Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Imperative reading

When governments want people to adopt a new behavior without going so far as to require it, they build campaigns of public persuasion using familiar tools, some from the high shelf and some from the low. None is quite so flattering to the citizenry as the appeal to reason. By imagining that people will adopt a behavior if only its advantages can be clearly set forth, officials betray an endearing confidence in human rationality. No such delusion clouds the minds of private-sector marketers, who know that image and fantasy trump consumer reports every time.

In France, that most rational of nations, three campaigns of public persuasion now being waged forego reason altogether in preference for more subtle -- one might say devious -- approaches. All around Paris, for example, there are green plastic trash bags affixed to matching metal hoops. If such bags were to have a printed message in America, it might be "Don't litter!" or "Keep our city clean!" Here, the message is VIGILANCE, PROPRETÉ (vigilance, cleanliness). The call to vigilance, all too familiar at home, alas, is in prominent sight in public transit corridors, where the slogan is Attentifs ensemble! ("Alert together!"). But it's the association of vigilance with propreté on the garbage bags which is so striking. It insinuates that proper disposal of one's croque-monsieur wrapper, by increasing propreté, enhances security. Meanwhile, those who leave their wine bottles under the park bench slide down this spectrum toward the status of public enemies. The foes of propreté become the targets of our vigilance. The bags support an anti-littering campaign, to be sure. But they reinforce -- is this their main mission? -- the association of the dirty with the dangerous, a topos dear to Mr. Sarkozy who promised, as minister of the interior, to take a firehose to a public housing project in Corneuve, and to cleanse France of its scum.

Vigilance, propreté

Propreté is the theme of another campaign's more explicit exhortations which appeal both to shared community standards and to environmentalist chic. Its two visually striking posters are targeted at those who denounce the destruction of rain forests and pristine beaches while casually degrading their own actual habitat. One poster shows a lush forest whose sylvan harmony is disrupted by the presence of a broken-down major appliance. "Scandaleux?" asks the poster. "A Paris aussi!" But if Parisians are urged not to leave their trash on the sidewalk, trash is by no means the most offending deposit. The second poster features an otherwise magnificent tropical beach marred by a steaming pile of what official French politely refers to, at least until the French official steps in it, as déjection canine. "Dégoûtant?" asks the poster. Is it disgusting? You betcha.

Really, really dégoûtant.

Both the subtle pairing of words and the jarring intrusion of the unclean into an idyllic landscape might be thought of as arguments, discursively more paratactic (relying on simple juxtaposition) than syntactic (articulating logical relations between words). But neither enlists reason, or invokes authority, except as an afterthought. Indeed, the extreme images of the poster campaign almost suggest the desperation of an opposition party rather than the authority of those in office. The campaign comes from the municipality, where the desire to maintain power makes its visible exercise too dangerous.

A reticence to exert power directly may lie behind the status of the imperative voice in French, and a third recent public campaign underscores this problematic. Signs posted throughout Paris show stick-figure dog owners walking behind their pets with little shovels and bags. What would the sign say in New York or San Francisco? "Pick up after your pet," or maybe "Please pick up after your pet," and very likely, "$250 FINE for not picking up after your pet." In the U.S., only a French major would hesitate to use the imperative, or take offense to hear it. Indeed, in America there is scarcely an order so overbearing that it cannot be adequately attenuated by the word "please." We may imagine thousands of recent letters: "Your delinquent mortgage loan has been foreclosed by your bank. In preparation for auction, please remove your belongings within 48 hours." Or new instructions at the airport security zone: "If your name is called, follow the two guards to the dressing room and in preparation for a full body cavity search, remove all your clothing and jewelry. Please."

In Paris, the poop-scooping stick-figure sign says, "J'aime mon quartier. Je ramasse." The equivalent in English defies the imagination: "I like my neighborhood, I pick up!" This first-person-singular construction is ubiquitous in the transit system. "I give up my seat for handicapped passengers," "I validate my ticket."

J'aime, je cooperate.

The phenomenon is surely a manifestation of France's historical ambivalence over the imperative voice. Where an American would say "Please connect me to Mr. Martin," a Frenchman could just as easily say "J'aurais voulu parler avec Monsieur Martin, s'il vous plaît" (or "I would have liked to speak to Mr. Martin, please."). Upon arrival at the terminus, Messieurs et mesdames les passagers are beseeched ("priés") to descend from the railway car. Public signage in French virtually never uses the imperative, but prefers instead an infinitive construction: ne pas se pencher au-dehors, prière de ne pas fumer. The exception which best proves the rule is the archaic veuillez, from the verb vouloir meaning to want. It is used in the most polite of all the evasions of the imperative: "Veuillez aggréer mes sentiments distingués," literally: please deign to accept my distinguished sentiments -- a formal way of closing a letter. In most of the circumlocutions, "you" are not mentioned at all, not even invoked by the verb form. In the formal, public sphere, it is simply too assertive to give orders; the imperative is a raw power grab, in poor taste, inadmissible.

But what to make of the new first-person-singular imperative? "J'aime mon quartier je ramasse" sounds at once patronizing and eerily invasive, as though the thoughts I should be having are being supplied for me, pre-configured for immediate playback in my head, a free download and auto-install from any billboard. This approach seems utterly unfathomable. Did someone think that an indoctrination campaign would be less coercive than a direct instruction?

Mesdames et messieurs my readers are kindly entreated to respond with evidence, contrary and/or supporting, interpretation, perspective, and further cross-cultural notes, while deigning to accept the expression of my sincere respects.


Added after original post:

From Geneva, thanks to alert reader/traveller Janelle Olmer, this amazing sidewalk mosaic:

Wha...?

Ok, now that I've caught my breath, I have three questions.

1. Which explanation is the more absurd: that the municipality of Geneva is installing hand-laid mosaics at dog-eye level around the city, or that a crazed zealot with a closet of ruined shoes has painstakingly crafted this installation?

2. Why is the dog's front left paw mangled, and was his injury the consequence of an infraction?

3. Finally, is the dog pointing to France?

1 Comments:

Blogger amerune said...

A Google search turns up a second mosaic in this series, evidently by the same... artist.

3:28 AM  

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