We're off to see...

Before I get too into The Wizard of Oz specifically, allow me to say this: Haroun and the Sea of Stories, the novel Salman Rushdie wrote inspired by Wizard, is fucking incredible. One of my all time favorite books actually. Check it out.

Anyway! Onto the program - in this case, a cute little clip of some Indian schoolchildren singing along to music from the The Wizard of Oz. A sign of globalization if there ever was one. Even the singing (which appears to mostly be in Hindi? Not sure, but then again, I am deaf after all) is proof that language barriers are a thing of the past in our "information superhighway" age, if you want to call it that. Just as Rushdie himself was inspired to pick up a pen from the moment he saw The Wizard of Oz, perhaps one or more of these children will end up inspired in the same way: "[It] was my very first literary influence” (9). To see children imitating a film in which "the weakness of grown-ups forces children to take control of their own destinies and so, ironically, grow up on themselves" is interesting because it is a rather cynical but ultimately beneficial message for children. The performance seems loose enough that it's at least somewhat improvised, and I don't see anybody conducting them, so perhaps it is a literal, real-world example of how children can learn from Dorothy. These cute little munchkins (sorry couldn't resist) are also dancing in front of a picture of Jesus on the wall, which is unusual given Rushdie's appreciation of the atheist nature of Oz. Anyway, the other bit that stays with me the most whenever I reread Rushdie's essay - and it is very reread-able - is the assertion that the fantasy is indeed better than reality, even if the film tries to show otherwise through the dialog:

Thanks to Miss Gulch, this cinematic Kansas is informed not only by the sadness of dirt-poverty but also by the badness of would-be dog murderers. And this is the home that there’s no place like? This is the lost Eden that we are asked to prefer (as Dorothy does) to Oz?

A valid and also a bit sobering question indeed. Kansas is indeed a dull depressing backdrop, literally. No wonder these kids like acting out the make-believe and sing along to Dorothy to escape from the dull reality of a classroom, even if only for a few seconds. Like Rushdie, I'll take the fantasyland any day.

Jameson vs. Groening

From Frederic Jameson's Postmodernism, or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism comes this little barb:

"...The complacent (yet delirious) camp-following celebration of this aesthetic new world (including its social and economic dimension, greeted with equal enthusiasm under the slogan of “postindustrial society”) is surely unacceptable."

Whoa now, them's fightin words! Jameson essentially goes on to argue that postmodernism is a systematic destruction of modern art. Tying postmodernism with late capitalism and commercialism, Jameson explains that - at least, in his opinion - postmodernism is a global phenomenon that completely rewrites and thus devalues the content of previously original artwork. The "victim" of postmodernism, in this case, is Da Vinci's Mona Lisa, now reinvisioned as a Simpsons character:

Many of the characteristics of post-modern art are there. One is the commercialization evident in the change from the dreamy landscape of the original into a dull-colored suburban sprawl of convenience stores (note the Kwik-E-Mart in the lower right corner). Another is the revision of the actual character of the Mona Lisa. Jameson might argue that all the things that make the original fascinating - or, like Benjamin, the aura - are elements that are lost in the translation to simple cartoon animation. Gone is the subtlety of her "enigmatic" smile, now replaced with a distinct grin, gone are the details in her hair and asymmetrical face that showed the artistry in Da Vinci's brushwork. In its place, Jameson might say, is an oversimplification that loses its original meaning.

Postmodernism is indeed a sound rejection of original artistic and aesthetic values that had developed up until approximately 1950-60. Jameson does note that this has led to an irreparable shift in contemporary art, in which "we cannot...return to aesthetic practices elaborated on the basis of historical situations and dilemmas which are no longer ours." While The Simpsons has become a pop-culture phenomenon in which elements of our day-to-day culture have been transformed into thinly-veiled parodies (who hasn't, for example, been to at least one party in a place called "Bowlarama" or something like it?), it is not, however, in line with Jameson's arguments for the preservation of classical art. He seems to take a stance acknowledging postmodernism's irreversible effect on modern and pre-modern art and culture, as if to say, "While these things might not be going away anytime soon, ..." At the same time he critiques postmoderism as essentially "low" art, fraught with capitalist values and unoriginality.

Strapping Jack Bauer onto a shrink's couch

I would probably best describe Jack Bauer as a chest-thumping, hot-blooded American soldier - the kind of guy who would give you a sucker punch for looking at him funny. This reminds me of a joke in the spirit of all those dumb "Chuck Norris" one-liners:

Once somebody told Jack Bauer that he was played by Keifer Sutherland. Jack Bauer shot him in the face. Nobody plays Jack Bauer.

But joking aside, what makes Jack Bauer such an in-your-face masculine testosterone train? If Freud were to pop up and start stroking his goatee at 24, he would probably reach far back to look deep into Bauer's upbringing. Looking at Bauer's unblinking aggressiveness and quick (if highly questionable) moral compass, our favorite Austrian psychoanalyst would likely start scrutinizing Bauer's development of his infantile sexuality, possibly citing some very deep-rooted parental issues. As someone who represents the sole dominant figure of his family, with his marriage imbalanced and his daughter perpetually stuck in predicaments, Bauer constantly displays a need to assert himself over his family and others around him, perhaps suggesting latent insecurities and feelings of lack of control. Interestingly enough, no matter how hard Bauer tries, the one aspect of his life that he seems to have the least control over (at least compared to the job he handles at CTU) is his home life. This need to assert himself over others also displays a desire for Bauer to conform and assume the typical dominant male role, since his wife and daughter are often out of the scope of his ability to assert himself.

Yet Bauer does not simply assert his dominance over those around him. He pretty much slams it in everybody else's face. There is no doubt a constant urge and struggle for Bauer to outdo those around him and, as Freud might say figuratively, establish himself as the guy with the biggest penis size in the room. Bauer cannot stand for a masculine threat in his path, and usually overcompensates in his efforts to maintain control in situations, resorting to torture and coercion when grossly unnecessary. This suggests that his violent nature is a form of channeling sexual aggression and repressed desires, those of which were perhaps heavily suppressed in his child years. So if, in some theoretical, Sopranos-like world in which Bauer was in a counselling session with Freud, Freud would likely be interested in deconstructing the source of Bauer's overpowering masculinity, perhaps finding his dominance to be the result of childhood neuroses stemming from a lack of dominance or control with either of his parents.

The Final Barthes - November 5, 10pm

Without any prior knowledge of the content of the image posted above, I can deduce from my experience several things, Barthes-style. Because the text shown - describing a television show, as evidenced by the time slot and use of the word "episodes" in this case - is somewhat oblique, I assume that while some information is being omitted (in this case, the actual name of the show) I can expect certain information, perhaps even a message, from the visual tropes in the image. In this case, the image has a specific purpose, to convey meaning and content:

"...in advertising the signification of the image is undoubtedly intentional; the signifieds of the advertising image are formed a priori by certain attributes of the product and these signifieds have to be transmitted as clearly as possible. If the image contains signs, we can be sure that in advertising these signs are full, formed with a view to the optimum reading..."

This makes the image in question particularly unusual, seeing as it does not even mention the name of the advertised, in this case of course The Sopranos. This is perhaps for a number of reasons: those whom the advertisement is directed towards are already familiar with content prior to the "final episodes", and furthermore, the image presents an assumption: those who are familiar with American culture (note the title of the episodes here) are automatically familiar with the face of the character shown, as the advertisement suggests his familiarity is great enough to elevate him to the status of even a cultural icon.

"The denoted image naturalizes the symbolic message, it innocents the semantic artifice of connotation, which is extremely dense, especially in advertising."

In the case of the Sopranos ad, the denotative information (literal and directly interpretable elements: the background, the placement of objects and text, Tony Soprano's expression, etc) directly influence our connotative reading of it. Barthes suggests it "innocents" the deeper, more hidden connotative details, although I feel that in this case it specifically elucidates them rather than making them less imposing or indigestible for the viewer. Our denotative reading of the phrase "Made in America" and the juxtaposition of the Statue of Liberty - although we're starting to move into connotative territory here - seem obvious, making Tony's expression in which he directly looks towards from the two seem much more meaningful, thus "naturalizing" a symbolic or signifying image.

"The variability of readings, therefore, is no threat to the 'language' of the image...[it] is penetrated through and through by the system of meaning, in exactly the same way as man is articulated to the very depths of his being in distinct languages."

In this case, the lack of visual and linguistic/textual information are kind of unnecessary, as one can argue that you can determine almost every piece of visual information necessary from the image. Barthes suggests perhaps that it is in our abilities and natural impulses to seek for meaning and (to a more theoretical level) logic and reason in images, and thus despite the non-convergent elements of the photo, they fit together stylistically. The "variety of readings" also implies that there is no one interpretation is truer than another, and that each viewer can infer their own based on their varying degrees of visual literacy. Perhaps one interpretation from a viewer who knows nothing about the show's context is actually closer to the creator's intention than an interpretation from someone who watches The Sopranos regularly. The fact that the image retains significance regardless of context is proof that it is indeed thoroughly "penetrated...by the system of meaning."

The Daily 'Mas

I'm writing this a bit out of order, seeing as I can't find the Barthes reading at the moment (save for the Panzani excerpt on the Semiotics for Beginners site), so in the meantime...the public sphere!

My experiences with reading foreign theorists and philosophers have almost always been protracted and often frustrating, primarily due to the strong tendency for translators to approach texts in very dry and sometimes convoluted ways, and also in a smaller part due to the fact that the German language has some extraordinarily long words.

Even in small doses such as Laura Mandell's compilation of quotes from Jurgen Habermas, I found this to be the case. As a result this post might be on the short side. Nevertheless, let's dive in...

Habermas' construction of a definition for the "public sphere" is primarily drawn from historical examples of political and upper-class societies. In applying his theories to a more modern mode of discourse, specifically, the internet, we can consider online forums and blogs as modern versions of other arenas for discussion and discourse, such as the courts in bourgeois society. One key difference is that these modern, digital forums allow for almost anyone to participate in discourse. An excellent example of this is The Daily Kos, a highly liberal news aggregation blog, which features lots of contributors and a steady stream of public discussion on each entry. However, on sites that receive high amounts of traffic, daily updates, or host discussion on particularly controversial or publicized issues, such discussion is often moderated. In addition, posters whose political opinions flow against the general stream of discourse are often reviled or banned. While the Daily Kos functions as a news and media site, it also aggregates from other blogs, creating a dense network of cross-reporting. The informal nature of many of the posts and the open nature of the commenting function (in which any viewer can post feedback about an entry) mark a stark change from the historical nature of the public sphere, in which its participants were largely members of the bourgeois and social elite. The subject of discussion, however, has changed little from Habermas' original observations that "public...was synonymous with state-related." Even in their slogan, the blog strives to provide commentary on "the state of the nation". Daily Kos' content is entirely devoted to political and sociopolitical issues. Its intent is for its readers and commenters to discuss political issues and opinions which they have a mutual, vested interest in. This essentially is an exact example of Habermas' true definition of the public sphere: Its purpose is to

"engage them in a debate over the general rules governing relations in the basically privatized but publicly relevant sphere of commodity exchange and social labor" (27).

The key function of the site is not simply to stream news articles at its readers for their edification, but rather to allow them a public forum upon which to discuss them at length. Another unique element of the definition of a public sphere, which also encompasses the Daily Kos, is the way in which public leaders use the sphere as a method of addressing their subjects. The blog has been used invariably as both a platform upon which to campaign to voters, pander to the public, or call political issues to attention. Considering these similarities to Habermas' classical definition of public spheres of the past, the Daily Kos clearly lies within the public sphere, perhaps far more public than ever before given the accessibility of the internet.

The Benjamin Witch Project

In "The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction", Walter Benjamin argues that some form of representation of reality is a quality which defines art. He compares the images which paintings and film produce to argue that they both offer distinct reproductions of reality, albeit filtered through different methods of production. For a painter, assembling an image based in reality requires breaking it down into compositional elements. A painter then reproduces what he sees or imagines, in some way. This interpretation of reality is what gives a painting its aura, Benjamin argues. This is because the painter's creation of the image is intrinsically tied to the artist's impression or aesthetic depiction of the subject. It is unique to the painting, making it the artist's personal interpretation. Therefore, the two cannot be separated. The aura is essentially produced through an artistic interpretation of how to represent reality on a canvas.

Conversely, if we are to apply that definition to film, by Benjamin's interpretation then film allegedly has no aura. If an actor's performance is captured on more than one camera, developed to more than one copy of film, and screened in more than one theater, then Benjamin argues that the aura is lost, because the performance is reproducible and interchangeable. But isn't the performance still the personal interpretation of the actor's? Benjamin argues that an actor's aura emanates from its indelible link to the actor's performance:

"The aura which, on the stage, emanates from Macbeth, cannot be separated for the spectators from that of the actor. However, the singularity of the shot in the studio is that the camera is substituted for the public. Consequently, the aura that envelops the actor vanishes, and with it the aura of the figure he portrays.”

Yet if the filmed reproduction of the actor's performance replicates it, is it not still linked to the actor? If we assume that substituting the audience of a theater for the camera in a studio is what breaks down the aura of a performance, then we assume that the only thing that produces the aura is the physical nature of an irreproducible work of art.

In addition to separating the work of a painter from filmmaker by arguing that the art of a filmmaker lacks the aura of a painting, Benjamin also separates the ways in which the two works represent reality. Whereas paintings are created at "a natural distance from reality", Benjamin argues that film reconstructs reality using its own aesthetic code: "[The work] of the cameraman consists of multiple fragments which are assembled under a new law." Through visual, aural, and sequential information, film reconstructs an interpretation of reality which "permeates" it. This is especially true in the case of documentary-style films such as The Blair Witch Project, which attempt to produce an interpretation of reality which is as convincing as possible. By reconstructing a fictional story with close attention to detail and depicting a completely diegetic world, the film cuts into reality by literally substituting the audience's reality for that of the characters. For the duration of the film, The Blair Witch Project aims to convincingly provide the audience with a representation of reality, and expects them to believe in it.

An odd contradiction in Benjamin's description of film's reproduction or impression of reality concerns his assertion that it is "an aspect of reality which is free of all equipment." Despite this, the production of The Blair Witch Project is decidedly not "free of all equipment". While traditional American filmmaking aesthetics usually dictate that filmmakers should hide their presence through transparent editing and cinematography conventions, so as to immerse the audience and heighten realism, Blair Witch attempts realism through an alternate set of conventions. The use of documentary-style conventions such as hand-held camera shots and addressing the camera heighten the realism in this case rather than diminishing it. This is because we are led to assume it that what we see a document rather a fictional narrative. The artifice of the camera in this case is used to the filmmakers' advantage. So despite the film blatantly revealing its source - the "mechanical equipment" as Benjamin refers to it - The Blair Witch Project still permeates reality. As it is arguably successful in its aim of convincing the audience, the world it creates is fully realized and thus a successful "permeation of reality." This is significant given that this is what Benjamin feels qualifies the work as art, thus while The Blair Witch Project presents itself as a document rather than art or entertainment, yet it clearly functions successfully as such.

Meditating on a Pillow (Shot)

Film realism, from a viewer's perspective, is most often perceived through visual or audio content rather than visual sequencing. Actors' believable performances, detailed sets, and "real" cinematography (hand-held shots, in particular) are all considered tenets of classical Hollywood realism and documentary-inspired film. Editing, however, is not usually part of these aesthetics: instead, American realism is best described through editing as transparent as possible.

Edits are placed in the center of the action in Hollywood-style continuity. The sequence of an action would follow thusly: an action begins onscreen in one shot, and at the peak of the action the edit cuts, switching perspective to show the concluded action at a different angle. Because the viewer's attention is focused on the action at its peak, the edit is much more imperceptible, more fluid. This arguably makes us unaware of the sudden change of perspective, and allows us to fully view the action, as we percieve it from both angles. The goal of this transparency is to obscure the artifice of the edited film. By using the action to cover up a cut, an editor neatly hides his work, allowing the viewer to experience the film without noticing that there was an edit. The less we notice it, the less apparent it is that we are watching a film showing an action rather than simply the action itself. This realist approach draws our attention away from the our knowledge that we are watching a film, thus creating a more immersive, and thus potentially more believable, experience - an important part of achieving realism in classic Hollywood editing.

In contrast, the rhythm of Yasujiro Ozu's editing follows exactly the opposite pattern. Put simply, rather than place the cuts between his shots at the center of an action, or during the middle of a line of dialog, Ozu places edits around them. Although this makes these cuts plainly obvious to the viewer, in contrast to the disguised edits typical of Hollywood realism, this also produces a unique, and arguably equally valid, type of realism. Just as Hollywood realism incorporates subtle, mid-action edits to make them more transparent, and thus limit an audience's awareness of the editor's presence, Ozu sought to limit his presence as well.

Ozu's edits are foremost and always straight, slow cuts; never bringing attention to his editing with stylized transitions such as dissolves or jump cuts. In sequencing an edit between actions, the scene moves in a subtle but powerful rhythm that dictates where the edits are placed. Ozu’s editing rhythm is not temporal, but always based on dialog. The internal rhythm of the shots, or the pace of the action appearing onscreen, produces this structure. This rhythm is often imperceptible because of Ozu’s stark compositions, thus this is merely our mental perception of the sparseness in each scene. Many film scholars, Donald Richie in particular, have noted that because the dialog dictates the placement of cuts, the progression of time onscreen (from the audience's perspective) moves at the exact same pace as the characters onscreen perceive it. Thus, the film moves at the pace of their lives, slowly but surely. We experience the moments onscreen as richly as the characters do, and thus their lives are much more immersive because the audience takes them in at the same pace.

In order to fully understand the realist aesthetic of Ozu's editing style, one must also consider the realism found in his cinematographic methods. A pioneer of what he coined the "tatami" shot (in reference to the traditional floor mats found in Japanese homes), in which the action is framed from a low, static angle, Ozu limits his presence behind the camera as much as he does in the editing booth. His shots are almost completely, even insistently, static, and are devoid of stylized methods using zooms, whip pans, and other things that look like visual trickery in comparison to Ozu's plainly composed shots. His camera usually follows characters navigating through plain domestic interiors, always silently watching them but never moving. This produces a strangely voyeuristic experience, watching the intensely personal moments play out between Ozu's many family subjects. The way in which actors often deliver the lines directly to the camera adds to this immersive experience, putting us in the eyes of the other characters and completing the illusion that the viewer is experiencing the scene too. Because we are never aware of the camera's presence as a narrative or aesthetic device, we experience the slow edits even more immersively. Because camera movements would add to the film's editing tempo, the exclusion of them solidifies Ozu's editing rhythm even more: just as real life can indeed be painfully slow, so are some of Ozu's awkward pauses and silences. To watch an Ozu film is sometimes a strangely immerse experience in embarrassment, as if the scenes we see are all too real because they are paced in such a realistic way.

Pacing is a crucial element in understanding the realist aesthetic of Ozu's films. Because the editing choices are so notably different from Hollywood realist style, we must consider that Ozu uses different methods of immersion than simply hiding the artifice of the film form. However, the stripped-bare nature of his editing and visual styles arguably contributes to a transparent effect as well. By pacing his domestic, personal scenes as naturalistically as possible, we take in every moment to the same degree as the film's characters. This immersive form of realism is unusual, almost a reaction to traditional Western editing, and is strangely hypnotic in its pace.

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As a side note, the reason I've refrained from mentioning Ozu's Tokyo Story as the specific subject of this analysis is because, having done a considerable amount of research on Ozu's body of work, I think it's safe to say that this analysis applies to almost all his films, not just Tokyo Story. If you'd like to read more of my analysis on Ozu's work and Zen aesthetic - specifically, in Late Spring - then never mind the shameless self-promotion and read the paper here! (downloads as a Word document)

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Works Cited
Richie, Donald. Ozu. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1974. 179-182.

First Blog Post!

This blog post is in response to this photograph:


The photo appears to be social documentary: certain elements of style (urban setting, unglamorous subject, naturalistic use of camera/light, appears to be unstaged) lead us to expect a certain form, as Bordwell & Thompson explain in Film Art. This formal structure leads us to expect, in this case, a kind of social statement, often in the form of expose or protest, as well as a very expected, and often provocative, meaning. We expect that the two subjects in the photo have a close relationship, and we assume that the subjects are, perhaps, disenfranchised. The clothes suggest a time period when race relations in America (indeed, to even expect that the subjects are American is an almost automatic and subconscious, but not necessarily true, assumption in American viewers) were still tense, thus casting an additional layer of meaning into the photo, one which might be drawn from, or supported by, the black woman's expression, however one might read it: dejected, steadfast, determined, or something entirely different. I am reluctant to draw many conclusions about this photo despite my own assumptions drawn from its content, especially given my lack of full knowledge of the photo's context - title, photographer, time period, etc. However, based on the different approaches to artistic meaning outlined in Film Art and Practices of Looking, one can begin to extract various meanings and approaches or analyses based on two distinct approaches.

Film Art, while primarily focusing on the structural form of motion pictures, introduces several concepts that are useful in extracting a meaning from a still photo such as the one seen here. Form and its conventions often lead the viewers to form certain expectations about a work, and the form of the photograph is no exception. For example, by forming an assumption that the photograph can be classified as social realist or social documentary photography, we suddenly begin to expect certain things about the work's form: specifically, that it likely is of a subject who has been disenfranchised, that the photograph is trying to uncover some kind of social truth or injustice, and that the photograph is depicting something that is real or true (this last assumption is, not surprisingly, the most problematic, given viewers' propensity and/or reluctance to accept the "truthfulness" of an artistic work). These assumptions, true or not, can all be derived from our expectations about its form. Social documentary photography, for example, often ellicits emotions in our viewer from its form (Bordwell & Thompson, 53-54). In this case, the form of this photographic genre dictates certain conventions to which this photo in particular largely adhere to: a lower-to-middle class working subject, often of non-Caucasian descent, an urban setting, and an intimate portraiture style. Furthermore, this genre of photography is largely informed by, perhaps more so than any other style of photography, by what Bordwell & Thompson define as symptomatic meaning (57). In this case, the symptomatic meaning is almost as easy to define, and perhaps more so given a lack of context, as other types of meaning the photo can have, such as explicit or implicit meaning. Social documentary photography, heavily focused on subjects bear relevance to a "meaning [that], whether referential, explicit, or implicit, is largely a social phenomenon" (Bordwell & Thompson 57). Just as a symptomatic meaning is clearly present in the photo, other meanings - referential, explicit, and implicit - can all be distilled from a close reading of the photo. The referential meaning, the simplest and most essential, simply describes the visual content: A middle-aged black woman holds a white infant on an empty city street. The explicit meaning is more difficult to extract, but is probably most clear in the woman's expression, which has hints of weariness and sadness. The implicit meaning is even more subjective, but the lack of context in the photograph allows for several interpretations: is the woman the baby's mother? Unlikely, but possible. Her nanny or caretaker? Does the child have other parents, or is it adopted or alone? All of these interpretations, each with their own merit, suggest vastly different interpretations, but the juxtaposition of the two different skin colors - made even more obvious by the photographer's stark control of contrast - suggests tense race relations in pre-Civil Rights Movement America, and the social injustices attatched to such a time period. These symptomatic contexts are what drive Bordwell & Thompson's most in-depth and thorough analyses, and are the summary of their analytical approach to meaning. Their definition of evaluation is careful to note the subjectivity of a person's perception of quality compared to aesthetic value of artwork, and thus assert that evaluation of art and form against particular criteria is not useful in extracting meaning, but that analysis is crucial to it instead.

Similarly, Cartwright and Sturken are not concerned with evaluation or aesthetic criteria in their search for analyses of meaning in Practices of Looking, but outline a unique and different approach to extracting types of meaning in photographs. Careful to note the often vast difference between the meaning defined by a viewer, opposed to meaning intended by the producer of an image, they observe that viewers may often see meanings that were either far more complex or detailed than that of the producers, completely in opposition with that of the producers, or simply that they saw no meaning at all. Conversely audiences might seek to find, or otherwise fabricate, meanings in works which the producers had no intention of putting meaning into. Similar to Bordwell and Thompson's use of symptomatic meanings, Cartwright and Sturken outline the practice of "reading images as ideological subjects", in which an image is inherently the product of a certain ideology (Cartwright & Sturken 50-51). This assertion is more broad than the "social phenomenon" which informs symptomatic meanings, but does share the idea that images are generally constructed through inspiration by a certain sociopolitical school of thought. For example, an ideological reading of this particular photograph might lead the viewers, through prior knowledge of the implied context, to assume the photo is informed by the ideologies of civic freedom and equality that were endorsed by the Civil Rights Movement. Cartweight and Sturken take the concept of symptomatic meaning even further by incorporating different social philosophies into their interpretation of viewers' interaction with images. Antonio Gramsci's observations of hegemonic negotiations in particular defines the authors' readings of most of the images, as they observe the vastly different meanings different audiences can infer from an image (Cartwright & Sturken 54-55). The photograph at hand, for example, carries very different meanings for black or white viewers; for viewers in generations before and after the Civil Rights Movement, and other categories, because each of these "classes" of viewers is engaged in a struggle or negotiation within a hegemony. Each of these classes can thus engage in either a dominant-hegemonic reading, a negotiated reading, or an oppositional reading depending on their reactions, social background, personal feelings, gender, ethnicity, and many other factors. Each of these readings reveals a potentially valid meaning that is much richer than a simple symptomatic reading.

Both forms of reading images reveal different meanings which are all influenced by the viewer's interpretations of form, as Bordwell and Thompson suggest, or their class status in a hegemony, as shown in Practices of Looking, among other factors that all contribute to the conclusion that there might very well be no two exact same ways of looking at one image.

Works Cited
Bordwell, David, and Kristin Thompson. Film Art: An Introduction. 7th Ed. McGraw-Hill, 2003.

Sturken, Marita, and Lisa Cartwright. Practices of Looking: An Introduction to Visual Culture. 2nd Ed. Oxford University Press, USA, 2009.