Ten years of tweeting

 

The other week I was notified that it was my Twitterversary, the anniversary of my having joined Twitter, which happened ten years ago. In the course of that decade, I have been a consistent if not effective user of Twitter, and despite the many problems and flaws of the platform, it has served me very well. For the occasion of my tenth Twitterversary, this blogpost is a brief reflection on how Twitter has helped me as an academic, and how Twitter can be a very useful tool to a young researcher.         

My decision to join Twitter was very much the result of my particular situation in June 2012. This was supposed to have been my final term as an MA student, and my defence should have been sometime in that month if everything had gone according to plan. As it turned out – or rather, as new source material emerged – it became clear that if I were to aim for a high grade, I had to take an extra term to work on my dissertation. The choice was easily made, and it turned out to be a good choice, something to which I might return if I end up writing a post commemorating the ten-year anniversary of my MA degree later this year. However, after two years of immersing myself in medieval history and absorbing a lot of details about various historical sources, I was filled to the brim with information, and also a bit of knowledge, for which I had a very limited audience. There were my fellow MA-students, several of whom were and remain dear and close friends, but since many of them were themselves struggling with their theses, and since some of them also had to take an extra term to finish up their dissertations, it was out of the question to lambast their already-taut concentration with a flurry of minutiae pertaining to my particular work. I briefly taught about Facebook, but because most of the people there were family and friends outside of academia, or at least outside of medieval study, I decided I needed to seek new audiences. The choice fell on Twitter.        

In the beginning I was a very ineffective tweeter. Most of my output was disconnected bits of information, basically just shrieks for attention, but within the first year I got in touch with a some very interesting followers with whom I could share and from whom I could learn about my own field. The medievalist community back then was still very fresh, at least so it felt to me, and the problems of trolling, dogpiling, doxxing and harassment that spring up from time to time, especially from right-wing corners, were not strongly felt, although it would be naïve of me to suggest that it was an innocent time.   

The predominantly constructive tone of the medievalist part of the Twitterverse turned out to be a great boon for me as a young researcher with some vague but strongly felt ambitions. One particular aspect that I treasure to this day was the Twitter account of the medieval section of British Library. While this account, @BLMedieval, is still running and while those who run the account are doing very good work, the two people in charge in these first years of my Twitter membership did an exceptional job in reaching out to people and broadcast their work and their materials. The tweets of the British Library’s medieval team garnered discussions about palaeography and dating, and as a young researcher who had so far only worked from editions and not from the manuscripts themselves, these discussions and threads became a great laboratory in which I could learn, test my growing skills, and be inspired to search out new materials. This was how I learned palaeography, and while my range as a palaeographer is still quite limited, these discussions and threads provided me with an opportunity I would otherwise have had to pay for through summer schools or courses, and this happened at a point in time where I could not pay for these things. My progress was also due to the infinite patience and kindness of established academics who suffered a young, at times arrogant, and often mistaken scholar in his attempts to understand the material. It was thanks to their guidance and expertise that I gathered enough comprehension to read, transcribe and publish an edition of the liturgical office of Saint Edmund Martyr as part of my PhD thesis, for instance. And that same help led me later on to join some of the pioneering work on medieval manuscript fragments conducted at the University of Southern Denmark, work which is still ongoing, and which opened up new avenues for me after my PhD viva.        
After ten years, I still do not claim to have mastered Twitter as an outlet or as a social medium. I am a prolific tweeter, but I have nowhere near the impact of people who use Twitter more effectively, or who garner more interest among followers. But because I write about things that interest me – both within academia and in my personal life – I have managed to build up a community of people with whom I exchange ideas and views, from whom I learn immensely much on a daily basis, and to whom I can share things. This exchange of ideas has been phenomenally useful for me as an academic, especially because I use Twitter in conjunction with this blog. As a consequence, blogging and tweeting comprise a joint laboratory in which I test ideas and get the pleasure of writing for an audience. Sometimes these things I write can turn into academic texts, or they can become part of presentations, or talks. Or, perhaps more importantly, these things I write are left out of future projects because they turn out to be either wrong, insignificant, or useless to develop further. Having that kind of audience with which I can discuss, and by whom I can be guided and inspired, has no doubt made me a better writer, and in general a better communicator. It is also important to note that this community is not solely comprised of academics. One of my principles in writing is to make things as accessible as possible for a widest audience possible. Fortunately, many of those with whom I share this community of letters – and images and memes and gifs and so on – are non-academics who take a great interest in the things I work on, and who very often have valuable knowledge about those things that they pass on to me.           

Having such a community of scholars, academics, non-academics and general enthusiasts has proved important for me as an academic, as well as a person. Friendships have been made, contacts have been established, help has been offered – for instance in the interpretation of a tricky manuscript fragment or a difficult Latin phrase – and opportunities have been given. Because Twitter has enabled me to connect with scholars within my immediate area of expertise, but also beyond it, I have been notified of, and also been approached about, opportunities for speaking or publishing. Four of my published articles, for instance came about because of notifications from, and offers made by, people I know from Twitter. Similarly, interesting research, new publications and job offers have been brought to my attention thanks to this Twitter community that encompasses such a wide range of people. And in the very early days of my academic career, at some of my first conference presentations, friends live-tweeted my talks and helped me reach a broader audience – a kindness I can never properly repay them.   
           
I am still tweeting, and I am still benefitting immensely from this community. Twitter does provide opportunities, but it is also important to note that the benefits of being on Twitter very much depends on the kind of community you are able to build, and with whom you are able to build it. There is no denying that Twitter can be a downright nasty, unwelcoming, even violent place, especially for marginalised groups. Sadly, also within the academic Twittersphere, including the medievalist Twittersphere, the polarising effects of social media have been exacerbated by recent political developments, a brutalisation of the job market, and rising precarity. While I maintain a community of friends and good acquaintances to whom I remain grateful for their interest and feedback, and while I keep meeting new friends and new fellow-travellers, there is also no denying that the nastiness and viciousness of the wider Twittersphere also affects members of this community. I myself am not significant enough to attract much bile, but it is a sobering experience to see masks fall, and to see people reveal themselves as bad players. This is an aspect of Twitter that must not be denied, and that is important to keep in mind as a constant caution, especially to young tweeters, or tweeters from marginalised groups.    

After ten years of tweeting, I have much to be thankful for, and I can point to much in my professional, and also my personal, development that has its root in the Twitter community to which I belong. I still do not know how it came about, and I still have no good advice to offer new members of the Twittersphere, beyond the general advice that always applies for life: Be kind, be generous, and accept no bullshit. This blogpost, therefore, is not about advice, but something akin to a memoir of digital living – an acknowledgement of what this particular social media platform has meant for my development, and a reminder that despite all its shit and all its darkness, there are pockets of good in there, where a person can receive much needed guidance and much needed comradeship, and also a much-needed audience for their bursts of nerdery and enthusiasm. I hope to continue like this for the foreseeable future.           


Post scriptum: The gratitude acknowledged here is directed at many, but especially a few individuals. I have not included their names here as I have not sought their permission to do so. But if you do read this and recognise yourself in my description, know that I am thankful, and that I try to pass on what I received.

For Oslo Pride 2022

 
Two days ago, two people were killed and many were injured in a mass shooting here in Oslo, aimed at members of the LGBTQIA community in the city, and in the lead-up to the great Pride parade of 2022. The parade itself was cancelled, although a gathering of several thousand people have taken place in the city centre this evening. The tragedy is a terrible reminder of the many undercurrents of violent homophobia that still run within Norwegian society, despite our years of progress towards a more tolerant society. The tragedy is a terrible reminder that there is still a lot of ignorance, hatred and prejudice, and that there is still a long way to go four both public and private institutions in order to ensure that our LGBTQIA friends have the safety to be themselves that they need and that they deserve.  

The book trolley with recommendation for Pride month
The humanities library at University of Oslo

Saint Olaf in Tønsberg, part 1 - the dragonslayer

A few days ago, I took a trip to Tønsberg, one of Norway's oldest cities. Located one hour south of Oslo by train, Tønsberg is nestled at the foot of a large crag called Slottsfjellet, Castle Mountain, so named because it was the site of a royal stronghold and, from the late thirteenth century, a castle. Medieval Tønsberg contained several churches, some of which I hope to return to in later blogposts, as their outlines and their placement in the cityscape - nestled at the foot of Slottsfjellet - can still be seen clearly today. 

For this short blogpost, however, I will focus on a feature of modern Tønsberg, but one which invokes the medieval past in a display of medievalism typical of twentieth-century Norway. The feature in question is a stained glass window in Tønsberg cathedral. This church was consecrated in 1858 and replaced the medieval Church of Saint Lawrence which by then was in disrepair. By 1858, the church was simply a parish church, as Tønsberg did not become a diocese until 1948, when it was carved from the diocese of Oslo, to which it had belonged since the late eleventh century. 

As Norwegian Lutheran churches are not dedicated to saints - since saints are not part of Lutheran theology - the common name for the new church was Tønsberg church, and now Tønsberg cathedral. However, the fact that this new church had a medieval predecessor and thus participates in a historical continuum is marked and even celebrated. Outside the cathedral is a model of the Church of Saint Lawrence, and a plaque containing information about this medieval church which colloquially is referred to as "Lavranskirken", Lavrans being the Norwegian name for Lawrence. 

The awareness of the medieval past of the current church is also marked by a series of stained glass windows made in 1939 by the glazier Per Vigeland, nephew of the more famous Gustav Vigeland whose statues are given their own park in Oslo. The nave of the cathedral contains a series of impressive medievalesque windows, each of which contains a religious figure. Most of these figures are apostles and prophets, in keeping with the constrictions of Lutheran iconography, and of course the Virgin Mary. However, some windows also include the saints to whom churches were dedicated in medieval Tønsberg. Aside from Saint Lawrence, the medieval city also included churches dedicated to the Virgin Mary, Michael the Archangel, the apostle Peter, and Olaf. While Mary and Peter could easily fit into the iconographic scheme of the Lutheran parish church, and while Michael at least would be accepted, the choice to also include Lawrence and Olaf in the array of stained glass windows point to a conscious desire to invoke and connect with the medieval past.   

SS Olaf and Thomas in Tønsberg Cathedral 
Made by Per Vigeland in 1939

While there are interesting analyses to be made of all the Tønsberg saints as depicted in glass in the cathedral, I here want to focus on the figure of Saint Olaf. Since he also was a historical king who is given the credit for finalising the conversion of the Norwegians to Christianity - a claim that is rightly challenged in modern scholarship - Olaf is one of those saints who can be found in Lutheran iconography despite the general unbelief in the cult of saints. When Olaf does appear in church art, he is often, as in the case of Tønsberg cathedral, called Saint Olaf, or otherwise Olaf the Holy, which creates a kind of cognitive dissonance that testifies to the importance of Olaf in the historical imagination of the Norwegian Lutheran establishment. To put it differently, the place of Olaf in Norwegian history has ensured him a degree of veneration that circumvents the scepticism towards saintly figures. 

Per Vigeland's depiction of Olaf is interesting not only because of its circumvention of Lutheran standards, but also because of how it connects with and builds on the medieval iconography of Saint Olaf. In the stained glass window, Olaf is seen holding the axe and the royal orb which are typical attributes in medieval renditions. Moreover, he is standing on a dragon, which is a common feature of several paintings and sculptures, although sometimes he stands on a human figure rather than a dragon. In these two aspects, Vigeland's Olaf is very medieval. However, Vigeland has also departed from the medieval models by making Olaf's attention being drawn to the dragon on which he stands. In medieval images, Olaf shows no concern regarding the dragon or the enemy that he has trampled underfoot, but instead the saint stares serenely ahead, his gaze attentive to other matters, such as those who come to venerate him.

In the Tønsberg window cycle, however, Olaf raises the axe as if to strike and pulls the royal orb towards himself as if to keep it out of reach of the enemy, a pose that suggests the dragon is not yet defeated, even though its visible eye is closed. In addition, we see that the dragon is engulfed in flames, which might serve as an allusion to the hellfire to which Saint Michael pushes the satanic dragon in another of Vigeland's window. Olaf is, in other words, depicted as a dragonslayer in a way that builds on, but also breaks with, medieval iconographic tradition. Whereas medieval images showed Olaf having conquered the enemy - be it man or beast, or beast with the head of a man - this modern rendition shows the moment before this victorious pose. 

What we see in Per Vigeland's depiction of Saint Olaf is, in other words, an excellent example of how medieval iconography still impacts modern iconography, and how the figure of Saint Olaf is imagined in a way that has roots stretching all the way back to the Middle Ages. Vigeland's image of the Norwegian saint-king is a clear case of medievalism, where the medieval tradition, the medieval iconography and medieval history is invoked and used as the basis for a modern artistic expression. We can only speculate as to why Vigeland chose to depart from the medieval standard depictions, and it is possible that the answer can be found in Vigeland's contemporary context. But I know too little about Vigeland's view of the world to hazard a speculative analysis here.     

  
 

Saint Alban in Odense, part 2 - is it medievalism?

 
Today is the feast of Saint Alban, protomartyr of Britain. Last year on this date, I wrote a blogpost addressing some aspects of the cult of Saint Alban in Odense, Denmark, which became the centre of a local cult when King Knud IV (r.1080-86), later Saint Knud Rex, brought the relics of Alban from England to the episcopal church in Odense, dedicated to Saint Alban and the Virgin Mary.

Since Scandinavia was extensively Christianised from England, the presence of the cult of Saint Alban in various places – such as Selja in Norway and Odense in Denmark – is not surprising. What makes Odense a somewhat special case, however, is that the cult seems to have enjoyed some longevity, and even cast shadows into the postmedieval period. It is one of these shadows that I will talk about briefly in this year’s Saint Alban blogpost.

One of the dominant features of Odense’s cityscape is the brewery, founded in 1859, located close to the river and situated within the old medieval city centre. The name of this brewery is Albani bryggeri, Alban’s brewery, a name that originates in the medieval veneration of Saint Alban in Odense. At first glance, this appears to be a form of medievalism, i.e., the conscious employment of elements or references that invoke the medieval past, often for purposes of catching the attention of a specific audience. In Scandinavian cities and towns, such invocations of the medieval past is very common, and form a part of the local identity-construction. One other example related to Saint Alban in Odense is the Catholic parish church of Saint Alban’s, consecrated in 1908, which effectively serves as a modern reiteration of now-lost medieval church. But that is for another blogpost.       

The reference to Saint Alban embedded into the name of Albani brewery in Odense was one of several cases of medievalism pertaining to saints that I compiled in preparation for a talk back in 2020. Eventually, however, as I was forced to sharpen my definitions of what actually constitutes medievalism in a modern urban setting, I came to doubt my initial classifications. I now firmly believe that despite its undeniable medieval origin, the reference to Saint Alban in Albani brewery is not a case of medievalism.   

The Albani breweries in Odense
Photo by Kåre Thor Olsen
Courtesy of Wikimedia

For something to be classified as medievalism, the invocation of the medieval past must be deliberate and serve in some way to promote the entity that employs that invocation. If the entity in question is a city, the invocation of the medieval past serves to formulate a connection between the modern city and its history, emphasising its longevity, imbuing the city with an aura of age or authenticity. If the entity is an institution, for instance a commercial enterprise, the purpose might be to entice the audience, its customers, to connect with the medieval past in some way through the product sold by the institution in question. Whether that connection to the medieval past is in any way real or substantial is irrelevant, it is enough that the connection appeals to the consumer’s fascination for the medieval past, creating a touchstone that allows the consumer to imagine themselves as a latter-day iteration of whatever medieval element is being employed. For instance, I recently bought a pair of shoes called Viking, which evidently aims at buyers who will feel like latter-day Vikings by virtue of the brand name.           

Considering this definition of medievalism, can we consider the reference to Saint Alban in Albani brewery to be medievalism? The answer is no, because the medieval past is not being invoked in the name, nor is it invoked in the product or its iconography. The logo of the brewery is simply its name, Albani, with a crown atop the A and a four-pointed star atop the i. For a medievalist familiar with the iconography of saints and perhaps blinded by their own topic, it is absolutely possible to see this meagre iconography as alluding to the British protomartyr. One could suggest that the crown refers to the martyr crown bestowed on all those who died for the cause of Christ, and the star could be read as a reference to how Alban was the lamp of faith for the British, as stated in his liturgical office. But such interpretations would be erroneous and anachronistic.     

The logo of the Albani breweries
Courtesy of Wikimedia

Albani brewery was established in 1859, a time when there was a rising Catholic minority in Denmark, but a time when Denmark was still overwhelmingly and staunchly Protestant. And in the unlikely event if there was any widespread knowledge of Alban as a saint of local importance, it is even more unlikely that this knowledge would have been a useful point of reference to attract customers. Moreover, the crown and the star in the logo does not appear to have been common until around 1950 – judging from a gallery of old photos available at the brewery’s website – and such basic signs are too common to be connected to a figure whose life and cult would probably not have resonated with the populace. After all, if the figure of Saint Alban had been an integral part of the brewery’s marketing strategy, the notable absence of the saint himself would make little sense.     

The explanation of the name Albani does stem from the medieval cult of Saint Alban, but not directly, and therefore the name of the brewery is not a case of medievalism. The name is most likely a consequence of the brewery’s placement within the city space, next to Albani gade (Alban’s street), which runs into Albani torv, or Alban’s square. The square and the street, however, do refer to the now-lost medieval church, and it is possible that these names –postmedieval in origin – can be construed as a form of medievalism, since they invoke a medieval structure. I am still not sure about this, however, and the present blogpost is part of my attempt to make a decision on the matter.    

While the street and the square might be seen as forms of medievalism, the name of the brewery seems to be a simple case of geolocational convenience, the name mapped the brewery onto the cityscape. The name Albani is, in other words, intended to grab the attention of its audience. But the tool for grabbing the attention is not an invocation of the medieval past, but a play on the local knowledge of the customers, and its belonging within an urban scene and within the municipality of Odense. But even though the name stems from a medieval point of reference, this in irrelevant to the way that the brewery places itself towards its audience. And for this reason, I argue that we cannot find in Albani brewery a conscious invocation of the medieval past, and therefore no form of medievalism.