Clifford Geertz has died

I was doing so well with the meeting-my-heroes thing, and then Clifford Geertz went off and died.

His most famous article–arguably one of the most famous pieces of academic writing of the 20th century–“Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight” changed the way I looked at the world. Someone, quite illegally, has it up online, and if you’re at all curious about anthropology but are scared away by all of the bad writers, read this essay.

There doesn’t seem to be a very good online biography of Geertz, and it looks like the Times hasn’t gotten their obituary online yet. (Click the pic for the wiki.) Some important things: He went to Antioch and Harvard, and he spent the last 35 years at the Institute for Advanced Study at Princeton being a smart person. He is not without his detractors, and if you read the cockfight piece, you may notice that there’s a huge chunk of Bali that he fails to mention: women. Nevertheless, the way that he looked at culture–as a text to be interpreted–influenced anthropologists for 30 years. Yep: He coined the term “thick description.”

Here’s his great quote:

The concept of culture I espouse…is essentially a semiotic one. Believing, with Max Weber, that man is an animal suspended in webs of significance he himself has spun, I take culture to be those webs, and the analysis of it to be therefore not an experimental science in search of law but an interpretive one in serach of meaning. It is explication I am after, construing social expressions on their surface enigmatical.

Brilliant man. A sad day. Via Savage Minds.

Here’s the obit:

November 1, 2006
Clifford Geertz, Cultural Anthropologist, Is Dead at 80
By ANDREW L. YARROW

Clifford Geertz, the eminent cultural anthropologist whose work focused on interpreting the symbols he believed give meaning and order to people’s lives, died on Monday in Philadelphia. He was 80 and lived in Princeton, N.J.

The cause was complications after heart surgery, according to an announcement by the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, where he had been on the faculty since 1970.

Best known for his theories of culture and cultural interpretation, Mr. Geertz was considered a founder of interpretive, or symbolic, anthropology. But his influence extended far beyond anthropology to many of the social sciences, and his writing had a literary flair that distinguished him from most theorists and ethnographers.

He won a National Book Critics Circle Award for ”Works and Lives: The Anthropologist as Author” (1988), which examined four of his discipline’s forebears: Bronislaw Malinowski, Ruth Benedict, E. E. Evans-Pritchard and Claude Lévi-Strauss.

Drawing on history, psychology, philosophy and literary criticism, Mr. Geertz analyzed and decoded the meanings of rituals, art, belief systems, institutions and other ”symbols,” as he defined them.

”Believing with Max Weber that man is an animal suspended in webs of significance he himself has spun, I take culture to be those webs and the analysis of it to be therefore not an experimental science in search of law but an interpretive one in search of meaning,” he wrote in his 1973 book, ”The Interpretation of Cultures” (Basic Books). The Times Literary Supplement called the book one of the 100 most important since World War II.

Mr. Geertz also wrote voluminously on his fieldwork in Indonesia and Morocco. In one of his most widely cited essays, ”Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight,” included in ”The Interpretation of Cultures,” he analyzed the kinship and social ties that are constructed, emphasized and maintained in this form of ritual ”deep play” as if they were ”an assemblage of texts.”

In his writings, Mr. Geertz drew a careful distinction between culture and social structure, differentiating himself from functionalists like Lévi-Strauss, who believed that rituals, institutions and other aspects of a culture could be best understood by the purposes they serve.

Whereas social structure embraces economic, political and social life and its institutional forms, Mr. Geertz said, culture is ”a system of meanings embodied in symbols” that provide people with a frame of reference to understand reality and animate their behavior. Culture, he argued, fills the gap between those things that are biological givens for our species and those we need to function in a complex, interdependent and changing world.

In short, in the Geertz formulation, the question to ask about cultural phenomena is not what they do, but what they mean. Mr. Geertz also argued against the idea that one could define the essence of humanity across all cultures.

”The notion that the essence of what it means to be human is most clearly revealed in those features of human culture that are universal rather than in those that are distinctive to this people or that is a prejudice that we are not obliged to share,” he wrote in 1966. ”It may be in the cultural particularities of people — in their oddities — that some of the most instructive revelations of what it is to be generically human are to be found.”

Mr. Geertz was also deeply concerned about the anthropologist’s role and the discipline’s methodology. Recognizing the colonialist and Western heritage of anthropology, he believed that it was difficult for anyone from one culture to represent another accurately and meaningfully. He noted that anthropologists were hardly passive, objective observers, but rather individual creators of narratives, with their own voice.

Arguing that ethnographic reality does not exist apart from anthropologists’ written versions of it, he said that cultures and peoples should speak for themselves, with anthropologists learning to ”converse with them” and interpret them.

In his book ”Local Knowledge: Further Essays in Interpretive Anthropology” (Basic Books, 1983), Mr. Geertz also addressed the question of whether someone from one culture can objectively understand another.

For him, the anthropologist’s task is to use what he called thick description to interpret symbols by observing them in use. Therefore the anthropologist must be both empirically rigorous and a savvy interpreter, akin to a psychoanalyst. In 1972 he wrote that ”cultural analysis is (or should be) guessing at meanings, assessing the guesses and drawing explanatory conclusions from the better guesses.”

Mr. Geertz’s elaborate theorizing and his later doubts about the limits of anthropological knowledge left some scholars nonplussed. As Jonathan Benthall, writing in The New Statesman in 1995, said: ”He disappoints some colleagues because he comes up with no overarching theories.”

Clifford Geertz was born on Aug. 23, 1926, in San Francisco, the son of Clifford and Lois Geertz. During World War II, he served in the Navy.

He received a bachelor’s degree in philosophy in 1950 from Antioch College, where a professor urged him to pursue his interests in values by studying anthropology. He went on to the social relations department at Harvard, where he studied with the anthropologist Clyde Kluckhohn and the sociologist Talcott Parsons, receiving his Ph.D. in 1956.

Around this time, he did the first of a half dozen fieldwork stints in Indonesia, spending 1952 to 1954 in the central Javanese village of Pare. His early work on Indonesia combined aspects of more conventional ethnography and history with concerns about economic and political development in the wake of decolonization.

”The Religion of Java” (1960), his first major work, is an ethnographic description of Javanese religion. ”Agricultural Involution” (1963) takes a big-picture view of modernization and economic development in the wake of Indonesian independence, while ”Peddlers and Princes” (1963) focuses on development from the more microscopic level of the towns of Modjokuto in Java and Tabanan in Bali. A century of social development in Modjokuto is the subject of ”The Social History of an Indonesian Town” (1965).

”Kinship in Bali” (1975), written with his first wife, the anthropologist Hildred Storey, posited ”an underlying order in Balinese kinship practices” in the cultural realm of symbols, patterns and ideas, despite differences in practices, or social structure, in different parts of the island.

”Negara: The Theater State in 19th Century Bali” (1981) examined the nature of royal families in tiny pre-colonial south Balinese kingdoms, while challenging the ”power-centered tradition of political theory from Machiavelli and Hobbes to Marx.

Mr. Geertz’s marriage to Ms. Storey, who accompanied him on some of his early fieldwork, ended in divorce in 1982. She is a professor emeritus in the department of anthropology at Princeton. He is survived by his wife, Karen Blu, an anthropologist whom he married in 1987; his children from his first marriage, Erika Reading of Princeton, and Benjamin, of Kirkland, Wash.; and two grandchildren.

After beginning his academic career as a research associate and instructor at Harvard, Mr. Geertz spent two years in California. From 1958 to 1959, he was a fellow at the Center for Advanced Studies in the Behavioral Sciences in Palo Alto; he was later an assistant professor of anthropology at the University of California, Berkeley. From 1960 until 1970, Mr. Geertz taught at the University of Chicago, becoming a full professor in 1964. He joined the Institute for Advanced Study in 1970 as its first Professor of the Social Sciences and from 1978 to ’79 taught at Oxford University.

Because of political turmoil in Indonesia, Mr. Geertz later turned his attention to Morocco, where he began doing fieldwork in the ancient village of Sefrou in 1963, returning five more times over the course of his career.

Profoundly influenced by his fieldwork there, he honed his comparative and historical approach in ”Islam Observed” (1968), which the anthropologist Edmund Leach praised as ”a highly insightful comparison between Islam as interpreted by Indonesians and Islam interpreted by Moroccans.”

By the end of his career, Mr. Geertz had grown discouraged about the ability of social science to generalize or develop sweeping theories, concluding that circumstances are too different among cultures, across time, and within societies. At the same time, he was heartened by the what he called the deprovincialization of anthropology, as the profession came to embrace ever more Asian, Middle Eastern and other non-Western scholars.

In his 1995 memoir, ”After the Fact: Two Countries, Four Decades, One Anthropologist,” Mr. Geertz eloquently meditated on his field work and academic career, concluding that anthropology is ”an excellent way, interesting, dismaying, useful and amusing, to expend a life.”

Correction: November 2, 2006, Thursday Because of an editing error, an obituary yesterday about the cultural anthropologist Clifford Geertz referred incorrectly in some copies to the Institute for Advanced Study, where he was on the faculty. While it is in Princeton, N.J., it is not at Princeton University or part of it.

Uncategorized

The view from my desk is so very different

The view from my desk is so very different from what it was when I lived in New York — well, besides the fact that I’m not looking at New York. I look at eucalyptus trees and grass and men on lawnmowers and toddlers in red wheelbarrows pulled by their parents and bland late 60s university architecture. All day, I’ve been looking out the window while the scanner hummed — I have been compiling an archive of documents for a lawsuit I’m filing against one of the debt collectors that sued me — and I have been able to avoid thinking about what happened on this day five years ago.

When I lived in New York, I couldn’t look out the window without seeing, or feeling, the terror of that morning and the weeks and months that followed. From my window of West 13th Street, where I lived on September 11 and for another two months, I could see the missing posters on the telephone polls, and I could see, and smell, the smoke, that horrible smell of burning plastic and rubber and oil and things I can’t bring myself to name. At night, I could see the white glow of the flood lights at Ground Zero. Then when I lived on Norfolk Street, my window looked out on an elementary school playground. I could hear the children screaming, and I loved it. But I was even closer, and the smell was stronger, and the sirens louder. But those kids were so alive. Kids are so resilient; even if they are going to remember that time in different, and perhaps more damaging, ways, they still bounced around, brave and silly, while so many of the adults were drinking and crying and popping Xanax and having terrorism sex. In Williamsburg, where I moved in February of 2002, I would have been able to the see the towers from my window, if they had still been there. For several months, I could still see the smoke, or the dust, or maybe it was just my imagination, when I looked out the window, when I looked across the river and down to the right a little.

One of the reasons I left New York was so that I wouldn’t be able to see New York anymore, so that I couldn’t so easily be reminded of how I felt back then. Terrified. Depressed. Sad in a way that is indescribable, except to say that it was a sadness more powerful and deeply engrained in my gut than anything I have ever felt, or could have imagined feeling. And it wasn’t just the events of September 11 that put me in that state of being; I was slowly breaking up with my partner and my unemployment was not caused by choice. Everything fed on each other, but my memories of that sadness are focused on September 11 and the posters and the smell and flood lights and the smoke. Of course, I left New York for a lot of reasons, but I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I would still be in New York, living a very different life, if geopolitics, capitalism, religious fanaticism, and government incompetence hadn’t converged on a perfect morning five years ago.

[youtube:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7r_y_SVRaEE]I was going to write a post about what my September 11, 2001, was like. Where I was, and what I did. But I can’t bring myself to do it. I’ll do it another time. It was a pretty bland day, compared to what so many people experienced. I don’t want to go into those specifics; they hurt and they exhaust me, and they almost sound like bragging, especially now that I don’t live in New York. Today, I prefer the vagary of art. I’m listening to Bruce Springsteen’s “The Rising” right now. I seem to do that every year. I found a video of him doing the title track on the Grammys. It’s an amazing performance, of course, but it’s too bad that Robin Williams was asked to introduce the song. I love him, but his tone is pretty off. Though, what is the right tone for talking about September 11? I don’t know. It’s hard to say.

The Lost Coast

I got my new scannner in the mail today. I already have a scanner–I already have two, actually–but this new one has a contraption for scanning negatives. Which means I can digitize my old pictures quite easily.

The first batch of negatives that I pulled out of the box (okay, the first that didn’t seem to be pictures of people I didn’t want to look at) was this awesome collection of photos I took while driving from Eureka to Fort Bragg. This was the Lost Coast, and it was the highlight of the two months that I covered Northern California for Let’s Go. It was the most beautiful, most peaceful place I’ve ever been. I have another roll or two from this day; I’ll post them later this week when I find them in the pile. For now, enjoy these 24.

Vulgar

An ice cream truck is going up the street.

Little girl in wagon: Daddy, that truck song is annoying.
Hipster dad: Yes, the commodification of your desires is annoying, isn’t it?

–Bedford & N 10th

When I was in Boston the other week, my brother made fun of me for referring to the annoying way that certain students in a certain grad program at UCSD only use “vulgar Marxism” to make their simplistic, politically correct points. “Did you just say ‘vulgar’?” he yelped. And then we went back to making bukake jokes.

I think I’m going to become one of those people who throw in horrid academicese in the middle of otherwise polite conversation. Oh, well. At least I’m not becoming to sort of person who makes bukake jokes.

Oh, darn.

Anyway, back to the vulgar Marxism. Just briefly, this sort of Marxism is what you’re bound to get from one of those wacky kids in Che shirts standing on street corners in Cambridge (or Berkeley) trying to sell you copies of the Workers Vanguard. Now, I’m enormously sympathetic to the goals of modern-day communists. But I get crazy pissed at the less educated, more rabid commie kids, who tend to blindly repeat the popular culture’s version of Marx in which everything–ideology, especially–is controlled by the capitalist state through various institutions. So, they tend to be opposed to, say, the DMV because it is enacting social control through the capitalist car culture–all without understanding that the reason folks have cars is that they need to get places faster than horses can get you. (This is not to say that the car culture is one of the bigger problems with the modern world, but for ecological, not cultural reasons.)

Anyway, a non-vulgar Marxism, as filtered by Antonio Gramsci and Raymond Williams, is subtle, with emphases on hegemonic processes, the consent and the resistance of the masses, and the understanding that people are not automatons blindly following the orders of a nameless, faceless capitalism.

Shall we go to the pull quote? Okay!

In this active process the hegemonic has to be seen as more than the simple transmission of an (unchanging) dominance. On the contrary, any hegemonic process must be especiallyu alert and responsive to the alternatives and opposition which question or threaten its dominance. The reality of cultural process must then always include the efforts and constribution of those who are in oneway or another outside or at the edge of the terms of the specific hegemony (Williams 1997:113).

So, these certain students in a certain grad program at UCSD use terms like “hegemonic” to refer to things as oppressive, when often it’s not oppression at all, but rather just accepted. Now, don’t get your boxers in a bunch. Some things are oppressive–like high heels, McDonald’s, and the military-industrial complex–but some things are agreed upon because they make sense for whatever reason. For instance, we cook chicken because if we don’t, we could get salmonella and die. Refusing to cook chicken is not rebellious. It’s stupid. We write with pens and not quills, not because capitalists have pushed them our throats, but because pens work better than quills. They’re less messy, last longer, and don’t involve plucking birds. (Yes, I know plastic is bad and evil, blah, blah, blah.) Schools are the most powerful instituion for social control, and they do insidious things like make kids pledge allegiance to the flag, but they also provide people with all the tools they need to resist. They are hegemonic, and occasionally oppressive, but obviously (to me at least) the singular objective of teachers is not the creation of little Eichmanns.

Those vulgar Marxists like to say things like, “Oh, you’re just saying that because you’re a white man and have no way to understand the plight of the migrant Mexican worker in the canyons of Carlsbad.” Now, there is some truth to that–it’s harder for the white male child of a lawyer and a doctor, who grew up in Gross Point and attended Middlebury College, to “get” migrant workers than it is for the daughter of Mexican-American factory workers who grew up in San Bernadino. But it’s not impossible, and it should never, ever be discouraged. Dismissing someone for their more privileged background is silly, and useless.

I’m finally getting to the part where I explain why I was bitching about vulgar Marxists in my brother’s kitchen. In one of my classes last quarter, we were reading an ethnography that was written in a non-narrative, deliberately “different” style. It was mostly in vignettes, and it was mostly a failure. The people in the class, all of whom had no experience with post-modern literature, were so very excited that someone could write ethnography in such an “artful” way. (I felt like saying that if you want to read good post-modernism, don’t start with artless academic writing, but I shut up.) On the other side of the classroom, a couple of the students in a certain grad program at UCSD started excitedly talking about some book they had read, in which the author, a Korean woman, had refused to have more than half of her book translated into English. She wanted the other half to stay in Korean so that her American/English readers would know what it feels like to be an immigrant and not be understood. (Oh, and I have spent hours on Google looking for said book, and I don’t think it exists. Or it’s not in Korean.) And so:

Me: What a waste of energy. It’s not like the readers are going to try to understand the Korean parts. They’ll just skip ahead. Why not just give out plane tickets to countries where they don’t speak the language?
Other student: Because that is tourism, which is just colonialism.
Me (stunned): … !

But wait. It gets worse. I began to complain about the book we had read and how the use of short vignettes didn’t actually succeed in communicating anything but fragmentation. It was style over substance, form over function, throwing the baby out with the bath water.

Me: There’s a reason we use transition sentences. We need transition sentences.
Other student (coldy): That’s the definition of the hegemonic.
Me (stunned, then sarcastic): Oh, it sure is.

Actually, it is hegemonic, but it’s not oppressive. Sure, we all use transition sentences. But we have to, in order to be understood, to make coherent narratives. And you know what? That is
just fine. No one is being oppressed by transition sentences–unless you think linear thought is oppressive. I guess there are a bunch of people who think that. And I feel sorry for them. Because they must feel oppressed by time, space, and, I dunno, grass. And I’m angry at them. Because if you’re fighting the oppression of linear thought, you’re not fighting the oppression of immigration law, pharmaceutical prices, religious fanatacism, and government corruption.

Sigh.

And I hate the commodification of my desires. I spent $165.00 at Crate & Barrell today.

The Surface

I’m not sure how I managed to miss out on this video for the last six weeks. I only saw a mention to it today, when it appeared on the Yahoo! buzz list. I clicked through and found the best, so far, parody trailer I’ve yet to see. Even better than the romantic comedy version of “The Shining.” Really. It’s moments like these that I thank my lucky stars for post-modern pastiche. Anyway, here it is, my first embedded YouTube video, “Titanic 2: The Surface,” created by Derek Johnson: