La Trobe University
Imagine, you could put yourself in my place
Imagine, you have been trained in the Health Sciences as a speech pathologist where voice is classified as a species of paralanguage, as a non-verbal aspect of communication and, on a finer scale, as a non-linguistic appearance of speech. Defined as the ‘sound produced by the vibration of the vocal folds and modified by the resonators’ (Nicolosi, Harryman & Kresheck 1996: 254) the voice’s origin is positioned in and shaped by the throat and mouth of the speaker from where it emerges as an instance that ‘reveals the inner self’ (Colton, Casper & Hirano 1996: 2) and that ‘indicates what we are, what we believe, and how we feel’ (Sies 1987: 3). As a clinician you are deemed to be in possession of a normal and healthy voice and you are obsessed with the fantasy that you could improve the voices of others.
Due to a set of fantastic circumstances that open up possibilities for you that are not considered common practice in the Health Sciences you begin to read Derrida and start to relate to his deconstruction of communication as an intentional transport of meaning and to his critique of what he calls ‘phonocentrism’, a perspective that claims an ‘absolute proximity of voice and being, of voice and the meaning of being, of voice and the ideality of meaning’ (Derrida 1997: 12). You witness how these arguments turn your world as a voice scientist topsy-turvy.
As part of the deconstructive disorder that afflicts you through and through, you are not working in the Health Sciences any more but in the Humanities and you don’t teach normal ‘speech’ but academic and creative ‘writing’. However, much to your surprise, with this change in disciplinary affiliation and with this apparent change in subject matter the very notion of voice that you assumed had been deconstructed for good returns. This time it is sold as ‘that elusive, ever-present stamp of ‘self’ on a text’ (Mulvaney & Jolliffe 2005: 18), as ‘the writer’s particular and unmistakable signature on everything he writes’ (Carver 1986: 22) and as ‘some identifying tone or timbre that makes us conscious of the author’s presence, that lets us hear the person behind the sentences’ (Fulwiler 1990: 214). While it is regarded as an effect of language, the notion of ‘narrative voice’ as ‘illusion of a speaker-effect’ (Fludernik 2001: 623-624) continues to draw on the ‘concept of the ‘embodiedness’ of the voice as an unproblematic given, indeed a given apparently immune to historical change and transformation’ (Gibson 2001: 641).
You are confused and bewildered about the persistence of ‘phononostalgia’, this sentimental longing for a notion of voice as something that could be captured and known and that is controlled by the natural expression of speakers’ selves and you set out to find out more about it.
You engage in what Smith and Dean call the ‘reciprocal relationship between research and creative practice’ (Smith & Dean 2009: 1) and embark upon processes that are interwoven in an ‘iterative cyclic web of practice-led research and research-led practice’ (19-28). You produce a piece of ‘performative research’ (6) that draws on various texts that seem suitable for your examination: songs (e.g. Presley, Brel, Grinderman), films (Almodóvar 2006a & 2006b, Henkel von Donnersmarck), an ancient myth (Ovid), a play (Cocteau), material from the ‘freesound project’ and academic discourses. You get involved in the movement of fictocriticism and ‘make use of mimicry as strategic simulation and dissimulation, a performance of repetition in order, ultimately, to do something differently, to undo something, to make a difference’ (Gibbs 2005: 9).
Each time you listen to Phononostalgia you rewrite your notions of voice, writing, speaking, listening, communication, art, research, deconstruction …
In Hello? an inquisitive first-person narrator asks an imaginary telecommunications company to establish a connection with the human voice. As distinct from the ‘I’s’ nostalgic expectations that doggedly circle around the promises of scientific approaches to communication, where the voice is seen as something that can be located in the extra-discursively positioned body and that can be ‘measured through auditory-perceptual, acoustic, and physiologic means’ (Oates 2006: 24), the ‘I’ is informed that its request cannot be met because the telecommunications company subscribes to a discourse according to which ‘there is no science … which exhausts the voice’ (Barthes 1985: 279). Instead, all that is offered is an update of the caller’s auditory production apparatus from a system that has been confined to notions of harmony and univocality to a system that can deal with the irregular vibrations of voice as an ‘aisthetical event’ (279, my translation) and as an ‘atopical phenomenon’ (Kolesch 2003: 275, my translation). Because the human voice cannot help but move ‘between staging and perception’ (275, my translation), so the argument goes, it ‘resists systematic definition and classification and … eludes unambiguous localisation’ (275, my translation).
In the next step—instead of being connected with the voice as a knowable entity—the listener is exposed to an encounter with a fragmentary reproduction of Ovid’s version of the Echo myth. The myth tells the story of a fatal chain of events that Juno, Jupiter’s wife, imposed on the nymph Echo as a punishment because Echo had distracted Juno with a display of garrulity while Jupiter engaged in extramarital affairs with other nymphs. The punishment consists in limiting Echo’s ability to consciously initiate and control her utterances; all she can do is repeat what others say. This imposed repetitiveness leads at first to Echo’s rejection by Narcissus and gradually to her isolation, physical decay and to her disappearance as a visibly present subject. At the end, the nymph Echo is transformed into the acoustical phenomenon of the same name, into iterative vibrations of air molecules that can only come to sound as an after-effect of sonic productions that have been formed previously and elsewhere.
In a recent German anthology entitled Voice: Approximating a Phenomenon (Kolesch & Krämer 2006, my translation), Gehring reads the Echo myth as a case study that demonstrates the limits of that which ‘defines the voice as voice’ (Kolesch & Krämer 2006: 85, my translation). Based on a commitment to a traditional notion of voice as a species of communication she likens the nymph’s voice production after the punishment to that of patients who are afflicted by ‘echolalia’, a medical condition that has been variously associated with disorders of mental development, schizophrenia, dementia or lesions of the left brain hemisphere (see Hadano, Nakamura & Hamanaka 1998: 67). While voice in those cases is still audible as a physical phenomenon, due to the compulsion to repeat, so Gehring, it is transformed into a ‘foreign voice or un-voice’ (Kolesch & Krämer 2006: 90, my translation) that constitutes a ‘performative contradiction of the communicative function’ (90, my translation) and that produces a ‘parody of any speaking situation’ (89, my translation). The echoic voice is not a voice any more because it is stripped of its message function and produces instead a ‘parody of meaning’ (93, my translation). Listeners of this ‘pseudo-voice that … violates the saying in the speaking’ (105, my translation) don’t feel addressed because ‘in what they hear there is no “other” who conveys something’ (98, my translation). The echolalic speaker doesn’t ‘exist any more as the subject of their voice’ (101, my translation), the ‘trace of the self is erased’ (104, my translation). As a consequence, the echoic voice lacks ‘social extension’ (106, my translation) and is incapable of arresting anybody’s attention. The compulsion to repeat implements for Gehring a ‘communicative death penalty’ (101, my translation) that turns the speaker into an ‘automaton’ (95, my translation) that produces meaningless, distorted reverberations that cannot be distinguished any more from mere noise.
If we were to listen to the Echo myth with a deconstructive ear, we wouldn’t hear it, like Gehring does, as a case study of the gradual decline of a patient who is afflicted by a peculiar voice disorder that leads to her communicative, social and physical death as a speaking subject, but as a performance of what would happen to the traditional notion of voice in speech and writing if one liberated it from the tight grip of the ideology of communication as an unproblematic transfer of meaning and identity.
Such a listening practice could for instance be inspired by Derrida’s argument in his essay ‘Signature Event Context’ (1988) or by Butler’s theory of performativity, in which notions and practices of repetition and citation take a central position and pathologizing perspectives on ‘echolalia’ are put under erasure. As Derrida argues:
Similarly, when Butler theorizes (vocal) performativity as the ‘power of discourse to produce the phenomena that it regulates and constrains’ (Butler 1993: x), she emphasizes that ‘[t]here is no power that acts, but only a reiterated acting that is power in its persistence and instability’ (9). Instead of mobilizing the traditional understanding of voice production as either a natural expression of selfhood or a conscious and intentional doing, Butler reads it as a ‘process of reiteration by which both ‘subjects’ and ‘acts’ come to appear at all’ (9).
If thus, as Butler argues, ‘all signification takes place within the orbit of the compulsion to repeat’ (Butler 1999: 185), the binary opposition between ‘normal’ (=original and voluntary) and ‘pathological’ (=echolalic) vocal productions is displaced by an iterability that structures performativity in general and ruptures every and every body’s utterances. From such a perspective it becomes possible to make meaning with and to hear agency in vocal performances that emphasize the citationality of all modes of ‘communication’, the very form of utterance that advocates of the pathologizing perspective to ‘echolalia’ associate with ‘imbecility’ (Hollingworth 1917: 214).
Take as an example the reproduction of the transcript of a conversation between a clinical psychologist and a five-year-old girl who was ‘[b]rought for mental examination because she did not behave as other children behave, and was stupid’ (Hollingworth 1917: 214):
For the examiner the child ‘echoed automatically and immediately all the questions put to her, but showed no understanding of the question-response situation … [t]he questions were simply repeated instead of being answered’ (Hollingworth 1917: 214, emphasis in original). The Butlerian listener, in contrast, might hear the child’s answers as ‘subversive repetition[s]’ (Butler 1999: 185) that question the examiner’s gender binary and realist approach as well as her attempt to establish the hierarchy of power that is characteristic of clinical encounters.
As a result of deconstructive interventions into traditional discourses of voice and voice disorders we find that we are all afflicted by an incurable condition. Echoingly we encounter each other, producing the roaring stutters of reverberations of reverberations, constituting ‘a sort of machine which is productive in turn … offering things and itself to be read and to be rewritten’ (Derrida 1988: 8). While this cacophony doesn’t ‘realize communication … [or] the communication of what is said’ (Gehring 2006: 106, my translation) the desire for connection, understanding and consensus keeps us entangled in what Barthes calls ‘the shimmering of signifiers’ (1985: 258, emphasis in original), a movement of ‘dispersion’ (258), which is ceaselessly reproduced ‘without ever arresting … [its] meaning’ (258).
Empty voices make the soundest noise
While there are growing indications that the notion of voice must be regarded as thoroughly riven, it is regularly presented in a perfectly noisefree manner almost as if it could be spoken about unanimously (for instance in books that offer instructions for ‘freeing the natural voice’ (Linklater & Slob 2006), a ‘complete voice and speech workout’ (Rodgers 2002), ‘finding your authentic voice’ (Metcalf & Tobin 2002), ‘activat[ing] and listen[ing] to the extraordinary voice within’ (Conner 2009), ‘discovering the courage to free your true voice’ (Herring 2010) or ‘finding your creative writing voice’ (Matson 1998)). But how are we to grasp the idea of a word that is meant to unite notions of ‘sound’, ‘vehicle’, ‘faculty or power’, ‘organ’, ‘quality’, ‘utterance or expression’, ‘right or privilege’, ‘expressed opinion, judgement, will or wish’, ‘represent[ation]’, ‘word or number of words’, ‘capacity’, ‘agency or means’ (OED Online 2010) and that is used interchangeably with ‘stance’, ‘tone’, ‘style’, ‘persona’, ‘register’, ‘rhetorical power’, ‘ethos’ (see Bowden 1995 and 2003), ‘values’ and ‘beliefs’ (Fulwiler 1990), or associated with ‘control’ or ‘juice’—‘a combination of “magic potion, mother’s milk, and electricity”’ (Hashimoto 1987: 70, emphasis in original)? Despite the make-believe straightforwardness of its usage with reference to speech and writing, let me suggest here that it doesn’t seem appropriate any longer to consider voice as one word. Rather, it appears to be a ‘vague metaphorical term’ (Baldick 2008) that might better be reconstructed as a collection of homonyms.
Let me consider here only voice as a species of speech, and ask where and how it is made. Is it ‘produced by the vocal organs of man or animals in their natural action’ (OED Online 2010)? Are these vocal organs located in the speaker’s throat and is the voice ‘formed in or emitted from the human larynx in speaking, singing, or other utterance’ (OED Online 2010)?
Being confronted with the issue of the notion of ‘organ’ feels like entering a maze that seems to offer only theoretical dead-ends. If understood as ‘instruments’, organs count as ‘that which is used by an agent in or for the performance of an action’ (OED Online 2010), which directs me to the complex question of agency in voice production (I can hear a faint polyphonic voice whispering in my ear: ‘es giebt kein “Sein“ hinter dem Thun, Wirken, Werden; “der Thäter“ ist zum Thun bloss hinzugedichtet, — das Thun ist Alles’ (Nietzsche 1887) [‘there is no “being” behind doing, effecting, becoming; “the doer” is merely a fiction added to the deed—the deed is everything’] (Nietzsche as quoted in Butler 1999: 33)). If I take the word to mean ‘part of a … body that serves a particular physiological function’ (OED Online 2010), I face the problematic of the physical (in its various senses as relating to medicine, matter, nature and the human body) of which Butler reminds me that it must be recast as ‘the effect of a dynamic of power, such that the matter of bodies will be indissociable from the regulatory norms that govern their materialization and the signification of those material effects’ (1993: 2). If I take the short cut I am directly guided to an understanding of organ as ‘means of communication or expression of opinion’, ‘organ of speech’ or ‘voice’ (OED Online 2010) and thus led back to where I began.
It is remarkable that the function of the voice organ—as the place where the voice as sound is produced—tends to be (lopsidedly) attributed to the part of the body that is occupied by the so-called voice box, while the indispensable contributions of the organs of hearing to the emergence of the sound are left unmentioned. (I wonder, too, how the larynx is meant to put the vocal folds to vibration without the assistance of the organs of breathing and how all of these organs are meant to operate without the involvement of the nervous system.)
Even if focusing on the question of the contribution of the so-called auditory system to the making of vocal sound, the issue of phonation remains. In order to understand sound as an auditory sensation one must consider the workings of the outer ear, the middle ear, the inner ear and the central auditory system. However, even if we take into account the operations of what might be regarded as the key modules of the hearing process, we haven’t even touched upon the problematics of processes of attention, perception, consciousness, recognition, identification, interpretation or understanding that tend to be smuggled into the notion of voice without mention or elaboration.
The issue of auditory production appears as a complex field when considering its varied theorization in different discourses and when taking into account the diversity of words in different languages that refer to this field as well as the plurality of connotations that might be associated with them. In the German language there is on the one hand the word ‘hören’ [to hear] that involves references both to the verb ‘gehorchen’ [to obey] and to the adjective ‘hörig’ [to be a slave to] and on the other hand there is the word ‘lauschen’, which has etymological connections with ‘to listen’. While the former might evoke associations with the vocal politics during the Nazi dictatorship that systematically aimed at increasing the number of followers by medially constituting a community of shared hearing and resonance,  the latter is mostly used in a context where it is understood as eavesdropping or bugging,  which might call forth memories of the surveillance practices of East Germany’s Secret police. 
In the French language it is the word ‘entendre’, which means both ‘to hear’ and ‘to understand’, that received a lot of attention by voice theorists. As Derrida argues in his critique of the phenomenological notion of voice: ‘When I speak, it belongs to the phenomenological essence of this operation that I hear myself [je m’entende] at the same time that I speak’ (Derrida 1973: 77, emphasis in original).
Also Nancy refers to the problematic of ‘entendre’ when he asks:
According to Nancy, ‘“to hear” is to understand the sense’ (6) whereas ‘[t]o be listening is always to be on the edge of meaning’ (7):
Nancy’s theory of listening circles around notions of reference, referral and resonance. For him, listening means scrutinizing sound not merely as an acoustic phenomenon but ‘as a resonant meaning, a meaning whose sense is supposed to be found in resonance, and only in resonance’ (7, emphasis in original): ‘meaning and sound share the space of a referral, in which … they refer to each other’ (8). As he regards also what he calls ‘a self’ as ‘nothing other than the mutual referral between a perceptible individuation and an intelligible identity’ (8), Nancy argues that
When Nancy invites us therefore to listen ‘to something other than sense in its signifying sense’ (32) he invites us at the same time to become a ‘resonant subject’ (21), a subject who is ‘always still yet to come’ (21) and who is ‘perhaps no subject at all, except as the place of resonance … by which a voice is modulated’ (22).
Barthes distinguishes between hearing as a ‘physiological phenomenon’ (Barthes 1985: 245) that can be examined ‘by recourse to acoustics and to the physiology of the ear’ (245) and listening as a ‘psychological act’ (245), which he further analyses into three different kinds of auditory orientation: ‘alert’ (245, emphasis in original) or ‘listening to indices’ (258), ‘deciphering’ (245, emphasis in original) or ‘listening to signs’ (258) and ‘modern listening’ (258). The latter, so Barthes argues, ‘does not aim at—or await—certain determined, classified signs … [but] seizes upon … a general ‘signifying’ no longer conceivable without the determination of the unconscious’ (246).
Barthes understands ‘listening as deciphering’ or what Nancy calls ‘hearing’ in the sense of ‘adopt[ing] an attitude of decoding what is obscure, blurred, or mute, in order to make available to consciousness the “underside” of meaning (what is experienced, postulated, intentionalized as hidden)’ (Barthes 1985: 249). This listening appears as an ‘intentional act of audition’ (258), in which a subject seeks ‘the advent of a signified, object of a recognition or of a deciphering’ (259). His notion of ‘modern listening’, however, is understood as a
It is a listening that takes place in an intersubjective relationship, in which listening becomes active: ‘it assumes the responsibility of taking its place in the interplay of desire’ (258).
When considering poststructuralist interventions into traditional voice discourses the following becomes apparent: there is no self or information or meaning to be found in vocal vibrations. Without anything to carry, wanting solidity and substance, voices trail off in discordances beyond remedy. Understood as a structurally empty cacophony, the notion of phonation seems to me, however, as sound as a bell.
As distinct from its positioning in human communication sciences, in handbooks of writing and in self-improvement literature, voice appears as ‘a performative phenomenon par excellence’ (Kolesch & Krämer 2006: 11, emphasis in original, my translation). It emerges as an ephemeral event that cannot be fixed rather than as a given anatomical structure, a standardizable behaviour, a teachable writing tool or a core aspect of impression management tactics.
As ‘performance … for and in front of others’ (Kolesch & Krämer 2006: 11, my translation), the voice comes to sound only if it is perceived. As a transitory product of necessarily divergent listening practices it eludes the fantasy of an ‘unbroken semiotic, medial or instrumental subservience’ (11, my translation). The voice is neither suited for scientific observation nor for ontological contemplation and doesn’t function as a self-expression device. Rather, it appears as an unclassifiable movement ‘of a ceaselessly unforeseen originality’ (Barthes 2002: 34), as a contourless breeze that is always already slipping away from the grasp of the subject.
If someone came and asked me: ‘What is the voice, what is my or your voice and how do they come to sound?’ I might answer something like this: ‘It appears that neither the ‘objective’ voice as a general, universal phenomenon, nor the ‘subjective’ voice as an instance of unisonance that belongs exclusively to one person, can be said to exist’. What Gibson writes on the notion of the narrative voice appears to apply to the whole field of phonation whether it is approached from a scientific, a literary, a political, a performance or a performative perspective: ‘voice is a theoretical construction’ (Gibson 1996: 146).
The verperting megafəʊn [ðə pə'və:tɪŋ 'mɛgəphone]: An audio guide
The title for this section of my paper is the preliminary result of a process of excluding other candidates that seemed to me less appropriate when considering what the following texts might offer to Phononostalgia’s readers and listeners. Had I chosen ‘audio scripts’ such a heading would have suggested that the following could provide what is impossible, namely a fixed and readerly version of the ephemeral, writerly productions of the audio pieces that are part of my paper. Had I chosen ‘audio guides’ this heading might have evoked associations with the conventional understanding of the word as an audible form of ‘exhibition rhetoric … [that]—along with labels, catalogues, signage, and guided tours—support[s] the performative present of an exhibition experience’ (Fisher 2004: 49), while what is provided is a collage of written texts in the traditional sense that might lead the reader away from what they experienced as they listened to the sound. What are then the advantages of the above construction that mixes the conventions of writing and speech and that seems to emphasize the destabilising effects that it names? 
The chosen title can be understood as a rhetorical device that reiterates some of Phononostalgia’s deconstructive interventions. Instead of reading the following texts as attempts to capture or even correct the various sound productions listeners generated as they encountered the six audio pieces that are part of this paper, The verperting megafəʊn invites readers to ‘prick up the philosophical ear’ (Nancy 2007: 3) to what Derrida calls the ‘graphematic’ nature of every mode of utterance. It is the promotion of an understanding that not only writing but also voice and ‘language in general (whether understood as communication, relation, expression, signification, constitution of meaning or thought, etc.)’ (Derrida 1997: 7) has always already been positioned as ‘signifier of the signifier’ (7) or as non-natural, artificial or technical re-presentation or reiteration that ‘carries within itself the trace of a perennial alterity’ (Spivak in Derrida 1997: xxxix). As a consequence, the notion of voice is no longer understood as ‘the unique experience of the signified producing itself spontaneously, from within the self’ (Derrida 1997: 20), or as an ‘experience of the effacement of the signifier’ (20) because ‘[t]here is not a single signified that escapes … the [very] play of signifying references’ (7) that constitutes the graphematic in Derrida’s sense. Given the persistent popularity of phononostalgic discourses, so I would argue, it appears still necessary to emphasize that
The verperting megafəʊn as a collage of writings in the traditional sense and [ðə pə'və:tɪŋ 'mɛgəphone] as a candidate for a name that could displace the term ‘voice’ can thus be understood as attempts to call attention once more to what Derrida has argued decades ago.
Complex movements of irregularity and incoherence structure the relationship between the recordings that are part of Phononostalgia and the texts that constitute The verperting megafəʊn. If one compares the sound that one hears with the text that is provided below, it becomes obvious that the relationship between the audible and the readable is structured by divergency. Put in general terms: what can be heard is not the same as what can be read, and not all that can be heard can also be read and vice versa. More specifically, as the realm of the sonorous exceeds what we call speech, I often lacked symbols for what I recorded or mixed together. As a way of pointing at this necessary shortcoming I used the hash ‘#’ (a symbol also used as medical shorthand for ‘fracture’) as a replacement character for those passages of the sound track that didn’t lend themselves to being written in the empirical sense of the word (‘which denotes an intelligible system of notations on a material substance’) (Spivak in Derrida 1997: xxxix).
The use of text-to-speech computer voices produced another variation of discrepancies between the audible and the readable: as my computer offers only US-English text-to-speech voices, wherever they appear in a piece a certain choice of American English accents prevails, which inserts a ‘spacing’ (Derrida’s term for a process of separation from all forms of present reference) between what is often inaccurately simplified as my ‘German identity’ and the fictive construction of ‘my voice’.
By pointing out that I quoted exuberantly from various discourses and sources as I produced the audio pieces that are included in Phononostalgia I further highlight the pieces’ atopical origins and let the works I cite stage their own performances. Seducing the listeners’ attention elsewhere (for instance, on memories of the occasions when they watched a film, heard a song, or read a poem, play or myth) or to let that attention drift, the interplay between the different allusions in the text points beyond what emerges from the computer screen or the membranes of the loudspeakers.
By admitting that I manipulated my recordings digitally and that I edited the sound files over and over again I accentuate the pieces’ inextricability with artificiality. The text-to-speech computer voices in turn not only further complicate the question of authorship and mode of text production in Phononostalgia but also weave their own readings of The verperting megafəʊn into the air. In cases in which the written text includes words that aren’t part of the computer’s dictionary the voices turn them into phonetic and semantic productions with which they are more familiar. When, for instance, in Hello? ‘La voix humaine’ is transformed to ‘le voice humane’ a hybrid of two languages is produced that not only changes the grammatical gender of ‘voix’ to the (universal) masculine but also suggests an identity of notions of ‘voix’ and ‘voice’ and ‘human’ and ‘humane’ in a manner that appears both prescriptive and irrevocable.
The incorporation of material from the ‘freesound project’, a collaborative database of Creative Commons licenced sounds, resulted in a different interaction between written words and sound that transformed the paper in an unpredictable manner. One of the features of this web page is a search engine that scans the database for sounds that are described or tagged by the words one enters. Apart from being provided with various downloadable sound clips as a result of the search, each sound file is described by a name and several tags that are in turn linked with the database and related to other tags, producing an illimitable network of word-sound associations. Entering ‘nostalgia’ into the search field took me on a ghostly journey into the past via a homage to Judy Garland, a field recording of the productions of a Berlin organ grinder, to the halting melody produced by a musical box. While these sounds, in contrast to the dictionary definition of nostalgia, didn’t evoke memories of periods of the past in my own lifetime, they nevertheless brought tears to my eyes. Why this happened and what it might mean we can only guess.
David Azul (né Scheidt) is an Honorary Visiting Research Fellow at the School of Communication, Arts and Critical Enquiry at La Trobe University, Melbourne. Formerly a clinician, clinical educator and lecturer of speech-language pathology, David changed his institutional affiliation to the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences when he came to Australia from Germany for his doctoral research. As his PhD thesis, entitled The Intimate Life of My Voice: Writing, Sounding, (Gender) Performance, he produced a collection of theoretical essays, creative writing and audio performances that explore notions of (life) writing, voice, communication, gender, subjectivity, performance and performativity from a poststructuralist feminist perspective. David’s recent work has been published in Liminalities (2007), Forum Qualitative Research (2008), Creative Approaches to Research (2009) and Qualitative Research Journal (2011 forthcoming).
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Vol 15 No 1 April 2011
Editors: Nigel Krauth & Kevin Brophy