SUSSEX STUDIES I N CULTURE AND COMMUNICATION

Series Editor: Jane Cowan University ofSussex

Books i n this series express Sussex's unique c o m m i t m e n t t o interdisciplinary w o r k at the c u t t i n g edge o f cu l tura l and c o m m u n i c a t i o n studies. Transcending the interface between the social and the h u m a n sciences, the series explores some o f the key themes that define the particular character o f l i fe , and the representation o f l i fe , at the end o f one m i l l e n n i u m and the beginning o f the next.

O u r relationships to each other , t o o u r bodies and t o o u r technologies are changing. N e w concepts are requi red , new evidence is needed, to advancc o u r understanding o f these changes. T h e boundaries between disciplines need t o be challenged. T h r o u g h monographs and edited collections the series w i l l explore new ways o f t h i n k i n g about c o m m u n i c a t i o n , performance, identities, and the cont inuai refashioning o f meanings, messages, and images i n space and time.

C U L T U R A L E N C O U N T E R S Edited by Elizabeth Hallam and Brian Street

T H E H O U S E O F D I F F E R E N C E Cul tura l Politics and Nat iona l Ident i ty i n Canada

Eva Mackey

V I R T U A L G E O G R A P H I E S Bodies, Space and Relations

Edited by Mike Crang, Phil Crang and Jon May

V I S U A L D I G I T A L C U L T U R E Surface Play and Spectacle i n N e w M e d i a Genres

Andrew Darley

F A N C U L T U R E S MattHills

P U B L I C R A P E : Representing V i o l a t i o n i n F ic t ion and F i l m

Tanya Horeck

F A N CULTURES Matt Hills

" WA£.©Ô«A8 ^ COPIADORA DA B V A

B L O C O J

*A31AÃ <>*3>

\e Taylor & Francis Group

LONDON AND NEW YORK

First publishcd 2002 by Roudedge

2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4 R N

I N LOVING MEMORY OF ERNEST 'JIMMY' HILLS, WINIFRED HILLS AND MARY LEWIN

Simultaneously publishcd in the USA and Canada by Routlcdge

270 Madison Ave, New York, N Y 10016

Rcprínted in 2004,2006

Kmtltigc is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group

© 2002 Matt Hills

Typesct in Galliard by Taylor & Francis Books Ltd Printed and bound in Great Britain by St Edmundsbury Press Ltd,

Bury St Edmunds, Suflblk

Ali rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or urilised in any form or by any electronic, mcchanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any infòrmation storage or

retricval system, without permission in writing from the publishers.

British Libtary Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British library

library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Hills, Matt 1971-

Fan Cultures / Matt Hills Includcs bibliographical references and index.

1. Fans (Persons) - Psychology. 2. Subculture. 3. Television viewers - Psychology. 4. Celebriries in mass media. 5. Motion picture actors and actresses. I. Tide.

HM646 .HS5 2002 306.1-dc21 2001051092

ISBN 0-415-24024-7 (hbk) ISBN 0-415-24025-5 (pbk)

B E T W E E N C O M M U N I T Y A N D H I E R A R C H Y

rationality'. This means that Bourdieu and his followcrs ali have a tendency to read moral and aesthetic differences off from the master-grid of class difference, or through a limited 'dommanty'subordinate' model. By examining work on psychotronic film, I have considcrcd how Bourdieu's model is unable to account for the moral dualisms which emerge within class fractions and within fan (sub)cultures.

64

FAN CULTURES BETWEEN 'KNOWLEDGE' AND

' JUSTIFICATION'

[I]f I have not sought to get people to speak about . . . [their passion or fàndom], it is not just bccause the subject 'speaks for itseir, but also because in matters of admiration and celebratíon every request for jusuficadon produces a backlash. For, in inducing intcrviewees ... to provide an account of their experi-ence, one forces them out of their participatory stance ... and throws them into a position of justificador).

(Heúiich 1996: xiii)

M y focus in this chapter on ethnographies o f fàndom will lead me to suggest that ali too often fan 'justificaqons' are acceptcd as cultural fàcts by ethnogra-phers, rather than being subjcçted to further analysis. I would argue that the rccent boom in 'fan studies' has produced the figure o f 'the fan' within a highly specific cultural studies' narrative. Work on fàndom has formed a key part of the move towards valorising active audiences, and this use of the fàn has rcsulted in an extremely partial and limited examination o f fàn practices. Fandom has been curiously emptied of the dimensions which, I would suggest, most clearly define it: dimensions o f affect, attachment, and cven passion"" as wcll_a^ « u c ^ y ^ í l i e r

"cDmensions of commodificaSõn through which these processêsare enablcd and cõnsttãined" "'" """ ' " ~

Fan ethnographies: emphasising the knowledgeable fan

T h e significandy affcctive nature of the fàn's attachment renders ethnographic methodology problematic in this context; it cannot be assumed (as is so often the case in cultural studies) that fàndom acts as a guarantee of self-presence and transparent self-undcrstanding:

We should emphasisc from the outset that the pleasure can be so intense that it almost cannot be articulated by those experiencing it. We were struck repeatedly in our interviews and informal conversatíons with fàns by the strength of their passion for, devotion to, and sheer

65

lovc of daytime tclcvision, fc? «cíewf o/frr» beyond their own compre-hension.

(Harrington and Biclby 1 9 9 5 : 1 2 1 , my italics)

T h e ethnographic process o f 'asking the audience', although usefui in many cases, constitutcs a potcntiaUy reductive approach. I t assumes that cultural activ-itics can be adequately accounted for in terms of language and 'discourse', rather than considering how the quesdon Svhy are you a fan of . . . ?' itself causes the fan to cut into the flow o f their experience and producc some kind of discursive 'justification'.

Cultural studies' 'ethnography' has rarely pursued this insight, failing to considcr processes of auto-legitimatíon within fan culture, and instead depicting these processes as fan 'knowledgcability'. This emphasis on the fan's knowledge, and on the display o f knowledge, acts, in part, as an alibi for the ethnographic process: given the fan's articulate nature, and immersion in the text concerned, the move to ethnography seems strangely unquestionablc, as i f it is somehow grounded in the fan's (supposedly) pre-existent form of audience knowledge and interpretive skill. A n d yet this grounding figure of 'the fan' is itself a reduc-tion of subjectivity; a reductíon which operates as a foundational legitímation of, and for, ethnographic methodology. Fandom is largely reduced to mental and discursive actívity oceurring without passion, without fceling, without an experience o f (perhaps involuntary) sclf-transformation. This ethnographic version of fan culture seems to have no inkling that discursive justifications of fàndom might be fragile constructions, albeit socially-licenscd and communal ones. This is not to argue that fans cannot discuss their fcelings, passions and personal histories of fàndom in any meaningml manner. Far from it. Instead I am trying to emphasise that fan-talk cannot be accepted merely as evidence offan knowledge. It must also be interpreted and analysed in order tofocus upon its gaps and dislocations, its moments of failure within narratives of self-consciousness and self-reflexivity, and its repetitions or privileged narrative constructions which are concerned with communal (or subcultural) justification in the face of 'externai' hostility. Previous fàn-ethnography has largely erred on the side of accepting fan discourse as interpretive 'knowledge'. M y aim here is to reconsider fan discourse as a justification for fàn passions and attachments.

Analysing the affective nature of the fan-text attachment means that 'asking the audience' cannot act as a guarantee of knowledge. As Michael Haslett discusses in the Doctor Who fanzine Skaro, Who fàndom as a community typi-cally presents particular justifications o f its collective love for the programme, but these justifications are - to a great extent - merely a way of defending the fan's attachment against externai criticism:

Harken to . . . some'stirring rhetoric about ' W H O ' having the most flexible format on British tclcvision, something about its narrative range incorporating horror, sci-fi, fantasy, historical adventurc and

66

B i i T W i i b N ' K N U W L t U U l i ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N ' •,

comedy, t o name b u t a few o f its m u l t i p l e genres. 'This is what makes Doctor Who so great' they ali say, from haughty academics, drawing their fan pensions, to members o f the greedy brat-pack. Alas, these are of ten merely the empty homil ics o f unimaginative p loddcrs , w i t h most o f us doubtless having suecumbed t o using this stock favourite slice o f hyperbole i n the past . . . I t is n o m o r e than a c l o u d o f smoke, a cult phrase repeated parrot- fashion, perhaps t o hide the fact tha t we cannot agree o n w h a t Doctor Who is or s h o u l d be.

(Has le t t 1994: 10)

Fan-ethnography w o u l d readily uncover this discursive mantra, by w h i c h I mean a relatively stable discursive resource w h i c h is c irculated w i t h i n niche media and fanzines and used (by way o f c o m m u n a l rationalisation) t o w a r d o f f the sense that the fan is ' i r r a t i o n a l ' . 1 I f Doctor Who f a n d o m relies o n the jus t i f i ­cation o f a ' c u l t phrase' stressing the format 's f lexibi l i ty , t h e n an equivalcnt defence for Star Trek fans w o u l d concern the progressive polit ics and m u l t i c u l -turalism o f the or ig inal crew. H o w e v e r , i f 'asking the audience' is sufficient i n itself, t h e n such discursive structures and repetitions w o u l d t e n d to be accepted at face value rather than being considered as defensive mechanisms designed to render the fan's affective relat ionship meaningful i n a rat ional sense, i.e. to g r o u n d this relationship solely i n the objective attributes o f the source text and therefore t o legit imate the fans' love o f ' t h e i r ' p r o g r a m m e .

Addressing the question ' w h y are y o u a fan o f this part icular text?', i t seems that fans typically register some confusion or d i f f i cu l ty i n responding, before then fai l ing back immediately o n their particular f a n d o n f s discursive mantra . This process - the marked absence o f an explanatory f ramework for one's intense d e v o t i o n w h i c h immediately shifts o n t o the f i rmer g r o u n d o f discussing textual characteristics - is neatly encapsulated w i t h i n ( then-Pres idem o f 'Six o f One ' , The Prisoner Appreciat ion Society) Roger Langley's c o n t r i b u t i o n t o The Prisoner: A Televisionary Masterpiece (Carraze and Oswald 1990) :

Why has a television series ... played a big part in my life ofover 20 years? I still do not knowí ... I f y o u are reading this new b o o k , y o u must already be interested i n The Prisonerl So, what d o we share? Is i t the acting o f Patrick M c G o o h a n , the beauty o f P o r t m e i r i o n , the excite-ment o f the episodes or the strange atmosphere o f the episodes as a whole? Is i t the issues raised by the stories, the strange happenings i n the Vi l lage , the unusual music o r the str iking costumes? These things, and many m o r e , are ali v i ta l ingredients o f The Prisoner, p r o v i d i n g many reasons for its appeal.

(Langley i n Carraze and Oswald 1990: 12, m y italics)

The fan cannot act, then , as the unproblemat ic source o f the m e a n i n g - o f their o w n média cbnsulnpt ioh! This is n o t necessarily t o recap the 'failacy o f

67

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

meaningfulness' uncovered by Hermes (1995) - w h i c h emphasiscs the ritual-istic rather than p r i m a r i l y semiotic use o f media such as w o m c n ' s magazines. Instead I w o u l d describe the belief that fans can fu l ly account for their fandoms as a 'fallacy o f internal i ty ' . The assumption here is that sense and understanding are securely present inside the fan c o m m u n i t y , whereas externai academic narratives - whether they are psychological, psychoanalytíc or socio-logical - are somehow fraudulcnt or imposed u p o n the p h e n o m c n o n that they at tempt t o explain away (see, f o r example Bacon-Smith 1992). This 'fallacy o f in terna l i ty ' neglects the extent t o w h i c h internai fan c o m m u n i t y understandings are collectively negotiated precisely i n order t o w a r d o f f the ta int o f i rrat ional i ty , and i n order t o present a public and ratíonaliscd face t o the w o r l d outside the fan culture . T h e fallacy o f internal i ty assumes that the ' i n - g r o u p ' is a source o f pristíne knowledge . I t neglects the sociological dynamics whereby the culturally devalued ' i n - g r o u p ' o f media fandom is compelled t o account for its passions. 2

I am hence r e f u t i n g the adequacy o f ethnographic m e t h o d o l o g y in this precise instance (and n o t across ali instances o f media c o n s u m p t i o n i n ali contexts and modalitíes) o n the basis that the positivism o f such empirical w o r k is insufficiently positivist. i t typically ignores the structured gaps and replications w i t h i n the discursive frameworks w h i c h are used by fans t o account for and just i fy their fandoms.

B u t w h a t o f the various fan-ethnographies that have been produced , and w h i c h f o r m the cânon o f ' f a n studies'? H e n r y Jenkins (1996: 263) contrasts his o w n Textual Poachers t o more 'traditíonal partícipant-observer approaches'. This is because Jenkins's w o r k doesn't present an 'outsider ' enter ing intó - and discovering the cul tura l t r u t h o f - the ' f i e l d ' o f fandom. T h e t e r m 'e thnog­raphy ' is o f ten used rather loosely i n media and ctutural s^tuáes/sõmetirnes indica t ing littíe m o r e than Hõur-Tõhg" mtêrviêwrwith respondents. I n its original anthropological context , the t e r m implies a lengthy immers ion i n theffielcl_béing studied. ( A n d this ' f i e l d ' is typically t h o u g h t o f as being alien t o the analyst, w h o has to come t o understand a di f ferent way o f l ife.) O n the basis o f these definit ions o f the t e r m 'e thnography' as i t has been used i n classical anthro-pology, Jenkins argues that another study o f f a n d o m , published i n the same year as Textual Poachers and w r i t t e n by Camil le Bacon-Smith, m o r e fu l ly deserves the label o f a traditional ' f an-e thnography ' . 3 This is because Bacon-Smith presents a participant-observatíon o f sectíons o f Star Trek fan cul ture i n w h i c h she self-consciously represents herself as ' the ethnographer ' entering an u n k n o w n subcultural field, determined t o understand its practices and activities.

Bacon-Smith's conclusions validate her methodology very precisely and w i t h o u t remainder: she veritably scrapes away at the layers and layers o f misdi-rec t ion w h i c h the fan c o m m u n i t y presents t o her as an in i t ia l 'outsider ' w h o gradually, over the course o f years o f research, learns the ropes. I n d c c d , the power struggle between insider and ethnographer-outsider is explicitíy depicted by Bacon-Smith i n terms o f her o w n ethnographic quest narrative:

68

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E * A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

as an ethnographer, I found myself searching for the heart of this community: what made it tick? . . . T h e deeper I penctrated the community, the more elusive my goal became.

O f course, a community gives certain signals w h e n an outsider approaches the heart of its culture. I n the beginning the heart is hidden - often in plain sight - passed over, casually dismissed by those in the know. Later, as the importance of the practice . . . starts to emerge from the dense fog of apparent communal indifference, the intrepid ethnographer finds herself swamped with data - explanations that agree too closely with one another, that ofíer tidy answers to her questions with no loose ends to unravel.

When the investigator gets too close, the community sidetracks with something of value, sometbjng that conserves the risk the ethnogra­pher knows is present but that does not exposc too much.

(1992: 224 and 226)

Bacon-Smith is clearly highly aware o f the self-mythologjsing narrative of her áccòunt ,hençe_.the o y e r ^ t t e n ' m t t ç p i d l s d ^ g r a r i b ^ on bravely through the 'fog\e her exaggerated presentation o f such a narrative, Bãcõn-Smith nonetheless relies on it to determine her account of the 'evasive' fan community. She concedes her desire to 'jump up and down and scream " L o o k what I found! A conceptual space where women can come together and ercate - to investigate new forms for their art and for their living outside the restrictive boundaries men have placed on women's public behaviour! N o t a placc or a time, but a state of b e i n g " ' (ibid.: 3) . This introductory admission is presumably intended to reassurc the reader: Bacon-Smith wants to jump up and down, but 'a colder mind prevails' and we are rcturned to the hallowed halls o f strictly objective and affect-less academia. As such, Bacon-Smith's presentation of the fan community plays its own narrative games of expectation, disruption and delay with the reader. Bacon-Smith chides Jenkins for using the fan community to further his own 'pohtical agenda' (ibid.: 282 ) , but it is hard to see how her own account could refute such an aceusation.

Bacon-Smith announces her academic identity as 'Ethnographer' (see also Bacon-Smith 2000) . By doing so, she positions herself as a kind of detective, using the conventions of the murder mystery or detective-thriller to frame her account of fandom. She is the seeker o f knowledge, the character who will prevail. I t is her 'colder mind' which is able to circumvent the stalling tactics, distractions and diversions of the fan communiry. Bacon-Smith's account is one of a world of clues and misdirections, a subcultural fàn world charged with meaning. This narrative construction resembles the principies of Sherlock Holmes's 'empirical imagination' where 'the truth is right there to be read on the surfàce of things, had we the wit to see. Mundanc faets become marvels and wonders - clues, evidence, prooP (Atkinson 1998: 109). A n d Bacon-Smith's version of events, which I have quoted above, fits entirely and uncannily into

69

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

Pierre Bayard's analysis of the detective novel. Where the truth of a fan culture is always in plain sight, but where fans attempt to distract the detective-ethnographer, we find: 'the principie of truth hidden by its obviousness . . . [and the second mechanism, that of] [djistraction. . . . This time we are dealing with a negative disguise. I t is not that the truth is made unrecognisable, but that the false . . . is dresscd up to draw attentíon to itselP (Bayard 2000: 21, 24) .

This highlights a further problcm with fan-ethnographies; the extent to which they use narrative conventíons from popular fictíon, thereby allocating certain narrative functions to their respondents and the fan community. I t may be impossible to avoid writing academically without providing a narrative shape to one's 'theoretical' account (meaning, non-judgemcntally, that ali theories are also stories). I t is still a problem for ethnographers, however, that their accounts may so elosely rescmble the conventíons of certain genres. This resemblance means that such accounts are unable to construct more complex characterisa-tions o f fàn culture beyond a sense of 'communal conspiracy' to be battlcd by the detective-ethnographer (Bacon-Smith), or a sense of 'communal creatívity' to be recognised and valued by the scholar-fan (Jenkins). As Van Maanen has observed: 'literary tales [ethnographies using the conventíons of literature] may be so tied to the representatíonal techniques o f rcalistic fictíon that they distort the very rcality they scek to capture' (1988: 135).

M y o w n narrative of fandom is less detective-based and is equally less concerned with depicting fàn cultures as inhercntly positive or as miniaturised modcls o f academia. I n my o w n rather less heroic narrative template, the char-acter o f 'the academic' abandons the construction of easily legible moral dualisms (thereby creating a meta-dualism between those who champion a cause or a fàn community and those who refuse to draw moral and communal lines elcarly around 'us' and 'them'). This abandonment of moral dualism is perhaps an academic version o f 'anti-hero' fictíon in which characters we are expected to sympathisc with ('the academic' and 'the fan') may also possess unwanted or undesirable attributes. The work o f Jenkins and Bacon-Smith seems to embody two sides o f the same coin: both refuse to let go of onc-sided views o f fandom. Jenkins sees Bacon-Smith as presenting a falsely negative view of fans (Jenkins in Tulloch and Jenkins 1995: 203) , while, in turn, she castígates his work for presenting a falsely positive view (Bacon-Smith 1992: 282) . A n d oddly enough, the 'rcality' o f fandom that each sceks to capture in broadly ethnographic terms may well exist between their respective moral positions.

M y own position herc is dose to that established by Jensen and Pauly (1997) . They decry the way that theories of media audiences tend to construct these audiences as 'other' to the investígatíng academic (ibid.: 195). However, Jensen and Pauly concludc that ' if subjeets are imaginçd as deficient in their articulation of their own experience, then therc is not .much chance that the rcscarchcr will learn anything from those subjeets' (ibid.: 166). T h i s , however, is a view which assumes that 'learning' is only possiblc on the basis of the othcr ' s full or 'non-deficient' sclf-artículatíon. O n the contrary, I

70

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E U U E ' A N D ' J U S T l h l (J A T I U N

would suggest that what academics need to learn is that their own accounts lu-êTalso 'deficient', meaning^that chis cannot be used as a way of (morally) devaluing..othcr_subcul*Mres and communities. 5 What academics can learn from subjeets who are unable to articulate their o w n experiences is that they, too, may not be able to articulate the full meaning o f their own experiences, there-fore no longer existing i n a fantasised 'authoritative' space outside any cultural strugglc over meaning. This possibility is closed off by Jensen and Pauly's assumption that the 'good' subject is self-present, articulate and always capable of full self-explanation without remainder; a perfect restatement of academic imagined subjectivity.

Another related and very real problem for fan ethnographies is what they assume will count as 'the real'. Although few fan ethnographies dwell on this question, what counts as the 'field' to be observed will differ if a psychoãnalytic critic is interpreting ethnographic 'data' as opposed to a sociologist. T h e notion that these sorts of problems of academic knowledge and interpretation can be 'put . . . to one side', seems, to my mind, faintly optimistic (Couldry 2000b: 14). This suspension of theoretical debate in favour of 'getting on with things' also implies that what counts as the 'real' is self-evident and can be detached from arguments over its interpretation. However, rather than accepting the narrative of ethnography as an encounter with the 'real' (which is superior to the 'abstract' and supposedly 'unreal' space of overly-generalising Grand Theory) , I would argue that ethnography needs to be based on a reconceptuali-sation of empiricism so that 'the real' consistently encompasses not only the discourses and routines o f everyday life (Silverstone 1994), but also the possible absences in discourse, and the potential gaps in both academics' and fans' reflections on their own identities and cultures. By way of illustrating these possibilities, I will now turn to the practice of autoethnography in which 'ethnographies of the s e l f are produced.

Autoethnography: narratives of the fan, narratives of the self

I n acquiring one's conception of the world one always bclongs to a \ particular grouping which is that of ali the social elements which sharc j the same mode of thinking and acting. W e are ali conformists of some \ conformism or other, always man-in-the-mass or collective man. . . . ! T h e personality is strangely composite: it contains Stone Age elements and principies of a more advanced science . . . T h e starting point of crit- i ical elaboration is the consciousness of what one really is, and is 'knowing thyself as a product of the historical process to date which ; has deposited in you an infinity of traces, without leaving an inventory. / T h e first thing to do is to make such an inventory. - -J

(Gramsci 1 9 7 1 : 324)

71

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

I f fan-ethnography has typically been l i m i t e d by its view o f ' the real ' as a matter o f discourse and art iculat ion, o r by its one-sided accounts o f f andom either as a social c o p i n g mechanism (Bacon-Smith 1992) or a valuablc ' interpretive c o m m u n i t y ' (Jenkins 1992a; Amesley 1989) , then h o w can the l imits o f b o t h fan and academic self-expression be explored differently?

A useful exercise here is autoethnography, i n w h i c h the tastes, v a l u e i , ^ t a c l v ments and investments o f the fan and the academic-fan are placed under the microscope o f cul tura l analysis. Autoe thnography aims t o create a partial ' inven­t o r y ' o f the ' i n f i n i t y o f traces' deposited w i t h i n the self by cul tura l and historical processes. A u t o e t h n o g r a p h y also displaces the problems o f assuming that the 'real ' is always pr imar i ly discursive. This is possible because autoethnography asks the person u n d e r t a k i n g i t t o quest ion their self-account constantly, opening the 'subjective' and the int imately personal up t o the cul tura l contexts i n w h i c h i t is f o r m e d and experienced. As a f o r m o f vo luntary self-estrangement, autoethnography confronts the subject w i t h a variety o f possible interpretations o f their self-accounts, and their self-accounts o f their self-accounts. This process o f persistent quest ioning throws the self i n t o the realisation that explanations o f fan and consumer activity are themselves cultural ly convent ional . This realisa-

/ tion can open up the possibility o f inscr ibing other explanations o f the self; i t / can p r o m o t e an acceptance o f the fragility and inadequacy of our claims to be

I able to 'explain3 and 'justiff our own most intensely private or personal moments L—of fandom and media consumption. T h e fragility o f discursive accounts is

exposed by this persistent ques t ioning , p r o v o k i n g an investigation o f w h y we stop self-analysis at a certain p o i n t by refusing t o challenge privileged discourses. This endpoint o f self-analysis does n o t reveal the ' t r u e ' discourse t h r o u g h w h i c h we can account f o r o w n cultural practices. Q u i t e the reverse; these l imi t s reveal that certain discourses are p o w e r f u l because o f the ( n o n -discursive) investments that we make i n t h e m , and because o f their s t tuc tur ing absences and familiar repetitions.

A u t o e t h n o g r a p h y does n o t s imply indicate that the 'personal is p o l i t i c a i ' . 6

Instead, i t indicates that the personal - the heart o f the self and t h e x o r e o f o n r cultural i d e n t i t y as we p e r f o r m i t - is always b o r r o w e d and alien. The logic o f that b o r r o w i n g is rarely evident t o us, w h i c h is where the quest ion o f cultural polit ics can enter the equat ion, b u t the key statement o f any autoethnography is that the 'personal is cu l tura l ' ; o u r identit ies are constructed t h r o u g h relatively homologous systems o f cultural value. This means that n o single 'system o f value' can be isolated, o n l y the interference pat tern produced by m u l t i p l e systems o f value w h i c h cannot readily be made t o l ine up and w h i c h are, equally, n o t entirely unrelated.

I w i l l n o w demonstrate what this can mean i n more practical terms by exam-i n i n g a n u m b e r o f academic-fan autoethnographies and s h o w i n g h o w they are 'defic ient ' i n the ir self-accounts. AU refuse t o question aspeets o f ident i ty w h i c h the wr i ter is attached to and w h i c h 'self-reflexivity' therefore cannot easily dislodge. H o l l w a y and Jefferson refer to these moments as the 'discursive

72

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' AND ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

investments' o f the 'defended su|>ject' (2000: 19). These are moments when a core o f self-identity is protected by an investment i n a particular discourse. However, the radical component in Hollway and Jefferson's work is that they view themselves, as researchers, as equally 'anxious, defended subjeets' (2000: 45) . Their work therefore meets with the key criteria of 'accountable theory' suggested by Nick Couldry: ,

Quite simply: the language and theoretical framework with which we analyse others should be always be consistem with the . . . language and theoretical framework with which we analyse ourselvcs. A n d , equally, in reverse . . . The reversibility of the principie is crucial: it is what prevents us from failing into a spiral of endless self-interrogation, never to resurface.

(Couldry 2000b: 126)

However, I am not convinced that the problem o f 'endless self-interrogation' expressed here is a pressing one. For me, the real problem is the absolutc reverse; when and why do we call a halt to our self-interrogations? What cultural categories, common sense narratives and systems of value do we leave in place by assuming that we have reached rock-bottom in our self-justifications? I am not at ali interested in initiating some endless and narcissistic navel-gazing. But I am concerned by the possibility that narcissism emergesat preciselythe place~~wh~êrêwe stop self-interrogãiÍõJi,Javiiíg a comtortable "sênseof our own culturãTvãTúé(s) and identity fixed In place as somehow authentic. A n d it is this sense o f narcissism - not navel-gazing but instead complacently caliing a day on the analysis o f how the self is formed inside culture - that I will examine in four autoethnographies: Fiske (1990) , Bukatman (1994) , Wisc (1990) and Wolff (1995). I will then concludc this chapter by presenting my own autoethnog­raphy. 7

I n 'Ethnosemiotics: Some Personal and Theoretical Reflections', John Fiske sets out to explore his own responses to The Newly Wed Game. Fiske's aim is to consider how social discourses in the text link into the social discourses which he draws on to construct his sense of self. Fiske identifies three discourses: the professional, the popular and what he terms the 'semantic'. T h e last type covers ali topics 'that both infused . . . daily life and were callcd up by the program' (1990: 86) , while the first two types cover Fiske's work as an academic and his sense of himself as a fàn of the popular with 'vulgar tastes: the garish, the sensa-tional, the obvious give me great pleasure, not least because they contradict the tastes and positionings of the class to which, objectively, I " b e l o n g " ' (ibid.). Fiske notes that, in his article, a professional discourse is dominating 'popular' and 'semantic' discourses. I n other words, he is writing as an academic, producing an article which has to meet the standards expected of a major inter-nationaí Journal. So fàr, so good. Fiske does not claim that his own audience responses are in any way 'typical'. Instead, he observes that self-introspection

73

based on cultural theory is important because although '[njeither I nor my readings are typical . . . the process by which I produced them is evidence of a cultural systcm' (ibid.).

Examining this supposedly singular 'system', Fiske then broadens the scopc o f his study to take in his living room. The objects contained in the room are analysed in relatíon to the discourses through which Fiske realises his sense of self: the 'chcap plastíc toy T V s ' (1990: 88) on top o f his actual T V are linked to a 'popular' discourse, whilc .Fiske analyses both his antiquc furniture and his homemade T V stand and cheap tcchnology as examples of his~TêKTcTance~"to enter uncKfically into the capitalist commodity economy' (ibid.). T h e same anti-capitalism 'semantic' discourse is therefore reflectcd in a variety of different cultural artifacts. Fiske also observes that the same object can operate 'multidis-cursively', meaning different things in different discourses. Both the physical environmcnt in which media consumption takes place, and the types of texts that are consumed, can therefore be linked to the 'cultural system'(s) through which the self is constructed.

Fiske claims that autoethnography, where he as the ethnographer 'is both producer and product' (1990: 90) , can be used to 'open up the realm of the interior and the personal, and to articulate that which, in the practices of everyday life, lies below any conscious articulation' (ibid.). The approach is therefore justified on moral grounds: autoethnography does not privilege 'the theory and the theorist' by assuming that the theorist has a privileged insight into the experiences of his or her respondents. Instead, Fiske's version of autoethnography is one where the subject is able to participate in their own construction of meaning, coming to view their sense of self in an altered and expanded way through the use of theory, but not through subordination to theory.

What, then, are the hmits to Fiske's autoethnography? Where, as a 'defended subject' does he demonstrate an investment in certain discourses and identities which prevents any further self-reflection? I would argue that this oceurs primarily in Fiskc's account o f his politicai position: 'my call for an extension of this methodology (with its policies, ethics and theory) comes from a left-wing, progressive academic (albeit a male, though hopefully not too masculine a one) ' (1990: 91) . Although Fiske's work presents a number of points which allow theory to illuminate experience and vice versa, his politicai stanec remains outside the frame o f self-reflexivity, remaining sccmingly unquestioncd and unchal-lengcd. Fiskc's narrative o f himself as 'critically rcsisting' capitalism is left firmly in place, and the contradiction between his own ('duly traincd' and privileged) ability to manipulate theory and a sense of autoethnography being 'non-imposed' is not uncovered and explored. Instead, autoethnography is contrasted to psychoanalytic and ideological approaches, sinec these are vicwed as approaches where theory is imposed on experience. This moral dualism, and Fiske's attach­ment to his own 'good' and apologctically 'masculine' lcftist subjectivity, is never

74

questioned; i t is an element o f Fiske's self- identity and his experience o f self w h i c h is n o t sufficicntly 'opened u p ' as part o f a cul tural system o f value.

I w o u l d argue that this is the narcissism inherent i n Fiskc's autoethnography. H i s analysis o f his o w n l i v i n g r o o m and his o w n subjectivity is n o t inherently narcissistic, but the narrative closures o f his account are. These premature closures p u t an end t o self-reflexivity, a l l o w i n g the ' g o o d ' self to settle i n t o its habitual boundaries, and leaving this rout ine ' b e l o w any conscious ar t i cu la t ion ' rather than 'raising' i t i n t o the space o f theoret ical ref lect ion. By contrast, the next male author whose w o r k I w o u l d describe as 'autoethnographic ' seems i n t e n t o n confessing al i , and r isking the embarrassment and loss o f (student) respect w h i c h this m i g h t involve .

Scott Bukatman's 'X-Bodies ( the t o r m e n t o f the m u t a n t superhero) ' begins w i t h a provocative set o f statements. Rather l ike Fiske, Bukatman also sounds a fa int ly apoiogetic note w h e n discussing his mascul inity: ' I d o n ' t read superhero comics anymore. F m probably n o t as w o r r i e d about my dick as I used t o be. W e l l , that i sn ' t exactly t rue - b u t I n o longer deal w i t h i t by reading about m u t a n t muscle m e n and the b i g - t i t t e d w o m e n w h o love t h e m ' ( B u k a t m a n 1994: 9 3 ) . Superhero comics are immediate ly proposed as some k i n d o f compensatory reading, something vaguely dysfunct ional that can be used t o assuage a sense o f n o t m a t c h i n g up t o a masculine ideal. A n d the d o u b t , the fragility and the impossibi l i ty o f any sustained ident i f i ca t ion w i t h this ideal does n o t , after al i , come t o an end i n Bukatman's account. H e explicit ly comments that perhaps n o t ali o f his early (adolescent) anxieties have been ent ire ly left b e h i n d (ibid.: 125) .

Bukatman's account is autoethnographic because i t combines a t h o r o u g h cr i t ique o f the cultural posit ions w h i c h he adopts as a cultural critic and a fan. U n l i k e Fiske, Bukatman worries away at his sense o f self, constantiy refusing to a l low a stable narrative o f the 'valued' and 'secure' self to emerge. Layers u p o n layers o f self-exploration are revealed. B u k a t m a n is ' forced to realize that the autobiographical subject i sn ' t me, the adolescent dreaming o f bodi ly s t rength and cosmic consciousness, b u t me, the adult academic w h o feels compel led to w r i t e about comic books ' (1994 : 96) . B u t this investment i n a c o n t r o l l i n g academic ident i ty w h i c h magically displaces his adolescent lack o f c o n t r o l is n o t taken for granted. B u k a t m a n questions this separation o f identit ies, suggesting that the adult academic ident i ty and the adolescent superhero comic book reader can't be separated o u t (1994 : 126) . N e i t h e r ident i ty is automatical ly the ' g o o d ' counterpoint t o the deficient or ' b a d ' other. Academic i d e n t i t y is a threat as wel l as a f o r m o f salvation; its desire t o c o n t r o l causes i t t o become overly narrow and overly disciplined: ' the academy keeps refusing t o tel l me about w y s e l f ' (ibid.). N o r does Bukatman's self-reflexivity end here, because he t h e n confesses that this u n e n d i n g struggle o f g o o d - b a d 'academic' versus g o o d - b a d ' fan ' ident i ty is i tself a version o f the comic book narratives he is analysing, being ' [ v j e r y heroic . . . M y w r i t i n g s validate m y o w n past, and thus

75

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

m y o w n self. Superheroes, science fictíon, Jerry Lewis - F m die emperor o f the nerds, the g o d o f geeks' (ibid.).

U n l i k e Fiske, Bukatman ruthlessly exposes the cul tura l value systems w h i c h operate w i t h i n his w o r k . H e arrives at a sense o f having validated his o w n iden­ti ty, s o m e t h i n g w h i c h Fiske does by pos i t ioning h imsel f as the l e f t - w i n g academic, b u t w i t h o u t ref lect ing o n this. Is Bukatman's account therefore a better autoethnography? Yes, i n a sense, but i t t o o fails t o b u i l d up a w i d e r i n v e n t o r y o f the self. Bukatman's investment is i n a discourse o f the ' p r o u d academic - s t i l l c o m m i t t e d t o r igorous intellectual i n q u i r y and supportive peda-gogy despite the narrowness o f so many o f the " a p p r o v e d " academic discourses' (ibid.). L i k e Fiske, Bukatman ul t imate ly has n o o p t i o n other than t o subordi -nate fan discourses to academic discourses. The l imits t o his self-exploration are reached w h e n a final c o m m i t m e n t is uncovered w h i c h cannot be called i n t o quest ion. A n d this c o m m i t m e n t - the r igour o f the intel lect - is littíe more t h a n an idealisation and a ' c o m m o n sense' cultural category. Intellectual rigour cannot f o r m the unchallengeable al ibi for autoethnography. C o n t i n u i n g t o quest ion the investments o f the self must also call i n t o quest ion this very invest­m e n t i n the process o f ' q u e s t i o n i n g ' as essentially ' r i g o r o u s ' .

T h e ' c r i t i ca i ' academic opposed t o narcissistic ' c o m m o n sense' is certainly a very useful l eg i t imat ion for this type o f academic t h o u g h t . B u t i t is a val idat ion w h i c h must ul t imately come i n t o confl ict w i t h its o w n principies. Perhaps, therefore, autoethnography achieves its fullest aims o n l y w h e n :

(a) i t refuses t o stop quest ioning the narcissism o f ' c o m m o n sense' and its narrative closures, whi le

(b) simultaneously acknowledging that ' inf ini te traces' o f the self cannot ever be f u l l y enclosed by any alternative narrative, whether this is a narrative o f 'crit icai e laboration' , secure l e f t - w i n g politics or ' intellectual r igour ' . A l i such terms merely expose the non-discursive and affective investments i n discourses o f ' u s ' (cultural critics) and ' t h e m ' (fans).

This seems t o i m p l y that the best autoethnographies should succeed i n a type o f self-deconstruction and self-destructiveness i n w h i c h ali possible grounds for legible cul tura l value are eroded. B u t even this sounds rather optimistically avant-garde, recapping the banality o f the bohemian m i n d .

Perhaps the more useful i m p l i c a t i o n is that a g o o d autoethnography should reveal the narcissistic l imits o f ' intel lectual rigour' as w e l l as the narcissistic l imi t s o f ' c o m m o n sense'. For w h i l e the latter leaves o u r sense o f self securely i n place, the f o r m e r n o t o n l y disrupts usual c o m m o n sense categories, i t also needs t o be disrupted w h e n i t becomes the ' c o m m o n sense' o f academia. 8 This means that by t ravel l ing t h r o u g h the widest variety o f discursive battles and legit imations that scholarly t h o u g h t can offer, we arrive at the p o i n t where self-reflexivity proves t o be an idealisation, sustaining the fantasy that w o r d s and t h o u g h t alone can change the w o r l d . A u t o e t h n o g r a p h y therefore goes o n questioning, neces-

76

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

sarily moving beyond the point where it can defend its own value as an exercise, but also moving beyond the point where 'criticai' thought has any relevancc, running up against and exposing its own affective roots.

Another false ending. Even this convenient twist, this juxtapositíon between criticai thought as ideal and affect as material, cannot remain fixed in place as a surreptítious restoration of the value of autoethnography. By running into its own final limits, autoethnographic thought is not heroically elevated into a new realm o f emotional awareness and material struggle. By running into its own final limits, far past the safety o f the narcissistic, autoethnography exposes academic thought as embedded in one industry among others. Autoethnography leaves behind the concept o f the 'culture industry' and cuts through to the 'criticai industry'. This is a cultural space intent on producing novel versions of thought's limited repertoirc and intent on promoting and vali-dating 'intellectual rigour' as an authentic subcultural value. But, rather curiously, the excessive 'intellectual rigour' proposed by autoethnography exposes the fact therc can never be cnough 'intellectual rigour'. As long as crit­icai thought operates as a commodity, as a marker o f academic reputation, and as a token of 'academic' versus 'fan' cultural difference, then the same old 'common sense' oppositions and moral dualisms will be reproduced through discourses of, and investments i n , the rigour of the 'criticai' versus the laxity of the 'untutored'.

Although both Fiske and Bukatman seek to distance themselves from 'bad' mascuhnity, both also reinstate the figure of the authoritative academic which autoethnography aims, ultimately, to undermine. Autoethnography should dcmonstrate instead the cultural contexts through which the self is constructed, exarnining how processes of 'common sense', commodification and self-justification/rationalisation structure both fan and academic identities.

I want to move on to discuss autoethnographies which deal with issues o f feminist identity and fandom. 9 Sue Wise (1990) has rcflected on her Élvis fandom, while Janct Wolff has written about her 'personal music history' as a fan o f American rock V roll singer Eddie Cochran (Wolff 1995: 23) .

T h e tone of Wise's account is what immediately strikes the reader. We are not confronted with an analysis o f cultural order (as in Bukatman 1994) or discussions of cultural agency (as in Fiske 1990). Wise does not immediately adopt a highly academic writíng style which is peppered with technical terms. She begins very conversatíonally: ' " W h o s c are ali those ÉLVIS records? A r g h ! " is a commonly heard question i n my home, and always has been ever since it has been regularly frequented by feminists' (1990: 390) . T h e puzzle which this generates is how Wise was ablc to be both 'a feminist and an Élvis fan' (1990: 391). These identities are fèlt to be mutually exclusive: liking Élvis is a badge of otherness for Wise's right-thinking feminist friends. I t is a taste and an attach­ment which doesn't belong within their cultural distinctions, (liscriminations and values. Élvis is too securely placed within a particular version o f cultural history, a narrative in which his female fans were 'overwhelmed by his animal

77

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

magnctism' (1990: 392) . This narrative contrasts Élvis as a 'butch G o d ' to his passive female conqucsts, and it is therefore viewed as highly patriarchal and ideologically suspcct ('deficient') by 'duly traincd' feminists. I n order to revalue her Élvis fandom, Wise attempts to defusc the 'butch G o d ' narrative, recounting that for her, Élvis carried a very different set of meanings:

mostly my interest i n Élvis took the form of a solitary hobby, a private thing between cbim'and me ... I had never analysed my fondness for or interest in him as 1 grew up. H e was just there as an important part of my life - he had always been important to me and I had never questioned how or why ... as the years went by echoes of my past (in the voice of Élvis?) have from time to time suríàced . . . Such a thing oceurred in 1977 when Élvis died. I was surprised at how much his death touched me . . . As I listened to records and delved into clippings . . . the memo­ries that were evoked had nothing to do with sex, nothing even to do with romance. T h e overwhelming feelings and memories were of warmth and affection for a very dear friend.

(Wise 1990: 393, 394, 395, my emphasis)

F o r Wise, Élvis is represented and experienced as more of a 'teddy bear' than a 'butch G o d ' ; her solitary fàndom as an adolescent provided her with a way of securing her own personal space within 'an overerowded household which was accepted as legitimate by my fàmily' (1990: 393) . Élvis was her friend, and a source of solace, comfort and security.

However, when Wise 'gets feminism' gradually in her carly twenties, she realises that her Élvis fàndom will have to be rejected. I t does not seem to fit with the cultural pressures which are brought to bear on her by her new cultural context: ' I don't remember reading or hearing any specifie feminist analysis which said that "Élvis can scriously damage your health" . . . But the main pres-sure carne from incrcdulous friends, who were always quick to point out the idcological impurity o f Élvis' (1990: 394). This autoethnography placcs fandom squarely within the cultural and personal setting of nctworks of friends and fàmily, unlikc Fiske's and Bukatman's accounts where the academic-fan tends to appear as a lonely but heroic central figure. Wise partially displaces the idea of the heroic academic-fan by focusing on her o w n susceptibility to Cultural influ-ences and pressures. Fandom may well be experienced as intensely personal (having a kind o f intensified usc-value) but i f this sentiment cannot return to the cultural space o f exchangc-value (carrying shared, intersubjective value) then it is likely to wither or to be temporarily abandoned. Fandom does not seem to flourish in a resolutely hostile environment; its passions and attach-ments have to be linked to a localiscd sense o f cultural value and legitimacy, even if this oceurs only within a household or a small circle of friends rather than the 'imagined community' of a fàn subculture.

Wise therefore offers a practical illustration of Fiske's argument that the self

78

DDi H L L ; i XV !> W 11 IvliL- UL, mii /

! is an 'agent o f culture i n process'; she was n o t free t o express her fandom.as she | 'personally' wished t o . She was enabled t o be a fan (by her family's acceptance

o f this) b u t was later constrained by a di f ferent (1970s feminist ) cultural context. Expressions and experiences o f f a n d o m cannot , therefore, be assumed to be entirely ' in terna i ' t o the 'expressive' self. Experiences o f f a n d o m always have t o be negotiated between the internai self and its experiences and the externai self and its cul tura l context , meaning that dist inguishing between the ' in terna i ' and the 'externai ' ul t imately becomes impossible (see the next chapter).

Wise uses her 'personal experience o f a p u b l i c p h e n o m e n o n as an example o f a tota l ly taken-for-granted v iew o f reality w h i c h is open to a di f ferent interpreta-

i tion' (1990 : 398) . Th is fol lows autoethnography's aim o f quest ioning | ' c o m m o n sense' assumptions and categories, especially since Wise is arguing

against a certain ' d o m i n a n t ' v iew o f Élvis w h i c h is n o t simply ' o u t there ' i n the media: 'feminists have gone a long w i t h this - the media hype has succeeded, the image swallowed, the feminist r e w o r k i n g left u n d o n e ' (ibid.).

W h a t are the l imits t o W i s c ' s autoethnography? She very acutely illustratcs h o w constructions o f 'us ' and ' t h e m ' can be falsified, d r a w i n g a t t e n t i o n t o the possibil ity that feminist 'crit ics ' o f patriarchal popular culture may w e l l repro-duce 'male ideas about rock music' ( 1 9 9 0 : 3 9 7 ) . The ' g o o d ' object o f feminism is shown t o be m o r e compl ic i t w i t h w h a t i t opposes t h a n its o w n self-leg i t imar ion w o u l d indicate. Wise also avoids the technical and specialised academic language w h i c h is favoured by Fiske. I f anyth ing , her account forms the reverse image t o Fiske's: b o t h writers are concerned w i t h autoethnographi -cally placing the personal w i t h i n the cul tura l , b u t where Fiske subordinates his fàn discourse to an academic one, Wise seems t o subordinate academic discourse t o fan discourse. I n this case, i t is feminists - rather unusually - w h o are represented as cu l tura l dupes, and as the passive victims o f 'media h y p e ' . I t is feminists ' discussions o f ' ideology ' w h i c h are s h o w n to be o u t o f step w i t h the consumer and fàn experiences o f the pre- o r pro to - femin is t . Th is reversal o f the typical academic account, where criticai act ivi ty dispels audience passivity, remains trapped i n its terms o f reference. F o r example, a m o r e complex r e w o r k i n g could have examincd the contextual agency o f the feminists opposed t o Élvis, rather than figuring t h e m as passive. Whenever agency is selectively a t t r ibuted to one g r o u p o r character ( the autoethnographer as Élvis fan) and denied t o another g r o u p (the feminist o p p o s i t i o n ) , then we are deal ing w i t h an unsustainable mora l dual ism.

Given Wise's cr i t ique o f feminism, we can hardly expect later feminist cul tura l critics to respond k i n d l y t o her w o r k . Sure enough , Janet W o l f f writes: 'Wise . . . feels ob l iged t o justify his appeal by rejecting Élvis the " b u t c h G o d " ( a n image, she says, constructed by m e n ) i n favour o f Élvis the " T e d d y B e a r " ' (1995: 26) . This b r i c f commentary carries t w o implicat ions. First , Wise's autoethnography funct ions as self-validation, just as Bukatman validates his o w n experiences, and Fiske validates his o w n pol i t ics . Second, W o l f f seems t o imply

79

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

in the interjection 'an image, she says, constructcd by men' that Wise herself is avoiding the complexitíes of interpretation by neady aligning one interpretation of Élvis with a dominant sense of male 'media hype' while leaving her own interpretation supposedly outside the cultural system of power and dominance that her narrative constructs. This should remind us once more that good autoethnography should attempt to be multivocal; it should not operate as a legitimation of the investments of the academic-fan self which are dressed up as theoretical 'critique'.

WolfPs own account of her Eddie Cochran fandom also raises a number of useful points, dwelling on problems with fans' justifications of their fandom. Wolff begins by writing as a fan, indicating that Eddie Cochran was important to her because of his music, before suddenly varying her account and adopting an academic perspective:

I have been talking as though the appeal of rock ' n ' roll (of Eddie Cochran) is simply there, in the music - in the beat, the body and the voice. Work on youth culture has shown, of course, that music, like other aspects of fashion and style, operates in conjunction with a complex process of individual and social identities, and may therefore be selected on the basis of affective criteria other than the sound itself.

(Wolff 1995: 26 )

I n true autoethnographic style, Wolff immediately reverses her position again, and also acknowledges that this reversal is contradicted elsewhere in her study: ' I do want to argue that there is something in the music of early rock V roll which constitutes a direct appeal - to the body, to the emotions' (1995: 27) . H e r admission that this is contradicted elsewhere rcturns her work to the predictable academic norms o f cultural studies which suggest that 'the imme-diacy of the body' (1995: 38n23) cannot be trusted or assumed. Wolff does indeed toe this line in a chapter on dance criticism (1995: 68-87) . Why, then, does this writer accept the disciplinary norms of cultural studies and feminism in one instance, but break those norms in her discussion of Eddie Cochran?

I would hke to view this as a challenge to academic assumptions. But it seems to replicate exactly what Wolff has criticised in relation to Wise's account: the investment of the fan-self is protected from the intruding discourses of academia. Cochran's music, as the 'good' object of a teenage fandom, is split off from academic norms which refuse to allow value to emerge automatically from texts. Wolff therefore makes a theoretical exception for her object of fandom, refusing to have its personal significance undermined, and holding on to a sense of her possession o f Cochran's music. T h u s , for ali her claims to be 'working on the assumption that . . . preferences are not purely personal or idiosyncratic, but can be used to explore more general features of a cultural moment' (1995: 28) , Wolff still preserves a privileged status for the cultural moment of her Cochran fandom. She focuses on the 'role of culture in the

80

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

fòrmation of identity: the ways in which we use certain cultural events, prac-tices, objeets in the continuai process o f our own production of selP (ibid.), but shifts the terms of her argument in order to disguise her personal investment in late 1950s rock V roll as a matter of theoretical argument and cultural/musical specificity. 1 0 Wolff describes her work as an 'ethnography of the self' (ibid.: 29 ) , arguing that this does not substitute autobiography for theory. I would charac-terise her account of Eddie Cochran, at least, as autobiography which distorts theoretical logic. Personal investment masquerades as theory, and academic discourse is again subordinated to fàn discourse.

Self-imagínings: autoethnography as an escape from singular fan culture

Ali of which sets up the ground which my own autoethnography must traverse. Through the preceding discussions I have established four key principies for autoethnography:

1 Autoethnography must constantly seek to unsettle the moral dualisms which are thrown up by the narcissism of ' common sense' and its narrative closures. This requires the constant use o f sclf-reflexivc questioning.

2 Autoethnography must constantly seek to unsettle the use of theory as a disguise for personal attachments and investments; good autoethnography does not simply validate the self and its fandoms by tAvisting theory to fit the preferences of tfie self. Again, this requires the constant use of sclf-rcflexive questioning.

3 Self-reflexivity cannot legitimate autoethnography as an exercise. T h e concepts of 'intellectual rigour' and heroic reflexivity act as another form of academic 'common sense' which sustains the criticai 'us' versus the duped 'them'. When self-reflexivity is subjected to 'self-reflexive' critique then it becomes apparent that this term supports a fàntasy of academic power and a fàntasy o f the idealist transformation of society. At this point, self-reflexivity acts as part o f acadcmia's 'criticai industry'.

4 Autoethnography should treat self and other identically, using the same theoretical terms and attributions of agency to describe both.

Autoethnography can also achieve something which fàn-ethnographies to date have neglected. That is, rather than isolating single fan cultures (e.g. the study of Star Trek fans as in Bacon-Smith 1992 and Pcnley 1991, 1992, 1997) or specific intcrtextual nctworks of 'cult TV'/ ' telefàntasy' (Jenkins 1992a) , autoethnography can chart how multiple fandoms are linked through the indi­vidual^ realisation of a self-identity. These multiple fandoms and interests in different media forms may cohere in intriguing ways. Particular discourses might be shared across what, at first glance, appear to be very different objeets of fàndom. O f course, different fandoms may also not clearly relate to one

81

B f c i W f c f c i N • L i U l i í - A M U • J U S 1 1 f 1 C A 1 1 U JN '

another, allowing different aspeets and dimensions of self-idenrity to be realised through various cultural materiais. Autoethnography offers one possible solu-tíon to the problem identified by Nick Couldry, namely, the problem of 'too many texts', and o f how we, as media consumers and fans, construct a sense of those texts that are relevant and meaningful to us. Couldry rightly observes that V e should know more about what individuais' "textual fields" are like - how do people select from the myriad texts around them, what common patterns are there in what they select? Yct this is an area where cultural studies has done very litdc rescarch' (Couldry 2000b: 73).

Beginning an autoethnography, it is pragmatícally useful to attempt to chart ali one's objeets o f fandom, both past and present. This allows the autoethnog-rapher to get a sense o f the variety and possible coherence o f their fàn objeets, as well as asking the question: why do various fandoms become relevant and irrel-evant to cultural identity at specific times? These could be moments in a life-story (leaving home but using fandom to remain connected with a family-based identity); moments in the construction of age-based identities ( ' c h i l d y t c e n a g e r y y o u t h ' / ' a d u l t ' ) ; moments when different cultural identities and contexts become dominam ('fan'/ 'acadcmic') ; or moments which emerge through the popular construction of cultural history ('the 1970s', 'the 1980s').

I would also suggest charting one's fandoms by subject matter, indicating where there are intertextual or generic links, and then over time, indicating when fandoms became less or more significant. Although this type of self-reporting cannot be assumed to be infallible or 'correct', this is not really a problem sinec we will return to the issue of self-reflexivity to examine how the autoethnographer construets a certain sense of self in their own account. M y own autoethnographic diagrams of my fandom are presented below (Figures 3.1, 3.2). Clearly an issue the autoethnographer confronts when drawing up these

Horror fictíon Cult TV Cult TV celebrities

Stephen Gallagher -<—)• Doctor Who • < — • Tom Baker

Christopher Fowler Blake's 7

Mark Morris Star Trek and ST:TNG

Stephen Laws The X-Files - < — • Gillian Anderson

Music (Solo/Session Playing)

Steve Lukather

Mark King, Allan Holdsworth

Figure 3.1 Fandoms grouped by subject matter, intertextual links indicated.

i 82

Pop Music (Groups)

Toto -<—>•

Levei 42 -<—>-

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

E o

I f

I I i

30

25

20 "

15

10 1

5

0

Doctor Who

Horror Fiction

Star Trek

Toto

Figure 3.2 Significant fandoms over time, wi th subjective sense of variable intensity

diagrams is what he or she is prepared t o c o u n t as a ' f a n d o m ' . I w o u l d suggest tak ing as broad a v i e w o f ' f a n d o m ' as possible, and i n c l u d i n g any devoted media consumpt ion as w e l l as non-media-based passions, enthusiasms or hobbies w h i c h may have led t o specialist media c o n s u m p t i o n . These diagrams can very quickly become overly-s impli f ied, b u t an awareness o n the part o f the autoethnographer o f w h a t is being left o u t , and what is be ing f i t t e d i n , can provide the basis for later discussion.

These diagrams can be analysed autoethnographical ly i n a variety o f ways. First, what c o m m o n discourses are shared by m y objeets o f fandom? 'Britishness' seems t o be i m p o r t a n t : Doctor Who is o f ten favourably contrasted w i t h 'US'-style telefantasy by its fans, carry ing positive values o f ' s t o r y / i n t e l -lect/eccentricity' versus ' p r o d u c t i o n values/act ion/formula ' (see T u l l o c h and Jenkins 1995) . Equally, the type o f h o r r o r f i c t i o n that I became interested i n d u r i n g m y teens was, a l though this was n o t a calculated decision at the t ime, Br i t ish horror . T h e writers whose w o r k I f o l l o w e d ali tended t o use English settings ( n o r t h e r n E n g l a n d i n the case o f Gallagher and Laws; L o n d o n as a focus i n Fowler's w o r k ) . I seem to have avoided obviously 'bestsel l ing' , 'main-stream' and American h o r r o r writers , having l i t t le interest i n Stephen K i n g , and never f o l l o w i n g the w o r k o f James H e r b e r t and Clive Barker w i t h the same energy that I devoted t o reading Gallagher, James, Laws, M o r r i s et al.

A n o t h e r discourse w h i c h is shared by ali m y objeets o f f a n d o m , even t h o u g h there are no obvious intertextual l inks between my music and television fandoms, is that o f 'cultishness', by w h i c h I mean a marginal i ty constructed against the tastes and practices o f the 'mainstream' . M y tastes i n music, fiction and television share a c o m m o n thread: I t e n d to value bands and programmes w h i c h lack obvious ' c redib i l i ty ' b u t w h i c h nevertheless appeal t o h i g h l y insular fan cognoscenti. Levei 4 2 , whi le typically be ing mocked as a p r o d u c t o f 1980s p o p by non-fans, were and are valued by their fans t h r o u g h discourses o f musi-cianship, w i t h band member M a r k K i n g be ing referred to as one o f the wor!d's

83

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

best bass playcrs i n nichc magazines such as Guitarist and Bassist, as wel l as having featured i n the 'musos ' magazine, Making Music. King's p laying was deliberately showy, b u t this was o n an ins t rument usually considered t o be the workhorse o f a p o p / r o c k band rather than a solo instrument . I n o ther words , his showiness was revalued by fans t h r o u g h concepts o f the ' u n d e r d o g ' ; the bass player, w h o w o u l d usually be i n the shadows, here takes centre-stage.

T o t o , a l though an Amer ican A O R / M O R band, are largely i g n o r e d i n their h o m e market ; their fan cul ture is predominantíy European and Japanesc. (This also places t h e m w i t h i n an 'ant i -American ' discourse even while they cannot be al igned w i t h ' p r o - B r i t i s h ' discourses.) Also , T o t o are again valued by their fans t h r o u g h discourses o f musicianship, w i t h guitarist Steve Lukather being t h o u g h t o f as a v i r tuoso player w h o retains an indiv idua l playing style even i n sessions. Lukather , unl ike other guitar heroes, is n o t l inked w i t h values o f speed and obviously 'f lash' p lay ing ; instead his style is discussed as a matter o f chameleonic skill w h i c h never surrenders its individual i ty .

Alongside p r o - B r i t i s h , ant i -American and ' c u l t ' discourses w h i c h are shared across m y objeets o f f a n d o m , i t is also w o r t h n o t i n g that my fan tastes are almost u n r e m i t t i n g l y masculine, developing a r o u n d male h o r r o r writers and male guitarists. A n d this despite, or perhaps because of, my lack o f any real s p o r t i n g f a n d o m . M y fan objeets therefore a l low me, rather anxiously, to construct a sense o f masculine power and agency, since I actively seek o u t value against the perceived ' n o r m s ' o f the mainstream and, equally, against the norms o f subcultural credibil ity. I c o u l d , at the age o f fifteen, and later whi le I was at university, have immersed myself i n the credible bands o f the t ime . Instead I steadfastly refused t o fali i n t o what I viewed as the ' fashion' o f the m o m e n t , r e m a i n i n g interested i n T o t ó and Levei 42 . There is therefore also a constant sense o f seeking (more or less consciously) n o t t o fit i n t o expected patterns o f media c o n s u m p t i o n and expected patterns o f taste. Indeed, this type o f u n t h i n k i n g opposi t ion t o the ' convent ional ' is i tself a set o f conventíons, as is clear f r o m the cultural discourses w h i c h structure ali m y fandoms. This taste for the 'opposit ionaP may also have fo l lowed me i n t o m y academic career. I n o w construct a sense o f self- identity at least partially t h r o u g h ident i fy ing w i t h critics whose w o r k I value ( A d o r n o , W i n n i c o t t , Bollas), reta ining the same structural o p p o s i t i o n to theorists whose w o r k is deemed t o o 'obvious ' or t o o 'mainstream' (e.g. Foucault and Melanie K l e i n ) . A n d w h e n the theorist's w o r k I value threatens t o go mainstream, as has Christopher Bollas's since I first w r o t e about this i n m y P h D , then I feel a sense o f loss. As Scott Bukatman reports: 'there's m y i r ra t ional fear o f los ing m y self by j o i n i n g a c o m m u n i t y (any c o m m u n i t y ) ' ( 1 9 9 4 : 126) . The theorist is n o longer m y cult possession; their w o r k is, instead, part o f a cul tural cânon, and par t o f a wider ' m o v e m e n t ' or m o m e n t i n t h o u g h t .

Despite having excluded academic theorists f r o m m y autoethnography, by analysing the c o m m o n aspeets o f m y declared fandoms I have been able t o perceive links w i t h these other áreas. I have suggested, t h r o u g h self-analysis, that certain aspeets o f my cul tura l ident i ty are produced by and t h r o u g h m y fandoms:

84

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E ' A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N *

cultíshness (i.e. 'discerning' consumption/musicianship/not obvious best-sellcrs/ecccntricity), masculinity (the virtuoso/the underdog/intellect/agency) and Britishness (typically rcalised against the 'bad' other of America).

However, what does this account leave out? First, I present myself as a cultural agent, as somebody who actively makes use o f his media fandoms. This reinforces a sense of my cultural power and, as a narrative of self, can certainly be challenged. Second, I have not discussed my class position, my ethnicity and my sexuality, leaving these as unspoken and invisible categories. This absence can also be challenged. T h i r d , I have constructed what seems to be an overly coherent account of my 'unified' subjectivity: do my fandoms really ali line up so tidily along certain axes, or have I excluded more problematic and disruptive fandoms?

So fàr, I have not focused on the temporal shifts in my fandoms. Opening up this topic cah allow for a less 'active' and heroic view o f my media consumption. For example, a major shift in my fandoms oceurred at around the age o f fifteen. As my interest in Doctor Who waned then new fan objeets started to become important to me. T h e music of American A O R / M O R band Toto became important, and my interest in Doctor Who seemed to be transferred, via the mediating intertextual link provided by Stephen Gallagher's work, into British horror. Although my interest in Gallagher's writing initíally depended on my Doctor Who fandom, this became less important as I started to read other horror writers. But why this shift in fandoms? Why did I start to move away from Doctor Who, only to return to this fàndom in my mid-twenties? I n this case, I cannot present myself as an active cultural agent. M y fandoms here were subjected to the pressures o f cultural context. I drifted away from Who fàndom because of a tcenage estimation that i f I continued with this all-consuming passion I would never, in a million years, have any chance o f getting a girifriend. Now, whcther or not this was true, the fàct that this decision made cultural sense to me indicates the operation o f one aspect of a cultural system of value whereby media fàndom is/was linked to a sense of 'fàiled' or inadequate masculinity. Living within this dimension o f cultural value, I was not able simply to pursue my fàndom. Like Wise, I felt under pressure to reject it, even if I cannot recall any direct challenge to my sense o f masculinity. M y sensed need to alter my fàndom, possibly also linked to an.urgent tcenage need to separate my identity from that of the 'child' , therefore produced a shift from T V sf fandom to horror fandom. Horror, in this case, provided a clearer sense o f 'enduring' masculinity and an imagined 'toughness' through which my cultural identity could be rcconstructcd. I f I used horror to perfòrm a different type of masculinity, I also used more marginal forms o f horror literature rather than 'mainstream' film, retaining a sense of unease with 'good' masculinity and tempering this with an 'antí-mainstream' cultíshness and an 'anti-physical' bookishness that I possess in an exaggerated and 'vocatíonal' (i.e. proféssionally legitimated) fòrm today.

What are the other problems with my autoethnographic account? I have considered how my self-identity remains highly gendered, albeit via an

85

B E T W E E N ' K N O W E E U G E ' A N U ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

'intellectual' and masochistíc masculinity. T h e cultural resources which I have used to construct my sense of self cannot be separated from my class position; as a middle-class academic, I bid for alternatíve cultural capital in precisely the way that Bourdieu's (1984) model describes the dominated bourgeoisie. However, unlike I . Q . Hunter (2000: 197) , I am not particularly distressed at being reduced to my class position, or at having my fan 'authenticities' recon-textualised as part o f a system of value. This shuttling between experience and theory illustrates how well theory can sometimes fit with our experiences, making a new form of sense out of untheorised life.

However, it is also vitally important not to lose sight of the ways in which 'theory' fàils to fit with 'experience'. As Wolff rightly observes: 'cultural studies is not just about texts or theories: it deals with lived experiences, and with the intersections o f social structures, systems of representation, and subjectivities . . . Here it does matter i f the [theoretical] interpretation does not fit experience' (1995: 35; see also Milcs 2001: 165). Although through autoethnography we can never entirely 'disprove' a theory, we can suggest that the ideal-types of theory possess a limited s c o p c i n the face o f our own inhabitations of culture. For example, I was both a Star Trek fan and a Doctor Who fan up until about the age of twclve, when Doctor Who became far more important to me. (Why this should have been so, I am unable to recount.) Theoretical accounts have tended to emphasise hostilities between these two fandoms (Tulloch and Jenkins 1995). A n d although my Star Trek fandom has not been greatly active since my childhood, I still retain an affection for the programme, having been a Doctor Who fan and a Star Trek 'followcr' at the same time (see also Tulloch and Jenkins 1995). Theoretical accounts have tended to emphasise singular fandoms (where horror fans arcn't also fans of guitarists, or where Doctor Who fans aren't also fans of D . W . Winnicott's writing, and so on), and my own autoethnog­raphy has sought to expose the limitations of studies which focus on single fandoms. This autoethnography also opens up a further challenge to 'fan studies': how can we theorise the cultural activities of fans who are not institu-tionally aligned, and who refuse to attend conventíons or take part in 'stereotypical' fàn activities? I would describe myself as always having existed on the fringes o f organised fàndom: whenever it seemed that I was close to prop-erly entering an organised fandom, somehow or other I recoiled from this possibility. Whethcr this was writing fan fiction for the Doctor Who Appreciation Society or reviewing for the horror fan magazine Samhain, the threat of being 'absorbed' into an organised community was always sufficient to send me scur-rying back under cover as a solitary fan, or at best as a fan who shared his knowledge and enthusiasm only with a highly localised and limited set of fellow fans (see Bacon-Smith 1992). Organised fàndom, conventíons and ali, always seemed like a bridge too far. O f course, this statement is a type of self-legitimation which fails in the very moment of its performative claim. ' F m not one of those sad fàns who hangs out at conventíons' this claim attempts to announce, trying to ward off pathologising fan stercotypes by constructing a

86

l selP/'other ' split . B u t this a t tempt at self - legit imation simultaneously reveals that I cannot sustain this moral dual ism: I am far inside the fan stereotype (given m y self-construction as 'bookish ' , as 'd i f ferent ' , as ' inte l lectual ' , as inade-quately 'masculine') whether I like i t or n o t , and whether I argue m y case or not . I n short , I can' t rationally dispel the force o f this fan stereotype, or the possibility o f i t be ing applied t o me , s imply by wishing i t away or by creating moral dualisms t o d o this w o r k for me magically.

W h a t other lapses have I uncovered i n m y account? I n terms o f m y ethnicity, m y whiteness has largely been m i r r o r e d back t o me t h r o u g h the texts that I have been a fan of , f o r m i n g a shared cu l tura l discourse. This type o f reflection may seem t o o crudely fixed at the levei o f 'observable' ethnici ty , b u t i t never-theless serves t o emphasise h o w cul tural discourses have a p o w e r f u l effect o n o u r judgements o f whether media texts are relevant t o us. Clearly fans can iden-tify across ethnicity, b u t of ten only the basis o f a shared authent ic i ty such as a celebratory 'ant i -mainst team' stance ( w h i c h takes me back t o m y p o i n t about relative h o m o l o g y at the end o f chapter 1) .

W i t h regards t o sexuality, m y objeets o f f a n d o m have n o t always clearly m i r r o r e d m y o w n l ived heterosexuality. Doctor Who, as C o r n e l l ( 1 9 9 7 ) notes, has always had a sizeable gay f o l l o w i n g . A n d h o r r o r f i c t i o n , my a t t e m p t at bolstering m y masculinity, is hardly alien to concepts o f 'po lymorphous perversity' or to transgressions o f the codes o f heterosexuality. A l t h o u g h I have inc luded Gil l ian Anderson as one o f m y fan 'objeets', I have refrained f r o m discussing this u n t i l now, perhaps t h r o u g h a class-based sense that issues o f sexuality are n o t a 'proper ' topic o f discussion. I remain h igh ly uneasy about professing that any element o f sexual attract ion enters i n t o m y appreciation o f female cult celebri-ties. This unease may stem from an investment i n a broadly feminist academic posi t ion w h i c h disagrees theoretically w i t h the objectif ication o f w o m e n while cont inu ing t o participate practically i n these ' b a d ' cultural mechanisms. I t may wel l be the case that what I w o u l d prefer t o pass over i n silence is an aspect o f my cultural ident i ty w h i c h begins t o problematise m y ' u n i f i e d ' self, threatening to fragment the self i n t o a series o f contradic tory investments and attachments.

Despite m y criticisms o f Fiske and Bukatman above, I also f i n d u p o n rereading this account that I , t o o , have produced a s t r u c t u r i n g absence: m y f a m i l y . 1 1 I have completely failed to address the household and other cultural contexts i n w h i c h m y early fandoms were f o r m e d . ' C o m m o n sense' cultural categories - markers o f 'privacy' - therefore i n t r u d e mul t ipa l ly o n this account, since I have absented b o t h m y sexuality and my family, presumably feeling these are t o o close to home t o be subjected t o 'analysis'. B u t , unl ike W o l f f (1995) , I must seek t o avoid d r a w i n g arbitrary lines between naturalised ' immediacy' and mediated 'cul tural systems'.

I w o u l d never have embarked u p o n the life o f a fan, nor that o f an academic, had i t n o t been for the encouragement, indulgence and tacit legi t imat ion offered by m y family. This household context d i d n o t simply enable certain fan meanings or interpretat ions, instead i t a l lowed the significance o f m y fandom to

87

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E * A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

be preserved and t rusted, n o matter what . M y media consumpt ion was regu-lated by m y parents w h e n I was a y o u n g c h i l d , b u t regardlcss o f the ( then cul tural ly acceptable) use o f corporal punishment , and the of ten used threat o f be ing sent to m y r o o m , I was never banned f r o m watching m y favourite T V programmes and objeets o f f a n d o m . M y f a n d o m was respected by m y parents, and f o r m e d part o f m y distinctive identi ty i n the family: I was the Doctor Who fan. This defined m y 'uniqueness' i n the family.

This familial idealisation raises the question o f the 'or ig ins ' p f m y Doctor Who f a n d o m . Was this, l ike N i c k H o r n b y ' s account o f his Arsenal f a n d o m , a way o f c o m m u n i c a t i n g w i t h m y father w h i c h then became m y o w n private 'possession'? The beginnings o f f a n d o m can semetimes seem very clear to us; we become fans o f something because o u r friends are, or because our brothers and sisters are. B u t this associative ' c o n t a g i o n ' o f fandom's attachments and affeets - either t h r o u g h social networks or t h r o u g h intertextual networks - also poses a chal-lenge t o cultural theories o f f a n d o m . H o w can such intense fan experiences o f subjective 'ownership ' and 'possession' o f the text emerge t h r o u g h ' cu l tura l systems'? H o w does the contingency o f this cul tura l system (i.e. a d i f ferent asso­ciative l i n k could have been made f r o m text t o text or f r o m other t o self) become transformed i n t o the fan's insistence o n the necessity o f this text or this icon? B o t h fan-ethnographies and autoethnographies have a h igh ly Umited purchase o n these questions, and o n h o w fan desire becomes stuck i n the f o r m o f an e n d u r i n g media attachment w h i c h persists over time and i n di f ferent cul tura l contexts and stages o f l ife.

Given the quest ioning spir i t o f autoethnography, I want t o r o u n d u p w i t h a f u r t h e r quest ion. Does m y academic discourse construct a sense o f the contem-porary T as knowledgeable i n comparison t o m y past fan self? M y account so far seems to assume just such a divis ion. Here is the academic moral dual ism par excellence: the assumption that i l l u m i n a t i n g theoretical eyes can perecive the cul tura l order w h i c h is otherwise buried i n the u n t h o u g h t routines o f everyday l i fe . B u t I have already suggested that self-reflexivity cannot f o r m the u l t imate l e g i t i m a t i o n o f autoethnography. Tak ing this p o i n t seriously, even whi le b e c o m i n g caught up i n a performative contradic t ion , I am methodological ly and theoretically obl iged to concede that m y account o f m y o w n fandoms arrives at a p o i n t o f narcissistic and narrative closure w h i c h privileges (present) academic ref lect ion o n the non-academic (past) self. The only possible way t o d i s r u p t this narrative closure may be to interpret fan culture (and the self) t h r o u g h alternative theoretical positions, e m p l o y i n g psychoanalysis rather than cul tura l studies. I w i l l address this i n the next chapter.

Summary

• Fan-ethnographies have been l imi ted by a n u m b e r o f recurr ing problems such as the narrative structures that they have used, and the moral dualisms

88

B E T W E E N ' K N O W L E D G E * A N D ' J U S T I F I C A T I O N '

that they have played o u t i n terms o f 'pa ined ' fan-victims (Bacon-Smith 1992) versus ' p o a c h i n g ' fàn-victors (Jenkins 1992a) .

• Fan-ethnographies have focused o n fans o f single texts or n a r r o w intertex­tual networks, t reat ing these fans as natural ly-occurr ing (and spcctacular) communit ies . This tends t o close d o w n the investigation o f h o w w e may, as subjeets, negotiate o u r way t h r o u g h m u l t i p l e fandoms o f v a r y i n g intensities at dif ferent times.

• Fan-ethnographies have assumed that b o t h fans and academics can fully account discursively f o r the ir cultural practices. T h e fans' discursive mantra w h i c h works t o just i fy théir fandom is therefore accepted at face value. So is the acadcmic's discursive mantra w h i c h w o r k s t o justify academia: the n o t i o n o f ' c r i t i c a i ' or 'self-reflcxive' t h o u g h t .

• T h e t u r n to autoethnography has sought t o address some o f these p r o b ­lems. I have examined four autoethnographies o f di f ferent fandoms. T h r o u g h this process I arrived at f o u r key aspeets o f autoethnography. I t h e n applied these ideas i n m y o w n autoethnography.

89