by Ghislaine McDayter
The Byron Journal, 37.2 (2009), 171-73.
by Ghislaine McDayter
The Byron Journal, 37.2 (2009), 171-73.
Britney Spears has been admitted to a psychiatric hospital. Posh Spice has a new tattoo. Paris Hilton has been photographed wearing five different outfits in one day. And Amy Winehouse has gone to rehab after all.
These are just a few of the stories that have emerged from the seemingly unstoppable industry of celebrity gossip in the last week. While Britney and Amy are obviously in crisis, it’s business as usual for Paris and Posh. Yet these stories are reported next to each other as though of equal importance. They also appear alongside coverage of more newsworthy events, such as the battles for U.S. presidential nominations. But even that sometimes seems more about celebrity gossip than substantive policy. With Oprah stumping for Obama, Arnold Schwarzenegger supporting John McCain and Chuck Norris (who?) endorsing Mike Huckabee (who?), action heroes and daytime divas have generated almost as many column inches as some of the candidates.
We live in a culture saturated in celebrity, where the logic of celebrity seems to be rapidly colonizing all areas of public life. New starlets appear (Hello, Paris), old stars fade away (So long, Chuck), and images are reinvented (Welcome back, Arnie). How should we understand this situation, and where did it come from?
Although, as a culture, we are obsessed by celebrities, very few of us have given much thought to the history of celebrity culture. Most of us assume that we’ve always had celebrities, or that our fascination with celebrities is unprecedented in its intensity. But neither of these assumptions is true.
Celebrity culture began at an identifiable point in the past and we can track its historical shifts with some precision. Some have suggested celebrity emerged with the development of film at the end of the 19th century. I suggest that they’re right to link celebrity with a new technology, but they’ve got the wrong one. The crucial technology was a better printing press, and the innovations leading to it occurred some 100 years earlier.
Industrial printing, rising literacy rates and improved distribution infrastructure created a sense of “information overload” never before experienced. These conditions also left readers and writers feeling alienated from each other. Unlike earlier ages when manuscript circulation or subscription publication was the norm, there was no longer any prior connection between them. Celebrity culture originally emerged to solve these problems. Authors, publishers, artists, engravers and journalists worked together to brand an individual’s identity so he or she would stand out from the crowd. As a result, actors such as David Garrick, sportsmen such as the boxer Daniel Mendoza and authors such as Lord Byron became the first modern celebrities.
A new vocabulary was required to refer to these new figures on the public stage. In 1751, Samuel Johnson recalled a time when he “did not find [him]self yet enriched in proportion to [his] celebrity.” He used the word to name a desirable personal attribute for the professional man of letters. A century later, in 1849, a character in one of Dinah Mulock Craik’s novels asked, “Did you see any of those ‘celebrities,’ as you call them?” Using a form of the word that was evidently still unfamiliar, Craik employed it as a concrete noun. Something important about the nature of fame had changed in the century that separated Johnson from Craik. Celebrity was no longer something you had, but something you were.
Celebrity culture helped people to feel less detached from their idols by giving the impression that to read a poem by Byron or to look at a picture of Garrick was to experience a kind of relationship with them. In my book on Byron, I call this “the hermeneutic of intimacy,” because it’s a way of reading that constructs a powerful emotional connection between the celebrity and the consumer.
In the age of 24-hour gossip, you can get more updates about Britney or Amy than you get about the lives of your own family. Some devoted fans feel emotionally closer to their idols than to almost anyone they’ve met in the flesh.
So next time you open a magazine to check out the latest long-lens pictures of Britney’s public meltdown, take a moment to zoom out and remember that you’re taking part in a cultural phenomenon whose history stretches back farther than you might think.
Tom Mole is an assistant professor in the Department of English and the author of Byron’s Romantic Celebrity (Basingstoke: Palgrave, 2007). He is currently editing a collection of essays called Romanticism and Celebrity Culture 1750-1850, to be published by Cambridge University Press.
by Tilar J. Mazzeo
The Byron Journal, 36.1 (2008), 67-68
1750-1830, by Claire Brock
Romanticism, 14.3 (2008), 289-91.
ed. Mary Luckhurst and Jane Moody
Theatre Notebook (2007)
by Susan Oliver
British Association for Romantic Studies Bulletin and Review 26 (Winter 2006)
Delve into the mysteries surrounding the early editions of Blackwood’s Magazine.
Afterwards, everyone remembered it as a misty night. It was cold too, and the two men came wrapped in military-style cloaks. They were accompanied by seconds and armed with loaded pistols. On Friday 16 February 1821, two men fought a duel in Chalk Farm and one of them lost his life. The dead man was John Scott, editor of the London Magazine.
His assailant was Jonathan Henry Christie, representative of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine. Scott had attacked Blackwood’s for its slashing reviews of Leigh Hunt, William Hazlitt and John Keats. Blackwood’s had responded with the kind of invective that was its stock in trade. As tempers flared, a point of honour appeared to be at stake and the increasingly acrimonious rhetoric that appeared in the magazines boiled over into bloodshed.
Things hadn’t always been so heated. Blackwood’s initially claimed that ‘we wish our Magazine to be open to liberal discussion’, imagining its pages as an ongoing conversation written by its readers. But the Blackwood’s writers – many of whom had legal training – preferred adopting adversarial legal models.
The metaphor of the magazine as a courtroom became explicit in articles such as ‘Hazlitt Cross-Questioned’ and ‘Letter from Z. to Leigh Hunt’, where John Gibson Lockhart wrote, ‘My October paper was merely an opening of the case; I said, as plainly as words could speak it, that the examination of witnesses, and the closing address, would both follow in their season’. Courtroom metaphors in turn gave way to images of assault. Hazlitt would be ‘stripped to the naked skin, and made to swallow his own vile prescriptions’. And when controversy between Blackwood’s and the London Magazine reached flashpoint in 1821, images of violence gave way to actual violence. Conversation became prosecution, prosecution became assault, and assault – in one tragic case – became killing
For modern readers without access to long-established research libraries, it has been difficult to find out why Blackwood’s made people’s blood boil. Those who encountered Blackwood’s first-hand often found it inaccessible in another sense. Blackwood’s can be daunting in its range of reference, frustrating in its casual attitude to citation, and rebarbatively embedded in debates whose other participants are not always apparent.
Over the past three years, I’ve been part of a team working on Blackwood’s. We’ve produced a six-volume set of selections from the magazine’s infancy, including poetry, stories, book reviews and critical essays. Reviews published in Blackwood’s and its rivals have traditionally been called on as ‘context’ to flesh out the historical study of literature. We aim to promote them from that marginal position and make them a subject for study both in their own right and as part of a more sophisticated and wide-ranging understanding of nineteenth-century print culture.
From Blackwood’s earliest issues, John Wilson (1785-1854) and John Gibson Lockhart (1794-1854) contributed most of the reviews and helped to shape the magazine’s characteristic critical style. Both men were born in Scotland and both enjoyed brilliant academic success at the University of Glasgow and subsequently at Oxford University (although they narrowed missed overlapping at either institution). Both trained for careers in the law, but both had literary ambitions.
When William Blackwood re-launched the flagging Edinburgh Monthly Magazine under the masthead of Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine in October 1817, Wilson was 32 and Lockhart was only 23. Blackwood took a big gamble on the young men and their new style of reckless personal criticism.
The gamble paid off magnificently and within just a few issues Blackwood’s established itself as a journal whose reviews mattered
The main target of the magazine’s ire in this period was the ‘Cockney School’ of poetry – a poetically innovative and politically reformist group of poets including John Keats, who gathered at Leigh Hunt’s home in Hampstead. Writing under the pseudonym ‘Z.’, Lockhart labelled the Cockney School and then libelled the Cockneys, and Hunt in particular, in a series of vituperative articles.
In the first of the Cockney School attacks, Z. condemned Hunt by suggesting that his literary style, his political views and his social demeanour all displayed the same vulgarity. Hunt was a man of ‘extravagant pretensions both in wit, poetry, and politics, and withal of exquisitely bad taste, and extremely vulgar modes of thinking and manners in all respects’. His failings were all of a piece, and when Z. lambasted his poetic diction, his literary tastes, his social faux pas, his religious free-thinking or his disrespect for the Prince Regent, he was holding up to contempt different facets of the same essential flaw. Whatever he wrote, Hunt couldn’t help ‘betraying the Shibboleth of low birth and low habits’. These comments suggested that poetical failings could be mapped onto social, political and moral shortcomings.
Hunt was ‘as completely a Plebeian in his mind as he is in his rank and station in society’, and therefore aesthetics, politics and social standing could safely be elided. ‘One feels the same disgust at the idea of opening [Hunt’s poem] Rimini’, Z. suggested, ‘that impresses itself on the mind of a man of fashion, when he is invited to enter, for a second time, the gilded drawing-room of a little mincing boarding-school mistress, who would fain have an At Home in her house’. Leigh Hunt was caricatured as a tea-drinking fop, with yellow breeches and an open-necked shirt, whose ‘poetry resembles that of a man who has kept company with kept-mistresses’.
Blackwood’s repeatedly blurred the boundaries between literature and life, between aesthetics and politics and between art and morality in a rumbustious and unruly style that made for great fun, but whose consequences – as John Scott found out – could be deadly serious.
Blackwood’s Magazine, 1817-25 – Selections from Maga’s Infancy edited by Nicholas Mason, Anthony Jarrells, Tom Mole, Mark Parker and John Strachan, is published by Pickering and Chatto.
McGill Reporter – October 2005
In high school, Tom Mole carried about Byron’s “Don Juan” like a dandy’s gold-topped cane. “I thought it was the funniest, most brilliantly written poem I’d ever come across,” says Mole, in his office in the Department of English.
The London-born Mole, the first in his immediate family to go to university, always assumed he’d study Lord Byron (1788-1824) in depth, but it wasn’t until his graduate studies at the University of Bristol that he seriously cracked the book spines of the Romantic-era wit. A more mature look at the poet led Mole to thinking less about Byron’s product and more about the product of Byron.
Byron enjoyed an unprecedented celebrity and fame, previously the domain of those who did great deeds, had high social standing, and were, uh, dead. “Real fame was thought to be posthumous fame,” says Mole, but Byron was enormously popular while he was alive — his poem “The Corsair” sold 10,000 copies in one day.
It’s not that Byron was the David Bowie of his generation, but that a range of emerging social factors and technologies set up the conditions for Byron’s celebrity.
There was increasing literacy among the masses, who were sufficiently leisured and sufficiently moneyed to buy and read poems, and a better infrastructure for getting books and pictures to people.
As well, his image was marketed vigorously, Mole says, thanks to the portraits Byron commissioned. “They circulated widely in engravings, and every time they’re engraved — there’s no copyright — they change a little bit. Then they start to appear in caricatures and other kinds of graphic satire.” It didn’t take long for pictures that portrayed Byron with an open collar and curling forelock to circulate widely.
Unlike a commissioned painting, anyone can buy an engraved image to possess and “consume” in the privacy of their own home. “What’s key to Byron’s celebrity is the intimacy his readers feel,” Mole says. “When you’re reading a Byron poem, looking at a Byron picture, reading a biographical sketch in the paper, when you’re consuming Byron’s celebrity image, it feels like you’re having a kind of relationship with the poet.”
By drawing the connections between the poetry and his life, Mole says, “each reader believes that they alone are the one who understands Byron.”
Also, with the surge in printed material at the end of the 18th century, writers and readers became less known to each other. Culture needed to find a way for texts to bridge that gap. Byron’s poems avoided the impersonality of mass-produced products by constructing an impression of intimacy.
Byron had a knack for always seeming to reveal something about himself in his work, in a veiled dance of reveal and conceal, Mole says. “He always left the reader something to imagine. And he could always write another poem that could reveal a little bit more — it kept readers coming back.”
Byron was merely one part of a celebrity-making machine, says Mole. “It’s about Byron, his publisher, newspaper journalists, artists, engravers, caricaturists, printers, magazine publishers — a whole cultural apparatus.”
Now that Mole is happily settled in to the “vibrant university culture” at McGill, he wants to tackle the history of celebrity, using Byron as the first case study.
“We’re obsessed with celebrity,” he says, citing the global success of TV’s American Idol and its knock-offs, which purport to uncover people’s inner brilliance or manufacture them into stars. The fantasy is that anyone can become a celebrity (ironically, the program’s format is far more successful than anyone who’s come out of it).
“Celebrity culture has an investment in us not thinking about it, remaining mystified. As long as we attribute the public profile of an individual to their talent or innate star quality, celebrity culture continues to work untrammeled.
“Only by thinking of that history, will we be able to engage critically with celebrity culture now.”
The University is committed to making the results of its research as widely available as possible. As an incentive to encourage more articles, we devised a writing competition with cash prizes. This article by Dr Tom Mole shared third place.
I was in Boston last week for a cultural studies conference, and one of the papers caught my eye. The event had been bursting at the seams with odd poststructuralist analyses of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but this paper was surely the oddest of the lot. It was called ‘Zsa Zsa Gabor’s Persona as an Aging Celebrity’. I was in Boston to talk about celebrity myself. I’ve spent the last five years investigating the history of celebrity culture – especially the poet Lord Byron – and I was there to tell people what I’ve discovered, but I wanted to take the long view. While Zsa Zsa’s certainly not getting any younger, celebrity culture is even older than her. Two hundred years older, in fact.
Celebrities are everywhere now, but hardly anyone thinks to ask difficult questions about how celebrity culture works, and where it came from. The few who do ask have tended to fix on film, tracing celebrity culture back to the rise of cinema in the early 20th century. I think they’re right to link celebrity to a new technology, but they’ve got the wrong one. As a literary scholar, I can see that the crucial technology was printing, and that the enabling advances took place a century earlier.
Printing and publishing became a full-blown industry at the end of the 18th century. That led to a massive growth in the number of books published and fuelled the rise of newspapers, magazines and advertising. At the same time the audience for those texts expanded as the population grew and more of them learnt to read. In the early days of industrial capitalism, this produced a rich and fascinating print culture. But it also created two new problems.
Firstly, people started to suffer from information overload. Isaac D’Israeli was already swamped by 1795. Since “every literary journal consists of 50 or 60 publications,” he wrote, “when I take the pen and attempt to calculate … the number of volumes which the next century must infallibly produce, … I lose myself among billions, trillions, and quartillions”. At the same time, the percentage of books published anonymously dropped drastically. As more and more named authors jostled for public notice, a personality overload set in. Readers couldn’t possibly keep up. They needed ways to select which texts to read and which to ignore. Secondly, readers and writers started to feel alienated. In the new mass market for books, they could no longer know each other. The audience became a faceless crowd, while the author risked being a distant and impersonal figure. Writers and readers started to feel like estranged producers and consumers in the marketplace.
Celebrity culture emerged to solve – or at least to mitigate – both those problems. In response to the personality overload, it turned the celebrity’s proper name into a brand name. When the European Magazine received a “new volume of poetry, bearing the noble name of Byron as its passport to celebrity” it knew that the noble name guaranteed certain marketable qualities and connotations. Byron cut a figure as an adventurer, lover and aristocrat gifted with roguish charm. His publisher, his reviewers and his engraved portraits all supported that persona and sold tens of thousands of books. As a result, all eyes were on Byron.
Celebrity culture overcame the feeling of alienation by creating a sense of intimacy. The trick was not to let the poems seem like industrial productions competing for attention in a crowded market. Instead, Byron fostered the impression that his poems could only be understood fully by referring to their author’s personality, and that reading them was entering a kind of intimate relationship with him. “They are not felt … as declarations published to the world,” wrote one reviewer, “but almost as secrets whispered to chosen ears.”
It’s been hard for us to see the history of these celebrity strategies because, to a large extent, we live in a culture that’s still shaped by them. But celebrity culture looks increasingly worrying, as it colonises politics, business, and even academia. We won’t understand what fascinates and troubles us about celebrity culture until we understand that it has a history even longer that Zsa Zsa Gabor’s. Uncovering that history has taken me from Byron to Buffy and beyond. It adds to our understanding of the past, but it can also enable us to engage more critically with the present.
Tom’s £100 prize money will contribute to the cost of including illustrations when this work is published as a book. This work was supported by the Leverhulme Trust.
Dr Tom Mole/Department of English