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Beyond Gallipoli: New Perspectives on Anzac


Chapter 4



Scaling a Postdigital Gallipoli

Tom Sear

To mark the centenary of the Gallipoli campaign in 2015, news organisations and image libraries created ‘then and now’ montages of the Gallipoli battlefields by digitally combining photographs taken nearly a century apart. Getty Images used photo editing software to generate composite digital images that merged fragments of black and white scenes, showing troop arrivals and advances, with modern colour digital footage of these places today. Guardian Australia photographer Mike Bowers created the Anzac Cove and Gallipoli: Then and Now interactive. It allowed viewers to transition between historical photographs and contemporary images taken at precisely the same location with the click of a mouse.1 Bowers said, ‘I spent 10 days at the end of January 2015 producing this material, I wanted to bring the battlefield pictures left to us by the soldier photographers to life’ (Plate 4.1).2

It is hard not to feel unsettled by these images. The fixed camera position and enduring clifftops and tidelines appear to signal timelessness, just as they bridge a particular past and a particular present in each place. The historical figures appear and disappear like ghosts, while the kinetic urgency of their bodies dissolving and emerging into lapping waves and blowing bushes make them seem solid, alive. The stillness and loss of colour in the older images amplifies the sensation of their momentousness, just as their fading away suggests that they have also been absorbed into longer narratives of conflict and occupation in that place. The pace of the transitions evokes both the distance between the then and the now, and the closeness of these events in our memories. As the crowded landing scenes give way to the emptiness of the modern beach, and then change again in the reverse, under our command they evoke eerie and disquieting sensations. It is this uncanny quality, also evoked by other digitally-generated commemorations, which will be explored in this chapter.

The lead up to April 2015 saw the jagged cliffs and valleys of Turkey’s Gallipoli Peninsula scanned, digitised and colourised, buzzed by drones, rendered into digital topography, captured in selfies, moulded in miniature, and peopled by commemorative crowds, hyper-real model soldiers and historical avatars with social media profiles. The centenary of the Gallipoli campaign produced a vast assemblage of commemorative activity, generated in an era that is beginning to be called the ‘postdigital’. As David M. Berry describes it, the postdigital represents a world where ‘computation has become spatial in its implementation, embedded within the environment, in the body and in society, it becomes part of the texture of life itself which can be walked around, touched, manipulated and interacted with in a number of ways’. ‘“Being online” and “being offline”’, he argues, ‘is now anachronistic’ as is ‘the notion that we have “digital” or “analogue” worlds that are disconnected and discreet’.3

This chapter explores the changing character of war commemoration in the postdigital4 age by focusing on the centenary of the Gallipoli campaign in Australia, New Zealand and Turkey in 2015. In particular, it reflects on the turn towards commemorative activities that seek to generate empathy and connection between contemporary audiences and historical subjects by collapsing space and time and rendering the ‘past’ as a new kind of ‘present’.

These popular forms have disquieted some historians, who lament their apparent lack of distance, awareness of cultural context and complex understandings of agency and perspective. However their proliferation and popularity suggests they deserve scholarly attention not only within history and memory studies, but also – given the increasing entanglement between digital and analogue, past and present – in relation to a range of insights drawn from philosophy, media studies, and digital aesthetics.

Media, memory and history in the postdigital world

The experience of Gallipoli in 2015 existed in the confluence and diffusion of media, memory and history-production in the postdigital era. Jay Winter has argued that there were two key memory booms in the twentieth century. The first generation occurred from the 1890s to the 1920s, when the memorialisation of the dead of the First World War was associated with national identity, while the second arose from memories of the Second World War.5 The mediatisation of oral history, witnessed accounts, the museum as a site of storytelling and recreated experience, and the dominance of the visual on television characterised the second boom, and the Holocaust figured large as a trope for comprehension of social memory.6

Andrew Hoskins, reflecting on the digital era – after the ‘connective turn’ and in the midst of the emergence of informational infrastructure – has observed a convergence and reflexivity between the memory of nodal conflicts from the twentieth century, contemporary war and media ecologies. The immediacy and media-saturated nature of contemporary war, diffuse in cause and effect, is connected with a media culture engaging in constant, revisionistic memorialisation of nodal events of the past. Just as today’s wars are viewed through the lenses of the past, so the database/archive of the internet releases and stores a constant flow of images and memories of past wars, while current conflicts taking place in our digital culture are instantly memorialised, escalating or escaping the arcs familiar with twentieth-century conflict. Obsessive accumulation of information about the past in a post-scarcity world paradoxically creates a new kind of forgetting – there is no real need to ‘remember’ when past data is stored externally, and constantly pushed into the present. Memory and history, Hoskins argues, live within media ecologies, each integrated but parts of larger systems of perception. Hoskins also suggests that in our contemporary era there is a blurring of history and memory. History looks more like memory after the connective turn.7

Just as the meaning of memory and memorialisation changed in the twenty-first century, so too the way in which western society consumes and produces ‘history’ has become more diverse and diffuse8. As the past becomes digitised and uploaded into the vast database of the web, the ecology of history has changed to embrace participation and hybrid forms. The experience of Gallipoli for Australian audiences in the period surrounding the centenary in 2015 typified the maturity of this consumption. Local history boomed with the creation of new honour rolls and restoration of existing memorials, extending the significance of ‘places’ (both within Australia and beyond it) as a prime focus for commemoration. Family history too offered an intimate and particular way to connect with the history of World War I. Online genealogy resources such as digitised archives, search engines, Wikipedia and corporate providers facilitated the discovery or renewal of family links to Gallipoli. Historical reenactors were involved from the capture of German New Guinea, to Turkish reenactor troops mingling with commemorators and the current Turkish Special Forces on the Gallipoli peninsula. Mainstream television in Australia created numerous war-themed documentaries, adaptations and drama shows. Major Gallipoli films like Russell Crowe’s The Water Diviner were released internationally; plays and performance artwork from dance to original music compositions were staged. Museums updated exhibitions and toured travelling shows throughout Australia. Popular and public historians frequently appeared on TV, and sales of popular histories of Gallipoli in print exploded.9

In Private Lives Public History, Anna Clark writes compellingly about the merits of responding thoughtfully and openly to the diverse ways in which people connect with the past. She argues ‘we need an idea of history which accommodates not only “what happened’’ but the many ways we “think’’ about the past’.10 She usefully adopts Jörn Rüsen’s view of historical consciousness as ‘making sense’ of the past ‘for the sake of understanding the present’.11 Clark notes how the ‘peopling’ of history over the last four decades has led not only to a growing inclusiveness in historical practice, but also a strong emphasis on personal links to the past (whether through genealogy, place associations or shared experience) as a conduit to intimate, empathetic connection.12 It is also worth exploring, as I do below, how the diverse publics who are increasingly active in history-making also possess a sophisticated – and frequently critical – appreciation of history’s production and consumption, as well as of the complex, dynamic ways in which the ‘past’ and ‘present’ might shape each other.

As the experience of Anzac Day 2015 shows, the digital has played a key role in reconnecting the past with the present, both in relation to conflict and commemoration, and to the enfranchisement of wider communities of history makers. The Australian community has rapidly developed a large appetite for digital media, internet-based interactivity and networked technologies like smartphones, and they increasingly access historical information via these platforms. In April 2015 there were 2, 318, 078 searches for the term Anzac in Google, compared to 810,390 in the same month a year earlier. In addition, in April 2015 there were 1,023,770 searches for the term Gallipoli in Google, compared to 354,380 in the April 2014.13 But in a postdigital world, the digital’s influence on how Gallipoli is understood extends beyond the number of hits on a site, or likes for a Facebook post. Digital technologies and ways of seeing, connecting and imagining are shaping new representations of Gallipoli as a place and as an historical event.

Recreating Gallipoli 1915: Models, avatars and making the past present

One of the most striking characteristics of some of the new forms of commemorative activity surrounding Gallipoli 2015 was their impulse to recreate the events of 1915 so that audiences engaged with them as if they were happening now, not in the past. Three distinctive perceptions were critical to their success: historical accuracy, emotional authenticity, and a strange, compelling disturbance of time.

Sarah Kenderdine observes that the digital enables an opportunity to animate and reimagine the archive. Kenderdine draws upon archaeologist Michael Shanks’ notions of ‘prosthetic architectures,’ of archives which emphasise ‘personal affective engagement’ and Latour’s ‘migration of the aura’ to indicate how the digital affords new strategies for inhabiting places, re-embodying and performing the archive14.

In New Zealand, multidisciplinary creative design and effects teams, normally associated with big budget cinema and gaming, supersized and miniaturised historical characters. The Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, working closely with Weta Workshop, developed Gallipoli: The Scale of Our War.15 Utilising 3D printing and silicone, Weta Workshop created Ron Mueck-style hyper sculptures of real characters from Gallipoli, two and a half times life-size, as the central focus of the exhibition (Plate 4.2).16 In the ‘making of’ video, entitled ‘Building Gallipoli’, Weta workshop creative director Sir Richard Taylor explained how the project was personality and character driven. Taylor described how he considered that the soldiers and nurses were just like ‘kids of today’. ‘Characters’ were selected who had written Gallipoli diaries. Actors and staff members then re-enacted moments from the real life personalities’ experiences on Gallipoli, while motion capture digitally scanned their bodies. These scans were then 3D printed, silicone sculpted, and had painted features, hair and clothes added.17 The accompanying website featured an array of elements from the exhibition reconfigured as a digital assemblage, including collection objects, often photographed in HD digital close up, the characters’ stories and sound recording of their ‘voices’ tiled together. Details of images, models and quotes – a close-up of a tear about to roll down a stubbly cheek, or poignant words in handwriting – when clicked on, open new pages that reveal more detailed content. Each object and personal story is given a time scale and location to fix and locate it. The exhibition and the website convey an intense intimacy, combined with multiple layers of detail, and stark juxtapositions of perspectives, both past and present.18

While the Te Papa/Weta exhibition emphasised large-scale hyper-realistic modelling to generate empathetic connection, the Dominion Museum used crowdsourced miniatures to create an incredibly detailed scale model of Gallipoli. The Great War Exhibition features a year by year description of New Zealand’s involvement in World War I.19 Gallipoli was, from the outset, a key focus for the exhibition. Filmmaker Sir Peter Jackson created, in collaboration with Weta Workshop, Perry Miniatures, and New Zealand amateur model makers (who individually hand-painted each figure), a diorama of the Kiwi actions on Chunuk Bair.20 Jackson requested grubby realism in the scale figure painting and the resulting display presents a panoptic view of the battlefield one might see from a drone: the scale and scope of the engagement is captured at the same time as the frozen poses of each figure offer the possibility of viewing the attitude and even the facial expression of each soldier. In this, the scene offers a similar audience experience to the simultaneity of mass and individual sacrifice present in both data visualisations and poppy displays of World War I casualties.21

Jackson also expressly forbade the use of any black and white photographs in the exhibition. All images including, controversially, those from the Australian War Memorial, were coloured,22 to give the impression of the experiences being lived ‘in the present’. In an era of digital image manipulation, where Photoshop image colourisation of historical photographs is accessible to professionals and hobbyists, there has been a proliferation of these kinds of images distributed online. The result is an eerie hybrid, with the lighting, tones and contrasts derived from the original camera, photographer and developer blended with colours made by the particular pixels, screens, programs, and historical and technical knowledge of the colouriser.23

Other New Zealand recreations of Gallipoli were also told through the lens of creative and cinematic industries working in a material, post-screen world.24 Also based upon war diaries of soldiers and a nurse, Leanne Pooley’s 25 April animated the stories of six diarists with digital animation and motion capture.25 New Zealand’s commemorations co-opted all the dynamics of their cinematic industry, but inverted them into the creation of hyper-real ‘Gallipolis’ in the present. Exhibition and websites used the language of cinematography, of shot construction, POV and zoom to focus attention on the ‘reality’ of the past experienced in the present.

The Presidency of the Republic of Turkey also utilised cinematic devices to deliver a centenary tribute. Urban Turkey has one of the world’s highest consumptions of news via social media.26 Equally, Twitter consistently reports the world’s highest requests for tweet removals from the Turkish government. Between January and June 2015 Twitter received more than 310 requests, dwarfing the nearest highest, Russia, with 68.27 During April 2015 the Turkish Government temporarily blocked social platforms YouTube, Twitter and Facebook.28 President Recep Tayyip Erdoğan had previously commented, ‘Twitter schmitter, we’ll close them all (social platforms)’.29 Nonetheless, President Erdoğan made his first tweet in February 2015.30 As Hoskins and O’Loughlin have noted, the response of international governments, the military and mainstream media to the disruption of social media has been mixed. However the strategic necessity of these forces to respond is undoubted.31

With the centenary of the landings approaching, the Presidency produced a video re-enactment which conjured up Gallipoli as an intergenerational version of Anderson’s imagined community, combined with a sense of the sacred ascendant.32 On 20 April 20 2015 President Erdogan tweeted a link to a Government produced YouTube video commemorating the battle of Çanakkale to his 6.25 million followers. The tweet received 21,000 retweets and 8000 likes, ranking highly in the context of Gallipoli-related tweets over the Anzac Day 2015 period.33 The video featured President Erdoğan reciting the Arif Nihat Asya poem, ‘Dua’ (Prayer).34 It intercuts contemporary images of Erdoğan paying respects to a grave at the Çanakkale Martyrs’ Memorial (Çanakkale Şehitleri Anıtı) on the peninsula, and dramatised contemporary Turkish citizens ‘remembering’ their ancestral connections to the Çanakkale battles. These citizens are shown literally hearing ancestral invocations of martyrdom made on the battlefield, and this footage is further intercut with re-enactments in the style of the 2012 Turkish film Çanakkale 1915.35 The video, ‘viewed’ almost 150,000 times36 was widely debated on Turkish social media.37 The hashtag #100YıllıkDestanÇanakkale trended briefly between April 20 and 25 when President Erdoğan made regular Çanakkale/Gallipoli tweets in English and Turkish. Like most successful tweets, those with multimedia, such as the video, received the most likes and shares. Blended visualisations, shared on social media, continue through 2016 to have ongoing impact in official Turkish Çanakkale commemoration online.38

Hoskins and O’Loughlin argue that the 2010s marks a third phase of mediatisation, of arrested war. They argue that while Western government and elites struggle with phase two, militaries have embraced the ‘social media logics of personalization and spreadability’. However it is news organisations who have adapted most effectively: mainstream live historical retellings reflect some of this capacity to capture user generated content.39

The drive for mainstream outlets to present Gallipoli narratives and thereby occupy the media assemblage during 2015 was transnational. Online sources had by 2015 become a main focus of Australian news consumption.40 The more subtle message of the Reuter’s Institute report was that platform-centric social media feeds were now a key focus, competing with the traditional web and broadcast mediums for media consumers’, and advertisers’, attention. This meant that by early 2015 media entities had to begin to infiltrate platforms, in particular, Facebook and Twitter, to maintain market presence. The Gallipoli centenary was an ideal event to explore this engagement presence. As the centenary of World War I commenced in Australia, news outlets positioned digital Gallipoli recreations at the centre of their presence on social media platforms Facebook and Twitter.

Major media organisations used multi-platform social media technologies, and the storytelling skills of creative industries and their staff journalists, to recreate the events of Gallipoli of 1915 in contemporary formats and timescales. Both News Corp and the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) reassembled the diary material of real historical personalities to compose a ‘real time’ narrative of Gallipoli 1915 on social media.

The ABC collaborated with Twitter, the Museum of Australian Democracy, the National Library of Australia and the Australian War Memorial to live tweet @ABCNews1915. The project drew upon 60 individual historical characters’ accounts to recreate the events of Gallipoli in parallel time 100 years hence. Prominent Gallipoli event figures including @AlbJacka_1915, @Bridges1915, @BillyHughes1915 and @MKAtaturk1915, @CaptFaik, and @KingOMalley1915 tweeted ‘status updates’ from their own ‘twitterbot’ accounts (Fig. 4.1). On April 24, 2015 @ABCNews1915 was trending on Australian twitter. The project received 1,177,899 impressions in Australia.41 @ABCNews1915 animated Anzacs into a Twitter operating as a ‘platform supporting networked structures of feeling’ in what Zizi Papacharissis terms ‘the present affect’.42 Twitter followers experienced the Gallipoli landings in a simulacrum of real time. Long dead historical figures appeared in a personal feed and the online civil space of twitter with bots and contemporaneous tweeps. The detached robotic quality of the interaction ironically created a true dread, fuelling the imminence of dramatic irony and fear. Historical Gallipoli Twitterbots appearing in a person’s feed within a ‘normal’ temporal perception created a weird sensation of time distortion and historical hyper-reality. Most people knew the arc of the story, but the tweets invited engagement as if the events were unfolding, and what was to come was not inevitable.


Fig. 4.1. @TomDrane1915, Tweet, 24 April 2015. Courtesy, ABC. Screenshot

2015 also saw the emergence of a new form: the historical avatar. Digital technology has enabled the reanimation of historical figures into online ‘presences’. Social media further enables the active ‘participation’ of animated avatars into a ‘live’ recreation of narrative and temporal experience. News Corp Australia’s AnzacLive embraced this opportunity. The project took the diaries of nine prominent Australian Gallipoli diarists, and with the augmentation of Facebook profiles, reanimated these characters. Historical Gallipoli ‘diary’ entries from 1915 were posted by the character’s Facebook profiles (Fig. 4.2) on their timelines on the same dates and times 100 years hence. The ‘timeline’ nature of a Facebook feed provided the temporal space for these characters to intersect on a followers’ ‘feed’ in parallel time to their experience on Gallipoli in 1915. AnzacLive delivered integrated content on social media platforms Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram, an explanatory website, a live blog on 25 April, and the web page to tell the story of the Anzac landing.43 In collaboration with the cultural institutions who house the diaries, the State Library of NSW and the Australian War Memorial, News Corp told the story of the Anzac landing from the diarists’ entries ‘as if they are alive and posting right now’.44

The storytelling harnessed both the 24-hour news cycle and an era of social media-rich journalism. Up to 30 journalist ‘custodians’ managed each diarist’s Facebook profile from 6am to 10:30 pm each day posting up to 14-18 times a week throughout 2015. Custodians inhabited their diarist character, selecting posts, learning life stories, period diction and syntax to approach authenticity when answering follower’s questions live.45 The project’s visual designer emphasised connectivity between the past and present for contemporary audiences. Faced with sepia tones, limited images and word-heavy diary entries the designer colourised pictures, used ‘then and now’ images, memes, new studio portraits of images related to characters, data visualisations and video clips to enliven the project’s interface. The design brief extended into brand and profile identities across integrated platforms.46

The project achieved significant reach in an extremely competitive marketplace for Gallipoli content. News Corp claimed the Facebook pages, Twitter and Instagram accounts had a combined 49,406 dedicated Page Likes/account Followers. The hashtag #anzaclive was attached to every post and was seen 51.5 million times, with a top post reaching 1.7 million people with shares.47 The project continued the entire length of the ‘real’ Gallipoli campaign with final Gallipoli posts being those of the diarists during the December evacuation. While the diarist ostensibly ‘left’ Gallipoli in December 2015, the project continues. As at March 2016, the AnzacLive lead ‘narrator profile’ continued to post daily to 18,102 followers on World War I History, the live retelling of Australian involvement in ‘real time’ and military commemoration more generally. In early 2016, narrator page likes continue to increase. Characters are set to return, briefly as a ‘tribute’ for Anzac Day 2016. AnzacLive will tell the stories of Australian involvement in the battles of Fromelles and Pozieres in Mid-2016.48

Project Lead Justin Lees designed the project to ask ‘what would it be like to talk to these people, and live through their experience with them.’49 Lees suggested ‘they were young people just like us, and if alive in 2015 would be communicating in the same way, as today’s 20somethings … on social media.’50 The collapsing of temporal, subjective and historio-ethnographic distance was key to the phenomenological experience of 2015 Gallipoli commemorative immersion. The AnzacLive online video entitled ‘The Faces of War’ begins: ‘They were just like us. These men lived and fought 100 years ago. Today they’d be our brothers, fathers, sons, friends’. This is followed by sepia photographs of World War I soldiers gradually ‘photo shopped’ and fading into coloured contemporary images of a businessman, school boy, soldier, chef, and finally, instead of a slouch hat we see a young man wearing an archetypal grey ‘hoody’.51 This video extends Paul Keating’s eulogy for the Unknown Soldier (‘He is all of them. And he is one of us’)52 into the postdigital realm, and demonstrates AnzacLive’s intention to collapse the time and space between contemporary online publics and create an empathetic connection with the audience. These correlations were also media-rich ways to bridge the risk of audiences experiencing the ‘uncanny valley’ of disturbing sensations when the recreation’s flaws, silences, blank spots or unreality threatened to break the illusion.


Fig. 4.2. Ellis Silas Facebook Profile, AnzacLive, Screenshot.

Followers of AnzacLive who commented on posts, actively and consistently suspended disbelief when responding to Gallipoli diarist Facebook avatars. When on 16 May 2015, the Ellis Silas profile posted from his diary ‘In my heart I know I am done’, his followers demonstrated a response pattern which was illustrative of a trend across all profiles. Empathy predominated: Jen Featherstone wrote ‘Oh Ellis. I know there are no words that can help with how you are feeling. Keep safe.’ Kristen Nielson ‘tagged’ Ellis and stated ‘keep strong, you can do keep going. Our prayers are with you.’ Ironic reflection, a temporal suspension of belief which incorporated the Facebook audience, was also common. For example, Marjorie Earl, in a post with five likes, reached out, posting, ‘Thank you for your honesty, Ellis – I only pray that someone, somewhere, sometime learns of what you and so many others are going through and says “No, I am not sending anyone else to war”.’ Other comments also reflected upon historical change. Bev Davies alluded to contemporary psychological analysis of warfare in her comment: ‘Now recognised as Post Traumatic Stress Cisorder (sic) & not treated as a weakness of mind! Our diggers & in fact all soldiers faced the prospect of “shell shock” & being disrespected if it developed! Hopefully, with recognition of PTSD we treat them better than they were back then!’53

Understanding Gallipoli through the personal perspective was the product of Gallipoli’s return to popular consciousness during the second memory boom of the 1970s. Bill Gammage’s work, published in 1974, focussed upon diaries to turn a personal lens on writings that had been scoured purely for tactical information in the 1920s. Gammage’s framework informed the film Gallipoli, which placed experience and embodiment as the medium for engaging with the conflict.54 Equally, the medical and psychological objectification of the soldier after the Vietnam conflict enhanced the ‘personalisation’ of Gallipoli. The emergence of the soldier as ‘victim’ and the construction of the category PTSD in the aftermath of Vietnam after 1980 fuelled the affective, emotional and empathetic response to military history more widely.55 AnzacLive demonstrates how normalised this view had become. Australian consumers of AnzacLive who made comments have internalised the commemorative drive of the 1970s. However, the epistemological perspective for knowing Gallipoli through personalisation has undergone a major change in the postdigital era.

The live retellings of Gallipoli seen in 2015 enabled those engaged in remembrance to ‘speak’ to the dead and acknowledge their suffering. Now empathy could be recursively directed back at those in the past. Inga Clendinnen has questioned the emergence of empathy’s utility as seemingly redemptive in historical, particularly fictional understanding. With hindsight everyone follows the plot, lacking the prescience of their doom or success. ‘By contrast,’ Clendinnen writes, ‘the real past is surrounded by prickle bushes of what I have to call epistemological difficulties’ because ‘my imagination like my emotions and assumptions, has grown organically out of my own experiences within my cultural milieu.’56

Appreciating the complexities of empathy is at the heart of many stories from Monash University’s online video-based Anzac Centenary 100 Stories project. In Frank Wilkinson’s story, ‘understanding’ lies at the historical core of the story’s location in the present. In 1927 a ‘Shellshocked’ Wilkinson battered his wife and child to death with a hammer before slashing his own throat. In the online video depicting Wilkinson’s story on the Monash University website, his wife Elizabeth’s final words, read at out at the inquest, appear hauntingly on the black screen: ‘He couldn’t help it’, and repeated, ‘He couldn’t help it’.57 The effect is one of horror. Shock. The video depicts the retelling of events where a victim speaks to a new ‘public’ as a witness. As Kelly Jean Butler argues, a culture of witnessing in the exposition of Australian history developed in response to the testimony of indigenous people and asylum seekers in the 1990s.58 To quote Miller and Tougaw, the process of witnessing ‘records a movement from individual experience to the collective archive, from personal trauma to public memory’.59 The Monash Stories team reanimated Elizabeth’s testimony into this contemporary ‘witnessing’ discourse.60

The Monash Stories team have revealed that the Anzac Centenary Advisory Board were uncomfortable with the proposed inclusion of the Wilkinson story in official national commemoration. They were advised that if ‘Canberra was to adopt the 100 Stories in the project in its commemorative program, Frank Wilkinson’s story would have to go’.61 The affective authenticity of this story, and the visceral reaction of the Board is what De Groot identifies via Kristeva as ‘a massive and sudden emergence of uncanniness’ evoking the past as crisis of self-hood where the contemporary world must ‘strive to control it through organizing principles that obviate its horror’.62 This is an allegory, then, of ‘how a nation finds memory problematic and challenging’.63 Indeed, in response, the Monash team created materiality in the place of Wilkinson’s destruction – placing flowers at a grave, dedicating a physical book. The uncanniness of this experience of the Wilkinsons’ story and redemption in physical qualities in the present reveals the paradox of the past’s role in the phenomenology and epistemology of the present. The uncanniness is in the strangeness of the contradictory ‘Otherness’ of the history, where abjection stands in for emptiness, a want, a past that indubitably happened but is also absent, creating ‘contemporary identity while demonstrating its lack of solidity’.64

The anxiety of the unknowability of the past, simultaneous with the haunting ghostly in the revenants of the Gallipoli dead returning as the historical social media avatars of AnzacLive and @ABCNews1915, disrupts the present. Drawing upon Derrida’s notions of spectrality, where ‘mourning consists always in attempting to ontologize remains to make them present’,65 De Groot argues that these ghosts complete a knowledge, by pointing to the insubstantially of the present’s epistemology, composed as it is of an emptiness of the past. These Gallipoli hauntings, then, point to an emptiness of the past/present dynamic as a way to comprehend the melancholia of the present.66

Connecting to Gallipoli 2015: Agency, participation and postdigital historical consciousness

The participation of the audience within the new media assemblage illustrates the process of ‘knowing’ central to popular digital historiography. De Groot suggests audiences in the new phase of historical consumption ‘are complicit in their rendering of another, unreal world,’ and in their collusion he argues, arises ‘an understanding…of what is at stake ethically, and ideologically in ignoring ‘reality’ for escapism’.67 At the same time, that ‘escapist’ moment might create ‘comprehension’ for a more ‘active’ reading of text.68

The participatory audience may be using the past to understand a contemporary subjectivity. The contemporary online subject exists in a world where ‘authenticity’ is at once constructed and paradoxically has its own value.69 The past has an aura of authenticity which social media migrates to the present. AnzacLive is understood by its audience through the televisual trope it draws on: Reality TV and the power of celebrity. It is built around a list of nine diverse real characters stuck in a situation, and defined by a set of rules.70 All could potentially be thrown off the Gallipoli ‘show’ at any time – although in AnzacLive this would be through violence or disease rather than online voting. Reality TV is surveillance mediated as interactive entertainment. This interactivity is as a form of productive surveillance allowing for the commodification of the products generated, which Mark Andrejevic describes as the ‘work of being watched’.71 Audiences’ engagement however, involves a ‘tacit understanding’ even a complicit, participative agreement that can be described as ‘the authenticity contract’.72

The social media ‘authenticity contract’ intersected in 2015 with other longstanding Anzac social contracts. The intermeshing of these contracts revealed the complexity of these contractual exchanges in online realities. Anzac has always operated in a nexus of government and the market.73 Indeed, while the centenary has offered numerous opportunities for business to exploit commemoration, it also demonstrated their lack of flexibility in social media economics. Consumers of commemoration online revealed their capacity to consciously understand the functions of memory, and intervene with content of their own that powerfully demonstrated their agency.

In April 2015 the Australian based supermarket chain Woolworths was forced to withdraw a digital campaign following a social media backlash and Government threats. The campaign featured an online meme generator, which enabled people to upload a profile picture of a familial serviceman or woman, which was then superimposed with the corporate tagline ‘Fresh in our Memories’ and the Woolworths logo on the image before reposting.74 The intention was to enable Australians to create personalised memes to add to a larger, collective remembering – conveniently co-branded with Woolworths itself, presumably with the capacity to ‘go viral’.

The meme generator was soon co-opted and trolled. The site was shut down within hours as the parody memes went viral and the Department of Veterans’ Affairs and the Australian War Memorial took action against Woolworths. Spoof memes clustered around the hashtag #freshinourmemories.75 The online public produced thousands of memes within days.76 Some memes used historical images of death from Gallipoli, the 24 May 1915 truce in particular, to illustrate the irony of Woolworths’ tagline. Many referenced the horrors of the first and other nodal wars of the twentieth century. The campaign might be criticised as an example of commercialisation and ‘brandzackery’.77 However, what the consumers of memorialisation – with the unexpected memes they generated around the hashtag – most criticised the company for was their lack of digital literacy. Rather than predominately using words, meme creators used the collectively understood visual language of the internet to lambast, simultaneously demonstrating their control over online territory. Woolworths’ online ‘epic fail’ was as much about misunderstanding social media users as it was about misjudging the public view around the centenary – and of course, how these two things were tied together. Far from simply reacting to ‘brandzac,’ the online public revealed an agency and sophisticated understanding of a new form of online memory that social media and the internet as a database has created out of the visual nature of second memory boom. A comprehensive examination of the examples hackers created shows nearly all depict recent cultural events, particularly online phenomena like Melbourne teen and social media star ‘Corey,’ or the ocular centric online public phenomena of the ‘white-gold / blue-black dress’.78 This demonstrated a public with high visual literacy ironically playing with the notion of contemporary memory.

These ‘produsers’79 were knowingly making a joke about the new, accelerated trajectory of online events and the irony of endless referencing the nodal wars of the twentieth century as tropes of cultural memory itself. These irreverent responses suggested that the ‘audience’ for the marketing was making a clear point about the artificiality and opportunism of Woolworths’ initiative, while offering yet another form of corrective to those who transgress the code of conduct that is culturally expected around Anzac commemoration. In March 2016 as Anzac Day approaches again, the hashtag remains active with posts daily using ‘FreshInOurMemories’ to reflect upon a culture of instant online memorialisation itself.80 Even failed social media campaigns are now memorialised. In February 2016 @NewtonMark tweeted: ‘Anzac Day isn’t far away. That time for us to remember #FreshInOurMemories’.81

Connecting Gallipoli 1915 and 2015: Selfies and social remembering

Personal digital devices connected to the internet have enabled a period of intense personalisation of experience and documentation of individual memory, in combination with the creation of a vast super public online. The selfie epitomises those forces. A selfie is a self-portrait taken with a camera phone, usually at arms-length, and shared on social media. The word is an Australian invention. The etymology follows the Australian linguistic tradition of abbreviating and adding a suffix to produce words like tinnie, ciggie, firie, barbie, sickie, Westie, soapie.82

The emergence of the selfie as cultural form is due primarily to their enabler, the smartphone. Smartphones are now embedded in contemporary life. Smartphones have quickly become connective interfaces between an individual and a ubiquitous, computational version of the social, performed in digital spaces such as Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.83 They are networked digital tools that have become our prosthetic memories, storing images, text and video meticulously – and effortlessly – tethered to time, place and social connections. As a result, mobile devices are part of a contemporary process of ‘mutually shaping media, place and memory.’ At the same time, they are locative technologies that capture and communicate complex notions of self.84

Selfies express the complex presence of the self within a dynamic digital assemblage. A selfie is a statement of human agency. Equally, because selfies are created and distributed via an array of nonhuman agents they are instantly located within an infrastructure of a digital superpublic.85 Taken with mobile phones, selfies illustrate the hybrid environment between being ‘online’ and ‘offline’ that users now inhabit.86 The ‘selfie assemblage’, Hess argues, expresses four elements: ‘the self, physical space, the device and the network.’87 The selfie simultaneously emplaces the user in a material physical place while ‘embedded into social networks’.88 Simultaneity becomes further entangled with memory cultures when selfies are taken at commemorative sites. The Tumblr page ‘Selfies At Serious Places’ has positioned the appropriateness of placing the self as the focus of an experience of a commemorative site.89 Funeral selfies have also been academically interrogated. Funeral selfies illustrate how increasingly visual images produce and circulate the affect associated with place. Moreover, they upload to the network the ‘ambient intimacy’ of maintaining presence in both a social network and place simultaneously.90

Gallipoli and Anzac Day selfies exist within this dynamic. Melbourne programmer David Johnson has for several years curated a tumblr called Anzac Day Selfies.91 In these selfies, and the related follower comments, the casual vernacular forms of online platform expression jostle, sometimes uncomfortably, with the traditions of Anzac mourning or Gallipoli commemoration. Young people wink with tongues out, or declare ‘Have a good day guys #anzacday’. Bikini clad Instagram stars tag #lestweforget with multiple emoji. Anzac selfies can be read as problematic even more clearly when extracted from the online flow, and aggregated together as a way to police the austere, respectful traditions of Gallipoli commemoration within the ‘slacktivism’ of online media. Equally, Anzac Selfies can draw social dynamism into a ritual space with other vernacular online platform practices which are part of a ‘live communication’ demonstrating participation in an event or shared social practice.92

The selfie is part of a wider pathologisation of young people and social media.93 A generational lack of ‘connection’ of millennials to an Australian past is often represented as a ‘Baby Boomer’ fear. In the Australian soap Home and Away’s April 2015 Anzac Special, the selfie signifies an uncaring, narcissistic youth out of touch with the generations before them.94 The smartphone and the selfie are initially represented as the device which augments their alienation, digitally disconnecting them from the past, and from broader collective understandings of Australia’s history. But it is ultimately perceived as a potential redemptive vehicle for resolving perceived cultural breaches between past and present.

The Home and Away Anzac Centenary Special depicted teenagers making the common Australian school pilgrimage to Canberra. The teenagers take a selfie on the steps overlooking the parade ground at the Australian War Memorial as a signification of their alienation from the Anzac myth. The teens collectively intone ‘bored’ at the moment of digital capture. Enraged, the female ‘Baby Boomer’ teacher snatches the smartphone and dispatches them inside. Once they enter the Memorial the selfie becomes redemptive. With soundtrack accompaniment of Trip Hop DJ Dirty South’s song ‘Unknown’ we watch as the image of the selfie taken on the steps fuses into the identical composition of an image of the men of the 5th Division taking a smoko on Montauban road in December 1916.95 These transformations occur on a collective and individual level. A singular young man’s face is compared with the image of the centenary’s ubiquitous ‘handsome man’,96 Peter Corlett’s Man in the Mud is transposed to a flashback of teen angst,97 a young man confronted with the faces of men lost in the Sandakan Death Marches evokes the assemblage of an online Instagram wall.98

The fusion of contemporary Australian youth with the young people of World War 1 invokes Kristevan and Lacanian concepts of the return of the specular ‘uncanny stranger’ of the past within the self.99 The selfie is a digital trope which can both alienate and connect the past and present. While ‘Anzac Selfies’ can highlight a possible disconnect with the values of Australian military sacrifice, equally the ‘ambient intimacy’ of the selfie form can enable the representation, or a perception of, an actual fusion with the identities and ‘spirit’ of people from the past. Where the avatars of hyperreal social media and supersized physical recreations of soldiers and nurses of the past facilitates an active, potentially two-way, engagement between past and present lives, the selfie affords a new kind of synthesis and integration.


In 1970 robotics professor Masahiro Mori sought to envisage people’s reactions to a robot which acted or looked human. He postulated that the reaction would shift from ‘empathy to revulsion’ as it approached, but did not fully obtain, human qualities. This descent into ‘eeriness’ has become known as ‘the uncanny valley’.100

Experimentation since then has suggested that this is a real human effect in digital or robotic human recreations, but the theories for why, and what is the trigger in humans, vary. Whether the origin is biological or cultural remains unclear. Some suggest that the feeling may arise from an unconscious reminder of mortality and death.101 Others focus attention on what the ‘uncanny valley’ reveals about perceptions of human likeability and trustworthiness.102 Much empirical research on the uncanny valley examines how humans infer ‘trustworthiness’, for example, from the affective cues (such as subtle facial expressions) of human-human interaction.103 Gray and Wagner suggest that while typical explanations of the uncanny valley focus upon robotic appearance, what may actually be unnerving is the presence of ‘mind’ in a robot or bot.104 One recent experimental study suggested that a machine that lacked a humanlike appearance but gave signs of having ‘experience’ is unnerving. This research suggests that a perception of mind, and perception of intuitive, implicit essence of mind, is located in feelings and emotions. It emphasises that the perception of experience (capacity to feel and sense) rather than agency (act and do) is what is perceived as fundamentally human.105

It is along the thin ridge of this uncanny valley that so many of these new postdigital commemorations must walk, under sniper fire both from academic historians and their own publics. Their effectiveness derives from the accuracy with which they depict ‘experience’ – drawing as they do on meticulous visual renderings, careful historical research or the authenticity of first-person accounts. They rely on connections forming between contemporary minds and past minds (and contemporary audiences with each other) through the medium of emotions and shared social interaction. The empathy that flows as a result is genuine, and while to a considerable degree disbelief is suspended, at the same time, their success also stems from the audience’s historical awareness that this interaction is strange and impossible. Contemporary audiences have a playful, nuanced understanding of time, history and memory that has kept pace with the accelerating conflux of the analogue, digital and postdigital eras. They know their position in time relative to historical subjects comes with privileges as well as blind spots. They can reposition technologies that seem to disturb the social performance of commemoration or challenge connections between the past and the present as redemptive rather than disruptive.

Mark McKenna has expressed concern that ‘in popular memory, the distance from the past prized by professional historians takes second place to being present in the past’.106 Anna Clark has asked in reply, ‘Is it not possible to connect and critically engage with the past?’107 The evidence from Anzac Day 2015 suggests it is – if we appreciate the complex meanings and makings of history in the present with the same attentiveness that we promise, as historians, to bring to the past. Our expanding contribution may be to connect and engage with people around their already quite complex understandings of how the past is a part of ‘my cultural milieu’.108

It is essential for historians seeking to facilitate and examine this connection and engagement to consider the larger, rapidly evolving dynamics at play in the postdigital era. The collapse of historical distance is a fundamental change in human experience. Digital networks, databases and hyperconnectivity ‘don’t just bridge historical distance: they crush it.’109 ‘The first thing’ we need to appreciate, Philosopher Luciano Floridi explains, ‘is a misunderstanding about ICT – digital technologies – we’ll call them technologies of memory, but they actually wipe our memory. What they do is they are constantly presenting memory as an over-extended eternal present … So the art of remembering, forgetting, recalling, closure, all those things that we skilfully developed over millennia have been completely disrupted.’110 As a consequence, the way humans perceive the past and then position themselves in relation to it, their capacity to generate ‘distance’ as McKenna and Clark discuss, is also in a period of change.

Historical understandings created in the twentieth century incorporated the ethical positions of earlier revolutions in human self-understanding. Now we are arguably on the verge of another revolution. After Turing, the present of emerging Artificial Intelligence considers a future where distinguishing from conscious and non-conscious entities is not precluded on a biological basis.111 Connections with memory simulation – ‘history’ – are being uploaded in informational technologies. In the postdigital era, the distance between an online and offline world is blurred, and the past is constantly reconstituted in the present; we now exist in a new kind of environment. Postdigital Gallipoli recreations aim to encourage participants to feel like they are ‘present’ in the past in real time, while also being aware they are in the present here and now – creating ‘uncanny’ oscillations.

In her book Cruel Optimism Lauren Berlant defines the historical sense of the postdigital ‘present’ as a ‘mediated affect,’ ‘a temporal genre whose conventions emerge from the personal and public filtering of the situations and events that are happening in an extended now whose very parameters… are also always there for debate.’ The ‘contours’ of this ‘shared historical present’ are ‘always profoundly political’ because they outline which crises are considered ‘urgent’.112 Clearly, war is one of these crises. For historians, especially those engaged with understanding war’s history, suggesting that empirical distance will suffice, historiographically, as an epistemic position in and of itself, may be increasingly difficult and possibly unproductive in a postdigital world. The ‘critical understanding brought to the past by historians’113 is now equally a responsibility to generate understandings of how the memory technologies of the present, and human interaction with them, are reframing the history of the future.


1 Mike Bowers, ‘Anzac Cove and Gallipoli: Then and Now – Interactive’, The Guardian, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). Gallup, Fairfax & Getty Images, ‘This Digital Composite Image Shows Australian Soldiers, Including…’, Getty Images, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). Australian Broadcasting Corporation, ‘Interactive Photos: See Gallipoli Today and 100 Years Ago’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

2 Amanda Meade, ‘Guardian Australia’s Mike Bowers Wins Kennedy Award for Gallipoli Photo Essay’, (2015). Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

3 David M. Berry, ‘The Postdigital Constellation’, in Postdigital Aesthetics, eds. David. M. Berry and Michael Dieter (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), 50.

4 The use of the term ‘postdigital’ in this chapter is a temporal viewing platform, rather than strict periodising concept, to suggest an epistemology of the historical present after the computational turn in which the distinction between ‘the digital and non-digital becomes increasingly blurred’. The term postdigital is an evolving neologism to ‘grapple with the immersive and disorientating experiences of computational infrastructures as they scale up and intensify’. (Berry and Dieter, 2-3., 4., Footnote 2. Geoff Cox, ‘Postscript on the Post-digital and the Problem of Temporality’, in Postdigital Aesthetics, 151-162). The term serves as a marker to place historical ‘nationalist’ and ‘hyperconnective commemoration’ (Sear, Routledge, forthcoming) within an emergent ‘historical trajectory of planetary scale computation’ from this ‘blur’, where ‘The Stack we have becomes The Stack-to-come’. Benjamin Bratton,The Stack: On Software and Sovereignty, (Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2015), xx., 16., 293., 352.

5 Jay Winter, Remembering War: The Great War between Memory and History in the 20th Century (London: Yale University Press, 2008); Andrew Hoskins and Ben O’Loughlin, War and Media: The Emergence of Diffused War (Cambridge, UK; Malden, MA: Polity Press, 2010).

6 Winter.

7 Andrew Hoskins, ‘Media, Memory, Metaphor: Remembering and the Connective Turn’, Parallax 17, no. 4 (2011); Andrew Hoskins and Ben O’Loughlin, ‘Arrested War: The Third Phase of Mediatization’, Information, Communication & Society (2015); Andrew Hoskins, ‘The War Vector and the New Structure of Memorialization’, Chapter from 21st Century War: Media, Memory, History, (Forthcoming), also presented at Çanakkale/Gallipoli Wars International Conference, Çanakkale Onsekiz Mart University, Turkey, May 22, 2015; Hoskins and O’Loughlin, War and Media; Andrew Hoskins, ‘A New Memory of War’, in Journalism and Memory, eds. Barbie Zelizer and Keren Tenenboim-Weinblatt, (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), 179– 91.

8 Jerome De Groot, Consuming History: Historians and Heritage in Contemporary Popular Culture (London; New York: Routledge, 2009).

9 Tom Sear, ‘Dawn Servers: Anzac Day 2015 and Hyperconnective Commemoration’, in War Memory and Commemoration, ed. Brad West (Forthcoming, Routledge, 2016).

10 Anna Clark, Private Lives, Public History (Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing, 2016), 4.

11 Clark. 4.

12 Clark, 142.

13 Sear, ‘Dawn Servers’. Tom Sear Account, Google, Campaign Management – Google Adwords, Retrieved from (accessed June 27, 2015).

14 Michael Shanks, ‘Michael Shanks: Animating the Archive’, Retrieved from,; (accessed March 23, 2016). Bruno Latour, ‘The Migration of the Aura or How to Explore the Original through Its Fac Similies’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). Sarah Kenderdine, “Sarah Kenderdine Keynote, EVAA 2016,” See; (accessed March 23, 2016)

15 Museum of New Zealand Te Papa Tongarewa, ‘Gallipoli: The Scale of Our War’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

16 Weta Workshop, ‘Gallipoli: The Scale of Our War (2015)’. Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016); Alan Taylor, ‘The Hyperrealistic Sculptures of Ron Mueck’(2013). Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

17 Weta.

18 Te Papa.

19 Dominion, ‘The Great War Exhibition, Wellington, New Zealand’, Retrieved from March 23, 2016). Michael Forbes, ‘Jackson Unveils War Exhibition’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

20 Andy Palmer, ‘Mustering the Troops: Photos’. Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

21 Tom Sear, ‘“We Are the Dead”: Poppies & Postdigital Visualisations in Centenary Commemorations of the First World War’, (Forthcoming, publication arising from

22 Forbes. John McDonald, ‘The Great War Exhibition and Gallipoli: The Scale of Our War Reviewed’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

23 ‘WW1 Colourised Photos’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). Doug Banks, ‘Colourise History ‘, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

24 McDonald.

25 Leanne Pooley, ‘25 April Trailer’. Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). IMDb, ‘25 April (2015)’. Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016)

26 Reuters Institute, ‘How Turkey Uses Social Media’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

27 Twitter, ‘Removal Requests Worldwide Jan-Jun2015’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016)

28 Reuters Institute.

29 Reuters Institute.

30 Reuters Institute.

31 Hoskins and O’Loughlin, Arrested War.

32 Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (Verso, London, 2006).

33 @RT_Erdogan, ‘Çanakkale Zaferi’nin 100.Yıldönümünde Tüm Şehit Ve Gazilerimizi Saygı Ve Minnetle Anıyoruz’ (accessed March 23, 2016). Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016) Erik Borra and Bernhard Rieder, ‘Programmed Method: Developing a Toolset for Capturing and Analyzing Tweets’, Aslib Journal of Information Management 66, no. 3 (2014). Tom Sear, The Digital Methods Initiative Twitter Capture and Analysis Toolset (DMI-TCAT API), Anzac Tweet Capture 25 April 2015, UNSW CBR @ ADFA (2015).

34, ‘Turkish President Erdoğan’s Gallipoli ‘Prayer’ Stirs Debate’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). ‘Poetic Prayer Makes Erdoğan Couple Shed Tears in Albania’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

35 IMDb, ‘Çanakkale 1915 (2012)’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

36 @RT_Erdogan, ‘Çanakkale Zaferi’nin 100.Yıldönümünde Tüm Şehit Ve Gazilerimizi Saygı Ve Minnetle Anıyoruz’ ; Türkiye Cumhuriyeti Cumhurbaşkanlığı, ‘100 Yıllık Destan Çanakkale’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). Presidency of the Republic of Turkey, ‘A Centennial Epic: Çanakkale [Gallipoli], with English Subtitles’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

37, ‘Turkish President Erdoğan’s Gallipoli ‘Prayer’ Stirs Debate’.

38 @RT_Erdogan, Tweet, 18 March 2016. Retrieved from (accessed March 26, 2016).

39 Hoskins and O’Loughlin, Arrested War.

40 Reuters Institute, ‘Australia’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). See also ABC, Media Watch, 13 June 2016. Retrieved from (accessed June 24, 2016).

41 Eric Napper, @ABCnews1915, Retrieved from Eric Napper interview with Tom Sear, 9 July 2015, 5:38PM. Canberra. Audio.

42 Zizi Papacharissi, Affective Publics: Sentiment, Technology, and Politics, (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014).

43 News Corp Australia, ‘Anzac Day 2015 | Anzac Live Post | Anzac Stories’, Retrieved from Retrieved from Retrieved from Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016) (2015); Aurelie (Lily) Perthuis, ‘Anzac Live – Case Study’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). Justin Lees, ‘Anzaclive: Facebook from the Frontline [Internal Briefing Document]’, (Sydney: News Corp Australia, 2015).

44 Lees. Anzaclive: Facebook from the Frontline [Internal Briefing Document].

45 Lees. Anzaclive: Facebook from the Frontline [Internal Briefing Document].

46 Aurelie (Lily) Perthuis, email correspondence with Tom Sear, 21 December 2015.

47 Lees, “Anzaclive: Facebook from the Frontline [Internal Briefing Document]. Perthuis, ‘Anzac Live – Case Study’.

48 News Corp Australia, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). Justin Lees interviewed by Tom Sear, 21 March, 2016.

49 Lees. Anzaclive: Facebook from the Frontline [Internal Briefing Document].

50 Lees. Anzaclive: Facebook from the Frontline [Internal Briefing Document].

51 News Corp Australia, ‘The Faces of War’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

52 Paul Keating, ‘Remembrance Day 1993, Australian War Memorial’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

53 News Corp Australia. Ellis Silas, Facebook post, May 16, 2015.

54 Bill Gammage, The Broken Years: Australian Soldiers in the Great War (Canberra: Australian National University Press, 1974). David Williamson and Peter Weir eds., The Story of Gallipoli, (Melbourne: Penguin Australia, 1981).

55 Christina Twomey, ‘Trauma and the Reinvigoration of Anzac: An Argument’, History Australia 10, No. 3 (December 2013): 85-105.

56 Inga Clendinnen, ‘The History Question: Who Owns the Past?,’ Quarterly Essay, no. 23 (2006): 22-23.

57 Monash University, ‘At Breaking Point’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

58 Kelly Jean Butler, Witnessing Australian Stories: History, Testimony, and Memory in Contemporary Culture (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Publishers, 2013), 5.

59 Nancy K. Miller and Jason Tougaw, Extremities : Trauma, Testimony, and Community (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2002), 13; Butler, Witnessing, 5.

60 For discussion of the broader context of contemporary collaborative on-site and online memorial commemorative cultures see, Penelope Papailias, ‘Witnessing in the age of the database: Viral memorials, affective publics, and the assemblage of mourning’, Memory Studies 1750698015622058, first published on January 6, 2016. doi:10.1177/1750698015622058.

61 Bruce Scates, Rebecca Wheatley, and Laura James, World War One: A History in 100 Stories, ed. Bruce Scates, Rebecca Wheatley and Laura James, World War I (Melbourne: Viking, an imprint of Penguin Books, 2015), vii-ix.

62 Jerome De Groot, Remaking History: The Past in Contemporary Historical Fictions (London: Routledge, 2016), 216.

63 De Groot, Remaking History, 118.

64 De Groot, Remaking History, 118. Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982).

65 Jacques Derrida, ‘Specters of Marx’, New Left Review, no. 205 (1994). Jacques Derrida, ‘Specters of Marx’, (New York: Routledge, 1994). De Groot, Remaking History, 113.

66 De Groot,Remaking History, 112.

67 De Groot, Remaking History, 151.

68 De Groot, Remaking History, 152.

69 Gunn Enli, Mediated Authenticity: How the Media Constructs Reality (New York: Peter Lang, 2015). Gunn Enli, ‘“Trust Me, I Am Authentic!”: Authenticity Illusions in Social Media Politics’, in, The Routledge Companion to Social Media and Politics, ed. Axel Bruns, et al. (New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group, 2016), 121-137.

70 Jo Hawkins, ‘Anzaclive and @Abcnews1915 Exploiting Anzac Day Legend’, Crikey, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

71 Mark Andrejevic, Reality TV : The Work of Being Watched (Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2003). De Groot, Consuming History, 166-7.

72 Enli, Mediated Authenticity. Enli, ‘“Trust Me, I Am Authentic!”’, 123.

73 Jo Hawkins, ‘Anzac for Sale: Consumer Culture, Regulation and the Shaping of a Legend, 1915-21’, Australian Historical Studies 46, no. 1 (2015).

74 Australian Broadcasting Commission, ‘Woolworths under Fire for Anzac ‘Fresh in Our Memories’ Campaign’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). Melissa Davey, ‘Hashtag Backlash: Marketing Campaigns That Turned into Social Media Disasters’, The Guardian, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

75 Twitter, #freshinourmemories, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

76 ‘Anzac Marketing – Best We Forget’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016). See also authorship claim, for website curation @rpy, retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

77 Jo Hawkins, ‘Why Limit Anzac Marketing Outrage to Woolworths?,’ Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

78 See Wikipedia, ‘The Dress (Viral Phenomenon) – Wikipedia, the Free Encyclopedia’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

79 Axel Bruns, ‘Produsage: Towards a Broader Framework for User-Led Content Creation’, Creativity and Cognition 2007, CC2007 – Seeding Creativity: Tools, Media, and Environments, (New York: 2007), 99-106.

80 Hoskins, ‘The War Vector’.

81 @NewtonMark, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

82 @OxfordWords, ‘The Oxford Dictionaries Word of the Year 2013 is “selfie”’, OxfordWords blog. Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016) Josh Hawkins and Rhys Keir, ‘How to Speak Australian: Abbreviate Everything’, Retrieved from (accessed March 23, 2016).

83 Gerard Goggin and Larissa Hjorth, eds., The Routledge Companion to Mobile Media, (New York: Routledge, 2014). Jason Farman ed., The Mobile Story: Narrative Practices with Locative Technologies’, (New York: Routledge, 2013). Jordan Frith, ‘Smartphones as Locative Media’, European Journal of Communication 30, no. 4 (2015).

84 Didem Özkul and Lee Humphreys, ‘Record and Remember: Memory and Meaning-Making Practices through Mobile Media’, Mobile Media & Communication 3, no. 3 (2015).

85 Theresa M. Senft and Nancy K. Baym, ‘What Does the Selfie Say? Investigating a Global Phenomenon’, Introduction, International Journal Of Communication 9 (2015): 1588-1606.

86 Adriana De Souza E Silva, ‘From Cyber to Hybrid: Mobile Technologies as Interfaces of Hybrid Spaces’, Space and Culture 9, no. 3 (2006).

87 Aaron Hess, ‘The Selfie Assemblage’, International Journal Of Communication 9 (2015): 1632.

88 Hess.

89 @heyfeifer, ‘Selfies at Serious Places,’ tumblr, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016).

90 James Meese, Martin Gibbs, Marcus Carter, Michael Arnold, Bjorn Nansen, Tamara Kohn, ‘Selfies at Funerals: Mourning and Presencing on Social Media Platforms’, International Journal Of Communication 9 (2015); Martin Gibbs, James Meese, Michael Arnold, Bjorn Nansen, Marcus Carter, ‘#Funeral and Instagram: Death, Social Media, and Platform Vernacular’, Information Communication & Society 18, no. 3 (2015): 1818-1831. Ingrid Richardson and Rowan Wilken, ‘Parerga of the Third Screen: Mobile Media, Place and Presence’, Chapter 11, in Rowan Wilken and Gerard Goggin (eds.), Mobile Technology and Place, (New York: Routledge, 2012), 181-198. Larissa Hjorth and Kay Gu, ‘The Place of Emplaced Visualities: A Case Study of Smartphone Visuality and Location-Based Social Media in Shanghai, China’, Continuum 26, no. 5 (2012): 699-713.

91 David Johnson, ‘Anzac Day Selfies’, tumblr, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016).

92 Meese et al., ‘Selfies at Funerals’.

93 Kath Albury, ‘Selfies, Sexts, and Sneaky Hats: Young People’s Understandings of Gendered Practices of Self-Representation’, International Journal Of Communication 9, (2015): 1734-1745.

94 @backtothebay, ‘H&A Marks Anzac Centenary – News – Home and Away’, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016).

95 Jazz Twemlow, ‘Selfies at the Australian War Memorial? Shame on You, Summer Bay High’, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016). Australian War Memorial, ‘Unidentified Men of the 5th Division Partaking in Cigarettes and Resting by the Side of the Montauban Road, near Mametz, While Enroute to the Trenches. Most of the Men Are Wearing Sheepskin …’@AWMemorial, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016). Dragan Roganović, Dirty South+FMLYBND, The Unknown Feat Fmlybnd New Official; Dirty South, ‘Dirty South | Official Website’, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016). See also, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016).

96 Australian War Memorial AWMP06003.001, ‘Studio Portrait of an Unidentified First World War Soldier in Australian Service Uniform, Including Greatcoat and Slouch Hat.’, @AWMemorial, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016). Sarah Michael, ‘Woolworths Face $50,000 Fine for Unauthorised Use of the Word ‘Anzac’,’ Retrieved from, (accessed March 24, 2016).

97 Wikipedia, ‘Man in the Mud’, Retrived from (accessed March 24, 2016).

98 team home and away, ‘Home and Away backstage Anzac Special’, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016).

99 Julia Kristeva, Strangers to Ourselves (New York: Columbia University Press, 1991), 182-92. Sara Beardsworth, Julia Kristeva: Psychoanalysis and Modernity (Albany: State University of New York Press, 2004), 189-92. Sadeq Rahimi, ‘The Ego, the Ocular, and the Uncanny: Why Are Metaphors of Vision Central in Accounts of the Uncanny?’, International Journal of Psychoanalysis 94, no. 3 (2013).

100 Karl F. MacDorman, Norri Kageki, and Masahiro Mori, ‘The Uncanny Valley’, IEEE Robotics and Automation Magazine 19, no. 2 (2012).

101 Nathan Pensky, ‘Twitter Bots and the Uncanny Valley’, The Daily Dot, Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016).

102 Kevin Hoff and Masooda Bashir, ‘Trust in Automation: Integrating Empirical Evidence on Factors That Influence Trust’, Human Factors 57, no. 3 (2015). Maya B. Mathur and David B. Reichling, ‘Navigating a Social World with Robot Partners: A Quantitative Cartography of the Uncanny Valley’, Cognition 146 (2016): 22-32.

103 Mathur and Reichling, 31.

104 Kurt Gray and David M. Wegner, ‘Feeling Robots and Human Zombies: Mind Perception and the Uncanny Valley’, Cognition 125, no. 1 (2012): 129.

105 Gray and Wegner, 129.

106 Mark McKenna, ‘The History Anxiety’, in, The Cambridge History of Australia, eds. Alison Bashford and Stuart Macintyre (Cambridge : Cambridge University Press, 2013), 580.

107 Clark, 142.

108 Inga Clendinnen, ‘The History Question: Who Owns the Past?’, Quarterly Essay 23,

(2006): 1-72.

109 Andrew Hoskins, 21st Century War: Media, Memory, History, (Forthcoming). See also Andrew Hoskins and John Tulloch, Chapter 12, ‘On Memory and Forgetting’, in Risk and Hyperconnectivity: Media and Memories of NeoLibealism, (Oxford: Oxford Univeristy Press, 2016), 297-309.

110 Luciano Floridi interviewed by Zan Boag, ‘Scuba Diving in the Infosphere,’ New Philosopher. Retrieved from (accessed March 24, 2016).

111 Michael Byron, ‘Floridi’s Fourth Revolution and the Demise of Ethics,” Knowledge, Technology, & Policy 23, no. 1-2 (2010). Luciano Floridi, The Fourth Revolution: How the Infosphere Is Reshaping Human Reality (Oxford: Oxford univeristy Press, 2014). Luciano Floridi, ‘Artificial Intelligence’s New Frontier: Artificial Companions and the Fourth Revolution’, Metaphilosophy 39, no. 4-5 (2008): 651-655.

112 Lauren Berlant, Cruel Optimism (Durham: Duke University Press, 2011), 4. Glen Fuller, ‘Meta: Aesthetics of the Media Assemblage’, Platform: Journal of Media and Communication 6, no. 1 (2015).

113 McKenna, 580.

Beyond Gallipoli: New Perspectives on Anzac

   by Raelene Frances and Bruce Scates