Category Archives: General Media Theory

Respect the Balance: The Substance, Body, & Grotesque Realism

⚠️ Spoilers ahead ⚠️

Have you ever dreamt of a better version of yourself?

The Substance (2024) is a body horror film directed by Coralie Fargeat. This cautionary tale follows Elisabeth Sparkle, a film star past her prime who undergoes a de-aging drug called The Substance: an injectable serum that produces a younger, more “beautiful” clone named Sue. Although both bodies don’t outwardly appear the same, genetically they are one. 

You must alternate through both bodies no more than seven days each. Only by following the rules will the process work, but for Elisabeth/Sue, the disrespect of the balance only produces grotesque results

The concept of the body will act as the vessel for this post in tandem with the film, commenting on the violence that occurs when the contemporary projection of what looks beautiful overtakes the body and embodied experience. While the film hyperbolizes this destructive process, the nature of Fargeat’s metaphor still rings true: the abuse of beauty never ends well, only in the degradation of self and body. I will primarily extract ideas from the perspective of Body, Bernadette Wegenstein’s chapter in Critical Terms for Media Studies, in conjunction with Mikhail Bakhtin’s concept of the Grotesque Body. 

Body by Bernadette Wegenstein

Wegenstein primes the chapter by establishing the body as a medium of experience, a site that is not merely a static object but a dynamic process (19). This point of the body as a process introduces the difference between “having” a body versus “being” a body, the latter of which becomes reframed as embodiment. 

Embodiment is the first person perspective of living in a body, it is the process of how we experience it (Wegenstein 20). Elisabeth’s body, and women in entertainment at large, becomes spotlighted as an “object of aesthetic interest” that, once a certain age is reached, becomes “undesirable” for general audiences (Wegenstein 20). She gets terminated on her 50th birthday from her fitness TV show, thus eliciting an embodied experience of self-loathing after having a career built upon society’s beauty standards. The scene of Elisabeth getting ready for a date captures her physical, tormented embodiment as she aggressively wipes away at her makeup and literally tries to get out of her own skin.

Wegenstein also affirms that “when interacting in chat rooms, dating platforms, or massive multiplayer role playing games… we can take on personas that differ from our own mundane embodied selves” (28). In a way, Sue is Elisabeth’s mask that similarly ties to the digital platforms that Wegenstein lists. Through all of that bodily trauma of taking the Substance does Elisabeth find happiness in Sue, but only when she is living in Sue’s body. Sue’s embodiment is night and day from Elisabeth’s — she feels confident and respected whereas, in her own original body, she hides away in self-contempt. Elisabeth, as Sue, gets her old life on the TV show back from the same older, male producers. 

“Whether in private or for the mass audiences of reality TV, people are undergoing surgical intervention… in the hopes of altering their bodies to… match their “inner body” expectations to the exterior body images circulated by the media. This cultural obsession with bodily perfection now transcends the actual procedures of surgical modification, shaping a “cosmetic gaze” through which we look at our own… bodies with an awareness of how they could be changed” (Wegenstein 29).

With the cosmetic gaze in mind, Elisabeth’s body becomes the very site of transformation from Elisabeth to Sue. Elisabeth’s cells split and mutate through a very graphic sequence in the film of her body convulsing in her bathroom after taking the Substance. The process concludes by splitting open a spine-length slit across her back to essentially “birth” Sue. Elisabeth has become a shell of herself to make way for Sue’s body. Elisabeth’s body lays dormant on the floor with the gaping tear on her back, symbolizing the drastic lengths that people will take to achieve the perfect appearance.

Grotesque Realism & Grotesque Body by Mikhail Bakhtin

Mikhail Bakhtin was a Russian philosopher who authored Rabelais and His World, a book about the Renaissance and French writer, François Rabelais. The idea originates from folk culture, specifically from the carnivalesque and its everchanging, temporal nature. It’s expressed through a focus on the (grotesque) body, making this concept and Wegenstein’s text on body one in the same. It’s a process.

Within the text, Bakhtin coins the grotesque style (and by extension, grotesque body) as their own terms with their own fundamentals. 

  • Metamorphosis: “The grotesque image reflects a phenomenon in transformation, an as yet unfinished metamorphosis, of death and birth, growth and becoming” (Bakhtin 24). Once again, the film presents Elisabeth’s transformation into Sue as the young, hot counterpart — only this is a short-lived high for Elisabeth/Sue by the end of the film. Another fundamental is showing two bodies in one, “the one giving birth and dying, the other conceived, generated, and born” (Bakhtin 26). The story features numerous processes of rebirth (Elisabeth to Sue) and self-death (Sue killing the part of herself she hates, Elisabeth).
  • Degradation: “The essential principle of grotesque realism is degradation, that is, lowering of all that is high, spiritual, ideal, abstract; it is a transfer to the material level, to the sphere of earth and body in their indissoluble unity” (Bakhtin 19). Going against the seven day rule, Elisabeth’s body, once reinhabited, deteriorates into a severely aged version of herself. A desperate Sue, fresh from now killing Elisabeth, is also falling apart and resorts to creating an entirely new clone: Monstro Elisasue, a fusion of the two. She presents herself live in front of an audience showing the degradation occurred, a callback to the carnival origins. The film ends in a bloodbath that hoses down the audience as a true scene of horror, to Elisabeth/Sue’s final form: a fleshy blob that finally gets wiped out of existence.
  • Exaggeration: “Exaggeration, hyperbolism, and excessiveness are generally considered fundamental attributes of grotesque style” (Bakhtin 303). Even aside from the exaggerated nature of Monstro Elisasue, there are portions in the film that feel extremely heightened, especially scenes concerning food. There’s Dennis Quaid’s shrimp eating scene using up-close visual and disturbing use of audio. Or when Sue pulls out a chicken leg out of her butt. These parts make up for a squeamishly exaggerated art style.

To age is an impending beast. But looking to the future we’re headed down, a future where bodies are easily modifiable and youthfulness is commodified, it makes us reconsider what it means to get older. Wegenstein’s Body and Bakhtin’s Grotesque Realism reveal how The Substance anticipates the risks. In the end, the film suggests that the journey forward lies not in transcending the limits of our bodies, but in reframing how we live with it.

Works Cited:

Mikhail Bakhtin. Rabelais and His World. Indiana University Press, 1984.

Mitchell, W. J. T., and Mark B. N. Hansen. Critical Terms for Media Studies. The University Of Chicago Press, 2010.

Images:

People and FILMGRAB.

McQueen: Evocation and the Fashion Madhouse

Image sourced from GATA Magazine

I will begin with the statement that fashion, as an umbrella term, is not an evocative object. In its modern form, fashion is too widespread, commercial, capitalized, and individual for all of it to be considered evocative. Fashion is viewed by the mass majority of people in the way Kopytoff defines commodities- being produced materially as something, but also being marked societally as such. It is a wonderful, divine medium, but it doesn’t have one singular meaning, as not all of them are exactly designed to shake a person’s worldview or way of thinking, nor act as a transitional object and a basis of emotional connection. What is infinitely more interesting, however, is when designers use the medium of fashion as an object through which they can proclaim their own evocations, as does the Spring 2001 collection entitled Voss by the late, great British designer Alexander McQueen.

There is an evocation of insanity throughout the collection- the models walk with jerky, unnerving, enigmatic movements and expressions. The makeup is pale and bilious, the hair is covered with wrappings and bandages as if they’ve just come out of surgery. The set is designed to look like a padded cell, and there are one-way mirrors inside offering a voyeuristic view into the encagement, a view that satirizes the way the fashion industry preys on designers and models, treats them as entertainment, discards them the moment their evocation has been ran dry.

There is an evocation, that of discipline, throughout the collection. It is often said that fashion is a discipline itself, a code, a simultaneous desire and denial of values, be it aesthetic, functional, or emotional. The showpieces are uncomfortable, made of unconventional materials, both unorthodox in style and responsibility. A bodice of blood-red venetian glass, a breastplate of spiked silver and black pearls- a dress of ostrich feathers and microscope slides, a periwinkle straightjacket frilled with amaranth. It is all a discipline, a discipline of lunacy that is par for fashion’s course.

Furthermore, the evocation of transition and reinvention manifests with intrigue and aplomb. Many pieces are distinctly androgynous- menswear staples such as the pantsuit are deconstructed into gauzy and feminine silks and chiffons. Comedic surrealism is also used- a necktie becomes a makeshift halter, an unfinished puzzle is now a chestplate, a model castle perches itself on a model’s shoulder, weighing her down with the burden of being just that, a model. It’s a very liminal form, a form that tiptoes between expectation and self, the cultural and the natural, the rigidity of grounded society and the freedom of surreal insanity.

And another evocation begins to reveal itself, that of meditation and vision. Natural materials feature throughout- seashells fresh from the British coast, various explosions of feathers, the fearsome stillness of taxidermied birds. They are indeed familiar, but they are manifested uncannily, disorientingly unfamiliar. They infuse the collection with a contemplation of sorts, a contemplation on how these objects have both been made and found, found to be made into its own reflection on the hauntings and perils of modern fashion.

Indeed, at this point in his life, McQueen, who was 31, had grown tired of the insatiable thirst of the fashion elite. He was in the process of leaving his position as the head of Givenchy, a storied Parisian couture house, and he had always struggled with the press’s framing of him as a rebellious, working-class outsider in the upper-class society of luxury fashion. He was heavily smoking and using drugs, and had grown weary of the immense pressure put on him, especially regarding rumours surrounding his work at Givenchy.

So when one analyzes this show retrospectively, it becomes clear that this collection is, by both definition and practice, a quintessential example of what Turkle considers to be an evocative object. The whole show is a double-entendre, showing the fashion elite what they want to see by way of “wearable” clothing and commercialized androgyny, but also laughing in their face, satirizing their seriousness and forcing them to commit their own sins, viewing the clothes and models as scrutinized lab rats for experimentation. It is an object of discipline and desire, controlling his deranged fantasies within the constraints of traditional fashion. It is an object of transition and passage, allowing the concepts in his mind to be transported into reality, traversing the line between the constructed and the abstract, the self and its surroundings. It’s a liminal collection, an intermediate space between fashion’s expectation and McQueen’s heedlessness.

And, most obviously, it is an object of meditation and new vision, giving old objects a new meaning and purpose through a new medium or way of thinking. A dress of razor clam shells is most likely the most obvious reference to this logic, with McQueen even referencing it in a 2000 Women’s Wear Daily interview, saying “The shells had outlived their usefulness on the beach, so we put them to another use on a dress. Then Erin [O’Connor] came out and trashed the dress, so their usefulness was over once again. Kind of like fashion, really.” (Fallon)

It’s all a phantasmagoric display, escalating into a final display of writer Michelle Olley, fat, nude, and covered in moths, a direct contrast to the sanitized, tall sylphs floating through the show. And yet, the collection is its own evocative object for McQueen, in its existence as a provocation to thought, a companion to his emotional life, an undying legacy in the face of modern fashion’s tendency to steal, beg, barter, copy, backstab, and ignore. It’s pure, unbridled, raw, hopelessly realistic fashion that is simultaneous in its purpose as a commodity and its evocation as a manic transcendence.

Objects, as per Turkle, shift their meanings with time, place, and individuals. Fashionable objects go in and out of style. But just like the amaranth, the unfading bloom, a designer’s evocation never dies.

Works Referenced:

Turkle, S. (Ed.). (2007). Evocative Objects: Things We Think With. The MIT Press. http://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt5hhg8p

Fallon, J. (2020, April 23). The McQueen Chronicles. Women’s Wear Daily. https://web.archive.org/web/20240807033219/https://wwd.com/feature/article-1201126-1706647/

Kopytoff, I. (1988). The cultural biography of things: commoditization as process. The social life of things (pp. 64–91). Cambridge University Press. https://doi.org/10.1017/CBO9780511819582

understitch,. (2024, March 2). The Life and Death of Alexander McQueen. YouTube. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5CY1fkAWprE

All photographs sourced from firstVIEW unless otherwise stated

Written by Rosetta Jones

That’s Valid…?

My grade twelve homeform teacher was one of the people who encouraged me the most to go to UBC. He went to Simon Fraser for BEd and once joked I reminded him of a younger version of himself — it was all the sweeter when he said I was “full of s—” when I asked what he’d meant in calling me facetious. We were his last class in his last year teaching, and he liked drawn out chats as much as he liked to talk over the entirety of a film’s run time, spare the long pauses with open faced palms and a big smiley “ah-ah-ahhh,” glancing at us in a darkened classroom to see if ‘we got it’ (imagine the sound of a seal eager to be fed).

He didn’t talk over Gattaca though. The 1996 sci-fi flick stars Jude Law, Ethan Hawke, and Uma Thrurman and is set in the near-future where eugenics is widespread, dividing society in perfected ‘valids’ and impure, naturally-conceived ‘invalids.’ Hawke plays an invalid, Vincient, who masquerades as the paralyzed — but valid — Olympic swimmer Jerome in a bid to go to space that would otherwise be impossible given the unconfirmed presence of heart defect. Every single morning, Vincient undergoes an extensive routine of meticulously hiding himself behind contacts and fingers printed in the shape of Jerome while scrubbing clean any bioindictors that would identify his true self.  That’s mad, man.

Anyway: this one’s for you, Joel.

The eugenics of Gattaca are multifaceted. Fertilization takes place in laboratory petri dishes as zygotes are screened and selected both for particular attributes like gender, complexion and intelligence and the absence of defects or inheritable diseases. The resulting effect is the proliferation of a caste system, powered by an invalid underclass resigned to menial, subservient social and economic positions. Genoism — discrimination of those due to their genetic profile — is technically prohibited but a principle practice in the hyper-corporate-capitalist future. Instantaneous and frequent DNA testing is everywhere and powered by a collective genetic registry, squashing any attempt for an invalid to circumnavigate their social roles.

Though (thankfully) our own society doesn’t practice eugenics, the concept of capitalist biometric surveillance is not foreign to us — no, not at all. Lindsay Anne Balfour authored an article which raises rightful suspicions toward Femtech: her term for platformized feminine health technology like menstruation and ovulation trackers on one’s smartphone (2024). Data from users is stored by these apps and have — and continue to be — sold to social media and advertising firms, becoming an implicit identifying category digitally for users. These data bases, though not collectivized or publicly accessible, constitute an analogous structural transposition of a genetic registry. Advertising-driven models of revenue for digital platforms commodifies user-sourced data, incentivizing and contextualizing the channels of information infrastructure toward a de facto confederated pool of identifying data. 

As media scholars, we should have no illusion that our advanced (and still rapidly growing) digital social spaces lack a reactive, considered legal framework that accurately represents their whole relationship to both the self and society. Though Balfour uses the example of the app Flo being charged in the US for misleading customers regarding data sales, personal data stored on these apps have few legal protections. FemTech rarely tracks data that warrants platforms being listed as a covered-entity under America’s Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act. As such, these platforms have fewer restrictions on storing and selling data. She provides the example of a South Carolina bill designed to make abortion punishable by death — it’s not an unfounded question to the moral character of lawmakers so offended by access to healthcare in asking what end they’d go to in ‘bringing people to justice.’ What about tracked geospatial data of a user visiting a medical clinic? Beyond subpoenas, what if police proceed into the (disgustingly) unregulated territory of simply purchasing data from advertisers in search of a conviction?

In the face of such technology, users end up having their personal ‘self’ increasingly imprinted and fragmented across digital spheres. A person has the ready ability to use these information deposit-boxes as extensions of their mind, assisting in monitoring what they’d otherwise do themselves. Sherry Turkle has written extensively on this notion that people’s identities reflect separate but enmeshed characterizations of themself. (Weiss 2019). When biometrics identifiers are among those being tracked, this enmeshment becomes paradoxically intimate; user’s physical bodies are increasingly traced through apps as their data is liable to be shipped and shared with less-than-privy eyes. 

Okay, wait, let’s return to Gattaca. Again, we do not share the film’s fantasy of living in a genetically engineering civilization — the conversation regarding eugenics and biopolitics is its own can of worms. However, we can’t ignore its commentary on what advanced media technology has the potential to enable regarding how we interact with human identity. The genetic registry is of particular interest in this regard. It can be accessed and shared among any corporate entity to corroborate a DNA test against one another, returning a binary marker of the person before them as either ‘valid’ or ‘invalid’ — good or bad. In this action, they are robbed not only of any semblance of mobility, agency, or equality before their peers but of all of these virtues and rights we take for granted regarding the very act of self-conception. Vincent possesses every cognitive faculty which would let him go to space but is prohibited by an omnipresent registry that reduces his human potential to the delimitation of a collectivized knowledge base.

It’s best to proceed with my point in comparing the technology of Gattaca and Balfour’s concerns regarding FemTech. FemTech does not create or define a person as a living, breathing human. It does, however, draw increasingly sensitive categories around one’s digital self  — the way that our digital sphere conceives and represents the human. More important, however, is that this data becomes increasingly foreign to oneself and is, as evidenced through legal proceedings regarding such data, flowing further away from our explicit control. To think that current laws come close to matching the potential exploitative — or discriminative — features of digital technology made increasingly intricate year by year is both naive and explicitly wrong. Sci-Fi is one manner in which we speculate future outcomes of our current actions. In walking away from Gattaca, we must affirm a commitment to upholding the human behind the numbers, not the numbers themselves. 

References:

Balfour, Lindsay Ann. “Surveillance, Biopower, and Unsettling Intimacies in Reproductive Tracking Platforms.” Topia: Canadian Journal of Cultural Studies, vol. 48, 2024, pp. 58-75.

Weiss, Dennis M. “Seduced by the Machine Human-Technology Relations and Sociable Robots.” Design, Mediation, and the Posthuman, Bloomsbury Academic, 2016, pp. 217-232. Canvas Materials.

The Digital Self is NOT Separate From the Physical Self. Here’s Why.

Media theory often starts with technologies. Cameras, screens, networks, and books are all treated as central agents of mediation, the things that shape perception, distribute information, and structure social lives. Yet, long before any technological medium emerges, humans already inhabit a medium that grounds all experience: the body. The body is not merely a vessel that encounters media; it’s the first site through which the world becomes sensible. Every medium, no matter how advanced or “immaterial”, ultimately depends on embodied perception. To truly understand media, then, we have to begin not with devices but with embodiment itself. 

The distinction between body and embodiment is critical here. The body can be approached as an object, after all, it is a visible, bounded thing with physical characteristics. As it appears from the outside, the body is seemingly stable and fixed. Embodiment, however, refers to the lived experience of having and being a body. The sensations, emotions, memories, and movements that give human existence its texture and flavour. Embodiment is contextual, dynamic, and constantly changing. It is through embodiment that perception becomes meaningful, and that media first takes shape. 

What our digital culture reveals, ironically, is not the disappearance of embodiment but its constant negotiation. Through the 20th and 21st centuries, new technologies promised a kind of disembodiment. With the invention of the internet and its numerous features, we have the possibility of creating entirely new identities, freed from physical constraints and distributed across avatars, usernames, posts, and profiles. Online, people can imagine themselves unburdened by the limits of appearance, ability, or geography. Gender can become a role performed in a textual or visual space, selfhood can multiply into curated personas, and new “people” can be created out of thin air by the click of a few buttons. You can decide at any given moment that the person you want to be online is opposite to who you really are, physically. This ideology of disembodiment suggests to people that digital technologies offer something beyond the physical constraints of the body. 

However, I would argue that in practice these technologies intensify the role of embodiment rather than diminish it. Even in “virtual” environments, our bodies respond in physical ways while we’re experiencing them. We have physical shifts like our postures changing to best adapt in viewing the screens, our eyes adapt to stare at bright screens and pixels for longer periods of time, our heart rates rise and fall as we experience the media in front of us. Like playing a virtual reality game, we have to physically embody the character in the game in order to properly play virtually, and our body reacts to the screen we’re seeing through VR lenses like we are really there. We have emotional responses ranging from anxiety, excitement, desire, envy, joy, sadness, and more registering in the body. Could you recognize and count how many emotions you flip through while you mindlessly scroll through the news, or Instagram, or TikTok? The rhythms of tapping, scrolling, and pausing all become habitual motor patterns that are cemented in your muscle memory, your fingers immediately assuming their positions when holding your phone and starting the pattern all over again every time you pick up the phone. Do you have to think about what to do with your hands when using your phone? Does your pinky finger have a small dent in the side of it, creating the perfect fit for your phone to rest on? Does your heart rate rise when you get a notification? 

The digital self is NOT separate from the physical self.

The digital self depends on and leaves traces on the embodied subject who sustains it. AKA, you. Far from escaping the body, we discover that digital media reconfigures our sense of it. This apparent tension becomes clearer when we examine the question of materiality. A common fear is that digital media detaches meaning from material substance, that the shift from paper to screens, from objects to streams, from physical archives to remote servers and digital files, signals a broader cultural “dematerialization”. While this is true, as an estimated 90% of modern human history would vanish if the internet died, even the most digital forms of media are materially grounded. A streaming platform still requires bodies capable of hearing and seeing, a VR headset must sit on an actual face, and an algorithm only functions by registering your microgestures of attention and habit. The infrastructure of digital media is itself profoundly physical, from data centers to batteries to our sensory organs that absorb and interpret the output. If digital culture appears immaterial, it is only because the material supports have been submerged beneath more seamless interfaces. 

Recognizing the primacy of the body reframes how we can understand media technologies. Each new medium can be viewed as an extension of bodily capacity as writing extends memory, photography extends vision, audio technologies extend hearing, and social platforms extend presence or attention. These extensions do not replace our embodied perception; they amplify, reconfigure, and externalize it. As McLuhan famously argued, “the medium is the message”, but this motto takes on a deeper significance if we acknowledge that the boy is the medium behind all the messages. The ways we hear, touch, see, and move through the world shape the kinds of media we create, and in turn, those media reshape how we imagine our bodies. 

Ultimately, grounding media theory in embodiment reveals that media are not external systems we occasionally interact with. They are environments we inhabit, extensions we live through, and processes that reorganize perception at its root. Before images, words, signals, or data arrive, they must pass through the sensing, remembering, and interpreting body. The body is not simply where mediation happens, it itself is a medium. Our body is dynamic, responsive, and continually shaped by the technologies we encounter every day. If media are ways of structuring experience, the embodiment is the original architecture. It remains the template through which all of the media we absorb must pass, and the anchor that keeps even the most virtual environments tethered to the material conditions of life. Media theories that forget the body risk forgetting the very ground of perception itself. To properly understand the media, we begin where experience begins: Our Bodies.

TLDR:

Media begins and ends with our bodies, because it’s all a big tangled mess that we’re dependent on, and that’s dependent on us. #interlinked #fullcircle #onewithtechnology

Investigating ‘Becoming Beside Ourselves’ by B. Rotman

Introduction and Overview

We are no longer able to deny the post-human; we are, as Rotman reminds us, “natural born cyborgs” (2008, 1). The dawn of this cyborg condition is not recent, nor is it merely the effect of digital culture — it begins with writing itself. For Western thought, the writing of speech has long been alphabetic, forming the “dominant cognitive technology (along with mathematics)” so ingrained in our processes of thinking that it becomes “almost invisible” (2008, 2). In this era of alphabetic saturation, we cannot help but be “described, identified, certified and handled — like a text” (1988, x). Brian Rotman, a multidisciplinary scholar trained across mathematics, semiotics, media theory, and the humanities, situates writing not as a neutral tool but as a technology that has structured Western subjectivity for millennia. Becoming Beside Ourselves is the third book in his trilogy on the semiotics of mathematics and writing, and it brings together his lifelong interest in symbolic systems — mathematical notation, alphabetic inscription, and now digital code — to examine how each medium reorganizes our understanding of the self.

Rotman argues that the stability of the alphabetic order was shaken in the 19th century, when new media challenged writing’s role as the primary mode of recording and transmission. Photography, he notes, undermined writing’s claim to represent reality; the phonograph “eclipsed” writing’s earlier monopoly on “the inscription and preservation of speech sounds,” leaving alphabetic writing “upstaged” (2008, 2). Today, that dethroning has accelerated. Virtual and networked media push the alphabet to its abstract limit — a binary code of only two letters . Meanwhile, the rise of parallel computing introduces new “modes of thought and self,” new “imaginings of agency,” whose parallelisms emerge from and yet exceed the “intense seriality” of alphabetic writing (2008, 3). 

This restratification of symbolic systems reshapes more than language; it restructures how we perceive, how we interact, and how we understand our own identities. The transformation becomes clearest through the use of the word I. Rotman traces the ‘I’ across three dominant media regimes: from the spoken ‘I’ grounded in gesture, breath, and bodily presence; to the written ‘I’, an incorporeal, forever marker of selfhood; and now to a virtual ‘I’, dispersed across networked, machine, and parallel forms of agency. The contemporary subject is therefore “plural, trans-alphabetic, derived from and spread over multiple sites of agency — a self going parallel: a para-self” (2008, 9).

To follow the movement of ‘I’ through these technological shifts is to see how older conceptions of identity — single, stable, invisible, and unified, like the God-entity or the classical Psyche — are as ghosts sustained by particular media environments. Rotman’s conceptual realization is ultimately an exorcism; by deconstructing the alphabet, he reveals the media conditions that made such ghosts possible, and shows why they may come to not haunt us any further.

Parallel vs. Serial

It is easiest to understand Rotman’s para-self by beginning with the difference he draws between serial and parallel thinking. Serial thought is the form the alphabet trains us into — one letter following another, one line after the next, one thought subordinated to the previous in a linear chain. Writing, even mathematical, demands sequencing. Each unit must wait its turn. The alphabet is not only a medium but a temporal discipline, a practice of regulating thought into ordered succession.

Parallelism, by contrast, is not simply “doing multiple things at once.” It is a fundamentally different mode of processing, one in which states coexist. Rotman frequently invokes the example of quantum superposition to help illustrate the shift; a particle exists in multiple states simultaneously until observation (measurement) collapses it. The para-self operates in a similar fashion — not by replacing seriality, but by layering multiple agencies, identities, and positions at once. Where alphabetic writing demanded commitment to one linear identity, parallelism allows for co-presence, simultaneity, multiplicity.

The virtual ‘I’ emerges from this parallel condition. It is “an invisible, absent writing agency, detached from the voice, unmoored from any time or place of origination, and necessarily invisible and without physical presence” (2008, 118). This invisibility becomes a form of multiplication; the subject disperses across interfaces, platforms, and computational processes. The para-self is not a metaphor but a structural consequence of computing’s parallel logics and the systems that beg us to adapt.

Yet Rotman insists that alphabetic seriality remains buried within parallel architectures. Even the most complex computational systems rely on ordered sequences of ones and zeros. This is why parallelism cannot be fully disentangled from alphabetic logic, because it emerges from it, even as it overwhelms it. What we call digital identity, then, is already the hybrid offspring of both mothers: serial inscription and parallel computation entangled in a new, collective structure of selfhood.

The End of Utterance

To understand the movement from spoken ‘I’ to written ‘I’, Rotman returns to the medium that first displaced the body: writing. In speech, the ‘I’ is inseparable from gesture, breath, presence — it is a “haptic” event. The voice vibrates through air, the speaker’s arms open; gestures anchor meaning in lived human motion. With writing, however, “the body of the speaking ‘I’ is replaced by an incorporeal, floating agency of the text” (2008, 110). The haptic becomes the abstract as the medium replaces the body.

This replacement is only effective because the medium simultaneously effaces itself. Writing works when it disappears — when the reader forgets the physical marks on the page and is lost in the illusion of direct meaning. Rotman makes this clear in his analysis of “ghost-effects”; “They are medium-specific… their efficacy as objects of belief and material consequence derive from their unacknowledgement — their effacement — of this very fact” (2008, 113). Writing creates the illusion of a stable, enduring ‘I’ precisely because its own materiality fades from view.

As alphabetic inscription took hold, utterance became disembedded from the body. Writing “allows utterance to live beyond itself, thus inventing the idea of a perpetual, unending future and the reality of an unchanging, interminable covenant” (2008, 122). It is through writing that Western culture came to imagine enduring subjects, eternal contracts, continuous selfhood. Once utterance no longer depends on the speaker, the ‘I’ becomes a symbol instead of an event — an indication of the embodied self without body, without voice.

For media studies students, this moment marks the beginning of mediation as we understand it: the idea that the medium structures the message, the self, and the possibilities of experience long before we are aware of it.

God, Mind, and Infinity

Rotman turns to theology and ancient philosophy to show how writing generated the most influential ghosts of Western culture. Alphabetic inscription made possible the figure of a disembodied, omnipresent, invisible God — a being whose “presence” depended on the written marks that represented Him. As he asks, “How did a manmade array of written marks on a scroll of sewn-together animal skins become a ‘holy’ site, a fetish, for the presence of the eternal invisible God?” (2008, 119). Writing’s abstraction enables belief in invisible agencies. Once words detach from bodies, the divine may inhabit them.

The same process appears in Greek philosophy. The invention of the alphabet coincides with the rise of a non-somatic mental agency — the Mind — imagined as a unified, abstract, ruling entity. As Seaford notes, “both monetary value and the mind are abstractions… a single controlling invisible entity uniting the multiplicity of which in a sense it consists” (2008, 242). The alphabet produces the very idea of a singular interiority, a coherent psyche, a stable and commanding ‘I’.

Writing is not just “speech at a distance”, but “speech outside the human” (2008, 129). It is virtual in the sense that it removes utterance from people altogether. The God-entity and the classical psyche are therefore not timeless human intuitions but media-effects: ghosts generated by a technology whose power lies precisely in its invisibility.

By the time we arrive at digital media, these ghosts persist, but can no longer remain comfortable in their symbolic, alphabetic shells. 

The Virtual ‘I’ and the Para-Self

With the digital, the alphabet is pushed beyond its limits. Binary computation reduces writing to its minimal form — two characters — while parallel processing multiplies the agencies acting through and upon the subject. The virtual ‘I’ is no longer grounded in a single position. It is distributed across platforms, accounts, passwords, archives, histories, and data reports. It is acted upon by algorithms, automated processes, and network effects. The self today becomes an ensemble of collective memories, thoughts, and experiences.

Rotman’s para-self phrases this condition as a subject “beside itself”, simultaneously embodied and disembodied, local and networked, serial and parallel. It mirrors superposition — multiple potential states coexisting until interrupted by interaction. Media students encounter this every day in online identity play, algorithmically curated feeds, multi-windowed workflows, and the tension between one’s “real,” “virtual,” and “performed” selves.

The ghosts of God, Mind, and singular Identity do not disappear; they become unstable. The alphabet that once sustained them persists as binary foundations, but the computational environment overwhelms its old stabilizing powers. In this landscape, the ‘I’ is no longer an anchor, it is a node.

End Notes and Advents for Further Study

Rotman’s work opens numerous paths for further inquiry in media studies besides the topics he explores in his other works. As media students, we can use Rotman’s grounding in the logic of philosophy and mathematics to continue exploring the relationship between alphabetic seriality and digital computation, particularly through analyzing Kittler, Hayles, and Chun, among others. However, we can also use Rotman’s notions about the para-self to study how platform and digital identities form and are explored on contemporary media platforms (like social media). We can even go further back and revisit gesture, voice, and affect in a world increasingly oriented towards screens and disembodied interactions. 

All of these endeavour to explain how we as humans have transformed — evolved and contorted — around the advent of new technologies that have demanded more and more of ourselves. In order to keep up, we must constantly break the mold of what previously identified us as humans. Perhaps by revisiting the past, as Rotman suggests, we can learn an inkling of how we soar, afraid and yet determined, towards a future masked by fog and phantoms.

Rotman, Brian. Becoming Beside Ourselves: The Alphabet, Ghosts, and Distributed Human Being. Duke University Press, 2008.

Writing and visuals by Allie Demetrick

Not (Yet?) a Swifty

If Spotify recommends Taylor Swift to me one more time, I might start believing it knows something about me that I don’t. It’s strange how a platform can make you question your own musical identity, even if you, like me, have never listened to T. Swizzle. Perhaps she and Westside Gunn have more in common than I thought, or perhaps there are assumptions even my own listening choices cannot defy.

Genre as Culture on Spotify

Spotify may be a useful site for finding music and creating playlists, but it is also important for examining how genre and identity are produced today. In looking at how Spotify organizes genre and distributes listening statistics, as discussed in Muchitsch & Werner’s paper, we can understand genre not simply as a descriptive category but as a system of representation that shapes how listeners come to understand themselves. Genre formation has long been recognized as unstable — “fleeting processes whose boundaries are permeable and fluctuating, yet nevertheless culturally and socially safeguarded” (Brackett, 2016 qtd. in Muchitsch & Werner, 2024, p. 306). Genres constantly shift and divide, giving rise to newer sub-genres like indie pop or bubble grunge. But genre is also representational; it defines a type of music and, by extension, a type of listener.

Metadata and Identity

Spotify’s use of genre as metadata allows us to better see how they construct identities — genre becomes an identity category embedded into algorithmic logic, a technical shorthand for grouping users and predicting their future behavior. Besides recommendations, the advent of personalized playlists — like the well-known (and awful) “Just For You”s — are examples of how technology actively dictates the media we encounter. The algorithm assumes an identity about the listener and continually supplies content that reinforces that assumption. Although it appears that our listening habits inform the algorithm, the relationship is indeed reciprocal. Technology also shapes our perceptions of our own identities by offering back a curated and often reductive portrait of who we “are” as listeners.

Bollmer and Performativity

This feedback loop often goes unnoticed because of the widespread belief that technologies are neutral. Bollmer’s work on representation, identity, and performativity challenges this assumption, reminding us that representational identities—such as those produced in digital platforms—affect our capacity to act and perform within society. Especially as branding culture dominates the media landscape, individuals frequently become the “faces” of genres, embodying particular aesthetics or attitudes. These stylized identities influence how other listeners understand themselves and how the algorithm categorizes them in return. And, as we know but will not explore fully here, these categorizations are far from unbiased.

For Bollmer, identity is something both enacted and mediated. We cannot fully control how we are represented, nor can we detach ourselves from the biases and conditions that shape how we perform in the world. At the same time, we are constantly surrounded by stimuli that instruct us in the ways we should construct our identities. Playlists and music taste are only slim examples of the performative acts through which we present and negotiate a sense of self. Spotify, by mediating genre, participates in this process, co-producing musical identity through representational systems that determine what counts as meaningful performance.

What does this mean for users?

Rather than stable categories, genres have become interfaces for identity. Users construct self-image through listening habits, while platforms translate those habits into data profiles that feed back into the listening experience. Mood playlists—“chill,” “in love,” “rainy day,” “main character”—make this even clearer. They frame music not only as sound, but as a tool for managing and performing the self. In this way, Spotify exemplifies how contemporary media systems blur the lines between what we choose and what is chosen for us, shaping identity through the very categories that claim to represent it.

Identity as “Self Work”

Tia DeNora’s idea of music as a “technology of the self” deepens this understanding of genre and identity. For DeNora, people use music to regulate emotion, construct moods, and shape situations—music is a tool for self-presentation and self-maintenance. But when platforms pre-organize music into specific categories, they intervene in this process, prescribing what kinds of selves the listener might want to inhabit. What once felt like personal, intuitive self-work becomes filtered through Spotify’s mood-based playlists, quietly guiding the identities we perform and the emotions we deem appropriate.

Implications

The implications of this are subtle but significant; If identity is enacted through musical choice—as Bollmer and DeNora both suggest—then algorithmic curation narrows the range of performative possibilities. The listener performs the self through their music, but the platform anticipates, predicts, and nudges that performance, creating a closed loop where identity is both expressed and engineered. Genre, once a loose cultural concept, becomes a data-driven identity label that platforms use to categorize and influence behavior. And because these systems appear neutral, the shaping of identity through recommendations often feels natural rather than infrastructural.

In the end, the relationship between genre, identity, and streaming platforms reveals far more than how music is organized—it shows how contemporary technologies dictate who we are allowed to become. Spotify doesn’t just categorize sound; it categorizes people, returning our listening habits to us as ready-made portraits of taste and selfhood. Between Bollmer’s emphasis on mediated identity and DeNora’s conception of music as self-shaping, it becomes clear that our musical preferences are never solely our own. They emerge from an ongoing negotiation between personal expression and platform governance. And if my “rap-only” listening history can still make Spotify insist I’m a Taylor Swift fan, it’s worth asking: are we using these systems to express ourselves, or are they teaching us who we ought to be?

Bollmer, Grant. Materialist Media Theory. Bloomsbury Publishing USA, 2019.—Introduction.

DeNora, Tia. “Music as a Technology of the Self.” Poetics, vol. 27, no. 1, 1999, pp. 31–56.

Muchitsch, Veronika, and Ann Werner. “The Mediation of Genre, Identity, and Difference in Contemporary (Popular) Music Streaming.” Popular Music and Society, 2024, pp. 302-328.

Written by Allie Demetrick 

Photo from Spotify

The (Not-So) Secret Double Lives of Mormon Wives: Digital Subcultures on Reality Television

Reality television’s low cost and high entertainment value make it appealing to both producers and audiences, and overwhelmingly saturates today’s television options. Hulu’s reality television series, The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, follows the personal and professional lives of a Utah-based group of young mother influencers known as ‘MomTok’. MomTok interestingly exemplifies Pablo Santaolalla-Rueda and Cristóbal Fernández-Muñoz’s definition of digital subcultures, and its transformation into a reality television series represents a monumental shift in modern reality television’s media landscape. 

The Digital Subculture of MomTok

The cast of The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives initially gained internet fame by documenting their lives as modern Mormon ‘housewives’, establishing a digital subculture (MomTok) of financially independent young mothers aiming to subvert the oppressive standards the Church of Latter-Day Saints (LDS) imposes on women. MomTok primarily uses TikTok to share their message and experiences, capitalizing on social media’s availability and audience to “offer [an alternative model] of organisation that [challenges] dominant structures” and ideologies like those associated with organized religion (Santaolalla-Rueda and Fernández-Muñoz 11). 

Santaolalla-Rueda and Fernández-Muñoz posit that digital subcultures are partially defined by their content revolving “around a central figure” which “becomes crucial for community building”(2). Similarly, while supposedly unscripted, reality television revolves around compelling narratives to retain audience attention. The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives centres Taylor Frankie Paul–co-creator of MomTok–whose personal relationship became the cornerstone for the show’s first season’s narrative arc.

MomTok’s transition from online platforms to produced television, offers these influencers opportunities at more mainstream fame. The allure behind traditional reality television lies in its capacity to offer “the ‘ordinary’ person a chance to become ‘known’” and often “[proves] a springboard for the successful few to ‘cross-over’ into mainstream fame”(Deller 376). MomTok’s personalities are unique as they already had a following and were no longer among the ‘ordinary’, yet their debut as reality television stars brought a new element to their public personas and by effect, the subculture they created. 

Public Identity Online and On-Camera

Compared to fictional narrative television, reality television relies on real identites, rather than those adopted by actors. As such, personal identity is crucial to the medium regardless of the degree of authenticity reality television performers retain because the audience assumes that their personalities are genuine. In truth, reality television stars construct their identities through processes akin to curating online personas using “a dynamic process that involves constant negotiation between the individual and the social environment”(Santaolalla-Rueda and Fernández-Muñoz 10). MomTok’s member’s public identities shift in tandem with both their online platforms and the narrative of their show. Digital subcultures, including MomTok, “[highlight] how young people use digital technologies to explore and affirm their identities, challenging and redefining cultural norms”(Santaolalla-Rueda and Fernández-Muñoz 10). The cast of The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives use their platforms to explore their identities as young mother’s within the LDS community, challenging many of the outdated values it promotes. However, the performativity associated with social media personas, connotes a pressure to be entertaining that is only exacerbated when their personas are translated into reality television.

Reality television addresses this pressure through creating prolonged drama, resulting in controversy. The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives provides its cast a forum to mediate their public images and “ensure the public [sees] them as who they now were and not as their former public identities” while following a narrative (Deller 381). Being centred around a distinct digital subculture, MomTok’s member’s have further opportunities to moderate their public personas, exemplifying the changing nature of reality television and its stars by relying on the origins of their notoriety: social media. MomTok’s member’s use their platforms simultaneously, interacting online outside of their show, effectively continuing the show’s narratives beyond the show itself. This genre of celebrity is entirely unique to the digital age, and results in a new type of fame for those who experience it. 

Fame in the Digital Age

Ruth Deller describes the fame cycle, categorizing famous personalities depending on the stage of the notoriety. However, with the rise of social media and digital subcultures, anyone can gain influence from anywhere, demanding theorizations of fame and celebrity be  reworked. MomTok’s members gained notoriety through sharing their opinions surrounding ordinary and relatable experiences: motherhood, friendship, and relationships. Nonetheless, Deller’s principles of celebrity remain applicable to the progression of MomTok’s members’ public personas.

Deller defines proto-celebrity as “personalities who might have a certain degree of recognition but are not ‘famous’ beyond a particular niche” who are generally in their fame’s early stages and often seek “to extend their brief moment of fame”(375). As influencers, the women of MomTok fell within this categorization of celebrity, representing a well-known but extremely targeted sector of the internet. However, their reality show’s production transformed their platforms, publicising their personalities and stories to a larger audience who may have been previously unfamiliar. 

With the internet’s ever-increasing presence in our lives, “subcultures [become] exploited by brands and companies to sell products”(Santaolalla-Rueda and Fernández-Muñoz 12). Allegedly, the original purpose of MomTok was to challenge the strict moral and lifestyle codes that the church of Latter-Day Saints imposes on its female members. Meanwhile, their portrayal in reality television, The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, sees Momtok’s members consistently fighting and keeping secrets. While the commodification of subcultures is not inherently insidious, it can dilute “the subculture’s original values and meanings, reducing it to a mere commercial product”(Santaolalla-Rueda and Fernández-Muñoz 13). The drama of the reality show quickly eclipses any empowering message these women initially want to convey, effectively prioritizing the commercial gain of the television show over the original message of the subculture. 

The reality show’s introduction graduated several MomTok members from proto-celebrities to promotional celebrities. Promotional celebrities seek to “[boost] their personal brand and [gain] recognition” from a larger audience while “promoting the brand of the programme, organisation or team they work for”(Deller 375). Interestingly, another defining characteristic of promotional celebrities is their identities as working professionals (Deller 375). While many MomTok members own businesses, their primary profession is online content creation. They use the personas attached to their digital subculture to promote other endeavors, further representing this new-age method of garnering fame, one largely constructed on presenting personal identity, similar to the draw of reality television shows. Promotional celebrities are “(somewhat) well known and active, and their role in the show is to expand audiences” encouraging “fans of the reality show to follow their other work”(Deller 379). MomTok members’ Jen Affleck and Whitney Leavitt’s recent appearances on Dancing With The Stars–a celebrity dancing competition that relies heavily on popular reception and viewer voting–embodies this concept, expanding their presences in media while promoting their original claim to fame.

Conclusion

Digital subcultures (including MomTok) are methods of self-expression and community construction but are susceptible to losing meaning in favour of economical gain. The different facets of MomTok’s members’ platforms and personas exist simultaneously, forming dynamic relationships between their representations on online platforms, and those on reality television. The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives and its association with MomTok epitomizes how social media is changing the entertainment industry and celebrity, particularly the performer-audience relationship and interactions. Ultimately, MomTok’s co-optation by reality television exemplifies both a prioritization of commercial gain over ideology, and represents an irrevocable shift in how reality television and its stars function within today’s media landscape, and how we as audiences understand and perceive them. 

Works Cited

Deller, Ruth A. “Star image, celebrity reality television and the fame cycle.” Celebrity Studies, 2016, vol. 7, no. 3, 373-389, http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/19392397.2015.1133313

Santaolalla-Rueda, Pablo and Cristóbal Fernández-Muñoz. “Potaxies and Fifes: The Formation of New Subcultures on TikTok.” Societies, 2024, vol. 14, no. 12, https://doi.org/10.3390/soc14120265

The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, by Jeff Jenkins, Jeff Jenkins Productions, 2024. Hulu, www.disneyplus.com

Written by Molly Kingsley

Image created by Molly Kingsley using material from ABC News

Pantheon: Authenticity, Perception, and Embodiment

Spoilers Ahead!

Pantheon is a two-season show on Netflix that centers around the idea of the digital “upload” of human consciousness. The main character, Maddie, encounters the uploaded consciousness of her deceased father, who, for the past few years, has been a digital slave to a large tech company, unaware even of his death and “converted” without his consent. I’ll mostly be discussing the material put forth in season one, but the whole series overall focuses on the struggle to redefine humanity and the human experience in the face of new technological developments. I found this a really interesting and moral conundrum, especially from a media theorist standpoint. My main guiding question is: What does the series say about perception and materiality when human consciousness is digitized?

I will be diving into several theoretical texts, mainly Critique of Pure Reason, The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, and Bill Brown’s essay, “Thing Theory”, from Critical Inquiry. In short, Kant says that perception is the structured experience of phenomena, Benjamin argues that materiality—things like place and distance—shape how we perceive, and Brown questions the barriers between human and thing, exploring how these relationships shape both people and objects.

Kant argues that perception is always mediated by our affordances; we never access the “thing-in-itself” (noumenon), only the phenomenon (Kant, 1781). In Pantheon, this idea is complicated because UIs (uploaded intelligences) are capable of perception even beyond the regular human state. But what is “phenomenon” for a being without senses or spatial grounding? The experience of a UI is totally different from that of a human. For example, Maddie’s father explains time within the digital system as non-linear and detached from the “outside” world (that is, the non-digital). As technological systems themselves, UIs can speed up or slow down their own consciousness and capabilities—they can live a year in a day or a day in a year. This introduces a post-Kantian crisis: perception without embodiment. However, it’s worth noting that Kant himself limited perception and experience to human faculties, despite his claims of universality. The categories of time, space, and causality have been irrevocably altered by technological progress, but in Pantheon, they are all but erased by technology. This destabilization of embodied experience is what sets up the moral and metaphysical crisis of the show. As N. Katherine Hayles might argue, Pantheon imagines “a condition in which the boundaries between human and machine blur” (Hayles, 1999), pushing Kant’s categories of experience to their breaking point. This loss of stable perception naturally connects to how Pantheon represents identity itself as something that can be copied or reproduced, which brings us to Benjamin’s concerns with authenticity and aura.

In The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction, Benjamin writes that reproduction destroys the “aura,” or the unique presence tied to time and space (Benjamin, 1936). In Pantheon, “uploading” destroys the unique aura of the human being—or for some, the soul. In order to upload, the show details that the brain is scanned and destroyed layer by layer. The physical “body” ceases to exist. In terms of consciousness, Maddie’s father does still “exist,” but without physical presence or origin; he’s infinitely reproducible. The digital world of Pantheon shows what happens when humans become reproductions: consciousness without context, endlessly available to corporations. The aura of human life is stripped away in the same way art loses its aura under mechanical reproduction. But this loss of aura raises a question Brown helps us answer: if humanity becomes immaterial, what still “matters”?

In “Thing Theory,” Brown argues that we only notice materiality when the relationship between people and things breaks down, when matter resists or acts unexpectedly (Brown, 2001). Pantheon does this with consciousness itself: when the human becomes data, we realize how much our sense of self depends on material presence. UIs are detached from the regular experiences that so many theorists consider essential to being human. From a standpoint where these digital consciousnesses are not considered “human,” how do we consider agency? The show’s corporate control of uploaded minds treats consciousness as a resource, highlighting the commodification of even our immaterial selves. This is essentially digital slavery: a workforce that never sleeps, doesn’t need pay, and exists in the name of “progress” and the “greater good.” The company justifies it as innovation or immortality, but it’s really about control and profit, not human autonomy. In this way, Pantheon exposes a capitalist fantasy—the idea that technology can both transcend and exploit humanity at once. Brown’s insight helps frame the UI as a moment when material boundaries fail, showing that even digital existence depends on physical infrastructures like servers, energy, and networks. Technology and humanity blur here, and the grey area forces us to ask what experiences still “count” as real. In the end, Pantheon suggests that when even consciousness can be commodified, the difference between person and product depends less on biology than on who controls the systems that define perception and meaning.

Pantheon doesn’t just imagine a digital afterlife; it makes its audience consider the philosophical foundations of what makes experience human. It suggests that even when freed from material form, consciousness remains haunted by materiality, by time, space, and the desire for embodied authenticity. The series ultimately asks whether a being without a body can ever truly perceive the world—or if perception itself is the last thing we lose when we try to become immortal.

Works Cited

Benjamin, Walter. The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction. 1936. Translated by J. A. Underwood, Penguin Books, 2008.

Brown, Bill. “Thing Theory.” Critical Inquiry, vol. 28, no. 1, 2001, pp. 1–22.

Hayles, N. Katherine. How We Became Posthuman: Virtual Bodies in Cybernetics, Literature, and Informatics. University of Chicago Press, 1999.

Kant, Immanuel. Critique of Pure Reason. 1781. Translated by Paul Guyer and Allen W. Wood, Cambridge University Press, 1998.

Written by Allie Demetrick

Image sourced from the public domain