert Mead, partic ularly-and to sociologists of the "Chicago School"-Robert E. Park, Herbert Blumer, Everett C. Hughes, .1nd their students and successors. We c.1n summarize its chief ide.1S, perhaps ovcrsimply, this way: Any human event can be understood as the result of the people involved (keeping in mind that that might be a very large num ber) continually adjusting what they do in the light of what others do, so that each individual's line of action "fils" into what the others do. That can only happen if human beings typica.lly act in a nonautomatic fashion, and instead construct a line of action by taking account of the meaning of what Otll ers do in response to their earlier actions. Human beings can only act in this way if they can incorporate the responses of otllers into their own act and thus anticipate what will prob ably happen, jll the process creating a "self" in the Meadian sense. �This emphasis 011 the way people construct the mean-

Michal M. McCall and Howard S. Hecker

iog of others' acts is where the "symbolic" in "symbolic inter action" comes from.) If everyone can and docs do that, complex joint acts can occur. {Adapted from Becker 1988: 18; see also Blumer 1969: 10.1 These ideas have furnished the basis of thousands of fieldwork (eth nographic) studies in such areas as community, race, class, work, family, and the sociologies of art, science, and deviance. Symbolic in teraction is an empirical research tradition as much or more than a theoretical position, and its strength derives in large part from the enormous body of research that embodies and gives meaning to its ab stract propositions. WHAT Is CULTURAL STUDIES?

We use the term cultural studjes to refer to the classically human istic disciplines which have lately come to use their philosophical, lit erary, and historical approaches to study the social construction of meaning and other topics traditionally of interest to symbolic interac tionists, disciplines to which, in turn, social scientists have lately turned for "explanatory analogies" �Geertz 1983:23) as they "have turned away from a laws and instances ideal of explanation toward a cases and interpretations one" libid.:19). The term is most closely identified with work carried on, since 1964, at the Centre for Contem porary Cultural Studies at the University of Binningham in England. The majn features of cultural studies, according to scholars associated with the center, arc "its openness and theoretical versatility, its reflex ive evcn sclf-conscious mood" (Johnson 1986-87: 381, and its critical (or "engaged"1 approach to its primary objects of study: working class and youth subcultures, the media, language, and the sociaJ relations of education, thc family and the state (S. Hal! 1980). Perhaps because euhural studies is self-consciously non-disciplinary, and has resisted theoretical orthodoxy (ibid., 1980) and methodological codification (Johnson 1986-87), it has engaged many of the important intellectual currents of the last twenty-five years, in a way that sym bolic interaction has not. Among them: the revolution in literary crit icism; the "new social history" movement; the "complex Marxism" of Lukacs, Goldman, Walter Benjamin, and the "Frankfurt School"; the structuralisms, both the structural linguistics of Levi-Strauss and Barthcs and the Marxist structuralism of Althusser and Gramsci; the feminisms (Weedon 1987; S. Hall 1980); and the poststructuralisms,

Introduction

developed in and hom the work of Dc.rrida, Lacan, Kristeva, Althusser, and Foucault (Weedon 1987: 19; S. Hall1980i Johnson 1986-87). Symbolic interactionists, like many other social scientists, have for the most part not been very attentive to these major intellectual cur rents represented in cultural studies. But, as the humanities and social sciences have approached one another in recent years, a lively dis course has grown up along the border. The intention of this volume is to bring symbolic interactionists into that conversation, both as listen ers and speakers. THE BORDER: TOPICS AND METHODS OF MUTUAL INTEREST

A number of major topics arc addressed by workers in both tradi tions. Their interests converge most generally on the problem of mean ing. Under that broad heading they find much of mutual interest in such topics as the nature of knowledge, our experience of our own hves and the Jives of others, the relation between individual experience and action and the workings of social structures, the self and subjectivity, language and discourse. Both groups arc interested, as wcll, in such concrete subject matters as art, science, education, and religion.

Empiricism The great strength of the symbolic interaction approach to mean ing is thal it is empirical. The ultimate intcractionist test of concepts is whether they make sense of particuJar situations known in great detail through detailed observation. You answer questions by going to see for yourself, studying the reaJ world, and evaluating the evidence so gathered. Symbolic interaction takes the concrete, empirical world of lived experience as its problematic and treats theory as something that must be brought inlo line with that empirical world (Blumer 1969,1511·

Addelson argues, on just these grounds, that philosophers must be come sociologists (by which she means symbolic interactionist soci olOgists) because symbolic interactionism is empirical and, therefore, gives better accounts of human naturc, human action, and of human ... She applies this reasoning group life than traditjonal philosophy doc.. in a nice example of how the interactionisl emphasis on process helps solve the traditional philosophical problem of rules and rulebreaking. She quotes Blumer: "It is the social process in group life that creates and upholds the rwes, not the rulcs that crcate and uphold &'TOUp IiIe,"

Mich31 M. McCall and How.1rd S. Becker

and goes Of} to say that if this is truc, it is the social process and not the rules that must be understood and conceptually anaJyzed and clari fied to answer the question, "What is morality?" Symbolic interaction:ists typically find that meaning is constructed in the process of interaction, and have always inSisted that process is not a neutral medium in which social forces play out their game, hut the actual stuff of social organization and social forces (Blumer 1969). Society, for them, is the process of symbolic interaction, and this view allows them to steer the middle course between structurahsm and ide alism John Hall recommends in his paper. For symbol.ic intcractionists, process is not just a word. [t'S short hand for .m insistence that social events don't happen all at once, but rather happen in steps: first one thing, then another, with each suc ceeding step creating new conditions under which all the people and organizations involved musl now negotiate the next step. This is more than a theoretical nicety. It makes theoretica1 room for contingency, another point many workers in cultural studies want to emphasize (Turner \986). Nothing has to happen. Nothing is fully determined. At every step of every unfolding event, something else might happen. To be sure, the balance of constraints and opportunities available to tbe actors, individual and collective, in a situation will lead many, perhaps most, of them to do tbe same thi.ng. Contingency doesn't mean people behave randomly, but it does recognize that they can behave in surpris· ing and unconventional ways. The interactionist emphasis on process stands, as Blumer insisted, as a corrective to any view that insists that culture or social structure determines Wh.1t Neitz's discussion of reHgious conversion shows the utility of sueh a view for it variety of problems of interest to cultural theorists. Earlier analyses looked for the conditions that led people to be converted, but had no language to describe the baek-and-forth, shifting character of what went on when they did. Such "instantaneous" theories of conversion failed to see the importance of the events that lead up to conversion and, perhaps more important, the events that follow con· version, reinforcing and solidifying what might otherwise be a nmmen· tary whim. The new research, according to Neitz, sees conversion as a process and, for that reason, can turn to symbolic interaction and its concern with process for help in understanding the fluid relationships between religious and social structures today. Although much of the work in cultural studies, and particularly at the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, has been accused of being too theoretical, it has also been empirical, right from the start.

Il1uoduction

Unlike symbolic interactionism, though, cultural studies has not been wilhng, or able, to privilege empirical work over theory: "we had no alternative but to undertake a labour of theoretical definition and clari fication at the same time as we attempted to do concrete work in the field" [5. Hall1980:25i. Nor have empirical workers in cultural studies identified themselves as fieldworkers as thoroughly as symbolic interactionists have. Indeed. in Stuart Hall's words, "the tension between experiential accounts and a larger account of structural and historical determinations has been a pivotal site of Centre theorizjng and debate ever since" Paul Willis's ground-breaking etbnographic work in Learning to Labour /ibid.:24). "While sharing an emphasis on people's ability to make meaning, critical theorists concerned with cultural production" differ in impor tant ways from symbolic interactionists: their ethnographies are more "openly ideological" and they are more overtly concerned with locat ing human agency in social structure: Both approaches emphasize human agency and the production of meaning and culture, but the critical production theorists ground their work on a moral imperative, Ion al/political com mitment to human betterment:' Moreover, the critical produc tion theorists recognize the power of stnlctural determinants in the sense of material practices, modes of power, and eco nomic and political i.nstitutions_ Unlike the more voluntaristic Isymbolic interactionists and cthnomcthodologistsJ, the criti cal . , , theorists remain accutely aware that, as Marx notes, "while men Isic) make their own history, they do not make it just as they please," Their recent work has focused in different ways on the need for a theory that will recognize both human agency and the production of knowledge and culture and will at the same time take into account the power oC material and ideolOgical structures. This dialectic between individual eOD sciousness and structural determinants has led them to seck more developed theories of ideology, hegemony, and reSistance, and to the development of what has been called "critical eth nograph�'." !Weiler 1988: J 2-13� Willis himself recognizes the "profoundly important methodological possibility" in fieldwork-"that of being surprised, of reaching knowl edge not prefigured in one's starting paradigm" (1980:90�, but argues there is "no truly untheoretical way in which to 'see' an 'obiect.'" To "remove the hidden tendency towards positivism" in fieldwork re search, he suggests that the "theoretical organization of the starting-

Michal M. McCall and Howard S. Becker

out position should be outlined and acknowledged in any piece of research"; th.u ficldworkers "add to the received nolion of the 'quality' of the data an ability to watch for inconsistencies, contradictions and misunderstandings" and "make theoretical interpretations of tbem"; and that they recognize their "rcHectivt! relationship to their subjects" libid.80-92I· McCall and Wittner also address these issues, emphasizing how studies in the social sciences have tended to take the point of view of domin.1nt sociaJ groups and thus have failed to create knowledge about matters considered important to less powerful people. Aware of the "key jnsight of advanced scmiology/' that "narratives or images always imply 01 construct a position or positions from which thcy arc to be read or viewed" and that "realist" texts "naturalise the means by which positioning is achieved" (Johnson 1986-87: 66), they chal lenge orhcr ficldworkers to .1sk, Where have we positioned ourselves as researchers? From what position have we viewed the subjects of our research? How has our realistic, documentary style of representing 50cialli{c naturalized our own authority? Culture Production and Reproduction Cultural studies is, in important ways, the result of Marxist cri tiques of economism and of the realization that "cultural practice and cultural production arc not simply derived from an otherwise consti tuted social order but are themselves major elements in its constitu tion" (Williams 1981: 12). Much of their best work has focused on the production of knowledge in educational institutions. Early work con cerned social and cultural reproduction-that is, the reproduction of class structures and of class cultures, knowledge, and power relation ships in schools. However, much of this work on reproduction "did not get inside the school to find out how reproduction went on" (Apple 1985: 201. According to Weiler, furthermore, it was based on "the un· derlying view that students arc shaped by their experiences in schools to internalize o r accept a subjectivity and a elass position that leads to the reproduction of existing power relationships and social and eco nomic structures" (Weiler 1988: 6). Later work, by critical ethnographers like PauJ Willis, "demon strated that rather than being places where culture and ideologies are imposed on students, schools arc the sites where these things :lrc pro duced" (Apple 1985: 26). By opening up the black box of education, critical ethnographcrs revealed that education is a system of produc tion as well as reproduction. Furthermore, they discovered that stu-

Introduction

dents aren't simply shaped by their experiences, but actively "assert their own experience and contest or resist lhe ideological and material forces imposed upon them" �Weiler 19881 1). The import.1Dce of these critical ethnographies to syrnboli� interac tion is the suggestion, carried forward in education, that ethnography must be consciously ideological and can be both "transformativc," that is, can "help create the possibility of transforming such institutions as schools-through a process of negative critique" (Brookey 1987:67), and "empowering" so long as it rests upon the asswnption that "each person ihas the] ability to understand and critique his or her own ex perience and the social reality 'out there'" �Weiler 1988: 23). Recent work in the sociology of science, reported on in the paper by Clarke and Gerson, makes related points, demonstrating that the or ganization of scientific work creates and shapes the knowledge we ac cept as "sci.entific." Treating science

as the

work people do, rather than

as a privileged window on reality, lets us see science as continuous with the rest of human experience. This empirical appro;lCh coincides with the philosophical critique of scientism made in thc name of prag matism by Rorty (1979) and others.

Social Worlds and Institutional Ethnography Many sociologists have criticized symbolic interaction theory for being too focused on the "micro" aspect of society, on face-to-face in teraction as opposed to the "macro" structural lcvel of society. Gil more, baSing his argument on empirical work in the sociology of art, shows how the idea of social worlds helps bridge the mJcro-macro gap, making the insights of interactionism more useful to workers in cul tural studies. Symbolic interaction emphasizes collective action. One special ver sion of this has proved useful: the idea of a "world," a more or less stable organization of collective activity. This idea has been used ex tenSively in the sociologies of art and science (Kling and Gerson, 1977, 1978; Shibutani 1955; Becker 1982; and P. Hall 1987) but it can, in principle, come into use anywhere people arc connected through their joint involvement in a task or event of a repetitive kind. Wherever so cial evenls happen routinely, we can expect to find a world. Gilmore argues that the concept of social world, as developed and used by symbolic interactionists, .allows for the kind of movement back and forth between "micro" and "macro" levels, between structure and culture and individuals, which has come to seem more impoTtant in cultural studies. Gilmore suggests that the idea of social worJds of-

Michal M. McCall and Howard S. Becker

feTS a solution to Marxists who want to stop talking about the reflec tions of the economic base in the cultural superstructure and instead look at how human agents produce culture. "World" does the work of a good concept. It tells you what to look foc, what ought to be there to find in the phenomena we study. Then you can either find what you were told would be there or know that you have a new and interesting theoretical problem, because something that ought to be there wasn't there after all. Dorothy

E. Smith has recendy proposed an alternative way of bridg ing the micro-macro gap, which she calls institutional ethnography. A feminist methodology, Smith's is compatible with the concerns of the critical ethnographers. Specifically, although it is careful to try to UI) derstand the everyday world from the point of view of the people who live in it, institutional ethnography also recognizes that knowledge of "the extraloc.'ll determinations of our experience does not lie within the scope of evcryday practices" and must, therefore, "be the sociolo gist's special business" (1987: 161 ). Our point of entry was women's experience of the work they did in relation to their children's schooling. W e would begin by asking women to talk to us about this work. The resulting ac counts would provide a wealth of descriptive material about particular women's local practices. There is nothing new socio· logically about this procedure. While feminism has brought new sensitivities and a new scrupulousness to open-cnded in· terviewing, it is our uses of material that have been distinctive. And here we are trying somethi.ng different again. Standard so· ciological analysis uses some method of coding and interpret ing such accounts to order the interview materials in re1ation to the relevances of the sociological and/or feminist discourses. These enable the interviews to be sorted into topics typical of the study populaton. In such a process, the standpoint of women themselves is suppressed. The standpoint becomes that of the discourse reflecting upon propenies of the study popu latioo. Characteristics of the study population become the ob ject of the knower's gaze. We sought a method that would preserve throughout the standpoint of the women interviewed. To do so we worked with a sequence of stages in the research. We were concerned to locate women's work practices in the actual relations by which they arc organized and which they organize. This meant talking to women first. Women's accounts of the work they did in relation to their children's schooling would then be

fntroduction examint '

Self, Body, and Subjectivity The idea of

the self in the simple symbolic interaction version

emphasizes the existence and profound consequences of the interior dialogue through which society is incorporated into the individual. Blumer explained this idea through an exegesis of George Herbert Mead's thought: In declaring that the human being has a self, Mead had in mind chiefly that the human being can be the obiect of his own ac tions. He can act toward himself as he might act toward oth ers.... This mechanism enables the human being t o make indications to himself of things in his surroundings and thus to guide his actions by what he notes.... The second impor tant implication of the fact that the human being makes in· dications to himself is that his action is constructed or built up instead of being a mere release. Whatever the action in which he is engaged, the human individual proceeds by point· ing Ollt to himself the various conditions which may be instru mental to his action and those which may obstruct his action; he has to take account of the demands, the expectations, the pmhibitions, and the threats as they may arise in the situation in which he is acting. His action is built up step by step through a process of such self·indication. The human indi vidual pieces together and guides his action by taking account of different things and interpreting their significance for his prospective ac.tion. !Blumc.r 1969: 79-81 J This stripped-down notion of the seH builds society into every em pirical analysis, in the form of all those others prescnt in rhe situation of action to whom the actor pays attention. Most importantly, it rec ognizes people's ability to check their activity and reorient it on the basis of what's going on around them, rather than Tesponding auto-

Michal M. McCall.'lnd Howard S. Secker

matically to stimuli, impulses, or the dictates of a culture or social organization. A classic example of the utility of such a view of the self is Lindesmith's

(19481 study of opiate addiction, which emphasizes the

crucial importance of the self-process in understanding how addicts learn to sec themselves as needing opiates to function normally. Feminist theorists have criticized the dualism of Western culture and thought, especiaUy the classic dualisms of nature/nurture and mind/body, and this criticism can reasonably be leveled at symbolic Interactionists who often [though not always, sec Becker

1986: 47-66)

leave out bodies, the biological component of human experience. Ad detson criticizes Mead for this, and the fault is there to criticize.lnter actionists have largely left the body and physical experience out of the self. Glassner now shows us one way to avoid this dualistic error and deal with bodies as well as minds when we talk about the self. He takes advantage of the insights of feminists and postmodernist thinkers to import a cultural-economy argument into the interactionist concept of the self.ISee, also, Yonnet,

1985.}

Another critique of the symbolic interactionist self is implicit in Boden's paper on discourse analysis. Following Althusscr

(l971), cuJ

tural studies has replaced the "conscious, knowin& unified rational"

self with the subiect of discourse. In this account, "[tlhe 'I,' the scat of consciousness and the foundation of ideological discourses, [isJ not the integral Cartesian centre of thought but a contradictory discursive category constituted by ideological discourse itself" (S. Hall

1980:33).

The political significance of decentering the subject and aban doning the belief in essential subjectivity is that it opens up subjectivity to change ... As we acquire language we learn to give voice-meaning-to our experience and to understand it according to particular ways of thinking, particular discourses, which pre-date our entry into language. These ways of think ing constitute our consciousness, and the positions with which we identify structure our sense of ourselves, our subjectivity. Having grown up within a particular system of meanings and values, which may well be contradictory, we may find our .

selves resisting alternatives. Or, as we move out of familiar circles, through education or politics, for example, we may be exposed to alternative ways of constituting the meaning of our experience which seem to address our interests more di rectly.... This process of discovery can lead to a rewriting of personal experience i n tenns which give it social, changeable causes. (Weedon 1987:33)

Introduction

Discourses The various critical. feminist, and poststructuraJist theories that have so profoundly influenced cultural studies h.'lVe made discoursc talk and text-the site of meaning, social organization, power, and subjectivity. In this view, social structures and social processes arc Of ganized by institutions and cultural practices such as the law, the p0litical system, the church, the family, education, and the media, each of which is "located in and structured by a particular discursive field" or discourse. Following Foucault, discourses arc defined as "ways of constituting knowledge, together with the social practices, forms of subjectivity and power relations which inhere in such knowledges and the relations between them" nbid.:108J. A discourse both constitutes the "nature" of the "subjects" it "seeks to goveill" and subjects its speakers to its own power and regulation (ibid.:108, 1191. Powerful dis courses are based in lllstitutions and realized in institutional practices. "Yet these institutional locations are themselves sites of contest, and the dominant discourses governing the organization and practices of social institutions are under constant challenge" (ibid:l09J. Much feminist discourse is, for example, either marginal to or in direct conflict with dominant definitions of femininity and its social constitution and regulation. Yet even where feminist discourses lack the social power to Tealize their versions of knowledge in institutional practices, they can offer the discur sive space from which the individual can resist dominant sub ject positions ... land] resistance to thc dominant at the level of the individual subject is the first stage in the production of alternative forms of knowledge or where such alternatives al ready exist, of winning individuals over to these discourses and gradually incTcasing their social power. [ibid: 110- II) In this volume, Boden introduces symbolic interactionists to dis course analysis, suggesting studies of the social production of culture and cultural products, especially science but also social sciencc itself, as discourse: talk and text. Her analysis shows that the details of ordi nary conversation, analyzed with the tools of conversational analysis, constitute the process of mutual adjustment of lines of action caUed for in Blumer's theory, and thus are integral to the understanding of organizational activity at every level. McCall and Wittner suggest that symbolic interactionist might well imitate other social scientists, es pecially anthropologists, who bavc begun to pay at'.cntion to their own

Michal M. McCall and Howard S. Becker

discourse, looking critically at their own "central task, in the field and

thercafter"-that is, writing-and at the contextual, rhetorical, insti

tutional, genre, political and historical contexts which "govern the in

scription" of cultural accounts (Clifford

1986 : 2, 6).

CONCLUSION The above thoughts suggest the variety of uses to which the audi ences these papers address can put these materials. We hope that inter actionists will learn from each other to cross subject matter boundaries in search of ideas and examples. We hope that noninteractionist soci ologists will sec how the symbolic interaction tradition, consisting of both thcorctkal ideas and dctaiJcd research findings, can contribute to their own work. And we hope that workers in cultural studies will find, in the ideas and results of this sociological tradition, as yet a largely unused resource, much to usc and integrate into their own traditions.

REFERENCES Althusser, Louis. 1971. "Ideology and Ideological State Apparatuses," in Althusser, Lenin l1nd Philosophy, and Other Essays, translated by Ben Brewster {London: New Left Books}, pp. 121-173. Apple, Michael. 1985. Education and Power. Boston: Ark Paperbacks. Becker, Howard S. 1982. "Culture: A Sociological View," in Becker, Doing Things Together lEvanstou: Northwestern University Press}, pp. 1 1 -24. . 1986. "Consciousness, Power, and Drug Effects," in Becker, Doing Thil1gs Together lEvanston: Northwestern University Press), pp. 47-66. ---.. 1988. "Herbert Blumer's Conceptual Impact." Symbolic lnter ---

actiOll 1 1 �Spring. 1988): 13-21. Blumer, Herbert. 1969. Symbolic lnrefllctionism: Perspective and Method. Englewood Cliffs, N. J.: Prentice Hall. Brodkey, Linda. 1987. "Writing Critical Ethnographic Narratives." An thropology and Education Quarterly 18 (June): 67-76. Clifford, James. 1986. "Introduction: Partial Truths," in rames Clifford and George E. Marcus, editors, Writing Culture (Berkeley: Univer sity of California Press), pp. 1-26. Ceertz, Clifford. 1983. Local Knowledge. New York: Basic Books. Hall, Peter. 1987. "Interactionism and the Study of Social Organiza tion," SociologiClll Quarterly 28: 1-22. Hall, Stuart. 1980. "Cultwal Studies and the Centre: some problemal ics and problems," in Culture, Media, Language: Working Papers in Cultural Studies. 1972-79 (London: Hutchinson in association

Introduction

with the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, University of Birmingham) pp. 15-47. Johnson, Richard. 1986-87. "What is Cultural Studies Anyway?" So

cial Text 16: 38-80.

Kling, Rob, and Elihu M. Gerson. 1977. "The Social Dynamics of Tech nical Innovation in the Computing Wor1d." Symbolic Interaction L 132-46.

. 1978. "Patterns of Segmentation and Interaction in the Com puting World." Symbolic Interaction 2 : 24-33. Lindesmith, Alfred. 1948. Opiate Addiction. Bloomington, Ind.: Prin

---

cipia Press. Rarty, Richard. 1979. Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Shibutaru, Tomatsu. 1955. "Reference Groups as Perspectives." Ameri

can !ollrnal of Sociology 60 :562-69. Smith, Dorothy E. 1987. The Everyday World as Problematic: A Femi nist Sociology. Boston: Nonheastem University Press. Turner, Victor. 1986. The Anthropology of Performance. New York: PAJ Publications. Weedon, Chris. 1987.

Feminist Practice and Poststructuralist Theory.

London: Basil Blackwell. Weilcr, Kathleen. 1988. Women Teaching for Change: Gender, Class, and Power. Granby, Mass.: Bergin and Garvcy. Williams, Raymond. 1981. The Sociology of Culture. New Ymk: Schocken Books. Willis, Paul. 1977. Learning to Labour. Westmead, England: Saxon House. . 1980. "Notes on Method," in Culture, Media, Language: Working Papers ill Cutwral Studies. 1972-79 (London: Hutchin son in association with the Centre for Contemporary Cultural Studies, University of Birmingham!, pp. 88-95. Yonnel, Paul. 1985. "loggers et marathoniens," in YOIUlet, leux. modes et masses (Paris: Gallimard) pp. 91-140.

---

Social Interaction, Culture,

and Historical Studies John R. Hall The pendulums of sociology reached their zeniths in stmctural ism and formal theory some time ago. In the last twenty years pos itivism, abstracted empiricism, and what C. Wright Mills mockingly called " grand theory" have been supplanted by historical sociology and grounded theories; at the same time, culture has begun to receive its due. Formal theory has lost ground in large part because it tends toward rcductionist explanations of social action and fails

incorporate the

contingent character of action that is foundational to historicity. The renaissance in the sociology of culture, on the other hand, has come about because theorists of diverse persuasions, from neo-Marxism to structuralism, have come to see culture as something of a missing link. These trends have converged recently in the expropriation from his torical studies of the label "cultural history." Yct despite the increased usc of thc label. both historians and sociologists have much to gain by considering what it means to study culture historically. This is no easy task, since the sociological approaches to history are diverse (Skocpol, 1984; Hamilton, 1987). The other side of the prob lem stems from the healthy conlIoversies thaI currently abound about culture (Peterson, 1979; Wuthnow ct aI., 1984; Mukerii and Schud son, 1986; Johnson, 1986-87; Wuthnow, 1987; Wuthnow and Witten, 1988). Even if we canoot resolve the controversies about culture in advance, it seems to me that Ihe study of history represents a decisive basis for soning out sociological approaches to cuJture. This is so be cause histories of culture are panicularJy vulnerable to the charge that they invoke idealism, an essence, geist, or spiril that animates the sur face events of history. There would be no point to avoiding the Scylla of the structuralism that has been discredited in recent years (e.g., by Bourdieu, 1 1972]1977; cf. Oenzin, 1985), only to sail into the Charybdis I wi>:;" to thal,k th" ot"'" I"'�fticipa"ts at the 1988 Sympo!;ium for the Study of Sym· bolic Interaction, as wdl as Wendy Griswold, Michele Lamont, and the editors of the present volume, for their comments, which 1 hope and believe helped me clarify certain

ISSUes

Social imemclioIl, Culture, ond Historical SlUdies

of idealism, a whirlpool that has been marked on the sociological charts since the beginning of the twentieth century. Avoiding problems of structuralism and idealism in approaching cul tufal history seems most feasible within one broad sociological per spective-the cluster of approaches that focus on meaning. action, symbols, and the interactive, unfolding ami h.istorically contingent character of social life. Interpretive sociology, symbolic interaction ism, phcnomcnolob'Y, hermeneutics, and ethnomethodology taken to gether T will call (to be as generic as possible) the social interaction perspective. They may differ in their methodologieS, empirical foci, theoretical projects, and conceptual terminologies, but they all eschew both structuralism and idealism, because they all force analysis into the realm of the lifeworld, where neither structure, social forces, sym bob, nor ideas have lives of their own, but must come into play as proximate realities (d. Blumer, 1969:

221_

Yet to say that the social interaction perspective offers the best hope of doing cultural history does not suggest either that the procedures are clear-cut or that problems of historiography are resolved a priori. To the contrary, precisely because the perspective admits to human agency and the historicity of knowledge, it brings to the fore problems that might be sidestepped in a more objectivist framework. In order to sketch a consistent approach to the tough case of cultural history, I want to consolidate the insights of the social interaction perspective around key problems of historiography. After briefly describing the so cial interaction perspective, I will consider four central problems of cultuml history that need to be addressed. First, definitions of culture, series, and sequence as key concepts offer an initial basis for specifying an .illtcraelionist model of cultural history. Second, there i.s a need to clarify the nature of the historical object {sometimes IWeber, 19491 called the "historical individual"l and how it is constituted in histori cal analysis. Finally, we need to consider the nature both of sociologi cal explanation and of historical explanation, and the roles they might play in the study of cultural history. I thus will use the social interac tion perspective as

.:l

tool for clarifying analysis of culture, and the

boundaries and working relationships between history and sociology_

THE DILEMMAS OF HISTORY AND THE SOCIAL INTERACTION PERSPECTJVE The key problem historians always have f.-lCcd is how to define thc subject matter. On the empirical level there arc all those events, great

John R. Hall

and small. Do they all constitute history cqu.1.l1y, or arc some events more importimt than others? Is history simply the set of events them selves, or do these events somehow manifest deeper

lOT higher but, at

any rate, hidden) forces! At (he level of historical analysis, these ques tions translate into the problem of "selection" (see, e.g:, Atkinson,

197&;: How is the historian to choose among manifold events? Wruch events, when theiT connections are shown, bring to light the patterns of history that are otherwise lost in the detail? How, for example, is the Russian October Revolution to be accounted when most Musco vites had no direct experience of it at the time, and indeed at least one man died believing it to be a Leninist propaganda story? For modern historians coherent answers to these sorts of questions first came from the nineteenth-century Gennan historiographer Leo pold von Ranke. Searching for a rigorous way to "tell what actually happened" yet match events with the master trends of history, Ranke proposed a "scientific" history that focused on political and religious cl*tes as reprcscnting the cutting edge of societal change. In this Deat (but wrong-minded) solution, Ranke solved the problem of selection with the presupposition that the history of elite groups defines the overall pattern. Once the concept of elite is broadened, Ranke's solution for histori ography remains influential in some quarters (e.g., Himmelfarb,

1987).

But even by the end of the nineteenth century, the Rankean position had given ground to two broad reactions that remain important to this day in the "new" historiography. These reactions can be characterized most concisely by their conceptions of temporal relativity. On the one hand, practitioners in the now-famed Annales school iniected rela tivity into the historical equation by the device of placing all events on multiple scales of objective lime. Some phenomena-ecological history, social history, the history of mentalities-came into focus on centuries-long scales of objective time, changing only slowly, but forcefully, as the tides rise and fall. By contrast

the long term, the

events in Ranke's history of elites, for Annales scholars like Fernand Braudel

(11966]1972: 27), represent only short-term "surface distur

bances, crests of foam that the tides of history carry on their strong backs." Still, in Braudel's grand vision, all events on the multiple scales of time arc linked together in the single matrix of objective time {Hall, J 980J. For the social interaction perspective, it is the a1ternative to Braude1, a subjectivist revision of Rankean historiography, that holds more promise. In the subjectivist critique, objective lime is simply an ob-

Social Interaction, Culture, and Historical Studies

servers' cOllvention for m.1pping events, while historical processes themselves may involve discontinuous leaps across objective time and decisively different subjective and social orientations toward the tem poral flux of events. Time, in short, is subjectively and socially con structed, and it is meaningful action and interaction that give time its shape (Leyden, 1962) Kracauer, 1966; Kellner, 1975; Hall, 1980; Maines, Sugrue, and Katovich, 19831. The question remains, of course, whether the subjectivist rejection of objectivist historiography can deliver on a viable alternative ap proach. It would take too much of

digression here to consolidate

systematically the interaction perspective's approach to historiogra· phy. But at least I can make my presupposition explicit: it is that the wmk 01 people like Wilhelm Dilthcy, Georg Simmel, Max Weber, and George Herbert Mead converge in the social interaction perspective, and that this perspective offers a distinctive and coherent approach to historiography. Dilthey (1976) cut past objcrtive time by focusing on the biography as the fundamental unit of historical analysis. Both Sirn mel ([1905)1977) and Weber ( 1949, 1977) tTied to reconcile historical causation and social action. Mead (1956) sought to accowlt theoreti cally for emergent meaningful action in relation to institutionalized meaning through the device of subjective temporality. Granted the differences in terminology and methodological strate gies, these scholars share a focus on social and individual meaning, on action and interaction, on the lifeworld as the arena of causation, and on historicity as a basic element for social theorizing !d. Blumer, 1969: 49). Together these elements mark the social interaction perspective

as distinctive in its recognition of a world that is humanly made and remade anew. Action is always episodic and existential, but typically it is carried out with the hubris of socially constructed reality that portrays the widespread as unique and the ephemeral as enduring. The precarious plausibility of this world, it is not too much to say, is ac complished by "ignoring practices" (hat establish the social construc tion as real (Wendy Griswold, personal communication; Berger and Luckmann, 1966). Formulating the perfect abstract epistemology and ontology for in tcractionist cultural history along the lines just described would be an empty exercise if it failed to inform historians' work. Historians have to be practical people, for they face a world of many events and only fragmentary information (Shiner, 1969)_ Because both historians and interactionists arc justifiably suspicious of abstract solutions, 1 will address the fonnal problems of cultural history by way of some recent

John R. Hall

empirical studies that show the possibilities :md challenges of cultural history for the social interaction perspective.

FROM CULTURAL PROBLEM TO SERIES AND SEQUENCE IN CULTURAL HISTORY Culture, counterposed to society and social action, may be under stood as the ( 1 \ "knowledge" and recipes, j2) humanly fabricated tools, and (3) products of sodal action that in tum may he drawn upon in the further conduct of social l ife, l I do not mean to be contentious in offer

ing this deceptively simple and broad definition. r have sought to avoid an "idealist" definition by recogniz ing both ideas and artifacts

(d.

Mukcrji, 1983) as culture. Oddly enough, tbe tendency toward a nar rower, "symbolic" definHion of culture comes from two directions, firsl from some cultural sociologists themselves, who may want to carve out their own bailiwick, and also from some structuraJists, who may think that limiting culture to ideas and beliefs will make it easier to discount arguments about its salience. We all live in the "prison house of language" (the term of Jameson, 1972" and we had best remember that such distinctions finally are analytic ones, while reality is a seamless manifold concatenation of "action," " culture," and "structure." When Japanese corporations or ganize morning aerobics, so long as Grateful Dead fans wear tie-dyed T-shirts, and until fast-food restaurants disappear from interstate high way interchanges, we had best recognize culture as involving not only symbols and ideas, but also social practices in relation to self, others, and material objects. Nor should we understand culture as limited to matters of taste (Gans, 1974). Instead, 1 want to underscore the rele vance of cultural analysis to understanding phenomena as diverse and seemingly distant from "high" and "popular" culture as organizations, wars, and economies. To study culture historically, then, involves the identification of some cultural patterns or artifacts, either material

symbolic. These

may be traced as to their origins, their consequences, their creation and incorporation into unfolding. contingent interaction, and other aspects that involve temporaHy emergent qualities. Take, for example, Gone

{roIll the Promised Lnnd ( Hall, 1987). ) chose as its subtitle "Jonestown

in American Cultural History." The implicil claim is that the quest for a promised land in Jim Jones's Peoples Temple was born out of deep cultural connections to established currents in American history. In another study, Viviana Zclizer ( 1 979) has identified a puzzle about the euly nineteenth-century Uni.ted States: why was there ideological re-

Socinl lnteractiofl, Culture. and Historical Studies

sistance to acceptance of life insurance compared to other forms of insurance? The puzzle offers occasion to bring to light cultural taboos about attaching monetary value to human Hfe that inhihitt.>U accep tance of life insurance. With this backdrop, Zelizer is able to identify the strategies adopted in the insurance industry to counter the cultural taboos. jonestown's mass suicides don't seem very American, and we don't experience inswance as a pressing cultural issue. Nevertheless, the ex amples of Peoples Temple and of life insurance offer more general les sons ahout studying culture historically, for one of the problems of cultural analysis turns on how to identify the stuff, and these examples

illustrate a strategy. We are used to being told that "structure" (even if it lacks a consensus definition) has rcal substance, while culture some how is ephemeral and "soft"; no wonder, the structuralist critics rave, that cuJtural methods tend toward the qualitative; we can't really pin down culturc, so we arc reduced to mctaphor and poetics. True enough, culture does not always have the relatively discrete boundaries that the person, the organization, the natioG-state are sup posed to have; nor is it always rationalized like foreign trade balances and survey research questions. Indeed, some of the more interesting puzzles about culture have to do with the ephemeral ways it pops up in unexpected Locations, like some Hydra crossed with a chameleon. Precisely because nonnative culture channels perceptions of the world, the cultural bases of practical activity often are buried in routines. Un der these circ*mstances, anomalies, "problems," disjunctures identi fied by social actors-those breaches of the normatively organized world-offer points of entry illto cultural analysis because they repre sent situations in which actors have collided with some cultural reci pes and knowledge, tools and practices. The "problem" for particular actors-be it reaching the promised land or selling life insurance can become a window through which the cultural historian can iden tify otherwise Latent cultural elements and their connections to onc another. Such are the tough sorts of cases. Yet for all the critics' lamentations, culture is not always so difficult to identify, and though its histol)' may not be any easier to trace than any other history, it is hardly la tent. Much culture, both symbolic and material, is codified, organized, stored, and packaged for easy retrieval and use, hence "structured" (d. Wuthnow, 1987). We need think only of the medieval Christian mass, laboriously copied by monks, to recognize an early example of "mass" culture. Through the wonder of the symbohc activities of writing and

John R. Hall

notating music, Christian worshipers across old Europe could experi ence what counted as the "same" liturgy on a given day of worship [for a musical history, see Georgiades, [ 1974\1982). Following one of Max Weber's lines of analysis, we must recog nize the drift toward the rationalization and routinization of culture through industrialization and the consolidation of the mass media. Culture now often comes mass produced and distributed in discrete, bounded packages; witness the book, the film, the compact disk, the videotape. Even when cultural distribution depends more on the con tinuing practices of people in an "art world" [Becker, 19821. those prac tices may be sufficient to insure a relative degree of coherence of cultural material over time. At one end of a continuum we might find actors in the "same" play night after night on a Broadway run, at the other, a p�tinter treating a range of subjects, working within a well defined genre for a relatively known audience, or jazz musicians using the format of "standard" tunes as a vehicle for improvisation. The gen eral point here is this: sometimes, as with Jonestown and with life insurance taboos, culture may be latent, and difficult to bring to light. But often culture obtains an explicit character over time through the repetitive actions of those who cnact, display, or use it. Under these conditions, the possibility of tracking culture hhtorkally differs little from the possibility of tracking "social structure." If anything. the op JXlrtunities are greater, for the archives of culture often are more cen tralized and richer than, for example, the archives that might bring to light voting patterns or family structures. Given the archival storage of certain cultural materials, perhaps the most established approach to cultural history takes a particular cul tural genre or form and traces such things as its origins, its diffusion, its collapse, and subsequent revivals. A "elassic" recent example is Edward Berlin's (1980) study of ragtime music from its origins in American vaudeville and minstrel music, to the heyday of player-piano music !when middle·class parents feared for its devilish effects on (heir children), to its eventual subsumption within jazz during the 19208. In a similar vein, Wendy Griswold (1986) has explored the cuhural origins of Elizabethan theater genres of city comedy and revenge tragedy. Then asking why, during the centuries that followed, these plays were re vived on the London stage in some eras and not others, she has been able to explore relationships between cultural institutions, historical circ*mstance, and the meanings of theater producti.ons for socially constructed audiences. A similar, but more "material," study concerns the American motel; Warren Belasco [19791 finds that the highway

Social Interaction, Cu/tme, and HIstorical Studies

landmaTk is not just a hotel at the edge of town, but really stands in a direct line of descent from tourist courts, cabins, and private camp grounds that were established in response

the upper-middle-class's

tum-of-the-cemury fling with "gypsying" n i the automobile. To men

tion another, more familiar example, Lynn Hunt 1 19841 has used a va riety of visual, written, and statistical archival materials to trace the birth of ideology during the French revolution as a new basis of politi cal culture. Studies of ragtime musle, Elizabethan theater, the motel, and changes in political culture might seem of a different oTdcT than inves tigations of the cultural resistance to life insurance and the cultural origins of Peoples Temple's quest for a "promised land." Yet the differ ences have more to do with the degree of latency of the cultural history than with process. A general model of cultural history may he derived hom the social interaction perspective as a way of conceptualizing all of the examples I have noted. The work of George Herbert Mead offers a point of departure. For the purposes of understanding history, one of Mead's core ideas bas to do with the distinction between the social symbol and indi vidual meaning. According to Mead, the social symbol is shared, and it is in part on the basis of socially shared symbols that the actor faces a situation and formulates actions. Individual meaning, however, is uniquely estabhshed through the contextualization of social symbols during the formulation of action in relation to private thought and the perceived gestures of others. For all his emphasis on the act, Mead (1956: 180, 253-54) acknowledged that much life is socially patterned by institutions and routines that control conduct. Moreover, in a way that is seldom acknowJcdged today (but sec Strauss, in Mead, 1956: ix, xiv), Mead (1956: 187-881, like Alfred Schutz (19701, treated the actor as rationally Weighing alternative stratagems in relation to particular· istic problems and goals, be they emotional, instrumental, aesthetic. These aspects of Mead's idcas suggest that we can understand culture as received symbols, recipes, and products that actors draw on by way of grappling i.n emergent meaningful ways with situational "prob lems." In similar ways, Bourdieu 111972]1977) notes the regulated im provisational nature of habitus, and Swidler ( 1 986) writes of culture as a "tool kit." Such terms offer a remarkable parallel to the work of George Kubler (19621, the structuralist historian of material culture. ParaJleling Mead, Kubler treats artistic and craft actions as directed to cultural "problems." For example, spatial perspective in painting has heen conventional-

John R . Hall

izcd by various devices of size, shape, and lighting to solve the "prob lem" of representing three-dimensional space on a two-dimensional surface. Baxandall (1972: esp. 94- 102, 124-28) has argued that solu tions to the Quattroccnto artists' problem of perspective were in formed by close ties to the Italian commercial quest for measurement precision. As a result of these ties, the artists used a receding grid that

offered a basis for sizing objects proportionately and aligning their edges with vanishing points. However, objects tended to be represented in a set of planes parallel to the canvas, and it was not until the sev enteenth century that the plane convention was dropped in fa\lOf of true recessional perspective (Wolfflin, 11915 I J 950: 73tf.l. Turning to a quite different problem, before machines set the rhythm of industrial production, the Protestant ethic established a configura tion of personal consciousness that converg.ed in an elective affinity with the capitalist problem of work discipline. The Protestant, serving God in a "calling," would work on the basis of an inner-worldly as ceticism that rationalized labor as a predictable commodity [Weber, \1905JI958;

d. Thompson,

19671.

To the degree that recipe "solutions" to "problems" become socially shared and transmitted over time, we may speak of institutionalized culture. In large part, theil, the study of cultural history initially de pends on the identification of new cultural patterns, their connections to social life, their persistence,

and changes. Along with patterns,

changes, and their timing, issues of explanation and interpretation also may he addressed. Kubler recognizes that cultural so1utions over time may change, through processes such as invention, variation, drift, and discard. Two concepts from Kubler's work-series and sequence-seem cspeciaHy useful for charting these processes. Both share one overarching feature: they center on repetitive patterns of social action as directed to the solution of some cultural problem. Kubler ( 19621 describes a

series as

a dosed class of equivalent items directed to some solution of a cul tural problem. On the other hand, a

sequence is "an open-ended,

expanding class" of items "related to one another by the bonds of tra dition and influence" that thus constitute "linked solutions" to an

emergent cultural problem. We could consider as a series, for example, the Quattrocento paintings that employoo the receding grid to repre sent perspective. Paintings of a continuous artistic tradition that broke away from planar sections toward receding perspective would consti tute a sequence. Of course these examples

are

material ones, and in general, Kubler

Social Interaction. Culture, mId Historical Studies

was interested in material objects such as pottery, paintings, and sculp turc, and how their creators approached both technical problems (such as incorporation of handles that would carry the weight of materials in a jug) and aesthetic problems (such as how to proportion the_ sizes of objects depicted in a painting to give a particular sense of perspective), ill these terms, the members of a series always solve a problem in the same way based on the same culturally shared reasons, while in a se quence, the cultural problem itself shifts over time, as do the solutions, but the changes are connected to onc another by the hnked activities of their creators. By extension, as the example of the Protcst;lnt ethic suggests, the approach tbat Kubler used to describe material cuhurc can be applied to other, more ephemeral cultural "problems" �such as legitimacy or salvation) and to more diffuse cultural "objects" (slich as ethics and nonns). The "solutions" may be directed to the demeanor of individuals, and their styles of interaction, as wcll as the cultures of groups and organizations, and their patterned relationships �Hall,

1988·1· The concepts of series and sequence offer a way of consolidating euhural history within the social interaction perspective, for they mark an underlying sociological unity of cultural process. The staff of Pt."{)ples TempJe, no less than other social movement organizers, faced cultural problems ranging from ultimate goals to mlUldane matters of publicity and social control.

Thus,

can ask, following Schutz and

Mead, what culture did tbey draw on, and from wbat sources, in trying to solve their problems? On a more diffuse scale involving insurance companies facing cultural resistance based on economic, social, and religious taboos, Zelizer treats the process of legitimating life in surance in much the same manner, sbowing bow what amounted to a public relations campaign sequentially shifted cultural meanings. For genres of aesthetic culture, Jike ragtime music and Elizabethan comedy, the concepts of series and sequence seem particularly easy to apply, and they work as well fOl the many false starts, innovations, and consolidation of solutions that mark the movement from tourist camps to tourist ca.bins, motor courts, and motels. Generically we may say that cuJtural history tI"aces cultural problems and their solutions in seI"ial and sequential patterns.

THE. PROBLEM Of THE H1STORICAL OBJECT From an objectivist viewpoint, it would be easy enough to leave the concepts of series and sequence behind, and get on to other matters. But many of the problems of objectivist history derive from tendencies

John R. Hall

to assume the factidty of objects of historical analysis as constituted prior to the observer's study of them, even if philosophical investiga tlons suggest the reverse. Paul Veyne (1197111984), on the other hand, is careful to distinguish between human events as "true occurrences with man [sicl as the actor," and history as "an account of events." Sande Cohen (1986; d. Carroll, 1980) recently offered a deconstruc tionist assault on the artificial coherence of historical accounts, by showing how to locate "LIanscendent" staging devices in historical dis courses. Situated outside history, such devices render historical ac counts plausible to readers by providing "history with continuity and discourse with meaning" thematized by "aboutncss." A "history" of Nixon's Watergate crisis, for example, can only be narrated by telescop ing events into a coherent story jCohen, 1986: 74-76). In this light, any notion that the historical object is simply "out there," wailing for the historian to discover and describe it, seems a self-serving conceit. Yet the interaction perspective pulls in two directions at once on the problem of the historical object, because it consistently looks to the construction of knowledge from the point of view of the actor. On the one hand, all actors themselves give shape to history through their meaningfu1 constructions of events. On the other hand, since histori ans themselves are actors, it follows that a historical account is con stituted according to the purposes of the historian constructing it. This relativism of the observer, in fact, is the position Mead ( 1938: 94) adopted, one taken up in greater detail by others more directly con cerned with historical analysis (e.g., Weber, 1949; Aron, (J 948j1961; Veyne, 1984). Employing a. neo-Kantian line of reasoning, Weber essentially adopted a strategy tha.t acknow)edged the va)ues of the investigator as shaping the questions raised about events: "aboutness" was ultimately the product of the scholar's interests, as Cohen has argued. Against this sphere of va)ues beyond rational adjudication, however, Weber coun terposed a methodology of historical investigation that was to be in formed by the ethic of science (Weber, ] 946). Rather than acceding to the total relativity of vaJue-drivcn inquiry, he sought to mark off from topical values the scientific ethic of investigation that pursues inter pretation and causal explanation by attending to the interconnections of meanings and causalities in events themselves (Hall, 1984a). Follow ing Heinrich Rickert, in a highly provisional way Weber 0949: 155) recognized that what he termed "primary" historical facts migbt be constituted in other ways than through the explanatory interests of the historian, as '''historical individuals' in their own right."

Sociol lnteroction, Culture, and Historico1 Studies

At the opposite end of the continuum from Mead, Dilthey 0976: 208-45) was less concerned Ulan Weber with the role of the historian in relation to the framing of a historical subject. Instead, Dilthey looked to the relativity of actors

in history, and sought to provide his

torical accounts that reconstruct history from the points of view of interactive biographies. In DHthey's perspective, it i s at least in theory possible to identify historical objects that obtained their coherence in the interrelations of events themselves. Drawing on Weber and Dilthcy, I will call these interrelated sets of events "intrinsic historical objects," insofar as they are linked in the conscious actions of human participants. Such objects arc the province of

Verstehen, or interpretive

undcrstandin& as an approach to history. It would take us too far afield to consider

Verstehen in detail. Still,

difficult though the historian's task may be when it comes to under standing the meaning of events for panicipants, one red herring should be cast aside. In our terms, following Weber,

Verstehen is an episte

mological requirement of adequate explanation, not, as Dilthey would propose, some magical technique for apprehending "inner" states of subjectivity Id. Oakes, 1977}. Under this formulation, the historian i s to make use of whatever evidence is available concerning the inten tions of actors-diaries, recordings, accounts of witnesses, the "fit" of a hypothetical motive with other aspects known about the actor, and so forth. Such evidence is subject to the same rules of usage and argu

mentation as other evidence. On the basis of this sort of discourse, the historian is hardly likely to simuJatc the state of mind of a social actor, but it is at least in principle possible to consider and reject or tenta tively accept a formulation about thc actor's motives. Despite other diffcrences, DHthey's approach shares Weber's ( 1977: 7-8) stricture that the subject matter of sociology proper ends at the bounds of meaningful social action !cf. Bendix, 1984:

30). When the

stricture is applied in historical analysis of culture, the bounds of a particular cluster of meaning of an intrinsic historical object

arc

fined by lhc subjective intcntionalities of the actors themselves. This criterion only can be called into play in actual investigation, for it is impossible to specify on formal grounds whether an empirical complex of actions constitutes an intrinsic historical object. Indeed, as a pri mary task of the historian, Verstehen is directed toward apprehending the meaningful character of actions and their specific connections to

verstel!ende historian is syn onymous with the epistemological problem of identifying and describ

other actions. Empirically, the task of the ing the intrinsic historical object.

John R. Hall

With this understanding, it is possihle to elaborate the concepts of series and sequence. Mead (1956: 131 J is right to say that the same objects, for example, furniture, may be placed in different historical series by different individuals (e.g., their owners versus auctioneers' or even by the same individual at different biographical junctures. So it is equally possible for historians to create their own series and sequences; this is mOTe or less Cohen's lament about "transcendent" staging de vices. Yct in Weber's and Dilthey's terms, another possibility obtains. Insofar as a "problem" is addressed by one or more historical actors, and insofar as the solutions arc, as Kubler says, "related to one another by the bonds of tradition or influence," then the actors' focus on the problem itself is the linkage in history that constitutes an intrinsic histor.ical object, and in this case history is something other than merely a reflection of the historian's use of transcendent linking de vices_ Indeed, the linked activity in intrinsic historical objects seems presupposed by Mead's ( 1956: 261ff.l ideas of community and social institution. In these terms and in principle, we may distinguish cultural histories of intrinsic historical objects, in which cenain series and scquences result from the efforts of the actors under consideration, from cultural histories in which the series and sequences are the products of the "transcendent" staging devices of the historian-what might be called "extrinsic historical objects." To give substance to thesc distinctions let me comment on my study of Peoples Temple in more detail. ft is truc enough, as both Mead and Weber would maintain, tllal T wrote only onc of a numbcr of possible histories of Peoples Temple. I concen trated on the developmental history of the group and its relation to historical and contemporary culture. Another project might offer, for examplc, a social history of life in the temple for rank-ancl-file mem bers. Still, either of these studies is premised on the idea that Peoples Temple represented an intrinsic historical object; in reference to that object, different narratives may develop and test plots [d. Veyne, [19711 1984) that crisscross one another. While these plot narratives may be contained within the Temple as an intrinsic historical object, it is pos sible that other plot narratives might transcend it, for example, in a history of "cults" in the United States that places the historical object into an extrinsic series of the historian'S making. My own goal was to treat Peoples Tcmple as an intrinsic object, and I therefore sought to explore the series and sequcnces that became sa lient in the the mindful interactions of participants themselves. To t.1.ke fund-raising as an example, even if Peoples Temple used its mon-

Social interaction, Culture, and Historical Studies

ies for diliercnt purposes than those of Jim and Tammy Bakker, temple staff located the techniques of their efforts solidly in the cultural prac tices among Pentecostalist, storefront, and mass media religions. It is 1I0t just a sociological comparison that establishes connections be tween the temple and Oral Roberts; rather, temple staff faced a cultural problem and drew inspiration by participating in an intrinsic series that has been constituted tluough the living practices of a succession of evangelical religious movements that share a common culture !Hall. 1987: 84-88). Much the same holds for Jim Jones's practices of faith healing (Hall, 1987: 17-2,31. Intrinsic sequences also connect Peoples Temple with broader cur rents of American cultural history. Connected by the "boods of tradi tion and influence," as Kubler 119621 put it, Jim Jones and his staff not only replicated familiar cultural recipes; they also offered novel solu tions linked to emergent cultural problems. Thus, the image of a "promised land" is not simply one that I chose as an evocative meta phor; rather, Jones himself worked with the image in ways that sym bolized the quest of his religious social movement for redemption from the American society that he identified as dassist and racist. But he hardly invented the term; to the contrary, he had "borrowed" it from his self-adopted mentor, Father Divine. Nor were the formulations of Divine and Jones entirely improvisational; instead, they resonated deeply with the aspirations of many of Jones's black followers in ways that connected with a cultural sequence dating back to antebellum days. The simple fact of the forced migration from Africa of blacks to become slaves in the United States constituted a legacy that has been met by a sequence of cultural solutions, from back-to-Africa move ments spanning a hundred years, to internal migrations and Martin Luther King's "trip to the mountaintop" that prophesied [he promised land in coming changes within the United States. For people like the black woman follower of Jones who said she'd always wanted to live in a black country, Peoples Temple's colony of Jonestown put new fire into the dying embers of an old dream of getting out of "Egypt" com pletely. Here, Jones succeeded in atlTacting followers in part because his program offered a new solution in a previously established and cul turally linked sequence of black efforts to reach the promised land be yond their bondage. It wouJd be possible to consider intrinsic historical objects in similar ways in the case of life insurance taboos studied by Zelizer, in ragtime music, and in the genres of city comedy and revenge tragedy identi. fied by Griswold. To cite just one example, Griswold � 1986: 196££.1

John R. Hall

tound that the patterns of revivals for the two genres differ substan tially according

time period. City comedies were overrepresented

in the eighteenth century and "declined during the nineteenth cen tury," while revenge tragedies were overrepresented from the mid1950s through at least the end of the 1970s (Griswold, 1986: 189).

These sorts of patterns,

Griswold has argued, result from theater pro

ducers identifying categories of plays that play well under certain COll ditions, or totally elude their audiences. Here, linked social actions flow from what the producers themselves identjfied as series, that is, particular genres of plays. To he sure, not all cultural histories point to intrinsic historical ob jects as their subjects. Some, like Barrington Moore's I l984) study of privacy in different historical societies, and Pelikan's ( 1985} explora tion of Jesus as a symbol in dilierent contexts, have altogether different purposcs. Broadly speaking, they are comparative. Despite the histori cal focus on culture, within the frame of the interaction perspective such studies would have to offer different rationales than the history of an intrinsic object. Other studies seem ambivalent in strategy. Hillel Schwartz's � 1986) "cultural history of diets, fantasies, and fat," for ex ample, offers vignettes of dietary and weight-reduction histories that might seem to stand for a unified cultural history i yet in practice, the connections between vignettes are not always intrinsiC; that is, the historical actors sometimes placed themselves in widely disparate se ries and sequences. To the extent that this is the case, Schwartz really offers a "transcendent" narrative of a plot that extends beyond the boundaries of tradition and influence of the historical actors, hence, beyond any intrinsic historical object. His study thus raises questions about whether-and how-cuhura.l history in the interaction perspec tive can deal with evems as something greater than the sum of indi vidual actions and imeractions. These issues involve questions of sociological and historical causation.

SOCIOLOGICAL EXPLANATION OF CULTURE The social interaction perspective stands at the precipice of his toricism. Since all events arc understood to be unique, some jnterac tionists concern themselves largely with "thick description" and culturally eentert..-d interpretation (Gecrtz, 19731. Yet most interaction ists assume that some sort of general sociological knowledge is pos sihle. How to reconcile the unique with a sodnlogical thcory, that has been the methodological problem. Alfred Schutz and George Herbert Mead, and in ways Georg Simmel, offered what :lmount to essentialist

Social ImelGction, Culture, and Historical Studit:s

models: gince empirical diversity cannot be subsumed within theory without distorting it, the alternative is to offer a general model of pro cesses that undergird all empirical realities. Thus, the "I" and the "me," Schutz's 1 1970} theory of relevance, Simmcl's fonns. Weber did not so much offer a general theory of interaction; instead he resolved the problem of empirical diversity by use of ideal types as benchmarks of comparison and as explanatory models. Each in his own way, Schutz, Mead, and Simmei also drew on typification, and despite the nuanced differences, there is no reason to think that essentialist mod els and ideal type analysis represent incomp.'ltiblc solutions. To the contrary, together they may comprise a distinctive interactionist ap proach to sociological explanation. To take up the (luestion of socio logical explanation, we need to be clcar about one point: there is no need for the social interaction perspective to regard "structuralist" cx planations with hostility. For an his concerns with symbols and intcr action, Mead ( 1956: 284ft) recognized that context conditions process, and that, for example, feudalism offers a different context than democ racy or slavery. In his essays on topics like the metropolis and the sig oificam;e of numbers for social life, Sinunel (1950) identified what amount to structural dynamics that undergird interaction, much as Goffman has done in identifying the dramaturgical contexts that make role performances plausible. In these terms, the interaction perspective solves the problem of sociological explanation by treating structure not just as some ske1eton characteristics that describe functionaUy equivalent aspects of different societies. Instead, structwe itself is a culturally infused aspect of social reality that, if it is to have causa1 salience, either directly shapes the emergent practices of social actors (e.g., in the metropolis), or is "made present" by those actors. Weber sought to build this connection iOlO his conceptual framework: when describing overarching "structures" of authority, ideal types of social organization, and economic forms, he insisted on "meaning adequacy" as a criterion of concept formation (1977: 13, 20), thus avoiding the false analytic distinction between micro· and macro·sociology. In the interaction perspective, sociological explanation must be mediated by understanding emergent meaningfUl action, even in the case of over arching social "structures." With a provisional understanding thac meaning and structure are in tertwined, we can consider two alternative approaches to sociological explanation. In. one approach, sociologists may attend to cultural his tory by application of a conceptual vocabulary. The vocabulary solves the historiographic problem of selection and offers a framework on

John R , Hall

which to drape the historical account. Thus, Meyrowitz (19851 is able to bring to Ught a new way of conceptualizing media effects on audi ences by using the dramaturgical vocabulary of Goffman. Meyrowitz's specific explanations arc open to debate, hut he effectively argues in general that television creates a new set of stage relationships: both for people portrayed in the media and for the audience, the old frontstagc backstage division is blurred by the television cameras with their mul tiple angles, and by television content, superficial in depth but broad in its topical covcmgc. In rhis example, the conceptual framework it self makes possible an explanation of cultural change that could not easily he conceived in a framework morc concerned with "variables" and their relationships. The second approach to explanation within the interaction perspec tive depends on empirical or ideal types. Here there are several strate gies, and in considering them, again we face the problem of what constitutes a series. Clearly, not all examples in a series are exactly the same, yet how are they to be conceptualized? For the historian, the problem is pardy a pragmatic one: how to use genera] terms and con cepts to discuss a myriad of examples that differ in details. Take mu sical genres, which capture the problem in a classic form. By now, no one doubts the historical existence of ragtime music, but our concep tion of it differs from the ones that held sway during its heyday, and any serious effort to identify ragtime's features-either by analyzing musical motifs or by assaying the comments of performers, critics, and audiences-runs into trouble. Berlin (1980) found no single historical lineage (sequence) that gave rise to ragtime, nor did he fed comfortable offering a definitive characterization of the music. Instead, ragtime ap pears to have been a label that some contemporaries invoked for a par ticular kind of player piano music, while for others, what mattered were lyrics or rhythm. Following Berlin's lead, the interaction perspec tive can shed light on the ephemeral nature of social truth by offering cultural histories of typification and labelling. Yet such an approach is haldly adequate to the full problem of socio logical explanation in cultural history. For all their oversimplification, descriptive types and models of average courses of action offer a short hand way of summarizing historical processes roughly rephcated over a wide number of cases. WHh Arthur Stinchcombe 11978: 6), we can understand the problem to involve the depth of analogies between so cial instances. It is not so useful to invoke a type or average if it lacks any meaningfully adequate basis for connection to parallel empirical paths of action. To talk of middle-class tastes in music makes little

Socia} Interaction, Culture, and HistoriCIJ.l Studies

sense if class is an insufficient basis for identi.fying shared modalities of conduct. One solution to the problem is to use the category of currency amung actors themselves. Thus Belasco (l979f was able to describe the vacation practice of going "a-gypsying" in the ncw automobiles as a particular cultural phenomenon in the turn-of-the-twcntieth century United States. As Berlin's considemtion of ragtime shows, a term can easily obscure too much if it is taken as a narrow ritual or "thing." But Belasco describes gypsying as a range of improvisational activities withi.n a general fonnat, capturing cultural practices in terms that evoke the participants' understanding of them. So long as examples and empirical lypifications consolidate and summarize diversity rather than distorting il, they offer a useful basis for charting the meaningful pathways of social interaction. Perhaps the best protection against their abuse is the forceful application of negative evidence (Linde smith, 1947) to clarify the range of typi.cality, subtypes of empirical process, and affinities with other conceptual dusters. An alternative procedure, followed by Griswold (1986), is somewhat more sensitive to Mead's argument that the historian gives meaning to any series in the first place. Thus Griswold created her own canons for the genres of Elizabethan revenge tragedies and city comedies. Not that she ignored the historically situated typifications of plays; to the con trary, she made good use of such data to estabJish each canon in terms of accepted characteristics of the genre. But studying revivals of the plays required an unambiguous set of cases, ,md Griswold ( 1 986: 56) chose to exclude one revenge tragedy, Hamlet, "because its revival pat tern has less to do with its characteristics as a revenge tmgcdy than with its membership in the elite circle of Shakespeare's best-known plays." Here, the intrinsic characteristics of a case give way to a ratio nale from sociological analysis-a hypothesis about the causes of the play's revival-that sets the range of typification. Empirical typification-either actor-centered or 8nalyst-centered can offer a useful vehicle for exposition, but sociological explanation still faces the problem of empirical diversity. The classic solution is that of Max Weber. Rather than rely solely on empirical types or aver ages, Weber employed ideal types-what Guenther Roth 1 1976) calls "socio-historical models" to emphasize their continuities with empiri cal phenomena. Such types, Weber � ) 977: 20) freely admitted, lack his torical concreteness and speeificity, but by way of compensation, they obtain heightened precision "by striving for the highest possible degree of adequacy on the level of meaning." As both Schutz (l193211967) and

John R. Hall

Mead [19561 have argued, and as Weber acknowledged, empirical social actors give meaning to their actions in unfolding, improvisational, and intentionally or unintentionally ambiguous ways. How to analyze so cial life in a way that respects its existential and emergent nature? Ideal types offer a way of working out unambiguous and coherent s0ciological models that differ from functionalist and abstract variable approaches by their capacity to reflect subjective and social tempo rahty, and hence, meaning and meaningfully patterned social organi zation (Hall, 198431; one way of thinking about them is to consider them as generic plots. 5uth clarified, meaningfully adequate typifica tions are not intended to represent any given existential reality. In stead, they arc explanatory models that may serve as benchmarks against which to compare empirical actions. To the degree that em pirical events ean be subsumed by a model's dynamic, tbe model's particular sociological explanation gains credence. Conversely, il the model's content fails to match up to the empirical data about ac tions and their patterns, the model may be rejected as a sociological explanation. Two examples from my study of Peoples Temple may help under score the meaningful basis of ideal types ami show their role in socia· logical explanation. First, let us take migration. One thing temple members kept doing collectively was to move together. Jones and a small group of followers originally went to rural California from Indi· anapolis, driven out, fones claimed, by racism; in California they shifted their locus of operations from rural Redwood Valley to the me tropolises of San Francisco and Los Angeles; under investigation by the U.S. Treasury Department, they departed those shores for Guyana, on the northeast coast of South America; there they underwent the final migration, to tlle hereafter, by the awesome vehic1e of mass suici.de. Without going into detail, it is possible to describe "religious migra tion" as an ideal type; the model describes the meaningful structure and developmental dynamics of this type of collective action indepen dently of any specific occurrence, and it applies in varying degrees to the actions of the Puritans, the Huguenots, the Missouri Lutherans, and the Mormons, to mention a few. Applying the model, it is possible to determine how far it goes in cxplaining the development of Peoples Temple, and what aspects must be subjected to some other explanation

(Hall, 1987, 206-91, Similarly, it is possible to draw on a sociological model of the char latan in order to consider accusations by Jones's opponents that he was bilking his followers for personal enrichment. Charlatans, it turns out,

Social Interaction, Culture. and Historical Studies

have a pattern of action very different from that suggested by what evidence we have about Joncs, and umil new evidence comes to light, the charlatan as an ideal type tails to explain Jones's conduct, and the sociological search for explanation must take other directions IHall, 1987: 33-351. Whatever the analytic outcome, use of ideal types as sociohistorical models of meaningfully patterned actions solves the problem of con ceptualization of reality by establishing a strategy of analysis that firmly distinguishes between, on the one hand, sociologica) models of comparison, and on the other, unique empirical actions and events. Empirical typification docs much the same thing, but by establish ing dose analogies between empirical events. In either approach, the empirical models or ideal types do not represent reality, rather, they offer a way of precipitating out the aspects of reality that may be explained by a given meaningful pattcm of action, leaving the unex plained to other sociohistorkal models, and the residual to historio graphic explanation.

HISTORICAL EXPLANATION OF CuLTURE [f sociological explanation is directed to understanding the generic features of things, historiographic explanation favors particularistic treatment of factors and events that are held to give rise to unique outcomes. 10 the case of what J have called an intrinsic historical ob ject, the initial task may be construed as the construction of a narrative that tests a theory of plot against what the analyst knows (Veync, (197111984; Stone, 1979; Danto, 1985\. But even with the intrinsic ob ject, and especially when the object transcends the boundaries of a co herent tradition and influence, investigation moves beyond narrative per se to the question of historical explanation-"why?" To answer this question, discourse moves away from narrative's sequenced ac count and sociology'S generic answers, to marshal relevant eVidence for and against particularistic, historically unique explanations of a phenomenon. In an age when deconstructionists are busy assaulting tcxts as inter nally ordcred assemblages, historical narrative has become suspect as a special kind of storytelling �Cohen, 1986). Rightfully so, J suggested above, when it moves beyond the int.rinsie plot. An alternative ap proach is that of historical explanation, which eschews narrative in favor of identifying necessary and sufficient conditions of events. Yet historical explanation may fare no better than narrative. Fmm the viewpoi.nt of both deconstruction and the interaction perspective, his-

'ohn R. Hall

tocieal explanation moves beyond the interlinked motives of historical actors. It thus would seem to replace intrinsic history with transcen dent linkages of the historian's own making, with the unhappy result that abstracted factors such as "the Protestant ethic" or "the culture of narcissism" would substitute for the history of how people understand the world and what they do. How might the interaction perspective help avoid this potential problem and, in tum, clarify the parameters of historical explanation? We may take it as an anicle of faith that abstract factors, forccs, or variables do not have c.lusal efficacy in their own terms; if things of historieaJ saBcnce happen, they either happen to people or through their actions. Thus, the relevance of nonsocial forces (such .1.s weather, accidents� as well as ecological and demographic ones, need not be de nied; rathcr, the problem is to understand such factors as they manifest themselves in direct effects on sociaJ actors. The absolutely external and nonhuman calise represents a limiting ease of historical explana tion. By far the more relevant phenomena, be they external or social, are themselves taken into account in unfolding social interaction Icf. Weber, 1977: 7). "The definition of the situation" thus is an important basis of historical explanation, since the course of actual events fre quently is confounded by how historical actors read those events. It is the forte of the interaction perspective to deal with precisely this kind of circ*mstance. Briefly, two examples: the tragedy of mass suicide at Jonestown, Guyana, in 1978 most often has been explained as the product of Jim ,ones, cast as devil or madman, or both. Yet a close interactionist his torical explanation reveals something quite different-a religious con fuct between Jones's Peoples Temple and a group called the Concerned Relatives. In terms of an interactionist historical explanation, it mat ters little in any "objective" terms whether the zealous followers of Jones's Peoples Temple were trapped in a "cult," as its equally zealous opponents charged, just as we do not need to know whether the Con cerned Relatives "persecuted" Peoples Temple. What matters is that each side developed such images of its opponents in a way that fueled religious conflict. Jones's staff sometimes misread crucial information by aligning it with the previously established intcrpretation of COD spiratorial persecution. In the same way, opponents misread actions of temple members, and acted to save loved ones who had chosen Jones ovcr their families and had no interest in being "saved." To complicate matters, each side gaincd "inside" intelligence about the other's true goals in ways that made it possible to discount public performances

Social Interaction. Culture, and Historical Studies

that contradicted previously framed images. In this intcractionist his torical explanation of a self-contained or intrinsic historical object, tragedy unfolded not simply on the basis of any objective social con dittons, but by the specific interactional dynamic of opponents locked in religious conflict (Hall, 1987). Even beyond the close sphere of an intrinsic object, the social inter

THE SOCIOHlSTORICAL PROBLEM OF CONFTGURATION By considering series and sequences, the problem of historical ob jects, and sociological and historical explanation, I have tried to show both the relevance and the potentiality of the interaction perspective for considering the history of culture in relation to social life. Yet it would be a conceit to claim for the perspective a totalistic episte mology for approaching all the problems of social analysis. The crucial problem for the social interaction pcrspectivc then becomes onc of coming to terms with discourse that exceeds its own limits. One ap proach would be simply to reject such discourse as violating the as sumptions of George Herbert Mead, Max Weber, Georg Simmel, or some other patron saint. Yet paradoxically, the interaction perspective recognizes the socially constructed and relative nature of all knowl-

John R. Hall

edge, and it hardly seems fair for relativists to claim their own ap proach as singularly suited to determine the validity of other forms of knowledge

!d.

Bechr, 11982JI986). For the interaction perspective,

boundaries of analysis come

l ight with the problem of configu

rational analysis, where history and sociology meet. Much history "transcends" any intrinsic plot; it is constructed extrinsically as an historical object by the juxtaposition of diverse events in a "narrative" plot of the historian's own making, which gives a thread of reality through imposed "aboutness." In intcractionist terms, even the studies 1 have so far described within the perspectivc---()f Peoples Temple, Renaissance revivals, and the motel-all go beyond the perspective's limits in certain ways. For Griswold, the tough problem of linking play rcyivalto particular eras is resolV(.-d in the end by interpreting quantitativc infonnation about revivals in relation to events of each era, proposing archetypal, topical, or social relevance as overlapping processes that might explain actual patterns of revivals. The themy stillvery much remains interactionist, but its argumcntation is forced into a different terrain by the problem of evidence. In studying Jonestown, I was not solely interested in giv ing a culturalhistory of Jonestown; to the contrary, I wanted to under stand Jonestown in American cultural history. The empiricalanalysis thus offers a mirror and a metaphor for digging beyond the nonnative perceptions of American culture that give a smooth surface to our ev eryday experience. If Gciswold departs methodologically, my study of JonesLOwn moves interpcetively beyond the strict confines of interac tionism insofar as it uses empiricalanalysis as a springboard for con sidering broader issues of American culture. These departures extend the interactionist perspective more than they violate it. With Gris wold, there may be reasonable ways to engage in quantification with out violating the assumptions of the social action perspective {Halt 1984b]. And cultural interpretation, as in

Gone from the Promised

Land, simply marks a different activity that cannot be evaluated in sociological discourse per se. The more contentious prohlems have to do with configurational ar guments that serve, in Cohen's { 1 986] terms, as transcendent linking devices. In his study of the motd, for example, Belasco offers a pan oramic view of the linked consequences of events; he depicts the in vasion of the nouveau riche into the upper-class resort hotels and the emergence of new cultural styles among the elite (Teddy Roosevelt's "strenuous life," for example" the interests of automobile tourists in "making time," and the aversion of travelers with bourgeois sensibili-

Socia} lnteraction, Culture, and Historical Studies

ties to associating with the "Okies" in free tourist camps sponsored by small towns hoping to attract business trade from the highways. Much of the power of Belasco's study comes from the convincing way he weaves a story of the motel's emergence out of the conspicuous oon sumption and social exclusivity and upward mobility aspi_rations of competing social straU. The argument as a whole is a configurational one that exceeds the strict boundaries of mtera{;tionist explanation: a conjunctural set of separate and sometimes totally disconnected pro cesses and events results in an outcome that lies well beyond the in tentionalities of any given social actors, well beyond any intrinsic historical object. Unintended consequences in this example are more than results of actions that go beyond their initiators' goals; they rep resent institutionalized social developments that have no coherent meaningful basis. The problem becomes more pronounced if we move to a broader scale of historical development, still closely linked to cultural history. While Max Weber is best known for his argument about the Protestant ethic as cultural dimension that fueled the emergence of modem, "ra tional" capitalism, his overall theory was a configurational one that pointed to diverse changes in accowltillg procedures, world trade, the emergence of state absolutism, meaningful bases of religious salvation, and so on [Weber, 119271198 1; Collins, 11980]1986). Some of these his torical developments occurred in streams of activity isolated from one another, yet they had consequences that are explicable only in terms of their conjuncture, not the intentions of the actors involved. The emer gent institutions of modern capitalism certainly may be traced ulti mately to meaningful social actions, but the eonSC(luenccs are not reducible to the sum of thosc actions. At least, so the argument goes. And that is just the point. Studies like Weher's {and more recently, Mukerji's 1 1983} study of material culture, and Michael Mann's 11986] account of powerl move from historical narrative involving culture to the exploration of culture along with other historical factors combined in configurational sociological arguments about history. By returning to Sande Cohen's (1986J problem of the transcendent staging devices that give history a sense of "aboutness," it is now pos sible to understand more clearly where history tails off, and sociological arguments

qua social interaction

about history begin. So long as

historical investigation of culture is confined to thc problems of intrin sic historical objecrs in series and sequences between such objects con nected, as Kubler put it, by the "bonds of tradition and influence," we may properly speak of history as a subject of inquiry wilhin the inter-

John R. Hall

action perspective. In that domain, it is possible to offer narrative plots about the relations of cultural objects to social action and organization, clarified by sociological and historical explanation. Yet in practice the study of history does not stop at the boundaries of the interaction perspective, rigorously defined. Configurational {or what used to he called "functional"} consequences in the emergence of social institutions arc a reasonable subject of historical inquiry, and thh applies not only to very broad institutional developments such as modem capitalism, but also to more narrowly construed subjects-the emergence of the asylum as charted by foucault, bases of modern per sonal identity, and

forth. But we must be quite clear on two points.

first, while the investigation of events within an intrinsic historical object or sequence can hope to establish an emergent plot that held salience for actors themselves. configurational cultural history can fall back on no such empirical narrative claims. As Cohen suggests, tran scendent staging devices will not stand on the basis of historical argu ment. But that is not the end of the matter. Instead we need regain Mead's insight and face up to the role of the investigator by under standing that configurational history really amounts to sociological argument about history, either by offering a particular theory that weights the importance and interrelations of various factors, or by identifying a particular configuration of interest, and then working back to identify the various, potentially independent developments th.1t gave rise to the configuration. Thus, there is what must be fOT historians an unsettling conclusion concerning accounts such as Belas· co's study described above, on a broader level, Weber's theory of capi talism, and, indeed, many accounts more conventionally historical. Such accounts must legitimate themselves by other claims than those of intrinsic history; they must be accounted either as configurational sociological history or comparative sociology [Hall, 1988b}. Which brings me to a second concluding point. 1 have just suggested that Cohen's critique can be answered partly by forthrightly acknowl edging a realm beyond intrinsic history, for which lhe claims of "about ness" in events themselves can no longer be sustained; at the same time 1 have suggested ways in which that realm may be salvaged as an arena of reasoned discourse. In a way that might seem paradoxical, this same step redeems intrinsic history itself from Cohen's deconstruc tionist assault by separating it from practices that yield "transcen dent" "aboutness." But it only docs so to the extent that historical investigation is informed by thc interaction perspective, foronIy within

Social Interaction, Culture, and Hisrorical Studies

that perspective can we hope to trace the relations between culture and action in intrinsic historical objects and theiT ser ie.. .. and sequences. In the final analysis, even configurational analysis must depend on the more basic task of intrinsic cultural history for the building blocks of its ana1ysis. In sum, the source of "aboutness" marks a divide within the social interaction perspective itself, between intrinsic history given meaning by its actors and extrinsic or configurational history that obtains its meaning from its anaJysts. Intrinsic history was given vision by DiI they, and it has infmmcd diverse histories of culture since, from We ber's treatment of the Protestant ethic to some of the current efforts discllS.'1cd here. Extrinsic or configurational sociological history was also the object of Weber's efforts, and philosophically, it may be located in the frame of Mead's concept of the historian as social actor. To iden tify this divide represents one "methodological deconstruction" of his torical discourse. Coming to terms with the deconstruction offers a more rigorous basis to practice historiography by clarifying the differ ence between the sociologicaJ and historiographic "moments" of its logic within the social interaction perspective. Yet it must be recog nized that, in practice, the best historians combine the various mo ments as the practice of a craft.

NOTE !. In that social action has left little of nature untouched, the dennition may seem to include too much, and thus become trivial. Still, it does not seem appropriate to exclude as cultural products, for example, domesticated plants and animals jor the landscape, for that matterl. insofar as they have been shaped by human agency. But the mattcr of intention seems important. We lDay distinguish bctwl,.-en the unintentional effects of cultural action !e.g., the ozone layer "greenhouse effec("� and the intentional cultural transform..1tion or use of natural objccts for social ends. In general, given the complex relations between culture and nature, the analytic distinction is fluid. But if for 110 other reason, thcn becausc the rationalization of nature has been a central feature of social change. it seelDS crucial to include culturally organized nature as a sub· ject of consideration.

REFERENCES Amn, Raymond. fI948Ji961. Introduction to the Philosophy of His· tory {Boston: Beacon}. Atkinson, R. F. 1978. Knowledge and Explanation in History: An In· troduction to the Philosophy of History (Ithaca, N. Y.: Cornell Uni· versity Pres4

john

R. Hall

Baxandall, Michael. 1972. Paiming and Experience in Fifteenth Cen Wry Italy [Oxford: Clarendon Press), Becker, Howard S. 1982. Alt Worlds (Berkeley: University of Califor nia Pressl. .. 1198211986. "Culture: A Sociological View," pp. 1 1-24 in Becker, Doing Things Together (Evanston, TIl.: Northwestern Uni versity Press). Belasco, Warren J. 1979. Amerkans on the Road: From Autocamp to Motel, 1910-1945 (Cambridge: MIT Press). Bendix, Reinhard. 1984. "Objective and Subjective Meaning in His tory," pp. 27-45 in Bendix, Force, Fate, and Freedom: On Histori ---

cal Sociology (Berkeley: University of Cahfornia Press). Berger, Peter, and Thomas Luckmann. 1966. The Social Construction of Reality (New Ymk: Doubleday). Berlin, Edward A. 1980. Ragtime: A Musical and Cultural History (Berkeley: University of Califomia Press), Blumer, Herbert. 1969. Symbolic lnteractionism: Perspective and Method (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice-HaU). Bourdieu, Pierre. 1197211977. Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cam bridge: Cambridge University Press). Braudel, Fernand. 1 1 966JI972. The Mediterranean and tbe Meditena nean World in the Age of Philip the Second, trans. Sian Reynolds (New York: Harper and Row). Carroll, David. 1980. "Representation or the End(sl of History: Dialec tics and Fiction," Yale French Studies 59: 201-29. Cohen, Sande. 1986. Historical Culture: On the Recoding of an Aca demic Discipline (Berkeley: University of California Pressl. Collins, RimdaH. 1 1 980J1986. "Weber's last theory of capitalism," pp. 19-44 in Collins, Weberian Sociological Theory (New York: Cambridge University Press). Danto, Arthur C. 1985. Narration and Knowledge (New York: Colum bia University Press). Denzin, Norman K. 1985. "lbwards an Interpretation of Semiotics and History," Semiotica 54: 335-50. Dihhey, Wilhelm. 1976. Selected Writings, ed. and trans. by H. P. Rick man (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Gans, Herbert J. 1974. Popular Culture and High Culture (New York: Basic). Geenz, Clifford. 1973. The Interpretation of Culture {New York: Basic}. Georgiades, Thr3sybulos. [1974]1982. Music and Language: the Rise of Westem Music as Exemplified in Settings of the Mass (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,.

Social lmeraction, Cu/rure, and HistoTico.l Studies

Griswold, Wendy. 1986. Renaissance Revivals; City Comedy and Re venge Tragedy in the London Thealer, 1576-1980 ICbicago: Uni versit y of Chicago Press). --. 1987. "A Methodological Framework for the Sociology of CuI· ture," Socio]ogiCllJ Methodology 14: 1-35. Hall, John R. 1980. "The Time of History and the History of Times," History and Theory 19: 113-31. --. 1984a. "'nlC Problem of Epistemology in the Social Action Per spective," pp. 253-89 i.n Randall Collins, cd., Sociological Theory (San Francisco, Calif.: Jassey-Bass). --. 1984b. "Temporality, Social Action, and the Problem of Quan tification in Historical Analysis," Historical Methods 1 7 : 206- 18. ---. 1987. Gone From the Promised Land: Jonestown in Americall Cultural History {New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction'. ---. 1988a. "Social Organization and Pathways of Commitment: Types of Communal Groups, Rational Choice Theory, and the Kanter Thesis," American Sociological Review 53: 679-92. --. 1988b. "Where History and Sociology Meet: Modc.� of Dis course and Analytic Strategies." Paper presented at the annual meetings of the American Sociological Association, Atlanta, Ga, August. Hamilton, Gary G. 1987. "The 'New History' in SOCiology," Politics, Culture, und Society J : 89-114. Himmelfarb, Gertrude. 1987. The New History and the Old (Cam bridge: Harvard University Press). HWlt, Lynn. 1984. Politics, Culture, and Class in the French Revolu· tion (Berkeley: University of California Press). Jameson, Frederic. 1972. The Prison House of Language: A Critical Account of Structuralism and Russian Formalism (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Johnson, Richard. 1986-87. "What Is Cultural Studies Anyway?" So cial Text 16 (winter): 38-80. Kellner, Hans D. 1975. "Time Out: The Discontinuity of Historical Consciousness," History and Theory 14: 275-96. Kracaucr, Siegfried. 1966. "Time and History," History and Theory, Beiheft 6, History and the Concept of Time: 65-78. Kubler, George. 1962. The Sbape of Time: Remarks on the Hjslory of Things (New Haven: Ya le University Press). Leyden, W. Von. 1962. "History and The Concept of Relative Time,"

History and Theory 2 : 263-85. Lindesmith, Alfred R . 1947. Opiate Addiction (Bloomington, IN.: Principia. Press). Maines, David R., Noreen M. Sugrue, and Michael A. Katovich, 1983,

john R. 1-1.111

"The Sociological Import of G. H. Mead's Theory of the Past," American Sociological Review 48: 1 6 ) -73. Mann, Michael. 1986. The Sources of Social Power, Vol. I: A History of Power from the Beginning to A.D. 1760 (New York: Cambridge University Press). Mead, George Herbert. 1938. The Philosophy of the Act, Charles W. Morris, ed. (Chicago: University of Chicago Pressl. . 1956. "Selections from Mind, Self, and Society, " in Anselm Strauss, ed., The Social Psychology of George Herbert Mead (Chi cago: University of Chicago Press). Meyrowitz, Joshua. 1985. No Sense of Place: The Impact of Electronic Media on Social Behavior (New York: Oxford University Pre..�s). Moore, Barrington, Jr. 1984. Privacy: Studies in Social and Cultural ---

History (Armonk, N.Y. : M. E. Sharpe). Mukerji, Chandra. 1983. From Graven Images: Patterns of Modem Materialism (New York: Columbia University Press). Mukerji, Chandra, and Michael Schudson. 1986. "Popular Culture," Annual Review of Sociology 12: 47-66. Oakes, Guy. 1977. "Thc Vcrstehcn Thesis and the Foundations of Max Weber's Methodology," History and Theory l6: 1 1 -29. Pelikan, Taroslav. 1985. lesus Through the Centuries: His Place in tlJe History of Cullure (New York: Harper and Row). Peterson, Richard A. 1979. "Revitalizing the Culture Concept," An nual Review of Sociology 5: 137-66. Roth, Guenther. 1976. "History and Sociology in the Work of Max We ber," British Journal of Sociology 27: 306-18. Schutz, Alfred. 1193211967. The Phenomenology of tbe Social World (Evanston, II.: Northwestern University Press). ---. 1970. Re!1ections on the Problem of Relevance (New Haven: Yale University Press). Schwartz, Hillel. 1986. Never Satisfied: a Cultural History of Diets, Fantasies. and Fat (New York: Free Press). Shiner, Larry. 1969. "A Phenomenological Approach to Historical knowledge," History alld Theory 8: 260-74. Simmel. Georg. 1950. The Sociology of Geog Simmel (New York: Free Press). . (l90S]1977. The Problems 0/ the Philosophy of History (New York: Frce Prcss). Skocpol, Theda, ed. 1984. Vision and Method in Historical Sociology (Cambridge: Camblidge University Press). Stinchcombe, Arthur L. 1978. Theoretical Methods in Social History (New York: Academic Press). Stone, Lawrence. 1979. "The Revival of Narrative: Reflections on a New Old History," Past and Presen t no. 85 (November): 3-24.

Social Interaction, Culture, and Historical Studies

1986. "Culture in Action: Symbols and Strategies," Amerkan Sociological Review 5 J : 273-86. Thompson, E. P. 1967. "Time, Work·discipline, and Industrial Capital ism," Past (wd Present 38: 56-97. Veyne, Paul, 11971jl984. Writing History: Essays on Epistemology (Middletown, en.: Wesleyan University Press). Weber, Max. 1946. "Science as a Vocation," pp. 129-56 in Hans Gerth and C. Wright MiHs, From Max Weber: ES8UyS in Sociology [New York: Free Press). . 1949. The Methodology of tbe Social Sciences (New York: Free Press of Glencoe). . 1 190511958. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capilalism (New York: Scribner's). ---. 1977. E.conomy and Society, ed. Guenther Roth and Claus Wit tich, (Berkeley: University of California Press). --. (192711981. General Economic History (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction ). WOlfflin, Heinrich. l1915Jl950. Principles of Art History: The Problem of the Development of Style in Later Art �Ncw York: Dover). WUtlUlOW, Robert. 1987. Meaning and Moral Order: Explorations in Cultural Analysis lBerkeley: University of California Press). Wuthnow, Robert, James Davison Hunter, Albert Hergesen, and Edith Kurzweil. 1984. Cultural AnalysJs: the Work of Peter 1. Berger. Mary Douglas, Michel Foucault. and 'urgen Habermas [Boston: Routledge and Kegan Paul). Wuthnow, Robert and Marsha Witten. 1988. "New Dircctions in the Study of Culture," Annual Review of Sociology 14: 49-67. ZeLizer, Viviana A. R. 1979. Morals and Markets: the Development of Life Insurance jn the United Slales lNew York: Columbia Univer· sity Press). Swidler, Ann.

---

The Good News about Life History Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner

The good news is: Life history research is enjoying a revival. Femi nist scholars arc using life histories to swdy social life from the van tage point of women. The New Social Historians arc using them to rewrite history "from the bottom upN-that is, to write history that includes the daily lives of ordinary people and the experiences of op pressed groups (Gardner and Adams 1983j Zunz 1985; Tyrrcl1 19861. Antbmpologists who recognize that, in writing culture, they structure and interpret the experiences of others, appreciate life histories be cause "the other" speaks for herself and describes her own experiences in them. Life histories interest scholars engaged in "post-positivist cul tufal studies" because of their commitment to "lived experience" and to "developing insights and deepening understanding of the complexi ties and constructedness of culture through participation in forms of life where observer and observed become interlocutors" (Conquergood 1987:21. Because they are stories, life histories also interest narrative theorists and those social scientists who are using the insights of nar rative theorists to create postpositivist methodologies and epistemolo gies {e.g., Denzin 1982, Watson and Watson-Franke 1985}. At one level, the renewed interest i.n life history research is a product of scholarship that conceptualizes knowledge as inherently ideologi cal. In every field of inquiry where this orientation has taken hold, a basic method for gathering data has beeD to ask people to talk about their bves. Because they depend less on concepts grounded in the ex periences of SOCially dominant groups and classes, life histories deepen the critique of existing knowledge. They force us to examine our as· sumptions, incorporate morc ,letors into our models, and generate more inclusive concepts for understanding the actual complexities of social institutions and the processes of socia) change. To groups who have been ignored, to emergent collectivities who are 46

The Good News about Life History

just beginning to speak in their own name and

develop their own

past and future, life histories are an important, perhaps essential, tool for formulating, publicizing, and pwsuing change as well. As new groups emerge into public view and make claims to be heard. life his tories become important tools for reconstmcting knowledge not only about them, but about the society of which they are part. Stories tell about society from particular vantage points. Who speaks and who is heard are political questions, a fact that is especially apparent when people in positions of low status and power find their voice. At another level, the renewed interest in life history research rep resents a loss of faith in positivism (Gecrtz 1983: 19)_ Critics of the positivist tradition in social science claim that it maintains the sub ordination of women, workers, and non-European people by excluding their experiential knowledge of social life from our abstract knowledge of society. The experiential knowledge of subordinate people, critics point out, is kept submerged by positivist methodologies which as sume social scientists know enough to ask the questions that yield meaningful explanations of society and social life. The life stories of subordinate people, on the contrary, present

their experiences and

meanings; reveal the problematics of their social worlds (Denzin 19821; and help subordinate people use their own knowledge to produce lives they want to lead (Armitage 1983; Chesnaux 1978). At the broadest level, the renewed interest in life history research is a "postmodernisl operation," which, like other such operations, is "be ing staged-not in order to transcend representation, but in order to expose that system of power that authorizes certain representations while b1ocking, prohibiting or invalidating others" {Owens 198.3 � 591, and which, like the others, owes much to "the presence of an insistent feminist voice" (ibid. : 61). The key . . . is the loosening of the hold over fragmentary scholarly communitil..-'S of either specific totalizing visions or genera1 paradigmatic styles of organizing research. The author ity of "grand theory" seems suspended for the moment in favor of a close consideration of such issues as contextuality, the meaning of social life for those who enact it, and the explanation of exceptions and indeterminants rather thau reg· ularities in phenomena observed-all issues that make prob· lematic what were taken for granted as facts or certainties on which the validity of paradigms had rested. (Marcus and Fischer 1986: vii, 8)

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner More good news: Life history research is no longer an "aimless dis

cipline," used by scholars in various fields without shared method ological and interpretive standards. It is no longer true that lithe sad condition of our theoretical knowledge about oral history and the lack of serious efforts to think through exactly what an oral interview is or should he, how it is to be analyzed, or for what purpose, has resulted in a situation of endless activity without goal or meaning" (Grete

1975: 132-33). Although interdisciplinary standards for collecting and interpreting life histories never developed, consciously idl-"Oiogical, 1 postpositivist, postmodern standards are being developed now, by femi nists, social historians, anthropologists, interpretive social scientists, and critical theorists. Still more good news: The new life historians are learning from symbolic interactionists2 and teaching us. We bave a tradition that answers smne of the questions they are asking and speaks to some of their methodological concerns. They, .in turn, question some of

our

received wisdom and offer us new methods, interpretive standards, tex· tual strategies, and modes of representation, and new ways of thinking about some of our old concepts.

HEADLINES, NEWS, HUMAN INTEREST STORIES, AND OTHER FORMATS We will report the good news under three headings and in several formats. First, we will assess our own tradition in terms of emerging interdisciplinary, ideological, postpositivist, postmodern standards for hfe history research. Next, we will show, in the form of imaginary dia logues, some of the questions We historians ask, some of the answers symbolic interactionists give, and some of the questions life historians raise about research methods and rhetorical practices symbolic inter actionists take for granted. From time to time, we wm interrupt the news with human interest stories from our own life history research. Judith Wjttner used lhe cus· tomary life history method of focused interviewing. She interviewed thirty women who were displaced workers, about their work and family histories. Michal McCall used a different method that its inven tor, Jim Spradley, called Cultural Life History but which we call story· teUing groups. She met with a dozen groups of adult women and men and with students in four different classes to read and tell autohio· graphical stories; she kept copies of the stories these people read. We will include excerpts from Wittner's interview transcripts and frOUl the written stories McCall collected.

The Good News about Ufe History

A<;SESSINC OUR TRADITION Ideological Standards

Does the symbolic interactionist tradition meet the new, Jdeologi cal standards for collecting and interpreting life histories? The ques tion is usually posed in terms of voice: Whose voices have been heard and whose have been muted, whose have been included and whose left out of codified knowledge, both as knowers and as people whose lives and experiences are known about? For example, a feminist life histo rian introduced heT anicle on w()mcn's life histories this way: Refusing to be rendered historically voiceless any longer, women are creating a new history-using our own voices and experiences. We are challenging the traditional concepts of his tory, of what is "historically important," and we arc affinl1ing that our everyday lives are history. Using an oral tradition, as old as human memory, we are reconstructing om own past. [Gluck 1977,3[ Our tradition has always included mutcd voiccs.

Symbolic interaction ists have consciously recognized a "hierarchy of credibility" in the creation and dissemination of knowledge and other meanings. For example, interactionists who studied deviance found that, since devi ance and deviants are consequences of a process of interaction among people, "some of whom in the service of their interests lDake and en· force rules which catch others who, in the service of their own inter ests, have committed acts whieh arc labeled deviant" (Becker 1973: 163), a decision W.'lS always necessary: whose viewpoint to take in de· scribing the social organization and social processes involved in the social construction of deviance-those who were treated as deviant or those who labeled others deviant. lnteractionists further recognized that the viewpoint of those who rt:present the State by making and enforcing rules is generally considered more credible because it is the official viewpoint and that the point of view of deviants or innovators is considered less credible because it challenges the official point of view. Therefore, when we lake the viewpoint of the deviants, intcrac tiorusts realized, we are likely to be accused of failure to separate poli ties and knowledge, of being subjective and failing to maintain value neutrality. As Becker put it, When do we accuse ourselves and OUT fellow sociolohrlsts of bias? i think an inspection of representative instances would show that the accusation arises, i.n one important class of

Michal M. MeDII and Judith Wittner

cases, when the research gives credence, in any serious way, to the perspective of the suhordinate group in some hierarchical relationship. In the case of deviants, the hierarchical relation ship is a moral onc. The superordinate parties in the relation ship are those who represent the forces of approved and official morality; the subordinate parties arc those who, it is alleged, have violated that moratity. Though deviance is a typica.l case, it is by no means the only onc. . . . We provoke the suspicion that we are biased in favor of . . . subordinate parties whenleverl we tell the story from their point of view . . . whcn[cverJ we assume, tor the purposes of our research, that subordinates have as much right to be heard as supcrordinates, that they are as likely lo be telling the truth as they see it as supcrordinates, that what they say about the institution has a right to be investigatcd and have its truth or falsity estabHshed, even though responsible officials assure us that it is unnecessary because the charges are false. lin other wordsl we provoke the charge of bias, in ourselves and others, by refusing to give credence and defercnce to an established status order, in which knowledge of truth and the right to be heard are not equally distributed. "Everyone knows" that responsible professionals know more about things than laymen, that police are more respectable and their words ought to be taken more seriously than those of the deviants and criminals with whom they deal. By refusing to accept the hierarchy of credibility, we express disrespect for the entire cs tabHshed order. IBecker 1970: 125-27) Post-positivist Standards How "postpositivist" is our tradition? As Gcertz pointed out, the loss of faith in positivism has led many human scientists to "tum away from a laws and explanations approach" to a "cases and interpreta tions" one. Interpretive explanation-and it is a form of explanation, not just exalted glossography-trains attention on what institu tions, actions, images, utterances, events, customs, al1 the usual objects of sociaJ scientific interest, mean to those whose institutions, actions, customs, and so on they alc. As a result, it issues not in laws like Boyle's or forces like Voita's, or mech anisms like DaIWin's, but in constructions like Burckhardt'S, Weber's, or Freud's: systematic unpackings of the conceptual world in which oondottiere. Calvinists, or paranoids Hve. The manner of these constructions itself varies: Burckhardt

The C..ood News about Life History

portrays, Weber models, freud diagnoses. But they a1l represent attempts to formulatc how this people or that, this period or that, this person or that makes sense to itself and, understand ing that, what we understand about social order, historical change, or psychic functioning in general. Inquiry is directed toward cases or sets of cases, and toward the particular features that mark them off; but its aims are as far-reaching as those of mechanics or physiology: to distinguish the materials of hu man existence. jGeertz 1983: 22) From the beginning. symbolic interaction has been associated with the case study tradition in SOCiology, and we have clung (0 it, even during the last four decades, when positivist designs-the survey and its template, the experiment-have dominated the field and our work has been out of the methodological mainstream. We have preferred the life history, the case study, and the fieldwork design to either the ex periment or the survey, both because these other designs seemed to produce much less humani.stic and narrower {although rigorous and precise) knowledge of social life and because their methods seemed "ethnocentric." The case study usually has a double purpose. On the one hand, it attempts to arrive at a comprehensive understanding of the group under study: who are its members? what are their stable and recurring modes of activity and interaction? how are they related to one another and how is the group related to the rest of tbe world? At the same time, the case study also attempts to develop more general theoretical statements about regulari ties in social structure and process. Because it aims to understand all of the group's behavior, the case study cannot be designed singlc-mindedly to test general propositions. In contrast to the laboratory experiment, which is designed to test one or a few closely related propositions as rigorously and precisely as possible, the case study must be prepared to deal with a great variety of descriptivc and theo retical problems. The various phenomena uncovered by the in vestigator'S observations must all be incorporated into (the] account of the group and then be given theoretical relevance. (Bocker 1970: 761 This . . . study lof life history researchl is concerned with de picting and discussing a particular style of invt!stigating and understanding human experiencc, a style which simply advo cates getting close to concrete individual men and women, ac-

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner curately picking up the way they express theiI understandings of the world around them, and, perhaps, pTOviding an analysis of such expressions. It is a style of research which constitutes a large underbelly of social science research . TIus corrective sociology may be called "humaniStic" and has at least four central criteria. It must pay tribute to human subiectivity and creativity-showing how individuals respond to social constraints and actively assemble social worlds; it must deal with concrete human experiences-talk, feelings, .

action-through their social, and especially economic. organi sation land not just their inner, psychic or biological structur ingli it must show a naturalistic "intimate familiarity" with such experiences-abstractions untempcred by close involve ment arc ruled out; and there must be a self-awareness by the sociologist of the ultimate moral and political role in moving towards a social structure in which there is less exploitation, oppression, and injustice and more creativity, diversity, and equahty. �Plummer 1983: 1-5) Certainly in the course of studying his own people, the American sociologist became the most skillful of all soci ologists in gathering and analysis of data all current social behavior. Sociology became 'Very current indeed-a little over current. Creat ingenuity and money have been put into devel oping methods and organizations for study of this year's voting and buying. In addition to being a very diverse people, we are also probably still that nation which has the largest number of people who can understand and answer questions-by word or in writing-if) something approaching the same language. We have the largest number of people with the means to choose from among the various brands of goods offered in a highly standardized industry. We combine, in shon, a high degree of likeness in language, taste, exposure to popular arts and news, with a wide but not unlimited diversity_ It is heaven for the sample-surveyor. But heaven can get to be a dull place. As we have become the world's best sample-surveyors (using survey in its present sense rather Ulan that of the earlier survey move ment) we have perhaps become a liule inclined to believe that only societies amenable to study by this partkular method are worth studying at all. Even in studying our own country we are indined to leave off the ends of the curve. The eccentric arc not our concern. �ust as Sears, Roebuck will not stock shirts of sizes which are not sold by the hundreds of millions (or somc

The Good News about Life Hiswry

such fantastic number}, we sociologists wilJ not count opin ions or habits unless they arc mass-produced. . . . We invented ethnocentrism. Now we have fallen into it. We invented sampling and precoding, most excellent devices. But let us not eliminate from the human race, the object of our study, all people who are not precodable, nor those who, em bittered by the withholding of freedom and human dignity, re fuse to answer our coolly put questions about the future but act with unseemly haste and violence to seize freedom, dignity, food, and land. (Hughes 1971 :476-477) What seems to have changed in recent years is the degree of confi dence we have in our own case study tradition and, therefore, the story we tell about it (E. Bruner 1986b). Many of us have stopped talking about our design in the terms established by researchers who usc ex perimental and survey designs: in terms of exploratory, dcscriptive, and causal research stages or sampling., measurement, and error control dedsions. We have stopped telling the story that the fieldwork design is almost

good [rigorous and precise) as the other two. Instead, we

have begun talking about things like authenticity, thick description, and verisimilitude (Denzin 19821, negotiation, reciprocity, and empow erment �Lather 1986). We tell a different story: that we were never pos itivists

begin with; whUe other sociologists were doing surveys and

experiments, we were perfecting a comparative case study design (Cha poutie 1987) and a humanistic style [Plummer 1983) of Tcsearch. Maybe we arc more confident because mainstream, variable-oriented sociology is being mme often and more publicly criticized from within �e.g., Lkberson 1985; Ragin 1987) and because these critiques remind us of the reasons we value case studies. For example: The essential characteristics of the qualitative/quantitative split in the social sciences are clear1y visible in comparative social science. In contrast to other subdisciplines, this field has a long tradition of qualitative work that is stronger and richer than its quantitative counterpart. Not only is this tradition qualitative, but it also tends to be case-oriented (as opposed to variable-oricnted) and historical (as opposed to abstractly causal) . . . . The variable-oriented approach . . . is the dominant research strategy of mainstream social science. Tn th.is approach cases are disaggregated into variables and distributions. Examination of patterns of covariation among variables is used as a basis

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner

for making general statements about relations among aspects of cases considered collectively as populations of comparable observations. These general statements are typically linked to abstract theoretical ideas about generic properties of rnacroso cial units (such as societies). Because this strategy starts with simplifying assumptions, it is a powerful data reducer. Thus, it is an ideal instrument for producing broad statements per taining to relatively large bodies of data encompassing diverse cascs. However, the simplifying assumptions that make this approach possible often violate commonsense notions of cau· sation and sometimes pose serious obstacles to making inter pretive statements ahout specific cases or even about categories of cases Case-oriented methods . . . are holistic-they treat cases as whole entities and not as collections of parts (or as collections of scores on variables). Thus, the relations between the parts of .

a whole are understood within the context of the whole, not within the context of general patterns of covariation between variables characterizing members of ,I population of compara ble units. Second, causation is understood conjuncturally. Out comes are analyzed in terms of intersections of conditions, and it is usually assumed that any of several connections might produce a certain outcome. These and other features of case oriented methods make it possible for investigators to interpret cases historically and make statements about the origins of m i portant qualitative changes in specific settings. [Ragin 1987:viii-xJ

Assessing Postmoderruty Finally, how "postmodern" is symbolic interactionl According to Marcus and Fischer, the most interesting thing about postmodcrnism in the human sciences is "what we call a crisis of rellresentation": This is the intellectual stimulus for the contemporary vitality of experimental writing in anthropology. The crisis arises from uncertainty about adequate means of describing social reality. In the United States, it is an expression of the failure of War II paradigms, or the unifying ideas of a re markable number of fields, lo account for conditions within American society, if not Within We�tem societies globally, which seem to be in a state of profound transition. OUTS is once again a period rich in experimentation and con ceptua] risktaking. Older dominanr frameworks arc not sn much denied-there being nothing so grand to replace thempoSl- World

The Good News abollt Life History

as suspended. The ideas they embody remain intellectual re sources to be used in novel and eclectic ways. The closest such previous period was the 1920s and 1930s when evolutionary paradigms, laissez-faiTe liberalism, and revolutionary social· ism and marxism all came under energetic critiques. lostead of grand theories and encyclopedic works, writers devoted them selves to the essay, to documenting diverse social experiences at close quarters, and to fragmentary iHuminatioDs. The at mosphere was one of uncertainty about the nature of major trends of change and the ability of existing social theories to

grasp it holistically. The essay, experience, documentation, in tensive focus on fragments and detail-these were the terms and vocabulary of the generation of Walter Benjamin, . . Lud� wig Wittgcnstcin, the surrealists, and the American documcn tary realists of the 1920s and 1930s. (1986: 8 and 10) .

Our tradition grew out of that period of experimentation, but does it partake of this ond Is it true in sociology as anthropologists say it is in their field, that "sympathetic readerships of cxperimental ethnog raphies scrutinize them, not with the hopes of finding a new para digm, but rather with an eye for picking up ideas, rhetorical moves, epistemological insights, and analytic strategies generated by different research situations?" That the "liberating atmosphere of experimen tation is in allowing each reader-cum-writer to work out incrementally new insightsr" That "specific works are of general interest as much lor what they are doing textually as for their contents?" Hbid.: 41� Can we, at least, list as many and varied experimental works of life history or fieldwork done by symbolic interactionists as Clifford and Marcus ( 1 9861 and Marcus and Fischer [1986) can list and discuss? No, we can not. We will not speculate about the reasons for symbolic interaction ists' apparent satisfaction with traditional modes of representation, leaving that as a question for our readers to discuss. Instead, we tum to a report of some questions life historians are asking and some an swers our tradition provides. ,

WHAT THEY ASK AND How WE ANSWER

In this section of our news paper, we have used a dialogi c format to report some of the questions feminist, radical, critical, and experi mental life historians are asking and some of the answers symbolic interactionists can and do give. We found the questions for our dia logue in the puhlished statements of people who work in this genre,

and the answers in the symbolic interactionist literature. We have not

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner

introd1.1Ced the speakers in the way scholars customarily do, with inter pretations of their meaning. We do not wish to privilege our i nterpre tations in that way. We brought the speakers together so our readers could Hsten to the voices and arrive at their own interpretations of what the voices have to say.

The Question of Meaning The first question is: "What about meaning?" Feminist historians

have recently begun to question the accepted reason for recording oral histories: to get "eyewitness" accounts of historic events and large scaJe social changes. They have begun to wonder, instead, about the meanings eyewitnesses give to their own experiences.

FEMINIST HISTORIAN: Why have not historians, and especially historian s of women, pursued the subjective experience of the past more rigorously? My own interviews and those of others show a definite lack 01 questions about feeJings, atti tudes, value s and meaning. Traditional historical sources tell us more about what happened and how it happened than how people felt about it and what i t meant to them. As his torians we are trained to interpret meaning from facts. But oral history gives us the unique opportunity to ask people directly, How did it feel? What did it mean? (Anderson in Anderson e t aL 1987: 108-9) FEMINIST FIELDWORKER: In my own discipline of sociology there have been significant attempts to overcome the in fluence of dominant ideologies by developing theories and methods of research that treat humans ,IS active subjects and that consider the part meaning plays in social li fe Despite the often greater visibility and prestige of abstract theories and quantitative analysis, the idea that meaning informs so cial action and is a critical element in its study has been a theme running through the history of sociology_ . . . Sociologists in this tradition assume that people's perspec tives and subjective interpretations inform and org.1nize their eourses of action. They do not treat subjective orientations as biases to be eliminated from their studies, as do quantita tively oriented sociologists-quite the opposite. Subjectivity is central to their understanding of social action. In their lives, people constantly interpret their situations and act in terms of the meanings or perspectivc..'1 they develop within particular situations and from specific positions within or ganizat ions and groups. They view society as a plurality of ,

The Good News about Life History

interacting and competing groups, each of which develops collective solutions to the problems encountered in their shared situations. In sucb a society there is no neutral van· tage point but only the different viewpoints generated within variously situated collectivities. Subjective accounts have been usciul lo symbolic interac tionists for many of the same reasons that they are important in women's studies research today. Both oral historians and sociologists often depend upon these to uncover aspects of social hfe that had been socially invisible and to analyze and interpret social reality from a new vantage point. The very first symbolic interactionists were concerned with socially mru-gina! people and with the theoretical understanding of marginalizing processes such as the production of deviant statuses. Certainly these substantive and theoretical COIl cerns bring them dose to the students of women's lives. [Wittner in Anderson et aI. 1987: l20-21} Experimental ethnographers and "anthropologists of experience" arc also asking questions about meaning, questions that radically alter the meaning of their own cODcept of culture. EXPERIMENTALIST: Modernist ethnography is focused primar ily on delivering a message by manipulating the form of a text and is radically concerned with what ean be learned from another culture from full attention to the enactment of the research process itself. . . . There is a potential in modernist ethnography for consid erable experimentation with textual presentation, some of which has taken its cues from French surreahst, structural ist, and poststructuralist literary theory. Modernist writers seem to be holding the conventional use of the concept of culture itself in question. This is what makes them so poten tially radical. Most of the personhood ethnographies linclud ing life histories] still rely firmly on a conventional notion of a shared cultural system on which to build their texts. Experience is thus a direct outcome or reflection of coherent sets of cultural codes and meanings. This is not necessarily the case for those who write with the dialogic motif at the center of their texts. They are at the very least uncertain about the coherence of culture in teons 'in which anthropol ogy has developed this concept. Starting from such uncer tainty, they can do no other than to concentrate upon the immediacy of discourse and the dialogic experience of field work. [Marcus and Fischer 1986: 67-68}

Michal M. McCaU and Judi.th Wiltner

The anthropo1ogy of experience turns our attention to experience and its expre.·.;sions as indigenous meanings. The advantage of beginning the study of culture through expressions is that the basic units of analysis are established by the people we study rather than by the an thropologist as alien observer. By focusing on narratives or dramas or carnivaJ or any other expressions, we leave the definition of the unit of investigation up to the people, rather than imposing categories from our own evershifting theo retical frames. . . . It is in the performances of an expression that we fe-expe rience, re-live, re-create, re-teU, re-construct, and Ie-fashion our culture. The performance does not release a preexisting meaning that lies dormant in the text. . . . Rather, the perfor tn.1nce itse1f is constitutive. Meaning is always in the pres ent, in the here and now, not in such past manifestations as historical origins or author's intentions. Nor are here silent texts, because once we attcnd to the text, giving voice or ex pression to it, it becomes a performed text, active and alive. It is what Victor Turner called "putting experience into cir culation." �E. Bruner 1 986a; 11, 12)

EXPERlENTIALTST:

These anthropologists are not necessarily asking symbolic interae tionists about meaning. but if they did, we could answer: SYMBOLIC INTERACTIONIST: Culture [isl a consequence (in this kind of sociological thinking) of the existence of a group of

acting people. It bas its meaning as one of the resources people draw on in order to coordinate their activities. In this it differs from most anthropological tbinking in which the order of importance is reversed, culture leading a kind of in dependent existence as a system of patterns that make the existence of largel groups possible. Given new conditions, people invent culture. The way they do it was suggested by William Graham Swnner a century ago in Folkways. We can paraphrase him in this way. A group finds itself sharing a common situation and common prob lems. Various members of the group experiment with possible solutions to those problems and report their experiences to their fellows. In the coulse of their collective discussion, the members of the group arrive at a definition of the situation, its problems and possibilities, and develop a consensus as to the most appropriate and efficient ways of behaving. This consensus thenceforth constrains the activities of individual

The Good News about Life History members of the group, who will probably act on it, given the opportunity. In other words, new situations provoke new be havior. But people generally find themselves in company when dealing with these new situations, and since they ar rive at their solutions collectively, each assumes that" the others share them. The beginnings of new shared under standings thus come into play quickly and easily. IBeckcr 1982 , 515, 20-5211

Because symbolic interactionists understand the problem of cultmal meaning in this way, we have a way of interpreting both the contents of life histories and the act of telling autobiographiCAl stories. We un derstand that telling stories is one of the ways people "report their experiences to their fellows," or share their experiential solutions to common problems, and thus, create culture: shared understandings of their common situations and agreed-upon ways of acting in them_ "The Significance of Storytelling": A Human Interest Story by Michal M. McCall Five of my storytelling groups were made up of people born in the 1940s, during and just ahcr World War U. Many of their stories con tained reports of individual attempts to solve the problems they had in common by virtue of their shared position in history. For example, the stories they told about the families they grew up in and uleir stories of everyday life in their households in the present revealed one problem all of them had faced and some of their efforts to solve it: the profound <:hange in the institution of the American family during their lifetime. When these people were growing up, in the 1940s and 19508, one family form was paradigmatic: it was modal-nearly everyone lived in one, and if not they knew their families were "deviant"-and it was fuHy institutionalized, supported by language, law, and custom. It was the family form demographers now call "traditional" to distinguish it from Single-parent famihes, step-families, cohabiting couples, divorced and never-married adults living alone, childless couples, and families in which boUl parents work. The most recent traditional family pattern in this country is that of "legal, lifelong, sexually exclusive marriage between one man and one woman, with children, where the male is the sole providcr and ulti mate authority." (Taubin and Mudd 1983:259). In the 1980s, there is no modal family form, DO single way the ma jority of people live. "IT]he traditional family-husband, wifc, and

Michal M. McCall and judith Wittner

children from the first

iage 01 the spouses-accounts fOT only 45

marr

percent of American families. The next most frequent types are the single-parent family

(IS percent) and the nuclear dyad-husband and wife alone without children (IS percent)" jSchorr and Moen 1983: S7SJ. Some new forms, like the remarriages of divorced people with chil· dren, are "incompletely instimtionalized," in Andrew Cherhn's words (1983). There are no established ways of doing many of the thing.� people in them must do. No one knows the proper way of conversing on the telephone with ber ex-husband's new wife, for example. No one knows the proper kinship tcon for the parents of her child's step-father either. Some new forms arc not supported by law or public policy. For example, the single-parent family, the second most common family form in this country, is still considered a "deviant" form (Schorr and Moen 19831. Without paradigms, people must work out new institutions, t() solve the new life problems the (}ld paradigm c(}uldn't solve. Some of the solutions are creativc. Always, thcy require inordinate amounts of time, energy, and goodwill. Jean Richards, for example, was a member (}f one storytelling group. She was married in 1961 and divorced in 1974, after thirteen years of marriage and four children. As a single parent, she had to devise a new way of life, without benefit of the para digm she grew up with, or any other paradigm that might have pro vided her with ready-made solutions to the problems of raising and supporting foue children aJonc. One of her creative solutions was the dressing room she made when she hung a curtain over the laundry room doorway. 1973-4. The years that my life changed the most, personal changes, not global ones, changes caused by changes in inter personal relationships, not world events. These were the years that "built character," tried my strength, patience and endur ance. Ending a marriage and beginning an education, I literally bit off more than I could chew. I lost weight, developed ulcers, became temperamental, angry, sad, depressed, and ultimately

BETTER. I asked all the questions, worried, struggled,

and worked, and finally rose to the tasks at hand, successful. How would I make the house payment? Where would I get the money for food and clothes? How could I make the utillty payments! What ab(}ut Christmas? Who can 1 turn to? How will I ever manage? But then I finally knew that what I had must be worse than what was ahead and I persevered.

The Good News about Life History Because of all the personal trauma 1 experienced at this time. world events had little or no effect on mc. After all, when you are worried ahout providing food for four kids, you have little time for self-actualization! My routine was brutal. J got up early every day and drove to the St. Paul campus for classes (17 miles). i often took buses to the Mpls. campus during the mornings. At noon T ate a bagel and a cup of soup in the student center, often sitting with new acquaintances. I remember what a delight it was to find that there were many women my age in schooL I had been encour aged by friends to go get a secretarial job (T was first rate); not attend schooL They said [ wouldn't fit in, no one in their 305 starts school, and besides, how would I provide lor my family in the meantime. T, on the other hand, looked to the long term and knew that an investment in education would pay hand some dividends the rest of my life. This thinkin� obviously, reprcsented a major changc from my perspective as a twenty year-old. Generally, 1 finished classes by I : 00 pm and drove immedi ately to my office iob in the suburbs. . . . After work 1 drove 12 miles home and quickly fixed a nutritious dinner. We all ale together almost every night since the kids were 10, 9, 8 and 6not yet involved in too many independent activities or jobs. I ohen threw clothes in the washer while we ate and dried them before bedtime. I always hung the clothes on a clothesline as they came out of the dryer. These clothes never made it to clos ets. The kids would just go into the laundry room, drop the clothes they were wearing right in place, and grab something from the hne. Underwear and socks were in four plastic bas kets and each kid took his/her owo. This system was so handy, convenient, and private after I hung a curtain over the doorway. This was my way of accommodating reality. After dinner, the kids did homework, watched TV or played outside. I called a friend and talked while I did the dishes. They drained dry. This done, I checked on the action and wben pos sible began my homework. Usually, though, I worked with the kids on one thing or another and began my own homework at midnight. I often worked until 2-3 aID, but ran on adrenalin and didn't need much sleep. 7:00 camc ,1wful early some days, though. On weekends I religiously cleaned the whole house every week, whether company was coming or not. Then I did homework, shopped for groceries, or drove the kids to various friends OT playgrounds, golf courses, swinuning pools, etc. I sel dom went out (read that never) until I met Bah. Then he'd

Michal M. Mcc.,11 and Judith Wittner

come by or- I'd go into the city and we'd take in a movie. By Saturday night this was a much deserved reward. Before Bob, I stayed home and felt very lonely and sorry for myseU, thinking the whole world had something to do except me. As I devel oped a network of women friends these feelings and the emp tiness I lived with left. Now I have way too much to do and am frazzled by it. This week, for contrast, I have activities 7 nights straight. People talk about bottoming out-these years of tremendous change, stress, puverty were my bottom. Physically and mentally, I was drained, always pushing and being pushed. Struggles tben are taken for granted things now . . . food in the cupboard, clothes for everyone, a dependable car, gasoline money, bills paid on time, a solid joh, respect and credibility with friends and col leagues, an education, optimism, confidence, a support system, and hopes and dreams. Reading their stories aloud and discussing them, members of these sto rytelling groups also created new shared understandings of their lives and of the life problems they shared. My life history research shows how ordinary people create culture when they tell stories: how the small, insignificant events of daily conversation, modeled somewhat artificially in the activities of the storytelling groups I created, coalesce in the broad shifts of cultural understanding we think of as social change. For example, the stories they told about daily meals in their house holds a1lowed them to show themselves and one another that they had successfully changed the "cognitive, moral and esthetic premises or categories" [Berger 1981) they used to interpret Situations, construct action, and identify themselves. In one group, Liz Davis showed that she did not do aU the child-rearing and housework, as her mother did, and that she and her husband talked to their children, beyond telling them to "Be quiet" or "Pass the salt." Joe Kamisky told bow he "liber ated" himself from a traditional marriage and learned, from the woman he later lived With, that cooking was a way of "sharing and becoming doser." And Richard Peale showed that he respected the feminist prin ciples of the woman he lived with., by telling about the meals he cooked every day. Storytelling with age-mates was also an opportunity to explain lack of change. People admitted they did not always live up to the cultwal changes expected of them-or so it appeared-and explained why. Liz

The Good News about Ufe History

Davis, for example, explained why she never finished her Ph.D. in chemistry even though her husband did, and why he had a fulltimc academic position and she didn't. tl you asked either of us whether a woman should give up her career for her husband's, we would say no. Tt just happened this way and for me, probably wouldn't have bt!en as satisfactory in some other mode, given the parameters imposed by having to move so often. My husband is understanding, supportive, and helpful. On the whole, we have a good relationship, and have enjoyed much of our grand tOUT. In another group, Jan Nordstrom explained why the division of household work in her marriage seemed traditional but wasn't. My husband has always been very considerate and an equal partner in so many important ways. It's still irritatingly true, however, that he gets lots of "credit" for doing traditionally female chores. A1!t I look at my list of rules and practices in our marriage, I see that ours is quite a traditional division of labor. But 1 don't feel that the division is unfairly made. We usually operate on the practice that if there's a job to be done neither of us sits until the othcr can relax, too. We also have a marvel ous rule: if you criticize the way something is done, you be come the expert and it becomes your job. Listeners in storytelling groups responded to stories of both change and lack of change with praise or encouragement, reassurance, and commiseration. Sometimcs, they disagreed with the storyteller's inter pretations or gave advice. At tonight's meeting, Joy took exception to Cathy's statement that her husband's hobbies were more important than Cathy's own, on weekends, because her time was more flexible and she could pwsue her hobbies during the day, while she stayed home and raised the kids. Cathy thought it was only fair if he spent the day gardening or went off on his boat. Joy said, "My husband tried that one, too," but she didn't accept the idea be cause "you don't realJy have any flexibility when the kids are screaming for lunch." jFieidnotes, October 27, 1982) In all these ways listeners and storytellers shared information and interpretations. And they learned from one another, new ways of adjust ing to change and solving their common pmblems-as the people in Jan's group, for example, learned her "marvelous rule." jMcCalI 1989).

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner

"Playskool Plant Closing. Part If!: A Human Interest Story by fudith Wittner lnteractionists study social organization as a negotiated ordcr which emerges as people try, collectively and individual1y, to solve the problems they encounter in concrete situations. I studied women fac tory workers facing a plant closing in this way. My research began with questions about the role the women workers played in the events sur rounding the plant closing; my method of inquiry followed from these questions. I conducted long interviews with thirty women once em ployed as asscmblers, packers, and machine tenders by Playskool Toys, a factory that doscd aftcr more than half a century of operations in Chicago. My purpose was to understand the meaning of the plant clos ing to these workers in order to explain their responses to it. Ovcr the years, Playskool had grown from a family-owned business to become a subsidiary of a large corporation with headquarters far from Chicago. During its expansion, women-first white women and then Black and Hispanic women-came to flU most of the production jobs in the plant. When the impending closing was announced, com munity activists, locaJ businessmen, and the city administration at temptL'd to hold the L'ompany accountable to its employees through boycotts and legal action. Most of the women workers were not active in these struggles. Their quiescence was not remarkable to observers, because it fit well with the widely held assumption that factory women were politically passive. As 1 began to interview these workers on the eve of the final shutdown, these were my assumptions as well, and 1 wanted to know why and how the women maintained this stancc. Thc interviews revealed a less visible but nonetheless important di mension of workplace activism as women told stories of long years of involvement in shaping and reshaping their jobs and thcir placL' in the factory division of labor. Working together, they had developed their own distinctive perspectives on jobs, their own ways of regulating their time and effort, tbeir own understandings of themselves as workers occupying women's places in the factory division of labor. The women helped to define and redefine their tasks, rights, and obligations in the factory and developed standards for evaluating jobs, bosses, and co workers that reflected their own needs and interests. They calculated the worth of jobs not by pay alone, but also in terms of difficulty and interest. They agreed on norms that limited the proAts the company could rightfully claim and criticized the company for violating these

The Good News about Life History

nonus. They debated the merits and moral standing of various collec tive and individual strategies for controlling their work. Was it better to work hard for bonus payor to pace oneself more slowly? Was a strike or a wage demand worth the risk to their jobs? When should workers stand by each other and when pursue their separate interests? How could jobs be redefined to ease the burdens of particular tasks and share them more equitably? Overcoming the internal divisions of age, Jan guage, and race that cross-cut the Playskool work force, they began to develop the capacity to speak as a community of workers. As the wom en's work force grew and as their years of experience accumulated, they more readily and more successfuUy argued with managers over how to reshape their tasks, control the pace of work, and increase their IOcome. The women's accounts are filled with descriptions of how they developed this capacity. For example, many recalled the days when women were reluctant to speak up if they disagreed with or felt abused by their bosses. They had trouble voicing their complaints and con cerns because they did not feel comfortable speaking out of place, be· cause they feared they would lose their jobs, or because they did not have the language skills or the nerve to stand up to their bosses. Many women had never before worked in a factory or on an assembly Hne and so were unswe about manufacturing procedures and shop·floor conventions. All operators were dependent on men with experience and technical knowledge to keep their work stations supplied with rna' terials and in repair. At first, many women endured their situation without comment. Keeping the job, and doing the job, was the important goal .

used to say nothing. If they tell me something I'd go ahead and do it and 1 wouldn't say nNhing. And I had one boss, a setup guy. Oh my god, he'd yell at you over nothing, hardly. And you'd break a belt or something. you'd think you commi.t· ted murder. Or break a drill. Because he had to set the machine, fix the machine. He'd get mad. He had some of them women to crying. He had mc to crying a couple of times. That's why one day Jerry, the fOTeman, he said, "'When are you gonna open your mouth to tell him off?" 1 said, "Oh I don't care. As long as 1 got a job, I don't care." As these comments suggest, wOTkers allowed their bosses wide lati tude to teach them and direct their work Yet, over time, they began to

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner

set limits, basing these on widely held cultural standards of fairness. For example, the woman quoted above finally spoke up when the set up man blamed her for the mistakes of another worker. He blamed me for something I didn't do. . . . I was so mad I went off and r told (the foreman), "Give me the ticket," and J went back and' throwed it down to him and said, "You better make sure who done it before you blame somebody." Another woman, an inspector, drew the line when she came under fire from one of the foremen for doing her job. One supervisor, he was a lieutenant or something in the anny before, he would have the inspectors crying over in his depart ment, because he'd yell at them and it upset them. They started to cry. [Why did he yell at them? 1 Because thcy rcjcct something and he didn't want you to reject nothing in his de partment and we locked horns. He yelled at me. I told him I didn't carc. Then he goes to get the supervisor and brings him over, that I was being disrespecdul. He wanted me written up. Don't nobody yell at me. I'm not a dog. Another worker spoke up when she had to relinquish an easy job to one of the foreman's favorites. IWhen did you first use your "big mouth?"] He had me to clamping and unclamping of the jigsaws and he had put me on the glue linc. I was on the glue line first. That's an easy job. And one of his little friends that hc liked didn't want to do the other, harder job, so he took me off and put her there and that's when I started running my mouth. T wasn't gonna do it and I surted cursing. He said, "I'm gonna fire you for insubordina tion" and I said, "1 don't give a f*ck about no insubordination. I'm not doing this sh*t." Women who were too frightened to speak for themselves found others who would. [The women] were always scared to say it to Ithe bosses]. They would say it to me. Like this one boss would harass the girls. They were scared of him. But I didn't give a damn. I wasn't scared to talk to him. Because they articulated the anger that others also felt, outspoken women had wide influence. They also served as examples workers, making them bolder.

other

The Good News about Lite HislOry

would do most of the talking. They would say, "WeB Lois, you do the talking." And then once I start talking. then the other employees would come in and start talking about what they didn't like, you know. And usually the company would say, "Give us a couplc of days and we')! get back to you," and in a couple of days they'd get back to me and let me know, and usually it'd wind up to our advantage. I

Women on the shop floor also identified potential representatives and pushed them to become active, as this woman's account of how she became a union steward illustrates. Edna Ichief steward! was working over that way in puzzles and they had no steward downstairs and all the girls would come to me and say, "Would you call Elsie and blah, blah, blah, blah." 1 could caB her on the phone cause I had a phone close to me. So that's how I got involved in the UniOll. [f we narrow the concept of political activism to include only par· ticipation in the last-ditch efforts to stop the plant closing, the worn· en's part in shaping their work and challenging managerial authority disappears. Knowledge of their everyday activism resides primarily in women's memories and is retrievable principally through their own ac counts. If they do not tell thcir stories, we cannot know how they make sense of their expclicm;es. If the women who worked at Play skoal had not told their stories, we would not have known how they made sense of their work, understood the possibilities and limits of the struggle over the plant, and drew on their years of experience to choose lines of action that, seen from the outside, only confinned the stcreo types we hold. The Question of Context A second question currently being asked by various life historians is "What about context?" They arc no longer willing to take life histories out of their historical, class, and ethnic context or to assume an individual narrator is typical of some larger group or category. Feminists no longer assume there arc common female experiences and oppressions; racial, ethnic, and class differences are newly problem atic for them. Experimental ethnographers are increasingly aware that "closely observed cultural worlds are embedded in larger, more imper sonal" state systems and in the world political economy (Marcus 1986: 165-66). As a result, they, too, have begun to ask how "rcpresen-

Michal M. MeDII and Judith Wittner

tativc," of the populations whose experiences interest them, the life histories they collect and interpret arc. One interactionist answer to the question of context-of whether informants or life history narrators are typical of some larger group or category-is the search for negative cases, formalized in Lindesmith's technique of analytic induction (1947). Another is the use of theoreti cal sampling (Glaser and Strauss 1967) and various mher nonprobabil ity sampling procedures. A third is the idea that each case, however unrepresentative, adds a piece to ow understanding of the human ex perience-what Park called the Big News. The greatest single criticism of oral history projects is that they are simply collections of indi vidual interviews lacking a context. This criticism is com pletely valid. We can greatly strengthen the validity of our interviews by paying attention to factors of class, race, age, and location when we select our narrators. . . . There is a considerable body of literature concerning sta tistical sampling, size, randomness, and validity. Most of that literature docs not fit oral history very well, where by definition we are de.1ling with the survivors, and only the wilhng ones at that. However, statistical measwes should not just be ignored. Properly understood, statistics focus all important questions of representativeness and comparabil ity. You must be aware of these issues. Save yourself some time and find a friendly sociologist or political scientist who has already struggled with these questions and can translate for you. (Armitage 1983: 6) FRiENDLY SOCIOLOGIST: Field researchers arc . . . constantly having to select locations, time periods, events, and people for study. . . . The basic distinction that is made by Isocial scientists) is between probability and non-probability meth· ods of sampling. . . . While both of these forms of sampling have been used by field researchers, it is non-probability sampJing that is more often used and includes: judgment and opportunistic sampling Iwhich involves] the selection of actions, events and people . . . for study according to a number of criteria established by the researcher such as their status lage, sex, and occupation) or previous experi· ence that endows them with special knowledge, snowball sampling, and theoretical sampling . . . Iwhichl Glaser and Strauss 11968 :45J define as "the process of data collection for generating theory wheTeby the analyst jointly collects, codes and analyzes Ius data and decides what data to collect next FEMINIST ORAL HISTORIAN:

The Good News about Life History and where to And them, in order to develop his theory as it emerges." . . . [OJata collection is controlled by the emerging theory and the resC

The lack Roller as a representative case. What are those functions? in the first place The lack RolIer can serve as a touchstone to evaluate theories that purport to deal with phenomena like those of Stanley's delin quent career . . . any theory of delinquency must, if it is to be considered valid, explain or at least be consistent with the facts of Stanley's case as they are reported here. Thus, even though the life history docs not in itself provide definjtive proof of a proposition, it can be a negative case that forces us to decide a proposed theory is inadequate. ,

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner To say this is LO take an approach to scientific generaliza tion that deserves some comment. We may decide to accept a theory if it explains, let us say, 95 percent of the cases that fall in its jurisdiction. Many reputable scientists do. In con trast, one can argue that any theory that does not explain all cases is inadequate, that other factors than those the theory specifies must be operating to produce the result that we want to explain. It is primarily a question of stTategy. If we assume that exceptions to any rule are a normal occurrence, we will perhaps not search as hard for further explanatory factors as we othetwise might. But if we regard exceptions as potential negations of our theory, we will be spurred to search for them. (Becker 1970: 65-68)

The Question of Point of View "From whose point of view is history told?" is a third question life historians are asking. "Are we treating the people whose life histories we collect as the subjects of history or as its objects?" It is essential that women become his toricaHy visible, but only on terms that they themselves have fully and consciously accepted. If this principle is ig nored, women remain historical objects-just as they have been in the past. If we do not respect the autonomy and au· thenticity of the women we interview, how can we tben turn around and use our jnformation to iHustrate the historical validity and importance of those same principles? (Armitage 1983 :4-5}

FEMJNIST HJSTORIAN:

"Playskool Plant Closing, Part II": A Human Interest Story by Judith Wittner (ntcractionists seldom see subordinates as victims, but rather look at how they earve out autonomy despite their lack of formal power. The women workers ' interviewed, for example, successfuUy changed the content of their jobs and the distribution of work between women and men. When it came to ideas about gender differences, many of them believed men and women were essentially different as workers. These heliefs legitimated the scxu�11 division of labor at Playskoo1, which was typical of many factories. As machine tenders, assembly workers, and packers, women were the direct producers of toys and games. Men provided materials to the operators, built and repaired ma chines, supervised the women, and transported the finished products to

the warehouse and beyond.

The Good News about Life History

The men

I interviewed-both managers and hourly employees

believed that women's work was too boring and tedious for men. They gave women credit for the "skill" of managing boredom, and confessed that men were deficient in whatever women had that allowed them to tolerate such activity for long stretches of time. Many women respon dents agreed that women workers tolerated boredom more readily and that they were bencT able than men to remain immobilized in front of a machine for eight hours. When managers, under pressure from corporate headquarters to in crease efficiency, attempted to place women in men's jobs, ideas about gender became weapons in the struggles that arose on the shop floor. Ironically, the managers justified their moves on the basis of equal rights for women, while women countered by refusing to uke men's jobs. One woman recalled, They got so they started letting the women to do it too. That be like for the last five years or so. . . 1£ a man didn't come in. Like they were saying, ''Well, you know you talking about women's lib, so do it. You women think you just as good as men, so do it." So I did. It make me no difference. I could do it too. Because some women would complain that the work was too bard. "This is too hard, this is a man's job." That's what the girls were saying, so he was saying, "There's no such thing as a man's job. You talking about you're wanting women's lib, so you got it. Do your job." $0 they would complain and they start crying. They refused to do it. They say it was a man's job. Most of the time they couldn't do it. But if you ask me, they could have did it if they want to, just take their time, just pick a litt1e bit at a time and put it on. .

Some women accepted the changes, though grudgingly. Paradoxi cally, affirmative action laws lent legitimacy to the new practice, though they seemed to make women's lot more difficult. Oh, we did all the jobs [thenl, and when they passed that what you call it, men and women equal, that's when we started do ing the men's jobs. I said, "Well, I didn't vote for it." Some jobs you think your arms are gonna fall off. An observer might interpret Playskool women's self-understanding as a form of false consciousness through which they were led to em brace their particular exploitation. From the vantage point of the women, however, trus interpretation misses the importaDt point that the women used the ideology of separateness to build consensus and

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner

reorganize their work in the factory. Tbe transformation began with the women's complaints about heavy work, complaints that rested on the common understanding thiu "heavy work" was men's work. The complaints arose as foremen imposed new quotas and disciplines on the women, changes dictated by company headquarters fn Massachu setts. By interpreting equal rights Jaws as justifying women's "right" to work harder, managers pushed the women to create alternatives to the conflict between the belief in women's natural fitness for certain jobs and the belief in equaJity and fair play. From the women's point of view, segregating women from men was less of a problem than were new management practices that increased women's work in the name of equality. Beginning from the women's experience, union stewards re worked the meanings of these beliefs and standards into a more far reaching resolution of the conflict. They argued that the work at issue was too heavy for any worker, man or woman, and that it should be redefined and reorganized. Here is how Elise Bums, the chief steward, described it: Now there arc some women who could do the job. Now we tried to evolve from that, which we did eventua1ly. We tried to get a job where there were two people with even the men wouldn't get hernias. You're saying this is a man's job and a woman can't do it, so a woman shouldn't be there. But I'm say ing that you should not only fight for equal rights. Equal rights also includes men. That they shouldn't be getting hernias. Women's rights arc really hc1ping the men and you say, why not have two people lift it, you know. And of course manage ment would always say, "Oh, Lhis is rcally unpractical." We'd say, " No, it's really practical, cause you get it done faster." It's just a matter of developing a system. On some jobs we got them to agree. By extending their solution to an workers, the women's strategy changed the terms of the debate with bosses from one that focused on designating individuals for tasks, to one that sought to change the tasks themselves. This was a much more radical approach because it treated the diviSion of labor as a socia) rather than a natural arrange ment and claimed for workers as wen as bosses the right to examine, criticize, and change thcjr work to suit themselves. The women, through their union representatives, came

argue not that women

were just as good as men, but that men deserved as much

women.

The Good News abom Ufe History

WHAT THEY SAY THAT WE CAN LEARN Symbolic interactionists can also learn from feminists, critical theorists, literary theorists, postmodcrn anthropologists, and others who have thought about or done life history research. The two of us have lea.rned most about authority, the selves constructed in hfe sto ries, and narrative.

Authority From various disciplines and ideological positions, the new life his torians are questioning some of our most sacred methodological and rhetorical principles. For example, they ask why we promise anonym ity to the people whose life histories we record. Instead, they say, why not promise to name them? After all, as Chesnaux put it, we academics "set great store by 'name: as in the phrase 'to make a name for one self' " {Chesnaux 1978: 1061. The traditional answer is that people talk more freely, tell us more about themselves and their experience of so cial We, when they know we will protect their anonymity. Some con sciously ideological life historians say, on the contrary, that people tell us something different, not necessarily something less, when they know they will be named, and that we arc or should be interested in just that part of their experience they want to publicly own. FEMINIST HISTORIAN: I want the woman 1 interview to be ac tively responsib1c for whtlt she says, so at the very beginning I tell her that the interview will be a public document, not a private conversation. I also want her to determine the shape she gives to her life. Within a chronological framework J use interview techniques that give her control over the structure of the interview: 1 hardly ever interrupt, and I do a great deal of active listening. I handle emotional topics carefully, and I am very respectful and slow moving. J do not confront and I do not probe: I wait for mutual trust. For me, rapport and genuine openness come slowly, as the result of many inter views. Ah.hough this technique is slow, it fits my personal style. However, I also insistently teach this technique to my shldents, regardless of their personal style, because ' know that novice interviewers sometimes treat their narrators in· sensitively and hurt their feelings. 1 am more concerned about the quality of the interview for the narrator than I am about "getting" every last fact. Sometimes there is a loss of historical infonnatioll with this technique, but that seems to me acceptable. (Armit."lge !983 :4)

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner Again, why do we distance ourselves horn the texts we construct

with others' stories? Why privilege our scientific interpretations of others' experiences? Shouldn't we speak as individuals in our texts? Shouldn't we find ways to include narrators' interpretations of their experiences? And why not quote our informants at length instead of using short quotes? Because when we use short quotes we only include that part of the others' story that supports our point? Because long quotes introduce too much of the others' meaning amI support differ ent interpretations than our own? Our conventional practices, these questioners point out, do little more than maintain OUT authority and, thereby, the authority of the elite, the official, the educated, the middle class, and the European, oller the other. Anthropological fieldwork has been represented as both a scientific "laboratory" and a per sonal "rite of passage." The two metaphors capture nicely the discipline's impossible attempt to fuse objective and subjective practices. Until recently, this impossibility was masked by marginalizing the intcrsubjcctive foundations of fieldwork, by excluding them from serious ethnographic texts, relegating them to prefaces, memoirs, anecdotes, COD fessions, and so forth. Lately this set of disciplinary rules is giving way. The new tendency to name and quote informants more fully and to introduce personal clements into the text is altering ethnography's discursive strategy and mode of au thority. !Clifforo 1986, l09j FEMINIST HISTORIAN: Surely this is where analysis must begin: with awareness of our own motivations, beliefs, and personal styles as interviewers. These personal qualities are usually HISTORIAN OF ANTHROPOLOGY:

the least obvious parts of any published study or article. it is rare to read a description of the interaction between inter viewer and narrator, yet everything really depends on it. In some fields, such as anthropology, the life history method assumes the objectivity of the interviewer as a basic premise. 1 fundamentally do not believe in that idea. It is simply un true to describe oneself as a neutral, anonymous observer, when, in fact, one has invested so much emotional effort and honesty in achieving rapport in the interview. The bond be tween us and our narrators is dose and meaningful, and ought to be acknowledged-professionally as well as person ally. (Armitage 1983 :4) HISTOIUAN Of ANTHROPOLOGY: A scientific ethnography nor mal1y establishes a privileged allegorical register it identifies

The Good News about Life History

as "theory," "interpretation," or "explanation." But once all meaningful levels in a text including theories and interpre tations, are recognized as allegorical, jt becomes difficult to view one of them as privileged, accounting for the rest. Once this anchor is dislodged, the staging and vaJuing of multiple alleorical registers, or "voices" becomes an impor tant area of concern for ethnographic writers. Recently this has sometimes meant giving indigenous discourse a semi independent status in the textual whole, interrupting the privileged monotone of "scientific" representation. Much ethnography, taking its distance from totalizing anthropol ogy, seeks to evoke multiple (not limitless) allegories. (Clif ford 1986: 1031 Life historians who are conscious of their own ideologies suggest we present ourselves in our texts as we are in our work: interviewers en gaged in dialogues with other people who are infonnants and inter preters engaged in finding the meaning of the stories we hear and retell. At least, we should let our informants speak for themselves. At best, they suggest, we should teach informants to write their own life his tories and the histories of their own communities, organizations, and oppressed groups so that they can "participate in setting the historical record straight" (Brecher 1986 : 6).

ExPERIMENTAL ETHNOGRAPHERS: Dialogue is the fashionable metaphor for modernist concerns. The metaphor can illegiti ma.tely be taken too Iitera.lIy or hypostatized into philosophi cal abstraction. It can, however, also refer to the practical efforts to present multiple voices within a text, and to en courage readings from diverse perspectives. This is the sense in which we use dialogue. . . . The most interesting aspect of these efforts is their intro duction of polyphony: the registering of different points of view in multiple voices. . . . Once this is done, either in terms of the direct indusion of the material authored by oth ers or in more sociological terms of the deSCription of the idioms of different elasses or interest groups-the text be comes more accessible to readerships other than the usually targctt..-d professional one. Vincent Crapanzano's Thhami: Portrnit of n Moroccan is perhaps the most provocatively modernist of the 11980) texts we have considered. It presents a life history as the elic iting of an interview, as a puzzle, asking the reader's help in intcrprcution. . . . Crapanzano's tcxt breaks the traditional .

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner life-history frame, and although it is "realistic" in aucmpt ing to represent the actual interview situation, it is one of the first major experiments to use self-consciously modern ist techniques. It is fragmentary, almost surrealist in its force; it manipulates fonn to capture style, mood, and emo tional tonc; and it effectively engages the willing reader in the work of interpretation. [Marcus and Fischer 1986: 68-72) POSTMODERN ETHNOGRAPHER: A postmodern ethnography is fragmentary because it cannot be otherwise. Life in the field is itscU fragmentary, not at al1 organized around familiar ethnographic categories such as kinship, economy, and reli gion. . . . At best, we make do with a collection of indexical anecdotes or telling particulars with which to portend that Jarger unity beyond explicit textualization. . . . We confirm in our ethnographies our consciousness of the fragmentary nature of the postmodcrn world, for nothing so well defines our world as the absence of a synthesizing alle gory, or perhaps it is only a paralysis of choice brought on by our knowledge of the inexhaustible supply of such allegories that makes us refuse the moment of aesthetic totalization, the story of stories, the hypostatized whole. (Tyler 1986: 131-321 MARXIST HISTORIAN: In class societies, history is one of the tools the ruling class uses to maintain its power. The state apparatus tries to control the past at the level of both politi cal action and ideology landl conventional historians, with their pose of objectivity, pretend to be unaware that they are reinforcing the power of an institution or political appa ratus by conferring lIPon it the authority of the past. . . . For peoples engaged in the fight for national and social libera tion, the past is a political issue, a theme of struggle [because current political struggles areJ nourished by the past. [There fore, an academic historian mustJ no longer be satisfied to work . . . on peasant struggles or on American utopian com munities; what is needed is the ability to work with the workers, the peasants, the people. lChesnaux 1978: 16, 22, 26, 1071 CRITICAL ETHNOGRAPHER: Neighborliness is what educational and pastoral workers have been doing in poor villages and neighborhoods i.n Latin America. It is a kind of praxis, prac tical activity . . . Iwith) an intellectual dimension. . . . EtlUlograpby already threatens "scientism." The notion that cultures are complex and whole and that they can be represented in their mundane density confronts the ten-

The Good News about Life History

dency of scicntism to reduce human agency and to deoontex tualizc action. . . . I think the concept of neighborliness can extend these qualities by highlighting the fact that research is action with social and political dimensions. Given the hierarchical posi tionsof universities and schools, relations between university researchers and school teachers are unequal. Knowledge, pres tige, and the power of the profession belong to the researcher, not the researched. Further, publishing what is learned from the researched for a disciplinary community is an action that has the possibility of advam;ing the career of the researcher who uses the research as a lrulTket.lblc commodity. This ac tion has the consequent possibility of separating and alien ating the researcher more from the "ordinary" teachers. It is the revulsion against what has been caned this "rape model of research" in which career advancement is built on "alien ating and exploitative inquiry methods" that prompts eth nographers to share their findi.ngs with their subiects and has suggested to Patti Lather that research findings should he jointly negotiated with those who are researched. jSavage 1988:8,13-14)

NEW

SOCIAL HISTORIAN: The movement for history from be

low has challenged not only the elitist conecption of who history is about, but also elitist notions of who should do history and who it should be for. It has emphasized that not only professional historians but also ordinary people who are intercsted in the past of their families, communitics, and or ganizations can contribute to the understanding of history. And it has shown that history, properly presented, can find a wide audience when it addresses matters which concern or dinary people. The result has been an international movement of commu nities and workers investigating their own neighborhoods and workplaces. In England, thousands of people bave par ticipated in local "history workshops" which explore the hislory of panicular neighborhoods. . . . More dramatically, when workers in Poland conducted a nationwi.de general strikc, occupied their own workplaces, and created their own organization, Solidarity, one of the first things thcy did was to try to record and uncover their own history. Through in terviews with eady participants, published in their local union newsletters, they made sure that the story of their own movement was preserved. . . . This is a guide for people who are not professional histo-

Michal M. Mccall and Judith Wittner

nans but who want to explore the history of their own com munity, workplace, union, or local organization. It wiH tell you how to design a project you can do with the time and resources you have available; how to collect documents and do interviews; how to put together the material you gather; and how to present it to others in your glOup and conunu nity. (Brecher 1986: I, 2)

Selves It is a commonplace in our tradition that people perceive them selves, have conceptions of themselves, communicate with them selves, and plan, organize ami evaluate their own actions {Blumer 1969; Coffman 1959; McCall and Simmons 1966). We also have a tradition of reading Life histories to understand people's conceptions of them selves and their evaluations of their own actions and careers (Becker 1970; Jones 1980; McCall 1985; Denzin 1986). We have considered life history a good way to study people's conceptions of themselves be cause we know that when we ask people to wIite life history we are eliciting autobiography and autobiography, as literary critics tell us, is " the activity of explaining oneself by telling one's story" (Stone 1982:

to).

The autobiographer "discovers who he is-that? he is

through inspection of what he has done. He deduces a self and ac counts for it" (Spacks 1976: 17-18). We know that the self explained in autobiography, like the sdf presented in interaction, is an image of social life; explaining themselves, autobiographers explain what they understand about society and social change. Recently, life history researchers from other traditions have begun to talk this way about stories and selves: [In some of the best recent workl the, life history . . . is no longer simply a narrative ITame for stringing together life-cycle rituals, socialization patterns, and a generational history as ex perienced by one individual; nor is it left to unique individuals. Indeed, life h,story deconstructs in the fullest sense; not mak ing tbe subject disappear, but rather illuminating the social and constructive clements of an individual that makc him or her potent in social context. Insofar as life history is the locus of experience it is imponant to specify the cultural meanings that figwe and compose it. �Marcus and Fischer 1986: 182-83} Some of them have gone beyond our recognition that we can read selves in the life histories we elicit. They point out that everyday sto-

The Good News about Life History

rytclling is as important

as everyday interaction to the construction

and maintenance of sel{, ITheJ people II studiedl, like so many of the elderly, were very fond of reminiscing and storytellin� eager to be heard from, eager to relate parts of their life his tory. More afraid of oblivion than pain OT death, they always sought opportunities to become visible. Narrative activity among them was intense and relentless. . . . In their stories, as in their cultural dramas, they witnessed themselves, and thus knew who they were, serving as subject and object at oncc. They narrated themselves perpetually, in the form of keeping notes, journals, writing poems and reflections spon taneously, and also telling U1Cir stories to whoever would listen. Their histories were not devoted to marking their successes or unusua1 merits. Rather they were efforts at or dering sorting. explaining-rendering consistent their long hfe, finding integrating ideas and charactcristics that helped them know themselves as the same person over time, despite grcat ruptu��S and shifts. (Myerhoff 1978 :33-34) SECOND ANTHROPOLOGIST: By considering two current notions of ethnographic description, ethnoscientiJic models of ernie analysis and detailed monographs as versions of realism, we can ask how anthropologists should represent other people's lives. Despite their proven strengths, 1 shan argue in what follows that ethnoscience and ethnographic realism share a specific limitation. Neither approach makes central the sto FIRST ANTHROPOLOGIST:

ries people tell themselves about themselves and this crucial omission robs a certain human significance from anthropo logical accounts. Ethnographers can learn much about mean ingful action by listening to storytellers as they depict their own Jives. . . . Rather than seeing human activities unfold through sucb programmed sequences as the daily round, the annual cycle, or the We cycle . . . I will attempt to show how narrative can provide a particularly rich source of knowledge about the sig nificance people find in their workaday lives. Such narratives often reveal more about what can make life worth living than about how it is routinely lived. (Rosaldo 1986: 97-98J PSYCHOLOGISTS: In developing a self-narrative the individual attempts to establish coherent connections among life events . . . . Rather than seeing one's hfe as simply "one damned thing after another," the individual attempts to

8()

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner understand life events as systematically related. They are rendered intelligible by locating them in a sl."qucnce or "un folding process." One's present identity is thus not a sudden and mysterious event, but a sensible result of a life story. As Bettelhcim has argued, such recreations of narrative order may be essent;.'!1 in giving one's life a sense of meaning and direction. {Gergen and Gergen 1983:252).

Another recent development is the recognition, by experimental an thropologists, that autobiographicaJ selves may be a culture-bound phenomenon. Clifford, for example, has argued that "the exemplary, coherent self [or rather, the self pulling itself together in autobiogra phy)" is "a potent and pervasive mechanism for the production of meaning in the West," but that there is "nothing universal or natural about the fictional processes of biography and autobiography" [Clif ford 1986b: 106}. Marcus and Fischer have added, The Samoan language has no terms corresponding to "person ality, self, character"; instead of ow Socratic "know thyself," Samoans say "take care of the relationships"; instead of the furopean image of a rounded, integrated personality, like a sphere with no sides, Samoans arc like gems cut wi.th many distinct sides. The greater the number of sides, or parts, defined by reJationships, the more brilliant the form, the greater the craft and skjll of the person. Persona) quaJities are relative to context rather than descriptive of a persistent and consistent quality or essence. Samoans comment upon these diHerences in concepts of personhood between furo·Americans and Sa moans as much as do Westerners themselves. The Samoan sense of shifting, flexible personhood explains the difficulty traditional anthropological theory has had in accommodating Samoans within its constructs of kinship systems as static frameworks of roles associated with well-defined rights and ob ligations. [1986:65)

Narrative The renewed interest in life history research we have been discuss ing is, in part, a result of recent changes in the scholarly reputation of narrative representations. Proponenls of narrative deny that all stories and, among modes of representation, only stories are fictions and myths. According to Geerrz, for example, "anthropological writings are themselves interpretations land] thus, fictions: fictions in the sense that they are 'something made,' something fashioned'-the original

The GDod News about life Hi.�tory

meaning of fietio-not that they are false, unfactual, or merely 'as if' thought experiments" (1973 : IS). Proponents of narrative also deny that stories are cognitively inferior to scientific modes of representation, "belonging w a different men tality: savage, primitive, underdeveloped, backward," and, therefore, "fit only for women and children" (Lyotard 1984: 27). According to this view, the tendency "to depreciate narrative as a form of knowledge, and the personal narrative particularly, in contrast to other forms of dis course considered scholarly, scientific, technical or the like . . . lis merelyJ part of a general predisposition in [Western] culture to dichoto mize forms and functions of language usc, and to treat one side of the dichotomy as superior, the other side as something to be disdained, discouraged, diagnosed as evidence or cause of subordinate status" [Hyrne. 19800 1291. Conversely, symbolic intcraetionists who talk about and do life his tory research have benefited from the narrative theories that brought about this change. In a series of frequently cited articles, the humanist Louis O. Mink bas argued that narrative is "not just a technical prob lem for writers and critics but a fundamental mode of comprehension . . . irreducible to other Imodes/ or to any more general mode" (quoted in White 1981 :2521. Similarly, the literary critic Barbara Hardy �197SI has argued that narrative is a "common human possession," a "pri_ mary act of mind transferred to art from life" and not an "aesthetic invention" of literary artists. More recently, Jerome Bruner, the cogni tive psychologist, has argued that stories and arguments arc "two modes of cognitive functioning, two modes of thought, each proViding distinctive ways of ordering experience, of constructing reality" and that each has i.ts own "criteria of well-formedness" and "procedures for verification": A good story and a well-formed argument arc different natural kinds. Both can be used as means for convincing another. Yet what they convince of is fundamentally different: arguments convince one of their tTUth, stories of their lifelikeness. The one verifies by eventual appeal to procedures for establishing fonnal and empirical proof. The other establishes not truth but verisimilitude. It has been c1aimed that one is a refinemcllt of or an abstraction from the other. But this must be either false or true only in the most unenlighterung way. (J. Bnmer

19860 I I I

Building on the insights of various narrative theorists, Norman Denzin has proposed that we use authenticity, thick description, and

Mjchal M. McCall and Judith Witmer

verisimilitude as standards for interpreting We histories and other qualitative lanecdotal, case studyJ data: Elsewhere . . . I have reviewed the matters of rehability, exter· nal and internal validity, sampling representativeness, gener alizability, causal adequacy, and causal analysis and suggested strategies for confronting these traditional quantitative ques tions. In this chapter, I will address the questions of au thenticity, thick dcsniption, and verisimilitude. Traditional, positivistic, quantitative criteria of evaluation are not relevant when the investigator is committed to the qualitative study of everyday hfe. Authenticity raises the criterion of lived relevance. AIc the researcher's observations and records grounded in the natural, everyday language, behaviors, meanings, and interactions of those studied? If they are authentically reat the world of the subject spcaks through the rcsearchcr's document . An au thentic document discloses the hiddcnncss of the world and reveals its underlying problematic and the structures that are taken for granted. . . . An authcntic document rests on thick description . . . . A thick description goes beyond fact to detail, context, emotion, and webs of relationship. [n a thick description, the voices, feelings, and meanings of persons are heard. In the social sciences, thin descriptions abound and find their expression in correlation coefficients, path diagrams, F-ratios, dummy variables, structural equations, tests of significance, and social indicators. Thick descriptions arc exceedingly rare, yet they are the stuff of interpretation and qualitative evaluation in the so· cial sciences. VerisimiUtude derives from authentic, thick descriptions. It is achieved whcn the author of a document brings the life world alive in the mind of the reader. The intent of versimili tude is to convey that the experiences recorded and experi· enced by the observer would have been sensed by the reader, had he been present during the actual moments of interaction .

that are reflected in the document. If one's goal is the understanding and interpretation of the world as it is lived, experienced, and practiced, then the meth odological strategies discussed in this chapter seem warranted. {Dcnzin 1982: 20-21, 251 Recently, some interpretive anthropologists have suggested that nar rative theories are also culture·bound. Because most theorists work

The c..ood News about Life History

with texts and ignore storytelling as a social act, they often commit the errors of presentism and ethnocentrism. Although they find certain tales to be better told than others, Ilangats claim that listing the place-names where somebody walked is just as much a story (and indeed cannot be omitted from any true story) as a more fully elaborated narrative. Per haps this indigenous viewpoint can be placed in sharper relief by juxtaposing minimal Hongat narratives and history's con ventional threefold division into the annals, the chronicle, and history proper. Ordered only by chronological sequence ratheT than narrative logiC, [Jongot hunting stories resemble the lowest order of historical texts: that is, they resemble an nals, not chronicles, and certainly not history proper. Yet pre cisely where histmical studies see differences of this kind, I1ongots perceive only differences in degree. Indeed, I shall ar gue that [thel ethnographic evidence suggests that history'S threefold division, particularly insofar as it is hierarchical and evolutionary, derives mme from parochial modern canons of narrative excellence than from the realities of other times and places. In this respect, we can lump together the errors of pres entism and ethnocentrism. Even the most astute historical thinkers could learn from what nongot.� tell in their minimal story form. Hayden White (1980: 12), for example, claims that in the annals, "social events are apparently as incomprehensible as natural events. . . In fact, it seems that their importance consists of nothing other than the fact that they were recorded." In other wmds, the events recorded read like a random list that neither elaborates linkages between events nor tells readers about the greater and lesser significance of specific recorded items. Thus, according to White, events matter only because they arc written down, and once recorded they assume equal import. White ignores the fact that people whose biographies Significantly overlap can communicate rich understandings n i telegraphic form. People who share a complex knowledge about their worlds can assume a common backgrowld and speak through allusion, whereas writers i.n the modern world of print must spell things out fOI thei.r relatively unknown readers. (Rosaldo 1986: 106-8) .

One exception is Barbara Herrnstdn Smith, a literary critic who has proposed an alternative to the "current narratological model." In Smith's alternative model, narratives are "regarded not only as struc tures but also as acts, the features of which-hke the features of all

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner

other social acts-aIe functions of the variable sets of conditions in response to which they are performed" ISmith 1981 : 1821. [We] might conceive of narrative discourse most minimally and most generally as verbal acts consisting of someone telling someone else that something happened. Among the' advan tages of such a conception is that it makes explicit the relation of narrative discourse to other forms of discourse and, thereby, to verbal, symbolic, and social behavior generally . A second, related advantage of conceiving of narrative this way-which is to say, as part of a social transaction-is that it encourages us to notice and explore certain aspects of narra dve that tend to remain obscure or elusive when we conceive of it primarily as a kind of text or structure or any other form of detached and decontextualized entity. For it suggests not only that cvery telling is produced and experienced under cer tain social conditions and constraints and that it always in volves two panies, an audience as well as a narrator, but also that, as in any other social transaction, each party must be in dividual1y motivated to participate in it: in other words, that each party must have some interest in telling or listening to that narrative. The significance of this emphasis for narrative theory is that it suggests why, in seeking to account for either the forms and features of individual narratives or the similarities and differ ences among sets of narratives, we might profitably direct our attention to the major variables involved in those transactions: that is to the particular motives and interests of narrators and audiences and to the particular social and circ*mstantial con ditions that ehcit and constrain the behavior of each of them. {ibid.;182-84J .

The significance of Smith's model for symbolic interaction theory is that it directs us to consider storytelling as a collective activity, whether in life history interviews, in storytelling groups, or in every day life, and to use our tradition to study all kinds of storytelling. That is, we can see stories and other modes of representing knowledge about society as "ways some people tell what they think they know to other people who want to know il, as organized activities shaped by the joint efforts of everyone involved": The form and content of representations vary because social organzation shapes not only what is made, but also what people want their representation to do, what job they think they need done (like finding their way or knowing what the

The Good News about Life History

latest findings in their field are), and what standards they will use to judge it. Because the jobs users call on representations [0 do depend so heavily on organizational definitions, we )need not bel concerned with . . . what is the best way Ito represent knowledge of social lifel . . . . It seems more useful, more likely to lead to new understandin& to think of every way of repre senting social reality as perfect-for something. The question is what it is good for. The answer to that is organizational. (Becker 1986: 123-125) CONCLUSION

Symbolic interaction's theoretical and methodolOgical tradition could help the new life historians understand the stories they hear in terms of meaning, context, and perspective. It could help them to ap proach the task of describing and analyzing social groups as concrete, complex, dense, and dynamic wholes. But symbolic intcractionists have at least as much to learn from the greater willingness of life his torians in anthropology and literature to take their project to its logical conclusion by trying to develop new forms of analysis and presentation that support rather than undermine their own meanings and inten tions. What does it mean for our work to speak of subjects and agency if our analysis functions as the authoritative voice, contIoiHng sub jects' speech and interpreting it for the audience? III sociology, sym bolic interactionists have cha1lenged conventional ways of studying society. Can we continue that challenge without a critical look at how standards of presentation and forms of authority support each other? This paper has experimented with new ways of presenting and repre senting knowledge of social We. We see storytelling as the foundation of what we know and how we know it, as sociologists and as members of society. We ought to join our colleagues in other disciplines and begin to build this insight into the form as well as the content of our work. And that's the news. NOTES Patti Lather has written, "while in my earlier work I used the term 'openly ideological', I find 'praxis-oriented' better describes Lhe emergent para digm I have been tracking over the last few years. 'Openly ideological' in vites comparisons with fundamentalist and conservative movements whereas

'praxis-oriented' clarifies the critical and empowering lOots of a research para digm openly committed to critiquing the starus quo and building a more just socicty" (1986:258). Although we agree with Lather, we have used the terms

Michal M. McCall and ludith Witmer

"consciously ideological" and "openly id(.'ological" in this paper because we think their meaning is more obvious. 2. In deference to the title of this symposium, we have used the terms sym bolic interaction and symbolic imcractionist in this paper, although, following Chapoulic (1987), we prefer to call ourselves fieldworkers and our life history research fieldwork.

REFERENCES Anderson, Kathryn, Susan Armitage, Dana Jack, and Judith Wittner. 1987. "Beginning Where We AIe: feminist Methodology in Oral History." DIal History Review 15 (SpringJ: I03-27. Armitage, Susan. 1983. "The Next Step." Frontiers 8 (no. 1):3-8. Becker, Howard S. 1970. Sociological Work. Chicago: AIdine. . 1973. Outsiders: Studies in the Sociology of Deviance. New York: Free Press. . 1982. "Culture: A Sociological View." Yale Review {Sum merJ:SI3-27. ---. 1986. "Telling About Society." pp. ]21-36 in Doing Tbings Together. E.vanston: Northwestern University Press. Berger, Bennett M. 1981. The Sunrival of a Counterculture. Berkeley: University of California Press. Blumer, Herbert. 1969. Symbolic fnteracLionism: PerspecLlve and Method. Englewood ChEfs, NJ: Prentice Hall. Brecher, Jeremy. 1986. History from Below: How to Uncover and Tell the Story of Your Community, Association, or Union. New Haven: Commonwealth Pamphlets/Advocate Press. Bruner, Edward. 1986a. "Introduction: Experience and Its Expres sions." pp. 3-30 in The Anthropology of Experience, edited by Vic tor Turner and Edward Bruner. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. . 1986b. "Ethnography as Narrative." Pp. 139-155 in Tbe An· thropology of Experience, edited by Vict or Turner and Edward Bru ner. Chicago: Univcrsity of Chicago Press. Brwler, Jerome. 1986. Actual Minds, Possible Worlds. Cambridgc, MA: Harvard University Press. Burgess, Robert G. 1984. In the Field: An Introduction to Field Re search. London: George Allen and Unwin. Chapoulie, Jean-Michel. 1987. "Everett C. Hughes and the Develop ment of Fieldwork in Sociology." Urban Life 15 (JanuaryJ:2S9-97. Cherlin, Andrew. 1983. "Remarriage as an Incomplete Institution." pp. 388-402 in Family in Transition, edited by Arlene S. Skolnick and Jerome H. Skolnick. Boston: Little, Brown. ---

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The Good News about Lite History

Chesnaux, Jean. 1978. Pasts And Futures or What Is History For! Lon don: Thames and Hudson. Clifford, James. 1986b. "On Ethnographic Allegory." Pp. 98-121 in Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, edited by 'ames Clifford and George E. Marcus. Berkeley, CA: The Uni versity of California Press. , and George E. Marcus jeJsI. 1986. Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography. Berkeley: University of California Press. Conquergood, Dwight. 1987. "Performance Paradigms and Cultural Studies: Conceptual Boundaries and Research Agendas," Unpub lished paper presented at the Speech Communication Association Convention, Boston, November. Crapanzano, Vincent. 1980. Tullomi: Portrait of a Moroccan. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Denzin, Norman K. 1982. "Contributions of Anthropology and S0ciology to Qualitative Research Methods." Pp. 17-26 in New

Directions for Institutional Research: Qualitative Method for In· stitutional Research, edited by E. Kuhns and S. V. Martorana. San Francisco: lossey-Bass. . 1986. The Alcoholic Self. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage Publications. Gardner, James B., and George RoHie Adams. 1983. Ordinary People and Everyday Life: Perspectives on the New Social History. Nash ville, TN: American Association for State and Local History. Geertz, Clifford. 1973. Tbe Interpretation of Cultures. New York: Ba sic Books. --. 1983. Local Knowledge. New York: Basic Books. Gergen, Kenneth I., and Mary M. Gergen. 1983. "Narratives of the Self." pp. 2S 1-273 in Swdit;s in Social Identity, edited by TR. Sarbin and K.E. Scheibe. New York: Pr.aeger. Glaser, Barney C. and Anselm L. Strauss. 1967. The Discovery of Groundt;d Thoory. Chicago: Aldine. Gluck, Sherna. 1977. "What So Special about Women! Women's Oral History." Frontiers 7 (No. 2): 3-14. Goffman, Erving. 1959. The Presentation of Self in Everday Life. Gar dCIl City, NY: Doubleday Anchor. Grcle, Ronald ,. 1975. "Movcmcnt without Aim." Pp. 126-54 in En velopes of Sound, edited by Ronald J. Grclc. Chicago: PrecL-dcnt Publishing Hardy, Barbara. 1975. Tellers and Listeners: The Narrative Imagina tion. London: Athlone Press. Hughes, Everett C. 1971. The Sociological Eye. Chicago: Aldine. Hymcs, Dell, with Counncy Cazdcn. 1980. "Narrative Thinking and --

Michal M. McCall and Judith Wittner

Story-Telling Rights: A Folklorist's Critique of Education." Pp. 126-38 in Language in Education: Essays iu Etlmolinguistics. Washington, DC: Center for Applied Linguistics. Jones, Wendy L. 1980. "Newcomers' Biographical Explanations: The Self as Adjustment Process." Symbolic Interaction 3 : 83-94. Lather, Patti . 1986. "Research as Praxis." Harvard Educational Review

56 IAugusti,257-77. Liebcrson, Stanley. 1985. Making It Count: The Improvement of So cial Research and Theory. Berkeley: University of California Press. Lindesmith, Alfred R. 1947. Opiate Addiction. Bloomington, IN: Prin cipia Press.

Lyotard, Jean-PraDl;ois. 1984. The Postmodem Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Translated hom the french by Geoff Bennington and Brian Massumi. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Marcus, Gcorge E., and Michael M. J. Fischcr. 1986. Antbropology as Cultuml Critique: An Experimental Moment in tbe Human Sci ences. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Marcus, George E. 1986. "Contemporary Problems of Ethnography in the Modern World System" pp. J65-93 in Writing CulLurc: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, edited by James Clifford and George E. Marcus. Berkeley: University of California Press. McCaU, George J., and J. L. Simmons. 1966. Identities and Interac tions. New York: The Free Press. McCall, Michal M. 1989. "The Significance of Storytelling." Ufe Sto ,ies/Recits de vie. 5. Forthcoming. . 1985. "Life History and Social Change. " Swdies in Symbolic

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Interaction 6: 169-82. Myerhoff, Barbara. 1978. Number Our Days. New York: Simon and Schuster.

Owens, Craig. 1983. "The Discourse of Others: Feminists and POSt modernism." Pp. 57-81 in The Anti-Aesthetic: Essays on Post modern Cuftwe, edited by Hal Foster. Port Townsend, WA: Bay

Press. Plummer, Ken. 1983. Documents of Ufe: An introduction to the Prob lems and Literature of a Humanistic Method. London: George Al len and Unwin. Ragin, Charles. 1987. The Comparative Method: Moving Beyond Qualitative and Quantitative Strategies. Berkeley: University of CaWornia Press. Rosaldo, Renato. 1986. "llongot Hunting as Story and Experience." pp. 97-138 in The Anthropology of Experience, edited by Victor Turner and Edward Bruner. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Savage, Mary C. 1988. "Can Ethnographic Narrative Be a Neighborly Act?" Anthropology and Education Quarterly 19 (March): 3-19.

The Good News about Life History

Schorr, Alvin 1. and Phyllis Moen. 19&3. "The Single Parent and Public Policy." pp. 575-86 in Family ill Transition, edited by Arlene S. Skolnick and Jerome H. Skolnick. Boston: little, Brown. Smith, Barbara Herrnstein. 1981. "Narrative Versions, Narrative Theo ries." pp. 162-86 in American Criticism In tbe Post-Structuralist Age, edited by Ira Konigsberg. Ann AJbor, MJ: Michigan Studies in the Humanities. Spacks, Patricia Meyer. 1976. Imagining a Self: Autobiography and the Novel in Eighteentb Century England. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Stone, Albert E. 1982. Autobiographicai Occasions and Original Acts. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Taubin, Sara 8., and Emny H. Mudd. 1983. "Contemporary Traditional FamiHes: The Undefined Majority." Pr. 256-68 in Contemporary Familes and Alternative U!estyles, edited by Eleanor D. Mackli.n and Roger H. Rubin. Beverly Hills, CA: Sage Publications. Tyler, Stephen A. 1986. "Post-Modern Ethnography: from Document of the Occult to Occult Document." Pp. 122-41 in Writing Cul ture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography, edited by James Clifford and George E. Marcus. Berkeley : University of California Press. Tyrrell, Ian. 1986. The Absent Marx: Class Analysis arId LiberaJ His tory in Twentieth Century America. Westport, CT: GreenwOCKi Press. Watson, Lawrence c., and Maria-Barbara Watson-Franke. 1985. In ter preting Ufe Histories: An Anthropological Im1uiry. New Bruns wick, NJ: Rutgers University Press_ White, Hayden. 1980. "The Value of Narrativity in the Representation of Reality." Grillea/ lnquiry 7 : 5 -27. . 1981. "The Narrativization of Real Events." Pp. 249-51 in On Narrative, edited by w.J.T. Mitchell. Chicago: University of Chi --

cago Press. Zunz, Oliver, ed. 1985 Reliving tile Past: The Worlds of Social History_ Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press.

Studying Religion in the Eighties Mary fo Neitz At one time sociologists pretty much assumed that if one knew a

person's ethnicity, class, and region, one could predict his or her feU· gious preference. If one knew religious preference one could predict religious beliefs and attitudes on a score of questions ranging from abortion to nudear disarmament. Everyone knew that Irish and Italian residents of old industrial cities were Catholics, prayed to Mary, be lieved that sex was sinful, and voted for liberal Democratic candidates. Everyone knew that Pentecostals lived in the South {or had recently relocated in northern cities where they felt far from homel; white or black, they had Little education and made little money, spoke in tongues, believed that drinking and dancing were sinful, and were politically conservative and/or outside the political process. Tbese correspondences no longer adequately describe religion in American society Hf they ever did!, and, in attempting to understand recent changes in religious phenomena, sociology of religion has adopted ap proaches that bring it very close to tbe traditional concerns of symbolic interactionists. 1 suggest that symbolic interaction is well suited to helping us understand the Quid re1ationships that today often obtain between religions and social structures and between religions and cul tural change, as well as the personal transformations experienced by individuals moving between religious systems of meaning.

CHANGE.S IN AMERICAN RELIGION The last twenty-five years have seen the appearance of Charismat ics and Nco-Pentecostals in the mainline denominations, the growth of fundamentalism, the appearance of "new religions," and an incrcas ing involvement of reJigion in politics, left and right, throughout the world. My own observation of religion bcgan in this dynamic pcriod. In 1977 I was teaching at a Catholic coUege in northern Indiana, and 90

J encountered among my students-who were preparing for careers in social work and counselling-enthusiastic participants in Catho-

Studying Religion in the Eighties

lie Pentecostahsm. These upwardly mobile, college-educated young people were speaking in tongues and practicing faith healing within the Catholic church. 1 made an appointment to see Andrew Greeley at the National Opinion Research Center, and I asked him whether we had any survey data on whetheT

not Catholics before this had be

lieved that accepting Jesus into their hearts meant they were saved. Greeley told me that this was not a Catholic question and that nobody had asked iLl When ' accompanied my students to their prayer group in a prosperous suburb, I met lawyers and business executives, hardly the dispossessed individuals deprivation theory led me to expect in such a religious setting. My sociological training had not prepared me very well for neo-Pentecostalism. R. Stephen Warner has argued that sociologists could not see what was happening in evangelical religion because of their biases. He claims that sociologists believed that evangelicals wcre lower class, politically conservative, and historically regressive: Each of these preconceptions is based on a perfectly respccrable empirical correlation: the correlation between denomination and social class; the correlation between religious orthodoxy and political conservatism; and the observation that disen chantment oc secularization advanced ovec a century long pe riod, especially from the mid-nineteenth to the mid-twentieth century. Howevec, these empirical generalizations have been hypostatizL-'d to the status of theoretical constructs so that the correlations have come to take the appearances of identities

(1979,41. These theoretical constructs, as well as many other received notions about religion, were not useful in understanding what was happening in the 1970s and 1980s. In fact, they got in the way of understanding religion. We can no longer assume that class, religious orthodoxy, and atti tudes on social issues would fal1 into neat ideological packages. An example from my research is that the middle-class Catholics I stud ied who became Charismatics were actively against abortion. Their "pro-family" stance, however, differed from that observed among middle-class, born-again Protestants for whom being "pro-family" meant being actively against the ratification of the ERA and against hom*osexuality as well. For Protestants tradition held that only married men could be elders of the church, but a history of unmarried clerics

Mary '0 Neitz

and religious workers in the Catholic church contributed to a culture in the Charismatic Renewal quite different from that of their Protes tant allies in the anti-abortion fight jNeitz 1981}. In other ways our received wisdom based on theory and previous research no longer fits the empirical reality. Denomination now does not predict religious beliefs as we once thought it did (Roof and Mc Kinney

1987). [n the seventies, in "liberal" denominations like the

Episcopalians and Presbyterians members divided over questions of fundamentalism (Warner

1983, 1988). Fundamentalists and moderates

are now fighting for the soul of the Southern Baptist Convention jAm merman 19871.2 Furthermore individuals ' commitments to their de nominations seem less likely to survive a geographic move than we might have thought. Studies of interstate migration in the United States suggest that individuals who move adapt to the religious pat terns of the new region: they are more likely to attend church in re gions where church attendance is high, less likely to attend church in regions where it is low !Stump

1984:292-3031, and they may even

change denominations to accommodate to prevailing regional patterns !Ncwman and Halvorson

1984 : 3 13).

In addition to changes in the relations between religious affiliation and other variables, in the late sixties and seventies new sects and cults spread through American culture.J Converts, at first part of the six ties counterculture but enduring into the eighties, sought moral and ethicaJ alternatives to liberal Protestant culture. In many cases par ticipants look on a vision of sacred power within themselves, not out side and above. The new religions empbasized the emotional and experienlial; as Robbins, Anthony, and Richardson described it, "au thentic values are being generated by intense experience rather than by rational thought and analysis" (1979: 113; see also Westley 1978; Tipton 19821. The arrival of the new religions had a significant impact on the so cioJogy of religion. Church-sect typologies came under attack, and social movement theory was brought in to analyze these religious movements.4 Participant observation studies, often by relatively sym pathetic researchers !see Richardson 1985a: 1 76], not only offered new views of conversion and power, but raised questions about seculariza· tion itself.

INTE.RPRETIVE FRAMEWORKS inspired both by what was going on in the world and by devel opments in sociology, sociologists of religion turned to interpreti\'e

Studying Religion in tbe Eighties

modes of analysis, especially to the anthropolOgists Clifford Geertz and Victor Turner, but also to Mary Douglas and A. F. C. Wal1ace. The work of these anthropologiStS W.1S of interest to sociologists studying other cullura] forms as well (sec Mukerji ami Schudson ] 986}. But it was particularly important for those sociologists who wished to study reli gious phenomena that did not fit into established categories. The an thropologists took for granted that religion was worth studying and offered models for looking at it that were similar to those that others in cultural studies generally were developing. Geertz focuses on the human capacity for making symbols. In his discussion of symbols as "models of and models for" he argued that symbols were not just expressive. Symbols reflect social arrangements, but they also affect social arrangements. The essay "Religion as a Cul tural System" offered more than a definition of religion: it presented a research agenda for investigating religion as a "system of meanings" and relating them to social structural and psychological processes 11973:87- 125\. Turner also suggested ways that cultural forms reflected social stnlctures but could potentially change it. He focused all rituals, cere monies, and performances, describing these as possible moments of contrast with daily life. He used the term "anti-structure" to talk about how these "sustained public actions" stand in relation to the social order. His early work described in detail Ndembu ritual; later work extended his early insights to monks, hippies, and pilgrims, among others (1967, 19691. He believed that in modern societies reli gion was often a repository of countcrcultural values which could be exhibited in a ritual or a way of life. For Douglas culture is "a medium of exchange for people giving ac counts to one another." Often drawing comparisons across societies, she has written of the meaning in food and goods (J 966; with Isher wood, 1979). Her conceptual scheme generalizes relations between cosmologies and social structures j 1970). Wallace's model of revitaliza tion movements has been used by those who want to understand reli gious social movements as forces for change j1956). Again, one of the attractions in Wallace's work is that he knits together social structure, cultural change, and personality. These anthropologists were important for sociologists of religion for the same reasons that they were important to so many other students of cultuTC. They saw understanding culture and meaning as central to social science. All saw symbols and rituals as reflecting social struc ture but also holding the possibility of transforming it. All were con-

Mary 1o Neitz

cerned with the relationship between the cultural and social levels. Finally, each has produced exciting empirical exemplars along with programmatic theoretical statements. Equally important, these anthropologists did not share biases of the sociologists who believed secularization theory. In fact, given the grim ness of much work in the sociology of religion, it was almost refreshing when onc occasionally ran into the opposite bias, as for example, when, on the basis of her theory, Mary Douglas condemns the Second Vatican Council for trying to purge the magic from the Catholic church [19701. This is not to say that no one in the sociology of religion had any part in the turning toward meaning. ritual, and symbolic systems. Pe tcr Berger and Thomas Luckmann le.g., 1966), writing together and each on his own, have had a tremendous influence. However, their phenomenological understanding of religion was deeply embedded in classical theories of secularization. Berger himself was profoundly un sympathetic to many of the religious movements of the seventies and eighties, and his ideas about religion and modernization have been challenged by many of those who studied the new religions \see Beck fOld 1983; Neitz 1987; Richardson 1985b). NEW ApPROACHE.S IN THE SOCIOLOGY OF RELIGION

In this necessarily abbreviated review J hope to show how recent research in the sociology of religion is using approaches similar to those traditionally used by symbolic interactionists. J will start with conversion. Although 1 only touch the surface of the voluminous lit erature on this topic, J devote a significant portion of the paper to it because here we can clearly see emerging a new paradigm that views conversion as an interactive process in which the convert interprets alternative social realities, including that offered by the proselytizers. Attention to the process by which individuals undergo self-transfor mation brings to the fore other issues, two of which I will discuss briefly. One concerns the nature of religious experience-what it is and how it gets interpreted. Panicipants' claims about experiences of em powerment in particular raise many issues for how we conceptualize power, religious and otherwise. The other issue is methodological as well as conceptual. Although new converts to religious groups may fmd themselves encapsulated by the sect, in many cases the kinds of cultural transformations achieved by religious movements flow across group boundaries. Sociologists of religion are only starting to figure out how to study these kinds of cultural movements.

Studying Religion in the Eighties

Conversion Early approaches to conversion saw Paul's experience on the Da mascus road as paradigmatic: conversion was instantaneous, irra tional, and determined. Lofland and Stark's influential study broke with this by showing conversion to be a process occurring over time, but their model still depicted conversion as something that happened lor did not happen) to a passive actor

(1965). Through the seventies

sociologists elaborated on this model, studying the fit between poten tial converts and the ideologies of groups, and converts' patterns of affiliation. In a fruther break with the original model, some analysts began to examine cOllversion as an interactive process with the poten tial convert having a part in producing a conversion. Early explanations of conversion

sects and cults saw religion as

compensating for deprivation experienced in other aspects of life: individuals who converted to sects or cults did so because their deprivations predisposed them in that direction. Sociologists defined deprivation broadly to include relative deprivation: "ways that an in dividual or group may be or feel disadvantaged in comparison to other individuals or groups or to an internalized set of standards" (Glock

1964:27). Glock's five types of deprivation-economic, social, organ ismic (deprivation of healthl, ethical, and psychical-also extended the earlier theories. The current controversy over cults can be understood as a controversy between those who continue to adhere to brainwash· ing theory and adherents of theories that look at individuals as agents in their own conversion lsee Richardson

1985al. These differences in

theoretical perspective arc often accompanied by differences in meth ods: psychologists who see cults as engaging in brainwashing usc case studies of often troubled clients, as opposed to sociologists who arc more likely to usc participant observation methods. Sociologists attempted to match the deprivations of individuals with the ideology of a particular group. But recent researchers have criti cized this approach. As conceptions of deprivation expanded, it became clear that the relationship between deprivations and compensations is not direct. To postulate that people join social movements because the ideology matches their deprivations tells us little if they may join be cause it justifies the deprivations jsee Davis

1980: 130), or because it actually alleviates them (Stark and Bainbridge 1980: 13941. Many people feel deprived, either absolutely or in relation to others; only some of them will join social movements. Furthermore research ers have become more aware of the enormous difficulties introduced

Mary Jo Neitz

by using converts' accounts of their own conversion to tell us about their previous lives and the changes wrought by conversion (Beckford 1978). This does not mean that we cannot use converts' accounts as evidence, but the question is, how should the evidence be interpreted? Snow and Machalek have suggested that evidence of biographical re construction in conversion accounts should be considered one of four distinguishing properties of conversion (1983: 266-69). The story that a convert tells is an important indicator of her or his conversion, but it teUs us Jess about who the person used to be and more about who he or she is now. Lofland's and Stark's ( 1965) study of "The Divine Precepts" in the early sixties brought to our collective attention the way that new people were drawn into cults through tie. .. to their friends. Potential converts came to accept the ideology after having had considerable contact with members of the cult and forming personal attachments to them. Bainbridge's (1978) study of a satanic cult demonstrated that in terpersonal bonds were crucial not only in recruiting new members, but also in the ini.tial formation of the sect. Richardson and Stewart 1 (977) found social networks played an important role in conversion within the Jesus movement, as well. Stark and Bainbridge (1980) attrib ute the rapid growth of the contemporary Mormon church to an ag gressive recruiting policy that emphasizes the development of social networks. In Snow's and Phillips's test of the Lofland and Stark model only affiliation factors-cult affective bonds and intense social inter action-came out as important. Snow and Phillips conclude that "the salience of intense interaction to conversion cannot be overempha sized" [l980, 4431. Taken together the factors of deprivation and social networks have been used to develop a model explaining the situations under which conversions are most likely to occur. Stark and Bainbridge (l980) pre sent a more cautious and economical revision of the Lofland and Stark model. They argue that first, people do not convert unless they have acutely felt tensionsj second, they must be ideological1y predisposed to accept, at the very least, the plausibility of the supernatural; third, they must have some dissatisfaction with the ways that beliefs about the supernatural are presented in the established churches; and fourth, thcy must be pla<.:cd in a situation where thcy will develop social bonds with members. They qualify this basic model by suggesting that the importance of deprivation will be less if there are few costs to convert ing: if the established faiths arc weak and the society shows little

Studying Religion in the Eighties

disapprovaJ of novel religious movements (see Stark and Bainbridge

1980; 1381-821. Snow, Zurcher, and Ekland-Olson refine the analysis of the relation ship between social networks and recruitment to social mov�ments. Starting from the famHi.u proposition that those who have contact with members through preexisting networks have a greater probability of being recruited than those who do [lot, the authors go on to specify that people who have [ewer aDd weaker ties to other networks wilJ be more available to recruiters and more likely to accept 11980; 782-94). In addition, Snow el a1. propose that recruitment is likely to vary with the type of social movement. Movements that require exclusive com mitments (their example is the Hare Krishna) will attract a larger pro portion of their members from recruitment in public places such as streets or airports, and wilJ grow at a slower rate than those move ments that do not require exclusive commitments {796-97J. The notion that individuals vary in their availability-not merely in individual predispositions-to a social movement was confirmed in my study of Charismatics. Membership in the group I studied included a high proportion of individuals at transition points in their lives: ado lescents undergoing identity crises, middle-aged women whose chil dren were leaving home, men and women recently retired from their jobs, and new widows or widowers. Although not all members fit into these categories, it does seem that many were, while not clearly de prived, at least structurally available due to rdative absence of con flicting commitments (sec also Downton 1980:3941. The factors considered in this growing literature obviously bave some relevance in understanding conversion. [n an important test of dominant explanations of conversion Heirich found that these Jac tors explain a portion of the variance. Yet HeiTich called for a new ap proach that would examine the circ*mstances under whicb a person would develop a different grounding, destroying what had been before (1977). Affinity and affiliation ignore the role of the actor in the con version process. They present the convert being drawn to the social movement or group on the basis of something within him/herself or as encapsulated by a social network and therefore becoming a part of the social movement. In neither case is the individual's decision process examined. By the end of the seventies the emphasis on recruitment began to be supplemented by analyses of the how transformation takes place. Con cern turned to how the self makes choices over time to commit or fail

Mary Jo Nc-itz

to commit to a new identity (Nehz 1987J. Attendance at a meeting, in the company of a friend or a relative, may mean that an individual is open to considering the group, but it may not. Certainly it does not, in itself, mean that conversion has taken place. Once at a meeting the potential convert is given an interpretation of the world, including a new view of his or her own affinities. Rewards of attending may hegin to accrue even before full identification is made. For the potentia] coo vert, and for the researcher as well, the process of conversion provides the context for making sense of the various affinities and affiliations that may act as factors in the individual's becoming converted. AJonc, however, these factors provide little insight into how a new view of human experience develops. In line with these concerns those studying conversion suggested a more interactionist, proecssual view of conversion. Out of the new re· ligious movements came a new type, the religious seekers: "the indi vidual human bein.g acting creatively witltin a natural life setting to construct a meaningfuJ life" (Straus 1976: 252, sec also Straus 1979). Religious seekers were clearly active and, faT from being manipulated by cults, might pass from one religious movement to another in the course of a "conversion career" (see Richardson and Stewart 1977). In a study of a £lying saucer cult Balch found panicipants could not be viewed as individuals manipulated by the cult. In this group the leaders supplied little direction, and participants' self-identification as seekers came before their identification with the cult. Those who joined en gaged in a kind of role playing within the group, participating in ac tivities at times when their commitments were uncenain (Balch and Taylor 1977, Balch 1980). In examining the Divine Ught Mission, a group with more structure and direction than the flying saucer cult, Downton (l9801 also posited an active subject. With this approach conversion becomes less a subject exclusively for sociologists of religion and morc a concern with general issues of so cialization.' Once we abandon the notion that converts experience a particular kind of stress or strain, then we can apply (and advance) more general understandings of how people come to make sense of their worlds. In fact, one of the things that is appealing about studying conversion is that it provides a window on Ule usually taken-for granted process of making sense of the world. In my work on Catholic Charismatics, 1 described conversion as a practical and even rational (in a limited sense) process of assessing the claims of belief systems in the light of daily experience, with an

Studying Religion in the Eighties

eye toward particular goals. At the same lime, individuals may report cathartic experiences which they describe as moments of personal knowledge of an ultimate reality. The rational process, then, is accom panied by transformative moments which are quite outside it, but which become incorporated into the understandings that will then be used to assess future claims (Neitz 1987). This leads to a tentative answer to Hcirich's question of what cir c*mstances destroy root reality and how an alternative sense of grounding is built. To talk of the "destruction of the root reality" docs not quite describe what happens; ratheT, root realities, when they exist prior to conversion, get replaced. I suggest that the appropriate analogy here is the molting process.The old carapace falls away in a cathartic experience, but when it does so the Bew one is alIeady substantially in place. The notion that the old reality must be destroyed comes, in part, from the tendency to think of conversion as only the momentary, ir rational process like that of Paul on the road to Damascus. In fact, realities are "destroyed" in the same, often gradual, process through which new ones are built up. Looking at conversion as a problem in the social construction of re ality suggests new research possibilities. One is to examine the process by which individuals leave sects and cults. We know that attrition rates are high. Studies of deconversion examine how individuals be come disillusioned with participation in the group, how they leave, and how they feel about their experience

members (Jacobs 1984,

1987; Wright 1984, 1987). One can compare the construction of reli gious meaning systems with one another, or with other meaning sys· terns such as science or common sense. David Matza ( 1969) and Diane Vaughan (1986) have analyzed deviance and divorce in similar terms. However, some (practitioners and researchers) would arguc that, al though religious conversion can be profitably studied by applying gen eral theories of how people learn things and make sense of their worlds, religion is different because what is being learned is some kind of fun damental grounding. For example, Hcirich (1977 � 674-77) assumes that individuals possess a dominant root reality in which identity is grounded, and that conversion must replace one reality with another. Yet it may be the case that there is no dominating reality. In an early statement of this perspective, Simmel argued that the proliferation of social roles in modern society meant that the whole person could no longer be comprehended Withi.n any one relationship. Rather a person interacted with others on the basis of one or another

Mary 10 Neitz

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social role, sacrificing the security of traditional society, but gaining new freedom possible only in modern society. Most modern interpret ers who discuss this aspect of modernization take a more dismal view of it than did Si mmeL Peter Berger, for example, thinks the possibility of dominating root reality no longer exists for modern individuals. In his terms modern society is characterized by a "plurality of life worlds," which renders individuals psychologically "homeless" (Ber ger, Berger, and Kellner 1973 : 63-82). Such a view of the modern condition requires a different notion of conversion: perhaps it is possible for

individual to convert from

"nothing"-from nihilism-to a religious reality. Or, perhaps, one could convert from being a Catholic to being a Charismatic CaihoJic, involving only a change inside a particular sphere affecting one of many "multiple realities" that a person inhabits and not a "root re ality." Another possibility is that, in spite of the claim "it changed my hfe," conversion is a matter of degree: while not quite providing a new, pervasive, integrating reality, conversion may effect a shift in perspec tive that has repercussions for various "realities." What makes the issue of conversion particularly difficult is that there are at least two dimensions with which one nct.-os to be con cerned. The obvious dimension is the time dimension: conversion 1n8 volves a change from one reality in one time period to another reality in a different time period. But conversion can also be a change in the salience of the reality. Theoretical discussions of conversion have often been confused because these two dimensions have not been analyti

cally separated. Formulations of conversion that talk a(xmt changes in "root reality" (such as Heidch'sJ assume tbat the changes are between realities that are highly salient to the individual. The concept of alternation (pro posed by Berger 1963 :54-55J, which assumes changes within one of many multiple realities or compartments of the individual's life, as sumes that no one reality (including the one in which the change oc cursl is more salient than others to the individual's sense of self.

we combine the two dimensions there are four possible types

of change: H J one trades one root reality for another (ardent commu nist becomes a Hare Krishna); (2) one's dominant root reality loses meaning (ardent communist becomes Episcopalian businessman who votes the Democratic party ticket); (3) one gains a dominant reality where before one had none (Episcopalian businessman becomes a Hare Krishna),

(4) one experiences change within one of the multiple

re-

10.

Studying Religion in the Eighties

ahties or compartments !Methodist businessman becomes Episcopa lian businessman}, Berger's claim is that what we call conversion in modern society is most often the fourth type, which he labels "alter nation"( 1963: 48-521. Travisano ( 1970) agrees that alternation is com mon, but he contends that one can still find instances of the first type of conversion where there is a real change in the informing aspect of identity. Many Catholic Charismatics r studied came closest to fitting the third type: they described themselves as "searching" for meaning in life, and they claimed that prior to their conversion they were with out the sense of wholeness which they felt as a result of their new understanding of the world and their place in it. My informants con verted from the condition of "homelessness" as described by Berger, and in the process, clealed a grounding.6 III effect, they converted from nothing.r The Experience of Power The process of conversion within these religious movements is not a cognitive process alone. Participants in the movements emphasize the primacy of experience over doctrine.ti The Catholic Charismatics 1 spoke with saw things, felt things, heard things that 1 did not. These "experiences of God," as the Charismatics referred to them, were taken to be critical information in the rational process of assessing the claims being made about the new religious reality. Indeed, the testimony of religious converts is replete with references to such experiences. The :malysis of religious movements and converSion, however, rarely looks systematically at religious experience. This may be in part because we lack conceptual tools for looking at experience sociologi cally (see Neitz and Spickard 1989). In part it is because of an old link between emotional experiences and deprivation theories: when soci ology of religion had talked about experience it did so to claim that cathartic experiences in "the religions of the poor" offered compensa tion for deprivation in other parts of their lives. As conversion models moved away from depriv.uion theory, sociologists of religion stressed cognitive and organizational factors in their analyses and avoided emo tion and experience. Wilson and Claw [1981) and Lefever (1977) at tempt to move away from this tendency to explaining away cathartic religious experience by considering it "compensatory." Researchers not working primarily among the "disinherited," but among middJe-class seekers, have been struck b}' religious partici pants' claims about power being at the core of their religious practice.

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With the revival o( esoteric, mystical, and shamanic traditions among religious practitioners we hear talk about "powcr" in terms of thc ability to achieve personal and spiritual goals. McGuire encountered themes of empowerment in her work on faith healing in both Christian and non-Christian traditions. Beckford interprets the new religions as drawing members because they see the religions as "sources of power." Yet McGuire and Beckford are closer to a new analysis of experience and emotion than to the traditional ways that sociologists �including sociologists of religion) have talked about power. Beckford, for ex ample, speaks of "the power to cultivate" as critical to the new reli gions, and goes on to define it as "the chance to cultivate various spiritual qualities, persona) goals, or social arrangements is the attrac tion" (1983: 261. I am currently engaged in fieldwork among urban and rUTal ncopagan and feminist witches. The neopagan witches base their practiccs 1.11beit sometimes loosely) on the modern wiccan tradition fmmulatcd by Gcrald Gardner in England during the Second World War. Although some feminist witches have contact with tbe neopagans, many "crc ated" feminist witchcraft as they looked io the mythologies of the past for a woman-affirminggoddcss religion (Neitz 1989). As the head of the Reformed Congregation of the Goddess told mc about the process that many of the members of her church went through, when they discov ered witchcraft as the religion of the goddess, "they were amazed to find out that someone else had gotten there first, and that it was a man IGardnerl." The neopagan and feminist witches tell me that their reli gious practices "are about power." Witches define themselves as those who have the power to "bend and shape reality." There have always been a few sociologists of religion who have been concerned with the power of religion vis-a.-vis the srate, and even the world system.Y However, as the secularization thesis combined with ideas about the "end of ideology" gained acceptance in the sixties, many sociologists of religion began to feel that there was less and less to say on this topic. Beckford suggests that during this period those who studied religious power came to describe it as derived from hs "functional capacity" to provide meaning and identity consonant with an ovcrarching social structure (1983). Although the exemplars he chooses to discuss-Berger, Luckmann, Mol-arc phenomenologists, he argues that they present religious power as limited to a kind of la tent pattern maintenance. Beckford argues that, contrary to the assumptions of this literature, there is no guarantee that coherent meaning systems integrate individ-

1 03

Studying Religion in the Eighties

uaJs into the social order.lo Beckford suggests that this should be an empirical question: What I have proposed is that, in focusing on the capacity or function of religion to supply meaning, integration and iden tity, the theoretical cart has been put before the empirical horse. The sociologists' interpretations of religiolls phenomena have been mistaken for their subjects' motives and intentions. In short, r agree that meaning and identity are important as pects of religion: but at the same time I dispute whether actors act out of consideration for them directly. Rather I believe that actors respond to perceived sources of power, and their re sponse.'! may or may not supply the meaning and identity of which we have hc.ud so much.{1983 :29) The notion of "perceived sources of power" is consonant with the rhetoric of empowerment and sell-actualization commonly spoken by adherents of new religions. Yet their usage departs significantly from received sociological definitions. Like Janice Radway

[19851, who

had to think about what it meant when readers of romance novels claimed that reading the novels made them stronger, more indepen dent women, we must think about what people mean when they talk about empowerment in these religious contexts. [n the neopagan literature {here is a conscious repudiation of what is often termed "power over," meaning overpowering an individual's will, coercion of one kind or another. The eode of ethics requires that one's magic not interfere with the will of another. The power that is cultivated in this setting is something akin to control over one's own life. (Sec Weinstein

1981; Starhawk 1982.) A task for sociologists is to

understand what believers mean when they use this rhetoric of power, and to establish links between feelings of empowerment and the socio logical concept of power. Meredith McGuire, first in her research on Catholic Charismatics and then on spiritual healing practices, has explored the connections between religion and the experience of empowerment

!l982, 1983b).

Although a student of Peter Berger's, McGuire is not guilty of the sins that concem Beckford: looking at meaning led her to investigate the experience of power. McGuire

[1983a) reminds us of three ways of

looking at religion and power: first, the power and influence of rell· gious groups; second, the religious legitimation of positions and privi leges of those in power; and, third, the individuals' experiences of power. McGuire's work has taken the third, the least explored of these,

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and worked toward the other two. McGuire's respondents experienced spiritual power as out of the ordinary, as "having real consequences for the physical (as well as emotional or spiritual! conditions of human beings" l 1983a:4). Healing groups developed rituals that created feel ings of empowerment, bestowing on individuals symbols of the trans mission of spiritual power. McGuire uses this empirical material on individuals' experiences of power to ask questions about religious groups, including the following: How docs religion per se contribute to the group's perceived power? To its power vis-a-vis others? Docs reli gion expand or diminish members' sense of a group's internal power through ritual or symbols? How arc nonmaterial and material rewards used to enhance the power of leaders? of the whole groups? (1983a:5). McGuire sees religious legitimation as

interactional process,

charismatic authority as the successful "result of negoti.ation between a would be leader and followers" ( 1 983a:7J. McGuire advocates an ob servational approach with emphasis on the collection of experiential data: she suggests analyzing personal accounts and working with tra ditional forms of religious discourse such as witnessing. �See Harding 1987 for an example of this.) She advocates comparative work in order to "isolate those specific components of tlle religion and power nexus which are important" (1983a:8).11 In her explorations McGuire is moving toward an analysis of power and religion that is quite different from previous works. It reframes long-standing sociological questions about how charisma develops and is maintained, and how symbolic resources are used in stnlggles for power between advocates of different pOSitions on moral issues. Chris tian's ( 1987) study of the process of negotiating whether or not church officials would accept individual's claims to have received visions, for example, shows the visions being shaped as visionaries and leaders de veloped ways of speaking to their audiences. The experience of power is not the sa.me as power in the social world, yet these religious practices raise questions about where they overlap. Advocates of faith healing implicitly oppose the medical establish ment:

say that faith healing is an experience of power is part of a

critique of this powerful institution. In my work I am exploring what it means when women, members of a historically subordinate group, reclaim the witchcraft tradition as a means of empowering themselves in order

"save the earth." The potential overlap between the expe

rience of power and social power nudges sociologists of religion to look in new ways at the expressive aspects of religion and at questions of legitimacy, and questions of the powers of groups.

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CuLTURAL MOVEMENTS AND CULTURAL ANALYSIS If writers since the sixties have studied the new religions in tenus of how they solve problems of meaning and identity, it is partly be cause the new religions have in common a focus on the therapeutic uansfonuation of the self. They are distinguished from new therapies, which have proliferated in the same period, by the fact that the former "provide a reliable community of fellow adherents who are bound by a common regimen, including a common moral code" jlohnson 1981: 61). Yet defining the boundaries of such communities can be quite problematic. The community boundaries separating off those who share a common regimen and moral code often are not coterminous with the boundaries of recognized groups. While the new religions fo cus attention-both for their adherents and for the sociologist-on mcanin& organizational features show a considerable range. The de gree of commitment required and the degree to which adherents con stitute .1 closed group arc highly variable. When I moved from studying Charismatic Catholics to studYing ncopagan and feminist witches

encountered a tremendous difference in boundL'tiness. The witches seemed elusive in part because formal groups tend to he unstable, but in part because the identifiable group is not the me:mingful unit. Sociologists, even when studying religious meaning, have tended to do so within identifiable organizations-religious movement orga nizations. Sociologists of religion here followed the tactic of the re source mobilization theorists who made progress when they delimited the field by moving social movement theory from the study of "so cial movements" to tbe study of "social movement organizations." (For a formal treatment see Lofland and Richardson 1984). That meant that less "organized" religious traditions, such as the neopagans and witches, tended to get left out.I2 Because of this organizational bias researchers usually evaluate a movement in terms of organizational success. Yet clearly part of what we are looking at is cultural movements and cultural change. This often does not fit Witll our usual frameworks for studying social move ments and for evaluating their success. Organizations, even when we c.1n locate them, may not be the only or most appropriate sites to study cultural movements. Beckford has suggested that the study of new religions might benefit from a more "fluid" perspective on religious movements (1987f. In con trast with a "linear perspective," a fluid perspective would not limit itself to organizations and associations; rather it might examine diffuse

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Mary Jo Neitz

movements and collections of movements for the transformations of values. Borrowing from Gusfield ( 1981), he suggests that a fluid per spective might be more useful for analyzing both social and cultural change. We also might usefully look at ties between movements and how individuals move from movement to movement both "carrying on and carrying over," in Gusfield's terms (l98J :324). When feminists and eco1ogists become witches, they appear to "carry over" their pre vious political commitments and value orientations. A woman who was active in a pro-abortion organization as a college student may not continue the activity when shc graduates and moves to a new place, but she may "carry on" by making 6nancial contributions to a national organization and deciding whether or not to vote for political candi dates on the basis of their stand on abortion. The fact that individuals carry with them the ideas and values of a social movement, sometimes even when they are not active in an or ganization, has implications for cultwal transfonnation at both the public and private level. The nature of public discowse shifts; what had been unthinkable becomes thinkable, and individuals reflect on the movement and monitor society in new ways (Gusfield 198 1 : 325-261. It is this process that Gusfield is referring to when he says that social movements are reflexive. He states, "1 might even say that a social movement occurs when people are conscious that a movement is occurring. . . . The awareness of change is itself a second step in the production of change" (1981 :326). A fluid conception of social movements is particularly appropriate for looking at many current religious movements. When individua1s identify as witches, they do so in a specific context and bring with them important parts of their pasts. Many of the striking differences between neopagan and feminist witches, for example, can be explai.ned by their differing relationships to local communities. Neopagan cov ens are likely to have a hierarchical structure and to have elaborate procedures for initiatioD. A prominent feminist writing in the early seventies proclaimed that "if you say you are a witch three times, you are a witch." While feminist witches who repeat that today may be making a joke about their movement, feminists tend to have neither hierarchy nor initiatory processes. The feminists carried "structwe lessness" with them, and their part of the movement approaches an archy if examined on the level of organizations. Yet there are important anchors in the feminist and lesbian communities that serve to define and bound the movement. Our ways of evaluating movements also shifts when the movements

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Studying Religion in the Eighties

we study are cultural movements. In terms of organizational growth, the Charismatic Renewal hit a high point around 1978. Some analysts evaluate the subsequent failure of the movement to sustain growth as evidence for the failure of the movement (e.g., Bard and Faulkner 1983). Yet a better measure of success may be the degree to which symbols and behaviors first found in Charismatic groups have now diffused into parishes. Treating religiolls movements as cuJtural movements will also mean paying more attention to symbols and rituals at several levels, starting with the process of culture creation among the smallest units, what Fine

( l979) has called "ideoculturc." Symbols and rituals also need to

be examined within movements, and as they are carried outside of movements. As we begin to do these analyses it is clear that symbols and rituals are not just expressions of emotional catharsis or cultural objects created with the intent of manipulating potential audiences. In religious movements symbols and rituals can be the mediums through which groups negotiate an understanding of who they are, and work out their public and private faces.

CONCLUSION Thus far,

I have tried to show some of the recent developments in

American religion and to suggest ways that the SOciology of religion, in attempting to understand those developments, is producing analyses of religi.on and programmatic stands that look very much like symbolie interactionist pOSitions. The new research looks at how meanings arc socially constructed through interaction: it sees conversion as a pro cess, power as a product of negotiation, movements as fluid. At this point I return to the impact of cultwal studies.

I will present two problems of using the anthropologists discussed above as models for studying religion in American society. Thcn I will sketch how symbolic interactionists' approaches to social organization could be applied in helpful ways to these problems. Finally, ] will sug· gest that it would be fmitfu) for cuhural studies if the subdisciplinary harriers between symbolic interactionists and sociologists of religion were breached. One problem with the interpretive approach, especially as advocated by Geertz in his recent works (1983, 1988), is tbat it is not clear how this kind of research adds up or what standards of evidence can bc used to evaluate it. Geertz himself argues that generalization is not desir able: there are enough Jaws, he says. Backing away from the influence of the phenomenological and hermeneutic interpretive approach, Rob-

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Mary )0 Neitz

ert Wuthnow has advocated that we abandon attempts to understand "meaning;" and stick with "structural approaches" to studying cul tural phenomena (1981,

1 9871. IJ Wuthnow claims that, rather than de·

scribing in detail the meaning of cultural objects of various kinds, the appropriate task of the sociologist is to identify the rules that make a symbol meaningful {1981 :30}.14 In all important response

Wuthnow, Griswold 11987} has argued

that one lleed not trade away richly delaih:d accoWlts of cultural objects in order to achieve reliability, validity, and predictability.15 Here symbolic interaclionislS have something to contribute to the discussion. They have a long histOlY of building a nonpositivistic sociology through studying meaning in rigorous ways. The current interest in generic principles reflects concern with developing our understanding of basic processes (Lofland 1 9 76j Couch 1984). Sym bolic interactionists have been concemcd With developing both "suh· stantive theory" in specific subareas, �e.g., delinquency) and "formal theory" reaching across the substantive subareas. Comparisons of vari· ous kinds-within groups and between groups-offer one strategy for qualitative researchers who want to escape the interpretive dilemma. The methodology of grounded theory uses "constant comparisons" and " theoretical sampling" to build theory that cumulates (Glaser and Strauss 1967; Charmaz 1983)

There is a second problem with the application of the work of the anthropologists in cultural studies. It is that the approaches of Geertz, Douglas,

Turncr,

Wallace and others were developed in very different

kinds of societies than the modern heterogenous societies to which they are now being applied. For the most part the former were societies where social norms could be enforced in the context in face-to'face interaction. Douglas has defined cullure as "the medium of exchange for people giving accounts to one another" ( 1 970; 18S]. For example, Wallace's theory of revitalization movements comes out of a study of a society of approximately 4000 people ( 1 969: 196). When we try \0 apply the theory to a movement in the United Slates today it is not clear what the units of analysis should be. Is it American society that would be revitalized by the evangelical movement? Protestantismr Evangeli cals themselves? 1(, Reading Geertz's analysis of the co*ckfight we Ie.·un something about one sct of "cmotional tendencies" in Balinese society (1 973). A dctailcd dcscription of a Ndernbu ritual is morc satisfying if we can assume it exists in

small, relatively cohcsive society where

the symbols are shared. A similar description of a ritual in this country needs to be understood in terms not only of the set of meanings di-

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Studying Religion in the Eighties

rectly incorporated into the ritual .1nd its local setting, but we also want to know how the local setting is connected to other local settings and to American culture and society in general. Sociologists of religion have attempted to talk about the relation be tween religious culture and American society without properly recog nizing diversity in American culture and how "American" values are mediated by local contexts. In Habits of the Heart. Bellah and his co authors describe Americ.1n culture as without a language for discuss ing moral issues (1985,. Yet this indictment only appears to be true for a segment of Protestant culture. The Catholics I interviewed contin ued to usc the language of sin to talk about moral issues. In fact, they had extended the notion of sin to address "sociaJ evils" such as dis crimination or war (Neitz 1983). Benton Johnson has commented that "Iill has been a long time since educated Protestants could believe that national sins require national punishments" !1984:821. Contrast his observations with James Kelly's discussion of the American bishops' pastoral Jetter, "The Challenge of Peace," in which Kelly suggests that Catholicism has come to define itself as the locus of moral memory !1984). The questions raised by Bellah et al . •ne important ones, but we need better ways of understandi.ng "local culture" and the relationships be tween various local cultures and the national culture and society. I am intrigued by recent attempts of symbolic interactionists to work out the linkages between detailed studies of "situated activities" and larger strucrural contexts and historical forces. I? for my work, looking at re ligious subcultures in American society, fine and Kleinman's work on networks and subcultures is suggestive. Fine and Kleinman note that although symbolic interaction appears to suggest an "open approach," that interactionists have tended to study groups-"empirically dosed systems." They argue that "by putting the assumption of 'openness' i.nto practice, symbolic intcractionists can address 'macro'·sociologicai concerns, such as the constraining features of organizations, while still grounding conslJaints in interaction" 0983 : 105). They suggest that the advantage of a network approach is that it allows one to study "groups with their interconnections-multiple group memberships, weak ties, structural roles, and mass media connections" (1983: 104). Looking at religious social movements we see cultures that are rela tively bounded, yet they are defined in relation to American culture. Although the concept of subculture has fallen into relative disuse, it seems appropriate for some of these movements. It is more constrain ing to be a moonic than it is to belong to an occupational group: other

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Mary Jo Neitz

doctors do not usually try to dictate whom one will marry and when. Religious movements such as the Unification Church or the Charis matic Renewal create separate societies with separate cultures. Yet what is created will reflect the larger context: the Unification Churcb in Korea differs from the Unification Church in Japan, which differs from the Unification Church in the United States. LS In fine and Kleinman's treatment, the concept of subculture offers a way to locate culture in an interacting group without assuming that the interacting group is closed. ]n a subculture, individuals share "in_ formation" !including values, norms, behaviors, and artifacts) and iden tify as members of the subculture. They also communicate directly and indirectly with others outside the subculture. Fine and Kleinman suggest that communication across networks is facilitated by "com munication interlocks," such as multiple group memberships, weak ties between individuals, structuraL roles, 19 and media diffusion 11979: 9-12). In their view "research should focus on uncovering linkages among groups, looking at what kinds of information are transmittoo, .1nd the type and extent of identific.ation with the larger segment" 11979: 17). For their work on Little League baseball and preadolescent subculture they are c..<;pccially concerned that research not presume that an individual who is a member of an age category will also identify with a subculture; thus they are careful to distinguish empirically be tWl...ocn subculture, subsocicty, and population segment. Their emphasis on looking at both interaction within a group and communications with outsiders, including mass media communications, suggests a level of analysis that goes beyond the case study without forsaking mcamng. Symbolic interactionists have long identified themselves as studying meaning.

A significant portion of sociologists studying culture (and

religion as a part of culture) share this concern. Symbolic interaction ists have worked out methods and concepts that address concerns now being voiced by sociologists of culture. Concepts such as "network" pull symbolic interactionists away from the frequent preoccupation with case studies of a single group. The questions of meaning raised by sociologists of religion include "meaning" in small groups, but they are not limited to that. We all need to be working at linking face-to-face interaction and local culture to the broader culture, social structures, and history. For those of us studying religious movements-new in their current manifestations but often connected to historical institutions and other cultural move ments-questions about such linkages clamor for our attention.

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Studying Religion in the Eighties

NOTES I. Survey research in the 19705 began to collect information about reli gious beliefs so that the data base has been significantly extended. [See Roof 1985·1 2. One or the reasons why the squabble OVCI Jim and Tammy Bakker's em pire was so intense is that the 8akkers are Charis01.1tics, and others on the religious Tight, such as the 'Baptist Jerry Falwell, disapprove of their rdigious beliefs. 3. Any generalization about the new religions is hazardotls, but sec review articles by Barker 1985, Robbins and Anthony 1981, and Robbins, Anthony, and Richardson, 1978. 4. Sec Robbins, Anthony, and Richardson 1979: 1 10. Gerlach and Hint�'s pio neering work looked at both Pentecostalism and the Black Power Movement (1970). Sec also Lofland and Richardson's reformulation of resource mobiliza tion theory (or the study of religious movements (1984), and Stark and Bain bridge's attempt to reformulate church-sect-cult theory in light of the new research on religious social movements (1985'. S. Long and Hadden ( 1983) suggest one way of aligning socialization and conversion literannes. 6. The exception to this pattern among my respondents was a subgroup of individuaJs who were devoutly religious Catholics before becoming charis· matics. For these l>col)le religion was already the dominating reality and the new beliefs were easily assimilated into that reali.ty. Un fact. for at least two, the Charismatic Renewal served to validate previous mystical experiences.' The change in the content of the reality was so slight as to require no major adjustments, and there was no change in the salience of the reality. Therefore, I would hesitate to call the experiences of these people conversion. Yet, their experiences are also qui.te different from those described by Travisano and Ber ger, since the religious reality is extremely salient for them. 7. Using Canadian survey data Bibby (19831 finds traditional religion as a dominant meaning system, but also L1rge numbers of people who do not have lives that are tightly integratt.-d by identifiable meaning systems. He suggests that the proposition that all people have identifiable meaning systems is erro neous. Llut consider the arguments of Bainbridge and Stark �19811 and Wuth now (19811 concerning tht! conceptual and methodological underpinnings of attempts by survey researchers to study meaning. 8. Lofland and Skonovd (1981\ offer a typology of cOllversions and suggest that particular sorts of conversions may be more likely at particular times in history. 9. See, for example, Hammond 1985, essays by Johnson, Dtrroll, Neal, and Robertson. 10. The issue that Beckford raises is related to the concern above, what in dividuals convert from. There the issue was a social psychological question, whether or not individuals have coherent meaning systems. nl(�[e is also a cultural question about who shares the meaning system. I will snggest below that in modem heterogeneous societies coherent meaning systems are most likely to be subculturaL

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11. Her program no doubt sounds lamiliar to symbolic interactionists. Yet she docs not cite them, and symbolic interactionists for the most part arc not aware of her work. 12. Eileen Barker notes that "Inlumcrous occult, pagan, and Witchcraft movements are known to exist . . . but, like the tribal and folk based religions that have emerged around the world . . . , these have received comparatively little attention as new religious mowments hom the sociologists 01 rdigion" (1985,411. 13. While Wutlmow attacks theories that "conct:plualizc culture in radi cally subjectivist terms," he does not see himself as a positivist : "To say that culture must be approached interpretively certainly should not preclude a call to conceive of it in ways that make it more observable or to ask that investi gators be more candid about disclosing their methods and assumptions. Cul tural analysis remains a mattcr oj interpretation whether we conceive of culture as subjective beJiefs or as symbolic acts. But there may be strategic advantages lo thinking of it one way rathcr than another" (1987: 1 n 14. Of the anthropologists who influenced cultural studies, Mary Douglas is an exception in that she has moved toward creating generalizations and pre dictions. See WulhllOW'S discussion of her (e.g., 1987: 53-541 . 15. Griswold renews questions of validity for cultural studies. Sbe argues that we need to move away from vague notions that an analysis should be convincing to asking whcthel an analysis is "corH.'Ct." She argues for devel oping standards lor cultural analysis. Such standards would include "parsi mony (if two connecting hypotheses arc equally supported by the evidence, the simpler one should be favored], plenitude [if two connecting hypotheses are equally supported by the evidence hut one illuminates morc characteristics of the cultural object than anothcr, that one should be favored); and amplitude [if two connecting hypotheses are equally supported by the evidence and the cri teria of parsimony and plenitude, the one that seems to illuminate the greatesl range of cultural objects should be preferred)"[ 1987; 271. 16. ['Or an example of the problem see McLoughlin 197817. Hall (1987 : 1 ) presents a set of six analytic categories that he sees as constituting a paradigm Eor "making linkages between situated activity and the broader and larger social environment." In addition to nctwork they arc collective activity, conventions-practices, resources, processuality-tcmporal ity, and grounding. 18. Fine and Kleinman's (1979) examplc of this is the textbook salcsman who, in the process of trying to get faculty members to adopt his company's textbooks, conveys information about what is going on in other placcs. Reli gious cultures develop "star" healers and preachcrs who travel around the country giving lectures and workshops. As they travcl they convey informa tion about practices in other related groups in other places. 19. I discuss at some length how the Catholic Charismatic Renewal as it came to be ill the U.S. was a response by the American Catholic Church to influences here (Neitz 1987: 187 -248). Looking at a VCly dilicrent religious subculture, [ have seen bumper stickers proclaiming "I [hulTtl Allah," cer tainly an Amcricanization of Islamic fundamentalism.

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REFERENCES Ammerman, Nancy. 1987. "Southern Baptist Fundamentalists and the New Christian Right." Paper delivered at the annual meeting of the Society for the Scientific Study of Religion, Louisville, KY. Bainbridge, Wil1iam. 1978. Satan's Power (Berkeley: University of California Press). Bainbridge, William, and Rodney Stark. 1981. "The Consciousness Rciormation Reconsidered," IOUTntJl for the Scientific Study of Re ligion 20: 1-16. Balch, Robert. 1980. "Looking behind the Scenes in a Religious Cult: Implications for the Study of Conversion," Sociological Analysis 41 : 137-43. Balch, Robert, and David Taylor. 1977. "Seekers and Saucers," Ameri· can Behavioral Scientist 20:43-64. Barker, Eileen. 1985. "New Religious Movements: Yet Another Great Awakening? " pp. 36-57 in Phillip Hammond, cd" The Sacred in a Secular Age (Berkeley: The University of California Press). Beckford, James. 1978. "Accounting for Conversion," British !oumal of Sociology 29: 249-62. --. 1983. "The Restoration of 'Power' to the Sociology of Reli gion," Sociological Analysis 44: 1 1 -32. . 1987. "Assessing the New Religi.ons," Panel presentation at the meetings of the Association for [he Sociology of Religion, Chicago. Bellah, Robert, et a1. 1985. Habits of the Heart, �Berkeley: University ---

of CaliIornia Press). Berger, Peter. 1963. Invitation to Sociology, (New York: Doubleday). . 1967. The Sacred Canopy, (Garden City: Anchor Books). Berger, Peter, Brigitte Berger, and Hansfried Kellner. 1973. The Home· --

Jess Mind, (New York: Vintage Books). Berger, Peter, and Thomas Luckmann. 1966. The Social Construction of Reality (Garden City I N. Y.: Doubleday). Bibby, Reginald. 1983. "Searching for Invisible Thread," !ouma! for the Scientific Study of Religion 22: 101-19. Burd, Richard J. and Joseph Faulkner. 1983. Tile Catholic Charismat· ics: The Anatomy of a Modern Religious Movement (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press). Charmaz, Kathy. 1983. "The Grounded Theory Method: An Explica tion and Interpretation," pp. 109-26 in Robert Emerson, ed., Corr temporary Field Researc11 (Boston: Little, Brown). Christian, William. 1987. "Tapping and Defining New Power: The first Month of Visi.ons at Ezquioga, July 1931," American Ethnolo gist 1 4 : 140-66.

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Couch, Carl. 1984. "Symbolic Interaction and Generic Sociological Principlcs," Symbolic Interaction 7 : 1-13. Davis, Winston. 1980. DOlO: Magic and Exorcism in Modern lapan IStanford: Stanford UniverSity Press). Douglas, Mary. 1966. Purity alld Danger ILondon:PenguinJ. 1970, Naturnl Symbols INew York: Vintage}. Douglas, Mary, with Baron Isherwood. 1979. The World 0/ Goods (New York: Basic Books). Downton, lames V. 1980. "An Evolutionary Theory of Spiritual Con version and Commitment: The Case of the Divine Light Mis sion,"foutnll1 for the Scientific Study of Religion 1 9 : 381 -96. Fine, Gary Alan. 1979. "Small Groups and Culture Creation," Ameri --- .

can Sociological Review 44: 733-45. , and Sherryl Kleinman. 1979. "Subculture: An Interactionist Analysis," American Journal 0/ Sociology 85: 1 -20. .. 1983. "Network and Meaning: An Interactionist Approach to Structure," Symbolic fnteractioTl 6 : 97-110. Gcenz, Clifford. 1973. Interpretations of Culture [New York: B:ISic ---

---

Books}. --- .. 1983. LOeDI Knowledge: Further Essays in Imcrpretive Anthro jJo/ogy (New York: Basic Booksl. . 1988. The Anthropologist as Author (Stanford: Stanford Uni --

versity Press). Gerlach, Luther, and Virginia Hine. 1970. People, Power, and Change; Movements of Soc.i.al TransformatiorJ IIndianapolis: Bobbs-Merill). Glaser, Barney, and Anselm L. Strauss. 1967. The Discovery of Grounded Theory IChicago: Aldine}. Glock, Charles. 1964. liThe Role of Deprivation in the Origin and Evo· lution of Religious Groups," pp. 24-36, in Robert Lee and Martin Marty, eds., Religion and Social Conflict (New York: Oxford Uni versity Press). Griswold, Wendy. 1987. "A Methodological Framework for the Study of CUlture," Sociological Methodology 1 7 : 1-35. Cusfield, Joseph R. 1981. "Social Movements and Social Change: Per spectives of Linearity and Fluidity," pp. 3 17-39 in L. Kreisberg, cd., Social Movements, Conflict. and Change, Vol. 4 (Greenwich, Conn.: fAI Press). Hall, Peter. 1987. "lnteractionism and the Study of Social Organiza' tion," Sociological Quart.erly 28: 1 -22. Hammond, Phillip, cd. 1985. The Sacred in a Secular Age (Berkeley: University of California Press). H.uding, Susan. 1982. "Convicted by the Holy Spirit: The Rhetoric of Fundamental Baptist Conversion," American Ethnologist 14: 167-80.

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Hcirich, Max. 1977. "A Cbange of Heart," American Journal of Soci· ology 83, 653-80. Jacobs, Janet. 1984. "The Economy of Love in Religious Commitment: The Deconversion of Women from Nontraditional Religious Move ments" Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, 23: 155-71. . 1987. "Deconversion from Religious Movements: An Analysis of Charismatic Bonding and Spiritual Commitment," /outntll for the Scientific Study of Religioll 26: 294-308. Johnson, Bcnton. 1981. "A Sociological Perspectivc on the New Reli· gions," pp. 51-66 in Thomas Robbins and Dick Anthony, cds., In Gods We Trust (New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction Books). . 1984. "Continuity and Quest in the Work of Harvey Cox," So· ciological AnaJysis 45: 79-84 Kelly, James R. 1984. "Catholicism and Modern Memory, " Sociologi cal Analysis 45: 131-44. Lefevcr, Harry, J977, "The Religion of the Poor: Escape or Creative Forcc�" Journal of the Scientific Study of Religion 16: 225-36. Lofland, John. 1976. DOing Social Life ,New York: Wiley). Lofland, lohn, and lames T. Richardson. 1984. "Religious Movement Organizations," pp. in L. Kreisberg, ed. Social Movements, Con fhet, and Change (Greenwich, Conn: JAI Publishcrs). Lofland, John, and L. N. Skonovd. 1981. "Conversion Motifs," !ournal of the Scientific Study of Religion 20: 373-85. Lofland, John, and Rodncy Stark, 1965, "Becoming a World Saver: A Theory of Conversion to a Deviant Perspective," American Socio ---

---

logical Review 30: 863-74. Long, Theodore and Jeffery Haddon. 1983. "Religious Conversion and Socialization," (ournal lor the ScienUficStudy of Religion 22: 1-14. Luckmann, Thomas. 1967. The lnvisible ReJigion (London: Macmillan). McGuire, Mercdith. 1982. Pemecostal Catholics: Power. Charisma, and Order in a Religious Movement (PhiladcJphja: Temple Uni versity Press). . 1983a. "Discovering Religious Power," Sociological Analysis 44 , \-9 ---. 198Jb, "Words of Power: Personal Empowerment and Healing." ---

Culture, Medicine, and Psychiatry 7 : 1-20. McLoughlin, William G. 1978. Revivals, Awakenings and Reform (Chicago: Univcrsity of Chicago Press). Matza, David, 1969, Becoming Deviant (Englcwood Cliffs, N.J.: Prcn tice Hall.) Mol, J. J. 1977. Identity and the Sacred (New York: Free Press). Mukcrji, Chandra, and Michael Schudson. 1986. "Popular Culturc/' Annual Review of Sociology 1 2 : 47-66.

1 16

Mary Jo Neitz.

Neitz, Mary Jo. 1981. "Family, State, and God: Ideologies of the Right to Life Movement," Sociological Analysis 42: 265-76. . 1983. "Church Authority and the Changing Definition of Sin," Paper presented at the meeting of the Midwest Sociological Sod · ety, Chicago. . 1987. Charisma and Community: A Study of Religious Com mitment within the Charismatic Renewal (New Brunswick, N. J.: Transaction Press). ---. 1989. "In Goddess We Trust," in Thomas Robbins and Dick Anthony, cds., In Gods We Trust, revised edition (New Brunswick: N. J.: Transaction Press.) Neitz, Mary 1o, and james Spickard. 1989. " Steps toward a Sociology of Religious Experience," Sociological Analysis 50, forthcoming. Newman, William M and Peter L, Halvorson. 1984. "Religion and " Regional Culnue," loumal for the Scientific Study of Religion 23:304-14. Radway, Janice. 1985. Reading the Romance {Chapc1 Hill: University of North Carolina Press}. Richardson, James T. 1985a. "Paradigm Conflict in Conversion Re search," Journal for the Sciemi{1c Study of Religion 24 : 163-79. .. 1985b. "Studies of Conversion: Secularizati.on or Re-enchant menH" pp. 104- 121 in PhiHip Hammond, ed., The Sacred in a Secular Age (Berkeley: University of California Press!. Richardson, James T., and Mary Stewart. 1977. "Conversion Process Models and the Jesus Movement," American Behavioral Scientist 20 0 819-38. Robbins, Thomas and Dick Anthony. 1981. In Gods We Trust (New Brunswick, N. J.: Transaction Prt.'Ss). Robbins, Thomas, Dick Anthony and James Richardson. 1978. "Theory and Research on Today's 'New Religions'," Sociological Analysis 39095- 122. Roof, Wade Clark 1985. "The Study of Social Change in Religion," --

---

pp. 75-89 in Phillip Hammond, cd., The Sacred in a Secular Age (Rerkeley: The University of California Press). Roof, Wade Clark, and William McKinney. 1987. American Mainline Religion (New Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press). Snow, David, and Richard Machalek. 1983. "The CODven as a Social Type," pp. 259-89 in Randall Collins, ed., Sociological Theory {San Francisco: Jossey-Bass). Snow, David, and C.L. Phillips. 1980. "The Lofland-Stark Conversion Model: A Critical Reassessment," SocialProblem8 27:430-37. Snow, David, Louis Zurcher, and Sheldon Ekland-Olson. 1980. "Social Networks and Social Movements: A Microstructural Approach

Studying Religion in the Eigh tie.�

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Differential Recruitment," American Sociological Review 45:

782-801. Starhawk, 1982, Dreaming the Dark {Boston: Beacon PressJ. Stark, Rodney, and William Bainbridge. 1980. "Networks of Faith: In terpersonal Bonds and Recruitment to Cults and Sects," American tournaI of Sociology 85: 1376-95. . 1985. The Future of Religion lBerkeley: University of Califor

nia Press. Straus, Roger. 1976. "Changing Oneself: Seekers and the Creative Transformation of Life Experience," pp. 251-73 in John Lofland, ed., Doing Social Life (New York: WileyI. . 1979. "Religious Conversion as a Personal and Collective Ac complishment," Sociological Analysis 40; 158-65. Stump, Roger. 1984. " Regional Migration :md Religious Commit

---

ment," Journal for the Sciemifjc Study of Religion 23: 292-303. Tipton, Stephcn. 1982. GeHing Saved from the Sjxties (Berkeley: Uni

versity of California Press). Travisano, Richard. 1970. "Alternation and Conversion as Qualita tively Different Transformations," pp.594-606 in Gregory StoDe and Harvey Farbcrman, eds., Social Psychology througb Symbolic Interaction (Walth..1m, Mass.; Xerox College PublishingJ. TumeI, Victor. 1967. The Forest of Symbols (Ithaca: Cornell Univer sity Press). . 1969. The Ritual Process (Chicago, AMine). Vaughan, Diane. 1986. Uncoupling (New Yo.rk: Oxford University --

Press). Wallace, A. F. C.

1956. "Revitalization Movements," The American Anthropologist 58: 264-Rl. . 1969. The Dearh and Rebirth of the Seneca [New York: -

VintageJ. Warner, R. Stephen. 1979. "Theoretical Barriers to the Understanding of Evangelical Chri.stianity," Sociological Analysis 40 : 1-24. . 1983. "Research Note: Visits to a Growing Evangelical Church and a Declining Liberal Church in 1978," Soci% gu;{J1 Analysis --

44: 243-53. --. 1988. New Wine in Old WineskillS ( Bcrkeley: University of

California Press). Weinstein, Marion. 1981. Positive Magic (Custer, Wash.: Phoenix Publishing). Westley, Frances. 1978. "The Cult of Man: Durkhcim'S Predictions and the New Religious Movements," Sociological Analysis 39: 135-45.

Wilson, John and Harvey Clow. 1981. "Thcmc.<; of Power aDd Control

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Mary Jo Neitz

in a Pentecostal Assembly," lourual for the Scientific Study of Re ligion 20: 241 -50. Wright, Stuart. 1984. "Post Involvement Attitudes of Voluntary Defec tors from New Religious Movements," Joumal for the Scientific Study of Religion 23 : 172-82. . 1987. Leaving the Cults: The Dynamics ofDefectioll, Mono graph Series, No 7.I(Washingtoll, D.C.: Society for the Scientific Study of Religion}. Wuthnow, Robert. 1981. "1\0;0 Traditions of Religious Studies," Jour

---

nal for the Scientific Study of Religion 20; 16-32. --- . 1987. Meaning and Moral Order: Explorations in Cullural Analysis {Berke1ey: University of California Press}.

Why Philosophers Should

Become Sociologists (and Vice Versa) Kathryn Pyne Addelson Today, philosophy and sociology are in a ferment-new concepts and theories, new methods, even newly opened fields of research. This vol ume attests to it. The ferment is the conscquC..'JlCC of many historical changes, but intellectually, within the disciplines, it owes a great deal to the colJapse of what bas been dubbed "the enhghtcnment orienta tion." That orientation came to dominance in sociology and philOSfr .. after World War II, though it has phy departments in the United State.. often been read back into history, particularly to the origins of modern science and liberal democratic theOTY (sec MacIntyre, 1984).' Under the enlightenment orientation, objective knowledge is the goal of sociology and philosophy-one world, one truth, a unity of sci ence and a unity of morality for an mankind.. [t is the foundation of a hberal, secular humanism. This metaphysics and epistemology jus tified the methods philosophers and sociologists used within their disciplines, and it justified their authority as educators and policy ad visors. The justification is familiar to sociologists. An

enlightenment orientation toward social science has been a major presupposition of conventional sociology. The hopc has been that public policy could be made to rest on a body of po litically neutral theory and fact, validated by scientific method and beyond the disputes of moral and political sides. . . . (Gus field, 19840481 Philosophers rely on conceptual or linguistic methods to provide theories and analyses which are also supposed to be neutral among moral and pohtical sides. The enlightenment orientation justifies scholars' authority as researchers and as educators and policy advisors. CopyIight Cl

1989

by KathIya Pync: AddeJson.

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Kathryn Pync Addclson

120

It sets philosophers and sociologists as professional experts,

nol as

partisans Even in its heyday, the enlightenment orientation was never without .

its serious critics. By the mid·1960s, the criticisms were widespread

and widely known in the United States-in history, sociology, philoso phy, and even some of the natural sciences. Thomas Kuhn described scientific progress in terms that had more to do with science training and politics than enlightenment rationality.3 tn philosophy W. V. Quine made seemingly parochial arguments against the an�]ytic-synthetic distinction. But one consequence of the arguments is that there are

no neutral, Ulcory-independenl, observable

facts. Observation (Quine saidl is polluted by scientific language and theory, and by the language and conceptual scheme of the society at

large (Quine 1963, 1969). These arguments have generally been ac cepted about natural and social science. They affect the philosopher's usc of conceptual analysis concept, then

as weLL If observation is inseparabLe from

concept is inseparable from observation. Scientists have

no neutral observational data, and philosophers bave no neutral COD

ceptual data-both methods fall when the analytic-synthetic distinc tion collapses. Tn the phi1osophy of the social sciences, Peter Winch (1972) pressed his earlier distinction between scientist s rules and native's rules. Cul tural relativism was extended to fact and science, not simply value and morality. The question became, How arc we to study a human world in which meaning and morality, science and truth are all in the process of construc tion ? In philosophy, there is ferment as schola rs work out methods and metaphysics for studying such worlds, but so far, the efforts amount to work of the "transition," as Richard Rorty n9791 calls it, not the new philosophy itself. In contrast, in sociology the collapse of the enlight '

enment orientation can be seen as a triumph of symbolic inter3ction ism.4 In this paper, t'll argue that in their research, philosophers should move out of the "transition" by adopting the methods and metaphysics of the symbolic interactionists. That move

would resolve the internal problems that philosophers are struggling with within thei.r discipline. That is why (and how! philosophers should become sociologists. It doesn't solve the "external" problems that philosophers and sociolo gists alike face as educators and policy That requircs

some philosophical work

advisors-Gusfield's worry. and so the phrase "[and vice

versa)" in the title of this essay. Bccause of our social loc.1tions

as researchers, cduc:ltors, and policy

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Philosophers Should RecA)me Sociologists

advisors, we have, as a matter of fact, institutional warrant for making and dispersing knowledge. The enlightenment orientation, with its ideal of objectivity and the unity of mankind, gives a metaphysical and epistemological basis for that warrant, not a political ami institutional one: if we develop our methods properly, we will discover neutral fact and make neutral theory. On the enlightenment approach, the meth ods and metaphysics that we develop internally justify the authority that we exercise extcmally.5 The social, political, and moral questions about our cognitive authority in the society become moot. Some of the critics of the enlightenment orientation have taken our authority seriously_ Feminist Dorothy Smith speaks of the ruling apparatus-"that familiar complex of management, government ad ministration, professions, and intelligentsia, as well as the textually mediated discourses that coordinate and interpenetrate it"( 1987: 109). Smith says that sociology is part of the ruling apparatus, and of course, philosophy is as well. That is another way of talking about our author ity as scholars. But we shouldn't understand Smith as saying that as part of the ruling apparatus, we mechanically and ineluctably manu facture oppression. As a feminist scholar, Smith works at producing a sociology for warneD, presumably as a work of liberation. In this an thology addressed to professional scholars, the question is what a so ciology for sociologists ought to be, scientifically and morally, given that sociology is part of what Smith c.'llis the ruling app.1ratus. And a similar question must be asked about a philosophy for philosophers. These are social, political, and moral questions about our cognJtive authority in society, questions that become moot under the enlight enment orientation.6 As scholarly authorities, symbolic nteractionists i. have been in a cu rious position. Internally, they use a metaphysics and method that is contrary to the enlightenment orientation, and they have often criti cized sociologists using that orientalionJ But externally, it is the dominant enlightenment orientation that justifies their authority as educators and policy advisors-as pan of the ruling apparatus. In its popular (rather than scholarly) form, the orientation justified devcJop iug the academic professions and disciplines. If we are explicit about changing our methods and metaphysics to those of symbolic interac tionism, then we have to be explicit about the SOCial, political, and moral questions about our authority. The postenlightenment question is, how are we to study a human world in which meaning and morality, science and truth arc all in the process of construction?

Wc must give a double answer, one that takes

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Kathryn Pyne AddeJson

account of method and metaphysics within the disciplines and our au thority outside them. Both philosophers and sociologists have to make the double answer together. Here is my own beginning on the answer. On the enHghtenment orientation, the world is a world of facts and objects in which truth is discovered. My own understanding of the metaphysics of symbolic interactiouislU is this. Truth is not discov ered, it is enacted. Enacting truth requires authority of one sort or an other. The folk, whose activities both pltilosophers and sociologists arc concerned with, enact truth in various ways, and hoth philosophers and sociologists must be able to explain how. Symbolic intcractionists have ways of explaining how. But in doing research on those folk, scholars also enact truth. The question of how they do so is in part a question internal to their disciplines, as a question of method and evi dence. But it is also, in part, a question of the social organization of knowledge in the United States today. In both cascs, it concerns our scholarly authority and our moral responsibility. It concerns our au thority as scholars Jiving in the folk society. The question of a soci ology for sociologists lor a philosophy for philosophers, is a question of how to be morally, poJitically, and scientifically responsible in our place within the "ruling apparatus." I'll proceed to expand my remarks by making links between philoso phy and sociology. I'll draw my cases from ethics and the study of mo rality, in part because morality is centIal to sociological work-even as philosophers benefit from knowing the empirical work, sociologists benefit from a more precise understanding of moral clloories. And, of course, morality is also central to solving our own scholarly problem of passing beyond the enlightenment orientation. But first, a look at the state of philosophy today.

SOME PROBLEMS Of PHILOSOPHY The profession of philosophy has been in a state of flux for the past fifteen years. The New York TImes playfully represents the flux as a dispute between analytic philosophers and "phi1osophers for plural ism" and has fun talking about philosophers doing battle (see, for ex ample, December 20, 1987, front page). The internecine squabble is an outward sign of transformations within analytic philosophy that have already taken place-transformations that camc out of a crisis in analytic philosophy. The crisis shows in the titles of books of the re cent past-Beyond Obiectivism

and Relativism (Bemstein, 1983); Re visions {Hauerwas and MacJmyre, 1983); Post Analytic Philosophy

12..1

Philosophers Should Become Sociologists

(Rajchman and West, 198SI; After Philosophy (Baynes, Bohman, and McCarthy, 1987); and After Virtue {MacIntyre, 1984). Some of the best sellers

are books

dismantling the analytic tradition, books of the tran

sition-as Richard Rorty ( 1979) says of Philosophy (wd the Mirror of Nature. Rorty has remarked, "The notion of 'logical analysis' turned upon itself and committed slow suicide" (1982: 227J.� Analytic philosophy came to dominance in the United States after World War 11. In its more technical quarters, it was rooted in the scientific revolutions of the earlier twentieth century-not only in physics, but the great advances in logic, formal languages, and meta mathematics based on work by Gottlob Frege, Bertrand Russell, Alfred Tarski, Kurt Codel and others. In its Jess technical quarters, including ethics, it relied on the premise that the conceptual [or linguistic) is separable from the empirical (or factual)." This is a version of the analytic-synthetic distinction, and it relies on analyses within the en lightenment orientation. The philosophical method is conceptual or linguistic analysis. Use of the analytic method is widespread, and it dominates the un derstanding of philosophical research and teaching. In sheer numbers, most analytic philosophers continue with their old methods of concep tual analysis. In "basic research" they construct moral theories or new moral vocabularies. In applied philosophy (a counterpart of policy work in sociology), they analyze moral concepts and arguments that they feel are relevant to social problems (abortion, animal rights, en vironmental issue.� are examples), or institutional settings (infonned consent, issues in professional ethics), or to everyday life (promising, scx, drugs; love, racism, p*rnography). The grand effort in the disci pline is stiB on reasoning, and one of the expanding areas for jobs in philosophy is that of "criti.cal thinking." One quite typical introduc tory text published in 1988 tells students that philosophy trains us in "tbe critical and rational examination of the most fundamental as sumptions that underlie our lives" (Velasquez and Barry, 1988 : 41 An introductory text in applied ethics defines four goals of the philoso phical study of morality: c1alification of moral ideas and issues, com prehensive vision of ideas and insights, critical assessment of moral clai.ms, and moral guidance. (Martin, 1989). In her 1985 paper reviewing current, workaday, philosophical re search, "Standards in Philosophy," analytic philosopher Ruth Mack lin cited some "paradigmatic characteristics of the Philosophical enterprise_" lO

Kathryn Pyne Addelson

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A. Defining terms and analyzing concepts. B. Attending to the logic of arguments, detecting fallacies, and un covering assumptions. C. Analyzing and interpreting other writings-within or without philosophy. D. Constructing hypothetical arguments for or against positions {whether or not one accepts the underlying assumptions or the conc1u sions of the argumentsl. E. Offering sustained normative arguments in favor of a substan tive position held by thinkers outside philosophy. (Macklin, 1985: 276) Thi s is a succinct statement of the traditional conceptual method. No one would argue that muddy thinking is pleferable to clear thinking. But these definitions of philosophical work preserve the sepalation oC concept and fact as weU as the image of human society as an agglegate of individuals doing mental gymnastics on the way to separate value choices and decisions. That is the enlightenment ori entation in ethics, as it shows in a liberal, secular humanism. What of the "postanalytic philosophers" (as we might call them) who are making a new philosophy out of the collapse of the enlight cnment orientation? j l In ethics, therc is a focus on character, com munity, narrative, care, trust, and the like. However, the main emphasis is still on language and ideas.. At times, "conversation" is a term that substitutes for method. Richard Rorty says that philosophy becomes "a voice in the conversation of mankind" ( 1979),12 In the source reader for thc tclevision series, "Ethics in America" Lisa New ton speaks of "the conversation about ethics" which "intensifies and dies out as thc civilizations around it proVide or deny" what is needed for systematic, extended thought (1988 :3)_ Thc prime difficulty hcrc is that "conversation of mankind" is a metaphor when we need to know literally who is making thc meaning of ethics, how they do it, what authority they exercise in doing it, and what are the outcomes of thcir doing it. In Dorothy Smith's language, what docs this "conversation" amount to in the work oj the ruling apparatus? These are not qucstions extrinsic to the doing of philosophy, thc)' are qucstions that arc consti tutive of the philosophical task. The conversational method hasn't been thc only one proposed, of course. And, of course, other critics have argued that philosophy should be given up in favor of some science or other. W. V. Quine camc to that conclusion from his own criticism of the analytic tradition. His point was that we cannot separate meaning of terms from their refer-

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Philosopher.� Should Become Sociologists

ences in the world. We cannot peel the concepts off tlle facts. The con sequence is that we cannot distinguish the task of philosophy from that of science. Quine concluded that epistemology (the study of our knowledge of the world) should be done not by philosophers hut by neurophysiologists. The neurophysiologists, of course, cannot get out side our conceptual scheme to give us neutral theories about the ob jective facts. There are no neutral facts, says Quine, only a world conceptualized; the best we can do is go with the be..�t science of the day [Quine, 1963, 19691. Neurophysiology won't do as the best science of the day because the human world is a world of meaning, and for scientific and moral rea sons, we must respect that. Symbolic interactionism offers appropriate methods for studying a world of meaning. Symbolic interactionism of fers an appropriate metaphysics of human nature and human group life (which neurophysiology docs not and cannot). A criticism of the enlightenment orientation must give us a way to move beyond the transition to a new philosophy and sociology. In the next section, I'll discuss the "rules and norms" view of morality that attends the enhghtenment orientation in order to give an interactionist criticism that leads to a new understanding of hwnan nature and soci ety. In the following section, j'll discuss postanalytic ethics of narrative and character to show how interactionist sociologists can work with philosophers in making a more adequate ethics. In the last section, I'I.l return to the fundamental question of how our method and metaphys ics can allow us to do responsible sociology and philosophy, even within the ruling apparatus. MORAL THEORY: PRINCIPLES AND RULES

In The Idea of a Social Science, Peter Winch claimed tbat "the analysis of meaningful behaviour must allot a central role to the no tion of a rule; that all behavior which is meaningful (therefore all spe cifically human behaviour) is ipso facto rule governed" (1963 : 5 1 -52). Not everyone agrees with Winch-Quine talked about neurophysiol ogy replacing epistemology; behavioral psychologists and population geneticists formulate their own theories. Not everyone who agrees with Winch's remark means the sanle thing by it. But the view that meaningful behavior involves rules has been compelling for many people. The ethics of principles and rules is one important mainstream interpretation of it. The Encyclopedia of PhHosophy was published in 1968. The philoso-

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phcr writing the entry "Rules" gave a general statement of the ap proach in ethics. He describes rules as "prescribed guides for conduct" which are essential to any practice or institution "such as a game" and he gives the standard philosophic examples of baseball, bridge, and informal children'S games. He goes on, morality is a rule-governed activity that guides conduct and molds and alters actions and attitudes. . . . Moral rules are precepts that ought to he followed, whether they arc in fact followed or not. Moral rules, in this sense, are very dilierent from rules which define customs and practices: one can find out empiTicaUy what rules people advocate or ob servc, hut, as Humc and G. E. Moore insisted, one cannot de termine by such empirical study whether these rules really ought to be followed-that is, whether they are moral rules. �Encyclopedia of PhilosDphy: s.v. "rules," 2321 These remarks presuppose that morality has to do with rules

10£

principlesl and that there is some criterion for distinguishing moral rules from rules of custom. The encyclopedia sets a division of labor between philosophers and social scientists: philosophers set out the criterion, social scientists empirically investigate the customs. The reo marks presuppose a metaphysics of human

nature

and group life and a

philosophic method. In the enlightenment orientation, there are twO aspects to the dis· tinction between moral and customary rules that are important for so ciologists to understand. The first is set in terms of the distinction between autonomy and heteronomy, and it concerns the way in which the moral rules affect an individual's decisions and actions. An indio vidual acts autonomously when he or she freely and rationally choses the rule that governs his or her behavior. In contrast, a person acts heteronomously when his or her behavior is conditioned by custom or arises out of socialization. In this aspect, genuine moral decision and action is contrasted with mere customary behavior. Both involve rules. Both take the individual as the source of decision and action. But the way the rules entcr is different. Philosophers analyze rules and reason ing allegedly involved in autonomous moral action; sociologists de· scribe rules and behavior allegedly involved in hctemnomous moral action. The second aspect concerns the nature of the rules: the form of moral rules is different from (ha( of customary rules. In one of irs phrasi.ngs, Kant's categorical imperative gives a criterion for dis tin·

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Philosophet.� Should Become SociologIsts

guishing genuine moral TUles from other rules: Act always so that you could consistently will your maxim to be a universal law. As a crite rion, the imperative is a second order principle that we are to usc to criticize our rules of practice. Philosophers have put this by saying that genuine moral rules or principles must be universalizable. Although Kant believed that the imperative defined one morality for all rational beings, most analytic philosophers wouldn't require that all human groups have [he same rules. But though the rules might have different content, to be moral rules, they would have to satisfy the universaliz ability criterion. And to be morally rational, group members would have to give reasons in terms of the moral rules and principles, accept reasons in those terms, and criticize the rules they use by some version of the categorical imperative. This argument acknowledges the fact of cultural difference while preserving the mOTal unity of mankind. Contemporary philosophers working in principle ethics downplay or ignore the claim that philosophers are supposed to analyze the a priori framework for human morality. However, they keep the definition of moral rationality and they keep the a priori, conceptual method. Faced with the moral diversity of the United States, many of them have re treated to analyzing the principles and rules of "public morality" in the United States. Public morality is the morality of obligations and rights that we are said to share in tbe United States (or perhaps in the West), in contrast to various religious or ethnic or communal or indivi dual moralities. For the most part, it is what Lawrence Kohlberg (19711 called "the official morality of the United States" (level three, stage five of his developmental scheme). Ruth Macklin's remarks (quot<.:d above I describe this sort of work in applied ethics. The "official mo rality" sbares the liberal. secular humanist metaphysics of individuals as the source of decisions in a society that is an aggregate of ideally free, rational atoms. There has been sustained criticism of this approach. In fact, when Winch wrote that "all specifically human behavior is ipso facto rule governed," he did not mean that the governing rules exist in some re ificd conceptual or linguistic form that is open to "objective" analysis by sociologists and philosophers. Quite the contrary. His point, follow ing Wittgenstein, is that the meaning of the rules is made by group members in action together, as they apply the rules in living their personal and group lives. In some ways, this is dose to symbolic interactionism.13 In his statement of the metaphysics of interactionist sociology, Her· bert Blumer says,

128

Kafhryn Pync Addclson A gratuitous acceptam;e of the concepts of norms, values, so cial rules, and the like should not hlind the social scientist to the fact that any one of them is subtended hy a process of social interaction-a process that is necessary not only for their change but equally well for their retention in a fixed form. It is the social process in group lile that creates and upholds the rules, not the rules that create and uphold group liJe. (t969: 19)

This statement puts the focus not on the rules and principles but on their creation and retention. More than that, it offers a metaphysics of the human world in which the creation of mora) theories and vo cabularies is shown to be a political act, not simply a conceptual one. With such a metaphysics, we need an empirical method, not a concep tual one. Howard Becker writes in more general lerms of ways in which rules and dcfirutions of all sorts operate in the process of creating and main taining social structure. Interactionist theories of deviance, like interactionist theories general1y, pay attention to how social actors define each other and their environments. They pay particular attention to dif ferentials in the power to define; in the way one group achieves and uses the power to define how other groups will be regarded, understood, and treated. Elites, ruling classes, bosses, adults, men, Caucasians-superordinate groups generally-maintain their powel as much by controlling how people define the world, its components, and its possibilities, as by the usc of mOle primitive forms of control. They may use more primitive means to estahlisb hegemony. But control based on the ma nipulation of definitions and labels works more smoothly and costs less; superordinates prefer it. (1973: 204) Rather than rules and principles defming the morality of a group, the proper group members are "morally bound to accept the definition im posed on reality by a superordinate group in preference to the defini tions espoused by subordinates" (Becker, 1970: 126). Here we see the question of scholars' authority and our place in the ruling apparatus. In the United States, scholars are members of a su perordinate group. Philosophers (and other academics of course) have significant "power to define," as Becker puts it. The political consequences of an unexamined "power to define" are blatant in applied ethics. For example, analytic philosophers regularly define the moral problem of .:lbortion as a conflict of rights: the right

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Philosophers Should Become Sociologists

of the woman to determine what happens in and to her body versus the right to life of the fetus. Despite much criticism, that definition is still the one that dominates introductory texts and classroom disclission. It formulates the central moral issue of the social problem of aboJtion in a way that limits debate. It leaves in limbo those who oppose or sup POrt publie policies on abortion on moral grounds of love, sexuality, the good of mankind, rather than on the basis of rights. In the moral issue,

the

gree that they do

so,

clarifying

analytic philosophers silence others.14 To the de they define public morality, [lot analyze it-a

problem that is analogous to the much discussed issue of sociologists defining social problems. But philosophic method and metaphysi cs ob· scurc this {act, making it difficult to face the rcsflonsibHities of an elite defining the public morality. The scholarly error can basically be seen as a false understanding of

analyze the products of group life-rules and individuals are both products In do ing so, they ignore the process by which the products come co be con structed as products. They study group life as if it consisted of objects oot actions, rules and individuals not collective making of mcaning. human nature and human group life. These phiJosophers

These mistakes lead to their faulty method. They also, of course, lead to moral failure. Although the analytic philosophers have always been outstanding at criticizing their intellectual work within their disci· plines ("the notion of logical analysis turned upon itself and committed slow suicide"', they have traditionally ignored the social organization of knowledge and their place in it. IS With their expcrtjse justified by the enlightenment orientation, analytic philosophers have refused to discuss their actual places in the ruling apparatus. For them, the large questions of scholarly authority and resp onsibility are moot. Today, tn.1ny of the vao!;uard workers in philosophical ethics have rejected thc old rules and principles view and arc devising new ap proaches to moral theory. Because I'm seriously recommending that philosophers become sociologists {and vice versa I, I'll describe some of the new work on narrative, to makc links between philosophy and sodoJogy.

NARRATIVE, CHARACTER,

AND n'IE

SELP

The premises on the rational and moral unity of mankind col· lapsed along with the enlightenment orientation. The new premises include the thesis that the human world is structured by language in ways that vary with convention and forms of life: There is no way to get at the world outside of language, either to compare language with

Kathryn Pync Addclson

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the world or to compare different forms of life (or even scientific para digms) with each other. There is no neutral, outside vantage point for an observer to take_ One way the premises are interpreted in the new ethics is by emphasizing narrative language. Over the past generation, narrative has become increasingly impor· tant as a scholarly method in history, women's studies, psychology, political science, and even in some quaners of sociology (sec Polking horne,

19871- Jerome Bruner has elevated nanative to one of the two

basic modes of human cognition, the other heing the logico-scicmific mode th;lt is used in the morality of principles and rules, the mode presupposed in the enlightenment orientation (Bruner,

1986). In con

trast, narrative is said to be historical and contextual. Alasdair Mac Intyre is a major proponent of the narrative approach. MacIntyre uses narrative as his own philosophical method, telling a story of intellectual arguments from the Middle Ages to the present as a way of defining and criticizing the enlightenment orientation.l¢ He also claims that narrative is the way human beings explain the moral doings in life: man is a storytelling animaL MacIntyre prefers to talk aixJUt intelligibility rather than rationality, and he claims that we make things intelligible through narrative. Our human nature differs from the heasts' natures because we converse and tell stories, and

cause we have histories and biographies. He says, IElvery moral philosophy offers explicitly or implicitly at least a partial conceptual analysis of the relationship of an agent t o his or her reasons, motives, intentions and actions, and in so doing generally presupposes some claim that these concepts are embodied in or at least can be in the real social world.

11984 :23)" His analysis is that narrative (in history and biography} relates agent to motive, intention, and action. Richard Bondi states a principle of the narrative approach when he says, "IHluman beings are creatures formed in communities marked by allegiance to a normative story [or narrativeI. This formation can best be disclissed in the language of character"

(1984 :201). Human nature

is said to be essentially historical, and character and community nec essarily linked. Human beings lequire "a narrative to give our life co herence" {Hauerwas 1977 : 27).18 This approach

ethics seems compatible with C. Wright Mills's

wen known discussion of vocabularies of motive. Motives, Mills says,

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Philosophers Should Become Sociologists

are explanations given in answer to questions about a person's activity. The search for "real" motives is mistaken. Rather than fixed elements "in" an individual, motives are the terms with which interpretation of conduct by social actors proceeds. This imputation and avowal of motives by actors are social phenomena to be explained. The differing reasons mcn give for their actions are not themselves without reasons. (1963,439-40) Using narrative as the mode of explanation in moral theory makes philosophical sense of Mills's remarks. We may need a conceptual analysis of the relationship of an agent to his or her reasons and mo tives (as Macintyre says), but we must proceed by seeing how the rela tionship is socially constructed in the making of the narrati.ve. We need empirically adequate concepts, theori.es, methods, and a stock of good empirical studies.I\> If we insist on empirical adequacy, we begin to see how "narrative" operates in creating and maintaining the social order. In interactionist field studies, we find that some people have the authori.ty or power to define the terms in which their own and other peopJe's stories are to be official1y narrated. This authority must be taken account of.w There are as many errors in speaking of the narrative of a community as there are in speaking of the rules or principles of a community, and Blumer's advice is as good here as there: the processes of human group life must be known, and scholars should not take tbe products as self-evident. This is true whether we call the products rules or narmtivc,.,>. If we say the moral world consists in action interpreted through nar rative, then we need scholarly methods, concepts, and theories suited to studying such a world of action. We need to find out what the nar ratives arc ;md how they are constructed in specific cases. This requires methods, concepts, and theories of an empirical science. But Lhe sci ence caDllot be empirical in the enlightenment sense that either nar rative or constructions exist as neutral data. In the Test of this section, I'll mention some of the interactionist concepts and theories that I find useful to moral theory. It is in theory guided by field studies that the symbolic interactionist tradition is most valuable-including its accounts of the self, charac ter, and virtue and vicc. Studies of deviance arc prime examples, par ticularly because they give us concepts to guide the study. For example, Lemert's notion of secondary deviance shows how a self and human

132

Kathryn pync Addclson

character are formed in the labeling process, i.e., in the course of ac quiring the biography of a deviant (lemcrt, 1951). The notion of a career has been useful in a multitude of field studies. Erving Goffman was only sometimes a symbolic interactionist. But his widely quoted remark from "The Moral Career of the Mental Patient" states how the dual nattlfe of the self is captured by the concept. One value of the concept of career is its two-sidedness. One side is linked to internal matters held dearly and closely, such as the image of self and felt identity; the other side concerns official position, jural relations, and style of life, and is part of a publicly accessible institutional complex. The concept of ca reer, then, allows one to move back and forth between the personal and the public, between the self and its significant society, without having to rely overly for data upon what the person says he thinks he imagines himself to be. ( 1 96 1 : 127) Coffman calls his paper "an exercise in the institutional approach to the self." rn my paper "Moral Passagcs" (1987), I used research by Prudence Rains to talk about a network of careers that may chart social options available to different people within a group. Rains did several field studies in the late 1960s, which she reported and discussed in her book Becoming an Unwed Mother. They included studies of mainly white and middle-class �'oung women at a home for unwed mothers and of black, mainly poor teenagers at a day school for unwed mothers. Rains's studies make it clear that narratives and biographies were indeed constructed as accounts of the young women's behavior. They show that the social workers involved had tremendous influence in "coauthoring" the narratives of the mostly white, middle-class women, and very little influence in coauthoring the black teenagers' personal biographies. In the case of the black teenagers, certain narratives were recorded in official places-with the police, the schools, the social ser vice agencies, and the registry of births. One of the teens said of offi cials, "They keep records."21 The black teens had, in effect, at least two biographies-the onc they lived in the home neighborhood and the one in the offici,t) records. And, of course, all of them had many more "narratives" than that. Unitary life histories arc for public figures, and for them only as they appear in school history books. There are other new approaches in ethicS that stress narrative and the historical nature of the self. Under the rules and principles ethics, the moral notions of responsibility and care were neglected in favor of

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Philosophers should Become Sociologists

obligations and rights. Carol Gilligan's work ! 19821 is probably the best known of the efforts to make notions of responsibility and care ceo" tral.21 Gilligan developed the responsibility-care orientation by criti cizing Lawrence Kohlberg's principle morality of obligation and rights. The latter imposed male gender dominance. Gilligan saw that mora) reasoning was being socially constmcted tn the Kohlberg "laboratory" and classroom. But in spitc of that criticism, she herself ignored the processes by which narratives are made. It is within these processes that systematic relations of gender, and of agc, race, class, ethnicity, and so on, arc constructed.23 On the other hand, with the help of moral theorists, it may be possible to answer some of the criticisms perennially aimed at in teractionist work. One common complaint has been that the tradi tion emphasizes the social at the cost of tbe personal-the public at the cost of the internal self and its creativity. An analogous criti cism is that the tradition emphasizes the cognitive at the cost of the emotinnal. Some moral theorists and some feminist theorists offer help here. Richard Bondi criticizes some of the "narrative" moral theories be calise lhey do not give a way of speaking about the self as we experi ence it, which is at the same time the self in relation to the world. As a first step toward correcting the defects, he sets out "the elements of character" that must be analyzed and accounted for. They include the human capacity for intenLional action; the involvement that affec lions and passions have with moral action and character; the subjec· tion to the accidents of history; and what he calls "the capacity of the heart," "that intimate mix of memory, imagination and the desire for union we experience as marking the centcr of ourselves"

(1984:

204-5). Bondi is setting out a program rather than giving a finished analysis, but it is a program that is important for both sociologists md .. philosophers. Other philosophers have other offerings. For example, Annette Baier has written on the importance of trust as a moral concept that is essen tial to understanding community

(1986). It is also important for inter

actionists to understand the moral notion of responsibility. The old "principle morality" and the old "TUles and norms" sociology dealt with obligations and sanctions. Responsibility is receiving renewed at· tention in philosophy, and it is a moral notion that fits better with an ethics of narrative and character {Ladd, 1970; Whitbeck,

1982!.

At this paint, we need to turn more directly to interactionisl meta· physics and method and its relation to scholarly authority.24

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Kathryn I-'yne Addelson

MI:.'THODS AND MORALS The enlightenment world was one of objects and concepts that could be objectively observed and neutrally reported. In contrast, the postanalytic philosophers and the symbolic intcractionists agree that the human world is a world not of objects but uf action and interpre tation. Our question here is, What is a moraUy and scientifically re sponsible way to study such a world, given our social positions as scholarly authorities within the ruling apparatus? This is the double question that concerns rcsponsible methods and metaphysics to serve as a basis for responsible work by members of our disciplines for mem bers of the society as a whole. 00 th e one hand, it is a question of honesty in our vocations; on the other, it is a question of responsible service-I hope wc arc serving the people as members of the ruling apparatus, rather than serving the ruling apparatus jor our own little discipli.nary segments of it!.

The methods and metaphysics of symbolic interaC{ionism are those

of an empirical science-but not an empirical science as defined

within the enlightenment orientation. Our first movement tow.ard meeting the double question is to see wh.at sort of empirical science symbolic interactionism is. Herhert Blumer's statement of the basic premises of interaetionism characterize the empirical world that social scientists and philoso phers study .as scholars. Blumer says, Lel me begin by identifying the empirical social world in the case of human beings. This world is the actual group life of human beings. . . . The life of a human society, or of any seg ment of il, or of any organiution in it, or of its participants consists of the action and experience of people as they meet the situations that arise in their respective worlds. . . . ITllle empirical social world consists of ongoing group life and one has to gel dose to this life to know what is going on in it. ]f one is going to respect the social world, one's prob lems, guiding conceptions, data, schemes of relationship, and ideas of interpretation have to be faithful tel that empirical world. (Blumer, 1969: .15, as) Blumer taJks about respecting the social world and having concepts and methods that arc faithful to it. The methods Blumer names include direct observation, field study, participant observation, case study, in

terviewing. use of life histories, use of letters and diaries, public docu ments, and conversation (Blumer, 1969;50). These are methods that

135

Philosophers should Became Sociologists

are learned, used, cTiticized, changed, and developed, i.e., they are sci entific methods, not procedures carved in stone. Among these sociolo gists, the methods are continually examined to see whether they allow researchers to remain faithful to the empirical world. They are also examined to see whether they allow researchers to be respectful of the subjects and cognizant of their own authority in the research situa tl0n.25 The methods are the basis of gathering data, even for dissident sociologists like Dorothy Smith. Criticisnt comes from "traditionals" a.nd feminists alike. But we must be careful about what "clata" means. Within the enlightenment orientation, the prob1cm of data is an on tological and epistemological one: there must be neutral, ohservable faets and distinct language and concepts if science is to find out the truth about the objects of the world.26 This is because the enlight enment truth is one to be discovered. In contrast, as I said at the beginning of the paper, the interactionist truth is cnacted. Under in teractionist ontology, facts are enacted through political and social processes. To a limited degree, the enlightenment notion of truth has been

overcome in philosophy and sociolo y. For example, when Thomas Kuhn discusses revolutionary science, he describes processes by which the £acts and truths of a new paradigm come to be enacted within a scientific discipline. Kuhn clung to the enlightenment approach by as suming that scientists had authority to enact truth for the larger soci ety. He did not explicitly analyze- scientific authority in

The Structure

of Scientific Revo1utionsY Enacting facts and truth requires authority of one sort or another. it requires authority to define the world and authority to have the definitions officially accepted. These are startling claims only if we cling to an enlightenment view of facts and truth. Much interactionist work concerns how truth is enacted among the folk-studies on deviance and social problems fall into this category. Take, as an example, Prudence Rains' study on lU1wed mothers men tioned above. In the late

19605 in the Midwest, the truth that unwed

motherhood. was deviant was enacted among her white middle-class subjects by the efforts of families to conceal these pregnancies, by the existence of maternity homes that !,.'1.l.3rded the secrets, ..md by the so cial and economic systems that m.'ldc it very difficult for the famihes to raise an "illegitimate" child while preserving the young mother's future options. In the black Chicago neighborhoods, the truth of a girl's having a deviant (or incorrigible} character was constructed by social workers, police reports, and a whole coordinated edifice of action and recordkeeping.

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Kathryn Pync Addclson

Today, unwed motherhood is deviant in some communities but not others. Teen pregnancy has emerged out of secrecy and become a social problem. The social problem has been enacted as a fact by thousands of political and scholarly efforts. This docs not mean that "if we believe it tme, then it is true." Enacting tnlth isn't a matter of mere belief and attitude. Enacting truth means living together so that our wodds,

OUI

lives and our characters are made in certain ways. The emphasis 011 enacting truth is connected with knowing how to get along in our collective life rather than knowing that some proposi tion is true or some fact exists. The enlightenment tradition was ob sessed with "knowing that." The analysis of scientific theories and concepts and scientific truth was slave to that obsession. in contrast, the interactionist tradition requires that "knowing how" be taken se riously. Consider Howard Becker's notion of a folk concept. Folk concepts give meaning

our activities in the sense that they

help us know how to do those activities together. Becker says, in fact, that folk concepts are shorthand terms people use to organize the way they do things together [see Becker,

1970:92). They convey a concep

tion of a distinctive way of organizing what we do, including charac teristic activities, typical settings, cast of characters, typical careers and problems. The folk term suggests that all these things hang to gether in a neat pattern. In some interesting cases, like "profession" or "discipline," the term carries with it a justification that rationalizes the social and political place of the work and those who do it. In others, like "lesbian," "drug dealer," or "pregnant teen," the term carries a justification for treating such people and activities as deviant. Folk concepts arc lISed by us folk to point to what we do, and to coordinate what we do together [in the sense that even a war requires coordinating both sides). Fol k terms point Ollt activities that "the folk" take to be thc samc, in thc sense that they know how to do the same thing again. The shorthand folk term may suggest certain neat pat terns, but that suggestion is persuasive and used in explanations and arguments that ultimately involve aulhority, not criteria. Through folk terms, we enact truth and make our communities aDd our characters.1R In discussing how the folk enact truth, 1 have implicitly made a dis tinction between the folk ways of enacting the truth that are being described by sociologists, and the ways of enacting truth that sociolo gists use in doing the describing. In the enlightenment orientation, this is usually set as >I normative distinction between the value-laden ways of the folk and the objective, rational ways of the scientist or philo sopher. In philosophy, it has sometimes been set as a distinction be-

13 7

Philosophers Should Become Sociologists

tween unruly ordinary language and precise scientific or philosophical language. It is obvious that scientists and philosophers arc members of the folk, and their ways can be studied. Studying ourselves as members of the folk is essential to our methods and morals. But here I am making a distinction between the ways of the folk that we arc describing and the ways that we are using in doing the describing. This can't be re duced to a distinction between the language the folk use versus the language we usc in describing them. It is a question of authority and modes of action. To act responsibly, we have to take on the double task of criticizing our methods as well as understanding our authority as professionals, i.e., as enactors of truth within the folk society. If we accept the premise that truth is enacted, then our understand ing of concepts and theories must change accordingly. In the enlight enment view, truth is discovered about a world of objects open to neutral observation. Truth is embodied in language, not in action. Sci entific concepts must be defined so as to clearly distinguish their in stances, ultimately in terms of observation. The definitions have to give necessary or sufficient conditions for the term's application-the movement for operational definitions was one extreme manifestation of this approach.29 if terms do not give us criteria for telling when an event happens or fails to happen, we will be unable to confirm or falsify our propositions. The enlightenment account of scientific concepts won't do for a world in which truth is enacted. In contrast, Herbert Blumer calls the sociologists' concepts "sensitizing concepts," or "sensi.tizing instru ments." They arc not the sort of concepts that dcfine necessary or sufficient conditions for their instances. With sensitizing concepts, Blumer says, "we scem forced to reach what is common by accepting and using what is distinctive to the given empirical instance." This, he said, is due not to the immaturity of sociology but to the nature of the empirical world which is its object of sludy ( 1 969: 1481. In his 1987 book, Qlll1JjlaLive AnlJlysis for Social Scientists, Anselm Strauss lays out some methods appropriate to developing adequate con cepts. In contrast to the abstract conceptual analysis of the philoso phers, Strauss insists that anaJysis is synonymous with interpretation of data � 1987: 4J. -me interpretation, and the progressive data collec tion, must pass through stages of evolution structured according to an ongoing process of coding and memo writing_ "Coding" is his general term for conceptualizing the data. Developing rich and complex concepts with which to discuss a field

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Kathryn Pyne Addelson

study, through coding and memo writing, is the focus of Strauss's idea of grounded theory (1987: 26}. That is, "theory" in this sense is not an abstract set of universal laws to be tied to observation by definitions of its terms. But it is genuine theory in the sense of giving a general pic ture of human group life and social structure-as general as the data allow. Theory in a particular field study may use concepts or categories developed in other studies. For example, the concept of a career {and its associated theory) is used in many studies. But the concept must be deve10ped and tested within the present study just as if it were new and derived from the coding of prescnt material. Strauss himself warns against assuming the "analytic relevance of any face sheet or tradi· tional variable such as age, sex, social class, or race until it emerges as relevant" (1987 :32). They too must earn a way into the grounded theory. By using these methods, the community of fieldworkers con· tinuaHy test theory and develop a system of concepts useful for show· ing patterns across cases. At this point, cnter the sceptical chorus: To whom are those patterns useful? To whom are they the same-according to whose concepts, rules, theories, practices, language, conversation, or narrative?30 The answer is that, initially at least, they are patterns according to the reo searchers' concepts, theories, practices, and so on. Given the research· ers' places of authority in the social organization of knowledge, the concepts may be ex.tended to the rest of the folk through the educa· tional system, the media, and other institutional means. This is how folk understanding changes according to the scholarly way of enacting truth. Initially, the patterns are useful to the researchers, but

the

research is successful, they must ultimately be useful to the folk as well, and the folk ways of enacting truth and doing things together. And at this point, we meet the other side of the double question-the question of responsible service to the people as members of the ruling apparatus. According to the enlightenment orientation, we do responsible work by sticking to the facts and concepts and leaving the values and policy decisions to the appropriate officeholders. Rejecting the enlightenment orientation leaves us face to face with our mora} and political tasks. If the enlightenment approach allowed us to he bHndly partisan as a group, we now run the danger of being self-consciously partisan as individuals. The individualistic metaphysics of the enlightenment orientation has collapsed within the disciplines. But its indivi.dualistic, secular hu-

Philosophers Should Become Sociologisrs

139

manism remains behind as the folk ethics of most of us scholars. I say folk ethics here because it is an ethics most of llS usc even when we criticize it. Robert Bellah and Richard Rorty land many othersl indi vidualistically choose to become patriots, then use their authority in advising us to polish up the old stories of the American tradition to serve up to school children. Other scholars individualistically chose to become feminists or Marxists or minority advocates, then use their authority in espousing whatever cause they feel is appropriate. In their research, these scholars may raise issues and give criticisms that are essential to our work-I am not questioning that. I am saying that we should not reject the old, enlightenment orientation in our methods and metaphysics, then unseH-consciously presuppose it in an ethics that has us "choosing" liberalism, Marxism, feminism, or whatever as basic "values" to direct our individual work. This is self-deception, because truth is not enacted by individuals choosing basic values. Val ucs arc not ideas on which we individually act-even thougb our folk concepts may explain them in that way. Philosophers and other scholars havc, of course, influenced the folk explanations and, perhaps, the course of history. In commenting on an earlier version of this essay, Jerry Schneewind argued that invent iog moral theory and vocabulary has been, socially and politically, an important philosophical task. He wrote to me concerning Kant's contribution, Imagine a society where people weren't well educated and didn't have lime to think about politics but are coming to be in that position. Suppose their sole vocabulary was one that stressed individual subordination to the law: to the king, to the pastor, to God. And suppose someone said, "Think of your selves as making your own laws. All our moral terms can be explained that way. And you then can Sl.'C that you can't be ruled by just anyone, because you rule yourself first." There's a political and social point to the Kantian vocabu laryj people could usc it for definite situated purposes. Iper sonal correspondence, Fall, 1988) I agree that what Schneewind says is important. Philosophers have fiJled

and will continue to fill political and social roles. And so wil1 sociologists and all the other varieties of humanists and scientists. My point in this paper is that when we are exercising our authority as members of academic disciplines, we must he morally and intellectu-

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ally honest about what we are doing. We must consistently extend our sound scholarly methods and judgments into our action as authorities enacting truth in the social world. Kant devised a moral vocabulary that contributed to social and po litica1 changes in the making of the modern world. His moml thCOTY jand its successors! has been a cornerstone of the enlightenment ori entation. The most difficult task we scholars face now is overcoming the enlightenment orientation in our work lives, leaving behind the Kanlian moral theory and its relativistic, modern successors that 1 dis cussed above. To serve others, we have to begin by serving ourselves. We need a moral theory that is useful to us, given our positions of authority, and one that is consistent with our new metaphysics and method. None of the philosophical theories

I have mentioned in this

paper will do. They do not take into account the processes by which moral and empirical truth are enacted. The new theory must be one that makes scholarly sense and that can be enacted as we try to do responsible service as scholars and teachers and policy advisers. Mak· ing the moral theory requires changing ourselves and our work. f have argued that, for reasons of good scholarship, sociologists and philosophers should work together. Symbolic interactionism (broadly understood) offers an appropriate metaphysics and method for studying society and making philosophical moral theory. But in the end, I be· lieve that symbolic interactionism requires that wc change ourselves and our world. Enacting a new moral thcory is thc real reason that ph.ilosophcrs should become sociologists (and vice versa).

NOTES I. 1 was trained as an analytic

philosopher, and I started becoming a soci ologist in 1974 when I attended Howard Hccker's class in field methods. After that, my sociological training was a kind of imormal apprenticeship I pursued it with the intelligent, p<,'ltient, and generous help of Howie Becker, Arlene Daniels, Judy Wittner, and Joseph Schneider. Tn this paper, I have been helped by comments from the audience and my commentators at the 1988 Stone Sym posium of the Society Tor Symbolic Interaction; I was also helped by the phi losophers of the Propositional Attitudes Task Force at Smith College_ l owe special thanks to 'erry Schncewind for his comments on the penultimate draft. 2. This last, at least, is Ule way it appears in Karl PoppeT's presentations. See jarvie, 1984 for a discussion in these terms. 3. Thomas Kuhn's criticism addresses the internal question of authority in scientific revolution, and he reduces it to diSCiplinary politics and career ism(Kuho, J970). He never deals with the question of scientific authority in the society at large, and, in that sense, he doesn't escape the enlightenment orientatiOll. I say mOle about this in Addclson, 1983. .

Philosophers Should Become Sociologists

141

4. I am using "symbolic interactionism" in a broad sense here, one that cov eTS the essays in this volume. In my usc (and the usc in the title of this volume), the term includes work by some or the ethnomethodologists and by some so

ciologists who can't really be classified by school. MOle strictly, symbolic in teractionism has philosophical roots in the American pragmatism ofthe early twentieth century. It should be attractive to philosophers because an impor tant segment of the philosophicaJ vanguard looks back to the pragmatist phi losophers Peirce, James, Dewey, and Mead in search of a new foundation for philosophy. But to settle questions of authority an d metllOd, we must follow the pragmatist philosophical tradition forward to one of its nAtural outcomes in a sociological tradition of today. In this normative sense, becoming a soci ologist requires working within a research tradition that has corrected and extended the original, philosophical ideas of its founders by making them em pirical. it requires working within a nadition whose members create new ideas out of the tradition and correct and extend them in the course of empirical research. What I have just given is, of course, a normative as well as a descrip tive characterization of symbolic interactionism-a gesture in the direction of a disciplinary tradition. S. The distinction between internal and external, once used in history, phi losophy, and SOciology of sciencc, relics on an enlightenment orientation. I'm using it for pt.>dagogical reasOns here, not because I believe it constitutes a valid distinetion qui rc the contrary. 6. My discussion of Dorothy Smith's work in this context comes Ollt of cor respondence with Joseph Schneider Smith's work raises issues that arc cru cially important to all sociolobtisrs and philosophers, not just feminist ones. On the other hand, there may be questions of warrant that Smith needs to address. For example, the institutional possibility of making a sociology for women seems to rely on conventions of autonomy in the scholarly disciplines which

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10. The paper contains outstanding examples of workaday philosophical work in its various gradations. In her own work, Macklin pays attention to cultural and legal data, however. 1 L The term "postanalytic" is inadequate and e,'en misleading, but no single term will do the job. The introduction to Baynes, Bohman, and Mccar thy, 1987f contains a taxonomy of philosophic positions that is exact and en hghtening but much too complex to use in this paper. 12. Rocty borrows the phrase from Michael Oakshott. 13. In The Idea of a Social Science. the point is less dear than it ought to

be because Winch uses simple, hypothetical eXAmples and he pays little atten tion to the political nature of ule interpretation and application of the rules. To make sense of Winch's land Wittgenstein'sl recommendations about rules, we nced a way to understand the process of applying rules, and that requires an empirical method, not hypothetical examples. In a nutshell, that is why l believe philosophers must become sociologists. J argue this at greater length in the text. 14. Philosophical critics have long made a point of saying this. See, for ex ample, Haucrwas 09811 for a philosophical criticism by a theologian, Whit beck {19821 for a criticism by a feminist philosopher, and Maclntyre 09841 for a Widely read effort. See my criticism of the approach (Addclson, 1979). Meyers and Kiltay, 1987, contains papers that offer criticisms from a variety of stand points. As we shall sec, somc of the crities nm into difficulties that resemble those the analytic philosophers face. tS. In this they have been supported by distinctions made within the en lightenment orientation-the distinction between justification and discovery and the distinction between internal and external studies of science. 16. His way of judging one position (or conceptual schemel to be rationally superior to another is to appeal to the history of arguments within a tradi· tion-the rationally superior is the beSt so far. This line of thought sounds dangerously like the self-congratulatory stork'S of scientific progress in the West, with the latest being tbe best so far. Much turns on the empirical ade· quacy of the way the narrative is consmlctcd and the way the authority of the narrator is taken account of. Macintyre published After Virtue in an effort to meet criticisms that he didn't pay enough attention to social history. (SL'C his remarks on Abraham Edel's criticisms in the Afterword to the second edition of MacIntyre, 1984). I believe he doesn t succeed. 17. Macintyre s is one of the most widely discussed "new" answers to the question, "What is morality!" He pursues many of the questions that Eliza beth Anscombe raised in, "Modern Moral Philosophy, " though from his own more "sociological" angle (Anscombc 1957). 18. Danto ( 1 98S) has an interesting discussion of narrative. He still seems to believe in objective facts that can be found out, however. Polkinghorne (1987) gives an overview on the growing importance of narmtive in a variety of disciplines. Addelson 1 1987) discusses problems with a model that assumes agents' motives, intentions, and the like arc given in the moment of acting or deciding. 19. Consider Macintyre's remarks on accountability and the interlocking nature of narratives: "[Nlarrarive sclfhood is correlative. I am not only ac'

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countable, I am one who can always ask others fOI an aCl;ount, who can put others to the question. I am pan of their story, as they are part of mine. The narrative of any onc life is part of an interlocking set of narratives. Moreover, this asking for and giving of accounts itself plays an important pan in consti· tuting nanatives" � 1984: 2181. There arc empirical questions that concern the moral and scientific acceptability of his new theory. Who may ask whom for accounts, and in what [cnns arc the accounts given? can deviants ask for an account of the respectable �or of the police�? Deviants might ask, but they would cerrain!y not receive answers in their terms. That, after all, is why Beck er's book is ambiguously calk'() Outsiders

( 1973). See also my discussion be·

low, on Prudence Rains.

20. Feminist historians land others1 have called this "the periodization problem," the double claim that historians have periodized history in teilns of men's experience [a methodological claiml and that history and the narratives of group life have been defined in terms of �higher classl men's experience. See Dye, 1979. This is, of course, relevant to Dorothy Smith's discussion of the ruling apparatus and a sociology lor women.

21. Rains's studies also show that in the case of the middle·class teenagers in a maternity home, the narratives were not recorded in official places. A conspiracy among family, schools, maternity home, and officials kept these nice, middle·class girls' records clear. Macintyre speaks of life narratives as being "coauthOIeu" and he says the self inhabits a character whose unity is given as the unity of a character 11984:217]. Maybe so, but we need empirical study to sec who does the coauthoring, and to sec whethcr therc really is unilY of character. Without empirical study, the philosophical theory quickly goes astray.

22. But sl.:e also Noddinw; � 19841 and a multitude of other feminist writings. 23. This paragraph is an edited version of a portion of Addclson, 1987. 24. joseph Schneider and Jerry Schneewind made comments on an earlier draft that I used in the revision of the next section.

25.

Dorothy Smith and other feminist sociologists are particularly sensitive

to these questions, but the issues arise in one fonn or another among many sociologists. See, for example, Stacey and Thorne, 1985; Stacey, 1988, CliHord and Marcus,

1986; and Clifford, 1988.

26. The data problem is faced fairly directly in the interactionist tradition in a number of discussions of social problems. Sec Spector and Kitsuse, 1977; Rains, 1975, Wooigar and Pawluch, 1985; and Schneider, 1985. 27. Quite a lot is implicit in Kuhn, 1970, however, and his discussion of textbooks is particularly important. See my discussion in Addelson, 1983. In· teractionists offer case studies in science that serve as a basis for analyzing the place of scientists and other scholars in the ruling apparatus �see references in Clarke and Gerson, this volume).

28. This is as good a place as any to express my wariness about Smith's ferm, "the ruling appararus." Smith is making a sociology for women iu a political sense, as a feminist much influenced by Marxist themes and polities, and so she selects out clements of social organization that are integrated into a cen· tralized authority, albeit of a many·faceted sort. As professional scholars, we are part of that ruling apparatus. As an interaetionist sociologist, however, I

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authority operating systematically in all sorts of situalions, not all of them linked in n i teresting ways to ccnnalizcd authority. I think Smith would agree, of course, and her focus on the ruling apparatus is a mark of her feminist pol itics. I have my own feminist politics, but in this essay, I'm trying [Q speak to issues that directly concern sociologists and philosophers in their work, whether they take themselves to be feminists or not. 29. Philosophers have struggled with this problem in philosophy of science and philosophy of language. In the "transitional years" of 1965- 75, it often emerged as a problem of meaning change, the point being that if the necessary or sufficient conditions for application of a term change when the scientific theory changes, how can we say that a later theory falsifies an eatlier one? Paul feycrabcnd was famous for his arguments here, but W. V. Quine's arguments against reference have similar imporl. Rescue efforts were made by Saul Kl'ipke (with his notion of rigid designators), Hillary Putnam, and many others. ROfty, 1979, reviews some of the efforts and gives a bibliography. 30. Enlightenment relativists arc part of the choms, but w are numberless post-analytic phiJosophcrs. For an argument rnrectt.-d explicitly against inter actionist social problems research see Wooigar, 1985, which reveals how diffi cult it is for intcractionists to leave behind an enlightenment orientation. These questions of sameness are crucial to philosophers and symbolic inter actionists. I thank Joseph Schneider for keeping me on the mark here. see

REFERENCES Addelson, Kathryn. 1979. "Moral Revolution." In Julia Sherman and E. Beck, cds., The Prism of Sex. Madiso n: University of Wisconsin Press. ---. 1983. "The Man of Professional Wisdom." Tn Sandra Harding and Merrill B. Hintikka, eds., Discovering Reality. Dordn:cht:, Netherlands: D. Reidel. --. 1987. "Moral Passages. " In Meyers and Kittay, 1987. Addelson, Kathryn, and Elizabeth Potter. Forthcoming. "Making Know ledge. " In Ellen Messer-Davidow and Joan Hartman (eds.),

Gender and Knowledge. Anscombe, G. E. M. 1 957. The Collected Philosophical Papers of G. E. M. Anscombe: Ethics, Religion, and Polirics. VoL IIJ. Min neapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Baier, Annette. 1986. ''Trust and Antitrust." Ethics 96 (fanuary). Baynes, Kenneth, J. Bohman, and T. McCarthy cds. 1 98 7. After PhI losophy: End or Transformation? Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press. Becker, Howard S. 1970. Sociological Work: Method and Substance. Chicago: Aldine Publishing Co. --. 1973. Outsiders. New York: The Free Press. Bernstein, Richard. 1983. Beyond Objectivism and Relativism: Sci,

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Philosophers Should Become Sociologists ence, Hermeneutics, and Praxis. Philadelphi a: University of Penn·

sylvania Press. 13lumer, Herbert. 1969. Symbolic lnterl1ctionism: Perspective I1nd Method. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall. Bondi, Richard. 1984. "The Elements of Character." !oumal of Reli giow; Ethics 12, no. 2 (Fall):201-18. Bruner, Jerome. 1986. Aetual Mjnds, Possible Worlds. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Clifford, fames. 1988. The Predicl1ment of Culture: Twentieth·Century Ethnography, Literature. and Art. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Uni versity Press. Clifford, James, and George E. Marcus. 1986. Writing Culture. Berke ley: University of California Press. Danto, Arthur. 1980. " Analytic Philosophy." Social ReseareD 47(4): 615-16. ---. 1985, Narrative and Knowledge. New York: Columbia Univer· sity Press. Dyc, Nancy Schrom. 1979. " Cleo's American Daughters: Male Hi story, Female Reality." In Julia Sherman and E. Beck, cds., The Prism of Sex. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Gilligan, Carol. 1982. In a Differen t Voice: Psychological Theory and Women's Development. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Unjvcrsity Press. GoffMass.n, Erving. 1961. Asylums. Garden City, N.¥.: Doubleday. Gusfield, Joseph. 1984. "On the Side." In Joseph Schneider and John Kitsusc, cds., SLIldies in the Sociology 0/ Social Problems. Nor· wood, N. J.: Able>:. Publishing. Hauerwas, Stanley, 1981. A Community of Character. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press. --. 1977. Truthfulness and Tragedy. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre D.-Ime Press. Hauerwas, Stanley, and Alasdair Macintyre. 1983. Revisions. Notre Dame, Ind.: University of Notre Dame Press. Jarvie, 1. C. 1984. Rationality and Relativism: In Search 0/ a Philoso· phy and (listory of Anthropology. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Kohlberg. Lawrence. 1971. "From Is to Ought." In Theodore Mischel, Cognitive Development and Epistemology. New York: Academic

Press. Kuhn, Thomas. 1970. The Slructure of Scientific Revolutions. 2nd ed. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Ladd, John. 1970. "Morality and the Ideal of Rationality in formal Or ganizations. The Monist 54{4�. "

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Lemert, Edwin. 1951. Social Pathology: A Systematic Approach to the Theory of Sociopathk Behavior. New York: McGraw-Hill. Macintyre, Alasdair. 1984. After Virtue. 2nd ed. Notre Dame, ind.: University of Notre Dame Press. Macklin, Ruth. 1985. "Standards in Philosophy. " In Daniel Callahan, A. Caplan, and B. Jennings, cds., Applying tbe Humanities. New York: Plenum Press. Martin, Mike. ]989. Everyday Morality: An Introduction to Applied Ethics. Bc1mont, Calif.: Wadsworth. Meyers, Diane, and Eva Kittay. 1987. Women and Moml Theory. To towa, N. J.: Roman and Allenheld. Mills, C. Wright. 1963. Powt:r, Politics, lind People. Ed. I. 1. Horowitz. New York: Bal.lantine Books. Newton, Lisa. 1988. Ethics in America: Source Reader. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice HalL Noddings, Nel. 1984. Caring Berkeley: University of California Press. Polkinghorne, Donald. 1987. Narrative Knowing and the Human Sci ences. Ithaca, N. Y.: State University of New York Press. Quine, Willard Van Orman. 196..�. From II Logical Point of View. New York: Harpcr and Row. .

1969. Ontological Relativity and Other Essays . New York: Co lumbia Univcrsity Press. Rains, Prudcncc. 1971. Becoming an Unwed Mother. Chicago: Aldine. 1975. "Imputations of Deviancc." Social Problems 23 (Octo ber): l � l l . RajchMan, rohn, and C. West, cds. 1 985 . Post Analytic Philosophy. New York: Columbia University Press. Rawls, John. 1971. A Theory of Justice. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Rock, Pau1. 1979. The Mass.king of Symbolic Illteractionism. Totowa, N.J.: RowMass.n and Littlefield. Rany, Richard. 1979. Philosophy and the Mirror of Nature. Princeton: Princeton University Press. --. 1982. Consequences of Pragmatism (Essays: 1972- 1980). Min neapolis: University of Minncsota Prcss. Sclmeider, Joseph W. 1985. "Defining the Definitional Perspective on ��

�� .

Social Problems." Social Problems 32: 214-27. Smith, Dorothy. 1979. "A Sociology for Women." In Sherman, Julia, and E. Beck, cds. 1979. The Prism of Sex. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. .. 1987. The Everyday World as Problematic: A Feminist Soci ology. Boston: Northeastern University,Press. Spector, Malcolm and John Kitsuse. 1977. Constructing Social Prob· lems. Menlo Park, Calif.: Cummings. ��

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Stacey, Judith. 1988, "Can There Be a Feminist Ethnography?" Wom en's Studies lnternational Forum I I, no. 1 : 21-27. Stacey, Judith, and Barrie Thorne. 1985. "The Missing Feminist Revo lution in Sociology." Social Problems 32, no. 4 (April}. Strauss, Anselm L. 1987. Qualitative Analysis [or Social Stientists. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Velasquez, Manuel, and Vincent Bany. 1988. Philosophy. Belmont, Ca liL Wadsworth. Whitbeck, Caroline. 1982. "The Moral Implications of Regardiog Women as People: New Perspectives on Pregnancy and Person hood." In The Concept of Person and Its Implications for the Use of tbe Fetus in Biomedicine. Dordrecht, Netherlands: D.ReideL Winch, Peter. 1963. The Idea of a Social Science and its Relation to Philosophy. New York: Humanities Press. . 1972. "Understanding a Primitive Society." In Ethics and Ac tion. London: Routledge, & Kegan Paul. Woolgar, Steven and Dorothy Pawluch, 1985. "Ontological Gerryman dering; The Anatomy of Social Problems Explanations." Social PlObJems 32!2J: 14-27. ---

Art Worlds: Developing the Interactionist Approach to Social Organization Samuel Gilmore

INTRODUCTION Writing about symbolic interaction and the arts, onc becomes immersed in issues of social organization. The development of an in tcractionist approach

sodal structure has greatly benefited from re

search in the arts, particularly the effort to construct a macro-level intcractionist conception of society_ Beckel's work in the arts has been central in this area. In his analysis of art as "collective activity" �Bcckcr 1974), and introduction of the concept of "art worlds" (Becker 1976), Becker h.1S helped intcractionists clarify the "social worlds" ap proach to sodal organization in specific applications (e.g., Strauss 1978, 1982, 1984j Kling and Gerson 1978; Unruh 1979). In Art Worlds 0982), Becker presents a comprehensive model of social organization in the arts and elaborates the processes through which collective artis tic activity is transacted and resources distributed. Art Worlds il1us trates how the use of a specific substantive context-the arts-to analyze an abstral.:t concf.."Ption-the interactionist approach to social structure-is more revealing than it is constraining. I Beckcr's colleagues have also contributed to the development of an intcractionist approach to social structure through research in a vari ety of artistic media. This includes the examination of the worlds of theater (Lyon 1974), photography (Rosenblum 1978), pop music (Bennetl 1980), and concert music (Cilmore 1987). Although each art world analysis tends

emphasize different levels of social structure,

from a predominantly micro focus on division of labor issues (e.g., Lyon), through mid-level organization (e.g., Rosenblum and Gilmore), to macro cultural and environmental influences (e,g., Bennett), they all try to integrate levels of behavioral and organizational analysis so as 148 not to have analytically distinct micro and maero perspectives.

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Alt WOllds

Such an emphasis on an integrated micro-macro analysis is the dis tinbruishing feature of the interactionist approach to social organiza tion. Both micro and macro levels of analysis are conducted through a "relational" mechanism, that is, interaction or exchange between spe cific people, not an "attribute" mechanism describing the distribution of individual attributes and their correlation with behaviors or atti tudes. lnteractionists tend to be most c10sely associated with a micro level of analysis using a relational mechanism to explain individual meaning and action. A similar relational approach provides interac tionists with an acceptable way to conceptualize a macro level of analysis through the emergence of the "social world" concept. In a social world, people's collaborative activity tics them into a set of direct relations that have meaning for them. The cluster of individ uals who interact with each othcr produce a relatively stable aggre gation of relations. This pattern of meaningful aggregated relations represents a social world. Such a "network" based conceptualization of social structure has proved attractive to interactionists if sufficient emphasis is put on the meaning of both an individual's direct and ag gregate relations (see Maines 1977, Fine 1983, Hall 1987). Interactionist research in art worlds has succeed(:d in producing both individually and collectively meaningful descTiptions of social organi zation. The development of a truly organizational (i.e., relational) ap proach to examining artistic coUective activity makes it easier

establish the connections between micro and macro levels of analysis. Macro relations are simply an extension of micro relations and vice versa. Anists are integrated into a social setting through the support networks in which they participate. The networks and social processes through which artists and support personnel interact help explain variation in collective forms of artistic expressior.. Stable patterns of networks and artistic processes establish these collective aesthetic in terests. The explanatory focus is on social relations and interdependent activity. In comparison, the traditional analysis of macfl)-level social influ ences on alt uses a "reflection model" Weterson 19i'9). Reflection mod els examine the broader social context in which artistic activity takes place (e.g., Hauser 1951, Kavolis 1968, Gay 1968, �,chorske 1981). The level of analysis is the fit of thc individual artist with the sociocultural enviTOnment. Explaining variation in artistic act'vity is primarily a matter of analyzing how political, economic, and cultural influences are internalized by artists living in a particular sodocultural context.

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The relationship between micro behavior and macro context is more difficult to establish because the influence mechanisms are less con crete. The explanatory focus is on the shared attributes of individual and social context. Differences between the intcractionist and reAection models foHow tbe split between a "relational or structural" approach to sociological explanation and "methodological individualism," a long-standing de bate in the social scienccs (Webster 1973, Mayhew 1980, AJexander et al. 1987). Much of tbe dcbatc has centered around thc relationship of micro and macro levels of analysis. While interactionists are generally comfortable with this relationship, that is, the social integration of the individual, they have been less comfortable with most macro·level conceptions of society. The difficulty stems from establishing the meaning of social structure to participants beyond direct, ego·centered relationships. The development of the social world concept offers a solution to this problem. It does not rely simply on an ego-centered construct of social structure. Instead the social world provides a framework for an aggre gated set of relations, be it a community follOWing some substantive interest or a more formally organized production system that has a shared meaning for participants. This shared meaning gUides the joint interests and activities of participants and aJso provides collective identities.

SOCIAL ORGANiZATION AND SOCIAL WORLDS

A social world consists of "conunon or jOint activities or concerns tied together by a network of communication" (Kling and Gerson 1978: 26). The concept has been theoretically developed in the inter actionist literatwe by Shibutani ( 1 955, 19621 and Strauss ( 1978, 1982, 1984}, and has been applied to a variety of collective task and ideologi· cal arenas, including such disparate activities as surfing, coin collect· ing, nuclear disarmament, and hom*osexuality {sec Strauss 1982, 1984�. Common characteristics of these worlds include an amorphous and diffuse social form, without clear-cut spatial boundaries or a specified population of participants. As noted above, social worlds are useful as an interactionist unit of social organization because of the dual empha sis on structural and cultural elements. This dual emphasis is illustrated by artistic participants' group con struct of an "art world." Becker defines an art world as a pTOduction system comprised of producers, distributors, and consumers "whose

lSI

Arl Worlds

cooperative activity, organized via their joint knowledge of conven· tional means of doing things, produces the kind of art works that art world is noted for." (Becker {982:xJ Art world participants arrange their coopclative activity through networks of exchange that routinely form coalitions of like·minded producers, distributors, and consumers. Rou· tine collective activity creates rdatively stable patterns of interaction that act as social referents guiding future collective activity. An art world thus organizes and identifies artistic activity. Participants' definitions of artistic activity are nol haphazard indi vidual claims to particular artistic statuses, but mutually interde pendent claims produced through the coordinated and interdependent organization of artistic activity. IndividuaJ participants evaluate each other's claims and acknowledge them through their willingness to in· teract and exchange. The joint recognition of these individual claims is a collective definition of collective activity. Social worlds acting as production systems are comparable to formal organizations in that they focus on collective products or events and have a significant degree of specialization, that is, task and social dif· ferentiation. A well·established division of labor forms the basis for a regular and routine exchange among cooperating participants in the

art

world. Collectively, these networks of exchange resemble a formal organization. The difference in social world production systems is that exchange takes place through an "open system" (Thompson 1967, Scott 1981) in which collaborators arc not specifically identified or linked lxdore ex change takes place. This means social worlds don't designate an ex clusive membership pool within which interaction is to take place. Instead, potential coHahomtors in an art world develop artistic skills and even prepare individual contrihutions to collective activity in dependently, with only a "generalized eollaboratOT" in mind. When artistic exchange with a "Spt.'cific collaborator" is planned (e.g., a com mission), an effort is frequently made to align the activities of specific and generalized col1aborators so as to avoid having to develop new skills for a single exchangc.2 Another difference between social worlds and fonnal organizations is the lack ofauthority relations among participants in the former. The employment relation in formal organizations distinguishes elites who constmct the goals and means of collaboration from subordinates who follow these directions. These cl*tes form an administration that acts as a "coordination mechanism" {Thompson 19671. ln social worlds, the absence of authority relations means participants must coordinate in-

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Samuel Gilmore

terdepcndcDt activities themselvcs during each and every transaction_ Such a procedure is not only i_ncfficient, but WlwiclJy lor Jarger sys tentS of exchange. A collective solution to coordinating exchange is called for. When membership and authority relations are not present, the col lective coordination mechanism in social organization shifts from designating the relations between people-an administration-to des ignating common practices that link interdependent activities-a con vention. A convention is a common practice constructed thmugh a tacit agreement process ILewis 1969). Collaborators agree to conform (0 past practices because they expect other social wnrld participants to do the same. This agreement facilitates exchange. Participants also use conventions to fonn identities that allow them to locate and to be lo cated by compatible collaborators. In an art world, such artistic con ventions help circ*mscribe the "style" of colL1.bOT3tivc activity. A focus on issues in social organization and the coordination of ac tivities locates intcraetionhlt research in the arts in a research area Pe tcrson calls the "production· of-culture" 11979). While some of the most visible research in this area emphasizes activity in the arts within forma) organizations le.g., Hirsch 1972; DiMaggio and Hirsch 1976; Peterson and Berger 1975, Adler 1979, Coser, Kadushin, and Powell 1982; Dubin 1987), often centering around issues of organiza tional rationality and the unpredictability of the ans, artistic processes take place in a variety of social contexts, some formally organized, some not. The interactionist concept of social wvrlds offers an alter native appproach to social organization that works with emergent forms of organization

well as rdatively stable pattc.:rns of exchange

and interaction. Social worJd research foci include issues of organiza tional e£ficieocy in addition to the meaning of structure and social processes. The body of this paper will review studies in the arts, clustered into production, distribution, and consumption stages, Lh

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WHAT'S ORGANIZATIONAL ABOUT THE ARTS?

One result of the intcractionist apprmch to the arts is the debunk· ing of the romantic myth of the socially isolated artist, struggling alone to produce his or her work in a cold, barren garret. The ubiquity of this myth is in part due to the artists themselves, who describe their alien ation from mainstream society in biographies and autobiographies, which argue that one becomes a great artist by using one's inner rc sources to risc above social and institutional constraints. A position marginal to, but not entirely removed from, society permits the artist an opportunity to observe and be otherwise influenced by society, while maintaining sufficient social distance to cOlJslruct characteristic aesthetic expression individually . Linda Nochlin ! 1971) calls tbis psychologistic approach to explaining artistic influence the "golden nugget theory of artistic genius." It pre sumes the critical explanatory elements of artistic activity are cogni tive. A picture of the isolated artist is thus quite satisfying. Left out, however, are the more mundane, pragmatic aspects of or ganizing and supporting artistic activity, the processes through which all artists acquire resources and orient themselves to relevant conven tions in an art world. Artists acquire financial resources to support themselves and their families, creative resources to help conccptuahzc aesthetic expression, material resources to actualize artistic work, dis tributional resources to escablish contacts with an art world and ex change thei.r work, and critical resources to legitimate their work and facilitate further resource acquisition. In Art Worlds, Becker illustrates these processes in a variety of artistic media including literature, the plastic arts (i.e., painting, sculpture, and photography), and the per forming arts [i.e., music, dance, theater, and film). Some social support relationships arc less ohvious than others, for example, the contribu tion of Anthony Trollopc's butler to Trollope's prolific output (see Becker 1982), but all serve to embed artistic activity socially. Reviews of Becker's work, while generally laudatory, suggest that the art world model is most appropriate for "social" media like concert music, where there exists an artistic division of labor, and less appJi cable to more "solitary" media like poetry (e.g., Wilson 1983, Kavolis 19821. Others (e.g., Kimmel 1982, Lovell 1983) suggest that Becker at one point relics tCKJ strongly on an organizational levd of analysis in explaining aesthetic meaning, then shifts abruptly to an individual level of analysis to explain artistic innovation and social cbange. Botb

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criticisms misinterpret the interactionlst approach to relating the in dividual

RELATIONSHIPS

Many interactionist studies in the arts focus primarily on the anaJysis of artistic production. One reason is their theoretical empha sis on the organization of interdependent activity which, in production

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relationships, is displayed through the division of labor. Interactionist approacbes to the division of labor (e.g., Freidson 1976, Strauss 1985) analyze coHective activity on a micro level, seeking to distinguish what activities are involved, who participates, who does what and why, who is responsible for a given activity (Le., accountability), who gets credit for the activity, how exchange is managed, and the stable pat terns of organization that emerge from this negotiation. Though the division of labor in artistic production is clearly a complex process, it can be broken down into separate components for analysis. One rda tively straightforward aspect of this process is excbange. Exchange in artistic production is trealed in a similar matter to ex change in industrial production, as a problem of coordination. As mentioned previously, coordination in artistic exchange takes place through artistic conventions. My own research analyzed variation in the proc,esses of artistic exchange between composers and perfonners in the concert music world. Differences in the types of musical activi ties, division of laboT, and aesthetic interests of participants all influ enced the musical conventions used to organize concerts. To examine these processes, 1 interviewed over one hundred com posers, performers, and support personnel participating in the orga nization of concert activity, primarily in New York City, the central and largest location in the concert world. Responses differentiate three "subworlds" of concert organization: "Midtown," "Uptown," and "Downtown." Midtown refers to the major symphony orchestras, touring soloists, and chamber groups booked into such big pcrtonn.1nce halls as Lincoln Center and Carnegie Hall, and to the arts ffi.1nagcment and concert marketing organizations located on 57th street in Manhat tan. Uptown refers to the composers and performers affiliated with universities, who use on-campus rehearsal and performance sites, and rely on academic resources and networks to help orgaruzc concerts. Downtown refers to musical nonspecialists, the combined composer! performers hving and performing in small lofts or in alternative perfor mance spaces in Greenwich Vil1age, Soho, and Tribeca. Each subworld is a wholly encompassed system of concert activities with a relatively distinct identity. I analyzed the coordination of exchange between compositional and performance activities within each system and compared them, in or der to develop a model of the relationship between organizational pro cesses and aesthetic interests (see Gilmore 19B?!. Midtown is the largest and most visible of concert systems with the most complex system of concert organization including

rigid speCialization of ac-

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tivities between composers and performers, a large number of potential participants for any given concert, an open, free-lance market system organizing temporary concert coal itions frequent collaborative events, ,

and direct economic pressures on musical transactions taking place in professional rehearsal contexts. As a consequence, Midtown panicipants have a strong organiza tional interest in musical conventions with which to coordinate con cert activities. Concen collaborators have rationalized the production process through the use of a perlormancc repertory " that standard "

izes musical notation, instrumentation, and performance techniques. These strong concen conventions create efficiency, but limit musical

innovation Midtown concerts thus primarily emphasize musical vir .

tuosity as an aesthetic focus. In comparison, Downtown concerts, the least visible in the concert world, ale organized through relatively simple social processes. These include a collapsed division of labor between compositional and perfor mance activities, a very small population of potential concert collabo rators, musical exchange organized through interpersonal c hannels, infrequent concerts, and minimal economic pressure on collaboration. Under this type of concert organization, Downtown participants have not standardized their activities. Musical notation is varied, where it exists at all, and is often open to interpretation. New instru ments and radically new performance techniques are constantly being introduced. Such organizational flexibility suits the avant-garde sensi

bili ti es of Downtown concert participants welL The lack of strong COIl ventions means concert collaboration is often laborious and inefficient,

but such organization supports radical musical innovation and avant garde aesthetic interests. Between Midtown and Downtown, both organizationally and aes thetically, is the academic concert subworld, Uptown. Uptown is modemtely visible to serious concertgoers, but does not have much national exposure. Concert organization is moderately complex, char acterized by a clear-cut musical specialization between composers and performers, but with a joint commitment to a shared musically inno vative aesthetic ideology, a Jarge number of potential participants segmented into smaller campus-oriented communities, concert col laboration organized through membership in these communities and network tics, regular but not frequent performances, and indirect eco nomic pressures on musical transactions. This type of concerl production system creates moderate organiza tional interests in conventionalizing activities. Uptown concert col-

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laborators seek to maintain a degree of efficiency in coordinating musical transactions while leaving room for the introduction of some innovative practices. In this type of compromise, new perfonnance practices are introduced, but on traditional instruments. Notation remains predominantly conventionalized, but new symbols are in troduced to represent the new sounds. Uptown collaborators thus try to balance efficient organizational goals and innovative aesthetic interests. While a complete explanation of the relationship between an artist's aesthetic interests and social organization is obviously more elaborate, the effects of artistic conventions arc apparent. The clements that make up a musical convention serve as a form of musical social control. Musical decisions ahout notation, inSlrumentation, and performance techniques arc embedded in the exchange context and distributional framework betw(."Cn compositional and performance activities. Musi cians entering into collaborative activity through organized concert systems arc disposed to adopt the conventional practices which make their participation attractive. In this way, interdependent musical ac tivity is organizationally influenced. This appIOach to analyzing artistic production works in nonperform ance media as well. In one of the plastic arts, photography, Rosenblum (1978) shows how the variable organizational contextS through which different types of pholOgraphers produce their work play a significant role in determining what a photograph looks like. Rosenblum docu mented the conventions that guide collective activity in three areas of photography, news, advertising, and fine arts. Photographs from each area are readily identified. News pictures, in sharp focus, have a "spe cific range of content" le.g., press conferences), with the key figure in the center of the composition. Advertising, in contrast, depicts people or objects in visually extraordinary ways. A particular cffort is made to represent three dimensions through "short foregrounds, compJex mid dlegrounds, and deadstop, horizonlcss backgrounds." Fine arts pho tography has a tremendous range of imagery that self-consciously manipulates "space, meaning, and light." Thcrc is a range of variation wi.thin each category, but there is enough hom*ogencity to make the category hold up. The social organization of eaeh sphere defines relationships between the photographer and participants in each social world which guide a significant degree of "stylistic" decision making. In the news world, editors choose assignments, tile company allocates material resources including cameras, film, and film proceSSing, photo editors select im-

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S.tmucl Gilmore

ages to be published and crop or enlarge the print, and retouchers and typographers make technical decisions about how the picture will look in print. Rosenblum characterizes this organization as a highly ratio· nalized, bureaucratic form in which the photographer has compara tively little discretion. Institutional priorities in journalism determine the conventions under which the news picture is shot and developed. This degree of standardization produces a stylistic category Dwelti

j (970) calls a "formula" aesthetic. In the advertising world, a free-lance photographer's work is orga nized by an advertising agency representing a client. This transitive relationship creates a complex process of communication in which the advertising agency seeks to control the vision of the photographer while representing the priorities of the client. An art director in the advertising agency negotiates the imagery of the photograph with the photographer through a "layout" of the proposed ad. After the layout i s accepted, the photographer tries to distance the agency and the client in order to use his or her own technical skills and aesthetic sensiblities to make the shot, but is frequently "interfered with" in this process. The photographer, dependent upon a cooperative relationship with agencies for work, nevertheless resists losing control of the image. Ro senblum remarks that the photographer can be reduced to " technical labor" by this negotiation. As in news organizations, the resuh is a standardized imagery acceptable to social world participants which constrains innovative perspectives. Fina1ly in the world of fine arts photography, the stylistic conven tions of the picture are largely determined by the relationship between the photographer and the dealer. This relationship (elaborated in the follOWing section), channels feedback from a variety of sources, includ ing museum curators, critics, and collectors. Rosenblum describes fine arts photographers as the most socially independent of the three types, hut cautions against any interpretation that suggests that fine arts ac tivities

arc not SOci:fUy influenced. An extremely competitive market,

controlling outlets for exposure and financial support, plays a signifi cant role in setting trends for subject matter and compositional char acteristics. As in the news and advertising contexts, the distribution of material, financial, and ideological resources integrates the photogra pher into a social world. One can seek alternative sources of support, but aesthetic discretion can be costly to photographers in time and effort. The fine arts photography world thus embeds even technically independent activities. Analyses of the social determinants and effects of artistic conven-

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rions have been done in painting (BaxandaH 19721, prints !Ivins 1953), and the fUm industry (Faulkner 1971, 1983) as well. All these studies document the organization of artistic production in order to explore socially based variation in artistic expression. The close fit of organi zation with a wide variety of artistic activities demonstrates the utility of the combined "structure and culture" interactionist approach to macro social structure. The social world concept has also been effec tively utilized in related cultural fieJds, for example, exploring episte mological considerations in the sociology of science (e.g., Star and Gerson 1987 and Clarke and Gerson in thiS volume) and medical soci ology (e.g., Strauss et a1. 1985). This variety of culwral activities sug gests the social world concept is robust, not limited to specific, socially elaborated, artistic activities.

ARTISTS AND DTSTRJBUTlON RELATJONSHJPS The analysis of artistic relationships within a specific division of labor or organization is only one stage of an art world analysis. A sec ond stage deals with art world distribution. As an extended aspect of the production stage, studies of distributional artistic organizations link production processes to distribution processes in order to examinc transactions across organizational boundaries. These boundaries arc even Jess dc.·u in art worlds than they arc in industrial organizations, where a formally deSignated membership exists. A revealing approach that combines clements of both cultuml and industrial contexts is pro vided by Hirsch � 1972), who focuses on distribution processes in "mass culture" industries. Hc emphasizes that distributional processes are in no way secondary to production processes in explai.ning variation in artistic activity. Hirsch's research compares distributional processes in three

mass

culture i.ndustries: books, phonograph records, and motion pictures. Each industry provides insight on the strategies organizations use to adapt

"uncertainty" problems in cultural production. Uncertainty,

the inability of managers to accurately predict organizational inputs and outputs, is a frequent problem in the rational administration of organizations. In cultural industries, the problem is considerably mag nified. 10 examine the fit of "rational" management and "irrational" �i.e., uncertain) artistic activity, Hirsch compares the administration of "through-put" organizations linking the artist at one end of the pro duction sequence to the mass audience at the other. In all three industries, Hirsch finds a bureaucratic organizational form that has adapted to cultural production uncertainty by using

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"craft" administrative techniques (see Stinchcombc 1959). Artists li.c., authors, singers, actors) arc contracted for on a royalty basis whkh pays artists for their work contingent upon the number of books, rec ords, or theater tickets sold when the product is released into the marketl)lace. ff possible, artists are also hired on a temporary basis for work on specific products in order to minimize overhead. indepen dent contact men and women li.e., agentsl buffer artistic production activities from distributional manufacture and promotional activities. This encourages artists to work without direct financial risk to the org

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cls retained readers' interest within each weekly chapter, as well as in the novel as a whole. As long as the weekly issues sold, the publisher continued to issue chapters, which partially accounts for the length of Victorian novels. Nor is distrihutional influence simply a function of mass production contingencies in the literary arts. A number of the most interesting studies on distributional influence have focused on the plastic arts, mainly painting. These include White and White's examination of nineteenth-century French paintillg; CallVQSeS and Careers (1965), Moulin's study of the contemporary French painting world, The French Art Market (1967, 1987l, Simpson's study of painters and gal1eries in a New York neighborhood, Soha ( l98l/, and Crane's comparative analy sis of seven contemporary artistic movements, The TIans/ormation of the Avant-Garde (19871. All focus on artists and their complex rela tionships with dealers and critics to explain artistic perspectives. White and White document and discuss the change in French paint ing from a claSSically oriented style to impressionism. To explain this transformation socially, White and White concentrate on the changes in the institutional support system controlling the selection, socializa tion, recognition, and distribution of paintings in French society. The institution in operation prior to the stylistic change, which they call the "academic system," has historical roots in the craft guilds orga nized in the Middle Ages. By royal edict guilds established a monopoly of privilege over any craft for their members. In 1670, a similar edict established the Royal Academy with control over painting in France. The Royal Academy had a monopoly on the teaching of painting "from life" ji.e., models) and forced all formerly "free" painters to become part of the organization. By the nineteenth century, painting was con trolled from a centralized location in Paris. A rigid aesthetic ideology delineating subject matter, imagery, composition, and other character istic dements of style was enforced. The Royal Academy also controlled artistic legitimation and distri bution processes. Legitimation focused on sllch competitions as the Prix de Rome, which each year designated a historical or mythologi cal subject to be painted in the classical style by all painters in the competition. The winner of the competition received considerable attention from patrons and other collectors interested in purchas ing prestigious work. At the Paris Salon, the important distrihutional event of the year, hundreds of paintings lined the walls of the exhibi tion hall from floor to ceiling to attract buyers. This annual public

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exhibition brought thousands into contact with the Academy's "best" paintings. The Salon was juried and good sales established a painters career. By the 186Os, demographic changes in the French art world began to seriously strain the capacity of the academy system. From 500 new paintings a year in 1803, the Academy was handling 5000 paintings a year by 1863. In addition, there were over 3000 Academy. recognized painters in 1863 plus 1000 more in the provinces, a dramatic increase from the 100 recognized in 1800. At the same time, thousands of older paintings entered the market, as aristocrats sold the family heirlooms to support themselves. White and White estimate that 200,000 can vases were available to the French market in 1863. As a result, the centraUy organized academy system began to break down. In its place emerged a decentralized "dealer-critic" system. All sales had previously been conducted through tbe Academy, but it was ex tremely difficult for a centralized system to process 200,000 unique canvases. The dealer-critic system shifted the marketing focus from unique canvases to linked canvases produced in the career of a given artist. In the hands of independent dealers, often recruited from the ranks of minor painters, the distribution system was organized :uound speculative practices that contracted young painters when they were relatively unknown, and made a killing if they became reputable. The emergence of new painters was favored under this type of marketing system. Critics played a new role, promoting new theories of paintings and helping to identify new "schools" for marketing purposes. Thus the new distributional system facilit.ued the emergence of such new styles as impressionism, in which the aesthetic focus shifted from line to color. The organization of a dealer-critic system i.s also the focus of Mou Hn's study � 1967, 1987) of the contemporary French art market. Particu lady interested in the relationship of aesthetic and economic value, Moulin examined this relationship in interviews with dealers, critics, collectors, and painters in the Parisian art world and collected data on changes in the prices of paintings. Her interviews indicate cleady that the art market operates through what she characterizes as "artificial manipulation" (i.e., nonmarket forces) by the participants involved. Dealers set prices arbitrarily, indicated by the widely varying prices of comparable works by the same artist, and manipulate supply strategi cally to stimulate interest in a painter they represent. Critics "dis cover" new artistic geniuses weekly in a promotional role that plays a critical part in the distribution of paintings to sophisticated buyers

1 63

Art WDrlds

who would not dream of being influenced by advertising. Col1ectors buy and sell to influence other collectors and thus increase prices in their own coneetion, exactly as they might buy and sell stock on Wall Street. Artists consciously incre.1se and slow down production in rela tion to the economic value of their paintings in the maTkct. Each group aets to serve its own special interests in the joint construction of aes thetic and economic value. Even more emphatic on the leading role of critics in the art world is Tom Wolfe's essay on the New York art scene from the fifties to the seventies (1975). Wolfe, a journalist, argues that. in the contemporary art world, painters watch critics rather than the other way around, as a way of defming styles and guiding their own aesthetic activities. Wolle describes the aesthetic-defining activities of the three "Bergs," Clem ent Greenberg, Harold Rosenberg, and Leo Steinberg, the major art crit ics of the period, and their association with the emergence of such major contemporary art movements as abstract expressionism, mini maJism, pop art, op art, photorealism, and conceptual art. Wolfe claims that the primacy of "artistic theory" over "artistic representation" reached a logical end with the acceptance of conceptual art by the art world. The major theory makers, the critics, thus established them selves as the most powerful group in the construction of aesthetic value. Also analyzing the New York art market, Simpson (1981) and Crane ( 1987) document the art world "constituencies" (Crane 1987:35) con temporary painters must collaborate with to establish a market for their work. Simpson focuses on the role of the professional dealer or gallery owner in Soho who acts as gatekeeper to the contemporary New York art world. The major activity of the dealer is matching col ]cctors and painters. Like independent agents spanning organizational boundaries in the recording industry, dealers seek artistic "talent" in one group and corresponding buyers in a different group. The success ful Soho artist is one who recognizes the privileged "entrepreneurial" position of the dealer and listens to the appropriate feedback about the aesthetic sensibilities of the dealer's clients. Crane's argument similarly acknowledges that, for painters in emerg ing artistic movements (Le., the avant garde) to make themselves fa milial to the art-buying public, they must establish links to three types of groups: organizational patrons, both private and puhlic, who provide legitimacy and direct financial support; art experts, such as critics and curators, who also provide legitimacy and publicity; dealers and pri vate collectors, who act as opinion leaders. Crane tcnns these groups

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"sponsors" of an artistic movement. In her historical an.1Iysis, Crane finds that none of emerging art movements between 1940 and 1985 made it until the participant painters established tllest! sponsorship rclations. Expanding Wol.fc's analysis of the role of major art critics, she shows that each movement had its own artistic legitimators. Like the cultural mass production process in publishing and record ing.. the dealer-critic system organizes the distribution and legitima tion of wtique artistic products by seeking to tie the transaction of artistic commodities to an effective promotional procedure. This complex balancing process maintains the independence of the critical Jegitima·tion activity while orienting that activity to thc djsnibutionaJ transaction. There is a significant degree of mutua) interdependence between the critical and distributional processes that may be overtly coopted !as in Hirsch's example of the recording industry) but is often more subtly connected through discreet interaction as in the Frcnch and New York art markets. In dther e3SC, thc artistic distribution sys tem has a major influence on artistic expression. Imcractionist ori ented research has made important contributions to examining this relationship_ ARTISTS AND CONSUMPTION RF.LATIONSHJPS: AUDIENCES

Interactionists, like most researchers in the production·of-culture perspective, have tended to emphasize the production aod distribution stages of artistic organization, whiJe leaving the analysis of artistic consumption to the humanities. One factor explaining this bias is the mainstream social scientist's discomfort with the "internal" construc tion of expressivc symhols and cultural meaning. When social scien tists do analyze artistic consumption, they tend to do so through "external" behavioral indicators (e.g., the effect of television on chil dren's aggressive actions towards others) I Comstock 1975, Gerbocr and Gross 19761. Hirsch 119781 points OUt that the dichotomization of internal and external effects represents an arbitrary intellectual tli vision of labor belween the diSciplines. He argues that social seicntil'ltS ignore cultural meaning because they are not trained to analyze it, rather than because of any inherent limitations in the sociological perspective. He argues further that social scientists arc limiting themselves by ignoring cu] tural meaning and suggests they overcome this limit by embL-dding the analysis of anistic contem in the social characteristics of the artistic medium. Hirsch regards this type of interdisciplinary cross·fcrtiji*zalion

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as quite promising for a more integrated study of cultural activity. From this standpoint, it is surprising that more interactionist re search on the meaning of artistic consumption has not been done. In teractionists, of course, have considerable experience in analyzing the social context of cultural meaning, but I am unaware of empirical intcractionist studies on aesthetic response.3 One of the prohlems stems from the difficulty of ascertaining commonly held artistic be liefs among consumers. This problem has both methodological and conceptual clements. Methodologically, it is difficult to identify and locate the audience for a given artistic medium other than at the time the artistic product is purchased or consumed (e.g., the audience at a concert or film, the buyers of a book in a bookstore, the attendees at a gallery or a mu seum}. [f researchers can get access to these transactional situations, they can {ace the alternative problem of collecting data from partici pants directly involved in artistic transactions, a process requiring an extreme amount of consumer cooperation. On the other hand, colJectillg data from consumers not directly in volved in artistic transactions is best accomplished through survey techniques (i.e., samp1ing and structured questionnaires). While these techniques can provide interesting results on types and degrees of participation in the arts by the general public (see the National En dowment for the ArtS supported patterns of cultural choice studies, e.g., Petelson �983, Robinson 1985), these methods are not relational, and it is difficult to obtain complex information on artistic response through such techniques. It is not surprising that there are long standing interactionist biases against such types of dat.'1 collection (Blumer 1969, Glaser and Strauss 1967, Denzin 1971). Conceptually, thc difficulty lies in determining the degree to which artistic consumption is interdependent with artistic production. When treated as a straightforward transaction between artist and consumer, the goal is simply effective communication, and the approach is to ar ticulate the shared conventions both palties to the transaction use to cooJdinate their exchange. This approach parallels that used in the pro duction and distribution stages of artistic activity, but the conventions are specific to consumption practices. The analysis of aesthetic response, however, indicates that the con sumption of art is

.'1

mOTC complex transaction entailing a subtle bal

ance of hjding and reveaJing information (Dewey 1934, Langer 1953, Combrich 1960). The skill with which the artist handles the balance

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of hidden and revealed information is

indication of the art work's

aesthetic potential. An effective balance requires artistic consumers to organize information cognitively so that they can interpret aes thetic expression. Artistic conventions arc used to estahlish appropri ate "mind-sets." Several interesting anaJyses using lntch an approach to examine aesthetic response in differcnt media arc described below

Meyer's

Emotion and Meaning in Music 11956!

nation of the cognitive clements that make

is a detailed exami

aesthetic response by

listeners to classical music possible. Meyer argues that even average listeners have a fairly sophisticated level of musical knowledge that

allo ws them subconsciously to predict where a given sequence of notes, rhythmic pattern, or chordal progression is leading. based on prior experience in listening. Meyer suggests that the Iistencr in this state of expectation responds emotionally to the resolution of musical patterns. The rcsolution can be satisfying even when known, that is,

on repeated hearing of the same piece, because the state of musical expectation is produced by a subconscious organization of musical ele ments. When the resolution of the musical pattern is innovative, for

example, a transposition to an unusual musical key from a composi tion's primary

key,

a successful aesthetic response i� stiU possible if a

link is made with the previous musical sequence. What is temporarily innovative is integrated into a conventional pattern. Recognition of these musical patterns is a function of musical social izat ion but no formal knowledge of compositional theory is necessary. ,

Future classical concert gocrs experience and cognitivcly organize ba sic harmonic and melodic conventional pallcms when li stening to mu sic throughout their audio-cultural environment (e.g., nursery songs, television, advertising jingles" not simply in music appreciation clas ses. Thc ability

organize and interpre( more sophisticated musical

patteros is explained by more intensive and extensive listening. Shared concen audience conventions thus grow out of a common socializa tion experience in a given musif.:.31 culture. In a different but related medium, Smith s study of how poems end, '

Poetic Closure (1968], develops a parallel argument for literary aes thetic response. Smith examines the structure of poetic form in a va riety of styles, from Elizabethan lyric through free verse to concrete poetry. In each style, she isolates the characteristic clements consti tuting poetic form by focusing on what readeTs perceive as releva nt For example, Smith treats the line" as the fundamental unit in poetry .

and identifies an initial structural element by examining the metrical

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pattem in which four Hnes hang together, producing a quatrain. The fourth line in this pattern receives added emphasis, imparting a sense of closure. A simple convention is consequently identified. Likewise in the sonnet, which Smith characterizes as perhaps the most familiar form in the history of literature, the conventional struc· ture of closure is established formally through a terminal rhyming of the couplet. Such a common convention is rccognized immediately by sophisticated readers, but even among "naive" readers (i.e., readers without experience in reading sonnets), the closure of the sonnet is effectively imparted through the rhyming pattern in a fust-time read ing. Conventional knowledge is learned di.£ectiy through the experi ence of consumption. Meyer's and Smith's analyses of aesthetic response take very similar approachcs to examining conventional knowledge among artistic con sumers. Both have a gestalt orientation to pattern recognition in artis tic expression, both involve artistic media that are read in a linear form, thus defining a sequence leading to a resolution, and both treat people's socialization to conventional knowledge as a function of ex· perience with artistic consumption, not formal training in the mc dium. Their most significant difference is in the artistic socialization process. Meyer sees musical socialization as a function of cultural en vironment while Smith focuses on mOle direct artistic experience. Nevertheless, for both, conventions are applied subconSciously in or ganizing and responding to artistic input. Michael Baxandall, in his extraordinarily detailed work on Floren tine painters,

Painting and Experience in Fifteenth Cenlllry Italy

(19721, analyzes aesthetic response to painting as a conscious process. Like Meyer, he looks

the larger sociocultural environment for

sources of conventional socialization. He focuses directly on these so cial processes to show that the conditions of evcryday social life di rectly cffcct how the people of a given society pereeivc and "read" paintings. In particular, he explores the effect of the Catholic church on the ability of Florentines to understand the story and symbols of religiOUS paintin& and shows how the rise of an active merchant class in Florentine society produced skills enabling educated "Quattrocento man"

to perceive sophisticated pictorial composition.

The Church in Florentine society was the major patron of the arts. Not surprisingly, then, most paintings had ecclesiastical subject mat ter intended to assist the Church's ideological mission. Although the Scriptures were the main teaching tool of religious training. most

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Samuel Gilmore

C11urch members were illiterate. The Church solved this problem by using paintings

describe biblical stories that impressed the lessons

of pious behavior upon the faithfuL The actual messages were trans· mitted through visual symbols readily interpretable by a public already familiar with most stories through oral teachings. The posture of a body or hand, the presence of a tree branch or bird, aU served to remind the public of specific points in a

sermon.

Regular encounters at the

church with religiOUS paintings had the same pedagogical effect as rcading the Scripture. Baxandall remarks that it was easier for the public to learn artistic conventions than to learn to read because they were already practiced at the "internal visualiz.1tion" of biblical stories. Painters simply pro vided an "external visualizati.on." Developing visual literacy with reo ligious symbols was basically a matter of experiencing the paintings in conjunction with relevant sermons. Prior experience with one's own visual representations provided the cognitive skiHs needed to make such an association. Thc Florentines also developed skills in reading a painting in the context of commercial life. florentine merchants needed basic math ematical skills to conduct commercial transactions. The universal arithmetic tool, the "rule of three," enabled traders to calculate equiva lent ratios (Le.,

7 is to 9 as 5 is to what number?) quiclcly and casily.

Florentines who could solve this problem in ratios developed parallel skills regarding geometric proportions in art. Baxandall indicates that Florentines especially appreciated propor tion, which enabled them to gauge ratios while calculating them. Local painters utilized this appreciation of proportions in their pictorial com· position by paying close attention to the ratio of head and body parts (e.g., Leonardo da Vinci), and to the size ilOd placement of figures. The same gauging and calculating skills that worked in commercial trans actions were used in artistic transactions. Like Meyer and Smith, Baxandall describes the cognitive organiza tion of artistic consumers and analyzes the social conditions that explain this organization. Audience consumption l£ansactions, in a process similar to production and distribution transactions, rely on cognitive gestalts to guide aesthetic orientation. Effective artistic com munication occurs when artists and audiences share some degree of common aesthetic orientation. It is clear, however, th.'lt in many aft fanus, parti.cularly in the avant garde, artist and audiences share rela tively little knowledge (sec for example, Meyer 1967 on composers

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leaving the audience behind In music}. Variation in artistic knowledge among different types of consumers is not assessed by these cognitive studies. This research is still to be undertaken.

ARTISTS AND CONSUMPTION RELATIONSHIPS: AESTHE.TIClANS An alternative to examining artistic knowledge among audiences is to examine the artistic knowledge of critics and aestheticians. One advantage of a focus on these highly visible consumers is that research ers have easier access to knowledge standards through such published materials as a critic's newspaper columns or books. There also tends to be less variation in the type and degree of artistic knowledge of critics and aestheticians than of the public at large, but that depends on the internal organization of critical activities, including the selection, so· cialization, and interaction of participants. A sociological perspective on aesthetics thus differs from a philosophical perspective in that re searchers in the arts examine variation in organizational factors to de termine how aesthetic points of view are constructed. This perspective holds even though sociological analysis does not grant aesthcticians any special position in determining immanent artistic knowledge. For example, Becker treats aesthetics as an activity, no different from any other artistic activity, produced collectively by specialists in the art world. The purpose of aesthetics is "value-making" (Becker 1982, chapter 5), which includes the identification of objects with aesthetic valuc (Le., the "What is art?" question), and the evaluation of the rela tive aesthetic merit of artistic objects (i.e., the "What is good alt?" question]. These questions arc addressed indirectly by everyone in the art world through their daily acti.vi.ties, but critics and aestheti eians directly develop complex theories to articulate the criteria under which aesthetic decisions arc madc. These theories are then used by members of the art world to evaluatc and legitimate artistic activities. The "instiwtional theory of art" (Danto 1964, Dickie 1975) takes just such a sociological approach to addressing evaluation and legiti mation questions.

Tn brief, a work of art is defmed in practice,

through

the activities of participants in the art world. Any recognized partici pant in the art world may confer artistic status upon an object in the collective activity of tile art world. This "labeling" process is then Cially confirmed through further interdependent activity,

s0-

may be

resisted by art world participants who don't recogni.ze either the aes thetic qualities of the object or the person conferring status. The

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dominant aesthctic theOTY is onc with adherents in influential artistic institutions, such as prominent critics and museum curators. Al though some sociologists have expressed doubts that sociology can take aesthetic questions seriously, even when treating aesthetics as a socialIy constructed activity, as "a discipline with a social history" (Wolff 1983: lOS), the institutional theory suggests an empirical and compatible alternative. A more Marxist approach to the analysis of dominant aesthetic theo ries is taken by Raymond Williams (1977, 1980). He argues that domi nant aesthetic theories need to be analyzed in the context of larger socia-economic institutions externa1 to the art wor1d. He elaborates a weU-known Marxist, two-component mood to explain the relation ship between the art world and the political economy of a society. Es scntially the model states that ''base'' (economic organization) has a determining role in the composition of "superstructure" {cultural ac tivitiesl although more technically the relationship between the two is "dia1cctical," so that each component plays a significant £ole in the composition of the other. Hence the cultural activities of any society are developed in the context of legitimating dominant economic prac tices and ideology (e.g., capitalism). Aesthetic theory also serves in this capacity. The influence of the economic base on the aesthetic ideology of an art world can be quite direct, as in the flow of corporate patronage to artists ami museums. This process has been well documented by the artist Hans Haacke { l975), who demonstrates how patronage to a mu seum {he quotes a corporate manager referring to art as a "social lubri cant" (I2011, affects the organization and aesthetic appreciation of an exhibition of 19th century portraits of the American upper class. Using quotes from an exhibition catalog, Haacke makes clear how the aes thetic values of that exhibition are deeply embedded in the economic relationship of the museum and the corporate world. Economic influences on aesthetic ideology can also be indirect, op' erating through the "hegemony" of a pervasive capitalist ide01ogy. Hadjinicolaou's work Art

History and

Class Struggle (1978:951 ex·

plains how the "visual ideology" of a painting reflects such capitalist ideology. In an analysis of the works of Rembrandt and David, he ar gues that formal aesthetic appreciation of these paintings is not a func tion of the individual painter'S background. Nor does the "visual ideology" or style of each painter remain consistent across all of his or her work. Instead, each painting is produced and appreciated in par ticular social and historical circ*mstances. The aesthetic values of the

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work are determined by the poHtical and economic ideology of artists, patrOns, audiences, and other panicipants in the art worJd. The task

the art historian is to articulate these circ*mstances for each work. Wolff ! 1983J seeks to temporize (his strongly deterministic marxist position, while maintaining an explanatory rclatiom;hip between the .ut world and society at large. She contends that the production of aes thetic values is clearly embedded ill historical socia-economic con texts, but that the analysis of aesthetic values needs also to acknowledge what she terms "the specificity of art" 1 1 983 : 85J, that is, internal aesthetic issues that afC nOt reducible to external political and economic issues. An analysis of the relationship of these internal and external issues is subtle, entailing a recognition of the relative au tonomy of specific artistic practices as weU as an awareness of poten tial external ideological considerations. Wolff does not provide any completely successful examples of such an analysis, instead presenting her position as an injunction for future work in the SOCiology of aes thetics. Her injunction could encourage an integration of interactionist and Marxist positions that would include both the internal issues of "institutional theories" and tbe external focus of analysts such as Wil· Iiams and Haacke. In any case, Wolff supports a sOclological approach to deciphering what have been in the past predominantly philosophical Issues.

ARTISTS

AND

CONSUMPTION RELATIONSHIPS: CLASS

The effect of artistic activities on the class position of consumers is one of the most frequently asked questions in research on art's au diences. This focus partially stems from Weber's classic analysis of "status groups" {Weber

1968}, which usc cultural resources to identify

members, create and maintain group solidarity, and exclude outsiders. Anistic activities are an important component of these cultural reo sources that tend to show significant variation in consumption pat· terns across stratified populations. The clustering of related artistic activities help group members identify a parallel cluster of participants with distinct social and economic privileges. Thus class and artistic activities arc directly reiah .. "", Much of the work in this field has been published relative1y recently. ,

However, one of the carlier studies of artistic stratification processes is also one of the most frequently cited, Hcrbert Cans's Popular ture

and

High

Cul

Culture (1974). Cans develops the concept of a "taste

culture," cultt.rral acti.vities linked by the fact that they are hked by the same people, and the parallel concept of a "taste public," or the

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aggregate of people who define the taste culture. He argues that a rela tionship among cultural choices exists because such choices are based on similar values or aesthetic standards. Taste cultures thus differen tiate the mass public into more hom*ogeneous categories that can help identify socia-economic strata and related values. Using this approach, Gans describes the choices of five taste cul tures: high, upper-middle, lower-middle, lower, and quasi-folk low cul ture, and delineates their respective tastc pubHcs. Hjgh culture participants tcnd to be thc creators and critics of the cultural world and to choose complex, innovative, and abstract cultural activity. Upper middle and lower-middle taste cultures represent the majority of Americans and differentiate the middle class into those who tend to focus 00 the large-scale, mainstream artistic institutions for cultural resources (c.g., metropolitan museums and orchestras! versus the mass media. Lower and quasi-folk cultures represent smaller, more marginal social categories made up of older, more ethnic and more rural popu lations who tend to focus on local and traditional cultural resources. Tbese taste publics roughly correspond to political and ideological val ues and thus influence patterns of social interaction. As such, cultural choices appear to have real social consequences. Interest in how people make cultural choices and what they choose has produced an enormous amount of arts consumption data_ Most of this data, however, has not been conected expJicitly to analyze class. Instead, arts consumption research has been largely funded and orga nized by arts organizations seeking to expand their .wdicnces and jus tify government patronage (see DiMaggio, Uscem, and Brown 1978 for a collection of

270 survey studies). While it is still not clear what

strategies best attract arts audiences, as evidenced by a steady de cline in arts attendance aeross the general population, the analysis of arts consumption data for the identification of class categories has been more successful. DiMaggio and Usecm used the above-mentioned studies to documcnt the fact that indicators of social class, such as education and income, arc very good predictors of attendance at classi cal music concerts and arts museum attendance (DiMaggio and USl.."eDl 1978). The higher the social class indicators, the higher the frequency of arts activities. They conclude that while there is an inexact fit be tween arts activities and social class, nevertheless, art consumption plays a significant role in stratification processes. The work of Pierre Bourdieu, particul.nly the social rcproduction ef fects of public education je.g_, Bourdieu 1973}, has had a strong theo retical influence on arts and social class research. Bourdieu approaches

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Art Worlds

the arts as "cultural capital," as resources individuals use to establish elite class membership in educational and occupational processes. Those recognized as members of the upper class are evaluated better than those who lack the appropriate cultural capital. Distinction (Bourdicu 1984) presents an extensive empirical analysis of various cultural activities and social status processes in France that has been widely acclaimed as a milestone in arts consumption research. Anolher study by DiMaggio ( 1 982) on American stratification pro cesses also provides support tor Bourdieu's thesis. Self·report swvey data collected (rom over 2900 high school students in 1960 indicate a dear relationship between a student's high school grades and different levels of artistic knowledge and participation. Interestingly, the effect on girls is much stronger than on boys, which DiMaggio suggests is a function of the fact that high culture activities are more clearly pre scribed fur girls than boys. DiMaggio concludes that these direct indi cators of cultwal capital have a greater influence on stratification processes than such past proxies for cultural activity as family back· ground. Tn sum, the relationship of class position and art consumption is well documented.

CONCLUSIONS I've made three points about interaetionist research in the arts. First, art world research need not be margio3lizcd

those with sub·

stantive interest in the arts. As shown, interactionist research in the arts addresses many sociologically central iSSUeR, including fundamen· tal questions about organization, coordination, and control processes. It should not be necessary to abstract art world models in a formal way to demonstrate their utility. Already used in related research in sci· ence, medicine, and work, social world approaches are suitable to many types of collective ideological activity. Second, examples from a variety of different artistic media indicate that the interactionist approach is appropriate for all artistic activity, despite technological differences among media. While nonsociological factors certainly influence the division of labor in any kind of inter· dependent activity, granting these factors causal priority in the arts ignores the remarkable extent of organizational variation in artistic activity. Following the distinction between genotype and phenotype variation in biological modds, I don't dismiss technology, but rather emphasize organizational flexibility. FinaHy, the interactionist perspective is entirely compatible With developing elaborate org.10iz.ational models. This renders the micro·

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Samuel Gilmore

macro problem of such interest to contemporary sociological theory irrelevant. I agree With Maines 1 1983) that this unnecessary distinction is largely a function of methodological individualist approaches to theories of action. By using relations and interaction as an explanatory mechanism at both organizational and individual levels 'of analysis, interactionists can develop sociological models that operate with con sistency. While some of the research examined above is not done by interactionists per se, it is all pettinent to the interactionist approach to social organization. NOTES I.

In the research tradition of Roben Park, Everett Hughes, and the

"Chicago School," symbolic intcractionists develop theory in close proximilY to substantive contexts. Thus it is not surprising that intcractionist research in organization is tied to the arts and several other l-IaIl 1987).

substantive fields (see

2. In comparison, a long-tenn exclusive relationship between

specific artis

tic collaborators tends to promote the development of exchange specific skills, depriving those involved of alternative outlets.

3. There have ccrtainly been a number of attempts at developing a more finely grained analysis of the social object. See Denzin (1987J for a phenome

nological approach integrating semiotics and symbolic interaction.

REfERENCES Adler, Judith. 1979. ArtislS in Offices. New Brunswick, N.J.: Transac tion Books. Alexander, Jeffrey. et a1. 1987. The Micro-Macro Link. Berkeley: Uni versity of California Press. Baxandall, Michael. 1972. Painting and Experience in Fifteellth Cen· tury Italy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Becker, Howard S. 1974. "Art as Collective Activity," American Socio logical Review 39: 767-76. . 1976. "Art Worlds and Social Types," American Behavioral Scientist 19: 703-18. . 1 982. Art Worlds. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bennett, H. Stith. 1980. On Becoming a Rock Musician. Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press. Blumer, Herbert. 1969. Symbolic lnteractionism. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.� Prentice Hall . Bourdieu, Pierre. 1973. "Cultural Reproduction and Social Reproduc tion," in Knowledge, Education. and Cultural Change. Richard Brown led.). London: Tavistock. ---

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. 1984. Distinction. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Cawclti, John. 1970. The Six-Gill! Mystique. Bowling Grcen, Ohio:

---

Bowling Green University Popular Press. Comstock, George. 1975. "The Effect of Television on Children and Adolescents," tournal of Communications 25: 25-34. Cosl!r, Lewis, Charles Kadushin, and Waltcr Powell 1982. Books: The Cwture of Commerce and Publishing. New York: Basic Books. Crane, Diana. 1987. The Transformation of the Avant·Garde. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Danto, Arthur. 1964. "The Artworld," !oumai of PlJilosopilY 6 1 : 571-84. Denzin, Norman K. 1971. "The Logic of Naturalistic [nquiry," Social

Forces. 50: 166-82. . 1987. "On Semiotics and Symbolic ffiteractionism," Symbolic

---

interaction 10: 1 - 19. Dewey, John. 1934. Art as Experience. New York: G. P. Putnam. Dickie, George. 1975. AlL and the Aesthetic: An Institutional Analy· sjs. Ithaca: Comcll University Prcss. DiMaggio, Paul. 1982. "Cultural Capital and School Success," Ameri can Sociologiwl Review. 47: 189-20l. DiMaggio, Paul, and Paul Hirsch. 1976. "Production Organizations in the Arts," American Behavioral Scientist 19: 735-49. DiMaggio, Paul, and Michael Useem. 1978. " Social Class and Arts Consumption," Theory and Society 5: 141-61. DiMaggio, Paul, Michael Uscem and Paula Brown. 1978. Audience Studies of the Performing Arts and Museums. Research Division Report 9. Washington, D.C.: National Endowment of the Arts. Dubin, Steven. 1987. Bureaucratizing the Muse. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Faulkner, Robert. 1971. Hollywood Studio Musicians. Chicago: Aldine. . 1983. Music on Demand. New Brunswick, N.J.: Transaction. Fine, Gary. 1983. "Symbolic Interaction and Social Organization/' ---

Symbolk Interaction 6 : 69-70. Frcidson, Eliot. 1976.

The Division of Labor as Social Interaction,"

Social Problems 23 :304-13. Gans, Herbert. 1974. Papillar Culture and High Culture. New York: Basic Books. Gay, Peter. 1968. Weimar Culture. New York: Harper and Row. Gerbner, George, and Larry Gross. 1976. "Living with Television: The Violence Profile," Tournai of Communications 26: 1 72-99. Gilmore, Samuel. 1987. "Coordination and Convention: The Organi zation of the Concert World/' SymboHc interaction 1 0 : 209-228. Glaser, Barney, and Anselm Strauss. 1967. The Discovery of Grounded Theory. Chicago: Aldine.

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Gombrich, E. H. 1960. Art arid l1Iusion. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton Uni versity Press. Haacke, Hans. 1975. Framing and Being Framed. New York: New York University Press. Hadjinicolaou, Nicos. 1978. Art History and Class Struggle. London: Pluto Press. HaU, Peter. 1987. "Interactionism and thc Study of Social Organiza tion," Sociological Quarterly 28: 1-22. Hauser, Arnold. J 951. The Social History of Art. New York: Vintage. Hirsch, Paul 1972. "Processing Fads and Fashions: An Organization Set Analysis of Culture Industry Systcms," American foumlll of Sociology 7 7 : 639-59. . 1978. "Production and Distribution Roles among Cultural Or ganizations," Social Re.�earch 45:315-330. Ivins, William. 1953. Prints and Visual CommuniClltiOIJS. Cambr.idge, Mass.; MIT Press. Kavolis, Vytautas. 1968. Artistic Expression: A Sociological Analysis. Ithaca: Cornell University Press. ---. 1982. "Review of Art Worlds," Journal of Aesthetic and Art Criticism 4 1 : 226. Kimmel, Michael. 1983. "Review of Art Worlds," American Journal of Sociology 89: 733. Kling. Rob and Elihu M. Gerson. 1978. "Patterns of Segmentation and Intersection in the Computing World," Symbolic interaction 1 : ---

24-43.

Langer, Susanne. 1953. Feeling and Form. New York: Ch.nles Scrib ner's Sons. Lewis, David. 1969. Convention. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard Univer sity Press. Lovell, Terry. 1983. "Review of Art Worlds," Sociological Review 3l : 561.

Lyon, Eleanor. 974. "Work and Play," Urban Ufe and Culture 3 : 7l-97.

Maines, David. 1977. "Social Organization and Social Structure in Symbolic Intcractiooist Thought," Annual Review of Sociology. 3: 235-59. . 1983. "[n Search of Mesostructurc," Urban Life I I : 267-79. Mayhew, Brucc. 1980. "Structuralism vs. Individuahsm: Part I," Social Forces 59: 335-75. Meyer, Leonard. 1956. EmOtiOll and Meaning in Music. Chicago: Uni ---

versity of Chicago Press. . 1967. Music, the Arts and !dens. Chicago: University of Chi cago Press.

---

17 7

Art Worlds

Moulin, Raymonde. 11967J 1987. The French ArL Market. New Bruns wick, N.J.: Rutgers University Prcss. Nochlin, Linda. 1971. "Why have there been no great women artists ! in Art and Sexual Policies, Thomas Hess and Elizabeth BakeT, cds. New York: CoBier Macmillan Publishers. Peterson, Richard. 1976. "The Production of Culture: A Prolegome ,"

non," American Behavioral Scientist 1 9 : 669-84. ---. 1979. "Revitalizing the Culture Concept," Annual Review of

Sociology 5 : 137-166. ---. 1983. "Patterns of Cultura1 Choice: A Prolegomenon," Ameri

can Behavioral Scientist 26:422-38. Peterson, Richard, and David Berger. 1975. "Cycles in Symbol Produc tion: The case of popular music," American Sociological Review 40: 1 58-73. Rohinson, John. 1985. Public Participation in the Arts: A Proiecl Sum mary. College Park, Md.: University of Maryland Survey Center. Rosenblum, Barbara. 1978. "Style as Social Process, " American Socio logical Review 43: 422-38.

Schorskc, Carl. 1981.

Fin-De-SiecJe Vienna. New York: Vintage Books. SL'Ott, W. Richard. 1981. Organizations: Rational, Natural, and Open System. Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall. Sbibutani, Tomatsu. 1955. " Reference Groups as Per!lpectives," Ameri can Journal of Sociology 60: 562-69. ---.. 1962. "Reference Croups and Social Control," in Human Be havior and Social Control, cd. A. Rose. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Simpson, Charles. 1981. Soho. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Smith, Barbara H. 1968. Poetic Closure. Chicago: University of Chi

cago Press.

Star, Susan L. and Elihu Cerson. 1987. "The Management and Dynam ics of Anomalies in Scientific Work," Sodo]og;c(lJ Quarterly 28 : 147-69. Stinchcombe, Arthur. 1959. "8ureaucratic and Craft Administration of Production: A compar.uive study," Administrative Science Quar terly 4 : 168- 187. StT:l.USS, Anselm. 1978. itA Social World Perspective," Studies in Sym bolic lnteraction 1 : 1 1 9-28. --- . 1982. "Social Worlds and legitimation P[oces�!I," Studies in Symbolic Jnteraction 4 : 1 7 1 -90. ---. 1984. "Social Worlds and their Segmentation Processes," Stud ies in Symbolic Interaction 4 : 123-39. ---. 1985. "Work and the Division of Labor," Sociological Quar tuly 26 : 1 -19. Strauss, Anselm L., et a l . 1985. The Soda] Organization of Medical Work . Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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178

Sutherland, J.A. 1976. Victorian Novelists and Their Publishers. Chi cago: University of Chicago Press. Thompson, James. 1967. Organizations in Action. New York: Mc Craw-HilL Unruh, David. 1979. "Characteristics and Types of Participation in So cial Worlds," Symbolic interaclion 2 : 1 15-29. Weber, Max. 1968. Economy and Society. Berkeley: University of California. Webster, Murray. 1973. "Psychological Reductionism, Methodological Individualism, and Large-Scale Problems," American Sociological Review 3 8 : 258-73.

White, Harrison and Cynthia White. 1965. Canvases and Careers. New York: John Wiley. Williams, Raymond. 1977. Marxi8m and LiteratUIe. Oxford: Oxford University Press. .. 1980. Problems in Materialism and Culture. London: Verso. Wilson, Robert. 1983. "Review of Art Worlds, Society 20 : 94. Wolfe, Tom. 1975. The Painted Word. New York: Bantam Books. Wolff, Janet. 1983. Aesthetics and the Sociology of Art. London: Ceorge Allen and Unwin.

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Symbolic Interactionism in

Social Studies of Science Adele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Gerson INTRODUCTiON Over the past decade, both the sociology of science and the inter disciphnary field of science studies have grown rapidly. Scholars from many

traditions have entered the fray. This paper provides an overview

of recent symbolic interactionist and related contributions focused largely on scientific work organization.

It also draws

attention to ef

forts of historians and philosophers in ways traditional to science studies. I Before the 19305, questions about the nature of science were usually linked to the development of the sociology of knowledge and to philo sophical debates jR. Collins

and Restivo, 19831. Many philosophical

perspectives were used to frame and argue about the social nature of the sciences, and echoes of these debates can stin be heard (Star, 1988.1.). The pragmatist philosophers who laid the basis for symbolic intcraetionism were particularly interested in the nature of scientific inquiry, methodologies, and approaches (Peirce, 1877, 1878; Dewey, 1929; Mead, 1917; Bentley, 1954; Veblen, 1932). But these concerns were largciy ignorcd in the interactionist sociological tra dition

While the history and philosophy of science began to dcvelop as in dependent disdplines at the turn of this century, sociological ap proaches to science emerged in the 19305 through the work of British Marxist and Ameriean functionalist scholars. Work in both these tra ditions has continued ever since. However, neither Marxists nor func tionalists examined the actual content or work of sc.ience. Marxists focused on the social determination of ideas, on relations of science to elites, and on issues in science policy development (e.g., Bernal, 1967; Wersky, 1978; Zilsel, 1941). Merton ( 1 938, 1973) led the American functionalist tradition in so ciology of science. Functionalists have taken it for granted that modern 17 9

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Adele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Gerson

science is the standard for objective inquiry and assumed that scien tific knowledge is somehow special and different from other kinds of knowledge. Functionalist studies have focused largely on norms and stratification within science (e.g., career patterns, status

and reward

structures, priority disputes, and women in science), forms of social control in scientific domains, and values issues. A related line of

s0-

ciological wOlk has centered on bibliographic citation analyses (e.g., MuUrns, 1973) from which the term "invisible colleges" emerged, referring to informal hut highly significant networks among scientists (Crane, 1972). Since the early 1970s several other approaches to science studies have been developed by scholars in both the United States and Europe. This new work includes nco-Marxist (e.g., Levidov and Youn� 1981; Rose amI Rose, 1976; Lewontin and Levins, 1985; Nowotny and Rose, 19791, conflict (c.g., Restivo, 1988), feminist {e.g., Abir-Am and Out ram, 1987; Fee, 1983; Keller, 1982, 1985; Merchant, 1980), social con structionist le.g., Latour and Woolgar, 1979; Callan, Law, and Rip, 1986; H. M. Collins, 1983; Knorr-Celina and Mulkay, 1983; Mulkay, 1977; Pickering, 1984; Law and Lodge, 1984; Shapin, 1982}, and eth· nomethodological approaches (e.g., Garfinkel, Lynch, and Livingston, 1981; Lynch, 1985.1, 1985b).1 These works were integral to the broader challenge to functionalism characteristic of the era, and many were in dialogue with Kuhn's ( 1962) pivotal work on paradigms and the stntC ture of scientific revolutions. While there waS a small spate of science studies by symbolic interactionists in the 1960s /c.g., Beckcr and Carper, 1956; Bucher, 1962; Bucher and Strauss, 1961; Glaser, 1964; Marcson, 1960; Reif and Strauss, 1965; Strauss and Rainwater, 1962), no further efforts emcrged until the 19808. All of the recent symbolic interactionist science studies to date have drawn upon the work and organizations concerns of the tradition (c.g., Park, 1952; Hughes, 1958, 1971; Blumer, 1969; Becker, 1970; Freidson, 1976; Strauss, 1 975). They focus on science as work rather than science as "knowledge," refusing to divorce knowledge from interaction and social organization. They have not bccn concerned with selves or in dividuals, but instead with all other scaJes of work organization from research projects to laboratories to disciplines to political and eco nomic relations in the wider society. They arc often at what Maines ( 1 982; 1977; Maines and Chariton, 1985) has called the meso scale of organizations, but focus equally intendy on linkages across micro, meso, and macro scales. In fact, interpenetration across scales i s a stan dard starting point for most interacti.onist science studies. That is,

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Symbolic InreracUonism

while focus may be especially at one scale, relations across scales are also invariably analyzed. It is assumed that micro, meso and macro scales interpenetrate-the macro is inextricably in the maeTO and vice versa. Indeed, for some interactionists these distinctions dissolve. We begin our review with a brief discussion of the assumptions shared by current intcractionist sociologists of science. We next review studies of scientific wOTk processes at the work site, and of alliances and going concerns at meso scales of organization. Last, we describe studies of larger scale scientific social worlds and their interactions.3 We organized the paper in this manner to facilitate entree into science studies for readers who may be unfamiliar with this cultwal area. In conclusion, we discuss topics and questions for additional research and the necessity for interdisciplinary approaches to them. Rather than focusing on a few studies in depth, we scan the full range of rnteractionist science studies. We also include parallel ap proaclles and results

in the sociology of science to underscore some

important convergences between interactionism and related tradi tions. While thi s paper reviews research findings, many salient meth odological issues and connections with early Chicago SOciology and pragmatist philosophy and politics

are

discussed elsewhere (Clarke,

1989a; Fujimura, Star, and Gerson, 1987; Star, 1988a, 1989).

AsSUMlJTJONS IN INTERACTIONIST SC1ENCE STUD IES The first assumption interactionists

in science studies make is

that all SCientific facts, findings, and theories arc socially constructed. We see these "things as the products of people doing things together" (Becker, 1986: 1]. ln recent years, this assumption has become conven tional in many approaches to science studies and is not exclusively i.nteractionist by any means (e.g., Callan, Law and Rip, 1986; Cam brosio aDd Keating, 1988; Knorr-Cetina, Krohn, and Whittley, 1980; Knorr-Cetina, 1981; Latour and Woolgar, 1979; Latour, 1986; Law and Lodge, 1984; Law, 1984, 1986; Lynch, 1982, 1985a,b; Traweek, 1984), Second, we assume that knowledge represents and embodies work, a particular way of organizing the world through a series of commit ments and alliances. It is here, in making no distinction between cog nitive and social aspects of knowledge, that interactionist approaches diverge flOm most others. That is, while many in science studies sharc commitments to the social construction of scientific knowledge, for some other constructionists the central issue is the construction of knowledge per sc. Their studies focus largely on lhe concrete processes of knowledge construction in laboratories, developing the notion that

Adele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Gerson

182

knowledge cannor he understood without looking at practice le.g., Latour and Woolgar, 1979; Knorr-Cctina, 1981; Lynch, 1985a}. ln gen eral, these other constructionists do maintain the distinction between knowledge and social organization, although Latour ( 1983, 1984, 1987) does not. For inleractionists, ideas are commitments, ways of allocat jug resources and responding to constl3mts. lIt this regard, we draw directly upon Dewey 1119161 19531. The third basic assumption made by interactionists currently in sci ence studies is that science is best approached as a matter of work, organizations, and institutions. These emphases provide natural ties to historians of science who srudy how scientists go about their business (e.g., Borell, 1987a,b; Geison, 1987; Kimmelman, 1983, 1987; Maien schein, 1988; Rainger, Benson, and Maienschcin, 1988; Pauly, 1984, 1987J. Fourth, we endorse the assumption that scientific work, insti tutions, and knowledge are not essentially different from other kinds, nor in any way sociologically special. Again, this assumption has be come routine in many science studies. In sum, the major differences to date between symbohc intcractionist and other constructionists is in making no distinction bctwl.'Cn knowledge and work and in the inten sity of focus on work and it .. organization.

SCIENTIFIC WORK ORGANIZATION AT MICRO AND MESO SCALES Beginning with Latour amI Woolgar's j 1979) now classic srudy of a neuroendocri.nology laboratory, other social constructionists have con ducted many studies focused on work in laboratories through exten sive observations and interviews with people who work in them. Such studies, reflecting many traditions of sociological thought, have become a staple of current research in the sociology of science (e.g., Knorr

Cetina,

1981j H. Collins, 1985, Traweek, 1984; Garfinkel, Lynch, and

Livingston, 1981, Lynch, 1982, 1985a,bl. These studies successfully established the legitimacy of systemati cally examining work organization as a way of understanding how sci emific results are constructed. TIle major lesson drawn from them concerns the inherently problemati.cal, contingent, �md negotiated character of technical research results. Latour and Woolgar 11979: 236} refer to the "slow, practical craftwork by which inscriptions {docu mentsl are superimposed and accounts backed up or dismissed." 1n a similar vein, the "shift from

art

to science" in the development

of monoclonal antibody techniques has been studied i.n the labora tory by Cambrosio and Keating 1 1 9881. They found that the local and

183

Symbolic Interllctionism

tacit parts of scientific practice-the "hands-on know-how," "art," or "magical" aspects of daily work with complex techniques and ma terials-arc also subject to discussion, negotiation and construction by scientists. Of concern here was the means by which "hands-on know-how" was made adequately explicit for replication in other laboratories. These studies raise the classic problem of replicabiJit}' of scien tific results. On this point, H. M. Collins (1985) points out that descrip tions of work provided in the published literature often do not, in fact, permit unaided replication. Rather, scientists who wish to repli cate results of others' research must be intimately familiar with the techniques employed or have direct assistance from the originating laboratory. Extending this work into technology studies through an account of a British military aircraft project, Law and CaUon (1988) detail the fun damentally interconnected character of the social and the technical and how they arc jointly created in a single process. They assert that while the social nature of the technical may be counterintuitive to many sociologists, engineers have never experienced a rupture between the two domains. Moreover, the context in which a technical object sucb as an aircraft is created is subsequently internalized in it, or, in their network analysis terminology, the local network contains the global network. These studies all emphasize the imponance of immediate work cir c*mstances in the construction of scientific facts. They also alert us to how both material objects and intellectual commitments can be hotly debated. Prior resolved debates are often present at current re search sites in the form of "black boxes" that were, once upon a time, socially constructed (Latour and Wolgar, 1979; Bijker, Hughes, and Pinch, 1987). Such "black boxes" include now taken-for-granted in stnunents, materials, procedures, and theories. Several interactionist studies focus on scientific work at the small scale and complement this emergent tradition of laboratory and related studies. Emphases have been on PTOCesseS of making commitments and negotiating constraints and opportunities (Becker, 1960; Gerson, 1976; Strauss, 1979). In sciencc, framing and solving the research prob lems immediately at hand shape and organize the work commitments and conventions or "standard operating procedures" of actors (Becker, 1970:261 -74, 1982; Kling

and Gerson, 1977, 1978). The problems are

the touchstone against which all decisions are ultimately made and around which essentially all conflicts are fought.

Adele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Gerson

184

In order to solve their rcsearch problems, scientists make commit ments

to theories

and methods, to each other, to sponsors, and to vari

ous organizations. Understanding this pattern of commitments is the central problem for an interactlonlst analysis of scientific work orga nization. For example, Star and Gerson ( l 987) consider the negotiated character of anomalies both across a variety of scientific researches and through studying the career of one anomaly in neuroscience research

1870. They define anomalies as internlptions to routinc, gener alizing Hughes's (1971) concern with mistakes at work. They point out since

that anomalies in scientific work do not exist in any absolute sense but are always relative to a specific local or institutional context: "Nothing except the negotiated context of work organization itself compels any scientist to correct or even take into account an anoma lous event of any magnitude" (Star and Gerson,

1987: 148). The COIl

tent of science is not separable from its organization, refuting the cognitive versus social distinction about knowledge. Anomalies must therefore be studied by looking at the circ*mstances of work in which they arise and arc negotiated. First it must be established that there is, "in fact," an anomaly; next it must be classified {mistake or accident, artilact, discovery, or impropriety" last it must somehow be managed vis-a-vis the work and the problem structure of the science. A related study examines the robustness of findings, a problem philosophers have traditionally handled without analyzing the actual conditions of work. Drawing on the efforts of philosopher of science Wimsatt

(1980, 19811, Star (1986) examined the triangulation of vari

ous research results to increase robustness in the neurosciences. Dis cussions of triangulation have largely ignored the structural comli dons of work, daily work contingencies, histories and traditions of lines of work, and the concrete processes of actually collating different lines of evidence. Such omissions can lead to interlocking biases, buried uncertainties, the deletion of local considerations, and pseudo robustness, as scientists often " believe" the results of other lines of work when it is in their interests to do so, and vice versa. Star found these were frequent problems in efforts to triangulate clinical and basic research in the neurosciences.

Structural Constraints and Opportunities The commitments which scientists can make are, of course, re strained by the contexts in which they work. Farberman's Denzin's

( 1975) and

(1977) studies of criminogeniC market structures focused on

constraints in the automobile and liquor industries. They analyzed

185

Symbolic Interacrionism

how the organization of these industries and their market structures shaped how participants did their work. Both emphasized the struc tural nature of the pushes toward criminal activities in order

sur·

vive-to stay in business. Becker's (1982) and Gilmore's [this volume) studies of

art

worlds and Riemer's (1979, study of construction work

all develop this theme of institutional constraints on commitments in yet other work settings. Gilmore's study vividly demonstrates how constraints vary across sub-worlds. A number of interactionist science studies share and extend this aspect of the symbolic intcractionist tra dition, focusing on both the constraints and opportunities engendered by stnIcrural conditions. Specific kinds of constraints often lead to deletion of accounts of the actual work involved from scientific reports (Slar, 1 983). Scientists present partial or schematic results by deleting qualifications and elaborate descriptions from their papers. These simplifications of work occur in the presence of particula.r constraints: inadequate time to pro cess aU of the data; incompatible demands for intelligibility and brev ity from multiple audiences; and time pressures from journals, funding agencies, and university departments. Specific kinds of fonnatting and deleting regularly "got the work done" in the face of such constraints and became standard operating procedures in the neuroscience fields Star studied. Constraints of various kinds also shape scientific problem selection processes. Extending Strauss's (1988; Strauss et aL, 1985j work on ar ticulation in medical worlds to scientific worlds, Fujimura (1986b, 19871 introduced the concept of doable problems in scientific research. Doable problems require successful alignment across several scales of work organization: the experiment as a set of tasks; the labOIatory as a bundle of experiments and other often administrative tasks; and the scientific social world as the work of laboratories, colleagues, sponsors, regulators, and other players all focused on the same family of prob lems. Doability is achieved by articulating alignment to meet the de mands

and constraints imposed at all three scales simultaneously: a

problem must provide doable experiments, feasible within the parame ters of immediate constraints and opportunities in a given laboratory, and be viewed as worthwhile and supportable work within the larger scientific world. In the contemporary cancer research world, for example, oncogene research offers an array of doable problems. But investigators must al'ign the actions of antibodies, techniques, personnel, laboratories, companies, stockholders, venture capitalists, private suppliers, protein

186

Adele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Gerson

chemists, molecular biologists, EMBO and NIH data banks, and even Congress. Doability is increased under conditions relatively free of constraints: abundant resourccs, a clear division of labor, a modular task structure, and standardized tasks. In cancer research, certain stan dardized tasks are now common-described in handy molecular bio logical "cookbooks" such as Cold Spring Harbor's [Maniatis, Fritch, and Sambrook, 19821 Molecular Cloning: A Laboratory Manual (d. Cambrosio and Keating, 1 988). Doable problems must, of course, be constructed and reconstructed many times as the wOlk proceeds. fujimura ( 1986a,b) examines these processes as problem paths: the changes in problems addressed as scientists meet contingencies in the course of their work over time. Scientists work around constraints, take dctours, decompose prob lems, abandon problems, and construct new problems to take advan tage of new techniques, materia1s, discoveries, or personnel. The proh1cm path concept permits analytic incorporation of all the activi ties, conditions, and contingencies involved in constructing doable problems over time [e.g., lack of markets, resource constraints, mis takes, and unanticipated articulation work). Fujimura offers a nota tional scheme tor mapping problem patbs which might well be of use in other areas of sociological investigation. Appropriate materials for research are requisite for pursuit of doable problems. Clarke j 1987) studied how scientists organized research ma terials during the early decades of this century. As more pbysiologi cal1y oriented approaches to life sciences research spread, investigators confronted a serious constraint upon their work because these ap· proaches required large quantities of live and fresh materials which were not readily available. For example, when reproductive scientists initially incorporated Lhese new approaches into their daily work, they were obliged to "do it themselves": literally run to abattoirs for fresh sow ovaries, pull on cows' labia to induce urination to supply hormone assays, trudge through the snow to feed their monkeys on Sundays, and dash to hospitals in the middle of Ule night to preserve human embryos discarded dwing emergency surgeries. Eliminating as many of these constraints as possible by routinizing access to supplies of specialized materials was part of the development of the infrastructure that sup pons modern scientific work. Gradually the biological supplies "indus try emerged to meet some of these needs, and on-site colonies of laboratory animals (new phenomena) were established to meet others. Easy access to usable materials then created new opponunities for reo search and shaped research itself. That "is, once a given organism or ,

187

Symbolic [meractionism

material was easily available at a given site, researchers tended to use .. shaping their research problems tu fit the it again and again, at time.. available materials lone facet of doability). All these studies demonstrate the inseparability of scientific knowl edge and the work organization that produces it. From framing prob lems to acquiring materiaJs, to using others' research as evidence, handling anomalies, and writing repons, research consists of betting on how things will turn out. Scientists manage their constraints and opportunities by committing their available resources to constructing and solving doable problems.

Research as a System of Going Concerns Another focus of interaetionist and related science studies has been on meso scale work organization. Analysis here focuses on larger scale patterns of commitment organization as they are formed by ne gotiation of alliances among participants, and the development of conventional procedures and arrangements. Hughes (1971 : 53-641 pro vides us with the generic term "going concerns" to refer to groups of people sufficiently committed to something to act in concert over time. These occur in great varicty in many forms and stages of devel opment. For Hughes (1971 : 54), going concerns have a present existence and an historical dimension; discov ery of the relations bctwecn the two is one of our chief so ciological tasks. This requires that we try to make some sort of order out of the various contingencies to which going con cerns arc subject and the kinds of changes that occur in them as they survive . . . these contingencies (joinings of events and circ*mstances). Such efforts arc at the heart of interactionist science studies. Latour, CalIon, and their colleagues at the Center for the Sociology of Innovation at the Ecole des Mines in Paris led t11e way in developing a framework for understanding these phenomena in the sciences. The starting point is Latour's study of Pasteur 11983, 1984, 1988b). In 1881, Pasteur organized the first demonstration of vaccination ag.1inst aD thrax in cattle. He invited a wide array of potential allies, including the press, farmers, and government officials, to observe the effectiveness of his center's work. As the uninoculated eows keclt:d over and died, the inoculated oncs calmly chewed their cud and stared healthily at the crowd. Potential alliances were actualized here as Pasteur demon strated to his audiences that their varied interests could all be well

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Adele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Gerson

served by his center's work. As Pasteur enrolled increasing numbers of allies in his cause, his group became more and more important in Frt!llch public health, agriculture, and other industries. Thus, Pasteur and his group became a "center of aUlhority." For a research program to become such a center, the concerns 01 dif ferent audiences must be translated or reinterpreted to mesh with the purposes of the program and vice versa. Moreover, the center must be come the gatekeeper (an "obligatory point of passage") in these nego tiations (CaHan, Law, and Rip, 1986; CaHan, 1985; Latour, 19871. These translation or reconstIUction processes funnel diverse concerns into a relatively centralized and coherent system of new commitments which then shape and constrain the conduct of the cenler and its aHies. Some specific strategies for building such centers are examined in Star's (1985, 1989) studies of the work of late nineteenth-century Brit ish neurophysiologists. The scientists who supported localizationist theories of brain function built a successful research program through several strategies: by gaining control of relevant journals, hospital practices, teaching posts, and other means of knowledge production and distributionj by screening out those who held opposing points of view from print and employmentj by linking a successful clinical pro gram with both basic research and a theoreti.cal model; and by uniting ag.1llst common enemies with powerful scientists from other fields (e.g., joining with others to form tbe first professional physiological association to fight antivivisectionists). fnteractionists have also elaborated on the notion of centers llsing social worlds theory (Strauss, 1978; Becker, 1982; Gerson, 1983a). They assert that a ccmer's allies come from different social worlds and bold differing perspectives on the work at hand. This approach draws upon Park's 0952) early interactionist concerns with intersections of human communities, which Hughes (19711 extended by conceiving of the workplace as "where Idi.verse] peoples meet-" For example, Star and Griesemer {J9861 studied relations among hobbyists, collectors, and researchers in Berkeley's Museum of Vertebrate Zoology before World War II. The success of this enterprise was critically dependent upon the comparability of large numbers of specimens, which made the re searchers dependent upon the hobbyists and collectors. The research ers' goal was therefore to convince collectors and hobbyists to meet the researchcrs' stand.1rds for preparing and handling specimens. Such negotiations were, of course, only part of the system of overlapping negotiations in which the Museum was engaged as researchers sought

l89

Symbolic fnteractionism

to solve technical problems, build disciplines, and majntain a stable funding basco The process of building centers of authority has also been examined by historians. Geison {l981, 1987} has focused on the development of specialties, research schools and centers. His more recent paper draws on quantitative publications counts to construct an intriguing set of "soci.al maps" of American centers of physiology cl880-1940. Maien schein 1 1987, 1988} and Pauly ( 1987, 19881 analyze the development of one subworld of American biology as it centered in two institutions: the Woods Hole Marine Biology Laboratory and the University of Chi cago. A particular style of scientific work in biology emerged at these tightly hnked organizations at the tum of the century, inspired by the alliance-building efforts of zoologist Charlcs Otis Whitman. These and related studies of the Chicago-Woods Hole axis provide the most de tailed picture of center building that we have to date. Further research is also in progress on biologists' work at the Uiliversity of Chicago and their alliances with Chicago social scientists and pbilosophers.4 All were focused on the problem of organization during the first half of this century (e.g., Redfield, 1942). Contemporary science is now so large and widely distributed that a center of authority seldom exists as a single geographical or institu tional entity. Building a going concern under these conditions requires the conunitments of many laboratories, organizations, and institu tions. Fujimm:a's (1 986a, 1988bl study of the molecular biological bandwagon in cancer research analyzes the development of a hne of research as a going concern through the mobilization of such widely distributed commitmenls. This mobilization placed the package of on cogene theory Ion the molecular genetic origins of cancerl and recom binant DNA and other molecular biological technologies at the center of authority. This package of a theory and technologies to develop it became a transportable center of authority. The new package was marketed as a means of constructing highly doable problems in multiple research centers, well aligned with fund· ing, organizational, material and other constraints upon research and as a means for attacking long-standing problems in many biological diSCiplines. By persuading SCientists, organizations, and institutions to usc this package to restmcturc laboratories, lines of research, and lines of work, molecular biologists and tumor virologists created a going concern of oncogene and other molecular biological approaches to c.1n cer. By the 19805, this going concern had grown into a bandwagon, a

190

Adele E. Clarke and E.lihu M . Gerson

scientific social movement. A scientific bandwagon exists when large numbers of people, laboratories, and organizations commit their re sources to one approach to scientific problems. Fujimura found no grand marshal orchestrating the movement toward molecular genetic approaches, but rather a caSc.1wng series of decentralized choices, changes, exchanges, and commitments. A similar bandwagon oceurn..-d historically when the practical inter ests of American agricultural scientists and eugenists encouraged early attention to Mendelian, biometric, and cytological studies (Kimmel man, 1983, 1987). This rc.�ulted in rapid and widespread adoption of such methods by American scientists throughout the more applied agricultural research system .1S well as in elite universities, which subsequently cohered into the discipline of genetics. "Marketing Men delism" was easy across these diverse sites because Mendelism made immediate sense to practical breeders as it explained thcir experience vividly, while it also appealed to the theoretical bent of scientific elites (Paul and Kimmelman, 1988). Thc common thread across these studics is how going concerns get going and maintain themselves in the face of many kinds of challenges and uncertainties and how they manage to take advantage of unique oPPoTtunities for entrenchment and expansion.

SCIENTinc SOCIAL WORLDS Another major thrust of interactionist science studies centers on relations among scientific social worlds and on their relations with nonscientific worlds. Disciplines, specialties, and research traditions are social worlds-interactive groups with shared commitments to certain activities, sharing resources to achieve their goals (Strauss, 1978; Bucher and Suauss, 1961; Bucher, 1962, 1988; Becker 1982; Kling and Gerson, 1977, 1978; Shibutani, 1955, 1962). The major pro cesses of social worlds formation and development (segmentation, in tersection, and legitimation) characterize scientific social worlds as they do others (Strauss, 1982a,b, 1984; Gerson, 1983a)_ The social worlds concept is especially useful in seience studies in at least two ways. First, it temIXJrarily or permanently mutes the prob lem of distinguishing betwccn various kinds and scales of scientific work organization: disciplines, specialties, subspecialties, "invisible colleges," and so on. This conceptual hierarchical nesting ean often be misleading.. whether or not there is socially meaningful hi.erarchy is an empirical question. By taking a social worlds perspective, we sec only worlds, their subworlds, and their relations with other worlds. These

'9,

Symbolic fnteractjoni.�m

relations can therefore be handled as a matter of empirical study, rather than prior analytic necessity. Second, the notion of social world allows us to distinguish between disciplines and professions (Gerson, 1987b). Both arc social worlds or· ganizing their interaction around a common subject matter. However, professions are organizations for building.. controlling, and regulating markets for a class of technical services, a way of organizing an occu pational labor market [Freidson, 1977, 1982; Larson, 1977). In conlrast, disciplines are social worlds organized around tupics and methods of inquiry. They divide intellectual labor and organize work on research problems. Other diffCICncCS lie in the primary audiences of work per formed, the foci of codes of ethics, relations with "amateurs," career structures, the role of government, and the organization of day-to day work. Intcractionists conceptualize interaction among diSciplines (and other worlds) as a matter of analyzing patterns of negotiation and com mitment among them le.g., Becker, 1982; Strauss, 1982,a). Thus, for every discipline, the other scie ntific and nonscientific worlds with which it interacts arc a set of audiences /the generic term) which attend to its work, make use or its results, and provide it with find ings, materials, equipment, raw data, and money (Cerson, 1987al. Each audience holds unique expectations of a discipline, makes a different paltcm of demands upon its research, and offers a different pattern and amount of resources in return. Different audiences' expectations may even be incompatible with ODe another, and sometimes they are incompatible with the basic research problems that scientists seek to pursue (e.g., amivivisectionists). Hence audiences may act as con· straints on the work of each discipline as well as providing resources or opportunities. Disciplines keep tbe goodwilJ and support of an audience by addressing its pmicular concerns. TIll.lS the concerns of audiences and disciplines ate complexly linked and constantly rene gotiated. Such "marriages of conveniencc" between discipl.inary re search programs and the concerns of sponsors and consumers are (and were} at the core of the relations hetween disciplines and the larger society. Disciplines must find (or create) a suitable "stable" of audiences that will provide the full range of support the discipline needs while refraining from crippling demands. This typi cally means gaining par tial support from many differem audiences for different programs and problems. It also means playing audiences off against one another. Thus every discipline is constantly engaged in a complex juggling act,

192

Adele E. Clarke 3nd l::lihu M. Gerson

balancing research problems and techniques with the ever-changing demands of supporting, competing, and even antagonistic audiences. Interactionist studies of scientific social worlds have framed larger scale work organization i.n terms of discipline formation, interaction with other scientific and nonscientific worlds. They also attend to re lations between disciplines and the larger society.

Discipline Formation and Interaction There has recently been considerable historical and sociological in terest in discipline formation and development and several such stud ies have been undenaken from interactionist pcrspcctivcs.5 Volberg (1983) focused on the development of American botany at the tum of the ceomry as economic and political constituencies interested in ag ricultural and natural resources development demanded government support and expertise to solve their problems. Fa.rmers, for example, sought means of improving both the quality and quantity of their crops. As a result of such pressures, the federal government funded a network of state agricultural research and disscmination organjzations linked to the land-grant universities. Technical direction of botanical and crop research work then moved increaSingly OUl of the bands of hobbyists and collectors and into Lbose of univerSity-based scientists. Like many other disciplines, botany was characterized by the seg mentation of several diUerent types of research whose practitioners enmpctcd for resources (e.g., sites, funding, and personnel!. Those ap proaches best able to package (produce, organize, and deliver) their work to address narrowly defined technical problems were most suc cessful in obtaining resourccs. Skillful research emreprenews also es tablished niches within existing organizations and built these into going concerns. The most successful lines of work were generally com mitted to new types of experimental research. Nonexpetimental lines of work, such as classification, were segmented off into narrowed spe cialties with their own restricted institutional and professional bases. The emergence and coalescence of reproductive science in the Unitt!d States, cl91O-1940, was the focus of another study (Clarke, 1985, 1989a, 1989b). Disciplinary status was defined here as the COil struction of a distinctively reproductive problem fltrueturc plus the work organization to pursue it. This new discipline emerged from a previously undifferentiated nexus of problems in heredity, devel opment, and reproduction after the turn of the century. What Clarke called the trilateral segmentation of disciplines from this nexus became the basis for genetics, developmental embryology, and re-

193

Symbolic Imf!rGcrionism

productive science. Rcsearch on problems of reproduction was then undertaken in biological, medical, and agricultural settings with con· siderable interaction among them, making reproductive science an intersectional enterprise. Reproductive scientists successfully coped with the illegitimacy of this sexuality·laclen and therefore suspect research field in their nego tiations with various audiences (Clarke, 1985, 1989a, 1989b). First, with scientific and funding worlds, they emphasized reproductive en docrinology which linked their endeavor with cutting-edge biochemi cal approaches in the life sciences. Second, despite pressures, they eschewed open alliances with controversial birth control advocacy groups before World War II. Third, they convinced major foundation sponsors, who had initially sought studies of human sexuality, to sup port biological studies of sex using animal models instead of psycho social studies of humans. Disciplinary and professional worlds may also be in competition with one another for limited or scarce resources. For example, at the tum of the century, zoology fared best at institutions where the devel opment of medical schools was slow and problematic [Pauly, 1984, 1987, 1988j. Convcrscly, on other campuses vigorous medical schools succeeded in capturing talent and resources, typically preempting de velopment of an independent zoology there. Historian Pauly has both charted the mechanisms of early victories of medicine over biology and pioneered in investigating local institutional influences on discipli· nary and professional formation and growth. This competition between medicine and biology took place duri.ng a broader reorganization of disciplines throughout the life sciences at the turn of the century (Gerson, 1983bJ. The basic lines of specialization in classical natural history were along taxon lines ji.e., the kinds of organisms studied such as ornithology and entomology) and by geo graphic region. By the end of the century, specialization by taxon had become finer·grained, and a new line of cleavage among disciplines be gan to emerge-organizing work by analytical topic rather than by taxa and regions. For example, the analytic problem of heredity became the work of genetics, while growth and development are the focus of de velopmental embryology. Gerson finds tbat the analytic disciplines that emerged in thjs way fell into two clear groups:

all

the one hand those tbat deal with single

mganisms and parts of organisms which he calls "organism disci plines" (e.g., cytology, histology, embryology, cytogeneticsl and, on the other hand, those rhat deal with groups and classes of organisms,

Adele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Gerson

J94

which he calls "population disciplines" (biogeography, ecology, popu lation genetics, paleontology, systematics). As each specialty

devel

oped, it formed its own pattern of relationships with sponsors and other influential audiences. Thus, as these disciplines emerged and coalesced, contact across this

great divide tended to diminish. The in stitutional consequence of this realignment was a pattern of many small, relatively weak basic research disciplines. Most had their own scholarly machinery of

departments journals, ami learned societies, ,

while there were few umbrella professiona) organizations {Appel, 1987, 19881. in contrast, Fujimula {1986a, 1988b} studies the blurring aDd collaps· ing of contemporary dIsciplinary boundaries across a host of biological disciplines. One consequence of the molecular biological bandwagon in cancer research is that vcry similar types of rc.'>Carch un cancer are now done by developmental biologists, tumor virologists, molecular biologists, biochemists, immunologists, and microbiologists. When asked, these researchers caDnot give a clear answer about which disci pline they belong to. Oncogene research is thus one example of a wider

arena of conjoint rescarch including such areas a s nOlmal growth and diHereDtiatioo, retroviruses, and chemical hormonal and radiation car cinogenesis. Thus the conccpt of a bandwagon is useful for analyzing the actions of multiple worlds (disciplines, hnes of work,

and lines of

rescarch).

Science in Society Questions about the nature of large-scale changes in the sciences lead researchers to examine relationships between scientific institu· tions and the larger society. Most of the interactionist work in this vein focuses on relationships between science and the economy,

although a

few studies also consider relations with government. One government and science study analyzes how American aca demic oceanographers are alienated flOm much of the work on the cut ting edge of tbei_r discipline because the most sophisticated research techniques are under the exclusive jurisdiction of the Defense Depart ment (Mukerji, 1987). Oceanographers in academia arc thus cut off from participation ill this work

and do not even know where the

boundaries of their discipline currently he. Relationships between science, the economy, and the larger society are oi(en studi.ed as intersections of sci.entific worlds wtth various in dustries. From an interactionist perspective, industries arc also social worlds, organized around the production of a grol!P of related goods or

19S

Symbolic Interacrionism

services (Kling and Gerson, 1977, 1978). In this view, markets are in tersections between worlds. A key question here is, "{WJhat is the pat tern of markets in which the world is engaged, and how do these 'map' OntO the pattern of intersections among subworlds? " (K1ing and Ger· son, 1978: 42). The relationships between disciplines and industries are complex, however, and cannot be analyzed as simpLe buyer/seller re lations. Rather, disciplines appear as sources of skill, knowledge, and technology which are bought and sold by other organizations, most notably universities, professions, and industries. Untangling the de tails of these complex relationships remains a major area for further research. For reproductive science, for example, the applied domains of animal agriculture and obstetrics and gynecology were obvious consumers IClarkc, 1985, 1989a, 1989b}. Moreover, as reproductive science devel oped over this century, it became largely if not exclusively identified with its applied medical and agricultural domains. This was in paIt because its applications (such as birth control and infertility treatment in humans and artificial insemination in farm animals) were so contro versial yet lucrative. Gradually but clearly, American centers of repro ductive science in hiological institutions waned as thuse in applied, productive, and profitahle agricultural and medical settings came to predominate. Here we see how the economy shapes the academy. Drawing upon earlier work {Busch, 1981, 19841, Busch and Chatelin {in prep. I argue more generally that certain kinds of science best serve capital accumulation goals and that, over time, these have become the kinds of sciences that are done-instrumental sciences. Such sciences serve the development of commodity and technological production, in deed are more and more central parts of it, through its instruments, materials, practices, and results. Certain features of capitalist societies make them particularly supportive vehicles for the development of in strumental sciences. Like Veblen ( 1 932), Busch and Chatelin view the relation between the two as mutually supportive rather than causal, although instrumental sciences are now virtually indispensable

capitalism. To be instrumental, science must be applied in production processes. This involves a complex web of organizational arrangements sustained over time (e.g., Etzkowitz, 1983), gcncraUy conceived as an economic sector. Sociologically, a Sl.."{;tor is a domain including all the organi zations producing similar products or providing similar services along with all the other organizations providing support and funding, serv ing as regulatory agencies, and those that use or consume the prod.-

196

Adele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Gerson

ucts or services producctl (Clarke, I988bl." Each participant in a sector must itself become a going conccrn as wen as articuJatc successfully with other participants. Clarke is using the concept of a fife sciences industrial sector to better wldersland the durability of relationships among hfc sciences disciplines, related industries, research universi· ties, philanthropists and fOlUldations, disciplinary and professional associations, and governments. She analyzes how the life sciences be came going concerns and sector participants. In the "start-up" era cI890-1917, activities

ll i

the life sciences centered around building

an adequate research infrastructure. In the consolidation era cl9 L7 1940, activities centered on developing adequate scientific manage ment mechanisms to OlanOlge growth and expansion, including fuller articulation with other participants in the life scienccs industrial sector. The anticipated impacts of biotechnology on thc agricultural secto£ are also under scrutiny, drawing upon earlier work on relations of ag ricultural science and scientists with their audiences, sponsors, and consumers within the framework of negotiated order theory (Busch, 1981, 1982, 1984; Dusch

one

where agriculture depends on industry.

But varied outcomes arc possible from place to place and hom com· modity to commodity. These outcomes will be shaped by the institu tional strueture which itseU will be shaped in interactions between the U.S. Department of Agriculture and the land-grant universities focused on resou.rce allocation. The fundamental tension here, as elsewhere in biotechnology, is between public and private development. Another study of the application of instrumental science examines changes over the past century in the social organization of human reproduction through the introduction of industrial conceptual ap proaches and techniques jClarke, 1988a). Different patterns of in dustri.alized development have characterized differcnt reproducti.ve processes from menstruation to contraception to menopause and so on. For some proc.cssc....., commodity development came first, for ex ample in the development of female hygiene products. For others, the reorganization and professionalization of service delivery was primary, as in the management of childbirth by physicians and its movement

197

Symbolic lnteractionism

into hospitals. For yet other reproductive processes, technological de velopment was amI remains first and foremost, as in contraception and infertility treatments. The overall pattern is one of market saturation with increasingly industrialized approaches

all reproductive pro

cesses, now spreading to male reproduction. Several studies have focused on the role of the instrument industry in linking scientific institutions to the economy. Historian Borell (1987a,b), for example, focuses on the growing importance of instTu ments in physiological research over the past century. Demand grew for large quantities of instruments as hands-on learning innovations were initiated for teaching purposes in expanding universities. This led late nineteenth-century Harvard physiologist William Townsend POT ter to redesign and invent instruments and to estabJish the Harvard Apparatus Company to mass produce them using standardized, inter changeable parts. This company became a model for others in the emergent AmeIican scientific instruments industry. Through an analysis of advertisem*nts for scientific instruments, Busch and Marcotte ! 1 987f illuminate Bourdieu's perspeclive that the work of science resembles and shares values with capital accumula tion. The values claimed to be embodied in the instruments and the values of industrial capitalists coincide-accuracy, speed, and cost ef ficiency. They conclude lhat as the instruments industry has matured, the means of factual acculllulation have superseded the ends of en hanced scientific understanding. Issues of the power of science and power in science are raised in La tour's ( 1984, 1987, 1988b) studies of microbes. Sciences create new sources of power in society, such as the power to control disease or improve agricultural production. In interactionist science studies,

plicit attention is increasingly being given to questions of who partici pates in creating that knowledge and in deciding how such power is used !e.g., Star, 1989; Clarke, 1988b). All of these studies at the meso-macro scale are thus concerned with the articulation of parls, with specifying the nature and structure of relations between sciences and other organizationa.l entities. Hopefully they will extend the boundaries of interactionist theories of organiza tions in some of the directions Hall 11985, 1987} anticipatoo.

CONCLUSIONS: DOlNC INT£RACTIONIST SCIENCE STUDIES The sciences are good "laboratory animals" for basic sociological research, especially for interactionist approaches focused on work, or ganizations, and social worlds. For the sciences are easily accessible,

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routinely keep extensive records of their operations, vary widely across many dimensions of interest, and change both quickly and slowly, providing temporal variation. In addition, their organization makes it Tclarively easy to trace connections among organizational scales from face-to-face interaction in the laboratory to large-scale institutional structures. Extensi ve local variation and the international character of scientific wnrk also facilitate comparative studies at various scales. The sciences thus provide an ideal body of materials for building co hesive models of institutional organization out of the concepts of nc gotiated order and commitments, the organization of work, and social worlds. Another exciting and continually provocative aspect of doing science studies is its interdisciplinary nature. Interactionist sociologists regu larly collaborate with researchers from other schools of sociological tbought, with historians, with philosophers, and with scientists from the traditions we study. The most striking reason for active collabora tion with researchers from other schools of thought is proVided in the work of Latour, CalIon, Law, and their associates. Their work is not simply important in its own right; it also illuminates and challenges interactionist thinking in significant ways. for example, Latour � 1984, 1987, 1988a,b) insists, correctly we believe, that we view all partici� pants in a setting as actors, not just humans. For example, microbes were major actors in the rise of the germ theory of disease and the Pasteur Institute. Door-closers are actors in both scientific and noo scientific contexts. This point is an important extension to basic inter actionist prinCiples and ties to issues of meaning and action which Mead (19321 explored philosophical1y. A similar point applies to the work of some philosophers. In the haH century since Mead's death, philosophical research has made progress on many problems he addressed. It would be sadly ironic if the prag matist tradition of sociological research enshrined the work of Mead and Dewey as final authority rather than using it as a springboard to new discoveries. The work of Wimsatt j 1974, 1980, 1981, 19851 on ro bustness, bias, heuristics, reductionism and probJem decomposition is especialJy useful and important. So too is that of Griesemer (1988, in pres. ..; Griesemer and Wade, 1988) on laboratory models, museums as models, and kinds of causal explanation, and that of Magnus � 1989) on issues of natural history such as speciation. At the conference that led to this volume, a number of participants asked how much science one needs to know to do sociology of science. Given that we are nOl going to become competent in these disciplines

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by ourselves, we routinely enroll scientists from the fields we study as advisors and teachers. But how competent we need to become depends very much on our specific research questions. The more technical these are the more science we need to know to understand what is going on, and vice versa. However, there is not a one-to-one relation ship between the amount of science known and the quality of science studies. For example, many researchers now in science and technology studies of various kinds were, at earlier stages of their careers, scien tists, physicians, or engineers. While in some ways this gives them tremendous advantages and makes their work invaluable to us, it can also act as a potent constraint. For they are vulnerable to all the pit falls of "going native," especially loss of a broader perspective on the work. As sociologists generally lacking formal training in the sciences we study, we are in the reverse situation which also has its potent strengths and weaknesses.7 One thing sociologists of science do not have to worry about is mak ing certain their respondents' voices are heard, a point raised in this volume by McCall and Wittner especially. Scientists' voices and cul tures are quite strong. We do, howcver, have to be carcfuJ to keep doing our sociology rather than getting caught up in their science to which we may bring the raw enthusiasm of neophytes. This is the same risk Hall (this volume) discusses in historical sociology-the risk 01 getting lost in doing history rather than doing historical sociology_ But science studies must attend to history for several reasons. First, many important phenomena [e.g., diseiplina£y emergence and realign ment} typically occur over many years. Second, studies of contem porary practice using traditional ficld observation amI interviewing techniques can make better sense of those practices by understanding how things came to be the way lhey are. Third, depending upon one's research problem, there can be distinct advantages in science studies to doing research on areas where key issues are relatively settled. It is casier to avoid "goi.ng native" and being drawn into hot scientific de bates about who is right

wrong. Fourth, our concerns WiUl larger

scale organization natuIally pull us toward historical approaches as we seek comparative data about contrasting conditions and circum stances. lndeed, it is difficult to see how adequate research at larger organizational scales could be performed without using historical data. But a historicaJ orientation also poses methodological problems. Par ticipant observation and interviewing are of only limited use in study ing the work of dead scientists. While we have successfully used grounded theory approaches with historical ma(crials,� several serious

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problems remain: (ll how to manage the vast amouots of materials characteristic of historic.,) rese;}fch; �2) how to speed up gaining an adequate grasp of the h.istorical story so that one can do the sociology of it; and

(3) how to fuse historical and philosophical considerations

into the ordinary flow of our sociological work. We continually struggle with these challenges. For example, Gerson and Griesemer are involved with a continuing program of research on biology in California before World War II. Gerson is compiling an ana lytic computerized data base of "fact and figure" information on the major biological research organizations and individuals in California, which will document long-term conjoint patterns of scientific and in stitutional change (Gerson, 19861. The focus on a single, narrowly de fined body of data over a long period of time is somewhat unusual for an interactionis[ approach, but he has high hopes that it will be fruilful. The future possibilities for interactionist science studies are virtu ally infinite. They include an array of approachcs not addressed here, such as research on symbolic or ideological dimensions. Much of the cwrent and planned work of intemctionists already in the field is centered arOlmd heterogeneous worlds coming together at work. Tltis reflects eally interactionist concerns with intersections of human communities (e.g., Park, 19521, extended by Hughes ( t 971) to focus on the workplace "where [diversel peoples mect." For example, in the SOciology of technological design, Star ! 1988cj is developing a theory of cooperation in scientific work \\'here collaborat ing heterogeneous groups must reconcile their differellces

solve

problems and create technologies. The flow of information and the consequences of organizational structure in the design of computer chips by engineers is a related problcm !Star, 1988b}. At limes, how ever, differences arc not resolved and mavericks emerge-marginal people whose work can be highly controversial or largely ignored (Fu jimura, 1988b). The institutional construction of mavericks in science also extends traditional interactionist concerns. Others are studying the Museum of Vertebrate Zoology at Berkeley, founded in 1908, and now housing a major research collection of birds, mammals, and amphibians. They seek

understand the ways in

which the organizational history of the Museum was shaped by the technical concerns of its staff on the one hand, and the constraints imposed hy its setting at the intersection of many disciplinary and other worlds on the other hand (Gerson, 1987.1; Griesemer, in prep.; Star and Criesemer, 1986).

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While peoples meet in the workplace, the workplace itself must be constructed. Many things must be in place for science to be done. COll crete infrastructure for the specific kind of work must be constructed, managed, and changed to keep up with developments. These include materials, instruments, and techniques along with personneL How this was done across an array of life sciences disciplines wrestling with varied problems is also being explored [Clarke and Fuiimum, in press). In summary, the major thrust of interactionist research in sciences studies to date has been on examining multiple scales of work organi zation. At the micro/meso scale, research has focused on dail y work, on its material requirements, on negotiating local and wider constrai.nts, opportunities, and resources, on the local nature of the construction of knowledge and what is done to make knowledge transportable je.g., Simplification), on doability, and on problem paths over time. At the meso scale, scientific research has been conceived as a net work of going concerns or enterprises. Emphasis has been on how cen ters of research establish and maint'lin themselves through ongoing negotiations with a stable of audiences and alliances, and through gain ing control over resources and means of knowledge production and dis tribution. Several studies have been done on discipline formation and development through both segmentations and intersections. And sci entific bandwagons have been studied as a kind of social movement_ At the meso/macro scale are several studies of the relations of disci plines as social worlds with the larger society, which share a focus on political and economic market concerns. These fit well with the analysis that those disciplines that succeed are more instrumental, productive, and ultim.uely profitable. Studies here have focused on the industrialization of human reproduction, scientific instruments, biotechnology in agri.culture, and the development of a life sciences based industrial sector. While these studies aU center on scientific work organization at dif ferent scales, they simultaneously focus on dynamics across scales. Thus this work is equally about linkages across multiple scales of sci entific work organization and the interpenetration of the micro, meso and macro categories, despite the format of this paper. Indeed, the pa per could have been written to highlight these aspects of tbe research, for it is a figurcJground phenomenon. Instead, we conclude by drawing attention to them. The very act of developing an adequate research site immediately draws scientists into a web of relationships that cross-cut micro, meso, and macro categories. Obtaining materials and instruments, learning

.-\dele E. Clarke and Elihu M. Cerson

202

techniques, and organizmg ski.lled personnel are concrete i.nfrastruc lural dimensions. To do this reasonably, scientists must construct do able problems-must align resources, interests, and activities across multiple scales from the experiment to the laboratory to wider scien tific social worlds and beyond.

tn an important sense,

the concepts of audiences, markets, and sec

tors offer a framework for understanding doabihty over time. To sus tain a research endeavor requires considerable stability of both local arrangements and relations

with

wider audiences including sponsors

and l.'Onsumc£ markets. Routinely maintained yet flexible relation ships create an organizational framework for institutionalizing doabil ity. As these relations endure and elaborate, a science-based economic sectOr may emerge, a very complex going cancem. Interactionist science studies have been highly organizational and structural in their vision of the working arrangements and commit ments of science without lOSing sight of the symbolic interactions

through which knowledge

is constructed.

NOTES J . We are grateful to our colleagues 1-1. S. Becker, J. H. Fujimura, J. R. Grie semer, S. L. Star, and A. L. Strauss Joe their many contributions to the work discu:>Sl.'tl here. We are also y.nelu! to M. S. Gerson, K. Charmaz, M. Little, and A. Hazan for advice and comments 011 earlier versions. CJarke's efforts were supported by an NIMH postdoctoral fellowship in the Dep.·mmcnt of So ciology, Stanford University. David Wake, Barbara Stein, and the staff of the Mu�um of Vertebrate Zoology at Berkeley have been generous with their time and gave permission to examine the Museum's archiveli. Clarke abu thanks Dr. M. C. SheJesnyak for ongoing assistance with her research on reproductive sClencc.

2. For more ambitiou"" :md thorough maps of this terrain, see Knorr-Cetina and Mulkay 1 1 9831. R. Collins and Restivo (19831, and Maienschein { 1985}. 3. Because of the slow pace of publicatwn and to make this paper biblio graphically useful for as long as possiblc, we cite some wOlks cun-ently under rcvkw {without, of course, noting the journalsl. 4. A volume to be edited hy Cregg Mitman, Adde Clarke, and Jane Maien schein is .1Oticipatcd for 1992. 5. For work from other peTl>("Iectivcs, sec for example Cllmbrosio and Keating ( 1 983), Chubin (19761, Graham, Lcpcnies, and Weingart ( 1 9s..�J, Law (19801, Lcmainc et al. ( 1 9761, Light 119831, Rosenberg { l 976, 19791. and Whitley (J976, 19841· 6. Clarke draws here upon both rccent work on institutional aspects of or ganizations {e.g., Scott and Meyer, 1983, Scou, 19871 and on social worlds and arenas theory (Strauss, 1978, 1982a). 7. for a more in-depth discussion of the problems of "insider histories" and stratcgic.:s for using them as data, see Clarke {I985: 469-71 I. Even scientists

Symbolic Interactionism themselves question the validity of scientists doing histmies of their own fields 1M. C. Shelesnyak, personal communication, 1988!. 8. On groundcd thcory, sec Glaser and Strauss (1968), Glaser (1978), and Strauss ! 1987). For discussion of how these approaches were concretely used in historical research, see Clarke (1986) and Star ( 1989).

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lournal of Sociology 47: 544-60.

Fit for Postmodern Selfhood

Barry Glassner The dead are the only people to have permanent dwellings , Rita Mae Brown

A widespread interest in the pwsuit of fitness has been documented among the middle and upper classes in national surveys [Gurin and Harris,

1987; Glassner, 1988} and in the market success or maga

zines such as AmeriCiln Health, New Body, Prevention, and Self. Yet the popular explanations for this interest prove rather anemic. Those who market fitness programs and_ products, for instance, along with commentators in the media, often put forward a hiosocial realist ac count. Tbey maintain that Americans arc merely accepting the well confirmed scientific evidence for the adaptive and aesthetic superiority of a strong, fat-free body. In actuality, reviews of the research literature raise serious doubts as to whether exercise iSolomon,

1985; Hughes, 1984; Folkins and Sime, 1981; LaPorte, De.1fwater, et at, 1985), weight c*ntrol (Schwartz, 1986; Btody, 1987; Ritenbaugh, 1982), or changes in diet iBecker, 1986; Goodman and Goodman, 1986) do improve longevity or afford signifi cant protection against disease and psychological distress. More likely, it is not the sheer force of truth that has propelled Americans tow31d fitness pursuits, but rather the manner in which purportL-rl facts are conveyed and tbe role of such information in the culture.

Thc countless images of idealized bodies Americans see every

day in te1evision, magazine, and billboard advertising have become dominant symbols, thanks to their pivotal position in structures of so cial exchange. They channel capital and serve as a common resource for judging the adequacy of self and others. Ultimately, though, this Sort of cu1tural-economy argument, even if thoroughly developed (see Turner, For helpful comments on

1984; featherstone, 1982; Ewen and

thank Peter Conrad. Tulia Loughlin, Steven Mailloux Mark Mizruchi, Robert Perinbanayagam, Barry Schwartz, David SilVCl1Tla.n, , Manf�d Stanley, David Sylvan, and participants at the SSSI Symposium, ill particular, Howard S. B(.'Ckcr, Marjorie DeVault Michal McCall and Fred P. Pestdlo. 215 , earlier drafts I

Barry Glassner

216

Ewen, 1982; O'Neill, 1985), also will not suffice as an explanation fOT the fitness furor. While there is no denying that a general commodifi cation of society .1nd of the bodics within it thuman, political, knowl edge, etc.) has taken place (Glassner, 1988, chaps. 2 and 9) I, analysis of that state of affairs docs not in itself permit an answer to the question: Why fitness? Why is this particular package of acts ami ideas so ap· pealing to participants, and why has it sold so well in recent years?

REGARDING IIFITNESS" AND "POSTMODERN" A first step in answering this question is to examine the concept itself, whereupon one notices that "fitness" refers to more than might be assumed. A melange concept in its current usage, " fitness" refer ences not only exercise or the effects thereof, but the general state of a person's psycho-physical well-being. The subtitle of American

Health

magazine is "Fitness of Body and Mind." A direct mail advertisem*nt from Time-Life Books for a series of volumes on exercise, diet, stress, and toning proclaims that "if you're ready to enter the new age of fit ness . . . , " wi.th their help, "lyjou'll go beyond exercise to experience a dimenSion of health, vitality and confidence you've never known before." A special issue of Life magazine (Febntary, 1987) entitled "The American Way of Fitness" consisted of the following articles (in order of their appearance): weight-loss plans, a California spa where people take mud baths to relieve stress, aerobic exercise programs for se niors, others for babies, obesity in adolescence, buJemia, a triathlete, the Framingham Heart Study, workouts by Hollywood stars of the 1930s and 1940s, how Christie Brinkley got "back into shape" after the birth of her daughter (workouts, mineral baths, massages, etc.), and SWlmwear. •

The hybridjzation of potentially independent matters can also be found in many of the most successful commercial programs in the body improvement industry. A major selling point in Weight Watchers advertisem*nts has been their Quick Start Plus Exercise Plan; and Nautilus, the manufacturer of exercise machines, markets to health clubs its Nautilus Diet, which "consists of three-times-per-weck su pervised Nautilus workouts combined with a descending-calorie diet." So although some fitness enthusiasts distinguish between "fitness" and "health," the two have become generaJly synonymous in everyday usage. Each of the acts referenced [diet, exercise, etc.) solicits the oth ers. The longer expression, "health and fitness," is invoked primarily when the speaker wants to draw attention specifically to noncxeJcise

217

Fit fDr Postmode,m Se1fhood

components. Packages of Nabisco Shredded Wheat, for example, re cently featured a mail-in coupon for an exercise video by Jane Fonda. The ad referred to Fonda as "one of America's favorite health and fit ness advocates." In so doing, Nabisco made an association to �heir own product, which is positioned as a health(ful) food. j"lt's the natural goodness of whole wheat and has no added sugar or salt."jl Therein lies one reason I refer to fitness as a postmodern activity-it is pastiche, a borrowing from diverse imagery, styles, and traditions, including both "high" and "low," mundane and special, and past, pres ent and future, wherever these seem usahle: a form of contextless quotation ,see Jameson, 1984; Cbrke, 1985; Venturi, 1966; Venturi, Brown, and lzenour, and 1972). The pastiche quality of fitness is evident even where the concept is used to refer primarily to exercise. More than mere movement is typi cally involved, after all, in exercise programs. The typical exercise video (like its live counterparts at health clubs} involves also dance, as well as either nostalgic or futuristic imagery, and commercial lie-ins. One video, selling briskly when this paper was prepared, "Esquire's Dance Away-Get Fit with the Hits of the 50's, /I includes on the side covcr, without explanation, the Tampax tampons emblem. The tape itself features wmkouls perfonned to songs including "Rock around the Clock" and "Blue Suede Shoes." Before I suggest some of the implications of fitness as pastiche �in particular as regards selfhoodJ,

1 want to discuss briefly the other COIl

tentious term in my title. Rather than define "postlllodern/' I am going to use it pragmatically to understand the cultural phenomenon at hand. Any definition one might propose would only conflict with others in the vast and confus ing literature. That fact does not necessarily imply, however, that the concept is confusing or unhelpful. Perhaps, as Hebdige (1986: 78-79) has proposed in a discussion of postmodernisffi, lithe more complexly and contradicto{ily nuanced a word is, the more likely it is to have formed the focus for historically significant debates, to have occupioo a semantic ground in which something precious and important was fclt to be embedded" �scc also McRobhic, 1986: 108; Glassner and Moreno, 1982).3 1 do have in mind something resembling a pcriod in American culture, one that I along with others �e.g., Trachtenberg, 1985: 263291, Huyssen, 1986: 178-221, Herron, 1987-88: 73; Jameson, 1983) date as having begun in roughly the early 1960s, with cffons at resis tance and innovation in the arts and living arrangements. Then, during approximately the early 70s through early 80s, postmodernism took on

218

Barry Glassner

a posmve rather than merely oppositional stance, as evidenced by trends in the arts to "counter the modernist litany of the death o f the subject by working toward new theories and practices

speaking,

writing and acting subjects" (Huyssen, 1986:2131, and in daily life to devise alternatives to an alienated, inactive stance towards one's own physical and emotional reality Ie£. Freund, 19821.4 While participation in !even access tal the postmodcm is concen trated in the middle and upper classes, against Daniel Bell 11978: 353-54), 1 see more in postmodernity than nihilism, narciSSism, and "anything goes"(ismj. Rather, taking a symbolic intcractionist pcrspcc· dve, ( see a collocation of attempts to reconstruct the scll (aod in par ticular, the self-body relationshipJ in a manner that is more felicitous to life in contemporary American culture.

SYMBOLIC INTE.RACTIONS WIlli TIlE. MODERN Modernity resu1ted in the first place, according to a Weberian analysis, from the collapse of religious authority and the rise of a ratio nalized, bureaucratic social order. Within this order, separate groups of professionals, each with spccial lcchnical abilities,

are

granted respon

sibility for separate spheres 01 activity. Scientists oversee nature, law yers administer justice, critics orchestrate taste, phYSicians regulate health, and so forth. The hope, beginning with the philosophers of the Enlightenment, was that this specialization and rationalization "would promote not only the control of natural falces, but would also further understanding of the world and of the self, would promote moral progress, the justice of institutions, and even the happiness of human beings" (Habcrmas, 1981 :9). Instead, from the point of view

of many middle-class Americans of

the 19605 and 1970s, the activities

of modernity resulted in a loss of cOlltrol over nature (as evidenccd by the prevalence of heart disease and cancer, the emergence of AJDS, and leaking nuclear plants), a loss oc splintering of selfhood, built-in im morality in public institutions, and ever-inflated false promises of con sumer happiness. Charles Jencks, a popular proponent of postmodern architecture, identifies the symbolic death of modernism as 3 : 32 p.m.

July 15,

1972, when the Pruitt-lgoe housing project in St. Louis was dynamited. "The modem machine for hving. as Lc Corbusier had called it with the technolOgical euphoria so typit;al of the 19205, had become unlivable, the modernist experiment, SO it seemed, obsolele" (quoted in Buyssen, 1986, 1861·

219

Fit for Pos[moriern

Selfhood

Of course, not only with regard to housing were people giving up on machine age science and technology and recognizing that, "[tJhough founded on the histork emergence of science," in the second half of the twentieth century, "modernity lives only at the level of t)te myth of science" (Baudrillard, 1987: 71). This sentiment extended widely, as can be seen in the critiques of medicine (e.g., Illich, 1975; Szasz, 1966) and in belief systems based around axioms such as "small is beauti ful" and buzzwords like "lite." Indeed, responses to the losses and dis appointments of modern culture have appeared widely throughout American culture; many forms of disyoking and disinheriting could be named. These are perhaps most apparent in the arts and in some vari eties of left politics, but none of the efforts-whether in architecture, the visual arts, fiction, or political mobilizing-afforded the general public such an encompassing attempt to disengage the negative effects of life in modern culture as did the fitness movement.� Fitness pro grams pTOmise direct control over the effects of nature, as well as free dom from medical professionals, and the achievement of personal morality. And they offcr outcomes one can feel almost every day of one's life. (n her analysis of the social factors that sent people to the streets in jogging suits beginning about twO decades ago, Muriel Gilliek (1984: 369-87) underlines two: First was the rea.lization that modern medicine, for aU its so phistication, could not prevent death. Even the coronary care unit, one of the great technological developments of the '60s, saved at most a few lives; and 60 percent of deaths from heart attacks occur before the victims ever reach medical atten tion. . . . The collapse of the liberal consensus-the bc1ief that the strength and virtue of America had created peace abroad and harmony at home-coming on top of a shattered failh that American medicine could render the world safe hom disease, led to the view that America was morally sick, in need of spiri tual renewal. . . . The pursuit of physical fitness was seen by some as a mc.1ns by which individuals could imp.rove America. By ridding us of the stress and tension, the competitiveness and sleeplessness which are ruining our society, so the argument goes, running can help us pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. I quote this passage at length because it points up several of the ways in which the fitness movement is postmodern rather than primarily anti-modern [d., Venturi and Brown, 1984: 115) or nostalgiC.

220

!larry Glassner

Retained is the modernist idea of renewal, but the meaning of re newal has changed from what it was in previous health-aod-exercise movements in the United States. At the end of the nineteenth century and beginning of the twentieth, progressiveness served as a guiding motif: those advocating exercise and healthful diets spoke of "regen eralion" and preparing Americans for a bright new day. They also evoked notions-which had been deployed in health movements ear liet in the 1800s-0£ a citizenry that had recently been strong and vir tuous but was going flabby as tlle result of too much affluence (Green, 1986; Schwartz, 1986). In contrast to those earlier movements, the fitness talk of the late 1960s through 1980s is not primarily about a happier recent past, prog ress, or the perils of wealth. Rather, what must be exorcised now are the deficiencies of the modern era. Fitness is sold as an escape route from the characteristic ills of modern culture. Biographical vignettes such as the following from

Weight Watchers MagtlZiTie about thirty five·year-old Kathy Smith (whom Time called "The Beverly Hills Fit

ness Guru") are standard fare in articles and books promoting exercise: When she was in college, her parents died within a year and a half of each other-her father of a heart attack, her mother in a plane crash. "My whole emotional foundation had been destroyed. It was the lowest point in my life," she recalls. Al ways outgoing and bubbly bcime, Smith withdrew i.nto a shell of confusion, depression and fear. Unfortunately, there was no one to crack that shell-her only living relative, a sister, turned to drugs and alcohol for solace. At first, Smith turned to food to case her despair: She'd binge on sweets one day, then, feeling guilty, fast the next day. . . . Running eventually helped her to climb out of her depression. "I found solace, real peace while running," she says. (Fain, ]987:47) The article goes on to describe how Smith has brought exercise to the aid of others who suffer with the problems she and her relatives experienced. "When she's not working out, Smith kceps heT mind off the bathroom sc.1lc by joining in the fundraising efforts of sueh non profit organizations as the American Heart Association and Fitness Against Drug Abuse" (471Or for another example, consider the premise of Chris Pepper Ship· man's book, 1'11 Meet You

at the Finish! ( 1 987): that in these times of

high divorce rates and marital unhappiness, couples who exercise to gether St.1Y together. She det.1i1s how her own marriage went from bad to great once she took up marathon running with her husband.

221

Fi!

for l'o.nmodern s�/fhood

Let me also suggest a more subtle way in which lhc idcology of the contemporary 6tncss movcmcm departs from earlier, truly modernist health movements. To paraphrase an observation Andreas Huyssen 1 1 986: 180� made about posunodcrn artists, fitness activists hold an "ostentatious self-confidence" that there can be "a realm of purity" for the body outside of the horrible degradations it has had to face in technological society. Unlike an earlier generation of exercisers aDd healthy eaters, me current practitioners of fitness frequently disengage their bodies rather than put them directly to the service of building a better America.6 They do believe they are i.mproving America, but in direcLly, by way or the side effects of their endeavor-by becoming morc productive and less of a burden to society in their old age, for instance (see Glassner,

1988!.

FITNESS AND THE MEADIAN SELF Not the salvation of the nation so much

of the self is at stake

fur the contemporary fitness enthusiast- In order to appreciate the me lioration of selfhood which fitness activities and ideologies aiford, con sider the foUowrng statement Mead makes in Mind, Self. and Society

11934: 1361: We can distinguish very dcfimtcly between the self and the body. The self has tlle characteristic that it is an objt:ct to itself, and that characterist.ic distinguishes it from other objects and from the body. It is perfectly true that the eye can see the foot, but it does not see the body as a whole. We cannot sec our backs; we can feci certain portions of them, if we are agile, but we cannot get an experience of our whole body. It is preci.sely that experience-of an intimate and holistic marriage between seU and body-which fitness i.n its postmodcm guise is said to offer. The twin victims of C.,nesian culture reconcile their differ

ences at long last. The self "in touch with," "caring fur/' "in control of" the body, no longer need experience the body as but another object OUt in the world (Mead, 1 934 :

1641.

Moreover, and oWlng to the signal position of the ill body in con temporary American culture-as locus for billions of dollars of com· mercial exchange and a site for moral action {Stein, 1982; Crawford, I 984J-the {onowing cJaim may no longer hold true: Our bodies arc parts of our environment; and i t is possible for the individual to experience and be conscious of his body, and of bodHy sensations, without bci.ng conscious or aware of bim·

Barry Glassner

222

self-without, in other words, taking the attitude of the other toward himself. (Mead, 1934: 171)

In front of the television set, washed in torrents of disconnected images of exemplary talking bodies prescribing health clubs, fiber enriched cereals, and mini-skirts, tbe individual has little time or space to experience "his" body as apart from generalized, insistent others. The body that is fit or in the process of becoming so is no longer an "object to which there is no social response which calls out again a social response in the individual (Mead, 1938: 292, and sce 445-53). Fitness activitie s frequently arc performed with othcrs in public pro grams, such that the body becomes a focus of interac tion and hence a key constituent of the "me," of the experience of self in which the vision of the community is vitally pre sent (Mead, 1934, sections 22 and 25). Nash (1980) has suggested about running, for example, that it is through conversations and running lore that joggers-who thi.nk of their activity as a solitary endeavor-learn to ex{X!ricnec the "highs" and other benefits of running. Even where fitness is pursued privately, in one's own home, the body is commonly experienced by way of looking glasses-by how it is in terpreted in disciplines such as medicine (d. Foucault, 1970 , 1977) and in comparison to images of bodies in the media (d. Brown and Adams, 1979), and sooner or later, by how it is commented upon by significant others. "

If in

modernity, "Itlhrough self-consciousness the individual organ

ism enters in some sense into its own environmental field; its own body becomes a part of the set of environmental stim uli to which it responds or reacts" jMead,

1934: In}, in postmodern culture this en

counter has been radicalized. The consciousness of body is always enthralled by the envuonment of perpetually repeating images jsee Baudrillard, 1987: 70-721, from the lime the self-less infant is first nar cotized by the moving bodies in the exercis e video its mother watches. ironically, though, the more nearly bodies become present to selves in primarily third-hand ways, the more ostensibly intrinsic to selfhood they become.] A statement such as the folJowing, made by Joe Dad dona, mayor of Allentown, Pennsylvania, no longer seems preposter ous: "I began to wonder, how welt can 1 possibly manage a city when I do such a lou sy job managing my health s As Stone (1962: 101! suggesled, "in appearances . . . . selves are estab lished and mobilized, II and through fitness, selves are truly embodied. The physique becomes a cardinal sign of the self in a way that add-ons ."

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Pit fOl Postmodem Selfhood

such as fashion and cosmetics {the appearance-enhancer signs of mo dernity) no longer can. People do not "have" fitness, like they do a "look " (or, for that matter, "the flu"), they are fit. Fitness is totalizing, it has no opposite.9 Hence, to ask what a fit body means, or the mean· ing fiuless has for those who seek or admire it, would be to miss the postmodern context within which it exists jsee Hinkson, 1987: 128!. A characterization made about MTY, that "it is. it

does but it does not

mean" {Fiske, 1986: 771, describes fit bodies as well.

Within postmodem culture meaning has imploded. The self, sus picious anyway of the possibility of any truth lasting more than a short while, is confronted with so many divcrsc, conflicting and com pounded types of information, that instead of seeking meaning. or more or deeper meaning. it seeks to neutralize, reduce, or contain meaning {Baudrillard, 1980).!! The body in particular has been imagincd to be overfull of meaning. When germ theory held sway, people pictured their bodies as occupied by miniature invaders, but our current entrancement with computers has

envisioning our bodies occupied by tiny information units.

From biotechnology we've received the idea that the body houses trillions of bits of genetic information, available in principle for re splicing, and prccoded to produce future cancers, heart disease, or men tal illness (Hayles, 1987). The crucial problem with this situation was stated suecintly in a nove) by Botho Strauss [1980, quoted in Wellbery, 1985,2.371' In everything there is information and language, from the tiny bacterial cell to the most secret end of a dream, we are over filled with microtexts, codes and alphabets evcrY'"here, and everywhere the rule of law and alien orders. Where in all this might there be room for an H One answer to that question-a place where the "I" does stand a chance, where one can both participate in and respond to the informa tional overbearance of the body-is, of course: in fitness. The infor mation a person gives off by being fit is both economical and globally favorable for the self, in the manner upon which Coffman ( 1 963 :35) remarked in a different context: Although an indi.vidual can stop talking, he cannot stop com municating through hody idiom; he must say either the right thing or the wrong thing. He cannot say nothing. Paradoxically, the way in which he can give the least amount of information

Barry Glassner

224

about himself-although this is still appreciable-is to fit in and act as persons of his kind are expected to act. A fit body can be counted upon to perform competently and reliably; it bespeaks a {;ontemporar), version of what Goffman called "bureau cratization of the spirit."J2 Not merely a well-oiled machine las modernists understood it), the fit body·cum·self is an information processing machine, a machine that can correct and guide itself by means of an internal expert system.13 When information from the medical and psychological sciences is received from exercise and diet instructors or health-beat reporters in the media, the seLf-qua-infor mation-processor is able to use that infonnation to change its own be havior for the better. it may change its exercise protocol, for instance, or reduce its exposure to stress, or consume more fish oH. A commitment to fitness puts in perspective, too, the phenomenal information contents of the body itself. Aches, pains, and wrinkles are, if not meaningful each in their own right, at least occasions for con structive further action. Taken to its logical limit, this version of seIfhood virtual1y equates the self with fitness activities-as cao be seen in autobiographical ac counts by fitness-obsessed people le.g., Sabol, 1986; Elman, 1986). 10 a less extreme way, this is also the vision of the selJ in the mass-market magazine, Self. Not only arc many of the articles in Self about how to exercise and diet, but those articles that address other topics often re solve mallers by means of fitness. In a recent issue, the lead article on the page devoted to pop psychology is headlined, " How staying in shape yourself can help keep your relationship in shape, too." In the same issue, atop the page on parenting appears an article and photo graph on how to strap an infant safely to one's chest in preparation for riding a stationary bicycle. And a fashjon feature answers the question, "How to fit your fitness life into a decent-size bag that's not a dingy duffel? " The advertisem*nts, too, treat the tasks of everyday life as fitness affairs. The ad for Lubriderm, a skin cream, lists as "the hare necessi ties" for arising in the morning-exercise, soap, and Lubriderm. A new pad from Kotex says it stays in place in "your shortest shorts, latest leotards, and active afternoons." Even the cigarette advertisers, who are required by law t.o include a warni.ng from the surgeon general about health risks of smoking, evoke fitness imagery. Their products are called "Lights" or " Ultra Lights/' the copy is about low "tar"

eOIl-

Fit for Postmodern SPlfhood

225

tent, and the photographs feature models in sporting clothes or en

gaged in active endeavors

Needless to say, some fitness partisans bristle at the sight of cigarette advertising in magazines devoted to healthy living. But viewed from the perspective I have suggested in this paper, the inclusion of such advertisem*nts is unexceptional. In a modernist context, one expects consistency and a clear distinction between good and bad, positive and negative, pure and dirty. In a postmodernist context, on the other hand, contradiction and complexity [Venturi, Lyotard

19661 are the order of the day.

[1986:61 has described the postmodern condition as one of

"complexification": "a destiny towards a more and more complex condition." The self of the fit person, meanwhile, slIives

locate itself in a

safety zone within this cultural ferment. For the remainder of this paper, I want to concentrate upon two ways in which this is ac· complished: by means of a distinctive form of temporal reasoning; and by certain forms of disengagement from the compelling polarities of modernity.

TENSED IMAGERY While the future is important to poslmoderns IHuyssen,

1986:

188-206), they depart from the modernist's faith that the future will bring progress !Hebdige, 1986: 79-88; Lyotard, 19841. The linearity of human life assumed in modernity !BaudriHard, 1987) is frequently breached in postmodemity. On the one hand, it is breached in ways taken to be positive: biotechnology speeds up evolution; and a per son can take up running at age fifty and become fitter than the aver· age twenty-year·old. On the other hand, there are negative potential breachings of tempora1 linearity-a nuclear war might at any moment destroy all human life, a person might learn that a previous sexual encounter tbat at the time was physicalJy and psychologically enhanc ing will cause him or ber to die of AIDS. Under such conditions, so runs the reasoning of the postmoderns, the best one can do is to try to heighten, strengthen and prolong what is presently safe and attractive. Robert Venturi, in his call for the type of architecture that has come to he called postmodcrn, timents akin to those

cxprc.'1scd

sen

I heard from fitness enthusiasts I interviewed

when they compared their lives now to what they'd heen " in the 60s," or when they commented on accusations from current activists that

they were turning inward and avoiding social problems. Venturj [Ven-

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Barry Glassner

turi, Brown, and lzenow, 1972: 1) decried the "progressive, if not revo lutionary, utopian, and puristic" bent of modernist architects on the grounds tbat, for all their would-be purity, they "have preferred to change the existing environment rather than enhance what is there./I Exclaims the fitness buff: let's make ourselves as beautiful and healthy as best we can today, for OUT own sake and for that of those with whom we interact Ito say nothing of anonymous others who will benefit from our good health by paying lower insurance hills). If our current diets or exercise proclivities turn out to have been mere fads, let them be the finest fads available: jogging nol heroin, walking not crack. If the postmodern imagination in literature is markL-d by "its refusal to fulfill causally oriented expectations, to create fictions (and in ex treme cases, sentences) with beginnings, middles, and ends" (Spanos, 1987: IS), so, too, do fitness buffs try to write their lives outside the plot that begins with birth, moves too quickly to boredom and decay, and ends with inevitable death. By means of proper diet and exercise they try to stay youthful and prolong their lives. A second point about temporality. In postrnodernity there is not a domi_nant tense. The temporality of modernity has been character ized as the "perpetual present" !Jameson, 1983 : 125;1� ; frisby, 1986: 38-108; Baudrillard, 19871 and in that way contrasted with the per petual past of premodernity jHabermas, 1981: 5; Mead, 1938). Mo· dernity Jives in-and economically off of-newness; 15 premodernity abides on tradition. Postmodernity, on the other hand, continues the modernist passion for the present and for historical discontinuity, but without omitting the past. Rather, the past is embraced iconographi cally: "The past has become a collection of photographiC, filmic, or televisual images. We . . . are put in the position of reclaiming a history by means of its reproduction" (Bruno, 1987: 73 -4).16 Images have become, one could even argue of postmodcm culture, more real than the "real" things they reference �sce BaudriHard, 1983). Kim Sawchuk (1987) offers a bit of empirical evidence to that eHect in an essay where she recaJls a startling experience in a shopping malJ in Toronto. She suddenly noticed that the mannequins she'd been walking past were actually "flesh and blood women imitating replicas of r�l women" (52)-a device used to gain the attention of blase consumers. Live mannequins, Sawchuk righdy observes, "do not startle us sim· ply because these women have been reifled into a stationary position;

227

Fit for Postmodern Selfhood

they shock us precisely because we arc living in an age which amici pates an image_ The present era, the age of the postmodem, marks a collapsing of the space of these borders" (60).11 The advantage for the present discussion in recognizing the power of the image (Kuhn, 1985; Hinkson, 1987) is that it permits onLO to ex piain, without resorting to notions such as narcissism and inauthentic ity, the role that vanity plays in the pursuit of fitness. For all their talk of health, what fitness participants achieve on their Nautilus machines and fat-free diets is

image of healthiness

(eL,

Klutz, 1984; Doublet,

1984). They reshape their bodies to exhibit the visual indicators of health demanded by the phuLOgraphs in the glossy magazines

and

by the numbers in thc MctropoLitan Life weight tables. As Stone ( 1 962 : 1001 noted in his classic paper: "Appearance substicuces for past and present action and, at thLO same time, conveys an jncipjence per mitting others to anticipate what is about to occur." Talk of appearances (or of presentations of selfl will not, however, ultimately serve to describe the complex achievement of a fit person. In postmodernity, a fit body is a special kind of image within a culture that is teeming over with images: it is an afterimage-the shadow that remains in mind when the thing itself has already left the screen. Spe· cifically, the fit body is an afterimage of modernity, and not only be causc, as noted, it represents a response to the a.spirations and failings {)( modernist culture. A fit body is an a.fterimage of modernity also by virtue of the acts involved in its construction. Creen (1986) and Schwartz (19861 have documented that much of whoa appea.rs at first glance to be unique to the contemporary fitness "revolution" (e.g., aerobic dance, fiber fetishism, particular exercise machines, popu lar diet plansl was present in the hea1th and exercise movements of nineteenth-century America. Importamly, though, the fitness aficionado of the 1970s or 19805 does not merely reproduce previous practices or styles, but enacts them in ways befitting a postmodcrn context. Trachtenberg's (1985: 7) characterization of postmodem art-that it is "pcrformative rather than revelatory, superficial rather than immanent, aleatory rather Ulan systematic, dispersed rather than fucused"-describes also some con trasts between how current fitness devotees engage in exercise and di eting as compared to their counterparts in the previous century. In a modernist cultural context, the person still hoped to construct patterns of action so weJl designed [hat they held a kind of pe.rma nencc. In a postmodcrnist context, on the other hand, the creating per-

228

Barry Glassner

(or organization} assembles uagmcnts, available from earlier or discarded objects and styles, into something that itself will be bor rowed from, written over, or cast aside for later use. A fit body is, in that regard, a postmodern object par excellence, its image perpetually reconsfnlcted of pieces and colorations added 011 then discarded: I S small waists and breasts for women in the late 70s and early 80s, voluptuous proportions more recently, a non-warrior look for men throughout much of the 70s, the return of muscles in the 80s; tanned skin when such is deemed healthy- or wealthy-looking, pale when cancer fears have been heightened. Nor is there any vested interest in the continuity of particular fitness praclict;S for more tban a season or two. Although the fitness ideology always calls for exercise, for instance, the preferred types and amounts of exercise vary from year to year. Consider some statistics from 1986 by way of illustration. According to national sporting goods associ atiuns, 28 percent more Americans were walking for exercise that year than in 1985, while 12 percent fewer were runniu&t and the sale of running shoes dropped by $46 million while the sale of Walking shoes inercased by at least that much (Shabe, 1987; Toponsis, 1987; and in formation provided by the Sporting Coods Manufacturers Association). A particularly graphic illusnation of shifts in exercise practices is provided by Jane fonda's career in the fitness industry. Early in this decade she was selling books, classes and videos favoring hi.gh-impact aCTObics, then mid-decade she shifted to low-impact, and more rc cently she's produced a video on walking and another of free weights_ In such modulations one can recognize the modernist dcmand for newness and the structural requirement of capitalism to create mar kets, but there is a distinctly postmodern cast to the cver-f1uid fitness ideals. Not merely fashion is involved here, but a special sort of after image, what literary critics h3ve termed simulacra: 19 images for whieh there are no originals because they are made by combining features from other images. The models in the advertisem*nts, and stars like fonda when they appear in fitness videos and magazim: and book spreads, are specially lighted, posed, and made up in ways the ...iewers will never actually achieve nn matter which exercise or di.et regimens they undcrtakc.lO Moreover, the clothing and makeup the models wear, the poses they hold, and the cnvironments in which they are filmed are borrowed from other COntexts_ The ideals of the fit body to which the viewer refers in jre-Idesigning his or her own body rderence not actual people, but simulacra. A familiar aspect of the experience of selfhood in postmodern culson

229

Pit for Postmodem seTfhood

rure

is the sense that one's consciousness floats among images. No

longer positioned as mere outsiders looking in, we feel ourselves to be parts of the swept-along confusion !Hayles, 1987: 27-28). This experi ence is fictionalized in postmodern novels such as Delillo's White

Noise in films such as Desperately Seeking Susan and Blade Runner ,

[sec Bruno, 1987), and in MTV videos (sec Chen, 1986). And in theit OWl)

daily lives, many Americans also live out an imagistic existence.

They refer to photos of seemingly fit models in GQ or Working

Woman as they prepare their attire, makeup, and comportment for going into the corporate office; from the Evian or Nike ads for going to

the health club; from Details or Cosmo or Miami Vice for an eve

ning out. The "image·conscious" person of we 1970s ami 8190s constructs his or her physi.que and dress in a manner reminiscent of the pop artists of the 60s such as Warhol, Lichtenstein and Wesselman, who.. ..e creations were copies of commercial art and advertising (paoletti, 1985; and see Crimp, 1980 and Bowman, 1985 on postmodern photographers such as Sherrie Levine and Richard Prince, whose works involve rephotograph ing old photographs or advertising2l). Of course, most Americans cannot or do no\. afford the designer clothing, hairstylings, and makeup the models use, but instead rely upon imitations available at their local shopping malls. To get them selves "into shape," they use home videos or work out at local gyms, not with personal trainers and the latest equipment

(d.

Sabol, 1986),

The lower middle class do not as a consequence rely upon more (or more extreme) simulacra in their pursuit of fitness, however, than do wealthier Americans. The exercise equipment at up-market health clubs is often highly derivative as well. A graphic artist who works with Precor, one of the leading makers of up·market exercise rna crunes, descdbed to a writer for an architecture magazine the thinking behind a ncw line his company had produced: We went for a new look . . , tighter, cleaner, more sophisti cated details. Subtle details. Grooves in the surfaces. We looked at what was happening in winter skiwear, in motorcycles they're fashion conscious, more trendy than we could afford to be-and we saw a movement toward white and red. We brought out the red, played down the anodized-aluminum look, gave the machines a powder coating. lJacobs, 1987: 95) Exercise machines are, like the bodies to which their users aspire, copies of copies. Stationary bicycles look rather like ordinary bikes and

Barry Glassner

230

sometimes give a similar feel when one "rides" them, but they do not achieve the traditional function of a bicycle; and newer "crgometers," which involve the same motions, often look more like metal ducks than traditional bikes.

As for rowing machines: "People who are seri

ous about rowing don't own rowing machines," says a designer of these contrivances (Jacobs, 1987: 95), so far from the original experience is the simulation. Some popular machines are nearly pure simulacra: they bear almost no resemblance to their ancestors. The Bow-flex, for instance, is a sort of bench with "power rods" atop, each of which provides a different amount of tension. By copying the postures provided in me instruction manual, the Bow-Flex can be used like a bench press, rower, or skiing device, and for several dozen other types of movements as well. "In a sense, what the Bow·Flex does is simulate other simulators" (Jacobs,

1987;981· POSTDUALlSTlC S£Lt'HOOD The Bow-Flex would secm to meet many of the requirements for a postmodem object as listed by Venturi in his book, Complexity and Contradiction Ian augural work which became a Sott of manifesto for postmodem architecturel:

I like elements which are hybrid rather than "pure," compro mising rather than "clean," distorted rather than "straightfor ward," ambiguous rather than "articulated," perverse as wel1 as impersonal, boring as well as "interesting," . . . accommo dating rather than excluding, redundant rather than simple, vestigial as well as innovating, inconsistent and equivocal rather than direct and clear. (1966 : 22) These descriptors attach nicely to much of the subjective and ma terial content of life inside a health club, whether the club features postmodern equipment such as the Bow-Flex or more modernist ma chinery. Consider the Nautilus machines, for instance. As already noted, such machines are both vestigial and innovative in that they represent modifications of designs from earlier times. Expericnti.ally, a circuit on the Nautilus machines is likely to include a sense of both accommodation and exclusion \thc weights arc set to one's current level of ability, hut other patIons can do more, aod some movements arc unpleasant); and a Nautilus circuit entails both compromises and ambiguities (imperfect movements at times, ill-adjusted equipmentl

231

Fit for POHmooern Se1fhood

and yet deanLiness and articulation (shiny machines in bright lighting, a smooth performance by the tlscr). In addition, a circuit on These ma chines cannot help but be boring.. impersonal, and redundant in part, owing to the repetitions of the movements, but it is also interesting in its simpleness, thanks to the lively music, colors, or otheT bodies in the room, and the knowledge that one's physique i� changing as a re sult of the activity. More than that, a Nautilus circuit unifies the body by helping to mold it into a closer copy of the ideal bodies on health club brochures land on some of the instructors}, but it also fragments the body. De pending upon the health club, there can be a dozen or more machines, one for each group of muscles. Finer distinctions about muscular de sign arc made

in this context than in almost any other that people

otdinariiy encounter. Having said all of this, I am also aware of a sense in which fitness activities do not fit Vcnturi'� vision. In the passage quoted above, he goes on to proclaim, "I am for messy vitality over obvious unity. I include the non sequitur and proclaim the duality." This is an impor tant part of Venturi's assertion, because the disintegration or disavowal of duaJitics is generaUy regarded

fundamental

a.mbition behind

pustmodcm activity (Collins, 1987: J61. Whereas the modernist "ce) ebrates the triumph of the male over the female; the post-Oedipal over the pre-Oedipal; the facher's dictionary over the mother'S body; meaning over things; the linear over the pluridimensional" (Stimpson, 1985 : 401,22 the postmodernist heralds "the defusing of polarities, the short-circuiting of every differential system of meaning. thc oblitera lion of distinctions and OPPOSitions." (BaudriHard, 1980: 142; and see Hebdige, 1986: 85-86; Huyssen, 1986 :216-171. Taken in that light, the residual modernism of thc fitness movement shines through brightly: [here is a hnearity to [he pursuit, epitomized in gradual increases in the number of miles run OT pnunds lifted or shed; panicipants speak of moving towards a "more peneet" body; and traditionally masculine values sllch

strength, endurance, and ratio

nal self-control are highly valued. Moreover, perhaps the must funda mental tenet of the fitncss idcologies is that the body exists in an either-or state: one is eitheT "in shape" or "out of shape," fat or thin. In otber regards, though, the fitness movement does "proclaim the duaJity." Vytautas Kavolis wrote, in "Post-Modern Man," a 1970 paper in Social Problems land to my knowlL-dgc the earliest snciological ac count I)f postmodernity), ") would define the 'post-modern' persona}-

232

Barry Glassner

ily as one characterized by the sense that

both polarities of a great

many. . . . dilemmas are contained, in an unresolved form, within one's own experience (at least as potentialities), in the organization of one's personality" (445). His list of "dilemmas" included the following: mas tery versus impotence (resulting from technological growth); vividness versus numbness (engendered by the media environment!; and the "participation of 'specialists'" versus the "ahcnation of 'innocents'" (deriving from the modem division of labor). Kavolis concluded his essay with a statement of honest confusion about how (or even whether) the "dilemmas" could be "resolved" (446). But from our vantage point in the late 1980s, we can point to a great deal of activity that has been directed against these polarities of modernityY The most ready examples, unsUIprisingiy, have been in the arts, in which postmodernist creations arc "designed to reconcile contradictions" (Mainardi, 1987 :35; and see Jencks, 1977). This they do by comhining clements from "high" and "low" an (and high and low tech) in thc same work, by de-structing (sec Spanos, 1987) rather than form:llizing or abstracting, by quoting between genres and eras, and by intermixing male and female body parts, articles of clothing, and other gClldered media (sec Kent and Morreau, 1985), among other ways. The manner in which fitness ideologies and practices dissolve po larities (or anyway their warrant to segment experience) is admittedly less self-conscious or intentional than in some art movements. But onc need not prohe very deeply to see that resolution of the primary "di_ lemmas" Kavolis mentioned is what fitness programs promise. Fitness promoters pledge that by exercising and eating correctly, one will gain mastery, not just of one's appearance and health, but of one's position in the labor and mate markets !Freedman, 1986: chaps. 7 and 8; Glass ner, 1988}. And you'll feel alive, in charge, and a full panicipant in life (e.g., Cooper and Cooper, 1972). More than that, consider some other principal dualities that the fit ness movement promises to undo:

Male and female. Jane Fonda and others have suggested that fitness activities are a route to empowennent for women. Even if such claims pTOve falsely optimistic (Chapkis, 1986 : 8- 14), the contemporary fit ness movement does differ in a significant regard from the body im provemcnt movements of the nineteenth and earlier centuries, and even those of the 19205. In those cases, prescriptions for men and women differed (Green, 1986), whereas typical1y the prescriptions for .. in thc 1970s and 1980s arc nearly the same for both men and fitnes..

women. Both should exercise in qualitatively clle same ways (with the

Fit for

PosLrnodem Selfhood

same movements, using the same equipment or games! and in the same quantities, they should eat the same heahhful foods, and they should subscribe to the same values, sucb as naturalness, self-control, and longevity. Even where male-female dilninctions are made early on, soon enough they hecome blurred. For instance, calcium supplements were targeted to women at first, but cereal and vitami.n packages and advertising soon stopped specifying gender. Cholesterol reduction, unti.l lately re garded as a worry primarily for mcn, is now promoted for the entire popUlation. When concerns about exercise "addiction" and "overuse" injuries surfaced, much attention was paid to women's symptoms (e.g., the disruption of menstrual cycles}, but soon enough both genders were encuuraged to exercise less intensively.

fnsidt: and oUlsidt:.24 Over the past hundred or

years, "[wJithin

consumer culture, the inner and the outer body became conjoined: the prime purpose of the maintenance of the inner body [beC

the sen'ice of the inner body, as witness magazine articles on fitness that equate an "outer glow" with mental and physica.l bealth. More significant still is the outright merging of outer and inner in some forms of talk about fitness. An advertisem*nt for a cosmetic sur gery practi.ce in California [reproduced in Dull and West, 1 9871 features a photo of an attractive woman and beneath it the caption, "It's impor tant for me to look and feel the best I can. That's why I cat the right foods and exercise. And, that'S why I had plastic surgery." In the semantics of fitness, acts that earlier predic.1tcd either "vanity" or "health" become interchangeable.

Work and leisure. Correspondiogly, the terms of the Protestant ethic

aniculate in new ways. In modernity, "lwJork strengthens conscience; leisure facilitates impulse" [Wheehs, L958, quoted in Kavulis, 1970}. Conversely, at the postmodern health club-filled with glimmering machines which disaffinn their modernism by being labor-making de vices (Jacobs, 1987: 60)-kisurc is work, impulses are harnessed into repetitions-per-minute, and the conscience, now of the body as much as it is of the soul, is only as strong as its owner's heart and as finn

her thighs.loS lust what is the consumer of fitness working towardsl Not a singu lar, rational goal, but a mosaic of physical, emotional, economic, and aesthetic transformations, a pastiche of ends and means. '{he headline atop the cover of Working Woman IOctober 19861 r<::ads, "Aiming for

234

Barry Glassner

the Topt How to Stay Fit eV Look Great At Every Age"-combining in one splash of ink some of the most difficult choices many white middJe-ciass women have been told they must make during the last century or two: beauty versus brains, sexuality versus achievement, health versus fashion, and aging versus attractiveness. For men also, a modernist distinction par excellence has collapsed under similar pressures: namely, that between work time and work values, on the one hand, and leisure, on the other. Fifty thousand or more American manufacturing and service corporations offer fitness programs for their employees, about twenty thousand of them by means of facilities housed on site. The vast majority of these corporate fitness programs sprang up during tbe 1970s and 1980s, and some large companies, such as Xerox, Pepsi, Kodak, and Campbell Soup, spent millions on large, state-of· the-art health clubs (Castillo-Salgado, J984; Howe, 1983; McCallum, 1984). These programs send a clear message to employees: if you are out of shape you give the company a bad image and cost it big money in health care expenses and inefficiency (Craw ford, 1978). In the words of an advertisem*nt for the Vertical Club, an executive gym in New York, "The drive for excellence begins from within." A corollary message, this one not in the glossy brochures urging employees to attend classes on smoking, exercise, blood pressure, and weight loss, is that the space between work and the rest of life has narrowed (Conrad, 1987). Keeping oneself fit is a round-the-clock endeavor. Mortality and Immortality. Finally, while even the most fervent promoter of fitness would not claim that his or ber program will keep you alive forever, they sometimes come close. The fitter you become, the longer you'll live-that's the word from national heart, lung. and cancer organizations, health clubs, weight-loss programs, and those insurance companies that offer reduced rates for people who don't smoke, don't eat the wrong food, and do exercise. Considering ever·increasing life expectancies, and advances in medi cine and biotechnology, one has the chance to live to a very old age-or so goes the logic of the fitness movement. In addition, during the late 70s and early 80s, some exercise fads eclipsed the gulf between life and death in another way. When mara thon running and Fondaesquc "go for the burn" aerobics were in vogue, the operative notion was that pain and risk of injury-sometimes se· vere and life threatening [Stutman, 1986; Solomon, 1985}-were not

Fit JOT Postmodern Selfhood

:1.35

necessarily bad. They were reinterpreted as signs to the self of the po

tential for greater pleasure, energy, and good health later in life. Thanks in part to the fitness movement, and despite various exag gerated reports of its death, the self has not only survived in postmod ern culture, but can claim to be in better health than it was during the modern age. NOTES I. "Postmodemity then is no longer an age in which bodies produce com modities, but where commodities produce bodies: bodies for aerobics, bodies for sports cars, bodies for vacations, bodies for Pepsi, for co*ke, and of course, bodies for fashion-total bodies, a total look" {Faurschou, 1987: 721. 2. Another example of such conflation is found in lane Fonda's Workout Book (1981). The first sentence of flap copy describes the book a.. "the best exercise program designed for women-it offers a whole new approach to health and beauty." By the time the last sentence of that book rolls around, however, "This is a fitness book that really works . . . ," ilnd the words "health" and "beauty" arc gone. 3. As Hassan {1987: 87f correctly noted, however, the tenn postmodern was an unfortunate choice. "lllt denotes ternporal linearity and connotes belated· ness, even decadence, to which no postmodernist would admit." Perhaps dis modern might have tKx'Il a better choice, evoking as it docs many English words describing the transfigwation of modernity that has taken place over the past couple of decades (disabuse, disfigure, disa.rm, distract, dissemble, dis solvc, disjunct, distort, disproportionat1.:, etc.). 4. There is good reason to believe that the years of postmodernism, at least within the arts, are drawing to a clrn;e. In architecture, for example, decon structivislS have succeeded postmodernists as the theorists and designers of choice for the current generation of progressive architects. Deconstructivists overtly reject major principles of postmodernism, including the desirability of balanced symmetry and the use of classical forms. Instead, they want their constructions to embody an uneasiness and disconnecl(.-dncss which they say characterize contemporary culture [see Giovannini, 1988). 5. Within sociology, the disagreements bctv.'ecn symbolic intcraetionists and the quantified mainstream are frequently illustrative. At stake is which ambition of modernity to hope to rescue. The former want to revivify the true self, the latter, true science Isce Glassner and Moreno, forthcoming). Just how successful any of the movements have been-whether in theory, politics, the arts, or body care-is another matter. In many cases these efforts have proven no more successful at moving beyond modernism than has the effort a.fter fit ness. In looking back on two decades or so of postmodcrnism in architecture, Venturi I Venturi and lirown, 1984: 104- 1 16) argues that the efforts have been too circ*mscribed and lacking in richness and diversity. "Postmodernism has, in my opinion, proclaimed in theory its independence from Modernism-from the singular vocabulary and the rigid ideology of that movement-and has sub-

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Barry Glassner

stituted, in practice, a new vocabulary that is different from the old in its sym bolism, but similar in its singularity, ami as limited in its range, and as dogmatic in its principles as the old" (I 13!. See also Laffey (1987), Ghirado 0984-5), and HabcrIruUi (I98l). 6. A comparison between modern and postmodem architecture is also ap posite here. "Frcc-standingslabs bathed in sun and au" (von Moos, 1987 : 8 1 ) is a good description both of a fit body of the modernist sort (e.g., the kind [he milirary tries to build on its rccruits) and the modern office building (e.g., the World Trade Center OJ the Seagram Building!. On the other hand, the maxim of postmodem architecture-"The building should be a mode of pomayal, not merely a fum:tional tool" (Klotz, 1984: lOl-accords we1l with the view of the contemporary fitness cnthusiast, th..,t one should work out and eat properly not just to be hc.1lthy or a good citizen, but to look good in public, to allTacl the favorable attention of significant others, and to make a statement about the type of person you arc. 7. The analytic distinction Maines (1978: 242) made "between bodies-the physical fact of hwnan existence, and identities-social categories through whieh people may be located and given meaning in some organizational COll text" has similarly become less apposite to m3ny people's everyday lives. 8. The quote appears in .10 autobiographical piece in Prevention magazine in which Daddona recalls a time when his weight, blood pressure and level of fatigue went way up. 9. "Unfit," an odd term in common discourse anyway, represents an absence of fitness, not its opposite, and implies various other rebted particulars, such as small muscles, susceptibility to illness, and other lacks, including usually sell-discipline. 10. A more direct relationship between MTV amI fitness also deserves no- tice. Exercise videos and health dubs borrow stylings from MTY, and many people, while exercising at home, watch or listen to MTV. 11. Postmodern society is sometimes defined as " knowledge-based society" (HolzneI and Marx, 1979: 15), and postmodem creations in architecture and the mass media have hecn characterized as proViding "information rather than expericnce" (Frampton, 1986: 29). 12. In this context, we can better understand what to somc observcrs seems anomalous or hypocritical: that some fitness buffs usc drugs such as cocaine. From their own point of view, however, it is precisely because they are fit that they can safely take drugs. Their "systems" arc able to handle what would otherwise be dangerous pollution. 13. How a person becomes or stays fit increasingly i.nvolves information technology as well. Many health clubs and diet centers recruit and keep mem bers by offering them computerized analyses of their "risk factors" for various diseases and their fat and vitamin intake. And manufacturers of exercise equip ment have in recent years managed to include computer video in their ma chines. A rowing machine produced by &ally (the Pac-man companYI places the eX('"Tciscr in front of a monitor on which is simulated a boat race. One boat is labeled "you, " the other "pacer," and "your" goal is to outpace the pacer. The screen also displays the number of calories burned during the race (Jacobs, 1987: 601.

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Fit for Postmodem Selfhood

14. Jameson actually llSes this phrase to characterize postmodcmity, but the obvious futurism and historical rcfcrcnr.:c in postmodcrn art. and architecture [see e.g., Trachtenberg, 19851 suggests the situation is more complex.. Jame son's observations about postmodcrnity, while insightful, are, as Balsamo ! 1987 :64) put it, a "modernist account of postlllodemism." 15. As Foucault (1984:39-40) notes, however, one must be carcful to distin guish the form of appreciation for the new: "Modernity is distinct from fash ion, which docs no more than call into question the course of time; modernity is the attitude that makes it possible to grasp the 'hemic' aspect of the present moment." Moreover, as H..,bennas notes, the modernist affection for the new does not omit an interest in the classical, only a borrowing of authority from the past. lAnd see Venturi and Brown, 1984.) 16. At tbe level of "popular" postmodem culture, note the popularity of "retro dressing," or the wearing of old clothes lusually along with current ac cessories, ,'IS epitomized by the rock singer Madonnah and note also the COIU man practice in "urban contemporary" music of mixing in refrains from earlier disco and r & b tracks. 17. From the art world comes another striking case in point. J. S. G. Boggs, an artist, draws true-color copies of real currency and then "spends" his draw ings in lieu of cash for services, meals and other goods. Wben his drawing i s of a denomination higher than the cost of the item he is purchasing, he receives change in real cash. There is an active secondary market for his drawings as well. Art dealers and collectors buy Boggs's drawings from waiters, sales derks, and others who have received them IWeschler, J988). 18. A toy company produced an Oliver North doll in mid·1987. When sales proved disappointing, the firm ripped off the heads of the dolls rcmaining in its warehouse and replaced them with a bead resembling Mikhail Gorbachev. The reviSl.-d doll was then sold during the Christmas season, iust after the Rcagan Gorhachev summit aired on nataionaJ television. 19. I've seen this tenn cledit...>tI variously to Fredric Jameson (Hayles, 1987: 28, and Michel Serres (Kraker and Cook, 1987 :8�. W. Monik:! Schnarre, who at age 15 was making hundreds of thousands of dollars as a model, was quoted in People magazine: "How ironic this all is. I'm hired for my looks, and yet it takes them three hours to make me pretty enough to photograph. Isn't that weird?" (And sec Goffman 11974: 293-3001 on how the preparations for a performance come to be parts of reality on a par with the performance itsclf. 1 21. More recently, a gallery in Paris has been selling artists' original copies of famous paintings. The O\\'Tle r of the gallery explained to a reporter for the Wall Street 'ouIlla1: "For 55,000 francs, you feel the same emotion as if you had bought the original" (Kamm, 1988: 11. n. I have taken this quotation out of context. Stimpson's point is not about modernism and postmodemism-she is actually arguing for an inverted mod ernist context in which the second item in each of her binary oppositions wins out. I reproduce her list because the oppositions themselves seem to me those at issue for my discussion. My understanding of them is at odds, however, with her semiological analysis. For her, the point is that in "our conventional, patriarchal spt.'CCh" the first items ("the signified") stand over the second

Barry clall.!mtr

238

Items l"lhe signifier"l. Yet a glance a t the list suggests this neal division wiU not hold up. Is "father s dictionary" necessarily [he signified mlher than the sig:nifler� 23. KavoUs fails to notice that the deve loping pN>t-modernist art of the 19605 did address itself, at limes, to the "dilemmas" he mentions. Examples ean be found in novels by John Barth, Donald Barthelme, and John I-Iawkes, plays by Sam Shep.1rd and Tom Stoppard, music by Ste ve Reich and John Cage, dance by Twyla Tharp and Trisha Brown, as well as Venturi's and Michael Craves's bui ldings �Tr3chlenber& 1985: 263-92). 24. See Melvilk 1J986:4j and Venturi { l966 : 7 l -S9) on the significance of this difference for the moderns. 25. In David Riesman's classic argument, consumerism and "wOIkism were juxtaposed. The distinction provided one of the marks of American cultural modernism, one that .fitness and mher postmodcm constructions '

deconstruct. REFERENCES Balsamo, Anne. 1 987. "Unwrapping the Postmodern: A Feminist Glance." Journal of CommuniCl1tion Inquiry 1 1 : 64-72. BaudriUard, Jean. 1980. "The Implosion of Meaning in the Media and the Information of the Social in the Masses." pp. 137- 148 in The Myth of Information: Technology and Post-Industrial Culture. Madison, WI: Coda Press.

, 1983. Simulations. New York: Semiotext(e}. . 1987. Forget Foucault. New York: Scmiotext(e). Becker, Marshall H. 1 986. "The Tyranny of Health Promotion." pubric Health Revie�'\'s 1 4 : 15-25. Bell, Daniel. 1978. Tile Cultural Contradictions of Capitalism. New York: Basic. Bowman, Stan1ey J. 1985. "Photography." Pp. 1 77-208 in The Post modern Moment, edited by Stanley Trachtenberg. Westport, IT: Crccnwood Press. Brody, Jane. 1987. "Research Lilts Blame from Many of thc Obese." New York Times, March 24, C l . Brown, Bevcrly, and Parvccn Adams. 1979. "The feminine Body and Feminist Politics." mlf 3 : 39-50. Bruno, Ciuliana. 1 987. "Ramble City: Postmodernism and 'Blade Run ner.' " October 41 : 6 1 - 74. Ca�tilio-SaJgado, Peter. 1984. "Assessing Recent Developments and Opportunities in the Promotion of Health in the American Work place." Social Sdence and Medicine 19:349-58. Chapkis, Wcnd.y. 1 986 . Beauty SEcrets. Boston: South End Press. Chen, Kuan-Hsing. cd. 1986. Special issue on MTV. Journal of Com munication Inquiry 10. --

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FU for Postmodem Selfhood

Clarke, Garry E. 1985. "Music." pp. 157-76 in The Postmodern Mo ment, edited by Stanley Trachtenberg. Westport CT: Greenwood Press. Collins, James. 1987. "Postmodernism and Cultural Practice: Redefin ing tbe Parameters." Screen 28: 1 1-26. Conrad, Peter. 1987. "Welilless in the Workplace: Potentials and Pit falls of Worksite Health Promotion." Millbank Quarterly 65. Cooper, Mildred and Kenneth Cooper. 1972. Aerobics for Women . New York: Bantam. Crawford, Robert. 1978. "You Are Dangerous to Yow Hc.'llth." Social

Policy S : l 1 -20. . 1984. "A Cultural Account of 'Health'." pp. 1 98-214 in issues in the Political Economy of Health Care. London: Tavistoek. Crimp, Douglas. 1980. "The Photographic Activity of Postmodcrn ism." Oewber 1 5 : 9 1 -101. Doubiet, Susan. 1984. "I'd Rather Be Interesting." Progressive Archi tecture 2: 65-69. Dull, Diana and Candace West. 1987. "'The Price of Perfection': A

---

Study of the Relations between Women and Plastic Surgery." Paper presented at the meetings of the American Sociological Asso ciation. Elman, Judith It 1986. "The Loneliest of tbe Long-Distance Runners."

Runner's World 21 (JuIYI:34-39 . Ewen, Stuart and Elizabeth Ewen. 1982. Channels of Desire: Mass Images and the Shaping of American Consciousness. New York:

McGraw·HilL Fain, Jean. 1987. "Kathy Smith: Making Fitness Fun for Every Body." Weight Watchers Magazine, December, 47-50. Faurschou, Gail. 1987. "Fashion and the Cultural Logic of Postmodern ity." Canadian loumaJ of Political and Social Theory 1 1 : 68-82. Featherstone, Mike. 1982. "The Body in Consumer Culture." Theory,

Culture, and Society 8 : IS-33.

1986. "MTV: Post Structural Post Modern." Communica tion inquiry 10: 74-79. Folkins, Caryle H., and Wesley E. Sime. 1981. "Physical Fitness Train· ingand Mental Health." American Psychologist 36:373-89. Fond.'l, Jane. 19B1. lane Fonda's Workout Book. New York: Simon and Fiske, John.

Schuster. Foucault, Michel.

1970. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of tbe Human Sciences. New York: Random House. . 1977. Discipline and Punish. New York: Pantheon. Frampton, Kenneth. 1986. "Some Reflections on Postmodcrnism and Architecture. " Pp. 26-29 in Poslmodernism, edited by Lisa Appig ---

nanesi. London: leA Documents.

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Freedman, Rita. 1986. Beauty Bmmd. Lexington MA: Lexington Books. Freund, Peter E. S. 1982. The Civilized Body. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Frisby, David. 1986. Fragments of Modernity: Theories of Modernity in the Work of SimmeJ, Kracauer and Ben;amin. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Ghirarclo, Diane. 1984-85. "Past or Post Modern in Architectural Fashion." Telos 62: 187 - 196. Gillick, Muriel R. 1984. "Health Promotion, Jogging, and the Pursuit of the Moral Life." Journal of Health Politics, Policy, and Law 9 : 369-87. Giovannini, Joseph. 1988. "The Limit of Chaos Tempts A New School of Architects." New York Times. February 4, pp. Cl and C12. Glassner, Barry. 1988. Bodies. New York: G. P. Putnam. Glassner, Barry, and Jonathan Moreno. 1982. Discourse in the Social Sciences: Translating Models of Mental ll1ness. Greenwood, CT. : Greenwood Press. . forthcoming. The Qualitative-Quantitative Distinction. The Hague: Kluwar. GoHman, Erving. 1963. Behavior in Public Places: Nores on the Social OrganizatiolJ of Gatherings. Glencoe, IL: Free Press. . 1 974. Frame Analysis. New York: Harper and Row. Goodman, Leon E . and Madeleine J. Goodman. 1986. "Prevention: How Misuse of a Concept Undercuts Its Worth." Hastings Center Review 1 6 : 26-38. Green, Harvey. 1986. Fit for America: Health, Fitness, Sport, and American Society, 1830-1 940. New York: Pantheon. Curin, Joel and T. George Harris. 1987. "Taking Charge." American Health, March, pp. 53-57. Habermas, lurgen. 1981. "Modernity versus Postmodemity." New Ger man Critique 22:3-14. Hassan, Ihab. 1987. The Postmodem Tuw: Essays in Postmodern Theory and Culture. Columbus, OH: Ohio State University Press. Hayles, N. Katherine. 1987. "Text out of Context: Situating Postmod crnism within an Information Society. " Discourse 9 : 24-36. Hebdige, Dick. 1986. "Postmodernism and 'The Other Side.'" fournal of Communication inquiry 10: 78-98. Herron, Jerry. 1987-88. "Poslrnodernism Ground Zero, or Going to the Movies at the Grand Circus Park." Social Text 1 8 : 6 1 -77. Hinkson, John. 1987. "Post-Lyotard: A Critique of the Information So ciety." Arena 80: 123-55. Holzner, Burkart, and lohn H. Marx. 1979. Knowledge Application: The Knowledge System in Socjety. Boston: Allyn and Bacon. ---

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Howe, Christine. 1983. "Establishing Employee Recreation Programs." !ouInnl of Physical Education, Recreation, alld Dance 54: 52-53. Hughes, John R. 1984. "Psychological Effects of Habitual Exercise." Preventive Medicine 13 :66-78. Huyssen, Andreas. 1986. After the Great Divide: Modernism, Mass Culture, Postmodemism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. lIlich, Ivan. 1975. Medical Nemesis. New York: Pantheon. Jacobs, Karrie. 1987. "Making Work." Metropolis, November, 58-63 and 95-98.

Jameson, Fredric. 1983. "Postmodernism and Consumer Society." Pp. l l l - 125 in Tbe Anti-Aesthetic.:, edited by Hal Foster. Port Town send, WA: Bay Press. ---, 1984. "Postmodernisffi, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capital ism." New Left Review 146: 53-92. Jencks, Cbades. 1977. The Language of Post-ll'1odem Architecture.

New York: Rizzoti. Kamm, Thomas. 1988. "lue They Copies or Are They Fakes? Art Wodd Diverges." Wall Street Journal, Janua.ry 12: 1 and 12. Kavolis, Vytautas. 1970. "Post-Modern Man: Psychological Responses to Social Trends." Social eroblems 1 7 : 435-48. Kent, Sarah and Jacqueline Morreau. 1985. Women's images of Men. London: Writers and Readers. Klotz, Heinrich. 1984. Postmodern Visions: Drawings, Painting, and Models by Contemporary Architects. New York: Abbeville. Kraker, Arthur, and David Cook. 1987. The Postmodern Scene. New York: St. Martin's Press. Kuhn, Annette. 1985. Tbe Power of the Image. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul. Laffey. John. 1987. "The PoUcics at Modernism's Funeral." Canadian Journal of Political and Social Theory 1 1 : 89-98. LaPorte, Ronald E., Stephen Dearwater, et al. 1985. "Cardiovascular Fitness: Is It Really Necessary?" Tile Physician and SporLs Medi cine 13: 145-50. Lyotard, Jean-Francois. 1984. The Postmodern Condition: A Report on Knowledge. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. . 1986. "Defining the Postmodern. " Pp. 6-7 in Postmodernism, edited by Lisa Appignanesi. London: ICA Documents. McCallum, Jack. 1984. "Everybody's Doin' It: Getting Into the Fitness Business, That Is." Sports 1l1ustrated, December 3, 72-86. McRobbie, Angela. 1986. "Postmodernism and Popular Culture. " Jour nal of Communication Inquiry lO: lO8- 116. Mainardi, Patricia. 1987. "Postmodern History at the Musee d'Orsay." October 41 :31-52. ---

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Maines, David. 1978. "Bodies and Selves: Notes on a Fundamental Di lemma in Demography." Pp. 241-66 in Studies in Symbolic In teraction, volume I, edited by Norman K. Denzin. Greenwich, CT: JAI Press. Mead, George Herbert. 1934. Mind, Self and Society. Chicago: Univer sity of Chicago Prcss. --

. 1938. The Philosophy of the Act. Chicago: University of Chi

cago Press. Melvillc, Stephen W.

1986. Philosophy Beside Itself: On Deconstruc tion and Modernism. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Nash, Jeffrey E. 1980. "Lying About Running: The Functions of Talk in a Scene." Qualitative Sociology 3: 83-99. O'NciU, John. 1985. FiVfj Bodifjs. Ithaca NY: Cornell University Press. Paoletti, John T. 1985. "Art." pp. 53 80 in The Postmodern Moment, -

edited by Stanley Trachtenberg. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Ritenbaugh, Cheryl. 1982. "Obesity as a Culture-bound Syndrome."

Culture, Medicine, and Psychiatry 6:347 61 Sabol, Blair. 1986. The Body of America. New York : Arbor House. Sawchuk, Kim. 1987. "A Tale of Inscription/Fashion Statements." Ca nadian Touma] of Political and Social Theory I I : 5 1 -67. Schwanz, Hillel. 1986. Never Satisfied: A Cultural History of Diets, Fantasies, and Fat. New York: Free Press. Shabe, John. 1987. "Taking Fitness in Stride." Syracllse Post Standard, June 26. Solomon, Henry A. 1985. Tbe Exercise Myth. New York: Harcoun, -

Brace, Jovanovich. Spanos, William. 1987.

Repetitions: The Pmtmodern Occasion in Lit erature. and Culture. Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University

Press. Stein, Howard. 1982. "Neo-Darwinism and Survival through Fitness in Reagan's America." Tourna] of Psychohistory 10: 163-187. Stimpson, Catherine R. 1985. "The Somagrams of Gertrude Stein." Pp. 30-43 in The Female Body in Western Culture, edited by Susan Rubin Suleiman. Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press. Stone, Gregory P. 1962. "Appearance and the Self." Pp. 86-1 1 8 in Hu man Behavior and Social Processes. edited by Arnold M. Rose. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Stutman, Fred A. 1986. Walk Don't Die. Philadelphia: Medical Manor Books. Szasz, Thomas. 1966. The Myth of Mental Illness. New York: Dell. Topousis, 10m. 1987. "Walkers Outpace Joggers." USA Today, May 28. Trachtenberg, Stanley, ed. 1985. 111e Postmodern Moment: A Handbook of Contemporary Innovation III the Arts. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press.

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Turner, Bryan S. 1984. The Body [lnd Society. London: Blackwell. Venturi, Robert. 1966. Complexity and Contradiction in Architecture. New York: Museum of Modem Art. Venturi, Robert, and Denise Scott Brown. 1984. A View from tbe Cam· pidoglio. New York: Harper and Row. Venturi, Robert, Denise Scott Bmwn and Steven Izenour. 1972. Learn· ing From Lns Veg[ls. Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. von Moos, Stanislaus. 1987. Venturi. Rauch and Scott Brown: Build· jugs and Projects. New York: Rizzoli. Wellbery, David E. 1985. "Postmodernism in Europe: On Recent Ger· man Writing." pp. 229-50 in Tbe Postmodem Moment, edited by Stanley Trachtenberg. Westport, CT: Greenwood Press. Weschler, Lawrence. 1988. "Onward and Upward with the Arts !Boggs-Parts I and III./l New Yorker, January 18, 33-56, and Janu ary 25, 88-98.

People Are Talking: Conversation Analysis and Symbolic Interaction Deirdre Boden When people come together, they talk. Not always, nor everywhere,

but most of the time that.'s what they do. They talk in bed, on the phone, in the classroom, in the judge's chambers, in the physician's office, in jury deliberations and counselling sessions, on tea breaks and on airplanes, around the dinner table and across the boardroom, in cri sis and in comfort. Talk is the stuff, the very sinew, of sodal interac tioll. The mundane or momentous talk of people in their everyday world is what conversation analysis studies. Where the fine-grain and fine-tuned rhythm of turns at talk spark, fan, and fuel interpersonal relations, business deals, labor negotiations, trade embargoes, disar mament agreements, there too is the stuff of history.

LANGUAGE AND MEANING One way of characterizing talk, a favorite of mine, is as language in-action, and it i�. here, as thought becomes action through language, that conversation analysis meets symbolic interaction (and vicc versal. Symbolic interactionists have long been concerned with languagc, thought, meaning, shared symbols, and social acts. Even a minor re view of these concepts lies beyond the scope of this chapter, but it is worth noting that these ideas fonn the core of Mead's symbolic and interactional perspective on mind, self, and society, and arc at the heart of a general understanding of the symbolic intcractionist enterprise. The role of language and meaning is central to all that flows from them; namely that the significant and shared symbols that constitute language givc rise to thought, which in turn contributes to the constiMy thanks for the enthusiastic sUppOJt of the editors ot this volume and the many uscful comments of panelists at the SSSI SlOne Symposium at which this paper was origillally presented. I have especially benefited from the varied comments of Howard

244

Ikcker, Spencer Cahill, Carl Couch, Anthony Giddens, John Heritage, Douglas Maynllld, Michal McCall, and Jack Whalt:n. though I can hardly have met thcm in full measure..

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tution of the socia] self, which is, in its turn, possible only through social interaction, and so fOTth. The elegance of these formulations turns on the dynamic axis of lan guage and meaning. The very words "language" and "meaning"-par ticularly the latter-seem to conjure up symbolic interactionism for most American sociologists. Meanings are seen as the products of so cia) interaction, "as creations that are found in and through the defin ing activities of people as they interact" (Blwner, 1969: 5). There are times, however, when the importance of language to meaning seems more slogan than practice within the field, and lan guage becomes one of those taken-far-granted features of interaction ist research. Lately, a number of writers have formulated theories and reviewed materials that would begin to make the connections be tween language and meaning more concrete (e.g., Perinbanayagam, 1985; Stone, 1982; MacCannell and MacCannell, 1982; Denzin, 1983), though deconstructiorusm would surely seem something of a cul-de sac in this regard (d. Denzin, 1987). Nevertheless, rarely arc language and meaning per se objects of symbolic interactionist enquiryj rather they typically serve as resources Out of which the essentially shared and social nature of society is conjured. This is rather perplexing given the foundational writings of Peirce and Dewey and Mead. The very writers who gave the world semiotics, abduction, significant symbols, and the social self seem to have spawned later studies in which sign, symbol, and meaning have become rather free-floating concepts adrih from the very behavioral grounding advocated by Mead and that early Chicago School tradition. Part of the problem is that the very notions of language and meaning are quite abstract and bound up in the very same process we might expect them to elucidate. Both have long occupied modern philoso phers and linguists, as well as social scientists, literary critics, writers, artists-indeoo anyone who works directly with symbols and signs knows only too well the inherently delicate mediation between sym bol and meaning. The poststructural upsurge of interest in discourse and text has both expanded and compounded the problem. Suddenly everything is discourse and there are texts everywhere. Yet we are really only a little closer to being able to provide d�fmitive notions of how language works or how meaning gets done. il blizzard of philo sophically erudite phrases from Dcrrida or Barthcs ('T Foucault produce flurries of insight, to be sure �cf. Lamont, 1987). btLt an elaborate lan guage game is also in progress. With much the same dense and deeply interwoven philosophical, historical, and cultural concepts that char-

Deirdre Soden

246

acterized much of critical theory a decade earlier, postslwcturalism is about to spin 06 into intelleclual limbo, leaving many of us with an improved French vocabulary and yet another collection of relatively inaccessible volumes to fill our bookshelves and impress our less cclec tic friends. This is not, I hasten to add, meant unkindly; much can he learned and has been, both from critical theory and poststructuraList thought. But the real world is elsewhere, and both symbolic interactionists and conversation analysts know that. It is that shared insight, I would like to suggest, that makes a joint examination of our shared enterprise particularly worthwbile, and particularly at this juncture (or conjonc ture, to continue the Frcnch mood) of intellectual history. Social life needs, as Hughes

(l971) insisted, to be studied in situ, and the com

bined creative forces of symbolic interaction and conversation analysis can expose just tbat momentary yet recurrent and patterned quality of thc world. I am inclined to agree with Giddens's insistence

(1984 passim), for

example, that it is through the recurrent and recursive properties of interaction that actors both produce and reproduce social relationships across time and space. Moreover, it is the localized process of social interaction, as Blumer

(1969) has characterized it, that reveals those

routine activities as a fundamentally collaborative achievement in Garfinkel's

(1967) sense. At another level, Collins has recently sug·

gested that what he calls the

factor in etbnomethodology may well

prove to be tied to emotion and, more, that "we have to come to grips with the growlding of language not only in cognitive aspects of social interaction but in what may turn out to be its emotional interactional substrate"

[1986: 1349).

It is hardly a coincidence that major European social tht.'Orists havc, in lhe past ten years, turned explicitly to the findings of American micro-sociologists [e.g., Bourdieu,

1982; Giddens, 1976, 1979, 1984;

Habermas,

1984) as a way of bringing agency back in frum a structur alist chill (see also Ritzer, 1985). Borrowing again from Collins (1986), it is also clear that the boundaries of artificial intelhgcnce cannot be much further expanded without a huge revision in current psychologi cally and cognitivc1y oriented concepts of so-called intelligent sys i tems (e.g., Suchman, 1987; Irons and Boden, 1988). The 'scripts" and "plans" of cognitive theory dissolve as human meets machine (Such man,

1987), and it is just that problem of shared worlds of meaning,

situated action, and joint projects that currently defeats the most so phisticated of interactive software. Issues of relevance, context, tem-

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People Are Tl1lking

porality, sequentiality, recursivity, and indcxicaliq: shape all human interaction. Only students of the interaction order lGoffman,

19831 can discover

and document both the delicacy and durability of that moment-by moment social order.

LANGUAGE-IN-ACTION The purpose of this paper is to explore the complementary frame works of conversation analysis and symbolic interaction. Conversation analysis is, as many know, the creative invention of the late Harvey Sacks. Together with Emanuel Schegloff and Gail Jefferson, Sacks de veloped a field that, while certainly still small, has had considerable impact in sociology and, almost more, in communications, linguistics, and, to some extent, anthropology. As students of Goffm.1n, both Sacks and Schegloff began to dabble with tape recordings in the early

1960s.

Sacks was, first and foremost, interested in getting a handle on din."Ct data of the world, and his orientation was remarkably similar to those earlier ethological urges of Mead. He was concerned with capturing concrete behavior and felt that it is only in the direct study of the world that sOdology might be able to build a genuinely scientific view of that social environment (Sacks,

19841.

So, one of the charms and fascinations of conversation analysis is that it is highly empirical, grounded firmly in a form of data that can be repeatedly analyzed. The data are always comprised of either audio or video recordings of naturally occurring occasions of ordinary inter action, across any variety of social settings. At the heart of the en terprise is the insistence on observation and ana1ysis that avoids the son of categorization and idealized description of most social science,

]9631. Talk is instead of ferL-d as primary data of the world-as-it-llappens IBoden, in press bl, a

whether quantitative or qualitative jSacks,

direct handle on the details of the real world, actual events as they happen, such that, as Sacks proposed, observations can be repeated and "anyone else can go and see whether what was said .is so"

( 1984:261.

Of particular note here to students of the interaction order is the pro posal-offered by both Sacks al., n.d.l-that in

11963) and Garfinkel (1967; Garfinkel et

describing the world in detail we also come to know

profoundly how that world is organized and ultimately what it consists of, again, in all 'its detail. The interest of conversation analysts is not in language in a linguistic sense but rather in talk as the very heart of social interaction, and in the formal properties of social order or "stmc tures of social action" (Atkinson and Heritage, 1984). The materials

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Deirdre Boden

juSt happened to be conversatioos--given the nature and recent avail ability of magnetic recording tape in the early 1960s. A better name for lht! fidd would, in fact, probably be something like "interactional analysis/' as everything in the interaction, from a quiet in-breath to the entire spatial and temporal organization of the scene, may be sub ject to analysis. The essential difference, for purposes of our current discussion, is on the general insistence on recorded materials in natu rally occurring interactional settings as opposed to any retrospectively cunslructed dialogue or rcse..rcher-mediated setting such as interviews or experimental settings. Twenty-five years later, conversation analysis researchers continue to study a wide variety of recorded materials that encompass both ver bal and nonverbal apects of interaction and social sL'1:ting. The oTicn tation is essentially ethnomethodological, although that is not always explicitly acknowledged. Nevertheless, it is the force of Garfinkel's seminal ideas that drives conversation analytic exploration, in panicu lar his recurrent insistence on the irremediably local production of so ciaI life. There is a good deal of internal debate about technical issues of just how best to track conversational phenomena, but a kind of uni versal fascination with what Garfinkel is fond of calling the "slrUc tures of practical action." The more ODe studies illlcraction-and the more closely-the greater one's respect for the interactional domain as a kind of primordial site of $Ociation, to borrow hoth from Simmel and Schegloff (d. Rawls, 1987). Jmlccd, much classic conversation analysis

is highly Simmclian, given the conccrn to uncover the formal proper ties of interaction.! The primal site of interactional intimacy and interchange is at the hcart of the conversation analytic enterprise. Conversational inter action is taken as havi.ng a "bedrock" in rdalion to all other forms of institutional and intcrpcnoooal exchange (HClilage and Atkinson, 1984: 121.

Talk as Data Convcrsation analysis is probably the most micro of all micro sociology. While linguists often use made-up examples of talk in their work, and ethnographers routinely reconstruct dialogue from field noles, collversation analysis is always done with actual recordings and, as noted above, materials that have been gathered in natural settings of interaction.1- The i.nsistence

recordings centers on at Je3St twO

practical factors: ( 1 ) it provides for near-endless reexamination of the primary data, and by anyone, and thus goes a long way to meeting typi-

249

People Are Talking

eal issues of "interpretation," and �2) it is, as Heritage points

out

( i 984b : 236I, quitc difficult to imagine the invention by social scien tists of data such as the following strip of talk. E:

Oh honey that was a lovely luncheon [ shoulda ca:lIed you s:soo :ner but 1: 1:- Jo:ved it. It w's just

ll fll Oh, , , M, E: dcli:ghtfu :l

I I

)

Well 1 w's gJa d

you (carnel.-

)

'nd yer f: friends 're

so da:rli:ng. M: Oh: : : : it w'z: =

e-that

)

P a:t isn'she il do: :1H I )

iYe b isn't she pretty,

E: Oh: she's a beautiful girl. Yeh l lhink she's a pretty gir 1. M: =

E' E:

En' that Reinam'n

She SCA:RES me.

I. ) =

(cited in Heritage, 1984b: 2361 Neither informant nor ethnographer's reconstruction could hope to

also underlines, could it be heard again and again. The transcripts in this sort of work, developed by Gail Jcffcrson, are always considered as a technical convenience while the capture this detail nor, as Heritage

primary data is always the actual talk jsee appendix). Most notable for general purposes here is the rather remaIkable interactional density available at this level of analysis and transcription. Conversation analysis has focused, since

Heritage characterizes

its inception, on what

the "primacy of mundane conversation"

(1984b:238), which is to say an ordinary, everyday conversation. The

payoff has been high. What linguists and communication specialists had long seen as a rather random and almost chaotic activity turns out to be a profoundly ordered and orderly social organization. Here I do not mean to be redundant; to propose that phenomena are ordered and orderly is the essence of reflexlvity, in Garfinkel's 0967) sense-or

250

Deirdre Boden

what Giddens calls the "duality of structure" in structuration theory 1 1984}. Conversational phenomena are ordered in that, as we shall see shortly in this chapter, the very structure of turns shapes them in se· quential and consequential ways. At the same time, talk is ordering in that participants collaborate in mobilizing those same ordered proper ties to achieve meaningful and purposive interaction. In this sense, so cial order and social structure are not external to action but rather produced in and through the local structures of interaction. This is the heart of the intcraction order and it is here, l believe, that GoHman, Garfinkel, and Giddens meet. Conversational turn-taking, for example, has been revealed to be a highly precise and predictable system for structuring interpersonal ex· change, a kind of driving mechanism for all interaction. This finding,. first demonstrated i.n the now seminal paper by Sacks and his col leagues in 1974, has held up across a range of languages and cultures such that it now seems quite reasonable to claim that this core ma chinery for talk transcends both languagc and culture �Moerman, 1977; Boden, 1983; Besnier, 19891. Turn-taking, moreover, appears to be an utterly central social act so that, however banal it In.1Y appear, it merits critical and careful analysis (d. Collins, 19881. The turn-taking model proposed by Sacks, Schegloff, and Jefferson (1974) predicts that turn allocation and tum transfer will ocelli in a recursive cycling series of options which enab1c precise and timely co ordination between interactants !Jefferson, 1973, 19831. As simple as this formulation may appear, the interactional consequences that flow from it are considerable. The structured and structuri.ng mechanism of turn-taking "exerts pressure on the design of individual turns and hence on syntax" (Heritage, 1985:2). Moreover, the central operation of the tum-taking system bas both enabling and constraining conse quences for the overall interaction ISacks, Schcgloff, and Jefferson, 1974; C. Goodwin, 1979; SchegJoff, 1979; Levinson, 19831. The early work of Sacks has led by now to a wide range of findings in the organization of talk, including such familiar features as greet ings, questions/answers, invitations, topic initiations and transitions, laughter, interruptions, and so forth. A full review of these studies is hardly germane here,l but it may be useful to note two central theo· retical assumptions in all conversation analytic work, and two clear strains in current research. The organizational features of conversation are treated as structures in their own right and are taken to operate like other social structural factors-independently of specific actors,

25]

Prople Art: Talking

psychological dispositions, or attributions of panicular jndividuaJs. That is not

say, of course, that there isn't variatiOD across individu

als, but rather that these conversational structures arc "context free." Secondly and simultaneously, the structures of talk arc assumed to be "conte>::t sensitive" in the sense that their instantiation at particular moments and i n particular contexts, as well as at speCific points in interactional time, constitutes that moment and shapes that interac tion (sec also Wilson, 1982/ Giddens, 1984; Boden, in press a). Again, this is not to say that much talk docs not run off as routine and nun problematic, but that "routine" is itseU an interactional accomplish ment, as both cthnomethodologisls and symbolic interactionists have long known isee also Maynard, 1984; Schegloff, 1986, 1987; WiJson, in press). Conversation analysts have long been interested in the systematic ways in which one turn lor turn componentl predicates the next in sequential and interactionally consequential ways. Schcgloff ( 1980), for example, has demonstrated the systematic and thereby highly stable manner in which interactants project a question by saying, in effect, "Can 1 ask you a question� " Conventional social science logic would find such an analysis trivial, assuming tbat what would follow such an opening gambit would be the question itself. 1nstead, in finciy accomplished ways, what follows is

another "preliminary" as actors

routinely then produce a further frame of reference, typically a context for the question that follows. Schegloff went on to note t.hat the orga nization of "preliminaries" in conversation-to a question, an offer, a Story, a denial, and so forth-shows how the "sequential machinery" of turn-taking is, through and through, an interactional accomplish ment. Moreover, hearers arc clearly oriented to this projected organi zation. It is, I would suggest, in this way that meaning-as a cognitive construct-becomes empincally available (or analysis. What Heritage calls the intersubjectivc arcttitecture of talk {l984b:284J provides a "framework in which speakers can rely on the they say to contribute tn the

positionjng of what

sense of what they say as

action"

1 1 984b :261, emphasis in originall. This is, with more analytic preci sion, Blumer's general notion Utat social interaction entails a fitting together of lines of action such that group life can be brought off as joint action. Moreover, as Heritage has also forcefully argued, conver sational structures are additionally context

shaping and context reo

newing in that they both organize the local flow of interaction and thereby also create the renewed conditions for further exchange. [n-

252

Deirdre Bouen

deed, it is reasonable to argue that it is through juSt such structured and structuring properties of interaction that social order is possible at aU. Current research

in conversation analysis moves along two inter

twined and complementary strands. Basic research continues into the fine-grained structures of talk, analyzing both the analytic and formal properties of turns and their connective tissues such as pauses, uhms, overlaps, and chuckles, as well as the myriad nonvocal and gestural displays that accompany the briefest of face-to-face exchange (pomer

1984; Heritage, 19843; Schcgloff, 1986; Jefferson, Sacks, and SchegloH. 1986; Wilson and Zimmerman, 1986; Houtkoop-Steenstra, 1987). The organization nl more topic-related features have also begun antz,

to receive the same analytic attention, though it must be noted that that vt!ry density 01 interactional detail noted earlier makes the estab lishment of apparently simple issues like topic boundaries very tricky indeed (Maynard,

1980; Button and Casey, 1984; Maynard and Zim merman, 1984; de Fornel, 1986, 1987; Boden and melby, 1986; Berg mann, 1987). TIle second stage of work that has emerged i n the past ten years or so has moved researchers imo a more varied range of settlngs of talk and interaction and, in (he process, into a variety of different occasions of turn-taking as well. Some of the earliest work was Zimmerman and West's (1975) on gender differences in conversation (sec also West and Zimmerman,

1 983, 1997}, which West later extended in her research on doctor-patient interaction (1984). Medical settings have become a considerable area of research more generally (Heath, 19R1, 1984, 1986; Frankel, 1984; ten Have, 1987, in press), as have legal and judicial set tings (Atkinson and Drew, 1979; Atkinson, 1982; Lynch, 1982; May nard, 1984, 1988), and a variety of other insritutional areas such as classrooms, learning disability clinics, crisis intervention services, and so forth (c.g., McHoul,

1978; Mchan, 1979; Maynard and MarJaire,

1987). Research has also expanded into organizational and work set tings (Zimmerman, 1984; Meehan, J 986; Anderson, Hughes, and Shar rock, 1987; Whalen and Zimmerman, 1987; Suchman, 1987; Boden, in press a) and ioto areas utilizing media materials as data (Crc.atbatch,

1982; Atkinson, 1984; Molotch and Boden, 1985; Heritage and Great batch, 1986; Clayman, 1988, Halkowski, 1988). Throughout all, researchers working with everyday conversational materials have uncovered a veritable gold mine of "structures of social action" {Atkinson and Heritage, 1984); precise and pattenll.'"
253

PropJe Are Talking

dures for producing talk that reveal, in their instantiation, the sort of fine-grained order in the social world that so amazed early natwalists in the nineteenth century as they began to systematically observe the natwal environment. This is, I believe, the fascination of talk for any one who has taken the time to slow down the spinning world of inter action and watch the effects. And, they are "effects" in that it is the essential reflexivity and indcxieality of language-in-action that pro duces that density of interaction alluded to above. The structures of social action studied i n this manner arc locally managed mechanisms that simultaneously structure and transform t.be interaction. Close analysis of everyday conversation reveals just that coordina tion of action Mead and Hlumer were

sensitive to, and locates it

precisely in the orientation of one actor to another in the most perva sive of all social acts. Language and meaning come together as talk. It is, as Schegloff suggests, through analyzing discourse as an achieve· ment rather tban a text that we can discover "the contingency of real things"

{1982 : 89}. Moreover, it is by treating Janguage-in-action as a

topic of enquiry that we can begin to trace out just how thought be comes action through language, and thus learn rather precisely what "meaning" comes to mean in and through interaction. Talk is, I am suggesting, language-in-action. Thus I am proposing that the symbolic interaction that is thought. in Mead's sense, becomes quite concretely available, both for analysis and further theorizing, through the fine grained activities of lalk in interaction.

TRACKING THE INTERACTION ORDEn Language and meaning are practical matters. That is to say, aca demic theorizing apart, they present and resolve pressing and omnipres ent problems in everyday human intercourse. There is a temptation to characterize much of daily life as "ritual" or "coutine," and much of the very language of social science contributes to this notion. Yet a return to Mead reminds

that each social act is produced in a con

tinuous present in terms of a never·to-be-arrived-at future. Habit, to be sure, plays a part, but the process of meaning is ongoin&; varied, and indeterminate. It is that realtime and contingent flavor of social life that is captured at the level of talk. In a recent study of organizational life {Boden, in press aJ, I was in terested in the reflexive relation of organizational structure and con versational interaction. Talk in organizations paces the business of the day, and ' have been interested in tracking the interactive and interde-

254

Deirdre Bodcn

pendent nature of talk and task in producing and reproducing that ab stract object we call "the organization"-both within and beyond the boundaries of the firm itself. Organizational members, their clients, and suppliers, for example, spend a considerable amount of interac tional energy coordinating activities in time

and space while, at the

same time, their very talk is itself a microcosm of that synchrony. Rhonda: Thizzi z = Rho:nda. (0.21 Bill: .hh Hi Rhonda! Bi: :11

here?

(

Rhonda: Hi:: Bill? Bill: Retu: : rning (.) not Marco's (0.2) but Ro::n's call? Rhonda: Right. Jus'a minnit. (lealler on hold: 6.5 seesn Ron: Hullo: :: 1

(

Bill: Ron: Bill:

Hi Ron. Sorry I dido/git back t'ye, 'Kay. D'ja= talk ,=l'- (.) Jo::hn? Yeah =an =I = go:t the figures

Ron: Bill:

(0.31 Oh. (0.21 A1Ica::dy' Yeah. N'ka::y [0.3) ya wanna come u::p?

Ron: Bill: Ron: Bill:

.h 'Ka::y, I'm here? Ri:ght bye.

Ri:ght.

�

IIclicklJ This strip of interaction is assuredly rOlltine, produced in and through the flow of talk, yet it is hardly automatic since each turn shapes the next in ways that, while patterned, cannot be abstractly pinpointed. A feature both of interaction and of the world is that it is sequential, not meTely serial. The wOTld unfolds, as Garfinkel has of ten noted, on a "once through" basis, with each moment shaping the next in consequential ways. Each moment is both new and old; old in that it contains and reproduces existing features of the world, yet new in that this particular moment has just been reached, undeT just these conditions, just now, with just certain infonnation to hand, just certain

255

People Are Talking

actors involved, just those, no more. Bill, Ron, and Rhonda work to gether every day, moving from the twenty-fourth to the twenty-fifth floors of an office building in search of figures, files, and the occasional friendly face. But how that day and those routines are constituted and reconstituted is the essence of organizational We. Rhonda's opening line "self-identifies" with uThizziz Rho:nda" and frames this call as intraorganizational, i.e., an internal communi cation between frequent and familiar intcractants (Boden, in press al. Bill responds with a greeting and self-identification, getting an over lapped return greeting and thus completing two canonical rounds of telephone openings (Schegloff, 1968). Bill's "reason for the call" is simi larly located in the typical next slot, where it is the caller who proVides a warrant for the calli he announces a temporal and organizational is sue, namely that his is a "return" call, a response, not to Marco, but to ROD, thereby embedding a number of organizational relationships and commitments in a single economical tum at talk. Note, too, the in terweaving of temporal frames such as "returning" a call, waiting "jus'a minnit," apologizing for not getting "back t'ye," and having the figures "alrea::dy?" These formulations also involve coordination of actors and activities that are critically contingent on such realtime ac commodation, as is Ron's demand, "D'ja = talk = t'- [.) Jo::hn?" and Bill's locally produced understanding that such a contact had to do with "the fih'llres"-that is to say, not any figures but a shared and oriented-to set of numbers that each understands and wbose current possession precipitates a next organizational task. These coordinated issues are, in turn, also organized around further understandings about mutual availability and the need for copresencc in time and spacc, so that having the figures results in an invitation hom Ron and an offer of being "herc." Importantly, for this discussion of the interactional achievement of meaning through language-ill-action, Bill marks both invitation and offer with an unambiguous and unelaborated affirma tive, and their short exchange is terminated. Action and meaning, at this level of analysis, reveal that their nego tiation is a highly local affair. It is joint action, in Blumer's sense, but more. Their talk. and tasks are mutually elaborative in a turn-by-turn manner. They are not just talking "about" work; that work is, and will continue to be, produced as talk. Organizational members routinely produce multiple levels of activities that aTe reflexively and simulta neously tied in and through their talk. Take, for example, the following fragment from a multiparty meeting. =

256

Deirdre Boden Dean:

We scre:wed up agai::n. We dido' n::sk f'r that material- we a:sked f'r it last year {.I la:te in pie ce ri ght?

I Matt:

Yeah. The fe::llowship people again, S'there uh March fiftee:nth dead h:ne?

Jim:

Matt: Ji.m: Jean: Jim:

Ye: :8. Tha's sad we'll have a::ll- all these people)s

.h::: of all=applieations j.} by the time (you need 'em)

Dean:

Matt:

MAY I MA:KE (.1 thuh following suggestion?

WE CAN DA::NCE around the March fiftee:nth . . .

The "topic" of this exchange between four university administrators might be described as "fellowships" or perhaps "fellowship deadlines," but with the dean's opening gambit the organizational stage is set for a round of interdepartmental accommodations. The dean and Jim repre sent the graduate school who "screwed up again." Matt is from the office of financial aid. As Jim laments the fact tbat, practically speak ing and despite the technical deadline of March

15, their office will

have needed materials by the time they are needed, the dean initiates a suggestion and, faster on his conversational feet, Matt offers to "dance" around the deadHne. Such is the stuff of bureaucratic life, but note the degree to which the very accomplishment of accommodation is an interactional one produced in and through the ordering and over Japping of turns at talk. Note too that the temporal formulations are not in any way loosely "socially constructed" but rather precisely pro duced as interdepartmental

iJnd interactional collaboration. It is in

this way, I believe, that the business of talk constitutes the business of the day (Boden, in press a). The connection between talk as structure and structure

through talk is a tightly coupled phenomenon.

Organizations arc ubiquitous settings of modern society. Such or ganizations

are

often viewed by sociologists as abstract entities per

Sisting in time and space, setting agendas, pursuing goals, making decisions, expanding, contracting, collapsing, resurging. They are seen as having existem:c and momentum above and beyond the individual.

257

People Are Talking

And so they do. But when an organization such as the New York Stoek Exchange divcs prccipitously in a single trading day, it is to the traders on the floor, the analysts at their computers, the account executives at their phones, and the institutional buyers in fern-H.lled offices across the country that we look. it is their actions, impressions, conversa tions, rumors, and reactions that constituted so-called Black Monday

in October 1987. Even the programmed trading that may have trig gered the volume trading of the day is the result of earlier conversa tions and impressions, rumors of currency and commodity shifts, talk of inflation, and so forth. People

are a central part of all organizations,

and their talk is the interactional material Out of which tbose organi zations are constituted. Indeed, one of the recurring features of all organizations is the storics and myths through which the daily activities. and long-range actions of firms are understood. These stories are often mistakenly treated as a kind of culture and studied abstractly and acontcxtually. But stories are part and parcel of talk. They draw their strcngth and carry their mcssage in interaction.

TELLING STORIES It is interesting that Erving Goffman cxpcricnCl.-d a linguistic tum of his own in his latter yeaIs, inspired and also appaJently i.rritated by the work of his foemel" students (e.g., Schegloff,

1988). In Farms of Tnlk

particularly, he recommends firmly that " microanalysis of interaction lumber in whcre the self-respecting decline to tread"

(1982: 2), namely

into the realm of talk, and goes on to offer a number of useful ap proaches to that study. Among them, he conecdy observcs that we spend a good deal of our talking-time telling stories. People in their everyday intercourse tell stories all lhe time, as Sacks and others have

1972, 1974; Jefferson, 1978; Boden and Bielby, 1983; Maynard, 1988). This too has parallels in symbolic interactionist en pointed out (Sacks,

quiry in that it provides a way of moving further along the important tack of letting subjects tell their own narratives (see McCall and Witt ner, this volume). They do. All the time. It is just a matter of sitting back and letting the world happen-with a tape recorder or video cam era running. In McCall and Wittner's essay (this volume) on life histories, for ex ample, storytelling groups studied by McCall provide a way of exam ining how people discover new meaning in their lives and their shared location in history. In some recent ethnographic and conversation ana-

Deirdre Boden

258

lytic work, I spent time hanging out in an Eng1ish senior center in west London and in a coffee shop on what r call "High Street" in Palo Alto located near a medical center, a favorite drugstore, and the local senior center. In earher research (Boden and Bielby, 1983, 19861, we found a great deal of narrative in the everyday talk of the e1derJy and among strangers provides a remarkable display of spontaneously generated life history. These stories are, however,

part of the talk, rather than some

special interlude. Ben: And uhErma: .hh Well when- 1.1 when I:: Lived there in this liddle GerOlan community .h uh FARMING community

.hh Oh yea:h Ben: Erma: =and uh- (.) th- the only way we could get out of there was by TRAIN and it- it was on the branch

Ben: Ye::s? Erma: = line of the MK and T .h:: we called it the KATIE, it was uh- Missouri Kansas an TEXas line and

Yeah

Ben: Yes Erma: =we- we uh-

Ben:

Do they 8tH! have that railroad?

think it's cal1- They

do? I

YE:S I thi:nk so

Erma:

r think so

Yeah I 'member cuz 1 RODE that one uhErma: And the County Seal was Gai::nesviHe and uh

Ben:

Ben: ElIDa:

Ben:

Oh yes the County Scat and that- if we wanted to t'go to the County Scat we badda either go by bug- horse ani BUGGY o:r .h =

Uh!

In this "life as narrative" (cf. Gergen and Gergen, 1983; Bnmer, 1987) interaction, old people establish identity and explore shared history in

2S9

I'oople Are Talkwg

a highly collaborative manner, often interweaving several layers of public history with quite detailed accounts of private lives lived across long spans of time and space. Analytically Ben and Erma can be seen, in olle sense, to compete for the topical floor, but in terms of their shared storytelling we argued that they are also, significantly, contrast ing past with present in a constructive and coconstitutive manner IBoden and Bielby, 1986�. The result is, for the researcher, rather com pell i ng jnsights into the role of the past in the present lives of the cJdcrly, a role that nuns out to be both interactive and positive rather than a "living" in the past. Thus, as we also suggested IBodeD and Bielby, 19831, the past is a resource Ou t of which prescnt Lives arc made meaningful and imeractiooally active. My more recent research in and around senior centers suggests a similar pattern, although here-in settings of food preparation, card playing, and cating-ta lk and task in the present interplay with narra tives of the p.1St in a morc cumplex manner. The pattern of marking share d historical period!ol persists as present -day evems are contr.:lstcd with stories told out of past events. (n this fragment, Edith is making tca in the back of the london senior club as .Bess struggles w open a package jpacketI of cookies fbickies, as in biscui.ts). Ie wi' mc- he w::ld me no' t' take 'm wjf'outuh cuppa tea: ::? [ 1 .71 !(sollnd nf dcctric kettle clicking oUplastic wrapping noise, voices in background))

Edith: . . . an'

Edith: He said ne:vuh t'u::ke 'm wi- withou:t uh cuppa. Hess: Ye:h. Edith, A::n' a:h do::n' 10.2) nci:thcr. Here! Le'me 'elp you:: wii that pol cket? I I O:h a:wrrigh ' the : n? Bess: !(sound of wrapping paper)) Edith: Like my And rewr I 1 Hm hmm, Bess : Edith: When 'e was li/ttk? Bess: Yeh. I::dith: 'E had a::wf'Uy bad bronchi: : tis l = Hmm, Bess : Edith , 'e did. An' the dOClUh sai::d- There y'a::re, tha's =

260

Deirdre Boden done ;:t;' Bess:

Edith:

[

Those bickies took evuh so goo: :d?

[

(Yeh) Right then.

[

Mm.

[

Thuh doctor said 'e was to 'ave those bi::g ta:blets with tea as well. They were ever so bi::g, an' 'e was ever so lihhle, an it was during the wa: :r? Oh ye::h, hmhmm?

Bess: Edith: An' we wuz livin' in Battersea, so I . . . {(story continues])

Stories are intriguing, though tricky, conversations to study analyti calJy, particularly as their sequential production mimics though does not mirror the sequence of events being captured. Stories, as Sacks

(1974, 1978) has demonstmtecl, arc .'lTtfuJ both in theiT telling and in what is told. They fit into an ongoing conversation as they unfold in real time, and eont.1in their own intric.1tc and consequential structure. They are staged, both in their sequentially produced elements and in the sLOry they track. They are also carefully located interactionally as, above, Edith's announcement to Bess about taking large tablets with tea builds into a wartime story of when her son was young and they

in Battersea. Storytellers are often, as Maynard has noted, "pan of the narratives they present" (1988:4521, and this has important im lived

plications for the way both stories and teHers can be understood. Maynard's own work demonstrates the rather subtle ways in which storytellers engaged in third-party narratives can become part of the narrative and thus demonstrate their poSition vis-a-vis the story. More generally, my own point is that all storytellers reveal aspects of self and other in the way stories arc told and the relative stance they take in rclation to the ntmative (e.g., Whalen and Zimmerman,

1985).

Stories are tbus Dot "just" tales bm active and interactive produc tions which, partil:ularly when examined on video, reveal colJabora tive qualities of verbal and nonverbal displays of participation both by speaker and recipient (M. Goodwin,

1982; C. Goodwin, 1984).

In the above strip of interaction, Edith has been telling a Story about a recent visit to her doctor, a story that has been contextually cued by the joint activity of making tea. The doctor, she says, told hCT not to take hcr medication "withou:t uh cuppa./I This instruction is then summarized in the claim: 'A::n' a:h do::n' (O.2) nei:ther." The local activity of struggling with wrapping, an increasing daily problem for

261

People Are Talking

the elderly whose dexterity is dct.:rcasing as packaging is becoming ever morc complicated, produces an inscncd

"Here! Le'me 'dp you::."

Again, we can observe, in fine detail, that localized production of joint �ction characterized by Blumer, as talk, task, and topic arc managed. The medication story is then built into a wartime story of Edith's son Andrew and his bronchitis, in a deft yet typical telling of past ami pres

I.:nt (sec also Boden and Bielby, 1986).

lndet:d the very activity of "telling" turns out to be a rather precise and coordinated act. Jefferson, for example, has developed this vein of research in a particularly elegant examination of how people tcll troubles in everyday life

Odfcrson,

1980).

The telling of a trouble revolves around maintaining both the rou· tine features of the conversation and discourse identity while inserting a more intense focus-the trouble-and then returning to business as usual. Jefferson proposes that trouble-telling has a kind of trajectory that moves interactants from the routine to the trouble and back.

interest here i.s that the dose-up techniques of conversation analysis bave not only an illuminating but also an animating LJuality for micro analysis in thal they both track the interaction order and rather graphi cally trace its fundamentally interactional ordering, bringing to the analytic surface the dynamic structure of the interaction order itself.

HISTOI{Y AS TALK 'efferson's examination

trouble-telling points to a fwthcr

fea

ture of conversational interaction that has only begun to be explored

by researchers in the area, namdy the sequential aspccts of interaction across long stretches of talk (Jefferson, 1980; Heritage, 1985; Button, in press) and across interactiuns (Bodeo, in press al. In my own organiza tional work, I had become con(;crned with whether the sequential Quality of interaction couJd be used to understand the constitution of institutions across time. This is a recurring problem for organizational

analysis (Hall,

1987), one which has been forcefully theorized by Gid

dens in recent years P979, 1984, 1987) as well as by FOUC.1UIt, {1977; see also Glassner, 19821 but rather rarely demonstrated empirically. Temporality and duration arc central to both ethnomClhodology and

symbolic

interaction (Classner, 1982). There is a temptation to con

sider the work of Garfinkel and Sacks, for instance, as "merely" con ccrnLxi with the details of structure in action. Yet this would be a iundamcmal misreading of their work occause it is in the mutual elaboration of structure i.n action land vice ,'ersa) that social organiza-

262

Deirdre Boden

tion is possible at all. That interpenetration of action and structure is, in tUID, essential to understanding the embeddedness of micro in macro and macro i.n micro (e.g., Alexander ct at, 1987; Alexander, 1988; Collins, 1987, 1988; Fine, 1987; Boden, n.d.j. Indeed it points, as Giddms is fond of i.nsh.ting, to the futility of such distinctions, a "di vision of labour JthatJ leads to consequences that �rc at best highly misleading" (1984: 139). In this light, I have recently become interested in the possibility of tIacking history through talk and thereby revealing, m the fu11ness of verbal interaclion, the production of hislOry, both objectively and subjectively. 'Ihat is, as a sequence of events in time and a se quentially achieved series of intersubjectively located events in the lives of real people. Given I-Iall's illuminating discussion (this volume) on the relation of histOrical considerations to more general issues in 60.11 section on what I call "history as talk" may fliithcr ground this brief excursion into the dense world that is everyday talk. symbolic interaction,

1 have been focusing. for my cthnomethodological study of history,

primarily on a single series of telephone calls that occurred between John F. Kennedy aod the governor of Mississippi on a single weekend in 1962 that came to be called "the Mississippi. crisis" or the "insurrec tion at Ole' Miss."4 The materials are audio recordings made at the White House, and now in the archives of the Kcnncdy Presidential Li brary, along with extensive documents of the incident, its immediate precursors, subsequent consequences, historical assessments, and forth.

A fragment of these materials qUickly captures the flavor of this rather new type of historical record. The crisis at UIC University of Mississippi involved the registration of James Meredith as the first black to attend an institution of higher learning in that deeply tradi tional state. Thc confrontation is recognised by historians as the most significant crisis in federal-state authority since the dose of the Ameri can Civil War a century earlier. That drama and those aspects of his tory were clearly not lost on Jack Kennedy and his brother as attorney general as they managed events from the White I-louse that long week end. Furthermore, the interactional data, comprised of a sequence of telephone calls and a limited number of snatch� of meeting conver sation in the Oval Office, catch and document that sense of criSlS in a highly analyzable way. The following "moments of history" take place about halfway through the weekend of crisis, in the afternoon of Sun-

263

People Are Talking

day, September 30, 1962. Earlier calls between President Kennedy and Governor Barnet display a distinct kind of negotiation between the two leaders, one marked by Kennedy's willingnc$\s to tolerate the gover nor's attempts to avoid cooperation, an a\'oidance that is as much in teractionally produced and reproduced as it is legally located in the governor's official stance vis-a-VIs a Icdelally mandated court order to register Meredith. The president is providing an account of why the governor must keep in close touch with the White House. The gover nor breaks in to announce the death of a state trooper, victim of a sniper's buJlet, who had earlier been accompanied to a hospital. Y'see we don'- we got an hour t'go::: an' that's not u:h- we- we may nol ha::ve an hour what with this-

IFK:

Gov:

Vh· this man

this man has jus' died JFK: Did he die? Gov: Yes sir

JFK: Whi ch one? State police? Gov: Tha's the State Police JFK: Yca:h, well you sec we gotta get order up there an' that's what we thou::ght we were gonna ha:ve =

Gov:

Mistuh Pre:: s'dent PLEA::SE why don't you uh· can't you give an order up there to remo : : ve Mer' dith ="

JFK,

HOW CAN I REMO"VE HIM GOVernor when there's a· a ri::ot in the street an' he may step out of that building an' something ha: :ppen to him! ' can't Temove him under tho::se conditions. [1 .01 but-but- but we canGo\': U::::hJFK:

Go\': JFK:

up there an' then we can do Y'golet's get o::rder something about Meredith

we can

sur::rou::ound it with

plenty 'v offi::cials Well we've got to get somebuddy up there now to get order. and stop the firing and the shooting. Then we-

Deirdre Hoden

264

you and 1 will ta::lk on the phone about Meredith (0.21 But firs' we gotta get o::rder

1'11_ I'll ca:ll an' Gov: A: :rright tell"em to get every- every official they ca::n? The governor's announcement is notable in numerous ways that lie outside the current scope of this discussion, but it is worth highlight ing a few ways in which ule sequential shape of these turns consequen tially shapes the action of these historical moments, social aClioll that both structures and is structured by the unfolding events. In routine conversation, the governor's announcement of a death would project an immediate assessment by his interactant iPomeraotz, 1984). But the president's first move here is a c1arification request, "Did he die?" fa]· lowed by more specificity, "Which one? State police?" concluded with a token acknowledgment and a disagreement marker, " Yea:h, welL" He then shifts the topic back to his own earlier point of the need to establish order at the campus at Oxford. The governor again breaks in with a plea for a very different sort of order, one that would achieve his goal of removing Meredith from the campus and, preferably, far hom the state of Mississippi. The notion of "order" thus proceeds at several levels. it is through

sequentially produced, rather than structuraHy

located, power that the president's definition overrides the governor's version, not just in this closing sequence of the telephone conversa tion, but across the long-distance interactions that continue deep into that night in 1962. By the next morning, the president's concern for the Situation, assessed largely through these telephone caHs both to Governor Barnet and through an open telephone line to his own staff 011 the Oxford campus, has resulted in the arrival of over 5000 national guards from nearby Memphis, and qUiedy at 9:00 3.m. James Meredith Tegistered at Ole' Miss, to graduate a year later. The rest, as they say, is history. This meeting of history and one of the newest subficlds of sociology underlines, I believe, anolher important area of shared ground between symbolic interactionists and cOllversation analysts. The latter's more focused concern for the sequential details of action is comllicmented by symbolic interactionist interest in recurrent patterns of collective activity (e.g., Becker, 1982, 1986). Historical crises occur neither in a tidy research vacuum, nor arc they structurally determined in such a way as their outcome is inevitable. Rather they are the result of par ticular people coming togetheT jor notl in temporally located and se·

7,65

People Are Talk.ing

quentialLy organized ways let. Collins, J988). Meredith, Kenoedy, and Barnet occupied sHucrural positions unlikely to produce an intersec

tl0n in any social scientist's model of such events. YCt people do make history, and how they do it under conditions, both material and inter actional, outside their cho()sing is the stuff of sociology and history. Series and sequence are, as Hali lthis volume) notes, the objects of his

torical enquiry. To capture them sociologically as talk can be the con versation analyst'S contribution-at least in the area of contemporary history where recorded and video materials are becoming increasingly available.

CONCLUSION It has been my goa! in this chapter to suggest that the friendly paths of symbolic interaction and conversation analysis come together

at the intersection of language and meaning. Through characterizing talk as language-io-action, 1 have suggested that whP.re thought be comes action througb talk we may find that crossroads. Symbolic In teractionists and conversation analysts travel together morc broadly along a route that examines the intertwining of meaning, shared sym bols, jomt action, and social order. Thus, at that larger intersection of agency and structure, sociologists generally may expect to 6nd both symbolic interactionists and conver sation analysts. Both arc centrally concerned with temporality, with dur:nion, with action, and wit.h, as it were, the pulse of society. In this ability to trace the measured and thereby measurable pace of social life, we

have much to offer the often arbitrarily collapsed categories and

aggregate abstraction of most Quantitative sociology. Methodologists are fond of characterizing much social research as haVing a "snapshot" quality-capturing a cross-sectional moment of socicty. But this is really hopelessly inaccurate. Most SOCiology captures no moment at all, but rather the latent and leftover traces of past action,. past emo tion, past cognition-inaccurately remembered, recorded, or measured. The considerable virtue of the shared enterprise of symbolic interac tion and conversation analysis is a steady yet animated view of the world -as-it-happens. ApPENDIX The transcription notation used by conversation an<11ysts was de veloped by Gail Jefferson. II attempts, using a standard typewriter or computer keyboard symbols to capture for the eye Ihe way the talk is heard hy the car. Transcripts arc always anaiYZI.-d together with relcyant audio or video rnateri31s and <1re not intended as substitUtes for the data they capture. The transcrip ts in this ,

266

Deirdre Hoden

chapter have been simplified for presentation purposes. For more extensive discussion, sec Atkinson and Heritage (\984: ix-xviI. A: Yc 5, two.

Oh goo :d. How-

[

B: When did you hear! A: Hello: : B: Hi. =

[0.8[ [. [ A: Right. S: HOW MUCl-H A·. So··· . ..

A: We added toA: Surc. ll: Issues, C: Ca:mpus?

Brackets indicate the point at which simulta neous speech starts and ends. Utterances starting together are indicated hy double left brackets. When tllere is no audible gap between one ut terance and the next, equal signs are used. Numbers in parentheses indicate elapsed time in tenths of seconds. A dot in pa.rcnthcscs indicates a slight gap, typi cally less than one-tenth of a second. Italic indicates emphasis in delivery. Capital letters indicate that a word or phIase is louder than the surrounding talk. Colons indicate that the immediately prior syl labic is prolonged or " stretched"; the number of colons denote, approximately, the duration. A hyphen represents a cutoff of the immedi ately prior word or syllable. Punctuation lllarks arc used to capture charac teristics of spcech delivery rather than gram matical notation. period downward contour comma sustained contour question mark rising contour A dot-prefixed h indicates an in-breath; without a dot, exhalation. Laughter particles An h in parentheses denotes breathiness or a plosive delivery. Empty parentheses or items enclosed in single parentheses incida.te transcribers doubt of a hearing. Double parentheses are used to enclose a de scription of some phenomenon that character izes the talk or the scene. =

Heh-heh-huh-huh [h i l'I something!

Ucough)) llringll Ulaud bangl)

NOTES L I am indehted to Gary Alan Fine for this insight. 2. There are a few exceptions to lhis claim, most notably in the work of West and Zimmerman, who, in part of their studies of gender and interruption, U5(.'
267

People Are Talking

3. for excellem reviews 01 basic tindings i.1I conversation analysis and rccent ,csc.nch directions, see Heritage, 1984b (chapter 8) and Heritage, 1985. Levin· son 1 1 983} also has an iosighuul illtruduction to the field in his general discus·

sion of pragmatics (sec also Conein, 1985; Zimmerman, 1988; Zimmerman

and Boden, in press). 4. The larger study, "Hisrory as Talk," will attempt to locale this central series of telephone calls withiu

larger analytic framework, using

range

of audio and video, and convention:!1 archival sources available through the John F, Kennedy Pn.-sidcntial Library in Boston.

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Wilson, Thomas P., and Don H. Zimmerman. 1986. ''The Structure of Silence between Turns in Two-Party Conversation." Discourse Processes 9 : 375-90. Zimmerman, Don H. 1984. "Talk and Jts Occasion: The Case of Call ing the Police." Pp. 201 -8 in Deborah Schiffrin, ed., Meaning. Form, and Use in Context: Linguistic Applications. Georgetown University Roundtable on Langtwgc and Linguistics 1984. Wash ington, DC: Georgetown University Press. . 1988. "On Conversation: The Conversation Analytic Perspec tive." Communication Yearbook 1 1 :406-32. Zimmerman, Don H., and Deirdre Boden. In press. ''Talk and Social Structure." in Boden and Zimmerman, eds., Talk and Social Struc ture. Cambridge: Polity Press. Zimmerman, Don H" and Candace West. 1975. "Sex Roles, Interrup tions, and Silences in Conversation." Pp. 105-29 in Barrie Thorne and Nancy Henley, eds., umguage and Sex: Difference and Domi ---

nance. RowLey, MA: Newbury House.

Contributors KATHRYN FVNE AD Of.LSON is professor of philosophy at Smith Collcgc. HOWARO S. BECKER is MacArthur Professor of Arts and Sciences at

Northwestern University. DEIRDRE BODEN is assisant professor of sociology at Washington Uni

versity, St. Louis. AOELE E. CLARKE is assistant professor of sociology at the University of California, San Francisco. ELIHU M. GERSON is director of the Tremont Research Institute, San Francisco. SAMUCl. GIl.MORl'. is assistant professor of sociology at the University of California, [rvine. BARRY GLASSNER is professor of sociology at the University of Con

necticut. JOHN

R. HALL is professor of SOCiology at the University

of Cali

fornia, Davis. MlCJlAL M. MCCALL is associate professor of sociology at MacaLester College. MARy '0 NE.ITZ is associate professor of socioJogy

the University of

Missouri, Columbia,

JUUITH WrrTNER is assistant profCSSOT of sociology, Chicago.

Loyola University,

Index Abduction, 245 Abu-Am, l'nina G., 180 Academy system, 161-62 Action, 23, 26, 27 Actors, nonhuman, 198 Ad.1ms, G. R., 46 Adler, ludith, 152 Advertisem*nts, 225-30 Aesthetics, 169- 71; and aesthetic re sponse, 165-69; artistic communica tion, 163; Marxist approach, 170-71, value making, 161., 163, 169 Agency, 7, 246, 265 Alcxand�r, Jeffrey, ISO, 262, 267 Alliances, 181, 187-88 Althusscr. Louis, 40, 1 2 Ammerman, Nancy, 92 Analytic philosophers, 122-24 Anderson, K., 56 Anderson, Roben L 252, 267 Anna/cs school, 18 Anomalies, 184 Anthony, Dick, 92, 1 1 1 Anthropology, 247 Appci, lbby l\., 194 Apple, Michael, 8 Archittxlurc, 218 Architecture ot t.1Ik, 251 Armitage, S., 47, 68, 70, 73, 74 Aron, Raymond, 26 An, 2, 5, 9, 18, 148-74 Articulation work, 185, 197 Artifllcts, 184 Artificial intelligence, ?A6 Artists and consumption rdationships, 154-73 An markets, 161-64 Art worlds, 22, 148, 174, 175; and aesthet ics, 169; conventions, 152, 155-57, 159; dehnilioo of, 171; division of la bor, 168, 175; socializ.1tion, 189-92 Atkinson, J. Maxw�lI, 25?" 266, 267 Atkinson, R. f., 1 8 Audiences, 164-69, 191-93 Authority of fiddworkers and informants, 73-75 Automobile, 32, 38-39

Baier, Annette, 133 Bainbridge, William. 95, 96, 97, I I I B.1.kker, Jim and Tammy, 29, 1 1 1 Balch, Rob�n, 98 B.llsamo, Anne, 237 I3.1.MWagonS in science, 189-90 Barker, Eileen, Ill, 1 1 2 Barnet, Ross, 262 Barry, Vincent, 123 Barthes, Roland, 4, 245, 267 flaudrill:ud, Jean, 219, 22.3, 225, 226, 2.3 1 Baxaooall, M.ichael, 24, 159, 168 Baynes, Kenneth, 123, 141 Becker, Howard S., 4, 9, 12, 19, 22, 38, 49-50, 58-59, 69-70, 78-85, 128, 1.36, 141, 148, ISO-51, 153-55, J69, 180, 183, 185, 188, 190-91, 202, 26-1·,267 Becker, Marsh!llJ, 215 Beckford, James, 94, 96, 102, 103, 106, 1 1 1 Bdasco, Wauen, 22, 33, 39, 40 Bell, Daniel, 218 Bellah, Ruben. 109, 139 Bendix. Reinhard, 27 Bell1. � min Wah�r, 4 Bennen, H. Stith, 148 ,

B�nson, Keith R., 181 Bentley, AIIhuI f., 179 BergeI, B., 62 BergeI, Bri&i.ttc, 100 Berger, David, 152 Berger, Pelr:r, 19, 94, 100, 101, 102, 103, I I ! Br:rgmann, lorg, 252, 267 Berlin, Edward A" 22, 32, 33 Bernal, J. D., 179 Besnier, Niko, 250, 267 Bibby, RegIl i ald, I I I Bielby. Denise D., 252, 256-59, 266 Bijker, Wiebe E., 183

Biotechnology, 196 "Black boxes," 1&3 Black Power MOllement, I I I Blumer, HeIb",!!, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, II, 13, 17, 18, 19, 78, i27-28, 13J, 134-35, 165, 180, 245-46, 251, 253, 255, 259, 261,167

277

Index

278

Boden, Deirdre, 247, 2S0-fl2, 256-59,

261, 266. 267-68, 272 Body, I I , 12, 215-38 Bohman, 1_. 113, 141 Bondi, Ridl:ud, 130, 133 Bord, Richard J • 107 Bordl, Merriiry, 182, 197 Botany, 192 Bourdicu, Picrre, 16, 13, 1 72-73, 197, 246, 268 Bowman, Stanley, 229 Rrainw,lshing tl1csis, 95 B raudd, f-erdinand, 2, 18 Brecher, I-, 75, 77-78 BrOOkey, Lind.l, 9 Brody, lanc, 215 Brown, Beverly, 222 .

Brown, Paula, J n Brown, Rita Mac, 215 Bruner, E., 53, 58 Bruner, Jerome, 81, 130, 258, 268 Bruno, Giuliana, 226, 229 Bucher, Rue, 180, 190 Burgt.-'s5, R., 68-69 Busch, Lawrence, 195, 196

Button, Graham, 252, 268 Cailon, Michel. 180, lSI, 183, 188, 198 Cambrosio, Alberto, 181, 182, 186, 202 Capitalism. 22, 39 Career, 131-32, 135 Carper, James, 180 Carroll, David, 26 Case study, 51-54 C'sey, Neil, 252, 268 Castillo-Salgado, Peter, 234 Cawclti, lohn, 158 Ccmcrs of authority, 188, 189 Ccntre for Contemporary Cuhural

Studies, 4, 6 Chapkis Wendy, 232 C hapoulic, '.-M., 53, 86 ChariBma, 104; Catholic charismatics, 98, ,

100, 101, 103, 105, Ill; charismatic au· thority, l04i charismatics, 90, 91, 97, 100, 101, I I I Charismatic renewal !movementl, 107, l lO, 1 I 1 , 1 1 2 Cbarlatan.ism, 34-35 Charlton, 'oy c., 180 Charmaz, Kathy, 108 Chalclin, Yves, 195 C berlin, A., 60

Chesnaux, ,., 47, 73, 76 Chicago School, 245 i m, \04 Christian, Willa ChriStianity, 2 1-22, 29 Chubin, Daryl E., 202 Citalion analyses, 180 Clarke, AJdc E., 159, 181, 186, 192, 193,

201, 203, 204 Clark e, Garry, 217 Class, 171-73 Classrooms, 252 Clayman, Stcven, 252, ?I.s Clifford, ,ames, 18, 20, 55, 74, 75, 80 Clow, Harvey, 101 Cmling, 137-38 Cohen, 5.lndc, 26, 28, 35, 38-41 Collins, Harry M., 180, 183 Collins, James, 231 Collins, Randall, 39, 179, 246, 250, 262, 265, 268 Commodity development, 196-98 Communication, 247, 249, 255 Complexity, 225 Comstock, George, 164 Concert music, 155-57, 165-66 Concin, Bcmard 267, 268 Conflict perspectives, 180 Conquergood, Dwight, 46 Conrad, Peter, 234 Consumption, 164-73 ,

Contents of scientific and technological

work, 184 Comingency, 6 Convcntion, 152, 156-57, 157-59, 166-67, 183 Conversation, 124 Conversation analySiS, 13, 244-67 Conversion, 6, 92, 95-101, 107, III; alternation, 101; con�ersion career, 98; and deprivation, 95, 101; amlmatt:rial rewards, 104; social networks, 96-98, 1 10; and structural avatlability, 97 Cooper, Mildred, 2.32 Coordination mechamsm, 151-52 Corporations, 233-34 Coser, Lewis, 152, 168 Couch, Carl, 108 Count�rcultur�, 9'1, 93 Crane, Diana, 161, 163-64, ISO Crapanzano, Vincent, 75-76 Crawford, Roben, 222, 234 Crim p, Douglas, 229 Crisi� of represenl.

279

Index

Critical dhnography, 7, 8 Critics, 162-6.�, 1M, 169 Cults, 92, 95, 96, 98, 99. See also specific

groups

Cultural: capi.tal, 172-73; obiect, 21 -26; polarities, 231-34; problem, 21, 23-26,28 Cultural history, 3 Cultural studies, 4, 7, 8, 9, 12 Cuiturc, 6, 7, 8, 109, 1 10, 112; cultural movements and cultural ehllngc, 105-7; defiuL.J, 20, 23, 41; dUfusion, 22, ideoculiure, 107, ills of, 218 -20; in stitutionalization, 24; malerial, 24-25, 39; network.<; and subclllum�s. 109; reli gious subcultures, 109-10, 112; revival, 22; subcultures, 1 10, 1 1 1 Danto, Arthur, 35, 142, 169 Davis, Winston, 95 Dealer-critic system, 162, 163 Death, 234 Dcconsuuction, 26, 35, 4 1 de Fame!, Michel, 252, 268-69 Denzin, Norman, 16,46,47, 78, 165, 174, 184, 245,268 Derrida, Jacques, S Deviance, 128-29, 131
F_nlightenment oriemalion. 1 19-22. 116-27, 135-38 Entrepreneurs, 193 Epistemology, 122, 135-40 Ethics, 123, 125-29, 130-3.� F_thnometI1odology, 17, 246-248, 261. See also Garfinkel Ethology, 247 Etzkowitz, Henry, 195 Evangelicals, 91, 108 Ewen, Stuart, 215 Facrory workers, M-67, 70-72 fa*gerhaugh, Shizuko, 185 fain, jean, 220 Faith healing, 91, 102, 104, 1 12 falwell, Jerry, I I I Farberman, Harvey A., 184 FaulkneJ:, joseph, 107 faulkner, Robert, I S9 faurschou, Gail, 235 Featherstonc, Mike, 215, 233 Fcc, Eizabeth, l 180 Fictions, 226 Fieldwork, 7 Fine, Gary Alan, 107, 109, 1 10, 112, 149, 262, 266, 268 Fischcr, M., 48, 54-55, 57, 75-76, 78, 88 Fiske, John, 223 fitness, 215-38 Folk concepts, 136-37 Folkins, Caryle, 215 Fonda, Jane, 228 foucault, Michel,S, 13, 40,222, 237, 245, 269 hankel, Richard, 251., 269 Frankfurt School, 4 FreMman, Riu, 232 frege, Gottlob, 123 frcidson, Eliot, 154, ISS, 180, 191 french revolution, 23 freuud, Peler, 218 Frisby, David, 226 fritch, E. F., 186 Flljimllra, loan 1·1., 181, 185, 186, 194,200 Functionalism, 34, 40; in science studies, 179-80 fUlldamemaiism, 90, 92 Gans, Herbert, 20, 171 Gardner, Gerald, 102 GardneI, I., 46

280

Index

Garfinkel, Harold, 180, 182, 246-49,

Hadden, Jeffery,

III

Hadjimcobuu, Nicn.s, 110

134, 269

Ca�·, �tC:I. 149

Halkowski, Timothy, 251., 1.70

CCtrtl:, cl*ttord, 4, 30, 47, 53, au, 93,

Hall, John R., 18, 20,25, 26, 34-35, 37,

107, 108

38,40,265

Ceison, Gcrald l., 182, 189

Gl:ndCI, 231-34, 252, 266 Ctorgil1ues. Thrasybulns, n Ccrbncr, George 164 ,

Gergen, Kenneth r., 79-80. 258, 269 Cergen Mary M., 79-80, 258, 269 ,

Gerlach, Luther, I I I Gerson, Elihu M., 9, 148, 150, 159, 181, 184, ISS. 190, 193, 195, 200

Hall, Peter M., 9, 20, 1 12, 149, 197, 261, 270 Hall, Sluart, 4, S, 7, 1 2 H.alvorson, PClcr L., 92

Hamilton. Gary, 16

Hammond, Philbp, I I I

Hansen, Michael. 1 9<. Harding,. Susan, 104 Ha rdy, B_, 81

Hatt Krishna, 97, 100

Giddens, Amhony, 246, 250-51, :162, 269 Gil lick, Mund, 2 19

I-larris, T. George, 215

Gilligan. Carol, 133

H.assan, lhab, 235

Gilmore, Samuel, 148, 154, IS5-57

Hauerwas, St3u1t:�, 122

Giov.1nnini, Joseph, 135

Hauser, Arnold, 149 H;!yles, N_ R., 223, 229, 231 Heath, Christian, 257., 7.70 Hebdige, Dick, 2!7, 22S, 231

Glaser, Barney G., 68, 108, 165, 180, 2W GlaS�IICI, Barry, 115, 216, 221, 232, 261, 269

Gloc k Charles, 95 Cluck, S., 49 ,

Codde.� rcligion_

FAQs

What is symbolic interaction pdf? ›

Symbolic interaction is a process that is enlivened the reciprocal meaning and values by aid of the symbols in the mind. Meanings constitute of reciprocal interaction between persons. Objects don't have meaning on their own.

What is a criticism of the symbolic interactionist approach? ›

First, the study stated that symbolic interactionism fails to address macro-level issues, such as politics and history, in social structure. Second, Redmond opined that symbolic interaction theory misses micro-level issues such as emotions.

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Who is the father of symbolic interactionism? ›

George Herbert Mead is widely recognised as the father of symbolic interactionism, a theoretical perspective that gave new direction to research in diverse fields of study.

What is the main point of the symbolic interaction theory? ›

According to this theory, people live both in the natural and the symbolic environment. Symbolic interaction is a process that is enlivened the reciprocal meaning and values by aid of the symbols in the mind. Meanings constitute of reciprocal interaction between persons. Objects don't have meaning on their own.

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Which school of thought is linked with symbolic interactionism? ›

Mead and Blumer, both connected to the Chicago Schools of Sociology and Psychology, developed a theory of human interaction that was later called symbolic interactionism (Blumer, 1969).

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What do symbolic interactionists say about today's education? ›

Regarding today's education, symbolic interactionists would likely emphasize the importance of communication and social interaction in the learning process. They would also likely argue that education plays a crucial role in shaping individuals' self-concepts and identities.

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What is symbolic interaction in simple terms? ›

Symbolic interactionism is viewing society as composed of symbols that people use to establish meaning, develop views about the world, and communicate with one another. We are thinking beings who act according to how we interpret situations.

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What are the three principles of symbolic interactionism? ›

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What are the five characteristics of symbolic interactionism? ›

According to Blumer, the characteristics of this approach are (i) human interaction, (ii) interpretation or definition rather than mere reaction, (iii) response based on meaning, (iv) use of symbols, and (v) interpretation between stimulus and response.

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Symbolic Interaction and Cultural Studies - PDF Free Download (2024)

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