Foucault as a Framework: Power and Self-Disciplinary Bodies in the London Underground
Oyster ready. Tap in. Stand on the right. Walk on the left. Wait behind the yellow line. Let passengers off before you board. Move down the aisle. Mind the closing doors. Clutch bags close. Look at others. Avoid eye contact. Scan the newspaper of the person sitting next to you over her shoulder. Don’t say a word.
There seems to be a uniformity of behaviour among individuals travelling on the tube—a sense of regulation, a code of conduct, and a lack of agency on the part of individuals to behave otherwise. But how did this develop? And what makes us all embody and adhere to it?
A useful mechanism for understanding how millions of similarly behaving bodies are produced in the London Underground is by analysing this space and its systems through the ideas presented by French theorist Michel Foucault in his 1975 book Discipline and Punish. Foucault’s text largely deals with the transformation of punishment tactics in 17th and 18th century France—from punishment being directly inflicted upon the body (as in publicly stoning someone) to being imposed systemically (as the body was imprisoned, made to work, or otherwise regulated not to result in a punishment of physical pain, but to result in a punishment of denied rights and properties) (Foucault, 11). Yet it is the extension of this system of bodily regulation outside of the penal sphere that is salient to understanding our experiences in the London Underground.
The comprehension of the body as “object and target of power” was developed in the classical age, as a number of institutions—most notably the army, school, and hospital—began to establish systems and regulations specific to their needs that served to dictate and standardise “the operations of the body” (136). During this time, a perception of the body as docile—easily subjected to and readily embracing of these dictating and transformative institutional systems—emerged, which shifted the focus of control from the body of society, en masse, to the individual body and its particular actions. This individual regulation manifested in what Foucault categorised as “disciplines”, which consistently supervised “the process of activity rather than its result”, and systematically divided and controlled “as closely as possible time, space, [and] movement” (137). In primary education, for example, by dictating where students sit, separating or integrating them based on behaviour, intellect, etc., and denying the possibility for free movement (i.e., requiring permission to use the bathroom or implementing a bell schedule to control how long individuals must stay in a certain space with a certain purpose), Foucault explained that, “It organised a new economy of time apprenticeship. It made the educational space function like a learning machine, but also as a machine for supervising, hierarchizing, rewarding” (147).
The pertinent question for us is: how is this system—which supervises people’s “process of activity” and regulates “time, space [and] movement”—enacted upon us in the London Underground? The movement of our bodies is heavily controlled by the architecture and systems implemented in the space, which are meant to herd us through it in the most efficient way possible and with the least amount of dissention or conflict. While certain stations have open spaces in which travellers hurriedly weave between each other in conflicting directions, many long underpasses are divided by a single railing that is intended to regulate traffic flow, separating people moving in opposite directions. On escalators, there is a strict policy to stand on the right and walk on the left, enabling those in a rush to move through the space more easily. We are consistently directed where to go—depending on our destination—by instructional signage installed throughout the space. Once on the platform, we receive the visual cue of the bold yellow line, which defines the space in which we are able to stand. These spatial regulations of our bodies are also reinforced aurally, as we receive reminders of where and where not to walk and stand—as well as what to do and not do—from the disembodied voices of station employees. The duration of our stay in the space is regulated by train arrivals and departures, which we are able to monitor via the overhead digital signs that tell us how long we will be waiting on the platform before we board the train, only then to adapt our bodies and behaviours to that new—and equally, if not more constrained—space.
While it could be argued that these structures and regulations in the Underground stations exist to ensure the production of the safest and most efficient space possible for the millions of people who travel through them each day, it would be remiss to ignore the ways in which these systems enact a power over our bodies that we adhere to, internalise, and regularly play out. It is exemplary of what Foucault calls “disciplinary power” (170).
Prior to the 18th century, power was represented and performed by authoritative individuals, such as the king, whose creeds one was expected to obey based on the threat of physical pain or similar consequences if one dissented. This power, embodied by a particular person or set of authority figures, was reductive, aiming to stop individuals from acting out as they willed. Disciplinary power, on the contrary, is productive, as it seeks to transform and produce individual utilitarian bodies. (The training implemented in disciplinary structures, while inflicted upon the body, also transformed the mind and soul, ultimately producing an entirely new disposition.) While individuals in authority positions seemed to embody and inflict this disciplinary power, in reality they were nothing more than vehicles through which the institutionalised and impersonal norms were imposed. This meant that disciplinary power was disembodied; pervasive and anonymous, the threat or perception of constant surveillance was key in producing this power. The achievement of this type of surveillance was directly linked to the construction of a specific space or architecture, in which “…all power would be exercised solely through exact observation; each gaze would form a part of the overall functioning of power” (171).
This architecture—which allowed for any number of regulating gazes and guaranteed that inhabitants could be watched at any and every moment—was adopted by schools, hospitals, prisons, military camps, and other such institutions throughout the classical age. Though this surveillance was without a face (which was essential to its success), individuals within these institutions were consistently aware of the potential that they were being watched. This awareness led individuals to ultimately become self-surveilling, policing their own behaviour. Foucault was particularly concerned with the nature of this power because its impact transcended autonomous, enclosed institutions, manifesting also in “centres of observation disseminated throughout society”, such as religious groups, charities, and state regulators like the police force (212).
The presence of this anonymous and pervasive regulating gaze is built into the fabric of the London Underground and regularly controls our behaviour on the Tube. With the frequent sightings of CCTV cameras and textual reminders of their presence throughout the space, we internalize a sense of being watched—even when there is no camera in sight. This results in the production of millions of bodies in the London Underground that ultimately regulate themselves, out of fear or paranoia that the invisible but pervasive authoritative gaze has its eyes on them. This is not to say that we all exist in the space of the Tube in a state of anxiety or that without the knowledge of pervasive surveillance that anarchy would ensue; only that, whether we are aware of it or not, we become self-policing bodies—to different extents for some than others, of course—because we are aware of the constant potential of being watched.
While CCTV cameras are arguably the primary (and most easily identifiable) materialisation of the anonymous and pervasive gaze that results in self-disciplining, it also manifests in other systems and signage throughout the London Underground space. Both within the train cars and displayed on station walls recurs a poster that reads: “Spotting a ticket inspector is easy. They look just like you.” This text, while including the line “just like you”, which could initially instill a positive sense of similarity and connection within the viewer—“She’s just like you!”—is actually sending a message completely opposite in tone. In looking “just like you”, the ticket inspector is implied to be wearing everyday clothes (as “you” presumably wouldn’t be wearing a TfL uniform), which means she is unrecognisable as a ticket inspector. This is meant to instill within passengers a sense of fear or expectation that anyone around them could be in a position of power to check that they have a valid ticket and to penalise them if they don’t. The visualisation of the advertisement increases the fear—and self-regulation—that it is meant to produce in passengers. Written in commanding block capitals, the text appears to be cut out of a white board, behind which a person’s face—solemn with eyes looking directly at you—is revealed. The person, presumed to be the ticket inspector, is “hidden” behind the text, creating a visual manifestation of the same message that the text is sending: the authoritative gaze is anywhere and everywhere. Taken one step further, this visual and linguistic TfL “warning” is—surely unintentionally and unbeknownst to its creators—quite literally verbalising the self-regulation that its invisible and regulating gaze produces. The ticket inspector does not merely look “just like you”, he or she is you, as you internalise this message and ensure you have paid your fare, policing your own behaviour in the space.
There is a general awareness that the London Underground is a space that is heavily policed and regulated—particularly since the bombings in 2005. Justified as a system that is necessary to eliminate and respond to crime and other dangers that may occur in the space, the pervasive and anonymous authoritative gaze is often either blatantly accepted (and possibly with good reason), or so woven into the fabric of the space that it goes unexamined. But to not examine this system is remiss, as it does more than “ensure our safety”. As soon as we enter the London Underground, our bodies adapt to and internalise its regulatory architecture and systems—which produce new self-disciplining behaviours within each of us who inhabit the space. We often feel their effects, but are less aware of how and why these effects exist. In applying Foucault’s discussion of disciplinary power and the invisible, authoritative gaze to the London Underground, I have attempted to highlight one way in which our docile Underground bodies are produced—hopefully generating a new level of individual awareness or ownership within a space in which we have little to none.
Bibliography
Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish. 1975. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: Random
House, Inc., 1995.
There seems to be a uniformity of behaviour among individuals travelling on the tube—a sense of regulation, a code of conduct, and a lack of agency on the part of individuals to behave otherwise. But how did this develop? And what makes us all embody and adhere to it?
A useful mechanism for understanding how millions of similarly behaving bodies are produced in the London Underground is by analysing this space and its systems through the ideas presented by French theorist Michel Foucault in his 1975 book Discipline and Punish. Foucault’s text largely deals with the transformation of punishment tactics in 17th and 18th century France—from punishment being directly inflicted upon the body (as in publicly stoning someone) to being imposed systemically (as the body was imprisoned, made to work, or otherwise regulated not to result in a punishment of physical pain, but to result in a punishment of denied rights and properties) (Foucault, 11). Yet it is the extension of this system of bodily regulation outside of the penal sphere that is salient to understanding our experiences in the London Underground.
The comprehension of the body as “object and target of power” was developed in the classical age, as a number of institutions—most notably the army, school, and hospital—began to establish systems and regulations specific to their needs that served to dictate and standardise “the operations of the body” (136). During this time, a perception of the body as docile—easily subjected to and readily embracing of these dictating and transformative institutional systems—emerged, which shifted the focus of control from the body of society, en masse, to the individual body and its particular actions. This individual regulation manifested in what Foucault categorised as “disciplines”, which consistently supervised “the process of activity rather than its result”, and systematically divided and controlled “as closely as possible time, space, [and] movement” (137). In primary education, for example, by dictating where students sit, separating or integrating them based on behaviour, intellect, etc., and denying the possibility for free movement (i.e., requiring permission to use the bathroom or implementing a bell schedule to control how long individuals must stay in a certain space with a certain purpose), Foucault explained that, “It organised a new economy of time apprenticeship. It made the educational space function like a learning machine, but also as a machine for supervising, hierarchizing, rewarding” (147).
The pertinent question for us is: how is this system—which supervises people’s “process of activity” and regulates “time, space [and] movement”—enacted upon us in the London Underground? The movement of our bodies is heavily controlled by the architecture and systems implemented in the space, which are meant to herd us through it in the most efficient way possible and with the least amount of dissention or conflict. While certain stations have open spaces in which travellers hurriedly weave between each other in conflicting directions, many long underpasses are divided by a single railing that is intended to regulate traffic flow, separating people moving in opposite directions. On escalators, there is a strict policy to stand on the right and walk on the left, enabling those in a rush to move through the space more easily. We are consistently directed where to go—depending on our destination—by instructional signage installed throughout the space. Once on the platform, we receive the visual cue of the bold yellow line, which defines the space in which we are able to stand. These spatial regulations of our bodies are also reinforced aurally, as we receive reminders of where and where not to walk and stand—as well as what to do and not do—from the disembodied voices of station employees. The duration of our stay in the space is regulated by train arrivals and departures, which we are able to monitor via the overhead digital signs that tell us how long we will be waiting on the platform before we board the train, only then to adapt our bodies and behaviours to that new—and equally, if not more constrained—space.
While it could be argued that these structures and regulations in the Underground stations exist to ensure the production of the safest and most efficient space possible for the millions of people who travel through them each day, it would be remiss to ignore the ways in which these systems enact a power over our bodies that we adhere to, internalise, and regularly play out. It is exemplary of what Foucault calls “disciplinary power” (170).
Prior to the 18th century, power was represented and performed by authoritative individuals, such as the king, whose creeds one was expected to obey based on the threat of physical pain or similar consequences if one dissented. This power, embodied by a particular person or set of authority figures, was reductive, aiming to stop individuals from acting out as they willed. Disciplinary power, on the contrary, is productive, as it seeks to transform and produce individual utilitarian bodies. (The training implemented in disciplinary structures, while inflicted upon the body, also transformed the mind and soul, ultimately producing an entirely new disposition.) While individuals in authority positions seemed to embody and inflict this disciplinary power, in reality they were nothing more than vehicles through which the institutionalised and impersonal norms were imposed. This meant that disciplinary power was disembodied; pervasive and anonymous, the threat or perception of constant surveillance was key in producing this power. The achievement of this type of surveillance was directly linked to the construction of a specific space or architecture, in which “…all power would be exercised solely through exact observation; each gaze would form a part of the overall functioning of power” (171).
This architecture—which allowed for any number of regulating gazes and guaranteed that inhabitants could be watched at any and every moment—was adopted by schools, hospitals, prisons, military camps, and other such institutions throughout the classical age. Though this surveillance was without a face (which was essential to its success), individuals within these institutions were consistently aware of the potential that they were being watched. This awareness led individuals to ultimately become self-surveilling, policing their own behaviour. Foucault was particularly concerned with the nature of this power because its impact transcended autonomous, enclosed institutions, manifesting also in “centres of observation disseminated throughout society”, such as religious groups, charities, and state regulators like the police force (212).
The presence of this anonymous and pervasive regulating gaze is built into the fabric of the London Underground and regularly controls our behaviour on the Tube. With the frequent sightings of CCTV cameras and textual reminders of their presence throughout the space, we internalize a sense of being watched—even when there is no camera in sight. This results in the production of millions of bodies in the London Underground that ultimately regulate themselves, out of fear or paranoia that the invisible but pervasive authoritative gaze has its eyes on them. This is not to say that we all exist in the space of the Tube in a state of anxiety or that without the knowledge of pervasive surveillance that anarchy would ensue; only that, whether we are aware of it or not, we become self-policing bodies—to different extents for some than others, of course—because we are aware of the constant potential of being watched.
While CCTV cameras are arguably the primary (and most easily identifiable) materialisation of the anonymous and pervasive gaze that results in self-disciplining, it also manifests in other systems and signage throughout the London Underground space. Both within the train cars and displayed on station walls recurs a poster that reads: “Spotting a ticket inspector is easy. They look just like you.” This text, while including the line “just like you”, which could initially instill a positive sense of similarity and connection within the viewer—“She’s just like you!”—is actually sending a message completely opposite in tone. In looking “just like you”, the ticket inspector is implied to be wearing everyday clothes (as “you” presumably wouldn’t be wearing a TfL uniform), which means she is unrecognisable as a ticket inspector. This is meant to instill within passengers a sense of fear or expectation that anyone around them could be in a position of power to check that they have a valid ticket and to penalise them if they don’t. The visualisation of the advertisement increases the fear—and self-regulation—that it is meant to produce in passengers. Written in commanding block capitals, the text appears to be cut out of a white board, behind which a person’s face—solemn with eyes looking directly at you—is revealed. The person, presumed to be the ticket inspector, is “hidden” behind the text, creating a visual manifestation of the same message that the text is sending: the authoritative gaze is anywhere and everywhere. Taken one step further, this visual and linguistic TfL “warning” is—surely unintentionally and unbeknownst to its creators—quite literally verbalising the self-regulation that its invisible and regulating gaze produces. The ticket inspector does not merely look “just like you”, he or she is you, as you internalise this message and ensure you have paid your fare, policing your own behaviour in the space.
There is a general awareness that the London Underground is a space that is heavily policed and regulated—particularly since the bombings in 2005. Justified as a system that is necessary to eliminate and respond to crime and other dangers that may occur in the space, the pervasive and anonymous authoritative gaze is often either blatantly accepted (and possibly with good reason), or so woven into the fabric of the space that it goes unexamined. But to not examine this system is remiss, as it does more than “ensure our safety”. As soon as we enter the London Underground, our bodies adapt to and internalise its regulatory architecture and systems—which produce new self-disciplining behaviours within each of us who inhabit the space. We often feel their effects, but are less aware of how and why these effects exist. In applying Foucault’s discussion of disciplinary power and the invisible, authoritative gaze to the London Underground, I have attempted to highlight one way in which our docile Underground bodies are produced—hopefully generating a new level of individual awareness or ownership within a space in which we have little to none.
Bibliography
Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish. 1975. Trans. Alan Sheridan. New York: Random
House, Inc., 1995.