Another Look at The Family of Man
One of my starting points in this chapter is the hermeneutical claim that, no matter how hard we try to be historically accurate and specific, we cannot arrive at something like the true facts that speak for themselves, because facts and data have to be interpreted in order to make sense. Inevitably, interpretations will be shaped by underlying assumptions that are not always openly acknowledged and thematized, although they play an important part in guiding our selection and analysis of the data. Thus, instead of focusing on omissions in an interpretation, it seems more productive to look at its underlying assumptions and to see how productive and convincing they are.
And there is a second starting point: no matter how many single observations we make and how free we are in making them, these single observations will have to be integrated into a narrative at one point if they are to make any sense. Thus, interpretations usually come in the form of narratives. In the case of The Family of Man, I basically see two narratives at work: a common-humanity narrative that praises the exhibition for its propagation of universal values, and a lack-of-difference narrative that criticizes the exhibition for erasing difference, inequality and injustice in its propagation of universal values. These two narratives have dominated the discussions of The Family of Man in the past decades. They are represented in exemplary fashion in texts by Max Horkheimer and Roland Barthes which I will discuss and compare in the first part of this chapter, focusing on their underlying assumptions, their ‘prejudices’, if you wish. In the second part of the chapter, I want to take up the challenge of this volume to have another look at the The Family of Man exhibition in order to consider the possibility of an alternative narrative. In this section, I take my point of departure from some basic reflections on the act of viewing pictures and then look more closely at some of the pictures themselves. Indeed, in trying to save The Family of Man from the Barthes verdict, some scholars seem to have given in to the temptation to run away from the pictures themselves.
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But let me start with a look at, and comparison of, the texts by Horkheimer and Barthes, both of them responses to the exhibition of The Family of Man, shown in the case of Barthes in Paris and in the case of Horkheimer in Frankfurt. One point that provides a comparison between the two texts with special interest is that their comments on the exhibition are based on very different assumptions about the function of images and of spectatorship, assumptions that reflect a major shift in post-World War II intellectual history. This shift sets in in the 1960s and is one from a liberal consensus to what has been called a new cultural radicalism which is already anticipated in Barthes’s review.
The liberal consensus view is basically reform-minded, relying on visions of democratization, democratic institutions and democratic change to which art, including pictures and images, may make transformative contributions. As Horkheimer hopes, if viewers of The Family of Man exhibition are touched by images of our common humanity, they may change their attitudes and their behaviour, and violent conflicts may become less likely in the future. In order to have a positive impact on viewers, however, and to transform them, the picture has to have a certain aesthetic quality. For liberal or social democratic theories of social change, aesthetics is a key category. Exhibitions have a particular function in this liberal world: not primarily to document something, but to provide the possibility of a transformative experience. Or, to put it more precisely in the case of photography: to document something in such a way – in such an artful way, to be more precise – that it can lead to a transformative experience. In the liberal consensus view, mass culture is a threat, a betrayal of the potential of art. Thus it is important to support cultural events that are based on certain aesthetic visions. One may assume that this was one of the reasons for Horkheimer’s strong support of the Frankfurt exhibition of The Family of Man.1
Cultural radicalism emerged as a theoretical position in the wake of the Paris May of 1968 that took on a programmatic dimension in approaches like poststructuralism or structural Marxism, and gained its strongest appeal in the work of Barthes, Lacan, Althusser, Derrida and Foucault. For cultural radicalism, the common-humanity narrative is based on liberal illusions that merely help to cement a perpetuation of the status quo in power relations. What liberals, including left liberals and orthodox Marxists, do not want to recognize is that the source of power does not lie in political institutions with their assumption that individuals possess agency and can put up resistance. For cultural radicalism, the true source of power lies in culture as the realm where subjects are constituted, not by their own self-consciousness, but through linguistic or semiotic structures, discursive fields or – in the field of vision – by technological apparatuses like the filmic apparatus. This means that before individuals can begin to make choices, culture has already constituted them as subjects. And the dominant theory for this form of subject constitution is that of interpellation, the discursive positioning of an individual into a particular subject position.
This is where images become crucial in cultural radicalism. For how can an individual be convinced to take on a particular subject position? The answer is: especially by images, and the exemplary situation in which this takes place is Lacan’s mirror stage in which the child sees itself as another in the mirror – as another, because the mirror creates the illusion of a full person which the child is not – and begins to form an identity on the basis of this mirror image. However, since the image is an illusion, this identity is built on a misrecognition. For poststructuralists, recognition – for example through pictures – is thus the imposition of a false identity, and although Barthes does not yet use the Lacanian-Althusserian terminology, his critique already points in that direction. By providing images, that is, illusions, of a common humanity, The Family of Man exhibition creates a basic misrecognition, namely that of a communality in which difference is erased. And because this misrecognition is a basic constituent of identity, Barthes does not have to look at aesthetic details. I think I am exaggerating only a little bit when I claim that for Barthes, although he uses a different terminology, The Family of Man re-enacts the mirror stage.
What is interesting about this claim in the context of our discussion is its tacit assumption about the viewer and the viewing process. How do pictures reach the viewer? Explicitly or implicitly, consciously or unconsciously, every interpretation of pictures needs a theory of effect – that is, a theory of how a picture reaches and affects the viewer. The theory of interpellation is built on the idea of identification, although the concept is now shorn of all psychological and emotional dimensions. The cultural object achieves its effect not by appealing to any social or psychological dispositions, but simply by the act of spectator positioning through the technological apparatus and its product, the image; like the child who does not become aware of what is going on in the mirror stage, the viewer most likely will not even be aware of how spectator positioning leads to the creation of a subject position into which he is subjected. In liberal scenarios, the viewer stands in front of a picture and makes a decision on whether to become involved or opt for other forms of reception; in cultural radicalism, the viewer is most likely not even aware that a choice has already been made on his behalf. And precisely because images have the power of interpellation, their critique must be radical, as it is in the case of Barthes. Where difference has been erased, the critic has to come to the rescue, because the aesthetic object itself can no longer do the work. It is a mere surface phenomenon and the critic has to unmask photography’s claims of merely representing what is there.
Debates about theories of effect have not really been an issue in cultural radicalism (and, unfortunately also not in discussions of The Family of Man). In cultural radicalism, terms like spectator positioning or subject positioning have by and large replaced the term identification, but although this shift seems to imply that the determining force is no longer the viewer who actively identifies with a character or object, but the technical apparatus that does the positioning, the underlying theory of effect still is – in fact, even more so than before – that of identification. Thus, ironically enough, in the case of The Family of Man, both narratives – the common-humanity narrative and the difference narrative – are based on a theory of reception that can be characterized as a form of identification. What, however, if we decide that this is an insufficient way of describing the act of viewing, not only in the case of The Family of Man, but in principle?
One reason why theories of effect based on assumptions of identification can appear plausible or even self-evident may lie in the fact that the term identification can refer to two different aspects of the act of viewing that are often conflated in interpretations. Rita Felski provides an excellent description of this conflation when she writes:
Identification can denote a formal alignment with a character, as encouraged by techniques of focalization, point of view, or narrative structure [or, one might add to Felski’s list: spectator positioning] while also referencing an experiential allegiance with a character, as manifested in a felt sense of affinity or attachment. Critiques of identification tend to conflate these issues, assuming that readers formerly aligned with a fictional persona cannot help but swallow the ideologies represented by that persona wholesale.2
Indeed, the difference between the two conflicting narratives about The Family of Man can be traced back to these two different ideas of identification. When Horkheimer praises The Family of Man – and photographs more generally – for their power to invite identification with our common humanity (he actually uses the term identification), he clearly has an experiential allegiance in mind that can be created by well-crafted pictures.3 Photography is more effective in achieving such an allegiance than philosophy or even film; however, because of photography’s power to stimulate identification, Horkheimer in the end also has to draw a line, for otherwise photography might be used to manipulate us. For once, Horkheimer claims, we cannot identify with the completely and utterly evil, so that our humanity protects us, so to speak, from the wrong kind of identification, and secondly, it is one of the special achievements of The Family of Man exhibition that, in Horkheimer’s view, it continues to insist on the freedom and the responsibility of the individual.4 For Barthes, on the other hand, such moral qualifications are irrelevant. Because of its apparently unmediated facticity, photography induces us to accept it as a truthful representation of reality, thereby covering up – as in the case of Emmett Till he mentions – not only the true nature of reality, but also photography’s potential to function as a medium of misrecognition.
From the point of view of cultural radicalism, Horkheimer’s view of photography must appear touchingly naïve. What he praises about photography – its power to create a convincing reality effect – is the source of all evil for Barthes, because it seduces us to mistake the picture’s surface depiction for reality and thus to overlook and ignore difference, for example the difference created by inequality. And there is another interesting contrast: Horkheimer praises photography as a medium, because, in contrast for example to film, it does not overwhelm the viewer:
With films, we cannot […] linger on details, on the finer points, on which so much depends where understanding between human beings is concerned. This is only possible with the photograph, which is silent, which we can look at for as long as we want, and to which we can return.
For Barthes, on the other hand, it is precisely these finer points that are the source of a fundamental misrecognition, because they create the illusionary reality effect of verisimilitude that makes us trust the picture as a truthful representation of reality.5
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The conflicting views of the function of pictures that we have been tracing raise the interesting question of how the sense-making activities of the viewer can be described. As reception aesthetics has argued, literary texts cannot but have dimensions of indeterminacy, blanks and suspended connectivities that leave space for the reader’s imagination in the act of reading. Reception can thus never be mere mimesis or identification. But in contrast to literature, photographs do not seem to have these indeterminate spaces; on the contrary, as Barthes argues, they can do their ideological work precisely because they create a complete illusion of reality. Does the viewer have no imaginary space left, then, in photography? The controversy about The Family of Man suggests the opposite, because, obviously, by looking at the same pictures, viewers have nevertheless come up with entirely different narratives about them. This reminds us of an important point, namely the ontological non-identity between reality and its representation, no matter how hard realism or photography may try to overcome it. Because of this non-identity we can never truly know reality or a person depicted in a picture, which means that although we see them directly in front of us as part of a picture, we nevertheless have to imagine them in order to bring them to life.
What kind of person is this man shown in the picture (see illustration 20)? What kind of person is this woman? The picture does not tell us, except for suggesting a certain self-assured dignity. But all appeals to a common humanity that we are supposed to share with these persons will be moot if we do not give them some attributes by means of our own imagination (such as, for example, dignity, endurance or vulnerability). Since we have never met any of the characters that are depicted in The Family of Man, we have to bring them to life by drawing on our own imaginary associations, feelings and bodily sensations, for otherwise the pictures would remain meaningless to us. This does not mean that we merely project our own imaginary onto the picture. We cannot ignore the facticity of the picture. But it means that the picture and our image of it are not identical.6 The picture guides and limits our perception, but the depicted world can only become meaningful and provide an aesthetic experience if it is imagined and brought to life by the viewer. This means that in the act of reception the picture comes to represent two things at the same time: the world depicted in the picture and the cognitive, imaginary, emotional and affective dimensions added to it by the viewer in order to give the picture meaning and significance. To be sure, the picture always remains the same, but the image we have of the picture is always different and explains why critics, just as in the case of literature, can rarely agree on the interpretation of a picture and can never exhaust its full meaning. It is also the explanation why the Family of Man exhibition could work globally in different cultural contexts, because although these audiences saw the same pictures, they came up with their own different images of them. In this respect, looking at photography is not categorically different from reading. Both produce a state ‘in between’ in which we are, in the words of Wolfgang Iser, ‘both ourselves and somebody else at the same time’.7
20 The Family of Man installation at Clervaux Castle. Theme ‘UN’: (from right to left) Emmy Andriesse, Dmitri Kessel, John Philips, Alma Lavenson, Alfred Eisenstaedt, August Sander and Vito Fiorenza.
The Family of Man takes this theory of reception, that is, the fact that pictures are transformed into images in the act of viewing, as its starting point. One of the promises of The Family of Man is that of a documentation of a wide variety of human experiences that are nevertheless common to us all and thus enhance our possibilities for an imaginary transfer.
21 The Family of Man installation at Clervaux Castle. Theme ‘Drinking’: Leonti Planskoy.
When we look at the picture of the dancing woman (see illustration 21), for example, we do not simply take away from it information about other cultures or see people engage in a common activity. We look at somebody who is at the same time acting out something that we may find interesting or desirable. We may not identify with the woman but our imagination may be engaged because of the exuberant movement in which she is pictured. The picture is thus not merely a documentation but a simulation of reality; the pictorial documentation is at the same time a performance, the whole picture the strong, effective stimulation of an image – strong because it evokes associations of vitality, excess, a willingness to suspend control temporarily. In other words, the picture evokes a state of being in which the viewer usually does not find him- or herself but that may for that very reason stimulate his or her imaginary. And precisely because the photograph only claims to document reality, it can be so effective in stimulating an imaginary dimension that goes beyond mere documentation.
22 The Family of Man installation at Clervaux Castle. Theme ‘Playing’: (centre) Garry Winogrand.
In fact, the exuberant moment is one of the key motifs in The Family of Man (see illustration 22). These pictures show us persons that go beyond the routine of everyday life and hence challenge us in our own identity either in appearance, behaviour or emotional state. They evoke situations in which we may consider alternatives that may extend our own identity – however, not in the mode of an identification, but as a very selective transfer of certain qualities. We may take the mood of exuberance from the picture of a dancing woman, without identifying with her appearance or particular form of bodily self-expression.8 From that point of view, photographs can function as imaginary self-extensions in a playful, experimental mode that, for the time being, enable us to acquire traits of somebody else, but only on the condition that we can also remain ourselves. Children, by the way, are especially useful for this: they are ourselves in a playful mood. We all want to be Huckleberry Finns (see illustration 23).
If we approach The Family of Man from that perspective, our focus of interpretation must shift. In this context, the organization of the exhibition in sections is significant. The image of the dancing woman is included in a section in which we find pictures of various lively social occasions, including several different versions of dancing, ranging from boogie-woogie to ballroom dancing and folk dancing. These are not merely documentations of different styles, however. They capture special moments. Our attitude therefore is no longer, look, people all over the world like to dance, but see what kind of imaginary possibilities dancing opens up: sensuous excess but also controlled body movement, status provocation or status affirmation, national or regional self-recognition, but also its hilarious deconstruction when a region is represented by a pair of panties. In other words, these pictures do not simply tell us that people all over the world like to dance; rather they use that fact in order to stage a range of new and alternative possibilities of the self. In that sense, The Family of Man is not simply a documentation of universal humanity, but of post-war cultural history and, more specifically, of possibilities of the self that dominated the imaginary of the times.
23 Russell Lee, Department of the Interior. Solid Fuels Administration for War 19 April 1943–30 June 1947.
Now, to argue that the gap between picture and image is the basis for our reception of photography and its special appeal draws attention to an important aspect but does not yet explain the special popular appeal of The Family of Man. For this we have to look more closely at the exhibition, and not just in terms of its good intentions and its at the time progressive liberal politics but in terms of its qualities as photographs. The strong impact of the exhibition is produced by its pictures after all, so that audiences can be affected by them although they may not know anything about what Steichen or others said about them. Clearly, the photographs have particular features in terms of their themes, their photographic styles and their compositional features – features that from the point of view of a transfer theory should be especially effective in making use of the gap between picture and image by stimulating our imaginary activities.
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The exhibition achieves this by three basic aesthetic strategies: the first, in terms of theme, is the everydayness of the experiences that are shown. People work hard and, throughout, there is something like a heroism of daily life, of people accepting life as it is and trying to make the best of it. In order to create special moments and experiences, people have to fall back on time-tested traditions and family events, because they can provide special occasions in an otherwise plain and unspectacular world. Life is taken down to the level of a common denominator; what is striking is an absence of the importance of status. In pictures of crowd scenes we usually see no leader, only a dehierarchized audience. This common denominator opens up the space for imaginary activities which are not yet narrowed down by particular status concerns.
Where dress, social milieu and conspicuous consumption are not supposed to provide distinction, we have to go back to the one feature that always distinguishes human beings: their faces. This explains the high quantity of portraits in the exhibition and their populist thirties-style (see illustration 24).9
These portraits show plain people – the everyday theme – but all of them as people who deserve our respect. Again, such portraits are especially effective in stimulating imaginary activities, because, just as in life, we see faces as expressive of a person and its character which we cannot see or be sure of – in other words, which we have to make up.
This is also the point where the aesthetic dimension of the photographs comes in which is, of course, an important part of the appeal of the exhibition – although reading the secondary literature on the exhibition one may not always think so. I am not referring to a particular aesthetic programme but to what may be called the common aesthetic denominator of all the different photographic styles and approaches in the exhibition, their attempt to capture a particular poetic moment – which is something photographs can do especially well. For example, the exhibition does not simply show that people all over the world engage in courtship; the photographs try to capture the special moment where that pursuit produces a poetic, if only fleeting transformation of everyday life (see illustration 25).
For me the message of The Family of Man is not that we all share a common humanity, but that, although everyday life may be hard and unglamorous, it nevertheless still produces those special, poetic moments that photography wants to make us aware of and that we should cherish as special possibilities of the self. In fact, one may even go one step further and claim that photography has a special potential for transforming everyday life into a special moment. In real life, the fleeting moment will go by without our becoming aware of its poetic potential. Photography can arrest that moment and can help us to take another look at it, becoming aware for the first time of how special that fleeting moment may be. As Horkheimer puts it, ‘The individual photographs claim to be not so much aesthetic objects as discoveries. They show what everyone sees without becoming aware of it.’
24 Ben Shahn, FSA.
25 The Family of Man installation at Clervaux Castle. Theme ‘Lovers’: Robert Doisneau.
The traces of this aestheticization are everywhere to be found in the exhibition once one begins to look. The pictures of genesis, for example, offer a poetic picture in black and white and draw our attention to the fact that black-and-white photography has a special potential for aestheticization by producing stark contrasts, unexpected patterns and high drama. And although this may run against the grain of majority opinion on the exhibition, even the picture of the hydrogen bomb produces a stark aesthetic moment in which the apocalypse, almost in the fashion of the landscape painter Frederic Church, is turning into a sublime landscape. I think that in the context of the exhibition, the picture fits very well aesthetically, but it does not work in terms of message – in other words, it works as an image, not as a narrative – because it is far too poetic in its sublimity. But more generally speaking, it is notable that almost every picture in the exhibition is carefully composed, often has unusual perspectives or overwhelming wide angles, shows all kinds of sometimes unexpected patterns, and thus manages to capture our attention. This is not an ethnographic exhibition of the family of man; it is an exhibition that tries to define and exhibit the poetic potential of photography and that uses the family of man as a subject matter because this opens up an entirely new range of poetic possibilities. The exhibition does not merely depict birth or death, love or work; it provides unexpected angles on these facts of life in a way that pulls us into an imaginary engagement. If something is lacking in research about The Family of Man, it is not historical specificity, but close readings and appreciations of the pictures in terms of their composition and aesthetic power.
This focus on the poetic moment is significant in the larger context of my argument, because the aesthetic power that gets us engaged also opens up the gap between picture and image. In his chapter in this book, Werner Sollors provides some illustrations by speaking of his own associations of Fifth Avenue, or quoting Wolfgang Koeppen’s description of the picture with the little dog – both examples of how a picture is transformed into an image in the act of reception. And there is yet another very effective source of fuelling and stimulating the imaginary and that is a strategy of decontextualization. Often, as for example in FSA photography, we see single pictures in the context of a narrative. In most cases, The Family of Man eliminates context, because the poetic moment, being fleeting and rare, must interrupt and cut off the narrative; only as long as it remains isolated can it remain distinct. Again, this strategy can be effective in stimulating our own imaginary activities: since the picture refuses to provide a narrative, we will have to come up with a narrative of our own; that is, we are driven by the decontextualization to turn picture into image.
Finally, an aesthetic of the poetic moment – and this leads us to a third strong source of the exhibition’s appeal – transforms (moments of) everyday life into something special. By doing so, it provides distinction, and distinction is a supreme source of recognition. The pictures show an everyday activity or a common person or a traditional event in a new light and thus elevate them above everydayness. By doing so, these pictures make the event or the persons special, if only for a moment. They elevate the moment to deserve recognition. And since we know now that this would not work without a transfer on our side, the moment of recognition is also a moment of self-recognition in which we get a renewed sense of the possibilities of life.
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It is certainly true, as the difference-narrative argues, that these possibilities are not fully representative of human diversity, that there is a gender bias at work (also in images of the poetic moment) and that there still prevails an exotic image of otherness. I do not want to deny these critical points, but I want to argue that focusing on them prevents us from clarifying what the exhibition achieves as an aesthetic project. It is not simply a naïve liberal confirmation of a universal humanity narrative, but an inventory of imaginary possibilities of the self at a particular time. To criticize this display for what it is not doing poses the risk of failing to notice what it does.
I have therefore proposed to replace the two dominant narratives in the discussion of The Family of Man – the common-humanity narrative and the difference narrative – by a third one that may be called a narrative of poetic self-recognition. The difference can be easily described: while the other two narratives remain tied to a theory of effect based, in the final analysis, on ideas of identification, the self-recognition narrative reconceptualizes the act of viewing as a transfer in which picture and viewer interact. As we have seen, this has several consequences. One is a necessary differentiation in interpretation between picture and image. Although a photographic picture may depict reality as it is, the picture is transformed into an image in the act of viewing by adding imaginary and affective dimensions, for otherwise the viewer could not provide the picture with meaning and significance. This means, however, that the image is no longer identical with the picture and that an interpretation merely in terms of its representational value, and not in terms of the aesthetic experience the exhibition aims to provide, must remain incomplete.
A difference narrative, I said at the beginning, is based on the assumption of an identification that leads to what was later called interpellation. A transfer theory undermines that claim, because it provides reception with a dimension of unpredictability. We can never be entirely sure what the viewer finds useful. But useful for what? Why do people look at photographs in the first place? In Horkheimer’s opening remarks it is the wish to see how others live; one might call this some kind of intercultural recognition, and if we are willing to engage in this intercultural recognition, the world will be a better place. In Barthes’s review, it is the desire to be confirmed in one’s own illusion of misrecognition. However, if we stress the interactive nature of the act of viewing, then an imaginary dimension is added that exceeds our identity and offers this imaginary and aesthetic surplus as another possibility of the self. I would therefore like to call this process self-recognition and have already argued in other contexts that fictional texts can be especially useful in providing self-recognition.10 But pictures, and more specifically, photographs may be able to do the same and perhaps even more effectively. If we ignore the role the imaginary plays in the act of viewing, we may be missing that potential. And if we ignore this dimension, we are in danger of missing the significance of the important event in cultural history that The Family of Man is.
Notes
1 As one of the best-known proponents of Frankfurt School critical theory, Horkheimer would not be considered a typical liberal. But for whatever reason, his opening remarks at The Family of Man exhibition follow a strictly liberal line of argumentation. The term ‘liberal consensus’, now established as a term for the dominant intellectual position in the 1950s, comprises not only liberalism, but also the reform-minded Left and a critical theory softened somewhat by the challenge of establishing a functioning democracy in post-war Germany.
2 Rita Felski, Uses of Literature (Oxford: Blackwell, 2008), 34.
3 Cf. Horkheimer: ‘In addition to this, however, the picture achieves something that theory alone cannot: it allows the viewer to identify with it.’ For Horkheimer, identification is a potentially productive form of mimesis, whereas for Barthes it is the source of a fundamental misrecognition.
4 Cf. Horkheimer: ‘And this only proves that, however great the suggestive powers of these pictures, however much they may stimulate feelings of identification, the exhibition nevertheless insists on the consciousness of the freedom and the responsibility of the individual.’
5 This line of argumentation explains poststructuralism’s sweeping critique of classical realism. For many critics arguing on the basis of a liberal consensus, classical realism was the most promising form of social criticism in literature. Cultural radicalism turns this view on its head: the literature that was considered the most critical before, is now the politically most pernicious, because it creates an effective illusion of reality.
6 For a more detailed presentation of this transfer theory of viewing, see my essay ‘Aesthetic Theory of the Image’, in Fluck, Romance with America? Essays on Culture, Literature, and American Studies, ed. Laura Bieger and Johannes Voelz (Heidelberg: Winter, 2009), 409–31.
7 Wolfgang Iser, ‘Representation: A Performative Act’, in Prospecting: From Reader Response to Literary Anthropology, ed. Wolfgang Iser (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), 244.
8 In this sense, the picture also provides a good illustration for the fact that the imaginary engagement and transfer of the viewer does not necessarily have to take place along gender lines. Both male and female viewers may engage with the performance of exuberance.
9 For an analysis of the role of faces in the documentary photography of the Farm Security Administration, see my essay ‘Poor Like Us: Poverty and Recognition in American Photography’, Amerikastudien / American Studies 55, no. 1 (2010): 63–93.
10 See my essay on ‘Reading for Recognition’, New Literary History 44, no. 1 (2013): 45–67.