In this book Valentin Groebner addresses the notions and practices of gift giving in late medieval and early modern Europe between 1400 and 1550. Focusing on the prosperous cities of the Upper Rhine, it explores the uses of gifts in political ritual and the different functions of these donations. Contemporaries spoke of these gifts—sometimes wine, sometimes coins or other precious metals—as liquid; indeed, the same German word was used for giving a present or pouring a fluid. These gifts were integral parts of an economy of information marking complex differences and dependencies in social status and hierarchy. The gifts were meticulously recorded and governed by strict social codes, yet the terminology and traditions of gift exchange in this period betray deep-seated ambivalence and anxieties about the practice. When, asks the author, does the distribution of gifts to public officials shift from an openly noted, routinely accepted practice to something clandestine, suspect, and off the record? Already by the end of the fourteenth century, the public gifts had their darker counterparts. References appear to more dangerous gifts, usually associated with the male body: from the hands of the corrupt scribe, to the skin of the venal judge, to the private parts of the body politic. A new vocabulary appears in law books, oath formulas, and polemical writing to refer to simony and usury, to Judas's reward, and to the sin of sodomy—in short, to underhanded and invisible relationships in which liquid gifts and bodily fluids mingled in unspeakable ways. The metaphors coined in the later Middle Ages and early modern period for designating illegal offerings are still with us, from "greasing hands" to the sexualized imagery of corruption. Liquid Assets, Dangerous Gifts explores the late medieval archaeologies of these notions and examines uses of political gifts as highly flexible instruments of control, manipulation, and coercion. Groebner sheds new light upon a phenomenon that to this day possesses the capacity to transform social circumstances.
The prehistory of modern passport and identification technologies: the documents, seals, and stamps, that could document and transform their owner's identity. Who are you? And how can you prove it? How were individuals described and identified in the centuries before photography and fingerprinting, in a world without centralized administrations, where names and addresses were constantly changing? In Who are You?, Valentin Groebner traces the early modern European history of identification practices and identity papers. The documents, seals, stamps, and signatures were--and are--powerful tools that created the double of a person in writ and bore the indelible signs of bureaucratic authenticity. Ultimately, as Groebner lucidly explains, they revealed as much about their makers' illusory fantasies as they did about their bearers' actual identity. The bureaucratic desire to register and control the population created, from the sixteenth century onward, an intricate administrative system for tracking individual identities. Most important, the proof of one's identity was intimately linked and determined by the identification papers the authorities demanded and endlessly supplied. Ironically, these papers and practices gave birth to two uncanny doppelg ngers of administrative identity procedures: the spy who craftily forged official documents and passports, and the impostor who dissimulated and mimed any individual he so desired. Through careful research and powerful narrative, Groebner recounts the complicated and bizarre stories of the many ways in which identities were stolen, created, and doubled. Groebner argues that identity papers cannot be interpreted literally as pure and simple documents. They are themselves pieces of history, histories of individuals and individuality, papers that both document and transform their owner's identity--whether carried by Renaissance vagrants and gypsies or the illegal immigrants of today who remain "sans papier," without papers.
In this book Valentin Groebner addresses the notions and practices of gift giving in late medieval and early modern Europe between 1400 and 1550. Focusing on the prosperous cities of the Upper Rhine, it explores the uses of gifts in political ritual and the different functions of these donations. Contemporaries spoke of these gifts—sometimes wine, sometimes coins or other precious metals—as liquid; indeed, the same German word was used for giving a present or pouring a fluid. These gifts were integral parts of an economy of information marking complex differences and dependencies in social status and hierarchy. The gifts were meticulously recorded and governed by strict social codes, yet the terminology and traditions of gift exchange in this period betray deep-seated ambivalence and anxieties about the practice. When, asks the author, does the distribution of gifts to public officials shift from an openly noted, routinely accepted practice to something clandestine, suspect, and off the record? Already by the end of the fourteenth century, the public gifts had their darker counterparts. References appear to more dangerous gifts, usually associated with the male body: from the hands of the corrupt scribe, to the skin of the venal judge, to the private parts of the body politic. A new vocabulary appears in law books, oath formulas, and polemical writing to refer to simony and usury, to Judas's reward, and to the sin of sodomy—in short, to underhanded and invisible relationships in which liquid gifts and bodily fluids mingled in unspeakable ways. The metaphors coined in the later Middle Ages and early modern period for designating illegal offerings are still with us, from "greasing hands" to the sexualized imagery of corruption. Liquid Assets, Dangerous Gifts explores the late medieval archaeologies of these notions and examines uses of political gifts as highly flexible instruments of control, manipulation, and coercion. Groebner sheds new light upon a phenomenon that to this day possesses the capacity to transform social circumstances.
Historische Gebäude, Kunstwerke und Sammlungen sind im 21. Jahrhundert nirgendwo mehr lästige Überreste von früher, wie in den Modernisierungsschüben des 19. Jahrhunderts oder noch in den 1950er und 1960er Jahren. Heute sind sie sorgfältig gehütete und mit hohem Aufwand in Schuss erhaltene Schätze: unersetzliche Materialisierungen kollektiver Selbstbilder, nationales Erbe und kostbare Ressourcen touristischer Vermarktung zugleich. Deshalb müssen sie um jeden Preis erhalten und, falls durch einen Unglücksfall beschädigt, um jeden Preis wiederhergestellt werden. Zur üblichen Selbstbeschreibung des 21. Jahrhunderts als innovativ und zukunftsorientiert steht das in einem erklärungsbedürftigen Verhältnis. Diesen Paradoxa spürt Futsch nach, anhand einer Reihe von Ortsterminen in Vergangenheitsbesichtigungsinstitutionen, von Wien bis Weimar und Zürich. Historische Erinnerungsstätten und Museen können offensichtlich viele Formen annehmen, vom Tempel bis zum Supermarkt, vom Reliquienschrein bis zum Bunker. Sie sind Schutzräume, Zeitkapseln und Sanatorien, Kliniken zur Behandlung von Phantomschmerzen. Wovor versprechen sie ihren Besuchern Schutz?
Was steckt eigentlich hinter dem neuen Zwang, sich zu zeigen? Mit viel Humor, Selbstironie und klugen Beobachtungen erzählt Valentin Groebner – »eine(r) der coolsten Geschichtswissenschaftler momentan überhaupt« (litera.taz) – seine kurze Geschichte der Selbstauskunft. Denn ob im Bewerbungsgespräch oder per Instagram-Account, bei der Teambildung oder im Dating-Profil: Ohne Selbstauskunft geht heute nichts. Sie ist sowohl Lockstoff als auch Pflicht, steht für Reklame in eigener Sache und das Versprechen auf Intensität und Erlösung, in den Tretmühlen der digitalen Kanäle ebenso wie in politischen Debatten um kollektive Zugehörigkeit. Aber wie viel davon ist eigentlich Zwang, und wie viel Lust? Was haben wir, was haben andere vom inflationären Ich-Sagen und Wir-Sagen? Diesen Fragen geht Valentin Groebner auf der Suche nach dem Alltäglichen nach. Er zeigt, was historische Beschwörungen der Heimat mit offenherzigen Tattoos gemeinsam haben, und was den Umgang mit alten Familienfotos und demonstrative Rituale des Paar-Glücks (Stichwort Liebesschlösser an Brückengeländern) verbindet. Doch ist öffentliche Intimität wirklich die Währung für Erfolg – oder eine Falle?
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