text:
\subsection*{\textbf{The change in the average intensity of ionizing continuum.}}
For a typical high luminosity quasar, we assume that $\ifmmode M_{\rm BH} \else $M_{\rm BH}$\fi=10^9\msun$
, $M_{i}=-26$, the relaxation timescale $\tau = 200$ days, and the value of the structure function
at infinity $\rm SF_{\infty}=0.2$ mag~\cite{macleod2010}.
As shown in Supplementary Figure 1, we generate a light curve at 1500\AA~
from the damped random walk (DRW) model\cite{kelly2009, kozlowski2009, guo2017},
using the Python package astroML\cite{kelly2009}.
The time interval between a pair of observations is assumed to be 30 days.
The change in the average intensity of ionizing continuum (averaged over a recombination
timescale $t_{r}$ before the observation) over the 100 days is obviously smaller than that of 10 days.
In general, the change in the average intensity of ionizing continuum between a pair of observations decreases
when the $t_{r}$ of gas is increased (panel \textbf{b} of Supplementary Figure 1).
In principle, the change in the average intensity of ionizing continuum can be ignored when
the $t_{r}$ is longer than the time interval between a pair of observations.

\subsection*{\textbf{BAL Quasar Sample.}}
We merge the BAL quasar catalog of SDSS data release 7 (DR7)\cite{shen2011}
and that of DR12\cite{paris2017}.
Then we compare this catalog with SDSS data release 14 (DR14) and select quasars with multiple spectroscopic observations.
To investigate the variability of the \CIV~ BAL trough, we adopt a redshift cut ($1.9 < z < 4.7$).
To ensure detection of major absorption lines, we only keep quasars with at least one spectrum with signal to noise (S/N) at
SDSS $g$ band greater than 10.
After these cuts, we obtain a sample of 1728 BAL quasars with spectra taken at two or more epochs.
For each quasar with $m$ ($m \ge 2$) spectra, there are $C^2_m = m(m-1)/2$ spectral pairs.
Then, there are total 9772 spectral pairs of 1728 BAL quasars in our sample.
The amplitude of continuum variation is defined as
\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq3}
\frac{\Delta L}{L}=2\frac{L_2-L_1}{L_1+L_2},
\end{eqnarray}
where $L_1$ and $L_2$ are the fluxes measured at the first and second observations, respectively.
The continuum (1500\AA) variation amplitudes $|\Delta L/L|$ versus the rest time interval $\log_{10}\Delta T$ are plotted in gray
points in panel \textbf{a} of Supplementary Figure 2. The distribution of $\log_{10}\Delta T$ are shown in panel \textbf{b} of
Supplementary Figure 2.
The distribution of $|\Delta L/L|$ are shown in panel \textbf{c} of Supplementary Figure 2.
The fiber positions of BOSS quasar targets were purposefully offset in order to optimize the throughput of light at 4000\AA,
while the standard stars used for flux calibration are positioned for 5400\AA.
This results in a large uncertainty in the flux calibration of quasar spectra in the BOSS survey \cite{dawson2013}.
In DR14, Ref.\cite{abolfathi2018} have re-reduced BOSS spectra and improved the flux calibration by
adding new atmospheric distortion corrections at the per-exposure level \cite{margala2016}.
We cut the $|\Delta L/L|$ at 10\% which is greater than the amplitude of spectrophotometric uncertainties of 6\% level\cite{shen2014}.
The $|\Delta L/L|$ distributions of our sample and the DRW model\cite{kelly2009, kozlowski2009, guo2017}
of a typical quasar ($\ifmmode M_{\rm BH} \else $M_{\rm BH}$\fi=10^9\msun$, $M_{i}=-26$) are consistent at $|\Delta L/L| \ge$ 10\%
(Kolmogorov-Smirnov test: $r=0.02,~p=0.23$).
These two distributions with $|\Delta L/L|<$ 10\% are significantly different ($r=0.08,~p=1.6\times 10^{-14}$).

As shown in black points of panel \textbf{a} of Supplementary Figure 2, to keep the $|\Delta L/L|$ flat in different
time bins, we only select those spectral pairs of $10\%< |\Delta L/L| <30\%$.  Among this sample,
there are 3686 spectra pairs from 915 quasars (black points). Through the identification of variable absorption lines,
1572 pairs (red points) of spectra from 432 BAL quasars are detected to have C {\sc iv}~BAL variations.

As shown in panel \textbf{a} of Figure~1 and panel \textbf{d,~e,~f} of Supplementary Figure 2,
in order to measure the fraction $F(\Delta T)$, the selected 3686 pairs are sorted
according to the rest time interval between the observations and divided among 38 bins. Each bin contains
100 spectra pairs except the first three bins. The first bin has 44 spectral pairs of $\log_{10}\Delta T <0$.
The second bin has 68 spectral pairs of $0<\log_{10}\Delta T <0.5$. The third bin has 74 spectral pairs.
We have marked the widths (standard deviation) of all the bins in panel \textbf{a} of Figure~1 and
panel \textbf{d,~e,~f} of Supplementary Figure 2.

The S/N of spectra may affect the detectability of BAL variability. As shown in the right panel
of Supplementary Figure 2, the $S/N$ of the spectra at SDSS g band is nearly constant in all time intervals.
The detectability of absorption line variability should therefore be approximately the same in the different time bins.
In addition, there are two factors that may affect the
BAL variability: the amplitudes of continuum variations $|\Delta L/L|$ and the basic physical parameters
of the host quasars e.g., the bolometric luminosity $\lbol$ and the central SMBH mass $M_{\rm BH}$~\cite{he2015}.
The BAL variability increases with the amplitude of continuum variations while the timescale of continuum variations
may increase with $\lbol$ and $M_{\rm BH}$.
The amplitudes of continuum variations $|\Delta L/L|$ and the monochromatic luminosities at 1500~\AA~are
almost constant for all time bins. Thus, the influence of these two factors can also be ignored.

\subsection*{\textbf{Fitting C {\sc iv}~BAL trough.}}
To reliably characterize the continuum and delineate it from the C {\sc iv}, \nv~BAL troughs, we use the unabsorbed quasar
templates\cite{wang2015} drived from SDSS Data Release 7 (DR7) to fit the spectra.
Following ref.\cite{wang2015,he2017}, we use a double power-law function (Equation 1 in ref.\cite{wang2015})
as the scale factor to scale these templates.

Dividing the spectra by the continuum, we obtain the normalized spectrum and then mark the
contiguous deficient pixels as the possible intrinsic absorption lines region\cite{wang2015,he2017} of C {\sc iv}~in
the normalized spectrum. The marked region with a width of $\Delta \ln\lambda\geqslant
10^{-3}$ (greater than 300 km~s$^{-1}$ in velocity) and statistically significant
than 5$\sigma$ will be screened as the intrinsic moderate to broad absorption line.
Finally, we exclude the false ones (due to an improper fit in most cases) by the visual inspection.
The distributions of the weighted centroid velocity~\cite{ak2013} and
width of C {\sc iv}~BAL are shown in panel \textbf{a} and \textbf{b} of Supplementary Figure 4.
The equivalent width (EW) of the C {\sc iv}~BAL troughs is calculated as follows:
$EW=\int[1-f_{obv}(\lambda)/f_{con}(\lambda)]d\lambda$. The integration is done for the identified
absorption line region.
The averaged EW for each object of the 915 quasars are shown in Supplementary Figure 5.

The normalized residual flux in the trough of a partially obscured absorber\cite{arav1999,hall2002} is
\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq4}
I(v)=1-C(v)+C(v)e^{-\tau(v)},
\end{eqnarray}
where $C(v)$ and $\tau(v)$ are the covering factor and the optical depth of the ion at velocity
$v$, respectively.
The oscillator strengths of the blue and red components for the resonance doublet C {\sc iv}~1548.2, 1550.8\AA~
are $f_{\rm blue}$ = 0.19 and $f_{\rm red}$ = 0.095, respectively.
This renders an optical depth ratio
$\tau_{\rm blue}/\tau_{\rm red}$=$(\lambda_{\rm blue} f_{\rm blue})/(\lambda_{\rm red} f_{\rm red})$
close to 2. Thus, we will use the doublet
components to fit the BAL troughs. The covering fraction $C$ has been found different at different
velocities\cite{arav2013,leighly2018}. However, for simplicity, we only consider a constant covering factor
for the whole BAL trough and allow the optical depth $\tau$ to vary with velocity. Note that our result of the C {\sc iv}~
column densities is a conservative estimation. According
to the partial covering model, we obtain a set of equations of $\tau(v_i)$ as follows:
\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq5}
\left\{
\begin{array}{rcl}
I_{v_{1}} & = & 1-C+Ce^{-\tau(v_{1})}, \\
 & \vdots &  \\
I_{v_{k}} &=&1-C+Ce^{-\tau(v_{k})}, \\
I_{v_{k+1}}&=&[1-C+Ce^{-\tau(v_{k+1})}][1-C+Ce^{-2\tau(v_{1})}], \\
 & \vdots &  \\
I_{v_{n-k}}&=&[1-C+Ce^{-\tau(v_{n-k})}][1-C+Ce^{-2\tau(v_{n-2k})}], \\
I_{v_{n-k+1}}&=&1-C+Ce^{-2\tau(v_{n-2k+1})}, \\
 & \vdots &  \\
I_{v_{n}}&=&1-C+Ce^{-2\tau(v_{n-k})},
\end{array}
\right.
\end{eqnarray}
where $\tau$ is the optical depth of red component. There are $n$ equations in total with $n-k+1$
unknown variables, where $k=5$ for a bin of 0.5\AA~in wavelength. Since there are more constraints
than unknown variables, the equation set has no exact solution. We therefore use the least-squares method
to find a set of $\{\tau(v_i)\}$ that best fits these equations. To account for the noise in the
flux and the uncertainty of continuum, the low-limit of the optical depth $\tau$ is set to $-0.1$
(corresponding to a normalized flux $I\simeq 1.1$). For most of the troughs, the best fit results give a
reduced $\chi^2$ around 1. An example fit is shown in panel \textbf{a} of Supplementary Figure 3.
Note that the optical depth for the case of saturated absorption must be underestimated.

After the troughs are fitted, the C {\sc iv}~column densities are obtained by integrating the
optical depth over the troughs~\cite{savage1991}:
\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq6}
N_{ion} =\frac{3.7679\times10^{14}\hbox{cm$^{-2}$}}{\lambda f}\int\tau(v)dv,
\end{eqnarray}
where $\lambda$ and $f$ are the transition's wavelength and oscillator strength, respectively,
and the velocity $v$ is measured in \rm km~s^{-1}. The C {\sc iv}~column densities versus the BAL EW for
the 915 quasars are shown in Supplementary Figure 5.

\subsection*{\textbf{Identification of the variable region of C {\sc iv}~BAL trough.}}
As described in ref.\cite{wang2015,he2017}, in order to identify the variation region of C {\sc iv}~BAL between
a pair of spectra, we first need to exclude the influences of the continuum and emission line.
To account for the potential variations of the continuum shape, we select the higher S/N spectrum of the
pair of spectra as a template to match the other spectra by rescaling it using the
double power-law function (Equation 1 in ref.\cite{wang2015}).
To account for variations of the emission line, we add/subtract a Gaussian to/from the
rescaled spectrum. An example of the fit is displayed in panel \textbf{b} of Supplementary Figure 3.
Compared with the unabsorbed quasar template matching, the
rescaled template matching produces a better fit
outside the absorption line region in most cases. As a result, we will measure
the absorption line variability from the difference spectrum.

We take three steps to identify the variable absorption line components from
the difference spectrum.
Firstly, we search for the contiguous negative and positive pixels and
mark all pixels where the difference is greater than 3$\sigma$.
we screen the adjacent marked pixels and connect them to form a variable region.
Secondly, we expand such regions into neighboring pixels which have the same
sign but are less than 3$\sigma$ significant level.
Finally, we merge the neighboring regions which have the same variable sign and
a separation of less than four pixels.
The confidence with which a region of BAL is assigned to be variable is defined as:
$N_{\sigma}=\rm \sum |\Delta flux|/ \sqrt{\sum \sigma^2}$,
where the flux uncertainties ($\rm \sigma= \sqrt{\sigma^2_{flux_{1}}+\sigma^2_{flux_{2}}}$)
of the two spectra includes the possible systematic uncertainties due to rescaling.
We perform the identification of variable absorption in the wavelength coverage from 1410\AA~to 1500\AA~
(corresponding velocity $2.7\times 10^4 \rm km~s^{-1}$~to 0).
1572 pairs of spectra in 432 BAL quasars are detected (at $3\sigma$ detection threshold)
to have C {\sc iv}~BAL variations.
As discussed in ref\cite{rogerson2018}, the coordinated variability in the troughs of different
velocities are also found in our sample. 464 out of 1572 spectral pairs are detected two or more varied troughs.
In the 464 spectral pairs, the varied troughs in 75\%(347/464) spectral pairs are coordinated.
This result also suggests that the BAL variabilities are likely due to
clouds at different velocities responding to the same changes in ionizing
flux\cite{ak2012, ak2013, wang2015, he2017, rogerson2018}.

The distributions of the weighted centroid velocity and width
of C {\sc iv}~BAL for the 432 BAL quasars are plotted as orange line in panel \textbf{a} and \textbf{b} of Supplementary Figure 4.
There is no significant difference of the weighted centroid velocity distributions
between the 915 quasars (black) and 432 quasars with varied BAL (Kolmogorov-Smirnov test: $r=0.06,~p=0.25$).
There is a weak difference of the BAL width distributions
between the 915 quasars (black) and 432 quasars with varied BAL ($r=0.09,~p=0.01$).
The distributions of varied BAL region widths for 1572 spectral pairs are shown in panel \textbf{c} of Supplementary Figure 4.
The number of occurrences of BAL absorption (black) and variable region (orange line) at different velocity bin are shown
in panel \textbf{d} of Supplementary Figure 4. The purple one is the percentage of BAL variability,
i.e., the ratio of the orange one to the black one.
The percentages of BAL variability increase with the velocities from 0 to $2\times 10^4 \rm km~s^{-1}$ which is similar
to the previous studies\cite{capellupo2011,capellupo2012,ak2013,rogerson2018}.
The percentage of BAL variability is roughly constant
(even a slight drop) from $2\times 10^4 \rm km~s^{-1}$ to $2.7\times 10^4 \rm km~s^{-1}$ which is similar
to ref\cite{capellupo2011}.
The variable regions are found across a wide range of velocities (mainly greater than $5.0\times 10^3 \rm km~s^{-1}$),
suggesting that our results of the outflow distributions are the comprehensive statistical study for the
outflow with different velocities.

\subsection*{\textbf{Simulation test.}}
To validate our method, we measure $F(\Delta T)$ from a mock sample of $10^3$ quasar light curves
generated by the DRW model, then estimate $f(t_{r})$ and compare it with the input distribution of
recombination timescales $t_{r}=10^{0.36\pm1.01}$ days.
Each light curve has $10^5$ evenly spaced points, with the time interval between two neighboring points
corresponding to 0.1 day.

In the mock sample simulation, we use the 1500\AA~flux as an indicator of the ionizing flux, because
the highly concordant variations of the absorption lines and UV continuum strongly suggest
that the changes of the flux in the observed 1500\AA~rest-frame UV correlates with the changes of the
ionizing flux (see ref.\cite{wang2015,he2017}).

We use the Cloudy~\cite{ferland2013} (version c13.03) to simulate the BAL EW variation responding to the
variation of ionizing flux. Assuming that the distribution of optical depth $\rm \tau_{v}$ in the C {\sc iv}~BAL trough is Gaussian
and the covering factor C=1,
we calculate the BAL EW curve as a function of the column density $N_{\rm CIV}$ at different widths $\rm \sigma_{v}$ (color lines in
panel \textbf{a} of Supplementary Figure 5). The measured BAL EW and $N_{\rm CIV}$ for the 915 quasars in our sample
are also plotted in panel \textbf{a} of Supplementary Figure 5.
The response of $N_{\rm CIV}$ and BAL EW to the variations of ionization parameters $\log_{10} U$
at the hydrogen column density $\log_{10}N_{\rm H}$ = 21 $\rm cm^{-2}$ and 22 $\rm cm^{-22}$ are shown in panel
\textbf{b} of Supplementary Figure 5. According to the observed negative response of C {\sc iv}~ BAL EW to the increasing ionization parameter,
we calculate the initial ionization parameter $\log_{10}U_1$ for the 915 quasars (black points in \textbf{b} of Supplementary Figure 5).
It shows that most of the initial ionization parameter is $\log_{10}U_1>-1$ at $\log_{10}N_{\rm H}$ = 21 $\rm cm^{-2}$,
and is $\log_{10}U_1>0$ at $\log_{10}N_{\rm H}$ = 22 $\rm cm^{-2}$. The BAL EW will respond to the $\log_{10} U$ along
each color line at different widths $\rm \sigma_{v}$.
The mean fluxes over a recombination time scale $ {L_1}_{mean}$ and ${L_2}_{mean}$ determine the level of gas ionization state
at a pair of observations.
According to the definition of the ionization parameter, we have ${L_2}_{mean}$/${L_1}_{mean}$ = $U_2/U_1$,
i.e., $\log_{10}U_2$=$\log_{10}U_1$ + $\log_{10} ({L_2}_{mean}/{L_1}_{mean})$.
Given the $\log_{10}U_1$ and $\log_{10}U_2$, we can obtain the variation of BAL trough, i.e., $\Delta EW$.
Furthermore, we assume that variation of a BAL trough is detectable if $|\Delta EW|$ is greater than a certain threshold.
In our simulation, if the detection thresholds are $|\Delta EW|$ = 1.3\AA~(for $\log_{10}N_{\rm H}$ = 21 $\rm cm^{-2}$) and
$|\Delta EW|$ = 2.2\AA~(for $\log_{10}N_{\rm H}$ = 22 $\rm cm^{-2}$), the maximum value of the simulation fraction curves
will be $\approx$ 50\% which is close to the observed fraction curve.

We compute $F(\log_{10}\Delta T)$ at values of $\log_{10} \Delta T$ that are spaced between $0.3$ and $3.9$ with a
stepsize of $0.1$. Note that the quasar variabilities significantly deviate from the DRW
model on the short timescale \cite{mushotzky2011,kasliwal2015}. And the DRW model can not generate enough large
amplitude of flux variability on $\log_{10} \Delta T <0.3$.
The detailed simulation processes are as follows:
\begin{itemize}

\item[1.] To produce one detection or non-detection of BAL variability, we generate a random recombination time $t_{r}$
from the input Gaussian distribution ($t_{c}=0.36\pm0.14$ and $t_{\sigma}=1.01\pm0.22$)
and pick a random $\Delta L/L$ and BAL EW from the sample of 915 quasars.
We choose a random mock light curve and a pair of observation times separated by the current $\log_{10} \Delta T$,
average the light curve for a recombination time before each observation to obtain $ {L_1}_{mean}$ and ${L_2}_{mean}$.
Combined with the initial $\log_{10}U_1$ , $ {L_1}_{mean}$ and ${L_2}_{mean}$, we can obtain the $\log_{10} U_2$.
Then the variation of BAL trough $\Delta EW$ is generated.
If $|\Delta EW|$ is greater than the certain threshold (1.3\AA~for $\log_{10}N_{\rm H}$ = 21 $\rm cm^{-2}$,
2.2\AA~for $\log_{10}N_{\rm H}$ = 22 $\rm cm^{-2}$), then we will mark this realization as a variable.

\item[2.] Repeat step 1 for 1000 times per time interval, then measure the detection fraction at each
time interval.

\end{itemize}

Panel \textbf{a} of Supplementary Figure 6 shows the fractions $F(\log_{10}\Delta T)$ and the associated errors measured from
the mock sample. We use the CDF of a Gaussian distribution (see Eq.~\ref{eq2}) to
model the fraction curves. The input and recovered Gausses are exhibited in panel \textbf{b} of Supplementary Figure 6.
The mean and standard deviation of the best fit parameters for $\log_{10}N_{\rm H}$ = 21 $\rm cm^{-2}$
are: $t_{c}=0.42\pm0.03$ and $t_{\sigma}=0.98\pm0.06$.
For $\log_{10}N_{\rm H}$ = 22 $\rm cm^{-2}$, the best fit parameters
are: $t_{c}=0.43\pm0.03$ and $t_{\sigma}=0.97\pm0.06$.
The parameters of the recovered Gausses are consistent with the parameters of the input Gauss within 1$\sigma$ uncertainty.
The agreement between the input and recovered Gaussian distributions indicates that our method is
credible.

\subsection*{\textbf{The ionization parameter $U$.}}
The C {\sc iv}~and \siiv~BAL troughs are both in our sample spectral coverage.
However, it is difficult to measure the ionization parameter of the absorber when the \siiv~trough
disappears in the noise, or when the C {\sc iv}~trough becomes too saturated to be measured. In addition,
the outflow may be multi-phase with a range of ionization states\cite{leighly2018},
as proposed by ref.\cite{arav2013} based on the analysis of far-UV absorption lines of the quasar HE 0238-1904,
and warm absorbers of Seyfert galaxies~\cite{steenbrugge2009, detmers2011}.
In view of these issues, we only consider a fiducial ionization parameter for all the objects.
Ref.\cite{wang2015} found that C {\sc iv}, \siiv, and \nv~respond negatively to an increasing
ionization parameter, implying an ionization parameter of ${\log_{10}}~U \ge 0$ (see Figure 13 in ref.\cite{wang2015})
for most BAL outflows. We therefore adopt the ionization parameter ${\log_{10}}~U = 0$ for all the objects.

\subsection*{\textbf{Hydrogen column density $N_{\rm H}$ under three AGN SED shapes.}}

To determine the hydrogen column density $N_{\rm H}$, we run a series of photoionization simulations
using Cloudy~\cite{ferland2013} (version c13.03). Since the gas ionization is insensitive
to the electron density at a given ionization parameter, we take a typical electron
density $n_{e}$ = $10^5~\hbox{cm$^{-3}$}$.

The photoionization of an outflow depends on the incident SED.
In this work, we compare the photoionization solutions obtained using three different AGN SEDs:
MF87, UV-soft and HE 0238 (see Figure 10 of their paper\cite{arav2013}).
The MF87 SED \cite{mathews1987}
is usually used to describe radio-loud quasars, whose most obvious feature is the so-called
big blue bump. The UV-soft SED is used for high-luminosity radio-quiet quasars~\cite{dunn2010}.
The HE 0238 SED is used to describe HE 0238-1904 ($z$ = 0.6309), which is a radio-quiet quasar~\cite{arav2013}.
In this work, the averaged value of the photoionization solutions for the three SEDs is adopted as our final result.

As mentioned in ref.\cite{arav2013}, AGN outflow gases have supersolar
metallicities (e.g., Mrk 279: $Z\simeq2\Zsun$\cite{arav2007}; SDSS J1512+1119:
$1\Zsun \leq Z \leq 4\Zsun$\cite{borguet2012b}; SDSS J1106+1939: Z=4\Zsun\cite{borguet2013}).
We therefore adopt a moderate metallicity $Z = 2\Zsun$ in our calculations.
Using the photoionization simulations, we obtain the relations between the hydrogen column density $N_{\rm H}$ and the
C {\sc iv}~column density $N_{\rm CIV}$ at ${\log_{10}}~U = 0$ (see Supplementary Figure 7).
Then, the hydrogen column density $N_{\rm H}$ of all the outflows can be estimated from these relations.

\subsection*{\textbf{The recombination timescale $t_{r}$ of C {\sc iv}~line.}}
The recombination timescale $t_{r}$ \cite{arav2012} of the C {\sc iv}~line is related to the electron density $n_{e}$ and the
recombination rate $\alpha$:
\begin{eqnarray}  \label{eq7}
t_{r}= \left[-\frac{\Delta L}{L} \alpha_{\rm C {\sc iv}} n_{e}\left(\frac{n_{\rm \cv}}{n_{\rm C {\sc iv}}}-\frac{\alpha_{\rm \ciii}}{\alpha_{\rm C {\sc iv}}}\right)\right]^{-1}
\end{eqnarray}
, where $\Delta L/L$ is the amplitude of change in the incident ionizing flux.
Using the Chianti atomic database version 8.0~\cite{del2015} at a nominal temperature of $2\times 10^{4}$~K, we take
the recombination rates $\alpha_{\rm C {\sc iv}}=5.3\times 10^{-12}~\rm{cm^{3}~s^{-1}}$ (from \cv~to C {\sc iv}) and
$\alpha_{\rm \ciii}=2.1\times 10^{-11}~\rm{cm^{3}~s^{-1}}$ (from C {\sc iv}~to \ciii).
At the ionization parameters $\log_{10}U=-2, -1 ,0 \rm~and~1$, the ratio of number densities of \cv~to~C {\sc iv}~are
$n_{\rm \cv}/n_{\rm C {\sc iv}} \approx 0.3, 5, 100\rm~and~1000$, respectively.

\subsection*{\textbf{Calculation of the outflow properties.}}
The outflow distance $R$ can be determined as long as the ionization state and density are known.
The ionization parameter is defined as follows:

\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq8}
U=\frac{Q_{\rm H}}{4\pi R^{2}n_{\rm H}c},
\end{eqnarray}
where $Q_{\rm H} = \int_{13.6~{\rm eV}}^{+\infty}\rm L_{E} dE$ is the source emission rate of
hydrogen-ionizing photons, $c$ is the speed of light, and $n_{\rm H} \approx 0.83n_{e}$ is the hydrogen number density.
Assuming that the distributions of $Q_{\rm H}$ and $n_{\rm H}$
are independent of each other, the distribution of $R=\sqrt{Q_{\rm H}/(4\pi U n_{\rm H}c)}$ is the product distribution of
the above two distributions.

If the outflow is in the form of a thin partial shell ($\Delta R/R\ll 1$), $\dot{M}_{\rm out}$ and
$\dot{E_{\rm k}}$ can be given by~\cite{borguet2012a}
\begin{eqnarray}
\dot{M}_{\rm out} &=& 4\pi\Omega C R\mu m_{p} N_{\rm H}v,\label{eq9}\\
\dot{E_{\rm k}} &=& 2\pi\Omega C R\mu m_{p} N_{\rm H}v^3,
\label{eq10}
\end{eqnarray}
where $\mu$= 1.4 is the mean atomic mass per proton, $m_{p}$ is the mass of the proton, and $v$
is the radial velocity of the outflow. Here we adopt the weighted centroid velocity of the C {\sc iv}~BAL
trough, i.e., the mean of the velocities where each data point is weighted by its distance from
the normalized continuum level~\cite{ak2013}. $\Omega$ and $C$ are the global covering factor and individual
covering factor, respectively. Following the usual statistical approach
for C {\sc iv}~BALs, the global covering factor is set to $\Omega$ $\simeq $ 0.2.

Combining Eq.~\ref{eq8} and Eq.~\ref{eq9}, the expression for $\dot{M}_{\rm out}$~is
\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq11}
\dot{M}_{\rm out} =4\pi\Omega C \mu m_{p} N_{\rm H}v \sqrt{\frac{Q_{\rm H}}{4\pi U n_{\rm H}c}}.
\end{eqnarray}
The $\dot{M}_{\rm out}$ distribution can be deduced from the distributions of $CQ_{\rm H}^{1/2}N_{\rm H}v$
(see Methods for details) and $n_{\rm H}$.

The accretion rate is $\dot{M}_{\rm acc}=\lbol/\eta c^2$, where
$\eta = 0.1$ is the energy conversion efficiency. From Eq.~\ref{eq11},
the $\dot{M}_{\rm out}/\dot{M}_{\rm acc}$ can be written as :
\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq12}
\frac{\dot{M}_{\rm out}}{\dot{M}_{\rm acc}}
=\frac{4\pi\Omega C\eta \mu m_{p} N_{\rm H}v}{\lbol} \sqrt{\frac{Q_{\rm H}c^3}{4\pi U n_{\rm H}}}.
\end{eqnarray}
The bolometric luminosities for the three quasar SED types are as follows:
$\lbol$ = 4.2 $\lambda_{1500} L_{1500}$ (UV-soft),
$\lbol$ = 6.6 $\lambda_{1500} L_{1500}$ (MF87),
$\lbol$ = 4.1 $\lambda_{1500} L_{1500}$ (HE 0238).

From Eq.~\ref{eq10}, the kinetic-to-bolometric luminosity ratio can be written as
\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq13}
\frac{\dot{E_{\rm k}}}{\lbol}
=\frac{2\pi\Omega C\mu m_{p} N_{\rm H}v^3}{\lbol} \sqrt{\frac{Q_{\rm H}}{4\pi U n_{\rm H}c}}.
\end{eqnarray}
The $\dot{E_{\rm k}}/\lbol$ distribution can be derived from
the distributions of $CQ_{\rm H}^{1/2}N_{\rm H}v^3\lbol^{-1}$ and $n_{\rm H}$.

We use the skewed Gaussian functions,
\begin{eqnarray}\label{eq14}
N(x)=G(p_1,p_2,p_3)\left\{ 1+{\rm erf}\left[p_{4}(x-p_{1})\right]\right\}
\end{eqnarray}
to model the distribution of $Q_{\rm H}$, $CQ_{\rm H}^{1/2}N_{\rm H}v$, $CQ_{\rm H}^{1/2}N_{\rm H}v\lbol^{-1}$
and $CQ_{\rm H}^{1/2}N_{\rm H}v^3\lbol^{-1}$, where the $p_{1}$ is the mean of Gauss, $p_{2}$ is the standard deviation
of Gauss, $p_{3}$ is the amplitude of Gauss and $p_{4}$ is the coefficient of skewness.

\subsection*{Data availability.}
The data that support the plots within this paper and other findings of this study are available from the corresponding
author upon reasonable request.

\clearpage

\end{methods}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaArXiv


Character Tier represents a broad group that all character fit into. This group represents a tier of general strength of a character to other characters.
Character Tiers represent a general strength of a character. Where as Character Levels represent the specific strength of a character.
Character Tiers are also in many game situations where a bonus or penalty is applied.
Character Tiers are heavily used in calculating a character's overall statistics.
A Character's Tier limits the strength of the items they can use.
A Character's Tier limits the strength of the Powers they can wield.
Character Tiers advance every 4 Character Levels.
Visit: https://fyxtrpg.com/build-fyxt-rpg-character/#CharacterTier for more information.
Power Points are the number of points any particular character has to use to create the Powers and abilities of the character.
Each character Focus has a different ratio of Power Points that will be available for that particular character. Balanced characters have the most Power Points, but their maximum they can use per Power is the lowest. Focused characters have a medium amount of Power Points, their maximum they can use per Power is in the mid range. Devoted characters have the fewest Power Points, but their maximum they can use per Power is the highest.
Power Points can be further modified through character Traits, Specialties, Fyxt Items, and even special GM modifications to a character.
Can I change my Fyxt RPG Character?
As a general Fyxt RPG rule, players can adjust their characters when they level up. This means players can change aspects of their character on top of the normal changes that come with leveling. This helps players adjust their characters continuously. Players can easily adapt to the game they are playing or to changes their characters as they evolve. When players make changes to their characters they should be limited to one thing per level. This would include; Traits, Archetype, Style, Focus, Specialty, Skills, One Discipline.
This is to show growth and flexibility so characters do not completely change when they level. However, the GM has final say on what any player can change.
As far as Powers themselves are concerned. GM's are encouraged to allow players to adjust and change Powers during any Full Rest if they feel they need to.
However, final say on any character is always up to your RPG groups GM.
Does downgrading my account lose my characters and other content?
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What is the difference between a Move and Traveling?
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text:
Ethnomusicology and Critical Pedagogy as Cultural Work: Reflections on Teaching and Fieldwork
Deborah Wong
[T]he curriculum is collapsing under the force of these contradictions, for it is no longer capable of dealing with the new power/knowledge relations that shape the subject.
(Morton and Zavarzadeh 1991: 2)
In this essay, I will explore some possible relationships between music, education, and cultural politics. These three things aren't put side by side as often as they might and linking them may, on the face of it, seem more appropriate to music education or ethnomusicology than to musicology or music theory. The very terms through which our disciplines have been defined make it difficult to think of the study of music (whether Western art music or beyond) in terms of cultural politics or social action, but I aim here to suggest that teaching music could be a primary site for such redefinition. One of the long-standing "problems" in music scholarship generally is its interface with the political—an interface often refused. I write from the viewpoint of an ethnomusicologist but believe these issues are pertinent across the music curriculum.
I have been working on a book about Asian American musics since 1993 and I have been ideologically affected by this research in ways that I could not have predicted at the outset. Many of the Asian American performers I spend time with are completely focused on issues of social change and many describe themselves as activists; they take it for granted that the arts are inherently pedagogical, in the sense that the arts carry with them the possibility of suggesting—that is, teaching—new social models. As a fieldworker/student, I take away a particular lesson from these experiences, which leads me to suggest that a more explicit intersection of critical pedagogy and cultural work could revitalize our respective corners of music education. These issues are particularly obvious in ethnomusicology because the politics and rhetoric of multiculturalism have been central to ethnomusicology's place in the academy for almost a decade. As ethnomusicologists, we cannot afford to shy away from discussing ideologies of multiculturalism as this particular social movement created niches for us in music departments in the first place; I wish that it were similarly necessary for musicology, music education, theory, and composition to address the terms of their ideological location within academe. My present research has convinced me that critical multiculturalism and radical pedagogy could converge in music education generally and, of course, such a change would have a number of ramifications. Ethnomusicology would no longer stand at the margins of music departments and, by the same token, ethnomusicologists' consistent marginalization of music education would have to change. In taking critical multiculturalism seriously and thus teaching from/by/toward a pedagogy of subject positions, the politics of difference would move to the center of our disciplines and could no longer be treated merely as a symptom of our times. In the spirit of pedagogy, I will provide examples of moments, all taken from my own experience, when teaching and cultural politics came head to head. Let me begin with a bad class.
Pedagogical interlude #1: Multiculturalism is good to hear
In 1993, before I had gotten very far into my research on Asian American musics, I decided to include a single class session on Asian America in my world music survey at the University of Pennsylvania. I had recordings by the pop group Hiroshima, jazz pianist Jon Jang, and Soh Daiko (an Asian American taiko troupe), but I also wanted to show that Asian American musics often problematize categories and genres; to this end, I played my students an excerpt from an album titled People of Color: Here and Now [see Figure 1]. I found this cassette in a used bookstore in Pasadena, where the store owner gave it to me saying, "I'll never be able to sell this."1 Containing only two songs and copyrighted in 1990, the cassette was probably a demo and is clearly a low-budget job. The liner notes state that all the songs were written, performed, and produced by a rapper named HAN. I still have no idea who HAN is, but I found the songs interesting because they were unabashedly political, with lines like:
We are people of color
we feel your hate
though we're trying so hard
to assimilate
Figure 1. Cassette cover, Here and Now: People of Color, by HAN.
I played the excerpt and then found myself looking at forty skeptical, embarrassed, and even amused undergraduate faces. It was clear that they thought HAN was pretty bad. Whatever he was up to, it wasn't "good" rap—and for these students, that superseded any other possible response. This was doubly notable because they had already learned the hard way that, in this class, they weren't allowed to dismiss strange musics simply because they didn't like how they sounded. We had spent many sessions talking about ethnocentrism and the cultural construction of aesthetics and had all "agreed" that our ears like certain sounds because we have been taught to like them.
Nonetheless, that tolerance flew out the window when faced with HAN. It hadn't occurred to me that HAN wouldn't be strange enough. My students were accustomed to hearing unfamiliar things in my class as well as familiar things (the blues), but I hadn't considered that they might require HAN to live up to musical standards they had long since internalized. Since then, I have met and talked with and listened to quite a number of Asian American rock and hip-hop groups that most American Generation X listeners would probably find acceptable if not excellent. On the other hand, I wonder if those examples of "good" Asian American music, showcased in a world music class, would make riskier points about ventriloquism and assimilation that would necessarily involve a different kind of discussion, still useful.
The longer I have been an ethnomusicologist, the less interested I have become in whether a piece of music or its performance is "good." Part of my disinterest in valuation is actively resistant: such qualitative judgments are inescapably rooted in modernist Western art ideologies that systematically remove meaning from social context and human interactions and instead invest it in artistic objects. I am continually surprised at how well my students, even those with no background in "the arts," have absorbed these lessons—that is, have learned to dismiss or ridicule on the grounds of quality alone, or are willing to abrogate their own authority to form opinions about a performance because they don't "know" anything about "art." The dismissal of artistic objects on grounds of "quality" alone thus doesn't go very far with me. Even to refer to these matters here forces one into a language filled with scare quotes, as the very vocabulary of the problem is a problem. A large part of any world music class is thus an exercise in providing ways to listen and then to speak about what one has heard in a manner that is informed and located. As poststructuralist theory provides the most trenchant vocabulary for speaking about contingent meanings, students in my world music classes must necessarily absorb theory as they encounter new sounds.
Every ethnomusicologist has experienced that classroom moment when the students simply hate whatever it is you just played. That moment isn't unique to world music classes, either: any teacher of a so-called (Euro-American) music appreciation class knows that the unit on twentieth-century art music is going to be a challenge; any literature or art history professor must at some point defend something that students find uninteresting, bad, or just stupid. Any "good" teacher knows that those moments of resistance are pedagogically filled with the most possibility—the most potential for intellectual breakthrough—and also knows that intellectual coercion is simply not going to work.
Pedagogy as cultural work
The traditional definition of pedagogy, or teaching how to teach/teaching how to learn, was focused on methods, i.e., classroom techniques that produced desired results. More recently, the field of education has recognized the implied reflexivity of the term as a kind of meta-theory or meta-teaching. It is important to note that this shift came about through a change in the very conception of what was worth teaching. Indeed, redefining the content of education has consistently led to changes in educational theory; I will return to this in terms of ethnomusicology. The hermeneutic link between knower and known has revamped pedagogy in fundamental ways. As the divide between theory and praxis came under direct scrutiny, pedagogy could no longer be maintained as mere method or technique. As the educators Morton and Zavarzadeh have written (1991: vii),
We understand pedagogy not commonsensically, as classroom practices or instructional methods as such, but as the act of producing and disseminating knowledges in culture, a process of which classroom practices are only one instance. From this position, all discursive practices are pedagogical, in the sense that they propose a theory of reality—a world in which those discourses are "true."
The shift in focus from classroom to social environment and politics as the locus of pedagogy occurred in the 1960s as Third World educators tried to theorize the challenges of deeply entrenched class systems held in place by autocratic political regimes. Working on literacy projects in Brazil from the 1950s on, Paulo Freire developed a revolutionary model of radical social action that he conceived as pedagogical. Author of numerous monographs, his classic study, Pedagogy of the Oppressed, was first published in 1970 and remains a primary text for activists committed to changes in social class structures. Freire's thesis was simple but profoundly directed toward social redefinition. First, he proposed that radicalization is always creative and liberating (1993b: 19). As he put it, "...the more radical a person is, the more fully he or she enters into reality so that, knowing it better, he or she can better transform it" (Ibid., 21). Second, Freire questioned the binary distinction between teachers and students, object and subject, actor and acted-upon. He argued that "Attempting to liberate the oppressed without their reflective participation in the act of liberation is to treat them as objects which must be saved from a burning building" (Ibid., 47). Third, he argued that knowledge and social action are necessarily joined: "Subjectivity and objectivity thus join in a dialectical unity producing knowledge in solidarity with action, and vice versa." (Ibid., 20). Arguing against an "armchair revolution," he proposed that an "authentic praxis" emerges from knowledge and reflection (Ibid., 48)—which led him back to his original thesis that political action must be instigated by and with the oppressed, not for them, and that radicalization is one of the primary results of education. Students and teachers thus "discover themselves" as co-creators (Ibid., 51), and are equally engaged in "the eminently pedagogical character of the revolution" (Ibid., 49).
By way of contrast, consider Erving Goffman's (1981: 165) classic essay, "The Lecture," in which he works out from this somewhat tongue-in-cheek description of lecturing as a socially-constituted performance:
A lecture is an institutionalized extended holding of the floor in which one speaker imparts his views on a subject, these thoughts comprising what can be called his "text." The style is typically serious and slightly impersonal, the controlling intent being to generate calmly considered understanding, not mere entertainment, emotional impact, or immediate action. Constituent statements presumably take their warrant from their role in attesting to the truth, truth appearing as something to be cultivated and developed from a distance, coolly, as an end in itself.
Obviously, the aesthetics and authority of the traditional lecture represent everything that Freire does not: it is institutionalized, impersonal, controlling, contemplative, and actively constructs absolute truth, whereas Freire promotes a ground-level, mutual construction of contingent reality.
The experience of fieldwork is often a formative experiential site for ethnomusicologists' understanding of how learning takes place. That is, after trying so hard to learn a new place, language, music, and values, those who do fieldwork are intimately familiar with matters of learning as translation and as epistemology. The translative effort of "understanding" a different culture is something we learn as young ethnomusicologists, whether prepared for it by our mentors or learned in extremis on the ground, in the field. The anthropologist Peter Harries-Jones has suggested that cultural anthropology is all too comfortably positioned in a circular process of research and teaching that maintains a certain educational ideology hermeneutically linked to colonial and imperialist epistemologies (1985: 226-27). Through the conceptual framework of observation, description, and analysis (borrowed from the natural sciences), "the intimacy of the researcher's dialogue with informants" is transformed "into a different type of interactive relationship through which informants become 'the researched'" (Ibid., 227). Those of us who have engaged with the challenges posed to ethnography in the past fifteen years routinely question how we come to know what we know in the field and how we might represent our understandings—as only that—to our readers. Jeff Todd Titon (1997: 99) recently described poststructuralist approaches as follows:
Poststructuralist thought denies the existence of autonomous selves. The notion of fieldwork as an encounter between self and other is thought to be a delusion, just as the notion of the autonomous self is a delusion, whereas the notion of the other is a fictionalized objectification
Titon worries that the challenge posed by poststructuralism "must be answered if the discipline is to continue "(Ibid., 98), regarding poststructuralism as a threat to ethnomusicology (since fieldwork is central to the discipline's methods). Poststructuralist anthropologists would counter that it simply resituates meaning away from selves to the contingency of relationships. Indeed, work by the anthropologists Clifford, Marcus and Fischer, Ruby, and many others have made this intrinsic to the ethnographic process.2 The entire practice of fieldwork has thus been reformulated—upended, really, from the nineteenth century, positivist model of data collection from which it emerged.
A similar process of questioning could be brought into the classroom, but we have few models for this and fewer still for bringing pedagogical models into our research. Fieldwork and teaching may not be, or need not be, terribly different in their methods and purposes. The model of a centrally located authority, i.e., the teacher or fieldworker, is abandoned for a processual approach that allows for the collaborative generation of contingent knowledge. Difference necessarily arises from these contingencies. Moreover, my research on Asian American musics has led me to question whether merely identifying sites of (musical) difference is enough. As scholars, we must also acknowledge that many musics represent agendas for social change.
The general refusal of the political in ethnomusicological work is related to methodological conservatism. Until the publication of Barz's and Cooley's Shadows in the Field in 1997, writing on ethnomusicological fieldwork and world music education were both focused on methods, i.e., rules and models for what to do in the field and in the classroom. The mutual emphasis on praxis was characterized by a near absence of theory and a large number of assumptions, e.g., you should bring a tape recorder (because you should collect) and elementary school children should learn songs (because singing socializes them). With Shadows in the Field, ethnomusicologists have begun to consider how praxis and theory are interleaved in matters of fieldwork.3
The interface between ethnomusicology and music education remains uneasy. Since 1985, the Society for Ethnomusicology's Education Committee has focused on getting world music materials published that are well-researched and appropriate for elementary and secondary school music education; several publications brought out through the Music Educators National Conference series were organized by members of this committee, and they are certainly the best such textbooks yet. Their purpose and concerns are clear: educational initiatives at the national and state levels have led to bureaucratic implementations of multicultural curricular content, but teachers remain largely untrained in this new content. As Patricia Sheehan Campbell writes (Campbell 1996: 2),
A single musical culture, Western European art music, is perpetuated through most collegiate programs in music. Yet upon graduation and placement in their first teaching positions, music educators are confronted with schoolwide missions to teach subjects globally and from a multicultural perspective. The canon of musical works they learned in their undergraduate studies do not often transfer, even in part, to the expectations of school personnel for music repertoire and programs. Principals, parents' groups, and the public at large who press for more culturally diverse curriculum have teachers of music scrambling for music they never learned and songs they never knew.
Tremendous effort has therefore gone into producing new textbooks with multicultural musical content written by experts,4 but virtually none offer any reflexive consideration of teaching praxis beyond the literal level of the extensive classroom exercises that are always included, telling the teacher "how" to use the material. Campbell, for instance, simply notes that "there are challenges to be faced in the selection, curricular design, and instructional delivery of these musical worlds to students" (Ibid.) The idea of "instructional delivery" is related to certain ideologies of teaching that are rooted in liberal humanism—non-Freireian models of the teaching process—that are decidedly similar to Western tropes of knowledge as a gift.
Pedagogical interlude #2
Mere contact between educators, students, and a community (often imagined as people of color) is often valorized as philanthropy. In December 1996, a small choral ensemble from my department performed at a community center in a working class Mexican area of Riverside, California. This neighborhood is populated by the families of laborers from the citrus groves once the foundation of the local economy. The chorus was scheduled to perform a twenty-minute work, Conrad Susa's "Carols & Lullabies: Christmas in the Southwest," later that evening as part of their annual on-campus Christmas concert. The music, dance, and theater departments at the University of California, Riverside were given a large grant by a philanthropic foundation to go out and bring their products to "the community," and it was decided by campus organizers that the chorus's performance of the Spanish-language Susa work would make an ideal bridge between the university and Riverside's Mexican and Mexican American community.
The audience at the community center was polite but reserved. Sitting in rows of arranged chairs, some community members listened courteously. Four or five middle-aged women, obviously friends, sat far off in the back of the room and chatted through the entire performance, continuing to use their center as they normally would—as a place for socializing.
The conceptualization of the event was revealing in several ways. First, neither the community center staff nor its patrons were consulted about the contact they wanted to have with UCR's arts programs; instead, they were offered the possibility of a free, packaged event, and naturally they accepted. Second, the student performers had absolutely no contact with audience members or the center staff: they went in, they sang their piece, and they went back to campus. Third, the event was conceived as only an event: rather than emphasize process or use the performance as a vehicle for creating contact between different social spheres, the performance was an uncontextualized moment, treated as a kind of dress rehearsal for the students' evening concert on campus.
Anthropologists arguing for a reconceptualization of their discipline as inherently engaged in advocacy have pointed out anthropologists' tendency to regard their published monographs as gifts, offered to the communities where they did their fieldwork in return for the time and hospitality extended by the members of that community. The fact that such scholarly "gifts" generally have little impact, use, or context for those community members is rarely acknowledged. Anthropologist Peter Harries-Jones points out that the gift "is always in the language and concepts of the dominant culture," and that the rationales reframing the monograph as a kind of largesse are "a mere extension of the principles of positivism and empiricism" (1984: 224).
The philanthropic foundation's patronage of the university choral group and their project of sending the chorus into the community center is, I think, ideologically equivalent: the performance was conceived as a gift, an unthoughtful attempt to bring the beauty and values of Western art music to "the community," with no attempt at consultation with that community and no attempt to address the substantial differences (of class, ethnicity, etc.) that constitute the university and that neighborhood as separate communities.
Pedagogy and/as performance
Freire's model for liberation moved out in two directions, both of direct interest to ethnomusicologists. On the one hand, radically revisionist American educators, exemplified by Henry Giroux and Peter McLaren, have extended Freire's model beyond questions of literacy into a sweeping theory for social change. On the other, Augusto Boal, also working in Brazil, translated Freire's ideas into theatrical techniques called the Theater of the Oppressed.
Let me touch briefly on Boal, because his performative techniques for "teaching" agency and radicalization are potentially useful to practitioners and scholars of expressive culture. An innovator of post-Brechtian political theater and practice, Boal directs plays but has founded his career on workshops in which he teaches spectators participatory techniques that encourage active engagement with the political and the ethical. Working with school children, laborers, neighborhoods, and university students, Boal's goals are an extension of Freire's (1990b):
The theatre of the oppressed emphasizes theatre as a language that must be spoken, not a discourse that must be listened to. It also stresses theatre as a process that must be developed, rather than a finished product that must be consumed. The theatre of the oppressed goes beyond the ordinary boundaries of theatre because it asserts the oppressed are the subjects rather than the objects of theatrical activity.
One of Boal's central pedagogical techniques is "invisible theatre," in which "actors" enter public environments such as parks or supermarkets and "stage" ethical dilemmas without alerting passersby that the situations are created. An actor's inability to pay for groceries might encourage "real" customers to take a stand on unemployment, poverty, and social responsibility while waiting in line (1990a). The goal is to displace distinctions between the real and the performed, and to instigate social action through performance—in other words, to operationalize the performative.
Getting from theory to action is the central problem of pedagogy and the driving goal in all Freire-related models. Henry Giroux and Peter McLaren have focused a large body of scholarship on re-theorizing American education, creating a "radical pedagogy" specifically directed toward the American class system and the obstacles it creates for education. They describe critical pedagogy as follows (1991: 157-8):
"Pedagogy" refers to the process by which teachers and students negotiate and produce meaning. This, in turn, takes into consideration how teachers and students are positioned within discursive practices and power/knowledge relations. "Pedagogy" also refers to how we represent ourselves, others, and the communities in which we choose to live. The term "critical pedagogy," by distinction, underscores the partisan nature of learning and struggle; it provides a starting point for linking knowledge to power and a commitment to developing forms of community life that take seriously the struggle for democracy and social justice. Critical pedagogy always presupposes a particular vision of society.
Giroux and McLaren are also concerned with the problem of critique as an end in itself and its implications for systems of reinscription. They argue for an extension of critical pedagogy into a radical pedagogy so that critical discourse "becomes more than a form of cultural dissonance" but rather teaches a pedagogical "language of hope" encouraging action as well as critique. They call for the development of a
theory of experience as a central aspect of radical pedagogy. This also points to the role that educators can play as bearers of dangerous memory. Educators can serve as transformative intellectuals engaged in the task of excavating historical consciousness [ . . . ] [and] can begin to link the notion of historical understanding to strategies of social critique and transformation (Ibid., 180, 181).
But even radical pedagogy is not beyond the reach of progressive questioning. Whether the teacher-student dyad can ever truly allow for student agency is a matter of on-going concern for educators working within the Freireian model because the model itself encourages such critical questions. Literary theorist Chris Amirault (1995: 71) reaches the conclusion that this hope is utopian at best and fantasy at worst. Drawing on Pierre Bourdieu's and Jean-Claude Passeron's Reproduction in Education, Society and Culture (1970), he concludes that even empowerment can be dictated and that "good" students simply reproduce their teachers' institutional and social authority:
. . . in any pedagogy, "good students" are those who are able to locate themselves in the pedagogical position articulated by the teacher's pedagogy. For example, within Freire's model of empowering pedagogy, the good student would be an active learner striving toward a critical conception of the world—but as any teacher who has tried out experimental pedagogies knows, for most students this radical pedagogical position is just as much an imposition as any other.
The Freireian pedagogical process thus allows for its own rejection by recognizing that a possible result of its adoption might be the student's rejection of the teacher's model.
The question is, why have the various branches of music education remained so untouched by these commanding models for teaching as social change? The redefinition of scholarly and curricular subject matter created new pedagogical theory: teaching the Brazilian illiterate—the class apparently without any "need" to read—led to Freire's radical theory. Opening the academic canon to ethnic, women's, and queer literature has led to new theoretical models for exegesis, and some might say that those new areas are the most suited for radical pedagogy. Meanwhile, the classroom has changed demographically before our very eyes and the entire theoretical environment, focused on difference, is beginning to make certain assumptions impossible; all this raises the question of when pedagogical tools should change.
Most recently, ethnomusicology has relied on models of multiculturalism for its reflexive framework, but this model too is fraught with problems and misconceptions—problems identified early on by theorists of so-called ethnic literatures. As the canon was questioned and then wedged open, theorists of non-canonic literatures were well aware of problematic justifications for their inclusion. One is the assumption that multiculturalism is only for or about people of color. Literary theorist Joseph Chadwick (1995: 31) writes that multiculturalism as an ideology
represents a productive attempt to find a coherent and nonoppressive way to think about and act on matters of cultural difference. Too often, however, we assume that the term multiculturalism refers fundamentally to issues of ethnic difference. I don't want to deny the importance of those issues, but I do want to insist that they be raised in conjunction with questions of sexual difference as well as of gender and class difference
Chadwick goes on to suggest that "We must take into account gay culture—or better, gay cultures—when we think of the questions summed up by the term multicultural" (Ibid.), and he argues that this then alters the questions posed by multiculturalism as well as the ways it is taught. Other problems arise around conflicting models for difference. The most pervasive form of multicultural content justification has been called "liberal multiculturalism," "conservative or corporate multiculturalism" (McLaren 1994: 47), and even "flabby pluralism" (Giroux and McLaren 1991: 177). This model of multiculturalism is founded on a liberal belief in the ultimate equality of all cultures and usually "locates difference in a primeval past of cultural authenticity" (McLaren 1994: 51). As literary theorist David Palumbo-Liu has pointed out, it is all too easy to "vacate the term 'multicultural' of its progressive intellectual, pedagogical, and social goals" and to "undermine its counterhegemonic potential" (1995: 2, 3). In such models, multiculturalism is based on essentialized differences that are celebrated appreciatively—and this then becomes a means to "manage" the "crisis of race, ethnicity, gender, and labor" that defines the last moments of the twentieth century (Ibid.)
While teaching at Pomona College in southern California in 1993, I arranged for Caroline Lyon, a White American performer of South African choral singing, to do a workshop with the Pomona Glee Club. The Glee Club was the best choral group on campus, made up of approximately thirty singers. Their conductor, Jon Bailey, is a gay rights activist and an inspiring role model for many of the music students and especially for gay and lesbian students. Bailey has conducted the Gay Men's Chorus of Los Angeles for years and is an outspoken supporter of multicultural curricular change. He enthusiastically agreed to have Caroline Lyon do a two-hour workshop with the Glee Club and participated in it himself.
Lyon is mostly self-taught in the choral traditions of the Xhosa people, learning pieces from recordings. She teaches the pieces orally to American groups, with no use of notation and little explanation. The music itself is exhilarating, with thick harmonies and exuberant call and response patterns. Talking with the students afterwards, I could see that they drew a vague inspiration from its sound by connecting it to South African protest against apartheid. In that sense, perhaps one could say that through this bodily engagement with the music—that is, by engaging with it at the experiential level of having it resonate through their vocal chords, and by standing in a circle, thus redirecting their focus on each other rather than the conductor, and by creating a collaborative, nonhierarchical choral sound—one might say that these students constructively engaged with cultural difference in an educational way. I do think that happened, but I also regret that that was the extent of the experience. The pieces they learned did not become part of their repertoire; they never practiced them again, and they certainly didn't perform them in concert. In other words, the experience was ephemeral and almost entirely experiential. Nor did the students ever learn anything about why or when Xhosa singers might perform those pieces, or so forth. The event was offered with good intentions, but in the end was little more than multicultural frosting on the sustained work the Glee Club put into their concert repertoire.
Managing difference
As a field, ethnomusicology is in a position to fundamentally challenge the very terms allowing difference into the academy. Instead, the language of unanchored relativism helps to maintain an environment in which all musics are created equal and the mere presence of an ethnomusicologist signals multicultural appreciation. This rationale is central to the management of ethnomusicology in music departments dominated by Western art music. When students are provided with apolitical, mediated encounters with Other musics, they learn that that music is essentially like "ours"—it has rhythm, meter, and timbre—and the terms of difference are quite literally contained. Palumbo-Liu provides a critique of "ethnic literature" that could just as well describe the place of world music classes in most music departments (1995: 11):
the reading of ethnic literature can be seen to set a stage for the performance of difference—race relations are made manageable and students are able to "relate" to diverse and highly differentiated experiences by reducing difference to individual encounters via ethnic "texts;" that is, complex differences crosshatched by gender, class, race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and so on, are subordinated to the general category of experience of the unfamiliar.
Applying poststructuralist theory to theories of multiculturalism reinvigorates difference as contingent and dialogical. Rather than valorizing the personal at the expense of the political, such theory can help us recognize experience as a site of ideological production, leading to what might be called resistance multiculturalism or critical multiculturalism (McLaren 1994: 52). The anthropologist Dorinne Kondo provides some suggestions for how to act mindfully without being paralyzed by the dilemmas of privilege. She writes (1995) that we must
problematize privilege and exclusion, while realizing their inevitability. [ . . . ] [T]here can be no flawlessly liberatory aesthetic/political intervention. [ . . . ] Knowing that we are always already implicated and complicit, we must nonetheless act.
Locating Asian American ethnography
Paulo Freire's pedagogy of the oppressed/hope/liberation and its modification by Henry Giroux and others into a critical pedagogy for the American late twentieth century affords important possibilities for music educators. Considering the history and development of these critiques has led me away from postmodernist theory. Engaging in a project focused on Asian American identity politics has essentially forced my poststructuralist hand; as an Asian American scholar trying to address Asian American subjectivities, I am brought face to face with the problems of representation. All this noise comes to me through a channel paved with negotiated understandings of ethnicity and political hope. I watch, I listen, I ask questions, I make sound recordings and shoot video footage, I arrange for concerts, I am invited along.
My Asian American-ness does and doesn't help. My first face-to-face encounter with the Mountain Brothers, an Asian American hip-hop trio in Philadelphia, was awkward. Age and gender differences were more apparent than a shared Asian American identity, even though I had arranged for their performance that day in 1994 at the University of Pennsylvania's Asian Pacific American Heritage Week. As they approached the outdoor stage, I offered to hold Peril's knapsack while he performed, and he looked at me in undisguised surprise. The knapsack was part of his urban street apparel, a sartorial and performative prop that was meant to sit on his back, not mine. He realized that I was clueless and politely declined.
But recounting this anecdote is an old rhetorical trick, straight out of impressionist ethnographic techniques of representation: this moment of admitted naïveté is expected to lead, further down the ethnographic line, to correction and deeper, more "accurate" understanding. Instead, I am almost driven to resist the possibility of understanding. Could I ever know what it's like to be a young Asian American man in a Northeastern city whose immersion in hip-hop culture is central to his sense of self, of purpose? There is only one answer to such questions. Yet the fact remains that the Mountain Brothers and I share social space in particular ways, and my pleasure in writing their ethnography lies precisely in constructing a space that is racialized and politicized. I listen, I record, I talk with them, I write, I show them what I write, they respond, I revise, I show them my revisions, they respond.5 I am not writing them into existence nor do they write themselves, yet something dialogical happens, and I feel certain that this process creates political possibility.
Radical inequalities
It has taken an extended research project on Asian American musics and identity politics for me to discover what I now think ought to be true for music educators in general. Difference is central to most environments and we need theory to talk and to teach about it. Radical pedagogy is the most compelling model for how ethnomusicology might connect students and faculty in the academy with the rest of American society. Most importantly, theory is political. As Dorinne Kondo reminds us, "poststructuralism does not mean a simple kind of liberal pluralism, where all strategies then become equal" (1995: 96). The primacy of theory as a tool for social change is also argued forcefully by bell hooks reflecting on her childhood resistance to patriarchal norms (1994: 61):
Living in childhood without a sense of home, I found a place of sanctuary in "theorizing," in making sense out of what was happening. I found a place where I could imagine possible futures, a place where life could be lived differently. This "lived" experience of critical thinking, of reflection and analysis, became a place where I worked at explaining the hurt and making it go away. [ . . . ] Theory is not inherently healing, liberatory, or revolutionary. It fulfills this function only when we ask that it do so and direct our theorizing toward this end.
We thus choose between critical models while enacting respect for our subjects and urging them, urging ourselves, toward change. Not coincidentally, Asian American studies carries with it a built-in awareness of multiplicities and the constructedness of identity; linking communities to the academy has been a central concern in Asian American studies since its emergence in the 1970s. Critical of dominant paradigms of ethnic assimilation, scholars of Asian American studies have been thinking and wielding theory since the beginning. My research in Asian American musics has thus led me in a direction that might seem radical from the standpoint of traditional ethnomusicology because theory and political praxis are joined.
In promoting an ethnomusicology of advocacy, I also enact the lessons of recent anthropology. Revisiting such seminal texts as Marcus and Fischer's Anthropology as Cultural Critique, I find that I am indeed the product of post-1970s social theory—that I have absorbed the imperative toward cultural critique in ways that are tied to our time. In 1986, Marcus and Fischer noted that "anthropology as a form of cultural critique" had not "generated as rich an experimental literature" as might have been expected given the intense reflexive scrutiny of that period (1986: 4). As I consider my own drive toward a scholarship of activism and advocacy, I see its historicity—that I am acting out Marcus and Fischer's call for an anthropology that takes the lessons of the field and redirects them toward "full-scale projects of cultural critique at home" (Ibid.) Our reflexive consideration of Elsewheres has enabled the integration of purpose and practice urged by Marcus and Fischer. In other words, I arrive at a particular critique for real historical reasons, and this in turn leads me to a consideration of action—of how we might up-end distinctions between analysis and action, description and theory. If we are able to help our students see that they are producers as well as consumers, that they are implicated as well as implicating, then we will have mediated the compromised circumstances of our anti-canonic place in academe as ethnomusicologists.
Pedagogical interlude #5: guns and R-words
Korean American dancer/choreographer Peggy Choy visited the Philadelphia area in 1994, and I invited her to give a talk in the music department at the University of Pennsylvania about her work. Choy gave her presentation the same title as the performance piece she was about to do nearby at Swarthmore College, "Seung Hwa: Race/Rape/Rage/Revolution," an extended solo dance work about Korean and Korean American women's experience. I did the usual publicity for the talk, posting notices around campus and distributing a flyer I made up with a photograph of Choy, her presentation title, and some basic information about her work [see Figure 2].
Figure 2. Flyer for Peggy Choy's presentation at the University of Pennsylvania.
Choy's presentation was sparsely attended. Perhaps ten students and faculty members were present: an English professor, a Korean and a Korean American graduate student in the music department, two Asian American undergraduates, a homeless woman who frequently attended public talks around the Penn campus, etc. Fred Ho, a Chinese American musician in Choy's production, came along too. The talk was held in a slightly dingy third-floor classroom in the music department, replete with the roar of city buses making their way down 34th Street just outside the windows.
Choy was about ten minutes into her talk when there was a knock on the classroom door. I got up and opened it, and found myself looking up at two uniformed policemen, who (given my surprise) seemed enormously tall and imposing. One was holding a copy of my flyer announcing Choy's talk. "Is this the talk about the dance?" he asked. I said yes and stayed where I was in the classroom door, thinking there must be a problem. Choy had stopped talking and everyone in the classroom was watching and listening. "We're just here to listen," the policeman said, and I stood aside in some confusion as they made a grand entrance, guns and billy clubs dangling from their belts, and then made their way clumsily to the back row of desks.
Choy went on with her talk, but I could tell that she was keenly aware of the new audience members. I certainly was: I had never seen armed policemen at a Penn intellectual gathering, let alone in my own classroom. Afterwards, the two men quietly got up and left without saying anything. As I drove Choy and Fred Ho back to Swarthmore for a rehearsal, we tried to figure out what had happened. Why were the policemen present? Had the apparently inflammatory title of Choy's presentation drawn the eye of campus security? If so, which R-word rang their warning bells? Did they routinely attend campus presentations that sounded as if they might cause . . . trouble? If so, who made such decisions? Were there any campus regulations about the presence of armed officers in classrooms?
Over the next few days, I placed a number of calls to the campus security office asking (some of) these questions, but quickly ran into a dead end. At one point, a staff sergeant visited me in my office to answer my questions. On the face of it, the officer was obliging and responsive, but he repeatedly denied that his department had any official interest in Choy's presentation. No officers had been assigned to her talk. I didn't have the names or badge numbers of the two men, and they weren't familiar to him or to any of the officers with whom I spoke. Several officers suggested that the men might have been with the Philadelphia Police Department as their uniforms and armament were nearly identical to those worn by campus security. It was suggested that the two men, whoever they were, had simply attended out of interest—perhaps on their lunch hour.
My department chairperson agreed to send a letter of complaint to the campus security office—but asked me to draft it for him. He clearly thought I was overreacting if not a bit paranoid, but he was willing to oblige me. I wrote the letter, he signed it, and he received a polite letter in return repeating that the office couldn't take responsibility for the armed officers' presence, but that my discomfort was duly noted.
Unanswered questions. How often are Asian American performers identified as dangerous? What tipped the bucket: the rage, the call for revolution, a person of color uttering those words? I revisit an unsatisfied anger when I remember opening the classroom door and letting in the policemen. A wasted pedagogical moment, to be sure. What might we have said, what might we have done? As artists and educators and students, we could have addressed the armed surveillance in our midst, right then, directly; we could have treated it as invisible theater—as a moment when community, performance, political encounter, and pedagogy came together.
Locating the field/the classroom
As Shadows in the Field makes clear, ethnomusicologists have begun to rethink fieldwork and "the field". The asymmetries between fieldworker and informant have become a source of discomfort, regarded as something that must be renegotiated and redefined. The implied power dynamics of fieldwork and indeed ethnography generally are being acknowledged in much the same way that critical and radical pedagogy seek to redefine the learning process. Timothy Cooley distinguishes between postmodern and post-postmodern ethnomusicology in his introduction to Shadows in the Field (1997: 4), describing postmodern ethnomusicology as a shift in focus "from representation (text) toward experience (fieldwork broadly defined)." The post-postmodern "atmosphere" that now surrounds ethnomusicology, he writes, is an experimental phase in which no single approach dominates but rather dialogical and reflexive postmodern perspectives guide ethnomusicologists as they question their own practices (1997: 11). Sadly, all of Cooley's musings are focused on the ethnomusicologist as s/he tries to practice "fieldwork that is not tinged with exploitation" and searches for something "to offer humanity" (Ibid.); his own questions imply that the focus should no longer be on the fieldworker/ethnographer but on the relationships and possibilities that arise from encounter—in short, on process.
Ethnomusicologists are in a position to bring the now-problematized process of fieldwork into their pedagogy. Just as fieldwork can no longer be focused on data collection, pedagogy can no longer be content-driven. Pedagogy might be conceived of as fieldwork in all its problematized, poststructural reality. Neither "the field" nor "the classroom" can be located as places that allow certain activities only.
I have tried to outline a series of convergences that could transform our fields, albeit from the viewpoint of an ethnomusicologist. In the new ethnomusicology, both field research and pedagogy are collaborative processes that necessitate thoughtful interaction. The "classroom" (wherever that may be) is the field and the field the classroom; teacher and student are joined in new ways. Locating authority in the field or in the pedagogical moment becomes a gesture from older ethnographic practices: authority is diffuse, fleeting, fluid, no longer determined by older norms of power. As a cultural worker, one seeks on-going, open-ended understandings rather than tidily closed explanations. The pedagogy of the oppressed becomes a pedagogy of possibility, and as possibility gives way to critical consciousness, and as social, cultural, and political critique becomes part of multicultural education, and as students become teachers become agents become actors in a circle of cultural work, the divides between scholarship, social transformation, and performance become less meaningful, less clear. To have to argue for the political nature of music or education would then become unnecessary. The field is Here, the field is Now.
Amirault, Chris
1995 "The Good Teacher, the Good Student: Identifications of a Student Teacher," in Pedagogy: The Question of Impersonation, ed. Jane Gallop, 64-78. Bloomington and Indianapolis: Indiana University Press.
Anderson, William M. and Patricia Sheehan Campbell
1996 "Teaching Music from a Multicultural Perspective," in Multicultural Perspectives in Music Education, 2nd ed., ed. William M. Anderson and Patricia Sheehan Campbell, 1-9. Reston, Virginia: Music Educators National Conference.
Boal, Augusto
1990b Theater of the Oppressed. New York: Urizen Books.
"Invisible Theatre: Liege, Belgium, 1978." The Drama Review 34 (3): 24-34.
"The Cop in the Head: Three Hypotheses." The Drama Review 34 (3): 35-42.
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1970 Reproduction in Education, Society, and Culture. Translated from the French by Richard Nice, with a foreword by Tom Bottomore. London and Beverly Hills: Sage Publications.
Campbell, Patricia Sheehan
1996 "Prelude," in Music in Cultural Context: Eight Views on World Music Education, ed. Patricia Sheehan Campbell, 1-4. Reston, Virginia: Music Educators National Conference.
Chadwick, Joseph
1995 "Toward an Antihomophobic Pedagogy," in Professions of Desire: Lesbian and Gay Studies in Literature, ed. Gorge E. Haggerty and Bonnie Zimmerman. New York: The Modern Language Association of America.
Chang, Edward T. and Russell C. Leong, eds.
1994 Los AngelesStruggles Toward Multiethnic Community: Asian American, African American, and Latino Perspectives. Seattle and London: University of Washington Press.
Cooley, Timothy J.
1997 "Casting Shadows in the Field: An Introduction," in Shadows in the Field: New Perspectives for Fieldwork in Ethnomusicology, ed. Gregory F. Barz and Timothy J. Cooley, 3-19. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Freire, Paulo
1994 The Politics of Education: Culture, Power, and Liberation. Introduction by Henry A. Giroux; translated by Donaldo Macedo. South Hadley, Mass.: Bergin & Garvey.
Pedagogy of the City. Translated by Donaldo Macedo. New York: Continuum.
Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New revised twentieth-anniversary edition. New York: Continuum.
Pedagogy of Hope: Reliving the Pedagogy of the Oppressed. With notes by Ana Maria Araujo Freire; translated by Robert R. Barr. New York: Continuum.
Giroux, Henry
1992b Border Crossings: Cultural Workers and the Politics of Education. New York and London: Routledge.
"Resisting Difference: Cultural Studies and the Discourse of Critical Pedagogy." In Cultural Studies, ed. Lawrence Grossberg, Cary Nelson, and Paula Treichler, 199-212. New York, London: Routledge.
Giroux, Henry A. and Peter L. McLaren
1991 "Radical Pedagogy as Cultural Politics: Beyond the Discourse of Critique and Anti-Utopianism." In Theory/Pedagogy/Politics: Texts for Change, ed. Donald Morton and Mas'ud Zavarzadeh, 152-86. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press.
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1981 "The Lecture," in Forms of Talk, 162-196. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press.
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1994 Multiculturalism: A Critical Reader. Oxford, UK and Cambridge, USA: Blackwell.
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1993 Reading Rodney King/Reading Urban Uprising. New York and London: Routledge.
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1985 "From Cultural Translator to Advocate: Changing Circles of Interpretation." In Advocacy and Anthropology: First Encounters, ed. Robert Paine, 224-48. Newfoundland, Canada: Institute of Social and Economic Research, Memorial University of Newfoundland.
hooks, bell
1994 Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom. New York and London: Routledge.
Kondo, Dorinne
1995 "Poststructuralist Theory as Political Necessity." Amerasia Journal 21 (1 and 2): 95-100.
Marcus, George E. and Michael M.J. Fischer
1986 Anthropology as Cultural Critique: An Experimental Moment in the Human Sciences. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press.
McLaren, Peter
1994 "White Terror and Oppositional Agency: Towards a Critical Multiculturalism." In Multiculturalism: A Critical Reader, ed. David Theo Goldberg, 45-74. Oxford, UK and Cambridge, USA: Blackwell.
McLaren, Peter and Peter Leonard, eds.
1993 Paulo Freire: A Critical Encounter. London and New York: Routledge.
Morton, David and Mas'ud Zavarzadeh, eds.
1991 Theory/Pedagogy/Politics: Texts for Change. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press.
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1995 The Ethnic Canon: Histories, Institutions, and Interventions. Minneapolis, London: University of Minnesota Press.
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1995 Who Can Speak? Authority and Critical Identity. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press.
Titon, Jeff Todd
1997 "Knowing Fieldwork," in Shadows in the Field: New Perspectives for Fieldwork in Ethnomusicology, ed. Gregory F. Barz and Timothy J. Cooley, 87-100. New York and Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Wong, Deborah
1997 Review of Shadows in the Field. World of Music, forthcoming.
"Just Being There: Making Asian American Space in the Recording Industry," in Musics of Multicultural America: A Study of Twelve Musical Communities, ed. Kip Lornell and Anne Rasmussen. New York: Schirmer.
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1994 Theory as Resistance: Politics and Culture after (Post)structuralism. New York, London: The Guilford Press.
This essay was presented at the 41st Annual Meeting of the Society for Ethnomusicology in Toronto in 1996 and in the colloquium series of the Department of Music, University of Colorado, Boulder, December 1996. I would like to thank colleagues and audience members at both events for their questions and comments. My colleagues in the University of California, Riverside's Center for Asia Pacific AmericaTraise Yamamoto, Piya Chatterjee, Edward Chang, and Rodney OgawaTong Soon Lee, Jeff Tobin, Don Brenneis, Andrew Weintraub, and (as always) René T.A. Lysloff made thoughtful suggestions that added much.
1Indeed, he still had copies of it in 1998.
2I am thinking of such studies as George E. Marcus and Michael M.J. Fischer, Anthropology as Cultural Critique: An Experimental Moment in the Human Sciences (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1986); Jay Ruby, ed., A Crack in the Mirror: Reflexive Perspectives in Anthropology (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1982); James Clifford and George E. Marcus, eds., Writing Culture: The Poetics and Politics of Ethnography (Berkeley and London: University of California Press, 1986); Roger Sanjek, ed., Fieldnotes: The Makings of Anthropology (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1990); and James Clifford, The Predicament of Culture: Twentieth-Century Ethnography, Literature, and Art (Cambridge, Massachusetts and London: Harvard University Press, 1988).
3See Wong 1998 for a review of Shadows in the Field.
4Accurate world music textbooks with depth and detail have been very slow to appear for both K-12 and secondary education. Over the years, the minutes from various SEM committee meetings are dotted with members' and officers' calls for better world music teaching materials.
5See Wong 1997 for an example.
Last modified on Thursday, 18/10/2018

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Abstract : In this paper, we propose a new framework to optimally tone map the high dynamic range (HDR) content for image matching under drastic illumination variations. Since tone mapping operators (TMO) have traditionally been used for displaying HDR scenes, their design is suboptimal when used for computer vision tasks such as image matching. We address this sub-optimality by proposing a two-step framework, consisting of: a) a luminance-invariant guidance model based on a Support Vector Regressor (SVR) to optimally adapt the tone mapping function for image matching; and b) an energy maximization model to generate appropriate training samples for learning the SVR. At each step, we collectively address both stages of keypoint detection and descriptor extraction in the feature matching framework. By locally altering the intrinsic characteristics of the tone mapping function, the learned guid- ance model facilitates the extraction of local invariant features in the presence of illumination variations. We demonstrate that the proposed TMO significantly outperforms perceptually-driven state-of-the-art TMOs on a dataset of HDR scenes characterized by challenging lighting variations, such as day/night transitions.


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You brought in this wonderful, mysterious box.
And, I know everyone's been asking at the table, all I wanted to say was, "What's in the box?" And if you could hold that for a moment. Now inside the box we found this wonderful plaster head with human hair, human eyelashes, and a strangely realistic human hand. What can you tell us about the contents of the box?
I don't know if anyone has heard of Willie Sutton. He was a famous bank robber, well-known bank robber. He was also well known for breaking out of prisons. This was his, that he used in an attempted breakout. He had made this himself, in prison.
He reportedly robbed over 100 banks. He had escaped successfully from prison three times, and this is a dummy head and dummy hand that he used in an unsuccessful escape from prison.
Well... and the prison was run by your grandfather.
Yes. After he was released from the Eastern Penitentiary, they sent it up to the Camp Hill Prison, where my grandfather was located, and then he simply kept it upon his retirement, since Willie had been released long since.
Now, reportedly, what Sutton had done, was over the course of several months--possibly even years--he made this false head, using hair from the barbershop--and it is actually real human hair, same with the eyelashes. We have no idea where he got the pigments.
Where do you find paint in prison? You just can't go to the store and get--color with toothpaste and pink.
He fashioned this wonderful head, left it in his bed, left the hand clutching a corner of the bedsheet. Do you know what happened that night when he tried to escape?
Unfortunately, unbeknownst to him, two other inmates in another area of the prison also attempted to escape at that point, at about the same time. And that set off all the bells and whistles and alarms. He ran back to his cell.
This escape attempt was in August of 1941.
And it was just a few years later when he then managed to finally escape for several years. And in 1950, he was actually the 11th person to be added to the FBI's most wanted list. Willie Sutton was also known for a wonderful, wonderful quote. Reportedly, he was asked once why he robbed banks. And he was reported to have said, "Well, because that's where the money is." Well, later in life, he denied ever saying it. But he said it sounded good, and said it sounded like something he would say. And he titled his autobiography "Where the Money Was" and talked about how he never, ever said that.
This is such a wonderful, wonderful piece, and doing the research on it, there's not a lot of information. Most of the escape tools, props and things like that, that were used by prisoners to help them escape, are owned by prisons or in prison museums. So not a lot of these come up for auction. And we almost never see anything so prominent, and, frankly, so well done. I mean this is a master work. But without the box, and the provenance of the label on the box, it's just a creepy plaster head. But if you look at pictures of Willie Sutton, it looks just like him.
It is amazingly well done. And after conferring with my colleagues, we are able to give it a very conservative auction estimate of $2,500 or $3,500.
Wow, that's nice. That's very nice. That's surprising.
As far as I know, this is the first head in a box we've had on ROADSHOW.


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In addition to Sandvik SAF 2507, the partnership will also focus on Sanmac 2205 duplex stainless steel.


… And the monk glanced at my shadow cast upon walls etched with ancient history, an expression on his face dismissing me as just one of those tourists that have passed this route without merely a greeting nor interest in his origin, and his people's ancient plight. But I was interested. We remained disconnected, however, bridged only by a culture so rich and deeply unnerving. I should have stopped for a moment to chat.
Yet in this hurried world, we bump into people we barely remember, no matter how interesting the conversation was.
In humanity, we may cast a bright light on some people, while we leave a blur of shadows in others. Either way in time…we silently fade into obscurity.


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