When narrative meets performance: Odense’s storytelling festival

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fyrtojetWhat, you might well ask, was a thirty-something academic doing inside the Fyrtøjet Cultural Centre for Children on Friday and Saturday night last week?

The answer is listening and watching. Almost by chance – which could be the beginning of a fairytale, if you think about it – we came upon the international Storytelling Festival for ‘grown-ups’ there. What a revelation it was.

Hearing the medieval Irish tale of Cú Chulainn, and old tales that imbue the Turkish landscape with meaning, was like being taken back to an age when the oral performance of stories was the most normal thing in the world – ‘my’ world, I might add, as a medievalist …

It is not too much of an exaggeration to say that vernacular literature in the Middle Ages was defined by orality. Yet it is one thing to know that as a fact – quite another to experience in the flesh what it might have meant in reality.

The sensation of hearing and recognizing formulaic phrases as they recur , I realized, is utterly different from noticing a bundle of letters and words reappear in a printed text and identifying it as a marker of genre. The same goes for a real, live storyteller narrating without a book to be seen – that elemental physicality is rarely palpable in the scholarly debates about concepts such as voice and performance.

So perhaps this is one way – and a better one, I suggest, than facile ideas of economic and social impact – in which we might build bridges with academic research, by coming closer to what it is all about in the first place. We’ll never know what it was really like, of course – but then, there is something fittingly medieval about recreating and reinventing earlier tales anyway. I see it time and again in the Swan Knight story and the various iterations it went through. But that, as they say, is another … 

Retrospect in autumn

northward

Lack of fitness, a lost thermarest, and a barrage of vile showers – they let off for an hour or two to open up that horizon – made for one of the more trying excursions I’ve had north of the border; but such is the stuff that memories are made of.

Memorable enough, it would seem, to have become the marker by which I’m reckoning time: it must be almost bang on a year since I headed off to the west coast with the bivy bag to collect myself before the Marie Curie fellowship. 

Looking back brings a jumble of emotions. The novelty of being able to buy books once more. Learning Danish and Old Norse, and the sensation of a living, learning brain that brings when things fall into place: I understand! Getting the Lohengrin monograph contracted so easily, so positively, and the teaching week back in Bonn, where it began all those years ago. Having the time to think and read and write again. Rediscovering the joy of getting to know forgotten medieval poetsDismantling one short-term home in order to create another. The relief of having a full-time salary in the summer months. Getting a fittingly international conference project up and running. Being together again, and the questions that begs about what is worth it in this or any other profession…

It is, to return to the present, not without self-irony that this academic has woven a bit of self-promotion into his blog just there. Perhaps that is why this year’s trip took us to the wide, high spaces on the other side of the country, where the distance and the shape of the land seem to swallow one up, far off from help, and small.

nowhere

Portability: three questions, three suggestions

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I am as much aware as anyone of the problems with the current REF system. The intent behind Stern’s proposals on portability may be good, but their implications are less clear.

This blogpost is about some of the question marks with which I am presented, and some possible ways around them that occur to me. As has been pointed out here, we all have our own backstories that shape how we respond to Stern. I’m no exception, and regular readers of this blog will no doubt recognize that in the thoughts below. They’re influenced by my record, my career stage, my back-and-forth lifestyle of I don’t know how many years.

I realize that, and realize equally that not everyone will see things quite the same way. My thoughts are those of an early-career researcher in his seventh fixed-term job. As such, I am affected differently from someone who has got a permament post (or moved to a new one) since the start of the current REF cycle. They will in turn be in affected differently from a scholar who has been established in a permanent post for many years. The principle of ‘owning’ one’s research concerns all of them, but the practical implications in terms of job security and career prospects are different in each case.

I hope to do at least some justice to these different perspectives by updating this post to take account of responses that come up on twitter or in the comments (you are currently reading revision two). With that in mind, here we go: first the questions, then the proposals.

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1. What happens to someone who has got external funding to carry out research abroad?  Will their project cease to be REF-able as a result, and take their employability down with it? Or perhaps the person will return to the UK and be employed in a part-time position—does the UK university then get to claim the project monograph that they write up in their unpaid spare time? It’s not such an unlikely scenario if you bear in mind the mobility and grant-getting boxes we ECRs are expected to tick. It also points up the unclarified problems that follow from depriving scholars (not just ECRs here) of ownership of their research: if it is not theirs, who exactly does get to claim the publications from a project that spanned several years, employers, funding bodies, and locations?

2. Will ending portability really stop universities ‘gaming’ the system, or just change how they do it? Stopping the ‘poaching’ of established scholars in the run-up to the REF sounds eminently sensible. The same goes for hiring people for less than a year to submit their research and then sending them on their merry way. But if the ‘solution’ chosen is to  end portability—what is to stop universities hiring people en masse on fixed-term contracts in order to ‘farm’ contributions for each REF? If universities are guaranteed credit for ECRs’ work, what incentive have they to invest in them any more than they can get away with?

3. How does this affect the job market? The pragmatic reality is that REF rounds have provided one of the few channels for making the transition to a permanent position on the basis of one’s record—but if ECRs can no longer bring that record to the table as a contribution to make, that changes. Perversely, the rewards for their efforts will be reaped instead by the various institutions that are not employing them. This is also, of course, where the glimmer of hope appears: that people might be appointed for their potential to produce publications for their new employer well into the future, sustainably and for the long term. Yet even that raises further questions, about career-stage advantages and disadvantages for example: would someone writing up a thesis with no or few publications be easier to employ on the grounds of potential (gain only) than someone further down the line with a longer publication list (a demonstration of potential, but also a reminder of all the outputs a new employer would not be getting)?

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So it’s all very uncertain. One has to hope that the ‘potential’ and ‘long-term’  aspects that I touched on in that last point take the upper hand as positive consequences if these proposals are implemented. But one becomes increasingly worn down and sceptical over the years, to the extent that just hoping is not enough. Instead, the following suggestions (I deliberately call them that rather than ‘answers’):

1. Address the uncertainty. What we have got are proposals that may or may not be implemented in their current form. How are people supposed to plan around that part of the way into the REF cycle? At the very least, work published before the new rules are finalized should remain portable, instead of penalizing ECRs (and people who have already moved or gained permanent posts within the current REF cycle) by retrospectively shifting the goalposts.

2. Prevent exploitation. If portability is to be abolished across the board, universities should not be given carte blanche to submit the research of ECRs who are no longer working for them. They should have to demonstrate that the pay and working conditions were fair. But ways will always be found around such things on paper, so how about giving ECRs a say as well? For example, allow them to nominate an institution in the case of a project that has been carried out with more than one employer, or indeed to decline to be submitted (e.g. if an institution tries to claim research that they did in their unpaid free time, or somewhere else entirely rather than where they happened to be when it was published).

3. Find a balanced compromise. If portability is to be ended for research done in a permanent job, it should at least be retained for research done by ECRs prior to a permanent post. Their research would continue to benefit them on the way toward a permanent position, rather than becoming a commodity that serves the needs only of short-term employers. At the same time, people could still be hired on the basis of their potential to produce research in future, and the current pre-REF shenanigans would still be ended.

Mixing languages now and then

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cabinnWhen I was effectively living in the Cabinn Odense, I experienced the mixing of languages first-hand on a nightly basis: as well as Danish guests there were a good number of German workers in the lobby who were staying there too. You can read more about the contemporary issues of language and identity this raises here and here.

I am interested in how such interaction between languages is related to the texts and artefacts that societies produce. Here’s a little example of that from the book on Lohengrin (my book!) whose proofs I’m correcting at the moment.

We’re not in the north of Europe any more, but in Italy, near Rome to be precise, in the aftermath of a Christian victory in which two mysterious knights clad in white played a crucial role. And the European royal elite is eager to learn who those two knights were.

The Emperor Henry, who knows their names, begins announcing them in der diutschen zunge (in the German tongue; 6405). But he stops in his tracks, troubled because mîn sprâche ist vremd dem künege von Lamparten (my language is foreign to the King of Lombardy; 6407). The Eastern Emperor suggests in response that his daughter could help out by interpreting – but a further language gap remains to be bridged after Henry’s speech, when Dem küenec von Francrîch mahte kunt / der von Lutringe die sache gæhes an der stunt (the Duke of Lotharingia explained the matter to the King of France at once; 6421–22).

languagepageThis is more than just a noteworthy depiction of interpreting and the negotiation of linguistic differences in the Middle Ages. It’s also puzzling for several reasons. As you can see from the quotations, the whole scene is depicted in one language, Middle High German, so there is no effort to actually reproduce the various tongues being spoken. More than that, these same figures have been interacting without difficulty throughout the preceding events before, during, and after the battle. So how come they are suddenly unable to understand one another now?

Such apparent contradictions (‘apparent’, because medieval readers might not have read them in the way that we do) are what my book is about. I don’t want to give too much away here…but in brief, I suggest that the obsession with identity, with working out who people are, that runs through Lohengrin (just like the Wagner opera of the same name) has something to do with it: in order to make Henry’s revelation of who the two knights were that bit more protracted and difficult, our medieval poet introduced linguistic difficulties even though it meant ‘contradicting’ himself.

That’s just one example of why the interplay between multilingualism and poetics in medieval literature is so fascinating. Returning to the here and now—because there’s a gap in my usual evening routine due to NetDansk being on holiday—the question marks raised by the Stern review have made me wonder more than ever what sort of future this research will lead to for me. The past eleven months have seen a lot: the grim nights between languages in the Cabinn, the 24-hour round-trip commute to see my wife at weekends, a month’s salary spent relocating us both to Denmark. Such are the realities of early-career mobility; would that they be worth it.

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Quotations are from Lohengrin, ed. by Thomas Cramer (Munich, 1971). The nineteenth-century edition of Lohengrin by Rückert is online (hosted by the UB Heidelberg), and is ‘good enough’ for informally getting to grips with the text.—The manuscript page is the section of text quoted from manuscript B, Universitätsbibliothek Heidelberg, Cpg 345, fol. 152r, reproduced under Creative Commons-Lizenz CC-BY-SA 3.0 DE.

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And, as a reward for reading to the end, the answer! The two knights were Saints Peter and Paul.

Thinking beyond the here and now

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stove

meditating stove

No, the picture does not introduce a lament about the lives of early-career academics who are barely paid enough to live on (not least because I no longer find reducing that problem to an ironic joke acceptable). Instead, this blogpost picks up a train of thought that began when I was out in the grotty yard in Durham burning off some leftover gas cannisters that couldn’t come with us to Denmark.

That stove, you see, normally comes in my pack on trips across the border to a landscape that seems a long way off from the Danish flatlands (or for that matter from a small university city in the north of England). The hardcore lightweight brigade would do without such comforts, of couse – for a stomach-churning take on the alternative culinary solutions that result, read this book – but I have not yet taken that particular step. Consequently, a remarkable sense of dislocation set in. Perhaps I encouraged it by making a brew so that the heat wouldn’t go to waste. There was something not quite right – the water was too clean, too pale – and yet other perceptions began to fall into place; the light, for a moment, was tempered, rain scattered, and a warmth cast into that yard that turned even the moss a redolent green.

Such moments do not last. They are a reminder of the things that matter. In this, it seems to me that there is a connection with academia after all, for having a similar imaginative response is part of being a medievalist: reading texts in a language we don’t know in a script that we have learnt, passing through buildings or landscapes that bear the traces of distant lives and stories, scanning the reel of manuscript illustrations on twitter … Not that we should mistake the product of such enagement with the past for knowing what it was really like; but then, the mind has a remarkable ability to change reality experienced as well, as will be familiar to anyone who looks back fondly on groping around in a bog to relocate tent pegs that have just been blown out in the middle of the night.

It would be a sad thing if the ability to experience such things were to be regulated, commercialized, sanitized out of a risk-averse society. Would it not be equally sad if the opportunity to engage with the past, the different, the unfamiliar were to be strategized out of a higher education system?

westward

a better place

Opening medieval literature to Europe: a Germanist’s perspective

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Cela bl Doroty

Dorothea of Montau: a medieval recluse from present-day Poland, written about in German and Latin, canonized in post-WW2 Europe. Photo By Marcin n® ☼ (Own work) [CC BY-SA 2.5], via Wikimedia Commons

A few days ago, I got back from an interesting Centre for Medieval Literature conference, ‘Theorizing Medieval European Literatures’. The programme traversed a wonderful variety of places and cultural settings: there were presentations on Iceland, Ireland, France, Iberia, Italy, Persia, East Asia, Armenia, Georgia, Byzantium, Hungary, Slavic literature, Russia, Scandinavia … at least!

That same diversity got me thinking about one stopover that hardly featured on this three-day journey: ‘Germany’. It would be tempting to conceptualize this as an ‘absent centre’ circumscribed by the other focal points, but I’m reluctant to adopt that terminology: both because it could be mistaken for a value judgement on my part, and also because, as a dinnertime conversation with a colleague from Mediterranean Studies revealed, it would not necessarily be apposite: seen from that field, the areas on which I as a Germanist work are geographically peripheral.

That very insight, however, makes it all the more important to reflect on the role that German Studies has to play in an outward-looking approach to thinking about medieval literature beyond national delineations. That it has a place in such an undertaking to begin with, became apparent in an ex-negativo fashion on a number of occasions: when a text whose ‘Frenchness’ was highlighted, for example, appeared alongside a picture from a manuscript whose ‘German’ provenance was not mentioned, or when Middle High German was excluded from the links in a chain of narrative adaptations stretching from Asia to Europe. But in cases like those, one has to know what is not being said in order to know that it is not being said.

What, by contrast, would an explicit way of making the case for German Studies look like? Here are some suggestions, with examples from more and less closely related languages and literatures, of the aspects one could consider:

  • fusions of what we might think of as different literary-historical parameters (Dukas Horant: the ‘German’ story of a Danish duke in Hebrew script)
  • shared linguistic spaces that cross modern boundaries (Low German, the Hanseatic League, and London)
  • crossovers with seemingly distant regions (some of the earliest documents of the Irish vernacular survive in manuscripts that found their way to, or even originated in, the German-speaking areas)
  • thematization of language differences to poetological effect (French and German in Lohengrin)
  • ‘other’ localities depicted in texts (England in Willehalm von Orlens; the Eastern Empire in König Rother)
  • multilingualism in the manuscript object (Latin, Polish, and German in the St. Florian Psalter)
  • the development of the vernacular on the interface with what lay beyond (Old High German sources such as the Strasbourg Oaths; eastward settlement and language variation)
  • medieval literary figures appropriated in more recent political debates about European identities (Dorothea of Montau)
  • historial figures and their European literary networks (Eufemia of Norway; Eleanor Stuart in Austria)
  • narrative material that circulated between different languages and regions (the Swan Children; Brandan)
  • regional literary spaces (central/eastern Europe; or the Baltic – what insights might the latter give as a point of comparison and contrast for current work on another enclosed sea, the Mediterranean?)
  • comparative approaches to parallel developments in other medieval European vernaculars (nation-building and the writing of history), or further afield both chronologically and geographically (literary techniques such as ekphrasis)

Those are just some ideas from off the top of my head. Some, if not all, will have been touched on before in different research contexts; but even then, they would benefit from a fresh assessment whose aim is to exploit their relevance in opening up the German Middle Ages to a wider European context – historical, literary, and linguistic. I’ll try to update with some more ideas as and when. Suggestions in the comments are also welcome! In the meantime, I hope they give at least some indication of what my field has to offer for those interested in transnationalism, comparative literature, European Studies, and beyond.

Multilingualism: from Marie Curie to the Middle Ages

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mc-letterOne of the nicer things about the Marie Curie fellowship programme is the fact that there is a story behind it. It resonates in ways that can be quite surprising. One such is the picture that came round on twitter recently of a letter in which Marie Curie, a native of Poland, in France, wrote in English about her work. This convergence of different regions, indeed different languages, in a single text reminded me of some of the European phenomena that I’m working on in my research.

In particular, I thought of a beautiful manuscript that I first encountered when I was teaching a course on cultural encounters back in Oxford. It’s a bit of a stretch perhaps, but still a happy coinicidence that it includes both the German that I’ve brought to my project by way of disciplinary background, and the Polish that was Marie Curie’s own native tongue.

florian-col

‘The Lord is my shepherd…’

This is the ‘St. Florian Psalter’. The manuscript is named after the Austrian monastery in which it had arrived by the Baroque period, if not before. However, it seems to have originated in the Cracow area around 1400, where it was probably produced for Queen Jadwiga of Poland. It interests me because it is a visually spectacular example of how different languages could coexist in the Middle Ages: the texts are presented first in Latin (Dominus…), then in Polish (Gospodzin…), and then in German (Got…). In particular – to return to the European dimension of Marie Curie and ‘her’ fellowships – it underlines not only the necessity of thinking about European literary spaces across and beyond national borders, but also the importance of including German when we do so.

Background reading: Hanamann, Rudolf, and Heinrich Tiefenbach. ‘Zum Wiedererscheinen der Ausgabe des lateinisch-polnisch-deutschen Psalters von Sankt Florian nebst Beobachtungen zum deutschsprachigen Teil des Denkmals’ Sprachwissenschaft, 27 (2002): 295-319.—Hanamann, Rudolf. Der deutsche Teil des Florianer Psalters: Sprachanalyse und kulturgeschichtliche Einordnung (Frankfurt a. M., 2010).—Manuscript: Warsaw, Biblioteka Narodowa, 8002 III; public domain image.

On leaving the country…

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moving

This is the scene in our dining room in Durham at the moment. The change that was on the cards for many months has suddenly become reality – but however expected it was, that doesn’t make it any easier. I’m talking about relocating the two of us to Odense for the rest of my contract at the University of Southern Denmark. Being on the cusp of this move means that recent events in the UK have, so to speak, a certain edge. There are question marks about returning here in future: will I be able to bring my wife with me? There is disquiet, too, about what will happen to higher education in general and the humanities in particular: I spoke a few days ago to a colleague who believes there is no future for his field in this country…

Much the same, then, as a lot of the doom and gloom circulating in the virtual world at the moment. Yet I find myself remarkably pragmatic. Why? Because that image in the dining room, and everything that goes with it – the sorting of papers, the packing of books, the dismantling of an existence – feels a bit like groundhog day by now. The fact is that uncertainty and insecurity have become a way of life.

And the more that I think about it, there is still reason to hope. Funding bodies such as the AHRC, the Leverhulme Trust, the British Academy, the Humboldt Foundation, and others, will continue to be there. So will the opportunities to work with colleagues outside the UK. And as for the relevance of the research that I do on cultural identities and the movement of ideas in medieval Europe – well, it could not be clearer than here and now, could it?

Do you work here?

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parkedupatncl2

Looking back, Newcastle International. Evening.

is more or less what I was asked at Heathrow when I was picking up a cold drink on my way ‘back’ to the North East yesterday. I suppose I have been there pretty often over the past eighteen months or so … apparently often enough to be mistaken for airport staff, at any rate.

That, like much else, is changing. Whether it has been worth it … time only will tell. One of these days, I will write about the medieval people, the poets and scholars and monks, whose lives took them and their ideas back and forth across Europe. They are the stuff not only of history but of literature also, easy as it may be to forget it (who teaches material such as the stories that bring together Charlemagne, Irish kings, and the foundation of monasteries in Regensburg, for example?). Most of the time they offer me hope, a sense that in some way one is, in the long view, not alone; yet there are times also when that seems like a mental trick one plays on oneself in order to keep trying.

But for now, I wanted just to capture the moment. There are boxes to pack, paperwork to sort out, and places to say goodbye to; and then in no time I will be walking back along the corridor to stand 3 and the shuttle down to Heathrow to pick up the late flight to Copenhagen. And that, in the almost-darkness of summer nights in Denmark, will be that.

visual culture and imagination

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skyline

a medieval horizon darkening, photograph by my wife

One of the challenges of my profession involves explaining why medieval literature is relevant to research trends that might otherwise be considered inseparable from the present. Visual culture, I realized while reading one of the texts on which I’m working for a talk in Oxford next week, can be one of them. One would think that recognizing the importance of the visual would not be terribly difficult when it comes to the traces that times past have left in the material world: the stained-glass windows, the carvings, the caskets, the cityscapes with cathedrals, and so on. But texts are different. They need imagination.

So pause, reader, for a moment, and try to visualize the scene. A knight called Firganant is supposed to be on his way to help his friend Demantin, who is besieged by an ill-disposed father-in-law. But he has interrupted his journey to enjoy the hospitality of the dwarf king Comandion. After they have finished eating…

dô sach he ûf den sal.
di was gemâlet obir al
von lasûre und von golde,
als iz di koninc wolde
mit rîcher cost zimêren.

… he (that’s Firganant) observed the hall. It was covered from top to bottom with gold and glaze, just as the king (that’s Comandion) had wished it should be decorated.

As the passage continues, it becomes clear that the walls of this dazzling interior space are also covered in depictions of numerous figures. Firganant is curious, and asks what it all means. The hall, Comandion explains, has been painted with noble worthy men standing upright and their wicked counterparts inverted with their feet in the air.

(Unpause.)

Depictions like this grabbed me when I first started reading medieval German texts – there was a fascination in the opulence, the visual richness of the world they evoke. Such responses, of course, change as one reads more. One learns that the richness is often stereotypical, part of an obsession with appearances (the poet we are looking at here is particularly guilty in this regard!), and that exemplars of good and bad behaviour are similarly widespread in writing from this time. This proliferation of topoi, indeed, might make the medieval period seem dull from some perspectives – particularly if one were foolish enough to believe that modern ideas of the innovative are the only valid ones. It is, therefore, all the more interesting when scenes such as this one do things we might not expect. This is because Comandion goes on to draw Firganant’s attention to two particular good men among those depicted, and it turns out that his visitor is well acquainted with them…

One is his friend Demantin, whose predicament Comandion explains before adding des wert noch alles an om rât, ‘he will be fine in the end’ – a fact of which Comandion has apparently been assured by his god Ophantus. And the second? As Comandion concludes to Firganant, sô mûzit ir der andere sîn, ‘well, you must be the other man’.

I think this is great. The splendour of the shining hall decorated with meaningful paintings is on the one hand an exciting image to visualize – but it is also much more than that. It becomes a form of insight into the future of a story that has yet to unfold, and of knowledge. What Firganant is seeing, without knowing it until it is explained to him, is a confirmation of his own worth alongside the story’s protagonist, Demantin. Quite imaginative, I would suggest – and not just for a thirteenth-century textual evocation of visual culture.


To find out more: the quotations are from Berthold von Holle’s Demantin:  7119–7124, 7186, and 7224. Bartsch’s edition, still the standard one for quotation, is freely available on Google Books here. My talk in Oxford (well, as I plan it now!) is going to look at the implications of this passage for the construction of narrative form alongside Old Swedish material; I’ll try to update with a link once the resultant article is finished and published.

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