English footballers, by contrast, have long been seen by their fans as untainted by the duplicitousness made manifest in diving. Given this, English fans find it especially difficult to accept diving from the decidedly less-than-cosmopolitan Rooney, a rumbustious and powerful forward who has been trading for some years off the reputation he established, during his early seasons at Everton and Manchester United, as a prototype of virtuous English football.
The English idea that diving is a foreign novelty introduced by the international reach of the Premier League is contradicted by earlier commentary on the game. This context alone does not, of course, fully explain the increase in commentaries on diving from the early s on. For instance, television coverage of English soccer increased rapidly during this time, accompanied by improvements in instant replay technology, and both made diving incidents easier to spot and analyze.
But regardless of the real causes, it is undeniable that over the course of the decade, commentaries on diving became a rhetorical device through which certain perceptions about the pitfalls of increased internationalization could be represented. Often, and perhaps unsurprisingly, this rhetoric uses diving as a means of associating foreignness with effeminacy. A form perfected. Photo Alex Livesey. The players in question appear to have lost all control, their bodies tormented by the demonic energies of a hysterical episode or by a fatal blow to the back. At the same time, their poses are articulated with a certain grace and artistry that invites sustained contemplation of such images.
Georges Didi-Huberman, for instance, argues. In Paul H. It has four categories, all of which offer referees clear guidance in distinguishing simulation from genuine foul play. I will leave aside the controversy over the veracity of this photograph, which has at least since been suspected of having been staged.
This, of course, is the same gesture made by the 11Freunde diptych. As much as diving represents a problem of sporting ethics, the phenomenon cannot be fully understood without a consideration of aesthetics.
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Diving is profoundly tied to questions about the status of images and of image making. The idea that star players produce picture-worthy moments of sublime skill while humbling their opposition is as old as the game itself. What a gift this is to an art historian! Though not their direct intention, diving soccer players are a boon to the visual analyst who wants to take sports photography seriously, who seeks deep lineages for its iconographies and pathos formulae. The talented diver.
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Teresa, because there are few stronger examples of the representation of bodily extremes. The flip side of this expert performance is opprobrium from the world of soccer itself. For several years various National Associations have attempted to subdue the un-manly behaviour of some football players who embrace, kiss and hug each other in an over-emotional fashion after scoring a goal.
As contemporary tabloid rhetoric about simulation shows, similar anxieties over excessive demonstrativeness, and associated fears about feminization, also frame commentaries on diving. Commentators like Des Kelly appear as residual believers in the ethos outlined in the document, writing late into the profoundly mediatized s. That Ginola was also known to dive transformed this suspicion into a full-blown crisis of masculinity. He is lauded at the club because he is a footballer who has the ability to make the White Hart Lane admission charge seem worthwhile with one scintillating run, a jaw-dropping turn or a searing shot.
Sadly, he does not seem to understand that one pitiful somersault with pike over an imaginary leg destroys that magic. For Kelly, Ginola rewards those who invest in the spectacle of his performances when he demonstrates his skills. His ability to turn his absorption in the game into beautiful play leads in turn to an absorbing spectacle for the gathered crowd. Doing so, however, can sometimes feel like a colonization, a means of forcing a vibrant and historically proletarian entertainment into a framework of genteel discourse.
In diving, soccer players insert themselves into this process of translation as they claim for their own ends forms of representation that lie outside of the relatively narrow range of available on-field actions. In so doing, they reach out to the visual analyst on their own terms, at great risk to their professional credibility. For these beautiful, unacceptably expressive images, I thank them.
Mitchell, What Do. Pictures Want? There is a main-belt asteroid of stony composition, roughly four kilometers in diameter, and with an albedo, or solar reflection coefficient, of around 17 percent. It bears the same name as the author of the present article, though with the middle initials eliminated, the first and last names concatenated, and a string of numbers added to the beginning: Justinsmith.
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To be more precise, it does not just have the same name as the author, but was in fact named after the author. Its relationship to the author is like that of Colombia to Columbus, or of the Vince Lombardi Travel Plaza to Vince Lombardi: a relationship of eponymy. The asteroid was first observed in , when I was twentyone years old and had yet to accomplish anything that would merit so much as an eponymous clod of dirt. Elst, would not choose the name until the middle of it was, after all, only one of at least 3, asteroids he had discovered in his long and distinguished career.
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While trans-Neptunian bodies may only be named after divinities, main-belt objects—those, that is, generally found orbiting at a distance from the sun somewhere between Mars and Jupiter—may be named after any person, living or dead, who has done anything at all of note, though there is a waiting period of one hundred years after the death of anyone noted for contributions in the field of politics: a measure taken, we may presume, to prevent the partisan carving up of outer space.
Information gleaned from the Internet tells us that Elst is a devoted student of the history of philosophy,. In October, having just learned of Justinsmith, I sent Elst a message care of the Royal Belgian Observatory, from which he had retired some years earlier, expressing my sincere thanks for this great honor, and also explaining that I am not, myself, a materialist, but rather somewhat closer to a phenomenalism of the Leibnizian variety. I cited to him G. So, if bodies are real, this reality must in some way result from, and be underlain by, minds. This explanation would certainly apply to bodies such as asteroids and planets, not in order to explain them away as illusory as some versions of idealism might be said to do but only to provide an adequate account of their nature.
The book cited is not in any sense a collection of essays, and there is no Department of Philosophy and Sciences at my university.
But in any case, the real reason for the naming seems to have nothing to do with the book, or with my work as a professor of the history and philosophy of science. The future Justinsmith gliding across the heavens on 14 January , blissfully unaware of its impending appointment with onomastic destiny. France is for cat lovers, Germany for dog lovers, was basically the whole argument of this trifle of a post.
here There was, I repeat, nothing necessary about any of this. My very coming into the world was no sure thing, let alone my decision to write that post. If that cat had not come out to sit on the sidewalk at the moment it had, the history of planetoid onomastics would have been at least slightly different. But now that it does bear my name, might necessity somehow enter into the picture, as Kripke suspects?
A company known as the International Star Registry has since been naming stars according to the wishes of paying customers. When you buy a star from us, you will be purchasing an unforgettable gift that you can share forever. What, now, honestly, is the difference between the International Astronomical Union and the International Star Registry?
From the point of view of the heavens, there is none. Our astral naming practices, our astronymy, have no necessity out there. Nor do they have any force. It would be a strange metaphysics indeed that would insist that some real change came about in it sometime in as a result of the ceremonial procedures of a certain human organization some planets away. And surely if Justinsmith is indifferent to the iau, then it also does not appreciate the elite or authoritative status this organization enjoys by comparison to the isr.
And if it is all the same to the celestial bodies anyway, why.
Why is it better to be Justinsmith, four kilometers wide, a stony mass in the main belt, when you can be some Kaylee or Steve or Shawna, blazing white-hot somewhere out in Alpha Centauri, and inscribed on an attractive pendant? This is all just a matter of sociology, not metaphysics.
And yet, and yet, I am certain, but morally certain, that something has changed. Biology could not make any sense independently of cosmology, as the birth and reproduction and death of sublunar beings were a sort of imitation, to the extent that their natures allowed, of the constant circular motion of the immortal celestial bodies beyond the moon. He is in the advanced stages of cancer, and it has fallen to my sister and to me to come to him to talk about good things from the past, and to help him with the weighty decisions that attend such a grave illness.
Nor am I so young as to fail to perceive the chain that binds us, and the shared identity, in what really matters, of its links. He is me, just not for now. The sun has offered its help to me too, it has warmed my seed, but I have sought immortality in other, mostly futile, ways: by striving, at the beginning of what appears to be a postliterate age, to translate fragments of my soul into written words. We do not know what the future of data storage will look like, let alone the future of readership, and in the best case, it may still turn out that my words have nothing about them that is particularly worthy of preservation.
We do know that the main-belt asteroids will continue in their orbit, that the Smith. Only one of its members, Ceres, is large enough to have taken on a spherical shape by force of its own gravity. The rest are jaunty, oblong, hooked, like the atoms of Democritus. Though the asteroids are numerous, the belt itself is largely empty, and other than bombardment by radiation and periodic strafing by micrometeorites, Justinsmith mostly just continues in its orbit, without risk of collision.
Space weathering will eventually wear it down, long before the earth is engulfed by the sun, but so far from now that it is, by any reasonable human scale, immortal. For Aristotle, the soul dissolves when the body corrupts. Pythagoreans, similarly, are said to have held that only some souls ascend to the stars after death—those of the brave. Without you our country would be in big danger. Star stuff is not soul stuff, but only rock stuff and fire stuff.
So we are mortal, and the stars are just bodies. We are corrupting, my father and I, and Justinsmith is a stony body four kilometers wide.
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We, like it, are charted and known by our ephemerides. That we know that this is not in fact what is happening does nothing to liberate us from the weight of ancient meanings—any more than our knowledge of the biology of birth and death can free us from the sense that it is not protein sequences, but love, that binds the generations together. Now it is not possible in number for the being of existing things is in the particular and if this were such, it would be an eternal , but it is possible in form.
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