this fieldnote was originally posted on The Geek Anthropologist

Social media is no longer the geek domain it once was, with the Americas and Europe approaching a fifty percent penetration rate, and an overall global penetration rate of over thirty percent. But as these platforms and apps become more widely used, they also become more specialized to certain kinds of use intended for certain kinds of audiences. And as audiences shift, new types of communities emerge through social media.

In field Alto Hospicio, a marginal city in northern Chile, some of the most interesting ethnographic details have to do with the ways young people use collaboratively managed Tumblr accounts to create a sense of a community through language play and humor, extending beyond the local area to a nationally imagined community. This identification with a national community is actually quite an anomaly, because in many senses the people of Alto Hospicio often distinguish themselves from people in other regions of the country, considering themselves to be more marginal and exploited than the average Chilean citizen. The city is located in a booming copper mining area, but most residents are low-level workers in the industry, and watch as the massive profits end up in the national capital of Santiago or abroad in Europe, North America, and Australia. In general, most citizens envision themselves as economically disadvantaged and politically (and geographically) marginalized. While marginality is often used as a category of analysis within the social sciences, generally to describe the conditions of people who struggle to gain societal and spatial access to resources and full participation in political life, in the case of Alto Hospicio, marginality is incorporated into the ways citizens view their own position in contrast to those people the see as more powerful in the center of the country. In actively distancing themselves from cities such as Santiago – both in daily life and through their online activity – residents of Alto Hospicio see their marginalized city as part of the way they perceive them- selves – not as victims, but as an exploited community that continues to fight for its rights. Yet they strongly identify as Chileans, citing their cultural affiliations rather than political power.

​Please read the full blog on THE GEEK ANTHROPOLOGIST

This post comes from the Global Social Media Impact Study Blog, originally published here.

At first, I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but over the first several months in my fieldsite in northern Chile I began to realize that one of the reasons I never quite felt totally at home was that the aesthetics of the place never quite fit with my own sense of aesthetics. By aesthetics, I mean the effort and thought that people put into the way things look. In my fieldsite, a city of 100,000 inhabitants, I noticed this in public parks and municipal buildings, in both the inside and outside of homes, and in the way people dressed. It was not only an intellectual exercise, but a visceral feeling. If I wore the clothes that I was used to wearing, perhaps a dress or a fitted button down shirt, I felt as if everyone was staring at me because I was dressed with too much care. Perhaps they were right. There wasn’t really anywhere to go looking smart. The only bar in the city had cement floors, cinderblock walls, and heavy metal bands playing live every weekend.

Over time I thought more about the sense of aesthetics in Alto Hospicio, and realized that while I had considered it entirely utilitarian at first, there was something more particular about it. The aesthetic was very much a part of the accessibility and normativity that prevailed in the city. The predominant aesthetic was not nonexistent, nor did it always privilege form above function or the “choice of the necessary” as Bourdieu calls the working class aesthetic. While many people clearly could afford to redecorate their homes or buy expensive clothing from the department stores in the nearby port city, their aesthetic choices leaned toward an appearance that was not too assuming. They didn’t flaunt or show off in any way. It was an aesthetic that was presented as if it were not one, because aspiring to a particular aesthetic would be performing something; a certain kind of pretension. Yet the aesthetic relies on deliberate choices to not be pretentious or striking; to be modest; to be unassuming. This aesthetic then not only predominated in the material world, but also online. Unlike in Brazil, where young people would never post a selfie in front of an unfinished wall, this was precisely the type of place youth in northern Chile might pose. While in Brazil this would associate the person with backwardness that contradicts the type of upward mobility they hope to present, in northern Chile this type of backdrop would add a sense of authenticity to the person and their unassuming lifestyle.

So, in the end, what began as a visceral feeling of discomfort in the field site, actually led to a very important insight. As I told academic friends many times during my fieldwork, “This place is a great site for research, but not at all a great site for living.” Fortunately, even some of the “not at all great” parts of about living in northern Chile helped my research more than I realized at first.

For More on Aesthetics in Alto Hospicio
Absent Aesthetics in Alto Hospicio
Aesthetics and Digital Media in Alto Hospicio

Reference

Pierre Bourdieu, Distinction: A Social Critique of the Judgment of Taste. Richard Nice, trans. New York: Routledge (1984), pp 41, 372, 376.

I recently gave a talk in the department of anthropology at my home university Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile about normativity and aesthetics as they appear on social media in Alto Hospicio. The talk was in Spanish, but I of course organized my thoughts in English first, particularly since it was based in party by a chapter of my forthcoming book, Social Media in Northern Chile (with University College London Press). After the presentation I created some pdfs of the talk, complete with all the images that accompany it, which can now be found in English here and in español aquí.

Hace un mes, di una charla en la facultad de antropología en mi universidad Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile en el tema de normatividad y la estetica en las redes sociales de Alto Hospicio. Hice la charla en español, pero por supuesto organicé mis ideas primero en inglés porque la charla era basada en un capítulo de mi libro, se llama Social Media in Northern Chile, que aparecerá en 2016 con University College London Press. Después de la charla, creé pdfs de la información que presenté, con los imagines, ahora en este sitio, en español aquí y en English here. 

As many entries in the blog affirm, local cultural aspects are often reflected or made even more visual on social media. As I have written before of my fieldsite, there is a certain normativity that pervades social life. Material goods such as homes, clothing, electronics, and even food all fall within an “acceptable” range of normality. No one is trying to keep up with Joneses, because there’s no need. Instead the Joneses and the Smiths and the Rodriguezes and the Correas all outwardly exhibit pretty much the same level of consumerism. Work and salary similarly fall within a circumscribed set of opportunities, and because there is little market for advanced degrees, technical education or a 2 year post-secondary degree is usually the highest one will achieve academically. This acceptance of normativity is apparent on social media as well.

One particularly amusing example of this type of acceptance is especially apparent from a certain style of meme that overwhelmed Facebook in October of 2014. These “Rana René” (Kermit the Frog, in English) memes expressed a sense of abandoned aspirations. In these memes, the frog expresses desire for something—a better physique, nicer material goods, a better family- or love-life—but concludes that it is unlikely to happen, and that “se me pasa,” “I get over it.”

The very first night I spent in my field site in North Chile, the national team qualified for the World Cup. I had no television, no radio, and internet only through my smartphone. But I knew every time the team scored. Horns honked, dogs barked, whistles cut through the evening air, a dull roar of shouts bouncing off one another between the small homes, and six floor apartment buildings hung around the city like the fog that rolls in every afternoon from the Pacific Ocean. When the opposing team scored, you could hear the low rumble of grumbling viewers. By the game’s end, the horns were honking again, fireworks were being set off, and I ventured to my balcony to see people waving large flags in the street. 

On this first night it was very clear that the national fútbol team was important in this site. But I didn’t realize I would eventually see a contradiction in this. The widespread support and excitement about the team is very surprising given that most people in Northern Chile feel about they are often forgotten by the wealthier or more cosmopolitan people in the central region of the country, and are disenfranchised from national politics. My fieldsite is a working-class marginal city just seven kilometers up a steep hill from the region’s major port city, and those perched on the hill feel they have been politically discarded even within the region. It was recently voted the least liveable urban area in Chile, in part because, as I’ve written before, there is very little that is pleasing about the aesthetics of the place. Yet when it comes to fútbol, their very visible practices—wearing red fútbol jerseys, setting off fireworks, and posting a great deal on social networking sites—stand in stark contrast to their usually minimal visual expression.   

A week before Chile’s first game, Facebook was filled with humorous memes related to the world cup, from comparing the team’s bald coach, to bald reggaetón singer Pitbull. Others, in anticipation of a match against the Australian team, featured pictures of kangaroos in compromising positions. On game day, the city becomes a sea of red. At the local informal market, I noticed Chilea fútbol jerseys being sold at the beginning of June. The five supermarkets in town also offer jerseys for both the national team, as well as select others, including Brazil, Argentina, and Spain. Hours before an afternoon game begins, the sounds of plastic trumpets and car horns fill the air. The smell of meat being cooked on grills makes my stomach growl. Children, wearing pint-sized jerseys, and with faces painted like the flag, ride their bikes around the neighborhood. Seemingly every middle-aged man walking down the street carries a flag and a case of Cristal or Escudo beer, either on his way home from the corner store or to his friend’s house. Young men, and middle-aged mothers alike invite friends over to their homes to watch via Facebook post, often enticing them with photos of beer cans or food accompanied by a Chilean flag or pelota. 

When the game starts, the whole family, and maybe some friends or neighbors gather around the flat screen television that’s positioned in the living room, or more often in the kitchen. Younger brothers are forced to wear silly wigs of hats that look like pelotas. The streets become quiet for a few minutes, until the first big play. During the first game, Chile scored after 12 minutes and during the second, Chile barely missed a goal about five minutes into the game. Once viewers have something to cheer about, the world erupts with trumpets and yells of “conchetumare” (a somewhat all-purpose expletive). After every score or close save, my Facebook feed instantly fills with simple statements such as “weon” (somewhat equivalent to ‘dude’), “vamos chile mierda” [let’s go chile. shit!], and “goooollllll”. After a victory, of which I was fortunate enough to see two, whole families exit to the street to “see what’s going on.” Fireworks are lit, people walk to the nearest plaza or to the downtown area, singing the national anthem or simply changing “Chi Chi Chi Le Le Le. Viva Chile!” Instagram is filled with photos of the crowd, selfies while wrapped in the flag, and screen captures of the television displaying the national team. A few hours later, after they’ve finished their twelve hour shift, workers in the nearby copper mines post their cell phone videos of hundreds of their coworkers erupting as they watch a goal being scored from the dining hall of the mining operation. 

These practices are much like they would be in countless other neighborhoods around the world. Except that these practices defy two of the major factors I see defining daily life in this place: an absence of attention to aesthetics, and a feeling of disenfranchisement from the nation. So what is it about sport, or perhaps the World Cup specifically, that inspires this transformation? Most people have told me they are particularly excited by the World Cup this year because Chile’s team is good, and because it is a nice reason to share time with family. Others suggest Chileans have a “spirit of clawing fanaticism…to fight and overcome hardships.” This explanation makes more sense of course in the specific context of my fieldsite where being an underdog is a way of life. Chile is a team that usually qualifies about once a decade. They often find themselves in the second round (of 16) in the tournament, but have not placed since 1962. Among the world’s best 32 fútbol teams, they are not a total long-shot, but neither are they a sure thing. And this year, being placed in what some call a “group of death,” makes that fight to overcome hardship even more exhilarating.

Yet Chileans have had reasons to hope. Rachel Riley of Countdown statistically determined that based on characteristics of past World Cup champions, Chile was most likely to win. Northern Chileans also took it as a good omen that their first game was to be played in Cuiabá which according to reports holds 33,000, inspiring allusions to the 33 miners that were trapped underground in the region just after the World Cup of 2010. Though the stadium actually holds over 39,000, Chilean sports journalists repeatedly began reports form the stadium with “Estamos bien en el estadio los 33 mil” [We are well in the stadium, the 33 thousand of us], echoing the miners’ first communication with surface search parties “Estamos bien en el refugion, los 33” [We are well in the shelter, the 33 of us]. The 33 miners even made a video in the weeks leading up to the World Cup kickoff, widely shared on social media, in which they declare, “Spain is tough? Holland is tough? We don’t fear the ‘death group’! We don’t care about death because we defeated death before!”

For more English language info on the commercial, see José Manuel Simian's writing on the NPR blog.

The Chilean national team now prepares to face home team Brazil in the second round, sure to be a tough match. Northern Chileans prepare with their red t-shirts, silly hats, 6-packs of beer, and meat to be grilled. Fútbol might just be an excuse to enjoy a rousing afternoon or evening with friends and family for some, but for others, the national team embodies the struggles and hopes of daily life. Links circulate now, about strategies Chile could use to defeat favorite, Brazil, and people are already making plans for a Saturday afternoon game. While the outcome remains unsure, it is certain that the city will be awash in red, and if by change the Chileans manage to win, I’ll join the crowd in fireworks, singing, and general merriment in the small plaza near my house. Of course, for once I’ll have to worry about my clothing. I have make sure my red t-shirt is clean for Saturday. 

a shorter version of this post appears on the WHY WE POST blog at University College London

Sometimes, leaving “the field” and returning can be incredibly productive. Sometimes it is because it gives you time to think and plan, while in a different mindset. Other times, it is because the return throws differences into stark relief with the life one leads in other places.

Both have been true for me in the last three days. After spending a month at University College London with my colleagues, I have a much better grasp on where The Global Social Media Impact Study is going, where my part fits in, and how it relates to the other eight fieldsites involved.

But what is even more impressionable, possibly even phenomenologically so, is the sense of aesthetics that I immediately notice upon returning. In London I lived in a quaint house with IKEA furniture, on a quiet little lane in a central suburb with plenty of independently owned shops on the high street. I wore my favorite uniform—1960s style shift dresses, leggings, and mid-calf height boots—almost every day. I got a haircut, and bought new mascara, and an old guilty pleasure of Body Shop tea tree oil face wash (fully acknowledging the problematic politics of the Body Shop).

In essence I lived, looked, and thus felt, a little more like myself. The nine of us on the project collectively wrote a blog on “real methods in anthropology” wherein we describe the ways we are a bit like chameleons, and do certain things to more closely fit in as we live in our fieldsites. While this may appear as “inauthentic” to some people, we know that the self in everyday life is always a performance (see Goffman 1959), and that people are always a different version of themselves in different contexts. Yet, returning to Alto Hospicio has reminded me just how different this self is from the selves I perform in Chicago, Washington DC, La Paz, and London.

Being away has also helped me to pinpoint what it is about this place that makes me so different, and perhaps fortunately, I think what I’ve realized has quite extensive impacts for my research as well. Put simply, the aesthetics of Alto Hospicio are incredibly different from those in the other cities where I like to spend time. 

At first glance, I think to myself ‘This place has no sense of aesthetics.’ But obviously this is not true. Plenty of people tell me that they have personal styles and tastes. Houses are often painted bright colors on the outside and decorated with plenty of artificial flowers on the inside. The new municipal building in the city is architecturally pleasing. Cars are clearly modified with exterior lights, and decals. Clothing ranges from black tshirts displaying heavy metal band names to sunny beach attire. These are styles, not just reflections of function.

Indeed, to me, these styles appear as an absence. This has caused me to ruminate on what makes “middle class North Atlantic” style so different. And my initial supposition, is that it has something to do with nostalgia. My parents live in an Arts and Crafts era bungalow and have thus decorated the place in furniture reflecting that era. My best friend is slightly obsessed with Danish Mid-Century Modern design, which has influenced his furniture, clothing, and even the brand of headphones he owns. As a child, my favorite book--Anne of Green Gables—created a desire for my bedroom to have a certain country Victorian feel to it. And since my early teens I’ve enjoyed sifting through second hand shops for vintage clothing (often influenced by tv shows, from the Brady Bunch, to the Mary Tyler Moore Show, and most recently Mad Men). 

In many ways we (in the cosmopolitan centers I know well) live in an age of nostalgia, however convoluted this form of nostalgia may be. We live in the age of Steampunk and Hipsters. A recent trip with my sister to the H&M clothing store in her Madrid neighborhood revealed hundreds of square feet of fashion that reminded me of my high school closet (the mid-late 1990s, for anyone who’s counting). Instagram, which appears in the square format reminiscent of now-defunct Polaroid photos, offers a plethora of filters with names like, Lo Fi and 1977 that presumably (and in my opinion, often successfully) give photos an aesthetic quality similar to those home photos of the 1960s-80s. Films like Wes Anderson's and Spike Jonze's (aside from his frequent forays into Jackass-ery) trade in nostalgic art design, and even more mainstream movies like American Hustle and The Great Gatsby use their historical settings to forefront nostalgic aesthetics. Similarly, music-of which I represent possibly the least qualified person in the world to analyze-as of late (or maybe for much longer?) has seen plenty of popular acts that pull from eras gone by (ie Sharon Van Etten, , or that damn Pharmakon remake of Nancy Sinatra/Sonny & Cher's 'Bang Bang' that no one else seems to be getting tired of). Of course, these examples are not coincidental. Indeed, nostalgia is a calculated art produced in mass by Ad executives. 

This is not to say that all aesthetics in the North Atlantic are a product of nostalgia. There are others that reflect “foreign influence” such as Japanese inspired home interiors, or Ikea minimalism. Plenty of clothing in the “latest style” is made from new synthetic fabrics in styles that have not been broached in previous eras. And much recent architecture and car design has reflected 'green' or 'eco aesthetics,' that combines cuteness (pastel colors), efficiency (small=more fuel efficient), aerodynamics, functionality (hatchbacks carry more in a smaller space), and a sense of futurism. Yet, often, to me these types of style also appear as a sort of nostalgia for former visions of the future, as they appear in representations such as The Jetsons or 2001: A Space Odyssey (but maybe that’s just me?).

In sum, these forms of nostalgia appear as absent in Alto Hospicio. Instagram photos present uninspired subjects in mundane settings without much attention to the filters or other enhancements available in the application. Facebook posts—both photos and text—appear to lack curation. One person’s clothing style is indistinguishable from the next (at least to my eyes). Houses each equally resemble lego blocks (as Daniel Miller commented to me). And even the city’s parks and plazas do very little to appear as natural refuges from city life.

The challenge however, is to first, find a way of describing this form of aesthetics without implicitly privileging the forms of North Atlantic aesthetics I described earlier, both in language and ideology. And second, to find what are the underlying currents that define these forms of aesthetics that are present. I certainly would not characterize the aesthetics of Alto Hospicio as a form of Protestant asceticism (see Weber 1958). But it is a new city, so perhaps it would be naïve to think that nostalgia would be an important structure of feeling there. Most families in Alto Hospicio are working-class so frugality and functionality may be an important part of aesthetics.

I am more than welcome to comments that might propose different forms of aesthetics, whether they be possibilities for Alto Hospicio, or presented in contrast to what I have outlined here!

This weekend I presented a paper at the Royal Anthropological Institute's conference on Anthropology and Photography, titled #Instaterremoto: Tracing Crisis through Instagram Photography. As part of the conference I was given the opportunity to showcase my own photography, and exhibited twelve photos under the same title. Here I reproduce that exhibit, which can also be found at the RAI's Flickr feed here. 

On the night of 1 April 2014, Alto Hospicio suffered an 8.2 earthquake. The city was without power and water for several days and many were left homeless. Because I am researching social media usage in the city, I have paid particular attention to the photos that (usually young) residents have uploaded to Facebook and Instagram. I began adding my own images to these websites with similar hashtags to contribute to the body of imagery by residents who were were many times calling for more attention and help from the Chilean national government. In many ways, the people of Alto Hospicio felt forgotten, and were using social media to speak to whoever would listen. I took these photographs, featured here, in solidarity with others who were using their smartphone cameras to claim visibility and call for attention to the disaster.

The text of my paper presentation at RAI will be posted soon. Until then, here is the narrative of my experience of the earthquake. 
part one
part two
part three
part four
part five

It was a typical summer Sunday in Alto Hospicio, and my friend Jhony invited me to a barbeque at another friend’s house. He picked me up in his Jeep emblazoned with a Zorros Rojos (red foxes) sticker, announcing his membership in the truck, car, and motorcycle offroading club. We arrived at his friends’ house, and met the hosts, brothers Miguel and Paul. Paul was in a wheelchair with a broken leg from a recent motorcycle accident. Also present were Cris and my friend Alex, who is not part of the club, but just bought a used small truck and wants to start riding with them. In general, I was happy to be spending the afternoon with some people who are slightly older than me, because so much of my social circle here falls into the 20-25 year old category. 

As the three of us walked to the corner, Alex asked Jhony about changing the steering wheel in his truck. Jhony said he’d help in exchange for Alex helping him set up his new Samsung tablet phone (a Tab 3, I think). So, when we returned to the with 24 Escudo beers to the meat-smoke filled patio, Alex set to work.
   

Jhony’s first request was that Alex add Whatsapp, and in particular that he add his own and all the Zorros Rojos members’ contacts. Alex did so, and even sent a few pictures of the chicken breasts on the grill using the app. Jhony had already added Facebook, but asked the group what other apps he needed. We went around the circle offering our suggestions and the list included: Shazam, Skype, Google Chrome, Youtube, and Instagram. “What’s Instagram for?” asked Jhony. Alex explained “You upload pictures and the whole world says ‘I like it!” “It’s good for self-esteem” I offered. Alex agreed, sarcastically adding “Yep, it makes you feel like a real photographer.” Paul also offered his approval, “It's for ugly people like us. You take pictures and we come out looking good. It works like magic.”

By the time we had all consumed too many pounds of steak, chicken breast, hot dogs, and chorizo, Jhony had all of the apps we suggested as well as a flashlight, table level, compass, traffic advisory, QR scanner, and language translator on his new phone. Though I had a great time translating silly song lyrics for them, and laughing when they told Alex his new haircut looks like Miley Cyrus, I was also especially interested to get perspectives on different phone applications from people who do not see them as their main form of social engagement. Both age and their involvement in the Zorros Rojos place Facebook and other forms of social networking as supplementary forms of sociality, rather than the main way they communicate with their friends. And more than anything, I appreciated their sarcastic treatment of Instagram, which satirizes the ways so many younger people use the application. Yet, despite their degradations, they all still use it, knowing that it doesn’t quite make them artistic photographers, but appreciating that it might make their photos of tire tracks in the sand, just a little more aesthetically pleasing. 

I had a unique opportunity this morning. I was given access to an apartment of a friend whose boyfriend (pololo) had started moving some of his things in. I took the opportunity to snap some shots of his stuff: the most important things for daily living he had transplanted into her space. I thought something a little different might make for an interesting post. 

I suspect these items would be common in Northern Chile, but I cannot be sure. I am curious what might items might be the most important for a woman moving into her boyfriend's apartment. Would the amount of toiletries and clothing be bigger? Would the number and size of electronics be smaller? Or perhaps different in nature (hair dryers instead of stereos)? I am equally curious how these things vary from culture to culture.

I am reminded of my summers during grad school when I would pack up my car with the essentials and drive twelve hours from Washington D.C. to Chicago to spend two months with my boyfriend. Two boxes of books, a suitcase of clothes (another small duffle bag for shoes), my computer, and my bike helmet were the essentials. 

Obviously these things vary person to person, but this instant of beginning to move in with a significant other is not only important for the relationship. The things we move with us first, the things we deem most essential to daily life, these items of material culture give a unique and deeply revealing look into a person. 

I'm curious what other people have taken or would take when beginning to move in. Whether it is with a significant other, a friend, or simply an extended stay with family-what are the essential material possessions you take with you? Please leave a comment!