The Scientific Image of Emotion: Experience and Technologies of Inscription
When . . . drama is translated into English and the passions of its Pietros, Gonzalos and Raouls are put into the mouths and antics of Piccadilly and Broadway actors, they quite naturally strike the spectator not only as alien but as extremely jocose. . . . The argument here, of course, is that competent English or American actors should be able so to alter their actual personalities as realistically to suggest the nature and deportment of the alien characters entrusted to them. . . . It is not the alien passions, but the alien funnels of those passions, that generate the Anglo-Saxon titters.George Jean Nathan, 1928 1
The craft of representing and rendering the passions has been practiced and pursued by the visual, literary, and performative arts since at least the time of the Latin rhetor Marcus Fabius Quintilianus. 2 Historical analyses of these endeavors have led to a variety of contemporary perspectives: the elucidation of the philosophical, social, and cultural contexts of these artistic productions; 3 the synchronic [End Page 355] examination of the tensions between a “set of affective conventions” for representing the passions across the arts, on the one hand, and the variations imposed by the rigidity of the medium for representation (e.g., the body as medium vs. the canvas), on the other; 4 the study of the reflection or description of emotions through the creation of “poetic landscape[s]” from “concrete geographical” ones; 5 and more diachronic approaches that stress rapid historical permutations, such as the one between Greek and Roman representations of violent emotions. 6
A number of historians have also interrogated other aspects of representing emotions. Focusing on social conventions for representing the emotional self in middle-class culture during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, they describe a shift in representations of (and attitudes toward) specific emotions and argue for the emergence of a modern “emotionology” in the United States. 7 Lately, a number of studies have examined how concerns with emotional representation were explicitly addressed and contested by historical actors. These studies argue either that such concerns were debated on a more theoretical level, such as Diderot’s famous Paradoxe sur le comédien, or that they were actively explored, as Debora Silverman has argued in her analysis of symbolist painters, such as Seurat and Gauguin, who experimented with the “emotional equivalents of visual language” in their attempts to represent emotions through colors. 8 [End Page 356]
During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries similar concerns with emotions and their representations appeared in the sciences. Physiologists, psychologists, and clinicians began to produce their own unique and scientific representations of human and animal emotions in the context of developing a new and modern science of emotions. 9 Applying the methods and tools of the experimental laboratory to study emotions, they generated, purified, quantified, measured, manipulated, and—most important for my present discussion—recorded and preserved emotions in visual or numeric form. 10 As they often explained, the emotions in this new mode of representation recorded themselves (through the mechanical and transparent mediation of laboratory instruments), and the images that they produced were the subject-matter of the new science of emotions. 11
The early beginnings of instrument-generated graphic representations of emotions can be traced to the pioneering laboratory observations of the French physiologist Claude Bernard during the 1860s. Bernard applied Étienne Jules Marey’s new cardiograph to trace the heart during emotion (1865). 12 By translating the heart’s “intimate functions” into omnipresent and permanent graphs on paper, Bernard literally “read in the human heart.” 13 The slightest emotion, [End Page 357] he explained, produced a reflex impression in the heart, “imperceptible to all, except for the physiologist” and his instrument. 14 Following in Bernard’s footsteps was the Russian physiologist M. E. Cyon né Tsion. In his 1873 lecture “The Heart and the Brain,” Cyon described the relationships between the brain, emotions, and the heart. 15 Each emotion activated the heart; each emotion left its own “peculiar and characteristic” curve on the graphic paper issued forth by the physiologist’s new machine. 16
Bernard’s and Cyon’s lectures on emotion and the heart, and their technological approach to the emotions, marked a new era in the history of the study of affective states. These early lectures, however, did not inaugurate a program of researches on emotions; nor did their discoveries establish a new school of emotion research. The origins of a modern and sustained program of researches on emotions began with the Italian physiologist Angelo Mosso during the early 1880s. 17 His laboratory investigations emphasized a mechanistic, quantitative, and technology-based approach to the study of emotions: he recorded and calculated the minutest effects of (laboratory-induced) emotions on his laboratory animals; reported that his own thermometer-measured rectal temperature changed with his spontaneously evoked emotions (by 0.7 degrees centigrade); and designed new laboratory instruments for determining the effects of various emotions on the circulation. Mosso’s work left a lasting legacy in late-nineteenth-century European psychology, particularly in the application of laboratory instruments to the study of mental and affective states. 18 [End Page 358]
By the 1930s the use of various instruments and laboratory procedures to represent emotions was widespread in Anglo-American culture. Participating in this new form of representation were numerous individuals who, in spite of their very different persuasions, agendas, nationalities, institutions, and interests, adopted and applied these same technologies in inscribing emotions “objectively”—as they often argued—and cooperatively. We find here laboratory-based physiologists studying animal emotions who shared transcriptions with hospital-based physicians attending to patients; and teachers pursuing school projects who shared technologies with psychophysiologists measuring deceit. 19 This representational consensus was soon commercialized, as entrepreneurs (e.g., Stoelting and Co. of Chicago) were quick to manufacture standardized emotion-gauging technologies. 20
The promulgators of this new laboratory science soon ventured beyond the narrow confines of their laboratories with their mobile emotion-gauging machines, and charted the emotional topography of the social: from the “feeling of relief . . . attend[ing] the completion of the act of defecation” to the emotional shock of condemned criminals just before execution. 21 “Conscious,” “unconscious,” or [End Page 359] “subconscious”; “pure” or “mixed”; “strong,” “subtle,” “brute,” or “weak”; human or animal; Other or Self—all were grist for the production of graphs, numbers, and tables of affective experience.
These predominantly laboratory- and clinic-based developments transformed emotion into a modern object of knowledge and introduced a new era in the history of emotions. The novel interactions between scientific observers, “disinterested” machines, and emotions generated new knowledge and new kinds of relationships: instruments supplanted personal interactions in retrieving intimate emotional knowledge; the interior body superseded language as the primary medium for expressing emotions; the boundaries between private and public, subjectivity and objectivity, and inside and outside were blurred, as experience was exteriorized through laboratory procedures; class, gender, and race were reified through new quantitative emotional measurements and gradations, replacing Victorian qualitative categories; and physiologists and clinicians exhibited and exchanged graphs of their own emotional experiences—producing an economy of emotions inside the laboratory and clinic.
The new scientific images of emotions differed significantly from previous artistic depiction in their mode of production, form and style of representation, method of interpretation, and use. 22 Their production and interpretation resonated with and mediated broader historical, epistemological, and cultural transformations of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. These latter include the rise of the graphic method; the emergence of modern forms of knowledge, and, in particular, the changing definitions of objectivity and of the “image of objectivity”; the modern “appropriation of subjectivity”; the shifting representation of the body (i.e., from a “spiritualized” Victorian to an emotionalized modern); the modern embodiment of emotions; the emerging challenge to the boundaries that separated science from art; and the advent of a late-nineteenth-century “evidential paradigm.” 23 These important transformations [End Page 360] serve as the backdrop for the developments described in the following essay, and will reemerge at various junctures of my argument. Below, I briefly review three of these developments.
I begin with the invention of the graphic method and its new technologies for transcribing nature into graphic representations. Its prehistory can be traced to late-eighteenth-century England, with the birth of the steam engine and James Watt’s Indicator. Its more significant origins belong to early-nineteenth-century French engineering and descriptive geometry. It was only during the late 1840s, however, that the graphic method was adopted for physiological purposes (in the German laboratories of Carl Ludwig and Hermann von Helmholtz), which foreshadowed its late-nineteenth-century application to the measurement of emotions. By the 1880s the graphic method was well established in numerous experimental settings; in addition to its application for the study of emotions, it was applied in contexts such as phonetics, aesthetics, engineering, and more. 24
The new graphic images represented an important epistemic break with the preceding visual culture of “opticism.” As Robert Brain argues, the new visual culture that emerged with the graph—what Brain defines as “graphism”—mediated between “opticism” and twentieth-century “digitality.” As we shall see below, self-registering graphic technologies served as the backbone of the new science of emotions.
A second important context for the developments described below was the broader modern cultural/epistemic condition that Jonathan Crary has characterized as the “appropriation of subjectivity.” By transforming emotional interiority into a visually present, quantifiable, controllable, and rationalized object of knowledge, the science of emotions continued and extended a line of investigation that had begun during the early nineteenth century. It signified the important breakdown of the epistemic boundaries that separated inside from outside and subject from nature. 25 [End Page 361]
Lastly, the new representations of emotions exemplified the changing historical relationships between the body and emotions. As I have argued elsewhere, during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries the relationships between the body and emotions underwent an important reconfiguration. If for the Victorians emotions were often “spiritualized” and the body was independent of its emotions, then for the moderns the body was inseparable from its emotions. 26
In the following pages I discuss a unique period in the history of science and emotion—when modern technologies and the laboratory focused on emotional experience as an object of scientific knowledge. I examine the instruments for gauging emotions, the new representations of emotions, and the emerging applications and implications of these technologies and representations in numerous social sites. My aim is not to narrate the history of the science of emotions between 1880 and 1930, but rather, to focus on diverse institutions, nationalities, disciplines, subjects, and users—experimenters, clinicians, entrepreneurs, schoolteachers, governmental agencies, private and public foundations, juvenile research institutes, and so forth—in order to identify some of the central and common themes that emerged from the new science and its novel representations.
Emotion-Gauging Technologies 27
We must bring the man before a registering apparatus to find out . . . whether sun-shine or general cloudiness prevails in his mind.Hugo Münsterberg, 1908 28
In discussing their instruments, the practitioners of the new science emphasized four basic features: they produced their results in [End Page 362] quantitative and/or numeric form—“in inches or centimeters,” as one physiologist explained; 29 they were highly “sensitive” and reacted to minute perturbations, allowing the investigator to “become aware of almost microscopic changes” that signified the presence of an emotion; 30 they were objective, and differed significantly from alternative’ [End Page 363] approaches: “a welcome substitute for the present time-consuming, subjective, analytical procedure now in use by psychologists”; 31 and they gauged deep-lying structures and functions in the body. 32
We can add a fifth feature: the contrast between the simplicity of many of these instruments, on the one hand, and their mythical power to “dive into . . . minds” (as one advocate explained), on the other hand. 33 Simple, inexpensive, and unsophisticated, these household instruments of the clinic and laboratory—from the pneumograph, cardiograph, and kymograph to the sphygmomanometer, galvanometer, and thermometer—directly measured relatively mundane aspects of human physiology: respiration, heartbeat, blood pressure, electrical resistance of the skin, pH of various body fluids, temperature, and more. 34 (For example, see Figs. 2–6) As several of [End Page 364] the pioneers of this science observed, it was not the novelty of the technologies that made the new science, but their radically new application and the innovative interpretation of their by-now-familiar inscriptions, tracings, and outputs. 35 This insight was only partially correct: though the technologies and their tracings had been put to other uses before they were co-opted for the science of emotions, the science of emotion itself was part of a larger shift in the representation of the body and of emotions. 36
Collectively, these characteristics of the technologies for recording emotions allowed the investigators (so they argued) to gain access to the emotions of their human and animal subjects objectively, directly—at the level of the animal life, preconsciously and independently of the examinee’s will or knowledge: “the patient sits at ease with hands on the electrodes, which may be so concealed in the arms of his chair that he is unaware that the most intimate processes of his soul are being registered.” 37 This privileged access not only circumvented the examinee’s will and knowledge, but also circumvented language.
The poverty of human language to represent emotions and the efficacy of these techno-representations to capture emotions in their [End Page 367] prelinguistic phase (and in very young infants and in animals) was a common theme in this literature. As Théodule Ribot explained in his Essai sur les passions of 1907, human language developed, above all, in order to serve “intellectual needs and the exchange of ideas,” and was therefore “insufficient for the full expression of that which is felt.” 38 There were many additional criticisms of language in the domain of emotion research: its inability to capture the fleeting nature of emotion; the lack of a standardized language/vocabulary of emotions; and the unreliability of linguistic reports, which by their very nature depended on the self-awareness of subjects. 39
The participants in and developers of the new science were not oblivious to the competing technologies of poets, writers, painters, and actors who shared in the quest for representation. They did not reject these alternative knowledge makers off-hand, but attempted to enlist their representations for the scientists’ own ends. As Claude Bernard, one of the pioneers in the new science of emotions, explained, “I would like . . . to affirm art through science.” 40 Many of the pioneers and central figures in this new study—such as Charles Darwin, William James, Sir Charles Scott Sherrington, Walter Bradford Cannon, William Marston, and Stanley Cobb—endorsed or appropriated literary, poetic, or artistic portrayals of the emotions. Science, the general tenor of their argument went, had confirmed the representations that had been created solely on the basis of the “intuition of the spirit.” 41 [End Page 368]
Transcribing Emotions: Body, Instrument, Graph
If an individual is placed in circuit with a delicate galvanometer and made to laugh, to feel sad, or is suddenly surprised, there will be movements in the instrument indicating the passage of small electric currents. Such interesting scientific facts as these, and many others to be mentioned later, make it clearly evident that emotions are something more than mere states of mind.F. W. Eastman, 1914 42
Much work was necessary in order to render emotional experience as visual image. Mediating between the two were three basic techniques: monitoring the body during emotion; sampling from the body during emotion; and examining the postmortem, postemotional body.
In the first of these techniques, the organism was connected to one or more of several machines and continuously monitored on-line. The machine visualized, measured, and recorded the emotions in motion. “Every ripple on the . . . mind,” Hugo Münsterberg explained, “reflects itself in the changes of the pneumographic wave—it may be an agreeable or disagreeable smell or taste, it may be exciting or depressing news from without or a fancy from within.” 43 The output was a cinematic representation in which the flow of emotions, in their dynamic formation, undulation, and dissipation, was observed as it occurred in the subject’s mind. 44 Transcription was immediate: from body to instrument to representation. The variables that were measured in producing representations were relatively straightforward in physiological terms: blood pressure, pulse rate and shape, electrical resistance of the skin, respiration, blood flow to the limbs, and so forth. The output was usually in graphic form, and the trained observer could translate in real time from transcription back to emotion. These on-line sessions lasted from a few seconds to a couple of hours and the transcriptions were produced as the experience unfolded (Fig. 7). 45 Occasionally, the investigator was not interested [End Page 369] in a continuous time-line and instead recorded the emotions intermittently, as a series of consecutive time-lapse “snapshots” or as a set of frozen “before” and “during” “emotion pictures.” 46
In the second general technique, the researcher sampled from the organism/human during its emotional experience and manipulated the sample—what one physiologist called the “excited blood”—in the test tube, long after the original experience had dissipated. 47 These samples—sweat, saliva, urine, or blood—somehow preserved the experience and were converted into a representation of the original emotion (that had been present during the sampling) by two basic procedures.
One procedure was to expose tissues from another animal to the “excited” fluids procured from the original emotional animal/human. The technique relied on the reinduction of the excitement that had occurred in the original animal in the tissues of the recipient [End Page 370] preparation. The changes induced in the recipient tissues by their exposure to the excited specimen were recorded, and these inscriptions represented the emotion or emotional excitement of the original animal (Fig. 8). The tissues from the recipient animal functioned, as one author put it in discussing the representation of anger, “as a rage-thermometer” for the original emotion in the primary animal. 48 Investigators did not attempt to transfer the emotional experience itself from one animal to another through the mediation of the sampled fluids, but instead transferred the physiological manifestations of emotions from the excited animal/human to the tissues of another, and from these tissues to the graph.
The second procedure for manipulating excited fluids was to characterize them biologically, chemically, or physically. The pH of a sample of saliva, the amount of glucose in voided urine, and the number of red blood cells from a phlebotomy were translated into levels of emotional excitement. Here, too, the final representation was usually in the form of a graph or a numeric table, and the emotion was often depicted in the form of a portrait, frozen and preserved in the space/time of a curve.
The third and last general approach to transcribing emotions was histological and was practiced mostly by the Cleveland group headed by George W. Crile. This technique focused on the microscopic examination of various body tissues from cadavers of frightened animals. The results were presented as micrographs of “histologic studies of fear”—photographic images of the vestiges of fear at the microscopic-cellular level. 49 [End Page 371]
The Language and Mediums of Emotion
[the James-Lange-Sergi theory of emotions] is the extreme antithesis to the spiritualistic conception of emotion.C. S. Sherrington, 1900 50
These various techniques for moving between experience and image shared in identifying the immediate and material body of the organism or human as the locus for acquiring knowledge and producing representations of emotion. Emotion as pure affective experience was not the material with which these different experimenters worked; rather, it was represented in the graphs as a pattern written in the language of the material elements of the body. A specific pattern of sweat secretions, a particular blood-pressure curve, or a certain shift in the pH of the urine was read as “emotion.” Thus the graphic and numeric representations of emotion never articulated it in units of experience, but in body units. This embodiment of emotions was fundamental to these representations, but was also a potential source for recurring tensions as one moved from Victorian to modern representations. As E. W. Scripture explained in 1908, “some people have objected to the sweat glands being dignified into organs of the emotions. But dignity does not exist for science.” 51 [End Page 372]
Despite the corporeality of the representations, the graphs themselves worked by representing emotional experience in its pure form. The medium was, in a sense, made to disappear, and the spectator looking at these fluctuating blood pressures, changing blood-glucose levels, or undulating levels of blood lymphocytes saw—emotion. This transparency of the medium depended ultimately on what Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison have termed “the burden of representation”; if in the early nineteenth century this burden was “supposed to lie in the picture itself,” by the end of the nineteenth century it “fell to the audience.” 52 Seeing pure emotion (i.e., experience) in these graphs of material and bodily changes was part of the new way of looking at and seeing representations.
The language itself was also a new invention. The late-nineteenth- and early-twentieth-century experimenters created its syntax and semantics—despite their assertions to the contrary, and their claims for continuity between their own language of emotions and familiar emotional phenomena, such as the blush. As they often explained, their machines simply made visible and public the internal blushes of the body. 53 Yet there were no practitioners from whom they could learn how to interpret emotions from their graphs; no guidelines to tell them what actions to take in order to eliminate alternative interpretations; no explicit conventions when it came to representing emotions in graphic and numeric language; and no canon of existing emotional texts, so crucial for consensus formation and standardization.
Their comprehensive project with its new representations was not simply another discovery, but a call for a new reading of old and familiar signs. This was because the same patterns that now signified emotions had heretofore been interpreted according to other contemporary discourses and had had different meanings. One of the great achievements of these investigators was to introduce a new interpretative framework for these familiar patterns of the body. Thus, for example, the same physiological pattern of white blood cells that signified “infection” could just as well signify “excitement”; or the same cardiac sounds that signified valvular disease could just as well [End Page 373] signify “apprehension.” There were, in a sense, many homonyms, many alternative meanings to the same pattern in the body. The promulgators of these new interpretations never represented emotion without explicitly eliminating alternative interpretations, so to speak. In the language of the laboratory, they used “controls” and eliminated various “artifacts.”
Interpreting Representations: Narratives of Emotions
We found that every stimulus accompanied by an emotion produced a deviation of the galvanometer to a degree in direct proportion to the liveliness and actuality of the emotion aroused.Frederick Peterson, 1907 54
In interpreting their graphs and numbers, these investigators argued for a nonarbitrary relationship between the representation and the original emotional experience. Yet they held significantly different perspectives in discussing the particular nature of that relationship. One pointed example of the diversity of perspectives revolved around the central question of whether each and every emotion had its own “peculiar and characteristic” curve, or whether different emotions gave similar representations; though this issue was fundamental to the question of interpretation, it was never fully resolved. 55
More general consensus existed in discussions of the relationships between the representations and the temporal and quantitative dimensions of emotion, and in discussions that centered on “feeling states” (pleasantness and unpleasantness; see Figs. 10–12). In all of these cases the general argument was that the inscriptions faithfully mirrored, and allowed the investigator to distinguish between, different intensities of the emotional experience, different temporal dimensions [End Page 374] of these experiences, and pleasant and unpleasant “feeling states.” 56
The argument for a semiotically meaningful relationship between representation and affective experience was more often made implicitly than explicitly, by simply reading the inscriptions as emotions. Journals of physiology, psychology, and medicine from the late nineteenth and early twentieth century publicly displayed these [End Page 375] hidden narratives of emotion (see Figs. 13–16): from the unfolding story of an apprehensive ten-year-old girl during her visit to the physician’s office, to a “woman . . . typical of the Yankee women, who are always busy and usually worrying about something imaginary or real,” 57 to a detailed and exhaustive narrative of the emotional excitement of patients as they moved from the examination [End Page 376] to the waiting room, 58 to the “jealous[y]” of a dog when its master was “‘making much of’ a companion,” 59 and to the retrospective reconstruction of the final emotional moments of a rat immediately prior to death. 60
This collection of narratives of emotions from different “life situations” constituted a veritable anthology of local tales that were produced, preserved, and interpreted by the investigators. 61 They had many uses and told a variety of emotional tales. We can begin to analyze their content and uses by identifying a number of “generic stories that recur” in these transcriptions, or what literary scholars have termed “cultural narratives.” 62
One such recurring narrative was the struggle between emotion and its Other. This single motif appeared under different guises and framed the production and interpretation of many of these representations. It was implicated in the choice of appropriate subjects; in the practices for creating visually clean and clear transcriptions; and in the construction of narratives from representations.
Reflexivity: Emotion and Its Other
This patient, or subject, is in connexion with the apparatus for something like thirty to forty minutes, and during the first half of that period is in complete voluntary control of her emotions: she is remaining as quiet as possible; she is not allowing any disturbing thought to pass through her mind. . . . But half-way [End Page 379] through the experiment she “lets go,” allowing herself to enter into excitement, by thinking of painful experiences, by thinking of a variety of experiences.(see fig. 17)Augustus D. Waller, 1920 63
The unique experience of self that the new representations and their mode of production provided for subjects, as well as manipulators, was often reported in this literature: to see one’s own emotional flux displayed on a scale of intensities, and to see it respond to one’s self-manipulation or to the manipulation of another. As Sir Kenneth Goadby explained in a meeting of the Royal Society of Medicine:
Dr. Waller has tested me in many ways. . . . I can, under certain circumstances, excite myself without a specific disagreeable concept, and then relax the mind and think of nothing. I can create a general state of excitement without definite thought or cognition. 64
Or, as another subject of Dr. Waller’s experiments explained in his report to the Popular Science Monthly:
the last of the experiments practiced upon me consisted in first composing myself until the bead was steady at zero. I was told to think of something (other than red-hot pokers) which had been a cause of worry and anxiety. That was easy enough—the only difficulty was to keep back a crowd of thoughts. I began to wonder what the editor would think of my adventure, and the bead of light traveled out of sight and remained there until Dr. Waller broke the spell. 65
The imagery of the new technologies invited subjects to experiment with the self. For “the subject,” Augustus D. Waller observed, “to sit quietly watching himself think becomes an absorbing pastime.” 66 Other users of these technologies made similar remarks. As George E. Brown explained in his summary findings before the Mayo Clinic, “The patient’s realization of the relationship of emotion and elevated blood pressure has prompted him to attempt emotional control. . . . studying the responses of blood pressure to certain [End Page 380] mental stimuli, and then practicing mental relaxation by diversion of thought”—all with the aid of a home, self-monitoring sphygmomanometer provided to him by his physicians for the purpose of measuring blood pressure (not for experimenting with affective self-manipulation). 67
The struggles between an imaginary will that attempted to make the needles go down (and stay down) and emotions that made the needles go up (and out of control) received a new meaning in these visualizations. The will was now capable of performing work; it became represented as shifting dials of machines in this new psycho-mechanical relationship. Instruments literally moved, and created flowing and shifting curves or numbers in response to the flexion of the will, or the generation of emotion. These private, machine-mediated dialogues with/of the self were now on public display, as subjects demonstrated, and reflected on, their emotional agility. The transcriptions displayed, materialized, measured, and promoted these narratives of the mind: the struggles between the will and [End Page 381] emotion; the self as an active and ontologically existing agent; and the mind as a space into which emotions “intruded.” 68
The practices for producing good representations encouraged the subjects to engage in these reflexive activities. Successful—clear, distinct, and unambiguous—inscriptions of emotions depended on the subject’s ability to manipulate the self, or alternatively, on the experimenters’ abilities to do so for him, her, or it. 69 Subjects were “asked to relax,” required to “compose” themselves, told to remain as “quiet as possible,” or to “think about something” for the sake of producing good representations. 70
The science of emotions demanded emotive self-manipulation. This was because representations of emotions almost always portrayed emotion in relation to its other: non-emotion. Emotions were visible and visualizable only because they were situated against a background of emotional or “psychological vacuum.” 71 They were ripples that suddenly appeared in a steady sea of emotionless calm, often literally depicted as gigantic waves on the calm sea of quietude. Thus, every representation was not only of an emotion, but also of its other—complete emotional absence. For the producers of these inscriptions, this reflected the practical need to isolate and show emotion in its fullest, purest, and best form. The final representation reflected the practices of the laboratory for producing good representations: first one created a calm (i.e., nonemotional) state and represented this calm state; then, one generated an emotion, usually in its pure form (i.e., not mixed emotions, but single and isolated ones). 72 The difference between the two allowed the observer [End Page 382] to see the emotion. The graphs depicted emotions by literally inscribing these differences in emotional states during the encounter (Fig. 18).
Good and reliable subjects/organisms were therefore chosen and valued for their self-manipulative abilities (agility), or for their compliant emotional flexibility, allowing the experimenter to create good representations. Those that did not produce good tracings (i.e., isolated emotions, clear representations, or good backgrounds) were discarded or left out of the protocol. 73 This was not motivated by any sinister ulterior aim, but was a consequence of the need to produce good graphs and distinct images. Thus, specific types (e.g., apprehensive, “cold,” “phlegmatic,” “nervous,” and irritable) were either left out of normal representations or deliberately chosen, according to the particular objective of the experimental protocol. 74 These [End Page 383] characterizations of humans and animals were often outcomes of the quality of the representations that these types of subjects produced: bad subjects were either too apprehensive and unable to maintain a calm state prior to emotion, which was necessary in order to show the emotion in bold relief, or they were too “cold” and did not produce a sufficiently obvious wave on the background of their overly calm existence.
The characterizations and typologies of human or animal emotional-types did not emerge only as a consequence of this new science and its characterization of good subjects-qua-representations. They had long preceded this new science, but were now defined by the graphs that they produced, and were representable in quantitative and visual terms. 75
Types and Tests
The typological approach to animals and humans was driven by the representations. Different individuals (humans and animals) produced different emotional outputs: some consistently produced numerically higher emotional curves, and some lower; some longer, and some shorter; some produced a smooth curve, others a curve more erratic in form; some gave consistent numbers with the repetition of stimuli, some were less consistent; and so forth. Each of these different patterns and numbers signified and provided important “emotional data” for characterizing, comparing, and classifying various individuals. 76
This was especially so as the graphs represented emotions in their pure, essentialist, and decontextualized form: anger of various and different causes was the same anger, as was fear, emotional excitement, or any other emotion. Emotions evoked by very different means, under different circumstances, at different times, and by different individuals were all translated into the same quantitative and universal medium of numeric or graphic form. Once materialized as a representation, they were liberated from their particular contexts [End Page 384] of production. As George Crile explained in his discussion of fear, “whether the cause of fear be moral, social, financial or intellectual, the result is the same. . . . In every case it is the same fear.” 77 There was, for example, no qualitative difference between the emotion produced by the smell of a real rose and the emotion produced by the smell of a hypnotically suggested one: the curves were qualitatively the same from the machine’s point of view. 78 Neither was there a qualitative difference between the emotional reaction to the anticipation of an event and the reaction to the event itself. The real, the artifactual, the imaginary, the suggested, the dreamt—fantasy and reality—produced the same set of essential emotions when viewed through their representations. These representations thus enabled and facilitated the comparison of emotions experienced at different times or under different circumstances. More importantly, the emotions of different individuals could now be juxtaposed on this one platform and compared. The representations collapsed the fear of one individual with that of another, and even that of the animal with that of the human—all produced spatio-temporal tracings (or numbers). 79
Though no explicit arguments for the universality of emotional experiences flowed from these graphs, the representations and their different uses implicitly made these arguments—at least when it came to the basic quantitative category of “excitement.” Thus, the nervousness of Chinese students taking exams was compared with that of Western students (Chinese students were more calm); 80 the “nervous sensitiveness” of different individuals was compared with their “intellectual efficiency,” in search of a correlation (“intellectual efficiency” was found to be “associated with higher nervous sensitiveness;” see Fig. 19); 81 the emotionality of white “men” was compared [End Page 385] with that of “women and negroes” (women and blacks had “less controlled and therefore more constantly active emotional life”); 82 and the emotionality of older rats was compared with that of [End Page 386] younger ones (younger rats were more emotional). 83 The emotions of these various groups were plotted on the same graph, and the difference was immediately visible. 84
In spite of the simplicity of the mapping techniques, there were many disparities in the conclusions: women were found to be no more emotional than men by some experimenters; blacks were found to be just as emotional as whites in other experiments; and so forth. 85 These representations thus reflected, and contributed to, contemporary debates about race and gender. 86 It cannot be argued that they swayed the debates in any one direction, for different experimenters used the same technologies to argue for opposite views. However, they universalized certain emotions, bridging the chasms that separated men from women and whites from blacks, and particularized these same groups and individuals along a new emotive scale. 87
Often, it was not necessary for the experimenters and clinicians to literally juxtapose graphs and numbers in order to argue for emotional differences, because they developed certain expectations concerning typical emotional responses as part of their exposure to the graphs and numbers. Thus, in qualifying a representation as either [End Page 387] normal or over/underemotional, they often based their evaluation on their long experience with emotional graphs and measurements. Though some investigators suggested that statistical tables of emotional reactions—an “emotional index,” or an “EQ” test—be plotted, these endeavors in the emotional realm never took off as they did in the realm of intelligence testing. 88 Those who did suggest these emotional scales constantly referred to the IQ test as their model, in spite [End Page 388] of their emphasis on the substantial differences between the practices necessary for EQ and IQ determinations. 89
Mediations: Trialogues with Machines
The legend says that there was strife between Athena and Poseidon and Hephaestus, about their skill in craftsmanship; and that Poseidon made a bull, Athena a house, and Hephaestus a man, and that they submitted their work to Momus whom they had chosen as arbitrator. . . . [H]e found fault with the man, and rebuked Hephaestus, his maker, because he had omitted to set little doors in his breast, so that, when they were thrown open, all the man’s thoughts and wishes might be known, and whether he were lying or telling the truth.Lucian 90
[The patient] stated that he (the patient) and Jehovah had “conjugated, part to part, body to body, brain to brain and cell to cell.” His heart rate, moderately variable, was then about 78. The interviewer inquired what the patient meant by “conjugation,” whether it implied a homosexual relation to the father. The patient’s heart rate became accelerated to 98 for about one quarter of a minute.John Whitehorn, 1935 91
The on-line registration and display of the emotional flow of subjects encouraged not only dialogues with the self, but also trialogues between experimenter, subject, and inscription. The tracings fed into the interactions between examiner and examinee: “using the cardiochronograph one may actually watch the record and guide the [End Page 389] conversation in accordance with its indications,” John Whitehorn explained. 92 The contexts and content of these mediations varied according to locale and participants: physician and patient, interrogator and suspect, and scientist and organism. In each of these interactions, emotion-gauging technologies guided/regulated the interactions between examiner and examinee.
In the physiologist’s laboratory, the representations regulated the interactions between human and animal interlocutors by voicing the animal’s emotions. The emotional outputs of laboratory animals (i.e., the inscriptions) guided the physiologist in his interactions with the animals, or served as a conduit for informing him of the emotional significance of his actions. As M. Dresbach explained in 1910, “In the sheep the heart rate may be taken as an index to the degree of excitement. . . . In sheep F and H the heart rate was increased so little that it may be assumed that there was no excitement. . . . In the control K . . . there was considerable nervous disturbance, as shown . . . by the fact that the heart rate had gone up from the normal (46) to 102.” 93
A culturally resonant form of these mediations was the lie-detector test, where the interactions between interlocutors depended on the on-line monitoring of emotional reactions and on a trialogue between interrogator, emotion-detector, and suspect. As William Marston explained in outlining the first step of the lie-detector test in 1938, “occasionally the b.p. [blood pressure] will be found dropping sharply due to exaggerated fear. In this case the operative should joke with his testee, or otherwise seek to put him at ease. . . . If the b.p. see-saws violently up and down the testee should be advised to quiet down and concentrate.” 94 The inner emotional flux of [End Page 390] the interrogee (the tracing) thus guided the interrogation and the interaction between interlocutors.
During the twentieth century, emotion-gauging technologies—in their capacity as lie detectors—participated in numerous trialogues. These portable laboratory and clinical instruments—alternatively known as “lie detectors,” “polygraphs,” “affectiometers,” or “deceptometers”—invaded the public domain, where they participated in “studies of malingry”; in demonstrations for exhibition to a class; in “guessing game” stunts in the drawing room, such as identifying numbers or cards or locating hidden objects; in forensic psychiatry; in “crucial situations where a person’s life, liberty, reputation, etc. are at stake”; and more. 95
The motif of applying emotion-gauging technologies to unveil the truth and expose a private and inner self was already present in the writings of the earliest pioneers of the new science of emotions. Claude Bernard had hinted at the potential application of emotion-gauging technologies for the revelation of truth and deceit in his 1865 lecture, when he distinguished between sincere and feigned emotions: only sincere emotions, he explained, would activate the involuntary physiological mechanisms of emotions and produce a distinguishable and characteristic graph. 96
During the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, various participants in the new science—such as Cyon, Mosso, Cesare Lombroso, Alfred Binet, Münsterberg, John Larson, Marston, Horry Jones, Chester Darrow, and Whitehorn—underscored the power of emotion-gauging technologies to expose the truth. The lie detector and the lie-detector test were only the more visible (popular) manifestations of a broader historical process. The application of these technologies in the criminal justice system or in the detection of crimes was, thus, only one instance of a broader project of exteriorization. 97 [End Page 391] This broader technology-based project was manifest in various alternative sites where emotion-gauging technologies revealed many local truths and mediated between interlocutors. One particularly interesting form of mediation occurred inside the laboratory of emotions itself—between members of the community of emotionologists.
An Economy of Emotions
I was sorry to hear that you were laid up with an exacerbation of your sinus trouble . . . I am confident that, however miserable you felt, you were recording observations of your emotional experiences.Harold G. Wolff, 1945 98
The success of these techno-representations as mediators depended in important ways on their unique integration of seemingly contradictory cultural elements: a detached and machinist mode of production that provided intimate and private knowledge. The representations displaced emotions from the privacy of the mind to the communal space of representation, from personal experience to scientific knowledge, and from the subjective to the objective. They performed these acts of denudation in the most mechanical, disinterested, and objective manner. Though they might tell a narrative of a child’s fear, a dog’s joy, a cat’s anger, or a prison inmate’s depression, they revealed these hidden and intimate narratives of the mind in what the investigators perceived as a sanitized-scientific way. 99 They were not predicated on a theorized sympathy, empathy, [End Page 392] or emotional “contamination,” but on a new mode of retrieving knowledge of the intimate that did not depend on the traditional values and time-consuming practices that heretofore had enabled intimate emotion-talk. 100 They created new possibilities by mechanically transgressing the emotional divide between private and public. 101
The publicity of the interior self, mediated by machines, sanctioned emotion-talk and a new form of public confession. These confessions were not performed in the context of the church or the clinic, but in the space of the laboratory or in the public sphere, and in the context of the professional and masculine culture of physiological laboratories. 102 The intimate was now discussable via the mediation of dials, numbers, and graphs. This mediatory role of the representations occasionally took on an exhibitionist turn when, as often happened, the experimenters or their colleagues served as subjects. 103 [End Page 393]
The mechanical mediation of the self enabled men of science to talk about their emotions as men, even while inhabiting the space of the laboratory. Thus the laboratory—still a male enclave in the early twentieth century—was replete with emotion-talk and the emotions of scientific men. The emotionalization of laboratory discourse was not without its occasional tensions. These could arise when, for example, the instrument registered and displayed the nervousness of a volunteered colleague during a demonstration in front of the scientific community, 104 or when the registering device visualized the emotional exchange and mutual emotional effects of the experimenters. Scientific interactions in the confines of the laboratory were not limited to the intellectual realm, but also evoked emotions in the investigators.
At other times, the representations demonstrated not the power of emotions, but of these men over their emotions. John Whitehorn related that in attempting to elicit a response from his own self he had read “the more pornographic selections” from The Thousand and One Nights, but the machine did not register an emotional response; he explained that “the critical, intellectual attitude tends to inhibit emotion.” 105 Nevertheless, according to many of their representations, there were many avowed emotional moments in the space of the laboratory and during experimentation (fig. 21). 106 The practice of science generated emotions.
I suggest that these representations were a modern and particularly masculine form of communicating and exchanging emotions, of creating an emotional economy in the laboratory. The exchange of autoemotiographical representations between investigators and across the community in shared publications was one way of coalescing as an emotional community. This form of exchange can be interpreted [End Page 394] as a twentieth-century reincarnation of what Anne Vincent-Buffault has described in regard to the eighteenth-century public display of tears—a kind of “emotional glue.” 107 The latter form of emotional exchange had been lost during the nineteenth century when tears disappeared from public display (especially in masculine culture). 108
My suggestion becomes more plausible when one focuses not only on the published autographical representations, but also on the correspondence between some of the practitioners. Here, a second form of emotional exchange developed in parallel with the science of emotions. Experimenters and clinicians created an alternative and semiprivate economy of emotions that was not mediated through the output of machines, but through the language of anatomical [End Page 395] landmarks or physiological functions. As Walter B. Cannon wrote to Smith Ely Jelliffe in 1932, “I have just seen in the September issue of the Journal of Mental and Nervous Diseases a review of my book, ‘The Wisdom of the Body,’ that has tickled my diencephalon in just the right spot to give me a feeling of pleasure!” 109
This alternative language for expressing and exchanging emotions via anatomy, physiology, and, most conspicuously, graphs was conceived by these experimenters and created in the space of the laboratory.
World as Emotion
At age six he had completely grasped his surroundings olfactorily. There was not an object in Madame Gaillard’s house, no place along the northern reaches of the rue de Charonne, no person, no stone, tree, bush, or picket fence, no spot be it ever so small, that he did not know by smell.Patrick Süskind 110
The collective practices for, and the different contexts of, producing and applying these representations made the observer know the world as emotion. The terrain of objects, interactions, and events was now representable and visually actualized as a number on the emotional scale of things. Individual words were arranged according to a hierarchy of “emotional value[s].” 111 “Nonsense syllables” were [End Page 396] endowed with affective tone. 112 And bonds (between physician and patient, husband and wife, dog and keeper, and cats and dogs) were [End Page 397] now measured, represented, and ontologized emotionally (see Fig. 22 for the affective bond between dog and keeper).
A sample of blood sufficed “to decide whether a given individual is emotionally aroused by the mere presence of another individual.” 113 A chart of nasal secretions represented the emotional significance of a “mother-in-law situation” 114 (Fig. 23). And glucose levels in the urine of the members of the Harvard football team represented the decline in emotional excitement of team members over more than a decade. 115
The materially mundane, as well as the imponderably illusive, were all actualized as emotion. A flash of light, a sharp whistle, a [End Page 398] kiss, a letter, a test, a chance encounter, a dog, and a football game were represented emotionally. One could see the emotional intensity of a dream, the anxiety of an imaginary airplane flight induced during hypnotic suggestion, and the emotional intensity of a memory. 116 Occasionally, the only record of these private narratives of the mind was the emotional trace left behind by the machine—for, as sometimes happened, the subjects (human and animal) could not report on the contents of their dreams, and it was only the representation that testified to the reality of a dream that was knowable only in its emotions (Fig. 24). 117
This emotional way of seeing things challenged the familiar and suggested an alternative organizing principle. The world as it was known could not explain its own “emotional content[s].” 118 As Frederick Peterson observed in his report on the differences between the emotional tone of words, “there was nothing in the words themselves” to explain the differences seen in their galvanometric representations; 119 and as Erich Wittkower argued, there were many words that had unexpected affective tone. 120 The new representations painted, registered, and preserved the world as emotion.
The laboratory of emotions redefined the meaning of emotion in terms of experimental manipulation—the operations necessary for its creation (isolation, purification, replication, and so forth)—and graphic representation. 121 Thus at the level of production, identification, and representation, William James’s famous question—“What Is an Emotion?”—received a new and surprisingly uniform response [End Page 399] from various emotionologists who studied emotions in different experimental/clinical settings and who were often embroiled in protracted theoretical and disciplinary debates about the nature of emotion (e.g., purposive vs. destructive, peripheral vs. central, social vs. biological, etc.). [End Page 400]
The experimenters and clinicians perceived their machine-mediated endeavors as merely transparent recordings of existing emotion, but the spread of their emotion-gauging technologies and the massive production of images of emotions actualized and painted the world, its objects, and its inhabitants in emotions. The new representations expanded the emotional terrain by creating alternative practices for discovering, deciphering, representing, and accumulating emotions. The new practices, in turn, created a new discursive space and new possible associations between emotions, science, and technology, between the private and the public. Machines mingled with emotions, science with art, and public with private. Instruments mediated intimate emotion-talk, and emotional autographs circulated between knowledge makers.
The new representations had the “power to alter the shape of human self-awareness.” 122 They encouraged new modes of human-machine interaction, enabled new forms of reflexivity, and implicated a new technology of emotional manipulation. In these early practices we can discern the kernels of the later development of biofeedback, stress research, and particular forms of interrogation.
The new representations of emotions also created a seemingly paradoxical tension at the heart of the new science of emotions: while the images and their production process signaled the modern project of rationalizing emotions, the findings of the new science challenged the position of the modern subject as an isolated bastion of rational thought. 123 The discovery that the mind was constantly barraged by emotions—visible as bleeps, shifting dials, and fluctuating curves—encouraged, at the very heart of the new experimental sciences, alternative modes of modernist thought.
Otniel E. Dror is a Postdoctoral Fellow at the Getty Research Institute for the History of Art and the Humanities in Los Angeles. He holds a Ph.D. from Princeton University and a M.D. from Ben Gurion University in Israel. His article in this issue is part of a larger project on the history of emotions and the life sciences (1880–1950) provisionally entitled, The Science of Passion: Modernity and the Study of Emotions. Previous publications have appeared in Peter N. Stearns and Jan Lewis, eds., An Emotional History of the United States (1998) and in Isis (1999).
I gratefully acknowledge the support of a Rockefeller Archive Center Research Grant. I thank the editors and the anonymous referees for their suggestions. Special thanks to Elizabeth Lunbeck, Jane Maienschein, Michele Rivkin-Fish, and Ziggy Rivkin-Fish.
1. George Jean Nathan, “The Question of Passions,” in Art of the Night (New York: Knopf, 1928), pp. 205–208.
2. On Quintilian, see Joseph R. Roach, The Player’s Passion: Studies in the Science of Acting (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1985). On the depiction of emotions in Greek literature, see Thomas Gelzer and William S. Anderson, eds., How to Express Emotions of the Soul and Operations of the Mind in a Language That Has No Words for Them, as Exemplified by Odysseus and Calypso (Berkeley: Center for Hermeneutical Studies in Hellenistic and Modern Culture, 1988).
3. See, e.g., Barbara Stafford’s discussion of physiognomics during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: Barbara Maria Stafford, Body Criticism: Imaging the Unseen in Enlightenment Art and Medicine (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1991), pp. 84–129.
4. Brewster Rogerson, “The Art of Painting the Passions,” Journal of the History of Ideas 14 (1953): 68; Rogerson analyzes these conventions during the eighteenth century.
5. Valérie Hurcombe-Steunou, “Landscaped Passion,” in The Literary Portrayal of Passion through the Ages, ed. Keith Cameron (Lewiston, N.Y.: Edwin Mellen, 1996), p. 105. For a similar approach using the metaphor of weather, see Arden Reed, Romantic Weather: The Climates of Coleridge and Baudelaire (Hanover, N.H.: University Press of New England, 1983), esp. pp. 1–77.
6. Christopher Gill, “Ancient Passions: Theories and Cultural Styles,” in Cameron, Literary Portrayal, pp. 1–10.
7. For the notion of “emotionology,” see Peter N. Stearns and Carol Z. Stearns, “Emotionology: Clarifying the History of Emotions and Emotional Standards,” American Historical Review 90 (1985): 814–836. For the major synthesis of this shift from Victorian to modern, see Peter N. Stearns, American Cool: Constructing a Twentieth-Century Emotional Style (New York: New York University Press, 1994). See also Stephen Kern, The Culture of Love: Victorians to Moderns (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1992).
8. On Diderot, see Roach, Player’s Passion (above, n. 2); Lee Strasberg, “Introduction,” in Denis Diderot, The Paradox of Acting [and] William Archer, Masks or Faces? (New York: Hill and Wang, 1957). On symbolist painters, see Debora L. Silverman, Art Nouveau in Fin-de-Siècle France: Politics, Psychology, and Style (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992 ), p. 85.
9. On the development of a modern science of emotions, see Otniel E. Dror, “Modernity and the Scientific Study of Emotions, 1880–1950,” Ph.D. diss., Princeton University, 1998.
10. As we shall see below, these endeavors differed significantly from, and should not be confused with, contemporary pictorial representations of madness. On this latter literature, see Jan Goldstein, “The Hysteria Diagnosis and the Politics of Anticlericalism in Late Nineteenth-Century France,” Journal of Modern History 54 (1982): 209–239; Sander Gilman, Picturing Health and Illness: Images of Identity and Difference (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995); idem, Disease and Representation: Images of Illness from Madness to AIDS (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1988).
11. The notion that instruments allowed nature to write itself was a common trope during this period. It also appeared in numerous physiological writings on inscribing emotions. See, e.g., Walter B. Cannon, Bodily Changes in Pain, Hunger, Fear, and Rage: An Account of Recent Researches into the Function of Emotional Excitement, 2d ed. (New York: D. Appleton, 1929), pp. 134–135; Angelo Mosso, Fear, 5th ed., trans. E. Lough and F. Kiesow (London: Longmans and Green, 1896), pp. 77, 109.
12. Claude Bernard, “Sur la physiologie du coeur et ses rapports avec le cerveau,” in idem, Leçons sur les propriétés des tissus vivants, coll., ed., and arranged by M. Émile Alglave (Paris: Germer Baillière, 1866), pp. 421–471. The cardiograph’s principle was based on mechanical transmission: a stethoscopic drum was placed on the chest of the examinee, above the heart; the pulsation of the heart was transmitted from this drum and registered in the form of a curve.
13. Ibid., p. 437. On my use of “translation,” see Bruno Latour, The Pasteurization of France, trans. Alan Sheridan and John Law (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988). All translations from French are my own.
14. Bernard, “Sur la physiologie,” pp. 469–471; quotation on p. 469.
15. M. E. Cyon, “Le coeur et le cerveau,” Revue Scientifique de la France et de l’Étranger 21 (1873): 481–489.
16. Ibid., p. 487. For the quote, see Fernand Papillon, “Physiology of the Passions,” Popular Science Monthly (March 1874): 559.
17. See, e.g., Mosso, Fear (above, n. 11); Ugolino Mosso, “Influence du système nerveux sur la température animale: Recherches,” Archives Italiennes de Biologie 7 (1886): 306–340, esp. pp. 337–340. The publication of Charles Darwin’s text on the expression of emotions, Duchenne de Boulogne’s intensive laboratory investigations of human facial expression, and J. S. Lombard’s experiments on regional temperature and emotions all point to the early years of the latter third of the nineteenth century as an important juncture in the study of emotions. See Charles Darwin, The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals (New York: D. Appleton, 1872); G. B. Duchenne (de Boulogne), Mécanisme de la physionomie humaine, ou analyse électro-physiologique de l’expression des passions applicable à la pratique des arts plastiques (Paris: Jules Renouard, 1862); J. S. Lombard, Experimental Researches on the Regional Temperature of the Head under Conditions of Rest, Intellectual Activity, and Emotion (London: H. K. Lewis, 1879).
18. On Mosso’s influence, see Otniel E. Dror, “The Affect of Experiment: The Turn to Emotions in Anglo-American Physiology, 1900–1940,” Isis 90 (1999): 205–237.
19. Psychoanalysts seemed to have rejected the use of these instruments as a group, in spite of individual exceptions. In an unpublished manuscript Roy Grinker describes the resistance of members of the Chicago Institute for Psychoanalysis to instrument-based measurements of analysants, during the interwar period. His description is not surprising, for from its very beginnings psychoanalysis had an aural rather than a visual epistemology. See Roy Grinker, “The History of Psychoanalysis in Chicago 1911–1975,” August 15, 1975 (personal communication). On the aural nature of psychoanalysis, see Gilman, Disease and Representation (above, n. 10), p. 45. On psychoanalysis and its emphasis on talking and expressing the affect in words, see Kern, Culture of Love (above, n. 7), pp. 135–136.
20. See Chester Darrow to Anna C. Orcutt, September 22, 1934, folder 10, box 5, Institute for Juvenile Research, Series I, Subseries I, Chicago Historical Society, Chicago, Ill. (hereafter cited as IJR); “Minutes of the Annual Meeting of the NRC Division of Anthropology & Psychology, 13–14 May 1927,” pp. 14–15, Div. A&P, Rec. Grp. DNRC: A&P: “Com on Experimental Study of Human Emotions: General,” 1926–1929, NAS-NRC Archives, Washington, D.C. For a critique of this rapid commercialization, see John Larson to Douglas M. Kelley, December 26, 1950, folder “Misc. Printed Items,” carton 1, John Augustus Larson papers, BANC MSS 78/160z, Bancroft Library, University of California, Berkeley (hereafter cited as JAL).
21. Cannon, Bodily Changes (above, n. 11), p. 30. For the investigation of emotional shock in condemned criminals, see Ralph S. Banay to Walter B. Cannon, July 15, 1941; and Walter B. Cannon to Ralph S. Banay, July 17, 1941, folder 903, box 67, Walter Bradford Cannon Papers (H MS c40), Rare Books and Special Collections, Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine, Boston, Mass. (hereafter cited as WBC). Ralph S. Banay was psychiatrist in charge of the Division of Psychiatry, Department of Correction, Sing Sing Prison; Walter B. Cannon was one of the key figures in the development of the physiology of emotions during the early twentieth century, and was at Harvard University.
22. My emphasis here is on scientific representations during the modern period, in contrast to artistic representations in general and to scientific representations of the classical episteme, e.g., physiognomy. On the history of physiognomy and its representations, see Paolo Mantegazza, Physiognomy and Expression (New York: Scribner’s, 1914); Roach, Player’s Passion (above, n. 2); Stafford, Body Criticism (above, n. 3), pp. 84–129. For the characteristics of the classical episteme, see Michel Foucault, The Order of Things (New York: Random House, 1970).
23. See William Innes Homer, Seurat and the Science of Painting (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1964); Theodore Porter, Trust in Numbers: The Pursuit of Objectivity in Science and Public Life (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995); Carlo Ginzburg, “Clues: Roots of an Evidential Paradigm,” in idem, Clues, Myths, and the Historical Method, trans. John and Anne C. Tedeschi (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1989), pp. 96–125. Other citations are given below.
24. I owe my understanding of the history of the graphic method to Robert Brain’s exceptional study: Robert M. Brain, “The Graphic Method: Inscription, Visualization, and Measurement in Nineteenth-Century Science and Culture,” Ph.D. diss., UCLA, 1996.
25. See Jonathan Crary, Techniques of the Observer: On Vision and Modernity in the Nineteenth Century (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1990), p. 148. The experimenters that I will discuss went beyond Gustav Fechner’s pioneering studies in psychophysics. I have found no direct link between the work of physiologists of emotions—such as Bernard, Cyon, or Mosso—and Fechner. The rhetoric of exteriorizing an interiority was also predominant during the early twentieth century in other fields—e.g., the emerging profession of psychiatry. See Elizabeth Lunbeck, The Psychiatric Persuasion: Knowledge, Gender, and Power in Modern America (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), pp. 50–52, 138.
26. See Otniel E. Dror, “Creating the Emotional Body: Confusion, Possibilities, and Knowledge,” in An Emotional History of the United States, ed. Peter N. Stearns and Jan Lewis (New York: New York University Press, 1998), pp. 173–194.
27. In this essay the terms “instruments,” “machines,” and “technologies” are used interchangeably and refer to specific mechanical tools, as well as to various laboratory procedures (such as staining, counting, weighing, etc.).
28. Hugo Münsterberg, On the Witness Stand: Essays on Psychology and Crime (New York: McClure, 1908), pp. 122–123.
29. A. D. Waller, “The Emotive Response to Ordinary Stimulation, Real and Imaginary,” Lancet i (1918): 380. On this same point, see also Rollin T. Woodyatt, “Psychic and Emotional Factors in General Diagnosis and Treatment,” Journal of the American Medical Association 89 (1927): 1013; David Wechsler, “Conference on Experimental Study of Human Emotions,” October 15, 1926, p. 22, Div. A&P, Rec. Grp. DNRC: A&P: “Comon Experimental Study of Human Emotions: Conf on Experimental study of Human Emotions: Third,” 1926 October, NAS-NRC Archives, Washington, D.C. (these are the confidential minutes of a conference sponsored by the NRC); “Students Measure Fear by a Pupilometer, Kick Subject’s Shins to Experiment on Anger,” New York Times, November 24, 1925, p. 27: 4.
30. Münsterberg, On the Witness Stand (above, n. 28), pp. 118–119. The characterization of emotion-gauging instruments as “sensitive” or “delicate” was a recurrent theme during this whole time period. Especially targeted was the galvanometer; other instruments that were sensitive were the thermometer (which reacted to changes of 0.01 degrees centigrade), various histological techniques (which enabled the practitioner to count individual cells), blood-sugar determinations (which supplanted “cruder” methods of urinalysis), the cardiograph or the capillary plethysmograph (which registered minute changes in pulse and blood flow), and so forth. For some of these characterizations in published works, see James Rowland Angell and Helen Bradford Thompson, “A Study of the Relations between Certain Organic Processes and Consciousness,” Psychological Review 6 (1899): 51; John B. Watson, Psychology from the Standpoint of a Behaviorist, 3d ed. (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott, 1929), p. 252; William M. Marston, “Primary Emotions,” Psychological Review 34 (1927): 342. For the same theme in private correspondence, see Thos. M. Dahm to Chester Darrow, December 14, 1936, folder 11, box 5, IJR (above, n. 20); A. V. Kidder (?) to Margaret Washburn, May 31, 1927, Div. A&P, Rec. Grp. DNRC: A&P: “Com on Experimental Study of Human Emotions: General,” 1926–1929, NAS-NRC Archives, Washington, D.C.
31. Harry G. Armstrong, “The Blood Pressure and Pulse Rate as an Index of Emotional Stability,” American Journal of the Medical Sciences 195 (1938): 212. See also Otto Veraguth, “Measuring Joy and Sorrow,” Scientific American Supplement 67 (1909): 87; A. Binet and J. Courtier, “Circulation capillaire de la main dans ses rapports avec la respiration et les actes psychiques,” L’Année Psychologique 2 (1895): 133; William Moulton Marston, The Lie Detector Test (New York: Richard R. Smith, 1938), p. 138; Élie de Cyon, Dieu et science: Essais de psychologie des sciences (Paris: Félix Alcan, 1910), pp. 164–165.
32. This notion of going beyond the superficial was a central theme in the physiological investigation of emotions. See, e.g., Cannon, Bodily Changes (above, n. 11), pp. 2–3; Bernard, “Sur la physiologie” (above, n. 12); Cyon, “Le coeur” (above, n. 15).
33. A. D. Waller, “The Measurement of Human Emotion and of Its Voluntary Control,” Proceedings of the Royal Society of Medicine 13, I&II (1920): 49. With time, some of these instruments became quite complex.
34. Other technologies included the plethysmograph, pupilometer, tremor-meter, and various laboratory-specific contraptions. Different instruments, some argued, represented different aspects of the emotion. For primary literature on some of these instruments, see Frederick Peterson, “The Galvanometer in Psychology,” Journal of Abnormal Psychology 3 (1908): 43–45; idem, “The Galvanometer as a Measurer of Emotions,” British Medical Journal 2 (1907): 806; Maxime Laignel-Lavastine and Georges d’Heucqueville, “Un nouveau test clinique simple d’émotion, applicable à l’examen des prévenus: Le pH urinaire, différentiel,” Annales de Médecine Légale 12 (1932): 40; Chester Darrow to Herman M. Adler, May 18, 1935, folder 11, box 5, IJR (above, n. 20). For secondary literature on the history of some of these instruments during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, see Robert G. Frank, Jr., “The Telltale Heart: Physiological Instruments, Graphic Methods, and Clinical Hopes, 1854–1914,” in The Investigative Enterprise: Experimental Physiology in Nineteenth-Century Medicine, ed. William Coleman and Frederic L. Holmes (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), pp. 211–290; Frederic L. Holmes and Kathryn M. Olesko, “The Images of Precision: Helmholtz and the Graphical Method in Physiology,” in The Values of Precision, ed. M. Norton Wise (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995), pp. 198–221; Hughes Evans, “Losing Touch: The Controversy over the Introduction of Blood Pressure Instruments into Medicine,” Technology and Culture 34 (1993): 784–807; Anson Rabinbach, The Human Motor: Energy, Fatigue, and the Origins of Modernity (New York: Basic Books, 1990), pp. 84–119; Stanley Joel Reiser, Medicine and the Reign of Technology (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1978), esp. pp. 91–121; Paul V. Trovillo, “A History of Lie Detection,” Journal of Criminal Law and Criminology/ American Journal of Police Science 29 (1939): 848–881, and 30 (1939): 104–119.
35. For some examples of this argument, see Marston, Lie Detector Test (above, n. 31), p. 154; Münsterberg, On the Witness Stand (above, n. 28), p. 129.
36. This shift is described in Dror, “Creating the Emotional Body” (above, n. 26).
37. Fred W. Eastman, “The Physics of the Emotions,” Harper’s Magazine 128 (January 1914): 300. For the same theme, see also A. Binet and J. Courtier, “Influence de la vie émotionnelle sur le coeur, la respiration et la circulation capillaire,” L’Année Psychologique 3 (1896): 70; Mosso, Fear (above, n. 11), p. 108.
38. Th. Ribot, Essai sur les passions, 2d ed. (Paris: Alcan, 1907), pp. 5–6.
39. For some of these arguments, see the discussion by John Paul Nafe, in “Conference on Experimental Study of Human Emotions” (above, n. 29), pp. 10–11; David Brunswick, “The Effect of Emotional Stimuli on the Gastro-Intestinal Tone: I. Methods and Technique,” Journal of Comparative Psychology 4 (February 1924): 64. The distrust of language did not preclude the appeal to human language and to various idioms as supporting evidence for the embodiment of emotions; see, e.g., Harold G. Wolff, “Emotion and Bodily Changes,” (1924?), folder 13, box 9, Harold G. Wolff Papers, Archives, New York Weill Cornell Center of New York Presbyterian Hospital, New York (hereafter cited as HGW); Stanley Cobb, Borderlands of Psychiatry (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1948 ), p. 77.
40. Bernard, “Sur la physiologie” (above, n. 12), p. 427.
41. Ibid. See Darwin, Expression of the Emotions (above, n. 17), p. 80n12 and p. 150n5; William James, “The Emotions,” in idem, Principles of Psychology (New York: Henry Holt, 1890), chap. 25, reprinted in Carl Georg Lange and William James, The Emotions (Baltimore: Williams and Wilkins, 1922), pp. 114–115; William Moulton Marston, “Bodily Symptoms of Elementary Emotions,” Psyche 10 (October 1929): 83; Charles S. Sherrington, The Integrative Action of the Nervous System (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1906), p. 268; Cobb, Borderlands of Psychiatry (above, n. 39), pp. 76–79.
42. Eastman, “Physics of the Emotions” (above, n. 37), p. 297.
43. Münsterberg, On the Witness Stand (above, n. 28), p. 127. For the same theme, see Selma C. Mueller, “Hourly Rhythms in Blood Pressure in Persons with Normal and Elevated Pressures,” Annals of Internal Medicine 3 (1930): 1198.
44. On the use of cinematic inscriptions in physiology during this period, see Lisa Cartwright, “‘Experiments of Destruction’: Cinematic Inscriptions of Physiology,” Representations 40 (1992): 129–152.
45. As Helen Flanders Dunbar observed in her chapter on measurements in psychosomatic medicine, “It is interesting that fundamental to all instruments, which have been considered seriously for research in the field of emotion, is the inclusion of the time factor, results being obtained usually in the form of curves” (Helen Flanders Dunbar, Emotions and Bodily Changes: A Survey of Literature on Psychosomatic Interrelationships, 1910–1945, 3d ed. [New York: Columbia University Press, 1946], p. 107).
46. For the notion of “emotion pictures,” see Hudson Hoagland to W. B. Cannon, December 27, 1938, folder 1579, box 114, WBC (above, n. 21); Hoagland was discussing the creation of “emotion pictures” by the use of the electroencephalogram (EEG). The use of the EEG to investigate the emotions began in the 1930s. Léon Binet in France pursued the emotions by using EEG technologies; this methodology differed in significant ways from the measurement of peripheral referents. See Léon Binet, “L’excitation émotionnelle,” Revue des Deux Mondes 54 (1939): 588–595.
47. For “excited blood,” see Cannon, Bodily Changes (above, n. 11), p. 43.
48. “Liquid Nerves,” Literary Digest 48 (1914): 1433.
49. G. W. Crile, “Studies in Exhaustion: III. Emotion,” Archives of Surgery 4 (1922): 134.
50. C. S. Sherrington, “Experiments on the Value of Vascular and Visceral Factors for the Genesis of Emotion,” Proceedings of the Royal Society of London 64 (1900): 391. See also Harvey W. Wiley, “Pepsin, Pep, and Patience,” Good Housekeeping 61 (1915): 805–809.
51. E. W. Scripture, “Detection of the Emotions by the Galvanometer,” Journal of the American Medical Association 50 (1908): 1164. This was part of a larger shift from Victorian to modern representations of the body. See Dror, “Creating the Emotional Body” (above, n. 26); Kern, Culture of Love (above, n. 7), pp. 92–93; Stearns, American Cool (above, n. 7), pp. 66–67. On very rare occasions this bodily language of emotion was made strikingly explicit when, instead of being represented by a graph or numeric table, an emotion was represented by the picture of an actual organ undergoing changes during an emotional experience. See Fig. 22, below.
52. Lorraine Daston and Peter Galison, “The Image of Objectivity,” Representations 40 (1992): 107.
53. See, e.g., Walter Alvarez, “Ways in Which Emotion Can Affect the Digestive Tract,” Journal of the American Medical Association 92 (1929): 1237.
54. Peterson, “Galvanometer as a Measurer” (above, n. 34), p. 805.
55. For the quote, see Papillon, “Physiology of the Passions” (above, n. 16), p. 559. This question had many different answers that depended on the professional affiliations, theoretical beliefs, and empirical studies of different groups of investigators. In general, supporters of the James-Lange theory of emotions argued for this uniqueness, and detractors argued against it. For an example of the argument for a unique representation for each emotion, see Binet and Courtier, “Influence de la vie émotionelle” (above, n. 37), pp. 103–104. See also William James, “What Is an Emotion?” Mind 9 (1884): 188–205, reprinted in Lange and James, Emotions (above, n. 41). For a major criticism of the James-Lange theory, see Cannon, Bodily Changes (above, n. 11); Walter B. Cannon, “The James-Lange Theory of Emotions: A Critical Examination and an Alternative Theory,” American Journal of Psychology 39 (1927): 106–124. These debates continued into the 1950s with the work of, e.g., A. F. Ax.
56. Thus, a parallelism between certain aspects of experience and physiochemical changes in the body was assumed and argued for. See Cannon, Bodily Changes (above, n. 11), pp. 71, 339; S. W. Britton, “Neural and Hormonal Factors in Bodily Activity: The Prepotency of Medulliadrenal Influence in Emotional Hyperglycemia,” American Journal of Physiology 86 (1928): 343; Frederick Peterson, “The Effect of the Emotions upon the Body,” Good Housekeeping 48 (1909): 376; Eastman, “Physics of the Emotions” (above, n. 37), p. 300. On feeling states, see “How the Body Betrays the Mind,” Literary Digest 48 (1914): 153–155; J. G. Beebe-Center, The Psychology of Pleasantness and Unpleasantness (New York: Van Nostrand, 1932); Angell and Thompson, “Study of the Relations” (above, n. 30).
57. George Van Ness Dearborn, “Some Practical Notes on Blood-Pressure,” Medical Record 90 (1916): 489–490.
58. Don P. Morris, “The Effects of Emotional Excitement on Pulse, Blood Pressure, and Blood Sugar of Normal Human Beings,” Yale Journal of Biology and Medicine 7 (1935): 411.
59. Joseph Barcroft, “Some Effects of Emotion on the Volume of the Spleen,” Journal of Physiology 67 (1930): 375; J. Barcroft and J. G. Stephens, “Observations upon the Size of the Spleen,” ibid. 64 (1927): 19.
60. S. Hatai and F. S. Hammett, “Four Factors Causing Changes in the Type of Response of the Isolated Intestinal Segment of the Albino Rat (Mus Norvegicus Albinus) to Sodium Carbonate,” American Journal of Physiology 53 (1920): 312–322.
61. “Life situations” was a common locution in psychosomatic medicine. See the collection of papers in Harold G. Wolff, Stewart G. Wolf, Jr., and Clarence C. Hare, eds., Life Stress and Bodily Disease (Baltimore: Williams and Wilkins, 1950).
62. Sarah Maza, “Stories in History: Cultural Narratives in Recent Works in European History,” American Historical Review 101 (December 1996): 1491–1515. I am treating the community of investigators that produced these new representations as a culture. Though space does not allow for justifying this move, I am following the work of anthropologists of science, such as Bruno Latour, Steve Woolgar, and Sharon Traweek: see Bruno Latour and Steve Woolgar, Laboratory Life: The Construction of Scientific Facts (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1986); Sharon Traweek, Beamtimes and Lifetimes: the World of High Energy Physicists (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1988).
63. Waller, “Measurement of Human Emotion” (above, n. 33), p. 44.
64. Ibid., pp. 49–50.
65. “Measuring the Emotions,” Literary Digest 68 (February 12, 1921): 23. Waller was well known for his quick recruitment of guests as experimental subjects: see Walter R. Miles, Report of a Visit to Foreign Laboratories, April–August, 1920 (Boston: Nutrition Laboratory of the Carnegie Institution of Washington, 1920), pp. 37–38 (this report is located at the Cushing/Whitney Medical Library, Yale University, New Haven, Conn.). For general background on Augustus D. Waller, see A. H. Sykes, “A. D. Waller and the University of London Physiological Laboratory,” Medical History 33 (1989): 217–234.
66. “Measuring the Emotions,” Literary Digest 69 (1921): 25.
67. George E. Brown, “Daily and Monthly Rhythm in the Blood Pressure of a Man with Hypertension: A Three-Year Study,” Annals of Internal Medicine 3 (1930): 1181.
68. For “intrusion,” see “Measurement of Emotion,” British Medical Journal 1 (February 1920): 259.
69. There were many techniques for generating and eliminating emotions, some of which were used with both animals and humans, while others were exclusively used either with animals or with humans.
70. See W. E. Blatz, “The Cardiac, Respiratory, and Electrical Phenomena Involved in the Emotion of Fear,” Journal of Experimental Psychology 8 (1925): 127; idem, “A Physiological Study of the Emotion of Fear,” Ph.D. diss., University of Chicago, 1924; “Measuring the Emotions” (above, n. 66); Leonarde Keeler, “The Detection of Deception,” n.d., folder 13, box 103 (J. H. Wigmore, General Correspondence), John Henry Wigmore Papers, Northwestern University Archives, Evanston, Ill.; Lloyd H. Ziegler and B. S. Levine, “The Influence of Emotional Reactions on Basal Metabolism,” American Journal of Medical Sciences 169 (1925): 68.
71. J. C. Whitehorn, M. R. Kaufman, and J. M. Thomas, “Heart Rate in Relation to Emotional Disturbances,” Archives of Neurology and Psychiatry 33 (1935): 723.
72. For “mixed emotions,” see H. I. Schou, “Some Investigations into the Physiology of Emotions,” Acta Psychiatrica et Neurologica, Suppl. 14 (1937): 28. For “pure emotional excitement,” see W. B. Cannon, “The Emergency Function of the Adrenal Medulla in Pain and the Major Emotions,” American Journal of Physiology 33 (1914): 359.
73. See, e.g., Ernest Lyman Scott, “The Content of Sugar in the Blood under Common Laboratory Conditions,” American Journal of Physiology 34 (1914): 271–311; Walter B. Cannon, The Mechanical Factors of Digestion (New York: Longmans and Green, 1911), p. 217.
74. For “apprehension,” see Waller, “Emotive Response” (above, n. 29), p. 381. For “cold,” see G. Marañon, “Les variations de la glycémie chez les aviateurs,” Comptes Rendus Hebdomadaires des Séances et Mémoires de la Société de Biologie 82 (1919): 631. For “phlegmatic,” see Ferrari, mentioned in Cannon, Bodily Changes (above, n. 11), p. 178. For “nervous,” see Estes H. Hargis and Frank C. Mann, “A Plethysmographic Study of the Changes in the Volume of the Spleen in the Intact Animal,” American Journal of Physiology 55 (1925): 199. For “irritable,” see Binet and Courtier, “Influence de la vie émotionelle” (above, n. 37), p. 70.
75. For the larger concern with typologies and individual identity, see Roxanne Panchasi, “Graphology and the Science of Individual Identity in Modern France,” Configurations 4 (1996): 1–31, esp. pp. 6–7.
76. For the notion of “emotional data,” see John Favill, “The Need for Emotional Data in the Medical History,” Annals of Internal Medicine 3 (1930): 462–466.
77. George W. Crile, Man—An Adaptive Mechanism (New York: Macmillan, 1916), p. 153.
78. See “How the Body” (above, n. 56), p. 154.
79. E.g., the fear of animals was comparable to the “worry” of humans via the mediation of these representations. By collapsing the emotions of humans and animals, these representations facilitated the application of experimental data from animals to human patients. See, e.g., Jacob M. Mora, Leo E. Amtman, and Samuel J. Hoffman, “Effect of Mental and Emotional States on the Leukocyte Count,” Journal of the American Medical Association 86 (1926): 945. These claims also made sense in the context of Darwin’s theory of evolution. See, e.g., Mosso, Fear (above, n. 11), p. 15; and Cannon, Bodily Changes (above, n. 11), pp. 193–194.
80. W. H. Adolph, T. Y. Wang, and P. C. Wang, “Emotional Glycosuria in Chinese Students,” Chinese Journal of Physiology 5 (1933): 1–4.
81. Mary D. Waller, “The Emotive Response of a Class of 73 Students of Medicine,” Lancet i (1918): 511.
82. William Moulton Marston, “Systolic Blood Pressure and Reaction Time Symptoms of Deception and Constituent Mental States,” Ph.D. diss., Harvard University, 1921, pp. 5–6.
83. Hatai and Hammett, “Four Factors” (above, n. 60). See also J. Barcroft and R. H. E. Elliot, “Some Observations on the Denervated Spleen,” Journal of Physiology 87 (1936): 193, for a numeric table comparing the relative emotionality of a number of laboratory dogs.
84. For other examples, see Margaret Floy Washburn to Stratton, December 15, 1925, Div. A&P, Rec. Grp. DNRC: A&P: “Conf on Experimental study of Human Emotions: First,” 1925 Dec., NAS-NRC Archives, Washington, D.C.; A. D. Waller, “Galvanometric Records of the Emotive Response to Air Raids,” Lancet i (1918): 311. Some even used these machines to measure the changing personalities of a “medium” while in trance: see Adolf Meyer to Carney Landis, January 24, 1933, folder I/2242/1, Adolf Meyer Papers, Alan Mason Chesney Medical Archives, Johns Hopkins Medical School, Baltimore, Md.
85. See, e.g., Blatz, “Cardiac, Respiratory” (above, n. 70); idem, “Physiological Study” (above, n. 70); Otto Folin, W. Denis, and W. G. Smillie, “Some Observations on ‘Emotional Glycosuria’ in Man,” Journal of Biological Chemistry 17 (1914): 519–520.
86. See, e.g., Carl N. Degler, In Search of Human Nature: The Decline and Revival of Darwinism in American Social Thought (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991); Daniel J. Kevles, In the Name of Eugenics: Genetics and the Uses of Human Heredity (New York: Knopf, 1985); Stephen Jay Gould, The Mismeasure of Man (London/New York: W. W. Norton, 1981).
87. The differences between these groups were now quantitative and not qualitative. For Victorian notions of qualitative differences between, e.g., blacks and whites, see Janet Brown, “Darwin and the Expression of the Emotions,” in The Darwinian Heritage, ed. David Kohn (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1985), p. 326n14.
88. See Harry G. Armstrong, “The Blood Pressure and Pulse Rate as an Index of Emotional Stability,” American Journal of the Medical Sciences 195 (1938): 211–220.
89. See, e.g., Wechsler, “Conference on Experimental Study” (above, n. 29), p. 22. For the notion of “EQ,” see Leon Whipple, “What Is Your EQ?” Survey Graphic 30 (1941): 640–641. The use of these graphs and comparisons also extended to the domain of the normal and pathological. Juxtaposing representations from normal and psychiatric patients, some physicians argued that mental illness was a state of hyper- or hyponormal emotions, because the graphs had a normal pattern but were only higher or lower on the emotional scale. Though some argued that the patterns differed between normal subjects and psychiatric patients, most of the literature that used these representations seemed to argue for a continuity of the normal and pathological; in this, it conformed to the basic model of the life sciences since August Comte and Claude Bernard. See Georges Canguilhem, The Normal and the Pathological, trans. Carolyn R. Fawcett (New York: Zone Books, 1991 ). Elizabeth Lunbeck also argues that psychiatrists of the early twentieth century developed a new model in which the normal and pathological were seen as continuous, rather than discontinuous (i.e., psychopathy): see Lunbeck, Psychiatric Persuasion (above, n. 25), pp. 68–70.
90. Lucian, “Hermotimus; or, The Sects,” in Augusta M. Campbell Davidson, Translations from Lucian (London: Longmans, Green, 1902), p. 72.
91. Whitehorn, Kaufman, and Thomas, “Heart Rate” (above, n. 71), p. 720. On Whitehorn’s interest in interviews, see “John C. Whitehorn,” Medical Video, Johns Hopkins Medical School, Baltimore, Md.
92. Whitehorn, Kaufman, and Thomas, “Heart Rate,” p. 716. See also J. C. Whitehorn, “Emotional Responsiveness in Clinical Interviews,” American Journal of Psychiatry 94 (1937): 311–315; Binet and Courtier, “Influence de la vie émotionelle” (above, n. 37), p. 70; A. D. Waller, “Measurement of Emotivity in a Japanese Subject,” Quarterly Journal of Experimental Physiology 12 (1920): 370.
93. M. Dresbach, “Observations upon the Blood Pressure of the Sheep,” American Journal of Physiology 25 (1910): 434–435. For a similar argument concerning children, see “Summary of Principal Activities in the Growth of Adolescents at the end of Two Years of Data Collection (January 1, 1934),” p. 5, folder 454 (University of California-Research on Adolescence, 1930–1938), box 43, series 3, Laura Spelman Rockefeller Memorial, Rockefeller Archive Center, Sleepy Hollow, N.Y.
94. Marston, Lie Detector (above, n. 31), p. 162. See also the collected correspondence of John Augustus Larson in JAL (above, n. 20); and the collected correspondence of Chester Darrow in IJR (above, n. 20). These are only a few examples from an abundant primary literature on the detection of deceit in various contexts (judicial, clinical, commercial, etc.).
95. M. Reese Guttman to Chester Darrow, October 26, 1935, folder 11, box 5, IJR. Some of the protagonists argued for the resurrection of the Rousseauite dream of a transparent society—a society of truth permeated by emotion-gauging technologies. See, e.g., Bill Marston to John Larson, June 30, 1936; and Elmer J. Halseth to John Larson, February 21, 1941, folder “Misc. Corr.,” carton 7, JAL. On the mobility of the polygraph, see Marston, Lie Detector, p. 98: “[Larson] combined the blood-pressure and breathing instruments in a neat, oblong box which could be carried conveniently, like a suit case.” It is important to emphasize that the lie detector was, in fact, an emotion detector (usually detecting “fear”). This was accepted and articulated by most of the major protagonists of the machine; see, e.g., Leonarde Keeler, “Detection of Deception” (above, n. 70).
96. Bernard, “Sur la physiologie” (above, n. 12).
97. This project of exteriorization should be distinguished from older traditions of reading the body, and specifically, from physiognomy. Marin Cureau de La Chambre (physician to Louis XIV), Antoine-Joseph Pernety, and Lavater—to name but three representative members in a long history of physiognomists—had disparaged the notion of a “Glass of Momus,” of a “window in front of the heart to see the thoughts & designs of men,” because such a window into the heart, they argued, would show only a beating organ and nothing else; their endeavors were not in the context of a modern physiological science of the interior functional body, but a grammar of static ideal facial types arranged and classified in the classical order of a table. See Stafford, Body Criticism (above, n. 3), pp. 84–129. On de La Chambre and Lavater, see also Mantegazza, Physiognomy and Expression (above, n. 22), pp. 7–17. The tensions surrounding the transformation of the private to the public through the mediation of modern technologies and science resonated with wider concerns about the invasion of the private in other fields, such as the X-ray machine or the phonograph: both of these instruments registered and made public the private spaces of the body or of the domestic sphere. See Joel D. Howell, Technology in the Hospital: Transforming Patient Care in the Twentieth Century (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1995), esp. pp. 140–146.
98. Harold Wolff to H. Goodell, September 10, 1945, folder 6, box 22, HGW (above, n. 39).
99. The motif of revealing the hidden undergirded many discussions that centered around these technologies and their representations. See Binet and Courtier, “Influence de la vie émotionelle” (above, n. 37), p. 73; Laignel-Lavastine and d’Heucqueville, “Un nouveau test” (above, n. 34), p. 42.
100. On the notion of “stage contamination,” see V. I. Kochnev, “On the Function of the Emotional Factor in the Art of Acting,” in Art and Emotion, ed. L. Ya. Dorfman, D. A. Leontiev, V. M. Petrov, and V. A. Sozinov (Perm: State Institute of Culture, 1991), pp. 99–107.
101. On this divide, see, e.g., Peter N. Stearns, “Anger and American Work: A Twentieth-Century Turning Point,” in Emotion and Social Change: Toward a New Psychohistory, ed. Carol Z. Stearns and Peter N. Stearns (New York: Holmes and Meier, 1988); Stearns, American Cool (above, n. 7). For my use of transgression, see Emily Martin, The Woman in the Body: A Cultural Analysis of Reproduction (Boston: Beacon Press, 1992 ), especially her analysis of the pregnant body in the public sphere.
102. On the masculine nature of physiological laboratories during this period, see Toby A. Appel, “Physiology in American Women’s Colleges: The Rise and Decline of a Female Subculture,” Isis 85 (1994): 26–56. For an interesting observation on the masculine nature of the laboratory, see John F. Fulton’s entry for Sunday, September 28: “Lucia and Anna Revere came down to the lab with me this morning and measured my windows for curtains. The Seminar Room is all nicely settled with the books arranged on shelves which completely surround the room, and the only thing that now is lacking is a little feminine touch here and there, that indefinable something which seems to spring Phoenix-like from a woman’s mind” (John F. Fulton Diary, 8 August 1930–19 August 1931, John Farquhar Fulton Papers, Cushing/Whitney Medical Library, Yale University, New Haven, Conn.).
103. Many of the researchers on emotions served as their own subjects at one time or another. For a few examples, see Cannon’s entry for November 23, 1913, Diary 1911–1914, box 167, WBC (above, n. 21); Francis Gano Benedict, “The Excretion of Nitrogen during Nervous Excitement,” American Journal of Physiology 6 (1902): 398–410; Mosso, “Influence du système nerveux” (above, n. 17), esp. pp. 337–340; Cyon, Dieu et science (above, n. 31), p. 165. As their occasional remarks imply, the science of emotions was a science of self-knowledge. See “How the Body” (above, n. 56), p. 154; Philip Bard, “Emotion: I. The Neuro-Humoral Basis of Emotional Reactions,” in The Foundations of Experimental Psychology, ed. Carl Murchison (Worcester, Mass.: Clark University Press, 1929), pp. 449–487; Carney Landis, “Studies of Emotional Reactions: IV. Metabolic Rate,” American Journal of Physiology 74 (1925): 193.
104. Waller, “Measurement of Emotivity” (above, n. 92), p. 45.
105. Whitehorn, Kaufman, and Thomas, “Heart Rate” (above, n. 71), p. 717. See also Binet and Courtier, “Influence de la vie émotionelle” (above, n. 37), p. 69.
106. See, e.g., Helen Goodell, David T. Graham, and Harold G. Wolff, “Changes in Body Heat Regulation Associated with Varying Life Situations and Emotional States,” in Life Stress (above, n. 61), pp. 418–432; “Conference on Experimental Study” (above, n. 29), pp. 7, 15–16; Benedict, “Excretion of Nitrogen” (above, n. 103); Friedrich Kiesow, “Expérience avec le Sphygmomanomètre de Mosso sur les changements de la pression du sang, chez l’homme, produits par les excitations psychiques,” Archives Italiennes de Biologie 23 (1895): 198–211.
107. Anne Vincent-Buffault, The History of Tears: Sensibility and Sentimentality in France (Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1991).
108. For a different perspective on the role of exchange in coalescing a scientific community and creating a “moral economy” of exchange, see Robert E. Kohler, Lords of the Fly: Drosophila Genetics and the Experimental Life (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994), esp. pp. 133–170.
109. Walter B. Cannon to Smith Ely Jelliffe, November 8, 1932, folder 1444, box 105, WBC (above, n. 21). The diencephalon was considered to be the subcortical center for emotional expression, and according to some was also a source for the cortical experience of emotions. See also Walter Alvarez, January 29, 1950, in Letters Written to Dr. A. J. Carlson by Students and Friends on the Occasion of his Seventy-Fifth Birthday (this is a bound volume with many letters), Anton Julius Carlson Papers, University of Chicago Archives, Chicago, Ill. As Walter Alvarez recalled, “[A. J.] Carlson, when I visited him in 1915, said he wished he could cut his splanchnics so he could work more at peace” (the splanchnics were those parts of the nervous system that were activated during such emotions as anger or fear; Walter Alvarez to Walter B. Cannon, August 27, 1927, folder 1516, box 110, WBC). For Walter Alvarez’s own confessions, see ibid., and Walter Alvarez to Sir Henry Dale, 3/14/61, folder “Alvarez/C 90.1/Dale, Henry, box Alvarez/BMS/ C 90.1, Walter C. Alvarez Papers (B MS c90), Rare Books and Special Collections, Francis A. Countway Library of Medicine, Boston, Mass. Rarely, one experimenter might refer to the emotional characteristics of another. Christian Ruckmick, for example, suggested that William James, as an individual, probably had terrible organic reverberations during his emotional upsets and that this was, perhaps, the reason for his theory of emotions: see Christian A. Ruckmick to Walter Cannon, July 9, 1931, folder 1860, box 131, WBC.
110. Patrick Süskind, Perfume: The Story of a Murderer, trans. John E. Woods (New York: Knopf, 1986), p. 26.
111. Erich Wittkower, “Studies on the Influence of Emotions on the Functions of the Organs,” Journal of Mental Science 81 (1935): 644. For the notion of the “emotional value” of words, see also Peterson, “Galvanometer in Psychology” (above, n. 34), p. 45.
112. W. Whately Smith, The Measurement of Emotion (New York: Harcourt and Brace, 1922), passim.
113. Watson, Psychology (above, n. 30), p. 252. Or by the kiss of another person: see newspaper clipping, n.d., folder “clippings,” carton 7, JAL (above, n. 20). See also Bernard, “Sur la physiologie” (above, n. 12), p. 469.
114. “Psychosomatic Medicine,” Society of the New York Hospital Quarterly (April 1945): 3.
115. H. T. Edwards, T. K. Richards, and D. B. Dill, “Blood Sugar, Urine Sugar and Urine Protein in Exercise,” American Journal of Physiology 98 (1931): 354n3.
116. T. Izod Bennett and J. F. Venables, “The Effects of the Emotions on Gastric Secretion and Motility in the Human Being,” British Medical Journal 2 (1920): 663; J. A. MacWilliam, “III. Blood Pressure and Heart Action in Sleep and Dreams,” British Medical Journal 2 (1923): 1198.
117. Arno B. Luckhardt, “Contributions to the Physiology of the Empty Stomach: XXXII. The Effect of Dreaming on the Gastric Hunger Contractions,” American Journal of Physiology 39 (1916): 330–334; MacWilliam, “III. Blood Pressure.” In fact, all the representations from animals were of such contentless emotions. The physiologists provided the content by describing the situation that they thought had led to these emotions, but the animals only voiced their emotions via the machines.
118. For the notion of “emotional content,” see Armstrong, “Blood Pressure” (above, n. 31), p. 214; MacWilliam, “III. Blood Pressure,” p. 1198.
119. Peterson, “Galvanometer as a Measurer” (above, n. 34), p. 805.
120. Wittkower, “Studies” (above, n. 111), pp. 646–647.
121. Emotion was thus defined by the graphs and the laboratory’s operations, rather than through introspection, behavioral cues, or the situation.
122. Terry Castle has suggested a similar role in her analysis of the barometer-mirror of the eighteenth century: see Terry Castle, “The Female Thermometer,” in The Female Thermometer: Eighteenth-Century Culture and the Invention of the Uncanny, ed. idem (New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995), p. 43.
123. On modernism, see Silverman, Art Nouveau (above, n. 8), pp. 75–90; Michael S. Roth, “Performing History: Modernist Contextualism in Carl Schorske’s Fin-de-Siècle Vienna,” American Historical Review 99 (June 1994): 729–745; Dorothy Ross, “Modernism Reconsidered,” in Modernist Impulses in the Human Sciences, 1870–1930, ed. idem (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994), pp. 1–25.