Visual Literacy Chapter Draft

Bettina Fabos

In 2008, a brochure was released by the Mid Suffolk District Council, a local government in Suffolk County, England, The purpose of the brochure was to promote a series of walking paths around a beautiful stretch of British countryside called the Thornham Walks. The 12 miles of walking paths pass ancient parkland, patches of forest, flowering meadows, and a pet cemetery. The brochure offered important information about how children can fully experience the Thornham Walks; they can join the annual Easter bonnet parade, for example, wearing their own hand-made Easter bonnets; they can take a guided tour of the wildflower meadows; or they can sign up for the very popular environmental birthday parties.

The brochure, titled “Events at Thornham 2008,” was released in January and caused an immediate stir. The main problem was the photograph on the front cover showing children and parents partaking in the annual Easter bonnet parade. Anyone who looks at the photo can immediately tell that the photo does a poor job communicating the beauty and fun of the Thornham Walks. Moody skies and leaf-less trees define the background. The mother wearing a bright green sweater in the background of the photo has an expression of boredom, which isn’t helped by the man she is standing next to, who has both arms on his head, apparently stretching. The four children in the foreground wearing their Easter hats (one crafted in the shape of a lamb) have potential for promotional gaity, but no one is smiling; the high angle makes the children look meek and small; and the child on the far left is framed so far over that she appears to be ostracized. But the most damaging part of the picture, has to do with one of the bonnet-wearing children in the foreground: She is picking her nose, and her central position in the picture makes her nose picking the most prominent action in the photograph.

The brochure made national news. “Tourist pamphlet spoilt by nose picking girl,” read the headline in the Telegraph, one of Britain’s largest newspapers. The online version of the story was distributed by online news services, picked up by blogs, passed along in emails, and spread across the globe, mostly because the nose-picking image was funny. “Poor girl, she was probably hungry” one commenter wrote in a blog response. However, the story also revealed some important differences in the way we read and understand images. On one hand, people complained that the picture was amateurish—it was framed sloppily, and was unprofessionally placed in a brochure without any sense of how to properly convey British youth. Meanwhile, others defended the image choice. "It's not the best photograph", one Council member agreed. But he added that "They wanted a real picture, not a typical staged one. It's a real picture and shows children in their Easter outfits." In other words, it was a refreshing change from the high-gloss images we are constantly fed from the advertising and public relations industries; showing a bit of realism the image was somehow more authentic and therefore admirable.

In this chapter we will investigate how photographs tell a story, which in turn connects to a larger narrative about our culture and our values. We will explore an image’s narrative on multiple levels: on the level of composition, on the level of symbolic meaning, and also in terms of its ability to evoke realism. In doing so, we will visit the themes that guide our critical process: communication technology and the constantly-changing media environment; democracy and the role images play in fostering democratic thought; and commerce—how our image comprehension and construction are inextricably linked to the visual languages of advertising and photojournalism.

I. “It's not the best photograph”

Composition is the creative activity of placing objects within a frame. When painting a picture, we’re choosing where to place shapes and dots and lines on a two-dimensional plane. When we create a page design, we arrange images, words, and graphic elements, most typically filling some sort of rectangle. Whether we do this using construction paper and glue or digital software, we’re directing viewers to notice certain elements within a frame, purposefully communicating our ideas through visual language. When taking a photographic or video image, we arrange external objects within the 3x4 or 16x9 dimensions of a viewfinder, panning left and right or crouching down to get the kind of perspective we’re after. As Herbert Zettl (2005) points out, understanding the aesthetics of composition does not necessarily mean knowing how to create a beautiful image, it means knowing how to structure both still and moving screen images for “maximally effective communication.”[i] The best photographs and graphic designs do that: they dictate a reader’s comprehension. Michael Rabiger discusses good composition this way:

While it interests and delights the eye, good composition is an important organizing force when used to dramatize relativity and relationship, and to project ideas. Superior composition not only makes the subject (content) accessible, it heightens the viewers’ perceptions and stimulates his or her imaginative involvement, like language from the pen of a good poet.[ii]

To understand this “organizing force,” then, we must understand the various elements we need to organize when creating images: Color, Form, Line, and Movement. Every choice can be a powerful way to both convey and understand meaning. (BF: I’m tying movement to narrative structure)

Color

How do color choices impact an image? We consciously and unconsciously respond to color every day, and are constantly making aesthetic choices. We decide to wear a blue t-shirt over a yellow one, pick an orange cereal bowl over a white one, choose a pen with blue ink over black ink. Most of us have a favorite color, or are drawn continuously to the same color palette. We also have intense emotional reactions to color. We may love the color orange but hate the color blue. We may walk into a room that makes us feel uncomfortable, feel the intense urge to leave, and then realize upon reflection that the color was the thing that turned us away. Virginia Kidd, who teaches media production at California State University, has an emotional response to Room 317, the room in which she holds her classes:

I have a theory that the University obtained paint for this room at an enormous discount because nobody with any choice in the matter would have purchased it. Three walls are battleship gray. The impact is dismal. I am reminded of battered aluminum cooking pots and galvanized garbage cans. Apparently in an effort to counter this, the fourth wall was painted yellow; not, however, a soft banana yellow, which happens to be my favorite color, but a glaring mustard yellow that could have come straight from a French's jar; this covers an entire classroom wall and oppressively dominates whatever is happening. If nothing else, the choice of paint for room 317 at least graphically demonstrates the power of color.[iii]

The power of color was also evident during “tulipmania” in the 17^th Holland. The drab and stoic Dutch were so taken by the raw colors of tulips that they became intoxicated; a frenzy of financial speculation followed and a single tulip bulbs could cost XX dollars. The fact is, we are physiologically programmed to respond to color, and we respond to certain colors in particular ways. We see red especially easily, not because it’s a bright color, but because our eyes are designed to block the opposite of red: ultraviolet electromagnetic waves that can be harmful to our retinas. Red and orange light wavelengths pass through our retina more easily, making these colors the most noticeable: stop signs and traffic lights are red for a reason. Correspondingly, violet is the least noticeable color. Thus, as we make our own images or respond to the images of others, we can understand how color works for “maximum effect.” Red works well as an accent color to draw attention to a certain part of an image. Photojournalists are pleased, for example, when a person in a crowd they are documenting happens to be wearing a red scarf or shirt, allowing them to use that individual as a focal point in their frame: “look here.” Advertisers are also keenly aware of red’s power: the color will lead a viewer to a particular corner of the page, clarifying a message or saying “this is important.” Consider how red is effectively deployed in corporate logos, signage, and national flags.

Moreover, red juxtaposed with blue simulates depth—the warmer color will appear closer (more noticeable) while the colder blue tones will recede (not noticeable). This is why intense blue and red fields on the same two-dimensional surface will seem to pulse back and forth in a third dimension. Thus, color helps to bring three-dimensionality to the two-dimensional frame

Colors also create emotional responses. If red can agitate or provoke, then green can soothe; blue can yield to emotions of melancholy and coolness; gray can lack emotional commitment. Because light colors have soft and cheerful associations, we tend to surround babies with various shades of pastel; we tend to demonstrate dark and moody emotions through dark colors. Color is thus a powerful, if often ambiguous, tool for directing visual messages.

Form

Form has to do with the object inside the frame, how big it is, and where it is placed. The simplest form is a dot, and placing a dot within the four walls of a frame commands attention: We look at the dot before we look at any blank space within a frame. (Even if a form does not have an explicit frame—imagine a sculpture in the middle of a vast plain—it is still implicitly framed by our field of vision.) Moreover, with the act of framing, something rather magical happens, something we refer to as frame magnetism. When a dot is closer to one side of a frame, that side seems to suck the dot towards it. Notice the diagram below: the dot is being sucked upwards in Figure One. In Figure Two the dot is being pulled to the right. The result, not surprisingly, is a bit of agitation, or at least interest. Place the dot in the absolute center of the frame (Figure 3) and it becomes inert—all four sides of the image are equally pulling at the dot, making for a rather boring composition.

Depending on how large the dot is and where it is placed, the four sides of the frame impact form (in this case, the dot) in significant ways. Consequently, we can use the pull of the frame to add drama or significance to our message. We can create tension between two individuals, for example, by placing them close to the edges of each frame. In the “Nose Picking” photograph, the one girl separated from the group of children in the foreground is magnetically pulled to the left side of the frame. This choice is probably not the best because it makes her look excluded—not a happy message—and points to the amateurism of the photograph. A more accomplished photographer, trying to promote joyfulness (again, form can convey meaning), would have clumped the girls to make them seem more cohesive, and thus happier. TV producers are familiar with clumping: they routinely make talk show hosts and their guests sit uncomfortably close to each other (for them) so that they are not pulled apart by the sides of the video frame. The result is to have them fake their comfort in order to make us comfortable: as viewers we feel as if these individuals like each other and are having a pleasant conversation—they are not being pulled apart by frame magnets.

[iv]

Vladimir Putin and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. Conventional Talk show format: comfortable

NOT COMFORTABLE

The realities of frame magnetism has led to framing conventions. One is head room: framing an image so an individual has a bit of space over her head to convey that she is not cramped by the frame or pulled upward by frame magnetism. Head room creates the illusion that the figure is in a larger setting and not a cramped box. Another is “rule of thirds,” a well-known principle of photographic and image composition. By breaking an image down into thirds (both horizontally and vertically), and by placing elements on the points of intersection, we can avoid both the uncomfortable sucking when the form is too close to the frame, and the boring inertia when the form is too central.

Knowing the Rule of Thirds is to create images that are balanced yet interesting. However, knowing when to break them—to add tension—is also an art form and a means for conveying narrative.

Shape is tied to form. The most basic shapes—square, circle and triangle—are often connected to the three basic (primary) colors, red, blue and yellow. Each shape in turn has an expressive quality. Squares convey stability, solidity, support, confidence, strength, but also boredom. They carry a heavier weight in the frame than circles or triangles, and tend to be imposing, dominating an image. Rectangles—part of the square family—usually feel slightly less stable and slightly more interesting than squares. In contrast, circles are fluid instead of solid, expressing wholeness, completion, happiness, unity, and motion. Circles are more interesting than squares, but nowhere near as interesting as triangles, our most dynamic shape. Triangles are stimulating because they point, leading one’s eyes to various areas within the frame, adding tension with diagonal lines, and energy to the entire visual composition. Like the color red, triangles are useful in isolating ideas and identifying the significance of an element within the frame. For example, a photograph of two basketball players jumping up towards a ball completes the shape of a triangle and dramatizes the ball’s significance. A photograph of a bird landing on a gutter—the bird’s wings outstretched—shows two triangles: eaching one pointing in a different direction and asking the viewer to follow the direction of both invisible lines. As designer and theorist Johannes Itten commented about shapes, “The square is resting matter, the triangle is thought, and the circle is spirit in eternal motion.” [1]

Line

A line embodies a narrative significance of its own. Horizontal lines evoke calm and stability; vertical lines convey energy and upward thrust. Diagonal lines, like triangles, are dynamic, exciting, somewhat unstable, and for these reasons are advantageous towards visually communicating complicated ideas. It’s an important strength, when creating an image, to be aware of how lines divide a frame. For example, telephone lines can slice a frame into numerous boxes and rectangles against the sky, or dramatically slice a frame at a diagonal, directing viewers to various points of interest. We also intentionally create diagonals by cocking the camera—making what we call a dutch angle— and destabilizing an otherwise sturdy image to make a visual point. In advertising, dutch angles are used constantly to add excitement, or to juxtapose instability (e.g., discomfort in the doctor’s office) with stability (e.g., relief after taking a certain pill).

If a tilted horizon or a flagpole make obvious lines within a frame, however, lines can also be inferred: A look between two figures—gaze meeting gaze—creates an invisible line linking characters. A person pointing produces a directional force that we can follow, perhaps even beyond the frame. Two figures working in a vast field, one in the foreground and another far off in the background, are invisibly connected by a diagonal line; we look at the foreground figure first and then are drawn to look at the second. Thus, diagonal lines both offer directional force and convey depth. In the “Nose Picking” photograph, the three girls in the foreground appear on a diagonal line. The parents positioned in the right hand corner of the frame provide another diagonal—our eyes follow the line from the girls to the parents. Lines, whether visible or invisible, help us understand spatial arrangements and the corresponding relationships within the visual narrative.

The angle from which the image is taken offers more invisible lines and another means for communicating depth—the more extreme the angle, the more intense the feeling of depth. The invisible lines that angles create are also infused with meaning. A very low angle intensifies the stature of a figure or inanimate object. A child portrayed from below can look like a giant, a monster can appear even more scary and powerful, and an army tank all the more menacing. When shooting Citizen Kane, for example, Orson Welles was so intent on portraying Kane with as much grandeur as possible in certain scenes that he dug holes in the floor of sets and shot from below the floorboards, creating extreme low angles for maximum effect.

"Citizen Kane" Orson Welles and Joseph Cotten 1941 RKO **I.V.

Shooting at a low angle also tends to create directional lines towards sky, clouds, windows, and the vigorous thrust of buildings, all of which can bring powerful associations. The opposite is true for high angles. As we can see once again by the “Nose Picking” photograph, people shot from above look weaker, diminished, and victimized; a high angle correspondingly leads one to focus on ground, dirt, feet, and litter, all of which can bring a negative energy to an image. Line thus helps define perspective, and leads a viewer to points of emphasis within a frame. Other ways to communicate spatial organization in an image include high-contrast lighting, sound, and the temporal elements of motion.

Movement

In western cultures, we automatically assign a movement to lines—we read lines (and images) the same way we read text, left to right. Lines therefore have additional energy—the energy we read into them. For those of us in the Western world, our left-to-right orientation has certain compositional implications. For starters, our eyes tend to rest or linger on the right side of the frame, so whatever appears on the right side seems to dominate the image. For this reason, advertisers and graphic designers typically place product logos on the right, the last place a viewer’s eye will rest. We read diagonal lines according to this left-right orientation as well. For example, we understand a slope that starts at the bottom left hand corner of a frame and ends at the top right as an “uphill” slope; we easily interpret a slope that begins from the top left and ends at bottom right as “downhill” (even though it could easily be uphill).

In Western cultures, then, placing critical elements on the right side rather than the left can become a forceful tactic in planning visual compositions. If we grew up speaking and reading Arabic, we would learn to read images from right to left, and we would plan our visual compositions differently.

With these directional forces—also called vectors—at play, lines within a frame can either compete with our natural desire to read left to right, causing tension, or flow with the left-right momentum. For example, car advertisers use these tendencies to their advantage: if the message is “speed,” they might show a car driving left to right, and preferably downhill, as if to increase the speed of the car: the car is traveling in the same direction our eyes are naturally traveling. If the message is “rugged and powerful,” advertisers might show the car (or more probably, truck) traveling right to left and uphill: by going against the grain it appears that truck is working harder and is that much more tough.

These kind of continuing vectors extend beyond the frame and cause anticipation: we don’t know if the motorcycles will crash at the bottom of the hill, or if the Chevy truck will ever reach the top of the mountain. Converging vectors, where two forces converge together in the same frame, tend to evoke a sense of calm because the forces are pulling together and a sort of resolution is taking place. Diverging vectors—two forces moving away and out of the frame, can be deeply troubling. Indeed, the directional forces of lines, combined with our left-to-right orientation, can yield considerable drama and storytelling to a still image.

When that image moves—as in film or video—the narrative possibilities multiply. Panning (horizontally rotating from one side to another) to the right tends to evoke a sense of panic; panning to the left calms things down. Following a character moving left to right within the frame is invigorating, but troubling if the filmmaker or videographer doesn’t supply enough lead room—the extra space to suggest a character is traveling towards something outside of the frame and not slamming into the frame’s edge. To frame an individual in the most flattering conditions, a videographer might pose—say John McCain or Barack Obama—walking left to right (i.e., “forward”, not backward), walking with extensive lead room (i.e., they are open, comfortable and in control of their environment), and at a low angle (i.e., they are powerful). In contrast, a videographer also has the power to do the opposite, portraying a candidate in extreme close up, walking left or against the edge of the frame, and looking up at the camera rather than down, as if to portray them as cramped, uncomfortable, squirming under pressure, and belittled.

Narrative structure in film and video is, of course, propelled forward through editing: the juxtaposition of long shots, medium shots and close ups. Perhaps it’s easiest to think of individual shots as sentences, and sequences of shots as paragraphs. Each shot delivers a new idea towards a cohesive storyline: A long shot (sometimes called an “establishing shot”) establishes place and context; a medium shot draws attention to a particular character or object; and a close up describes that character/object in terms of emotions, actions, or other details. Think of the first five sentences in Rohinton Mistry’s novel A Fine Balance (1995)—a story about India in the 1930s—as a series of five edited film shots:

1. (long shot) The Morning Express bloated with passengers slowed to a crawl, then lurched forward suddenly, as though to resume full speed.

2. (medium shot) The train’s brief deception jolted its riders.

3. (medium shot) The bulge of humans hanging out of the doorway distended perilously, like a soap bubble at its limit.

4. (close up) Inside the compartment, Maneck Kohlah held on to the overhead railing, propped up securely within the crush.

5. (extreme close up) He felt someone’s elbow knock his textbooks from his hands.

Similarly, a fully edited film could be broken down, shot by shot, into a stream of descriptive sentences and paragraphs. Pacing combined with shot size can also dramatically affect meaning. Quickly edited shots and sequences accelerate tension, especially if the shots are all close ups, conveying a feeling of entrapment or suspense. In contrast, numerous slow-paced long shots side by side slow down the narrative and give room for reflection. Finally, the juxtaposition of extreme shots—long shot to close up; slow-paced to fast-paced; moving to still—is a chance to create a jarring scene in the narrative, one where the viewer has to work extra hard to figure out what the story is.

Indeed, juxtaposition is a way to induce meaning not through the actual content of individual shots but through the coupling of two or more shots. The famous Russian film theorist Lev Kuleshov demonstrated the power of coupling by juxtaposing the same expressionless head shot of a prominent actor, “Mosjukhin,” with three completely different images: first a bowl of soup; then a coffin in which lay a dead woman; and finally a little girl at play. Kuleshov and his colleagues presented the three juxtapositions to an audience, who commented on Mosjukhin’s superior acting ability: “the heavy pensiveness of his mood over the forgotten soup,” “the deep sorrow with which he looked on the dead woman,” and “the light happy smile with which he surveyed the girl at play.”

http://www.poetrylives.com/SimplyHaiku/SHv2n4/renku/renku_editors_notes.html (put shots in same order as text)

Even though the head shot never changed, Kuleshov concluded that “with correct montage, even if one takes the performance of an actor directed at something quite different, it will still reach the viewer in the way intended by the editor, because the viewer himself will complete the sequence and see that which is suggested to him.”[v] The Daily Show with Jon Stewart has put juxtaposition to good use, creating clever montages where the content of an individual image (for example, a soundbite from a politician) is subordinate to the editing of two or three images in sequence. The effect of such editing on The Daily Show is usually to illustrate irony; that is, the juxtaposition of editing makes or reveals the meaning of the politician’s soundbite to be the opposite of its original intention. As with the Kuleshov experiment, we can create meaning by connecting two or more separate elements, providing competent continuity, and asking viewers to fill in the blanks. “The challenge,” writes (descriptive title for her?—e.g., “film theorist”)Gretchen Barbatsis, “is to theorize, study, and create visual narrative in ways that we appreciate its sense-making function as a way to better understand disordered, raw experience; as a powerful way of constituting reality and not a way of merely recording it.”[vi]

II. “Tourist pamphlet spoilt by nose picking girl,”

The image on the Thornham Walks brochure is a representation of reality that fails to effectively communicate—through its use of color, its spatial organization of subject matter within the frame, and its use of line—how fun it can be to hike along the trails in Thornham. Our eyes travel from the bored girl on the left to the girl picking her nose, to the girl in the lamb hat, and finally up to the woman in green and the man resting his arms on top of his head. This is a story of three young girls wearing funny bonnets and parents looking on in a place of outside recreation. The colors paint a somber mood and there is discord in the group as the girls are being pulled towards the edges of the frame. Beyond a pure compositional reading, however, we can also read deeper into the image and acknowledge that every element in the frame conveys an independent meaning. In other words, we can add more narrative layers through our understanding of the signs implanted within the image.

What is a sign? A sign is simply something that conveys meaning beyond the object itself. Flowers are a sign of spring. The barren trees discussed in the Thornham brochure are a sign for early Spring; outstretched arms placed on one’s head is a sign for relaxation or boredom. We know these things because we are familiar with weather and human nature. Other signs are not quite so obvious, requiring more knowledge of cultural norms to understand their meaning. A paper maché lamb constructed into a hat and placed on a child’s head may suggest some sort of festival, but one has to know more about the cultural traditions surrounding Easter in England to deduce that the hat is indeed a child’s Easter bonnet. Public spitting or publicly picking one’s nose may be culturally acceptable in other countries, but in England these actions are often considered improper personal hygiene, a sign for being distasteful, anti-social, and unclean. A child might not know this, however, unless he or she learns it from parents or teachers. Indeed, after the brochure’s publication, detractors asserted that a nose picking girl was doing something she should have known not to do, and thus was a poor representation of proper British children. “For something to be a sign,” Paul Lester writes, “the viewer must understand its meaning. If you do not understand the meaning behind the orange color of a jacket, it isn’t a sign for you.”

Semiotics (or semiology in Europe) is the study of signs. The discipline evolved in the mid-20^th Century after two linguistic theorists, Ferdinand de Saussure (in Switzerland) and Charles Sanders Peirce (in the United States) independently published theories about the use of words (signs in their own right) to communicate meaning. Both analyzed the relationship between the sign (“signifier”) and the object (“signified”), and asked important questions about how something comes to stand for something else, and how the sign is connected to the object. Visual Communication scholar Sandra Moriarty notes that Peirce’s work has become particularly helpful in reading images because he emphasized representation as “a key element in how a sign ‘stands for’ its object.”[vii] Peirce formulated three different types of representation, “iconic,” “indexical,” and “symbolic,” which range from the most easily-interpreted signs (iconic) to the most complex (symbolic).

Iconic signs are the most basic sign types because they closely resemble the thing they represent: a photograph or film; a pictorial sign (e.g., a no-smoking sign, male/female restroom sign; a trashcan icon on a desktop computer; certain pictorial road signs).

Because they represent a tangible gesture, action or thing, iconic images are easily understood across cultures. They also can be a part of more complex images; something about iconic, symbolic and index being not mutually exclusive.

One step up in complexity, indexical signs are less straightforward but still logical representations of an object. A deer hoof print in the woods is a sign that a deer passed by. A bullet hole is a sign that both a bullet and a gun were present at a certain time to create the hole. The whistle of a tea kettle is a sign that water is boiling inside. A map is not as literal as a photograph, but is a logical representation of a landscape nonetheless—an index sign pointing to a terrain. As literary theorist and semiotician Roland Barthes described index signs, “they point but do not tell.”[viii] And one has to have a certain amount of lived experience to recognize indexical representations. One has to have boiled water in a tea kettle, or gone to the woods looking for deer, to fully understand what a tea kettle whistle or a deer hoofprint mean. When reading indexical signs in media images, we also borrow from our own lived experience to determine how the signs contribute to the overall narrative. If a car advertisement, for example, cuts from an image of a shiny new car to some black and white, grainy, flickery footage of cars not recognizable on today’s roads, we can read that footage—based on our own experience with today’s cars and the media—to mean “old” or “historical.” Even though the black and white footage may have been shot recently and overlayed with special effect filters to look archival, it still signifies “old.” If we see an image of a person smiling as they hold up a beauty product, we can deduce that the smiling gesture is an indexical sign associated with the product: the smile points to the act of using the product (even though we don’t actually see the product being used). “Before” and “After” images are good examples of index signs; we never see the product being applied, but are led to conclude that the product shown had something to do with the result displayed.

Symbolic signs are the most complex of all signs because they are determined by culture and therefore in need of a higher level of interpretation. For this reason they tend to be the most interesting for semioticians to analyze. Language and words are good examples of symbolic signs: one has to learn the language before he or she is able to interpret the sign.

Besides their inherent connection to spoken and written words, symbolic signs include other cultural indicators: socially-defined gestures, collective practices, styles of dress, national emblems, and cultural innuendo—all the things that are learned through one’s upbringing, education, and interactions with specific social groups. In the category of socially-defined gestures, for example, one hails a taxi differently in Paris (point down) than in the U.S. (point up). One has to learn through cultural practice whether to point up or down; that in the U.S. and elsewhere, red, white and pink together signify Valentine’s Day; orange and black mean Halloween, and red and green mean Christmas.

When British Prime Minister Tony Blair’s wife, Cherie Blair, was photographed publicly yawning without covering her mouth at the Braemar Highland Games in 2003,[ix] and again at the Commonwealth Games in 2007, the symbolic gesture was read by many in Britain as both a sign of rudeness and a lack of cultural knowledge. Reactions to the gesture in the British press were scathing, and pointed to other signs of Cherie Blair’s cultural ineptitude: The Telegraph reported in 2007 that “Mrs Blair's [yawning] faux pas compounded blunders on her first visit to Balmoral in 1997 when she failed to curtsey to the Queen and wore a trouser suit, a choice that, it was claimed, left the Queen Mother ‘mortified.’” [x]

Of course, Cherie Blair’s public yawn could have been (and was) slotted into different narratives. One was that she had every right to yawn because Braemer Highland and the Commonwealth Games are so dreadfully boring. (This was the point of view of numerous bloggers). Another is that the physical process of yawning, from a scientific standpoint, cools down the brain and makes it function more efficiently. Thus, even though it’s something we are embarrassed by, yawning is a normal part of human nature.[xi] As Jessica Evans and Stuart Hall have observed, the meaning of an image “is not in the visual sign itself as a self-sufficient entity, nor exclusively in the sociological positions and identities of the audience, but in the articulation between viewer and viewed, between the power of the image to signify and the viewer’s capacity to interpret meaning” (p. 4).[xii] What Evans and Stuart recognize is that an image (or text for that matter) has the possibility for multiple readings, with each reading dependent on a person’s culture and their own personal interpretations.[xiii] Indeed, an open-mouthed yawn is not universally understood as indecent, nor is, we might add, nose-picking. In Japan, advertising images in business magazines routinely depict men in groups holding hands—an image understood by many Japanese as heroic, representing teamwork, strength, and togetherness. A different culture might read homophobic meanings into such an image, or consider men holding hands a sign of weakness rather than a sign of strength.

Symbolic signs can be highly charged and emotional simply because they reflect or comment upon culture (ours or others). They can thus be a very powerful means of storytelling, bringing a deeper meaning to an image as viewers are asked to make cultural connections to understand the symbolism. Beer advertising, for example, is often loaded with phallic and sexual imagery that are symbolic indicators for a highly sexualized beer culture (in the U.S. but also evident in other countries), not so subtly connecting beer to male sexual conquest. The sexualization of beer imagery is a representation of this culture, but it has also become part of the culture itself. Beer foam, the sweat on the beer bottle, the angle and direction a male model holds the bottle of beer, allusions to the cultural practice of bachelor parties, the disappearance of wedding rings (first you see it, enter the beer, then you don’t)—all are typical narrative strategies to connect male sexuality to beer. Symbolic signs can be so charged, however, that they can easily backfire. [xiv] Take the Danish print ad for Tuborg beer that attempted to represent a bachelor party with beer bottles standing in as “men.” Seven beer bottles with labels on (signifying dressed men) encircle a beer bottle without no label (signifying a woman just completing a strip tease). The words “bachelor party” are intended to clarify the scene. Otherwise, the label-less beer bottle might be understood to be a naked man—an awkward message for the heterosexual target audience Tuborg is intent on reaching. [xv]

CHRIS: PR campaign for “topless” golf competition? Another example of a PR campaign that completely backfired. I’ll have to find this!

[1] Itten, Johannes, The Art of Color: The Subjective Experience and Objective Rationale of Color (1974), p. 120.