Emily Lederman's blog

Reading Empathy, Hypocrisy, and Hope? in Chipotle’s The Scarecrow

Emily Lederman — Tue, 18 Nov 2014 04:32:31 +0000

Image credit: Chipotle

What do Chipotle’s animated ads tell us about contemporary food discourse, animal rights, and Chipotle itself?

In 2013, Chipotle released the short animated film “The Scarecrow,” a follow-up to the 2011 film “Back to the Start.” The film follows an industrial farm worker-scarecrow as he views the horrors of the contemporary food system and then decides to break off and start a farm-to-fork stand. It features a haunting rendition by Fiona Apple of the Charlie and the Chocolate Factory song “Pure Imagination.” Both films have had excessive views online and Chipotle also released a game to accompany “The Scarecrow.” The films suggest that Chipotle is aware of the ills of the industrial, factory-farmed food system, and sets itself apart from this system, although how it does so is not entirely clear.

Several of my Rhetoric of Eating students wrote analyses of this film last year, and I often use it as an example when teaching emotional appeals. In one scene the scarecrow, who works for “Crow Foods Incorporated,” watches a chicken injected with a chemical substance immediately grow fat. In another, a cow with suffering eyes gazes out from a constricting cage. The film suggests that we should empathize with these inhumanely farmed creatures. Both of the animals are viewed by gazing between cracks in a wall covered with food advertising, implying that peeking just beneath the surface of the food system reveals animal torture and chemically enhanced food. The scarecrow’s job appears to be to plaster these cracks over with more advertisements, thereby obstructing access to these sights. Moments like these in the film point to a growing social awareness of the harmful and inhumane practices of our food system—and the attempts to hide them. They also stress Chipotle’s awareness of these practices, implying that the chain knows the meaning of factory-farmed food. Yet like the scarecrow in the initial scenes, Chipotle may also be somewhat complacent in the face of these facts.

Image credit: Chipotle

At the end of “The Scarecrow,” the main character has rejected his role with “Crow Foods” and begins growing vegetables at his home. He brings these vegetables into the city and sells freshly cooked food to its inhabitants. “Cultivate a Better World” is the final tagline. Where the meat comes from at the stand, though, is unclear. [The film therefore also enables a classroom discussion of logical fallacies.] Chipotle does not offer an image of the “natural raised” meat production they supposedly in “The Scarecrow.” Yet, implicitly, this stand is the first Chipotle, and we all know that a majority of orders at the chain’s establishments involve a large amount of meat. The video attempts to sell these meat diseases through a visual representation of local vegetable production. Would offering visuals of meat production undermine the film end’s cheerful aesthetic? Can its inspiring tone still work if the viewer notices this flaw? And, finally, does Chipotle avoid this imagery because its meat sourcing is a sticky and complicated matter, in which it cannot claim industry leadership?

If anything, Chipotle claims to be trying to source safer, more humane food. They have an informative tab on their website called “Food with Integrity”: “Food with integrity is our commitment to finding the very best ingredients raised with respect for the animals the environment and the farmers.” This notion of respect along the food industry chain is new to American fast food. Chipotle says they source “organic and local produce when practical.” What might “practical” may mean within their profit scale? Such terminology suggests the privileging of corporate practices over social justice stances (which can rarely be monetarily practical). In other words, can corporate practicality and morality ever fit neatly together?

Image credit: Chipotle

Chipotle uses the term “naturally raised” when discussing its meat sourcing, a term it defines as “raised in a humane way, fed a vegetarian diet, and allowed to display their natural tendencies.” This sounds a lot better than your average factory farming, but as critics have pointed out, it doesn’t mean that animals don’t spend their lives in cages or aren’t mass-produced, nor does it mean that the meat isn’t filled with grain, antibiotics, and hormones. Chipotle also notes on their website that they sometimes cannot source naturally raised meat and will notify customers of this change (and I’ve seen such signs up in an Austin Chipotle). This effort to identify alternatives to the worst factory farming and be transparent to customers is a needed move, but it doesn’t critique the overconsumption of meat in the US, or the resulting environmental and health crises.

Chris Arnold, Chipotle’s communication director, has said that the company never “professed to being perfect,” but is “committed to constant improvement.” It is heartening to see such a large chain change the conversation about food sourcing (or perhaps represent a changed conversation about food in the US) and give it at least an aesthetic morality through these videos. Professing to try to do better is certainly better than remaining silent or suggesting that certain animals suffer less, that factory farming chickens is better than cows (Chick Fil A has done). Hopefully Chipotle’s actual sourcing will soon reflect truly sustainable practices that can rewrite the damaging food system. McDonalds changes the way potatoes are produced in whole nations and is one of the central causes for the sped-up, less safe, meat factory-farmed system, so perhaps Chipotle can influence the system for the better.

Tags:

food studies

Visual Rhetoric

Chipotle

Longhorns and Ovaries

Emily Lederman — Fri, 31 Oct 2014 00:25:41 +0000

Five days before a significant Texas, and Austin, Election Day, I’m stepping back to consider the visual rhetoric employed during Wendy Davis’s famous filibuster and the subsequent protests for women’s reproductive rights at the Texas capitol. I’m particularly interested in the claiming of UT’s particular shade of burnt orange in support of Davis and the revision of the longhorn symbol into a uterus and ovaries.

At the first protest for women’s reproductive rights at the Texas capitol that I attended last spring I remember being confused by the prevalent burnt orange clothing, which I did not initially assume was in support of women, as I associate this color with Texas football culture, not often a feminist space. Was this a misplaced pep rally? It turns out that the claiming of this color and the creative t-shirts it inspired was a wise decision that allowed UT and Texas pride to share a visual space with women’s health and reproductive rights activism.

UT student organizations often appropriate the burnt orange color and/or the longhorn to make their particular political statement, implying that the longhorn, and UT, can stand for many (conflicting) causes. What is the impact of claiming this particular shared shape and/or color? Is it conformist or confrontational? I like to think these images can allow for an activist claiming of school pride, and perhaps indicate a refusal to rally around an undefined longhorn.

Supporters of Wendy Davis’s filibuster used email and social media to encourage all attendees to wear burnt orange. Although it could be argued that this color normalized the visual appearance of the protest, it’s also powerful for an issue as controversial as abortion in Texas to successfully claim UT’s color. It was pretty exciting to see the sea of orange at the capitol all night long in support of the filibuster. (And it was frustrating that many news reports at the time misleadingly suggested that the building was filled with an equal amount of anti and pro-choice activists, when in reality the overwhelming majority of attendees were there in support of Davis).

image credit: occupy

Returning to the most striking claiming of the longhorn I’ve seen, what does it mean to turn an aggressive-looking kind of cattle into female reproductive organs? The above shirt is the official version of the symbol, distributed by Austin printshop Bumperactive and designed by activists Cole Latimer and Carrie Collier-Brown. The horns of the original cow are already in a useful position to serve as ovaries. On the homemade version of the t-shirt (see below) even less tweaking is done to get the image across. In fact on either shirt, there’s not much necessary change to make the longhorn head into a uterus shape. The similarity of the original longhorn and the one that stands for reproductive rights is what gives this image particular power, as it’s jarring and results in lots of double takes. It’s daring and productive to conflate an image most associated with football culture with progressive feminist causes. I appreciate that unlike the hyper-feminized imagery of the breast cancer movement, this image is aggressive yet unquestionably female. By embodying (in more than one way) the longhorn image that most often represents UT pride and football, feminist activists counter patriarchal power structures (sports leadership included), refuse the passivity associated with female sex organs in mainstream misogynist culture, and claim ownership over female reproductive parts and reproductive choices.

I’m not as into the slogan of the official shirts, although its threatening nature has that refreshing aggressive quality, daring politicians to police women’s bodies. The slogan’s most famous origin is on an early Texan flag, along with a cannon and star, made during the conflict often referred to as the War for Texas Independence or the Texas Revolution. The star/slogan combo has become a rallying symbol for the Texas gun rights movement as well.

image credit: Iris Dimmick, Rivard Report

Many other creative visual elements were employed in support of the filibuster. Women taped their mouths shut, visually representing the traditional silencing in the capitol of those supporting women’s rights. Clothing hangers were also present, representing the long history of pro-choice movement and the unsafe alternatives to accessible and legal abortion clinics. Throughout the filibuster, there seemed to be a fear among capitol officials and conservative politicians of disruptive and bodily visual representation. An unfounded rumor that pro-choice attendees were going to throw feminine products or jars of urine and feces onto the floor prompted security to confiscate all tampons and pads from any woman who wished to enter the capitol—this act was also known as “Tampongate.” Although nothing was thrown, disruption was used as a successful intervention when Dewhurst tried to unlawfully declare the filibuster failed just minutes before it was to end: the galley, and then the rest of the capitol, erupted in cries and screams that paused the proceedings.

Clearly, mobilizing a visual representation of women’s reproductive organs is a powerful political statement, especially when it involves the Texas longhorn. Though the fact that an image of a uterus and ovaries is considered shocking or offensive is certainly ironic given the policing and sexualization of women’s bodies in mainstream culture. The filibuster was of course a success that night, and an important rallying point for women’s rights in Texas, but celebrations could only last so long. Another special session was called to get the law passed, resulting in the closure of 40 clinics across Texas. But just recently, on October 15^th, the Supreme Court placed a hold on the implementation of the law.

Tags:

politics

Visual Rhetoric

Wendy Davis

Pet Costumes & Staging Human-Animal Relations

Emily Lederman — Thu, 16 Oct 2014 02:53:18 +0000

from buzzfeed.com

In his 2010 text, Developing Animals: Wildlife and Early American Photography, Matthew Brower considers the constructed nature of wildlife photography and what it tells us about historical understandings of human-animal relations. Brower is the curator of the University of Toronto Art Centre and a lecturer in museum studies in the Faculty of Information at the University of Toronto. Beginning with an analysis of early American photographs of taxidermy, his text examines the practice of “camera hunting” in the nineteenth century, the invention of the photographic blind and Abbott Thayer’s use of photographs to make arguments about animal coloration and camouflage. Brower argues that examining these photographic practices illustrates how they construct a particular narrative of the relationship between animals and humans. Brower suggests that photos of perceived “wild animals” are staged to tell a particular story about the historical constitution of the animal and human-animal interaction.

photo credit: Blanton Musuem of Art: Takahashi Hiroaki (Shotei), Published by Fusui Gabo
Cat Prowling Around a Staked Tomato Plant, 1931

The Blanton Museum of Art’s recent exhibit “In the Company of Cats and Dogs” (June-September 2014) presented similar conclusions about the historical and contemporary presence of canines and felines in art. The exhibit illustrated how representations of domestic animals tell stories about how humans perceive themselves and their environments. One of my favorite sections was a grouping of paintings that pictured cats as causing and representing social deviance among their human companions, and spoke to a fear of female pleasure and independence.

from tonsofcats.com

One of the more popular pieces seemed to be a flat-screen television mounted on the wall playing a circuit of images of the Japanese, internet-famous cat Shironeko (“White Cat”), also known as “Basket Cat” or “Zen Cat.” This cat (sometimes along with other cats) is pictured in a relaxed-state with various kinds of vegetables and baskets balanced on his head and body. Shironeko is costumed, but not to represent anything other than the work of art that he himself has become. The use of organic materials in these photographs allows the scene to seem wild, or of nature, despite the obvious and heavy-handed human intervention. These photographs also emphasize the cat’s “natural” relaxed state, while simultaneously underscoring a human presence by juxtaposing the cat’s body with something unexpected and disruptive.

The photography of costumed pet stages a particular story of anthropomorphism, providing a narrative of human-animal, or child-animal, proximity and cohabitation. Now that access to photography and sharing images is open to most people, some of the seemingly most popular photos shared are of domestic animals. This becomes particularly obvious around Halloween when photos of clothed pets proliferate, as many pop culture media outlets are posting lists of the “silliest,” “greatest EVER,” or “funniest” photos of pets in costume. They seem more popular than photos of costumed kids (at least my internet bubble). What do the photographs of these costumed pets say about our staged relationship with domesticated animals?

Mother/Daughter, 1994/2009 from panopticangallery.com

One of the more well-known contemporary animal photographers, William Wegman, takes series of photos of Weimaraners, often wearing human clothing or interacting with objects. While not much art criticism exists on his work [the art critic Eric Banks wrote in ArtForum that Wegman has “marketed himself and his canine celebrities so well (and so outside the precincts of contemporary art) that it’s hard to formulate a critical take,”] Wegman’s photographs have been lauded in popular media and are so popular that his dog Man Ray was named “Man of the Year” by The Village Voice in 1982. In a 2011 article in the Smithsonian Magazine David Schonauer suggests that Wegman’s use of these dogs allows him to point out the absurdity of human ambition; he writes that Wegman “punctures [the dogs’] regal bearing by surrounding the animals with absurd artifacts from everyday human life,” that allows him to make fun of “our shaky human ambitions…not the dogs.” I agree and add that his photos of the dogs’ stable, blank stares directly address, and attempt to render absurd, our tendencies to try to read human emotions on our domestic pets.

Dog Walker, 1990 from wegmanworld.typepad.com

How does amateur photography of pets in costume compare to Wegman’s work? It seems that there are those that follow Wegman’s lead and point out the very absurdity present in dressing pets. What’s funny about these types of costumed pet photos is the very fact that we’re looking at a costumed pet.

from Buzzfeed

On the other hand, there are costumes that attempt to humanize the animal with a bit less irony. The best ones of these often picture the human companion right alongside the pet, drawing attention to a relationship of equity and proximity—we’re all trying to be someone else.

from Buzzfeed

There are also lots of debates out on the internet about the ethics of costuming pets. [For example, a costumed dog may actually feel physically shamed without having any awareness of how s/he looks, since the costume’s position may mimic another dog dominating!] The Humane Society and other animal rights groups put out a list of best practices when dressing up pets to avoid harming them, since sometimes people’s enthusiasm to costume prevents their pet from properly breathing or perspiring. And most animal rights organizations have embraced pet photography of all kinds as a way to draw in support and empathy for animals.

Dressing our pets in costume around Halloween, even if done to merely highlight the absurdity of the costumed pet and get a laugh, nevertheless encourages us to read these pets as part of the community, as participating in a holiday ritual of temporarily becoming something else, even if what they actually end up representing is mostly their perceived proximity to us. While Brower reads wildlife photos as staged to present “real animals” as those that only exist in human and cultural absence, the photography of domesticated animals in costume illustrates their perceived role as contributing members of our culture. His reading is useful in its emphasis that the staging of these photos is entirely about us.

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