It turned out that the context behind this farmer's rejection of the artworks and acceptance of traditions related to their situation as an incomer in the village and the emotional pressures to assimilate into the community and local traditions. I came to understand that the relationship between art and farming is not just about how the art installation itself is related to the meaning of their farming practices. It involves far more diverse relationships that are connected to their mode of life as a farmer who engages in agro-ecological farming practices and a newcomer in the village, and the emotions and feelings that are tied to it.

As a cross-cultural researcher, I needed to know more about their form of life in order to understand the possible relationships they would develop with the artworks. Therefore, I changed the arrangement of the interview questions, I allocated more time to talking about their farming values and practices before moving to the questions of art. Not only did this help me to make better sense of their farming life, talking about things they are more familiar also helped to empower the farmers and reduce the anxiety of talking about art.

## **The Difficulty of Translating Life and Practices Under Cultural Differences**

Although rearranging the questions inspired more diverse discussions with the farmers over the artworks, I noticed that the limitations of translating emotions and local experiences through language were still present. After all, I still depended mainly on words to communicate with the farmers and understand how they saw the photos. I noticed that even a perfect word-for-word translation did not help me to proceed smoothly with the interview. As a foreign researcher, I simply lacked the cultural sensitivity and fluency to ask the question in a culturally relevant way to delve into topics in which I was interested.

This is illustrated in the following extract of a group discussion, where apparently the farmers and the interpreter have a different understanding of 'nature' than my original question intended. They do not see nature as separated from humans; they also see humans as part of nature in their cultural concept of Satoyama. When I framed my question based on the western concept of the human/nature split and tried to understand how they make sense of such distinction, it did not lead me anywhere. My question got lost in translation because the interpreter and the farmers were not able to relate to my question:

(Q: me; I: interpreter; A: interviewee)

there, so those kinds of moments that they think as beautiful won't last. But for people here, they can observe the changes in different seasons; is that because they live a life here/they share a life with nature?

*A*: When you go to the deep mountain here, if there is a path, it means there was life there many decades ago. I see the beauty when I feel the traces of humans, just like I also feel the beauty from the piece of farmland that elders just weeded by hand, I feel the beauty of their work.

These moments were clumsy and awkward, because I just could not find words to communicate my thoughts. It is not because we cannot find the 'right words', but more that I do not have the cultural context to understand their connection with nature in their everyday lives, and therefore their experiences associated with these connections. Meanwhile, the farmers also did not understand what I was asking because the nature/human split simply does not exist in their cultural understandings of landscape. Through these experiences, I realized that there are limitations in language that I simply cannot transcend as a cross-cultural researcher.

Cross-cultural researchers in social sciences tend to focus on solving 'problems' in translation and making communication effective (Turner, 2010). For instance, how to get precise translation, a correct version of an interview transcription to minimize the discrepancy caused by language differences (Turner, 2010). Many social scientists are often preoccupied with words because they tend to believe that the world is static, definite and predictable, and through precise words they can discover these definite states that exist out there in reality (Davies & Dwyer, 2007; Law, 2004). However, my fieldwork experiences clearly showed that the world is more complex and textured, so that the challenge is less in finding an exact translation, than our capacity to understand what farmers try to convey.

Instead of getting frustrated by not being able to maximize accuracy in language, I chose to be reflexive about the role and limitation language plays in cross-cultural research. The language differences made explicit the cultural dimension and demonstrated that meaning is made outside of literal translation. Pereira et al., (2009, p. 5, cited in Krzywoszynska, 2015) believed that 'a lot of insight can be found, and a lot of knowledge can be produced, through explicit and critical reflection on the challenges and incommensurabilities of language difference'. For instance, there is no such concept of '*Satoyama*' in English. It resembles the concept of 'countryside' but is more than that. If it is translated from Japanese to English literally, it means 'the area between mountains and human settlements'; it is covered with managed woodlands and terraced rice fields (Brown & Yokohari, 2003). However, the translation neglects the values of nature implicit in the concept, that human communities (*sato*) and non-human nature (*yama*) coexist side-by-side in harmony (Yokohari & Bolthouse, 2011). The non-nature/human split does not only shape traditional agricultural practices in Japan, it also shapes the spiritual connections and respect farmers have with nature. There are also *Satoyama* landscapes in various places in other Asian countries like China. The distinctiveness of the Japanese one is the spiritual ties to nature, in which the Japanese believe that there are eight million deities present in nature (Iwatsuki, 2008). As a buffer zone between human settlements and deep mountain areas (*okuyama*), the *Satoyama* area is where they set up shrines to worship the deities so as to ensure coexistence and their guardian in daily life (Iwatsuki, 2008). If I just adhere to the mainstream western approach to strive for a precise translation and omit the cultural understanding that farmers have of nature, the possibility of exploring different approaches of nature/human relationship in another culture could be easily overlooked.

In addition, I also found that the language differences highlighted affective experiences that are tied to cultural practices. Feelings and affects do not just come with words; they are entangled with the specific social and cultural life of the interviewees. Although I went to the field with a local interpreter who acted as a vital cultural broker, it was not easy to convey feelings across cultural and language barriers. For instance, in the conversation about landscape, when I was trying to understand how farmers categorize and distinguish human and nature, the farmers were relating it to how they feel the beauty from the collaboration between humans and nature in an affective way. However, a perfect linguistic translation did not make me experience the feeling of beauty they have experienced. In the following conversation, I was still trying hard to understand from the interpreter the kind of beauty they were referring to:

It is therefore important for the interpreter to be sensitive about cultural differences; they have to understand peoples' feelings, reframing them and making them 'reasonable' to researchers from a different cultural context (Turner, 2010).2 However, in the process of making feelings 'reasonable', the quality of the feelings described is incomparable with how it was experienced (Harrison, 2007). One of the respondents of Giustini (2019, p. 195) illustrated the limitations of language when it comes to the expression of emotions: 'sometimes we can't find the linguistic or cultural expression that would match the same level of emotion, but we try to do as much as we can to impact the audience'.

## **Opening up New Ways of Seeing Through Photo Elicitation**

The use of photography in research is not something new; it first appeared in 1957 to study how different ethnic groups adapt to residence and new forms of work in urban factories (Collier, 1957, cited in Harper, 2002). Since then, photography has been increasingly used in various social sciences disciplines. There are different methods, as photos can be provided by the researcher or taken by research participants through

2 The roles and influences of interpreters in cross-cultural research is a subject in its own right, and this book chapter is too limited in scope for more in-depth discussions. When one can speak a particular language, it does not automatically mean that you can represent a culture. The sensitivity to cultural differences is not only shaped by one's cultural background, it is also shaped by one's social background, positionality, personality traits, language proficiency, and so on (Turner, 2010; see also: Caretta, 2015; Temple, 2002; Temple & Young, 2004).

a camera handed to them. Also, different terms, such as photo voice, participatory photography and reflexive photography, have emerged to denote the varying use of photography in research.

Photo elicitation is broadly defined as a qualitative research method where photography is used to enrich and complement research data (Harper, 2002; see also Axinte, this book). The advantages of using photography in research are well documented, including research about farmers, or those in natural resources settings (e.g., Beilin, 2005; Sherren & Verstraten, 2013; Sherren et al., 2012). For instance, visual materials prompt respondents to reflect on things that they did not get to discuss in talk-only interviews (Rose, 2014). By putting farmers in control of the conversations that emerged, photo elicitation helps researchers to study complex issues that can be very personal and deeply held by farmers (e.g., farm landscape management), in a manageable and sensitive way (Sherren et al., 2010, 2012).

In photo elicitation interviews, pictures are used to invoke comment and discussions in the course of interviews, and therefore to make various realities visible in data collection (Banks, 2001; Rose, 2014). This approach uses the structure of showing, and then telling what is shown; the image is simply used by the researcher as an inscription device to visualize a certain reality to research respondents (Rose, 2014). Even if the pictures are taken by the respondents, researchers tend to focus more on what is pictured and making meanings by working with what the image shows. For example, photography is also used to study farmers, but it is used in a similar way to trace knowledge and experiences that the researchers are looking for. Harper (2001) used aerial photos of farmlands and historical photos to interview elderly farmers about their memory and interpretations of farm life in the 1940s. By using the photos to make the old way of farming visible again, Harper (2001) elicited rich details from the interviewees about technological transition to industrial farming in the US, what social relationships were like before the transition and, more importantly, their feelings about those old days.

However, Rose (2014, p. 31) finds that in visual research methods there is an almost total neglect of the 'symbolic and communicative components that are specific to the culture'; she refers to these components as visuality. Visuality is the cultural construction of visual experience; it means what the respondents see, how they are able to see, and how this seeing and unseeing are governed by their cultural understandings of the messages inherent in the images (Foster, 1988, cited in Rose, 2014). In my research, my unseeing of the seeing of the farmers has, in many ways, highlighted how their seeing is specific to the social and cultural contexts of Japan.

Initially, I aimed to use the photos to elicit more information and make it easier for the farmers to talk about relationships between art and their farming. In other words, I also used the photos as an inscription device to confirm the reality that I was looking for, without taking into account how the farmers see. Indeed, the photos helped a lot in relating the artworks to the daily life of the farmers. The combination of artwork and landscape in the photos encouraged them to look at the artworks as pictures or sceneries and share their perspectives freely. It turned out that the photos encouraged different imaginations among the farmers, and they shared more insights than what messages the photos conveyed to them. This was especially so in the case of those who said they knew nothing about art at the beginning of the interview. For instance, they related the photos to the past farming scenes in the area, the resemblance with their current practices in terms of values and actual things they have created like farmhouses, and their vision of the future of the local area. Indeed, their seeing was not just restricted by the art piece itself, but also the background of the artwork and the combination of the artwork with the background. Some of them also built relationships between their seeing and farming life, in which they projected themselves to certain artwork and saw how it signified the rhythms and characteristics of their farming life.

Through these experiences I found that the cultural differences of how some of the farmers and I see visual materials in the photos can serve as a good opportunity for me to understand the social life of the farmers and highlight their associated affective and sensuous experiences. When they talk about the images in the interview, to me it is more than just about what the images show, but also about how they see the images in certain ways. The fissure between the seeing and unseeing among us provided rich material to uncover different realities; this might well remain implicit and thus hidden in research conducted in the same cultural context.

For example, when I saw artistic elements from the photos of traditional festivals where people are playing traditional Japanese musical instruments, to some of the farmers those are cultural events that worship the spirits of dead people and convey the meanings of assimilation. Some of them saw the projection of traditional cultural landscapes in Japan from the photos, I saw nothing but just some forests with abandoned fields. It is these fissures that inspired me to ask more questions to seek clarification from the taken for granted but unobservable thoughts of the farmers. As a foreign researcher who lacked understanding about how Japanese farmers make sense of farming, this has opened up different realities of local farming context to me. These are realities very different from the one I encountered from doing a literature research, in which the literature mainly highlights the challenges farmers face under different structural forces in Japan.

By sharing how they see the pictures and what the pictures visualize to them, the farmers illustrated how they make sense of their farming life through a different form of knowing, one that does not separate reasoning, feelings, affective and sensuous experiences. These more-thanrepresentational understandings are embodied sensations, such as the sight of rice terraces, or the physical difficulties and embodied feelings of working on the land.

I also found that the point of using visual method is not at all about filling the difference between language and experiences resulting from the gap in cultural understanding in cross-cultural/same-cultural research to make communication 'adequate'. There is never a translation where language is 'adequate', especially if we also take more-thanrepresentational experiences into account (Harrison, 2007). What is significant about using visual methods in both cross-cultural and same cultural research is that it traces the limits and possibilities of mainstream social analysis, and inspires researchers to stop preoccupying themselves with language, and start considering how meanings beyond language can enrich our understanding of our research subject. The following are some examples of how the use of photos in interviews helped to uncover different layers of meanings through the seeing of the farmers and my unseeing.

Ikeda was amazed by the photo of the 'Rice House' in Fig. 9.1. He saw the life of a household in the frame, he saw a kitchen, a living room and a family living there. He related the picture to the concept of *Tanaka*, which literally means a 'house surrounded by rice terraces', and he saw the traditional view of the local village hundreds of years ago from the photo. As a non-Japanese farmer, I was not able to see the rich cultural connotation that the 'Rice House' carries. Yet, such unseeing captured my attention towards the nostalgia that Ikeda had towards such traditional landscapes, and the disappointment he had when he gave up some rice terraces last year, as cultivating them was too physically demanding. His seeing from the photo did not allow me to experience the same emotional connections he has with the landscape, but it highlighted the importance of considering the emotional aspects that are keeping farmers motivated to persist traditional, labour-intensive practices.

**Fig. 9.1** 'Rice House'—the metal frame merges with the landscape and rice terraces to form an harmonious picture in different seasons (*Source* Photo by author)

**Fig. 9.2** 'Scarecrow Project'—the red silhouettes represent the past scene of the family of the landlord working on their ancestral land (*Source* Calvin Wong)

Morita takes care of the rice fields hosting the 'Scarecrow Project' (Fig. 9.2, above). He was working on the fields every day; he did not think much about the artwork because it was too connected

to his daily life. Instead, he focused on the uneven growing conditions of the rice field in the picture. The rice field has experienced mudslides, resulting from rice fields in higher terraces being abandoned. They damaged the field, making it difficult to work on because some parts are deep and muddy. He related the artwork to these embodied experiences of working the field, and this reminded him of the need to keep rice fields active to preserve the landscape. This is in contrast to all I could see from the picture: the red silhouettes. Yet these red silhouettes did not matter to Morita at all. All the photo reminded him of were the uneven growing conditions of the rice plants. From his words, I was able to know the hardship he had endured when working with this field, but I was not able to experience his embodied experiences of physical fatigue and the emotional connections with landscape through language. However, his seeing and embodied feelings uncovered his sentiment towards preserving the *Satoyama* landscape, which is getting lost because in this mountainous area rice fields are increasingly abandoned. As mentioned earlier about the *Satoyama* landscape, to local farmers the loss of the landscape is not just about its physical disappearance, it is also the breaking up of human–nature collaboration and the spiritual connections. To him, the physical fatigue he was enduring was the bridge to rebuild this collaboration, it was associated with the emotional connections to the culturally meaningful landscape.

The strength of how visual materials are more capable in stressing emotional experiences became obvious when Shibata and Keiko talked about their feelings towards snow, respectively through words and picture. The lack of emplaced experiences made it too abstract for me to relate to Shibata's feelings about snow. Also, he believed that as a visitor, I would not be able to relate to the beauty they find from the snow in the area.

It is the light and darkness about the beauty. If you don't live here for a whole year, you don't know how tough it is to live through the winter. When you just come and see the beauty of snow in winter, the joy is different, and you also would not feel our thankfulness to spring. (Shibata)

Although I am not able to share the same feeling towards the beauty of snow with the farmers, the emotion related to seasonal changes was made explicit when another farmer, Keiko, relieved the feelings she experienced from snow, triggered by a photo from the artwork 'Human re-entering nature' (Fig. 9.3) in winter. Her experiences signified the emotional changes and embodied experiences of living a rhythm of life that is dependent on seasonal changes. For instance, the relief from working on terraced rice fields that are not accessible by machinery in summer, and therefore the calm and stillness she associated with snow in winter.

I wonder what he is thinking, I can imagine many things by looking at him… I wonder why he is standing like this, nowadays people don't stop, they are all moving around. But when snow comes, we feel relieved because winter has finally come. Maybe he feels relieved to see the snow and he can finally take a rest. It is such a good picture. (Keiko)

### **Conveying Research Results Through Visual Illustrations**

The cross-cultural position as a non-Japanese person has helped me to unfold different layers of meanings that might remain hidden to a Japanese researcher working in their own cultural context, as they might be too obvious to merit mentioning. However, as an Asian I also faced the challenge of adequately conveying the research results to non-Asian audiences through words.3 It was already difficult for me to 'fully' understand the farmers given the cultural differences between Hong Kong and Japan. As a result, the words of the farmers had already gone through a first layer of cultural translation by the time the interpreter translated the words to me. There would then be a second layer of cultural translation when I communicate my research results through words to western audiences, who are even more culturally distant to Japanese farmers than I am as a Hongkonger. The idea of visualizing interview quotes first emerged

3 Communicating research results to non-Asian audiences is necessary as the research is intended for publication and doctoral examination in a western context.

**Fig. 9.3** 'Human re-entering nature', Winter—a 4-metre high human figure that changes with the season (*Source* Anna Mak)

when I checked if the interview transcription is 'correct' with the interpreter. She told me that some of the quotes sound right literally, but the spirit and the emotion of the speaker is gone in the English sentences. For example, when Yoshida spoke in the following quote, the emphasis was on the positive and thankful feelings for being able to work together with the beautiful landscape to produce food. However, the interpreter felt that these emotions were lost, as the English translation sounded more like he was frustrated by the physical workload, which he uses to justify the use of chemical pesticides. She thought that it was important to emphasize the positive attitude through a supplementary note.

I always enjoy farming in the mountains, I feel proud that my rice and wheat came from these beautiful mountains, and I preserve the Satoyama landscape... I am taking care of the abandoned farmland, but it is taking too much labour and time to do the organic way, I cannot do all the work by myself, I have to use chemicals to weed. I want to reduce the chemical usage on wheat, I am looking for a good way to use them. (Yoshida)

Therefore, I thought of working with a local Japanese artist, whom I interviewed during the first field work in Winter 2019, paying her to produce graphic illustrations of selected quotes. I could use the illustrations to supplement the farmer's verbal quote and depict the scene of how particular experiences were understood by the farmers. Similarly, Dahl et al. (2012) used a graphic novel to retell the life stories of five homeless people they interviewed in academic research. Through portraying the life events preceding their homelessness, and how they experienced these events emotionally, the graphic illustrations draw the attention of a wider group of audiences to the complicated social issue of homelessness.

Together with the interpreter, we therefore identified three interview quotes in which the emotional and sensuous experiences of the farmers are especially absent in the English translation. Afterwards, I arranged a meeting with the local artist, in which the interpreter and I discussed these quotes with the artist and shared with her how the emotions and spirits of the farmers were lost in translation during the interviews. I invited the artist to draw three illustrations based on the three quotes; I also invited her to convey the quotes in her way. Shortly after the meeting, the artist presented me a first draft with five illustrations. I picked three illustrations that I thought fitted most with the quotes, and I gave her some comments and suggestions for aspects that I thought could be further highlighted in the illustrations. After that, she incorporated my comments, revised the first draft and delivered the final illustrations to me.

As a rare artist working with local farmers in this remote rural area, the artist has been using artistic design to help local farmers to market their products to both local and urban customers The artist therefore provided highly valuable thoughts and ideas because she understood the language and experiences of local farmers, and she is also experienced in converting the language of farmers to non-farming audiences through visualization. Rodríguez Estrada and Davis (2015) point out that not all visualizations are effective communications, and visualization is also not a blind process of integrating written discourses with visual illustrations. It is important for the communicator to not just understand the written discourses, but she should also be able to connect with non-specialist audiences through their language. In the design approach of the artist, she first understands the farming approaches of farmers, then she helps them identify the distinctiveness of their products. Therefore, she is familiar with local farming landscapes and the settings of the farms of local farmers, and knowledgeable about the farming approaches and practices of local farmers. In her design work for local farmers, she communicates these aspects of local farmers to both local and urban customers. Through these experiences and background, she can utilize the techniques in graphic design, e.g., composition, colour, layers, as highlighted by Rodríguez Estrada and Davis (2015), to convert the selected quotes of the farmers to paintings that are easier for non-Japanese audiences to capture emphasis of the quotes.

Using a visual illustration has the potential of supplementing the verbal quote to draw audiences' attention to the more comprehensive experiences of the farmers. Visual illustrations can help convey the emotions and sensations that farmers were trying to convey in the interviews in an imaginative way. To address the common misconceptions related to dementia, Bartlett (2013) used cartoon-style drawings to portray the lifeworld of dementia patients in a playful way with imaginative scenes in an exhibition. The exhibition received positive feedback, and the cartoons were able to generate fluid and open-ended interpretations. This example shows that illustrations can relate nonverbal connotations to readers of one's research in a metaphorical way. In striving for this, the hope is to inspire the reader to take these aspects into account in understanding the mindsets and practices of farmers. For instance, by just reading the following quote, the embodied aspect of learning mentioned by the farmer can easily be overlooked. The quote can be seen as being merely about cognitive understanding of farming knowledge. In fact, during the conversation the farmer did not separate the cognitive aspect of learning from the embodied one in the quote: how he feels hopeful and is looking forward to reaching the embodied level, more than the fact that he needs more confidence and experiences. It is difficult to capture his emphasis just by reading the quote:

I need more experiences, many things can change the condition... soil, water, weather and everything, I need more confidence in what I am actually doing, then I can move on after 2-3 year. What I have learnt from books and my mentor will be more in my body. I will feel more confident and have an actual sense of what I was taught. (Yoshida)

The following is a short account of how the artist interpreted the quotes, how she incorporated aspects that I wanted to highlight and visualize the quote.

Figure 9.4 shows a simple and subtle scene of a farmer touching and checking the soil and seedling with two hands: the artist intended to use this ordinary moment to convey different meanings expressed in the quote. She focused on the word 'soil' and used it as an anchor to link different aspects of learning Yoshida mentioned in the quote. In the opinion of the artist, soil shows the impact of weather, humidity and the environment; soil also shapes the condition of plants. Since farmers accumulate knowledge of soil through experience and practices, the artist uses the act of touching and caring of soil in Fig. 9.4 to symbolize the accumulation of knowledge as indicated in the quote. As I wanted to highlight the aspect of learning from an embodied level in the illustration, the artist presented the farmer without a head. The

**Fig. 9.4** Illustration of a farmer caring for the plant through his body to accumulate knowledge and experience (*Source* Megumi Hirose)

blue background has two implications: first, it shows a blue sky and aims to bring a positive and hopeful emotion that the quote expressed; second, the background meanwhile can also be the chest of the farmer, the combination of different colours signifies the fluidity of affect and feelings he has for the plant in his heart.

Illustrations can also visualize in a more realistic way the scene of how farmers interact with non-humans through various sensuous experiences in their farming practices. In the following quote, Yanaga shared how she used her body to feel and care for the plants to understand their condition:

The scent, you can smell it… you can feel it, touch it and you can taste it. If the crop is not doing well, I can see the failure from their shapes. If you look at a tomato closely, you feel the hair…. (Yanaga)

When she expressed the quote, she was excited and showed how these interactions with the plants and attention to small details motivated her in her everyday farming life. However, these emotions are also not explicit in the quote. In Fig. 9.5, the artist wanted to highlight the love and affection that a farmer develops towards her plants and tomatoes in the process of nurturing and caring for them. The facial expression of the farmer in Fig. 9.5 communicates such excitement when she is examining the tomato through the touch of her hand and her smelling the tomato. The farmer is surrounded and embraced by her flourishing plants in the composition of the illustration; it conveys the reciprocity of care and happiness between the two, in which the plants flourish because of the care of the farmer, and the farmer is happy when the plants grow well.

Similarly, Shibata illustrated how he plants rice by hand. In the quote, it is difficult to imagine at the cognitive level how human hands can transfer energy to the plants, within a western scientific understanding. The 'energy' he is referring to is related to the concept of 'ki-energy'

**Fig. 9.5** Illustration of a farmer appreciating her tomato like an artwork (*Source* Megumi Hirose)

in Japanese culture. The meanings of 'ki-energy' are very different from what the English word 'energy' conveys: 'ki-energy' signifies a vital force that flows between animated things and inanimate things in the world. In the context of this quote, it is a force that flows between the body of the farmer, the rice plants and the soil:

We like planting rice by hands because it makes rice more delicious. When we use our hands to touch the plants, some good energy is transmitted to the plants and the Earth. I believe in the power of it, that's why I want more people to be involved in my farming, and I can get a lot of good power from a variety of people. (Shibata)

Both the artist and I identified 'ki-energy' as the key idea to be highlighted in the illustration. The first image that popped up in her mind from the quote is a farmer transplanting rice with their hands in a *Satoyama* landscape. Being an incomer from an urban area, the artist does not just experience *Satoyama* through the visual landscape but also the smell in the air. She believes that a lot of energy is also stored in the air in the landscape. In Fig. 9.6, the white path signifies the moving of 'ki-energy' in the air embracing the farmers, the villages, mountains and forests. The white path also visualizes how 'ki-energy' is generated from manual rice transplantation, an aspect that I wanted to highlight. As the farmer transplants the rice plants using his hands, the 'ki-energy' gathers and spreads to the villages between the rice fields and the mountains. It signifies the process of how the delicious rice produced by traditional rice planting method brings good energy to people. The illustration also highlights that rice transplantation by hand involves more than the physical movement and visible touch of the plants. It also includes the invisible connections that the farmer feels with the plants and soil in the process of transplanting them.

**Fig. 9.6** Illustration of a farmer enjoying rice planting by hands to cultivate the circulation of 'ki-energy' between his body, soil and the plants (*Source* Megumi Hirose)

## **Conclusions: 'Seeing' Meanings Beyond Language**

Visual methods can be a useful tool to unlock the sensibilities of a cross-cultural researcher, or in general a same-cultural researcher who is overly or insufficiently familiar with the cultural context. They allow the researcher to better understand emotions and affects that are neglected in the research practices seeking singularity and certainty in social sciences. Through doing cross-cultural research in Japan, I experienced the insufficiency of language in understanding the experiences, emotions and feelings that farmers associated with their practices and forms of life. This led to many awkward moments when words were exchanged, but did not convey meaning. Using the photos in the interviews allowed me to gain a deeper understanding of the everyday farming life of my respondents in light of their specific cultural context. The photos also triggered associations that allowed us to discuss aspects of experiences that are difficult to put into words. Reflecting on what farmers saw, but I could not see, enabled me to co-creatively identify various more-thanrepresentational dimensions they associated with their farming practices, i.e., the emotions and feelings. Reflecting on the cultural constraints during data collection and the resulting difficulties of conveying meanings fully through using only words, I also explored the use of illustrations by a local artist to complement quotes, so as to more fully convey research results to western audiences.

It was through reflecting on the feelings of frustration and embarrassment associated with the language differences that I was able to notice how visual methods can help to uncover different layers of understanding. As noted by Law (2004), method is not just a set of techniques, every method is performative, it depends on what kind of social science we want to practice. Only when I stopped desperately looking for the 'right' words did I become more mindful of how the seeing and unseeing of the farmers reveal a different reality, one that I did not encounter in the literature on farmers in Japan. Indeed, 'method goes with work, and ways of working, and ways of being' (Law, 2004, p. 10). Being a foreign, clumsy and mute body in the field unavoidably influenced the interactions I had with the farmers. My questions often sounded strange to them, as I was not able to formulate my questions in a way that was meaningful in the cultural context of rural Japan. Fortunately, having a local interpreter who already knew most of the farmers helped to encourage the farmers to be more generous in sharing their thoughts and experiences. The farmers did not feel offended and they were willing to explain their seeing in a more in-depth way, making meanings and implications explicit that were a taken-for-granted part of their experiences.

I have found being a cross-cultural researcher, in the context of this field research, in some ways like being a blind person—I could not see directly how experiences and practices are tied to culture. However, through the incorporation of visual methods, this has not been a limitation; rather, the visual methods helped me to capture meanings hidden behind language. I suggest that cross-cultural research is a good opportunity to broaden, to subvert and to remake research methods. It clearly reveals that the world is so complex that we cannot fully grasp it. It also inspires us to transcend the habit of looking for security and the definite; to recognize the importance of opening up our sensibilities to uncover multiple realities through methods that might otherwise be dismissed as slow, vulnerable and imprecise.

**Acknowledgements** This research received funding from the European Union's Horizon 2020 research and innovation programme under the Marie Sklowdoska-Curie Grant Agreement No. 765389.

#### **References**

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# **10**

## **The Eye of the Beholder: Applying Visual Analysis in an Historical Study of Lynxes' Representations in the Bavarian Forest Region**

**Zhanna Baimukhamedova**

Yes. They will forget. That is our fate, nothing can be done. What appears to be serious, significant, so very important—when the time comes—will be forgotten or seem so trivial.

—A. Chekhov, *Three Sisters*

### **Introduction**

Wild animals occupy a special place in the human psyche: our oldest companions on the planet, their wilderness often served as a backdrop to highlight people's humanity. One of the earliest examples of art, cave paintings of game and hunters, is repeated century after century in different forms, media, and connotation. What has largely remained

Z. Baimukhamedova (B)

Rachel Carson Center, Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich, Munich, Germany

e-mail<EMAIL_ADDRESS>
the same is fascination with the wild, a hope to tame—when not in flesh, then in image. John Berger notes that looking at an animal, having it in one's proximity—even in the form of a still image—offers a person some sort of consolidation to the inescapable feeling of "loneliness of man as a species" (1991, p. 6). This "great divide" separating humanity from our natural environment commenced eons ago with the first instances of domestication and the beginnings of agriculture. This was exacerbated by the Industrial Revolution and aggravated to an extreme degree by capitalism's voracious greed for extraction and profit, marginalizing animals by reducing them to a mere commodity: a raw material, a fodder, a plaything, a spectacle. Never in the history of the planet were people so outnumbered by species that are raised specifically for consumption—and our appetites grow still.1

In qualitative academic research, employing visual analysis methods often evokes associations with a rather niche application. Rarely do they compose the cornerstone of an investigation in fields outside of, for example, media studies, art history, or *Bildwissenschaft* 2—in short, outside of disciplines that *literally* characterize, situate, and interpret images. However, while by no means a universal tool to fill the gaps in all academic enquiry, employing visual analysis builds up on a rather prosaic act of seeing and making sense of the outside world, imaginatively. Visual analysis is necessarily a creative process, and as a research method it opens up the possibility of forming conclusions from one's personal interaction with what is seen. To borrow the words of Murray Bookchin, who wrote under the pseudonym Lewis Herber, a task of enriching academic research to make sense of phenomena, whose comprehension might stall

1 For the progression of numbers in the past several decades, see, for instance, an article by Alex Thornton "This Is How Many Animals We Eat Each Year" at the World Economic Forum website.

2 *Bildwissenschaft*, like visual studies broadly, is a discipline that tries to understand and interpret the significance of imagery. Originating from German-speaking academic circles, *Bildwissenschaft* employs a variety of methods (often interdisciplinary) to analyse a vast variety of visual sources. Moreover, it focuses predominantly on the visual properties of an image rather than its other characteristics (i.e., its history or the political, economic, or social conditions of its making). For a fuller explanation of differences between *Bildwissenschaft* and other visual studies, see Jason Gaiger, "The Idea of Universal Bildwissenschaft", *Estetika: The European Journal of Aesthetics.*

when traditional methods applied, "calls for imaginative departures from conventional approaches" (2018, p. 17).

In this chapter I reflect upon employing visual analysis to corroborate an historical narrative, tracing the development of human–wildlife relationships in the Bavarian Forest region. Using the example of Eurasian lynx, I closely study their visual representations in the span of the past 50 years. Unlike many other large carnivores, lynxes with their reticent, somehow shy appearance tend to be viewed favourably and are generally considered a charismatic species.3 The local population has been progressively more accepting of lynxes' presence.4 Therefore, the aim of this chapter is to answer the question: how these changes are visually represented in the local media? Critically analysing representations of lynxes helps us understand how this fluctuating dynamic has been visually captured over the years.

The task appears simple and complex at the same time. Its simplicity lies in the fact that, in principle, media reflects general public attitude, and since the trajectory of lynxes' dispersal in the area can be considered a success story, one expects the local media to have a generally positive coverage. At the same time, as famously noted by Edward S. Herman and Noam Chomsky (2002), media have the capacity to form popular opinion based on the assumption that they truthfully represent the opinion of the public. The capacity of media to affectively inform people's opinions makes it a powerful instrument to propagate a certain agenda. Moreover, local media sources commonly evoke a feeling of proximity: since physically they are often located in or very close to a place that they cover in their reports, they appear more accessible and trustworthy than regional, state, or international media. The way local media cover a sensitive topic, such as the return of large carnivores, can

3 Charisma here, as Jamie Lorimer explains, is a set of characteristics that have a popular appeal for circulation in the media and, by extension, markets. Aesthetic charisma, he continues, "describes the visual appearance of a species in print, on film, or in the spectacular encounters of ecotourism" (2015, p. 40). An animal whose look people tend to view favourably can become the face of a campaign and thus lend its attractiveness to the campaign itself.

4 It is, however, worth noting that the presence of large carnivores is still a contentious issue. For a more detailed account of the tortuous path of the resettlement of large carnivores in the Bavarian Forest region, see Ulrich Schraml (2019) *Wildtiermanagement für Menschen* (in German).

have a direct impact on the general acceptance of this species. And since photographs may tell a story of their own depending on their interpretation and intentionality, critically analysing their content uncovers a wider web of relationships, interests, and attitudes.

Regardless of where, discussions around the reintroduction or return of large carnivores are typically laden with conflicting opinions. In the Bavarian Forest region, the slow resettlement of lynxes has been amply documented by local news outlets: from fearful to tamed, from welcomed to despised—the articles have followed the furtive movement of the lynx through the forest and at times in proximity, often fatal, to human settlements. Through this coverage lynxes' imagery slowly started to make its way into people's homes: not necessarily welcome as creatures of flesh and blood, these large cats entered collective cultural memory (Kuhn, 2007), enriching the vernacular with ecological jargon and, for once, ushering the possibility of coexistence of humans and wild beasts.5 While overall attitude towards lynxes' presence in the Bavarian Forest region has improved dramatically over the past several decades, analysing how lynxes have been represented could shed light on whether images illustrate this changing dynamic. Andrew Isenberg (2002, p. 60) once said that "[our] representations of wildlife are inescapably expressions of human values", and visual analysis allows looking behind a textual narrative to discern whether what we *see* of the wildlife corresponds to what we *understand.*

This chapter is organized in the following order: a general introduction to visual analysis that talks about why visuality is such an intrinsic part of human experience and what makes it conducive for research purposes; the following section deals specifically with wildlife photography, its affective quality that sets it apart from a visual representation of inanimate nature; the section on methodology tackles the procedural part of conducting visual analysis—the what, how, and why of applying this method; in the empirical section, two photographs of lynxes are analysed; the discussion section covers the applicability of the present findings in similar kinds of research on studying animals' visual representation in

5 See, for example, a volume edited by Marco Heurich and Christof Mauch, *Urwald der Bayern: Geschichte, Politik und Natur im Nationalpark Bayerischer Wald* (2020, in German).

the media; and finally, the chapter ends with a conclusions section where merits and challenges of the method are discussed.

#### **Seeing as a Creative Process**

As a species, we largely make sense of the world through the act of seeing: we intake, comprehend, store, and represent reality imaginatively rather than linguistically. By no means a "truthful", or in any way precise, visual perception is a bridge between the outside world and ourselves (Barry, 1997). Walter Benjamin once said that "[d]uring long periods of history, the mode of human sense perception changes with humanity's entire mode of existence" (1969, p. 5), yet what stretches further both through time and geographical terrain is the fact that principally humans perceive in images. The unprecedented proliferation of social media and streaming platforms testifies to a predominance of visual media. The entire fabric of certain types of contemporary work, leisure, entertainment, and education, to mention but a few, is woven in glaring threads of alluring, ever-changing images. Imaginary thinking is a *lingua franca* that makes a conversation, however restricted, possible across different scales, contexts, and geographies.

Visual analysis, broadly defined as a collection of methods to interpret and understand imagery, has been employed widely in studies of art and art culture, and more recently in other fields of inquiry as well. However, as Stephen Spencer notes, despite the growing popularity of visual analysis methods, social sciences have been rather reluctant to recognize and apply them as valid information sources on a par with text. He emphasizes the potentiality of visual methods to "provide a deeper and more subtle exploration of social contexts and relationships" (2010, p. 1) while at the same time acknowledging that within some strands of social sciences visual analysis might have limited applicability. It is the ability of visual analysis to show the familiar from an unfamiliar angle, coupled with the recognition of actors—producers, subjects, and "consumers" of visual material, which affords this sort of research a novel, creative twist. With that in mind, Spencer also warns that visual analysis should not be viewed as a scholarly silver bullet, a sort of innovative instrument that can singlehandedly substitute all other methods of inquiry.

In historical analysis, engaging with the visual might uncover how a certain subject has been portrayed and perceived throughout the years. By its nature, an historical study requires looking at a phenomenon as it unravelled over a period of time. Photographs are momentous, but a compiled body of several of them taken at different points could tell a story beyond a text, enrich textual description or give it more depth. Apart from a natural improvement of technology, looking at photographs could illustrate the development of a photographed subject: what is depicted in an image and how, which details are present and whether they change over time, what is brought to the foreground, what is obscured, and the reason for either method. Taking a photograph, especially with the proliferation of smartphones, has become a routine occurrence, and while the mechanics of taking a picture might, by and large, be the same, *what* we tend to photograph, which instances we deem worthy of preserving for future use and reflection, differ.

The affective faculty of imagery and its expository significance for academic research has been noted by many. For instance, in *Camera Lucida* (1981) Roland Barthes's describes images that impel shifts in people's psyche that can later be translated into actions for a cause. More recently, Susan Sontag analysed the participatory competence of photographs, both taking and seeing. Images here serve as a sort of language through which both the producer and the consumer of a photograph enter a dialogue, creating a narrative that spans over time and space. Still images, Sontag contends, allow a way of examining reality that is otherwise impossible since a human's focus tends to wander. While appreciating this gift of a fixed gaze, she acknowledges that perceiving something in complete immobility is unnatural to our senses: "Life is not about significant details, illuminated in a flash, fixed forever. Photographs are" (2005, pp. 63–64).

Visual analysis of large carnivores can demonstrate how they were perceived at a certain point in history. For instance, in early modern English heraldry, Kathryn Will attests (2016), animals represented a set of highly specified characteristics, attributed to each beast and, by extension, to a person whose property a said beast visually inhabited. More contemporarily, as in cases with the reintroduction of large carnivores across the globe, their images go through a rigorous process of selection in order to convey a specific, interest-laden message. Varying from proponents of their return, employing images of large carnivores playing and tending for one another, to photographs depicting an attack on livestock or a blood-stained muzzle below a pair of empty glowing eyes, used by those whom proximity to carnivores appears rather perilous, these pictures hit every point on the gradient of attitudes. Canons of photography change over time, but their main purpose—that of an affective illustration—withstand the caprices of fashion.

A question might arise: how much background knowledge is necessary to conduct visual analysis? A trained eye, it can be argued, might see something inaccessible to a layperson, yet the methodological and conceptual innocence of the latter might offer insights to which a trained eye could be blind. An image is such a medium whose interpretation easily differs from person to person. Often even the intentionality of a maker can be misinterpreted by a viewer, endowing an image with a whole new meaning. However, the specific positionality of an imagemaker should not be overlooked: although what they try to convey might be taken in a million different ways, it is the unique moment of their engagement with a subject that then turns into a visual material in the examination. Susan Sontag confirms this influence of image production by saying that, "[in] deciding how a picture should look, in preferring one exposure to another, photographers are always imposing standards on their subjects" (2005, p. 4). A photographer snatches a moment in all its intricacy that afterwards starts living a life of its own.

Perceiving an image, intending to understand it, and take it in amounts to an act of profound retrospection. Visual analysis is a highly reflective exercise where a viewer must confront their situatedness to see something in an image that lays way beyond the apparent. By acknowledging their positionality, the viewer enters a dialogue with an inanimate representation of reality, getting a glimpse of the world that feels like it is more available, more accessible than it is in reality. Committing to visual analysis is not just confrontation of personal ethical and intellectual baggage, but also a manifestation of a certain degree of trust in one's ability to contemplate, discern, and appreciate "the immediacy of the moment" (Grady, 2008) and all its history, in making and being. As a tool, the applicability of visual analysis depends on the kind of research question one wishes to ask—and some answers might well be found in the visual.

## **Wildlife Photography**

Wildlife photography takes a somewhat privileged position in nature photography. Not only does it try to depict living creatures who, at any point, might flee the frame, but also, as in the case with large predators, it attests to exceptional patience and physical ableness of a photographer. Juha Suonpää, a researcher and himself an avid photographer, speaks about the derivative value of a photograph that correlates to the amount of effort a photographer must put in to "snap" that one prized (sometimes literally) shot. He concludes that, "whatever animal is rare, timid or exceptionally spectacular is considered to be especially valuable when captured on film" (2000, p. 59). This statement speaks to what Robert Castel and Dominique Schnapper discuss when they describe how, for a photograph to attain deeper meaning, they must demonstrate "weighty, imposing subjects" (1990, p. 120).

Wildlife photography as an art form has its canons—tropes, repeated scenarios, preferred angles, and such—that in turn aim to represent an animal in its natural environment *authentically*. There are, of course, other forms of wildlife photography that take place in zoos and enclosures. In such cases, its mobility restrained and behaviour rather predictable, an animal going about its everyday life offers a wide array of photo opportunities that can be easily transformed into a collection of spectacular images. Tamed to a degree, an animal nonetheless appears unquestionably wild not only because its look corresponds to what people tend to have in mind when they think of wildlife. In a sense, wildlife photography engenders the source of its own proliferation: since very few people have unmediated access to wild animals in their most agitated states, the imagery comes chiefly from the creative representative work of wildlife enthusiasts whose choice of subjects and compositions becomes the subjects and compositions inhabiting people's imaginations.

For instance, Kelly Enright (2012) observes that in wilderness accounts of many scholars and explorers in the first half of the twentieth century in the United States, the idea of what one would encounter in the jungle often preceded an actual departure: the conceptualization of what wilderness entails was projected on what was yet to be seen. As a result, many such writings reinforced the mythical appearance of the wild—and this work of imagination translated to an array of ecological practices, both in conservation and representation. An eternal debate on which nature should be protected (and, by extension, which species, large and small) always reflects human values—and these values are often informed by imagery, manufactured on purpose or incidentally. When it comes to wildlife photography, Derek Bousè notes that, "animals in the wild rarely appear as majestic (or as *cuddly*) as they do on the screen" (2003, p. 124, original emphasis), yet the sheer volume of dramatic shots—especially of large predators—makes it hard to believe that those animals can be anything but stunning, always.

While looking, perceiving, and appreciating the look of an animal, a viewer bases their judgement, at least in part, on pure viscerality, on the feeling of interacting with a beast in a rather unmediated way. In the process, personal history, experiences, and professional occupation of an observer can surface without one's active will—after all, none of us can help knowing what we know. What triggers a certain association often bypasses consciousness, and that is what makes interpretation an act of art rather than simple calculation. Close analysis of an image could enrich a narrative in a way unattainable by the means of text alone: while inherently subjective and rather indiscriminate as to what kind of background knowledge a person possesses, visual analysis opens up an opportunity to create a story, compellingly different from what a photographer might have intended. Certainly, text might have just as many readings as an image, yet most text has some sort of a structure that makes its interpretation a more orderly affair.

## **Methodology**

Unlike most other research methods, visual analysis is an activity that we all engage in constantly across our personal and professional lives. Saturated with images, everyday life offers innumerable opportunities for engaging with the visual. Employing visual analysis for research purposes does not differ drastically from observing the outside world by means of seeing—rather, the differences lay in the level of consciousness, as well as rigour, depth of critical reflection, and purposes towards which the act is targeted. Applying visual analysis in research necessitates the creation of a mental space where a person is invited to derive information using a regular yet often overlooked medium—the visual. Exploring possibilities of visual analysis makes an important contribution to our knowledge because, building on an everyday activity of seeing, it propels one to question their first visual impressions, to look more intently in order to really see*.*

Before attempting an historical study of photographs, one is inevitably confronted with several logistical issues: which images to pick, how to access them, which timeframe is sufficient to show an historical progression, how many photographs constitute a minimum necessary sample. There is no one universal answer and addressing these issues already constitutes the first step of the research process. Just like any other method of investigation, visual analysis aims to answer a specific research question. Therefore, first and foremost, one needs to think about what interests them in a matter, and depending on the answer, select a research method that is best suited to tackle the issue. John Grady (2008) suggests that a good starting point is to ask oneself whether the images, however many, produce sufficient information necessary to answer a research question. Since images often offer an innumerable number of interpretations, it is crucial to limit oneself with a clearly defined framework of a research question.

When analysing a photograph, Annette Kuhn (2007) outlines a four-step procedure, each addressing a specific part of the production, reception, and study of an image: (1) subject/s; (2) context of production; (3) technology and canon; (4) audience. These parts are not clearly separated and often blend into one another, allowing the forming of a coherent narrative rather than a check-list. To conduct a visual analysis of animal imagery, Matthew Brower (2011) expands this process by pointing to a question of whether the animal portrayed is, in fact, a living animal or a diligently reconstructed stuffed replica. While in present times wildlife photography predominantly showcases living creatures, in its inception this genre of visual representation did not shy away from depicting corpses propped to look alive6 or to paint zoo animals as if they roamed free.7 Keeping these components in mind when attempting visual analysis helps to navigate an image and produce insights that might be overlooked from cursory contemplation.

In principle, photographs of wild animals—including lynxes—fall into one of two broad categories: the authentic ones, acquired by luck or through the medium of a camera trap, and the "staged" ones, where the animals look majestic and wild, although snapped in the (dis)comfort of an enclosure or another kind of confinement. The arranged characteristics of the second kind of photographs are rarely recognized, for the underlying idea of an image is to convey the wildness of a beast or rather to project what the wildness of a beast constitutes in human imagination (Fudge, 2002). To borrow Roderick Nash's apt observation, wilderness and its inhabitants are currently gaining popularity, yet in people's struggle to see the wild, the wild is under constant human encroachment and runs the risk of "being loved to death" (2001, p. x): to capture an animal behaving naturally, it must be under continuous, incessant surveillance.

At its core, the wildlife genre has an underlying assumption that the scenes portrayed are unmediated representations of animals as they are in their natural environment—even when in reality each snapshot comes as a result of a lengthy production process (Chris, 2006). To help situate an image within a broader historical background, titles and accompanying

6 Contemporary hunting photography inherited some of this lore whereby fallen animals, when photographed, are portrayed as if still alive and even at times in motion. See, for example, Kalof and Fitzgerald "Reading the Trophy: Exploring the Display of Dead Animals in Hunting Magazines" (*Visual Studies, 18*(2), 112–122, 2003).

7 One of notable exceptions from this rather commonplace practice was a German artist, Wilhelm Kuhnert, who habitually painted wild animals in situ. His elaborate drawings of animals informed not only the imaginative perception of African wildlife, but also filled pages of many scholarly publications of the time.

captions might serve as guides. Admittedly, there is no clear consensus on whether they should be considered when analysing a visual representation of an animal. Titles are more universal when considering a work of visual art and captions almost always accompany a publication in a periodical. However, it is important to keep in mind that not all visual materials come with a textual description (including, for example, a person's own photography). They can provide important insights into the context of an image, but at the same time there is a possibility of involuntarily adopting certain judgements passed on by whoever created a caption. The literature on the matter in the majority of cases appears to leave it to the discretion of a researcher.

Wildlife imagery and the context of its production offer insights into broader social and historical changes. For this chapter, I selected two photographs of lynxes from a local newspaper, *Grafenauer Anzeiger.* The newspaper primarily covers local affairs of the districts *Freyung*, *Grafenau*, and *Waldkirchen*, and its headquarters are located in the same town as the administration of the Bavarian Forest National Park. For years, *Grafenauer Anzeiger* has been reporting on matters of the national park as well as at times serving as a means of communication between the locals and the national park staff. This proximity has naturally allowed the newspaper to take a close look at the national park's affairs and report on them sooner and in more detail than other newspapers.

The first of the selected photographs (Fig. 10.1) dates back to 1973, shortly after the reintroduction of lynxes to the area. Vanished from Bavaria for more than a hundred years, lynxes were secretly brought from the mountains of Slovakia, soon after the establishment of the first national park in Germany. The second photograph (Fig. 10.2) appeared in an online publication of *Grafenauer Anzeiger* from April 2016 to illustrate a report on a traffic collision with the lynx portrayed. While more visual material could be employed for the purposes of this chapter, after careful consideration a number of similar photographs were disregarded to keep the chapter succinct. These two photographs seem ample enough to illustrate the applicability of visual analysis in observing changing attitudes towards lynxes in the area. When analysing the photographs, captions proved to be an excellent complementary source of information.

**Fig. 10.1** One of the first photographs of lynxes in an article covering plans for their return (Source: *Grafenauer Anzeiger*, 6 October 1973)

## **Seeing the Lynx**

The October edition of *Grafenauer Anzeiger* contained one of the first photographs of lynxes in the Bavarian Forest National Park (Fig. 10.1)*.* The title reads simply "Soon to be released in freedom: lynxes in the National Park".8 In the photograph, two animals are depicted sitting very close to each other on what appears to be a large boulder. The one on the right, whose fur is ornate with more dramatic shadowing, is located closer to the camera; it squints. The one on the left sits slightly to the

8 "Bald in Freiheit enlassen: Luchse im Nationalpark"—my translation.

side: we see more of its elongated, so unmistakably feline body. Advanced understanding of lynxes' morphology would be required to guess the gender of the two individuals, but since the animals form an apparent pair, it could indicate the duty of proliferation bestowed upon them by their status of harbingers of the large carnivore's return. Conversely, the lynxes could also be siblings transported in a pair for company and comfort. The camera catches a human figure behind a wooden fence in the background and out of focus. The person nonetheless is a part of the composition, which indicates that the photograph was taken amidst people. The lynxes appear calm, human presence does not seem to bother them much. Both attentively look at one thing on a far side behind the camera; the camera angle takes the shot from a lower angle. The lynxes look imposing, yet one cannot help but see them as enclosure lynxes.

This photograph is interesting to look at because, as described previously, it corresponds to the strand of wildlife photography that tries to depict the wilderness by showing a captive subject. There are no cage bars that are normally associated with enclosed animals, yet the visible part of the fence and a significantly more elevated position of a person behind leave no doubt that lynxes are photographed while under a vigilant eye and, subsequently, control of humans. With many a debate that the establishment of the Bavarian Forest National Park and the following reintroduction of lynxes instigated, the photograph serves as a sort of reassurance that the animals would not cause much trouble—they sit, docile, free yet tamed. The photograph has a certain visual appeal with animals glancing to the right as if following the flow familiar to a western viewer.9 This direction is described by some as the "gaze in the future" a fitting visual accompaniment for a report on further plans to bring in new species to the national park.

The photograph also exemplifies a sort of commodification of wild beasts: living in an enclosure, lynxes have relatively sufficient room to prowl, play, and hide. However, an enclosure serves as a spacious yet restricted stage where visitors of the national park can marvel at lynxes, behaving *as if* in their natural element. To be fair, enclosures in national

9 For more detail on the validity of culturally specific positioning in visual media, see Bode et al., "Left-Right Position in Moving Images: An Analysis of Face Orientation, Face Position, and Movement Direction in Eight Action Films" (*Art & Perception, 4* (3), 241–263, 2016).

park management practices across the globe often represent a necessary trade-off—sensitizing people to the presence of often problematic species and attending to educational purposes of teaching about animals' characteristics10: they are frequently one the few possible ways of reintroducing/providing more roaming range for certain animals. Based on the caption, the two lynxes in the photograph were not destined to stay in an enclosure forever; however, an enclosure as a manifestation of wider human–wildlife relationships speaks to the fact that even the perceived wilderness of an animal can become a commodity, a spectacle. Not solely by the means of visitation and wonder, people consume animal objects through imagery, both making and as postcards, photographs, promotional material, etc.

Based on the analysis and literature review, it is possible to think of visual representations of large carnivores in three complementary ways: (1) awesome and fearful; (2) tamed and disciplined; (3) problem species*.* Throughout the years, all three have been employed by *Grafenuaer Anzeiger* to depict how general predisposition towards lynxes' presence in the area has been progressing. For instance, in the beginning, there was much uncertainty, for lynxes had been absent from the forest for more than a century and, as often lamented in reports dealing with clashes between people and wild beasts, knowledge of how to coexist did not withstand the test of time. In the meantime, farmlands and road networks had expanded dramatically, and locals were not necessarily convinced that the animal could survive in the altered cultural landscape. Figure 10.1 might be interpreted as putting forward an image of lynxes as both fearful and tamed—their posture invites admiration yet the surroundings indicate that, as impressive as the animals appear, they have been put safely under human management.

Much in the same vein, more recent photographs of lynxes portray animals that are free to wander but at the same time are subtly domesticated. An online issue of *Grafenauer Anzeiger* from April 2016 contains a photograph of the lynx Patrick (Fig. 10.2). The caption under the

10 "Problematic species" is an interesting concept because it speaks to broader human attitudes towards animals and nature in general: there is no intrinsic "problem" with a certain species rather, it is the degree of its living and predation habits negatively affecting people's interests that renders an animal a problem.

**Fig. 10.2** Lynx Patrick (Source: *Grafenauer Anzeiger*, 13 April 2016)

photograph reads: "Lynx Patrick was photographed with a tracking collar in the winter of 2015/2016 in Farrenberg bei Finsterau (administrative district Freyung-Grafenau). On March 24, he was run over on B12 close to Philippsreut (administrative district Freyung-Grafenau) and then died".11 Unlike the lynxes in Fig. 10.1, this one had a name, which lends a feeling of proximity and familiarity; he was not just a lynx, but lynx Patrick. The frame includes a boulder on which Patrick is resting and bare, snow-covered trees. Set against the backdrop of the overcast winter sky, the colour palette of the photograph appears rather monotonous with the only colourful element being Patrick himself and the tracking collar adorning his neck. Patrick is looking to the viewer's right; he seems to be unaware of or ignoring the camera. As in the previous photograph, the angle here is from a slightly lower position. Patrick is figuratively and thematically in the centre of the image.

11 "Luchs Patrick, der mit einem Sender versehen war, im Winter 2015/2016 aufgenommen am Farrenberg bei Finsterau (Landkreis Freuyng-Grafenau). Er wurde am 24.März bei Philippsreut (Landkreis Freyung-Grafenau) auf der B12 überfahren und kam dabei ums Leben"—my translation.

A barren, almost featureless background makes it easy to concentrate on a smallish, yet central animal figure. All of the elements of the photograph that have any motion to them (the many angles formed by conjunction of sprawling twigs, the curvature of rocks, the thick framing line of a naked tree, the overall movement from the top left of the photograph where the highest point trespasses the limits of the frame to the bottom-middle right where some other vegetation, out of focus, softly encloses the field of view) are at the fore, and Patrick is crowning the composition.  He is free in his element yet is also clearly tamed the collar betrays Patrick's otherwise supposed wilderness. Animal collars are inextricably objects of domination: they control, signify belonging, identify, and locate. Collaring wild animals has a number of practical and scientific reasons, yet *visually* a collar turns an animal into a pet. What a name does in a text, so a collar does in an image: Patrick stands for wilderness made a domestic matter.

In the forty years separating the photographs lynxes have established themselves as quite a regular species in the Bavarian forest. Still observed by very few outside of enclosures, they are monitored and like Patrick—some tagged with a tracking collar. There are sightings of lynxes provided by camera traps that at times make it to the pages of local and regional newspapers. Progressively, as technology improves and more people engage in wildlife photography, the depictions of lynxes appear more "heroic": whereas in the beginning, it seemed like the purpose of a photograph was to familiarize a viewer with the look of lynxes, more recently an image tells a story. To reiterate the point, Patrick is not just a lynx, but a named lynx whose life was followed and whose death was featured. In the photograph, Patrick does not look in the camera12; he is present yet detached. As we learn from the caption, Patrick was run over. The photograph transmits the feeling of separation quite well.

12 Eye contact is a common occurrence in wildlife photography and documentaries, serving to make a viewer feel a sense of connection and intimacy with an animal portrayed. See, for example, Bousè (2003).

### **Discussion**

Representation is never neutral and, as such, visual representation of animals has often been employed as a sort of leverage point, an emotional trigger aimed to deliver a certain message. J. Keri Cronin notes that, "images of nature are always already bound up in political, social, cultural, and environmental processes" (2011, p. 19). The history of humanity is intertwined with the life paths of our animal companions: enchanted by their unpredictable and, therefore, mysterious behaviour, people have been watching wildlife in the hope of glimpsing behind animals' impervious gaze (Peterson, 2013). Following the overarching momentous nature of photography, visual representation of wild animals affords a close-up look that is impossible for the vast majority of people (Bousè, 2003). It is this closeness, this manufactured intimacy13 of contact that makes wildlife photographs so powerful—when wild animals enter our mental space, it takes less strain to feel affected by and affectionate towards them (Serpell, 2004).

Historically, visual representations of charismatic animals have often been employed by different organizations to evoke an emotional response in viewers. These images in the context of the *return* of the animals, i.e., in an allusive acknowledgement of their nativity to the land and humanafflicted temporal absence, imply something similar to what Bernhard Gissibl described as remorse over an implied loss of peaceful coexistence between animals and humans. Framing this process in terms of "return" (unlike, for instance, invasion or colonization), signifies that for a while animals inhabited this area—and if humans did too, then at least for a time they managed to live there together. However, Gissibl continues, "[h]umans and wild animals coexisted in dynamic adaptation, and hunting was the main way of human interaction with them" (2016, p. 36). The story of large carnivores in Bavaria, as with many other stories from all around the globe, went along similar lines: predators embodied

13 Matthew Brower tackles this issue in his book *Developing Animals: Wildlife and Early American Photography* (2011). There he talks about how wildlife photography necessarily erases humans and the visible results of their activity from the frame so as to heighten the "wild" nature of a subject exposed. The authenticity of an animal is therefore a result of embellishment and manipulation on the part of a photographer or composition.

peril for humans, and humans retaliated—often, to the complete decimation of a competing species. Paradise was never on offer, yet as a mental image or a conservation strategy, it stands for a fine destination indeed.

As demonstrated by the examples in this chapter, the progression of an historical narrative can be traced in visual material. By closely observing the differences in photographs of lynxes in the media, we can engage in the process of trying to understand what messages are being put forward by employing certain portrayal canons and the choice of photographed subject/s. While it is possible that more photographs could paint a fuller picture of the changing attitude towards the presence of lynxes in the area, the two photographs in Figs. 10.1 and 10.2 offer an insight into the applicability of visual analysis as a research method in an historical analysis. A close reading of a photograph can engender material that an accompanying text might not necessarily transmit. At the same time, having background knowledge and analysing captions helps contextualize the photograph itself. Combining the two strategies could open access to a rich source of data, although, as mentioned previously, one should study imageries without relying too much on the seeming factuality of a written text: being informed should help one see details that might otherwise go amiss and not create a tunnel vision of what one expects to see.

#### **Conclusions**

Visual analysis has indisputable merits for a wide range of scholarly examination, beyond those dealing specifically with aesthetics. As a method of inquiry, it invites a researcher to engage with imagery to piece together information via one of the most common practices of all—seeing. Images often serve to accompany or illustrate a written narrative, but just as often they represent their own source of research data. As discussed previously, many decisions need to be made to produce a visual artefact: photographs, for instance, snap a photographer's momentous interaction with an object in a frame, yet they are also a product of all the thought work, editing, and narrating that come before, during, and after the click of the camera. Comprehending an image requires an equal amount of decision-making—to truly see, a viewer must recognize what they are looking for in the image and try to solve this sort of puzzle, where each piece carries its own significance. In the case of scholarly research, this translates to being conscious of the kind of question one is trying to answer and consider whether imagery suffices for the task.

In an historical study, visual analysis can create a space for more direct involvement with a slice of the past. Engaging with a long-gone moment by means of seeing is one of the closest experiences to an unmediated interaction; one observes as if being present in a moment, yet the still nature of imagery allows us to take time to scrutinize every little detail to form a conclusion, to narrate a scene. Again, people derive a great deal of understanding of the outside world by taking in and processing imageries, and when one comprehends an historical image, the past comes to life. Text of any sort necessarily conveys the predispositions of an author that, in many cases, is precisely what makes them an excellent source of information. In other instances, however, images can aid overcoming this innate subjectivity for they might have a higher degree of independence from the author's intentions. Certainly, like any other medium, images are far from objective, yet, depending on a research question, they might offer more possibilities to form one's own opinion on a matter.

At the same time, there are certain challenges and limitations to employing visual analysis as a research method in an historical study. As demonstrated in this chapter, certain insights require reading captions to grasp the idea of a photograph more accurately: in many cases an accompanying text could help to situate an image and have a fuller understanding and appreciation of it. While it is always beneficial to have a theoretical understanding of canons of photography and their affective faculties, images do not always fall neatly into one category. A wider spectrum of photographs of the same event might mitigate this issue, yet it is equally important to avoid selection bias by intentionally choosing images that fit a historical narrative. Additionally, depending on the timeline of research, finding suitable imagery can itself become a treasure hunt: while in the past century, and specifically after the advent of smartphones, photography as a means of recording a moment has been dramatically increasing both in volume and subjects photographed, some events and processes of earlier history might have a more modest visual output.

Visual analysis highlights an inevitable degree of creative constructedness in a research process. While interpreting a photograph, a viewer might possess sufficient background knowledge to situate themselves in very close approximation to the inhabitants of an image, yet as Rasmussen (1962) points out, the atmosphere *inside* of a photograph its sounds, smells, almost imperceptible movements, the play of light—is not easily, if at all, translatable through visual representation alone. While many conclusions derive from trying to interpret the intentionality of a visualized message, one can *imagine* what it could have been like to be in the frame—the sensual experiences that Rasmussen mentions—and corroborate or accentuate their impressions based on their knowledge of the image, its making, or its other properties. As a research method in an historical study, visual analysis could give depth to a narrative, illuminating details overlooked or mentioned in passing in a text. The interpretive richness of visual analysis broadens research material by inviting creativity in the process of contemplation. At the same time, it is crucial to always be mindful of what end visual analysis serves: a research method is like a tool, and the success of its application depends on the intended task and one's willingness to learn.

**Acknowledgements** This research received funding from the European Union's Horizon 2020 research and innovation programme under the Marie Sklowdoska-Curie Grant Agreement No. 765389.

#### **References**

Berger, J. (1991). *About looking*. Vintage Books.

Sontag, S. (2005). *On photography*. Rosetta Books LLC.

**Open Access** This chapter is licensed under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License (http://creativecommons.org/ licenses/by/4.0/), which permits use, sharing, adaptation, distribution and reproduction in any medium or format, as long as you give appropriate credit to the original author(s) and the source, provide a link to the Creative Commons license and indicate if changes were made.

The images or other third party material in this chapter are included in the chapter's Creative Commons license, unless indicated otherwise in a credit line to the material. If material is not included in the chapter's Creative Commons license and your intended use is not permitted by statutory regulation or exceeds the permitted use, you will need to obtain permission directly from the copyright holder.

# **11**

## **Back to the Drawing Board: Creative Mapping Methods for Inclusion and Connection**

**Talitta Reitz**

## **Introduction**

Amid the vast array of precious items in The British Museum, a small, broken clay tablet might appear rather unremarkable: a plain object, to inattentive eyes. However, this seemingly ordinary artefact contains a star-shaped engraving known to be the very first world map.1 In the *Imago Mundi* (Fig. 11.1), triangular shapes mark mysterious islands that the Babylonians thought were the edges of the planet (Unger, 1937, p. 1). Rectangles and lines represent the city of Babylon and the Euphrates River, both circumscribed by water: the *Earthly Ocean* separates the city from unexplored territories, and the *Heavenly Ocean* bridges constellations and the Earth. Drawings and cuneiform writings narrate ancient

T. Reitz (B)

1Object, *The Map of the World* , The British Museum, London, UK.

Rachel Carson Center, Ludwig Maximilian University of Munich, Munich, Germany

**Fig. 11.1** Babylonian map. The *Imago Mundi* conveys the origins and configuration of the world, according to Mesopotamic cosmology. Maps express culture and spirituality, combining knowledge, belief, and imagination (*Source* The British Museum, 600 BC)

Mesopotamic beliefs in gods, beasts, and other mystical creatures (Smith, 1996, p. 209). The map carries an all-too-human mixture of symbolism, knowledge, and belief. In other words, this invaluable relic epitomizes humankind's long-standing reliance on maps for understanding the world and telling stories.

Beyond its historic importance, the *Imago Mundi* articulates language, spatial information, and narrative. Extremely important to maps, these elements were retained across many cultures through centuries of mapping practices. But what are, in fact, the core attributes of maps? Some understand them as strictly graphic objects, but perhaps maps could also use non-visual languages (Harley & Woodward, 1987, pp. 1– 2).2 Perhaps there are maps that do not relate to tangible spaces, but rather to imaginary scenarios and abstract relationships. And is it really possible to create a "neutral" map—an object with no story, no bias, no point of view? The concern for the inextricable principles of maps has produced interminable debates with impossible-to-answer questions such as these.

Until the advent of cartography as a discipline, different mapmaking practices unsystematically explored these and other reflections with no substantial attempts to achieve a consensus. Nevertheless, with the alliance of mapmaking and science (Cramptom & Krygier, 2010, p. 11) in the nineteenth century, maps were regarded by academics as precise, visual, and impartial objects. They were definite and their purpose was to accurately depict space. On the one hand, this ambition expanded the scope of representation, mapping methods, technology, and survey subjects. On the other hand, it narrowed the range of experimentation, excluded narratives, and created a problematic divide: the artistic (subjective) versus the technical (objective) map. Predilection for scientific mapping methods produced an illusion of objectivity; the sacrifice of art, aesthetics, and opinions favoured precision. However, in previous traditions of skill and knowledge, this binary model would have been considered irrelevant and absurd, because the differentiation of art and technique—concepts of indissociable origins—is modern (Williams, 1985, pp. 42, 315–316).3 Nevertheless, this segregated discourse reigned in cartography for almost two centuries, perpetuated by mapmaking elites (map houses, academics, and the state) until the eye-opening defiance of post-modern ideas (Cramptom & Krygier, 2010, p. 12). *Critical*

2 The authors acknowledge as valid the definition of maps as graphic texts.

3 About the origins of *art* and *science*, Williams explains: "Until (the eighteenth Century) most sciences were arts; the modern distinction between science and art, as contrasted areas of human skill and effort, with fundamentally different methods and purposes, dates effectively from (the middle of nineteenth Century), though the words themselves are sometimes contrasted, much earlier, in the sense of 'theory' and 'practice'". This complex set of historical distinctions between various kinds of human skill (…) is evidently related both to changes in the practical division of labour (…). It can be primarily related to the changes inherent in capitalist commodity production, with its specialization and reduction of use values to exchange values. (…) This is the formal basis of the distinction between art and industry, and between fine arts and useful arts (the latter eventually acquiring a new specialized term, in technology)" (p. 42).

*cartography* sustains the intrinsic impossibility of objective or impartial maps4 and condemns the ethical consequences of such segregating viewpoints. To destroy this divide, the critique proposes new creative mapping methods for academic researchers and practitioners, which is the central topic of this chapter.

The surgency of new cartographic methods was progressive, rather than eventual. It was through a gradual discipline reform that cartography managed to take a hard look at itself and restructure mapmaking practices and power systems. Inceptive debates on the agency of maps and discontentment with cartographic "scientification" received attention during the 1990s (Cramptom & Krygier, 2010, p. 19). One notable effort was carried by cartographers John Brian Harley and David Woodward. Together, they traced a global history of cartography (Harley & Woodward, 1987),5 exploring maps as worldwide cultural artefacts. This all-encompassing work uncovered overlooked maps and mapping traditions since pre-history, including their impacts and geopolitical repercussions. Their research raised reflections about the realities and actors that maps can either favour or harm.6 Thanks to Harley, Woodward, and others,7 the critique slowly grew in debate circles, where scholars exposed and rejected the positivist "crimes" of traditional cartography. This acknowledgement opened the academic space for the new practices and theoretical approaches under the umbrella of critical cartography.

Amidst the critique, both inside and outside academia, aspirations of objectivity started to become irrelevant. Expanding notions and agents of maps have legitimized other forms of sensing, representing, and relating to space. As a consequence, the mapping *process* became the focus of cartography. Geographers Jeremy Cramptom and John Krygier define critical cartography as "a one-two punch of new mapping practices and theoretical critique" (Cramptom & Krygier, 2010, p. 11). Therefore,

4 Maps produced with a claim to objectivity or impartiality are addressed in this chapter as "scientific", "positivist", or "traditional".

5 Complemented by a third volume in 1998, by Woodward and Lewis.

6 In *The New Nature of Maps*, Harley discusses these inquiries more deeply, through concepts such as *cartographic silence* or (i.e., the omission, falsification, or manipulation of maps for the benefit and dominance of a specific group or authority). He outlined multiple principles of cartographic misuse that enable or reinforce abuse of power and hegemonic perspectives.

7 Other notable critical cartographers are geographers Denis Cosgrove and Jeremy Cramptom.

its mapping methods are necessarily untraditional and constructivist. They support uncertainty. They discover new stories and inclusive meanings of space. Rather than the outcome (the map as an object), other mapmaking aspects prevail, such as transparency and participation. More relevant questions arise: which ideas, senses, and values are included or excluded in the mapping process? Who is heard and who is silenced? What purpose does the map serve and which transformations can it unravel?

This chapter discusses these questions through the framework of two creative mapping methods: social cartography and deep mapping. These approaches do not attempt to reject, but rather reclaim the partial, subjective nature of maps. Since cartography is inevitably limited, these methods recognize that creativity is vital to attend neglected necessities. Each section introduces one of the two methods with their origins, theoretical frameworks, reception, and applications. More importantly, they will show how these methods solve the challenges of traditional cartography, with hopes of demonstrating their incredible potential for participatory and environmental research.

One of the major problems denounced by critical cartography is the reinforcement of hegemonic perspectives. To avoid it, cartographers must explore the unseen, the concealed. Stories of the less privileged. Stories of the environment. In sum, maps need *to include*. All individuals and groups should have the opportunity to reflect, express, and opinionate about their territories and spatial practices; to have their stories told. In response, the first part of this chapter introduces social cartography, a method of acknowledging and legitimizing underrepresented standpoints. The section shows how the method was born within the social sciences and gained visibility in participatory planning. It also analyses its effectiveness against scientific maps, exposing its reformative principles. Finally, the chapter brings some examples of how the method gained momentum among artists, academics, and activists. Social cartography opened up new, free, bottom-up, hands-on forms of mapping.

Another problem relates to perception. As a visual language, maps have limitations in depicting personal and sensorial experiences. Abstract qualities of space challenge representation: the passing of time, flows and rhythms, memories, values, and interests. Maps could certainly encompass more. In addition, traditional maps fail to recognize the importance of subjective spatial experiences—precisely those that foster connection and place attachment. Sometimes, understanding a space requires it *to be felt*. Deep maps focus on such qualities. They aim to surpass the objective, the pictorial; a goal helpful not only to those who cannot see, but to all who do not feel particularly engaged through visuality. With literature, storytelling, artistic performances, and other creative practices, deep mapping bridges these sensorial and imaginative gaps. This method generates a richer and more nuanced conception of space, a reason why it is so necessary. The second section shows how the book *PrairyErth* pioneered deep mapping in the form of literary cartography, opening the floor to other creative approaches. Selected examples illustrate the method's emphasis on process and immersive experiences, with both informative and transformative benefits (for further extended discussion and application of deep maps as a co-creative form of research practice see Humphris et al., this book).

These two approaches are transdisciplinary and conceptually boundless. Oftentimes they overlap with different methods; an openness that can be received with discredit. However, their creators and users aim not at formality or definition but take advantage of this theoretical amplitude to generate new debates and push the boundaries of spatial representation.

Traditional cartography may be dead (Wood, 2003, p. 4), in some sense, but mapmaking still lives. There is not only space but demand for methods that challenge power relationships, both inside and outside academia. This chapter proposes that environmental activists and researchers of all disciplines incorporate and/or develop new cartographic approaches in their work. They can contribute to critical cartography by including unheard perspectives and inviting others to imagine how spaces can be different, better. As participatory practices within communities, these methods promote dialogue, empowerment, and transformation. Mapmaking is not exclusive to the elites and maps are not unidimensional objects. This is the great lesson of critical cartography. One must simply gather creative tools to overpower the old "Age of Cartography" (Wood, 2003, p. 4).

#### **Social Cartography: A Method for Inclusion**

"I'm surprised my body isn't in the Tyne. Before Elliott gave me a bed, I was homeless, I wanted to die". These are the difficult memories of Sam, a man without housing living in the United Kingdom—one of the many to have his needs and experiences daily brushed off by politicians, city planners, and the regular passer-by. His impactful words were written in the composite map (Fig. 11.2) created during the workshop *Imaging Homelessness in a City of Care* (Irving & Moss, 2018, pp. 270–275).8 To spark meaningful debates and defy preconceptions of homelessness, the project authors collected the marginalized voices of 30 people living in the streets of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. They discussed how social cartography can offer perspectives beyond conventional views of urban space. "Not allowed" areas, or notes such as "slept here" and "I was married there!" mark the places of homelessness' struggles. An innocent "where I live—nice area, family around me" revealed, in fact, a surprisingly difficult condition: the label was placed on a cemetery. The concealed, "undesirable" practices of the homeless—regularly addressed with pity or judgement—are openly discussed in the project, provoking a reaction, calling for attention and care. The map presents one of the many possible approaches to social cartography and its great potential to oppose exclusionary narratives of space, open new perspectives, and inspire social change.

But exactly how does social cartography create democratic mapping practices? To explain maps as socially constructed forms of knowledge, geographer J. B. Harley once identified two sets of rules guiding dominant mapping discourses (Harley, 2001, pp. 153–158). One set concerns technological systems that dictate *how to map.* These systems originate from the false assumptions:

(…) that the objects in the world to be mapped are real and objective, and that they enjoy an existence independent of the cartographer; that their

8 The 2014 project, by social policy researcher Adele Irving and social/cultural geographer Oliver Moss, was financed by the Economic and Social Research Council (ESRC), UK (kollektiv orangotango+, 2018). More information on: https://esrcimaginghomelessness.wordpress.com/.

**Fig. 11.2** Spaces of homelessness. Counter-map for the project *Imaging Homelessness in a City of Care*, in Newcastleupon-Tyne, UK. With legends and quotes, the map situates the daily homelessness experiences of thirty participants (*Source* Adele Irving and Oliver Moss, 2018. Creative Commons License: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/leg alcode. URL: http://nrl.northumbria.ac.uk/id/eprint/39919) reality can be expressed in mathematical terms; that systematic observation and measurement offer the only route to cartographic truth; and that this truth can be independently verified. (Harley, 2001, p. 154)

In other words, exclusionary systems of technology, skills, and standards categorize (and homogenize) the cartographic knowledge. Social cartography questions these rules by disputing the authority of selected parameters. It defends the legitimization of bottom-up, creative, and participatory maps. The homelessness map, for example, was drawn with the assistance of a visual artist but conceptualized by the workshop contributors—those who have in-depth experiences of homelessness but lack visibility and mapmaking authority.

Another group of rules, elusive but equally powerful, comprises cultural values. Related to ethnicity, politics, religion, and social class (Harley, 2001, p. 156), these influences guide *what to map*. Here, social cartography defies the presumed objectivity of maps by inquiring which realities are portrayed; by whom, and for whom. To exercise these examinations is to reveal the inexorable subjectivity of maps. Furthermore, as narratives, maps will always conceal one side of the story. Harley calls it *the silence of maps*. He argues that maps "exert a social influence by their omissions as much as by the features they depict and emphasize" (Harley, 2001, p. 67). Therefore, social maps are subversive for their focus on systemically neglected perspectives—another point exemplified by the homelessness map, which uncovers "inconvenient" topics of social inequality.

Those are the defiant principles of contemporary social maps. In sum, the method's contribution to the post-modern critique comes from the rejection of elitist cartographies, in favour of bottom-up and horizontal decision-making processes. As a result, social maps can generate dialogue or resistance against social and environmental injustice.

#### **Origins, Academic Use, and Criticism**

Social cartography holds no single definition or methodological delimitation. Different methods across disciplines have been designated as such, and their first appearances have neither been attributed to specific scholars or works nor necessarily sustained subversive intentions. Urban researcher Laura Vaughan understands social maps as those "whose purpose is to represent specific aspects of society at a given time and place" (Vaughan, 2018, p. 1). Tracing them back to the 1790s, the author links the emergence of social cartography to industrialization and urbanization. In this context, she emphasizes the work of social researcher Charles Booth and his role in "the phenomenon of the social reformer as urban investigator" (Vaughan, 2018, p. 2). At the time, and mostly in the UK, social scientists started to use maps for locating and visualizing patterns of social dynamics in cities. One contemporary example of similar use would be the racial dot map (Fig. 11.3), which represents, with colourful dots, demographic data on race or ethnicity. Produced in many different countries, such maps reveal logics of spatial segregation, especially when contrasted to urban infrastructure or poverty maps

**Fig. 11.3** Racial dot map of Brazil. Each dot represents a person of declared race/ethnicity as follows: blue for white, green for brown (mixed race), red for black, yellow for Asian, and brown for indigenous. The map reveals a predominance of black and mixed populations in the North and Northeast, coinciding with the lowest income areas, as indicated by the *Population in Poverty Map*, Fig. 11.4 (*Source* Post Advertising Technology Agency (PATA), 2015. Creative Commons License: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/leg alcode. URL: https://patadata.org/maparacial/en.html)

(Fig. 11.4). In Vaughan's definition, the subversive trait of social maps is not intrinsic—they merely reflect existing conditions of society and space. More often than not, however, they have defied biased positions simply by exposing the reality.

In another methodological direction, social scientists Rolland Paulston and Martin Liebman adopted social cartography for studies in educational policy (Liebman & Paulston, 1994) in the field of comparative education, in the 1990s. They applied the method in an entirely different way from the social reformers, illustrating its interdisciplinary diversity. With a rather loose notion of social maps (which, nevertheless, fits within Vaughan's definition), their research focused on social relationships instead of spatial dynamics. Their maps were similar to concept,

**Fig. 11.4** Brazilian population in poverty map. The map shows that North and Northeast areas of Brazil had almost half of the population in poverty. The comparison with the *Racial Dot Map* (Fig. 11.3) suggests a correlation between these areas and people of black or mixed race. The two maps are examples of a social cartography typology that combines social and spatial information (*Source* Brazilian Institute of Geography and Statistics (IBGE), 2016. URL: https://agenciadenoticias.ibge.gov.br/en/agencia-news/2184-news-age ncy/news/18835-one-fourth-of-the-population-lives-on-less-than-r-387-a-month)

cognitive, or mind maps,9 which organize ideas through text and figurative landscapes.

Paulston and Liebman's approach takes advantage of the overlapping scopes of map types. For them, non-rigidness is potentially insightful. Their social maps can be combined and reinvented: they serve as mere guidelines for creative research. Regarding definitions, the reason why the authors deemed it necessary to designate these conceptual maps as *social maps* is explained as follows:

(…) social cartography (…) does identify and represent on a twodimensional plane features perceived to occupy physical space. (…) however, the features are not mountains, rivers and cities, but the networks of humanity built on the variety of understandings and interpretations of numerous socially constructed associations, or cultural clusters' knowledge claims. Because cultural clusters occupy physical space that as often as not is contested, **we believe social cartography often identifies with geopolitical maps because one group's political features are what attract persons to a particular space. The ideological space they choose, their affiliations, directly informs their choice of real space so that when we as social cartographers map our vision of ideologies and social theories we are, in a way, also mapping the isolated pockets of real space** people occupy because of their choices as well as the real spaces they choose not to occupy because of those same choices [emphasis added]. (Liebman & Paulston, 1994, p. 240)

9 Concept maps allow for the exploration of several different ideas, containing labels that express their connection (Novak & Gowin, 1984). Cognitive maps express complex ideas through simple sentences, using multiple links between elements (Ackermann et al., 1992; Eden, 1988). Mind maps, often employed for decision-making, focus on a single element (idea, event, problem, etc.), mapping secondary or related concepts (Buzan & Buzan, 1993).

**Fig. 11.5** Phenomenographic/conceptual map of critical cartography. This map was inspired by the social maps of Paulston and Liebman. Phenomenographic/conceptual maps use an abstract representation of space to organize ideas and theories. This social cartography method reveals new connections about a topic and the relatedness of its elements (*Source* Talitta Reitz, 2021)

Perhaps the greatest impact of this proposal is the combination of ideas with both concrete and abstract spatial data, a strategy exemplified in the contemporary examples presented in the next section. Paulston and Liebman wanted to generate relational insights—not to "paint a picture". In their model, maps were not used to capture *visual* reality, but to understand *social* reality (Fig. 11.5). They mapped interests, values, and viewpoints that inevitably relate to space, but only through indirect associations. Therefore, this conceptual form of social cartography can assist in understanding how social actors and events occupy territories. It explores *causal spatial relationships*, rather than direct representations of space.

Through Paulston and Liebman, social cartography was established as an interdisciplinary, post-modern, and post-structuralist mapping method that opens up possibilities for inclusive discourses, mininarratives, and non-binary perspectives (Gorostiaga, 2017, p. 880). Different versions also gained attention in geography and planning disciplines. In participatory design and planning, the use of social maps surpassed disciplinary boundaries and reached the realm of professional practice. Community workshops, public consultations, and other forms of participatory initiatives started to include social maps in the development of private and public projects (Lobatón, 2009, p. 15). As a result, social cartography can oftentimes be confused with *participatory mapping*. For some, this interchangeable use of concepts is unproblematic, because participatory initiatives are necessarily "social" and attempt to break with the *status quo*. However, opposing perspectives argue in favour of a distinction. With the *New Social Cartography of the Amazon Project*, de Almeida et al., (2018, pp. 46–49) explain that, as opposed to social cartography, participatory mapping can perpetuate institutionalized discourses, depending on who initiates and conducts the process:

They [social maps] are distinguished from participatory maps. Because participatory maps, such as planning instruments, **are defined by planners** in order to incorporate communities in decisions which are made for them or will affect them. Unlike these maps, our social mappings work in favor of social movements and collective identities as well as intrinsic organizational forms (of mobilization and solidarity) adopted by the groups themselves [emphasis added]. (kollektiv orangotango+, 2018, p. 48)

To simplify, both methods are fairly similar and can, indeed, overlap. Both involve the people and groups who receive the resulting impacts of mapping processes and associated projects or events. Both have the objective of concretizing democracy and promoting positive social transformation. However, as discussed above, participatory maps are oftentimes unimpactful and cosmetic, mere checkmarks for the democratic planning cookbook. This deviation occurs because participatory processes frequently include only a handful of participants. They fail to involve key actors and communities, who, dissatisfied with the propagandistic, pre-established outcome of projects, choose (or are compelled) not to opinionate. Why bother, anyway (for further discussion of this point see Ramirez Aranda and Vezzoni, this book)?

Of course, social maps are not exempt from dissatisfaction or irrelevance. Geographers Susana Lobatón (2009) and Ulrich Oslender (2017) warn against social maps that, instead of creating counternarratives, nurture traditional, inaccessible cartography suited for topdown decision-making. They observe that, in social cartography processes, communities may end up adopting institutional language (such as regarding their territorial relationships in terms of property rights) or even using spatial knowledge to vulnerate the rights of other communities (Oslender, 2017). Furthermore, oftentimes it is not possible to ensure the usability of social maps in retrospective research; this is a reason why Lobatón (2009, p. 16) stresses the importance of accessible codes or captions for out-of-context readings. In other words, as with participatory mapping, social cartography is also criticized for institutionalization tendencies. But their scope is broader. The difference is: social maps are not *just* participatory. As exemplified with Vaughan, Paulston and Liebman, their essential premise is the inquiry about the spatiality of social problems and the defiance of hegemonic cartographies.

For its postmodern character, the method has been accused of nihilism or relativism. Yes, the scope, reach, impact, and obstacles of social maps depend much on their framework. Yes, they are subjective and confrontational by nature. However, as social scientist Jorge Gorostiaga sustains, social cartography—just as the academic critique in which it is inserted—is anti-hegemonic and intends to decline "the emphasis on 'the truth' to highlight the process by which something is considered true" (da Silva, 2001, p. 151, quoted in Gorostiaga, 2017, p. 885). As a result, this "umbrella method" requires certain independence from disciplinary prescriptions, to counteract the rigid ties it rejects in the first place. And so far, it has been heeding fascinating results.

#### **Research and Activism**

One example of social cartography that lies within the boundaries of research and activism is the work of American sociologist Nancy Peluso. In 1995, she coined the term *counter-map* to define seditious maps used against the abuse of power (Peluso, 1995, p. 384). The strategy was used by communities and activists in Kalimantan, Indonesia, to reclaim their rights against industrial timber exploitation in local forests. For two decades, companies and government institutions employed "official" maps as means to legitimize exploitative practices. Activists responded with a grassroots process of sketching and marking GPS points to create a counter-map. The instrument helped communities engage in debates, gain support, reclaim the rights to the territory, and secure the preservation of the forest. Peluso talks about *counter-mapping* the mapmaking practice of local people and groups that stand in opposition to authoritative maps, specifically those that support some sort of injustice. This form of mapping can be executed through a re-appropriation of formal techniques and technologies or the legitimization of alternative ones (Peluso, 1995).

Within the rich universe and exciting potential of counter-maps, one transdisciplinary and non-institutionalized project deserves special regard. *This is not an Atlas*, by European/Latin American group kollektiv orangotango+ (2018) brings many examples of social maps, with distinct approaches, aims, and outcomes. The edited book features projects in the intersection of socio-political activism, art, and creative mapping, described as follows:

The work of social mapping thus includes two aspects: an ethnographic one, which requires academic work, direct observation techniques, detailed descriptions and criteria to select information, and another one carried out by the social agents themselves, defining the use of instruments, their choice, the selection of what is included in the map. (kollektiv orangotango+, 2018, pp. 157–173)

Mapping with children was an exercise used in 2013, by activists Nicolás Frank and Fernanda García in classrooms in rural Uruguay (Frank & García, 2018, pp. 152–157). Throughout site visits, conversations, and workshops, the instructors asked children of different schools and age groups to create maps of their villages, neighbourhoods, paths, and daily spaces of life. The process included several steps: first, the children produced maps with no help or intervention; then, through debates and the assistance of existing maps and satellite images, they were able to compare and include new references and layers of information deemed relevant; and finally, collaborative sessions guided the creation of group maps. Discussions about their relationships to spaces uncovered important topics:

An example of this is the relationship between the creek where the children usually play and fish, and the new intensive agriculture that is taking place in its watershed. This agriculture includes the use of high amounts of pesticides and herbicides, which can be harmful to their health. Mapping these spatial configurations isn't enough to establish causal relations about health or environmental problems, but it enriches the collective process of asking new questions. (kollektiv orangotango+, 2018, p. 154)

As an educational exercise, this hands-on approach instructed not only about maps and cartography but about critical cartography. Moreover, it stirred conversations regarding education, identity, the environment, and spaces of childhood—reflections that perhaps remain as legacies for Uruguayan communities as a framework for addressing the necessities of local children.

This collection of social maps starts and ends with provocations. By self-proclaiming "not an Atlas", the editors and collaborators reject traditional cartography and propose something new, oppositional. Even outside of academia, every form of counter-cartography is critical and contributes to critical cartography. And they end with a non-conclusion, by including the perspectives of different cartographers and activists. kollektiv orangotango+ shows how both critical and social cartography are more than a critique and a method, but parts of an ideological movement that extends the agency of cartography to anyone.

Within this democratic momentum, new mapping methods, practices, and products continue to appear. In academic research, participatory practice, and activism, social maps can inform difficult-to-see, unjust social relationships. As described by Lobatón (2009), the role of the activist, practitioner, or researcher is to collect and voice multiple forms of spatial experience. Environmental activists and researchers have one additional responsibility, which is to include more-than-human narratives that can improve relationships with nature. As a result, the social cartographer can bridge communication gaps between society and institutional maps, thus supporting better and more democratic decision-making (Lobatón, 2009, p. 20).

## **Deep Mapping: A Method for Connection**

Imagine the map of a farm. Dimensions are expressed by clearly defined boundaries, area figures, and scale. Contour lines emphasize the topography, and hatches represent different surfaces: pervious and impervious; concrete, water, and soil; cropland, meadow, and pasture. But how to capture the scent of a wheat field, the chirp of a bird, and the patterns of a moving starry sky? How to represent the feeling of home, moist feet touching a marshy ground, or the fear of a wild creature crossing the trail ahead?

The methods of scientific cartography are limited; they fail to express *meaning*. Deep maps come from the urge to represent personal impressions of a place. Sensations, stories, ideas, and memories are difficult qualities to capture in a drawing. To solve this limitation, deep mapping proposes to seek depth. The adjective *deep* contests the conceptual "superficiality" of traditional maps in two directions: (1) deep maps are concerned with qualitative and subjective information, as opposed to quantitative data; and (2) they select unconventional forms of representation, rather than one, strictly visual depiction (drawing). Deep maps come from a humble representational standpoint—one that recognizes the limits of human knowledge and relies on art to translate the essence of a place. Precision is inessential to deep maps, as opposed to multiple layers of meaning. To literary scholar Susan Maher, the amplification of

**Fig. 11.6** Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve in Strong City, KS. A view of Kansas' prairie landscapes described in *PrairyErth* (*Source* U.S. National Park Service, 2006)

many stories (human and more-than-human) is their character-defining quality. "(D)eep map makes the 'deeply felt' its forte" (Maher, 2014, p. 133), meaning the principal function of this mapping practice is to convey perception and significance; the past and present feelings of place.

Deep mapping originated amid the rise of critical cartography. In particular, one book received attention for proposing a different form of spatial representation. Published in 1991, *PrairyErth: A Deep Map*, stands out as probably the method's most renowned example (Maher, 2014, p. 92),10 with two important contributions to critical cartography: the representation of *placeness* and the *literary map*.

#### **From Space to Place: The Process of Connection**

The discussion of *placeness* is essential to understanding the contribution of deep maps. *PrairyErth* recognizes an important correlation between space and meaning. In the opening paragraphs, the author and historian William Least Heat-Moon confessed feeling initially estranged to encounter a new landscape (Fig. 11.6) while passing through Chase County at a young age:

I've probed my memory to find even one detail of that initial passage into the western prairies. What did I see, feel? Nothing now, except our route

10 In *Deep Map Country,* p. 92, professor and writer Susan Maher discusses *Wolf Willow*, a much earlier (1962) work by Wallace Stegner, possibly the very first known deep map.

returns. My guess is that I found the grasslands little more than miles to be got over—after all, that's the way Americans crossed Kansas. Still do. (Least Heat-Moon, 1991, p. 27)

Years after his childhood visit, he returned to the Kansas prairie with a novel sense of enchantment. The secret for this new sentiment, this connection, he felt, was a gradual absorption of the place's hidden idiosyncrasies:

I drove across the prairie again on a visit to California, and the grasslands looked different to me, so alive and varied (…) I began to like them not because they demand your attention like mountains and coasts but because they almost defy absorbed attention. At first, to be here, to be here now, was hard for me to do on the prairie. I liked the clarity of line in a place that seemed to require me to bring something to it and to open to it actively: see far, see little. I learned a prairie secret: take the numbing distance in small doses and gorge on the little details that beckon. Like its moisture, the prairie doesn't give up anything easily, unless it's horizon and sky. Search out its variation, its colors, its subtleties. (Least Heat-Moon, 1991, p. 27)

What could the reader infer of this inner transformation? That the space, the prairie, gained meaning through the author's experience. This notion has been somewhat present in disciplinary debate since the 1970s. Familiarity, emotional connection, and space attachment are central elements in the idea of *placeness*. Examining the topic, humanistic geographer Edward Relph proposed a differentiation between *space* and *place*. To him, the notion of place includes human experiences and memory (Relph, 1976). In other words, a *place is a space with meaning*. 11

11 There is a danger in Relph's anthropocentric perspective. If a space happens to lack any sort of human value, it is not, by all means, meaningless or invaluable. Spaces have their own right to existence, regardless of human values placed upon them. Another human geographer, Yi-Fu Tuan, contributes to a different perspective in which both place and space have meanings, but opposing ones. Space is indefinite, vast, difficult to grasp or understand; whereas place implies something more tangible, real, and familiar. Tuan's conceptualization can be considered more environmental because it recognizes all spaces as inherently meaningful. *PrairyErth* and other examples of deep maps seem to rely on this more complex understanding of space and place since they put great significance on ecological relationships and more-than-human activities and

Limited or unpleasant interactions can result in *placelessness*, the absence of bonding or identification with space. This is the sense of detachment described by Least Heat-Moon in his first passage through Chase County. At that initial moment, the prairie meant nothing to him, not yet a place, but a space.

So, why are these concepts relevant to critical cartography? Because systems of oppression reinforce *the silence of maps* (as discussed earlier). Therefore, while some places are extensively surveyed, others remain neglected, "irrelevant". Deep maps re-signify the importance of forgotten or unmapped regions. Using Relph's terminology, deep maps can encourage the transformation of spaces into places, or at least reveal existing narratives and relationships. Individuals attribute spatial meaning through focused attention and embodied practices. Such a process can be conscious or unconscious, deliberate or incidental, prolonged or short—but it is always empowering. Deep maps bring placeness to light. Evaluating the contributions of *PrairyErth*, a Chase County rancher stated: "the book had a positive impact, overall. Because I think it raised our self-esteem. We thought: 'Wow, somebody could see something in us that we didn't see'".12 His testimony proves that not only did the deep map connect Least Heat-Moon to the prairie, but it also added new values to existing relationships between those Kansas communities and their environment.

William Least Heat-Moon sees the disconnection between humans and land as the main cause of environmental problems. His aspiration for the book was clear: he encouraged Americans to (re)connect with the land. In his mind, if he could show how interesting and deep the natural and human history of Chase County was, then others could start seeing value in their own homes and lands. *PrairyErth* encouraged such connection through the reading and inspired new deep mapping practices. It also attracted passionate readers to visit Chase County and to support initiatives for environmental conservation. By the time of

rhythms. In other words, deep maps can bridge this conceptual gap by blurring the boundaries between "valuable" and "non-valuable".

12 The documentary *Return to PrairyErth*, by New Truth Films, brings William Least Heat-Moon to Chase County 20 years after the book's publication, in conversation with local ranchers and book enthusiasts.

its publication, in 1991, century-old conversations about the establishment of a national park finally gained motion. The following year, by the efforts of proud ranchers and inspired preservationists, the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve was created. *PrairyErth* nourished—and still does—local aspirations to protect the ecology, the culture, and the history of the prairie landscape.

## **Literary Cartography**