“the England of arterial and by-pass roads, of filling stations and factories that look like exhibition buildings, of giant cinemas and dance-halls and cafes, bungalows with tiny garages, cocktail bars, Woolworths, motor-coaches, wireless, hiking, factory girls looking like actresses, greyhound racing and dirt tracks, swimming pools, and everything given away for cigarette coupons.”

Priestley, 1984 [1934]: 375

These factory girls were an object of concern and scrutiny, troubling the established categories of class with their outspoken, performed femininity. A new, light, industrial labour force destabilised the established understandings of gender and class. The Bata factory in East Tilbury was staffed, in part, by this kind of woman: making shoes in order to pay for new shoes and handbags and lipsticks. And to keep their families: women’s work is not all about pin money and frivolity, J. B..

There are, or have been, Bata factories all over the world, making shoes for Africa, Asia, Europe and the Americas, as well as the Czechs. Haresh Khanna, the shoemaker-suitor of Lata Mehra in Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy has Bata at the top of his list of preferred employers “I’ve been trying Bata and James Hawley and Praha and Flex and Cooper Allen” (2003: 620). Haresh eventually negotiates his way to taking a supervisor’s position with the efficient Czechs, and stands out from fellow Indian employees by moving into the compound with the ‘Prahamen’ in ‘Prahapore’, pseudonyms for the real Batanagar. In 1932, Bata arrived in East Tilbury, UK (and in the 1940s in Maryport, Cumbria), down at the bottom end of the Essex coast, the dirty part, near where the Thames spews out.

Bata built a new, modern factory, and a new, modern town around it. It brought Czech managers, men, and their families from HQ in Zlin, and recruited local women and men to work the production lines. East European migration isn’t such a new thing. The company wanted a productive workforce, and a productive workforce must be happy. Neat and modern boxes for living in were built, along with leisure facilities – including a swimming pool – a hotel, a bar a grocers and a post office, as in Zlin. Everything you might need, designed for the future.

There are echoes of those nineteenth century paternalists, Cadbury, Salt and Lever, and their company towns, Bournville, Saltaire and Port Sunlight. But with a difference that reflects the mid twentieth century’s “second spirit of capitalism” (Boltanski and Chiapello, 2007), where the gambling of the bourgeois entrepreneur gave way to mass production, mass consumption and massive organisation. Management understanding of the benefits of rationality and planning mark the building of the Bata factories and company towns. And what felt like institutional benevolence for those in charge seemed to have a sound footing in science and logic.

The second spirit drew on techniques of scientific management, developed by F W Taylor, and the Gilbreths, amongst others. Workers were measured and assessed to design productivity improvements through rationalising work activity, or replacing human with machine. The production line, with work divided into discrete tasks, is one legacy of this. However, as Eva Illouz argues, rationality was not all-conquering. The new sciences of the emotions, psychology in particular, gave rise to techniques of emotional capitalism. Elton Mayo for example brought the techniques and presumptions of therapy into management. The good manager would listen to his workers, would pay attention to how they felt (Illouz, 2007: 13–15). Bata had vision and ideals. “Friends and fellow workers” said founder Thomas Bata in one of his Mayday speeches…the contemporary equivalent is ‘we’re all in this together’.

So the difference between Saltaire and East Tilbury is not merely in the contrast between brick houses and a Yorkshire stone factory on the one hand, and the square white boxes of East Tilbury’s working and living spaces, but in the understandings of production, work and life that were presumed. Salt’s employees worshipped in the church he built, and it’s not certain whether god or Salt seemed the most powerful. Bata’s employees were freer, to swim in the pool, and to send their children to scout groups. Forward looking international companies in the 1930s managed with science, offering rationalised work and sensible leisure, rather than direct command and control. Scientific management met emotional capitalism. “Work together, live separately” was one of the Bata family slogans, but living in the company town wasn’t such a separation.

East Tilbury Bata was the temporary HQ of the operation during the second world war, and it made boots for soldiers for this time. Production for the domestic market resumed after the war, and generations of Essex girls and boys worked there. Production continued in East Tilbury until 2005, when the factory was closed (Maryport had gone in the 1980s). Now only one of the twenty Bata ‘production units’ are in Europe (8 in Asia-Pacific, 7 in Africa and 4 in Latin America, see www.bata.com. So, like other company towns founded in era of the ‘third England’, the factory building is decaying and some of the houses – still lived in – are starting to bear witness to the long term unemployment or underemployment that can mean a paint job is out of the question. Of Essex’s modernist legacy, these places of work have come off worse than the genteel, expensive houses of Frinton, or the curved splendour of the Labworth Cafe, Canvey Island (Rose, 2012).

Bataville: we are not afraid of the future is an documentary made of an art project by Karen Guthrie and Nina Pope around 2004, just as East Tilbury Bata was on its last legs. Former workers from Maryport and East Tilbury, and a group of ‘others’, travelled by coach through Europe to Zlin, the birthplace of Bata (now based in Bermuda…how times change). They stop in the Netherlands Bata, to see how robots replaced people, and then onto ‘Bataville’ to have a look round.

In the Netherlands, some of the passengers were tearful. These machines, “wonderful to watch”, have replaced people, people who had skills, who prided themselves that they could go “right down the whole shoe”, not just stick on the sole. And of course,” you can’t have a conversation with a robot.” So despite the pace of the line, where a shoe would pass you every 6 seconds and you had to do your operation on it, there was something that felt good in the work.

I liked this film. I liked the planning the artists had done to get the groups of strangers to talk to each other by asking each to provide some entertainment for the long coach. Some told stories about their working lives, now over, others played games or got everyone to make something, and some talked about the things they loved. I liked one of the artists talking about her worries that the people they took on the bus were left behind in plans for regeneration of post-industrial areas like East Tilbury.

The world we live in is one where production is subcontracted by branded firms, one where cheap goods are made by low paid workers, and where all kinds of footloose manufacturing industries leave unemployment behind. We see in Bataville the long historical roots of how the local is captured by the global. Bata might still be the company that counts in Zlin, but its experiments in work-life omnipotence in the UK didn’t hold out against individualised globalised capitalism. The ongoing ruination is not beautiful decay, but an emblem of post-industrial Essex, where the only jobs left for lipsticked would-be stars are not those of making something, but those of selling something.

This is a revised version of a talk I gave to introduce a screening of Bata-ville, at Manchester Metropolitan University on 26th January 2012. The event was organised by Morag Rose, on behalf of The LRM and the Manchester Modernist Society, in conjunction with Manchester Metropolitan University. Thanks to all involved, especially Morag.

References

1. (2006) Bata-ville: We are not afraid of the future A Somewhere project by Nina Pope and Karen Guthrie, developed by Commissions East.
2. Boltanski, L. and Chiapello, E. (2007) The New Spirit of Capitalism. Verso, London, trans Gregory Elliot.
3. Illouz, E. (2007) Cold Intimacies: The Making of Emotional Capitalism. Polity Press, London.
4. Priestley, J. B. (1984[1934]) English Journey, Penguin Books.
5. Rose, M (2012) ‘The Modernists’ Guide to Essex’, The Modernist, issue 3.
6. Seth, V (2003 [1993]) A Suitable Boy. Phoenix Books, London.

Like many newcomers to China before me, I struggled to comprehend the scale and ferocity of the productive forces that have changed Dongguan forever. According to my travelling companions, a young academic and four young female labour activists, Dongguan’s 10 million inhabitants form one physically indistinct node along an urban corridor that stretches for hundreds of kilometres beyond Guangdong province and across south China’s manufacturing heartlands. Perhaps as recently as 20 years ago, the broken concrete pavements upon which we walked and the broad roads along which our minibus rattled would have hosted fertile agricultural lands producing some of the region’s most cherished rice crops. Instead, the descendants of the villagers that once worked this land have found a new and on occasion spectacular source of wealth in the rents derived from the arrival of the factories and their workers.

The scale of what I surveyed was matched by a sense of its brutal functionality. These factories are no dark satanic mills but rather stark utilitarian places of labour, austere physical units of production barely indistinguishable from one another; and possibly from thousands of others in East Asia. Buildings both cheap and quick to erect, and fenced in by high block walls topped with broken glass and barbed wire, there was little visible to betray any effort to create some sense of corporate identity, pride or purpose beyond that conveyed by an occasional national flag fluttering in the warm breeze or by the Spartan, sometimes tatty corporate signage.

Perhaps this functionality could be equally understood in terms of instability, as Dongguan’s current predicament hints at an underlying impermanence. The 2008 financial crisis hit the area hard as orders were lost and the factories let workers go. Since then, according to my companions, few of the factory’s workforces have returned to pre-crisis levels and continuing labour shortages now besets Dongguan. Among the most visible signs of this, for me at least, were the numerous billboards, posters and leaflets pasted to factory walls and doors, or tied to street signs and lampposts proclaiming opportunities for employment. Work, these advertisements announce, is readily available for healthy workers aged 18 to 40 and the pay on offer for a 40-hour week is well above the local minimum. In the most conspicuous examples, the large lettering and bright eye-catching colours also seek to tempt itinerant workers with promises of social insurance and paid holidays, alongside vistas of the seemingly model factory beyond the high walls and the varied entertainments on offer to its workers. And yet the factories of Dongguan continue to struggle to recruit. Wages remain insufficient to meet the spiralling costs of rent and sustenance, the living conditions inside and outside the factories are lonely and unwelcoming, and the work insufficiently engaging. Labour turnover, I am told, can be as much as 50% each year. It is to deal with this labour ‘problem’ that some of Dongguan’s factories, themselves no more than a few years old, are looking to relocate to other parts of mainland China where labour is more plentiful and cheaper.

For the time being at least, the workers still muster a conspicuous presence on the streets of Dongguan’s industrial enclaves. Leaving the factories for lunch or when their shifts end, they spill onto the streets looking for somewhere to eat, refresh themselves, watch TV, telephone a loved one or simply escape their workplace. The ‘uniform’ of this new working class is the ubiquitous polo shirt, its youthful, preppy western signification reconfigured into a utilitarian industrialism that attributes the workers to their factories, and thus to the products that they make, according to the shade of blue, mauve, yellow or orange that they are wearing. To my eye, the bearers of these bright colours are young; some look very young indeed. And perhaps it is only the young that are willing and capable of uprooting themselves from families and friends in order to traverse China’s vast distances in search of a better life in Dongguan’s industrial districts.

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The pampas grass is blooming [ten], echo of some earlier moment of landscaping to soften the concrete and corrugated iron structure, and the bushes by the main entrance are pricklingly out of control [eleven]. The letter box is still there, and still working [twelve]; who knows whether the cctv is still hooked up to some distant watching eyes [thirteen].

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Work was done to close the building. Chipboard has been nailed in where glass once was, different boards at different points. Smooth here, the front of the building [fourteen], but scruffy, upside down mdf here at the back [fifteen].

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Here’s a makeshift skate ramp [sixteen]; the carpark’s now a place for playing. Who knows what happens out here [seventeen], or why there’s a rusty wheel suspended from chipboard [eighteen]. A few of the paving slabs at the front entrance have been dug out; then piled up and left [nineteen]. Work undoes the Works.

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And the new Fordism? Well, Santos has left the US army and gone to work for Ford. Santos checks how much work a body can manage on the production line. How many tyres can he unload in the heat before he collapses? Can he turn far enough to pick up that tool? Does that hurt? How long can he work for? But don’t worry, this Santos isn’t having his physical limits tested in some hot maquiladora. Santos isn’t a person. Santos is cyborg: software given human form to produce a “dynamic evaluation” of what sort of strain a person would be able to take. Understanding strain, say the research team at the University of Iowa, lessens the risk of injury to assembly line workers, and improves efficiency.

The body is modelled, its joint flexibility measured, its strength assessed and quantified. The fleshy materiality of a body is transposed into data, data, data. And in the end this will change the experience of working on the line. It will standardise work schedules and restrict movement — because science will have generated the best way of doing work. And I’m all in favour of saving strain and lessening damage. But I’m not quite sure this is what Santos will do; Santos-data enhances Taylorism; it treats the body as a machine and makes no allowances for what it is to be a working man on that line. To be tired one day, to feel.

Enormous reductions in public sector spending produce unemployment. And unemployment makes for poverty, misery, hopelessness, illness and anomie. Some of the cuts to public sector spending will remove work from society: Forgemasters’ employees will join the queues outside Sheffield job centres, looking for jobs that don’t exist, living on the benefit breadline, sinking into depression, needing care.

Other public sector cuts will not remove work, but transfer it from public sphere to private sphere, from commodity form to non-commodity form. Children, the infirm elderly and the sick will carry on needing care (and social care isn’t part of the NHS ringfencing). Someone will have to step in when budget cuts mean fewer care assistants or fewer public nursery spaces. This might sound like Cameron’s ‘Big Society’ in action: neighbours helping because the fat state is ought to slim down. But care that is contingently gifted like that leaves the recipient at risk, even assuming that the needy are known and noticed (which might not be the case if layers of administration are removed). And it leaves the caregiver exhausted by the double burden of paid work and care.

It is often the case that unpaid care is done by women (see the Women’s Budget Group analysis), and, though the ideological conservatism that drives the desire for a small state is not quite the same conservatism that essentialises gender divisions and wants women to be placed in the home, married and looking after children, the coincidence might be felt to be fortuitous by some. At nowaytoamakealiving, we are always angered by the failures of imagination and empathy that generate policies intended to increase inequality and worsen lives.

The Islanders (1939) dir Maurice Harvey. Permission of Royal Mail Film Archive.

In Exploring the Tomato: transformations of nature, economy and society (Mark Harvey, Steve Quilley and Huw Beynon, 2002), there is a chapter called ‘Broken Glass’, describing the extraordinary economic and social organisation of small growers (including part-time postmen), the Guernsey Tomato Marketing Board, and glasshouses made from the skeleton-frames of up-turned boats. It told of the system of English wholesale markets, and how the Guernsey ‘Potentate’ tomato (a powerful hybrid) had to endure a clunky two-week journey from grower to consumer, and of the standardisation and ‘process of qualification’ of tomatoes for mass consumer markets. This transitory world was shattered by the twin forces of competition from Dutch, North Sea Gas-warmed tomatoes and the growth of supermarket chains in the UK. The book was written nearly five years before I discovered the film – but could there have been some subliminal connection? A transmission of a kind of interest in the world?

The film transports us into a world as seen 65 years ago. One of many in a revolutionary genre of documentary films — Night Mail being the most famous —  The Islanders shows how the world was made rather than consumed. Social realist vision uncovers the work of world-making. So we see mostly men, mostly smoking, engaged in manual labour of producing, lifting and transporting tomatoes; the work of picking and grading; the work of making sales, of intermediating, and regulating. We are told only that restaurants demand regular, middle-sized, good-coloured tomatoes. The consumer as such is an absent figure. Further, this and many of the films from the GPO stable, unsurprisingly present a communications revolution, economies now made possible by radio and telephone, worlds connected, ships at sea rescued, letters delivered, telegrams sent, undersea cables laid. As today, the sense of a world being transformed by then revolutionary technologies of communication, wired social and economic organisation, is tangibly and visually exciting. The work of communication, of creating the infrastructures, occasionally at risk to working lives, is explored through stark and resolutely modernist imagery. The island dissolves into the planet, the planet into the universe, the film ends.

Orbiting the tomato: A door to a hidden-to-me dimension of my father. A refracting prism of past and present worlds. A society of proud production, now disappeared from visual representation (a genre documentary now dead) and buried by new forms of supermarket-dominated, consumer-oriented social and economic organisation. Work losing its core sociological reputation, and attempts to recover and re-visualise the tomato in the round, through its multiple presences. Such a simple fruit.

References

1. Harvey, M., Quilley, S. and Beynon, H. (2002) Exploring the Tomato: Transformations of Nature, Economy and Society Edward Elgar.

My friend called me last Saturday,

‘let’s meet in Hennes’, she said.

I agreed. I thought I’d just have a look and not say anything to her. But I couldn’t help myself (story of my life).

‘I’m not buying anything here, after all those people died’.

That made it impossible for my friend to even try anything on (I think she might go back without me; and I will confess to her now I was wearing something I’d bought in H&M last year the next time we met).

I’ve read Naila Kabeer’s (2000)The Power to Choose, and was persuaded so well by her arguments against reading Bangladeshi working women as cultural dopes, stepping blindly into exploitative paid work whilst carrying the burden of housework and facing down challenges to their reputations as good women. Kabeer’s incorporation of how culture is “woven into the content of desire itself” (2000: 328) is persuasive. Women chose paid work outside the home and still counted as good, they liked working in a clean place for good wages far more than labouring in a field, and took pleasure in contributing to meeting their family’s desire for more income.

Kabeer gives the garment workers agency and voice. They are not an innately malleable, grateful, reserve army of nimble fingered knitters; they are not victims of a disorganized capitalism where feminism and neoliberalism combine to turn “a sow’s ear into a silk purse by elaborating a new romance of female advancement and gender justice” (Fraser, 2009). For Fraser, the normalisation of the dual income family working for low wages in insecure employment marks a failure of feminism, for (without realising it) privileging choice no matter what.

When War on Want describe sickening factory conditions and I read of these injuries and deaths, this is damage, and Fraser’s is the line that persuades me. As I don’t want my consumption practices to cause harm, that means no to H&M. In turn that means job losses, either because political pressure on H&M makes them choose a new subcontractor (one less famous for its working conditions), or because of the fall in demand caused by my bleeding, liberal, western heart. This is damage too. I’m not adding much to an unanswerable debate other than easing my own conscience by playing out the tensions: strong conclusions are impossible when there’s only a choice between forms of damage.

References

1. Fraser, Nancy (2009) ‘Feminism, Capitalism and the Cunning of History’. New Left Review 56.
2. Kabeer, Naila (2000) The Power to Choose. Bangladeshi Women and Labour Market Decisions in London and Dhaka. London: Verso.

Women on the Line is often described as a seminal ethnography of 1980s British sociology of work. Its republication in 2009 has attracted considerable interest, especially in the US. How would you describe the reception of the original publication of the book?

The enforced pseudonym and anonymity the first time round meant that I got very little sense of its reception. I couldn’t give any talks or publicise it at all. People wrote to Routledge asking to be put in contact with Ruth Cavendish, and they forwarded everything to me but of course I wasn’t able to reply to anything! Yet for many years afterwards I often met people who knew me, and were familiar with Women on the Line, but were unaware of the connection between us. It kept on happening right up to the appearance of the new edition published under my own name. My sense is that the book was quite widely read both in the UK and abroad, and by feminist and other activists as well as academics over the next few years, especially given the greater interest in studying and campaigning around work during the 1980s.

In terms of ‘method’, although your working at the factory was not intended as research, what do you think about the approach of ‘knowing by doing’ as a way of understanding work, in your case, quite literally working on the line – especially in a context in which the interview has come to dominate qualitative research?

Knowing by doing was certainly crucial, in the sense that my understanding of what was going on in the factory and how it affected the women would have been impossible without experiencing it myself. The ‘doing’ included not only the work itself, but also the numerous interactions with the women around me. The chatting that this involved ranged far wider than what would normally be covered in an interview, and of course I wasn’t determining the course of the conversation either. However, the interpretive ‘knowing’ part of it relied also on my pre-existing knowledge and analytical frames, and all the ‘doing’ was necessarily filtered through and mediated by what was already in my head, and my political preoccupations and questions in doing the job in the first place.

There are more photographs in the republished version of the book than in the original. Can you comment on the place of images in representations of work, and on the relationship between the written and the visual in this book.

I would have liked to include far more photos than the publishers would allow, and in colour. The black and white ones don’t really do justice to the situation and don’t come over nearly as well as the colour ones on the cover. I hope it makes a difference to readers being able to see what some of my work-mates looked like, especially those whose life stories are recounted. Similarly the spatial and physical layout of the shopfloor, and some examples of machinery should help to bring the narrative to life. There are so very few images available of the faces of women doing this kind of work (like the one of Alice who is looking straight at me taking her photo) so the more we can collect the better, especially when the women are engaged in the process rather than being objectified as ‘women workers’. However, these photos were taken during the strike/lockout, so everyone is looking more relaxed and happier than they would have done if they had actually been working!

The covers of the two editions are different. What is the story of them?

Cover of original publication, 1982

I have always disliked the cover of the first edition because it is so misleading. So many of the women came from the Caribbean or Indian subcontinent, yet the picture suggests white women only. The first version was even worse as they were all given long blonde hair. I objected and asked for black or Asian women to be represented. The concession was to give one of them curly hair, but I think she still looks white. Routledge wouldn’t budge further. The portrayal of the line was also misleading showing the women facing it rather than at right angles to it, so contradicting my description of how the spatial layout affected social and physical interaction.

Cover of republication, 2009

So of course I am much happier with the cover of the new edition, which I chose and which uses two of my own photos taken in the factory back in 1977. I was surprised how well the original negatives scanned in especially as it was only a little instamatic camera. In fact these are much better quality than the original prints. So that’s a lesson to keep old negs in a safe place! Now we have older black women on the cover, as well as a very young Irish worker, suggesting the age and ethnic composition, and you can see the line, and all the clutter. The ‘product’ is also clearly visible, and of course this would not have been possible in the 1982 edition.

Photography by Stuart Whipps [http://www.stuartwhipps.com/]

One of the main concerns sociologists had in the 1960s and 1970s was how industrial workers coped with the boring monotony of their routine jobs, but ironically within two decades attention had shifted to how these same workers could manage without those very jobs.  Over the last three decades the industrial economies of the West — America, Europe and the UK — have undergone a profound transformation.  Across the world whole industries have been lost, millions of jobs have disappeared and communities are left wondering where to turn to for the next form of employment.  Traditional industries such as coal, iron, steel, and shipbuilding as well as light and heavy manufacturing have been particularly badly hit.

What has been the response to these changes? Well, for some, industrial loss was a cause for celebration, it representing what Joseph Schumpeter had many years ago described as ‘creative destruction’. Schumpeter argued that in order for developed economies to evolve successfully they had to rid themselves of industries and even whole sectors where they no longer enjoyed a competitive advantage over other nations. Certain types of manufacturing or primary industry could and should be sloughed off like some monstrous snake shedding its old skin.  This view was held by many neo-liberals on both sides of the Atlantic during the 1980s and 1990s.  Sure industrial change was painful but was a necessary evolutionary process.

Another strand to the response to change was resignation rather than celebration.  Like the neo-liberals there was an acceptance of the necessity of change; that the West could no longer compete with Japan and the so called Tiger economies of Hong Kong, Taiwan, South Korea and Singapore – little was said then about the threat of China. The shift out of traditional industry was blamed, or explained, by reference to the free market and the increasingly globalised nature of the world economy. 

Finally, there is another response, that of lamentation for the loss of industry and the particular heritage it imbued on places, regions and whole nations. As long ago as 1982 American scholars Barry Bluestone and Bennett Harrison wrote their seminal account The Deindustrialisation of America (1982). In addition to coining and popularising the phrase deindustrialisation, Bluestone and Harrison made the important link between industrial loss and the impact economic change wrought on individual displaced workers, their families and the communities they lived in.

During the 1980s and on into the 1990s one community after another suffered industrial shutdown, or were ‘Worked Over’ to use Doukas’ (2003) phrase, as corporations moved to more benign parts of the country or shifted continent altogether.  In the rest of this essay I want to reflect on the nature of this lamentation, or what some have labelled as ‘smokestack nostalgia’ (Cowie and Heathcott, 2003).  I am interested here in why it is that the loss of industry continues to excite the popular imagination.  What is it about the shift witnessed over the last three decades that continues to provoke and disturb us?  Why are we still interested in the evidence of the industrial past, and, if we are nostalgic, what is at the root of this sentiment?

One of the clearest consequences that the loss of traditional industry brings is a calling in to question of the sense of identity which was invested in an older industrial order.  Sociologists in the post war years were apt to light upon what they called occupational communities, localities that derived their importance, indeed their very raison d’être, from the industry located there. Although not a phrase often on sociological lips at the time such academics were discussing the sense of identity that both place and people enjoyed from a type of work. There was much speculation as to the nature of the culture which was formed by certain industries, coal being the most obvious example.  One of the reasons why there was such attention paid to these communities was the fact that this type of identity was seen to be under threat from various factors, especially the growing post war affluence which threatened to erode traditional working class patterns of behaviour. Away from academic discussions there was a wider sense that industry and types of work were bound up with place, and that the economy of an area was important in understanding its particular culture.  Thus in the UK the North East of England became synonymous with heavy industry such as coal, shipbuilding and steel; the Northwest with cotton, glass and chemicals; the North Midlands with pottery; and the West Midlands with light industry and the automotive sector and so on.  Within each region there was seen to be a distinctive cultural pattern formed out of industrial history and trajectory. Work then was both embedded in place, and place and the people were embedded in their work and industry.  Whole families across generations were formed in one way or another by work; socialised in the factory; subject to an anticipatory socialisation by the proximity of settlement to factory; community life ordered by the shift patterns demanded by employers, seasons or times of day.  The result were patterns of culture, class, language, attitude and gender relations with a particular flavour and nuance.

During the 1990s academics, journalists and other commentators fell on this shift in the economy and began to talk of an ‘end of work’.  This was the idea that a heady mix of globalization and new technology was eroding the foundations of employment.  Where once jobs lasted generations some now argued that shrinking time horizons meant that workers were lucky if they enjoyed more than a few years tenure. In his book Work, Consumerism and the New Poor sociologist Zygmunt Bauman noted that in the past: ‘… work was the main orientation point, in reference to which all other life pursuits could be planned and ordered’ (1998:17).  And goes on to claim that:

A steady, durable and continuous, logically coherent and tightly-structured working career is however no longer a widely available option.  Only in relatively rare cases can a permanent identity be defined, let alone secured, through the job performed (Bauman, 1998: 27).

A string of other sociologists and social theorists have likewise suggested that work, as a viable source of identity at least, is dead. US sociologist Richard Sennett for example talks about the Corrosion of Character by which he means the way in which modern work is marked by a dangerous short termism resulting in an erosion of the strong bonds between people and place, workers and their work.  In the new economy he argues a premium is placed on those workers who are mobile and detached, not bound to place.  To invest oneself in a community and embedded oneself in work is to risk stepping off of the career escalator.  Sennett (1998) suggests that relationships become fugitive and shallow both in and outside work.

While this trend in cultural and social commentary has its focus on the present and future nature of work part of this narrative is retrospectively critical of the idea that work once did provide much over and above purely monetary reward.  The late French social theorist André Gorz welcomed the collapse in traditional industry as a chance to rid ourselves collectively of an attachment to a degraded type of work which offered people little real meaning.  As he wrote:

Even in the heyday of wage-based society, that work [modern work] was never a source of ‘social cohesion’ or integration, whatever we might have come to believe from its retrospective idealization.  The ‘social bond’ it established between individuals was abstract and weak, though it did, admittedly, insert people into the process of social labour, into social relations of production, as functionally specialized cogs in an immense machine (1999: 55).

So we have here the sense that all work meaning and identity is being lost or corroded, and, or, that this type of identity was always a type of false consciousness, an industrial social chimera, which gave people the sense of community and place but was in reality nothing more than illusory.  It follows for these commentators that a regret for the passing away of industrial life is nostalgia in a very simple sense – a lament for a false history. I want to argue in contradistinction to this type of approach that it is possible to find meaning and value in the work of the past.  And that rather than simple nostalgia, if there is a nostalgia here, it is of an altogether more sophisticated and complex kind.

In his 1979 book Yearning for Yesterday American sociologists Fred Davis identified three distinct levels at which nostalgia operates – simple, reflective and interpretive.  At the simple level nostalgia is the largely unexamined belief that ‘things were simply better in the past’.  In second order, reflective nostalgia, a person does more than sentimentalize about the past, they begin to raise questions about truth claims.  Finally, in the realm of interpretative nostalgia the emotion itself is rendered problematic — a person will seek to objectify the nostalgia they feel. Davis makes the point that ‘simple’ nostalgia is actually rather rare in that few people would or could hold to a wholly positive view of history.  In reality nostalgia, when studied, is usually a more critical interrogation of ones’ memory, bringing to the fore critical questions about the past and the part one played in it. For those who bother to actually interview people about their experience of job loss and industrial change the idea that workers are uncritically sentimental for a return to hard traditional work is laughable.  But, equally, what many researchers have found is a willingness to reflect on what that type of work meant to people, and by extension, what implications its loss has for them.

In my own research I have spoken to many former workers from a wide variety of industries. What people always talk about are the strong social bonds which grew up in certain industries. Now at times this is taken to extremes where some workers, and miners are a good example here, say that the only things they miss are their former work mates.  In other groups there is a lament which goes beyond personal connection, one where work and its loss is grieved for[1].  There are many examples of this sort of elegy in accounts of deindustrialisation but I want to draw on two examples here, both from North America.  The first is from Katherine Dudley’s The End of the Line: Lost jobs, new lives in Postindustrial America, where she quotes two former car workers from the closed Chrysler assembly plant in Kenosha, Wisconsin.  In different ways these passages emphasise the ambiguity of working lives spent in hard blue-collar jobs.  At the same time Dudley deals carefully and sensitively with workers who have lost their jobs and who reflect upon the experience of the loss and the work itself:

The building itself is something I’ll miss.  That building is older than I am.  My whole concept of this city is that this city has been that big factory downtown.  When they tear it down, my whole concept of what this city is, physically as well as psychologically, is gonna be drastically altered.  It’s gonna be this huge gaping hole where this chunk of my life was…literally, just a huge gaping hole (Bill Sorensen, Tool and die maker) (Dudley, 1994: 173).

Another former assembly line worker speaks of the need to remember or mark part of her working life:

When they start tearing [the plant] down, I’m going to go get a brick.  I would just keep it.  My kids know mama spent fifteen year of her life [in the plant] working, and to tell my future grandkids about it.  You know, tell them that it was a place where we worked, and that when they tore the building down, Grandma went and got herself a brick.  For all that I put in there.  I figure at least I deserve a brick (Donna Clausen, Assembler) (ibid.).

Interestingly, Donna here chooses to remember a working life by the collection of a material object, in this case a brick.  It is almost as if memories and the stories they evoke are inadequate for the marking of a working life, instead a tangible link between the past and present is needed to elicit reflection, to somehow valid a story. We could say that the now redundant capital embedded in the brick increasingly embodies symbolic and cultural capital for those made redundant by the plant’s closure.

In Bamberger and Davidson’s (1998) Closing: the life and death of an American factory the authors chart workers coming to terms with redundancy after the closure of a traditional furniture factory in North Carolina.  The book is filled with regret and anger for what has happened to a loyal and skilled workforce, but to describe this account as ‘simple nostalgia’ would again be wrong.  As in Dudley’s writing there is an attempt to understand the contradictory experience of this process.  Interviewees do not remember work entirely positively, there were very real tensions over work, race, class and gender but if there is nostalgia here it is again of a reflective or interpretive kind.  There is here the questioning of what it meant to build a life through work and an exploration of the stability and dignity that such employment gave both individuals and communities. The importance of these accounts lies in their ability to critically examine the past without simplistically replicating a positive/negative dualism.  The workers cited by Dudley and Bamberger and Davidson are active agents engaged in real lives reflecting on change and its meaning.

At the end of Closing the authors’ chose to subtitle their epilogue ‘Does Anybody Make Anything Anymore?  While the chapter is a beautiful reflection on loss and mourning that subtitle, and especially the emphasis placed on Make, offers important clues as to what is at stake in this wider process of economic transition.  It is simply a sense that something tangible and valuable is being lost when plants close.  It is the sense that there is something decadent in the discarding of perfectly efficient factories, communities and individual workers.  These jobs meant something to the people who did them and that that fact is rarely acknowledge.  Often times communities are given too little time to mourn properly for lost industry, and are too close to events to understand what the passing of a way of life really means. There is equally disquiet at the process which leads to the export of jobs elsewhere in the world.  The migration of tangible jobs is mirrored by creation of new employment in the service sector, which often pays less than traditional industry, and is short term in nature. But there is also the sense that these new posts are in intangible sectors, tasks which could be done anywhere.

I want to briefly explore some of these themes through a reflection on Stuart’s photography. Capturing a spirit, a culture or an identity is difficult, and this is especially true in the context of an empty factory. The absence of work and workers seemingly offers little for those looking to understand what work means. But take a longer more reflective look at the images from the redundant Longbridge site and we see a far more complex story.  There is a poignancy in the hastily abandoned semi-completed vehicles left where they stand on their tracks – doomed never to make it to the next part of the production process.   This raises all sorts of questions about the last days, hours and minutes of the factory’s life.  Dig deeper still and we see in many of the images fragments of working life, such as a broken telephone in a dilapidated office.  Human touches are also apparent in the canteen area where a roll of material offers some form of potential comfort to the unlucky fourth person to sit at the Formica table and plastic chairs.

Photography by Stuart Whipps

Photography by Stuart Whipps

Photography by Stuart Whipps

There is though a more tangible sense in which we can think about work within this abandoned site. It is the way work and labour is embedded in the material surroundings and elements of the factory. While it is true that labour of some kind is always embedded in material artefacts Stuart’s pictures force us in to a deeper consideration of its presence and meaning.

Photography by Stuart Whipps

One possible explanation as to why Stuart’s images from China are disquieting is their impenetrability. There is a newness, a freshness to the plant’s resurrection in China. In reflecting on that aesthetic we find a difficulty in the reading of the present and future. It is almost as if we can understand a death, but find the evidence of an industrial afterlife somehow more painful. Fred Davis argued that nostalgia could only experienced if one had had direct experience of the object of sentimentalisation. In the case of MG the new Chinese owners make much of the marque’s heritage and embodied values – the car is, they believe quintessentially English. In building a brand the new owners are explicitly drawing on nostalgia for something that a new audience has no direct experience of. It is almost as if memory is detached from its host and becomes a free-floating symbol, rather than something rooted in an historical past. What is also detached here is the industrial manufacturing culture which created the cars and the people whose lives were spent making them.

References

Bamberger, B. and Davidson, C. (1998) Closing: The life and death of an American Factory. London: Norton.
Bauman, Z. (1998) Work, Consumerism and the New Poor, Buckingham: Open University Press.
Bluestone, B. and Harrison, B. (1982) The Deindustrialization of America: Plant Closing, Community Abandonment, and the Dismantling of Basic Industry, New York: Basic Books.
Cowie, J. and Heathcott, J. (eds.) (2003) Beyond the Ruins: The Meaning of Deindustrialisation, Ithaca: Cornell/ ILR.
Davis, F. (1979) Yearning for Yesterday: A sociology of nostalgia. New York: Free Press.
Doukas, D. (2003) Worked Over: The Corporate Sabotage of an American Community, Ithaca: Cornell University Press.
Dudley, K. M. (1994) The End of the Line: Lost jobs, new lives in Postindustrial America. Chicago: Chicago University Press.
Gorz, A. (1999) Reclaiming Work: Beyond the wage– based society. Cambridge: Polity.
Sennett, R. (1998) The Corrosion of Character: The Personal Consequences of Work in the New Capitalism, London: Norton.