The selfie has been the subject of much discussion in recent times, from valuations of vanity to criticisms of public figures taking self-portraits at solemn events. But the selfie is more than narcicism or pathology. For anthropologists, it can actually tell us quite a bit about daily life, leisure (or not so leisureful) time, and notions of beauty.

About a month ago, I began analyzing the Instagram feeds of almost 75 residents of Alto Hospicio, most of them under the age of 25. Certain aspects of their Instagram usage were not terribly surprising. The example I present here is the selfie. Of their last 15 photos, all users averaged about 6 selfies (this was also fairly consistent between young men and woman, with only a .07 average difference). But what was surprising was the lack of artistry that seemed to be attributed to these photos. Filters were used, but subject matter was not particularly “beautiful.” Shots were not composed with symmetry, with horizontal lines leveled, or with the rule of thirds in mind. Neither were shots noteworthy for their “rarity.” As Jon Snow of Chanel 4 tells Nimrod Kamer in his short Guardian video about selfies, “I think if you’re somewhere rare, it’s worth [taking a selfie], or if you’re doing something rare, it’s worth doing it.” (see min 2:55-3:05 of the video below). 

But these photos are taken in family living rooms, while at work, and the backseat of an older sibling’s car. The exact places the users traverse every day. The definitive opposite of “rare.” Instead, they are taken in utterly mundane places. The ubiquity of mundane photos corresponds closely to Daniel Miller’s assertion that the intention behind photography is now not so much to produce a photograph, but that the photography legitimates the act of taking a picture. The transience of Instagram also legitimates the mundane self-portrait. It is not a portrait meant for a display of beauty, but rather a document of the moment. In this sense, it’s intention to amuse in the moment (or short period of time thereafter). It not only is briefly entertaining in the instant of taking the photo, but provides entertainment for a friend or follower who might view the photo. Further, through collecting likes and comments, the mundane photo may serve to break up a mundane day for the user. 

The other most common form of self-portrait was the “sassy” photo. These appear like fashion magazine photos aimed at showing off clothing. They are often either taken in the mirror or by a friend. Hands are often on the hips, or in another “fashion model” sort of pose. It is important to note the difference here between sassy and sexy. Though the line between the two can at times be ambiguous, sexy photos usually involve the subject with little clothing, lying on a bed, or showing cleavage or abs. Sassy photos on the other hand are the type your mother might comment “Oh, you look so cute!” Notably, in these sassy photos, the clothing that is being shown off is rarely overly stylish. Hair is usually not noticeably done for a special occasion. Though these certainly pop up when people attend formal events (such as weddings or graduations), they more commonly appear with every day clothing and style. 

The point of understanding self-portraits, including selfies, is that it lends us information about conceptions of attractiveness and beauty among particular groups of people. And attractiveness is something that most people think about when posing for a portrait that they will then share with their networks. This is evident here from bodily poses and facial expressions. Both are chosen in these photos, meaning there is an explicit, self-conscious presentation of the self.

However, what seems quite clear to me, given the number of mundane photos and sassy photos that display everyday clothing and hair, is that people’s sense of what forms of attractiveness are worthy of display are actually quite “normal.” This is reinforced by my observations in Alto Hospicio in general. People are rarely dressed nicely. Jeans, shorts, and t-shirts are the norm. It is rare to see women in dresses or fancy tops. Most men wear sneakers and most women wear flip flop sandals. Women especially wear bright colors. Men also generally wear t-shirts, though during the week it is not uncommon to see men on their work lunch breaks wearing plaid short sleeved collared shirts with jeans. 

I’m reminded here of two different critiques of “critiques of selfies,” which both have come from self-identified “feminist” bloggers. The first, The Young Girl and the Selfie written by a woman who is an ex-PhD student in sociology, suggests that the selfie, represents the perfect contradiction of late-capitalism: young women’s bodies’ are both a target for consumption (particularly for “beauty” and “style” products) and judged not by those who inhabit them, but by those who gaze upon them. Thus, the selfie is the logical outcome of this combination of pressures. And when the selfie is demonized, it becomes “simultaneously the site of desire and pity.” Teen girls are “Young-Girls” [a type, not individuals], are spectacles, are narcissists, are consumers, because those are the very criterion that must be met to be a young woman and also part of society.

The second blog, The Radical Politics of Selfies goes beyond this first piece, arguing that while perhaps selfies may reflect “the way society teaches women that their most important quality is their physical attractiveness…not all [people] are allowed to see themselves as beautiful, desirable, sexy, or fit for human consumption.” For many, mass media representations of people who look like them are nowhere to be found. Magazines, television, movies, and advertisements depict people who are so far from physically similar to women of color, queer women, differently-abled people, and even people with a high percentage of body fat, that they are not only an unrealistic ideal, but have little to no resonance. Thus, the author concludes, that social media allows for people who do not fit these molds to find (and produce) proper representations of themselves.

Alto Hospicio is the kind of place where people do not look like the actors in television shows they watch. They do not look like the news anchors on CNN Chile, let alone the South American telenovelas that most middle-aged women watch. They are generally darker skinned, shorter, wider, and have more indigenous features. And to dress or otherwise present themselves as such might not be authentic. Even though the city is a melting pot of Northern Chileans, Southern Chileans, Bolivians, Peruvians, and Colombians, they generally all blend together in a homogenizing soup of “normalness.” No one really stands out. Skin tones range from the light tan of mixed Spanish/Indigenous/German heritage to the dark tone of Afro-South Americans, but the casual clothing, low-maintenance hair styles, and lack of other physical beauty accents brings everyone together. Thus, perhaps the selfie acts as resistance against erasure: within this homogenizing crowd, for the region that is often forgotten politically and lacks representation in media.

It has been exactly 10 years since I first attended the Iowa State Fair. It has been 7 years since I last attended. I am still adamantly in love with the ISF to a fault. Ten years ago the film crew I worked with spent hot, sweaty august days lugging cameras into refrigerated rooms filled with molding butter and accompanying Norma Duffy Lyons to her daily lunch of state fair Chinese food. We spend the nights sipping Stroh’s beer around a campfire and listening the The Hawk radio station 97.3. And by the end of the summer we had over 40 hours of tape (which, as far as I know is still unlogged and unedited). I joined this crew because I had loved the Buttercow in Illinois as a child, but by August 20, 2003 I was a true believer in the Buttercow of Iowa.

So you can imagine my horror when I learned yesterday that an animal welfare group poured red paint on the Buttercow in protest (read the story via NPR). 

I was at a baseball game with my parents when I received word via email on my phone. “Oh no!” I gasped, and my mother thought I had read that a friend was in some sort of trouble. I told her the news and my honest first commentary was “don’t they know they reuse the butter for four years?”

I think it’s important to contextualize my comments here and note that at the time of documentary making, I had been vegetarian for seven years. I was never vegan for more than a month (yogurt! goat cheese! honey! beautiful leather frye boots!), but I made it a full twelve years of vegetarianism before giving up during fieldwork in Bolivia. I now quite enjoy fried chicken, pork chicharones, cuy (roasted guinea pig), and anticuchos (grilled beef heart), among many other forms of meat. But I also still truly believe that vegetarianism is far more environmentally friendly and sustainable than regular meat-eating. That said, I ultimately recognize that one’s ability and desire to eat meat or not are substantially culturally influenced. Things like purchasing power, national location, regional location, local location, racial identity, gender, religion, subcultural affiliation or identification, and who knows what else profoundly structure not only what we perceive as desirable food but also what we are physically able to eat.

So my reaction is more complicated than it may appear. Though I don’t generally condone destructive practices as protest, I also don’t wholly disagree with the protestors’ intentions. Helping to thaw 600 pounds of overly cooled butter by running my hands through it may have improved it’s consistency for sculpting but also made me shun the stuff for more than a month. There is something foul and inedible about massive amounts of dairy product. But in the end, with my apologies to anti-speciesist friends, I have to conclude that the protestors’ actions were misguided. 

Back in 2007 I argued that the Buttercow was a symbol of citizenship in the sense that in it’s iconicity it represented pride and intimate knowledge, moving beyond citizenship as simply claims to rights and responsibilities. I returned to this argument when writing for the Food Culture Index blog, suggesting that Minnesota Dairy Princess Katie Miron connects butter art to Midwestern values using words like “hard work,” “dedication,” “wholesome,” and “nutritious.” Butter art for her is a way to both reinscribe these values within the community, and communicate the values to outsiders. Like the colonial map, it demarcates “us” from “them,” and acts as a logo, and becomes a “pure sign” or emblem for a certain kind of community affiliation.

And, like all icons, the Buttercow adapts to symbolize prevailing social issues and political perspectives. What was once a symbol of progress, now has come to be a nostalgic representation of a disappearing way of life. As family farms disappear and Concentrated Animal Feeding Operations replace them, the Buttercow stands as a testament to the value placed on farmers who practice true animal husbandry and forms of agriculture that stand in opposition to the CFO’s that have become so ubiquitous. The 600 pounds of butter used in Illinois’s Buttercow comes from Prairie Farms, which is a farmer owned cooperative whose cows are free range and 100% hormone free. Put simply, to it's supporters, the Buttercow is a symbol of family farmers who intimately know and care for their animals, and is seen as oppositional to the forms of industrialized agriculture that exploit animals to their breaking point before discarding them.

Of course, many animal liberation groups see no distinction between large scale animal exploitation and that which is family owned. But that is precisely my point. In ignoring or misunderstanding the distinction, I believe such protestors are alienating those who could be powerful allies. And besides, pouring red paint on the butter only means that instead of reusing it next year, they’ll have to get a brand new 600 pound batch.


see my writing at food culture index or hit the "butter" tag to the right to see my earlier fieldnotes

After three hours of anticipation, one and a half hours of preparation, and a mere minute of actual tattooing, I was permanently marked.

Alé drove me back to Olivers for a drink, and Mike, the American bartender was the first to ask to see it. 

"That's it? You were gone for 3 hours and that's all you got?"

Two days later, when I showed Hugo, he was offended. "I drew you a beautiful design, and instead you got a line?" He laughed and brushed me off.

When I arrived in Lima, Amanda asked about it. "Who did it? Well, its only a line. I guess it doesn't really matter."

Even upon returning to my hometown, my father's best friend asked to see it. "That's it? Why not more? If you're going to do it, you've gotta do it."

But Alé's words ring in my head. "No es para nadie. Es para ti." And I love it. Even after the countless hours I had spent hanging out at Tito's over the last year, I learned a lot about tattooing that night. And even though, perhaps "its only a line...it doesn't really matter" who the artist was, I'm confident (politics or none) that I chose the right person to do it. Someone I trusted, someone who cared enough to make sure it was exactly what I wanted, and someone who in the three weeks since has asked countless times how it is, if its healed, how the color is fading, and if I like it. Maybe I'm just gloating, but now I can't imagine getting a tattoo from a stranger. There's just something too impersonal about that.  

We set an appointment for 8pm on Thursday, but by 8:45 when I still hadn't heard from him, I called to find out what had happened. He was still working on someone else's and said he'd call when he was finished. I was getting nervous, so I went to Oliver's, the bar below my apartment to distract myself. When I hadn't heard from him two hours later, I was convinced I'd leave still a "sin." But around 11pm, Alé walked through my door and escorted me to his car waiting down stairs. We drove to his house, stopping for salchipapas on the way, and arrived around 11:30. We ate, he looked for a foto with the right angle of Illimani, and we talked about US politics. He found a foto, and traced it. He cut it out, and used transfer paper to put it on my wrist. He didn't like it, so used some lotion to rub it off. He printed another foto and traced it, again putting it on my left writs. But he didn't like it as a simple line, so using a pen he added a snowcap and shading. But he still didn't like it and set about searching for yet another foto to use. Again, he traced just the line of the peaks, as originally planned, and transferred it to my right wrist for comparison with the more elaborate version.  

"Como te parece?" [What do you think?] he asked. "Si, esta bien." [Yeah, its good] I replied. And then he was frustrated. The truth was, I was frustrated as it neared 12:30 am and we were still messing around with drawing lines. But I didn't say that. Instead he said, "Es para toda la vida. Tienes que estar segura." [This is for life. You have to be sure.] And he was right. "Es para ti. No es para mi. No es para nadie. Es para ti." And suddenly I realized he really cared. He had told me earlier it was a birthday gift and I couldn't pay him for it, but it was that moment that I realized this wasn't just about him doing one more tattoo. This wasn't a chance to practice. This wasn't a debt that needed to be paid or even gift that needed to be given. This was an opportunity to give me something that we both cared about. And my attitude shifted. I mean hell, it wasn't like I really had anything to do Friday morning anyway.

He said he needed to go upstairs to his apartment, and told me he would leave me alone to ponder which of the two Illimani drawings I wanted. It took me a minute, but I quickly decided the simple line was what I had imagined for months. So when he returned I raised my right arm up, as if asking to be called on by a teacher, and he grabbed the lotion to take the more detailed drawing off.

The old drawing erased, he transferred the line to my wrist yet again, and we inspected it to make sure it was straight. But of course, he decided it was too low and transferred it to his wrist, higher up, for comparison. But his wrist had far fewer fold lines in it than mine, so the comparison was difficult. But after much squinting, we decided mine should be moved up, so more lotion, more erasure, more transferring, and more scrutinizing for perfection. And then we were ready.

"Te gusta?"
"Si, mucho."
"Segura?"
"Si!"
"Esta perfecto?"
"Si. Esta perfecto."
"Ok, me dijiste tres veces. Te creo."

So he covered the arm rest with plastic, and slid two stools over by his tall, bright light. He cleaned and disinfected as I started realizing I was really going through with this.

"You know, its funny" I told him. "I remember in high school, eating dinner at the house of my boyfriend with his parents and discussing tattoos for some reason. I said I would never get one because I didn't like them. But, well, look at me now..."

"Why did you change your mind?"

I had to think about how to explain in Spanish. "Well, its like a scar. I like scars because you see them and you have to remember the circumstances in which you hurt yourself. You look at it and suddenly this memory comes back. And for me, I want to remember Bolivia. I think I've changed a lot here and grown, and had incredible experiences. And I never want to forget that. I want to look down at my wrist and remember."

And then I scooted my stool over and placed my wrist on the plastic covered leather. 

"Lista?"
"No, pero nunca voy a estar lista. Tienes que empezar."

And then, at approximately 1am, the buzzing started. And he gently touched down and did a short stroke.

"Esta bien? Estas bien?"
"Si. Todo bien."

Seventy five seconds later he was done. 

So, a few days before I left La Paz, I got a tattoo. I suppose it was a long time coming. Quite a few of my tatuador friends had offered free services over the last year and a half, and in the end, as Juaquin told me, I just couldn't leave the country without some ink. So, in the parlance of tattoo culture in La Paz, I become one of the "con."  

It was not a decision I made lightly, but one I had been thinking about since my sister visited in June. She wanted to add to her growing collection of inked art, but in the end we ran out of time. However, this set me thinking about if I might want something, what I might want, where I might put it, and who might be my artist.

Since I arrived in La Paz the first time in 2009, I have had a bit of a love affair with Illimani, the beautiful mountain that towers over La Paz. In fact, his picture has graced a number of blog entries here. Some of my favorite places in the city have a view of the mountain, and I always feel lucky when I'm allowed to be alone while viewing him. Its something of a centering mechanism. When I'm frustrated, confused, troubled, or even relieved or happy, it always feels better to stare at Illimani, meditatively. And on cloudy days, when the view's obstructed or he just appears to be another fluffy cloud in a blue sky, I'm a bit disappointed.   

And so, my desire to be able to see Illimani at all times--even when its cloudy, even when I'm far away--made it the perfect choice. And my wrist seemed like the perfect place. Easy to see whenever I want. More visible to me than others. But easily covered by the watch that I go crazy without.  

But the question of who was possibly the most difficult. And obvious choice would be Edwin, owner of Tito's. But then there was Andres who had become my best friend in the last few months. And Hugo had drawn up possible tattoos for me before, unsolicited. Both Diego and Caro had run off to Argentina to tattoo there for a stint, so they were out, and Gonz was in an argument with Edwin and had left the shop. Everyone told me to go with the best artist, but I knew it was only a line. And I knew the politics would catch up with me. So, I went with the underdog, my old friend Alé who had just set up a studio on the floor beneath his apartment. I hesitated for a number of reasons, but I knew in the end my loyalty lied with him. 

My favorite example of the ironic appreciation of lucha libre, which I saw live on Friday night, is the band Surfin Wagner. I first heard of them because the lead singer was a friend of a friend, but quickly discovered they had quite a following of Paceños. The band’s name is derived from a famous Mexican luchador, Dr. Wagner, otherwise known as Manuel González Rivera. He began wrestling in the 1960s as a rudo, but by the early 1980s—when the members of Surfin Wagner and my friends were young children—he had become a technico. In 1985 he lost his match in a well-publicized event and essentially retired. 

The band, like my friends who I wrote about here, creates humor using a frame shifting strategy by combining lucha libre aesthetics with surf music. The band members use lucha libre inspired names (Pedro Wagner, Médiko Loko—a misspelling of famous Mexican luchador Médico Loco, Roy Fucker—after a Japanese anime character later used in Mexican wrestling, El Momia, and Comando—both popular characters in Bolivian wrestling), and wear lucha libre head-masks along with their Hawai'ian print shirts. They describe their music as “el Garage, el punk y principalmente el Surf, siempre con un toque de sátira e ironía” [garage rock, punk, and principally surf, always with a touch of satire and irony]. The “biography” of the band on their website suggests that the band members are legitimate luchadores (again with irony), and they point out the incongruity of a surf band in a country without access to the sea. Clearly their use of the lucha libre aesthetic is meant to evoke laughter rather than contribute to a serious musical appreciation. 

So, over these last three posts, I've tried to give a sense that for many Paceños lucha libre in general, and the cholitas luchadoras’ participation specifically, are a light-hearted representation of Latin American culture. In a sense, lucha libre is positioned as authentically Latin American in a now-globalized world. As they combine cholas with punk culture or classic Mexican luchadores with surf rock, they reterritorialize these “traditional” icons by merging them with global symbols.
 

In July of 2008, after a long day of dancing to A Hawk and a Hacksaw, Icy Demons, and Animal Collective at the Pitchfork Music Festival, I found myself with some long lost friends at Belmont and Western. I hadn’t seen or talked to Ravi in years. We had dated briefly in college, but more importantly we were student government co-conspirators. He was the director of an umbrella organization for progressive student groups. I was the executive officer for Students Advocating Gender Equality. Together we led protests across campus and Chicago and tried to lobby both student government and the administration to pass resolutions condemning the occupation of Iraq. We never succeeded at that, but the “camp out” we held at the library plaza did eventually get the university to sign onto the Workers’ Rights Consortium Designated Suppliers Program.

So five years after our graduation we sat across a table at The Hungry Brain catching up (he was about to run for a state representative spot in his home district) and waxing nostalgic (with stories one should never share about a political candidate they support).

And the Hungry Brain is a lovely place. Nestled in Roscoe Village, its a cash only dive bar. The type of place I’d normally flock to. And on this particular night there was a jazz trio playing. I’m sure they were playing quite well, but at least in the back corner we occupied our laughter was the overwhelming sound. And the other patrons weren’t so keen on this. We got dirty looks often, and shhhhs a few times, so at the set break we walked around the corner to some 4 am bar that inexplicably had 3 motorcycles parked in the back room.

In the intervening years I’d eventually attend summer outdoor jazz in the park type events or find myself gulping wine at Columbia Station in DC. But last night, I finally stopped into the jazz bar I’ve been walking past for 3 years. I’ve always meant to check it out, but never had a reason. When Joaquin told me he knows Pablo, the owner and suggested we go, I jumped at the chance. Thelonious is promoted as the only jazz bar in Bolivia, though I have no idea how accurate that is. In La Paz it is certainly the most well publicized, but as far as I know there could be some hidden in the back lanes of El Alto, or a thriving jazz community in Santa Cruz. Thelonius, like Hungry Brain and pretty much all bars in La Paz, is cash only. But aside from music, cash, and alcohol, my experience there was very different from the Hungry Brain. 

We arrived around midnight and found Pablo, his girlfriend, and another friend at a table by the door. Having arrived with Joaquin, our Colombian friend Jhon, local electronico DJ Chuck Norris, and his date, we pushed several tables together and joined Pablo and company. The Jack Daniels flowed freely and we discussed race politics in La Paz (in as lighthearted a way as we could). The conversation was filled with that distinctive Paceño laugh-a velar nasal “yaaaaaahhhhhhhh.”

Only at the set break was the music mentioned. Joaquin told me that the bass player (of course) was one of the best in La Paz. He then introduced me to the manager—one of the best jazz drummers in South America. I got plenty of (undeserved) Jazz street credit for being from Chicago. 

And our table was not unique. The overall feeling of the place was lively. People were laughing, and at times cheered and whistled for solos. The occasional drink was spilled without much notice. People danced on their way to the baño and stopped at other tables to chat on their way back. 

In essence, it would have been the perfect place for Ravi and I that night after Pitchfork. And perhaps this is just an isolated example, but to me it felt significant. Here in La Paz music is about enjoyment, having fun, creating an atmosphere for smiling and laughing. In Chicago, home of Green Mill, and Old Town School of Folk Music, its about connoisseurship. And this is no moral judgment on either, but to my untrained ear, I’d rather joke with Colombian Jhonny about Paceños’ laughs than quietly get lost in the beat. 

And to an extent I think this reflects some of the tensions in lucha libre as well. The cholitas luchadoras are there for the laughter, the smiling, the shouts, and raucousness. And luchadores like Edgar understand the importance of the audience, but see their art as something to be appreciated on an elevated level. Again there is no moral judgment here, and I think most artists of whatever sort would prefer to be appreciated for their technical ability and crafting of style—but there are definitely two different approaches to performance at play here. 

A friend requested I translate this for use in his anthropology class. I'm not sure it is closely connected to my research, but I thought I'd put it here, since I spent a little time doing it:

CHAMAKAT SARTASIRY

We Aymaras[1] are original peoples of America.
We lived here for thousands and thousands of years
From these lands
He’s saying that its growing in the shade
He is beginning to talk forever
[these last two lines, I’m not sure I’m entirely understanding the poetics of what they’re saying]
No and without shame
Thousands and thousands are millions my Aymara community
With the blood of Tupac Katari[2]
This name we write on the walls
Aymaras, Quechuas[3] are rising up with force
With force they are coming

Our forefathers left us all that is good, beautiful and grand
Their children should learn the Ayllu[4] is an organization
Our forefathers left us all that is good, beautiful and grand
The original Aymaras should continue to guide us
And we should not depart from this life
The voice of the Aymara of the Quechua
Rises up from darkness
Lighting Latin America with a great light that emerges, creates
Now the sun is going to leave
Now for us we arrive on the path
On the path we will illuminate
White clouds that seem like swirls of wind
That lift to fly like the condor Mallku[5]
To be like the cold snow of the mountain range
Aymaras, Quechuas are rising up with force
With force they are coming

My community I don’t want to see suffering
My community I don’t want to see crying
I don’t want to see them sad
Lets go, let’s go blood brothers
We won’t die kneeling, that’s how it will be
Now yes, now we’re going to do it
This great day for everyone will arrive
That [day] which is going to illuminate the dark is coming
The return, now yes.
Now, yes, now we’re going to do it
To complete the dream of our ancestors to walk on the paths of our ancestors
To sing together new winds
Aymaras, Quechuas are rising up with force
With force they are coming


[1] Most populous indigenous group in the Altiplano (high plane) where La Paz and El Alto are located

[2] Indigenous revolution leader agains colonists-he failed and was hanged. His last words were “I will come back as Millions”

[3] Second most populous indigenous group

[4] Allyus (pronounced eye-yous) are pre-colonial agricultural/community groups based on reciprocity

[5] The condor is a sacred animal in the Andes (for several different indigenous groups, including Aymara and Quechua)

Here is also a fairly recent article in the NYT about Wayna Rap. However, I should mention that I disagree entirely with the assessment that it is "not exactly the place you would expect to find a thriving, politically charged rap culture." In fact, it is precisely the place I would expect to find that. But NYT seems to clinging to a notion that "tradition" can exist in a world with neoliberal accumulation and extensive flows of people, goods, and ideas. 

So the Tito’s guys walk into the bar in their certain affected ways, dripping with meaning. But they are not naked fusions of heads and limbs. They are not just bodies. They are bodies that are covered in various ways.

Gonz wears a black Pantera shirt over a black turtleneck. He has long, thick wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail. He has two lip piercings (of the sort I’ve heard my sister call “snakebites”), along with a few silver hoops in his ears.

Alé often wears an Ed Hardy shirt with a tiger on it that he told me he bought at the El Alto market one Sunday. He wears baggy light colored jeans and black Adidas shoes that often have the laces untied. His dark brown leather jacket has a sweatshirt hood poking out the collar. He shaves his head to the second lowest setting once a week. He has small black flesh plug earrings, and his right hand has a tattoo in black and red of a rotary tattoo machine that says “calibración.”

Edwin, the owner, in many ways looks the least menacing of them all. His medium sized flesh tunnel earrings are the most obvious visible nod to his career. He wears glasses that hover in the space between hipster and dorky. The night that Gonz surprised me with his energy, Edwin wore a white tshirt with the DC skateboarding logo on it. After 2 beers, he lifted it up to reveal the tattoo of a classic 1950s auto. He said, “and it’s a transformer!” I was puzzled. Then I started laughing hysterically as he puffed out the stomach and it resembled more of a VW bug than a long lean car.

Diego, I always picture in his “Johnny Walked” shirt—with the Johnny Walker logo, only in a wheelchair. He has black spiky hair and fairly large flesh tunnel earrings. He almost always wears ray ban sunglasses outdoors. He has a goatee and tattoos peak out of his shirt on his neck and his arms.

Their bodies, in some ways more than others,’ are obviously constructed. The piercings (many of which take time to stretch) and tattoos are visibly “unnatural.” But though the specifics might differ, their bodies are constructed through the same processes as everyone else’s. Donald Lowe (2005) lists, among other things, that processes of bodily construction include the work we do, the commodities we consume, and the politics of gender and sexuality to which we ascribe or aspire. In other words, these bodies (all bodies) flexibly accumulate markers through consumption, production, and identity practices.

What they have accumulated, among other things, is the ability to perform as authentic tattoo artists. Much has been written on the ways that both dress (Adkins and Lury 1999, Atluri 2009, Halberstam 1998), and purchase of goods (Mort 1995, 1998, Tomlinson 1990) work to perform authenticity of identity. Because they rely on social scripts (the ones that tell us not to trust a barber with a bad haircut or a tattoo artist with no tattoos), over time these symbols congeal to produce appearance of naturalness (Butler 1999:44). (Well, of course my tattoo artist wears a leather jacket. What would you expect? A tweed sport coat?)

As Bucholtz and Hall explain, authenticity (or as they say, “authentication,” to emphasize its active and processual nature) is about realness in contrast to artifice. Certain accumulations (clothing, tattoos and piercings for the Tito’s guys, or boyfriends from Travestis in India) provide validation for identities (2005:500).

Often authentication of identity is achieved through connection to valued symbols (Bucholtz and Hall 2005:500). But as Lowe writes, “All body practices [production practices, consumption practices, social reproduction practices, practices of sexuality and gender construction, and practices of psychopathology] have become commodified to such an extent, that the satisfaction of our diverse bodily needs is reconfigured by the requirements of flexible accumulation" (1995). Thus the “valued symbols” of today are often connected to certain brand names: Ed Hardy, DC, Pantera (yes I, along with other more respectable figures, argue bands at times may constitute a brand in and of itself).

Through juxtaposed images and signs, advertising connects product characteristics with prevailing social and cultural values. As a result, we no longer consume commodities to satisfy relatively stable and specific needs, but to reconstruct ourselves in terms of the lifestyle associated with the consumption of certain commodities.

Much like the travelers at the Ekko bar, the tattooists flexibly accumulate symbols of their identities: t shirts that reference “alternative” subcultures related to music or skateboarding, piercings of various sizes, visible tattoos, and bodily comportment that indexes an atagonistic attitude toward the world (authority?). And like the tourists, this accumulation, though it relies on certain forms of consumption, is not simply about buying specific products, but includes the accumulation of non-commodified symbols. Alé’s image of the tattoo machine on his hand is a clear example. Even his Ed Hardy tshirt, which likely cost less than 5Bs (75 cents) in El Alto is a product that is purchased, but is important for its social capital rather than its economic worth. 

However, as Carolan (2005) argues, in this new era of conspicuous consumption, surrounding oneself with "nice things" is insufficient … rather we are striving to become the 'Nice thing" itself, to literally embody our consumption. He suggests this is visible in the ways bodies are dressed, fed, comported, and even their apparent "health.” The outward appearance of one's body is considered to be a window to one's inner worthiness. Thus we arrive back at the body, a vehicle for brands and symbols. Litterally punctured. Literally written upon. And yet, perhaps it is the (somewhat) irreversible nature of these two latter processes that provides the sense of authenticity. A gate can be altered. A shirt can be changed. I know that Alé has a suit hanging in his closet. But that “calibración” on his hand is still going to be visible. And is still going to reference a very specific identity. 

Adkins, Lisa and Celia Lury
1999  The Labour of Identity: Performing Identities, Performing Economies. Economy and Society 28(4):598-614.

Atluri, Tara
2009  Lighten Up?! Humour, Race, and Da Off Colour Joke of Ali G. Media, Culture, & Society 31(2):197-214

Bucholtz, Mary and Kira Hall
2005 Identity and Interaction: A Sociocultural Linguistic Approach. Discourse Studies 7(4-5):585-614.

Butler, Judith
1999 Gender Trouble. New York: Routledge.

Carolan, Michael S.
2005 The Conspicuous Body: Capitalism, Consumerism, Class and Consumption. Worldviews 9(1):82-111.

Halberstam, Judith
1998  Female Masculinity. Durham: Duke University Press.

Lowe, Donald M.
1995 The Body in Late-Capitalist USA. Durham: Duke University Press.

Mort, Frank
1998  Cityscapes: Consumption, Masculinities and the Mapping of London since 1950. Urban Studies 35(5-6):889-907.
1995  Archaeologies of City Life: Commerical Culture, Masculinity, and Spatial Relations in 1980s London. Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 13:573-590.

Tomlinson, Alan
1990  Consumption, Identity, and Style: Marketing, Meanings, and the Packaging of Pleasure. New York: Routledge.

The iconicity of the buttercow is even more apparent as it remains in the context of the state fair. As agriculture shifts in the United States, from a family-based mode of production to a more and more mechanized and large-scale industrial complex, the meanings associated with “authentic” representations of agricultural livelihoods change. The icon of the buttercow has shifted from an emblem of pride in the dairy industry’s success to a nostalgic symbol of the disappearing culture of family agriculture. Singer writes that such cultural displays “[cast] much light on the way in which cultural themes and values are communicated as well as on processes of social and cultural change." The context in which butter sculpture now exists gives immediacy to the art form as the social dramatic action of transformed farmland takes shape in and legitimizes butter sculpture as culturally and artistically important. 

The buttercow, as an icon, also forms the locus for the construction of cultural identity. Identity is, at its foundation, the ways that people index or perform sameness and difference from one another. Scholars such as Clifford have written on the ways that “international” or “non-western” art marks difference by emphasizing the “primitive,” “exotic,” or “tribal” nature of the art. The buttercow works in the converse, illustrating a sense of commonality for its enthusiasts. Bucholtz and Hall suggest that the dichotomy between genuineness and artiface is a key site for the instantiation of identity. The authenticity of the buttercow as confirmed by the context of the state fair, then, is central to the successful performance or indexing of a rural Iowan or Illinoisan identity. To know the buttercow is to say something about your own history, experiences, and values. Not every state has a buttercow. And not everyone in the state even knows what the buttercow is. Like playing euchre in La Paz, it is not just a pastime, but a performance of real Midwestern identity. 

And so I will end with one of my favorite quotes from Renato Rosaldo:
Culture lends significance to human experience by selecting from and organizing it.  It refers broadly to the forms through which people make sense of their lives, rather than more narrowly to the opera or art museums.  It does not inhabit a set-aside domain as does, for example, that of politics or economics. From the pirouettes of classical ballet to the most brute of brute facts, all human conduct is culturally mediated. Culture encompasses the everyday and the esoteric, the mundane and the elevated, the ridiculous and the sublime. Neither high nor low, culture is all-pervasive. (1989: p. 26)  

Clifford, James
1991  Four Northwest Coast Museums: Travel Reflections. In Exhibiting Cultures, I. Karp & S. D. Lavine, eds. pp. 212-254. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press.

Rosaldo, Renato
1993  Culture and Truth: The Remaking of Social Analysis. Boston: Beacon Press.

Singer, Milton
1972  When a Great Tradition Modernizes: An Anthropological Approach to Modern Civilization. New York, Washington, London: Praeger Publishers.